Sam/Dean Mini-Bang: An Act of Endless Forgiveness: Part Two
When Sam next opens his eyes, there's no foggy, gentle edging into awareness. Instead, he's immediately awake and aware of every fucked up thing he's done over the last year, and, more importantly, exactly what he's just done to Dean. Dean, his fucking brother.
He's almost immediately distracted from the horror of his actions when he remembers the Genii's words; a life for a life and he jerks his head toward Dean, tense muscles in his shoulders and upper back protesting the movement. Sam lets out a tiny little puff of relieved air to find Dean still sleeping beside him, chest rising and falling with each soft breath, and Sam's own heartbeat slows until he's breathing in time with his brother.
Dean always looks softer somehow in sleep, as if the usual tough hunter facade he wears requires conscious effort to maintain. Against the over-laundered, off-white sheets and the slow rising dawn, Dean's skin is pale gold, scars and freckles blurred in the soft light, naked from the waist up where the rumpled sheet just barely preserves whatever modesty Sam has left him. His nipples look sore and chaffed, and there are bruises already forming on his ribs in the shape of Sam's fingers-Fuck, Dean, c'mon, you've gotta work with me here, man; I know you're more flexible than this-" The rush of memory, and the unexpected surge of heat it brings, has Sam slapping a hand to his mouth in an attempt to push back the bile that's burning in his throat.
The unchecked movement jostles the bed, and Dean begins to stir, mouth tight and unhappy and forehead wrinkled in a deep frown even in his sleep. Sam freezes, and when Dean settles again, he edges out of the bed, and drags his clothes on over sore muscles and tacky flesh. The realization that the faintly grubby feeling has less to do with the moral implications of last night's actions than the sweat and come dried sticky on his skin, sends another surge of nausea rolling through him.
Sam badly wants to head for the bathroom, desperate for the feel of scalding water and a toilet bowl within retching distance, but he's not ready to face Dean yet. God, he'll never be ready.
Despite its battered and barely functional appearance, the motel room door thankfully glides open in near silence, and then Sam is hurrying barefoot across cold gravel, barely flinching when he feels something sharp pierce his skin, the pain dull and too distant to penetrate the adrenaline-fueled panic riding him. When he reaches the dumpsters that are mostly out of sight of the other rooms and the main office, he stops to catch his breath, and then surprises himself on the next exhalation by vomiting all over his own feet. There isn't much in his stomach to bring up-his missing soul apparently took his appetite along with it for the ride, but he continues heaving for long, painful minutes. When his stomach finally settles enough to risk moving, he takes a few staggering steps to escape the worst of the mess, and then allows his trembling body to collapse back against the rough stone wall circling the dumpsters. His stomach still feels like it’s in knots, spasming occasionally, and despite the fact there's no way there can be anything left inside him by this point, he can’t honestly say he feels any better.
All he really wants to do is curl up on the floor in a ball of misery to die, but he forces himself on shaky legs across the paved walkway to the vending machines, grateful when he finds money in his pockets. The water is blissfully cold, and he rinses his mouth and then takes greedy gulps of what’s left as the sun sluggishly makes its way across the sky, a white haze of panic shading him from his thoughts. It can't last though, and the sounds of morning gradually penetrates Sam's freaked out trance as the motel's other occupants begin to make themselves heard. Sam's suddenly very aware of the picture he must make loitering suspiciously in the parking lot; wild-eyed and shoeless and sporting vomit-splattered feet. He quickly feeds the last of his change into the slot to grab another bottle of water, and then balances awkwardly on one foot as the cold water sluices away dirt and blood and bile to leave his feet pink and clean. It's an improvement, but not much of one, and that fact alone pretty much makes the decision about whether or not he's ready to face Dean for him; he's got about five minutes at best before someone spots him, and getting himself arrested for vagrancy will only delay the inevitable for so long. Besides, he owes Dean better than having this discussion through the bars of a jail cell.
~*~
Sam lets himself back into the motel room just in time to hear the shower starting up, but he still glances toward the previously occupied bed as though someone other than Dean might be making use of the facilities. The bed is empty, a stained and rumpled mess, and Sam quickly glances away from the fresh evidence of what they did.
Of what he did.
