Hey, everyone! Sorry this took so long! Got caught up working on my other Supernatural fics and my thesis papers for my classes (notice how that's plural - lol). I'm on a Supernatural fanfic binge, for some reason! I do wanna say thank you to those that reviewed! It makes me really happy to know people enjoy my writings and reviews are the only way we really know. So, thank you again!

Please enjoy the second part to this!

Disclaimer: I own the plot and that's it.



Dean groaned, brain pounding against his skull, radiating down his neck. He shifted slightly. Feeling a body beneath him, his eyebrows furrowed, trying to recall who he had fallen asleep with. He could not remember picking up anyone. He clenched his eyes before slowly opening them. The room blurred, slowly coming into focus and, once it set in that it was their motel room, he could not think of bringing someone back to the room. He shut his eyes and pressed against the person's body, slowly turning his head to press it against the other's soft hair. He inhaled the scent, knitting his brows again when the smell was familiar. He opened his eyes back and brought his hand to run it through and move their hair; his heart fell into his stomach when he saw the sleeping form of his brother's face.

He inhaled sharply and pushed himself up on his arms, groaning when a light pain throbbed in his lower back. Mind screaming at him, he slowly brought his gaze down. Vomit rose in the back of his throat – he was still inside his brother. Heart pounding in his chest, he slowly pulled out, cringing as the raw skin of his length scraped the raw insides of his brother, but Sam did not even move in the slightest. Hesitating, he reached his hand down to lightly grip Sam's shoulder.

"…Sammy?" He lightly shook him, eyes moving to trace the bruises lining his neck. "Oh, god…." His eyes began to sting as the consciousness of what happened began to set in. "No…no, no, no."

His mind flashed back. He could see himself attacking Sam, on top of him and forcing himself inside of him. For hours he had kept going, long after Sam was incoherent and lifeless. He also recalled being unable to stop himself, no matter how much he willed it or how much he had been screaming at himself.

It was his brother.

His goddamn brother.

Eyes burning red, he slowly traced his hands down, hovering over his brother's still-bound arms. He had to bite back the emotions flooding through his head as his shaking hands tried to untie the gray hoody; the clothing was tighter than he thought and, once he finally managed to unwrap it, Sam's arms fell to his sides. He threw it off to the side and immediately grabbed Sam's shoulder again, this time slowly turning him onto his side.

Still, he did not move.

The fact his chest was still moving was a slight bit of relief, but it did not change the cement in his stomach. He leaned up to get off of him and zip himself up, eyes darting around, trying to take in the scene around him. There was no light leaking in through the small gap in the curtains, proving it was still dark out and when his eyes quickly ran over the clock on the bedside table, it was shining a little after five in the morning. He tried to remember what time they had gotten back from the marketplace and could not think it to have been any later than nine; which raised the question: how long had it been? He leaned over Sam and rolled him onto his back, but not before his eyes caught the bruising on upper back.

"Sam?" he spoke in a low whisper, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He took his hands off of him, eyes wide in shock as they traced the marks on Sam's neck, the bruising on his upper arms and the nail marks on his sides and hips. He began blinking rapidly, trying to keep the water filling his eyes from falling. "God…Sammy," he fell out in another whisper as he touched the side of Sam's head. "I'm sorry." He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes constantly moving to the bite marks and hickies on his brother's neck. He could not even recall causing most of them, and some of them were nearly black. When his eyes went further, the emotions he kept trying to bite back finally gave way as they landed on the bruising in between his thighs. Dried blood and semen caked on the inside of his legs and, upon seeing it, his breath caught in his throat. "I'm gonna get you cleaned up, okay, Sammy?" he spoke with a forced smile, as though trying to reassure himself that Sam was going to be all right, but his eyebrows creasing his forehead as his red eyes gave way.

He ran his hand quickly through Sam's knotted hair before getting up and moving over to the bathroom, making sure to grab the empty ice bucket from the top of the table just outside the restroom. He tossed a clean, still-folded washcloth into the bucket as he waited for the water to heat up. While he waited for it, used a soaked hand towel to clean himself up, then tossed it onto the floor in the pile with an already-soiled towel from the previous day. Once the water was up to temperature, he shoved the bucket under the faucet and leaned on the sink, bringing his head up to stare at his own, tired reflection in the small mirror. The pain in his lower back was lightly throbbing and, along with soreness from his groin, was a constant reminder. When Sam woke up, he did not even know what to do or what to say.

What was there to say?

