This Time

Author: nightrose_spn

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: R

Warnings: Violence, Language, Sex, Incest, Rape

Genre: Romance/Angst

Summary: When his deal comes due, no one comes to drag Dean to Hell. The devil is found inside himself.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the alternate ending version of herebutnotremembered's This Time. Go. Watch. Now. Reviews are love and win.

They go to sleep that night. What else is there to do? It's not like they can just stop. Not like their life will just go away. Even though it's the anti-climax to end all anti-climaxes. Because Dean's supposed to be dead. His deal came due, but he isn't gone.

Bizarre. But Sam knows better than to ask too many questions. Good things never happen without a price, but he'll take what he can get. Every day he has Dean next to him is a good day.

No matter what.

He wakes up the next morning, half-expecting his brother to have disappeared. Dean smiles. "Good mornin', Princess!"

Sam bites his lip and throws his arms around Dean in a crushing embrace. As Dean's ribs practically crack under the pressure, he pets his baby brother's hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Dean. God, Dean!"

"Hey. You really think some hell bitch was going to get me that easy? I don't leave you, Sammy. You should know that." And the words are joking, teasing, but the meaning is sincere. Sam thinks Dean may finally be getting it. That there's nothing worse than losing Dean. Not death. Not hell. Not anything.

"We need to figure out how," Sam says over breakfast. Dean shrugs.

"Why? Why count our blessings, dude?"

And Sam finds himself agreeing. "Okay. Okay."

They spend the days tangled up in each other. The dance of hands and arms and legs and hips is just as desperate as it was before, when they were helplessly watching the days count down. The gentleness is gone, though. When Sam tries to trace his brother's face, to gently kiss down his body, to adore him in the little time they may have left, Dean pushes him away, pushes into him, kisses him with teeth and want.

Three weeks later, Bobby calls. Only when they're starting dinner and Dean screams, dropping the silver fork the instant it touches his skin, does Sam realize it may not be Dean.

He isn't possessed. He'd walked through salt lines and pentacles, no problem. But he can't touch the silver. And he isn't wearing his ring, either.

But when Bobby starts throwing around words like "shapeshifter" and "silver knife," Sam puts his foot down.

Dean is still Dean. Hasn't changed. Hasn't hurt anyone. If Sam gets his brother back, he won't look a gift horse in the mouth. They have to leave, then. Sam won't stay anywhere Dean isn't welcome.

And Bobby doesn't want the supernatural in his house.

Two weeks later. They're in bed, as usual. Another day of research, of next-to-nothing. Sam reaches out for his brother, craving the comfort of his touch, the realization that he's solid and real and alive more than anything else.

And there's a split-second of unadulterated fear and disgust in Dean's eyes, before he melts into Sam's arms. When Sam asks, Dean won't explain it. But he won't deny the moment, either.

It takes a few days, of constant kisses and touches. Sam doesn't try to make love to his brother, just holds him close. Dean's here, Dean's real, Dean isn't dead, he tells himself again and again, and it's better than any sex ever could be.

But then he finally gets Dean to tell him. Where the fear in his eyes was coming from.

He has the second's broken wish Dean had just kept it a secret.

His voice is careful, gentle, as he confesses, "Sammy, I guess I don't' really know how to put this. Uh, don't get the wrong idea, man. It's just… you know, when we started… this? I told you… You told me you had to leave because you wanted me. And I didn't want you to leave."

"So all these years…" Sam feels like he's choking on his own tongue, his own breath.

"Hey, it's no big deal, Sammy. I love you." Dean's fake smile, the one that's just a twitch of his lips, flashes across his face.

Sam can't meet his eyes. "God, I'm so sorry."

"Knew you would make a big deal out of this, dude. It's really nothing." And Dean pulls Sam into his arms. "You get me, I get regular tail, everyone's happy."

He lets himself relax in his brother's familiar embrace. But when Dean tries to slip off his shirt, Sam won't let him.

