Summary: Sam has gone antichrist, Dean is genre savvy, and, aside from the whole pinned-to-the-wall-with-mojo-mind-powers thing, the conversation they have is actually pretty normal. For a little while, at least.

A/N: I've been sick these past two weeks, and almost entirely confined to my bedroom. I've been meaning to do it for a while, but it finally gave me an opportunity to watch Supernatural in its entirety. I fell in love with the brothers, which is pretty difficult to avoid, I think. I fell in love with Sam in particular, and I've been positively devouring fanfic that deals with his possible 'fall'. Thing is, I love evil!Sam. I really, really do. But I have started to get a little bit frustrated with the idea that evil!Sam is going to behave the same way as possessed-by-Meg!Sam, which just doesn't sit right with me. That's the main reason that this fic came to be. I also wanted to give a try at writing Dean!voice. Feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated, because I'm a little unsure about my characterization. This fic is also pretty heavy on the dialogue, and I really hope that it works. Anyway, I hope that this is enjoyable.

Warnings: Mild violence, strong language, angst, homophobic language (because it's Dean).

Got You Pegged

Dean had known that this was a bad idea from the start, but when you got right down to it, most of his ideas were pretty fucking bad; he was alive again, so he must have been doing something right. Or maybe he was just lucky. Either way, doing stupid shit was his MO—why fix something that wasn't broken, right?

He had known that Sam would find him eventually, that his jig would be up the moment that he did. Had been expecting it for months now, and was kind of surprised that it had taken so long. The constant anxiety was eating away at him, giving him nightmares of a Sam that was mangled beyond recognition; a monster that wore his brother's face.

And the fear was still there, felt like it was burning a hole through his abdomen. Probably wasn't too far from the truth, which almost made him want to laugh. It would figure that on top of everything else, he would manage to get a fucking ulcer.

Still, in spite of the fear and the panic and the thoughts of oh fuck I'm gonna fucking die again, Sammy's gonna kill me, he couldn't help but slip into his role as Dean-the-big-brother. This was most likely a bad thing, considering that Sam was here for Dean-the-hunter. Probably.

He should watch his mouth, keep his cool, do everything in his power not to piss Sam off. But goddamn if he wasn't happy to see his little brother again, even he was the antichrist, and the words came out all wrong—they came out like they were still on the road and listening to Bon Jovi and hoping to God (or Satan, whoever) that everything was going to be okay.

"Are you gonna let me down, Sammy? Because as much as the whole psychic mojo thing is really impressive, bondage isn't my bag of chips."

"If I let you down," said Sam, "you're going to try and run away." He had settled himself on the sofa, and swung his legs up to rest them on the coffee table. The pose was familiar in all the worst ways. "So no, I don't think I will."

Dean smirked. "I know you don't have an appreciation for my finer qualities, Sam, but I'm not that fucking stupid. Give me a little credit, here. You've found me—congratulations, by the way—and that means that I get to look forward to a lifetime of foiled Houdini's." He grinned, chuckling breathlessly, feeling the panic lessen when it really shouldn't. Because if he pretended really hard, focused on Sam's normal eyes and normal expression, and not on the fact that he was stuck to a motherfucking wall, he could almost imagine that things were back to how they should be. Almost. "Let's be honest; you just like seeing me pinned down."

Sam raised an eyebrow, considering. "Yeah," he said. "You're probably right."

"Damn straight I'm right," said Dean. "So what's the order of the day, your Evilness? Gloating? Torture? Maybe a little fratricide? It must be pretty important if you're willing to take time out of your busy schedule of slaughtering the innocent for little ol' me."

Sam heaved a sigh of exasperation, rolled his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Come on, Dean. I'm the one who brought you back, remember? Why the hell would I want to kill you again?"

"I dunno," said Dean, who would have shrugged if his shoulders were capable of movement. So maybe he wasn't being one hundred percent logical. Evil was unpredictable. "What? No ominous Latin chanting? I'm disappointed in you."

Sam's lips quirked ever-so-slightly upwards. "I must have left the Enya mix tape in the car along with my black leather trench coat and my riding crop. Damn, that was sloppy."

"I say 'ominous Latin chanting' and the first thing that pops into your head is Enya? Have I ever told you how gay you are, because dude? That's fucking gay."

"You have. Many, many times."

"Also…a riding crop? I can just see it now; the legions of Hell decked out in tight black leather, slapping each other with riding crops as they do well-choreographed dances to bad eighties music and show tunes."

Dean felt triumphant at the disgusted twist of Sam's mouth. "Thanks for that image," said Sam. "'Cause it's not going to give me nightmares, or anything."

"Good. I wouldn't want anything to deprive you of your much-needed beauty sleep, princess."

Sam frowned, his eyes flashing the way they did when Dean did something that annoyed him. "Stop that," he said.

"Stop what?" asked Dean. "Talking? Breathing? You gotta give me more to go on, highness."

