Fic--I Might Lose the Sun, part 1
Well, so it's another day. And another ficlet to post. But. I was watching an episode of Supernatual with my mom one night, and there was this sappy moment. My mom said, and I quote, "Just kiss already." I just smiled and thought you have NO idea. Heh. Anyway, on for--
Warnings before reading: wincest (yay!), Sam-POV, this is--in essence--an alternative to my first posted story, A Life Lived. So, evil!demon!Dean/Sam. Kinda. May be a follow up if there's anyone out there interested. So, let me know. Gracias.
I Might Lose the Sun
He says, “Dean,” and it’s easy; somehow, he thinks, it should be harder; thinks the word should be croaked, show some sign of disuse. But it comes out even, with a steadiness that surprises him. All the months of researching, trailing leads, begging, half-done deals with any demon who would give him a second glance, and this is how they meet: a darkened stairwell at some fleabag hotel, Dean standing, silent, at the top of the landing, and Sam? Frozen mid-way up the stairs that lead to his room. He knows, he knows, this is dangerous--this is everything that he's ever been warned against. But, his brother's been gone for five months, in hell, and he says it again, "Dean." That's all there is, and he wonders if the third time will bring some surety against what he knows his brother is or will bind Dean to him. He clamps down on the urge; the words crumbling in his throat leave behind a sweetsick aftertaste, but he swallows it down, holds it in like it's something precious.
"Well?" Sam startles at the sound, isn't expecting it. That voice. "Gonna show me which is your room?" And the inflection, the tone, is right--is everything that five months of silence couldn't dim or take away.
"You know," he says, but eases up the stairs, stops two steps away. Dean doesn't shift back, and they stand there, equal--the first time for years--in height.
"Yeah," Dean smiles, and Sam understands. The salt, the wards, there to keep things like Dean out; Sam gets it, but doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't have to. "Hell, Sammy," and hands reach for him, grip him where shoulder meets neck. Dean's spot--his way of saying hello or you okay or where've you been.
When Sam allows it, doesn't flinch or turn away, Dean smiles--big, sincere, goofy--and finally steps away. Sam ignores the coolness that replaces his brother's touch, ignores the desire to wrap arms around himself. Tries to smile, too, and fills the space that Dean leaves open. Without glancing back, Sam goes right. His room is the last, and he brushes his arm against the railing as he walks. It's solid metal; the kind that leeches body-heat and never warms up. Sam knows. He's stood out here, wrapped his fingers around it and held on. Tried to make it less impersonal, less cold. It had bothered him, though he couldn't say why, but now--now, it matches the spots Dean left, offers Sam grounding and reality, and it makes him thankful.
He reaches the door, slides the key-card into the slot, eyes on the green circle. This is how he decides; he can step inside, leave Dean outside (can't cross, can't cross), and shut the door. He can pretend he never saw his brother. Pretend that Dean never left the place The Deal sent him to. Or he can smudge the lines, take down a ward or two--disrupt the protection he had tediously taped to the doorframe. He can let him in.
"Sam." It's not a question. And Sam glances over, sees Dean idly picking at the plywood that is bared, left after cheap siding had been ripped off. Sam had not overlooked the Best-Value Lodging Is Undergoing Renovations sign when he had pulled in.
"Just give me a minute." He shoves open the door, careful to toe open the circle as he steps inside. It's only a second to flip on a lamp and take down three pieces of notebook paper stuck to the door. He stares for a moment at one, sees the sigil scrawled over the lined paper, sees the blots at each of the four corners where he dabbed holy water. If there's no God, he thinks before folding it and putting it in the sidetable drawer, why does it work? It's Dean's voice, years separating them, that answers: belief. "Alright," and his brother is there, in the room. Sam sees the minute flinch ripple through Dean's body, but doesn't challenge it. Just turns away, and works his arms out of the jacket he's wearing.
