The First Cut Is the Deepest


March 2007

Disclaimer: Owned by Kripke, Singer and the CW, lucky bastards!

"Like daddy, like daughter; like father, like son," Sam sing-songed somewhere behind him as Dean stood there, hopelessly trying to deny what was happening to him. But he couldnít. It was real; it was happening; and he had no way outówell, no way that he would willingly take.

Iím sorry, Dad, but I canít. I canít kill my own brother, he thought brokenly to himself. You should never have asked me that; you should have known I couldnít, wouldnít kill my Sammy.

"You know what you have to do if you want to stay with me, Dean," Samís voice purred, his arms wrapping around Deanís waist to pull him back hard against Samís body. "Itís easy; youíve done it a hundred, no, a thousand times. Do it."

Deanís hand trembled as he sighted down the barrel of his berretta to the tear-streaked visage at the other end. But how could he? She was the little sister heíd never had, the almost-lover who he could have spent forever with if heíd let himself put someone other than Sam first in his life. He almost found the strength to say no to the black-eyed bastard holding him so lovingly in his arms, the brother heíd once sworn heíd do anything for, but then Sammy was whispering in his ear again, pressing soft kisses behind it and promising the sweetest of damnations with his touch.

"You promised, Dean, donít you remember? You stood next to Mommyís grave with me in your arms and swore an oath to her that youíd never leave me.

"Donít leave me now; I need you. Iíve always needed you. Why do you think I ran away from you? I was scared; I wanted my brother, and it was wrong and evil, but I learned, we learned, didnít we?" Sam whispered, seduction personified. "We learned to say screw society and make our own laws. You and me, always, isnít that right, Dean? You know Iím right; you know I love you more than life, death, everything, right? After all, not even an hour ago you begged me for it, begged me to fuck you, to cut you, to make you bleed for me. You let me carve my name in your flesh for the world to see, and I did. I claimed you. Youíre mine, Dean, arenít you? Prove to me your mine. Pull the trigger. DO IT!"

"Iím sorry, Iím so sorry," Dean whispered and squeezed the trigger, watching as Jo jerked back and then slumped to the side, a slow trickle of blood oozing out the center of her forehead.

Somewhere in the distance he heard Ellen screaming and Ash cursing, but suddenly all that noise was cut off, becoming a wet gurgle of sound, and yet Dean couldnít blink, couldnít move or turn around to see what was happening behind him. All he could do was stare at the broken doll that was once a beautiful woman, the doll he had destroyed himself. "God forgive me," he begged, knowing that heíd never forgive himself.

"God washed his hands of the Winchesters a long time ago, brother mine," Sam murmured, coming around to stand in front of Dean, startling him and interrupting his line of sight. "And you are mine, arenít you, Dean?"

"Yes," Dean replied brokenly, looking at the wickedly curved knife in his brotherís hand, the one he had picked out for Sam almost a decade and a half earlier as a present, now dripping blood onto the once pristine floor of the Roadhouse. Ellenís and Ashís blood, people who had been his friends, his pseudo-family, and who were now dead because he didnít have the strength to say no and he never would. "Yes, Sammy, Iím all yours."

Sam wrapped his empty hand around the back of Deanís neck and pulled him forward in order to rape his brotherís mouth thoroughly. "All mine and only mine. Oh, the fun weíre going to have, Dean," he promised, laughing delightedly. "Hey, how about we go find Gordon next? I always hated that son of a bitch. I think itís about time we paid him back for all the grief heís caused us. But first." Sam took one last look around then very casually knocked over a bunch of booze bottles, shattering them on the bar and watching them weep to the floor.

Leaning down, he picked up a bar rag and swirled it in the mess. Holding it in his right hand, Sam moved behind his brother once again and rubbed up against him catlike, licking a strip along Deanís exposed neck and enjoying the shiver of arousal that he elicited. Sliding his left hand around Deanís hip, he pulled his brother back hard against him, making sure Dean felt Samís hard cock pressing into the crack of his ass, and then he continued the slide of his hand forward once more and reached into the front left pocket of Deanís jeans, caressing the soft bulge he found under the fabric, lips curving up as it began to harden almost immediately. A few more strokes of his brotherís cock and he withdrew, Deanís Zippo caught between his fingers.

"Time to go, Dean, weíve got things to do." Flipping the top, Sam lit the wick and set it to the rag and watched the alcohol catch. Setting it onto the flooded bar top, he laughed as flame exploded and spread. Soon there would be nothing left of Harvelleís, the hunterís haven, but char. A fitting funeral pyre for those he once called friend.

"And the first thing I want to do is fuck you over the Impalaís hood while the Roadhouse burns."


The first cut is the deepest, Baby I know -
The first cut is the deepest
ĎCause when it comes to being lucky, [s]heís cursed
When it comes to loviní me, [s]heís worse
But when it comes to being loved, [s]heís first
Thatís how I know.

Cat Stevens



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