Blue Skies From Rain Part 3 - Chapter 13

[lovesrain44]

 

When Dean woke up, Sam was flung across him like a blanket, his arms and legs everywhere, as if, since the bed was his (even if it was really Dean’s), then by rights everything in the bed was also his. Hence Dean was now Sam’s blanket. That was alright; if it wasn’t the millionth time this had happened, then it was the hundred-thousandth, and part and parcel of sleeping with Sam. He was used to that.

What he wasn’t used to was the smell of Sam on his hands. Or the memory of Sam’s cock pulsing between his fingers.

Yes, he’d slept with Sam before, or in the other bed across from Sam’s bed, on the road, in so many motels he’d lost count. During nights gone too lonely, and aftermaths of hunts gone almost wrong and barely right, pretending to sleep in silence too cracked to bear. Wrecked from the day and needing it. And yes, either him or Sam would slink into the bathroom, or stay in their own beds to take themselves into their own hands, to see who could be more quiet and invisible about it. Racing with each other to see who would come first. And then after, smelling the dim salt and sweat lingering in the air, and then sleep.

And now, as he woke up, and poked Sam to let him up, he could smell the traces of sex and sweat on his hands and on the sheets, a little, and then, on Sam, sleepy and sprawled like he was, eyes opening. But he was smiling at Dean, a nice gleam in his eyes, relaxed. Getting up and following Dean into the bathroom like it was any day. Which it was, the fact that Dean had jacked his brother off the night before, notwithstanding.

As they went through their morning routine and got in line for breakfast, it stayed with Dean. The texture of Sam in the night, pressing close, shivering with pleasure, his hair, tangling in Dean’s mouth as Sam pressed under Dean’s chin, sweet, like it was scented with something, but really, smelling like Sam always did. Only up close.

And Sam’s hands, on Dean, not quite pawing, but reaching. Desperate for something to hold on to. Dean imagined that it was the decrease in the meds, that had taken something away from Sam, that annoying numb feeling, and left a blankness behind. A good blankness, but still, empty and different and what did you do with that. Well, if you were Sam, you reached out to see what your hands could get to fill it.

Last night the thing he had reached for had been Dean. Dean and Sam, under the covers, creating a warmth between their bodies, tracing that heat with salt and sweat. Doing what brothers should never do. Besides the fact that what he’d done had helped Sam, it should never have happened in the first place. Dean knew that and knew that his distaste was the right way to feel, and he intended to feel that way forever.

That was it, but his brain refused to turn it off.

It had been one thing that first time when Sam had kissed him after Dean got back from Treatment. Dean had been wrung out and his head had ached and his whole body had been screaming through every nerve. The Treatment had been one, long, black thing, surrounding him on all sides. In contrast, there was Sam and his hands and his mouth, sweet and wide. Sam had kissed him and petted him and tried to soothe him into sleep. And Dean had reached out, grabbing the first thing that had touched him in a way that felt good.

So okay, once was fine, he needed it, hadn’t been aware enough to say no. Anyone would have done the same.

But last night had been the second time. And about that, he could make no excuses, because there was no excuse for the fluttering pulse in his stomach when Sam had said your turn.

They ate breakfast together, like everything was normal, palming their pills, and drinking their milk while Sam made a face over the pancakes that were as hard as a rock. One bad thing about getting off the pills was that the food tasted horrible and that became more obvious with every meal. But with Sam still having weird reactions to things, thinking he was being eaten inside by acid-well, the meds weren’t out of his system yet. And he’d been taking more meds than Dean. Dean would just have to be patient.

Work therapy consisted of, of all things, sorting paper for recycling in the loading dock. Greer took them, of course, it seemed that Greer was better at handling large groups of loonies in open, uncontrolled spaces. Dean noticed that Bellows wasn’t with them. Maybe he would eat the paper, though how that could be worse than trying to gnaw on the TV, Dean didn’t know.

Greer showed them the piles of paper in boxes, and how to sort them into different bins. The sun wasn’t really shining, but the loading dock was out of the wind, so it was almost pleasant to work there, handling paper, their low voices bouncing off the wall easy and slow, like there was no where for them to be and all day to get there.

