Lost Time Chapter 22/27

[dime_liora]

Title: Lost Time Chapter 22/27
Wordcount: 6,498
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam, Gabriel/OFC
Warning(s): Violence, Sex, Expletives, Mentions of an Abusive Relationship
Notes: Still very AU. If you like this, thank sammichgirl, who told me it was time to make it public. :) If you don't it's totally not her fault.
Summary: Sam Burton has an average life, a foul-mouthed sister, and a dream of putting his past behind him. All of that changes when Dean Winchester comes to stay.

First part
Previous part

Dean watches carefully, the way her facial muscles tick in her sleep and her hands jerk spastically. Gabriel is standing outside in the corridor, taking first watch against anything else that could crash into them. Sam is holding her, has been holding her since Dean pulled up in front of the motel room. Sam’s fingers trace the bandage covering the puncture marks on her neck, feel her pulse, ghost over the shell of her ear when he tucks her hair back for the hundredth time.

His brother has been muttering to her on and off for hours. Soothing little phrases, broken endearments, anything that seems to come to Sam’s mind whether it’s coherent or not passes over his lips. It’s heartbreaking to see, and Dean can’t stop watching. This time Sam can’t blame himself, can’t take it on his broad shoulders, because it’s Dean they wanted and Ophelia they used to get to him. Although now that he knows…

When he thinks of all the times he smiled at Castiel, all the times he let the angel take her away without asking questions, it makes his blood boil and his fists clench. This why dad never made a friend he couldn't walk away from. They were too easy to use against you and they turned on you too often.

Now he’s Heaven’s bitch, no getting around that, and the consequences are something he can’t even consider just yet. Staring at Castiel as Uriel, and do they all have fruity fucking names or what, rambled off the many different ways Dean was going to be their bitch.

He didn’t know what leading Heaven’s forces entailed, didn’t know what they really wanted, just knew that his life was no longer his own, and didn’t that just piss him off.

The whole time the chunky son of a bitch was grinning at him, and dangling Ophelia like a broken toy from his fingertips. Eventually Dean had to give up on trying to be good and interrupt him. “You have to give her to me.”

Uriel’s eyebrow rose, “I have to what?”

“I can’t focus on what you’re saying while you got her hanging from your fingers like meat on a hook. You hand her over, let me hold onto her, and I’ll listen.” He keeps his tone calm and assured because he feels anything but. Every second she hangs there is another second closer to him epically losing his temper right there.

Uriel looks once to Castiel, the move is sly but Dean catches it, and he catches the way Castiel inclines his head just slightly. When the big angel hands her over Dean’s shocked to realize she’s lighter than he remembered. Sam’s right she hasn’t been eating properly, not that it matters right now. He cradles her against him and then looks back up, catching the bigger angel’s eyes. “Now you have to fuck off.”

“What did you just say to-“

“I said fuck off. You’re not in charge. You may both be taking orders, but you’re taking them from him.” He jerks his chin once at Castiel and then shifts Ope in his grasp. He doesn’t want to, but if this gets ugly he’ll have to drop her and step forward to block her body. She needs to be in a position for that. “So I don’t need to talk to you, and I gotta be honest Chuckles I don’t want to. So. Fuck. Off.”

It’s obvious Uriel wants to say something, to rip him to pieces, but instead he looks to Castiel once and then disappears soundlessly. Now it’s just the two of them and Dean can barely bring himself to look at the blue-eyed angel in front of him.

“Dean, you must believe I never wished to injure her. Allow me to heal her and-“ Dean takes a step back from the advancing angel and grips her tighter.

“We’re gonna lay some ground rules now, and they ain’t negotiable. You got me?”

“I think so.” His gravelly voice is bland, but there’s a hint of curiosity and Dean finally looks at his face and sees the way it’s tilted like a bird staring at something fascinating and foreign.

“I only speak to you. That other son of a bitch? Stays the hell away from me and my family. Say yes or I walk.”

Castiel studies him for a long moment before pointing towards Ophelia. “Does she count as your family Dean Winchester?”

