
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/904393.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Apocalypse, Angst, Resurrection, Afterlife, Sibling_Incest, Underage_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-30 Words: 3149
****** life's but a walking shadow ******
by larienelengasse
Summary
     There are times in one's life that stand out among the rest, moments
     that sometimes come back so viscerally that one feels them deep in
     their bones. Dean's moments are made of Sam.
Notes
     Because all work and no play makes for a grumpy me, I dashed this off
     this morning before diving back into academic hell. I am completely
     and totally unspoiled, so this is pure speculation and surely not
     what Kripke's planning. Contains spoilers from seasons two, four and
     up through 5.04. Thanks to the fabulous folks at the Supernatural
     Wiki for Sam and Dean's dialog from AHBL1, When The Levee Breaks, and
     The End. Title from William Shakespeare's Macbeth.
Title: life's but a walking shadow
Chapter/part: 1/1
Author: Larien Elengasse
Rating: MA (NC-17) for language and mature themes
Characters: Dean/Sam
Warnings: angst, character death, Wincest
Beta: me, myself and I
Wordcount: 2,966
Feedback: Would be much appreciated.
Authors note: Because all work and no play makes for a grumpy me, I dashed this
off this morning before diving back into academic hell. I am completely and
totally unspoiled, so this is pure speculation and surely not what Kripke's
planning. Contains spoilers from seasons two, four and up through 5.04. Thanks
to the fabulous folks at the Supernatural_Wiki for Sam and Dean's dialog from
AHBL1, When The Levee Breaks, and The End. Title from William Shakespeare's
Macbeth.
Disclaimer: Sam, Dean, and Supernatural are the property of Kripke and CW; I’m
just renting a little corner of their sandbox.
Summary: There are times in one's life that stand out among the rest, moments
that sometimes come back so viscerally that one feels them deep in their bones.
Dean's moments are made of Sam.
It's June, 2000 and they're in Billings Montana. Their dad's off God knows
where, on some hunt that he won't allow either Sam or Dean to participate in.
They're bored. NASCAR is on the TV but neither one of them is really watching.
Dean's pacing like a caged cat, wondering where John is, if he's okay.
"Dean," Sam says. His voice still sounds strange this way, after it's changed
and grown deep and kind of soft – Dean thinks that's what molasses would sound
like it if it could talk.
He turns and looks at Sam, all arms and legs still but filled out more. Sam's
arms are stretched over his head, long fingers lazily tapping the fake oak
headboard, legs open and draped across the bed in a kind of casual, accidental
pose.
"What?"
"Dad's going to be gone for awhile."
"Yeah. So?"
"You gonna pace like that the whole time?"
Dean sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair.
"Dean."
"What?" he says, almost annoyed.
"Dad's gone."
Sam's smiling, dimples and white teeth, a playful glint in his eye.
All the tension leaves Dean in a rush, like someone knocked it out of him. He
crosses the room and climbs on the bed, kneeling over Sam. He lays his hands on
him, starting at his wrists, thumbs rubbing the soft underside. He holds them
for a moment, feeling Sam's pulse speed up, then he runs his hands down long
arms, his heart rabbiting in his chest as he watches Sam's response, the way
Sam's eyes flutter shut, and his lips part, tongue darting out to wet them. He
continues down Sam's long sides, fingers sliding up and under the hem of his t-
shirt, then he pushes up, taking Sam's shirt over his head and off his arms.
The pads of his fingers graze Sam's warm skin, leaving goose-bumps in their
wake, over his hard nipples, over his ribs, one, two, three, into his concave
abdomen, circling his navel before arriving at the top of his jeans. He lingers
there, fingers caressing the skin just beneath.
"Dean," Sam breathes. It's the only sound he's made since Dean mounted the bed.
Pop goes the snap on Sam's jeans; click-click-click as the zipper slides down.
Dean hooks his fingers over the top and slowly pulls Sam's jeans and briefs
down over narrow hips and impossibly long legs.
