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The light filtering from the barn was bright against the darkness of the night, cutting into it sharp like scissors to paper. Dean gripped his knife- an old, battered pocket knife Bobby had given him for his thirteenth birthday- and creeped in, holding his breath. If Sam was- if Sam had been hurt, he didn't know what the hell he'd do.
Sam hadn't gotten into bed that night. He told Dean he was just burying the vampire, throwing it into a lame dirt grave, the only thing a creature like that deserved. And Dean shrugged, because Sam was thirteen, but he was glad to see him taking responsibility. But then, Sam didn't come back. Not for one hour. Not for two. Graves may be hard to dig, but two hours was excessive.
So, Dean creeped into the eerie silence of the night, knife brandished in one hand. It was so silent, too silent. No crickets chirped, no cicadas sang. No rustle of wildlife, no wind. Completely, utterly silent. Dean wasn't easily scared, but he was unnerved, he had to admit. He may be seventeen, seen more than adults see in their lifetime, but something was off. Very, very off.
Moving swiftly towards the door, Dean peered in through the crack. His eyes took a second to adjust to the dim light, to make out what was going on in there.
It was hard to see through the small gap, but as he slowly gained his wits, the image became clearer.
Sam- okay, thank god, Sam was alive- was moving, circling something too dark to see in the limited light. He was holding something as well, gripped tight in underdeveloped hands, too large, too big. But he certainly wasn't digging, and what was on the floor looked suspiciously like a body.
A wave of fear and protectiveness washed over Dean, and he couldn't stop himself from rushing in, guns blazing. He heaved the door open with one strong arm, wedging his shoulder in the crack and pushing, letting the dark and the light fight for dominance.
Sam turned to Dean, eyes wide, hands shaking dangerously so. He looked so small, in the large capacity of the abandoned barn, shaggy hair in his eyes, skinny arms enveloped by an old hoodie. With the singular light, Dean had to squint, but suddenly, he realized that this… this wasn't, this wasn't normal.
Blood was splattered on the knife, on Sam's hoodie. Puddling on the floor, creating the disgusting scent of blood, rotten and coppery. It seeped into the floorboards, made them a sickening vermillion color, ran it's way through the grooves in the wood. Laying beneath Sam was a body, broken and mangled. Its legs were bent at unnatural positions, head snapped off to the side. Numerous stab wounds ran down its body, harsh and strong. While it still had clothes on- a flannel, it looked to be, and a pair of bloody jeans-, the sleeves were rolled up, revealing long, deep cuts on the wrists.
Dean had to cover his mouth so as to not throw up at the sight, breathing turning ragged. Confusion clouded his mind. What the hell? If this was in self defense, Dean had no clue why Sam would go so damn hard on whoever this was. It wasn't the vamp they had killed, either. If Dean's brain had been working properly at the moment, he'd recognize that this person was the waiter at the diner in town. He'd flirted with Dean a little, making Dean uncomfortable in the moment, but he wondered later on if he could revisit him.
And now, Sam was standing over his mangled body, panting just as heavily as Dean was now.
"Dean!" Sam squeaked, voice too high, too nervous. He dropped the knife, and it fell to the floor with a dull thud, little droplets of blood spraying. Dean noticed that the body was still bleeding, still twitching a little, despite the damage done to it. He turned up to look at Sam, eyes wide with- well, terror. "Dean- I-"
Young, thirteen-year-old Sammy, standing over a dead body, and Dean didn’t want to believe it. Maybe he was dreaming. A really, really fucked up dream. "What the fuck, Sam?"
The young boy stared down at the body, then looked back at Dean. "I don't- I don't know, Dean. It…" he whimpered, hands shaking. "I wanted to, so bad. I don't. I didn't. I'm sorry, Dean."
While the older brother had no clue what was happening, besides the fact that his baby brother was standing over a dead body, he felt disgust piling up. Vomit climbed it way up his throat, and Dean threw up, right there. The dinner they'd had at that same damn diner, burger and fries, spewed all over the blood-soaked wood, mixing with the blood. He coughed, puked a bit more, mostly stomach acid, then wiped his mouth. Sam still stared at him with wide, innocent eyes.
