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Since the pinch of teeth that changed everything–
Since he thrashed and moaned through the night, his body transforming into something else–
Since he almost drew blood from Byron fucking Orpheus before being burnt on his medallion–
Dean has found things difficult.
Dean is still functionally a vegetarian, in that the food he pushes around his plate and dumps down the sink is all meat free. But he’s finding it very hard to eat anything at all right now.
He can just about manage some protein shake most days, but they turn his stomach. He’s added more to his vitamins, in case that’ll help. Iron. Zinc. Omega 3.
None of it touches the cravings, though. The cravings are eating him alive. Dean is always dizzy, trembling and ravenous, but finding ways to silence it are proving difficult.
Listening to his gut is proving dangerous. He’s ended up shamefully eating red meat in the middle of the night, bathed in the humiliating light of the fridge. Just a sliver off the steak. Just a handful of hamburger chuck (gross.)
What’s especially infuriating is, nobody seems to pay much mind to his nocturnal habits, or skipped meals. His sunscreen. His exhaustion.
But his patience is wearing pretty thin.
Tonight, he’s eating until he feels full. Whatever that means. Even if he has to walk the four miles to the walmart.
He pads along the corridor, flattening himself against the wall. Featherlight footsteps.
There’s someone in the kitchen. He can hear the clanking of something being moved around in the fridge.
He can’t deal with a lecture from Hatred or his father. Brock probably wouldn’t say anything if Dean ate a whole raw lamb chop in front of him. That might not be so bad.
But he can hear, just about, some faint tinny music.
Something with heavy drums, escaping headphones.
Brock doesn’t wear headphones.
It has to be his brother.
Things have been a little weird since he apologised to Hank.
They’ve barely spoken at all since Dean had to go back to classes and Hank found another job. Just small talk around meals or when they cross paths. Idle chatter in front of the TV. But he’s barely spent any time with Hank at all since that night on Potter’s Field.
He sighs and turns the corner.
His brother, dancing idly to some muffled rock music in his underwear and an oversized t-shirt, is also eating out of the fridge.
They are similar, for non-identical twins.
“...Hank.”
No response.
“Hank!” Dean hisses, and reaches out to touch his arm.
“Whoa! You spooked me, man,” Hank chirps, jumping a foot. He shucks his headphones. He’s eating from a tupperware of mac and cheese.
Something smells good. Rich. satisfying. It can’t be the leftovers.
Hank follows his brother's gaze, fork stuck in the corner of his mouth. “...What, you want some?”
“No thank you. I can’t sleep,” Dean admits. “I’ll make some tea.”
He turns on the light and puts the kettle on the stove.
Hank sits on the counter, stuffing his face. “Mm, I can’t sleep either. I’ll drink your disgusting leaf water if you think it’ll help.”
“Will cheese help you, Hank? Really?”
“I can never sleep good when I'm on the rag. All I want to do is eat and jerk off,” Hank tells him with a laugh, mouth full of pasta. His filter is missing, as usual.
It took Dean a long time to figure out why his brother, who he definitely had baths with as a kid, suddenly changed anatomy but… It makes perfect sense now. Knowing what they know. It’s always been Hank, just a different Hank. This one doesn’t look exactly the same as the one in the baby pictures. Dean tries not to think about it.
He knows his brother’s body, biblically. But he still doesn’t like to let his mind wander too close between Hank’s legs.
Especially not now, while Hank presents a barrier to the only thing that will stop Dean’s headaches and constant nagging urges.
“I have a billion deadlines this week but like… who even cares?” he sighs, pouring water into cups.
Hank snorts in solidarity. “Yeah. I got work tomorrow. My alarm goes off in,” he glances at his wrist, “6 hours and change.”
They drink tea. Well. Dean does, and Hank sips his and makes faces. Music still spills from Hank's headphones around his neck.
Dean looks at the skin of Hank’s throat.
That smell is haunting him. His stomach growls, loud and uninvited.
“Dude, have some. Before I finish the whole thing,” Hank nags. There’s a little bit of sauce on his cheek. It looks awful, cold cheese clots.
“No, I don't like eating late,” Dean lies.
Hank shrugs and brings the box up to his face to wolf the last of it down. Dean fidgets with his teabag, but he’s still staring at his twin’s pulse.
To be that sated by something. To have an appetite that simple.
He snaps out of it when Hank burps.
“You’re gonna have nightmares,” Dean teases, in case it can cover up how obviously he’s gawping at his brother.
Hank rolls his eyes, but then tosses his dishes into the sink. “Ugh, like cramps and sweating my ass off wouldn’t give me effed up dreams anyway. I’ve gotta at least lay down on the heat pad, man, I feel like crap.”