Dean waited for Sam to get his usual expression, the one that said how unfair this all was and wasn’t there a law against slave labor? The hospital could get money for the recycled goods, and shouldn’t they be paying the patients? But it never came. Sam was as relaxed as Dean could remember him being in the hospital, his shoulders in a straight line, his hands moving and sorting, or pushing his hair out of his eyes, as he smiled at Dean. And while he wasn’t humming, he seemed happy. Well, getting jacked off always made Dean feel good, there was no reason it shouldn’t do the same for Sam.

Except that last night, when Sam had been reaching for Dean. He shouldn’t have needed Dean but the acid feeling he described could have been some kind of build-up in his system, and now that the meds were going out, his sex drive was kicking in. If he wasn’t able to remember that ever happening before, sure, it would be overwhelming.

But Sam had reached towards Dean like he didn’t know this, like he thought the source of the tension inside him was Dean, somehow. Like Dean was the only answer. Since Dean was Sam’s source of everything else, companionship, advice, comfort, it almost made sense.

Sam had shoved away Dean’s statement about them liking girls, saying that he liked Dean now. Fine. He’d always liked Dean, loved him as a brother. But Dean didn’t think Sam had meant it the way Sam normally would. Not the way his voice had been full of heat, not the way he’d pressed close. Not the way he’d sighed when Dean had put his hand on Sam’s cock, and touched his brother like he’d only ever touched himself.

It had to stop, it really did. It had gone on far enough, and while he would have been able to explain the first kiss, that one night-and maybe, maybe he might be able to explain away last night, anything else would be out of the question. He’d allowed it because Sam was scared, couldn’t explain what the acid was. He’d allowed it because Sam had been hard as a rock, pushing against Dean’s hip, hard as an iron bar, and hot like he’d just come out of a forge. You couldn’t ignore that. You couldn’t.

Somewhere, in a deep part of his head, banked beneath some shadowed heaviness, he could remember the way his stomach had coiled up and spread out as his hand had curled around Sam’s cock, the moisture springing up under his fingers. Sam’s hair against his neck as Sam had made himself small somehow. The gratifying tension and the balance as they breathed together, and he made Sam feel good. And then finally, as he felt the blood pumping through Sam, and the come, hot strings over his knuckles, Sam had looked up. Into his eyes, maybe not even realizing he was doing it. The surprise and the fire there and that sound Sam had made, deep in his throat. Dean’d liked that sound, worth a million gold stars, satisfying and soothing all at once. And so wrong. So terribly wrong.

It couldn’t happen again, even if it was for Sam. It had always been for Sam, anyway, but it had to stop. Because, come the day, and come it would, Sam would remember. Dean could shrug off a kiss or two, could imagine Sam might not even remember some of it, or think that he’d imagined the rest of it.

But if it continued, and Sam did remember, remember Dean’s hands between his legs and knew it for truth, then that would kill what they had between them. That brother bond, something that lasted, that he counted on, he didn’t want to break that. Nor did he want to see the expression on Sam’s face when he confronted Dean, the disgusted glare, the scathing comments. It would be alright, maybe, if Sam hit him then, but Dean knew he couldn’t handle the look. The patented Sam look that told the world that whatever he was looking at was lower than pond scum. Dean never wanted that look aimed at him. He would rather die.

*

In art therapy that afternoon, Miss Windle was waiting for them in the window-lined room, just like she had never left, dressed in the same brown and white like a winter wren, placing them at their tables, standing in the middle of the room like an expectant thing, hands folded pertly in front of her. The smell of chalk floated heavily on the damp air, but it smelled familiar. Like a classroom. Sam knew he’d been in lots of those.

“Now boys, today, I want you to draw me a tree. Doesn’t matter what kind of tree, any kind of tree. I’ll walk around and help you, and then we’ll talk about it. Now get going!”

Sam didn’t let the scratchy edge to her voice get to him as he walked to one of the tables with Dean. He felt like he’d been rocked to sleep in a hammock last night, could still hear Dean’s breath in his ear as he took all the acid out of Sam’s body and replaced it with something else, a drowsy, warm feeling. He could barely remember falling asleep, only that he had, safe and easy, everything wiped out but the blackness like velvet, and Dean’s heart thumping evenly beneath Sam’s cheek.

