Notes:

So I'm in one of THOSE moods. I admit I'm only on the second season of Supernatural, but I have inhaled a freaky amount of fanfiction. Sam is really OOC, but I'm justifying it by he's all evil and stuff. Yeah. XD

Please review. Please?

"If I got what I really wanted …" Sam let his words trail off. He wasn't sure himself what that is—he could have anything in the world—but the odd impulse bursts from him regardless. He indulged in self-reflection for a moment.

Hm. Maybe that was the problem.

A minute passes. Then another. Dean's expression went from nonplussed to irritated impatience, and his gold-flecked green eyes narrowed. "So what the hell do you want?"

"What're you willing to give up?" Sam inquired, surprised at his own curiosity. He steps forward, into his brother's personal space to make the point of his greater height, enough to force Dean to rock back on his heels in order to keep up the staring contest.

Dean snorted nervously. "You going to give me some hints, man? I'm kind of flying blind here."

The Boy King cocks his head and lets up on the invasion of breathing room to circle the other man in a decidedly predatory fashion. Dean stoically refuses to twist to follow his calculated movements, a muscle jerking in his jaw revealing his extreme unease with the new Sam behind his back.

"You. Yes," Sam decided, after more minutes of unnerving relentless staring, not missing how Dean shivered in the bitter cold even in his broad-shouldered leather jacket, shoved his hands into his jean pockets in a stance of hopeless confidence, the glare leveled at Sam under long gold-tipped lashes.

"Me, what?" Dean wanted to know, bewildered and caught off guard.

After all, why not? Keeping the human close, watching his inner agony as he saw his beloved kid brother destroy hundreds of thousands, millions, of people with a wave of his hand, might be amusing. There really was nothing better than igniting a private hell inside a sensitive soul and watching it burn, writhe, and finally flutter to ash. And his existence, if he admitted the fact to himself, could use some entertainment, something that wasn't immediately broken.

Sam completed his circuit to stand in Dean's sight again, and casually pressed a hand to his brother's chest. The light touch sent Dean flying back, landing on the unforgiving dirt ground with a thud several feet away, and attempting to get to his feet but too dazed to do anything but prop himself up on his elbows and blink in hazy confusion at Sam.

Justification for his decision suddenly jolts hot, strange, and violent in Sam's gut as he takes in how Dean is sprawled haphazardly on his back in front of him, helpless to even rise and finally giving up on the effort, head falling back sluggishly and exposing his vulnerable throat as he lost what little ground he had gained, and simply lay there, staring up the abnormally crimson clouds in the sky.

The unusual moment passes, but when Sam looks down he can still see the evidence that it had happened.

"Sam," Dean sighed tiredly, shutting his eyes against heaven's terrible blood-red hue. "Just … tell me what you want. I'll do it."

"There really isn't much you can do that I can't have for myself," Sam felt the need to point out, to press on the open wounds and see them bleed. See if that … experience … was a fluke. Dean flinched in acknowledgement, and the surrendering shudder that ran through his body caused that weird jolt in Sam again.

"Well, no shit," Dean muttered, managing to get to his feet. "We both knew that before you agreed to meet with me. So why did you? Why bother at all?" Then a smirk lifted up a corner of his mouth, and Sam wanted … wanted to tear it off, replace it with something else. His growing exasperation must have been clear because Dean grinned mirthlessly at him. "You need to do something to me, Sammy?"

Sam started and wondered if Dean had somehow read his mind, saw the bright flames flickering in the chilling darkness his world now was.

Dean spoke again, and it immediately became evident that he had misconstrued Sam's intentions entirely. "I screwed your life up for you, didn't I? Came between you and your perfect Stanford scholarship future with Jess. Remember Jess?" There was a pained, guilty strain in his voice at the mention of the dead young woman who had been Sam's girlfriend. But he plowed on determinedly. "I hauled you back into the family business. Made sure you wasted the best years of your life for a thankless, dirty, homeless job that would never end until death do us part."

Sam stared at him, awareness of what Dean was doing trickling in. He was trying to channel Sam's attention to him, hoping to stall the inevitable destruction of one of the last human holdouts, that Sam would be furious enough to drag out the torture until the little creatures had escaped. Very noble. And futile.

The only response Sam gave was a flat, "You're coming back with me. Now."

Dean shrugged easily. "Sure. I've got nowhere else to be." The next instant, they're in Sam's opulently decorated chambers, courtesy of a groveling demon staff. Dean looked around and whistled. "Nice place you got here. Definitely an upgrade from all the motels we paid for while we -" He paused, and his breathing came a little faster and his voice trembled just a bit as he continued carelessly, "—while I dragged you along with me and my unending suicidal crusade to save the world, killing one demon at a time."

