I Fight Monsters
Title: I Fight Monsters
Pairing Wincest
Summary: This is a story written for the lovely jj1564 who bought it in a recent auction. She wanted hurt!Dean early seasons suffering the after effects of a concussion. I hope this is what she was hoping for.
Following the events of Folsom Prison Blues Sam and Dean are on the run from the FBI. What was supposed to be a simple salt and burn case ends up with Dean getting thrown against a tombstone. Suffering from Post-Concussion Syndrome, he has to give up hunting temporarily. Sam decides they both need a break and give his brother time to heal.
Word Count: 8.5 k
Warnings: NC-17 for language and incest. Diverges from canon following the Folsom Prison Blues episode.
Thanks: To firesign10 for the great beta work, and to disneymagics for the support. Thank you jj1564 for giving me such a fun prompt to work with. I hope you feel better soon!
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. I make no profits out of this. This story, though, is my intellectual property. Please ask before sharing on websites other than Livejournal. Thank you!
It happens shortly after they’ve escaped Folsom Prison, and the timing -if there even can be good timing for being thrown on a tombstone by a vengeful spirit- couldn’t be worse. The FBI is trailing them, they have to keep moving constantly, using cash as much as possible. Dean is worried about Sam, even though Sam tries his best not to show how this whole powers-and-destiny stuff is affecting him. His brother has been through enough crap as it is, with what their dear father told him just before he died, Sam being possessed, the Croatoan mess, the other special children… Yes, Dean’s been through enough shit for a couple of lifetimes, and there is very little Sam can do to make it better.
He tries. At night, when the light is gone and they’re pressed against each other under the sheets, Sam gives Dean whatever he needs. He's an attentive, generous lover, saying with gestures and kisses and pushes of his dick what he can’t with words. Dean has always reacted more to touch than words anyway, and if he doesn’t ask for what he wants, what he needs, Sam makes sure to give it to him nevertheless.
Their fucking has become more intense recently, with this touch of desperation that leaves both of them emotionally spent afterward; it's a mirror of how hard their life are right now, how messed up. Being on the run from the FBI is just the icing on the cake, and, well, they keep on working because what else can they do? That’s what Dean is saying when he grabs the newspaper or opens the laptop. He needs to keep on working, too much time to think never worked well with him, but right now, Sam tends to agree. He runs into danger to escape the dark cloud of his destiny.
And that’s how a simple enough salt and burn turns into something else entirely.
::: :::
It’s a small town near the Canadian border. Three unexplained deaths lead to the angry spirit of a high school teacher who’s been, as Dean puts it “Mrs. Tingle’d”. She has apparently decided that students who are disrespectful to their teachers deserve to be killed in atrocious ways.
In two days, Sam and Dean have worked the case and located the cemetery where Caroline Brewster is buried. It’s nothing they can’t handle: grave digging, opening the coffin, and then, of course, the ghost suddenly realizing she’s in danger and appearing near them, letting a deafening howl. Just like Sam is apparently always the one to be strangled by a variety of monsters, Dean is usually the one getting thrown around by angry ghosts. He urges Sam to fucking “light the bitch up” before she wraps her intangible hands around his shoulders and pushes him so hard Dean’s feet leave the ground and he lands a meter farther, hitting a tombstone headfirst. Sam is finally lighting up the corpse when the ghost turns its attention to him, before it consumes itself in a mess of grey smoke and fire sparks.
In an instant, Sam drops everything and runs toward his brother. Dean lies on the ground, on his stomach, his forehead still touching the tombstone.
“Dean!”
No answer. Sam grabs his brother and tries to haul him up. There is a freaking fire in the cemetery and they need to get out of there, fast.
Dean is a ragdoll in Sam’s arms. He jerks awake, trying to hold onto shaky legs. “Sam,” he drawls, shaking his head vigorously from left to right.
“Come on, Dean, we’ve gotta go back to the car.”
“Fucking bitch,” Dean adds. “Aow.”
“I know, come on, the car isn’t that far.”
They somehow make their way back to the Impala, Sam dragging Dean along, Dean grunting and mumbling the whole time, but still more solid than Sam would’ve hoped. Once he’s seated in the car, with this slightly drunk, hazy expression that means he almost surely has a concussion, Sam runs back to grab their stuff. He throws everything in the backseat -Dean can bitch about it all he wants tomorrow- and gets behind the wheel.
“What are we doing here?” Dean asks, looking at Sam, eyes wide.
“We just got rid of a ghost,” Sam explains, starting the car.
“Oh. I don’t remember it,” Dean replies in a thoughtful voice, frowning.
Great. Amnesia. This means the concussion is more serious than Sam had thought. He juggles the idea of taking Dean to the ER of the closest hospital, then decides against it. They still need more than ever to keep a low profile. Besides, they both had worse, and have learned to take care of themselves.
“Just try to relax, Dean, you’ve hit your head. I’m taking us back to the motel.”
“What are we doing here?” Dean asks again with the exact same tone.
“We’re leaving,” Sam replies, gritting his teeth.
He doesn’t like this. At all.
::: :::
Back at the motel, Sam helps Dean onto the bed after taking off his dirty jacket and boots. Dean is strangely passive and compliant. “Can you… what happened?” He asks while Sam reaches for a flashlight.
