Supernatural: Into Oblivion [Part 2/3]
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PART TWO
February 13, 2007
"You want me?" Sam is half naked, lying on his back with his legs open and his hard cock showing through his boxers. He's staring up at Dean with this come-fuck-me expression that could melt an iceberg.
All Dean can think is what a stupid question, but he doesn't waste his breath saying it. In the space of a second he's already edging onto the bed and Sam is sucking that breath out of him instead.
"Tell me, Dean," Sam begs. "Tell me you want me."
This right here, this is Dean's favorite Sam. Unashamed to beg and pawing at Dean everywhere with his big, capable hands. So needy for Dean's cock, so slutty to get fucked, and it's a nice change, because if he's being honest, Dean's usually the one grasping desperately, trying to keep his brother too close.
"Wanna do all kinds of things to you," Dean promises, turning his face enough to bite at Sam's jaw.
Sam shakes his head, but he leans into Dean at the same time. "Tell me you want me."
"Don't be stupid, Sammy," Dean says. "You know I do."
Sam beams at that, like a damn kid on Christmas, like he still does every time, and Dean tries not to wonder when it'll get old for Sam. A long time from now, hopefully, cause Dean sure isn't tiring of that smile.
"Want you to fuck me," Sam tells him, and Dean huffs out a laugh as he starts to suck at the other side of Sam's neck. That was pretty clear already, but there's Dean's little brother for you. Always running his mouth, except when Dean's got it stuffed full.
He slips his hand down past the elastic of Sam's boxers to feel that big, hard dick. Sam groans as soon as Dean is touching him, and Dean reaches even lower, slipping one dry finger into Sam.
"Hold-hold on," Sam gasps after Dean fingers him for a few minutes. "Not gonna get anywhere like this."
He pulls away, leaving Dean on his knees at the foot of the bed, cold air where there was too much sweat and body heat a moment ago. He doesn't even think to be upset. There's no doubting Sam has exactly the same thing on his mind that Dean does, and it's not a bad consolation prize once Sam swings his legs off the end of the bed and pulls his boxers off.
Dean keeps his eyes on Sam's ass as he ruffles through a duffel for lube and comes back with no condom, a clear invitation for Dean to fuck him skin-to-skin, leave Sam a dripping mess. It won't be the first time, but it's not something they do often, not usually a risk worth taking.
But it's been weeks since anyone other than Sam has been near him, and Dean isn't about to turn down the offer if Sam wants it. He has to wonder, though, what exactly it is driving Sam tonight. Not that his little brother being horny is new to Dean, but Sam's been itching for it all day, and Dean's not sure how, but it feels like this has something to do with being possessed by Meg. He's not a genius when it comes to reading people's feelings, but he's pretty good at figuring Sam out, and there's no way Sam has dealt with the guilt yet.
This, fucking Dean every chance he gets? This is a happy-Sam thing to do, so while he's not complaining, he's a little surprised it's happening so soon after. He'd expected Sam to be moping much longer than this.
Sam tosses Dean the lube, and Dean squeezes some out onto his fingers. By the time he looks up again, Sam is already on the bed, on all fours in front of Dean.
"That how you want it?" Dean asks, shuffling so he's closer to Sam, so he can tease two fingers from Sam's balls up to his hole and push in roughly.
Sam reaches forward, bracing himself on the headboard, and shakes his head. "Just open me up like this."
Dean does, enjoying the view while he has it. Once they're both satisfied that Sam is loose enough, Dean backs off, letting Sam choose a position. Sam catches his wrist without turning and leads Dean forward, until they're chest to back on their knees.
"Like this," Sam says, grabbing Dean's thigh and pulling their bodies flush together. "Want you just like this."
Dean kisses him, kisses down his neck until Sam lifts his arm and Dean tucks his head under. He mouths at Sam's chest, tongue passing over the raised skin of Sam's nipple.
Sam buries a hand in his hair as Dean sucks at him, and Dean wants to touch, too. He has so much bare chest here that's all his to do what he wants to. So he splays his palm over Sam's heart and runs his hand all the way down, just slow enough to get a feel for his brother, all the way to Sam's strong thighs.
"God, Dean," Sam whines, throwing his head back. "Get in me."
His cock is trapped between them, already pressing against Sam's cheeks. Dean doesn't even have to stop feeling Sam up to force his other hand between them, guiding himself into Sam.
"Jesus," Sam pants, pushing back so that Dean is all the way inside of him. "Jesus, yes, fuck. Yes."
Dean grunts to let Sam know he's on the same page, pumps his hips forward fast and deep. This is a good angle, Sam pretty much seated on his cock so Dean can go in so far he thinks he might never get out, and that's fine with him.
It does make kissing awkward, but Sam's not letting that stop him, turning his head back so Dean can find his mouth over his shoulder. They make out as Dean digs his fingers into Sam's sides, holding on hard and bringing him in over and over. It's rougher than he means to be, but he can't help it. Sam is a tight, hot vice around his dick and he's still begging, like Dean isn't giving it to him as hard as he can take. Like he wants more.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam says, pushing his ass back and up in a way that makes them both shout. He falls forward, onto all fours, and Dean follows him down, glues his chest to Sam's back again because he doesn't like space between them, not after being so close, not even when his dick is still all the way up inside of his brother.
"Dean, Dean." Sam's hands are bunched in the sheets, his forehead dropping to the mattress as he keeps working his ass up. "Fuck! Fuck me, yeah. Come on."
"You want more?" Dean asks, and even knowing Sam likes to be ridden hard, he's a little surprised Sam nods. But it's good, it's hot. It's so fucking hot that he feels a little possessed himself, unable to restrain himself from pushing Sam's head down and holding it there, slotting his other hand under Sam's arm and grasping his shoulder so he can really pull himself up and in, and that's it. He can't go any deeper. He can't fuck Sam harder than this. It's too perfect to bear.
"Good," Sam whimpers. "Ow-ah. Fuck. Dean. It's so good."
"God, you like that, huh?" Sam nods, and Dean keeps going. "You take it so good, Sammy. So damn good on my cock, I can't even tell you."
Sam is beyond talking now. He's panting up a storm every time Dean shoves into him, grinding his cock on the mattress.
"You can come, Sam," Dean tells him. "You wanna touch yourself? I'm not-not gonna last much-"
"Like this." Sam lets go of the sheets and reaches back with one hand, gripping Dean's ass as he thrusts. "Give it to me like this and I'm-I'll. Yeah, God. I'll get there."
"No way," Dean says, hips working even faster just at the thought. He's never gotten Sam off like that before. Isn't completely sure he believes he can do it, but damned if he isn't gonna try.
"Come on, come on," Sam pleads. "Let me have it."
One, two, three, four, and Dean sinks into Sam, balls deep, letting his dick pulse inside his brother. Sam gasps, his ass milking everything out of Dean as he keeps working his hips.
He rests there for a while, cock still hard as a few last waves of pleasure finish him off. But Sam is still going for it, humping away like a horny teenager, and Dean's a little disappointed he couldn't get Sam off untouched, but he'll take pity.
"Let me touch you," he offers, trying to fit his hand in, but Sam catches his wrist, holds onto it and brings it up above his head.
"Kiss me," says Sam. "And I'll-ah. Ah, fuck, yeah."
Dean catches those cries with his mouth, licks his way into Sam, and to his surprise, it's only a few more seconds before Sam actually does it, comes off of nothing but Dean's now-soft dick inside him and the limited friction he's getting from fucking the mattress.
For a while, Dean stays right where he is, weighing Sam down with his body like a human shield, tracing things he'll never say into the sweat on Sam's back. Then Sam grabs his hand and weaves their fingers together, tugging Dean's arm so it's wrapped around his middle.
He takes the hint, moving enough to the side that he isn't crushing Sam but keeping his face resting on Sam's shoulder blade and his arm hugged around where his brother put it.
They're quiet for a long time, first regaining their breath, then too content in the post-sex haze to really think of anything to say.
Or at least that's why Dean's quiet, and he thinks it's the same for Sam until his brother crosses his arms on his pillow and props his head on top of them. "Hey, Dean."
"Mmm?"
"You're glad we do this, right?" There's a short pause and he adds, "You don't regret it?"
Fuck, he thinks. Usually he's ready for this-Sam tries to do this nearly every damn time they fuck-but he'd kind of thought he'd fucked Sam too thoroughly to have to worry about dodging it tonight.
"Oh, come on, Sam." He sits up. "We really gonna do this? Man, I'm tired."
"I'm just trying to-"
"Talk about it," Dean finishes for him. "I know. Everyone knows. Everyone's grandma knows."
Sam flips over onto his back so he can look up at Dean. "I just want to know we're on the same page about this."
"We're in the same bed, aren't we?"
"Yeah, but-"
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Doesn't this ever get old to you? It always ends the same, so why keep bringing it up?"
"Because I need to know," Sam answers. "I deserve to know."
"Know what? The situation is pretty black and white from where I'm sitting."
"Do you regret doing this with me?"
Dean laughs dismissively. "I come back every night, what does that tell you?"
