[Nym] Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [6/6]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I fell asleep! There was a hot water bottle involved (er, as in, I CUDDLED UP with a hot water bottle, before you perverts start giggling) and an all-nighter for an essay. I know. I suck. Here, I'm tossing out something to placate you? ;_;
Title: Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [6/6]
Author: nymeria
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 30,218 in total, 9,270 this chapter
Genre: AU.
Betas: estrella30, poisontaster and the lovely shiny guest beta, mona1347!
Notes: And that's all she wrote, folks.
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six] [Epilogue]
Tell me what you've come for
Moving like a hunter through my back door
Leaving the perfume of all you adore
To die nameless on my floor
Wild
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It's wet outside when Sam finally leaves his apartment, duffle heavy over his shoulder, clanking and jingling with the various items inside. He has his cell phone in his hand and he glances at the timer as he hurries down to the sidewalk, somehow unsurprised that it's four in the morning.
He's been on the phone with Pastor Jim most of the night, despite the message he left on Dean's machine some ten hours ago. Jim hadn't known what the creature inside his brother might be either, but unlike Sam he was still in the game. He'd left Sam on hold for two hours while he called up three witches, a warlock, a disgruntled vampire slayer apparently in the bath, two priestesses and finally a bookish girl by the name of Lou, apparently the daughter of another hunter. She'd had what Sam needed, and apparently the ritual she proposed could be conducted with various household items. Or at least household items in a Winchester's world.
Palo Alto's mostly quiet at this time in the morning, college town or not, weekday or not. Sam locks his apartment behind him and then, before he can stop himself, punches the dial button on his cell.
"Sam?" Jess sounds sleepy when she answers the phone, the opposite to Sam's own wired state. "What time is it?"
"Four in the morning," Sam says gently, and breathes in deeply, gearing himself up for what comes next. "I'm sorry." He doesn't elaborate and he knows she'll know what he really means by that, especially after yesterday.
He hears her sigh, and then, sadly, "I loved you."
"I know," he replies, and shifts the heavy duffle on his shoulders, pushing it into a more comfortable position. "I wish it could've worked out, Jess. I did - I do - love you, too." The cold stings his face and his cell feels too hot in his hand, palm clammy with sweat. He's not aware he's crying until cool tears begin dripping off his chin.
She takes a deep breath and another, calming herself down, and something in his chest contracts hard. Hard enough that he nearly drops the bag and shouts into the phone for her to come back home and forget this conversation. Almost, but not quite.
Dean comes first.
It's what led to this conversation in the first place; it's why he's - not okay, not exactly - but why he has to do this, break up with her, end what they had. "Sam," she says then and her voice is shaky. "Christ. Sam, I - I'm sorry."
"Me too," he replies, and means it with everything he has. He wishes desperately that it hadn't come to this, to his brother or his girlfriend, but it has and this is what it is and there is nothing he can do about it, no matter how much he wants to.
Talking to her hurts even more, like someone stubbing a cigarette out right on his solar plexus, and he swallows, tries to push the feeling away. Dean needs him and this is what he's chosen; Jess or Dean, and his broken brother takes precedent.
"I - I have to go," he says, voice thick and nearly dying somewhere in his throat. She's starting to cry on the other end and that makes everything worse. I didn't mean to do this to you, he wants to say but nothing comes out. He hunches his shoulders in misery and turns his cell phone off, shoving it roughly in his pocket. It aches somewhere inside him, but he closes his eyes and concentrates. He brought this upon himself and he'll deal with the consequences.
It's three blocks to Dean's place, and he digs his nails into his palms hard enough to scar. Jess is - was - perfect and he'll never regret what he had with her, but he spent more time last night agonizing over this than researching Isis when it comes down to it. He tries his hardest to remember the conclusions he drew up just a few hours ago: that this - this wanting Dean thing, sick and wrong and fucked up though it may be - is just…facts. He couldn't do it anymore, not to Jess; the treating her like a replacement, a version of his brother he could cuddle without being shrugged off, a version he could kiss (fuck) without worry. It's not fair to her, not really.
It doesn't mean he likes it. Having to pick between them, though it was a good slap in the face to be forced into it. He just - he just - he misses her already, in a way he hasn't felt since the days after his father died, torn up and broken and needing his brother desperately to overcome the overwhelming sensation of being lost. The silence then felt like someone filled his throat with thorns and only around Dean would they wither and die. That alone is enough to make him tighten his fingers around the strap of his duffle.
When you work a job, you can't get distracted, his father had told him roughly once, and oh god, only now does he understand why. Dean's dying and he won't let himself have Jessica, and there's only one thing he can do. He jogs out into the road, heading for his brother's place, fingernails tearing bloody streaks in his palms the whole time.
It takes fifteen minutes tops to walk there on a normal day, but Sam doesn't slow down and doesn't really look where he's going. He trips a couple of times and nearly gets hit by a passing Chevy, spends a couple of minutes brushing himself down and cussing the driver with the full extent of his vocabulary. By the time he reaches Dean's he's bleeding and dirty, and he's only too grateful when he walks up to his brother's front door. He digs the key out of the back pocket of his jeans and clicks the door open, peers cautiously around it. The apartment is dark and quiet, the lights turned off and the only noises the clank of the boiler. Dean's bedroom door is open, and Sam closes the door quietly behind himself, heads to the bathroom first to clean up.
He washes the blood off and splashes some cool water over his face, and then pauses, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks like he's been dragged backwards through a hedge. He'd stopped crying after the incident with the car and his eyes feel hot, dry and swollen. They don't feel all that better after the water, but a little helps, and Sam exits the bathroom feeling less like he wants to flop on the couch and die.
His brother's in bed, and seeing as it's four-thirty in the morning, that's none too surprising. Sam drops his duffel in the middle of the living room floor, kicks off his sneakers, rolls his sleeves up, and opens the bedroom door. He hasn't made any effort at silencing himself, which is just as well, since Dean hasn't stirred. He's lying on his side, both arms tucked close to his chest, and Sam bites back a growl at the unusual position.
The ritual calls for a candle placed at every compass-point around the recipient and Sam curls his fingers around the footboard, pulling the bed away from the wall with a flex of muscles and some muffled cursing. Jesus, he really needs to hit the gym; just the other day Jess said -
He sets his jaw, tugs once more, and Dean twitches in his sleep, growls. "This is for your sake," Sam scolds, and judges the bed to have moved far enough on the next shove. He pulls the night table out of the way next, rearranging Dean's bedroom until the bed's in the center. He remembers when this room used to be his, when they first moved in, too poor to afford a two-bedroom. Dean gave him the one room and took the couch for himself, promising they'd move into a better place when he'd gotten a good job, and they never had. Sam used to worry, aware that the concept of personal space was an important one -- and having your own bedroom tied into that -- but Dean had never seemed concerned.
Looking back, Sam thinks himself stupid for never noticing before.
The candles are blood-red. Not necessary, but red is Jess' favorite color, and there had been two dozen stored in boxes on a shelf in their closet. The huge Coke bottles full of holy water are from Sam's personal stash, and the eagle feather came from a little box Sam kept on the mantelpiece - miscellaneous objects useful in charms, like stones with holes bored through and some polished bits of jade he'd bought for cheap at a flea market.
He sets the candles up at each point, wandering around Dean's bed with their father's ancient Marine-issue compass in hand. His brother doesn't stir as Sam places one candle each on small plates south, west, north and finally east, between the headboard and the wall. The next part is the circle; Sam pours holy water out into a basin and dips his fingers into it, tracing an invisible circle connecting each candle.
The spell supposedly affects all inhabitants of the circle. Lou, via Pastor Jim, sent him the phonetic pronunciations of the hieroglyphs that supposedly go with the ritual. Sam's been rehearsing them over and over. He clutches the feather in one fist and a Zippo in the other, and carefully steps over the invisible line, cheeks flushing despite himself as he climbs on the bed next to his brother. Dean bares his teeth and sighs softly, peaceful in slumber, and Sam can't help leaning forward, kissing his brother's temple.
He chants the prayer from memory, stumbling over a few words, and at the correct interval flicks the Zippo open and lights the eagle feather. Dean's upper lip peels away from his teeth at the scent of burning and Sam waves it erratically in a clockwise circular motion around the pair of them, over and over. Originally this ritual was supposed to aid meditation, Lou had said, and Sam can feel that calmness pool in his belly. Yes. This is what they're after.
He blows the feather out after the fifth circle and lowers his hand, pitching himself forward to rest atop the covers, right in front of his brother. Dean's still sleeping, breathing slightly odd and raspy, and Sam carefully places the feather on the expanse of sheets between them and hopes for the best.
He thought he'd fall asleep slowly, maybe feeling the tingle of magic build up behind his eyes. Instead, the spell apparently knocks you the fuck out, because he's fully alert and watching his sleeping brother in the light cast by four candles one minute and voom, out the next. Almost between blinks, the view changes from Dean to - to Dean and the fake Sam, doing -
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Sam's dick is hot in his mouth, pre-come oily and searing on his tongue, his little brother's balls heavy in his palm. He has his eyes closed, weight resting on his chest and one elbow pressed into the mattress, and all he can hear are the wet sounds of his mouth and Sam's quiet, helpless moans, shivering breaths and soft gasps. They sound better than anything he's heard before.
At the point at which everything goes to hell, Dean is fluttering his tongue around the underside of the head, over the tiny knot of nerves that turns his brother to jello every time. His free hand is curled around the base of his brother's cock. Sam's finally learned how to keep his thrust instinct under control and he's just lying there, legs parted, one hand heavy in Dean's hair and the other splayed over the sheets. Dean flicks his eyes upwards with every other suck, taking wicked satisfaction in Sam's pink cheeks and thin mouth, in knowing he's the one who does this to Sam, no other.
He's not aware there's anything wrong right up until an unfamiliar hand curls around his ankle and tugs, hard, reflexively inhales and ends up nearly choking, unappealingly, on his brother's dick. Sam's hand in his hair gentles and his brother pulls away, slides upright. When Dean finally stops wheezing and glances at Sam's face, it's to see him looking more pissed than he ever has before. Sam's mouth is screwed into a scowl, eyes dancing with tiny spots of anger, and his hands are balled in his lap. He's looking at something just over Dean's body, and when Dean turns his head to see what, he nearly chokes on air.
"Two of you?" he says when he's recovered, his brother placing a gentling hand on his back. The other Sam at the foot of the bed looks just as pissed as the one he'd been blowing only a few seconds ago, arms folded over his chest. He's fully clothed - jeans, a button-down, a hideous hoodie spattered with mud; the typical things Sam might wear.
"Go away," his Sam says, warning clear, and the other Sam shakes his head, defiance written in every line of his body language. "I thought I told you, you weren't supposed to be here."
"I've got more right here than you do, parasite," the new Sam sneers, and heads forward, climbing up on the foot of the bed and then kneeling there, awkward. Dean tweaks his feet away from it, watches it suspiciously. "Dean, come here. It's me, the real Sam. Your brother?"
Dean just gives it his own pale imitation of Sam's prime bitchface, and his Sam snickers softly. "Yeah, sure," he says, and the new Sam rolls its eyes, frustrated.
"Dean! Listen! The - the Sam there, it's not me; it's some impostor that somehow infiltrated your head. It's been feeding off you for nearly a month, man, you're in danger - Pastor Jim hooked me up with this spell to get inside your head. Come on, dude, this -"
"Well yeah it's an impostor," Dean snaps in his best talking-to-morons voice. His Sam shifts and stirs and Dean slowly draws his legs up, away from the new Sam - who lunges across the bed, catching his ankle, winding his fingers around the bone, thumb fluttering over the bony spur. Dean glances up into its eyes and blinks at what he sees, the fear and confusion and anger. "Sam?" he asks hesitantly, no longer sure which one of the two he means.
"I'm here," the one at his feet says, and Dean knows then and there he's telling the truth. Knows then and there that his baby brother just caught him sucking off a copy of himself, and oh, Jesus, he's doomed.
"Dean!" both Sams say, concerned, when he scrabbles frantically away from the pair of them, scuttles to the edge of the bed and just - watches them. The real one tries moving closer, but when Dean sways away from him, he stops; the false one just watches him, expression softened with sadness. Dean licks dry lips.
"I'm sorry," the real one offers and that's it, Jesus, he's in no condition to deal with this. Not now. The false Sam crosses its legs and leans forward slightly, silent and expectant. "Dean, man - "
"Go away," Dean manages, because this is how it always is - hiding his weaknesses from Sam, keeping his little brother from looking too close. The real one flinches and the false one has the audacity to smirk, and Dean fixes it with a filthy glare. "Both of you. Go away."
"What? No!" Fake-Sam protests at the same time as his real brother says "No way in hell, Dean, I'm not letting you slither out of this one -" before breaking off. They glare at each other and at him, and Dean feels impossibly young again, four and cuddling close to his father on the hood of the car.