“You hit your head, Dean, it’s okay if you’re a little disoriented, you must have a concussion.”
Dean lets out a feeble laugh. “I hit my head?” He asks again.
“Yes. Now, hold still, I need to check your pupils.”
“I don’t remember hitting my head,” Dean goes on, frowning.
Dean’s pupil reaction to the light is a little slow, but at least, both eyes react the same way. Sam has learned enough about concussions over the years to know that if the pupil’s reaction isn’t perfect, it could have been worse. Next, he checks the rapidly growing bruise at the junction of Dean’s hairline, to the right. It’s hot and sensitive to the touch, swollen to the size of maybe half a ping pong ball. Although he gets a couple of “motherfucker” and “leave me alone” from Dean, he goes on with his inspection. The skin in the middle of the bruise is crossed by a red, irritated line. They were lucky it didn't break. Head injuries tend to bleed a lot.
“Okay, now, Dean, look at me,” Sam says softly, taking his brother’s chin between his fingers.
Dean does. His face has grown paler since they’ve gotten back to the motel.
“How do you feel?”
“My head hurts like a bitch,” Dean says, “And I’m that close to puking. Dizzy, too.”
Sam nods and grabs the trashcan with his free hand, without letting go of Dean. “If you need to throw up, just tell me, alright?”
“What happened?” Dean asks, then swallows loudly.
“We were hunting a ghost, remember Caroline Brewster?”
“Mrs. Tingle, yeah… You got her?” Dean seems genuinely concerned.
“Yes, we burned her bones,” Sam explains again. “But she threw you on a tombstone and you hurt your head.”
“Okay.”
“So, can you tell me the name of the town we’re in?”
“No,” Dean replies instantly.
Okay, no big deal, they’ve been travelling almost nonstop since they’ve they escaped from Folsom. Even Sam has trouble keeping up.
“Who’s the president, Dean?”
“I. Don’t. Care,” Dean states very slowly, looking at Sam intently.
Then he closes his eyes.
Sam shakes him lightly. “Dean, not now, man.”
“Bush,” Dean mumbles, keeping his eyes shut tight.
“Great. And hey… look at me.”
“Don’t wanna, you’re all blurry.”
“Dean,” Sam urges him.
Dean pouts, then frowns in discomfort, opening his eyes to slits. “S’up, Sammy?”
“Tell me what this is,” Sam asks, showing Dean a pencil.
“It’s a pencil, you write with it,” Dean recites because he knows the questions and the answers. It’s far from the first time he’s been asked or had asked them. He knows it’s all part of a typical neurological exam.
Sam sighs. He knows, according to all recent studies, that letting a person suffering from a concussion fall asleep isn’t dangerous -it’s even recommended. Still, old habits die hard, and Sam can still hear John’s voice in his head. “You have to keep him awake and talking, Sammy.”
As Sam hesitates, biting his lips, Dean’ face gets suddenly covered in sweat and becomes even paler than it already was. Grabbing the trashcan instinctively, Sam takes his brother’s shoulder and turns him on his side until he’s barely hanging onto the edge of the bed, retching painfully in the basket full of fast food wrappers.
“Holy…” Dean pants between heaves. “Did I eat something bad?”
Sam doesn’t answer, just wait for Dean’s nausea seems to subside. Then, he settles him back on the bed and takes the trashcan outside; he’ll deal with it later.
“You have a concussion, Dean,” he repeats for what must be the tenth time, walking to the bathroom to wet a towel and pour a glass of water.
“I don’t remember,” Dean answers, looking puzzled. “My head hurts.”
“Yeah, well, let’s wait until your stomach settles a little and then I’ll give you something.”
Sam takes his time, wiping his brother’s face with the towel. Dean actually hums in contentment. It’s a little trickier to have him rinse his mouth because of his lack of coordination, but in the end, they manage. Dean looks so unlike himself that it twists something in Sam’s gut. They should be at a hospital. While Dean has suffered concussions before, Sam doesn’t remember him being so disoriented. How unfair is it that they have to run from the FBI because they save lives, and endanger themselves in the process? And they just keep going. Whatever shit destiny has in store for them, they keep going.
Sam presses a kiss on Dean’s lips. Dean smiles.
“Do you want to sleep for a while?” He asks in a soft voice.
“Yes. I want to sleep,” Dean agrees.
Sam undresses his brother to his boxers and t-shirt, then manages to pull the comforter over him. He hopes Dean won’t ask for painkillers again because letting him sleep is one thing, getting him high on codeine is another.
Dean sighs and closes his eyes.
Sam sits nearby with his laptop on his knees, looking up concussion symptoms on the internet.
::: :::
They need to leave town first thing in the morning. Sam hasn't slept at all, but Dean went through what was left of the night without waking up, only blinking when Sam checked on him before falling back asleep again.
He doesn’t have any memory of the previous night from the point where they arrived at the cemetery, but at least, he seems more like himself, nodding as Sam tells him the story -which sounds like a broken record to him by now- while getting dressed. He’s a little slow and clumsy, but he took one hell of a hit. The bruise on his forehead seems to have doubled in size and is now a bright purple color.
“Does it hurt?” Sam asks, pointing at it in the mirror of the bathroom where they’re both brushing their teeth.
“What do you think?” Dean grumbles around his toothbrush.
“How do you feel?”
