fic: how the mighty fall (in love) - 2/6
prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | epilogue
The fire department's on the scene in seconds, putting out the fire quickly but the entire upstairs is virtually unsalvageable-no leads to be found amidst the carnage and ashes. Bex Branson looks stunned when the police investigate and gives them all the information she has, and a picture gets sent out with the BOLO.
Dean gets butterfly-stitched up, and Sam spends the ride home stewing. He's absolutely livid by the time they get back to the room; slams the door as he exits the car, and now Dean's pissed.
"What the fuck, man?"
"I cannot believe you went back to that bar without saying anything. Of all the stupid things-"
"What was I supposed to do, Sam?"
"I don't know, man, maybe call me? Ask for backup? Anything but waltz into that damn bar and go looking for Karma yourself!"
"I was just looking for information! She drugged me!"
"You were off your game!" Sam shouts, getting red in the face, "You've been off your game for weeks-actually, no, it's been months, Dean! It's been ever since you made that stupid deal with that stupid demon for my stupid life, and all I want is-"
"What?" Dean snaps, cutting him off. "What do you want from me, Sam? Huh? You want me to say something? Talk about my feelings; tell you the truth? Well, you fuckin' got it, Sammy; I couldn't live without you, okay? And it's stupid and fucked up, but hey, it's the truth, so you got what you fucking wanted, right?"
"Dean-"
"Shut up, Sam. Because I don't care," Dean snarls; can hear himself getting louder and louder as they enter their room, but he can't be bothered to lower his voice. "I don't fucking care! Okay?"
"Fine." Sam says; grinds the word out like it's the only thing keeping him from strangling his brother, and the look on his face could kill at long-range, but Dean's about a million miles past caring, and he's not turning back anytime soon.
"Fine," he snaps back; slams the door, hard; glares right back at Sam. He doesn't notice that they're getting closer and closer until-somehow-Sam's in Dean's space, or the other way around, and they're kissing.
He has no idea who made the first move-decides to blame Sam either way-and Dean's mind is still on Hell; still focused on hanging on to every piece of Sam he can before the hounds drag him down, and he blames that as well for the way he just lets this happen.
And at this point, Dean forces himself to stop and think-maybe he should be worried-but he's having a hell of a time trying to focus, what with Sam licking into his mouth and attempting to swallow him.
It's the worst kiss Dean's had in a long time, and their teeth clack together the way cheap plastic snaps but it's hot and wet and desperate, and Sam keeps making these noises in the back of his throat like dying. Dean decides he can't get enough of Sam's body against his, so he runs his hands obsessively over Sam's back and slides his hands up and across the expanse of his chest, fisting Sam's shirt in his hands and pulling him closer.
"Fuck, Dean."
Dean elects to divert his attention from Sam's mouth to his neck, and Sam groans, tilting his head and pressing inwards. He pins Dean to the wall; slides his thigh between Dean's leg like it belongs there, and Dean's inclined to agree. Sam works at Dean's belt, unbuckling it, and Dean reciprocates the action with every intention of getting them both naked and onto the bed as soon as possible.
"Look at that," Dean says, voice low. "Fuckin' gorgeous, fuck yeah. And it's all for me, ain't that right?"
"Yes," Sam pants, "yes, yes, yes, Dean." And Dean takes it as permission to flip Sam onto the bed and crawl up towards his head.
Sam's mouth opens immediately; obediently, but Dean holds Sam's head down and paints precome around his mouth, watching Sam flutter his eyelids as he struggles against Dean's hand and tries to catch him in his mouth.
"Fucking tease," Sam gripes; blows air at Dean's dick and it sends shivers up his spine. "You cocksucking motherfucking asshole-" and Dean lets go of Sam's head and his brother nuzzles the shaft of Dean's dick immediately; wraps his fingers around and ghosts his hand down. Sam's hands are calloused and fucking huge and radiating heat and Dean shivers; turns hotter; it's a fucking paradox; Sam's rendered him nothing but a literary device and Dean couldn't care less.
He pokes his dick between Sam's lips, and Sam latches on greedily; starts to suck; grins mischievously and hums as Dean feeds him his dick until suddenly Sam's nose is in his crotch and Dean finds out, rather quickly, that nothing satisfies quite like having his brother swallowing convulsively around his dick.