"Why are you here?" asks the dream-thing, tearing its gaze away from Dean and eyeing his brother coldly. "What are you after? I told you the first time, you're not supposed to be here -"
"Neither are you!" Sam hisses, hackles up, and that's his Sam. Dean sighs and forces himself to relax, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap. "You're the - the parasite, I'm -"
"Sam." Sam shuts up, faces him with wide eyes; Dean swallows and licks his lips. "Sam," he says again, and huffs out a soft breath. "I don't know how you got here or why you came, but go away. Get out of my head."
"No," Sam snaps, folding his arms over his chest. Sometimes Dean forgets how goddamn stubborn his baby brother can be. "Dean, this thing is evil. It's inside your head and it's, it's sucking the life out of you - it could damn well kill you, man. You have to help me get rid of it. You can create guns with cast-iron or silver bullets here, it's your head..."
He trails to a stop as Dean shakes his head, face twisting into something quizzical, confused and vaguely hurt. "No, Sam," Dean says, and looks away, at the fake Sam. It's been watching his brother, looking worried, but as soon as it feels Dean's gaze on it it looks up, sharp, and smiles for him briefly. He remembers that expression, normally followed by a blowjob, and flushes despite himself, feeling the burn spread to his ears. His brother is still watching him, waiting for an answer. "I'm okay," he says softly, and dares glance up to see Sam's features slide back into a scowl.
"Leave him alone," the false Sam says, cutting in before Sam can protest again, and his brother whirls to face it, upper lip curling away from his teeth in a wordless snarl. It copies him, warning for warning, and for a moment they look identical, difficult to tell apart. Dean shifts and the real Sam glances back at him, brow creasing slightly in a mixture of pity and worry. "I said leave him alone," the fake Sam snaps, and the real one rolls his eyes.
"Why? So you can suck him dry? I don't know what you are, but you need to get out of here." Dean is shaking his head before he's even finished.
"No, he doesn't," Dean offers when Sam gives him an incredulous look. "He can stay here."
"Dean, I saw - he's - it's warping you! I saw you and it having... I saw it... it's got you under some sort of spell. It's rape. You don't really want it -"
And Dean closes his eyes and swallows, because he doesn't know what to say to that, how to reply to something so wrong. He wets his lips and dips his head, and Sam's voice slows, breaks off. "Yeah," he says quietly, eventually. "Sure."
"Dean?" Sam shifts and the not-mattress dips a little as his brother moves closer. Dean leans away and the movement stops. "Dean, are you saying...?"
Dean ducks his head and the false Sam says sharply, "Sam. Knock it off. Leave him alone."
"Oh my God," Sam whispers, ignoring it, and Dean thinks maybe those three words might just be the most terrifying things he's ever heard, and he was hunting since his fourteenth birthday. "Jesus Christ, Dean."
He licks his lips and the false Sam moves, unhappy, cloth rustling. "I know," he says quietly and tries not to hang his head, but he's just so fucking tired and he's been carrying this secret for too long. He never quite imagined he'd spill it, not like this.
"Dean?" the dream Sam asks quietly, and he holds out a hand to quiet it. It shifts again and he doesn't need to look to know the worried scowl; he's seen it in too many dreams, from its expression when he talks of his job, of his loneliness.
There's an awkward silence. Dean risks a glance at Sam, finds him cross-legged and hunched, head in his hands. He looks miserable and something oily and dark twists in Dean's belly, vicious and bloody. He looks away sharply but not quickly enough; catches his brother moving out of the corner of his eye. "Dean," Sam says, small and slightly helpless, like he hasn't been since he was eight and broke that bully's arm. "It's... he's killing you."
"I know," Dean says quietly, because there's no point in lying, and both Sams flinch. The dream one looks away, guilty, and he swallows, pushes away the urge to comfort it. "I've known for weeks now, Sam."
"Then why?" Sam explodes, head jerking up and shifting forward, crawling across the bed a few feet on all fours. He looks pissed, and Dean can't blame him. "You know it's killing you and you still put up with it? That's not like you, and you know it -"
"Why not?" Dean interrupts, letting ice into his voice, and looks straight at Sam, facing his brother squarely for the first time. "Why isn't it like me? Sam? Tell me that, huh?"
Sam visibly pales and rocks back to his haunches, all puppy-dog eyes and radiating misery. His fingers knot in the mystery fabric of the dream-covers as he says, soft and hurt, "You're not suicidal, Dean, and even if you - even if you wanted something like - that, you wouldn't let yourself wither away over it. It's just - it's just not you to give up."
"Give up? That's what you think this is?" Dean asks before he can stop himself. Behind Sam the dream Sam moves, awkward. "This isn't giving up, Sam, not this."
"Then what is it?" Sam demands, voice thick and leaden with emotion, and Dean pushes aside the concern because he's been Sam's caretaker for years and this, this is -
"It's me being selfish," he says, deflating a little. It sounds different, out in the air. Dream Sam ducks his head and his real brother blinks, startled. "This is me taking something that I want, Sam. I told you, I'm okay."
"You're dying," Sam says slowly. "Dean, this - this selfish thing, it's..."
"Giving me what I want," Dean says, softly. "I like it here, Sam. I - I know what it's doing to me, alright?" He sighs and raises a hand, scratching through his hair. Something feels off, and it's not just being naked in front of his brother while his secrets are dragged out of him. He used to have nightmares about that sort of thing.
"Why?" Sam asks again, voice jagged. "Why here, Dean?" Behind him the dream Sam snorts in disgust and Dean shoots it a tiny smile, stomach clenching. Sam's jaw tenses and he straightens, spine stiffening. "Isn't there anything else in your life that - that's better?" he asks.
Dean swears he feels something inside him fracture, some part of his defensive wall flaking away, because it's easier than he thought it would be to raise his chin and say quietly, "No."
"No?" Sam repeats, looking confused and lost, and Dean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.
"No. No, Sam, there isn't anything better," he says, and is surprised when his own voice cracks a little. He pushes on regardless. "It's okay, dude. I don't expect you to get it. It's just…I've got nothing else, okay? And if I can have this I will, no matter what. I know what it's doing to me." He folds both his hands in his lap, watching Sam with what he hopes is an earnest expression, and hopes the unspoken and I don't care is strong enough to be less subtext than text. Sam looks like someone just slugged him in the stomach, skin a little pale and green eyes wide. He looks more like Dean's brother than he normally does, all tousled hair and hurt, and Dean forces himself not to move, forces himself to sit there and continue, gesturing at the dream Sam. "And he's not evil, Sam. Not everything boils down to, like, crazy dream succubi."
"'Crazy dream succubi' is a pretty good description for us, actually," the dream Sam says softly, amused. Dean shoots it a quick smile. Sam twists and fixes it with the filthiest look Dean's ever seen his little brother wear, pure loathing and hatred worn on Sam's face like a banner. So strong it blinks and leans away, taken off guard.
"So you are saying you're giving up? Because that's what this is, Dean. Dad taught us better than to fall for some ideal happy life and you know it!" Sam growls, turning to face him again, and Dean bares his teeth, his own ire rising.
"And why the hell not, Sam?" he snaps. "You got yours. You got school and a career and a pretty girl and while, yeah, I'm happy for you? All I got is a job and some fucked-up desires and that's it. You really want to start pushing Dad around? Because I kinda think I remember him dying and leaving me, and -"
"I broke up with Jess, you moron," Sam interrupts, his voice distant and cold. Dean stops, tirade cut short, and swallows. "Before I came over to your place. She said she was tired of being compared to you and I... I broke up with her." His hands are fisted on his lap, knuckles white, and he's staring intently at Dean with his lip trembling just a little in the way that always means he's trying not to cry. Dean blinks at him slowly, not sure what to say.
"I'm... sorry," he tries, because he is. He'd hated Jessica so much for getting what he wanted and liked her at the same time, a pretty girl who loved his brother the way he couldn't himself. Sam loved her, too, and he can see that in the set of his brother's jaw, the involuntary tic in his cheek. "I didn't..."
"I dreamed of you," Sam says quietly. "I had a migraine and I was at home and when I passed out I saw - I saw you with it." He shoots the dream Sam another of his foul glares and it sways, bares its teeth at him in a slightly animalistic manner. "And you said things to it and did things and I just... I'm sorry."
Dean gulps, aware of the implications of what Sam's saying, and ducks his head. "Oh," he says, and his voice is a thin croak he almost doesn't recognize. "You saw-?"
"I pulled myself out before I saw too much," Sam hastens to add. "But yeah, I saw. Um. I'm sorry. I... Jesus, Dean, we're a mess. You know that?"
The dream Sam snorts and rolls its eyes, shrugs when Dean shoots it a sharp glare. Dean pauses, brow furrowing as he remembers its first statement to Sam. "Did you know about that? That Sam saw?"
"Yeah," it replies defensively. "I saw. I didn't want to worry you."
"You didn't want to worry me," Dean echoes, intonation flat, and it winces. "You didn't think -"
"Hey!" it protests. "Dean. I didn't - okay, I didn't think, but I see you every day and I just - I just thought it would hurt you."
"Like you care," Sam mutters, drawing his legs up and folding his arms around his knees. He looks far too boyish like that and Dean swallows.
The dream Sam glares at him, contempt ripe on his face, and resorts only to growling, "I could say the same to you." Dean flushes again, raises a hand to cover his mouth as he remembers all the things he said to this fake Sam, remembers the stupid pathetic times he lay with it wrapped around him, breathing out heartfelt secrets and thoughts he'd never have voiced in the real world. He'd confessed so much to this dream Sam, from his fear of hunting to his anger at his father, and the thought of it spilling everything in anger -
"Don't," he blurts, hand still over his mouth, and both Sams stop their little glowering match and glance back over at him, twin expressions of concern on their face. Something inside Dean squirms uncomfortably. Concern is only a step away from pity. Sam's always been the baby and Dean the adult for nearly ten years; it feels wrong, to be looked at like that.
"Dean?" his brother asks softly, and he thinks he's had enough. He lowers his hands to his lap, curving his shoulders inwards, and bites his lip.
"I think you should go," he says quietly and as Sam sucks in breath for a complaint, adds, "You don't belong here, Sam. I'm okay, I told you. I think you should go."
"No," Sam replies instantly, a set to his jaw Dean recognises all too well. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. You need to do something about this."
He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Even in the dream world it feels slightly greasy and unkempt. "Why do you care?" he asks eventually. "Why does it piss you off so much that I like it here? Why can't you leave me alone? It makes me happy, Sam, and that's all you need to know. For once, just - for fuck's sake, dude - let me do something for myself."
Sam blinks at him for a few seconds, startled, before his features slide due Bitchface. "I care because you're my brother," he replies shortly, voice rising in pitch. "I care because you're fucking wasting yourself away for no good reason. Because you never even tried. You could have me, you moron, you know that? If - if you wanted... if you... I could... I could be yours, Dean, I promise. You just have to stop this. Please. Snap out of this emofest and come back to yourself, man. Stop whining and sulking and fucking around with the supernatural equivalent of a blow-up doll."
"Go fuck yourself," dream Sam adds but Dean hardly registers it, too busy staring at his baby brother, shocked. Sam matches him, still all stubborn bitchface, and just for a second Dean sees a flicker of - something. Of him driving Sam to school in the morning and coming home to a dinner already prepared, or maybe his little brother slipping into the shower with him on his day off all lazy-heated passion. He has to take a few deep breaths and remind himself that nothing ever works out like he wants to, that he's the older one and Sammy, despite being able to drink and vote and whatever now, is still his baby brother. He turns Sam's little speech around, examining it from his most cynical point of view.
"Thanks," he says eventually, and Sam cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Dean swallows and voices the expected 'but'. "Sam, I... look, thanks and all, but you don't need to do that."
"Do what?" Sam asks, narrowing his eyes. He looks way more feline when he does that, all sharp slanted suspicion.
Dean makes himself voice his fears, unwilling though he is. "Sam," he says. "You just broke up with Jess, man, and I appreciate that it's tough and all. But volunteering for a - for a fucked-up incestuous relationship with your big brother to make him feel better or whatever is not the answer, dude. Trust me."
"You think I want to do this only for your sake?" Sam asks after a pause. His voice is aloof and difficult to read and Dean nods jerkily. Sam sighs and nods thoughtfully, almost to himself; he stretches his legs out, unlinking his arms to rest his hands on the dream covers at his side. He ducks his head a little, angling to face Dean head-on, before he adds, "You're an idiot."
Dean makes a small irritated noise at the back of his throat, and dream Sam hisses a little growl. Sam shoots it another foul look and it backs down a little, although it does mutter something about verbal abuse to make up for it.
Sam sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair, finally pausing with his paws still buried somewhere in the mop, back arched and face clear. "I love you," he says, simply and honestly.
Dean licks his lips, looks away, mutters, "Oh, god."
Sam seems undisturbed. "I love you, man," he says quietly. "And it's okay. I want it. I do."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he says, disdain dripping from his voice. "Look, Sam, I might not be a full-ride Stanford-scholarship boy like you, but I can do the math. Two fucked up freaks in one family is kinda pushing the realms of, y'know, believability. And I've done some reading, on like, the internet and stuff. There's no such thing as consensual incest. Don't do it."
