Supernatural: Dark Paradise
Title: Dark Paradise
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content, VERY dark!boys, blood play, breath play, and very graphic violence (including a minor), definite issues of consent on aspects of the sex
Word Count: 3,552
Author’s Note: Written for salt_burn_porn where riyku tagged me with let me catch my breath. Obviously not beta'd. I'm sorry the title is so terrible, I ran out of time trying to think of one. Wah wah wah. Also sorry I did not write corset kink, Riyku dearest. I still think you're pretty!
Summary: AU after 3x16: He knew as soon as Dean rose up from the bones what it was he brought to life. And maybe Sam should have been horrified right there and right then, but he was giddy as he watched Dean kill. All he could think was it's really him, he even looks the same.
Dean is kneeling in a pool of blood when Sam finds him. He's got her organs everywhere, this little girl. There was a demon in her, he says, and that's all he says. He looks up at Sam, waiting for praise or punishment, clearly not sure which he'll get.
Sam nods at him and walks past so he can study the corpse up close. He kneels by her body and turns her over until she's facing him. His stomach lurches, but he stamps that down, makes himself look and look. This is the least he can do. He brought Dean here. He unleashed this. He isn't really sorry, but he owes it to the world to take responsibility.
It's been months now, so he doesn't flinch anymore. He surveys her corpse, the pretty curly brown hair, a dress that was green and purple before Dean dyed it red, nothing that resembles a face. When it's a demon kill, Dean never leaves the faces. Tries to carve his own off whenever Sam isn't fast enough to cover a mirror before he sees it.
She's maybe five or six; this was bound to happen. Cute little girls, they scare Dean, ever since Lilith. Sam doesn't doubt the demon was there, or at least that Dean genuinely believed it was when he went in with the knife, with his bare hands and dull teeth. But there used to be a difference between stopping a demon and liking it. For Sam, that disappeared the first time he put his mouth on Ruby's open wrist. For Dean, it was gone by the time he got back, if it ever existed at all.
"Did I do this?" Dean asks from where he's sitting, right in the middle of her guts, pieces of her dangling from his fingers. He hasn't even moved, but Sam knows the question is genuine. "Was it wrong?"
Sam doesn't see sulfur or any other evidence the girl was possessed. Doesn't mean she wasn't, they don't always leave it behind. Doesn't really matter now, she's dead and not coming back, and Sam made a choice months ago.
He remembers what it was like, waking up after Meg possessed him and seeing all the things his body had so happily done. Dean's not possessed, not by anything but himself, but sometimes he forgets that. Sam doesn't like it when he gets like this, when he sounds good and concerned and like the man he was before Hell. It makes him wonder how much his brother would hate him if he saw what Sam's been reduced to. What he's reduced both of them to.
He takes Dean's hands in his own, a tender weight even now, and leads him to his feet, to the sink across the room. He rinses the blood off Dean's hands and face. The clothes are a lost cause, they'll burn them later. Dean closes his eyes and leans into Sam's touches, he looks muddled and trusting and it makes Sam's chest catch.
"You can't run off like this again, Dean," Sam tells him as he works the soap over his brother's wrists, lingering on the touch just because he can. Dean is here to hold and scrub clean and that's worth a little body count, isn't it? "You worried me. You know you're not supposed to be killing things without permission."
"She smelled wrong," he says. "She smelled all wrong, I didn't want to let her get away. Was I bad?"
Sam can't be stern now, not when Dean is as much a victim as the girl was. Not when his brother really can't figure out if disemboweling a six year old was a morally shady move. So his smile is soft when he replies, his voice low and soothing. "Shh, Dean. I'm gonna make it go away. We'll get this all cleaned up. It'll be fine."
Dean's eyes are as black as his deeds, but his smile is a little boys' smile, and Sam finally gets to be the one looked at like a hero.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam takes him to a diner once they've both cleaned up. Dean's already eaten, he's made three kills today, not including the girl, though Sam only knows about the last one. Still, he likes this, likes to sit across from his brother and watch Sam push his salads around, the same as ever. It's remarkable, the things a little consistency will do after 400 years of chaos in Hell. After all of that, it was all worth it. Sam is still alive thanks to him. Still eats shitty salads. Still rolls his eyes when Dean orders extra onions on the burgers he no longer has any taste for.