But as Dean looked back, he saw something sickening reflect in them. Something dark. Evil.
–
Dean had spent many years deciphering when and how his attraction towards Sam blossomed, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. Couldn’t tell when he broke the line between ‘brothers’ and fell into I want to fuck you so hard you’re limping, even though you’re barely fucking ten. Oh, holy shit, what’s wrong with me? When he had to take his sexual attraction out on unsuspecting women, who, no, he didn not just moan the name Sam, you must be hearing things.
Maybe a demon got into his head, that night. Maybe the demon who had to have taken control of Sam, (because that was the only explanation) gassed out while Dean was puking, and buried itself comfortably in his head. Became a parasite, latched onto all his major internal organs, took control of his brain and changed the brotherly meter to love. Okay. (He didn’t chose to think about the fact he saw Sam that night when he was 12, even though it started when Sam was 10, because maybe that was the demon playing tricks on him.)
But no matter how much salt Dean ate, shoveling rock salt down his gullet, it wouldn’t fucking leave. No matter how many times he put himself in harm's way- bullets, thick werewolf claws, hell, his own father- it wouldn’t fucking leave! This is getting ridiculous, really.
He spent an alarming amount of time talking to it, telling it to fuck off. It didn’t belong in his head, goddammit. The fact that it stayed for so long was surprising in itself. What, it’s been four years now?
And then, one day it hit him.
Sam was at school, John was at a bar- it’s 5pm somewhere, Dean- and he had nothing to do. The house they were squatting at was old and creaky, and it had no television, and it was in the middle of fucking nowhere. He could start walking now and he wouldn’t be into town by the time Sam got off of school.
So he sat down, grabbed a nice, cold beer, and settled on the rotting back deck that smelled strongly of sweet flowers. It was so strong, it made him a little sick. Sweet like fruit and flowers, invading your nostrils in an assault of smells. He ignored it, took in the bitter scent of beer, and put his legs up on the railing.
Right from the deck was a backyard, acres of land stretching back. At this school Sam had settled into, he took up soccer, an old hobby of his from what must have been elementary school. Dean could still remember his huge smile when he won that stupid participation trophy, even though Sam really was the best on the team, but the kid who won the trophy for being the best was the coach’s kid. Sam had to hold Dean back from protesting, a little 10-year-old begging 14-year-old Dean to quit. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory, shaking his head dismissively.
From picking up soccer, Sam spent time in the backyard practicing, kicking around the ball like it owed him money. With summer fast approaching, he’d usually end up taking off his shirt, and Dean wouldn’t be honest if he said it wasn’t a guilty pleasure of his to watch. Watch the long planes of muscle move and twist, sweat dripping into the thirsty ground, dry from lack of rain.
Of course, Dean let himself watch, because it wasn’t him, obviously. So he couldn’t feel guilty about it. Him- the real Dean, was watching just in case, because you never know what’s out there. The demon that latched itself onto him was watching for lust, the sick, vile creature.
As he stared off at the field, Dean felt his blood rush a little too far south. And then, he stopped for a second, stopped drinking the beer.
That definitely wasn’t some sick, other creature. Nope.
It's always been there, lurking in the back of his mind. What if it’s not a demon, and it’s just me? And as he stared at the field, the image of his little brother’s hot, sweaty body hard in his mind, he felt a sick lurch of guilt. Guilt so strong he nearly threw up, and combined with the heat, and the increasingly disgusting smell, he did.
Mostly, it was beer, but Dean kept heaving and coughing until there was nothing left. That’s not a fucking demon making him that way, it’s him.
The worst feeling ever had to be guilt, the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling, making your head reel and heart crack. Dean had felt a lot of guilt. He felt guilt for a girl he couldn’t save on a hunt, guilt for his father, guilt for his mother. But this was by far the worst, because this wasn’t just some weird fucked up attraction. Dean didn’t just like Sam, he wanted to fuck him, to own him, to love him. And this wasn’t a new thing, either.
