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What Should Not Be, but May Never Die

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Dean opened his eyes to complete darkness. It was all consuming, yet soft like silk linen in the presidential suite of Ceasar Palace hotel. With futile attempts at blinking and shifting his eyeballs in all directions, Dean noticed no change in light intensity. He was either in a dark room, or he was blind, which would be a bitch of a situation to deal with.

He tried to move a hand infront of his face to test that theory, but found both of his arms tied solidly to the chair he was sitting on. His feet were equally immobilized. Dean tried to wiggle out of the restraints but they would not budge. Somebody knew their knots...

He chuckled quietly. Sammy's smug face popped into his head from the time the kid finally managed to tie a proper double-knot on a dummy. He was so proud of him, even if it wasn't anything special. Sammy was ecstatic.

Go figure. Dean might be blind or kidnapped by some satanic cult, or potentially both, but leave it to him to reminisce about his baby brother as he is about to die.

Sam wasn't that much of a baby anymore, now that he thought about it. The freaking sasquatch could make most of NBA look like midgets.

Dean smirked again. Midgets. Never stop being funny. Well, he might be blind but at least his sense of humour is intact. Small victories.

While the older Winchester was trying to come up with a semblance of a plan, a door somewhere in the room opened, allowing a column of bright light to hit him in the face. He was momentarily stunned by a change in environment, but hey, at least he wasn't blind.

Everything was still blurry, probably due to a blindfold covering his eyes, but he could clearly hear a set of footsteps accompanying a dark shadow walking calmly towards him. He sighed. These guys put him in a pitch black room AND tied his eyes up so tight that he could feel the thin fabric sinking into his sockets.

"Bit of an overkill with the darkness, don'cha think? " he taunted the intruder "You compensating for something?"

The shadow continued walking, unphased by Dean's attempt to appear stoic. He heard subtle rustling of fabric and suddenly his eyes were burning. For a moment he thought that he was being smitten by the God squad, but after his sight returned within seconds Dean deduced that it was simply the blindfold coming off.

"Not at all, Mr Winchester." said the shadow in a calm deep voice with a hint of amusement and British snobbiness. "We simply cannot afford to underestimate you. Not again."

Before him, was a handsome man in his late 30s. His dark hair were so perfectly slicked back, it appeared as if magic was involved. He was wearing a suit, and not the cheap ones Sam and Dean used as Fed cosplay but the real deal, like Saville row shit. He postured himself arrogantly in front of tied up Dean with a misplaced kind, understanding even, smile. It creeped him out.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence where Dean was staring at the man before him, while he unceremoniously returned the favour, Dean felt his neck shiver from cold sweat as he asked.

"So... I appreciate the skillful bondage, but you are definitely not my type, man. Grow some breasts and then we can talk, 'kay. For now, how 'bout you untie me and we can forget this... misunderstanding ever happened?"

Dean cursed at himself silently. This was practically his M.O. When the situation is nearing biblical shitstorm level, leave it to Dean Winchester to throw fucking gasoline into the flames. When he gets nervous, he taunts. This almost, and sometimes literally, got him killed in most gruesome ways possible.

The man scoffed coldly and folded his hands on his broad chest. "I am flattered. However, there is no misunderstanding to speak of. You are exactly where we want you to be."

"And that is where, exactly?" Dean tried his luck. His green gaze met the stare of the abyssal dark brown as he continued with a fading voice "Kidnapping is a crime, last time I checked."

"Kidnapping? Is that what you think this is?" the incredulity in the man's tone confused Dean, because honestly what else could this be?

"Well, first of all I am in an unknown location with no memory of getting here and did I mention that I am tied up to a chair?" he replied tugging demonstratively at his restraints. Nope, still tight like fucking steel.

This was received with a self satisfied smirk that made Dean flinch with disgust. That was the moment he knew that he loathed the British dick.