Dean rolls his eyes and spits in the faucet. “I’m fine. Besides the fact that my head feels like it’s going to explode, my whole body like I’ve been run over by a truck, and my stomach like I’ve just had twelve moonshine shots in a row. S’that okay with you?”
Sam nods. Grumpy and exasperated is more the Dean he knows. Still, he’s determined to keep a close eye on him for the days to come. He knows that concussion after-effects can last for days or weeks, depending on the strength of the impact on the brain. There are so many symptoms it’s hard to watch for them all, but Dean’s amnesia suggests that he’s been seriously shaken and more prone to actually suffer from at least some of them.
“So, we’ ready to go?” Dean asks.
“Yes, but I’m driving.”
“Okay. I don’t feel like driving,” Dean murmurs, which makes Sam frowns because… well, Dean would have to have at least lose one limb to admit not feeling like driving without at least insisting a little, if only to keep appearances. Or if he felt guilty about something and wanted to make it up to Sam.
“What’s wrong?” Dean questions, realizing how intense Sam’s gaze is on him.
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
::: :::
They don’t do much but drive for the next couple of days. They need to get to a postal box in Virginia to retrieve some new credit cards, because living on cash is can only take them that far. Sam drives. Dean sleeps. He sleeps a lot during those two days, but maybe it’s just because of the painkillers he swallows regularly to deal with his headache. He doesn’t speak much when he’s awake, doesn’t eat much either. They stop for the night in a motel where the only room available has a king size bed. Dean smiles at the receptionist. “No problems, honey, we’ll share.”
Sam isn’t sure if Dean’s just messing with him or with the young woman staring at them. Dean does this, sometimes, plays the “gay couple” card just because he knows it makes Sam blush and lose his composure-because, well, they do sleep together after all.
They don’t do anything that night, except for cuddling. Dean cuddles, although he’d never admit it. He’ll wait until the light are turned off and Sam is well settled under the sheets before plastering himself against him in a silent challenge not to bring it up. Not that night, though. He actually asks Sam, “Can you hold me? I like being the little spoon.”
Sam doesn’t move at first, a little bit shocked by this uncharacteristic declaration. He stays immobile long enough for Dean to rise on his elbows. “Dude, what is it? If you don’t wanna, it’s okay, just-“
“It’s fine,” Sam replies quickly, getting into position.
Dean sighs, satisfaction clear in his voice. Sam wonders if the world ended when he wasn’t paying attention.
::: :::
It’s not until the third day following Dean’s concussion that Sam realizes that his brother might very well be suffering what is called post-concussion syndrome. That day, Dean stops the painkillers, even though he still wants Sam to drive, stating that the light is hurting his eyes.
Sitting shotgun, wearing sunglasses, Dean doesn’t drift off to sleep, nor does he comment on Sam’s driving. He just starts to talk and doesn’t shut up. It seems just a little strange at the beginning, but an hour into it, Sam is properly freaked out. It’s not even a real conversation -it’s like Dean has suddenly decided that he has to say out loud everything that goes through his mind. First he makes a long monologue about Tiny, the poor inmate at Folsom, and how the guy didn’t deserve to die. And is Sam imagining it or is Dean’s voice actually shaking? He’s about to reply with their usual reaction that it wasn’t Dean's fault, but Dean cuts him off. “I think I need glasses.”
“You have glasses.”
“No,” Dean says, in that somewhat dreamy tone he’s been using since he woke up that morning. “Real glasses. My left eye, it’s weaker than my right one, has been since I was a kid. Never told dad because I figured it’d be a pain in the ass, always taking my glasses with me, have them get broken during hunts, and yeah… It’s… It would make me look like a total dork. It would embarrass me. Sometimes, though, when I’ve spent my day researching or reading, it gives me headaches. It’s like my left eye is pounding, and it hurts so much I’m scared it’s going to pop out of its socket. Booze makes it better.”
Sam is shocked. “Dean, since when did you-“
“Hey, can we stop for breakfast? In one of those coffee shops you like so much and I pretend to hate just to mess with you? Because I really, really like those things, you know, the yogurt mixed with fruits and that crunchy stuff-“
“Granola? Like a parfait?”
“Yeah. Sometimes when we’re both working on something and I have a free hour to myself, I’ll stop at one of those places and stuff my face with it,” Dean snorts. “Then I’ll get something for you and grumble about your delicate stomach because, I don’t know… It’s something I’m so used to doing by now, and it’s stupid, because why do I keep up with this? When I was still with dad, well, I tended to copy him in every way I could, and I can assure you he was no yogurt lover. But now…”
Dean shrugs. Sam is so busy having his mouth open wide like a cartoon character that the Impala almost comes to a halt.
“So, what do you say, Sammy? Think we can find something in the next town? I’m starving.”
Sam nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak at the moment.
::: :::
His laptop sitting on his thighs because their table is too narrow, Sam tries to research post-concussion syndrome discreetly while Dean eats his yogurt parfait, staring dreamily out the window.
“Looking for a case?” He asks.
“Yep.”
Dean takes another spoonful and sighs loudly. “I wish we could stop, you know?”
“Hunting?”
Dean nods. “I was serious, Sam, about this whole destiny thing. Sometimes it angers me so much, I feel like I’m going crazy. We can’t escape. I mean, even if we ran away to another freaking continent and became… I don’t know… Farmers in the back country… Demons don’t know any frontiers. I don’t want you to be hurt anymore, I hate seeing you suffer and fight with this whole going-dark-side thing. I want you to be left alone.”