He’d spent four years of his life, putting it all up to something that was always fabricated, let himself indulge for that reason, but now, it was obvious.
–
If Sam had… done that thing again, he must have done it stealthily, because Dean didn’t catch him for years on.
Sam went to Stanford, and Dean slowly dealt with his own sickness by ignoring it. Ignoring the huge hole in his heart, the aching in his body. Everytime he got in the car, he was tempted to just kick it to Palo Alto, see the only person he cared for, in his fucked up, really fucked up way. But he didn’t. Because he wouldn’t be welcomed, and it’d hurt a hell of a lot more to be rejected by Sam than to not even go at all.
Even though Sam swore up and down that it wasn’t Dean’s fault, he wasn’t entirely sure. Something about the way Sam kept his head down, shoulders hunched, eyes cold, made him wonder. What if Sam knew? What if he had slipped, somewhere down the line, let his attraction show, bared his back for Sam. What if he was so fucking disgusted that he left, honest to god left, couldn’t stand being around someone who was so fucked up?
And then, a case came up, right in Palo Alto. Dean did a couple re-checks, yeah, definitely a case, but even as he sat in the Impala, he couldn’t find himself to get out.
If Sam saw him- if, if-
The girl who had died was named Jessica Moore, some blonde college chick who met an unfortunate demise. As expected, the cops thought it was a murder, but judging from what was published in the newspaper, it couldn’t have been. Her apartment was still completely locked, inside and out, and there were no other signs of break-in. Even her boyfriend- unnamed, Dean was going to have to dig in on that one- wasn’t there. She was completely alone, but somehow, she ended up with five stab wounds, going from her chest to her stomach. And, apparently, they were expertly done. Not just random, but hitting every major organ in the most deadly way you could. Whoever killed her knew what they were doing.
Now, Dean wasn’t entirely sure what killed her, but he was sure more bodies would turn out, so he just had to take the time to find out. And avoid Sam in the process, ideally.
He’d started with speaking to the local college kids, strategically avoiding the law side. Dean was dutifully reminded of why he didn’t like college kids, how unobservant and rude they could be without even knowing. Even if he had the apple-pie life he had wanted as a kid, he would’ve still been a highschool dropout. School had never been Dean’s thing. He was smart enough, hell, smarter than he and others gave him credit for.
Dean finally came up to the person who had found Jessica’s body, some guy named Brady who was her supposed friend. He was a little suspicious- guy had no alibi-, so it made it all the more important to go and speak to him. Under the guise of an FBI officer, he spoke to the man. Brady didn’t really tell Dean anything important, besides describing her boyfriend. (Scary tall, brown hair, built like a statue.) And, as the last note, he said his name.
Sam Winchester.
Of course.
Sam got a girlfriend while at college. That’s not unusual. Shit, that’s probably the best and most normal thing he’d ever done.
And then, as Dean sat in the driver’s seat of his car, he thought about it. Girl ends up dead. Strategically killed, sliced in all the right places. Girl is Sam’s girlfriend. And who does Dean know who can do that, especially with ease?
–
It wasn’t hard to find Sam, apparently college kids didn’t ask many questions to someone asking for someone else’s location. That’s a good reassurance, Dean mused, as he broke into his own brother’s dorm.
The alarms around there were surprisingly sparse, and the cameras were far and in-between. Any of them that were there, you could obviously see. Red light and all. Well, no shit that someone died. The security sucks ass.
Dean knew it was stupid, breaking in, and that Sam probably would let him in. But he had this feeling, this weird feeling, that he shouldn’t just knock. That it wasn’t a good idea. It was the same feeling he had trusted on numerous hunts, and he wasn’t just going to turn around on it now. Even when it came to Sam, Dean always trusted his gut first.
As the door creaked open, he took a brief glance to the dorm. It looked normal.
A couple tables here, photos and books, a desk with a light on it. Tiny kitchen, even smaller bathroom. You could see the bed directly from the front door, an odd choice, but it gave Dean a better vantage point.
Or, he assumed it did, until he got slapped over the back of the head by something hard and probably metal.
