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Part One

Never fall in love with a vampire. It's a good rule. A sound rule. In fact, with what Sam knows about vampires, it shouldn't even be on the list of rules: there are so many other things to remember. Dead man's blood. A sharp edged blade that can cut through muscle and bone and sever the head.

But all that was before Sam met Lenore. Before he found himself tied up, helpless, staring into the eyes of a girl who wasn't a girl at all, and then she... let him go. She didn't hurt him, even though she could've killed him faster than it took him to blink.

Sam curls his body up in the bed, pulling his knees up, tightening his arm around the woman lying next to him. In this light, bright, gleaming afternoon sunshine, her face is impossibly pale, beneath her eyes shadowed, her lips parted with each breath.

He's so much bigger than she is, but he knows that she's lethal, and he knows that, like the parable of the woman with the snake, he ought to be expecting her to act on her baser nature any time now. It's been weeks. Months. It's really only a matter of time before the scent of his blood overwhelms her and she bites, like that snake that was destined to act from its basest instincts.

Her hair is so dark it makes her skin the palest thing Sam has ever seen. She looks unhealthy in the unforgiving sunlight, but at the same time she's so beautiful it makes Sam's teeth ache. Never fall in love with a vampire, he might have told himself months ago, but that was before he met one that quickened his pulse, made his heart race.

And sure, she'd made his heart race at first with fear, so close to something so deadly, but she'd proven herself trustworthy—at least to an extent, anyway; she hasn't made any move to hurt him yet.

He can't resist her, even though he knows how deeply she'll sleep at this time of the day. He cups the side of her face, staring at her. He still can't believe he's doing something so reckless, so crazy. It's not really like him to throw away all of his training as a hunter and let something widely considered to be evil get so far under his skin, but the truth is... he loves her already. He loves her in that sort of desperate, helpless, hopeless way that fills every empty place inside and makes him thirsty with want for her. Even though he knows he's going to lose her, even though he knows one day he's going to have to make a choice: kill her, or let her kill him.

He just doesn't know which one he'll choose.

Sam allows his mind to drift along avenues and pathways in tandem with his fingers, which trace the outline of her lips and up and follow the arch of her brow.

"Lenore," he whispers, so soft, but he knows that if she were awake she'd hear him. "I have to go."

She doesn't even stir, and Sam fits himself even closer to her, reluctant to depart. But it's the middle of the afternoon and Dean is waiting for him back at their motel room.

Sam gives himself a few more moments to enjoy the way she feels snugged up against him, then extricates himself. He presses a kiss to the top of her head.

As he dresses, pulling on worn, faded jeans and plaid overshirt, he wonders just when—how—this happened.

He writes her a quick note: see you tonight, and stuffs his feet into his shoes before carefully placing the note on the place on his pillow where his head rested only moments before.

He closes the door so gently, careful not to let in too much daylight, even though he knows it won't kill her. He squints himself when he gets fully outside, because he spent most of the night with his eyes adjusted to darkness and his hands travelling the lengths of her body as his mouth traced familiar patterns into her skin.


Dean doesn't look up from the newspaper he's scouring when Sam unlocks the door and steps into the room. Sam doesn't have to look or ask to know Dean is looking through the obits.

He also doesn't have to ask what Dean's looking for; he knows that Dean is searching for any indication that the vampires in the area are snacking on humans.

This was Sam's idea, at first: follow them after they moved on and just keep an eye out for awhile, make sure that what Lenore had told them was true. That she wasn't just figuring out ways to play Sam to get him to let her go.

He still remembers the way she felt, cradled in his arms, covered in her own blood and poisoned by dead man's blood, but there was still a pull, a desire he couldn't explain to ensure her safety beyond just getting her away from Gordon.

"You know she's going to turn on you one day," Dean says, still without looking up. He sounds casual, like he doesn't care, but Sam is perfectly aware of how much Dean disapproves.

