Facta non Verba 2/2
Jan. 17th, 2013 06:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_lioraTitle: Facta non Verba 2/2
Wordcount: 6,618
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam
Summary: Dean is ten when Sam stops speaking, and the rest is up to him.
First part
Sam spends three hours in the depths of the library, doesn’t ask Dean for help or suggest a task for him. Just sits in the midst of microfiche and dusty periodicals while Dean jiggles his leg and taps the table. It’s the longest three hours of his life, because no matter what he does Sam doesn’t even look at him. Just keeps flipping and turning until his eyebrows raise and Dean leans in behind him to see the screen.
The article is short, bleak, describes the discovery of the body, half in and half out of the marsh, undressed and badly decomposed. There’s the typical newspaper shot of the police line, a suggestion of the macabre without a full reveal of it, and beneath it a shot of her smiling and holding up a sold sign in front of a small house.
Karen Murphy, aged eighteen years, raped and murdered three months after moving to the quaint little town. The waitress at the diner, the one Dean flirted with the last two times they’d been there, said she was a nice girl who always tipped well. Said she’d left the diner saying she was meeting someone, and that was the last time she was seen alive. Sam’s twitching now, an uncommon occurrence for him, his fingers jerking beside the controls, mouth moving but in the shapes of the words on the screen. He’s saying something else, but Dean can’t read it and Sam doesn’t say it with his hands.
Dean studies him a long time, studies the picture on the screen smiling out at them, and then lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder as gently as he can. When Sam finally turns around his big hazel eyes are hollow, and Dean’s afraid to look at them for long. Instead he lets go of Sam and stands back.
“We’ll salt and burn her remains after we find out who did it. Ok Sammy?” It’s not their job, not their thing to find human killers really, but he’s willing to do it. Willing to cross that line if it will give Sam even a second of peace here. Sam’s nod has no energy behind it; he looks like he’s been awake for five days really. He pushes himself up, rewinds the film and tucks it neatly onto its spool, and then he’s gone.
They follow the spirit the next day, and she leads them easily as if they’re not even there. Stops in a tiny clearing and leans against a tree with a relaxed look on her face. Dean’s not even sure what he’s expecting, because honestly she doesn’t have a victim here. All the dead people are women, and he and Sam don’t even vaguely qualify.
She looks around the little space, eyes lingering for a moment on one slightly thinner patch of grass, and then her eyes land on them and she raises an eyebrow. She waves once, looks confused, and then pushes off from the tree. This time it doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that she was leaning right through several branches.
Where is Ray? She looks almost concerned, as if something is out of place but she can’t put her finger on it.
Sam breaks rank again and steps towards her. Who are you waiting on?
Her eyes narrow, lips pursing as her hand taps at one half-bared thigh. Finally she seems to think answering is a good idea. Ray. He’s supposed to be coming to see me. Who are you?
Dean wants to cut in, to sign to her that they’re nobody and if she could just give them Ray’s last name that would be great. Sam has different ideas though. He moves his hands rapidly, fluidly, not a problem for her but a little challenging for Dean. Enough that he’s too focused on the words to realize what Sam is doing.
We are looking for someone who rapes and kills women. He raped and killed you. Can you tell us who Ray is so we can avenge you? Sam’s face is infinitely sad, lined in ways someone his age should never be. He holds his hand out, towards her, and Dean’s trying to grab him but it’s too late. Too late. All those times he fought with dad he brought up Sam’s silence, but never once did he think to mention how stupidly big his little brother’s heart is.
The ghost’s eyes widen slightly, and then she’s lunging forwards and grabbing Sam’s shoulders with shaking hands, holding on even as his brother begins to make that screaming noise Dean hasn’t heard in so long. He reacts without thinking, grabbing Sam and pulling even as he lifts the shotgun full of rock salt and goes to fire. He misses because Sam flails at the last second and knocks it away.
Suddenly Sam’s not making sound anymore, just standing there staring at her as she stares back at him, big blue eyes shining wet despite the fact they are no longer physically capable of producing tears. She rubs at her face for a moment, and then she turns to Dean. I am sorry. I am sorry. Please help me.
Then she’s gone, and it’s just him and Sam standing in the little clearing. He grabs Sam without thinking, sees the wince and pulls Sam’s shirts aside to expose heavy hand-shaped bruises on each shoulder. Sam’s pale, shaking again, and then his little brother pulls away from him and bends over into the bushes to void everything he’s eaten any time recently.
It takes a long time, but eventually Sam manages to fumble out whole sentences. This is after Dean half-carries his brother through the woods, until he's just outright carrying Sam and then tucking him into the passenger seat of the Impala. He gets Sam back to the motel room and tucked in, watches him sleep for a fitful two hours, and then when Sam wakes up his signing is sloppy but passionate.
It was a guy. He pretended to be deaf and hit on her. He knew the signs. He talked her into meeting him in the woods and then he raped her. Dean fights himself every time Sam makes the sign, hooked fingers raking the air viciously and the other hand extending one finger and pointing up. It's a perfectly violent gesture for a violent word. He killed her. Now she is stuck and we have to help. I know what he looks like Dean. I know where he lives. We have to find him.
He has to choose his words carefully here, because Sam is looking at him like if he wanted to he could just walk in and make the guy pay. Which, to be fair, Dean probably could. Hell he half wants to, but they need to keep a low profile. It doesn't change the fact that the girl Sam is so intent on helping is killing people. So Dean suggests they look the guy up, and then they find out he's dead. Which takes a lot of the complication out of the equation. It also explains why the bodies are showing up in a manner that Karen would never be responsible for, and Dean doesn't miss the tension that bleeds out of Sam when he sees that. So it's still a salt and burn, but now it's a double. Dean can handle that.
Except when they leave the next day Sam is still not quite right. He's too pale, skin drawn tight across his face and hands slightly shaky in his lap. He doesn't try talking to Dean, and Dean lets him sit in that silence for the entirety of the time it takes them to cross another state border and find a new motel.
Sam's getting older. He's blowing his way through the home schooling requirements, and he's already smarter than Dean. If this hunt has proven anything it's that Sam is not made for hunting. It has nothing to do with his inability to speak at this point. It's Sam in general. Sam is too caring, too much of a bleeding heart and that sort of attitude will get him killed. Dean knows it, and if dad was around to see what his son had grown into he'd know it too. Sam's gentle, sweet, and innocent. They can't expose that to this life for much longer. Not without ruining some of the things that make Sam Sam.
Maybe it's time to look into something else for Sam. Something that will let his little brother continue to nurture and hone his creative skills without putting him in the line of danger. Dean's so busy considering the possibility of giving Sam up that he misses when Sam starts speaking. It's only a finger tapping his shoulder hard that gets his attention.
This room is actually nice. Dean looks around at the clean looking comforters, the lack of water stains, and the subdued theme. He nods once and then realizes he should do more than that or Sam will get suspicious.
"Well, yeah, only the best for the Winchesters." Sam rolls his eyes, but it's good to see emotion coming off him. Something other than sorrow and fear. "Sorry your first girlfriend turned out to be dead."
Sam gives him an odd look. Not my girlfriend.
"Yeah but you were interested."
No, I was not.
Dean's willing to let it go. He has other things to think about. "Yeah, well, there's time for that then. One day you'll meet a nice girl and that'll be it. Little Sammys running around pulling things down and being a general pain."
What if I want something else? Sam looks pale again, apprehensive, and Dean take a moment before he responds.
"What do you mean Sammy?"
His lips pursed, face set in lines that speak of stubborn fear. What if I want something else? Someone else?
