
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1251979.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Wincest, Weecest_-_Relationship, Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Fluff_and_Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Scars
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-01 Completed: 2014-09-28 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 13993
****** Kisses and Scars like a Breadcrumb Trail ******
by bloodandcream
Summary
     A series of snapshots following the development of the relationship
     between Sam and Dean from wee little to current, bits are from either
     one of their perspectives or both. Focuses around the contrast of
     sweet moments with painful ones, mostly in a lineal progression.
***** Butterflies *****
Chapter Notes
     Kisses and scars
     like a breadcrumb trail
     through the woods of our lives
     Will it lead us back home
     through thick copses of trees
     and twisting paths too dark to see
     through bramble briars where
     the path is overgrown and forgotten
     These old scars ache
     in the dark parts of the woods
     don't stray from the path
     it's easy to get lost there
     But you will find clearings too
     along the breadcrumb trail
     where the trees part to fields green
     scattered with multitudes of wild flowers
     and everything was so bright and warm
     in those parts of the woods
     Where kisses flitted like butterfly wings
     beautiful and so easy to break
     Follow the breadcrumb trail
     Back back back to where we began
     Two paths that merged
     We've been stumbling through these woods
     for a time that seems forever
     Littering the paths
     With our kisses and our scars
Part One: Butterflies
-
 
Dean is only eight years old and he has few memories of his mother to hold on
to. Through the various other kids he's talked to from school to school,
through tv and media, and at least a little through books, his young mind had
started to mesh interpretations of what a mother should be with what he was
able to recall of her. His memories are never very clear, only a few
circumstances remain stark and certain like her feeding him a sandwich at the
kitchen table or her reading him his favorite book before bed. But mostly, his
memories are feelings, a recollection of warmth and safety as she held him
against her chest that's mostly absent in his life anymore. He might not have
the comforts of his mother anymore, but he has his little brother.
Daddy told him to take care of Sam, to protect him, to watch out for him.
Sometimes Dean thinks he can be good to Sam like Mommy was to him, since Sam
never even got to have the memories Dean does. He is still so young, but he
wants to keep his brother safe, to love him with everything he is. So Dean
tries to be something to his brother that he doesn't understand, that he can't
grasp yet at so young. But he tries.
Sometimes at night when Daddy's already asleep and Sammy is having a bad dream
or a tummy ache keeps him up, Dean will tuck the often scratchy and constantly
changing bed sheets around his young shoulders and give him a kiss goodnight,
humming something quietly to his brother and holding him close while they both
fall asleep.
Daddy tries to take good care of them, Dean knows, he trusts and he loves his
father completely. His father is an important man, and if he has to stay up
late reading important things or if he passes out early from a long important
day or if his hands are wrapped in bandages and Dean has to put what food
together he can - he's good at pb&j and can even make a box of mac and cheese -
then that's ok. Because he remembers how Mommy used to do it, used to be things
that Daddy isn't, and he wants Sammy to have those things too.
-
Sam is only seven years old but he's already wrestling with his big brother, in
the woods behind the run down apartment complex. Dean's much better at it, like
he's better at pretty much everything. But Sam doesn't mind because Dean's
going to teach him, he'll teach him how to be tough. They tussle and roll
around in the grass under shady trees, hot in a Midwestern summer, Dean showing
him how to pin, how to throw a punch, how to kick at someone's knees from
behind. Of course, watching an eleven year old and a seven year try to imitate
something grown up's do, fists still small and chubby, Sam's thin arms too
short compared to his brother, they would never really hurt anyone like that
but they're determined children with no better way to pass the time.
It would just be children playing, but Dean is already very serious, he's seen
his father come home bloody more than a few nights, and even though Dad is
still fairly secretive he tells Dean things, scary things, but Dean knows it's
better to be told so he can be prepared. And he'll make sure Sam is too, even
is Sam is too young to know why, even if Dean doesn't really know it either
himself.
Dean knows they weren't supposed to leave the apartment, but they're still on
the grounds of the property, it's within sight, so he figures it should be
fine; besides Dad wasn't going to be gone long, and they didn't really have
enough room in the cramped apartment for him to wrestle with Sam. Although, Sam
just kind of pouts at him and runs around. Dean tackles his brother, both of
them squealing and laughing, it's still a game to them. Then Sam tenses
underneath him before flailing and screaming, tears easy to fall down his round
apple cheeks, Dean pulling him up and frowning, he didn't think he was being
too rough.
But Sam's knee is bloody and Dean sees the glint of an aluminum can lid in the
grass and Sam must of cut himself on that.
"Hey, Sammy, it's ok, let's go inside and I'll patch you up ok?"
"De-de-deeee it huuuuurts."
Dean manages to calm Sam down enough to a few little sniffles while they go
back inside. Setting him on a kitchen chair and fetching the emergency kit
where Dad showed him it was, he fished out a band aid and a bottle of some kind
of thing that was supposed to clean stuff before you put the band aid on. When
he wet a towel with it and put in on Sam's knee though, it didn't seem to help
it just made his brother wail even louder.
"Hey Sammy, shhh, be quiet, it's just a small cut, you don't want Dad to come
home and see you being a wussy do you?"
Sam's face is streaked with snot and tears, scrunched up, lip trembling, but he
shuts his mouth and shakes his head side to side. "But it hurts."
Dean tries to remember what his Mommy would do, because she always made things
better. Wiping a smudge of red off Sam's knee and putting the band aid on, he
bent forward and pressed a kiss to it. "There, I kissed it so it'll be better.
Cause kisses are magic."
It’s some sort of girly thing boys aren’t supposed to believe in, Dean knows
that, but Sam swallows thickly and looks down at his big brother and his
patched up knee and his face loosens with an attempted smile, so that’s good
enough for Dean.
Sam does feels better. He doesn't think it's the kiss though, he just thinks
Dean is magic.
-
Sam is only ten but he’s old enough to watch after himself for just a few
hours. Dad had to take Dean on an important hunt, cause Dean was getting old
enough that he needed to get out and get field experience not just sit around
and research, but Sam is still too young to go out. It was okay though, he
liked doing the research anyway, he wished a little that he could go out with
them just so he could watch out for Dean. Even though Dean was always the one
looking after him, sometimes Sam really wished he could make his brother feel
better, he knew how sad Dean got sometimes and it wasn’t supposed to be like
that.
So Sam was good and he stayed put in the motel reading and doing his homework
and watching tv. The tv was old and fuzzy though. And he was hungry but there
wasn’t anything except crackers left. Sam fiddled with his clothes, fiddled
with his books, fiddled with the weapons he was learning how to clean properly,
he just fiddled because he was nervous and too young and his brother was out on
a dangerous hunt. Sam knew what hunts meant, he was young but all his life he
had seen his dad coming home, seen him hurt, seen Dean patch him up. Sam didn’t
want that for his brother.
They came back pretty late and Sam was pretending to be asleep, because it
really was past his bedtime and it’s not like there was anything interesting to
do, but he couldn’t actually sleep thinking about his big brother out there
with, what was it again, a ghost they were talking like. Salt and burn. Why did
they want to cook ghosts? They couldn’t taste very good. But they were back
eventually and Sam stayed under the covers until he could hear his dad’s heavy
snoring in the bed next to them. Both he and Dean were still sharing a bed,
small enough for it even though his brother was getting so big; Sam felt like
he’d never catch up.
There had been some mumbled talking and the clink of weapons but once he heard
Dad snoring, Sam was up and sneaking towards the crease of light at the
bathroom door. It didn’t sound like Dean was in the shower so he snuck in, the
door unlocked, and there was Dean without his shirt on standing on his tip toes
to look at a big patch of deep purple bruises up his side. Sam’s eyes went wide
and he gasped, clasping a hand over his mouth when his brother spun around and
glared at him. But Dean didn’t push him away, instead he pulled Sam in and
closed the door behind him. Sam was right, Dean was out there getting himself
hurt, it wasn’t fair to his brother.
“Sammy, what’re you doin still up?”
“De, are you okay?”
Sam reached out with small fingers, worried, all the times Dean made him feel
better, feel warm under his ribs, he wanted to make his brother feel better too
cause now he was the one who was hurt.
