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Regrets

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Summary: Injured Dean meets Spiketwo years prior to Season 1 SPN. Slash. Dark. Major character death.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Supernatural > Spike-Centered(Past Donor)CasFR1813,696031,07123 Mar 0823 Mar 08Yes
The characters are not mine, I'm just playing with them


Regrets



Dean sat at the bar, hunched over and cradling his glass of cheap whiskey. Now that the action was over, the events of the last few hours were finally crashing down on him, burying him under their weight.

Sometimes it was better not to know shit. Not to learn shit. Sometimes ignorance was bliss, but people like Sammy didn’t get that. People like Sammy made you look the light right in the eye... made you learn the fucking truth, made you hate yourself just a little bit more.

He was trying to think... think his way into a better place. Maybe between the liquor and the knowledge they’d be hitting the road soon and go somewhere else, somewhere new, maybe it would take his mind off this shit.

The jukebox went quiet, and a couple returned to sit next to him. They whispered, but he could hear every other word or so. It kept his mind of his own crap, so he tried to concentrate on what they said. Big mistake.

“So, no regrets?” the girl asked.

“No regrets,” the cowboy answered. “None.”

The words echoed in Dean’s head - No regrets, none - , in another voice, another accent. Suddenly he just wanted to die.

* * *

[Two years earlier]

He tasted blood and mud... smelled it. When he tried to move, his cheek pressed deeper into the wet ground. His strength was gone. This time, he was really fucked.

The woods were crawling with something. He didn’t know what they were, but they were hunters. Demons who hunted humans and ate their flesh. He’d found evidence of that before he’d become the one they were after.

For hours, he’d run... he’d shot and killed them, hidden from them.... but they kept coming, more, surrounding him. And then he’d run out of ammo.

Fuck... twelve inch claws raking into his stomach should have killed him. But here he was, spitting blood. Breathing. Waiting for them to come back for him. Should’a kept one bullet. One for himself. Oddest thing to regret when you were gonna die any way.

Dad. Find me. Find me.

*

It was raining on him. Blood and mud and water dripped from his face, rolling to the ground. Dean heard a sound. What was left of his gut clenched as he prepared to meet his death.

Would they tear him apart right here, or take him to their den? He gripped a small knife in his hand, he’d take one of them with him, or make it sorry. Son of a fuckin’ bitch...

As something neared and then stopped in front of him, Dean kept his eyes closed and played dead. Then the thing started to pull at him, and he slashed the small knife toward it. It was wrested from his grip at the same time he opened his eyes and through bleared vision, saw a man with white blond hair.

“Tsk, tsk... just giving you a helping hand, mate. Looks like you could use two, if I don’t say so myself.”

A groan of pain escaped Dean as he was hefted up over the man’s shoulder. With each step the man took, Dean’s open wound scraped against the man’s leather coat. It was too much... everything went black.

*

A fire crackled and burned only eight feet away from him, in the fireplace, and yet he was freakin’ cold. Memories of the last day or so blended and blurred in his mind. “Water,” he croaked, knowing the nameless man would bring him some.

He listened as a cabinet swung shut, and a faucet went on. It creaked as it was shut off, and then he could see black leather pants and boots nearing. He looked up from the ground and noticed for the first time the stranger wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was kinda freaky pale.

“Awake, are you?” Spike bent down, put an arm behind Dean’s head and helped him drink the water. “Feelin’ alright? Did the best I could, but I think a hospital would have been better.”

Trying to sit up, pain cut into Dean’s center. “Feel like shit. Who are you? Where is this...” It looked like a cabin with almost no furniture. Looking down, Dean saw he was wearing a black tee shirt and was covered with a long black leather coat. His gaze swung back to the stranger who was now moving away.

“Name’s Spike. And this appears to be a place some bloke decided to abandon. “We’re about a mile from where I found you. Those things, they’re still around.”

“Spike. What kinda name...” then he saw the man was spinning a short knife around his hand, making it curl around from one knuckle to another.

As if sensing Dean’s change in mood, Spike dropped the knife and kicked it over to Dean. “It’s yours, but don’t ever try to skewer me again, yeah?”

Licking his lips, Dean closed his hand around the knife. Silly, but it was source of comfort. “Where’d you get the bandages.”

Spike laughed. “Bloody suspicious, aren’t you? Got it from that pile of junk on the highway.”

“Pile of... what the fuck...”

Chuckling, Spike added, “yours, I assume. Found the med kit, and a few other very interesting things.”

“Why’d you bring me here? Why not the hospital?” Dean tried to sit up again. This time, Spike came over and pulled him up, stuffing a pillow behind his back so he could sit against the wall. Then he returned to the single chair, and sat down.