Sam snorts and leans forward in a rush, folding his long legs underneath him and rising up onto his knees. He's awkwardly taller than Dean like that, and Dean cranes his head up, leans back, puts out his hands to support himself and raises his knees self-consciously to mask his nakedness. Sam doesn't seem bothered. "Dean," he says, all weary exasperation. "Dean, man, I know the math. I did the research too and I even talked to psych professors about it. I know about the Westermarck Effect and stuff, and I'm telling you, it's still... look. I dumped Jess for you. Okay?"
Dean blinks and shakes his head, ready to launch another protest, claim the impossibility of what Sam's saying, but he doesn't have the chance. In fact, he has about three seconds before Sam knocks him over, attacking his mouth with an aggressive ferocity that's absolutely nothing like the various women Dean's kissed. It's instead demanding and bruising, teeth pressing hard against his lips and tongue stroking roughly. Dean knows he should be a strong person, should push his brother away, should take the moral high ground. And he thinks he raises his arms to do just that but finds his fingers woven through Sam's hair instead. He closes his eyes and sighs into the kiss and dares think, just for a second, that maybe this can work.
Sam doesn't taste of cherries or sunshine or rainbows. He tastes of spit and metal and the hot cloying copper of blood; Dean can't really tell whose and guesses it doesn't matter.
Brothers. Jesus.
He tightens his grip on Sam's hair, using it to direct Sam's head down, and bites firmly but gently on his brother's lower lip, possessive and strong and nothing like kissing dream Sam and more like everything he's wanted. Sam is a heavy weight across his body, torso an almost painful crushing weight on Dean's belly, and he thinks if he could pick a word to describe this - this kiss, this everything, it'd be uncomfortable. Followed inevitably by perfect.
He has Sam's tongue in his mouth and Sam's hair scraping over half his face and it's so fucking good. He's cupping Dean's face with one huge hand, holding him in place while he attempts to fucking suck Dean's brain out through his mouth. It's awkward and good and Dean still jumps when Sam shifts and dream Sam comes into view, sitting quietly watching them with a wistful expression on his face. He's transparent and Dean tenses. Then Sam touches his thumb to the sharp edge of Dean's cheekbone and whispers, "Hey," and suddenly kissing is the only thing on Dean's mind again.
Some part of him, something small and insignificant, retains enough reason to be embarrassed at the little breathless whimpering noises he makes, but he can't complain when it gets him what he wants. Sam moans, eyes fluttering shut slowly, and leans in to kiss him again. It's softer this time, longer and gentler, and that small rational part of his brain wonders if this is how Sam kissed Jess or if this is something else. He hopes it's the latter. He threads his fingers through Sam's soft hair, tangling them in good and tight, and closes his eyes. This is what he's wanted.
When they part this time Sam looks sort of stunned, pupils a little wider than they should be and lips red where Dean nibbled on them. His brother shifts, moving away, sitting back up. He moves with reverence rather than disgust, and Dean scrambles to follow him. The dream Sam is watching them both, a sort of lost, forlorn look on its face. Sam shifts to put his body between Dean and it, reaches out and cups Dean's face, thumbs stroking slowly over the lines of his cheekbones.
"Come back with me?" he asks quietly and Dean breathes in deeply. Because kissing or not it's not right to love your brother, and dreams are one thing but reality is another. Sam's fingers feel almost tight on his face, thumbs soothing as they stroke backwards and forth. Dean offers a thin smile, and Sam answers him with a warm, hopeful one. "Please, Dean?" he asks quietly, and his voice is a low murmur.
"Sam," Dean replies quietly, because he's not sure what else to say. His tongue feels thick and foreign in his mouth, and he swallows a couple of times. "Sam..."
"We can make it work, Dean, I promise," Sam says, still speaking in that soft low tone that makes the hairs on Dean's nape prickle with an emotion that's anything but fear. "If we try. You're running out of excuses, man."
And Dean closes his eyes and nods, because he knows he is, and he wants this - Sam - so very much. He thinks maybe he ought to be stronger, ought to turn Sam down, but after a taste of the real thing he thinks being with the false one waiting just a few feet away could be nothing but bitter. Ashes and rot in his hands and mouth.
"Okay," he whispers, so softly he worries Sam might not hear him. From the huge grin that spreads across Sam's face, it appears he did; Dean can't help but grin back weakly, a sucker as always for dimples and bright white teeth.
"We can go now," Sam says, excited, and glances away thoughtfully; the movement reveals the dream Sam sitting quietly behind him, clothed in jeans and a shirt, legs crossed and a hand resting on each knee. He's transparent again, the sheets behind him casting him in a white glow. Dean feels his heart sink and sighs. Real thing or not, doesn't he owe it something?
"I need to say goodbye first," he says, and Sam starts, tenses. "I won't be long. Stay here." He gently shrugs Sam's hands off him and begins to crawl across the covers towards the false Sam, ignoring his brother's frantic hisses of warning behind him. He'd never expected Sam to understand, not really, although his brother does remain where he is and doesn't try to interfere, just shoots daggers at the false Sam. It ignores him, watching Dean quietly.
He stops about a foot in front of it, lowering himself to the covers and wrapping both his arms around his legs. He feels oddly self-conscious before it, in a way he hasn't since it appeared; it tilts its head and watches him and he sighs. "I'm sorry," he says.
"Those words keep getting tossed around in here," it replies, eyes fixed on his. "Do they fix anything?"
"Heh, no." Dean rubs a hand over his face, abruptly tired, feeling somehow like he hasn't slept for weeks. "It's just something I need to say. I guess I... Thanks, too. You were... Thanks."
It shrugs uncomfortably and picks at its jeans, glancing down to watch itself at work. The silence irritates Dean somehow, like it's getting underneath his skin, sharp and uncomfortable, and he draws breath to say something else, apologize more. "Don't," it says without looking up. "I don't want you to... don't."
"You'll move on, right?" Dean asks. "Your kind don't stay in one place for long. That's what you told me. I guess it's time to return to normal?"
It snorts, disgusted. "Yeah. Normal. After this. Jesus." It folds its arms over its chest, hunching in on itself, and Dean closes his eyes, trying not to look at it, not to see the image of his baby brother, miserable.
"Like I said, I'm sorry," he offers helplessly. Then when Sam clears his throat impatiently, adds, "You can't stay here, though. You know that." It sniffles angrily and raises a hand to wipe away an errant tear, shooting him a look equal parts accusing and helpless through the curtain of its hair. He wishes he could make it better, but it's not his fault it decided to stay, and he doesn't know what to do to fix it anyway. It's not his brother. If it were the real Sam, he'd know. "Promise me."
It's crying now, freely, still in Sam's form, and Dean's never been able to watch his brother break up, not without wanting to fix whatever's wrong. He can't bring himself to comfort it, though, knowing if he does then all his resolve will flee, and he just sits there, hands folded in his lap, forcing himself to watch it without breaking eye contact. He's not sorry for what was, but he's sorry it's come to this, to this farewell.
"Dean," his Sam says quietly behind him and he throws a hand out backwards, fingers splayed in a clear gesture for Sam to stay silent. The dream Sam shifts, awkward, looks away and sniffles angrily.
"Will you?" Dean asks gently and it snaps its gaze back to him, eyes sullen and sad both. It watches him for a few minutes, face twisting, and then it nods, a tiny motion, barely perceptible.
"Okay," it says after, a little louder, and sniffles again. "Okay." It wipes its eyes with the palms of its hands and keeps them there for a few seconds, obstructing its vision, and then says, in a small voice, "I never wanted to do this to you, Dean, I promise."
And yeah, okay, maybe he's more of a fucking sap than he thought, because he sighs and gives, just like that. He leans forward and grabs it by the shoulders, pulls it close and manhandles it into a hug, tucking his head under his chin and holding it the way he used to hold Sam when his brother was scared, all those years ago. It's a bit too tall for him to do that comfortably but he tries, and with its face pressed to his shoulder it bursts into near-hysterical tears, loud, wailing sobs that rack its body while he pets its hair and the real Sam, his real brother, stays mercifully silent. "I know," he says quietly, over and over, and wonders how inhuman it can possibly be, to cry like this.
"I tried to be more Sam for you," it says in between sobs, voice muffled against his shoulders. "I tried so hard, and I thought the more Sam I was the - the better it'd be for you." It pauses to take a deep, shivery breath and Dean strokes down from its scalp to the nape of its neck, trying to be as reassuring as possible. When he glances over at his brother, Sam seems to be inspecting his toes with almost religious devotion, mouth a thin line. The creature in his arms hisses and continues, voice lower and thicker than before. "I... Jesus. I'm seven hundred years old and I don't know what I am anymore."
"What do you mean?" Dean asks softly, nervous. It sniffles and tugs, pulling itself out of his arms. Its eyes are all red and blotchy and its nose is swollen; it's still crying a little, unappealing and almost grotesque and Dean leans forward and kisses it on the forehead anyway.
"I'm not what I was," it says, explaining slowly. "I... I... I don't think I can be anything else. I tried too hard, Dean, I... I can't be anything but this." It scrubs roughly at its eyes with one of its sleeves and he reaches out, catching its wrist to hold it still, confusion heavy on his face. It turns on him, Sam's eyes a duller shade than normal. "Dean," it says, voice still choked and low, "I wanted to be Sam for you and now I'm stuck like this. I can't leave. This is why my kind don't stay. Do you see now?"
"You can't...?" It takes Dean several seconds to wrap his head around the concept, and when it does he sinks onto his heels, stunned. "You'll... die? If I stop this."
It sniffles and looks away and says, "Yes," quietly, almost too quiet to be audible.
Dean closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, opens them and glances over at Sam. His brother's watching the dream Sam intently, expression unreadable, and doesn't notice him looking. He glances back at it, not sure where to begin. "Is... is there anything I can do?" he asks helplessly, and it laughs, cold and ugly.
"No." Then it hesitantly says, "If there was, would you? I was... I was killing you, Dean."
Dean sighs and pitches his voice to something soothing. "I know," he says quietly, "And I knew, and I was letting you, remember?" He gives it a quiet smile and Sam shifts, coughs. It shoots his brother a resentful, angry look, and then glances back at him. "If there was, I would, but... what do you propose?"
"Nothing," it says quietly, and he raises an eyebrow, confused. It fidgets, leaning away from him. "I'm.... I'm seven hundred years old, Dean. I don't want to die. I've never not wanted to die before."
"I don't get it," Dean replies carefully, and it shrugs sharply. "Are you saying you're going to - starve yourself to death?"
"Being Sam is the closest I've come to being alive for centuries," it replies quietly, voice low so the real Sam can't hear it. "I don't want to go, God, but I... I don't think it'd be so bad."
"Jesus." Dean rubs his hands over his face at then eyes it, unsure. It's not Sam. It's not the real thing. It's some dream creature that found its way here and got attached, for whatever reason, but it's... it's.... "I'm sorry."
"That doesn't fix anything," it replies, with a hint of a sad smile at the corner of its mouth. "It's okay, Dean. I... Good luck. Sam better take care of you."
"Can I... do anything for you? As a goodbye thing?" Dean asks helplessly, and it shrugs.
"Do you want to?" it asks, and he nods. It tilts his head up and he knows what to do; leans over and kisses it, quick, almost chaste. It tastes nothing like his real brother; tastes like shadow and smoke, and he almost regrets that he doesn't like the taste even as he draws back and finds it watching him, a knowing look in its eyes.
"Goodbye," Dean offers, and it nods slowly. He rises up on his knees and his brother looks up; he jerks his chin at it sharply and Sam hums, reaches a hand into his shirt and finds an eagle feather on a leather thong. Dean's never seen it before, and it seems to glow oddly, not quite reflecting the light in the room correctly.
"Dean?" his brother asks quietly, and he hums agreement, climbing awkwardly over the bed towards his brother. At the last second he stops and pauses, looks behind him and finds it watching them, legs folded and hands in its lap. It's translucent again, the same weird stuff going on with its body and the light as with the eagle feather Sam's holding. "Put your hand on the feather."
"Thanks," Dean mouths and it smiles for him briefly. Sam holds the eagle feather out.
"Hey," Sam says quietly. "Come on."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters, tearing his gaze away from the small sad figure, and reaches out, touching the vane of the feather with two of his fingers. "This'd be easier if you were wearing your ruby slippers, Dorothy."
"Fuck off, Dean," Sam retorts, but there's no real heat in it. He screws his eyes shut and inches over, pressing his body against Dean's, and begins chanting something under his breath in a language Dean's never heard of, probably the ritual to take them home.
He breaks off as the scenery around them begins to swirl, mashing together, the dream Sam fading finally from view along with the rest of the room, and Dean takes a deep breath. As the room fades away he thinks Sam dips his head and kisses him on the cheek, but he can't be sure.
Dean opens his eyes to find that it's dawn, the sky lightening outside his windows. He guesses he forgot to close the curtains last night, and screws his eyes shut against it. It occurs to him that the windows appear to have changed position in proximity to his bed, but frankly he feels sort of... hungover, only without the drink. His head feels sandy and uncomfortable, his body slow and unresponsive. He rolls over putting his back to the dawn. He doesn't have work today, or at least he doesn't think he has work today, and he feels so tired.