“S’fine, me and dad killed that ghost together, we dug up the grave Sam, and
then the sucker showed up all angry and it was like whooosh and I was like ‘dad
watch out’ and then it came for me, and he threw me against a tree but Dad lit
the monsters bones on fire and it just phwesh disappeared. It was so cool.”
Dean’s enthusiasm was only tempered when Sam touched a wide bruise on his side,
a little ‘ow’ escaped but he frowned and swatted at Sam’s hand.
“I don’t like these.” Sam looked up at his big brother, wavering with a thought
to lean forward a little more.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Here, I’ll make it better.”
Sam ducked forward and pressed a kiss to Dean’s ribs, cause kisses always made
things better, and Sam felt better too because he got to help his brother,
leaning back with a bright smile on his face and it matched the one on Dean’s
lips, warm and happy.
“C’mere squirt.”
Dean pulled Sam into a hug and kissed the rumpled hair on his head. He was damn
proud of his first successful like for real out in the field hunt with dad, but
his side throbbed and his breath was painful; it really did feel just a little
better though to have his brother with him.
-
There are many more nights that Sam stays up until his eyes burn and he can’t
read the numbers on the alarm clock anymore, waiting for his dad and his
brother to come home, falling asleep when the worry that sours his stomach
isn’t enough to keep his eyes open. It’s a school night and he should be
sleeping, but so should Dean. No, this hunt is too important, Dad needs back
up, there aren’t other hunters around, the werewolf’s already gotten four
people. And Dean was only too happy to go, Sam could see it, although his face
was perfectly serious while Dad was talking to him about it, he stood there
with his feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back, chin raised, face
still as he nodded, but Sam saw it in his eyes, how much his brother liked
going hunting. Sam didn’t like it.
He didn’t like seeing bruises and cuts on his brother. Of course, his Dad got a
lot those too, but since Sam could remember there was always something distant
and wrong about Dad. Dean though, he remembered when his brother didn’t have
marks all over his body from a hunt. Even when they had some down time there
were scars already, Sam felt like his brother was too young to have scars like
that, like the puckered burn against the back of a shoulder or a silver gash
down his side. Sam didn’t want that for Dean and it only hurt more because he
could remember when it was different.
Of course, Sam was just coming into puberty at thirteen and his body was
regularly flooded with feelings of anger and hopelessness, and most of it was
directed at his father, there wasn’t many other constants in his life and he
refused to sling any of it Dean’s way. He was too young to question their lives
deeply, but mature enough to really analyze and pick apart the new things that
swirled in his body that was growing taller every day.
He had managed to fall asleep this night, but it barely felt like his eyelids
had closed when the door to their small studio apartment opened with a clatter.
Up and aware in under a second Sam scrambled from the cramped room he shared
with Dean into the single communal space that served as kitchen, living room
and dining room to see his brother limping with a grimace on his face and blood
running down a leg, one arm slung over his Dad’s shoulder, still trying to
twist his lips up in a cocky grin. Dad didn’t look too happy and Sam could tell
how harried he was by the jerkiness of his movements. Sam moved quickly to
close the door behind them and fetch the emergency kit under the kitchen sink.
Everything passed in quick strobe shots, tearing open supplies, his brother
pantless on a wood chair and his thigh ripped open in several parallel gashes
deep enough to see a glisten of fat through the blood that wouldn’t stop
spurting, Sam stood wide eyed and passed everything to his father, holding his
hands over his brother’s wounds to keep it pressed together, fetching water,
scurrying around replying on automatic every time his father gave him a
command.
Sam finally blinked, he was sitting on his bed, coming back down from the
adrenaline rush with hands scrubbed red raw, oh yeah he had gotten a lot of
blood on them, his hair hung limply with the sweat that soaked it, his ramrod
posture that had been maybe the only thing keeping him up suddenly slumped
forward, exhausted. Dad nudged the door to their room open and somehow Dean was
still limping next to him as he was deposited on the bed. Dad pulled the
blankets up around him, patting him three times on a shoulder with a mumbled,
“You did a good job son.” before he turned and gave Sam a pat on the head with
a nod and a faint smile, walking out the door and rustling around in the
kitchen. Sam could hear the clink of bottles.
Dean grunted and rolled over, pulling the blanket away from his thigh. Sam
could barely see him in the crack of light from the door that was parted a few
inches. His head lolled over, whites of his teeth showing in what might be a
grimace or a grin when he said, “Hey, Sammy....”
Sam knew there was more to that statement but he doubted Dean even had it in
him to talk much at that point. He got up and crossed the few feet to his
brother’s bedside, sitting on the edge for a second before pulling his legs up
and squirming next to Dean, being mindful of his leg.
“You going to be ok?”
“S’no biggie.”
Sam bit his lower lip, one hand reaching out to settle on Dean’s stomach. It
had been years since they were small enough to sleep in the same bed, years
since Dean had treated him like a kid making sandwiches for him and kissing his
bruises and teaching him all sorts of things like a cool big brother. Sam felt
like Dean was just getting to other end of what he had been hovering on
himself, and he didn’t like that gulf. He wanted things to be like they were
before. He didn’t want Dean to be hurt. He wanted to be able to touch his
brother again, like all the times he’d get piggie back rides or Dean would
twine their legs together at night, but it felt like something else, something
too warm and too heavy in his stomach and he couldn’t understand it.
“I could kiss it and make it better......”
Sam started sitting up and scooting a little, fully intent on doing something
to make Dean smile, to get him to make any face other than the one he had now,
which Sam could see this close was all just lines he shouldn’t have pulling in
tight while he tried to stay quiet. Dean grabbed him though, maybe Dean didn’t
like his suggestion, maybe he wasn’t a stupid kid anymore like Sam and it
wouldn’t work, he was too tough for that, he didn’t need it. Sam fell on his
brother’s chest when he was pulled down instead of pushed away, strong arms
circling around his slender frame, a kiss press against the top of his head.
“That’s not how it works, I’m supposed to kiss you.”
Sam squirmed and tilted his face up, pecking Dean on the cheek, afraid he had
accidentally touched his thigh when his brother started breathing deeper and
they stayed like that a minute, hands against his back strong and his brother
so warm, face finally softening.
“Thanks Sam, s’better, you should go to sleep now.”
Dean released his hold but Sam just lowered his head to his brother’s chest
again, curved out and away from his legs but pressed against his torso.
“Kay, night Dean.”
He could feel his older brother’s fingers twitching like they were going to
push him away again, Sam knew he had meant Sam should go to sleep in his own
bed, but he didn’t care. Eventually Dean’s hands closed around his back in
between his shoulder blades again and he felt another small kiss on the top of
his head.
 
-
Sam is only fifteen and sometimes he thinks he’s too young to go out hunting
with his dad and his brother. He doesn’t really want to and it has nothing to
do with age, but at the same time he really does want to because it means he
can help Dean. Although, it’s usually Dean who has to help him. Sometimes he
just thinks because they’ve been doing this for so long Dad and Dean never stop
to question it anymore. But Dad had to have known something else before this,
and Dean, well he doesn’t really know what it’s like for Dean. But it’s so damn
frustrating that he seems to be the only one to question any of it, to want to
sit still and stay somewhere for once, to want to do well in school. It’s
frustrating he seems to be the only one to think their weird family unit isn’t
normal and that it’s dangerous. Dangerous in ways other than the blatantly
obvious physical kind of danger. But he still goes hunting when Dad says it’s
an easy enough hunt to give him some good practice.
Well, it was supposed to be an easy hunt, armed to the teeth with silver they
had cornered a shapeshifter and Sam was supposed to just hang back and block
the entrance while Dad and Dean took it down, but the monster was going after
Dean and it had huge fucking claws, why the fuck it would have claws Sam
doesn’t know but he’s lurching forward, Dean’s got himself turned around in the
tussle and his back is exposed, Dad coming from the opposite direction, but Sam
crashes into the monster before it can get to his brother and he tumbles down
with a sharp tearing pain in his shoulder and everything happens too fast, he
can’t keep track of what’s going on but the heavy weight across his body tenses
and slumps forward on him, then Dean is pushing the body aside and it must be
dead and someone is shouting at him and his whole arm is wet and hot before he
realizes he’s being pulled up and Dad is examining him. Sam mumbles that he’s
okay, just a scratch, and Dean is dragging him back to the car where the
emergency kit is while Dad takes care of the body.
