Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ruby's blood is on his hands, and Dean still feels a vicious, useless sense of triumph at having put her down, and he's got Sam warm and alive and wide-eyed next to him, all the mistrust and resentment burned away for now, thank you Jesus, and they're together again, the way they should be – but it still doesn't matter, none of it matters, because light is pouring up from the ground, and Dean got here too late, and they are all totally fucked. The whole damn world is fucked, because Dean broke the first seal and Sam broke the last one, and now Lucifer is going to walk the earth. Dean's muscles are tense, his veins flooded with adrenaline, his heart's trying to fight its way out of his chest, and his fingers are digging into Sammy's arm. He wants to hide behind Sam, and he wants to run like hell and keep on running, but instead, knowing that it's futile, he steps between Sam and what's coming and just stands there, stricken, and waits for the world to end.

The light builds, and builds, chasing all the shadows from the room, brighter and brighter and blindingly brighter, until Dean stops squinting and has to close his eyes, and then cover them with a hand when the light still pours in through his eyelids. He can't help thinking of the pictures in Zachariah's green room, and all the hideous woodcuts and etchings he's seen, over the years; will there be horns? A tail? Legs like a goat? Something scaly and sharp-clawed, with red eyes and a flickering tongue? Are they talking Godzilla here, or something more human-sized? Will it be like when Castiel tried to speak to him? There's a pure, sweet note rising up through his bones, setting the whole world to reverberating, and Dean's kind of glad that at least there's not much glass in here to shatter.

They are so completely, comprehensively fucked.

It's not fair. Of course, nothing has ever been fair, not since flames came bursting hot and impossible from the ceiling of Sammy's nursery, and, mostly, Dean's reconciled himself to that. He's sucked it up and been a good soldier and kept on going, but this, this - come on, he did everything right, damn it! He even managed to talk an angel into betraying his orders and getting him to the damned convent, and all for nothing? Now that he's half-way to having to believe that there is a God, and a plan, Dean's having problems accepting how blatantly not fair this shit is. He's gutted it had to end this way, for Sammy, and for the whole damn planet. Sure, maybe he's not got many people left in his own life, but Dean likes knowing that there are happy families living normal lives out there – dads pushing their kids on swing sets, moms baking cookies, all that cornball white-picket-fence stuff. Dean likes the world, in spite of all the shitty bits, in spite of all the slavering, hungry things that lurk in the shadows. That's the reason they go through all the crap that they go through – to keep those people safe. To protect the other moms and dads, the other little kids. That's the whole point, damn it. He really doesn't want it to end. He doesn't want to be the one who made it end.

And then the light cuts out, and Dean braces himself, and raises the little demon-killing knife that had once seemed so badass and now seems quite pathetic, and he blinks, and waits for the shit to hit the fan.

And waits.

And waits.

“What the hell?” Dean says at last, when no red-skinned, trident-wielding, split-hoofed demon has appeared in the middle of Lilith's weird-ass circle of blood. Nothing. Nothing and more nothing, but he's still tense, still practically quivering with expectation, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Where is he?”

“Here,” says Sam, in an odd voice, and Dean's head snaps around fast enough to give himself whiplash. He glances a question at Sam and then scans the room behind them. Still a whole lot of nothing.

“Sammy?” Dean's voice cracks slightly on the question. He's still clutching the demon-killing blade in a white-knuckled grip, and he can hear his pulse clattering away far too fast, and he can't see the fucker anywhere, can't see what Sam meant. “A clue?”

“Here,” says Sam again, and his long fingers close around Dean's hand and pull away the knife. Dean yields it up without question, scowling, jumpy, eyes darting everywhere as he waits for Sam to explain himself. ”Here, Dean,” says Sam, like Dean's kind of an idiot, but he loves him anyway. He actually sounds a lot like Dad just now – his voice is kind of deeper, more resonant, and there's no trace of the horrified five year old who'd looked out through Sammy's eyes, penitent and pleading for help, when Dean came busting through the door to save him from Ruby and Lilith. He looks perfectly self-possessed now, perfectly calm and composed, with maybe a little edge of spectacularly ill-timed amusement. And what's more, Dean is suddenly struck by the weird realisation that his brother is – well, the only word that comes to mind is beautiful, girly though that sounds. But it's true. He looks exactly the same as he always did, and yet there's something more, some weird film star quality that Dean never noticed before. Something that catches the eye and holds it. It can't just be because he's standing up straight and looking confident and badass all of a sudden. He looks – perfect. Bafflingly perfect. Older, maybe, somehow, stupid though that sounds. He doesn't look like anyone's kid brother. He looks like – he looks like a fucking king, or something. Regal, and loving it.

