You. Yeah, you. I see you over there. You probably thought I'd never update again, didn't ya? Well, shame on you. No, but seriously, I am sooo sorry for the long overdue chapter. I've been working fifteen hours a day, so updating any sooner was pretty much out of the question. I'm finally getting a break, so the updates will hopefully be a little more frequent. The only thing I've had time for since the last chapter was Guardians of the Galaxy and let me tell you . . . if you haven't seen it, you're missing out on one of the greatest movies of all time, my friend. Anyway, enjoy this chapter (still trying to decide if I like it or not) and I hope to see you all again real soon. Until next time! :)
Crack!
Sam bolted upright at the loud peal of thunder rattling the floorboards. Looking outside of Dean's bedroom window, he could see that the sun from earlier was nothing more than a distant memory, replaced with a black sky so foreboding, he wouldn't be surprised if it suddenly decided to snatch him up and swallow him whole.
Regaining consciousness, Sam looked around at the dissarayed state of his surroundings, eyebrows furrowing when he felt something sticky clinging to his skin.
Dirty boy.
The entire room suddenly felt too stifling. There he was, in his brother's bedroom, covered in his own come and worrying about the flash of lightning pouring down from the heavens like a sign from God, signifying divine knowledge of Sam's indiscretions. It was a horrible moment of self-awareness made fuzzy by a numb mind; understanding the situation, but having no feeling about it whatsoever. It would have scared Sam, had he been able to experience any sort of emotion for what he'd done. It was like the familiar guilt was gone, and the world suddenly felt empty without it.
Maybe he was becoming broken . . .
Another clap from the clouds jogged Sam out of his thoughts, bringing back the recollection of a certain jeep parked in Bobby's driveway. Getting out of bed, he walked up to the window and pulled the curtain out of the way, trying to get a glimpse of the ground being pummeled by the pouring rain. Finding nothing, he threw his brother's pants on-didn't I put those on before I fell asleep?-and tried to ignore the sinister creak of Dean's bedroom door as he slowly pushed it open, taking cautious steps into the dark hallway leading to the staircase.
A bright, yellow light filtered through the house, illuminating the silhouette of his brother's leather jacket hanging by a hook on Bobby's coat rack. Beyond that was the old man's room, shrouded in darkness that even the menacing streaks of lightning couldn't penetrate. Not being able to see inside there unnerved Sam, but he continued on until he reached the stairs, trying to ignore the nauseating feeling that he was not alone in the house.
The trip downstairs felt like an eternity, but he somehow managed to make it to the bottom in one piece without breaking his goddamn neck. Irritation spread from his head to his spine, stiffening his posture like wound up guitar strings and tightening his bones until his imagination could hear them cracking under the pressure. Maybe if he was lucky, it would be a monster and he could end its miserable existence while relieving some of this tension; kill two birds with one stone and then head on back to his own bedroom and call it a night.
Yes, that sounded very appealing. Too bad he was a Winchester. They never got lucky like that.
Making his way to the kitchen, Sam shifted through the cupboards until he found the bag of salt Bobby kept by the other condiments in the pantry. Smirking at the hidden compartment tucked away beneath the bottom shelf, he grabbed a knife and a gun filled with salt rounds from a long, black box with a lock that only Sam and Dean knew the combination to, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all. He couldn't help but think that if he were raised the way children should be raised, he'd probably be all the way up to the top of the food chain by now, laughing it up with high school buddies while looking in to the best colleges money could buy. His mind would be filled with fond memories that consisted of family taking care of one another in a way that didn't resemble bloodshed, and he'd finally be able to date someone without worrying about having his older brother fly off the handle and into the frying pan, his own jealous anger scorching his skin while burning Sam's in the process.
Why the hell couldn't he just be happy? It always seemed as if there was something getting in the way of his satisfaction, didn't it? With everything that went on between John, Dean, and himself, Sam couldn't help but think that maybe the real villain in his unique situation was circumstance. John wouldn't have ended up the way he did if it wasn't for his father's bullshit or Mary's death, Dean wouldn't have ended up the way he did if it weren't for the fact that he was thrust into the role of daddy for Sam before he'd even learned how to piss without staining the floor underneath the toilet yellow, and Sam wouldn't have ended up the way he did if it wasn't for . . . well, any of it. Destiny and fate took everything their family could have made of themselves and twisted it around, making it something dirty and wrong. Evil spewed its filth all over the Winchester name because of events that destiny had in store for them, washing the crimson tide over their island until they drowned in their own blood.
