![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Ash Wednesday - Chapter 4
Title:Ash Wednesday - Part 4
Pairings/Characters:Sam/Dean
Rating:NC-17 - eventually
Summary: Summary:I began this on Ash Wednesday, wondering what Dean would give up for Lent. Sam has visions. Dean finds out what that necklace is really for. Oh, and the boys have sex!
Notes/Warnings:The w-word, angst, angst about the w-word.
Disclaimer:Alas, they're mine only in my head.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
For past six years Dean had been fucking anything he could just to erase this feeling, just to get Sam’s damn face out of his mind, the smell of his skin out of his nose, the sound of his breathing out of his ears. It hadn’t worked. And now, here he was right back where he started. So much for penance, so much for absolution. He was nineteen again and listening to his baby brother jerking off in the bed next to his in the room they shared in the house they lived in mostly by themselves because their Dad was off hunting most of the time. He was nineteen again and grabbing his own dick, thinking about what just one touch from his brother would do to him. Nineteen again and wishing he knew what his brother’s face looked like when he came, wishing he could be the one to send him over the edge. Nineteen and curling up in his own cold, wet spot - alone.
Damn!! He had to stop torturing himself this way. He shifted in the bed, moving from his side to his back and putting his hands behind his head to keep them from getting anywhere near his dick now. Not cool to jerk off in the bed next to Sammy, Dean, not cool.
When Dean moved, Sam tensed - surprised that he could get any tenser. Every movement Dean made sent shivers through him. When Dean shifted, his shoulder briefly brushed Sam’s and the slight touch was enough to make Sam hard. He tried not to breathe, as if denying oxygen to his cock might somehow make it go limp again. It wasn’t working. He tried breathing then, slowly, in and out. Maybe he’d count a few sheep, a few demons, whatever it took. That wasn’t working either. When he closed his eyes looking for sheep, all he saw was Dean and once he saw Dean his imagination went into overdrive and he was instantly running a peep show reel in his head of Dean naked, Dean fucking that girl one afternoon when he didn’t know Sam was home and watching, Dean getting a blow job (different girl, different afternoon, same effect on Sam) and the look on his face when he lost it, eyes tight shut, biting his lower lip, head tilted back slightly.
Damn!! If he didn’t stop it he’d be coming soon himself. One more loop of that particular image and he wouldn’t even have to touch himself. Tough explaining that one to Ellen in the morning. He wondered if there was anyplace else he could go and started thinking about the pool table. Ash had looked pretty comfortable there when they had first come into the roadhouse. Of course comfort is relative when you are unconscious.
Still, Sam knew if he stayed where he was he wasn’t going to be any more comfortable. Hell, even sleeping in the car would be better than this. He swung his long legs out of the bed and stood up, trying to be as quiet as possible in the mistaken belief that Dean was asleep. He was groping around in the dark for his pants when it hit him. The pain ripped through his head with no warning, stronger than it had ever been before. He was out of the bed and on his knees and then slumping forward, doubled over with the pain.
Dean was next to him the moment he hit the floor. “Sam! Sam!! What’s happening?”
Sam’s arm came up, trying to find Dean, trying to hold on to anything that would keep him from being sucked from the world he knew into his vision. He briefly had Dean’s arm, and then, scarier than anything that has happened before, Sam just went quiet. He lay still on the floor, still curled up, looking almost peaceful. Or dead.
“Sam!” Dean pushed Sam over so that he was on his back and began checking for signs of life - breathing, a pulse, something. For thirty seconds that seemed longer than the previous twenty six years he had been alive, Dean found nothing. Sam was growing cold under his fingers as he wildly searched for a pulse anywhere. Wrist, neck, chest. Finally he ripped Sam’s boxer’s down to feel his groin - remembering something about an artery there from some red cross class his father had made him take. Just as Dean found the spot Sam’s eyes snapped open, his back arched and he sat up, inhaling desperately as he did. Dean grabbed his shoulders to steady him.
“Sam, you ok? What just happened?”
Sam wasn’t really registering anything yet. He looked at Dean, disoriented, trying to make sense of what he was being asked. Then he looked around the room. He was used to never really knowing where he was since he was never anywhere long enough for things to look familiar but this was worse than usual.
“What did you see,” Dean was prompting when Sam looked back at him again.
“Huh? What?”
“Sam, your vision. What did you see.”
“Ummmm . . . I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember? You always remember!”
“Not this time. Sorry.” Sam looked away from Dean, avoiding his gaze.
“What the hell good is a vision if you don’t remember what you saw?”
“Sorry! Ok? Hell, you should be relieved. You hate it when I have these things anyway.”
“Of course I hate it Sammy. What do you expect?” Dean was normally good at putting a game face on, but he couldn’t keep the edge of desperate concern out of his voice. “These things Sammy - it’s killing you.”
“I don’t think so. I think, if I understood . . . “
“What?”
Sam shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “Dean, I want to talk.”
“About?”
“I want to talk about you going to church, the ashes, everything.”
“You always want to talk - as if it’s going to do any good, fix anything, make anything better. Did you ever think that talking about something might just make it worse? Maybe there are some things that people just shouldn’t say to each other.”
“Not us Dean.” Sam shook his head as if it would shake away Dean’s words. “Not * us*.” He couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in his eyes and wouldn’t have bothered if he could have. The time for holding back was long past.
“Yeah Sammy, even us. Especially us.”
“No! I need to know. It’s important. What did you give up Dean? Please.”
It was the “please” that did it. Dean couldn’t resist Sam when he was like this, even though he knew the minute he opened his mouth he was screwed.
“You Sam, I gave up you.”
Dean had to look away, couldn't bear to see the look on his brother's face. It wasn't hurt and it wasn't anger. It was worse. It was the look of hope fading, of inevitability asserting itself. It was the flicker Dean had seen from time to time in the eye of the things he hunted just before they expired at his hand.
“You what?” Sam asked slowly, as if he really didn't want to hear the answer, but had to ask the question anyway.
“Sammy, it’s not what you think. Not how it sounds. Besides, it didn’t work.”
“I don’t understand Dean. Dad, your promise. To him. To me.”
“I told you, it’s not how it sounds. I’m not giving up *on* you Sam, I’m not leaving. I was just trying to - “
“To what Dean?” He was almost shouting and for once it was Dean concerned about making a scene, keeping things quite. “Am I that tainted that you had to go to church to wash your hands of me?”
“No! It’s not you, it’s me!”
“Isn’t that what you tell the girls you fuck and then leave! C’mon Dean! I’m not some bimbo you picked up in a bar!”
“I told you, it’s not what you think.”
“Then why don’t you enlighten me?”
“I can’t. You’d hate me.”
“It can get worse than this? I’m not seeing that as a real danger right now.”
Suddenly Dean wasn’t feeling sorry at all and he certainly didn’t want to bother trying to explain to someone who had already decided that he was wrong. (Never mind the fact that he was actually wrong and that no amount of explaining could make it right. He still would have appreciated Sam giving him the benefit of the doubt.) In fact he was all for saying as many hurtful, damaging things as he could pack into one final sentence before he got the hell out of there. Instead his face went blank as he swallowed back every emotion, tightened his lips and turned away from Sam. He concentrated on finding his pants, his shoes, his shirt.
Sam stood dumbfounded, watching his brother get ready to walk out of his life. Now he knew how it felt when he had done this to Dean. Had done it twice. Fighting and then leaving. Or worse, just leaving. How could he have done that to him? How could he have been so goddamn selfish? Dean had said he was a selfish bastard and he was right. And he had finally managed to piss off the one person who he could always count on. Not just haul off and punch piss off. This was different.
Dean was just about finished tying the laces on his second boot by the time Sam could manage to formulate anything. The sorrow that he had just been experiencing turned again to anger.
“So that’s it? You’re just walking out.”
“Fuck you Sam!”
“Dean,” Sam said quietly now, the anger draining out of him.
“What?!!” Dean yelled back, not turning, one hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t go.”
Dean’s resolve wavered, but he was pissed off and it felt good for a change and he wasn’t about to give it up. His hand was still on the door and he still refused to look at Sam. “I’m sick of being the good little soldier. I’m tired of doing the ‘right thing’ all the time for everyone else but me. I’ve been watching out for you and Dad my whole life. What the hell would you do if just for once I thought of myself and did what I wanted for a change?”
“You’re right,” Sam agreed. “You’re right. I get on your case for keeping everything bottled up, but if you didn’t do that I’d probably be dead. I know I’d be dead. I never thought about it before, which means I’m doubly the selfish bastard that you always thought I was, but you’re right.”
Dean let his had fall from the knob and stood staring at the door for a minute. Long enough to notice the nicks in the wood, the rushed paint job, the smudged finger prints. And then he allowed himself to turn around. Not all the way. Just looking over his shoulder, and just for a moment. His throat felt tight, painful.
“What *do* you want to do Dean?”
That was the last question Dean expected to hear and it placed him dead center at the proverbial crossroads. This may be his only chance, he thought. Moments like this don’t come around all that often in life. On the other hand, take it and risk everything - everything. Did *he* have the right to be that selfish? Could he do that to Sam?
He was back to studying the door, concentrating so hard on the pattern the paintbrush had made on the wood that it was beginning to blur. Or were those tears? The pain in his throat was getting worse. He didn’t even notice that Sam had crossed the room, that he was standing right behind him now. All he knew was that Sam’s hand was on his arm, tugging a little to get him to turn around but not forcing him. And then Sam’s voice, so soothing and gentle, the voice that was always able to calm him down, whispered again, so close to his ear that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, “What do you want to do Dean?”
Crossroads. Deal with the devil.
Dean turned around, looked up into his brother’s soft eyes, and kissed him - a slow, moist open-mouthed kiss that took Sam’s breath away.
Then Dean turned around, opened the door and walked out.
Chapter Five
Pairings/Characters:Sam/Dean
Rating:NC-17 - eventually
Summary: Summary:I began this on Ash Wednesday, wondering what Dean would give up for Lent. Sam has visions. Dean finds out what that necklace is really for. Oh, and the boys have sex!
Notes/Warnings:The w-word, angst, angst about the w-word.
Disclaimer:Alas, they're mine only in my head.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
For past six years Dean had been fucking anything he could just to erase this feeling, just to get Sam’s damn face out of his mind, the smell of his skin out of his nose, the sound of his breathing out of his ears. It hadn’t worked. And now, here he was right back where he started. So much for penance, so much for absolution. He was nineteen again and listening to his baby brother jerking off in the bed next to his in the room they shared in the house they lived in mostly by themselves because their Dad was off hunting most of the time. He was nineteen again and grabbing his own dick, thinking about what just one touch from his brother would do to him. Nineteen again and wishing he knew what his brother’s face looked like when he came, wishing he could be the one to send him over the edge. Nineteen and curling up in his own cold, wet spot - alone.
Damn!! He had to stop torturing himself this way. He shifted in the bed, moving from his side to his back and putting his hands behind his head to keep them from getting anywhere near his dick now. Not cool to jerk off in the bed next to Sammy, Dean, not cool.
When Dean moved, Sam tensed - surprised that he could get any tenser. Every movement Dean made sent shivers through him. When Dean shifted, his shoulder briefly brushed Sam’s and the slight touch was enough to make Sam hard. He tried not to breathe, as if denying oxygen to his cock might somehow make it go limp again. It wasn’t working. He tried breathing then, slowly, in and out. Maybe he’d count a few sheep, a few demons, whatever it took. That wasn’t working either. When he closed his eyes looking for sheep, all he saw was Dean and once he saw Dean his imagination went into overdrive and he was instantly running a peep show reel in his head of Dean naked, Dean fucking that girl one afternoon when he didn’t know Sam was home and watching, Dean getting a blow job (different girl, different afternoon, same effect on Sam) and the look on his face when he lost it, eyes tight shut, biting his lower lip, head tilted back slightly.
Damn!! If he didn’t stop it he’d be coming soon himself. One more loop of that particular image and he wouldn’t even have to touch himself. Tough explaining that one to Ellen in the morning. He wondered if there was anyplace else he could go and started thinking about the pool table. Ash had looked pretty comfortable there when they had first come into the roadhouse. Of course comfort is relative when you are unconscious.
Still, Sam knew if he stayed where he was he wasn’t going to be any more comfortable. Hell, even sleeping in the car would be better than this. He swung his long legs out of the bed and stood up, trying to be as quiet as possible in the mistaken belief that Dean was asleep. He was groping around in the dark for his pants when it hit him. The pain ripped through his head with no warning, stronger than it had ever been before. He was out of the bed and on his knees and then slumping forward, doubled over with the pain.
Dean was next to him the moment he hit the floor. “Sam! Sam!! What’s happening?”
Sam’s arm came up, trying to find Dean, trying to hold on to anything that would keep him from being sucked from the world he knew into his vision. He briefly had Dean’s arm, and then, scarier than anything that has happened before, Sam just went quiet. He lay still on the floor, still curled up, looking almost peaceful. Or dead.
“Sam!” Dean pushed Sam over so that he was on his back and began checking for signs of life - breathing, a pulse, something. For thirty seconds that seemed longer than the previous twenty six years he had been alive, Dean found nothing. Sam was growing cold under his fingers as he wildly searched for a pulse anywhere. Wrist, neck, chest. Finally he ripped Sam’s boxer’s down to feel his groin - remembering something about an artery there from some red cross class his father had made him take. Just as Dean found the spot Sam’s eyes snapped open, his back arched and he sat up, inhaling desperately as he did. Dean grabbed his shoulders to steady him.
“Sam, you ok? What just happened?”
Sam wasn’t really registering anything yet. He looked at Dean, disoriented, trying to make sense of what he was being asked. Then he looked around the room. He was used to never really knowing where he was since he was never anywhere long enough for things to look familiar but this was worse than usual.
“What did you see,” Dean was prompting when Sam looked back at him again.
“Huh? What?”
“Sam, your vision. What did you see.”
“Ummmm . . . I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember? You always remember!”
“Not this time. Sorry.” Sam looked away from Dean, avoiding his gaze.
“What the hell good is a vision if you don’t remember what you saw?”
“Sorry! Ok? Hell, you should be relieved. You hate it when I have these things anyway.”
“Of course I hate it Sammy. What do you expect?” Dean was normally good at putting a game face on, but he couldn’t keep the edge of desperate concern out of his voice. “These things Sammy - it’s killing you.”
“I don’t think so. I think, if I understood . . . “
“What?”
Sam shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “Dean, I want to talk.”
“About?”
“I want to talk about you going to church, the ashes, everything.”
“You always want to talk - as if it’s going to do any good, fix anything, make anything better. Did you ever think that talking about something might just make it worse? Maybe there are some things that people just shouldn’t say to each other.”
“Not us Dean.” Sam shook his head as if it would shake away Dean’s words. “Not * us*.” He couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in his eyes and wouldn’t have bothered if he could have. The time for holding back was long past.
“Yeah Sammy, even us. Especially us.”
“No! I need to know. It’s important. What did you give up Dean? Please.”
It was the “please” that did it. Dean couldn’t resist Sam when he was like this, even though he knew the minute he opened his mouth he was screwed.
“You Sam, I gave up you.”
Dean had to look away, couldn't bear to see the look on his brother's face. It wasn't hurt and it wasn't anger. It was worse. It was the look of hope fading, of inevitability asserting itself. It was the flicker Dean had seen from time to time in the eye of the things he hunted just before they expired at his hand.
“You what?” Sam asked slowly, as if he really didn't want to hear the answer, but had to ask the question anyway.
