Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2020446.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Non-Supernatural_AU, Alternate_Universe_-_Serial_Killers, Episode:_s01e01
      Pilot, Pre-Series, John_also_makes_an_appearance, the_non_con_part_is_not
      the_wincest
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-25 Words: 4954
****** My Love Is Your Disease ******
by summerboysam
Summary
     He needed more, he needed gunpowder and blood and dirt and damnation
     and a body sewn with scars and a fire behind perfect green eyes
     threatening to make the world burn. Promising to burn the world for
     him.
     So yes, this is the serial killer AU I always wanted but could never
     find, so I wrote it myself.
Notes
     I feel kind of bad for making this the first thing I publish, but I
     really like it.
     I tagged the non-con to be careful. It isn't too explicit in my
     opinion but if this sort of thing makes you uncomfortable you should
     probably be careful.
     The title is from The Devil Within by Digital Daggers by the way, you
     should really go listen to that one.
There’s an itch under his skin. He had felt it for the last 4 years 4 years how
did he ever go 4 years without it but now it was stronger than ever before, and
it was all his fault. He just had to force his way back in, all loose grins and
worn-out clothes and dangerous glint in his eyes. He had looked even more feral
than Sam remembered him being. God, he needed him.
The thing is, he had probably loved Jess. If he were normal, if he didn’t
equate love with take and tear and burn, he probably would’ve been happy with
her.
4 years he had pretended that she was enough for him, that he genuinely loved
her smile and her home-made cookies and cute hair, like a halo around her
pretty head. But now, there was no pretending anymore. Now he had this image
fresh inside his head, the imprint that he still had on the backs of his
eyelids re-newed, more visible than ever. And yes, pretty and innocent didn’t
cut it anymore. He needed more, he needed gunpowder and blood and dirt and
damnation and a body sewn with scars and a fire behind perfect green eyes
threatening to make the world burn. Promising to burn the world for him.
The moment Dean walked into their apartment, Jessica’s breaths were counted.
Sam only realized this after Dean had driven off in the Impala, taillights
disappearing in the night again.
He couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t let her live.
                                      --
The night they killed their first person was also the first time Dean fucked
Sam. Their Dad was passed out on the couch, not knowing what his sons were up
to, that they were out staining the streets red with the blood of strangers.
Dean’s nightmares had been worse than usual that night, he had been sweating
and crying and shaking in Sam’s arms, his skin burning up like their mom’s in
his dream. So they had left their dad and their shared motel bed behind, had
run away into the night until their lungs had burned, had collapsed in a back
alley, fallen into each other’s arms, had whispered comforting truths into each
other’s ears.
That night, they had realized that they were alone. Their mom had burned and
their dad was slowly living himself into the ground, taking his sons with him.
They were lost, hopeless, they weren’t even able to function on their own, they
couldn’t stand other people looking at them, because they only belonged to each
other.
They decided that they weren’t only self-destructive, but that they would take
this whole damn world down, would give back all the misery it had given them,
because it had let them down, had kicked them to the ground without a second
thought.
And when a young guy drunkenly stumbled into their alley, he really didn’t
stand a chance.
This was probably not what their dad had imagined for them, proud ex-Marine. He
had raised them knowing how to fight. He had trained them to protect. It wasn’t
really his fault that they came to associate handling a knife with happiness.
It wasn’t his fault that they were fucked to hell. Their relationship was
obsessive, encompassing, absolute.
Don't forget 'hot as fuck', Dean used to tell Sam.
                                      --
It was back then that they were still struggling. Sam could see the conflict in
Dean’s eyes every time he looked at him, his instincts of fight and take and
hurt and mine battling with this urge Dad had instilled in him, the urge to
give and protect and save.
He didn’t see a trace of that devastating battle the first time Dean thrust
into him, his way slicked with blood and tears and sweat. He only saw his
brother in the dark green eyes hovering over him, pinning him down with the
intensity of their stare. Only Dean. His Dean. Loving and powerful and glowing
and so much wilder, so much more beautiful in this damaged world than Sam could
have ever imagined.
