Disclaimer: Nothing mine. A.N. This month I'm being self-indulgent again (birthday's coming up) so... Wincest Wednesdays for me. I'm having fun, and I hope you will too. And yes, I know, I am giving a sorta weird interpretation and am capable of angsting the most cheerful prompts, but I too show love by torturing all my friends. Enjoy. :D

Winchester-dumb

It used to piss Sam off to no end...the knowledge that, no matter what he did, or how much effort he put into it, he'd be judged and found wanting. Then again, back then, he hoped. There had to be an error somewhere, right? It wasn't him.

He was just being measured with completely fucked up criteria. After all, he earned the teacher's pet status in a week. If his life had been at least vaguely normal, they'd be happy with him. It was just his misfortune, having Richard Lionheart instead of an average parent...and being enrolled in the Crusade from birth. It was unfair, he hadn't asked for it, and he wanted out. And the deepest mystery of the universe was how Dean didn't.

Never mind that his brother was good in all the ways Sam would probably never be. Sam was pretty sure Dean hadn't asked to sign up for dad's crusade, either (he was a toddler, for God's sake), so why didn't he see he deserved a life, didn't see he could be anything he put his mind to – an engineer, or an Olympic champion, or a goddamn professor if he so chose, because Dean was smart, he was a legit genius. He just didn't let himself think past dad's orders, and damn, sometimes Sam wanted to take John down just to free Dean – to free the both of them.

That little kid had so many plans, so much hope. Then he grew up, and had to face reality. Eventually that reality was demon blood, Lucifer's intended vessel, and – well, the list of his fuck ups is extensive, unforgivable and outlandish. When Sam is wrong, he's wrong in universe-breaking ways. He can't be bothered with common human things like crashing the car without demons involved...though Dean would probably consider it at least half as severe as unleashing Lucifer if he did.

Much earlier, though, the truth was...actually, just as terrible. No matter how many excuses he tried to fabricate for it, there was no denying it, not to himself. He was in love with his big brother. Wanted Dean in all the ways he didn't have him yet. Could never have him.

So, yeah, he ran. He ran, and kept running...and kept going back, too. Every time. It was the only way to hold onto at least a shred of sanity. Dean-free, and he promised himself he'd get it out of his system, he'd set his head straight, he'd – something. But then big brother caught up with him, and it didn't matter that Sam was clearly still twisted. He couldn't have stayed away anymore than he could have stopped his cellular activity. Besides, Dean wanted him...not in the same way, of course, but it was obvious that it wasn't entirely obligation that made his big brother seek him out. And hurting him by refusing simply because Sam was a freak? Now that wouldn't be fair, would it? Wouldn't be right.

Sam couldn't stop his thoughts, his feelings, couldn't stop...being what he was (a monster) but he could control what he did. That had to count for something, right? Half points at least?

The worst is the sheer relief when the other issue comes to light. It's not his fault. It had to be the demon blood. Contaminated. Impure. But at least, it's not him. If Azazel had kept his fucking hands off him, Dean would have the brother he deserved. One whose eyes didn't want to stray. Who didn't pretend to sleep in order to eavesdrop, yearning for the softest of moans, a hitched breath...

Born to be the embodiment of Evil. That explained things.

Or not. Lucifer had made his point very, very clearly. He didn't appreciate being blamed for Sam's own twisted nature. He was possessive of Michael's attentions, of his time, sure. Hated that his big brother would pick dad's side and never just fucking listen to him. But he didn't want to ride Michael. Michael didn't even have anything to ride – not until he boarded Adam, at least. No, Sam was a disgusting, filthy incestuous whore all by his own self, and he'd take responsibility for it.

So, at some point...he stops. Arguing, at least. Oh, he doesn't stop being angry about it, the bone-deep, cruel unfairness of it all. He doesn't stop being a monster, because there's no way to get away from it, his rotten core. But if other people (angels, monsters, insert living creature of your choice) hate him, or despise him? Par for the course. Actually, less than his due most of the time. Only the few that manage to ride him, or make a psychic connection, or something equally as terrifying know the full extent of his foulness.

Most don't know the half of it. So, really, in the grand scheme of things, does it matter if Sam's hated, hurt, tortured, or – escalate at your pleasure? He deserves that. He deserves worse (always worse, no matter what).

Then, one day, every nightmare he's ever had suddenly becomes real. Even soulless him had enough sense to shut up, to behave, but then – Sam should have known better, really. But they weren't sure about what kind of nasty might have been behind the murders du jour, Dean never liked handling weepy relatives if there was anything else he could reasonably be doing, and it hadn't even openly attacked. No, it had offered him a coffee, with the snotty face of a bereaved sister, and Sam had been knocked out cold before he could wonder what the fuck was in it. Drugs. Damn him.