“Okay. I’m gonna try and drink this and sleep,” Dean concedes. He wants the kitchen to himself already.
Hank gives him a weird little look, then socks him in the shoulder. “We should hang out not in the middle of the night. Come to a gig or play some games with me sometime.”
Dean smiles but it’s clear it’s pretty forced. “Sure. When I'm less swamped.”
“G’night, dude.”
“Night.”
Dean sips his camomile for a few minutes while Hank clatters around in the bathroom.
When he hears the bedroom door click shut he moves to the fridge.
Dean takes out the packaging and fishes out the little cutlets. These poor sheep. He can’t wait any longer after that smell, though, it’s too much. He’s starving.
He takes a nibble and almost recoils.
The smell is not coming from here.
The lamb tastes of cold fat and saltwater. Bland and greasy and awful. His mouth floods with spit, tasting of bile. He catches the retch before it gets too loud, but it’s terrible.
Dean can’t finish his meagre mouthful. He spits it into the trash. Then he covers it with a crumpled handful of paper towels.
He sits on the floor feeling simultaneously starved and nauseous.
With the fridge door shut, he can still smell it. The faint remnants of something scented dark, metallic, gratifying.
What red wine tastes like in the books he’s read.
His stomach growls, churns, aches.
The traces of it. He sniffs. Follows the scent to–
To where his brother was sat.
The penny drops.
“Oh, fuck. ”
Dean lays in the silence and dark of his room, willing himself to get sleepy. To collapse. To forget it. He can catch a ride with someone tomorrow and maybe get something from a deli. Eat outside somewhere. He’s not going to starve to death overnight, he reasons with himself.
But the tempting ghost, the nagging reminder of that scent–
Dean is also sweating and cramping. Just like his twin.
Every bone in his body aches with need.
Desperate hunger, all-encompassing. All consuming. His brain itches at the inside of his skull like something alive.
The hunger moves Dean. He’s powerless to stop it.
He crosses the hallway to his brother’s bedroom. Opens the door silently and enters.
Instantly, he’s drowned in that scent. It’s thick in here, almost a humidity. A mist of it.
There's something playing on Hank's jPad, illuminating a sliver of the wall. Faint noise is escaping the headphones. The room is occasionally lit by the flashing light of the heatpad having timed out.
His twin is sprawled across his bed, snoring faintly. Twisted out of the bedsheets. Hank is only wearing black underwear, having ditched his shirt.
Either of their bodyguards would scold him for his carelessness.
Dean, though, Dean can almost taste the air, he’s so hungry.
Hank is warm, he can tell from the sight of him, the visible rhythm of his pulse at his collar. The sweat on his chest.
Dean could never–
But the hunger would.
It must be the hunger that acts, because Dean isn’t this kind of person.
The ravenous darkness within him kneels at the bottom of his brother’s bed and sniffs, doglike, along the exposed leg. Hank’s bare, delicate toes. The arch of his foot. The indent of his ankle.
Dean climbs the mattress on all fours, hovering above his twin. Inhaling every inch he can reach.
The curve of calf muscles into Hank's knee. The malleable give of his thigh. Dean's breath just about moves Hank’s faint, light body hair.
The smell of him is heavy with hormones, but there’s also that moreish, irresistible tang to it.
The sweat pooling at the dip of Hank's groin. The hunger can’t stand it.
Dean's tongue traces a slow, careful line through the perspiration there.
It’s divine. It’s all he’s wanted for weeks. It’s the same as the first bite of steak all those weeks ago.
It’s not enough, and he knows that, but he can’t bring himself to–
The hunger can, and will. What possesses Dean pushes the fabric of his brother’s briefs to one side.
Inhales the smell of him. The metallic tinge of his blood.
Hank hasn’t stirred, even with his twin sniffing his newly-exposed cunt.
Dean wouldn’t do this. This is assault, he’s pretty sure, because it’s not like Hank can say ‘no thanks’ while he’s flat out like this, and the knowledge of that–
– does absolutely nothing to stop the hunger from tasting the edges of him.
Dean whimpers, has to bite it back, hold it in his throat, because the flavour that overwhelms his senses is so perfect and so powerful he could cry. Could melt. Could scream.
The hunger that reigns over him propels him further. He can’t resist it. The blood surges through him like a riptide. Dean mouths along the folds of his brother’s pussy.
The taste in his mouth quells the emptiness that has been digesting him from the inside out. Dean can practically feel his eyelids rolling back in relief. He can’t help himself. Hank’s juices are like nectar. Like medicine. Like a lifeline.
