Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2318225.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, Bela_Talbot, Victor
      Henriksen
  Additional Tags:
      Serial_Killers, Mass_Murderers, Dark, movie_retell, Natural_Born_Killers
      -_Freeform, Incest, Alternate_Universe, boys_are_evil, evil_is_sexy
      though, Alternate_Universe_-_Movie_Fusion, Dark!Dean, dark!Sam, Everyone
      Is_Gay, seriously, theres_hardly_anyone_straight_in_this_verse, Prison,
      escaping_prison, On_the_Run, Codependent_Winchesters_(Supernatural), I
      love_that_tag, Vaguely_mystical_Sam, This_is_really_dark, John
      Winchester's_A+_Parenting, timeline_jumps_around, Really_heavy_texan
      accents_are_headcanon_and_necessary, Don't_Like_Don't_Read, But_I'm
      pretty_sure_you'll_like_it
  Series:
      Part 1 of Unnaturally_Close
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-17 Words: 33978
****** Supernatural Born Killers ******
by sugarbucket24
Summary
     Movie retell of Natural Born Killers with a Supernatural twist. This
     is the story of Sam and Dean Winchester, two of the most dangerous
     men in America. The media frenzy surrounding them and their recent
     capture has exploded. The world is dying to know more about the two
     most famous serial killers and the Winchesters are just dying to
     share. Dark, twisted, violent and bursting with wincest. Nothing can
     stop fate.
Notes
     Disclaimer:
     No profit whatsoever. "But I being poor have only my dreams." So
     there. Also, I acknowledge that there is another, probably more than
     one, Natural Born Killers movie retell in the SPN fandom, in
     particular the awesome Hugemind's version 'Natural Born Hunters' and
     this was in no way shape or form an attempt to steal their thunder.
     This is simply my own version of how I saw it in my head and it
     wouldn't go away until I wrote it. No infringement is ever intended,
     nor will it be.
     I have manipulated Supernatural with the movie Natural Born Killers
     for my own twisted amusement. A working knowledge of the film would
     be great, and make more sense in places, but isn't entirely
     necessary. It should be know that I used some of the original script,
     not found in the movie, throughout because I liked it so much. Be
     warned, this is dark and unpleasant in places, contains reasonably
     graphic non-con and I think I went a little overboard with the 'F'
     word.
     Enjoy!
                          -Supernatural Born Killers-
                                 -Chapter One-
                   'There is a crack, a crack in everything.
                        That's how the light gets in.'
                                -Leonard Cohen
Unnaturally close, that's what the tabloids called it at first. During those
early months, after everyone had exhausted the psychopathic murderer aspect,
after everyone got bored of hearing victim's names, that was the next big
thing. It was a relatively unspoken rule during the first reports and stories
that hit the media, that no-one was to actually declare the relationship
anything other than 'unnaturally close'. Then reporters started to pick up on
what was always going to be an explosive component of what comprised the
Winchester brothers. The disturbingly intimate, co-dependant relationship. It
became a kind of forbidden, taboo joke as the stories progressed. Little
innuendos, tiny hints that couldn't be censored. It was only a matter of time
before it exploded over the papers and the screens, confirmed and undeniable.
One thing the Winchesters had never been, was shy.
Anyone who had spent time in the same room with them both could see it. Anyone
who had ever made the mistake of touching Sam Winchester when Dean was nearby
knew that there was something a little more between them than brotherly
affection and psychotic loyalty, those who lived to mull it over, anyway.
Almost everyone could see it between them. Even when they were kept separate,
questioned separately, it was as though the other was there, right next to
them. Ask Sam a question two corridors away from where Dean was being held, and
the young Winchester boy would look next to him at the empty space as if
consulting an invisible man. Then he'd answer with that same perfectly angelic
face that so many people had fallen for. It was deeply unnerving and there were
already whispers circulating the case; rumours about strange things; ghosts,
demons, the supernatural element. Seeing Sam Winchester looking into
nothingness like it wasn't just thin air….it made people uneasy. That, of
course, wasn't all about Sam Winchester that made people uneasy.
Nothing fazed the brothers in the slightest; nothing except the threat of harm
towards the other. Even that had to be extreme to generate any kind of impact;
they trusted one another in a way that was relatively unprecedented for
relationships of such co-dependant proportions. They knew each other's limits,
had obviously been trained to withstand vast amounts of pain and this made them
secure in the knowledge that the other would not be easily hurt. Sam knew Dean
could take care of himself and Dean knew the same about Sam and...well, if
anyone threatened to do more than knock Sam around a bit, Dean would usually
find a way out of his restraints and put paid to whomever was foolhardy enough
to boast such a threat. Both boys knew how to take a beating; knew how to laugh
afterwards. They smiled with red mouths, blood free-flowing down their faces;
giggled with cracked ribs and cat called with strangled throats. No strangers
to violence or pain, it quickly became common knowledge that such deterrents
were redundant, not to mention dangerous for the people administering such
techniques.
It took everyone a while to figure out that Sam Winchester was the most
dangerous of the pair. The first incident occurred back when the police had
tried such methods as beating them in front of one another, trying to get them
to crack. Sam was cuffed to the table while Dean was beaten repeatedly right in
front of him. For the most part Sam had been silent, watching his brother
unblinkingly; face bloodless, barely breathing. The detectives in charge at the
time had thought they were making progress, so they let up for a moment. One of
them leaned in close to Sam's face, demanding that he explain how they had
managed to blow a hole a mile wide in the middle of a shopping mall when no-one
could find a trace of a detonation device. He'd leaned in too close to see that
Sam's restraints were undone and obviously had been for quite some time. That
Sam had been sitting there, hands laced loosely over the table as he watched
and waited.
Then one hand shot up whipcord fast and before anyone could react, the man's
oesophagus was in Sam's fingers, blood gushing from the open throat like water
over the table. Dean was laughing softly from where he lay bleeding and bruised
on the floor.
Sam was lethal because he was unpredictable; always smiling softly, like he was
really just an innocent bystander to his brother's unspeakable violence. It was
how most people had died early on in the interrogation process. Sam could look
like he was about to cry, about break down and admit something significant and
just as that person would lean in to encourage it…up came those hands, never
properly restrained, no matter how much they adjusted the cuffs and the locks.
Those hands knew how to tear, rip and destroy what they set their sights on. He
wielded death like he was playing piano and often sang while doing it. Three
floors away, his brother would smile without even having been informed of the
incident.
Dean was dangerous, but openly so. It was common knowledge that he was the most
sane of the pair and it was from Dean that the detectives had learned what
little information they had about the case. Dean Winchester told the story with
relish and nostalgia; he remembered everyone he had ever killed. When he spoke
of the stories, it was always what Sam had looked like that day, what Sam had
said or done, what Sam had been humming under his breath. Never just the story
of the poor boy who had been stupid enough to hitch hike with them or the dumb
waitress who hadn't known any better than to be beguiled by one or both of
their hypnotic smiles. Always with reference to his brother, somehow. He could
make a story about a killing spree in a Fraternity House into a love sonnet
about Sammy's torn-at-the-knee jeans.
Dean was a little more grounded than Sam, but just as terrifying. He had a way
of looking deep down into a person and knowing instantly what would destroy
that person, if only with words. Sometimes words were all he had access to and
he would never waste a chance to do some damage. When he had more than words,
like a free hand or even an unrestrained mouth full of teeth then the real
carnage would present itself. There was no question about Dean's lethality; he
didn't try to hide it. Everyone knew not to go near him and it was as simple as
that. Even the lawyer spoke to him through bulletproof glass.
The closeness was only one small part of what made them so fascinating; so
compelling to read about in the safety of suburbia. Every psychologist worth
their salt had clamoured to get near the Winchester brothers; to crack open the
secrets and compulsions behind their actions. Everyone knew bits and pieces,
tiny little flecks of truth smothered and built up by guesses and rumours. The
paramilitary childhood, methodical violence, sexual abuse; everyone seemed to
have their own theory. The mother had died when Dean was five, Sam had only
been six months old. The father, John Winchester, had taken both boys and quite
literally fallen off the grid. From what Dean had told them in bits and pieces,
they'd been raised on the road, moving from place to place. Nothing constant in
their lives except each other. It was the first time Dean had ever slipped and
said anything to indicate something more in the relationship between them. Of
course, the person he'd said it to had suffered a violent, brutal demise
seconds later, but it was all on tape. After that, they had gleaned tiny
insights into what could easily be the foundations for a 'Bad Childhood' plea.
Not that either one of them would dream of pleading innocent in any way
whatsoever, but their case was far from complete and there were endless holes
and gaps in the story. Questioning Sam yielded nothing but stories of demons,
hell and monsters so horrific the human imagination couldn't fathom their
existence.
Once, someone had asked him if he missed his father; Sam jammed a pen into
their skull. That was the last time anyone tried to get anything meaningful out
of Sam. But Dean…sometimes he would give them something and it would be another
piece of the puzzle that was Sam and Dean Winchester. The puzzle, most
suspected, would always be incomplete to some extent and the others didn't
think that the whole picture was necessary to convict them. The evidence
amassed against them was overwhelming and sufficient to earn them both the
death penalty several times over. Perhaps some believed that digging too far
into their dark and terrifying past would lend credence to any potential
insanity plea their lawyer might cook up. Anyone who had stared too long into
the eyes of Sam Winchester and lived to tell the tale would agree; there was
something…missing. Eyes too deep, swallowing all light and reflecting none.
Yet every story, incomplete or otherwise, has a beginning.
===============================================================================
                                -One Year Ago-
The diner could have been any one of the hundreds almost identical to it in the
state of New Mexico. It was exactly what you'd expect; one of those places that
seemed to come off an assembly line. The air was hot and dry, the low hum of
mosquito's and the sounds of their quick, brutal death by way of the Bug Zapper
was almost undetectable over the whine of some old country singer, piped over
the jukebox in the corner. Even the waitress seemed like a clone of every
other; tired eyes, lipstick too bright for her faded face and ageing skin.
Bored, dull and settled; like the rest of the town.
There was almost no difference between this diner and the many others in the
area, except for two customers. Two people that the regulars had never seen
before and found themselves turning to sneak stolen glances at them whenever
they could. It was rare to have new people, even though it was a roadside
diner. Mostly the same kinds of people came and went; trucker types and red-
necks.
But these two...they were different and the diner itself was a little different
just for having them there.
The older one of the two, shorter hair and striking green eyes, smiled
effortlessly at the waitress. It was a bright smile, jarringly alien in
comparison to the drab, tedious diner he was currently sitting at the counter
of. He was well built, obviously healthy and active and something in that smile
made it hard for the waitress to turn away.
"So," he said, voice low and smooth, hint of a Kansas accent. "What kind of pie
do you have?"
Besides him, the younger man – almost a boy, really – snorted at some private
joke, but didn't turn to face the waitress. He seemed content staring out
through the glass at the sweltering heat of the road.
The waitress sighed and replied, "Apple, pecan, cherry and key lime."
"Which do you recommend?" the man with the green eyes asked; underlying charm
oozing in every syllable.
"Well, the key lime is great but it's an acquired taste," she said.
The man seemed to be contemplating something and then he said, "I haven't had
key lime in ten years."
"When you had it did you like it?" she asked, almost shyly now under the
brilliance of his smile.
He shrugged and then leaned ever so slightly over the counter as if about to
whisper a precious secret. "No, but that don't mean much, I was a completely
different person back then." He sat back and rested his hands together; the
waitress seemed to notice something on the palm of his left hand, something
that looked like a deep, red slash. His hand was gone before she could comment
or even realise that she had seen anything at all. "Let's give that key lime a
day in court and a big old glass of non fat milk."
The waitress decided to be polite and turned to the younger boy sitting next to
him, saying, "Should I make that two pieces?"
The boy shook his head slowly; long, dark hair swaying as he did. "Nada,
Rosie."
She stiffened, offended. "My name's not Rosie, it's Mabel."
And then with a secret little smile of his own, he stood from the seat and
shrugged off his leather jacket. "Whatever."
Mabel caught sight of the boy's face properly for the first time since he and
his friend had entered the diner. He was beautiful too, as much as the other
one if not more so. Only there was something...strange about him. His beauty
was otherworldly, untouchable; the way he walked, how nothing seemed to concern
him. He seemed bulletproof from everything; all insecurities, dangers and
pitfalls of life.
A few people turned and watched as he picked up the change jar on the end of
the counter and smashed it open, spilling quarters everywhere, rolling like
marbles over the surface and the floor.
"Hey! You clean that up!" Mabel shouted, but the boy didn't seem to hear her at
all. She turned to his older friend who was still smiling politely at her as
though he hadn't seen his friend smash the jar and take a handful of quarters,
heading with intent towards the jukebox. "He ought not be doin' that! That's
for the kids to play pinball!"
"I can't take him anywhere," the other said with a much smaller, more genuine
smile as Mabel reluctantly handed him his pie and milk. He hadn't turned to
look at the mess his friend had made yet and he didn't seem to care in the
slightest. The boy dropped a quarter and selected a song; something with a hard
rhythm and good baseline…something the boy began to dance to. Slow, swaying
movements as if he was actually dancing to a different kind of music that no-
one else could hear. Everyone in the diner was openly staring now.
Mabel seemed to be on the verge of asking them to leave, when the bell above
the door chimed and two of the towns tougher locals walked in. She relaxed
visibly, knowing that the troublemaker would be hauled out on his ass if he
tried anything.
Both newcomers turned to see the boy dancing and both seemed almost equally
thunderstruck by the sight he was effortlessly weaving before them.
"Good God almighty, what is that?" the bearded, gruffer one asked his younger
friend - complete with handlebar moustache and lusty leer.
"That's a bitch outta hell, son," handlebar replied, giving the dancing boy a
slow look up and down.
Bearded guy shrugged. "Take a run at him, kiddo," he said and went to the
counter. "Miller, Mabel."
"Comin' up.”
Handlebar went up the boy and tried to copy his way of dancing, though it was a
total failure. He couldn't move the way the other did, didn't have that
otherworldly confidence and understanding of movement and rhythm. He moved in
close, though. Close enough that the boy – for all his indifference and
unconcern – could not ignore him. The boy's dancing slowed, lost their
enthusiasm. Handlebar grabbed the boy's hips confidently and ground them into
his own under the pretence of dancing. The boy's posture altered, shifted –
like a cat sensing something it had not previously seen, but he didn't leave
the area nor did he stop dancing.
Bearded guy sat himself down besides the older one of the two stranger, not
seeming to realise they had come in together. He took a swig of his beer, some
of it dribbled into the hairs of his beard. He stared appreciatively at the
dancer and his unwanted companion.
"That's some sweet piece of meat, ain't it?" he commented to the green eyed
man. For the first time since entering, looked up from his pie with an
expression that wasn't entirely attractive and charming.
"His name," he said, swallowing the pie. "Is Sam."
Bearded guy shrugged, missing what might have been a significant piece of
information. He placed his beer down on a newspaper, not reading the headline.
'Winchester Brothers Strike Again; More Dead on Highway 666.'
The song ended and a different track began to play; not something the boy named
Sam could continue his strangely hypnotic swaying to. Instead, he turned and
fully looked handlebar in the eyes, as if seeing him properly for the first
time.
"Hey, Otis!" bearded guy called out to his friend. "I think he's sweet on you!"
Sam let a smile cross his face in a way that could not be interpreted as
anything other than seductive. "Are you flirting with me?" he asked, a light
twang in his accent making it seem innocuous and cute.
And then everything happened very fast.
Otis lifted his beer bottle to take a swig when the boy suddenly punched him
hard in the face, smashing the bottle into his mouth as he did so. The man
spluttered and gurgled, choking glass and foaming beer. Sam punched him again,
harder this time. Everyone in the diner turned to look and stare, caught off-
guard by the sudden turn of events.
Before bearded guy even had the time to utter a curse, Sam grabbed Otis by the
back of his hair and smashed him face down into the jukebox, shattering the
glass but not actually interrupting the song by some strange miracle. Otis fell
to his knees; yelling and trying to crawl away.
Bearded guy jumped down off his stool, about to get involved when the stranger
beside him was in front of him; holding a glittering, small knife. The older
guy pointed his finger, about to warn the younger to move the hell out of his
way, when the knife swept through the air and neatly sliced off that finger.
The bearded man let out of a strangely high-pitched shriek, staring down at the
finger.
"Just 'cause my boy's mopping up the floor with your buddy,” the beautiful
stranger said, coming in close. “Ain't no reason for you to join in.” The knife
flew through the air five more times, back and forth. It took a few seconds for
bearded guy's intestines to spill out all over his shoes. He fell to the floor
gargling blood, eyes wide and shocked.
While Sam was beating Otis to death, singing as he did, his companion turned in
time to see the diner chef come dashing out of the kitchen, wielding a large
meat cleaver and screaming something fierce. The green eyed man whipped out a
.45 from the back of his jeans and fired one single shot. It hit right between
the eyes, splattering brain and blood all over the faded yellow walls. He then
turned the gun on the five other customers, trying and failing to leave without
being seen. Bang! Bang, bang, bang, bang!
The young boy Sam kicked viciously until the bone of Otis's skull gave out and
thick, pink puddles began to dribble out over the tiled floor. He stepped back
catching his breath, eyes wide and fixed on the bloody twitching corpse.
"How sexy am I now, mother fucker?" he demanded, voice shaking with the effort
of beating the guy to death. "Still want to dance with me, huh? Rat bastard
piece of shit!  Couldn't just let me dance, huh?"
"Sammy," the older boy called. The young boy – Sammy - looked over and those
dark eyes lit up. He moved gracefully to his side and for a moment, they just
stared at one another, smiling and smiling. The their gazes turned to the two
remaining people alive inside the diner. Mabel and a large trucker type,
holding his hands up in the air. Mabel was hiding behind a coffee pot, crying
quietly. "Who's the lucky one?" asked the man with the gun in a singsong voice.
Sam lifted his hand and pointed a long finger, starting with Mabel.
"Eanie, meanie, minie, moe! Catch a redneck by his toe! If he hollers, let him
go! Eanie, meanie, minie… moe!" The finger landed on the sobbing waitress; the
shot was fired without hesitation as both Sam and his partner laughed,
genuinely amused. 
The one person left alive stood very still with his eyes closed tight, as
though trying to make the scene before him vanish.
"When those people come here and they ask you who did this," Sam instructed him
with an entirely serious face. "You tell them Sam and Dean Winchester did it.
You understand? Say it!"
The man opened his eyes, fresh piss trailing down his left leg. "S-Sam and Dean
Winchester did it!" he repeated on the verge of sobbing. 
Sam turned to Dean with a breathtaking smile. "Hear that, Dad?" he asked,
giving a brief glance at the floor as though speaking to someone underneath
him. "Sam and Dean Winchester did it! Together."
"That's right, baby boy," Dean said softly, reaching for Sam's hand. He pulled
him flush against his body, earning a gasp from the younger boy who had at
least two inches on him. There was blatant adoration and worship in Sam's eyes.
"I love you, Sammy," he breathed as Sam pressed his lips against Dean's, softly
at first. Then Dean grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him closer,
deepening the kiss.
Beside them, the man made a helpless sound of disgust.  Dean broke the kiss
gently, drawing back from Sam's mouth just enough to sigh and shake his head as
though disappointed with a petulant child.  Then Dean brought the gun back up
and shot him in the face.  It exploded messily, a little blood splattering on
Sam's cheek.
Sam rolled his eyes and exclaimed, "Dean! Now who's gonna tell the cops?"
Dean shrugged and rubbed his nose against Sam's, eyes fluttering shut. "There's
a camera. Sure it'll spin a fine yarn."
Smile renewed, the two resumed their kiss. After a minute, Dean pulled Sam into
a dance, swaying through the blood and bodies. It was as if they were the only
two people on the face of the planet and they might well have been for all they
seemed to care. 
===============================================================================
The engine noise of the '67 Chevy Impala was almost the closest thing Sam
Winchester had ever had to a lullaby; one that hadn't come from his brother,
anyway. That proud purring sound was intensely reassuring to him.  He was
certain it was to his brother as well, though Dean would never admit it because
it had been John's car for the most part of their lives. It was their home, the
only constant place of residence in their whole lives. Endless hotel rooms, the
occasional house to squat in or a friend to stay with; always a different bed,
different ceiling, different smell. But the Impala was always the same. Same
leather seats, same smell – gun oil, fresh baked pie and Dean's cologne – and
the same sound of the lovingly cared for engine.
Sam sighed into the night, staring up the stars with fascination as he sat on
the warm hood. The sky was almost bursting with them; invisible to those who
lived in cities polluted by excessive light. He could see each one, recall the
made up history behind it that Dean had spun for him when they were younger. A
strange little story for each and every one, just to make his knowledge hungry
little brother happy.
It had always been that way. Dean had always been unable to deny Sam anything
he wanted, even when it was something Sam himself didn't know how to ask for.