Sam swallows loudly and clears his throat. What Dean is saying is nothing new, except he’s never actually stated it out loud. It’s something Sam can see in his eyes when they’re fucking and Dean drops all pretenses, kissing him desperately, holding him, running his fingers through his hair. It’s part of the silent conversations they have had since they were kids.
“I’m going to be fine,” he answers softly. “We’ll figure this out, Dean, and when we’re done with Yellow-Eyed Demon, we’ll take a break.”
“Yeah…” Dean trails off, “except we both know it’s never that simple. When it’s not monsters, it’s the freaking FBI.”
Post-concussion syndrome can last from a week to a year after the injury, Sam is re-reading for the tenth time. Great. The physical symptoms, like recurring headaches and dizziness, don’t really bother him, they can be dealt with. The psychological ones are another thing entirely. There are concentration problems, anxiety and sometimes depression, changes in the personality. Can this be the reason of Dean’s actual behavior, just saying out loud whatever is going through his head? And if it is, how long will it last? Days? Weeks? It’s too soon anyway to be certain of anything, but Sam has the answer to his principal question: nothing can be done to “cure” PCS. It’s a condition that improves with time.
Sam bites his thumbnail, wondering how he’s supposed to deal with this. Does Dean actually realize what’s going on with him? He still has that slightly dazed look, three days after he hit his head. How bad is it, really? Maybe Sam is overreacting a little. With everything that’s been going on over the past few months, it isn’t surprising. They both have been under a lot of stress.
Sam is so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize their waitress is pouring coffee in Dean’s cup while he flirts with her. She’s young, she’s pretty, and Dean just can’t help himself. Sam isn’t jealous, he knows this is just a façade. Dean’s charm is ingrained in him just like his hunter’s instincts, using whatever works to get some information. Flirting is an art he's perfected over the years.
“So,” the waitress -Vicky, her nametag says- is saying. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“I’m always on the move,” Dean explains.
“Really? Is it for work?”
Dean flashes her one of his patented smile. “Exactly, sweetheart. My only home is the car we ride in.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I fight monsters.”
Sam’s breath gets caught in his throat. The answer is so unexpected that for a second he’s sure he actually misheard, and that Dean must have answered with his usual: “you know, I can’t really talk about it” when he’s in his “James Bond” mood, or his, “well, we stop here and there, help when it’s needed” to send out this nice-but-mysterious guy vibe.
Nothing close to, “I fight monsters.”
“What do you mean?” Vicky asks, looking slightly taken aback, although she still smiling.
“You know, things that go bump in the night,” Dean goes on, “like-“
“Cockroaches!” Sam cuts in, hitting Dean’s foot under the table. “Spiders and bed bugs. We’re exterminators.”
“Oh. Interesting,” the waitress says. “As for myself, I can’t even look at a spider without shivering, it’s…”
Vicky goes on, but Sam doesn’t listen to her. He looks at Dean, who looks back at him, a confused expression on his face.
“I’ll wait outside, can you pay this?” He tells Sam, already up, grabbing his jacket. He stumbles around the waitress and the narrow tables. Sam smiles apologetically at Vicky, puts a twenty dollar bill on the table, and grabs his stuff.
He finds Dean already sitting in the Impala, in the passenger seat. His brother looks angry, if his death glare is any indication.
“Dean,” Sam begins in a careful voice, as soon as he’s settled behind the wheels.
“Something’s wrong with me,” Dean murmurs, still looking straight ahead. “I don’t feel like myself, Sam, what the hell is going on?”
“I think it’s the concussion.”
“I can’t shut up,” Dean goes on as if Sam hasn’t said anything. “I just can’t hold anything back and my head still hurts so much and I feel… lost. Like there is something that’s hovering right over me and I can’t grab it.”
“Dean-“
“It’s wrong, I’m wrong. I…” Dean takes a long, shuddering breath. “I’m fucking scared and I can’t control it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Dean laughs without any joy. “I’m losing my mind and it’s okay?”
“You know what? Let’s find a motel, then we’ll talk.”
Sam waits for Dean to protests, but instead, his brother sinks back in his seat, wrapping his arms around him and shivering. He stays silent for the next half hour, until Sam has registered them in a small but clean looking motel on the outskirts of town.
::: :::
Dean sits on the bed near the door, his back resting against the propped up pillows. When Sam is about to settle at the small table near the window, Dean shakes his head.
“No, come on, come sit next to me. I could use some comfort right now.”
“Okay…”
Sam wonders if he should put Dean through the usual anti-monster tests: shape-shifter, demon, or doppelganger. Anything, really, because this man, although he’s still very “Dean”, is also so different it’s hard to adjust.
The tests are useless, though, because they haven’t been apart since the night Dean hit his head, and he was completely himself right before that. Since then, they must have been separated for maybe ten minutes, and that’s cumulative time.
Sam sits next to his brother and tries to stay relaxed when Dean grabs his hand. He doesn’t want Dean to think he doesn’t actually want that, but this, again, is something Dean just doesn’t do.
“What’s that post-concussion syndrome you were talking about?” Dean asks in a quiet voice.