Yes, Dean wanted to claim; Sam wanted to be claimed. He had already offered his
heart and soul and body to Dean the day he first consciously laid eyes on him.
Now he just had to wait for Dean to take it.
                                      --
Sam followed his brother that night, the smell of burning flesh still in his
nose. He didn’t know why he did it, but he thought it seemed fitting, Jessica
dying the same way their mom did. In a very twisted way, it felt like
completion, like they had finally come full circle.
Of course, he did have to carve her up a little, too. Seeing her blood flowing
slowly, then faster and faster from the cut on her stomach was satisfying in a
way he had almost forgotten, and he finally felt like himself again.
Tonight, he would finally hear his screams again, he was sure of it.
                                      --
Screaming was like air to Sam. Maybe it was because Dean’s screams had
accompanied him through all his life; screams of terror after a nightmare,
screams of desperation and fear the nights they couldn’t fight it anymore,
screams of pleasure when they were rocking against each other, when one of them
was buried as deep as he could go in the other, trying to crawl into his skin,
trying to become even more of a part of him.
He liked to make the strangers scream. Dean didn’t really care for noises, as
long as they were suffering for whatever they had done, whether it was looking
at Sam for a little too long or whispering about them or just standing for too
long in Dean’s line of sight.
It was always Dean who picked them out. His eyes would go dark and Sam would
know immediately. It was Sam who tied them up after Dean had drugged them,
while Dean laid out his knives and guns and toys.
Sam only ever felt the need to use this one knife, the one that Dean had given
him the night he left for Stanford. He felt it was more intimate, somehow, made
this whole thing more about them. Which it was of course. Their victim of the
night was never more than a prop in their play.
It felt liberating to them; Dean saw it as an art, an opportunity to express
his hatred of the world and his love for Sam in a way that didn’t involve
tearing his baby brother into pieces. Sam just wanted that itch to go away,
right there under his skin.
And he wanted to see his brother like this. Wanted to see his face when he
licked the blood off the stranger’s face, wanted to see dark eyes slowly rising
to meet his over the mutilated form, wanted to see the lust and want and
possession and love in his gaze. Dean was raw like this, and if it made him
vulnerable, the way he screamed when he let Sam fuck him over the stranger
taking his last breath, so much purer than anything else Sam had ever heard
before him, made him realize what he was living for, all over again.
                                      --
Their dad had hit Dean only once. Sam didn’t remember how old they were when it
happened, but he still remembered it was winter and the nights were cold and
Dean hadn’t even been old enough to drive the car yet. He also didn’t remember
why dad had hit Dean. He was probably drunk, anyway. He just remembered that he
kept his hand raised for another minute and stared into nothing, then took the
keys and stumbled out of their room.
Sam didn’t really remember what actually happened because the moment John
raised his hand his ears started ringing and his whole world tilted on its axis
and in that moment he didn’t want anything in this world more than to see their
father’s guts on their sheets like he was one of the stranger's.
He didn’t know what he expected from Dean, maybe that he would come to him,
would hold him, would give him permission with his eyes, a promise that they
were finally gonna do it, tonight. Tonight. What he definitely didn’t expect
was his older brother trying to follow their father.
And all of a sudden he was angry at Dean, too, images of his dead father and
his bleeding brother mixing together and that had never happened before, and he
could feel himself starting to hyperventilate, the ground spinning under his
feet. He locked himself in the bathroom and threw up into the sink. Dry-heaved
into the sink, actually; they hadn’t eaten a real meal in days. They had been
running low on cash for quite a while. That somehow didn't mean John had to cut
down on the alcohol.
By the time Sam had managed to get his breathing under control, the noise in
his ears had finally subsided, too, and he could hear Dean on the other side of
the door. He didn’t make much noise, but Sam was so attuned to his brother’s
presence, he could have felt him through 5 feet of concrete. He leaned his back
against the door and counted to 10 in his mind. At 9 he heard his brother’s
back thump against the door on his side.
