FILLED: Messy as a Secret Shared [2/3]dreamlittleyoMay 3 2016, 02:29:19 UTC
"Dean," he starts, guilt in the sound of his brother's name.
"Don't," Dean cuts him off. "It's not- You don't have to explain, okay? Whatever your reasons, you got a right to 'em. You don't owe me anything." But he says it like he wishes the words weren't true.
"Why are you here, Dean?" Sam asks, only this time the question is soft and serious. He's staring at his brother's profile, willing Dean to look at him. Hating Dean's caution, his hesitation, his obvious doubt. Dean doesn't think he belongs here, and that's on Sam. Sam excised his brother from his life. Necessary or not, he still feels like shit about it.
"I got your message earlier. And like I said. I was in the neighborhood."
"Why?" Sam asks.
Then Dean does look at him. "You know why, Sammy." Dean's mouth quirks in an uncertain shadow of a smile, and a moment later he nudges Sam with an elbow. "Happy birthday, little brother."
There's too much affection in Dean's voice, too much weight in the words. And Sam's not thinking right. He can't be. Because if he were, he would jostle Dean back. He would ignore the way Dean's tone is warming his chest and making him ache. He would pretend away the mess of wrong feelings like he's done a thousand times before.
Instead he leans in, and there's no time to second guess.
No time for the widening of Dean's eyes to scare him off.
Kissing Dean is nothing like he imagined. But then, when Sam has allowed himself to fantasize about this, he hasn't wasted his time on realistic fantasies. He shouldn't be surprised-isn't surprised-when Dean doesn't close his eyes, or melt against Sam, or reach to twist greedy fingers in his hair. Sam shouldn't be surprised that all he gets is frozen stillness, shocked disbelief unmistakable up close.
Sam abruptly retreats. He curls in on himself and covers his face with his hands. He's mortified. His chest hurts.
Silence crashes in on him, heavy and suffocating. He could almost believe he's alone in his room. Dean is so quiet beside him Sam could convince himself his brother isn't here. This could just be a hallucination. Or better yet, a dream. An awful dream Sam won't remember through tomorrow's hangover. Unwelcome and unreal.
Then Dean breathes a shaky exhale. Real enough. Christ, he'll never look Sam in the eye again.
"Fucking hell, Sammy," Dean mutters.
But he doesn't sound angry. He doesn't sound disgusted. He doesn't even sound that surprised. Mostly he just sounds tired, and Sam cautiously lowers his hands and straightens his spine. Takes a moment to brace himself, then turns to find Dean watching him with a dangerously careful expression.
"You already knew," Sam realizes.
For fuck's sake, all this time tearing himself apart trying to keep this one filthy secret, and Dean knew.
"How?" Sam sounds more wrathful than he intends.
"You're a terrible liar, Sammy. Always have been."
Sam doesn't have the fortitude to be offended. He has other priorities at the moment. "Why aren't you angry?"
Dean shrugs again. "No point. I'm sure as hell surprised, though. Didn't figure this was why you called me tonight. Not after you went to so much trouble walking away in the first place."
"But you're not-" Sam starts to protest. "You don't- You weren't supposed to know."
"We can go back to pretending I don't," Dean says. "Is that what you want, Sammy?"
He's always hated when Dean calls him Sammy, but somehow he doesn't mind this time. Maybe it's the way Dean says it, all complicated and... Scared? For a moment Sam is wildly confused. What does Dean have to be scared of? Sam's the one whose secrets have just been laid bare.
But there's an unspoken weight to Dean's question, and it gives Sam pause. He hesitates, watching Dean now every bit as closely as Dean is watching him. He doesn't trust his own perceptions where Dean is concerned. Sam's never been able to look at his brother with an impartial eye. He doesn't know now if what he's seeing in Dean's eyes is anything more than Sam's own hope projected where it doesn't belong.
"Don't," Dean cuts him off. "It's not- You don't have to explain, okay? Whatever your reasons, you got a right to 'em. You don't owe me anything." But he says it like he wishes the words weren't true.
"Why are you here, Dean?" Sam asks, only this time the question is soft and serious. He's staring at his brother's profile, willing Dean to look at him. Hating Dean's caution, his hesitation, his obvious doubt. Dean doesn't think he belongs here, and that's on Sam. Sam excised his brother from his life. Necessary or not, he still feels like shit about it.
"I got your message earlier. And like I said. I was in the neighborhood."
"Why?" Sam asks.
Then Dean does look at him. "You know why, Sammy." Dean's mouth quirks in an uncertain shadow of a smile, and a moment later he nudges Sam with an elbow. "Happy birthday, little brother."
There's too much affection in Dean's voice, too much weight in the words. And Sam's not thinking right. He can't be. Because if he were, he would jostle Dean back. He would ignore the way Dean's tone is warming his chest and making him ache. He would pretend away the mess of wrong feelings like he's done a thousand times before.
Instead he leans in, and there's no time to second guess.
No time for the widening of Dean's eyes to scare him off.
Kissing Dean is nothing like he imagined. But then, when Sam has allowed himself to fantasize about this, he hasn't wasted his time on realistic fantasies. He shouldn't be surprised-isn't surprised-when Dean doesn't close his eyes, or melt against Sam, or reach to twist greedy fingers in his hair. Sam shouldn't be surprised that all he gets is frozen stillness, shocked disbelief unmistakable up close.
Sam abruptly retreats. He curls in on himself and covers his face with his hands. He's mortified. His chest hurts.
Silence crashes in on him, heavy and suffocating. He could almost believe he's alone in his room. Dean is so quiet beside him Sam could convince himself his brother isn't here. This could just be a hallucination. Or better yet, a dream. An awful dream Sam won't remember through tomorrow's hangover. Unwelcome and unreal.
Then Dean breathes a shaky exhale. Real enough. Christ, he'll never look Sam in the eye again.
"Fucking hell, Sammy," Dean mutters.
But he doesn't sound angry. He doesn't sound disgusted. He doesn't even sound that surprised. Mostly he just sounds tired, and Sam cautiously lowers his hands and straightens his spine. Takes a moment to brace himself, then turns to find Dean watching him with a dangerously careful expression.
"You already knew," Sam realizes.
For fuck's sake, all this time tearing himself apart trying to keep this one filthy secret, and Dean knew.
"How?" Sam sounds more wrathful than he intends.
"You're a terrible liar, Sammy. Always have been."
Sam doesn't have the fortitude to be offended. He has other priorities at the moment. "Why aren't you angry?"
Dean shrugs again. "No point. I'm sure as hell surprised, though. Didn't figure this was why you called me tonight. Not after you went to so much trouble walking away in the first place."
"But you're not-" Sam starts to protest. "You don't- You weren't supposed to know."
"We can go back to pretending I don't," Dean says. "Is that what you want, Sammy?"
He's always hated when Dean calls him Sammy, but somehow he doesn't mind this time. Maybe it's the way Dean says it, all complicated and... Scared? For a moment Sam is wildly confused. What does Dean have to be scared of? Sam's the one whose secrets have just been laid bare.
But there's an unspoken weight to Dean's question, and it gives Sam pause. He hesitates, watching Dean now every bit as closely as Dean is watching him. He doesn't trust his own perceptions where Dean is concerned. Sam's never been able to look at his brother with an impartial eye. He doesn't know now if what he's seeing in Dean's eyes is anything more than Sam's own hope projected where it doesn't belong.
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