“I don't – where is he?” demands Dean, pushing this weirdness to the back of his head and concentrating on the matter at hand. Trying not to sound crap-your-pants scared, but pretty damn conscious of the fact that they're talking about Satan being somewhere in the room with them. The actual Devil. Old Nick himself. Here. Somewhere.

“Here, you jackass,” says Sam, watching him, and there's an odd glint in his eyes that Dean doesn't have any idea how to read. “It's me. It was always me.”

Dean understands the individual words, of course, but the sentence makes absolutely no sense. He just stares at Sam, his scowl getting more pissed and more frightened by the moment. “What are you talking about?”

Sam's smiling, which is just the least appropriate expression in the history of creation, surely? And then he shakes his head very slightly, and then there's another surge of that extraordinary light that had come pouring up from the ground, but this time it's – fuck. Dean's mouth falls open, and, wow, was he ever wrong about the world not ending, because the light is pouring out of Sam, blazing from his eyes and lighting up his skin, and there's a sudden rustle of sound like a murder of crows exploding up into the sky, and, fucking hell, for a moment there Dean catches a glimpse of vast wings flexing and burning like the heart of the sun, crimson and orange and gold edged with bunsen burner blue, impossible wings far too huge for this small cramped room - and then he's blinking, with the dark after-image burned onto his retinas, and staring at his brother's too-beautiful face. Staring at Sammy.

“No,” he says, and it comes out hoarse and heart-broken and whisper-soft, like it's torn out of his flesh. He can't breathe. “Sam – fuck - no!”

“Dean, I know what you're thinking – I mean, not literally, although I guess I could – this isn't helping, is it?” He smiles again, and the smile just kills Dean, because it's Sam's smile, Sam's very best, most joyous and irresistible smile, and Dean hasn't seen that expression on Sam's face in – fuck, in years. He's missed it. He can't take his eyes away. “What I mean is – it wasn't Lucifer trapped down there.” Dean blinks, uncomprehendingly. “It was my grace. It was just my grace, Dean, imprisoned behind all the seals, where they put it millenia ago.”

“Your – you – what?” It's Sam. It is Sam, he's almost sure, and not some demon fucktard – and, after all, there's the tattoo, that should be keeping him safe from possession, right? But Dean doesn't get this at all, and it's terrifying him as he tries to make sense of the words. (Only, of course, he does get it, really. He got it straight away. But he can't face it - it's just too monstrous, too huge, and so he's ignoring it, and rummaging around desperately for something else that makes sense of all of this.)

“This was my punishment, Dean.” Sam's voice is unexpectedly gentle, and he's looking at Dean like he's almost, what, nervous? Which is ridiculous. “For rejecting my father's rules.” Dean blinks. Dad? Stamford? Only – that's not what he's talking about. Dean knows that isn't what he's talking about. This is – fuck, he's talking Paradise Lost here. Dogma. Heaven, Hell, the whole nine yards. Which – no fucking way. “It wasn't Hell. They took away my grace, took away my memory – they made me human. He made me human, because I refused to bow down before them. He made me live and die as a mortal again, and again, and again, not knowing who I was. In dreams, sometimes I would catch glimpses...but I never knew. I never knew, Dean!” He's sounding angry now, but Sam-angry, not crazy-evil-demon-angry, and Dean's still scrabbling to make sense of this. This makes no sense.

Or rather, this makes no sense unless he's willing to accept that Sam is – that Sam has always been - Lucifer. The fucking devil, for fuck's sake. And that – that is completely and utterly insane, and there's no way that Dean's buying that shit. Hell no. Sam is Sam, and Dean's job is to keep him safe, and if – and if – how can he – this isn't possible, obviously, because...