"Well, technically you are incorrect." the man motioned to the ceiling slowly dragging his callused hand in a semi circle, mimicking the curvature of the walls enclosing the two of them. He continued "We did not 'kidnap' you as we did not take you anywhere from your previous location."

Dean was not by any means stupid, unlike Sammy would have everyone fucking believe, but right now he felt like a teenager on LSD: majorly confused, a little dizzy and on the verge of giggling inexplicably. This is fucking ridiculous!

"Do you see any whiskey and 'Busty Asian Beauties' lyin' round? Solid evidence we 'aint in my fucking room..."

"Yes, yes. We know about your... collectibles..." the man furrowed his nose in disguist and continued "But I assure you that the lack there of does not prove we are indeed not within the perimeter of your...bunker, was it?"

Dean gave him a stare he kept in store for the baby faced police clerks in South Dakota. Dense motherfuckers.

"So...what you'r sayin' is that INSIDE our warded-to-the-teeth impregnable underground bunker?! Yea right!" he scoffed and leaned back on his chair. Stupid bitch try'na mess with his head.

"Do ya really think I'll believe that you somehow managed to get inside without setting off any alarms, take me from my bed without wakin', considerin' Imma very light sleeper and keep a fuckin' gun under my pillow, and lock me to a room that shouldn't exist?!" he asked with a pissed off glare.

The man simply smiled and nodded "That is precisely what we did. To be fair, this room is not shown on any floor plans in the Men of Letters database, so your disbelief is understandable."

Dean froze mid-laugh. These guys weren't your average satanists. They seemed to know about the Secret Society enough to make their claim believable.

"Who the hell are you guys?" Dean finally asked, no trace of previous smugness in his voice.

"Oh dear, where are my manners?" gasped the Brit as he demonstratively slapped himself on the chest in shock. "Name is Arthur Ketch, British Chapter of the Men of Letters."

"See, we are strangers no longer. Does this still seem like a kidnapping to you?"


"Holy shit..." Dean mumbled as he rubbed his sore wrists, trying to smooth out the angry rope burns blossoming on his freckled skin. "Holy fucking shit..."

"Yes, indeed. Very eloquently put, Mr. Winchester." spat out the Brit as he tossed the remains of the restraints to the corner of the room with his expensive shoes.

Dean made no attempt to escape. There was no point in that, not anymore.

They failed. The feeling of utter defeat washed over him, waves of self-hate he was so familiar with yet terrified by their newly developed magnitude. The battle was lost long before they began.

Arthur Ketch told him many things. Some he did not believe for a second, some he already knew and dismissed, but some crawled under his skin, burowed their way into his resisting thrashing mind and by the end of the conversation festered into doubt.

He looked down onto the red scar on his right arm with disguist. The Mark. He briefly thought of fucking clawing it off, screw the blood and gore, but what's the point. The atrocious thing will inevitably find it's way back.

12 hours. That is how long his soul was allowed to hope that things were looking up for the Winchesters. Barely hours since he stopped gallavanting with Crowley across smelly backwater bars, drinking himself stupid or trying to nail his brother with a sledgehammer. Since he was sporting the filthy onyx eyes...

12 hours of humanity was all he got. Dean scoffed, rubbing the scar with his thumb. Hell, that was all the time he deserved.

He felt it. Didn't need Ketch to convince him. He knew the moment the black dissolved from his eyes and he could see Sammy's relieved gaze. He prayed, hoped, even begged for it to be a lie, a phantom itch. But deep down, within his twisted patchwork of a soul, he knew. The demon was not dead.

According to the BMoL, the 'curing of a demon' ritual worked just fine to purify the soul. But, not completely. Even with the stain of hell gone, the shredded pieces of the soul were left broken, held together by spit and fucking prayer. Never to be whole again.

Dean was actually worse off from the whole ordeal. At least as a Demon he knew what he was, had the freedom to act upon his depravities without a tinge of guilt that he left his mother's womb with, holding fucking hands. It felt...liberating.

