The Year of Letting Go (3/7)
Aug. 1st, 2008 12:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlChapter Three
Master Post
Five Weeks After
(Sam)
That’s how long it takes for Henrikson to give up, to let the guards go home, or on to someone more dangerous, someone who’ll challenge their skills, keep them on their toes. Sam’s tucked into the corner at the top of the stairwell when Victor tells them, hears the end of the sentence as they all turn away, “No threat to us now.” And somehow that’s the worst of it, that Dean’s so not the same that nobody needs to be sure he stays here. File closed. Case over. Prosecute as an afterthought, and will Dean even know?
Sam doesn’t wait more than two minutes, it’s been too long already, weeks without the feel of Dean beside him, like it’s Wednesday all over again after all those shattering Tuesdays, Sam so alone. He hasn’t dared to actually go into the room. All the ‘blind, deaf, nonresponsive’ notes to the contrary, Sam knows Dean will know he’s there. Can’t risk it until he can get Dean out, so although he’s seen from a distance, nothing prepares Sam for the sight of Dean up close so still and silent. Bruises up and down his arms, some dusky gray and old, some red-purpled, new – on his shoulders – thighs –skin angry red underneath the cotton-lined leather straps that bind his wrists and ankles.
“Dean, ohgod Dean.” Maybe he thinks – hopes – for a minute, that Dean’s been faking it just like Henrikson said. Just a ruse to get Henrikson and his men to go, pretending to helplessness when he’s anything but, just waiting for Sam to come and break him out so he can shake that blank look from the vivid green eyes, hear Sam call his name.
There’s no response, of course, not to the sound of his voice, but Sam can see the moment Dean knows there’s someone in the room with him. His brother’s body tenses, goes completely still, waiting – Sam can see his nostrils flare, only thing he has to sense who’s there – fingers extend and then flex against the bedsheets, trying to touch, get a grasp on material, smock, suit, figure it out. Oh god, Dean.
Sam moves to the side of the bed and bends to lay his head against Dean’s chest with a sigh, one hand pressed to his heartbeat – can feel the moment it speeds up, the muscles from head to toe go rigid, wrists tugging against the restraints, legs stretched rock solid as Dean breathes in loud and wary. Sam tucks his head beneath his brother’s chin, and he feels Dean move the only thing he can, angle his face into the mass of Sam’s hair spread there, and then Sam hears the best thing he’s ever heard in his entire 24 years. Raspy whisper, chapped lips tangling in Sam’s hair and the one word choked out with terror and hope all tangled up together.
“Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam tells him, presses the word to Dean’s bare shoulder beneath the hospital gown, forms the shape of it against the pale freckled skin. “Yes,” he says again, and he kisses the jut of collarbone there, where Dean’s so thin he can feel the bone.
“Ohgod Sam,” Dean groans, and there’s so much pain in it, Sam can’t help the wetness that escapes from eyes closed against Dean’s chest, against the jackhammering of his brother’s heart, the only thing giving Sam hope, keeping him determined.
“Am I – am I talking too loud?” Dean asks suddenly, barely whispering. Sam raises his head and Dean’s instantly tense, practically coming up off the bed before he’s caught in the restraints and jerked back. “Sam!” and ohgod, Sam realizes with a sickening shock that Dean thinks maybe he’s leaving.
“I’m here, Dean,” he answers, but of course there’s no response, not until he smoothes both hands up his brother’s tensed biceps, sinewy now instead of rounded muscle, but Sam can still feel the strength there, and it calms him, makes him think they can do this.
“Sam – please – can I come with you?” Dean asks, and now Sam’s heart is breaking for real, that his brother doesn’t know, thinks that maybe now he’s too broken for Sam to want. He doesn’t even think before he leans down to stop the question with the press of his mouth to his brother’s, kisses into him quiet but firm, just love not sex, trying to get through. Dean’s shaking when Sam pulls back up, but he’s quiet, and the panic in his sightless green eyes has calmed to fear and confusion.
Sam taps once on Dean’s shoulder, deliberately. Waits. Kisses there, then taps again, watches the realization finally appear on Dean’s face.
“One tap for yes?” he asks hesitantly, still whispering.
And Sam can’t help the grin that breaks through the tears still trickling down his face, taps too hard on his shoulder, lays another kiss there, gently.
Dean nods, lets out his breath shakily like maybe he’s been holding it this whole time. “Okay,” he says, and Sam taps him again.
“Okay.”
Sam works his brother’s wrists out of the restraints first, hissing at the ring of bruises and small patches rubbed raw before unbuckling the ankle restraints as well. As soon as Dean’s free he’s on Sam, arms tight around Sam’s neck, pressing his face into Sam’s hair and breathing him in, murmuring “Sammy, Sammy.”
Sam struggles free just enough to tap his shoulder again, and Dean huffs what might in their Life Before have been a laugh, his breath tickling Sam’s throat, and Sam pulls his brother even closer, arms around to clasp behind Dean’s back and he lets himself squeeze hard, tries to let Dean know he’s not letting him go.
There’s a shuffle in the hall, and though Dean can’t hear it he feels Sam tense, and he’s quiet as Sam pulls his hand to the pair of worn jeans Sam presses into his grasp, nods instantly and bends to yank them on. Sam helps him work on sneakers, struggle into a shirt, and Dean follows him like a second skin, shaky and leaning against him as Sam moves them toward the door and into the hall. He doesn’t say a word all the way down the back stairs, huddled close to Sam and moving with him, one hand gripping like a vice around Sam’s shoulder, the other trailing along the wall, feeling his way. When they reach the bottom, Dean slams up against his back and Sam pulls him up tight, fingers against his brother’s lips, be quiet, be quiet. Dean nods, eyes closed, and even his breathing goes silent, still.
He doesn’t make a sound until Sam’s opening the door of the Impala, and then the noise he makes is so quiet Sam wouldn’t catch it if he wasn’t right there, so that he feels the intake of breath against the back of his neck. Sam pushes Dean in, settles him in the passenger seat and shuts the door, and Dean’s hand comes out to press against the glass of the window when Sam lets go of him, fingers splayed against the chill, and his eyes snap open full of fear again.
Fuck. Sam can’t get around to the other side fast enough, slides in and slams the door like if he’s loud enough Dean might hear it, but there’s no reaction until he fumbles for Dean’s hand and squeezes it, and Dean whispers “Can I talk now?”
Sam taps his shoulder and Dean breathes out, sinks back against the leather, fingers still entwined with Sam’s. “Fuck this car smells good,” he says, leaning his head back into the seat like he’s trying to be one with the Impala, and just the little bit of joy Sam can hear there almost makes him start to cry again. Sam’s kinda relieved for a split second that Dean can’t see or hear him, because he has a feeling this is gonna be a common thing.
He taps once again, agreeing, and Dean turns to where he figures Sam must be and for a second he almost looks like he’s gonna smile. “You takin’ me with you, Sam?”
Sam taps hard this time, almost a brutal poke against the warm flesh, and Dean winces, but the corner of his mouth quirks up just the tiniest bit, and he lays back again, looking exhausted. Sam disentangles their fingers and Dean jolts up instantly, fumbling for them again, finally laying his hand on Sam’s thigh so he can have his hands to drive.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and a faint blush colors his pale cheeks. Sam wonders what this is costing him, his big brother who’s never needed anyone, who’s taken care of Sam his entire life, even when they weren’t living in the same state. Who needs his hand on Sam’s leg now to know he’s there. Sam lays his palm over Dean’s hand, squeezes, before he puts the Impala in gear and gets them the hell outta there.
