The Year of Letting Go (4/7)
Aug. 1st, 2008 12:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlChapter Four
Master Post
Two Months After
(Sam)
Three weeks since Sam’s had Dean back, and the relief and euphoria of just being together again, both of them alive, has faded into the uncomfortable anxiety of not knowing what the hell they’re doing. Sam has found them another motel, one with a tiny but efficient kitchenette, and spent as much cash as he dared at the grocery store so he wouldn’t have to keep going out, because nothing is easy with Dean attached to him like glue. Not that Dean doesn’t try to cultivate some aloofness, Sam can see the effort there. But Dean can no longer tell when Sam’s watching or even when Sam is there, and he can’t keep up the act 24/7. Sooner or later, Sam sees the panic in his brother’s eyes when they aren’t touching, the twitch of his fingers and the way his breathing speeds up as he tries to stay calm. Sam can’t watch it, can’t stand to know Dean’s afraid. His big brother, afraid of nothing.
Sam had quickly realized – okay, practically instantly – that Dean’s condition changes everything, and not just for Dean. For Sam too. He’d been so focused on just rescuing Dean, getting him back, keeping him alive and out of prison, that he hadn’t given much thought to how things would be once he did.
The weird thing is, in some ways Dean is still totally Dean. As long as they’re in some kind of physical contact, so that Dean knows without a doubt that Sam is there, Dean will talk, and he sounds just the same. Same snarky comments, same big brother attitude.
“What’re we watchin’, Sam? Some girlie soap opera kinda thing? Yeah, I bet that’s it. You’re likin’ this, huh? Only way you’d ever get control of the remote and you know it.” They’re sitting elbow to elbow propped against the headboard of the double bed they both sleep in, the other one a pile of clothes and duffles and the rest of their few possessions. The television’s tuned to CNN, but Sam lets Dean be right about things whenever he can, knowing there aren’t that many opportunities. He taps a yes.
“So what’s the plan today, Sammy?” Dean continues. Sam groans to himself. Plan? Does he even have a fucking plan? That’s the whole problem, he doesn’t have a clue. This is all on him now, and he – fuck, he just doesn’t know. It’s not like they can just jump back in the Impala and start saving people and hunting things again. Hell, he can’t even figure out a way to earn them some fucking money without leaving Dean alone for hours at a time, and so far that hasn’t really been an option.
“Huh? We need to go out anywhere, Sam?” Dean elbows him, persistent. Probably bored. God, Sam can’t even imagine how bored Dean must be by now. He’s healed physically, and if anyone isn’t used to just sitting around and doing nothing it’s Dean Winchester. Fuck. What’s he supposed to do about that? Seriously, what the fuck?
Besides the sheer exasperation of not knowing what the hell they’re doing, Sam’s got another problem, and this one is all his. The worst thing about Dean not being able to see or hear him is that Sam no longer has to worry about being caught. Caught looking at Dean in a decidedly unbrotherly manner. And without that worry, Sam….well, Sam can’t come up with very many good reasons not to. Other than the whole ‘this is fucked up’ thing, but that loses most of its power when it applies to pretty much their entire lives.
Before he left for Stanford, he’d had it down to a fine art, watching his brother without Dean knowing. He could stare right up until the split second Dean’s head would turn, so finely attuned to the tensing of a shoulder muscle or the sweep of Dean’s long lashes upward that signaled his attention about to turn to Sam that by the time Dean was looking, Sam’s gaze was anywhere but on his brother. He learned to skitter his eyes not too far so as not to be obvious, lock them to the dresser just to the left of Dean’s broad shoulder or a fascinating spot on the wall just above his head. Learned to use his best little boy innocent look to deflect any lingering suspicion.
For a while when he’d come back, it had been harder. Years away from Dean, instead of blunting the longing, had made its resurgence all the stronger. And fuck, Dean at 28 was if anything even more compelling, hard rounded muscle under smooth skin, every scar reminding Sam of his brother’s strength. Sam did know who he was now, and strangely for all he’d needed to get away from Dean to find that out, he knew now that who he was had always been inextricably tied up with Dean and always would be. It was Dean who’d planted the seeds of everything he’d grown into, who’d nurtured and protected and fed and watered until Sam was strong and tall enough to get out from under the shelter of his brother and figure out where Dean ended and he began. Funny how the separation he’d needed so desperately was the last thing Sam wanted now. If he could, he’d have twined himself so closely around his brother that nothing would ever pull them apart again. Jess was a memory, bittersweet with both joy and loss, but when Sam closed his eyes and tugged his cock now it was only Dean he saw, as though there was no one else left in the world who Sam could allow himself to love. Dean’s the only one he wants, and the only one he knows he can’t have.
Except now, in a sense, Sam can. Not physically, he’d never do that, tries not to even let himself think about touching his brother that way. But Sam can look with impunity, drink his brother in -- not in furtive clandestine snatches, but long luxurious gulps, until he feels drunk on the way Dean’s green eyes catch the afternoon sun spilling through the window. Dean’s lashes are so long and thick Sam can see them in profile, watch them flutter closed against Dean’s freckled cheeks as he lets the warmth pink his pale skin. Dean loves the sun now. Loves that he can *feel* it, and he’ll move with it as it shifts, chasing the beams of light as they slowly traverse the room. He turns his face into it, extends an arm and lets it heat the back of his hand. Simple things, life honed down to smell and taste and touch. Dean’s always been a tactile person, but now these are what define his world and he’s learning to savor them, turn them over and let them sink in the way the rest of us listen to the words of a favorite song or stare enraptured at a sunset.
It’s summer, just past the Fourth of July, and how weird was that to watch the fireworks out their window and flinch at the explosions while Dean sat still and oblivious until Sam had to turn away before the tears came. Sam can look now, can trace the pattern of freckles on his brother’s shoulders as Dean stands shirtless at the window. Sam knows where the largest of them is, how far from the jut of his brother’s shoulder blade. He knows the curve of Dean’s backbone, and how the muscles shift and move when Dean half-turns, folds his arms over his chest, and Sam can see the bulge of his biceps. Sam knows the precise point where the dip of his spine curves, where the rise of Dean’s ass begins beneath the faded denim of his jeans. Sometimes that alone is enough to make Sam hard, to bring the heel of his hand to press against the stubborn swell of his dick.
He tries to tell himself that maybe it’s because he hasn’t been laid in….oh hell, how long has it been? The few times he ended up in bed with a woman since Jess, nothing felt right anyway, and now…. No reason to think about it, it’s not gonna happen. Sam’s dick had better fall in love with his right hand, since that’s about as lucky as it’s gonna get for the foreseeable future.
It’s weird the first time Sam realizes he can jack off with Dean right there in the room. That he can watch his brother while he does it, like Dean’s some pay-for-view live action porn he’s rented, magically come to life in their shitty little motel room. At first he just sneaks a few desperate strokes of his aching erection through his too-snug jeans when Dean comes out of the shower with a threadbare towel slung low on his hips, guiltily jerking his hand away when Dean turns in his direction. But Dean’s just talking nonsense, something about the shampoo smelling too much like strawberries and why the hell can’t Sam buy them something with oh I dunno irish spring or that axe shit or jesus something that doesn’t make them smell totally and completely like they’ve turned into a coupla chicks. Sam huffs out a laugh, nervous because his hand’s still on his cock and fuck, Dean’s right there, and the baddirtywrong of it makes him go so hard so fast Sam almost doubles over with it.
