Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ Smashing the Opponent ( Chapter 8 )

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Asylum
Supernatural, AU
Dean/Sam

Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

*Disclaimer* I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

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Ch. 8: Smashing the Opponent


Sam fidgeted as Dean took his shower. He was all out of sorts, and he couldn't seem to get the look of those olive green eyes out of his head. He could recall, in detail, every little fleck or color variation, and the stunning clarity and warmth of them as he was teased.

And then... there was how his own eyes drifted down, drawn like a magnet to the smiling quirk of full lips, and he'd caught himself wondering what they'd feel like if he touched them. With fingertips, or with his own lips.

And that scenario played out in his head - he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Dean's, feeling those soft, sarcastic lips give beneath his... and feeling them part...

Sam broke out in a sweat and struck the errant thoughts from his head with a will. No, not this again.

He could nearly feel the heat of that mouth... and feel the sinuous curl of a tongue sliding against his as Dean pressed him into the door frame.

“No!” he whispered harshly. His mind was rebelling against him. His breath was shallow, fast. His heart was racing. “This isn't right.” The object of his thoughts was in the next room... nothing upon his body but water.

Desire shivered through him.

Sam flopped back onto his bed, hands over his eyes like he could blot out the reality of losing his mind.

Because he had to be. He had to be around the freaking bend to be having thoughts like these.

“Okay, take it easy,” he muttered. “Think.” He just needed a distraction. It wasn't like he thought these things all the time. Usually it seemed to coincide with being within 2 feet of Dean or looking directly into his eyes. If he could just avoid that sort of thing for a bit, maybe this would go away.

...and he needed to never contemplate Dean in less than full attire.

Sam willfully thought of anything but Dean in the shower, making an exercise of it, one which trained his mind and body away from such dangerous ground. He traced the walls with his mind, every corner of this white room, every crack or bump, until he had something of a 3-D model in his head. He then took a look outside his `model', outside the window, and grounded it in a location. He could see grass, trees.... actually, it was a shit-ton of trees, all around the building, a whole grove of them. He wondered if that was how the place got its name, Oak Grove. Then there was the 2 lane road that looped past, its asphalt so old it was bleached nearly white in the sun. On the one end, it disappeared around a bend, on into some mountainous terrain. On the other end, it just went on and on into the rolling landscape. There was no real traffic on it, though he could see one car. It was black and looked familiar as it approached. Strange, he thought, it kind of looks like Dad's old Impala.

“Sam,” Dean's irritated voice shot through his reverie. “Did you take one of my shirts?”

Sam sat up, thoroughly disoriented. “Huh? What shirt?”

“The dark grey one. You were wearing it earlier. It was mine, wasn't it?”

“Uh... yeah. Guess it was.”

“And the one you got on now?”

“...yeah. It's yours.”

Sam thought he heard a muttered curse. Dean was leaning over a drawer, tapping his finger on the top of the dresser. He was wearing a pair of the hospital issue pants and no shirt.

His body looked just like Sam remembered it from just a little while earlier. It looked just as smoothly muscled and compelling as before. He tried to make himself look away.

“Well, thanks to you, I've got nothing to wear.” Dean turned to him, a calculating look in his eyes.

“What?”

“Now that you've warmed it up for me, I think I'll be having my shirt back now. `Sides, green's not your color.”

“But what will I wear?”

“You should have some standard issue stuff laying around.” Dean's eyes were fixed as he moved towards Sam. It was clear he wasn't giving up on his shirt without a fight.

“Well, then, so should you!” Sam got into a defensive position, tucking his legs under him and holding his fists up.

Dean was stalking around the side of the bed. “Nope, gave all of it away except for a few of the pants.”

“They have all my stuff in laundry,” Sam shot out.

“Yeah, well maybe you should have thought about that before blowing through two of my shirts, princess. I have to wash my own stuff by hand. I'm no Sally homemaker here. I don't like it, but those are the rules, so I got no choice.”

Oh, so that explains why people mostly didn't wear plainclothes, Sam thought. It was probably much easier for most to wear the hospital's garments and have them laundered for them.

Dean grabbed Sam's wrists, taking him by surprise. “We can do this the easy way,” he said ominously, voice low, “or the hard way.”

Sam's heart was beating in his throat. This was violating both rules he'd set for himself regarding Dean not 5 minutes ago: the proximity rule and the eyes rule, and already he was fighting his reaction to it.