His thoughts were cut short when he brought his gaze down to turn off the water and grab the bucket, leaving the restroom. Sam had shifted and was curled into the fetal position, still asleep. Dean sighed and walked next to the bed, set the bucket on the bedside table and sat on the edge, his hand on the side of Sam's head. Soft eyes gazed at him, remorse hazing over.

"We'll clean you up and you'll be good as new, all right?" his voice shook and he brought his hand up to wipe a drop that fell down his cheek. He inhaled and took his hand away and reached his hand into the bucket. The hot water was a nice welcome, but it made him feel worse.

Being able to feel anything seemed wrong.

Shaking his head, he carefully rolled Sam back onto his back, inwardly cringing at the thought of the bruises he was undoubtedly putting pressure on. As lightly as he could, he touched Sam's lower thigh to put it into a bend to spread his legs. His head glanced up to look at Sam's face and make sure he was not waking him; the only response he garnered was Sam's face showing pain as he turned his head to the side, right before he went calm. Dean's shoulders were tense as he began wiping the dried fluids from the inside of his brother's thighs, keeping back the vomit trying to rise in his throat, knowing that part of it was his own. Sam stayed still as Dean cleaned him up, and he was trying to keep in his mind that he had changed his diaper more than once when he was much, much younger.

For some reason, that line of thought made his stomach churn.

The washcloth made a small splash as it was tossed back into the bucket. Putting his hand on his knees, Dean pushed himself to a stand, walked to the chair where some of Sam's clothes were strewn about and sifted through them to find what his brother had been sleeping in. Gray sweatpants and a large yellow shirt, one Dean had given to him after his other shirt had become bloodstained after an attack a few weeks prior. Sam groaned when Dean moved his legs to dress him, but he went still just as quickly. Dean had to sit him up to get his shirt off so he could put the other one on, and his first thought was that there would be no way Sam could sleep through it; his surprise came when his brother's body was able to be manipulated like a ragdoll.

The air of relief was quickly replaced with guilt.

Sam was usually woken up by the slightest movement. The trauma his body had gone through for him to stay unconscious….

Keeping him in a sitting position, Dean worked around him to get the covers out from underneath him. Slowly laying him back down, he lifted his legs to get the rest of the covers from under him before covering him with the sheets. Sam shifted once he was covered and grabbed the covers to entangle himself as he rolled onto his side. Seeing his face peaceful, being around him was too much to handle.

He needed air – needed to clear his head.

He grabbed his coat and, taking one last glance to Sam, left the motel room, walking out onto the early morning streets.


Blue flashed in front of blackness.

Sam's voice echoed, screaming for Dean to stop.

Red mixed into the blue, creating a dark purple swirl on the dark canvas.

"I'm sorry," Dean's voice echoed, but it seemed so far away.

The liquid vanished and only darkness remained, but Sam found himself saying the only thing he could think of:

"It's okay."

His eyes opened and he was introduced to staring at the table by the wall with items scattered about it. It took a moment for him to register where he was and, once that happened, light memories of the previous night came back and he clamped his eyes shut, trying to will them away. They came back full-throttle when he rolled onto his back and pain shot up and down his spine. His eyes welled up without his consent from the throbbing sensations radiating from his legs to his shoulders. He shut his eyes, waiting for the pain to fade. He became curious when it registered that there was silence in the room, other than the running air conditioner. His eyelids lifted up and he stared at the ceiling, listening for the bathroom fan.

Still silence.

He tried to sit up, cringing and releasing a groan mixed with a whine as he did. The covers fell off of him and chill bumps rose on his arms from the cold air filling the room. His stomach turned over and he wrapped his arm over his abdomen, feeling a painful pressure in his lower stomach. When he opened his eyes back, he noticed that he was not wearing the same clothes he had been, but the clothes he usually slept in. He grabbed a fistful of the cloth of the shirt and looked around the room for any trace of Dean. The only thing he noticed was that it was a little past ten-thirty in the morning and there was noise of people talking outside. If it was not for the effects rattling his body, he would have been questioning if last night had even happened.

His stomach groaned as it twisted and he wrapped both of his arms around his abdomen, groaning from the pressure. He tossed the rest of the covers off of him and slowly moved his legs over the edge of the bed, trying to bite back the cry begging to escape as shocks went up and down his spine. His shoulders and back ached and, when he tried to stand, his legs nearly gave out from under him. He kept himself standing and made his way to the bathroom, a slight limp in his step. Once he was in the bathroom, he shut the door and leaned onto the sink, clamping his eyes shut when his stomach turned over and growled. The pressure made it feel as though his insides were about to explode and he fell into a crouch, one arm wrapped around his stomach as his other hand gripped the sink.


"Have a good one."