                                      --
I wanted to hurt you.
                                                                     I’m sorry.
I know you sometimes want to hurt me, too.
                                                                        Sammy –
Why do we do this to each other?
                                                              So fucking sorry.
I need you. I love you.
                                                        Me too, little brother.
                                      --
He often wondered if this conversation had really happened. His head had been a
mess as he sat on the cold tiles of their dirty-ass motel in the middle of
nowhere, back to back with his brother, wanting to hug him and kiss him and
fuck him and hear him scream all at once.
If it did happen, it was the only time they ever said these three words out
loud to each other.
                                      --
They loved each other so much, it was suffocating them. Sam thinks they’re not
the only people who know this, this drowning love, forcing its weight into
their bodies, their lungs, their hearts.
You love someone so much, you can only really breathe when they’re around, and
when they’re not, you’re lost, all hope gone, left for dead. And after some
time, you start feeling this little spark of resentment towards them, because
your love for them is choking you.
Yes, a lot of people probably knew this kind of love, Sam thought. They only
dealt with it a lot healthier than the Winchesters.
                                      --
Sam approached the run-down cabin. It was easy to track it down. At least it
was easy for him, he doubted anyone had been able to follow Dean. And even if
they did, his brother was quick and vicious and generally sliced first asked
questions later. No one who attempted to tail him would’ve lived long enough to
reach the cabin.
Dean knew Sam was here. Of course he did. Sam pretended he didn’t already know
that, pretended he thought he had the upper hand and could sneak up on Dean.
Even if Sam was just as skilled as Dean, it was fun to pretend, sometimes. It
was a game, heady and exhilarating, Sam placing himself in Dean’s hands like
this, even if he was able to put up a hell of a fight if he wanted to. A
fucking perfect game, one they had played all their lives, working around and
against each other like a well-working machine, every little movement perfectly
calculated.
He entered the cabin, knife held in hand. The room was pitch black, thick
curtains in front of the windows keeping the moonlight out. He knew Dean waited
next to the door, could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising, in
anticipation, in excitement.
His face collided with the wall. He could feel one strong hand on the small of
his back, calloused fingers of the other on his neck, tugging at his hair, one
thigh jammed between his legs.
Dean breathed over his skin, chapped lips lightly scraping, neck to cheek and
back again. Sam exhaled shakily, dizzy with sensations.
Next thing he knew, he was turned around, taut thigh immediately pressed up
against his cock again, hands shifting to his stomach and throat. His eyes had
slowly adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out his brother’s stomach,
trailed his eyes up, over a toned chest, contours barely visible through a thin
t-shirt; up, over Dean’s throat; up, until he reached his eyes, dark and green
and so fucking beautiful. He shuddered despite the heat Dean’s body against his
was radiating, and Dean chuckled.
When Dean’s lips finally found his again, it felt like he was shattering into a
million pieces with only his brother there to keep track of where they
scattered off to. His hands flew up to Dean’s face, knife still in his hand and
dangerously close to his brother’s cheekbone.
When Dean jerked his thigh, Sam became restless, started scrabbling for
purchase, clutching at Dean’s jacket Dad’s jacket fucking Dad’s jacket should
rip it right off burn it destroy it like Dean did with Dad his waist, his hair,
his belt, anything. He dug his fingers into Dean’s hips, and Dean moaned, and
all of a sudden it wasn’t about keeping himself upright anymore, it was about
marking, claiming, tearing, drawing blood.
He came in his jeans embarrassingly quick, biting down on Dean’s shoulder, one
finger digging into the blade of his knife where it had slipped and he hadn’t
noticed.
He stayed like that for some time, coming down, just breathing Dean in and
frantically licking at the bite mark on his shoulder and the little trail of
blood forming. He was pulled out of his post-orgasmic haze when Dean took hold
of his hand and thrust it down and over his own dick, moaning loudly and
exasperatedly, eyes falling shut, and before he could even begin to get himself
off on Sam’s hand and the thought of that was just so hot it made Sam twitch in
his jeans again Sam was already on his knees, pulling at Dean’s zipper, ripping
down his boxers and then stopping. God, he had forgotten how much he needed
this.
