Title: His Brother, His God, His Own.
Fandom: Pairing: Supernatural: Evil!Dean/Demon!Sam
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and sexual content
Words: 780 words
Spoilers: Non-specific references to events in S4
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or grammar goof, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: Incest, graphic violence, evil dudes having fun, secondary character death
Summary: That which is heard cannot be unheard
Notes: Written for a prompt found at comment_fic. The prompt was by katbcoll - SPN, Evil!Dean/Demon!Sam, Magically delicious. I hope I didn't disappoint. The first story written in the Medlar!verse.
The opening line was spoken by YED in 2x22 - All Hell Breaks Loose.
”How certain are you that what you brought back is one hundred percent pure Sam?”
That which is heard cannot be unheard, though Dean does give it his best shot. He tries to forget, to ignore the doubts, but he can’t stop watching Sam from the corner of his eye. Can’t stop comparing this Sammy to the boy he grew up with, to the last time - the only time - he was possessed. By a girl. Heh.
There’s nothing there, or at least nothing that can’t be explained by other means. Sam lets him get away with a lot of hinky shit these days; lets him play the ‘Dude, I’m gonna die soon,’ card, without a single complaint. Hell, more than once it’s been Sam’s idea to slow down for a little R&R; his idea to play voyeur to Dean’s eager exhibitionist, the girl of the moment the unwitting star of their odd, twisted little play.
The closer it gets to the day of reckoning, the more reckless Dean gets, and Sam just smiles and fails and fails and fails again to drag a deal-defying Hail Mary from his magic bag of research tricks.
If Dean didn’t know - believe - better, he’d think Sam wasn’t really trying all that hard to keep him out of Hell. He has faith right to the end, until the Hell Hounds are playing tug-o-war with his intestines.
The last thing he sees is the satisfied smirk on Sam’s black-eyed face.
It still takes the best and the brightest – the worst and the darkest – almost forty years of the sickest shit the Pit has to offer to get him broken to Sam’s specifications. And then Sam brings him back.
Sam calls his army together in the Badlands; dispenses orders, death and duty with an iron will. Dean is always at his side – faithful second, loyal brother, the sweetest fuck.
Dissent is whispered in the ranks about Dean’s meteoric, nepotistic rise to power at the end of Sam’s dick, but not for long. Dean shares his teachings from the Pit with those who doubted, embellishing with tricks his daddy taught him, the Winchester way. He’s a natural, and he glories in his play – it’s too much fun to call it work. He knows exactly how to keep a demon trapped inside its meat suit, enduring tortures of the damned they thought they’d left behind.
When sheets of skin and clumps of viscera are strung from stunted trees, and chunks of flesh are painting rusty smears on pale, striated rock – when Sam has let Dean know he’s satisfied – Dean stops.
He slouches back to Sam, dark eyes locked on his, fingers tipped with gore he licks off slowly as he moves, all flickering tongue and hollowed cheeks as he fellates them in a silent open promise to his brother, his god, his own.
Once they’re standing toe to toe, he drops, graceful, to his knees, mouthing Sam’s iron-hard erection through the butter-soft denim of his painted-on one thousand dollar ripped up jeans.
The army sees subservience but Sam knows better. He knows that Dean’s on his knees because he wants to be – because he can be – now he’s free of shame and guilt and human morals. Sam also knows that Dean can give as good as he can take – can fuck the blackness from Sam’s eyes when he wants to.
They try to bring Bobby over; let him know that he’s still a treasured member of the family, but he stands firm. Sam tells Dean to make it fast, and he’s dead before the first drop of blood hits the floor. An easy end. Other hunters needn’t hope for the same benevolence.
The salvage yard explodes in a tightly focused storm of sulphur yellow, sodium blue and blood-red pirouettes of living, dancing, greedy conflagration. Sam and Dean are on the edge of it, their skin turning tight and dry as they trade brutal kisses between cracked and bleeding lips. They watch the car shells turn to ash, to slag and noxious gas, and rut like dogs in the flickering smoke.
They’re healed again and on the move before sunrise, Impala purring with inhuman-tuned perfection. One of Sam’s most recent acolytes wears a meat suit that’s in charge of a water treatment plant out in Ohio. Sam’s had this freaky idea about an inverse blessing – sharing his taint with the water, fucking and bleeding it in – to see what happens when the locals lap it up.
Dean thinks he’s crazy, but the wet and wild sex and ritual bleeding sounds like fun. And it could work. The great apocalypse ain’t gonna start itself now, is it?
More of this 'verse can be found under the medlar!verse tag.