
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/769312.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Sibling_Incest, Vague_blowjobs, Blood, Murder, Gore, Serial
      Killers, Alternate_Universe_-_Serial_Killers, toppy_bottom!Sam, Dark,
      Emotional_Manipulation, just_a_little_bit_though
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-21 Words: 4531
****** Twisted Little Souls ******
by noobieninja
Summary
     The Winchester Trio were well known throughout the country as the
     most dangerous family of the century. The poor old man, the dirty
     young ringleader, the brainwashed little brother. But things don't
     really fit into neat little labels like that.
Notes
     Written out of pure inspiration and an interest in serial killers -
     also for someone on Tumblr who I really like. uwu A bit of a
     different style this time, but only slightly. And a shitty ending,
     who doesn't love those? Beware, this actually does get kind of gory.
     Also really sloppy half-smut.
The Winchester Trio were well known throughout the country as the most
dangerous family of the century. One wouldn't suspect them at first - three
tall, attractive men, one with a rough beard and a tired look in his eyes, one
with a firey grin and a cock of the gods as told by many women, and one with
big, gooey brown eyes and a shy air about him. Two brothers and a father.

People who knew John Winchester, the father, say that once upon a time, he was
a normal, happy guy. He liked cars and beer and football, loved his wife, loved
his two little sons. After the fire that killed his wife, however, they say, he
changed. He became a marionette on a string, fueled by beer and restless
nights. His sons had to take care of him, and through that, he became part of
their disturbing schemes. They say that he only was only going through the
motions, not realizing the immorality of his actions through the haze of
depression and hopelessness.

People who met Dean Winchester say that he was the one behind it all. He had a
big personality, flirty and easy on the eyes. He winked at cameras if they were
ever in front of one, checked his hair in the reflection, even joked around in
front of the damn thing. He was the face of the dangerous family, shown in the
news the most with his Blue Steel mug shot and bright green eyes shining at the
audience. Women who had slept with him said that he was glorious between the
sheets, but emotionally distant, would always leave immediately. People who
knew him back from school said that he'd always seemed so normal, until around
the time he was sixteen, when something inside him changed. No one ever knew
what it was, though. No one got to know him that well.

People who met Sam Winchester pitied him. He was the youngest of the family, a
smart and funny and handsome young man who could easily have had a bright,
happy future. He was never very popular in school, always too busy with getting
good grades to make new friends. He had his brother, though, who watched over
him like a hawk and always picked him up after school, was known for disliking
anyone who got too close to Sammy. His brother's change seemed to affect him,
because as Dean became more brazen and apathetic, Sam seemed to pull himself
away from everything around him but his family. He became distant, and the one
time someone tried to talk to him, make friends, see what was going on in his
head, he mumbled something about not wanting to upset his brother, running
away. People pitied him, because he was caught up in the middle of every
horrible thing his brother forced him to do, brainwashed by the person he was
always closest to.

The rumors always made Sam laugh.

People only saw what they wanted to see - poor old man, dirty young ringleader,
brainwashed little brother. It all fit in too easily, and sometimes he wondered
what it was like to live so ignorantly.

Some of it was true, of course, as all rumors were based on a tiny bit of
truth.

John really was a broken man, a drunken old bastard who stopped caring eighteen
and a half years ago. Dean really was a flirty, brazen fucker with a penchant
for not listening to authorities. And Sam really was a smart kid who knew how
to pout for the police and say that his brother was his favorite person, the
one he loved most in this world, and that was what made them so suspicious
about Dean.

But they were so dumb it shocked Sam. Was it even legal to be that stupid?

Of course it was. It's only intelligence that's outlawed these days.

---

Sam can remember the exact moment he made Dean his - the tipping point, as it
were.

Not to say that they hadn't always belonged to each other. Since Sam had been
born, Dean had loved him dearly, promised to always keep him safe. Sam grew up
with Dean's overprotective attitude towards him and John's stricter moments. He
rebelled against John, but he melted into Dean's affections like they brought
him ecstasy unattainable by any other means. And Dean had always cared too much
for Sam, would do everything he could and more to make the kid happy. He just
wanted his little brother safe and happy, was that too much to ask?

There was a tipping point, though, when suddenly Dean was under Sam's complete
power, seduced by the soft, trusting, tender tones of his voice and the way he
could make false tears spring up to his eyes so easily. In the dark of the
night, when Sam admitted too much, Dean would shush him and kiss him on the
forehead, telling him it would all be better soon, though he never knew what
was wrong and how he could fix it, but he desperately wanted to.