Now...well, now he had to live with it all. And the guilt. Not a human, nor a demon, a filthy abomination....

But halt! The universe had not finished shamelessly shoving apocalyptic level shit up Dean's fine ass. No sir! It needed to add a fucking cherry on top of it all. Apparently the Mark acts as some sort of pre-biblical lock, or whatever, so taking it off, even if it was possible, would end the world.

And not the usual Winchester level 'end of the world', the quite literal, way above their pay grade, atomising into nothingness end. By the Darkness...

"So...what do you say?" inquired Mr. Ketch, interrupting the runaway train of Dean's thought.

Older Winchester sighed and threw his head back, leaning on the chair. In any other situation, the man would receive a vicious grinn full of 'go screw yourself with the Big Ben, you dick' followed by 'there is another way, there ALWAYS is'. But not this time.

Dean genuinely had to consider his proposal. He had to...because of Sam.

The kid did not know when to quit. Maybe a few years back, during the good simpler days of Pre-Purgatory, he may have convinced his brother to let go.

Not now. Not after the whole Trials shit and that douche Metatron. Not after he watched Dean die...again... Not after he was poisoned with enough guilt to rival Dean's, and that is saying something.

Sam Winchester would do absolutely anything to save his damned, broken, twisted shell of a brother. Even plunge the world into darkness.

Dean laughed. Fucking hell! He just realized how unhealthily codependent their relationship was. They were told that SO.MANY.TIMES. by all their friends (who are now dead friends, Dean... Should ring some alarm bells, that). But Dean insisted it was 'normal'. Well, whatever normal was for the Winchesters.

He closed his eyes in calm reverence. Enough. It was enough. Someone had to let go... He... Had to let go. Sam could still be happy. He knew the sweet taste of the 'normal' life, with Jess, Amelia... Who is to say there will not be a third, more permanent one.

And Dean...he could never have that. Too twisted...too... Putrid and rotten, gangrenous decaying imitation of a man...

He felt his face contort in disguist. He would have killed himself long ago, if he could fucking die in peace! All that would accomplish now would be him turning into a demon...again...and probably killing his brother.

Dean couldn't do that. Not again. Never... Hurting Sammy, or watching his fucking meatsuit hurt Sammy while clawing from the inside, desperate, bloody... He couldn't live through that again. So, dying is out of the fucking question.

But then again...NOT dying would probably give Sam the time he needs to get the Mark permanently removed. And he would do it in record time, the stubborn fucking genius, thus ending the world...again.

He would not allow that. Just a thought of Sammy's guilty puppy eyes, full of pain, shame but somehow never regret, churned and twisted Dean's already shredded soul. The kid would end the world in a heartbeat...for him.

And suffer the consequences.

Even though Dean was not worth any of that. Not before and certainly not now.

But then there was the third option.

Dean opened his eyes. They were clear, decided and firm. He slowly lowered his chin to meet the patient enveloping...comforting... abyss that was Arthur Ketch.

"I say we should get on with it. And fast." he finally replied, getting a questioning brow from the Brit "My brother is a light sleeper."

Chapter Text

Dean was sitting with his back to the door, whistling 'Iron Man' cheerily and polishing the knives with the usual reverent touch bestowed exclusively upon his weapons. Black Sabbath was not the usual go-to choice when it came to his brother, but Sam would take that over suffocating silence any day.

It has only been a few hours since he was forced to play the role of the victim in their interpretation of the Shining, sledgehammer instead of axe and all. Since he finally was able to breathe while watching the black dissolve from Dean's eyes, making way for the enchanting green to come forth. Since he saved his brother.

After all the betrayal, the abandonment, the lies, the pathetic excuses and apologies for his endless fuck ups, he finally, fucking FINALLY, accomplished something good. Something Dean has been selflessly doing since he first carried Sam out of the fire that killed their mother.

He truly had his brother's back.