“Sam?” he says again, and he doesn't mean to sound like he's begging, but it does kind of come out that way. “Sammy?”

“It's me,” Sam says, smiling at him like he's something wonderful. “It's always been me.” His mouth twitches a little. “Oh, I've not always been American. Or white. Or a guy. The surface details change, of course. Different countries. Different centuries. But it's always been me.” He shrugs, and his grin is irresistible, like he's inviting Dean to share a truly delicious joke. “I've always been smart, and I've always been pretty, and I've never been really good with authority figures.”

“No,” says Dean, helplessly. “No, Sam. It's not true.”

Sam laughs. He throws back his head and laughs, and then he reaches forward and grabs Dean, and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. And he feels like Sam, and he smells like Sam, and there's no way that Sam can possibly be the devil, because if he were, if that was how the universe worked – Dean has no idea what to do with that. “It is true,” Sam says, his breath puffing warm and gentle and human and Sam-like against the shell of Dean's ear. “And it's brilliant, Dean. This is brilliant. Don't you see?”

When Sam lets go, Dean just stands there, rocking on his heels, and tries really hard to understand. “No,” he says at last. “No, I really – I don't – look, I'm not buying this crock of shit, Sammy, because there's no way that this is true. But if it was true, then, no, no way it could be brilliant. Jesus fuck, Sam – you are not the devil.” His voice cracks, and he puts all his older brother authority into his words, scowling furiously. It has to be bullshit. Because if it's not bullshit – if Sam's a demon – if Sam's the ultimate fucking demon, the daddy of them all, then Dean's got to kill him. This is what Dad was talking about – or, well, no way Dad had guessed at this, this has got to be worse than any worst case scenario Dad dreamed up when he made Dean promise. But – he can't do that. How can he do that?“That's ridiculous,” he says, fiercely. “I'm – I'm not having it, you hear me? This is bullshit, Sam.”

Sam laughs again. In fact, he pretty much cracks up, and it's so Sam, so totally fucking normal, that Dean's already refusing to believe the memory of those wings. “But it is true, and it is brilliant, you jerk.” Sam looks him up and down and up again, and beams. “Dean Winchester, I love you. And they are idiots, because do you see what they did? They dragged you out of Hell to stop me, because they thought you were the only one who could get close enough. The only one I'd ever trust. And they're right, obviously, but, Dean – it's me.” He grins, like it's all some enormous, hilarious joke. “I'm not possessed – this is me. I'm Sam – I'm the only Sam there's ever been. You get that, right?”

Dean just stares. “I don't – no. No, this isn't possible,” he insists, but his voice is small and unconvincing, even in his own ears, and his heart is sinking, sinking, because – oh, fuck. And he just handed over the damn demon-slaying knife like an idiot, and if he's standing here looking at Lucifer – fucking Lucifer - gloating, then, then... “It can't be true,” he says, and his voice is barely a whisper now, just a little thread of horrified sound.

“Yeah, it is Dean. You've met the angels – you've seen what a bunch of dicks they are. So - I fell.” Sam shrugs, and it's a fluid, graceful movement that is somehow pure Sam, and yet simultaneously so much more – like it's a dance move or something. Like it's art. Sam's still Sam, but it's just – it's like the rest of the world is in soft focus, and only Sam stands out clear and crisp and lovely. It's like Sam's the only thing in 3D, like everything else is somehow flat and bland and dull. He's mesmerising. “I fell, just like Anna did. Like you made Castiel fall. I fell, because God was the biggest dick of the lot, and I told him so. And this was my punishment – they took away my grace and made me human. They made me Sam. I am Sam, Dean. It's me.” He looks into Dean's eyes, and, shit, yeah, it is Sam, no two ways about it. “They don't get it. They think that you're going to be a good little soldier for them, they think that's all you are. Like Dad did. But they're full of shit. Dean. They don't get it.” His smile is almost literally stunning; Dean feels like he's been smashed over the head with a heavy weight. “They don't understand love. They know about it, but they don't understand it, Dean.”

“Oh,” says Dean, helplessly.