The tipping point happened around when Sam was twelve and Dean was sixteen.
Dean had had a rough day at school - a teacher telling him to shape up, a girl
discovering his lack of sexual energy for the female gender as much as he tried
to make it seem like he had a lot of it - and Sam was trying to make him feel
better.

"I can try to make some pie for you, Dean."

"No, Sammy, I'm okay, really."

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, and shifted closer. He pressed the back of his hand
to Dean's forehead, making the older laugh a bit.

"I'm not sick, Sammy."

"Dean, you just refused pie," he retorted, but put his hand down.

"I know," Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. "It's surely some emotional issue, not
the fact that I stole three extra slices during lunch today," he laughed again,
curling an arm around Sam and pulling him close. "Thanks for caring, though."

"I'll always care for you, Dean, I love you," Sam mumbled, wrapping his arms
around Dean's chest, pulling himself closer.

"I love you, too, kiddo," Dean said quietly, holding Sam close for a moment.

Moments like this weren't strange. They shared a bed too often for it to be
strange at this point. They enjoyed each other's company, emotional and
physical, they liked being in contact with each other. It was a comfort
mechanism.

"Dean," Sam's voice was muffled against his brother's shoulder, but Dean still
heard.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"It would be bad if I loved you as more than a brother, wouldn't it?"

Dean let out a sigh, and paused for a moment. But when he spoke, he didn't
sound panicked or disgusted. Just defeated. "Yeah, Sammy, it would."

Sam knew immediately from Dean's lack of a freak out that he was in the clear.
Dean wouldn't let his guard down so easily if he wasn't going to be compliant -
and even if he had freaked out, Sam would have found a way to calm him down and
get what he wanted anyway. But he didn't want Dean to know his thoughts just
yet. "I'm sorry," he muttered, hugging Dean closer, tighter, as if he didn't
want to let go ever, but he knew that he would be pulled away soon.

Dean didn't push him away, just pressed his lips to Sam's slender little
shoulder. "Don't be sorry, baby boy," he whispered, one of his hands running up
and down Sam's back soothingly. "It's okay."

"Dean," Sam pulled away slightly, putting their faces too close for comfort,
pressing his gaze hard into Dean's. His brother's beautiful green eyes, which
could change so easily from cold and hard to warm and tender, Sam had seen the
transformation himself, were locked onto his, asking a thousand silent
questions.

Sam nodded, and Dean shook his head.

"We can't, Sammy," he said, his voice rough. He wanted this just as badly as
Sam did, but he knew the consequences, he cared about the damage that would be
done to poor little Sammy.

"Why not? Dean, I love you, please," he begged quietly, pulling himself into
Dean's lap, pressing their chests together. It was too intimate a move, too
much too fast, but Dean could easily have pushed Sam away if he wanted him
gone.

Dean was quiet for a long time, just looking down at his little brother with
the closest thing to a 'no' Sam had ever seen in his eyes before. But
eventually he nodded. "I love you, too, Sammy."

---

Dean decided that he wasn't going for his senior year in high school. Sam was
okay with that, because he wanted to go to college and get a big, important
job, and he and Dean could live together and be happy and Dean could work at an
autoshop or something.

Well, he told himself he wanted that.

But in reality, his favorite daydreams were ones of him and Dean on the run,
blood on their hands, fingers entwined, lips pressed against one another's. His
favorite daydreams included Dean sitting in the corner of a dark room while Sam
carved open an innocent person on a steel slab, listening to their voice scream
and their insides gush and squish; Dean would watch, of course, and once Sam
was done toying with the victim, Dean would kill them with a quick bullet to
the head. And then they'd fall into bed together, Sam riding Dean like a rodeo
bull.

It sounded glorious to Sam, but he knew those fantasies were dark and twisted
and evil and bad and wrong and
noSamnobackinthecageyou'renotallowedoutyou'reneverleavingthehouseagain.

So he kept his evil thoughts to himself for a long year.

But he was starting to itch, like he was shedding his skin but the shell
wouldn't break and he felt trapped and hot and uncomfortable and he wanted out.
Dean could tell he wasn't feeling right, and every night wrapped his arms
around him and kissed him and asked what was wrong. Sam never answered his
questions with anything more than a noncomittal grunt, but one night he finally
broke his silence.

"Dean."

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Have you ever thought about what it would be like to kill someone?"

Dean sat up then, body tense and eyes wide open. Sam let himself stay laying
down, loosely gripping Dean's muscular arms, urging him to stay in bed despite
his panic. "Sammy..."

