The Year of Letting Go (5/7)
Aug. 1st, 2008 12:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlChapter Five
Master Post
Six Months After
(Esther)
They don’t come out very often, the two tall boys renting Room 23 by the month. Most of the Hilltop Motel’s rentals are by the night, truckers jumping off the interstate for eight hours in a bed instead of a sleeper cab, grabbing a styrofoam cup of the coffee Esther always has brewing in the percolator as they head out by 7:00, eager for the road. Sometimes their rentals are by the hour, an idea Harry came up with in the early 90s, and even though Esther still thinks it’s a bad idea to condone that sort of thing, she can’t argue with the extra dollars in their bank account.
Still, it’s nice to have some regulars, and Esther’s glad number 23 is right across from the office. Mr. Sanchez and his green-eyed blind brother usually leave the curtains open during the day, and Esther finds it breaks the monotony nicely to watch the way the sun makes the pretty boy’s skin gleam golden as he stands by the window, indecipherable expression on his face.
They’re affectionate, the Sanchez brothers, touch each other way more than Esther’s brothers ever would have. The taller one – George, his credit card says, though he stopped paying by credit months ago, always gives her cash now – comes by for coffee sometimes. He fixes one for his brother – Denny, George tells her when she finally asks – and Esther watches through their window when George returns to their room, sly smile on his face as he waits for his brother to catch the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and reach out for it, full-on grin turned to George in gratitude.
The first few weeks they’re there, it’s only George who leaves the room, and when he does he closes the curtains, so Esther doesn’t know what Denny does to amuse himself while his brother is gone. Every now and then, perhaps when Denny’s going stir crazy being cooped up 24/7 as Esther imagines he must, they both come over to the office for coffee. Esther watches them walk across the parking lot, their long strides in sync, George’s big hand lightly bracing his brother’s elbow. They’re never out of contact, shoulders always brushing, boots lined up leather to leather. Denny doesn’t speak – in truth, Esther’s not sure he can – but sometimes Esther’s not entirely sure he’s deaf either, because he smiles at George’s lame attempts at small talk and once he laughs out loud when George tells her he’s an insurance salesman. Esther’s pretty sure he’s lying.
Once a week, Denny follows George out the door as he heads to the big black car parked outside their room. George’s face is always pinched tight, like he’s dreading the prospect of his brother in the car with him, and Denny always stops to run his palms over the hot metal of the roof and down the side panels before he gets in the passenger side, something that looks like suffering on his handsome face. They never go far, are always back in half an hour, so Esther suspects a destination isn’t the point. George comes around to the passenger side and opens the door for his brother after, folds him into a hug when Denny gets out slowly, and Esther can feel the sadness on them, palpable in the slump of Denny’s shoulders and the way George bows his head to rest there against his brother.
Sometimes they stand together at the motel room’s double window, Denny staring at nothing and George staring at Denny, shoulders and elbows bumped together. As the days get shorter and the evenings crisper, Esther watches the Sanchez brothers draw even closer, and the look on George’s face as they stand at the window alternates between fear and determination. He moves behind his brother sometimes, one arm wrapped around Denny’s chest and body pressed in so tight Esther doesn’t think there can be any room at all between them. Neither of them speak, but Denny’s eyes fall closed as George leans against him, sways into his brother’s embrace.
Something’s coming, she can feel it as she watches them. Something bad, and they both know it. Esther wonders if it’s the law that’s after them, or just the opposite, or if whatever took Denny’s eyes and ears is determined to come for the rest of him. She folds her arms against a sudden chill, shivers even as her cheeks flush at the way George moves his hand over his brother’s chest, splays long fingers over Denny’s heart and stares hard at the night sky like he can keep whatever it is away, keep his brother safe.
Six Months and Twelve Days After
(Sam)
“What is it?” Dean asks, and Sam can hear the tremor in his voice that belies the need for the question.
Dean comes up behind him as Sam bends over the laptop, so engrossed in the last-minute make-sure research that he doesn’t even hear his brother’s bare footsteps. Dean’s fingers grip his shoulders, kneading roughly, the press painful over the knotted muscle. “Woah, a little tense?”
Sam’s sure that Dean knows exactly why, that he’s known for the past week as it gets harder and harder for Sam to think about anything else other than six days, five days, four days. Sam’s kept it from his thoughts at night, selfishly wanting his time close to Dean to be something good and sweet, something for him to hang onto and draw strength from the way he knows he’ll need to. He wraps his hands over Dean’s, pulls his brother down until Dean’s chin is resting on his shoulder. Until they’re close enough. “One more day, Dean” Sam tells him silently, eyes closed to focus the thoughts as much as he can. He knows he’s gotten through when Dean stiffens and jerks away, and when Sam turns Dean’s backing up, blind eyes searching the room anyway, edged with panic.
“C’mon, come back,” Sam says out loud, getting up to follow and catching Dean by the shoulders to pull him back in. Dean shakes his head, struggles, mutters, “Don’t wanna know Sam, god – fuck, don’t wanna hear this – one time I wanna be fucking deaf, just let me be fucking deaf!”
Dean bats his hands away every time Sam tries to touch him, stalks around the room stomping his bare feet ineffectually (maybe he thinks it’s making noise, Sam’s not sure) until he miscalculates where he is and stubs his toe on the edge of the bed and breaks into a string of curses. That allows Sam to catch him, finally, get arms around his waist and Sam can feel him shaking then, half sobbing and half swearing, angry and scared and desperate.
“Dean don’t, please, I’m not gonna – Dean, I’m not gonna let her take you, I swear to god I’m not, c’mon – trust me, Dean. You trust me, don’t you?”
Dean’s not hearing him, not the spoken words or the unspoken, he’s too busy ranting, and Sam can’t really blame him. “Come through too fucking much to just fucking DIE, Sam,” he’s sputtering, “It’s not fucking FAIR, I mean, this is close enough to hell, isn’t it?”
