Dust and Sin
Title: Dust and Sin
Author lizzywinks
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 4038
Rating: R
Summary: Post hell, Sam's having a hard time controlling his impulses when it comes to his brother. AU (so no souless!Sam), early season 6.
Warnings: Some gore/horror themes
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, none of this is real.
A/N: Written for glovered for SPN_j2_xmas who wanted S/D or non-AU J2. I did try, but got stuck about half way into a non-AU J2 given how happily married they both seem right now. I abandoned it and went instead with Sam/Dean and the prompts; jealousy, handsy Sam, no schmoop, and the British tradition of ghost stories at Christmas. It's probably not quite what you were expecting, but I hope you enjoy! With thanks to Sherri for the beta-ing. Title from a poem by George Herbert.
"You son of a bitch."
The Winchester's 'no chick flick moments' rule wasn't always adhered to as strictly as either of them would want the other to believe, but Dean was still distantly surprised when his fist struck out, cobra-quick toward Sam and connected solidly with his jaw. Sam clearly hadn't been expecting it either. His head snapped sharply back on his neck, and he staggered once, the backs of his legs hitting the base of the bed behind him to send him tumbling down onto the mattress with a protesting scream of ancient bed springs.
Dean breathed deep, a confusing mixture of fury and joy fogging his thoughts and leaving him frozen to the spot. He'd already carried out all the necessary checks; silver, holy water, salt, with Sam standing docile under his hands, only a soft shudder in response to the cold blade slicing like butter through skin clammy with sweat. The fact that the only contact between them so far had been violent, seemed somehow appropriate, which was crazy, because how could Sam be back from hell-freaking hell-and a hug not be the first thing Dean does?
But two months of searching, of driving Lisa and Ben crazy, first by not believing them when they'd both sworn it was Sam they'd seen lurking outside their window, and then by dedicating himself to the search for his brother with a single minded determination that had left little room for anything else, probably went some way to explaining it. The rest of the blame could be laid squarely at the feet of the discovery that Sam has been topside for a whole fucking year... A swollen jaw and a couple of shallow cuts was Sam getting off easy in Dean's opinion.
However much Sam might have deserved it, right now Dean couldn't quite get his muzzy thoughts together enough to make a decision about what his next move should be, unless it was finding the thermostat or cracking a window. The room was like a furnace and the muggy heat wasn't helping the smell; an unpleasant musty dampness that was cloying. Dean dragged a callused palm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat he could feel forming, but could barely see when he glanced down at his open hand. The room was gloomy, shadows lurking in the corners where the single lamp across the room barely put a dent in the darkness.
Dean caught a glint of light from the bedside table-single king, he absently noted-and felt a quick clench of panic that he pushed determinedly down. It had been more years than he could remember since he'd been afraid of something as simple as the dark, so it was with a vague sense of surprise that he found himself striding quickly for the door and the light switch beside it. He tried to convince himself the action was simply to delay his confrontation with Sam, but he couldn't ignore the itch under his skin, eager for the bright overhead light to push out the creeping darkness skirting the edges of the room.
Dean trailed his fingers blindly across the wall, shuddering at the damp, almost soggy feel, like a corpse dragged from the river, bloated and softly giving under pressure. The sharp relief when his fingers stumbled across cold plastic was short-lived when no matter how many times he flipped the switch, the room remained as shadowed as ever.
"What the hell, man?" Dean demanded, and turned to face Sam for the first time since his fist had connected with his jaw.
Sam was still sitting where he'd left him at the edge of the bed. From the angle of his head, he was staring right back at Dean, but it was too dark to be sure or to have any hope of reading his expression. Dean could barely make out his brother's features, and he struggled dully to work out why; when he'd hit Sam, he hadn't had any difficulty landing the punch.
A loud buzzing sound suddenly burst into life, similar enough to the first time Castiel had tried to make contact with him that Dean jerked his head, senses on high alert until he spotted the source. The TV was as old as everything else in the room, huge and prehistoric, the soft mumble of muted sound coming from it the only thing preventing the awkward silence that had fallen turning oppressive.
The TV also explained the flickering light briefly illuminating the room like a stuttering candle. Dean watched as the commercial changed to images of a sun-filled beach where hot, half-naked girls frolicked across the sand. He'd appreciate the sight-and the affect it had on the room-more, if the whole screen wasn't a sickly, swamp green color. Fucked or not, for the moment it provided just enough light to allow Dean to turn back to face his brother and actually see him this time.
Sam turned his face away the second their gaze caught. Dean winced when Sam swiped the pad of his thumb over the blood still staining his mouth and then swallowed hard when Sam's lips closed around it, cheeks hollowed as he sucked away the blood. It seemed to take him far longer than necessary, a tiny wound compared to the routine injuries associated with even the simplest hunt, but finally Sam dropped his hand to his lap and raised his head.
