Springfling: Twin souls, twin hearts
Title: Twin souls, twin hearts
Rating: Teen
Word count: 2k
Author: Excoyote (Brokenlittleboy @ AO3)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Mentions of hell, PTSD, mute!Sam
Summary: Sam has been out of hell for seven weeks, and he hasn't said a single word.
AO3
Sam has been back from hell for seven weeks, and he hasn’t said a single word.
The first time Dean had tried to touch him, Sam had shied away, curling his knees up against his chest and pressing his back into the wall, looking so small in that motel bed.
He’s gotten better, though. It was a gradual process, but he let Dean in. He pretty much relies on Dean’s touches to function, they share a bed, staying to their own sides unless Sam has a violent nightmare, and maybe Sam’s nonverbal, but Dean thinks he communicates with Sam just fine, thank you very much, through minute touches and eyebrow quirks and eyerolls.
Still, even so, Sam is different.
He’s so fucking fragile.
He’s lost at least forty pounds. When he has an episode, he doesn’t eat. It lasted for two days once, and Sam only ate a couple of bites of soup after Dean threatened to force feed him.
He doesn’t cope well around strangers, especially if they’re men. He never makes eye contact with anyone but Dean, and the one time Cas had come to visit, to check on Sam, Sam had screamed like a fucking abused dog, like an innocent animal put through hell, and well. They haven’t seen much of Cas since then, and Dean feels bad for the guy.
They meet in the parking lot sometimes. Cas gives Dean updates on heaven, theories about Sam’s current state of being. Castiel thinks Sam was scared of him because he recognized him as an angel, and bad memories had resurfaced. Castiel thinks Sam doesn’t speak because of some form of psychological torture in hell. It’s frustrating not to know specifics, to have no idea what Sam’s gone through, but Dean doesn’t actually want to know. He thinks the knowledge alone would make him quit functioning.
And, god… Sam lived through that. It always makes Dean’s throat clog up when he thinks about it too long.
So, he doesn’t. They’ve unofficially quit hunting, and Dean spends his days picking up odd jobs or hustling, spending his time with Sam, trying to get him better, maybe even to speak. He knows Sam is grateful he’s around so often, relaxing and giving Dean tiny smiles when Dean comes home from the auto shop.
Sam likes drives, too. He loves the Impala. So they still move around like something’s chasing them, like they’ve got places to go, but they really don’t. They go to burger joints and tourist sites, but spend most of their time in quirky motels, just kind of… existing.
To be honest, Dean doesn’t mind. He thought he would’ve drunk himself to death or crawled up the walls by now, but he hardly notices. The time flies by with Sam. It’s like they have some stronger, harder-to-define connection… it just feels more solid, more real. There are no hard feelings, harbored resentments, secrets, nothing. Sam trusts him with his life. Dean’s the same with Sam. They watch movies, Dean talks at Sam, telling him things he’s never said out loud before. Sam listens. They play games. Dean makes jokes.
Sam listens.
Sam is small and quiet and sweet. But he’s still Sam. He’s the same kid Dean grew up with, the same man who made a sacrifice too big for anyone to carry.
Dean is more than willing to take care of him.
There’s a night that it thunders outta nowhere, flash flooding, lightning bright enough to make it look like daylight for half a second, the whole shebang.
Sam freaks.
One moment he’s there, dozing next to Dean, a hand on the small of Dean’s back, and the next he’s out of the bed and just… gone.
Dean sits up and blinks. He doesn’t see Sam anywhere.
His eyes adjust quickly and he leaves the lights off. Sometimes they irritate Sam.
“Sammy?” He calls quietly, flinching when another crack of vicious thunder threatens to shatter his eardrums. Whatever assocation Sam’s brain is making, whatever memory he’s being thrown into, it can’t be good. He could be making about a zillion steps backward right now, and Dean can’t have that.
He stops for a moment in the middle of the room, closing his eyes. The backs of his eyelids light up with the following clap of lightning. He has to think like Sam. He has to think like a survivor of the worst possible experience imaginable.
In a way, Sam is more like he was as a child than he was a year ago. What did twelve-year-old Sammy do when he was absolutely freaked?