–
He woke up on a hard, cold floor, shivering and suspiciously wet. The light around him was bright, blinding him, making the face above him blurry. Out of instinct, Dean started to fight, because he may have been disoriented, but he still was John Winchester’s son.
And, evidently, the other person was, too, because he immediately grabbed Dean, pulling his hands up with a surprising amount of strength. As the fog cleared, Dean realized who it was, and remembered where he was and why. He couldn’t help but grin, like he hadn’t broken in. “Sammy!”
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam hissed, hands still holding down Dean’s arms. He looked… older than when Dean had last seen him, face more mature, hair longer. “What are you doing here, dude?”
“Seeing my little brother, obviously,” Dean pushed up, reminding Sam that he was being held down. He tried to not think too hard about Sam, to not look too hard. Couldn’t do it to Sam, not now, not later, not before. “And investigating a case. Say, do you know what really happened to your girlfriend?” He wasn’t going to be blunt. Dean could put on a fake personality, that he was happy, and totally not disturbed out of his mind. That he didn’t suspect Sam.
Sam’s face fell as he stood, offering out a hand to Dean to help him up. “She’s dead,” he stated flatly. “That’s it, Dean. Some… sicko killed her.”
When you spend your entire life with someone, you learn them. You learn what makes them tick, what makes them happy, sad, angry, scared. When the boys were younger, Dean knew just the right thing for Sam in every possible situation. He slowly lost that ability the older they got, but there was one thing that stayed. He knew Sam’s cues for when he was lying.
His eyebrows always tilted in, forehead wrinkled. It looked kind of like he was sad, and was reminiscent of the puppy-dog face, but it wasn’t either. It was the face he used when he was lying, and Dean knew damn well of it.
He felt his heart drop to his stomach, falling so fast it probably ripped a hole in the lining. Shit. Dean was right. And Sam- Sam had done it, again, and he already kind of knew, but he had to make sure.
“You did it again, didn’t you?” And your own girlfriend, too, is what Dean wanted to say, but he wasn’t trying to get on Sam’s bad side after showing up randomly and demanding to know what happened to his dead girlfriend.
Sam stared at him blankly, hands curled into two fists. “It’s not any of your business.”
But it was.
Dean had been told, all those years ago, to take care of Sammy. And he took it as a mantra, a life goal. Take care of Sammy. Take care of him, no matter what. No matter what he did. No matter what happened. Take a bullet for him. Hell, let him kill you, if he needs to.
The last thought came as a surprise, one he hadn’t dwelled on. Kill him.
Maybe if Sam had someone to project his own… whatever the fuck went on in his brain, he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t become someone they had to hunt, because if he was doing it to Dean, and it was willing, it wasn’t bad. Fucked up, sure, but Dean was a pro in fucked up.
He cleared his throat, stared at Sam. “If you ever want to do it again, then go to me, instead. Do it to me, Sammy, please. I’ll take it all for you. Just- don’t hurt people, ever again.”
–
2007
Dean fumbled with the radio to the Impala, clicking past church gospel and shitty country. He was pissed off, someone had broken into his car and stole shit. The clothes were replaceable, but his tapes? That's just cold. All the mixtapes he'd kept since high school were stolen, probably being pawned off to some guy who'd sell them for less than half of the value.
He stared at the front of the hospital, waiting impatiently for Sam to get out. The only suit that didn't get stolen was Sam's, so for the time being it was him going in. Alone. Which, Dean didn't like, but he didn't have a choice. It's not like he didn't think Sam was capable of protecting himself- hell, he was more than capable, and that's the problem.
Sam could take down a guy his size in five seconds. That's the problem. Not the fact that he couldn't hold his own. It's that he's too good that scares the shit out of Dean. And also that Dean couldn’t trust him on his own, couldn’t trust him to not do that. That. Even though they agreed that if he needed to, he’d do it to Dean himself.
Which, even that agreement went sour. Not like it was good in the first place, definitely not the thing upstanding citizens participate in, but somehow, it got worse. Somehow, there’s something worse than your brother stabbing you, or punching you, or kicking you, or carving shit into you. Something that’d probably turn more heads.