The shower seems to run for ever; long past when Sam knows the crappy water heater would have gone from glorious heat, to serviceable lukewarm to unbearable ice-cold, and still Dean doesn't emerge. Sam grabs a wad of serviettes from last night's take-out and dusts the soles of his feet before dragging socks on in an attempt to provide some warmth to his blue-tipped toes. Pacing the room has a detrimental effect on his already strung-out nerves, so he opens the laptop, only to slam it closed before he's even hit the power button. He switches on the TV and then practically destroys the remote in his hurry to switch it back off again when the title card for Casa Erotica 14 appears on the screen.
When he realizes that the bed he's sitting on to almost watch porn is the destroyed one from last night, Sam leaps up and finally settles on a task in the shape of stripping both beds to reveal bare mattresses covered in more years worth of unsavory stains than he likes to think about. He's clutching the resulting bundle of damp sheets and pillow cases in his arms when the shower finally shuts off, and Sam spends long, panicked moments trying to decide where to hide them. When he hears the creak of the stiff bathroom door handle turning, he crosses the room in two long strides and practically hurls the sheets out of the door.
Turning reluctantly, Sam finds Dean is framed in the bathroom doorway, towel clenched in his hands and determinedly not meeting Sam's gaze. Sam's grateful, and uses the short reprieve to send up a prayer of thanks that Dean's actually clothed for once, even while he refuses to dwell too deeply on why. The relief is so intense, in fact, that it takes a minute before it occurs to Sam just how odd it is; Dean has never been particularly inhibited about his body, and around Sam those inhibitions are pretty much at zero. As a rule, he's lucky if Dean's wearing a towel when he's fresh out of the shower. It's just one more messed up facet of their weird, boundary-less relationship that they've long since stopped noticing.
That Dean had taken the time in the midst of what must have been his own meltdown to pull out a full set of clothes to take into the bathroom with him, drives home again how badly Sam's fucked up, and how much Dean must be feeling it too. Shit, of course Dean's feeling it-being practically raped by your kid brother doesn't happen without repercussions. Sam's stomach churns sickly, and he closes his eyes to focus on forcing down the nausea, determined to face up to what he's done and not punk out by giving in to his own body's weakness.
When he's mostly sure he has himself, or at least his stomach, back under control, Sam opens his eyes to find Dean has moved over to his own bed, duffel laid open on the bare mattress, stiffly rolling clothes and jamming them haphazardly into the bag. Sam watches, mouth opening and closing and nothing coming out. Dean's back is held stiffly, head bowed and focused on his task. He's wearing a long-sleeved Henley that Sam doesn't recognize; a soft, dark blue material, slightly too big like most of his clothes lately, with the cuffs dragged down low and brushing the tips of his fingers, as if Dean is somehow cold in the too warm room.
Or he's hiding more finger-shaped bruises.
Sam takes a lurching step toward him, and freezes when Dean tenses even more, shoulders up and around his ears and spine so stiff it must be painful.
"I'm sorry," Sam blurts out, and watches as Dean's grip tightens on the shirt he's rolling until his fingers are hard and white from the pressure.
"Forget it." Dean shakes out his shoulders and pushes the shirt into a deep corner of his bag, all attempts at any sort of order apparently forgotten. "Look, I get it; you did what you had to do, like you always do. But don't ask me to thank you," he says, and then turns to face Sam, as though he wants Sam to think he's okay with this, that it's just another hunt gone wrong that they'll eventually move past. But he still hasn't met Sam's eyes yet, glance drifting over Sam's shoulder, and the tension thrumming through his brother's body is almost visible. "And don't ask me talk about it. Ever."
Not talk about it? How can they...? Oh, fuck. Dean doesn't know that Sam has his soul back. Dean doesn't know that not talking about it isn't an option, not for this Sam. He pauses, considers for a brief cowardly moment letting Dean go on thinking it, because he knows that other version of him would have no problem shrugging away what happened and ignoring the fallout. He might even try working on Dean, coaxing him into another round; Dean has never been able to say no Sam, not and mean it, not when it really matters, and maybe this counts, because God, Sam has never felt anything like-
Sam slams the door shut on the insidious whispers, hating himself for it even while he can feel his traitorous dick perking up and paying attention at the memories of last night. One glance at Dean is enough to kill the thoughts stone dead. He's still not looking at Sam, which means he missed his inappropriate response just then, thank fuck, but in the light shining in through the grimy windows he looks like he's about one more blow from hitting the canvas and never getting back up again. His face is gray and lined with tiredness, deep shadows lying heavy under his eyes, and hair flat like he's barely toweled it and left it to dry soft and vaguely fluffy, none of his usual hair products in sight. Sam's gaze drops to the rapid rise and fall of Dean's chest, and catches on a huge red mark only half hidden by collar of his shirt. It looks sore, specks of blood under the surface of the skin from the suction of Sam's mouth. He remembers doing it, remembers biting and sucking his way down Dean's body, desperate to mark the still mostly unmarred post-hell flesh, until everyone knew Dean belonged to him, that he was claimed-
"Fuck, would you just-just stop standing there, Sam, stop fucking staring at me! I'm okay, just a little sore, not injured. Fit to hunt if that's what's brought on the brooding!"