He felt better than he could remember feeling, ever. And the feeling had lasted all day, from the time he’d gotten up, through work therapy, and lunch, right up to now. It showed signs of lasting forever. And the knowledge that when it went away, even a little bit, there was Dean. At his side. Whose hands could work freaking magic. In forgetting everything else, Sam knew he’d never forget that.

Beside, him, Dean started to draw his tree studiously. Not really looking away from Sam, but not looking at him, like he’d been doing all day. Standing a little way off, more than normal, chalk in one hand, and the fingers of his other hand splayed against his leg, as if in concentration. Sam knew he should be more attentive, especially since Dean hadn’t wanted any of what he’d handed out last night for himself. As if that sort of pleasure were too good for the likes of him, as if he didn’t actually deserve it. Which he did, Sam knew that much.

Sam picked up some black chalk, and without even wanting to taste it, started to draw the outlines of his tree. It was a black tree, as all the trees in his memory were. He’d heard about this tree, and then remembered seeing it. Remembered thinking, at the time, that it was the creepiest tree he’d ever seen.

He’d mentioned the tree to Dr. Logan once-only once-and she had latched on to that like a lamprey onto a shark’s back. She’d sucked everything out about it that Sam had to give her, and since back then he’d only wanted to please her (this was before he’d bitten Dr. Baylor), he’d told her about the house, and the tree that moved, that it had hands, that his dad had given him over to his brother to carry out of the burning house, how his mom had died, everything. Everything which he realized now as too much. Some secrets should stay secrets. And hence, he really shouldn’t be drawing this particular tree.

He should copy Dean’s tree, which was a long, straight, red and ochre colored tree, tall, and broad at the base, with furred leaves at the top. There were lots of colors in Dean’s picture, blue sky, green leaves, lots of energy. But this black tree that Sam’s fingers insisted on drawing, it was the only tree in Sam’s memory. He knew the trees in the yard, along the fence line, had walked under them and around them, since being with Dean, he’d gotten to go outside several times. He knew there were other trees. But this tree-this one-this was the only tree he really knew. So he drew it.

After a while, Miss Windle started walking around the room, her hands in the pockets of her apron; Sam could see the fist she made around a piece of chalk. He kept drawing while he waited for her to get to their table, but she was taking her sweet time, stopping and talking to the other patients. Taking out the piece of chalk to make marks, to make her point.

Finally, she got to their table, and motioned for Dean to stop drawing so she could look at his tree. Dean did this, not looking at Sam. He turned the paper so she could see it, and Sam watched her nodding at it.

“This is a nice redwood, Dean. Did you realize that the tree represents how you see yourself?”

Dean seemed to snort at this. “I’m not a redwood.”

“Why not?” asked Miss Windle, reasonably. “Don’t you think it a positive reflection that you think of yourself as a tall, strong, graceful tree like this?”

Now Dean did look at Sam, almost rolling his eyes, but Sam could kind of see what she was saying. He knew what a redwood was, how they grew in old growth forests in California, and lasted a thousand years, sometimes even longer, sinking their roots in deep. That wasn’t a bad comparison to make about Dean, but the implication of it hit him. If the tree represented the artist, then he was in big trouble.

Miss Windle moved to Sam’s edge of the table, and motioned for him to turn his picture around so she could see it. He’d only used black chalk, now stark and smudged against the white, and the tree looked like it was writhing on its trunk, twisting in an invisible wind, with clawed arms for branches as it reached for something, desperate and unwholesome. In about a second, perhaps even less, it was going to get bad. Heat built up in his armpits as he put his black chalk down and turned the picture, and then Miss Windle saw it all. Everything. All in one, narrow-eyed glance.

“Sam,” she said, looking at him. She tapped her chalk on the edge of the table to make him pay attention. “You were supposed to draw a real tree.”

“This is a real tree,” he said. “I drew it from memory.” His heart started beating, hard.

“Sam,” she said. Now she pointed the chalk at him. “Don’t play games, this doesn’t look anything like a real tree.”

