hellfirecondo: (Sam (Criss Angel/douchebag))
[personal profile] hellfirecondo
Title: Everything Breaks
Author: Lily, [livejournal.com profile] annabeth_fics
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: one-sided Wincest (Sam/Dean)
Warnings: incest. evil!Sam. references to necrophilia. murder. violence. child abuse and murder. slight porn. non-con. rape. knife!kink. bloodplay. main character death. language. mindfucking. facial.
Spoilers: AHBL II.
Notes: So, I read "Last Outpost of All That Is" by [livejournal.com profile] eighth_horizon and while I already had this bunny, the angst in that story broke me, so I wrote this to cheer myself up. Yes, I am that bizarre. Title from a Jewel song. One final warning -- this is not a happy story.
Summary: When Sam turns, it happens completely without fanfare.
word count: 6905
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

Everything Breaks

When Sam turns, it happens completely without fanfare. In fact, Dean doesn't even notice at first. He always thought the change would be dramatic, a sudden blaring siren of different, but that's not how it happens at all.

Sam says, "Let's settle down for awhile," and Dean watches him say it, the way his eyelids quiver, his lips move, the fact that there's a glossy sheen of happiness on his face. Dean hears, I want to stay in one place for awhile, spend some time with you, maybe check out the Grand Canyon in a few weeks. He doesn't hear, this is your doom, ringing the doorbell, this is your last chance, from here on out the ice cream is melted and the snow cones taste like dust and ash.

Sam says, "I want a place with a basement, a backyard," and Dean hears the wistfulness in his tone, the long-smothered desire for normalcy, a chance to really smell the roses. Dean hears, I miss what I had with Jess, the apartment, the classes, the kisses. He doesn't hear, I'm going to make you fill the Jess-shaped space left behind, and why would he? Sam looks just the same, beguiling and enigmatic, for all that Dean knows him inside out, somehow he doesn't know Sam at all, and the way that he turns is the last puzzle piece that clues him in to just how little.

Sam drives the Impala into the driveway of a little one-story house with a huge expanse of grass in the back and a hatch that faces the street, showing off just the amenities Sam wanted most, and Dean catches his brother's eye and smiles, meaning, this is it, I'll do anything for you, even suffer through suburbia but he doesn't realise that what he's actually saying is, I'm easy, take advantage, you don't even have to pick the lock to steal everything that's inside.

Sam says, "Wait in the car, I want to look around inside." Dean doesn't question it, he just does as he's told, all blind faith and trust in someone he doesn't yet realise is never going to be the same person he raised, protected, loved, saved.

Dean flips on the tape player and sticks one in at random, drums his fingers on the leather seats and listens to his favourite music while Sam pokes around, doing God-knows-what inside. When Sam gets back out to the car, his knuckles are red, raw-looking, but Dean doesn't notice, because he's too busy falling a little bit in thrall with the peace writ on Sam's features. His brother's hair is wavy and falling over one eye and he's fucking glowing like he just survived the Rapture, like maybe he's one of those angels that Dean doesn't believe in.

For just a moment, though, Dean believes; he has no idea how wrong he is. How backwards. And when Sam unlocks the door and slips inside, he lovingly inserts the key into the ignition and puts the car in gear.

They drive to a motel, Sam gives the girl at the desk the most beautiful smile he can manage, dimples showing and eyes sincere and open, and she hands over the key card with an answering smile.

Dean doesn't ask why they've taken a room, but he doesn't have to, because Sam says, "I'm just covering all the bases, going to do some research and make sure that place really is abandoned."

Dean switches on the television, lies back with his legs crossed at the ankles and settles in to enjoy some good old-fashioned reality TV in the form of some serious catfighting. "Have fun," he tells Sam, because Sam's the geekboy who loves research, and he expects that Sam will take a trip to the library and totally geek out for hours.

He doesn't know that Sam drives back to the house with the huge backyard and buries the young couple that had lived there. The people that he'd killed that afternoon, all without blood, without a shot fired, without any kind of indication that anything was wrong at all.

Dean falls asleep to the lullaby of the television without even noticing that more hours have passed than should have, and doesn't wake up when Sam gets back.

