And If I Show You My Dark Side (Will You Still Hold Me Tonight)
Title: And If I Show You My Dark Side (Will You Still Hold Me Tonight)
Summary: Dean will never let Sam go, and Sam knows it. This changes nothing, but it changes everything.
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2,982
Warnings: Consensual sibling incest. Spoilers up to the last aired episode of S9. Also, major trigger warnings: Major character death. Explicit depiction of suicide. Not the same character, either. Basically everybody dies. Sorry.
Neurotic Author’s Note #1: Well, on the plus side, I wrote something? I haven’t had much time or energy or inclination to write these days. Financial worries tend to kill the muse for me, and on top of that everything’s been busy and exhausting. Sorry.
Neurotic Author’s Note #2: On the not-so-plus side, I am really sorry for this story. No, really, I am sorry. Current canon is making me sad, and when I am sad I sometimes write really fucking depressing fic. Sorry. Also, this is not beta'd at all.
Neurotic Author’s Note #3: The title is taken from Pink Floyd’s The Final Cut from their album The Wall.
Dean is waiting in the motel room when Sam gets back. The sun hasn’t begun to set, and Sam is grateful for the promise of a long summer evening stretching out in front of them tonight. It’s been a long winter, dark and cold, but now it feels like the sun might shine forever.
“Hey,” Dean tosses him a beer bottle, and Sam obliges him by not fumbling the catch. He sets the beer bottle and the paper bag with take out on the wobbly table by the window, and ignores the way the condensation immediately starts to bead on the glass and form a ring where he placed the bottle. No one here cares about rings on the wooden finish. “So you good?”
Sam tilts his head noncommittally, but he produces a prescription bottle from his pants pocket and rattles the contents meaningfully. “All set up.”
Dean nods, taking the gesture as meaning all is resolved, and Sam doesn’t correct him. “Good. You had me worried for a while, there.”
Sam forces a laugh and drops down on the bed next to Dean. “Yeah, you weren’t the only one. But the doctor said this should take care of the headaches, no problem.”
Temporarily, is what he adds mentally to the end of that sentence, but he’s not planning on saying anything. Not right now. Dean’s sitting halfway off the bed, one foot on the floor, the other tucked under his knee, carefully honing his hunting knife. The demon-killing blade is still in its sheath--this is the blade Dean has carried since he was twelve years old, lovingly maintained, the handle glistening from years of wear and repeated polishing. Sam can’t imagine a life in which Dean won’t have it under his pillow. He knows that Dean put it away during the year he lived with Lisa, but it’s still impossible for him to imagine it.
He sits quietly for a few moments, watching Dean’s hands as they work, the delicate knotting of muscles in his forearms, the way the terrible scar ripples along his forearm. It’s all that’s left of the Mark of Cain, the only physical reminder of what’s transpired in the last year. Sam finds himself reaching out to trace the edges of it with his fingers and has to force himself to pull back. The movement catches Dean’s eye, though, and he looks up, his expression searching. They’re still not quite back to where they were, not exactly, but lately it’s felt as though they’ve stepped away from the edge of the abyss into which they were both so close to falling.
Sam clears his throat. “You want to go out?”
Dean’s head jerks back a little in surprise, his eyes widening. “What?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking you on a date, jerk. I just meant it’s nice outside. I figured we could eat at the picnic table down near the water.”
“Oh,” Dean sheathes his knife and stands up, the bed bouncing under his weight and making the whole movement look more awkward than it is. “Yeah, okay. Okay, sure.”
Dean brings the cooler. Sam stopped worrying about how much his brother drinks after he came back from Purgatory, just cracks open his own beer before hopping up to sit next to Dean on the table, feet resting on the bench. Picnic tables always seem to be set up so that you’re turning your back on the most important stuff if you sit on the benches. His shoulder brushes against Dean’s as they drink, watching the evening sunlight dance on the muddy water of the little body of water that this little podunk town insists on calling a lake.
“Are they sure it’s even a lake?”
As usual, Dean’s thoughts echo his own. Sam nods, though.
“Yeah. It’s deep enough that the light can’t reach certain places--it’s called an aphotic zone,” he can hear the pedantry in his own voice, cringes inwardly even though Dean doesn’t seem bothered. “Ponds have a photic zone their entire length and width, and they don’t have a constant flow of water like a lake.”