And that's when Sam's brain helpfully plays back Dean's weirdly stiff-legged gait that he only now realizes he's been trying to hide, because of course he's gonna be sore. Sam's dick is a little sore from how tight Dean was, no way Dean's not feeling that burn a hundred times worse right now.
He means to reassure Dean, tell him that's not what his silence is about, but instead: "I have my soul back."
Dean freezes, and then he's finally, finally looking at Sam, and, oh God, Sam was such an idiot for ever thinking that was what he wanted. Dean's expression flickers through a fast moving sea of emotions, struggling to settle on one; confusion, disbelief, hope, joy, despair and then finally horror. Whatever color was left in Dean's face vanishes to leave him milky white, scarlet wings appearing high on his cheeks as Dean sucks in a hitching breath and presses a careful hand to his stomach as though he's physically holding in the urge to vomit. Sam knows exactly how he feels.
"How," Dean finally says hoarsely into the crashing silence. "How do you-when did you... Last night, Sam. Fuck did you-did you have it back last night?"
"No! Jesus, Dean, no, of course... fuck, I wouldn't have-you have to know, Dean, if I had my soul I would never-" Sam reaches forward, arm outstretched unthinkingly, the urge to touch Dean, calm him, momentarily overwhelming common sense, and Dean jerks violently backward, stumbling over a stray pillow and landing on Sam's bed with a groan of ancient bed springs. Dean's face creases with pain as he hits the mattress and he seems frozen in place until he looks down and catches sight of where he's sitting, and then he's back up on his feet, hissing at the sudden movement and shuffling as far away as he can get in the small room. He finally comes to rest standing with his hip leaning heavily against the table, keeping Sam directly in his line of sight as though he doesn't trust Sam not to rush him the second Dean's guard is down.
"It was the Genii Cucullati," Sam says, misery balling in his stomach. He's trying to blink away the stupid stinging burn in his eyes when he realizes his arm is still reaching out toward Dean, who's staring at it like it's a cobra about to strike. Sam jerks his hand back and fidgets awkwardly before thrusting it deep into his pocket where he can be sure it won't betray him again by reaching out pathetically for his brother who has every right to be disgusted by just the sight of Sam, let alone his touch. "He gave it me back, I think, so that I'd care about what I-God, Dean, I'm sorry," he says brokenly. "I am so sorry."
Dean takes a deep breath and then another, and Sam watches as he drags his big brother, everything's fine, gameface back into place. It doesn't work. Hasn't for a while now, but Sam isn't about to call him on it. Not after- Whatever Dean needs, right now, Sam's going to give it to him.
"Sam, this isn't your fault, and you having your soul back... Christ, I didn't think we'd ever-" he trails off, shakes his head like he's punch drunk. "I'm glad, Sam, I am, but this is some fucked up shit. I-I think we need some time to get past this, hunt alone for a while-"
Except that.
"Dean, no, I don't think that's a good idea. Not right now," Sam tries to keep his tone calm and reasonable, but it's hard when his heart is trying to punch it's way out of his chest. Dean is shaking his head again, lips a tight line of anger or pain, Sam isn't sure which, and he doesn't have time to try and decipher Dean's expressions right then, especially when he's so out of practice. "Last night-" Dean flinches and Sam hurries on, "The Genii said a life for a life. Your life," he prompts when Dean stares at him blankly.
"I don't remember anything much past when I got here until you... We-" he cuts himself off awkwardly, and Sam doesn't give him chance to continue.
"Well, I do remember, and he was pretty damn clear, Dean. What else could he he have meant?"
"I don't know, grandstanding probably, like every other fucking supernatural blowhard we've come up against our whole lives. Whether he had the mojo or just thought he had it, it didn't work because I'm still standing-"
"Yeah, and so is he, Dean! Maybe he meant tomorrow or next week, or next fucking year-"
"So basically you're saying I'm going for an extended dirt nap at some indeterminate future point in time, and you think this is different how exactly to the rest of the world? Anyway, we did what he wanted, didn't we? We-fucked, so maybe that's it, punishment over."
"God dammit, Dean, your life is in danger and you just want to bury your head in the sand and ignore it? Fuck, why do you always have do this!" Sam shouts, and takes an angry step forward. Dean takes an equally hurried step back, seeming to have forgotten again that sudden movements aren't really a good idea right then. He stumbles to a halt and growls, hand gripping the edge of the chair's seat back in a white-knuckled grip, and Sam feels the anger drain away to be replaced by a tearing sense of guilt so deep he can hardly breathe through it. "Christ, Dean, are you okay? Do we need to see someone-"
Dean waves him angrily away. "Fuck, no! It was just sex, not a fucking gunshot wound! Don't start believing your own press, Sammy, because no way is your dick big enough to warrant a visit to the Emergency Room!"
"I didn't say it was," Sam grits out, "but you were a virgin, Dean; he-I wasn't exactly considerate of that fact, and you're obviously in pain now-"
"Oh, my God, we are not having this conversation, Sam! Not now, not ever!" Dean shouts, and marches almost normally over to his duffel to yank it up and over his shoulder.
"Okay," Sam says, hand held up in apology because from the wild gleam in Dean's eyes, he's about thirty seconds from shoving Sam bodily out of his way and jumping in the Impala and not looking back. And that is not an option right now. "We don't have to talk about it, but we have to stick together on this, we have to finish the case, man, make sure no one else dies here."
Dean hesitates, watching Sam suspiciously though narrowed eyes and then his shoulders drop, stark defeat in every line that makes Sam hate himself just a little more. When Dean lowers himself gingerly down onto the chair and drops his head into his hands, Sam has to fight the urge to go over and pull him into a hug, or just dig his fingers into tense muscles he knows he'll find and soothe away the stress lines tightening Dean's brow until he's as soft and pliable as he was last night, clinging to Sam and making those desperate-
Sam's shuts down the thoughts with a rough jerk of his head. It's insane. He doesn't think of Dean like that. Or he never has before, not until last night, and last night was different. Outside of both of their control. Except, a sly little voice points out, it hadn't been outside Sam's control. Sam had been perfectly in control.
Sam shudders again, pushes the thoughts and images away for later contemplation, and turns his attention back to Dean, who seems to be desperately interested in the laces running up his boot. Seated, he looks almost frail, washed out and weary, and Sam's aware again just how much weight Dean has lost lately, high cheekbones sharply defined against hollowed out cheeks and looking like he's about a week from his last meal. The only thing that stops Sam demanding that they continue the conversation after Dean has eaten, is the very slight rounding to his stomach. He can see the tiny bulge pushing against the soft material of his t-shirt, an unexpected reserve of stored fat that hopefully means Dean isn't quite as oblivious to his own health as Sam had at first feared. The weight of Sam's stare, or maybe the silence, seems to rouse Dean, and finally he glances up, eyes locking for brief moment with Sam's before his gaze skitters away again.
"Fine, we do this," he says roughly, "make sure the case is closed and the other ugly sister isn't getting ready to step up to the plate, but the second we're done we get the hell out of here. Bobby's only a few hours away; I'll swing by there and drop you off. Let him check you out; make sure they used stitches and not soap to stick your soul back on. You could probably hunt with with him. For a while, anyway."
Sam is about to point out it was Peter Pan's shadow not his soul that needed reattaching-and how the hell does Dean know that anyway?-when his brain catches up with the rest of the conversation.
"Dean, no, we have to check you out first-" Sam starts and then suddenly Dean is glaring right at him, eyes a furious, stormy green, and Sam knows that it's this or nothing. If he pushes Dean just one step more, there won't be anything he can say to make him stick around. "Okay," Sam relents because something is nagging at him. Something that the Genii Cucullati said, the way that he phrased it, a life for a life. Which begs the question, why isn't Dean dead already? If the God just wanted to mess with them before he killed them, mission well and truly fucking accomplished, so what is it that he's waiting for, exactly? There isn't time to try and figure it out right then though, because Dean is looking ready to bolt, so Sam takes a casual step backward leaving him closer to the door and blocking Dean's only escape route. "Okay," he says again, tries to keep his tone calm and soothing, "we'll think about that later, let Bobby put out a few feelers-"
And that was definitely the wrong thing to say: Dean's up on his feet, eyes wide with horror, a slow burn of red making its way up his throat. "Are you out of your mind, Sam? Bobby can't know-we can't. I-we have to keep this to ourselves, Sam! No one else, and Jesus, not Bobby! If he knew, if he suspected..." Dean trails off, the initial flood of color in his face seeping away to leave him pale and sickly, swallowing heavily as his right hand rubs tensely at his stomach.