Dean sighs, his heartstrings pulling and cutting through him.
He goes over to the closet, open just a fraction, and sits outside of it.
“Sammy?” he whispers, leaning his back against the shitty plaster wallpaper, “Sammy, hey, you in there?”
He strains hard, trying to hear over the constant susurrus of distant, rolling thunder.
He hears a sniffle.
Dean swallows thickly, using the flat of his palm to push the closet door further open. It rumbles along the track in a way that’s similar to thunder.
Dean slips inside, sitting facing the motel window, streaked with slashes of downpour.
It’s even darker in the closet, but Dean can make out the huddled shape of Sam pressed into a ball in the deepest corner.
“You okay, Sam?” Dean asks, proud that his voice hardly cracks.
Sam sniffs again.
Dean edges closer, gauging Sam’s reaction. If Sam flinches away, he knows it’s a really bad one. If he doesn’t, Dean can help. Dean wants to help.
His shoulder brushes against Sam’s and Sam doesn’t move, their skin pressing warmly against each other in a line. Sam’s doused in sweat.
Dean pushes down all the boundaries and slings his arm around Sam, gently herding Sam down until Sam’s head is in his lap. He wraps his hands in Sam’s hair and combs his fingers through the strands, humming tunelessly.
“Should be over soon,” Dean murmurs. “These storms never last long enough to do any real damage.”
Sam shivers in his lap, and Dean reaches down to hold one of his hands.
Dean wakes up with a massive crick in his neck, squinting into watery sunlight. In the aftermath of the storm, Sam is nowhere to be found. He stumbles his way out of the closet, wincing. He hears the shower running and all of his muscles relax.
There’s a note on the kitchenette table in Sam’s chicken scratch.
Dean trips over his own feet in his haste to get to the motel notepad. Sam hasn’t communicated with him beyond looks and touches since he got back. Dean tried to get him to write a thousand fucking times, even bought a stupid little whiteboard with a bunch of different colored markers.
He picks it up, hands shaking, and wants to scream when he can’t even read it.
It’s not English. The letters are all crooked and shaky, and it could be some early language or it could be complete mumbo jumbo. Dean scoops up the note and goes outside. He stands in a shallow puddle and prays to Cas.
“It’s enochian,” Cas says, his eyes skimming over the paper. “He says thank you. He says his soul was touched by yours after what you did last night, and that it helps. It’s very vague. Did something of import happen?”
Dean shrugs. “He was scared,” he explains. “I held him in my lap.”
Cas eyes him, nonplussed. “Yes, well, I believe it did strengthen your bond. Your souls are harmonizing quite beautifully.”
Dean doesn’t even ask.
***
Dean found the psychic through Bobby. She’s sort of a supernatural therapist, for hunters and other monster trauma victims. Dean’s kinda pissed there’s a niche for that at all.
Sam has gotten worse. He refuses to leave the motel most days, and if Dean gets him out, it’s impossible to get him out of the Impala. Their only lasting avenue of communication- looks and gestures- is completely gone. Sam’s face is a shuttered-down shadow of itself.
Dean doesn’t blame Sam, he’s not angry, he just… he feels shitty for missing Sam when he’s right here. He’d been running out of ideas on how to help Sam, and when Bobby had first suggested going to someone else, Dean had laid into him. Now, though, he’s desperate enough to try.
He just has to get Sam out of the damn car.
Sam’s curled up against the passenger-side door, his hoodie tugged up to hide his face. He doesn’t like the sunlight.
“Sam… please, just for five minutes,” Dean begs, resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder and ignoring Sam’s twitch. “She’s the real deal, okay? She won’t hurt you. Please.”
Dean sighs, pulling back and flopping into the seat. He runs a hand through his hair, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. The ensuing silence cuts through his barriers. What if he can’t make Sam okay? What if he can’t make him eat?
What if hell broke him?
He’s shaken out of his thoughts by the creaking of Baby’s door. He whirls around to watch Sam carefully unfold his body from the Impala and shut the door behind him.