He doesn't expect anything out of the ordinary from Sam, and therefore he doesn't see it. Sam is in the shower when he wakes up, the sun a brilliant presence in the room, the television turned off. When he stumbles blearily into the bathroom to take a piss, the shower curtain isn't closed all the way, but Sam doesn't squawk about the lack of privacy, and Dean, for all of his powers of observation, doesn't even pick up on it.

Because Sam is the one person whom he doesn't catalogue every action. Sam he trusts. That's his biggest mistake.

Sam does start singing off-key when Dean puts the toilet seat up with a clatter. His brother likes to be annoying, and his singing voice -- more accurately, the lack thereof -- has been the bane of Dean's existence for years, because whenever Sam feels particularly prickly he starts singing.

He breaks off mid-yowl and says, "The house is all set, Dean. As soon as we're done here we can drive back out."

Dean grunts in assent, still half-asleep. The drive back to the house is quiet, but not uncomfortably so, and Dean doesn't feel the currents of Sam's new strangeness running through the air.

They eat in the little kitchenette, food Sam's prepared while Dean's been unpacking the Impala, and Dean grins at his brother over the pie.

"Dude, this is awesome," he says. "You even remembered how much I love pie."

"I was counting on it," Sam says in return, and Dean's briefly confused. Sam sounds smug, like he made the pie himself, and wants to make sure Dean appreciates the effort. Dean doesn't know that Sam did make the pie himself, but appreciation is the last thing on his mind.

The first pang in his stomach he brushes off as residual hunger. The second he marks and moves on, finishing up the last piece. And the third brings with it the sudden slight blurring of his eyes, like he's looking through a fog. He's suddenly doubled over, gasping, watching the kitchen blink in and out of not just focus but existence , and he can hear the air around his head moving, the irregular beat of his heart as it pumps, and his vision is a tunnel of dark.

The sunlight is a wicked fluorescent orange and he closes his eyes, unable to bear the brightness. His stomach continues to throb with not-quite-pain but what is unavoidably the pulse of something's wrong.


Dean wakes up in the basement, his ankle chained down, in the midst of a giant devil's trap that's been scored into the concrete floor. There's a strange fluttering in his belly and he thinks at first that he's been captured, that Sam is out there somewhere, maybe injured, maybe dead; his second thought is that he's never seen the basement of the little house they'd picked. His third thought is that in reality Sam picked the house, and it makes no sense for an enemy to shackle Dean up inside of a devil's trap.

"Sam?!" he bellows. There's no answer, and the little quiver of uncertainty in his middle blossoms into a soul-shaking tremble, because if Sam's hurt -- or worse -- Dean will never forgive himself, and the deal he made to save him will have been for naught. "Sammy! Answer me!"

"Calm down, Dean," says his brother, just out of sight, infuriatingly placid. "I'm right here, I just need to finish this up."

"Sammy, thank God you're okay," Dean says, and the unease evaporates. As long as Sam sounds that peaceful nothing too terrible could have happened.

Dean has no idea how wrong he's going to prove to be.

"Funny thing," Sam says conversationally. "I can't believe I never thought of this before. Hell hounds, you see, are demons."

"What's your point?" Dean asks, but a look around at the perfect gouges in the floor causes something to dislodge in his brain. For the very first time the unease that comes roaring back is because of Sam and not for him.

"Dean, my love," Sam says. He walks into view, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans, torso gleaming with sweat. His hair is dripping water down his chest and the droplets seem to love Sam's skin, his nipples, as they course downward.

The prickle of uncertainty shivers and reforms as actual fear. Dean's never been afraid of Sam before, but then, Sam's never looked like this. He looks like a fucking god, golden and taut and not-quite-real, like maybe he's been cut from marble, veins standing out in his arms and all. And when Sam blinks, it's slow, deliberate. He smiles, and it's foreign and eerie, and Dean finds himself shaking his leg in the manacle, testing its strength.

"No smart remarks? I'm disappointed," Sam says, and his lower lip puffs out. He looks like a spoiled, thwarted little boy with the body any sex symbol would sell their soul for.

"I'm just waiting to see what's warranted," Dean says, but he knows it's weak.

"I hope you're not too uncomfortable," Sam replies. "I couldn't have you getting loose."

Dean tugs on the chains again, scans the room for a paper clip or something he can use to pick the lock, until his gaze falls on the clasp of metal around his ankle.

It's welded shut. Worse, the skin around his ankle has bubbled and formed a painful looking blister, but, oddly, one he doesn't feel. There's no pain, and that's the strangest part.