The commercial ended, and the sound of beach-filled fun was replaced by a voice-over reminding viewers to stay tuned for the return of the Universal Monster Movie Marathon. In the flickering, underwater light, Sam's face was painted a sickly green. It had been a year, a freaking year and although Sam hadn't changed noticeably in that time-and how was that even possible?-for a split second Dean almost didn't recognize him. Dean felt his insides freeze, ready for... something, and then Sam shifted, forehead creased in a frown, and it was his kid brother again; too long hair and limbs twitching restlessly against the rumpled sheets. Dean frowned when Sam remained silent, and figured he was probably pissed about the punch. Good. Dean was pissed, too.
"Sam? I said what's with the lights?"
"I guess they're not working."
Dean turned back to flick at the switch again and was met unsurprisingly with the same result. "Did you report it?"
"It's almost midnight, Dean, we're in the middle of a storm that could probably capsize an ark, and I really don't care how dark it is while I'm sleeping."
It sounded like Sam's usual snark, but his voice was distracted, heart definitely not in it, and it sent a wave of fury through Dean. He felt the urge to slam his fist against the broken light switch, but fought against it; not because of the risk to the security deposit, but because he couldn't quite bring himself to come within touching distance of the soft, sponge-like surface again.
"Dean, c'mon, relax," Sam coaxed. "It's not even close to the worst place we've ever stayed in."
"Really? Cause I'm pretty sure it'd be top five if we could actually see anything. And, God, what the fuck is that smell?"
"The smell? I don't-Dean, that's what you want to talk about?" Sam shifted impatiently on the bed. He looked like he was physically restraining himself from saying more. Or maybe restraining himself from returning the punch.
Dean recognized the effort it must have taken, and forced back a few choice words of his own in return. The room smelled like someone had died in it, and someone probably had at some point in the not so distant past, but Sam was right; so what? They'd stayed in worse, maybe, but there was nothing that could be done about it right then, and there was only so long he could avoid the conversation he'd driven eighteen hours to have.
Despite the million questions pounding at his skull, the anger and betrayal was still too fresh to completely let go of. "Yeah, okay, you're right. So, Sam, how're things with you? Anything exciting happened lately? Got any big news you want to share?"
"Dean, stop, just stop. Please. I know you're mad-"
"Mad? I guess you could say that." Dean kicked at the wall, and then again, harder this time. To his right came the sound of something shaking free and hitting the carpeted floor with a dull crunch. Probably a picture, more than likely ugly enough that its destruction would be no loss.
A roll of thunder rumbled to life outside the room, echoed inside by the TV as the commercial break came to an end and the credits rolled on The Bride of Frankenstein. The gloom was broken by flickering light as the screen faded into black and white, turning the small, illuminated circle surrounding the TV into a murky, shadowed green, flaring brighter as lightening streaked across the screen. Dean shivered, despite the stifling heat of the room, and glanced away from the TV to face Sam.
"How long were you even down there?" Sam started to shake his head, but Dean wasn't about to let him pull that bullshit, not after leaving Dean hanging, not after a year of imaging every single day what Sam was going through. Especially when Dean didn't really need to imagine at all. "How long, Sam? A month, a week? A day?"
Sam stood up, hesitated and then edged closer toward the center of the room and Dean, slow and cautious as if he expected to be ordered away. "I don't know. Does it matter? You were right; time moves differently down there. And at the bottom, in the cage with... him, it's even more jacked."
Dean sucked in a breath, ran a not quite steady hand over his face. "You remember it? Was it-damnit, I know I didn't want to talk when I came back, but-"
"It was cold. I remember that it was cold. Cold enough to freeze the marrow in your bones. Cold enough for your fingers to snap like tinder, but never quite enough to be numb. That's all I remember. Just that it was... cold. You look good, Dean," he said, taking another hesitant step forward, close enough now that Dean had to fight the urge not to back away. "Exactly how I remember." He leaned in closer, and then jerked back as though pulled by invisible chains.
Dean looked blindly down at himself, images flooded him of hooks piercing flesh and muscle and wounds that never ran dry. He didn't feel the same, didn't really look the same, and he wondered how much of him Sam could see in the gloom; jeans clean and without holes, black button down shirt ironed, although a little rumpled by travel, but no suspicious stains to raise anyone's eyebrows. Dean shuffled sneaker-clad feet that felt too light, weak without the comforting weight of his old steel toed boots. Part of the reason he enjoyed working construction was because the familiar feel of a hunter's uniform didn't look out of place. He could drag it on in a morning and for a few moments make himself believe that he was back on the road, heading out to meet Sam and find a new case, right up until the moment Ben clattered through the house, breaking the spell.
"Well then you're remembering wrong," Dean said, memories of Ben's tear-stained face when he'd left yesterday morning making him harsh, "because I'm not the same, Sam. See, imaging your brother is in hell for a year, a whole fucking year, that you couldn't save him, that he'll be there forever while you're supposed to be living the good life, being a family man with responsibilities and paycheck to bring home and a kid to raise? Tends to change a guy. Leaves a mark. So no, I'm not exactly like you remember. Not by a goddamn long-shot."