He bites into a fry, feels the sting in his throat as the salt goes down. His hands are curling into fists before he knows it, slamming the table and making Sam's head jerk up in surprise.
"Dean?" he asks.
"I said no salt," he hisses, and he knows his eyes are black, not because it looks or feels any different but because of the slight panic that always sets off in Sam's expression. "I said no salt and there's salt. I'm going to kill her."
Sam shakes his head, puts his hand over Dean's to calm him, and Dean makes himself flatten them on the table's surface. Takes a few deep breaths, enough that he knows his eyes are back to normal just by watching Sam relax.
"No killing the waitress, Dean," Sam says, voice level and scolding. "We'll just have her bring another side of fries."
Dean nods, but when Sam calls the waitress over, she smiles at him and Dean doesn't like the way she smiles at him. That's two marks in his book.
He asks to go to the bathroom and Sam thinks nothing of it, not until half an hour later, when he finds Dean out back with the waitress' tongue in his mouth. He spits it out on the pile of parts that used to be her body when Sam gives him that disappointed look and he realizes Sam was serious about him not being allowed to kill her.
"She looked at you," he explains, but Sam doesn't seem any less horrified. Any less disgusted with Dean. Dean hates making him look like that. Wishes he could figure out how to stop. Sam wasn't supposed to find out about the waitress, but maybe he got carried away. She had no right to look at Sam like that, though. Sam is his. "I had to protect you, Sammy."
Sam's laugh is shaky. "She wasn't a threat, Dean. I think you knew that."
Dean doesn't know anything, that's what Sam's having trouble understanding. It was only three years for him. It was so many more for Dean, so long being beaten and flayed and twisted and he's forgotten what is and is not a threat and how to pretend to be a person for Sam's sake. All he remembers is this. Sam. Sam is his and no one else gets Sam and Dean will protect him from anyone who tries to change that until the Earth burns into dust and maybe longer than that. They're both marked for a trip downstairs at some point, aren't they? Dean will take care of Sam there, too. He knows his way around now. No one will do to him what they did to Dean.
"I was confused," Dean says. It's not completely a lie. He didn't think she was a threat to Sam, but she still deserved to die. He didn’t like her. He wanted to feel her try to scream without her tongue and he liked taking her eyes so they couldn't look at Sam again and human blood tastes much better than demon. He likes killing them so much, people, they're a more satisfying prey, but something about it makes Sam uncomfortable, and he seems to think Dean understands why.
"No," Sam says, weary and broken down from all these months trying to keep Dean in line, and that's the only thing that makes Dean feel sorry. "Dean, you promised."
No killing unless Sam says it's okay. He did try to keep the promise. Sam wasn't supposed to see him do it. If Sam doesn't see, he doesn't feel responsible, and that means Dean was good for him. He'll do better next time.
_______________________________________________________________
There are times Sam can control Dean-not entirely, that much is pretty clear since Dean's still picking off waitresses for batting their eyes-but for the most part, there are things Dean will listen to him on, and there are things Sam doesn't even try to fight.
He didn't raise an angel out of Hell. He knew when he was doing it that the Dean he would get wouldn't be the Dean he'd lost. Not exactly, but enough. Three and a half years of a steady demon blood diet, no Dean, Ruby the closest thing-when the solution presented itself, Sam was long past getting a little hung up on whether Dean would be good or not.
They weren't sure when they worked the ritual if Dean would be turned already. Ruby said he would, tried to talk Sam out of it a million times. "It won't really be him," was her mantra for weeks. But Sam had faith in his big brother, and, deep down, he didn't really care.
He knew as soon as Dean rose up from the bones what it was he brought to life. Dean had taken one look at them, Sam and Ruby standing there covered in the blood they used to raise him. "You fucking her?" he'd asked, and when she tried to smoke out before Sam could answer the question, he turned the pretty coma patient she was wearing into confetti without more than a flick of his hand.
And maybe Sam should have been horrified right there and right then, but he was giddy as he watched Dean kill, because all he could think was it's really him, he even looks the same.
