Archive of Our Own

Sam never stops being surprised at the perversions that hound him and his family. One would think he had to have grown used to it at some point but no, because perversion is always followed by faith.

The first time this one downs on him is when he has to put a stop to Dean's own kind of depravity.

"Nope." Sam discreetly stops him from advancing with a gentle hand on his chest. "You're going to the coroner's office."

"I was just about to comfort the distressed ladies, actually" says Dean. About two fifteen-year-olds, specifically.

Sam gives Dean a face. He's not playing games here. Last thing he needs is Dean getting arrested for something this idiotic. As discreetly as he can, "Jailbait."

"Don't be such a pervert, Sam," says Dean, mockingly horrified.

"Dean. Coroner's office."

Dean nods at him obendiently, turns around and leaves for the coroner's office.

Sometimes, Sam has to do this. Keep Dean in line. It's fair, considering Dean also has to keep Sam's monstrosity in line. Sam's never tried to fuck a high-schooler, though. The thought is bitter. It's also intriguing. What did Dean do about that exactly, when Sam was at Stanford? Dad wouldn't have stopped him unless it attracted too much attention. So did Dean just give into his impulses? Sam's not sure if Dean would actually fuck a teenager given the opportunity or not, but he simply cannot take that risk.

After Dean leaves, Sam is left standing there for a little while before approaching the young witnesses. He goes through the motions with the interview, having done this more times than he can count. Archives the information revealed somewhere within his work-focused brain, and thinks about… other things.

The girls are pretty, Dean's type even when he was a teenager himself, but Sam's not into teenagers. That's not a taste of Dean's he can understand. It's the involvement of Dean that makes it intriguing to Sam. Just the image of it. Dean's grown form, well in his twenties, with what is basically a kid.

It's kind of grotesque. And yet.

It's like thinking of serial killers. When he's jacking off, Sam doesn't want to be the BTK killer. He doesn't want to be Ed Kemper, or Dahmer. He wants—

(No. Please, not this.)

He turns away from the witnesses. "Thank you for your time."

Dean picks him up after agreeing on it on the phone. The case ends up being a bust, just a murderer with a weird fetish, apparently.

"Don't get too excited, eh," Dean teases him with an idiotic smile.

Sam rolls his eyes as he gets back in the car. "Hilarious."

"You're the one with the serial killer kink."

"It's not a—" and because Sam is also an idiot, "You wanna fuck high schoolers."

Dean's laugh is good-natured, which is insane, considering the subject at hand. "Guess it runs in the family."

Sam shivers. Waits for the car to start. It does not. He looks at Dean with the closest thing to innocence that he can manage.

Dean looks back at him. Analyzes him.

"You good?" he asks, but it's more like a gentle demand. All big brother, family protector, newly established patriarch on the wheel.

"I'm fine," Sam says. "Just cold."

After giving him another look or two, Dean starts the car. It's one of those looks that lets Sam know the subject is not abandoned, simply postponed.

He's so screwed.

Sam's been aware of this old-new desire for a few weeks now. He tried to keep it cool, keep a lid on it. It's going bad.

See, as it's often the case with Sam, it can't stop once it begins. His failure is imminent and evident. Dean's predator eyes have been trailing behind him around the room for a few days now, and there's also that specific tone in his voice when he asks Sam if he's alright, if he has anything he'd like to tell Dean. It's a tone that Sam knows very well, and he cannot think of anything he'd like to do less than tell Dean what he's been thinking about, thank you very much.

So Dean is onto him, which is distressing. Sam has been keeping a secret of a similar nature and at equal risk of being accidentally revealed for an embarassing and probably unhealthy amount of time, and Dean has never been this close to finding out.

This means Sam is getting rusty. It means all of his secrets are all fair game now, if Dean gets his hands on them.

And, boy, Dean has every intention to do so.

"You having weird dreams, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs. "Not that I remember. Why?"

Oh, but he has. And he remembers what he said perfectly (No, please, I don't— not again, please) and he knows, despite it, that it was a wet dream. Which Dean heard, because they can't be bothered to have even a little bit of privacy and book two motel rooms instead of one.

"Anything, you know," Dean gestures vaguely, "Yellow Eyes related?"

Ah. Right. Well.

"No."

That's the truth. The realization that he should've lied, said yes, it hits Sam too late.

"Sam." Dean's losing his patience. It borders on threatening. Sam has to take a deep breath to keep his biology under control. (Don't do this to me, please. After so long.)

"I'm tired, actually." Sam innocently smiles at him. "I'm going to bed."

"But—"

"Night, man."