He could still remember that night when Dean had stolen Sam away, taken him
outside to lay on the hood of the Impala. Sam had been six years old, Dean was
only ten. His older brother had been covered in bruises, lip swollen and
bloody. His body was injured in a way that Sam didn't understand because Dean
wouldn't say why he was walking funny or why he wanted Sam to be as far away as
possible from Dad. Dad who was presumably sleeping off the whiskey he'd drowned
himself in. Sam laid his head down on Dean chest, noticing the way Dean winced
but didn't make him move away. He heard every beat of his brother's heart as
Dean recited made up stories about every star Sam pointed at; listened to the
voice he loved and knew as it carved out the mould for happy dreams that night.
They'd fallen asleep like that, curled around one another until dawn broke and
the light of the world threatened to reveal them. Sam had glared resentfully
into the new morning, missing the stars he was coming to know so well through
his brother's imagination. It was the beginning of his long standing dislike
for daylight and his infatuation with the night.
It was also the moment he had completely fallen in love with his brother.
"Sammy," Dean called from a little way away. Sam shook himself and returned to
the present. Dean sauntered back over to the car, zipping himself up.
"Bathroom's all yours," he said with a grin, indicating to a nearby tree.
"Still better than a motel," Sam sighed, playfully shoving his brother as he
passed him.
"Yeah well, you'd better not come bitching to me if your ass gets poison oak or
whatever. I'm not the one who decided to sleep alfresco," Dean chuckled,
rifling through the trunk of the car for a beer.
Sam unzipped himself. "Don't like motels," he muttered under his breath. "I
don't get how you can stand to be inside them. No fresh air, walls too small
and narrow, always the same. Rather be outside, rather be here under our
stars."
Dean was very suddenly behind Sam, pulling him close, one arm around his waist,
chin resting on his shoulder. "Don't care where we are, Sammy," he growled into
his neck. "So long as we're together." He bit into the soft skin of Sam's neck,
sucking on the flesh as Sam's eyes fluttered and rolled back as he hastily
zipped himself back up again.
"What if we're in prison?" Sam asked a little breathlessly, trying to turn to
face his brother and being denied, held in place by strong arms. The bite on
his neck intensified enough that it might actually draw blood soon if Dean
didn't let up. Sam didn't want him to – he wanted his blood in Dean's mouth, on
his tongue - but he wanted to hear his brother's voice, raw and gravelly with
lust. "Huh, Dean? What if we're in hell?"
Dean broke away, panting slightly and ran his hot tongue all the way up Sam's
neck to his ear, where he paused to whisper, "Whole world's goin' to hell, baby
boy. Whole fuckin' world is coming to an end and we'll watch it burn. Hell,
heaven, fuckin' two thousand years in the future...I don't care where we are.
I'm always with you, always inside you."
Sam was shuddering now, cock hard and pulsating with need inside his jeans. The
desire to throw Dean over his shoulder, have him laid out beneath him, splayed
and breathless, was overwhelming. He stayed still because Dean was letting his
mouth run away with him and that was just fine by Sam. Dean could be so filthy
when he wanted to be. His big brother ground his hips into Sam's ass, letting
him feel the evidence of his arousal, showing him he was just as worked up as
Sam. Dean let out a small, breathy gasp at the contact and it echoed in Sam's
ear.
"Always inside me, Dean." Sam breathed, barely able to generate the oxygen to
speak at all. "'M always inside you, too. Always have been."
"Tell me," Dean growled again. "Tell me how you're mine."
Sam's eyes threatened to roll again as Dean reached around and slid his hand
down the front of his jeans, gripping his cock hard, rubbing the pre-come
spilling from the head in circles with his thumb. Sam let out a throaty whine,
trying not to jerk around and crush Dean's mouth to his.
Dean was rolling his hips up into Sam's ass with some semblance of rhythm now,
hand moving in perfect time with each little thrust.
"Was always yours, Dean," Sam groaned, trying to push back into his brother,
desperate for some more skin to skin contact, knowing he wouldn't get any until
he gave Dean what he wanted.
"Say it, Sammy. Say you're mine," Dean panted against his neck, teeth dragging
over the raw sensitive patch of previously abused flesh as his grip tightened
and quickened around Sam's cock.
"I'm y-yours, Dean, and you're mine. Always."
And despite the bliss, the devastating ecstasy thrumming through his entire
body, his mind drifted back to that time before.  A period of time when
everything had changed forever. 
===============================================================================
                             -One (More) Year Ago-
It had been seven long, hellish weeks since Sam had last seen his brother Dean.
That time had been spent in ways Sam didn't really want to think about. This
marked one of the longest times they had ever stayed in the same place and it
was only because their father had found something he liked enough to stay a
while. As it turned out, that was having his youngest all to himself.
The town was small, brimming with inbred red-necks and the heat at night was
unbearable. Sam imagined it was what hell was like. Dean had been sent away for
his first real job alone. It was supposed to be for one week only, until John
had called him and given him a new one before he'd even got back to the shitty
motel. Then another. And another.
Sam had wanted to scream out to Dean while he spoke to their father on the
phone. He wanted to beg him to come back because he needed his big brother to
protect him. But John's eyes never left Sam the whole time he was talking to
Dean; his good little soldier would never disobey a direct order. John had
trained him extremely well in that department. He'd told Dean that Sam was
fine; off playing soccer with some local boys. Off studying. Off elsewhere and
completely fine.
Completely fine.
The first week had been relatively uneventful. Sam's relationship with his
father was disinterested at best. Sam had grown up with the knowledge of what
John frequently did to Dean. Sam knew why Dean was so often bruised, bloody and
sore; had always known to some extent. He heard the noises at night, the only
pleas Dean ever uttered were not to wake Sammy. Don't wake Sammy, don't let
Sammy hear. This is enough, right, Dad? You won't go near Sammy, right Dad?
Then Dean would crawl into bed with Sam, hold him close until the sounds of
their father moving around next door stopped and they could only hear deep,
guttural snores. Then Dean would press his face into Sam's neck, right along
the hairline and finally fall asleep. Holding Sammy safe, keeping him where he
could always protect him, even though John had sworn that he'd never go near
Sam.
John Winchester had always been one hell of a liar.
The weeks building up to Dean's inevitable departure, John was making an
obvious effort to be nice to Sam. That had made Sam distinctly uncomfortable.
He was seventeen, not far off eighteen, when Dean finally gave in and agreed to
take his first solo job. He'd been ready to do it since he'd been Sam's age,
but had never wanted to leave Sam alone. Time alone was difficult for them
both. Now at twenty one, he had no reason to disobey his father outright. He'd
left, promising Sam he'd be back soon.
That was seven weeks ago and a lot had happened in that time.
It seemed that without Dean there to mediate, John was even worse than usual.
He drank more, talked less and was more violent than Sam had ever thought him
capable. Of course, that didn't mean for one moment that Sam was going to be
less argumentative; not in the slightest. All their years of training, getting
up at 4am to run laps and then spar with John until neither could stand hadn't
been for nothing. Sam could take a beating and John knew that. He always tried
to break Sam whenever he hit him, always tried to make him cry.
It was a week and half into Sam's first stretch of time without Dean when John
finally found a way to make his youngest son cry.
The fight was one of the worst ever. Sam had made the fatal mistake of
screaming how much their mother would be sickened by what John had become. He
knew instantly he'd gone too far, even for his teenage provocations and
boundary challenges. The blood had drained from John's face so quickly it was
almost funny. When it returned with a gruesome flush, Sam felt like the bones
in his body had turned to jell-o.
The punch made Sam see spots, his vision blurred. His hearing dipped in and
out, distorted by pain. He fell to the floor, room spinning and he didn't feel
himself being flipped over until there was hot breath on his neck, curses being
whispered with his name tangled up in them and then…then there was rough carpet
on his bare skin and he knew his father had cut his clothes off.
"You wanna fuck with me?" John was snarling in his ear. "Huh? That what you
want? You wanna push and push, little Sammy? I'll show you how far you can push
me, you stupid bitch!"
Pain unlike anything Sam had ever felt before shot through his nervous system
before alerting his brain to the fact that his father's fingers were violently
pushing into his tight, dry, unwilling ass. Sam screamed words he didn't even
know, trying to invent some curse there and then on the spot that would kill
his father, but John just clamped a large hand over his mouth and crushed down
on him with his full weight.
"Stay still you little bastard!" he was scathing, as if he had never hated
anyone more. "Not like Dean, are you? Not a good little boy like your big
brother at all. Well, y'know what? Struggle all you want, 'cos it's happening!"
And then there had been something blunt and huge pressing against Sam's
entrance and his blood ran cold at the thought, only moments before it came to
fruition, that he was going to be quite literally torn apart.
The pain was too much; it was shredding every nerve in his body, it rang
through his brain, ricocheted off every bone in his body and set him alight
with agony. He couldn't even scream against his father's massive, salty hand.
He could barely breathe as it was.
"Ohhh fuck yeah!" John grunted, forehead pressed between Sam's shoulder blades.
"So fuckin' tight! You a virgin, Sammy? Huh? Were you a virgin?"
Tears free flowed over his father's hand. Sam was determined not to answer, not
to give him the sick satisfaction of knowing what it was he had taken. He kept
his eyes clamped tight shut, trying to think of Dean. Dean who would be back
soon, Dean who would make everything OK again, Dean who would always protect
him.
John laughed, low and dirty and seemed innately pleased with Sam's lack of an
answer. "'S a shock to me, boy. Thought your brother would have had your ass by
now. Think I don't see the way he looks at you, way his eyes track you every –
fuckin' - move!" he grunted even louder, thrusts starting to speed up. There
was a kind of lubrication that hadn't been there before. His own blood,
probably. "Did you know he wants you, Sammy? Did you? Did you know he jerks off
in the shower, crying your name when he comes? Sometimes he even whispers it
while I'm fucking him!”
A dry sob wrenched up from Sam's throat, choking him as it had nowhere to go
beyond John's hand. He tried not to listen to his father's words, because of
course he knew. Like he hadn't been doing it himself for years. Like Dean
hadn't broke down and admitted how much he was in love with Sam when Sam was
just thirteen. Like Sam hadn't pressed his first clumsy, awkward kiss to Dean's
lips that same day and watched as Dean smiled – really fucking smiled – and
pulled him in gently to show him how it was done. Like they didn't spend every
moment they had alone curled up against one another, tracing scars with
fingertips, mapping each other's bodies with their tongues and mouths. Like Sam
hadn't begged Dean to fuck him a thousand times, for Dean to reply a thousand
times that they would wait until Sam was eighteen. That seemed almost funny
now.
"Stupid bitch, think I don't know Every. Fucking. Thing. About you!"Each word
was punctuated with a thrust, each thrust getting deeper and rougher. Sam
wanted it to be over so bad he thought he might go blind from the effort of
willing it. "Too late now, Sammy…made you my little whore like I made him mine
all those…years…unghhh fuck!"
The torturous rhythm faltered and the deepest thrust yet made Sam scream into
his father's hand loud enough that it made his own ears ring. There was
something sickening and warm filling him from the inside and he wanted to die
thinking that it wasn't Dean…hadn't been Dean.
Finally, John pulled out. His softening cock made a slick, wet noise as it did.
He left Sam on the floor without so much as a backward glance, only a vague
instruction to, "Clean up."
Sam threw up before he'd been able to cry. After that it had taken a while for
the horror to settle in along with the realisation that for the whole time Dean
was away, John would want this from Sam. Want to fuck him, rape him, own him in
a way he never could while Dean was around. Because Dean might have been his
little soldier, but John wasn't stupid enough to seriously fuck with Sam in
front of Dean. Sam belonged to Dean and everyone knew that. Teachers, doctors,
even social workers. No-one had questioned his devotion and love for Sam, no-
one ever would.
Every day, sometimes more than once, John did exactly what he wanted to with
Sam. Every day Sam sat under the shower until the water ran freezing and his
teeth were chatting behind blue lips. Every day Sam screamed against his
father's hand, begged to sell his soul for the power to kill his father, but no
demon even showed. Maybe that was why John always kept his hand over his son's
mouth; he knew what his son would scream for. Every day Sam would bleed and
ache and want to die just a little bit more for being too weak to stop his
father from taking something that had only ever been meant for Dean. Every day.
Seven weeks of hell and it didn't matter because Dean was coming back. He was
due back any moment and Sam wanted to see him so bad he thought his heart was
going to smash through his ribs. John hadn't been able to find a new job quick
enough and Dean hadn't been willing to listen to the list of 'Possible Cases'.
He'd told John he was coming back and then hung up.
Sam had been in the room when John slammed the receiver down several times more
than necessary. Despite knowing it would cost him, Sam hadn't been able to
prevent a triumphant little smile. John crossed the room in a matter of
seconds, slamming Sam against the nearest wall and smashing a glass picture in
the process.
"You breathe a fuckin' word of this to your brother and it won't be you who
pays the price…oh no, little Sammy. I'll take it out on Dean, I swear I will
fuck him to pieces if you so much as think about it anywhere near him," he
sneered into Sam's ear. "You get me, boy?"
Sam nodded, slamming his eyes closed against the cleverly worded mental imagery
placed there by his bastard of a father. He always knew what pressure points to
go for, how to hit Sam where it would hurt the most. Dean. Always Dean.
Now Sam was waiting, sitting on the bed nearest to the door. John was out,
sorting out some cash for their next little road trip. He'd been nowhere near
Sam that day, instead poring over papers and journals. Looking for the next
job, he supposed. Not that he cared in the slightest. The only thing in Sam's
world anymore was Dean; everything had narrowed dangerously to Dean and only
Dean. Whatever else was outside of that didn't matter, never would again.
When the door opened just a crack, Sam sprung off the bed like it was
electrified. Dean's face came into view just before he threw himself into his
brothers arms. Dean dropped his bags in time to catch him, even though Sam was
a little taller than he was. Sam threw himself around his brother, burying his
face in his neck, wrapping his legs around his waist.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean breathed, hugging Sam so tight his ribs were groaning in
protest. Sam didn't care. He didn't want to separate, he wanted to fuse them
into one being; one soul, one body. "Sam, hey, you OK?" Dean asked after a few
minutes of silent, desperate hugging. He gently pulled Sam's wrists away from
his neck, forcing him to look up from the safety of the little hollow Dean's
neck created.
He took a breath, smiled for Dean and said, "I am now you're here."
Dean kicked his bags inside and closed the door behind him, casting a quick,
wary glance around in search of their father.
"He's out," Sam filled in breathlessly. "All alone."
"Fuckin' finally," Dean groaned and pulled Sam into him, mouths meeting
perfectly; all need and want and heat and love. "Jesus, Sammy, fuckin' missed
you so bad. Felt like I was torn in half," he moaned into Sam's mouth. "Never
again, I swear. Not unless I can take you with me."
Sam didn't, couldn't respond; could only throw himself into Dean as much as
possible. He carded his fingers through his brother's hair, soft and longer
than it had been before. Dean let out a low, deep rumble in his throat and
yanked Sam even closer, twin erections grinding together.
"Wanna go with you, Dean," Sam sobbed against Dean's mouth, trying to hold
himself together, though he felt like he was shaking apart. "D-don't leave me
again."
Dean froze and Sam fucking hatedhimself for not being strong enough to protect
Dean from this, when Dean had gone through the same and much worse for years.
When he drew back, his eyes were cautious and trained on Sam with an almost
frightening precision.
"What?" he asked, softly, with an almost inaudible urgency. "What do you mean?"
"Just that I missed you," Sam said, trying to reclaim his brother's lips in an
attempt to recover from his little slip up. "C'mon, Dad'll be back soon."
But Dean held Sam away, gently held him back. "You're lying, Sam. Tell me
what's wrong. Did he...did he do something to you?"
Sam couldn't look away, couldn't open his mouth and create all those beautiful
lies the way Dean and John knew how. He couldn't do anything except wait for
Dean to realise why he couldn't speak, wait for his brother to read his mind
the way he always could.
The realisation seemed to hit Dean hard, like a real honest to God punch to the
face. He gasped once, back convulsing like he was going to throw up and his
hand came up to his mouth as if to prevent it.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam began to cry. "I'm so sorry…I'm sorry, please, please
don't hate me, Dean! I tried to stop him, I did try! I didn't want it, I
swear!"
Dean shook his head once and Sam though for one terrifying moment that Dean was
going to hate him, blame him….but then he took the hand from his mouth – Sam
shuddered with the memory of what that felt like – and drew Sam into his arms,
the only place Sam had ever wanted to be.
"Don't even think stupid ass shit like that," Dean insisted furiously. "I hear
one more word like that, like you gotta say sorry to me for anything and I'll
kick your ass, you hear me?"
Shakily, Sam nodded, gripping Dean so tight he thought he might actually bond
them forcefully into one creature; two backs and one soul. But it was Dean who
separated them again, tear tracks down his dirty face, even though he was
smiling.
"Listen to me, Sammy. We're leaving him, we're leaving tonight, you understand
me?"
Sam stared wide eyed into his brother's eyes, wondering if he was actually
serious…if it was even possible for them.
"Leaving?" he echoed, trying to make his poor, tired brain process the
information.
"Leaving," Dean confirmed. "I want you to go pack some things, OK, baby? Pack
everything you need, as quick as you can and then meet me out by the car. We'll
take it, along with his bullshit ID's too so he can't track us as quickly as he
he'd like." He took Sam's face in his hands and shook him once. "Sam? You hear
me?"
Sam nodded, corner of his mouth curling up in anticipation at the future he
could see with Dean. He pressed one more kiss to Dean's lips, full on and
wanting, and then ran to pack. He threw everything he had into a couple of bags
with badly trembling hands, grabbed the gun under his father's pillow and went
to go outside, but he froze when he heard the noises.
He knew John's voice almost as well as he knew Dean's and there was no
mistaking the unprecedented sounds of them screaming at each other in the
parking lot.
His knees felt like they were going to give out, he was so fucking terrified.
Fingers shaking, he pushed the door open enough to see Dean aiming a gun right
in John's face, screaming the most terrible words at him he could think of.
John was yelling and roaring right back, calling Dean every name under the sun,
insisting that Sam was an attention seeking little whore who Dean was too in
love with to see it.
"THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO DO THAT TO HIM?" Dean screamed, gun shaking
badly in his hand. John's eyes flickered back and forth from the weapon to his
eldest son's eyes. "HE'S A FUCKING KID! YOUR FUCKING SON!MY FUCKING BROTHER!"
"I DIDN'T TOUCH HIM AND YOU KNOW IT! WHY WOULD I SULLY MY HANDS WITH THAT
STUPID BITCH WHEN I CAN GET WHATEVER I WANT FROM MY GOOD LITTLE SOLDIER?"
Dean drew back the hammer on the gun and for one glorious, shining moment Sam
thought that would be it. Over. Done. Dead. Gone.
But then there were sirens, flashing lights and the lookon John's fucking
face…he'd planned the whole thing. Knew Dean would come back, knew Sam would
tell Dean, knew he'd pull the gun, threaten him. Shit, he probably called the
cops hours ago.
Sam fell to his knees as Dean fought like nothing Sam had ever seen. He killed
one of the cops there and then, almost tore his head clean off. But more
arrived and eventually, they had him on the ground, bleeding and snarling the
most violent threats at their father. The cops had to smack him around the head
with batons just to make him stop. He was dragged away, muttering, "Sammy," as
if it was the only word he remembered. The world was darkening and Sam felt
like he was falling into a pit of black hell, never to see their stars again.
The last words he heard before he passed out were his father's.
"Got you all to myself now, little Sammy."
===============================================================================
Dean had been given ten years in a State Penitentiary, Utah. He'd served six
months of that sentence before Sam managed to get away long enough to visit
him. The punishment would be severe, but Sam was beyond caring at that point.
So much time alone without Dean had done things to him and he would never be
the same again.
The visiting room was full of people, but Sam could only see Dean. His big
brother's hair was longer and he'd obviously been working out because he was
built up more than Sam had ever seen him. Decked out in only jeans and one of
Dean's old t-shirts, Sam was unaware of the men staring at him, muttering
things they'd love to do to him under their breath. It didn't matter because
Dean was in the room.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, smiling with what could only be described as genuine
happiness. "Fuck, man!" He yanked Sam into a hug before anyone could even yell
at them to sit down and stop pushing their luck. When they did finally sit in
their allocated plastic chairs, their hands were so tightly intertwined that
they might never separate again. "Christ, baby boy, you look so good.
Everything I see in here, I see you, Sammy."
"I know, Dean, I'm going crazy too," Sam said, trying to keep himself together.
Dean smiled that smile and touched Sam's cheek with the back of his fingers.
"Even ugliness looks beautiful because of you. Even though I'm here, I visit
you every night, little brother. Never a moment you're not in my mind."
Sam swallowed a sob, grasping at Dean's hand tightly. "Dean, listen. It's
Dad…he's moving me away with him so you can't find us when you get out. He's
lost it, Dean. I mean seriously lost it! He keeps saying about how he's gonna
tell the cops that you raped me, make it impossible for you to get out of here,
ever!"
Dean's eyes hardened, Sam recognised the look; he'd seen it a million times.
Dean being brave for him. "He can't keep us apart, Sammy. He'll try, that
fucking bastard, but he'll fail."
"He said if you ever show up, he's gonna kill you," Sam sobbed. A flash of pain
shot through Dean's face as if he couldn't bear to see it.