His punishment for Sam he reserved for nights like this, long drawn out hours in bed, carving markings into Sam's skin, a love poem in a language Sam can't read. Sometimes, he feels the changes they cause, the way the spiral on his hip bonded him to Dean, or how the split triangle on his chest made it so Sam can't lie to him. But most of them are mysteries; he doesn’t know what effect they're having on him, and it doesn't matter. Dean put them there and Dean has forgotten so much, but protecting Sam he'll never fail at, so it's easy for Sam to trust every word his brother writes into his flesh.
Sam is fair game. Outside, he tries to keep Dean in line. Don't hurt anybody who wasn't asking for it, but Sam brought him here and Sam knew. If Dean needs something to carve up when the lights go out, Sam is just happy to see his brother doing the carving.
The way he looks at Sam as he does it makes it more comfort than torture. It's the same concentrated expression he'd wear when Sam was a kid, back from his first few hunts with a new injury for Dean to tend. The only differences are that now Dean's opening cuts instead of closing them, and the color of his eyes as he works. Black or green, giving or taking. Sam is happy.
They're both hard and have been for a while. Dean's always horny after a few good kills and Sam…Sam's a sinner. He tried to pretend otherwise until they tore his brother out of his arms, and then what was left to be good for? He let Ruby fill him with her blood and now, now Dean gets his lips wet and he's so turned on he can't think straight.
Blood, that's what they share. Before, when Dean was good and Sam was only half his brother, half Azazel in his veins, back then they were less related than now. Now Dean opens Sam's veins for fun, then his own to keep Sam nourished.
"Please," Sam says, because Dean has been cutting into him for hours and he's bleeding out; he feels weak. He feels like a baby, Dean's blood-slicked hand cradling his cheek adoringly before he finally gives Sam something to drink.
"There you go, Sammy," Dean whispers, his smile as warm as the liquid he's pressing to Sam's lips. Sam had thought Dean would hate him for drinking blood when he found out. He wasn't wrong, he knows the Dean he lost would have. But this Dean. This Dean likes to keep him strong, likes to make sure they stay brothers. "Drink up."
He cards his other hand through Sam's hair as Sam sucks on his forearm, pulling as much as he can get. He's high as a kite on Dean and it's so much better than it ever was with Ruby.
Then Dean pulls away, but only so he can come down to kiss Sam. He tastes like blood, too, but Sam tries not to think of that poor waitress or the little girl or anything but the feel of Dean's weight on him.
His brother never would have done this. Sam doesn't know if Dean wanted him before Hell-he swears he did, but Sam's not sure he believes it. Dean was so good, once upon a time, and this is so much of what's dark and fucked up and evil about Sam. He's been dreaming of fucking Dean since he was just a kid, used to rub off when they were shoved together into too-small beds and Dean would wake up, thinking Sam had been asleep when he did it, teasing him for being a little pervert and not knowing just how perverted it had been.
Either way, he never would have acted on it. Sam would have spent the rest of his life burning for it if Dean hadn't burnt first.
But then he walked out of Hell, didn't even ask before the first time he tied Sam down and spread him open and Sam was supposed to fight it? Why would Sam fight it?
"Dean," he murmurs between kisses, completely out of it and ready for something, anything, that will get him off.
Dean understands, grins and pulls away, one hand grabbing Sam's chin and jerking his head roughly until Sam makes himself focus through the haze the demon blood is working on him. "My little brother's asking for something," he teases. "What do you want, Sammy? What can I get you?"
"You know," Sam says.
Dean's grip tightens on him, and Sam lets out a pained noise, though it only makes it hurt more, trying to move his jaw when Dean's crushing it. "Say it."
"Please," he pants. "You're hurting me."
Dean's eyes light up at that, same lovely shade of green as ever, though a little darker. "Tell me."
"You're hurting me," he says again, making sure to catch Dean's eyes. "Dean, please. I want you to fuck me. Please."
Dean picks the knife up again and trails the sharp end over Sam's chest, teasing him with something that could kill Sam in seconds. It makes Sam nervous, even now, knowing how much his brother loves shoving things into him, and he forces his heavy breathing to relax, not wanting to cause an accident.
Dean orchestrates accidents now, never just teases. The knife sinks into the jut of his hip, and he cries out in pain as Dean moves down and starts licking at the fresh wound like an animal feeding.
