Disclaimer:
No profit whatsoever. "But I being poor have only my dreams." So there. Also, I acknowledge that there is another, probably more than one, NKB retell in the SPN fandom, in particular the awesome Hugemind's version 'Natural Born Hunters' and this was in no way shape or form an attempt to plagiarise or steal idea from such genuine. This is simply my own version of how I saw it in my head and it wouldn't go away until I wrote it. No infringement was intended whatsoever.

I have manipulated Supernatural with the movie Natural Born Killers for my own twisted amusement. A working knowledge of the film would be great, and make more sense in places, but isn't entirely necessary. It should be know that I used some of the original script, not found in the movie, throughout here and there because I liked it. Be warned, this is dark and unpleasant in places, contains reasonably graphic non-con, is MADE of Wincest and I think I went a little overboard with the 'F' word.
Enjoy!


-Supernatural Born Killers-

-Chapter One-

'There is a crack, a crack in everything.

That's how the light gets in.'

-Leonard Cohen

Unnaturally close, that's what the tabloids called it at first. During those early months, after everyone had exhausted the psychopathic murderer aspect, after everyone got bored of hearing victim's names, that was the next big thing. It was a relatively unspoken rule during the first reports and stories that hit the media, that no-one was to actually declare the relationship anything other than 'unnaturally close'. Then reporters started to pick up on what was always going to be an explosive component of what comprised the Winchester brothers. The disturbingly intimate, co-dependant relationship. It became a kind of forbidden, taboo joke as the stories progressed. Little innuendos, tiny hints that couldn't be censored. It was only a matter of time before it exploded over the papers and the screens, confirmed and undeniable. One thing the Winchesters had never been, was shy.

Anyone who had spent time in the same room with them both could see it; anyone who had ever made the mistake of touching Sam Winchester when Dean was nearby knew that there was something a little more between them than brotherly affection and psychotic loyalty, those who lived to mull it over, anyway. Almost everyone could see it between them. Even when they were kept separate, questioned separately, it was as though the other was there, right next to them. Ask Sam a question two corridors away from where Dean was being held, and the young Winchester boy would look next to him at the empty space as if consulting an invisible man. Then he'd answer with that same perfectly angelic face that so many people had fallen for. It was deeply unnerving and there were already whispers circulating the case; rumors about strange things; ghosts, demons, the supernatural. Seeing Sam Winchester looking into nothingness like it wasn't just thin air….it made people uneasy.

Nothing fazed the brothers in the slightest; nothing except the threat of harm towards the other. Even that had to be extreme to generate any kind of impact; they trusted one another in a way that was relatively unprecedented for relationships of such co-dependant proportions. They knew each other's limits, had obviously been trained to withstand vast amounts of pain and this made them secure in the knowledge that the other would not be easily hurt. Sam knew Dean could take care of himself and Dean knew the same about Sam and, well, if anyone threatened to do more than knock Sam around a bit, Dean would usually find a way out of his restraints and put paid to whomever it was who had been foolhardy enough to boast such a threat. Both boys knew how to take a beating; knew how to laugh afterwards. They smiled with red mouths, blood free-flowing down their faces; giggled with cracked ribs and cat called with strangled throats. No strangers to violence or pain and it quickly became common knowledge that such deterrents were redundant, not to mention dangerous for the people administering such techniques.

It took everyone a while to figure out that Sam Winchester was the most dangerous of the pair. The first incident occurred back when the police had tried such methods as beating them in front of one another, trying to get them to crack. Sam was cuffed to the table while Dean was beaten repeatedly right in front of him. For the most part Sam had been silent; watching his brother unblinkingly, face bloodless, barely breathing. The detectives in charge at the time had thought they were making progress, so they let up for a moment. One of them leaned in close to Sam's face, demanding that he explain how they had managed to blow a hole a mile wide in the middle of a shopping mall when no-one could find a trace of a detonation device. He'd leaned in too close to see that Sam's restraints had been undone for quite some time. That Sam had been sitting there, hands laced loosely over the table.

Then one hand had shot up, whipcord fast, and before anyone could react, the man's esophagus was in Sam's fingers, blood gushing from the open throat like water over the table and Dean was laughing softly from where hw lay bleeding on the floor.

Sam was lethal because he was unpredictable; always smiling softly, like he was really just an innocent bystander to his brother's unspeakable violence. It was how most people had died early on in the interrogation process. Sam could look like he was about to cry, about break down and admit something significant and just as that person would lean in to encourage it…up came those hands, never properly restrained, no matter how much they adjusted the cuffs and the locks. Those hands knew how to tear, rip and destroy what they set out to destroy. He wielded death like playing a piano and sang while doing it. Three floors away, his brother would smile without even having been informed of the incident.

Dean was dangerous, but openly so. It was common knowledge that he was the most sane of the pair and it was from Dean that the detectives had learned what little information they had about the case. Dean Winchester told the story with relish and nostalgia; he remembered everyone he had ever killed and in his recollection it was always what Sam had looked like that day, what Sam had said or done. Never just the story of a poor boy who had been stupid enough to hitchhike with them or a dumb waitress who hadn't known any better than to be beguiled by one or both of their hypnotic smiles. Always with reference to his brother, somehow. Dean was a little more grounded than Sam, perhaps, but just as terrifying. He had a way of looking deep down into a person and knowing instantly what would destroy that person, if only with words. There was no question about Dean's lethality; he didn't try to hide it. Everyone knew not to go near him and it was as simple as that. Even his lawyer spoke to him through bulletproof glass.

The closeness was only one small part of what made them so fascinating; so compelling to read about in the safety of suburbia. Every psychologist worth their salt had clamored to get near the Winchester brothers; to crack open the secrets and compulsions behind their actions. Everyone knew bits and pieces, tiny little flecks of truth smothered and built up with guesses. The paramilitary childhood, methodical violence, sexual abuse; everyone seemed to have their own theory. The mother had died when Dean was only five, Sam had only been six months old; the father, John Winchester, had taken both boys and quite literally fallen off the grid. From what Dean had told them in bits and pieces, they'd been raised on the road, moving from place to place. Nothing constant in their lives except each other. It was the first time Dean had ever slipped and said anything to indicate something more in the relationship between them. Of course, the person he'd said it to had suffered a violent, brutal demise seconds later, but it was all on tape. After that, they had gleaned tiny insights into what could easily be the foundations for a 'Bad Childhood' plea. Not that either one of them would ever dream of pleading innocent in any way whatsoever, but their case was far from complete and there were endless holes and gaps in the story. Questioning Sam yielded nothing but stories of demons and hell and monsters so horrific the human imagination couldn't fathom their existence. Once, someone had asked him if he missed his father; Sam jammed a pen into the person's skull. That was the last time anyone tried to get anything out of Sam. But Dean…sometimes he would give them something and it would be another piece of the puzzle that was Sam and Dean Winchester. The puzzle, some suspected, would always be incomplete to some extent and others didn't think that the whole picture was necessary to convict them. The evidence they had already was overwhelming and sufficient to earn them both the death penalty several times over. Perhaps some believed that digging too far into their dark and terrifying past would lend credence to an potential insanity plea their lawyer might cook up. Anyone who had stared too long into the eyes of Sam Winchester, and lived to tell the tale, would agree there was something…missing. Eyes too deep, swallowing all light and reflecting none.