(Dean)
All those big words, all those promises he made to himself about not being a liability, about doing himself in so Sam couldn’t come looking for him and be tied down by him – it all goes to hell the moment he feels the familiar silky softness of his brother’s hair against his throat, snagging on his rough stubble. The second he sucks in a breath so sharp and deep it burns his nostrils like he’s inhaling fire, so desperate to have the scent of Sam again, the only smell left that means something to him, safe and warm and love and home. He can’t make himself believe it for long fractured seconds, his head spinning with the feel of Sam’s mouth against his bare skin, soft dry lips shaping the word there, trying to tell him ‘yes, yes.’ It’s more than Dean ever allowed himself to hope for, Sammy coming for him, but he can feel the wetness on Sam’s lashes as he lays his cheek to Dean’s chest, spreads his big hand out over Dean’s wildly pounding heart.
If he was a praying man he would’ve said a thousand hail mary please gods as they leave that place, Dean holding his breath hoping they won’t get caught. He’s not sure he could stand it again, being separated from Sam. It almost killed him the first time, and that’s when he had eyes and ears and what should have been a lifetime ahead of him. Now there’s nothing but blackness and silence, broken only by the brilliant colors of Sam’s presence, so vivid and beautiful Dean wants to cry over it. He can almost hear Sam’s heart beating in time with his own when he closes his fingers around Sam’s wrist, feels the pulse beat there.
The leather and metal tang of the Impala is second only to the sweat and soap smell of his brother, and Dean sinks back into the feel of the seat on his back, relishes the vibration of the engine as Sam puts her in gear. Strange not to be able to hear it, but he knows which sound would match each speed and gear, can judge how far and how fast they’re going by the feel of her under him. And fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be moving, not to be tied down and stationary like he’s never been in his entire life. Not made for that, never was, used to never being in one place too long and Dean likes it that way. He knows it’s half his own fault, but the hospital’s benevolent bondage nearly killed him.
Dean can feel the muscles of Sam’s thigh bunch beneath his fingers as Sam accelerates, warm and hard as rock, and Dean’s grateful for the strength he feels there. He doesn’t like needing Sam, it feels wrong and backwards and twisted, but he’s not stupid. Right now Sam’s the only thing tethering Dean to reality, the only one he trusts to – god, his brain refuses to go there – should never be Sammy taking care of Dean, that’s his job, always has been, always will be.
Biting his lip, Dean takes his hand from Sam’s leg, settles it determinedly on the seat. A flutter of panic rushes through him at the loss of contact, turns his stomach and brings a cold sweat to the back of his neck, but Dean clenches his teeth and rides it out. Not gonna be a wuss in front of Sam.
He does a pretty good imitation of put upon, complete with a tentative eye roll, when Sam reaches over and drags his hand back a minute later.
“Bitch,” he mutters fondly, and Sam reaches over to poke his shoulder, agreeing. Then he slowly and carefully traces J – E – R – on the bare skin of Dean’s forearm until Dean slaps him away, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from quirking up in a grin.
(Sam)
Dean’s fine as long as they’re in the Impala, driving, contained. Dean’s palm resting lightly on Sam’s driving leg, his eyes closed as he leans back into the leather. Sam could almost believe things are back to normal – their fucked-up version of normal anyway. Dean exhausted after a hunt, letting Sam drive just for now, ready to rest up for a night then set out to kill the next evil son of a bitch thing that needs killing.
Except everything is different now. The family business is no longer the simple answer to what they do. In fact, there are no simple answers, not for anything.
Dean jumps to wakefulness the second Sam cuts the engine in the motel parking lot, his fingers tightening on Sam’s thigh. “Sam? We stoppin’?”
Good. Yes or no question. Thatta boy, Sam thinks with a rush of relief. He taps Dean once on the shoulder, idly wondering if there’s going to end up being a permanent bruise there. Maybe he should vary the spot.
“Motel?” Dean asks, a little too loudly. Sam taps again, an inch or two to the left.
“Yeah, okay. You must be tired.” Dean pauses, and Sam can see a flash of emotion cross his features. Guilt, regret. Now that Sam can just stare, he can see it all, the things Dean used to be so good at hiding. Now he doesn’t know that Sam’s eyes are on him, easily reading the feelings Dean wouldn’t want him to see. Sam feels guilty himself, looks away. Taps once.
“Yeah, me too,” Dean admits, and Sam stares at how dark the circles are under his brother’s eyes, the skin pale and fragile looking there.
Dean hangs onto his sleeve while Sam slides one of their last credit cards across to the clerk. Sam scowls at the strange look he gets from the man, like they’re suspect because they’re too close, because they’re touching.
“He’s my brother,” Sam growls in explanation. “He’s deaf and blind and just got out of the fucking hospital, so give it a fucking break, huh?”
The guy backs down, waving his hand in dismissal and apology. “Hey, don’t freak out man, I didn’t say nothin’’ he protests, looking more than a little frightened. Sam realizes with a start that he’s got the hand that isn’t resting on the small of Dean’s back curled into a fist on the counter, that he’s suddenly so filled with rage he’s practically shaking with it.
Dean feels it too, letting go of Sam’s sleeve to slide a hand up to the back of his neck and squeezing, feeling the tension there. “Sam? You okay?” Dean’s voice is tentative, like he doesn’t really want to talk when they might be in public. Sam answers automatically before he realizes, then taps once on Dean’s back in reassurance.
“Just gimme the keys,” he says, pulling Dean with him out of the office and down the sidewalk to room 33.
The room has two twins, and Sam urges Dean onto one, suddenly so exhausted that all he wants is sleep. The first night of real sleep he’ll have since Dean’s been gone, and Sam’s kicking off his boots and pulling his shirts off and heading for the bathroom before he realizes that Dean hasn’t moved. He’s sitting on the bed where Sam left him, frozen and tense, and the look on his face is heartbreakingly fearful. Fuck. Sam doesn’t even remember Dean looking this afraid when they faced down a homicidal shapeshifter or a crazed wendigo or a whole fucking nest of vampires. It’s an expression he never thought he’d see – god, never wanted to see – on his big brother’s face.
Sam swallows down the rage that washes over him again, rage at everything and everyone that’s put them here, at a universe that won’t give them a fucking break. At Dad, for never fucking being there. At Mom, for dying. At Dean, for being so fucking cavalier and careless, and now it’s all on Sam, and god, he doesn’t think he can do this. What made him think he could do this?
“Sam?” Dean’s voice is soft, tentative. He doesn’t know if Sam’s close or far or even still in the room, and Sam can tell how much it’s costing his brother to have to keep asking. As much as Sam hates seeing Dean afraid, Dean must hate feeling it even more. He’s spent his life not allowing those emotions, that vulnerability, and now – in a twist of irony that makes Sam’s stomach sicken – they’re the only ones left to him.
“Yeah Dean, I’m here,” he says, knowing it’s stupid to keep talking out loud but unable to help himself. He sits on the bed and puts one hand on his brother’s knee, feels Dean shake a little.
“Oh, you’re – okay. Sorry, Sam.”
Sam taps twice. “Stop it Dean. Stop apologizing. Just – no. No.”
“No?”
A bitter laugh escapes him before Sam answers with another two taps. “That’s right Dean – no. No apologizing.”
Dean nods then, like he gets it. “Well, I am,” Dean insists. “But I’ll stop saying it if you’re not gonna appreciate it.” He pauses, turns to where Sam must be, attempts a weak smile. “Asshole.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, tapping once.