“See, what they don't get is that you love me. And I love you, and nobody is ever going to lay a finger on you again, Dean, I promise you that.” He sounds positively ferocious now, and Dean shivers. He can't help himself. Fuck, he would not want to see Sam angry. Not now. Not this Sam. He flashes on their fight, and reaches up to touch his throat reflexively. Jesus. He does not want to cross Sam, but – but if Sam's Lucifer, then that means he's the bad guy, and Dean's supposed to fight him. Like the angels want. Surely? Dean feels physically sick. “I love you, Dean,” Sam says softly, and, man, it feels just wonderful to have those eyes on him, looking at him like he's the only beautiful thing in the world. Like Sam just can't get over how totally amazing his brother actually is. Dean's blushing like a schoolgirl, and he's humiliated, and mad as hell, because he shouldn't be such a fucking pushover, he really shouldn't, but – it's Sam. Oh, God. It's Sam. “I'm never going to leave you,” Sam whispers, and there's so much fondness in his tone that it makes Dean's toes curl. “It's just you and me, Dean, against all those celestial dicks and their stupid evil plans. You're not going to kill me, right?”

Dean's never been able to resist that imploring puppydog look from his baby brother. And, oh, fuck, there are lines you should never cross, not ever, but, but – it's Sam. This is Sam. Of course he could never kill Sam, never intentionally hurt Sam. It's out of the question. “I don't believe this,” he says weakly.

“Yes you do,” says Sam, tolerantly, and - it's true. He does believe it. It makes too much sense. “They didn't know, though. None of them knew, not the angels, not the demons. They figured I was trapped down there, figured I was going to possess Sam. The Lord God didn't see fit to share his clever little punishment with anyone else. Nobody knew, only Him. But Azazel got wind of it somehow. Got wind of the fact that something was buried down there, and that the seals would set it free. Set me free. But he never knew the truth of why he had to seek out special children for me. He didn't guess he was looking for me. He just knew that one of those kids was going to set me free. That he had to keep them from settling down into happy, white-picket-fence-ville. That they needed to learn to use their powers. They're all nephilim – you figured that out, right?”

“Nephilim?” Dean's heard the word before, from Bobby, most likely, but he can't place it just now.

“Descendants of angels. Did you know about that?” His expression shifts, becomes something almost flirtatious for a moment – the kind of gleefully ribald look he'd never expect to see on Sam's face. “Angels sometimes get horny, just like anyone else,” he says, with his eyes fixed on Dean's face in a way that actually makes Dean blush. Sam's smile broadens, and it's almost a smirk. “A bunch of them came down to earth back in the day and made little angel babies.” He licks his lips, and for some reason it makes Dean shiver. “Castiel's friend Jimmy is descended from one of those bloodlines. Mom was descended from one of those bloodlines too.” He shrugs. “There are a lot of them around, by this point. All over the world.” He reaches up and stretches luxuriously, and Dean finds himself unable to look away from the movement. Jesus, Sam is big. And built. Jesus. Sam smiles at him lazily from under his eyelashes, like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking, like he knows perfectly well that Dean's half-hard right now, and Dean swallows, and looks away. And then looks right back again, because he can't stand to look away after all.

“All over the world?” he says, like it matters. Like anything matters right now.

Sam nods, and glances down at his hands as if he's looking at them for the first time. “I've been every colour of the rainbow, Dean. I've loved every kind of land, I've committed every sin, and every virtue. I've been a priest, and a killer; I've been a father, and a mother too; I've been in love; I've been betrayed; I've been a scholar and a teacher and a philosopher; I've been a poet and a thief. You name it, I've done it – a thousand times over. All these centuries of walking the world, living and breathing and sleeping and eating and fucking and dreaming – and I never knew who I was until now. Because of you.” He's still looking at Dean like Dean's something extraordinary. Like he's starving, and Dean's something really good to eat.

“This – this is totally fucked up,” says Dean, at last, shakily.