“You’re goddamn right she does. Say yes.”

“Yes. I can accept that condition. Anything else?” He settles into a neutral position, hands hanging limply by his sides even as his eyes keep studying Dean. It kinda gives him the creeps to be honest.

“A lot of things. No one touches her or Sam again. Not you and none of your fellow angels. They’re off-limits from now on. You wanna talk to me, you fucking talk to me. I still hunt. I don’t do collateral damage, you get me?”

“No, but I will have the expression explained to me later. Is there anything else?”

Dean has to think about it, because nothing comes to mind, but at the moment his mind is too busy calculating all the ways this situation is fucked up. The many ways his life has spun so out of control that he longs for the days he slept with pretty and easy girls, got thrown around by ghosts, felt empty all the time. “Why her? Why would you have to fucking take her?”

"Do you know what her name means?" His face is still placid, but there's something there that Dean can just see at the edge of those bland blue eyes.

"Helper." Suicidal assistant, she'd said.

"Your friend is a carefully crafted emergency measure. To insure that Samuel would be someone you could love Destiny created a perfect set of circumstances that allowed for Ophelia. She was designed to love your brother, to care for him until you arrived to collect him, and then to be disposable. A fail-safe is the term I believe."

For a moment Dean couldn't breathe. He simply stood there holding her and staring at Castiel. "She isn't-that's not-what?"

"You have heard the human saying God does not play with dice? Well it is true, and Ophelia was the precaution taken. She truly loves Sam, but she was designed to. Designed to die for him when necessary and-"

"Shut up. What do I need to do to get her out of here?"

Castiel nods once and then his eyes narrow. “Say that you give yourself over wholly to the service of God and his angels.”

“I give myself over wholly to serve God and you guys.”

“You swear to follow his will and his word as swiftly and obediently as you did your own father's?”

And that one? It hurts, bad, because that means they’ve been watching him for a long time. Means they’ve come to the same conclusion about Dean’s relationship with his father that Dean himself had come to. “Yeah. I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You should never hope to die Dean Winchester. You have a planet full of people counting on you to live.” There’s a pause as he looks at Ophelia hanging in Dean’s arms. “She would have killed herself if it meant keeping you from this. She tried to in fact, and almost succeeded. I would suggest you keep an eye on her. Destiny may have done its job too well.”

With that he’s gone, and Dean kneels down and lowers her gently before pulling off his over shirt and folding it up to press against the finger punctures on her neck. They’re fairly shallow, superficial but ugly, and he’s glad for that. They probably won’t scar. When her eyes flutter open and stare blankly at the ceiling he waits for her to speak.

“Did you get the number of that bus?” Her voice is hoarse and thick, her face working to be funny instead of tragic.

He plays along, because honestly what can it hurt to give her the illusion she’s in control. He will never, ever, tell her a word of what Castiel just said. He carries her though the old mansion, down the stairs and out the once grand entrance listening to her talk and trying to keep up with the witty quips.

It never occurred to him that regaining his little brother would get him a sister, but here she is and he’s not sorry. Not sorry in the least. She’s just like a Winchester, foolish and stubborn, self-sacrificing to the bone and fuck it’s terrible that she’d be like that for them. Made for that. She feels his tears and says nothing, leaves him the illusion of masculinity and strength just as he left her hers. He wants to know what they could possibly have planned that would warrant her killing herself instead of letting him come for her, but the way her face sags tells him she won’t be awake long. He’s not wrong.

Which leads him to this moment, watching Sam cradle her like she’s a child as he talks to her. His little brother is beyond broken up, in a space that Dean is almost afraid of. Sam can’t take watching her be pulled apart many more times, and Dean doesn’t blame him. If he has to see Sam like this one or two more times he may go crazy himself. Dean doesn’t sleep that night, waits 'til after midnight to relieve Gabe and heads outside, if only to stop having to watch Sam.

When the sun rises and they pack into the car only Ophelia has slept. Dean drives for eight hours 'til they’re home, and then let’s Sam stagger inside with her. Sam eventually releases her, but Dean has to push him to bed and force him to lie down. He wakes before Sam and spends a long time simply looking at his brother, studying the lines in Sam’s face, the shadows under his eyes. He has to fix this, but he can’t figure out how.