Sam stands up but doesn't go far, with Dean gripping his arm tight, desperate, like he's in the middle of the ocean and Sam's a lifeboat.

That's when he knows Dean's either gonna get aggressive or earnest. Whatever the means, the result is the same. Sam is so screwed. He sits back down in front of the table where he'd been cleaning the guns. Dean, still holding Sam's forearm with one hand, drags a chair towards where Sam is with his other hand before sitting down. Only then his grip goes loose.

Dean seems to be struggling to get the words out, but Sam's not gonna start this conversation.

At last, "What's going on, Sam? I'm serious, I'm— I'm going crazy here. I'm trying. I know that the way I've been acting since dad died— before, even, I just… I'm working on it. But you gotta give me something to work with, man. Talk to me. Please."

When earnest, Dean is a thousand times more dangerous than when he's aggressive. Sam feels a pressure in his gut, a strange and unpleasant mix of guilt and panic and resignation.

"I'm having, uh, thoughts." He pauses. Dean waits. "Bad thoughts."

Dean takes two seconds to process that sentence before he's grabbing the gun Sam'd been cleaning, unloading it, and throwing it across the room. Then he reaches out for the next one.

Oh, God.

Sam puts his hand on Dean's arm to stop him. "No, not— I don't wanna kill myself, Dean, Jesus Christ. It's not that kind of bad."

The relief in Dean is physically visible. It's kind of impressive, really. Though the tension in his shoulders is not fully gone.

"Then what kind of bad is it?"

Perhaps it's the shock of what Dean just assumed and how he reacted, or perhaps it's the weight of a decade that belongs to another secret that finally breaks him. Sam cannot hold on anymore. He says, "About you."

Dean frowns. Not mad, or upset. Something else Sam can't recognize. "About me. Hurting you?"

Sam stands up again and begins pacing. Dean stands up as well, probably as precaution. Sam feels like he's losing his mind. How many times has he begged Dean for a single honest conversation? And why has Dean decided to indulge him now? Just when the last thing Sam wants to do is think about his feelings. That one vulnerable spot that Sam has, the most vulnerable, the one Sam has tried not to touch for the better part of his life, is now being pressed.

"No, no, it's, it's not your fault, I'm the one who's fucked up. Just a gross— a goddamn pervert, fuck, I'm sorry, Dean, I don't— I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean," he huffs, nearly hysteric, "I guess, way too much. I'm sorry."

If he weren't too busy on the verge of panic, perhaps, Sam would've noticed the glint of hope and disbelief in Dean's eye.

"Hey, okay, just. Calm down."

Sam could strangle him.

"Nothing's okay, Dean! Didn't you hear me? I'm—"

"You're fine. Breathe, alright? There's nothing wrong with you." He waits a few moments for Sam to calm down. "Okay. Are… these thoughts, like, scary?"

"Upsetting."

"You dislike them?"

"They upset me. It's different."

"So you do like them."

"Yes, Dean, goddamn it."

"Why?" Sam doesn't say anything. Dean doesn't stop looking at him. It almost looks like he's trying not to beg. "Sammy."

Sam puts his head in his hands. "It's not right. You deserve better than— than me thinking of you like that."

"Like what?"

Sam cannot say it. He cannot get it out. He can only say, "I'm sorry."

Dean nods slowly and Sam waits for his accusations like a good boy. The accusations do not arrive. Instead, Dean grabs Sam to keep him in place and kisses him.

Sam freezes at first. Then, he burns. He does his best to put his arms around Dean too, reciprocate. The thought that he should tell Dean the whole thing crosses his mind, that he should stop this, tell Dean he still doesn't understand, but he can't. He's wanted this too, probably since before the other secret started. So Sam simply shuts up and takes the kisses Dean's giving him so freely.

At some point he registers the hand of Dean's that has sneaked its way under his shirt and is now caressing his waist and lower back, and the sound that is pulled out of the back of Sam's throat sounds like it's a child's.

The thought makes his knees nearly give out. Dean holds him up more on instinct than anything else, and Sam simply adores the way he unintentionally breaks the kiss to let out a laugh full of disbelief.

"Told you, Sammy," says Dean between kisses on Sam's neck, jaw, trailing towards his ear, "It's okay. See, sweetheart? You're not— you're like me. Just like me. Just like your big brother, yeah?"

Sam doesn't think he has enough sense left in him to produce words, but he does make some sort of sound high at the back of his throat in response and something resembling the word "Dean." He feels smaller, younger than he is. More fragile.