"Don't hate me," Sam interrupted. looking away and closing his eyes as if to
sleep away the taut, awkward moment.

Dean was quiet for a while, but eventually eased back into bed, curling his
arms around Sam and bringing him in close. "Talk to me," he said, his voice
gruff, but he obviously wasn't going to be leaving any time soon.

Sam cracked an eye open. "You sure you want to listen?"

"Yeah," Dean rasped. "I wanna listen, Sammy. Tell me about all this going
through your head."

Sam smiled a bit, leaning forward to kiss Dean before telling his tales of
wonderfully gorey images running through his head, how he imagined blood to
feel like dripping down off his fingers and how he liked the way blood stained
clothes. He spun bloody words into pretty shiny gold to wrap up the psychotic
present for Dean, and the older stayed passive and quiet as he listened to Sam
tell him about the first person he'd wanted to kill - one of his old math
teachers, or something, he couldn't remember, just remembered the way he wanted
to cut her open and strangle her with her own slippy-slidey intestines.

When Sam was done, he looked to Dean for a reaction.

Dean just nodded, and kissed Sam gently.

"I'll help you through this," he whispered against the soft, chapped lips of
his little brother. "I promise, in whatever way I can help, I will."

---

Dean didn't really know who he was, but he loved watched Sam tear him apart,
bit by bit, breaking off piece by piece.

Sam had been thrilled when he found out the house they were renting had a sound
proof bomb shelter. He'd been more thrilled when Dean said that, yes, he could
go out and find a victim. He'd waited three long, long, unbearable years for
this moment, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was exciting and
terrifying all in the same sensation.

The dirty talk and the shared fantasies and the whispered promises weren't
enough anymore, Sam needed the real fucking deal and Dean had said yes, and
that was something glorious and beautiful in Sam's eyes.

He pinpointed the target easily. It was some poor fucker in his biology class
who'd flirted with him just one too many times. Sam told Dean about every word
this kid said out of line, every billowing black blob that dared be called a
word that spewed out of his mouth, and he wasn't too fond of him either.

Dean blacked out the memory of capturing him. He didn't want to remember the
look of sheer terror on his face, but when he told Sam he didn't remember, he
launched off on this tangent of how deliciously afraid the guy was, how he
looked like he was about to piss himself. Dean was glad Sam was so happy.

But he remembered being in the bomb shelter, making sure the door was locked
tight as he listened to Sam prepping the guy on the table behind him. When he
turned around, he was surprised by how clinical Sam was being about it.

Clean utensils - where did he get a fucking scalpal, for christ's sake - and
leather straps to cover up the bits he didn't want to see, keeping the kid
bound to the table. Hell, even gloves and a mask.

Sam flicked his eyes up to Dean, and even behind the mask, Dean could tell he
was smiling. "Thanks."

"No problem, Sammy."

When the kid - Nico or something - woke up, Sam started to cut in.

Sam learned a lot that first time. Like how loud a nearly full-grown man can
scream when he's being cut open, and how much pressure it took to effectively
slice through all the skin and fat that covered up the good stuff. Like how
watching a person suffer and cry and beg and bleed made him feel oddly serene,
like he'd finally found a place for his puzzle piece, and was calmly fulfilling
his place in his life, cutting open a kid who deserved it.

He liked killing, he decided as he cut into Nico's liver, listening to his
howls of agony. He liked it a lot.

Vaguely, he wondered if Dean would let him do it again.

After a few hours of toying around with Nico, Sam finally put his tools down,
peeling the gloves off and throwing them into the trash can nearby. Nico was
barely hanging onto his life, eyes fluttering open and closed, his heartbeat
slow and shallow, as Sam could see through the gaping hole in his chest, where
he'd broken a few ribs and torn them out.

"Dean, I don't want to kill him."

Dean was, at first, confused. Sam had all but destroyed this guy, and now he
was regretting it?

But there was no regret in Sam's eyes, only expectation.

Oh.

Dean had to do the dirty work.

He stood up and walked over, grabbing the bloody scalpal. He unceremoniously
slit the kid's throat, and he hated the way he gagged and choked.

Next time he'd have to bring his gun.

---

When they had to run from the police, they didn't explain the big why to John.
Just said that they'd fucked some shit up and needed to hide.

John just gave them a long, blank stare, too drunk to bring himself out of the
depressed haze circling around his mind. As per usual.

