The Breaking Point
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Breaking Point
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean, mild Sam/Dean
Rating: PG, mostly angsty stuff
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point, my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...From Sam's point of view...
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
Sam listens as Dean leaves, holds himself still and silent, protecting the fragile balance, the delicate illusion that keeps his brother from breaking. He had heard the sounds in the yard, heard Dean slamming his rage into the car because he believes the car can handle it, believes Sam can’t. Sam had cried, sobbed, bawled into his pillow, because Dean couldn’t.
He’s finished crying now, there are no tears left in him. He’s cried for his father’s loss, for the guilt, the pain, for the lost look in his brother’s eyes as he realized. He’s cried for himself, for his fear, for his abject terror that he keeps inside, hidden even from Dean. He’s cried for the truth that lay there on that hospital floor with his father, for his final words, for his final thoughts that he never meant Sam to hear.
Now he lies in the bed that’s too small and listens to the sound of his brother moving through the house, settling into another bed that’s too small; to not sleep and not cry and balance everything on the razor sharp edge of sanity.
Sam sits up, rubbing a large hand over his face, pushing away the remnants of his earlier bout of grief and pain, scratching at skin that feels too close, too tight. He knows what he has to do, but it hurts, coils inside him, tearing his stomach into bloody strings. They can’t stay here like this, forever hovering outside of themselves, of who they were once. They can’t stay here, frozen inside a moment neither of them is willing to admit to or talk about.
Sam’s hands ball into fists, clenching tight enough to white out his knuckles. He stands, paces across the room in two strides, stares out the window at the lights Dean didn’t turn out before he came inside. He can barely make out the back bumper of the Impala.
He’s tried to convince himself that if Dean could just fix the Impala everything would be okay, as if the car was Dean’s soul…but if that was true, and Dean could just lay into it like he had, what did that say about Dean’s soul? Sam isn’t sure he wants to answer that question. Instead he hangs his head and worries at his lower lip with his teeth.
He’s tired, achy in ways he doesn’t remember ever feeling. He can feel Dean slipping away every day, and he can’t touch him, can’t feel his heart thumping under his hand like he had in the hospital, just to reassure himself. Because as long as Dean’s heart is beating, Sam can breathe.
Sam shivers, wrapping his arms around himself and stalking back to the bed. He’s lain in it for hours this last week, and slept little. When he sleeps the nightmares come, and he can’t…they’re too horrible and only half are from memories. He’s afraid to know where the rest come from, when he’ll hold that bloody child in his arms, when he’ll meet the pretty girl with the haunted eyes…when he’ll…No. He pushes that thought away.
He can’t think of that, not when so much else is wrong and broken and falling apart around him. Because that day will come, and when it does…if Dean…Sam swallows hard and tries to avoid the image, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to protect Dean, especially not like he is now, all hard edges over jagged wounds.
He’s thought about leaving, just for a while, just until Dean starts to feel a little…more….just until he can understand why and what and how…but he can’t, not after begging Dean to stay…not after begging Dean to just stay with him…not after Dad did…what he did, just so Sam could keep Dean.
Sam broke that day in the hospital, quivering pieces of himself left along the hallway, in a pile beside his father’s bed, left in Dean’s hand as it left his arm…and he’d been slowly putting himself back together, trying to anyway. The funeral pyre had helped, though he hadn’t thought it could. The hunt did too. He was still cracked, burnt around the edges…but the tears were soaking in, smoothing and filling and with a deep shuddering breath, Sam lets a little of the pain fade away.
His steps down the hall are soft, he doesn’t want to disturb Bobby. At Dean’s door he pauses, listening. Dean isn’t asleep, Sam knows he isn’t. He opens the door. Dean’s laying with his back to the door. For a moment Sam stands, watching. Dean doesn’t move and for a moment Sam has to strain to even hear him breathing.
He’s careful to close the door quietly, and his move to the bed is hesitant. He waits, half expecting Dean to say something, kick him out, tell him to go back to bed. When he doesn’t, Sam nods, deciding in that moment that it was Dean’s turn. For all these years Dean was the one who gave Sam everything, anything he needed, even when Sam hadn’t known what that was.
Sam’s eyes slip over the bare back, biting his lip. Dean didn’t want it, and would fight it, but with a clarity that came from being able to read his brother better than anyone, Sam took the last step, slipping to sit on the bed behind Dean, reaching out with one hand to touch his brother’s back. Dean pulled away with a jerk and mumbled something.