What if they were never meant to be happy? Sam had often pondered the possibility of life's imperfections, cracks in the system that allowed the bad people to roam free while the good ones were doled out harsh punishments that should have belonged to the sinners alone. Maybe that was the cosmic joke of life. Maybe God just hated The Winchesters. Whatever the reason, he was beginning to question everything to the point of exhaustion. So much so, that he was starting to feel as if everything he'd been through up until this exact moment was meaningless. He'd thought that his suffering was supposed to be a stepping stone leading up to something greater than himself, a faraway place where the pain he endured at the hands of his family transformed him from a scared little boy into a well-adjusted young man with a bright future ahead of him. Apparently, everything he'd told himself was a lie. He'd only given himself an illusion, lulling himself into a false sense of security to cope with the mind numbing depression he just couldn't seem to shake off. It was a sad truth, but one that Sam was grateful for, because he finally felt like he could stop lying to himself. He may not be able to break free of certain emotions, but at least he could break free from deception. That, in and of itself, was a victory he could live with.
Distancing himself from his thoughts, Sam walked back upstairs with the vigilance of a hunter, scanning the dark rooms for any signs of life that wasn't his own. The sights and sounds of the storm ceased for the moment, eerie calm inhabiting Sam's senses while a dark omen showed itself to him in a taunting fashion, promising sweet pain. The young boy couldn't help but shiver in dreaded anticipation at what he knew in his gut to be an intruder. He knew the person existed, but where were they?
He retraced his steps and headed back to Dean's bedroom, gulping hard at the thought of someone watching him sleep. What if they'd been there the entire time, hiding in the shadows? They could have been waiting until he woke up to play a sick game with him. Any sadistic psychopath would be thrilled to get a Winchester alone if they were supernatural, but Sam wasn't getting that kind of vibe from his predator. No, this person had to be human.
But who would want to break into Bobby's house? As far as he knew, Sam didn't have any enemies that existed outside of school. Could it be one of the neighbors? Maybe they heard the gossip about his family and wanted to exact revenge on the people housing Virginia's "killer." Maybe it was Dean they really wanted.
That posed another question, didn't it? Where in the hell were Bobby, Dean, and John? Images of their lifeless corpses stacked high in some hidden part of the house tried to ease their way into Sam's psyche, but he quickly slammed the barrier between his head and his heart so the negativity surrounding his imagination couldn't distract him from defending himself. Burden or no burden, Sam couldn't stand the thought of anything happening to his big brother.
Sighing internally, Sam wiped Dean from his brain and reached a hand out toward the light switch. Flicking it up, he frowned when the action didn't bring the result he was looking for.
Weird. The storm must have cut the power out. Figures.
"Fuck it," he mumbled, throwing the gun he'd been holding on Dean's dresser drawer. "I give up."
Just as he was about to declare himself insane and head to his own bedroom, the atmosphere in the house suddenly shifted. Thick with evil, the air hung heavy in the tiny bedroom, making it increasingly hard for Sam to breathe. His entire body stiffened, senses going on red alert as a sound bounced off the walls and into his ears, silencing the blood pumping through him with one little creak of the closet door behind him.
Sam slowly turned around, gasping slightly when he saw the door opening little by little, wider and wider, revealing the soul sucking mouth of a dark abyss ready to swallow his very existence. His entire form began to shake with fear, frowning eyebrows raising to accommodate wide, hazel eyes that stared into the darkness with growing trepidation.
When the last of the squeaks created by the door dissipated, everything went completely still. Lightning flashed without the added sound of the booming thunder, mimicking the lack of noise that accompanied Sam's soundless, jagged breathing. As he stared into the abyss, he began to realize that, as cliché as it sounded, the blinding darkness was staring back, watching him with black, lifeless eyes that seemed to peer into his very soul.
There's someone in there.