Sam tries to explain as simply as possible. Dean’s face goes from confused to worried in a matter of minutes.
“Months? A year? Are you fucking kidding me?” He gasps, then brushes a hand over his face. “I told a perfect stranger we fought monsters, and I’m still not sure why I shouldn’t have… I mean, I know but…”
“You can’t help yourself?” Sam suggests.
“It’s not like that,” Dean whispers, pressing the area around his bruise with delicate fingers. “I can’t explain it, it’s like there is this connection from my mouth to that part of my brain that usually keeps everything in.”
“I think you’re explaining it quite well.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a kid,” Dean protests, tears of frustration glistening in his eyes. “Hell, it’s not the first time I hit my head -and you, you've been hit your fair amount -and what about Dad, huh? Why has this syndrome never happened to any of us before now?”
Sam presses Dean’s hand in his. It’s shaking.
“Well, maybe it did happen before. Sometimes the symptoms are pretty mild: headaches, dizziness, problems concentrating? You or dad would have just gone through them without even thinking about it. Hell, I probably would have too. It’s just… maybe this time it’s more acute? It also can be cumulative, like… you hit your head enough times and it adds up … Hey, I’m not a specialist, and we should go see a doctor, but-“
“No can do, Sam. Not now, with Henriksen on our heels.”
“I know, but we have to do something.”
“Do what?” Dean’s voice is shaking as well now.
Sam thinks. They could go to Bobby’s. They would be welcome, he knows this. But hey, wouldn’t it be all sorts of awkward if one morning over breakfast Dean started talking about what Sam and he did the previous night?
So, no. But they need to find a safe place to rest, to let Dean heal.
“Listen, it will probably get better in a few days… Or at least, you’ll have better control over it. Best thing to do right now is to find a place to hide for a while and wait it over. You- we can’t hunt right now.”
“No, I can’t, and I don’t want you to do it alone,” Dean says in a defeated tone. “I don’t trust anyone but me to have your back, Sam.”
“Well, we don’t know where the Yellow-Eyed Demon is, or the Colt, we don’t know what’s coming at us next, we’ve been-”
“I’m so scared I’m going to wake up one morning and find you gone,” Dean goes on, and now, his entire body is trembling. “Sometimes I can’t even breathe, you know? After that time you took off to find other kids like you, and the whole Meg-possessing-you mess, I… I don’t think I could handle it.”
Sam feels a sharp pain going straight through his heart. He’s been acting all kinds of crazy since he found out about the Yellow-Eyed Demon children, and most of the time, he had only thought about himself: his destiny, his anger, his own misery. It’s so easy, when Dean doesn’t speak about those things, when he keeps bottling everything in, and Sam can pretend he doesn’t know how his brother feels.
He bends toward him and kisses the top of his head. Dean looks up at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, putting as much conviction in his words as he can. “I’m sorry, Dean, I’ve been selfish.”
“That’s bullshit. You had things coming at you since you were six months old. Don’t apologize. Let’s do this, okay? Take a break, wait for my damn brain to get back in order. Running around and chasing our tails won’t bring us revenge for mom and dad’s deaths, and even if it did, I don’t want us to become Dad.”
“I could get used to you speaking your mind,” Sam says, and he believes it.
Dean grunts and shakes his head. “I’m doing it and I don’t even realize it. It's freaking scary, Sam.”
“I know.”
They decide to stay at the motel for the rest of the day and the following night. Dean sleeps most of the afternoon, after Sam gives him something for his headache. When he wakes up, they fuck. Except it’s different. Dean is usually silent, although the intensity of his gaze on Sam doesn’t lie about his feelings for his brother. He’s an attentive lover, making sure Sam is enjoying every second of it, putting his needs behind, as he does in every sphere of their life.
Not today, though. Dean asks for Sam to fuck him. He doesn’t bottom a lot and always has trouble asking for it, usually guiding Sam’s fingers to his hole and looking away, his face flushed red. That’s not a problem at the moment, it seems. Dean asks Sam to open him slowly, admits without any hesitation that his nipples are so sensitive he sometimes thinks that he could come just from playing with them, and then proceeds to pinch them, moaning loud and free, while Sam scissors him.
Seeing Dean without his usual inhibitions, hearing him, feeling him as he grips Sam tight and scratches his back, is almost too much. Sam comes after only a few thrusts inside his brother, while Dean strips his cock furiously, pleading him not to get out yet, whining that if he could, he’d keep Sam inside him forever.
Sam would stay.
::: :::
When Sam was ten years old, Dean and he had spent a couple of weeks in an abandoned cabin in Cape Vincent, on the border between New York State and Ontario Province. Like a lot of their hideouts that weren’t cheap motels or even cheaper apartments, once they’d discovered it, John would tend to come back to it when they needed a place to crash nearby. Sam thinks they must have been at this particular cabin four times in total. It’s the closest place he can think of, and if he remembers well, the cabin was actually pretty comfortable. Dean had fixed a generator the first time they were there -and the second time, John had worked on the plumbing. There is running water, even though they can’t drink it. They can at least use the bathroom and wash the dishes. If the generator isn’t working anymore, they’ll get one. It was powerful enough to provide light and power to a small refrigerator.
His idea seems to please Dean. “I bet everything is in order. Last time Dad and I were there, you were at Stanford, so it wasn’t that long ago.”