Because Dean understands everything, always, forever, he says "Baby. My baby." and he sounds as wrecked as Sam feels. As torn open and exposed, as desperate to get his hands on Sam as Sam is to get Dean's hands on him.

It's enough for Sam to forget about it for now. He hopes it's enough to forget about it forever.

Sam gets lost in it for weeks. Living one of the worst kinds of wet dream he's ever had in the flesh.

Motel to motel, case to case, it's like a magic fog covers the whole world except for Dean, and Dean's favorite activity as of late is putting Sam on his back to fuck him stupid. Thankfully, Sam is not bothered by this limited view in the slightest. It reminds him of moving in with Jess. There's darkness in his head, there's probably darkness in his future, but the domesticity and the near daily sex manages to drown everything out. It helps Sam turn a blind eye to his own thoughts and it allows him to feel things in his own body in a pleasurable way, rather than the usual vague dread and discomfort.

Dean is calm, of all things. Glowing. He's relaxed and irritatingly cock-sure, what with Sam walking around the motels and diners permanently fucked out and smiling like a lovesick girl, as he puts it. Of course, he does love calling Sam a girl.

"Mine," he'd murmur low against Sam's ear and his fingers pressing down on Sam's tongue making him choke, filling him up on both ends. "My baby girl, ain't that right? Mine."

That's the part Sam likes the most. It's nice being Dean's. (Not like that. Not in that way. No.)

Dean's also more affectionate than he's been in years. The adoration with which he looks at Sam, it cannot be new. He must've not known where to search for it before, or maybe Dean stopped hiding it. It gives Sam a confidence he thought he'd lost a long time ago. Dean only calls him pretty when he's got Sam split on his dick or sucking him down like he's starving for it, but Sam can see it in his eyes even when they're having breakfast.

When he's not fucking Sam, or, say, when he just finished doing it, Dean calls him "Sweetheart."

Sam hums and pushes his face against Dean's naked chest. Though Dean used to be clothed, Sam used to do this when he was thirteen, too. Dean was seventeen.

(No!)

He groans, exhausted of his own mind. Dean takes it as a response to the endearment and continues, "How new is it? For you."

It's a quiet question, Dean's doubts and insecurities shining through the cracks.

Sam is unsure what to respond. Dean clearly thinks his realization is recent, if not the feelings themselves. He could clarify it, but then Dean may question what his whole breakdown was all about, and Sam cannot tell him. Physically, he just can't. The thought alone clogs up his throat.

"Enough for me to be sure."

The thing about Dean is that he does understand everything, always, forever. Even when he understands nothing.

A few blissful weeks later Sam is having a normal day when Dean enters their motel room.

"When you jerk off to serial killers, what do you think about?"

Sam looks up from his laptop. Dean's standing there in front of him, expectant, with a bag of french fries in his hands.

"I have a better question."

Dean puts two fries in his mouth. "Alright. Hello, sweetheart. How you doin'? Good? Great. Answer the question." Sam sighs. He was having a normal day, really.

"You're unbelievable."

Dean swallows the fries and there's a slight shift in his demeanor and he seemingly struggles to get out what he wants to say. "Is it like. Are you the. You wanna do all that. To someone?"

That is even more outrageous than the initial question, which was outrageous enough to make Sam forget he's supposed to deny that he jerks off to serial killers in the first place. Sam wonders vaguely what he's done now to have these accusations thrown at him. Is Dean seeing something monstrous in him? Dad said Dean might have to kill him. Is it finally happening? Is this a test?

Sam doesn't like it when he doesn't know what Dean's thinking. It's a little scary.

"If you're trying to imply that I—"

Dean raises a hand to stop him. "Not implying anything, just. If you wanna— we can like. Pretend. I can be your, uh, victim. I guess."

They look at each other for a few moments. Dean eats some more fries to try and make the situation less tense. Sam feels for him, really. This thing between them, it's fairly new. Weeks old and barely so. Feels fragile, apparently to both of them.

And in addition to the uncertainty of a recently established mogamonous incestuous relationship, there's Sam's… issues with sex. Bedroom activities were a complete success the first couple of times, before his recent realization hit. And with that realization, feelings and memories of an even older thing. An older kind of pain.

Not even the euphoria of finally having Dean after a lifetime of sick longing could be an instant fix-it. This whole situation, it has brought back to the surface things he tried very hard and for a very long time to bury. Unpleasant, scary, unspeakable things.

Emphasis on unspeakable.

It's not that he doesn't want Dean to know, it's just that, try as he might, some things are too hard for Sam to put in words. He wishes there was some way for Dean to know without having to tell him. He has, since they got back on the road together. But since there is not, he buried that wish as well.