Everything he'd ever learned about being a hunter failed him as fright overpowered his bones, keeping his feet glued to the floor. The hooded figure in the doorway, illuminated by the bright light of the storm, seemed to be getting closer, and it was only after careful observation that Sam noticed the man-yes, it was most certainly a man-stepping languidly out of the closet. Big, black boots made the floorboards underneath them groan in protest as they closed the gap between Sam and their dreadful owner.
I'm gonna die here, aren't I?
The cloaked man stopped dead in his tracks as he unknowingly jolted Sam out of his reverie, tilting his head to the side. Just then, a flash of light from outside shined down on his pockets, revealing the tip of a shiny blade the man kept encased inside his gloved hand.
Feeling like he needed to speak, Sam managed to stutter out, "W-who are you?"
The man chuckled darkly, something the boy wasn't expecting. The fist tightened around the weapon in his hand, and, before he knew it, Sam was ducking as his enemy darted forward, thwarting the man's chance to plunge his knife in the boy's heart. Sam immediately used his feet to sweep the attacker's legs out from under him, resulting in the man's less than gracious fall to the hardwood floor. Thinking that was a chance to escape, Sam attempted to run, but cried out in pain when teeth penetrated the skin surrounding his ankles, making him kick the man in the face with his foot.
He vaguely registered the guy absent-mindedly spitting his own blood on the floor in his haste to get out the door and out of the house. He ran as fast as his muscles would carry him, but he could sense the intruder on his heels, and it wasn't long before a hand reached out to grasp and pull on Sam's hair, leaving Sam's body to fall backwards until his back landed with a heavy thud on the concrete of Bobby's driveway.
Sam's eyes went in and out of focus as his demise leaned down to look at him, hood still blocking his face from the boy's view.
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," the man taunted. "You of all people should know better than to defy fate."
Raising his arms over his head, the killer took the knife and pierced Sam's chest, twisting and turning the blade until thick spurts of blood squirted out of the gaping hole, forming a pool of dark scarlet around the silver edges of the deadly dagger. Sam gasped, wrapping his fingers around the end as the life drained out of his body. He could hear his brother's voice clearly in his head, and not being able to tell his sibling how he really felt before he died created a pain worse than any wound he could endure at the hands of the psychopath staring down at him with evil eyes that sent shivers through Sam's core.
He could feel himself fading away, but he didn't want to go. He was too young to die, too important to his brother's survival to disappear now. He wanted to fight it, wanted to break free from death's firm grip, but it was no use, and as the end drew closer, the helplessness became too much to bear, making him scream his despair to the heavens, bellowing out the only name that would ever cross his mind, the syllables forever etched into his very soul.
"DEAN!"
If there was one thing Dean Winchester hated, it was coming home to a dark house. A dark house always meant something was wrong, and when he felt like something was wrong, his mind immediately went to his baby brother.
Sammy.
Being away from the reason for his very existence was . . . painful, to say the least, but he'd be a fool to say that it didn't have its advantages. Having Sam away from him gave him a bit of clarity on what was going on between them. It's a good thing too, because if Sam hadn't blown up on him and relinquished every single solid emotion he'd been feeling about what he'd supposedly gone through then Dean never would have been able to put two and two together when it came to the boy he loved more than anything else in the world. Sam's confession came at just the right time because he left the house soon after, leaving Dean behind to think about everything he'd said to him, and boy did it suck.
How Dean couldn't see what he was putting his brother through should have been a huge mystery to him, but the strange thing is that it wasn't. He'd always been blind when it came to that boy, and the obsession he felt for Sam overruled his senses, making him oblivious to the pain he was so obviously causing. He could blame his father for the way he was raised like he did before, he could blame his mother for dying and leaving him to raise Sam, or he could be the adult and take responsibility for his own actions. He'd deliberately waited until he thought Sam was old enough to accept his advances and he took advantage of his naïvety without even realizing it. He'd thought that Sam surely felt the same way that he did, but didn't have the kind of developed mind it took to express it. So, being the big brother that he was, he expressed it for him. He manipulated Sam, he confused Sam, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he'd molested him.