Dean actually figured it out first, the way that Sam spent so much time in the beginning staring into space and making unwise, out-of-the-blue comments about whether she was all right, whether she was surviving.

"Yeah," Sam replies, flopping down onto Dean's bed, purposefully putting his feet on the comforter. Dean snorts, obviously aware of every movement Sam makes even though he's still pointedly not looking at him.

"If you don't kill her—" Dean starts, and Sam shifts on the bed so the springs groan and protest. He grabs the extra pillow and hurls it at his brother's head.

"I'm not going to kill her for not doing anything wrong," Sam snaps. "You know I'm just making sure she's all right."

It's a bone of contention between them, this tenuous relationship Sam shares with Lenore, mostly because Dean doesn't know that a few weeks ago it went from playing cards and keeping an eye on her to keeping his tongue on her and pressing his fingers into the soft flesh of her side as he sunk into her depths.

Yeah, Dean doesn't know, and Sam is pretty sure his brother would lock him in the motel room if he knew. And then he'd go out and chop off her head for good measure, if for no other reason than she dared corrupt his 'innocent' little brother.

It doesn't help that Sam is still kind of berating himself for letting it go this far, but he's certainly not going to tell Dean that.

"Vampires don't change, Sammy," Dean says, folding up the newspaper and putting his elbows on the table, his chin on them. "I know you want to believe that this nest of vampires won't hurt anyone, but it's just a matter of time. I doubt she can keep the rest of them in line forever, even if she is genuinely trying not to kill anyone."

Sam sighs dramatically, exhibiting his displeasure with this turn the conversation has taken.

"Which is why we're still here," he points out. He rubs his hand down his face. He can't stop thinking of the way she looked, her lips standing out starkly against her pale skin, as he touched her. The way he could press his fingers to her lips and he could just barely feel her fangs, and somehow, the inherent danger made him that much hotter, made his body react more physically than it ever had with anyone else.

At the same time it made his heart beat faster with a little bit of fear.

"I think this is a waste of time," Dean says, getting up from the table and crossing to the little mini-fridge and grabbing a beer. He doesn't get one for Sam.

Dean also doesn't comment on Sam's presence on his bed, or his shoes muddying up the blanket. He very pointedly flips the cap of the beer with his silver ring and settles himself onto the chair in the corner of the room, legs crossed at the ankles, and drinks his beer one swallow at a time, pensively.

"I'll take care of it," Sam says finally. "I'll go see her tonight." He tries to keep the anxiousness, the anticipation, out of his voice. Dean knows him so well that it's really, to use Dean's words, only a matter of time before Dean picks up on the intense vibe Sam is probably giving off whenever he mentions Lenore.

Much as he likes spending time with his brother—and if he's honest with himself he can't see himself separating from Dean even to be stay with Lenore—he's desperate to see her again, to touch her, to hold her and reassure himself that he's not making a huge, cataclysmic mistake.

His eyes are closing, though, because he stayed up all night, and as dreams start to stray from illusion to perceived reality, he knows what Dean would say.


Sam wakes up to darkness, the room shrouded in it, and only the slight rasp and hitch of Dean's breathing lets him know he's not alone in the room. Dammit, though, he slept far longer than he intended to. He needs to get to the ramshackle farmhouse Lenore is staying in as soon as he can. He needs to be there for her, even though he knows perfectly well she's capable of taking care of herself—but he's terrified someone will come after her, a hunter, Gordon, God, anyone who realises there's something a little off with her, and then she'll be forced to kill someone, and Dean will be forced to kill her.

Because Sam knows, with heartbreaking intensity, that if something happens, he doesn't have the stones to do it. He won't be able to hurt her.

Sam is still wearing his clothes from earlier, but he's late, and he doesn't want Lenore to think he's abandoned her, so he yanks on his jacket—it's cooler at night—and creeps out of the room.

He 'borrows' a car because Dean will throw a fit if he takes the Impala and drives towards Lenore, the directions etched into his heart.