Now, this idea of Dean's is interesting. Not because that's something Sam wants. It's not. But it forces Sam to confront why it's not something he's interested in. Verbally. He knows why, he simply never had to put it in words before.

But all that silence, this is what it's come down to. Dean, worried that Sam might be getting bored, might be waning in his affections, and trying to find ways to spice it up. Trying to find something Sam might like. He's suddenly overcome with fondness, and before he realizes he's reaching out to where Dean's taken seat next to him and cupping Dean's cheek with his hand. Caresses there for a second or two, and takes a deep breath.

"I'm not." Sam hears the switch in his own voice. Softer. Shy, even. He can't believe he's doing this. "I'm not the one. Doing the killing."

Dean is kind of surprised at this, but Sam cannot gauge the exact amount. "Oh."

Then, Sam is overcome with something else. Different, darker, sadder. A profound sort of sadness without apparent root. It's almost primordial, yet mundane. It feels a lot like fear, and it feels even more like love.

Almost whispering, Sam confesses, "I'm a victim."

Dean's eyes darken at this. Sam understands that darkness now: interest. Lust.

It's sweet, in a way. Dean would've played along if he thought Sam really needed it, but they both know of Dean's taste for violence, and on what side of the equation he'd rather be. Recently they've found that they're compatible like that.

With Sam's palm still on his cheek, Dean turns his face slightly to place a soft kiss on it. He never breaks eye-contact. "Alright, sweetheart. You're the victim."

At least for now, the serial killer thing isn't doing it for Sam.

It's something else, a different aspect of Dean's dirty talk that got Sam to come in his pants the last time they made out and did frotting clothed like teenagers.

The thing is, well, Sam's a victim. Sure. He's been the vicitm, and he can get off on it. Has done so on occasion, alone and with company. It's old news by now. But what may get Sam out of this rut is Dean himself.

Sam can count the times he's allowed himself to indulge in his fantasy with just one hand, but he's no stranger to this thought. This taint on Dean's character. His presence alone, threats in his voice. It's not really about Sam being a victim.

Still, progress is progress. He did very much enjoy it the only other three times they got to share, before Sam got too in his own head again. As of right now, with Dean's weight between his legs and his hands on Sam's wrists and his hot breath on his neck and shoulders, Sam thinks he might be ready to get fucked again.

Of course, that is before Dean starts making a bad impression of Dahmer that Sam just has to stop by any means possible.

"Hey, no, Dean. Don't. There's no need for that. Just… you can just be you," he says, breaking the hold Dean has on one of his wrists. Dean wasn't pressing that hard, which… anyway.

Dean takes his face out of the space behind Sam's ear and looks at him. "See, despite popular belief, I am not a serial killer."

Sam would argue he is, they both are, but that's not the point here.

"Yeah, well, I'm not getting fucked by Dahmer, am I?"

"I'd rip his dick off." Dean's voice is too serious for the ridiculousness of the statement.

Sam smiles, charmed despite it all. "You know what? Let's just do it normal." He thinks about it. "Usual gay incestuous normal."

Dean looks at him with something Sam can't read very well. "You sure? I can try again."

Deciding to lessen the tension, "No need. The way you ridiculed yourself just now really got me going, baby."

Dean rolls his eyes like Sam is the most annoying thing he's ever had to deal. Then he sits up on his knees, still between Sam's legs. Before he can panic about being rejected, Dean pulls Sam up and places him on his lap. Sam gulps. "Ah. Strong."

Probably to reassure him and his almost-panic discreetly, Dean hums and gives him a sweet peck on the lips. "Maybe you gotta eat more."

Dean's lips are so pretty. Sam's supposed to talk now, right?

"Maybe you gotta eat less."

Sam gets his jaw bitten for his sass, a soft threat. He has to make an active effort not to whine at it.

He ends up whining because of other things in the end, though. Namely, getting pounded so hard and rough he has to put his hand on the headboard to avoid hitting his head, and for so long he can feel his thighs starting to grow numb. He's come three times in total by now, Dean's endurance is nothing to sneeze at. He gets what girls see in him.

Dean shifts the angle slightly and Sam honest-to-god mewls.

"Fuck, fuck, Dean, fuck me. C'mon." His moaning has become fully nasal by now. He's like a child, an annoying, needy—

"Fucking brat," says Dean. (Yes. Yes, exactly.) "Jesus, you're so loud. Aren't you, Sam? So fucking loud for me."

"For you," Sam repeats with his head buzzing pleasantly. Finally some goddamn silence. He's only loud for Dean. "For you, I'm— De, Dean, for you. Just for you."

