Summary: Season 7. Blood makes them family, that's what their Father told them. Dean wakes up to an old and familiar enemy of the fanged variety.

Warnings: Violence, brief adult language. Spoilers mostly for season 6-basically all you need to know about season 7 is that the Leviathan exist.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.

Their hands are cold and small.

This is the first thing he processes when his long, matted lashes pull apart, and eyes, a murky shade of moss green in the sliver of silver moonlight, blink to awareness. One stony palm presses against his chest, another set of fingers wrap around his whiskey-burned throat, as if to massage the growing ache away. Only they tighten instead, nails carving skin. And, he thinks again, their hands are cold and small, before his panic fully blossoms.

Dean struggles to throw it off, while mentally mapping his way to his arsenal: the long brutal knife beneath his pillow, the sawed-off shotgun sitting atop the weapons' duffle tucked at the foot of the mattress, the box of 20 Mule Team borax cleaner, ripped open and ready to spill, sitting upright on the stained carpet between his bed and—Shit. Sam.

As if this shadow hovering over him, face hidden by a curtain of soft hair, can smell this fresh fear leaking through his pores, those tiny fingers at his neck slide up, thumb and index bruising his jaw and jerking his head to one side. Left. Left, where his brother's bed remains, farthest from the door and the lone window so that the mild winter night's glow barely reaches his jerking form. But, even dimly lit, the silhouette is clear, as if outlined by white chalk on a black canvas. Sam's long body is still covered in a sheet, belly to mattress. Another person, cold and small, straddles his back, slender bare arms—


stretching up his lengthy torso, holding one hand over his lips, the other clawing through his hair with enough strength to lift his head and shoulders off of the pillows. Sam is the loudest thing in the room because he bucks and the mattress screams, because he hisses like a snake through his flared nostrils and pinned lips, and because his arms are free. He's thrashing around, throwing out fists that can't manage to score a decent hit on his assailant but, instead, knocks the dead lamp off the bedside table, flings the alarm clock at the wall with sufficient force to leave the red digital face blinking—12:00 12:00 12:01—and activate the snowy reception of a distant radio station.

An old rock song filters through the other sounds, soft beneath the static, relevant in the way that old rock songs always seem to be after their prime—"everything-we-see-just-fades-away"—and not being able to remember the name of the song bugs Dean almost as much as the fact that they've been attacked in their beds. Again. Reminded that there is no place safe for them to rest their heads. Again. Will likely die four feet from one another. Again.

"Fuck you!" comes out as a punctuated growl, but he has to say something, damn it. He can't go down silent, and he can't go down screaming.

Then he figures it out, why not remembering the name of a song—which, yeah, now he remembers the damn thing—was bothering him. He stills. Remembering is important because of what is currently on top of him, on top of his brother. His mind is filling in the gaps for his piss-poor blurry vision, and the shadowy shapes are becoming clearer—on his brother's back sits a girl in a white dress with a too-white smile and two too-blue eyes. Dean's seen her before, somewhere deep inside his mind, inside every mind; he knows that face, even if it's not turned to greet him. And, he also aware of another such face, almost a carbon copy, and its owner is currently sitting on top of his stomach.

He knows she can't read his mind. Knows it. But, it's almost like she can, because as soon as recognition cobra-strikes him at his core, she jerks his head back against the pillow so that his eyes must focus on the water stain on the ceiling. He can't see Sam now, and it bothers the shit out of him. He also can't breathe now. That also bothers the shit out of him.

The girl leans over, loosens her grip just enough to let him suck in her stale, copper penny scent. She is curious and delighted, her teeth rounded and child-like for the moment, her eyes narrowed playfully. The bow of satin holding a lock of hair over her ear has become unraveled. Dean hates how alive she looks.

The voice that comes out of her mouth is sweet, dramatic, as if belonging to a child in need of attention instead of a monster. "We've been searching everywhere for you." Like it's his fault. Her nose crinkles. She's fighting to keep the pout at her lips instead of a grin. "Have you been hiding from us, Dean?"

"Well, darlin', most girls would take the hint," he says, in a tight, raspy, I-can't-breath-damn-it voice, even though he's not sure what the hell she's talking about. He knows her face, and her sister's, but he doesn't quite understand why her head is still attached to her body. Or why he was worthy of her acknowledgement.

Once a vampire gets your scent—yeah, yeah, Dean remembers, but he's never met these two. And, as far as he knows, Sam hasn't either. He's only seen their tea-time fun in a Now-in-Technicolor! hallucination brought on by big daddy vamp, and, quite frankly, he'd assumed these two creepshows were taken out when Campbells & Co. stormed the Alpha's farmhouse.