"Oh yeah? I highly fucking doubt that," he snarled. Then he softened, as though
he didn't want those precious few moments with Sam to be about anything besides
the two of them.
Sam's hands went automatically to Dean's trousers, unzipping them and trying to
get inside to make it better, to give Dean something because he had taken
everything away. Taken his freedom, his life…all because he couldn't be strong
enough. He didn't realise he was crying until Dean's hand caught at his wrist
very gently and he thumbed Sam's chin to make him look up.
"Sshhh," he whispered. "Sammy, this is not your fault, you got me? It doesn't
matter where the fuck he takes you. Fuckin' Timbuktu, it doesn't matter. I'll
find you, baby brother. We're fate, you and me. No-one can stop fate. Nobody
can. No human, no demon, nothing."
Sam stared into his brother's eyes, trying to build himself up enough to go
back, go away, go somewhere without Dean. He mouthed the words, "Love you,
Dean."
Dean pulled him close, fingers gripping the back of his neck. "Mine, Sammy.
You're mine, never forget it."
Sam nodded, closing his eyes. "I gotta go, Dean. He'll know I've come to see
you and I can't make it worse than it already is."
Dean's jaw worked as he let go of Sam slowly, reluctantly. "One of these nights
baby boy, you just wait. I'll be coming for you."
===============================================================================
The story of Dean's escape was something Sam would make him tell over and over
again.
Another two months passed before an opportunity presented itself. A guard was
stupid enough to think that Dean would be an easy target for a little oral rape
in the solitude of his cell. Dean didn't hesitate. Let the dumb ass guard get
close enough to think it might actually happen, and then he struck. Latched
violently onto his throat; tore it almost clean out, all the while managing to
stay nice and quiet. He took his keys, uniform, shoes – everything. Left the
dead asshole in his bed, wearing his stupid inmate pyjamas. Moron even had
remote central locking so he could jack the car straight out of the car park,
nice and easy.
It was the dead of night when Sam heard the car pull up. Not the rumble of
Impala, but he knew who it was anyway. He hadn't been able to sleep that night
anyway, tossing and turning while listening to the sounds of John in the next
bed, moaning and cursing. When he heard the car, saw the lights…he just knew.
He'd felt it coming all day, somehow knew Dean would be back.
He was out of bed, wearing nothing but boxers just as John sat bolt upright,
eyes locking onto Sam.
"Where the fuck do you think you're goin'?" he demanded, words slurred with the
remnants of whiskey in his system and vestiges of a troubled sleep.
Before Sam had a chance to start screaming at John, the door burst open and
Dean was there, looking far too fucking beautiful in a guard's uniform.
"Hey Dad! I'm back!" he announced, almost cheerfully. He saw John about to go
for the gun under the pillow, but was quicker than the old man. He delivered a
vicious kick to John's face that sent him rolling out of the bed and onto the
floor. Sam ran to Dean's side, feeling more alive than he knew was possible
before and the sense of completion was overwhelming.
"You arrogant prick," John was snarling as he righted himself, not even trying
to get the gun now. His nose was bleeding; it seemed to have woken him up
considerably. "You think you can just stroll in here and take my little whore
without my permission? You wanted a taste of him, Dean-O - all you had to do
was ask. You know I'd always share with you, son."
Dean's lip curled back, but he didn't move from the doorway.
"You will never touch him again," he said in a frighteningly calm voice.
John laughed – actually laughed - at that. "I will find you wherever you go,
both of you. I'm the one who taught you how to live off grid, remember? Or has
all the gang rape in prison fucked with your brain, Dean? I know you both too
well. I'll find you and when I do, you're never gonna see each other again."
For a minute, Sam thought John had gone too far, pressed Dean too hard. He was
terrified that Dean was going to do something reckless, like attack him. Their
father might have been getting on in years, but he was still one tough son of a
bitch.
But Sam needn't have worried. Dean reached behind him and pulled out a gun,
glinting cheerily in the meagre light from outside.
"I know, Dad. You think I don't know you'll come after us? Like you said, you
taught us well. Never leave alive anything that can hunt you down, right?" Dean
said, in a tone that might have been an echo of the responsible, obedient
little soldier he once was. John's face fell and his eyes latched onto the gun.
"Don't you fuckin' dare," he said, very softly.
"Goodbye," Dean said once, before firing all six bullets into the man before
them.
The body hit the floor with a crash that sounded louder than it really was
because with that body, went their incarceration. Freedom crashed over them
hard, making them dizzy and Sam couldn't stop himself from pulling Dean's mouth
right onto his, kissing him desperately. The adrenaline was burning through his
blood like a gunpowder trail and he couldn't think of anything else besides
Dean who was kissing him back just as eagerly, just as messily and with no
finesse whatsoever. The kiss was consuming, violent almost and the need behind
it was staggering.
Somehow, they managed to pull away long enough to grab their things and get
outside. Dean could barely unlock the car for his inability to stop kissing
Sam. They couldn't bear to be parted for more than a few seconds and once
inside the Impala it was no different. They drove recklessly, screaming and
cheering, kissing when they should have been looking at the road, but they
didn't care. Sam felt free and it was a powerful feeling. The world was
theirs…everything was possible now and he wanted to go out into that world and
watch it burn, just to see the fire reflected in Dean's eyes. Wanted the world
to be dark forever so he could see their stars.
They drove through the night until they reached a bridge; a massive expanse of
water beneath them. Dean pulled over. They changed their clothes, tossing the
guard uniform down into the river with disgust. Sam couldn't stop touching him,
kissing him. He wanted to beg Dean to fuck him in the car, on the side of the
fucking road at this point - he didn't care. Surely they had waited long
enough. Surely now was their time and Dean wasn't going to come up with any
more bullshit reasons to wait, right?
Sam was moments away from actually begging, when Dean took him by the hand and
pulled him to the edge of the bridge, against the railing. The view was
beautiful, stretching endlessly but Sam had a hard time seeing anything outside
of Dean's face.
"Sammy, it's time to grow up." Dean's voice was soft; stripped of the swagger
and charm he wore for the outside world. "We're leaving everything else behind.
From now on, it's just you and me. Together. Gonna burn this world up. Got the
road to hell in front of us." He paused for a moment as if contemplating
something and then he seemed to settle on it. "Marry me, Sammy."
It should have indicated something that the first thought in Sam's head wasn't,
'What the hell? Why the fuck is he asking me that? I can't marry my own
brother!' It should have been, but it wasn't.
Instead, he found himself smiling, heart threatening to explode into a thousand
shards of totally insane but utterly real happiness. "Of course I'll marry you.
If that's what you want."
Dean tilted his head slightly. "You don't?"
Sam stroked a hand loosely through Dean's hair, watching his eyelashes flutter.
"Dean, I'm already yours in every way it could ever matter. Some heterosexual
religious bullshit ritual doesn't make anything official to me."
"I know, but I want…I want this to be the start of us.And I want us to be
married. I love you, Sammy, and I want us to be marked by that. Branded by it."
The words were low and full of promise. Just like that, Sam was dizzy with need
again though he managed to keep himself together enough to enquire, "But where
are gonna get married?"
Dean looked out across the water and then back at Sam. "Right here, Sammy. This
is our world now, this is our church. Gimme your hand."
Unable to stop smiling, Sam held it out and watched as Dean took out a small,
sharp knife. He didn't flinch as Dean sliced it across his palm, then did the
same to his own. He pressed their hands together, blood mingling irretrievably.
It was already their blood, had always been but Sam understood and felt the
same need for the gesture. Their lives were always going to be blood and
violence, sex and passion beyond articulation. He didn't want wedding bells,
flowers and a condo. He wanted Dean's blood and knew Dean wanted his. Wanted to
wear the scar forever as a ring. Their blood dripped down into the river
beneath and Sam sighed, "We'll be living in all the oceans now."
When Sam looked back up at Dean there was an intensity he had never seen there
before and he felt the same thing stir inside of him.
"You, Sam Winchester, are mine," Dean said evenly, though his eyes were
blazing. "And I, Dean Winchester, am yours until this world ends again and
again and in hell, I'll still be yours."
With a slightly shaky breath, Sam said, "You, Dean Winchester, are mine. And I,
Sam Winchester, am yours until we burn the sun right out of the sky forever and
I'll still be yours in the darkness, in death, in hell itself."
Dean smiled and looked as though he'd lost his breath there for a moment. He
brought Sam to his mouth, pressing one bloody hand print against Sam's cheek as
they kissed, turning on the spot, encircled by the wind and their world around
them.
===============================================================================
"…Always, Dean, fucking always," Sam panted, moving back hard against his
brother, returning from the memories a little dizzy.
"You're mine and I'm yours, baby," Dean was saying over and over as he reached
for the hand that bore the twin scar; still fresh and sore. Sam groaned at the
shifted angle and desperately tried to break out of his bones and skin so he
could melt into Dean. "We're fate."
"Jesus Christ, Dean!" Sam cried out, so close to coming he was starting to
hyperventilate. "Gotta touch you, man…gotta let me kiss you!”
Dean leaned around and Sam twisted to meet his brother's mouth. That was all he
needed; the warm touch of those wet lips and he was coming over Dean's hand so
hard his knee's threatened to give out. Dean held him up from behind, worked
him through it, whispering obscene promises and beautiful little catechisms to
Sam while Sam could only babble back to him; lips numb, body tingling.
Finally, Dean relinquished his iron grip on Sam enough that he could turn
around and pull Dean's face directly to his own and claim those lips in a
brutal, breathless kiss. Sam palmed Dean's cock through his jeans, still rock
hard and hot even through the material. He went to drop to his knees, but Dean
caught him by the elbows and brought him back up again.
"Have to make tracks, Sammy," he said with a wry smile. "C'mon."
"We can't stay here?" Sam pouted.
Dean shook his head, licking his fingers clean – an oxymoron in itself. "Nah,
we gotta find us a motel. A nice one," he added quickly before Sam could
object. "Nice big double bed with a headboard so I can lay my fucking gorgeous
little brother down on it and tie him up."
A wave of fresh arousal shot through Sam and his cock twitched with renewed
interest.
"Oh yeah?" he breathed, lips hovering over Dean's in a way that he could feel
the heat without ever touching them. "What you gonna do to me, Dean?"
Dean's eyes were so dark they were almost black, pupils blown wide enough that
he looked almost like a demon. "You're eighteen, Sammy. We're married. I don't
think I can wait another fuckin' minute to bury myself inside you baby and damn
if it's gonna be our first time rolling around in some prickly patch of tumble
weeds along Highway 666," he growled softly, palms flat against Sam's chest,
moving up and down.
Sam felt like he could have come again just from hearing those words leave
Dean's lips, swallowed up almost immediately by Sam's mouth, so close to his
brother's.
"Thought you said you didn't care where we were, so long as we were together,"
Sam whispered, letting his lips brush ever so slightly over Dean's and his
brother jumped, hypersensitive as he was. The hands moving over his chest slid
downwards over Sam's thighs, playing just a few inches from where Sam wanted
them to be.
"Really, really wanna tie you up," Dean mouthed, only the consonants audible at
all.
"Can tie me up anywhere, Dean," Sam teased, even though he was starting to
vibrate with desire himself. "Hell or elsewhere."
"Sammy, get in the fucking car," Dean said, rough and desperate. "Before I lose
my mind."
"Oh you're gonna lose it, big brother," Sam whispered, bringing his hand up to
play lightly with one of Dean's nipples, revelling in the little sound it
generated deep in Dean's throat. "Count on that."
That was too much for Dean, for either of them really but Sam sensed he had
pushed Dean as far as he could possibly go. Those boundaries and restraints
that had made him wait until Sam was eighteen, until they were bonded by their
own strange little ceremony, exploded in the face of the burning need to have
Sam, to lose himself inside of him.
He dragged Sam to the car, yanked open the back seat and pushed him inside. Sam
went, unable to tear his gaze from his brother the entire time. He began to
undress, unbuttoning his shirt, but Dean stopped him. For a moment, they just
stared at one another, caught in the moment so completely that anyone looking
would have blushed just to witness the intensity.
"Sammy," Dean breathed, as if it was a holy word, a beautiful travesty of a
prayer. "My Sammy."
Sam held onto Dean's shoulders, sliding his hands up his neck. "Yours," he said
with meaning.
When the moment broke, with it went all their patience and refinement. Clothes
were torn at, flung carelessly onto the front seat. Sam shucked out of his
jeans, boxers going with them and he kicked them out of the car, door still
open behind Dean. It was a scrabble to remove every last possible trace of
anything that could come between them. They needed to be flesh against flesh,
bones to bones and screaming halves of the same soul allowed to meet. They
bumped elbows, knees and heads more than once, but neither cared. Their mouths
were always somehow attached. Lips hot and wet, roving and searching for
contact of that skin that contained them. Dean bit into Sammy's neck, licking
and sucking at the flesh until Sam was literally shaking apart with need. When
Sam began to beg, Dean drew back and kissed him, silencing him effectively.
Then he broke it only long enough to fumble gracelessly around in his bag on
the floor of the back seat for lube, applying it generously over his fingers.
He fitted his mouth over Sam's again, chest to chest and pressed a finger into
Sam's ass, slow at first but deeper once he seemed to realise, through Sam's
insistent urging, that he could take more. Two fingers next, moving in and out,
scissoring gently and Sam broke the kiss for some much needed air.
"C'mon, Dean, not gonna break," he panted, lifting one leg up around Dean's
naked hips. "Fuck me already."
Dean groaned at the words, fingers slipping out and Sam tried not to whimper at
the loss of contact.
"Mine, Sammy," he gasped as if they were the only words he knew. He lined
himself up, one hand on Sam's face, fingers caressing and trailing over his
lips, into the wet warmth.
When he pushed inside, Sam let out a cry and Dean stilled, obviously afraid he
had hurt him. Sam bit his fingers and pushed himself down, desperately needing
more. The bitter-sweet bliss started to build in his stomach, pain and pleasure
blending into one perfect sensation tearing through his veins, leaving fire in
it's wake. Dean let out a noise Sam had never heard him make before as he
withdrew a little and then pushed in deeper than before. It was fucking
perfect, too much pleasure and completion. Sam thought he might actually pass
out if he couldn't control his breathing. He lifted both legs now, managing to
get them over Dean's shoulders despite the low roof of the car.
"Harder," he instructed. "Deeper! Need you inside me, Dean, c'mon!"
His older brother seemed helpless but to obey. He started to push inside, those
last remaining threads of concern snapping spectacularly as Sam clenched around
him purposefully driving him wild. His hips seemed to move of their own accord
and Dean was making the most fucking exquisite sounds Sam had ever heard,
nonsensical babble pouring from his mouth in the rare moments he wasn't kissing
the sanity right out of Sam.
When Dean shifted angle, something sparked inside of Sam that made his whole
body arch up into his brother; fire and pleasure and oh holy fuck let him do
that again!
"Fuck, Dean do that again!" he begged, hand so tight in Dean's hair it must
have hurt. Dean obliged, hitting the same spot over and over until Sam thought
he was going to bust right out of his skeleton. His cock was leaking, trapped
between their sweat slicked bodies and he could feel the second orgasm of the
night coiling in his stomach, building pressure behind it to such an extent he
was afraid he might not be able to take it.
"Sammy, come for me Sammy," Dean gasped into his mouth and that was too
much…the orgasm ripped through Sam, erupting violently and he let out a scream
he never thought people actually made during sex. Dean swallowed it down
greedily, one hand moving to swipe the mess between their stomach's where Sam
had come untouched. "So fuckin' beautiful, baby...so fuckin' beautiful."
"Dean, Dean…mine! Dean….you're mine," Sam panted heavily, body still trembling
in the aftershocks of his orgasm. "Love you so fucking much, big brother."
Dean's hips were losing rhythm, body being dragged to the place where the most
basic need was taking over and he couldn't stop staring at Sam beneath him as
if he had never seen anything like it.
"S-Sammy," he managed before he slammed himself deep into Sam's ass with a
heavy, guttural sound spilling from his throat. He came hard and deep inside
Sam, spilling himself entirely until his arms gave out and he collapsed against
his baby brother, who was still panting.
It was minutes later before either could generate the ability to speak again.
Lips against Sam's collarbone, Dean said, "Love you, Sammy. So much I can't
even say it."
"Don't need to," Sam replied, hands running over Dean's back. "Never need to
say it."
"This is where we begin, y'know? Sam and Dean Winchester. Together. Every great
thing we do starts right here." Dean eased off of Sam a little, pulling out and
Sam was left feeling oddly empty. He trailed open mouth kisses down Sam's body
as he retreated backwards. "You wanna hit a motel?"
"No," Sam whispered, sitting up on his elbows. "I wanna sleep on the hood of
the car, with you."
And Dean Winchester, who had never been very good at denying his brother
anything, could only smile in return and helplessly comply.
===============================================================================
                                 -Chapter Two-
                        'With one hand on the hexagram,
                           And one hand on the girl,
                         I balance on a wishing well,
                         That all men call the world.'
                                -Leonard Cohen
                                - Present Day -
"After that, there was just no stopping Sam and Dean Winchester. They tore up
the countryside with a vengeance right out of the bible. In the course of three
months they slaughtered one hundred and eighty six people – all innocents they
had never met before; total strangers. Each one killed to fulfil the fantasies
of these love-crazed, narcissistic psychopaths."
Bela Talbot considered herself on screen, nodding appraisingly at the old
footage from the last show. Behind her, the editing crew were giving each other
looks, but she ignored them.
"Yeah," she said after a minute, with her refined British accent. "Maybe trim
that bit there and go in for a close up when I say, 'Love-crazed, narcissistic
psychopaths.' Points for Drama. What do you think?"
Besides her, David sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, we really
raped and pillaged the first show to do this…"
Roger, the cameraman, helpfully piped up. "We changed the order around so it
wasn't super obvious."
"Yeah, thanks Roger. But in my opinion it still needs a new intro. You can't
cannibalize yourself all the time, Bela, or-"
Bela let out a snort and looked David in the eye. "Repetition works, David. You
think those morons out there in zombie-land actually remember anything? It's
junk food for the brain; filler, fodder, whatever. Just build for the
interview. Keep saying, 'Live Interview With Bela Talbot!' Anticipation, David,
that's all it's about. The next bite of chocolate, the next car, the next
vacation, the next life – next, everything is next. That's life, OK sweetie?
You just keep them dangling."
David shook his head and went about cutting the tape, muttering under his
breath.
"What's the next bit?" Bela asked, popping a chewing gum in her mouth and
leaning over David's shoulder to watch herself on screen.
"Patrol man Gerald Nash was just one fifty two officers that Sam and Dean
Winchester murdered during their reign of terror…"
"OK, that's another thing," David cut in, pausing the footage. "Why does
everyone say their names in that order? Dean is the oldest, right? Sam's like
eighteen, so why is it his name first?"
Bela shrugged. "Because that's the way everyone says it."
"Why are we following suit? I mean, it should be the eldest's name first,
right?"
"I am this close to shoving my three inch heel up your arse right now, David.
So maybe you could just can the bright ideas and do what I pay you to do. Make
me look good, alright? I'm not going to look like an idiot because of your
ridiculous semantics," she purred, eyes flashing.
"Whatever," David sighed, playing the footage with a scowl.
"Gerald and his partner Dale Wrigley were parked at a doughnut shop when it
happened."
The screen showed an older man, Dale Wrigley, explaining what had happened.
"This '67 Chevrolet Impala pulled up about three spaces away from where I was
parked. Gerald was only three weeks out of the academy. He came out when the
driver asked him over. Looked like Gerald was giving him directions. Driver
waved him thanks and then up come that shotgun."
The screen exploded into re-enacted violence and mayhem. Actors playing the
roles of Sam and Dean Winchester were laughing and yelling, while driving
recklessly away as they were pursued. Then it panned back to Bela, looking
smart in a dress suit, low cut and revealing.
"And famous they became. Half the world is in horror at the massacre staining
the once peaceful roads of Highway 666…the other half caught Sam and Dean fire;
beloved and adoring fans."
The shot switched to a scene of chaos and madness outside the Winchesters'
trial. Hundreds of teens, all dressed like the brothers, carrying signs and
screaming to see them.
"What do you think of Sam and Dean?"Bela was asking three young boys.
"Hot."
"Hot."
"Totally hot."
"Sam and Dean are the best thing to happen to mass murder since Manson."
"But they're way cooler."
"I'm not sayin' I believe in mass murder or whatever…"
"Yeah, we respect human life and all."
"But if I was a mass murderer, I'd be Sam and Dean."
It then cut to two British kids standing in front of Big Ben. "You take all the
great figures from the States," a young man was saying. "Elvis, James Dean, Jim
Morrison, Jack Nicholson – add a pale of bloody nitro and you've got Sam and
Dean. They're like rebels without a cause, except they've got a cause…only no-
one knows what it is."
The next clip was of an impressive looking man. A goatee and stubble surrounded
his sombre face as he sat, fingertips steepled together as Bela interviewed him
from the confines of his office. Across the bottom, it flashed, 'Dr. Emil
Rheingold.'