Sam made a snuffling sound of distress. "I know, Dean, I know! I'm sorry, so sorry, but I couldn't-" he muttered, soft and broken. "I just couldn't-"
"Couldn't what? Pick up the phone, send me a postcard? Drop by? Oh, no, wait a minute because you already told me you couldn't do that, could you? Except Lisa saw you. Ben saw you," he barked out when Sam remained silent. "Looks like the only person you made damn sure didn't see you was me!"
"I wanted to, I did, but, I couldn't risk contacting you, Dean, being that close. I wanted, it wasn't... you don't understand-" Sam made an abortive move toward him and then froze suddenly. He stuffed his hand into his mouth and bit down hard on the skin between his thumb and forefinger. It looked like it hurt and Dean felt the last of his patience evaporate.
"So make me understand, Sam! All you ever want to do is talk, so talk! Explain to me why you left me hanging for a year, out of my freaking mind with worry for you!"
"I needed you to be safe, Dean, to be happy!"
"Happy?" Dean snorted out a laugh that was nothing but disgust. "While my kid brother's rotting in the pit? And even if I was a big enough douche to somehow manage that, we're never safe, Sam, you know that. So how about you take another pass at that one?"
"I was protecting you!"
"Bullshit, Sam. Protecting me? From what? From who?"
"Me! Christ, Dean, from me."
"What the hell? What does that even mean, Sammy, why would I-"
"Because I came back wrong! Fuck, Dean," Sam said softly, shattered. "I came back wrong."
Dean took an instinctive step toward Sam, his distress as impossible to ignore as ever, and then hesitated, something stopping him from removing the final few inches separating them. "Sam, no. You're messed up maybe, god knows you have reason to be, but you can get past this; look at me-"
"No! I'm not you, Dean! Angels didn't bring me back, I don't have some heavenly mission to fulfill. I think-I think something else did it. Or... he did something to me while I was trapped in there with him, or maybe it's just me." In the corner of the room there was a soft, stuttering noise, as if cockroaches were crawling along the walls, and Dean shuddered, glad suddenly for the gloom that hid them. Sam dragged a hand through his hair, and turned back to face Dean, his voice calmer than it had been so far. "Maybe it's always been me."
"Shit, Sam, you're not making any sense. What does that even mean?"
"I've always wanted you, Dean."
"And you've always had me. You're the one who kept walking away, Sam, not me, not Dad, you."
Sam made a growling sound of frustration, and threw his arms wide. The tips of his fingers caught against the single lamp, tilting the shade and illuminating his face. The heated look in his eyes sent something dark and forbidden crawling sickly through Dean's chest and froze his breath in his throat until Sam dropped his gaze, freeing him.
"You don't-that isn't-Dammit, Dean! I can't explain this to you; you wouldn't understand," Sam said, and hunched in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his body as though he was back freezing in hell. Dean wondered if Sam felt as cold as he looked, if his lips would stick to his skin like an ice pop if he kissed him.
Dean swallowed hard, shook the image away. "Then make me understand, Sammy. What do you want?"
"Anything. Everything. Like always. But since I got back, I can't control it, I can't control myself. You should-you need to go, Dean. Now."
"Are you out of your mind? I've just found you! I'm not going anywhere. I get that you're freaking out right now, Sammy, but that's because you're not thinking straight. Whatever it is you're imagining in that ginormous brain of yours, I guarantee it's not as bad as you think. We can fix this, Sam, we'll find a way. I promise, I will. I'll find a way." Dean took the final step, closed the distance, and Sam jerked violently away out of range. Dean froze, shocked, and watched bemusedly as Sam reached out to straighten the tilted lampshade, throwing his face back into shadow.
"No, you're wrong. You can't fix this. You have to go," Sam said roughly. "Please, Dean, I don't know how much longer-"
"Jesus, enough with the cryptic bullshit! How much longer for what, Sam?" A huge rumble of thunder drowned out the muted sounds of the TV, the storm directly above them now and followed almost immediately by a flash of lightening. In the brief flash-point, Sam's expression was illuminated, the hungry, predatory gleam in his eyes clearly visible, hot and possessive, and with a sickening jolt, Dean understood.
Dean shivered, felt his stomach roll and then settle, and fought the urge to move, whether closer or further away from his brother, he didn't know, but both options were beyond him right then, and so he stood, his whole body filled with a strange lethargy, heavy and unresponsive.
"Sam, god," he finally managed, voice a deep rasp. "How long...?"
Sam shuffled closer, arms held rigidly close to his sides, as if he was physically restraining himself from reaching out. "Always, I think. I don't know, it's all messed up in my head, but now it's like... it hurts to be away from you. To not be able to see you. I spent the last year putting as many miles between us as I could, but I can still feel you, smell you, and I just... want. Want you to be with me, not them. God, I know I sent you there, but I hate the thought of the two of you-" Sam hesitated, and shook his head. "Some days it was so damn bad that if I hadn't been half a dozen states away, I don't know if I'd have been able to stop myself..."
Dean let out a shaky exhale of breath, rubbed his sweating palms down the front of his jeans. "If it hurt so much, how've you been able to stay away so long?"