It’s not only a place close to where they are right now, it’s very isolated. Leaving the asphalt road, the drive is on old, dirt roads is at least of forty-five minutes long. The cabin is so well-hidden, it can't be seen without knowing exactly where it was. Sam has no idea how John found the spot in the first place. What he does remember, though, is that he would sometimes talk about it as a safe house. “If we ever have to leave the country, the border is close by. We can cross by foot if we know the way.”
John had always been prepared for everything. He also had a contact in New Mexico for the exact same reasons.
They stop in a town near Cape Vincent to stock up on food and drinks, gas, everything they can think of. The less they’re seen by the locals, the better it is. It’s not demons and monsters they’re hiding from this time. No place is isolated enough to ward those off. Henriksen is their principal concern. They have other ways of protecting themselves from the supernatural.
Dean doesn’t want to get out of the car at the grocery store. He’s scared he’ll say something he shouldn’t. Sam succeeds in convincing him. “Come on, if you don’t come with me I’ll only pick food you hate and microbrew beer. Just stay near me, we’ll be okay.”
Dean has lost his confidence and cockiness since his concussion -it had gotten worse when he’d realized something was going on with him. It’s very strange for Sam to feel like the big brother suddenly. It’s strange, but not necessarily bad. For the first time in months, Sam’s mind isn’t a trap for his own emotions and worries. It’s completely wrapped up with Dean's needs. Is it Sam’s fault? Has he been a oblivious for so long he didn’t even realize what he did wrong?
No. Although Sam has some of Dean’s tendencies for feeling guilty about everything going wrong in the world, he can be more cerebral. The truth is, if he’s been self-centered, Dean has never allowed him to be anything else. Dean’s obsession with protecting him and making him come first, even before his own life, had forbidden Sam to act and think otherwise.
He’s determined to change this.
They finally reach the cabin late that night. Dean had left the wheels to Sam before they got off the principal road, too tired to go on. He complains about feeling tired all the time since his concussion, and to have trouble concentrating. With the amount of symptoms he seems to have, Sam doubts his PCS will be resolved in a matter of days, or even weeks. He stops himself from thinking about this too much. He’s been so obsessed with the Yellow-Eyed demon and the special children lately that he hadn’t realized how tiring it was, until it loosened some of its grip on him.
The cabin is cold and smells like mold. The generator, though, kicks into life after a few tries. Dean comes back from behind the cabin with a triumphant look on his face.
They change the lights that need to be changed, store away their food, and start a fire in the fireplace. They lay down basic protection to ward off ghosts and demons, but they’re both too tired to do a thorough job. Morning will come soon enough.
The last thing they do before going to bed is to cover the Impala with the tarp their father used each time they had come here. Sam wonders when they’ll uncover it.
::: :::
A week into their forced retreat, Sam has a dream. It’s not about one of the special children, the feeling is different. He thinks it might be a potential hunt, though. They don’t get the internet where they are, so there is no way to know what has been going on in the news.
Sam’s dream is about something that seems like a man with strange tattoos all over his face and neck. It’s not really a man, it’s a monster, he realizes, still panting in bed, careful not to wake Dean up. He tries to recollect more details. He's in an abandoned warehouse, and there is a young woman suffering, trapped in an apparently forced state of unconsciousness. Despite everything he does see, Sam can’t get any clues about the exact place where this event unfolds.
It’s five in the morning. Sam tiptoes out of bed and dresses, then leaves a note for Dean. “Couldn’t sleep. Took the Impala to get cell phone signal and call Bobby to see if he has any news.” This is close enough to the truth. Sam doesn’t want Dean to worry about him more than he already is, and he knows his brother isn’t ready to hunt. Over the past week, Dean’s condition hasn’t worsened, but it hasn’t really improved either. He needs more time.
Driving up the small hill near the junction with the asphalt road, Sam pulls over and opens his laptop, trying to find a Wi-Fi connection he can hijack. It doesn’t take him too long. He looks at the obituaries and disappearances. After fifteen minutes of research, he recognizes the girl from his dream. She’s a college student from UPenn who’s been missing for three days. She had gone to her first class of the morning but never made it to the second. No one seems to have the faintest clue of where she went. Checking more thoroughly, Sam finds three other missing people in the area over the past three months: two middle-aged men and an elderly woman. It’s enough for him to give Bobby a call to ask if he could check into it, or if he knows of any hunters who could. Bobby agrees and asks how they’re doing. “We're trying to lay low, what with the FBI looking for us,” Sam explains. “And during our last hunt, Dean hurt his head real bad. I think he needs the rest.”
Bobby grunts an answer and they cut the conversation short. No words about the demon or the special children. Sam knows Bobby would have told him if he had anything new.
When Sam arrives at the cabin, Dean is still out like a light. This, right there, is another proof that his brother is still suffering from his concussion’s consequences. He would have never slept deep enough not to hear the Impala’s engine, or the door opening and closing. After a moment of hesitation, Sam throws his note in the fire he’s just started. Dean doesn’t have to know any of this.
One hour later, the temperature in the cabin is more than comfortable, coffee is brewing on the stove, and Sam is reading almost peacefully, sitting on the small couch near the fireplace. Dean wakes up, heavy feet stepping on the wooden floor; he grumbles a good morning and joins Sam on the couch a few minutes later, a hot mug of coffee between his hands. He shivers, staring at the dancing flames.
