Title: And all that's best of dark and bright
Beta'd by: Munibunny
Genre: Cross Over
Setting/Spoilers: Post-BDS movie, post-SPN S3 (3.22, 4.01)
Pairing: Sam/Murphy, implied Sam/Dean, implied Connor/Murphy
Summary: Always Connor/Always Dean
Word Count: 4,618
Disclaimer: I do not own anything, I am merely playing in someone else's sandbox for zero profit whatsoever. Title taken from "She walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron.
It was the attitude that caught his attention.
The swagger, the smile, the familiarity of it all. He was slimmer than Dean. Darker. Eyes blue, instead of startling, bright green. But the way he held himself, the way he hustled and mocked, cocky and confident, was all Dean.
That was what started it all. That had Sam introducing himself against his better judgement. Meeting someone who held a spark of what Sam had lost wasn't what he had intended on finding that night. He had come to drink himself into a stupor. At least that had been the plan before heading out of town the next day. The hang-over in the morning would help.
The hang-over he still gave to himself when things got hard (so hard, too hard) let him focus on something else, a different pain, physical and pounding, something else to focus on than the gaping wound cratered in his chest. He was bleeding out from the inside. And it would go on. After the Trickster he knew that even once he reached six months, he would still feel like he did on Day Zero.
But it wasn't the Trickster this time. It was Lilith.
Dean was gone.
It was the voice too, Sam thought. The voice that reminded him of Dean. Not the sound though, not the accent. Dean didn't have an accent. He did though–Murphy- lilting and crass, melodic and coarse. It was a pleasant accent.
Irish, Sam was later told.
It wasn't the sound, but the tone that reminded him of Dean. The utter loudness and carelessness that made people unsure if they should kiss him or punch him. It was relaxed but underneath, a stillness Sam recognized. One that said he was aware of everything going on around him, even if he looked distracted.
He acted like Dean, he sounded like Dean, but looked nothing like him.
Where Dean was light and golden, Murphy was dark and pale, hair too long and brown, nothing like Dean's short dirty blonde; blue eyes agile and catlike, instead of big, green, and open. Beauty mark above his lip, instead of Dean's smattering of freckles across his nose.
Murphy…Murphy was at the bar with someone. His brother, who'd gone back to their room twenty minutes ago.
Sam's heart twisted when he heard that. His stomach, a cold knot. He'd had a brother too…once. Once upon a time… Now he just needed to forget. But the reminder, the familiarity in Murphy's mannerisms wouldn't let him forget. And this time…this time, Sam wasn't sure he wanted to.
Murphy sunk the pool ball into the final pocket and collected his winnings from the fucking prick that spent the last hour making an ass out of himself. He was more than willing to take his money, would have loved a fight to break out for an excuse to break the little fuck's nose, but even a year after the Yakavetta trial, they had to keep a low profile.
He knew he got loud sometimes, but tonight something in him just wanted to get louder, to fight or fuck, and break shit to pieces.
Murphy fucking hated fighting with Connor. But that's how their night had ended. A few heated words, a really low blow, and Connor had left back to their room. It was Da's mission getting to them, he knew. Getting to Connor. Their calling, their prayers, all the blood they had shed before God, and now not only following His path, but their mortal Father's as well. It was good then that Da was in another city, so his twin wouldn't start another round of twenty thousand fucking questions for the man.
Fuck. It was…easier, before. Before all this, all the notoriety that followed them. Just him and Connor, living day to day, paycheck to paycheck, living in each other's back pockets (since birth). But harder. It was harder back then too, sometimes more dangerous. He couldn't count how many times or how often he had watched Connor back then. Felt like he was always watching his brother.
It was more difficult to watch him now, more shame in it with Da always around. He didn't want to know what Il Duce would do to him if he ever knew. Fuck, what Ma would do. They'd both kill him for thinking of Connor how he did.
Beautiful Connor. Perfect Connor. Always Connor.
His brother, his partner, his twin.
Love of his fucking life. And how fair was that? Putting someone he loved so much, so deep, so close to him that they were nearly one person? The person he loved most in the world was the one person he could never, ever have. Connor was temptation. Blonde and golden, a fucking angel, he was. Murphy was the one with the demons at his back. They were inked there permanently as a reminder.
He could never tell Connor. Never would. It was his burden, his sin, his to deal with on his own. It would never come out. Murphy didn't think he'd have the strength for that.
For losing Connor.