"Buried it down deep, tried to kid myself I was doing okay, and when it got too bad, it wasn't difficult to find guys who looked enough like you from the right angle or when the room was dark enough. Guys who walked like you, sounded like you, smelled like you. But that only worked for a while, and not at all anymore."
"Would you-would you have come for me, Sam? If I hadn't found you."
Sam shook his head fiercely. "I wouldn't, Dean, I wouldn't!" And then he bowed his head, shoulders shaking. "But I'm glad you found me," he whispered, "because now you'll never have to know if I'd have been strong enough to keep this from you. To keep you safe."
And as quickly as Dean had known what Sam thought he'd been keeping Dean safe from, he knew that he'd give him this, too. After all, it was only one more fucked up step along the road leading them to damnation, and they were so far down it by this point anyway it made no sense to turn back.
A quiver of sour heat down low in his belly told him shamefully that it wasn't just about Sam's needs, and given where this was likely heading, maybe he should have been grateful for that fact, but right then Dean just felt sick. But not sick enough to deny it.
"It's okay, Sammy," he said, voice pitched as low and even as he could make it without it being eaten up by the storm that was raging outside. "You don't need to protect me. Not anymore. Not from this." He took two careful steps toward Sam, boxing him in against the bed and the wall that Dean was very careful not to brush against.
"No, Dean, no!"
"It's okay, Sam," he said again, and reached for his brother. "You don't need to fight it anymore. You can let go now."
At his words, Sam stiffened briefly before all of the tension abruptly drained out of him to leave him boneless. Dean let out a low huff as his brother toppled into his arms, and he widened his stance to take the sudden extra weight. Sam burrowed in close, arms clawing at his back as he buried his face against Dean's neck.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I tried, Dean," he muttered wetly against Dean's ear. "I tried so damn hard. But it's all I think about now, dream about, having you inside me, making you mine. And now you're here, Dean, you're here, and I don't think-I don't think I can hold back any more."
Dean cupped the nape of Sam's neck. His fingers trailed soothingly through the soft hair there as he breathed deep in an attempt to slow his own racing pulse. "I know, Sammy, I know. You did good, but I'm here now and you don't need to be strong any more."
"I'll tell Lisa," Sam lifted his head. He was close enough to the lamp that Dean could see his nostrils were flared and his pupils blown wide. "I hated her, but I know she loved you, know they both did. I'll tell her it was my fault. I won't let her blame you, Dean." He dropped his head back into the crook of Dean's neck and his arms tightened convulsively.
The crawling sense of wrongness hit Dean again when he flashed on Lisa's face, on Ben's if they could see them like this, wrapped around each other, nothing brotherly about the hold to even the most innocent onlooker.
Dean struggled to push away the clenching roil of his stomach, and focused instead on breathing in deep, the familiar, comforting, scent of his brother surrounding him after being absent for so long, settling him, and leaving him dizzy with relief. Underneath that though was the less pleasant smell of the room; damp, fresh earth and rotting flesh.
Dean tried to focus on the sensation of Sam's nose nudging at the sensitive skin beneath his ear, until Sam's hold abruptly tightened, turning budding pleasure into pain as Dean's ribs creaked under the pressure.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I just love you so damn much."
Sam's words were hoarse, seemingly dragged from him through thick, panting breaths, and Dean tried to pull himself free, because suddenly he needed to see Sam's face, but Sam wasn't lettering go. Sam was wrapping himself impossibly tighter, and the smell was growing stronger, less Sam now and more the rank, but equally familiar, cloying odor of ancient death.
"Sam, wait, Christ, just wait-"
Lightening streaked across the sky, and this time Dean didn't have Sam to distract him from the brief illumination of the shadowed corners of the room and the walls-god the walls-because now he could see what he'd only been able to feel before.
Dean jerked his head, gagging as the urge to vomit swept over him, but he was held fast. His desperate attempts to free himself had blinded him to the soft nuzzling against the hollow of his throat turning more serious, gentle scrape of teeth suddenly biting down hard on the soft flesh of his neck. The bluntness of Sam's bite increased the pain, like the drag of a dull knife, but Sam was persistent and despite Dean's struggles, the skin gave way, tearing reluctantly and sending up a wet spray of arterial blood, bright and unreal in another blinding flash of lightening.
The pain was a distant thing, shock temporarily dulling it's edges, and Dean's attempts to jerk himself free only aided Sam's efforts. Each wild, flailing, move, tore at the skin and muscle Sam had clamped down on, the back and forth motion tearing through sinew and allowing Sam to sink in deeper to the muscles beneath.
Dean could already feel himself becoming clumsy and weak, shock and blood loss disorientating him. Sam shook his head, like a dog with a chew toy, and Dean felt the hands that had been pushing at Sam's shoulders drop away to clutch weakly at his back, and then slide down to catch on his belt loops.
Finally, Dean let loose the scream he'd been fighting-you have to take care of your brother, Dean-and he kept on screaming, right up until he didn't have vocal cords left to scream with any longer, and then the room was filled with the sound of rain hammering against the window panes and the wet, hungry sounds of his brother.