"That's not what I asked," says Sam. "There are lots of things you do over and over that I know for a fact you're ashamed of. And you deal with them exactly the same way you deal with this. You drink. You refuse to talk about it-"
Dean rolls his eyes and gets out of bed, grabbing the first shirt he sees off the floor and pulling it on over his head.
"You do that."
"Do what?" Dean asks as he scans the room for boxers, his jeans, anything that'll make him just a little less naked.
"Pretend it didn't happen. Scramble to get dressed as if you being decent is going to change the fact that you were naked in bed with me a minute ago."
He winces-guilty and obvious-but doesn't turn to look at his brother. "When are you gonna stop bothering me with this, Sam? You're driving me crazy."
"Today. Right now." It sounds too good to be true, and then Sam continues, "We'll never do it again, and I won't bother you about it anymore."
"C'mon," Dean says, almost laughing at how goddamn dramatic his brother is. "I didn’t say I wanted to stop."
"I need you to tell me you don't regret this, Dean. In those words. I need to hear it." Sam pauses, and Dean's about to try derailing the conversation again, but then his brother's voice goes soft. Nervous and insecure, and Sam-insecure was never Sam's problem. "Look, I don't know why you do this with me. If it's just because I'm here and it feels good or, god forbid, if you only do it because you think it's what I want-"
Dean freezes with only one foot in his jeans and turns to face his brother. "It isn't? You don't want it?"
"Not like this."
Infuriatingly unhelpful, that answer. "Like what then? Me on the bottom? I'm cool with that, too. Never said I wasn't."
"No, fuck, Dean-" Sam sighs like Dean is the biggest idiot he's ever met and wipes a hand over his mouth. "Not if you regret it."
"Why's that so important to you? Even if I do, it's not like it's stopping me."
"I can't tell you," Sam says, looking down at his hands, and there it is again, that self-conscious little edge Dean isn't used to hearing from his brother. It's amazing how much he looks like a kid for a moment. "You'll make fun of me."
"I won't," Dean says.
"You always do." He opens his mouth, but Sam lifts a hand, cutting him off, "Even when you promise not to."
"Well, just this one time, I really mean it. I swear on pie." Dean crosses his heart and steps closer to the bed, trying to look earnest.
Sam laughs a little, thank god, just enough to lighten the mood. Just enough for his dimples to show and make Dean's chest tighten and expand both at the same time. Maybe he'll make it through this conversation after all.
Finally, Sam decides to talk, and he looks up, right into Dean's eyes. "This is the only thing that makes me feel good. And I don't mean feel good like sex, because obviously, but…this is the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I'm good. Like I can really be good and stay good. No matter what Dad told you, or what all those demons say, or what my destiny is. I don't know who I am anymore, Dean. And I'm scared. I'm so scared they're right about me. I worry about it all the time. And then you…"
He looks away, his cheeks burning red. "You look at me like you believe I'm better than I ever could be. You touch me and I can't remember anyone else, and I think maybe-just maybe-I can fight whatever's inside me, for your sake if not my own. So if this is something bad you do because it feels good, if you look back on it the next day as some dark, fucked up mistake we keep making, then it's a lie. And I have no idea what I'm going to hold on to."
Dean swallows hard after Sam finishes, and the silence that follows those words hangs heavy between them. He moves to take a seat at the foot of Sam's bed.
"One time," he says, holding up a finger. "I'm going to say this one time, and you are never going to ask again, got it?"
Sam nods, holding his gaze until Dean has to look away. He can't handle seeing Sam's face and being honest at the same time. Not if Sam reacts the way he should. Not if he realizes once Dean admits this out loud that Dean is right.
"I wake up every morning expecting you to change your mind. To realize you deserve better than to be stuck with me your whole life. Like you did when you left for Stanford. I'd thought maybe you wouldn't notice back then, but you did, and then you were gone.
"I wake up every morning with this dread, convinced you'll have figured it out overnight that you can do better. Confused when you haven't, because it's so goddamn obvious to me, and it always has been.
"I run away in the morning because if it is that day, I don't want you to feel guilty for leaving me, or like you have to stay for my sake. I don’t want you to know how much it's gonna crush me. How bad it was last time. I want you to go chase something worthy of you, college again or a girl like Jess or a family, whatever you want that isn't being shackled to my sorry ass. I fucked it up last time. I was too selfish to tell you I was proud-which I was-or give you an out that wouldn't push you away completely. So I could still have you just a little bit. Once or twice a year, a phone call every now and then to hear you're okay. If I'd had those things while you were at school-it doesn't matter. My point is, when you leave next time, I don't want it to be hating me. I know it's gonna happen. I'm trying to be ready for it."
"Dean, I never hated-"
Dean shakes his head, puts his hand on the lump of comforter over Sam's feet to silence his brother, because he won't get this out if he stops now, and Sam said he needed to hear it. He just wishes his voice wasn't breaking. "If you're asking do I regret having you every second until you decide I'm not enough? I will never be sorry, Sammy. I've tried so hard to make myself feel ashamed for touching you, but I'm not and I'm not going to be. I would have to be an idiot to turn you away as long as you think I can make you happy."
There's no rain of pink confetti from the ceiling when Dean finishes, but he still feels like he's trapped in a damn Jennifer Lopez movie. It's awkward and lame and fucking embarrassing, and that's without letting himself consider that Sam might be done with him now that he's come clean.
He looks up and sees the way Sam is watching him. He can't read that expression, not completely, but Sam pulls him in for a kiss.
"You're really stupid," Sam whispers softly against his lips, "if you think I left because you weren't good enough-or ever will."
Dean opens his mouth to put an end to this, but Sam covers his lips with his fingers.
"I know," he says fondly. "The conversation's over and we're not having it again. But you're so wrong. I want you to know that. I'll make you see it someday."
Dean could say the same about Sam and the lunatic notion that he could ever go bad. But he doesn't. He tries to show Sam instead.
NOW
He prays to Cas for help as he slits Antros's throat. He's been praying to Cas every day since Sam first got sick, so it's not really a surprise when there's still no response. The obvious explanation is too depressing to even think about, so Dean doesn't let himself dwell. He's making good time, he thinks, six hours in and he knows what to do, but not how to do it. There's certainly no time for mourning fallen comrades, not while Dean still has a brother to grieve.
The demon gives him a betrayed look as he sinks to his knees, and Dean wastes no time wrapping it in one of the sheets off the bed and packing the corpse into the motel dumpster. It's not a suave kill by any means, but he doesn't have time to be tidy. The ritual Antros explained to him is going to take at least nine hours between gathering supplies, setting up, and all the necessary steps, and he still has to figure out the angel grace before he can even start on that.
Cas could have told him what would trap an angel, maybe did when he was going over everything Naomi did to him in Heaven. But there had been so much information flying at them at once: trials, tablets, Sam sick-Dean didn't pay as close attention as he could have. Crowley, too, might have helped, if Dean had been smart enough to hold on to him-didn't he keep Samandriel strapped to that chair for long weeks of torture? But the demon, unsurprisingly, does not answer his summon.
He drives back to the bunker, doesn't even stop by the cold chamber to say hello to Sam before hitting the books. Three hours of research in he's still got bumpkis, because knowing where to start looking has never been his strong spot. Sam probably had the whole library memorized-if Sam were here, they would have cracked this an hour ago, had time for a blowjob and some burgers before heading out.
If Sam were here, Dean thinks bitterly, scoffing and taking a long pull from his drink.
Dean gives up on hour five, with nothing to show except for a spell that'll call the nearest angels to him. Won't force them to answer the call, won't bind them, won't hurt them, certainly isn't gonna make one sit still for him. He's got nothing, the first half of his three days already wasted.
Sam's room is just how he left it. Dean doesn't sink into the bed like he wants to, because however defeated he might be feeling, sleeping when he's only got sixty hours left is too much of a waste. He knows he'll have to go back out and do more research soon, but for now he whispers the Enochian words of the ritual, taking some heart from the fact that he still has them memorized, and sinks into the chair at Sam's desk.
There's a mess of papers and open books all over the surface, and Dean smiles faintly, thinking of Sam sitting here working. Sick from the trials, already hours into trying to crack something. That dweeb probably snuck this stuff in here after Dean had put his foot down and told Sam to go to bed and get some rest. That's just like Sam, always staying up late, reading or doing homework with a flashlight under the covers.
Apparently, Dean is feeling even more self-loathing than usual, because he picks up some of the loose sheets in Sam's scrawled handwriting, the way he wrote when he was starting to fall asleep on the job, and starts reading through them, trying to figure out what Sam was working on.
There's a bunch of stuff from various jobs: a few newspaper clippings with possible hunts, notes on tracking hellhounds from the first trial, a detailed account of his trip to Purgatory and Hell ('for the reference of future Men of Letters,' Sam had added in the cramped margins of his journal).
Dean's almost smiling as he thumbs a few pages back, and then he nearly drops the book from excitement.
There's a lot of things recorded that Sam must have tripped onto while he was poring over the Men of Letters' collection that he didn't bother telling Dean about, and amongst them is the spell that witch Don had used back when they were hunting leviathan.
