Please Don't Go (I Love You So)
Apr. 12th, 2013 07:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_lioraTitle: Please Don't Go (I Love You So)
Wordcount: 4,549
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam
Warning(s): Non-Con, Angst, Violence, Expletives
Beta(s): If it's not Sammichgirl, it's not dimeliora.
Summary: Dean's side of "Please Don't Go (I'll Eat You Whole)"
A/N: I couldn't leave it there, and someone suggested doing it from Dean's POV. I got a little obsessed with the idea. Once again, it's up to you if you listen to the music. :)
Love is Blindness
Dean’s going to give Sam so much shit for sleeping through the initial attack. Seriously. The kid could miss the goddamn ham-handed way the son of a bitch had picked the lock, could sleep through Dean hissing his name, and then apparently sleep through Dean being knocked out with what was probably horse tranquilizers. From how incredibly thick and heavy he feels it had to have been horse tranquilizers.
Either way he and Sam are going to have a come to Jesus meeting about this, because his little brother’s alertness is really slipping. Why the witch left Dean his cell phone he doesn’t know, but he calls Sam repeatedly until he just gives up. He seriously doubts that Sam is anywhere in the cabin. There aren’t that many rooms, and the asshole doesn’t seem like the type to spread them out. Better to let them talk together and angst over whatever it is he’s planning.
If he had to guess the level of drugged he’s at suggests that the guy is going to try some kind of ritualistic torture. Which is great, because Dean knows how to handle torture. What he can’t handle is not being able to see what’s happening with Sam.
When the door opens he lifts his head and tries to fake grogginess, but the witch isn’t buying it. Instead the guy lifts a gun and points it at Dean while using his other hand to roll a water bottle to him. Dean ignores the offering and narrows his eyes. “Where’s my brother?”
For a moment the witch pauses, and then a sly smile spreads across his face. “Brother? Ya’ll realize incest is illegal in Texas?”
Dean bites off his first two responses and goes for the third. “Where’s my damn brother?”
“Somewhere else in the house. I’d suggest you drink that, or I’m gonna have to go and put a little lead in him. It’s your choice though.”
The water either has more of the drug in it, or it’s poison. There’s no assurance that drinking it will actually keep Sam safe. Dean twists the top off and swallows rapidly keeping the witch’s gaze the whole time. When he’s done he drops the plastic and licks his lips. “Happy? Where’s my brother?”
That smile is back, slow and sickening, and suddenly Dean’s stomach churns and his hands drop to his sides. “On his way. Stand up little boy.”
And Dean does. He stands, and he follows the son of a bitch across the polished wood floors, and ends up in the middle of the living room. Accepts his own gun from the witch’s hand and lets it dangle behind him. The witch disappears, but Dean can’t move from the spot he’s settled in. Instead he has time to study whatever is in his sight line, and to think about the many ways this has gotten fucked up. There’s gotta be an exit strategy, something to get them out, but whatever it is it eludes him. Instead he knows that Sam is coming, and that Dean is the bait in a trap that will no doubt spring shut so fast Sam won’t understand what’s happening.
Which is unacceptable. Dean knows everything he needs to from the witch’s approach. The son of a bitch is playing with them. Leaving Sam behind, letting Dean call him, setting everything up step by step so that they’d doom themselves. It’s a mindfuck, and Dean’s a master of it. He recognizes the whole thing, and knows the basics of what’s going to happen even before the witch begins to chant and Dean’s fist lifts, hovers for a second, and then slams into his own stomach.
Sam finding him is bad, the gun lifting to his temple in his own hand is worse. The witch is smug because he honestly believes Sam fell for the trap, but Dean knows better. Knows that Sam would have seen what this was from miles away and still walked in wanting to be trapped if it meant any chance of saving his brother.
Everything goes downhill from there. Dean thinks the worst of it is the little look Sam shoots him. Sammy was a willful kid. Full of questions and curiosity that made Dean tired more often than not, but filled him with a sense of hope that his kid brother would be the one that outshone them all. A sense of pride. There was a look Sam would get when he was going to do something he knew would make Dean proud. It was the look his brother shot him before he picked up his first gun, the one he had the day he knew he could take Dean down in a sparring match, and the same up-tilted chin and quirked set of lips that preceded Sam’s first kill. Look, look what I can do Dean.
Except that’s not the worst of it. The worst is the little shocked noise Sam lets out when the witch twists his nipple. The pain that is surprise and humiliation, a combination of understanding that being violated in theory is nothing in comparison to being violated in reality. Sam is pressed against Dean’s thigh, the muscles in his torso jerking and twitching in his pain, and his face pressed against the floor.
Dean knows every one of Sam’s sounds. He’s worked them out of his brother’s body with patient fingers and trembling lips. He’s spent years memorizing all of Sam’s buttons and anything he can learn to make Sam break down to his component parts so that Dean sees sides of his brother no one, not even the sainted Jess, has ever had exposed to them. It’s not his hobby it’s his art, and Dean knows all of Sam’s tells.
Right now his body is screaming for escape. He’s not shouting, not wailing, but the way his fingers pull at the wood and the puddle of blood and spit under his face as his lips move around whimpers and silent pleas are all things Dean has never seen before. He wishes he could unsee them. Wishes he could remove them out of existence. But he’s locked into place as the witch shoves in, as he hurts his baby brother, as Sam’s eyes go dull and shocked.
It’s hard. Harder than dying under the tearing claws of the hellhounds to the soundtrack of Sam’s screams, harder than burning dad, and harder than clawing his way out of his own grave. The spell fights him every millimeter of the way, but slowly Dean’s arm moves. The witch is too focused on what he’s doing, on making it as unpleasant and traumatizing as he possibly can, and because of that he never sees the gun lowering from Dean’s temple. Never sees what’s coming for him. Instead Dean manages to get the gun down and level before he pulls the trigger.
