Fic: Unlucky (or How Dean Takes Care of his Leverage)
Title: Unlucky (or How Dean Takes Care of his Leverage)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through Second Season: reveals the ending to All Hell Breaks Loose 2.
Summary: Blasphemy, Informing a meat puppet of the true secrets in hell, Shoplifting, Kidnapping, Setting things on fire, Stealing a Car, Incest, Alcohol poisoning, Cutting up bodies, Making fun of the CW network, Turning night into day, Using Whammy without a divine license, and allowing your to turn brother into a girl so he can take over the kingdoms of Heaven and Earth. Dean Winchester knows it's illegal and if not that, morally dubious , but since he's dead and all, it's pretty much real hard to care.
Warnings: Humor, although it might be badly executed. Evil!Dean. Character death. Knifeplay, Genderswap, Schmoop, femslash, snark, bloodplay, whammy/mindfuck.
Notes: For the Evil!Dean challenge that was due a few days ago, but I'm kind of glad I held onto this, because last night it took me in a whole other direction. The porn is a little lacking in this case, but I'm sure you can forgive me. Not quite as sinister as I would have liked, but I'm proud of it.
Prompts: Dean's not really destined for eternal fire. He works his way up the ladder and ends up working for Hell's elite and Evil!Dean convinces guilt ridden trying-to-resist-my-evil-resurrected-urges Sam to turn entirely evil. When Sam finally does, Evil!Dean comforts.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
W/C: ~ 8300
This isn’t really a love story. That is, unless you squint, see through all the calamity of Sam's life nowadays.
It’s really the story of how Sam’s just plain unlucky.
Sam had twelve months where he felt like a parent on a timetable. Twelve months of trying to keep Dean out of trouble, and help him undo his curse. It’d been hard, Dean’s death wish was apparent for what it was worth, and because of it, they lived a steady life on the run from everything, not just the demons or the law.
Sam’s place in Dean’s year was spent focused upon buying extra time in Dean’s contract, and keeping him alive for as long as possible. The crossroads demon had been ruthless about the deal though, and Sam would drain of color even as he simply talked about what he was going to try in order to get Dean out of this predicament.
The night Dean’s contract runs out isn’t the stuff that Harlequin novels are made of. It’s Dean leaning into Sam in the Impala’s back seat, drunkenly affectionate as the hour grows near.
“Take care of my car, Sammy,” Dean says. “And don’t go making any deals to bring me back, y’hear? One Winchester has to set this shit straight.”
“Dean…What are…” Sam starts, “Why did you…”
“I did it for you,” Dean says, quietly. “Wanted you to be happy, alive. Wanted you to be normal, like you wanted. Go fall in love again, Sam. Go…go be a lawyer. Go back to school.”
“Dean,” Sam whispers, and watches as Dean takes another long swig of his bottle of Johnny Walker, laying down with a hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey as his last meal on Sam’s lap.
“Sam, I love you,” Dean sobs. “Please, for me.”
“I…”
“I’ll be alright, Sammy. You just take care of yourself,” Dean whispers, kissing Sam affectionate, fierce and deep before his eyes slide shut and his face falls lax. Sam knows the true nature of grief, of helplessness, and the searing pain of never telling Dean the things he always wanted to.
It almost takes six months, but little by little, Sam moves on. Fake name, new apartment, two steady jobs fixing engines day in and waiting tables day out. Sam keeps the Impala, waxes her and conditions her leather every Sunday and makes sure to change the oil himself, metal pan on cardboard in his very own garage. And slowly, the pain of Dean’s death eases away. It will never disappear, much like the death of his father and the death of the mother he never knew, but it becomes a wound that closes up, scar deep and slow to heal and with an ache softly dulling away.
It’s the dulling pain that makes Sam’s first vision in what feels like eons intolerable. Laying in bed, he can see Dean on the back of his eyelids.
Dean’s tongue flits over his lips, a pretty and wide lick as he walks along the side of the road on a rural highway. A sign nearby says he’s in Minnesota, and Dean pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his bag, tapping them softly on the heel of his hand before pulling one out and pressing the end to his tongue, lighting it afire spontaneously as he pushes the rest of the pack into the back of low-slung black jeans that look like they’re meant for his ass.
Cars pass, and when Dean flags one over, a pretty little vintage GTO, he opens the door wordlessly.
“Where you goin?” the driver asks. Dean sweeps his hand to the side gracefully, and the man gets out of the car calmly, walking up to Dean and putting the keys in Dean’s hand.
“Wherever I want, isn’t that right?” Dean grins indulgently. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all. Take good care of her, don’t fill it up with that ethanol shit.”
Dean looks out the window, and during the drive into St. Louis, he stops at a gas station. A few waves of his hand, and he’s taking the pump to fill up the tank. He’s careful, as careful as he always has been with the impala, and when he’s done, he walks over to the trash can and draws a rune in gas around it. He takes an unlit cigarette from his mouth, and pouts his lips, drawing enough spit that when he spits at the trash can while the car leans ready like it’s about to drive away, it bursts into flame.
Dean, ever the person to understand genuine irony of predicaments like the one he’s placed himself in, pokes his head out further and lights his cigarette on the burning trash can before driving off into the city with only one thing on his mind: Harvelle.
Sam sits up, and tries to catch his breath. His heart is racing and he has to get up in three hours to go wait more tables at the diner, but right now all he can think of is how he salted, burned, and prayed over Dean’s funeral pyre, silent tears and whispered Latin passages. Dean’s supposed to be the property of the Crossroads demon, and there’s no reason why Dean should be up in corporeal form again, no matter how relieving the idea of being with Dean again could be. It would be nice to see Dean, and hear his voice again, but Sam knows how it happened with him, that little bud of hell waiting like a landmine to be properly stepped on. If Dean’s been re-animated, chances are he’s genuinely demented, if not demonic, and knows how Sam has sworn off hunting since his death.
Long story short: Sam trusts his visions, and Sam knows he’s fucked.
The next day, Sam gets word from Bobby that Jo was found empty, like she’d been a body for demon possession, a meat puppet, for all of two hours before her neck was snapped and her body was vacated. There was a thumbprint on her forehead, burned in, and Sam somehow gets it quicker than he can even explain to Bobby.
There’s news of how all the people in a Bed, Bath and Beyond in St. Louis disappeared instantly at seven o’six that night, and Sam purses his lips together at the news report in the tv in the diner. He wonders why the hell demons, (or Dean, for that matter) would be buying bed linens and steak knives, anyway.
Needless to say, He starts sharpening his knives and oiling his guns.
It’s been three days, and Sam’s getting another vision again, from underneath a Toyota Camry from 1987. He smacks his head on the rear axel and curses up a storm in several languages. There’s oil draining from the engine, and Sam’s glad to be on his back in the garage instead of in the middle of the diner.
“Sam,” Dean moans, eyes black like night, as his hands clutch onto skin, floating up into shaggy brown hair. “Sam, please.”
Sam’s skin has tattoos, runes and satanic crosses, delicate tribal work and Japanese incantations. His muscles jump out, and his voice is deeper than ever. “You deserve this. Say it.”
“I deserve this,” Dean whispers, suddenly stricken of the will to speak, the will to breathe, like his whole body can’t work. Hands open his legs, and Sam thrusts into him hard and resolute, like he’s looking to teach Dean some kind of lesson. “I deserve this.”
“Of course you do,” Sam says. “Pledge your allegiance to me and I’ll go easy on you. Go on, let me hear it. Let me hear you before I fuck you good enough to have you begging.”
“Sam,” Dean breathes, hands like eels searching through skin like water. Sam thrusts in, and Dean wails, arching into Sam’s hands. “Sam…I…”
“Say it,” Sam hisses, “answer me. Tell me who you belong to.”
“I…” Dean sighs.
“You’ll take this all day, if I so please,” Sam barks, thrusting in again. “Your coy act won’t win you any mercy.”
“I’m yours, your sovereignty. I am an arm of your will, a tool of your justice. A…” A shaky breath escapes, and Sam thrusts in so hard Dean starts to scream. “I’m your liege. A servant willing to fall to your every whim. Your soldier. Your brother. Your lover in arms, your sovereignty.”
“My champion,” Sam grins. Thrusting in harder. “I do like the sound of that.”
Dean just cries out, softly, and lets Sam take what he wants.
Sam pulls himself from underneath the car, and tilts his head back against cool metal, trying hard not to imagine ways this could be worse. There are invisible fingers on his skin, and he swears to himself he sees the start of ink blossoming across the palm of one of his hands. Trying to fathom anything other than Dean’s death, Dean in hell with no way of coming back into this plane of existence, and Dean taking glee in causing hellfire and turning people dark-side with just the touch of a wet finger makes Sam’s fingers and toes course with panic, sheer and plain.
“Fuck,” Sam groans, and realizes there’s motor oil in his hair. That’s a bitch to get out, demonic possession or not, and when Sam realizes that Dean can probably see him as clearly as he sees Dean in these visions, he gets the chills.
He gets a vision of Bobby’s death as it happens, in the middle of a hot shower after a long day. He curls into himself, making sure that his hands can’t hit anything, and then sits down under the spray, like he’s trying to hide even though he knows Dean’s states away.
Dean grabs onto a bottle of liquor with one hand and a linen napkin with the other. Dean grabs Bobby’s collar silently, pulling him up and stuffing the cloth in his mouth.
"Fun fact. Most of the alcohol content in liquor gets absorbed before it leaves your mouth. You never actually have to drink any of it, you could just get hammered off holding it then spitting it back out. True story,” Dean says, casually and rather out of character. Sam reminds himself that this obviously isn’t his old Dean, given the fact that he went linens shopping before taking out one of the only surviving family friends that still exist to the Winchesters. “So, I figured, Bobby, that a boozehound like you could probably take it if, you know, I gave you a serious case of alcohol poisoning before I burnt you and your house down. And take it from me, that napkin will light up better than a Christmas tree at the mall. Got the numbers on the best linen content straight from Lucifer himself.”
Bobby tries to spit the cloth from his mouth, tries to struggle but his limbs become sluggish, the alcohol taking effect before he can attempt any kind of escape.
“Oh, baby, I love it when you struggle like that. Reminds me of all the drunk girls I used to bang back when I was still alive and working with you,” Dean smiles. “You can stop being coy with me, Bobby! I’m gonna kill you anyway.”
With a sharp fist to the jaw, Dean puts Bobby on the floor, and draws circles around him with the extra liquor left over. He covers the books, all of the ancient trinkets that bobby used to keep in case of fucked up circumstances just like this one, and then spits clear in bobby’s face, torching the linen in Bobby’s mouth before leaving.
“Coming for you, Sovereignty. Hope you enjoyed the show,” Dean mumbles, getting back into his car, and driving away.
Sam’s shaking, crying as the vision coalesces and then clears, and he’s glad he’s sitting down already because if he weren’t, he’d have passed out. It’s obvious Dean’s got power, and that he’s been luring himself to Sam in order to track him, find him, seek him out, and now, all that’s left to do is wait.
It’s the waiting that makes Sam want to vomit.
It’s been two weeks, and Sam's visions are so intense now that as he gets them, he can feel them with his whole body. Torment floods his bloodstream, tight and hot and pulsing, he can see it all. Late every night, now, he feels so incredibly filled, so undeniably fucked, like his limbs are being moved by someone else, held out of the way while Sam groans like he’s being invaded at both ends, taken advantage of like it’s all he worth. And finally, Dean’s voice drills into his head, holding him off from another senseless orgasm.
“Sam,” Dean asks in his head, and it’s enough to make Sam give in, watch as black ink slowly creeps up his arm and back down the other, runes in languages Sam’s never even seen and symbols that are inherently evil being drawn down his back with invisible hands. His ears ring, and he grasps tight at his sheets, and the whole ordeal makes him think twice about fighting how good this feels.
In his visions, he can see Dean standing on asphalt, making whole roads and regions disappear into ghost towns, walking onto a main street and leaving it in a pile of ash, burnt to a crisp in mere minutes, if Dean wants him to hear the cries of innocent blood being spilt.
"Dean?" He calls out. "It can't be you."
"Why not, Sammy?" Dean asks, leisurely. Sam rolls over to find he's sitting on a chair at a table that wasn't in the room a few seconds before, drinking a glass of red liquor and looking out the window. It’s 3AM and blazing orange sunlight fills the room. Sam reaches for the knife under his pillow, and Dean grins like an idiot, like he used to. “you think that can hurt me? I’m pure hellfire, you can’t even see me unless I want you to. And Sammy, I don’t know where you got the idea that a day like this wouldn’t come, but baby, I want you to see me. Everything about me.”
"You're supposed to be..." Sam starts.
"What? Dead?" Dean asks, standing up tall in a way Sam's never seen before. It's been two years since Dean simply collapsed in his arms, year to the minute. He looks as he did then, pale and just a little weak. He brings the glass up to his lips and makes a show of finishing the liquid. "Funny how hell works when you're determined and you've got leverage."
"Leverage?" Sam asks. "Leverage like what?"
"Leverage like you," Dean smiles. "Got a special message direct to you from hell, wanna know what it is?"
Sam stays quiet, and Dean prowls up slow like he’s walking through molasses, slower than they both know he should be physically able to. Dean feels hot and cold and like a stab through the heart all at once, he smells like the rose, cucumber, and vanilla candles he probably stole from Bed, Bath, and Beyond along with those people and those napkins.
Dean hovers close into Sam. When he touches Sam's face, it feels like an endless electric shock in his core, fire licking at Sam's spine. His breath tickles on the back of Sam's neck. "He may be gone, but you're ours."
"I'm not the property of hell, Dean," Sam says, calm as he can muster. "I don't understand what you mean."
Dean's hand clenches on his shoulder, and suddenly, There's full body invasion like he's being possessed again, his legs shift, and his body heats up with power, the tendrils of an orgasm licking down at his core, his hands shaking with whammy in flavors Sam's never even fathomed before. He gets the vision of immortality, of winning a holy war with angels and humans bowing to his feet, pleading for mercy. He can feel Dean behind him, ever his faithful consort, his lover, a chameleon ready to do whatever he asks. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs, Sam realizes, imagining the rush he'd get with Dean on his knees at his feet, as well. Pretty big brother, willing and able and so submissive he'll never say no. Sam won't let him.
"You'll understand, soon," Dean whispers, giant grin on his face. Sam falls to his knees from the power, from the assault and when he finally returns to himself, Dean is gone, along with the light, the power, and the tattoo ink that has been taunting Sam for weeks.
Sam gets up and finds his room is empty and the sun is normal outside. There are still buildings and people outside his window, and it’s like dean never was even there. Sam smiles, gets up to take a piss and fix his hair, and puts on a t-shirt before he goes to make himself some coffee.
“Fooled ya,” Dean smiles, the next morning, sitting on the kitchen countertop next to the brand new stainless steel coffee maker. This Bed, Bath and Beyond joke is getting fucking old. “So, Sammy, what’s the job for today, huh? Oil under your fingers or serving up the meatloaf special, huh? Should have taken that appealing nightclub job offered a few weeks back, your future would have been bright, there.”
Sam stops, knowing he’s still half-naked and tired from last night and almost turns and goes back to bed. Anxiety pools at the base of his spine, like there’s something wrong with this that has nothing to do with Dean’s new lease on a body or his new tendency to shoplift from home and lifestyle chain stores, and more to do with the fact that all Sam wants to do with that body is haul it to bed with him, see what makes Dean tick, even if he’s evil as sin itself.
“Ah,” Dean smirks and pets Sam’s head, ruffling his hair like he’s talking to a puppy. “Pretty little thing still have feelings for me, doncha? Boy, Sammy. Sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”
“I…” Sam asks. “How is this possible?”
“Like I said last night, leverage. Climbed my way to the top of the corporate ladder in the pokey down there,” Dean helpfully points down to the floor with a grin. “Had your name as an impressive little reference, and, well, you know my sort of dedication.”
“Fuck you,” Sam spits, sheer acid as he pushes past Dean to get to the coffee pot. “I always hated it when you patronized me while you were alive.”
“Here,” Dean says, reaching for a mug. “I already made you a pot. Bad coffee, though. Folgers isn’t nearly as good up here as it is down in hell. Anyway, it just so happened that my superiors liked me enough to give me a cushy corporate office, a nice little blood-powered hot rod, all classy-like and all. Got a better apartment than that terra-hole they put me in. Studio loft, very old Hollywood, James Dean rents me the place, he’s got a timeshare on the fifth ring he absolutely loves and can’t be separated from half the time. You know how it is.”
“You sound like an investment banker.”
“I was, for a while. Looked better in a suit down there than I ever did up here, if you ask me. It’s all about souls, and all that jazz. Sin doesn’t matter to the Soul market. It’s all a matter of souls, Sammy.” Dean says, watching as Sam looks at the pot of coffee before throwing it down the drain. “Hey!”
“Yeah, right. Like I’m going to drink coffee made by my demon brother,” Sam snorts.
“Still know how to hurt people with words, don’t you?” Dean says, bitterly. He recovers easily, “It’s a good think you still call me your brother, Sam, or I’d have to forcefully transform you. I gave all that fine living up for this body. For you. To walk terra and convert flesh into air. And to convert you into the person you were meant to become. Could be a sitcom, on TV around here. Like Green Acres with the last dying flames of Buffy the Vampire slayer, y’know? Fall down Boy could do the theme song. The CW would pick it up.”
“What does that mean?” Sam asks.
“That I watch way too much TV in hell,” Dean smiles bitterly, as his voice dips low. “Seriously, I think you know what I’m going to say, here.”
Sam looks at him, as Dean takes another sip of his glass. “What’s that?”
Dean drinks the whole glass dry. “Haven’t you wondered what I’ve been doing in the past few weeks? I mean, after all, I could have easily just appeared here, without the roadtrip or anything?”
“What?” Sam asks, before Dean reaches over, pressing his lips to Sam’s, forceful and hard, and Sam can taste blood and screams on Dean’s tongue, pure decadence as he can feel Dean’s hands as he stabs Gordon over and over again, as he tortures Jo and simply throws Ellen into hell, swathed with the blood of people who were once their friends, brushing them away and sending them to his superiors down below.
“You know how it feels to be stuck somewhere forever, Sammy? You know how it feels to lose track of time so bad you feel disoriented, you feel crazy? It happens,” Dean whispers, and Sam can see it in the back of his head, can feel the constriction in his body, the silent craze of hysteria as it sears deep into his body, wanting to rip at the skin. “And you know what that means?”
“No,” Sam hisses. “What, Dean?”
Dean’s hand brushes him aside like a loving caress, sheer power throws Sam back into the wall, Dean’s other hand coming out to rob him of his coffee cup. He brings the cup up to his mouth, drinking it in, and spitting it back out. “How the hell do you drink this shit, Sam? Jesus.”
You give into it, Sam. You get used to that fire because you can’t do anything else, Dean’s voice flows like lava in Sam’s head, body still nailed to the wall.
“You can fight,” Sam mumbles.
“What was that?” Dean asks. “What the fuck was that?”
Sam feels a hand closed tight around his hands, around his throat and his legs, spreading them wide and deep. “Didn’t you fight, Dean? Couldn’t you have fought it? And even worse, why would you kill anybody knowing what’s waiting them down there? People we knew and depended on, why would you send them down there?”
Dean smiles sweetly. It’s simple, Sam. Them or me. Can’t keep living in this loaner body without some blood, or without you. And besides, I did this for you. I did it so you would never have to experience the pain of betraying what little family I had left you with. I never said anything about you, to them. I just killed them all, nice and tidy so your hands don’t get bloody with grief. That a bad thing, Sammy? I know how many rules I'm breaking, here, and the punishment for them would not be pretty for a regular demon, nevertheless an ex-pat. I want you to be okay with this, Sam. I came here, i'm doing these things so you can be who we both know you're destined to become. .
“I’m your meal ticket?” Sam asks. “Is that it, is that why you came back?”
“Does this body annoy you, Sam? I could be anybody you want me to be. Jo, Ellen, Dad. But let’s be real here. I know what you want, who you want, don’t I?” Dean says, before his body re-shapes itself into Jess’ petite form.
Sam gasps for air, as he looks at acres of skin, breasts and smooth thighs, aching to touch, to bait for the longest of time.
I can look however you want me to, but we both know who I really am. Nobody else has cared for you, this way.
“Read my mind and tell me who you think I want you to be,” Sam hisses, “I bet you know everything, don’t you? Doing this to torture me, right?”
“You just look so good, being tortured,” Dean says, Jess’ skin falling away to reveal denim and leather. He picks a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, holds it up. “Mind if I smoke in your pad, Sam?"
Sam stays quiet, but Dean pulls out the cigarette anyway and lights it on his tongue.
"Nice hair, by the way. The cowlicks at that length make you look very Barry Gibb. Stayin’ alive and all that disco shit. Maybe later, I’ll cast someone to throw you a white leisure suit terraside, you could practice on your John Travolta impression.”
“Fuck you,” Sam grits his teeth, as he watches Dean take the first puff of smoke.
“Bet you’d like that a lot, right? Pushing me over and fucking me?” Dean asks. “You’ve been dreaming about it, right? Dreaming long and hard about driving me crazy. You could, if you wanted to. You could do some of that grandiose shit, like realizing your destiny inside me. Yeah, I like that. You gonna realize your destiny inside my ass, Sam? Do I have to be the whore that spells it out for you?”
Dean takes a long drag off the cigarette, walking up to Sam’s trapped form. Sam closes his eyes and sees Dean’s body in front of him, naked and on his knees, sucking at Sam’s cock, bending over to let Sam play with him. Behind Sam's eyelids is the image of fingers inside that ass and then finally Sam’s long cock, all sweet and hot, moans in his ears and tingling in his toes. Dean pulls his cigarette out of his mouth, and leans up as close as he could, still face to face with Sam. “You could never have to worry about what your place in the afterlife would be if you would just accept it.”
“Dean,” Sam moans.
“Your cock could be in my ass by now if you’d just give in,” Dean offers. “They sent me for a reason, and you know what that reason is, don’t you.”
“I wouldn’t even…” The idea of giving into the ink, spiraling down his arms and legs and turning his eyes red with anger and hate and blood seems incomprehensible, unattainable.
“I bet I can change your mind real easy on that one,” Dean grins, stepping back to produce a weathered leather sheath of knives, pulling out a lanky paring knife, letting it hover in dead air between the two of them. “Filleted the skin right off Sarah’s bones with this one. You should’ve heard just how sweet she screamed for me. You would have loved it, brother of mine. It was so powerful, you would have lusted to hear it again after the high, holding someone’s life in your hands and letting your grip settle around them until you know you’ve taken it away.”
“Dean, that’s not you talking, and you know it,” Sam moans. “That’s what they’ve told you to think.”
“Didn’t start out that way, though. She tried to hold out, y’know? Be strong and all, right? Funny how hell teaches patience that way, how the most invigorating thing in the world is to see the moment after that self righteous bullshit passes and you can see nothing but fear, worry, lust. Hate, Sammy,” Dean continues, playing with the weight of it in his hands. Easing up on the whammy just enough to let Sam watch, he trails the blade over the skin of his palm, splitting skin deep enough that a pinstripe of blood falls away, starts dragging down Dean’s hand. Dean covers his palm with his mouth, lurid tongue slipping down over the wound. Instantly, Sam’s hard, looking like he can feel that tongue on the side of his cock already, and when Dean reveals his lip painted in his own blood, Sam’s heart starts palpitating.
“It’s not ‘Sammy’, Dean. And besides, you’re not going to do this to me,” Sam shakes his head, desperate. “Someone just summoned you up and gave you Dean’s face so you could spook me, that’s it.”
“Oh, Sam?” Dean responds, tucking the point of the knife right under Sam’s chin, lifting it for them to meet eye-to-eye. “You think you’re in a position to demand while I have a knife on you? How quaint, college boy. Legalese your way out of this one.”
Dean brings the knife down to Sam’s chest, tearing through his shirt and leading the point of the knife down to Sam’s nipple, cutting just under one before outlining the muscle in blood. Dean brings his mouth down for that, too. Tongue licking at the wounds.
“The way I see it, Sam,” Dean stresses as he backs away, cutting softly through Sam’s boxers with the knife before settling it back down and picking up his cigarette again to take another drag, “is that you have two choices. The first is that I could gain a lot of pleasure from torturing you, bleed you dry with my mind, not caring about your being my brother because frankly, I’m on orders and a good soldier like me would never hesitate to pop his little pest of a brother between the eyes. One wrong slice and boom, corporeal pain is done, fire and brimstone, tight-packed rooms and did I mention to you the part where that Foucaut guy you used to love talking about was right about there being that nifty ‘panopti-whatever-y’ thing? Got a lot of time to experience that one in hell, tell you what. And no, Sam, before you ask you won’t have anything resembling a do-over. You’ll suffer and hate and hunger and then when your time’s been served, you serve some more time because the demons need something to laugh at. Welcome to the rest of eternity, Sam Winchester.”
“Or what?” Sam asks. He’s naked with his hands over his head and one of his nipples bleeding gratuitously. It’s about time he properly weighted his options.
“Or,” Dean pauses dramatically, letting the knife patiently sink into the skin of Sam’s bellybutton, a complicated knick that hurts more than it bleeds, and bleeds more than it hurts. “You could do everything you want to me and accept what’s genuinely yours. Earth, Sam. The battleground for our war. We’d be immortal, you’d never have to experience the pain and suffering that happens in there. I would like nothing more than to see you realize that you never have to hurt again, Sam. When they started looking for someone to convince you, I wanted to do it so bad. I never want that for you, Sam. I’d do it all over again a million times if I knew you never had to even see it.”
“Dean,” Sam starts, but the whammy pushes him backward, makes his mouth sluggish and makes him feel like his voice box has been torn from his neck.
“Please,” Dean hisses as he carefully runs the knife along the side of Sam’s cock. Groaning, Sam’s eyes drift closed as he tries to breathe, breath tight and hissing in and out, over and over again. “I wouldn’t think you’d simply give into my whim just because I teased you a little or made you bleed, right?”
Sam chokes on his air, the handle of the blade easing over the head of his cock. His eyes flutter shut and he tries to move to no avail, Dean’s got him held up to the wall of his own apartment and he’s not coming down until Dean gets an answer, he can tell.
“If you just used those powers of yours, the ones you’ve been trying to stop for so long, you could just let them take your body over, Sam. And you could stop all of this. You could die and be reborn in a blink of an eye, if you just listened to yourself for a second or two,” Dean offers. He puts the paring knife down to pick up a bigger one that looks a bit like a cleaver, running it down the hair of Sam’s thighs, knotting his nerves at the back of his spine. “You’re being a good boy, you know. Perhaps a little reward is in order.”
Sam’s toes curl without him even noticing, as Dean cuts carefully in a straight line from the top of his thigh to the bottom, a nice perfectly straight line of blood that can’t stop like the cuts on Sam’s chest. At this rate, even though only one side of his body is bleeding, Sam knows Dean could just apply a little pressure on him and Sam could bleed himself to a slow, torturous death at his brother’s hands. All Dean wants is to save Sam, and Sam thinks that’s the kindest thing anybody’s ever done for him, sure. It’s just the fact that it’s also the most sinister, hideous thing Sam’s ever conceived at the same time. A growing part of him wants to take advantage, to hold Dean down and take all of that power right out of him, eating it himself and going out into the world, causing as much destruction as he can for making this his life, his existence. It’s inescapable, and Sam can understand the temptation Dean brings with him. Dean finishes his cigarette, and it smells of death, like the screams of tortured masses and suffering of the deserving. Sam wonders if that’s what’s keeping Dean here until he finishes the job. Sam wonders if Dean thought himself as ‘deserving’.
Sam thinks Dean looks a bit old, though not overworked. This Dean looks like the kind of guy who would appreciate long massages and manicures as much as he’d feel waxing the Impala would be an integral part of his perfect Sunday. Dean swaggers to the window, looking outside to see the Impala in her normal parking spot and looks back to Sam.
“You kept her up for me. I can feel her power, can’t wait to take my baby for a drive, Sam. C’mon. You know what I did I did for you. That’s all I’ve ever cared about, Sam. About doing what’s right by you. I died, and I’m still caring about what you’ll have to do in your life. About what you’ll have to experience if you go down there. Everybody goes. Heaven’s been sealed off for millennia, and we suffer for it. I don’t want you suffering for nobody, Sam. Don’t want you feeling what I felt.”
“That justifies what you’ve done?” Sam asks, quietly. “Do you think that justifies what you want me to do?”
Dean never takes his eyes off the impala, hand on the window. He sneaks a look at Sam, and a look almost tired, like his mission all his life and now in his afterlife, too, has been to take care of Sam. Sam never asked for that, never wanted it, but understands what circumstances would have changed it. Secretly, he wants nothing fore to change it. Dean straightens.
“Make up your mind, already.” He snaps. “I’ll even let you say it, let you beg me for it.”
Sam feels like he can speak again, but doesn’t want to try. Tendrils of vision still lick at the small of his back, silent heat that makes him feel horny enough to do anything in pursuit of a good fuck, but there’s more to this than just a good fuck. This is standing in the way of a moving train to make sure that Dean and he can be together for a nice long while, and if that train so happens to fall off the track, catching a few deserving souls, so be it. Dean’s already committed his act of love, and it’s time for Sam to fucking show up.
“I’m doing this for you, Sam.” Dean says.
“I know,” Sam says. “I want you, Dean. I want…”
Dean looks from the window, reaching to take another sip of red liquid, of blood from the deserving, Sam thinks forcefully. This will be a harsh existence, but to hear of the things that Dean had to go through makes this seem like a drop in the bucket. Sam’s not going to let go this time, not for anybody’s sake.
“I want to be inside you,” Sam says, dead calm. “I’ll give into whatever you think I should, but I want to be in you. I want to walk this earth with you, I want to kill for you, I want you to stay with me.”
He gives in, vision shaking and clouding until it’s all black, helpless and dead quiet. His fingers curl in, he can hear his heart stop and in the sweet silence of it all, his heartbeat reverses. Thump-thud, thump-thud, like his heart is pumping his blood in the opposite direction, solid and unyielding, hot and helpless. When his vision clears, Sam can see everything in pinpoint sharpness, like his senses have been bolstered by those who cannot sense anymore. He can feel the power of punishment, and the sheer need to build that power is overwhelming, intoxicating. Finally, Sam can realize why Dean gave in.
Breaking Dean’s defenses is as easy as thinking about how he wants to see Dean spread out, naked and writhing in his bed, a cretin under his thumb, all charcoal to be consumed by Sam’s fire. He breaks free from Dean’s grip, holding out a hand to clench around Dean’s neck. Dean simply smiles at him, putting out the cigarette in his hand.
“You don’t breathe?” Sam asks, curious.
“Neither do you,” Dean eases. “Not anymore.”
“Good.” Sam says, forcing his hand tighter around Dean’s neck. “Bow.”
“Make me,” Dean snaps. Sam smiles and picks up the knife behind Dean on the counter, holding the tip to his face.
“I could think of a few ways,” Sam says, casually, as he watches the knife slice into the skin of Dean’s high cheekbone. Dean, crazy fuck he is, closes his eyes and grins, as if he indulges in the feel. Something tells Sam to stab into Dean’s hand, slice through his hand or pierce into Dean’s torso, but Sam tries not to think about that. Instead, he thinks about all the ways he could play with Dean, all the ways he could make Dean do what he wanted, all the ways he could take advantage in the way Dean’s taken advantage of him, and that seems so much more delicious, more sinful. He makes sure Dean can see every detail, can feel every emotion bristling against his skin, every sensation triggered in his brain.
“Sam,” Dean warns, but his whole body seizes still as Sam drags the knife to cut through his shirt, ending at his belt. There’s a pause, a few quick seconds to undo Dean’s buckle and shuck off the leather belt for later, and Sam quickly shreds his jeans to pieces.
“Bet I could do anything I wanted with you. Have you on a pretty little leash, drag you around, fuck you any way I so desired,” Sam hisses. “You’re my property now. You want to be my equal or my pet?”
Dean looks at him submissively.
“I bet I could even kill you,” Sam spits, “over and over again, until I got tired of you. Leave you off to the side while I play with a new toy.”
“You couldn’t do that, Sam.” Dean shakes his head. “Anybody else, maybe. But not me, never me.”
“I want nothing to do with you,” Sam says, hot in Dean’s ear, hand still possessively around Dean’s neck. Dean’s legs slide like quicksilver around Sam’s waist, as he bends backwards, holding onto the counter while Sam’s hand extends to keep it’s grip firm. “I don’t want this.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Sammy.” Dean smiles, bearing his weight down on Sam’s hips, searching around for Sam’s cock until it seems easy to just slide backwards, slide down on it. “It’s been in you all along. But I’ll be the one that makes it blossom now.”
Dean’s ass is pure indulgence, warm and slick and tight, and Sam supposes it might just be another executive perk straight from Lucifer himself. It’s easy to lean the knife back down onto the counter, push Dean’s body backward and drive right in, Dean’s wordless cry cheering him on.
“You love it. Slut.” Sam hisses. “Want you so bad. Wanted this forever.”
“For you.” Dean says, his cheek still bleeding as Sam pushes into him again and again, teasing him again and again, like he’s curious to see Dean at the end of his rope. Sam likes that idea a lot, likes the idea of Dean as his hungry soldier. Sex and blood starved, Dean would do anything for him, would kill on command without question and where Sam had never actually seen that before, it’s like a beacon straight from Dean’s ass to Sam’s mind, just another part of conversion, another part of Sam’s innocence and humanity and compassion gone. Dean gets Sam off, but Sam can’t even feel it, his head filled with thoughts of glory and ownership.
Suddenly, Sam stumbles back, pain wracking his whole body as bones crunch and slide against each other with a loud squeak. Sam’s body is awkward, and he folds into himself in order to stay sane, sitting back against the countertop. He’s still hard, still wanting to ease back inside Dean, but the headache is so loud it feels like his brain’s going to explode, and his veins ache with liquid fire that burns him alive. It’s the sins, his mind supplies, burning off of him before he can be genuinely pure and capable of evil. That makes no sense at all, but the pain is sense enough.
“It’s gonna hurt, tonight, Sam. It always hurts when you take on extra powers, extra spirit,” Dean says, soft. “Stay with me. Don’t go to work today. Stay and sleep and let it take its course. You can have me as much as you like. As much as you want. You need someone to watch over you for a while, is all.”
Sam feels like he wants to cut into Dean, see how that body works and then suddenly, he’s on the floor, wracked with the pain and suffering of millions, as the power overwhelms the room, electric energy completely converted into pain underneath Sam’s skin. The ink blossoms down his whole naked body, runes and symbols and colors Sam’s never even heard of before, all there in front of him. Dean picks him up, and while Sam tries to struggle and push him away, Dean wretches Sam’s hair back to look Sam in the eye.
“You’re not going to get through this alone. I’m not going anywhere, Sammy,” Dean says softly, and his tone cuts through Sam’s pain like that knife through skin. Sam thinks of incinerators in his stomach and compressors in his mind, exquisite machinery used for nothing but the most awful ideas, and between all of that is Dean, his brother who’s always taken care of him.
The pain eats away at his body, breaking it down so it can be rebuilt stronger, but as Dean picks him up and carries him to the bed, Sam knows that everything’s going to turn out alright.
‘Alright’ just has a different meaning, now.
Sam awakens and discovers that he can’t see anything through the haze of pain, body disconnected from the world, all his senses shut off. He jostles in bed, shaking and crying out and when no voice comes from his mouth, he wonders if this is what genuine betrayal is, what it feels like.
Dean’s touch in him is soothing when it appears, like real relief from one of the things Sam’s refused to admit he’s scared of. He’s really afraid of it, though, more than he wants to admit.
I’m here. Go back to sleep.
When Sam wakes up next, he’s a girl, and all the tattoos are gone. He’s laying in the valley of generous breasts and amazing thighs and he realizes that the playboy pinup he’s been using for a pillow is his brother. Dean still looks like himself, if he were originally a girl. All angular face and pouty lips and gleaming happy eyes to go along with that brilliant flat stomach and Brazilian waxed pussy.
“You like, Sammy?” He asks, and Sam’s head lifts.
“Dean?” Sam asks. “What the hell is…”
“Told you it was gonna hurt. You were pretty bad for a few hours, there. Didn’t think you were gonna be able to take it. Turns out hell’s got a wicked sense of humor. Something about your purity, blah blah blah, living the pains of both genders,” Dean says, playing with his tits and stealing a kiss from Sam’s mouth. “Comes in handy once you master it in a bar or a threesome, or in bed or a home goods store, for that matter.”
“I was gonna ask you about that,” Sam says, running his hands along Dean’s stomach, into his hips, rubbing at Dean’s clit.
“They have ‘em in hell,” Dean says, shrugging. “Hell’s a lot like South Beach Miami after you do your time in the big penitentiary of sin and all that good shit. Could shop at the tenth ring wal-mart, if I so fancied, but that’s usually too long of a ride and they never have the stuff I want when I could just go to a mom-and-pop shop in the mall on third. ‘Support your local businesses’ and all that good shit, you know.”
“I suppose,” Sam says.
“Take you on a tour, one of these days. You’ve got stock options in it, now. 401K, too, good health benefits,” Dean shrugs. “Now come here, stay still and let me pop your cherry again. Got a problem with that?” Dean says, hands in Sam’s hair.
“Not really,” Sam smiles. Dean puts the whammy on him, making his arms as heavy as lead, and when Dean finds his clit, moving his tongue around in long wet strokes, it travels up Sam’s spine like an electrocution. Sam can see things in different colors, and the only thing he can think about is how Dean’s thinking about him, like a closed circuit.
Dean opens Sam’s legs and goes for it, easing Sam into accepting a finger, then two, with promises of soon accepting whatever Dean wants to give him in this body, and when Sam thinks about how ironic all of this is, and how unlucky he really could have been, he’s just happy he has his brother at his side. Even when he’s evil, Sam doesn’t think he could imagine doing anything else with his brother right now. He just lays back and lets Dean lick his pussy and call him ‘your sovereignty’. It’s suddenly funny enough to make sense, and Sam lays back, Hands in Dean’s shoulder length hair, enjoying that wicked tongue and how tight his whole body feels, like fire and evil and a calm sense of security, more safe than Sam’s ever felt.
Dean wills Sam’s petite hand to reach down and slide two fingers in beside Dean’s, stretching him out even further, and as Dean silently ushers him to come, thumb tucked just under Sam’s clit, fingers piston in time with Sam’s as they both jerk in and out, Sam knows this is genuinely much more comforting than anything he did back when he was a hunter, or back when Dean was alive the first time. Dean cares about him, cares about him enough to make deals with the Devil himself, cares about him enough to subject himself to the only mission no demon could ever take on, and succeeding means that Sam and Dean will live to see the earth fall at their hands. Then, after that, they’ll take on heaven’s angels, and eventually, Sam thinks as blood rushes to his crotch and his toes ball up and he starts panting so hard he’s shaking, muscles contracting in ripples down his fingers as Dean chuckles, he’ll take on hell.
Sam thinks of owning everything, and then he comes.
“I think you might be a gusher, Sammy. If we fuck you enough,” Dean says, all vixenish and hot, taking Sam’s hand and licking the two wet fingers softly. “Gonna have to fuck you a lot more like this, though.”
“I think I could get with that,” Sam smiles, hands on Dean’s curvaceous hips as they slither together, side by side, eye to eye. Sam’s toes, petite and soft, curl around Dean’s calf and Dean produces a double ended cock from somewhere, and sinks it into Sam easy, holding Sam’s hips down as he forces the dildo in and out before sliding the free end into himself, until he’s grinding against it too, ferocious and hard like it’s the real thing fucking Sam’s pussy like it’s about to go out of style. They’re holding onto each other, and spend the day fucking, just like this, fingers and hands linked, mouths on breasts, faces in hair.
Tomorrow, Sam will cause the first of his destruction in order to build for his empire. They will go to Los Angeles and tear apart the city within ten days. First, they'll destroy the believers, then the non-believers, then the apathetic ones who have nothing to believe in. Sam will find newer, better fitting clothes for this new body of his, including hot French lingerie that gets Dean right where it hurts no matter what's genitals he's decided to wear on any given day, and when Sam goes in to fight his first battle of flesh and fire and walks out, all that remains is black lace and the blood of the deserving.
Dean will bristle like a proper older brother again.
It’s going to be very odd, the first few times. Sam can feel it even in his passive visions, now, laying in bed with Dean in a body that very well could have been his first if only he’d been born a girl. But there are some things that just don’t change: his eyes aren’t yellow, red, or any other ‘demonic color’, he loves his brother, and he loves the hunt.
Knowing that, Sam can’t barely wait, no matter what body he’s in. If Dean's as bloodthirsty as he is fuck crazy and loyal to the point of insanity, Sam knows this is going to turn out well.
crossposted to LJ, GJ, JF, Supernatural_nb and Vichan's journal.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through Second Season: reveals the ending to All Hell Breaks Loose 2.
Summary: Blasphemy, Informing a meat puppet of the true secrets in hell, Shoplifting, Kidnapping, Setting things on fire, Stealing a Car, Incest, Alcohol poisoning, Cutting up bodies, Making fun of the CW network, Turning night into day, Using Whammy without a divine license, and allowing your to turn brother into a girl so he can take over the kingdoms of Heaven and Earth. Dean Winchester knows it's illegal and if not that, morally dubious , but since he's dead and all, it's pretty much real hard to care.
Warnings: Humor, although it might be badly executed. Evil!Dean. Character death. Knifeplay, Genderswap, Schmoop, femslash, snark, bloodplay, whammy/mindfuck.
Notes: For the Evil!Dean challenge that was due a few days ago, but I'm kind of glad I held onto this, because last night it took me in a whole other direction. The porn is a little lacking in this case, but I'm sure you can forgive me. Not quite as sinister as I would have liked, but I'm proud of it.
Prompts: Dean's not really destined for eternal fire. He works his way up the ladder and ends up working for Hell's elite and Evil!Dean convinces guilt ridden trying-to-resist-my-evil-resurrected-urges Sam to turn entirely evil. When Sam finally does, Evil!Dean comforts.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
W/C: ~ 8300
This isn’t really a love story. That is, unless you squint, see through all the calamity of Sam's life nowadays.
It’s really the story of how Sam’s just plain unlucky.
Sam had twelve months where he felt like a parent on a timetable. Twelve months of trying to keep Dean out of trouble, and help him undo his curse. It’d been hard, Dean’s death wish was apparent for what it was worth, and because of it, they lived a steady life on the run from everything, not just the demons or the law.
Sam’s place in Dean’s year was spent focused upon buying extra time in Dean’s contract, and keeping him alive for as long as possible. The crossroads demon had been ruthless about the deal though, and Sam would drain of color even as he simply talked about what he was going to try in order to get Dean out of this predicament.
The night Dean’s contract runs out isn’t the stuff that Harlequin novels are made of. It’s Dean leaning into Sam in the Impala’s back seat, drunkenly affectionate as the hour grows near.
“Take care of my car, Sammy,” Dean says. “And don’t go making any deals to bring me back, y’hear? One Winchester has to set this shit straight.”
“Dean…What are…” Sam starts, “Why did you…”
“I did it for you,” Dean says, quietly. “Wanted you to be happy, alive. Wanted you to be normal, like you wanted. Go fall in love again, Sam. Go…go be a lawyer. Go back to school.”
“Dean,” Sam whispers, and watches as Dean takes another long swig of his bottle of Johnny Walker, laying down with a hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey as his last meal on Sam’s lap.
“Sam, I love you,” Dean sobs. “Please, for me.”
“I…”
“I’ll be alright, Sammy. You just take care of yourself,” Dean whispers, kissing Sam affectionate, fierce and deep before his eyes slide shut and his face falls lax. Sam knows the true nature of grief, of helplessness, and the searing pain of never telling Dean the things he always wanted to.
It almost takes six months, but little by little, Sam moves on. Fake name, new apartment, two steady jobs fixing engines day in and waiting tables day out. Sam keeps the Impala, waxes her and conditions her leather every Sunday and makes sure to change the oil himself, metal pan on cardboard in his very own garage. And slowly, the pain of Dean’s death eases away. It will never disappear, much like the death of his father and the death of the mother he never knew, but it becomes a wound that closes up, scar deep and slow to heal and with an ache softly dulling away.
It’s the dulling pain that makes Sam’s first vision in what feels like eons intolerable. Laying in bed, he can see Dean on the back of his eyelids.
Dean’s tongue flits over his lips, a pretty and wide lick as he walks along the side of the road on a rural highway. A sign nearby says he’s in Minnesota, and Dean pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his bag, tapping them softly on the heel of his hand before pulling one out and pressing the end to his tongue, lighting it afire spontaneously as he pushes the rest of the pack into the back of low-slung black jeans that look like they’re meant for his ass.
Cars pass, and when Dean flags one over, a pretty little vintage GTO, he opens the door wordlessly.
“Where you goin?” the driver asks. Dean sweeps his hand to the side gracefully, and the man gets out of the car calmly, walking up to Dean and putting the keys in Dean’s hand.
“Wherever I want, isn’t that right?” Dean grins indulgently. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all. Take good care of her, don’t fill it up with that ethanol shit.”
Dean looks out the window, and during the drive into St. Louis, he stops at a gas station. A few waves of his hand, and he’s taking the pump to fill up the tank. He’s careful, as careful as he always has been with the impala, and when he’s done, he walks over to the trash can and draws a rune in gas around it. He takes an unlit cigarette from his mouth, and pouts his lips, drawing enough spit that when he spits at the trash can while the car leans ready like it’s about to drive away, it bursts into flame.
Dean, ever the person to understand genuine irony of predicaments like the one he’s placed himself in, pokes his head out further and lights his cigarette on the burning trash can before driving off into the city with only one thing on his mind: Harvelle.
Sam sits up, and tries to catch his breath. His heart is racing and he has to get up in three hours to go wait more tables at the diner, but right now all he can think of is how he salted, burned, and prayed over Dean’s funeral pyre, silent tears and whispered Latin passages. Dean’s supposed to be the property of the Crossroads demon, and there’s no reason why Dean should be up in corporeal form again, no matter how relieving the idea of being with Dean again could be. It would be nice to see Dean, and hear his voice again, but Sam knows how it happened with him, that little bud of hell waiting like a landmine to be properly stepped on. If Dean’s been re-animated, chances are he’s genuinely demented, if not demonic, and knows how Sam has sworn off hunting since his death.
Long story short: Sam trusts his visions, and Sam knows he’s fucked.
The next day, Sam gets word from Bobby that Jo was found empty, like she’d been a body for demon possession, a meat puppet, for all of two hours before her neck was snapped and her body was vacated. There was a thumbprint on her forehead, burned in, and Sam somehow gets it quicker than he can even explain to Bobby.
There’s news of how all the people in a Bed, Bath and Beyond in St. Louis disappeared instantly at seven o’six that night, and Sam purses his lips together at the news report in the tv in the diner. He wonders why the hell demons, (or Dean, for that matter) would be buying bed linens and steak knives, anyway.
Needless to say, He starts sharpening his knives and oiling his guns.
It’s been three days, and Sam’s getting another vision again, from underneath a Toyota Camry from 1987. He smacks his head on the rear axel and curses up a storm in several languages. There’s oil draining from the engine, and Sam’s glad to be on his back in the garage instead of in the middle of the diner.
“Sam,” Dean moans, eyes black like night, as his hands clutch onto skin, floating up into shaggy brown hair. “Sam, please.”
Sam’s skin has tattoos, runes and satanic crosses, delicate tribal work and Japanese incantations. His muscles jump out, and his voice is deeper than ever. “You deserve this. Say it.”
“I deserve this,” Dean whispers, suddenly stricken of the will to speak, the will to breathe, like his whole body can’t work. Hands open his legs, and Sam thrusts into him hard and resolute, like he’s looking to teach Dean some kind of lesson. “I deserve this.”
“Of course you do,” Sam says. “Pledge your allegiance to me and I’ll go easy on you. Go on, let me hear it. Let me hear you before I fuck you good enough to have you begging.”
“Sam,” Dean breathes, hands like eels searching through skin like water. Sam thrusts in, and Dean wails, arching into Sam’s hands. “Sam…I…”
“Say it,” Sam hisses, “answer me. Tell me who you belong to.”
“I…” Dean sighs.
“You’ll take this all day, if I so please,” Sam barks, thrusting in again. “Your coy act won’t win you any mercy.”
“I’m yours, your sovereignty. I am an arm of your will, a tool of your justice. A…” A shaky breath escapes, and Sam thrusts in so hard Dean starts to scream. “I’m your liege. A servant willing to fall to your every whim. Your soldier. Your brother. Your lover in arms, your sovereignty.”
“My champion,” Sam grins. Thrusting in harder. “I do like the sound of that.”
Dean just cries out, softly, and lets Sam take what he wants.
Sam pulls himself from underneath the car, and tilts his head back against cool metal, trying hard not to imagine ways this could be worse. There are invisible fingers on his skin, and he swears to himself he sees the start of ink blossoming across the palm of one of his hands. Trying to fathom anything other than Dean’s death, Dean in hell with no way of coming back into this plane of existence, and Dean taking glee in causing hellfire and turning people dark-side with just the touch of a wet finger makes Sam’s fingers and toes course with panic, sheer and plain.
“Fuck,” Sam groans, and realizes there’s motor oil in his hair. That’s a bitch to get out, demonic possession or not, and when Sam realizes that Dean can probably see him as clearly as he sees Dean in these visions, he gets the chills.
He gets a vision of Bobby’s death as it happens, in the middle of a hot shower after a long day. He curls into himself, making sure that his hands can’t hit anything, and then sits down under the spray, like he’s trying to hide even though he knows Dean’s states away.
Dean grabs onto a bottle of liquor with one hand and a linen napkin with the other. Dean grabs Bobby’s collar silently, pulling him up and stuffing the cloth in his mouth.
"Fun fact. Most of the alcohol content in liquor gets absorbed before it leaves your mouth. You never actually have to drink any of it, you could just get hammered off holding it then spitting it back out. True story,” Dean says, casually and rather out of character. Sam reminds himself that this obviously isn’t his old Dean, given the fact that he went linens shopping before taking out one of the only surviving family friends that still exist to the Winchesters. “So, I figured, Bobby, that a boozehound like you could probably take it if, you know, I gave you a serious case of alcohol poisoning before I burnt you and your house down. And take it from me, that napkin will light up better than a Christmas tree at the mall. Got the numbers on the best linen content straight from Lucifer himself.”
Bobby tries to spit the cloth from his mouth, tries to struggle but his limbs become sluggish, the alcohol taking effect before he can attempt any kind of escape.
“Oh, baby, I love it when you struggle like that. Reminds me of all the drunk girls I used to bang back when I was still alive and working with you,” Dean smiles. “You can stop being coy with me, Bobby! I’m gonna kill you anyway.”
With a sharp fist to the jaw, Dean puts Bobby on the floor, and draws circles around him with the extra liquor left over. He covers the books, all of the ancient trinkets that bobby used to keep in case of fucked up circumstances just like this one, and then spits clear in bobby’s face, torching the linen in Bobby’s mouth before leaving.
“Coming for you, Sovereignty. Hope you enjoyed the show,” Dean mumbles, getting back into his car, and driving away.
Sam’s shaking, crying as the vision coalesces and then clears, and he’s glad he’s sitting down already because if he weren’t, he’d have passed out. It’s obvious Dean’s got power, and that he’s been luring himself to Sam in order to track him, find him, seek him out, and now, all that’s left to do is wait.
It’s the waiting that makes Sam want to vomit.
It’s been two weeks, and Sam's visions are so intense now that as he gets them, he can feel them with his whole body. Torment floods his bloodstream, tight and hot and pulsing, he can see it all. Late every night, now, he feels so incredibly filled, so undeniably fucked, like his limbs are being moved by someone else, held out of the way while Sam groans like he’s being invaded at both ends, taken advantage of like it’s all he worth. And finally, Dean’s voice drills into his head, holding him off from another senseless orgasm.
“Sam,” Dean asks in his head, and it’s enough to make Sam give in, watch as black ink slowly creeps up his arm and back down the other, runes in languages Sam’s never even seen and symbols that are inherently evil being drawn down his back with invisible hands. His ears ring, and he grasps tight at his sheets, and the whole ordeal makes him think twice about fighting how good this feels.
In his visions, he can see Dean standing on asphalt, making whole roads and regions disappear into ghost towns, walking onto a main street and leaving it in a pile of ash, burnt to a crisp in mere minutes, if Dean wants him to hear the cries of innocent blood being spilt.
"Dean?" He calls out. "It can't be you."
"Why not, Sammy?" Dean asks, leisurely. Sam rolls over to find he's sitting on a chair at a table that wasn't in the room a few seconds before, drinking a glass of red liquor and looking out the window. It’s 3AM and blazing orange sunlight fills the room. Sam reaches for the knife under his pillow, and Dean grins like an idiot, like he used to. “you think that can hurt me? I’m pure hellfire, you can’t even see me unless I want you to. And Sammy, I don’t know where you got the idea that a day like this wouldn’t come, but baby, I want you to see me. Everything about me.”
"You're supposed to be..." Sam starts.
"What? Dead?" Dean asks, standing up tall in a way Sam's never seen before. It's been two years since Dean simply collapsed in his arms, year to the minute. He looks as he did then, pale and just a little weak. He brings the glass up to his lips and makes a show of finishing the liquid. "Funny how hell works when you're determined and you've got leverage."
"Leverage?" Sam asks. "Leverage like what?"
"Leverage like you," Dean smiles. "Got a special message direct to you from hell, wanna know what it is?"
Sam stays quiet, and Dean prowls up slow like he’s walking through molasses, slower than they both know he should be physically able to. Dean feels hot and cold and like a stab through the heart all at once, he smells like the rose, cucumber, and vanilla candles he probably stole from Bed, Bath, and Beyond along with those people and those napkins.
Dean hovers close into Sam. When he touches Sam's face, it feels like an endless electric shock in his core, fire licking at Sam's spine. His breath tickles on the back of Sam's neck. "He may be gone, but you're ours."
"I'm not the property of hell, Dean," Sam says, calm as he can muster. "I don't understand what you mean."
Dean's hand clenches on his shoulder, and suddenly, There's full body invasion like he's being possessed again, his legs shift, and his body heats up with power, the tendrils of an orgasm licking down at his core, his hands shaking with whammy in flavors Sam's never even fathomed before. He gets the vision of immortality, of winning a holy war with angels and humans bowing to his feet, pleading for mercy. He can feel Dean behind him, ever his faithful consort, his lover, a chameleon ready to do whatever he asks. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs, Sam realizes, imagining the rush he'd get with Dean on his knees at his feet, as well. Pretty big brother, willing and able and so submissive he'll never say no. Sam won't let him.
"You'll understand, soon," Dean whispers, giant grin on his face. Sam falls to his knees from the power, from the assault and when he finally returns to himself, Dean is gone, along with the light, the power, and the tattoo ink that has been taunting Sam for weeks.
Sam gets up and finds his room is empty and the sun is normal outside. There are still buildings and people outside his window, and it’s like dean never was even there. Sam smiles, gets up to take a piss and fix his hair, and puts on a t-shirt before he goes to make himself some coffee.
“Fooled ya,” Dean smiles, the next morning, sitting on the kitchen countertop next to the brand new stainless steel coffee maker. This Bed, Bath and Beyond joke is getting fucking old. “So, Sammy, what’s the job for today, huh? Oil under your fingers or serving up the meatloaf special, huh? Should have taken that appealing nightclub job offered a few weeks back, your future would have been bright, there.”
Sam stops, knowing he’s still half-naked and tired from last night and almost turns and goes back to bed. Anxiety pools at the base of his spine, like there’s something wrong with this that has nothing to do with Dean’s new lease on a body or his new tendency to shoplift from home and lifestyle chain stores, and more to do with the fact that all Sam wants to do with that body is haul it to bed with him, see what makes Dean tick, even if he’s evil as sin itself.
“Ah,” Dean smirks and pets Sam’s head, ruffling his hair like he’s talking to a puppy. “Pretty little thing still have feelings for me, doncha? Boy, Sammy. Sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”
“I…” Sam asks. “How is this possible?”
“Like I said last night, leverage. Climbed my way to the top of the corporate ladder in the pokey down there,” Dean helpfully points down to the floor with a grin. “Had your name as an impressive little reference, and, well, you know my sort of dedication.”
“Fuck you,” Sam spits, sheer acid as he pushes past Dean to get to the coffee pot. “I always hated it when you patronized me while you were alive.”
“Here,” Dean says, reaching for a mug. “I already made you a pot. Bad coffee, though. Folgers isn’t nearly as good up here as it is down in hell. Anyway, it just so happened that my superiors liked me enough to give me a cushy corporate office, a nice little blood-powered hot rod, all classy-like and all. Got a better apartment than that terra-hole they put me in. Studio loft, very old Hollywood, James Dean rents me the place, he’s got a timeshare on the fifth ring he absolutely loves and can’t be separated from half the time. You know how it is.”
“You sound like an investment banker.”
“I was, for a while. Looked better in a suit down there than I ever did up here, if you ask me. It’s all about souls, and all that jazz. Sin doesn’t matter to the Soul market. It’s all a matter of souls, Sammy.” Dean says, watching as Sam looks at the pot of coffee before throwing it down the drain. “Hey!”
“Yeah, right. Like I’m going to drink coffee made by my demon brother,” Sam snorts.
“Still know how to hurt people with words, don’t you?” Dean says, bitterly. He recovers easily, “It’s a good think you still call me your brother, Sam, or I’d have to forcefully transform you. I gave all that fine living up for this body. For you. To walk terra and convert flesh into air. And to convert you into the person you were meant to become. Could be a sitcom, on TV around here. Like Green Acres with the last dying flames of Buffy the Vampire slayer, y’know? Fall down Boy could do the theme song. The CW would pick it up.”
“What does that mean?” Sam asks.
“That I watch way too much TV in hell,” Dean smiles bitterly, as his voice dips low. “Seriously, I think you know what I’m going to say, here.”
Sam looks at him, as Dean takes another sip of his glass. “What’s that?”
Dean drinks the whole glass dry. “Haven’t you wondered what I’ve been doing in the past few weeks? I mean, after all, I could have easily just appeared here, without the roadtrip or anything?”
“What?” Sam asks, before Dean reaches over, pressing his lips to Sam’s, forceful and hard, and Sam can taste blood and screams on Dean’s tongue, pure decadence as he can feel Dean’s hands as he stabs Gordon over and over again, as he tortures Jo and simply throws Ellen into hell, swathed with the blood of people who were once their friends, brushing them away and sending them to his superiors down below.
“You know how it feels to be stuck somewhere forever, Sammy? You know how it feels to lose track of time so bad you feel disoriented, you feel crazy? It happens,” Dean whispers, and Sam can see it in the back of his head, can feel the constriction in his body, the silent craze of hysteria as it sears deep into his body, wanting to rip at the skin. “And you know what that means?”
“No,” Sam hisses. “What, Dean?”
Dean’s hand brushes him aside like a loving caress, sheer power throws Sam back into the wall, Dean’s other hand coming out to rob him of his coffee cup. He brings the cup up to his mouth, drinking it in, and spitting it back out. “How the hell do you drink this shit, Sam? Jesus.”
You give into it, Sam. You get used to that fire because you can’t do anything else, Dean’s voice flows like lava in Sam’s head, body still nailed to the wall.
“You can fight,” Sam mumbles.
“What was that?” Dean asks. “What the fuck was that?”
Sam feels a hand closed tight around his hands, around his throat and his legs, spreading them wide and deep. “Didn’t you fight, Dean? Couldn’t you have fought it? And even worse, why would you kill anybody knowing what’s waiting them down there? People we knew and depended on, why would you send them down there?”
Dean smiles sweetly. It’s simple, Sam. Them or me. Can’t keep living in this loaner body without some blood, or without you. And besides, I did this for you. I did it so you would never have to experience the pain of betraying what little family I had left you with. I never said anything about you, to them. I just killed them all, nice and tidy so your hands don’t get bloody with grief. That a bad thing, Sammy? I know how many rules I'm breaking, here, and the punishment for them would not be pretty for a regular demon, nevertheless an ex-pat. I want you to be okay with this, Sam. I came here, i'm doing these things so you can be who we both know you're destined to become. .
“I’m your meal ticket?” Sam asks. “Is that it, is that why you came back?”
“Does this body annoy you, Sam? I could be anybody you want me to be. Jo, Ellen, Dad. But let’s be real here. I know what you want, who you want, don’t I?” Dean says, before his body re-shapes itself into Jess’ petite form.
Sam gasps for air, as he looks at acres of skin, breasts and smooth thighs, aching to touch, to bait for the longest of time.
I can look however you want me to, but we both know who I really am. Nobody else has cared for you, this way.
“Read my mind and tell me who you think I want you to be,” Sam hisses, “I bet you know everything, don’t you? Doing this to torture me, right?”
“You just look so good, being tortured,” Dean says, Jess’ skin falling away to reveal denim and leather. He picks a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, holds it up. “Mind if I smoke in your pad, Sam?"
Sam stays quiet, but Dean pulls out the cigarette anyway and lights it on his tongue.
"Nice hair, by the way. The cowlicks at that length make you look very Barry Gibb. Stayin’ alive and all that disco shit. Maybe later, I’ll cast someone to throw you a white leisure suit terraside, you could practice on your John Travolta impression.”
“Fuck you,” Sam grits his teeth, as he watches Dean take the first puff of smoke.
“Bet you’d like that a lot, right? Pushing me over and fucking me?” Dean asks. “You’ve been dreaming about it, right? Dreaming long and hard about driving me crazy. You could, if you wanted to. You could do some of that grandiose shit, like realizing your destiny inside me. Yeah, I like that. You gonna realize your destiny inside my ass, Sam? Do I have to be the whore that spells it out for you?”
Dean takes a long drag off the cigarette, walking up to Sam’s trapped form. Sam closes his eyes and sees Dean’s body in front of him, naked and on his knees, sucking at Sam’s cock, bending over to let Sam play with him. Behind Sam's eyelids is the image of fingers inside that ass and then finally Sam’s long cock, all sweet and hot, moans in his ears and tingling in his toes. Dean pulls his cigarette out of his mouth, and leans up as close as he could, still face to face with Sam. “You could never have to worry about what your place in the afterlife would be if you would just accept it.”
“Dean,” Sam moans.
“Your cock could be in my ass by now if you’d just give in,” Dean offers. “They sent me for a reason, and you know what that reason is, don’t you.”
“I wouldn’t even…” The idea of giving into the ink, spiraling down his arms and legs and turning his eyes red with anger and hate and blood seems incomprehensible, unattainable.
“I bet I can change your mind real easy on that one,” Dean grins, stepping back to produce a weathered leather sheath of knives, pulling out a lanky paring knife, letting it hover in dead air between the two of them. “Filleted the skin right off Sarah’s bones with this one. You should’ve heard just how sweet she screamed for me. You would have loved it, brother of mine. It was so powerful, you would have lusted to hear it again after the high, holding someone’s life in your hands and letting your grip settle around them until you know you’ve taken it away.”
“Dean, that’s not you talking, and you know it,” Sam moans. “That’s what they’ve told you to think.”
“Didn’t start out that way, though. She tried to hold out, y’know? Be strong and all, right? Funny how hell teaches patience that way, how the most invigorating thing in the world is to see the moment after that self righteous bullshit passes and you can see nothing but fear, worry, lust. Hate, Sammy,” Dean continues, playing with the weight of it in his hands. Easing up on the whammy just enough to let Sam watch, he trails the blade over the skin of his palm, splitting skin deep enough that a pinstripe of blood falls away, starts dragging down Dean’s hand. Dean covers his palm with his mouth, lurid tongue slipping down over the wound. Instantly, Sam’s hard, looking like he can feel that tongue on the side of his cock already, and when Dean reveals his lip painted in his own blood, Sam’s heart starts palpitating.
“It’s not ‘Sammy’, Dean. And besides, you’re not going to do this to me,” Sam shakes his head, desperate. “Someone just summoned you up and gave you Dean’s face so you could spook me, that’s it.”
“Oh, Sam?” Dean responds, tucking the point of the knife right under Sam’s chin, lifting it for them to meet eye-to-eye. “You think you’re in a position to demand while I have a knife on you? How quaint, college boy. Legalese your way out of this one.”
Dean brings the knife down to Sam’s chest, tearing through his shirt and leading the point of the knife down to Sam’s nipple, cutting just under one before outlining the muscle in blood. Dean brings his mouth down for that, too. Tongue licking at the wounds.
“The way I see it, Sam,” Dean stresses as he backs away, cutting softly through Sam’s boxers with the knife before settling it back down and picking up his cigarette again to take another drag, “is that you have two choices. The first is that I could gain a lot of pleasure from torturing you, bleed you dry with my mind, not caring about your being my brother because frankly, I’m on orders and a good soldier like me would never hesitate to pop his little pest of a brother between the eyes. One wrong slice and boom, corporeal pain is done, fire and brimstone, tight-packed rooms and did I mention to you the part where that Foucaut guy you used to love talking about was right about there being that nifty ‘panopti-whatever-y’ thing? Got a lot of time to experience that one in hell, tell you what. And no, Sam, before you ask you won’t have anything resembling a do-over. You’ll suffer and hate and hunger and then when your time’s been served, you serve some more time because the demons need something to laugh at. Welcome to the rest of eternity, Sam Winchester.”
“Or what?” Sam asks. He’s naked with his hands over his head and one of his nipples bleeding gratuitously. It’s about time he properly weighted his options.
“Or,” Dean pauses dramatically, letting the knife patiently sink into the skin of Sam’s bellybutton, a complicated knick that hurts more than it bleeds, and bleeds more than it hurts. “You could do everything you want to me and accept what’s genuinely yours. Earth, Sam. The battleground for our war. We’d be immortal, you’d never have to experience the pain and suffering that happens in there. I would like nothing more than to see you realize that you never have to hurt again, Sam. When they started looking for someone to convince you, I wanted to do it so bad. I never want that for you, Sam. I’d do it all over again a million times if I knew you never had to even see it.”
“Dean,” Sam starts, but the whammy pushes him backward, makes his mouth sluggish and makes him feel like his voice box has been torn from his neck.
“Please,” Dean hisses as he carefully runs the knife along the side of Sam’s cock. Groaning, Sam’s eyes drift closed as he tries to breathe, breath tight and hissing in and out, over and over again. “I wouldn’t think you’d simply give into my whim just because I teased you a little or made you bleed, right?”
Sam chokes on his air, the handle of the blade easing over the head of his cock. His eyes flutter shut and he tries to move to no avail, Dean’s got him held up to the wall of his own apartment and he’s not coming down until Dean gets an answer, he can tell.
“If you just used those powers of yours, the ones you’ve been trying to stop for so long, you could just let them take your body over, Sam. And you could stop all of this. You could die and be reborn in a blink of an eye, if you just listened to yourself for a second or two,” Dean offers. He puts the paring knife down to pick up a bigger one that looks a bit like a cleaver, running it down the hair of Sam’s thighs, knotting his nerves at the back of his spine. “You’re being a good boy, you know. Perhaps a little reward is in order.”
Sam’s toes curl without him even noticing, as Dean cuts carefully in a straight line from the top of his thigh to the bottom, a nice perfectly straight line of blood that can’t stop like the cuts on Sam’s chest. At this rate, even though only one side of his body is bleeding, Sam knows Dean could just apply a little pressure on him and Sam could bleed himself to a slow, torturous death at his brother’s hands. All Dean wants is to save Sam, and Sam thinks that’s the kindest thing anybody’s ever done for him, sure. It’s just the fact that it’s also the most sinister, hideous thing Sam’s ever conceived at the same time. A growing part of him wants to take advantage, to hold Dean down and take all of that power right out of him, eating it himself and going out into the world, causing as much destruction as he can for making this his life, his existence. It’s inescapable, and Sam can understand the temptation Dean brings with him. Dean finishes his cigarette, and it smells of death, like the screams of tortured masses and suffering of the deserving. Sam wonders if that’s what’s keeping Dean here until he finishes the job. Sam wonders if Dean thought himself as ‘deserving’.
Sam thinks Dean looks a bit old, though not overworked. This Dean looks like the kind of guy who would appreciate long massages and manicures as much as he’d feel waxing the Impala would be an integral part of his perfect Sunday. Dean swaggers to the window, looking outside to see the Impala in her normal parking spot and looks back to Sam.
“You kept her up for me. I can feel her power, can’t wait to take my baby for a drive, Sam. C’mon. You know what I did I did for you. That’s all I’ve ever cared about, Sam. About doing what’s right by you. I died, and I’m still caring about what you’ll have to do in your life. About what you’ll have to experience if you go down there. Everybody goes. Heaven’s been sealed off for millennia, and we suffer for it. I don’t want you suffering for nobody, Sam. Don’t want you feeling what I felt.”
“That justifies what you’ve done?” Sam asks, quietly. “Do you think that justifies what you want me to do?”
Dean never takes his eyes off the impala, hand on the window. He sneaks a look at Sam, and a look almost tired, like his mission all his life and now in his afterlife, too, has been to take care of Sam. Sam never asked for that, never wanted it, but understands what circumstances would have changed it. Secretly, he wants nothing fore to change it. Dean straightens.
“Make up your mind, already.” He snaps. “I’ll even let you say it, let you beg me for it.”
Sam feels like he can speak again, but doesn’t want to try. Tendrils of vision still lick at the small of his back, silent heat that makes him feel horny enough to do anything in pursuit of a good fuck, but there’s more to this than just a good fuck. This is standing in the way of a moving train to make sure that Dean and he can be together for a nice long while, and if that train so happens to fall off the track, catching a few deserving souls, so be it. Dean’s already committed his act of love, and it’s time for Sam to fucking show up.
“I’m doing this for you, Sam.” Dean says.
“I know,” Sam says. “I want you, Dean. I want…”
Dean looks from the window, reaching to take another sip of red liquid, of blood from the deserving, Sam thinks forcefully. This will be a harsh existence, but to hear of the things that Dean had to go through makes this seem like a drop in the bucket. Sam’s not going to let go this time, not for anybody’s sake.
“I want to be inside you,” Sam says, dead calm. “I’ll give into whatever you think I should, but I want to be in you. I want to walk this earth with you, I want to kill for you, I want you to stay with me.”
He gives in, vision shaking and clouding until it’s all black, helpless and dead quiet. His fingers curl in, he can hear his heart stop and in the sweet silence of it all, his heartbeat reverses. Thump-thud, thump-thud, like his heart is pumping his blood in the opposite direction, solid and unyielding, hot and helpless. When his vision clears, Sam can see everything in pinpoint sharpness, like his senses have been bolstered by those who cannot sense anymore. He can feel the power of punishment, and the sheer need to build that power is overwhelming, intoxicating. Finally, Sam can realize why Dean gave in.
Breaking Dean’s defenses is as easy as thinking about how he wants to see Dean spread out, naked and writhing in his bed, a cretin under his thumb, all charcoal to be consumed by Sam’s fire. He breaks free from Dean’s grip, holding out a hand to clench around Dean’s neck. Dean simply smiles at him, putting out the cigarette in his hand.
“You don’t breathe?” Sam asks, curious.
“Neither do you,” Dean eases. “Not anymore.”
“Good.” Sam says, forcing his hand tighter around Dean’s neck. “Bow.”
“Make me,” Dean snaps. Sam smiles and picks up the knife behind Dean on the counter, holding the tip to his face.
“I could think of a few ways,” Sam says, casually, as he watches the knife slice into the skin of Dean’s high cheekbone. Dean, crazy fuck he is, closes his eyes and grins, as if he indulges in the feel. Something tells Sam to stab into Dean’s hand, slice through his hand or pierce into Dean’s torso, but Sam tries not to think about that. Instead, he thinks about all the ways he could play with Dean, all the ways he could make Dean do what he wanted, all the ways he could take advantage in the way Dean’s taken advantage of him, and that seems so much more delicious, more sinful. He makes sure Dean can see every detail, can feel every emotion bristling against his skin, every sensation triggered in his brain.
“Sam,” Dean warns, but his whole body seizes still as Sam drags the knife to cut through his shirt, ending at his belt. There’s a pause, a few quick seconds to undo Dean’s buckle and shuck off the leather belt for later, and Sam quickly shreds his jeans to pieces.
“Bet I could do anything I wanted with you. Have you on a pretty little leash, drag you around, fuck you any way I so desired,” Sam hisses. “You’re my property now. You want to be my equal or my pet?”
Dean looks at him submissively.
“I bet I could even kill you,” Sam spits, “over and over again, until I got tired of you. Leave you off to the side while I play with a new toy.”
“You couldn’t do that, Sam.” Dean shakes his head. “Anybody else, maybe. But not me, never me.”
“I want nothing to do with you,” Sam says, hot in Dean’s ear, hand still possessively around Dean’s neck. Dean’s legs slide like quicksilver around Sam’s waist, as he bends backwards, holding onto the counter while Sam’s hand extends to keep it’s grip firm. “I don’t want this.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Sammy.” Dean smiles, bearing his weight down on Sam’s hips, searching around for Sam’s cock until it seems easy to just slide backwards, slide down on it. “It’s been in you all along. But I’ll be the one that makes it blossom now.”
Dean’s ass is pure indulgence, warm and slick and tight, and Sam supposes it might just be another executive perk straight from Lucifer himself. It’s easy to lean the knife back down onto the counter, push Dean’s body backward and drive right in, Dean’s wordless cry cheering him on.
“You love it. Slut.” Sam hisses. “Want you so bad. Wanted this forever.”
“For you.” Dean says, his cheek still bleeding as Sam pushes into him again and again, teasing him again and again, like he’s curious to see Dean at the end of his rope. Sam likes that idea a lot, likes the idea of Dean as his hungry soldier. Sex and blood starved, Dean would do anything for him, would kill on command without question and where Sam had never actually seen that before, it’s like a beacon straight from Dean’s ass to Sam’s mind, just another part of conversion, another part of Sam’s innocence and humanity and compassion gone. Dean gets Sam off, but Sam can’t even feel it, his head filled with thoughts of glory and ownership.
Suddenly, Sam stumbles back, pain wracking his whole body as bones crunch and slide against each other with a loud squeak. Sam’s body is awkward, and he folds into himself in order to stay sane, sitting back against the countertop. He’s still hard, still wanting to ease back inside Dean, but the headache is so loud it feels like his brain’s going to explode, and his veins ache with liquid fire that burns him alive. It’s the sins, his mind supplies, burning off of him before he can be genuinely pure and capable of evil. That makes no sense at all, but the pain is sense enough.
“It’s gonna hurt, tonight, Sam. It always hurts when you take on extra powers, extra spirit,” Dean says, soft. “Stay with me. Don’t go to work today. Stay and sleep and let it take its course. You can have me as much as you like. As much as you want. You need someone to watch over you for a while, is all.”
Sam feels like he wants to cut into Dean, see how that body works and then suddenly, he’s on the floor, wracked with the pain and suffering of millions, as the power overwhelms the room, electric energy completely converted into pain underneath Sam’s skin. The ink blossoms down his whole naked body, runes and symbols and colors Sam’s never even heard of before, all there in front of him. Dean picks him up, and while Sam tries to struggle and push him away, Dean wretches Sam’s hair back to look Sam in the eye.
“You’re not going to get through this alone. I’m not going anywhere, Sammy,” Dean says softly, and his tone cuts through Sam’s pain like that knife through skin. Sam thinks of incinerators in his stomach and compressors in his mind, exquisite machinery used for nothing but the most awful ideas, and between all of that is Dean, his brother who’s always taken care of him.
The pain eats away at his body, breaking it down so it can be rebuilt stronger, but as Dean picks him up and carries him to the bed, Sam knows that everything’s going to turn out alright.
‘Alright’ just has a different meaning, now.
Sam awakens and discovers that he can’t see anything through the haze of pain, body disconnected from the world, all his senses shut off. He jostles in bed, shaking and crying out and when no voice comes from his mouth, he wonders if this is what genuine betrayal is, what it feels like.
Dean’s touch in him is soothing when it appears, like real relief from one of the things Sam’s refused to admit he’s scared of. He’s really afraid of it, though, more than he wants to admit.
I’m here. Go back to sleep.
When Sam wakes up next, he’s a girl, and all the tattoos are gone. He’s laying in the valley of generous breasts and amazing thighs and he realizes that the playboy pinup he’s been using for a pillow is his brother. Dean still looks like himself, if he were originally a girl. All angular face and pouty lips and gleaming happy eyes to go along with that brilliant flat stomach and Brazilian waxed pussy.
“You like, Sammy?” He asks, and Sam’s head lifts.
“Dean?” Sam asks. “What the hell is…”
“Told you it was gonna hurt. You were pretty bad for a few hours, there. Didn’t think you were gonna be able to take it. Turns out hell’s got a wicked sense of humor. Something about your purity, blah blah blah, living the pains of both genders,” Dean says, playing with his tits and stealing a kiss from Sam’s mouth. “Comes in handy once you master it in a bar or a threesome, or in bed or a home goods store, for that matter.”
“I was gonna ask you about that,” Sam says, running his hands along Dean’s stomach, into his hips, rubbing at Dean’s clit.
“They have ‘em in hell,” Dean says, shrugging. “Hell’s a lot like South Beach Miami after you do your time in the big penitentiary of sin and all that good shit. Could shop at the tenth ring wal-mart, if I so fancied, but that’s usually too long of a ride and they never have the stuff I want when I could just go to a mom-and-pop shop in the mall on third. ‘Support your local businesses’ and all that good shit, you know.”
“I suppose,” Sam says.
“Take you on a tour, one of these days. You’ve got stock options in it, now. 401K, too, good health benefits,” Dean shrugs. “Now come here, stay still and let me pop your cherry again. Got a problem with that?” Dean says, hands in Sam’s hair.
“Not really,” Sam smiles. Dean puts the whammy on him, making his arms as heavy as lead, and when Dean finds his clit, moving his tongue around in long wet strokes, it travels up Sam’s spine like an electrocution. Sam can see things in different colors, and the only thing he can think about is how Dean’s thinking about him, like a closed circuit.
Dean opens Sam’s legs and goes for it, easing Sam into accepting a finger, then two, with promises of soon accepting whatever Dean wants to give him in this body, and when Sam thinks about how ironic all of this is, and how unlucky he really could have been, he’s just happy he has his brother at his side. Even when he’s evil, Sam doesn’t think he could imagine doing anything else with his brother right now. He just lays back and lets Dean lick his pussy and call him ‘your sovereignty’. It’s suddenly funny enough to make sense, and Sam lays back, Hands in Dean’s shoulder length hair, enjoying that wicked tongue and how tight his whole body feels, like fire and evil and a calm sense of security, more safe than Sam’s ever felt.
Dean wills Sam’s petite hand to reach down and slide two fingers in beside Dean’s, stretching him out even further, and as Dean silently ushers him to come, thumb tucked just under Sam’s clit, fingers piston in time with Sam’s as they both jerk in and out, Sam knows this is genuinely much more comforting than anything he did back when he was a hunter, or back when Dean was alive the first time. Dean cares about him, cares about him enough to make deals with the Devil himself, cares about him enough to subject himself to the only mission no demon could ever take on, and succeeding means that Sam and Dean will live to see the earth fall at their hands. Then, after that, they’ll take on heaven’s angels, and eventually, Sam thinks as blood rushes to his crotch and his toes ball up and he starts panting so hard he’s shaking, muscles contracting in ripples down his fingers as Dean chuckles, he’ll take on hell.
Sam thinks of owning everything, and then he comes.
“I think you might be a gusher, Sammy. If we fuck you enough,” Dean says, all vixenish and hot, taking Sam’s hand and licking the two wet fingers softly. “Gonna have to fuck you a lot more like this, though.”
“I think I could get with that,” Sam smiles, hands on Dean’s curvaceous hips as they slither together, side by side, eye to eye. Sam’s toes, petite and soft, curl around Dean’s calf and Dean produces a double ended cock from somewhere, and sinks it into Sam easy, holding Sam’s hips down as he forces the dildo in and out before sliding the free end into himself, until he’s grinding against it too, ferocious and hard like it’s the real thing fucking Sam’s pussy like it’s about to go out of style. They’re holding onto each other, and spend the day fucking, just like this, fingers and hands linked, mouths on breasts, faces in hair.
Tomorrow, Sam will cause the first of his destruction in order to build for his empire. They will go to Los Angeles and tear apart the city within ten days. First, they'll destroy the believers, then the non-believers, then the apathetic ones who have nothing to believe in. Sam will find newer, better fitting clothes for this new body of his, including hot French lingerie that gets Dean right where it hurts no matter what's genitals he's decided to wear on any given day, and when Sam goes in to fight his first battle of flesh and fire and walks out, all that remains is black lace and the blood of the deserving.
Dean will bristle like a proper older brother again.
It’s going to be very odd, the first few times. Sam can feel it even in his passive visions, now, laying in bed with Dean in a body that very well could have been his first if only he’d been born a girl. But there are some things that just don’t change: his eyes aren’t yellow, red, or any other ‘demonic color’, he loves his brother, and he loves the hunt.
Knowing that, Sam can’t barely wait, no matter what body he’s in. If Dean's as bloodthirsty as he is fuck crazy and loyal to the point of insanity, Sam knows this is going to turn out well.
crossposted to LJ, GJ, JF, Supernatural_nb and Vichan's journal.