"Ah yes, Sam and Dean's devotion to each other. Well, after extensive study I
believe I can be one of the first to give an official opinion, if not a
diagnosis as to the nature of the relationship. You see, in a world where
people can't seem to make the simplest of relationships work and the slightest
emotional commitment is considered devastating, Sam and Dean have a do or die
relationship of a Shakespearian magnitude. To the country's youth, 75 percent
of whom are coming from broken homes, they have an us-against-the world posture
which youth loves. And they've taken that posture 10 steps beyond. Sam and Dean
have shocked a country numb with violence. They've created a world where only
two exist and anybody who inadvertently enters that world is murdered..."
Bela made an irritated sound. "This bloke looks like he was cut with a fucking
meat-cleaver and why does he have to speak so slowly? No-one wants this shit;
axe it, Dave."
David looked like he was on the verge of walking out. "This is the only piece
of factual information we have on the Winchesters that's not kids yelling how
much they want to be murdered by them. We can't cut it and you know it, Bela."
"Fine, well just make sure to keep flashing back and forth on me while he
speaks. See if you can't wrangle some kind of intermittent flashing sequence
with some more of those re-enactments."
"Dr. Rheingold," screen-Bela was asking, leaning forward and flashing a good
deal of cleavage as she did. "Can you confirm the rumours of an incestuous
relationship?"
Rheingold looked vaguely nauseous for a moment before composing himself. "At
this point I would prefer not to comment."
"But surely you would know, after your extensive psychological analysis of them
both?"
"No comment."
"Very well, I'll move on to a more commercially acceptable question then. Are
they insane?"
"Insane? No. Psychotic, yes. Sam and Dean know the difference between right and
wrong, in my opinion, they just don't give a damn,"Rheingold replied
imperiously, seeming pleased to have the subject matter brought back to
something of his liking.
"Many other psychoanalysts have posited that there might be a history of sexual
abuse. What is your opinion on that, Dr. Rheingold?"
"Abuse? I would say….no, as far as I can tell. I don't think there is any
reason to believe that either one was sexually abused as a child. There is a
tendency to label most mass murders with that sort of 'Sympathy for the
Devil'story but mostly, it's baseless imagination, spread by fans."
"So are you still working on the case with the Winchesters, Dr Rheingold?
Especially after the brutal murder of the last person who attempted to evaluate
Sam?"
Rheingold shifted somewhat in the chair. “RegretfullyI have other more…pressing
cases to attend to and am no longer working solely on the case. But I will be
available for consultation of what I've discerned so far. For a small fee, of
course."
"Cut that," Bela demanded. "Too many big words and that guy just plain makes my
skin crawl. Look, keep the cop and doughnut shop. I love the teens at the
trial. What else have we got?"
"The trial itself turned ugly and brutal when Dean Winchester managed to get
loose and attack one of the remaining victims left alive, Grace Mulberry. Grace
had been brave enough to testify against them. Insider accounts claim that Dean
killed her with nothing more than a pencil; she was dead inside ten seconds.
Sam was reported to have looked on with a smile, singing softly under his
breath."
"Yes, that's good. Keep that, I like that. Alright, remember to keep saying
'Live Interview!' every thirty seconds and we'll have the network creaming for
it," Bela said with a hungry smile. "This is it, boys - we're going to make
television history."
===============================================================================
                              -Three Months Ago-
One hand loosely on the steering wheel and the other playing with the soft
curls at the base of Sammy's neck, Dean glanced around casually as they drove
through the small town. Sam was humming to himself as he always did, some
beautiful song Dean had never heard anywhere but from Sam's mouth. It had been
a long drive, thirteen hours straight to get to this rundown little shithole
but it was a good place to lie low for a while after they mess they'd made back
in Cortez.
It made Dean smile just to think about it; the gun in Sam's hand, the hostage
he was using as a shield, the hunger in his eyes as he clocked each of the
cops, demanding that he throw the weapon down. They hadn't seen Dean behind
them, hadn't been able to tear their eyes away from his little Sammy; all
breathtaking, covered in the blood of others and just keening for more.
Twelve dead in less than a minute and Dean had been rock hard the entire time.
"Hey, Dean," Sam said, voice all soft and relaxed, like he'd just woken up.
"Hmm?"
"I haven't seen a cop for half an hour. Is there such a thing as a cop-less
town?" he asked, a pretty little smile playing about his lips as Dean glanced
over at him.
"That's be heaven, wouldn't it? Shangri-fuckin'-La," Dean said, just because it
would make Sammy laugh. He wasn't disappointed when Sam started to snicker,
twisting in the seat so his back was against the window, fully facing Dean.
"I don't know," he said softly, eyes in sharp contrast to those dulcet tone. "I
like cops. Like the way they break and bleed."
"My boy does have the touch, doesn't he?" Dean said with a sidelong glance at
his little brother. "I know you do baby. Nothin' I love watching more than
those assholes thinking they can bring you in nice and quietly."
"Think they can touch me," Sam said quietly, with just a flicker of the
dangerous smile he had whenever he had a gun in his hand or a knife. "Always
think they can touch me."
Dean chuckled. "Always regret it pretty soon afterwards."
"Can we sleep outside again tonight?" Sam asked, changing subject abruptly,
like he hoped he might catch Dean off-guard.
With a sigh, Dean rolled his eyes. "Not tonight, Sammy. We gotta be careful,
lay low for a few days."
Sam's bottom lip jutted out in his trademark pout. "How does laying low equate
to staying in some rundown piece of shit motel where people can ID us?"
"Get ourselves a hostage," said Dean with a shrug, mind instantly going to
weight, height, size of any potential girl they might grab. He steadily ignored
that low whine in the back of his mind, darkly excited at the prospect.
Sam looked away and Dean sensed something was wrong.
"What's the matter?"
"Well," Sam said, eyes still averted. "It's just…do you still think I'm sexy,
Dean?"
"What?"
The pout was back, a shadow of genuine insecurity behind it this time. "We
haven't had sex for nearly a day now, Dean."
"Christ, Sammy! You're gonna be the death of me, baby boy, y'know that?" Dean
chuckled, hand trailing over Sam's thigh. "Gonna have to pull this car over and
fuck you in the broad light of day if you can't control yourself."
Sam shivered, biting his bottom lip. "Yeah?"
"Damn straight," Dean said, fixing Sam with a look and fuck if he cared about
who he run over while he wasn't watching the road. "Take you outside, bend you
over the hood of the car and fuck you till your eyes roll back."
That thought seemed to cheer Sam up immensely and he reached to turn the stereo
on, humming softly along to Dean's Metallica songs he knew by heart. He lay his
head on Dean's shoulder, fingers tracing over his chest, more directly over his
heart; their latest matching tattoo. A star in the centre of a burning fire.
Sammy's idea and design. He'd been drawing it for days before Dean finally
suggested they both get it tattooed on them. Sam had then spent the night
running his tongue across the sore, raw and bloodied flesh on Dean's chest,
soothing it.
They stopped at half decent motel for the night, using cash instead of the fake
credit cards. Sam wasn't quite as sullen as he had been before, but he was
still a little put out about having to be inside all night. Dean knew that Sam
loved to be outdoors; he was a wild thing and wild things didn't like to be
caged and trapped within walls.
Dean sat on the side of the king size bed, cleaning his gun methodically, the
way he'd known how to do since he was six years old. Guns and weapons had been
Dean's pre-school. John always behind him watching for any mistakes, always
ready to correct that mistake at a moment's notice. Dean remembered numb
fingers and aching joints from so many hours of staying in the same position,
doing the same thing over and over again. Remembered almost passing out a few
times with fatigue and remembered very well being smacked around the head those
very few times it happened. Sammy had only been a baby during those early
years, a fat little toddler at the time. Dean had had to find a way of soothing
Sammy while not actually moving from his duties. Usually, he wouldn't be
allowed to move a muscle until he'd finished disassembling and reassembling
various weapons. So he would he would sing to Sammy. He sang to him to stop him
from growing agitated, which Sammy was prone to being. Sometimes Dean would
make up words to go with whatever tune came into his head, usually it was just
melodic humming. Little baby Sammy would gurgle and smile, happy to lay there
and listen to Dean's made up lullabies. It was how Sam came to know and seek
out his voice above all others. Sam knew Dean's voice above his own father and
that lead to his unswerving loyalty to Dean as well. Both John and Dean had
learned early on that if Sam had to do something or be told something, it had
to come from Dean. Otherwise Sam just wouldn't listen.
Dean smiled to himself, remembering how angry that had made John. He hadn't
liked it one little bit, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sam
belonged to Dean – always had, always would and even John was never stupid
enough to try to prevent the inevitable bond between them. But he certainly
used it to his fullest advantage; knew that Sam was Dean's weak spot, knew Dean
would do anything to keep Sam safe.
Sometimes, it made things a little complicated. Even in the now. The love and
utter devotion Dean had for Sam was unflinching, but Dean knew deep down there
was something else inside of him. There had been for many years now; it wasn't
beautiful like what he felt for Sam. It was ugly and greedy, hot and furious
around the edges. It was the reason he sometimes picked up random girls, the
reason why the Impala's leather seats were always so pristine and pine
smelling. Sometimes there was this need to hurt; to take control in a way that
could never be applicable to Sammy. Not his beautiful, perfect Sammy. A little
blood-play and bondage were vanilla to them both; Sam would beg to be tied up,
to be blindfolded and teased. Loved Dean to cut the tip of his tongue and then
kiss him senseless. They were creatures of darkness and had always been so.
But that place inside of him, it was too dark for Sam. A great void that
sometimes howled to be filled and for the last few years Dean found himself
helpless to obey it. Helpless to go out into the night, wearing his father's
old leather jacket, and pick up some girl and indulge in what that darkness
screamed for. More blood than a body could stand to lose, more control than
anyone would willingly give. Always had to be a girl, so he never ran the risk
of being reminded of Sam. He hadn't done it since he and Sam had left together
after killing their father. It had been a long time since the darkness had
reared and started making demands.
"You sure we can't go out tonight?" Sam asked through the half open door of the
bathroom, bringing Dean back to reality with a little shake of his head. "Saw
some bars on the way over, could be fun."
"No, Sammy," Dean said, clearing his throat. "Gotta stay in tonight. Just
tonight, I promise."
Sam came out of the bathroom, towel swathed about his hips, body wet and hot
from the shower. Dean found himself staring at the rivulets of water trailing
down his otherwise naked form; Sam's hair was swept back, dripping down his
back.
"'Sides," Dean said, kicking off his boots. "We got plenty of action here."
Sam threw a glance into the darkest corner of the room and then away again,
letting the towel drop to the floor as he pulled on a pair of boxers. Christ,
but he was beautiful.
"I guess," he said somewhat subdued. Dean frowned.
"Sammy, what's up? You've been moody all day."
"Nothing, I'm just a little tired is all," he said, but Dean didn't believe
him; knew him too well. Sam was never tired, hardly slept, same as Dean.
They'd been trained from a very young age to avoid the traps of falling into a
regular sleeping pattern. John would alternate their sleeping habits; keep them
up until seven or eight in the morning and then let them sleep until two in the
afternoon. Dean recalled how strange that had felt; the sun on his eyelids,
turning the world reddish-orange. He would be waking up just as most people
came home from work. It had taken only a few months to get used to that and
then John changed it again. This time he'd train them through the night, the
morning and up until midday; let them sleep until six at night. Once their
bodies would adjust, he'd change it again. For a whole year it was John
Winchester's personal vendetta to alternate their sleeping patterns until they
both became completely used to staying awake as long as was necessary. They
felt tired only when their bodies required actual sleep from exhaustion. There
was no internal body clock demanding rest at a certain time of night. It was
ingrained upon them now, they would sleep only when they needed it. One of many
scars that bore the mark of John Winchester.
"C'mere, baby," he said softly, holding out his hand. Sam hesitated for a
moment before taking it and Dean pulled him onto his lap, straddling him. "Look
at me, Sammy," he instructed and waited patiently for his little brother's eyes
to lock onto his. "What is it, huh? You bored? Itchy trigger fingers, is that
it?"
Sam cracked an unwilling smile. "A little."
"OK, well how's about tomorrow we can go find ourselves another nice little
diner, have a little fun, huh? How's that sound, baby boy?" Dean asked, running
splayed fingers over the bare, damp skin of Sam's thighs.
"Sounds good," Sam replied, husky and close. He reaching down with his scarred
hand and found it's counterpart, gripping him tightly. "Dean," he moaned,
grinding himself down hard over Dean's cock, sending shockwaves of heat and
pleasure over the flushed skin. One handed, Dean got his belt undone and his
zipper down all the way before Sam pushed him backwards onto the bed, trapping
him beneath his superior height and size; damned kid was gargantuan. He
laughed, low and dirty in Dean's ear as he held his hands pinned together above
Dean's head. He reached down with his one free hand to liberate Dean's cock
from it's confines.
"Fuck, Sammy," Dean growled, animalistic and raw. He wanted, needed Sammy
wrapped tightly around him, needed to be inside, needed it so bad. Sam's hand
was teasing him, slow and torturous while he bit and pulled at the soft flesh
of Dean's earlobe. The bite turned hard and unyielding; Dean cried out, wanting
more of it. He thought he might come before he even had the chance to do all
the things he wanted to do to Sammy, but then Sam froze above him, hand
stilling on his painfully hard cock.
Breathless to the point he was almost dizzy, Dean managed to formulate words.
"Wha…? Sammy, what? Why'd you stop?"
Sam turned away, into that dark corner where a young girl was crouching, tied
in clever, tight knots. She was crying; Dean could see as he sat up on his
elbows. It was audible even though the gag. Her nasal sobs set that dark place
alight with terrible yearnings; things he had to get out of him. Things he
couldn't let Sammy see, let alone ever do to Sammy. Things that had to be done
to someone else, because doing them made him forget that once they'd been done
to him.
"She's distracting me," Sam said very quietly, in that dangerous voice. "I
don't want her here, Dean. Don't like it."
With a frustrated sigh, Dean let his head fall backwards, mind spinning. "The
fuck, Sammy? It's just the fuckin' hostage."
"She's making noises," Sam said, moving off Dean a little more. "Can't we just
kill her already?"
"That kind of derails the whole hostage plan, Sam," Dean pointed out, closing
his eyes.
"You never wanted a hostage before," Sam was quick to respond. His genius level
IQ brother would see straight through his flimsy excuses, of course. "Why now,
Dean? You getting bored of this, us, me? You want to throw her in the mix, is
that it?"
"Ahh, Christ! No, Sam, you're full of shit!" Dean snapped, the heat and need
still pounding through his body, angry at being denied release. He was hurting
Sam; he could see it, but that low whine was turning into a scream in the back
of his head. The motel room was starting to remind him of the one they'd been
staying in when Dean had been ten years old.
"Then why is she here?" Sam demanded and Dean sat upright, ignoring the way his
hands were shaking. "Tell me why she's here, half naked in the corner?"
"What does it matter if she is? She's a fucking whore, some bitch off a street
corner – big deal!"
Sam's eyes narrowed and he took a few steps back, shaking his head. "Oh please,
Dean, like I don't know about your little night-time trysts! I've always
known!"
Dean's blood ran cold. "What?"
"Yeah, Dean," Sam said, yanking on a t-shirt and raking around for his jeans.
"I know what you go out into the night to do girls like this and y'know what? I
never cared, never felt jealous; not really. 'Cause you had your reasons.
Trying to protect me from your inner bad-ass or whatever," he was saying, still
furiously tossing things behind him in the search for clothes. "It was always
fine, you coming home smelling of blood and perfume. I never blamed you, Dean!
Christ, who would?"
Dean's lip curled back of it's own volition. "So, what? You feel sorry for me,
is that it?"
"No. I know you don't want pity. Would never insult you by offering it. Like I
said, you deal with it in your own way."
Back teeth grinding together, Dean asked, "Then what the fuck is the problem?"
Sam spun around, launching a boot at Dean as he did. Dean ducked and narrowly
avoided it hitting him in the face. "WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?" Sam screamed. "I'LL
TELL YOU WHAT THE FUCKING PROBLEM IS, YOU ASSHOLE! THIS IS THE FUCKING
PROBLEM!"
He shoved his hand right up close to Dean's face, displaying the scar. "You
swore to me, Dean," he said in an unstable voice. "Made a commitment to me and
I believedit. Told me we had to grow up, leave all that bullshit behind and
look at what you're still dragging in with you!"
"She's a fucking hostage!" Dean yelled, hurling the boot at the girl in the
corner; she whimpered pathetically, even though it hadn't quite hit her.
"That's all!"
Sam pulled his jeans on, not bothering to zip or belt them and grabbed a pair
of boots and the car keys off the night stand. "If you believe that, you're
even more far gone than I thought!" he hissed. Dean went to stand up, but Sam
pulled out the gun and aimed it straight at him. "Don't you come near me!"
"Relax, Sam! Calm down, OK? It's me, your lover – not some demon, not fuckin'
John!"
"My lover?" Sam echoed, the gun trembling violently. "My lover who brings
random fucking whores into the place where we're together? Is that you loving
me, Dean? The way John loved us?"
"Fuck you!" Dean spat as his brother let the gun drop in his hand, turned his
back on him, heading for the door.
Sam paused, glancing back once with a sneer. "Or how about you go fuck her?" He
slammed the door so hard the lock broke, leaving Dean alone in the room with
the girl. He was more furious than he'd been a long time with a sickness in his
stomach that demanded release. He turned his attentions to the wreckage of a
girl who slammed her eyes closed, shaking her head as though she could make
herself believe it wasn't happening.
"Maybe I just will."
===============================================================================
Sam was driving the car in a way he knew Dean would not appreciate, but he
didn't care. He swerved and sped through the dusty little town, gun on the seat
beside him where he usually sat. He ran his hands over his neck, over his face
trying to chase away the sick feeling creeping over him for screaming those
things at Dean, for not being strong enough to get over himself.
But then there was also resentment; jealousy, burning him alive, turning his
blood to gasoline and setting light to it. The little bitch in the corner,
whimpering all soft and sweet; he couldn't stop thinking about Dean touching
her, even if it was only to hurt her. Couldn't bear to imagine Dean's body
going anywhere near hers, even if it was only to commit those violations that
Dean felt were necessary to air out his own demons. The jealousy had never been
an issue before because it had only ever been Dean coming home, blood
splattered and more in love with Sam than ever. They had been faceless,
nameless pieces of meat but this was different. This was Dean bringing some
slut into their world, into the same space as Sam.
He grit his teeth and threw his head back hard, not at all relieved by the pain
of knocking his skull on the stiff, unyielding headrests. He hit the steering
wheel a couple of times before he noticed the car needed gas. With a miserable
sigh, he turned into a gas station and shoved the gun under the seat, raking
around in the glove compartment for some money. There were bundles of cash
stuffed inside it; rolls of hundred dollar bills, some clean, some marked brown
with long dried blood. He took a few clean ones.
The light from the overhead lamps was noxiously green; it hurt Sam's eyes and
he hated it. Missed the darkness that would allow him to see their stars. A
young attendant, walked over, wiping his hands on a grease rag.
"Fill 'er up," Sam said, leaning against the car casually. The boy nodded and
went about it while Sam watched him. He was dressed in dirty blue overalls, the
top half was hung around his waist, only a dirty white t-shirt covering his
chest. He looked nothing like Dean. Maybe that would make it OK.
"Nice car, man," the kid commented, looking up at Sam and then back down when
he realised he was being stared at. "Yours?"
Sam laughed, slow and sultry. "Why would I be driving it if it wasn't mine?"
The kid shrugged. "Dunno. Guess there's a lot of criminals around these days
and you look a little young to be driving somethin' like this. It's probably
older than you an' me combined," he said, stealing another swift glance up and
down at Sam.
It was almost too easy.
"Well," Sam leaned in a little and the kid's eyes widened just a fraction. "I'm
not a criminal. What's your name?"
"Kevin," the boy said, just as they pump chimed to let him know the car was
full. "You?"
Sam didn't hesitate. "I'm Dean."
"Hey there, Dean," Kevin said, scrubbing his hand on the thigh of his overalls
before offering it to Sam to shake. Sam took it and squeezed hard. It felt
strange; someone else's flesh, soft and unscarred.
"Nice to meet you, Kevin," he said. "What do I owe you?"
"Uh, that'll be sixty eight bucks fifty three," he said with a glance at the
pump. "Hey," he said after a moment. "Don't I know you?"
Sam shrugged elegantly, leaning further back into the car. "Don't think so," he
replied softly, trailing an obvious look up and down at the kid who caught it
and blushed. "Do you want to touch me, Kevin?" he asked and watched as the
young boy swallowed a large lump in his throat; Adam's Apple bobbing comically.
"I-I don't know. Uh, what…?" the kid stammered.
"I said," Sam repeated, watching the boy with an unblinking stare. "Do you
wanna touch me?"
Kevin nodded, shakily and moved a little closer. "Yes," he breathed.
Sam didn't make a move, just waited. When Kevin finally got up the courage to
touch him, it was on the bicep. The kid gasped and Sam just watched him with an
almost cold, calculating stare that would have simply seemed intense to anyone
but Dean.