Dean falls out of the car and jogs over to Sam, rolling his shoulders, checking over his shoulders and coughing. Good. No one saw that. He puts an arm on Sam’s back. “Ready to go in?”
Sam takes a breath and nods.
Inside the house, all the curtains are shut, leaving the house in darkness. Other than that, it’s pretty much just a normal, unassuming place. Cushy couches, hanged family photos, a black-and-white cat resting on the stairs.
“Hava?” Dean calls out, closing the door behind them. “Hava, it’s Dean, Bobby told you about me.”
“Dean!” A high voice shrieks, and they both start. A short woman comes running out of a room further down the hall, her hand brushing at the walls. She stops in front of him. A pair of simple shades rests on her face, and she holds out her hand. Dean takes it.
Hava stares at his middle, where apparently, she can see his soul. They’re the only things visible to her. “Did you bring him? Samuel, his name was…?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, he’s right here,” Dean coughs, shifting a little so that Sam isn’t completely hidden behind him.
“Here? Not outside?” Hava asks. “I only see one soul.”
Okay, Dean’s not gonna freak out about that. He swallows, listens to Sam’s hitched intake of breath. “He’s right here.”
“No, I--oh. Oh. Oh, my, oh my goodness!” Hava laughs, spinning in a circle. “He is, isn’t he? Your souls are all wrapped up in each other! Two made into one!”
Hava lunges forward and shoves Dean out of the way, embracing Sam. Her head only goes up to his navel. Sam’s eyes go wide and he looks to Dean for help. Dean shrugs, grinning.
Hava pulls away, smiling up at Sam. “I am so honored to meet the only living pair of soulmates! Do you know who you two are? You’re Patrocles and Achilles, every pair of twin souls reborn. You two are very special.”
Dean blinks. Sam’s looking at him with that dopey, soft, puppy look on his face, 100% cheesy affection and shit. Dean smiles back at him, his heart in his throat. Ash had told them they were soulmates, but he hadn’t known the weight of the word. Hadn’t known their souls were merged.
“I can help him, I can help you both,” Hava says, looking between Dean and Sam like she’s won the lottery twice. “His soul is damaged and scared, yes, but yours is nursing it. Yours is patching his up with pieces of itself. It’s beautiful, really.”
Dean thinks back to the letter Sam wrote him, the only letter in years. “Did you know?” he asks.
Sam shrugs, still softly smiling. I had guessed is what his face is saying.
Dean turns back to Hava. “How can you help?” he asks, casually slipping Sam’s hand in his. Sam squeezes his hand.
“I won’t actually be doing much, just telling you how to help his soul,” she explains. “It’s like soul therapy. You’ve already started doing it. Affection, that’s a big one. Caring. The normal things you’d do. Your soul mimics them, cares for Sam’s soul. Touch is important. Touch as often as you can. The rest of it… it’s the usual. Sam is a trauma survivor. He needs patience and understanding and someone loyal. No one is beyond helping. It just takes time.”
Dean nods.
Hava gestures at both of them. “Come on, tea’s getting cold. Let’s all sit and talk more, don’t even think of it as therapy, okay? We’re just talking. I’m not a counselor, I’m your cool aunt.”
Dean laughs and sits with his thigh pressed up against Sam’s, and he thinks he can feel his soul slipping tendrils of light into Sam’s broken places.
When they’re finished, it’s raining outside, and Sam stands in it, looking comfortable in his own skin. His dimples are showing. Dean walks over to him and they stare out at the Impala, at the road, stretching out into the unknown. Dean turns to Sam and Sam looks at him, and shit, Sam’s already got the idea. Dean doesn’t have to make a big production out of it at all. His heart doesn’t even hammer, his skin doesn’t even flush.
He just reaches up and curls a hand around the base of Sam’s neck. Sam leans down to meet him in a gentle kiss, and Dean urges Sam’s bottom lip to fall, pressing deeper into Sam’s mouth.
It’s exactly like a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel. He can feel the damn fireworks in his heart, in his soul, and he can feel them in Sam, too. He feels like an idiot. Loving Sam is all he’s ever known. He doesn’t know why he didn’t do it more.
