He Doesn't [The Let Me Rest Remix]
He Doesn't [The Let Me Rest Remix]
You lie there empty, most nights, living in the middle of nowhere, just a little town that had seen better days. Streets in disrepair and most of Main St. is nothing but boarded up windows and For Sale signs that have turned a pale yellowish-orange where they sit. The cars are all dusty and old, a pale comparison to the days when the factory sent out shiny new vehicles every day and the town pulled in fat paychecks to spend on those frivolities.
Some nights it feels like the town has more criminals than honest folk. You’re lonely though so you don’t mind the nights when your door opens up and a whore steps in with her latest client. You’re not much better, rented out by the hour for her so who are you to judge?
Tonight is not most nights though.
A traveler comes into the room and you watch the way he drags himself wearily through the door. His body screams, Let me rest, but he doesn’t. His movements scream, Let me rest, but he doesn’t. When his hand touches the faded blue wall paper, the air stands still and you both shudder at the feel of his rough, calloused hand on your spoiled walls.
“The stories you could tell, baby,” he says softly, looking up at the ceiling.
You would feel shame at the water marks and cracks, at the way spiders made their home in the corners of your walls, but all you can feel are his eyes. They scream, Let me rest, but he doesn’t.
You do your best to comfort but nothing works right anymore. Still, as he slides out of his clothes and slips into the shower, you do your best to give him something worth while, a little extra heat and pressure to wash away the dirt and memory of two many other rooms just like this.
He leans his head against the dirty tile and pleads, “Sammy,” but he’s alone and you’re the only witness to the salty tears that join the rust-tinted water circling the drain.
You see him steel himself as the pipes squeal in his hands, turning the water off as he reaches for a towel. Scars cover him, scars too deep to be seen. You understand that. You have your own scars and you think he’s probably the only person that’s ever walked through your door and noticed it.
He’s quiet, unnaturally so; like he sees death on the horizon but it’s not the calm release that some people come to find, pills knocked to the floor, bottle spilling silently in witness. It’s not the violent flash of silver and the flow of red either. Whatever death stalks him, he goes willingly towards it with neither joy nor relief nor fear, just the crushing realization that it must be done.
He dresses quickly and pulls out a brown paper bag that you’ve seen too many times. He looks at the king sized bed in the center of the room with its stained comforter and sagging mattress then looks to the side like he should be seeing something else. You hear the echo in his heart, his soul’s plea, “Sammy,” and then he drops onto the bed, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard, dropping the brown bag to the floor as he unscrews the cap from the bottle, drinking the cheap liquor.
You feel the shock of surprise and the air stills again inside your walls. He should recognize the warning you’ve given him but he doesn’t. He’s too far gone in his pain to notice it. The door opens though, skilled hands with little tiny sticks that swing you open no matter how much you want to protect your occupant.
The newcomer closes the door softly behind him, stands there watching for a moment before he goes and sits on the edge of the mattress, too close to the other man. "How could you do this?" he asks softly, his lips a breath away. He presses in, a quick dry kiss that his friend doesn’t return. Your occupant’s hands clench the comforter though and you think, at least he’s not that far gone yet, at least he can feel this. It gives you some hope.
The newcomer moves over him, straddling his thighs. His palm curves around his jaw, fingers caressing lightly over his cheek as he leans in to kiss him once more.
"I'm not drunk enough for this," the first man finally says, trying to pull away. The taller one takes the bottle before he can get it open though. Fingers tangle in the tall man’s hair and he’s pulled in by a demanding mouth and he doesn’t need to hold onto the bottle anymore. He lets it drop to the floor, still capped and you think again, maybe there is hope.
It’s all moans and motion then, a scene you’ve witnesses a thousand nights before, only not. You hear more echoes than words, but this is Sammy and this is Dean and this is the whole world, the one that Dean couldn’t get away from, couldn’t rest from, and couldn’t resign from because there was always Sammy in the back of his head and his heart and his soul.
Their clothes get lost in a whisper of fabric and breath, short moans and soft grunts that leave them naked on the mattress, bruised and sweaty, wrapped in the cocoon of each other.
“I love you,” Sam confesses and somehow it seems damning, it sounds like lost hope to admit it here, in the middle of nowhere, in a ramshackle room with only despair and desperation between them.
“No,” Dean says before anything else can fall from his lips, “you don’t.” He cuts Sam off with a brutal kiss but it’s a lie and they both know it. Sam does. Dean does.
They come together, Dean biting Sam’s shoulder hard enough to bleed, to mark him as if he needs something to remember him by. Sam’s fingers bruise skin, always holding on too tight.
When it’s done and the lights are out, you see Sam pull him close, see his hesitant movements and know that he expects rejection but he reaches out anyway. You see Dean allow it and his body is still screaming, Let me rest, but he doesn’t. His movements are still screaming, Let me rest, but he doesn’t.
Sam sleeps with Dean resting in his arms until Dean needs more and you watch him wake his brother with soft kisses. There’s nothing more than that, no grinding, no selfish need to find release, just the need to touch and taste and for each to feel his brother’s heart beat against his own, to bury his fingers in his hair and to feel his breath on his skin.
Sam falls asleep again and Dean lies there, staring at him, watching the way the street lights caress his face. He lowers his head, resting his forehead against his brother’s lip. Sam kisses him gently, unconsciously, a hand pulling him close for comfort.
When Dean finally pulls away, you know it’s done. He moves around the room quietly, dressing without waking Sam. He grabs his things and you want to weep for him but all you can do is watch. He stops at the door but you know it’s only temporary. He looked back at the sleeping man and longing fills his eyes for a moment. They scream, Let me rest, but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and walks out the door.
The car burst to life in the deserted parking lot and you feel empty.
Sam turns over at the sound, as if in tune with the engine. He sits up and wakes to an empty room. His face blanches as he drops his feet over the edge of the bed. He drops his hands in his head and takes shaky breathes until he can move. He dresses slowly, stumbles over the bottle at his feet and falls to his knees. He doesn’t move until his shoulder’s shake with slow wrecking sobs that echo in his heart, “Dean.”
His body screams, Let me rest, but he doesn’t. His movements scream, Let me rest, but he doesn’t. He gets up and swallows against the pain. He goes to the door and stumbles around to find the car that brought him with no keys. He looks to the long stretch of road that will take him away from you, that has taken his brother away from you both.
His eyes scream, Let me rest.
But he doesn’t.