The easiest way to keep them out of it is to leave, but that’s not an option. Dean knows he can’t survive away from Sam now, not with what they’ve become. It doesn’t help that Sam’s been trained, and his brother is a quick learner. He’d track Dean to the ends of the earth and drag his ass back. So there has to be another way, and it starts with learning what’s in store for them.

He finds her where he expected to, sitting on the bench outside with her face turned up towards the sun. It’s midday, Gabriel is snoring on the floor beside her bedroom door, and she’s sitting here without the armor of her sunglasses. Without the protection of someone who can see what’s coming.

“You shouldn’t be alone.” His own voice makes him shiver, it almost sounds like Castiel.

“You should be asleep. How many hours were you up for?” Her fingers are stroking her own forearms, face naked in the sunlight and vulnerable. Her eyes move aimlessly, seeing nothing while roaming over everything.

“Stop that. Stop worrying about me. You really try to off yourself?” He sits beside her and grabs one of her hands, staring at the unmarked forearms. He didn’t miss that there was no window where she said one would be. Didn’t miss the sound of glass crashing after she dropped the phone.

She’s silent for a long time, eyes fixed on him without taking him in. It’s disturbing really, and he suddenly remembers why she likes to wear her sunglasses. “Yes.”

“Why? Why would you do that?” Does she know? Can she tell what's happened to her? He’s honestly curious, but his hand is holding her too tight. She obviously doesn’t complain but he knows there will be a bruise later. He has to force himself to let go and work the stiffness out of his own fingers.

“Did you know there are more than 600 flood myths? They come from all over, and it’s so hard to date them properly that no one really knows which came first. They all have commonalities though, traits that tie them to each other so tightly it’s hard to differentiate sometimes.”

She fumbles for her cigarettes, takes one out and lights it with shaking fingers. He lets her work it out this way. “I didn’t know that.”

“They’re archetypes. Part of Jung’s ‘Collective Unconscious’ or some shit. Learned that from the Discovery Channel. One of those questions without answers, but the result is that legends from all over the world have these similarities, common themes that make them related. And no one really knows why.”

She’s crying now, openly sobbing and not fighting it. Dean doesn’t touch her, a chill he can’t explain running through him as he listens to her work it out.

“There’re other ones. All tied up together like that. A big bundle of strings that can’t be undone. Joseph Campbell’s Hero and the Creation myths. It’s-it’s a-“ Her hands come up, cigarette hitting the porch as her fingers rub at her bare eyes. “Oh fuck Dean. You should have left me there to die. Why didn’t you leave me to die you stupid bastard?”

She turns then, fists beating at him weakly and he lets her until he can’t stand it anymore. Grabs her wrists and rubs them gently as she breaks down. “Tell me sweetheart. Tell me what they won’t.”

“Sam is-they want him for Hell. You for Heaven. The apocalypse Dean. It’s endgame and there’s that one spot where the fight comes down to just two angels. Two angels who fight for the right to be the victor.”

He has to swallow hard, his brain is getting it but his heart doesn’t want him to. Wants to be as stupid as he pretends to be in front of officials and witnesses.

“Two brothers Dean. White versus Black, and Good versus Evil. Another fucking archetype and you agreed didn’t you? You signed on. You signed on which leaves only one person to accept their part in the big show.” She pulls her hands away from him, stands and grips her own thighs tightly. “You should have left me to die.”

A tiny portion of Dean, a section of his soul that’s been saying Sam’s name with longing for all these years, agrees with her.




-----





When Sam woke up it was to an empty bed and a head echoing with questions. Dean had explained so little when he came back the night before, and Sam had been so relieved to have Ophelia back alive and breathing he hadn’t asked. Now though, now he needed to know. Bad enough to have Hell gunning for him, now Heaven was in on the action too.