~End~
Author lizzywinks
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 4038
Rating: R
Summary: Post hell, Sam's having a hard time controlling his impulses when it comes to his brother. AU (so no souless!Sam), early season 6.
Warnings: Some gore/horror themes
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, none of this is real.
A/N: Written for glovered for SPN_j2_xmas who wanted S/D or non-AU J2. I did try, but got stuck about half way into a non-AU J2 given how happily married they both seem right now. I abandoned it and went instead with Sam/Dean and the prompts; jealousy, handsy Sam, no schmoop, and the British tradition of ghost stories at Christmas. It's probably not quite what you were expecting, but I hope you enjoy! With thanks to Sherri for the beta-ing. Title from a poem by George Herbert.
"You son of a bitch."
The Winchester's 'no chick flick moments' rule wasn't always adhered to as strictly as either of them would want the other to believe, but Dean was still distantly surprised when his fist struck out, cobra-quick toward Sam and connected solidly with his jaw. Sam clearly hadn't been expecting it either. His head snapped sharply back on his neck, and he staggered once, the backs of his legs hitting the base of the bed behind him to send him tumbling down onto the mattress with a protesting scream of ancient bed springs.
Dean breathed deep, a confusing mixture of fury and joy fogging his thoughts and leaving him frozen to the spot. He'd already carried out all the necessary checks; silver, holy water, salt, with Sam standing docile under his hands, only a soft shudder in response to the cold blade slicing like butter through skin clammy with sweat. The fact that the only contact between them so far had been violent, seemed somehow appropriate, which was crazy, because how could Sam be back from hell-freaking hell-and a hug not be the first thing Dean does?
But two months of searching, of driving Lisa and Ben crazy, first by not believing them when they'd both sworn it was Sam they'd seen lurking outside their window, and then by dedicating himself to the search for his brother with a single minded determination that had left little room for anything else, probably went some way to explaining it. The rest of the blame could be laid squarely at the feet of the discovery that Sam has been topside for a whole fucking year... A swollen jaw and a couple of shallow cuts was Sam getting off easy in Dean's opinion.
However much Sam might have deserved it, right now Dean couldn't quite get his muzzy thoughts together enough to make a decision about what his next move should be, unless it was finding the thermostat or cracking a window. The room was like a furnace and the muggy heat wasn't helping the smell; an unpleasant musty dampness that was cloying. Dean dragged a callused palm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat he could feel forming, but could barely see when he glanced down at his open hand. The room was gloomy, shadows lurking in the corners where the single lamp across the room barely put a dent in the darkness.
Dean caught a glint of light from the bedside table-single king, he absently noted-and felt a quick clench of panic that he pushed determinedly down. It had been more years than he could remember since he'd been afraid of something as simple as the dark, so it was with a vague sense of surprise that he found himself striding quickly for the door and the light switch beside it. He tried to convince himself the action was simply to delay his confrontation with Sam, but he couldn't ignore the itch under his skin, eager for the bright overhead light to push out the creeping darkness skirting the edges of the room.
Dean trailed his fingers blindly across the wall, shuddering at the damp, almost soggy feel, like a corpse dragged from the river, bloated and softly giving under pressure. The sharp relief when his fingers stumbled across cold plastic was short-lived when no matter how many times he flipped the switch, the room remained as shadowed as ever.
"What the hell, man?" Dean demanded, and turned to face Sam for the first time since his fist had connected with his jaw.
Sam was still sitting where he'd left him at the edge of the bed. From the angle of his head, he was staring right back at Dean, but it was too dark to be sure or to have any hope of reading his expression. Dean could barely make out his brother's features, and he struggled dully to work out why; when he'd hit Sam, he hadn't had any difficulty landing the punch.
A loud buzzing sound suddenly burst into life, similar enough to the first time Castiel had tried to make contact with him that Dean jerked his head, senses on high alert until he spotted the source. The TV was as old as everything else in the room, huge and prehistoric, the soft mumble of muted sound coming from it the only thing preventing the awkward silence that had fallen turning oppressive.
The TV also explained the flickering light briefly illuminating the room like a stuttering candle. Dean watched as the commercial changed to images of a sun-filled beach where hot, half-naked girls frolicked across the sand. He'd appreciate the sight-and the affect it had on the room-more, if the whole screen wasn't a sickly, swamp green color. Fucked or not, for the moment it provided just enough light to allow Dean to turn back to face his brother and actually see him this time.
Sam turned his face away the second their gaze caught. Dean winced when Sam swiped the pad of his thumb over the blood still staining his mouth and then swallowed hard when Sam's lips closed around it, cheeks hollowed as he sucked away the blood. It seemed to take him far longer than necessary, a tiny wound compared to the routine injuries associated with even the simplest hunt, but finally Sam dropped his hand to his lap and raised his head.
The commercial ended, and the sound of beach-filled fun was replaced by a voice-over reminding viewers to stay tuned for the return of the Universal Monster Movie Marathon. In the flickering, underwater light, Sam's face was painted a sickly green. It had been a year, a freaking year and although Sam hadn't changed noticeably in that time-and how was that even possible?-for a split second Dean almost didn't recognize him. Dean felt his insides freeze, ready for... something, and then Sam shifted, forehead creased in a frown, and it was his kid brother again; too long hair and limbs twitching restlessly against the rumpled sheets. Dean frowned when Sam remained silent, and figured he was probably pissed about the punch. Good. Dean was pissed, too.
"Sam? I said what's with the lights?"
"I guess they're not working."
Dean turned back to flick at the switch again and was met unsurprisingly with the same result. "Did you report it?"
"It's almost midnight, Dean, we're in the middle of a storm that could probably capsize an ark, and I really don't care how dark it is while I'm sleeping."
It sounded like Sam's usual snark, but his voice was distracted, heart definitely not in it, and it sent a wave of fury through Dean. He felt the urge to slam his fist against the broken light switch, but fought against it; not because of the risk to the security deposit, but because he couldn't quite bring himself to come within touching distance of the soft, sponge-like surface again.
"Dean, c'mon, relax," Sam coaxed. "It's not even close to the worst place we've ever stayed in."
"Really? Cause I'm pretty sure it'd be top five if we could actually see anything. And, God, what the fuck is that smell?"
"The smell? I don't-Dean, that's what you want to talk about?" Sam shifted impatiently on the bed. He looked like he was physically restraining himself from saying more. Or maybe restraining himself from returning the punch.
Dean recognized the effort it must have taken, and forced back a few choice words of his own in return. The room smelled like someone had died in it, and someone probably had at some point in the not so distant past, but Sam was right; so what? They'd stayed in worse, maybe, but there was nothing that could be done about it right then, and there was only so long he could avoid the conversation he'd driven eighteen hours to have.
Despite the million questions pounding at his skull, the anger and betrayal was still too fresh to completely let go of. "Yeah, okay, you're right. So, Sam, how're things with you? Anything exciting happened lately? Got any big news you want to share?"
"Dean, stop, just stop. Please. I know you're mad-"
"Mad? I guess you could say that." Dean kicked at the wall, and then again, harder this time. To his right came the sound of something shaking free and hitting the carpeted floor with a dull crunch. Probably a picture, more than likely ugly enough that its destruction would be no loss.
A roll of thunder rumbled to life outside the room, echoed inside by the TV as the commercial break came to an end and the credits rolled on The Bride of Frankenstein. The gloom was broken by flickering light as the screen faded into black and white, turning the small, illuminated circle surrounding the TV into a murky, shadowed green, flaring brighter as lightening streaked across the screen. Dean shivered, despite the stifling heat of the room, and glanced away from the TV to face Sam.
"How long were you even down there?" Sam started to shake his head, but Dean wasn't about to let him pull that bullshit, not after leaving Dean hanging, not after a year of imaging every single day what Sam was going through. Especially when Dean didn't really need to imagine at all. "How long, Sam? A month, a week? A day?"
Sam stood up, hesitated and then edged closer toward the center of the room and Dean, slow and cautious as if he expected to be ordered away. "I don't know. Does it matter? You were right; time moves differently down there. And at the bottom, in the cage with... him, it's even more jacked."
Dean sucked in a breath, ran a not quite steady hand over his face. "You remember it? Was it-damnit, I know I didn't want to talk when I came back, but-"
"It was cold. I remember that it was cold. Cold enough to freeze the marrow in your bones. Cold enough for your fingers to snap like tinder, but never quite enough to be numb. That's all I remember. Just that it was... cold. You look good, Dean," he said, taking another hesitant step forward, close enough now that Dean had to fight the urge not to back away. "Exactly how I remember." He leaned in closer, and then jerked back as though pulled by invisible chains.
Dean looked blindly down at himself, images flooded him of hooks piercing flesh and muscle and wounds that never ran dry. He didn't feel the same, didn't really look the same, and he wondered how much of him Sam could see in the gloom; jeans clean and without holes, black button down shirt ironed, although a little rumpled by travel, but no suspicious stains to raise anyone's eyebrows. Dean shuffled sneaker-clad feet that felt too light, weak without the comforting weight of his old steel toed boots. Part of the reason he enjoyed working construction was because the familiar feel of a hunter's uniform didn't look out of place. He could drag it on in a morning and for a few moments make himself believe that he was back on the road, heading out to meet Sam and find a new case, right up until the moment Ben clattered through the house, breaking the spell.
"Well then you're remembering wrong," Dean said, memories of Ben's tear-stained face when he'd left yesterday morning making him harsh, "because I'm not the same, Sam. See, imaging your brother is in hell for a year, a whole fucking year, that you couldn't save him, that he'll be there forever while you're supposed to be living the good life, being a family man with responsibilities and paycheck to bring home and a kid to raise? Tends to change a guy. Leaves a mark. So no, I'm not exactly like you remember. Not by a goddamn long-shot."
Sam made a snuffling sound of distress. "I know, Dean, I know! I'm sorry, so sorry, but I couldn't-" he muttered, soft and broken. "I just couldn't-"
"Couldn't what? Pick up the phone, send me a postcard? Drop by? Oh, no, wait a minute because you already told me you couldn't do that, could you? Except Lisa saw you. Ben saw you," he barked out when Sam remained silent. "Looks like the only person you made damn sure didn't see you was me!"
"I wanted to, I did, but, I couldn't risk contacting you, Dean, being that close. I wanted, it wasn't... you don't understand-" Sam made an abortive move toward him and then froze suddenly. He stuffed his hand into his mouth and bit down hard on the skin between his thumb and forefinger. It looked like it hurt and Dean felt the last of his patience evaporate.
"So make me understand, Sam! All you ever want to do is talk, so talk! Explain to me why you left me hanging for a year, out of my freaking mind with worry for you!"
"I needed you to be safe, Dean, to be happy!"
"Happy?" Dean snorted out a laugh that was nothing but disgust. "While my kid brother's rotting in the pit? And even if I was a big enough douche to somehow manage that, we're never safe, Sam, you know that. So how about you take another pass at that one?"
"I was protecting you!"
"Bullshit, Sam. Protecting me? From what? From who?"
"Me! Christ, Dean, from me."
"What the hell? What does that even mean, Sammy, why would I-"
"Because I came back wrong! Fuck, Dean," Sam said softly, shattered. "I came back wrong."
Dean took an instinctive step toward Sam, his distress as impossible to ignore as ever, and then hesitated, something stopping him from removing the final few inches separating them. "Sam, no. You're messed up maybe, god knows you have reason to be, but you can get past this; look at me-"
"No! I'm not you, Dean! Angels didn't bring me back, I don't have some heavenly mission to fulfill. I think-I think something else did it. Or... he did something to me while I was trapped in there with him, or maybe it's just me." In the corner of the room there was a soft, stuttering noise, as if cockroaches were crawling along the walls, and Dean shuddered, glad suddenly for the gloom that hid them. Sam dragged a hand through his hair, and turned back to face Dean, his voice calmer than it had been so far. "Maybe it's always been me."
"Shit, Sam, you're not making any sense. What does that even mean?"
"I've always wanted you, Dean."
"And you've always had me. You're the one who kept walking away, Sam, not me, not Dad, you."
Sam made a growling sound of frustration, and threw his arms wide. The tips of his fingers caught against the single lamp, tilting the shade and illuminating his face. The heated look in his eyes sent something dark and forbidden crawling sickly through Dean's chest and froze his breath in his throat until Sam dropped his gaze, freeing him.
"You don't-that isn't-Dammit, Dean! I can't explain this to you; you wouldn't understand," Sam said, and hunched in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his body as though he was back freezing in hell. Dean wondered if Sam felt as cold as he looked, if his lips would stick to his skin like an ice pop if he kissed him.
Dean swallowed hard, shook the image away. "Then make me understand, Sammy. What do you want?"
"Anything. Everything. Like always. But since I got back, I can't control it, I can't control myself. You should-you need to go, Dean. Now."
"Are you out of your mind? I've just found you! I'm not going anywhere. I get that you're freaking out right now, Sammy, but that's because you're not thinking straight. Whatever it is you're imagining in that ginormous brain of yours, I guarantee it's not as bad as you think. We can fix this, Sam, we'll find a way. I promise, I will. I'll find a way." Dean took the final step, closed the distance, and Sam jerked violently away out of range. Dean froze, shocked, and watched bemusedly as Sam reached out to straighten the tilted lampshade, throwing his face back into shadow.
"No, you're wrong. You can't fix this. You have to go," Sam said roughly. "Please, Dean, I don't know how much longer-"
"Jesus, enough with the cryptic bullshit! How much longer for what, Sam?" A huge rumble of thunder drowned out the muted sounds of the TV, the storm directly above them now and followed almost immediately by a flash of lightening. In the brief flash-point, Sam's expression was illuminated, the hungry, predatory gleam in his eyes clearly visible, hot and possessive, and with a sickening jolt, Dean understood.
Dean shivered, felt his stomach roll and then settle, and fought the urge to move, whether closer or further away from his brother, he didn't know, but both options were beyond him right then, and so he stood, his whole body filled with a strange lethargy, heavy and unresponsive.
"Sam, god," he finally managed, voice a deep rasp. "How long...?"
Sam shuffled closer, arms held rigidly close to his sides, as if he was physically restraining himself from reaching out. "Always, I think. I don't know, it's all messed up in my head, but now it's like... it hurts to be away from you. To not be able to see you. I spent the last year putting as many miles between us as I could, but I can still feel you, smell you, and I just... want. Want you to be with me, not them. God, I know I sent you there, but I hate the thought of the two of you-" Sam hesitated, and shook his head. "Some days it was so damn bad that if I hadn't been half a dozen states away, I don't know if I'd have been able to stop myself..."
Dean let out a shaky exhale of breath, rubbed his sweating palms down the front of his jeans. "If it hurt so much, how've you been able to stay away so long?"