Murphy would take Ma and Da finding out any day over Connor ever knowing. He wouldn't be able to take the look of betrayal and revulsion on his brother's face. The disgust. So he would never know how Murphy's hands ached to touch him. They touched now, of course they did, they were close, but it was never how he wanted. Just once, he wanted to run his hand down the curve of Connor's spine, map his way across his stomach, explore every inch of him by touch and sight. Sweep his tongue over the curvature of Connor's mouth.
Murphy pushed his way through the crowds towards the bar. He needed a drink.
Connor. He couldn't think of Connor. Fucking beautiful Connor.
He needed to think of something other than him.
And fuck, who says God doesn't hear?
The man who approached him was bigger than Murphy by a good half a foot. Shoulders built like a fucking mack truck, and damn it all if Murphy didn't recognize the look in his eyes. He was pretty sure he was reflecting the same thing. Need. Pain. Forget.
He didn't know yet if he'd take him up on whatever he thought would be offered, but the one thing Murphy was sure of was that there would be no way he could pretend the man was Connor.
He was too big, too large to ever mistake for Connor's lithe, slim body – built just like Murphy's own. No. No mistaking.
He said his name was Sam.
Murphy had freckles after all. All over his shoulders. Dusted everywhere.
So many freckles.
Sam bit into the flesh of Murphy's neck, not hard enough to leave marks, but hard enough to sting. His mouth trailed down, over those fucking freckles, kissing, licking, tasting. Every single dot feathered across Murphy's skin was tormenting him, teasing and mocking, the irony wasn't lost on him. Dean's shoulders were freckle dusted too.
Sam pushed Murphy down onto the bed, letting curses in that flowing accent, growls, snaps, and insults distract him from thinking. But he couldn't not think.
Murphy's wide, wide shoulders reminded him of Dean.
Dean, Dean, Dean.
Sam caught Murphy's mouth with his. Their teeth clacked together as tongues twisted and probed, licking the insides of their mouths. Murphy's hand tangled in his hair and tightened. His other hand trailed down Sam's back. Sam's squeezed his eyes shut and fused their mouth harder as Murphy's fingers danced across the scar forever carved into Sam's back.
He didn't watch, he didn't see, too late, Dean yelling, white hot pain through his back, spine severed. Dean…Dean's body against his, holding Sam's dead weight against him.
Payment. Reminder. Dean's gone because of that scar, sold his soul for that scar.
Dean's in Hell because of him.
Sam pushed his body between Murphy's legs, those strong, long, lean legs bracketing his hips, cock's thrusting against each other.
Murphy's hand moved. Sam let himself breathe, and buried his face in Murphy's neck as Murphy dipped lower and grasped Sam's ass.
Fuck, he needed to do this. Just –fuck.
Murphy gasped as he was flipped over onto his stomach and pinned. It was unexpected and happened too fast to realize he was now staring at the mattress beneath him. It shouldn't have surprised him, though. Christ, Sam's arms, his chest, his fucking back. It was all hard, fucking muscle. Every goddamn inch. No, definitely shouldn't have been surprised that Sam could manhandle him at all.
Murphy grasped the sheets in his fists and groaned. Sam had fucking huge hands too. And those long, thick fingers were definitely doing some very wonderful things to him.
Grunting he pushed his hips back onto the fingers that were inside him. Touching him, spreading him open, and Mary, Mother of God, have fucking mercy was that his fucking cock?
Looked big before but to have Sam inside him, Murphy tensed and relaxed, Christ, how the hell did he even fit? Bu-
Murphy jerked hard and fell boneless as Sam moved, his cock pressing hard inside him, gliding and dragging across his prostate. Yeah, yeah that was fucking it. Exactly what the fuck he wanted.
So quiet in the bar, but guttural in bed. It's always the quiet ones… Sam's quiet thought when they met had Murphy pegging him as a thinker, steady, but with a danger and a wild heart beating underneath. Just like Connor.
And this…this is how he wanted Connor to fuck him. Dreamed he'd fuck him.
Deep and desperate.
Hard and steady.
Murphy moaned into the pillows, biting down on the cotton. Whoever 'Dean' was, Murphy hoped he knew. Or that Sam would just fucking tell him already. Murphy lost count of how many times Sam had whispered that name in his ear as he fucked.
Sam had whispered it like a prayer. Like a benediction.
Murphy couldn't help it when Connor's name slipped passed his lips.
The room was warm and stale. The smell of sex and sweat clung to everything around them. Murphy shifted and stretched out comfortably on his stomach. The ache in his ass was a welcome one, something he could focus on when he and Connor left for Missouri into Kansas. Da had a contact there, and he was waiting.