“It is,” Sam insisted, swallowing. Dean was watching, the whole room was watching. “It’s the tree that used to grow by our house, in the yard. It caught fire when the house burned. When my mother died, when she-”

“Sam!” Now Miss Windle’s eyes were sparking, her mouth a firm line. “You have been told time and time again not to make things up, and if you’re having trouble realizing what is reality and what is not, then you do not belong in art therapy. Do you understand me?”

Oh, he understood alright. Being in art therapy was part of being with Dean. As was being in Group, or working outside, or in Laundry. The Day room, and the speed puzzles, all of it had to do with the privilege of being with Dean. But if he didn’t belong in art therapy, then maybe Dr. Logan would hear about it and determine that he didn’t belong anywhere else either, that, perhaps, he didn’t belong with Dean. He opened his mouth, wordless, his breath coming in gasps. His eyes grew hot, he wanted to start shrieking at the thought of it.

They’d always said, be true, be honest, and you will get better, it’s the only way. Only now, if he did that, they’d take his Dean away from him-was he supposed to lie? Frantic, he looked at Dean, and realized suddenly how pale Dean was, there were circles under his eyes, and his hair, normally lush and shiny, was pressed down on one side like he’d forgotten to comb it. Something was bothering Dean, only Sam didn’t know what. Then, slowly, Dean shook his head, his eyes always on Sam, glinting green, like stones under water. Sam gulped down a breath and made himself think of that. Of cool green stones exactly the color of Dean’s eyes.

He wanted to stay thinking that way, only Miss Windle tapped her chalk on the table so loud she broke it. Chalk spun in pieces across the dull surface. “Sam,” she said. Her voice snapped like a trap. “I need an answer from you right now. Did you make this tree up?”

If he said he made it up, then he was admitting the tree was a lie, and that all the memories associated with it were a lie, too. Which they weren’t. But if he said it was real, then they would take him away, and slap him in a room alone, and never, ever again, would he be able to sleep with Dean. And if he had to give that up, even if Dean never touched him again, if he couldn’t be with Dean when he fell asleep, he knew he would die.

Dean was waiting, and Miss Windle was waiting, and the room full of patients, almost perfectly quiet, waited.

“It’s not a real tree,” he said, swallowing. “Maybe it’s a fake one, but I meant it to be real.” Now he was confusing himself, and this was reflected in the confusion in Miss Windle’s face. He had to say something, and fast, or they were going to come and take him away. “I meant it to be real, but maybe the tree is me.” He pointed at the drawing, his fingers black with chalk, and realized his hand was shaking. “I guess that’s how I feel inside.”

Only that was a pure lie, because up till a minute ago, he’d felt like something entirely different, something laced through by a soft blue breeze, something that might be represented by an entirely different tree. He thought fast, and came up with the only tree he knew. “I wish I’d drawn a willow,” he said. “But I couldn’t make it work, somehow.”

All lies. Pure lies. All jumbled up together with truth, so mixed up that if she started picking at it, she’d realized how messed up he was. And then she’d press the button and it’d be all over.

“Hmmmm,” she said, looking at the drawing. “I can see you’re having a hard time today, Sam, but at least you’re trying. Next time we have art therapy, if you don’t understand the instructions, you should ask for help. It’s okay to ask for help, you realize that?

It wasn’t, Sam knew, not when the help would come with a price like Miss Windle would put on it.

A chime sounded in the hallway, and art therapy was over. Everyone got in line like nothing had happened, leaving their drawings on the various tables with as much casualness as if they didn’t realize that the trees represented who they were, and without any concern that Miss Windle could use that information against them, and was, even now, collecting all the drawings for their files.

Sam was shaking so hard his teeth were clacking together, and Dean’s face, his brows drawn together, and the hand on Sam’s arm, didn’t help. He had to stop on the way out of the room to kneel down and pull a trashcan up close. Fast, so he could puke in it, his chin tucked down, his eyes watering so hard he knew he was crying, but he couldn’t stop it. Dean stood close by, not touching him, but close enough so that Sam knew he was there. And Miss Windle as well, tsk tsking, and picking up the phone to call the janitor to clean up the mess. Now that her class was over, she didn’t care what happened to him.