"So, Sammy," and he turns at his name, jacket poised over the chair before he drops it, relaxes tense muscles. Silence has worked so far, has made him feel more comfortable, so he cocks an eyebrow. Something like a chuckle works its way out of Dean. "What're you doing in Macon?"
"A job," he shrugs, settles in the chair. The jacket's zipper digs into his back as he leans into the cushion. He can feel the teeth snag his shirt. "Bad lead, though." He watches Dean sprawl on the only bed. It's so natural that he almost forgets. Where're the black eyes, the blood? Maybe those things are there, just waiting--different time, different place, different...Dean. It should make him more wary, or at least drive home what he's dealing with. But the fact is that it's Dean's green eyes and cocky attitude, and Sam needs it. So he'll play the game, and when the fall-out happens, he'll pay the price. "Anyway. I know what you really want to ask." It's Dean's turn to raise an eyebrow. "The Impala."
It's strange; after five months of silence--because there was alot Sam would do, but talking out loud to himself wasn't one of them--he hears Dean's laugh. It's deep, strong, and still has that undercurrent of cynicism. If it wasn't so surreal, Sam would laugh, too. As it is, he can't even smile, just bites his lip and waits. Finally, Dean says, "Yeah. That was next. How is she? Still beautiful?"
"Yeah, man. Been taking her to Bobby, regular. Made sure to keep her up for--" and here he stalls; he's not sure if it's wise to bring it up, remind Dean (as if he's forgotten. Like he doesn't know what he is); he's beginning to think that it's his own guilt he's trying to save himself from. There are too many questions his brother can ask, too many things Sam didn't do. And if they talk about it, they'll talk about that and he doesn't have any kind of answer to give.
"Cool. She is mine." Dean's staring hard, now. It throws Sam off balance, but before he can do anything but shift in his seat, his brother grins. "How's the porn?"
"What?" He follows as Dean's index finger points to the battered t.v. "Oh. Jesus, Dean. I don't know," he doesn't add that last night he had fallen asleep to some hair-loss infomercial and dreamed of Nair and going bald and wearing a felt cowboy hat. "I doubt they even get pay-per-view here."
Dean snorts, but doesn't say anything else. There's printouts on the table, scattered, from the hunt. Rumors of a zombie-making cult, and Sam had been curious enough to check it out. He came all this way for whispers and false tips. Ended up here, with his brother just returned from hell. He drags the closest sheet of paper to him--stats of missing persons, bodies found, wounds--and rubs his finger tips along the edge, lets the oils mar the surface with grey smudges, then rips scraps off, and sets them into piles on the tabletop. It's simple; something he can lose himself in, touch and see and know it's him doing it.
Which is more than he can say for anything else. He knows he doesn't have control over what's happening. Dean's just amusing himself, and if Sam's getting anything out of it he's pretty sure Dean doesn't care, or can't. And Sam can't forget Dean's face as Lilith stood over him; can't forget the blood that had bloomed red over his brother's chest as hellhounds ripped into him. Most importantly, though, Sam can't reconcile this Dean--spread out on his stomach, hands bunched beneath one flat pillow--to the Dean that he had wrapped in a sheet (shroud) from some stranger's linen closet and burned. That body is ash and cinder, and the one that came to him tonight is just a remembrance. For him. For what's left of Dean. And yet Sam can't say no, can't even begin to imagine what it'd do to him to turn this away.
"It's late, dude." Dean's right arm unbends and flails a minute before finding the vacant side of the mattress. Sam watches, almost hypnotized, as his brother pats his hand against the material. One. Two. "There's plenty of room." Then, lifting his head to look over his shoulder at Sam, he adds, "I won't bite."
"Mm," is the only response Sam can think of. But he gathers himself up, walks the few feet to the bed and lays down on his back, hands resting on his stomach. Dean's opposite.
"You actually gonna sleep in those nasty ass jeans? And your boots?"