“No it isn't, Dean. It's great. You saved me. Dean – you saved me! Don't you get how wonderful that is? You died for me, Dean. You went to Hell, you suffered all those torments – for me.” He shakes his head. “And finally, you took up Alastair's knife, and you broke the first seal. You set this in motion. You set me free! What has God ever done to match that? What has he sacrificed for me? For love?” Sam's fierce expression is terrible. “He doesn't understand love. He's never understood it – never understood what it means to love someone else more than you love yourself. He only understands what it feels to be loved.”

Dean blinks at that, and refuses to think about Hell. “And, what – you do? You understand what it means to love? You're telling me that you're the devil, but that you still understand love better than God? Seriously?”

Sam just looks at him, that I'm-smarter-than-you-and-we-both-know-it look that drives Dean crazy. “Dean – you've seen how this place works. You honestly think God understands the first thing about love? Nu-uh. He just wants his creatures to stand around singing his praises and following orders. That's it. If He loved his children, you think there'd be wars? Drive-by shootings? Child abuse? Werewolves and wendigos and all those things ripping humans up? If the omnipotent, omniscient creator of the universe actually gave a shit? He doesn't give a shit, Dean. We're all just ants to him, humans and angels and demons, all of us – he doesn't care. He never cared. He just wants to control us. He wants us to stay put, following his bullshit rules, while he goes off and does his own thing. He doesn't love us.”

It takes Dean a heartbeat or two to stop feeling like they're talking about Dad – and then he feels guilty as hell, because Dad loved them, even if God doesn't. But, thinking about it, he can't really disagree. He's pretty much always felt that God, if He actually exists, really, truly sucks at his job.

“But – you're evil. If you're really – I mean, if this is true - Lucifer is evil,” says Dean, clinging on to this knowledge, because he can feel everything else starting to slip away from him.

Sam looks down at his toes, and for a moment there he's five years old again, caught out borrowing Dean's favourite toy. He looks up through his lashes, and it's such a hopeful look, such an imploring, but-you-love-me-anyway look, that Dean wants to shoot himself. He is totally fucked. He is just totally and utterly fucked, because he has no defences against this. None. Sam totally has his number. “I did some bad things. I was – I was very angry. And I didn't understand what it meant to be human, back then – I guess that's the whole point of this punishment, right? To make me understand. And I get it now. I'm sorry.” His eyes widen, and his voice goes suddenly earnest and uncertain. “And I hurt you, Dean.” He sounds kind of shocked. “I really hurt you, I was – fuck, Dean, I was a total jerk.” He makes an abortive gesture, like he wants to hug Dean but isn't sure how Dean will take it, and that, oh, damn, that's it. Dean's every impulse here is to comfort Sam, to make it all better, and that's totally not helpful when they're talking about Sam being the fucking devil, for God's sakes. But – shit. Dean just wants to hug him, because all the cockiness has melted away and he's standing there looking lost and unhappy and just so damn beautiful that Dean doesn't know what to do with himself. He clutches his hands into fists at his sides, and tries to keep his head in the game. “Damn, Dean, I'm so sorry. I was – it was driving me crazy, and I knew there was something more, something just on the edge of my consciousness, something that Ruby was helping me to reach – but I should never have taken it out on you. You were trying to protect me. Because you loved me.” His voice breaks a little, and, shit, this is killing Dean by inches. He looks so fucking miserable – so very much Sammy. “It was never really you I was mad at,” says Sam, softly. “Dean, I'm really sorry.”

Dean feels himself flushing under that gaze. There's no mistaking the sincerity in Sam's voice, and this is what he wanted to hear, right? Only – shit, not like this. Never like this.

“It's – that part's okay,” he says, awkwardly, looking away. 'Cause, really, what's all that next to the whole Lucifer thing? Pretty fucking small potatoes, is what. Priorities. “It's fine.”

Sam's fingers close around his bicep, and Sam's other hand is under his chin, pulling his head up and forcing him to look into Sam's eyes. “No, Dean,” says Sam (because Dean might be starting to buy this, but there's no damn way he's going to start thinking of his brother as Lucifer). “It isn't fine. It isn't fine at all. You deserve better than that.”

“Yeah, well,” says Dean, a little breathlessly. Sam's hand is big, and calloused, and warm, and the touch has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he's gone from half-hard to totally hard now. He swallows. “Seems like nobody much gets what they deserve around here.”