“You really want it back after I was already wearing it?” He averted his eyes, but was met with an up close and personal view of Dean's well-defined upper body and chest. `Sculpted' came to mind, though it was tasteful and still looked natural. Problem was, Sam was becoming more than overly aware of a tiny detail such as seeing his nipples, and it was embarrassing the hell out of him just now. The term half-naked was really appropriate and his mind was running rampant with the `naked' aspect of the word.

Dean wasn't responding, and Sam was afraid to meet his gaze. Anyway, he needed a diversion from the heat he could feel in his face. “Okay, I'll take it off,” he said, pulling at his wrists. “Just let go.”

He felt Dean's hands slowly release his arms, trailing down them slightly. The air felt heavy and charged. He started to pull the shirt up and was surprised as hell when Dean said, “Never mind, keep it,” in a roughened voice and lips brushed his.

It was such a light touch, and yet it ripped through him with voracity. His brain stuttered and could not get past the fact that Dean had just technically kissed him...

...and was still...

Soft, firm lips were moving against his, sharpening the ache behind his belly button, and causing his face to flush thoroughly. The tiny, exploring flick of a tongue against his lower lip, and the heat of Dean's mouth opening against his nearly undid him. He wanted this so badly, but wasn't even sure what `this' was. He only knew that he wasn't supposed to want it. He only knew he was supposed to fight it  - this feeling that was stealing his breath as slick heat slid between his lips and he tasted Dean for the first time.

He ached.

Burned.

He reached up to feel spiky hair beneath his fingers, sliding his hands through it, and Dean was pushing him down onto the bed.

Yes, he thought, heart lodged like a lump in his throat.

A moment later, Dean broke the kiss and was pulling back, hands still pressing Sam down. “No,” he said under his breath. He muttered something else, but it was too faint to make out.   

No? Sam was confused. “Dean? What is it?” Dean was not meeting his eyes, and the hands on his shoulders almost felt like they were shaking.

“I'm sorry,” his roommate said in a strange voice before slipping off the bed. Dean grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the room.

“Dean?” Sam called after him, hopping off of the bed himself. “Dean!”

---

Dean ran down the hall, trying to outrun himself and the gravity of what he'd just done... and what he'd almost given into. He felt utterly panicked, aggrieved, self-deprecating. Violent.

He'd just crossed the line.

He'd been trying so desperately not to. It had been close, a few times, but he'd always managed to scrape by. But now he'd gone and made that transgression against his brother, his poor, unsuspecting brother....

His eyes burned and anger at himself boiled in his veins. He wanted to slit his wrists. Or drink himself into harsh oblivion. Something. Anything to take over what he was feeling right now.

Anything to quiet the lust still pumping in his veins, and make himself pay for it being there in the first place.

“Hey, Winchester,” someone called out. “You can't go around dressed like that.”

Dean turned blazing eyes upon the speaker. It was an orderly. “Like what, Fred?” he asked with an aggressive smile, flipping his jacket open further. He was getting the urge to make a scene. To fight. “Maybe I ran out of clothes.”

Fred the orderly said, “No problem. Hang tight and I'll find you something.”

Dean stood there, watching his red hair bob down the hall and felt both disappointed and relieved. Fred didn't seem up for a fight, or maybe he was sensing the atmosphere and figured he didn't want to be involved. Dean didn't blame him. He was in a shit mood and Fred probably didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of it anyway.

On the other hand, Dean was feeling less than patient at the moment. He turned on his heel and headed deeper into the facility. He had to spend this frustration somewhere.

Maybe I should try getting underground? He was in a perfectly reckless mood for breaking in down there, seeing the tunnels and rooms and getting some answers. The only thing was, his salt shaker was empty. Not to mention, if he did encounter something while in a mood like this... Dad would beat the shit out of him for going into a situation without his head screwed on straight.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Zippo lighter he'd won off of Garnet. As far as he knew, the kid didn't smoke, so it was a mystery as to why he'd even had one. He flicked it open and watched the flame burn bright. He passed his fingers through it, savoring the burn as it licked at them. He wanted a smoke, but they were back in the room. He wanted something sharp to cut himself with, but he pretty much knew that he wouldn't find something like that anywhere. He'd settle for a drink, but the only bastard he knew with any alcohol was Pokey. And maybe Jared. He was seriously low on options here.