He wonders, briefly, where his brother learned to deep-throat like this, but once he thrusts experimentally and feels Sam take it like a fucking pro, he decides he doesn't want to know, nor does he care. Dean can't keep from pushing into Sam's hot wet mouth; heat curling like smoke up through his chest as his entire body rolls and his toes curl.
Sam moans like Dean's the best thing he's ever tasted; reaches for his own leaking cock but Dean smacks his hand away and takes his dick out of Sam's saliva-filled mouth with a messy wet pop. "Much as I'd like to shoot straight down your throat and have you drown in my come and choke on my cock," he informs him, "I wanna fuck you more." Sam positively whines.
"Jesus, Dean." Sam says breathlessly. The strand of saliva connecting his mouth to Dean's dick breaks as he licks his lips, and Dean feels his dick twitch at the sight. "Okay."
Dean grins, moves backwards towards the end of the bed and Sam kicks his boots off, shimmying his jeans down around his ankles and wriggling clumsily out of them as he helps Dean out of his shirt. They tumble across the bed together, not so much kissing as trying to get inside each other's skin.
"Gonna do it, Dean?" Sam asks, biting kisses down Dean's chest and only stopping to toy with the amulet as Dean reaches over him to fumble the complimentary lube out of the nightstand. "Are you?" he asks again and starts a slow, leisurely grinding of his hips upwards into Dean's crotch. "Gonna fuck me through the mattress?"
"I'll pound you and this headboard into the next room," Dean growls, ripping the packet open with his teeth and coating his fingers with it. "Christ, Sammy. You gonna let me?"
"Y-yes," Sam stutters, choked off by the introduction of Dean's finger in his ass, keeps breathing "yes, yes, yes," and Dean delights in the effect it has on his brother.
"Come on, come on," Dean mutters as he thrusts the finger in and out and watches Sam move backwards onto his hand. "Fuckin'-yeah, fuck yourself on them, so fuckin' hot."
"I," Sam gasps out, rolling his hips and practically crying as Dean sticks another finger in and starts pushing deeper, crooking his fingers. "I-Dean-I want-."
"Damn straight, you do," Dean says, and removes his hand to slick his dick up before pushing the head of it into Sam's ass.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh fuck," Sam mumbles, strung out with his face in Dean's shoulder and shuddering against him. Dean keeps his hands clamped to Sam's hips; leaves bruises on purpose.
Dean stops mid-thrust, turning to kiss his sweaty forehead. "Yeah? You good?"
Sam nods; begs, "Please, please do it, do it, fuckin' do it, Dean, need you in me-" and that's all the encouragement Dean needs before he slams home, and Sam arches his back and screams.
He looks so blissed out, Dean's almost jealous. "Jesus fuck, the look on your face-you have no idea," he says, and barely recognizes his own voice.
Then Dean feels the muscle clench so tightly it hurts; screws his hips counterclockwise to Sam's clockwise and his orgasm hits like a freight train; leaves him so dizzy that it takes him a couple tries to curl his hand around Sam's dick.
Sam comes instantly, with a desperate cry that latches in his throat. Dean pulls out, gingerly, and cleans them off with a discarded shirt as he trails a finger around Sam's swollen hole, feeling him shudder and clench reflexively. Sam shifts, oversensitized; curls up around Dean to avoid the wet spot on the side of the bed, and they sleep.
+ + +
It's half-past two when Dean stirs awake, and he snuggles backwards into the warmth of Sam's body before he realizes that it's Sam's body.
His eyes fly open; he wrenches himself away from his brother so fast he swears he can feel his skin peeling off along with the-god, there's fucking jizz everywhere, fuck-and flees towards the bathroom so quickly that he skids on the worn motel carpet and trips on a stray pair of jeans; nearly takes a header across the peeling vinyl tiles on the floor.
"Dean?" Sam asks, voice groggy and sleep-rough, and Dean's stupid dick twitches because apparently one incestuous night with his brother is more than enough to turn him into one of Pavlov's dogs.
He takes too long to answer, and he hears Sam rustling the sheets and pulling his pants on. "Dean, what are you doing?" he asks, and his voice is so tentative; so goddamn concerned that Dean feels like stabbing himself in the head and going to hell early.
"Nothing. I'm fine," he says, curtly. "Go back to sleep."