"Are you-uh-" Careful Dean. "-you hinting at something specific Sammy?" He followed Sam's eyes when they dipped, roved, and eventually found what they were looking for in Dean's face.
Yes.
Dean rubbed at the back of his neck for a second before nodding. "Ok. Well that's fine. Fine. You can find a nice boy then, and make-adopt-you know whatever. Your life man." He chucked Sam's shoulder once and then saw that his brother was still frowning. "What? No kids either?"
Dean I want this. I want you.
He stood, legs suddenly numb and unsure, and wobbled out of the room and into the Impala before going directly to a bar.
------
The research is done quietly without Sam's knowledge and only when he's sure his little brother can't see it. Dean finds the right school first, and then he applies for a scholarship for Sam. He has back-ups, but the one in Colorado is the one he wants. Sam, for his part, lets the whole thing go. He doesn't mention his confession, doesn't mention Dean's response, and forces cheer at a level usually reserved for manic housewives. Dean would say something about it, but his grin is just as broad and fake.
When the acceptance comes he collects the brochure and the information together and sits Sam down before handing it all over. He's aware he's babbling, that his voice is unsure and overly bright, and that Sam hasn't looked up or said a word since he started.
"-good school where you'll be able to get better at writing and meet other kids your age. Good kids, and good teachers, and it's all paid for. They really want you. I submitted some of your stuff, and they loved it, so they already know how freaking brilliant you are and they're really eager. It's a great opportunity for you Sam. The kind of thing that only comes once in a lifetime, and when you do well there it opens the door for colleges and it's gonna be great. Just great. What do you think?"
He's ready for the fight. Ready for Sam to throw things and shout, the wild gesticulations, and just in case he's boned up on the harsher words they never use between each other. He's ready. Except Sam doesn't do any of that. He sits with the brochure in his lap and his hands limp against the bedsheets for a long time in silence before he finally signs his response, each one slow and sure, without ever looking over at Dean.
Yes. I will go.
Dean's not sure why he's disappointed, but he swallows it down and hugs Sam tightly. "It's gonna be great Sammy. You'll see. They got horses and shit, and you're gonna love it. We'll head for Colorado tomorrow."
And they do. Dean plays the role of Guardian ad Litem, and he hands his not so little brother over to the dean of the private school with more trepidation than he ever thought possible. He gives Sam one last hug, notices that his brother doesn't hug him back, and promises to email all the time. Sam simply nods and turns away.
For the first year Dean sends Sam a message every day like clockwork. Their length depends entirely on what's going on, but each one tells Sam where Dean is and what he's doing. Asks about his health, his schoolwork, and whether or not he's making friends. In the wake of Sam leaving Dean finds himself on more hunts with his dad, and it's probably ironic that he hates it. When Sam was there Dean longed to be with his father, hunting the big monsters and making the world better. He longed to be a part of it, and to see how proud his dad would be when he recognized Dean's talent and sincerity. Except now that he has it he can't miss the fact that it only came at the cost of Sam.
Each letter promises that he'll visit soon, even if he doesn't, and that he misses Sam, which he really does. Occasionally Dean will go into justifications, explanations of his behavior and why it's for the best. Why Sam is gonna thank him one day. Because Dean isn't as stupid as he seems, and he knows what's going on. Sam's been deprived of the chance to meet other people, to make friends and connections, and in that weird vacuum his entire life depended on Dean. It wasn't love, and Sam wasn't weird or fucked up, at least not in that way. Sam just had an unhealthy attachment, a delusion that Dean was the only thing in his world, and this is what he needs. He needs to see other people and know that there's more out there for a kid like him. That Dean isn't his only choice.
So it hurts, and it makes Dean crazy to not know where his little brother is and what he's doing, but that's completely normal, and this is completely necessary.
Sam never responds to a single email.
----
Three hundred and seventy-two days after Dean leaves Sam in the capable hands of St. Sophia's staff and begins the hardest trip he's ever taken to Alabama to meet up with his father he gets an email back. It's a record-breaking four words, and Dean's so glad to see it he's willing to ignore the message itself.
I still love you.
No more and no less than that, and it's so Sammy that Dean is momentarily overcome. Dad sends him a questioning look, but Dean ignores it to open the response and start typing. He tells Sam about the hunt they're on in Southern California. He tells Sam about how strange the people are here compared to the Midwest, how difficult it is to blend in with people who talk to their phones instead of the person in front of them, and how much he misses good barbecue. There's a long portion in the middle where Dean relates a funny story about Dad, a poltergeist, and a pantsing, but mostly it's just straight recall.
At the end of that he indulges Sam's comment as best he can by telling Sam that he's been studying up and there's a condition he can't remember the name for right now that has to do with what Sam is experiencing. That it's like Stockholm Syndrome, and that Sam only feels that way because he was cut off from the world. That given time, and other people, Sam will come to realize that he doesn't love his brother as anything more than a brother, and then they can put this whole thing behind them. They'll be better, and when Sam's finished if he still wants to tag along for hunts while he writes or whatever he's gonna put his mind to, then he's more than welcome. In the meantime Sam just needs to focus on his schoolwork and his friends, and how are his friends and schoolwork anyway?
He gets a response two days later. Sam is succinct just like the first time, and Dean reads it with an icepack applied to the gash in the back of his head and smiles even if he doesn't want Sam to be saying this. All A's. Two friends. I still love you.
Then life takes over again, and they're traveling all over the country and fighting every single monster Dean's ever heard of and several he doesn't know until they have fangs or claws coming at his face. Dad is stern, commanding, and Dean longs for the days when it was just him and Sam going after things and then relaxing in the motel room as some movie drones on in the background. The way his brother's lips curl upwards and the dimples carve their way out underneath. The up-tilt to Sam's hazel eyes, and how they're more blue-gray than blue-green when he's happy. He misses the way Sam's long and delicate fingers knew exactly how to work out the knot that always forms in his neck, and how he always felt melted and relaxed when Sam was done.
Every day though Dean makes time to write an email, and the next day he has a response from Sam. It's never more than ten words, and it always ends with the same four, but Dean's ok with that. He's ok with anything that lets him know his little brother is alright. They end one hunt badly, Dean in the hospital for two days with cracked ribs and a nasty gash that just missed his femoral artery, and then he finds himself left behind for a week as he recovers and dad chases some lead on the thing that killed mom. He missed two days of emails with Sam, and when he opens the laptop and engages the mail program his inbox is flooded with letters from his little brother.
Dean's a little high, the hospital was generous with their painkillers, and he reads each increasingly panicked email carefully before hitting respond and typing slowly and cautiously. He tells Sam about the hunt, about the injury, and then includes a funny anecdote about a nurse, Dean's penchant for bad sexual jokes, and a lap full of jello. He leaves out the less funny moment regarding the catheter and him screaming at the same woman. He's still not terribly proud of that moment.
He expects to hear from Sam the next day, so he pushes the laptop aside and grabs the remote before finding Lethal Weapon and leaving it on. When he hears the ding he turns to the computer in surprise and sees that Sam has already responded. It's not words in the traditional sense though, but a link to some website that lets Dean download a "messenger" and a username for Dean to find Sam. He follows the instructions blearily, and when he's done the little window pops up to let him type to Sam. He's cautious, because this is all new, but it's kind of exciting too. Also? Really stoned.
Sammy?
How bad is it? Are you still alone? Why isn't dad there taking care of you? Are the wards set?
He can't help the laugh, and it makes his ribs ache despite the fog of the painkillers. Not bad. Yes. He had a hunt. 'Course they are. How's school?
Fuck school. I'm worried about you.
Well that's great Sammy, but I'm fine and school is important. You making lots of friends?
