Disclaimer: Don't own the boys.
Spoilers: Mild spoilers to Born Under A Bad Sign
A/N: Dean's PoV, future timeline, Wincest if you want to. Let me know what you think.
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"Denial ain't just a river in Egypt."- Mark Twain
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It's Sam's mouth next to his ear and Sam's hand pressing down on his shoulder—thumb finding the sore spot in the muscle, twice scarred, that never healed properly, pushing down harder than necessary to keep him in place—pushing him back against the rotting wood that makes up what's left of the warehouse wall.
But the strength behind Sam's hand is alien, like the twisted grin on his brother's face that brushed against his ear. "I'm going to make sure you stay dead this time." It says—because it's Sammy's mouth and Sammy's voice, but not Sam at all. Not Sam, not Sam, not, not, not, is all that fills his head but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a strangled grunt that reverberates against his gritted teeth.
"Shame," the thing in his brother's body coos, and he can feel the grin widen, stretch with unnatural ease along Sam's features. "You are such a pretty boy." The thumb at his shoulder presses down hard; the pressure growing until he wouldn't be surprised if it tore through the leather and jersey and ripped another hole in his skin. A jerk runs through his body, jars the sharp pain of broken bone in his arm, and It laughs.
It moves back, and he breathes a little easier, without the overwhelming scent of Sam and rainwater. Because It's not Sam now anymore than it was last time, and it sure as hell never was the blonde girl named Meg. It's not anything. Just a demon.
One he's getting tired of sending back to hell.
"I'll take care of him." It says, with a sideways tilt of the head, mouth still turned up in that hard line, and Sam's face is uncharacteristically sinister. "Make sure he wants to die by the time I kill him." The bullet wound in his leg throbs almost in time with It's words, and for a second he is overly aware of the hard edge of his gun where it presses against the small of his back.
"I'm sorry Dean." And it is Sammy's face looking back at him, all doe eyes and soft mouth, worry lines and frown lines and lines that have acuminated under Dean's care. It's the kid he used to feed and bathe and tuck in. Beneath everything—the throbbing in his leg, the pain in his arm, the pressure at his shoulder—it's Sammy, the wriggling bundle he carried out the fire (the kid he's been trying to carry ever since).
Not Sam. The though rams into him as It leans in, crushes Sam's mouth against his. He pulls back so quickly there's a snap in his neck from his collision with the wall and his vision fogs and crosses over. The taste of copper fills his mouth, the smell lingers in his nose with the rain water and he's not sure whether it's Sam's blood or his. It retreats again, that sick grin back on his brother's face, the pressure in his shoulder amplifies until he's convulsing, until he can't hold back the howl that's been building since this all started.
"Bitch."
"Jerk." It replies turning Its back to him, reaching for the handle of Sam's scythe, the jagged edges of the blade glinting the flickering light that seeps through the holes in the ceiling.
"I'm sorry too, Sam," he says, silent and quick, drawing his gun before It has the chance to turn back. No, not Sammy, not Sammy, not Sammy, no, no, no, is all that fills his head.
And he pulls the trigger.
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End