Turning his head and pushing the hair out of his eyes –bangs were getting too long- he studied Sam studying the ceiling. A look on his face he didn't recognize. It was too much of a combination in one look for him to pin it down.
Murphy quirked an eyebrow. He thought he remembered yelling his brother's name into the mattress as he came…apparently he did.
"Who's Dean?" Murphy countered. He wasn't the only one thinking about someone else.
Sam flinched. The corners of his eyes tightened, but his eyes were dry. He'd run out of tears weeks ago, as hard as he tried, no more would come. He'd been bled dry. He had drank so hard in the beginning, tried to sell his soul, he had stopped caring, nothing mattered anymore. Was it irony that no demon would take his soul? Was it so stained and corrupted by Azazel's blood that not even Hell would take him?
His emptiness could only grow. He didn't care anymore. Lilith's death was all he had to look forward to now. Nothing else mattered. Because Dean…his Dean…
"My brother," said Sam, answering Murphy. "He's dead."
After that one word, Murphy's heart halted to a sudden stop. But with dead, his entire chest dropped out and froze. His mind was trying to play catch up to everything he was feeling, trying to process what had just been said.
Had Sam just confessed to Murphy's own sin? The odds were very fucking unlikely, the fuck…with a small sudden though, Murphy rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, though looking far passed it than Sam was.
Brother or not, he was dead.
Murphy couldn't think of Connor like that. His shine, his light, his smile gone from this world and unto God in the next. In their line of work…it could happen any day. But no matter when it came Murphy knew that if Connor ever went down, Murphy would be right behind; even if he had to put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger himself. He knew Hell would probably be waiting, but even the Hellfire would be more welcome than living in a world without Connor.
He watched Sam startle. Probably not the reaction he was expecting. Murphy knew he would have expected his bed mate to dive for the door after such a confession himself, so he understood Sam's look of confusion.
Yeah. Definitely the same sin. So…what the fuck then?
"Was he older?" Murphy asked quietly.
"So's Connor. Don' tell 'im I admitted it though."
"M'brother." The corner of his mouth quirked into a half smile. "My twin."
Murphy chuckled. "Nah. Fraternal. Destroyed our Ma's girlish figure in one fell swoop, she says."
Sam gave up a small laugh at that. Christ. Murphy never thought he'd admit to anyone how he wanted Connor.
"Are you serious?"
"Fuckin' weird, huh?"
"My whole life's weird." Sam's gaze found the ceiling again. "Nothing surprises me anymore."
They fell into a silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, but melancholy. Both locked in their own worlds, side by side, but apart. The silence was only broken when Sam glanced Murphy's way with a quietly whispered 'Christo'. Murphy could have took that to mean anything, but ignored it in favour of asking Sam a question in Latin. He looked surprised but answered Murphy back in the same language. Murphy couldn't help the light grin that formed. Really, what were the fucking odds?
Maybe…maybe Sam was a message from God after all. And Murphy was listening, he was trying so hard to listen. Was Sam a warning or a blessing?
"Did he know?"
"Dean. Did he know?"
Sam swallowed. "Yeah. I just…I just wished he knew how much."
"You're stronger than I'd be," said Murphy. "If I'd lost Conn, I wouldn't still be here."
"Don't think I didn't try." Sam let out a deep breath. Oh, how he had tried. No demon would take him, no hunt would claim him. His rage and grief seemed to burn and destroy everything he set out to kill. Even when he didn't have any intention of making it out, he somehow always succeeded when he prayed to fail.
Through his thoughts, he vaguely heard Murphy talking.
"…always a plan. Even when it all seems shite, God's planning something."
God talk? Sam should have known, but one could never be too sure about religion and tattoos, especially combined with gay sex. The demons that decorated Murphy's skin was one thing, but the others, the ornate cross on his forearm and the saint he bore on his neck was another. Sam had noticed his hand too.
Something about that was familiar to Sam, but he couldn't place from where, didn't care to analyze it too closely either.
"Dean didn't deserve to die. How is that a plan?"
'Roc didn't deserve it either,' thought Murphy. "Things don' always go tha way we want. But it's not what we want, is it? Can't jus' have faith when only tha good things happen. Hafta hold onta it with tha bad. There's always a greater purpose, Sam."
Murphy was missing something. He could feel it when he looked at Sam, but couldn't pinpoint what the feeling was exactly. All he knew was that it felt kindred.
Murphy leaned up over Sam and grasped his chin, pressing their lips hard together one last time.
Sam looked thoughtful as Murphy pushed himself out of bed and started pulling on his clothes.
"Got to go," he said, tugging on his coat. "Connor's waitin'."