“Your tires have been slashed. Didn’t feel like carrying you all the way to town. Then there was that little issue of you bleeding all over the place.”

Dean made a face.

“Usual response is ‘thanks.’”

Dean made another face. “Got any liquor?”

*

His entire body ached with cold. Teeth chattering, he gripped the edge of the leather coat and tried to pull it up. By the light of the dying embers in the fireplace, he saw Spike stir, then sit up.

“Need something?”

“N...no... fine.” He bit himself, ad cursed.

In two strides, Spike was leaning over him and touching is forehead. “No fever. What’s wrong.”

“Just c... cold.” Especially his stomach, it felt numb, like it wasn’t there.

“Lost a lot of blood.” Spike moved to the fire, threw in a few logs and stoked it up, then returned.

Dean felt him get down on the floor and then join him under the coat. His eyes widened. “What the fu—“

“Don’t flatter yourself, mate. You’re cold... I’m hot...”

“I’m freakin’ hot,” Dean automatically shot off, making a face and stiffening as he felt a firm, male body press up behind him, and Spike’s arm come around his waist. He flinched, thinking Spike would put his hand on his stomach, but instead his palm came to rest on Dean’s chest.

“Tell that to the ladies, they might believe you. Right now, you’re shaking like a puppy.”

As the man’s arm tightened around him, Dean tensed even more. It was as if Spike didn’t get it, or realize he was uncomfortable with this. The guy single handedly carried on a conversation, even answering for Dean when Dean said nothing. Had to be the strangest sitch... ever.

*

“Spike?”

There was no answer, and the man’s grip on him had weakened. Dean found himself relaxing against the warmth of Spike’s body, and the shakes were gone. Strangest sitch ever...

Well not quite. He felt Spike press a kiss against the back of his throat, then put his head down again just when Dean had been about to shove him off. The guy was asleep.

Hours later, Dean kept thinking about the feel of those firm lips on his skin. He should be bothered. He should want to kill Spike, but... Something was the hell wrong. He managed to turn, and found himself face to face with Spike.

He studied him in the dark, with the firelight flickering over his face. It was an interesting face, all angles... hard, and yet Dean had seen the man’s features soften. Who was he? His gaze dropped to Spike’s mouth again, and this time he imagined Spike’s mouth pressing over his own. Fuck. His heart was pounding out of control suddenly, and he couldn’t tell if it was because the random thought got him going or if he was scared of the heat flushing through his system and suddenly pooling in his groin.

*

Spike’s arm was around him, as he helped him get to the chair near a table. Dean’s eyes met Spike’s. He swallowed, trying to fight the strange tightening in his gut that had nothing to do with his injury. It was only after he sat down that he realized he hadn’t been breathing.

Spike set the bowl of broth in front of him. “Need any help?”

“Nah.... I got it.” For the first time in days, Dean took the spoon and fed himself. All the while he was feeding his face, his eyes were on Spike, now sitting across from him. The air was thick with tension... an energy crackling between them. Dean looked away first. “I don’t swing that way,” he said roughly.

“What?”

When Dean looked back to tell Spike again, Spike gave him an innocent look and launched into a story about the towns people. It had Dean wondering whether he was in the grips of fever, feeling and thinking things that weren’t there? That could explain this. Had to explain it.

“You should be laughing. I was being funny.” Spike smirked. “Or do you have your mind on other things?”

Dean almost choked. “Dude, when can we get out of here?”

“Soon as you can walk ten miles. I’ll get you in to town, and you can arrange to get that pile of—“

Dean raised a hand, glared at Spike.

“Car. Get your car fixed up and be on your way. What the bloody hell were you doing in the woods, anyway?”

“Hiking.”

Spike’s eyebrow quirked up. “Without a backpack.”

“I travel light. None of your business anyway.” He wasn’t surprised when Spike left the table and went to wash the plates. He was glad. He fucking should be glad. But here he was, watching the man’s movements. Sucking his breath in when he halfway turned and Dean’s eyes trailed down his abs to his flashy belt buckle.

“Got it in Sedona. It was made by a Native American artist.”

“What?” Dean felt heat stealing over his face. He coughed. “I... it looked Native American, thought I recognized it... that’s why I was looking at it.”

“Were you now?” Spike walked up to him and Dean’s face was inches from that pale chest.

Dean looked up. “What?” He tensed, waiting for... God... for what? Spike leaned over to get another dish off the table, and in the process, his side slid across Dean’s mouth. A jolt of heat went through Dean’s system. He pressed his mouth closer, felt Spike shudder, and then he was gone, back in the kitchen.