If he had the choice, if he knew he could decide, Dean would sell his soul again for the chance to be the one that spends an eternity putting the bastard in his place on the rack. Sam’s agony, the scream, and the way his brother goes lax as the witch slips out of him and to the side make that wish a hard one not to verbalize.
----
Believe
In the aftermath Dean knows what has to be done. He can follow the steps with simple efficiency, because anything else will require looking into Sam’s eyes. Seeing what his failure has wrought.
The first-aid is simple, and Sam is lax and compliant when Dean administers it. He goes through the motions, and when it’s over he pulls the blanket over Sam and forces words out of the broken glass that has become his throat.
All he can see are Sam’s injuries, Sam crying out, Sam’s eyes dead and dull. All he can hear is the labored breathing and the whimpers, and when Sam touches him Dean jumps out of his skin as the present collides harshly with the past.
Dean spends the night sitting in the dark, staring at the door and waiting for the next blow. Hoping it’s going to be another something that can be killed. If he’s lucky, and he rarely is, the witch will come back to life and this time Dean can make it slow. Can tear him into pieces the way the bastard did his little brother and share the sight of his insides. No luck comes that night.
Instead Dean listens to Sam’s shallow breathing, the soft noises of pain and fear, and lets his rage and hatred increase with every one.
By the time the sun rises Dean is so angry it’s all he can process, the only emotion he has left, and it carries him through Sam’s recovery. The anger turns cold, inward, and that’s what keeps Dean from smashing everything in sight when Sam speaks for the first time and it’s an apology. He can’t stop the look of disbelief on his face, but he can keep from scaring Sam more.
Sam keeps trying to say something, but it’s peppered so heavily with apologies and self-recrimination that Dean can’t get to it. Then Sam falls silent.
----
His brother becomes someone else. Gone is the easy camaraderie, the gentle looks, the understanding, and in its place is a ghost that Dean is afraid of. It fuels that ever present fire burning so low inside of him it’s become a necessary component of his life.
They’re off their game, and if it wasn’t for Sam silently pushing hunts at him Dean would demand that they find a place to hole up and just stay there. Where before there was always the chance that Dean would get distracted by the possibility of Sam getting hurt now he is consumed by it. Every injury that he has to clean is another black mark against Dean’s record as Sam’s older brother. Each time he has to lead Sam down and force his brother to let him touch him Dean is the bastard that hurt Sam.
His brother’s lowered head, subservient posture, and complete silence make Dean crazy. He can’t let Sam help him because he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t want to be taken care of he wants to take care of Sammy, and he can’t. There’s nothing left to help. Once or twice Dean starts to talk, to break the silence, but Sam’s so buried in his own headspace he never responds.
If he could Dean would sit Sam down and talk about it. Force those beautiful eyes to focus on him as he explains that Sam has every right to blame him. That Sam should see how colossally Dean fucked up and punish him for it.
He has no outlet. He can’t force himself to leave Sam long enough to go hustle or drink. The hunts are unsatisfying because he can’t stop Sam from getting hurt and he can’t stop beating himself up for doing it. Dean finds that when he’s in the quiet down time of driving the Impala from place to place his fingers seek out the injuries and dig into them. He relishes the pain in a way he never did before. Longs for the sense of injury that will let him know at least something understands how bad of a person, how bad of a brother and a lover, Dean really is.
But there’s no condemnation in Sam’s eyes even if his silence continues. Even if the gulf between them grows frighteningly wide. Dean doesn’t sleep anymore if he can help it. He sits up at night beside the bed Sam takes and watches the door. Waits for Sam’s nightmares to ratchet up to uncontrollable levels, for Sam to cry out, and then he wakes Sam with gentle touches and softly whispered words. By the time his brother is conscious enough to hear him Dean withdraws so that he won’t be intruding on Sam’s self-imposed space.
What he wants now is to take Sam back. To reclaim him. To know that Sam loves him still, again, whatever and that this isn’t the end of everything that constitutes Dean’s world. But he can’t have that.
Then it all breaks apart. They’re at the bar, and for once Dean has managed to put more than two feet between them. He’s trying, trying so hard to get that cocky grin in place, but by the look of his opponents it’s not working. Instead he has three hard contestants, none of whom are pre-disposed to betting big, lurking around the table. There’s a hint of violence in them that Dean wants to answer, but he’s afraid of what that would do to Sam. Afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.
So when he hears Sam’s sound of distress, clear as a bell over the noise of the bar’s jukebox, Dean drops his stick and moves. He sees the guy, eyes predatory and hot, and Sam’s look of abject terror. Sees all of it and then he’s there and the son of a bitch is in his hands.
It’s release and absolution all in one. It’s what he should have done before. Would have done if he could. It’s the world given to him on a platter. Every shred of control and thought leaves Dean, and he pours all his rage and hatred into this symbol of what the world has done to them.
Wasn’t it enough to lose both Mom and Dad? Wasn’t it enough that they can’t be who they are without censure and condemnation? That they’re forced to live the kind of life that will end them any time? They saved the goddamn world, and the only thing it gave them in return was the destruction of the best thing in creation. Dean dimly recognizes that there are hands on him, that he’s being lifted and moved, but he fights against them because the bastard is still breathing.
Then everything breaks apart. He feels the touch he knows better than his own, hears the husky timbre of Sam’s unused voice, and all the rage and hatred takes a back seat to the fact that Sam is willingly touching him. That Sam forgives him for being one of the monsters that put him so low.
Dean can’t stop himself. He pulls Sam in close and moves him away from the bar, away from the onlookers, and out to the car. He can’t stop touching, can’t hold his hand back now that it’s been offered everything, and he makes it to the motel in record time.