A few weeks pass before Sam has the guts to actually take it out when Dean comes out of the shower, a moment that’s rapidly becoming Sam’s favorite time of day. His eyes are glued to Dean as he lays on the bed, hypervigilant for any sign that his brother knows what he’s doing, and he tries to be quiet even though he knows that’s silly when he spits in his palm and slicks it up. The rhythmic slap of skin on skin seems to echo through the quiet room, and Sam’s blushing with embarrassment, can’t believe he’s doing this, it’s wrong, so fucking wrong. Dean drops the towel to pull on his jeans, quick flash of rounded ass and muscled backs of his thighs, and Sam suddenly doesn’t care about wrong, spurts all over his fist with a groan he can only half stifle.
It takes about two minutes, Sam searching for tissues to clean himself up and watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, before Dean turns and cocks his head with an exaggerated sniff, then breaks into such a trademark smirk that it makes Sam’s heart ache to see it more often.
“Sammy,” he says in a tone full of affection, “You spankin’ it while I was in the shower?”
“What? No!” Too bad Dean misses Sam’s indignant denial and talks right over him.
“Sammy, you dog, couldn’t wait, huh? Were you watchin’ porn out here too? Damn but I miss porn.”
Sam’s red from his ears to his toes, suddenly glad Dean can’t see him. Jesus, even without Dean being able to see or hear him he can’t get away with anything. So not fair.
Dean sinks to the bed wearily. “Damn, but I miss sex.”
He half turns to where he thinks Sam is, looks like he wants to say more, but Sam retreats to the shower before the conversation can go anywhere he doesn’t want to deal with right now. Bad enough he just jerked off to the sight of his brother’s bare ass, Sam doesn’t want to talk about either of their messed up fucked up non-existent sex lives. Just – no.
Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on how much fucked up you can take and still hang onto some semblance of sanity – Sam feels guilty for not even giving his brother a reassuring pat on the back before he leaves the room. So instead of jumping in the shower, he heads back to the room, where he honest to god trips over his own feet at the sight that greets him.
Dean’s sprawled out on the bed, still shirtless, and the jeans he just put on are already unbuttoned and unzipped. It hasn’t even been that long since he got off, but Sam’s dick gives an appreciative twitch anyway as Dean runs a hand lazily down his bare chest and inside his opened pants. Dean pulls out his cock with a satisfied sigh, tugs it quick and so rough he winces, and Sam bites his lip hard enough to taste copper. Dean doesn’t waste time, wants to get off while Sam’s still (he thinks) in the shower. He spits on his hand, the sound of it dirty and crass and all kinds of hot in the quiet of the room, and Sam kicks off his jeans and does the same.
He’s stuck on the little things – the way Dean moves his hips, pushes up into his fist with sharp thrusts that make the bed springs creak with noises Dean can’t hear, noises Sam won’t be able to forget. Dean’s cock thickens as Sam stares, lengthens as he strokes up and down until it’s – fuck, now that it’s fully erect it’s as big as Sam remembers -- slipping red and slick between his fingers, and Sam’s mouth waters at the sight. Sam’s gotta be closer, gotta see – fuck, he doesn’t care if it’s sick, he’s gotta. He whispers an apology to his brother as he kneels at the side of the bed, so close he could reach out and touch, dip his finger into the pearl of fluid at the tip, touch his tongue there and know his brother’s intimate taste. Dean’s movements quicken and he twists his lean body impatiently, lets go of his dick to shove his jeans down and kick them off, urgent in his need to come.
Dean moans but it’s Sam who gasps as Dean suddenly spreads his legs and reaches down to palm his balls until they’re drawn up tight, then lower to press beneath. He chokes out a groan that might be a word as he pushes a fingertip quick and brutal inside himself, then curses as he comes, and Sam barely has time to turn enough to splatter the nightstand instead of his brother with his own jizz. The sound of his harsh pants echoes in the quiet room, mixing with Dean’s softly muttered ‘fuck’ then ‘Sam.’
Sam’s heart stops for at least three beats at that, and then he’s stumbling to the bathroom needing that shower more than ever.
(Dean)
Dean has always been a doer, and it only takes a few weeks before he’s going crazy with inactivity and probably driving Sam right there with him. All he has are his hands – and his sense of smell, and fuck if he can’t smell Sam all the goddamn time. Ivory soap and shaving cream when he comes out of the shower, smelling like the little boy Dean used to bathe, tipping Sammy’s head back to pour the warm water over his swept back bangs so it wouldn’t get in his eyes as Dean rinsed off the shampoo. Sweat and musk and all man by the evening when it’s hot, and Dean imagines the perspiration beaded on the back of Sam’s neck, collecting in the coiled muscle of his shoulders.
Dean knows the smell of Sam’s body, the sharp scent of his spunk, unique to Sam and the most erotic thing in Dean’s universe right now. The only erotic thing, other than the memories of a life so different than this one they’re already fading, as though someone else lived them, someone who could see and hear and knew who he was. He’s had these thoughts about Sam before – has had them for a long time if he’s honest with himself, though most of the time he avoids that – but they’re stronger now, no distractions to pull him away from obsessing over his brother. The smell of Sam seems to mean instant erection these days, sometimes painfully so, but Dean can’t help but welcome it when it’s the best thing he’s got. He wonders if Sam notices. Not like he’d know.
He doesn’t like to admit it, even to himself, because hell – weird, okay? -- but Dean’s favorite times are when he’s in bed with Sam. It’s the only time he can truly relax, doesn’t have to worry about whether or not Sam’s watching him, doesn’t have to keep his game face on so Sam won’t see how fucking terrified he is. The only time he can get close to the only person left in his world. Sam’s always been the only one he trusted, even when Dad was alive. Dean was never entirely sure what Dad wanted from him, what Dad thought of him. Never entirely sure that Dad would have his back if it came down to Dean or the demon or saving the world. With Sammy, he’s sure. Maybe it’s twisted and maybe it’s selfish and wrong, but Dean knows that Sam would let the world take care of itself if that’s the only way he could save his brother. He’d said the same to Bobby himself, that endless day when he didn’t have Sam in his world. Let it end.
Dean doesn’t have to see or hear to know now – in a way he never would have, if everything hadn’t changed – that Sam feels the same. He can feel it, more clearly than any words Sam couldn’t have said and Dean couldn’t have heard, in the brush of Sam’s fingers against his elbow, the constant reassuring press of ‘I’m here, I’ve got you.’ And in the night, when Sam can’t see or hear either, Dean can press back.
Sam falls asleep quickly, and when he’s not dreaming he sleeps like the dead, doesn’t wake when Dean’s fingers reach for him in the dark. There’s no way of being certain that Sam’s asleep, even though Dean used to know all the signs – the steady deepening of his breathing, the soft rhythmic snores that used to lull Dean to sleep instead of keeping him awake, sure sign that Sam was alive and safe and nearby. Now he just has to wait, sense the subtle dip of the mattress as Sam settles into it, the stillness as sleep takes him.