Apparently not.

His mind circles back—and if he lives to see morning, he's blaming the slowness of his thoughts on the oxygen deprivation and not the bottle of bourbon he opened before bedtime—to the "hiding" accusation, because, sure, he and Sam have been doing just that, hiding. His baby is parked on the other side of the country, his usual identities shredded, his old cell phones smashed, all to keep them under the radar.

If anything, they expected a Big Mouth to sneak up on them—after all, that's why they're in the little spot-on-the-map called Althea, Georgia, sleeping with all the lights off and their stolen mini-van hidden behind the building. ("Dean, we don't need the extra weaponry. The car's only a block away." "It's a van, Soccer Mom, and better to be prepared." Told ya, Sammy.) The tiny town, known for its view of the high hills and its smattering of antique shops, is shut down. A train derailed a day ago, leaving toxic materials potentially spilled, noted the news, hours later. Only, Dean had a lead of the Dick Roman bank account variety that said Althea is being checked out by the Leviathans, for reasons unknown, as is the Leviathan way of late. This is why the Winchesters decided to save a fifty and squat in this cheap motel while the owners took the evacuation more seriously.

But if the Leviathan are here, they're not here. No, Dean and Sam Winchester have been, literally, sniffed out by another beast of old, and isn't that just their damned luck?

"Dean, what the hell's going on?"

It's Sam's voice, and translates to "What's our move?" so Dean has to assume the other vampire must want him in on the fun, must be allowing him to speak.

"Vampires," Dean spits out, because he's not sure his brother knows yet. It's the only warning he's permitted before fingers grip his windpipe again.

"…Family's important." She's telling Dean a story, and he's barely listening. "That's what Father told us. He said we'd always know our family, our true family, because we share the same blood." When she bends down, her words are at his cheek, her nose twitching at his sweat-dampened hair. "Blood that can be smelled, followed, found. You look tasty, Dean. You look like meat. But we can smell it, deep inside your veins—you're our family."

"Let him go, bitch!" Sam snaps.

Dean winces at the anger in his brother's voice. He knows it means Sam heard every word she said. Every implication.

A monster, Dean. You're a monster. No better than the things you hunt.

"Know…me…?" Dean coughs out. "Not…like…you…"

She kisses the corner of his mouth, affection in the gesture. "I know, I know it hurts to be so weak again. Shh…We'll make you strong soon enough." The words, too old, don't fit the child, and she sits up, frowning down. "We saw you, when Father sent you his message. We saw all of our new family, but you were our favorite. Strong and angry and powerful. We could feel you. A perfect big brother for us—just like Father promised. Someone to take care of us. Don't you want to take care of us, Dean?"

"Dean…" Sam's call is desperate, at a whisper, and it ends with a grunt of pain.

Dean's heart jumps against his sternum at the sound of suckling. The other vampire was hungry. Shit.

"Leave enough for brother," the one on top of him demands, and Dean tries to file that order away as a good thing. Christ. Sam. Be okay.

She cocks her head and keeps her eyes locked onto Dean's. "Then those mean men buried what you were, what you'd been made into. They took you from our Father's grasp. Then they took Father, too. Slaughtered our family. Left us alone." A tear striped her cheek, her truth teeth sliding over the tiny ones, to contradict the grief. She lowered herself against him, her head resting on his shoulder, leaving him to watch the stain above. "I told Sister we'd find you, that after Mother quit sending us out, we'd find your scent. Track you. She wasn't sure, but I was, because I saw you, Dean. And, I see you now. I know you'd never leave your family alone."


It's quiet, and Dean isn't sure if he's contradicting her or agreeing.

"You'll protect us, won't you, Dean?"

When he nods, he feels her fingers loosen from around his throat, their bruising touch becoming tender against his collar bone.

"I knew you would. Knew it."

Dean feels his heart beat slow down, is aware that she feels it, hears it, too. Her knees have slid off of his wrists, and he lifts one hand, putting it between her shoulder blades, rubbing a comforting circle there, and lets his head fall to the side. Murky eyes are clear, awake, when he takes in the sight of his brother's matching but dazed gaze. Sam's sucking in air like he won't have another chance to; Sister is finished with her game, though, smiling down at the remains of her snack, as if she couldn't be any happier with her own restraint.

The bedside table's radio gives only snow now, and Dean notices what object stopped the clock from bouncing back from the wall and toppling to the floor. A bottle. Heavy, half full of amber nectar. Wild Turkey bourbon, 101 proof—"Hell, Sam," when they make a pit stop in Kentucky, "can't leave Lawrenceburg without at least one bottle. It's unAmerican." Like he needs an excuse to buy more cheap whiskey—teeters on the edge of the tabletop, and it's nearly full, despite his nightcap a few hours earlier. He watches the glitter of the glass instead of his bleeding brother.