Sam is looking at him, big eyes wet and yearning, and Dean lets everything go. Pushes and pulls in his eagerness to be back where he belongs. To reclaim what he doesn’t deserve. Except there’s something wrong and Dean doesn’t recognize that clearly enough until Sam’s fist collides with his jaw and his brother skitters backwards into the wall.
The sound coming out of Sam is heart-breaking. Too familiar and too like that day in the cabin in Texas. Dean wants it to stop. Wants it to be something from a nightmare and not the reality they exist in. He can’t take it, and if Sam doesn’t stop making it or looking at him like that Dean is afraid he’s going to pick up his gun and do what the witch threatened in the first place. Eating a bullet would be simpler than being the monster from Sam’s nightmares any longer.
The strength goes out of his legs, and he finally does the only thing he hasn’t tried yet. He pleads. He holds his hands out and begs for Sam to stop, to come to him, to be whole again.
And wonder of wonders Sam does.
---
Hallelujah
In the wake of their tumultuous breakthrough Dean can settle for simply touching as little of Sam as he can without scaring his brother. They share the same bed every night, and Dean keeps himself awake and on edge so that he never crosses the line beyond what they began with.
After two weeks fingertips become fingers, and then Dean is given the gift of Sam’s whole hand. He stares at it in the dim light of the motel room. The difference in size, the delicate bones and long fingers, and it takes very inch of his self-control to not lift that hand to his lips and do something stupid and romantic like kissing every inch of it. Sam probably wouldn’t approve or appreciate it.
Dean takes his time, lets it build, and then one day they’re in New Jersey tracking down a poltergeist and Sam presses a kiss to the crown of Dean’s head as he walks past to get a drink from the mini-fridge. Dean suppresses the urge to crow, to dance and cheer, and instead chuckles once and navigates to the next webpage. “Feeling frisky Samantha?”
The second the words escape him Dean’s eyes jerk to the right to see if Sam has taken it badly. If he’s hurt his brother’s injured pride or brought up bad memories. Instead the eyes are sparkling with joy, and Sam lowers his head and shields them with his lashes. “I don’t know Deanna, you?”
It’s everything again. That rush of hope and joy that Dean had when Sam let him touch his fingertips, sleep near him, tell him he loves him. Dean hasn’t repeated that performance since then, but he wants to right now. He wants to go to his knees and profess all the love he can for Sammy. Wants to promise Sam the world in his hands if that’s what Sam requests. Instead he winks in a gesture Sam can’t see and forces words through the lump of unshed tears in his throat. “Maybe if you play your cards right. Buy me a steak dinner. I’m no cheap date.”
Sam’s small laugh is a balm for his soul. A gift of light in the darkness that has been roiling in Dean for so very long. Suddenly there’s something other than rage and gratitude in Dean. Suddenly there’s just a bit of joy.
---
It takes time. Nothing is ever perfect, and Dean doesn’t expect it to be. A month after Sam kisses his head he punches Dean in the mouth. They’ve just finished taking out a Shtriga, and Dean happened to make a joke about clowns and Sam’s testicles. Obviously it wasn’t funny.
There’s a moment where Dean sees Sam struggling with the conflicting feelings the punch brings up. The urge to apologize and the self-deprecation mixed with the insane rage brought up no doubt by remembering the witch and his words. Sam’s face settles into the anger, and Dean’s both glad to see it and afraid of it. No telling what Sam will do now that he’s exercising his right to be angry at being victimized.
Still, Sam’s words are a million times worse than the blow that just split Dean’s lip.
“Wanna prove I’m a girl Dean? Just hold me down and show me.” Sam’s lips curl in disgust, with himself and his words, but his eyes remain defiant and angry.
It’s ok. It’s ok for Sam to say that. For Sam to be angry. Dean reminds himself that over and over again as he struggles to grasp what he needs to say back. The hesitant and sad, “I’m sorry.” His brother’s face falls, crumples inwards, and then he’s launching himself forward and wrapping around Dean like he did when he was a little boy.
“No I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it Dean. Didn’t mean it. Please don’t-oh please-“
Dean shuts his eyes and feels the tears escape anyway. He pulls both arms up from his sides and gently wraps Sam in them. “I know baby. It’s ok. It’s ok to be angry. I fucked up again.”
Sam’s head is shaking against his shoulder, but he doesn’t speak. Just clings on and cries himself out.
---
The next blow up comes a week later at a bar. Dean is hustling, better now at faking the easy look he once had so naturally, and there’s some blonde bimbo hanging off his every word. She’s good for the play, because the guy he’s up against can’t stop staring at her tits, but Dean can see that she’s pissing Sam off.
Even now, even after Sam has begun to talk to strangers just a little bit, make eye contact, Dean can’t stop himself from checking Sam every few seconds. It doesn’t matter if he was the one abducted, there’s always a fear somewhere deep inside him that he’ll look up to find Sam gone. Taken from him again. He has so much of his brother back now, but there’s still more to regain. Or to lose.
Dean’s lining up his next shot, calling the corner pocket and the wall he plans on banking the cue ball off of, when the girl’s hand slides up his flank and along his ass. There’s a flare of anger, mostly at the fact that she is fucking up the concentration necessary for the game-winning shot, and then Dean stomps it down so he can make it.
And he does. He looks up from where he’s bent over the table to share his victory with Sam and sees the empty table where his brother just was.
There’s not even a pause. He leaves the table and his winnings in his rush, pool stick clattering against the tile floor behind him and the guy he was playing along with the girl calling out to him as Dean’s feet speed across the small bar and towards the door. He finds Sam walking, feet stomping along the grass beside the road, and shaggy head down.
Dean manages to catch Sam, to grab his wrist, and his brother swerves on his heel and strikes out. Dean barely misses taking another punch to the mouth, but it’s Sam’s eyes that stop him. He wants to yell, to shout at Sam, because disappearing like that is un-fucking-acceptable, but the tears there stop him.