The mattress dips as someone climbs onto it. Dean has enough time to tense up before Sam is fitting himself against his back, He's all sharp knees and elbows and jesus fuck wearing only a pair of boxers, and Dean bolts away like his brother is covered with porcupine quills, spinning as he moves so that he ends up on the very edge of the bed, clutching at the sheets desperately to keep from falling off and watching Sam with wide, startled eyes. His brother blinks at him, puzzled, then smiles.
"Dude, what the hell? You turn into a cat while I wasn't looking?" he says, tone light and teasing, and Dean continues staring at him, breathing heavily. Sam blinks and tilts his head to one side, face lapsing into something quizzical. "Dean? Man, get over here, It's cold."
"Why are you in my bed?" Dean asks stiffly, and Sam stares at him like he's grown a third head. Dean wonders frantically what the hell happened last night, and gets bits and pieces of images; him arriving home from work and going to bed, unshowered and unfed, sex with the dream Sam, and then... "Oh my God," he mutters, and Sam makes a curious noise. "I had the fucking weirdest dream."
"Dream?" Sam asks, sharply. "Oh my God, you ass. I declare my love and affection for you and you think it's a dream? I mean. Well. Uh, yeah, it was a dream, but it was like, a real one too. Jerk."
"What?" Dean manages, and Sam rolls his eyes, pats the stretch of sheets next to him. "Jesus, Sam -"
"Shut up," Sam interrupts, bluntly. His hair is mussed and in uneven tangles around his face, and Dean swallows, climbs back into the bed; his brother reaches out and touches his wrist. There seems to be no purpose to it, just contact. "Come here," Sam says gently. "It's freaking six in the morning. We'll deal with your freak-out tomorrow."
"I..." Dean pauses as he remembers a little more. Eagle feathers. A transparent dream Sam. Sam coming to get him. He nods quietly and wriggles a little, climbing awkwardly back up onto the bed and moving a little closer to Sam, lying down with a foot of space between them. Sam makes a disgusted noise and curls his fingers around Dean's wrist in a firm grasp, pulling him closer; he tumbles Dean practically into himself and then lets go, reaching up to slide his hands over Dean's face, fingers splayed over his jawline and thumbs stroking Dean's cheekbones in slow, repetitive, soothing motions.
"Sam," Dean says, hoarse. Sam smiles and shrugs the covers off sharply, pushing up and taking Dean with him. His grip on Dean's head is firm, but not painful, and Dean goes willingly.
"I'm sorry," Sam says quietly, almost too quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't notice before, and I... Sorry."
"Sam?" Dean says quietly, in a different tone than before, and his brother sighs, leans forward and kisses him rough and sloppy. His mouth is slick and hot, and Dean remembers doing this in a dream, remembers imagining it for most of his adult life.
This is it, he thinks, dazed, as Sam's mouth presses against his. This is everything he never thought he'd have, right here. He's not sure what he did to deserve this, but he's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He parts his lips and allows Sam's tongue access, closes his eyes and leans into Sam, just a little. His brother tastes the same as he did in the dream, and he feels so warm against Dean, hands gentle, kiss soft and thorough; like Dean's made of glass, like he's holy, and Dean wonders why he never noticed this before. His little brother and his best friend and now, so much more. Christ.
Sam breaks the kiss but doesn't move away, resting nose-to-nose with Dean, both of them panting, breath mingling in the air before their mouths. It should feel weird, in the real world -- and it is the real world now, there's no doubt about that -- but it's just Sam, just him and his brother, and it doesn't feel anything but right. He tries anyway, because there are things that need to be said, things about incest and breaking the law and his job, and he says "We can't," and then breaks off, not sure what to say. Sam's face lapses into a sort of sweet smile and his little brother leans forward and kisses him again, an almost-chaste peck on the mouth. Dean can't help but smile back, and Sam exhales slowly, ducks his head and closes his eyes.
"Tomorrow," Sam says softly, and that seems like a good idea to Dean. He touches Sam's chest, marvelling at its warmth under his hands.
Real, he thinks, giddily. This is real. I can have this.
Sam shifts and curls up again on the bed, foreign against Dean's sheets, eyes on his face. His brother smiles and Dean grins back, stupid-happy, relieved; he lowers himself onto his belly and wriggles as Sam rolls towards him, fitting his back against Sam's chest, curling up to him with a content little noise. It feels weird and it feels funny, and Dean hasn't slept with someone - not in the just sleeping sense - for so long and... he thinks he could get used to it again.
He stays awake for a little while longer, watching the light on the far wall. Sam's breath puffs hot and steady against the nape of his neck, the rhythm changing as his little brother falls asleep, and it feels good.
Dean closes his own eyes and shifts back a tiny, barely perceptible amount, moving closer to Sam. Sam shifts with him, an arm heavy across his hips, and Dean thinks, with a fair amount of affection, tomorrow.
-fini
Onto poisontaster's epilogue →
And of course I forgive
I've seen how you live
Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes
You pick up the pieces
And the ghosts in the attic
They never quite leave
Eric's Song
1. Placebo // Protége-moi
2. Indigo Girls // Ghost
3. Zero 7 // Home
4. Tori Amos // Doughnut Song
4b. Snow Patrol - Chasing Cars
5. Boa // Get There
6. Vertical Horizon // Everything You Want
7. Frou Frou // Must Be Dreaming
8. Red Hot Chilli Peppers // This Is The Place
9. Massive Attack // Dissolved Girl
10. Poe // Wild
11. Vienna Teng // Eric's Song
DOWNLOAD HERE. Thanks to keepaofthecheez for designing the soundtrack cover! ♥
Obligatory Mushy Thank-Yous Enough To Shame Oscar Winners (and fic backstory, feel free to skip):
So, on the 24th of October, I had a dream. Unfortunately it was not a MLK-type dream of world peace, since that would require a sort of social awareness I just don't have; instead, it was this fic, only incomplete. The dream was particularly vivid - enough so that I woke up crying, and of course, being a total bitch to LJ, I hopped online and posted about it. I expected to receive a few '*hugs*' and my friends happily sharing their own weird SPN dreams. Instead, I got several comments along the line of 'you should write that,' which made me laugh, shake my head, and move on. I don't do angst, you see.
Two days later I started talking to poisontaster over gmail chat, and in the course of the conversation, my weird dream came up. "What weird dream?" she said, so I linked her. "Huh," she continued, and then, "You should write that."
"I don't do angst," said I, so passionately I spelt 'angst' as 'agnst'. Whatever that is, I don't do it, either.
"Nonsense," Erin replied briskly. "Look, here's how it should be done..." and she proceeded to plot it out with me in a way that not only made sense but also made me want to do it. I created a rough draft journal and started ficcing; over the course of eleven hours I wrote some nine thousand words of this fic. Yes, in one sitting. I stopped when I hit sex and all my poor abused brain could come up with was LOL COCK, only because I was tired it was more like LOL OCCK. I wrote at poisontaster, keepaofthecheez, wendy and anybody else who was unfortunate enough to be around where I could hassle them.
Halfway through the fic, my porn muse packed her bags and took off for Australia where, presumably, some sweet Aussie girl found her and even now is settling down to write her first smut scene. "I CAN'T PORN," I wailed at Erin. "What am I going to do for the epilogue? THERE WAS GOING TO BE BUTTSEX!"
"BRB, actually working now," she replied, perfectly showcasing her lack of compassion in having a job and working to support herself. I thought about spamming her by email instead, but then she volunteered to write it on my behalf (despite doing nano) and I was Pleased. She wrote the buttsex before the fic was even finished, and then went back and added actual epilogue-y stuff afterwards, thus earning her possibly a small medal.
I finished the fic seventeen days into NaNo and started looking for a beta. Erin volunteered Mona with gusto, a person who I knew of but not actually, and while I knew Mona would do a good job, I was too shy to go OMG HEY BETA-READ MY FIC PLZ IT HAS PORN :DDDD
I requested a beta on my journal. For some crazy reason, I was not immediately innundated by a plethora of offers to beta-read a 30k fic - except for Nan (also doing Nano!), who bravely popped up and said "I'll do it!"
"Hooray!" replied I, and then proceeded to be one of the most panicky authors ever, sometimes sending her two emails in one go with one-line all-caps "OH MY GOD DOES THIS SCENE WORK?!?!?!?!?!?," to which she normally replied with a weary "Yes, I'm working, give me some time."
Nan, bless her, was amazingly patient and - of course - very sweet. I got the fic back in time for Thanksgiving, sat on it until the Saturday after because LJ was DEAD, let me tell you - y'all were off eating, and myself and other non-Americans were left twiddling our fingers and getting into Australia vs England fights. Or something. I spent it sleeping.
Posting it was fun - I've never had this sort of feedback to a fic before, and I'm still reeling at the oh my god people like this sensation. Seriously. You all rock so hard. I apologise for the delay - I had a breakdown over the Sam/Jess break-up and emailed this chapter off to Mona (who I finally befriended! Go me!) with another hysterical OH MY GOD DOES THIS SCENE WORK?!?!?!?!?! to which she replied along the lines of "oh my god your run-on sentences are hurting me plz send aid/strong alcohol."
And I cackled. Yes.
Anyway! Here it is, complete. Behold!
So, thanks to:
poisontaster, for helping to create this fic, and adding suggestions and ideas and discussing it with me and correcting my occasional dip back into britishisms (americanpicking?) and support and squee and THE WHOLE EPILOGUE - really, it's as much her baby as mine;
keepaofthecheez, for staying still long enough to be ficced at and even supplying a soundtrack graphic on request;
wendy, for cheerleading and encouragement and handholding and snuggling and reassurance during my fits of 'omg what if people hate it? ;_;';
estrella30, for beta-reading and squeeing and giving me the courage to actually POST, and being so sweet and amazing and doing such a good job and OH MY GOD *squishes Nan with love*;
mona1347, for beta-reading 8,800 words on like, ONE DAY'S NOTICE and only grumbling a little about my shameful abuse of commas, semi-colons and run-on sentences;
Everyone who commented - seriously. I will get back to you on the comments, but I was buried under school work (i handed in my essay yesterday, haha!) and generally too bewildered to know what to say,
Everyone who lurked. I don't know who you are - that kind of being the definition of 'the unwashed lurking masses', but I know you're out there. Thanks. :D
This is a scene I, on Nan's suggestion, cut from the end of chapter two. It's from Dream!Sam's POV - an abrupt shift not replicated elsewhere in the story. I threw a few elements here into the first scene of chapter 3, but otherwise, I cut it. I like a couple of turns of phrase I used here, which is why I'm posting it. Consider it like the deleted scenes extra on dvds:
They don't stay. It's kind of like the first rule of what they are; they don't stay, because then people die, and other people come to kill them, and that's terribly inconvenient and somewhat irritating. It's easier to keep moving, keep hopping from one to the other. They tend to cluster to cities for just this reason; easy to jump from host to host, living in the dreaming, adopting the form of the people the hosts desire most, feeding off the sexual energy.
The dreaming is as fluid as it is constricting and at first it seems like there's nothing special about this host, but it's been there six nights now and it's finding out the other reason its kind move from head to head so fast, stopping for nothing, and that reason has nothing to do with killing the humans and everything to do with becoming the one whose face you wear.
It kind of thinks it might be in love, but you can't quote it on that. It's not sure what love is, and while it's pretty certain its kind aren't capable of feeling it, Sam (SammySamSamuel) Winchester is, and that's who it is in the dreaming.
Its host is a man who feels like sunshine, like the vague memories it has of once being corporal and smelling the grass in summer. He's gentle and good with his hands and he puts its gratification above his own, and it's never had a host quite like that before. At first, it glutted itself senseless on this boy, this Dean Winchester; six days later though and it realises it's in trouble.
He calls it Sam and strokes its hair; he calls it Sam and kisses it gently, love instead of passion, and it's just not sure what to make of that.
It should leave him, move onto another host, but it can't, won't. For some reason it has strange not-memories that aren't its, memories of this Dean as a child himself, then as an older boy, clutching the receiver of a beige plastic telephone and looking utterly lost. It remembers him tucking it into bed and throwing snowballs at it and petting its back when it was doubled over a bucket heaving up its guts; it remembers him showing up for a play it performed on, him willing to pack up everything he had when it got its acceptance letter to Stanford, him introducing it to porn when it was fifteen. It remembers him showing it how to load a shotgun and it remembers him holding it in the night, soothing it through nightmares.
Only none of those things actually happened and now it has no idea what to do or think or feel. What is it? Is it Sam, the one he loves? Is it something else? It feels lost and clueless and not sure how to piece things together, and so it does the only thing it can do.
He's warm in this white room, a dreamscape composed of ivory and snow and bone, and it crawls into bed with him, curls up against him like its not-real memories say it used to when it was younger and scared of thunderstorms. He lowers a hand, ruffles its hair reassuringly.
"I don't know what I am anymore," it says, small, and he pauses, raises his head off the pillow to eye it, expression dubious.