She's sitting on the doorstep when he arrives, half of her hair pulled up, the rest of it in loose waves over her shoulders, her pale skin gleaming in the moonlight.

He drops to his knees in front of her, taking her face in his hands and just smoothing his thumbs over her cheekbones, breathing in her slightly otherworldly scent.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and her lips part but she doesn't speak. She closes her eyes, and Sam closes the distance between them, lips drifting across hers almost imperceptibly.

"Sam," she breathes, and he applies more pressure, but he doesn't open his mouth just yet; there's something about her that makes him cautious, makes him take everything slow.

He slides his lips over hers again and then, inching backwards, he brushes his fingertips over her eyelids, feeling her lashes tickle the pads of his fingers, and when he cups her temples, feeling her hair soft and luxurious against his skin, she opens her eyes.

"I feel like I'm in some sort of crazy dream," he says honestly. He doesn't know, really, enough about vampires to know if she can tell when he's lying.

"It's not a dream, Sam," she says, and her hands come up to frame his face in return. "It is a little... impulsive, maybe, but it's not a dream."

"I don't know what I'm doing," he says a little desperately. "If Dean—Jesus, if Dean ever figures it out, and he probably will, he'll come after you. I'm putting you in danger just by being here."

"I want you here," she says. She brushes her lips over his cheekbone, then down to his lips, then the fluttering caress flits away. "I know what the risks are, Sam. And I swear to you, I won't hurt Dean, not even..."

"He will try to kill you," Sam says. "He'll think it's his sworn duty to protect me, even if that includes destroying something I... something I love." The words ache in his throat, but he has to tell her.

She leans in and their foreheads rest together. "You don't have do to this for me," she murmurs. "It would be better if I didn't put you in this position."

"Lenore," Sam says. He stares into her dark eyes, fathomless and beautiful. "I can't leave. I can't drag myself away from you. Is it a vampire thing," and he feels like it's a dirty word to use against her, "to attract and hold in thrall humans?"

"Maybe it is," she says. "I don't really know; I've never trusted a human before. I never could."

It humbles Sam, the implication that she trusts him. "I want to go inside," he says. The night air is cool, but it can't soothe the heat of his desire for her.

"Come on, then," she says, and they get to their feet, still wrapped up in each other. Distantly, alarm bells ring in Sam's mind, the reminder that every touch, every emotional step closer, is a step closer to a landmine.

Lenore's bed is in the front room, just inside the front door, because she is the leader, and therefore the protection for the other vampires, which terrifies Sam enough, the fact that her safety will always be in question.

The house is quiet, and Sam doesn't ask, and Lenore doesn't volunteer anything, but Sam hopes, rather irresponsibly, that tomorrow there will be cattle mutilations and not the tragic, disfigured death of someone in the community.

Sam stands at the foot of the bed, and Lenore slides out of her sweater, then lifts her tank top over her head. Her bra is just white, but it has the slightest lace edging and its construction pushes her breasts up temptingly.

Her jeans are tight but she slips out of them easily as well, nudges her panties down her legs and then holds out her arms.

"Sammy," she says. "Come here, my love."

Oh, it's so crazy, so fraught with danger, so charged with emotion, but Sam immediately obeys the order. He never does that for anyone, and he doesn't know if it's a compulsion or not, or simply the way his heart tripped over a beat when she basically said she loved him.

So close he can feel the slight heat of her body, much cooler than his own, but not icy-cold. She has body heat, and her heart beats in his ear, no matter what else she is.

He closes his arms around her, just holding her for a moment, enjoying the way her body fits against his; her head comes up to his shoulder, and he loves that she's not ridiculously tiny, and he loves that he's not afraid he'll break her.

After a moment, he slides his hand up her back, luxuriating in the feel of her satin skin, and finds the hooks of her bra. One by one he flicks them open, and the bra comes undone, the front of it suddenly loose except where the fabric is trapped between his chest and hers.

Her breath catches, and Sam sweeps his hand up and down her back. Down and over her ass, and then he just allows his palm to mould to the curve and rest there.