I have an average number of friends and an above average GPA Dean. Shut up about school. Dad should have stayed. You know you make terrible decisions on painkillers, and when they wear off you get nauseous. Who's gonna bring you ginger ale and rub your back?
For a second, one terrible second, Dean's tempted. Really tempted. Because this is Sam, and Sam is right. Dean does get nauseous when he comes down from opiates, and Sam used to do those things for him. More importantly it occurs to Dean that Sam is the only person on the planet who knows these things. The only one who has ever cared enough to learn them. It's the first time since Sam left that getting him back is a fully formed thought instead of a vague and indistinct longing.
You need this. Because he does. He needs it. He needs to break free and be his own man. A man who doesn't want his brother.
You need me. Jerk.
And Dean? Well maybe he cries a little, but it's because along with making him nauseous opiates make him a little emotional.
Bitch. I miss you.
He closes the laptop before Sam can respond. Before any more damage to his surety can be done.
----
The emails don't stop, and Sam never changes his messages until the day he sends Dean three whole sentences. Twelve simple words that make Dean crazy.
I graduate in May. I lost my virginity. I still love you.
He responds on auto-pilot. Ignores the rest of it and simply focuses on the graduating part, because that's the part he should care about. That's the only part he should care about.
Except he cares about the other two parts too. Suddenly the half-formed understanding of Sam as a man instead of little Sammy isn't so funny or obscure anymore. Suddenly it's a full-scale, earth-shattering, mind-blowing, goddamn revelation. He cares about Sam, and Sam's inappropriate feelings, and Sam's goddamn virginity. He cares.
Which leaves him two options. There's the Winchester way, in which he ignores all of it. He pretends that it doesn't mean anything and that he hasn't come to the understanding that Sam is picking up on a connection between them that Dean himself refused to see. He never tells Sam that occasionally, only very rarely, he has maybe seen Sam as someone else. Someone who could be more than a brother, more than a charge or ward, and what the fuck now he's thinking in Victorian language. Because things have gotten that fucked. He could pretend he doesn't know that Sam's hands would be sure and steady on him, or that Sam's lips are plush and soft, or that he can picture Sam's smooth pink tongue moving-
Yeah, he could ignore all that. It's the best option because at the end of the day there are too many factors. Too much that's totally out of his control. Dad, for instance, would flip the hell out if he caught even a whiff of what's suddenly running through Dean's head. The rest of the community, anyone really, would look at them and know. Except would they? Really? Dean's an excellent liar. Was he really considering this?
It took four hours at the bar before he ended up back in the motel room connecting to the messenger program and shooting off a message to Sam.
Who?
It took longer than he liked for Sam to respond. Who what?
Don't fuck around Sammy. Who?
My gym teacher.
Dean didn't remember how it happened, but the lamp was shattered on the other side of the room, his bag was thrown, and the nightstand was overturned. Mr. Harold Longian was going to have extra charges on his credit card come tomorrow…
What the fuck were you thinking? You were supposed to meet guys your own age. You were supposed to be hooking up with the right guys not some pedo asshole.
I don't want normal guys. I want you. In the absence of that I'll take what I can get.
I'll be picking you up at graduation. Stop sleeping with your teachers.
He closed the laptop before he could expose anything else, barely resisted throwing it, and went to sleep. The hangover the next morning sucked, but not as much as the realization that he really only had one choice. Take Sam or lose him forever.
----
The graduation ceremony was ridiculously formal. Dad couldn't come, a hunt with someone in South Dakota taking precedence. Dean blamed him for it viciously as he watched Sam walk the stage and accept his diploma before rejoining the rest of the crowd. They didn't throw their pointy hats, but they did cheer like crazy and Dean didn't miss that some guy hugged Sam tightly and his little brother tilted his head back smiling broadly.
He met Sam in the crowd afterwards and led him to the car. They drove back to the hotel Dean had gotten, nicer than any he'd ever stayed in before, and Sam stared with wide confused eyes at the room. At the flower petals on the bed, and the champagne, and the stereo playing Enya. Then he turned to Dean.
What the fuck is this?
"I-uh-because we're-" Suddenly it seemed so stupid Dean wanted to run from the room. Some weird compilation of all the bullshit movies he'd ever seen about a young man taking his young woman's virginity, and what the hell was Dean thinking? Trying to woo his brother into bed like a horny teenage boy on prom night. This was so stupid. Except Sam was smiling in that way he had, the way Dean hadn't seen in so long it hurt, and the dimples were nothing compared to the light dancing in Sam's eyes.
I am a boy Dean. But it was a nice thought.
Dean waved the comfort away and stepped further into the room. "It was stupid. You can just-" The breath woofed out of him when he hit the bed face forward and Sam was draped over his back. Sam, alive, real, and there. Sam pressing his face against Dean's neck and staying there. Sam.
They didn't speak, like this Sam wasn't capable and Dean didn't think he could force words out of his tight throat. Instead they stayed there, and he soaked in Sam's warmth and the way the breath ghosted across his neck and Sam's chest expanded and contracted against his back. He didn't know if he should break the silence, or even if he could. All he knew was that Sam was exactly where he fucking belonged, and sending him off to live with strangers had only proven that. His goddamn gym teacher.
Which brought up an important point. One heavy enough Dean rolled them both over so that he could see Sam, and they could speak properly. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Sam didn't need clarification. Yet another check in the 'why this is a forgone conclusion' column. My friend James said that it was best to get it out of the way with someone before you do it with someone you love.
"Your friend James is an idiot and an asshat."
His brother's eyes lit up again, dimples deep and hypnotic. Jealous?
"Shut up Sam." Then Dean did the unthinkable and leaned forward, captured Sam's lips with his, and kissed him. He waited for the nausea, or the lightning bolts, but neither came. Instead he found that Sam's lips were just as soft as he remembered them, that Sam's return kisses were hesitant and sweet, and that Sam's tongue was a ridiculously strong muscle even if it didn't get the workout most people's did. Dean learned that in his hand, at this angle, Sam's jaw was sharp and that a thumb brushed along his brother's cheekbone made him release a husky noise that went straight to Dean's cock. He learned that Sam's hands were strong even if they looked delicate, and that his fingers would twist in Dean's hair and pull just this side of painful.
He learned a lot of things.
Mostly Dean found out that this didn't feel the way he thought it would. It wasn't the crazy, all-consuming lust he had when he was going at it with a one-night stand. It also wasn't the world-shattering punishment he thought would be attached to incest. There was just a slow and deep burn in his belly, a need to be connected and intimate in a way Dean had never experienced before. It was just Sam, there and pressed against him and taking up all his attention the way he always had. With sex added.
Sam was under him before Dean realized he'd left out an important question. "Did you top or bottom?" He spoke it against Sam's lips, and didn't consider that Sam's hand were busy until his brother tried to jerk one out from where it was tangled in his shirt. Then Sam just gave up and mouthed the word 'bottom' against his lips. Dean nodded thoughtfully before pulling away. Stripping in front of Sam in this whole new context was nerve-wracking, but Dean managed it, and he managed to get Sam naked with little trouble. If he thought it would all flow organically from there he was wrong.
The lube was waiting, and Dean used it on his fingers before turning to see that Sam had already spread his legs and lifted his hips. It was…well it was goddamn mouth-watering, but Dean ignored it in favor of twisting his wrist in a vicious curve and sliding one finger into himself. He'd had a month to prepare for this eventuality, and while he couldn't say it was the most comfortable thing he certainly wasn't completely foreign to it. It didn't hurt that he felt smug when he saw the way Sam's jaw dropped, or how his cock twitched. Which brought up the question of when Sam had grown so much.