Finally, he was able to sit back and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and his eyes, letting Dean’s hands guide him to standing, his knees rolling together like they had no strength to be straight. The janitor’s cart was coming, and there was an orderly standing by, waiting. He didn’t care either.

But Dean did. His face was white as he looked at Sam, his eyes enormous and dark.

“We need to get you guys to supper,” said the orderly, without impatience, but firmly. He had a schedule to keep.

Sam stuck out his chin, wishing he could punch someone in the face. Not Dean, no, and maybe not the orderly. It should be Miss Windle, but she was way shorter, and a woman besides. Not to mention it would solve nothing. But he needed to say something to Dean, to let him know it was okay, that Sam was okay. He felt better now that it was over, it had just been in that moment, this awful, lumbering dread about what she would say-

The janitor’s cart was there, all stacked with cleaning supplies, and the orderly made them start walking. Dean stayed close as they caught up with the line for supper. When they were in it, when Sam’s teeth weren’t clicking together, he tugged on Dean’s sleeve.

“I’m not a fucking willow tree,” he said. “It was just the only tree I could think of, okay?”

The line moved forward a little, and Dean turned to look at him, his face clearing, tilting his head back as if appraising Sam. The little dimple in the corner of his mouth appeared as Dean seemed to struggle with not laughing. “I think it suits you, Sam,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Even if it is a girly sort of tree.” Then he looked away.

For a second, Sam’s mouth fell open, blinking at this. Then he realized Dean was joking because that’s what Dean did. He did that, when the going was rocky or emotional, and he knew that, all of a sudden. Sam said the next thing that came to his mind, letting his mouth go with what his gut was telling him, that this was how it was between them, this funny, stupid, thing-

“I’m not a girl, you jerk,” he said, giving Dean a taste of his elbow.

It turned out to be the right thing to say. Dean turned and smiled wide. “Did you just call me a jerk?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, making the whole line wait as he stopped and looked up at Sam, with this bright light streaming from his eyes. “You used to, you know. All the time.”

“And what’d you call me?” Sam wanted to know. He moved when the line moved, but his attention was on Dean, only on Dean, as he watched for more of that brilliant smile.

Dean stopped for the pill lady, and Sam did too, taking the pills in his palm easily, not doubting Dean at all about this anymore. Not when he felt this good. Then Dean grabbed two trays and handed one to Sam.

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Sam, the dimple at the corner of his mouth growing like a small secret. “You would call me a jerk,” he said. “And then I would call you a bitch. It was our way of-” Dean stopped for a minute, like he’d lost his way watching the lady behind the counter slop out some spaghetti and meatballs on the tray, cottage cheese spilling over into the peaches. “Our way of saying hello, I guess.” His voice grew a little soft, and he looked up at Sam, wanting him to understand. Or to remember.

Sam couldn’t do either, not yet, but he tucked it away for later. Wanting to remember the connectedness he felt now. Wanting more of it. Wanting to stay with Dean.

“It’ll come to me,” said Sam as they sat down at one of the tables. “I’ll keep remembering more and more, I promise.”

Dean smiled, but there was something in his eyes that looked a little bleak, just then. Sam wondered if when he remembered everything else, he would understand what that look meant. Until then, he would be with Dean, he would do everything that Dean said. He would get better, and then they would both get out of the hospital. Together.

*

By the time supper was over, and after another evening spent in the game room, Dean was glad to get back to the room, even though there was nothing to do, and nothing to look at. At least there, with the door closed and locked, there was almost no noise, just the running water while Sam was in the bathroom, and the clang of a pipe from somewhere behind the walls.

He was tired, but like Sam had promised, the feeling from Treatment had worn off, and it had, leaving him feeling washed out a little, but ready. If he could get a decent meal, get some sunshine, some open road, he’d be fine. He thought about that, him and Sam and the Impala, and figured that if the drugs were out of his system, they’d soon be out of Sam’s. He needed to figure out a way to get them out, figure out how far it was to the car impound in Joliet. How to get to the keys from the office. And his necklace.

Sam came out, brushing his teeth as he walked, trying to talk around the foam. “You were smiling, I saw you.”