Sam pretended not to hear him. Pretended not to feel a tiny nostalgia for those ratty motels he had stayed in with his brother even as he was surrounded by the height of luxury. "Take off your clothes," he ordered.

Dean's hands automatically move to the buttons on his jacket at the command wreathing yellow smoke in the air. "Alri—Sam, what the hell!?"

"We're going to get this over with." Now that he considered more carefully, it didn't seem wise to keep Dean long. He was distracting Sam from his mission, reminding of … of a life that wasn't his anymore. Once Sam fucked him, the molten squeeze in his groin would lessen and he'd move on to his next victim.

Dean pressed his lips into a thin line as he tried to hide the sheer terror of what was about to happen to him. Then he smiled coldly. "However you want to do it, Sammy." He went to work on undressing, shrugging off the jacket first. Without its weight, his lean-muscled form seemed … smaller. Less imposing, despite his full six feet. Certainly Sam had outgrown his older brother in physicality and power.

Once he'd realized that Sam was staring at him, Dean demanded curtly, "Is this going to be a peep show or what?" Sam didn't answer, only watched with increasing interest as Dean hooked both hands under his shirt and pulled it off, hesitantly, an inch of smooth flat stomach showing at a time. Sam knew Dean wasn't teasing him deliberately, but his growing erection had other thoughts on the subject. He had countless whores available to him, alluring succubi, incubi, anything. Anyone. But he found he really couldn't remember the last time he'd found a scene as shockingly irresistible as his oblivious brother stripping in front of him.

Fortunately for Sam's slipping control, Dean finally just yanked off the fabric in frustration and threw it on the floor. "Hope your maid won't mind." He wavered again at the buttons of his jeans.

"Keep going."

He got down to his boxers, and then stopped again. "Look, Sam—" Dean was gritting his teeth, one hand hovering on the elastic of his waistband, the thumb on his other hand pulling the boxers tantalizingly low on his narrow hips. "Is this necessary? You want to humiliate me. I get it. But I really think screaming my lungs out will be embarrassing enough."

By now Sam sat on a luxuriously overstuffed armchair, never taking his eyes off Dean's jerky movements. Dean was not a virgin, not by a long shot. He got girls into bed easily with a roguish charm and a sensual smile on his lips promising an unforgettable night. But as long as they'd traveled together, he'd never once brought back a member of the same sex, or showed any inclination in that direction whatsoever.

Then again, neither had Sam, until now, when in his pants his cock had stiffened to aching proportions looking at Dean's unknowingly pleading expression and was hidden only by the shadows of the corner in which he sat.

"Sammy, please—"

"Finish undressing." When Dean didn't move, he added with a touch of menace, "Now."

Dean clenched his fists, and then did as he was told and stood completely naked in the room, refusing to look at Sam. This was fortunate because he narrowly avoided seeing the hellishly dark, hungry flames in his brother's eyes as they swept over everything, his chest and belly, the lax genitals between his thighs, the long clean line of his legs.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Sam asked as calmly as he could, adjusting his position. As much the primal urge to simply shove Dean on the floor and force him open was strong and growing, he genuinely wished to know what was going on in his mind, how that martyr complex worked.

Dean flushed angrily. "What? You want me to spell out how to paint the walls with my insides? Too fucking bad. You figure it out."

"Tell me." The yellow smoke drifted lazily toward Dean until it caressed his face, which went momentarily blank, then cleared as Sam forced his power to subside.

"I don't know what gets you off, you bastard!"

Sam had to smile inwardly at the choice of words, but his impassive expression was enough to force Dean to start talking awkwardly but trying to make his tone flippant. "Uh—all kinds of sharp pointy objects. Whips. And," he swallowed. "cattle rods, if you want to get creative." A note of desperate humor enters his next words. "You're missing a rack piece in your furniture."

"I'm going to fuck you," Sam said simply, and waited for his reaction.

"A garrote—" Dean stopped and stared at him incredulously. "You're fucking joking about this?"

Sam laughed. "I'm not. Does this look like a torture chamber to you?" He waved a hand around at the plush arrangement of the room. Despite his plastered blasé attitude, Dean had been so focused on keeping himself together for what he thought was going to … to … that …. that …

Seeing the realization seep slowly into the green eyes was … interesting. And terribly arousing. Dean began to stammer, and Sam could hear his heart pounding. The heightened pulse. The helpless instinctive urge to fight or run. When Dean finally accepted what Sam had said, it was as clear as the click of a coffin closing before being lowered into the ground.

"What're you waiting for, then? A goddamn written invitation?" Dean demanded, apprehension obvious beneath his disdainful sneer, in the minute tremors of his hands as they rested on his crossed elbows, the involuntary twitching of his right leg.