"You're gonna catch flies." He added a second finger and hissed before leaning forward and catching Sam's mouth again. His balance was dangerous, and he was grateful when Sam reached up and caught his shoulders to hold him steady. He'd never gotten past three fingers, was pretty sure it wasn't necessary, and the addition of Sam's mouth against his had him adding the third faster than usual. Sam ate his grunt, and then sucked on his tongue while Dean adjusted. He could do this. He was going to do this.
They stayed like that for a while, until the intrusion became a pleasant burn instead of an ache, and then Dean pulled his fingers out and pushed Sam down. The position was all new, Dean was usually on the other end of it, but he got Sam lined up and then slowly began to sink down. Fingers, it turns out, are a poor substitute for a real cock, and the burn was back with a vengeance. Unsure if the bandage approach was correct Dean just kept moving slowly, eyes roving over the way Sam's stomach muscles tightened, how his fingers twitched against the bedspread, and the way Sam's own eyes were dark and heavy-lidded as he panted and tried to hold still. Whoever said size doesn't matter had never done this, but Dean worked his way down 'til he was fully seated and Sam was buried within him. Then he remained perfectly stationary, thigh muscles already burning and ass aching as he adjusted to the girth of his brother. Again, the lightning never came.
Eventually Sam was moving, little jerks of his hips, and Dean decided he'd be remiss if he didn't take the lead here. He was the older one after all. So with one movement he put Sam's hands on his hips, and then he pulled up and sunk down again. Sam's head bounced against the mattress and Dean groaned low and deep at the sensation of it. Sam filling him and burning through him. Whatever he thought this would be all his expectations flew out the window the first time Sam pushed upwards and hit his prostate. There wasn't even any shame that he called Sam's name as his whole body whipcorded above his brother. He'd never found the spot during his experimenting, and it was just as promised. Fucking electric, boogie woogie woogie.
A rhythm asserted itself, but who started it Dean couldn't say. What he could declare was Sam's long fingers held his hips just right, arm muscles straining as he helped Dean move up and down on his cock. He could feel every slick movement as the muscles clenched and squeezed around his brother, and the burn in his thighs combined with the burn in his ass only pushed him further and higher than any sex he'd ever had before. Sam's throat was working, noises coming thick and rapid as his lips moved around words Dean couldn't catch. Which was ok, because Dean was blabbering enough for both of them about how stupid he'd been, how much he loved Sam, and most importantly how they'd be together from now on. No matter what.
He managed to get one hand off of Sam's chest and wrapped around his own cock, the dual pleasures of Sam battering his prostate and his slick fist working the shaft and twisting the head enough to push him closer and closer until he was gone. Just gone. The world grayed out, his body jerked helplessly on Sam's dick, and he spurted all over his brother and himself before he felt, fucking felt, Sam pulsing inside of him.
The websites had been pretty specific about what came next, and Dean couldn't say he cared much for the clean-up portion of anal sex. On the other hand, returning to the bedroom to find Sam stretched out over the covers where he'd been left, coated in sweat and still breathing heavily with one eye cracked open and watching Dean, was well worth it. Even better was the look of shock and horror when Dean dropped the cold washcloth on Sam's spent dick and laughed when his brother scrambled to knock it off.
-----
Dean is twenty-four when his brother breaks the fourteen year silence that his life has become. They've made a life out of their weird thing, and it works for them. Dean hunts, Sam researches, and sometimes his little brother helps more directly. They see dad maybe, maybe, once or twice a year, but their father has bigger fish to fry and they're happy just helping people. They take turns topping, and they make sure that neither has more or less power when it comes to that aspect of their relationship. The rest of their life though is dictated by what Sam calls 'Dean's freaky big brother complex'. Sam never does more than Dean is willing to let him, and they fight about that. They fight about a lot of things, and half the time those fights end up with Dean pressing Sam down into the bed, or Sam throwing Dean into the wall. His brother grows into his tall frame, chest expanding and muscles building until he could definitely take Dean if he really tried. He never does.
Sam is published now. Two novels under his belt and a third on the way, and Dean's so proud of him it hurts. If it bothers Dean that the protagonists of his novels are two gay men, partners, who hunt monsters in between bouts of ridiculously hot sex, then he never says it. He's pretty sure it doesn't, because every one of those scenes has to be researched just as thoroughly as the cases Sam puts in. The bank account attached to his pen name is full, and they rarely touch the money unless they want some luxury that exceeds the fake credit cards. In the meantime everything works well for Dean, and he's happy to just coast along doing what he does best with Sam at his back.
They're in bed, the last hunt miles behind them and the next a day or two away depending on how fast Dean drives. He's still buried inside of Sam, cock spent and body lax, and any second now his brother is going to push him away and go to the bathroom. Instead there's a choking noise, something thick and unhappy, and Dean jerks once before pulling out and twisting Sam around. His face is red, screwed up and angry. It looks too much like that first time, and Dean is full of the same childish panic he was then. He's helpless to do anything other than stroke Sam's sides and talk in the most soothing voice he can manage around the rush of adrenaline and fear.
"Sammy, Sammy it's ok. Breathe man, I got you. You're fine."
Sam's head shakes once, too long hair flying in his eyes, and then his mouth moves and the voice that comes out is croaky, quiet, but there.
"Dean."
For half a second Dean thinks it's his imagination, and then Sam's eyes fly open and the lines relax. His mouth is curling upward, the smile slowly over-taking his face, and Dean can't resist whooping with joy.
"Yeah Sammy. Dean. I'm Dean. My name is Dean." It's a ridiculous fucking response, and Dean knows it, but he can't stop himself. Sam apparently agrees, because his second word in fourteen years is just as tortured, but a little louder.
"Stupid."
And Dean? He laughs. Laughs until his stomach muscles cramp and his ribs ache. Laughs until he falls off the bed and is curled around his own midsection with tears streaming down his face and his hands shaking. Hysteria and relief mixing together. He knew, had done enough research to know, that the doctors had been right. That Sam's condition had been mental. The little sounds his brother could still make required working vocal chords, and Sam might not have known why he was silent, but Dean had suspicions. Half-baked ideas that had formulated and been rejected just as quickly.
Whatever the nightmare had been that night, whatever had gripped Sam so tightly that his little brother was cast into silence, it was gone. The shadow of it that had lingered in Sam's eyes for fourteen years was missing, and all that was left was a sparkle of relief and gratitude that Dean soaked in as his brother pulled him off the floor and held him close.
They may have been right, that Sam's voice fled in the wake of trauma and fear, but they'd been wrong about the need for therapy. Therapy was just words, and that wasn't what Sam needed. It had been action, Dean suspected these last few years specifically, that had freed Sam's frozen vocal chords. That had brought his brother's voice back to him.
-----
Sam talks too goddamn much, Dean thought as his brother blabbered on about the next hunt while Dean eyed his hipbones and considered the many ways he could shut him up.
Wordcount: 6,618
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam
Summary: Dean is ten when Sam stops speaking, and the rest is up to him.
First part
Sam spends three hours in the depths of the library, doesn’t ask Dean for help or suggest a task for him. Just sits in the midst of microfiche and dusty periodicals while Dean jiggles his leg and taps the table. It’s the longest three hours of his life, because no matter what he does Sam doesn’t even look at him. Just keeps flipping and turning until his eyebrows raise and Dean leans in behind him to see the screen.
The article is short, bleak, describes the discovery of the body, half in and half out of the marsh, undressed and badly decomposed. There’s the typical newspaper shot of the police line, a suggestion of the macabre without a full reveal of it, and beneath it a shot of her smiling and holding up a sold sign in front of a small house.