Instead he takes a deep breath and controls himself. He is becoming the master of that these days. “Sam, what happened?”
The fire flares back up, consuming the agony and grief Dean just saw, and Sam shouts at him. “You wanna fuck the slut then go fuck her Dean. I don’t care!”
Fuck the…what? What? Dean swallows hard and tries to figure out where reality and solid ground went.
“Sammy I don’t-“
“No. You know what? Stow it. It’s not like we were ever gonna work anyway Dean. I’m gone.” With that Sam pries his wrist free and turns again before picking up momentum. Dean starts to trail after him without a second thought.
“Hey, hey, stop for a second. Stop. Sam I wasn’t gonna-she touched me! I didn’t touch her. I don’t want her. You gotta know that baby.”
Sam’s eyes land on him again as his whole body goes stiff and tight. “Why do you call me baby all the time suddenly? Why are you so goddamn solicitous? Whatever happened to the Dean who liked to fuck me and then hide it in the dark?”
They’d talked about this when Sam finally broke, but it appears it hadn’t been hashed out. This isn’t the venue, but the chances of getting Sam back to the motel room short of force Dean won’t expend on him are slim to none. If he has to have this conversation, then here is as good as anywhere.
“I never liked that.” Sam’s eyes fill with pain and Dean rushes to explain. “I never liked hiding it. But it’s gotta be done Sammy. People knew ‘bout us? What we are and what we do? That would be the end of it. Somebody would probably end up hunting us. I have to protect you Sam, and that means keepin’ some shit under the radar.”
His brother’s eyes narrow, then move down. “I don’t know why I’m so angry at you.”
“Because I failed you. You have every right to be-“
He cuts off because lips are pressing against his. That alone would leave him breathless, but Sam drives a hard fist into his side and Dean grunts and expels air against Sam’s lips.
“Shut up. Shut up about that. You didn’t fail me. You have never failed me. You did the impossible to save me.”
Dean is almost able to believe it.
----
It’s not perfect. It’s not sunshine and rainbows, but that’s ok because Dean has learned the hard way that a thing too good to be true always is.
Instead they spend another month dancing around each other until the day Sam joins him in the shower. They come together hard, Sam begging Dean to make him clean and Dean using every trick in his arsenal besides penetration to do just that. He wishes he had the kind of money to get a room with a bathtub big enough for both of them. He’d spend hours in the water scrubbing and worshipping every inch of Sam’s flesh.
What he can do in the shower is limited, but Sam comes against the plastic wall with Dean’s tongue buried in his ass and Dean’s hand wrapped around his cock. Dean gets off on Sam’s cries and moans.
For the next two weeks Sam is snappy and stand-offish. The desperate joy they shared is a long forgotten memory as Sam does everything he can to put distance between them.
They sleep in separate beds for the first time since that night at the bar, and Dean finds he can’t sleep that far away. Instead he lays there and fights the muscles that stretch and pull towards Sam like gravity has shifted its focus.
It ends as suddenly as it began, Sam crying out his apologies and Dean reassuring him. They go back to how it was before, and with time it becomes more than hand-holding in the dark again.
Dean takes his time, lets it progress naturally, and most importantly he never pushes. He never asks. When it’s safe, when they’re places that no one will ever know how deeply they’re really connected Dean goes out of his way to touch Sam. To let his brother, along with everyone in attendance, see past his rigidly built walls and into the depths of his love for Sam.
It takes time, but this is not a battle. It’s not a hunt and it’s not a challenge. This is a process. This is love the way it can only be between people that have survived, and that’s what Sam has to learn and accept. That they are equal partners in their rage and grief, and that they can only make it out together.
Every tiny step is a celebration in Dean’s head. The re-emergence of Sam’s dimples, the rebuilding of his brother’s muscle tone, the day Sam spreads himself on his own fingers and commands Dean to get in him right fucking now.
Every day is a new thing that they have to move through together, but that’s how they do it and that’s why they do it. Together.
Every day proves a little bit more that Dean’s hope isn’t unfounded. That they have a chance.
Wordcount: 4,549
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam
Warning(s): Non-Con, Angst, Violence, Expletives
Beta(s): If it's not Sammichgirl, it's not dimeliora.
Summary: Dean's side of "Please Don't Go (I'll Eat You Whole)"
A/N: I couldn't leave it there, and someone suggested doing it from Dean's POV. I got a little obsessed with the idea. Once again, it's up to you if you listen to the music. :)
Love is Blindness
Dean’s going to give Sam so much shit for sleeping through the initial attack. Seriously. The kid could miss the goddamn ham-handed way the son of a bitch had picked the lock, could sleep through Dean hissing his name, and then apparently sleep through Dean being knocked out with what was probably horse tranquilizers. From how incredibly thick and heavy he feels it had to have been horse tranquilizers.
Either way he and Sam are going to have a come to Jesus meeting about this, because his little brother’s alertness is really slipping. Why the witch left Dean his cell phone he doesn’t know, but he calls Sam repeatedly until he just gives up. He seriously doubts that Sam is anywhere in the cabin. There aren’t that many rooms, and the asshole doesn’t seem like the type to spread them out. Better to let them talk together and angst over whatever it is he’s planning.
If he had to guess the level of drugged he’s at suggests that the guy is going to try some kind of ritualistic torture. Which is great, because Dean knows how to handle torture. What he can’t handle is not being able to see what’s happening with Sam.
When the door opens he lifts his head and tries to fake grogginess, but the witch isn’t buying it. Instead the guy lifts a gun and points it at Dean while using his other hand to roll a water bottle to him. Dean ignores the offering and narrows his eyes. “Where’s my brother?”
For a moment the witch pauses, and then a sly smile spreads across his face. “Brother? Ya’ll realize incest is illegal in Texas?”