“You're sinking to new lows, Winchester,” a self-satisfied voice said cryptically.

Anger flared in response to the gloating form of Gordon as he morphed out of the shadows. “And what lows are those, you crazy bastard?”

“Oh, there is the public indecency,” he gestured to Dean's shirtless torso under his jacket. “But then there is playing with fire.” His tone was all-knowing. “How does it feel? Give you a rush?”

Dean leered and held the flame out to the dark-skinned man. “I'd be more than happy to let you try it out for yourself.” I'll set your stupid ass on fire.

Gordon smiled, strolling around to his left, making Dean turn. “Oh, I don't mean that. I mean the real fire you're playing with. Poor little Sammy Winchester... boy, do you have him fooled.”

Dean felt his blood run cold. “What are you talking about?”

“See, I always knew you were crazy, Dean.” He laughed. “That much is obvious.” He continued his circling, and his eyes were steady, banked with volatile aggression. “But I never even...” he painted the air with his hands, grin growing, “imagined... what a sick fuck you'd turn out to be.” He shook his head, amused. “You see, I hear things from folks. I hear quite a lot of things. Seems like we weren't the only ones who didn't know you were brothers. Seems like Sammy doesn't know boo, either. Not unless he likes the thought of taking it up the ass, which is bad enough, but from his own brother?”

Gordon tsked at him and he felt white hot rage.

“Sam's not like that,” he said through clenched teeth. How in the fuck was Gordon getting his intel? Did he have people stationed outside their room or what?!

“Like what? A perverted freak like you?”

“Keep talking, Gordon, you might even get to see what I'm like when I'm angry.”

“Oh, I don't think so. You've had a solid grip on your temper ever since Sam came along. Are you trying to impress your sweetheart? Or did they tell you it's the only way you'd be allowed to see him?”

Rage was flicking behind Dean's eyes. He was seeing red. Black. Red. Gordon may have been right in that he'd been taking pains to rein in his temper, but he was going too fucking far talking about Sam like this. He was pushing Dean's buttons, and he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Like a kid playing with a hot stove, turning knobs and getting drawn in by the glow of hot coils.

“So, when are you going to tell him, Dean? Before or after you fuck him?”

Self-control snapped and Dean's waking mind took a holiday. Fury was a blinding light, white hot, and it was only through his fists pummeling flesh and bone, and through the tilt of his own body that he knew he had Gordon down on the ground and was beating the shit out of him. His hands felt warm. Sticky.

He had the passing thought that he shouldn't take things too far, that he should let up at some point and try not to kill the guy outright, but he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. All the pent up anger at Gordon, all the helplessness and self-loathing he'd felt in the situation with Sam... hell, even being in this place... it poured through him, finally finding an outlet. His blood sang as he rendered Gordon speechless and spitting blood. Things were cracking and crunching from time to time beneath his hands. A nose? A rib? He wasn't properly sure and didn't care.

Doing this felt right.

It felt fucking right, and he knew he was justified. This was for all the shit Gordon Walker had given him practically since coming here, and this was for all the things he'd said or implied about Sam. This was for him sticking his nose into other people's business just one goddamn time too many.  

“Holy shit!”

Dean registered an intruder upon his private conversation with Gordon. But he wasn't done yet. He wasn't nearly finished here. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifting his lolling head off of the ground. His face was a mess. Blood was everywhere. Probably all over him, too. Dean felt nothing looking at him. Nothing except maybe some urgency not to get caught after he'd finished what he'd started. If he hit the nasal bone just right, he could shove it through Gordon's rotten, worthless brain. He'd never tried it before, just heard that it could be done, but it was worth a shot.

Something solid connected with the side of Dean's head and he was knocked to the side, losing his grip on his opponent. His head spun a bit, the blow landing near his temple, and when he started to recover, he realized his arms were being restrained from behind.

He snarled, dropping his body low and twisting, offsetting the restrainer's balance. He grabbed a fistful of their shirt at their shoulder with his left hand, and their left arm with his right as it became free, then tossed them over his shoulder with a one-armed shoulder throw. It was a sloppy Ippon Seoinage, given the circumstances, but it had the interloper on his back and it was easy to transition his caught left arm into a nasty armlock. All he'd have to do now is twist it a little this way or that way and it would be hurting like a motherfucker as it tore up the shoulder or elbow joint.