Next to the instructions, Sam has annotated some of his thoughts. Very powerful and only lasts for a few days and at the very bottom of the page, circled and underlined, like he had somehow anticipated Dean would need this and not have Sam around to guide him, works on angels too?
He pockets the journal, then goes to the weapons room to pick up one of the angel blades Cas had given them and bless a vial strong enough to hold an angel.
Dean feels so confident as he prepares to head out to find an angel for the ritual that he decides to indulge a little. So he heads down the familiar hallway to the cold chamber, but he stops before letting himself in.
"What am I doing?" Dean thinks, hovering by the door, not sure why he came here. "There's no exit this way."
It's not until he's pulling the car out of the garage that he remembers that he had been going to visit Sam.
October 4, 1989
"Read it again, Dean!" Sam begs. Dean rolls his eyes. He's already read this part four times, but it's Sam's favorite, and Sam cracks up, his little body kicking with glee as Dean does the voices for the characters in the scene.
He's tired now, still has to check the salt lines on the doors and windows before going to sleep. But he can't say no outright. Sam has only just started to relax after his nightmare, which Dean knows Sam wouldn’t have had at all if Dean hadn't messed up.
He shudders thinking of the Shtriga and tries to keep his own fear in check. "Why don't you read it this time?"
Sam gives him a wide-eyed look of betrayal, and Dean laughs. "Come on, Sammy. You can do it. You know what it says."
His little brother pouts, shaking his head, but Dean pulls Sam onto his lap and holds the book out in front of Sam. Sam begins with some annoyance, but by the end of the page he's starting to push through with more enthusiasm.
"You're doing great," Dean encourages, yawning as subtly as he can. He's not really listening all that much, but Sam's broken reading is a good, calming sound. Dean knows he's the one looking out for Sam, but hearing his brother's voice makes him feel safe somehow.
It's not long before Dean feels himself falling asleep. He thinks Sam will be mad at him for that, but Sam crawls into his bed again the next night with a new book, one he doesn't have memorized, and he works his way through that one with Dean's help.
Sam reads him to sleep every night for six months, and after that, it's almost impossible to find his brother without a book in his hand.
NOW
Power shoots out of Dean, a satisfying tingling sensation as he watches the angel fall over stiff, white lightning coursing through his body. Caught as soon as he answered Dean's summons, and Dean is a little annoyed no one was around to see how smoothly that went.
"Hey there," he says, walking over to the body, looking down at it on the ground and smiling.
The angel's vessel is a young guy, brown hair and green eyes, a good square jaw that's set in a tight frown. "Hello."
"And who might you be?" Dean asks.
"My name is Gadreel," the angel says. "You are Dean Winchester."
Dean smirks. "I don't like to brag."
"Why have you restrained me?" he asks. "I answered your summons with peaceful intentions."
There's no denying Dean's curious about why the angel did come, but he doesn't have time to stop and chitchat. "Yeah, sorry in advance."
He crouches down, on level with the angel, and slices through the guy's shirt, exposing his chest. "What are you doing?" the angel asks, suddenly panicked, his voice gaining even more hysteria when he sees Dean pull the blade and vial out of his bag. "What do you intend to do?"
"Ah," Dean says guiltily. "I'm-I'm sorry. I need your grace."
"No, stop, please. I knew your friend, Castiel. I mean you well."
Dean hesitates. "Cas? You know where Cas is?"
"Cas is dead," Gadreel says. "Or might as well be. Either way, it doesn't matter. I'm stronger than he is. I can be your friend now. I can help you more than Cas could if you leave my grace intact."
"Screw you," says Dean, sinking the blade in. "Cas ain't dead."
"Please-please!" Gadreel begs as Dean slowly begins to draw the pattern that will allow his grace to filter from his chest into the vial. "I know why you are doing this. I have a better way to save your brother."
Dean digs in deeper, not liking to hear angels that don't know anything claim otherwise. This one has no right to talk about his brother, and there's no denying the sick sense of satisfaction he still gets, this many years after Hell, watching a blade slice through skin.
He feels his chest tighten with guilt and pain at the thought, reminds himself that there is a person in here, a person he is killing, and even if the angel deserves this, the vessel doesn't. But he has to do it to-
Dean pauses. Why is he doing this again?
"Sam is…" the angel is saying, but Dean tunes out everything but the name. Sam, of course. He's saving Sam. How the hell could he forget that?
He stops for a moment, lifting the blade from Gadreel's chest to his own forearm, and he carves slow and steady. SAVE SAM in big red letters, blood gathering up on each line. He's not supposed to leave himself clues, he knows, but that's one thing he can't risk forgetting. SAM he writes again below it and SAVE YOUR BROTHER.
It burns in a satisfying way, and Dean tries not to linger on that, on the reminder of the days when he was freshly made, Alastair's favorite new monster, and even Sam was no comfort to him. But, well, at least he remembers it. At least he can hold on to the memory as he pushes through the task at hand.
May 6, 2009
They drive about twenty miles out of Pontiac before Dean has to stop for gas. Neither of them has said a word, Sam sitting in the passenger's side, staring out the window. Even music feels out of place, so he leaves it off, his thoughts uninterrupted, growing uglier by the second.
By the time they get out of the car, Dean's hand is cramping from gripping the steering wheel so tight.
Sam goes in to pay, comes back out with two bottles of water and Dean's favorite candy bar, and somehow that only makes him want to punch his brother more. Everything he just did, and he thinks a fucking candy bar is gonna fix something?
"Guess you've already eaten," Dean says when Sam hands him the king-sized Payday.
Sam flinches, but he doesn't take the bait. He looks sad, but not sorry. Never sorry. So goddamn self-assured lately, and now Dean knows why. He hovers by Dean's side as Dean pumps the gas, and finally he reaches out.
Dean pulls his arm away before Sam can touch it, more repulsed by himself than by Sam, because he doesn't want to break the contact. All this, and Dean still wants Sam to touch him. Still wants to beg Sam to tell him he didn't see it, even if it's a lie, with enough conviction to make Dean believe it. He hates Sam-he really does, he hates him right now, and he still aches to get on his knees for his brother, would die and go to Hell again tomorrow for Sam, even knowing what Sam would turn into while he was gone. He still loves Sam, even this Sam. Even like this, Dean can't make himself stop loving.
And Sam does what to win that love? Sucks blood with that mouth Dean has loved kissing so many times. Chooses a demon over him. Oh, but at least he cares enough to buy a candy bar.
"Don't," Dean says. "Just don't."
Sam frowns. "Dean, I-"
"What?" Dean asks. He looks at Sam's face closely, and Sam stares back but doesn't finish his sentence.
"Nothing," says Sam, turning his back on Dean.
"You told me once that being with me made you feel like you were good," he says as Sam walks away. He swallows hard when Sam turns to look at him again. Sam had fucked Dean last night, had sucked him off like it meant something. Apparently that didn't help. "Did you think that meant you didn't actually have to be?"
Sam's eyes widen, and Dean half expects to see them go black. Finally his lips thin, and he keeps right on walking. "I'm going to take a piss."
Dean waits for Sam to turn the corner and go into the gas station bathroom before getting his cell out.
"Hey, Bobby," Dean says, not waiting for a greeting. "I need to ask you for a favor. It's about Sam."
NOW
It's nearly an hour before Dean finally hits light, and the bright white begins to shine out of Gadreel's chest. Dean grins to himself, because the design of this was delicate and any slight tremor could have screwed him up completely. But it's working, the grace begins to obey the orders Dean carved perfectly into the flesh, because for better or worse, he's still a master with a knife. One thing he can offer his brother: a steady hand.
He mutters the ritual words to himself, Sam's name mixed in, as he works, and after a few minutes, the grace begins to shine too intensely. That's when Dean realizes that he can't watch this the way Uriel could when he was doing it. It's going to burn out his eyes, and he can already feel the exposure working against him.
But then he remembers something the demon Antros had said: he's going to need every drop of grace this angel has. He has to be sure he gets every drop.
Dean can't risk this ritual on something like this, can't choose his sight over Sam. He owes his brother better than that. So he closes and covers his right eye, but the left one he keeps trained on what he's doing.
The pain builds quickly, becomes unbearable within seconds, but luckily the grace is moving fast. Nothing on Earth, not even being torn apart by hell hounds, has ever hurt as much as the piercing sting in his left eye. But Dean stays focused, playing through the pain. It’s not so bad-40 years in Hell, he at least learned how to ignore when his body was in distress. He repeats his brother's name to remind himself why he's doing this as he lets his eye burn to nothing while he half-watches the angel scream and die.
When he twists the cap onto the vial, there's no question that he has every single ounce of grace he came for. It’s full now, the vial only a few inches tall, but the weight of what's inside it making it feel like picking up a human body. Still, Dean is used to heavy lifting.
He's in agony, his eye bleeding, probably a black hole in his face, like Pamela's had been. But it's worth it, because this was the hard part and all it cost him was a little sight.
He can't go straight on to Heaven. There was something he had to do first. Dean remembers running through the steps earlier, trying to keep himself fresh without having to consult the scroll and risk losing Sam any faster than he already has. He's already lost plenty, though he couldn't say what exactly.