It’s not much, but the little bit of what passes for conversation soothes him, makes the fatigue sink heavily into his bones, and Sam pushes against Dean’s shoulder, trying to get him to lie down. He’s not quite prepared for the reaction he gets, though maybe he should have been, he thinks later. Dean goes rigid, shoves at the hand pressing him backwards, his hand curled into a fist and flying outward so quickly that it grazes Sam’s cheek and knocks him right off the bed.
“Fuck!” Dean curses, both hands flailing in front of him desperately. “Sam, fuck Sam, I didn’t mean – you caught me off guard, I didn’t – Sam?” He gropes across the mattress, then down the side until his hand catches in Sam’s hair and then he’s off the bed and on the floor, trying to grab Sam’s face. “Sam? You okay? Sam?”
“Jesuschrist,” Sam mutters to no one, then catches Dean’s hands in his own, pulls them both to standing. “I’m okay, jesus.”
“Okay?” Dean repeats, sounding increasingly desperate, and Sam finally remembers to touch his shoulder, one firm press.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Fuck, Dean, why can’t you fucking hear me?” Sam taps twice, feeling like he’s about to lose it. This isn’t gonna work, what made him think this was gonna work?
Dean breathes out against his shoulder, wraps both arms around Sam’s neck and clings, half smothered apologies once again in Sam’s ear. He’s trembling, and god, he feels so small in Sam’s arms, as though all the broad muscled strength Sam’s always seen in his big brother was just an illusion painted in confidence and bravado. Without those, Dean feels young and slight and needy, and Sam doesn’t want to be the one holding him up, being strong enough for the both of them.
Yeah, well that’s what you’re gonna have to be, he tells himself, letting some of the anger turn inward. All those times Dean held you and carried you and was strong for you, and now it’s your turn. So stop being such an asshole. He needs you. You can do this.
Dean nearly collapses against his chest when Sam slips his arms around his brother, holding tight around Dean’s slender waist, pulling Dean into a hug and savoring the warmth of him, the reality of Dean being here. This time he doesn’t meet any resistance when he settles Dean on the bed and tugs off his sneakers. Dean gets the idea, strips off his own jeans, and Sam can see how exhausted he is in the way his fingers shake and fumble at the button.
“Gotta pee,” he mumbles, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he says it, stark pink against the pale skin. And jesus this is weird, but Sam leads him to the bathroom anyway, overwhelmed with the thought of all the simple things he took for granted before. He places his brother’s hands on the tank and then on the seat so he’ll be oriented to where he is and where to aim, then flips the seat up and turns around before he gets a glimpse of his brother’s dick, though he’s not sure why that seems so important now. Even the sound of Dean pissing with him right there, just inches away, sends a flush of no-weird-wrong through Sam, makes him blush almost as red as Dean is by the time he’s done.
Dean does a pretty good job of it – not that Sam gives a fuck right now about the state of the motel bathroom – and lets Sam lead him back to bed, ease him down and pull the blankets up to his chin. Dean looks like a little boy, Sam thinks, in spite of the stubble darkening his chin. The freckles sprinkling his nose and cheeks stand out against the white skin, and when he closes his eyes his lashes are so long and dark they look painted on, unreal. Dean licks his chapped lips, grimaces to himself, then shifts on the pillow, trying to relax.
“Love you,” Sam says quietly, grateful to be able to say it knowing Dean can’t hear him.
The Third Day Back
(Sam)
Sam gives up on getting rooms with two twins after one night of listening to Dean’s panicked breathing from across the three feet between the beds. After the twenty-fifth time Dean whispers an anguished sounding “Sam?”, Sam gets out of his own bed and just shoves Dean over, climbing in beside him so they can both get some much-needed sleep. Dean huffs and rolls to his side, but Sam can feel the tension bleed out of him at the feel of Sam’s arm wrapped loosely around his brother’s waist.
“You need to get some rest, Dean.” Funny how Sam can’t stop talking to him, just like always, even though his brain keeps trying to remind him that Dean can’t hear him. There are still things Sam needs to say, things he wishes he could hear Dean say back.
Sam nudges his nose against the back of Dean’s neck instead, surprised at the softness of the fine hairs there at the nape. He’s never seen Dean’s hair this long, not since he was a teenager. Long enough to curl a little around his ears, to flop a little over his forehead. Sam nudges again, waiting for a response, needing one. Needing to know that the connection between them, the one that means more to Sam than he ever realized, is still there. Dean wriggles, pulling away a fraction of an inch, but his body relaxes underneath Sam’s arm. “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, almost a whisper. “You too.”
Sam smiles against his brother’s shoulder, a little thrill running over him that Dean knows him well enough to know what he just said, hoping Dean can feel it.
After that they always sleep curled together, some part of Sam touching some part of Dean. Sometimes they pull away during the night, bodies too warm and pressed too close, but always by the time morning comes they’re back together, and Sam suspects that every time Dean wakes he searches out Sam’s presence in the dark. Sometimes it’s Dean’s morning erection pressed against Sam’s side, and sometimes it’s Sam’s poking Dean’s back – or that one really embarrassing time when his stupid dick somehow found its way right between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, neither of their too-thin cotton boxers much of an impediment. Sam really wishes Dean didn’t wake up first that morning.
(Dean)
There’s nothing in his world now but Sam, though Dean thinks to himself that really, that means nothing’s changed. There’s always been nothing but Sam. When Sam’s close, everything has always fit, everything feels like it should. When Sam was at Stanford, nothing felt real, as though Dean was an imposter in a world-without-Sammy, going through the motions but never feeling anything at all. He’d fought and fucked and tried, really he’d tried, but everything stayed just a fraction of an inch out of reach until the day he had Sam back. So now – blind and deaf with nothing to look at and nothing to hear and fucking close to nothing to *do* -- every now and then Dean finds he can still smile. Sam is there, closer than ever, warm and solid and real against him. Dean wishes he could see Sammy’s dimples when he smiles, sneak glances at the way his hair flips up behind his ears like a girl’s when it gets too long, but he can still picture those things in his mind. He hopes to hell he doesn’t lose that, but sometimes when he starts to think he might, that’s when the panic sets in.
When he wakes up on the third day, he feels well enough to realize he stinks like death. His hair is too long, and it feels greasy and dirty against his neck. He’s pretty sure if he takes his boxers off they’re gonna stand up by themselves and Sam’s gonna have to hold his nose to stay as close as he’s been these past few days, and he practically has a beard.
“Kinda need a shower, man,” he says, wondering if his embarrassment shows in his voice. Damn, it’s awful not to know. Can’t judge for himself, and can’t see the expression on Sam’s face that would tell him either. “And a shave.”
Sam taps him instantly, probably agreeing that his stinky ass is starting to make Sam’s eyes water. Dean knows where the bathroom is now, can find it by feel on his own. “Just need you to turn on the water for me, okay?”
Dean can feel the steam start to warm the bathroom as Sam takes his hands and guides them over the glass of the stall door, letting Dean feel the construction, slide the panel back and forth. “I got it,” he says, more impatiently than he wants to, and wonders if Sam caught it, if he has a hurt look on his face right now. Fuck, Sam doesn’t deserve that. He’s being – Dean doesn’t even want to think about how awesome his brother’s being, how well he’s taking care of –
“Thanks,” he manages gruffly, trying for an apology without saying the words Sam has made clear he doesn’t want to keep hearing. Sam squeezes his shoulder to let Dean know he’s leaving the bathroom, and Dean strips down and climbs in, hands against the wall to brace himself, stay grounded. There’s a prickle of fear threatening to burst into panic at the thought of being alone in here, Sam not in the room. He wishes he’d asked Sam if he was going out anywhere, if he’d be there on the other side of the door. Fuck. He’s not a baby. He can take a shower by himself without his little brother’s help, and if Sam wants some time alone to go grab a coffee or take a drive or just be by himself for a fucking change, that’s okay. Gotta be okay. Concentrate on the feel of the soap, slip slide over his skin, the smell of it. Familiar. Okay.