He tosses the knife aside then and his wet hand slips between Sam's legs where Sam is fucking dying for him. First one bloody finger and then another slip inside of him, and Dean plays with him more than preps him as he keeps his mouth sealed against Sam's broken veins.
Sam has learned that blood isn’t the best lubricant, but Dean would laugh if Sam complained. It's supposed to hurt. It's good that it hurts. It's bad like everything else they do and Sam wonders why they had to fall this low to learn what it is to be at peace. Oh, sure, he hates that other people get hurt and he wishes there were a way to stop that, but things are so good between him and Dean. Nothing's perfect, but when it's just them, naked and damned and thrilling in it, it feels better than.
When Dean pulls up, he looks Sam up and down, his lips pouting in a way that makes Sam's hips try to jerk up on instinct. That's the first time he realizes Dean's been holding him down with his powers, though he's probably been stuck like this for a long time, just hadn't thought to try to move after Dean told him to stay still.
"You're such a good boy," Dean tells him, hands petting Sam's neck. "So good for me. I'll make sure it's good for you too, Sammy."
When Dean pushes Sam's legs apart and shoves his way in, nothing but blood and spit to ease the way, Sam cringes, his body nearly in shock from the things Dean has done to him, only the demon blood buzzing through him, both heightening the pain and dulling it, keeping him from passing out.
His dick is thick and Dean isn't a gentleman anymore. He doesn't fuck Sam to make Sam feel good, no matter what he says. The fact that it's good for Sam is just an afterthought. Dean fucks how he wants, rough and violent, and Sam knows he would be doing this even if Sam fought him on it. But he doesn't fight, he lets his head fall back and whimpers like a fucking dog and Dean laughs, his hips pumping into Sam faster and faster, until Sam thinks he's going to be torn apart, going to die and go downstairs, where Dean will come for him and make it just like this down there, too. If Heaven can compete with that, Sam would be impressed.
"Don't go losing yourself in that head of yours," Dean says, moving his hands from Sam's neck to his cheek, cradling him gently even as he thrusts into Sam like Sam is any whore he picked up off the streets. His eyes flicker to black and Sam bites his lip until it's bleeding. "Not before the fun part starts."
He wraps his hands around Sam's neck then and starts to choke Sam, really choke the life out of him. Sam can only feel Dean fucking him and the desperate need for air as it starts to burn his lungs, and he actually wonders for a few seconds if Dean's forgotten that he's still human, technically at least, if his brother is going to kill him by accident, the way he's done to so many others since he got topside.
He tries to say something, to tell Dean to stop, but of course he can't get the words out. All he can do is look up at his brother and hope desperately that Dean will see the plea in his eyes. Everything is starting to swim, white bursts exploding in his vision as his body struggles for oxygen.
Dean must see something, because he laughs at Sam and tightens his grip. "Come for me," he says. "Come for me right now, or I'll fucking kill you, Sam."
Sam knows he means it, is the thing. And, untouched, with nothing but the blood and Dean's cock and this vice around his throat, that's enough to make Sam lose it. His orgasm hits him hard, everything going black from all the competing sensations, until Dean releases him and Sam gasps, thrown off at first as the air rushes in, only making his orgasm build.
"Yeah, fuck, yeah," Dean says. He watches Sam as Sam brings his hands to his throat and coughs and he smiles like Sam just brought home his first A report card. "God, so beautiful, Sammy. You look so good when you're..."
It's one of the great ironies of Dean's life-after life, whatever-that he looks ashamed now, ducks and turns his head away as he shoots inside of Sam. Everything he does and enjoys doing, but he still hates himself when he gets off on on hurting Sam, putting him at risk. Sam knows Dean fantasizes about killing him, might go too far and do it one day. That's the only thing that sits on Dean's conscious.
"It's good," Sam says, reaching up to touch Dean's face. His voice is rough, breathing still not regular but getting there. "Dean, I'm fine. Just need to catch my breath."
"Let me catch it for you," Dean says, leaning in. There's air in his lungs that tastes like smoke, and Sam knows Dean gives him everything, doesn't need to breathe to stay here, taking care of Sam.