"Clues," he says to himself, patting his pockets.
There's the big obvious one, of course, the words on his forearm glaring up at him in red letters that still sting. But knowing that he has to save Sam isn't going to do him any good if he can't remember how. It's a risk, he knows, but he writes down the ritual chant on a piece of scrap paper and tucks it into his pocket, then sets a phone alarm to remind him to say it every four hours.
Now if only he'd thought to do something like that sooner.
Dean gets in the car, opening the glove compartment to stow the vial of angel grace until it's time to use it. Something falls out, and Dean picks it up, remembering as he looks at the photograph that he'd stashed it here for exactly this purpose. In case he needed to remember what to do before he could use the grace.
"I guess I knew I would be going in here," Dean tells himself as he inspects the picture, holding it up on his right so he can see it through the eye that isn't burnt out and patched.
It's a man on what looks like the Fourth of July. He's raising a beer to his lips as fireworks explode behind him and smiling at whoever is holding the camera in a way that makes Dean's cock stir in his jeans.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean asks only a second before it clicks and he feels sick. That's Sam. That's his Sam. How could he not recognize his Sam?
Dean narrows his eyes, determined to find the hint in this. A picture of Sam on the Fourth of July. It's nice, but Dean knows he didn't put it here to make himself feel nostalgic.
What year was it and what happened that year? He tries to think through all the Fourths they’ve celebrated, but of course, half the time all he finds is a great big nothing, and the farther back he goes the more he starts to panic.
"Sam," he says, biting his lip. "Shit, what are you trying to tell me?"
He turns it over, thinking maybe he was really stupid and wrote something out on the back. There are no instructions like he was both hoping and fearing there would be, because he could really use them, but something that obvious might be the reason he's struggling so much with his memory already. He's only halfway through his seventy-two hours. He should not be forgetting Sam already.
All the back says is a date: 7/4/2007.
Dean grins, suddenly realizing what he was trying to tell himself.
July 4, 2007
Holidays are gonna suck this year. Dean already knows that every single one will, because every single one will be his last. Last Christmas. Last New Year's. Last No We Will Not Address the Fact That It's Valentine's Day.
But this one stings more than the others will, Dean is pretty sure. It's the first big one, for starters. It's also Dean's favorite, the Fourth of July always meaning a little something more to Dean ever since he watched Sam burn down that field playing with illegal fireworks Dean bought off a truck from a guy named Aloysius.
Secretly, Dean has been using them to mark precious time. Last year will go down in history as the first Fourth since he got Sam back. This year was supposed to be the second. Instead, it's the beginning of a long and bloody end.
Dean would have been happy to ignore that and go on enjoying the ride, but Sam's not letting him ignore anything. He hasn't said a word, of course. Sam has been committed to the Make Dean Happy for His Last Year campaign with the enthusiasm he once reserved for the Have Stupid Bangs and Whine About Dad approach to life. He won't say anything to upset Dean, but he doesn't need to.
Sam is sad. Not in his usual angsty way, not in the open way he had been right after Jess died. Now Sam is quietly and completely devastated. Trying so hard to make himself believe he can save Dean, but there's no hiding what he really feels. Dean knows parts of his brother even Sam doesn't.
It's enough to make a guy feel guilty. Not sorry, not when the image of Sam's dead body is branded into Dean's memories for life. Just guilty.
"You're quiet," Sam says, taking a sip from his beer and glancing at Dean. "You okay?"
"Yeah, of course." Dean grins. "Best day of the year, Sammy. Explosions, alien invasions, and all the apple pie a man could eat."
"You're unstable," Sam mutters.
He doesn't look at Dean, just keeps his eyes trained on the sky, even though there won't be fireworks for another fifteen minutes. Sam's always loved watching the stars.
Now, Dean takes advantage of his brother's distraction to memorize every little detail: the way Sam's throat moves when he swallows his beer, the stubble on his cheek, the beads of sweat on his neck, a small constellation of moles tucked behind Sam's ear. All things worth dying for.
"I'm gonna get another beer," says Dean, hopping off the hood of the Impala. "You want one?"
"I'm good," Sam says, still not looking at him.
Dean grins, mischief coursing through him as he opens the back seat of the car. Not for a drink but for something much better, and Sam won't see it coming.
At the first bright flash of light, Sam blinks with confusion, looking down as his eyebrows knit together. "What the hell?"
The Polaroid shoots out a picture and Dean doesn't bother looking at it before snapping another, this one way too close as Sam seizes forward to grab the camera.
"Just trying to preserve special holiday memories," Dean says innocently, shaking the picture out and waiting for an image to appear.
Sam's nostril takes up most of the bottom left of the frame, and Dean doubles over laughing so hard he barely notices when Sam steals the camera and starts snapping away for revenge. Then the fireworks start and Sam gets distracted, pushing the camera back into Dean's hand and returning to his seat on the hood. Dean follows him, lifting the camera one last time.
"Hey, Sam, I like the way you drink that beer."
Sam turns to him with a smile that's a mix of annoyed and endeared and a little bit of a promise of what he's gonna do when he gets Dean in the backseat.
That makes Dean set the camera aside pretty quickly, and he puts his hand in Sam's lap, slowly sliding up until he's palming at Sam's groin.
They don't make it through the fireworks before they're both too horny, before Dean has wrestled Sam into the grass and he's pushing Sam's shirt up, his fingers moving over the newly-raised skin of his tattoo. Dean ducks his head down, licking around the edges. He's got one just like it, and yeah, they were put there for a practical reason, but that doesn't change the fact that thinking of it thrills Dean.
He pulls back, fingers moving along the devil's trap. And then it hits him, and he's too stupid to stop himself before he says, "This'll be here longer than I will."
Sam freezes under him, his expression changing from turned on to angry. He pushes Dean off of him, rises to his feet, and slams the door to the car when he gets in. Dean lets him have some time to cool off-it was a shitty thing to say and Sam is right to be pissed-sips his beer and watches the grand finale in the sky.
When he finally gets back in the driver's seat, Sam has the Polaroids in his hands, and Dean can see tear tracks on his cheek.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he says. "It wasn't funny."
He tries to reach out, to brush his fingers on the back of Sam's neck to reassure him, but Sam pulls away. He drops the pictures onto his lap, wipes at his eyes, and turns to look out the window. "You keep doing shit so I'll remember you, Dean," he says. "You really think I'm gonna forget? I wish-I wish I could forget."
NOW
The guy at the tattoo parlor gives Dean a long stare, his expression deeply critical. Probably trying to decide if Dean is too drunk or crazy to ink. Which is fair, Dean has a haphazard, bloody cotton patch over one eye and his right arm is still dripping blood.
Dean pushes the paper at him, repeating himself. "All you have to do is draw this on my wrist. A thousand bucks. I will pay in cash."
Finally, the man nods, leading Dean over to the chair. He works quietly and competently, careful to honor every swirl and line on the paper in front of him.
"Who's Sam?" the guy asks at some point, inclining his head down at Dean's wrist. "Don't get too many people walking in here with fresh cuts like that on their wrist."
Dean has an awkward time trying to see what the man is pointing to, has to turn his head at an angle so his right eye can catch sight of his other arm, the one not being worked on, and he sees fresh wounds, all variations on the same theme. He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "I have no idea."
The tattoo artist makes a noncommittal noise but keeps working and in another hour, Dean is paying and walking out, freshly marked. He gets into the car and drives until he reaches a long, empty stretch of road, and then he pulls the car over.
Who's Sam? he thinks, tracing the bumped scars on his forearm. Who is Sam, why do I have to-?
SAVE YOUR BROTHER another one says, and Dean focuses on it until his eye is swimming, until his head hurts and he has the almost amusing thought that he's going to burn that eye out too if he stares any harder. It feels like forever before he remembers a brother. He remembers having a brother.
His phone starts buzzing, an alarm that tells him to read something he will find in his shirt pocket, and then he remembers what he's doing, too.
Dean opens the door, pulling himself out of the car before he does something he'll regret, like driving it straight into a tree. Over an hour that time. He forgot Sam altogether for over an hour. And it's only going to get worse.
He feels his stomach turning, like he's going to vomit, imagining the time getting longer, stretching on forever. No Sam. No memory of Sam. Oh, sure, he knew it was a part of this, but he still wasn't ready for the suffocating terror he would feel when someone asks Who's Sam? and he can't find an answer.
He takes his pocket knife out and pulls his shirt up, burying the blade deep in his hip. Sam's name. Pulls it up to his other arm and carves Sam in there, too. His ribs, his thigh, he bleeds out into that field, every cut bringing him closer. Because if there comes a day when he can't remember his brother-really can't remember, not just an hour or two, but ever-well. He is going to know what he's missing. He is going to look in the mirror every day and see how much he had to throw away.
'SAVE SAMMY,' he cuts into his left calf, 'OR DIE.' It's advice he sincerely hopes he'll take, if it comes to that.
Then he puts his clothes back on, feels the tacky blood start to seep into the fabric. He doesn't have time to change or worry about closing up the wounds. He has to finish, and he has to finish soon.