Dean bites off his first two responses and goes for the third. “Where’s my damn brother?”
“Somewhere else in the house. I’d suggest you drink that, or I’m gonna have to go and put a little lead in him. It’s your choice though.”
The water either has more of the drug in it, or it’s poison. There’s no assurance that drinking it will actually keep Sam safe. Dean twists the top off and swallows rapidly keeping the witch’s gaze the whole time. When he’s done he drops the plastic and licks his lips. “Happy? Where’s my brother?”
That smile is back, slow and sickening, and suddenly Dean’s stomach churns and his hands drop to his sides. “On his way. Stand up little boy.”
And Dean does. He stands, and he follows the son of a bitch across the polished wood floors, and ends up in the middle of the living room. Accepts his own gun from the witch’s hand and lets it dangle behind him. The witch disappears, but Dean can’t move from the spot he’s settled in. Instead he has time to study whatever is in his sight line, and to think about the many ways this has gotten fucked up. There’s gotta be an exit strategy, something to get them out, but whatever it is it eludes him. Instead he knows that Sam is coming, and that Dean is the bait in a trap that will no doubt spring shut so fast Sam won’t understand what’s happening.
Which is unacceptable. Dean knows everything he needs to from the witch’s approach. The son of a bitch is playing with them. Leaving Sam behind, letting Dean call him, setting everything up step by step so that they’d doom themselves. It’s a mindfuck, and Dean’s a master of it. He recognizes the whole thing, and knows the basics of what’s going to happen even before the witch begins to chant and Dean’s fist lifts, hovers for a second, and then slams into his own stomach.
Sam finding him is bad, the gun lifting to his temple in his own hand is worse. The witch is smug because he honestly believes Sam fell for the trap, but Dean knows better. Knows that Sam would have seen what this was from miles away and still walked in wanting to be trapped if it meant any chance of saving his brother.
Everything goes downhill from there. Dean thinks the worst of it is the little look Sam shoots him. Sammy was a willful kid. Full of questions and curiosity that made Dean tired more often than not, but filled him with a sense of hope that his kid brother would be the one that outshone them all. A sense of pride. There was a look Sam would get when he was going to do something he knew would make Dean proud. It was the look his brother shot him before he picked up his first gun, the one he had the day he knew he could take Dean down in a sparring match, and the same up-tilted chin and quirked set of lips that preceded Sam’s first kill. Look, look what I can do Dean.
Except that’s not the worst of it. The worst is the little shocked noise Sam lets out when the witch twists his nipple. The pain that is surprise and humiliation, a combination of understanding that being violated in theory is nothing in comparison to being violated in reality. Sam is pressed against Dean’s thigh, the muscles in his torso jerking and twitching in his pain, and his face pressed against the floor.
Dean knows every one of Sam’s sounds. He’s worked them out of his brother’s body with patient fingers and trembling lips. He’s spent years memorizing all of Sam’s buttons and anything he can learn to make Sam break down to his component parts so that Dean sees sides of his brother no one, not even the sainted Jess, has ever had exposed to them. It’s not his hobby it’s his art, and Dean knows all of Sam’s tells.
Right now his body is screaming for escape. He’s not shouting, not wailing, but the way his fingers pull at the wood and the puddle of blood and spit under his face as his lips move around whimpers and silent pleas are all things Dean has never seen before. He wishes he could unsee them. Wishes he could remove them out of existence. But he’s locked into place as the witch shoves in, as he hurts his baby brother, as Sam’s eyes go dull and shocked.
It’s hard. Harder than dying under the tearing claws of the hellhounds to the soundtrack of Sam’s screams, harder than burning dad, and harder than clawing his way out of his own grave. The spell fights him every millimeter of the way, but slowly Dean’s arm moves. The witch is too focused on what he’s doing, on making it as unpleasant and traumatizing as he possibly can, and because of that he never sees the gun lowering from Dean’s temple. Never sees what’s coming for him. Instead Dean manages to get the gun down and level before he pulls the trigger.
If he had the choice, if he knew he could decide, Dean would sell his soul again for the chance to be the one that spends an eternity putting the bastard in his place on the rack. Sam’s agony, the scream, and the way his brother goes lax as the witch slips out of him and to the side make that wish a hard one not to verbalize.
----
Believe
In the aftermath Dean knows what has to be done. He can follow the steps with simple efficiency, because anything else will require looking into Sam’s eyes. Seeing what his failure has wrought.
The first-aid is simple, and Sam is lax and compliant when Dean administers it. He goes through the motions, and when it’s over he pulls the blanket over Sam and forces words out of the broken glass that has become his throat.
All he can see are Sam’s injuries, Sam crying out, Sam’s eyes dead and dull. All he can hear is the labored breathing and the whimpers, and when Sam touches him Dean jumps out of his skin as the present collides harshly with the past.
Dean spends the night sitting in the dark, staring at the door and waiting for the next blow. Hoping it’s going to be another something that can be killed. If he’s lucky, and he rarely is, the witch will come back to life and this time Dean can make it slow. Can tear him into pieces the way the bastard did his little brother and share the sight of his insides. No luck comes that night.
Instead Dean listens to Sam’s shallow breathing, the soft noises of pain and fear, and lets his rage and hatred increase with every one.
By the time the sun rises Dean is so angry it’s all he can process, the only emotion he has left, and it carries him through Sam’s recovery. The anger turns cold, inward, and that’s what keeps Dean from smashing everything in sight when Sam speaks for the first time and it’s an apology. He can’t stop the look of disbelief on his face, but he can keep from scaring Sam more.
Sam keeps trying to say something, but it’s peppered so heavily with apologies and self-recrimination that Dean can’t get to it. Then Sam falls silent.
