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It was surprising when Dean let Sam see the black bleed into his eyes that first time, but it wasn't that surprising. Dean liked to joke that he was sin personified -- wrath and gluttony and lust and pride wrapped up in a pretty package -- and it wasn't far off. Add a couple centuries of hellfire, some hands-on instruction in the finer points of torture and there was a pretty good recipe for evil.
Sam winces as he thinks the word. That's not quite right. Dean may be a bit unhinged, might do some things that the Dean who read Sam four different bedtime stories just to find the one that got him back to sleep after a nightmare wouldn't approve of, but he isn't evil. He doesn't kick puppies (except that one time) or kill babies (nothing that can't fight back) or grind bones to make his bread ("Dude, gross.") or anything. He's just a little darker, more intense; Dean, the concentrated formula.
He'd hunt until his body gave out on him, if Sam would let him. He relishes it even more than he used to, now that there's never any guilt in it. He gets to draw blood, pump things full of rock salt and iron, set raging fires -- it's win-win for him, and Sam can't begrudge him that. They've put down more evil shit in the past year than they ever did before Dean got himself dragged to hell. There's a lot more collateral damage, but Dean is really doing very well, confining the wrath bit to hunting. Only a few times has he picked a fight at a bar, beat some unsuspecting asshole stupid just for trying to be a big man in front of his friends that night.
Even fewer are the times when he disappears without warning and comes back sleepy, sated and covered head to toe in a thick coating of congealed blood that isn't quite dry yet.
---
Sam must have dozed off waiting for Dean, clutching his phone in one hand, because he doesn't hear the Impala roar up. The jingling of keys and change followed by the click of the door opening does the trick, though, and he blinks a few times, disoriented, as the amber light of the streetlamps lining the motel parking lot briefly floods the room.
The smell hits him before Dean even closes the door, nauseating wave of something acrid, metallic assaulting his senses. He doesn't click the lamp on to see, just tosses his phone on the nightstand and slowly pushes himself up to sitting so he can shuck his jeans and shirt and socks.
Dean does the same on the other side of the bed, doesn't bother to shower the blood off before turning down the other side of the bed and sliding in behind Sam, pulling him back into the circle of his arms, resting his cheek against Sam's.
"Pedophile, Sam. Hurtin' his little girls since they were barely old enough for school," he whispers.
Dean always tries to make it okay for him, assures Sam that the ones he takes apart slow and bloody and screaming over the course of a night have done something to undeniably deserve it. And Sam appreciates that, really he does, but every explanation breaks something inside of him a little more.
So he stays quiet and lets it break, links his fingers with Dean's, pulls his brother's arms tighter around his middle. His skin feels sticky where it touches Dean's, blood rubbing off onto his hands, too, and yeah, that's about right.
He can't offer absolution, but he can take his part of the blame.
---
Sam usually manages to distract Dean before it reaches that point, plying him with touches of lips and tongue and hands before anybody gets covered in brain matter or loses something important, like organs or limbs. Fingers and other non-essential appendages he can't make any promise on, but nobody's lost more than a kidney in a while.
Besides, the scent of blood and fear gets Dean hard enough to cut glass, so it isn't like Sam can complain if he gets a little carried away sometimes.
Nowadays, Dean fucks like he fights; wild, raw and without pulling any punches. He likes to put a little demon push behind his hands, knocks Sam around and drags him down like his muscled, 6'4 frame is slight.
Of course, sometimes he skips right over using his hands. He can hold Sam down with a few words from his twisted tongue just as easily.
---
"Gonna take it all for me like a good boy, aren't you? Gonna open up those legs and let big brother stuff you so full of cock you can taste it."
Sam whimpers and spreads his thighs as far apart as he can manage, bending his knees to bring his feet up flat against the bed. Dean loves it when Sam makes himself vulnerable without being told to.
Maintaining a firm grip on the base of Sam's cock, Dean trails his free hand down behind Sam's balls, pressing insistently against his hole with two spit-slick fingers. Sam hisses in a long breath between clenched teeth as his muscles stretch to accommodate them.
"Just look at that hungry hole, swallowing everything I give it. So fuckin' greedy, Sam."
The burn intensifies as Dean pushes in another finger too soon and smooths his thumb over the puffy, red rim of Sam's hole, tracing around where his fingers disappear into it.
"Should keep you like this all the time. Strap you down to this bed and burn all your clothes, stay here forever, fucking your tight little ass wide open."
Sam keens low in his throat, hips jerking upwards as Dean crooks his fingers, rubbing and thrusting with precise little movements into him, easing off and coming back but never fully letting up on the stimulation for even a second.
"Love how eager you are for my dick, how you give me this. Give me everything. Such a slut for me, aren't you?"
The angle's not right for a kiss, especially not with Sam's back arched the way it is, the way he's nodding frantically in answer to a question he barely understands. So Dean sucks and bites a mockery of a kiss into Sam's inner thigh. Sam can feel the bruise forming -- red first, then purple as Dean really sinks his teeth in -- but he hardly registers it.
"Fuck, Dean, please--"
"Quiet," Dean growls and Sam's mouth goes dry just that quick, throat closing up like the word is corporeal and wrapping again and again around his neck. "When I'm ready to hear you beg, I'll let you know."
---
Dean makes Sam work for it, makes it burn and hurt and ache so good, then he makes Sam beg him for more of the same, feeding him pleasure and pain until he's strung-out and breathless. Finally, when Sam is barely clinging to consciousness, Dean gives him that final push that makes each of his frayed nerves snap, explode inside of him.
It never gets any less intense. They never come together lazily in the early morning with sour breath and whispered words, barely aware bodies moving on instinct in the weak rays of daylight that slip in through the window coverings. Every time they fuck, it's one more bloody battle in a war that Sam can't ever win. But he can never lose, either, so that's something.
Sam always wears fingerprint bruises and indentations shaped like Dean's teeth, and that's all right because Sam likes to wear Dean's marks.
When Dean has fought or fucked his rage away, he's almost the same person that he was before hell carved him into what would serve their purposes. Playful smiles that promise everything and nothing, youthful sparkle in eyes that are only a little bit black. He eats pie for breakfast and drives the Impala fast and rough down back roads and through open fields like the devil's on his heels, and when he calls his little brother 'Sammy,' the name doesn't sound like it was drug over shattered glass before tearing its way up Dean's throat.
---
"Cram it, Sammy, you know you love it."
Sam doesn't remember what he said, what disgusting habit of Dean's he happened to comment on today. They're just outside of Minnesota and Dean's still half-high off the nest of vampires he tore apart with his bare hands, the warehouse he'd absolutely demolished, shattered concrete and twisted metal the only parts left after the fire destroys anything that could burn. But it doesn't matter why when Dean says his name that way, looking away from the road long enough to shoot him a shit-eating grin.
Sam grins back, doesn't even roll his eyes. The corners of his mouth start to ache from how wide he's smiling but he can't make himself stop, so he looks out the window and doesn't bother trying.
"Should smile more often. Makes you look almost half-decent."
This time Sam does roll his eyes.
"Shut up," he mutters, still smiling. "I smile all the time."
"Yeah," Dean says. But not like that.
---
Women still fall all over themselves for Dean. Even more so when he's having a good day, free with the 'sweetheart's and 'darlin's, surety and ease in his every move. They love that candy coating, but it's like they can sense the danger surrounding him, even when he's not broadcasting it, and that's what really draws them in.
Sam doesn't complain when Dean flirts with their waitress, or the bartender, or the cashier at the gas station, or that mechanic who asked nicely if she could touch the car, called it 'baby' with no small amount of reverence. That's just Dean. He can't stop flirting anymore than he can stop breathing, and Sam gets that.
So long as he's the one Dean goes home with every night, his brother can flirt with every pretty face they meet. He can't bring himself to be jealous of women that have no chance of ever knowing Dean the way Sam does.
Dean doesn't have quite the same feelings on the topic.
---
"I wouldn't, if I were you."
The guy stops halfway to sitting on the stool, gives Sam an odd look but sits anyways.
"That's one hell of an opening line you've got there."
Sam snorts, takes a quick swallow of beer that is beginning to warm in the humidity of the bar, condensation loosening the label.
"It's more of a warning, really."
The man orders a round of whatever Sam's drinking, and Sam inclines his head in thanks but still doesn't make eye contact or otherwise invite further conversation.
"So, your guy's got a bad case of JBS, huh?"
Sam frowns, brow creasing as he stares sightlessly across the room, trying to place the acronym. He draws a blank.
The man beside him chuckles quietly when it's obvious Sam's got nothing.
"Jealous Boyfriend Syndrome."
Sam thinks that may be an understatement for what he's got with Dean, but this stranger doesn't need to know that. He shrugs.
"Can't say as I blame him," the guy continues, and Sam still doesn't look over. He doesn't seem to expect it anymore, though. "You're very... well, you've seen you."
Sam would be flattered if Dean wasn't leaning against the far wall, near the pool table he's been working for the last hour, stance deceptively loose with one knee bent and the heel of his boot tapping slowly against the floorboards in time with whatever's playing. He spins the pool cue he's gripping with one hand slowly, thumb rolling the rounded wood easily where it's pressed into his palm. His eyes are just this side of full-on black as he watches the man to Sam's side.
"Listen," Sam starts, downing another quick mouthful of beer and tossing a few bills down on the bar to pay back the cost of the drink. "Not that I don't appreciate this, but--"
"But the dude in the leather jacket over there is seriously considering eviscerating me?"
If only you knew.
Sam forces a laugh, doesn't look away from Dean's face.
"I get it," the man says, glancing between Dean and his beer. "Must be a lucky guy."
Sam starts to walk away, intent on getting Dean out of here and back to the motel before things get violent, but the guy just can't let it go. Sam's eyes slide shut as he feels a hand gently grip his elbow, not pulling, just holding him in place.
"Could I at least get your name? Just, you know, for curiosity's sake?"
Figuring that it can't hurt now, not now that this poor fucker has put a hand on him in Dean's line of sight, Sam gives him his name.
"I'm Mark. Nice meeting you, Sam."
Dean beats Mark to within an inch of his life, almost every bone in his hand shattered and his face unrecognizable through the blood, bruising on every inch of flesh that isn't split or torn, large gashes where Sam thinks he can see bone. Sam doesn't try to stop him.
When he's done, he presses Sam facedown over the Impala with bloodied fists and takes him right there in the dark of the parking lot, clear view for anyone who cares to look close enough. Sam grunts at every punishing thrust, sweat-slick skin of his stomach and thighs sticking and sliding against well-polished metal as Dean fucks into him ruthlessly. He bites hard enough to break skin, gnaws bloody lines of possession over Sam's body. Sam jerks at the burning pinch of teeth, tries vainly to pull himself up the car's hood to get free of Dean's mouth, but Dean wrenches Sam's arms behind his back with enough force to dislocate one of his shoulders.
Sam comes anyway, sobbing Dean's name.
---
Mark lives. Sam checks.
He never gives the police Sam's name -- or if he does, the papers never mention it -- and Sam wonders if that's because Dean beat it out of Mark's head, or Mark thought Sam was somehow innocent in it all.
Dean apologizes for the shoulder after he carefully pops it back into place at the motel later that night. He doesn't say he's sorry with words because that's not Dean, but he ices the joint thoroughly and coaxes Sam into taking some pain meds. Then he kneels down between Sam's legs and blows him wet and sloppy, sucking and licking at his cock in a way that has Sam's eyes rolling back in his head in no time.
A shaky, almost tentative kiss pressed against his temple when Dean thinks he's asleep is all it takes for Sam to forgive his brother all his sins.
Hell sent Dean back to him all twisted and wrong inside, but that's okay. Sam will keep changing his definition of 'right' until it fits.