He’d never been religious, not in any traditional sense, because religion was too hard to stomach. He’d imagined there was a Heaven, hoped maybe dimly that there’d be something opposed to the demons he’d met and barely survived, but it wasn’t easy to accept. Hoping for it and knowing it were two completely different things. Because knowing it made the whole thing worse, that there was so much suffering and apparently Heaven just wanted to cause more.

If he had been a praying man, he might have prayed now. Begged God to leave his brother alone, to give Dean a better life instead of adding to his troubles. Sam didn’t pray though, didn’t ask for help or guidance, because they’d met God’s messengers and the end result had been Ope bleeding and Dean with that thunderous look on his face. His brother had never looked more tired, more run-down, than he had the night before.

Sam left the bed slowly, shambled to the shower, and then made his way to the kitchen looking for signs of life. There was coffee but no people, and he ended up finding the three of them on the porch. The sun was high in the sky, already on its descent. He took a spot on the floor of the porch in front of Dean, and felt one calloused hand brush against the back of his neck gently before Dean leaned back on the bench and rubbed at his hair.

“So we’re at war with Heaven now too?” He sounded odd to his own ears, husky and unsure.

Ophelia’s face was turned upwards, and he saw the leftovers of tears there. Gabe's jaw worked mechanically, clenching and unclenching as he considered Sam’s words, and then he was the one to break the silence. “You two should take off for a bit. Get some time together. I’ll stay with Opey.”

He felt Dean shift behind him, and he cut his brother off before Dean could say anything stupid. “That sounds good. We can do that.” There were stories that matched a werewolf nearby, and Sam was pretty sure it was just what Dean needed to blow off some steam. He felt fingers brush through his hair again, and then he leaned back and settled against Dean’s legs. Contact without overdoing the intimacy, and it felt good to simply absorb Dean’s body heat, to feel his strength.

If Dean could face this without screaming, tearing his hair and ripping his clothes, then Sam could too. He could handle this. Heaven had never done anything for him before, why should he miss its support now?

The four of them stayed that way until the sun had set, and then Gabe pushed his way up and stretched. “I’m starving.”

Without asking Dean grabbed him under the shoulders and lifted him up, grunting once and then pushing Sam towards the door. Sam and Gabe went in, Dean and Ophelia stayed behind.

He fiddled with the idea of leftovers, and then pulled out three of the bags of frozen skillet mix Ophelia had bought and started up the oven. It wasn’t the healthiest of meals, but it would be the fastest and most filling. He looked up when they came back in, watched her pale face and Dean’s grim stare, and then went back to cooking. He’d find out what was going on later, for now he had dinner to make, a family to feed, and a werewolf to kill.




------

The first thing she learns is that Gabriel is ridiculously hard to predict. She remembers clearly how difficult it was for him to make Hamburger Helper. How uncomfortable he looked. So the mouthful of what must be the world's best Steak Florentine has her cocking her head in the direction of his chewing sounds and frowning.

"You fucking ordered take out. Where did this come from?"

She heard him hum and then a forkful of meat brushed against her mouth and she reflexively opened and took it. "Sweets, I am an enigma wrapped in a mystery locked in a puzzle box."

"You're a lunatic who likes lying to blind girls." It loses some of its potency when she moans at another mouthful. "Also, you're spoiling the shit out of me."

"Yeah, well, somebody's gotta be nice to the crippled. Which reminds me, wanna tell me about this mysterious accident? Or when reality included turf wars between mystical realms? Or how you got involved in said war?"

"Not even a little bit. Isn't this a good meal? This is a good goddamn meal." She found her own fork through some miracle and put more in her mouth to stop the torrent of words.

"Ok. Point taken and received. Still, you could be honest with me for once. I thought I'd earned that." There isn't even a hint of petulance to his voice, but Ophelia finds herself breaking rules and reaching for his face. There's no smile there.

"I sold my sight for knowledge. To a goddess. Which makes it sort of a triumph since that was what I was going for." She forked in another mouthful of steak. "Unexpected side effects." Why the fuck is she talking? What about him suddenly not smiling is loosening her mouth so much?