They were quiet after that. Absolutely silent the entire time Spike finished cleaning up, and even after he brought over two mugs of coffee. Their fingers brushed when they both reached for the single stirring spoon. Neither one pulled away for a long, heart stopping moment.

Dean watched as Spike drank, his gaze clung to Spike’s convulsing throat. n ache was building deep inside him... something he didn’t wanna deal with or acknowledge, but it was there... eating at him.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. With this.”

The man’s voice was so freakin’ velvety smooth. Dean’s eyes grew furious. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“You’re not ready.”

“The fuck I’m not.” He pushed himself up and started to stumble across the room. Before he got to the door, Spike caught him. Held him. Dean tried to struggle, but those arms were like steel vices around him.

“Shshsh, let’s not rip the wounds open, yeah? Come on, back to bed.” Slowly, Spike dragged Dean back to the make shift pallet on the ground. “You’re not scared of monsters, but you’re scared of this.”

“I’m not fucking scared of anything. And there is no this” Dean shouted, shoving Spike away the instant the man started to release his hold.

“Rest.”

It was neither an acknowledgement of what Dean said, nor a denial. It burned Dean up.

*

Dean restlessly shifted, moving over Spike, running his hands over his smooth chest, and trying to find his mouth. Throat... chin... oh God, his mouth... that mouth that had been torturing him for days. As he started to shove his tongue inside, his eyes snapped open.

For an instant, he was confused. Then he was ready to kill Spike. Then he realized... Spike was still asleep, on his side of the living room... which meant he, Dean had crawled over to him.

Was it still night? No, sunlight was streaming inside the window. As Dean tried to stealthily get off Spike, he found that his cock had other ideas. He was hard, and heavy... and yeah it was morning, but fuck...when he slid against Spike, sensations like he’d never felt rocked his body.

He started to pull away again, but this time Spike’s strong arms closed around him. The man’s hands were crossed over at his lower back, and his palms were firmly on his ass. Dean made a choking sound. If he struggled, Spike would wake... and if he didn’t... God...

Spike’s scene filled his nostrils. He smelled like the woods, like fresh air. Dean had been closed up in here so long, nothing could smell better. Each time he tried to move, he felt himself pulled up harder against Spike, felt his erection surge... his heart pound against Spike’s chest. He needed to move... he needed to fuck.

That though sent ice shards into his heart and he broke free, not caring anymore. But Spike merely grunted and rolled over.

Letting out a breath, Dean stood up and tried to walk. He needed to get better, and fast.

Spike slowly sat up and scraped his face. “What’s going on. Dreamt that you...”

When their eyes met, Dean felt like Spike could see clear to his soul. He balled his hands, looked away. Fuck... he knew.

“C’mere.”

The man’s voice was as smooth as whiskey and sexy as sin. Dean’s heart lurched. He shook his head no, and kept testing his leg.

“C’mere... No?” Spike got up from the bare floor, walked up to him, and put his arms around him. “Do you want me to show you?”


He thought his heart was gonna jump out of his fucking chest. He pushed, half-heartedly. Whispered, “no.”

“What are you afraid of?” Spike’s mouth drew nearer. So close it almost touched the corner of Dean’s mouth, and all Dean could think of was how good it had felt to dip his tongue inside.

“Nothing. Get—“ his voice was so thick and husky, so filled with need... there was no hiding it.

“Over here?” Spike filled in. Suddenly Dean found himself jerked closer at the same time Spike’s mouth slanted over his.

Dean opened his mouth slightly under the force of Spike’s tongue, and then he was lost. A rush of feelings poured over him like a waterfall. Heat. Need. Desire. This was wrong... it was fucked up wrong, but he was gripping Spike’s shoulder and kissing him back... battling his tongue, leaning in, pressing up against Spike’s body. Mouth to mouth, hands running over his body, holding him so close, so tight... so secure. It was crazy, but he felt safe... he felt needed, and wanted and hell... his body was screaming for more.

His breaths were coming harder, but he didn’t wanna quit, he griped Spike’s shoulders and moved his mouth back and forth. Then he shifted his body, and felt a hardness pressing into his thigh. His eyes widened, and he pulled away suddenly... staggering back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Want some alcohol?” Spike quirked a brow. “Or maybe iodine?”

Dean walked away and kicked the chair, wincing at the pain. He gripped the edge of the table and slowly lowered himself onto the chair. “I need to get outta here.”

“You’re almost well enough—“

“I need you to get out of here.”

When he looked up, he was subjected to a long, hard stare. There was no anger in Spike’s eyes, just ... what... disappointment? Like Dean wasn’t used to that.

Spike walked toward him and put his hand out. Dean Stared at it.

