Title –Bad Person
Rating – R
Fandom - Supernatural
Characters – Sam/Dean Winchester
Warnings – One sided, under aged, dub-con, Wincest
Summary – You're pure evil and should be taken out back and hunted like the 'evil' you were trained to kill, but none of this stops you from pushing his body onto the ratty hotel mattress the two of you are forced to share.
Authors Note – This is actually more of a prequel to a two part story I'm working on, all three parts will be able to be read as standalones. And there maybe is some angst in this one.
All constructive criticism welcomed.

Disclaimer – Sadly nothing in the Supernatural fandom belongs to me. Kripke, CW and others that are not me own the boys. I only borrow them to play with.
Beta - The very awesome Sailorhathor

Bad Person

You're a bad person, a sick, twisted, son of a bitch, and you know it with every fiber of your being.

You can feel the self-loathing course through your body, feel the sinfulness as it taints and stains your blood. Can feel it as it takes you over. You're pure evil and should be taken out back and hunted like the 'evil' you were trained to kill, but none of this stops you from pushing his body onto the ratty hotel mattress the two of you are forced to share. A crisp, clean, white sheet hides what you can only imagine is stained and embedded into the fabric of the bed. Dirt, blood, sweat, come, come from somebody just like you. Somebody who takes what he shouldn't.

You close your eyes as you push up his shirt, exposing a flat stomach that is newly free of baby fat, developing muscles taking its place. You brace yourself as your fingers begin to fumble with the button and zipper of the old, faded, well-worn jeans of yours that he's wearing. You expect him to fight back, to push you away. To do whatever it takes to make you stop. You know he can; you've taught him everything he needs to know, felt the muscles in his arm flex when you pushed him down, but his zipper is down and your fingers are at his hips slipping under the waistband of his jeans and cotton briefs, and you still don't feel the pressure of his hands pushing against your chest. You don't hear his broken voice begging you to stop. So you look up and you find his eyes gazing into your own, and what you see there slams into your chest with such force you can't breathe. Wide, innocent hazel eyes are locked with yours, and all you see in them is trust and love, not a tinge of fear or anger where they have every right to be. He trusts you completely, would follow you to the end of the world if you asked him to.

It doesn't stop you, though; maybe, if anything, it encourages you to continue. You shouldn't be stripping away pieces of his innocence with callused hands and a smooth lick of your tongue, but you are, aren't you? You grip his half-hard cock in your hand and you start to move, slow. Your tongue slips out and runs along his hip bone, and you can taste salty sweat and something else, something you think is just him. The purity of it tickles your tongue and sends a shiver down your spine. You don't say a word; you don't let yourself tarnish his name with this. It's bad enough you can't stop yourself from doing this; like hell you're going to make him remember this moment every time you say his name.

Keeping silent, you settle yourself between his legs, hands gripping his slender thighs, and your mouth moves over him, hesitant and slow, because this is as new to you as it is to him. When his hands find your hair, gripping but still not causing you the pain you deserve, still not pulling you away, you take more of him in, until you can feel him in the back of your throat, until your nose is tickled with curls and the scent of him has completely surrounded you. You do your best to block out the low whimper that escapes from him as his breath starts to come out shaky and quick.

You hollow your cheeks and begin to move, slow and steady, until you know he's not going to do anything to stop you. You move more quickly and confidently, his hands tightening in your hair. It's not long after that you hear your name break the silence of the room. His voice broken, and it hitches at the end of your name as he gasps for more air. Tears sting your eyes with the knowledge that from this moment on, every time your name leaves his lips, you'll remember this, remember how you weren't strong enough, how you lost the battle, how you gave into temptation and started your one-way spiral to hell, taking your little brother with you.

You swallow and wash away the taste of bile that tickles the back of your throat with his warm, bitter come. Guilt sets in and sinks and settles at the bottom of your stomach. What have you done?

Your forehead is resting under his navel, your nose tucked in just above course curls; you kiss his soft, over-sensitive cock. And you wait, still not uttering a single world. You wait until his fingers fall away from your scalp and until his breath shallows and evens out before you get to your feet and go to the bathroom. A mixture of come, Pepsi, and a handful of half-digested fries are spilling into the toilet, choking you, before your knees ever hit the fuzzy blue floor mat.

When your stomach has settled and the heaving has stopped, when your legs are strong enough to carry you again, you stand up and start the shower, turning the taps as far as you can. You strip out of your clothes as steam begins to cloud the tiny bathroom. You let the hot water of the shower scorch your skin, watching, as your skin turns red. You can't feel the sting it must be causing because you're numb all the way through. You settle on the floor of the shower and you bring your knees to your chest, ducking your head as you let the water fall over you, hoping it can burn the evil out of you.

You're a monster.

You know it as well as you know your own name. You don't deserve his love or trust, you don't deserve that look he gives you like you were some kind of superhero from the comic books, and you sure as hell don't deserve to be able to justify what you've done with the ache in your heart and the tears that are falling down your cheeks.

It's your fault! Only your own fault, because you've never been strong enough to tell Sammy, 'No.'