Sam holds him, pulls them to the bed, grips tight until Dean falls against him, fingers fisted in Sam’s shirt and his voice gone low and broken. “I mean, isn’t it, Sam? Been in fucking hell already for months now. Can’t it be enough?”
Sam crowds him in the bathroom later, shaves him with hands that linger and soothe and make Dean blush from more than the steam that clouds the mirror. Shoves and pushes and settles Dean to clip his nails, the ones that aren’t bitten down too far already, and Dean sighs while Sam tries to tell him with touch and thought that it doesn’t make Dean a baby, doesn’t make Sam forget all the times – fuck, years and years and years – that his big brother did the same for him, sitting on a squirming Sammy to cut his toenails so Sam wouldn’t scratch the hell out of him when Dean held him after a nightmare.
Sam tries to believe that he can do this, for Dean’s sake as much as his own, but he pulls Dean closer than ever in their bed just in case, and that night Sam hopes the words are crystal clear. Doesn’t care for once how wrong they sound, only that Dean believes them. Mine, nobody can have you. Mine, mine.
That night Dean rolls his brother away from him so they’re chest to back, using his strength the way he rarely does anymore to make Sam cooperate, then wraps his little brother in his arms, holds tight and sure and certain. For the first time since their Life Before, Dean comforts Sam, makes him feel safe like all those thousands of nights when Sam’s dreams woke them both and he felt the solid weight of his big brother curled behind him. Dean shushes, soothes, tells him that everything’s going to be okay, and the absolute familiarity of it after so long hits Sam in the gut with all he’s lost. He knots his fingers through Dean’s where they’re clasped around his belly and grips so tightly they’re shaking.
They’re both glad they’re not face to face when the tears come.
(Dean)
So it’s not like he doesn’t know, hasn’t known for months, hasn’t felt the increasing tension in Sam’s body whenever they touch for the past week. Dean knows every single inch of Sam by heart, knows like he never could have known by sight. He’s mapped every curve and hard line of Sam’s face, knows which muscle twitches when he’s happy, when he’s angry, when he’s fighting back tears. Knows the give in his jaw and smooth of his forehead that means Sam’s content, the shift of muscle between his shoulder blades that means they’re close and together and that makes everything okay. Dean even knows the tight ripple of Sam’s abs when Dean’s hand ghosts over soft skin in the middle of the night that means he’s horny, and maybe once or twice he let his fingers slip lower, nudge the proof below Sam’s belly that confirms it. Dean knows it all, hours while Sam sleeps and dreams spent stealing touches, fingering silky strands of damp hair and stroking fingertips over hard muscled thigh, jut of hipbone.
So yeah, Dean knows the deal is coming due, knows how scared Sam is of losing him and how determined he is not to. But knowing it and hearing it – fuck, that’s what it feels like now, hearing it – are two different things, and the certainty brings back to the surface all the tightly coiled panic Dean’s kept in check just barely. He can hardly imagine anything worse than being without Sam, that alone will be enough to keep him in hell. Having tasted the black pit of emptiness and isolation of being locked inside his own head those endless weeks before Sam rescued him, now Dean knows there are even worse things, things he probably can’t even imagine. Doesn’t want to.
He knows Sam needs to sleep, last night or not, can feel how much it takes out of Sam to do this thing he does with his goddamn big brain and the demon blood they pretend isn’t in it, and he knows it was the right thing to do when he feels the way Sam settles in his arms and sobs. Dean feels more right than he has in months, like holding six feet five of Sammy like he did when Sam was small is what they both need. What Sam needs, and god but that feels good, to be able to do for Sammy again. The thought that he might not be able to do that again is what makes the first choked-silent sob break from Dean. Not the fear of hell, not the pain of losing his brother, but the knowledge that Sam will be the one alone now, crumbling under the weight of loss and failure. Dean can’t stand it, forces the thought away and buries his face in the heady smell of Sam’s hair, letting the soft strands dampen with his tears.
Yours, Dean answers silently, wondering if this thing between them, the bond that’s always been there but feels so inviolable now, stretches both ways. If it’s strong enough to keep him there.
* * *
He can hear them when he wakes.
The stiffening of Sam’s body curled against him tells Dean that somehow he can hear them too.
Dean’s silent as he pulls on jeans and tee shirt, laces his boots. He wonders if it’s the last time, the last time he’ll do something as mundane as brush his teeth and wash his face, still mostly smooth from Sam’s shave. Sam wraps arms around him from behind for a brief moment, long enough for Dean to feel his brother’s silent “No” before the howling of the hellhounds drowns it out.
He runs restless hands over the leather of the Impala’s seats as they drive, wanting to remember the feel of her beneath him, and Dean knows where they’re going, doesn’t have to ask. He tries to reach for Sam’s hand to say goodbye, but Sam only squeezes his fingers, so rough it’s painful, says “No, don’t. No goodbyes” as clearly as if he were speaking, and Dean nods, steeling himself. Whatever’s coming, it’s time to face it, and there’s nobody Dean would rather have beside him than his brother.
It’s louder than it’s been since Before in Dean’s head as he stands in the crossroads with Sam behind him, the baying of the hellhounds high pitched and frenzied, increasingly excited as they scent the mix of terror and desperation that marks the blood of their prey. Sam’s arms are around him, one wrapped around his waist so tightly Dean can barely breathe, the other snug around his chest, over his heart and the tattoo that tingles beneath the possessive press of Sam’s hand. Dean’s fingers dig into the hard muscle of Sam’s forearm, like if he just keeps holding on maybe Sam won’t be able to let go, and his other hand reaches behind them to grab Sam’s bony hip, haul him in impossibly closer. They’re wound together like vines overgrown so long nothing can separate them, not without ripping out roots and tearing through stems. Not without killing them both, and Dean thinks that’s maybe Sam’s point. Take him, you take me too. Not letting him go.