Sam takes stock. So, okay, he was, but, "So? You are, too." Dean lifts one leg in answer, and Sam sees bare foot. "Socks and shoes off, I'm proud." But he pulls the overshirt over his head and throws it in the corner. The rest follow suit until he's in his boxers and tee-shirt, and Dean's fully dressed, still on top of the covers. Sam suddenly wants to hide; he can't see his brother's face (turned away, pressed into pillow) and he wants to. Wants the lie that only Dean can give him; only he can't find the words or the strength, so he just lies there, shoulder brushing Dean's and it's almost enough. "Guess I'll get the light," he really doesn't know why he says it, announces it like it's important, but the words sit heavy on him, come out weak.
Dean finally moves, switches to his side facing Sam. A second, and then he's using his free hand to grasp Sam's. Dean's fingers press down on the bones of his wrist, and Sam feels the warning, the added strength that Dean never had, before. For all that, though, there isn't anything in his expression, no tension or casualness in his body. Blank. That's what echoes down his voice when he says, "You sure you wanna do that, Sammy?"
"I don't know." It's true. He can't decide if it'd be better to leave the lamp on, be able to see every movement Dean makes, or turn the thing off and never see it coming. Dean squeezes one more time, and Sam lowers his hand, settles it back on his belly. The back of Dean's hand is against his shirt, held down by the weight of Sam's arm, but neither pull away. "Dean." Green eyes slide to him. "Dean, what are you doing here?"
"Can't a guy visit his baby brother?" Dean sticks the arm caught under him beneath his pillow, releases the other hand holding Sam's wrist to press, palm down, underneath Sam's where it rests against the waist-band of his boxers. The heat feels almost damp, makes the thin shirt feel sticky against his skin.
Sam's aware that Dean hasn't answered his question. But he's thinking of turning on his side, copying Dean's position, and he wonders if Dean'll move his hand, or let it land in a different spot. He wonders which he would prefer. "Fine." He'll stay still, keep Dean's hand where it's at. Better all around, he thinks. "How long are you staying?" The question is soft, low, and he thinks his brother won't hear, but.
Dean's propped up, mouth suddenly at Sam's ear, where he can feel the hot, moist breath at the side of his face. Can feel Dean's chin touching his shoulder, moving with the words, "At least the night. Obviously. Figured you wouldn't want me around too long after that, so gotta get my fill, huh, Sammy?"
Sam turns his head and they're so close their noses almost brush. Inhale. Exhale. And Dean's on the same rhythm, nose flaring slightly with every breath. Calm. Now it's his turn to sidestep the question, and replies with another, "What are you?"
There's Dean smile, the one that doesn't mean anything--is for strangers and random hook-ups. "Come on, Sam, don't play dumb; who better than you to know?" Sam thinks of the wards, the salt, Ruby's black eyes and her angry I remember what it's like to be human. Sam thinks Dean's still more human than not, maybe. Demon, yes, but he hasn't been gone long enough for that to take over. It will, in time; when Dean leaves the hotel, leaves Sam, in time he'll be more demon than Winchester. But now? Sam believes it's mostly Dean. Has to.
Still, he says, "Christo," and watches his brother flinch back; not away, but suddenly there's a little more space between them. He sees Dean's eyes waver--not black, but not completely green, either. Then it's gone, and Dean's there, glaring--not cute, dude. "How come you're you?"
"Because I can. Because I wanted to," lips brush his cheek; Dean's hand has slid under his shirt, trailing up and down over sensitive flesh. And it's easy, again; they've declared a stalemate, a truce, and Sam gives in. His mom is dead. Jess. Dad. All that's left is this Dean; Sam can't refuse for himself, and there is no one left to care, to begrudge him this.
Dean's said it, and Sam's known. This might be all that remains of Sam's Dean, what's so entangled with the demon that it makes no difference. That the man who is his brother might be gone or fading, and what's here is just...something wearing the right mask. But that doesn't stop Sam, doesn't make him say no when Dean's lips cover his or tease inside. Nothing like denial crosses his mind as a sturdy weight covers him, settling between his thighs.