"Sam," Dean says, and Sam's eyes open and focus on him as he pulls his shirt
over his head, then reaches for the snap on his own jeans. Sam smiles and Dean
feels it in his bones, under his skin, in his blood. It hurts and feels so
good—it scares him to death. He climbs onto the bed and lowers himself into
Sam's waiting arms. Skin to skin is how he likes it best, though he'll take
Sam's hand down his pants jerking him off in a pinch. Sam's large hands are on
him, one on the back of his head, the other tracing the knobs of Dean's spine.
He may have taken Sam's virginity, but that was a small payment in exchange for
what Sam's taken from him without even knowing it, or trying.
"I wanna—"
"Yeah," Sam answers before Dean's even finished. They've been finishing each
other's sentences for years now anyway.
Dean's kissing Sam's neck, along the column until he drifts to Sam's
collarbone, down to his chest, pausing to lave and suck on his nipples because
Sam loves that. Sam arches up to meet his mouth and Dean bites down, causing
Sam to gasp before groaning low.
"It's been awhile," Dean rasps. "You need—"
"Uh-uh," Sam answers. "Just—"
"Yeah. Okay."
He could say that inside Sam is where he feels safest, but that's not entirely
true. He loves it there, loves how Sam fits him so well, how good it makes Sam
feel, how Sam gives himself to it so completely, but it's not where Dean feels
safest. He feels safest when Sam looks at him in this certain way that grounds
him, that inspires him, that makes him feel—no, know he can do anything.
Sometimes that's on a hunt, sometimes it's after a fight with Dad, and
sometimes it's at random moments like when he's pumping gas or polishing his
gun. They never say it. They don't have to. They know it, feel it, it's in
their hearts and minds and blood and bones. They belong to each other.
Dean feels it now as he sinks deep inside Sam, feels Sam's long legs around
him, Sam's big hands gripping, Sam's lips on his skin, Sam's voice climbing
inside him, echoing in his mind, in his soul, if he has one. Dean knows that
he's nothing without Sam; Sam tells him he's wrong, all the time. The fact that
they can't have this every day is just one more thing that's fucked up and
wrong in their lives. It's what makes Dean deny God's existence.
Something breaks inside him; it does every single time. Sam breaks too and Dean
wonders why Sam smiles, like breaking is good, like breaking makes him happy.
He holds Sam tight, cradling him in his arms, on his lap, and Sam buries his
face in Dean's neck, nuzzling the sweat and salt and skin. They stay like that
for a long time, until Dean's legs start to fall asleep and Sam's knees begin
to ache. They shower together, lazily touching and kissing, teasing exhausted
bodies to half-arousal, before curling up together on surprisingly clean
sheets.
It's May 2007, Cold Oak South Dakota. Dean heaves a sigh of relief so profound
that he almost falls to his knees in gratitude. He begins jogging toward Sam.
Sam looks at him and smiles with relief. He hears his name on Sam's lips as his
brother walks toward him. He can see that Sam's banged up, holding his left arm
into his side. Dislocated shoulder, probably. Then he sees Jake and he yells
Sam's name and starts running. In the brief seconds before Sam arches in pain
when Jake stabs him, Dean sees that look in Sam's eyes that tells him
everything's okay, that makes him feel like Superman. Then it disappears.
"Sam!" he cries, dropping his shotgun as he skids to his knees in the mud,
catching Sam as he crumples, head lolling, the light in his eyes flickering.
"Sam, Sam, Sam. Hey, hey... Come here, come here, let me look at you. Oh, hey
look, hey look at me it's not even that bad. It's not even that bad, alright?
Sammy, Sam! Hey, listen to me, we are going to patch you up, okay... You'll be
as good as new. Huh?"
He cradles Sam's head in his hand, turning his brother's face up to meet his
gaze.
"I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to take care of you. I gotcha. It's
my job, right, watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother.... Sam...
Sam.... Sam! Sammy!"
When the light in Sam's eyes, the light that has sustained him through what
would have ended other men, goes out, all Dean can do is cry, "No.. no-n-n-n-n-
no. Oh god... Oh god... Sam!"