“Did you sleep alright?” Sam asks, sliding a hand over his shoulders.
“I dreamed,” Dean answers immediately. “I dreamed about that Bloody Mary case we worked last year. Remember?”
“Of course.”
“I never told you what I saw,” Dean trails off. “Why my eyes bled as well. You never asked. I was so glad back then.”
Sam’s mouth gapes open. It still surprises him, how much Dean talks about everything these days, even more so when it’s about secrets and thoughts he would have never told otherwise. After the surprise comes the frustration, against himself. Sam has never gotten that if Dean’s eyes bled that night, it was because he must have felt guilty about the death of someone. He was too caught up in the loss of Jessica and the pain that came with it.
“You, huh… wanna tell me now?” He asks, figuring that Dean’s guilt must be coming from a hunt where he failed to save someone.
“I was four, you know. I didn’t understand what was happening,” Dean murmurs.
“What are you talking about?”
“That night… The night the Demon came and killed mom,” Dean explains in a soft, tiny voice. “Please don’t hate me, Sam.”
“Why would I hate you? Dean, you didn’t do anything wrong that night.”
“You don’t know,” Dean protests. “I woke up. My room was right next to yours, and I heard… stuff and… and… I got up and went to see you and… there was this smell in the air, the lights were flashing and then I… I walked into your room and there was someone there. A man, or I thought it was. I don’t… Sammy, I don’t remember seeing yellow eyes, but they can shift so… Just looking at him, I knew how bad this thing was, how beyond my kid’s understanding. I was terrified. Think I peed myself. I tried to scream, but I was paralyzed. And he said something to me. He said, “Go back to your room.” And…”
Dean takes a long, shuddering breath. He shoves his face in his hands, and by the way his shoulders are shaking, Sam knows he’s crying.
“I d-did. I went back to my room,” Dean cries in a broken voice. “If I had run to Mom and Dad instead huh-hiding, maybe Mom could’ve been saved, and… I… I was just so fucking scared, out of my mind with it, I didn’t even question what that… monster told me. I just obeyed and I l-left you alone with him and…”
Dean’s voice breaks down into harsh, painful sobs. Sam tightens his grip around his shoulders, feeling the pain Dean is feeling, wishing that he can find the right words to take it away.
“It’s not your fault. You were a kid. Dean, listen to me, you have to stop this, it’s not your fault.”
“You… you can’t be sure,” Dean hiccups.
“Oh, yes, I can be. What do you think would have happened? He could have killed you just like he killed Mom. I’m so glad you did what he told you and went back to your room, that’s the reason you’re alive, do you realize that?”
Dean shakes his head, still buried in his hands. “I don’t know, Sammy, I… Afterward… I felt like everything was my fault. I couldn’t say a word to anybody because this thing, it ate me from the inside. Every night I would dream of him and wake up wanting to scream, but nothing would come out. Then I started telling myself a story, ya’ know? Changed what happened that night. Little Dean was fast asleep, and what woke him up was his mother screaming and the heat, the fire. He never knew anything except that. I repeated it to myself so often I could believe it, most of the time. I could start talking again.”
“Jesus, Dean, you should have told Dad, he would have said the exact same thing I just did.”
Sam grabs Dean’s wrists and forces his hands off of his face. Dean immediately turns his head away. His cheeks are red and wet, his eyes swollen. Sam doesn’t remember ever having seen him cry with that intensity, not even that time not so long ago, by the side of the road, when Dean had talked about their father’s death.
“Dean, please,” he says. “Tell me you believe me.”
“I want to,” Dean cries harshly. “I want to believe you as much as I wanted to believe my little tale. But I grew up, ya’ know? And my story didn’t hold up. It stayed with me. Everything dad taught me, everything he wanted me to be -a hunter, your protector- I never even questioned if that’s what I really wanted… I mean, what about me? I maybe would have had dreams of my own… Maybe sometimes I would have like to take off, just like you did, but I couldn’t… Couldn’t even let myself think about those things because I had to pay for what I did, and if the consequences were to be a good son, a good brother, and not to think about myself, well… It wasn’t that high of a price.”
Sam takes Dean’s face between his hands. Dean closes his eyes, unable to look at him. His lashes are clumped together by tears, clear snot is running down from his nose. His chest shakes with the constant sobs.
“I love you,” Sam says. “You are my life, you’ve always been. And if you had to hit your head to tell me this, well, I’m glad it happened, because you shouldn’t have had to carry this with you for so long.”
Dean’s eyes open to slits. “Sam. I don’t want this life anymore. I can’t… I don’t want you to suffer, I don’t want you to be a fucking special kid. I want this demon dead, and then I never want to grab a gun again.”
He pauses, long enough to wipe his face with the sleeve of his Henley. The crying fit is starting to subside. Sam lowers his hands, but keeps them on Dean’s shoulders.
“I know this is nonsense, I know I’m not myself,” Dean rasps. “But for now, that’s all I can think of. Killing the Yellow-Eyed Demon, not for revenge, but because he’ll never leave you alone, I know that. And then… Going away, so fucking far away, where no one knows us, where we can just be us.”
“Dean,” Sam clears his throat just long enough to gather his thoughts. “You always said you were a hunter, that you don’t know anything else.”