Sam’s thoughts aren’t for him now, but Dean can still hear them, distinct even without words, meaning crystal clear as they’re roared into the stinging wind kicked up around them. Dean can’t hear the demon but he can feel her power, and he knows they’re fighting over him, tendrils of each grab and pull curling up into his head and down thru his insides until it feels like they’ll tear him apart for sure and nobody will have his soul, leave it shredded on the crossroads, ruined and bloody. Jesus, he didn’t know it would be like this, and where the hell is his soul anyway, because they’re pulling at his brain and his guts and the very notches of his spine, bones bent to the breaking point and mind exploding in white hot agony, heart clenched in a vise so tight Dean can feel it stutter and threaten to give up. There’s warm liquid trickling from his ears, the taste of copper in his mouth, and Dean can’t hold on, can feel his grip on his brother loosen as he starts to slip down, hope and his broken body both sinking.
“No!” the one word cuts through the roaring in his mind, makes him shudder and struggle to keep his footing, but it’s like being sucked into a riptide, Sam’s voice so far above him he doesn’t think he can reach it and another just outside the borders of his sanity demanding that he give up, give in. Rage spirals through them both and batters Dean between them like a ragdoll, Sam’s hands clenched so hard around him he knows he’s bleeding outside as well as in, and Sam’s screaming mine mine mine. There’s a burst of air, like a vacuum suddenly released, and then Dean’s on the ground and everything’s ominously, terrifyingly still.
He jerks away at the first touch of hands on him, ready for them to finish what the hellhounds started, but instead they turn him over, urgent but gentle, skimming over chest and stomach with practiced skill, just like they were taught, just like always.
Sam.
“Sam? Ohgod, Sammy. Am I? Sam, did you --
Sam kisses him everywhere but his mouth, soft quick brushes of lips up and down cheeks and forehead, Sam’s big hands curled around his ears, thumbs smoothing away the blood. Sam holds his head still and won’t let go, tears mixing with the sweat and the dirt and the blood, and Dean knows Sam’s still saying it, mine mine mine.
Six Months and Thirteen Days After
(Sam)
The next morning Sam wakes up to Dean screaming his name from inches in front of his face, snaps open his eyes and sees his brother staring right back at him.
“Dean?” Sam already knows, it’s so fucking goddamn obvious, but he has to hear it anyway.
“Sam!” is all Dean says before he falls on his brother, twisting and turning Sam like he’s gotta see every inch of him all at once, make sure Sam’s still all in one piece and hasn’t been hiding anything from him, make sure Sam is Sam. Dean’s still got blood caked on one cheek and dried on his chin, and they’re both streaked with sweat and dirt, too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed and hang onto each other last night, elated just to be alive and together. But Dean’s ignoring all that, his green eyes sparkling with joy and crinkling at the sides with a grin so broad it’s gonna crack his chapped lips.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous Sammy!” he exclaims, “You look so fucking good, man.”
“I’m covered in mud, asshole,” Sam says back, the truth still sinking in, half expecting that now that Dean can see he can hear too, but Dean babbles right over him, like a two year old who’s just learned a dozen new words in the space of a few minutes and has to use them all right the fuck now.
“Jesus when’s the last time you cut your hair, Sam? Cuz shit, you look like a fuckin’ girl.”
“What?” Sam fakes indignant, laughter breaking from him for the first time in so long it physically hurts.
“— couldn’t tell it was that long or I woulda made sure you didn’t go out in public like that, christ Sammy, can’t you take care ‘a yourself without me to keep an eye –
“That’s the first thing you can think of to say to me when you can finally see again?” Sam manages, slapping Dean’s hands away from where they’re grabbing at handfuls of his hair. “Asshole!”
Dean freezes, eyes wide, then bursts out with a gleeful “Asshole! Right? You just called me an asshole, didn’t ya’ Sammy?”
“Cuz you are an asshole, jesus Dean, lemme go –
“Say it again, go on, say it again.” Dean’s got hands on both sides of Sam’s face now, holding him there just inches away and staring at Sam’s mouth. It’s starting to make Sam hard. “Cmon Sammy, say it real slow, lemme see,” and christ, that’s not helping at all.
“ASS. HOLE.”
“Yeah!” Dean crows, and leans in to plant a sloppy wet open-mouthed kiss right on Sam’s still parted lips. “I could totally read that!”
And then he’s up off the bed playing out the rest of the being a two-year-old scenario, exploring the dingy little motel room like it’s the most fascinating place ever, picking things up and putting them down and saying “Oh! Oh, that’s what this looks like,” again and again as he goes.
Sam just lays there watching, glad for the sheet across his hips, glad for the joy he can hear in his brother’s voice, and glad – ohgod, so fucking glad – for the look in Dean’s eyes, so full of life. So Dean..
“I’m taking first shower, bitch,” Dean yells from his exploration of the bathroom, sticks his head out of the door to catch Sam’s eye and watch him hurl back a mouthed “Jerk!” before he grins like a maniac and turns on the water, and the utter familiarity of it makes Sam’s heart clench with how much he’s missed this, how much of Dean’s personality the blindness stole.
It takes only an hour or so before the ordeal he’s just been through yesterday trumps the adrenaline rush that’s keeping Dean going, and by the time Sam comes out from his own (second, lukewarm) shower, Dean’s sprawled out on their bed sound asleep. He’s pulled on relatively clean jeans but not bothered with a shirt, his damp hair is mussed and sticking up in spikes, and his arms are thrown wide like he was embracing life itself when he started dreaming. Sam stands by the side of the bed for a long time staring, now that he knows he won’t be able to without Dean cocking a curious eyebrow at him or tossing out a critical ‘what the fuck are you looking at?. He takes his time, following the sprinkle of freckles on the pale pinked skin of his brother’s cheeks, the curve of muscle in his raised arms and the soft curls of dark hair beneath. The amulet – Sam’s amulet – lays against his chest like the promise Sam’s always meant it to be, glimpse of dusky red nipple beneath that makes Sam lick his lips before he lets his eyes slide lower, down the flat of his brother’s belly and the thin trail of hair below, over the hollows of his hipbones and the contours of his muscled thighs in worn denim.