Well, he thinks, we have time to fix that.
Rating: Teen
Word count: 2k
Author: Excoyote (Brokenlittleboy @ AO3)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Mentions of hell, PTSD, mute!Sam
Summary: Sam has been out of hell for seven weeks, and he hasn't said a single word.
AO3
Sam has been back from hell for seven weeks, and he hasn’t said a single word.
The first time Dean had tried to touch him, Sam had shied away, curling his knees up against his chest and pressing his back into the wall, looking so small in that motel bed.
He’s gotten better, though. It was a gradual process, but he let Dean in. He pretty much relies on Dean’s touches to function, they share a bed, staying to their own sides unless Sam has a violent nightmare, and maybe Sam’s nonverbal, but Dean thinks he communicates with Sam just fine, thank you very much, through minute touches and eyebrow quirks and eyerolls.
Still, even so, Sam is different.
He’s so fucking fragile.
He’s lost at least forty pounds. When he has an episode, he doesn’t eat. It lasted for two days once, and Sam only ate a couple of bites of soup after Dean threatened to force feed him.
He doesn’t cope well around strangers, especially if they’re men. He never makes eye contact with anyone but Dean, and the one time Cas had come to visit, to check on Sam, Sam had screamed like a fucking abused dog, like an innocent animal put through hell, and well. They haven’t seen much of Cas since then, and Dean feels bad for the guy.
They meet in the parking lot sometimes. Cas gives Dean updates on heaven, theories about Sam’s current state of being. Castiel thinks Sam was scared of him because he recognized him as an angel, and bad memories had resurfaced. Castiel thinks Sam doesn’t speak because of some form of psychological torture in hell. It’s frustrating not to know specifics, to have no idea what Sam’s gone through, but Dean doesn’t actually want to know. He thinks the knowledge alone would make him quit functioning.
And, god… Sam lived through that. It always makes Dean’s throat clog up when he thinks about it too long.
So, he doesn’t. They’ve unofficially quit hunting, and Dean spends his days picking up odd jobs or hustling, spending his time with Sam, trying to get him better, maybe even to speak. He knows Sam is grateful he’s around so often, relaxing and giving Dean tiny smiles when Dean comes home from the auto shop.
Sam likes drives, too. He loves the Impala. So they still move around like something’s chasing them, like they’ve got places to go, but they really don’t. They go to burger joints and tourist sites, but spend most of their time in quirky motels, just kind of… existing.
To be honest, Dean doesn’t mind. He thought he would’ve drunk himself to death or crawled up the walls by now, but he hardly notices. The time flies by with Sam. It’s like they have some stronger, harder-to-define connection… it just feels more solid, more real. There are no hard feelings, harbored resentments, secrets, nothing. Sam trusts him with his life. Dean’s the same with Sam. They watch movies, Dean talks at Sam, telling him things he’s never said out loud before. Sam listens. They play games. Dean makes jokes.
Sam listens.
Sam is small and quiet and sweet. But he’s still Sam. He’s the same kid Dean grew up with, the same man who made a sacrifice too big for anyone to carry.
Dean is more than willing to take care of him.
There’s a night that it thunders outta nowhere, flash flooding, lightning bright enough to make it look like daylight for half a second, the whole shebang.
Sam freaks.
One moment he’s there, dozing next to Dean, a hand on the small of Dean’s back, and the next he’s out of the bed and just… gone.
Dean sits up and blinks. He doesn’t see Sam anywhere.
His eyes adjust quickly and he leaves the lights off. Sometimes they irritate Sam.
“Sammy?” He calls quietly, flinching when another crack of vicious thunder threatens to shatter his eardrums. Whatever assocation Sam’s brain is making, whatever memory he’s being thrown into, it can’t be good. He could be making about a zillion steps backward right now, and Dean can’t have that.
He stops for a moment in the middle of the room, closing his eyes. The backs of his eyelids light up with the following clap of lightning. He has to think like Sam. He has to think like a survivor of the worst possible experience imaginable.
In a way, Sam is more like he was as a child than he was a year ago. What did twelve-year-old Sammy do when he was absolutely freaked?