He feels Dean’s elbow then, a quick nudge to the ribs. “Nerd.”
He laughs and takes a pull off his beer. “You asked.”
“I suppose I did.”
Dean sounds contented. He looks that way, too. The corners of his eyes crinkle a little as he stares across the water while the sun begins to sink slowly out of view behind a copse of trees. The sky turns pink, then orange, and Sam finishes another beer before plucking Dean’s empty bottle from his fingers and dropping it back inside the cooler. It’s not that they care about littering, just ingrained habit acquired from their father--leave no trace, no sign that you were ever there. They’ve never succeeded entirely, but it doesn’t prevent them from trying.
Sam’s fingers brush against Dean’s, and he knows he’s not imagining Dean’s slight shudder, the quiet intake of breath. He leans in closer, and isn’t surprised when Dean turns to kiss him. It’s a slow kiss, lacking the terrible desperation in all of Dean’s actions when Sam was undergoing the Trials. They haven’t slept together since before Sam was possessed--even the idea of being touched made Sam’s skin crawl for the longest time--but he can feel himself slipping back into familiar patterns like pulling on a favourite sweater.
He leads Dean back to the motel room, kicks off his shoes and socks, lets himself be pushed back onto the bed. Dean fumbles a little with the buttons on Sam’s shirt, so Sam makes things easier on them both by shucking his pants himself. Warmth floods through him when he catches sight of Dean giving him an appreciative once-over, and then all rational thoughts flee his mind when Dean pushes him backward onto the bed.
“All right, Sammy?”
“Sure,” he manages, throat threatening to close.
He shifts back a little further, heels scrabbling for purchase, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, while Dean pulls his own belt loose and climbs up after him. Sam pulls Dean’s t-shirt over his head, tosses it aside without looking where it lands, shudders when Dean wraps a hand around his dick and tugs, stroking the head with his thumb. He pulls Dean’s hand away, leans up to kiss him.
“Not gonna last if you do that,” he says, impressed that he’s able to produce words at all. It’s been far too long for them both, and he wants tonight to be good, if not special.
Dean grins at him. “That so?”
He looks so pleased with himself that it’s all Sam can do not to laugh at him. He doesn’t, though, because if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that it’s incredibly easy to hurt his brother without even meaning to. There have been too many endless little wounds to Dean’s psyche over the years, nicks and cuts and microfractures, and he’ll be damned if he adds to them unless it’s absolutely necessary. Dean produces a bottle of lube seemingly from nowhere (Sam is pretty sure he fished it out of his duffle bag, but Dean’s always had a knack for taking what he needs without getting caught) and licks his lips in anticipation. His jeans are gone, kicked to the side along with his boots, and Sam feels another flush of warmth suffuse his whole body. Dean’s skin is burning hot against his as he climbs on top of him, straddling his waist, and Sam’s gaze trails down his body to his dick, hard and curving up slightly toward his belly.
Dean takes his time with them. He’s never been rough with Sam, not in all the years they’ve been doing this on and off, not even in those frantic moments after hunts when the sex was as much about making sure Sam was still alive and whole as it was about whatever else was between them. Even then, he’s all gentle touches, his lips soft against Sam’s as they move together. Sam lets his eyes close, arching back against the thin motel pillows as Dean sucks a bruise into the base of his neck. Dean might be on top, but it’s Sam setting the pace, easy but not slow, enjoying the quiet, almost desperate sounds Dean is making.
Dean comes first, but he doesn’t pull out. He just reaches between them and uses his hand, stroking and twisting until Sam is writhing, eyes screwed shut, hands gripping Dean’s arms so tightly that he leaves white spots behind where his fingers were digging into his flesh. He can feel his orgasm building slowly, like watching a wave beginning to crest far from shore, so far that seems impossible the water will ever make it to its promised destination. Dean is murmuring something, but it’s impossible to hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, and he comes with a moan that he only partially manages to smother in Dean’s shoulder.
He doesn’t let Dean get up after that, just pulls him down on the bed and wraps his leg over both of Dean’s. He doesn’t miss the way his brother grins lazily at him.
“Coulda just said you wanted to cuddle, Sammy.”
He smiles back, though he can already feel a headache building behind his eyes. He closes his eyes again and lays his head against Dean’s collarbone.
“I want to cuddle,” he states, and he can feel Dean’s surprise--his muscles tensing up slightly. He’s not following the rules, but he doesn’t care.