Later, when fingers press inside, he just holds on and breathes.
Continued in pt. 2
Warnings before reading: wincest (yay!), Sam-POV, this is--in essence--an alternative to my first posted story, A Life Lived. So, evil!demon!Dean/Sam. Kinda. May be a follow up if there's anyone out there interested. So, let me know. Gracias.
I Might Lose the Sun
He says, “Dean,” and it’s easy; somehow, he thinks, it should be harder; thinks the word should be croaked, show some sign of disuse. But it comes out even, with a steadiness that surprises him. All the months of researching, trailing leads, begging, half-done deals with any demon who would give him a second glance, and this is how they meet: a darkened stairwell at some fleabag hotel, Dean standing, silent, at the top of the landing, and Sam? Frozen mid-way up the stairs that lead to his room. He knows, he knows, this is dangerous--this is everything that he's ever been warned against. But, his brother's been gone for five months, in hell, and he says it again, "Dean." That's all there is, and he wonders if the third time will bring some surety against what he knows his brother is or will bind Dean to him. He clamps down on the urge; the words crumbling in his throat leave behind a sweetsick aftertaste, but he swallows it down, holds it in like it's something precious.
"Well?" Sam startles at the sound, isn't expecting it. That voice. "Gonna show me which is your room?" And the inflection, the tone, is right--is everything that five months of silence couldn't dim or take away.
"You know," he says, but eases up the stairs, stops two steps away. Dean doesn't shift back, and they stand there, equal--the first time for years--in height.
"Yeah," Dean smiles, and Sam understands. The salt, the wards, there to keep things like Dean out; Sam gets it, but doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't have to. "Hell, Sammy," and hands reach for him, grip him where shoulder meets neck. Dean's spot--his way of saying hello or you okay or where've you been.
When Sam allows it, doesn't flinch or turn away, Dean smiles--big, sincere, goofy--and finally steps away. Sam ignores the coolness that replaces his brother's touch, ignores the desire to wrap arms around himself. Tries to smile, too, and fills the space that Dean leaves open. Without glancing back, Sam goes right. His room is the last, and he brushes his arm against the railing as he walks. It's solid metal; the kind that leeches body-heat and never warms up. Sam knows. He's stood out here, wrapped his fingers around it and held on. Tried to make it less impersonal, less cold. It had bothered him, though he couldn't say why, but now--now, it matches the spots Dean left, offers Sam grounding and reality, and it makes him thankful.
He reaches the door, slides the key-card into the slot, eyes on the green circle. This is how he decides; he can step inside, leave Dean outside (can't cross, can't cross), and shut the door. He can pretend he never saw his brother. Pretend that Dean never left the place The Deal sent him to. Or he can smudge the lines, take down a ward or two--disrupt the protection he had tediously taped to the doorframe. He can let him in.
"Sam." It's not a question. And Sam glances over, sees Dean idly picking at the plywood that is bared, left after cheap siding had been ripped off. Sam had not overlooked the Best-Value Lodging Is Undergoing Renovations sign when he had pulled in.
"Just give me a minute." He shoves open the door, careful to toe open the circle as he steps inside. It's only a second to flip on a lamp and take down three pieces of notebook paper stuck to the door. He stares for a moment at one, sees the sigil scrawled over the lined paper, sees the blots at each of the four corners where he dabbed holy water. If there's no God, he thinks before folding it and putting it in the sidetable drawer, why does it work? It's Dean's voice, years separating them, that answers: belief. "Alright," and his brother is there, in the room. Sam sees the minute flinch ripple through Dean's body, but doesn't challenge it. Just turns away, and works his arms out of the jacket he's wearing.
"So, Sammy," and he turns at his name, jacket poised over the chair before he drops it, relaxes tense muscles. Silence has worked so far, has made him feel more comfortable, so he cocks an eyebrow. Something like a chuckle works its way out of Dean. "What're you doing in Macon?"