He tries to steady his breathing, stop the thoughts needling him that Sam will go out, have an accident, get shot, get possessed. Something will get him, he won’t come back, and then Dean will be – will be –
“Sam! Sammy?”
Ohgod, did he say that out loud? He didn’t want to say it out loud, it’s not fair, not fair to Sam, and Jesus he shouldn’t need his little brother to take a fucking shower –
Dean just about swallows his tongue when there are hands on him, slipping on his soapy skin and trying to fasten around his biceps, haul him out of the water. He can feel Sam’s panic in the frantic touch of his fingers fluttering over Dean’s skin, assessing, evaluating, the way they’ve been taught. Trying to figure out what’s wrong.
He manages to choke out a sob, mortified and embarrassed and disgusted with himself for his own neediness, tries to push Sam away and get back into the shower to rinse, but only trips over the ledge and falls backwards, bringing Sam down with him. He’s sure Sam’s cursing him now and that just makes everything worse, but Sam’s big hands just wrap around him, pulling him up, steadying him with firm strokes up and down his back. Why doesn’t Sam just give up? Can’t even take a shower by himself. Pathetic, that’s what it is.
Dean’s not sure, as he stands there shaking, if the warm drops against his shoulders are shower water or Sam’s tears, and he can’t help it, even though he promised.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Sammy.”
Sam’s hands are on his face now, pinky fingers splayed back behind Dean’s ears and thumbs under his chin to still him, and Dean wishes, ohgod he wishes, he could see Sam now, see the expression on his brother’s face. He closes his eyes, his useless eyes, and concentrates on the press of his brother’s fingers, the strong and steady reassurance that Sam is there.
(Sam)
“You’re shaking, Jesus Dean,” Sam rasps, thumbs stroking down over Dean’s throat and back up, and Dean makes a little sound and swallows hard. Sam can feel the bob of his Adam’s apple under the wet skin.
Dean calms slowly under his hands, droplets clinging to his long lashes as he closes his eyes and lets Sam touch him the way he never would have in a million years in their Life Before. Jesus, he’s beautiful. Pretty – no other way to put it, Dean is pretty – his hair too long and slicked wet over his forehead, clinging to the back of his neck, his cheeks pink from the warm water and hot rush of embarrassment. And that mouth, so close and so tempting now that Sam can lean in and just look. Dean’s plump lips are wet and slick, flushed red and parted like an invitation to the most damning sin Sam can imagine. He wants – badly – to kiss his brother, make him feel just how much Sam loves him.
Instead he picks up the razor and puts it in Dean’s hand, urges his brother to feel it.
Dean scrubs a hand over his own rough stubbled chin and nods. “Guess I need a shave pretty bad too, huh?” His voice is still unsteady.
Sam taps the bare wet skin of his shoulder and can’t help the flicker of his gaze down Dean’s pale flat belly along the trail of coarser hair below. He forces himself to stop before he gets to his brother’s cock, goes for the shaving cream in the medicine cabinet instead and dabs the first of it on Dean’s cheek.
At first Dean tenses, grumbles something about how he’s been shavin’ himself for ten years and reckons he can do it on his own. Sam just ignores him, smoothing the cream over the gauntness of Dean’s cheeks, the subtle indentation of his chin. It’s nice to have an excuse to look and touch, and Sam takes advantage, lets his fingers trail up and down the stretch of Dean’s throat, feeling the pulse beat there, sure and strong.
Sam flattens one hand against the side of Dean’s face to hold him steady as he glides the blade over the other, thumb beneath his brother’s chin. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s pressing there until Dean makes a soft sound and swallows audibly. Before Sam can apologize Dean cants his head, leans into Sam’s hand. Sam swallows hard himself to see the flutter of his brother’s eyelashes and the way he breathes in just a little shaky, a barely perceptible hitch of his chest the response to Sam’s fingers fanning wide over his cheekbone.
“Jesusfuck,” Sam swears under his breath, hoping his hands aren’t shaking too much to finish the job. He works the blade over Dean’s skin, tips his brother’s face to shave his strong chin. Sam angles Dean’s head up at a sharper angle to expose his throat, feels his brother shiver at the first touch of the blade there but Dean doesn’t move, still and pliant in Sam’s hands, and christ but Sam’s dick is hard as a fuckin’ rock.
“Almost done,” Sam says, to himself instead of Dean, skimming the razor over the thin pale skin of his brother’s neck until it’s smooth and goosefleshed, then tugging Dean’s head to the other side to finish up. When all the stubble is gone, Sam wipes the remaining foamy residue away with a warm washcloth, and Dean makes that soft noise again, the one he clearly doesn’t know Sam can hear. Sam doesn’t rush the job, tugging Dean to the left and the right as he works, and every time his fingers grip Dean’s chin to position him, Dean makes that little whimper and Sam’s cock twitches painfully in his damp jeans.
When he’s finally done, Sam holds on for a moment longer, staring at his handiwork. Dean’s eyes blink open, bright green and searching even though there’s no finding. So beautiful.
“Done, Sammy?”
Sam taps his shoulder once, tries not to look down.
“Am I all gorgeous now?” Dean jokes, turning away to reach for the towel flung over the rack behind them.
“You have no idea,” Sam answers, staring down at the tent in his pants. “No fucking idea.”
Chapter Four
Master Post
Five Weeks After
(Sam)
That’s how long it takes for Henrikson to give up, to let the guards go home, or on to someone more dangerous, someone who’ll challenge their skills, keep them on their toes. Sam’s tucked into the corner at the top of the stairwell when Victor tells them, hears the end of the sentence as they all turn away, “No threat to us now.” And somehow that’s the worst of it, that Dean’s so not the same that nobody needs to be sure he stays here. File closed. Case over. Prosecute as an afterthought, and will Dean even know?
Sam doesn’t wait more than two minutes, it’s been too long already, weeks without the feel of Dean beside him, like it’s Wednesday all over again after all those shattering Tuesdays, Sam so alone. He hasn’t dared to actually go into the room. All the ‘blind, deaf, nonresponsive’ notes to the contrary, Sam knows Dean will know he’s there. Can’t risk it until he can get Dean out, so although he’s seen from a distance, nothing prepares Sam for the sight of Dean up close so still and silent. Bruises up and down his arms, some dusky gray and old, some red-purpled, new – on his shoulders – thighs –skin angry red underneath the cotton-lined leather straps that bind his wrists and ankles.
“Dean, ohgod Dean.” Maybe he thinks – hopes – for a minute, that Dean’s been faking it just like Henrikson said. Just a ruse to get Henrikson and his men to go, pretending to helplessness when he’s anything but, just waiting for Sam to come and break him out so he can shake that blank look from the vivid green eyes, hear Sam call his name.
There’s no response, of course, not to the sound of his voice, but Sam can see the moment Dean knows there’s someone in the room with him. His brother’s body tenses, goes completely still, waiting – Sam can see his nostrils flare, only thing he has to sense who’s there – fingers extend and then flex against the bedsheets, trying to touch, get a grasp on material, smock, suit, figure it out. Oh god, Dean.