But Sam could not afford to lower his guard. Curing his brother from being a demon was only step one. Preventing him from shoving all of the hurt and hiding behind a cheerful mask was step two. Hopefully teaching Dean that his lack of self-worth is ludicrous as he is the kindest, strongest and most beautiful person that Sam knows was step three.

Sam has been trying to drill that last one through his brother's thuck skull for the past 30 odd years with no improvements. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between the eyes. Baby steps.

If it was up to him, they would already be halfway into spilling their feelings on the table so Sam could attempt to glue the pieces of his brother together with two parts acceptance, one part tears and five parts (loving, but Dean avoids that word like the plague, so) pleading puppy eyes.

However, as soon as Castiel let them have some privacy, Dean's expression darkened and he locked himself in the shower for two hours. Sam was about to break the door in when the man finally decided to emerge with his walls layered higher than Burj Khaifa and a deceiving shit-eating grinn on his face.

There is no need to say that after a few snide remarks thrown back and forth and three and a half failed attempts to start a conversation on Sam's side, Dean successfully escaped into his room because he was 'beat and needed some goddamn beauty sleep'.

All of a sudden Sam missed the inescapable lack of privacy of the dingy motel rooms that filled his childhood.

He also missed living in each other's pockets, constant pranks and bickering. He missed waking up at night from Dean crushing his lungs with his arm and snoring into his ear. He missed the way he didn't have to speak to know what his brother was thinking : their language being subtle shrugs, tilts of the head and expressive power of stares.

Now that he thought of it, he missed how Dean used to look at him. Never giving him the chance to doubt his concern and devotion. His love for his baby brother.

He missed the contact that came with their ostracised nomadic lifestyle. The constant pushes, pats, pinches, hugs, casual caresses that conveyed more than any words could...

That made him never want to let go...

That made him hungry...

He wanted more, always more... Hell, he needed more...

Needed to be closer. Be the only thing Dean thinks of at any waking moment. Needed Dean all to himself and fuck whoever invented sharing! Just Sam and Dean against the world...

But Sam fucked up. And not the regular 'oops I lied to my brother and may have misbehaved a bit' fucked up, but the 'drank demon blood, while in a sexual relationship with said demon, released fucking Lucifer from hell to only shove him back and run around soulless while all their friends were dying then abandoning his brother to a year of mortal combat only to try to close the gates of hell while being a total bitch about it and ending up pushing his brother to turn into a cold blooded killer, then get him killed and quite literally twisted into a living embodiment of hell' kind of fucked up.

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in desperation. Now that he summarised the major screw ups of his life, he was coming out to be an exquisite asshole. This comprehensive list wasn't even remotely covering all of his sins and already his self-loathing level was over 9000...

He raised his eyes to the cheerfully humming Dean (what a fucking rare occurance these days) and couldn't hold back the deep sigh that alerted his brother to his presence.

"Gonna stand there all day, Sammy?" asked Dean while tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement. A smirk graced those impossibly sensual lips as he turned back and continued to polish some sort of blade.

Sam suppressed the way his stomach jumped at that gesture with a lifetime worth of practice and stepped across the threshold. He stopped a few steps away, the bed a vast no-man's land between them.

Now that he had his chance to talk, he found himself mute, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. What the hell could he possibly start with!? How are you feeling? I forgive you for going psycho axe killer on me, cause I kinda deserved it? I am sorry for...fucking every decision I made in the past 30 years?

Instead his idiot mouth blurted the one thing he was used to asking.

"You ok?"

Sam instantly wanted to go back in time to greet the sledgehammer with his stupid head.

"Fan-fucking-tastic." came the usual response. With Dean's back turned, Sam could not cheat and guess his brother's true answer through counting crows feet around the jades of his eyes. 3 per level of bullshit. Proved, tested and fucking copyrighted.

So he had to resort to analyzing Dean's voice. Which seemed freakishly calm and not an iota sarcastic.

"Why?" Dean followed up on the question after an uncomfortable silence radiating from flabergasted Sam.

