The First Cut Is the Deepest

Angyl

Disclaimer: Owned by Kripke, Singer and the CW, lucky bastards!

"Like daddy, like daughter; like father, like son," Sam sing-songed somewhere behind him as Dean stood there, hopelessly trying to deny what was happening to him. But he couldn’t. It was real; it was happening; and he had no way out—well, no way that he would willingly take.

I’m sorry, Dad, but I can’t. I can’t kill my own brother, he thought brokenly to himself. You should never have asked me that; you should have known I couldn’t, wouldn’t kill my Sammy.

"You know what you have to do if you want to stay with me, Dean," Sam’s voice purred, his arms wrapping around Dean’s waist to pull him back hard against Sam’s body. "It’s easy; you’ve done it a hundred, no, a thousand times. Do it."

Dean’s hand trembled as he sighted down the barrel of his berretta to the tear-streaked visage at the other end. But how could he? She was the little sister he’d never had, the almost-lover who he could have spent forever with if he’d let himself put someone other than Sam first in his life. He almost found the strength to say no to the black-eyed bastard holding him so lovingly in his arms, the brother he’d once sworn he’d do anything for, but then Sammy was whispering in his ear again, pressing soft kisses behind it and promising the sweetest of damnations with his touch.

"You promised, Dean, don’t you remember? You stood next to Mommy’s grave with me in your arms and swore an oath to her that you’d never leave me.

"Don’t leave me now; I need you. I’ve always needed you. Why do you think I ran away from you? I was scared; I wanted my brother, and it was wrong and evil, but I learned, we learned, didn’t we?" Sam whispered, seduction personified. "We learned to say screw society and make our own laws. You and me, always, isn’t that right, Dean? You know I’m right; you know I love you more than life, death, everything, right? After all, not even an hour ago you begged me for it, begged me to fuck you, to cut you, to make you bleed for me. You let me carve my name in your flesh for the world to see, and I did. I claimed you. You’re mine, Dean, aren’t you? Prove to me your mine. Pull the trigger. DO IT!"

"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry," Dean whispered and squeezed the trigger, watching as Jo jerked back and then slumped to the side, a slow trickle of blood oozing out the center of her forehead.

Somewhere in the distance he heard Ellen screaming and Ash cursing, but suddenly all that noise was cut off, becoming a wet gurgle of sound, and yet Dean couldn’t blink, couldn’t move or turn around to see what was happening behind him. All he could do was stare at the broken doll that was once a beautiful woman, the doll he had destroyed himself. "God forgive me," he begged, knowing that he’d never forgive himself.

"God washed his hands of the Winchesters a long time ago, brother mine," Sam murmured, coming around to stand in front of Dean, startling him and interrupting his line of sight. "And you are mine, aren’t you, Dean?"

"Yes," Dean replied brokenly, looking at the wickedly curved knife in his brother’s hand, the one he had picked out for Sam almost a decade and a half earlier as a present, now dripping blood onto the once pristine floor of the Roadhouse. Ellen’s and Ash’s blood, people who had been his friends, his pseudo-family, and who were now dead because he didn’t have the strength to say no and he never would. "Yes, Sammy, I’m all yours."

Sam wrapped his empty hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulled him forward in order to rape his brother’s mouth thoroughly. "All mine and only mine. Oh, the fun we’re going to have, Dean," he promised, laughing delightedly. "Hey, how about we go find Gordon next? I always hated that son of a bitch. I think it’s about time we paid him back for all the grief he’s caused us. But first." Sam took one last look around then very casually knocked over a bunch of booze bottles, shattering them on the bar and watching them weep to the floor.

Leaning down, he picked up a bar rag and swirled it in the mess. Holding it in his right hand, Sam moved behind his brother once again and rubbed up against him catlike, licking a strip along Dean’s exposed neck and enjoying the shiver of arousal that he elicited. Sliding his left hand around Dean’s hip, he pulled his brother back hard against him, making sure Dean felt Sam’s hard cock pressing into the crack of his ass, and then he continued the slide of his hand forward once more and reached into the front left pocket of Dean’s jeans, caressing the soft bulge he found under the fabric, lips curving up as it began to harden almost immediately. A few more strokes of his brother’s cock and he withdrew, Dean’s Zippo caught between his fingers.

"Time to go, Dean, we’ve got things to do." Flipping the top, Sam lit the wick and set it to the rag and watched the alcohol catch. Setting it onto the flooded bar top, he laughed as flame exploded and spread. Soon there would be nothing left of Harvelle’s, the hunter’s haven, but char. A fitting funeral pyre for those he once called friend.

"And the first thing I want to do is fuck you over the Impala’s hood while the Roadhouse burns."

End?

Cat Stevens

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