It's September 2008 in Pontiac Illinois, and Dean's back from the pit. He
doesn't exactly remember what happened, though he gets glimpses that make him
pale and sick. The hallway is dark and narrow and he swears it's one of those
trick things where he'll never reach the end. At the end is room 201. At the
end is Sam. He's trying to be patient and not just break into a run and leave
Bobby in the dust. He knows the minute that Sam looks him in the eye that his
brother doesn't believe it's him. He waits as his back hits the wall and he
fights Sam off, he waits for that look, for the recognition, for the look
that's borne him through more in his life than he cares to remember. He sees it
then, the realization dawns on Sam then there it is, and Dean knows he's really
alive, knows he's no longer in Hell. He's holding onto Sam, marveling at how
huge he feels, how warm he is, how good he smells. Sam's trying not to cry;
Dean doesn't bother fighting it off.
Bobby's gone, checked into another room and Sam's on his knees in front of
Dean, between his parted legs, his hands on Dean's thighs.
"I'm sorry," Sam says, his head bowed.
"Sammy," Dean says.
"I tried. I tried so hard." Sam laughs cynically and Dean feels a pit form in
his stomach. "I couldn't even die."
Dean grasps Sam, holding his face in his hands. "Thank God for that. Listen,
everything's going to be okay now, you hear me?"
"Yeah."
Dean swallows as he feels Sam's hands slowly slide up his thighs. How long has
it been? It's been months but it feels like years, and it's been ages since
they were able to just be happy, even for a moment. In the months before Dean
went to Hell it was desperate, always tinged with profound sorrow. He just
wanted to see Sam smile, hear him laugh, sigh, moan, and always it was like
they were saying goodbye.
What would this be like?
Sam crawls over him as he lies back on the bed. Dean's eyes flutter closed as
he feels Sam's warm breath on his neck.
"Hey," Sam breathes.
"Hey," Dean answers back.
"God, Dean. I missed you so much, so very, very much."
"Sammy," Dean whispers, his hands sliding into Sam's too-long hair, over the
muscles in his back, down to the hem of his t-shirt before pulling it off.
There's mirrors on the ceiling, which would normally amuse Dean to no end, not
to mention totally turn him on once they got to fucking, but all he can do now
is wonder at his little brother, who's not so little anymore. His fingers trace
the muscles in Sam's back and shoulders and he murmurs, "Jesus, dude. You're
ripped."
Sam huffs out a laugh and Dean swallows a lump in his throat.
Then Sam's mouth is covering his own, devouring him, and Dean submits. When
they were young, Dean was always the top, as the lingo goes, but as they grew
older, they switched it up. At first, it was to make Sam happy, but then Dean
found he liked it, though that's something he's never going to admit to anyone
but Sam—and of course, Sam's not telling anyone.
Sam's deep voice murmurs, "I wanna—"
And Dean answers, "Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. Me too."
Dean's shirt comes off over his head and Sam's careful not to take the amulet
with it. It feels good there, resting against his bare skin, the ever-present
reminder of how much Sam loves him. He lifts his hips as Sam tugs his jeans
off, and watches as Sam removes his own.
It hurts. Hurts like it did the first time, but it's also good, good to have
Sam inside him, all around him, to be skin-to-skin in a way that they haven't
been for a long time. Sam whispers his name like it's a prayer, and Dean feels
unworthy like he always does. They've both said so many hurtful things. They've
accused, shouted, cursed, punched and loved each other. They've never done
anything lightly, and always they've loved each other through it. He grunts as
Sam rolls them over, managing to hang on and stay inside Dean as he situates
him on his lap.
He falls asleep wrapped up in Sam, his brother's woodsy-musky scent filling his
nostrils. Sam's lazily stroking his back and he hazards a glance up at him. He
smiles when he sees Sam's lips curved up at the corners. Maybe all would really
be right with the world after all.
It's March 2009, Sioux Falls South Dakota and Dean's watching, helpless, as his
little brother shakes and cries out in pain. Sam's struggling against nothing
but air, hallucinating, and all Dean wants is to go inside and hold him like he
used to do when Sam was little and scared.
"Dean, no. Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me."
Sam's talking to him but it's not him, not really, and Dean doesn't know what
Sam thinks he's saying.
They're in a motel room in Cold Spring and Dean can't believe the words coming
out of his own mouth. Later, he'll understand that it's because he's scared and
hurt and desperate. Sam's fist connects with his face, he goes down hard and
they pummel each other, then before he can stop himself, before he can shove
scared, defensive, angry fifteen-year-old Dean back down inside himself he's
saying:
"You walk out that door, don't you ever come back."