Five weeks before he doesn't have that option anymore. But there's another tragedy in between. A week later, when Dean wants to go on a hunt.

"You're not ready," Sam insists. Dean takes offense. He's not an invalid, just really fucking lucky, escaping the devil for some mysterious reason. He's a grown man.

It turns into an argument, then a fight. Then Sam is being slammed against the wall. Dean's hands are at his throat, his whole body pressing Sam down and in. They've fought before, hell, Dean's hit him plenty of times, but never like this. The physical movement isn't very different. It's hard to define, but this is threatening, this is scary. There's something in his eyes. Not a flash of yellow or black. Something far worse.

Dean pulls Sam's body away, then slams him back against the wall. While Sam leans back limply, trying to recover, Dean cocks his fist and punches Sam hard in the jaw.

"Dean! Okay, stop! Hey, I'm sorry!" Sam pleads. He did go too far, that's fine. Dean always stops when Sam asks, no matter how mad he is.

"Shut up," Dean hisses.

"Dean! What're you…"

A vicious knee to Sam's ribs punctuates every word. "I. Told. You. To. Shut. Up."

Sam falls silent and drops his head. Dean hits him one more time, then lets him fall to the floor.

Two weeks later, when it's happening on a daily basis, Bobby drops by.

"He's possessed, ya idjit."

But Sam shakes his head. "Dean always had a temper. And after what…" He won't explain it, though. Won't tell Bobby what he did to Dean. How he tricked, forced, raped his big brother without even knowing what he was doing. Bobby doesn't even know what they do behind closed doors. Let alone the horrible things…

"He's trying to make you blame yourself," Bobby says quietly. "Sam, it's a damn textbook case of abuse. Difference is, this ain't your brother. Dean ain't what's hittin' you, boy. It's his meatsuit, or maybe a shifter wearin' his face. But Dean wouldn't never hurt you like that. You know that as well as I do."

"If you knew what I'd done to him…" Sam chokes on the words, the memory. And Dean said it was no big deal. Forgave him, for all these years of hurting him.

"You talkin' about fuckin' him? Cause from where I stand, looks like that was pretty damn mutual."

Sam can't breathe. "How long…"

"I've known since your brother came cryin' to me for advice. When he was fifteen damn years old. 'Bobby, I don't know who else to come to. I don't know what to do. I'm a horrible person. I… I think… I think I'm in love with Sammy.'"

His impression of Dean's voice is spot-on. It makes Sam wince.

"Like I said. That ain't Dean. Boy loves you more than his own life, I know that. He'd die in hell a hundred times before he'd raise his hand to you."

Sam clears his throat. "Leave, Bobby."

"Damn it, Sam…"

"Out."

Bobby goes.

Sam hasn't laid a finger on Dean in weeks. Won't do that to him again. The desire drove him crazy at first. Now he isn't sure he wants to. With the constant layer of bruises on his skin, he's afraid even the gentlest lovemaking would hurt.

Dean doesn't give him a choice. Three weeks after Bobby leaves, Dean throws him, not to the ground, but to the bed.

"Dean? What're you…"

"Didn't I tell you I don't want to hear your whining, bitch?" Sam closes his eyes, and Dean kicks his shin viciously. "Look at me! Look at me!"

Sam obeys in perfect terror. He watches, an impartial observer, as his brother tears off his own clothes and Sam's, biting down hard on Sam's lips in a vicious mockery of a kiss. "So quiet, like a good little whore," he murmurs. "I'll tell you, because of that. Tell you what I'm sure you want to know." Dean laughs. "See, you wanted to be my bitch. Begged me for it. Wouldn't let me say no. And now I'm gonna do the exact same thing to you, baby brother. I'm gonna take you, whether you like it or not."

Sam doesn't bother to plead, to even say 'no'. He just lies there, and watches, watches, while Dean shoves two spat-on fingers up him. Watches as his nipples are twisted and his face slapped, his hair pulled, his back scratched by rough nails. Watches the man he loves… rape him.