Yet every story, incomplete or otherwise, has a beginning.


-One Year Ago-

The diner could have been any one of the hundreds almost identical to it in the state of New Mexico; it came as standard in places such as those that the air would be hot and dry, the low hum of mosquito's and the sounds of their quick, brutal death by way of the Bug Zapper would be almost undetectable over the whine of some old country singer, piped over the jukebox in the corner. Even the waitress could have come from an assembly line; tired eyes, lipstick too bright for her faded face and aging skin. Bored, dull and settled; like the rest of the town.

There was almost no difference between this diner and the many others in the area, except for two customers. Two people that the regulars had never seen before and found themselves turning to sneak stolen glances at them whenever they could. It was rare to have new people, even though it was a roadside diner. Mostly the same kinds of people came and went; trucker types and rednecks.

But those two strangers, they were different, and the diner itself was a little different just in having them there.

The older one of the two, shorter hair and striking green eyes, smiled effortlessly at the waitress; it was a bright smile, unfitting of the drab, tedious diner he was currently sitting at the counter of. He was well built, obviously healthy and active and something in his smile made it hard for the waitress to turn away.

"So," he said, voice low and smooth. "What kind of pie do you have?"

Besides him, the younger man – almost a boy, really – snorted at some private joke, but didn't turn to face the waitress. He seemed content staring out through the glass at the sweltering heat of the road.

The waitress sighed and replied, "Apple, pecan, cherry and key lime."

"Which do you recommend?" the man with the green eyes asked, an underlying charm present in every syllable.

"Well, the key lime is great but it's an acquired taste," she replied, with a little hint of a smile.

The man seemed to be contemplating something and then he said, "I haven't had key lime in ten years."

"When you had it did you like it?" she asked, almost shyly now under the brilliance of his smile.

He shrugged and then leaned ever so slightly over the counter as if about to whisper a precious secret. "No, but that don't mean much, I was a completely different person back then." He sat back and rested his hands together; the waitress seemed to notice something on the palm of his left hand, something that looked like a deep, red slash. It was gone before she could comment or even realise that she had seen anything at all. "Let's give that key lime a day in court and a big old glass of non fat milk."

The waitress decided to be polite and turned to the younger boy sitting next to him, saying, "Should I make that two pieces?"

The boy shook his head slowly, that long, dark hair moving as he did so. "Nada, Rosie."

The waitress stiffened, offended. "My name's not Rosie, it's Mabel."

And then with a secret little smile of his own, he stood from the seat and shrugged off his leather jacket. "Whatever."

Mabel caught sight of the boy's face for the first time since he and his friend had entered the diner. He too was as beautiful as the other one, if not more so. Only there was something….strange about him. Like he was an otherworldly creature somehow; the way he walked, how those eyes roamed over everything like they were objects of the absolute least concern to him. Like he was bulletproof from everything; all insecurities, dangers and pitfalls of life.

A few people turned and watched as he picked up the change jar on the end of the counter and smashed it open, spilling quarters everywhere, rolling like marbles over the surface and the floor.

"Hey!" Mabel shouted, but the boy didn't seem to hear her at all. She turned to his older friend who was still smiling politely at her as though he hadn't seen his friend smash the jar and take a handful of quarters, heading with intent towards the jukebox. "He ought not be doin' that! That's for the kids to play pinball! Not rock and roll!"

"I can't take him anywhere," the other said with a much smaller, more private smile as Mabel reluctantly handed him his pie and milk. He hadn't turned to look at the mess his friend had made yet and he didn't seem to care in the slightest. The boy dropped a quarter and selected a song; something with a hard rhythm and good baseline…something the boy began to dance to. Slow, swaying movement as if he was moving to a different kind of music that no-one else could hear. Everyone in the diner was openly staring now.

Mabel seemed to be on the verge of asking them to leave, when the bell above the door chimed and two of the towns tougher locals walked in. She relaxed visibly, knowing that that troublemaker would be hauled out on his ass if he tried anything.

Both newcomers turned to see the boy dancing and both seemed almost equally thunderstruck by the sight he was effortlessly weaving before them.

"Good God almighty, what is that?" the bearded, gruffer one asked his younger friend, complete with handlebar mustache and lusty leer.

"That's a bitch outta hell, son," handlebar replied, giving the dancing boy a long, slow look up and down.

Bearded guy shrugged. "Take a run at him, kiddo," he said and went to the counter. "Miller, Mabel."

"Comin' up," she replied.

Handlebar went up the boy and tried to copy his way of dancing, though it was a failed attempt. He couldn't move the way the other did, didn't have that otherworldly confidence and understanding of movement and rhythm. He moved in close, though. Close enough that the boy – for all his indifference and unconcern – could not ignore him. The boy's dancing slowed, lost enthusiasm slightly. Handlebar grabbed the boy's hips confidently and ground them into his own under the pretence of dancing. The boy's posture altered, shifted – like a cat sensing something it had not previously seen, but he didn't leave the area nor did he stop dancing.

Bearded guy sat himself down besides the older boy of the two strangers, not seeming to realise they had come in together. He took a swig of his beer, letting some of it dribble and twine with the hairs of his beard and stared appreciatively at the dancer and his unwanted companion.

"That's some sweet piece of meat, ain't it?" he commented to the green eyed man who, for the first time since entering, looked up from his pie with an expression that wasn't entirely attractive and charming.

"His name," the man said, swallowing the pie. "Is Sam."

Bearded guy shrugged, seeming to miss what might have been a significant piece of information. He placed his beer down on a newspaper, not reading the headline.

'Winchester Brothers Strike Again; More Dead on Highway 666.'

The song ended and a different track began to play; not something the boy named Sam could continue his strangely hypnotic swaying to. Instead, he turned and fully looked handlebar mustache in the eyes, as if seeing him properly for the first time.

"Hey, Otis!" bearded guy called out to his friend. "I think he's sweet on you!"

Sam let a smile cross his face in a way that could not be interpreted as anything other than seductive. "Are you flirting with me?" he asked, a light twang in his accent making it seem innocuous and cute.

And then it all happened very fast.

Otis lifted his beer bottle to take a swig when the boy suddenly punched him hard in the face, smashing the bottle into his mouth as he did so. The man spluttered and gurgled, choking on tiny fragments of glass washing down his throat with the beer. Sam punched him again, harder this time. Everyone in the diner turned to look and stare, caught off-guard by the sudden turn of events.

Before bearded guy even had the time to utter a curse, Sam grabbed Otis by the back of his hair and smashed his face down into the front of the jukebox, shattering the glass but not actually interrupting the song by some strange miracle. Otis fell to his knees, yelling, trying to crawl away.

