"Dad wants us to pick up where he left off, Sammy. Saving people, hunting things," Dean's voice was soft, wet, and hot next to Sam's left ear. An obsidian knife toyed against his pulsing artery, his neck slick with sweat and the blood from the last thing they killed together. Slippery, but Dean knew how to slide a knife so artistically; he could draw with no paint.
Sam swallowed, not heavy or soft, but reflexively as he stared ahead towards nothing, his eyelids hiding truth in its purest of forms. Dean was different now, he had admitted to himself a bit ago. Much darker, much… more intense than he was used to, but he still smiled as Dean whispered the words that had kept him going only a few years ago. The family business still functioning, still edging the living and dead line.
"My daddy shot your daddy in the head," Sam whispered low, a haunting memory playing on his tongue.
"Yeah, our daddy did a lot, huh, Sam? He did a fucking lot. But," Dean paused. His voice was still heavy and heat waved, but something changed in the tone. "He did a lot of good, too. We can do that. We are doing that."
"But…."
"But nothing, little brother," Dean's lips tickled the barely there hair that had shadowed Sam's jaw the past few days. "What we do? What we have been doing? The worlds better, you have to admit." The knife nicked him gently, drawing blood to the surface and coloring a small section red. "We. Are. Good," the lips of the Adonis he had for a brother sucked it greedily, pausing in his speech. Every that was Sam belonged to him.
"D-dean," Sam coughed, his vision still black and deep and so high that he couldn't formulate the words he wanted to, except Dean. Always Dean.
"Don't lie to yourself," Dean continued after a minute. "Don't lie to me." The knife continued its playful path and Sam leaned into the gentle curves it took. "There we go, baby boy. You know I speak the truth."
"Dean," Sam sighed softly and opened his eyes, for the first time since he had discovered what exactly Dean had done to him. The mirror in front of him only detailed what it saw, but Sam saw more. He saw his brother, who had willingly went to hell for him, to save him from death and loneliness, himself painted with black, endless eyes, blood painting him heavenly, a dead body draped over the white-turned-wine red sink, eyes blank and blind. The girl had been pretty, except for what rotted inside her.
"Good boy, Sammy. I knew you'd see I was right. I'm always right, huh, Sammy? Such a good boy," Dean whispered again, green flashing black with his brother's own. smelling the acceptance, the want of more blood, the want of justice and death. "We have work to do."
A lot darker than I originally wanted, but hey a glass of red wine, a few early Supernatural episodes later, and a... wild imagination can do that to a girl. What do you guys think? Review :) xoxo K.