Sam wonders if the thoughts he hasn’t been bothering to hide for the past six months are gonna show on his face now when Dean looks at him, if he’s forgotten how to keep them to himself. Because damn, even now that he knows Dean’s not going to hell, they’re sure as fuck still there.
Dean barely stirs when Sam tugs the blankets out from under him, just rolls over with a sigh as Sam pulls on boxers and crawls in beside him. Sam curls an arm over his brother and Dean reflexively pushes back against him, seeking the reassuring contact of Sam’s presence in the dark the way he has for the past six months, and suddenly it hits Sam with a force that knocks any promise of sleep outside the realm of possibility. Dean won’t need this anymore. He can just turn and look now, will know Sam’s there without needing to reach out, without touching. There’s really no reason for Sam to be here in the same bed with his brother.
Sam feels like a total shit for the knot of loss the thought ties his stomach into. Dean can see again, and he’s happy, he’s Dean again, for fucksake. Sam’s insomnia should be caused by the lingering adrenaline rush of relief and maybe a start on the plans for what the fuck they’re gonna do for the rest of their lives that he can finally start making, but instead his eyes are wide with the fear that Dean will stop touching him, and that Sam won’t be able to bear it.
(Dean)
Of course the very first thing he sees is Sam. Dean’s sure he’s dreaming, or that this is hell after all, some cruel trick to let him think he can see his brother only to plunge him back into the pit of darkness he’s been drowning in all these months. He calls Sam’s name -- probably screams it – half in panic, half to try to break the spell, and the last thing he expects is for Sammy’s eyes, his fucking girly pretty green-brown slant eyes that Dean’s missed so much these past six months it’s fucking near killed him, to snap open and stare right into his own.
Sam’s covered with mud and smells like sweat and looks skanky as hell and he’s damn near the most gorgeous thing that Dean’s ever seen in his life, and Dean wants to see all of him just in case this is temporary, manhandles six foot five of sleep-addled Sam left and right and up and down, tugging at his filthy clothes and tangling in his – jesus christ, when’s the last time Sam had a haircut? – too long hair, and giggling like a five year old, and he has no idea what he’s babbling until Sam calls him an asshole and he sees it.
The idea that Sam can talk to him now and he can sorta tell what Sam’s saying, what he’s feeling, what he means, it’s so fucking blissful that Dean’s overcome by it, too much to be alive and saved and seeing and Sammy right here, and he’s kissing Sam before he can think about it enough to stop himself, because really he wants to eat his brother alive and never let him go. Sam’s laughing, struggling, acting like a stupid little bitch and fuck but that’s beautiful, so beautiful Dean can’t quite stand it, has to get up and get moving and see everything, everything he knows by touch and not by sight, everything that’s suddenly so perfect right down to the cracks on the surface of the (puke yellow!) battered formica table they eat at, the ones he knows by heart with his fingers.
He doesn’t close his eyes the whole time he’s in the shower, doesn’t care about the sting of shampoo, fascinated by the prism of droplets on the glass in the artificial light, the way the steam opaques the sliding door inch by inch until he can’t see through it anymore. He’s fascinated by his own dick, has to hold it up for inspection and make sure it’s just as big as it was, as though the impotence he felt when he was blind must have somehow made it shrink (and maybe in his more paranoid times he’d been convinced of that as he wrapped his fingers around it and wasn’t sure, and hell, he couldn’t exactly ask Sam). But yeah, there it is, and he yanks it stiff and watches until it juts out proud and fat and still eight inches thankyouverymuch, and even though he feels faint with the exhaustion of the past few days when he comes, he watches every spurt as it splatters the tile and runs down his thighs.
He hopes he didn’t say ‘Sammy’ when he came.
Chapter Six
Master Post
Six Months After
(Esther)
They don’t come out very often, the two tall boys renting Room 23 by the month. Most of the Hilltop Motel’s rentals are by the night, truckers jumping off the interstate for eight hours in a bed instead of a sleeper cab, grabbing a styrofoam cup of the coffee Esther always has brewing in the percolator as they head out by 7:00, eager for the road. Sometimes their rentals are by the hour, an idea Harry came up with in the early 90s, and even though Esther still thinks it’s a bad idea to condone that sort of thing, she can’t argue with the extra dollars in their bank account.
Still, it’s nice to have some regulars, and Esther’s glad number 23 is right across from the office. Mr. Sanchez and his green-eyed blind brother usually leave the curtains open during the day, and Esther finds it breaks the monotony nicely to watch the way the sun makes the pretty boy’s skin gleam golden as he stands by the window, indecipherable expression on his face.
They’re affectionate, the Sanchez brothers, touch each other way more than Esther’s brothers ever would have. The taller one – George, his credit card says, though he stopped paying by credit months ago, always gives her cash now – comes by for coffee sometimes. He fixes one for his brother – Denny, George tells her when she finally asks – and Esther watches through their window when George returns to their room, sly smile on his face as he waits for his brother to catch the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and reach out for it, full-on grin turned to George in gratitude.
The first few weeks they’re there, it’s only George who leaves the room, and when he does he closes the curtains, so Esther doesn’t know what Denny does to amuse himself while his brother is gone. Every now and then, perhaps when Denny’s going stir crazy being cooped up 24/7 as Esther imagines he must, they both come over to the office for coffee. Esther watches them walk across the parking lot, their long strides in sync, George’s big hand lightly bracing his brother’s elbow. They’re never out of contact, shoulders always brushing, boots lined up leather to leather. Denny doesn’t speak – in truth, Esther’s not sure he can – but sometimes Esther’s not entirely sure he’s deaf either, because he smiles at George’s lame attempts at small talk and once he laughs out loud when George tells her he’s an insurance salesman. Esther’s pretty sure he’s lying.