"A job," he shrugs, settles in the chair. The jacket's zipper digs into his back as he leans into the cushion. He can feel the teeth snag his shirt. "Bad lead, though." He watches Dean sprawl on the only bed. It's so natural that he almost forgets. Where're the black eyes, the blood? Maybe those things are there, just waiting--different time, different place, different...Dean. It should make him more wary, or at least drive home what he's dealing with. But the fact is that it's Dean's green eyes and cocky attitude, and Sam needs it. So he'll play the game, and when the fall-out happens, he'll pay the price. "Anyway. I know what you really want to ask." It's Dean's turn to raise an eyebrow. "The Impala."
It's strange; after five months of silence--because there was alot Sam would do, but talking out loud to himself wasn't one of them--he hears Dean's laugh. It's deep, strong, and still has that undercurrent of cynicism. If it wasn't so surreal, Sam would laugh, too. As it is, he can't even smile, just bites his lip and waits. Finally, Dean says, "Yeah. That was next. How is she? Still beautiful?"
"Yeah, man. Been taking her to Bobby, regular. Made sure to keep her up for--" and here he stalls; he's not sure if it's wise to bring it up, remind Dean (as if he's forgotten. Like he doesn't know what he is); he's beginning to think that it's his own guilt he's trying to save himself from. There are too many questions his brother can ask, too many things Sam didn't do. And if they talk about it, they'll talk about that and he doesn't have any kind of answer to give.
"Cool. She is mine." Dean's staring hard, now. It throws Sam off balance, but before he can do anything but shift in his seat, his brother grins. "How's the porn?"
"What?" He follows as Dean's index finger points to the battered t.v. "Oh. Jesus, Dean. I don't know," he doesn't add that last night he had fallen asleep to some hair-loss infomercial and dreamed of Nair and going bald and wearing a felt cowboy hat. "I doubt they even get pay-per-view here."
Dean snorts, but doesn't say anything else. There's printouts on the table, scattered, from the hunt. Rumors of a zombie-making cult, and Sam had been curious enough to check it out. He came all this way for whispers and false tips. Ended up here, with his brother just returned from hell. He drags the closest sheet of paper to him--stats of missing persons, bodies found, wounds--and rubs his finger tips along the edge, lets the oils mar the surface with grey smudges, then rips scraps off, and sets them into piles on the tabletop. It's simple; something he can lose himself in, touch and see and know it's him doing it.
Which is more than he can say for anything else. He knows he doesn't have control over what's happening. Dean's just amusing himself, and if Sam's getting anything out of it he's pretty sure Dean doesn't care, or can't. And Sam can't forget Dean's face as Lilith stood over him; can't forget the blood that had bloomed red over his brother's chest as hellhounds ripped into him. Most importantly, though, Sam can't reconcile this Dean--spread out on his stomach, hands bunched beneath one flat pillow--to the Dean that he had wrapped in a sheet (shroud) from some stranger's linen closet and burned. That body is ash and cinder, and the one that came to him tonight is just a remembrance. For him. For what's left of Dean. And yet Sam can't say no, can't even begin to imagine what it'd do to him to turn this away.
"It's late, dude." Dean's right arm unbends and flails a minute before finding the vacant side of the mattress. Sam watches, almost hypnotized, as his brother pats his hand against the material. One. Two. "There's plenty of room." Then, lifting his head to look over his shoulder at Sam, he adds, "I won't bite."
"Mm," is the only response Sam can think of. But he gathers himself up, walks the few feet to the bed and lays down on his back, hands resting on his stomach. Dean's opposite.
"You actually gonna sleep in those nasty ass jeans? And your boots?"