His brother smooths a stray lock of hair away from his face. The sweat is cooling on both their bodies, and though they’re both still warm enough for this to be uncomfortable, Sam keeps hold of Dean as tightly as he can without hurting him.
“You okay?” Dean asks, and Sam shrugs. “You know, sex is meant to get rid of headaches, not the other way around. Except for that one chick on that TLC show. You remember? She got migraines when she orgasmed? Freaky shit, man.”
Sam chuckles in spite of himself. “You think her life is freaky compared to ours?”
“Okay, point. But still…” He can practically feel the worry oozing out of Dean’s pores. “The doctor gave you something, right? You should take it before it gets too bad, not like last time.”
“I will.” It’s an easy enough thing to promise. Dean’s still stroking his face, rubbing a thumb against his temple, and it feels too good to want to stop, or get up in order to fuss with pills. “Don’t stop.”
“Okay,” Dean keeps going, but Sam can feel the next question even before it’s out of his mouth. “So it’s okay? I mean, you never said, but it’s not serious, right? You would have told me if it was.”
Sam hums what he hopes sounds like agreement, then lifts his head to look Dean in the eyes. “What if it had been?”
Dean takes the opportunity to reach down and pull the bed clothes over them. Sam hadn’t even realised that he’d started to get cold until he starts to warm up again under the blankets.
“If it had been, we would have dealt with it,” Dean says. “Simple.”
Sam sighs quietly. “Some things can’t be fixed, though.”
“Sure they can. We’d find a way, we always do. I would find a way.”
Sam nods and doesn’t say anything. He knew what Dean was going to say. It’s not even a surprise. He can feel the pain getting worse now, a steady throb behind his eyes, spreading outward slowly in spirals.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
Dean doesn’t wait for an answer, just gets out of bed and finds Sam’s discarded jeans. He fishes out the little bottle of pills, then pads over to the bathroom, still naked. Sam hears the sound of water running in the sink, and when Dean comes back he not only has a glass of water but a wet washcloth. He props Sam up, pushes the pills into his hand and holds the water to his lips. He takes the glass away again, sets it down on the night table, and it’s only when he uses the washcloth to wipe gently at Sam’s face that Sam’s eyes begin to sting in spite of himself. Uncharacteristically, Dean plants a careful kiss near his temple.
“That bad already?”
“No, it’s okay,” Sam lies. He rolls over and pulls at his brother until Dean submits with a roll of his eyes and lies back down. “I just… like this, okay?” Sam pleads, knowing full well that there’s almost nothing Dean will refuse him, if he asks. Almost.
“Sure, Sammy.”
Dean falls asleep not long after he’s got them both settled, but he lets Sam wrap both arms and a leg around him and hold onto him like he’s the only thing keeping Sam afloat. Sam keeps his eyes closed, listening to the even sound of his breathing. The darkness and the pills help to keep the pain at bay, but it’s not going to be enough, he already knows that. It won’t be long now,, Sam promises himself, and counts Dean’s breaths. In and out. For a while he matches his breathing to Dean’s, trying to keep his own heart from racing. He doesn’t know how Dean doesn’t wake up from the sound of his heart pounding against his ribcage. It’s so loud, it feels like it’s echoing off the walls of the room.
When the clock radio reads just after one, and Dean is still deeply asleep, Sam slips a hand under his pillow, careful not to wake him. It’s not time yet, not quite yet. He swallows the lump in his throat and sits up slowly. Moonlight is spilling through the window, illuminating the bed--they didn’t bother pulling the curtains last night, and now Sam is grateful. Dean looks peaceful for the first time in as long as Sam can remember, beautiful with his face bathed in moonlight, and so Sam stares, trying to engrave the moment in his memory forever.
Then, quickly, before he can change his mind, he pulls the edge of Dean’s hunting knife cleanly across his throat, as hard as he can.
The tears that threatened before spill down his cheeks, but he can still see well enough to make out what he’s doing. Dean’s eyes fly open, and Sam lunges forward and clamps a hand over his mouth, stifling whatever sound his brother might make. He chokes on a sob, leans forward.
“Shh.”
Dean’s struggling weakly under his hand, eyes wide and terrified, but Sam knows he only has to hold on, now.
