Author's notes: Wherein you will find: little dialogue, morally decrepit Sam and Wincest of the non-consensual variety.

Unholy (Part 1)

It all starts innocuously enough.

But then again, that's pretty much how a descent into madness usually starts.

This one starts right after a hunt. A very successful one. When Sam and Dean get back to their requisite motel room, Sam collapses on the bed, satisfied but tired. Dean, on the other hand, seems to be made of manic energy. He moves incessantly from place to place, never settling down long enough to catch his breath. He finally throws himself down on the other bed, a wide grin on his face.

"Man, I love this job!"

Sam rolls his eyes, but finds himself smiling only a moment later. Sometimes Dean's enthusiasm for what they do is a pain in the ass, but sometimes it's downright infectious. He turns his head to look at Dean, a smart retort on the tip of his tongue, but something stops him. Dean is lying on his back, his hands linked behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. And on his face is the most amazing look of contentment that Sam has ever seen. He is practically glowing with it.

Sam, disturbed by what he had just been thinking, quickly turns away and stares up at his own portion of the ceiling.

He wonders how he could possibly find his own brother beautiful.

Feeling off-kilter and disconcerted, he pushes that thought from his mind and studiously avoids looking at Dean for the rest of the night. Fortunately, Dean is too wrapped up in his exultant mood to notice.

Later that night, Sam has strange, garbled dreams in which Dean figures predominantly. The following morning he is thankful that he remembers so little of them.

The next few days pass in a normal fashion, or at least as normal as their lives can ever be, and Sam starts to believe that what happened the other night was a fluke. He attributes it to being overtired, missing Jess, and not getting any. A lethal combination if there ever was one.

Yes, everything goes right back to normal...

Until the night that Dean gets a little too close to a demon and almost gets himself killed.

Coming so soon on the heels of watching Dean withering and dying right before his eyes, this is almost more than Sam can take. Dean, however, is fine with it. He takes his near-death experience with a grain of salt, and some painkillers, and promptly falls asleep once they're back in the motel.

There is no way in hell Sam can sleep, especially after seeing his brother almost shuffle off his mortal coil for the umpteenth time. So he watches Dean sleep instead, torn between feeling angry with him for taking so many stupid chances and feeling god damn thankful that he is alive.

After a while, he finds himself moving over to the other bed and staring down at Dean's sleeping form. He's on his stomach as usual, his face turned to one side. He looks so peaceful; almost angelic, with one hand outstretched and his lips parted just slightly, his eyelashes so dark against his skin. Sam reaches out and places his own hand atop his brother's, then leans down to place a kiss on his cheek. He's not really sure why he does it, other than he just wants to be close to Dean. To feel that he is indeed alive and safe.

And to love him just a little, because heaven forbid they show each other any real affection when Dean is awake.

Another kiss follows the first, then another, and another. And, suddenly, unexpectedly, the pulse of his heart beat begins to increase and his finds himself feeling very warm. And what is more unexpected, and infinitely more disturbing, is that he begins to get hard.

He quickly stands up and runs outside into the freezing cold. There he stands, for minutes... hours...days...he doesn't really know. All he knows is that he makes himself stay in the punishing cold until he feels somewhat normal again; until thoughts of Dean's pretty, little mouth have been erased from his mind.

Eventually, he goes back inside, heading for his bed without even looking at Dean. He expects to be up all night, but surprisingly he falls asleep almost instantly.

This time he is lucky.

There are no dreams.

The days that follow are awkward to say the least. Sam feels so guilty he can barely look at Dean, much less talk to him. And Dean, for his part, has absolutely no idea why his brother has suddenly turned so cold and distant.

He tries talking to Sam, even trying to get all 'in touch with your feelings' with him, but Sam is having none of it; if anything he only pulls farther away. Finally, Dean gives up, deciding that whatever bug has crawled up his brother's ass, it will probably go away on its own.

But it doesn't go away; how could it? And a few nights later, Sam finds himself lying awake in bed, staring across the chasm of space that separates him from his brother, and fighting with himself on the subject of whether he will stay here and be good or go to the other bed and cross lines that shouldn't be crossed.

And surprise, surprise, temptation wins out.

Although Dean is sound asleep, he's not under the influence of any painkillers this time, and Sam has to be very careful to be quiet as he creeps up to the bed. Luckily, years spent sneaking up on evil creatures makes this relatively easy. He kneels down next to the bed and watches Dean's face as if hypnotized.

Why has he never noticed how beautiful his brother is?

He reaches out with his hand, suddenly feeling the overwhelming urge to touch that beauty. His fingers touch Dean's brow, ghosting down the side of his face, down to his cheek and across his lips. His fingers, where they meet Dean's skin, feel almost unbearably hot, and he wonders why Dean hasn't woken up yet. Surely he feels that same heat?