“Dean, it's me,” his downed attacker panted. “Stop. Please.”

If Dean hadn't felt his world warp before, it sure was warping now. He recognized the green shirt first - his own. Then it was Sam's strained face that swam into view, bringing with it a swarm of overwhelming feelings.

Surprise, but then shame, remorse, and fear. All of a sudden, it was like his conscience had just bitch-slapped him in the face. With an anvil. He glanced at himself, the arms of his jacket, spattered red, and then Gordon's still form several feet away. “What are you doing here?” he heard himself ask. His voice sounded cold and empty, even to his own ears. He hadn't released Sam's arm. His brother was wincing at the pressure held upon it.

Jesus Christ, what am I doing?

Sense was filtering back in. If anyone were to find out what he'd done...

“Dean, let me go. We can talk about this.” Grey eyes were talking him down like a wild animal. A violent, frenzied animal. “I had to stop you. You didn't want to kill him, you just got carried away.”

You're wrong, he thought, staring back at the most precious thing he had in this world. I wanted to.

((Just like you wanted to do more than just kiss Sam,)) some part of him whispered. ((Only he didn't know he should stop you.))

((You can barely control yourself without his help. How pathetic.))

“C'mon, Dean, someone is bound to come by any second,” Sam reasoned with him, still on the ground under Dean's hold. “Do you want them to find you like this?”

He knew Sam was right, but his fingers were sticking to him like they were glued to his flesh. He liked the look of Sam's discomfort, his tousled hair, and his pleading eyes. He wondered if this was the closest he would ever be to his brother again.

Shame coursed through him again, and disgust at his own disturbing thoughts. He made his hands loosen and Sam slipped from his grasp.

Suddenly, the sight of Gordon made him sick. His stomach lurched and the smell of iron was filling his nostrils.

Good god, were those teeth he saw on the floor?

“Dean, c'mon,” Sam was tugging at his arm. He noticed Sam was doing his absolute best not to look at Gordon. His face was pale.

Dean let himself be led into one of the many halls that branched out from that main intersection. His feet were leaden. His thoughts were just as heavy. Why was Sam even bothering with him right now, after what he'd just seen? Dean felt tarnished, soiled, and in danger of contaminating Sam with it. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't. It would eat away at the light of him, starting with Sam's hand that was wrapped so tightly about his wrist, crawling up his brother's arm and burning away his innocence and morals until he wasn't even himself anymore.

“Here,” Sam said, opening a door and ushering him in. It was the public locker room and showers. “Now strip.”

Dean gave him a look like he was crazy.

Sam met his eyes with that obstinate look. “You're covered in bloo--” he broke off, eyes flicking away. “You look a mess and we'd never make it back to our room without being seen. You need to clean up.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asked flatly. “You saw what I did to him.” He lifted his arms out. “This is his blood. What justification could I possibly have to give you that would make this all right?”

“Just shut up, okay?” Sam snapped. “I don't know. Just wash it off of you already.”

Dean took off his jacket, laying it aside on one of the wooden benches. The hospital issue pants he was wearing were flecked with blood. He took them off and laid them beside the jacket. He might have hesitated over removing his boxers, but then again, he had just been ordered to strip and shower, and he didn't have much fight left in him. So what if Sam saw him nude? It didn't matter. If he liked what he saw, Gordon was a stellar example of why not to get close. And if he was revolted, then all the better. That was how things should be.

He shouldn't know things like how Sam's mouth felt against his. He shouldn't have ever known fierce desire like that. He shouldn't have ever known how good Sam tasted...

Dean turned on the shower and winced as it spat out cold water at first. And here my poor, sweet brother doesn't even know who I am. He thinks he's taking care of the resident neighborhood psycho. He thinks he's dealing with this pretty well, yet he's struggling and it's only the tip of the iceberg.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sam pick up his leather jacket and spread it over his knees as he sat, wiping it down with a wet paper towel. There was a scowl upon his face.

Dean scrubbed at his skin and watched Sam work.

After several moments, Sam glanced up at him and his expression darkened. “You know,” he said in a terse voice, “the greater part of me is wondering why running out and doing this was preferable to staying in the room with me.”

Modest, even now? You want to know why I couldn't just sleep with you? Is that what you think you want?

“Because that can't happen,” he said through gritted teeth, focusing on the ugly tile before him. “Just trust me on this.”