Once a week, Denny follows George out the door as he heads to the big black car parked outside their room. George’s face is always pinched tight, like he’s dreading the prospect of his brother in the car with him, and Denny always stops to run his palms over the hot metal of the roof and down the side panels before he gets in the passenger side, something that looks like suffering on his handsome face. They never go far, are always back in half an hour, so Esther suspects a destination isn’t the point. George comes around to the passenger side and opens the door for his brother after, folds him into a hug when Denny gets out slowly, and Esther can feel the sadness on them, palpable in the slump of Denny’s shoulders and the way George bows his head to rest there against his brother.
Sometimes they stand together at the motel room’s double window, Denny staring at nothing and George staring at Denny, shoulders and elbows bumped together. As the days get shorter and the evenings crisper, Esther watches the Sanchez brothers draw even closer, and the look on George’s face as they stand at the window alternates between fear and determination. He moves behind his brother sometimes, one arm wrapped around Denny’s chest and body pressed in so tight Esther doesn’t think there can be any room at all between them. Neither of them speak, but Denny’s eyes fall closed as George leans against him, sways into his brother’s embrace.
Something’s coming, she can feel it as she watches them. Something bad, and they both know it. Esther wonders if it’s the law that’s after them, or just the opposite, or if whatever took Denny’s eyes and ears is determined to come for the rest of him. She folds her arms against a sudden chill, shivers even as her cheeks flush at the way George moves his hand over his brother’s chest, splays long fingers over Denny’s heart and stares hard at the night sky like he can keep whatever it is away, keep his brother safe.
Six Months and Twelve Days After
(Sam)
“What is it?” Dean asks, and Sam can hear the tremor in his voice that belies the need for the question.
Dean comes up behind him as Sam bends over the laptop, so engrossed in the last-minute make-sure research that he doesn’t even hear his brother’s bare footsteps. Dean’s fingers grip his shoulders, kneading roughly, the press painful over the knotted muscle. “Woah, a little tense?”
Sam’s sure that Dean knows exactly why, that he’s known for the past week as it gets harder and harder for Sam to think about anything else other than six days, five days, four days. Sam’s kept it from his thoughts at night, selfishly wanting his time close to Dean to be something good and sweet, something for him to hang onto and draw strength from the way he knows he’ll need to. He wraps his hands over Dean’s, pulls his brother down until Dean’s chin is resting on his shoulder. Until they’re close enough. “One more day, Dean” Sam tells him silently, eyes closed to focus the thoughts as much as he can. He knows he’s gotten through when Dean stiffens and jerks away, and when Sam turns Dean’s backing up, blind eyes searching the room anyway, edged with panic.
“C’mon, come back,” Sam says out loud, getting up to follow and catching Dean by the shoulders to pull him back in. Dean shakes his head, struggles, mutters, “Don’t wanna know Sam, god – fuck, don’t wanna hear this – one time I wanna be fucking deaf, just let me be fucking deaf!”
Dean bats his hands away every time Sam tries to touch him, stalks around the room stomping his bare feet ineffectually (maybe he thinks it’s making noise, Sam’s not sure) until he miscalculates where he is and stubs his toe on the edge of the bed and breaks into a string of curses. That allows Sam to catch him, finally, get arms around his waist and Sam can feel him shaking then, half sobbing and half swearing, angry and scared and desperate.
“Dean don’t, please, I’m not gonna – Dean, I’m not gonna let her take you, I swear to god I’m not, c’mon – trust me, Dean. You trust me, don’t you?”
Dean’s not hearing him, not the spoken words or the unspoken, he’s too busy ranting, and Sam can’t really blame him. “Come through too fucking much to just fucking DIE, Sam,” he’s sputtering, “It’s not fucking FAIR, I mean, this is close enough to hell, isn’t it?”
Sam holds him, pulls them to the bed, grips tight until Dean falls against him, fingers fisted in Sam’s shirt and his voice gone low and broken. “I mean, isn’t it, Sam? Been in fucking hell already for months now. Can’t it be enough?”
Sam crowds him in the bathroom later, shaves him with hands that linger and soothe and make Dean blush from more than the steam that clouds the mirror. Shoves and pushes and settles Dean to clip his nails, the ones that aren’t bitten down too far already, and Dean sighs while Sam tries to tell him with touch and thought that it doesn’t make Dean a baby, doesn’t make Sam forget all the times – fuck, years and years and years – that his big brother did the same for him, sitting on a squirming Sammy to cut his toenails so Sam wouldn’t scratch the hell out of him when Dean held him after a nightmare.
Sam tries to believe that he can do this, for Dean’s sake as much as his own, but he pulls Dean closer than ever in their bed just in case, and that night Sam hopes the words are crystal clear. Doesn’t care for once how wrong they sound, only that Dean believes them. Mine, nobody can have you. Mine, mine.
That night Dean rolls his brother away from him so they’re chest to back, using his strength the way he rarely does anymore to make Sam cooperate, then wraps his little brother in his arms, holds tight and sure and certain. For the first time since their Life Before, Dean comforts Sam, makes him feel safe like all those thousands of nights when Sam’s dreams woke them both and he felt the solid weight of his big brother curled behind him. Dean shushes, soothes, tells him that everything’s going to be okay, and the absolute familiarity of it after so long hits Sam in the gut with all he’s lost. He knots his fingers through Dean’s where they’re clasped around his belly and grips so tightly they’re shaking.
They’re both glad they’re not face to face when the tears come.
(Dean)
So it’s not like he doesn’t know, hasn’t known for months, hasn’t felt the increasing tension in Sam’s body whenever they touch for the past week. Dean knows every single inch of Sam by heart, knows like he never could have known by sight. He’s mapped every curve and hard line of Sam’s face, knows which muscle twitches when he’s happy, when he’s angry, when he’s fighting back tears. Knows the give in his jaw and smooth of his forehead that means Sam’s content, the shift of muscle between his shoulder blades that means they’re close and together and that makes everything okay. Dean even knows the tight ripple of Sam’s abs when Dean’s hand ghosts over soft skin in the middle of the night that means he’s horny, and maybe once or twice he let his fingers slip lower, nudge the proof below Sam’s belly that confirms it. Dean knows it all, hours while Sam sleeps and dreams spent stealing touches, fingering silky strands of damp hair and stroking fingertips over hard muscled thigh, jut of hipbone.