Karen Murphy, aged eighteen years, raped and murdered three months after moving to the quaint little town. The waitress at the diner, the one Dean flirted with the last two times they’d been there, said she was a nice girl who always tipped well. Said she’d left the diner saying she was meeting someone, and that was the last time she was seen alive. Sam’s twitching now, an uncommon occurrence for him, his fingers jerking beside the controls, mouth moving but in the shapes of the words on the screen. He’s saying something else, but Dean can’t read it and Sam doesn’t say it with his hands.
Dean studies him a long time, studies the picture on the screen smiling out at them, and then lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder as gently as he can. When Sam finally turns around his big hazel eyes are hollow, and Dean’s afraid to look at them for long. Instead he lets go of Sam and stands back.
“We’ll salt and burn her remains after we find out who did it. Ok Sammy?” It’s not their job, not their thing to find human killers really, but he’s willing to do it. Willing to cross that line if it will give Sam even a second of peace here. Sam’s nod has no energy behind it; he looks like he’s been awake for five days really. He pushes himself up, rewinds the film and tucks it neatly onto its spool, and then he’s gone.
They follow the spirit the next day, and she leads them easily as if they’re not even there. Stops in a tiny clearing and leans against a tree with a relaxed look on her face. Dean’s not even sure what he’s expecting, because honestly she doesn’t have a victim here. All the dead people are women, and he and Sam don’t even vaguely qualify.
She looks around the little space, eyes lingering for a moment on one slightly thinner patch of grass, and then her eyes land on them and she raises an eyebrow. She waves once, looks confused, and then pushes off from the tree. This time it doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that she was leaning right through several branches.
Where is Ray? She looks almost concerned, as if something is out of place but she can’t put her finger on it.
Sam breaks rank again and steps towards her. Who are you waiting on?
Her eyes narrow, lips pursing as her hand taps at one half-bared thigh. Finally she seems to think answering is a good idea. Ray. He’s supposed to be coming to see me. Who are you?
Dean wants to cut in, to sign to her that they’re nobody and if she could just give them Ray’s last name that would be great. Sam has different ideas though. He moves his hands rapidly, fluidly, not a problem for her but a little challenging for Dean. Enough that he’s too focused on the words to realize what Sam is doing.
We are looking for someone who rapes and kills women. He raped and killed you. Can you tell us who Ray is so we can avenge you? Sam’s face is infinitely sad, lined in ways someone his age should never be. He holds his hand out, towards her, and Dean’s trying to grab him but it’s too late. Too late. All those times he fought with dad he brought up Sam’s silence, but never once did he think to mention how stupidly big his little brother’s heart is.
The ghost’s eyes widen slightly, and then she’s lunging forwards and grabbing Sam’s shoulders with shaking hands, holding on even as his brother begins to make that screaming noise Dean hasn’t heard in so long. He reacts without thinking, grabbing Sam and pulling even as he lifts the shotgun full of rock salt and goes to fire. He misses because Sam flails at the last second and knocks it away.
Suddenly Sam’s not making sound anymore, just standing there staring at her as she stares back at him, big blue eyes shining wet despite the fact they are no longer physically capable of producing tears. She rubs at her face for a moment, and then she turns to Dean. I am sorry. I am sorry. Please help me.
Then she’s gone, and it’s just him and Sam standing in the little clearing. He grabs Sam without thinking, sees the wince and pulls Sam’s shirts aside to expose heavy hand-shaped bruises on each shoulder. Sam’s pale, shaking again, and then his little brother pulls away from him and bends over into the bushes to void everything he’s eaten any time recently.
It takes a long time, but eventually Sam manages to fumble out whole sentences. This is after Dean half-carries his brother through the woods, until he's just outright carrying Sam and then tucking him into the passenger seat of the Impala. He gets Sam back to the motel room and tucked in, watches him sleep for a fitful two hours, and then when Sam wakes up his signing is sloppy but passionate.
It was a guy. He pretended to be deaf and hit on her. He knew the signs. He talked her into meeting him in the woods and then he raped her. Dean fights himself every time Sam makes the sign, hooked fingers raking the air viciously and the other hand extending one finger and pointing up. It's a perfectly violent gesture for a violent word. He killed her. Now she is stuck and we have to help. I know what he looks like Dean. I know where he lives. We have to find him.
He has to choose his words carefully here, because Sam is looking at him like if he wanted to he could just walk in and make the guy pay. Which, to be fair, Dean probably could. Hell he half wants to, but they need to keep a low profile. It doesn't change the fact that the girl Sam is so intent on helping is killing people. So Dean suggests they look the guy up, and then they find out he's dead. Which takes a lot of the complication out of the equation. It also explains why the bodies are showing up in a manner that Karen would never be responsible for, and Dean doesn't miss the tension that bleeds out of Sam when he sees that. So it's still a salt and burn, but now it's a double. Dean can handle that.
Except when they leave the next day Sam is still not quite right. He's too pale, skin drawn tight across his face and hands slightly shaky in his lap. He doesn't try talking to Dean, and Dean lets him sit in that silence for the entirety of the time it takes them to cross another state border and find a new motel.
Sam's getting older. He's blowing his way through the home schooling requirements, and he's already smarter than Dean. If this hunt has proven anything it's that Sam is not made for hunting. It has nothing to do with his inability to speak at this point. It's Sam in general. Sam is too caring, too much of a bleeding heart and that sort of attitude will get him killed. Dean knows it, and if dad was around to see what his son had grown into he'd know it too. Sam's gentle, sweet, and innocent. They can't expose that to this life for much longer. Not without ruining some of the things that make Sam Sam.
Maybe it's time to look into something else for Sam. Something that will let his little brother continue to nurture and hone his creative skills without putting him in the line of danger. Dean's so busy considering the possibility of giving Sam up that he misses when Sam starts speaking. It's only a finger tapping his shoulder hard that gets his attention.
This room is actually nice. Dean looks around at the clean looking comforters, the lack of water stains, and the subdued theme. He nods once and then realizes he should do more than that or Sam will get suspicious.
"Well, yeah, only the best for the Winchesters." Sam rolls his eyes, but it's good to see emotion coming off him. Something other than sorrow and fear. "Sorry your first girlfriend turned out to be dead."
Sam gives him an odd look. Not my girlfriend.
"Yeah but you were interested."
No, I was not.
Dean's willing to let it go. He has other things to think about. "Yeah, well, there's time for that then. One day you'll meet a nice girl and that'll be it. Little Sammys running around pulling things down and being a general pain."
What if I want something else? Sam looks pale again, apprehensive, and Dean take a moment before he responds.
"What do you mean Sammy?"
His lips pursed, face set in lines that speak of stubborn fear. What if I want something else? Someone else?
"Are you-uh-" Careful Dean. "-you hinting at something specific Sammy?" He followed Sam's eyes when they dipped, roved, and eventually found what they were looking for in Dean's face.
Yes.
Dean rubbed at the back of his neck for a second before nodding. "Ok. Well that's fine. Fine. You can find a nice boy then, and make-adopt-you know whatever. Your life man." He chucked Sam's shoulder once and then saw that his brother was still frowning. "What? No kids either?"
Dean I want this. I want you.
He stood, legs suddenly numb and unsure, and wobbled out of the room and into the Impala before going directly to a bar.
------
The research is done quietly without Sam's knowledge and only when he's sure his little brother can't see it. Dean finds the right school first, and then he applies for a scholarship for Sam. He has back-ups, but the one in Colorado is the one he wants. Sam, for his part, lets the whole thing go. He doesn't mention his confession, doesn't mention Dean's response, and forces cheer at a level usually reserved for manic housewives. Dean would say something about it, but his grin is just as broad and fake.