"That," growled Sam. "Stop calling me by those nicknames. Does it make it easier to accept this, or something? I'm not some B-movie prince of the damned, okay? I'm not possessed. This is me, Dean. This is my choice."

Sam said it like Dean didn't already know it, maybe because he genuinely thought that Dean was trying to fool himself. "It's called 'joking', Sam. You know, making light of a situation? Because yeah, I know you're not possessed. If you were, you wouldn't be able to move right now. And yeah, you made your choice." Dean felt a lump in his throat, and did his best to swallow it down, to keep his voice steady. "But that doesn't mean that I have to be okay with it, or that I have to take it seriously."

Sam's frown deepened into a scowl, and Dean felt fear churn. He was not going to show it, though. Sam said that he wasn't going to kill him, but what did that mean? It was no fucking guarantee, and if Dean was going to die, he was going to die with at least his dignity in tact.

"Yeah, okay," said Sam, glaring. Dean felt the barest hint of pressure on his throat, but it wasn't nearly enough to hurt; it was a warning. "But you are going to listen to what I have to say."

"I'm a captive fucking audience."

Sam paused, looking hard at Dean's face. Maybe he was deciding what to say, or maybe he was deciding that it wasn't worth it, that Dean wasn't worth it. Dean wasn't sure which 'maybe' he was more afraid of.

Finally, Sam said, "It would probably be best if you stopped hunting."

Dean snorted. "Uh, yeah. I'll keep that in mind."

"I mean it," said Sam. "For your sake, it's probably best if you stopped hunting."

"And what inspired this gem of wisdom, huh? What's going to happen if I don't stop? An 'unfortunate accident'?" Dean could barely keep himself from sneering. "Not very creative there, Sammy. You might as well just kill me now, 'cause that ain't fuckin' happening."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" asked Sam, with something that reminded Dean of seven months ago, of a Tuesday in a shitty diner and a Sam who looked broken and scared. "You think I want you dead, asshole? You honestly believe that I couldn't have had you killed at any time, in any place, with just a snap of my fucking fingers?" Sam stood up and stalked towards him, eyes dark and unfathomable. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. This isn't about that."

Dean wanted to sink into the wall. He wanted to punch Sam in the face. Mostly, he wanted Sam to stop looking at him like this was one of their old fights about moving on or Hell or not being reckless. "So what is it about?" asked Dean, challenging.

Sam spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I'm not…No matter what, Dean, no matter what, you're not going to die. You're not a threat to me, not even a little, and you're my brother. So no matter how much you fight against this, no matter how much you keep up your futile little struggle, you're going to stay alive."

Dean said nothing.

"Haven't you ever wondered why you have no memory of Hell? You were there for three months, Dean. That's three months of agony; three months of suffering that you can't even begin to imagine. And the only reason why you're not reliving that suffering every day is because I made you forget." Sam reached out with his right hand, bracing it on the side of Dean's face, looking Dean straight in the eye. "But that's the only time I can do it, because your mind will break of I make you forget again.

"Anything that happens from now on stays with you forever. Everything, okay. And if you keep on hunting, I swear that you are going to see things that will hurt you." Sam was all but pleading now, desperate. "Do you understand?"

"No," spat Dean. "No, I don't fucking understand. Why don't you just stop, Sammy? Whatever it is you think you have to do…you don't, okay? If you don't want me to see it, then don't fucking make it happen."

Sam's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Dean was certain that he was going to lash out. But he didn't. He took a deep breath, wet his chapped lips with his tongue, and stepped back. When he spoke again, it was in a quiet voice, a calm voice.

"I'm not going to stop, Dean. I don't want to, and you can't make me. I came here to warn you; the choice is yours."

"So what would I do instead, Sam?" Sam had to understand, he had to; hunting was the only thing left that meant anything. Well, besides him and Bobby (if Bobby is still alive, supplied a nasty voice in the back of his head). "Come and live with you, knowing that the world is going to shit and I'm doing fuckall to stop it?"

Dean could tell from Sam's silence, that's exactly what Sam would have him do instead.

"If you aren't going to kill me, and you aren't going to force me to come with you, then kindly get the fuck out of here."

"Fine," Sam murmured, and the pressure holding Dean to the wall was abruptly released. He fell down with a 'thump' and a muttered curse.

Sam walked to the door, but did not leave immediately, his hand grasping the handle so hard that his knuckles turned white. "I warned you, Dean. Just remember that."

"Yeah," said Dean, who had not gotten up, and did not move to raise his head from in-between his bent knees. "Thanks a bunch, Sammy."

"You'll seek me out eventually," said Sam, so softly that Dean almost didn't hear. "And when you do, I'll be waiting."

Dean still did not look up. "Whatever you say, Sammy."

He heard the door open, and then slam violently shut a moment later. He was left alone, the taste of something like despair sticky and bitter in his mouth.

He didn't move for a long time.