Sam moves to the side of the bed and bends to lay his head against Dean’s chest with a sigh, one hand pressed to his heartbeat – can feel the moment it speeds up, the muscles from head to toe go rigid, wrists tugging against the restraints, legs stretched rock solid as Dean breathes in loud and wary. Sam tucks his head beneath his brother’s chin, and he feels Dean move the only thing he can, angle his face into the mass of Sam’s hair spread there, and then Sam hears the best thing he’s ever heard in his entire 24 years. Raspy whisper, chapped lips tangling in Sam’s hair and the one word choked out with terror and hope all tangled up together.
“Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam tells him, presses the word to Dean’s bare shoulder beneath the hospital gown, forms the shape of it against the pale freckled skin. “Yes,” he says again, and he kisses the jut of collarbone there, where Dean’s so thin he can feel the bone.
“Ohgod Sam,” Dean groans, and there’s so much pain in it, Sam can’t help the wetness that escapes from eyes closed against Dean’s chest, against the jackhammering of his brother’s heart, the only thing giving Sam hope, keeping him determined.
“Am I – am I talking too loud?” Dean asks suddenly, barely whispering. Sam raises his head and Dean’s instantly tense, practically coming up off the bed before he’s caught in the restraints and jerked back. “Sam!” and ohgod, Sam realizes with a sickening shock that Dean thinks maybe he’s leaving.
“I’m here, Dean,” he answers, but of course there’s no response, not until he smoothes both hands up his brother’s tensed biceps, sinewy now instead of rounded muscle, but Sam can still feel the strength there, and it calms him, makes him think they can do this.
“Sam – please – can I come with you?” Dean asks, and now Sam’s heart is breaking for real, that his brother doesn’t know, thinks that maybe now he’s too broken for Sam to want. He doesn’t even think before he leans down to stop the question with the press of his mouth to his brother’s, kisses into him quiet but firm, just love not sex, trying to get through. Dean’s shaking when Sam pulls back up, but he’s quiet, and the panic in his sightless green eyes has calmed to fear and confusion.
Sam taps once on Dean’s shoulder, deliberately. Waits. Kisses there, then taps again, watches the realization finally appear on Dean’s face.
“One tap for yes?” he asks hesitantly, still whispering.
And Sam can’t help the grin that breaks through the tears still trickling down his face, taps too hard on his shoulder, lays another kiss there, gently.
Dean nods, lets out his breath shakily like maybe he’s been holding it this whole time. “Okay,” he says, and Sam taps him again.
“Okay.”
Sam works his brother’s wrists out of the restraints first, hissing at the ring of bruises and small patches rubbed raw before unbuckling the ankle restraints as well. As soon as Dean’s free he’s on Sam, arms tight around Sam’s neck, pressing his face into Sam’s hair and breathing him in, murmuring “Sammy, Sammy.”
Sam struggles free just enough to tap his shoulder again, and Dean huffs what might in their Life Before have been a laugh, his breath tickling Sam’s throat, and Sam pulls his brother even closer, arms around to clasp behind Dean’s back and he lets himself squeeze hard, tries to let Dean know he’s not letting him go.
There’s a shuffle in the hall, and though Dean can’t hear it he feels Sam tense, and he’s quiet as Sam pulls his hand to the pair of worn jeans Sam presses into his grasp, nods instantly and bends to yank them on. Sam helps him work on sneakers, struggle into a shirt, and Dean follows him like a second skin, shaky and leaning against him as Sam moves them toward the door and into the hall. He doesn’t say a word all the way down the back stairs, huddled close to Sam and moving with him, one hand gripping like a vice around Sam’s shoulder, the other trailing along the wall, feeling his way. When they reach the bottom, Dean slams up against his back and Sam pulls him up tight, fingers against his brother’s lips, be quiet, be quiet. Dean nods, eyes closed, and even his breathing goes silent, still.
He doesn’t make a sound until Sam’s opening the door of the Impala, and then the noise he makes is so quiet Sam wouldn’t catch it if he wasn’t right there, so that he feels the intake of breath against the back of his neck. Sam pushes Dean in, settles him in the passenger seat and shuts the door, and Dean’s hand comes out to press against the glass of the window when Sam lets go of him, fingers splayed against the chill, and his eyes snap open full of fear again.
Fuck. Sam can’t get around to the other side fast enough, slides in and slams the door like if he’s loud enough Dean might hear it, but there’s no reaction until he fumbles for Dean’s hand and squeezes it, and Dean whispers “Can I talk now?”
Sam taps his shoulder and Dean breathes out, sinks back against the leather, fingers still entwined with Sam’s. “Fuck this car smells good,” he says, leaning his head back into the seat like he’s trying to be one with the Impala, and just the little bit of joy Sam can hear there almost makes him start to cry again. Sam’s kinda relieved for a split second that Dean can’t see or hear him, because he has a feeling this is gonna be a common thing.
He taps once again, agreeing, and Dean turns to where he figures Sam must be and for a second he almost looks like he’s gonna smile. “You takin’ me with you, Sam?”
Sam taps hard this time, almost a brutal poke against the warm flesh, and Dean winces, but the corner of his mouth quirks up just the tiniest bit, and he lays back again, looking exhausted. Sam disentangles their fingers and Dean jolts up instantly, fumbling for them again, finally laying his hand on Sam’s thigh so he can have his hands to drive.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and a faint blush colors his pale cheeks. Sam wonders what this is costing him, his big brother who’s never needed anyone, who’s taken care of Sam his entire life, even when they weren’t living in the same state. Who needs his hand on Sam’s leg now to know he’s there. Sam lays his palm over Dean’s hand, squeezes, before he puts the Impala in gear and gets them the hell outta there.
(Dean)
All those big words, all those promises he made to himself about not being a liability, about doing himself in so Sam couldn’t come looking for him and be tied down by him – it all goes to hell the moment he feels the familiar silky softness of his brother’s hair against his throat, snagging on his rough stubble. The second he sucks in a breath so sharp and deep it burns his nostrils like he’s inhaling fire, so desperate to have the scent of Sam again, the only smell left that means something to him, safe and warm and love and home. He can’t make himself believe it for long fractured seconds, his head spinning with the feel of Sam’s mouth against his bare skin, soft dry lips shaping the word there, trying to tell him ‘yes, yes.’ It’s more than Dean ever allowed himself to hope for, Sammy coming for him, but he can feel the wetness on Sam’s lashes as he lays his cheek to Dean’s chest, spreads his big hand out over Dean’s wildly pounding heart.
If he was a praying man he would’ve said a thousand hail mary please gods as they leave that place, Dean holding his breath hoping they won’t get caught. He’s not sure he could stand it again, being separated from Sam. It almost killed him the first time, and that’s when he had eyes and ears and what should have been a lifetime ahead of him. Now there’s nothing but blackness and silence, broken only by the brilliant colors of Sam’s presence, so vivid and beautiful Dean wants to cry over it. He can almost hear Sam’s heart beating in time with his own when he closes his fingers around Sam’s wrist, feels the pulse beat there.
The leather and metal tang of the Impala is second only to the sweat and soap smell of his brother, and Dean sinks back into the feel of the seat on his back, relishes the vibration of the engine as Sam puts her in gear. Strange not to be able to hear it, but he knows which sound would match each speed and gear, can judge how far and how fast they’re going by the feel of her under him. And fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be moving, not to be tied down and stationary like he’s never been in his entire life. Not made for that, never was, used to never being in one place too long and Dean likes it that way. He knows it’s half his own fault, but the hospital’s benevolent bondage nearly killed him.
Dean can feel the muscles of Sam’s thigh bunch beneath his fingers as Sam accelerates, warm and hard as rock, and Dean’s grateful for the strength he feels there. He doesn’t like needing Sam, it feels wrong and backwards and twisted, but he’s not stupid. Right now Sam’s the only thing tethering Dean to reality, the only one he trusts to – god, his brain refuses to go there – should never be Sammy taking care of Dean, that’s his job, always has been, always will be.
