There lies a roadmap of sin
Beneath this broken flesh,
At the story's end, begin again.
The roads are long and thin,
Heavy with rust, mistrust,
The color of spilled innocence,
The wolf wins at the lamb's expense.

He stares down at pale flesh along his wrist, darker on top, but so fair, almost translucent on the underside. His eyes follow the thin veins trailing up his arm, and he bites his lip. It's amazing what goes on in the veins, the secrets that blood carries. The sin. Blood, flesh's roadmap of sin. The blood inside of him is particularly potent with darkness, it's a wonder his veins aren't filled with sulfur.

He's never really had any high moral ground. He remembers the things his father taught him and his brother. Their line of work, the destiny that taints their blood is hunting evil things, saving lives, protecting the innocent. Hunting wolves to save lambs. He remembers these lectures, the lessons learned over the years. How to hold a knife properly, taking care of weapons, handling various guns, learning Latin, breaking hexes, exercising demons, using herbs, taking care of his little brother.

There are always so many things to remember.

He remembers his first hunt, the first taste of blood on his hands. Not the blood of the monsters, those were only lessons to what begged to be fed inside of him. It's awake now, and he hates that he's a wolf, a wolf with an insatiable appetite.

There is a smile on his face as he pulls the knife free from broken flesh. This one put up a hell of a fight. Warm blood spatters in an arc across the pale yellow wall, more blood seeping from the woman's body, pooling on her pretty comforter and pristine 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets to stain the mattress and drip to the floor.

There is a smile on his face because this is who he is meant to be. All of his life his father believed it was Sammy, but Dean's always known, Sammy is innocent. Dean's always been the one carrying the sin. It burns in his blood, a shadow hovering ever so close, playfully whispering in his ear as he slips inside their latest cheap motel room.

"Tonight, Dean. Tonight can be the night. Look at how he sleeps. There are no visions tonight, and he's almost at peace. You've sold a soul you've never owned for him. Take him, for he belongs to you. You've bargained for a year. He's yours for the taking."

A dark passenger along for the ride, a dark passenger that has told him of other uses for his knowledge over the years. A dark passenger that carries Dean's hunger.

"Never Sammy," Dean quietly answers back, his tone dangerous, and slowly the shadow recedes, a knowing laugh echoing in its wake.

The next morning Dean wakes up Sam and they take off for the next hunt. Yes, the next hunt, and Dean can hear the hollow chuckles echoing in the back of his mind.

They've got over two hundred miles between them and Dean's last hunt, but it figures that it's not enough this time. Dean walks into the latest motel room, his arms full of a six pack of beer, some burgers, fries, and buffalo wings. He sets everything down on the rickety table and turns to Sam who's sitting on the edge of the double bed closest to the bathroom, riveted as he watches the television.

"Little early for porn, don'tcha think, Sammy? How about some food first?" Dean says.

Sam looks up with a jolt and his eyes are wide with worry. "Dean, you won't believe this! That chick you picked up at the bar a couple of nights ago back in Wichita, you remember the brunette? They just found her body at her home, turns out she was the daughter of a high stakes criminal defense attorney, I'm talking big money. It must have happened after you left that night! Jesus, according to the news she was stabbed numerous times. Funny thing is there was no sign of forced entry. Think we should look into it?"

"The hunt's over in Wichita, Sam. Probably just a random act of violence. We save people from the monsters, not murderers. I'm sure the cops have it handled. Probably have a jealous boyfriend in custody already."

"But Dean! She died violently. She could be a ghost. Shouldn't we at least salt and burn the body? Christ man! She's someone you slept with, knowing you!"

"Yeah, and she was pretty feisty in the sack, but we can't afford to back track two hundred miles. Remember? Time's not exactly on our side."

It's another two weeks before the passenger grows restless. Dean's not surprised, he knew it would happen sooner or later.

There's a fiery looking redhead giving him a look over from the end of the bar. He knocks back the rest of his beer, gets up, and the dark passenger chuckles dryly as Dean slips into the seat next to her.

They're having a nice little chat when Sam comes to tower over Dean. Dean tosses him the keys and Sam's eyes widen for a moment before he shakes his head and leaves the bar. If Dean's got an itch to scratch, who is he to interfere?

The dark passenger lets out a huff of disappoint, but the redhead will do for now.

It isn't long before Dean finds himself in a small, well-kept apartment. Lori's place isn't so surprising. She's an RN, and he can't help the smirk on his face at imagining her in her uniform, and the passenger licks his lips and breathes across Dean's ear.

"Imagine the bright red blood spraying across that white uniform. Her brown eyes going wide just before they go dull. I'm hungry tonight. Let's see how she looks on the inside."

Dean's eyes trace up her legs as she sashays off toward her bedroom. He sheds his shirt along the way, his left hand reaching behind him, for the large hunting knife tucked in the sheath in the back of his pants. He fingers the handle as he slips into her bedroom to find her lying across the bed in lacy red lingerie, his new favorite color.

She gives him a good look now, her eyes appreciating his torso and chest as he cattily climbs on top of the bed, crawling toward her. He bends down, but bypasses her mouth all together, getting a mewl of disappointment out of her. His hot breath against her ear sends a shiver down her spine, and then his hands are around her throat and she stiffens beneath him, her eyes going wide.

"I can't afford for you to scream, so I'm thinking about crushing your larynx, that way you'll feel my knife a little before you black out. Sound doable to you?" he whispers huskily.

She begins to thrash beneath him, opens her mouth to scream as she fights and bucks against him, her nails tearing across his cheek, but the dark passenger is in control now, and his hands are tight around her throat. All that comes out is a choked whimper as his grip tightens and it's harder to breathe. She shoves and pushes harder against him, tears slipping from the corner of her eyes. He bends down, his tongue hot as he laps at her tears.

She squeezes her eyes shut, the pain of her crushed throat making her dizzy as she struggles to breathe. She feels cool metal trailing down her injured throat, and then her right bra strap is cut away.

She arches forward and struggles to cry out as the knife shallowly pierces her right breast as Dean uses the knife to expose more of her.

Soon the darkness takes her, and her struggles die beneath her. He takes her hands and cleans beneath her fingernails with the tip of his knife. No use in leaving evidence behind.

He shifts, straddling her, tracing the knife between her breasts, down her abdomen, circles the tip in the dip of her navel, and then trails the knife back up.

He's eager to see as much blood as possible. He presses the tip of the knife a little too firmly at the hollow of her throat, a bead of blood bubbles up and he leans down to taste it. A sweet coppery taste, and the dark passenger tells him that she's a worthy lamb. Dean's always lucky with his choices in lambs.

He lowers the straight edge of the knife to her right side, brings the blade closer, and then, an artist with a knife for his brush, he pulls the blade open, slicing into her flesh, blood from the knife making a single sweeping arch up the pale blue wall, splatters along the edges and top to add to the artistry.

Next follows her throat in a hot spray and then the carving follows.

He isn't worried too much about leaving anything behind at the scene once he's done. He's pretty sure that the bed is too saturated with blood for him to have left any fingerprints on her, the blood is still wet and bright red, still fresh.

He gives the room a glance over, picks up her blouse from the floor and uses it to wipe down any of the surfaces he may have touched and then he slips out of her room. He gathers his shirt from where he dropped it, pulls it over his head, and again goes over all of the surfaces he may have touched in the room.

He spares the digital clock on the VCR a glance and sees it's four in the morning as he steps out of the apartment. He is quiet as he moves down the hall and takes the stairs. No one sees him, but then again, with the passenger guiding him and all of his years of training, no one ever does.

The sound of a door opening gives him pause and he pulls back into the shadows, aware of the blood spattered along his face. He holds his breath and doesn't move until he hears a cough and the door closing once again.

He finds himself walking down the back alley, her blouse tucked in his back pocket like a bandana. He keeps to the shadows the entire walk back to the motel where Sam is waiting.

It's takes over half an hour to make it back to the motel. There was another close call on the way, but he slipped around the corner just in time before being spotted by the night manager.

He puts the key in the lock, opens the door, winces at the creak the door makes, and steps over the line of salt in the doorway. He shuts the door carefully behind him, but it's too late as the light snaps on with Sam saying, "Christ Dean do you even know what… Holy shit! What the fuck happened? Why are you covered in blood? Were you attacked?"

Dean can feel the cold fire burning in his veins with the sin and the passenger he carries. He cocks his head at Sam, a smirk twisting his lips as he slowly walks toward the bed, pealing away the worn t-shirt, revealing the flaking blood along his chest and torso, blood that isn't his.

Sam is sitting up in bed now, staring speechless at his older brother. "Dean? Dean?" he says, and then finally, "Christo!"

Dean doesn't so much as flinch. The passenger inside of him isn't something possessing him, it's a part of him, a part of him that has finally woken up.

"Dad warned me about what you would become, but he kinda had it wrong Sammy. He should have been warning you about me."

"Dean, what the hell man? Are you bleeding? What happened out there? We should clean you up," Sam rambles as he shifts to get out of bed, but Dean is there.

Dean pushes Sam back, crawls over his younger brother, holds Sam's arms down, and he can feel the edges of Sam's power trying to push him away while Sam struggles and squirms beneath him, but the passenger is part of Dean now, flowing in his veins, and Sam gasps as Dean's green eyes spark amber as the pupils dilate until Dean's eyes are black.

Dean leans down, his breath warm against Sam's ear as he huskily whispers, "Who would have thought the dutiful son would turn out like this? Who would have guessed I was the wolf all along? I knew you were innocent your whole life, Sammy. Always knew."

Dean pulls back, runs his tongue up along Sam's jaw and Sam freezes beneath Dean, his eyes wide as he stares up in horror at his older brother. Dean almost looks hungry.

"I've wanted you for a long time, little brother. I like a good fight, wouldn't expect less from you, but it's in your blood too. Not like mine yet, but the sin is there. All you have to do is give in, but you won't make it easy. I'll have to break you first."

"This isn't you! It can't be you, Dean! Fight it! Whatever the hell it is, fight it man! You're stronger than this, better than this! It's me, Sammy," he pleads.

"That deal I made with the crossroads demon? The bitch gave me one year and your life for my soul. The joke's on her. I never had a soul. I've always been empty, that's why following orders came so easy to me. All the easy fucks, knowing how the killers and the monsters think, it's because I'm one of them. All this time you should have been hunting me, Sammy. How does it feel being a sheep amongst the wolves? Yellow Eyes wanted you for your power, your innocence, but the bastard never saw me coming. Not even when he had me up against the wall, tearing out my insides. That's what woke me up.

"Bet your blood's pretty. So pure right now. You don't have much blood on your hands. It's so bright when it first sprays the walls. But I won't do that to you. You're the only one who will understand me. I have to break you first, but I'm gonna break you so I can keep you. I need a wolf at my side, Sammy."

"No."

Dean's mouth twists into a cruel smile as he bends down, his mouth working Sam's open, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut, tears slipping from the corners, and as Dean pulls back from the kiss he's reminded of Lori from earlier tonight, but Sam is not Lori. Sam is special, they share the same blood. Sam's blood just isn't coldly boiling with sin yet, but it will be.

Dean's hands find their way around Sam's throat, and Sam thrashes and bucks, struggling to get Dean off of him, but Dean's grips is like a vice, unnaturally so. There is a smile on Dean's face, a smug smile, the last thing Sam remembers as his vision begins to blur from the lack of oxygen.

This isn't playing fair, but there's still so much that needs to be done. Besides, wolves don't have to play fair.

He traces his fingertips along Sam's hairline, and then sighs at the rust of Lori's blood on his hands. He gets up and pulls some rope out of the duffel bag with their weapons supply. He makes quick work of tying Sam up to the bed, particularly careful with his knot work. No need in taking chances.

Once Sam is safely tied up, he goes to his original destination, the shower. The shower is hot and steamy, just the way he likes it these days. He braces his hands on the grungy tile wall where the shower head is sticking out from, and drops his head forward, the pinpoints of water hitting his head and slipping through the spikes of his short hair just right. He groans at the simple pleasure of it, and his thoughts turn to Sam, all tied up and waiting for him.

His cock stirs at the thought. He takes in a sharp breath, works the cheap motel soap into his skin and watches as the rust tinged water swirls down the drain. He washes his hair next, and with a small sigh of regret he turns the water off and steps out of the shower. He shakes his head, drops of water splattering the mirror like the nurse's blood had spattered her bedroom walls.

He smiles at the thought, the dark passenger languidly stretching inside of him, stirring in his veins.

"Not just you and me anymore, stranger. Might be nice to have some company along for the ride," Dean whispers as he wraps the cheap, threadbare towel around his waist.

He steps out of the bathroom and looks at the nearest bed. He's almost breathless at the sight of his baby brother tied to the bed, still unconscious. He picks up the duffel bag with the weapons and goes through it. He smiles as he pulls out a wicked looking hunting knife, one side of the blade serrated, and the other a straight, sharp edge, the handle black, and the end of the handle screwed off to reveal a compass. All in all a damn fine knife, and the blade kept sharp and ready for action.

He pulls the knife from its sheath, admiring the blade in the dull light coming from the lamp. The curtains are securely drawn to keep out the light and anyone stupid enough to be nosy. Its' still the early hours of the morning, but Dean's going to be busy for a very long time, and doesn't want to be disturbed.

Sam is wearing an old white t-shirt and gray sweats, just his normal sleepwear. Dean smiles as he crawls up the bed, and in nothing but a towel he straddles his younger brother.

He leans down, presses his bare chest to Sam's clothed one, and traces the straight edge of the knife along Sam's cheek, only going deep enough to draw a bright, thin line of blood. Sam stiffens beneath him and slowly starts to wake up. Dean pulls the knife back and sits up, traces the edge of the knife with his tongue to get a taste of Sam's blood, the blood they share.

Sam trembles beneath him and Dean refocuses his attention on the younger man.

"Finally awake, Sammy?"

"Dean, this isn't funny. Untie me and get the hell off of me! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm free. I've waited for years to finally just be who I am. It's hard being so hollow all the time. I mean only two things fill it anymore, killing things and you. I want you, Sammy. I've wanted you for years, wanted to taste you, take you, break you, make you mine. I was given a year and your life. She gave you to me, like Dad gave you to me all those years ago. Hell handed you over, and for nothing. You're mine, like always, but I'm not trapped in orders and rules now. It's just you and me, and I'm finally allowed to be a wolf," Dean says huskily, and he bows forward, his teeth playfully nipping at Sam's jaw.

"You always remember your first kill. The look in their eyes before the life dulls, and there's nothing left but a few more minutes of hot blood. Haven't found anything yet that tops that feeling. Choosing them and taking the kill. You have no idea how amazing it is."

"I don't want to know," Sam snarls and struggles against the ropes, and Dean can feel Sam's power prickling along his skin, and Dean shakes his head and smiles in amusement.

"I don't fight who I am anymore, so that makes me stronger than you."

Sam's eyes widen as the blade of the knife in Dean's hand flashes in the light from the lamp. The knife comes down and the sound of ripping cloth fills the room. Sam's chest is heaving with shock, fear, and adrenaline. Dean stabs the knife into the mattress and rips the rest of the shirt open with his bare hands. He bends down, nips at Sam's throat and then down Sam's chest and abs.

His tongue slips into Sam's navel, his eyes locked on Sam's face. Sam's breathing is heavy, he's still struggling with the ropes and squirming, but the ropes are secure around his wrists and ankles.

"This wouldn't be so difficult if you'd cooperate a little. You're already into it," Dean says with a smirk as he palms Sam's hardening cock.

"Fuck you! Get off of me!"

"Admit it, Sammy! Some part of you wants this! No matter how fucked up this is! You're tired of being hunted! Tired of being a lamb that's had to learn to fight back. You're a wolf, same as me! Give in little brother, just give in."

Sam thrashes and bucks beneath Dean, and Dean moves further down, grabs up the knife again, and cuts into Sam's sweats and boxers. He then throws the knife into the doorframe, the hilt quivering from impact as he concentrates on ripping Sam's sweats and boxers off of him.

Sam squirms and writhes, protesting vocally until a gush of air escapes him as Dean's tongue flickers across the head of his cock.

Dean's grip is firm around Sam's eager cock, and his tongue circles the head, teasing the slit, before tracing along the vein on the underside of Sam's shaft.

Sam's hips cant up of their own accord, and Sam rolls his eyes to the side.

He remembers when they were kids and Dean was always there when he had a nightmare, holding him, comforting him. Assuring him that Dad was coming back from a hunt and they weren't going to be left behind. Dean teaching him how to properly hold a gun. Dean giving him his first real knife and showing him how to hold it just right.

A shudder runs through his body as tears slip down his face, and he jerks his head back up, his eyes widen at the strong, capable hands curled around his throat.

The grip is firm as Dean leans forward, his hands subtly tightening as his lips brush Sam's ear. "You'll never forget you're mine now, Sammy."

Sam swallows against the grip and opens his mouth, short pants escaping him as he struggles to drink in more air against Dean's vice-like grip.

It's nearly impossible to breathe against Dean's powerful hands around his throat, and Dean is grinding into him, their cocks colliding and the friction is driving him out of his already oxygen deprived mind.

He writhes against his brother rutting on top of him, and struggles against the ropes tying him down to the bed, bucking and fighting to get his older brother off of him, but he's weakening, and he can feel the heat coiling in his stomach and his balls tightening.

Dean leans down, licks the tears trailing Sam's cheeks and laps at the sweat beading across Sam's forehead and slipping down his nose to mingle with the tears. Bittersweet and salty, a taste Dean is quite hungry for.

Sam arches up into Dean and comes hard, his groans choked against Dean's tight grip on his throat, and Sam slumps back to the mattress and Dean comes shortly after him, panting and shaking. He finally let's go of Sam's throat, before curling up against Sam's body, tucking his head up against Sam's shoulder.

The day has wasted into dusk again as consciousness finally slips up on Dean, and he slowly stretches languidly against Sam, a satisfied smile of contentment tugging at his lips until he hears his brother's strained voice.

"How long, Dean? How many have you killed?"

A cold chill runs up his spine as he shifts and looks up, his eyes locking with Sam's.

Sam is stunned at the brazen emptiness in Dean's eyes, an abyss of hunger that gleams with a predator's aching need.

"Why does it matter? It's who I am. It's who you could be. Who you are. Us, together. They're weak Sam, easy prey."

"But we'd be monsters, the things we've spent our whole life hunting and killing. What about that?"

Dean sighs. "All of that led to this. With a knife in my hand I see their will to live just slipping away, it's amazing to have that kind of power. We could beat the demon at his own game by doing something he doesn't expect, joining him. I've been like this my whole life. I only hid it from you to protect you. You're all that I give a damn about Sammy, and you're mine. Last night… I can't explain it, but you're mine now, and you'll learn in time. You always remember your first kill, seeing the light just fade in their eyes, hear that last single breath, see the most amazing shade of red spray out from a fresh cut."

Sam swallows against the dryness in his throat and is stunned at how Dean licks his lips as he talks about a first kill.

"Dean… I… What is this? How…? Why?"

"If you want me Sam, and I know you do, I sense it every day, smell it on you, this is what you get. That's why I finally marked you last night. So that damn yellowed eyed son of a bitch, who's stuck in hell again, knows you belong to someone. Your little Jedi mind tricks won't work on me, so accept it. I've looked after you my whole life. You may look like a sweet, little lost lamb, but you were raised by a wolf, and this is all I'll ever ask from you. Join me."

Dean takes a knife lying on the dresser and cuts the ropes holding Sam's hands captive, and then he cuts the ropes at Sam's ankles. Sam slowly rubs the circulation back into his wrists, and Dean's mouth is against his, Dean's fingers are gentle, lightly tracing the bruises over Sam's neck. Sam stiffens as Dean pulls back, and then he sits up. He takes in a breath and it hitches in his throat as Dean shifts a little closer, those sinful lips brushing the sensitive spot behind Sam's ear before Dean pulls back enough to breath into Sam's ear.

"You're mine, Sammy. Always be mine. You'll come around soon. Once you've had your first kill there's no going back. This is how it's supposed to be. You and me."

And oddly Sam feels comfort, because the old Dean is still there, even as the first cool traces of sin slip into his veins. A shadow traces cool fingers along his hand, and Sam meets his own dark passenger.

End.