"Sammy," Dean's moans are punched out and throaty despite talking big game, his breaths quickening like it's hysteria. That's how Sam knows he's close.

Sam wants it. He wants to make Dean feel good, needs to make sure he fucks Sam again, again, in every other motel they're in, at night, day, in the Impala, wherever Dean wants.

The rhythmic wet slapping sounds don't manage to drown out this mysterious, drawn out noise, pitched like a baby's crying. Sam wonders what it is. Maybe it's Sam himself. He laughs a little at the thought.

Dean's dick hits a spot inside Sam point blank several times in succession and it makes his entre body quiver. He cannot use the headboard as leverage anymore, even his arms are tingling, but it's okay. "It's okay, baby, I got you," Dean reassures before gripping Sam tight and resuming his thrusts with the same force as before. He holds Sam perfectly in place, so strong, stronger than Sam, just like this. Big brother, and Sam is the little brother.

It happens again. He feels smaller. Younger than he is. Easier, more fragile.

A sob gets stuck in Sam's throat. Filled up to the brim with want. He wants Dean to fuck him forever, keep him open and splayed like this forever. He wants to go back to the past and have Dean fuck him there too. So much lost time. Dean should've touched him before, he should've opened Sam up like this before. Years ago. When Sam was—

"When I was little. Should've. When I was— fucked me then. As a kid. Touched me. Please. Like this. Dean, Dean."

Sam is so fucking out of it he does not immediately register the shift. Until he does.

Dean stopped.

Dean was about to come inside Sam, and he stopped. Dean loves coming inside Sam. But he stopped.

After a few moments, Dean gets his dick out of Sam and manouvers him for them to face each other.

Well. Sam got himself in a pickle, didn't he?

"I never did that shit, Sam," Dean says. He's serious like a heart attack. Sam would know, he might be about to get one.

"I know."

"I never. I didn't touch a hair on your head when you were— I never did that shit."

"I know that, Dean."

"Then why the fuck would you say that?" Dean snaps. "I thought we were doing normal. Usual gay incestuous normal. That's not... that."

Sam is just now starting to connect his brain to his body.

"Right," he says stupidly. Dean looks like he wants to strangle him. "I'm sorry. It slipped."

"It slipped? Are you nuts?"

Sam considers the situation. Maybe he should appeal to his brother's ego. "Well, I don't know if you noticed, Dean, but I was kinda out of it. I still can't feel my thighs."

It works. Dean calms down, though he has to keep the posturing. "Just saying. You could've warned me. Because I didn't. I didn't—"

"Do that shit. Yes, Dean. I got that part."

Other than that, Sam doesn't know what to else to say. Apparently Dean doesn't either, so they just stay quiet for a few beats.

"I'd have never. You have to know that." Dean's voice is raw, vulnerable.

Sam sighs, tired. "It's not really about that."

Dean sighs too. He tucks some of Sam's hair behind his ear, a gesture so gentle it makes Sam feel like pure filth in comparison. "Is it like the serial killer thing?"

Despite everything, Sam smiles.

"Kind of. It's not really— I lied to you." Dean makes a sound that lets Sam know he's not surprised. Sam ignores it for now. "It's not… about that. Not right now. Sometimes it is, but, uh, yeah. It's not about being a victim."

Dean thinks, then gasps, then nods. And what he says next, Lord above.

"It's about being my victim," he sums up, soft and dark. His hand trails down towards Sam's neck but doesn't grip it, just holds it. "Mine."

(Yes. Yes, exactly.)

He closes his eyes. The weight of Dean's hand on his throat is too much. Surely Dean can feel how fast his pulse is going, beating like a rabbit's. That's the thrill of it, really. The hand around his neck is the hand of a killer, a hand that has snapped other necks, sunk knives into flesh, filled living things up with bullets. The most prolific killer Sam has ever known has his hands all over him.

"Yeah," Sam admits. "Yeah, that's the way to put it."

He feels Dean's fingers tilting his jaw to the side. It's another light touch but Sam is pliant and goes easy. Dean places a wet kiss on the side of his neck. Stays on that spot for a while, nibbling and sucking and worshipping the skin there. Sam's own hand trails down to feel Dean up and make him hard again, and he realizes something interesting.

"Did you even go soft?" Dean bites him. Hard. Then he returns to Sam's mouth and kisses him sweetly.

"Can I fuck you again?" he asks. Sam's about to say fuck yes, but before he can Dean pushes Sam's hand to put more pressure on his dick. "Don't you wanna help your big brother out? C'mon, Sammy, just a little. I'll feel good, I promise. I'll show you."