You won't need breath either, where you're going, a voice whispers in the back of Sam's mind, but he can't make himself feel the threat. He bought a one-way ticket to Hell, but he won't be going alone.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content, VERY dark!boys, blood play, breath play, and very graphic violence (including a minor), definite issues of consent on aspects of the sex
Word Count: 3,552
Author’s Note: Written for salt_burn_porn where riyku tagged me with let me catch my breath. Obviously not beta'd. I'm sorry the title is so terrible, I ran out of time trying to think of one. Wah wah wah. Also sorry I did not write corset kink, Riyku dearest. I still think you're pretty!
Summary: AU after 3x16: He knew as soon as Dean rose up from the bones what it was he brought to life. And maybe Sam should have been horrified right there and right then, but he was giddy as he watched Dean kill. All he could think was it's really him, he even looks the same.
Dean is kneeling in a pool of blood when Sam finds him. He's got her organs everywhere, this little girl. There was a demon in her, he says, and that's all he says. He looks up at Sam, waiting for praise or punishment, clearly not sure which he'll get.
Sam nods at him and walks past so he can study the corpse up close. He kneels by her body and turns her over until she's facing him. His stomach lurches, but he stamps that down, makes himself look and look. This is the least he can do. He brought Dean here. He unleashed this. He isn't really sorry, but he owes it to the world to take responsibility.
It's been months now, so he doesn't flinch anymore. He surveys her corpse, the pretty curly brown hair, a dress that was green and purple before Dean dyed it red, nothing that resembles a face. When it's a demon kill, Dean never leaves the faces. Tries to carve his own off whenever Sam isn't fast enough to cover a mirror before he sees it.
She's maybe five or six; this was bound to happen. Cute little girls, they scare Dean, ever since Lilith. Sam doesn't doubt the demon was there, or at least that Dean genuinely believed it was when he went in with the knife, with his bare hands and dull teeth. But there used to be a difference between stopping a demon and liking it. For Sam, that disappeared the first time he put his mouth on Ruby's open wrist. For Dean, it was gone by the time he got back, if it ever existed at all.
"Did I do this?" Dean asks from where he's sitting, right in the middle of her guts, pieces of her dangling from his fingers. He hasn't even moved, but Sam knows the question is genuine. "Was it wrong?"
Sam doesn't see sulfur or any other evidence the girl was possessed. Doesn't mean she wasn't, they don't always leave it behind. Doesn't really matter now, she's dead and not coming back, and Sam made a choice months ago.
He remembers what it was like, waking up after Meg possessed him and seeing all the things his body had so happily done. Dean's not possessed, not by anything but himself, but sometimes he forgets that. Sam doesn't like it when he gets like this, when he sounds good and concerned and like the man he was before Hell. It makes him wonder how much his brother would hate him if he saw what Sam's been reduced to. What he's reduced both of them to.
He takes Dean's hands in his own, a tender weight even now, and leads him to his feet, to the sink across the room. He rinses the blood off Dean's hands and face. The clothes are a lost cause, they'll burn them later. Dean closes his eyes and leans into Sam's touches, he looks muddled and trusting and it makes Sam's chest catch.
"You can't run off like this again, Dean," Sam tells him as he works the soap over his brother's wrists, lingering on the touch just because he can. Dean is here to hold and scrub clean and that's worth a little body count, isn't it? "You worried me. You know you're not supposed to be killing things without permission."
"She smelled wrong," he says. "She smelled all wrong, I didn't want to let her get away. Was I bad?"
Sam can't be stern now, not when Dean is as much a victim as the girl was. Not when his brother really can't figure out if disemboweling a six year old was a morally shady move. So his smile is soft when he replies, his voice low and soothing. "Shh, Dean. I'm gonna make it go away. We'll get this all cleaned up. It'll be fine."
Dean's eyes are as black as his deeds, but his smile is a little boys' smile, and Sam finally gets to be the one looked at like a hero.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam takes him to a diner once they've both cleaned up. Dean's already eaten, he's made three kills today, not including the girl, though Sam only knows about the last one. Still, he likes this, likes to sit across from his brother and watch Sam push his salads around, the same as ever. It's remarkable, the things a little consistency will do after 400 years of chaos in Hell. After all of that, it was all worth it. Sam is still alive thanks to him. Still eats shitty salads. Still rolls his eyes when Dean orders extra onions on the burgers he no longer has any taste for.