Dean nodded his thanks as the woman handed him the paper bag over the table. He gave her a small smile in response to the overzealous one she gave and turned his back to her, leaving the small bakery stand. The market street was a complete contrast to how it had been last night: where it had been crowded with people ready for a night out, now it was filled with shoppers and tourists; the only music on the streets was from one band playing Arabic-styled music outside of a boutique. A guitar case was opened in front of them; bills and change covered the base of it from people giving charity.

A sigh escaped from Dean's throat as he rolled the top of the bag to keep it closed. The last thing on his mind was food, and he was certain Sam's state was much the same, but it would give him some form of excuse as to why he left and, in a pathetic attempt, was a way to show some form of remorse and be apologetic. The thoughts in his head would not stop and continued to call him a repulsive freak; how could he do that to his brother; he should have been able to stop himself; and, because he was unable to, something inside him wanted to do it. That thought made him sick to his stomach and his eyes sting.

An electric jolt shot through his head and he held his head, pressing down on the section the pain emitted from. The image of Sam in hysterics, face down on the bed, begging for Dean to stop ran across his mind; he could hear Sam's voice echo through his head.

He was supposed to watch after his little brother – take care of him, protect him.

How could he even look Sam in the face?

Sam was going to hate him – and damn right he should.

He passed by the area where the Egyptian man's stand had been last night. It was empty, now, but shear detest formed in his gut as he recalled the blue powder being blown into his face. Anger rose within him at the memory and he begged to run into that man. If he had not infected Dean with that powder, nothing would have happened and he and Sam would have spent last night watching a crappy movie on the motel's Pay-Per-View while dining on bad fast-food. That was what they would have done and what should have been done.

The fountain came into view and, a block later, he was standing in the motel parking lot. He kept staring down the long line of doors on the first floor, eyes trailing all of the way to the door that led to their room. It had been a few hours and he knew that, by now, Sam would be awake. Part of him loathed the thought of returning and having to face him; whereas the other part of him was yelling at him for not staying by Sam's side and being there when he woke up – abandoning him, as his brain decided to word it. As he slowly began walking down the sidewalk to the room, the latter part got to him more and he began regretting leaving. He should have stayed, instead of running off like a frightened child and leaving Sam alone with no support. Then again, how could he support him when he was the one that caused him pain in the first place?

Nothing was making sense.

When he reached the door, he fumbled around with the key in his pocket, turning it over instead of inserting it into the lock. His hesitation kept him standing outside for a few minutes; the only reason he finally took his key out and unlocked the door was because one of the people from another room was watching him curiously after they had come out to go to their car. When he entered the room and shut the door behind him, the first thing he noticed was the room vacant, the bathroom door closed and he could hear the shower running. He sighed and set the bag of baked bread on the dresser the television sat on before sliding off his jacket and throwing it on the chair by the door. He sat on the edge of the bed, set his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair to sit on the back of his neck as he listened to the running water. Inhaling, he sat up, and then fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It could have only have been a few minutes before the water was shut off and he heard the sound of the shower curtain moving on the rod. Apprehension built and his heart rushed just at the thought of having to face his brother; he still did not even know what to say. He tried to think of something – anything, but everything that entered his head seemed stupid and pointless. Words could not change it and could not cover what had happened.

As the door to the bathroom finally clicked open after a few minutes passed, Dean sat back up, his head turning to face the door. Sam came out of the bathroom clad in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt; his damp hair stuck to his neck and forehead; a slight limp in his walk had Dean stand up from reflex – his usual concern for his brother's well-being running through his head. In any other scenario, seeing his brother move around in awkward pain would have him infuriated and wanting to beat the ever-living hell out of whomever or whatever caused it; the will to beat the hell out of himself was an idea; or perhaps to go out and find someone to kick the hell out of him.

Sam turned the corner to see him and stopped, as though trying to register that he was in the room. His eyes were unwavering and the air in the room filled with tense discomfort and Dean could only stare back, wanting to say something to break the tension, but he could not think of anything. Sam's view dragged across the room, avoiding Dean's gaze, and nodded to the paper bag sitting on the dresser.


Dean glanced over his shoulder to it, stumbling over his own words just to reply, "Uh…yeah."

Sam nodded an okay and moved over to it; Dean could only watch him as his brother began sifting through the bag, nearly dumbstruck. Was he trying to act as though nothing had happened? The thought made Dean's blood boil – he needed Sam to yell at him. The caught glimpse of black and purple marks on his brother's neck caused his chest to sink and only reinforced the feelings of irritation. His eyebrows were causing creases in his forehead seeing Sam pull out a sweet roll and pull a piece off.