Bearded guy jumped down off his stood, about to go involve himself when the stranger beside him was in front of him a glittering knife playing comfortable around his fingers with the ease born of familiarity. The older guy pointed his finger, about to warn the younger to move the hell out of his way, when the knife swept through the air and neatly sliced off his finger.

The bearded man let out of a strangely high pitched shriek.

"Just 'cause my boy's mopping up the floor with your buddy is no reason for you to join in," the stranger told him. The knife slashed through the air five more times, back and forth and at first there didn't seem to be any difference in the beared guy, until his intestines spilled out onto his shoes and he dropped to the floor, dribbling blood.

While Sam was beating Otis to death, singing as he did, his companion turned in time to see the short order cook come dashing out of the kitchen, wielding a large meat cleaver and screaming blue murder. The green eyed man whipped out a .45 from the back of his jeans and fired one single shot, right between the eyes, splattering brain and blood all over the faded yellow walls behind the now dead cook. He then turned the gun on the five other customers, trying and failing to leave without being seen. Bang! Bang, bang, bang, bang!

The young boy Sam kicked until the bone of the skull gave out and thick, pink puddles began to dribble out over the tiled floor from the dead redneck, Otis. He stepped back catching his breath, eyes still fixed on the bloody corpse.

"How sexy am I now, motherfucker?" he was asking, not quite shouting, but not exactly calm. "Still want to dance with me, huh? Rat bastard piece of shit! Couldn't just let me dance, huh?"

"Sammy," the beautiful stranger called and the boy named Sammy looked up, those dark eyes lighting freshly up at the sight of the other man, still holding the .45. He moved gracefully to his side and both their eyes turned to the two remaining people alive inside the diner. Mabel and a large trucker type, holding his hands up in the air. Mabel was hiding behind a coffee pot, crying quietly. "Who's the lucky one?" asked the man with the gun in a singsong voice.

Sam lifted his hand and pointed a long finger, starting with Mabel.

"Eanie, meanie, minie, moe! Catch a redneck by his toe! If he hollers, let him go! Eanie, meanie, minie… moe!" The finger landed on the sobbing waitress; the shot was fired without hesitation as both Sam and his partner laughed quietly.

The one remaining customer left alive stood very still with his eyes closed tight, as though trying to make the scene before him vanish.

"When those people come here and they ask you who did this," Sam instructed him with an entirely serious face. "You tell them Sam and Dean Winchester did it. You understand? Say it!"

The man opened his eyes, fresh piss trailing down his left leg. "Sam and Dean Winchester did it!" he repeated, trying to control himself enough not to sob.

Sam turned to Dean with a breathtaking smile. "Hear that, Dad?" he asked, giving a brief glance upwards. "Sam and Dean Winchester did it. Together."

"That's right, baby," Dean said, softly, reaching for Sam's hand and pulling him flush against his body. The younger boy had at least two inches on him, but there was blatant adoration and worship in Sam's eyes . "I love you, Sammy," he breathed as Sam pressed his lips against Dean's, softly at first and then Dean grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him closer, to deepen the kiss.

Beside them, the man made a sick, disgusted sound. Without even looking, Dean brought the gun back up and shot him in the face.

Sam broke the kiss with an almost petulant frown. "Dean! Now who's gonna tell the cops?"

Dean shrugged and rubbed his nose against Sam's, eyes falling shut. "There's a camera. Sure it'll spin a fine yarn."

Smile renewed, the two resumed their kiss as if they were the only two people on the face of the planet and they might well have been for all they seemed to care.


The engine noise of the '67 Chevy Impala was almost the closest thing Sam Winchester had ever come to a lullaby; one that not come from his brother, anyway. That proud purring sound was intensely reassuring to him and he was certain it was to his brother, though Dean would never admit it because this had been their father's car for the most part of their lives. It was their home, the only constant place of residence in their whole lives. Endless hotel rooms, the occasional house to squat in or a friend to stay with; always a different bed, different ceiling, different smell. But the Impala was always the same. Same leather seats, same smell – gun oil, fresh baked pie and Dean's cologne – and the same sound of the lovingly cared for engine.

Sam sighed into the night, staring up the stars with fascination as he sat on the hood. The sky was almost bursting with those tiny flecks of light, invisible to those who lived in cities polluted by excessive light. He could see each one, see the made up history behind it that Dean had spun for him when they were younger. A little story for each and every one, just to make his knowledge hungry little brother happy. It had always been that way; Dean had always been unable to deny Sam anything he wanted, even when it was something Sam himself didn't know how to ask for. He could still remember that night when Dean had stolen Sam away and outside to lay on the hood of the Impala. Sam had been six years old, Dean was only ten. His older brother had been covered in bruises, lip swollen and bloody; body injured in a way that Sam didn't understand because Dean wouldn't say why he was walking funny or why he wanted Sam to be as far away as possible from where Dad was inside, presumably sleeping off the whiskey he'd been drowning himself in. Sam had laid his head down on Dean chest, noticing the way Dean winced but he didn't make him move away. He'd heard every beat of his brother's heart as Dean recited made up stories about every star Sam pointed at; listened to the voice he loved and knew as it carved out the mould for happy dreams that night. They'd fallen asleep like that, curled around one another until dawn broke and the light of the world threatened to reveal them. Sam had glared resentfully into the new morning, missing the stars he was coming to know so well through his brother's imagination. It was the beginning of his long standing dislike for daylight and his infatuation with the night.

It was also the moment he had fallen in love with his brother.

"Sammy," Dean called from a little way away. Sam shook himself and returned to the present. Dean sauntered back over to the car, zipping himself up. "Bathroom's all yours," he said with a grin, indicating to a nearby tree.

"Still better than a motel," Sam sighed, playfully shoving his brother as he passed him.

"Yeah well, you'd better not be bitching to me if your ass gets poison oak or whatever. I'm not the one who decided to sleep alfresco," Dean chuckled, rifling through the trunk of the car for a beer.

Sam unzipped himself. "Don't like motels," he muttered under his breath. "I don't get how you can stand to be inside them. No fresh air, walls too small and narrow, always the same. Rather be outside, rather be here under our stars."

Dean was very suddenly behind Sam, pulling him into him, one arm around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. "Don't care where we are, Sammy," he growled into his neck. "So long as we're together." He bit into the soft skin of Sam's neck, sucking on the flesh as Sam's eyes fluttered and rolled slightly as he hastily zipped himself back up again.

"What if we're in prison?" Sam asked a little breathlessly, trying to turn to face his brother and being denied, held in place by strong arms. The bite on his neck intensified enough that it might actually draw blood soon if Dean didn't let up. Sam didn't want him to – he wanted his blood in Dean's mouth, on his tongue - but he wanted to hear his brother's voice, raw and gravelly with lust, more. "Huh, Dean? What if we're in hell?"

Dean broke away, panting slightly and ran his hot tongue all the way up Sam's neck to his ear, where he paused to whisper, "Whole world's goin' to hell, baby. Whole fuckin' world is coming to an end and we'll watch it burn. Hell, heaven, fuckin' two thousand years in the future…I don't care where we are. I'm always with you, always inside you."