“Sammy, it’s not what you think. Not how it sounds. Besides, it didn’t work.”
“I don’t understand Dean. Dad, your promise. To him. To me.”
“I told you, it’s not how it sounds. I’m not giving up *on* you Sam, I’m not leaving. I was just trying to - “
“To what Dean?” He was almost shouting and for once it was Dean concerned about making a scene, keeping things quite. “Am I that tainted that you had to go to church to wash your hands of me?”
“No! It’s not you, it’s me!”
“Isn’t that what you tell the girls you fuck and then leave! C’mon Dean! I’m not some bimbo you picked up in a bar!”
“I told you, it’s not what you think.”
“Then why don’t you enlighten me?”
“I can’t. You’d hate me.”
“It can get worse than this? I’m not seeing that as a real danger right now.”
Suddenly Dean wasn’t feeling sorry at all and he certainly didn’t want to bother trying to explain to someone who had already decided that he was wrong. (Never mind the fact that he was actually wrong and that no amount of explaining could make it right. He still would have appreciated Sam giving him the benefit of the doubt.) In fact he was all for saying as many hurtful, damaging things as he could pack into one final sentence before he got the hell out of there. Instead his face went blank as he swallowed back every emotion, tightened his lips and turned away from Sam. He concentrated on finding his pants, his shoes, his shirt.
Sam stood dumbfounded, watching his brother get ready to walk out of his life. Now he knew how it felt when he had done this to Dean. Had done it twice. Fighting and then leaving. Or worse, just leaving. How could he have done that to him? How could he have been so goddamn selfish? Dean had said he was a selfish bastard and he was right. And he had finally managed to piss off the one person who he could always count on. Not just haul off and punch piss off. This was different.
Dean was just about finished tying the laces on his second boot by the time Sam could manage to formulate anything. The sorrow that he had just been experiencing turned again to anger.
“So that’s it? You’re just walking out.”
“Fuck you Sam!”
“Dean,” Sam said quietly now, the anger draining out of him.
“What?!!” Dean yelled back, not turning, one hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t go.”
Dean’s resolve wavered, but he was pissed off and it felt good for a change and he wasn’t about to give it up. His hand was still on the door and he still refused to look at Sam. “I’m sick of being the good little soldier. I’m tired of doing the ‘right thing’ all the time for everyone else but me. I’ve been watching out for you and Dad my whole life. What the hell would you do if just for once I thought of myself and did what I wanted for a change?”
“You’re right,” Sam agreed. “You’re right. I get on your case for keeping everything bottled up, but if you didn’t do that I’d probably be dead. I know I’d be dead. I never thought about it before, which means I’m doubly the selfish bastard that you always thought I was, but you’re right.”
Dean let his had fall from the knob and stood staring at the door for a minute. Long enough to notice the nicks in the wood, the rushed paint job, the smudged finger prints. And then he allowed himself to turn around. Not all the way. Just looking over his shoulder, and just for a moment. His throat felt tight, painful.
“What *do* you want to do Dean?”
That was the last question Dean expected to hear and it placed him dead center at the proverbial crossroads. This may be his only chance, he thought. Moments like this don’t come around all that often in life. On the other hand, take it and risk everything - everything. Did *he* have the right to be that selfish? Could he do that to Sam?
He was back to studying the door, concentrating so hard on the pattern the paintbrush had made on the wood that it was beginning to blur. Or were those tears? The pain in his throat was getting worse. He didn’t even notice that Sam had crossed the room, that he was standing right behind him now. All he knew was that Sam’s hand was on his arm, tugging a little to get him to turn around but not forcing him. And then Sam’s voice, so soothing and gentle, the voice that was always able to calm him down, whispered again, so close to his ear that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, “What do you want to do Dean?”
Crossroads. Deal with the devil.
Dean turned around, looked up into his brother’s soft eyes, and kissed him - a slow, moist open-mouthed kiss that took Sam’s breath away.
Then Dean turned around, opened the door and walked out.
Chapter Five