And Sam-stupid, stubborn Sam-gets out of bed and Dean can feel his hair raising and his fingers twitching as Sam comes up behind him and puts a hand onto his shoulder.
Dean jumps; shakes it off and stalks into the bathroom; pretends he doesn't see the look on Sam's face as the door closes with a resounding click.
+ + +
Dean starts taking scalding hot showers, trying to burn the ghost of his brother's come out of his skin. He stops looking Sam in the face, stops leaving the bathroom door open, stops watching porn on Sam's laptop.
But he keeps remembering; keeps seeing Sam in his dreams, incoherent and fucked out and gorgeous (no, no, stop), and it keeps getting worse.
Dean can't escape Sam, can't stop thinking about him, and when he gets hard, he ignores it for so long that when he finally jacks himself off, he comes so violently it's more punishment than relief. He takes to doing it late at night in the bathroom, because when he comes he bites his arm to keep from saying Sam, and he always draws blood.
Sam raises an eyebrow when Dean starts wearing long-sleeved shirts in ninety-degree weather (fuck the South and its fucking heat) to hide the scarring from the way he's bitten through his skin.
And he keeps them ridiculously busy on purpose; continuous onslaught of cases and hunting and driving and hunting, so long and so often that Sam passes out at night in the middle of all his research, too tired to try anything.
As much as it hurts to think, Dean figures that if he keeps it up long enough, Sam'll eventually get so pissed off that he leaves, but then again he knows it'll be a long while before that happens.
+ + +
It's Christmas, and Dean opens the door to the room they're staying to find Sam putting up a 'Merry Christmas' sign.
"What's this?"
Sam jumps back from the corner of the room to reveal an old lawn chair with air fresheners for ornaments. "What do you think? It-it's Christmas."
Dean's shocked, and, quite frankly, a little amazed-not half a day earlier, Sam'd been adamant about not wanting to celebrate this year. "What made you change your mind?"
Sam doesn't respond, and passes him a cup of eggnog instead. "Tell me if you think it needs more kick."
Dean takes a sip, obligingly, and nearly chokes when the thick taste of liquor and dairy mix in an unwelcomingly saccharine and sticky way on his tongue. "Ah, no, I, uh. I think we're good."
"Good. Let's-um. Do Christmas stuff."
They exchange packages, and both huff a short laugh when they realize they each went to the gas mart down the street and wrapped their "gifts" in whatever paper was available-Sam used newspaper; Dean a brown paper bag-and they sit down to watch the game together.
Dean doesn't really pay attention to the game, though, and focuses on the light from the bad TV screen illuminating Sam's face, throwing his profile into bluish-white contrast; watches the play of light as it flickers across his cheekbones and reflects in his eyes.
He thinks about that Christmas, all those years ago, when Sam gave him the amulet because Dad lied and Dad didn't show and Dean felt so guilty taking it; it was supposed to be Dad's, but Sammy held it out to him and wouldn't take no for an answer. So Dean put it on, fully intending to give it back to Dad, but Sammy smiled and nodded, and Dean couldn't bear to take it off again if it meant keeping the smile on his brother's face.
Dean tugs gently at the warm piece of metal hanging on his chest; rubs the bizarre amulet that neither he nor Dad nor Sam have ever been able to find any religious or supernatural meaning for. Sam notices when he glances back over at Dean from the other side of the couch and smiles that same smile that he did, way back when, and Dean suddenly feels like crying.
He fights the urge and lets Sam shift closer on the threadbare, worn-red couch; lets his brother lean on his shoulder and tuck his head under Dean's chin like they used to do in the backseat of the Impala when Dad was driving and looks down as Sam closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing his cheeks and he sighs so deeply Dean thinks maybe he was holding his breath until now.
He drinks the last of the eggnog and turns off the TV before swinging his legs up and curling around Sam, remembering all those hours in the car and all the nights they've spent together and wishing they could lay like this forever; wishing his deal were for fifty years rather than just one.
+ + +
The day his deal is up, Dean finds himself pinned to a table and struggling to breathe. "Sam, that's not Ruby! It's not Ruby!"
Ruby's eyes go white, and her entire expression melts away from Ruby's prickly demeanor; turns into something disconcertingly childlike.
"Score one for the pretty boy." She tilts her head and her smile grows wider as she walks towards Sam, who is pinned to a wall. "I've wanted to meet you for a very long time, Sam."
