Secret

Summary: Song-fic (ish?) to the Pierces' /Secret/. Dark, violence, character death. "Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead."

Rating: M, for violence and death

Disclaimer: *calls Eric Kripke* "Can I have Supernatural? No? Okay then." I don't own, sadly.

"Dean?"

"Yes, Sammy?"

"I have something I want to tell you. But you have to promise to never tell anyone."

"I promise."

"Do you swear on your life?"

"I swear on my life."

"You swore you'd never tell!" Sam screamed, pressing the pillow harder over his older brother's face.

Dean struggled underneath him, scratching at Sam's wrists and drawing long lines of crimson blood. He reached up and grabbed a handful of Sam's shaggy hair, then yanked it to one side. Sam yelped in pain, loosening his grip on the stuffed fabric. Dean took the chance to throw the taller man off of him, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Dean rolled off so that he stood on the other side with the mattress in between them. He gasped for air, eyes watering, but he glared at Sam as though he'd gone insane. Sam had already gotten to his feet again.

"You swore you'd never tell," he repeated dangerously.

Dean narrowed his eyes in response.

"You swore you'd never tell!"

"No one keeps a secret, Sammy," Dean said, edging toward the nightstand where he kept his switchblade. "Everybody tells."

"You swore you'd never tell," Sam said again, this time a bit weakly. His shoulders slumped, and his anger subsided into a disappointed regard. Then he saw Dean snatch up the blade, and his eyes hardened once more.

Dean smirked, waving the knife mockingly as though to say, "You should have come prepared."

Sam lunged across the bed, and Dean swung upward. But Sam caught Dean's wrist in one hand and forced it away, striking with his other fist. It hit Dean square in the jaw, knocking him off balance. The brothers went down in a tangle of limbs, grappling for the blade.

Dean lost his grip, and the blade slid across the floor, hit the wall, and spun farther out of reach. The boys paused, glaring hatefully into one another's eyes. Dean spat in Sam's face, and he instantly recoiled, giving Dean the upper hand.

The older brother pinned Sam to the floor, pressing his forearm to his throat. He repeatedly punched Sam in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Mustering the last of strength from his oxygen-deprived muscles, Sam blindsided Dean. Dean collapsed, momentarily stunned, and Sam scrambled out from under him, stretching a hand out for the abandoned knife.

Dean recovered and grabbed Sam by the ankle, jerking him back into the fistfight.

Sam gritted his teeth and kicked out with his free boot, landing over Dean's mouth. He hardly flinched, but it was enough to loosen his grip. Sam lunged for the weapon. As soon as his fingers curled around the hilt, he was on his feet and turning simultaneously, victoriously. His smirked faded when he saw that Dean had turned his chair over and broke one of the legs off to use as a bat.

The younger man hesitated.

Dean moved first.

Sam dodged the first blow, but wasn't so lucky on Dean's backswing. It struck him hard on the shoulder, bruising him to the bone. He grunted in pain, but ducked a headshot and swung the knife as hard and fast as he could. Dean sidestepped, and received only a nick to his arm that would hardly need stitches.

Sam cursed and struck again as Dean lifted the splintered chair leg. Dean moved forward to meet Sam, effectively dodging the blade and driving into Sam's stomach. He heard the knife fall to the floor, but before Sam could follow it Dean slammed the wood down on his brother's head.

A sickening crack, and then Sam hit the floor, gasping like a dying fish. Dean smirked, stepping over his winded baby brother to kick away the knife. It disappeared underneath the bed.

"You're not the only one," Dean said as he drove a boot into Sam's side to flip him onto his back, "with secrets, Sammy."

Sam looked up at him through the pain-induced haze, still struggling to get a full breath.

Dean looked down at his arm, where Sam had cut him. "Shame, it was favorite shirt."

It was then that Sam saw that the wound had already healed, leaving behind a bit of blood. Dean grinned wickedly down at Sam, who was fighting to move away. He was too dizzy, though, sure he had a concussion.

"Two can keep a secret if one of us is dead. Bye, Sammy."

Before the man could move to defend himself, Dean brought down the chair leg-turned-club. Sam was out cold, scalp split and bleeding. But Dean didn't stop there. He lifted the weapon again and battered his brother again. And again. And again. And again. And again, again, again, againagainagainagainagainagain.

When he stopped, there was blood and grey matter everywhere. Sam's head was obliterated, unrecognizable. Dean's tongue snaked out from his upturned lips and caught a few droplets that had flecked his face. He dropped the club beside his dead brother's corpse and slipped out of his ruined flannel shirt. Dean moved into the bathroom to clean up before going out for dinner. As he passed the mirror on the way to the shower, he spared himself a glance.

His eyes were pitch black.

A/N: Just a quick idea I needed to get out of my head. Not sure what to think of this. Love it? Hate it?

Anyway, thanks for reading! ^-^