Dad was just dad, Sam always found it hard to get a read on the man, there may
have been something like pride in his eyes but mostly Dad just looked bone
tired anymore, like he was stuck in a fog he could never wake up from and the
only time his eyes were clear was when he was hunting. Dean though, once the
initial concern had dissipated when Sam was patched up and it was only a few
stitches that he needed, Dean did seem proud of him; Sam found it odd, but he
knew Dean enjoyed hunting and he guessed his brother was happy to have Sam
along.
They were settled back in the motel, it was summer time and school was out,
that meant more traveling chasing hunts from town to town. Their dad had split
after he deemed Sam was taken care of, or just after he decided Dean would take
care of him, it was hard to tell. Sam knew where the man went, he smelled
enough like a bar when he came back and yeah Sam knew what liquor and smoke
smelled like. He hated it. It wasn’t too bad this night though, cause Dean was
babbling on energetically about their hunt and how well Sam did.
Sam had only his boxers on, his shirt discarded while his shoulder was being
mended, his dirty pants were tossed aside because they were gross. Dean had
shrugged his shirt off too, the ac unit in the motel was broken and it was a
thick muggy kind of hot in the southern summer. Sam frowned slightly when a
cold bottle was pressed in his hand, just beer though, and he guessed it would
be well enough to take his mind off things. Though his brother did a pretty
good job of distracting him too.
He wondered if this was all Dean wanted, violence and liquor and the wind
whipping through the impala driving from every shitty town they left behind.
Sam wanted so much more. Sometimes it scared him how much he wanted things that
he shouldn’t have. Like how he missed the way Dean would kiss him when he got
hurt as a little kid. Hell, he felt like he was still a little kid sometimes.
And he sometimes felt like Dean was more of a father figure to him than his
father actually was. That just made the heavy thing that settled under his ribs
even stranger and more confusing to Sam. He couldn’t define what Dean was to
him. Sitting under the dim lights while the beer smoothed out the jagged edges
of adrenaline and pain in his system he could define what he wanted. He figured
Dean thought of him as a young innocent brother, but Sam was far from naive and
he knew what was twisting inside of him he just wasn’t sure he wanted to let it
out.
Then Dean was sitting too close to him, bright white teeth in his easy smile,
plump lips wet with beer, hair spiked up with sweat and muscles flexing with
his eager motions. It wasn’t fair, how Sam had to go through puberty all
awkward growing bones and angular lines while his brother was defined and
confident and fucking oblivious. Dean kept babbling on about things Sam didn’t
care about until he was squinting and leaning forward and Sam caught the tail
end of a question.
“.....sure you’re okay there Sammy?”
Sam tried to snap out of his stupor, he thought too much, it was annoying.
“Yeah, sorry, shoulder just hurts.”
“Did the best I could. It’s really not that bad, doubt you’ll have much of a
scar there.”
“Yeah, thanks, I just...”
“Just what?”
“It’s nothing.”
Dean must not have liked how he looked at anything but his brother’s
ridiculously green open eyes, they way he twitched and hunched, finishing his
beer with a long pull.
“Aw, c’mon, you’re getting too old for this. What you want me to give your
ouchy a kiss?” Dean laughed, tilting back in his chair, obviously joking but
Sam couldn’t laugh with him. “Damn it’s been years since I sung you a song and
tucked you in to sleep huh?”
There were times Sam thought Dean missed being able to take care of him like
that, with more exposed gentleness, cause little kids were allowed to be like
that but grown men weren’t. Well they weren’t really men yet, least Sam didn’t
think of himself like that. He felt like he was stuck in a weird limbo, didn’t
have what Dean used to be to him, felt like they were supposed to end up
somewhere else but all they had was strained emotion masked by sarcasm and
goading. Sam was sick of it, sick of wanting, sick of being a goddam teenager
and he was only halfway through. Impulsively, he surged forward and took a kiss
from Dean, almost pushing his brother back in his chair, just a closed mouth
press before Sam stood up abruptly, going to the fridge for another beer.
“Uuh.....”
“Yeah I know, sorry.” Sam was moping, he was perfectly aware of the fact but
that didn’t mean he had to stop. He passed one beer to Dean and sat back in his
chair with the other. Why he was even drinking beer when he didn’t like it and
he didn’t like what he saw it do his father he didn’t know, maybe it’s just
cause Dean was too and cause it did somehow manage to make his shoulder hurt
less, or at the least it made him care less.
Then something warm slid up his leg and settled on him - Dean’s leg, coming up
and resting next to one of his, foot propped on the crossbar of the chair and
his brother was leaning over him pressing a kiss to the shoulder that was sewn
up.
“S’all right. But I’m supposed to kiss you where it hurts. That’s how it
works....”
Sam’s hands, no longer small but not quite as large as his brother’s rough
calloused ones, were quick to grip on Dean’s hips, pulling him down and it
wasn’t too hard to get his brother in his lap since he was only standing on one
leg. Sam was already almost as tall as his brother, almost, but no where near
as muscular. His body was stretched out thin, hard and lithe but slender, with
Dean sitting in his lap he only came up to about the chin, having to lean back
and look up, both of them stuck frigid for a moment looking at each other.
“What if I want you to kiss me somewhere else?”
“Yeah? Where else?”
Sam tilted his head up farther in response, both hands still gripped on Dean’s
skin, smooth and hot under him, waiting. He didn’t have to wait long, Dean
pressing down against him, barely connected at the lips and hovering on the
precipice of something large and unnamable and absolutely terrifying, but Sam
knew he was going to jump, he felt like he always knew he would he just didn’t
know when. Pushing his tongue out against his brother’s lips that parted for
him, he tasted the bitter of beer and felt quiet heat before Dean was pushing
back, gentle like he always was with Sam but there was something quivering like
unspoken promises and Sam had no idea what it was but he wanted it.
It felt like the ghost of wet dreams he never really remembered and Sam briefly
wonders if the shapeshifter hurt him more than he thought and he was knocked
out on painkillers. Because he can understand his idolization of his older
brother who has always been there for him and with him, but he has no idea why
Dean would want to kiss a scrawny kid like him. He can’t really be bothered to
think much longer on it though when there’s hands tripping up his sides and
circling round his back to press the curve of his spine and he realizes not
only is his painfully stiff erection tenting out from his boxers but his hand
has slipped into his brother’s lap where there’s a hard line under the denim
and he doesn’t even fumble when he pops the button and pulls Dean’s cock out.
Sam’s afraid if he stops they’ll never start again, if he says anything his
brother will have a moment to think and will pull away, so he just keeps
kissing Dean and palming him until his brother shifts and he feels the elastic
band of his boxers pulled down; shifting on the chair to let it slip under his
ass, squirming desperately rutting up into Dean’s hand once it’s wrapped around
him, Sam doesn’t stop through the panting and erratic slide of skin until he
feels something hot and wet on his chest and all his muscles go taut as his
body arches up and he comes on his brother.
Dean’s head drops lightly to his injured shoulder, small kisses placed around
the edge of the wound, Sam’s hands wrapped up around his brother and he can
feel the way Dean shivers at his touch.
“Feel better baby brother?”
It’s one of those achingly clear moments Sam knows something has changed, and
he never wants it to go back. “Yeah, thanks De.”
***** Bramble Briars *****
-
Four years, it had been four years since Sam ran away for college. Sure, he
could tell himself that as soon as he turned eighteen he was legally an adult
and it was normal for eighteen year olds to go to college. He still felt like
he was running away. It might not have been fair to Dean, and he was pretty
certain his brother didn't discern Sam running away from Dad and how Sam was
definitely not running away from Dean, but he had to get out. What wasn't fair
in the slightest was that Dean not once attempted to contact him or visit him.
Actually, scratch that, Dean was emotionally constipated and it was perfectly
normal for him to stay distant. But when Dean came dragging him away from the
life he'd painstakingly built for himself over four years to find their father
who had been missing for days - Sam was gone four years and not a fucking word,
Dad goes missing for a few days and Dean thinks it's important enough to drag
him back kicking and screaming - that was not fucking fair.
