It's not my fault.
He used to tell himself this. As if it would make up for what he did– for what he was doing. He doesn't now, of course. Now he knows who he is, what he's supposed to be.
The Boy King.
He nearly laughed. Boy King was nowhere near what he truly was. He had a gift, a destiny even, and he didn't know why he didn't see it sooner. Why he had tried to deny it and hold it back. He can only think of one reason, and it brings a twisted snarl to his lips.
Dean.
For twenty four years he heard the same shit. The same sob story. About how family and blood were the only things that mattered. It makes him physically snarl as his hand curls around the edge of the arm rest painfully tight.
He was right about one thing though– the blood.
He can taste the power in it. It's warm and sweet as it flows down his chin and bare chest from the goblet. The thin black band around his head starts to glow it's angry red color and he feels like he could take Hell all over again.
The air is hot and thick and it burns his chest with every lungful. There's a wretched scent of sweat and blood and broken bones that swirls around in the humidity with every moan and scream of the souls at the bottom of his throne. He looks down upon them– upon his kingdom– with his bare body slick with blood and sweat. His jaw is clenched as he looks upon the hellish fire reflecting in his dark eyes.
He loves it.
At first he didn't know where Dean was. Even after he had slaughtered his way through Hell, climbing over the piles of bodies to sit on his throne, there were some who didn't believe the old prophecies.
He had slaughtered them too.
Needless to say, he found his brother eventually. He remembers the way Dean had looked at him when he grinned devlishly upon seeing him on The Rack. He would never forget the churn of satisfaction in his stomach.
He would never forget the first time he saw his brother get ripped apart in front of his eyes. His screams and begs and pleads until he was simply nothing. It was like music to his ears.
He personally thanked Alistair for that.
He would see how his brother became whole again. Like magic. He saw how creative Alistair started getting with his torturing. It made him jealous, to be quite honest.
So whenever Dean went off on his family bullshit, Sam was more than willing to step in and show him just how powerful the King really was.
At first it was simple things.
Like how he would take the longest, most jagged knife and shove it straight through Dean's stomach. The screams that ripped through his brother's throat when he started twisting were the best thing he'd ever heard in his life.
But then he started to take his time.
He would torture Dean as slow as physically possible. Savoring every scream and beg that fell from his lips as he sliced and ripped him apart. It fueled the adrenaline in his veins and the anger in his heart.
He made his brother pay for everything. For making him think he was normal. That he could go to school and have a girlfriend and be happy. That he could be a hunter when be belonged here.
He would snarl at his brother about how much he had fucked up. Through Dean's pleads and begs about how they were family. About how much he loved him and how much he knew his Sammy was in there somewhere and that he forgave him for everything.
He would laugh bitterly as he made his brother writhe and scream and pain with the knife in his hand. He would say how he was his Sammy. How he was finally himself for the very first time– that he was where he belonged.
Dean would sob and say that he didn't know what he was talking about. That this wasn't him and that he was his blood and please Sammy.
Sam would just shake his head and laugh so harshly, the foundation itself would shake. He watched his pathetic, barely conscious brother hanging in front of him and licked the bitter blood off his fingers.
He wasn't his brother's blood. He never was.
He was bad blood.