"You're Sam," he says, patiently, and it blinks at him, eyes widening as his statement sinks in.
And then Sam smiles.
And that, my friends, is all she wrote. *bows*
Title: Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [6/6]
Author: nymeria
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 30,218 in total, 9,270 this chapter
Genre: AU.
Betas: estrella30, poisontaster and the lovely shiny guest beta, mona1347!
Notes: And that's all she wrote, folks.
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six] [Epilogue]
Tell me what you've come for
Moving like a hunter through my back door
Leaving the perfume of all you adore
To die nameless on my floor
Wild
← previous chapter
It's wet outside when Sam finally leaves his apartment, duffle heavy over his shoulder, clanking and jingling with the various items inside. He has his cell phone in his hand and he glances at the timer as he hurries down to the sidewalk, somehow unsurprised that it's four in the morning.
He's been on the phone with Pastor Jim most of the night, despite the message he left on Dean's machine some ten hours ago. Jim hadn't known what the creature inside his brother might be either, but unlike Sam he was still in the game. He'd left Sam on hold for two hours while he called up three witches, a warlock, a disgruntled vampire slayer apparently in the bath, two priestesses and finally a bookish girl by the name of Lou, apparently the daughter of another hunter. She'd had what Sam needed, and apparently the ritual she proposed could be conducted with various household items. Or at least household items in a Winchester's world.
Palo Alto's mostly quiet at this time in the morning, college town or not, weekday or not. Sam locks his apartment behind him and then, before he can stop himself, punches the dial button on his cell.
"Sam?" Jess sounds sleepy when she answers the phone, the opposite to Sam's own wired state. "What time is it?"
"Four in the morning," Sam says gently, and breathes in deeply, gearing himself up for what comes next. "I'm sorry." He doesn't elaborate and he knows she'll know what he really means by that, especially after yesterday.
He hears her sigh, and then, sadly, "I loved you."
"I know," he replies, and shifts the heavy duffle on his shoulders, pushing it into a more comfortable position. "I wish it could've worked out, Jess. I did - I do - love you, too." The cold stings his face and his cell feels too hot in his hand, palm clammy with sweat. He's not aware he's crying until cool tears begin dripping off his chin.
She takes a deep breath and another, calming herself down, and something in his chest contracts hard. Hard enough that he nearly drops the bag and shouts into the phone for her to come back home and forget this conversation. Almost, but not quite.
Dean comes first.
It's what led to this conversation in the first place; it's why he's - not okay, not exactly - but why he has to do this, break up with her, end what they had. "Sam," she says then and her voice is shaky. "Christ. Sam, I - I'm sorry."
"Me too," he replies, and means it with everything he has. He wishes desperately that it hadn't come to this, to his brother or his girlfriend, but it has and this is what it is and there is nothing he can do about it, no matter how much he wants to.
Talking to her hurts even more, like someone stubbing a cigarette out right on his solar plexus, and he swallows, tries to push the feeling away. Dean needs him and this is what he's chosen; Jess or Dean, and his broken brother takes precedent.
"I - I have to go," he says, voice thick and nearly dying somewhere in his throat. She's starting to cry on the other end and that makes everything worse. I didn't mean to do this to you, he wants to say but nothing comes out. He hunches his shoulders in misery and turns his cell phone off, shoving it roughly in his pocket. It aches somewhere inside him, but he closes his eyes and concentrates. He brought this upon himself and he'll deal with the consequences.
It's three blocks to Dean's place, and he digs his nails into his palms hard enough to scar. Jess is - was - perfect and he'll never regret what he had with her, but he spent more time last night agonizing over this than researching Isis when it comes down to it. He tries his hardest to remember the conclusions he drew up just a few hours ago: that this - this wanting Dean thing, sick and wrong and fucked up though it may be - is just…facts. He couldn't do it anymore, not to Jess; the treating her like a replacement, a version of his brother he could cuddle without being shrugged off, a version he could kiss (fuck) without worry. It's not fair to her, not really.
It doesn't mean he likes it. Having to pick between them, though it was a good slap in the face to be forced into it. He just - he just - he misses her already, in a way he hasn't felt since the days after his father died, torn up and broken and needing his brother desperately to overcome the overwhelming sensation of being lost. The silence then felt like someone filled his throat with thorns and only around Dean would they wither and die. That alone is enough to make him tighten his fingers around the strap of his duffle.
When you work a job, you can't get distracted, his father had told him roughly once, and oh god, only now does he understand why. Dean's dying and he won't let himself have Jessica, and there's only one thing he can do. He jogs out into the road, heading for his brother's place, fingernails tearing bloody streaks in his palms the whole time.
It takes fifteen minutes tops to walk there on a normal day, but Sam doesn't slow down and doesn't really look where he's going. He trips a couple of times and nearly gets hit by a passing Chevy, spends a couple of minutes brushing himself down and cussing the driver with the full extent of his vocabulary. By the time he reaches Dean's he's bleeding and dirty, and he's only too grateful when he walks up to his brother's front door. He digs the key out of the back pocket of his jeans and clicks the door open, peers cautiously around it. The apartment is dark and quiet, the lights turned off and the only noises the clank of the boiler. Dean's bedroom door is open, and Sam closes the door quietly behind himself, heads to the bathroom first to clean up.
He washes the blood off and splashes some cool water over his face, and then pauses, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks like he's been dragged backwards through a hedge. He'd stopped crying after the incident with the car and his eyes feel hot, dry and swollen. They don't feel all that better after the water, but a little helps, and Sam exits the bathroom feeling less like he wants to flop on the couch and die.
His brother's in bed, and seeing as it's four-thirty in the morning, that's none too surprising. Sam drops his duffel in the middle of the living room floor, kicks off his sneakers, rolls his sleeves up, and opens the bedroom door. He hasn't made any effort at silencing himself, which is just as well, since Dean hasn't stirred. He's lying on his side, both arms tucked close to his chest, and Sam bites back a growl at the unusual position.
The ritual calls for a candle placed at every compass-point around the recipient and Sam curls his fingers around the footboard, pulling the bed away from the wall with a flex of muscles and some muffled cursing. Jesus, he really needs to hit the gym; just the other day Jess said -
He sets his jaw, tugs once more, and Dean twitches in his sleep, growls. "This is for your sake," Sam scolds, and judges the bed to have moved far enough on the next shove. He pulls the night table out of the way next, rearranging Dean's bedroom until the bed's in the center. He remembers when this room used to be his, when they first moved in, too poor to afford a two-bedroom. Dean gave him the one room and took the couch for himself, promising they'd move into a better place when he'd gotten a good job, and they never had. Sam used to worry, aware that the concept of personal space was an important one -- and having your own bedroom tied into that -- but Dean had never seemed concerned.
Looking back, Sam thinks himself stupid for never noticing before.
The candles are blood-red. Not necessary, but red is Jess' favorite color, and there had been two dozen stored in boxes on a shelf in their closet. The huge Coke bottles full of holy water are from Sam's personal stash, and the eagle feather came from a little box Sam kept on the mantelpiece - miscellaneous objects useful in charms, like stones with holes bored through and some polished bits of jade he'd bought for cheap at a flea market.
He sets the candles up at each point, wandering around Dean's bed with their father's ancient Marine-issue compass in hand. His brother doesn't stir as Sam places one candle each on small plates south, west, north and finally east, between the headboard and the wall. The next part is the circle; Sam pours holy water out into a basin and dips his fingers into it, tracing an invisible circle connecting each candle.
The spell supposedly affects all inhabitants of the circle. Lou, via Pastor Jim, sent him the phonetic pronunciations of the hieroglyphs that supposedly go with the ritual. Sam's been rehearsing them over and over. He clutches the feather in one fist and a Zippo in the other, and carefully steps over the invisible line, cheeks flushing despite himself as he climbs on the bed next to his brother. Dean bares his teeth and sighs softly, peaceful in slumber, and Sam can't help leaning forward, kissing his brother's temple.
He chants the prayer from memory, stumbling over a few words, and at the correct interval flicks the Zippo open and lights the eagle feather. Dean's upper lip peels away from his teeth at the scent of burning and Sam waves it erratically in a clockwise circular motion around the pair of them, over and over. Originally this ritual was supposed to aid meditation, Lou had said, and Sam can feel that calmness pool in his belly. Yes. This is what they're after.
He blows the feather out after the fifth circle and lowers his hand, pitching himself forward to rest atop the covers, right in front of his brother. Dean's still sleeping, breathing slightly odd and raspy, and Sam carefully places the feather on the expanse of sheets between them and hopes for the best.
He thought he'd fall asleep slowly, maybe feeling the tingle of magic build up behind his eyes. Instead, the spell apparently knocks you the fuck out, because he's fully alert and watching his sleeping brother in the light cast by four candles one minute and voom, out the next. Almost between blinks, the view changes from Dean to - to Dean and the fake Sam, doing -
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Sam's dick is hot in his mouth, pre-come oily and searing on his tongue, his little brother's balls heavy in his palm. He has his eyes closed, weight resting on his chest and one elbow pressed into the mattress, and all he can hear are the wet sounds of his mouth and Sam's quiet, helpless moans, shivering breaths and soft gasps. They sound better than anything he's heard before.
At the point at which everything goes to hell, Dean is fluttering his tongue around the underside of the head, over the tiny knot of nerves that turns his brother to jello every time. His free hand is curled around the base of his brother's cock. Sam's finally learned how to keep his thrust instinct under control and he's just lying there, legs parted, one hand heavy in Dean's hair and the other splayed over the sheets. Dean flicks his eyes upwards with every other suck, taking wicked satisfaction in Sam's pink cheeks and thin mouth, in knowing he's the one who does this to Sam, no other.
He's not aware there's anything wrong right up until an unfamiliar hand curls around his ankle and tugs, hard, reflexively inhales and ends up nearly choking, unappealingly, on his brother's dick. Sam's hand in his hair gentles and his brother pulls away, slides upright. When Dean finally stops wheezing and glances at Sam's face, it's to see him looking more pissed than he ever has before. Sam's mouth is screwed into a scowl, eyes dancing with tiny spots of anger, and his hands are balled in his lap. He's looking at something just over Dean's body, and when Dean turns his head to see what, he nearly chokes on air.
"Two of you?" he says when he's recovered, his brother placing a gentling hand on his back. The other Sam at the foot of the bed looks just as pissed as the one he'd been blowing only a few seconds ago, arms folded over his chest. He's fully clothed - jeans, a button-down, a hideous hoodie spattered with mud; the typical things Sam might wear.
"Go away," his Sam says, warning clear, and the other Sam shakes his head, defiance written in every line of his body language. "I thought I told you, you weren't supposed to be here."
"I've got more right here than you do, parasite," the new Sam sneers, and heads forward, climbing up on the foot of the bed and then kneeling there, awkward. Dean tweaks his feet away from it, watches it suspiciously. "Dean, come here. It's me, the real Sam. Your brother?"
Dean just gives it his own pale imitation of Sam's prime bitchface, and his Sam snickers softly. "Yeah, sure," he says, and the new Sam rolls its eyes, frustrated.
"Dean! Listen! The - the Sam there, it's not me; it's some impostor that somehow infiltrated your head. It's been feeding off you for nearly a month, man, you're in danger - Pastor Jim hooked me up with this spell to get inside your head. Come on, dude, this -"
"Well yeah it's an impostor," Dean snaps in his best talking-to-morons voice. His Sam shifts and stirs and Dean slowly draws his legs up, away from the new Sam - who lunges across the bed, catching his ankle, winding his fingers around the bone, thumb fluttering over the bony spur. Dean glances up into its eyes and blinks at what he sees, the fear and confusion and anger. "Sam?" he asks hesitantly, no longer sure which one of the two he means.
"I'm here," the one at his feet says, and Dean knows then and there he's telling the truth. Knows then and there that his baby brother just caught him sucking off a copy of himself, and oh, Jesus, he's doomed.
"Dean!" both Sams say, concerned, when he scrabbles frantically away from the pair of them, scuttles to the edge of the bed and just - watches them. The real one tries moving closer, but when Dean sways away from him, he stops; the false one just watches him, expression softened with sadness. Dean licks dry lips.
"I'm sorry," the real one offers and that's it, Jesus, he's in no condition to deal with this. Not now. The false Sam crosses its legs and leans forward slightly, silent and expectant. "Dean, man - "
"Go away," Dean manages, because this is how it always is - hiding his weaknesses from Sam, keeping his little brother from looking too close. The real one flinches and the false one has the audacity to smirk, and Dean fixes it with a filthy glare. "Both of you. Go away."
"What? No!" Fake-Sam protests at the same time as his real brother says "No way in hell, Dean, I'm not letting you slither out of this one -" before breaking off. They glare at each other and at him, and Dean feels impossibly young again, four and cuddling close to his father on the hood of the car.
"Why are you here?" asks the dream-thing, tearing its gaze away from Dean and eyeing his brother coldly. "What are you after? I told you the first time, you're not supposed to be here -"
"Neither are you!" Sam hisses, hackles up, and that's his Sam. Dean sighs and forces himself to relax, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap. "You're the - the parasite, I'm -"
"Sam." Sam shuts up, faces him with wide eyes; Dean swallows and licks his lips. "Sam," he says again, and huffs out a soft breath. "I don't know how you got here or why you came, but go away. Get out of my head."