----
His brother becomes someone else. Gone is the easy camaraderie, the gentle looks, the understanding, and in its place is a ghost that Dean is afraid of. It fuels that ever present fire burning so low inside of him it’s become a necessary component of his life.
They’re off their game, and if it wasn’t for Sam silently pushing hunts at him Dean would demand that they find a place to hole up and just stay there. Where before there was always the chance that Dean would get distracted by the possibility of Sam getting hurt now he is consumed by it. Every injury that he has to clean is another black mark against Dean’s record as Sam’s older brother. Each time he has to lead Sam down and force his brother to let him touch him Dean is the bastard that hurt Sam.
His brother’s lowered head, subservient posture, and complete silence make Dean crazy. He can’t let Sam help him because he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t want to be taken care of he wants to take care of Sammy, and he can’t. There’s nothing left to help. Once or twice Dean starts to talk, to break the silence, but Sam’s so buried in his own headspace he never responds.
If he could Dean would sit Sam down and talk about it. Force those beautiful eyes to focus on him as he explains that Sam has every right to blame him. That Sam should see how colossally Dean fucked up and punish him for it.
He has no outlet. He can’t force himself to leave Sam long enough to go hustle or drink. The hunts are unsatisfying because he can’t stop Sam from getting hurt and he can’t stop beating himself up for doing it. Dean finds that when he’s in the quiet down time of driving the Impala from place to place his fingers seek out the injuries and dig into them. He relishes the pain in a way he never did before. Longs for the sense of injury that will let him know at least something understands how bad of a person, how bad of a brother and a lover, Dean really is.
But there’s no condemnation in Sam’s eyes even if his silence continues. Even if the gulf between them grows frighteningly wide. Dean doesn’t sleep anymore if he can help it. He sits up at night beside the bed Sam takes and watches the door. Waits for Sam’s nightmares to ratchet up to uncontrollable levels, for Sam to cry out, and then he wakes Sam with gentle touches and softly whispered words. By the time his brother is conscious enough to hear him Dean withdraws so that he won’t be intruding on Sam’s self-imposed space.
What he wants now is to take Sam back. To reclaim him. To know that Sam loves him still, again, whatever and that this isn’t the end of everything that constitutes Dean’s world. But he can’t have that.
Then it all breaks apart. They’re at the bar, and for once Dean has managed to put more than two feet between them. He’s trying, trying so hard to get that cocky grin in place, but by the look of his opponents it’s not working. Instead he has three hard contestants, none of whom are pre-disposed to betting big, lurking around the table. There’s a hint of violence in them that Dean wants to answer, but he’s afraid of what that would do to Sam. Afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.
So when he hears Sam’s sound of distress, clear as a bell over the noise of the bar’s jukebox, Dean drops his stick and moves. He sees the guy, eyes predatory and hot, and Sam’s look of abject terror. Sees all of it and then he’s there and the son of a bitch is in his hands.
It’s release and absolution all in one. It’s what he should have done before. Would have done if he could. It’s the world given to him on a platter. Every shred of control and thought leaves Dean, and he pours all his rage and hatred into this symbol of what the world has done to them.
Wasn’t it enough to lose both Mom and Dad? Wasn’t it enough that they can’t be who they are without censure and condemnation? That they’re forced to live the kind of life that will end them any time? They saved the goddamn world, and the only thing it gave them in return was the destruction of the best thing in creation. Dean dimly recognizes that there are hands on him, that he’s being lifted and moved, but he fights against them because the bastard is still breathing.
Then everything breaks apart. He feels the touch he knows better than his own, hears the husky timbre of Sam’s unused voice, and all the rage and hatred takes a back seat to the fact that Sam is willingly touching him. That Sam forgives him for being one of the monsters that put him so low.
Dean can’t stop himself. He pulls Sam in close and moves him away from the bar, away from the onlookers, and out to the car. He can’t stop touching, can’t hold his hand back now that it’s been offered everything, and he makes it to the motel in record time.
Sam is looking at him, big eyes wet and yearning, and Dean lets everything go. Pushes and pulls in his eagerness to be back where he belongs. To reclaim what he doesn’t deserve. Except there’s something wrong and Dean doesn’t recognize that clearly enough until Sam’s fist collides with his jaw and his brother skitters backwards into the wall.
The sound coming out of Sam is heart-breaking. Too familiar and too like that day in the cabin in Texas. Dean wants it to stop. Wants it to be something from a nightmare and not the reality they exist in. He can’t take it, and if Sam doesn’t stop making it or looking at him like that Dean is afraid he’s going to pick up his gun and do what the witch threatened in the first place. Eating a bullet would be simpler than being the monster from Sam’s nightmares any longer.
The strength goes out of his legs, and he finally does the only thing he hasn’t tried yet. He pleads. He holds his hands out and begs for Sam to stop, to come to him, to be whole again.
And wonder of wonders Sam does.
---
Hallelujah
In the wake of their tumultuous breakthrough Dean can settle for simply touching as little of Sam as he can without scaring his brother. They share the same bed every night, and Dean keeps himself awake and on edge so that he never crosses the line beyond what they began with.
After two weeks fingertips become fingers, and then Dean is given the gift of Sam’s whole hand. He stares at it in the dim light of the motel room. The difference in size, the delicate bones and long fingers, and it takes very inch of his self-control to not lift that hand to his lips and do something stupid and romantic like kissing every inch of it. Sam probably wouldn’t approve or appreciate it.
Dean takes his time, lets it build, and then one day they’re in New Jersey tracking down a poltergeist and Sam presses a kiss to the crown of Dean’s head as he walks past to get a drink from the mini-fridge. Dean suppresses the urge to crow, to dance and cheer, and instead chuckles once and navigates to the next webpage. “Feeling frisky Samantha?”