Only then does Dean push across the small distance between them to ‘see’ Sam, to try to figure out how his brother’s doing now that he can’t tell by looking at the expression on his face or hearing the emotion in his voice. Sam’s on his back, like always, Dean knows how he sleeps. He can tell by the puff of warm breath on his face that Sam’s turned towards him, also like always, like he needs to keep watch over Dean even in sleep. Dean gets that, since he used to do the same for Sam.
Gently, fingertips barely making contact, Dean traces his brother’s cheek, the line of his jaw. Sam’s thorough when he shaves Dean, leaves his face sleek and smooth, and he’s no less careful with himself. Dean likes the softness there, follows it up and slides into his brother’s hair, letting the silky strands slip between his spread fingers. Sam shifts and nudges closer, but Dean can tell it’s not the shift of wakefulness. He waits until Sam’s quiet again, runs his palm down his brother’s neck to feel the warm steady pulse beat there.
Dean slides across the mattress, just a little closer, until he can feel the warmth of Sam’s breath on his face. His fingers find the corners of Sam’s mouth, map the contours of his parted lips, plump and smooth and god, how Dean wishes he could see his brother’s smile. How long will it be before he can’t call it up in his head anymore, can’t picture the way Sammy’s cheeks dimple or his teeth gleam white and strong when he laughs? Sam stirs and licks his lips, his tongue brushing over Dean’s thumb, and just like that Dean’s hard, stifling his own moan at the warm wet feel of Sam’s mouth.
He stills himself with effort, can feel the thrum of need pushing his hips forward, wanting to press up against something warm and solid and real. Sam. This close, the familiar smell of his brother fills his senses, drips down through him like everclear until he’s drunk on the heat and scent and the very thought of Sam. Just a few more inches, and Dean leans into Sam’s shoulder, butts his forehead against hard muscle there and squirms the rest of the way over, needing to touch. Sam tosses, half turns away and then back again, throwing one arm above his head on the pillow and stretching before falling back into sleep. Dean ends up with his nose pressed into the silky damp curls beneath Sam’s arm, and the scent of Sam there is so strong and so primal that he hitches his hips once and comes in his boxers, biting his lip to not cry out. He can’t bring himself to regret it even when his dick is stuck to the stiff cotton in the morning.
* * *
Near the end of that third week, just when Dean is pretty sure he’s about to go mad as a hatter batshit crazy, Sam sits on the bed beside him and places a gun in his hands. Dean’s fingers curl around it instinctively, working over the familiar lines and curves of cold metal and warm grip. “Sam?” he asks, and Sam puts the gun oil in his other hand, the soft cloth over his knee. It shouldn’t make him want to cry, but there’s a lump in his throat the size of Texas as Dean starts to take the pistol apart, slow and careful at first, fingers picking up pace as procedural memory kicks in and the long-practiced skills come easy. Sam’s hand rests on his thigh as he works, and Dean can feel Sam’s smile warm him, echoed in the burst of warmth that’s aching in his own chest.
Sam gets some rubber stamp letters from the craft store, sets out the raised letters and lets Dean feel them over. He gets good at it fast, fingers flying over the words as Sam spells out ‘Dean’ and ‘Are you hungry’ and ‘Can you hear anything at all’ and Dean doesn’t have to see it to know Sam winces at his ‘no.’ Later, Sam makes more of them for free, melts down silver and shapes them into the a’s and b’s and c’s and Dean grins when he runs his calloused fingertips over them, says ‘feels just like your writin’ Sammy’
Sam spells out ‘jerk’ and Dean smiles wider, reaches out to run his hand up and down Sam’s arm and answers fondly, ‘bitch’.
Three Months After
(Sam)
“I won’t be gone long Dean, I’ll be as quick as I can, but I gotta make some money and get some stuff.” They’re completely out of food, not to mention soap and shampoo and just about every other essential, and Sam’s the one who’s gotta take care of them both, like it or not. Dean’s fingers hover over the words Sam’s spelled out on the table, “OUT MONEY FOOD BACK SOON” and Sam can see the barely-contained tremble shake his brother’s shoulders for a moment before Dean nods tightly and attempts to send Sam on his way with a smile. It ends up looking more like a grimace, but Sam takes it for the effort it is and squeezes Dean’s arm in gratitude. This is hard enough, leaving him.
“Don’t scratch my baby, Sammy, or I’ll kick your ass” Dean says, voice too loud and as tight as his smile.
Sam pulls him close and wraps him up in a hug before he goes, Dean struggling just enough to meet the required protest before settling against Sam’s chest and allowing it, and Sam can feel his brother’s heart beat too fast before Dean pushes away, says “Get going Sam, I’m hungry.”
The whole time he’s gone, Sam can feel the gnawing pull of loss and worry in his gut, the need to be physically close to Dean, to be able to see him, touch him, know he’s okay. Dean hasn’t asked how Sam’s making the money they’re using to live and Sam’s pretty sure Dean knows he wouldn’t like the answer.
It started right away, like watching Dean get blown to bits and taken away obliterated any reason Sam had not to do it. Finding Dean strapped deaf, blind and helpless to a hospital bed and guarded by the man who’d sworn to destroy him took away the last bit of indecision Sam felt -- the fear of being different, of being a monster. Who cared what he was, if he wasn’t with Dean? Sam’s been a fast learner, tapping into the things he can do, the ones their father warned Dean about. Sam knows he shouldn’t, but fuck if he can bring himself to care that much. Get it done and get back to Dean is all that matters, and it’s getting easier and easier to get people to do what he wants with just a few moments’ concentration and a seemingly accidental press of shoulders. Sam figures it should scare him, how well it works, but really nothing scares him anymore other than the thought of losing Dean. He knows what that feels like, knows he can’t bear to feel it again, and in seven weeks and thirteen days, that demon bitch is gonna know just how serious Sam is about never having to.
This is the first time Sam’s gone out alone, and he comes back to find Dean sitting in the far corner of the motel room, back pressed against the wall and hands outstretched in front of him, like he just can’t stand not to know if there’s something out there.
When Sam kneels in front of him, Dean’s fingers brush the front of his shirt and Sam takes a punch to the jaw before Dean’s panic stills enough for him to recognize the scent of his brother. Dean crumples forward then, practically climbing on Sam’s lap in his eagerness to be close, and it takes a long time before either of them are willing to get up off the floor or get their hands off each other. When Sam finally gets the food on the table and Dean relaxed enough to eat, his own appetite disappears as Dean lifts his fork with fingers whose nails are bitten down to bloody.
Dean’s restless that night, tossing and turning and bumping a knee against Sam’s only to jerk it away like he can’t stand the contact of skin on skin, staying out of touch for only a moment before he’s nudging Sam’s bare toes with his own. Sam gets how thrown he is, how much it took for Dean to let him leave without complaint that morning, how much it cost him to be back to alone and frightened. One look at the battered fingers curled into a fist just inches from Sam’s face tells him more clearly than words ever could. He breathes out in a sigh, watches Dean’s fingers unfurl at the sensation of warmth and moist that tells him Sam’s right there.