"Christ, Dean, I'm not gonna tell Bobby!" Sam almost yells, his own horror at the thought coloring his tone. "I just meant we ask him if he's found anything new about the curse. He doesn't need to know everything that happened to help research this. I wouldn't do that. Not without talking to you first. Dean? Dean!" he prompts again, when Dean blinks vacantly back at him. The sharp command pulls Dean out of his fugue, and he straightens immediately, fog clearing from his gaze and his body held stiffly at attention. Sam hates using Dad's old methods against Dean, but they've never stopped being effective.
In an attempt to help soothe his guilt, he gentles his tone and edges slowly toward Dean, careful to keep his approach open and as nonthreatening as possible. When he's close enough, he extends his arm and cups Dean by the elbow to urge him down onto the chair he's currently clutching at. Dean allows it, which is more worrying than pretty much anything else that's happened so far that morning.
"Look, man, I get it," Sam starts. "This has been a hell of a few hours and I'm reeling myself here, but we've got to hold it together, Dean. Can't let the bastard tear us apart. I-I need you with me on this one, Dean, because I know you're freaking out, I mean, of course you are, how could we not be, but I am too; hell and everything that's happened since-"
"Shit, Sam, shit!" Dean looks devastated. "I didn't think. So stupid... You're remembering what happened down there-?"
"No, nothing about hell. But since I got topside, yeah, pretty much everything," Sam says with an unamused huff of laughter. "It's weird, not like when I was possessed because it doesn't feel like it was someone else. It was me doing those things, Dean, letting people die, putting the job first, not caring who got caught up in the crossfire, but none of it... I didn't feel anything, Dean. I look back now and I hate the things I did, the person I was, but it's like reading about some stranger doing terrible things. None of it mattered then, none of it. Except you," he adds softly, because Dean looks wrecked, eyes shadowed and dark with pain. "Nothing like before or how I feel now, but you were the only one who mattered to me, even if you didn't matter all that much."
Dean lets out a weak chuckle. "Nothing's changed there then."
Sam swats him halfheartedly across the back of the head, and for the first time since... everything, Dean doesn't flinch away. Sam hoards his victory silently, because he doesn't want to draw attention to it and make Dean retreat back into himself, but it sends a warm glow through him, makes him hope that they might, just might, be able to get past this.
"Hey, you want me go get coffee? Get the brain cells firing while we try to figure out what's going on here?"
Dean swallows thickly and then rubs fretfully again at his stomach, before nodding, forcing his expression into something closer to normal. "Yeah, thanks, Sammy."
"Kay." Sam grabs for his wallet, doesn't bother with the car keys because the coffee shop is only a block or so away, and the walk will give him chance to think.
"Hey, Sam, wait up," Dean calls when he's almost at the door. "Why don't you grab some food, too? Then we can eat here and go over the research and talk to Bobby without having to worry about being overheard."
Sam shrugs; they don't usually worry all that much about being overhead-who'd believe them anyway?-but it's actually not a bad idea, because Dean is still looking a little queasy and a few hours more rest could only help. He is a little surprised though that Dean's so willing to spend time in the motel room, but he's not about to point it out. Maybe later, when they've both had a little more time to process, Sam can mention getting a room somewhere else. He eyes the bare mattress and looks quickly away before Dean follows his gaze. "Sure, got anything particular in mind?"
Dean waves the question away. "Whatever; I'll just have what you're having." Sam narrows his eyes, and Dean shakes his head quickly. "No, strike that; somehow this doesn't feel like a baby-bird's-vomit masquerading as oatmeal kind of a morning. Make it pancakes, don't let them skimp on the syrup, Sam. And sausage!" he adds when Sam turns back to the door.
On the threshold, Sam pauses and glances back over his shoulder. Dean's has his elbows on the table, forehead resting in his hands while he massages his temples with his thumbs. "Dean," Sam says, even though he meant to leave him to his thoughts. Dean's head shoots up, surprise in his eyes as though he'd forgotten he'd been talking to Sam seconds before.
"What, Sammy?" Dean asks, lowering his hands to rest on the table in front of him.