"Buried it down deep, tried to kid myself I was doing okay, and when it got too bad, it wasn't difficult to find guys who looked enough like you from the right angle or when the room was dark enough. Guys who walked like you, sounded like you, smelled like you. But that only worked for a while, and not at all anymore."
"Would you-would you have come for me, Sam? If I hadn't found you."
Sam shook his head fiercely. "I wouldn't, Dean, I wouldn't!" And then he bowed his head, shoulders shaking. "But I'm glad you found me," he whispered, "because now you'll never have to know if I'd have been strong enough to keep this from you. To keep you safe."
And as quickly as Dean had known what Sam thought he'd been keeping Dean safe from, he knew that he'd give him this, too. After all, it was only one more fucked up step along the road leading them to damnation, and they were so far down it by this point anyway it made no sense to turn back.
A quiver of sour heat down low in his belly told him shamefully that it wasn't just about Sam's needs, and given where this was likely heading, maybe he should have been grateful for that fact, but right then Dean just felt sick. But not sick enough to deny it.
"It's okay, Sammy," he said, voice pitched as low and even as he could make it without it being eaten up by the storm that was raging outside. "You don't need to protect me. Not anymore. Not from this." He took two careful steps toward Sam, boxing him in against the bed and the wall that Dean was very careful not to brush against.
"No, Dean, no!"
"It's okay, Sam," he said again, and reached for his brother. "You don't need to fight it anymore. You can let go now."
At his words, Sam stiffened briefly before all of the tension abruptly drained out of him to leave him boneless. Dean let out a low huff as his brother toppled into his arms, and he widened his stance to take the sudden extra weight. Sam burrowed in close, arms clawing at his back as he buried his face against Dean's neck.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I tried, Dean," he muttered wetly against Dean's ear. "I tried so damn hard. But it's all I think about now, dream about, having you inside me, making you mine. And now you're here, Dean, you're here, and I don't think-I don't think I can hold back any more."
Dean cupped the nape of Sam's neck. His fingers trailed soothingly through the soft hair there as he breathed deep in an attempt to slow his own racing pulse. "I know, Sammy, I know. You did good, but I'm here now and you don't need to be strong any more."
"I'll tell Lisa," Sam lifted his head. He was close enough to the lamp that Dean could see his nostrils were flared and his pupils blown wide. "I hated her, but I know she loved you, know they both did. I'll tell her it was my fault. I won't let her blame you, Dean." He dropped his head back into the crook of Dean's neck and his arms tightened convulsively.
The crawling sense of wrongness hit Dean again when he flashed on Lisa's face, on Ben's if they could see them like this, wrapped around each other, nothing brotherly about the hold to even the most innocent onlooker.
Dean struggled to push away the clenching roil of his stomach, and focused instead on breathing in deep, the familiar, comforting, scent of his brother surrounding him after being absent for so long, settling him, and leaving him dizzy with relief. Underneath that though was the less pleasant smell of the room; damp, fresh earth and rotting flesh.
Dean tried to focus on the sensation of Sam's nose nudging at the sensitive skin beneath his ear, until Sam's hold abruptly tightened, turning budding pleasure into pain as Dean's ribs creaked under the pressure.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I just love you so damn much."
Sam's words were hoarse, seemingly dragged from him through thick, panting breaths, and Dean tried to pull himself free, because suddenly he needed to see Sam's face, but Sam wasn't lettering go. Sam was wrapping himself impossibly tighter, and the smell was growing stronger, less Sam now and more the rank, but equally familiar, cloying odor of ancient death.
"Sam, wait, Christ, just wait-"
Lightening streaked across the sky, and this time Dean didn't have Sam to distract him from the brief illumination of the shadowed corners of the room and the walls-god the walls-because now he could see what he'd only been able to feel before.
Dean jerked his head, gagging as the urge to vomit swept over him, but he was held fast. His desperate attempts to free himself had blinded him to the soft nuzzling against the hollow of his throat turning more serious, gentle scrape of teeth suddenly biting down hard on the soft flesh of his neck. The bluntness of Sam's bite increased the pain, like the drag of a dull knife, but Sam was persistent and despite Dean's struggles, the skin gave way, tearing reluctantly and sending up a wet spray of arterial blood, bright and unreal in another blinding flash of lightening.
The pain was a distant thing, shock temporarily dulling it's edges, and Dean's attempts to jerk himself free only aided Sam's efforts. Each wild, flailing, move, tore at the skin and muscle Sam had clamped down on, the back and forth motion tearing through sinew and allowing Sam to sink in deeper to the muscles beneath.
Dean could already feel himself becoming clumsy and weak, shock and blood loss disorientating him. Sam shook his head, like a dog with a chew toy, and Dean felt the hands that had been pushing at Sam's shoulders drop away to clutch weakly at his back, and then slide down to catch on his belt loops.
Finally, Dean let loose the scream he'd been fighting-you have to take care of your brother, Dean-and he kept on screaming, right up until he didn't have vocal cords left to scream with any longer, and then the room was filled with the sound of rain hammering against the window panes and the wet, hungry sounds of his brother.
~End~