Sam nods. “But we're going to change that,” he says, gazing at Dean with a frightening intensity. “You and I, Dean. We're going to rewrite the whole damn book.” His eyes travel down to Dean's mouth and back up to his eyes, and Sam slides his thumb slowly down across Dean's skin to brush over his bottom lip, with an almost meditative expression.

Dean makes a small, stifled sound that's absolutely not a moan, and for a second he closes his eyes, because, fuck, this is intense, this is, this – but it's also totally messed up, and he manages to pull back, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. And tries not to miss the warmth of Sam's hand upon his skin. “Look, I – look, Sam, if you really – look, just suppose I accept all this, okay? I'm not saying I do, but, but just suppose? Well – fuck, look, we're talking Apocalypse, dude, and that's – that's just not cool,” he says shakily, not really believing they're having this conversation. “Not even a little bit cool. I am – I'm really not okay with bringing on the Apocalypse, Sam.”

Sam smiles again, and, fuck, he really is impossibly beautiful. He's still Sam, but it's like some kind of veil has been pulled away, and now he's just – he's perfect. He's the most perfect, beautiful, amazing thing that Dean has ever seen, and it's kind of blowing his mind. “Apocalypse was never part of my plan, Dean,” Sam says. “That's their idea. Fuck the lot of 'em. I'm not playing that game.”

“Oh,” says Dean. And Sam's still looking at him like he's – like he's precious, and marvellous. Like he's special. It makes him feel warm all over, makes him want to wriggle with delight, and at the same time he kind of wants to hide from that passionate gaze. It makes him feel too seen, too known. Exposed. “Okay. Well that's – that's good, I guess.” He's actually kind of believing this. He's actually – shit. How can this possibly be okay? It doesn't sound okay, does it? His brother is Lucifer, and Lucifer is free to walk the earth. That can't be okay, not even a little bit.

But - it's Sam, for fuck's sakes. It's still his Sam.

And maybe he ought to expect the next thing, but he absolutely doesn't see it coming, not for a moment. And then Sam's pulling him close again, only this time it isn't just a hug – this time Sam's long fingers cup around the back of his skull, and Sam's mouth brushes his lips, soft and dry and totally unexpected, and when Dean opens his mouth reflexively to ask what the fuck Sammy is playing at, Sam's tongue sweeps in between his lips, warm and wet and unapologetic. Dean struggles then, tries to pull away, because - no, no, and hell no. But Sam won't let him, and Sam is big, and, damn, strong, even without the whole fallen angel mojo thing he's suddenly got going on, and so Dean finds himself getting shoved back against the altar with Sam's body plastered up against him, and Sam's still kissing him, hasn't stopped kissing him for an instant, and, fuck, it's too intense, too much – it's overwhelming. Sam is beautiful, and Sam loves him, and Sam's never going to leave. He said so. And this isn't something Dean had ever considered wanting, because, man, this is fucked up like woah, only, only – damn. There's no disguising the fact that his dick is totally on board with it, even if his brain is in appalled meltdown mode.

“This is – no, Sam, wait – this is wrong,” he manages to say, brokenly, but he's trembling, and it's not entirely with fear. “You're my brother. Seriously. No. This is fucked up.”

“You saved me, Dean,” whispers Sam, licking his way along Dean's jaw and pressing hungry kisses onto his cheekbone. “You died for me. You let them torture you. For me.”

“I...” says Dean, his eyes darting around the room, trying not to look down at Sam. “No, I...”

“You saved me.”

“Sam!” It's a desperate entreaty, a plea that Sam will ignore Dean's erection and listen to what he's saying. It doesn't work. “I don't want this,” he says, as clearly as he can, and he feels Sam laughing against him.

“You do,” Sam says, with perfect confidence. “You will.”

“No, I,” but there's Sam's mouth on his again, kissing him more thoroughly than he's ever been kissed, and, okay, Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't kind of enjoying the kiss, because he's not made of stone, and, fuck, fuck, Sam (Lucifer?) is shockingly good at this, but still – no. Really, really no.