"Why?!...You were a DEMON, Dean! And not for a day, mind you! Don't you dare tell me that any of that isn't worth a lifetime of therapy!"

Dean interrupted his justified outburst by a loud Winchester cackle. He lowered the knife he was polishing to hang between the floor and his knees and turned around to look at Sam.

"You would want that, wouldn't you?" he stabbed Sam with the sentence. Apparently the sarcasm in his tone was expertly masked earlier. Or Sam is an idiot. He put his money on the latter.

"You would love for me to be damaged so you fould fix me and put humpty-dumpty together again." Dean continued, jade eyes sharp and deadly, a look reserved for the monsters they were hunting.

"Well guess what: life ain't that simple, Samantha. Sometimes the family porcelain gets ground into fucking dust, nevermind the carpet, and the only solution would be hooverin' it down, an' byin' a new one."

All these metaphors were screwing with Sam's already exhausted head. "What do you mean?..."

"I...mean..." Dean pulled his words like talking to a particularly dense jock "Maybe, just 'curing' me only made things worse and I was better off being a..."

" You don't fucking mean that, Dean!" Sam was seething. How dare he! His martyr complex had no right to act up now, not for this!

"...Demon, Sammy." he finished purposefully and stared into Sam's eyes.

The look made Sam reel back in disguist and denial. There is no way he meant that. When he last heard that soul crushing statement, Dean was still a demon and demons lie. Common knowledge. This is just...just...stubborness!

After receiving no reply, Dean tilted his head sideways, as if studying a particularly bizarre cubism painting. If Dean ever looked at paintings. He smirked and continued.

"But you couldn't have that. You couldn't let me kick the bucket and get rid of you. Sammy is selfish like that."

Sam froze, legs bolted to the carpet, knees stabbing into the edge of the bed. That last sentence combined with a calculating gaze of those gorgeous emerald eyes hidden behind ridiculously long eyelashes and a lax tilt of Dean's body on the bed mimicked by a wicked smirk of his lush lips tied Sam's belly in knots.

"Of...ofcourse, Dean. You are my brother. " he managed to blurt out before pleasant ache in his hips made him lean subconciously towards the firm body before him.

"I...wasn't very...reliable...before. But I have changed, Dean. I will always protect you...Well, from now on... With my life if need be." Sam licked his rapidly drying lips and continued hopefully. "And I know you would do the same for me."

Dean said nothing. His body showed no signs of movement, but his eyes... Dear God, his eyes were....empty. There was no anger, no amusement, no irritation. They were unreadable, uniform the black abyss of the posessed.

He stood up, scaring the shit out of Sam with the abrupt movement and turned to face him. The bed was the only obstacle, the only defence between the two of them.

"Y'know, this dance we do..." Dean finally said, slurring the words seductively (or maybe that's just how Dean talks, Sam, stop making shit up!). He did not move, however, and Sam was thankful for small mercies.

"...You fuck up, I save you. I fuck up, you save me. And on... And on... And on we go on the carousel of dead bodies but our own..." he was still impaling Sam with the jade javelins of his eyes as he carried on apathetically.

"...I can't help it you know. The persistant idea to protect you that Dad drilled into me doesn't allow me to resist the urge to bite the bullet aimed at your ass, Sammy. So no matter how bad you screw up, I am always there to clean up your bloody, apocalyptic mess with a smile and a pat on the back, followed by 'it's ok, Sammy'"

"...Even if I loathe you..."

On that last phrase, Dean's smirk twisted into a disguisted scowl. Sam's heart stopped, the holes from the previous thorough impaling bleeding out quetly onto the bed. He lowered his head to look and hey, what do you know. The sheets were pristine clean. God fucking damn it...

However, Dean was not quite done skewering.

"...But you...You are a fucking mystery, Sam." he smirked coldly. Sam could start analysing his brother's unusual behaviour, as per typical Sam Winchester fashion, if he wasn't too busy being nauseous trying to digest Dean's soul crushing speech.