They don't even move for what feels like forever. There's no rush, really; they have all night. No-one is going to come looking for them—Dean is sound asleep and he knows where Sam is anyway, with no reason to suspect anything is amiss.

"Sam," she says at last. She steps almost out of the circle of his arms, allowing the bra straps to slide down hers and the bra drops to the floor.

Sam's own breath stutters in his chest. It doesn't seem to matter how many times he's lucky enough to be treated to this view, it never ceases to be breathtaking, to make his throat close up and his dick throb and ache like he's never gotten laid in his life.

Her breasts are perfect. He thinks maybe it's because she's trapped, forever, in the body of a sixteen-year-old, with all of the firm skin and perky full breasts that implies, but it doesn't change the fact that she's got the body of a girl who could make it in Hollywood. And she lets him touch it—she lets him near her. He doesn't know whether he's incredibly, fantastically lucky, or incredibly, fantastically doomed.

"Lenore," he answers, knowing how lame it is to say her name in reply to his own, but unable to stop himself.

"You're overdressed," she says, a lilt of humour in her voice. Sam looks down and realises that yes, in fact, he's still encased in denim and flannel and cotton and that just won't do.

He strips possibly faster than he has in his entire life, and that includes after a hunt when he's in a rush to beat Dean to first shower. Finally nude, he steps towards her, and at the exact instant, she takes a step closer to him. They meet in the middle as though they could read each other's next move.

The first brush of her breasts, her nipples, against his own bare chest is electric.

He doesn't do anything carnal at first, not really; he just leans into her and claims her lips. This time he opens his mouth, makes it dirty; he eats at her mouth as if he were the vampire, as if he were drinking from her mouth.

This isn't the first time he's wondered if she'll unsheathe her vampire fangs and bite him as he kisses her, but he's so lost in a fog of pleasure that he can't bring himself to heed those same warning bells ringing in his head.

They kiss, filthy and deep, for what feels like an eternity. Sam remembers, as he brings his hands up and covers her shoulder-blades, that vamps mate for life. What will she do, when Sam finally has to move on?

What will he do?

He pushes the thought away and allows himself to be swept away on the kiss, the way it feels, the way it makes him feel.

His cock makes its presence known, throbbing and commanding him to take her already, but Sam learned—and not from Dean, that's for damn sure—that foreplay and anticipation makes everything better. He sucks in a breath and drags his lips down over her jaw, tasting the skin just beneath her ear as she arches her neck.

Sam doesn't ask her, and the irony's not lost on him, as he bites her gently, right where she might bite him if she were going to drink his blood.

How long, Sam wonders vaguely, before he lets her do it? Would he, could he, will he?

"Lenore," he gasps against skin that is turning sweaty under his lips. "I gotta, I just, I need you. Let me—"

"Anything," she pants breathlessly in return. "You can't hurt me, Sam; don't be careful with me. I won't break."

He sweeps her right up into his arms, just like that day when she was sick and needed his help, only now she's well and she needs—well, he's not sure what, precisely. But it doesn't matter.

He deposits her on the bed, and she bends her knees, legs falling open in invitation, and Sam settles right down in-between them. He strokes one hand up her thigh, admiring the smooth perfection of it as he ducks his head down and begins to kiss her in places other than her beautiful ruby lips.

He very deliberately doesn't think about her lips coated in blood.

Sam closes his lips over one nipple and gently twists his tongue around it, loving the greedy, panting, desperate noises she makes. Her legs close around his hips, and that squeezes him in closer to her body, bring his cock directly in contact with her very damp centre.

He's so close to her that when her body drips, it lands on his dick and makes him shudder. Suddenly foreplay seems impossible, and he reaches down, clutches one thigh tightly and pulls it away from his body, making more space.

"I need you," he says against her sweaty, saliva-ridden breast. "Tell me—tell me if it hurts."

"Nothing hurts," she says through heavy breaths.