Biting his lip, Dean takes his hand from Sam’s leg, settles it determinedly on the seat. A flutter of panic rushes through him at the loss of contact, turns his stomach and brings a cold sweat to the back of his neck, but Dean clenches his teeth and rides it out. Not gonna be a wuss in front of Sam.
He does a pretty good imitation of put upon, complete with a tentative eye roll, when Sam reaches over and drags his hand back a minute later.
“Bitch,” he mutters fondly, and Sam reaches over to poke his shoulder, agreeing. Then he slowly and carefully traces J – E – R – on the bare skin of Dean’s forearm until Dean slaps him away, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from quirking up in a grin.
(Sam)
Dean’s fine as long as they’re in the Impala, driving, contained. Dean’s palm resting lightly on Sam’s driving leg, his eyes closed as he leans back into the leather. Sam could almost believe things are back to normal – their fucked-up version of normal anyway. Dean exhausted after a hunt, letting Sam drive just for now, ready to rest up for a night then set out to kill the next evil son of a bitch thing that needs killing.
Except everything is different now. The family business is no longer the simple answer to what they do. In fact, there are no simple answers, not for anything.
Dean jumps to wakefulness the second Sam cuts the engine in the motel parking lot, his fingers tightening on Sam’s thigh. “Sam? We stoppin’?”
Good. Yes or no question. Thatta boy, Sam thinks with a rush of relief. He taps Dean once on the shoulder, idly wondering if there’s going to end up being a permanent bruise there. Maybe he should vary the spot.
“Motel?” Dean asks, a little too loudly. Sam taps again, an inch or two to the left.
“Yeah, okay. You must be tired.” Dean pauses, and Sam can see a flash of emotion cross his features. Guilt, regret. Now that Sam can just stare, he can see it all, the things Dean used to be so good at hiding. Now he doesn’t know that Sam’s eyes are on him, easily reading the feelings Dean wouldn’t want him to see. Sam feels guilty himself, looks away. Taps once.
“Yeah, me too,” Dean admits, and Sam stares at how dark the circles are under his brother’s eyes, the skin pale and fragile looking there.
Dean hangs onto his sleeve while Sam slides one of their last credit cards across to the clerk. Sam scowls at the strange look he gets from the man, like they’re suspect because they’re too close, because they’re touching.
“He’s my brother,” Sam growls in explanation. “He’s deaf and blind and just got out of the fucking hospital, so give it a fucking break, huh?”
The guy backs down, waving his hand in dismissal and apology. “Hey, don’t freak out man, I didn’t say nothin’’ he protests, looking more than a little frightened. Sam realizes with a start that he’s got the hand that isn’t resting on the small of Dean’s back curled into a fist on the counter, that he’s suddenly so filled with rage he’s practically shaking with it.
Dean feels it too, letting go of Sam’s sleeve to slide a hand up to the back of his neck and squeezing, feeling the tension there. “Sam? You okay?” Dean’s voice is tentative, like he doesn’t really want to talk when they might be in public. Sam answers automatically before he realizes, then taps once on Dean’s back in reassurance.
“Just gimme the keys,” he says, pulling Dean with him out of the office and down the sidewalk to room 33.
The room has two twins, and Sam urges Dean onto one, suddenly so exhausted that all he wants is sleep. The first night of real sleep he’ll have since Dean’s been gone, and Sam’s kicking off his boots and pulling his shirts off and heading for the bathroom before he realizes that Dean hasn’t moved. He’s sitting on the bed where Sam left him, frozen and tense, and the look on his face is heartbreakingly fearful. Fuck. Sam doesn’t even remember Dean looking this afraid when they faced down a homicidal shapeshifter or a crazed wendigo or a whole fucking nest of vampires. It’s an expression he never thought he’d see – god, never wanted to see – on his big brother’s face.
Sam swallows down the rage that washes over him again, rage at everything and everyone that’s put them here, at a universe that won’t give them a fucking break. At Dad, for never fucking being there. At Mom, for dying. At Dean, for being so fucking cavalier and careless, and now it’s all on Sam, and god, he doesn’t think he can do this. What made him think he could do this?
“Sam?” Dean’s voice is soft, tentative. He doesn’t know if Sam’s close or far or even still in the room, and Sam can tell how much it’s costing his brother to have to keep asking. As much as Sam hates seeing Dean afraid, Dean must hate feeling it even more. He’s spent his life not allowing those emotions, that vulnerability, and now – in a twist of irony that makes Sam’s stomach sicken – they’re the only ones left to him.
“Yeah Dean, I’m here,” he says, knowing it’s stupid to keep talking out loud but unable to help himself. He sits on the bed and puts one hand on his brother’s knee, feels Dean shake a little.
“Oh, you’re – okay. Sorry, Sam.”
Sam taps twice. “Stop it Dean. Stop apologizing. Just – no. No.”
“No?”
A bitter laugh escapes him before Sam answers with another two taps. “That’s right Dean – no. No apologizing.”
Dean nods then, like he gets it. “Well, I am,” Dean insists. “But I’ll stop saying it if you’re not gonna appreciate it.” He pauses, turns to where Sam must be, attempts a weak smile. “Asshole.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, tapping once.
It’s not much, but the little bit of what passes for conversation soothes him, makes the fatigue sink heavily into his bones, and Sam pushes against Dean’s shoulder, trying to get him to lie down. He’s not quite prepared for the reaction he gets, though maybe he should have been, he thinks later. Dean goes rigid, shoves at the hand pressing him backwards, his hand curled into a fist and flying outward so quickly that it grazes Sam’s cheek and knocks him right off the bed.
“Fuck!” Dean curses, both hands flailing in front of him desperately. “Sam, fuck Sam, I didn’t mean – you caught me off guard, I didn’t – Sam?” He gropes across the mattress, then down the side until his hand catches in Sam’s hair and then he’s off the bed and on the floor, trying to grab Sam’s face. “Sam? You okay? Sam?”
“Jesuschrist,” Sam mutters to no one, then catches Dean’s hands in his own, pulls them both to standing. “I’m okay, jesus.”
“Okay?” Dean repeats, sounding increasingly desperate, and Sam finally remembers to touch his shoulder, one firm press.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Fuck, Dean, why can’t you fucking hear me?” Sam taps twice, feeling like he’s about to lose it. This isn’t gonna work, what made him think this was gonna work?
Dean breathes out against his shoulder, wraps both arms around Sam’s neck and clings, half smothered apologies once again in Sam’s ear. He’s trembling, and god, he feels so small in Sam’s arms, as though all the broad muscled strength Sam’s always seen in his big brother was just an illusion painted in confidence and bravado. Without those, Dean feels young and slight and needy, and Sam doesn’t want to be the one holding him up, being strong enough for the both of them.
Yeah, well that’s what you’re gonna have to be, he tells himself, letting some of the anger turn inward. All those times Dean held you and carried you and was strong for you, and now it’s your turn. So stop being such an asshole. He needs you. You can do this.
Dean nearly collapses against his chest when Sam slips his arms around his brother, holding tight around Dean’s slender waist, pulling Dean into a hug and savoring the warmth of him, the reality of Dean being here. This time he doesn’t meet any resistance when he settles Dean on the bed and tugs off his sneakers. Dean gets the idea, strips off his own jeans, and Sam can see how exhausted he is in the way his fingers shake and fumble at the button.