"You know, Dean," Sam says, sitting cross-legged just out of reach. "Ava once told me the learning curve was so fast it was incredible. I didn't believe it, not at first. But look at me now." He gestures to the inflamed skin. "I melted the metal together with my mind, Dean. That's some fucking talent, don't you think?"

Dean sits up, jerks forward, but Sam knows him too well. Apparently Sam knows him better than he knows Sam, because he couldn't hurt his little brother if he tried. Not even now.

"What the fuck, Sam," he snarls, but Sam is completely unperturbed.

"Don't look at me like that," he scolds gently. "I'm just doing what's best for my older brother."

Dean's not stupid, no matter what anyone outside of his own family thinks. "You drugged me," he says. The accusation in his sentence is made all the more murky by the slight hope underlying it, that maybe he's wrong, that Sam hasn't turned out to be the monster he'd been told to watch out for.

"Well, yes," Sam says agreeably. He smiles sunnily. "I couldn't very well expect you to chain yourself up, could I?" It's like this makes perfect sense to Sam, even though Dean is still reeling, unable to take it all in.

"What the bloody hell for?" Dean shouts, at the top of his lungs. It comes out angry and deep, and his throat aches around it, but not from the words. Not from the impact they have on his vocal cords.

"To keep you safe," Sam says. And for the first time he sounds normal, like the strange unearthly Sam from moments ago had never existed. Dean tries to breathe through the panic, to gauge his brother's state of mind and see if maybe Sam's just tired. Confused.

"Sammy," he whispers. "This is lame, even for you."

"Keep your game face on," Sam says, echoing Henriksen. "Inside of that circle, the hell hounds can't collect their payment due."

"I'm not payment, Sam, I'm your brother."

"Not anymore," Sam says, and stands up. "I'll bring you something to eat in a few hours. Meantime, there's a convenience in the corner. Don't make a mess, or I'll make you lick it up."

Dean can't even imagine why Sam thinks he would make a mess, on purpose or otherwise, but he resolves not to. From the odd glitter in Sam's green eyes, he's lethally serious, and Dean doesn't really want the taste of his own fluids on his tongue.

The floor's hard cement, and there's nothing to soften the accommodations, so he lies back with his head on the floor and stares at the floor boards above him.

Sam's gone for hours, and twilight falls all around Dean like a shroud, pitching him into darkness. His stomach cleaves to his backbone from hunger and after awhile he gets to creaky knees and searches around for the convenience Sam mentioned, because he has to piss like a motherfucker and he really, really doesn't want Sam to force-feed it to him. At this point, he's afraid Sam really might.

He manages to find it, even in the dark, and his eyes adjust enough that he doesn't spill any. The skin around his ankle is tight but it still doesn't hurt, and besides the aching hunger, nothing else hurts, either.

When Sam comes back he brings with him a couple of flameless candles, which is pretty smart, because Dean might have been able to use real candles to contrive an escape. As it is, at least there's a faint glow to the basement now.

"You know, my love," Sam says, and leans back against the wall. The candlelight flickers in the depths of unfamiliar eyes. "I buried the two women that lived here in the backyard. I could do the same to you, but I won't. No, I realised I could save you, once and for all."

"You've got a funny way of showing affection," Dean says sharply.

Sam carries on like he hasn't heard. "You shouldn't have brought me back, Dean. It's going to be your cross to bear. Your poetic justice."

"Funny how the bad guys always think that." Dean rattles the chains on purpose. "C'mon, Sammy, I won't walk out of the circle if you think this will help. But you could let me go."

"No," Sam says quietly. "I can't." He's silent for a long moment, and when he turns his head a tad, his eyes glow a little, a spark from the candlelight.

Or something else. Dean pretends he doesn't see it.

"Where's the food, Sam?" he asks. The darkness is smothering.

"Oh, don't worry, you'll get it. Eventually." Sam lies down, arms crossed over his bare torso.

"Sam, the contract isn't due for weeks," Dean points out.

"I know." He starts to whistle, tunelessly at first, and then it resolves into perfect pitch. Dean listens for awhile, but there's nothing to say and no words that could do what he's feeling justice anyway. Sam's relaxed, body languid in the dim flickers, skin carrying an unearthly halo.

Dean's asleep when Sam speaks again, swims up to consciousness to the feel of his brother's hands pressed flat against his chest.