One day, Sam came to Dean and offered something he could scarcely believe.
Sparks, Georgia
“Sam! I’m heading out,” Dean put his foot in the door to stop it from shutting, turning his head to the bathroom. Okay, it might’ve been a shitty move to purposefully wait for him to be in the shower to leave, but Sam wouldn’t let him leave. Hell, he wouldn’t let him take a step out of the room for the past three days, and wouldn’t even offer an explanation. He wasn’t hurting Dean, not taking out his fucked up urges on him, but was just staring. He’d sit, pull up a chair at the foot of the bed, brace his head on his elbows, and stare. And it was fucking creepy. Dean tolerated Sam, was with him through everything, but that was just weird. Considering everything else Dean didn’t put in the category of ‘weird’, it meant that was just really fucking weird.
The sound of the sink running came on, then the door opened. “Fuck,” Dean cursed under his breath, hand braced on the door. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t going to run. But, he was fully convinced Sam was taking a shower, or was about to. The water pressure there was so shitty that the shower basically sounded like the sink, maybe a little louder. And it’s not like Sam would come running out, naked as the day he was born, just to stop Dean from leaving.
Or, maybe he would.
Dean couldn’t help but stare. Hell, who could? The girls (and guys, sometimes) couldn’t resist the urge to stare at the beauty that is Sam Winchester, so Dean deserves a damn pass. Because he’s a fucking greek god, and that’s that. Chiseled abs, tanned and way more defined than they had any right to be. Dean was in better shape than most athletes and even he couldn’t see his abs unless he flexed, but Sam, Sam didn’t have to do that. Broad shoulders that made way for an unusually thick neck, roped and muscly and holy shit yeah he looked like he could crush you like a tin can. He’d seen Sam shirtless more times than he could remember, but the amount of times he’d seen Sam naked he could count on both hands. Excluding from when he was a toddler, because while Dean was a sick, twisted man, he didn’t like Sam when he was too young to even know what anything beyond romantic love was. It only started when he could see the beginnings of the man Sam was going to be. Which totally made it 100% okay. But he didn’t have time to think about the logistics of having crushes on kids while being basically a kid yourself as he stared, eyes dragging down. And down. Past the deep v-line, happy trail curling into thick, dark pubic hair.
And holy shit, he was huge. The Winchesters were historically known for being well-endowed, and Dean had always thought he was big. Sizable. He was big enough that girls looked apprehensive, but if they looked at him like that, they must’ve been fucking terrified of Sam. His cock was only half-mast, and it was big then. Somewhere between adolescence and adulthood made him fucking huge, perhaps the same thing that made him shoot up from 5’4 to 6’4 (and a half) in five years. It scared the shit out of Dean. Mainly because Sam was looking at him like he was fucking prey, a thing to be hunted, to be chased down. He was stark naked, but it was intimidating as hell, and against Dean’s own conscience, he felt his own body stir. This wasn’t something to get hard at. Sam may be of legal age now, but it’s still illegal because they’re brothers, minus three states. And he was his brother. His brother, who he raised, and maybe Sam turned out a little more than fucked up, but Dean still raised him, goddamnit.
“Did I say you could leave?” Sam damn-near growled, approaching Dean with dark eyes. Sometimes, Dean had to double-check the reflection in mirrors, do a double-take when he caught his eye, because sometimes… he could’ve sworn…
Dean stared at Sam, hand still on the door knob. “You didn’t say I couldn’t,” he murmured, because technically it was true. It was pretty damn obvious Sam didn’t want him to leave, and he didn’t mind all that much, since he’d practically became his slave already, but a man couldn’t stay in a motel room forever.
Sam’s jaw ticked, and he suddenly got a hell of a lot closer, then his hand was on the door, and okay, yeah, the door’s being closed. Maybe that’s for the better. With the look Dean’s being given, he knows he’s not getting out of this unharmed.