“Gotta pee,” he mumbles, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he says it, stark pink against the pale skin. And jesus this is weird, but Sam leads him to the bathroom anyway, overwhelmed with the thought of all the simple things he took for granted before. He places his brother’s hands on the tank and then on the seat so he’ll be oriented to where he is and where to aim, then flips the seat up and turns around before he gets a glimpse of his brother’s dick, though he’s not sure why that seems so important now. Even the sound of Dean pissing with him right there, just inches away, sends a flush of no-weird-wrong through Sam, makes him blush almost as red as Dean is by the time he’s done.
Dean does a pretty good job of it – not that Sam gives a fuck right now about the state of the motel bathroom – and lets Sam lead him back to bed, ease him down and pull the blankets up to his chin. Dean looks like a little boy, Sam thinks, in spite of the stubble darkening his chin. The freckles sprinkling his nose and cheeks stand out against the white skin, and when he closes his eyes his lashes are so long and dark they look painted on, unreal. Dean licks his chapped lips, grimaces to himself, then shifts on the pillow, trying to relax.
“Love you,” Sam says quietly, grateful to be able to say it knowing Dean can’t hear him.
The Third Day Back
(Sam)
Sam gives up on getting rooms with two twins after one night of listening to Dean’s panicked breathing from across the three feet between the beds. After the twenty-fifth time Dean whispers an anguished sounding “Sam?”, Sam gets out of his own bed and just shoves Dean over, climbing in beside him so they can both get some much-needed sleep. Dean huffs and rolls to his side, but Sam can feel the tension bleed out of him at the feel of Sam’s arm wrapped loosely around his brother’s waist.
“You need to get some rest, Dean.” Funny how Sam can’t stop talking to him, just like always, even though his brain keeps trying to remind him that Dean can’t hear him. There are still things Sam needs to say, things he wishes he could hear Dean say back.
Sam nudges his nose against the back of Dean’s neck instead, surprised at the softness of the fine hairs there at the nape. He’s never seen Dean’s hair this long, not since he was a teenager. Long enough to curl a little around his ears, to flop a little over his forehead. Sam nudges again, waiting for a response, needing one. Needing to know that the connection between them, the one that means more to Sam than he ever realized, is still there. Dean wriggles, pulling away a fraction of an inch, but his body relaxes underneath Sam’s arm. “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, almost a whisper. “You too.”
Sam smiles against his brother’s shoulder, a little thrill running over him that Dean knows him well enough to know what he just said, hoping Dean can feel it.
After that they always sleep curled together, some part of Sam touching some part of Dean. Sometimes they pull away during the night, bodies too warm and pressed too close, but always by the time morning comes they’re back together, and Sam suspects that every time Dean wakes he searches out Sam’s presence in the dark. Sometimes it’s Dean’s morning erection pressed against Sam’s side, and sometimes it’s Sam’s poking Dean’s back – or that one really embarrassing time when his stupid dick somehow found its way right between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, neither of their too-thin cotton boxers much of an impediment. Sam really wishes Dean didn’t wake up first that morning.
(Dean)
There’s nothing in his world now but Sam, though Dean thinks to himself that really, that means nothing’s changed. There’s always been nothing but Sam. When Sam’s close, everything has always fit, everything feels like it should. When Sam was at Stanford, nothing felt real, as though Dean was an imposter in a world-without-Sammy, going through the motions but never feeling anything at all. He’d fought and fucked and tried, really he’d tried, but everything stayed just a fraction of an inch out of reach until the day he had Sam back. So now – blind and deaf with nothing to look at and nothing to hear and fucking close to nothing to *do* -- every now and then Dean finds he can still smile. Sam is there, closer than ever, warm and solid and real against him. Dean wishes he could see Sammy’s dimples when he smiles, sneak glances at the way his hair flips up behind his ears like a girl’s when it gets too long, but he can still picture those things in his mind. He hopes to hell he doesn’t lose that, but sometimes when he starts to think he might, that’s when the panic sets in.
When he wakes up on the third day, he feels well enough to realize he stinks like death. His hair is too long, and it feels greasy and dirty against his neck. He’s pretty sure if he takes his boxers off they’re gonna stand up by themselves and Sam’s gonna have to hold his nose to stay as close as he’s been these past few days, and he practically has a beard.
“Kinda need a shower, man,” he says, wondering if his embarrassment shows in his voice. Damn, it’s awful not to know. Can’t judge for himself, and can’t see the expression on Sam’s face that would tell him either. “And a shave.”
Sam taps him instantly, probably agreeing that his stinky ass is starting to make Sam’s eyes water. Dean knows where the bathroom is now, can find it by feel on his own. “Just need you to turn on the water for me, okay?”
Dean can feel the steam start to warm the bathroom as Sam takes his hands and guides them over the glass of the stall door, letting Dean feel the construction, slide the panel back and forth. “I got it,” he says, more impatiently than he wants to, and wonders if Sam caught it, if he has a hurt look on his face right now. Fuck, Sam doesn’t deserve that. He’s being – Dean doesn’t even want to think about how awesome his brother’s being, how well he’s taking care of –
“Thanks,” he manages gruffly, trying for an apology without saying the words Sam has made clear he doesn’t want to keep hearing. Sam squeezes his shoulder to let Dean know he’s leaving the bathroom, and Dean strips down and climbs in, hands against the wall to brace himself, stay grounded. There’s a prickle of fear threatening to burst into panic at the thought of being alone in here, Sam not in the room. He wishes he’d asked Sam if he was going out anywhere, if he’d be there on the other side of the door. Fuck. He’s not a baby. He can take a shower by himself without his little brother’s help, and if Sam wants some time alone to go grab a coffee or take a drive or just be by himself for a fucking change, that’s okay. Gotta be okay. Concentrate on the feel of the soap, slip slide over his skin, the smell of it. Familiar. Okay.
He tries to steady his breathing, stop the thoughts needling him that Sam will go out, have an accident, get shot, get possessed. Something will get him, he won’t come back, and then Dean will be – will be –
“Sam! Sammy?”
Ohgod, did he say that out loud? He didn’t want to say it out loud, it’s not fair, not fair to Sam, and Jesus he shouldn’t need his little brother to take a fucking shower –
Dean just about swallows his tongue when there are hands on him, slipping on his soapy skin and trying to fasten around his biceps, haul him out of the water. He can feel Sam’s panic in the frantic touch of his fingers fluttering over Dean’s skin, assessing, evaluating, the way they’ve been taught. Trying to figure out what’s wrong.
He manages to choke out a sob, mortified and embarrassed and disgusted with himself for his own neediness, tries to push Sam away and get back into the shower to rinse, but only trips over the ledge and falls backwards, bringing Sam down with him. He’s sure Sam’s cursing him now and that just makes everything worse, but Sam’s big hands just wrap around him, pulling him up, steadying him with firm strokes up and down his back. Why doesn’t Sam just give up? Can’t even take a shower by himself. Pathetic, that’s what it is.
Dean’s not sure, as he stands there shaking, if the warm drops against his shoulders are shower water or Sam’s tears, and he can’t help it, even though he promised.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Sammy.”
Sam’s hands are on his face now, pinky fingers splayed back behind Dean’s ears and thumbs under his chin to still him, and Dean wishes, ohgod he wishes, he could see Sam now, see the expression on his brother’s face. He closes his eyes, his useless eyes, and concentrates on the press of his brother’s fingers, the strong and steady reassurance that Sam is there.
(Sam)
“You’re shaking, Jesus Dean,” Sam rasps, thumbs stroking down over Dean’s throat and back up, and Dean makes a little sound and swallows hard. Sam can feel the bob of his Adam’s apple under the wet skin.