Sam takes stock. So, okay, he was, but, "So? You are, too." Dean lifts one leg in answer, and Sam sees bare foot. "Socks and shoes off, I'm proud." But he pulls the overshirt over his head and throws it in the corner. The rest follow suit until he's in his boxers and tee-shirt, and Dean's fully dressed, still on top of the covers. Sam suddenly wants to hide; he can't see his brother's face (turned away, pressed into pillow) and he wants to. Wants the lie that only Dean can give him; only he can't find the words or the strength, so he just lies there, shoulder brushing Dean's and it's almost enough. "Guess I'll get the light," he really doesn't know why he says it, announces it like it's important, but the words sit heavy on him, come out weak.
Dean finally moves, switches to his side facing Sam. A second, and then he's using his free hand to grasp Sam's. Dean's fingers press down on the bones of his wrist, and Sam feels the warning, the added strength that Dean never had, before. For all that, though, there isn't anything in his expression, no tension or casualness in his body. Blank. That's what echoes down his voice when he says, "You sure you wanna do that, Sammy?"
"I don't know." It's true. He can't decide if it'd be better to leave the lamp on, be able to see every movement Dean makes, or turn the thing off and never see it coming. Dean squeezes one more time, and Sam lowers his hand, settles it back on his belly. The back of Dean's hand is against his shirt, held down by the weight of Sam's arm, but neither pull away. "Dean." Green eyes slide to him. "Dean, what are you doing here?"
"Can't a guy visit his baby brother?" Dean sticks the arm caught under him beneath his pillow, releases the other hand holding Sam's wrist to press, palm down, underneath Sam's where it rests against the waist-band of his boxers. The heat feels almost damp, makes the thin shirt feel sticky against his skin.
Sam's aware that Dean hasn't answered his question. But he's thinking of turning on his side, copying Dean's position, and he wonders if Dean'll move his hand, or let it land in a different spot. He wonders which he would prefer. "Fine." He'll stay still, keep Dean's hand where it's at. Better all around, he thinks. "How long are you staying?" The question is soft, low, and he thinks his brother won't hear, but.
Dean's propped up, mouth suddenly at Sam's ear, where he can feel the hot, moist breath at the side of his face. Can feel Dean's chin touching his shoulder, moving with the words, "At least the night. Obviously. Figured you wouldn't want me around too long after that, so gotta get my fill, huh, Sammy?"
Sam turns his head and they're so close their noses almost brush. Inhale. Exhale. And Dean's on the same rhythm, nose flaring slightly with every breath. Calm. Now it's his turn to sidestep the question, and replies with another, "What are you?"
There's Dean smile, the one that doesn't mean anything--is for strangers and random hook-ups. "Come on, Sam, don't play dumb; who better than you to know?" Sam thinks of the wards, the salt, Ruby's black eyes and her angry I remember what it's like to be human. Sam thinks Dean's still more human than not, maybe. Demon, yes, but he hasn't been gone long enough for that to take over. It will, in time; when Dean leaves the hotel, leaves Sam, in time he'll be more demon than Winchester. But now? Sam believes it's mostly Dean. Has to.
Still, he says, "Christo," and watches his brother flinch back; not away, but suddenly there's a little more space between them. He sees Dean's eyes waver--not black, but not completely green, either. Then it's gone, and Dean's there, glaring--not cute, dude. "How come you're you?"
"Because I can. Because I wanted to," lips brush his cheek; Dean's hand has slid under his shirt, trailing up and down over sensitive flesh. And it's easy, again; they've declared a stalemate, a truce, and Sam gives in. His mom is dead. Jess. Dad. All that's left is this Dean; Sam can't refuse for himself, and there is no one left to care, to begrudge him this.
Dean's said it, and Sam's known. This might be all that remains of Sam's Dean, what's so entangled with the demon that it makes no difference. That the man who is his brother might be gone or fading, and what's here is just...something wearing the right mask. But that doesn't stop Sam, doesn't make him say no when Dean's lips cover his or tease inside. Nothing like denial crosses his mind as a sturdy weight covers him, settling between his thighs.
Later, when fingers press inside, he just holds on and breathes.
Continued in pt. 2