Dean sighs, his heartstrings pulling and cutting through him.
He goes over to the closet, open just a fraction, and sits outside of it.
“Sammy?” he whispers, leaning his back against the shitty plaster wallpaper, “Sammy, hey, you in there?”
He strains hard, trying to hear over the constant susurrus of distant, rolling thunder.
He hears a sniffle.
Dean swallows thickly, using the flat of his palm to push the closet door further open. It rumbles along the track in a way that’s similar to thunder.
Dean slips inside, sitting facing the motel window, streaked with slashes of downpour.
It’s even darker in the closet, but Dean can make out the huddled shape of Sam pressed into a ball in the deepest corner.
“You okay, Sam?” Dean asks, proud that his voice hardly cracks.
Sam sniffs again.
Dean edges closer, gauging Sam’s reaction. If Sam flinches away, he knows it’s a really bad one. If he doesn’t, Dean can help. Dean wants to help.
His shoulder brushes against Sam’s and Sam doesn’t move, their skin pressing warmly against each other in a line. Sam’s doused in sweat.
Dean pushes down all the boundaries and slings his arm around Sam, gently herding Sam down until Sam’s head is in his lap. He wraps his hands in Sam’s hair and combs his fingers through the strands, humming tunelessly.
“Should be over soon,” Dean murmurs. “These storms never last long enough to do any real damage.”
Sam shivers in his lap, and Dean reaches down to hold one of his hands.
Dean wakes up with a massive crick in his neck, squinting into watery sunlight. In the aftermath of the storm, Sam is nowhere to be found. He stumbles his way out of the closet, wincing. He hears the shower running and all of his muscles relax.
There’s a note on the kitchenette table in Sam’s chicken scratch.
Dean trips over his own feet in his haste to get to the motel notepad. Sam hasn’t communicated with him beyond looks and touches since he got back. Dean tried to get him to write a thousand fucking times, even bought a stupid little whiteboard with a bunch of different colored markers.
He picks it up, hands shaking, and wants to scream when he can’t even read it.
It’s not English. The letters are all crooked and shaky, and it could be some early language or it could be complete mumbo jumbo. Dean scoops up the note and goes outside. He stands in a shallow puddle and prays to Cas.
“It’s enochian,” Cas says, his eyes skimming over the paper. “He says thank you. He says his soul was touched by yours after what you did last night, and that it helps. It’s very vague. Did something of import happen?”
Dean shrugs. “He was scared,” he explains. “I held him in my lap.”
Cas eyes him, nonplussed. “Yes, well, I believe it did strengthen your bond. Your souls are harmonizing quite beautifully.”
Dean doesn’t even ask.
***
Dean found the psychic through Bobby. She’s sort of a supernatural therapist, for hunters and other monster trauma victims. Dean’s kinda pissed there’s a niche for that at all.
Sam has gotten worse. He refuses to leave the motel most days, and if Dean gets him out, it’s impossible to get him out of the Impala. Their only lasting avenue of communication- looks and gestures- is completely gone. Sam’s face is a shuttered-down shadow of itself.
Dean doesn’t blame Sam, he’s not angry, he just… he feels shitty for missing Sam when he’s right here. He’d been running out of ideas on how to help Sam, and when Bobby had first suggested going to someone else, Dean had laid into him. Now, though, he’s desperate enough to try.
He just has to get Sam out of the damn car.
Sam’s curled up against the passenger-side door, his hoodie tugged up to hide his face. He doesn’t like the sunlight.
“Sam… please, just for five minutes,” Dean begs, resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder and ignoring Sam’s twitch. “She’s the real deal, okay? She won’t hurt you. Please.”
Dean sighs, pulling back and flopping into the seat. He runs a hand through his hair, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. The ensuing silence cuts through his barriers. What if he can’t make Sam okay? What if he can’t make him eat?
What if hell broke him?
He’s shaken out of his thoughts by the creaking of Baby’s door. He whirls around to watch Sam carefully unfold his body from the Impala and shut the door behind him.
Dean falls out of the car and jogs over to Sam, rolling his shoulders, checking over his shoulders and coughing. Good. No one saw that. He puts an arm on Sam’s back. “Ready to go in?”
Sam takes a breath and nods.
Inside the house, all the curtains are shut, leaving the house in darkness. Other than that, it’s pretty much just a normal, unassuming place. Cushy couches, hanged family photos, a black-and-white cat resting on the stairs.
“Hava?” Dean calls out, closing the door behind them. “Hava, it’s Dean, Bobby told you about me.”
“Dean!” A high voice shrieks, and they both start. A short woman comes running out of a room further down the hall, her hand brushing at the walls. She stops in front of him. A pair of simple shades rests on her face, and she holds out her hand. Dean takes it.
Hava stares at his middle, where apparently, she can see his soul. They’re the only things visible to her. “Did you bring him? Samuel, his name was…?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, he’s right here,” Dean coughs, shifting a little so that Sam isn’t completely hidden behind him.
“Here? Not outside?” Hava asks. “I only see one soul.”
Okay, Dean’s not gonna freak out about that. He swallows, listens to Sam’s hitched intake of breath. “He’s right here.”
“No, I--oh. Oh. Oh, my, oh my goodness!” Hava laughs, spinning in a circle. “He is, isn’t he? Your souls are all wrapped up in each other! Two made into one!”
Hava lunges forward and shoves Dean out of the way, embracing Sam. Her head only goes up to his navel. Sam’s eyes go wide and he looks to Dean for help. Dean shrugs, grinning.
Hava pulls away, smiling up at Sam. “I am so honored to meet the only living pair of soulmates! Do you know who you two are? You’re Patrocles and Achilles, every pair of twin souls reborn. You two are very special.”
Dean blinks. Sam’s looking at him with that dopey, soft, puppy look on his face, 100% cheesy affection and shit. Dean smiles back at him, his heart in his throat. Ash had told them they were soulmates, but he hadn’t known the weight of the word. Hadn’t known their souls were merged.
“I can help him, I can help you both,” Hava says, looking between Dean and Sam like she’s won the lottery twice. “His soul is damaged and scared, yes, but yours is nursing it. Yours is patching his up with pieces of itself. It’s beautiful, really.”
Dean thinks back to the letter Sam wrote him, the only letter in years. “Did you know?” he asks.
Sam shrugs, still softly smiling. I had guessed is what his face is saying.
Dean turns back to Hava. “How can you help?” he asks, casually slipping Sam’s hand in his. Sam squeezes his hand.
“I won’t actually be doing much, just telling you how to help his soul,” she explains. “It’s like soul therapy. You’ve already started doing it. Affection, that’s a big one. Caring. The normal things you’d do. Your soul mimics them, cares for Sam’s soul. Touch is important. Touch as often as you can. The rest of it… it’s the usual. Sam is a trauma survivor. He needs patience and understanding and someone loyal. No one is beyond helping. It just takes time.”
Dean nods.
Hava gestures at both of them. “Come on, tea’s getting cold. Let’s all sit and talk more, don’t even think of it as therapy, okay? We’re just talking. I’m not a counselor, I’m your cool aunt.”
Dean laughs and sits with his thigh pressed up against Sam’s, and he thinks he can feel his soul slipping tendrils of light into Sam’s broken places.
When they’re finished, it’s raining outside, and Sam stands in it, looking comfortable in his own skin. His dimples are showing. Dean walks over to him and they stare out at the Impala, at the road, stretching out into the unknown. Dean turns to Sam and Sam looks at him, and shit, Sam’s already got the idea. Dean doesn’t have to make a big production out of it at all. His heart doesn’t even hammer, his skin doesn’t even flush.
He just reaches up and curls a hand around the base of Sam’s neck. Sam leans down to meet him in a gentle kiss, and Dean urges Sam’s bottom lip to fall, pressing deeper into Sam’s mouth.
It’s exactly like a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel. He can feel the damn fireworks in his heart, in his soul, and he can feel them in Sam, too. He feels like an idiot. Loving Sam is all he’s ever known. He doesn’t know why he didn’t do it more.
Well, he thinks, we have time to fix that.