The second the words escape him Dean’s eyes jerk to the right to see if Sam has taken it badly. If he’s hurt his brother’s injured pride or brought up bad memories. Instead the eyes are sparkling with joy, and Sam lowers his head and shields them with his lashes. “I don’t know Deanna, you?”
It’s everything again. That rush of hope and joy that Dean had when Sam let him touch his fingertips, sleep near him, tell him he loves him. Dean hasn’t repeated that performance since then, but he wants to right now. He wants to go to his knees and profess all the love he can for Sammy. Wants to promise Sam the world in his hands if that’s what Sam requests. Instead he winks in a gesture Sam can’t see and forces words through the lump of unshed tears in his throat. “Maybe if you play your cards right. Buy me a steak dinner. I’m no cheap date.”
Sam’s small laugh is a balm for his soul. A gift of light in the darkness that has been roiling in Dean for so very long. Suddenly there’s something other than rage and gratitude in Dean. Suddenly there’s just a bit of joy.
---
It takes time. Nothing is ever perfect, and Dean doesn’t expect it to be. A month after Sam kisses his head he punches Dean in the mouth. They’ve just finished taking out a Shtriga, and Dean happened to make a joke about clowns and Sam’s testicles. Obviously it wasn’t funny.
There’s a moment where Dean sees Sam struggling with the conflicting feelings the punch brings up. The urge to apologize and the self-deprecation mixed with the insane rage brought up no doubt by remembering the witch and his words. Sam’s face settles into the anger, and Dean’s both glad to see it and afraid of it. No telling what Sam will do now that he’s exercising his right to be angry at being victimized.
Still, Sam’s words are a million times worse than the blow that just split Dean’s lip.
“Wanna prove I’m a girl Dean? Just hold me down and show me.” Sam’s lips curl in disgust, with himself and his words, but his eyes remain defiant and angry.
It’s ok. It’s ok for Sam to say that. For Sam to be angry. Dean reminds himself that over and over again as he struggles to grasp what he needs to say back. The hesitant and sad, “I’m sorry.” His brother’s face falls, crumples inwards, and then he’s launching himself forward and wrapping around Dean like he did when he was a little boy.
“No I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it Dean. Didn’t mean it. Please don’t-oh please-“
Dean shuts his eyes and feels the tears escape anyway. He pulls both arms up from his sides and gently wraps Sam in them. “I know baby. It’s ok. It’s ok to be angry. I fucked up again.”
Sam’s head is shaking against his shoulder, but he doesn’t speak. Just clings on and cries himself out.
---
The next blow up comes a week later at a bar. Dean is hustling, better now at faking the easy look he once had so naturally, and there’s some blonde bimbo hanging off his every word. She’s good for the play, because the guy he’s up against can’t stop staring at her tits, but Dean can see that she’s pissing Sam off.
Even now, even after Sam has begun to talk to strangers just a little bit, make eye contact, Dean can’t stop himself from checking Sam every few seconds. It doesn’t matter if he was the one abducted, there’s always a fear somewhere deep inside him that he’ll look up to find Sam gone. Taken from him again. He has so much of his brother back now, but there’s still more to regain. Or to lose.
Dean’s lining up his next shot, calling the corner pocket and the wall he plans on banking the cue ball off of, when the girl’s hand slides up his flank and along his ass. There’s a flare of anger, mostly at the fact that she is fucking up the concentration necessary for the game-winning shot, and then Dean stomps it down so he can make it.
And he does. He looks up from where he’s bent over the table to share his victory with Sam and sees the empty table where his brother just was.
There’s not even a pause. He leaves the table and his winnings in his rush, pool stick clattering against the tile floor behind him and the guy he was playing along with the girl calling out to him as Dean’s feet speed across the small bar and towards the door. He finds Sam walking, feet stomping along the grass beside the road, and shaggy head down.
Dean manages to catch Sam, to grab his wrist, and his brother swerves on his heel and strikes out. Dean barely misses taking another punch to the mouth, but it’s Sam’s eyes that stop him. He wants to yell, to shout at Sam, because disappearing like that is un-fucking-acceptable, but the tears there stop him.
Instead he takes a deep breath and controls himself. He is becoming the master of that these days. “Sam, what happened?”
The fire flares back up, consuming the agony and grief Dean just saw, and Sam shouts at him. “You wanna fuck the slut then go fuck her Dean. I don’t care!”
Fuck the…what? What? Dean swallows hard and tries to figure out where reality and solid ground went.
“Sammy I don’t-“
“No. You know what? Stow it. It’s not like we were ever gonna work anyway Dean. I’m gone.” With that Sam pries his wrist free and turns again before picking up momentum. Dean starts to trail after him without a second thought.
“Hey, hey, stop for a second. Stop. Sam I wasn’t gonna-she touched me! I didn’t touch her. I don’t want her. You gotta know that baby.”
Sam’s eyes land on him again as his whole body goes stiff and tight. “Why do you call me baby all the time suddenly? Why are you so goddamn solicitous? Whatever happened to the Dean who liked to fuck me and then hide it in the dark?”
They’d talked about this when Sam finally broke, but it appears it hadn’t been hashed out. This isn’t the venue, but the chances of getting Sam back to the motel room short of force Dean won’t expend on him are slim to none. If he has to have this conversation, then here is as good as anywhere.
“I never liked that.” Sam’s eyes fill with pain and Dean rushes to explain. “I never liked hiding it. But it’s gotta be done Sammy. People knew ‘bout us? What we are and what we do? That would be the end of it. Somebody would probably end up hunting us. I have to protect you Sam, and that means keepin’ some shit under the radar.”
His brother’s eyes narrow, then move down. “I don’t know why I’m so angry at you.”
“Because I failed you. You have every right to be-“
He cuts off because lips are pressing against his. That alone would leave him breathless, but Sam drives a hard fist into his side and Dean grunts and expels air against Sam’s lips.