Sam slides to lay behind him, his whole body only inches from Dean’s, and presses his hand back to Dean’s shoulder blade. “Fuck, Sam. Go.” Dean leans away, but Sam follows, pressing skin to skin.
“No.” Sam whispers and he feels Dean shudder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As Dean adjusts to his hand, Sam moves closer, sliding that hand down to Dean’s side. Dean’s elbow moves back, catching Sam in the ribs, but Sam only uses the motion to get his arm around his brother’s stomach, tightening and pulling him back. Dean jerks away, or tries to, but Sam holds him. “Not this time, Dean.”
“Sam.” His voice is angry, and laced with an ache that makes Sam’s heart hurt.
Sam fits Dean into the space that seems made just to hold him, fits his chin over Dean’s shoulder so that his mouth is next to Dean’s ear. “I’m not leaving. I’m not letting go.” Dean shivers against him and Sam holds him tighter. “I heard you. I know.”
Dean struggles, pushing hard to escape him, escape the bed. “It hurts, god Dean…I know how much…I know…and I am still here.”
“Sam. Stop.” It’s dangerous, dark and Sam can feel his jaw working tighter and tighter.
“No.” Sam turns and presses a kiss to Dean’s jaw, inhaling the earthy, sweaty scent of his brother. “You need to listen to me.”
“Sam, please. I can’t.” It’s desperate and pleading.
“You can. You have to know.”
This stills Dean, and Sam shifts his grip a little to make it more comfortable. “It isn’t your fault.” Sam says, softly, directly into Dean’s ear, and it brings back the struggle. “It isn’t. He didn’t do it for you.” Sam’s voice breaks a little. “He did it because of me…he did it for me, Dean.”
“No. Sam, stop.”
Dean wrenches himself around and nearly gets a foot out of the bed before Sam manages to yank him back, wrapping a long leg around his brother’s and holding him more firmly. Still, Sam clings to his back, because he can’t do this if he has to look at him. “I begged him Dean…to help you, to find anything to bring you back.” Sam closes his eyes and rests his head against Dean’s shoulder. He can still see the look in his father’s eyes, can still feel the moment he knew, can feel the goodbye hang in the air, the unspoken explanation there between them, and neither of them able to say a thing.
“He knew I needed you more than I needed him, Dean.” He says it as softly as he can, feeling it cut through, feeling it sting into Dean. “I knew. When I walked away, when I went for his goddamn coffee. I knew Dean.”
Dean rolls, pinning Sam for a moment, his arm snaking behind him to try to pry Sam off of him. “I let him go, Dean.” Sam whispers and he starts to feel Dean crack. “Dad’s gone because I let him go…I got him what he needed, and I knew then, I saw it and pretended I didn’t.”
“Sam.” It’s a whine now, a needy cry for space, for relief, but Sam doesn’t relent.
“The demon is coming for me, Dean. Dad can’t protect me anymore. Dad gave up, he got out. He knew you were stronger than him…knew something that demon never did figure out.” Sam pulls him in closer. “Love, Dean. Dad saw it in my eyes, in my desperation. Dad knew.”
The shudder that sweeps through Dean shakes the whole bed. “He knew and he gave you back to me.” Sam presses his lips to the back of Dean’s neck, and it’s been so long since he’s touched Dean this way…so long since even casual touch was okay…he groans into Dean’s skin.
“He knew and he loved you so much.” Dean’s hands aren’t pushing at Sam’s, now they’re holding them, pulling them tighter. “And, just like that night when Mom died and he gave me to you…that night, in the hospital, he gave you to me.”
And that’s the moment it happens, Dean doubles over, pulling Sam with him as he cracks open, as he breaks and falls and holds onto Sam. Sobs wrack through him and Sam does everything he can to touch as much of him as he can, holding skin against skin like Dean had done when they were small. He kisses as much of Dean’s back as he can reach without pulling away. “I’m here, Dean,” he whispers, and it only makes Dean shake more.
For the longest moment the room is silent, even with Dean’s entire body keening, and Sam’s almost afraid he’s pushed too far, that Dean’s stopped breathing, stopped….but then it comes, gasping, throaty sounds that are raw and despondent and Dean’s clawing at him, pulling Sam’s hands from his chest, dragging air into his protesting body. There are no tears, only a body heaving with grief. Sam loosens his grip to give him space, runs one hand down his back, up into his hair. “That’s it…” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”
Dean flails, a last attempt at turning this conflict to something physical, his elbow catching Sam in the eye hard enough that it will be a bruise by morning. Sam blocks the next one, even as Dean turns, and takes and honest swing at him and Sam lets it land on his jaw, re-splitting his lip, and when he looks up Dean is leaning over him, his chest heaving, his face pale and shadowed and lost.