Sam laughed humorlessly. “Oh that's rich, coming from you,” he said, flipping the jacket and working on the other sleeve. The wet paper towel in his hands was more red than pink. “You just spazzed out and beat some guy nearly to death and you think I should trust in your judgment?”

“Yes.”

“God,” Sam muttered under his breath angrily. “...fucking crazy.”

“Watch your mouth,” Dean said sharply. He may have admitted as much to himself, but he wasn't ready to hear something like that out of Sam.

“Or what, I'll end up like him?” Sam said sarcastically, bent over his task.

“Maybe,” Dean said menacingly, slamming his hand upon the shower lever, shutting it off. “You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

“Then why are you taking the effort to warn me?” he countered, unimpressed.

That snotty tone was pissing Dean off. He got out of the shower area, dripping water across the floor as he walked. Why didn't Sam know when to quit? Why does he trust me at all? Because that was what this sort of behavior meant - Sam fucking trusted him.

He snapped his jacket up out of Sam's hands with a dark look. “Because maybe I do things sometimes that even I regret,” he said acidly. “And Gordon back there wasn't one of them.”

He shrugged back into his jacket and pulled on his boxers and his pants, turned inside-out so as to be less obviously redecorated, then left.

---

Sam sat, unmoving, for a long time. The shower was still dripping from where Dean had been showering not long ago.

He picked up the patient shirt he'd been carrying and slammed it into the garbage can angrily. He'd gotten it from an orderly named Fred, whom he'd crossed paths with in the hall. He had been going to give it to his roommate, but never even got the chance.

He looked down at his arms. They were smeared red from where Dean's hands had touched him. He went to the sink and scrubbed at them fiercely, replacing the red of blood with the red of raw skin. The water ran pink for a long time.

---

“All right, Lewis,” Dean said stonily, cornering Pokey in his room, “hand over your stash.”

“D-Dean, man, I don't know what you're talking about,” the smaller man said, holding his hands up. He smiled nervously. “H-Hey, did you know your pants were on inside out?” He laughed a little, eyes darting around like he was trying to figure out how to escape. “What'd you do, get a little action and make a hasty retreat?”

Dean rushed him, slamming him into the wall next to his bed. “You say one more fucking smart-ass thing, and you will fucking regret it. Now where is your goddamn stash? Don't play coy with me, Lewis, I will end you.”

Lewis winced against the new discomfort in his shoulder. He didn't find himself enamored of pushing his luck. “Damn, you sound so serious when you say my real name,” he muttered to himself. “I have a bottle of Scotch in the ceiling.”

Green eyes flicked to the ceiling tiles and then back to him. “Where?”

“You mind letting me go first?”

“Yes, I do. You're a weasel.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, my frie--”

The door opened behind them and Garnet walked in. “Lover's spat?” he said blandly, not overly concerned for his roommate's safety, or his own for that matter or he wouldn't be mouthing off like that. It was hard to tell though whether he was suggesting the spat was with Pokey or with Sam. The running jokes about Dean's roommate had been less than funny to him.

“Garnet,” Dean growled, not in the mood for either.

The black-haired youth shrugged. He reached into the closet, his hair was like a curtain when unbound like it was now, and pulled out a bottle from a high shelf. “Here,” he said, walking over and holding it out to Dean. “That's what you wanted, right?”

Pokey strained to see over Dean's shoulder. “Ah!” he cried, eyeing the bottle of Scotch and struggling. “That's mine!”

Garnet gave him a rare smile; it barely turned up his lips. “I told you to give me back that dream catcher,” he said in his deadpan voice. “Payback's a bitch.” He plopped the nearly full bottle of liquor into Dean's hands. “I'd avoid the usual spots. Try the janitor closet in K ward. Sources say it's unlocked.”

Dean let go of Lewis, having gotten what he came for. He was surprised that Garnet had come through for him like this. Though maybe it was just revenge on his klepto roommate. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Garnet said, watching Dean slip out the door.

“Goddamn it, G,” Lewis said. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Shut up, Pokey,” he said in his flat, informative tone. “It's payback. Plus, I probably saved your damn life just now.”

Lewis readjusted his shirt. “Whaddaya mean?”

“God, you really are slow. Couldn't you tell Winchester was bugging out?” Garnet shook his head. Pokey really was the best name for his retarded roommate; that and the smack it made to his manhood. Lewis was always wanting so desperately to get some action and `poke' some girls but never got lucky, because he was a poor sod with a habit for stealing and getting his lame ass caught every time.