Dean doesn’t know it, but there’s a full moon tonight, painting their bed with a soft silvery glow that lets Sam see his brother’s face. Dean’s green eyes are open, ethereal bright in their sightlessness, and it still makes Sam shiver to stare into them and not see reaction, recognition. He reaches over and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist, watches his expression change and his blind eyes go wide before he tries to shove Sam away gently. “Dude, tryin’ to sleep here,” he mutters, hand pulled back to tuck up under his own chin.
“Yeah, right,” Sam returns, unrelenting, holding Dean in place while he shifts across the bed a few inches so he can relax with his arm draped over his brother. Their knees knock and Dean kicks and struggles, grumbling, until finally he settles and Sam can feel the muscles tensed under his arm relax. Dean snuffles and sniffs at Sam’s long hair tickling his nose as Sam brings their faces so close they’re almost bumping foreheads, but he doesn’t move away. “I’m here, Dean,” Sam tells him, though he doesn’t bother speaking aloud. “Sleep now, I’m not going anywhere. Not gonna let anyone take you from me again.”
It’s a simple message, nothing he wouldn’t say to Dean if words weren’t useless now, but taking down the barrier between them feels like tossing his unconscious onto the table for his brother’s inspection. There are too many things buried there that Sam doesn’t want Dean to see, too many things he needs to protect his brother from, and he’s far from sure he can let go of one feeling and keep the rest locked up tight. Then he remembers the panic in Dean’s eyes, how alone and desperate he looked curled up on the floor. Even without touching him, even with the barrier still up, the fear and loneliness were so vivid it took Sam’s breath like a punch to the gut, made him equally desperate to ease his brother’s isolation. So Sam lets go, just for a moment, only long enough to try to reach his brother, one hand pressed firm to Dean’s hip as he pushes the reassurance through gently.
Sam lies awake for a long time, watching his brother’s long dark lashes fall closed and his pink mouth fall open as sleep finally takes him.
(Dean)
That night is the first night he’s aware of hearing it, though Dean realizes that ‘hear’ isn’t really the right word. It’s not like a miracle happens and he’s magically cured, Dean’s long past believing in miracles if he ever did. It’s more a sudden sense that he’s not alone, that there’s something – someone – trying to reach him. His first thought is that he’s dreaming, but when he opens his eyes of course it’s still blackness. Dreams are the only times that Dean can see, so no, he’s clearly awake.
His second thought is that he hasn’t been counting the days like he should be, and the hellhounds are closing in on him, their barking and the voice of the demon already in his head. But this voice is soft, and there’s nothing frightening about it. In fact, it’s soothing, full of love, and underneath Dean can sense a sadness. It’s disconcerting at first, to have something come at him from the outside when it’s only been his own voice in his head for months, but it’s good too, good to know he’s not all alone in there, that there’s something – someone – out there who cares.
He closes his eyes to the feel of Sam’s stupid long girly bangs against his cheek and Sam’s ridiculously large hand warm and heavy around his waist, the lull of Sam’s soft ‘Sleep now,’ making the corners of Dean’s mouth turn up before he goes under.
After that, it happens every night, and Dean starts to look forward to it, thinks of it as his conversation time with Sam. He doesn’t want to think too long or too hard about the implications of whatever it is Sam’s doing to get inside his head, or the possibility that if Sam can do this with Dean he can most likely do it with others who might not appreciate it. Or know it.
They draw close simultaneously now, subtle but sure shuffles across the mattress to find each other, and Dean butts up against Sam’s shoulder like he’s just trying to get more room, subsiding with a sigh when Sam turns to his side and nudges his forehead to his brother’s. Most of the time it’s Sam who throws an arm across Dean, but sometimes, when he’s been so lonely inside his head for too many hours that he’s about to go out of his mind with the solitary confinement, it’s Dean, his fingers gripping at the front of Sam’s tee shirt to tug him closer.
They huddle together even in the almost-August heat, the need for each other more compelling than the need for space or air or just about anything, and Dean knows how to open up now, take in the world through Sam. Sometimes it’s words Dean catches, bits of phrase and pieces of the day, silly and small to make Dean smile and answer back in a gruff whisper, “no shit Sam” and “yeah, I got that”. More often it’s images, like Sam’s videotaped the last sixteen hours and edited it down to a flash of brilliant sunlight reflecting off the Impala’s black skin, the silver-rip of lightning cutting through the summer night sky, the burnt orange carrots Sam sliced into the stew, steaming in its aluminum pot on their tiny kitchenette stove. Sam fills in the blanks, paints Dean a world that’s bright and alive, so vivid he can almost hear the crack of thunder and the bubbling of the broth.
Sometimes Dean stays awake long enough to hear the words that bring a flip to his belly, gooseflesh to the back of his neck. “Mine,” Sam’s telling him, “Nobody gets to take you.” Dean falls asleep to the certainty of it, Sam’s warm breath against his cheek.
Chapter Five
Master Post
Two Months After
(Sam)
Three weeks since Sam’s had Dean back, and the relief and euphoria of just being together again, both of them alive, has faded into the uncomfortable anxiety of not knowing what the hell they’re doing. Sam has found them another motel, one with a tiny but efficient kitchenette, and spent as much cash as he dared at the grocery store so he wouldn’t have to keep going out, because nothing is easy with Dean attached to him like glue. Not that Dean doesn’t try to cultivate some aloofness, Sam can see the effort there. But Dean can no longer tell when Sam’s watching or even when Sam is there, and he can’t keep up the act 24/7. Sooner or later, Sam sees the panic in his brother’s eyes when they aren’t touching, the twitch of his fingers and the way his breathing speeds up as he tries to stay calm. Sam can’t watch it, can’t stand to know Dean’s afraid. His big brother, afraid of nothing.
Sam had quickly realized – okay, practically instantly – that Dean’s condition changes everything, and not just for Dean. For Sam too. He’d been so focused on just rescuing Dean, getting him back, keeping him alive and out of prison, that he hadn’t given much thought to how things would be once he did.
The weird thing is, in some ways Dean is still totally Dean. As long as they’re in some kind of physical contact, so that Dean knows without a doubt that Sam is there, Dean will talk, and he sounds just the same. Same snarky comments, same big brother attitude.
“What’re we watchin’, Sam? Some girlie soap opera kinda thing? Yeah, I bet that’s it. You’re likin’ this, huh? Only way you’d ever get control of the remote and you know it.” They’re sitting elbow to elbow propped against the headboard of the double bed they both sleep in, the other one a pile of clothes and duffles and the rest of their few possessions. The television’s tuned to CNN, but Sam lets Dean be right about things whenever he can, knowing there aren’t that many opportunities. He taps a yes.
“So what’s the plan today, Sammy?” Dean continues. Sam groans to himself. Plan? Does he even have a fucking plan? That’s the whole problem, he doesn’t have a clue. This is all on him now, and he – fuck, he just doesn’t know. It’s not like they can just jump back in the Impala and start saving people and hunting things again. Hell, he can’t even figure out a way to earn them some fucking money without leaving Dean alone for hours at a time, and so far that hasn’t really been an option.