“Shh,” he says again. “It won’t be long, promise. I couldn’t find a better way,” he adds. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t try to explain it to Dean, but what’s one more broken promise? His head is throbbing in time with his pulse. “It’s okay, Dean. It’s better this way. You wouldn’t have let me go, and this can’t be fixed. You just… you keep bringing me back, and I can’t do it anymore.”
Dean’s blood is gurgling in his throat, and he’s still staring up at Sam like he doesn’t understand any of it. He probably doesn’t, probably never will, but Sam tries anyway.
“It’s a tumour. Untreatable. But I know you, I know you won’t take that as an answer,” he uses his free hand, the one still holding the knife, to cuff the tears from his eyes with the back of his wrist. “And I can’t--I can’t do it anymore. I’m tired, and I want it to stop, and you won’t let me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but it’s better this way, I promise. Shh, that’s it. Shh.”
Dean has stopped struggling. His eyes are already starting to turn glassy. Sam leans over further, takes his hand away. Dean’s mouth tastes of blood, all copper and fading life, and there’s a wet sucking sound as Sam puts all his weight on his hand where the blood is soaking into the mattress, saturating the sheets. He strokes Dean’s hair, trying to keep his own breathing even, to quiet the sobs that keep trying to well up in his chest. He can’t cry now, or the pain will make it too hard to finish what he’s started.
Not long now, he promises himself. He just has to wait. He stares at the clock, holds Dean’s hand in both of his while he waits, feeling the warmth leech from the skin as the last vestiges of life flee from the room. He has to wait, has to be sure there’s no way back from this. He waits until the luminous dial on the clock tells him an hour has gone by before he gets up, staggering a bit because his leg has fallen asleep. It’s all pins and needles, his foot tingling where it meets the floor, but in a moment it won’t matter. He wishes for a moment that they still had the Colt, just to be on the safe side--he’s pretty sure that he’s not among the five things that gun can’t kill--but his own gun will do just as well in a pinch. A gun isn’t the quietest way to do this, but it’s the one way he can guarantee it will be final.
He reaches out to grasp Dean’s hand one last time, laces their fingers together. Dean’s hand doesn’t feel cold at all, not now. Then he puts the barrel in his mouth and aims it at where he imagines the tumour is nestling inside his brain, the last in a line of countless invasions. In a moment, there won’t be any pain at all.
The thought makes him smile even as his finger squeezes the trigger.
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Summary: Dean will never let Sam go, and Sam knows it. This changes nothing, but it changes everything.
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2,982
Warnings: Consensual sibling incest. Spoilers up to the last aired episode of S9. Also, major trigger warnings: Major character death. Explicit depiction of suicide. Not the same character, either. Basically everybody dies. Sorry.
Neurotic Author’s Note #1: Well, on the plus side, I wrote something? I haven’t had much time or energy or inclination to write these days. Financial worries tend to kill the muse for me, and on top of that everything’s been busy and exhausting. Sorry.
Neurotic Author’s Note #2: On the not-so-plus side, I am really sorry for this story. No, really, I am sorry. Current canon is making me sad, and when I am sad I sometimes write really fucking depressing fic. Sorry. Also, this is not beta'd at all.
Neurotic Author’s Note #3: The title is taken from Pink Floyd’s The Final Cut from their album The Wall.
Dean is waiting in the motel room when Sam gets back. The sun hasn’t begun to set, and Sam is grateful for the promise of a long summer evening stretching out in front of them tonight. It’s been a long winter, dark and cold, but now it feels like the sun might shine forever.
“Hey,” Dean tosses him a beer bottle, and Sam obliges him by not fumbling the catch. He sets the beer bottle and the paper bag with take out on the wobbly table by the window, and ignores the way the condensation immediately starts to bead on the glass and form a ring where he placed the bottle. No one here cares about rings on the wooden finish. “So you good?”
Sam tilts his head noncommittally, but he produces a prescription bottle from his pants pocket and rattles the contents meaningfully. “All set up.”
Dean nods, taking the gesture as meaning all is resolved, and Sam doesn’t correct him. “Good. You had me worried for a while, there.”
Sam forces a laugh and drops down on the bed next to Dean. “Yeah, you weren’t the only one. But the doctor said this should take care of the headaches, no problem.”