Molestation. Dean shuddered just thinking about it. As much as he didn't want to use that word to describe what he'd done to Sam, it seemed more than appropriate, didn't it? He didn't think he'd ever be able to come to that conclusion without Sam's confession or his absence. Thinking about everything now, Dean couldn't help but wonder if Sam's feelings for him-and he did have them, whether he wanted to admit it or not-were natural or artificial. Did Dean create those feelings by doing what he did, or was he right about his brother always wanting him? Maybe if he'd actually waited, Sam would have come to him on his own. God, if only that were true. If his dumb ass had just waited, they wouldn't be playing this game anymore where they stare at each other with suppressed desire. Sam would be home . . . in Dean's bed.
Dean looked down at his pants in disgust. He should have known it would only be a matter of time before he sprouted a boner. After all, his entire thought process has been centered around Sam for the past forty minutes. So much so, that he didn't even realize he'd taken a shower, brushed his teeth, and shaved the faint trace of stubble he'd grown since his brother left. That kid really did a number on him, didn't he?
Exhaling slowly, Dean made his way to the bedroom, determined to will away his erection and go to bed. Halfway down the hall, he stopped dead in his tracks, confused by the door blocking his room from view, a door he didn't remember closing before he left.
What the hell?
A scream suddenly filtered through the wood and penetrated Dean's soul, the sound sending ripples of fear down his stiff back.
Sam.
Dean went into protective big brother mode before he could blink, the urge to keep Sam safe sending him sprawling into the bedroom with murder in his eyes.
He was prepared for so much. He was ready to snarl, fight, break someone's bones until they begged for mercy, none of which he'd give if they'd been dumb enough to hurt the one thing he'd rather die than live without. What he wasn't prepared for was the sight that greeted him the moment his fight response diminished into full-blown awareness.
There was his baby brother, on his bed, looking so frightened, Dean could have killed whatever was responsible for putting that expression on Sam's sweet face. The boy's body was shaking violently, and his eyes were so wide, you'd think he'd just seen a ghost.
"Sammy?" Dean asked carefully, resisting the urge to take his brother in his arms.
Sam jumped, glancing at Dean in horror. After a moment, he seemed to register his brother's presence and put his face in his hands, trying to control his uneven breathing.
Unable to fight it any longer, Dean rushed to Sam's side and wrapped himself around him, gasping in shock in when the kid hugged him back and buried his face in Dean's shoulder. While Dean tried his best to bring Sam down from his nightmare, everything came tumbling down in an emotional flood and the boy began to cry, clear liquid falling from his face in salty streaks of pent-up anguish.
Time seemed to stand still as both brothers held on to each other as if any second the other would vanish in a puff of smoke. Dean could feel himself falling into the role his father had always forced him to play, providing Sam with an anchor with which to keep him glued to the floor. It was such a bittersweet moment that Dean couldn't decide whether he was relieved, disappointed . . . or just plain scared.
Poor kid. Hasn't he been through enough?
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean whispered, making Sam sob harder. "Shh. I got ya, buddy. I've always got you."
"I hate you, Dean," Sam whispered.
Dean's face contorted in agony, squeezing Sam tighter in response.
Dean reckoned Sam cried for about an entire hour on his big brother's shoulder, but each second was well worth the wait it took Dean to get him back. He knew being away from Sam was the best thing for him, but having the kid back in his arms was once again wreaking havoc on his brain cells. His guilt was slowly fading away, leaving behind a burning ache for Sam that sank into every bone in his sex-starved body. The idea that he was beginning to feel the way he did when he first came back was what inevitably made him push himself away from Sam as if to shield his baby from his desires, refusing to allow them to ruin the relationship he felt like he was just starting to rebuild with Sam after too many years of being apart.
He thought he'd done good. Apparently, Sam disagreed-or at least the punch to Dean's face made him believe that he did.
So much for brotherly love.
Dean stumbled backward and cupped his nose in the palm of his hand, brows knitting tightly together. "What the fuck, Sam?!"
Sam stood up with the posture of a soldier going into battle, face darkening in anger.
"Why?" he asked quietly.
Dean just stared at him in confusion.
"Why the fuck do I care about what happens to you after everything you've put me through? Why do I love someone I hate? Why does the very thought of you send me into a fucking frenzy?"