Sam’s arms slide up around to Dean’s back and cajole him down. He resists, but as Sam’s hand brushes the back of his neck, Dean collapses, half beside Sam, half on top of him. Sam’s lips brush his forehead. “Right here, Dean.”
Sam closes his eyes as Dean’s body shivers beside him, feeling the snake in his stomach uncoil. There’s still enough fight left in him, Sam knows…he shifts so that he can face Dean, the bed creaks in protest. Sam inhales deeply, gathering himself for the last step, the final push…He doesn’t open his eyes, just finds his way by touch, kissing his forehead again, then down, over each eye brow…over his eyes.
Dean’s lips are dry, chapped, and Sam can taste the coppery taste of his own blood on his lips as he slips his tongue out to taste Dean. He doesn’t move to reject him or accept him, not that it would have mattered. Sam tilts his head, presses his mouth to Dean’s gently, but insistently, his tongue delving in to rub against Dean’s. He keeps it short, and follows it quickly with another, and another…each kiss growing in urgency, each kiss lingering a moment longer.
It seems to take forever, but eventually Dean stirs, not quite kissing back, but something. “Love you.” Sam whispers into the cavern of Dean’s mouth and Dean whimpers. “Need you.”
The tears come at last, wetting Sam’s face as he presses into Dean’s mouth, swallowing the sounds as his brother splinters…holding him as he crashes into tiny pieces and all the bottled up fear and grief and rage and aching loneliness come pouring out in his tears and skin and the frantic touch of his hands on Sam’s arms and the way his lips follow Sam’s even when he pulls away enough to breathe.
“I’ve got you.” Sam murmurs as the tension leaks out of Dean’s body and he melts into the mattress, into Sam’s arms.
The house is quiet around them, and Sam feels drained, even though it is Dean who broke apart, Dean who’s drifting now, closer to sleep than he had been when Sam came into the room. Sam kisses the top of his head. He feels Dean let go, falling into the blessed relief of real sleep.
He’s better now. There are still secrets between them. There probably always would be. But somehow they’d get through this. Together.
Title: The Breaking Point
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean, mild Sam/Dean
Rating: PG, mostly angsty stuff
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point, my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...From Sam's point of view...
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
Sam listens as Dean leaves, holds himself still and silent, protecting the fragile balance, the delicate illusion that keeps his brother from breaking. He had heard the sounds in the yard, heard Dean slamming his rage into the car because he believes the car can handle it, believes Sam can’t. Sam had cried, sobbed, bawled into his pillow, because Dean couldn’t.
He’s finished crying now, there are no tears left in him. He’s cried for his father’s loss, for the guilt, the pain, for the lost look in his brother’s eyes as he realized. He’s cried for himself, for his fear, for his abject terror that he keeps inside, hidden even from Dean. He’s cried for the truth that lay there on that hospital floor with his father, for his final words, for his final thoughts that he never meant Sam to hear.
Now he lies in the bed that’s too small and listens to the sound of his brother moving through the house, settling into another bed that’s too small; to not sleep and not cry and balance everything on the razor sharp edge of sanity.
Sam sits up, rubbing a large hand over his face, pushing away the remnants of his earlier bout of grief and pain, scratching at skin that feels too close, too tight. He knows what he has to do, but it hurts, coils inside him, tearing his stomach into bloody strings. They can’t stay here like this, forever hovering outside of themselves, of who they were once. They can’t stay here, frozen inside a moment neither of them is willing to admit to or talk about.
Sam’s hands ball into fists, clenching tight enough to white out his knuckles. He stands, paces across the room in two strides, stares out the window at the lights Dean didn’t turn out before he came inside. He can barely make out the back bumper of the Impala.
He’s tried to convince himself that if Dean could just fix the Impala everything would be okay, as if the car was Dean’s soul…but if that was true, and Dean could just lay into it like he had, what did that say about Dean’s soul? Sam isn’t sure he wants to answer that question. Instead he hangs his head and worries at his lower lip with his teeth.
He’s tired, achy in ways he doesn’t remember ever feeling. He can feel Dean slipping away every day, and he can’t touch him, can’t feel his heart thumping under his hand like he had in the hospital, just to reassure himself. Because as long as Dean’s heart is beating, Sam can breathe.