ON TO PART THREE
or
BACK TO MASTERPOST
PART TWO
February 13, 2007
"You want me?" Sam is half naked, lying on his back with his legs open and his hard cock showing through his boxers. He's staring up at Dean with this come-fuck-me expression that could melt an iceberg.
All Dean can think is what a stupid question, but he doesn't waste his breath saying it. In the space of a second he's already edging onto the bed and Sam is sucking that breath out of him instead.
"Tell me, Dean," Sam begs. "Tell me you want me."
This right here, this is Dean's favorite Sam. Unashamed to beg and pawing at Dean everywhere with his big, capable hands. So needy for Dean's cock, so slutty to get fucked, and it's a nice change, because if he's being honest, Dean's usually the one grasping desperately, trying to keep his brother too close.
"Wanna do all kinds of things to you," Dean promises, turning his face enough to bite at Sam's jaw.
Sam shakes his head, but he leans into Dean at the same time. "Tell me you want me."
"Don't be stupid, Sammy," Dean says. "You know I do."
Sam beams at that, like a damn kid on Christmas, like he still does every time, and Dean tries not to wonder when it'll get old for Sam. A long time from now, hopefully, cause Dean sure isn't tiring of that smile.
"Want you to fuck me," Sam tells him, and Dean huffs out a laugh as he starts to suck at the other side of Sam's neck. That was pretty clear already, but there's Dean's little brother for you. Always running his mouth, except when Dean's got it stuffed full.
He slips his hand down past the elastic of Sam's boxers to feel that big, hard dick. Sam groans as soon as Dean is touching him, and Dean reaches even lower, slipping one dry finger into Sam.
"Hold-hold on," Sam gasps after Dean fingers him for a few minutes. "Not gonna get anywhere like this."
He pulls away, leaving Dean on his knees at the foot of the bed, cold air where there was too much sweat and body heat a moment ago. He doesn't even think to be upset. There's no doubting Sam has exactly the same thing on his mind that Dean does, and it's not a bad consolation prize once Sam swings his legs off the end of the bed and pulls his boxers off.
Dean keeps his eyes on Sam's ass as he ruffles through a duffel for lube and comes back with no condom, a clear invitation for Dean to fuck him skin-to-skin, leave Sam a dripping mess. It won't be the first time, but it's not something they do often, not usually a risk worth taking.
But it's been weeks since anyone other than Sam has been near him, and Dean isn't about to turn down the offer if Sam wants it. He has to wonder, though, what exactly it is driving Sam tonight. Not that his little brother being horny is new to Dean, but Sam's been itching for it all day, and Dean's not sure how, but it feels like this has something to do with being possessed by Meg. He's not a genius when it comes to reading people's feelings, but he's pretty good at figuring Sam out, and there's no way Sam has dealt with the guilt yet.
This, fucking Dean every chance he gets? This is a happy-Sam thing to do, so while he's not complaining, he's a little surprised it's happening so soon after. He'd expected Sam to be moping much longer than this.
Sam tosses Dean the lube, and Dean squeezes some out onto his fingers. By the time he looks up again, Sam is already on the bed, on all fours in front of Dean.
"That how you want it?" Dean asks, shuffling so he's closer to Sam, so he can tease two fingers from Sam's balls up to his hole and push in roughly.
Sam reaches forward, bracing himself on the headboard, and shakes his head. "Just open me up like this."
Dean does, enjoying the view while he has it. Once they're both satisfied that Sam is loose enough, Dean backs off, letting Sam choose a position. Sam catches his wrist without turning and leads Dean forward, until they're chest to back on their knees.
"Like this," Sam says, grabbing Dean's thigh and pulling their bodies flush together. "Want you just like this."
Dean kisses him, kisses down his neck until Sam lifts his arm and Dean tucks his head under. He mouths at Sam's chest, tongue passing over the raised skin of Sam's nipple.
Sam buries a hand in his hair as Dean sucks at him, and Dean wants to touch, too. He has so much bare chest here that's all his to do what he wants to. So he splays his palm over Sam's heart and runs his hand all the way down, just slow enough to get a feel for his brother, all the way to Sam's strong thighs.
"God, Dean," Sam whines, throwing his head back. "Get in me."
His cock is trapped between them, already pressing against Sam's cheeks. Dean doesn't even have to stop feeling Sam up to force his other hand between them, guiding himself into Sam.
"Jesus," Sam pants, pushing back so that Dean is all the way inside of him. "Jesus, yes, fuck. Yes."
Dean grunts to let Sam know he's on the same page, pumps his hips forward fast and deep. This is a good angle, Sam pretty much seated on his cock so Dean can go in so far he thinks he might never get out, and that's fine with him.
It does make kissing awkward, but Sam's not letting that stop him, turning his head back so Dean can find his mouth over his shoulder. They make out as Dean digs his fingers into Sam's sides, holding on hard and bringing him in over and over. It's rougher than he means to be, but he can't help it. Sam is a tight, hot vice around his dick and he's still begging, like Dean isn't giving it to him as hard as he can take. Like he wants more.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam says, pushing his ass back and up in a way that makes them both shout. He falls forward, onto all fours, and Dean follows him down, glues his chest to Sam's back again because he doesn't like space between them, not after being so close, not even when his dick is still all the way up inside of his brother.
"Dean, Dean." Sam's hands are bunched in the sheets, his forehead dropping to the mattress as he keeps working his ass up. "Fuck! Fuck me, yeah. Come on."
"You want more?" Dean asks, and even knowing Sam likes to be ridden hard, he's a little surprised Sam nods. But it's good, it's hot. It's so fucking hot that he feels a little possessed himself, unable to restrain himself from pushing Sam's head down and holding it there, slotting his other hand under Sam's arm and grasping his shoulder so he can really pull himself up and in, and that's it. He can't go any deeper. He can't fuck Sam harder than this. It's too perfect to bear.
"Good," Sam whimpers. "Ow-ah. Fuck. Dean. It's so good."
"God, you like that, huh?" Sam nods, and Dean keeps going. "You take it so good, Sammy. So damn good on my cock, I can't even tell you."
Sam is beyond talking now. He's panting up a storm every time Dean shoves into him, grinding his cock on the mattress.
"You can come, Sam," Dean tells him. "You wanna touch yourself? I'm not-not gonna last much-"
"Like this." Sam lets go of the sheets and reaches back with one hand, gripping Dean's ass as he thrusts. "Give it to me like this and I'm-I'll. Yeah, God. I'll get there."
"No way," Dean says, hips working even faster just at the thought. He's never gotten Sam off like that before. Isn't completely sure he believes he can do it, but damned if he isn't gonna try.
"Come on, come on," Sam pleads. "Let me have it."
One, two, three, four, and Dean sinks into Sam, balls deep, letting his dick pulse inside his brother. Sam gasps, his ass milking everything out of Dean as he keeps working his hips.
He rests there for a while, cock still hard as a few last waves of pleasure finish him off. But Sam is still going for it, humping away like a horny teenager, and Dean's a little disappointed he couldn't get Sam off untouched, but he'll take pity.
"Let me touch you," he offers, trying to fit his hand in, but Sam catches his wrist, holds onto it and brings it up above his head.
"Kiss me," says Sam. "And I'll-ah. Ah, fuck, yeah."
Dean catches those cries with his mouth, licks his way into Sam, and to his surprise, it's only a few more seconds before Sam actually does it, comes off of nothing but Dean's now-soft dick inside him and the limited friction he's getting from fucking the mattress.
For a while, Dean stays right where he is, weighing Sam down with his body like a human shield, tracing things he'll never say into the sweat on Sam's back. Then Sam grabs his hand and weaves their fingers together, tugging Dean's arm so it's wrapped around his middle.
He takes the hint, moving enough to the side that he isn't crushing Sam but keeping his face resting on Sam's shoulder blade and his arm hugged around where his brother put it.
They're quiet for a long time, first regaining their breath, then too content in the post-sex haze to really think of anything to say.
Or at least that's why Dean's quiet, and he thinks it's the same for Sam until his brother crosses his arms on his pillow and props his head on top of them. "Hey, Dean."
"Mmm?"
"You're glad we do this, right?" There's a short pause and he adds, "You don't regret it?"
Fuck, he thinks. Usually he's ready for this-Sam tries to do this nearly every damn time they fuck-but he'd kind of thought he'd fucked Sam too thoroughly to have to worry about dodging it tonight.
"Oh, come on, Sam." He sits up. "We really gonna do this? Man, I'm tired."
"I'm just trying to-"
"Talk about it," Dean finishes for him. "I know. Everyone knows. Everyone's grandma knows."
Sam flips over onto his back so he can look up at Dean. "I just want to know we're on the same page about this."
"We're in the same bed, aren't we?"
"Yeah, but-"
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Doesn't this ever get old to you? It always ends the same, so why keep bringing it up?"
"Because I need to know," Sam answers. "I deserve to know."
"Know what? The situation is pretty black and white from where I'm sitting."
"Do you regret doing this with me?"
Dean laughs dismissively. "I come back every night, what does that tell you?"