“Huh? We need to go out anywhere, Sam?” Dean elbows him, persistent. Probably bored. God, Sam can’t even imagine how bored Dean must be by now. He’s healed physically, and if anyone isn’t used to just sitting around and doing nothing it’s Dean Winchester. Fuck. What’s he supposed to do about that? Seriously, what the fuck?
Besides the sheer exasperation of not knowing what the hell they’re doing, Sam’s got another problem, and this one is all his. The worst thing about Dean not being able to see or hear him is that Sam no longer has to worry about being caught. Caught looking at Dean in a decidedly unbrotherly manner. And without that worry, Sam….well, Sam can’t come up with very many good reasons not to. Other than the whole ‘this is fucked up’ thing, but that loses most of its power when it applies to pretty much their entire lives.
Before he left for Stanford, he’d had it down to a fine art, watching his brother without Dean knowing. He could stare right up until the split second Dean’s head would turn, so finely attuned to the tensing of a shoulder muscle or the sweep of Dean’s long lashes upward that signaled his attention about to turn to Sam that by the time Dean was looking, Sam’s gaze was anywhere but on his brother. He learned to skitter his eyes not too far so as not to be obvious, lock them to the dresser just to the left of Dean’s broad shoulder or a fascinating spot on the wall just above his head. Learned to use his best little boy innocent look to deflect any lingering suspicion.
For a while when he’d come back, it had been harder. Years away from Dean, instead of blunting the longing, had made its resurgence all the stronger. And fuck, Dean at 28 was if anything even more compelling, hard rounded muscle under smooth skin, every scar reminding Sam of his brother’s strength. Sam did know who he was now, and strangely for all he’d needed to get away from Dean to find that out, he knew now that who he was had always been inextricably tied up with Dean and always would be. It was Dean who’d planted the seeds of everything he’d grown into, who’d nurtured and protected and fed and watered until Sam was strong and tall enough to get out from under the shelter of his brother and figure out where Dean ended and he began. Funny how the separation he’d needed so desperately was the last thing Sam wanted now. If he could, he’d have twined himself so closely around his brother that nothing would ever pull them apart again. Jess was a memory, bittersweet with both joy and loss, but when Sam closed his eyes and tugged his cock now it was only Dean he saw, as though there was no one else left in the world who Sam could allow himself to love. Dean’s the only one he wants, and the only one he knows he can’t have.
Except now, in a sense, Sam can. Not physically, he’d never do that, tries not to even let himself think about touching his brother that way. But Sam can look with impunity, drink his brother in -- not in furtive clandestine snatches, but long luxurious gulps, until he feels drunk on the way Dean’s green eyes catch the afternoon sun spilling through the window. Dean’s lashes are so long and thick Sam can see them in profile, watch them flutter closed against Dean’s freckled cheeks as he lets the warmth pink his pale skin. Dean loves the sun now. Loves that he can *feel* it, and he’ll move with it as it shifts, chasing the beams of light as they slowly traverse the room. He turns his face into it, extends an arm and lets it heat the back of his hand. Simple things, life honed down to smell and taste and touch. Dean’s always been a tactile person, but now these are what define his world and he’s learning to savor them, turn them over and let them sink in the way the rest of us listen to the words of a favorite song or stare enraptured at a sunset.
It’s summer, just past the Fourth of July, and how weird was that to watch the fireworks out their window and flinch at the explosions while Dean sat still and oblivious until Sam had to turn away before the tears came. Sam can look now, can trace the pattern of freckles on his brother’s shoulders as Dean stands shirtless at the window. Sam knows where the largest of them is, how far from the jut of his brother’s shoulder blade. He knows the curve of Dean’s backbone, and how the muscles shift and move when Dean half-turns, folds his arms over his chest, and Sam can see the bulge of his biceps. Sam knows the precise point where the dip of his spine curves, where the rise of Dean’s ass begins beneath the faded denim of his jeans. Sometimes that alone is enough to make Sam hard, to bring the heel of his hand to press against the stubborn swell of his dick.
He tries to tell himself that maybe it’s because he hasn’t been laid in….oh hell, how long has it been? The few times he ended up in bed with a woman since Jess, nothing felt right anyway, and now…. No reason to think about it, it’s not gonna happen. Sam’s dick had better fall in love with his right hand, since that’s about as lucky as it’s gonna get for the foreseeable future.
It’s weird the first time Sam realizes he can jack off with Dean right there in the room. That he can watch his brother while he does it, like Dean’s some pay-for-view live action porn he’s rented, magically come to life in their shitty little motel room. At first he just sneaks a few desperate strokes of his aching erection through his too-snug jeans when Dean comes out of the shower with a threadbare towel slung low on his hips, guiltily jerking his hand away when Dean turns in his direction. But Dean’s just talking nonsense, something about the shampoo smelling too much like strawberries and why the hell can’t Sam buy them something with oh I dunno irish spring or that axe shit or jesus something that doesn’t make them smell totally and completely like they’ve turned into a coupla chicks. Sam huffs out a laugh, nervous because his hand’s still on his cock and fuck, Dean’s right there, and the baddirtywrong of it makes him go so hard so fast Sam almost doubles over with it.
A few weeks pass before Sam has the guts to actually take it out when Dean comes out of the shower, a moment that’s rapidly becoming Sam’s favorite time of day. His eyes are glued to Dean as he lays on the bed, hypervigilant for any sign that his brother knows what he’s doing, and he tries to be quiet even though he knows that’s silly when he spits in his palm and slicks it up. The rhythmic slap of skin on skin seems to echo through the quiet room, and Sam’s blushing with embarrassment, can’t believe he’s doing this, it’s wrong, so fucking wrong. Dean drops the towel to pull on his jeans, quick flash of rounded ass and muscled backs of his thighs, and Sam suddenly doesn’t care about wrong, spurts all over his fist with a groan he can only half stifle.
It takes about two minutes, Sam searching for tissues to clean himself up and watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, before Dean turns and cocks his head with an exaggerated sniff, then breaks into such a trademark smirk that it makes Sam’s heart ache to see it more often.
“Sammy,” he says in a tone full of affection, “You spankin’ it while I was in the shower?”
“What? No!” Too bad Dean misses Sam’s indignant denial and talks right over him.
“Sammy, you dog, couldn’t wait, huh? Were you watchin’ porn out here too? Damn but I miss porn.”
Sam’s red from his ears to his toes, suddenly glad Dean can’t see him. Jesus, even without Dean being able to see or hear him he can’t get away with anything. So not fair.
Dean sinks to the bed wearily. “Damn, but I miss sex.”
He half turns to where he thinks Sam is, looks like he wants to say more, but Sam retreats to the shower before the conversation can go anywhere he doesn’t want to deal with right now. Bad enough he just jerked off to the sight of his brother’s bare ass, Sam doesn’t want to talk about either of their messed up fucked up non-existent sex lives. Just – no.
Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on how much fucked up you can take and still hang onto some semblance of sanity – Sam feels guilty for not even giving his brother a reassuring pat on the back before he leaves the room. So instead of jumping in the shower, he heads back to the room, where he honest to god trips over his own feet at the sight that greets him.
Dean’s sprawled out on the bed, still shirtless, and the jeans he just put on are already unbuttoned and unzipped. It hasn’t even been that long since he got off, but Sam’s dick gives an appreciative twitch anyway as Dean runs a hand lazily down his bare chest and inside his opened pants. Dean pulls out his cock with a satisfied sigh, tugs it quick and so rough he winces, and Sam bites his lip hard enough to taste copper. Dean doesn’t waste time, wants to get off while Sam’s still (he thinks) in the shower. He spits on his hand, the sound of it dirty and crass and all kinds of hot in the quiet of the room, and Sam kicks off his jeans and does the same.
He’s stuck on the little things – the way Dean moves his hips, pushes up into his fist with sharp thrusts that make the bed springs creak with noises Dean can’t hear, noises Sam won’t be able to forget. Dean’s cock thickens as Sam stares, lengthens as he strokes up and down until it’s – fuck, now that it’s fully erect it’s as big as Sam remembers -- slipping red and slick between his fingers, and Sam’s mouth waters at the sight. Sam’s gotta be closer, gotta see – fuck, he doesn’t care if it’s sick, he’s gotta. He whispers an apology to his brother as he kneels at the side of the bed, so close he could reach out and touch, dip his finger into the pearl of fluid at the tip, touch his tongue there and know his brother’s intimate taste. Dean’s movements quicken and he twists his lean body impatiently, lets go of his dick to shove his jeans down and kick them off, urgent in his need to come.
Dean moans but it’s Sam who gasps as Dean suddenly spreads his legs and reaches down to palm his balls until they’re drawn up tight, then lower to press beneath. He chokes out a groan that might be a word as he pushes a fingertip quick and brutal inside himself, then curses as he comes, and Sam barely has time to turn enough to splatter the nightstand instead of his brother with his own jizz. The sound of his harsh pants echoes in the quiet room, mixing with Dean’s softly muttered ‘fuck’ then ‘Sam.’
Sam’s heart stops for at least three beats at that, and then he’s stumbling to the bathroom needing that shower more than ever.
(Dean)
Dean has always been a doer, and it only takes a few weeks before he’s going crazy with inactivity and probably driving Sam right there with him. All he has are his hands – and his sense of smell, and fuck if he can’t smell Sam all the goddamn time. Ivory soap and shaving cream when he comes out of the shower, smelling like the little boy Dean used to bathe, tipping Sammy’s head back to pour the warm water over his swept back bangs so it wouldn’t get in his eyes as Dean rinsed off the shampoo. Sweat and musk and all man by the evening when it’s hot, and Dean imagines the perspiration beaded on the back of Sam’s neck, collecting in the coiled muscle of his shoulders.
Dean knows the smell of Sam’s body, the sharp scent of his spunk, unique to Sam and the most erotic thing in Dean’s universe right now. The only erotic thing, other than the memories of a life so different than this one they’re already fading, as though someone else lived them, someone who could see and hear and knew who he was. He’s had these thoughts about Sam before – has had them for a long time if he’s honest with himself, though most of the time he avoids that – but they’re stronger now, no distractions to pull him away from obsessing over his brother. The smell of Sam seems to mean instant erection these days, sometimes painfully so, but Dean can’t help but welcome it when it’s the best thing he’s got. He wonders if Sam notices. Not like he’d know.
He doesn’t like to admit it, even to himself, because hell – weird, okay? -- but Dean’s favorite times are when he’s in bed with Sam. It’s the only time he can truly relax, doesn’t have to worry about whether or not Sam’s watching him, doesn’t have to keep his game face on so Sam won’t see how fucking terrified he is. The only time he can get close to the only person left in his world. Sam’s always been the only one he trusted, even when Dad was alive. Dean was never entirely sure what Dad wanted from him, what Dad thought of him. Never entirely sure that Dad would have his back if it came down to Dean or the demon or saving the world. With Sammy, he’s sure. Maybe it’s twisted and maybe it’s selfish and wrong, but Dean knows that Sam would let the world take care of itself if that’s the only way he could save his brother. He’d said the same to Bobby himself, that endless day when he didn’t have Sam in his world. Let it end.
Dean doesn’t have to see or hear to know now – in a way he never would have, if everything hadn’t changed – that Sam feels the same. He can feel it, more clearly than any words Sam couldn’t have said and Dean couldn’t have heard, in the brush of Sam’s fingers against his elbow, the constant reassuring press of ‘I’m here, I’ve got you.’ And in the night, when Sam can’t see or hear either, Dean can press back.
Sam falls asleep quickly, and when he’s not dreaming he sleeps like the dead, doesn’t wake when Dean’s fingers reach for him in the dark. There’s no way of being certain that Sam’s asleep, even though Dean used to know all the signs – the steady deepening of his breathing, the soft rhythmic snores that used to lull Dean to sleep instead of keeping him awake, sure sign that Sam was alive and safe and nearby. Now he just has to wait, sense the subtle dip of the mattress as Sam settles into it, the stillness as sleep takes him.
Only then does Dean push across the small distance between them to ‘see’ Sam, to try to figure out how his brother’s doing now that he can’t tell by looking at the expression on his face or hearing the emotion in his voice. Sam’s on his back, like always, Dean knows how he sleeps. He can tell by the puff of warm breath on his face that Sam’s turned towards him, also like always, like he needs to keep watch over Dean even in sleep. Dean gets that, since he used to do the same for Sam.
Gently, fingertips barely making contact, Dean traces his brother’s cheek, the line of his jaw. Sam’s thorough when he shaves Dean, leaves his face sleek and smooth, and he’s no less careful with himself. Dean likes the softness there, follows it up and slides into his brother’s hair, letting the silky strands slip between his spread fingers. Sam shifts and nudges closer, but Dean can tell it’s not the shift of wakefulness. He waits until Sam’s quiet again, runs his palm down his brother’s neck to feel the warm steady pulse beat there.
Dean slides across the mattress, just a little closer, until he can feel the warmth of Sam’s breath on his face. His fingers find the corners of Sam’s mouth, map the contours of his parted lips, plump and smooth and god, how Dean wishes he could see his brother’s smile. How long will it be before he can’t call it up in his head anymore, can’t picture the way Sammy’s cheeks dimple or his teeth gleam white and strong when he laughs? Sam stirs and licks his lips, his tongue brushing over Dean’s thumb, and just like that Dean’s hard, stifling his own moan at the warm wet feel of Sam’s mouth.
He stills himself with effort, can feel the thrum of need pushing his hips forward, wanting to press up against something warm and solid and real. Sam. This close, the familiar smell of his brother fills his senses, drips down through him like everclear until he’s drunk on the heat and scent and the very thought of Sam. Just a few more inches, and Dean leans into Sam’s shoulder, butts his forehead against hard muscle there and squirms the rest of the way over, needing to touch. Sam tosses, half turns away and then back again, throwing one arm above his head on the pillow and stretching before falling back into sleep. Dean ends up with his nose pressed into the silky damp curls beneath Sam’s arm, and the scent of Sam there is so strong and so primal that he hitches his hips once and comes in his boxers, biting his lip to not cry out. He can’t bring himself to regret it even when his dick is stuck to the stiff cotton in the morning.