He removes his hand and edges closer, not exactly sure what he's going to do. Right now, the only certainty in his mind is the love he feels for his brother and the need to be closer to him. He parts his lips and leans down, bringing himself closer (dangerously closer) to Dean than he has ever been in his life. He is only the briefest moment away from connecting when Dean starts, shifts and wakes up.

Sam pulls away hastily, his heart hammering crazily in his chest.

Dean looks up at him, blearily squinting in the darkness. "Sam, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, Dean," Sam manages to say in a relatively calm voice. "Go back to sleep."

But Dean presses. "Why are you over here?"

Sam stands up, his entire body shaking. He can only hope that it is too dark for his brother to see. "I thought I heard a noise. There's nothing though. Go back to sleep." This last he says forcefully, making it an order.

And surprisingly enough, Dean obeys. He yawns and mutters, "Ok," before closing his eyes and surrendering once again to sleep.

Once he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dean is asleep, Sam rushes to the bathroom and closes and locks the door behind him. He jumps in the shower, turning the water on as hot as he can possibly stand it. His hope is that the burning water will cleanse him, and drive these unholy thoughts of his brother out of his head.

It doesn't work.

It doesn't work at all, and not two minutes later, he is coming into his hand under the scalding water, one fist pounding against the plastic tiles in frustration and disgust as he swears that he will never do anything like this again.

Yet, a few nights later he is back at his brother's bedside. This time he's not at all worried about Dean waking up inconveniently like the last time. He knows the sleeping pills that he slipped into Dean's drink earlier will do their job.

He feels guilt of course; incredible, soul-eating guilt, but he tries to hide it by telling himself that Dean pushes himself too hard and that he needs the rest.

And he's not going to do anything anyway. He's merely looking; keeping watch over his brother.

He's telling himself these lies even as his hand moves through Dean's hair and caresses his face. Since there is no possibility of Dean waking, he doesn't have to be as gentle this time. He makes sure that he can actually feel Dean's skin underneath his fingertips as the caresses turn harder, more insistent.

Moments later, he's turning Dean over onto his back and positioning himself over him.

It is at this point that he can no longer lie.

He knows this is wrong, the kind of wrong that people go to hell for, but that doesn't stop his hands from roaming all over the lax body underneath him. They begin at Dean's shoulders and work their way down his strong, sculpted chest before settling on his stomach. Sam splays his hands wide, stretching his fingers to touch as much as possible. He keeps expecting some kind of reaction from Dean, his brother has always been ticklish there, but there is nothing at all.

The pills are doing their job very well.

He moves his hands away from Dean's stomach, bringing one to Dean's hip, while the other snakes under his t-shirt.

Slowly, reverently, his fingers find and brush against Dean's nipple. It hardens slightly under his touch and elicits a very soft moan from Dean.

That moan is his undoing.

This entire time the guilt has been ever-present, almost like a physical entity, constantly perched on his shoulder and watching his every move. But when his hand slips away from Dean's body and moves down past his boxer shorts and he begins to stroke himself in time to his own panting breaths...all sense of guilt and recrimination are gone. There is only pleasure now, mounting steadily until it becomes unbearable. Mounting and peaking until his body jerks and he comes violently all over his hand while the other hand grips Dean's thigh with the strength of a vice.

As his breathing begins to slow down, Sam takes a look at his hands - one is covered in sticky white fluid.

The other is still holding onto Dean.

He realizes with sickening clarity that it's going to leave a bruise. By morning, his brother will have a purple hand-print on his body and he will want to know where the hell it came from.

That is the thought that propels him from the bed and into the bathroom so fast that he is nothing more than a blur. He kneels down in front of the toilet and vomits until there is nothing left in his stomach for his body to purge and his throat aches and tears stream from his eyes.

Once again, he swears to himself that he will never do this again. He will position Dean back on his stomach, feign ignorance about the bruise and never do this again. Not only is he victimizing Dean but he's turning into the kind of person that parents warn their children about. The kind of person that he himself has always been sickened by.

He will not do this again.

He swears it on everything that he holds dear.

But he does do it again, not even a week later. And the worst part is that he's not even surprised. It's almost like the entire thing is beyond his control.

It goes on like this for weeks, Sam drugging his brother to better molest him at night, while avoiding him as much as possible during the day.

He hates himself for what he's doing, but he's almost completely past the part of trying to stop it. Somewhere along the line, this has become like an addiction. And addictions are so fucking hard to kick when you don't really want to be rid of them.

Today, he follows his brother into their motel room. Despite the fact that they've done nothing but research all afternoon, he is still bone-weary. He sits down on a chair and watches as Dean shrugs off his jacket and throws it on the nearest bed, effectively claiming it as his.

Then Dean turns around and Sam can tell by the deadly serious look on his face that he's about to be interrogated once again about why he's been acting so strange.

"Sam?"

He prepares himself for the lie. "Yeah?" he asks, trying for nonchalant.

"Can I ask you why you've been drugging me?"