Dean grunts in pain, fighting against Lilith's invisible restraint, and feels a hot surge of anger when Lilith kisses Sam.
Sam cranes his neck away from her. "Let my brother go."
"Aw, that's not how it works. You gotta have something I want first, and quite frankly, you don't."
"So, this is your big plan?" Dean jeers, "Kill me, then Sam, then, what-become Queen Bitch?"
"That's just the tip of the iceberg, Dean. Too bad you won't be around to see the rest," she says, and whips her head around so quickly the snap of the bones in her neck is masked only by her cry of "Sic 'im, boy!"
Dean feels the panting heat of the invisible hound above his torso and barely has time to brace himself before he's yelling in pain as gashes appear on his chest and legs, feeling his body being ripped to shreds.
Sam watches in horror, screaming "NO! STOP! STOP IT! NO!" and Dean gets flipped onto his stomach; watches himself bleed out onto the floor.
+ + +
When Dean goes to Hell, the first thing he says is sam, and all he thinks about is sammy sam sam sam sammy sam sammy.
Alistair tells him, later on, that he was like that-a broken record-for thirty of his forty years in Hell.
+ + +
Sam goes back to Four Corners, USA; back to the seedy-ass motel with the seedy-ass clerk and stays there for a day, then two, then four-trying to track Karma; trying to finish what he and Dean had started, if only to pay tribute to his brother. But he finds nothing, and Karma's lost in the wind. The house she had held Dean in has since been rebuilt and sold, and all the desert that used to make up the backyard has been fenced off and turned into a pool.
Sam heads to The Dovetail and spends some quality time at the bar getting to know Stan the bartender and his friend Jack Daniels before someone taps his shoulder and sits down on the stool next to him.
"Fancy seeing ya here, seeing as we didn't hit it off all that well last time."
He turns and blinks slowly-once, twice-to focus his vision before he acknowledges her. "You're blonde."
Rebecca laughs softly. "Things change. What brings you back here?"
Sam tries to shrug and take a sip of whiskey at the same time before settling for the latter. "Wha's it look like?"
"Looks like you're getting drunk," Rebecca says and glances at Stan, who holds up two fingers to indicate Sam was only on his third shot. Lightweight.
Sam raises his shotglass in mock-toast; dips his head and affirms: "'m gettin' drunk."
"You didn't look like this when you broke into my bar."
Now Sam's out of practice; his smile is thin and weary like a second skin, but he manages a small laugh. "Things change."
He lets her take him home, but insists on driving the Impala.
+ + +
Sam stays with Rebecca for three days, and before he leaves, she hands him a Tupperware container filled with something that looks suspiciously like bone dust and glitter.
Sam takes the container and peers into the plastic tub. "Why's there glitter in your bone dust, Bex?"
She looks a little taken aback by the fact that Sam can identify the white powder, but (thankfully) ignores it and offers him a sheepish smile. "There's, uh, actually some salt in there, too. It was a minor mishap with my nephew. He's cute, but he's a little monster. Shouldn't affect it in any way, though."
"Affect what? What's it for?"
"You're gonna think I'm crazy."
Sam chuckles, despite himself. "Trust me, I can do crazy. Try me."
"It's for the crossroads."
Sam stops laughing. "The cross-"
"-look, just bear with me, okay? I'm not-I was never superstitious. But there's this thing. At the Four Corners. The real one, not where the monument is-they were off by about, oh, 1800 feet, give or take. It's not their fault." She flashes him a small grin and continues, "I mean, considering the instruments of their day, they fuckin' nailed it."
"So, the glittery bone dust is for…?"
"Right, bone dust." Bex says. "So the real spot, apparently, is like, the most epic crossroads ever. One day I'm transportin' dog bones-don't ask; long story-and my back tire blows! So I get out, and I crunch a bone by accident, and suddenly there's this whisper of a sound, just under the wind, and it kinda freaks me out. So I throw the spare on, deliver the bones, but I can't stop thinking about that whisper. So I find myself a dead hound-not like that, I swear; the roadkill kind, I don't get my kicks by cutting up family pets- and take it back to the place. And what d'ya know, I crush some bones and the whisper comes back and the next thing I know I'm layin' down cash for my buddy Chris's bar and life's been sweet ever since."
"How long have you owned the bar?"