* * *
Near the end of that third week, just when Dean is pretty sure he’s about to go mad as a hatter batshit crazy, Sam sits on the bed beside him and places a gun in his hands. Dean’s fingers curl around it instinctively, working over the familiar lines and curves of cold metal and warm grip. “Sam?” he asks, and Sam puts the gun oil in his other hand, the soft cloth over his knee. It shouldn’t make him want to cry, but there’s a lump in his throat the size of Texas as Dean starts to take the pistol apart, slow and careful at first, fingers picking up pace as procedural memory kicks in and the long-practiced skills come easy. Sam’s hand rests on his thigh as he works, and Dean can feel Sam’s smile warm him, echoed in the burst of warmth that’s aching in his own chest.
Sam gets some rubber stamp letters from the craft store, sets out the raised letters and lets Dean feel them over. He gets good at it fast, fingers flying over the words as Sam spells out ‘Dean’ and ‘Are you hungry’ and ‘Can you hear anything at all’ and Dean doesn’t have to see it to know Sam winces at his ‘no.’ Later, Sam makes more of them for free, melts down silver and shapes them into the a’s and b’s and c’s and Dean grins when he runs his calloused fingertips over them, says ‘feels just like your writin’ Sammy’
Sam spells out ‘jerk’ and Dean smiles wider, reaches out to run his hand up and down Sam’s arm and answers fondly, ‘bitch’.
Three Months After
(Sam)
“I won’t be gone long Dean, I’ll be as quick as I can, but I gotta make some money and get some stuff.” They’re completely out of food, not to mention soap and shampoo and just about every other essential, and Sam’s the one who’s gotta take care of them both, like it or not. Dean’s fingers hover over the words Sam’s spelled out on the table, “OUT MONEY FOOD BACK SOON” and Sam can see the barely-contained tremble shake his brother’s shoulders for a moment before Dean nods tightly and attempts to send Sam on his way with a smile. It ends up looking more like a grimace, but Sam takes it for the effort it is and squeezes Dean’s arm in gratitude. This is hard enough, leaving him.
“Don’t scratch my baby, Sammy, or I’ll kick your ass” Dean says, voice too loud and as tight as his smile.
Sam pulls him close and wraps him up in a hug before he goes, Dean struggling just enough to meet the required protest before settling against Sam’s chest and allowing it, and Sam can feel his brother’s heart beat too fast before Dean pushes away, says “Get going Sam, I’m hungry.”
The whole time he’s gone, Sam can feel the gnawing pull of loss and worry in his gut, the need to be physically close to Dean, to be able to see him, touch him, know he’s okay. Dean hasn’t asked how Sam’s making the money they’re using to live and Sam’s pretty sure Dean knows he wouldn’t like the answer.
It started right away, like watching Dean get blown to bits and taken away obliterated any reason Sam had not to do it. Finding Dean strapped deaf, blind and helpless to a hospital bed and guarded by the man who’d sworn to destroy him took away the last bit of indecision Sam felt -- the fear of being different, of being a monster. Who cared what he was, if he wasn’t with Dean? Sam’s been a fast learner, tapping into the things he can do, the ones their father warned Dean about. Sam knows he shouldn’t, but fuck if he can bring himself to care that much. Get it done and get back to Dean is all that matters, and it’s getting easier and easier to get people to do what he wants with just a few moments’ concentration and a seemingly accidental press of shoulders. Sam figures it should scare him, how well it works, but really nothing scares him anymore other than the thought of losing Dean. He knows what that feels like, knows he can’t bear to feel it again, and in seven weeks and thirteen days, that demon bitch is gonna know just how serious Sam is about never having to.
This is the first time Sam’s gone out alone, and he comes back to find Dean sitting in the far corner of the motel room, back pressed against the wall and hands outstretched in front of him, like he just can’t stand not to know if there’s something out there.
When Sam kneels in front of him, Dean’s fingers brush the front of his shirt and Sam takes a punch to the jaw before Dean’s panic stills enough for him to recognize the scent of his brother. Dean crumples forward then, practically climbing on Sam’s lap in his eagerness to be close, and it takes a long time before either of them are willing to get up off the floor or get their hands off each other. When Sam finally gets the food on the table and Dean relaxed enough to eat, his own appetite disappears as Dean lifts his fork with fingers whose nails are bitten down to bloody.
Dean’s restless that night, tossing and turning and bumping a knee against Sam’s only to jerk it away like he can’t stand the contact of skin on skin, staying out of touch for only a moment before he’s nudging Sam’s bare toes with his own. Sam gets how thrown he is, how much it took for Dean to let him leave without complaint that morning, how much it cost him to be back to alone and frightened. One look at the battered fingers curled into a fist just inches from Sam’s face tells him more clearly than words ever could. He breathes out in a sigh, watches Dean’s fingers unfurl at the sensation of warmth and moist that tells him Sam’s right there.
Dean doesn’t know it, but there’s a full moon tonight, painting their bed with a soft silvery glow that lets Sam see his brother’s face. Dean’s green eyes are open, ethereal bright in their sightlessness, and it still makes Sam shiver to stare into them and not see reaction, recognition. He reaches over and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist, watches his expression change and his blind eyes go wide before he tries to shove Sam away gently. “Dude, tryin’ to sleep here,” he mutters, hand pulled back to tuck up under his own chin.
“Yeah, right,” Sam returns, unrelenting, holding Dean in place while he shifts across the bed a few inches so he can relax with his arm draped over his brother. Their knees knock and Dean kicks and struggles, grumbling, until finally he settles and Sam can feel the muscles tensed under his arm relax. Dean snuffles and sniffs at Sam’s long hair tickling his nose as Sam brings their faces so close they’re almost bumping foreheads, but he doesn’t move away. “I’m here, Dean,” Sam tells him, though he doesn’t bother speaking aloud. “Sleep now, I’m not going anywhere. Not gonna let anyone take you from me again.”
It’s a simple message, nothing he wouldn’t say to Dean if words weren’t useless now, but taking down the barrier between them feels like tossing his unconscious onto the table for his brother’s inspection. There are too many things buried there that Sam doesn’t want Dean to see, too many things he needs to protect his brother from, and he’s far from sure he can let go of one feeling and keep the rest locked up tight. Then he remembers the panic in Dean’s eyes, how alone and desperate he looked curled up on the floor. Even without touching him, even with the barrier still up, the fear and loneliness were so vivid it took Sam’s breath like a punch to the gut, made him equally desperate to ease his brother’s isolation. So Sam lets go, just for a moment, only long enough to try to reach his brother, one hand pressed firm to Dean’s hip as he pushes the reassurance through gently.
Sam lies awake for a long time, watching his brother’s long dark lashes fall closed and his pink mouth fall open as sleep finally takes him.