Holy shit. The fantasy in Sam's mind was one thing, but to hear it in Dean's voice…

"You promise?" he asks. Dean nods, already pushing him into a mating press position. Breathless, "Okay. Show me?"

As it turns out, Dean is very much into pretending he's molesting his little brother. He corners Sam at every opportunity, on every motel and every town, in the car, at dinner and breakfast and in the middle of the night, whenever, everywhere. It's like he's starving for it. High on power, and high on Sam.

And, frankly, who is Sam to judge? No one, that's who. Especially when the right string of words from Dean plus a little bit of petting can get him to come with his eyes rolling back in his head. While it took Sam a little longer to let go of his own reservations, his own shame, Dean had taken to it like a fish to water. To the point where Sam doesn't know if he should be grateful or suspicious.

In any case, none of that matters when Dean's got him flat on his back and split on his dick saying, "Shush, be quiet. They can't know what we're doing, Sammy," because they're doing it together, because Sammy is guilty as well, "It's our little secret, yeah?"

The Sammy in question nods as he shakes from all the stimulation. That's who takes over when this happens, this Sammy entity, in some ways separate from Sam himself, yet all the same.

It shows the most when it's softer. Sam doesn't just pretend to be fumbling through his first handjob, he genuinely feels like he's nine years old with a freshly developed motor control that he should have fully under control at age twenty-three.

When Dean asks him, "Where, baby? Where does it feel weird?" Sam genuinely can't remember the term.

He can just whimper and say, "In my tummy. Inside my tummy. Dean, touch there, please? Please."

He genuinely believes Dean when he tells Sam it'll be just the tip. Of course he believes him. He's a stupid, innocent nine-year-old who adores and worships his big brother.

Sam at twenty-three, he tries not to think about it. He's been successful so far, but it's been a weird couple of months. There is a certain… awareness growing in him. There's a door in his head getting slowly unlocked with every touch and whisper in the dark, like they're trying to hide what they're doing from dad or something. To Dean it's part of their games. To Sammy, sometimes, it feels like John might genuinely rise from his grave if they ever get too loud.

(To Sam it means— nothing. Nothing at all.)

One night Dean's between Sam's thighs lying his head on his stomach after an hour of pouring his affections on the skin there, on his waist and hips. Sam's fingernails are gently scraping his scalp, and Sam can hardly believe he gets to have this.

This part, it got a bit lost amongst their shared perversions. But, really, it's the best part. It's a beautiful thing they've found, despite the incest thing. And tonight Dean seems quiet. Worried, even.

Sam is hesitant to break the spell they both seem to be under, but his protective instincts win by far. "Are you okay?"

Dean stays quiet for so long, his breathing so steady Sam starts thinking he fell asleep at some point.

"Are you sure I didn't do anything to you?" he says it so quietly it's a miracle Sam hears it. "Are you sure that's not why you're— why you want me now? Maybe you remember something I don't. And I need you to tell me, Sammy. I need to know the truth. I'm begging you."

There's something in Dean, so broken and terrified. It makes Sam's chest ache, in more ways than one. Sam does remember something, is the thing, but how can he ever do this to Dean? Speaking it out loud will only bring it into existence. This terrible thing that has haunted Sam for the better part of his life, just as suffocating as Yellow Eyes.

Sam wants to tell Dean, so badly. But Dean can never know.

"Look at me." Dean does, his eyes rimmed red. And because he wants a truth, Sam tells him, "You were the only good thing I had growing up."

"Sam."

"You never touched me," he snaps. "Never lied a fucking hand on me. This is just me, Dean. I'm just like this."

As quietly as before, "Just because?"

There's probably a litany of reasons why. Now is not the time to unpack them.

Sam gently guides Dean's head back to its original position, resting comfortably on his tummy. Dean goes easily, matter closed. "I'm like you. You're like me. That's it."

Next morning Dean has Sam ass up on that same motel's bed, pressing his head against the pillow and his wrists crossed against his lower back and he fucks into Sam again, again, again. Tells him, "Need it so bad, don't you? Walkin' around like that, fucking asking for it."

(Yes, exactly. Asking for it.)

Sam groans his vague agreement, words muffled by the pillow.

"'Yeah, you need me so bad. 'Cause you may be a slut, but you're my slut. Ain't that right, Sammy? Just for me?" he gives Sam's ass a slap, like he's on some bad porno. "Look at that, so pretty. Gorgeous. Let me look at you."