"No," Sam snaps, folding his arms over his chest. Sometimes Dean forgets how goddamn stubborn his baby brother can be. "Dean, this thing is evil. It's inside your head and it's, it's sucking the life out of you - it could damn well kill you, man. You have to help me get rid of it. You can create guns with cast-iron or silver bullets here, it's your head..."
He trails to a stop as Dean shakes his head, face twisting into something quizzical, confused and vaguely hurt. "No, Sam," Dean says, and looks away, at the fake Sam. It's been watching his brother, looking worried, but as soon as it feels Dean's gaze on it it looks up, sharp, and smiles for him briefly. He remembers that expression, normally followed by a blowjob, and flushes despite himself, feeling the burn spread to his ears. His brother is still watching him, waiting for an answer. "I'm okay," he says softly, and dares glance up to see Sam's features slide back into a scowl.
"Leave him alone," the false Sam says, cutting in before Sam can protest again, and his brother whirls to face it, upper lip curling away from his teeth in a wordless snarl. It copies him, warning for warning, and for a moment they look identical, difficult to tell apart. Dean shifts and the real Sam glances back at him, brow creasing slightly in a mixture of pity and worry. "I said leave him alone," the fake Sam snaps, and the real one rolls his eyes.
"Why? So you can suck him dry? I don't know what you are, but you need to get out of here." Dean is shaking his head before he's even finished.
"No, he doesn't," Dean offers when Sam gives him an incredulous look. "He can stay here."
"Dean, I saw - he's - it's warping you! I saw you and it having... I saw it... it's got you under some sort of spell. It's rape. You don't really want it -"
And Dean closes his eyes and swallows, because he doesn't know what to say to that, how to reply to something so wrong. He wets his lips and dips his head, and Sam's voice slows, breaks off. "Yeah," he says quietly, eventually. "Sure."
"Dean?" Sam shifts and the not-mattress dips a little as his brother moves closer. Dean leans away and the movement stops. "Dean, are you saying...?"
Dean ducks his head and the false Sam says sharply, "Sam. Knock it off. Leave him alone."
"Oh my God," Sam whispers, ignoring it, and Dean thinks maybe those three words might just be the most terrifying things he's ever heard, and he was hunting since his fourteenth birthday. "Jesus Christ, Dean."
He licks his lips and the false Sam moves, unhappy, cloth rustling. "I know," he says quietly and tries not to hang his head, but he's just so fucking tired and he's been carrying this secret for too long. He never quite imagined he'd spill it, not like this.
"Dean?" the dream Sam asks quietly, and he holds out a hand to quiet it. It shifts again and he doesn't need to look to know the worried scowl; he's seen it in too many dreams, from its expression when he talks of his job, of his loneliness.
There's an awkward silence. Dean risks a glance at Sam, finds him cross-legged and hunched, head in his hands. He looks miserable and something oily and dark twists in Dean's belly, vicious and bloody. He looks away sharply but not quickly enough; catches his brother moving out of the corner of his eye. "Dean," Sam says, small and slightly helpless, like he hasn't been since he was eight and broke that bully's arm. "It's... he's killing you."
"I know," Dean says quietly, because there's no point in lying, and both Sams flinch. The dream one looks away, guilty, and he swallows, pushes away the urge to comfort it. "I've known for weeks now, Sam."
"Then why?" Sam explodes, head jerking up and shifting forward, crawling across the bed a few feet on all fours. He looks pissed, and Dean can't blame him. "You know it's killing you and you still put up with it? That's not like you, and you know it -"
"Why not?" Dean interrupts, letting ice into his voice, and looks straight at Sam, facing his brother squarely for the first time. "Why isn't it like me? Sam? Tell me that, huh?"
Sam visibly pales and rocks back to his haunches, all puppy-dog eyes and radiating misery. His fingers knot in the mystery fabric of the dream-covers as he says, soft and hurt, "You're not suicidal, Dean, and even if you - even if you wanted something like - that, you wouldn't let yourself wither away over it. It's just - it's just not you to give up."
"Give up? That's what you think this is?" Dean asks before he can stop himself. Behind Sam the dream Sam moves, awkward. "This isn't giving up, Sam, not this."
"Then what is it?" Sam demands, voice thick and leaden with emotion, and Dean pushes aside the concern because he's been Sam's caretaker for years and this, this is -
"It's me being selfish," he says, deflating a little. It sounds different, out in the air. Dream Sam ducks his head and his real brother blinks, startled. "This is me taking something that I want, Sam. I told you, I'm okay."
"You're dying," Sam says slowly. "Dean, this - this selfish thing, it's..."
"Giving me what I want," Dean says, softly. "I like it here, Sam. I - I know what it's doing to me, alright?" He sighs and raises a hand, scratching through his hair. Something feels off, and it's not just being naked in front of his brother while his secrets are dragged out of him. He used to have nightmares about that sort of thing.
"Why?" Sam asks again, voice jagged. "Why here, Dean?" Behind him the dream Sam snorts in disgust and Dean shoots it a tiny smile, stomach clenching. Sam's jaw tenses and he straightens, spine stiffening. "Isn't there anything else in your life that - that's better?" he asks.
Dean swears he feels something inside him fracture, some part of his defensive wall flaking away, because it's easier than he thought it would be to raise his chin and say quietly, "No."
"No?" Sam repeats, looking confused and lost, and Dean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.
"No. No, Sam, there isn't anything better," he says, and is surprised when his own voice cracks a little. He pushes on regardless. "It's okay, dude. I don't expect you to get it. It's just…I've got nothing else, okay? And if I can have this I will, no matter what. I know what it's doing to me." He folds both his hands in his lap, watching Sam with what he hopes is an earnest expression, and hopes the unspoken and I don't care is strong enough to be less subtext than text. Sam looks like someone just slugged him in the stomach, skin a little pale and green eyes wide. He looks more like Dean's brother than he normally does, all tousled hair and hurt, and Dean forces himself not to move, forces himself to sit there and continue, gesturing at the dream Sam. "And he's not evil, Sam. Not everything boils down to, like, crazy dream succubi."
"'Crazy dream succubi' is a pretty good description for us, actually," the dream Sam says softly, amused. Dean shoots it a quick smile. Sam twists and fixes it with the filthiest look Dean's ever seen his little brother wear, pure loathing and hatred worn on Sam's face like a banner. So strong it blinks and leans away, taken off guard.
"So you are saying you're giving up? Because that's what this is, Dean. Dad taught us better than to fall for some ideal happy life and you know it!" Sam growls, turning to face him again, and Dean bares his teeth, his own ire rising.
"And why the hell not, Sam?" he snaps. "You got yours. You got school and a career and a pretty girl and while, yeah, I'm happy for you? All I got is a job and some fucked-up desires and that's it. You really want to start pushing Dad around? Because I kinda think I remember him dying and leaving me, and -"
"I broke up with Jess, you moron," Sam interrupts, his voice distant and cold. Dean stops, tirade cut short, and swallows. "Before I came over to your place. She said she was tired of being compared to you and I... I broke up with her." His hands are fisted on his lap, knuckles white, and he's staring intently at Dean with his lip trembling just a little in the way that always means he's trying not to cry. Dean blinks at him slowly, not sure what to say.
"I'm... sorry," he tries, because he is. He'd hated Jessica so much for getting what he wanted and liked her at the same time, a pretty girl who loved his brother the way he couldn't himself. Sam loved her, too, and he can see that in the set of his brother's jaw, the involuntary tic in his cheek. "I didn't..."
"I dreamed of you," Sam says quietly. "I had a migraine and I was at home and when I passed out I saw - I saw you with it." He shoots the dream Sam another of his foul glares and it sways, bares its teeth at him in a slightly animalistic manner. "And you said things to it and did things and I just... I'm sorry."
Dean gulps, aware of the implications of what Sam's saying, and ducks his head. "Oh," he says, and his voice is a thin croak he almost doesn't recognize. "You saw-?"
"I pulled myself out before I saw too much," Sam hastens to add. "But yeah, I saw. Um. I'm sorry. I... Jesus, Dean, we're a mess. You know that?"
The dream Sam snorts and rolls its eyes, shrugs when Dean shoots it a sharp glare. Dean pauses, brow furrowing as he remembers its first statement to Sam. "Did you know about that? That Sam saw?"
"Yeah," it replies defensively. "I saw. I didn't want to worry you."
"You didn't want to worry me," Dean echoes, intonation flat, and it winces. "You didn't think -"
"Hey!" it protests. "Dean. I didn't - okay, I didn't think, but I see you every day and I just - I just thought it would hurt you."
"Like you care," Sam mutters, drawing his legs up and folding his arms around his knees. He looks far too boyish like that and Dean swallows.
The dream Sam glares at him, contempt ripe on his face, and resorts only to growling, "I could say the same to you." Dean flushes again, raises a hand to cover his mouth as he remembers all the things he said to this fake Sam, remembers the stupid pathetic times he lay with it wrapped around him, breathing out heartfelt secrets and thoughts he'd never have voiced in the real world. He'd confessed so much to this dream Sam, from his fear of hunting to his anger at his father, and the thought of it spilling everything in anger -
"Don't," he blurts, hand still over his mouth, and both Sams stop their little glowering match and glance back over at him, twin expressions of concern on their face. Something inside Dean squirms uncomfortably. Concern is only a step away from pity. Sam's always been the baby and Dean the adult for nearly ten years; it feels wrong, to be looked at like that.
"Dean?" his brother asks softly, and he thinks he's had enough. He lowers his hands to his lap, curving his shoulders inwards, and bites his lip.
"I think you should go," he says quietly and as Sam sucks in breath for a complaint, adds, "You don't belong here, Sam. I'm okay, I told you. I think you should go."
"No," Sam replies instantly, a set to his jaw Dean recognises all too well. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. You need to do something about this."
He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Even in the dream world it feels slightly greasy and unkempt. "Why do you care?" he asks eventually. "Why does it piss you off so much that I like it here? Why can't you leave me alone? It makes me happy, Sam, and that's all you need to know. For once, just - for fuck's sake, dude - let me do something for myself."
Sam blinks at him for a few seconds, startled, before his features slide due Bitchface. "I care because you're my brother," he replies shortly, voice rising in pitch. "I care because you're fucking wasting yourself away for no good reason. Because you never even tried. You could have me, you moron, you know that? If - if you wanted... if you... I could... I could be yours, Dean, I promise. You just have to stop this. Please. Snap out of this emofest and come back to yourself, man. Stop whining and sulking and fucking around with the supernatural equivalent of a blow-up doll."
"Go fuck yourself," dream Sam adds but Dean hardly registers it, too busy staring at his baby brother, shocked. Sam matches him, still all stubborn bitchface, and just for a second Dean sees a flicker of - something. Of him driving Sam to school in the morning and coming home to a dinner already prepared, or maybe his little brother slipping into the shower with him on his day off all lazy-heated passion. He has to take a few deep breaths and remind himself that nothing ever works out like he wants to, that he's the older one and Sammy, despite being able to drink and vote and whatever now, is still his baby brother. He turns Sam's little speech around, examining it from his most cynical point of view.
"Thanks," he says eventually, and Sam cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Dean swallows and voices the expected 'but'. "Sam, I... look, thanks and all, but you don't need to do that."
"Do what?" Sam asks, narrowing his eyes. He looks way more feline when he does that, all sharp slanted suspicion.
Dean makes himself voice his fears, unwilling though he is. "Sam," he says. "You just broke up with Jess, man, and I appreciate that it's tough and all. But volunteering for a - for a fucked-up incestuous relationship with your big brother to make him feel better or whatever is not the answer, dude. Trust me."
"You think I want to do this only for your sake?" Sam asks after a pause. His voice is aloof and difficult to read and Dean nods jerkily. Sam sighs and nods thoughtfully, almost to himself; he stretches his legs out, unlinking his arms to rest his hands on the dream covers at his side. He ducks his head a little, angling to face Dean head-on, before he adds, "You're an idiot."
Dean makes a small irritated noise at the back of his throat, and dream Sam hisses a little growl. Sam shoots it another foul look and it backs down a little, although it does mutter something about verbal abuse to make up for it.
Sam sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair, finally pausing with his paws still buried somewhere in the mop, back arched and face clear. "I love you," he says, simply and honestly.
Dean licks his lips, looks away, mutters, "Oh, god."
Sam seems undisturbed. "I love you, man," he says quietly. "And it's okay. I want it. I do."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he says, disdain dripping from his voice. "Look, Sam, I might not be a full-ride Stanford-scholarship boy like you, but I can do the math. Two fucked up freaks in one family is kinda pushing the realms of, y'know, believability. And I've done some reading, on like, the internet and stuff. There's no such thing as consensual incest. Don't do it."