Strength he’s been missing for weeks is returning, one swallow at a time.
Hank shifts and stretches, just enough to mumble something under his breath.
“Quit it.”
Just like that, Dean freezes. He’s instantly paralysed with guilt. Disgust. Remorse.
Hank shifts on his back, a half stretch, a murmured groan.
Then there’s silence again.
Dean waits a moment, beating himself up internally– this is bad, this is messed up – but he can't fight the urge to keep going.
He licks along where Hank is leaking, tongue pressing against his entrance to tease more out.
His brother twitches against his face. He spills out a hot little moan, heavy with sleep.
Something about that feels permissive. It sparks a little encouragement.
Emboldened, Dean lets his hands span his twin’s hip, up to his waist, tracking the span of fine, fluffy hair to his navel. An unsteady thumb traces the faint scarring across his chest.
Dean laps through his brother, and when his tongue finds the peak of his clit, Hank’s legs shake.
The little, breathy noises push him too far. Dean sinks his teeth into his twin’s thigh, to feel the give of them. To test his bite against his skin.
“Ah, fuck, y– wait, huh? ”
Dean should be on the other side of the room. He should be on all fours grovelling for forgiveness.
He’s frozen again, caught with a sticky face and his fangs bared.
Hank kicks him back by the shoulder, hard enough to wind him. “Dean! What the hell, man?”
His eyes are wide. He’s flushed.
“I–” Dean stammers uselessly, but he hasn’t got an answer. All he can think of to say is, “It’s me.”
“This is one of those dreams, isn't it?” Hank groans.
“You're awake,” he tells his brother.
“Then w–”
“I'm hungry, Hank.” Dean pushes his way back between his brother's legs, and pins his knees apart again.
Hank is a lot stronger than him, always has been, so the fact that he can complete the motion is telling. He's letting him win a little, like he used to when they were younger. Hank watches him with a narrow-eyed curiosity.
Dean plants a wet, open mouthed kiss on his twin's skin. “I’ve been hungry for weeks. And you taste good. ”
“What's going on with you, man?” Hank complains, but there's a shakiness to it. He pulls off his underwear. “You ignore me all week and then this?”
“It’s the blood,” Dean confesses, kissing the edges of the hickey he left behind. “It’s important. I don’t think I can live without it.”
“Gross. Seriously?” Hank swipes a finger through the mess on Dean's face, grimacing at it. “My brother the vegetari–”
“Deadly.”
Hank looks at him for a moment. Hank is serious about everything, in his own way. After a second of uncertainty, he sighs.
“Alright, hold on,” he says, twisting around to put a finger inside himself. Dean can only watch open-mouthed, as his twin presses up into his cunt, pinching at something.
It takes a second for Dean to realise what's happening.
Then Hank’s fingers re-emerge, messy, balancing what may as well be a sacred chalice. An offering.
The smell is so strong Dean moans.
It's smooth looking plastic cupped in his brother's fingers, a dish full of his blood. It’s still connected to his insides by a thick, viscous string.
“Go on then, freak,” Hank scoffs, but there's a giddiness to his voice. Like he can't quite believe it.
The aroma affects Dean like nerve gas. He feels tipsy on it already.
His twin’s anointed fingers. The overwhelming iron smell. The mucus catching the faint light spilling around the room from his tablet.
Dean bows his head to lap from it, catlike. Catching a little on his tongue at once.
He can't hold back the pitched little squeak that escapes. The heady flavour overpowers him.
“That can't be good, shut up,” Hank tuts, sounding embarrassed.
Dean hums, because he can't bear to waste any time talking. It is good. It's the best thing he's ever tasted.
He knows he’s blushing under the weight of Hank’s gaze, but he tongues it out completely. It’s not metallic like the taste of his own nosebleeds. It’s warm and plummy. The congealed pieces melt in his mouth like butter. Dean knows he must look crazy swallowing it so voraciously but the urge that propels him is stronger than any impulse he's ever felt.
“God, you weirdo,” Hank chides, but his voice is chesty, needy.
Dean drops the cup to the mattress, sucked clean, and licks his lips.
“I need this,” he admits, and tucks back in between his twin’s legs.
“Dean– fuck – you could have asked,” Hank whines, contrasting with how he arches his back and laces his fingers into his brother's hair.
He couldn't, though. There's no way he'd ever get the nerve to ask for this . Tonguing deep into his brother's cunt, Dean feels a satisfaction and peace like nothing else.
The musk and lifeblood of his twin, spilled for his gluttony, paints his palate. Dean can only imagine this is what communion is supposed to feel like.
