Brothers in Arms 1, SPN: Sam/Dean, AU, R
First Lieutenant Sam Winchester looked up when he sensed a presence at the entrance to his cramped tent. For a second he couldn't focus, saw a man in jeans and leather, no uniform, made him think--
--but then his vision cleared and he nodded briskly, "Sergeant, come in."
He looked back at the paperwork--god, were they trying to finish the job with papercuts?--until the firm steps stopped in front of him. Without looking up, he knew the man would be at attention.
"At ease, Sergeant." No movement until he looked up, and then a hidden half-smile as the position changed. Cocky. The man was always cocky. Two bullets, three months' rehab...and nothing seemed to have changed.
"You look good." It was more than he'd meant to say, and he almost stuttered as he hurried to add, "You ready to be back?"
"They sent me back, sir." No hesitation before the title. Insubordination had never been an issue...well, never more than that once.
"Let me rephrase that." The lieutenant stood, unfolding to his full height and watching as, as usual, it had no effect on the other man. "Are you ready to be back?"
As had been the case since their first battle together, he knew he didn't have to explain the question any further. His sergeant stood straighter again, almost shifting to attention. "I'm good, sir."
"You always have been." Winchester moved around the desk till they were standing side by side. The sergeant stiffened slightly but didn't move, not even when his commanding officer leaned in, looming over him, his voice low and tight. "You're a good soldier, Sergeant. You do what I ask, what Uncle Sam asks, and you come back for more. Never disobeyed an order..." Winchester trailed off, stepped in closer till he could feel the tripwire tension in the other man's rigid stance. "Never disobeyed my orders...until it really counted."
"Sir--"
"Attention, Sergeant!" Winchester snapped, quiet and deadly, and he smiled as the other man reacted without thought, as he had always obeyed...always but once.
"So now I'm faced with a difficult leadership question." Winchester continued, still fully inside the other man's space and looking down into his averted green eyes. "Do I punish you for saving my life? Or do I reward you for disobeying my order?"
"Sir..." This time the lieutenant waited, but the response died unspoken.
"I told you to leave me." The lieutenant remembered that much clearly, even through the hazy red mist of pain and expected death. "I ordered you to get the men out of danger--"
"I did!" At the sudden interruption, the air in the room seemed to shiver. "Sir. I did, sir."
Winchester knew that from the reports. His sergeant had led the men to safety, delegated control and then...
"I ordered you away, but you came back." He waited for another interruption, but there was none forthcoming. In the quivering silence, images from that afternoon kept coming back. The screaming pain in his leg. The thunder of the shells, the press of the dark. And then hands. Hands on his leg adjusting the bandage they had applied only--what, minutes? hours?--before. Hands on his face, on his arms, his chest, holding him as if they could keep him there. A voice begging him to hold on. His sergeant's voice, ordering him to live as if he had that right, as if the chain of command were broken forever. And then the world shifting, agony whiting out existence as he was turned over, moved, handled, lifted.
He thought he could remember breath along his neck, deep, painful groans that he couldn't explain but wanted to echo. He didn't know when the other bullet hit. The reports couldn't help him here, since he didn't remember and since the victim had been unconscious for almost two weeks after. The reports merely said that, despite a bullet in the chest, the sergeant had still managed to pull his lieutenant to safety before passing out. The report recommended a medal. The report didn't know what Lieutenant Winchester knew.
"I ordered you away," he repeated, and if anything the man's stance grew more rigid, more correct.
Without thinking, Winchester raised his hand, resting it lightly over the right shoulder where he knew the wound to be. His sergeant twitched once, convulsively, and then stilled. "I need to see," he said, as if that were the most normal thing in the world, as if he had some sort of medical training that would be more valuable than a well-staffed field hospital and a medevac to the States. There was no movement in response, and the lieutenant took that as permission, as another ordered obeyed.
It was strange opening the uniform from the other side, but his fingers didn't hesitate until they had all the buttons undone. His hand spanned from clavicle to sternum, and he felt the rapid heartbeat against the heel of his hand like fists pounding to get out. "Remove your t-shirt."
A hitching breath under his hand was the only answer for a long moment, and then the sergeant shrugged out of his combat jacket and reached down to pull his t-shirt over his head. Two quick movements had both shirts folded neatly. He placed them on the chair beside the desk, then returned to attention, staring resolutely in front of him.
The wound looked horrendous. Lieutenant Winchester hadn't let himself think about it, and now he realized that was a mistake. He needed some sort of preparation for this...as if he could have prepared for the sight of the angry scarred mass on the man's shoulder. Stepping aside, he checked the entry wound, smaller and almost unnoticeable, below the shoulderblade. His hand was shaking as he reached up again, placed long fingers gently, tentatively against warm skin. The chest beneath his hand heaved once on a sudden gasp, then was still.
"This shouldn't have happened. Not for m--"
"Don't." The word was sharp, cut out of anger and air, and more of an order than the Lieutenant had ever managed, even after over a year at the front. "Sir. Don't you say that. Don't you try to tell me how to...how to do my job. I take care of my men. I take care of you. Don't you--"
He couldn't listen, he couldn't hear this, it was gross insubordination and, worse, it was the truth. So Lieutenant Winchester acted on instinct, leaning down to shut the man up, lips hard, teeth drawing blood, and then a softening, the mouth opening beneath his, obedient. That thought pulled him out. He stepped back sharply. "I'm..." not sorry. Not that. But... "I'm your superior officer. I can't..." He stopped, shook his head. "I shouldn't."
For a long moment their eyes met, battling, like hand-to-hand combat and Winchester remembered the way the sergeant's hands had felt on him, guiding him through their private sessions, teaching the college boy everything he'd need to know to command men already hardened by battle.
Then green eyes softened over a sudden grin. "I always gotta teach you baby-lieutenants everything, don't I?" The voice was low and lush with humor and lust and something else, something that echoed of desperation, firefights, and forever.
"What's the first thing I taught you, Lieutenant?" The soft question was an obscene counterpart to the hard body suddenly against his, and Winchester could barely think to answer.
"Take...take care of your men--"
"--and your men will take care of you," his sergeant finished, pushing them both back against the desk, which sank, gave, soft under his hands, mattress settling, the sound of the door--
What?
Sam opened his eyes quickly, reaching out to steady them both before completely awake, only to find his hands waving wildly in mid air. Dean was smirking at him from the doorway, takeout bag in one hand, already shrugging his jacket off. "Hey there, Sammy," he smirked, dropping the food on the rickety table by the door and walking over to the foot of the bed. He glanced sardonically at the lurid jacket of their latest hotel-room freebie: Strike Force Fury. At the moment, the book seemed to be floating, its ridiculously phallic cover hovering a few inches over Sam's groin.
Dean snorted. "That a missile in your pocket, or you just happy to see me?" His jacket slid to the floor in a heap, and he raised his hands to the top button of his shirt. Sam was up and across the room before even the first button could pop free.
Dean grunted as they hit the wall, but he didn't struggle, just looked at Sam with quickly darkening eyes. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder for a second, remembering a phantom bullet, and then he dropped his hand lower.
Bracing his body against Dean's, he leaned farther in, breaking eye contact only to move his lips to Dean's ear. "At ease, soldier." Dean's breath huffed out sharply, and Sam grinned as, beneath his hand, Dean came defiantly to attention.