"Gotta be at least five years."
Sam frowns a little. He's done enough research on crossroad demons in the last year to think that bone dust isn't their kind of thing, let alone dust that's got salt and glitter spilled into it, but at this point, he's willing to give anything a chance.
"So, where's this real Four Corners crossroads?"
"Like I said, it's about 1800 feet east of the monument. Keep walking until you see the lonely cactus-you'll know what I mean. But you gotta go at night, and if you start seeing the moon over the mesas, you've gone too far. It's a bizarre little place. Easy to miss, unless you know what you're looking for."
Sam sticks the Tupperware into his duffel and shoulders the bag, getting into the Impala and rolling the window down. "Hey, Bex!" he calls, and she comes back outside. He motions her closer and presses a stack of bills into her hand. "It's a little late, but I'm sorry for breaking stuff last time."
Bex shakes her head, folding Sam's fingers back around the money. "Aw, don't worry about it. You keep it-I think you need it more than I do. Besides," she quirks her mouth, "this is why I have insurance."
Sam laughs. "Thanks. For everything. I mean it."
She grins and backs away from the car; leans against her porch and waves as Sam backs out of the driveway.
+ + +
It's dark when Sam reaches the spot, and it really is a bizarre little place like Bex had said. He parks the car a little while away and pulls the Tupperware out of his bag, walking towards the weird flat patch in the middle of the clearing. He crouches down and opens the container, taking a handful of the stuff before deciding that Bex gave him the entire thing for a reason, and dumps the entire thing out.
The salt stays down, but the dust swirls up in a storm of powdered bone and glitter, forcing Sam to close his eyes, and when he opens them again the storm has given way to the glittering image of a woman with a wreath of thorns on her head.
Sam surreptitiously checks that the Colt is still tucked in his waistband and moves his hand to the demon knife. "Who are you?"
She doesn't answer as she continues floating down towards the ground, and Sam notices that he can't make her face out-it's flickering erratically, and despite how much he stares, he can't quite pinpoint an age for her. The woman solidifies as her bare feet touch the earth, and she lands without a sound, giving her dress a perfunctory smooth-down.
"Hmph, glitter. Not my style," she sniffs, "but I'll take it, so long as I get to be something other than just air for once." She looks back up at Sam, her face now set young and pretty, and narrows her eyes. "Why don't you put the knife away, hotshot?"
Sam's fingers tighten around the handle. "I want my question answered first."
"And I've been here too long to take orders from you, so why don't you take a wild guess?" She snaps her fingers, and a flame appears in each hand. "Go on. Hit me with your best shot."
Sam's grin is dangerous. "Don't mind if I do," he drawls, and whips the knife at her. It's a perfect shot; possibly the best of his life-and then the knife slows, mid-air, and drops at her feet.
Sam braces himself for a retaliatory shot that doesn't come, and he lifts his head to see that the woman is twirling his knife and looking incredibly, incredibly bored.
She notices him staring, and tosses his knife back to him. "I don't die that easy, kid."
Sam catches the blade and sheathes it. "You're not going to kill me?"
She rolls her eyes. "Quite frankly, you're not worth my time. Jeez, the Greeks stop worshipping me, and suddenly I don't get any respect anymore."
"You're Greek-?" Sam starts, but doesn't get anywhere before the woman vanishes again, and he shuffles back to the Impala. "Damn it."
+ + +
Fresh with the knowledge of four websites and three library books, Sam heads back to the clearing with the crushed bones of a recently-euthanized dog and spreads them around. The woman comes back-same face, but she's glitter-free this time-and Sam speaks before she can say anything.
"You're Hecate."
"Someone did their research." She smiles, obviously amused, and mock-curtsies. "Queen of the crossroads, at your service."
"Not just that! You control, like, everything."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Samuel Winchester."
"You know who I am?"
"Kind of hard not to. Your brother's arrival in Hell was quite the cause for celebration. The Underworld was wearing earplugs for days."
"So you can tell me what I need to do?"
Her smile fades, and she ages before Sam's eyes. "I was afraid you were going to ask that."
"Please," Sam begs. "I just want my brother back."
"I know." Hecate's voice softens, and her face flickers away; changes into something sad and knowing and much, much older. "I haven't been at full power in many moons, and Lilith is the demon holding Dean's contract. He is beyond my reach. Hell doesn't want to let him go."