Sam was shuddering now, cock hard and pulsating with need inside his jeans and the desire to throw Dean over his shoulder, have him land beneath him all splayed out and breathless, was overwhelming, but he stayed still because Dean was letting his mouth run away with him and that was just fine by Sam. His big brother ground his hips into Sam's ass, letting him feel the evidence of his arousal, letting him feel he was just as worked up as Sam was. Dean let out a small, breathy gasp at the contact and it echoed in Sam's ear.

"Always inside me, Dean." Sam breathed, barely able to generate the oxygen to speak at all. "'M always inside you, too. Always have been."

"Tell me," Dean growled again. "Tell me how you're mine."

Sam's eyes threatened to roll as Dean reached around and slid his hand down the front of his jeans, gripping his cock hard, rubbing the pre-come spilling from the head in circles with his thumb. Sam let out a throaty whine, trying not to jerk around and crush Dean's mouth to his.

Dean was rolling his hips up into Sam's ass with some semblance of rhythm now, hand moving in perfect time with each little thrust.

"Was always yours, Dean," Sam groaned, trying to push back into his brother, desperate for some more skin to skin contact, knowing he wouldn't get any until he gave Dean what he wanted.

"Say it, Sammy. Say you're mine," Dean panted against his neck, teeth dragging over the raw sensitive patch of previously abused flesh as his grip tightened and quickened around Sam's cock.

"I'm y-yours, Dean, and you're mine. Always..."

And despite the bliss, the devastating ecstasy thrumming through his entire body, his mind drifted back to that night when everything had changed forever….


-One Year Ago-

It had been seven long, hellish weeks since Sam had seen his brother Dean and that time had been spent in ways Sam didn't really want to think about. This marked one of the longest times they had ever stayed in the same place and it was only because their father, John Winchester, had found something he liked enough to stay a while. As it turned out, that was having his youngest all to himself.

The town was small, brimming with inbred rednecks and the heat at night was unbearable. Sam imagined it to be what hell was like. Dean had been sent away for his first real job, alone. It was supposed to be only for a week or so, until John had called him and given him a new one before he'd even got back to the shitty motel. Then another. And another.

Sam had wanted to scream out to Dean while he spoke to their father on the phone; wanted to beg him to come back because he needed his big brother to protect him. But John's eyes had never left Sam the whole time he was talking to Dean; his little soldier would never disobey a direct order. John had trained him extremely well in that department. He'd told Dean that Sam was fine; off playing soccer with some local boys. Off studying. Off elsewhere and completely fine.

Completely fine.

The first week had been relatively uneventful. Sam's relationship with his father was, at best, disinterested. Sam had grown up with the knowledge of what John frequently did to Dean. Sam knew why Dean was so bruised, bloody and sore; had always known to some extent. He heard the noises at night, the only pleas Dean ever uttered were not to wake Sammy. Don't wake Sammy, don't let Sammy hear. This is enough, right, Dad? You won't go near Sammy, right Dad? Then Dean would crawl into bed with Sam, hold him close while until the sounds of their father moving around next door stopped and they could only hear guttural snores. Then Dean would press his face into Sam's neck, right along the hairline and finally fall asleep. Holding Sammy safe, keeping him where he could always protect him, even though John had sworn that he'd never go near Sam.

And John Winchester had always retained the ability to lie flawlessly.

The weeks building up to Dean's inevitable departure, John was making an obvious effort to be nice to Sam, which made Sam distinctly uncomfortable. He was seventeen, not far off eighteen, when Dean finally gave in and agreed to take his first solo job. He'd been ready to do it since he'd been Sam's age, but he never wanted to leave Sam alone. Time alone was difficult for them both. Now at twenty one, he had no reason to disobey his father outright. He'd left, promising Sam he'd be back soon.

That was seven weeks ago and a lot had happened in that time.

It seemed that without Dean there to mediate, John was even worse than usual. He drank more, talked less and was more violent than Sam had ever seen him. Of course, that didn't mean for one moment that Sam was going to be less argumentative; not in the slightest. All their years of training, getting up at 4am to run laps and then spar with John until neither could stand hadn't been for nothing. Sam could take a beating and John knew that; always tried to break Sam whenever he hit him, always tried to make him cry.

It was a week and half into Sam's first stretch of time without Dean when John finally found a way to make his youngest son cry.

The fight was one of the worst ever. Sam had made the fatal mistake of screaming how much their mother, Mary, would be sickened by what John had become. He knew instantly he'd gone too far, even for his teenage provocations and boundary challenges. The blood had drained from John's face so quickly it was almost funny when it returned with a gruesome flush; Sam felt like the bones in his body had turned to jell-o.

The punch made Sam see spots; made his vision blur and his hearing dipped in and out with distortion. He fell to the floor, room spinning and he didn't feel himself being flipped over until there was hot breath on his neck, curses being whispered with his name tangled up in them and then…then there was rough carpet on his bare skin and he knew his father had cut his clothes off.

"You wanna fuck with me?" John was snarling in his ear. "Huh? That what you want? You wanna push and push, little Sammy? I'll show you how far you can push me, you stupid bitch!"

Pain unlike anything Sam had ever felt before shot through his nervous system before alerting his brain to the fact that his father's fingers were pushing into his tight, unwilling ass. He was screaming words he didn't even know, trying to invent some curse there and then on the spot that would kill his father, but John just clamped a large hand over his mouth and crushed down on him with his full weight.

"Stay still you little bastard!" he was scathing, as if he had never hated anyone more. "Not like your brother, are you? Not a good little boy like your brother at all. Well, y'know what? Struggle all you want, 'cos it's happening!"

And then there had been something blunt and huge pressing against Sam's entrance and his blood ran cold at the thought, only moments before it came to fruition, that he was going to be quite literally torn apart.

The pain was too much; it was like something shredding every nerve in his body, it rang in his brain, ricocheted off every bone in his body and set him alight with agony. He couldn't even scream against his father's massive, salty hand. He could barely breathe as it was.

"Ohhh fuck yeah!" John grunted, forehead pressed between Sam's shoulder blades. "So fuckin' tight, such a little slut aren't ya? You a virgin, Sammy? Huh? Were you a virgin?"

Tears free flowing over his father's hand, Sam was determined not to answer, not to give him the pleasure of knowing what it was he had taken. He kept his eyes clamped tight shut, trying to think of Dean…Dean who would be back soon, Dean who would make everything OK again, Dean who would always protect him.

John laughed, low and dirty and seemed innately pleased with Sam's lack of an answer. "Shock to me, boy. Thought your brother would have had your ass by now. Think I don't see the way he looks at you, way his eyes track you every…fuckin'…move!" he grunted even louder, thrusts starting to speed up and there was a kind of lubrication that hadn't been there before. His own blood, probably. "Did you know he wants you, Sammy? Did you…did you know he jerks off in the shower, crying your name when he comes?"