Pokey shook his head. “He seemed irritable?”

Garnet flopped down onto his bed, on the other side of the room from Pokey's. “Yeah, well I just saw Gordon being carried out of here on a stretcher, and it didn't look like `irritable' happened to him.”

“I don't get it.”

“Jesus, man,” Garnet's voice gained some inflection, annoyance creeping in. “Somebody beat the ever-living hell out of that asshole Gordon, and I'm betting it was Dean.”

Pokey's face registered delayed panic. “Really?”

“You dumb fuck,” Garnet sighed and rolled over to grab some shut eye. It was none of his business, but he wondered what was going on with Winchester. He was usually the most normal seeming one of their group. Not that he blamed him for losing it on Gordon, but still... it had been pretty brutal. It almost lived up to the stories.

Well, he hoped the alcohol helped some.

---

Dean wasted a good amount of time getting completely hammered. It made him feel better, even though it also made him feel worse.

He knew that drinking wouldn't solve anything, but what it did mean is that he was required to resolve things later rather than sooner. He could live with that. It also kept him from thinking. Mostly.

The biting liquor had the run of his system and was making a messy haze of his thoughts. They'd probably found Gordon already and a small panic would be forming among the residents, wondering who had nearly ganked him and if anyone was next on the assailant's list. With his history, there was a good chance he was suspect in more than a few minds.

Hell, plenty of people had also seen Gordon all up in his shit on many occasions.

He tossed the bottle aside, and rose to his feet, swaying only slightly. He should get back to the room. He couldn't avoid Sam forever. Fuck all if he knew what he could possibly say to him... but he couldn't leave things like this. He ran a few scenarios in his head.

`Sam, there's something I need to tell you... and you can hit me later if you want.'

`Hey Sammy, I'm sorry I jumped you earlier. Um, yeah, it really is Dean.'

`I'm your brother. Hate me yet?'

Christ. How was he supposed to tell Sammy now, after fucking sticking his tongue down his throat?

He looked at the bottle he'd cast aside with a bland gaze. It was glass. He could always smash it and fillet his wrists after all. Then he could avoid this whole awkward mess and having Sam potentially hate him. “Oh, but wouldn't that be easy?” he groaned sarcastically, stretching his arms over his head with listless grace.

He never was one for taking the easy way out. Plus, he owed Sam the truth. Even if it was ugly.

He'd tell him in the morning, when he was sober. He didn't need to be slurring out shit that didn't make sense.

Dean stood with his ear nearly against the door, checking for sounds of life. All quiet on the western front. He opened the door carefully and confirmed with his eyes.

He slipped out of the closet and closed it quietly behind him, skulking back to their room without hassle.

He opened the room's door just as quietly. Good thing for him, the lights were off, meaning Sam was asleep. He'd worried momentarily that Sam wouldn't be there at all, that he'd have requested a room change, but he could make out the form of him all tucked into bed.

Dean tiptoed in and unzipped his jacket as quietly as he could. He loved it but he sure as hell didn't want to sleep in the damn thing.

He'd just slipped it off and lain it on the foot of the bed when he heard movement. The creak of the bed?

He turned and saw that Sam was sitting up now, facing him in the dark. Terror struck him suddenly, though he wasn't sure why, or what he was picking up on.

“So, Dean, when were you going to tell me?” Sam said in a tone that was unlike any Dean had ever heard from him before. It was implacable and shot his veins through with ice.

“Tell you what?” he responded roughly, hoping that somehow he was getting this wrong. Hoping somehow that Sam didn't know.

“That you are my brother, you lying asshole.”

---
TBC


A/N: Chapter title from:

Infected Mushroom - “Smashing the Opponent”

Smack me again
And I can't believe it's true
Smashing the opponent
Was not my intention to do
Neither did you

Foresee such an outcome
To the unnecessary ending
I wish I could retrace all my steps
And erase my mistakes
With you

I wanted to say
You shouldn't suffer this way
I wanted to say
I hope I can take it away

Tempt me again and I will forget the truth
Backing your decision
Was something I neglected to do
Even for you
If you feel rage…To strike me with revenge
I will be standing right here
Waiting without fear
For you

I wanted to say
You shouldn't suffer this way
I wanted to say
I hope I can take it away