Dean calms slowly under his hands, droplets clinging to his long lashes as he closes his eyes and lets Sam touch him the way he never would have in a million years in their Life Before. Jesus, he’s beautiful. Pretty – no other way to put it, Dean is pretty – his hair too long and slicked wet over his forehead, clinging to the back of his neck, his cheeks pink from the warm water and hot rush of embarrassment. And that mouth, so close and so tempting now that Sam can lean in and just look. Dean’s plump lips are wet and slick, flushed red and parted like an invitation to the most damning sin Sam can imagine. He wants – badly – to kiss his brother, make him feel just how much Sam loves him.
Instead he picks up the razor and puts it in Dean’s hand, urges his brother to feel it.
Dean scrubs a hand over his own rough stubbled chin and nods. “Guess I need a shave pretty bad too, huh?” His voice is still unsteady.
Sam taps the bare wet skin of his shoulder and can’t help the flicker of his gaze down Dean’s pale flat belly along the trail of coarser hair below. He forces himself to stop before he gets to his brother’s cock, goes for the shaving cream in the medicine cabinet instead and dabs the first of it on Dean’s cheek.
At first Dean tenses, grumbles something about how he’s been shavin’ himself for ten years and reckons he can do it on his own. Sam just ignores him, smoothing the cream over the gauntness of Dean’s cheeks, the subtle indentation of his chin. It’s nice to have an excuse to look and touch, and Sam takes advantage, lets his fingers trail up and down the stretch of Dean’s throat, feeling the pulse beat there, sure and strong.
Sam flattens one hand against the side of Dean’s face to hold him steady as he glides the blade over the other, thumb beneath his brother’s chin. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s pressing there until Dean makes a soft sound and swallows audibly. Before Sam can apologize Dean cants his head, leans into Sam’s hand. Sam swallows hard himself to see the flutter of his brother’s eyelashes and the way he breathes in just a little shaky, a barely perceptible hitch of his chest the response to Sam’s fingers fanning wide over his cheekbone.
“Jesusfuck,” Sam swears under his breath, hoping his hands aren’t shaking too much to finish the job. He works the blade over Dean’s skin, tips his brother’s face to shave his strong chin. Sam angles Dean’s head up at a sharper angle to expose his throat, feels his brother shiver at the first touch of the blade there but Dean doesn’t move, still and pliant in Sam’s hands, and christ but Sam’s dick is hard as a fuckin’ rock.
“Almost done,” Sam says, to himself instead of Dean, skimming the razor over the thin pale skin of his brother’s neck until it’s smooth and goosefleshed, then tugging Dean’s head to the other side to finish up. When all the stubble is gone, Sam wipes the remaining foamy residue away with a warm washcloth, and Dean makes that soft noise again, the one he clearly doesn’t know Sam can hear. Sam doesn’t rush the job, tugging Dean to the left and the right as he works, and every time his fingers grip Dean’s chin to position him, Dean makes that little whimper and Sam’s cock twitches painfully in his damp jeans.
When he’s finally done, Sam holds on for a moment longer, staring at his handiwork. Dean’s eyes blink open, bright green and searching even though there’s no finding. So beautiful.
“Done, Sammy?”
Sam taps his shoulder once, tries not to look down.
“Am I all gorgeous now?” Dean jokes, turning away to reach for the towel flung over the rack behind them.
“You have no idea,” Sam answers, staring down at the tent in his pants. “No fucking idea.”
Chapter Four
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2008-08-02 06:10 pm (UTC)But then Sammy comes for Dean. As soon as it's safe, Sam doesn't waste any time getting Dean out of there. And even blind and deaf, Dean is still able to follow Sam's cues so they can both get out safely. I smiled when Dean said how good the car smelled.
I do wish that nurse, Jennifer, could have known what happened to Dean, but she probably would have reacted badly since she'd been told Sam was a murderer.
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Date: 2008-08-04 07:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 02:00 am (UTC)Just thought you should know.
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Date: 2008-08-05 03:10 am (UTC)Also, I love that the emotional impact I intended is coming through - but I swear, not every chapter will make you cry! Swear! :)
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Date: 2008-08-29 10:43 am (UTC)did you ever see metallica's video for "One" or the movie they cut it from? Dean would've been reminded of the situation...
I was so relieved when the nurse spoke of the cute giant doctor with the floppy hair who's always bumping into everyone! I was super relieved when Henriksen didn't realize who she meant!!
I loved one tap for yes.
Poor Dean is so horribly traumatized --his mind spinning out so quickly into terror. But at least he can speak! (the soldier in One could only tap Morse code with his head.... meep)
Again, every word in this chapter is perfectly paced, terrifying yet not overdone and no trace of maudlin. Very well done!!
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Date: 2008-08-30 02:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-09 05:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-11 01:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-08 05:24 am (UTC)"it’s been too long already, weeks without the feel of Dean beside him, like it’s Wednesday all over again after all those shattering Tuesdays..." I think after Mystery Spot Sam was irrevocably changed, it totally damaged him. So I can totally see him getting edgy and antsy without sight or touch confirmation that Dean's ok.
"“Sam!” and ohgod, Sam realizes with a sickening shock that Dean thinks maybe he’s leaving." Oooh this is so angsty and wonderful, I love it. "“Sam – please – can I come with you?” Dean asks, and now Sam’s heart is breaking for real, that his brother doesn’t know, thinks that maybe now he’s too broken for Sam to want." OMG the angst, I swear to god, I love it! It hurts so good. Oh, Dean. Oh, Sam. (yeah I have no better feedback or commentary than that ♥).
And this is so essentially them: "“Bitch,” ...carefully traces J – E – R – on the bare skin...until Dean slaps him away, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from quirking up in a grin." aww :)
"Sam gives up on getting rooms with two twins after one night of listening to Dean’s panicked breathing from across the three feet between the beds. After the twenty-fifth time Dean whispers an anguished sounding “Sam?”" In so little words you've managed to really show how horrified and scared Dean is, I can almost see what Dean is thinking. Is Sam still with me? Did he dump me here? Is Sam safe? Could he be hurt somewhere? And without that constant contact Dean would be completely lost and cut off.
"There’s nothing in his world now but Sam, though Dean thinks to himself that really, that means nothing’s changed." This is so completely true.
I really feel for Dean when he has his panic attack in the shower. As much as he doesn't want to need Sam as much as he does (and hasn't that just been like always too?), he really does. And it must hurt to have his independence taken away and having to depend constantly on Sam. And this has to be really hard for Sam too; a whole new dynamic in their relationship, when it's always been Dean taking care of Sam, now it's Sam's turn, only now it's to an extreme.
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Date: 2009-09-09 04:51 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2017-03-26 11:28 am (UTC)I had to hold my breath, my heart ... I could sooo Picture them. It felt like sitting in a Little Corner and watching them, listening to them, I even heard their heartbeats...
Sweetie you are a master of words, no... a queen of words. I'm simply overwhelmed ... never ever had I wept so hard while reading and I LOVE THIS!!!
The first words Dean speaks is "Sam!"... You nearly got me on my knees for this... I'm so glad the Boys are together now .
Do you know this when you read something and for the love of god you can't read something else? (Besides the next part of YOUR Story!)
You always leave me thinking, talking to myself, thinking again and DREAMING.
Thank you soooo much, my dear! *hugs you very very tight*
I just came in (spent some hours in the garden) and I couldn't stop thinking about this chapter. I would sooo like to friend you if you don't mind so I can take a loooong walk through your Journal. *fingers crossed*
Happy Sunday, Sweetheart!
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Date: 2017-03-27 02:27 am (UTC)Hope you had a wonderful Sunday!