Temporarily, is what he adds mentally to the end of that sentence, but he’s not planning on saying anything. Not right now. Dean’s sitting halfway off the bed, one foot on the floor, the other tucked under his knee, carefully honing his hunting knife. The demon-killing blade is still in its sheath--this is the blade Dean has carried since he was twelve years old, lovingly maintained, the handle glistening from years of wear and repeated polishing. Sam can’t imagine a life in which Dean won’t have it under his pillow. He knows that Dean put it away during the year he lived with Lisa, but it’s still impossible for him to imagine it.
He sits quietly for a few moments, watching Dean’s hands as they work, the delicate knotting of muscles in his forearms, the way the terrible scar ripples along his forearm. It’s all that’s left of the Mark of Cain, the only physical reminder of what’s transpired in the last year. Sam finds himself reaching out to trace the edges of it with his fingers and has to force himself to pull back. The movement catches Dean’s eye, though, and he looks up, his expression searching. They’re still not quite back to where they were, not exactly, but lately it’s felt as though they’ve stepped away from the edge of the abyss into which they were both so close to falling.
Sam clears his throat. “You want to go out?”
Dean’s head jerks back a little in surprise, his eyes widening. “What?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking you on a date, jerk. I just meant it’s nice outside. I figured we could eat at the picnic table down near the water.”
“Oh,” Dean sheathes his knife and stands up, the bed bouncing under his weight and making the whole movement look more awkward than it is. “Yeah, okay. Okay, sure.”
Dean brings the cooler. Sam stopped worrying about how much his brother drinks after he came back from Purgatory, just cracks open his own beer before hopping up to sit next to Dean on the table, feet resting on the bench. Picnic tables always seem to be set up so that you’re turning your back on the most important stuff if you sit on the benches. His shoulder brushes against Dean’s as they drink, watching the evening sunlight dance on the muddy water of the little body of water that this little podunk town insists on calling a lake.
“Are they sure it’s even a lake?”
As usual, Dean’s thoughts echo his own. Sam nods, though.
“Yeah. It’s deep enough that the light can’t reach certain places--it’s called an aphotic zone,” he can hear the pedantry in his own voice, cringes inwardly even though Dean doesn’t seem bothered. “Ponds have a photic zone their entire length and width, and they don’t have a constant flow of water like a lake.”
He feels Dean’s elbow then, a quick nudge to the ribs. “Nerd.”
He laughs and takes a pull off his beer. “You asked.”
“I suppose I did.”
Dean sounds contented. He looks that way, too. The corners of his eyes crinkle a little as he stares across the water while the sun begins to sink slowly out of view behind a copse of trees. The sky turns pink, then orange, and Sam finishes another beer before plucking Dean’s empty bottle from his fingers and dropping it back inside the cooler. It’s not that they care about littering, just ingrained habit acquired from their father--leave no trace, no sign that you were ever there. They’ve never succeeded entirely, but it doesn’t prevent them from trying.
Sam’s fingers brush against Dean’s, and he knows he’s not imagining Dean’s slight shudder, the quiet intake of breath. He leans in closer, and isn’t surprised when Dean turns to kiss him. It’s a slow kiss, lacking the terrible desperation in all of Dean’s actions when Sam was undergoing the Trials. They haven’t slept together since before Sam was possessed--even the idea of being touched made Sam’s skin crawl for the longest time--but he can feel himself slipping back into familiar patterns like pulling on a favourite sweater.
He leads Dean back to the motel room, kicks off his shoes and socks, lets himself be pushed back onto the bed. Dean fumbles a little with the buttons on Sam’s shirt, so Sam makes things easier on them both by shucking his pants himself. Warmth floods through him when he catches sight of Dean giving him an appreciative once-over, and then all rational thoughts flee his mind when Dean pushes him backward onto the bed.
“All right, Sammy?”
“Sure,” he manages, throat threatening to close.
He shifts back a little further, heels scrabbling for purchase, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, while Dean pulls his own belt loose and climbs up after him. Sam pulls Dean’s t-shirt over his head, tosses it aside without looking where it lands, shudders when Dean wraps a hand around his dick and tugs, stroking the head with his thumb. He pulls Dean’s hand away, leans up to kiss him.
“Not gonna last if you do that,” he says, impressed that he’s able to produce words at all. It’s been far too long for them both, and he wants tonight to be good, if not special.
Dean grins at him. “That so?”
