Archive of Our Own ^beta

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

--William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming

“I remember, Dean. There was a time I asked you to make sure and shoot me if I went evil. You promised. You made a promise to me. You’ve always kept your promises. You should have kept that one.”

Sam undoes his towel, letting it drop onto the floor as he slides into clean clothes, reveling in the heightened sense of feel he’s gained. It makes everything sharper, more bitter, more sweet. His body shivers a little as power courses through his veins. It makes the brush of cotton feel rougher. Rougher is what he needs.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” he says to the body tied up on the bed. “If only you’d had the guts to go through with it. Dad warned you. I warned you. I asked you. But you thought you could stop it. Fix me.”

He moves to sit down in the lone motel room chair, dragging their duffle of weapons behind him. He picks up the first gun and a cleaning cloth. He’d never enjoyed it before, but it needed to be done, and really, it was actually soothing. He could talk to the quiet form, think, and work. Proper time management. Not that he really had anywhere to be.

“I just wish you’d learned that some things can’t be fixed. Especially not by you. I’m the one with the powers, the visions. How did you think you could stop that? Only a bullet. Only a bullet could have. And your promise.”

He sits back, kicking his feet up onto the table, letting his eyes run over his brother’s body.

“You know, I never let it through before. I’m actually…maybe I’m a little glad you let me live, you know? Because I feel more alive than ever. I’m liberated. We can’t be what we’re not, Dean. You were always the big, protective brother. Couldn’t say no to baby Sammy. I--well, I was destined for something. I guess I knew it all along.”

He continued polishing, picking up a second gun.

“Seems Dad knew it, too. Now him, though. I can’t understand why he didn’t kill me. If he knew…why didn’t he take his chance? How long had he known?”

He smirked.

“Well, I guess that’s a question we’ll never know the answer to. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it was just fate. I believed in God once. You remember that, Dean? That time we thought we might have an angel doing good deeds? I think of that now and…I laugh.”

Grabbing a whetstone, he started in on the knives. The sound of metal on stone was a sharp, smooth noise, underlying his next words.

“No good deed goes unpunished. One good turn deserves another, right? And maybe there is a God. But I don’t believe anymore. Like you said, random acts of evil. I think everything needs a balance. You were good, so I had to be this way. I couldn’t help it. Fate. Fate is our master and we serve only her.

He put down the weapons, folding knives carefully into protective clothes, loving caressing the barrels of guns as he placed them back in the duffle. He stood, carrying it to the door, before turning back and stepping over dried blood spots, kicking at bloody clothes until they rested against the wall. He wrinkled his nose.

“You’re rather messy, you know that? Always spilling yourself everywhere. Even when you tried to keep those emotions bottled up inside, I could feel them. See them in your eyes. You never were good at hiding from me.”

He sighed and walked towards the bed. Sitting on the edge, he ran his hand through his brother’s hair. So soft. Always soft.

“Dean, why couldn’t you just have done what I told you to do? Why couldn’t you have been more on your guard? I never wanted to do this. But you didn’t stop me and I couldn’t let it go on. Seeing you torture yourself, try to get the old me back…it wasn’t right. It’s better this way.”

He ran his hand down Dean’s skin. Flawless. Freckles only made him seem more perfect, more innocent. Everything Sam wasn’t. It fit. It was right. It had had to be done.

Feeling Dean’s skin beneath his fingers again was doing wicked things to his libido. His cock twitched and he decided it didn’t matter. His plans could wait.

He let his gaze peruse his brother. Hair that seemed lighter now, a soft brown reflecting the beams of sunlight that snuck through the blinds. Strong shoulders that no longer held the weight of the world nor his brother’s soul. A broad chest, muscles relaxed, the freckles seeming paler. Sam reached down and undid his fly, letting his erection free. Still staring, he let his left hand stroke lightly up and down the shaft, teasing. His right hand rested on Dean’s shoulder.

He pulled and tugged, letting the precome slick his way, remembering what it had felt like to have Dean beneath him. Listening to ragged cries to stop until they got weaker and finally quieted as Dean accepted this was what he was now. That Sam had to do it. It had been a near compulsion. It had been mainly that feeling of liberation once he moved on from his old self. The old Sam would never fuck his brother. The old Sam would never have made his brother his whore.

The old Sam had wanted to.

He slid his hand down to caress his balls, pushing his jeans below his hips. He tugged on the sacs and his hips thrust up. He let his gaze follow down Dean’s chest to his hips, still bruised from Sam’s fingertips. Dean had a few spots of blood on him and Sam paused long enough to crawl onto hands and knees and licksuck the specks off. He let one hand travel back to his dick, bouncing up against his stomach as he moved on the crappy bed. He leaned back on his haunches, swiping the fingers of his other hand through the nearly dried come left on his brother’s stomach; just enough to slick the way as he pressed two fingers into himself.

Dean had enjoyed it earlier. Sam had made sure. He hadn’t wanted to, oh no, but Sam knew all of Dean’s buttons and somehow that seemed to include all the sexual ones, too. A kiss below the ear. A bite on the collarbone. Just how to twist his hand to have Dean screaming his name in orgasm, followed by racking sobs as Sam slammed into him, the virgin flesh clutching tight about his dick.

The memory made Sam hotter and soon he was rocking back and forth, fucking himself with fingers and fucking into his fist. With one last thought to Dean’s final, and broken, “Sam,” earlier and a push on that spot within, Sam was coming, moaning long and loud as he spurted thick strands of come onto his brother.

He waited a moment, panting, shuddering through the effects of the orgasm. He kept his head down. One whisper.

“Goddamn you, Dean.”

Then he was up and standing, walking back into the bathroom to wash his hands and clean himself before tugging pants back up and running a hand through too-long bangs. Coming back out, he grabbed one clothing bag--the only one with blood-free clothes--and the duffle along with the Impala’s keys. He was going to have to trade it in, the next town with a reasonable shop. One that wouldn’t recognize him, or at least wouldn’t report him.

He walked towards his brother one last time.

“I wish you’d kept your promise, Dean. It didn’t have to come to this. But I can’t say I’m sorry.”

His eyes blinked black for a moment and then he lowered his head, laying a kiss on Dean’s cold lips.

Leaving all but one credit card and the two small bags behind, he headed for the motel door. He looked back at the blood-splattered room, his brother’s body lifeless but clean, tied to the bedposts.

The maids were going to have one hell of a mess to clean up.