And then he kissed him. Sam opened his mouth to the intrusion, reciprocated
even and when he closed his eyes, he tried to think of anything but his
brother. The boy was a sloppy kisser, clearly nervous but Sam didn't care. He
pushed himself onto the hood of the Impala and crooked a finger beckoning Kevin
closer, who pushed himself in between Sam's thighs. He resumed his graceless
ministrations, hands running haphazardly over Sam's body.
After a minute, Sam realised it wasn't working. Dean was cemented in Sam's head
and for the brief moments that he wasn't, all Kevin's attempts did was remind
him of John; of unwanted hands roaming his body.
“You're so hot,” the kid whispered. “So fucking hot!”
“Say my name,” Sam said roughly. “Say it.”
“Dean,” Kevin moaned. “Dean.”
Sam let his eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you, Dean.”
"Go down," he instructed, pushing the boy off him. He felt his jeans tugged
down to his mid thighs; the boys mouth around his cock, hot and wet, teeth
scraping awkwardly. Sam lay there, trying not to think of Dean and how it felt
to have his brother's throat relax around him, take him deep and swallow.
Kevin moved off him, climbing back up to kiss him and that's when he froze.
"Holy shit!" the boy yelped. "You're Sam Winchester, ain't ya? I saw you on the
TV!"
Sam opened his eyes in time to see the boy stumble backwards, mouth agape. He
moved off the hood, to the inside of the car and grabbed the gun. When he aimed
it at Kevin, the stupid boy stuttered pleas for mercy. Sam fired without
hesitation; steady hands of an executioner.
"That's the worst fucking head I ever got in my life," he told the dead boy
when the gun ran out of bullets. "Next time don't be so fucking eager!"
He drove off into the night, considerably less reckless than before. The fury
he'd been consumed by seemed to have abated. He missed Dean; felt dirty for
letting that moron touch him, suck him – even if it was of no pleasure to Sam
whatsoever. He felt like a hypocrite and when he looked down at the scar on his
palm, that feeling intensified.
More than anything, he wanted to go back to Dean and show him that he didn't
need to do what he was doing. That Sam was willing, desperate to give Dean
whatever he wanted, needed. Didn't he realise they were the same? Same shade of
dark, same type of demon at heart?
It took him an hour to return to the motel after he got purposefully lost for a
while. When he returned, after giving the hood of the car a quick wipe down, he
composed himself. He hoped that when he got inside, the walls would be red with
the blood of that fucking girl; Dean would be drained of the poison and they
could just be Sam and Deanagain. No-one else.
He knocked on the door and strained to hear. No scuffles, no muffled screams.
Just footsteps and then…
"Sam," Dean said, looking worn through. He rubbed his eyes and opened the door
wide. "Get your ass in here."
Sam stepped inside, suddenly unsure of himself in his brother's presence. The
room was the same as when he'd left, except the girl was no longer quaking in
the corner. No blood, no mess; the bed was still made, for fuck's sake.
"You got any idea how fucking worried I was?" Dean grouched, shutting the door
and walking past Sam towards the bed.
"Where is she?" Sam asked without preamble.
"I was going out of my mind, Sam," Dean went on as though Sam hadn't said
anything. "Hate not having you close by, you know that."
"I'm a big boy, Dean," Sam snapped, flinging the keys down on the bed. "Not
some little kid you've got to protect from the big bad world. Or yourself."
Dean looked at him then as if weighing something. "I know," he said finally. "I
know that."
"Do you?" Sam asked, suddenly tired. "I know I'm a lot younger than you, Dean,
but I don't want this to carry on this way. As far as I'm concerned, we're
equals in this. We were raised the same, trained the same and you know I can
more than hold my own. What have we been doing for the last few months if not
proving that to the world?"
"It's my failing, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "I know everything you're saying,
everything you're gonna say and you're right. It's just…instinct."
"It's the same for me," Sam said, moving closer to where his brother sat on the
bed, looking vaguely defeated. "Did you know that? I want to protect you too,
Dean."
Dean blinked. "You do?"
"Yeah, you moron," Sam sighed, plonking himself down next to his brother,
nudging his shoulder. "I do. This is a two way street, has to be. You can't
expect me to sit on the sidelines while you do what you think you've gotta do
anymore. I want allof you. Even the parts you think are poison. The parts that
are broken, tainted…I need it, Dean. Need all of you. You gave yourself to me,
Dean and I expect the whole package. Got it?"
"You might not like it, Sammy."
"Don't care. It's mine. You're mine and anything you're hiding away is mine
too."
Dean looked at him then and Sam struggled against the urge to touch him.
"Alright. Everything. You can have everything, I swear." He leaned and pressed
a gentle, open mouthed kiss to Sam's lips. "All yours anyway, always has been."
Sam grinned and slid a hand up and into Dean's hair, shifting around to get a
better angle. "Good. If we could have done this sooner, I wouldn't have had to
go out and get blown by a gas station attendant."
Dean pulled back; eyes wide and mouth agape. "You did what?"
Sam gave a small, unrepentant grin. "Jealous, big brother?" he asked
innocently.
A low growl erupted somewhere from the base of Dean's throat. "Looks like I'm
gonna have to teach you a lesson, Sammy," he said, somewhat breathlessly.
"Oh yeah? Where's the girl, by the way?"
Never taking his eyes off Sam, Dean replied, "Shot her in the bathtub. Wasn't
really in the mood after you left."
Something about that made Sam feel inordinately pleased. He swivelled around to
kneel on the bed, reaching for Dean's hand; it met his halfway, clasping
tightly. "That's good. So, you gonna reclaim your property, is that it?" he
teased, rubbing his nose over Dean's.
"No," Dean replied, husky and dry. "Want you to take me. Make me yours."
The thought had rarely occurred to Sam and certainly not as an actual
possibility. Dean always topped. It made him so hot he thought he might burst a
blood vessel; breath caught in chest at the thought of fucking Dean, of being
inside him.
"Jesus," he gasped. "Are you serious?"
"Always. 'M yours, Sammy. Same as you're mine. Two way street, right?" Dean
said, free hand caressing the side of Sam's face. His thumb slipped inside his
mouth, roving possessively.
Sam replied by crushing his mouth to Dean's, sucking on his tongue and plunging
his own inside in search of that velvet heat. Dean groaned a little, pulling
Sam onto his lap and rocking up against him. "Fuck me, Sammy," he whispered,
raggedly. "Need you to fuck me, baby."
"'Kay, Dean. Jesus fucking Christ," Sam panted, already so turned on he was
having trouble organising his thoughts. Dean was working on getting them naked
while Sam was still too busy imaging what it would be like to fuck his big
brother. When he returned to reality, he was almost completely naked once
again. Dean yanked him into another kiss. Sam reciprocated, dizzy and needy. He
had to get a hold of himself; he was so light-headed with lust. It came as no
surprise that Dean was already naked and rock hard against him from beneath.
Sam's scarred hand took Dean's cock in a rough grip that made Dean mewl. He
bucked up into it, one hand tangled in Sam's hair.
Sam couldn't help himself, he shuffled back enough that he could drop down and
take Dean into his mouth. Hot and pulsing, Dean's cock was delicious. Sam
flattened his tongue and ran it over the large vein on the underside, causing
Dean's whole body to jerk involuntarily. He licked hard and then soft, tonguing
the slit until Dean begged to fuck his throat. With a smile, stretched around
his brother's dick, Sam relaxed his throat muscles and took him deeper. Dean
cried out, hand tightening painfully in Sam's long hair. Sam breathed expertly
through his nose and removed his hands from Dean's hips, where he'd been
holding him down. Dean started to buck and thrust wildly; Sam stayed still,
letting him - loving the feel of it. He reached down to palm his own cock,
already leaking and hard just from blowing his brother.
Dean was making desperate, broken sounds; pieces of what might have been words.
He was going to come, Sam felt it building in his balls as he rolled them
around in one hand. Sam swallowed hard and Dean came down his throat, a
strangled scream escaping his lips as he did. Sam wanted it all, not a drop
wasted and he continued to milk his brother even as the aftershocks of the
orgasm rolled through his twitching body.
When he pulled off, he trailed wet kisses over Dean's beautiful, toned body. He
was unsurprised to see Dean staring as he moved in to kiss him, making him
taste himself. They kissed for a few minutes until Sam began to fumble blindly
on the night-stand for the lube. He broke the kiss enough to see into Dean's
eyes, wanting to check – even though he knew - it was still what he wanted. He
felt stupid; Dean was the older brother, had been sexually active in this way
for much longer than Sam, but still. Sam would be the first person to do this
to Dean since…
"Sammy," Dean sighed, leaning up kiss him. "No-one in the world but you."
Sam took that as final confirmation. He went about liberally applying the lube
to his fingers, making a mess as he did. Then he reached down, clamped his lips
over Dean's again, and slid the first finger inside. Dean moaned and arched up
a little into Sam's body above him. Sam moved the finger in and out, almost
coming there and then from the feeling of how perfectly tight Dean was. He
added another finger almost immediately and Dean began rocking his hips. Sam
was about to add a third, when Dean's hands went to his ass and pressed him
downwards, demanding what he wanted non-verbally.
"Need you inside me, baby brother," he whispered in Sam's ear, licking the
outer shell.
Trembling with desire, Sam guided his dick to where it needed to be and
squeezed some more lube over the crack of Dean's ass for good measure. He
nudged it against the hot flesh and suddenly all his insecurities vanished.
Using his hand, he circled the entrance with the tip of his cock, making Dean
whine for more, beg for him to fuck him already. Then he pushed inside, just
the tip and holy fucking hell that was amazing. The tremendous heat and
tightness. He fought to control himself and not fuck his way inside like he
wanted to. He searched Dean's face for any trace of discomfort and found none.
Only Dean, staring at him with wordless wonder and so much fucking love that it
made him want to scream.
He pushed in more, the sensation taking his breath away. Then he couldn't stop
himself from sliding all the way home. Jesus fucking Christ he had to control
himself or he was just going to come like this, without even having moved. He
leaned down to kiss Dean, holding himself up on his elbows.
"Fuck, Dean," he breathed into him. Then he pulled back and slammed in deep,
making stars dance before his eyes. Dean let out a beautifully wild sound,
clutching at Sam's neck hard. Sam did it again, and again until his hips found
a rhythm and he was struggling to breathe at all. It wasn't long before the
familiar build up began to generate in his lower stomach, only far more intense
than he could ever remember. Even more so than his first ever orgasm, which had
come from just having Dean grind up against him. "Gonna…gonna come, Dean," he
babbled.
Dean just kissed him harder and wrapped his legs tight around his waist. It Sam
a better angle and he sped up, slave to the rhythm. Every thrust punctuated
with a desperate, "Uhn, uhn, uhn!" until the building orgasm exploded over him,
shattering him completely. He came so hard inside Dean, he wasn't sure there
would be anything left. His arms gave out and he fell on top of Dean who made a
little, "Oof!" at the impact.
When he regained the ability to think, Sam pulled out and shifted so his head
lay against Dean's sweaty chest; heavily rising and falling.
"Mine," he managed with what little oxygen remained. Dean held him close,
kissing his hair.
"Yours," he promised. "Sleep now, baby boy. Got a busy day tomorrow."
Before Sam could protest, his eyelids were crashing down and darkness was
swallowing him whole.
===============================================================================
Here was the thing about Agent Victor Hendriksen - one of many things that
would ultimately contribute to a well rounded portrayal of his character, but
undoubtedly one of the most telling. For although Hendriksen spent a lot of
time bitching about the case he had been handed the truth was that he had
begged, pleaded and even traded in favours to get his hands on it. Ever since
the first public murder, since the very first accounts of the brothers in
action, Hendriksen had set out to land it. The Winchesters.
Not for the prestige, not for the ample fame; not even for the feeling of doing
right by the world in attempting to thwart two of the most notorious mass
murders of all time.
It was because of Sam Winchester.
Hendriksen would never admit it – not even really to himself – but it had
always been the youngest Winchester who had caught his attention on the
security footage. It was Sam's file that he knew back to front. It was Sam he
was a little bit obsessed with and not in a very healthy way. Sam Winchester
was the reason he so badly wanted the case and now that he had it, he was
careful to bitch and moan like any other decent cop would. But deep down, he
was pleased. Very deep down, he was always just a little eager and excited to
get to the next crime scene.
This particular crime scene did not disappoint.
"So," Hendriksen said, glancing around at seven other cops, most of the local.
"What do we have here?"
"Well, Sir," the sheriff started, clearing his throat a few times for good
measure. Clearly postponing the moment as much as possible. "We uh…we seem to
have footage of one of the Winchester brothers shooting and killing a young gas
pump attendant."
"Seem to?" Hendriksen echoed, doubtfully. "You either have it or you don't. If
you have it, you were supposed to find it. The Winchesters don't leave behind
anything they don't want us to see."
A few of the younger ones gave each other shifty glances. One of them even
looked a little amused at the obvious discomfort of the older sheriff, who in
turn gave an irritable grunt.
"I haven't given it a particularly thorough examination myself," he admitted
under his breath.
Hendriksen's lip curled up at the corner a little. "Let me get this straight,
Sheriff.You've been stationed here at this crime scene for three and a half
hours before my arrival. You think you might have footage of one of the
Winchester brothers…"
"Sam," a young deputy cut in helpfully. "It's Sam Winchester."
"Thank you, of Sam Winchester committing a murder – without his brother, no
less which would make it a case precedent thus far. You're telling me you
haven't given it a thorough examination yet?" Hendriksen reeled off
incredulously. "You trying to find a way out of your job, Sheriff?"
The old man bristled. "Hey, don't hit me with all that bullshit, alright? I do
my job, I've been doing my job for thirty years now and I am not gonna degrade
myself by watching that fuckin' degenerate psychopath forcing himself on a boy
I've known since he was baby!"
Hendriksen was silent a beat. "He raped the kid?" he asked, almost casually,
with a glance down at the dead body not three feet away from where they were
all standing. "Guy's still in his overalls."
The sheriff looked like he was about to have an aneurysm when the helpful young
deputy stepped forward, obviously trying to avert disaster.
"The tape's inside, Sir. If you'd like to see it yourself, maybe."
"Show me," Hendriksen said and let him lead the way. Once inside, surrounded by
the smell of car oil, cigarettes and coffee, the deputy pressed play on an old
VCR. He then tactfully left Hendriksen to it. Outside, the old sheriff was
kicking off about the degradation of society and the world going to hell.
Victor watched the screen with the kind of avid attention that effortlessly
blocked out everything else but what he was focused on.
The footage was silent, but crystal clear. Sam Winchester pulling up in the
Impala, without his brother. The attendant filling up the car while Sam leaned
insolently against the side of it. Nothing for a few moments, except the poor
soon-to-be-dead kid watching Sam. Then just as the kid put the pump back, Sam
started talking. Hendriksen watched his mouth move, wished he could hear the
words. The kid moved closer, touched him, fucking kissed him and then Sam
pushed himself backwards onto the hood of the vintage car.
When the kid went down on Sam, Hendriksen let out a little moan and was
fervently pleased the deputy had left him alone to see this first hand. He
could see why the sheriff would have stopped the tape right there, unable to
watch any more. Hendriksen couldn't look away.
It progressed quickly as the kid made some colossal fuck-up. Sam retreated into
the car for a gun. He then shot him to death. Emptied the entire clip. Sam got
in the car, after yelling something at the dead body, and then drove away.
It was the first time San Winchester had ever killed anyone without Dean
Winchester. They were always together. Hendriksen couldn't help but feel a
little thrill of anticipation. What had changed? What would the next call
bring? Maybe Sam had gone rogue without his stupid, overly protective brother.
Even if he hadn't, this hadto go towards disproving the theory of their
incestuous relationship, surely?
But then Sam hadn't looked very enthused. In fact, Hendriksen had to admit he'd
seen more heat in the younger brother's eyes when he had been wiping spleen
juice off his sleeve.
Hendriksen sighed. He didn't relish having to go outside and inform Nervous
Breakdown Sheriff that he'd be doing an oral swab on the attendant to get his
hands on Sam's DNA. Nor did he exactly like the fact that he would have to give
this tape over almost right away, without even being able to make himself a
copy.
Still, it was yet another step closer. It was only a matter of time now. Soon
he wouldn't be staring at Sam through recorded footage or file photos. It would
be Sam Winchester in the flesh.
That would be worth the chase indeed.
===============================================================================
The scenery surrounding them was really quite beautiful, Dean had to admit. He
would never call himself a lover of aesthetics, but the way the sun was setting
around them, leaving a burning blaze of fiercely dying light – it was
breathtaking. Even better, Sammy was sighing happily at the sight. It had been
a strangely tense day, despite the 'discussion' that had taken place last
night. Dean had half been waiting for Sam to start yelling at him again or
something, but so far he'd just been quiet.
That was almost worse.
The desert around them seemed endless. The occasional hill, few cactus trees
and nothing much else. Dean was slightly concerned that Sam's navigational
skills had fucked up a ways back but he wasn't going to say anything. The kid
was so damned smart he'd probably just found a brand new shortcut that would
save them days of driving to get where they wanted to be.
"Looks like the sky is on fire," Sam said under his breath, gazing upwards at
the brilliant red and orange flare, backlit by the retreating sun. He was
leaning on one arm against the window, dreamily gazing out at the world beyond
their car.
"Maybe it is," Dean replied, gauging his brother's reaction. A tiny little
smile tugged at the corner of those lips he'd known and loved intimately for so
long.
"Can't be yet," his little brother sighed. "We haven't had enough time."
Dean frowned and lightly slapped the underside of Sam's chin to wake him up a
little. "Baby, you're drifting. Come back here, 'cause I can't navigate worth a
damn," he tried in a joking sort of way.
Sam blinked for the first time in a while, slowly and then looked at Dean. "I'm
here," he said, but Dean wasn't convinced.
"Is it….is it that dream you had last night, Sammy?" he asked gently.
Sam didn't respond, only pointed up ahead and said, "Turn left, I think there's
a town."
"Sam, don't shut me out," Dean warned, taking the turn off the highway and onto
what looked disturbingly like a dirt road. "C'mon, tell me what it was about."
Last night Dean had been in one of the deepest sleeps of his life, Sam wrapped
around him, when he'd felt Sam start to shake and writhe. He'd awoken to the
sounds of Sam screaming. He only stopped when Dean shook him violently to wake
him. He 'd managed to mutter that it'd been a bad dream, before falling back
into a fitful sleep.
"Was it about John?" Dean asked after a few beats of silence while the Impala
made her way carefully over the rocky trail leading into wide open desert.
Sam flashed Dean a look; hurt, annoyed and unprepared for such a question.
"No," was his short answer. "It wasn't."
Dean had nothing to say to that so he kept driving, mind miles away from the
desert they were heading into. It took another half an hour of uncomfortable
silence for the car give out and for Dean to kick himself because the car
needed gas and he hadn't been paying attention.
The car came to a rolling halt in the middle of nothing, nowhere; wide open
desert bathed in the light purple of dusk.
"Fuck!" Dean yelled, getting out of the car and slamming the door hard. "Turn
left? Turn left to what you stupid bitch?"
Sam was out of the car, eyes a furious shade of dark. "You stupid bitch? You
stupid bitch?That's what John used to call me, Dean! Christ, I thought you'd be
more creative than that!"
Furious, Dean looked around at what had previously been attractive
surroundings. " Birds, snakes, ain't nothing out here. Right now I'd go down on
a lawman for a gallon of gas!"
Sam snickered and reached into the back grabbing his bag from the back seat. "I
bet you would," he muttered.
"Ah, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, Sam? Huh? I am so sick of this
bullshit! If you've got somethin' to say to me just say it!" Dean spat,
spinning to face his little brother who glared back with unpleasantly cold
eyes.
"You want me to say it? OK, fine. I guess I'm just waiting for the time to come
when you get bored of me, Dean. When you decide to move on." The words seemed
to have been wrenched from Sam's throat. "I mean, we talked last night, sure
and yeah I thought it would be enough but then…" He trailed off, losing his
voice for a moment.
"Then what?" Dean demanded, fists clenched and shaking. "Then what?"
"The dream," Sam said with his eyes closed. "The fucking dream."
"Oh, so we're getting somewhere finally!" Dean exploded, even though Sam didn't
flinch or seem remotely threatened. "So c'mon, Sam – what was this dream? Did I
fuck the entire human race or something?"
"You left me," Sam said, eyes narrowing.
"You know I'd never do that," Dean growled. "I wouldn't even know how!"
"I've seen it," Sam insisted. "Over the next few days something's gonna happen
and I'm gonna lose you."
Trying to remain calm, remembering what a tempestuous disposition Sam had, Dean
rubbed a weary hand over his itching, dry eyes and said, "Sam, it was a dream
for fuck's sake! A dream, OK?"
"You know that my dreams are significant, Dean! Sometimes they happen!"
"Yeah and sometimes they don't!"
"But this one will!"
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because it's obvious that you're gonna leave me! I'm not…" Sam's breath
hitched and caught. "I'm not good enough for you."
Dean's heart twisted and wrenched inside his chest. "Fuck, Sam, I know you're
not that stupid! Listen to me! I'm not gonna leave you! I would have to be dead
or dragged away in chains to leave you and if anyone isn't good enough in this
insanity, it's me!"