He grips his dick and lines up, then parts her folds with his cockhead and nudges forward, staring down into her face now, her eyes closed, her lashes spidery against her extremely pale skin, and he finds her opening and sinks an inch within her.

Her eyes crinkle up at the corners as he begins to work his way inside. "Open your eyes," he says softly. "I want to see them."

She obeys, and her irises are so dark usually that in this dim lighting he doesn't have the satisfaction of seeing if her pupils are blown wide, but it doesn't really matter.

Lenore's eyes are shining with trust, and even though they're almost depthless, he can read her pleasure in them as he finds his stride, hitching himself up on one elbow and driving the rest of the way into her.

She makes a pleasured gasp as he seats himself within, and her hands come up to his face, push his sweaty hair out of his own eyes.

"Sam," she manages. "Sam, I love you." He knows that, of course; he knew it long ago. This attraction, this thing between them, it's dangerous, explosive. It could blow them both to smithereens at any moment but he knows she's just as powerless to resist it.

He pumps his hips, finding a rhythm, hands roaming her body as he does so, before grasping each of her hips and hanging on.

"Lenore," he whimpers, ashamed of the way her name sounds pulled from his lips in this type of fierce pleasure, but unable to make anything more definitive come out of his mouth.

The bed rocks underneath them, and her hands slide into his hair and close, yanking him down to her, and even as she kisses him, he drives deeper into her, and her fingers twist in his hair almost painfully.

He kisses her like he's dying, and his dick twitches and pulsates as her inner muscles clutch him tight. Her skin is elastic and feels like heaven under his hands, and he wonders if you can bruise a vampire as he grips her harder.

He yanks her pelvis up right off the bed to meet his thrust, and she arches her back to assist him, and she kisses him, biting his lower lip a little—not enough to draw blood, he notices—and then her head falls back, neck exposed in the ultimate gesture of trust—especially for something like her, who knows how vulnerable the throat is—and very deliberately clenches her muscles around him.

Oh man, that does it for him; his balls go tight and achy, bright points of pleasure bursting along his nerves. His eyes close and his dick spasms, and he goes hot and cold all over, tingling, and her fingernails come up and he throws his head back.

She scores the length of his neck with her sharp nails, and Sam can feel the welts rise up, and thinks, for a split second before his orgasm overwhelms him again, that Dean is going to ask questions.

"Oh, oh, oh, Sam," she pants, and her body convulses, wracked with her own orgasm a few seconds after Sam's leaves him spent and gasping over her.

He pulls out gingerly, and manages to collect himself enough to flop boneless to the bed beside her, instead of on top of her.

Her hands are still sifting through his hair.

"I shouldn't," he says achingly, "but I do love you. And it terrifies me. It's the worst thing that could have happened, but I can't make myself regret it, even though I feel guilty about it. Love shouldn't be a secret."

"I know," she soothes. "But I understand. And you're here. It's enough, Sam. Just stay."

He finds her face in the darkness, locking eyes with hers. "I will," he promises. "I'll be here all night."

Unspoken is the fact that he has to leave, to go back to Dean and his real life, his hunter existence, come morning. To return to chasing down things like Lenore and killing them.

It's a miracle she fell in love with him at all.

Again he falls asleep, this time draped over his naked beauty, his dangerous vampire, his.


Sam gets back to Dean earlier this time. It's just before dawn, and he feels a little guilty for leaving Lenore so soon—he had promised to stay with her—but when he woke up, there was part of him that was horrified and appalled at how easily, how completely he had given himself over to her. What a stupid thing to do, really; Sam knows better than anyone what a risk he's taking.

He showers, trying to clear away the scent of sex, washing his hair a couple of times. It chafes, that even now, Dean is still trying to protect him from everything.

Worse, though, is the knowledge that Dean is probably right: Sam has no guarantee that things won't turn sour and go very, very badly for him. Even if it's not Lenore—even if she never turns against him like Dean expects she will—there are other vampires to consider. Sam knows that this thing between them is still a secret; the other vampires haven't caught them yet, and Dean still hasn't cottoned onto it.