Dean clenched his fists as he walked toward Sam, his own rage thickening the air around them. "Because we're fuckin' crazy for each other, Sam. Because as much as you hate me for all the things I've done, you can't fucking deny that the feelings I have for you are mutual. I'm not the only one who feels this burning fire in my body for my own brother. You feel it too. I know you do."
"I don't feel shit for you."
Dean smirked bitterly. "That's a fucking lie and you know it."
"I know it's a lie. It's a lie and I fucking hate you for it, because I wish it was the truth!" Sam spat. "I hate that I love you, Dean. I hate what you do to me. I hate how you can brutally annihilate the loathing I've spent four years building in my heart for you and replace it with a toxic love that pumps poison through my body like a fucking disease. I hate that I can love you, but hate myself for everything that's happened to me. You've turned my entire world upside down and yet I still can't get through a single moment of the bullshit you've inflicted upon me without you by my side. You're my disease and my cure, my curse and my salvation. You're too many things all at once, Dean. You're sending me on the path to damnation and the only one that can save me is you! It makes no fucking sense! Why can't you just let me go, Dean? Huh? Just let me fucking go!"
"I can't!" Dean shouted. He strode over to where his younger brother stood glaring at him and put his forehead right up against Sam's, grasping his hips and backing him up hard against the wall. The silence that followed was brief, each boy staring at the other in anger. "Don't you think I've tried, Sam? To forget about you, put you out of my mind? You think I like having these feelings for you? I want you so fucking badly, Sam."
Sam laughed humorlessly. "Then why don't you just take what you want?"
"Because you don't want me to."
"That's never stopped you before."
Dean's breathed hitched. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I wish I could just get the words out and tell you everything I've bottled up inside, but I can't. I'm not strong like you. I just . . . I just want to make things right with you. Give me a chance to prove myself. Whatever it is you think I've done, whatever mistakes I've made, I know I can make it better. You've just got to give me a chance, Sammy. Please, give me a chance."
Dean could see the wheels turning in his baby brother's head, but the direction was hidden from his sight. He couldn't tell if he was getting to Sam or making him angrier. Damn kid was so fucking stubborn that trying to talk sense into him when he got heated like this was like trying to stop a bullet after leaving a gun.
"Sam, I-"
Dean cut himself off, eyes glancing downwards.
Sam had his pants on. Why did Sam have his pants on? Suddenly, the questions he started asking himself led to more before he could stop them, each one firing rapidly from his mind in quick succession.
Why is Sam in my room?
Why is Sam in my bed?
Is that come on my sheets?
Why didn't I notice any of this before?
Dean was sure Sam could see the pensive look on his face, because the boy suddenly stiffened in his arms as if he'd just realized what Dean was now seeing. Lust bubbled up inside Dean's chest, trickling down to his cock. A tiny sigh escaped his lips as he looked back at his trembling brother, sigh turning into a moan when his yearning reflected back at him through hazel eyes that glistened invitingly under the light of the moon. Sam's breath caught in his throat, and hazel clashed with emerald in a silent battle of wills that ended with Dean moving closer, giving Sam's mouth a hesitant lick. The action made Sam whimper, and that sound was like music to Dean's ears. Without even thinking, Dean slowly brought his lips to Sam's, groaning in relief at regaining what he'd been deprived of for four goddamn years.
The slow, sensual kiss he thought he could pull off didn't last very long, all of that burning and yearning causing the pace to quicken into a fevered frenzy that had Dean sucking savagely on his little brother's tongue, wickedly basking in the fact that his precious boy had gotten sweeter with age.
"God, Sam," Dean growled. "You taste so fuckin' good. I could kiss that mouth for hours."
Sam groaned, the noise going straight to Dean's cock. He couldn't take it anymore. All those years of being away, then coming back and having to keep his distance when all he wanted to do was ravish the young man his brother had become was too much. He wanted Sam and he was going to have him . . . now.
Lifting Sam up until he sat on the small dresser, Dean ripped open one of the drawers and took out a bottle of lube, shoving his pants down Sam's thighs and squeezing the contents on the boy's cock. Throwing the container on the floor, he immediately grasped the hard member in his hand, mouth watering at the sight of it. Sam's groan got louder, nails dragging down Dean's bare back hard enough to leave marks.