"That's not what I asked," says Sam. "There are lots of things you do over and over that I know for a fact you're ashamed of. And you deal with them exactly the same way you deal with this. You drink. You refuse to talk about it-"
Dean rolls his eyes and gets out of bed, grabbing the first shirt he sees off the floor and pulling it on over his head.
"You do that."
"Do what?" Dean asks as he scans the room for boxers, his jeans, anything that'll make him just a little less naked.
"Pretend it didn't happen. Scramble to get dressed as if you being decent is going to change the fact that you were naked in bed with me a minute ago."
He winces-guilty and obvious-but doesn't turn to look at his brother. "When are you gonna stop bothering me with this, Sam? You're driving me crazy."
"Today. Right now." It sounds too good to be true, and then Sam continues, "We'll never do it again, and I won't bother you about it anymore."
"C'mon," Dean says, almost laughing at how goddamn dramatic his brother is. "I didn’t say I wanted to stop."
"I need you to tell me you don't regret this, Dean. In those words. I need to hear it." Sam pauses, and Dean's about to try derailing the conversation again, but then his brother's voice goes soft. Nervous and insecure, and Sam-insecure was never Sam's problem. "Look, I don't know why you do this with me. If it's just because I'm here and it feels good or, god forbid, if you only do it because you think it's what I want-"
Dean freezes with only one foot in his jeans and turns to face his brother. "It isn't? You don't want it?"
"Not like this."
Infuriatingly unhelpful, that answer. "Like what then? Me on the bottom? I'm cool with that, too. Never said I wasn't."
"No, fuck, Dean-" Sam sighs like Dean is the biggest idiot he's ever met and wipes a hand over his mouth. "Not if you regret it."
"Why's that so important to you? Even if I do, it's not like it's stopping me."
"I can't tell you," Sam says, looking down at his hands, and there it is again, that self-conscious little edge Dean isn't used to hearing from his brother. It's amazing how much he looks like a kid for a moment. "You'll make fun of me."
"I won't," Dean says.
"You always do." He opens his mouth, but Sam lifts a hand, cutting him off, "Even when you promise not to."
"Well, just this one time, I really mean it. I swear on pie." Dean crosses his heart and steps closer to the bed, trying to look earnest.
Sam laughs a little, thank god, just enough to lighten the mood. Just enough for his dimples to show and make Dean's chest tighten and expand both at the same time. Maybe he'll make it through this conversation after all.
Finally, Sam decides to talk, and he looks up, right into Dean's eyes. "This is the only thing that makes me feel good. And I don't mean feel good like sex, because obviously, but…this is the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I'm good. Like I can really be good and stay good. No matter what Dad told you, or what all those demons say, or what my destiny is. I don't know who I am anymore, Dean. And I'm scared. I'm so scared they're right about me. I worry about it all the time. And then you…"
He looks away, his cheeks burning red. "You look at me like you believe I'm better than I ever could be. You touch me and I can't remember anyone else, and I think maybe-just maybe-I can fight whatever's inside me, for your sake if not my own. So if this is something bad you do because it feels good, if you look back on it the next day as some dark, fucked up mistake we keep making, then it's a lie. And I have no idea what I'm going to hold on to."
Dean swallows hard after Sam finishes, and the silence that follows those words hangs heavy between them. He moves to take a seat at the foot of Sam's bed.
"One time," he says, holding up a finger. "I'm going to say this one time, and you are never going to ask again, got it?"
Sam nods, holding his gaze until Dean has to look away. He can't handle seeing Sam's face and being honest at the same time. Not if Sam reacts the way he should. Not if he realizes once Dean admits this out loud that Dean is right.
"I wake up every morning expecting you to change your mind. To realize you deserve better than to be stuck with me your whole life. Like you did when you left for Stanford. I'd thought maybe you wouldn't notice back then, but you did, and then you were gone.
"I wake up every morning with this dread, convinced you'll have figured it out overnight that you can do better. Confused when you haven't, because it's so goddamn obvious to me, and it always has been.
"I run away in the morning because if it is that day, I don't want you to feel guilty for leaving me, or like you have to stay for my sake. I don’t want you to know how much it's gonna crush me. How bad it was last time. I want you to go chase something worthy of you, college again or a girl like Jess or a family, whatever you want that isn't being shackled to my sorry ass. I fucked it up last time. I was too selfish to tell you I was proud-which I was-or give you an out that wouldn't push you away completely. So I could still have you just a little bit. Once or twice a year, a phone call every now and then to hear you're okay. If I'd had those things while you were at school-it doesn't matter. My point is, when you leave next time, I don't want it to be hating me. I know it's gonna happen. I'm trying to be ready for it."
"Dean, I never hated-"
Dean shakes his head, puts his hand on the lump of comforter over Sam's feet to silence his brother, because he won't get this out if he stops now, and Sam said he needed to hear it. He just wishes his voice wasn't breaking. "If you're asking do I regret having you every second until you decide I'm not enough? I will never be sorry, Sammy. I've tried so hard to make myself feel ashamed for touching you, but I'm not and I'm not going to be. I would have to be an idiot to turn you away as long as you think I can make you happy."
There's no rain of pink confetti from the ceiling when Dean finishes, but he still feels like he's trapped in a damn Jennifer Lopez movie. It's awkward and lame and fucking embarrassing, and that's without letting himself consider that Sam might be done with him now that he's come clean.
He looks up and sees the way Sam is watching him. He can't read that expression, not completely, but Sam pulls him in for a kiss.
"You're really stupid," Sam whispers softly against his lips, "if you think I left because you weren't good enough-or ever will."
Dean opens his mouth to put an end to this, but Sam covers his lips with his fingers.
"I know," he says fondly. "The conversation's over and we're not having it again. But you're so wrong. I want you to know that. I'll make you see it someday."
Dean could say the same about Sam and the lunatic notion that he could ever go bad. But he doesn't. He tries to show Sam instead.
NOW
He prays to Cas for help as he slits Antros's throat. He's been praying to Cas every day since Sam first got sick, so it's not really a surprise when there's still no response. The obvious explanation is too depressing to even think about, so Dean doesn't let himself dwell. He's making good time, he thinks, six hours in and he knows what to do, but not how to do it. There's certainly no time for mourning fallen comrades, not while Dean still has a brother to grieve.
The demon gives him a betrayed look as he sinks to his knees, and Dean wastes no time wrapping it in one of the sheets off the bed and packing the corpse into the motel dumpster. It's not a suave kill by any means, but he doesn't have time to be tidy. The ritual Antros explained to him is going to take at least nine hours between gathering supplies, setting up, and all the necessary steps, and he still has to figure out the angel grace before he can even start on that.
Cas could have told him what would trap an angel, maybe did when he was going over everything Naomi did to him in Heaven. But there had been so much information flying at them at once: trials, tablets, Sam sick-Dean didn't pay as close attention as he could have. Crowley, too, might have helped, if Dean had been smart enough to hold on to him-didn't he keep Samandriel strapped to that chair for long weeks of torture? But the demon, unsurprisingly, does not answer his summon.
He drives back to the bunker, doesn't even stop by the cold chamber to say hello to Sam before hitting the books. Three hours of research in he's still got bumpkis, because knowing where to start looking has never been his strong spot. Sam probably had the whole library memorized-if Sam were here, they would have cracked this an hour ago, had time for a blowjob and some burgers before heading out.
If Sam were here, Dean thinks bitterly, scoffing and taking a long pull from his drink.
Dean gives up on hour five, with nothing to show except for a spell that'll call the nearest angels to him. Won't force them to answer the call, won't bind them, won't hurt them, certainly isn't gonna make one sit still for him. He's got nothing, the first half of his three days already wasted.
Sam's room is just how he left it. Dean doesn't sink into the bed like he wants to, because however defeated he might be feeling, sleeping when he's only got sixty hours left is too much of a waste. He knows he'll have to go back out and do more research soon, but for now he whispers the Enochian words of the ritual, taking some heart from the fact that he still has them memorized, and sinks into the chair at Sam's desk.
There's a mess of papers and open books all over the surface, and Dean smiles faintly, thinking of Sam sitting here working. Sick from the trials, already hours into trying to crack something. That dweeb probably snuck this stuff in here after Dean had put his foot down and told Sam to go to bed and get some rest. That's just like Sam, always staying up late, reading or doing homework with a flashlight under the covers.
Apparently, Dean is feeling even more self-loathing than usual, because he picks up some of the loose sheets in Sam's scrawled handwriting, the way he wrote when he was starting to fall asleep on the job, and starts reading through them, trying to figure out what Sam was working on.
There's a bunch of stuff from various jobs: a few newspaper clippings with possible hunts, notes on tracking hellhounds from the first trial, a detailed account of his trip to Purgatory and Hell ('for the reference of future Men of Letters,' Sam had added in the cramped margins of his journal).
Dean's almost smiling as he thumbs a few pages back, and then he nearly drops the book from excitement.
There's a lot of things recorded that Sam must have tripped onto while he was poring over the Men of Letters' collection that he didn't bother telling Dean about, and amongst them is the spell that witch Don had used back when they were hunting leviathan.