How was he able to eat?

The mere thought of food made his stomach turn.

He watched Sam walk from the dresser to the bed, trying to force himself not to walk with a gimp. He sat down, head facing his lap as he kept picking off chunks of the roll, avoiding Dean's prying eyes. He only had one bite left when Dean could no longer stand the avoidance and the silence.

"Sam…," he drew out. Sam's eyes slowly drew up to him, but avoided making contact. "I—" He found himself unable to get out any more than that.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and looked back at the roll to take the last bite. "Don't worry about it," his brother ended up saying quickly in a dismissive manner.

Though he could not understand why, Sam's attitude triggered an aggravated and annoyed response from Dean, who was digging his nails into his palms. Sam did not seem to notice the reaction, whereas he just continued staring down at his lap, playing with the empty piece of paper in his hands. Dean could not take it, anymore. The feelings boiling inside him had him ready to explode. Perhaps that was why he completely lost it at that moment.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean found himself shouting. "Why won't you get mad? Scream at me! Yell at me! Tell me how much you hate me and that you never want to see me again! Just…stop acting like everything's okay…."

Sam stayed silent, making Dean's apprehension stay vibrant, his shoulders hunched up and face red. The seconds seemed to turn into minutes as he stood there, watching his brother fiddle around with the balled up paper in his hands from the empty roll.

Silence had never been so loud before.

It was almost deafening.

That was until Sam finally came out with: "…I can't."

Dean's entire expression dropped, face in awe. "What?" He watched as Sam shook his head lightly; still constantly turning the paper around in his hands, trying to get rid of the awkward tension rising in his body.

"I don't blame you, Dean," Sam drew out, staring down at the empty paper he held in his lap. Dean could only stare back at him in regret, awe and a slight bit of aggravation. Before he had a chance to comment, Sam shook his head and stared up at him, eyes tired. "It wasn't your fault."

Dean released a growl. "How can you say that, Sam? After I—" He could not even finish his sentence and set his hands on his hips, pulling his head away for a moment, then looking back at Sam, looking as though he might break down.

Sam only stared back at him, eyes shimmering. "Because I know you, that's why. And you wouldn't hurt me." Dean could only gawk at him in disbelief. Sam shrugged at the expression. "Not intentionally, anyway. You're my brother, and if I can't trust you, then I can't trust anyone. You always take care of me…." He stopped, a faint reassuring smile on his face with eyes still shining.

Seeing the expression of the Adoring Younger Brother playing on Sam's features, Dean's eyes began to burn and a tremble ran through him. How could Sam still look at him like that after what he had done? How was he able to stand being in the same room, acting as though Dean was not responsible?

It pissed him off.

Sam inhaled deeply, his chest shaking as he exhaled; his glazing eyes finally fell through, despite trying to stay strong. The reaction sent a pang to the older Winchester's chest. "It's okay." Dean's expression dropped. "It wasn't your fault, Dean," he repeated slowly, voice trembling. "It wasn't your fault…." He finally pulled his gaze away from him and looked down, brought up his hand and wiped his face, not wanting Dean to see him in such a state. "I'm sorry," he came out, an awkward, hitching laugh. "I'm sorry; I don't mean to…."

Dean stood staring at him; he wanted to ask him why he was apologizing and yell at him to stop. Instead, his fists clenched at his sides, he shook his head and muttered, "Shut up…." Sam's breath hitched again as he wiped his eyes with his palms, apologizing again. "Sammy"—after inhaling one more time, Sam brought his gaze up to look at Dean, who had drops on both cheeks—"just shut up." Sam gave a questioning look as Dean dropped to his level, brought his arms up and wrapped his arms around Sam's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. Hearing Dean's voice shake and rattle, it took Sam a moment, but he brought up his own arms to return the embrace as Dean kept telling him to shut up over and over.

He just wished Sam would get mad at him, yell at him and tell him he hates him. In any other family, he would hate him, scream at him for being disgusting and to never touch him again. In any other situation, the last thing Sam would be saying was that it was all right and that it was not his fault.

Perhaps it was then that Dean started to understand how abnormal their small family was.

…and just how fucked up their lives had truly become.


Poor Sam and Dean. Only having each other. Ah~ I'm going to Hell for this one, aren't I?

Let me know if you enjoyed it! And, if you want, feel free to check out my other Supernatural fics! My Bloody Valentine: A True Story is RPF and truly dark. Baited and Baited: Sign of Shadows still hold true to the dark nature of what I usually write. Lol. Self-pimping. Is that allowed?

Thanks again, everyone!