"Like seizures and such? Pretty hefty price. How many years of lottery numbers did you get?" She reaches again, but there's still no smile. It's…well it's fucking odd. That's the best she can say about it.

"A hundred and three. One for every smartass thing you've ever said to me. What's for dessert?" Now there's a smile, and a tongue traces the tips of her fingers.

"I knew I liked you for some reason."

They finish, and dessert is incredible, and then she finds herself curled against him in her own bed with the sound of rain tapping against the windows and the gentle rise and fall of his chest under her head. It makes his voice resonant and echo-like, and she enjoys it more than she thought she would.

"Why didn't you just tell me the truth? I'm an open-minded guy. I'da believed you sweets."

Ope licks her lips and considers that for a moment. "I didn't want-shit man really? I didn't want to be too much baggage for you to come back." He huffs laughter she doesn't understand and then his fingers stroke up the line of her back and she's incredibly sleepy and warm here.

"You scared me." There's an undertone a lot like when he asked her what she prayed for. She chooses to let it go. "Don't do that anymore."

She doesn't respond. It's probably her imagination when lips press against the top of her head. She's half-asleep after all. What he says next is probably her imagination too. That or she's really confused. "This is a harder lesson than I would have given you."

-----





Dean was kneeling in the dirt and Sam watched as his brother’s fingers ran over prints starkly outlined in mud. Dean had been silent for a long time, and Sam shifted his grip on the rifle and swept his eyes over the trees around them to make sure nothing was sneaking up.

Considering all the underbrush it seemed silly, that they wouldn’t be able to hear an approach long before they saw anything, but it was what Dean had taught him to do. Awareness, always awareness, and caution. When he heard the low and fervent “Shit” behind him he turned around to see Dean rubbing his mouth.

It would never fail to amaze him the way that Dean changed on hunts. The loss of the easy smile, replaced with that focused predator’s stare. Dean was a different man when they were seeking out evil, and Sam liked it almost as much as he liked the regular Dean. The intensity, the thin veneer of civility covering bloodthirsty ruthlessness. He raised an eyebrow instead of asking and Dean got the question.

“There’re two of them.” He left it at that, standing and popping his knees before stretching his back. Sam got a glimpse of toned abs and then turned his back to Dean and focused on the woods around them.

“So what next?”

“We set up a trap, lace it with bait and then wait for night.” Dean looked around and then back to Sam. “Do you want to shoot or be bait?”

Sam choked for half a second and then spun around to see if Dean was smiling. He wasn’t. Wasn’t joking either. “Bait? We’re not just going to string up some meat or something?”

“They’d see through that.” He waved a hand before using it to rub his mouth again. “They’re not fully animals Sam. Generally they’re too smart to trick with just bloody meat. We’ll get some blood for the scent of it, but we need live bait to bring them in.”

Sam looked down at the rifle and then back up at Dean. It was a stupid plan really, dangerous and kind of insane, but Sam was willing to go along with it. He considered the rocky ground for a while and then pointed North. “There’s a spot up there where the underbrush isn’t too bad heading into that ravine. If we get them to pick up the scent further in the bait can run them into the ravine, and the shooter can stay on top and have a clear sight line.”

Dean’s eyes swept over the area Sam was talking about, green the color of the trees around them, before he nodded once. “I’ll be bait and you take the spot at the top of the ravine. Far enough down you can see the entrance, but not so far you have a hard time spotting me.”

Sam was already shaking his head, hands kept neutral against his jeans. “Dean, you’re the better shot. I’m risking hitting you in the daytime man, imagine what it would be at night with all those shadows and just moonlight.” He saw Dean consider it, saw his brother try to reject the logic of it. “I’m bait. I run faster anyway.”

Sam turned around and started to walk towards the ravine, needing to spot the best way to run in, the fastest escape routes if that became necessary. He barely heard Dean moving through the underbrush and marveled at how quiet he could be. When the hand gripped his elbow he wasn’t sure what expression would greet him, but he turned to see Dean’s easy smile and a look of mock offense.

“What do you mean you’re the faster runner? I am way faster than you dude.”