He looks calm, his eyes clear and his forehead smooth, but Sam feels a weird, prickling sensation at the back of his neck, that he can't quite shake. He doesn't know if he's just out of practice in deciphering his brother's moods, but something is off-more off than it is already, and the idea of leaving him alone in the room suddenly seems ridiculously risky.
"Dean, I just-look, I know you don't wanna talk about it, and I'm not going to now," he adds quickly, "but all of this... it's off the scale fucked up even for us, but I just need to know, to make sure-we're gonna be okay, Dean, right? I'll make it up to you, I will. Whatever you want, need, whatever, man, okay? Just don't-"
"Sam, fuck, no," Dean cuts him off mid-ramble, and Sam is ridiculously grateful because he doesn't know what exactly he was going to say next, but he's fairly confident it was some sort of pathetic plea, possibly involving a face full of snot and tears. "This isn't your fault, okay?" Dean says, dragging Sam's attention back to him. "I don't blame you, man, not for any of this. Okay? And, trust me we're going to hunt that son of a bitch down, grind him to dust, but if we'd figured out what he could do before last night, that he could put your soul back, perfect fit, no memories? God help me, Sam, I'd have gone to him and begged him to do it. Begged him, and been grateful afterward." The last words are almost whispered, and Dean's breathing is rapid and choppy. Sam blinks and then nods, too stunned for anything more.
"That's-okay that's good," Sam finally pulls himself together to mumble. "I mean-thanks.
"I've always thought hot, greasy pork products make an excellent thank you gift." Dean grins over at him, and if it doesn't quite dim the shadows in his eyes, Sam's not about to call him on it.
"Okay, one order of pancakes and sausage coming up."
"And extra syrup, Sammy. I'm a growing boy," he adds, palm spread wide over his stomach.
Sam, frowns following the movement, and then forces a grin when he feels Dean's eyes on him. "And extra syrup," he confirms.
*~*
It's not till Sam's nearly back at the motel, plastic bag filled with take-out cartons balanced precariously with a steaming tray of coffee that Sam feels a shiver of something run up his spine. In that second, the pieces all suddenly slot together, and he freezes, brain spinning madly, because he's wrong. He has to be wrong. Cursing, Sam glances down in frantic indecision at the cardboard cup-holder in his hand, before dropping the coffee on the sidewalk, and speeding up into a jog.
He's out of breath by the time he reaches the motel, handle of the plastic bag leaving his wrist sore and an angry shade of red, but he pauses outside the door to try and catch his breath. He doesn't want to freak Dean out, and it'll be easier explaining the lack of coffee if he doesn't storm in like he's on a drug bust. Even as he's thinking it, he knows it's a lie. Sam isn't opening the door because he's afraid what he'll find on the other side.
When he finally works up the courage to push the door open the room, of course, is empty of his brother and all of his possessions. Sam drops the bag on the floor, and stumbles inside on shaky legs to check the bathroom, which is also empty, and to do a more thorough sweep of the tiny room, as if Dean could have somehow manged to squeeze himself into a chest of drawers or the barely standing closet.
The only thing his search reveals is Dean's cellphone in the middle of the table, weighing down a large wad of cash. There's no note, but Sam didn't really expect one. A quick glance outside the window is enough to tell him what he already knew; the Impala is gone, too.
Sam makes his way slowly back to the table and sinks down on the chair Dean so recently occupied. He's imaging it, he knows, but it still feels warm, as if Dean had been sitting on it a moment ago, stood up to use the bathroom maybe, and Sam slid right on in, sharing space as second nature to them as sharing possessions. Except they won't be doing that any time soon, thanks to this newest cosmic trade off; Sam's soul for Dean's presence. For a second, Sam is overwhelmed by despair because how is this fair? They saved the world, again, and their only reward is more pain and suffering and separation.
Sam sits, too numb to even contemplate what his next move should be, when he hears Dean's voice in his head, calling him a mopey little bitch, and a tiny spark of hope flares unexpectedly to life. Because something is different this time-Sam has his soul back which means he has his brother back, even if he's missing right now. And that isn't something he's about to let go of, not now. Especially not now.
And if his earlier slow growing suspicions were right about just what other repercussions the Genii's power surge might have had? Well, Sam isn't about to let go of that either.
~Fin
A/N I actually started this fic with the intention of writing mpreg, (well, curse!preg) which I've never really written or read much before, but in the end chickened out. I do though have a sequel mostly finished that I'll hopefully post some time soon, but at least this way anyone who's made it this far but isn't into mpreg can abandon ship here and avoid any potential future squick. :D