“Oh, yeah?” asked Dean, mock anger lacing his voice. “What are you, a peeping Sam?”

It was nonsense, but it felt good. He was going to get Sam back, his Sam, he could feel traces of it even now. And Sam had called him a jerk today, just like the old days, which was a good thing. He’d promised to keep remembering stuff, too, which could be a bad thing, if Dean couldn’t keep it together because he couldn’t resist Sam’s hands on him, his whispered begging in the dark.

Sam went back into the bathroom to spit in the sink and rinse out his brush. Dean brushed his teeth as well, and took a swallow of water. “Any headaches?” he asked, as he came out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d had one earlier, and whether it was from Treatment or going off the meds, he didn’t know. It was always good to check.

Sam shook his head as he sat on the edge of the bed and took off his sneakers and socks. “When we went outside, we didn’t really work that hard today,” he said, sounding sorry.

“So?”

Standing there at the end of the bed, Dean toed off his sneakers and socks. His body told him that it wouldn’t be long before the lights out chime and he didn’t want to be stumbling around in the dark.

“I don’t need a bath,” said Sam. Sam’s shoulders slumped, and he looked as dejected as a ten-year old being told to stay inside on a rainy day.

“I could-” started Dean, then he stopped. He’d been about to offer one anyway, though Sam was a fully grown man As for making sure Sam was alright, he could do that just by looking at him, he didn’t need to scrub his back for him too. Did he? “I don’t need one either,” he said, making it okay that way. “If it stops raining, we’ll work outside tomorrow, doing something harder than sorting paper, you bet.”

He climbed into the bed, taking the wall this time, pulling the covers up, hearing the far away click of lights going out down the hall and coming close. Sam stood there and looked at him, ready for bed, his mouth a thin, desperate line. The other bed was wide open, and in spite of Dean saying it was always okay, Sam was going to wait to be asked. Like a vampire. A cuddle vampire, not cuddling until Dean let him in.

Trying not to roll his eyes, Dean flipped the covers back just as the lights went out. Telling himself that this was getting old, of course it was, old and silly and not right. Not for two brothers, even ones who’d spent most of their lives living in each other’s back pockets. At the same time, when Sam slid into the bed next to him, Dean pulled up the cover and the sheet, and pulled Sam against him, it felt good. Sam was warm and heavy and still, there in his arms. He scooted low and tucked his head under Dean’s chin. Hair got in Dean’s mouth, Dean spat it out with his lips and sighed. He had Sam, and everything else he would figure out as he went along.

Then he realized that Sam was shaking. “Hey, Sammy, what’s the matter?”

Sam rubbed his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, holding himself stiff like he knew he was shaking and wanted to stop it.

“Just say it, Sam,” said Dean, a littler harder than he meant to. He stroked Sam’s arm, his back, felt Sam’s chest rise and fall.

“She could have taken me away from you,” said Sam, muffled. “In a second if she’d wanted to. But the tree is real, Dean, if you know me, you know the tree is real.”

“Of course it’s real, Sam,” he said. “I knew which tree it was the second I saw it. But you’ve got to stop-” He stopped himself before he got to harsh with Sam, who seemed to be on the verge of a crying jag, and after going through the wringer with Miss Windle, certainly wasn’t up to it. “Listen, the next time we do art therapy, just ask me what to draw. I’ll come up with something easy that Miss Windle will like, and then she won’t get so freaked out.”

He gave Sam a long, drawn-out pat and then hugged him close for a second. “Can you remember to do that? To just ask me? I have all kinds of ideas, puppies and kittens and duckies, Miss Windle will love that. Okay? Can you remember that?”

“I’ll try,” said Sam. Dean could feel Sam’s mouth against his throat, maybe smiling even at the thought of drawing baby ducks. “Are you mad at me? I almost fucked it up.”

“No,” said Dean. “I’m not mad at you. I just don’t like it when you-when I can’t help you, so next time you get confused, stop for a minute. Ask me. I’ll help you.”

Sam sighed, and seemed to relax a little, his head sinking down, though Dean realized that Sam’s heart was still pounding pretty hard.