Sam took both huge, muscled arms and boxed Dean in against the heavy motel door, staring him down. “I know what you want, Dean,” he leaned in, breath ghosting against Dean’s jaw. He tilted his head to the side, lips softly pressing to Dean’s jaw. Too soft. Dean’s breath caught, heart beating so fast his head was spinning. “I can see it when you look at me. Saw it when I was sixteen. Watched you watch me, look at me when you didn’t think I noticed.”
Guilt wrenched Dean, hard and hot, but Sam’s body was hotter. He was like a goddamn furnace, or maybe it was just Dean’s own body, working overtime. “I- I don’t, Sammy, you don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he stammered, before gasping when Sam literally took a fucking bite of him. Dug in two sharp canines, incisors bracketing, and held it there, pinching between his jaw. Dean couldn’t help it, reacted carnally, started to push Sam back, trying to breathe in the thick Georgia air.
“I think I do,” came a reply, so quiet it nearly passed by Dean’s ear. Sam’s hand traveled down Dean’s body, before grabbing onto his fully hard cock, gripping with way too much force, and it fucking hurt. It didn’t feel good, not like Dean had spent so long imagining, but it hurt like hell. And then Sam bit again, harder, and grabbed harder, and somewhere in Dean’s long since fucked up mind, he liked it. He fucking liked it, holy shit. “I know I do, Dean. And, since you’re being so kind as to help me out, why don’t I help you, too?”
2007
Even if Dean wanted to refuse, he really couldn’t. He was left with no choice but to give in, let Sam do it, let Sam indulge in Dean’s long-gathered fantasies. He didn’t want to say no, though.
Fuck, he didn’t want to say no. It hurt like hell, the way Sam would treat Dean, even if he said it was for him, it didn’t feel like it. But he fucking liked it, either way. Loved the searing, back-arching pain, the way he’d feel it for weeks afterward. Liked it when Sam brought out the knife, carved chunks of Dean’s own skin out, even if it made him violently nauseous. Didn’t even mind when he fed it back to him. Because Sam… Sam was touching him, feeling him up the way Dean had longed for since he could remember, even if he didn’t always view it that way.
They’d finally gotten it to where they could both function, function as adults, work jobs. For a couple months there, Dean became Sam’s, fully and thoroughly. He was Sam’s to destroy, to demolish, to hurt and defile, whenever he wanted. So bad that Dean couldn’t work hunts, and Sam didn’t want to, because he had all the entertainment right in front of him.
Maybe something got through to Sam, though, because he let up. Took two hands off the wheel and let Dean drive instead, letting them do their job. So, they continued with life. As well as they could.
The doors to the hospital opened, letting out a beautifully sculpted man, and a wonderfully familiar face for Dean. Seeing Sam still gave him the same carnal reaction, lust, affection, but fear was added into it. Dean was scared shitless of Sam, but Sam was also his, his to give himself to.
A while ago, he had considered leaving. That he couldn’t take it. That he signed up for too much, because he really didn’t think Sam was as bad as he was. But all it took was one look. A flick of the wrist. And he was his, all again. Couldn’t imagine why he ever wanted to leave in the first place.
Sam opened the door to the Impala and swung in with ease, slamming the door shut. “Body’s got nothing,” he informed shortly, putting his boots up on the dash. For anyone else, Dean would’ve scolded them, but he didn’t even think about it with Sam. He got a pass. Everytime. “Heart’s intact, bones, blood, all except for that nasty ass scratch down the middle. I’m starting to think this isn’t a case, Dean.”
“But how does a wild animal get to a guy on the twelfth floor? Take the goddamn elevator?” Dean fired up the Impala, listened to her gentle purr as he pulled out of the place. Damn, he hated hospitals. Sam still smelled sterile like one, too clean, not Sammy scent.
“Well, I guess that’s what we’re going to have to find out,” Sam shrugged, staring out the window absently. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean glanced at him. He looked fine. Sounded fine. That was good.
–
That night, everything shifted.
They hadn’t done anything- anything at all, besides things that could actually be considered normal- in over a week. Hadn’t had the chance. If they weren’t on the road, they were with someone. The boys had taken a stop at Bobby’s house, and Sam took risks, but he wasn’t stupid, and neither was Dean.
