Goodnight, Travel Well
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: unresolved Sam/Dean
Summary: When Sam is twenty-seven years old, he has to say goodbye to his brother for the last time.
Word Count: ~1,500
Warnings: Tag for 5x22, Swan Song. Angst. Lots of it. No discernable plot.
When Sam is twenty-seven years old, he has to say goodbye to his brother for the last time.
They're in Detroit. Sam wants to be angry that it's going to happen just like everyone said it would, but he doesn't have room for the extra emotion. He's already full up with worry, feeble hope, and a terror so strong he can taste it like pennies on his tongue. There isn't time to be angry; there isn't time for anything.
Worse, even, than the anticipation of what's going to happen tomorrow, is his worry for Dean. It's hard to look at his brother right now, ineffectual rage and bone-deep sorrow already coming off of him in waves. To anyone but Sam, Dean would look slightly more irritable than usual, but after a lifetime of studying his older brother, Sam knows he's barely holding it together.
They find a motel in town, same as every other they've ever stayed in. In the parking lot with Bobby and Castiel, no one says anything for a long moment, and then Bobby discreetly comments on how he and Cas have to be elsewhere. He gives Sam a bone-crushing hug and promises to catch up with them in the morning. Cas shoots the younger Winchester a sympathetic look that he can feel, soul-deep, and follows Bobby without a single word.
Behind him, Sam hears Dean exhale and wonders how long it's been since his brother last took a breath. He turns to face him and Dean's green eyes are riveted unapologetically on his face, mapping him out, memorizing him.
"Let's go get a room," Sam says hoarsely, knowing full well that Dean isn't going to let him out of sight for a moment on this night. His brother nods, and they take off towards the motel lobby, shoulders pressed tight, elbows knocking together.
For once, the desk clerk doesn't make asiprations about their sexuality and Sam almost bursts into hysterical laughter. Of course only something so cataclysmic as the Apocalpyse could put a damper on wagging tongues. He must have paused for a split second too long, though, because the desk clerk is looking at him oddly, hand outstreched with the key.
Dean snags the key from his hand with a huff, and gently guides his brother outside by the elbow. Sam feels strangely disoriented, winded, like he's been running for miles and miles. It's not until his vision starts to go grey at the edges that Sam realizes he's stopped breathing. He sucks in a gasp and leans back into Dean's firm grip, feels his brother steady him, like always.
"Alright, Sammy?" Dean asks. Sam nods sharply, not trusting his voice to support him, and they make it to the motel room door. Dean releases him to unlock it, and then they're inside, bolt sliding home with a finality that makes Sam's stomach lurch.
They stand in the doorway, close enough to hear each other's heartbeats and, for a long moment, neither of them says anything. Then Dean takes a shuddering breath, like he just came up after too long underwater, and steps away. Sam feels cold all over and he shakes himself mentally for being so weak.
It's just like every other place they've stayed over the years; two queens, a fuzzy television and yellowing towels that are about four sizes too small, but all of the sudden it hits Sam that this is the last time he'll ever stay in one of these shitty rooms and panic crashes down on him again.
"Hungry?" Dean says stupidly, even though they both know that neither of them has any appetite whatsoever. Sam shakes his head anyway, for something to do, and drops his bag on the floor.
Dean is still standing in the middle of the room, still staring at him, but neither one of them turned on the lights, so the shadows make his expression difficult to read.
Sam stares right back, a miserable feeling curling in his gut. He tries to memorize every inch of his brother's face, from the fullness of his lips to the way his nose curves slightly upward at the tip, from his thick, dark eyelashes, throwing spiderweb-thin shadows over his cheekbones. He stores away the look of Dean's wide, bottle green eyes--his favorite color since he was old enough to have one--and the smattering of coppery freckles across his nose, cheekbones, and jawline, standing out sharply in contrast to his pale, grave face.