A dry sob wrenched up from Sam's throat, choking him as it had nowhere to go beyond John's hand. He tried not to listen to his father's words, because of course he knew…like he hadn't been doing it himself for years. Like Dean hadn't broke down and told him how much he loved him when Sam had been only thirteen…like Sam hadn't pressed his first clumsy, awkward kiss to Dean's lips that same day and watched as Dean smiled – really fucking smiled – and pulled him in gently to show him how it was done. Like they didn't spend every moment they had alone curled up in one another, tracing scars with fingertips, mapping each other's bodies with their tongues and mouths. Like Sam hadn't begged Dean to fuck him a thousand times, for Dean to reply a thousand times that they would wait until Sam was eighteen. That seemed almost funny now.

"Stupid bitch, think I don't know Every. Fucking. Thing. About you!" Each word punctuated with a thrust, each thrust getting deeper and rougher and Sam wanted it to over so bad he thought he might go blind from the effort of willing it. "Too late now, Sammy…make you my little whore like I made him mine all those…years…unghhh, fuck!"

The torturous rhythm faltered and the deepest thrust yet made Sam scream into his father's hand loud enough that it made his own ears ring. There was something sickening and warm filling him from the inside and he wanted to die thinking that it wasn't Dean…hadn't been Dean.

Finally, John pulled out, softening cock making a sick, wet noise as it did. He left Sam on the floor without so much as a backward glance, only a vague instruction to, "Clean up."

Sam had been sick before he'd been able to cry. After that it had taken a while for the horror to settle in with the realisation that for all the time Dean was away, John would want this from Sam. Want to fuck him, rape him, own him in a way he never could while Dean was around because Dean might have been his little soldier, but John wasn't stupid enough to seriously fuck with Sam in front of Dean. Sam belonged to Dean and everyone knew that; even teachers, when Dean had gone in lieu of John to all Sam's parent-teacher conferences. No-one had questioned his devotion and love for Sam, no-one ever would.

Every day, sometimes more than once in a day, John had done exactly what he wanted to with Sam. Every day Sam sat under the shower until the water ran freezing and his teeth were chatting behind blue lips. Every day Sam screamed against his father's hand, begged to sell his soul for the power to kill his father, but no demon even showed. Maybe that was why John always had his hand over his son's mouth; maybe he knew what his son would scream for. Every day Sam would bleed and ache and want to die just that little bit more for being too weak to stop his father from taking something that had only ever been meant for Dean.

Seven weeks of hell and it didn't matter because Dean was coming back, was due back any moment and Sam wanted to see him so bad he thought his heart was going to break through his ribs. John hadn't been able to find another job quick enough and Dean hadn't been willing to listen to the list of 'Possible Cases'. He'd told John he was coming back and then hung up.

Sam had been in the room when John slammed the receiver down several times more than necessary; hadn't been able to prevent that triumphant little smile. John crossed the room in a matter of second, slamming Sam against the nearest wall, smashing a glass picture in the process.

"You breathe a fuckin' word of this to your brother and it won't be you who pays the price…oh no, little Sammy. I'll take it out on Dean, I swear I will fuck him to pieces if you so much as think about it near him," he sneered into Sam's ear. "You get me, boy?"

Sam nodded, slamming his eyes closed against the cleverly worded mental imagery placed there by his bastard of a father. He knew what pressure points to go for, he knew where to hit Sam where it would hurt the most.

Now Sam was waiting by the door, sitting on the nearest bed. John was out, sorting out some cash for their next little road trip. He'd been nowhere near Sam that day, been poring over papers and journals. Looking for the next job, he supposed. Not that he cared in the slightest. The only thing in Sam's world anymore was Dean; everything had narrowed to Dean and whatever else was outside of that didn't matter – never would again.

When the door opened just a crack, Sam sprung off the bed like it was electrified. Dean's face came into view just before he threw himself into his brothers arms. Dean dropped his bags in time to catch Sam, even though he was a little taller than he was. Sam threw himself around his brother, burying his face in his neck, wrapping his legs around his waist.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean breathed, hugging Sam so tight his ribs were groaning in protest. Sam didn't care. He didn't want to separate, wanted to fuse them into one being, one soul, one body. "Sam, hey, you OK?" Dean asked after a few minutes of silent, desperate hugging. He gently pulled Sam's wrists away from his neck, forcing Sam to look up from the safety of the little hollow Dean's neck created.

He took a breath, smiled for Dean and said, "I am now you're here."

Dean threw his bags inside and closed the door behind him, casting a quick, wary glance around in search of their father.

"He's out," Sam filled in breathlessly. "All alone."

"Fuckin' finally," Dean groaned and pulled Sam into him, mouth's meeting perfectly; all need and want and heat and love. "Jesus, Sammy, fuckin' missed you so bad. Felt like I was torn in half," he moaned into Sam's mouth. "Never again, I swear. Not unless I can take you with me."

Sam didn't, couldn't, respond; could only throw himself into Dean as much as possible. He carded his fingers through his brother's hair, soft and longer than it had been before. Dean let out a low, deep rumble in his throat and yanked Sam even closer, twin erections grinding together.

"Wanna go with you, Dean," Sam sobbed against Dean's mouth, trying to hold himself together, though he felt like he was shaking apart. "D-don't leave me again."

Dean froze and Sam fucking hated himself for not being strong enough to protect Dean from this, when Dean had gone through the same and much worse for years.

When he drew back, his eyes were cautious and trained on Sam with an almost frightening precision as if he was reading Sam's mind.

"What?" he asked, softly, with an almost inaudible urgency. "What do you mean?"

"Just that I missed you," Sam said, trying to reclaim his brother's lips in an attempt to recover from his little slip up. "C'mon, Dad'll be back soon."

But Dean held Sam away, gently held him back. "You're lying, Sam. Tell me what's wrong. Did he….did he do something to you?"

Sam couldn't look away, couldn't open his mouth and create all those beautiful lies the way Dean and John knew how. He couldn't do anything except wait for Dean to realise why he couldn't speak, wait for his brother to read his mind the way he always could.

The realisation seemed to hit Dean hard, like a real honest to God punch to the face. He gasped once, back convulsing like he was going to throw up and his hand came up to his mouth as if to prevent it.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam began to cry. "I'm so sorry…I'm sorry, please, please don't hate me, Dean! I tried to stop him, I did try…I didn't want it, I swear!"

Dean shook his head once and Sam though for one terrifying moment that Dean was going to hate him, blame him….but then he took the hand from his mouth – Sam shuddered with the memory of what that felt like – and drew Sam into his arms, the only place Sam had ever wanted to be.

"Don't even think stupid ass shit like that," Dean insisted furiously. "I hear one more word like that, like you gotta say sorry to me for anything, and I'll kick your ass, you hear me?"

Shakily, Sam nodded, gripping Dean so tight he thought he might actually bond them forcefully into one creature, two backs and one soul. But it was Dean who separated them again, tear tracks down his dirty face, even though he was smiling.

"Listen to me, Sammy. We're leaving him, we're leaving tonight, you understand me?"

Sam stared wide eyed into his brother's eyes, wondering if he was actually serious…if it was even possible for them.

"Leaving?" he echoed, trying to make his poor, tired brain process the information.