Dean hadn’t really thought about it, because even though he had been the one to let all this happen, he didn’t like to think about it. If he thought about it too hard, he’d always get this killer headache, and this feeling on the back of his neck like he was being watched. And something in his head told him not to, that he didn’t want to, that it was pointless. So, he didn’t.
Then Sam advanced. The second they got to the motel, he was on Dean, grabbing with hard hands at his shirt, pulling with no mercy. Dean knew what was going to happen, let himself go with it. He’d gotten so used to the movements that he spent more time noticing the room around them than the rough manhandling he was receiving. The motel was cheap, old, the shitty kind you’d see in Hollywood movies when they want to give out the air of poor. There was only one overhead light, and it flickered every couple of minutes. However, a lot of lights had been flickering recently, which meant Dean had stopped really taking account of them. The room smelled kind of rotten, like eggs that were going to go bad, or bird poop. He didn’t think much of it, either. A sickly yellow light enveloped the entire thing, lighting up shitty poinsettia wallpaper that could very well be older than Dean himself.
He saw the room jolt and move, felt himself get thrown onto the bed. Dean didn’t fight it, went limp, let Sam do what he wanted, because he knew that’s what he liked. And Dean would do anything to make Sam happy, even if that meant hurting himself.
“Dean,” Sam was standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at the spread out body of his older brother, hand caressing his chin like he was looking at a particularly hard math problem. “I want to, so bad.”
The lights flickered again, and Dean could’ve sworn that Sam’s eyes were a glossy black.
“Want to what?” he asked, voice hoarse. Dean didn’t speak much these days, didn’t flirt with waitresses anymore, certainly didn’t go to bars. All he needed was Sam, so all those other things seemed futile.
“Kill,” Sam had ducked down, so fast he moved in frames by Dean’s head, mouth pressing into his ear. “I want to watch the life drain from someone’s eyes, big brother.” His hands ran down Dean’s body, unusually cold, like ice cubes being dragged down his skin. “Want to see them struggle.”
One hand wrapped firmly around Dean’s cock, which hadn’t even started to take interest yet. It gave a weak pulse, but barely raised to the touch. Sam squeezed, harder, pressed his lips to Dean’s temple, and suddenly a hard press of arousal filled Dean’s body. It moved so fast he nearly got sick, head spinning. The room became a near strobe, overhead light moving with Sam’s movements. He felt bad- disoriented, dizzy, confused. Sometimes, Dean didn’t feel too good during their sessions. But this, he’d never felt so… fatigued. He’d been feeling a lot better in the past week, better from the usual tired, but he suddenly got so drained. Like something had sucked the life out of him. But it was only Sam.
He trusted Sam. He loved Sam. He wanted Sam to do this to him.
Sam could kill him, his mind supplied. “You can do it to me, Sam,” he answered flatly, eyes staring up at the stained ceiling. Dean wasn’t thinking anymore, wasn’t fully cohesive.
Something in the back of his mind was telling him something was wrong. Screaming at him, waving a huge red flag, banging on the walls of his head. Dean wanted to see what it was, why it was telling him that, but he didn’t have enough energy to.
“Aw, well, isn’t that nice?” the youngest Winchester purred, hand moved away from Dean’s dick to the waistband of his slacks, still the same from the hospital. He pulled out something, something dangerous- Dean could feel it.
His heart pumped a little harder, fingers flinched. But he really, really didn’t care all that much. The most he cared about was to stare at the roof above, let himself be used by Sam, like he had agreed to all those years ago. Fulfill his born-to duty, the very thing that he was created to do. To serve Sam.
The knife reared above Dean, and he finally looked up at it. It was sharp, shiny, reflected the blinking lights around them. If he narrowed his eyes, Dean could see his own reflection in it.
Dean blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers flinched again, harder, and suddenly an overwhelming, horrible panic took over. So hard and fast, like the guilt that had consumed him so many years earlier. He felt like he was lifted out of a year-long fog, finally seeing clear for the first time. Like he had put on glasses after a year of not wearing them.
He saw Sam holding the knife.
Sam, his baby brother.
His eyes were black, dark, completely and utterly.