He felt Dean’s hands slowly carding through his hair. Just as he started
leaning into the touch, it turned rough and Dean pulled his head back, exposing
his throat. His brother was grinning down at him, breathless and disheveled and
so fucking hot, Sam couldn’t do anything but moan again, his hands flying to
Dean’s hips, this time looking for purchase.
The blade of his knife was lightly digging into Dean’s hips and he should
probably just drop it but he couldn’t, because the cut in Dean’s hips started
dripping onto the blade, already stained with sweet Jessica’s blood, mixing
together and Dean swiped his hand through it, gathered the liquid and smeared
it across Sam’s lips, before setting his dick to them.
When Sam opened his mouth eagerly and Dean thrust in that first time, right
down as far as he could go, choking Sam, making him gag.
Losing your touch there, baby boy?
it tasted like blood and precome and Dean and everything his childhood had
been, everything he thought of as home and his come was drying in his underwear
and tears and spit were running down his face and the cut in his finger was
bleeding and it was so messy and sticky and he couldn’t ever get enough, didn’t
know how he had spent 4 years without this.
Knew he would never again willingly spend another day without this.
He lost himself in the feelings washing over him until he wasn't even an active
participant anymore, had zoned out completely, so when Dean came in his mouth
he didn’t manage to swallow it all and some of it trailed down his lips and
onto his chin.
The hands in his hair were pulling him up, little pin-pricks of pain and Dean’s
mouth crashed onto his again. He could feel his brother’s grin against his
parted lips, his tongue darting out to lick his own come off his little
brother’s face as Sam collapsed limply into his arms, knees giving out, just
happy to be here again, with his brother, in his arms.
His fingers reached to the cut on Dean’s hip. They came back red and sticky and
he shoved them into Dean’s mouth, still busy licking at Sam’s face. He knew how
much his brother liked the taste of blood; knew how much he liked it himself.
He barely felt Dean taking the knife from his hand and then he was being
dragged to the one bed in the cabin, was pulled onto Dean, tucking his head
into the hollow of his neck just like he used to do when he was still younger
and smaller and only just beginning to understand that sharing a bed with your
brother shouldn’t feel this good.
They fell asleep like this, and the next morning Sam bitched about the dried
come in his jeans and Dean teased him again about what a slut for his cock he
was, the same words he had already said to him what felt like a million years
ago, and everything was normal. Sam was happy.
                                      --
Over the years, a lot of security footage of them had been collected. About 20
% of it was traffic cameras or 7/11 stores the boys had stopped at on their
road trip.
The rest was intentionally placed. They had learned a few things about
technology on the way, and especially Dean had always had this talent to
creatively screw with everything he wanted to.
Sam wanted the world to know that he was Dean’s, and that Dean was his. After
all the times in their lives that they hid in cabins and dated fake girls and
smiled politely at CPS authorities, it felt good to show everyone. He wanted
everyone to know who they were, what they did, and he wanted them to fear them.
He also got off on the knowledge that some poor cop guy had to sit through
about an hour of Dean sucking Sam, Dean screaming, Dean fucking Sam against a
wall, in case there was a clue in there somewhere.
Dean just liked everyone to know how awesome he was. Dean’s words, not his. He
wanted to fuck with all their heads a little, winking happily at the camera as
he carved patterns into their stranger’s stomach, grinning freely.
It was okay with Sam. He didn’t like Dean flirting with random people at bars,
but he liked seeing Dean like this, all bloody and high on the thrill of the
control, first over the stranger, then over his brother.
Cause Sam wasn’t the only one with the exhibitionist streak; he knew Dean got
off on showing everyone how willingly his perfect baby brother spread his legs
for him, begged him, screamed for him.
Oh, and Sam was willing.