"Dean," Sam whispers. He sounds delicious, smoky and full of sex appeal. "It's not so bad. I'll be here with you, forever."

Dean's still struggling to fight off the cottony vestiges of sleep when Sam runs his raw knuckles over his lips, and Dean catches the faint tremor and flavour of blood.

"Sammy," he murmurs back. "I potty-trained you, for God's sake. This isn't you. You could never become this."

"That's where you're wrong, Dean." His knuckles flash through the faded light and then there're stars exploding inside Dean's brain, followed by a klaxon ringing in his head. It takes long moments to realise Sam's just hit him with all of his strength, and that his fist was like a brick to his temple. "I won't kill you, never that. But some things are made to be broken, Dean, and you're one of those things."

"You can't break me," Dean replies, all unintentional defiance. Sam smoothes the back of his hand along the nerves he just abused, soothing the flare of pain while at the same time drawing the ache to the surface.

"You just wait and see if that's true," Sam says. He pushes back on the hair on Dean's head, and it hurts, Sam's so fucking strong, and then his brother's looming overhead. "See you in the morning, Dean," he says.


The candles are gone when Dean wakes up to a sunburst of pain in his head. It's like the worst hangover he's ever had and he wonders, briefly, if Sam's gotten muscular enough to give him a concussion. But the worst is yet to come, because Sam's learned a few new tricks.

His brother doesn't bring food, and he doesn't empty the fucking bed pan or whatever it is, and Dean's forced to suffer the stench of his own body's waste for hours before Sam comes back down to the basement.

"Gotta keep that morale up," he says cheerfully.

"Sam," Dean says, trying this time to annoy through whining, "I'm hungry."

"I don't care. I'll feed you eventually, of course."

"What happened to 'a few hours'?" Dean asks sarcastically.

"I'm not lying," Sam says, lips quirking a little. "Contrary to popular belief, demons don't lie all that often. No, I just thought you could use a little training first."

"Training?" Dean asks warily.

"Maybe it would be more accurate to call it conditioning," Sam muses. "Either way, I don't want you too sharp all at once. No, better for you to fight me as little as possible. At least in the beginning."

"Sam," he says patiently, "my head is pounding and I swear you're talking in riddles. Just tell me what the fuck is going on."

"I'm not possessed," Sam says easily. "I'm not even all that different. More like, the squishy tootsie roll centre is missing now."

"Did you just compare yourself to a lollipop?" Dean asks incredulously. The situation just keeps getting more and more surreal.

"Whatever's most effective," Sam grins. "This is lovely, you in chains."

"Dude, what are you, channeling dead guys now?"

"Not at all. I just like using what works. Tell me, Dean, are you afraid of me yet?"

"Fuck no," Dean says, brutal bluster. Sam winds his hand around the back of Dean's neck, pulls him in much closer than he's comfortable being.

"You should be," he whispers.


Days pass without note, and Dean has no way of counting them, but every time he thinks he's just about at that point of taking a swing at Sam, his brother smiles, those green eyes gleam for a second, and the urge passes.

It takes Dean innumerable hours to realise that his will is being subsumed under Sam's. Sam brings him water, and it tastes like minerals, but food is scarce.

"Don't eat too fast," his brother warns smoothly, when he finally gives Dean something to eat. "I told you, make a mess and you clean it up."

"Just tell me why you're doing this," Dean says around the food.

"Oh, you'll see soon enough," Sam says. "My love."

"You sure as hell sound possessed," Dean mutters.

"I like to play," Sam explains. "You turn all grey whenever I play with you. It's charming."

"Sure, fucking charming, yeah. That makes sense. If you're gonna go all evil, Sam, you have to actually do something besides fuck with your only family."

"Not my family anymore," Sam repeats softly. "And don't you worry your pretty little head, love. I'm plenty evil."

"I'm sure. Because chaining someone in a basement to save their life is evil."

"No, that's not it at all. That's not why you're down here," Sam says. "That's just incidental."

He pushes off of the wall he's been leaning against and blows Dean a kiss, an exaggerated gesture that makes Dean uneasy. His brother walks up the stairs, full of fluid grace, still walking around shirtless like he's been going out and making porn stars swoon with envy.


The next time Dean sees Sam, his brother's torso is a canvas of blood and he's carrying a half-naked girl down the stairs. At first glance Dean thinks she's still breathing, that she's just unconscious and maybe the blood is Sam's.

His second thought is, is the Pope Catholic? because he's seen enough dead people in his life that he should have clocked onto the way she's sprawled heavy over Sam's muscular arms.

"Still think I'm just posturing?" Sam asks, dumping her at Dean's feet. The blood limps its way down the side of her head, and her eyes are glassy, wide open.

Dean swallows hard and refuses to look at Sam.

"Look at me," Sam orders, and Dean raises his eyes against his own will and meets the green ones he once thought were beautiful and matched his own, except without the strange fervour and possibility for darkness.

Now, suddenly Sam's the one filled with darkness, and Dean doesn't know what to do.

"It doesn't have to be bloody," Sam explains. "I can do it without a mark on them. I just like the blood. The colour, the smell, the feel."

"Don't say that, Sammy," Dean whimpers, and the bravado is long gone. Nothing could break him, he'd thought. No kind of torture or starvation or mental anguish.

But it turns out that Sam being this insane broken mirror of himself can do what Dean didn't think was possible.

"I like the taste of it," Sam says. He settles onto the floor, long limbs folded, bare chest still streaked with her blood. He pulls her into his lap, turns her head towards him, and licks along the stripe of blood still sluggishly travelling her temple.

"No, Sammy, no," Dean says. But his brother bites down hard, and the blood that fills the open wound is curdling with death, her skin is mottled, and Sam's touching her like he'd fuck her given the chance. Dean doesn't want to think about that, but his brain whirls around the idea, finally alighting on it like a moth on a light bulb, and just as lethal.

His mind's eye is filled with the image of Sam spreading her open and fucking her apart, even after she's dead, and Dean doesn't know if this is a projection of Sam's thoughts -- intentional, of course -- or a memory planted for him to see. His stomach churns.

"Just like this," Sam says, and tosses her aside like so much broken china. "I want to see you, Dean. Show me those eyes."

And Dean lurches forward, ankle pulling in the metal cuff, and winds up straight in Sam's personal space, and his baby brother licks lips still tacky with blood and searches Dean's eyes.

"Lovely," he says. "You're so beautiful, Dean," he says. And then he stands up.

"Where are you going," Dean asks dully.

Sam laughs, bright and sparkling. "I love that you still fight me," he says. "It's so refreshing."

"Sam," Dean says urgently.

"I apologise if she starts to smell," Sam says, and disappears up the stairs.

Dean watches the light in the basement flip over three times before Sam comes back, and he spends almost all that time gagging into the bed pan or what the fuck ever. Brings up nothing but the watery contents of his stomach because it's been empty for days. She decomposes before his eyes, but Sam doesn't come back.


Dean drifts in a sea of torment, stomach roiling ceaselessly, eyes burning and stuck shut, with only the smell and the flies for company. When he finally returns to full wakefulness it's because suddenly the smell is gone and he can actually breathe, fill up his lungs in a way he hasn't dared to in longer than he can imagine.

"Somehow, I can't think you're hungry," Sam says, and his voice is brittle velvet. "But I brought you something anyway."

Dean opens his eyes and the girl is gone. The soup Sam's holding out still makes his stomach twist though, and he shakes his head.

"You should eat," Sam suggests. "It could be a long time before you get anything else."

"Sammy, don't do this anymore," Dean says plaintively. He's not even ashamed of the way his voice cracks.

"It only gets worse," Sam says. He leans down, brushes the hair away from Dean's temple with a knife. "I did this to Jo, too. But the difference is, that time I was kicking and screaming. This time I'm enjoying every second of it."

Dean closes his eyes again to keep from looking into eyes that have been ravaged by change, eyes that are still the same clear green but now hold such an edge of insanity that it makes Dean crazy just to see it.

"Cock-sucking lips," he says. "Perfectly rounded and shaped."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Dean forces through his constricted throat.

"Maybe someday you will," Sam says, and Dean find himself looking deep into those eyes. Like maybe there's an answer there. Sam caresses his face with the knife again, and a ribbon of blood blooms in the corner of his eye.

"What are you doing," he asks hoarsely.

"Teaching you a lesson," Sam replies. The knife bites into his skin again and the pain is almost a welcome thing, like maybe it will wake Dean up from this forced captivity, this interminable nightmare, and Sam will be shaking him like he was when the djinn almost got him.

But then he remembers that things will never be the same again, because Sam has more power than Dean's ever seen, and he never heard the hell hounds come but maybe they have, and maybe Sam exerted his control and sent them away.

"No, Dean," Sam says almost lovingly. "They're not here yet. You'll know it when they are. But they won't get you. They can't get inside that devil's trap, and you, well." He pauses and smiles. "You can't get out. Simple. Have to protect you from yourself, after all."

He turns the knife over and it slices through Dean's cheek, and then it's gone. Sam leans down and opens his mouth and Dean thinks, fuck, move, idiot, but he just stays in place for Sam to mouth along the wound, lapping up the blood like a dog might water when dying of thirst.

"I'll see you," he murmurs into Dean's ear, lips wet against his skin.

For the first time in his life Dean wishes that he'd never see Sam again.


Sam returns later, although Dean has no idea how much time has passed, and this time he brings a little boy down the stairs. This child is alive, eyes wild with fear, but he's quiet and smooth and does exactly as he's told because Sam can control anything now.

He sits down near Dean and opens his legs, and Sam runs a fingertip up along his thigh, then pulls away. Dean's expecting something much worse, but Sam just produces his favourite knife and hypnotises the child with it.

"You like candy, don't you?" Sam says, and the kid nods, jerky like he wouldn't be moving if not for Sam's much more powerful will. "And you'll eat this, right?" he says, holding out something wrapped in shiny foil.

Dean's stomach clenches and he wants to warn the kid not to touch it, but even straining against the mental chains doesn't move his mouth one iota. Sam's just too damn strong.

The boy chews and swallows, and then Sam holds out the knife, and the little boy licks the edge of it like he's got the best blow pop ever, and the blood wells up, and then it bubbles out of his mouth as his body convulses, and he dies pinned under the twin gazes of Sam and Dean, because Sam won't let Dean look away.

"It's so beautiful," Sam says caressingly. "Death isn't something to fear, not anymore. It's a release. Like an ache that's suddenly soothed."

"No, it's not," Dean argues, low. He doesn't wonder why he can suddenly speak until Sam meets his eyes.

"I love it when you fight me," Sam says, and his eyes glitter dark, a little flash of gold. "You're the only one strong enough to fight me," Sam explains, and licks his lips, tracing the contours like he's kissing himself. He crawls over in between Dean's legs, cradles Dean's face like he loves him, like he didn't just murder somebody's baby only inches away from them both.

"Fight me, Dean," he whispers, and then their lips are touching, and Dean wants to buck away, but he can't. "Go on, go on," Sam encourages into his mouth, and their breath is the same now.

"Get the fuck away from me," Dean bites out, but it's weak, thready.

"Yes, just like that," Sam moans into his mouth, then brushes his lips along the swell of Dean's jaw, holding them tight together. "God, I can fucking feel it everywhere," Sam says.

"I don't want this," Dean says. "Fucking piss off, Sam."

"I can't," Sam replies. "It's like being raped in all the best ways."

"Fuck off," Dean says savagely, and Sam presses into him, and Dean can feel his brother's cock jerk as he comes, and then Sam slips a hand into his waist band, pulls it out and smears the cream over Dean's lips.

"You did that to me," Sam breathes. "I fucking love it when you fight me, Dean. You could stop me. You could. It'd be so easy."

But Dean knows it's not that easy. Sam might let him try, might even taunt Dean with the idea of killing him, but Dean can't actually throw off the yoke of his brother's will. Can't do what Sam claims he can, because Sam loves to push down Dean's desires. Likes to sublimate them completely whenever he feels like it.

"I love you, Dean," Sam says, and it's a caress that stings like a whip. He gets up, crosses the room, leaves behind a body and the taste of blood on Dean's tongue.


The body disappears while Dean is sleeping, and he's more thankful than he should be that Sam's not forcing him to suffer through the decaying process again.

Sam comes back down to the basement with a cup of coffee and a gun, lays it down on the floor within Dean's reach, hands him the coffee.

"Take your best shot," he says, because he knows Dean won't.

The funny thing is, the torture isn't what you'd think it is. No, it's letting Sam continue to perpetrate evil and knowing that he can't stop him, because even if Sam wasn't holding him down mentally, Dean couldn't bring himself to kill his brother.

"It's really easy," Sam comforts, shining the barrel of the gun, sitting at Dean's feet shirtless and bronzed. His nipples are little pebbles on the continent of his skin, his eyes are more and more golden yellow every day. But the features remain mostly the same. Still the same shaggy hair, still the same tip-tilted lips, still the same Sam. Except -- not so much.

Dean closes his eyes and drinks the coffee. Tries not to think about who or what Sam might have killed in the intervening hours.

"You can stop it all," Sam says, and his voice is liquid, a siren's song. He sounds so reasonable, and yet, he isn't, and Dean just can't wrap his mind around that fact.

"I'm not possessed," Sam reiterates. "I won't even try to stop you. C'mon, Dean, be a man, protect all those innocents, where's your spirit?"

"Underneath your thumb," Dean replies, turns his head away. "How did I miss this, Sammy?"

"People only see what they want to see," Sam answers, and Dean hears the echo of words long-ago spoken to comfort a ghost who didn't know she was dead, only this time the comfort is a knife-edge because Sam's gone crazy, the whole world's gone crazy, and there's nothing left inside Dean to change it. He puts his head down on the hard floor and stares straight up, doesn't move when Sam presses down on his solar plexus with both hands and then kisses him. Doesn't see Sam's face even though his brother's filling up his vision.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam murmurs into his mouth. "But this is the way it's gotta be."

There's never a reason why Dean changes his mind. He wakes up one morning -- if it's actually morning -- and thinks about the look on Sam's face, the crimson on his lips, and everything shifts, and just like that it seems so easy, after all.


The hell hounds do come, but Sam's too smart for the demons, and too powerful. They limp home with their tails between their legs and Sam celebrates by giving Dean hard liquor and blowing Dean while he lies on the floor, brain too fucking tired to think anymore.


"Where's your backbone?" Sam asks, running hot swollen fingers along equally hot swollen lips. "You could bite me, reciprocate the pain, Dean," he says. He presses the hot swollen head of his cock against equally hot swollen lips.

Wherever Dean's backbone is, it's gone, and Sam knows it. Dean's not even struggling, just opens his mouth and lets his brother in, takes all that he can manage and tries not to think about what it means, that his brother's cock is in his mouth. Doesn't even try to bite him, even though Sam's supposedly given him the choice.

"I told you about those lips," Sam reminds him. "And you feel just as good as you look." Sam fucks his cock between Dean's lips, roughing them up, abusing Dean's throat, rocks his hips back and forth and Dean has no choice but to watch and obey.

Dean can't speak, the silk-encased steel of flesh splitting his mouth apart, and when Sam starts to move erratically, Dean thinks, this is it, and he's just waiting for the warm press of liquid to choke him.

But Dean should have known what was going to happen, should have realised that Sam's been humiliating him in every possible way, and making him swallow his brother's come isn't as bad as it could be.

"Gonna put some lipstick on those lady's lips," Sam says in a rumbling growl. He slides his cock out from between Dean's puffy lips and jacks himself, coming in streaks over Dean's lips, his cheeks, his jaw.

"It's not so bad," Sam says. "You look much better this way anyway."

When Sam leaves him alone again, Dean tries to wipe the dried detritus off his face, but without any liquid but the piss in the bed pan, his options are limited.

He spends hours contemplating the meaning of life and whether life has any meaning at all when you're tied down and tortured, and his body is grimy and his face itches and there's not a damn thing he can do about it, and he wonders, once, how long it's been since he had a real shower.

Something besides the brief sponge baths Sam's given him, paying far too much attention to the planes and contours of his naked body.


"I could make you feel so good," Sam whispers in his ear. "All you gotta do is say you want it."

"You could make me say anything you want," Dean says limply. "Why even bother playing the game?"

"Because the game's the whole point," Sam says. "C'mon, baby, make it difficult for me. Say you want it."

"How does that make it difficult?"

"Because if you want it, I don't want it," Sam answers readily enough. "I could fuck you so hard you'd never know what hit you, but only if you want it."

"Seems to defeat the purpose to me," Dean says.

"I could fuck you so stupid you wouldn't even mind any of it anymore," Sam says. "It's amazing, Dean, the things I can do. I can make you feel pleasure even as you're dying."

"Do you do that to -- them?" Dean can't help but ask.