(Dean)
That night is the first night he’s aware of hearing it, though Dean realizes that ‘hear’ isn’t really the right word. It’s not like a miracle happens and he’s magically cured, Dean’s long past believing in miracles if he ever did. It’s more a sudden sense that he’s not alone, that there’s something – someone – trying to reach him. His first thought is that he’s dreaming, but when he opens his eyes of course it’s still blackness. Dreams are the only times that Dean can see, so no, he’s clearly awake.
His second thought is that he hasn’t been counting the days like he should be, and the hellhounds are closing in on him, their barking and the voice of the demon already in his head. But this voice is soft, and there’s nothing frightening about it. In fact, it’s soothing, full of love, and underneath Dean can sense a sadness. It’s disconcerting at first, to have something come at him from the outside when it’s only been his own voice in his head for months, but it’s good too, good to know he’s not all alone in there, that there’s something – someone – out there who cares.
He closes his eyes to the feel of Sam’s stupid long girly bangs against his cheek and Sam’s ridiculously large hand warm and heavy around his waist, the lull of Sam’s soft ‘Sleep now,’ making the corners of Dean’s mouth turn up before he goes under.
After that, it happens every night, and Dean starts to look forward to it, thinks of it as his conversation time with Sam. He doesn’t want to think too long or too hard about the implications of whatever it is Sam’s doing to get inside his head, or the possibility that if Sam can do this with Dean he can most likely do it with others who might not appreciate it. Or know it.
They draw close simultaneously now, subtle but sure shuffles across the mattress to find each other, and Dean butts up against Sam’s shoulder like he’s just trying to get more room, subsiding with a sigh when Sam turns to his side and nudges his forehead to his brother’s. Most of the time it’s Sam who throws an arm across Dean, but sometimes, when he’s been so lonely inside his head for too many hours that he’s about to go out of his mind with the solitary confinement, it’s Dean, his fingers gripping at the front of Sam’s tee shirt to tug him closer.
They huddle together even in the almost-August heat, the need for each other more compelling than the need for space or air or just about anything, and Dean knows how to open up now, take in the world through Sam. Sometimes it’s words Dean catches, bits of phrase and pieces of the day, silly and small to make Dean smile and answer back in a gruff whisper, “no shit Sam” and “yeah, I got that”. More often it’s images, like Sam’s videotaped the last sixteen hours and edited it down to a flash of brilliant sunlight reflecting off the Impala’s black skin, the silver-rip of lightning cutting through the summer night sky, the burnt orange carrots Sam sliced into the stew, steaming in its aluminum pot on their tiny kitchenette stove. Sam fills in the blanks, paints Dean a world that’s bright and alive, so vivid he can almost hear the crack of thunder and the bubbling of the broth.
Sometimes Dean stays awake long enough to hear the words that bring a flip to his belly, gooseflesh to the back of his neck. “Mine,” Sam’s telling him, “Nobody gets to take you.” Dean falls asleep to the certainty of it, Sam’s warm breath against his cheek.
Chapter Five
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no subject
Date: 2008-08-02 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-04 08:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 03:46 am (UTC)This can't go on. I hope there is a way to help Dean, because if not, he ain't gonna last for seven chapters.
Dammit.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 08:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-29 10:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-30 02:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-01 01:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-01 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-07 11:25 pm (UTC)This use of Sam's powers? Worrying, but GOD Dean needs it.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-08 03:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-10 06:24 am (UTC)"Caught looking at Dean in a decidedly unbrotherly manner." Sammy, you sly dog! ;) So the full truth comes out; Sam's been harboring feelings for Dean. It's too bad that they're physically close now but can't really communicate with each other (and I think that stunts their intimacy -and not in the sexual way necessarily- which is a shame).
"for all he’d needed to get away from Dean to find that out, he knew now that who he was had always been inextricably tied up with Dean and always would be." This is completely true and totally canon. Life and circumstance continually brings them together, there is literally nothing Sam can do to truly get away from Dean, not even if Dean dies! (Mystery Spot, after that final Wednesday, certainly didn't stop him from finding the trickster and trying to get him to bring him back to Tuesday, and all the jumps and leaps Sam did season four, just to get Dean back. Oh, Sam.)
"Dean’s favorite times are when he’s in bed with Sam. It’s the only time he can truly relax, doesn’t have to worry about whether or not Sam’s watching him, doesn’t have to keep his game face on so Sam won’t see how fucking terrified he is." Sweet and sad at the same time. I'm sure Dean's very anxious, waiting to see if Sam will finally dump him one day.
Ooh that was extremely hot. As deprived as Dean is, he really makes it work. "Dean ends up with his nose pressed into the silky damp curls beneath Sam’s arm, and the scent of Sam there is so strong and so primal that he hitches his hips once and comes in his boxers, biting his lip to not cry out." UNF.
Alright so Sam is working on the situation and trying to make it better. He's found a crude way to communicate back with Dean other than "yes" and "no" and he's found things for Dean to do, to occupy him. This is very good for Dean, keeping him preoccupied and working from muscle memory, remembering what it is he is (was?) good at.
"Who cared what he was, if he wasn’t with Dean?" Oooh. I'm sure Sam's thinking went that way after Mystery Spot (I always go back to that episode as a sort of monumental turning point for Sam). And we see that in season four. I like that even in your AU, your still keeping the characters IC and relevant. And I love the word choices you use. Not "who" but "what"; Sam is embracing his unnatural side.
"He reaches over and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist" Yes! It's hard to imagine that they could get any closer together, without actually having sex.
"Dreams are the only times that Dean can see" This didn't even occur to me, that Dean can still "see" in a way. So I'm glad you mentioned it here. Dean still has his memories and mind, so he can still... not see, but imagine images and whatnot.
"...Sam’s ridiculously large hand warm and heavy around his waist..." I just love Sam and his ridiculously big hands. (and I think Dean secretly loves them too) ♥
"it’s Dean, his fingers gripping at the front of Sam’s tee shirt to tug him closer." This conveys Dean's need so well, without having to flat out state it. Your writing is truly gorgeous.
I like seeing the progression of their physical relationship, and also seeing how their new dynamic plays out. Another great chapter!
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Date: 2009-09-12 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-22 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-18 11:24 pm (UTC)Everything is transforme. Because the sense of the senses is the love (this is what I believe - is something mine). But there is only strength when they are together. There is only one certainty when they are next to each other.
This is love. This is them.
no subject
Date: 2012-04-19 02:37 am (UTC)So very true :) Thank you again for your lovely feedback!
no subject
Date: 2012-04-18 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-26 11:01 pm (UTC)And their love deepens with every single Moment. Dean Needs Sam and Sam Needs Dean,this will never Change. They belong together, they are so Close now (not only in a physical way) and the can feel... there IS something going on it only takes a Little step to set all These hidden emotions, longing, Passion free...
There's a lot I have to think about, will re-read it again.
Thank you my dear for this great night read!
Love you,
Julchen
no subject
Date: 2017-03-27 02:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-27 11:48 am (UTC)I just had to think of you and your Boys when I heard this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4c-3RI-4tI8
I think it could be the Point of view (part of) DeaN and Sam...
Have a beautiful Monday, my FRIEND!!!