Dean cursed and told Sam to help John out to the car, and he ran off to go pack
their things. He drove them all the way to New Orleans, where they stayed for a
while.

Until their faces ended up on TV. The three of them, with John's tired, saggy
expression, Dean's charming grin, and Sam's wide, bright eyes.

They had to lay low after that, and left New Orleans for Anaheim in the middle
of a hot July night.

---

These days, their footsteps weren't so easily traced. They knew how to hide,
how to run, how to pretend to be a functional couple of brothers with a broken
dad that they toted about - which got plenty of pity favors.

They were pretty sure John knew all about what they did in the bedroom, because
they weren't exactly quiet about it, but he never said anything. He was always
too drunk, too sad, too broken. He wasn't a strong man, never had been.

Killing was a bit harder these days. Sam always had to do his dirty work first
- it helped calm him, it held him together like loose, runny glue. They'd have
to find a soundproof room to do it in, which usually meant breaking into
someone's house and taking their basement.

Sam was nineteen now. Fully legal, but still growing and maturing bit by bit.
Dean loved him, loved him so dearly and so closely, couldn't stop loving him.
Every glance over to him was something beautiful and it made his heart clench.
When they got to their motel for the night, they always got John a separate
room, and they tried to keep quiet in their own.

Dean could tell that Sam was starting to get the itch again - the urge, the
want, the need to torture and maim someone so bad they barely cling to life by
a thread. At night Sam would be restless and wouldn't let Dean sleep until he
passed out himself. During the day, he would be overly attentive to everything
and everyone around them, sometimes focusing on someone for a short while, only
to be disappointed by something Dean couldn't see.

Of course Dean couldn't see it, though. He didn't have the same eye that Sam
did. He'd never wanted to kill in the first place, he just followed Sam blindly
like a lost puppy. Sam thought it was adorable.

When he started to feel the need again, he'd try to look for a victim. He'd
watch everyone, trying to find someone who pissed him off enough at first
glance. Most often, it was some suburban househusband or kid with a smartass
attitude. It all hit too close to home for Sam, and he wanted to tear them
apart, hurt them, make them pay for their bratty little lives. Sometimes, he'd
find someone that interested him - they had the coifed hair and the bright
smile and the latest technology. But then they'd see him looking - one time,
the kid actually ended up hitting on him and he thought Dean was going to shoot
him right there without all the fun - or they'd do something, a small quirk in
their personality that made Sam back off. Sometimes he didn't even know why, he
just lost interest in them.

Sometime in May, Sam found the next victim in some Buttfuck, Nowhere town in
Oklahoma. It was a man this time, with tattoos swirling around his arms and
chest and neck, but that wasn't what bothered Sam - he actually was quite fond
of tattoos, always insisted that Dean should get one. What bothered him was the
fact that he saw this guy at the bar - he'd come with Dean, intending to get a
little tipsy then go back to the motel room for a bit of fun - and he saw this
guy picking fights, left and right, obviously hammered.

"That guy," he muttered to Dean, pointing at the guy with a tipped glass of
whiskey. "He's the one."

Dean cast they guy a look out of the corner of his eye. He nodded, sipping at
his beer. "Tonight?"

Sam nodded, smiling a bit. "Tonight," he said, kissing Dean on the cheek.

---

This was always the best part for Dean. Watching Sam do his work, swim in his
element, make squirming, screaming masterpieces out of a person and a knife. He
loved seeing Sam's eyes so focused and dark, his hands covered in blood and
bits of guts. He loved watching Sam play with the more pliable organs, his
hands working, graceful in every minute movement, covered in scarlet. He knew
this was a more personal time for Sam, and watching him be in that mood, that
mindset, doing what he did best, was something amazing for Dean.

When they first started doing this, Dean hated being in the room while Sam did
it. He didn't like watching someone get cut up and ripped apart so easily,
didn't like hearing the screams and howls of pain and agony. Sometimes the
victim pleaded - "Please, no, don't do this, it hurts, please, just kill me,
please!" - and that was the worst for Dean. Even now, it made him flinch, but
Sam always calmed Dean's nerves with his smooth, quiet voice.

"Don't worry, Dean, it's okay."

He loved Sam so much, he really did. He just wanted the kid to be happy, and if
that meant letting him hurt random innocents, then so be it. And he liked
seeing him happy, he liked how once Sam was done, he would smile so much more,
and he was so much happier. He'd let Dean hold him closer and longer, and
instead of going hard and fast, they'd slow down for a moment, just feel each
other and their bodies and they'd love each other in a different way for just
one night.