"Leaving," Dean confirmed. "I want you to go pack some things, OK, baby? Pack everything you need, as quick as you can and then meet me out by the car. We'll take it, along with his bullshit I.D's too so he can't track us as quickly as he he'd like." He took Sam's face in his hands and shook Sam once. "Sam? You hear me?"

Sam nodded, corner of his mouth curling up in anticipation at the future he could see with Dean. He pressed one more kiss to Dean's lips, full on and wanting, and then went to pack. He threw everything he had into a couple of bags with badly trembling hands, grabbed the gun under his father's pillow and went to go outside, but he froze when he heard the noises.

He knew John's voice almost as well as he knew Dean's and there was no mistaking the unprecedented sounds of them screaming at each other in the parking lot.

His knees felt like they were going to give out, he was so fucking terrified. Fingers shaking, he pushed the door open enough to see Dean aiming a gun right in John's face, screaming the most terrible words at him he could think of. John was yelling and roaring right back, calling Dean every name under the sun, insisting that Sam was an attention seeking little whore who Dean was too in love with to see it.

"THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO DO THAT TO HIM?" Dean screamed, gun shaking badly in his hand. John's eyes flickered back and forth from the weapon to his eldest son's eyes. "HE'S A FUCKING KID! YOUR FUCKING SON! MY FUCKING BROTHER!"

"I DIDN'T TOUCH HIM AND YOU KNOW IT! WHY WOULD I SULLY MY HANDS WITH THAT LITTLE BITCH WHEN I CAN GET WHATEVER I WANT FROM MY GOOD LITTLE SOLDIER?"

Dean drew back the hammer on the gun and for one glorious, shining moment, Sam thought that would be it. Over. Done. Dead. Gone.

But then there were sirens, flashing lights and the look on John's fucking face…he'd planned the whole thing. Knew Dean would come back, knew Sam would tell Dean, knew he'd pull the gun, threaten him…probably called the cops hours ago.

Sam fell to his knees as Dean fought like nothing Sam ahd ever seen. He killed one of the cops there and then, almost tore his head clean off. But more arrived and eventually, they had him on the ground, bleeding and snarling the most violent threats at their father, so much that the cops smacked him around the head with a baton just to make him stop. He was dragged away, muttering, "Sammy," as if it was the only word he remembered. The world was darkening and Sam felt like he was falling into a pit of black hell, never to see the stars again, never to see Dean again.

The last words he heard before he passed out were his father's.

"Got you all to myself now, little Sammy."

Dean had been given ten years in a State Penitentiary, Utah. He'd served six months of that sentence before Sam managed to get away long enough to go see him. The punishment would be severe, but Sam was beyond caring at that point. So much time alone without Dean had done things to him and he would never be the same again anyway.

The visiting room was full of people, but Sam could only see Dean. His big brother's hair was longer and he'd obviously been working out because he was built up more than Sam had ever seen him. Decked out in only jeans and one of Dean's old t-shirts, Sam was unaware of the men staring at him, muttering things they'd love to do to him under their breath. It didn't matter because Dean was in the room.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, smiling with what could only be described as genuine happiness. "Fuck, man!" He yanked Sam into a hug before anyone could even yell at them to sit down and stop pushing their luck. When they did finally sit down in their allocated, plastic chairs, their hands were so tightly intertwined that they might never separate again. "Christ, baby, you look so good. Everything I see in here, I see you, Sammy."

"I know, Dean, I'm going crazy too," Sam said, trying to keep himself together.

Dean smiled that smile and touched Sam's cheek with the back of his fingers. "Even ugliness looks beautiful because of you. Even though I'm here, I visit you every night, little brother. Never a moment you're not in my mind."

Sam swallowed a sob, grasping at Dean's hand tightly. "Dean, listen. Dad…he's moving me away with him so you can't find us when you get out. He's lost it, Dean, I mean seriously lost it! He keeps saying about how he's gonna tell the cops that you raped me, make it impossible for you to get out of here, ever!"

Dean's eyes hardened, Sam recognised the look; he'd seen it a million times. Dean being brave for him. "He can't keep us apart, Sammy. He'll try, that fucking bastard, but he'll lose."

"He said if you ever show up, he'll kill you," Sam sobbed and a flash of pain shot through Dean's face as if he couldn't bear to see it.

"Oh yeah? I highly fucking doubt that," he snarled. Then he softened, as though he didn't want those precious few moments with Sam to be about anything besides the two of them.

Sam's hands went automatically to Dean's trousers, unzipping them and trying to get inside to make it better, to give Dean something because he had taken everything away, taken his freedom, his life…all because he couldn't be strong enough. He didn't realise he was crying until Dean's hand caught at his wrist very gently and he thumbed Sam's chin to make up look up.

"Sshhh," he whispered. "Sammy, this is not your fault, you got me? It doesn't matter where the fuck he takes you. Fuckin' Timbuktu, it doesn't matter. I'll find you, baby brother. We're fate, you and me, and no-one can stop fate. Nobody can. No human, no demon, nothing."

Sam stared into his brother's eyes, trying to build himself up enough to go back, go away, go somewhere that didn't have Dean. He mouthed the words, "Love you, Dean."

Dean pulled him close, finger gripping the back of his neck. "Mine, Sammy. You're mine, never forget it."

Sam nodded, closing his eyes. "I gotta go, Dean. He'll know I've come to see you and I can't make it worse than it already is."

Dean's jaw worked as he let go of Sam slowly, reluctantly. "One of these nights, baby boy, you just wait. I'll be coming for you."

The story of Dean's escape was something Sam would make him tell over and over again.

Another two months later and a guard was stupid enough to think that Dean would be an easy target for a little mouth rape in the solitude of his cell. Dean didn't hesitate to take the opportunity. Let the dumbass guard get close enough to think it might actually happen, and then he struck, latching onto his throat – nice and quiet. Took his keys, uniform, shoes – everything. Left the dead asshole in his bed, wearing his stupid inmate pyjamas. Moron even had remote central locking so he could jack the car straight out of the car park, nice and easy.

It was the dead of night when Sam heard the car pull up, not the rumble of Impala, but he knew who it was anyway. He hadn't been able to sleep that night anyway, tossing and turning listening to the sounds of their father in the next bed, moaning and cursing. When he heard the car, saw the lights…he just knew.

He was out of bed, wearing nothing but boxers just as John sat bolt upright, eyes locking onto Sam.

"Where the fuck do you think you're goin'?" he demanded, words slurred with the remnants of whiskey in his system and the vestiges of his troubled sleep.

Before Sam had a chance to start screaming at John, the door burst open and Dean was there, looking far too fucking beautiful in a guard's uniform.

"Hey Dad! I'm back!" he announced, almost cheerfully. He saw John about to go for the gun under the pillow, but was quicker than his old man. He delivered a vicious kick to John's face that sent him rolling out of the bed and onto the floor. Sam ran to Dean's side, feeling more alive than he knew was possible before and the sense of completion was overwhelming.