Silence for a while, the echo of rattlesnakes and lizards in the distance over
the darkening land. "This isn't us," Sam said very quietly. "We've never been
like this."
Dean closed his eyes. "I know."
"Why is this happening?"
"Everyone fights, Sammy. The only people who don't are zombies; dead inside, no
passion."
"We should be dead inside, Dean. All that shit he did to us," Sam whispered,
staring at Dean.
"But we're not," Dean told him firmly. "We're alive and he's not and that is
all that matters. So yeah we're fucked up, yeah we're both beyond redemption
but who wants that anyway? The approval of a world I want to destroy for what
it let happen to us? It's bullshit, Sammy. You're the only thing in the world
that matters to me, baby. You're the only thing that matters."
Sam watched Dean carefully the entire time and when he spoke, he seemed to have
made his mind up. "You won't leave me," he said, conviction behind it. "Not if
you can help it."
"Never," Dean swore. "You're everything." He moved towards Sam and watched as
his brother relaxed a little. He took him by the hand, giving him a rough tug
forward. "Like I said, wild horses."
They kissed with dry, cracked lips and desperate groans vanishing into the
rapidly cooling desert air. The hissing of lizards and snakes was growing
louder by the minute.
"Maybe we should walk and get gas," Sam suggested after a few minutes of
tangling themselves together.
"Fuck me in the car first?" Dean suggested, breathless with dark, heady desire
pulsating through him.
Sam rubbed his nose against Dean's back and forth, swaying a little as he
hummed the strange song. "Need to keep moving," he sang. "Car won't move
without gas."
"Well, which way?" Dean gasped, untangling himself from his little brother.
"The way we were headed. I told you, there's a town."
As it turned out, there was a town, only it was deserted. Looked like it had
been for years from what Dean could make out in the thin light of a couple of
drying flashlights. Seriously, he needed to keep the car and the kit under
better maintenance. Ordinarily, he always kept a spare canister of gas in the
trunk, but they'd used it to burn down a motel Sammy hadn't liked very much a
few towns back and it had slipped Dean's mind to refill it.
"Fuckin' ghost town," Dean said, shining the light over broken windows and dark
buildings, all boarded up. "Think there's a gas station?"
"Should be," Sam said, looking around with obvious fascination. "What do you
think happened here?"
Dean smiled. "Want me to make up a story for you? Like the old days?"
He could tell Sam was smiling when he replied, "Not the same if we're not on
the hood of the car."
After a few more minutes walking amongst the empty buildings, Dean began to get
the feeling they were being watched. He managed to catch Sam's attention,
beautiful dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight from above and signal silently
that they weren't alone. If Dean had learned one thing from his childhood
training, it was to trust his instincts. There was a series of noises;
scuffling, creaking, shifting weight over an old floor. All coming from a small
liquor shop, front windows smashed in completely, door torn off the hinges.
Sam already had his gun out. Dean drew slowly, aiming at the dark doorway. They
were about to go inside, when a voice made them both freeze.
"Come on in."
Sam shot Dean a confused glance; the voice had a heavy accent, Spanish perhaps.
"Come on in," the man repeated.
Cautiously, Dean lead the way inside through a narrow hallway and into a small
room, containing a flickering fire and an old, wrinkled man sitting beside it.
Sam in tow, Dean headed towards it gun still aimed at the man.
"Hey," he said, glancing around. "You the only person left in this town?"
"Come on in," the man said again, gesturing for them both to sit.
"You speak any other English?" Dean asked, refusing the lower the gun.
"Dean," Sam implored, placing his own gun in the back of his pants. "Don't be a
jerk."
Years of training going against him, Dean grudgingly lowered the gun and
holstered it away, eyeing the man mistrustfully.
"Español?" Sam asked, curling the accent beautifully around his tongue. Dean
felt a little distracted. "Me llamo Sam. Este es el Dean."
The old man looked up from the fire, eyes twinkling. He cocked his head at them
and gestured for them sit down once more. They did so, warily.
"Ask him if he has gas," Dean said under his breath, placing his hands near the
fire for warmth.
"Tiene usted la gasolina?" Sam asked, and Dean struggled not to get a hard on
there and then just hearing it. Fuck how did his brother make rudimentary
Spanish sound so fucking hot?
The man said nothing, just watched them both as if they were a mildly
interesting television show. Then he reached over and pulled a bottle of
tequila from some shadowy corner. He pushed it towards them both.
"You can't be serious," Dean chuckled, though he did desperately want something
to help him sleep. "Sam, no way are we drinking…Sam!"
Sam had already grabbed it and taken a slug. He eased off the bottle with a
gasp and a scrunched up face that was almost adorable. Sam never drank and Dean
rarely did either, it reminded him too much of John. Dean always preferred to
be totally in control of himself and everything around him.
"Oh fuck that is nasty!" Sam said with a grimace as he offered it to Dean.
"C'mon, Dean, don't be rude."
"It could be drugged," Dean tried to say but Sam just rolled his eyes.
"The guy's let us in here, given us heat and shelter and it's fuckin' cold out
there. If he wanted us to die, he just had to let us freeze our asses off out
there."
"I can think of a few ways we could keep warm," Dean suggested with a wink, but
he took the bottle from Sam anyway and swigged the foul tasting liquid. "Ohhh
that is fuckin' nasty!"
An hour later Dean's eyelids were heavy and leaden. Sammy had fallen asleep on
his lap minutes ago and the old man was sitting cross legged, eyes closed,
chanting gently to himself.
Dean didn't realise he had fallen asleep even after the dream began.
He was running. He was alwaysrunning.
Running fast, through woods and trees and darkness. It laughed at him because
he was small and weak and his legs were useless. There was something behind
him, toying with him. Much faster, stronger, bigger. It was going to catch him,
eat him alive and spit out the bones. He couldn't breathe; could only keep
running, screaming out words he didn't understand while the thing behind him
closed in.
The trees were trying to trip him up, the moon hid away behind clouds; it
didn't want to witness him be eaten alive. There was no-one, nothing to help
and he was going to be devoured…chewed and bitten until he broke and died, lost
inside the thing chasing him.
He tripped and fell hard, slamming into the ground. The thing had its claws on
him before he could start to scream, tearing his flesh into ribbons and he was
drenched in his own blood.
"My good little soldier!"the thing snarled, plunging the claws into his chest,
through his ribs and into his thundering heart.
"NO!"
When his vision cleared and the world around him came into focus, the first
thing Dean knew was that his gun was in his hand and it was smoking. He
followed the path the bullets had made and saw that he had shot the old man.
"Oh fuck," he gasped.
"Dean! Dean what the fuck did you do?" Sam demanded, scrambling over to the
dying man who was muttering slurred Spanish. Dean knew the death rattle when he
heard it. He stormed outside, gun still in his hand. The moon was nowhere in
sight, total darkness all around him and he was still shaking like a fucking
leaf from that remnants dream.
"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam demanded as he came outside. "You killed him!"
"It was an accident!" Dean insisted, trying to control his voice. "This whole
thing was crazy, should never have gone in there! What did he say to you!"
"He said he saw the demon in his dreams, twenty years ago. He knew the demon
was going to kill him, he was waiting for it."
"Demon?" Dean echoed, mind reeling back to the horrific dream, claws and teeth
eating away at him. "The guy was crazy!"
"I'm pretty sure he meant you!" Sam yelled, yanking his rucksack over his
shoulder.
"Oh please! All the fuckin' people we've killed and you're bitching at me for
this?"
"He helped us, Dean! He took us in there, he didn't have to do that!"
"I didn't mean it, Sammy! It was a fucking accident!" Sam was silent as he
headed away from Dean. "Where you going?" Dean shouted, voice echoing and
bouncing off the walls of the empty town.
"Gas station up ahead," Sam snapped and Dean followed him.
Half an hour later, Sam hadn't said anything else. They were trekking back
across the desert, full canister of gas in tow when Dean heard the rattles.
"Sammy, wait up," he called. Sam didn't slow down. "Sam, I'm serious; stop for
a minute!"
"Stop for wh-ahhh! The fuck was that? Owww, fuck that hurts!"
Shit. "Sam, there's fuckin' snakes everywhere man! Just stay where you are!"
Dean poured some gasoline over the ground and then lit it with his Zippo. The
surrounding area was littered with rattlesnakes, curled up and hissing
furiously. Sam was a good twenty feet ahead of him, holding his ankle up. There
had to be hundreds of them.
"Don't move!" he yelled at Sam. "I'm comin'!"
"I think I'm…I've been bitten," Sam told him, a slight slur to his tone. Dean
manoeuvred his way around the snakes, careful not to tread on any. They snapped
their jaws, trying to bite him anyway. By the time he got to Sam, his little
brother was swaying dangerously. He was about to fall when Dean caught him and
heaved him upwards, bearing as much of his weight as he could, arm around his
waist. "Rattlesnake venom is bad, Dean," he was saying, as though it was a
fascinating fact. "Gets into the blood very fast."
"Thanks for the newsflash, genius," Dean said, cold with sweat. He didn't know
which way to go, how to get there without them both getting bitten to pieces.
"Fuck! Sammy, wake up! Which way is the car? Do you remember?"
Sam's eyes were rolling and Dean had to slap him a few times to get him
remotely lucid. "The car? Lost the car?"
"C'mon, baby brother – you're the navigator, right? Which way do we go? I was
following you," Dean said, trying to laugh like he wasn't fraught with panic.
Sam sobered for a second or two and then limply raised his hand and pointed.
"Tha' way."
They managed to get back to the car, but not before Dean had received a few
bites of his own to the ankles. By the time he'd poured the gas into the hungry
car, he could barely see straight.
"Gonna be OK, Sammy," he slurred, starting the engine and trying to shake
himself out of it. The poison was working it's way through his blood, turning
it black and thick. "We're gonna be OK."
"Need anti-venin," Sam said, almost conversationally. "Drug store. Get back on
Highway 666." He laughed. “666! Like...evil numbers!”
"Shouldn't go through that town," Dean said, wiping sweat from his eyes. They
went back the way they came, the dirt road blurring before him. "Too many
cops."
"No other choice," Sam told him. "My fault for making us come out here."
"Hardly," Dean said, wondering why the road was so dark and then realising he
hadn't turned the lights on yet. "My fault for not getting enough gas. My fault
for shooting that guy."
Sam looked directly at Dean with the sweetest smile that threatened to break
Dean's heart. "I forgive you, baby," he said in that beautiful voice that was
made to sing.
Once they were back on the highway, it was thirty four miles to the next town.
"Not far now, Sammy," he said, nudging his little brother to keep him awake.
"How about you speak some of that Spanish to me, huh? Pretty sexy the way you
talk like that."
"Feel cold, Dean," Sam whispered. "Tired."
"I know, but you gotta stay awake. Not gonna go out like this, dammit!" Dean
insisted furiously. "Not far now, just hang on, OK?"
"OK," Sam said trying to sit up in his seat. When he began to sing, Dean put
his foot down harder on the pedal than he'd ever done before, not caring what
damage he did to the car.
===============================================================================
The motel was cheap and dirty; the kind Hendriksen knew the Winchesters often
stayed in. Perfect for whores and other indiscretions, he thought to himself
while his own whore, bought and paid for the night, undressed over by the
stagnant TV.
The boy was young, maybe not even of legal age, but that just made it all the
more perfect. He was tall, dark haired and very attractive. If he blurred his
eyes, Hendriksen could easily pretend it was Sam Winchester.
"So," the boy asked, turning around, naked and beautiful. "Are you a real cop?"
Lying on the bed, in nothing but his briefs, Hendriksen nodded and crooked a
finger invitingly.
"Yeah, I'm a real cop."
The boy made his way over to him, obviously a little nervous. That was good, it
made Hendriksen hard, wanting those little insecurities.
"What was the name you wanted to call me again?" the boy asked, pausing by the
bed for a moment.
"Sam. I'm gonna call you Sam."
"OK. Cool. Kinda like Sam and Dean Winchester, huh?"
"You think they're cool?" Hendriksen asked, running a hand up and down his own
thigh, watching the boy's eyes following it.
"Sure, I mean I wouldn't want them coming near me or anything, but yeah, I
guess. So it's like, your job to stop them?"
Hendriksen smiled. "It's my job to keep the world safe from murderers. Now come
over here, lay down here on the bed."
The boy did as he was told, laid down besides Hendriksen who moved so he was
halfway on top of him. "Gimme a kiss, Sam," he instructed. The boy leaned up
and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Good, that's good. You ever been strangled?"
It came out of nowhere really. The blinding urge to murder, kill and taste what
Sam and Dean tasted every day. The poor boy struggled and clawed for oxygen but
Hendriksen was too strong. The boy managed to dig his nails into the sides of
Hendriksen's cheeks and drag downwards, making the Agent scream. He continued
to squeeze until the boy's body went limp and his eyes turned lifeless and
flat.
Out of breath, turned on beyond anything he'd ever felt before, Hendriksen fell
backwards gasping, "Sammy! I'm comin' to get you!"
===============================================================================
The world was a violent shade of toxic green and everything seemed to be
melting. Dean tried to shake himself into sobriety as they paced the long
aisles of the 24 hour drug store in search of the antivenin. Behind him,
walking very slowly, was Sam.
"Dean, I don't think I'm…gonna make it," Sam said, through what sounded like
numb lips.
"You'll make it, Sammy! Just get mad at me, that'll help. Nothin' like a little
adrenaline to burn through this shit, huh?"
Sam let out a soft giggle. "Can't stay mad at you, big brother.”
Dean reached the aisle they needed, except that the shelves were lined with
signs saying, 'ANTIVENIN - SOLD OUT'
"Fuckin' wonderful," Dean groaned, muscles burning with the effort of remaining
upright. "Sammy, 'm gonna go to the counter to get the stuff. You just…just
stay there, OK?"
Sam was on his knees, rubbing his face, but managed to say, "OK.” Dean headed
over to where a large Asian man was staring open mouthed at a small TV screen.
He looked terrified. For a moment, Dean thought he might have been watching a
horror movie, but it was only some news report.
"Hey, excuse me there chief!" Dean said, tapping the glass. "Rattlesnake took a
chunk out of us a few miles back. Me and my partner could be dying, you never
can tell about these things. So how's about you unglueing your fat ass from
that chair and getting us some medicine. Pronto!"
The clerk was sweating badly as he waddled to his feet and began nervously
rattling around the shelves in search of what Dean had asked for.
"Found it yet?" Dean snapped and the clerk dropped something he was holding.
Dean's eyes went to the screen. He was mildly surprised to see himself, only
ten years younger, staring back. An irritatingly perfect British voice was
narrating.
"…now thought to have been connected to several unexplained deaths and
desecrations since the age of twelve. This would make them far more formidable
than anyone has thus far anticipated. It is now also thought that the boys
killed their own Father; marking the beginning of the slaughterhouse road-show
that would catapult them into the public's attention."
"Well I'll be damned," Dean chuckled to himself. "Hey, Sammy…"
And then he realised why the clerk was so nervous. Why he'd stayed still for so
long before Dean had to ask him to get up. He'd triggered the silent alarm.
"You fuckin' piece of shit!" Dean snarled, drawing his gun and shooting through
the glass. "Sammy! Bring the car around!" He climbed up into the booth, the
obese clerk trembling and waving his flabby arms in the air for mercy. "Snake
bite juice, now!" he demanded, thrusting the gun into his face. Not that he
felt quite so severely poisoned anymore; the burst of fury seemed to be eating
through the worst of it, but he needed it for Sammy. Sammy had been bitten so
much worse than Dean.
"We've run out!" the clerk sobbed. "I swear!"
"Well then I guess you're shit outta luck, you fucking squealer!"
Dean shot him full in the face, blood splattering everywhere. Little pieces of
brain matter landed over the pristine white floor and walls. Dean turned to go
find his Sammy.
That was when he knew something was wrong.
The world slowed down inexplicably. Everything came to a jarring halt and Dean
could see it coming in super slow motion. In the back his mind, he heard
Sammy's voice, sighing, "I forgive you, baby."
There were flashing lights, blue and red; way too many for him to count. Dean
wasn't stupid, he knew what that many cops meant. He headed towards the front
of the store and stopped when he saw Sammy laying into five of them. Smashing
noses, breaking bones and twisting arms right out of sockets screaming and
howling like a wild animal. One cop let out a wet gurgle as Sam tore into his
larynx, all breathtaking fury and force. More of them were coming, brakes
screeching to a halt as they arrived. An endless supply. Jesus, it must have
been every cop from three states over.
Dean shot as many as he could see, most of them nearest to his brother. "Sam!"
he yelled, shooting another and then ducking as twenty or so cops opened fire
at him. He ran along the length of the drug store, taking shots where he could
while the bullets whizzed past him so close he could feel the air whistling by.
Sammy was smashing his hands into anything he could find. It took six of them
to even hold him down. As Dean ducked, he caught a glimpse of someone wearing a
suit grabbing Sam by the throat and dragging him over to the store.
"HEY YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! THIS IS AGENT VICTOR Hendriksen! NOW YOU PUT THAT GUN
DOWN AND WALK OUT HERE NOW!"
"FUCK YOU, PIECE OF SHIT COP!" Dean shouted back, snapping a fresh magazine of
rounds into his .45. "YOU COME ON IN HERE AND GET ME!"
"YOU WALK OUT HERE OR I'LL CUT HIS FUCKING THROAT!"
Sam was still screaming himself raw. "KILL 'EM ALL, DEAN! KILL 'EM ALL!" And
then he was cut off, presumably by Hendriksen's hand over his mouth. Just the
thought of it made Dean's blood boil. He chanced a glance over the top of the
windowsill, in time to see Hendriksen press a blade into Sam's throat hard
enough for it to bleed. Fuck, he couldn't do it…
"Alright!" he shouted, taking a deep breath. He stood up, hands and guns in the
air. He walked almost casually to the door. "I'm comin' out!"
"Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!" Hendriksen demanded, knife
still jammed against Sam's soft skin. Precious blood ran in rivulets down his
beautiful throat.
Dean slid his guns out across the polished floor and then lifted his hands back
up with all the insolence he could manage. "Come on and get the big bad wolf,"
he taunted, walking outside. His eyes were trained on Sam who was still
snarling and struggling violently against Hendriksen.
"Alright, somebody take this bitch!" Hendriksen ordered and four cops rushed
over to grab Sam from him. They threw him to the ground and started beating him
with batons. Dean watched it, teeth grinding together so hard he was going to
crack the enamel.
"Every single one of you who touches him is gonna die bloody," he snarled as
Hendriksen gave him a smug, patronising smile.
"Cuff him," he said. Two of his men rushed over with handcuffs. They pushed
Dean down, about to lock them into place when he sprung up with a knife from
the back of his boot. He slashed the nearest cop's face; slicing his cheek
right open and blood sprayed everywhere like a bottle of champagne. For a
moment, there seemed to be blind panic and it wiped the smug smile off
Hendriksen's face.
"My face!" the cop screamed, stumbling backwards and falling spectacularly on
his ass. Dean laughed and swung again, daring them to come closer. Behind them,
he could see them kicking Sammy while he lay curled up on the ground, silent
and stoic now.
"You'd better kill me now," Dean growled with a violent, deranged smile.
"Because I'm gonna get creative on your mother fuckin' asses when I get my
hands on you and it's gonna be brutal!"
Hendriksen's eyes narrowed. "You're not important enough to make a martyr yet,
Winchester. Shock this piece of shit!"
Then came the tasers. He fell back, body convulsing with the shocks tearing
through his body. He saw the sky above him, stars staring down at him benignly
and he managed to smile before the world blackened and faded.
 
                                -Chapter Three-
                          'Maybe there's a God above,
                     But all I've ever learned from love,
                  Was how to shoot somebody who out-drew ya.
                  And it's not a cry that you hear at night,
                    It's not somebody who's seen the light,
                  It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.'
                                -Leonard Cohen
                                 -Present Day-
Batonga Penitentiary was one of the last places any inmate or criminal wanted
to end up. In fact it's very existence served as a cautionary tale for those
who might be considering dabbling in the area of law breaking. As far as
prisons went, this was one of the worst throughout all fifty states. The most
brutal guards, the worst conditions, the highest levels of security known to
man and an absolute son a bitch for a warden. It was practically medieval;
renowned for it's unorthodox methods of punishment. The Geneva Convention was
considered null and void inside its walls. Only the worst sort of criminals
were sent there, never to see sunlight again.
No-one had been particularly surprised when the Winchesters were sent there.
Agent Victor Hendriksen least of all.
He surveyed the inside of the Penitentiary, impressed at the security and the
general sense of doom that seemed to emanate from the inescapable walls. He'd
clocked thirty six guards so far; all of them well built, armed and mean
looking. He wasn't even fully inside yet. Security cameras every ten feet,
protected by bullet proof glass. Everything powered by full battery backup.
Reinforced steel bars, electronic key cards to open the doors, retinal scans
required the deeper you went. No wonder the escape record was zero; just the
thought of attempting it gave Hendriksen a headache.
He was being taken to see the warden who had requested his presence. Probably
to moan and groan about how much trouble Sam and Dean were causing in his
prison. It was what most people wanted to talk to Hendriksen about. The damage
they caused, the people they were killing. Why couldn't Hendriksen stop them,
because he was the one who'd caught them after all? Got a book deal of out it
and everything.