Sam would resent his brother more for the blind loyalty and unwavering faith in
their father if he wasn't so tired. And not physically tired, it might be funny
how his body remembered the best positions to sleep in the Impala despite being
longer and broader now, but it was actually kind of depressing. His mind was
just fogged, as many times as Dean repeated it wasn't his fault, it kind of
was, Jess didn't deserve what happened to her, even if Sam didn't cause the
fire he was what attracted the monster that did it, he was guilty by
association because it was after Sam and it was probably by extension after
everything he loved.
Sam dreamed about her a lot, there were some nice dreams of her sweet smile and
the way she'd curl her body around Sam in the quiet content moments, but most
of the dreams turned fast and ended in fire, he'd wake up choking on non
existent smoke. Dean would press a glass of water into his hand and go back to
sleep, he never complained.
Sam still held stubbornly to a bitter sense of anger towards Dean - sometimes
he felt it wasn't his fault so much as Dean's, that maybe his brother lead
whatever it was back to him when he came to drag Sam to that hunt, but he
didn't want to think like that - until he saw Dean one day, coming out of the
motel bathroom shirtless and Sam noticed the evidence of four years time
written on his brother's torso with new scars. Sam knew all the familiar ones,
the ones Dean came home with when Sam was too young to go out, the one's Dean
had gotten on hunts they did together, Sam knew the stories behind those but
there were new ones, jagged lines, a patch of faint pink from a burn, a half
crescent of puncture wounds. All the scars, all the marks and things he knew of
Dean's body, all the hardness of their lives that was etched into his brother's
skin that he wished he could kiss away, it changed, new stories that don't
involve Sam, wounds he wasn't there to tend to.That was when Sam realized there
were so many things that could have happened and Dean would have never come
back to him at all.
It's a little easier to settle back into it after a few months, Sam may not of
ever wanted to stay in this kind of life, passing through towns like disposable
napkins and getting more new scars for himself, but there's one constant that
warms him and that's Dean. He forgot how good it felt to save people too, even
if they didn't always get a thanks, the pride in his brother's eyes was enough.
He knew Dean had more love for the open road, but Sam was relearning the beauty
of endless horizons and new possibilities, without the blanketing pressure of
their father’s presence the world looked different through the Impala’s
windows. Farm fields stretching out over gently rolling land, cows and horses
scattered between fences, small towns with little main streets and hand painted
signs, Sam remembered how he would make up stories about these people’s lives
when he was young and how happy they must be. But he saw more than that now,
when they rolled through cities collapsing with whole sections of abandoned
industrial sections, through suburbs where the rows of identical houses could
hypnotize you. Sam found himself enjoying the stretch of endless roads with his
brother again but everything was as different as it was the same and it was
like he had to relearn what he used to know.
They settled down for a night after research in a decent motel that at least
had good water pressure; Dean drank a few beers before flopping into bed in his
boxers while Sam stayed up to read more, flipping through their Dad's journal
looking for clues that to be honest he didn't really want to find. When his
eyes started burning from staying up too late Sam finally went to bed in a
loose tee and boxers, Dean's steady breathing next to him interrupted by the
whir of cars outside. It didn't seem like any time passed at all from when he
closed to his eyes to when he felt himself being shaken awake from a vicious
nightmare. There was tacky sweat on his face when he raised a shaky hand to it
and his heart was beating too fast. The look on Dean's face as he leaned over
with a hand still half outstretched radiated concern.
"Had a bad one?"
Sam ran his hands over his eyes and sat up hunched over his lap. "Yeah."
The bed dipped and he swayed towards his brother's body, Dean sitting with one
leg folded up on the bed and the other hanging over, his posturing saying 'do
you want to talk about it', without his lips actually saying 'do you want to
talk about it' because Dean never would.
Sometimes Sam wanted to talk about it, he wanted to tell Dean about how great
Jess was, about how he actually enjoyed college, enjoyed the challenge and the
routine, hell Sam even went to a few keg parties his friends dragged him to, he
knew Dean would approve of that. But he didn't want to talk about it. Because
it was a part of his life that had nothing to do with Dean or Dad or hunting or
any of those things that were all that Dean knew. He knew his brother scorned
his desire for a normal life, Sam didn't really take it personally, mostly he
felt that Dean didn't like it because Dean knew he would never fit into
'normal'. So Sam didn't want to talk about that, but he didn't want to go back
to bed when Dean was sitting in front of him, face softer with lingering sleep
and the world was dark with night, it was peaceful even in a roadside motel.
Sam leaned forward and traced a finger over the crescent curve of puncture
marks on Dean's shoulder, he could guess what had created that, but he wanted
to talk and to hear Dean's stories and to fill the gaps of the missing years
with the life he was going to settle back into. "What's this from?"
Dean pulled his other leg up onto the bed, facing Sam more, a grin lighting up
his face. "Oh that one, there was this crazy pair of vamps in Minnesota , fuck
knows what they were doing in the middle of no where......"
Sam felt himself relaxing again as he listened to his brother's story, Dean
regaling him enthusiastically and Sam was certain there were embellishments in
there but it made a small smile tug at his lips. He found himself leaning back
and laying down as he listened. When Dean was done with his vampire story, Sam
traced another new scar and was told another story, then another. By the third
story Dean was stretched out on the bed leaning against the headrest. By the
fifth story Sam was splayed across the bed with one leg hanging off and his
head tucked on his brother's lap. When he nodded off at the sixth story he
barely felt Dean scoot lower on the bed and curl up next to him.
-
Dean was starting to get comfortable again, well as comfortable as he could be
given his line of work and the nasty demon they were hunting. Sam was smiling
more, joking more, shoving back at him and playing like they used to. Even
though dad was still flying solo most of the time, it was a better rhythm than
Dean had in a while. He didn’t want to think too close about how easy it was to
slip back in step with Sam, didn’t want to think too hard about why his brother
left, think about all Sam had lost with Jess, about how his brother was so
different sometimes he seemed like a stranger while at the same time Dean could
see the concerned ten year old kid that kissed his bruises after a bad hunt. He
didn’t know where he stood with Sam anymore but he had a mission to latch his
focus on and with the distraction of finding Dad he didn’t have to think about
it too hard.
Then shit just had to hit the fan, then flew through and hit another. Dean
could, and would, deal with his father’s death, even though the circumstances
were fucking strange and he wasn’t sure what entirely had gone down and the
fact that Sam was holding back on that pissed him off, he could deal and he
could get over it eventually. But his dad had actually fucking told him that
there was a very real possibility he would have to kill Sam some day because
for some reason his brother was supposedly going to go all dark side on them,
no, fuck that, not happening. That was not the parting instructions he wanted
to honor from his father.
He was pissed, he was way beyond pissed, and Sam had the gall to get his stupid
ass drunk and manipulate Dean into promising he would go through with it when
it was time – then actually remember it when he was sober – both of the people
he actually cared about telling him he’d have to man up and kill his brother
some day, Dean wasn’t going to do it. He knew he couldn’t.
It was strained and awkward between them a lot of the time. Sam was just
starting to heal from the wounds left behind after Jess and now he was tossed
into this, although Dean knew he probably couldn’t manage to give much a shit
over their father dying other than the perfunctory duty of a son, but he knew
Sam and he knew this crap with the demon and his destiny and all that shit he
couldn’t believe in, he knew it was eating away at Sam. Maybe Dean was using
Sam as a distraction now, because he didn’t want to think about himself or have
to deal with his own problems. Sam was more important and he was something Dean
could work on.
He tried to cheer Sam up, tried to push him into girl’s arms and get him laid
and let him blow off some steam and feel normal, nothing like a good romp to
boost your ego and push everything back for a few moments and you can just
breathe. But Sam was never interested. A lot of times Dean figured it was cause
he really wasn’t over Jess yet, but a small little dirty part of him buried
deep inside just wanted it to be because of the way Sam would look at him
sometimes, usually when his brother thought he wasn’t looking, would look at
him and even though he’d changed so much since he was eighteen Dean could swear
he recognized that look in his eyes that was so focused.
