SPN Fic: A Vast Image Out of Spiritus Mundi
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A Vast Image Out of Spiritus Mundi
By: Vain
10/17 - 12/17/2008
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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Supernatural and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of Eric Kripke and the CW. This is entirely a work of fiction; no profit is being made. All biblical quotations are taken from the King James Bible and/or the Apocrypha.
Summary: The game has been rigged and the deck stacked against him from the start, but Sam is going to bring down the entire fucking casino. And no one--be they trickster, angel, demon, or God Himself--is going to stop him from protecting Dean this time.
Pairings: Sam/Dean, (one-sided?) Sam/Ruby, & implied (one-sided?) Castiel/Dean
Warnings: abuse of biblical and religious references, blasphemy, slash of the slashy variety, wincest, implied het, language, all sorts of Season 4 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S., and a hole in the bottom of the sea.
Rated: R
Length: about a bit over 8,000 words; complete.
Notes: This fic is the third in my Strange Angels 'Verse and follows " Intolerance of Ambiguity;" it takes place after episode 4.07: "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester." PotentiallyEvil!Sammy + Possessive!Sammy = love. The title was taken from W.B. Yeats's "The Second Coming."
Beta-ed by the lovely seraphwings, who keeps me honest. All remaining errors are my own.
Pimped at wincest & sn_slash.
Plagiarizers will be puppy chow, but reviews rock my salt.
Enjoy!
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And God's anger was kindled because he went:
and the angel of the Lord stood in the way for an adversary against him.
Numbers 22:22
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His fingers danced over the shadows pooled around her hips, gliding over the familiar softness of skin that wasn't really hers, but was still somehow all Ruby. He had done this before with different hips. Broader, sharper hips. Smaller, narrower hips. Firm, scarred skin, pulled taut over lean, steely muscle that was all Dean. And petal-soft, pale skin that seemed to go on and on and on that was all Jess.
"You're thinking of him, aren't you?"
There was no recrimination in her voice and Sam loved her a little bit for that.
"No," he replied after a moment. His voice was small and quiet in the darkness of the hotel room.
Outside of bed, with the lights on, they were give and take, push and pull, quid pro quo, and cautious, tentative concern. In the light there was guilt and recriminations. In the dark, though, between the sheets, they were only soft voices and desperate, achingly needy touches. And the ghosts, of course: the splay of Jess's golden hair across the pillow. Ruby's was nothing like it. And Dean arms, wrapping tight around him--two bands of steel keeping him grounded, keeping him safe and sane. Ruby's arms were bigger than Jess's, but they weren't Dean's. They weren't even close.
Jess had understood him and loved him. Dean had known him and loved him.
Ruby neither understood him, nor truly knew him, but she did seem to love him a little bit. Enough. And Jess and Dean were dead, if not completely gone.
Except Dean wasn't dead. Not anymore.
Dean was alive. Alive, and sleeping alone in a motel room ten miles away. And Sam? Sam was--
"Stop." Her voice cut through the stillness, firm and uncompromising.
Ruby rolled over on her side to face him more completely, one of her not-Dean-arms wrapping around his waist while the other came up to prop up her head. Her long, dark not-Jess-hair tumbled around her face, creating strange shadows. He could almost imagine that it was the shadows that made her eyes look black like that. Almost.
She had changed since Hell, his Ruby. Since the night that hellhounds ripped Dean apart in front of his eyes and Lillith pressed her stolen mouth against his, cruel and childish in her hunger, Ruby had been different. Her sharp edges had softened. Her humanity rode a little higher and her rage (and there was so much rage) had slid a little lower within her. She was different from the angry, sassy girl (demon) who'd murdered Pride the first night they met. And it had never been more obvious than it was now, with Dean back.
He smiled at her apologetically. "Sorry, I just--"
"Do I feel like him?" There was nothing but genuine curiosity her voice. "Inside?"
Sam turned away, rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't have believed the lack of criticism in her tone. Hell, a year ago, a question like that would have had him blushing crimson and never mind the situation that had prompted it. But he knew why she asked him and he understood her need to know. It wasn't the first time he'd called out his brother's name in bed with her, but it was the first time in a long while (their first night in that cabin, drunk, hurting, and so, so needy . . .) that he had been so . . . desperate about it.
"No," he answered truthfully, still staring at the stains on the plaster ceiling. A lifetime ago, he might have explained the biology of it to her just to be a smartass, but now he just left it at that. "You're nothing like him in bed."
Just like life with Ruby was quid pro quo out of bed and quiet, adoring sacrifices in bed, life with Dean was the exact opposite. There was a tit for tat--even a measure of one-upmanship--when it came to sex with his brother, and stoic, uncomplaining martyrdom in the light of day. He'd always wondered if that was how Dean made amends in his mind for "soiling" Sam. But then again, Dean had always been like that--even before they were "they" in the romantic sense. Maybe it was just Dean's nature.
Ruby continued to watch him with unjudging black eyes. "He knows about us now though, right?"
He remembered her offer to back off that first night in the diner after Dean came back. "I mean, I'm not exactly in your brother's fanclub, but he is your brother, and I'm not going to come between you." That was what her lips had said, even while her eyes begged him not to send her away.
Sam shrugged. "He suspects." He won't touch me anymore. "It's hard to hide things from Dean when he really wants to know something."
Though that seemed to have diminished a bit since Hell. Ruby wasn't the only one who had come back from the Pit different, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on just how Dean had changed. Dean was still Dean; he just seemed a little less . . . Sam-oriented, if that made any sense. Even after Stanford, he and Dean had always been so in tune that he sometimes had trouble remembering where Sam ended and where Dean began. These days, though, something seemed to be off.
It also didn't help that his argument with Dean in the diner and his confrontation with the self-proclaimed 'Angel of the Lord' had weighed heavily on him over the past few weeks. Dean seemed blissfully oblivious to it all, though it was hard to tell with his brother these days. Even before he'd died that last, terrible time, he'd always played things close to the vest. Now, though . . . there were some days when Sam looked into his brother's eyes and saw nothing but silence.
It frightened him.
"Faith, man. ... It was kinda personal."
"Personal? You're getting 'personal' with an angel now, Dean? Was it personal for you, or personal for him?"
"Don't be like that! I can have conversations with people who aren't you, you know. It's not like you don't do the same thing."
Dean was right, of course. It wasn't entirely Dean's fault that there was this distance between them, and it wasn’t really his angel's, either. Part of the fault was Sam's. And the reason for it was curled beside him, watching him with soulless black eyes. He'd gotten used to the taste of hypocrisy these past few months. But he still hadn't gotten used to Dean calling him out on it.
Ruby tapped his forehead with her forefinger suddenly, grounding him in the present. "Earth to Sammy? You still with me here?"
He blinked, banishing the memories, and caught her smaller hand within his own. He brushed his lips over her fingertips. "You know I hate it when you call me that."
"You're brooding," she chided, ignoring him.
"Thinking," he corrected without heat.
A soft smile teased her lips as the demoness leaned over towards him. "Brooding. When there's a perfectly good naked woman lying next to you. Way to make a girl feel wanted."
The words were said in jest, but there was a serious undertone there--a plea for reassurance that she wouldn't be cast aside again, that this hadn't all been in vain now that Dean was back--and Sam turned slightly and soothed the fear as best he could with a kiss. He couldn't make Ruby any promises, even if he should. Maybe especially because he should. He owed Ruby more than broken promises and comforting lies that they could both see through. It wasn't a secret that Dean would have to come first for him--now and always--and, even though he cared for her, this was little more than a warm body and a willing ear for him.
He may still have need of her, but when all was said and done, Ruby was ultimately replaceable. And Sam was insightful enough to know that doing this made him the worst kind of bastard where both Dean and Ruby were involved.
I'm sorry, the kiss said. I'm not casting you aside. Not again. Not this time. I need you. I'm so sorry.
She leaned into the soft and contrite press of his lips with quiet desperation, her small hands gripping his arms with inhuman strength as her tiny frame folded against his body. His arms came around her familiar hips (broader than Jess's, but narrower than Dean's), and he rolled them over, sheltering her beneath him.
So sorry, his kisses whispered. Their teeth clashed lightly and she nipped him hard, causing a small wash of copper to stain the kiss. The blood seemed only fitting. She licked it from the shallow cut on his lower lip when he pulled back to look down at her.
Sorrysorrysorry.
Her hands slid up his back and her eyes were black and calm. I know. It's okay.
Sam lightly ran the back of his hand over her smooth cheek, marveling for a moment at the strong line of her jaw and the lie of the pulse he could see fluttering at his throat. She could take a lot of punishment, his Ruby. He wondered if the same could have been said of the girl whose body she currently occupied. He wondered how she'd died.
He wondered if anyone missed her.
Instead of asking though, he abruptly rolled off of her and swung himself around to sit at the edge of the bed, his back to the brunette. There were already enough ghosts in his life without borrowing those belonging to strangers.
Behind him, Ruby made a sound that could have been a sigh and he stared at the streetlight streaming through the thin motel curtains. It was almost 3 am--close to the true witching hour. He wondered if Dean was dreaming of Hell now. He wondered if the liquor had worn off yet, and if, in its absence, the dreams Dean swore he didn't have had come. About now he would be tossing and turning and making those pathetic little whimpering pleas he always denied in the morning. He wondered if there was an angel there, watching over his brother's restless sleep.
The thought made him want to grind his teeth.
Sam turned slightly to face the woman sprawled behind her. The provocative spread of her limbs was not lost on him, but he couldn't get Castiel's calm, unwavering gaze out of his head. The confident tilt of his head--as though he'd already won the battle. And maybe he had; he'd done what Sam couldn't after all. He'd saved Dean. He'd put that stupid shine of wonderment mixed with hope and confusion in Dean's eyes whenever he spoke of the angel. It was kind of a mood-killer.
Ruby smiled at him, coy and welcoming.
Sam turned away to stare out the window again. "What do you know about angels? About Castiel?"
If the abrupt question startled her, the demon didn't indicate it. Instead she sighed again quietly and stretched on the mattress, cat-like. She made a soft humming noise as she sat up behind him and pulled her knees up close to her chest, curling into a small ball. " . . . He's a soldier in Micheal's legion--trusted, but not particularly special or powerful. The angel of Thursday and a patron of sacrifices and martyrs . . . though most angels have a soft spot for that kind of thing."
Sam snorted at that, ('Soft spot,' my ass...), but she pressed on, her voice faintly muffled as she rested her chin on her knees. "He's young . . . for an angel. One of the last batch, I guess. But they say that when The Third fell, he was able to look Lucifer in the face and refuse him. Most of the others were frightened of Lucifer's Glory. And when angels were walking around in meatsuits back in the day, he stayed away in Heaven--too young to go down I guess, but he was there for the Harrowing of Hell, when the gateways between Hell and Earth were last sealed."
"He's never been on Earth before then?"
". . . Maybe once--back when it was still wild and angels did that sort of thing. I don't know." He could feel her eyes on him. "Angels . . . are not well-spoken of in Hell, Sam. It's not like I can just pick up the guy's biography at the demon Barnes & Noble. Ever since Dean got pulled out, everyone in Hell has been going crazy. Something's happening and you guys and the Seals are only one part of it."
He looked down at his hands. "What do you mean?"
". . . Don't play dumb, Sammy." For all the chastisement in her words, her voice sounded flat and deflated. "It doesn't suit you."
"Don't call me that," he warned her again mildly.
Ruby gave a little snorting laugh and shifted her weight slightly. The ancient-sounding bedsprings creaked beneath her. "Your brother's angel? He wasn't exactly gentle when he pulled Dean out of Hell. Angels don't belong in Hell, but damned souls do. The combination of trying to keep Dean in and force the Winged Wonder out . . . The space in between tore a bit--sprung a leak."
Sam turned, twisting on the bed so that he could see her again. "What?"
"Relax," Ruby murmured with a humorless grin. "Hell sealed itself up again. But some demons still got out, Sam. Bad ones. Even without Lilith to contend with, you guys would have your hands pretty full."
He frowned at her, his eyes dark. "You make it sound like Hell is alive or something."
The grin remained fixed and cold--like a death's head. "It is."
Sam turned away, uncomfortable with the new questions that provoked. He fixed his eyes on the curtains again. They were drab and uninteresting--piss yellow in the faded streetlight. " . . . And Uriel? What do you know about him?"
"The angel who watches over thunder and terror."
He turned his head questioningly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.
Ruby shifted behind him and her voice came out muffled as she put her head down to her knees. "I know that he scares the holy hell out of everyone, Sam. Uriel's a bigwig in the Host." The word 'Host' was spat out like something unpleasant. Sam looked back to the window as she continued, "They gave him a measure of dominion over Hell and he exercised his authority with a vengeance. He brought damnation down on the Fallen who loved humans and on their offspring, the Nephilim. Basically, if angels are kicking demon ass, he's in the thick of it." There was a tentative touch on his back, but it vanished before he could fully register it. "Stay away from him, Sam. He's dangerous. He hates our kind."
The light of a passing car hit the window, momentarily blinding the hunter. He closed his eyes a moment too late to avoid the red spots from light-seared retinas from invading his vision.
Our kind. Like he was like Ruby--a demon.
Maybe he was.
Silence stretched out between them, long and strangely comfortable. He probably should have been more upset by Ruby's words, but it was difficult to marshal an adequate defense, even if it was only in him mind. He was too tired these days. Too worn thin.
Too raw.
Another car passed by and in the stillness of the room, he could her the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Three o'clock. Last call.
"What is it like--being in Hell?" That wasn't the question he'd meant to ask at all.
Behind him, Ruby stiffened and the inquiry hung in the air between them, suspended like an angry spirit.
He wouldn't take it back, though. He'd been avoiding the question for months while Dean was gone and now it suddenly seemed to burn through him. He turned slightly to face her and hazel eyes met black eyes expectantly.
Ruby turned away, full lips twisting into a bitter line. "Hell is Hell," she responded dully. "It's pain, Sam--pain like you can't imagine. There aren't words for it. There isn't anything that I could ever tell you to make you understand what it's like. There's no mercy. No respite. No . . . no anything. There's nothing but pain and hurt and degradation and rage and--and . . . loss." She turned back to him. Her expression was schooled in a familiar mask of veiled contempt, but her eyes--now brown again--shimmered with something intense. "That's the worst of it. You lose yourself. You forget your name, the people you loved, who you were, why you're there . . . You forget everything. Everything but hurting and being hurt. You forget everything but the rage--the need to lash out and make someone else feel all that pain."
Sam looked away, unable to meet her suddenly human eyes. He liked the demon-depths better. He couldn't see himself in them. "Is that what it's like for everyone?" His voice sounded rough in the dark, as though he'd been screaming.
Ruby was quiet for a minute, abruptly human eyes boring holes in the space between his shoulder blades. "Mostly," she murmured after a moment. She turned away, pulling herself tighter into her ball. "Some people . . . Some people are special. Dean was special."
Sam flinched.
Ruby continued without looking at him, her voice soft as she talked to the opposite wall. "He was sent to be broken by the best of the best. Hell's elite. Everyone knew he was there. It was like a carnival or something for the demons of higher status: 'Step right up and dunk the chump.' Only . . . you know . . . with more screaming. I never saw him, though. Like I said, Dean was special--a project. I was . . . despised." He didn't have to look at her to know she was smiling bitterly; he could hear it in her voice. "I picked the wrong side. Lilith made a special hell for me."
Sam was silent for a moment, his pulse pounding in his ears. He may not have known what Hell looked like--what it felt and smelled and tasted like--but his imagination happily filled in the details. Dean and Ruby, alone and writhing in fire and blood.
Needing him.
"He was sent to be broken . . . Lilith made a special hell for me."
"It's your pride they take first," she whispered harshly. "The word 'rape' doesn't even begin to cover it. Your soul is your body and they take it. They violate you in the worst ways you can think of--worse than you can ever dream. Humans have nothing on demons when it comes to torture--especially when you can't die and you can't pass out and you can't stop bleeding and your throat never wears out from screaming. They take your heart. They take the ones you love--the ones you need. Husbands, wives, fathers, mothers . . . It's their mouths on you--their hands breaking you. Your best friends and your worse enemies. Every horror you've never imagined is wearing their faces and they're all on you--in you--telling you everything you never wanted to hear. They turn you inside out emotionally and psychologically. And then physically. Stretching and ripping and pulling and twisting apart under hands and knives and hooks. The pain never gets old. Never stops. Even when you heal, you can feel your body regrowing itself cell by agonizing cell. Except there aren't any cells--just your soul. And as soon as it scrapes itself back together, it starts all over again. And over and over--"
"Stop."
Ruby fell silent and it took Sam a moment to realize his hands were trembling and aching. He forced open fists he hadn't even known he was making and he could see angry crescents pressed into his palms in the darkness--ridges where his nails had pressed into his flesh.
"Just . . . Stop." His chest was heaving and his voice was thin and hoarse.
There was a quiet rustling behind him and a moment later he felt the press of a small, cool hand against the small of his back. "Sam . . . I'm sorry."
Somehow the thought of Ruby apologizing for his pain--Ruby, who had gone to a 'special hell' because he had been such a stubborn asshole about his powers, apologizing . . .
"Do you even know how far off the reservation you've gone? How far from normal? From human?"
Sam dropped his head to his chest with a shudder and for a terrible moment, it seemed like the hand on his back was the only thing holding him to the earth. Sadly, that probably wasn't too far from the truth these days.
Jesus Christ . . .
"I need to go," he muttered without moving. The words sounded forced, even to his own ears.
"You don't need me. You and Ruby go fight demons."
Those arms--Not Jess. Not Dean.--wrapped around his shoulders from behind, holding him tight. Holding onto him tight. She rested her head between his shoulders and her breath was warm against his skin.
"And it's nice in this body, Sam . . . Soft and warm. . ."
"I shouldn't have told you that," she whispered, the soft regret in her actual voice banishing the lust-filled murmur of his memory. Her lips and eyelashes fluttering against his back like stray butterflies.
Sam shook his head. "I asked." He lifted his hands and pressed them lightly against the demon's. "I wanted to know." A beat of silence. And then: "He says he doesn't remember Hell."
Ruby stilled for a moment and her embrace tightened uncomfortably, constricting his breathing. “ . . . He's lying. There are some things you can't forget. Not even Heaven could erase that."
But Sam couldn't help but wonder just how far his brother's angelic stalker would go to keep Dean in line. Other than drinking like fish, the older seemed surprisingly hale after a four-month stint in the Pit. And, Castiel's claims that he wasn't going to perch on Dean's shoulder notwithstanding, the angel's tendency to turn up at strange times (conveniently when Sam wasn't around and Dean was sleeping or otherwise vulnerable), was suspicious to say the least. Having met Castiel twice now, and with Uriel's threats still burning in his mind, Sam was hard pressed to trust the angels or take what they said on faith. He wouldn't put it past them to have messed with Dean's already admittedly messed up head--maybe erase a memory here or there.
They'd been prepared to smite an entire town to get what they wanted. And Dean already wore Castiel's brand (something that bothered Sam to no end). They said that they were on the good guys' side, but what was one man in the grand scheme of things? Dean may have meant everything to Sam, but the angels, he was probably just another tool, no matter how badly Sam wanted to believe the contrary.
The real kick in the teeth, though, was that he wanted to have faith in them. For his own sake. For Dean's. Hell, for everyone. If humanity had ever need of divine intervention, now seemed to be the time. He wanted to trust them and reaffirm his faith in a merciful God. But how the hell was he supposed to do that when God's own messengers smilingly prepared to wipe out 1300 relatively innocent lives to preserve a single seal?
Dean had defended them, of course--just like he'd always defended Dad. And it had grated on Sam to hear his brother actually defend Castiel--as though Dean owed him something (although, maybe he did). He'd claimed that it was all a part of whatever bass-ackward test they were subjecting him to. But Sam had no doubt that Uriel would have happily wiped out that entire town and Castiel would have let him without batting an eyelash. Angels were just as inhuman and inhumane as demons, it seemed, but at least with demons, they knew where they stood.
Behind him, Ruby released her grip and moved to stand, rolling off of the other side of the bed. Sam turned to watch her, ignoring the almost absently lustful tightening of his stomach as she searched for her clothing in the dim light.
Well, he amended silently, we know where we stand with most demons.
Her skin seemed to glow softly.
Why are you doing this? he almost blurted out in the darkness. But then Ruby turned, feeling his eyes on her, and looked at him questioningly. He turned away, unable to meet her gaze.
Instead he asked, "When will I see you again?" It came out more as a demand than a question.
Ruby paused in the middle of inspecting the damage to the red panties she'd been wearing earlier. Sam had not been gentle in removing them. She watched him thoughtfully for a moment, unashamed of her nudity, and then she shrugged. "When do you want to see me again?"
The hunter looked away, staring back at the curtain as though they might hold the answer. ". . . I think we might need some time. Dean and I. Things are--"
"Will you tell him?" she interrupted. Her voice was crisp and business-like, as though indifferent to his answer.
He remembered how her face had twisted in pleasure beneath him a mere hour ago, her eyes black in the throes of passion and locked onto him as though he held the secret to everything she'd ever wanted. He wondered how much of her tone now was feigned. He wondered how thoroughly he was being played--if he was being played. Or maybe he was the bad guy in this and the pleas and permission she whispered below and around him in the dark were the real story.
He wondered if Dean would ever touch him again.
Sam closed his eyes and dropped his head. "He'll ask eventually."
To be honest, Sam wasn't sure why he hadn't asked yet. Sometimes he could feel his brother's eyes on him--so carefully blank and unfamiliar after four months in the ground--and he could feel that questions rolling through the older man's mind. He could feel the accusations: How did you manage without me? How could you?
. . . Though, maybe that last bit was only in Sam's head. Maybe he only thought Dean was asking the question because Sam was desperate to know the answers himself. How had he managed without Dean? And why the hell couldn't he seem to mesh with his brother again?
It was like the hole Dean's death had left in him--that place where Dean was supposed to be--had scabbed over and started to heal and, now that he was back, Dean didn't fit there any more. Like that bond that they'd shared was too damaged--maybe irreparably. And Sam didn't know who to blame for it. So where did that leave him--leave them, if there was even still a "them" any more?
Ruby made a noncommittal noise behind him. Sam scowled at the carpet. I don't owe you anything, he wanted to say to her. I didn't ask for your help. You volunteered for this. I haven't made any promises to you.
Except he did owe her something--he owed her a hell of a lot, in fact. And, while he hadn't made her any promises, God knows he'd wanted to. Still wanted to sometimes. Because things with Ruby were easier than things with Dean. And Ruby was his and Dean was . . . Was something else now. Something that Sam didn't recognize anymore was terrified to understand.
Somehow, having Dean here and alive, and knowing that Dean wasn't his anymore was worse than losing Dean to the hounds. Worse than loosing him to the Rawhead, or to the car accident, or to the 121 horrible Tuesdays the Trickster had forced him to live through before that last terrible Wednesday.
Sam had had contingencies for Dean dying on him. They hadn't worked, but he'd tried, damnit. But he didn't have contingencies for Dean leaving him; that had never been in the cards. And he was so fucking sick of losing everything: Mom, Dad, Jess, his normal life at Stanford, the endless sacrifices of his childhood to their father's revenge. Everything he'd loved--every. single. thing.--had been taken from him. Hell, even his humanity had been put on the chopping block. His entire fate seemed to be controlled by a single night that happened when he was six months old and now Hell was out for his blood because he wouldn't take their crown and Heaven had no room for 'his kind,' only for his transient utility in their war.
And Sam was just sick of it all.
They wouldn't get Dean again. They wouldn't. And Ruby? Well, whatever else she may be, Ruby was his too. He was through with compromises.
He looked up to find Ruby now clad in jeans and socks. The panties had apparently been declared a lost cause and were in the trash.
"I'll call you," he said suddenly, his voice surprisingly firm.
The demon turned back to him as she fixed her bra's clasps behind her back. "There's something going on. I heard rumbling about some sort of bounty being put out of a human. You want me to look into it? It sounds kind of major."
"Yeah." He stood and stretched, bones popping in protest. He was tired--entirely too tired--but he knew Dean would let him sleep in the car. He'd missed that freedom when his brother was gone. He'd missed a lot of things. "We're headed East for a bit. Come find me if you need anything."
"Even with Dean around?" It was a careful question--testing.
Sam rotated his wrist, working out a kink, and looked at her expressionlessly. "He'll deal. Just stop goading him." A smirk answered him and he scowled. "I mean it, Ruby."
The smirk didn't fade, but she mockingly snapped her bare heels together and saluted him, S.S.-style. "Sieg heil, mein Führer."
Sam jaw tightened, but she turned and bent to retrieve her boots and top before he could retort. "I'm headed out then." She stood, items in hand, and looked back at him with strangely earnest black eyes. "Be careful, Sam."
The hunter looked at her for a moment, but was unable to say anything. She looked painfully human like that--as fragile and female and perfect as Jess had ever been--even when her eyes told a different story. He turned and headed towards the bathroom. "You too."
There were no promises between them after all.
He closed the door behind him, cutting off her quiet sigh, and stepped in the shower to wash the scent of her off his skin.
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Dean was awake when he got in. It was close to 4:00 in the morning and the older man was perched on the foot of his bed closest to the door, an infomercial for some sort of super-absorbent towel blasting on the grainy television set while he worked his way through a bottle of Jack that hadn't been there when Sam had left. He didn't look up when Sam entered, instead taking a swig of the now half-empty bottle. His favorite gun sat beside him on the bed and the taller hunter paused in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight. He couldn't help but wonder if the gun was there for protection or for something else. Then he couldn't help but wonder if leaving Dean alone with liquor and an armament fit to take on the town's entire police force was the wisest course of action.
It was a stupid question to ask though. If Dean were going to off himself, he'd have done it already, right?
Red-rimmed green eyes turned to him after a moment and Sam wasn't so sure.
"Close the door. It's freaking cold out there."
At least his brother wasn't slurring his speech yet. Though, Dean's alcohol tolerance seemed to have shot through the roof since his return. Sam wondered if angels could heal cirrhosis of the liver in addition to rehymenating someone.
He carefully stepped over the salt line before turning around and shutting the door. "Did you sleep at all?"
Dean's eyes were fixed on the TV again as an overly-excited man expounded on the virtues of the ShamWow. The light cast by the bright picture seemed to highlight the tired lines on his face and the heavy, raccoon-like smudges of shadow around his eyes. "I sleep." Which wasn't really an answer at all. "Where have you been?"
Sam tossed his jacket on the rickety table by the window and shrugged. Avoided Dean's knowing gaze as he crossed the room. "Went for a walk." He threw himself face-first on the bed and his hair--still wet from the shower--seemed unusually chilled, as though chastising him for the lie.
Dean snorted skeptically, eyes burning into Sam's back like hot coals, but said nothing.
Sam tried to force his body to relax in the over starched bed sheets, but it seemed impossible. Every swallow Dean took out of the liquor bottle seemed magnified by a thousand in his ears. He shifted restlessly in bed.
"You want me to turn off the television?"
Sam turned slightly to look at him with hooded eyes. I want you to stop drinking like a fucking fish. I want you to stop smoking like a chimney when you think I'm not looking. I want you to stop flirting with everyone in the world but me. I want you to stop self-destructing in front of my eyes. I want you to let me in. His lips twitched upwards towards a mockery of a smile at his own hypocrisy. "No, Dean. I'm fine."
The older man paused in the middle of raising his bottle and turned towards him, cocking his head slightly to the side. The gesture was oddly canine, as though Dean were attempting to find out the source of the problem by scenting the air. They stared at one another, eyes locked in TV-lit room, secrets crowding the space between them. Even against the noise of the television, it seemed weirdly quiet in the room. Sam imagined that he could feel the ghosts of Ruby's touch on his skin. That he could hear Jess's soft sigh at his ear. That he could taste Dean, both fragile and forceful, against his lips. It made his breathing come a bit faster.
Dean raised the remote without looking away and turned off the television, plunging the room into darkness.
"Dean . . ."
"No, Sam."
Harsh and abrupt. Sam flinched as though the other man had taken a swing at him. He pursed his lips and sat up in bed.
"Dean."
The thump of glass on fiberboard as the liquor bottle was placed on the nightstand followed by creaking bedsprings. A defeated murmur: "I'm tired, Sam."
"You don't sleep," the younger hunter pointed out, eyes finally adjusted to the darkness enough to make out Dean's still formed sprawled atop the covers. He was still fully clothed, of course . . . like he expected he'd have to wake up and make a quick escape. Big surprise.
Dean turned his head to look at him and his already indistinct features vanished in a blur of shadows. "'M not doing this right now, Sammy," he grated out. His tone promised violence.
I miss you, Sam wanted to say. Instead he looked away and laid down in bed reluctantly. He wanted to reach across the small two foot gap between their beds, but those two feet may as well have been two hundred miles right now. Dean had never done well with people reaching out to him without solicitation. There were too many monsters--both human and supernatural--and nosy social workers in the their past for him to accept a hand up. And these days, Dean was more stubborn about it than ever.
Apparently only one person was allowed to reach down and pull him from perdition now. And that person wasn't Sam.
The realization tasted like bile on his tongue.
"Goodnight," he whispered softly, ignoring his stomach's roiling and the memory of Castiel's knowing blue eyes.
Dean didn't reply.
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The gray light of dawn was filtering through the curtains when Sam awoke to the sound of screaming. Not subtle whimpers. Not murmured pleas. No. Full-blown screaming.
Dean. Twisted in his bedsheets like a contortionist. Twisted in a way that looked unnatural and painful and horrifyingly like something right out The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Wide open eyes unseeing, pupils blown and glassy, mouth stretched too wide in a frightening rictus--the only thing that didn't seem frozen. And he was screaming Sam's name.
"Saaaaaaam!"
"Jesus Christ!"
Sam had no memory of scrambling out of bed, but he surely must have because one moment he was jerked violently out of sleep and the next he was beside Dean's bed, hands hovering mere centimeters from his bother's twisted body, terrified to touch him. Terrified not to.
And Dean . . . Dean's voice was . . . wrecked. Broken in a way Sam couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around.
A spasm jerked Dean's body, snapping his spine back at an impossible angle, and it was something like a cross between a full-body charlie horse and a seizure.
"JesusJesusJesus--"
It had never been like this before. Dean had never, ever been like this before.
Hell, no one should look like this--nothing human, at least.
"Ask your brother what he remembers from Hell."
Sam made a wrecked, keening noise, hands fluttering in the air above Dean like tethered birds, because he just didn't know what else to do.
The attack--or spasm, or whatever--ended as abruptly as it had begun. All the tension abruptly left Dean with a whimper and his body relaxed, collapsing onto the bed like soft wax, loose and pliant. His eyes closed, face twitching towards the now familiar expression of pain that always haunted it in sleep, and he lay still. His body was askew on the bed at a crazy angle, but he looked strangely peaceful, as though the last terrifying ten second of their lies had never happened.
For three long beats, neither man moved again. Then Sam was on him in flash, straddling his brother's thighs before he could think better of it and hauling the sleeping man up and awake his a violence that would have alarmed him if he'd been thinking of it. "Dean! Dean!"
Green eyes flashed open again, disoriented but blessedly conscious. The empty, blank look was gone, replaced by bewilderment and the start of anger, and Dean pushed weakly against his chest, arms shaking and clumsy.
"Seriously, dude--"
Whatever he was going to say was lost when Sam jerked him into a rough, stifling embrace, clinging to him tightly. Both their hearts were thundering in chests, weird staccato echoes of one another, and all Sam could do was hold tight and murmur agitated curses. "What the hell, man? What the hell?"
Dean struggled weakly, but his limbs didn't seem to be coordinating properly. The image of his twisted and frozen body was locked in Sam's mind's eye and he wondered how long Dean had been lying like that before Sam awoke. And how the hell long this had been going on.
"Dude!" More weak and ineffectual shoving. Dean's voice sounded raw. "What is going on with you?"
Sam clung tightly, ignoring the elbow in the ribs he got for his trouble. He could feel the older man's chest expanding against his with every breath--could feel his heart thundering like a herd of wild horses--and he couldn't let go for a moment. Not until the fear passed and he could think again.
"Why won't you let me help you?" he whispered, unable to keep the fear and frustration he felt out of his voice.
Dean stiffened and said nothing.
While Dean was gone, grief and rage and a loss so deep that his mind shied back from the memory had threatened to drown him. And those emotions hadn't eased that much with his brother's return. Even now, months later, he half expected to wake up and find that he was still back in Illinois and had just dreamed all this. He needed this--needed to be grounded here and now by the feel of Dean in his arms, alive and mostly whole, by the familiar scent of his brother beside him.
Sam knew that his grip had to be leaving bruises, but he couldn't let go. Not yet.
Dean shuddered in his arms after a few moments. "Can't help me, Sammy."
The words were said so quietly that Sam would have missed them if he hadn't been so close to the other man.
The younger man forced himself to relax his grip; it was harder than it should have been.
Dean was avoiding his eyes, staring out at the thin, desperate light of dawn trying to fight its way through the ratty, stained curtains. Every line in his body hummed with tension. Sam swallowed hard and withdrew, shifting so that he was seated next to the other hunter on the bed. It was all he could do not to reach out and shake him.
"I can't lose you again, Dean." His voice sounded flat and too loud in the still room.
Dean dragged his eyes away from the window and looked at Sam silently for a moment with an unreadable gaze. Then his lips quirked towards a hard, self-deprecating smirk and Sam could almost see the walls sealing back up, brick by brick. "Not going anywhere, man."
He clenched his jaw, hating the deception and Dean's stupid, self-castigating need to hide everyfuckingthing from him, just like always. But things weren't like they were before. SamandDean weren't like they were before and they couldn't keep pretending. "You sure about that?"
The other man's eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw jumped--a red flag indicating very real anger. He looked away again. "Where did you say you went this morning again?"
It didn't sound like an accusation, but there was nothing else that it could have been. Sam's hands clenched into fists in his lap.
I was with Ruby. It would be such an easy thing to say. He could lay it all out, right here and now. He could call Dean's bullshit and just say it . . . I'll show you mine if you show me yours. He could pull Dean down into the lingering darkness of those four booze-soaked months, rips the scabs off those wounds and just let the pus flow. . . . And he could also risk never seeing those walls fall again. Or worse, seeing them fall for someone else.
Sharing had never been Sam's forte.
I'm selfish, he almost wanted to say. It was really Dean's fault anyway for spoiling him rotten. What had he expected?
Instead, though, he opted for a different kind of truth--one that should have meant a lot more than it probably did. "I wasn't--" His tongue tripped over itself, uncertain of how to form the proper words. "I haven't used my powers since Samhain."
The other man's mouth twisted in a bitter expression, rejecting the answer without really saying anything at all.
"I haven't, Dean." He grabbed his brother's arm and pulled on him slightly, physically arresting the other man with a bruising grip. "You know I haven't."
Something desperate must have shone in his face because Dean's expression softened and the coldness left his eyes.
"I know, Sammy." He gripped Sam's hand as though about to peel it away but stopped.
Sam felt a measure of tension leave him at the touch and stared at the battered-looking hunter for a moment. He'd never really noticed before, but there were tiny flecks of gold in Dean's eyes, like slivers of sunlight . . .
Their lips met before Sam was fully aware that he'd leaned forward and Dean's grip on his hand tightened. For a minute, it seemed as though the older man would not respond at all, but then he made a quiet little noise in the back of his throat and his lips parted to Sam's kiss. Sam sighed softly in response.
Before Hell but after Stanford and before Dad, their first kiss had been an awkward, drunken taboo. Sam had needed comfort and Dean . . . Dean had just needed Sam. Their relationship had moved in lurches and near misses, with every embrace and gasp a frantic affirmation that, Yeah. Yeah. We're still here. This kiss, though, was different. It was soft and needy and somehow heart achingly sad. It wasn't hot and desperate like Ruby's kisses. Nor was it gentle and playful like Jess's. And somehow (thank God), the ghost of Dean Before Hell faded and blended with this new and not-quite-familiar Post-Hell Dean as Sam's tongue lightly swept his brother's mouth and tasted bitterness and Jack Daniels.
This . . . This was just Dean needing comfort. And Sam needing Dean.
Dean's other hand came up and slipped around the back of Sam's neck with a faint clatter of teeth as he deepened the kiss and Sam rose his own hand in response and gripped Dean's shoulder, fingers falling over the angry ridges of that horrible brand, covering it. Engulfing it.
Outside in the distance, the tires of a passing car screeched on the road and Dean abruptly broke away, shaking his head as he moved. "I can't--" His voice was rough and it had nothing to do with the nightmare that had awakened them both. He twisted to escape, trying to push the younger man away. "Sam--"
The brunet pitched forward, cutting off the words that he didn't want to hear by wrapping his arms around the older man again. There was a brief struggle, of course, because Dean always struggled, but Sam didn't let go.
Just held on and breathed.
"Shut up, Dean."
After a brief moment, Dean's arms wrapped around him, loose and hesitant. They wouldn't speak of this again and they both knew it, but for now, Sam needed it. And Dean always gave Sam what he needed.
That was all that mattered, no matter what Castiel said or Uriel threatened. This . . . SamandDean . . . that was what mattered. They could deal with everything else later.
Because Dean came first, before both Heaven and Hell. And if Castiel and Uriel wanted to bar his way, then they had better bring their whole damned army with them because he was not losing Dean again. Not again. That wasn't happening ever again and if he had to fly in the face of Heaven . . . if he had to defy the God who'd healed Dean's body but let his mind be broken into a thousand pieces . . . Well then, so be it.
He held on tightly, sheltered in his brother's embrace, and imagined he could feel the heat of both Heaven and Hell's ire and Castiel's cold, inhuman blue eyes all focused on them. It had nothing on Dean's warmth pressed against him. "Just . . . Just don't give up on me, man. Don't let me go."
"I won't Sammy." He still sounded painfully sure . . . reassuringly Dean, no matter who had branded his shoulder. "I got you."
And then: I've got you.
He could hear the thought echoed in Dean's mind--a small leak in the flood walls surrounding his powers--firm and uncompromising and for a moment it was just SamandDean again. Them against the world. And Dean was his, no matter what. Brother, friend, protector, lover . . . No matter what else might come, Dean was his.
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Business travel sets
A Vast Image Out of Spiritus Mundi
By: Vain
10/17 - 12/17/2008
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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Supernatural and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of Eric Kripke and the CW. This is entirely a work of fiction; no profit is being made. All biblical quotations are taken from the King James Bible and/or the Apocrypha.
Summary: The game has been rigged and the deck stacked against him from the start, but Sam is going to bring down the entire fucking casino. And no one--be they trickster, angel, demon, or God Himself--is going to stop him from protecting Dean this time.
Pairings: Sam/Dean, (one-sided?) Sam/Ruby, & implied (one-sided?) Castiel/Dean
Warnings: abuse of biblical and religious references, blasphemy, slash of the slashy variety, wincest, implied het, language, all sorts of Season 4 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S., and a hole in the bottom of the sea.
Rated: R
Length: about a bit over 8,000 words; complete.
Notes: This fic is the third in my Strange Angels 'Verse and follows " Intolerance of Ambiguity;" it takes place after episode 4.07: "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester." PotentiallyEvil!Sammy + Possessive!Sammy = love. The title was taken from W.B. Yeats's "The Second Coming."
Beta-ed by the lovely seraphwings, who keeps me honest. All remaining errors are my own.
Pimped at wincest & sn_slash.
Plagiarizers will be puppy chow, but reviews rock my salt.
Enjoy!
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And God's anger was kindled because he went:
and the angel of the Lord stood in the way for an adversary against him.
Numbers 22:22
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His fingers danced over the shadows pooled around her hips, gliding over the familiar softness of skin that wasn't really hers, but was still somehow all Ruby. He had done this before with different hips. Broader, sharper hips. Smaller, narrower hips. Firm, scarred skin, pulled taut over lean, steely muscle that was all Dean. And petal-soft, pale skin that seemed to go on and on and on that was all Jess.
"You're thinking of him, aren't you?"
There was no recrimination in her voice and Sam loved her a little bit for that.
"No," he replied after a moment. His voice was small and quiet in the darkness of the hotel room.
Outside of bed, with the lights on, they were give and take, push and pull, quid pro quo, and cautious, tentative concern. In the light there was guilt and recriminations. In the dark, though, between the sheets, they were only soft voices and desperate, achingly needy touches. And the ghosts, of course: the splay of Jess's golden hair across the pillow. Ruby's was nothing like it. And Dean arms, wrapping tight around him--two bands of steel keeping him grounded, keeping him safe and sane. Ruby's arms were bigger than Jess's, but they weren't Dean's. They weren't even close.
Jess had understood him and loved him. Dean had known him and loved him.
Ruby neither understood him, nor truly knew him, but she did seem to love him a little bit. Enough. And Jess and Dean were dead, if not completely gone.
Except Dean wasn't dead. Not anymore.
Dean was alive. Alive, and sleeping alone in a motel room ten miles away. And Sam? Sam was--
"Stop." Her voice cut through the stillness, firm and uncompromising.
Ruby rolled over on her side to face him more completely, one of her not-Dean-arms wrapping around his waist while the other came up to prop up her head. Her long, dark not-Jess-hair tumbled around her face, creating strange shadows. He could almost imagine that it was the shadows that made her eyes look black like that. Almost.
She had changed since Hell, his Ruby. Since the night that hellhounds ripped Dean apart in front of his eyes and Lillith pressed her stolen mouth against his, cruel and childish in her hunger, Ruby had been different. Her sharp edges had softened. Her humanity rode a little higher and her rage (and there was so much rage) had slid a little lower within her. She was different from the angry, sassy girl (demon) who'd murdered Pride the first night they met. And it had never been more obvious than it was now, with Dean back.
He smiled at her apologetically. "Sorry, I just--"
"Do I feel like him?" There was nothing but genuine curiosity her voice. "Inside?"
Sam turned away, rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't have believed the lack of criticism in her tone. Hell, a year ago, a question like that would have had him blushing crimson and never mind the situation that had prompted it. But he knew why she asked him and he understood her need to know. It wasn't the first time he'd called out his brother's name in bed with her, but it was the first time in a long while (their first night in that cabin, drunk, hurting, and so, so needy . . .) that he had been so . . . desperate about it.
"No," he answered truthfully, still staring at the stains on the plaster ceiling. A lifetime ago, he might have explained the biology of it to her just to be a smartass, but now he just left it at that. "You're nothing like him in bed."
Just like life with Ruby was quid pro quo out of bed and quiet, adoring sacrifices in bed, life with Dean was the exact opposite. There was a tit for tat--even a measure of one-upmanship--when it came to sex with his brother, and stoic, uncomplaining martyrdom in the light of day. He'd always wondered if that was how Dean made amends in his mind for "soiling" Sam. But then again, Dean had always been like that--even before they were "they" in the romantic sense. Maybe it was just Dean's nature.
Ruby continued to watch him with unjudging black eyes. "He knows about us now though, right?"
He remembered her offer to back off that first night in the diner after Dean came back. "I mean, I'm not exactly in your brother's fanclub, but he is your brother, and I'm not going to come between you." That was what her lips had said, even while her eyes begged him not to send her away.
Sam shrugged. "He suspects." He won't touch me anymore. "It's hard to hide things from Dean when he really wants to know something."
Though that seemed to have diminished a bit since Hell. Ruby wasn't the only one who had come back from the Pit different, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on just how Dean had changed. Dean was still Dean; he just seemed a little less . . . Sam-oriented, if that made any sense. Even after Stanford, he and Dean had always been so in tune that he sometimes had trouble remembering where Sam ended and where Dean began. These days, though, something seemed to be off.
It also didn't help that his argument with Dean in the diner and his confrontation with the self-proclaimed 'Angel of the Lord' had weighed heavily on him over the past few weeks. Dean seemed blissfully oblivious to it all, though it was hard to tell with his brother these days. Even before he'd died that last, terrible time, he'd always played things close to the vest. Now, though . . . there were some days when Sam looked into his brother's eyes and saw nothing but silence.
It frightened him.
"Faith, man. ... It was kinda personal."
"Personal? You're getting 'personal' with an angel now, Dean? Was it personal for you, or personal for him?"
"Don't be like that! I can have conversations with people who aren't you, you know. It's not like you don't do the same thing."
Dean was right, of course. It wasn't entirely Dean's fault that there was this distance between them, and it wasn’t really his angel's, either. Part of the fault was Sam's. And the reason for it was curled beside him, watching him with soulless black eyes. He'd gotten used to the taste of hypocrisy these past few months. But he still hadn't gotten used to Dean calling him out on it.
Ruby tapped his forehead with her forefinger suddenly, grounding him in the present. "Earth to Sammy? You still with me here?"
He blinked, banishing the memories, and caught her smaller hand within his own. He brushed his lips over her fingertips. "You know I hate it when you call me that."
"You're brooding," she chided, ignoring him.
"Thinking," he corrected without heat.
A soft smile teased her lips as the demoness leaned over towards him. "Brooding. When there's a perfectly good naked woman lying next to you. Way to make a girl feel wanted."
The words were said in jest, but there was a serious undertone there--a plea for reassurance that she wouldn't be cast aside again, that this hadn't all been in vain now that Dean was back--and Sam turned slightly and soothed the fear as best he could with a kiss. He couldn't make Ruby any promises, even if he should. Maybe especially because he should. He owed Ruby more than broken promises and comforting lies that they could both see through. It wasn't a secret that Dean would have to come first for him--now and always--and, even though he cared for her, this was little more than a warm body and a willing ear for him.
He may still have need of her, but when all was said and done, Ruby was ultimately replaceable. And Sam was insightful enough to know that doing this made him the worst kind of bastard where both Dean and Ruby were involved.
I'm sorry, the kiss said. I'm not casting you aside. Not again. Not this time. I need you. I'm so sorry.
She leaned into the soft and contrite press of his lips with quiet desperation, her small hands gripping his arms with inhuman strength as her tiny frame folded against his body. His arms came around her familiar hips (broader than Jess's, but narrower than Dean's), and he rolled them over, sheltering her beneath him.
So sorry, his kisses whispered. Their teeth clashed lightly and she nipped him hard, causing a small wash of copper to stain the kiss. The blood seemed only fitting. She licked it from the shallow cut on his lower lip when he pulled back to look down at her.
Sorrysorrysorry.
Her hands slid up his back and her eyes were black and calm. I know. It's okay.
Sam lightly ran the back of his hand over her smooth cheek, marveling for a moment at the strong line of her jaw and the lie of the pulse he could see fluttering at his throat. She could take a lot of punishment, his Ruby. He wondered if the same could have been said of the girl whose body she currently occupied. He wondered how she'd died.
He wondered if anyone missed her.
Instead of asking though, he abruptly rolled off of her and swung himself around to sit at the edge of the bed, his back to the brunette. There were already enough ghosts in his life without borrowing those belonging to strangers.
Behind him, Ruby made a sound that could have been a sigh and he stared at the streetlight streaming through the thin motel curtains. It was almost 3 am--close to the true witching hour. He wondered if Dean was dreaming of Hell now. He wondered if the liquor had worn off yet, and if, in its absence, the dreams Dean swore he didn't have had come. About now he would be tossing and turning and making those pathetic little whimpering pleas he always denied in the morning. He wondered if there was an angel there, watching over his brother's restless sleep.
The thought made him want to grind his teeth.
Sam turned slightly to face the woman sprawled behind her. The provocative spread of her limbs was not lost on him, but he couldn't get Castiel's calm, unwavering gaze out of his head. The confident tilt of his head--as though he'd already won the battle. And maybe he had; he'd done what Sam couldn't after all. He'd saved Dean. He'd put that stupid shine of wonderment mixed with hope and confusion in Dean's eyes whenever he spoke of the angel. It was kind of a mood-killer.
Ruby smiled at him, coy and welcoming.
Sam turned away to stare out the window again. "What do you know about angels? About Castiel?"
If the abrupt question startled her, the demon didn't indicate it. Instead she sighed again quietly and stretched on the mattress, cat-like. She made a soft humming noise as she sat up behind him and pulled her knees up close to her chest, curling into a small ball. " . . . He's a soldier in Micheal's legion--trusted, but not particularly special or powerful. The angel of Thursday and a patron of sacrifices and martyrs . . . though most angels have a soft spot for that kind of thing."
Sam snorted at that, ('Soft spot,' my ass...), but she pressed on, her voice faintly muffled as she rested her chin on her knees. "He's young . . . for an angel. One of the last batch, I guess. But they say that when The Third fell, he was able to look Lucifer in the face and refuse him. Most of the others were frightened of Lucifer's Glory. And when angels were walking around in meatsuits back in the day, he stayed away in Heaven--too young to go down I guess, but he was there for the Harrowing of Hell, when the gateways between Hell and Earth were last sealed."
"He's never been on Earth before then?"
". . . Maybe once--back when it was still wild and angels did that sort of thing. I don't know." He could feel her eyes on him. "Angels . . . are not well-spoken of in Hell, Sam. It's not like I can just pick up the guy's biography at the demon Barnes & Noble. Ever since Dean got pulled out, everyone in Hell has been going crazy. Something's happening and you guys and the Seals are only one part of it."
He looked down at his hands. "What do you mean?"
". . . Don't play dumb, Sammy." For all the chastisement in her words, her voice sounded flat and deflated. "It doesn't suit you."
"Don't call me that," he warned her again mildly.
Ruby gave a little snorting laugh and shifted her weight slightly. The ancient-sounding bedsprings creaked beneath her. "Your brother's angel? He wasn't exactly gentle when he pulled Dean out of Hell. Angels don't belong in Hell, but damned souls do. The combination of trying to keep Dean in and force the Winged Wonder out . . . The space in between tore a bit--sprung a leak."
Sam turned, twisting on the bed so that he could see her again. "What?"
"Relax," Ruby murmured with a humorless grin. "Hell sealed itself up again. But some demons still got out, Sam. Bad ones. Even without Lilith to contend with, you guys would have your hands pretty full."
He frowned at her, his eyes dark. "You make it sound like Hell is alive or something."
The grin remained fixed and cold--like a death's head. "It is."
Sam turned away, uncomfortable with the new questions that provoked. He fixed his eyes on the curtains again. They were drab and uninteresting--piss yellow in the faded streetlight. " . . . And Uriel? What do you know about him?"
"The angel who watches over thunder and terror."
He turned his head questioningly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.
Ruby shifted behind him and her voice came out muffled as she put her head down to her knees. "I know that he scares the holy hell out of everyone, Sam. Uriel's a bigwig in the Host." The word 'Host' was spat out like something unpleasant. Sam looked back to the window as she continued, "They gave him a measure of dominion over Hell and he exercised his authority with a vengeance. He brought damnation down on the Fallen who loved humans and on their offspring, the Nephilim. Basically, if angels are kicking demon ass, he's in the thick of it." There was a tentative touch on his back, but it vanished before he could fully register it. "Stay away from him, Sam. He's dangerous. He hates our kind."
The light of a passing car hit the window, momentarily blinding the hunter. He closed his eyes a moment too late to avoid the red spots from light-seared retinas from invading his vision.
Our kind. Like he was like Ruby--a demon.
Maybe he was.
Silence stretched out between them, long and strangely comfortable. He probably should have been more upset by Ruby's words, but it was difficult to marshal an adequate defense, even if it was only in him mind. He was too tired these days. Too worn thin.
Too raw.
Another car passed by and in the stillness of the room, he could her the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Three o'clock. Last call.
"What is it like--being in Hell?" That wasn't the question he'd meant to ask at all.
Behind him, Ruby stiffened and the inquiry hung in the air between them, suspended like an angry spirit.
He wouldn't take it back, though. He'd been avoiding the question for months while Dean was gone and now it suddenly seemed to burn through him. He turned slightly to face her and hazel eyes met black eyes expectantly.
Ruby turned away, full lips twisting into a bitter line. "Hell is Hell," she responded dully. "It's pain, Sam--pain like you can't imagine. There aren't words for it. There isn't anything that I could ever tell you to make you understand what it's like. There's no mercy. No respite. No . . . no anything. There's nothing but pain and hurt and degradation and rage and--and . . . loss." She turned back to him. Her expression was schooled in a familiar mask of veiled contempt, but her eyes--now brown again--shimmered with something intense. "That's the worst of it. You lose yourself. You forget your name, the people you loved, who you were, why you're there . . . You forget everything. Everything but hurting and being hurt. You forget everything but the rage--the need to lash out and make someone else feel all that pain."
Sam looked away, unable to meet her suddenly human eyes. He liked the demon-depths better. He couldn't see himself in them. "Is that what it's like for everyone?" His voice sounded rough in the dark, as though he'd been screaming.
Ruby was quiet for a minute, abruptly human eyes boring holes in the space between his shoulder blades. "Mostly," she murmured after a moment. She turned away, pulling herself tighter into her ball. "Some people . . . Some people are special. Dean was special."
Sam flinched.
Ruby continued without looking at him, her voice soft as she talked to the opposite wall. "He was sent to be broken by the best of the best. Hell's elite. Everyone knew he was there. It was like a carnival or something for the demons of higher status: 'Step right up and dunk the chump.' Only . . . you know . . . with more screaming. I never saw him, though. Like I said, Dean was special--a project. I was . . . despised." He didn't have to look at her to know she was smiling bitterly; he could hear it in her voice. "I picked the wrong side. Lilith made a special hell for me."
Sam was silent for a moment, his pulse pounding in his ears. He may not have known what Hell looked like--what it felt and smelled and tasted like--but his imagination happily filled in the details. Dean and Ruby, alone and writhing in fire and blood.
Needing him.
"He was sent to be broken . . . Lilith made a special hell for me."
"It's your pride they take first," she whispered harshly. "The word 'rape' doesn't even begin to cover it. Your soul is your body and they take it. They violate you in the worst ways you can think of--worse than you can ever dream. Humans have nothing on demons when it comes to torture--especially when you can't die and you can't pass out and you can't stop bleeding and your throat never wears out from screaming. They take your heart. They take the ones you love--the ones you need. Husbands, wives, fathers, mothers . . . It's their mouths on you--their hands breaking you. Your best friends and your worse enemies. Every horror you've never imagined is wearing their faces and they're all on you--in you--telling you everything you never wanted to hear. They turn you inside out emotionally and psychologically. And then physically. Stretching and ripping and pulling and twisting apart under hands and knives and hooks. The pain never gets old. Never stops. Even when you heal, you can feel your body regrowing itself cell by agonizing cell. Except there aren't any cells--just your soul. And as soon as it scrapes itself back together, it starts all over again. And over and over--"
"Stop."
Ruby fell silent and it took Sam a moment to realize his hands were trembling and aching. He forced open fists he hadn't even known he was making and he could see angry crescents pressed into his palms in the darkness--ridges where his nails had pressed into his flesh.
"Just . . . Stop." His chest was heaving and his voice was thin and hoarse.
There was a quiet rustling behind him and a moment later he felt the press of a small, cool hand against the small of his back. "Sam . . . I'm sorry."
Somehow the thought of Ruby apologizing for his pain--Ruby, who had gone to a 'special hell' because he had been such a stubborn asshole about his powers, apologizing . . .
"Do you even know how far off the reservation you've gone? How far from normal? From human?"
Sam dropped his head to his chest with a shudder and for a terrible moment, it seemed like the hand on his back was the only thing holding him to the earth. Sadly, that probably wasn't too far from the truth these days.
Jesus Christ . . .
"I need to go," he muttered without moving. The words sounded forced, even to his own ears.
"You don't need me. You and Ruby go fight demons."
Those arms--Not Jess. Not Dean.--wrapped around his shoulders from behind, holding him tight. Holding onto him tight. She rested her head between his shoulders and her breath was warm against his skin.
"And it's nice in this body, Sam . . . Soft and warm. . ."
"I shouldn't have told you that," she whispered, the soft regret in her actual voice banishing the lust-filled murmur of his memory. Her lips and eyelashes fluttering against his back like stray butterflies.
Sam shook his head. "I asked." He lifted his hands and pressed them lightly against the demon's. "I wanted to know." A beat of silence. And then: "He says he doesn't remember Hell."
Ruby stilled for a moment and her embrace tightened uncomfortably, constricting his breathing. “ . . . He's lying. There are some things you can't forget. Not even Heaven could erase that."
But Sam couldn't help but wonder just how far his brother's angelic stalker would go to keep Dean in line. Other than drinking like fish, the older seemed surprisingly hale after a four-month stint in the Pit. And, Castiel's claims that he wasn't going to perch on Dean's shoulder notwithstanding, the angel's tendency to turn up at strange times (conveniently when Sam wasn't around and Dean was sleeping or otherwise vulnerable), was suspicious to say the least. Having met Castiel twice now, and with Uriel's threats still burning in his mind, Sam was hard pressed to trust the angels or take what they said on faith. He wouldn't put it past them to have messed with Dean's already admittedly messed up head--maybe erase a memory here or there.
They'd been prepared to smite an entire town to get what they wanted. And Dean already wore Castiel's brand (something that bothered Sam to no end). They said that they were on the good guys' side, but what was one man in the grand scheme of things? Dean may have meant everything to Sam, but the angels, he was probably just another tool, no matter how badly Sam wanted to believe the contrary.
The real kick in the teeth, though, was that he wanted to have faith in them. For his own sake. For Dean's. Hell, for everyone. If humanity had ever need of divine intervention, now seemed to be the time. He wanted to trust them and reaffirm his faith in a merciful God. But how the hell was he supposed to do that when God's own messengers smilingly prepared to wipe out 1300 relatively innocent lives to preserve a single seal?
Dean had defended them, of course--just like he'd always defended Dad. And it had grated on Sam to hear his brother actually defend Castiel--as though Dean owed him something (although, maybe he did). He'd claimed that it was all a part of whatever bass-ackward test they were subjecting him to. But Sam had no doubt that Uriel would have happily wiped out that entire town and Castiel would have let him without batting an eyelash. Angels were just as inhuman and inhumane as demons, it seemed, but at least with demons, they knew where they stood.
Behind him, Ruby released her grip and moved to stand, rolling off of the other side of the bed. Sam turned to watch her, ignoring the almost absently lustful tightening of his stomach as she searched for her clothing in the dim light.
Well, he amended silently, we know where we stand with most demons.
Her skin seemed to glow softly.
Why are you doing this? he almost blurted out in the darkness. But then Ruby turned, feeling his eyes on her, and looked at him questioningly. He turned away, unable to meet her gaze.
Instead he asked, "When will I see you again?" It came out more as a demand than a question.
Ruby paused in the middle of inspecting the damage to the red panties she'd been wearing earlier. Sam had not been gentle in removing them. She watched him thoughtfully for a moment, unashamed of her nudity, and then she shrugged. "When do you want to see me again?"
The hunter looked away, staring back at the curtain as though they might hold the answer. ". . . I think we might need some time. Dean and I. Things are--"
"Will you tell him?" she interrupted. Her voice was crisp and business-like, as though indifferent to his answer.
He remembered how her face had twisted in pleasure beneath him a mere hour ago, her eyes black in the throes of passion and locked onto him as though he held the secret to everything she'd ever wanted. He wondered how much of her tone now was feigned. He wondered how thoroughly he was being played--if he was being played. Or maybe he was the bad guy in this and the pleas and permission she whispered below and around him in the dark were the real story.
He wondered if Dean would ever touch him again.
Sam closed his eyes and dropped his head. "He'll ask eventually."
To be honest, Sam wasn't sure why he hadn't asked yet. Sometimes he could feel his brother's eyes on him--so carefully blank and unfamiliar after four months in the ground--and he could feel that questions rolling through the older man's mind. He could feel the accusations: How did you manage without me? How could you?
. . . Though, maybe that last bit was only in Sam's head. Maybe he only thought Dean was asking the question because Sam was desperate to know the answers himself. How had he managed without Dean? And why the hell couldn't he seem to mesh with his brother again?
It was like the hole Dean's death had left in him--that place where Dean was supposed to be--had scabbed over and started to heal and, now that he was back, Dean didn't fit there any more. Like that bond that they'd shared was too damaged--maybe irreparably. And Sam didn't know who to blame for it. So where did that leave him--leave them, if there was even still a "them" any more?
Ruby made a noncommittal noise behind him. Sam scowled at the carpet. I don't owe you anything, he wanted to say to her. I didn't ask for your help. You volunteered for this. I haven't made any promises to you.
Except he did owe her something--he owed her a hell of a lot, in fact. And, while he hadn't made her any promises, God knows he'd wanted to. Still wanted to sometimes. Because things with Ruby were easier than things with Dean. And Ruby was his and Dean was . . . Was something else now. Something that Sam didn't recognize anymore was terrified to understand.
Somehow, having Dean here and alive, and knowing that Dean wasn't his anymore was worse than losing Dean to the hounds. Worse than loosing him to the Rawhead, or to the car accident, or to the 121 horrible Tuesdays the Trickster had forced him to live through before that last terrible Wednesday.
Sam had had contingencies for Dean dying on him. They hadn't worked, but he'd tried, damnit. But he didn't have contingencies for Dean leaving him; that had never been in the cards. And he was so fucking sick of losing everything: Mom, Dad, Jess, his normal life at Stanford, the endless sacrifices of his childhood to their father's revenge. Everything he'd loved--every. single. thing.--had been taken from him. Hell, even his humanity had been put on the chopping block. His entire fate seemed to be controlled by a single night that happened when he was six months old and now Hell was out for his blood because he wouldn't take their crown and Heaven had no room for 'his kind,' only for his transient utility in their war.
And Sam was just sick of it all.
They wouldn't get Dean again. They wouldn't. And Ruby? Well, whatever else she may be, Ruby was his too. He was through with compromises.
He looked up to find Ruby now clad in jeans and socks. The panties had apparently been declared a lost cause and were in the trash.
"I'll call you," he said suddenly, his voice surprisingly firm.
The demon turned back to him as she fixed her bra's clasps behind her back. "There's something going on. I heard rumbling about some sort of bounty being put out of a human. You want me to look into it? It sounds kind of major."
"Yeah." He stood and stretched, bones popping in protest. He was tired--entirely too tired--but he knew Dean would let him sleep in the car. He'd missed that freedom when his brother was gone. He'd missed a lot of things. "We're headed East for a bit. Come find me if you need anything."
"Even with Dean around?" It was a careful question--testing.
Sam rotated his wrist, working out a kink, and looked at her expressionlessly. "He'll deal. Just stop goading him." A smirk answered him and he scowled. "I mean it, Ruby."
The smirk didn't fade, but she mockingly snapped her bare heels together and saluted him, S.S.-style. "Sieg heil, mein Führer."
Sam jaw tightened, but she turned and bent to retrieve her boots and top before he could retort. "I'm headed out then." She stood, items in hand, and looked back at him with strangely earnest black eyes. "Be careful, Sam."
The hunter looked at her for a moment, but was unable to say anything. She looked painfully human like that--as fragile and female and perfect as Jess had ever been--even when her eyes told a different story. He turned and headed towards the bathroom. "You too."
There were no promises between them after all.
He closed the door behind him, cutting off her quiet sigh, and stepped in the shower to wash the scent of her off his skin.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Dean was awake when he got in. It was close to 4:00 in the morning and the older man was perched on the foot of his bed closest to the door, an infomercial for some sort of super-absorbent towel blasting on the grainy television set while he worked his way through a bottle of Jack that hadn't been there when Sam had left. He didn't look up when Sam entered, instead taking a swig of the now half-empty bottle. His favorite gun sat beside him on the bed and the taller hunter paused in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight. He couldn't help but wonder if the gun was there for protection or for something else. Then he couldn't help but wonder if leaving Dean alone with liquor and an armament fit to take on the town's entire police force was the wisest course of action.
It was a stupid question to ask though. If Dean were going to off himself, he'd have done it already, right?
Red-rimmed green eyes turned to him after a moment and Sam wasn't so sure.
"Close the door. It's freaking cold out there."
At least his brother wasn't slurring his speech yet. Though, Dean's alcohol tolerance seemed to have shot through the roof since his return. Sam wondered if angels could heal cirrhosis of the liver in addition to rehymenating someone.
He carefully stepped over the salt line before turning around and shutting the door. "Did you sleep at all?"
Dean's eyes were fixed on the TV again as an overly-excited man expounded on the virtues of the ShamWow. The light cast by the bright picture seemed to highlight the tired lines on his face and the heavy, raccoon-like smudges of shadow around his eyes. "I sleep." Which wasn't really an answer at all. "Where have you been?"
Sam tossed his jacket on the rickety table by the window and shrugged. Avoided Dean's knowing gaze as he crossed the room. "Went for a walk." He threw himself face-first on the bed and his hair--still wet from the shower--seemed unusually chilled, as though chastising him for the lie.
Dean snorted skeptically, eyes burning into Sam's back like hot coals, but said nothing.
Sam tried to force his body to relax in the over starched bed sheets, but it seemed impossible. Every swallow Dean took out of the liquor bottle seemed magnified by a thousand in his ears. He shifted restlessly in bed.
"You want me to turn off the television?"
Sam turned slightly to look at him with hooded eyes. I want you to stop drinking like a fucking fish. I want you to stop smoking like a chimney when you think I'm not looking. I want you to stop flirting with everyone in the world but me. I want you to stop self-destructing in front of my eyes. I want you to let me in. His lips twitched upwards towards a mockery of a smile at his own hypocrisy. "No, Dean. I'm fine."
The older man paused in the middle of raising his bottle and turned towards him, cocking his head slightly to the side. The gesture was oddly canine, as though Dean were attempting to find out the source of the problem by scenting the air. They stared at one another, eyes locked in TV-lit room, secrets crowding the space between them. Even against the noise of the television, it seemed weirdly quiet in the room. Sam imagined that he could feel the ghosts of Ruby's touch on his skin. That he could hear Jess's soft sigh at his ear. That he could taste Dean, both fragile and forceful, against his lips. It made his breathing come a bit faster.
Dean raised the remote without looking away and turned off the television, plunging the room into darkness.
"Dean . . ."
"No, Sam."
Harsh and abrupt. Sam flinched as though the other man had taken a swing at him. He pursed his lips and sat up in bed.
"Dean."
The thump of glass on fiberboard as the liquor bottle was placed on the nightstand followed by creaking bedsprings. A defeated murmur: "I'm tired, Sam."
"You don't sleep," the younger hunter pointed out, eyes finally adjusted to the darkness enough to make out Dean's still formed sprawled atop the covers. He was still fully clothed, of course . . . like he expected he'd have to wake up and make a quick escape. Big surprise.
Dean turned his head to look at him and his already indistinct features vanished in a blur of shadows. "'M not doing this right now, Sammy," he grated out. His tone promised violence.
I miss you, Sam wanted to say. Instead he looked away and laid down in bed reluctantly. He wanted to reach across the small two foot gap between their beds, but those two feet may as well have been two hundred miles right now. Dean had never done well with people reaching out to him without solicitation. There were too many monsters--both human and supernatural--and nosy social workers in the their past for him to accept a hand up. And these days, Dean was more stubborn about it than ever.
Apparently only one person was allowed to reach down and pull him from perdition now. And that person wasn't Sam.
The realization tasted like bile on his tongue.
"Goodnight," he whispered softly, ignoring his stomach's roiling and the memory of Castiel's knowing blue eyes.
Dean didn't reply.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The gray light of dawn was filtering through the curtains when Sam awoke to the sound of screaming. Not subtle whimpers. Not murmured pleas. No. Full-blown screaming.
Dean. Twisted in his bedsheets like a contortionist. Twisted in a way that looked unnatural and painful and horrifyingly like something right out The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Wide open eyes unseeing, pupils blown and glassy, mouth stretched too wide in a frightening rictus--the only thing that didn't seem frozen. And he was screaming Sam's name.
"Saaaaaaam!"
"Jesus Christ!"
Sam had no memory of scrambling out of bed, but he surely must have because one moment he was jerked violently out of sleep and the next he was beside Dean's bed, hands hovering mere centimeters from his bother's twisted body, terrified to touch him. Terrified not to.
And Dean . . . Dean's voice was . . . wrecked. Broken in a way Sam couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around.
A spasm jerked Dean's body, snapping his spine back at an impossible angle, and it was something like a cross between a full-body charlie horse and a seizure.
"JesusJesusJesus--"
It had never been like this before. Dean had never, ever been like this before.
Hell, no one should look like this--nothing human, at least.
"Ask your brother what he remembers from Hell."
Sam made a wrecked, keening noise, hands fluttering in the air above Dean like tethered birds, because he just didn't know what else to do.
The attack--or spasm, or whatever--ended as abruptly as it had begun. All the tension abruptly left Dean with a whimper and his body relaxed, collapsing onto the bed like soft wax, loose and pliant. His eyes closed, face twitching towards the now familiar expression of pain that always haunted it in sleep, and he lay still. His body was askew on the bed at a crazy angle, but he looked strangely peaceful, as though the last terrifying ten second of their lies had never happened.
For three long beats, neither man moved again. Then Sam was on him in flash, straddling his brother's thighs before he could think better of it and hauling the sleeping man up and awake his a violence that would have alarmed him if he'd been thinking of it. "Dean! Dean!"
Green eyes flashed open again, disoriented but blessedly conscious. The empty, blank look was gone, replaced by bewilderment and the start of anger, and Dean pushed weakly against his chest, arms shaking and clumsy.
"Seriously, dude--"
Whatever he was going to say was lost when Sam jerked him into a rough, stifling embrace, clinging to him tightly. Both their hearts were thundering in chests, weird staccato echoes of one another, and all Sam could do was hold tight and murmur agitated curses. "What the hell, man? What the hell?"
Dean struggled weakly, but his limbs didn't seem to be coordinating properly. The image of his twisted and frozen body was locked in Sam's mind's eye and he wondered how long Dean had been lying like that before Sam awoke. And how the hell long this had been going on.
"Dude!" More weak and ineffectual shoving. Dean's voice sounded raw. "What is going on with you?"
Sam clung tightly, ignoring the elbow in the ribs he got for his trouble. He could feel the older man's chest expanding against his with every breath--could feel his heart thundering like a herd of wild horses--and he couldn't let go for a moment. Not until the fear passed and he could think again.
"Why won't you let me help you?" he whispered, unable to keep the fear and frustration he felt out of his voice.
Dean stiffened and said nothing.
While Dean was gone, grief and rage and a loss so deep that his mind shied back from the memory had threatened to drown him. And those emotions hadn't eased that much with his brother's return. Even now, months later, he half expected to wake up and find that he was still back in Illinois and had just dreamed all this. He needed this--needed to be grounded here and now by the feel of Dean in his arms, alive and mostly whole, by the familiar scent of his brother beside him.
Sam knew that his grip had to be leaving bruises, but he couldn't let go. Not yet.
Dean shuddered in his arms after a few moments. "Can't help me, Sammy."
The words were said so quietly that Sam would have missed them if he hadn't been so close to the other man.
The younger man forced himself to relax his grip; it was harder than it should have been.
Dean was avoiding his eyes, staring out at the thin, desperate light of dawn trying to fight its way through the ratty, stained curtains. Every line in his body hummed with tension. Sam swallowed hard and withdrew, shifting so that he was seated next to the other hunter on the bed. It was all he could do not to reach out and shake him.
"I can't lose you again, Dean." His voice sounded flat and too loud in the still room.
Dean dragged his eyes away from the window and looked at Sam silently for a moment with an unreadable gaze. Then his lips quirked towards a hard, self-deprecating smirk and Sam could almost see the walls sealing back up, brick by brick. "Not going anywhere, man."
He clenched his jaw, hating the deception and Dean's stupid, self-castigating need to hide everyfuckingthing from him, just like always. But things weren't like they were before. SamandDean weren't like they were before and they couldn't keep pretending. "You sure about that?"
The other man's eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw jumped--a red flag indicating very real anger. He looked away again. "Where did you say you went this morning again?"
It didn't sound like an accusation, but there was nothing else that it could have been. Sam's hands clenched into fists in his lap.
I was with Ruby. It would be such an easy thing to say. He could lay it all out, right here and now. He could call Dean's bullshit and just say it . . . I'll show you mine if you show me yours. He could pull Dean down into the lingering darkness of those four booze-soaked months, rips the scabs off those wounds and just let the pus flow. . . . And he could also risk never seeing those walls fall again. Or worse, seeing them fall for someone else.
Sharing had never been Sam's forte.
I'm selfish, he almost wanted to say. It was really Dean's fault anyway for spoiling him rotten. What had he expected?
Instead, though, he opted for a different kind of truth--one that should have meant a lot more than it probably did. "I wasn't--" His tongue tripped over itself, uncertain of how to form the proper words. "I haven't used my powers since Samhain."
The other man's mouth twisted in a bitter expression, rejecting the answer without really saying anything at all.
"I haven't, Dean." He grabbed his brother's arm and pulled on him slightly, physically arresting the other man with a bruising grip. "You know I haven't."
Something desperate must have shone in his face because Dean's expression softened and the coldness left his eyes.
"I know, Sammy." He gripped Sam's hand as though about to peel it away but stopped.
Sam felt a measure of tension leave him at the touch and stared at the battered-looking hunter for a moment. He'd never really noticed before, but there were tiny flecks of gold in Dean's eyes, like slivers of sunlight . . .
Their lips met before Sam was fully aware that he'd leaned forward and Dean's grip on his hand tightened. For a minute, it seemed as though the older man would not respond at all, but then he made a quiet little noise in the back of his throat and his lips parted to Sam's kiss. Sam sighed softly in response.
Before Hell but after Stanford and before Dad, their first kiss had been an awkward, drunken taboo. Sam had needed comfort and Dean . . . Dean had just needed Sam. Their relationship had moved in lurches and near misses, with every embrace and gasp a frantic affirmation that, Yeah. Yeah. We're still here. This kiss, though, was different. It was soft and needy and somehow heart achingly sad. It wasn't hot and desperate like Ruby's kisses. Nor was it gentle and playful like Jess's. And somehow (thank God), the ghost of Dean Before Hell faded and blended with this new and not-quite-familiar Post-Hell Dean as Sam's tongue lightly swept his brother's mouth and tasted bitterness and Jack Daniels.
This . . . This was just Dean needing comfort. And Sam needing Dean.
Dean's other hand came up and slipped around the back of Sam's neck with a faint clatter of teeth as he deepened the kiss and Sam rose his own hand in response and gripped Dean's shoulder, fingers falling over the angry ridges of that horrible brand, covering it. Engulfing it.
Outside in the distance, the tires of a passing car screeched on the road and Dean abruptly broke away, shaking his head as he moved. "I can't--" His voice was rough and it had nothing to do with the nightmare that had awakened them both. He twisted to escape, trying to push the younger man away. "Sam--"
The brunet pitched forward, cutting off the words that he didn't want to hear by wrapping his arms around the older man again. There was a brief struggle, of course, because Dean always struggled, but Sam didn't let go.
Just held on and breathed.
"Shut up, Dean."
After a brief moment, Dean's arms wrapped around him, loose and hesitant. They wouldn't speak of this again and they both knew it, but for now, Sam needed it. And Dean always gave Sam what he needed.
That was all that mattered, no matter what Castiel said or Uriel threatened. This . . . SamandDean . . . that was what mattered. They could deal with everything else later.
Because Dean came first, before both Heaven and Hell. And if Castiel and Uriel wanted to bar his way, then they had better bring their whole damned army with them because he was not losing Dean again. Not again. That wasn't happening ever again and if he had to fly in the face of Heaven . . . if he had to defy the God who'd healed Dean's body but let his mind be broken into a thousand pieces . . . Well then, so be it.
He held on tightly, sheltered in his brother's embrace, and imagined he could feel the heat of both Heaven and Hell's ire and Castiel's cold, inhuman blue eyes all focused on them. It had nothing on Dean's warmth pressed against him. "Just . . . Just don't give up on me, man. Don't let me go."
"I won't Sammy." He still sounded painfully sure . . . reassuringly Dean, no matter who had branded his shoulder. "I got you."
And then: I've got you.
He could hear the thought echoed in Dean's mind--a small leak in the flood walls surrounding his powers--firm and uncompromising and for a moment it was just SamandDean again. Them against the world. And Dean was his, no matter what. Brother, friend, protector, lover . . . No matter what else might come, Dean was his.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
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