When the acceptance comes he collects the brochure and the information together and sits Sam down before handing it all over. He's aware he's babbling, that his voice is unsure and overly bright, and that Sam hasn't looked up or said a word since he started.
"-good school where you'll be able to get better at writing and meet other kids your age. Good kids, and good teachers, and it's all paid for. They really want you. I submitted some of your stuff, and they loved it, so they already know how freaking brilliant you are and they're really eager. It's a great opportunity for you Sam. The kind of thing that only comes once in a lifetime, and when you do well there it opens the door for colleges and it's gonna be great. Just great. What do you think?"
He's ready for the fight. Ready for Sam to throw things and shout, the wild gesticulations, and just in case he's boned up on the harsher words they never use between each other. He's ready. Except Sam doesn't do any of that. He sits with the brochure in his lap and his hands limp against the bedsheets for a long time in silence before he finally signs his response, each one slow and sure, without ever looking over at Dean.
Yes. I will go.
Dean's not sure why he's disappointed, but he swallows it down and hugs Sam tightly. "It's gonna be great Sammy. You'll see. They got horses and shit, and you're gonna love it. We'll head for Colorado tomorrow."
And they do. Dean plays the role of Guardian ad Litem, and he hands his not so little brother over to the dean of the private school with more trepidation than he ever thought possible. He gives Sam one last hug, notices that his brother doesn't hug him back, and promises to email all the time. Sam simply nods and turns away.
For the first year Dean sends Sam a message every day like clockwork. Their length depends entirely on what's going on, but each one tells Sam where Dean is and what he's doing. Asks about his health, his schoolwork, and whether or not he's making friends. In the wake of Sam leaving Dean finds himself on more hunts with his dad, and it's probably ironic that he hates it. When Sam was there Dean longed to be with his father, hunting the big monsters and making the world better. He longed to be a part of it, and to see how proud his dad would be when he recognized Dean's talent and sincerity. Except now that he has it he can't miss the fact that it only came at the cost of Sam.
Each letter promises that he'll visit soon, even if he doesn't, and that he misses Sam, which he really does. Occasionally Dean will go into justifications, explanations of his behavior and why it's for the best. Why Sam is gonna thank him one day. Because Dean isn't as stupid as he seems, and he knows what's going on. Sam's been deprived of the chance to meet other people, to make friends and connections, and in that weird vacuum his entire life depended on Dean. It wasn't love, and Sam wasn't weird or fucked up, at least not in that way. Sam just had an unhealthy attachment, a delusion that Dean was the only thing in his world, and this is what he needs. He needs to see other people and know that there's more out there for a kid like him. That Dean isn't his only choice.
So it hurts, and it makes Dean crazy to not know where his little brother is and what he's doing, but that's completely normal, and this is completely necessary.
Sam never responds to a single email.
----
Three hundred and seventy-two days after Dean leaves Sam in the capable hands of St. Sophia's staff and begins the hardest trip he's ever taken to Alabama to meet up with his father he gets an email back. It's a record-breaking four words, and Dean's so glad to see it he's willing to ignore the message itself.
I still love you.
No more and no less than that, and it's so Sammy that Dean is momentarily overcome. Dad sends him a questioning look, but Dean ignores it to open the response and start typing. He tells Sam about the hunt they're on in Southern California. He tells Sam about how strange the people are here compared to the Midwest, how difficult it is to blend in with people who talk to their phones instead of the person in front of them, and how much he misses good barbecue. There's a long portion in the middle where Dean relates a funny story about Dad, a poltergeist, and a pantsing, but mostly it's just straight recall.
At the end of that he indulges Sam's comment as best he can by telling Sam that he's been studying up and there's a condition he can't remember the name for right now that has to do with what Sam is experiencing. That it's like Stockholm Syndrome, and that Sam only feels that way because he was cut off from the world. That given time, and other people, Sam will come to realize that he doesn't love his brother as anything more than a brother, and then they can put this whole thing behind them. They'll be better, and when Sam's finished if he still wants to tag along for hunts while he writes or whatever he's gonna put his mind to, then he's more than welcome. In the meantime Sam just needs to focus on his schoolwork and his friends, and how are his friends and schoolwork anyway?
He gets a response two days later. Sam is succinct just like the first time, and Dean reads it with an icepack applied to the gash in the back of his head and smiles even if he doesn't want Sam to be saying this. All A's. Two friends. I still love you.
Then life takes over again, and they're traveling all over the country and fighting every single monster Dean's ever heard of and several he doesn't know until they have fangs or claws coming at his face. Dad is stern, commanding, and Dean longs for the days when it was just him and Sam going after things and then relaxing in the motel room as some movie drones on in the background. The way his brother's lips curl upwards and the dimples carve their way out underneath. The up-tilt to Sam's hazel eyes, and how they're more blue-gray than blue-green when he's happy. He misses the way Sam's long and delicate fingers knew exactly how to work out the knot that always forms in his neck, and how he always felt melted and relaxed when Sam was done.
Every day though Dean makes time to write an email, and the next day he has a response from Sam. It's never more than ten words, and it always ends with the same four, but Dean's ok with that. He's ok with anything that lets him know his little brother is alright. They end one hunt badly, Dean in the hospital for two days with cracked ribs and a nasty gash that just missed his femoral artery, and then he finds himself left behind for a week as he recovers and dad chases some lead on the thing that killed mom. He missed two days of emails with Sam, and when he opens the laptop and engages the mail program his inbox is flooded with letters from his little brother.
Dean's a little high, the hospital was generous with their painkillers, and he reads each increasingly panicked email carefully before hitting respond and typing slowly and cautiously. He tells Sam about the hunt, about the injury, and then includes a funny anecdote about a nurse, Dean's penchant for bad sexual jokes, and a lap full of jello. He leaves out the less funny moment regarding the catheter and him screaming at the same woman. He's still not terribly proud of that moment.
He expects to hear from Sam the next day, so he pushes the laptop aside and grabs the remote before finding Lethal Weapon and leaving it on. When he hears the ding he turns to the computer in surprise and sees that Sam has already responded. It's not words in the traditional sense though, but a link to some website that lets Dean download a "messenger" and a username for Dean to find Sam. He follows the instructions blearily, and when he's done the little window pops up to let him type to Sam. He's cautious, because this is all new, but it's kind of exciting too. Also? Really stoned.
Sammy?
How bad is it? Are you still alone? Why isn't dad there taking care of you? Are the wards set?
He can't help the laugh, and it makes his ribs ache despite the fog of the painkillers. Not bad. Yes. He had a hunt. 'Course they are. How's school?
Fuck school. I'm worried about you.
Well that's great Sammy, but I'm fine and school is important. You making lots of friends?
I have an average number of friends and an above average GPA Dean. Shut up about school. Dad should have stayed. You know you make terrible decisions on painkillers, and when they wear off you get nauseous. Who's gonna bring you ginger ale and rub your back?
For a second, one terrible second, Dean's tempted. Really tempted. Because this is Sam, and Sam is right. Dean does get nauseous when he comes down from opiates, and Sam used to do those things for him. More importantly it occurs to Dean that Sam is the only person on the planet who knows these things. The only one who has ever cared enough to learn them. It's the first time since Sam left that getting him back is a fully formed thought instead of a vague and indistinct longing.
You need this. Because he does. He needs it. He needs to break free and be his own man. A man who doesn't want his brother.
You need me. Jerk.