It was hard, failing at being a good son, trying to be a good brother.
It was his fault that one night, he knew – of course it was usually his fault –
but he drank more than he should, he watched his brother more than he should,
he laughed harder than he should because he didn’t know what else to do and it
was all wrong. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sam, not like he had anyone else
in his life that wasn’t another face passing by, and damn but did Sam grow up.
It was something he tried to avoid thinking about the past year since he picked
his brother up at Stanford, but Sam grew up, and up, face still soft and young
but he was tall and broad and muscled, he wasn’t a little kid anymore, though
he was still Dean’s younger brother and that should turn him off but it really
didn’t.
Sure they’d messed around a little before, they’d always been really close as
kids, when they started growing into their bodies and swimming in hormones it
got all kinds of weird, but Dean told himself they never had sex – cause
handjobs don’t count. He couldn’t really take it that far though, when Sam
still had puppy fat in his cheeks and his limbs were knobby at the joints and
his chest was flat like everything else. He had pecs now, muscles, lithe and
lean and whipchord thin but when Sam moved around you could see them, curves
and bulges of muscles over the angular planes of his body, so much more than
the flatness of pubescence, and god but Dean couldn’t take his eyes off Sam
tonight.
Maybe it was too much whiskey and everything else he had been sucking down he
couldn’t remember at this point, but the world was humming a bit and he kept
spacing out, snapping back to reality when Sam’s sharp eyes were focused on
him. Fuck it was just past midnight at this shit hole of a bar Dean had dragged
them to and he was already pitifully drunk. He should object when Sam’s big
hands pulled him up, grip strong on his shoulder, when Sam turned him around
and shoved him out and into the Impala, he should object cause Dean had plenty
of control, he was fine, it wasn’t that late, but he didn’t really want to
object to anything when Sam touched him.
Dean stumbled out of the car, getting halfway to the motel door before the
world tipped and he felt Sam’s arm around him again leading him forward. He
wasn’t black out drunk, he could tell that much, just a little uncoordinated,
but while Sam was locking the door behind them he managed to lurch forward and
catch a hip on the small table, reeling sideways to avoid that he knocked his
knee on the bedpost in just wrong spot, falling forward onto it with a slurred
‘son of a bitch’, rolling onto his back and pulling his knee up to his chest.
Sam just looked at him like he was pitiful, which yeah he kind of was, but it
wasn’t just his knee that had him getting a little glassy eyed, all the stupid
reasons he wanted to drink still crashing around in his head, and he had to
take a few deep breaths to steady himself, but apparently Sam wasn’t going to
let him off easy.
Rolling into the dip where Sam sat on the bed next to him, Dean found himself
bumping up against his brother, and his hands started clenching into Sam’s
shirt without him meaning to. “Sammy, why’d you leave me Sammy.....”
His brother’s voice was pinched and tight, “I didn’t leave you Dean. I had to
get away from Dad, you know that, it wasn’t about you.”
“Dad’s not here anymore and I, I can’t do it without you, you can’t leave me
again, you can’t, s’not gonna happen, I can’t-“
“Dean.”
Looking up at the sharpness in that, a command in his name, he responded well
to commands.
“Listen, I’m not going anywhere, I promise I’ll do everything I can to defeat
this, okay, you’ll be fine, it’ll be fine.”
Broad warm hands settled on him, one curling over his side the other behind his
head, fingers curling through his hair and it really was kind of soothing,
course he’d probably swat his brother away for being such a sap if he was
sober, hell he was being a sap, it legitimately frightened him sometimes how
much he needed his brother. Summoning what reserves of coordination he might
have left, Dean hauled himself up with hands on that big sasquatch frame and
pushed Sam down, tackling him onto the bed and laying over him, needing the
reassurance of his presence, wanting his attention.
Sam fell with a huff but scooted up on the bed, hands going to Dean’s hips and
helping steady his brother, straddled over his lap, and he really shouldn’t be
letting Dean get this close, shouldn’t be getting hard in his pants, when Dean
was drunk out of his mind and more vulnerable than Sam had seen him in ages,
but it turned out that just made him want it more, to hear that Dean needed
him. His brothers hands were rough as they pushed under his shirt, lips wet and
sloppy where they mouthed at his neck. Sam was buzzed a little from the bar,
not enough he couldn’t drive, but if he could count himself as drunk then it
wasn’t so bad was it. He’d always wanted more from Dean, he wanted everything.
Pushing Dean’s flannel overshirt off, pulling his black tee up over his head
with a small amount of difficulty as his drunk brother didn’t want to take his
mouth off Sam’s neck, Dean eventually got with the program and sat up to shrug
his shirts off, pulling at Sam’s, tugging him up to take them off and pushing
him back down, falling sprawled over him skin to skin, and Sam could feel how
fast Dean’s heart was beating and how ragged his breath was, ribs expanding and
muscles tensing against him. Sam circled his arms around and fanned his fingers
out over the protrusion of shoulder blades, curling over shoulders and dipping
down to trace the curve of the spine, fingers pushing under the waist of jeans
to skim over Dean’s hips and the swell of his backside.
It was familiar and different, tempered by age and experience while heated by
high running emotions and stress, Dean’s body was almost just as he had
remembered it except for the smattering of new scars, but Sam’s body had
changed so much since they did this last, limbs longer and denser, he fit
around his brother’s body in new ways.
Dean was the first to go for the belts, holding himself up on one hand to the
side of Sam’s head, fingers tangled up in long hair, his other hand fumbling
with belt buckles and buttons, he’d done this drunk more than enough time to be
swift even if a little messy, pushing denim over the jut of Sam’s hips,
grinding his cock down against his brother’s while squirming and wriggling out
of pants. Sam helped, he was such a good brother, warm palms pushing over
exposed skin, hands gripping Dean’s ass and guiding him into a rhythm. Before
Dean could get too distracted he grabbed a condom and one of those little
single use packs of lube out of his pocket – he was always prepared whether
hunting for monsters or a good lay – dropping the items on the bed next to them
befor pants were shucked over the side of the bed.
Sam saw what he pulled out, looked at the two items, looked at Dean, looked
back at them, his hazel eyes big and Dean would think they were fucking
innocent but he knew better, but Sam just liked to make a big deal out of these
sorts of things, Dean figured he’d want to talk about it, want reassurances,
want to define it, and Dean couldn’t do that so he bent over and trapped Sam’s
lips with his, pushing his tongue past and twisting into Sam’s mouth, fervent
and fevered and so fucking needy but he didn’t care right, he couldn’t.
Dean pulled back first, chest heaving and cock twitching, rolling his hips down
while he took a moment to remember what balance was, grabbing up the lube and
almost tearing the pack in half instead of just taking the tab off the top,
slicking his fingers, and Sam just watched him, hands rubbing up his thighs,
closing one around his cock, fidgeting and uncertain. Dean was certain though,
what he wanted, what he’d wanted for years, widening his legs where he kneeled
over his brother and twisting his torso to reach behind himself, opening
himself up fast with two fingers while Sam jerked him off, free hand gliding up
and down his side.
When Dean couldn’t take it anymore, what he wanted right in front of him,
patient, Sam just laying with his hair splayed out around his head and his eyes
transfixed on Dean and his hands fucking everywhere, Dean rolled the condom
over Sam’s cock and scooted forward unsteadily to line himself up, Sam’s hands
coming to his thighs to guide him, lowering down on his lap and falling forward
to curl on his chest, Dean’s hands gripping onto his shoulders, rocking his
hips back and forth with small motions while he adjusted breath caught
somewhere in the middle of his throat and a tense line between his shoulders
until Sam soothed his hand up Dean’s back, murmuring something in his ear he
couldn’t make out, lips against the curve of his ear and breath hot over skin
slick with sweat.
Sam gasped and arched up when Dean took him in, he always thought Dean would
fuck him, his brother always took control, taught him new things, lead point,
but then Dean was stretching himself on his own fingers and sinking down, tight
and hot and Sam felt like nothing would ever be as right as this, as dirty as
it still made him feel, he was safe in Dean’s arms, it was comfortable and
easy, too easy. Running his hands in circles up Dean’s back, he dug his heels
into the mattress and thrust up to meet the small pushes of Dean’s hips,
pressing their bodies flush together, his brother’s cock a hard line between
their bodies, barely moving but he didn’t want to let go or give any room, he
just wanted to stay sunk deep and clinging to the only person that really knew
who he was.