Next to the instructions, Sam has annotated some of his thoughts. Very powerful and only lasts for a few days and at the very bottom of the page, circled and underlined, like he had somehow anticipated Dean would need this and not have Sam around to guide him, works on angels too?
He pockets the journal, then goes to the weapons room to pick up one of the angel blades Cas had given them and bless a vial strong enough to hold an angel.
Dean feels so confident as he prepares to head out to find an angel for the ritual that he decides to indulge a little. So he heads down the familiar hallway to the cold chamber, but he stops before letting himself in.
"What am I doing?" Dean thinks, hovering by the door, not sure why he came here. "There's no exit this way."
It's not until he's pulling the car out of the garage that he remembers that he had been going to visit Sam.
October 4, 1989
"Read it again, Dean!" Sam begs. Dean rolls his eyes. He's already read this part four times, but it's Sam's favorite, and Sam cracks up, his little body kicking with glee as Dean does the voices for the characters in the scene.
He's tired now, still has to check the salt lines on the doors and windows before going to sleep. But he can't say no outright. Sam has only just started to relax after his nightmare, which Dean knows Sam wouldn’t have had at all if Dean hadn't messed up.
He shudders thinking of the Shtriga and tries to keep his own fear in check. "Why don't you read it this time?"
Sam gives him a wide-eyed look of betrayal, and Dean laughs. "Come on, Sammy. You can do it. You know what it says."
His little brother pouts, shaking his head, but Dean pulls Sam onto his lap and holds the book out in front of Sam. Sam begins with some annoyance, but by the end of the page he's starting to push through with more enthusiasm.
"You're doing great," Dean encourages, yawning as subtly as he can. He's not really listening all that much, but Sam's broken reading is a good, calming sound. Dean knows he's the one looking out for Sam, but hearing his brother's voice makes him feel safe somehow.
It's not long before Dean feels himself falling asleep. He thinks Sam will be mad at him for that, but Sam crawls into his bed again the next night with a new book, one he doesn't have memorized, and he works his way through that one with Dean's help.
Sam reads him to sleep every night for six months, and after that, it's almost impossible to find his brother without a book in his hand.
NOW
Power shoots out of Dean, a satisfying tingling sensation as he watches the angel fall over stiff, white lightning coursing through his body. Caught as soon as he answered Dean's summons, and Dean is a little annoyed no one was around to see how smoothly that went.
"Hey there," he says, walking over to the body, looking down at it on the ground and smiling.
The angel's vessel is a young guy, brown hair and green eyes, a good square jaw that's set in a tight frown. "Hello."
"And who might you be?" Dean asks.
"My name is Gadreel," the angel says. "You are Dean Winchester."
Dean smirks. "I don't like to brag."
"Why have you restrained me?" he asks. "I answered your summons with peaceful intentions."
There's no denying Dean's curious about why the angel did come, but he doesn't have time to stop and chitchat. "Yeah, sorry in advance."
He crouches down, on level with the angel, and slices through the guy's shirt, exposing his chest. "What are you doing?" the angel asks, suddenly panicked, his voice gaining even more hysteria when he sees Dean pull the blade and vial out of his bag. "What do you intend to do?"
"Ah," Dean says guiltily. "I'm-I'm sorry. I need your grace."
"No, stop, please. I knew your friend, Castiel. I mean you well."
Dean hesitates. "Cas? You know where Cas is?"
"Cas is dead," Gadreel says. "Or might as well be. Either way, it doesn't matter. I'm stronger than he is. I can be your friend now. I can help you more than Cas could if you leave my grace intact."
"Screw you," says Dean, sinking the blade in. "Cas ain't dead."
"Please-please!" Gadreel begs as Dean slowly begins to draw the pattern that will allow his grace to filter from his chest into the vial. "I know why you are doing this. I have a better way to save your brother."
Dean digs in deeper, not liking to hear angels that don't know anything claim otherwise. This one has no right to talk about his brother, and there's no denying the sick sense of satisfaction he still gets, this many years after Hell, watching a blade slice through skin.
He feels his chest tighten with guilt and pain at the thought, reminds himself that there is a person in here, a person he is killing, and even if the angel deserves this, the vessel doesn't. But he has to do it to-
Dean pauses. Why is he doing this again?
"Sam is…" the angel is saying, but Dean tunes out everything but the name. Sam, of course. He's saving Sam. How the hell could he forget that?
He stops for a moment, lifting the blade from Gadreel's chest to his own forearm, and he carves slow and steady. SAVE SAM in big red letters, blood gathering up on each line. He's not supposed to leave himself clues, he knows, but that's one thing he can't risk forgetting. SAM he writes again below it and SAVE YOUR BROTHER.
It burns in a satisfying way, and Dean tries not to linger on that, on the reminder of the days when he was freshly made, Alastair's favorite new monster, and even Sam was no comfort to him. But, well, at least he remembers it. At least he can hold on to the memory as he pushes through the task at hand.
May 6, 2009
They drive about twenty miles out of Pontiac before Dean has to stop for gas. Neither of them has said a word, Sam sitting in the passenger's side, staring out the window. Even music feels out of place, so he leaves it off, his thoughts uninterrupted, growing uglier by the second.
By the time they get out of the car, Dean's hand is cramping from gripping the steering wheel so tight.
Sam goes in to pay, comes back out with two bottles of water and Dean's favorite candy bar, and somehow that only makes him want to punch his brother more. Everything he just did, and he thinks a fucking candy bar is gonna fix something?
"Guess you've already eaten," Dean says when Sam hands him the king-sized Payday.
Sam flinches, but he doesn't take the bait. He looks sad, but not sorry. Never sorry. So goddamn self-assured lately, and now Dean knows why. He hovers by Dean's side as Dean pumps the gas, and finally he reaches out.
Dean pulls his arm away before Sam can touch it, more repulsed by himself than by Sam, because he doesn't want to break the contact. All this, and Dean still wants Sam to touch him. Still wants to beg Sam to tell him he didn't see it, even if it's a lie, with enough conviction to make Dean believe it. He hates Sam-he really does, he hates him right now, and he still aches to get on his knees for his brother, would die and go to Hell again tomorrow for Sam, even knowing what Sam would turn into while he was gone. He still loves Sam, even this Sam. Even like this, Dean can't make himself stop loving.
And Sam does what to win that love? Sucks blood with that mouth Dean has loved kissing so many times. Chooses a demon over him. Oh, but at least he cares enough to buy a candy bar.
"Don't," Dean says. "Just don't."
Sam frowns. "Dean, I-"
"What?" Dean asks. He looks at Sam's face closely, and Sam stares back but doesn't finish his sentence.
"Nothing," says Sam, turning his back on Dean.
"You told me once that being with me made you feel like you were good," he says as Sam walks away. He swallows hard when Sam turns to look at him again. Sam had fucked Dean last night, had sucked him off like it meant something. Apparently that didn't help. "Did you think that meant you didn't actually have to be?"
Sam's eyes widen, and Dean half expects to see them go black. Finally his lips thin, and he keeps right on walking. "I'm going to take a piss."
Dean waits for Sam to turn the corner and go into the gas station bathroom before getting his cell out.
"Hey, Bobby," Dean says, not waiting for a greeting. "I need to ask you for a favor. It's about Sam."
NOW
It's nearly an hour before Dean finally hits light, and the bright white begins to shine out of Gadreel's chest. Dean grins to himself, because the design of this was delicate and any slight tremor could have screwed him up completely. But it's working, the grace begins to obey the orders Dean carved perfectly into the flesh, because for better or worse, he's still a master with a knife. One thing he can offer his brother: a steady hand.
He mutters the ritual words to himself, Sam's name mixed in, as he works, and after a few minutes, the grace begins to shine too intensely. That's when Dean realizes that he can't watch this the way Uriel could when he was doing it. It's going to burn out his eyes, and he can already feel the exposure working against him.
But then he remembers something the demon Antros had said: he's going to need every drop of grace this angel has. He has to be sure he gets every drop.
Dean can't risk this ritual on something like this, can't choose his sight over Sam. He owes his brother better than that. So he closes and covers his right eye, but the left one he keeps trained on what he's doing.
The pain builds quickly, becomes unbearable within seconds, but luckily the grace is moving fast. Nothing on Earth, not even being torn apart by hell hounds, has ever hurt as much as the piercing sting in his left eye. But Dean stays focused, playing through the pain. It’s not so bad-40 years in Hell, he at least learned how to ignore when his body was in distress. He repeats his brother's name to remind himself why he's doing this as he lets his eye burn to nothing while he half-watches the angel scream and die.
When he twists the cap onto the vial, there's no question that he has every single ounce of grace he came for. It’s full now, the vial only a few inches tall, but the weight of what's inside it making it feel like picking up a human body. Still, Dean is used to heavy lifting.
He's in agony, his eye bleeding, probably a black hole in his face, like Pamela's had been. But it's worth it, because this was the hard part and all it cost him was a little sight.
He can't go straight on to Heaven. There was something he had to do first. Dean remembers running through the steps earlier, trying to keep himself fresh without having to consult the scroll and risk losing Sam any faster than he already has. He's already lost plenty, though he couldn't say what exactly.