He looks so pleased with himself that it’s all Sam can do not to laugh at him. He doesn’t, though, because if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that it’s incredibly easy to hurt his brother without even meaning to. There have been too many endless little wounds to Dean’s psyche over the years, nicks and cuts and microfractures, and he’ll be damned if he adds to them unless it’s absolutely necessary. Dean produces a bottle of lube seemingly from nowhere (Sam is pretty sure he fished it out of his duffle bag, but Dean’s always had a knack for taking what he needs without getting caught) and licks his lips in anticipation. His jeans are gone, kicked to the side along with his boots, and Sam feels another flush of warmth suffuse his whole body. Dean’s skin is burning hot against his as he climbs on top of him, straddling his waist, and Sam’s gaze trails down his body to his dick, hard and curving up slightly toward his belly.
Dean takes his time with them. He’s never been rough with Sam, not in all the years they’ve been doing this on and off, not even in those frantic moments after hunts when the sex was as much about making sure Sam was still alive and whole as it was about whatever else was between them. Even then, he’s all gentle touches, his lips soft against Sam’s as they move together. Sam lets his eyes close, arching back against the thin motel pillows as Dean sucks a bruise into the base of his neck. Dean might be on top, but it’s Sam setting the pace, easy but not slow, enjoying the quiet, almost desperate sounds Dean is making.
Dean comes first, but he doesn’t pull out. He just reaches between them and uses his hand, stroking and twisting until Sam is writhing, eyes screwed shut, hands gripping Dean’s arms so tightly that he leaves white spots behind where his fingers were digging into his flesh. He can feel his orgasm building slowly, like watching a wave beginning to crest far from shore, so far that seems impossible the water will ever make it to its promised destination. Dean is murmuring something, but it’s impossible to hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, and he comes with a moan that he only partially manages to smother in Dean’s shoulder.
He doesn’t let Dean get up after that, just pulls him down on the bed and wraps his leg over both of Dean’s. He doesn’t miss the way his brother grins lazily at him.
“Coulda just said you wanted to cuddle, Sammy.”
He smiles back, though he can already feel a headache building behind his eyes. He closes his eyes again and lays his head against Dean’s collarbone.
“I want to cuddle,” he states, and he can feel Dean’s surprise--his muscles tensing up slightly. He’s not following the rules, but he doesn’t care.
His brother smooths a stray lock of hair away from his face. The sweat is cooling on both their bodies, and though they’re both still warm enough for this to be uncomfortable, Sam keeps hold of Dean as tightly as he can without hurting him.
“You okay?” Dean asks, and Sam shrugs. “You know, sex is meant to get rid of headaches, not the other way around. Except for that one chick on that TLC show. You remember? She got migraines when she orgasmed? Freaky shit, man.”
Sam chuckles in spite of himself. “You think her life is freaky compared to ours?”
“Okay, point. But still…” He can practically feel the worry oozing out of Dean’s pores. “The doctor gave you something, right? You should take it before it gets too bad, not like last time.”
“I will.” It’s an easy enough thing to promise. Dean’s still stroking his face, rubbing a thumb against his temple, and it feels too good to want to stop, or get up in order to fuss with pills. “Don’t stop.”
“Okay,” Dean keeps going, but Sam can feel the next question even before it’s out of his mouth. “So it’s okay? I mean, you never said, but it’s not serious, right? You would have told me if it was.”
Sam hums what he hopes sounds like agreement, then lifts his head to look Dean in the eyes. “What if it had been?”
Dean takes the opportunity to reach down and pull the bed clothes over them. Sam hadn’t even realised that he’d started to get cold until he starts to warm up again under the blankets.
“If it had been, we would have dealt with it,” Dean says. “Simple.”
Sam sighs quietly. “Some things can’t be fixed, though.”
“Sure they can. We’d find a way, we always do. I would find a way.”
Sam nods and doesn’t say anything. He knew what Dean was going to say. It’s not even a surprise. He can feel the pain getting worse now, a steady throb behind his eyes, spreading outward slowly in spirals.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
Dean doesn’t wait for an answer, just gets out of bed and finds Sam’s discarded jeans. He fishes out the little bottle of pills, then pads over to the bathroom, still naked. Sam hears the sound of water running in the sink, and when Dean comes back he not only has a glass of water but a wet washcloth. He props Sam up, pushes the pills into his hand and holds the water to his lips. He takes the glass away again, sets it down on the night table, and it’s only when he uses the washcloth to wipe gently at Sam’s face that Sam’s eyes begin to sting in spite of himself. Uncharacteristically, Dean plants a careful kiss near his temple.