It didn’t last long, years of frustration and desperate need dissolving in
sweat and come, grinding together insistently and holding on tight, Dean
stifling his moaning in the crook of Sam’s neck and Sam whispering things he’d
never say in the light of day into Dean’s short hair, both staying pressed
together even when their cocks softened and their breathing slowed to steady,
but eventually Sam rolled Dean over and curled against him, pulling up the
corner of blankets, refusing to part even though they were sticky and dirty,
just too bone weary and aching behind his ribs he needed to keep Dean with him
and didn’t know if his brother would be there when he woke up.
-
His brother made a deal with a demon for Sam, traded his own life for Sam, and
it’s pretty ironic because Sam was supposed to be the one to die. He wasn’t
smart enough or clever enough to find a way to save Dean from that, the last
year they shared a painful tension between them like fabric stretched until it
just ripped and frayed and he couldn’t line the edges up anymore, Dean drifted
away from him before he even made it to hell.
Sam didn’t know how to deal with that, and he kept looking, even after the
hounds took his brother Sam tried so goddam hard he took what little help he
could find, what little comfort, and maybe if he wasn’t so lost drifting
without his brother he’d of been able to see straight but it turns out he
didn’t know how to cope, and Ruby slipped in with the alcohol and violence and
she just fit there.
Then Dean comes back from hell. All the stories Sam could trace on his body are
gone. Except for the hand print on his shoulder. It reminds Sam he couldn't
save Dean, he never made it, wasn't strong enough, wasn't good enough. It's
funny, Sam was always the one hopeful enough to believe in angels, but here he
is now corrupted with demon's blood and Dean has the mark of a celestial
creature on his shoulder and it's the only scar he has anymore.
His brother makes jokes about being ‘re-hymenated’ body and Sam just rolls his
eyes, he’s not taking the bait on that one, he can’t, he feels even more
tainted and corrupt by what he’s done with Ruby then he ever did with what he
committed with his own brother, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to, it’s
power and it’s control and Sam just knows he can use it for good. Dean doesn’t
believe that though, he catches the side glances, the narrowed eyes, the way
Dean tries to keep track of him. But there’s something in his brother’s eyes he
doesn’t recognize anymore, a hardness, and he won’t talk about it, refuses to
even acknowledge it, keeps saying he doesn’t remember and it’s bullshit.
They just lie to each other, Dean lies about hell, Sam lies about Ruby, and
when he sees Dean without a shirt, smooth planes and lightly freckled skin,
it’s missing that crescent shaped mark of punctures, missing the thick line
across the thigh, it’s missing so much of their history and Sam doesn’t know
how to bridge that gap.
-
Dean thinks he might just punch every guy named Chuck that he ever meets for
the rest of his life. Bad harlequin novels with airbrushed covers and creepy
conventions with look alikes aside, it only partially raises his hackles that
this shit even exists in the first place. And if 'fans' of Chuck's godawful
writing want to come to their own conclusions about just what kind of brotherly
or not so brotherly relationship Dean and Sam have, that's weird but again only
part of the problem.
What really fucking irritates Dean from what he's seen is how people seem to go
about indulging in this 'fantasy' world with such glee and eager interest. He
could only stomach so much of what Sam showed him from internet research. If
those people had to actually live his life for a few days they'd run screaming
for the hills. It wasn't fun. It wasn't exciting. It wasn't 'romantic'. It was
all pain and blood and desperation and it was never enough.
Dean knew how to deal with ghosts, shapeshifters, vampires, werewolves,
witches, all manner of creepy crawly bumps in the night - hell he was even
getting a good hold on demons - but fucking angels and prophets and this
apocalyptic destiny crap was just bullshit. It made him nervous that so much of
their lives was down on paper, out in circulation, being dissected and
discussed. For his whole life, he'd lived in the shadows and covered his
tracks, become someone else with an alias and a fake ID, he was trained and he
was damn good at disappearing, blending in, being what he needed to be and
when. These stories stripped him of that, laid his life open, for anyone - or
anything - that could figure out two plus two, they had a whole history of
information about Sam and Dean that could be used against them, knowledge
really was power, and that made Dean feel exposed. That made him fucking angry.
So if he was a little more pissy than usual, if he was a little twitchy in the
way he stepped around his brother and maintained a distance that usually wasn't
between them, it was understandable, cause he was spooked. And if Sam got his
sad little puppy dog eyes and wanted to blame it on himself, think Dean was
disgusted with them or what people thought of them, that was fine. Because
immaturity be damned, Dean was still fucking pissed about Ruby. It took him
months to be able to look Sam in the eye for more than a few seconds , even
longer to fall back into a hand on the shoulder looking over at his research or
fingers brushing passing weapons back and forth. Dean still thought about her
taking his brother away and corrupting him and twisting him. But if he thought
long and hard enough about it, he knew it was in Sam all along and Ruby just
slipped in when Dean wasn't able to keep an eye on him, even without her Dean
knew Sam still struggled with it.
All stilted semi connected whatever they were that was starting to heal over
just a little bit, it all came screeching to a rusted whining stop again.
Because of some creepy books that made Dean want to crawl out of his skin.
Because he was being treated like a puppet and he refused to play along.
Because sometimes he didn't recognize Sam anymore. And worse, a lot of the
times he couldn't barely recognize himself. He let it all drown in cheap
whiskey until the world went soft and he could just forget.
He didn’t feel like he could trust Sam anymore, a chasm opened between them in
the chase to stop the apocalypse and they fall apart, years of everything they
were sloughing away like a slow eroding mudslide.
***** Brother have we strayed from each other? *****
-
Dean was right about Ruby. He was right, and he was fucking pissed off at his
brother, but he was pissed at himself too, because he didn’t stop it, he didn’t
manage to drag Sam away and in the end it’s on both their shoulders when
Lucifer’s free but Dean’s only going to yell and shout about Sam because he
can’t face what a failure he is. They were supposed to be fighting the good
fight, saving people, and in the end they sprung the devil free. It kept coming
up that it was Sam in the end, it was Sam that broke the last seal to let him
out, but Dean remembers that he was the one to break the first seal when he
stepped off the rack in hell. It’s on both of them. What a fine fucking pair of
hunters they make.
They separate for a few months but they come back together like there’s only so
much lead on the string that binds them together. Dean wants it to be like how
it always had been, casual contact, easy smiles, light hearted pranks, but
they’re on the road to the goddam apocalypse and all they seem to be good at is
getting dicked around by angels trying to use them like puppets and the only
company Dean wants at night is whiskey.
He still lets his brother into his bed. He might curl up on his side and give
Sam his back, but he doesn’t push Sam away. He might not turn over and run his
fingers through that stupid long hair when he hears quiet sobs, but he doesn’t
pull away when strong arms circle his waist and press him close. They’re so
fucking far away from where they used to be and Dean can’t even think about it
much less talk about it, but when it’s dark and quiet and his brother crawls
under the sheets Dean lets him.
-
When Dean gets dragged away from Lisa he can’t help the incessant thrumming in
his head that rings like warning bells telling him wrong, wrong, wrong,
something’s wrong with Sam. He thinks it, but of course Sam’s been in hell a
year so how could there not be something wrong. He’s just so glad to have his
brother back, even if it’s an echo of his brother, even if there are jagged
edges. Sam still has his dimpled smile and his too long limbs and his way of
pulling Dean in like a gravitation.
Then he finds out Sam hasn’t actually been in hell a year, he’s been fighting
with the Campbell’s and in all that time they haven’t figured out who actually
sprung Sam out of the box. So now he knows that something is fucking wrong with
Sam, deep down wrong, no going back wrong.