“Well, maybe I lied!” Dean protests forcefully. “I’m so damn good at lying, even to myself. Especially to myself.”
“Okay,” Sam still uses a careful, soothing voice. “We’ll figure it out. How to defeat the Demon, what we want to do with the rest of our lives. For now, though, I want you to get some rest. You need it, Dean. I need it too. We’ll stay here and see how things are looking up. We don’t have to come up with a plan today or tomorrow. If that damn demon wants me, he has to find me first, right? And he won’t.”
Dean nods. The crying fit has exhausted him. He drifts off, pressed against Sam on the couch while his brother is running soothing fingers through his hair.
Sam thinks of a small kid, scared out of his mind, already carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, convinced that he’s somehow responsible for the death of his mother. And hell, he wants to kill the demon so bad it hurts inside. He wants Dean to learn how to be happy for himself. And he wants to be there to witness it. He wants to help him get there. If the post-concussion syndrome gets better, if Dean goes back to shove everything inside until he’s ready to blow, well, Sam knows how to access it now. And it’s enough.
::: :::
Two weeks later, Sam and Dean drive into the small village of Cape Vincent. Dean’s headaches have gotten better, he says he does feel some improvement. He’s not as lost and confused as he first was after his concussion. He still has no filters, though, says everything that pops in his mind. Sam is starting to get used to it, enough that he feels guilty, thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad if this consequence was a permanent one. Of course, hunting would be impossible, but hasn’t Dean said he wants a different life?
After grocery shopping, they stop at a small restaurant to grab some hamburgers. At the last minute, Dean decides he doesn’t want to go in. He’s tired, Sam can see it. They’ve spend most of their afternoon interacting with people and Dean was tensed up the whole time.
Dean gives his order to Sam. “…And don’t forget the extra onions this time.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “Dude, I’m the one whose gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions.”
He’s about to get out when Dean adds, “Hey, see if they got any pie.”
Sam nods and runs into the cold rain that has just started. He feels strange as he pushes the door of the diner open.
Then he smells blood.
Lots of blood. And sulfur.
He can’t see anything. A sudden pain blooms in his head, his ears are filled with an unearthly cry that gets louder and louder. He thinks he’s fallen to his knees, but he can’t be sure. It’s like he’s not in his body anymore.
Then he feels it. Something, someone, tugging at him, wanting to drag him away. The demon, he thinks, the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Sam fights to stay with all his willpower but he’s losing the battle quickly.
In his mind, he sees an abandoned town. He knows that’s where he’s going, he knows what will happen there will change him forever.
He’s drowning. He can’t resist anymore. The force is too strong, too determined.
Then he hears Dean’s voice, candid and innocent. “I fight monsters,” he’d told the waitress.
He can’t leave Dean right now. Dean can barely care for himself. His brother needs him in a way he’s never needed him before. Just imagining Dean walking into the diner to find him gone is terrifying. What would he do? Could he find the proper help, could he get to Bobby? He can’t even drive more than an hour before he’s too tired to go on.
My brother needs me, you bastard, you’re not taking me away.
Sam growls -he thinks he does- and gets a grip on himself, on space and reality. I’m in a diner in Cape Vincent. I’m here, Dean is waiting for me, I’m not going anywhere.
The pain in his head becomes unbearable, and he starts to scream, and he holds onto a mental grip he didn’t know he had, a will he’s just discovered.
Then suddenly, everything stops. Dean is bent over him, gathering him in his arms. “Sam, oh god, what happened, Sammy… Your nose is bleeding, you… The radio did a funny thing in the car... please tell me something, Sam. SAM!”
Sam grunts and looks around. Blood is splattered on the walls. He can see bodies on the floor. The place still reeks of sulfur.
“We have to get away from here,” he murmurs. “The demon. He tried to take me.”
Somehow they make their way out and into the car. Dean drives, because Sam is barely conscious. His brother talks constantly. They have to go back to the cabin to get their things. They can’t stay there anymore. They need Bobby, they need to do something.
And Sam… Sam doesn’t know what’s ahead of them, he doesn’t, but he knows nothing, no one will separate them. He’ll make sure of it.
::: :::
Neither Sam nor Dean know what the future has in store for them. They can’t know that the monster with yellow eyes had kept a link with all of his special children since their power had developed; it was so easy, with their minds all focused on what was happening to them. They can’t know that Sam, maybe unconsciously but still, had closed his mind completely when he fought in that small diner, that the Demon can’t get in touch with him as easily as he did before.
Sam and Dean don’t know that the Yellow-Eyed Demon has forced his special children to play a very cruel Survivor kind of game in the haunted town of Cold Oak. They can’t imagine what happens there, without Sam’s presence. Ava Wilson, whom Sam has been desperately looking for, now driven crazy after months fighting for survival, makes a quick job of killing the last of the special children. Even Jake Talley’s superhuman strength can’t overcome an Archery.
In the following days, Sam feels it sometimes, an unpleasant sensation like someone tries to get a grip on him, break his defenses. Sam doesn’t give, and when they learn that somehow the Devil’s Gates have been opened and that a number of incredibly powerful demons are roaming the earth, Dean and he both know their job isn’t done.
They’ll have to kill the Yellow-Eyed Demon before they can find any peace. But that, my friends, is another story.
FIN