So yeah, Dean knows the deal is coming due, knows how scared Sam is of losing him and how determined he is not to. But knowing it and hearing it – fuck, that’s what it feels like now, hearing it – are two different things, and the certainty brings back to the surface all the tightly coiled panic Dean’s kept in check just barely. He can hardly imagine anything worse than being without Sam, that alone will be enough to keep him in hell. Having tasted the black pit of emptiness and isolation of being locked inside his own head those endless weeks before Sam rescued him, now Dean knows there are even worse things, things he probably can’t even imagine. Doesn’t want to.
He knows Sam needs to sleep, last night or not, can feel how much it takes out of Sam to do this thing he does with his goddamn big brain and the demon blood they pretend isn’t in it, and he knows it was the right thing to do when he feels the way Sam settles in his arms and sobs. Dean feels more right than he has in months, like holding six feet five of Sammy like he did when Sam was small is what they both need. What Sam needs, and god but that feels good, to be able to do for Sammy again. The thought that he might not be able to do that again is what makes the first choked-silent sob break from Dean. Not the fear of hell, not the pain of losing his brother, but the knowledge that Sam will be the one alone now, crumbling under the weight of loss and failure. Dean can’t stand it, forces the thought away and buries his face in the heady smell of Sam’s hair, letting the soft strands dampen with his tears.
Yours, Dean answers silently, wondering if this thing between them, the bond that’s always been there but feels so inviolable now, stretches both ways. If it’s strong enough to keep him there.
* * *
He can hear them when he wakes.
The stiffening of Sam’s body curled against him tells Dean that somehow he can hear them too.
Dean’s silent as he pulls on jeans and tee shirt, laces his boots. He wonders if it’s the last time, the last time he’ll do something as mundane as brush his teeth and wash his face, still mostly smooth from Sam’s shave. Sam wraps arms around him from behind for a brief moment, long enough for Dean to feel his brother’s silent “No” before the howling of the hellhounds drowns it out.
He runs restless hands over the leather of the Impala’s seats as they drive, wanting to remember the feel of her beneath him, and Dean knows where they’re going, doesn’t have to ask. He tries to reach for Sam’s hand to say goodbye, but Sam only squeezes his fingers, so rough it’s painful, says “No, don’t. No goodbyes” as clearly as if he were speaking, and Dean nods, steeling himself. Whatever’s coming, it’s time to face it, and there’s nobody Dean would rather have beside him than his brother.
It’s louder than it’s been since Before in Dean’s head as he stands in the crossroads with Sam behind him, the baying of the hellhounds high pitched and frenzied, increasingly excited as they scent the mix of terror and desperation that marks the blood of their prey. Sam’s arms are around him, one wrapped around his waist so tightly Dean can barely breathe, the other snug around his chest, over his heart and the tattoo that tingles beneath the possessive press of Sam’s hand. Dean’s fingers dig into the hard muscle of Sam’s forearm, like if he just keeps holding on maybe Sam won’t be able to let go, and his other hand reaches behind them to grab Sam’s bony hip, haul him in impossibly closer. They’re wound together like vines overgrown so long nothing can separate them, not without ripping out roots and tearing through stems. Not without killing them both, and Dean thinks that’s maybe Sam’s point. Take him, you take me too. Not letting him go.
Sam’s thoughts aren’t for him now, but Dean can still hear them, distinct even without words, meaning crystal clear as they’re roared into the stinging wind kicked up around them. Dean can’t hear the demon but he can feel her power, and he knows they’re fighting over him, tendrils of each grab and pull curling up into his head and down thru his insides until it feels like they’ll tear him apart for sure and nobody will have his soul, leave it shredded on the crossroads, ruined and bloody. Jesus, he didn’t know it would be like this, and where the hell is his soul anyway, because they’re pulling at his brain and his guts and the very notches of his spine, bones bent to the breaking point and mind exploding in white hot agony, heart clenched in a vise so tight Dean can feel it stutter and threaten to give up. There’s warm liquid trickling from his ears, the taste of copper in his mouth, and Dean can’t hold on, can feel his grip on his brother loosen as he starts to slip down, hope and his broken body both sinking.
“No!” the one word cuts through the roaring in his mind, makes him shudder and struggle to keep his footing, but it’s like being sucked into a riptide, Sam’s voice so far above him he doesn’t think he can reach it and another just outside the borders of his sanity demanding that he give up, give in. Rage spirals through them both and batters Dean between them like a ragdoll, Sam’s hands clenched so hard around him he knows he’s bleeding outside as well as in, and Sam’s screaming mine mine mine. There’s a burst of air, like a vacuum suddenly released, and then Dean’s on the ground and everything’s ominously, terrifyingly still.
He jerks away at the first touch of hands on him, ready for them to finish what the hellhounds started, but instead they turn him over, urgent but gentle, skimming over chest and stomach with practiced skill, just like they were taught, just like always.
Sam.
“Sam? Ohgod, Sammy. Am I? Sam, did you --
Sam kisses him everywhere but his mouth, soft quick brushes of lips up and down cheeks and forehead, Sam’s big hands curled around his ears, thumbs smoothing away the blood. Sam holds his head still and won’t let go, tears mixing with the sweat and the dirt and the blood, and Dean knows Sam’s still saying it, mine mine mine.
Six Months and Thirteen Days After
(Sam)
The next morning Sam wakes up to Dean screaming his name from inches in front of his face, snaps open his eyes and sees his brother staring right back at him.
“Dean?” Sam already knows, it’s so fucking goddamn obvious, but he has to hear it anyway.
