Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner

Spark

[Heed the tags! Violence; (thoughts of) underage; obsession]

One single sentence had started it all.

Oh, the urges were there before, twisting and dancing within him. Teasing him with brief sparks of dark things. He didn't act on them, though. He didn't torture and kill small animals, he didn't write journals filled with details of the things he wanted to do to other people. He just.. was. Dark thoughts sparking in his brain, trying to crawl beneath his ribs, at random moments.

It wasn't until he was 15 years old and hanging out with a boy from his current school that Dean Winchester waded into that spiraling whirlpool of violence and darkness.

He and another kid in his class were sitting outside the high school, smoking. Dean was half-listening to the other kid, Branson (and wasn't that a douche name?) talk about his alleged hook-up with a freshman; his eyes and most of his attention, however, was on the groups of children exiting the smaller elementary/middle school next door.

A smile touched Dean's mouth as his eyes found what they were seeking: a thin, brown-haired boy wearing a too-large plaid shirt over his t-shirt and carrying a Ninja Turtles backpack. The boy raised his head, longish bangs falling into his eyes, and their gazes locked. A grin lit up his little brother's features as Sam headed in his direction.

"Hey Sammy," Dean greeted as the 11-year-old reached him. He exhaled a breath of smoke, flicked the butt away, and reached for the smaller boy to tug him into a hug. He could feel Sam relax instantly against him, and he chuckled and ruffled his hair.

"This your brother?"

Dean's gaze shifted to Branson at the question, to find the other boy's eyes on Sam. "Yeah," he nodded, "This is Sammy."

"Hi Sammy," Branson raised a hand in a congenial wave; he dropped it with a frown as Sam peered out from beneath Dean's arm and told him,
"Only Dean gets to call me that."

"Sam it is, then," Branson acquiesced. 

Ten minutes later, they were crossing behind the football field and into a wooded area. Branson had sworn he had "the world's best weed", and Dean wasn't one to turn down good weed. Sam was telling Dean about his day as they crossed the grassy field – he beamed when Dean told him "Great job, Sammy!" about a passed math quiz.
They had just entered the small copse of trees when Branson shot him a look and said,
"Man, your brother talks a lot."

Dean's eyes narrowed as Sam fell silent, shifting closer to him and holding onto his arm.

"My brother is fine," he barked, a warning look in his eyes.
Branson raised his hands and backed down quickly, "Sorry man, sorry. Sorry Sam."

Dean glared at the other teen before looking down at Sam. The younger boy met his green gaze and shot him a hesitant smile; it turned into a genuine grin as Dean winked at him and ruffled his hair.

They were passing the joint (okay stuff, definitely not "the world's best") between them when Sam leaned close to him to whisper,
"Dad's gonna be mad if he finds out you're smoking that."

Branson caught the whispered words and rolled his eyes. "Man, that's a buzzkill," the other teen grumbled, "Your brother is a pain in the ass, Dean."

The words had no more than left his lips when a fist impacted with his nose. Branson yelped in surprise and pain, blood spraying out at the impact. He dropped the joint to grab his now bleeding nose; blood was pouring between his fingers as he shouted, "What the fuck, man?"

Dean was on his feet now, advancing on the other teen. "You don't fucking say shit about my brother!"

"Fuck your broth-" A kick to the stomach cut the bleeding teen's words off, a woosh of air escaping him. He doubled over in pain, struggling for breath; another kick to the chest sent him tumbling backward. The boy moaned in pain as Dean delivered a final kick to the other teen's head, booted foot connecting hard.

Dean turned then, reached a hand out to Sam. "Come on, Sammy," he pulled the younger boy to his feet, snugged him beneath his arm, "Let's get out of here."

He realized as they walked away from the bleeding, cursing teen that he was half-hard from what he had just done.

"Will that boy be okay?"

They were almost to the rental they were staying in when the question came. Dean glanced down at his brother, to find large, hazel eyes staring up at him.

"Yeah, he'll be okay," Dean wasn't certain if Branson would – he had a broken nose at the very least - and he didn't really care, "Nobody messes with you, Sammy. Anybody says anything to you like that jerk did, you tell me so I can deal with 'em."

"Okay, Dean," Sam slipped a hand in his and smiled up at him, and Dean's heart gave an unexpected lurch. 

Dean was sitting on one of the twin beds in the room he shared with Sam that evening, working on math, when his brother entered the bedroom. The younger boy had only a pair of shorts on, his damp-from-the-shower hair sticking up in various places.

Dean watched, subtly, as Sam crossed the room to climb on the other bed. He grabbed up a worn paperback that had been tucked beneath his pillow and flipped it open, stretching out on his stomach.

Dean felt his cock twitch as he watched the younger boy, and he blinked in surprise. He dropped his gaze to his math book, a frown creasing his brow; his eyes were drawn to Sam again a moment later. His eyes shifted down the younger boy's body, taking in the suntanned skin, the ribs he could practically count from where he sat, the bony ass and legs. He swallowed hard, cursing himself in silence, as his cock twitched again.

Dean shifted his math book to cover his growing erection as he tried to puzzle out why looking at his brother was making him hard. His brain readily supplied an answer –'he's perfect, look at him, he's perfect and he's yours' – but Dean chose to disregard it.

It was when Sam rolled suddenly onto his side to face Dean, his skin still damp and his nipples pert from the cool air, that Dean realized he might need some time alone, and soon. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, an involuntary act, as his eyes took in the other boy. It was slightly startling, how much he wanted to cross to the other bed and shove his baby brother down on it, before taking one of those pebbled nipples into his mouth to suck it. He closed his eyes, cock surging to full hardness, as he imagined the sounds his brother would make if he carried through with that thought.

His brother was 11-years-old, for fuck's sake. There was no way Dean was going to act on any of these fucked up thoughts that were suddenly parading around in his head. No. Absolutely not.

Dean jerked, cock spurting pre-come and wetting the front of his boxers, as the other's eyes locked on him and Sam suggested, a bit sheepishly, "You can come and lay by me when you're done with math. If you want. I sleep better when you're close."

Dean cleared his throat before agreeing, "Sure Sammy, whatever you want. Gonna hit the shower first, then I'll lay with you."

He jerked off in the shower, image of Sam stretched out on the bed in his head; he had to bite down on his fist to keep from shouting Sam's name when he got off, his cum painting the shower walls.

When he crawled into Sam's bed a short while later and pressed himself against the younger boy's back, Sam was half-asleep. He closed his eyes, biting back a groan, as the younger boy pressed back against him, molding himself to Dean's body.

One sentence by one callous teenager had given him the drive to indulge his craving for violence. Half a night later, and other dark urges were sparking in his head.