True to his words, Dean flips Sam around too look at him and puts Sam's legs on his shoulders, all seemingly effortless. Sam's untouched dick flops on top of his stomach and Sam cries out at the frustrating removal of the stimulation that the mattress offered. Dean doesn't give a fuck about that, of course. He just takes his time observing Sam's fucked out, puffy face. Sam can feel it, pink and sweaty and wet with his own drool. Just how his hole must look like, too. Pink and puffy and wet and raped to hell.

Though Sam's view has got be undeniably better. Dean's muscles sweaty and taut from all the effort of fucking Sam's brains out, his hair all tousled from when they were making out like teenagers and Sam ran his hands all over it. His pretty face takes the cake, as always. Dean's eyes on him, green and foggy with lust, mouth twisted with his canines showing, the look of a killer. He traces the mole under Sam's eye with his finger, holds his chin between his thumb and index, and then turns Sam's head to the side with a stinging slap.

Which is hot as hell, obviously, but Dean's somehow still not back to fucking him. His other hand is busy thumbing Sam's hole, sensitive and gaping and yet unsatisfied.

"You gonna get your dick back in me any time soon?"

Another slap. "Brat."

Wordlessly, Dean starts fucking him, yes, but with his fingers. Deep, though. A slow and rhythmic pressing. It's more like a massage on his prostate than a simple fucking. Sam's eyes roll back into his head and then they close altogether. Dean gives him a dark sort of chuckle, probably at the sound Sam is making, long and high-pitched. He doesn't even care that he's never gonna live this down.

"C'mon, do it, De, please. Fuck me," he begs, but it's not enough. It doesn't convey what Sam wants done to him. "Rape me. Dean, rape me."

Dean grunts like Sam just stabbed him in the gut. He stays very still for a few moments, maybe trying to get his breath under control. Before anxiety begins to settle, Dean murmurs, "Yeah? You want that?"

"Yes," as more of a breath than a word.

It seems to be enough for Dean, however, because he gets his dick aligned with Sam's ass in no time and thrusts back with enough force to knock someone out in as he snarls, "Look at me, bitch. You want me to bad-touch you? Look at me. That's it, baby boy. Sammy, my baby, my little baby. Mine. Mine. My bitch. Gonna rape you till you're bleeding. That's it. Take it. "

In a single wave, Sam comes with a silent scream. The tears that begin to fall are silent, too.

It doesn't deter Dean, because of course it doesn't. He tries to keep his eyes open as Dean grinds down on him but it feels impossible to keep it up for more than a few seconds. The stimulation, the pressure, Dean's kisses on his calf in between all the filthy and degrading shit he likes to say to Sam.

It goes on for a while. For a long while. A point comes where Sam is sure he's been getting fucked, raped, bad-touched for hours. Years. Decades.

With his eyes still closed, it comes to his attention that he feels really wet down there, sopping, like he's bleeding. Some parts of his body kissed, and a barely-there beard prickling at his skin. His skin is so easy to break, his organs are buzzy and all tangled up inside him. His arms and legs are tired, useless, like a ragdoll's. Sammy tries to think, he wonders what Dean is doing, but what would he fight it for? He's helpless to it no matter what.

Something, and Sammy doesn't know what, spills inside. Inside his tummy. Someone praises him and is mean to him on the same sentence. Sammy's face is wetter than his boy parts. The hands on him, they're supposed to be safe. He knows they're the hands of a killer.

An ancient knot in his gut is unmade, and it claws up to his throat and Sammy sobs it out, "Dad." He enunciates it perfectly. There's no mistaking the word for anything else, and it taints it when he continues to babble, "No more, dad, please. Stop. No more."

It works. No more.

There's a brief moment of relief, but then Sammy is ripped from him like a limb. He's left being just Sam, an adult, torn open from the inside out.

The whole thing hits him like a hammer when he opens his eyes. He goes ice cold, to the point he thinks he might be dead for two solid seconds.

For the first time since they started their thing, everything they've talked about it since then, Dean's eyes are filled with horror. Horror at Sam.

Of course they are. It's revolting. That's why Sam was not supposed to say it.

But he did. Now it's out there, and Dean looks green, like he's gonna be sick. Sam supposes he could try to play it off as just another fantasy. God knows Dean has tolerated a lot of them these past couple of months. But why bother? The truth has always been evident, and his failure imminent.

"You never… you never said 'no' to me before." Dean tries to question what he already knows. If Sam could feel anything at all, perhaps he'd feel sorry for him.

It's true, though. With Dean it was only ever 'yes' or 'maybe' or 'I don't know'. Never a 'no', let alone begging to stop in such a manner.