Sam shivers, wrapping his arms around himself and stalking back to the bed. He’s lain in it for hours this last week, and slept little. When he sleeps the nightmares come, and he can’t…they’re too horrible and only half are from memories. He’s afraid to know where the rest come from, when he’ll hold that bloody child in his arms, when he’ll meet the pretty girl with the haunted eyes…when he’ll…No. He pushes that thought away.
He can’t think of that, not when so much else is wrong and broken and falling apart around him. Because that day will come, and when it does…if Dean…Sam swallows hard and tries to avoid the image, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to protect Dean, especially not like he is now, all hard edges over jagged wounds.
He’s thought about leaving, just for a while, just until Dean starts to feel a little…more….just until he can understand why and what and how…but he can’t, not after begging Dean to stay…not after begging Dean to just stay with him…not after Dad did…what he did, just so Sam could keep Dean.
Sam broke that day in the hospital, quivering pieces of himself left along the hallway, in a pile beside his father’s bed, left in Dean’s hand as it left his arm…and he’d been slowly putting himself back together, trying to anyway. The funeral pyre had helped, though he hadn’t thought it could. The hunt did too. He was still cracked, burnt around the edges…but the tears were soaking in, smoothing and filling and with a deep shuddering breath, Sam lets a little of the pain fade away.
His steps down the hall are soft, he doesn’t want to disturb Bobby. At Dean’s door he pauses, listening. Dean isn’t asleep, Sam knows he isn’t. He opens the door. Dean’s laying with his back to the door. For a moment Sam stands, watching. Dean doesn’t move and for a moment Sam has to strain to even hear him breathing.
He’s careful to close the door quietly, and his move to the bed is hesitant. He waits, half expecting Dean to say something, kick him out, tell him to go back to bed. When he doesn’t, Sam nods, deciding in that moment that it was Dean’s turn. For all these years Dean was the one who gave Sam everything, anything he needed, even when Sam hadn’t known what that was.
Sam’s eyes slip over the bare back, biting his lip. Dean didn’t want it, and would fight it, but with a clarity that came from being able to read his brother better than anyone, Sam took the last step, slipping to sit on the bed behind Dean, reaching out with one hand to touch his brother’s back. Dean pulled away with a jerk and mumbled something.
Sam slides to lay behind him, his whole body only inches from Dean’s, and presses his hand back to Dean’s shoulder blade. “Fuck, Sam. Go.” Dean leans away, but Sam follows, pressing skin to skin.
“No.” Sam whispers and he feels Dean shudder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As Dean adjusts to his hand, Sam moves closer, sliding that hand down to Dean’s side. Dean’s elbow moves back, catching Sam in the ribs, but Sam only uses the motion to get his arm around his brother’s stomach, tightening and pulling him back. Dean jerks away, or tries to, but Sam holds him. “Not this time, Dean.”
“Sam.” His voice is angry, and laced with an ache that makes Sam’s heart hurt.
Sam fits Dean into the space that seems made just to hold him, fits his chin over Dean’s shoulder so that his mouth is next to Dean’s ear. “I’m not leaving. I’m not letting go.” Dean shivers against him and Sam holds him tighter. “I heard you. I know.”
Dean struggles, pushing hard to escape him, escape the bed. “It hurts, god Dean…I know how much…I know…and I am still here.”
“Sam. Stop.” It’s dangerous, dark and Sam can feel his jaw working tighter and tighter.
“No.” Sam turns and presses a kiss to Dean’s jaw, inhaling the earthy, sweaty scent of his brother. “You need to listen to me.”
“Sam, please. I can’t.” It’s desperate and pleading.
“You can. You have to know.”
This stills Dean, and Sam shifts his grip a little to make it more comfortable. “It isn’t your fault.” Sam says, softly, directly into Dean’s ear, and it brings back the struggle. “It isn’t. He didn’t do it for you.” Sam’s voice breaks a little. “He did it because of me…he did it for me, Dean.”
“No. Sam, stop.”
Dean wrenches himself around and nearly gets a foot out of the bed before Sam manages to yank him back, wrapping a long leg around his brother’s and holding him more firmly. Still, Sam clings to his back, because he can’t do this if he has to look at him. “I begged him Dean…to help you, to find anything to bring you back.” Sam closes his eyes and rests his head against Dean’s shoulder. He can still see the look in his father’s eyes, can still feel the moment he knew, can feel the goodbye hang in the air, the unspoken explanation there between them, and neither of them able to say a thing.