Dean gets pulled back in, goes hunting with his brother, tries to pretend like
the good ol’ days and if he could fake it hard enough to make it he would. Sam
doesn’t crawl under the sheets with him at night, doesn’t hug him with all the
warmth and strength he possesses or touch him with gentle concern; the way this
Sam touches is wrong, the way this Sam talks is wrong, and Dean barely contains
the panic under his skin because he hates not knowing what’s going on when it’s
so fucking monumental and close to home.
Sam doesn’t come to his bed anymore and some night’s Dean stays up trying to
figure his brother out but he never sees Sam sleep, and try as hard as he might
to stay up until he does see his brother tank out, it’s Dean that goes down
first. And when Cas shoves his hand in Sam’s abdominal cavity cause they learn
Sam hasn’t slept a goddam wink since he came back from hell, Dean doesn’t even
know how to process when Cas says Sam’s got no soul. Everything about his
brother’s behavior clicks into place and Dean doesn’t know if he can fail his
brother again.
They play along with Crowley, they cajole Death, the stakes are higher but the
game is essentially the same and the Winchester’s know how to play. Sam gets
his soul back and for the briefest flash of brilliant delusion Dean thinks it’s
going to be ok.
-
Cas broke Sam’s wall. That wall in his head that was holding Lucifer and the
Cage back, and probably all sorts of nasty shit Dean did not ever want to think
about. Yeah, that wall. It was broken. Sam would space out, stare off into
nothing, Dean once caught him sneaking out under the power of an hallucination
and shooting his gun into an empty warehouse. Well the warehouse wasn’t
entirely empty, Dean was in it, and Sam was still yelling at him like he didn’t
exist. No amount of alcohol was going to drown that out. Dean knew Sam wasn’t
sleeping much, if at all, he knew his brother was barely hanging on, but he
didn’t have a damn clue what he could do for Sam. It wasn’t a physical wound he
could stitch up or bind.
Dean woke up one night from his own lingering nightmares, they were staying at
a relatively nice motel this time at least, thick curtains drawn so barely a
sliver of street lamp light made it’s way inside. But he had good night vision
and he saw Sam’s form sitting upright in bed. He called Sam’s name out first so
he wouldn’t surprise his brother and flicked on one of the night lamps. Sam
just looked at him with wide eyes, clutching at his hand that he would dig his
thumb into, but the scar was healing over and probably didn’t give as much of a
kick as it used to. The panic filled eyes that darted around were definitely
not good.
Dean made his way over, sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, reaching out for his
hand and squeezing against the scar there too. “Hey Sammy, you manage to get
any sleep tonight?”
“...Dean?”
He sounded confused and far away. Dean sighed heavily, moving farther up on the
bed and shifting his grip up Sam’s arm. Finding the pressure point midway up
his forearm in the meaty tender part he dug his thumb in hard, grip iron tight
around Sam so he couldn’t pull away from it. Sam flinched and blinked but he
seemed a little more present.
“Shit, Dean, what?”
“Hey, hey Sam, do you remember where you are?”
At least Sam looked at him them, full on, eyes clearer and fixed on his face,
his brother looked so goddam tired and run ragged.
“Um, not really.... I’m sorry.”
“Got nothin to be sorry for.”
Sam’s face started to crumple, his arm still caught in Dean’s hand with the
sharp throb of pain at the pressure point pulsing up into his shoulder but it
was a good anchor for him to focus on, ground himself. His brow was drawn in
and wrinkled, eyes starting to water, heaving in a few deep breaths.
“I don’t know what to do........”
“S’all right Sammy, I got you, I always got you.”
Dean hated seeing his brother like this, hated all the things that broke him
open and scrubbed him raw, hated being unable to patch him up and put a smile
back on his face. He hated himself for not being able to figure it out.
Kneeling and crawling up, slinging one leg over one of Sam’s thighs, half in
his lap, keeping his hold hard, he let his other hand come up to rest at the
nape of Sam’s neck, fingers pushing through thick hair.
Sam leaned forward and latched on to him, his free arm circling around Dean’s
waist and grabbing the thin fabric of a tee shirt, lips pressing forward barely
trembling with a held back sob because he could still see things over Dean’s
shoulder, flickering and fleeting as they may be with the sharp point of pain
Dean gave him to focus on, there was a smile in the corner of his sight and a
snicker in his head that just wouldn’t go away.
Dean’s hand at the back of Sam’s neck curled over the skin, fingers digging in
there too and pinching the sensitive spot as Sam gasped and shivered under him,
the slack jawed kiss turning into something with more focus as Sam kissed him
with open pleading eyes and soft lips, whimpering against him, too undone and
worn down to care if he was letting himself be vulnerable, to care if he was
asking and needing and wanting instead of being the strong hunter he was
supposed to be.
Dean kept pushing him, kept asking, kept looking for pressure points to burn
down into Sam’s skin and pull him back out of his own mind into the physical
world. His brother sprawled beneath him, welcomed it, writhed under strong
fingers on sensitive nerves.
Shirts off, skin flush and hot against each other, Sam tipped back against the
bed and Dean straddled his waist fully, the older brother running his hands all
over the other’s chest and arms, pushing here and there, digging in with harsh
pressure and leaving a scattering of bruises. Skin flushed and sickly pale he
could tell Sam was loosing weight, couldn’t even take care of himself and Dean
was trying his hardest to keep it together and take care of both of them, he
couldn’t lose any more pieces.
Desperate and wild eyed, going against his every instinct to lay hands on his
brother in a harmful way, trying to bring him back, Dean would leave as many
new scars on Sam as he needed if he could get his Sam back. Sam’s mind. That
was Sam. Sam’s soul. His body, this body, wasn’t even the one Dean would patch
up and tuck into bed when they were little. This body was undone, killed,
burned in hell, it was remade and rebuilt. He couldn’t trace the scars he’d
known like photos in a photo book.
The only thing that seemed to bring Sam back was pain, and Dean could give him
that, he could bring Sam back and he could leave his mark like a claim on his
brother to retell their story, write it down fresh, what they are, what they
are together. Maybe Dean’s a little off kilter too, he never wants to hurt Sam,
but there’s never really a clear choice between blacks and whites anymore and
he’s starting to see too many greys. He thinks that a few scars will be easier
to see than the blank look in Sam’s eyes, or even worse, the panic.
So he gets a knife from his duffel bag, his brother’s arms reaching after him,
and he settles between Sam’s thighs. He leaves a ladder of bright red down
Sam’s ribs, and his brother bites off his scream, holds still, pulls Dean
closer when the knifes set aside and there’s so many things in Sam’s eyes he
can’t look at them all. But there’s more clarity there, focus sharp from
adrenaline, and Sam wraps his legs tighter, pushes his cheek against the side
of Dean’s face where he’s buried against Sam’s neck, whispers ‘thank you, thank
you’.
 
-
Sam dropped everything when Dean came back, from purgatory of all places. He
would have never made that guess in a million years, but he still felt stupid
for not having thought of it. He dropped everything he had painstakingly made
for himself in a year, dropped a woman he was starting to learn to love and a
dog that brought him back from the brink, gave him something to care for,
something to be there for. He dropped their home, he dropped it all for Dean,
to get back to him. But apparently it wasn't good enough still, and every time
Dean glared daggers his way, with slanted eyes and a hard line for a mouth, it
twisted deep and spiteful in Sam.
There was something vicious in Dean. It was more than all the rough edges, the
hardness, the wariness, the hunter that Sam had known his whole life. It was
something new. Dean was even more terse and reserved, he didn't flirt in diners
for bigger portions or with people they interviewed to get more secrets. He
didn't step close to Sam and bump their hips together or brush hands when they
walked. Sam didn't like it, but he didn't know what to do about it, he'd say he
wanted the old Dean back but which Dean was that - when he was a teenager and
still had some small amount of joy in his eyes, that Dean was so far removed
from him Sam couldn't tell up from down sometimes, did he want Dean when he was
fresh out of hell, or when Sam didn't have a soul and it didn't hurt to look at
his brother, or when he was sharing headspace with Lucifer and nothing
mattered. He didn't know what he wanted anymore, so he sulked and tried to get
Dean to open up again.