"You always wanted to be...normal...didn't you. Always trying to run off to a picket fence garden and a cute wifey with an apple pie on the ready. Never wanted this life. I get that. Hell, I was the one who drove you to the bus station with a one way ticket to 'Normalville'."

He paused, waiting for Sam to meet his eyes. "Even after all the shit you told me the night before..."

Sam regretted that. He truly did. Back then he didn't mean to hurt Dean, but was driven to it by the overflowing cocktail of teenage angst, toxic hormones and agonising pining over someone he could never have. He was sick, twisted and tired of wallowing in the bottomless self hate. Thus he had to leave.

But Dean seemed to lack any interest in Sam's futile attempts to defend his actions as he carried on "As I chased after your Sasquatch ass, you ran further away. It was predictable, it was natural, it was meant to be."

"So when I finally let you go, why the hell did you follow me?" Dean paused dramatically, finally giving Sam the chance to speak. But the younger Winchester was rendered mute. Following the argument and his brother's blatant point of view, Sam truly must have been acting bizarre.

But how the hell do you explain to your older brother, who is also practically your mother and your best friend, that you just happened to love him too much and too deeply to stay. That facing his rejection was more terrifying than never seeing him again. That you are pathetic and desperate enough to hope that while he chases after you he still wants you, maybe even needs you.

That the moment he stopped was the moment this hope fell screaming and thrashing into the abyss. And a hopeless man is capable of anything.

However, Sam said nothing. Dean nodded to himself, confirming some sort of thought before looking straight into Sam's eyes. There was no more loathing in that beautiful forest green. It was replaced by something different, something Sam would not dare to think about, the brainiac that he was.

"Is it because you are a liar?" he asked quietly while dropping the weapon he was still clutching in his palm.

"You lie to strangers, to friends, to family..." Dean motioned back and forth with his hand, shifting closer to the bed, legs flush with the light blue sheets.

"To yourself." Sam began to fidget as Dean have yet to stop staring straight into his soul, unblinking and unwavering.

"Or is it because you're a coward..." he continued and abruptly climbed onto the bed, not breaking eye contact, a predator hypnotising his quivering prey.

"...too fucking afraid to take..." step "...what..." step "" stop. "...want."

Dean was now before him, a wall of lithe muscle and pale translucent skin. He crossed the distance between them in seconds, hitting straight for the weak points, no hesitation, no remorse. Like a true hunter. All Sam could do was stand, eyes enraptured by the smooth cold jade, the soft marble, the delicate rose silk that was Dean's face.

"Y'know..." the older Winchester murmured with undeniable seduction "...All this push-n-pull foreplay is unnecessary. If you want this..." he slowly pulled his hands up his toned torso, covered only with a thin T-shirt, and by the time his fingers reached the nipple level, Sam was holding his fleeting self control by a thread.

"...You can take it. Right here, right now." Dean whispered into his ear and Sam swore out loud as the last word lingered with a hint of teeth on his lobe.

'Want' was too fucking light of a word for what Sam was feeling. Years upon years of crippling pining with self-destructive attempts at normal relationships and the moment he thought that he had his sick incestuous urges under Chernobyl containment coffin, Dean pulverised it with a word.

This is how he dies. Not from the monsters they hunt or a bullet. From fucking heart attack, because he is positive some blood vessels must have ruptured from the speed of the blood rushing down to his dick.

As Dean slowly, sensually breathed into his ear, all Sam could do was open and close his sweaty palms in the air. He wanted to touch, fuck no he needed to feel Dean under his fingertips. But he was afraid. What if touching his brother's skin directly would be such a sensory overload, his brain exploded?

Sam compromised by lifting his arms around Dean's waist, but hovering just within reach. He mentally kicked himself again. After so much waiting and despair, how could he not jump onto this chance in a millisecond and map Dean's skin inch by inch with his lips?! Because he legitimately could. Dean was right here with him.