"Fuck, baby. God, look at that prick. All those years away from each other and I still know what that dick likes."
Sam's body began to tremble from his brother's voice, fingers creating bruises in Dean's shoulders.
Dean whispered filthy words in Sam's ears so quickly he could barely understand them, the need to make the boy climax short circuiting his brain.
"Deeean," Sam whined quietly, sounding so innocent and needy it took Dean's breath away. "Dean, don't. Dean, stop."
"Fuck. Feels so nice when you moan for me, Sammy."
The more invested Dean became in pleasing his brother, the more sensual his movements became. Sam whimpers sent shivers up Dean's spine and, without a word, he fit himself snugly between Sam's legs, trying to get as close to the boy as possible. Grabbing Sam's hair, he pulled gently until Sam looked in his eyes, groaning when the lube squished obscenely in his fist.
"Sammy," Dean murmured, licking at Sam's lips, breathing in his open mouth. "I love you, Sammy."
Sam gasped, grasping Dean's shoulders. "Don't, De," he replied, looking so wounded, Dean massaged his dick harder, wanting to soothe all of Sam's pain away.
"Ooh," Sam moaned, clutching Dean closer.
Look at him, whimperin' so pretty, just like you knew he would. Always in control of him, aren't you? Feels so good, doesn't it? Don't stop. Don't ever stop. Not when it feels so right.
Do it for me, baby," Dean whispered seductively, spurred on by the sinful thoughts in his head. "Yeah, like that. Hmm, look at those sweet legs. Open up, honey. No, no, no, no. Don't be shy. Open up for me, baby boy. That's it, sugar. Now I can see that sweet little shaft. C'mon, now. Let me have it all, little boy. Give me what I want, sweetheart. Moan for me, Sammy baby. Hmm, like that. Feels so good, huh? C'mon, just let it out. Come for big brother."
Sam screamed in ecstasy, coming in thick spurts all over Dean's skin. "Dean!"
"Oh, yeah," Dean moaned, watching Sam's seed spill from his aching slit. "Fuck, yeah."
Dean rubbed Sam good, squeezing out as much of his brother's come as he could. When the last of his aftershocks faded, Sam slumped against Dean's body, shaking as the older boy's hand continued to stroke every inch of his spent cock.
Dean kissed Sam's neck. "My sweet boy. You always came so nice for me, baby. Can't wait 'til I get you in my bed. Don't you worry, Sammy. De's gonna give you what you need."
God, holding on to Sam felt so good. None of his earlier thoughts seemed to matter anymore. After having this again, Dean knew for certain this time that there was no going back. He wanted Sam, and he was going to make damn sure that his father could never take the boy away from him ever again.
Sam's body started to feel different somehow; harder. Dean ignored it, so busy running kisses up his little brother's cheek that he didn't even register the boy pushing him away until the warmth of him faded into nothing, leaving behind a pain so severe, it was a wonder Dean didn't collapse from the force of it.
Sam got off the dresser and stared at Dean, terror transforming his features into an ugly grimace. The look on his face scared Dean, scared him so much that the fright turned his bones into jelly, making him unable to move.
Sam was thinking. Dean hated it when Sam thought. It only ever meant one thing.
Trouble.
"No," Dean warned. "Don't you do this to me, Sam. Don't you dare do this to me."
Tears started to well up in the boy's eyes as they darted nervously around the room, awareness replacing the lust Dean had just seen a minute ago. Dean's immobility gave Sam the chance he was so desperately seeking, and he darted out of the room faster than Dean ever thought possible, tripping over his big brother's pants while trying to pull them back up.
Willing himself to move forward, Dean finally managed to run after him, but it was no use. By the time he barged through the front door, Sam was gone.
"Sam! Sam, come back! Please, come back! I promise I won't ever do it again. Just come back! Sammy!"
No answer.
Dean fell to his knees and put his head in his hands, feeling like the biggest fool.
"Idiot. I'm such a fucking idiot."
It wasn't until later, when Bobby found him on the doorstep that he even realized he'd been crying.
