Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I don't own em' didn't create them. Just love writing the fiction.
Warnings: Incest, m/m or slash, violence, torture, kinda fucked up. :P
Notes: Pretty much just ansty!Sam, and some messed up thoughts. I wrote this after the second (?either that or the first?) aired, so this is before they went their own separate ways for a few episodes.
Before, he could never understand. After all the relentless suffering and struggling they were finally closing in on the kill—closing in on Lilith—and Dean had looked at him with sheer apathy. Dean had said he was "tired." Of all the times he could've been indifferent, he chose the eve of the Winchester's revenge, and Sam did not understand. He tried, and tried, and tried to make Dean want vengeance, but Dean was "tired." Dean was "done," and he could not understand why. He'd snapped back with: "Well, get angry!" but his brother's hurt eyes just gazed away from him and onto the road beyond the windshield. They never spoke of it again. Back then, no matter how hard he tried, Sam couldn't understand why Dean didn't care, why revenge had lost its meaning in Hell. But now he did. The Apocalypse was here. Demons were everywhere. It was just like Ruby had said; people were dying, boatloads of people. And he was tired of saving them.
Matters were in his hands more than they'd ever been, yet he couldn't care less. He was "done" helping people, "tired" of protecting them. The only thing that held any meaning to his beaten, twisted soul was forgiveness, to look at his brother without that strangely aloof fury cast down on him. He wanted Dean to love him again. They used to be in it together, but things were different; now he was a "monster." And Dean had told him, no readable guilt or regret present in his voice, that things would never be the same. He was being torn in ways he never imagined possible. Never the same again.
Yes, he lied to Dean, yes he didn't listen, yes he was told time and time again that what he was doing was wrong, and yet he continued going down the dangerous, slippery, "dark side" slope, and yes he'd broken the last seal because of it. But what every single speech declaring all of those horrid things seemed to neglect was that Dean had broken the first. If he so desired, he could trace the blame back even farther than that. It was merely a question of how far back to go—had it started because of Dean's unhealthy obsession with keeping his brother safe? Because he had to compensate for that rushing feeling of worthlessness, had to fulfill it with some sort of purpose, which in this case was protecting Sam? It was his fault he'd made the damn deal. One year and one year only, the crossroads demon told him, with a smirk. As if that wasn't enough to indicate that something twisted was going on in her head. Or had it started when the Winchester's simply couldn't find a way out? When he was dragged into the pit, screaming and begging to stay? That tore Sam a new one, seeing his brother ripped apart with no Trickster to bring him back in time and fix it all. Or perhaps it started when Dean broke. When he finally carved into that weeping bitch and found tremendous comfort in her misery. As he breaks, so shall it break, Alastair had said. And he offered no denial as he pretended to be strong—for pride's sake.
Really, it didn't matter how long the timeline was, how early it started; Dean had broken the first seal and Sam had broken the last. The Winchester's fucked the whole world to hell. Because both of the deepening pits in their hearts craved to be special, craved respectability and self-worth. The childhood insecurities had stayed with them until the very moment each of them broke their respective seals. Coincidentally, Dean broke his first.
The whole hell on earth ordeal could technically fall all the way back to John Winchester's faults in raising his children—if he didn't raise them to feel such inadequacies, Lucifer would still be sitting patient in his cage. But Sam was so intensely sick of playing the blame game; he never wanted to think again. He was sorry for letting Heaven and Hell use him like a goddamn chess piece, and he was aware there was no way to justify it. All he really wanted was for Dean to care that he was sorry. He just wanted to run away from this ridiculous mess and revel in slow-paced silence with his brother. Alone. No ghosts, no tulpas, no shapeshifters, no people. Sitting on clouds and playing friggin' harps, with no care in the world. Absolute peace. Maybe dear ol' Daddy could join the party and tell them what they wanted to hear—that none of it was their faults. Better yet, that none of it mattered now, because life on Earth was behind them. They had clouds more comfortable than beds and peace in abundance.
Hell, they could bathe in a river of blood on that infinite stretch of lonely white. Dean could torture his precious souls until the guilt morphed to insanity. And Sam, he could drink as much demon blood as he wanted. Let it ripple over every inch of his body and inhale it with no one telling him he was wrong. They could switch roles—stop being heroes and start bringing the goddamn pain. To be the ultimate weapons amidst the air that tasted of blood and corpses, wading thigh deep. On the torture rack above gallons and gallons of rushing, deep red blood that pours from above as if it were the new Niagara Falls. Red mist that sticks to their bare bodies as Sam tightens the cuffs and the blindfold over his brother's madly smiling face. They can be crazy. They're allowed their corrupted minds. Because corrupted minds are creative minds, and creative minds corrupt. Demons writhe below them as he pokes and prods with uncanny force. Power. Mirror shards float through the blood and slice through those who are drowning—killing them with their own shattered reflections. Power. Gurgling screams act as pleasant 50's tunes being broadcast over a broken record player as Dean bites his excited yells. Power. Thick muscles wrap around him as Sam gives it to him with full, filthy, demonic strength. Power, power, power, pulses through him, the replacement for his spoiled heartbeat.
But that was just a daydream.
In reality, Dean was recovering from what had happened in Hell and was becoming his normal self again. If he still lusted after that wave of pleasure he got whilst cutting the knife as deep as it could go, Sam wasn't sure. He just knew he wasn't getting better. He was getting worse. Weaker. After all, he just didn't care anymore. He wanted out. Sam Winchester was "tired." Sam Winchester was "done." And there was no way to change that.