“That bad already?”
“No, it’s okay,” Sam lies. He rolls over and pulls at his brother until Dean submits with a roll of his eyes and lies back down. “I just… like this, okay?” Sam pleads, knowing full well that there’s almost nothing Dean will refuse him, if he asks. Almost.
“Sure, Sammy.”
Dean falls asleep not long after he’s got them both settled, but he lets Sam wrap both arms and a leg around him and hold onto him like he’s the only thing keeping Sam afloat. Sam keeps his eyes closed, listening to the even sound of his breathing. The darkness and the pills help to keep the pain at bay, but it’s not going to be enough, he already knows that. It won’t be long now,, Sam promises himself, and counts Dean’s breaths. In and out. For a while he matches his breathing to Dean’s, trying to keep his own heart from racing. He doesn’t know how Dean doesn’t wake up from the sound of his heart pounding against his ribcage. It’s so loud, it feels like it’s echoing off the walls of the room.
When the clock radio reads just after one, and Dean is still deeply asleep, Sam slips a hand under his pillow, careful not to wake him. It’s not time yet, not quite yet. He swallows the lump in his throat and sits up slowly. Moonlight is spilling through the window, illuminating the bed--they didn’t bother pulling the curtains last night, and now Sam is grateful. Dean looks peaceful for the first time in as long as Sam can remember, beautiful with his face bathed in moonlight, and so Sam stares, trying to engrave the moment in his memory forever.
Then, quickly, before he can change his mind, he pulls the edge of Dean’s hunting knife cleanly across his throat, as hard as he can.
The tears that threatened before spill down his cheeks, but he can still see well enough to make out what he’s doing. Dean’s eyes fly open, and Sam lunges forward and clamps a hand over his mouth, stifling whatever sound his brother might make. He chokes on a sob, leans forward.
“Shh.”
Dean’s struggling weakly under his hand, eyes wide and terrified, but Sam knows he only has to hold on, now.
“Shh,” he says again. “It won’t be long, promise. I couldn’t find a better way,” he adds. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t try to explain it to Dean, but what’s one more broken promise? His head is throbbing in time with his pulse. “It’s okay, Dean. It’s better this way. You wouldn’t have let me go, and this can’t be fixed. You just… you keep bringing me back, and I can’t do it anymore.”
Dean’s blood is gurgling in his throat, and he’s still staring up at Sam like he doesn’t understand any of it. He probably doesn’t, probably never will, but Sam tries anyway.
“It’s a tumour. Untreatable. But I know you, I know you won’t take that as an answer,” he uses his free hand, the one still holding the knife, to cuff the tears from his eyes with the back of his wrist. “And I can’t--I can’t do it anymore. I’m tired, and I want it to stop, and you won’t let me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but it’s better this way, I promise. Shh, that’s it. Shh.”
Dean has stopped struggling. His eyes are already starting to turn glassy. Sam leans over further, takes his hand away. Dean’s mouth tastes of blood, all copper and fading life, and there’s a wet sucking sound as Sam puts all his weight on his hand where the blood is soaking into the mattress, saturating the sheets. He strokes Dean’s hair, trying to keep his own breathing even, to quiet the sobs that keep trying to well up in his chest. He can’t cry now, or the pain will make it too hard to finish what he’s started.
Not long now, he promises himself. He just has to wait. He stares at the clock, holds Dean’s hand in both of his while he waits, feeling the warmth leech from the skin as the last vestiges of life flee from the room. He has to wait, has to be sure there’s no way back from this. He waits until the luminous dial on the clock tells him an hour has gone by before he gets up, staggering a bit because his leg has fallen asleep. It’s all pins and needles, his foot tingling where it meets the floor, but in a moment it won’t matter. He wishes for a moment that they still had the Colt, just to be on the safe side--he’s pretty sure that he’s not among the five things that gun can’t kill--but his own gun will do just as well in a pinch. A gun isn’t the quietest way to do this, but it’s the one way he can guarantee it will be final.
He reaches out to grasp Dean’s hand one last time, laces their fingers together. Dean’s hand doesn’t feel cold at all, not now. Then he puts the barrel in his mouth and aims it at where he imagines the tumour is nestling inside his brain, the last in a line of countless invasions. In a moment, there won’t be any pain at all.
The thought makes him smile even as his finger squeezes the trigger.
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