Warden McClusky was a strange looking man. He seemed badly formed on a
molecular level. Eyes small and sharp, head larger at the top than it was at
the base. He wore a suit that looked like something from Drop Dead Fred and
that ridiculous moustache – it made him look like an escaped mental patient. He
greeted Hendriksen with a wide, reptilian smile.
"Hendriksen, always wanted to meet you," he crooned, taking his hand and giving
it a good squeeze. "Got a lot of respect for you, y'know. Bought your book,
even read the whole damned thing."
"Warden...Victor Hendriksen," one of the uniformed guards introduced them both.
"Dwight McClusky," the warden said. "Welcome to hell."
"Good to meet you, Dwight. How are my two favourite assholes?"
The grin widened, impossibly so. Hendriksen could count those yellow teeth
stacking back into his oddly formed skull. "Those two rat fucks are locked away
in the deepest darkest cells we got in this hell-hole. I guess you wanna see
'em, huh?"
Another giant door slammed behind them as one opened, activated by the
electronic keys of two guards on either side. "Pretty impressive security you
got here," Hendriksen commented.
"All my implementation," McClusky prattled. "When I came here, the assholes
were still opening and locking doors with keys for Christ's sake. Keys!"
"I take it you've had no escape attempts from the Winchesters yet?"
"Nope, not a one. It's like they don't realise they're in here, like it's all
just temporary. We've been waiting, of course. Thought they'd be hot shit, like
the papers made out."
"So they're not giving you any trouble?"
The two guards one either side of McClusky and Hendriksen scowled
simultaneously.
"Wouldn't go that far," McClusky grimaced. "They've killed nineteen inmates,
twenty one guards and three psychiatrists during their little stay here. Sam's
work, mostly. Last dumbass shrink made the mistake of asking about their
father; got a pen in the brain. Sam did it all shot up on tranquillizers too."
"I'd forgotten how fucking crazy they were," Hendriksen chuckled while McClusky
gave him a sidelong glance.
"I'm surprised Hollywood ain't found you yet. Your story would make a better
movie than that "Serpico" shit. But I tell ya, Hendriksen, in all my years in
the penal business - and I tell ya that's no small number - Sam and Dean
Winchester are without doubt the most twisted, depraved group of shitfucks it's
ever been my displeasure to lay my eyes on. I mean, these two fucks are a
walkin' reminder of just how fucked up our system really is!"
Hendriksen chuckled darkly. "I tell you what it is. These fucks think they're
special. Daddy yanked their dicks, Momma never game 'em a hug, so they have
carte blanche to take innocent life. They think they're invincible."
McClusky nodded intensely. "That's my observation too. We have an army of
shrinks who talk about mania and schizophrenia and multiphrenia and obsessions.
But it's all bullshit. It's Pride! Arrogance! Somewhere, somehow they get the
idea they're better than everyone else and it makes me sick!"
They walked in silence for a few minutes, massive doors sliding open and closed
with an intimidating clanging echoing after them.
"So," Hendriksen asked finally. "What's this about?"
"You feel that silence in the air?" McClusky asked, glancing around at the
walls.
"Yeah, I guess."
"That's the one thing you don't want in a prison, Vic. Silence."
They entered a large dining hall, quiet and oddly still even though it was full
of convicts. They sat around on the tables, opposite one another and the
silence was deafening. It was unnerving. Hendriksen glanced around, spotting
one big black guy in particular sitting stock still, plastic knife in his large
hand. The inmates around him looked like they might shit themselves at any
given moment. The man directly opposite him in particular was sweating badly,
looking like he wanted to jump out of his skin just to get away.
"What the fuck is you lookin' at?" the black guy demanded. That was all the
warning anyone had before he lunged across the table, going for the smaller
man's throat with the knife. McClusky moved with an unexpected amount of speed,
beat him to it and threw himself on top of him. Hendriksen leaned to see what
it was McClusky was doing to the inmate. It looked like some kind of nut
cracker. He slipped it over the inmates fingers and McClusky used it to crack
them backwards. The black guy screamed and struggled uselessly. Three guards
picked him up off the floor as McClusky gathered himself, rearranging the bad
suit.
"Toss that asshole in F Block for a month, then bring him to see me!" he
snapped as the man was dragged away.
"Jesus, Dwight! You should be on American Gladiators."
"Yeah, well," McClusky wheezed, catching his breath. "Someone comes at you in
here, you go straight for the fingers. You see what I'm talking about?" he
asked, indicating around as they left the dining hall, the silence even more
pronounced now. "It's those cocksuckers, Sam and Dean…got my whole prison
worked up like this."
"Ninety percent of the inmates here are violent offenders or murderers. We're
over two hundred percent capacity." One of the guards, Kavanaugh, according to
his badge, piped up.
"This ain't a prison anymore, Victor. It's a time bomb. All thanks to those
two. They've got 'em all worked up like sharks with chum bait - smell of blood
drives 'em nuts."
Hendriksen shrugged. "So ship them out."
McClusky laughed. "No-one wants 'em. Don't blame 'em."
"So fry them."
"We tried that and every single time, they kill somebody new and we gotta start
the whole fuckin' legal process all over again. That's two or three years,
y'see? They're smart motherfuckers, I'll give 'em that." They turned a corner
into a long corridor with only one room at the end, six guards standing
stationary along the length of it. "Pete!" McClusky called to the guard nearest
the bars. "We got a visitor for the songbird!"
Hendriksen shot Dwight a confused look.
"He sings all the damned time," McClusky grumbled. "No-one knows what the fuck
it is."
As soon as they began to get close, Hendriksen felt a bolt of something go
through him; arousal, dark and hungry. Sam was singing, voice soft echoing
against the prison walls. It was more like a strange kind of humming, with the
occasional string of words.
"So you're stuck with them? Sounds like a haemorrhoid you can't get rid of,"
Hendriksen commented, fingertips tingling as they drew closer.
"Even haemorrhoid's can be cut out. That's why we're sending them for testing
to Nystrom with you," McClusky said with a grin.
"Nystrom? Lobotomy bay?"
"Vegetable land; home of the criminally insane."
"That hasn't been done in years."
"We got a first stage ruling. It won't stick, with all these do-gooding shrink
assholes they've got around 'em. But it will get them under your control for a
few hours."
"Yeah? And then?"
"The public loves you, Victor. You're a celebrated lawman. You busted the
Winchesters. Twenty years on the force, bestseller out in paperback. You're a
living breathing icon of justice and that's why you were chosen to deliver
those rabid dogs. We, the prison board, know if anything should happen when you
get out there on the road…"
"A fire," Kavanaugh supplied helpfully.
"An escape attempt," the other guard added.
"…Anything," McClusky went on. "Supercop Hendriksen would be there to look out
for the public's best interests."
"I'm starting to get the picture," Hendriksen said with a little smile.
"And of course nobody in their right mind is going to cry for those two pig-
fuckers if they happened to take some lead. You write the script, Victor. You
call it anything you want. 'Showdown in Mojave; The Extermination of the
Winchesters.'Have we found our man?"
Hendriksen didn't reply for a moment. He walked towards the small glass window,
metal interwoven through it, and saw the boy he hadn't seen for eight months.
Sam Winchester had grown, filled out even more if possible. He'd obviously been
working out and Hendriksen had to wonder who was stupid enough to give either
one of the Winchesters access to dumbbells or weights. He was singing, leaning
against the back wall. There were no windows, not a scrap of natural light. One
flickering light above him. A paper thin mattress on the floor with a moth
eaten cover. A sink and toilet in the furthest corner. Sam was wearing
sweatpants and a vest. There was blood on the vest but Hendriksen couldn't tell
if it was old or new.
"Yeah," Hendriksen said, mouth a little dry. "You've found your man."
"Hey, Winchester," McClusky called through the glass. "You got a visitor."
It was as though no-one had said anything. Sam just kept on singing, head
swinging from side to side, hair falling around his eyes and face. For a
moment, Hendriksen wondered if Sam could actually hear anything. If the cell
even had air holes. Then the youngest Winchester turned and looked dead at
them. His eyes were darker than they'd been the last time Hendriksen had stared
into them. For the first time, he wondered if some of the rumours about Sam
being some kind of monster were actually true.
Very suddenly, Sam ran at the door and smashed his head into the glass,
actually managing to crack it before he fell to the floor, unconscious and
bleeding.
"Jesus Christ!" Hendriksen yelped, leaping back.
McClusky just chuckled. "Don't worry, he does that all the time. C'mon, follow
me."
"So where do you keep the other one?"
"We've got his ass locked away on the other side of the building, it just so
happens you can't see him right now. He's got a special visitor."
"Oh yeah?"
"Bela Talbot."
"Bela Talbot? That TV whore?"
"We call 'em media, Vic. Why, don't you like the media?"
"That bitch lives to fuck cops over," Hendriksen scowled.
"You can't so no to the media. You want the job? Come say hello."
Through the two way mirrored glass, Hendriksen saw Bela Talbot. She was sitting
at the table, waiting for Dean Winchester to be brought in. She fiddled with
her hair, tucking away any loose strands and neatening herself up. She brought
a recording device up to her mouth and said, "Testing, one two," a few times.
She was clearly nervous but managed it well, years of experience coming into
play perhaps.
When the doors opened, she visibly steeled herself. Dean was brought in, guards
on either side of him. He wore a blue jumpsuit with a leather strap around his
middle, to which his hands were cuffed. His feet were double locked and he was
barefoot. His face was bruised, he was sporting a bloody lip, but otherwise he
looked calm and utterly unflappable. His hair had grown longer since Hendriksen
had last seen it. Just like his brother, he had obviously been working out.
Talbot smiled widely and leant back in the chair. "Lovely to meet you, Dean,"
she said as he was dropped down into a chair in front of her, guards settling
in behind him. "My name is Bela Talbot."
"I know who you are," Dean said, in that low, ever so charming voice. His smile
was stunning. Hendriksen hated the fucker and he had to admit it was
mesmerising. "You're famous."
She laughed and ran a hand around the back of her neck. "Not as famous as you,"
she practically purred. Hendriksen was surprised she wasn't sitting on his lap.
"I want to thank you for seeing me. I have a television show, American Maniacs.
Every few weeks, as part of our look at current America, we profile a different
serial killer…"
"Mass murderer," Dean corrected politely with a wink.
She smiled again, brighter this time. McClusky chuckled quietly.
"Whatever you'd prefer. Now then, the episode we did on the Winchesters was one
of our most popular."
"You ever do John Wayne Gacy?" he asked, conversationally.
"Uh, yes. Yes, we did."
"Who got the higher rating?"
Bela gave a little wink of her own. "Yours."
"Ted Bundy?"
"You blew him away."
"What about Manson?"
She gave a mock grimace. "Manson beat you, I'm afraid."
Dean shrugged, repaying her with a mock pout. It drew unnecessary attention to
his mouth; those lips. "Fair enough."
Hendriksen, who was watching with a nasty feeling in his gut, leaned in to
whisper to Dwight, "Is he always this chatty?"
Dwight shrugged. "Sometimes. She's a piece of ass, I'd be the same."
"I don't think she's his type," Hendriksen muttered, but continued to watch.
"As I was saying," she went on, leaning across the table a little flashing
ample cleavage. "We would really love to do a follow up show about you boys. I
feel it's apparent to anyone who's hip to what's going on that the Prison Board
has thrown the Constitution straight out the fucking window! You and Sam may be
killers, but nuts...insane? I think not. You're being railroaded into a
hospital for the sole purpose of turning you into a vegetable. Now some people
are saying, "So what?" I am not one of those people. If we avert our eyes while
they do this to you, we give them permission to do it again whenever they see
fit. Today, they wipe clean your mind because they feel your actions are
dangerous. Tomorrow they wipe clean my mind - or dump me in syndication –
because they feel what I say is dangerous! Where does it all end? That's my
angle."
She took a breath, tongue sweeping across her top row of teeth, waiting and
weighing Dean's reaction. When he didn't say anything, just stared politely,
she continued.
"My problem, Dean, is you don't exactly inspire empathy. I'm all alone on this.
I need your help. I have interviews with the Prison Board, with that Warden
Dwight McClusky - and I'm telling you, Dean, they look bad. The two
psychologists they used for their kangaroo court won't talk to us, which also
looks bad. I have an interview with the judge at your trial, Bert Steinsma, and
the psychologist, Emil Rheingold, both of which discount the notion that you're
insane. What we need now is you. You haven't talked to the press since your
trial. Now a few days before you get transferred to an asylum, you give an
exclusive to Bela Talbot. We're talking a media event here. We run this during
the Sweeps, promos on the Super Bowl, I'll even ask them to program it the same
day as the Super Bowl! Right after it! They might go for it!” She got up and
out of her chair, starting to pace.
“Television history! The first sit down, in-depth interview with the most
charismatic serial killer ever. One day before he's being shipped to a mental
hospital for the rest of his life. This is Wallace with Noriega! Elton John
confessing his bi-sexuality to Rolling Stone! This is the Maysles Brothers at
Altamont. This is the Nixon/Frost interviews!"
She took a breath, having gotten a little over-excited. Dean seemed unmoved,
thus far. She composed herself and sat back down.
"Have you spoken to Sam?" he asked, magnetic eyes locked onto her,
unblinkingly.
She looked a little put out for the first time. "He wouldn't see me. All he
does is sing, apparently."
Dean smiled to himself a little. He looked at the space to his left as though
someone was there. Victor frowned; he'd heard they did that, but wasn't
prepared for how much it freaked him the fuck out, seeing it first hand.
Behind him, the guard came forward and yanked him to his feet. "Time, mother-
fucker!" he snarled as Dean was hauled upwards. Bela jumped up, edging around
the table.
"Let him answer me! What do you say, Dean?" she begged.
There was a pause, while the guards got a better hold of him and Hendriksen
watched closely. Dean blinked slowly and let another trademark smile cross his
undeniably beautiful face.
"I say go for it."
"Why the hell are you letting that bitch do this, Dwight?" Hendriksen asked
irritably as Dean was pulled away. Bela gathered her things, looking intensely
smug.
"Relax! If I don't, we'll be excoriated in the press. If I do, it'll be weeks
before they clear it and those assholes are gonna be road kill before that ever
happen, eh Vic? No-one's gonna give a flying fuck about two dead losers!"
McClusky said with evident relish.
"I guess not," Hendriksen said, but could not shake the feeling that something
was intensely wrong and it was all to do with how Dean had looked at
nothingness, like he was looking at Sam.
 
Two days later Hendriksen's nasty feeling rocketed up a few notches.
"Jesus Christ, how could you let this show go live, Dwight?" he asked,
irritable from a nasty bout of indigestion. He'd been called into the prison
too early and then the news that the show was going live…it was too much.
McClusky was relatively blasé about the entire charade. "I couldn't stop it,
just got out of hand. It don't change a thing, Vic. We're gonna move those
scumbags tomorrow, just a little ahead of schedule that's all. You wanna talk
problems?" he asked stopping and looking around. "That. That's a problem. Dead
quiet. It's dangerous when it's dead quiet."
The unnerving silence was back again, like a vacuum before the storm. It gave
Hendriksen a chill down his spine. They were walking towards the room Bela was
going to use for the interview. Obviously it had to be checked and re-checked
several times before Dean could be allowed anywhere near it.
She was inside, dressed to kill. Short skirt with a dangerous split and a low
cut top, just revealing the edges of a red lacy bra. What a whore, Hendriksen
thought to himself.
"Ah, Dwight," she said, voice pleasant and persuasive. "Now, I wanted to have a
little chat with you if that's alright."
"Sure is," Dwight replied, eyes unsubtly bouncing from her face to her chest.
"Great! Now, I want to have Dean reasonably relaxed. You know, get him to open
in ways he never has before. And looking around here, I can't see how I'm going
to be able to do that. There's so much security. I mean, is it all entirely
necessary? This room is like Fort Knox as it is, right?"
"Sorry, Miss Talbot, but this security is mandatory at all times. Do you have
any idea how dangerous he is?"
"The only risk is to myself, right? There are eight guards in here with
shotguns. Is there no chance we could get rid of some?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"Two?"
"OK, I'll take two guards off."
Bela laughed. "No, no – I mean, leave two in here, get rid of six."
Dwight shook his head. "Absolutely not. Five guys have to be in here at all
times, at the very least."
"Three?" she tried.
He fixed her with a stern look. "Four. That's it."
She smiled and placed her hand on Dwight's shoulder. "You're a star."
"So, I'm gonna go have myself a little word with Sam," Hendriksen dropped in
while Dwight was affably distracted. He didn't wait for Dwight to reply. Hejust
left, mouth practically watering with how badly he wanted to see that boy
again.
===============================================================================
'Right after the Game, stay tuned for a special "American Maniacs" on W-A-T-C-
H. Dean Winchester is the most dangerous man in America, but Bela Talbot isn't
afraid to meet him one on one to learn what so many people died for. Is this
man insane or does he belong where he sent so many others...in the grave? Be
sure to stay tuned for this exclusive!'
===============================================================================
"Dean Winchester, thank you for this opportunity," Bela said, with a pleasant
smile from across the table. The camera panned to Dean, un-cuffed and relaxed.
He wore an absolutely stunning smile, shy and confident all at the same time.
"I have a few questions I'd like to start with, if you don't mind?"
Dean replied, "Let's roll the fuckin' dice, honey."
"Dean Winchester, when did you first start thinking about killing?"
"From the age of five."
"Can you elaborate on that?"
"Death, one kind or another, became my life. My talent. An art form of which I
became a fucking Picasso." He laughed then; a warm, attractive sound and it
made his eyes shine darkly.
"Where did it come from?"
"I guess it's in my blood. My Father had it. It was branded into me. Eat, shit,
fuck, kill. It was all I knew. It was my fate, always my fate."
With a concerned look, Bela countered, "No-one is born evil, Dean. It's
something you learn. Now, let's talk about your family, specifically your
mother. You were five years old at the time she died and there's a lot of
speculation about how that happened."
Dean's mood darkened immediately. "I didn't kill my mother, if that's what
you're asking."
"But you killed your father?"
Something seemed to pierce that dark veil; a grim sense of achievement. "Yes."
"Would you mind telling me why?"
"Would you believe me if I told you it was self defence?"
"Maybe."
"It had to be done. He got off easy."
"Was he a religious man?"
Dean seemed to find that funny. "Not exactly."
"Why is that funny?"
"Wouldn't you laugh if I asked you if the Devil read the bible?"
"Do you read the bible, Dean?"
"I've read it, yes."
"And how do you think your actions compare to the Christian values of the
bible?"
He shrugged. "The bible's full of murder."
"What about God? Do you think he has the right to judge you?"
"He can judge all he wants. Just another bad Dad with a fucked up sense of
punishment and control."
"Dean; how can you look at an innocent man - a guy with a wife and kids - and
then shoot him to death?"
"Who's innocent? Are you innocent, Bela? Look around at the world and show me
the innocence. Death? It's pure, unbiased, chaotic. Everything kills, all
creatures in one way or another. I know a lot of people who deserve to die."
"Why do they deserve to die?"
"Everyone has some secret in their lives, some terrible thing they've done.
We're humans, we are sin incarnate. The worst kind of people are those who are
already dead, walking around living like zombies. They need putting out of
their misery."
"And you think you're the person to judge that?"
"The wolf doesn't know why he's a wolf, the deer doesn't know why he's a deer.
I t's instinct. Fate."
"So tell me, Dean - any regrets?"
"Well," he sighed. "I wish that old guy hadn't got killed. The Spanish dude."
Bela flipped through some papers hurriedly. "One of your last victims," she
said with a nod.
"He was trying to help us, I think. Took us in, gave us shelter. He saw it."
"Saw what?"
"The demon."
Bela's eyes flashed excitedly. "The demon?"
"Yeah."
"So what happened?"
"It was a mistake. I was dreaming, same dream I've had since I was a kid. It's
hard to move, hard to run and I can taste metal in my mouth. The demon is
running after me, chasing and I feel it's breath on my neck."
"What does it want?"
"It wants to kill something good."
"So...as long as you're bad, it won't kill you?"
Dean seemed far away for a few seconds and when he brought himself back, he
interlaced his fingers together, shrugging with gracefully. "It's the way of
all demons."
"But it's not just innocent lives you've taken either, is it Dean? Both you and
Sam have killed dozens of inmates on the inside too."
"Death is indiscriminate," he said. "And the demon lives in here. Everyone's
got the demon in here. It feeds on their hate; cuts, kills, rapes. It uses your
weakness, only the vicious survive."
"And you don't believe God could help you?"
"God? No. The thing that kills a demon? Love. The reason I'm not an animal,
wild and snarling…love. That's what killed our father and that's what'll blow
this world apart in the end."
With a look directly into the camera, Bela said, "Hold that thought. We'll be
right back."
===============================================================================
Though the distance between the two areas of the prison was vast, Hendriksen
felt himself being drawn inexorably towards Sam's cell. Accompanied by a guard,
he was practically vibrating with excitement. The closer he got, the more he
felt it.
The guard opened the door and said, "Rise and shine, Winchester!"