It's a dangerous prospect from all sides: if Dean finds out first, Lenore will likely suffer. If the others find out first, who knows what might happen to Sam. His scent is all over the farmhouse, and they'd be able to track him for the rest of his life if they thought they had cause.

Sam gets shampoo in his eyes because he's thinking so hard. It stings and he makes a little noise of distress, which is followed immediately by the sound of the bathroom door opening. He can hear Dean pad into the room, bare feet on tile, and then his brother says, voice still hoarse from sleeping,

"Mornin', Sammy."

Sam mumbles something he knows is unintelligible to Dean and scrubs at his skin harder. Reflecting on all of the things that could go wrong, all of the scenarios that could turn out with him dead, Dean dead, or Lenore dead, is exhausting and it doesn't help that he spent most of the night buried between her thighs.

Dean, for once, does something considerate, even though it's vulgar; he pisses in the sink to spare Sam the toilet flushing while he's showering, so in return—because whenever Dean isn't an ass, Sam likes to reward him, it's sort of like an understanding between them—he flips the faucets off so that Dean can have his turn in the shower.

He climbs over the side of the tub, still impressed that this motel even has one, and drips on the bathmat for a few minutes while watching Dean pick at his teeth in the mirror. Dean doesn't look at him, but he does say, still sounding half-asleep,

"What do you do there all night, anyway?" Dean rinses the sink and grabs for his toothbrush.

"Play cards, mostly," Sam says. "Talk. She's really interesting—she's been surviving for a long time, just flying under the radar, so she knows a little about a lot of things."

"Just enough to make her dangerous," Dean comments. He's wearing boxers and socks and nothing else, and the scent of sweat and musk is thick all over him. Sam wrinkles his nose and steps around Dean to yank one of the towels down off the rack and wrap it around his hips.

Sam wonders if Dean spent last night with a girl, too; he wouldn't be surprised. He's a little envious, though, that whatever girl Dean slept with was probably human and not, you know, always about one step away from ripping his throat out.

"Dean," Sam says, and pokes his brother just above his hip. "She's actually hunted other vampires, ones that kill people. I'm not saying I completely trust her, and I understand why you don't. But..." he sighs. "I like her. She's got spunk."

"As long as it's not yours," Dean says, spitting the toothpaste into the sink, "we're good."

Oh, damn. Sam's a pretty good liar usually, but to people he doesn't know, honestly. He's never been able to lie to Dean—and his brother knows it.

He's about to make some sort of remark to try and defuse the situation, but he's quiet a moment too long.

"It's not," Dean says incredulously, "right? Please tell me you wouldn't do something that stupid."

"Dean—" Sam begins. But he stops, because he already knows that whatever he could say, Dean would know it's a lie. "Look, I know what I'm doing."

Dean slams his palm down on the sink, making Sam jump. "Do you?" His jaw is set, his eyes hard. He says the words through clenched teeth, clearly upset.

"Dean, really—" Sam says, pleading now. This—this is supposed to remain a secret. He's got to figure out a way to explain it to Dean. His brother, though, storms past him, knocking him against the doorframe, and starts pulling on his clothes. When he gets to his boots, Sam feels worry take root inside, flowering painfully when Dean reaches for his duffle.

"It isn't like that," Sam protests. "Dean, stop. Listen to me."

Dean pauses, but his eyes are still flinty when he meets Sam's. His skin is mottled, the creases at the corners of his eyes pronounced. He's angry enough that he's flushed, but he's not speaking.

"I—we didn't do anything. I mean it," Sam says. "I just... she's hot, okay? So I might have entertained the idea. But I'd never—come on, you know I'd never be—"

"—be that stupid?" Dean fills in. "I don't know, Sam. Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I really do wonder about you. Running off to Stanford, leaving us, ignoring your training?" His voice is rising, near to shouting now. "I wonder if you'd forget your training again, over some girl—some thing that's not even a girl!"