"Right." Sam pushed himself up on his elbows. "Do you…" Sam stopped. "Do you really believe that? Do you really believe God's there?"
"Aye. I know He is."
"'Cause when ya really listen, really need Him, He knows how ta send a message."
Murphy could feel Sam's eyes on him as he crossed the room and stood in front of the door, hand on the knob.
He turned back to Sam and met his eyes. There was so much feeling there, and even for all of Sam's loss, Murphy could feel his hope, his faith. He wished he could help more, but that wasn't his calling.
His mission was death; bringing down upon those who hurt the innocent the wrath of God Almighty. He had been Chosen to carry out this task, his family had been Chosen.
Murphy didn't know what possessed him to say it, but before he left the room and into the chilly autumn night he offered Sam one last comfort.
"Angels're watchin' over ya."
Sam's head hit the pillow as soon as the door clicked shut.
Angels were watching over him?
Ruby was no angel. He didn't like her, he didn't want her, he sure as hell didn't trust her…but she was all he had. And he was pathetic enough to listen to her because…because she reminded him of Dean.
He laughed bitterly.
Look at him. Trying to hunt down Lilith with his gun half cocked. He knew he couldn't fight her like this, but honestly, in the beginning he had hoped she would just kill him out right. He was shocked to hell when her powers were useless against him.
Now, now he wanted her dead. And he would see to it. His anger and vengeance drove him, and if that didn't make him exactly like his father he didn't know what would. He was definitely John Winchester's son.
It was the hopelessness that led him to use his powers. That let Ruby convince him to use what he had swore to Dean he would never unlock. He could rip demons out of their hosts without an exorcism now. It was still hard, but he was learning. He had buried his abilities so deeply after Dean had killed Azazel that it was a constant struggle to get them back. He was on a slippery slope, he knew it. But without Dean, he just didn't care. If this led him to Hell, then his only consolation was that he would finally be reunited with his brother. That was all he wanted.
Sam sighed and checked the date on the radio.
Ruby had heard some demonic chatter so they were heading to Pontiac, Illinois in the morning. He would meet her there and they would start to investigate what all the fuss was about. Something big was coming; and if it was Lilith, Sam was going to shove Ruby's knife so far down her throat that she would choke on her own blood before dying a very painful death.
"Angels are watching over you."
Sam's brows furrowed together. Why did that sound…Sam's eyes widened as he shot up in bed and stared at the door. Previous thoughts forgotten, all he did was stare. Angels watch…
It was something their mother said. She had told it to Dean every night. It was one of the few things Dean could remember about her.
Sam swallowed. It was a coincidence. Only a coincidence. It meant nothing. Sam layback down slowly, ignoring the uneasy feeling that settled in his chest. It was a long drive to Pontiac, and he needed sleep. Even if it was a long time coming.
Murphy let himself into the room he shared with Connor quietly. There was every chance his twin was still awake, but on the off-chance he fell asleep, Murphy was going to proceed with caution.
The room was dark when he entered. Connor's form lay still on the bed closest to the door. The left bed. The left side was always Connor's side, Murphy always took the right ever since they were kids. It was rare when they happened to switch sides.
Murphy walked over to Connor's bed, barely breathing so as not to wake him. The curtains were open enough that the muted light of the streetlamps outside gave Murphy enough to see by. Connor was on his side, eyes closed, and breathing evenly. But Murphy could see the creases between his eyebrows. He'd probably fallen asleep angry, or didn't even mean to sleep. Murphy glanced down the length of his brother's body. He was on top of the sheets and still in his jeans; so no, Murphy thought, he hadn't meant to -be temptation- fall asleep.
Murphy sighed and knelt down beside Connor's bed. He softly ran a finger between Connor's eyebrows to smooth the skin out, to ease some tension. It was these moments that he stole, a light touch across Connor's skin, through his hair, along his jaw, that made Murphy's heart ache worse than when they touched during the day. In the light they always touched, always bumping into each other, swatting and slapping, shoulder against shoulder when they sat, like they were meant to be sharing the same space.
He took every chance to touch Connor greedily, storing every one in his memory, the heat of him, the feel of him, Murphy let his own touches linger, longer than they should have, but short enough that Connor never noticed.
Murphy's thumb brushed over Connor's left eyebrow, and the scar that ran through it. It was the result of another argument. They were fifteen, and Murphy really thought Connor would duck the ashtray he threw at him. He hadn't moved fast enough though, and the glass had caught him in the face. Any and all argument was gone and forgotten then, Murphy had run to his brother frantic and half to panic, he used his own shirt to try and stop the bleeding.