“Shut up. Shut up about that. You didn’t fail me. You have never failed me. You did the impossible to save me.”
Dean is almost able to believe it.
----
It’s not perfect. It’s not sunshine and rainbows, but that’s ok because Dean has learned the hard way that a thing too good to be true always is.
Instead they spend another month dancing around each other until the day Sam joins him in the shower. They come together hard, Sam begging Dean to make him clean and Dean using every trick in his arsenal besides penetration to do just that. He wishes he had the kind of money to get a room with a bathtub big enough for both of them. He’d spend hours in the water scrubbing and worshipping every inch of Sam’s flesh.
What he can do in the shower is limited, but Sam comes against the plastic wall with Dean’s tongue buried in his ass and Dean’s hand wrapped around his cock. Dean gets off on Sam’s cries and moans.
For the next two weeks Sam is snappy and stand-offish. The desperate joy they shared is a long forgotten memory as Sam does everything he can to put distance between them.
They sleep in separate beds for the first time since that night at the bar, and Dean finds he can’t sleep that far away. Instead he lays there and fights the muscles that stretch and pull towards Sam like gravity has shifted its focus.
It ends as suddenly as it began, Sam crying out his apologies and Dean reassuring him. They go back to how it was before, and with time it becomes more than hand-holding in the dark again.
Dean takes his time, lets it progress naturally, and most importantly he never pushes. He never asks. When it’s safe, when they’re places that no one will ever know how deeply they’re really connected Dean goes out of his way to touch Sam. To let his brother, along with everyone in attendance, see past his rigidly built walls and into the depths of his love for Sam.
It takes time, but this is not a battle. It’s not a hunt and it’s not a challenge. This is a process. This is love the way it can only be between people that have survived, and that’s what Sam has to learn and accept. That they are equal partners in their rage and grief, and that they can only make it out together.
Every tiny step is a celebration in Dean’s head. The re-emergence of Sam’s dimples, the rebuilding of his brother’s muscle tone, the day Sam spreads himself on his own fingers and commands Dean to get in him right fucking now.
Every day is a new thing that they have to move through together, but that’s how they do it and that’s why they do it. Together.
Every day proves a little bit more that Dean’s hope isn’t unfounded. That they have a chance.
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Date: 2013-04-13 02:28 pm (UTC)You know all my on-the-fly input, but truly, I'm happy to be heartbroken with this piece because it's not a quick fix and there are setbacks and it deals with the stages one would expect.
And it ends in hope on a happier path.
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Date: 2013-04-14 01:16 am (UTC):) Thanks lady. You made it possible after all.
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Date: 2013-04-14 08:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-15 02:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-14 07:16 pm (UTC)You did.
All the pain, the anger, the frustrated inability to FIX IT, the self-hatred and fear of disgust, shame. And at the end, people SURVIVE. They rebuild their lives, and rape isn't always the end of everything. There's hope and love and renewal.
I get why you were nervous, and why you were trying to warn us off...but I'm glad I read anyway. You may not trust you with such delicate subject matter, but it's safe to say that I do, now.
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Date: 2013-04-15 02:15 am (UTC)I agree with everything you said, and I'm glad that came through. Thank you so much!
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Date: 2013-04-14 07:59 pm (UTC)First--slap to the back of the head for making me cry, omg, not even delicate little sniffles but ugly blotchy Sammy crying. So mad!!
Second--this:After two weeks fingertips become fingers, and then Dean is given the gift of Sam’s whole hand. He stares at it in the dim light of the motel room. The difference in size, the delicate bones and long fingers, and it takes very inch of his self-control to not lift that hand to his lips and do something stupid and romantic like kissing every inch of it. is so fucking beautiful I snotted some more.
This was an amazing follow-up to the first piece, just the right tone, just the right pace. Thanks so much for letting us get inside Dean's head and see just what I suspected was going on. ♥
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Date: 2013-04-15 02:18 am (UTC)"Hallelujah" was the only thing I could listen to when I wrote that part. I literally tried other things, and none of them worked. I'd just stare at the keyboard like a dope.
I feel awful about making you cry, but really proud. Which may make me a sadist...
Thank you. :)
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Date: 2013-04-15 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-17 03:12 pm (UTC)*g* but then I kept going, because I trust you, and nope, once wasn't enough, because this time there was all the hurt, but all the hope too, and a wonderful ending!
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Date: 2013-04-17 10:10 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it though, and that it was hopeful. I do so love a happy ending! Thanks for reading and reviewing!
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Date: 2013-04-20 02:29 pm (UTC)I was absolutely stunned when you revealed that mirror image from the first fic where Sam thinks he's trying to talk to Dean only to be rebuffed, but he's actually just a mess of apologies and Dean can't fathom why. I wish keyboard mashes could convey my feelings about all of this more accurately, but I'm afraid my useless words will have to do.
Perfection. Total and utter. And again, just beautifully chosen music. I have no idea how you do it, but I'm glad you do!
Thank you.
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Date: 2013-04-20 02:49 pm (UTC)Keyboard mashes speak volumes, but these words did very well. :)
Thanks again for more reading and reviewing, and I'm glad you liked the music again! I'm a compulsive soundtrack builder. Fiction, real-life, doesn't matter I'm making soundtracks.
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Date: 2013-04-22 02:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-23 03:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-14 06:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-14 03:38 pm (UTC)That always kills me too. Big Brother Dean is the best Dean. Then again, so is possessive Dean and overly protective Dean, and I just loooove me some Dean.
So glad you liked it, and thanks for reading and commenting!
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Date: 2013-11-22 05:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-08 09:38 pm (UTC)Sorry this reply took so long!!
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Date: 2014-01-27 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-02-27 10:02 pm (UTC)Thank you again, really, you've made my year.