But Sam knows he deserves it. He's done the same thing to Dean, time and time again.

Dean comes quickly, leaves Sam on the bed, sobbing silently. Dean told him to be quiet.

The days are the same, after that. People look at Sam. Sam says 'no' to Dean in some tiny way. Sam looks at his brother funny. Sam trips and falls.

And any, all of those things can make Dean furious. Can and do. Dean beats him, rapes him, calls him vile names. But that's not the worst.

The worst are the good days. When Dean holds him, kisses him, caresses every scar and bruise. Pushes inside soft and gentle, says, "I love you, Sammy. You know that, right? I love you. I'm so sorry I have to do this to you, baby. If you only hadn't made me, made me do this with you, then I wouldn't have to punish you for it now. But you're my brother, my whole life. It's my job to take care of you. Even if it means I have to hurt you sometimes."

Sam can't reply to that. After all, Dean told him to be quiet.

Once, Dean beats him so badly he has to go to the hospital. He stands there, stripping off the gown, naked in front of a mirror, and itemizes his wounds. There's a black eye, a large purple mark down the side of his face, a swollen redness on his cheek. His lip is split and his neck bruised. There is a cut on his nose. There are bruises all up and down his ribcage, his arms mottled with Dean's handprints and shallow slices from his knife.

Sam remembers it in aching clarity. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he'd begun. "I hate having to do this. I'll try to be fast." And Sam had bowed his head and waited, as Dean threw him to the floor, hit him across the face again and again, choked him against the ground until he was still.

He doesn't remember until that, nothing except the white-washed room. Bobby comes, ties Dean to a chair above Sam's protests. Sam waits there, just out of reach, humming a childhood lullaby to drown out Dean's curses and insults.

The day after that, Dean comes back from hell. It isn't easy for him to convince Bobby to let him in the house. Sam falls to the floor during the fight. Watches as the Dean who's been tormenting him for months laughs and goes for his gun. Watches the other brother, the one with the handprint showing from beneath where the first had ripped his shirt, cringe against the wall. "Kill me if you want," Dean says, "But if you hurt Sam again, I will haunt your ass."

It's dead serious. Not even a hint of a tease, a joke, though the words sound almost like Dean's sense of humor.

And that's when Sam reaches up a hand and whacks at the first Dean's leg. He tumbles to the floor, looses his balance so that the one pinned against the wall can stab him.

For a second, they stand there, watching the body on the floor. And then Dean (this is Dean, real Dean) pulls Sam against his chest in a firm, careful hug. "Sammy," he whispers against his brother's hair. "God, Sammy."

Sam doesn't answer.

Three days before he says a word to his brother. Three days of Dean murmuring gentle words to him, holding him close. Dean finally asks him. "Sammy, please. Say something. Fuck, anything. Tell me you hate me, tell me you'll never forgive me, tell me to go away."

He traces the horrific bruises on his brother's swollen face, kisses the cut between his eyes. "Please, Sammy."

"Dean. Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Sam whispers, curling to Dean, letting his brother stroke his trembling body.

Dean doesn't ask what's wrong, what that monster with his face told Sam in those months. Four months Dean thought he was in hell.

Didn't know that the real horror was what was happening here, on Earth, where his body was destroying his baby brother, the love of his life, his sweet Sam.

Only four months and Sam can't even talk to him. Four months of unimaginable horror, of torment bad enough to erase a lifetime of Dean's care and love with fear.

Bobby shows up on the fifth day. And draws a knife right away. "I've had enough of this," he growls. "Don't care what the damn fool wants. I'm not lettin' you hurt Sam anymore."

"Bobby!" But the man ignores Sam, grabs Dean by his collar, draws back the knife.

Dean takes Bobby's knife in a basic disarm. Bobby looks at him as a son, he's distracted enough that the simple move works. "It's me. I'm not a shifter, or a demon, damnit, it's me!" He holds up the hand with the ring, keeping Bobby pinned against the wall with his body. "This is silver, you know that. Besides…" he draws the knife carefully, makes a shallow cut in the flesh of his upper arm as Sam whimpers desperately on the bed, "Would I be able to do this? With a silver knife?"

Bobby says, quietly, "Then let go of me, ya idjit." Dean does, hands him back his knife. Bobby tucks it into his back pocket, thanks him quietly, and lets Dean step back to the bed and pull his trembling brother into an embrace. "You really… you, again? How the hell'd you get out of hell?"
"I don't know," Dean confesses. "Found this on my arm… I think something pulled me out. But I have bigger problems," he adds, watching Sam bury his face in Dean's neck.

"You ever lay one hand on that boy again…" Bobby begins, and Dean starts furiously. "Hey, calm down, you. I ain't sayin' you'd do him like that shifter did. I'm just sayin'… you're boys. You fight, you throw punches, use your fists instead of your words. You've been doin' it for years. It ain't the same as this, I know that. But it ain't like that anymore. You won't hurt him, I know that. Not on purpose. But that damn thing hurt him, and hurt him bad."

"He's afraid of me. I know that," Dean says.

"Do you know why?"

"'Cause something wearing my face fucking beat him for months!"

"There's more'n that. You talked to him much?"

"He won't say anything. Keeps apologizing over and over. I don't know what for."

"Maybe you ought to ask him," Bobby says.

"Do you know?"

"I do." There are a few seconds of silence. "Well, I ain't tellin' you! Your brother, you'd better find out your own damn self."

Bobby leaves them alone, to resolve their own problems.

"Sammy? You gonna tell me?"

"'M sorry," he says only.

"Hey, kiddo, look at me." Sam's big, teary eyes turn up to Dean's face. "It's all right. You know I love you no matter what."

"Yeah."

"I just want to know. Whatever you think… maybe I can make it better. Maybe it's nothing at all. What that thing did to you… Demons lie, Sammy. You know that."

"This was a shapeshifter," Sam points out, and Dean laughs until his stomach hurts. That's his Sammy.

"Still."

"I… It told me the truth about… I can't. Dean, I can't tell you." He's crying freely now. "I'm sorry. Please, don't be mad…"

"It's okay," Dean assures him. "It's fine. I'm not angry. Sam, listen. It doesn't matter what you did." He knows better than to try to assure his broken brother that the shifter had lied to him, especially since he doesn't know what horrible lies the thing told him. "It doesn't! It shouldn't have hurt you."

Sam just cries and pulls closer to Dean.

It's a while before Dean starts to feel desire flaring again, every time Sam comes close. As his scars from hell heal, as the bruises on Sam's face start to fade, he wants. It's like he has child-Sam again, needing him for every little thing. Sam won't eat unless Dean goes with him, won't go anywhere or do anything without his brother. Fear of losing him again, fear of some kind of punishment, Dean doesn't know. But he does everything Sam wordlessly asks for.

One night, as they lie together on the bed, Dean runs his hand under Sam's shirt, and kisses him. He's careful to be gentle, just moving his tongue into Sam's mouth. Sam freezes the instant he does, and Dean retreats.

"Sammy?"

"I'm sorry," Sam sobs, even more desperately than he has before. "Dean, you don't have to. You know that, right? Don't. I won't… just…"

"Kid, you gotta finish your sentences if you expect me to know what you're talking about."

"All those years ago. When… that's what he told me. What really happened… what I did to you… I'm so sorry…"

"What do you mean?" Dean honestly doesn't get it.

"Why didn't you just tell me? I wouldn't have made you. God, Dean. I wouldn't have left if you'd told me how much you needed me to stay. I never wanted you like this. Not against your will."

"I still don't have a damn clue what you're talking about."