Slow and steady stays his heart, even when he reaches out, grabs the bottle by the neck and smashes it over the vampire's ribbon-ed hair. His wrist cracks at the effort, her skull gives at the impact, and the smell of liquid honeysuckle and leather is almost overpowering. Shock is the only thing that stops the vampire from ripping his ribs out of his chest with a swipe of her cold and small hand. Shock keeps her in place when he rolls out from under her and hits the floor, his fingers instinctively wrenching out the knife from beneath the pillows as he moves.

Sam chooses the same moment to buck backward, which works for him only because the second sister has set her sights on her bourbon-scented look-alike's attacker. Dean feels her scrape into his calve and takes a sloppy swing with his knife, but Sam throws an arm around her, holding her back for the split second Dean needs to reach the duffle bag.

In his dire need to get to the bag, he's almost forgotten what the hell he's going for. The machete is at the bottom and nearly pulled free when the vampire kicks it out of his grip. It lodges in the wall, and she jumps down off the bed, in a crouch in front of him. There's a snarl at her lips. No child remains in her features. Shark. She's all shark now, Dean thinks. And sharks are fuckin' awesome and all, but he's seen Jaws one too many times to not know how he needs to play it.

His subconscious must agree, because when his hand comes out of the duffle again, his brain doesn't fully register what he's loaded into the weapon, or that it's not the pistol he was looking for—no, his inner movie-buff wins this round. She blinks at the fat orange barrel, confused as to its purpose when he lifts it up, just a few inches, and shoots.

The flare gun isn't meant to be fired inside, and Dean registers that a moment too late, nearly blinded by the spark of the blast when it slams into the vampire's chest, catching the quick-burn liquor aflame. A blue halo surrounds her head for a split second before yellow, cooler flames overtake her white cotton dress. She screams like she's burning alive, but Dean reminds himself that she's not really, because she's not really alive.

Dean shields his scorched face with one arm and falls back when another figure tackles her, trying to put out the flames, but the children are both burning by the time he dares to look at them. A hand touches his shoulder, and he shivers. But this hand is warm and massive, not cold and small.

"Move, Dean!" Sam snaps, shoving his brother to the side, and yanking the weapons duffle with them, out of the way of the flames—the bed catches, and then the next, and their screams are playing much louder than the radio static—but he doesn't head for the door right away. Sam pulls out their canister of lighter fluid, unscrews the top, and tosses it at the pair of vampires.

The heat covers them like a blanket, but the flame stays dancing with the twins.

Dean feels Sam's arm around his waist, feels the weight of the bag offsetting their balance, and stumbles with his brother out the door of the motel, kicking it shut behind him. The air is cool outside, welcoming, and both the men wheeze out their thanks to the world, choking on the bite of smoke.

They watch, cautious, ready. They stare at the door of the motel, the curtained window showing orange light through its part. They stare and expect the girls to come barreling through. Because, that's Winchester luck.

Only, they don't.

"We'll have to go back in. Take their heads," Dean says.

Sam doesn't agree or disagree. Neither of them are taking a step toward that room. He takes a shaky breath, holding a hand to his shoulder, where a sluggish stream of blood thickens against bare skin. He licks his lips.

"Dean—you know they're full of it, right?" And he says it all calm, like he's noting how unicorns don't actually shit Skittles. Sam cracks a small, careful grin. "You're not a vampire, dude. You don't even like your steaks bloody."

Dean wants to point out that, hey, a friggin' motel is on fire and maybe they should discuss this another time. Like never. But, he snorts in return. "Evil bitches lie. No news there."

And sometimes they tell the truth.

But Dean's going to put that off for another day, because he's just been pulled from a fire. "Plus, Sam Winchester doesn't share his jerk big brother with creepy killer twins."



*This one-shot was named after the Blue Oyster Cult song of the same title.

* The vampire twins were introduced in the prophetic-like vision the Alpha vampire sent his "children" in the season 6 episode "Live Free or Twihard." They didn't appear again, as far as I know, and I wondered what had happened to them.

*This short scene was written for the DeviantArt group #HasItAllCentral's Episode Contest. The three chosen prompt elements from the contest were Motel, Vampire, and Fire.

*Btw-the spelling of duffle bag annoys me because apparently it's supposed to be named after a place called Duffel, but the spelling "duffle" is also commonly accepted. So. Yeah, that's my random moment of confusion for the day...Don't know why I felt the need to share that with the world.