"You arrogant prick," John was snarling as he righted himself, not even trying to get the gun now. His nose was bleeding, but he seemed to have woken up considerably. "You think you can just stroll in here and take my little whore without my permission? You wanted a taste of him, Dean-O, all you had to do was ask. You know I'd always share with you, son."

Dean's lip curled back, but he didn't move from the doorway.

"You will never touch him again," he said in a frighteningly calm voice.

John laughed – actually laughed - at that. "I will find you wherever you go, both of you. I'm the one who taught you how to live off grid, remember? Or has all the gang rape in prison fucked with your brain, Dean? I know you both too well. I'll find you and when I do, you're never gonna see each other again."

For a minute, Sam thought John had gone too far, pressed Dean too hard and he was terrified that Dean was going to do something reckless, like attack him. Their father might have been getting on in years, but he was still one tough son of a bitch.

But Sam needn't have worried. Dean reached behind him and pulled out a gun, glinting cheerily in the meagre light from outside.

"I know, Dad. You think I don't know you'll come after us? Like you said, you taught us well. Never leave alive anything that can hunt you down, right?" Dean said, in a tone that might have been an echo of the responsible, obedient little soldier he once was. John's face fell a little and his eyes latched onto the gun.

"Don't you fuckin' dare," he said, very softly.

"Goodbye," Dean said once, before firing all six bullets into the man before them.

The body hit the floor with a crash that would probably louder to Sam and Dean than anyone else because with that body, went their incarceration. Freedom crashed over them hard, making them dizzy and Sam couldn't stop himself from pulling Dean's mouth right onto his, kissing him desperately. The adrenaline was burning through his blood like a gunpowder trail and he couldn't think of anything else besides Dean who was kissing him back just as eagerly, just as messily and with no finesse whatsoever. The kiss was consuming, violent almost and the need behind it was staggering.

Somehow, they managed to pull away long enough to grab some things and get outside. Dean could barely unlock the car for how much he couldn't stop kissing Sam. They couldn't bear to be parted for more than a few seconds and once inside the Impala it was no different. They drove recklessly, screaming and cheering and kissing when they should have been looking at the road, but they didn't care. Sam felt free and it was a powerful feeling. The world was theirs…everything was possible now and he wanted to go out into that world and watch it burn, just to see the fire reflected in Dean's eyes. Wanted the world to be dark forever so he could see their stars.

They drove through the night until they reached a bridge, a massive expanse of water beneath them. Dean pulled over, changing clothes and tossing the guard uniform down into the river with disgust. Sam couldn't stop touching him, kissing him…wanted to beg Dean to fuck him in the car, on the side of the fucking road at this point…he didn't care. Surely they had waited long enough. Surely now was their time and Dean wasn't going to come up with any more bullshit reasons to wait, right?

Sam was moments away from actually begging, when Dean took him by the hand and pulled him to the edge of the bridge, against the railing. The view was beautiful, stretching endlessly but Sam had a hard time seeing anything outside of Dean's face.

"Sammy, it's time to grow up." Dean's voice was soft; stripped of the swagger and charm he wore for the outside world. "We're leaving everything else behind. From now on, it's just you and me. Together. Gonna burn this world up. Got the road to hell in front of us." He paused for a moment as if contemplating something and then he seemed to settle on it. "Marry me, Sammy."

It should have been an indication of some sort that the first thought in Sam's head wasn't, 'What the hell? Why the fuck is he asking me that? I can't marry my own brother!' It should have been, but it wasn't.

Instead, he found himself smiling, heart threatening to explode into a thousand shards of completely fucked up, totally insane but utterly real happiness. "Of course I'll marry you. If that's what you want."

Dean tilted his head slightly. "You don't?"

Sam stroked a hand loosely through Dean's hair, watching his eyelashes flutter. "Dean, I'm already yours in every way it could ever matter. Some heterosexual religious bullshit ritual doesn't make anything official to me."

"I know, but I want…I want this to be the start of us. And I want us to be married. I love you, Sammy, and I want us to be marked by that. Branded by it."

The words were low and full of promise and just like that, Sam was dizzy with need again though he managed to keep himself together enough to enquire, "But where are gonna get married?"

Dean looked out across the water and then back at Sam. "Right here, Sammy. This is our world now. Gimme your hand."

Unable to stop smiling, Sam held it out and watched as Dean took out a small, sharp knife. He didn't flinch as Dean sliced it across his palm, then did the same to his own and pressed their hands together, blood mingling irretrievably. It was already their blood, had always been but Sam understood and felt the same need for the gesture. Their lives were always going to be blood and violence, sex and passion beyond articulation…he didn't want wedding bells and flowers and a condo. He wanted Dean's blood and knew Dean wanted his. Wanted to wear the scar forever as a ring. Their blood dripped down into the river beneath and Sam sighed, "We'll be living in all the oceans now."

When Sam looked back up at Dean there was an intensity he had never seen there before and he felt the same thing stir inside of him.

"You, Sam Winchester, are mine," Dean said evenly, though his eyes were blazing. "And I, Dean Winchester, am yours until this world ends again and again and again and in hell, I'll still be yours."

With a slightly shaky breath, Sam said, "You, Dean Winchester, are mine. And I, Sam Winchester, am yours until we burn the sun right out of the sky forever and I'll still be yours in the darkness, in death, in hell itself."

Dean smiled and looked as though he'd lost his breath there for a moment. He brought Sam to his mouth, pressing one bloody handprint against Sam's cheek as they kissed, turning on the spot, encircled by the wind and their world around them.

Humanity had no idea what was coming their way.


"…Always, Dean, fucking always," Sam panted, moving back hard against his brother, returning from the memories with a little dizziness.

"You're mine and I'm yours, baby," Dean was saying over and over as the hand he had around Sam's waist reached for the hand that bore the twin scar, still fresh and sore. Sam groaned at the shifted angle and desperately tried to break out of his bones and skin so he could melt into Dean. "We're fate."

"Jesus Christ, Dean!" Sam cried out, so close to coming he was starting to hyperventilate. "Gotta touch you, man…gotta let me kiss you."

Dean leaned his neck around and Sam twisted to meet his brother's mouth and that was all he needed; the warm touch of those wet lips and he was coming over Dean's hand so hard his knee's felt like they were going to give out. Dean held him up from behind, worked him through it, whispering obscene promises and beautiful little catechisms to Sam while Sam could only babble back to him, lips numb, body tingling.

Finally, Dean relinquished his iron grip on Sam enough so he could turned around and pull Dean's face directly to his own and claim those lips in a brutal, breathless kiss. Sam palmed Dean's cock through his jeans, still rock hard and hot even through the material. He went to drop to his knees, but Dean caught him by the elbows and brought him back up again.

"Have to make tracks, Sammy," he said with a wry smile. "C'mon."

"We can't stay here?" Sam pouted.

Dean shook his head, licking his fingers clean – an oxymoron in itself. "Nah, we gotta find us a motel. A nice one," he added quickly before Sam could object. "Nice big double bed with a headboard so I can lay my fucking gorgeous little brother down on it and tie him up."

A wave of fresh arousal shot through Sam and his cock twitched with renewed interest.