He bites into a fry, feels the sting in his throat as the salt goes down. His hands are curling into fists before he knows it, slamming the table and making Sam's head jerk up in surprise.
"Dean?" he asks.
"I said no salt," he hisses, and he knows his eyes are black, not because it looks or feels any different but because of the slight panic that always sets off in Sam's expression. "I said no salt and there's salt. I'm going to kill her."
Sam shakes his head, puts his hand over Dean's to calm him, and Dean makes himself flatten them on the table's surface. Takes a few deep breaths, enough that he knows his eyes are back to normal just by watching Sam relax.
"No killing the waitress, Dean," Sam says, voice level and scolding. "We'll just have her bring another side of fries."
Dean nods, but when Sam calls the waitress over, she smiles at him and Dean doesn't like the way she smiles at him. That's two marks in his book.
He asks to go to the bathroom and Sam thinks nothing of it, not until half an hour later, when he finds Dean out back with the waitress' tongue in his mouth. He spits it out on the pile of parts that used to be her body when Sam gives him that disappointed look and he realizes Sam was serious about him not being allowed to kill her.
"She looked at you," he explains, but Sam doesn't seem any less horrified. Any less disgusted with Dean. Dean hates making him look like that. Wishes he could figure out how to stop. Sam wasn't supposed to find out about the waitress, but maybe he got carried away. She had no right to look at Sam like that, though. Sam is his. "I had to protect you, Sammy."
Sam's laugh is shaky. "She wasn't a threat, Dean. I think you knew that."
Dean doesn't know anything, that's what Sam's having trouble understanding. It was only three years for him. It was so many more for Dean, so long being beaten and flayed and twisted and he's forgotten what is and is not a threat and how to pretend to be a person for Sam's sake. All he remembers is this. Sam. Sam is his and no one else gets Sam and Dean will protect him from anyone who tries to change that until the Earth burns into dust and maybe longer than that. They're both marked for a trip downstairs at some point, aren't they? Dean will take care of Sam there, too. He knows his way around now. No one will do to him what they did to Dean.
"I was confused," Dean says. It's not completely a lie. He didn't think she was a threat to Sam, but she still deserved to die. He didn’t like her. He wanted to feel her try to scream without her tongue and he liked taking her eyes so they couldn't look at Sam again and human blood tastes much better than demon. He likes killing them so much, people, they're a more satisfying prey, but something about it makes Sam uncomfortable, and he seems to think Dean understands why.
"No," Sam says, weary and broken down from all these months trying to keep Dean in line, and that's the only thing that makes Dean feel sorry. "Dean, you promised."
No killing unless Sam says it's okay. He did try to keep the promise. Sam wasn't supposed to see him do it. If Sam doesn't see, he doesn't feel responsible, and that means Dean was good for him. He'll do better next time.
_______________________________________________________________
There are times Sam can control Dean-not entirely, that much is pretty clear since Dean's still picking off waitresses for batting their eyes-but for the most part, there are things Dean will listen to him on, and there are things Sam doesn't even try to fight.
He didn't raise an angel out of Hell. He knew when he was doing it that the Dean he would get wouldn't be the Dean he'd lost. Not exactly, but enough. Three and a half years of a steady demon blood diet, no Dean, Ruby the closest thing-when the solution presented itself, Sam was long past getting a little hung up on whether Dean would be good or not.
They weren't sure when they worked the ritual if Dean would be turned already. Ruby said he would, tried to talk Sam out of it a million times. "It won't really be him," was her mantra for weeks. But Sam had faith in his big brother, and, deep down, he didn't really care.
He knew as soon as Dean rose up from the bones what it was he brought to life. Dean had taken one look at them, Sam and Ruby standing there covered in the blood they used to raise him. "You fucking her?" he'd asked, and when she tried to smoke out before Sam could answer the question, he turned the pretty coma patient she was wearing into confetti without more than a flick of his hand.
And maybe Sam should have been horrified right there and right then, but he was giddy as he watched Dean kill, because all he could think was it's really him, he even looks the same.
His punishment for Sam he reserved for nights like this, long drawn out hours in bed, carving markings into Sam's skin, a love poem in a language Sam can't read. Sometimes, he feels the changes they cause, the way the spiral on his hip bonded him to Dean, or how the split triangle on his chest made it so Sam can't lie to him. But most of them are mysteries; he doesn’t know what effect they're having on him, and it doesn't matter. Dean put them there and Dean has forgotten so much, but protecting Sam he'll never fail at, so it's easy for Sam to trust every word his brother writes into his flesh.
Sam is fair game. Outside, he tries to keep Dean in line. Don't hurt anybody who wasn't asking for it, but Sam brought him here and Sam knew. If Dean needs something to carve up when the lights go out, Sam is just happy to see his brother doing the carving.
The way he looks at Sam as he does it makes it more comfort than torture. It's the same concentrated expression he'd wear when Sam was a kid, back from his first few hunts with a new injury for Dean to tend. The only differences are that now Dean's opening cuts instead of closing them, and the color of his eyes as he works. Black or green, giving or taking. Sam is happy.
They're both hard and have been for a while. Dean's always horny after a few good kills and Sam…Sam's a sinner. He tried to pretend otherwise until they tore his brother out of his arms, and then what was left to be good for? He let Ruby fill him with her blood and now, now Dean gets his lips wet and he's so turned on he can't think straight.
Blood, that's what they share. Before, when Dean was good and Sam was only half his brother, half Azazel in his veins, back then they were less related than now. Now Dean opens Sam's veins for fun, then his own to keep Sam nourished.
"Please," Sam says, because Dean has been cutting into him for hours and he's bleeding out; he feels weak. He feels like a baby, Dean's blood-slicked hand cradling his cheek adoringly before he finally gives Sam something to drink.
"There you go, Sammy," Dean whispers, his smile as warm as the liquid he's pressing to Sam's lips. Sam had thought Dean would hate him for drinking blood when he found out. He wasn't wrong, he knows the Dean he lost would have. But this Dean. This Dean likes to keep him strong, likes to make sure they stay brothers. "Drink up."
He cards his other hand through Sam's hair as Sam sucks on his forearm, pulling as much as he can get. He's high as a kite on Dean and it's so much better than it ever was with Ruby.
Then Dean pulls away, but only so he can come down to kiss Sam. He tastes like blood, too, but Sam tries not to think of that poor waitress or the little girl or anything but the feel of Dean's weight on him.
His brother never would have done this. Sam doesn't know if Dean wanted him before Hell-he swears he did, but Sam's not sure he believes it. Dean was so good, once upon a time, and this is so much of what's dark and fucked up and evil about Sam. He's been dreaming of fucking Dean since he was just a kid, used to rub off when they were shoved together into too-small beds and Dean would wake up, thinking Sam had been asleep when he did it, teasing him for being a little pervert and not knowing just how perverted it had been.
Either way, he never would have acted on it. Sam would have spent the rest of his life burning for it if Dean hadn't burnt first.
But then he walked out of Hell, didn't even ask before the first time he tied Sam down and spread him open and Sam was supposed to fight it? Why would Sam fight it?
"Dean," he murmurs between kisses, completely out of it and ready for something, anything, that will get him off.
Dean understands, grins and pulls away, one hand grabbing Sam's chin and jerking his head roughly until Sam makes himself focus through the haze the demon blood is working on him. "My little brother's asking for something," he teases. "What do you want, Sammy? What can I get you?"
"You know," Sam says.
Dean's grip tightens on him, and Sam lets out a pained noise, though it only makes it hurt more, trying to move his jaw when Dean's crushing it. "Say it."
"Please," he pants. "You're hurting me."
Dean's eyes light up at that, same lovely shade of green as ever, though a little darker. "Tell me."
"You're hurting me," he says again, making sure to catch Dean's eyes. "Dean, please. I want you to fuck me. Please."
Dean picks the knife up again and trails the sharp end over Sam's chest, teasing him with something that could kill Sam in seconds. It makes Sam nervous, even now, knowing how much his brother loves shoving things into him, and he forces his heavy breathing to relax, not wanting to cause an accident.
Dean orchestrates accidents now, never just teases. The knife sinks into the jut of his hip, and he cries out in pain as Dean moves down and starts licking at the fresh wound like an animal feeding.