“Sam!” is all Dean says before he falls on his brother, twisting and turning Sam like he’s gotta see every inch of him all at once, make sure Sam’s still all in one piece and hasn’t been hiding anything from him, make sure Sam is Sam. Dean’s still got blood caked on one cheek and dried on his chin, and they’re both streaked with sweat and dirt, too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed and hang onto each other last night, elated just to be alive and together. But Dean’s ignoring all that, his green eyes sparkling with joy and crinkling at the sides with a grin so broad it’s gonna crack his chapped lips.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous Sammy!” he exclaims, “You look so fucking good, man.”
“I’m covered in mud, asshole,” Sam says back, the truth still sinking in, half expecting that now that Dean can see he can hear too, but Dean babbles right over him, like a two year old who’s just learned a dozen new words in the space of a few minutes and has to use them all right the fuck now.
“Jesus when’s the last time you cut your hair, Sam? Cuz shit, you look like a fuckin’ girl.”
“What?” Sam fakes indignant, laughter breaking from him for the first time in so long it physically hurts.
“— couldn’t tell it was that long or I woulda made sure you didn’t go out in public like that, christ Sammy, can’t you take care ‘a yourself without me to keep an eye –
“That’s the first thing you can think of to say to me when you can finally see again?” Sam manages, slapping Dean’s hands away from where they’re grabbing at handfuls of his hair. “Asshole!”
Dean freezes, eyes wide, then bursts out with a gleeful “Asshole! Right? You just called me an asshole, didn’t ya’ Sammy?”
“Cuz you are an asshole, jesus Dean, lemme go –
“Say it again, go on, say it again.” Dean’s got hands on both sides of Sam’s face now, holding him there just inches away and staring at Sam’s mouth. It’s starting to make Sam hard. “Cmon Sammy, say it real slow, lemme see,” and christ, that’s not helping at all.
“ASS. HOLE.”
“Yeah!” Dean crows, and leans in to plant a sloppy wet open-mouthed kiss right on Sam’s still parted lips. “I could totally read that!”
And then he’s up off the bed playing out the rest of the being a two-year-old scenario, exploring the dingy little motel room like it’s the most fascinating place ever, picking things up and putting them down and saying “Oh! Oh, that’s what this looks like,” again and again as he goes.
Sam just lays there watching, glad for the sheet across his hips, glad for the joy he can hear in his brother’s voice, and glad – ohgod, so fucking glad – for the look in Dean’s eyes, so full of life. So Dean..
“I’m taking first shower, bitch,” Dean yells from his exploration of the bathroom, sticks his head out of the door to catch Sam’s eye and watch him hurl back a mouthed “Jerk!” before he grins like a maniac and turns on the water, and the utter familiarity of it makes Sam’s heart clench with how much he’s missed this, how much of Dean’s personality the blindness stole.
It takes only an hour or so before the ordeal he’s just been through yesterday trumps the adrenaline rush that’s keeping Dean going, and by the time Sam comes out from his own (second, lukewarm) shower, Dean’s sprawled out on their bed sound asleep. He’s pulled on relatively clean jeans but not bothered with a shirt, his damp hair is mussed and sticking up in spikes, and his arms are thrown wide like he was embracing life itself when he started dreaming. Sam stands by the side of the bed for a long time staring, now that he knows he won’t be able to without Dean cocking a curious eyebrow at him or tossing out a critical ‘what the fuck are you looking at?. He takes his time, following the sprinkle of freckles on the pale pinked skin of his brother’s cheeks, the curve of muscle in his raised arms and the soft curls of dark hair beneath. The amulet – Sam’s amulet – lays against his chest like the promise Sam’s always meant it to be, glimpse of dusky red nipple beneath that makes Sam lick his lips before he lets his eyes slide lower, down the flat of his brother’s belly and the thin trail of hair below, over the hollows of his hipbones and the contours of his muscled thighs in worn denim.
Sam wonders if the thoughts he hasn’t been bothering to hide for the past six months are gonna show on his face now when Dean looks at him, if he’s forgotten how to keep them to himself. Because damn, even now that he knows Dean’s not going to hell, they’re sure as fuck still there.
Dean barely stirs when Sam tugs the blankets out from under him, just rolls over with a sigh as Sam pulls on boxers and crawls in beside him. Sam curls an arm over his brother and Dean reflexively pushes back against him, seeking the reassuring contact of Sam’s presence in the dark the way he has for the past six months, and suddenly it hits Sam with a force that knocks any promise of sleep outside the realm of possibility. Dean won’t need this anymore. He can just turn and look now, will know Sam’s there without needing to reach out, without touching. There’s really no reason for Sam to be here in the same bed with his brother.
Sam feels like a total shit for the knot of loss the thought ties his stomach into. Dean can see again, and he’s happy, he’s Dean again, for fucksake. Sam’s insomnia should be caused by the lingering adrenaline rush of relief and maybe a start on the plans for what the fuck they’re gonna do for the rest of their lives that he can finally start making, but instead his eyes are wide with the fear that Dean will stop touching him, and that Sam won’t be able to bear it.
(Dean)
Of course the very first thing he sees is Sam. Dean’s sure he’s dreaming, or that this is hell after all, some cruel trick to let him think he can see his brother only to plunge him back into the pit of darkness he’s been drowning in all these months. He calls Sam’s name -- probably screams it – half in panic, half to try to break the spell, and the last thing he expects is for Sammy’s eyes, his fucking girly pretty green-brown slant eyes that Dean’s missed so much these past six months it’s fucking near killed him, to snap open and stare right into his own.
Sam’s covered with mud and smells like sweat and looks skanky as hell and he’s damn near the most gorgeous thing that Dean’s ever seen in his life, and Dean wants to see all of him just in case this is temporary, manhandles six foot five of sleep-addled Sam left and right and up and down, tugging at his filthy clothes and tangling in his – jesus christ, when’s the last time Sam had a haircut? – too long hair, and giggling like a five year old, and he has no idea what he’s babbling until Sam calls him an asshole and he sees it.