And Dean? Well maybe he cries a little, but it's because along with making him nauseous opiates make him a little emotional.
Bitch. I miss you.
He closes the laptop before Sam can respond. Before any more damage to his surety can be done.
----
The emails don't stop, and Sam never changes his messages until the day he sends Dean three whole sentences. Twelve simple words that make Dean crazy.
I graduate in May. I lost my virginity. I still love you.
He responds on auto-pilot. Ignores the rest of it and simply focuses on the graduating part, because that's the part he should care about. That's the only part he should care about.
Except he cares about the other two parts too. Suddenly the half-formed understanding of Sam as a man instead of little Sammy isn't so funny or obscure anymore. Suddenly it's a full-scale, earth-shattering, mind-blowing, goddamn revelation. He cares about Sam, and Sam's inappropriate feelings, and Sam's goddamn virginity. He cares.
Which leaves him two options. There's the Winchester way, in which he ignores all of it. He pretends that it doesn't mean anything and that he hasn't come to the understanding that Sam is picking up on a connection between them that Dean himself refused to see. He never tells Sam that occasionally, only very rarely, he has maybe seen Sam as someone else. Someone who could be more than a brother, more than a charge or ward, and what the fuck now he's thinking in Victorian language. Because things have gotten that fucked. He could pretend he doesn't know that Sam's hands would be sure and steady on him, or that Sam's lips are plush and soft, or that he can picture Sam's smooth pink tongue moving-
Yeah, he could ignore all that. It's the best option because at the end of the day there are too many factors. Too much that's totally out of his control. Dad, for instance, would flip the hell out if he caught even a whiff of what's suddenly running through Dean's head. The rest of the community, anyone really, would look at them and know. Except would they? Really? Dean's an excellent liar. Was he really considering this?
It took four hours at the bar before he ended up back in the motel room connecting to the messenger program and shooting off a message to Sam.
Who?
It took longer than he liked for Sam to respond. Who what?
Don't fuck around Sammy. Who?
My gym teacher.
Dean didn't remember how it happened, but the lamp was shattered on the other side of the room, his bag was thrown, and the nightstand was overturned. Mr. Harold Longian was going to have extra charges on his credit card come tomorrow…
What the fuck were you thinking? You were supposed to meet guys your own age. You were supposed to be hooking up with the right guys not some pedo asshole.
I don't want normal guys. I want you. In the absence of that I'll take what I can get.
I'll be picking you up at graduation. Stop sleeping with your teachers.
He closed the laptop before he could expose anything else, barely resisted throwing it, and went to sleep. The hangover the next morning sucked, but not as much as the realization that he really only had one choice. Take Sam or lose him forever.
----
The graduation ceremony was ridiculously formal. Dad couldn't come, a hunt with someone in South Dakota taking precedence. Dean blamed him for it viciously as he watched Sam walk the stage and accept his diploma before rejoining the rest of the crowd. They didn't throw their pointy hats, but they did cheer like crazy and Dean didn't miss that some guy hugged Sam tightly and his little brother tilted his head back smiling broadly.
He met Sam in the crowd afterwards and led him to the car. They drove back to the hotel Dean had gotten, nicer than any he'd ever stayed in before, and Sam stared with wide confused eyes at the room. At the flower petals on the bed, and the champagne, and the stereo playing Enya. Then he turned to Dean.
What the fuck is this?
"I-uh-because we're-" Suddenly it seemed so stupid Dean wanted to run from the room. Some weird compilation of all the bullshit movies he'd ever seen about a young man taking his young woman's virginity, and what the hell was Dean thinking? Trying to woo his brother into bed like a horny teenage boy on prom night. This was so stupid. Except Sam was smiling in that way he had, the way Dean hadn't seen in so long it hurt, and the dimples were nothing compared to the light dancing in Sam's eyes.
I am a boy Dean. But it was a nice thought.
Dean waved the comfort away and stepped further into the room. "It was stupid. You can just-" The breath woofed out of him when he hit the bed face forward and Sam was draped over his back. Sam, alive, real, and there. Sam pressing his face against Dean's neck and staying there. Sam.
They didn't speak, like this Sam wasn't capable and Dean didn't think he could force words out of his tight throat. Instead they stayed there, and he soaked in Sam's warmth and the way the breath ghosted across his neck and Sam's chest expanded and contracted against his back. He didn't know if he should break the silence, or even if he could. All he knew was that Sam was exactly where he fucking belonged, and sending him off to live with strangers had only proven that. His goddamn gym teacher.
Which brought up an important point. One heavy enough Dean rolled them both over so that he could see Sam, and they could speak properly. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Sam didn't need clarification. Yet another check in the 'why this is a forgone conclusion' column. My friend James said that it was best to get it out of the way with someone before you do it with someone you love.
"Your friend James is an idiot and an asshat."
His brother's eyes lit up again, dimples deep and hypnotic. Jealous?
"Shut up Sam." Then Dean did the unthinkable and leaned forward, captured Sam's lips with his, and kissed him. He waited for the nausea, or the lightning bolts, but neither came. Instead he found that Sam's lips were just as soft as he remembered them, that Sam's return kisses were hesitant and sweet, and that Sam's tongue was a ridiculously strong muscle even if it didn't get the workout most people's did. Dean learned that in his hand, at this angle, Sam's jaw was sharp and that a thumb brushed along his brother's cheekbone made him release a husky noise that went straight to Dean's cock. He learned that Sam's hands were strong even if they looked delicate, and that his fingers would twist in Dean's hair and pull just this side of painful.
He learned a lot of things.
Mostly Dean found out that this didn't feel the way he thought it would. It wasn't the crazy, all-consuming lust he had when he was going at it with a one-night stand. It also wasn't the world-shattering punishment he thought would be attached to incest. There was just a slow and deep burn in his belly, a need to be connected and intimate in a way Dean had never experienced before. It was just Sam, there and pressed against him and taking up all his attention the way he always had. With sex added.
Sam was under him before Dean realized he'd left out an important question. "Did you top or bottom?" He spoke it against Sam's lips, and didn't consider that Sam's hand were busy until his brother tried to jerk one out from where it was tangled in his shirt. Then Sam just gave up and mouthed the word 'bottom' against his lips. Dean nodded thoughtfully before pulling away. Stripping in front of Sam in this whole new context was nerve-wracking, but Dean managed it, and he managed to get Sam naked with little trouble. If he thought it would all flow organically from there he was wrong.
The lube was waiting, and Dean used it on his fingers before turning to see that Sam had already spread his legs and lifted his hips. It was…well it was goddamn mouth-watering, but Dean ignored it in favor of twisting his wrist in a vicious curve and sliding one finger into himself. He'd had a month to prepare for this eventuality, and while he couldn't say it was the most comfortable thing he certainly wasn't completely foreign to it. It didn't hurt that he felt smug when he saw the way Sam's jaw dropped, or how his cock twitched. Which brought up the question of when Sam had grown so much.
"You're gonna catch flies." He added a second finger and hissed before leaning forward and catching Sam's mouth again. His balance was dangerous, and he was grateful when Sam reached up and caught his shoulders to hold him steady. He'd never gotten past three fingers, was pretty sure it wasn't necessary, and the addition of Sam's mouth against his had him adding the third faster than usual. Sam ate his grunt, and then sucked on his tongue while Dean adjusted. He could do this. He was going to do this.
