Dean'd lost count of how many years he spent in that place, only measuring the countless days by cutting or being cut. That was all that really mattered down there, after all. But dean... he'd always dreamed of the day he'd get out. always. At first it was a dream of escape, but then things changed after he felt the pain of his time on the rack and
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Maybe Dean was right.
Maybe it was time someone else got hurt.
He was relaxing into the idea of sharing one body with his brother as he got into the car and the engine roared to life.
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Sam's lips twist up into a very familiar, but not usually on his face, smirk. "The difference between the two is that a serial killer doesn't bother finding excuses."
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It's unsettling, watching while someone else makes his body move, driving the car, speaking in his voice. Dean was a familiar presence, if dark and tainted, but that didn't make the process any easier to bear.
The slow, nagging desire for demon blood probably isn't helping his general state of unease, either.
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