Hank is getting wetter and wetter, his calves trembling where they rest on his brother’s shoulders. Dean imbibes everything he can. He’ll fill his belly with whatever Hank is willing to feed him.
How the richness of blood comes in bursts interspersed with the crisp flavour of his brother’s come makes him think of the tide. Like drawing from a well. This forbidden act, this magic, this insatiability– he can't contend with any of them. He’s powerless to his own compulsion.
Hank jolts him from his thoughts hissing, “dude, if you're gonna fuck me just do it already. ”
Dean parts with his meal, just momentarily, to tell his brother, “not yet.”
This isn't about that, but he doesn't seem to have realised that yet.
Hank grumbles under his breath and wraps some fingers around his clit. He's as impatient as ever.
Dean lathes it with his tongue. An apology, because he's not stopping any time soon. Hank seems grateful for it, judging from the hot little moan that escapes him.
“Fuck, yeah, there–”
Bloodlust or no, Dean can’t resist his brother. Especially while he’s coming apart like this. He suckles between Hank’s questing fingers to help him along.
There’s a desperation in the way Hank moves beneath him, his abdomen tensing in rhythmic little pulls. One hand toys with his chest idly as he chews his lip.
As his brother clambers towards his climax, Dean can’t help but notice the heaving of his chest. The strength of the pulse at his femoral artery. The veins and muscle fibres tense in his forearms.
Dean drinks deep from Hank's body as he rattles through his orgasm, muffled where he pushes his face into his bedding.
It tastes sweet as it wets Dean’s face, but it's not quite enough. That can’t be it. He needs more of that heaviness, that syrupy sanguine taste. He tongues insistently, searching for another hit of it.
“Dude! Give me a sec, goddamn,” Hank chides, finally releasing his lower lip from his front teeth.
Dean gets one glimpse of spilled blood there and it’s like his whole body roars at once for it. Fresh, smudged on Hank’s face, he’d do anything to lick it away.
Dean knows he can't eat his twin's face, so he has to compromise.
He re-pins his brother’s leg and bites down. It’s far easier to break the skin than it should be.
Hank squeaks in protest, before he can cram his hand over his mouth.
Dean taps a vein. He can feel it.
“Ouch,” Hank hisses, “that hurts. ”
“Sorry,” Dean says, but he isn't. Fresh venous blood floods his mouth and all he can think of is lapping it up, sucking the wound, swallowing it back. It moves through him like magic.
“We need to talk about your goth phase,” Hank scolds him, but if he was really mad he'd have Dean in a headlock. He could kick the shit out of him. He must be getting something out of this.
“It's not that,” Dean insists, but he'll admit to anything to keep Hank bleeding for him. “I'll owe you one.”
“A huge one,” Hank says firmly, but he's watching from heavy-lidded eyes. He nods a little.
Dean's not going to ask twice. He revels in his twin’s laboured breathing as he bites again.
He loses time to it. Hank purrs and melts under his maw, and the chanting chorus within him finally calms down. He's not felt this un-hungry, this satisfied, since before he left his college room all those weeks ago.
Rapturous, in a way he’s never felt, Dean bites again and again.
His tongue flooded with his brother's reflection of his own blood, Dean finally feels whole . There's nothing missing for once. He's happy here.
Hank mumbles something incoherent, but it doesn't seem urgent. He sounds like he's found some bliss of his own, as his hips rock mindlessly against nothing.
Dean feels his face tacky with coagulation as he mouths and suckles at the welts. The scent changes as it’s exposed to the air. What he can lap directly from Hank, fresh and scarlet, is so much sweeter than what clots on his skin.
He wonders how much different his brother’s lifeblood would taste if he hadn’t eaten something carby before bed. How much richer the flavour would be if he went for an artery instead of aiming for veins, over and over again.
It’d be a lot less safe, though.
Given that he can remember a lot of science classes he’d rather have not attended, Dean realises his head is clearing up a lot. He doesn’t feel crazy anymore.
He probably looks it, though.
He swallows one last time, and then checks in on his twin.
Hank’s inner thigh is a roadmap of carnage. He's already coming up in bruises, swollen lovebites purpling volcanoes along his skin. Dean's brother is silent beyond his shaking breath. He’s twitching helplessly. His eyes are open, but rolled back.
“Hank,” Dean whispers, jostling him by the knee. “Are you okay?”
His brother only answers in a few little sobbed noises. His hands are balled in his bedding. He’s so overstimulated he can't talk, judging from the agonised face he’s making.
Dean finds his hand and laces fingers through his. “Hey.”
