Little Sammy’s only fourteen, but the way his big
brother falls apart for him makes him feel like he has eons after eons of ancient
power; all it takes is a little sweep of his sooty eyelashes from beneath his
dark bangs and Dean is worshipping him; treats him like a prince, like a king.
*
Dean whispers stories into his ear as he fucks him
through the dark nights: stories of the boy who would be king, stories of power
and glory and violence, and when Sam wakes up he’s exhilarated and sore and thrumming with something undefinable; he
feels something rise inside of him.
*
Sam claws at Dean’s back when he comes, and he’s
shaking when he whispers against Dean’s damp throat: “Tell me the story again.
About the boy.”
Dean’s eyes are almost black in the night, wide and
proud. “No baby boy,” he tells Sam in a voice that has so many layers it
makes Sam go dizzy. “You’ll tell it yourself. Soon.”
Sam falls asleep in Dean’s protective arms. He dreams
of fire and echoes, and of Dean: strong and black-eyed, kneeling by a throne.
He sees himself, draped across a throne. He sees Dean’s
pretty greens shift to black and he sees the darkest creatures bow before him
and swear their allegiances – he sees himself command the forces of Hell with Dean
by his side, his black eyed-knight; sees
himself in his, their, rightful
place.
“Well?” Dean asks, bright eyed and rosy cheeked. “What
do you see?”
Little Sammy is only fifteen when he tilts his head
back and opens his mouth to let Dean pour droplets of bourbon on his tongue. Dean’s
been pouring liquid want down his
little brother’s throat for years, and Sammy always begs for the same thing-
“Tell me again, big brother.”
Dean always compels. He licks liquor from the corner
of Sam’s mouth, and then: “This is where it started,” he whispers, eyes dark
and fixed on the pale line of Sammy’s throat. “It trickled down your throat
right here, baby boy. Dad told me, you swallowed it, it’s in you.”
Sammy’s small hand is warm and urgent against Dean’s denim
covered rockhardfuckingleaking cock,
and he whines: “That’s why I’m like this, right? Why I’m, why I’m fucked up.”
“Yeah Sammy,” Dean nods against his little brother’s damp
temple as he pushes two fingers against Sam’s still blood-red lips. “Get‘em wet.
Gonna shove my fingers so deep down your throat. Gonna get demon blood on my fingertips, you hear me?”
Sam’s fingers are tight around Dean’s wrist, his eyes
a calm, calculating storm in the yellow glow of the flickering fireplace. “I
want to taste it again,” he says.
Dean’s eyes go a little wide and his heart pounds
against his ribs because there’s unfamiliar power thrumming around them; power he’s
unable to name or define, and it makes him weak and it makes him strong, and Dean thinks he might come
from the cold gleam in Sammy’s eyes.
“I’ll find you more,” Dean promises –
and Sam could’ve sworn Dean’s eyes flickered, for only
a moment, into black.
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