"You can't just-you have to-"
"This is not the end, Samuel Winchester. There are other entities, and the skies are always changing. This is not the end."
She disappears into the air, her image dissipating in all directions, and the wind that brushes his cheek is warm like summer; smells of leaves and pumpkin spice.
But Sam trudges back to the Impala, bitterly alone, crying all the same.
+ + +
That fateful day, that day when Dean accepts the deal and climbs off the rack and takes the blade from Alastair, he starts torturing souls straightaway.
He resigns himself to this fact; stoops this low because you fucked Sam, you sick son of a bitch; you deserve it just as much as these monsters do. And they all know about it, too. It had taken thirty years of Alastair chipping away at that very fact, reminding Dean just how much he'd enjoyed fucking his brother, until the walls finally came tumbling down and Dean accepted that he was no better than the demons surrounding him.
His skin crawls at first, thinking about what he's doing, but then he stops thinking.
+ + +
Dean digs himself out of the ground; emerges in a field where all the trees have fallen in a perfect circle around his grave.
He walks to a gas station; kicks the door open and downs two bottle of water. He feels new, albeit unclean, and finds it bizarre when he looks at himself and doesn't see a single scar.
What's even more bizarre, though, is the handprint on his shoulder and the glass breaking around him with an earsplitting screech.
+ + +
Before Bobby tells him that it's been a tough four months without him around, Dean gets welcomed with a flask of holy water in the face.
He laughs, despite himself. It feels like home.
+ + +
Sam's first instinct may have been to attack, but he forgets all about Ruby when he sees Dean. He's overjoyed; crazy with relief; can't stop grinning as he takes the amulet off and gives it back, smile only getting wider when Dean puts it on and it hangs in its rightful place.
They both cry when they hug, and neither of them say a thing.
+ + +
They summon this thing; what Pamela told them was called 'Castiel' before her eyes were burned out, and Dean feels fear for the first time since leaving Hell when neither rock salt nor Ruby's knife harm him.
Castiel looks highly insulted by the knife protruding from his chest and informs Dean, very primly, "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
Dean's utterly baffled. "Why'd you do it?"
Castiel looks even more offended, and speaks slower, as if it would make Dean understand. "Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you. Your brother's headed down a dangerous road, Dean."
"Sam?" Dean asks. "Why? Where is he?"
"We're not sure where it leads," Castiel says, ignoring him. "And we don't know Azazel's endgame."
"Where's. Sam."
Castiel pauses, looking at Dean for the first time. "Stop him. Or we will," he says, and presses his fingertips to Dean's forehead.
+ + +
"Where's Lilith?" Sam asks, smooth as silk.
"Kiss my ass," the demon sneers even with his body bound to a chair, and his eyes go black.
Sam smiles beatifically. "I'd watch myself if I were you."
"Hah! Sam Winchester, slutting around with some demon and having the nerve to tell me to be careful. Tell me, Sam-tell me what it was like, failing your brother. Tell me about all the things you and this demon bitch did in the dark."
Sam's smile drops. "You shut your mouth."
"Some hero," the demon sniggers, and keeps laughing even as Sam banishes him back to Hell, the sound of it bouncing off the walls and ringing in Sam's ears.
Some hero.
Then-suddenly-Dean appears. "Were you going to tell me about this, Sam?" He asks, fury radiating off of him so palpably that Sam can feel it curling in the air.
Sam fumbles for the words. "Dean, I-I can-"
"What? Explain? You're going to fucking explain this away?" Dean's laugh is hollow and heartless. "Go ahead and try."
Sam watches him go and knows his brother doesn't understand; has never been possessed by anything except the urge to stick his dick in the nearest warm body and thinks, bitterly, that he's a whole new level of freak.
Sam's got fucking demon blood in him, for chrissakes, pumping through his veins and changing him-why not milk his powers for all they're worth? Why not use it to exorcise demons? It's about as close to a fuck you, Alastair as they'll ever get, even if Dean doesn't agree with him.
Ever since Meg got in, ever since Azazel, Sam's felt something inside him, something dark and irrevocable like the monsters they kill, staining him from the inside out, and so he figures, fuck it. Once Dean wants to listen, Sam'll tell him anything he wants to hear. It's not like Sam will ever be clean, anyway.
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