"Oh yeah?" he breathed, lips hovering over Dean's in a way that he could feel the heat without ever touching them. "What you gonna do to me, Dean?"

Dean's eyes were so dark they were almost black, pupils blown wide enough that he looked almost like a demon. "You're eighteen, Sammy. We're married. I don't think I can wait another fuckin' minute to bury myself inside you baby and damn if it's gonna be our first time rolling around in some prickly patch of tumbleweeds along Highway 666," he growled softly, palms flat against Sam's chest, moving up and down.

Sam felt like he could have come again just from hearing those words leave Dean's lips, swallowed up almost immediately by Sam's mouth, so close to his brother's.

"Thought you said you didn't care where we were, so long as we were together," Sam whispered, letting his lips brush ever so slightly over Dean's and his brother jumped, as hypersensitive as he was. The hands moving over his chest slid downwards over Sam's thighs, playing just a few inches from where Sam wanted them to be.

"Really, really wanna tie you up," Dean mouthed, only the consonants audible at all.

"Can tie me up anywhere, Dean," Sam teased, even though he was starting to vibrate with desire himself. "Hell or elsewhere."

"Sammy, get in the fucking car," Dean said, rough and desperate. "Before I lose my mind."

"Oh you're gonna lose it, big brother," Sam whispered, bringing his hand up to play lightly with one of Dean's nipples, reveling in the little sound it generated deep in Dean's throat. "Count on that."

That was too much for Dean, for either of them really but Sam sensed he had pushed Dean as far as he could possibly go before those boundaries and restraints that had made him wait until Sam was eighteen, even until they were bonded by their own strange little ceremony, exploded in the face of the burning need he had to have Sam, to lose himself inside of him.

He dragged Sam to the car, yanked open the backseat and pushed him inside. Sam went, unable to tear his gaze from his brother the entire time. He began to undress, unbutton his shirt, but Dean's fingers stopped him. For a moment, they just stared at one another, caught in the moment so completely that anyone looking would have blushed just to glimpse the intensity.

"Sammy," Dean breathed, as if it was a holy word…travesty of a prayer. "My Sammy."

Sam's hands held onto Dean's shoulders, sliding up his neck. "Yours," he said with meaning.

When the moment broke, with it went all their patience and refinement. Clothes were torn at, flung carelessly onto the front seat. Sam shucked out of his jeans, boxers going with them and he kicked them out of the car, door still open behind Dean. It was a scrabble to remove every last possible trace of anything that could come between them. They needed to be flesh against flesh, bones to bones and screaming halves of the same soul allowed to meet. They bumped elbows, knees and heads more than once, but neither cared. Their mouths were always somehow attached. Lips hot and wet, roving and searching for contact of that skin that contained them. Dean bit into Sammy's neck, licking and sucking at the flesh until Sam was literally shaking apart with need. When Sam began to beg, Dean drew back and kissed him, silencing him effectively. Then he broke it only long enough to fumble gracelessly around in his bag on the floor of the backseat for lube, applying it generously over his fingers. He fitted his mouth over Sam's again, chest to chest and pressed a finger into Sam's ass, slow at first but deeper once he seemed to realise, through Sam's insistent urging, that he could take more. Two fingers next, moving in and out, scissoring gently and Sam broke the kiss for some much needed air.

"C'mon, Dean, not gonna break," he panted, lifting one leg up around Dean's naked hips. "Fuck me already."

Dean groaned at the words, fingers slipping out and Sam tried not to whimper at the loss of contact.

"Mine, Sammy," he gasped as if they were the only words he knew and he was lining himself up, one hand on Sam's face, fingers caressing and trailing over his lips, into the wet warmth.

When he pushed inside, Sam let out a cry and Dean stilled, obviously afraid he had hurt him. Sam bit his fingers and pushed himself down, desperately needing more. The bittersweet bliss started to build in his stomach, pain and pleasure blending into one perfect sensation tearing through his veins, leaving fire in it's wake. Dean let out a noise Sam had never heard him make before as he withdrew a little and then pushed in deeper than before. It was fucking perfect, too much bliss and completion and Sam thought he might actually pass out if he couldn't control his breathing. He lifted both legs now, managing to get them over Dean's shoulders despite the low roof of the car.

"Harder," he instructed. "Deeper, need you inside me, Dean, c'mon!"

His older brother seemed helpless but to obey. He started to push inside, those last remaining threads of concern snapping spectacularly as Sam clenched around him purposefully driving him wild. His hips seemed to move of their own accord and Dean was making the most fucking exquisite sounds Sam had ever heard, nonsensical babble pouring from his mouth in the rare moments he wasn't kissing the sanity right out of Sam.

When Dean shifted angle, something sparked inside of Sam that made his whole body arch up into his brother; fire and pleasure and oh holy fuck let him do that again!

"Fuck, Dean do that again!" he begged, hand so tight in Dean's hair it must have hurt. Dean obliged, hitting the same spot over and over until Sam thought he was going to bust right out of his skeleton. His cock was leaking, trapped between their sweat slicked bodies and he could feel the second orgasm of the night coiling in his stomach, building pressure behind it to such an extent he was afraid he might not be able to take it.

"Sammy, come for me Sammy," Dean said into his mouth and that was too much…the orgasm ripped through Sam, erupting through him and he let out a scream he never thought people actually made during sex. Dean swallowed it down greedily, one hand moving to the mess between their stomach's where Sam had come without him even touching his cock. "So fuckin' beautiful, baby, so fuckin' beautiful."

"Dean, Dean…mine, Dean….you're mine," Sam panted heavily, body still trembling in the aftershocks of his orgasm. "Love you so fucking much, big brother."

Dean's hips were losing rhythm, body being dragged to the place where the most basic need was taking over and he couldn't stop staring at Sam beneath him as if he had never seen anything like it.

"S-Sammy," he managed before he slammed himself deep into Sam's ass with a deep, guttural sound spilling from his throat. He came hard and deep inside Sam, spilling himself entirely until his arms gave out and he collapsed against his baby brother, who was still breathing heavily.

It was minutes later before either could generate the ability to speak again. Lips against Sam's collarbone, Dean said, "Love you, Sammy. So much I can't even say it."

"Don't need to," Sam replied, hands running over Dean's back. "Never need to say it."

"This is where we begin, y'know? Sam and Dean Winchester. Together. Every great thing we do starts right here." Dean eased off of Sam a little, pulling out and Sam was left feeling oddly empty. He trailed open mouth kisses down Sam's body as he retreated backwards. "You wanna hit a motel?"

"No," Sam whispered, sitting up on his elbows. "I wanna sleep on the hood of the car, with you."

And Dean Winchester, who had never been very good at denying his brother anything, could only smile in return and helplessly comply.


A/N - I know there are mistakes abound in this, but I'm too tired to really go through it for them. I wrote this in like, four days flat. It TOOK OVER MY LIFE, literally. I really hope it's enjoyable and that it's not too OOC with regards to the boys. As I said, a working knowledge of NBK is going to make it easier, but is not entirely necessary.

Review? Yeah, go on. Please?

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Bex

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