Set During: (Season 1 / Season 2)

I do not own Supernatural. I do own a very nice towel, although I left it at my Grandpa's.

I wake under the weight of him, all six feet two inches of Sam; my brother. His hand absentmindedly runs through my hair as I watch him sleep, feeling him rise and fall on my chest. And his morning erection presses against me and I have to get out.

I slip from him, leaving his hand to ghost across the pillow; his body to mould to the mattress, and remove myself to the bathroom.

I do not dare face my reflection in the mirror, instead stepping straight into the cracked bathtub, one that has probably seen a thousand mornings of regrets, and pull the handle to the shower. I turn it until it is so hot my skin flushes red in front of me; until it begins to scour off the offending cells I cannot have attached to me – the cells which defied all logic or reason.

When this is no longer enough, I grab the sponge and scratch every inch of my skin with its touch. I bleed.

There is a cold draught behind me and I know he is there. He practically jumps in under the stream, grabbing the bloody mass and flinging it across the room. He slams me against the tiles with his body and turns off the water with one hand. He leans forward and rests his head on my shoulder; his hands flat on the wall behind me. I don't like to look at him.

The t-shirt and shorts he must have pulled on are now soaked through – the white material of the first now freckled with my blood. With my betrayal.

I shouldn't have I begin. But he closes my mouth with his and then proceeds to trail kisses along my jaw and down my neck, all the time weeping don't say that don't say that and his tears mingle with the water on my skin and lay there like scars.

I run one hand over the back of him, feeling the muscles ripple across his shoulders as the material clings to his flesh.

He takes over, pulling the shirt over his head and kicking his boxers to the floor, until he is standing naked for me – until we are naked together. And he wraps a towel around us, any protests I may have had are silenced by the touch of his skin; by his penis resting hard on the pit of my stomach.

He traces every part of me with the towel in his hands, and then lets me watch as he mimics the same action on himself. Finally he pulls me into the bedroom and we fall back onto the mattress, stained with the memory of us, and slips the covers up to shelter us from the cold.

With one hand he runs over the lines on my face and, snuggling up against me, uses the other to follow the line of my hips; to get lost within the intimacies of my pubic hair.

I pull him to me; kissing his soft lips and touching his secrets. And although I feel like his abuser I cannot stop. Because he is, and always has been my Sammy.

Because I can deny him nothing.