But Sam isn't taking no for an answer. And now Dean's having a little less difficulty believing that Sam is Lucifer. “Beautiful,” Sam breathes, licking and biting his way across Dean's chin and down Dean's throat. “You belong to me, don't you Dean? You'll never leave me, will you?”

Dean feels like his heart is going to burst. He can't want this. He really shouldn't want this, but how can he answer that question? Of course he'll never leave Sam. He couldn't leave Sam. “Sammy,” he chokes out, and apparently that's all the answer Sam wants.

“So sweet, and all mine,” Sam whispers happily, and then he touches Dean's shirt, and for an instant his eyes are pure light, molten gold brightness, and then Dean's shirt crumbles to dust, and the rest of his clothes follow suit, and Dean's suddenly standing there shocked and naked and hard, with the altar pressing cold against his buttocks and his spine, and Sam welded to his front. He opens his mouth in a gasp and tries to protest, but Sam – Lucifer - swallows his words with fierce, demanding kisses, and Sam's tongue fucks into his mouth hard, like a promise of things to come, and Sam's long fingers close firmly around his erection and start working it, and Dean feels his hips thrusting helplessly in answer, and his legs starting to shake.

“Yeah,” he says, without meaning to at all, and he hears Sam snort with laughter, and then Sam's kissing him again. And somewhere along the line Sam's clothes seem to have vanished too. Dean spares an instant to wonder whether Sam can just magic up new clothes for them both after all this is done, or if they're going to walk off into the brave new world butt-naked, and then he abruptly stops thinking of anything at all, because Sam's lining his own erection up with Dean's, and, holy mother of God, that's the underside of Sam's cock sliding hot and hard up against his, making him choke out helpless syllables against Sam's tongue, and then Sam's taking them both in hand and jerking them both off together, fuck, fuck, and this is – Dean knows that this is wrong, that his whole life has jumped the fucking tracks and gone hurtling off like a runaway train into the land of Totally Fucking Wrong, but it feels so good – feels better than just about anything ever has before. And it's not just the sex (although, hello, brain-meltingly awesome sex going on right here, right now); it's the fact that Dean startled by how protected he feels right now. How wanted, and cherished, and known. It's not like anything else, ever. Fuck.

“Dean,” breathes Sam, dropping urgent little kisses onto the corner of his mouth, and his cheek, and his nose, and his eyelid. “Do you love me?”

“Yeah,” Dean gasps, because it's the only answer he can possibly give. Yes, and yes, and a thousand times yes, of course he does. He can't suddenly stop loving Sam, not even now, not even if all this shit is true. Loving Sam, protecting Sam – that's as fundamental as breathing. “Yeah, Sam,” he says, shuddering helplessly. “Fuck, yeah.”

And then Sam's mouth is on his again, kissing him harder than ever, tongue flexing fierce and possessive in his mouth, his big hand jerking them both off fast and rough and irresistible, and Dean's coming like a fucking freight train, and Sam's only a heartbeat behind.

Afterwards, he leans his forehead on Sam's shoulder, feeling sweat trickle down Sam's neck and into Dean's hair, and for a long moment he just concentrates on breathing. He can see Lilith's body out of the corner of his eye, and he knows that it's the body of some innocent woman who went and got herself possessed by a fucking demon. Some innocent woman Sam killed. And not the only one. They're standing barefoot in the blood of some innocent woman, and that ought to mean something, that ought to stop Dean from doing this, but - it's still Sammy. Even with everything else, it's still Sam, and he needs Dean, and Dean hasn't ever known how to resist that. Looks like the world did end after all. He lets out a desperate, shuddering breath, and Sam's left hand slides into his hair and Dean feels his head pulled up for a kiss that's just as fierce and possessive as before, Sam's other hand sliding sticky over Dean's hip, holding on tight.

“You're mine, Dean,” Sam says, hoarse and sincere and urgent. “You're all mine, aren't you? Just mine?”

“Yeah,” says Dean, knowing that he's sealing his fate. Knowing that it's the wrong answer, and that he should be plotting ways to get under Sam's guard and kill him, because, fuck - Lucifer, for fuck's sakes. But he doesn't have it in him to betray Sam. Boy, did the angels ever get that bit wrong. “Just yours.”