Chapter Text
Hunters were dying.
During Bobby Singer’s six months in prison he heard less and less from his contacts in the community. Those that hadn’t turned their back on him out of self-preservation when Sam Winchester hung him out to dry, made a point to visit him whenever they were near South Dakota State Penitentiary. When the flow turned into a trickle, Bobby knew the killing had started again.
He knew several of the guards were demons and that they were reporting back to Sam everything he did. Bobby had assumed Sam had done all the damage he planned to. Bobby was off the board, officially no longer a threat. In for multiple life sentences for killing monsters and saving lives. It happens, sometimes the law catches up and tries to explain something they can't. They see a man with a backyard full of bodies with feathers, fur and fangs they can't explain; it's easier to arrest and convict than look too close.
Still, that wasn’t why hunters were dying. Ultimately, it was because Bobby made the error of thinking he could separate Dean from Sam.
His attempt to appeal to Dean's humanity might very well be a fatal mistake.
Dean had come to visit him a few times. He apologized for Bobby getting caught up in John's crimes, said he would give anything to have prevented his hunting from being confused with the bad things John was doing. Dean's lies were so believable that he had to take a moment to remind himself Dean had been witness and party to the same crimes John was convicted of.
Trying to reason with Dean, Bobby said, “Dean, you know yer Daddy ain’t got nothin’ to do with those murders. You know it was Sam.”
Dean shook his head. “Stop right there, Bobby. I know you're upset but I won't have you making up lies about my brother.” His face turned soft and proud. “Sammy is a good kid. He’s going to be a lawyer. He said he's going to buy a house and I won't have to hunt anymore.”
Bobby knocked the prison phone against his head, tapped it against the glass that separated them. “Yer lying to yerself, boy. You know yer Daddy ain’t done nothin’ like they say he did. He told me about the murders when Sammy was a kid, the ones you knew about.”
Completely ignoring Bobby, Dean stood up. “I just came to say goodbye, Bobby. Sam doesn’t think I should visit you anymore. After everything you said about him, I think he’s right.” Hanging up the phone, Dean turned and walked to the locked door. He didn’t even look back when a guard let him out.
Bobby held the phone in his hand until a guard came up and pushed him with his baton. “Let’s go, Singer.”
Bobby rose to his feet, let the guard cuff him, and followed him back deeper into the prison. Before he locked Bobby back in his cell, the guard's eyes turned black and he winked.
Then and there Bobby decided he’d stay out of the Winchesters’ business. There were too few hunters left and even from the inside, he could still do some good.
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Dean thumbed his empty wedding ring finger, the unconscious gesture a fond memory of the days when he wore Sam’s ring. He sighed and looked out the window, the midwest skyline darkening as the lights in Baby’s interior began to brighten.
“You miss it,” Sam asked, grabbing Dean’s hand and lacing their fingers together. He turned to look at Dean but Dean kept his attention on the passing landscape. He tugged Dean’s hand to get his attention. “Hey, talk to me.”
“I do,” Dean whispered. “I had it so long. Since,” Dean paused and looked at Sam, his smile small and shy. “Since you know when.”
Sam nodded and returned his attention to the road. “I can get you another one. Let you pick it this time.”
“Do you mean pick the person,” Dean asked. “Pick the one you take it from?” That made Dean nervous and he loosened his grip. Sam rubbed his thumb over Dean’s quickening pulse.
“I do. Would you like that?” Sam knew Dean would do anything he asked, the days of fighting over Sam’s kills long behind them. Still, he wanted Dean to want it too, to share in his bloodlust. It would take time but Sam was patient.
“I think…” Dean started, ducked his head. “If that would make you happy, I’d really like that.”
Sam sighed. Still so much work to do.
“I want it to make you happy, Dean. If you really don’t want to share this with me, you don't have to. I won't force you to do things like John did.” Sam sounded resigned and tried to keep the smile out of his tone.
“No,” Dean protested. “I do. I really do. I’m just scared. After what happened to Dad.” Dean’s voice trailed off and Sam tightened his fingers. He did not want Dean thinking about his father.
Sam growled. “What happened to John is his own fault. I told him to stay away from you.”
“I know, Sammy. Please don’t be mad.” He sounded small and it made Sam hard. He couldn’t wait to get home and fuck him. He lifted Dean’s hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss against his fingers.
“I’m not mad, sweetheart.” He tugged at Dean’s hand again and Dean looked up, his eyes bright. “Forget about John, ok. He won’t bother us anymore.”
Sam returned his eyes to the road and heard Dean’s contented sigh. “Ok. I won’t.”
Returning to the topic he really wanted to discuss, Sam asked, “So what kind of ring do you want?”
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It took Dean three months before he started really looking at the rings people wore. They were back in Palo Alto, living in a small apartment just off campus. Dean liked that it was close to the garage he started working at since Sam started to let him drive Baby short distances. Sam liked it because it meant Dean had something to do besides worry about looking for someone to kill.
When he returned to Stanford, Sam’s advisor made the unfortunate mistake of suggesting he switch majors. The man thought, rather foolishly, that given John’s crimes, prosecuting attorneys might use their relationship to force him to recuse himself. Sam laughed, dumped one of his demons in the man, and had the demon drive his car into a tree. His advisor died on impact and his demon went on his merry way, happy to have a story to tell his friends.
There were other people who tried to interfere with their relationship. Even though Ellen and Jo sided with him against John, they still thought their relationship was odd, described it as “co-dependent”. Sam would have killed them outright but he knew it would upset Dean too much. Dean still clung to the idea that he was a hunter, that he belonged in the hunter community. Sam let him have his delusions and it didn’t hurt having another unwitting eye to keep other hunters in check.
Sam’s ascension was going well. The angels actively worked against him but aside from the pesky archangels and one obsessive seraphim named Castiel, no one posed a real challenge. He liked toying with them, sending them on wild goose chases in search of lore, only to have them return to their superiors with drooping feathers. He knew they wanted Dean, knew that Dean was the key to stopping him but no matter how hard they tried, Sam kept them away.
Sam wasn’t using Dean. He truly cared for him. Keeping him close and under his thumb was as much about the fantastic sex as it was about thwarting his destiny. Sam wouldn’t die, Dean wouldn’t sell his soul and the righteous man would never be freed from hell. It worked out nicely. John was out of the running because Sam made sure he’d live a long and miserable life, in spite of his death sentence.
There was one spanner in the works, one problem that dogged Sam’s footsteps no matter how hard he tried to change it. Dean didn’t like to kill. Oh, he’d pretend. He’d do whatever Sam asked him to do. He’d even participate when it didn’t seem like he had a way out. That wasn’t what Sam wanted. That wasn’t what Sam needed. If Sam was going to keep the angels from taking Dean, he had to scar Dean’s soul. Coming along on a few murders didn’t seem to be doing the trick.
He hoped removing John and Bobby’s influence would help. They were the needle in Dean’s moral compass and their interference in Dean’s life wasn’t limited to direct interaction. It took a while but he convinced Dean visiting Bobby would only cause him pain. Dean asked to visit his father a few times but Sam would just glare and give him the silent treatment for hours. Dean would panic, beg him for forgiveness and promise never to ask again. It would last two months, tops.
Sam needed a new strategy. A better strategy. He needed to play on Dean’s ultimate fear: losing Sam. He knew part of why he so eagerly participated in Jess’ murder was jealousy. Sam just needed to find a target that he could invest some time in, make Dean feel like he had competition. With any luck, Sam wouldn’t even have to give Dean a push.