He wakes up in a sewer (again), chained up (no rope this time, guess he's grown up and the monster thought better), and so, so terrified, because if Dean doesn't realize it, if the shifter kills his brother because he has his guard down with Sam...Well, he'll have to find a way to resurrect him (again), but what does it mean for them? Should Dean stop trusting him entirely to avoid a repeat? (Not like it'd be a bad idea, maybe. Dean shouldn't trust him. Dean should hate him. If he only knew, he would.)

He hates being helpless, hates not being able to do anything but wait (no way to pick a lock trussed up like this), hates that his brain turns on itself like the vicious thing it is. But then Dean's there, and Sam breathes, because he can't not. He can't trust any face right now. Still.

"You should be more careful," Dean huffs, and he's right of course. He always is, when it's about should.
"Yeah, yeah." Sam will take his dressing down. Preferably outside, though.

"I mean, that stupid shifter wasn't a very good mimic, was it? Aren't they supposed to have a connection of some sort with the ones they borrow from?" Dean's picking at the cuffs. He didn't bother to search the shifter's body before bolting, of course not, not when he realized his little brother had been taken. "The idiot came onto me."

And Sam has his excuse already served, the shifter was beyond dumb, the connection was faulty, or both, but his brain shortcircuits. The shifter did – and the cat's out of the bag, or at least peeking, and everything he's held back for decades...what's the point? Holding on? He deserves to be destroyed, just like the other monster.

"Sorry." It's almost a whimper, and Sam's head tilts aside, throat exposed, like he expects Dean to cut it. Rip it open with his teeth, maybe. Dying in a sewer suits him. His brother won't even need to worry about disposal, can just leave his carcass with the rest of the garbage. Kill him, get out and have the longest shower of his life.

Instead, his brother stops cold, gives him a long, searching look, and then says, "The connection was working, huh?"

"Yeah." Barely a breath, but here it is. The full extent of his awfulness, out in the open.

Then there are hands on his nape, and he's tilted back, and Dean's kissing him. Only it's not Dean, it can't be Dean. Dean's dead, no question, because the shifter wouldn't be so stupid as to keep him alive, not when he's been in Sam's head and knows what his brother is capable of. It's all a game,the cruellest trick Sam's had played on him, trying to convince him he can have everything he's ever wanted before pulling the rug. Of course this Dean hasn't actually finished freeing him, but it doesn't matter, because Sam will kill him one way or another, soon...in a minute, though...just a minute of this. Even knowing full well... a minute, not any longer.

It's not even a minute, and the monster lets him go, a concerned, "Sammy?" that's so spot on it cracks his heart open. There's a thumb to his lips, and suddenly Sam realizes he's tasting salt – he's been crying, mourning Dean's loss, unconsciously, even while he tried to let himself have this one single thing. Christ, how pathetic can he get?

"Put me down." Oh. That pathetic, apparently. The monster takes a step back, looking for all the world the horrified Dean Winchester when Sam's earnest about what he deserves. "Put me down or I'll end you, I swear." He's tired, so tired, and the part of him that just wants to follow Dean is almost loud enough to drown the beast clamoring for revenge. For that kiss, the monster gets a choice.

"Baby boy..." Soft voice, a shake of his head, and not-Dean's back to working on the cuffs. Did he stumble on another suicidal monster? God, they suit each other so well.

Before Sam can swing at him, though, it keeps a hold of his wrists. "I know what you think, and if you're right, this is better, isn't it?" Dean (not Dean) presses the hilt of a silver blade into his hand (he knows his brother's favorite knife). "Just don't start by stabbing my chest. Check, Sam, dammit!"

Confused, Sam does. Always listen to big brother if you're not sure, and Dean's offering his arm, and what's the harm anyway?

No reaction. No reaction, but it can't be Dean. Different monster with mimic abilities then? He needs to research. What this is, how to kill it. In the meantime...

"Let's get out of here, Sammy." Sam nods, numb, and follows.

They're back at the motel, and there's the body. His own, or so it seems. For a second, it's so confusing that he wonders if he's a ghost. He'd have realized if the thing at his side killed him, right?

"I know, weird," his brother's voice says. "I wasn't going to waste time disposing of it before getting you back. You shower, I'll handle it."

Sam nods again. After hours in the sewers, a shower sounds like heaven. Still, instead of beelining for it, he kneels by the body. Tugs on one hand, and the thing comes clean off. He recognizes that – the texture, the sickening easiness it comes apart with. Shifter flesh, ready to be shed at a moment's notice.

"Freak," Dean says, but with a sort of indulgent fondness in his voice.

Sam doesn't answer, too busy thinking, The bathroom is tiny and the water lukewarm but it doesn't matter, he's washing himself mechanically, tossing around scenarios and calculating probabilities. There was a shifter – the shifter who took him – and he's dead. There was no hint at the crime scenes of an accomplice. And an accomplice with mimic abilities who was not another shifter at that... How would they have met? What aim could such an alliance have?