“He knew I needed you more than I needed him, Dean.” He says it as softly as he can, feeling it cut through, feeling it sting into Dean. “I knew. When I walked away, when I went for his goddamn coffee. I knew Dean.”
Dean rolls, pinning Sam for a moment, his arm snaking behind him to try to pry Sam off of him. “I let him go, Dean.” Sam whispers and he starts to feel Dean crack. “Dad’s gone because I let him go…I got him what he needed, and I knew then, I saw it and pretended I didn’t.”
“Sam.” It’s a whine now, a needy cry for space, for relief, but Sam doesn’t relent.
“The demon is coming for me, Dean. Dad can’t protect me anymore. Dad gave up, he got out. He knew you were stronger than him…knew something that demon never did figure out.” Sam pulls him in closer. “Love, Dean. Dad saw it in my eyes, in my desperation. Dad knew.”
The shudder that sweeps through Dean shakes the whole bed. “He knew and he gave you back to me.” Sam presses his lips to the back of Dean’s neck, and it’s been so long since he’s touched Dean this way…so long since even casual touch was okay…he groans into Dean’s skin.
“He knew and he loved you so much.” Dean’s hands aren’t pushing at Sam’s, now they’re holding them, pulling them tighter. “And, just like that night when Mom died and he gave me to you…that night, in the hospital, he gave you to me.”
And that’s the moment it happens, Dean doubles over, pulling Sam with him as he cracks open, as he breaks and falls and holds onto Sam. Sobs wrack through him and Sam does everything he can to touch as much of him as he can, holding skin against skin like Dean had done when they were small. He kisses as much of Dean’s back as he can reach without pulling away. “I’m here, Dean,” he whispers, and it only makes Dean shake more.
For the longest moment the room is silent, even with Dean’s entire body keening, and Sam’s almost afraid he’s pushed too far, that Dean’s stopped breathing, stopped….but then it comes, gasping, throaty sounds that are raw and despondent and Dean’s clawing at him, pulling Sam’s hands from his chest, dragging air into his protesting body. There are no tears, only a body heaving with grief. Sam loosens his grip to give him space, runs one hand down his back, up into his hair. “That’s it…” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”
Dean flails, a last attempt at turning this conflict to something physical, his elbow catching Sam in the eye hard enough that it will be a bruise by morning. Sam blocks the next one, even as Dean turns, and takes and honest swing at him and Sam lets it land on his jaw, re-splitting his lip, and when he looks up Dean is leaning over him, his chest heaving, his face pale and shadowed and lost.
Sam’s arms slide up around to Dean’s back and cajole him down. He resists, but as Sam’s hand brushes the back of his neck, Dean collapses, half beside Sam, half on top of him. Sam’s lips brush his forehead. “Right here, Dean.”
Sam closes his eyes as Dean’s body shivers beside him, feeling the snake in his stomach uncoil. There’s still enough fight left in him, Sam knows…he shifts so that he can face Dean, the bed creaks in protest. Sam inhales deeply, gathering himself for the last step, the final push…He doesn’t open his eyes, just finds his way by touch, kissing his forehead again, then down, over each eye brow…over his eyes.
Dean’s lips are dry, chapped, and Sam can taste the coppery taste of his own blood on his lips as he slips his tongue out to taste Dean. He doesn’t move to reject him or accept him, not that it would have mattered. Sam tilts his head, presses his mouth to Dean’s gently, but insistently, his tongue delving in to rub against Dean’s. He keeps it short, and follows it quickly with another, and another…each kiss growing in urgency, each kiss lingering a moment longer.
It seems to take forever, but eventually Dean stirs, not quite kissing back, but something. “Love you.” Sam whispers into the cavern of Dean’s mouth and Dean whimpers. “Need you.”
The tears come at last, wetting Sam’s face as he presses into Dean’s mouth, swallowing the sounds as his brother splinters…holding him as he crashes into tiny pieces and all the bottled up fear and grief and rage and aching loneliness come pouring out in his tears and skin and the frantic touch of his hands on Sam’s arms and the way his lips follow Sam’s even when he pulls away enough to breathe.
“I’ve got you.” Sam murmurs as the tension leaks out of Dean’s body and he melts into the mattress, into Sam’s arms.
The house is quiet around them, and Sam feels drained, even though it is Dean who broke apart, Dean who’s drifting now, closer to sleep than he had been when Sam came into the room. Sam kisses the top of his head. He feels Dean let go, falling into the blessed relief of real sleep.
He’s better now. There are still secrets between them. There probably always would be. But somehow they’d get through this. Together.