It's May 2009 and he's waiting for Sam. A car approaches, some non-descript,
beige '80s model and Sam climbs out and it's like Dean can breathe again. He
almost fooled himself into believing that they were better off apart, but he
knows it's not true. He feels it in his bones, under his skin. It's all he can
do to not grab Sam and hold on tight, but so much has happened. He's not the
same as he was and neither is Sam. There's been so many hurtful things said, so
much pain and betrayal and he wonders if they'll ever get back to where they
were before all this happened. He's afraid they won't.
Sam approaches.
"Sam." He pulls out Ruby's knife and watches fear and uncertainty flash in
Sam's eyes before he gives it back to him, handle first. "If you're serious and
you want back in...you should hang on to this. I'm sure you're rusty."
Sam takes the knife from him, but won't look him in the eye.
Dean swallows. "Look, man, I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm...whatever I need to
be. But I was, uh—wrong." 
Sam's looking at the toes of his boots as he responds. "What made you change
your mind?  
Dean tries to catch his brother's gaze. "Long story. The point is...maybe we
are each other's Achilles heel. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each
other, I don't know. I just know we're all we've got. More than that. We keep
each other human."
That's when Sam finally looks up at him, and Dean sees it, that gaze that makes
him feel safe and trusted and loved. Sam thanks him, promises not to let him
down, and Dean answers, "Oh, I know it. I mean, you are the second-best hunter
on the planet." He grins, trying to lighten the mood.
Sam nods and smiles, a little. "So, what do we do now?"
Dean smiles back. "We make our own future." And he wonders if it's really
possible.
There are times in one's life that stand out among the rest, moments that
sometimes come back so viscerally that one feels them deep in their bones.
Dean's moments, Dean's life was always made of Sam.
Sam at seventeen years old, laid out on some cheap motel bed that's covered in
a gold and green flowered coverlet, long arms stretched over his head, his legs
draped over the bed. Sam in his arms, on his knees in the mud and rain as his
last breath leaves him, that breath mingling with Dean's cries as they both are
carried away on the wind. Sam holding him tight in some skeevy motel room with
a mirrored ceiling, his hands making him feel alive after being torn to shreds
in Hell. Sam curled up in a narrow bed in Bobby's panic room, shaking as his
own blood drives him mad. Sam's eyes, tormented and grateful as Dean tells him
they belong together until the end, and beyond.
He sits on the hood of his car, watching the sunset, watching Sam as he
remembers these moments, good and bad. They're like chapters in a book, a
prologue to something bigger, something better. Sam stretches, twisting, his
back popping, then he turns to Dean and smiles. Dean always marvels at how long
Sam's arms and legs are, at how someone can be so small and so big all at once.
Sam's jeans slip low on his narrow hips, revealing the rise of his hipbones and
the concave of his belly. He's barefoot in the grass, lightly tanned skin
glowing in a perfect sunset. The sky is blue but beginning to turn pink and the
clouds are impossibly white and the air smells like the sea. Sam's watching
gulls ride the currents overhead, his own long arms spread out, mimicking their
wingspan. Dean absently thinks that if Sam were a bird he'd be an
Osprey—beautiful, deadly, and perfect.
He slides off the hood of the car and crosses to where Sam stands, placing his
hands on his brother's bare chest. He wonders at how long he fought this,
afraid of where they'd end up, even when he knows the price they, and others,
had to pay to be where they are now. In retrospect, it was worth it. Maybe that
makes him a selfish bastard, but he really doesn't care. They paid and gave
enough.
He pushes Sam's bangs out of his eyes and smiles as Sam flashes an impossibly
wide, dimply grin.
"Always," Sam says. "We finally have always."
"It was a long wait," Dean answers. "A whole lot of people had to die."
"But it was worth it. We're all where we're supposed to be." Sam leans in and
nuzzles the soft spot behind his ear. He whispers, "Do you miss the world?"
"Nah. I always thought the world kind of sucked."
Sam laughs and Dean wraps his arms around him, tugging him down into the soft,
green grass.
~Finis
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