This was the best part for Sam. Cutting up a jackass that pissed him off,
hurting someone who deserved it. He loved this. He loved being able to carve up
some sonuvabitch, make them feel the unimaginable pain of having a knife plunge
into their insides while they were awake and feeling everything. It was the
only time he had to really clear his head, to breathe, to let the screaming
voices in his head leave him for just a few pretty hours.

He liked screams. He liked blood. He sometimes wished it didn't stain skin so
easily, but when he got a little sprayed on Dean and it set in, he always
looked so beautiful like that. He liked getting blood on Dean's clothes,
reddish brown smears in the vague shape of fingers clawing down his back. He
liked doing what he did.

What he didn't like was killing. He didn't want to watch the lights leave
people's eyes, he didn't want to see them fade away. It was too much. He knew
they died, but it would be different actually doing it, actually watching it
happen. That's why he made it Dean's job to kill them.

He loved Dean, he really did. Sometimes he didn't show it as obviously or as
much as Dean did, but he really did love him. He was glad Dean let him do this,
he was glad that he didn't try to stop him and didn't hate him, just seemed to
love him more and more with each passing day. He was happy with Dean, because
he got what he needed in so many different ways.

When Sam pulled away from the large man, hours later, his eyes were shining and
he was smiling behind the surgical mask. He looked up at Dean.

Dean walked over to him, wrapped his arms around Sam. He pulled Sam's mask
down, pressed their lips together, gentle and easy. Sam pressed a bloody,
gloved hand to his back, probably leaving another stain, but he didn't mind,
was too focused on how Sam's lips felt against his.

He took out his gun, pressed it to the guy's forehead. The man let out a small
whimper, but Dean cut it off, pulling the trigger.

Dean pulled Sam's gloves off, throwing them on the ground. Sam's arms coiled
around Dean's neck, Dean's hands cupping him by the ass, lifting him off his
feet, and he wrapped his legs around his brother's waist, bringing them closer
together. Dean carried him to the guest room, branched off the basement. He set
Sam down, hovering over him and kissing his neck.

"You shouldn't get so turned on by that," Sam mumbled, his voice husky and
breathy already.

"Neither should you," Dean shot back, pulling Sam's shirt up and off his thin,
lanky frame. He kissed down his chest, pausing occasionally to bite into the
pale, pretty skin there, leaving marks behind to darken later.

Sam's hand was in his hair before he even got the kid's pants off.

"You're so eager, baby boy."

"Dean, stop teasing."

Sam obviously had more power over Dean than anyone else in the world. Dean
would follow him into Hell, would fight the devil himself for the kid. Sam knew
that, abused that power often, but never without reason. And Dean worshipped
every inch of his body and soul - including the good amount of inches he had
packing in the groin area.

He just preferred being on bottom.

Dean didn't mind.

Sam gave a shameless moan as Dean's mouth eneveloped him, hot and wet and
perfect. Dean was so good at this, it wasn't fair. He knew every soft spot on
Sam's body, knew how to touch him and where and when to lick and suck and his
experience was so much greater than Sam's - he'd given him permission to sleep
with a few girls, just for their cover's sake - it didn't take too long for Sam
to be satisfied.

Dean always swallowed, no matter what.

Sam always returned the favor.

---

Sam and Dean were at a bar for some drinks, sitting in a dark corner to avoid
being recognized, playing footsie under the table. Sam was just having a beer
this time, wanting to stay away from the hard stuff for the night, the same
kind as Dean always drank. They were in Massachusetts now, and John was back in
their motel.

On the TVs hanging around the bar, the news turned to a report about the latest
strike of the Winchester Trio. The bartender turned up the volume, and Sam and
Dean held hands, smiling a bit as they watched.

"Bastards," one patron cursed loudly.

"They are twisted little souls, aren't they," a middle-aged woman commented
dryly, sipping on her third red wine of the night.

"I just hope someone shoots them someday. And soon," the bartender huffed,
cleaning a glass.

Sam's eyebrows furrowed, and he turned to Dean. "Dean."

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"If worst comes to worst," he bit his lip, looking away for a moment. Dean
frowned, running his fingers through Sam's long, soft hair.

"What is it?"

"Would you ever kill me? If you had to."

Dean sighed, and pulled Sam into a tight hug. "No, no, of course not, baby boy.
I love you so much."

Dean couldn't see Sam's little grin.

"I love you, too, Dean."

Twisted little souls. Yeah, he supposed. It worked.
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