"Clues," he says to himself, patting his pockets.
There's the big obvious one, of course, the words on his forearm glaring up at him in red letters that still sting. But knowing that he has to save Sam isn't going to do him any good if he can't remember how. It's a risk, he knows, but he writes down the ritual chant on a piece of scrap paper and tucks it into his pocket, then sets a phone alarm to remind him to say it every four hours.
Now if only he'd thought to do something like that sooner.
Dean gets in the car, opening the glove compartment to stow the vial of angel grace until it's time to use it. Something falls out, and Dean picks it up, remembering as he looks at the photograph that he'd stashed it here for exactly this purpose. In case he needed to remember what to do before he could use the grace.
"I guess I knew I would be going in here," Dean tells himself as he inspects the picture, holding it up on his right so he can see it through the eye that isn't burnt out and patched.
It's a man on what looks like the Fourth of July. He's raising a beer to his lips as fireworks explode behind him and smiling at whoever is holding the camera in a way that makes Dean's cock stir in his jeans.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean asks only a second before it clicks and he feels sick. That's Sam. That's his Sam. How could he not recognize his Sam?
Dean narrows his eyes, determined to find the hint in this. A picture of Sam on the Fourth of July. It's nice, but Dean knows he didn't put it here to make himself feel nostalgic.
What year was it and what happened that year? He tries to think through all the Fourths they’ve celebrated, but of course, half the time all he finds is a great big nothing, and the farther back he goes the more he starts to panic.
"Sam," he says, biting his lip. "Shit, what are you trying to tell me?"
He turns it over, thinking maybe he was really stupid and wrote something out on the back. There are no instructions like he was both hoping and fearing there would be, because he could really use them, but something that obvious might be the reason he's struggling so much with his memory already. He's only halfway through his seventy-two hours. He should not be forgetting Sam already.
All the back says is a date: 7/4/2007.
Dean grins, suddenly realizing what he was trying to tell himself.
July 4, 2007
Holidays are gonna suck this year. Dean already knows that every single one will, because every single one will be his last. Last Christmas. Last New Year's. Last No We Will Not Address the Fact That It's Valentine's Day.
But this one stings more than the others will, Dean is pretty sure. It's the first big one, for starters. It's also Dean's favorite, the Fourth of July always meaning a little something more to Dean ever since he watched Sam burn down that field playing with illegal fireworks Dean bought off a truck from a guy named Aloysius.
Secretly, Dean has been using them to mark precious time. Last year will go down in history as the first Fourth since he got Sam back. This year was supposed to be the second. Instead, it's the beginning of a long and bloody end.
Dean would have been happy to ignore that and go on enjoying the ride, but Sam's not letting him ignore anything. He hasn't said a word, of course. Sam has been committed to the Make Dean Happy for His Last Year campaign with the enthusiasm he once reserved for the Have Stupid Bangs and Whine About Dad approach to life. He won't say anything to upset Dean, but he doesn't need to.
Sam is sad. Not in his usual angsty way, not in the open way he had been right after Jess died. Now Sam is quietly and completely devastated. Trying so hard to make himself believe he can save Dean, but there's no hiding what he really feels. Dean knows parts of his brother even Sam doesn't.
It's enough to make a guy feel guilty. Not sorry, not when the image of Sam's dead body is branded into Dean's memories for life. Just guilty.
"You're quiet," Sam says, taking a sip from his beer and glancing at Dean. "You okay?"
"Yeah, of course." Dean grins. "Best day of the year, Sammy. Explosions, alien invasions, and all the apple pie a man could eat."
"You're unstable," Sam mutters.
He doesn't look at Dean, just keeps his eyes trained on the sky, even though there won't be fireworks for another fifteen minutes. Sam's always loved watching the stars.
Now, Dean takes advantage of his brother's distraction to memorize every little detail: the way Sam's throat moves when he swallows his beer, the stubble on his cheek, the beads of sweat on his neck, a small constellation of moles tucked behind Sam's ear. All things worth dying for.
"I'm gonna get another beer," says Dean, hopping off the hood of the Impala. "You want one?"
"I'm good," Sam says, still not looking at him.
Dean grins, mischief coursing through him as he opens the back seat of the car. Not for a drink but for something much better, and Sam won't see it coming.
At the first bright flash of light, Sam blinks with confusion, looking down as his eyebrows knit together. "What the hell?"
The Polaroid shoots out a picture and Dean doesn't bother looking at it before snapping another, this one way too close as Sam seizes forward to grab the camera.
"Just trying to preserve special holiday memories," Dean says innocently, shaking the picture out and waiting for an image to appear.
Sam's nostril takes up most of the bottom left of the frame, and Dean doubles over laughing so hard he barely notices when Sam steals the camera and starts snapping away for revenge. Then the fireworks start and Sam gets distracted, pushing the camera back into Dean's hand and returning to his seat on the hood. Dean follows him, lifting the camera one last time.
"Hey, Sam, I like the way you drink that beer."
Sam turns to him with a smile that's a mix of annoyed and endeared and a little bit of a promise of what he's gonna do when he gets Dean in the backseat.
That makes Dean set the camera aside pretty quickly, and he puts his hand in Sam's lap, slowly sliding up until he's palming at Sam's groin.
They don't make it through the fireworks before they're both too horny, before Dean has wrestled Sam into the grass and he's pushing Sam's shirt up, his fingers moving over the newly-raised skin of his tattoo. Dean ducks his head down, licking around the edges. He's got one just like it, and yeah, they were put there for a practical reason, but that doesn't change the fact that thinking of it thrills Dean.
He pulls back, fingers moving along the devil's trap. And then it hits him, and he's too stupid to stop himself before he says, "This'll be here longer than I will."
Sam freezes under him, his expression changing from turned on to angry. He pushes Dean off of him, rises to his feet, and slams the door to the car when he gets in. Dean lets him have some time to cool off-it was a shitty thing to say and Sam is right to be pissed-sips his beer and watches the grand finale in the sky.
When he finally gets back in the driver's seat, Sam has the Polaroids in his hands, and Dean can see tear tracks on his cheek.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he says. "It wasn't funny."
He tries to reach out, to brush his fingers on the back of Sam's neck to reassure him, but Sam pulls away. He drops the pictures onto his lap, wipes at his eyes, and turns to look out the window. "You keep doing shit so I'll remember you, Dean," he says. "You really think I'm gonna forget? I wish-I wish I could forget."
NOW
The guy at the tattoo parlor gives Dean a long stare, his expression deeply critical. Probably trying to decide if Dean is too drunk or crazy to ink. Which is fair, Dean has a haphazard, bloody cotton patch over one eye and his right arm is still dripping blood.
Dean pushes the paper at him, repeating himself. "All you have to do is draw this on my wrist. A thousand bucks. I will pay in cash."
Finally, the man nods, leading Dean over to the chair. He works quietly and competently, careful to honor every swirl and line on the paper in front of him.
"Who's Sam?" the guy asks at some point, inclining his head down at Dean's wrist. "Don't get too many people walking in here with fresh cuts like that on their wrist."
Dean has an awkward time trying to see what the man is pointing to, has to turn his head at an angle so his right eye can catch sight of his other arm, the one not being worked on, and he sees fresh wounds, all variations on the same theme. He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "I have no idea."
The tattoo artist makes a noncommittal noise but keeps working and in another hour, Dean is paying and walking out, freshly marked. He gets into the car and drives until he reaches a long, empty stretch of road, and then he pulls the car over.
Who's Sam? he thinks, tracing the bumped scars on his forearm. Who is Sam, why do I have to-?
SAVE YOUR BROTHER another one says, and Dean focuses on it until his eye is swimming, until his head hurts and he has the almost amusing thought that he's going to burn that eye out too if he stares any harder. It feels like forever before he remembers a brother. He remembers having a brother.
His phone starts buzzing, an alarm that tells him to read something he will find in his shirt pocket, and then he remembers what he's doing, too.
Dean opens the door, pulling himself out of the car before he does something he'll regret, like driving it straight into a tree. Over an hour that time. He forgot Sam altogether for over an hour. And it's only going to get worse.
He feels his stomach turning, like he's going to vomit, imagining the time getting longer, stretching on forever. No Sam. No memory of Sam. Oh, sure, he knew it was a part of this, but he still wasn't ready for the suffocating terror he would feel when someone asks Who's Sam? and he can't find an answer.
He takes his pocket knife out and pulls his shirt up, burying the blade deep in his hip. Sam's name. Pulls it up to his other arm and carves Sam in there, too. His ribs, his thigh, he bleeds out into that field, every cut bringing him closer. Because if there comes a day when he can't remember his brother-really can't remember, not just an hour or two, but ever-well. He is going to know what he's missing. He is going to look in the mirror every day and see how much he had to throw away.
'SAVE SAMMY,' he cuts into his left calf, 'OR DIE.' It's advice he sincerely hopes he'll take, if it comes to that.
Then he puts his clothes back on, feels the tacky blood start to seep into the fabric. He doesn't have time to change or worry about closing up the wounds. He has to finish, and he has to finish soon.
ON TO PART THREE
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