“What is it, Sam?” Dean asked, low, almost whispering.

“Can I kiss you?” asked Sam whispering against Dean’s chest.

Dean felt rather alert in the darkness. He had to take a deep breath, and then another one. This was tricky because all of a sudden his mouth wanted those kisses. His body wanted Sam’s hands on it, all over, stroking and petting. The muscles in his groin started to gather themselves together in anticipation. He had to slow down, to keep it simple. Doing something for Sam, because Sam wanted it, in the aftermath of all this, not saying no to Sam would be far easier to get forgiveness for than actually asking Sam to-

“Dean?”

“What?”

“Can I kiss you? Like the other night. I liked it.”

“Why don’t you just tell me a story.”

“Can I kiss you and then tell you a story?”

Even though he couldn’t see Sam’s eyes, the neediness was there in his voice. The want. Dean’s needing Sam had made strong and happy. Taking care of Dean had been good for him. Today he had protested and argued with someone who thought they knew better than he did, now he was asking for something he wanted, just like the old Sam. But this Sam didn’t know they were brothers, he took care of Dean because he liked him. He’d liked it when Dean had put his hands on Sam and stroked him till he came. Dean could still feel Sam’s whisper soft lips on his face, the heat of his mouth. The muscles around his cock started shifting under his skin.

“Uh, no, Sam, no.”

“Please?” This came out very small, very small. Like it hurt him to have Dean say no, like it was killing him to ask yet again.

“Sam…”

Sam moved against him and Dean found he couldn’t say no again. Not with Sam’s weight now on him, pressing him into the mattress, an anchor against the day, against useless thoughts and the feeling of being powerless in the face of an overzealous art therapist.

He felt those arms curve around his head, Sam’s breath on his neck. Unspoken was the thought that earlier Miss Windle had been mean to Sam, taking away the smile from his face, making his shoulders stoop. Making him throw up. Making him cry. After all the hard work Dean had put into making his brother feel confident and sure, making him happy. Not to mention how hard Sam had worked, all the trust he’d placed in Dean, trying his best to be brave and to think things through.

It wasn’t fair, and so Dean needed to undo the harm she had wrought. To bring Sam back to someplace nice and safe, so that Sam could walk with his shoulders straight, head up, not looking around like he was paranoid and scared. So, okay, for Sam, it was okay, he could do what Sam wanted. And maybe soon, Sam wouldn’t need it anymore, this kind of closeness.

Sam wasn’t talking about acid this time, so maybe even that idea had gone by the wayside. Which was proof that he could get better, if Dean did things with him that he normally wouldn’t do. It wasn’t forever, this thing between them. Just long enough to get Sam better, and then, when they left the loony bin, it would stop. He would make it stop. In the meantime, he would keep it in his pants and just give-

“Not too many, okay?” said Dean. He was whispering this, tipping his head back even as Sam tipped his head down, the dark shadow between them narrowing, the rush of air as Sam took a breath and pushed his lips to Dean. His mouth was closed, and it was soft and gentle. Dean realized Sam was shaking a little, so he scooped his arms around Sam’s back, pressing against muscle and bone. “Hey,” he said. “Hey…c’mon now.”

Sam was fully on top of him, one thigh between Dean’s legs, crooked up a tad high, the other clamped along the outside. He could feel Sam’s heart pounding. He let Sam kiss him, and then again. Sam was still shaking.

“Hey. Hey.”

“Kiss me, please, please, just, please-”

Opening his mouth to Sam’s was like coming down a slide. Licking into it, just a little, giving Sam what he needed, wanted. This was for Sam, this was okay. They were stuck in this weird, not-quite-nice place, where the doors had special locks, and there was no way out. Not yet. Dean would find it, he would. But until he did, he would kiss Sam because Sam wanted it. Wanted it bad enough to beg for it. That was wrong. He should never make Sam beg, not for something as simple and easy as a kiss. Dean had kissed hundreds of women, Sam was more important to him than any of those.