Sam doesn't even realize he's shaking until Dean moves forward and grabs his wrist. His brother's thumb is on his pulse, and his other hand is in Sam's hair, scuffing soothingly at his scalp, like all the times Sam was sick as a child.
"Hey, shhh, it's okay Sammy." Dean's whispering, leading him into the room like he's a spooked horse, "Come sit down, I'll get you some water."
Sam does as he's told, because suddenly his legs don't want to support him anymore, and he goes down on the bed furthest from the door, with Dean's arm a tight band around his shoulders.
"Here, drink this." Dean shoves a bottle of water into his hands and Sam stares at it for a moment, wondering where it came from, before getting with the program. He drains the whole bottle in one go and takes a deep, gasping breath.
"S'alright Sammy, it's okay." Dean repeats, a mantra, and Sam feels himself relax marginally. "C'mere." His brother tugs at him and rearranges their limbs on the bed until he's leaning back against the headboard, with Sam in the V of his legs, back pressed flush to Dean's chest. Dean's arms are wrapped around him, fingers circling his wrists, and his forehead is pressed against the top of Sam's head.
The world really must be ending, Sam thinks, Dean's gone cuddly. A hysterical giggle bubbles past his lips before he can stop it and his brother's arms tighten around him.
"It's okay, Sammy, shh." He whispers against the shell of Sam's ear and Sam thinks about how this feels more intimate than anything he's imagined in fifteen years of being in love with his brother. He never told Dean. Now he never will. "I'll take care of you."
"Dean..." Sam whispers, but it's the only thing he can think to say. Dean nods like he gets it, though, and starts humming quietly.
It's indistinct at first, wavering and full of soft, shuddery breaths, like Dean's trying to repress an emotional outburst, but eventually the tune is recognizable and tears spring to Sam's eyes as Dean starts humming the second verse of "Hey Jude."
Sam lets out a slow, even breath. He has to keep it together for his brother.
Dean stops humming, like he's read his little brother's thoughts, and for a long moment, all Sam can hear is the frantic beat of Dean's heart against his back, like a bird battering at the bars of its cage.
"It's okay to be scared, Sammy." he whispers, pitched so low that Sam barely hears it, but when the words register in his brain, it's like opening the floodgates. A sob rips from Sam's throat, and then another, and then tears are streaming down his face and he's lost his tenuous control over the situation and is spiralling wildly out of control. The sobs shake his body and the intellectual part of Sam tells him that it's just as much a stress-reaction as anything else, that he's probably going into shock, and that makes him feel a little less ashamed, but still. He can't. Stop. Crying.
Dean doesn't judge him, doesn't say a word. Just tightens his arms around Sam and goes back to humming his Beatles lullaby. He leans down and presses his lips to the top of Sam's head, echoing one of Sam's earliest memories, and Sam feels a few hot tears fall into his hair.
Eventually, Sam runs out of tears, and turns his face into Dean's collarbone, too exhausted for any further displays of emotion, and no longer interested in being anything but close to Dean. His brother keeps humming, snatches of different songs now, carding his fingers through Sam's hair, green eyes blazing, his expression fiercely protective. They didn't bother laying salt lines or hanging cat's eye shells, but when Sam looks at his brother's face, he feels safer than he's ever felt before.
Hours pass in this near-complete silence as the night grows deeper and darker, and Sam starts to believe that maybe Dean's not-talking thing is more legitimate than he ever imagined.
It's not like they even need words to communicate tonight.
Shortly before dawn, Sam slips into a fitful sleep and dreams of fire. He jerks abruptly awake, feels Dean's thumb pressing gently against his jaw, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, and Sam smiles weakly. Dean looks terrible, grey and sleepless, but he gives Sam a gentle smile in return and they both turn to watch the sun rise through the cracks in the blinds.
Dean's arms tighten around him again and he buries his face in Sam's hair with a sad, muffled sound and Sam realizes, with sudden clarity, that there's no other way he would've wanted to spend his last night on earth.