The idea that Sam can talk to him now and he can sorta tell what Sam’s saying, what he’s feeling, what he means, it’s so fucking blissful that Dean’s overcome by it, too much to be alive and saved and seeing and Sammy right here, and he’s kissing Sam before he can think about it enough to stop himself, because really he wants to eat his brother alive and never let him go. Sam’s laughing, struggling, acting like a stupid little bitch and fuck but that’s beautiful, so beautiful Dean can’t quite stand it, has to get up and get moving and see everything, everything he knows by touch and not by sight, everything that’s suddenly so perfect right down to the cracks on the surface of the (puke yellow!) battered formica table they eat at, the ones he knows by heart with his fingers.
He doesn’t close his eyes the whole time he’s in the shower, doesn’t care about the sting of shampoo, fascinated by the prism of droplets on the glass in the artificial light, the way the steam opaques the sliding door inch by inch until he can’t see through it anymore. He’s fascinated by his own dick, has to hold it up for inspection and make sure it’s just as big as it was, as though the impotence he felt when he was blind must have somehow made it shrink (and maybe in his more paranoid times he’d been convinced of that as he wrapped his fingers around it and wasn’t sure, and hell, he couldn’t exactly ask Sam). But yeah, there it is, and he yanks it stiff and watches until it juts out proud and fat and still eight inches thankyouverymuch, and even though he feels faint with the exhaustion of the past few days when he comes, he watches every spurt as it splatters the tile and runs down his thighs.
He hopes he didn’t say ‘Sammy’ when he came.
Chapter Six
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-08-02 06:34 pm (UTC)One thing that strikes me in this part is the boys' developing closeness, how Dean is able to *hear* Sam. And the comfort they each need from the other, especially at night. But both desperately trying to keep their inappropriate thoughts from the other.
They’re wound together like vines overgrown so long nothing can separate them, not without ripping out roots and tearing through stems.
The imagery there is so beautiful. I love how in the end it's their relationship, closer than any other, that saves Dean (or maybe I read into it a bit there).
It hurt to watch their pain as they pull away from each other again, now that Dean can see, doesn't *need* the tactile presence anymore. Each of them still craves it, but will never admit it.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-04 08:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 04:10 am (UTC)And yay. We have vision. \o/
no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-01 01:22 am (UTC)*sighs sadly* This is how Sam should've used his powers.
no subject
Date: 2009-06-01 03:32 am (UTC)And yes, this is totally how Sam should've used his powers. Someone tell Kripke :)
no subject
Date: 2009-09-10 11:33 pm (UTC)"He wraps his hands over Dean’s, pulls his brother down until Dean’s chin is resting on his shoulder." I just really love this, it's so sweet and intimate. ♥ Mmm love this too: "That night Dean rolls his brother away from him so they’re chest to back, using his strength the way he rarely does anymore to make Sam cooperate, then wraps his little brother in his arms, holds tight and sure and certain. For the first time since their Life Before, Dean comforts Sam" Especially the Before part, highlights the way their relationship is now and how needy Sam is for Dean in this moment, instead of the other way around.
"What Sam needs, and god but that feels good, to be able to do for Sammy again." Being able to take care and protect Sam is essential to Dean. He must have felt so lost when he was not able to do that. So now that he can, comfort Sam for a night, it must feel really good. Aww Dean, love him.
"...and Sam’s screaming mine mine mine." I can see this whole battle being played out internally in Dean, and the effects, and Sam screaming this with his mind, all fierceness and possessiveness. "...and Dean knows Sam’s still saying it, mine mine mine." I LOVE Sam's possessiveness, just YES.
Oooh love the entire scene of Dean having his sight back. It was exciting and funny and sweet and just so SamandDean. And Dean is so adorable with his excitement and rambling over Sam, the comparison of Dean to a two year old made me laugh and smile. And then the angst comes. "...and suddenly it hits Sam with a force that knocks any promise of sleep outside the realm of possibility. Dean won’t need this anymore. He can just turn and look now, will know Sam’s there without needing to reach out, without touching. There’s really no reason for Sam to be here in the same bed with his brother....but instead his eyes are wide with the fear that Dean will stop touching him, and that Sam won’t be able to bear it." I love the good, happy moments just as much as the angst. And I feel so much for Sam here.
Ahahaha and the ending kills me. So completely Dean ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-09-12 03:56 pm (UTC)Thanks for liking the outsider POVs too. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-04-25 02:36 am (UTC)It's not important how Sam saved Dean. This is not the issue. The question is what drives Sam: It is the certain that what he has with Dean is all he needs.
And I understood "the goodbyes" as "there is no death or separation in love." Because to me death is oblivion. They never forget to each other.
Then at last the spell is broken and Dean sees again. This is not also the main point. The main point is that everything will become more intense. At least, that's what my logic follows.
Really loved the chapter!
Hugs!
no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 03:35 am (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2017-03-27 11:39 pm (UTC)The Boys become closer and closer, developing a bond that can't be broken. So Dean can "hear" Sam ...
"They’re both glad they’re not face to face when the tears come."
That nearly killed me... So emotional and so pure.
"They’re wound together like vines overgrown so long nothing can separate them, not without ripping out roots and tearing through stems."
That's exactly the Point. Dean wouldn't have survived without Sam and vice versa.
Finally Dean can see again so he doesn't Need the palpable presence of Sam anymore? No. I don#t think so. I think he will Need Sam more than ever. And he'll do everything to protect his Little brother again.
Love conqueres all, right ? Maybe there's a light at the end of the tunnel...
This chapter has it all, fear, danger, a roller Coaster of emotions and the pure and utterly love.
Thank you so much, my FRIEND! now I will go to bed and re-read this again, there's a lot a read between the lines, words you didn't write, words you didn't HAVE to write. Because I can feel your heart here. And I can hear it, loud and clear.
*hugs you very very Close*
no subject
Date: 2017-03-28 03:13 am (UTC)Hope you had a wonderful Monday :)
no subject
Date: 2017-03-28 07:11 am (UTC)Monday was "fan"-tastic!
Have a marvellous Tuesday, my friend! Thank you for friending me, this makes me soooo glad.
*hugs you Close*