"But she's harmless," Sam says desperately. "She's not hurting anyone." He bolts over to Dean and drops to his knees, grabbing Dean's hands. "Please, Dean. Please don't do this."

Dean wrenches his hands out of Sam's grip and yanks open the zipper on his duffle, breaking it. It's been broken and repaired so many times that this is no surprise; still Dean grunts in annoyance, then rummages inside until he finds what he's looking for: the curved scythe-type blade that he uses on vampires.

"This is for your own good," Dean says harshly, stiffly. He sounds just like their father in this moment, fierce and intractable. Sam reaches for him again, but Dean evades his grasp. "I'm not gonna let you fuckin' ruin your life," Dean says. "And I am certainly not going to let her kill you."

"That's not going to happen," Sam says. He can hear the way his voice wavers. God, is it so obvious? Apparently so; Dean sets the blade down and stares at Sam. His eyes are wide and blank now, wet, liquid green.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "I don't believe this. You cannot be so stupid as to have fallen in love with her."

Sam tries to find some sort of explanation, some sort of lie, but he can't speak. His throat has closed, his words all dried up. Apparently he wouldn't have made a very good lawyer after all; he freezes up under pressure.

Dean's eyes flick to the knife, then back to Sam. He lets out a pained sigh.

"Don't do anything reckless," Dean warns. "Don't touch her, don't fuck her, don't tell her you're in love with her. And I'll leave it alone. For now."

Sam wonders just how pathetically grateful he looks. He wonders if every last ounce of his feelings for Lenore are visible on his face.

"Thank you," he says, hating how weak it sounds, how stupid and young and thoroughly pathetic. But what else can he do?

"Don't do that," Dean says. "I might still have to kill her. Sam, look." Dean's less angry now, his face showing more concern than the fury previously clouding his features. "If she hurts anyone—"

"She won't," Sam protests. "I mean it, Dean. I've spent weeks with her. She's good, Dean, really good. I didn't think anyone could be that good, much less a vampire, but this girl... she—"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, and twists away so he can throw his legs over the side of the bed and stand up, stalk away from Sam, still on his knees. "I don't wanna hear it. I really don't need the litany of the reasons why you think you're in love with a vampire."

Sam doesn't really have anything else to say, and he looks down and notices he's still covered only by the towel from his shower. He gets to his feet and moves for his own duffle by rote. His clothes seem bland to him—like they're not real—as he slips into them.

Dean is standing awkwardly by the door, fidgeting. "Sammy," he says, sounding worried. "Sammy, even if she doesn't give me a reason to kill her, there are other hunters." Dean's anger has been replaced, now, by his eagerness—his need—to please Sam.

Dean would run through a human to protect Sam. He would find a way to take the moon out of the sky, and Sam knows it. Dean hates this, it's written in every tense line of his body, the way his muscles are taut under the shape of his clothes, but he's resigned now. He's not going to argue with Sam any more about whether he can see Lenore, or whether he needs to kill her.

"I know," Sam says softly. "That would be why we're still here, Dean. Because I have to watch out for her."

"That's not your job," Dean says quietly. "No, Sam. Just remember what I told you: don't do anything foolish."

It's too late, Sam thinks, and hopes the words aren't reflected on his face. Already he can feel his blood quickening, his skin sizzling with the desire to be near her again, to be allowed to touch alabaster skin; to taste it.

"All right," Dean says, defeated. "I'm going to get breakfast. Please don't go out while I'm gone."

Sam could tell Dean that she's asleep, anyway, but he doesn't move or speak. He just stands there, feeling awkward, watches Dean walk out the door.

A prospect that had never occurred to him rears its ugly head: what if, instead of having to choose between letting Lenore live or making sure she doesn't, he has to choose between Lenore and Dean?

Would he be able to do it, or would he sacrifice the love for a girl for the love for his brother?


part two -> | Master Post

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