“My shirt. I might as well get into town and get some supplies. Beer.”

It took a moment for Dean to get what Spike meant. His shirt... he still had the guy’s shirt. Pulling it off over his head, he passed it over. He didn’t miss the way Spike checked out the bandages. They were clean... he’d been very well taken care of by the stranger who stirred up feelings Dean couldn’t control.

He watched Spike put the shirt on, and felt a strange rush.

“Dean...”

“No.”

“Dean, let’s talk...”

“No.”

“You can’t bloody well expect...”

“NO!” Dean shouted hoarsely, slicing his hand through the air to show the conversation was at an end.

He heard the footsteps, and the sound of the door opening and closing. The instant Spike left, the room felt cold and empty. As empty as Dean’s insides. They did have to talk. Spike was right.

*

Dean was wishing for beer... lots of it, when there was a loud sound against the door. Even before it came again, he knew someone was trying to bust it open, He’d made it half way across the room and was grabbing his knife when it burst open.

“Dad!” he shouted, seeing his father bust inside, machete in hand.

John’s gaze swept the small room, and he took a few steps to look into the kitchen, before turning around. “Had me worried there. What happened to you?” he demanded, looking at Dean’s bandages.

“Got attacked by these... not sure what the sons of bitches were. About...”

“A mile or so back? I got them,” John said. “Let’s get out of here, there’s something that’s been sniffing around here. I’ll come back for it.”

“But...”

“Dean.”

“Yes sir.” Dean started to collect his things and was going to carve a note on the table, when the front door opened again. As he started to turn, he saw his father’s broad back, saw him run forward.

“Dad... no dad, he’s a friend... da—“

Everything slowed before Dean’s eyes. His father moved... his hand darted forward. Spike was smiling, then he dropped the bag. Cans spilled across the floor, beer bottles broke.

His father pushed harder, and Spike’s hand went to his stomach... right over his father’s. Spike staggered back against the wall, and slowly slid down.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Dean was at his father, trying to pull him away. That was when he saw his father had pushed a small stake into his friend. “He helped me. He’s one of us, he’s...”

“No he’s not. Look at him, he’s paralyzed. Can’t move.”

Dean started to pull the stake out but his father shoved him away. “Cut its head off,” he pushed the machete into Dean’s hand. “Go on.”

“He helped me, listen...”

“They lie, they cheat... he’s not human.”

“Da---“

Spike gave a strangled cry and just looked at him. With those laser blue eyes, he just fucking looked at him.

John Winchester pulled his sleeve up, brought his arm down on the edge of the machete, and raised his arm up over Spike’s mouth.

Dean saw pain in those eyes. Blood splattered on the blond’s mouth. Just as Dean was about to protest again, Spike changed. He started to hiss... his teeth went strange... a second set of sharper teeth emerged. Demon... he was a demon.

“Cut off its head. Only way to get rid of these things, do it!”

Indecision warred inside Dean, tore him apart.

“Take it. Show me all that training wasn’t for nothing.” John poured more blood into Spike’s mouth.

The hissing made Dean shudder. He gripped the hilt and brought the large wide blade to Spike’s alabaster throat. His hand shook. His eyes felt wet. He didn’t think he could do it.

“Do it, Boy, what are you waiting for?” John shouted.

Spike’s face normalized. “No regrets. None.

The whisper was so low, Dean didn’t think his father heard.

“Do it!”

“Yes Sir.”

A moment later, there was blood everywhere. Dean dropped the machete, got up and walked out the door, ignoring his father’s shouts.

* * *

[present]

Dean gripped the glass tighter. Those vampires Sam had saved... they hadn’t harmed people. Peaceful vampires. Who knew.

Back then.... back then he didn’t even know that thing Spike turned into was a vampire. He’d always wondered... why it didn’t kill him. He always fell back on his father’s explanation, that it had been trying to trick him. Play him. Use him.

Maybe. But probably not. He’d checked the records and found that around the time he met Spike, there had been reports of dead livestock in the area. It made sense now... all of it. Why he’d saved him. Why he hadn’t hurt him.

No. There were still some questions. Like why had he felt so drawn to the vampire. Why had he felt so safe in his arms, for those few minutes? Why had he wanted more? And why had Spike said those words at the end. They were lies. God they were lies... he was regretting the kill. He had back then, and now... it was worse than ever.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

“Ready to go? Got the car gassed up,” Sam dropped the keys next to Dean. “You got something on your mind?”

Dean knocked back the drink, and shoved the glass down the bar top. “Nope. Not a damned thing.” Grabbing the keys, he walked out, blinking away the tears that threatened to come.

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