Sam kissed, shaking, like he was holding himself back from kissing hard, like he liked it rough. Taking a breath, he kissed along Dean’s jaw, nipping, and the kiss moved into another place Dean had not expected it to go. That his body followed, eager, cock hardening all at once, Sam’s leg pushing the friction against his skin beneath his cotton pajamas. He let it happen, let the sheen of heat build up along his neck, swallow Sam’s taste, hold on tight, holding Sam, feeling Sam’s hardness between his legs grow, not quite hard, not with the meds still in his system. But this would clean the pipes a little, that was good for a man. Good for Sam.

Then Sam drew back a little, like he was going to gear himself up for another go, and Dean made himself push back on Sam’s shoulders. “Okay, now, Sam, now, enough, okay? Tell me a story, now. Tell me about your brother.” He was shaking, but he made himself hold Sam at a distance. He couldn’t quite see Sam’s expression, but the huff told him what he needed to know anyway.

“We’ll-” he started, then he stopped, not quite sure what he’d been about to promise Sam, what he would be willing to do to keep Sam happy, keep him growing stronger. At some point, Sam was going to recover all of his memory, and while a few kisses in the dark for comfort were one thing, Dean’s unspoken promise of a bath, so he could maybe pet Sam’s skin all over, or more kisses, and still more kisses, and Dean’s hand on Sam’s cock-there would be no real way to explain them away.

“We need to sleep,” he said. “You are almost off the meds, but it’s hard to do all the way. You need rest, maybe we’ll go outside tomorrow, maybe we’ll find a way-”

He was about to say, maybe we’ll find a way to escape, but he didn’t think Sam was quite ready for that. He needed to connect with Sam so firmly, so hard, that memory or no memory, that when Dean went, Sam would go with him, no questions asked. Tying Sam to him would involve more of the things Sam needed, which flew in the face of him stopping Sam just now. But he couldn’t quite do it, even in the dark, even with Sam’s body pressed up against his in a hot line. Good heat, soaking to his bones. And Sam’s kisses, he’d never thought Sam’s mouth would taste as good as it did. He petted Sam’s head, kept him at bay, tried not to grind his jaw.

“Do you want that story, now?” asked Sam. Quiet in the darkness. Lying Dean’s arms.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded though Sam couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Tell me a story about when you were little.” A story about when Sam was little would be easier than thinking about where he was now, and would help keep the weirdness in his brain at bay.

This made Sam laugh a little, and Dean found out why when Sam started to talk. “Before I was big, I was little-”

Now Dean laughed, low in his throat, squeezing Sam’s shoulders to him, feeling lucky, so very lucky.

“And this one time, my brother, well, my dad had given me a gun, but it was my brother who showed me how to shoot it. How to put the safety on, how to load the gun. Isn’t that strange? I think I was nine, but he was so patient.”

“Yeah?” Dean liked the sound of this story, could remember the other side of it, how serious and solemn Sam had been, not liking any of it, still pissed at Dad for all the lies, for missing Christmas, for making their lives what it was. And in spite of all that, doing exactly what Dean told him.

“And then we had to learn to shoot arrows, I think we were aiming at targets, but I remember shooting ones with the blade tipped in blood. When I was little, I would get these red marks all over the inside of my arm, but my brother, he taught me how to roll my elbow out of the way-and for some reason I remember aiming a cross bow at a vampire. Only vampires aren’t real, are they?”

This is where it got tricky. “Maybe,” said Dean, “maybe they are. But the meds certainly aren’t helping you not think about them, right? So it’s good that you’re getting off those. Then we can figure what this vampire stuff is all about.”

He felt Sam nod his head in agreement, the line of Sam’s jaw against his breastbone, making him realize how much of Sam was on top of him, and how that felt. The warm place inside of him that was starting to fill with Sam’s stories about his brother, his brother that he adored. Dean had known Sam looked up to him, but the stories, those were something told to a person not his brother, and thus, were filled to the top with it. All that love got pretty gooey, and normally, Dean would shove Sam away and tell him to knock it off. Not now, not this time. He was saving it, would save them all for the day when Sam would remember, and the stories would be no more.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” he said. “Sleep now.” He spread his hand to pet Sam’s shoulder, felt Sam shift against him, and let his brain sink, thinking about high windows, and the sun streaming through them.

Chapter 14

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post