Sam had been laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He sat up a little
and met Hendriksen's gaze with a flat calm that seemed to make the guard
nervous. Jesus, he was mouthwatering. He seemed completely at ease, no tense
muscles or fear in his eyes. He pulled himself up to a sitting position.
"Turn around and face the wall!" the guard yelled.
Hendriksen chuckled. "That's alright, my good man. We're gonna have a little
chat is all."
The guard frowned, looking from Sam back to Hendriksen. "Agent Hendriksen,
don't get near him – he'll kill you!"
"Relax, man – go read my book, OK? Now I've met some sons of bitches in my time
but this guy? I think I can handle him," he said with a friendly laugh and
herded the guy out of the room, closing the door with a slam that reverberated
down his spine.
Alone with Sam, finally.
"How you doing, Sam? Long time, no see, huh?" Sam watched him silently as
Hendriksen crouched down in front of him with a smile. "You've grown, man."
The longer Sam went without moving made it all the more dangerous. He was
playing with a cobra and he knew it. It turned him on, made him hard.
"You remember the last time you got fucked by your big brother?" he asked,
little more than a breathy whisper. "I hope you've got a good picture of it,
'cos it's never gonna happen again."
Still nothing.
"You think about him a lot, do you Sammy? I know you do. You realise you're
never gonna see him again?"
And then after a few seconds, Sam blinked. A slow, seductive smile spread over
his face.
"Are you flirting with me?" he asked softly. Hendriksen gave a groan, moving
kneel in front of Sam with a smile all his own.
===============================================================================
'And we're back with Bela Talbot's live interview with Dean Winchester!'
===============================================================================
"So, Dean - how does it feel knowing you'll never see your brother again?"
"Says who?"
"The United States Government of America."
Dean laughed again. "When have they ever been right?"
"Was it really worth it?" Bela pressed.
"Was what worth it?"
"Was massacring all those people worth being separated from your brother for
the rest of your life?"
"You mean, was an instant of my purity worth a lifetime of your lies?"
"Excuse me, did you just say purity? Where was the purity in the trail of
bodies you left behind?"
"You'll never understand it. Me and you, we're not even the same species. I
used to be you, then I evolved. From where you're standing, you're a human…from
where I'm standing you're a cockroach."
"Cut the BS, Dean – why this purity, why for Christ's sake?"
He chuckled, low and soft and replied, "I guess you've gotta hold that ol'
shotgun in your hands and it all becomes clear to you. That's when I knew; five
years old and I knew my one true calling in life."
"And what is that?"
"Shit, honey - I'm a natural born killer."
When it cut to commercial, Bela let her intense look of concentration drop and
an ecstatic smile spread over her face. "Oh that was fan-fucking-tastic!Dean,
sweetie – that was just perfect! Every moron in the world just saw that.
Spectacular!"
Dean smiled back. "Glad to oblige," he said. There might have been an alternate
meaning beneath his words, but Bela couldn't place it. The cameras were gearing
up to go again after the commercial when McClusky, who had been sitting
watching with a scowl, was handed a radio by a sweating guard.
"Where? Oh shit-fire, holy fuck! OK, OK, mobilize the men, I'm on my way!" he
stood and addressed the whole room. "Close down all the cameras!" he snapped.
"We got a riot in Rec Room B Wing!"
"That's a joke, right?" Bela asked frantically. "We're live, there are two
hundred million American's watching this!"
"They've got guns, hostages, explosives! You shut those cameras down now,
missy!"
"Then...could we go with you and film it? Live, for Christ's sake! We'll never
get another chance like this again!"
Dwight snarled furiously. "You stay here and shut the hell up! This is all your
fault anyway! This all started because of your fucking show! They're rioting
because of what he said!" He addressed the guards in the room. "Kavanaugh, keep
your finger on the trigger and be ready at a moment's notice! Phil, Jim –
you're with me! Everyone else, sit tight!"
McClusky left with a final scathing look at Dean, who popped a piece of gum and
smiled innocently.
Bela watched him go with a sense of massive frustration. She sat down, fuming.
She watched as Dean stretched languidly like a cat in the sun.
"Everyone seems pretty tense," he said calmly. "How's about I tell a joke?"
===============================================================================
Hendriksen was starting to sweat as he watched Sam slowly stretch his muscles,
bones clicking and rolling as he did. Sam looked to his right for and smiled
like he saw something. Hendriksen's blood ran cold for a minute, recalling what
Dean had done not half an hour ago. But then he shook himself, determined not
to let some bullshit weirdness distract him.
"I remember you," Sam said, voice baritone and rough with disuse. "You cut me."
He lifted his throat up a little, exposing the thin scar. Hendriksen let out a
small groan.
"Yeah, I did."
"You liked that, didn't you?" Sam said, eyes dancing with the flickering neon
light above them. "You enjoyed making me bleed."
"Yes," Hendriksen managed, reaching down to palm himself through his trousers.
"I know you liked it too. I saw what you did to the kid at the gas station,
Sammy. I know what you like."
Sam's tongue traced over his bottom lip. "Oh really?"
"I killed someone too," Hendriksen whispered. "Some fucking whore. I strangled
him."
Sam laughed, it echoed beautifully around Hendriksen. "You know what I think
about, all alone in here?"
Hendriksen moved closer, undoing the top button of his shirt. "Tell me."
"Sex. I think about sex. Fucking. Hard cock up my ass, making me writhe and
moan and beg. I miss that. Sweat and flesh and pain, blood on my tongue. Does
that make me a whore?"
Hendriksen felt like he was going to come in his pants.
The smile widened over Sam's face and he leaned forward. "What do you want me
to do?" he asked, barely a whisper.
"Kiss me and pinch my nipple," Hendriksen gasped.
"You like a little bit of pain?" Sam asked, shifting position. He moved very
slowly and then pressed a kiss to the older man's lips, tongue flicking out
over them. Hendriksen groaned, about to grab him and eat his fucking mouth out,
when a burst of pain took his breath away.
Sam had bitten through his bottom lip – torn the vulnerable flesh. Before he
could even pull away, the younger man slammed the heel of his hand into his
nose and it broke; agony exploding over his face.
Hendriksen fell backwards, managing not to scream. Instead, he pulled a can of
pepper spray from his belt and sprayed it in Sam's face.
"You wanna play, you stupid little bitch? We'll play!"
===============================================================================
"Wow, tough room," Dean said, choosing a few doughnuts from the box on the
table. Everyone was still sitting around, waiting for news. The mood was
palpably tense; entirely too perfect for what Dean needed to do. "OK, one
more." He winked at Bela who looked intensely pleased and he began to walk
casually around the room.
"So," he said, taking a bite of a doughnut. "A mother says to her daughter,
'OK, you can go to the drive-in with Bobby, but you've got to take little
Johnny.' Sister says OK. They go to the drive-in, they come back and mother
pulls little Johnny aside and asks, 'What happened?' Now, Little Johnny can't
talk.'"
Dean drew a square in the air and acted like he was driving.
"Mother says, 'OK, they went to the drive-in – I knew that! What else?'"
Dean, as Little Johnny, made exaggerated smooching sounds as he walked around.
The shorter guard cracked and grinned a little. Dean handed him a doughnut and
continued around the room.
"Mother says, 'Oh! They were kissing? Well, what else?'"
Dean made groping motions at the chest of another guard who pretended not to
laugh.
"Mother says, 'He felt her up? Well, what else?'"
Dean mimed the action of taking off his shirt.
"Mother says, 'They took off their clothes, well what else?'
Most of the guards was already laughing, all except Kavanaugh. Dean, still
circling, pantomimed the action of sex.
"Mother says, 'They did all that? What the hell were you doing?'"Dean pretended
to be vigorously jacking off. "Little Johnny no!"
And just as the whole room erupted into laughter, Dean threw the last doughnut
at the nearest guard and suddenly jammed his elbow into Kavanaugh's throat,
snatching his shotgun. He fired immediately; one, two, three, four shots. He
shot everywhere, not caring who he hit. One of the guards went down, three
crewmen. When he stopped, everyone except the guards were on the floor, curled
up in fear.
"DROP IT!" Dean yelled at the guard holding the doughnut. The poor guy, shell-
shocked as he was, dropped the doughnut instead. "The gun, Goddammit!"
Dean moved over the grab it, shells too. "Alright, drop your belt. Gimme the
automatic too. Bela? You alive?"
"I'm right here," came her annoying British voice from the floor. "I'm
alright!"
"OK, new friend. Get your camera. Get us live. We're gonna play follow the
leader all the way to Sammy's cell and you," he directed viciously at
Kavanaugh, who was still gasping for breath on the ground. "had better hope and
pray he's in one piece."
===============================================================================
"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this special
report. I'm being told we're taking youliveto Batonga Penitentiary where Bela
Talbot continues her interview right in the middle of a full scale riot. Bela?
Can you hear me? Are you safe? What can you tell us, Bela?"
"As you can see by the blood and carnage all around me that the final chapter
of Sam and Dean Winchester has not yet been written. An incredible war has
broken out here unlike anything I've ever seen before! Fires are everywhere,
bodies being thrown, doors are jammed open by bloody bones and all around me,
death is at our throats!"
===============================================================================
The pain in his eyes was almost as bad as the burning desire to rip the asshole
into little bits and pieces, but Sam couldn't move. Hendriksen had his arm
twisted brutally behind his back, almost snapping it clean off. He felt his
legs kicked apart, cold air on his skin.
"You fuckin' little whore," Hendriksen snarled in his ear, frantically trying
to free himself without letting Sam out of his grip. "You broke my fucking
nose!"
"And it was funny," Sam managed through gritted teeth.
"Yeah? I'll show you funny!"
The door burst open then, the guard flew backwards into the room. His bloody
chest was blown wide open by a shotgun. Hendriksen scrambled backwards,
reaching into his holster for his gun. He fired a few shots, but Dean used one
of the guards as a shield.
"Honey, I'm home!" he yelled, dropping low to the ground for cover while some
camera crew filmed the entire thing. Sam crawled away, eyes burning so bad he
was crying, but he could still see.
Dean and Hendriksen had each other over their barrels; a stalemate of sorts.
"Looks like we got us a Mexican stand-off!" Dean called out.
"Slide that shotgun over here, hands on your head!" Hendriksen shouted.
"Or what? You'll wound me?" Dean teased. "I can blow you in half, Hendriksen,
and you know it!"
"I never wounded anything in my life! I've got you locked right between the
eyes, Winchester. I've had you locked right from the jump, you asshole!"
"You got me locked? You take your shot!"
"You wanna shoot me? C'mon, mother fucker, shoot me! I was just fucking your
little brother! He came so hard he broke my nose!"
Silently, Sam pushed himself to his knees behind Hendriksen. He quietly removed
a knife from one of the dead guard's belts and opened it just as silently.
Dean clocked it. "OK, Hendriksen. You win."
Hendriksen started to laugh, just as Sam wrenched his head back. He stabbed him
in the throat, dragging the blade all the way along in a sick travesty of a
Cheshire smile. Hendriksen gargled and screamed through the gash in his throat,
blood pouring wetly over Sam's hands.
Sam let go with disgust and looked up, eyes seeking one thing only. Dean got to
his feet, arms open wide.
"Oh, Sammy," he gasped.
Sam fell into his arms, crying and laughing at the same time. Their mouths met
perfectly, as though they were always meant to. The kiss was burning; pepper
and tears and blood, but Christ it was everything. He mumbled Dean's name into
his mouth, pulled at every part of his body, trying to meld them into one. The
kissed, turning on the spot like they had that day standing on the bridge.
"This reunion has been months in the coming. They're doing something everyone
told them they would never do again. At this moment they are the only two
people on Earth."
In between kisses, Sam managed to ask, "What…took you…so…long?"
Dean laughed. It reverberated into Sam's mouth and he swallowed it hungrily.
"Told you I'd come, didn't I, baby boy?"
In the background, Hendriksen's gurgling was starting to become irritating.
Dean lifted his shotgun and fired, only to have it click – empty.
"You're losing your touch there, Vic," he chuckled coldly, fingers trailing
possessively through Sam's hair. "I was outta shells."
Hendriksen made a desperate screaming sound, thicker blood starting to pour
from the gaping neck wound. Sam bent down and picked up an automatic, aiming it
squarely between the eyes.
"How sexy am I now?" he asked and fired.
===============================================================================
McClusky was ten minutes away from having a heart attack. The sweat pouring
down his face had soaked into his shirt. The prison was exploding, totally out
of control. He'd made it into the Control Room without getting stabbed and that
was only by the skin of his teeth.
The scene the cameras painted was gruesome, blood soaked and burning up. "What
about those gates there?" he demanded, pointing to one section of the screen.
"Try closing them again."
"They're still jammed open sir. We got fires in 5,6 and 7. The psych unit looks
like a zoo! They're slaughtering each other. All our informants and being
tortured."
A guard rushed inside, slipping on something. "Warden!"
"What now?" McClusky asked hysterically.
"Sam and Dean Winchester are loose."
"...what?"
"Hendriksen's dead."
McClusky shrugged.
"And they're live...on network TV!"
"LIVE ON NETWORK TV? Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking crutch is this happening
to me?"
===============================================================================
The escape plan would have been going better if Dean could stop kissing Sammy.
He knew he shouldn't, knew he should be thinking of a plan to get them out, but
he just couldn't. It was his Sammy, his everything and they had been apart for
too long. The chaos of the prison all around them was background noise.
They holed up around a corner, listening to the screams and shots being fired
nearby.
"OK, this is the plan," he said, holding Sam's hand tight. "We're gonna go
through some heavy fire, take these assholes as hostages. Talbot, you'd better
keep that camera alive and broadcasting or I'll throw you to these lovely
gentlemen. Then we're going straight out the front door."
In extremely bad shape, Kavanaugh wheezed out a laugh. "You don't have a chance
in hell, boy. If they have to kill us all, they will."
"Cop psychology, huh? You know they way I feel about cops," Dean replied
coldly.
Sammy tugged on his hand. "C'mon, Dean. Wanna get out of here before it blows
up. Wanna see the sky, wanna sleep under the stars."
"What my boy wants, he gets. Hey Talbot. You guys have a van?"
Bela was bleeding, her hair messed up beyond all redemption. She was shaking,
terrified. "Uh, y-yes. Yeah, in the car park."
"Alright. When we start to move, you all do exactly as we say – you got it? If
we say left, go left. If we say down, get down. If we say mole, dig a mother
fucking hole, you get it?"
Through blood, mayhem and violence, the hostage train moved steadily forward.
Sam and Dean shot and killed as many as they could, taking all the weapons as
they could handle. When the camera guy went down, they gave the camera to the
one remaining crew member to carry and shoot with. Kavanaugh was shot twice but
still walking. Bela was relatively uninjured, keeping close to Dean. All the
doors were jammed open, bodies littering the corridors.
Then came the last remaining wall of guards; McClusky at the helm, spitting and
screaming, red in the face. Sam moved quickly to hold the handgun to Bela's
throat.
"Move and I'll blast this bitch all over TV!" he bellowed.
"You got nothing, Winchester!" McClusky screamed. "Nowhere to go!"
"Put up your hand," Sam directed at Bela, who did so with trepidation. He shot
a hole clean through it; her screams rang out through the entire prison; a
woman's screams. That would bring every con in the place running and Sam knew
it. Dean smiled and looked to McClusky.
"You wanna live, Bela?" Sam said, keeping the gun trained against her neck.
"Sell it."
Sobbing, Bela began to speak into the camera.
"My name is Bela Talbot. I am the star of American Maniacs. We are watched
weekly by forty million people. I am a respected journalist, winner of the
Edward R. Murrow award, among others!"
Slowly, but surely, the strange fellowship moved forward. McClusky started to
stammer, started to gape. He didn't seem to know what to do, eyes flashing back
and forth between the Winchesters and the camera.
"We are live, on camera!" Bela was yelling, tears free flowing down her face.
"If anybody puts me in danger, the network will sue Dwight McClusky and the
entire Sheriff's Department and...and the Governor himself! My estate will
personally sue any officer who fires! I am a personal friend of Bill Clinton's
and if any harm comes to me, the retaliation force will be one to reckon with!"
Kavanaugh was begging and pleading for the officers, his friends not to fire.
Dean couldn't help but grin to himself.
"Make a path! Fucking move!" Sam instructed and the officers actually did it,
not knowing what else to do.
As they passed McClusky, he snarled in Dean's face. "Just how far do you think
you're gonna get?"
"Right out the front door," Dean replied cockily.
"That will never happen!" McClusky spat.
"It is happening," Sam informed him. They were completely past the row of
officers. They slipped through the final set of bars and Sam yanked a
dismembered arm out of the wall, where it had been jamming the gate open. It
slammed shut with a resounding clang that seemed to signal death to the
McClusky and the other guards.
"Get it open!" McClusky snarled, yanking fruitlessly at the steel bars. "Who's
got a key card?"
"It's…its lockdown, sir," a guard told him, trembling voice giving out. "They
won't open."
Dean gave McClusky a final grin and a salute as the oncoming mob of furious,
bloodthirsty prisoners came raging towards him, smashing him into the bars with
a bloody crunch.
===============================================================================
"This is Bela Talbot, sadly no longer reporting live. My crew is dead and I am
wounded. Dean Winchester's plan worked. We walked out the front doors of
Batonga, into our news van and made a get-away. When we were followed by patrol
cars, Sam Winchester shot and killed Deputy Kavanaugh and threw him out the
back of the van, causing the patrol cars to swerve and pile up. Why helicopters
have not been deployed, I don't know. B-but without any further ado, here
is...Sam and Dean Winchester."
"Sam, what did you think of Dean's plan? Did you think it would work?"
"Never a doubt. I thought it would take him a little less time to get us out,
of course. He told mehe'd have us out in six months, but I guess I can forgive
a little lateness."
"You…you planned to get out all along?"
"Of course. Like any prison could ever keep my Sammy locked away inside, right
baby boy?"
"I see. So did you organise the riot?"
"The riot? That was just fate. Plain and simple."
"One final question boys; you're clearly both very intelligent. You've both
just escaped from the most secure, intimidating prison in all of America. Why
the did you let yourselves get caught in the first place? Why leave the footage
behind? Why leave this, even now? You could be invisible, forever…why draw
attention to yourselves?"
"This whole world's gonna burn, you know. Who cares what mess we make of it in
the meantime? Besides, we're not gonna have anyone chasing after us anymore.
We're dead."
"You're…what?"
"We died in a crash. They're gonna find our bodies burned to a crisp in a
terrible explosion in that quarry down there. This tape is gonna burn, same as
you, Bela. They're gonna think we burned too."
"Alright, cut – cut!" Bela said, putting the camera down and turning it off.
"Wh-what do you mean?"
The boys stared at her with frighteningly similar eyes. "We just thought we'd
let you get your ending. Before, y'know…your ending."
"That's - that's not funny," she gasped, feeling like she was falling. "We can
travel together! Pop up, lie low – bang out a book, movie deal maybe. Come on,
we're famous!"
"No," Sam sighed, lifting the gun and aiming it directly at her. "You were
famous."
"But…you can't kill me!" she squeaked.
"Why not? You think you're too good to die?" Dean asked, popping a fresh shell
into the shotgun with an amused smile.
"But you…I…"
"We'll kill you quick, how's that? Then your body is going in the van - we
don't need it after all. Gonna go find the asshole who thinks he's the owner of
a certain 1967 Chevy Impala. We've got all we need for them to think we're dead
and gone, just like you.”
“How? They'll expect b-bodies! DNA!”
“They'll get it. There will be three bodies in that van, and two will be the
spittin' images of the infamous Winchesters.”
"The process for which is gonna suck, by the way," Dean grimaced. "I hate
glamour spells. You're getting the better end of the deal, Bela. We have to
pull a tooth each to get the mojo up and running to make replicas of our
bodies."
Her mind wasn't functioning. "I don't…this can't be…"
"Your last moments? Yup. Counting down in three, two…one!"
"Goodbye, Bela."
===============================================================================
                               -Two Years Later-
Two years later, the stars were just as beautiful as they had always been. The
sky had not altered in the slightest, did not reflect the changes the planet
had undergone beneath it. The end of the world had come in the form of fire and
demons. Among the survivors, there were two brothers staring up at the eternal
sky.
Sam sighed and snuggled closer to Dean's chest, nuzzling the familiar warmth
and smell there. That Dean smell filled his nostrils, made his head spin a
little. It always did.
"Tell me a story," he sighed, as they lay on the hood of the Impala.
"You wanna hear about these two kick ass dudes who busted out of jail?" Dean
laughed, bringing a hand up to play idly with Sam's hair. He ran his fingers
through it, nails scraping over the scalp in a way that made Sam shiver. "Or
the time these same awesome dudes fought off a dozen cops with rattlesnake
venom in their blood?"
"No. Tell me about these two guys who survived the apocalypse and hunt demons
now," Sam purred, mouthing gently over Dean's ribs.
"But I don't know how that story ends," Dean said, shifting so he could reach
down to face his little brother.
Sam smiled and leaned in close, lips hovering over Dean's as he said, "I'll bet
it ends with a kiss."
                                     -Fin-
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