“Y-y-y–”
He kisses his twin’s calf, leaving a sticky smudge of maroon behind.
“Y–you're a real asshole, y-you kn-know that?” Hank stammers, forcing the words out with difficulty. He’s just about breathing normally again.
“I couldn't help myself,” Dean admits, but he can’t load up another fake apology. He feels the best he has in weeks. Hank looks stunning like this.
It’s weird, not having the guilt wash over him like it normally would. It’s absent. A missing feeling.
“So what,” Hank groans, wincing as he stretches the leg Dean's been chewing on. “You're a dracula now?”
“…I guess so.”
“Well, dang, next time use a knife,” Hank complains, but he beckons his brother up the bed. “Shit hurts. ”
Dean’s pretty happy to lay with his twin, and scoots up.
“God, ew, wait,” Hank grimaces, and mops at Dean’s face with a discarded t-shirt. “Don't get that mess on my pillows. It’s everywhere.”
“Sorry.”
There’s a big, awkward pause.
“Thank you,” Dean says a little lamely. It's nowhere near close to the entirety of his feelings, but it's a good start. “I think I've needed that for a while.”
“Ugh, whatever. Are we gonna screw, or what?” Hank tuts, avoiding the conversation. Without waiting for an answer he sets to groping along his twin's body. Hank’s hands find where Dean is straining at his pyjamas.
Dean hadn’t planned on it. He hadn't even thought about it. He’d forgotten that he was hard, actually, amongst everything else.
It’s hard not to think about sex now, though, with Hank naked and messy next to him. With the flavour of his blood, his cunt, his slick drying on his skin, coating his throat.
Dean kicks off his sweatpants. He can mull over that uncontrollable urge to exsanguinate his twin later.
He's so firm it's almost sore to palm along himself. He cusses.
Hank tugs him between his legs with his knees, pulling him on top. “You’re gonna last like, 10 seconds.”
Dean tuts, lining his dickhead up against the swollen folds of his brother’s cunt. “Shut up.”
He wants to guide himself inside slowly, but Hank rides down on him with a bounce of his hips.
They both melt apart a little too quickly. Hank is a mess from the ordeals of the evening, and Dean is throbbing so hard his brother’s slick insides are agonising.
“Shit.”
“Fuck.”
There’s less urgency to their sex. It’s not going to be a long session, judging from how Hank shakes and how Dean can’t quite catch his breath.
He doesn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already has. Dean kisses the sweat off his brother's chest. He takes care to flick his tongue against his nipples. He’s got to manage something before he loses his composure any more.
Hank’s nails dig grooves into his shoulders.
What really does it for Dean, shamefully, is feeling the friction inside his brother change. Realising he’s leaking another gush of period blood. Imagining what it looks like inside him, mixing with his precome, slicking his cock.
Dean whimpers stupidly, starting to lose his thread. When he glances at his brother’s face, Hank is picture perfect. Brows furrowed, mouth pursed, panting.
It’s considerably harder to concentrate on holding back while Hank is spilling hot little breaths, mumbling encouragements.
“Fuck, yeah, that’s it, there is–”
“Hank,” is the only warning he can formulate before it storms through him, knocks him to the curb, leaves him hanging on for dear life.
Dean’s orgasm has him seeing, kissing, tasting stars. His brother’s hips pulse against his needily, pelvic muscle wringing him. The grip that seizes him tightens, shudders, then relaxes. Hank is coming with him.
Dean is only vaguely aware of a hand clasping over his mouth when the rushing feeling starts to ebb away, when he starts to cool down.
Coming back to normal, he says, sorry. “Was I loud?”
Hank sniggers. “Yeah. You sound like a total girl when you’re nutting.”
Dean doesn’t like that at all, but he’s not ready to leave the closeness yet. He extracts himself from his twin, dripping slick and blood, and cuddles into him.
“Helped a lot with my cramps, y’know,” Hank tells him, nice and casually. Like they’re talking about a football game. “I could do without getting gnawed on like a piece of jerky, though.”
Dean is blissed out in the heat pouring off his twin. The sensation of skin on skin. Their hearts beating together. “I didn’t think I'd get so carried away. I’ll get some gauze for you.”
Hank nuzzles into his brother’s hair and asks, “Is this what's been eating you lately? Weirdo goth horniness?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not a goth.” This is their usual kind of argument- but it’s sweeter than usual while he’s still holding his brother.
“Two out of three, huh. Okay. Just weirdo horniness, whatever.”
“Can I sleep in here?” Dean asks a little sheepishly.
“Uh,” Hank wiggles around a little to see his clock. “My alarm goes off in about three hours, but sure.”
They both groan.