"The shapeshifter told me. There's no use trying to be a martyr about it now. I know. I know why you let me. All these years! All this time, and I thought… you're a really good liar, you know that? Because I thought you wanted this to. I thought it wasn't just me that's a dirty freak. I thought you loved me like I love you. I didn't know. You have to believe that, Dean, I never would have done it if I'd known."

And in a sickening moment of clarity, the older Winchester brother puts two and two together and gets a strong desire to kill that damn shapeshifter. "You think… tell me if this is what you think." He swallows. "You think that I only had sex with you to stop you from leaving? That I never wanted you?"

Sam can't answer, except with a whimpering, "Sorry."

"It isn't true, Sam," Dean says quietly. "Listen. It's a lie. A blatant lie. I wanted you since you were eleven years old, kiddo. I loved you since the day you were born. As soon as I started wanting, I started wanting you." He lets a soft kiss drop onto Sam's lips. Completely chaste, but Sam still, predictably, freezes. "Sammy, baby. I know you might not believe me. I know he fooled you pretty well. I wasn't here to keep you safe… and that thing hurt you, hurt you bad. I don't expect you to believe me, but I'm just gonna keeps saying it until you believe me. You didn't do anything to me that I didn't want you to. Do you understand that? Hell, I thought for years I was a monster. What kind of sick bastard wants to fuck his kid brother? I hated myself until the day you told me you loved me. Besides, that was two whole years before you told me you were going to college. You were sixteen! What he told you… it doesn't even make sense."

He doesn't expect an answer, and he doesn't get one. Just holds his crying brother close, brushes the tears off his face and kisses the trails they leave.

It's weeks before Sam will look at Dean's face. Months before he can go out by himself for coffee.

The angels come, tell Dean they have work for him. He tells them to go fuck themselves, in no uncertain terms. So they find another vessel. He barely notices, entranced by the small daily struggles… Sammy looked into my eyes. Sammy said my name. Sammy got dressed without my help.

Someday, Sammy's going to be all right.

It won't be soon. Sometimes he thinks the apocalypse would be easier than this constant, agonizing struggle. But then Sam will almost-smile. Not that blinding grin Dean remembers, with the teeth flashing bright against his skin, but it's something. It helps Dean remember what he's fighting for. That it's Sammy, in there somewhere, broken and afraid, hating himself for the most beautiful gift anyone's ever given Dean. That his little brother needs him to be strong, to keep going day-by-day.

That's the kind of strength Dean has. It was forged young in him, when there wasn't enough to eat and they had to make it a few more days, a few more days, just a few more days until Dad would be home. Every time, he managed. Every time, he got through without Sammy going hungry. If he himself didn't have quite enough to eat, he managed.

Years later, he got stronger. Strong enough to know, to trust himself to resist the temptation in his own brother's wide, sweet eyes.

And after that, stronger still. Strong enough to keep breathing with Sammy gone.

Now all those years of trial-by-fire are coming to a head. He thinks sometimes, when Sam's crying at night, trying not to let him hear, that this is the fight he was born for. Not the hunt, not saving those people. This. Taking care of Sammy.

After a while, Sam believes him. It's a slow process. A year before Dean can touch his brother without Sam's eyes going wide and pleading. Three before they can do anything sexual. When Dean tries to make love to Sam, the younger Winchester freezes in obvious fear.

That's when Dean learns about the rape. That something wearing his face forced itself on his baby brother. He's gentle, then, like Sam's made of glass, takes care of him so carefully, watches as Sammy comes apart, shaking and sighing, "Dean," in his arms.

It's good. It's not perfect, but it never was. Their lives aren't meant for good, for safe.

This is as close as they can get. And even though Sam's still afraid, it's all right. It's more than enough.

The old nicknames are gone, because Sam starts to cry every time he hears the word "bitch." They don't wrestle playfully like they used to, that's an obvious one. They never look away from one another during a hunt, and Sam can't bear to look at any part of Dean except his eyes during sex.

It's not quite what it used to be. But it's something. It's as close to happiness as either of them has ever known.