Something was jumbling his brain-to-limbs signalling and preventing him from ravaging his brother. And no, it wasn't the wrongness of the fact that Sam wanted his brother in the most biblical of ways. He dropped that excuse a while ago, right about after the whole Purgatory fiasco.

Dean has always been a centre of his world. When he was a child there was no need to deny it. But after their cuddling in the same bed for warmth was replaced with Dean cuddling with a random pair of legs for sex, little Sammy knew that wanting to stab the bitch in her sleep was not a dose of healthy brotherly jealousy.

But hey, don't get him wrong, Sam honestly tried. He went full angsty teen on Dean, rejected all physical contact, even tried stop the incessant 'Sammy' that his big bro kept pushing. All for naught. He just made himself fucking miserable and to top it off, Dean was miserable along with him.

So the growing whipool of depression finally capsized his mental boat and he ran. Ran from fucking everything, including himself. He could write a thesis in denial by now, because during his time at Stanford he almost made himself believe....

And then John Winchester goes missing, the bastard!

So yes, Sam has gotten over the whole 'brother' thing. But muscle memory wouldn't let him relax that easy. Doubting fucking everything became second nature and now...

Even with Dean all wrapped up and ready for consuming, giving his adult consent and all, he doubted. And this doubt crawled out of his mouth.

"Do you want this too?"

Hopeful amber glimmer was met with the enreadable emerald.

"Does it matter?"

And there it was. The end. Sam's heart has been cleanly gorged out and tossed in the garbage disposal. He felt sick. Pushing Dean away and trying to cover his mouth simultaneously offset his already shaky balance and Sam toppled over, hyperventilating.

Dean did not move. He just stood there, watching his younger brother convulse and come up with a miserable amount of food he had that day. He folded his arms and shook his head chastisingly.

"Overreacting much?" he said loudly, trying to overtake the retching noises from the kneeling man at his feet.

"My opinion never mattered before, did it. Sure, you did the polite thing of asking...sometimes...but we both know that it wouldn't matter anyway. The old me could never say no to you, whatever you asked for."

Sam wanted more than anything to refute the verbal onslaught, but the retching kind of made it hard to get up. Also, Dean was absolutely right. He was disguisted. With his pathetic selfish being. Looking back, he couldn't for the life of him locate the times when Dean denied him anything.... Dear, God!! Did he...was Dean ever really happy with Sam? What was a lie and what was the truth. Sam clutched his head before it split into jigsaw.

"That's right. If I told you that I also wanted it, not knowing for sure whether it was a lie or the truth, you would still push me down onto that bed and fuck me senseless, wouldn't you?!" Dean chuckled with sinister amusement, head held high, feet elevated by the bed right next to Sam's weeping face.

Sam wanted to deny it. Oh, how he wanted. But you cannot deny a concrete fact, can you. All his life, Sam could never read Dean's poker face and had to gamble on the off chance his stubborn older brother was not lying. How many of his gambles were lost? How many times had he hurt Dean beyond measure? All this doubt ripped into his body like a hell hound and tore, and tore, and tore, and tore...

"Holy shit, Sammy. You are so fucked up." Dean shot straight into Sam's heart and killed him on the spot.


Sam lay there in complete darkness. His head felt like it was hit by a freight train and his body was wet with cold sweat. It took him a few minutes to realize that he was in his bed, sheets scrambled on the floor and both underwear and T-shirt soaked as if he took a swim in the Atlantic ocean.

He turned onto his side and continued to weep into the damp pillow. It was a dream. It was a nightmare. That's all it was. This was the only thing keeping him sane.

Hours, weeks, years later he felt the familiar flutter of wings and a sweet incense waft through the room.

"G'way C'stiel" he mumbled face swollen.

"Sam, you need to get up now."


After a short pause, he heard the angel sigh and finally sensed the distress in his voice.

"Dean is gone..."