The lights were flickering so much that the room was basically dark, a continuing pattern of off, on, off, on.
Sam was about to kill him.
Dean saw a wicked smile, sharp teeth curling behind thin lips. His skin was too thin, too pale, and he almost looked like a doll. One of those creepy ass ones that are haunted. Sam looked like something Dean would kill, and he was holding a knife above Dean’s heart.
“Sammy!” he begged, arms moving to push Sam away, but he didn’t even budge.
He laughed.
In the movies, where the main character is about to die, they always see their life flash before their eyes. But all Dean could see were black eyes and coal-tipped smiles, long limbs twisted and crooked.
He didn’t feel the pain, but instead he saw Sam. Saw the knife plunge into his own chest, right at his heart, a direct, deliberate hit. Saw the sick grin, could distantly hear the laugh, the only thing that made it through the loud ringing of his ears.
Then it went black.
–
Sam stared at the body of Dean, torn and carved in places already scarred. He had two long lacerations along his bare chest, taken through ribs and organs. Blood spilled out onto the cheap yellowed sheets below them.
The light had stopped flickering, stopped when he finished. When he was done murdering his brother, stabbing and pulling and twisting. When he was finished punishing him for something, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
All Sam could see, imagine in his mind, was Dean. Dean’s mangled, broken body below him, straddled between his thighs. Bruised neck, chunks of flesh taken out from his jaw and neck, shoulder purple from bites. He wanted to laugh, for some sick, sick, reason, but instead, all he could do was stare.
Sam started to gasp for air, nearly falling off in his pursuit to leave. To get off of Dean. He couldn’t. What the fuck had he just done?
What had he been doing?
He could hear Dean’s begging in his mind, clearly as if he were speaking it into his ear, as he stumbled to the bathroom. Sam turned on the cheap light- it blinked, once, only once- and stared at himself in the mirror. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t distinguish what he was feeling from what he was not.
There was something inside him.
Something sick.
Sick, and angry.
It fought at the confines of his mind, trying to take over again.
Sam felt the mask slip, and he saw it. He saw his eyes flicker, black, then thankfully hazel again.
Sam fell back against the wall, back slamming into it with such a force he felt the foundation shake and wall crack. His head was spinning, hands shaking, legs numb. He felt like he was going to throw up.
The worst part was that, as he looked at himself in the mirror, he knew that this wasn’t something alien. It was just himself as his hands were, his skin, his feet, his hair. It was the darkest recess of his mind, one he gave into too early, when he was too young. That nagging voice that he decided to please, decided to say fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? Kill a couple people, stop it, move on with his life. Move a couple too-many objects with his mind, practice a little too much. Crush people’s lungs with his head, break their necks with a flick of his hand. Infiltrate Dean’s mind, because he was the one who agreed, so who cared if he needed a little bit of coercion? Implant a couple fake memories while he’s at it, just to make sure he’s extra passive.
He whipped his head to the side, slammed his own fists into his skull, banging and banging. Out. Out.
But it can’t leave, when it’s a part of you.
–
Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist, digging his face into his shoulder like he did so many years ago, as a young child. When he could fit into the curve of Dean’s chest without a problem, legs easily wrapped around his big brother’s. When he felt protected just by being held, sated just by being pet.
The light filtered in from the cheap curtains, bright in the careful darkness of the room. Sam closed his eyes against the assault, pulled his arms tighter. He tried to draw out every bit of warmth from Dean that he could, like he did, like he could’ve.
The sheets beneath him were scratchy, stiff in places, and it smelled a little off. But Sam knew he couldn’t let go. Couldn’t bear to. Dean was his, and if he let go, he’d lose him. Hunger and thirst gnawed at him, clawed at his stomach, pounded in his head. He ignored it all. There was no life beyond Dean. Dean could give him the sustenance he needed. He didn’t need to move.
The door pounded, loud and aching in the buzzing quiet of the room. Someone said something, it’s been three days, you haven’t paid or left, we’ve gotten smell complaints. Going to call the police.
Sam didn’t move.
All he needed was his big brother, his protector.