"No, love, they suffer. I want them to suffer. But not you," Sam says tenderly. "You should feel pleasure as you die."

"I thought you weren't going to kill me," Dean argues.

"Oh, I'm not," Sam assures him, eyes completely yellow. "I don't want you to die. I want you to fight me. Struggle, Dean. Bite me and thrash and kick and scream."

"No," Dean says finally. "I don't want to, not anymore."

"You can save them," Sam says, enticingly. "Fight me and I won't kill the little old lady down the street who always smells like prunes."

Dean glances over at Sam, sprawled against the wall, legs long and extended, skin shimmery like metallic fabric. Sam looks less and less human every day, even though his face stays the same.

The hardest part is watching Sam and realising that he still looks just like the brother Dean loves, even though he's not. It's a physical ache in Dean's body that he failed so spectacularly, worse than anyone expected he might.

"You did this," Sam purrs. "You were the catalyst. You ripped me out of heaven, Dean. If you'd let what's dead stay dead I wouldn't be who I am now. It's your fault, Dean."

Sam can read minds, Dean knows that. Has known it for awhile. But sometimes the intensity with which Sam picks out the sorest spot and exploits it still surprises him.

"Just like daddy warned you," Sam says, the inflection all sharp creases. "Dean."

"All right, Sam. All right."

"Do you want me to fuck you, Dean?" Sam asks, feral grin wreathing his face.

"Fuck no," Dean says, and the thing is, even though it's giving Sam what he wants, it's also the truth. "I never wanted to see you this way, and I don't like you that way, Sammy," he says with conviction.

"Good boy," Sam applauds. "Tell it like it is, eh, honey?"

"My Sammy would never do this," Dean says, but it's despondent and he knows it.

"Your Sammy is long gone," Sam says, the smile still piercing enough to hurt. "I'm all that's left, baby; you sure you don't want it? It'll feel so good you won't know what's real and what's illusion anymore."

"I don't fucking want it," Dean says, mustering up all the heat he can.

"That's my boy," Sam says. He straddles Dean and hitches his body down, hard cock a repulsive line against Dean's abdomen. "You feel that? How hard you make me? Just because you don't want it."

"This is fucked up," Dean says. "If you don't want me dead, why punish me? Why make me suffer, if you love me so much?"

"All those who love me shall suffer and despair," Sam misquotes. "That's what love is, Dean. Suffering. The more you suffer, the more I love you, don't you see?"

"That makes even less sense than anything else," Dean grumbles, but Sam claps his hands delightedly.

"Yes, yes! Show some spirit, Dean!"

Dean arches away, presses his cheek to the floor. Sam lets him do it, even lets him shiver in revulsion. Sam lets him feel the little curl of fear in his belly, before he stamps it out like he might the embers of a fire.

"You still love me, Dean," he says. "It's endearing. I might let you continue to love me, even if it is unwise."

"Don't kill that little old lady," Dean begs, apathetic to his own situation at last. Watching Sam fill up with glee is the thing that really drives it all home. Maybe, he thinks, maybe this is really it, the end of the road for them both.

"Dean," Sam soothes. "the only person who can almost equal me in attractiveness and beauty is you." He smoothes a kiss over Dean's lips and Dean keeps his mouth closed, tensing up, fists against the cement floor. Sam's downright gleeful again, swollen cock wet against Dean's belly.

"Don't," Dean whimpers. "Please, no, don't."

"Don't want me to fuck you?" Sam grinds down hard. "Say you want me to fuck you," Sam says, "and I won't."

"Don't fuck me, Sam," Dean says, and lets his hips fall open. He's writhing with illness, deep in his soul, but this might save that little old lady.

Sam fucks him dry into the floor, his tail bone banging against the cement with every thrust, and gloats about how he doesn't need lube anymore to enjoy it.

Dean swallows and closes his eyes and breathes, thinking of that little old lady and how she's going to be safe even if he has to suffer to protect her.


But Sam lies. He claims that not all demons lie, but he does, he carries down the limp form of that little old lady and presents it to Dean, who is still naked and bleeding, still panting heavily from the rape his own brother perpetrated on him.

Something breaks inside Dean, something he'd never expected would, not even when it first became apparent that Sam had turned, gone dark side like John had warned them both. Dean reaches across the floor, fingers scrabbling, hand closing over cold metal.

His world ends with a gunshot.


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