Sam rolled his eyes and then gestured to Dean’s legs. “Sure you are. I just cover more ground, because I’m not short.”

Dean huffed and released his elbow, eyes dancing with laughter as he pushed past Sam. “I’ve seen the family pictures little brother. No one is that tall, you’re sort of a freak.”

From anyone else it probably would have hurt, would have taken the smile right off Sam’s face. Instead he laughed and caught up to Dean easily. “Short and bitter and bossy. Just like Napoleon.”

Now Dean looked honestly offended. “I am not French Sam. Take that shit back.”

He just laughed and moved on.





-----




He ran Dean’s advice through his head as he pretended to struggle with setting up his tent, making as much noise as possible. Don’t go full speed, keep a lot of space between you, dash if they get too close.

He could do it, he was sure of it, but the adrenaline already lacing his system was making his hands shake, making the pretense a little easier. He smelled them first, fur and blood, and that only made it a little harder. He waited for the first howl, the first heads-up that he was prey now instead of hunter, and then he took off.

His legs moved easily, eating up the ground as he curved sharply towards the ravine. They’d gone over the path a hundred times that afternoon, Dean insisting Sam should do it until he didn’t need to think about it. He heard the crashing of the underbrush, the panting, and then the ravine was just ahead and he loped through the last of the trees to break out into the rocky enclosure.

He heard the echoes of the beast behind him, slavering jaws snapping and sending off pings from the rocks. His breath was hard and fast, legs falling into familiar rhythm despite the unfamiliar circumstances. The walls were narrowing around him, closing in as the ravine closed, and then he heard the shot. When the second didn’t come but the sounds behind him had stopped he dared to look over his shoulder. There was only one. Shit.

He looked up, searching the top of the rocks for Dean and didn’t see the outline of his brother in the overly bright moonlight. His legs began again, pumping hard as he headed back for the entrance and then up the slope, scrambling on scree and falling twice. His jeans were ripped at some point, knees bloodied, and then he heard the second shot and forgot the pain in the interest of finding Dean.

Be alright, be alright, goddamn it you have to be alright. He came around the edge and scanned the line of the drop-off before spotting the bulk of the dead werewolf. He picked up speed, crossed the distance, and then found Dean propped against a tree and holding his side while breathing thickly. Dean offered him a sickly smile, made all the worse by the pale moonlight, and then pointed with his handgun towards the dead werewolf.

“Got him Sammy. Another town saved.” Which was the last thing Dean said before his eyes rolled up and he slumped against the tree.




----




Sam was glad he worked out; glad he’d been so militant about hitting the gym, because Dean was heavy. He didn’t stagger, but it was awkward to carry Dean and the rifle at the same time. He had to trek three miles, his brother hanging limply from his arms, before he reached the Impala and slipped Dean into the passenger seat. He rifled through Dean’s pockets, turning them out as best he could in his panic before finding the keys. The car started on the first try, and Sam hauled ass out of the dirt parking lot and towards the highway. It was only fifteen minutes to the motel room, but they were the longest fifteen minutes of his life. One hand kept the wheel clenched firmly while the other pressed against the shirt he’d wadded into Dean side.

When he got to the motel room he pulled the room key with one hand and went to open the door first before collecting Dean and rushing inside. He dropped his brother unceremoniously on one bed and then dug through the duffel to find the first aid kit. His hands were shaking, shaking so hard he thought they’d fall apart and how the hell was he supposed to stitch Dean up with palsied tremors like this?

When he turned around with the antiseptic in one hand and gauze to clean off the blood in the other Dean was awake again. Staring at him with clenched teeth. “Sam, Sam is it a bite or a scratch?”

Sam knelt beside Dean, lifted the bloody shirt carefully wincing when it pulled at the wound and then stared at the long deep gash on Dean’s ribs. “I think it’s a scratch.”

Dean’s hand grabbed his before he touched it, tight and hot, and Sam looked up to see the pale face and too-wide eyes. “Don’t think Sam, know, we have to know.”

Sam shook his hands off, poured antiseptic over the wound and listened to Dean’s hiss of pain. “It’s a scratch. It has to be a scratch. Just hold the fuck still.”

He kept pouring and wiping until the blood flow was sluggish and easier to ignore. Then he reached for the needle and the thread and winced as he threaded it. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Start at the edge, angle downwards slightly and then through the wound and to the other side.” It had the quality of a script, memorized and thick as Dean clenched his eyes shut and braced himself. “Sew away from you and work upwards, tight and neat stitches. It’ll pull together.”

Sam lines up one shaking hand, and then slides the needle in too deep. Dean never moves, lets out a deep groan and simply stares in horror at Sam’s handiwork.

“Maybe I should do this myself Sam. I’ve got-“

Sam tries again and this time the needle goes through and his hand is surprisingly steady. “I need to learn Dean. If I’m going to be helping you I need to do this.”

Dean doesn’t argue, and there’s this weird goofy smile on his face despite the white taut quality of his skin and the teeth that grind to hold back the sound of his pain. Sam’s not quick about it, and he doubts he’d win any awards, but he manages to close the entire wound tightly and then tie off the line. When he’s done he cleans the whole thing again, places on the gauze, and then crosses the small room and bends over the toilet to throw up everything he’s eaten that day, and maybe some of yesterday. It’s hard to tell, but it lasts a long time. When it’s finally over he brushes his teeth several times and then heads back into the bedroom to see Dean struggling to remove his shoes.

He doesn’t ask, kneels before his older brother and unlaces each boot before pulling them off. Dean’s got knobby toes, strange considering how stream-lined and smooth the rest of him is minus the bow-leggedness, and Sam realizes it’s a part of Dean he’s never really looked at before. The socks need to be replaced, there’s a huge hole in one but he folds them and lays them over the boots before helping Dean out of his jeans.

It’s the least sexual thing they’ve ever done, Sam isn’t interested in licking Dean right now so much as studying every part of him. The patterns of hair over his legs, the little mole near his groin, the scattering of freckles over his shoulders. He looks at old scars, runs his fingertips over veins and arteries, examines each ridge of muscle and bone as if he’s planning on rebuilding Dean from scratch one day. When he’s finished looking he touches, slow and gentle, hands rubbing at tense lines and knots until Dean is relaxed and limp under his hands.

“A guy could get used to this Sammy.” It’s said lightly, but there’s an undertone Sam doesn’t miss. He kisses a freckle, kisses another one, and then wraps himself around Dean.

Suddenly he’s shaking, adrenaline all gone and pulse going mad. His hands aren’t soothing anymore, they’re bruising as he grabs onto Dean like something’s trying to drag his brother away. Dean doesn’t fight him, doesn’t struggle, he just submits to Sam’s painful grip. Lets Sam smash their lips together, and only grunts when teeth hit teeth.

There’s a copper taste, either blood or panic Sam’s not sure, but his hands are roaming now, one gripping any part of Dean’s uninjured side that he can grab and the other holding onto the radial artery and feeling the strength of Dean’s pulse like Dean once found his. This time instead of proof of veracity it's proof of life.

He slides down, finds Dean hard, and takes the length into his mouth, never once releasing Dean’s wrist, never letting go of that rapid pulse. He can hear Dean groaning, pleading for something, but that’s not what Sam wants. Any other activity has too many possibilities of hurting Dean worse, exacerbating the injury Sam’s just stitched, and all he really craves is to feel Dean alive underneath him. To know it was just a deep scratch and that it won’t take away everything he loves.

Angels, fucking angels, want to take Dean away and Sam won’t let them. Won’t let it happen because the taste of Dean’s skin and the sound of his moans are all Sam’s. Sam’s forever and ever amen and fuck Heaven if they think they can change it. Sam will kill for this, bleed for this, do whatever is necessary to always be able to simply reach out and touch Dean. Know that he’s alive and real and Sam’s.

He goes until Dean’s hips stutter, until his brother lets out one warning cry, and then he swallows Dean down and lays his head on the twitching thigh, fingers still rubbing at the radial artery, still taking in the slowing heartbeat. He feels fingers threading through his hair, hears Dean’s sleepy offer to reciprocate and shakes his head. Hell he hasn’t even undressed yet, sneakers tracking mud over the comforter where he’s dragged them, but what does it really matter? The comforter is temporary, the room is temporary, it’s Dean that’s permanent. Has to be permanent. Because otherwise Sam will be nothing.






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It’s slow going getting into the house. Dean knows better than most how careful you have to be with field medicine, how sloppy the stitches can be. Sam didn’t do a terrible job, but it’s a little fragile and he’s not willing to risk it. Instead he takes the hill slowly, throwing off one crack about Sam’s gentlemanly nature when his brother insists on carrying all the bags.

It’s the quiet in the house that strikes him first, and then he hears the low groan and Ophelia saying please. That’s all it takes for him to pull the gun out from his waistband and crouch, feet moving silently over the carpet as he crosses through the living room and into the back hallway. He hears one of those groans again and takes the safety off, hand testing the knob to find it locked.

Picking it would be simple, but make a good deal of noise, and if he has to make noise it should be part of the attack. He hears Sam come in behind him, soft but not soft enough and makes the decision quickly. He stands fully, foot pulling up, and then he’s kicking the door just underneath the knob and watching it splinter and fly open even as his one free hand steadies his wound.

He feels Sam approach behind him even as the scene before him finally registers. The gun is pointed at Gabe, who is staring at him with raised eyebrows from his position on the bed. Gabe on his back, Ophelia above him on her knees, straddling his crotch and mid-intercourse. Her head is turned his way, her hands planted on Gabe's chest for support, and Dean sees the way Gabe holds her hip protectively with the hand not being raised in a mockery of truce. There’s a long moment of silence, and then Ophelia’s voice is hesitant and quiet.

“Uh, are we being attacked?”

Gabriel shifts, she moans, and Dean’s biting his lip even as he re-engages the safety and lowers his gun. “Hey, congratulations you two. Let me just-uh the door probably won’t close fully so-“

Behind him Sam is laughing, laughing at him, and it’s such a good sound Dean can’t even find it in himself to complain. Instead he watches the way Gabe's smirks broadens, and then steps back and away.

“We’ll just-yeah ok.” He pushes Sam, who’s helpless with laughter at this point, and closes the door to the hallway. They stand across from each other in the living room for a long time, Sam wiping at streaming eyes while Dean tries to figure out if he should be embarrassed or flippant about the whole thing. Either way, he soaks in the sight of Sam laughing, mouth curled upwards and hazel eyes sparkling, and thinks that maybe they have a chance of surviving this whole mess.

Comments

[sammichgirl]

Alright Dean, taking charge. :) Protecting his family first, very Dean-like behavior.

Ope was a WHAT? Fail safe measure? SONUVABITCH! How can they DO that?!?! Oh, it makes me so angry!

Apocalypse. Freaking hell. And Dean said yes. But he *didn't* say yes to Michael. Which is still needed, right?

Gabriel, he really cares about Ope. But, given that one sentence...he's gotta be an angel. And a good guy. Please let him be a good guy. Was he the one that "crafted" Ope? Maybe that's why his connection to her is so strong.

Sam will do whatever is necessary to keep Dean with him. I can't help but be scared of that. It's not Sam's fault with the demon blood, but his anger, it's like a dark Jedi, and I worry that will come into play.

[dimeliora.livejournal.com]

Of course he still needs to say yes, because free will, but will he? Muahahahahaha.

Yeah, fail safe...now the question becomes if she'll get her strings cut or if she'll continue being used.

I can't promise he's a good guy, but I can point to what Dean said about the difference between good guys and *good* guys.

Sam is...yes that's a perfect analogy. Very Jedi like. We'll see how he handles it.

[ayane42.livejournal.com]

i'm seriously loving this!!

started reading it the other day and finally caught up! really a great great story!!

can't wait for more!

[dimeliora.livejournal.com]

I'm glad! Thanks for reading and reviewing. :)

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

ooch, awkward!

[dimeliora.livejournal.com]

I know right?