Sam snorts and leans forward in a rush, folding his long legs underneath him and rising up onto his knees. He's awkwardly taller than Dean like that, and Dean cranes his head up, leans back, puts out his hands to support himself and raises his knees self-consciously to mask his nakedness. Sam doesn't seem bothered. "Dean," he says, all weary exasperation. "Dean, man, I know the math. I did the research too and I even talked to psych professors about it. I know about the Westermarck Effect and stuff, and I'm telling you, it's still... look. I dumped Jess for you. Okay?"
Dean blinks and shakes his head, ready to launch another protest, claim the impossibility of what Sam's saying, but he doesn't have the chance. In fact, he has about three seconds before Sam knocks him over, attacking his mouth with an aggressive ferocity that's absolutely nothing like the various women Dean's kissed. It's instead demanding and bruising, teeth pressing hard against his lips and tongue stroking roughly. Dean knows he should be a strong person, should push his brother away, should take the moral high ground. And he thinks he raises his arms to do just that but finds his fingers woven through Sam's hair instead. He closes his eyes and sighs into the kiss and dares think, just for a second, that maybe this can work.
Sam doesn't taste of cherries or sunshine or rainbows. He tastes of spit and metal and the hot cloying copper of blood; Dean can't really tell whose and guesses it doesn't matter.
Brothers. Jesus.
He tightens his grip on Sam's hair, using it to direct Sam's head down, and bites firmly but gently on his brother's lower lip, possessive and strong and nothing like kissing dream Sam and more like everything he's wanted. Sam is a heavy weight across his body, torso an almost painful crushing weight on Dean's belly, and he thinks if he could pick a word to describe this - this kiss, this everything, it'd be uncomfortable. Followed inevitably by perfect.
He has Sam's tongue in his mouth and Sam's hair scraping over half his face and it's so fucking good. He's cupping Dean's face with one huge hand, holding him in place while he attempts to fucking suck Dean's brain out through his mouth. It's awkward and good and Dean still jumps when Sam shifts and dream Sam comes into view, sitting quietly watching them with a wistful expression on his face. He's transparent and Dean tenses. Then Sam touches his thumb to the sharp edge of Dean's cheekbone and whispers, "Hey," and suddenly kissing is the only thing on Dean's mind again.
Some part of him, something small and insignificant, retains enough reason to be embarrassed at the little breathless whimpering noises he makes, but he can't complain when it gets him what he wants. Sam moans, eyes fluttering shut slowly, and leans in to kiss him again. It's softer this time, longer and gentler, and that small rational part of his brain wonders if this is how Sam kissed Jess or if this is something else. He hopes it's the latter. He threads his fingers through Sam's soft hair, tangling them in good and tight, and closes his eyes. This is what he's wanted.
When they part this time Sam looks sort of stunned, pupils a little wider than they should be and lips red where Dean nibbled on them. His brother shifts, moving away, sitting back up. He moves with reverence rather than disgust, and Dean scrambles to follow him. The dream Sam is watching them both, a sort of lost, forlorn look on its face. Sam shifts to put his body between Dean and it, reaches out and cups Dean's face, thumbs stroking slowly over the lines of his cheekbones.
"Come back with me?" he asks quietly and Dean breathes in deeply. Because kissing or not it's not right to love your brother, and dreams are one thing but reality is another. Sam's fingers feel almost tight on his face, thumbs soothing as they stroke backwards and forth. Dean offers a thin smile, and Sam answers him with a warm, hopeful one. "Please, Dean?" he asks quietly, and his voice is a low murmur.
"Sam," Dean replies quietly, because he's not sure what else to say. His tongue feels thick and foreign in his mouth, and he swallows a couple of times. "Sam..."
"We can make it work, Dean, I promise," Sam says, still speaking in that soft low tone that makes the hairs on Dean's nape prickle with an emotion that's anything but fear. "If we try. You're running out of excuses, man."
And Dean closes his eyes and nods, because he knows he is, and he wants this - Sam - so very much. He thinks maybe he ought to be stronger, ought to turn Sam down, but after a taste of the real thing he thinks being with the false one waiting just a few feet away could be nothing but bitter. Ashes and rot in his hands and mouth.
"Okay," he whispers, so softly he worries Sam might not hear him. From the huge grin that spreads across Sam's face, it appears he did; Dean can't help but grin back weakly, a sucker as always for dimples and bright white teeth.
"We can go now," Sam says, excited, and glances away thoughtfully; the movement reveals the dream Sam sitting quietly behind him, clothed in jeans and a shirt, legs crossed and a hand resting on each knee. He's transparent again, the sheets behind him casting him in a white glow. Dean feels his heart sink and sighs. Real thing or not, doesn't he owe it something?
"I need to say goodbye first," he says, and Sam starts, tenses. "I won't be long. Stay here." He gently shrugs Sam's hands off him and begins to crawl across the covers towards the false Sam, ignoring his brother's frantic hisses of warning behind him. He'd never expected Sam to understand, not really, although his brother does remain where he is and doesn't try to interfere, just shoots daggers at the false Sam. It ignores him, watching Dean quietly.
He stops about a foot in front of it, lowering himself to the covers and wrapping both his arms around his legs. He feels oddly self-conscious before it, in a way he hasn't since it appeared; it tilts its head and watches him and he sighs. "I'm sorry," he says.
"Those words keep getting tossed around in here," it replies, eyes fixed on his. "Do they fix anything?"
"Heh, no." Dean rubs a hand over his face, abruptly tired, feeling somehow like he hasn't slept for weeks. "It's just something I need to say. I guess I... Thanks, too. You were... Thanks."
It shrugs uncomfortably and picks at its jeans, glancing down to watch itself at work. The silence irritates Dean somehow, like it's getting underneath his skin, sharp and uncomfortable, and he draws breath to say something else, apologize more. "Don't," it says without looking up. "I don't want you to... don't."
"You'll move on, right?" Dean asks. "Your kind don't stay in one place for long. That's what you told me. I guess it's time to return to normal?"
It snorts, disgusted. "Yeah. Normal. After this. Jesus." It folds its arms over its chest, hunching in on itself, and Dean closes his eyes, trying not to look at it, not to see the image of his baby brother, miserable.
"Like I said, I'm sorry," he offers helplessly. Then when Sam clears his throat impatiently, adds, "You can't stay here, though. You know that." It sniffles angrily and raises a hand to wipe away an errant tear, shooting him a look equal parts accusing and helpless through the curtain of its hair. He wishes he could make it better, but it's not his fault it decided to stay, and he doesn't know what to do to fix it anyway. It's not his brother. If it were the real Sam, he'd know. "Promise me."
It's crying now, freely, still in Sam's form, and Dean's never been able to watch his brother break up, not without wanting to fix whatever's wrong. He can't bring himself to comfort it, though, knowing if he does then all his resolve will flee, and he just sits there, hands folded in his lap, forcing himself to watch it without breaking eye contact. He's not sorry for what was, but he's sorry it's come to this, to this farewell.
"Dean," his Sam says quietly behind him and he throws a hand out backwards, fingers splayed in a clear gesture for Sam to stay silent. The dream Sam shifts, awkward, looks away and sniffles angrily.
"Will you?" Dean asks gently and it snaps its gaze back to him, eyes sullen and sad both. It watches him for a few minutes, face twisting, and then it nods, a tiny motion, barely perceptible.
"Okay," it says after, a little louder, and sniffles again. "Okay." It wipes its eyes with the palms of its hands and keeps them there for a few seconds, obstructing its vision, and then says, in a small voice, "I never wanted to do this to you, Dean, I promise."
And yeah, okay, maybe he's more of a fucking sap than he thought, because he sighs and gives, just like that. He leans forward and grabs it by the shoulders, pulls it close and manhandles it into a hug, tucking his head under his chin and holding it the way he used to hold Sam when his brother was scared, all those years ago. It's a bit too tall for him to do that comfortably but he tries, and with its face pressed to his shoulder it bursts into near-hysterical tears, loud, wailing sobs that rack its body while he pets its hair and the real Sam, his real brother, stays mercifully silent. "I know," he says quietly, over and over, and wonders how inhuman it can possibly be, to cry like this.
"I tried to be more Sam for you," it says in between sobs, voice muffled against his shoulders. "I tried so hard, and I thought the more Sam I was the - the better it'd be for you." It pauses to take a deep, shivery breath and Dean strokes down from its scalp to the nape of its neck, trying to be as reassuring as possible. When he glances over at his brother, Sam seems to be inspecting his toes with almost religious devotion, mouth a thin line. The creature in his arms hisses and continues, voice lower and thicker than before. "I... Jesus. I'm seven hundred years old and I don't know what I am anymore."
"What do you mean?" Dean asks softly, nervous. It sniffles and tugs, pulling itself out of his arms. Its eyes are all red and blotchy and its nose is swollen; it's still crying a little, unappealing and almost grotesque and Dean leans forward and kisses it on the forehead anyway.
"I'm not what I was," it says, explaining slowly. "I... I... I don't think I can be anything else. I tried too hard, Dean, I... I can't be anything but this." It scrubs roughly at its eyes with one of its sleeves and he reaches out, catching its wrist to hold it still, confusion heavy on his face. It turns on him, Sam's eyes a duller shade than normal. "Dean," it says, voice still choked and low, "I wanted to be Sam for you and now I'm stuck like this. I can't leave. This is why my kind don't stay. Do you see now?"
"You can't...?" It takes Dean several seconds to wrap his head around the concept, and when it does he sinks onto his heels, stunned. "You'll... die? If I stop this."
It sniffles and looks away and says, "Yes," quietly, almost too quiet to be audible.
Dean closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, opens them and glances over at Sam. His brother's watching the dream Sam intently, expression unreadable, and doesn't notice him looking. He glances back at it, not sure where to begin. "Is... is there anything I can do?" he asks helplessly, and it laughs, cold and ugly.
"No." Then it hesitantly says, "If there was, would you? I was... I was killing you, Dean."
Dean sighs and pitches his voice to something soothing. "I know," he says quietly, "And I knew, and I was letting you, remember?" He gives it a quiet smile and Sam shifts, coughs. It shoots his brother a resentful, angry look, and then glances back at him. "If there was, I would, but... what do you propose?"
"Nothing," it says quietly, and he raises an eyebrow, confused. It fidgets, leaning away from him. "I'm.... I'm seven hundred years old, Dean. I don't want to die. I've never not wanted to die before."
"I don't get it," Dean replies carefully, and it shrugs sharply. "Are you saying you're going to - starve yourself to death?"
"Being Sam is the closest I've come to being alive for centuries," it replies quietly, voice low so the real Sam can't hear it. "I don't want to go, God, but I... I don't think it'd be so bad."
"Jesus." Dean rubs his hands over his face at then eyes it, unsure. It's not Sam. It's not the real thing. It's some dream creature that found its way here and got attached, for whatever reason, but it's... it's.... "I'm sorry."
"That doesn't fix anything," it replies, with a hint of a sad smile at the corner of its mouth. "It's okay, Dean. I... Good luck. Sam better take care of you."
"Can I... do anything for you? As a goodbye thing?" Dean asks helplessly, and it shrugs.
"Do you want to?" it asks, and he nods. It tilts his head up and he knows what to do; leans over and kisses it, quick, almost chaste. It tastes nothing like his real brother; tastes like shadow and smoke, and he almost regrets that he doesn't like the taste even as he draws back and finds it watching him, a knowing look in its eyes.
"Goodbye," Dean offers, and it nods slowly. He rises up on his knees and his brother looks up; he jerks his chin at it sharply and Sam hums, reaches a hand into his shirt and finds an eagle feather on a leather thong. Dean's never seen it before, and it seems to glow oddly, not quite reflecting the light in the room correctly.
"Dean?" his brother asks quietly, and he hums agreement, climbing awkwardly over the bed towards his brother. At the last second he stops and pauses, looks behind him and finds it watching them, legs folded and hands in its lap. It's translucent again, the same weird stuff going on with its body and the light as with the eagle feather Sam's holding. "Put your hand on the feather."
"Thanks," Dean mouths and it smiles for him briefly. Sam holds the eagle feather out.
"Hey," Sam says quietly. "Come on."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters, tearing his gaze away from the small sad figure, and reaches out, touching the vane of the feather with two of his fingers. "This'd be easier if you were wearing your ruby slippers, Dorothy."
"Fuck off, Dean," Sam retorts, but there's no real heat in it. He screws his eyes shut and inches over, pressing his body against Dean's, and begins chanting something under his breath in a language Dean's never heard of, probably the ritual to take them home.
He breaks off as the scenery around them begins to swirl, mashing together, the dream Sam fading finally from view along with the rest of the room, and Dean takes a deep breath. As the room fades away he thinks Sam dips his head and kisses him on the cheek, but he can't be sure.
Dean opens his eyes to find that it's dawn, the sky lightening outside his windows. He guesses he forgot to close the curtains last night, and screws his eyes shut against it. It occurs to him that the windows appear to have changed position in proximity to his bed, but frankly he feels sort of... hungover, only without the drink. His head feels sandy and uncomfortable, his body slow and unresponsive. He rolls over putting his back to the dawn. He doesn't have work today, or at least he doesn't think he has work today, and he feels so tired.