                                      --
Sam’s smile got Dean going, and Sam liked to shamelessly exploit it.
Once they had gotten drunk together, and Dean had confessed to him that he
liked how Sam’s smile was so –
conflicting, that’s what Dean had called it. It was innocent and sunny and his
dimples made him look like the cute little baby Dean would forever remember him
as. He said he liked when Sam smiled it around people who didn’t know yet, who
didn’t know that it was a disguise for all the horrible things that were going
on underneath.
Really, it got him hot, that sweet smile showing everything that was Sam to
him, young and beautiful and perfect, and then seeing that smile when he was
carving someone up, hurting someone, destroying someone.
So yes, Sam smiled a lot at Dean, whenever he could. He told Dean that he did
it to tease him, but that was only partially true.
Yes, he liked to tease Dean, but he also liked to look at his brother, and his
brother made him happy. He really couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
                                      --
Sam never liked school, except for all the things he got to learn and all the
possibilities he got to know about. He had never thought the world to be bigger
than the distance between him and Dean before.
One of Sam’s worst memories was his first day of pre-school. He had never had
contact to other kids his age before then. He had also never had much contact
with other adults, either, not even their dad, really.
He remembered that Dean had sometimes taken him to the playground, but Sam
didn’t like it when there were so many people around. He could see that Dean
didn’t like it, either, so he shuffled closer to him and only left his side
again when the main crowd had left already.
They didn’t do this often, though. Most of the time, Dean took him out to play
in the woods or in a park or just in the lot before their motel.
Up until that day, Sam had never parted from Dean. He would wait for Dean to
return from his own pre-school in their motel room and when Dean got back, they
played together and ate whatever microwave meal their dad had managed to put
up. They watched TV together and then went to bed together.
So he really didn’t understand that he had to leave Dean now. He nearly bit the
teacher who tried to loosen his grip on Dean’s jacket, but Dean pulled him back
by his neck and leaned down to whisper into his ear C’mon Sammy, behave, be a
good boy, we can’t have them worry, c’mon Sammy, don’t cry, be nice, c’mon and
Sam let go of him slowly and he waved him good-bye and he refused to say a word
again until he got back to Dean. His words were wasted on anybody else than
Dean.
He could have possibly made a lot of friends, if he had just stopped thinking
about getting back to Dean for one second, if he hadn’t been so stubborn and
torn. There was little Lisa, who had offered him a cookie, and Tony and Penny,
who said they still needed a player for their softball team.
When he grew up, it got easier for him. He joined the soccer team and Dean
always came to cheer him on, even if Sam could see the tension in his shoulders
from the field, and he sometimes even made a few friends, when they stayed long
enough in one place.
He never took his friends home, though, and he never introduced them to Dean.
Dean was his. They all knew that he was his brother, though, because Dean
always made himself a reputation when they arrived somewhere.
Sam mostly spent his lunch times pretending to listen to his friends and
imagining how Dean’s new “girlfriend” would react if she knew that Dean fucked
the baby brother that she found so “cute”. He imagined how she would look like
with her perfect make-up smeared all over her perfect skin and how she would
look like with both her perfect legs broken.
They ended up killing one of Sam’s friends, the day they were leaving town
again, a girl who Dean thought had stared at Sam a little too long.
His brother could be such a hypocrite.
                                      --
Sometimes Sam fantasized about what he would do to their Dad if he ever got the
chance.
He wanted their Dad to see. He wanted him to really face how he had fucked them
up, no alcohol to make himself look away.
He wanted him to realize, and then he wanted him to suffer for all of it. For
how he had slowly taken Dean’s will from him, how he had slowly and steadily
worn him into the ground. For how he had left them all alone, to themselves,
and just how they had managed to cope with that.
He wanted him to see that he had lost Dean, had lost him to Sam.
He would tie him down and make him watch. He knew their father couldn’t look
away. Wouldn’t. He was a twisted fuck.
His eyes would be unfocussed, his system already noticing the absence of
alcohol. Fucking pathetic alcoholic.