...But it had to have happened, right? Because if he didn't overcomplicate everything...then that was his brother in the other room. His brother who'd killed the shifter (likely), rushed to his rescue (duh), learned what Sam really wanted (God no)...and kissed him (nope). No, Dean didn't, Dean would never, Dean's good, Dean – will do anything to keep Sam. He crumples to his knees and stays like that, horror and fear weighing him down, please no please Dean wouldn't Dean hasn't – long past the water turns icy and -Lucifer wants the truth. He's going to extract it from his marrow if need be. He's sorry.

A sudden knock, and "Sammy? You drowned in there?"

He tries to answer, but his teeth are chattering, and then there's suddenly Dean, closing the shower, dragging him out, wrapping him up in too-small towels.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Dean's frowning, hands patting him in search of the problem.

Sam shakes his head, droplets flying everywhere, like a dog. "Why?" he manages to ask.

"Why what?" Dean sounds baffled. As if he's forgotten...Could it be possession?

Sam's hand goes to his own mouth.

"Ah." Not forgotten then. "I thought you'd changed your mind." Dean takes a step back, looks like he expects to be attacked.

"About?" Sam feels so dumb, but – he's never changed. Not about...this. Can't, no matter how harsh the lesson.

"Running from me. I know I'm sick, Sammy, but if you – wanted..."

"You're not sick," Sam retorts, shaking his head again. Dad and angels and anyone who's met him all agree. Dean's good. (Unlike him.)

His brother scoffs. "I know I'm great at denial, Sammy, but I'm not that great." A beat, and then, hesitant, "Isn't that what...everything has been about for the last, huh, fifteen odd years?"

"Walk me through it," Sam pleads. Because Dean might even be right – who knows, he often is – but he can't answer one way or another when nothing makes sense.

Dean grimaces, and it's obvious he'd rather stab himself with a rusted knife, but Sam pulls the puppy eyes, and finally he answers, voice clipped. "I'm a sick sonofabitch who wants his own baby brother. It churns your stomach, and off you run. Then I prove that I can keep a lid on it, and you come back. Let yourself forget it, I guess. Until next time I do something too obvious. I'm not always sure what, but I must have."

"No. No!" Maybe Sam shouldn't have yelled. But – he's not sure if he's more shocked by his brother's admission that his...sickness is reciprocated or by Dean blaming himself for Sam's flighty behavior. A breath, and he tries to get a handle on himself. "Never running from you. Running from what I wanted to do to you. You're...not lying, are you? Indulging me? Or-"

Dean laughs, sharp and loud. "Indulging? Like – like I'd admit that, or do, if I didn't really want you? Wanted you for way too damn long? Come on, Sam, stop joking. You knew. You had to know. Fucking Becky knows, and all her friends!"

Sam grimaces. "Don't remind me." Hadn't that been terrifying...that there were dozens, maybe hundreds (they are, after all, thankfully a niche series) that glanced at their life and somehow found his most shameful secret between the lines.

"There's only so many times a man can try to Romeo and Juliet before people start to cotton on," his brother replies, ending with a grin, "...which makes you Juliet, by the way."

Sam groans, and not because of the tease. He's used to that. "I'm an idiot." It had been staring him in the face, but he was too busy panicking because Dean was being suicidally reckless (again) every single time to wonder why. If asked, he'd probably blamed dad's assholery for Dean's lack of self-preservation. Molded to be insanely devoted to the cause, even when the cause happened to be "taking care of baby brother" as ordered. Which was...pretty insulting to Dean, actually.

"Well, you're my brother. The fangirls and I have just severely underrated your genetic dumbassery."

That startles a laugh out of Sam. "I'm good at hiding it."

"It's just us. You don't have to." Dean's voice dips lower, and Sam's mouth goes dry. He's seen his brother seduce more people than either of them care to count, and hated it venomously. He never thought that expertise could be turned on him. But Dean knows, and they share this twisted , all-encompassing feeling. Just like everything else. Running was never any use. He''s caught.

"De..." Barely a breath. A lifetime of want pouring into it.

Dean's hand on his cheek, Sam's eyelashes flutter. The kiss melts him to his core, but it's way too short. His protest is closer to a whine than he'd like to admit.

"I gotcha, baby boy. Let me take care of you." Dean's tugging him up. And Sam leaves the towels on the floor, following naked and almost dazed. This is happening. "Let me have you." There's a dark shadow in Dean's voice.

"Yeah." Sam barely manages to bite back the "please" that presses against his tongue. "Yours."
Dean wants him, in every way and then some. And Dean's good, no matter what he says. Maybe, even Sam isn't as abominable as he thought.