The mattress dips as someone climbs onto it. Dean has enough time to tense up before Sam is fitting himself against his back, He's all sharp knees and elbows and jesus fuck wearing only a pair of boxers, and Dean bolts away like his brother is covered with porcupine quills, spinning as he moves so that he ends up on the very edge of the bed, clutching at the sheets desperately to keep from falling off and watching Sam with wide, startled eyes. His brother blinks at him, puzzled, then smiles.
"Dude, what the hell? You turn into a cat while I wasn't looking?" he says, tone light and teasing, and Dean continues staring at him, breathing heavily. Sam blinks and tilts his head to one side, face lapsing into something quizzical. "Dean? Man, get over here, It's cold."
"Why are you in my bed?" Dean asks stiffly, and Sam stares at him like he's grown a third head. Dean wonders frantically what the hell happened last night, and gets bits and pieces of images; him arriving home from work and going to bed, unshowered and unfed, sex with the dream Sam, and then... "Oh my God," he mutters, and Sam makes a curious noise. "I had the fucking weirdest dream."
"Dream?" Sam asks, sharply. "Oh my God, you ass. I declare my love and affection for you and you think it's a dream? I mean. Well. Uh, yeah, it was a dream, but it was like, a real one too. Jerk."
"What?" Dean manages, and Sam rolls his eyes, pats the stretch of sheets next to him. "Jesus, Sam -"
"Shut up," Sam interrupts, bluntly. His hair is mussed and in uneven tangles around his face, and Dean swallows, climbs back into the bed; his brother reaches out and touches his wrist. There seems to be no purpose to it, just contact. "Come here," Sam says gently. "It's freaking six in the morning. We'll deal with your freak-out tomorrow."
"I..." Dean pauses as he remembers a little more. Eagle feathers. A transparent dream Sam. Sam coming to get him. He nods quietly and wriggles a little, climbing awkwardly back up onto the bed and moving a little closer to Sam, lying down with a foot of space between them. Sam makes a disgusted noise and curls his fingers around Dean's wrist in a firm grasp, pulling him closer; he tumbles Dean practically into himself and then lets go, reaching up to slide his hands over Dean's face, fingers splayed over his jawline and thumbs stroking Dean's cheekbones in slow, repetitive, soothing motions.
"Sam," Dean says, hoarse. Sam smiles and shrugs the covers off sharply, pushing up and taking Dean with him. His grip on Dean's head is firm, but not painful, and Dean goes willingly.
"I'm sorry," Sam says quietly, almost too quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't notice before, and I... Sorry."
"Sam?" Dean says quietly, in a different tone than before, and his brother sighs, leans forward and kisses him rough and sloppy. His mouth is slick and hot, and Dean remembers doing this in a dream, remembers imagining it for most of his adult life.
This is it, he thinks, dazed, as Sam's mouth presses against his. This is everything he never thought he'd have, right here. He's not sure what he did to deserve this, but he's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He parts his lips and allows Sam's tongue access, closes his eyes and leans into Sam, just a little. His brother tastes the same as he did in the dream, and he feels so warm against Dean, hands gentle, kiss soft and thorough; like Dean's made of glass, like he's holy, and Dean wonders why he never noticed this before. His little brother and his best friend and now, so much more. Christ.
Sam breaks the kiss but doesn't move away, resting nose-to-nose with Dean, both of them panting, breath mingling in the air before their mouths. It should feel weird, in the real world -- and it is the real world now, there's no doubt about that -- but it's just Sam, just him and his brother, and it doesn't feel anything but right. He tries anyway, because there are things that need to be said, things about incest and breaking the law and his job, and he says "We can't," and then breaks off, not sure what to say. Sam's face lapses into a sort of sweet smile and his little brother leans forward and kisses him again, an almost-chaste peck on the mouth. Dean can't help but smile back, and Sam exhales slowly, ducks his head and closes his eyes.
"Tomorrow," Sam says softly, and that seems like a good idea to Dean. He touches Sam's chest, marvelling at its warmth under his hands.
Real, he thinks, giddily. This is real. I can have this.
Sam shifts and curls up again on the bed, foreign against Dean's sheets, eyes on his face. His brother smiles and Dean grins back, stupid-happy, relieved; he lowers himself onto his belly and wriggles as Sam rolls towards him, fitting his back against Sam's chest, curling up to him with a content little noise. It feels weird and it feels funny, and Dean hasn't slept with someone - not in the just sleeping sense - for so long and... he thinks he could get used to it again.
He stays awake for a little while longer, watching the light on the far wall. Sam's breath puffs hot and steady against the nape of his neck, the rhythm changing as his little brother falls asleep, and it feels good.
Dean closes his own eyes and shifts back a tiny, barely perceptible amount, moving closer to Sam. Sam shifts with him, an arm heavy across his hips, and Dean thinks, with a fair amount of affection, tomorrow.
-fini
Onto poisontaster's epilogue →
And of course I forgive
I've seen how you live
Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes
You pick up the pieces
And the ghosts in the attic
They never quite leave
Eric's Song
1. Placebo // Protége-moi
2. Indigo Girls // Ghost
3. Zero 7 // Home
4. Tori Amos // Doughnut Song
4b. Snow Patrol - Chasing Cars
5. Boa // Get There
6. Vertical Horizon // Everything You Want
7. Frou Frou // Must Be Dreaming
8. Red Hot Chilli Peppers // This Is The Place
9. Massive Attack // Dissolved Girl
10. Poe // Wild
11. Vienna Teng // Eric's Song
DOWNLOAD HERE. Thanks to keepaofthecheez for designing the soundtrack cover! ♥
Obligatory Mushy Thank-Yous Enough To Shame Oscar Winners (and fic backstory, feel free to skip):
So, on the 24th of October, I had a dream. Unfortunately it was not a MLK-type dream of world peace, since that would require a sort of social awareness I just don't have; instead, it was this fic, only incomplete. The dream was particularly vivid - enough so that I woke up crying, and of course, being a total bitch to LJ, I hopped online and posted about it. I expected to receive a few '*hugs*' and my friends happily sharing their own weird SPN dreams. Instead, I got several comments along the line of 'you should write that,' which made me laugh, shake my head, and move on. I don't do angst, you see.
Two days later I started talking to poisontaster over gmail chat, and in the course of the conversation, my weird dream came up. "What weird dream?" she said, so I linked her. "Huh," she continued, and then, "You should write that."
"I don't do angst," said I, so passionately I spelt 'angst' as 'agnst'. Whatever that is, I don't do it, either.
"Nonsense," Erin replied briskly. "Look, here's how it should be done..." and she proceeded to plot it out with me in a way that not only made sense but also made me want to do it. I created a rough draft journal and started ficcing; over the course of eleven hours I wrote some nine thousand words of this fic. Yes, in one sitting. I stopped when I hit sex and all my poor abused brain could come up with was LOL COCK, only because I was tired it was more like LOL OCCK. I wrote at poisontaster, keepaofthecheez, wendy and anybody else who was unfortunate enough to be around where I could hassle them.
Halfway through the fic, my porn muse packed her bags and took off for Australia where, presumably, some sweet Aussie girl found her and even now is settling down to write her first smut scene. "I CAN'T PORN," I wailed at Erin. "What am I going to do for the epilogue? THERE WAS GOING TO BE BUTTSEX!"
"BRB, actually working now," she replied, perfectly showcasing her lack of compassion in having a job and working to support herself. I thought about spamming her by email instead, but then she volunteered to write it on my behalf (despite doing nano) and I was Pleased. She wrote the buttsex before the fic was even finished, and then went back and added actual epilogue-y stuff afterwards, thus earning her possibly a small medal.
I finished the fic seventeen days into NaNo and started looking for a beta. Erin volunteered Mona with gusto, a person who I knew of but not actually, and while I knew Mona would do a good job, I was too shy to go OMG HEY BETA-READ MY FIC PLZ IT HAS PORN :DDDD
I requested a beta on my journal. For some crazy reason, I was not immediately innundated by a plethora of offers to beta-read a 30k fic - except for Nan (also doing Nano!), who bravely popped up and said "I'll do it!"
"Hooray!" replied I, and then proceeded to be one of the most panicky authors ever, sometimes sending her two emails in one go with one-line all-caps "OH MY GOD DOES THIS SCENE WORK?!?!?!?!?!?," to which she normally replied with a weary "Yes, I'm working, give me some time."
Nan, bless her, was amazingly patient and - of course - very sweet. I got the fic back in time for Thanksgiving, sat on it until the Saturday after because LJ was DEAD, let me tell you - y'all were off eating, and myself and other non-Americans were left twiddling our fingers and getting into Australia vs England fights. Or something. I spent it sleeping.
Posting it was fun - I've never had this sort of feedback to a fic before, and I'm still reeling at the oh my god people like this sensation. Seriously. You all rock so hard. I apologise for the delay - I had a breakdown over the Sam/Jess break-up and emailed this chapter off to Mona (who I finally befriended! Go me!) with another hysterical OH MY GOD DOES THIS SCENE WORK?!?!?!?!?! to which she replied along the lines of "oh my god your run-on sentences are hurting me plz send aid/strong alcohol."
And I cackled. Yes.
Anyway! Here it is, complete. Behold!
So, thanks to:
poisontaster, for helping to create this fic, and adding suggestions and ideas and discussing it with me and correcting my occasional dip back into britishisms (americanpicking?) and support and squee and THE WHOLE EPILOGUE - really, it's as much her baby as mine;
keepaofthecheez, for staying still long enough to be ficced at and even supplying a soundtrack graphic on request;
wendy, for cheerleading and encouragement and handholding and snuggling and reassurance during my fits of 'omg what if people hate it? ;_;';
estrella30, for beta-reading and squeeing and giving me the courage to actually POST, and being so sweet and amazing and doing such a good job and OH MY GOD *squishes Nan with love*;
mona1347, for beta-reading 8,800 words on like, ONE DAY'S NOTICE and only grumbling a little about my shameful abuse of commas, semi-colons and run-on sentences;
Everyone who commented - seriously. I will get back to you on the comments, but I was buried under school work (i handed in my essay yesterday, haha!) and generally too bewildered to know what to say,
Everyone who lurked. I don't know who you are - that kind of being the definition of 'the unwashed lurking masses', but I know you're out there. Thanks. :D
This is a scene I, on Nan's suggestion, cut from the end of chapter two. It's from Dream!Sam's POV - an abrupt shift not replicated elsewhere in the story. I threw a few elements here into the first scene of chapter 3, but otherwise, I cut it. I like a couple of turns of phrase I used here, which is why I'm posting it. Consider it like the deleted scenes extra on dvds:
They don't stay. It's kind of like the first rule of what they are; they don't stay, because then people die, and other people come to kill them, and that's terribly inconvenient and somewhat irritating. It's easier to keep moving, keep hopping from one to the other. They tend to cluster to cities for just this reason; easy to jump from host to host, living in the dreaming, adopting the form of the people the hosts desire most, feeding off the sexual energy.
The dreaming is as fluid as it is constricting and at first it seems like there's nothing special about this host, but it's been there six nights now and it's finding out the other reason its kind move from head to head so fast, stopping for nothing, and that reason has nothing to do with killing the humans and everything to do with becoming the one whose face you wear.
It kind of thinks it might be in love, but you can't quote it on that. It's not sure what love is, and while it's pretty certain its kind aren't capable of feeling it, Sam (SammySamSamuel) Winchester is, and that's who it is in the dreaming.
Its host is a man who feels like sunshine, like the vague memories it has of once being corporal and smelling the grass in summer. He's gentle and good with his hands and he puts its gratification above his own, and it's never had a host quite like that before. At first, it glutted itself senseless on this boy, this Dean Winchester; six days later though and it realises it's in trouble.
He calls it Sam and strokes its hair; he calls it Sam and kisses it gently, love instead of passion, and it's just not sure what to make of that.
It should leave him, move onto another host, but it can't, won't. For some reason it has strange not-memories that aren't its, memories of this Dean as a child himself, then as an older boy, clutching the receiver of a beige plastic telephone and looking utterly lost. It remembers him tucking it into bed and throwing snowballs at it and petting its back when it was doubled over a bucket heaving up its guts; it remembers him showing up for a play it performed on, him willing to pack up everything he had when it got its acceptance letter to Stanford, him introducing it to porn when it was fifteen. It remembers him showing it how to load a shotgun and it remembers him holding it in the night, soothing it through nightmares.
Only none of those things actually happened and now it has no idea what to do or think or feel. What is it? Is it Sam, the one he loves? Is it something else? It feels lost and clueless and not sure how to piece things together, and so it does the only thing it can do.
He's warm in this white room, a dreamscape composed of ivory and snow and bone, and it crawls into bed with him, curls up against him like its not-real memories say it used to when it was younger and scared of thunderstorms. He lowers a hand, ruffles its hair reassuringly.
"I don't know what I am anymore," it says, small, and he pauses, raises his head off the pillow to eye it, expression dubious.
"You're Sam," he says, patiently, and it blinks at him, eyes widening as his statement sinks in.
And then Sam smiles.
And that, my friends, is all she wrote. *bows*