And he wanted to fuck Dean, right there, just take him, make their precious Dad
see just why they still insisted on sharing a bed.
Sam would get one of their father’s knives, the nice, big one he had always
envied him for. He would cut into him, see the blood bubbling to the surface,
feel muscles giving way under the sharp blade, smell the fear in the air.
He wouldn’t burn him. John didn’t deserve to go the same way Mom did.
Most of all, he wanted Dean to join in. The Dean in his imagination had no
strings attached anymore, hated their father just as much as Sam did.
And he would join in, he would take his knives and get to work and it would be
his most beautiful work.
They were both kind of practiced by then. Not as practiced as they would be a
few years from then, but enough to keep their father alive long enough to see
their hands reaching into his rib cage, to feel fingertips on his lungs, his
heart.
Sam didn’t know what came next. It was hard for him to imagine a life without
their Dad, and that made him want to rip that stupid fucker’s throat out with
his bare hands even more.
And if Sam sometimes dreamed about a life where their Mom was alive and their
Dad was not drunk all the time and Dean smiled that smile, that wonderful smile
that Sam only remembered from days long, long lost –
Well, then he never remembered it in the morning.
                                      --
Dean sometimes looked at Sam with something in his eyes that Sam could only
describe as dangerous. He knew his brother wanted to hurt him, not because he
was angry at Sam or even hated him, but because he obsessed over him. He
obsessed to the point where slow and gentle and sweet wasn’t enough anymore,
where he wanted to know his baby brother inside and out, the structure of his
bones and the color of his heart.
If there was one way Sam would be content to die, it was like this.
                                      --
They were sososo fucked up. They both knew. It had been a really long time
since one of them had puked their own guts out after seeing those of a
stranger. That had happened when they were younger. When they still pretended
that it was justice; that they did what they did to give the world back what it
had given them. That wasn’t the reason anymore. If it ever was, really. Sam’s
thoughts on this one varied.
But whether they did it because of revenge or not, it didn’t matter. Because
now, all the reason they needed was the pleasure of it all.
Sam couldn’t live anymore without hearing the screams, without the sound of
flesh tearing and blood flowing.
He knew Dean simply couldn’t live without taking lives anymore.
They were so fucked up. But who cares. He got Dean. And he’ll never let him go.
*
Sam had tried to deny it for a long time but in the end there was just no other
way, he had to leave. He just couldn’t do it anymore, every day he wanted to
hurt Dean even more.
The angrier he got at them, the angrier he got at himself, and that fucking
itch under his skin that had followed him through all his life. He couldn’t
look Dean in the eye anymore without seeing his pretty pretty face all torn up
into ribbons, he couldn’t stand being alone with himself anymore because he
felt like scratching his brain out, the ringing in his ears that had started
that first day he had wanted to see what Dean’s insides looked like had never
really stopped again, had just grown louder and louder, he could feel the
ground slipping from beneath his feet again and again –
He just couldn’t do it anymore. He needed out. Away. Somewhere loud, where the
noises of ordinary lives drowned out the ringing, where he didn’t have to see
Dean turning more and more into a puppet for their Dad.
Leaving Dean was the hardest thing he had ever done. It was also the first time
he had ever really hurt Dean. He didn’t even stand up for Sam when he and Dad
started shouting. He just stood there, fucking taking it, and if he couldn’t
fight for himself, fine, but he could fight for Sam, right? He thought that was
how it worked, how the little corner they had carved into this world worked.
But no, there was Dad. Dad, always Dad, keeping them apart, keeping Dean
distanced, not completely Sam’s.
But that’s how it should be. Dean was his, no reservations, no limitations,
his. Hishishishishis.
Dean had silently given him the knife and Sam had carved his name into his big
brother’s chest.
So when Dean showed up at his apartment and had Sam on his back in a matter of
minutes and laughed at him and flirted with Jess and told Sam that he had done
it, that their Dad was dead –
Well, there was only one thing Sam could do.
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