Like everything else in their lives, they usually took turns with drinking too,
when Dean got raucously drunk Sam would hold back with a couple beers and let
his brother drink himself to death - which he stopped complaining about because
death kind of lost it's meaning a few lives ago. And when Sam really need to
get sloshed, rare but every now and then he did, then Dean would hold back,
like they were taking shifts, keeping watch. But right now they were both
drunk, and it was dangerous.
As soon as Dean hit the bottle, Sam refused to stay sober with him, he'd had
enough of watching his brother who was not quite his brother so he poured
himself a glass too. That earned a look from Dean, lips downturned and eyes
displeased, but they were locked up in a motel room and their hunt was over so
really there was nothing to keep watch over but each other.
Unfortunately, drinking made Sam more talkative than usual. Seated in a rickety
motel chair in front of Dean passing liquor back and forth with his long legs
sprawled out and just ready to get tangled in Dean's, Sam nudged at his
brother's leg.
“Dean, why don't you ever let me get close anymore?"
Dean tipped back a shots worth and blinked at Sam. "Yeah we're not having this
conversation right now."
"Yes we are, or we're never going to have it, you've been pissy with me since
you got back, and I don't think I deserve to be punished like this."
"Oh you're the one being punished? Poor Sammy, his big brother doesn't want to
talk about barely hacking his way out of purgatory for a friggin year."
"That's not what I mean and you know it Dean. God, what are you even blaming me
for?"
“What am I...?!" Dean's face was shocked and angry, sitting up ramrod straight
in his chair."You fucking left me there for a year! You didn't look for me, you
didn't even try, you just what, you went off and found yourself a girl and
replaced me, you just dropped off the face of the earth! I'm the one with every
right to be pissed at you!"
Sam slammed a fist hard down on the table rattling the glasses. "Dammit Dean
you can't keep playing that card! I was alone, I had no idea where you were, I
had no clue where to even start, I had nothing!"
Dean shot to his feet, towering over Sam. "Don't even start with that, we've
gotten bigger and badder things done with less intel when we were just going on
determination and stubborn jackassery, and you didn't even look!"
Sam rose to the challenge, stepping up to Dean and looming over him. "If you
don't recall the last time I tried to save your ass when you went awol I drove
myself off a cliff and you weren't too happy about who I had managed to find
help with that time, you bitched about when I tried to find you before and
you're bitching about it now that I didn't. And you know what, you took time
off too when I went to hell, you don't get to be all high and mighty here
Dean!"
Dean didn't answer with more shouting, he threw a punch, hard and square on
Sam's jaw sending him reeling back and to the side, stumbling against another
chair before righting himself, swaying drunkenly with disbelief on his face.
"I don't think you want to continue this conversation Sam."
There was that something new and vicious in Dean, standing with his legs
slightly apart planted firm, knees loose and arms half raised, he was ready for
a serious fight, not a tussle, not a wrestling match, Dean wanted Sam's blood.
And Sam just wanted break that hard new veneer Dean had.
"I dropped everything the moment you showed up Dean, everything, just to come
back to you."
That wasn't the conversation Dean wanted, with words, Sam knew it, and he was
ready, slightly unsteady from alcohol but years of training and the sharp sour
rush of adrenaline had his feet planted when Dean lunged at him. He twisted to
throw Dean when their bodies collided, and Dean wrapped around him, pulling him
down. If they were sober they probably would have staid upright, but between
blinks Sam’s head was cracking against the floor and Dean was trying to
restrain his arms.
Sam dug his heels in to the floor and snapped his hips up and aside hard,
rolling with Dean as they knocked against furniture, setting a dresser
wobbling, breaking the leg on a chair. There was too much pain between them,
too much mistrust and betrayal, but etched deeper than recent transgressions
was the absolute and unyielding love they held for each other. It wouldn’t have
hurt as much without that.
They threw punches and they broke skin, bleeding against one another, they bled
into each other and all the festering years of lies and miles of separation
seeped through the wounds. Sam didn’t want to see his brother like this, didn’t
want to do this. Because they were supposed to be refuge and retreat for each
other against the world and it hasn’t been that way in too long. He wants to
remember what it is to kiss his brother with affection and care, to touch him
with gentle hands instead of curled fists.
-
Dean had to do it, he has no apologies for his actions, there was no way he was
going to let Sam go down. He said he would protect his brother, he told Sam to
stop, told Sam it would all be okay. Told Sam they could just back out of it.
Should of fucking known better Winchester. But he would make it all right,
however he could, in any capacity he could, because Sam was not going down for
it, not when Dean promised him that he’d be all right.
He can’t stop seeing the pain in Sam’s eyes, can’t stop hearing him ask who
Dean’ll trust over him next, he still relives it, Sam’s eyes red rimmed
bleeding out his arm skin slick with perspiration and a crack in his voice.
Dean’s brother. Sammy. He wouldn’t fail to protect him one more time, and if
that meant getting him help any way Dean could possibly do then dammit there
was no question.
It was a desperate bid, asking the angel’s for help, but Dean refused to let
Sam go down. Dean might have thought a little more about it, if he had the
time, if it wasn’t the only goddam card left in his hand. So yeah, he tricked
his brother, deceived him, let an angel use Dean’s face to get into Sammy’s
head and his soul, to get him to say yes. It was the only option Dean had,
cause letting Sam die was not an option.
At first it was easy enough to convince himself that he’d done the right thing.
He could tell them apart, Ezekial would talk to him and give him status
reports, the angel was there to look after Sam when Dean couldn’t, heal him in
ways Dean couldn’t. And Dean believed him. It was easy to, when he wanted to so
hard. But that didn’t last. Cause the pieces didn’t line up right and there was
no mistaking that Sam’s sickness wasn’t getting better.
Dean feels exhausted from being so wary and on edge around his brother, and the
angel inside him. This bone deep full body ache exhaustion isn’t a new concept
to Dean though. He sleeps fitfully if at all, spending too much time staying up
late and drinking, locked inside his own head. Yet, when Sam comes to his room,
they curl under the bed sheets together, and they let each other touch even
though they don’t talk about it anymore, don’t talk about much at all anymore.
It’s all kinds of wrong to Dean, because he doesn’t know if the angel is
watching, or hell if the angel might even be controlling, and he likes to think
he can still tell his Sam apart from Ezekial but there’s so many things Dean
doesn’t know anymore.
But Sam is a warm comforting weight, and he smells like Sam always smells, and
he sounds like Sam always sounds so Dean lets himself believe this one small
thing. Because he’s weak, and he’s selfish, and he knows that he’s nothing
without his brother. This brokenness between them, it’s nothing he can kiss and
make better, it’s not a scar that will fade with time.
Turns out Ezekial isn’t even the guys name, and Dean knew angels could lie,
knew they were really proficient at it actually, but he let himself be tricked
so he’s got no one to blame but himself. There’s not even anyone left to punish
him but himself.
-
There’s another scar on Dean’s arm. Sam only saw it once, his brother keeps it
covered under layers, even keeps that arm away from Sam, tries not to brush
against him or get too close.
There’s a new scar on Dean’s arm, his eyes are hard and cold, and it scares Sam
knowing what his brother is capable of. Sam doubts they’re both coming out of
the other end of this alive, business as usual really.
What’s not usual is that it’s got him thinking he might have to be the one to
stop his brother now. Ironic, isn’t it, when Sam was the one corrupted with
demonic blood and even their own father had ordered Dean to keep an eye on him,
kill him if it went too far. Now Sam’s not too sure what’ll happen if Dean goes
too far, he’s not too sure if he’ll even be able to stop him.
There’s a new scar on Dean’s arm and there’s nothing Sam can do it about it, he
doesn’t want to hear the story of how Dean got it, he doesn’t want to kiss it –
if they ever even touched more than just passing weapon’s back and forth
anymore – and he can’t stop thinking about it. Sam did his research, he wanted
desperately to be able to burn or flay the scar off and get rid of the damn
‘Mark of Cain’ bullshit, but there’s no ritual or magic knife that would remove
the mark from under his skin, from in his soul.
Sam tries hard not to think about the future, he doesn’t think there is one,
not for him and Dean together, they strayed too far from each other and got
lost. There’s no breadcrumb trail back to his brother’s side, back to his
heart. All they have are scars they don’t show each other anymore, and kisses
wilting ungiven behind sealed lips.
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