He tosses the knife aside then and his wet hand slips between Sam's legs where Sam is fucking dying for him. First one bloody finger and then another slip inside of him, and Dean plays with him more than preps him as he keeps his mouth sealed against Sam's broken veins.
Sam has learned that blood isn’t the best lubricant, but Dean would laugh if Sam complained. It's supposed to hurt. It's good that it hurts. It's bad like everything else they do and Sam wonders why they had to fall this low to learn what it is to be at peace. Oh, sure, he hates that other people get hurt and he wishes there were a way to stop that, but things are so good between him and Dean. Nothing's perfect, but when it's just them, naked and damned and thrilling in it, it feels better than.
When Dean pulls up, he looks Sam up and down, his lips pouting in a way that makes Sam's hips try to jerk up on instinct. That's the first time he realizes Dean's been holding him down with his powers, though he's probably been stuck like this for a long time, just hadn't thought to try to move after Dean told him to stay still.
"You're such a good boy," Dean tells him, hands petting Sam's neck. "So good for me. I'll make sure it's good for you too, Sammy."
When Dean pushes Sam's legs apart and shoves his way in, nothing but blood and spit to ease the way, Sam cringes, his body nearly in shock from the things Dean has done to him, only the demon blood buzzing through him, both heightening the pain and dulling it, keeping him from passing out.
His dick is thick and Dean isn't a gentleman anymore. He doesn't fuck Sam to make Sam feel good, no matter what he says. The fact that it's good for Sam is just an afterthought. Dean fucks how he wants, rough and violent, and Sam knows he would be doing this even if Sam fought him on it. But he doesn't fight, he lets his head fall back and whimpers like a fucking dog and Dean laughs, his hips pumping into Sam faster and faster, until Sam thinks he's going to be torn apart, going to die and go downstairs, where Dean will come for him and make it just like this down there, too. If Heaven can compete with that, Sam would be impressed.
"Don't go losing yourself in that head of yours," Dean says, moving his hands from Sam's neck to his cheek, cradling him gently even as he thrusts into Sam like Sam is any whore he picked up off the streets. His eyes flicker to black and Sam bites his lip until it's bleeding. "Not before the fun part starts."
He wraps his hands around Sam's neck then and starts to choke Sam, really choke the life out of him. Sam can only feel Dean fucking him and the desperate need for air as it starts to burn his lungs, and he actually wonders for a few seconds if Dean's forgotten that he's still human, technically at least, if his brother is going to kill him by accident, the way he's done to so many others since he got topside.
He tries to say something, to tell Dean to stop, but of course he can't get the words out. All he can do is look up at his brother and hope desperately that Dean will see the plea in his eyes. Everything is starting to swim, white bursts exploding in his vision as his body struggles for oxygen.
Dean must see something, because he laughs at Sam and tightens his grip. "Come for me," he says. "Come for me right now, or I'll fucking kill you, Sam."
Sam knows he means it, is the thing. And, untouched, with nothing but the blood and Dean's cock and this vice around his throat, that's enough to make Sam lose it. His orgasm hits him hard, everything going black from all the competing sensations, until Dean releases him and Sam gasps, thrown off at first as the air rushes in, only making his orgasm build.
"Yeah, fuck, yeah," Dean says. He watches Sam as Sam brings his hands to his throat and coughs and he smiles like Sam just brought home his first A report card. "God, so beautiful, Sammy. You look so good when you're..."
It's one of the great ironies of Dean's life-after life, whatever-that he looks ashamed now, ducks and turns his head away as he shoots inside of Sam. Everything he does and enjoys doing, but he still hates himself when he gets off on on hurting Sam, putting him at risk. Sam knows Dean fantasizes about killing him, might go too far and do it one day. That's the only thing that sits on Dean's conscious.
"It's good," Sam says, reaching up to touch Dean's face. His voice is rough, breathing still not regular but getting there. "Dean, I'm fine. Just need to catch my breath."
"Let me catch it for you," Dean says, leaning in. There's air in his lungs that tastes like smoke, and Sam knows Dean gives him everything, doesn't need to breathe to stay here, taking care of Sam.
You won't need breath either, where you're going, a voice whispers in the back of Sam's mind, but he can't make himself feel the threat. He bought a one-way ticket to Hell, but he won't be going alone.