"Well. The guy I was begging to stop wasn't exactly you, now, was it?"

Dean knows this can happen. That he can, indeed, fuck Sam out of his own brain. Bet he never thought of it as a bad thing before now. The thought makes Sam chuckle. A sad and empty kind of chuckle.

"Sammy…" Dean sounds… more than sad. More like distraught. Devastated.

"You never touched me," Sam reminds him. He has to take care of Dean.

Though that was Dean's job first. Perhaps that's why he says what he says next. Because Sam can't. "Dad touched you."

It should be relieving. It's not. Not even that can wake him up, Sam feels nothing. He was so overwhelmed, and at some point it's like he got drained of any feeling whatsoever. He can't even cry. He's dry on the inside.

Resignation, perhaps. It's a similar sensation to when he was falling asleep when he was nine— "I was nine," he says to Dean, just as an addendum. Dean makes a choked out sound that Sam ignores. "I think. One of the times, at least." So it's like being nine, and falling asleep, and knowing what's gonna happen when he wakes up. Dread and boredom all in one.

Sam doesn't say anything else after that, simply stares at the ceiling feeling nothing, emotional or physical. Maybe he is dead for real.

At some point Dean mumbles something like, "Okay. Okay. I need— I can't. I can't do this," and goes out the door, shutting it with a gentle click.

An hour passes. Sam is still there. Lying down. Naked and freshly fucked and air-drying, like hair or clothes or dishes something else that's inanimate. He'd love that, to be a thing with no nervous system.

Other times, he wouldn't wake up during, but after. He'd sleep right through it, and then he'd wake up.

A sob tears from his throat, so painful it feels like needles prickling him from within. Then another. And another. He's crying like when he was nine and it wouldn't stop, it just would not stop, and he's hyperventilating, his lungs closing themselves up a little more with every breath he tries to take. Before he couldn't feel, only think. Now it's the opposite. All this because, although it took a while, the realization downed on Sam at last.

Dean left. Just like dad said he would if he knew. If he knew what Sam was doing. Dean found out, and then he left. Sam bawls, like a fucking baby. He cries and sobs for hours, days, months, God knows how long. His own hiccups choke him. He cries in a way he's sure he's never allowed himself before. There's a nine year-old inside Sam, he can't get out of bed, and he wants his brother back, and he's never gonna stop crying until he dies because Dean's never coming back.

The door slams open.

"Oh, Sammy," is all he hears before he's getting scooped up and that's when Sam screams, wails like a banshee, tries to kick his attacker wherever he can reach. "Sam, stop! Sam, it's okay, it's me, calm down. It's me, Sammy. Look, it's me, sweetheart, it's just me. See? That's it. Good. You're doing good. Just— just let me hold you, alright? That's— okay. Yeah. Just let it out, Sammy. Let it all out."

Sam lets it out.

It takes Dean four hours and a lot of patience to get Sam to stop crying and breathe normally again. He manages, because of course he does. How Sam could've thought he'd leave forever, he blames it on everything else going on.

Sam did make an attempt to explain at some point during those long, long four hours. "Silly," Dean replied, and it sounds just like he did at thirteen. "I'd never. I would never."

Dean also said, "I'm gonna kill him again. I'm gonna bring him back to life and rip his lungs out from his body, I swear to God."

Dean also said, "I thought I was losing my mind, when you first said it. 'Cause it's not like… it's not like I never thought about it. Or that I never wanted to. You were not— you weren't that young, but you weren't that old either. I just never wanted to hurt you. I was so stupid, couldn't look anywhere else. I should've seen it. I should've protected you."

Dean also said, "I thought I was never gonna forgive him for what he told me. Before he died, I mean. I couldn't understand how he could betray you like that. I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It helps. All of it does. Sam still doesn't want to speak it out loud, not too much. He just wanted Dean to know.

Now Dean's holding Sam on his lap like when he was a baby and Dean was rocking him to sleep. Sam is all wrapped up in Dean's shirt and a blanket, recently rehydrated and carrying a mild headache from… all that, but in a sense, lighter. Weight on his stomach gone, lungs cleared out. It's a curious thing.

Dean also says, "Is it wrong that I'm relieved it wasn't me who did it?"

Probably, but Sam says, "I don't know. Is it wrong that I wish it was you who did it?"

"I don't know." Sam feels a kiss being dropped on his hair. Then another, and another. "Maybe we can just be wrong together."

Sam smiles, despite everything. He's still got the one thing he's always wanted. Dean's depravity washes over Sam's own. Kinda like holy water. Depravity is always followed by faith.