A hospital trip, a few sound slaps from Ma, and Connor's eight stitches later found him sitting on his bed while he watched Connor check his eyebrow in their mirror, mouth twitched up in a amused smile.
"Think it'll scar, Murph? The birds dig scars, ya know."
Murphy smiled and brushed his fingers lightly down Connor's jaw. He came to like the scar as much as Connor did. He was sorry it happened the way it did, but at the end of the day, Connor still loved him, still forgave him for it, and Murphy always had the knowledge that he had left a permanent mark on Connor. And that was something no one could take away. No matter who Connor shared his bed and body with, that scar from him was always there.
That might have been one of the positives of being a Saint though. Murphy knew it was selfish but as long as they were doing God's work, there was a good chance Connor wouldn't meet someone, get married…wouldn't leave him.
Murphy jumped and jerked his hand away like he'd been scalded. Connor's eyes blinked sleepily up at him.
"Aye," he said when he found his voice. "M'sorry. Didna' want ta wake ya, Conn."
Connor stretched out and shut his eyes. He was barely half awake, only conscious enough to notice Murphy but not enough to call him an idiot and slap him upside the head for coming in so late. Waking him up after Murphy had been such an arsehole at the bar.
He hadn't meant to be though. Murphy wished he could tell Connor it was because he was jealous.
The girl was a sweetheart. No clue who they were, and as cute as could be. Lithe brunette, blue eyes, and a charming grin. The way Connor's eyes fell on her, the way he smiled for her, and ducked his head put a cold rope of fear coiling in Murphy's gut. He felt threatened, and while Connor getting laid didn't bother him, fuck, his ex-girlfriend's never bothered him this much. It was the type of girl, the type Molly was, the type Connor could fall in love with. And it scared him.
Murphy knew he was selfish. Knew he was a sinner. Knew it and couldn't care because he needed Connor. Wanted Connor. Always Connor.
"Take a shower," Connor said drowsily, "ya smell like sex."
His brother made a noncommittal noise, already falling back asleep; completely unaware of Murphy's churning, guilty thoughts.
Connor let out a soft snore, and Murphy found himself falling back and sitting down on the hard floor. The motel room's carpeting was so thin it did little to soften the concrete beneath.
Murphy stared at Connor's sleeping face, and lowered him eyes and face to the ground. Clasping his hands in front of him, he prayed.
Morning light flooded through the small motel windows on the morning of the 17th. Sam was showered and packed up, ready to move on. The Impala was waiting for him outside, Dean's labour of love, and most faithful girl. One of the only tangible things he had left to Sam. Sam's hand unconsciously reached up and grasped the amulet that rested around his neck.
He'd put it back on after Murphy had left the night before. The necklace was a symbol. It was Dean's, a gift from Sam's, something that bonded them. And it wasn't something to be shared. Not with anyone.
Taking a deep breath, Sam tucked the amulet inside his shirt (the metal cool against his skin), and shouldered his duffle. The day ahead of him was going to be as silent as the rest, even the odd time when Ruby was with him, he was still alone.
Sam opened the door of the motel room but stopped before he set foot outside. His eye had caught a familiar head dropping a bag into the trunk of an old two-door a few car lengths down from the Impala.
Murphy looked different in the sunlight. Face brighter, back straighter. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling into the air.
A door shut not too far away and another man walked out towards Murphy. Sam's breath caught.
If Murphy acted like Dean, then Connor -Sam's heart broke into another piece- Connor looked like him.
His colouring opposed Murphy's in every way, he was more like Dean, looked like Dean.
Dean, Dean, Dean.
Sam tried to swallow down the hard lump in his throat, but it just wouldn't leave. Sam's hand tightened on the doorknob as he watched Connor put hand on back of Murphy's neck, fingers threading through his hair.
The trunk slammed shut as they parted. Car doors opened, and closed at the same time.
Sam still stood there, even after their car was long gone down the road, in whatever direction they took.
That used to be them. Sam and Dean. Packing their bags into the Impala and driving off together, a new day, a new hunt, a new life saved. Dean with his too loud music, his greasy food, his annoying questions…the Sammy's, the looks, the touches…Dean's mouth on his, body arching beneath, Dean's hand running through his hair…
Sam took a deep breath. Walking to the Impala, he opened the creaking door and got inside, throwing his duffle onto the passenger seat. He leant his head back on the leather seat and turned his head towards the road Murphy and his brother had taken.
He'd thought Murphy looked different in the light, but maybe…maybe that light had been Connor. He could relate.
Sam's heart ached.