They stayed like that for a while, until the intrusion became a pleasant burn instead of an ache, and then Dean pulled his fingers out and pushed Sam down. The position was all new, Dean was usually on the other end of it, but he got Sam lined up and then slowly began to sink down. Fingers, it turns out, are a poor substitute for a real cock, and the burn was back with a vengeance. Unsure if the bandage approach was correct Dean just kept moving slowly, eyes roving over the way Sam's stomach muscles tightened, how his fingers twitched against the bedspread, and the way Sam's own eyes were dark and heavy-lidded as he panted and tried to hold still. Whoever said size doesn't matter had never done this, but Dean worked his way down 'til he was fully seated and Sam was buried within him. Then he remained perfectly stationary, thigh muscles already burning and ass aching as he adjusted to the girth of his brother. Again, the lightning never came.
Eventually Sam was moving, little jerks of his hips, and Dean decided he'd be remiss if he didn't take the lead here. He was the older one after all. So with one movement he put Sam's hands on his hips, and then he pulled up and sunk down again. Sam's head bounced against the mattress and Dean groaned low and deep at the sensation of it. Sam filling him and burning through him. Whatever he thought this would be all his expectations flew out the window the first time Sam pushed upwards and hit his prostate. There wasn't even any shame that he called Sam's name as his whole body whipcorded above his brother. He'd never found the spot during his experimenting, and it was just as promised. Fucking electric, boogie woogie woogie.
A rhythm asserted itself, but who started it Dean couldn't say. What he could declare was Sam's long fingers held his hips just right, arm muscles straining as he helped Dean move up and down on his cock. He could feel every slick movement as the muscles clenched and squeezed around his brother, and the burn in his thighs combined with the burn in his ass only pushed him further and higher than any sex he'd ever had before. Sam's throat was working, noises coming thick and rapid as his lips moved around words Dean couldn't catch. Which was ok, because Dean was blabbering enough for both of them about how stupid he'd been, how much he loved Sam, and most importantly how they'd be together from now on. No matter what.
He managed to get one hand off of Sam's chest and wrapped around his own cock, the dual pleasures of Sam battering his prostate and his slick fist working the shaft and twisting the head enough to push him closer and closer until he was gone. Just gone. The world grayed out, his body jerked helplessly on Sam's dick, and he spurted all over his brother and himself before he felt, fucking felt, Sam pulsing inside of him.
The websites had been pretty specific about what came next, and Dean couldn't say he cared much for the clean-up portion of anal sex. On the other hand, returning to the bedroom to find Sam stretched out over the covers where he'd been left, coated in sweat and still breathing heavily with one eye cracked open and watching Dean, was well worth it. Even better was the look of shock and horror when Dean dropped the cold washcloth on Sam's spent dick and laughed when his brother scrambled to knock it off.
-----
Dean is twenty-four when his brother breaks the fourteen year silence that his life has become. They've made a life out of their weird thing, and it works for them. Dean hunts, Sam researches, and sometimes his little brother helps more directly. They see dad maybe, maybe, once or twice a year, but their father has bigger fish to fry and they're happy just helping people. They take turns topping, and they make sure that neither has more or less power when it comes to that aspect of their relationship. The rest of their life though is dictated by what Sam calls 'Dean's freaky big brother complex'. Sam never does more than Dean is willing to let him, and they fight about that. They fight about a lot of things, and half the time those fights end up with Dean pressing Sam down into the bed, or Sam throwing Dean into the wall. His brother grows into his tall frame, chest expanding and muscles building until he could definitely take Dean if he really tried. He never does.
Sam is published now. Two novels under his belt and a third on the way, and Dean's so proud of him it hurts. If it bothers Dean that the protagonists of his novels are two gay men, partners, who hunt monsters in between bouts of ridiculously hot sex, then he never says it. He's pretty sure it doesn't, because every one of those scenes has to be researched just as thoroughly as the cases Sam puts in. The bank account attached to his pen name is full, and they rarely touch the money unless they want some luxury that exceeds the fake credit cards. In the meantime everything works well for Dean, and he's happy to just coast along doing what he does best with Sam at his back.
They're in bed, the last hunt miles behind them and the next a day or two away depending on how fast Dean drives. He's still buried inside of Sam, cock spent and body lax, and any second now his brother is going to push him away and go to the bathroom. Instead there's a choking noise, something thick and unhappy, and Dean jerks once before pulling out and twisting Sam around. His face is red, screwed up and angry. It looks too much like that first time, and Dean is full of the same childish panic he was then. He's helpless to do anything other than stroke Sam's sides and talk in the most soothing voice he can manage around the rush of adrenaline and fear.
"Sammy, Sammy it's ok. Breathe man, I got you. You're fine."
Sam's head shakes once, too long hair flying in his eyes, and then his mouth moves and the voice that comes out is croaky, quiet, but there.
"Dean."
For half a second Dean thinks it's his imagination, and then Sam's eyes fly open and the lines relax. His mouth is curling upward, the smile slowly over-taking his face, and Dean can't resist whooping with joy.
"Yeah Sammy. Dean. I'm Dean. My name is Dean." It's a ridiculous fucking response, and Dean knows it, but he can't stop himself. Sam apparently agrees, because his second word in fourteen years is just as tortured, but a little louder.
"Stupid."
And Dean? He laughs. Laughs until his stomach muscles cramp and his ribs ache. Laughs until he falls off the bed and is curled around his own midsection with tears streaming down his face and his hands shaking. Hysteria and relief mixing together. He knew, had done enough research to know, that the doctors had been right. That Sam's condition had been mental. The little sounds his brother could still make required working vocal chords, and Sam might not have known why he was silent, but Dean had suspicions. Half-baked ideas that had formulated and been rejected just as quickly.
Whatever the nightmare had been that night, whatever had gripped Sam so tightly that his little brother was cast into silence, it was gone. The shadow of it that had lingered in Sam's eyes for fourteen years was missing, and all that was left was a sparkle of relief and gratitude that Dean soaked in as his brother pulled him off the floor and held him close.
They may have been right, that Sam's voice fled in the wake of trauma and fear, but they'd been wrong about the need for therapy. Therapy was just words, and that wasn't what Sam needed. It had been action, Dean suspected these last few years specifically, that had freed Sam's frozen vocal chords. That had brought his brother's voice back to him.
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Sam talks too goddamn much, Dean thought as his brother blabbered on about the next hunt while Dean eyed his hipbones and considered the many ways he could shut him up.
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Date: 2013-01-18 02:21 am (UTC)It's cool to see how one early change can affect so many things in the future. I'm glad they are happy!
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Date: 2013-01-18 04:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 03:00 pm (UTC)It's so interesting to see how Sam's muteness totally upset the family dynamic, and how much Dean came to rely on Sam for all the good things in life, as much as Sam relied on Dean for support. And John just got squeezed out through inattention.
The bit where Dean watches Sam and his 'girl' and doesn't understand why he's feeling unsettled was my favorite. :)
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Date: 2013-01-18 03:16 pm (UTC)I'm really glad you enjoyed it. :D Thanks for the review!
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Date: 2013-01-18 04:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 06:00 pm (UTC)Also, when it comes to Dean at least, I think Sam is incapable of being silent. Even in that heart-breaking scene where Sam is dead he's an active part of that conversation Dean is having.
I left the reasons for Sam's silence as vague as possible so that the reader could draw their own conclusions. I have my ideas, but I'm of the school of thought where the writer's opinion matters little when the characters have something to say. :)
I'm so glad you liked it, and thank you for the review!!
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Date: 2013-01-18 07:34 pm (UTC)Just saying:) It's a pleasure to leave a review for such lovely work you have shared.
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Date: 2013-01-18 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 07:52 pm (UTC)Really glad you liked it, and thanks for the review!
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Date: 2013-07-12 05:39 am (UTC)This one is probably my third favorite. :) It's nice to know it's likable to others too.
Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment!