fic: how the mighty fall (in love) - 5/6
prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | epilogue
But Dean ends up being wrong-decidedly so-and now it's been nearly a year since Dean and Castiel killed Dick Roman, the head of the Leviathans, and then disappeared in a cloud of black goo, leaving Sam alone.
Dean's been gone for so long Sam's pretty sure his default state is stuck on "grief", but at least he's almost got his act together; he's living in Kermit, Texas, with a girl named Amelia and a dog named Riot and life is kind of normal.
Amelia's lost someone, too; understands that empty cold feeling in your chest like no one else because Don was the love of her life and Sam gets that, he does. They're floating in an endless ocean, castaways on twin planks with nothing but a thread in between, holding on for dear life; keeping each other sane.
He doesn't hunt anymore, and it feels a little weird, but it feels even weirder hunting without Dean at his back. Sam figures it's the lesser of two evils, to use a hyperbolic statement, and-to be honest-it's less painful this way.
So he's in control and everything is (not quite) perfect. Until Amelia gets the call.
Don is alive.
Sam's barely halfway through gluing his world back together, and there it goes again.
+ + +
But then-
Somewhere in Maine's 100-Mile Wilderness, there's a flash of light and Dean emerges in front of two campers, covered in blood and about a hundred years' worth of grime.
"Hey," he calls out, and when the guy jumps back and stares at him, Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you, kid. Could you stop mackin' on your ladyfriend for a sec and tell me where I am?"
"M-Maine."
"Where's the nearest road?"
"That way."
He pauses to take one of their backpacks, then pulls a quick-change in the woods and hitches a ride with the first trucker he sees. He lets Benny out; leaves him with a phone number and keeps hitchhiking until he ends up somewhere around the vicinity of Rufus's old cabin and waltzes into a coffee shop where-surprise, surprise-the barista's seen Sam around.
+ + +
Sam's in front of Rufus's cabin; is jolted rather rudely into awareness when a hand drops onto his shoulder.
"You've gotten rusty, Sam." The voice comes from behind and Sam turns around to face the intrusion.
He's nearly unrecognizable for all the dirt and grime; smells like earth and outdoors tinged with the sharp tang of blood and sweat and something like smoke, but underneath it all there's this unmistakably distinctive smell of lemons.
Dean.
Sam pulls his brother into a hug so tight neither of them can breathe, but when he lets go, he can't help but shake his head.
"What?" Dean asks, but from the way his mouth is quirking it's clear he already knows.
Sam answers the question anyway. "You and your fucking hair gel, man."
"You're just jealous my hair's better than yours, bitch."
Sam's smile tugs at his mouth; spreads like sunset. "Jerk."
+ + +
"You were in Purgatory?" Sam asks as Dean exits the shower. "For the whole year? How'd you get out?"
"I guess whoever built that place didn't want me in there any more than I did."
"What about Cass? Was he there?"
"Yeah. He didn't make it." Dean takes two beers out of the refrigerator, sits down at the table and hands Sam a bottle. "You know half your numbers are outta service? Did you even get any of my messages?"
Sam remains standing. "Yeah, no, I, um-I ditched the phones."
"Because?" Dean prompts.
Sam does a slow exhale, long and deliberate. "I met a girl. I don't, uh. I don't hunt anymore."
Dean's jaw drops and he shakes his head. "So…while I was knee-fucking-deep in God's armpit, you were topside, gettin' all cozy with a chick?"
"I thought you were dead!"
"I wasn't! I was killing monsters, actually, which is what I thought we do."
"Look, Dean. As far as I knew, what we do got every single member of my family killed. For the first time in my life, I was completely alone, and I didn't know what to do. So, yeah, I fixed up the Impala, and I just-drove."
"After you looked for me."
Sam says nothing.
"Did you look for me, Sam?"
Sam looks away.
Dean is livid. "Oh, good. Now, we-we always told each other not to look for each other, right? That's smart. Good for you."
"I just-"
Dean cuts him off. "Of course, we always ignored that because of our deep, abiding love for each other, but not this time, huh, Sammy?"
Sam is silent for a moment. "I'm still the same guy, Dean."
"Bully for you. I'm fuckin' not," Dean says, and slams the door on his way out.
"Welcome back," Sam says to no one in particular, except maybe the walls and the cabin door.
+ + +
"Driver picks the diner, shotgun shuts his cakehole."
Sam rolls his eyes-they've been irritable and pissy for days; snap at each other like pitbulls fighting over some invisible line and he knows Dean's not sleeping well but refuses to tell Sam why-calls up someone else, instead, and Sam wonders how the fuck Dean made a friend despite being trapped in Purgatory.
Sam's feeling ignored and replaceable and Dean makes eyes at the waitress all night; turns the charm up to eleven and chats with her as she cleans dishes and Sam leaves in a huff.
He laughs humorlessly at himself as he walks back to their room, too stubborn to take the Impala.
He's so pathetic.
+ + +
Dean goes to a bar after the diner, and there's a brunette who takes a particular interest in him.
She's got a cute little mouth and eyes like chocolate and Dean turns up the charm; smiles back like second-nature but she's perceptive enough and her smile morphs into something like understanding and she walks up to Dean, grabbing his keys from the bartender.
"Let me take you home," she tells him, gently, and hands him the worn leather jacket.
Her eyes are too warm-too familiar-and Dean takes the jacket from her but shakes his head, wanting her to leave. "I can drive myself."
She frowns; brows knitting, face still pretty. "You sure?"
"Yeah," Dean tells her, and she gives him his keys and her number.
"I'm Lisa. Call if you get into trouble."
Dean nods reflexively before the name hits him like a sucker punch, and he ends up heading for the door as fast as possible, barely gets past the frosted double doors before he's puking into a trashcan.
Sometimes he wishes he could carve out everything he's ever regretted; just slice them away so that he didn't have to keep burying them in liquor and violence. They have a way of cropping up on him at the worst possible moments.
+ + +
Dean gets back to the room around two in the morning, not as drunk but still smelling of cheap perfume, and is greeted (he uses that term loosely) by a very angry Sam as he flicks on the lights.
"So? " Sam spits, eyes flashing. "Did you fuck her in the alleyway? Or right in the bar? You show everyone in the room your pretty little dick?"
"I-I didn't-" Dean stammers, floored, and looks around the room for signs of a demon possession. When he takes in the beer bottles on the bedside table, it clicks-Sam'sdrunk-and he's suddenly, inexplicably, furious. "What the fuck, Sam?" He snarls, "What gives you of all people the goddamn right to go and get drunk a-and angry over me talkin' to a couple of chicks when you and that Amelia girl played fuckin' house for a year?"
"Of all the stupid, egotistical bullsh-Amelia wasn't-she had nothing to do with not hunting!"
Dean snorts derisively. "Now why am I having trouble believing that?"
"Look," Sam stands, crowding into Dean's space. "I don't expect you to understand. You don't-you were gone, Dean, and I found something-someone. Someone that-that needed me as much as I needed them. Because you weren't-"
Dean doesn't want to hear the end of it; just pushes Sam away and crosses the room to the door. The night air breezes in, cold and unforgiving and frozen, and Dean lets the door slam shut.
+ + +
"I was falling apart!" Sam screams at the closed door, choking back tears and listening to the fading rumble of the Impala.
He turns his back and collapses onto the bed; stares at the god-awful painting on the wall and ignores the way Dean isn't there.
Again.
+ + +
Sam wakes up the next day with a pounding headache and the overwhelming urge to pee.
He sits up in a hurry and nearly vomits because of the sudden headrush before he notices that Dean's back in the other bed; came home last night after Sam fell asleep, angry and drunk. He rubs his temples before another wave of nausea crashes like an eighteen-wheeler and he rolls clumsily out of bed, stumbling and shuffling his way to the bathroom. He kneels next to the toilet, wincing at the loud BANG of the seat when it falls after he tries and fails to put it up.
He finally gets the damn thing to cooperate just in time to stick his head into the toilet and produce what looks and smells like one or two vital organs brined in an entire brewery's worth of alcohol and his dinner from last night. In between dry heaves, Sam hears Dean rustle the covers and come into the bathroom.
Sam's skin is clammy and his forehead is drenched in sweat and his hair is sticking to his face in wet sweaty strands and he feels the way he knows he looks, so he leans his face against the cool white porcelain of the toilet.
"I'm, uh-" he starts, just as Dean opens his mouth, and Sam shakes his head to shush him. "No, Dean, look, I-I'm sorry. I was a little-a lot-drunk. I didn't mean it."
Dean sits next to Sam on the cheap broken tile of the bathroom floor and hesitates before he puts a hand out and rests it on Sam's sweaty back; strokes his shoulder comfortingly and Sam closes his eyes, exhaling deeply.
Dean clears his throat. "Yeah, I was a bit of a dick, too."
They stay like that for a few minutes before Sam can feel the atmosphere shift, and he knows what's coming before Dean even says it.
"You're such a fuckin' lightweight."
And, just like that, Sam knows they'll be okay.
+ + +
They decide to start hunting again, trying to get back into the swing of things, and Sam feels like maybe he and Dean are finally on the same wavelength.
It's an open-and-shut, vengeful-spirit, salt-and-burn case-three dead along the border of North and South Carolina, no prints, and all mutilated with what seem to be library cards.
Dean, predictably, makes a joke about the librarian reading the instruction manual wrong.
Sam feigns irritation with his brother's immaturity and laughs when he thinks Dean isn't looking.
+ + +
They finish the job right there and then-it was really much too easy (although a more-than-welcome break)-but it's too late to make their way back to the Batcave, so they pull into a motel around eight. Dean goes to get them a room and Sam busies himself pretending not to watch Dean sweet-talk the clerk.
"Room 107, Sammy," Dean tosses him the keys as he exits, "And dibs on first shower."
"Hot date with the motel clerk?" Sam asks, only half-joking as they walk towards their room.
"Nah," Dean smirks, "With her and her twin."
Sam rolls his eyes, opens the door, and flops onto the bed. "Have fun. Brush your teeth. Don't wanna scare her away with your extra-onions-breath."
Dean grins and pounces, breathing all over Sam.
"Ugh, Dean, that's-get off!" Sam throws his brother onto the other bed. "God, it's like something died in there."
Dean laughs at him. "Aw, you're just jealous because I scored. With twins."
Sam shakes his head; smothers the imagery of Dean with twins and rolls over. "Just go take your shower before I puke all over you."
+ + +
About an hour after Dean leaves, Sam takes a shower and lies on the bed, wondering whether or not he should just check himself into the nearest asylum.
He isn't sure when his feelings for Dean turned from idolatry into whatever this is, but Sam refuses-absolutely, outrightly refuses-to let it screw up his relationship with Dean. Sure, they've fooled around, crossed some lines, but both times were heat of the moment-both times, one of them nearly died-and Dean certainly never talked about it afterwards, let alone gave the impression that it was going to turn into anything. So Sam hits the brakes hard on that train of thought and tries to fall asleep.
He is most definitely not awake at four in the morning when Dean comes back smelling of orange blossoms and sex and lets cold air in through the open door.
+ + +
There's this weird thing in the pit of Sam's stomach that's becoming more and more prevalent as of late, and Sam tells himself that it's just indigestion; that it is in no way connected to wherever Dean is, and that it most definitely does not purr, because-to be honest-that's just fucking creepy, and Sam's seriously considering trying to exorcise himself.
+ + +
Dean forgets his jacket on the next couple of hunts, both of which lead to him getting drenched because the universe is a sadistic motherfucker, and he manages to get sick in the process; catches a cold or something but Dean figures he's fine; he's worked jobs while dealing with set-backs much worse than the damn sniffles. He's got Sam to look after, anyway, and he can't afford to take a day off right now.
+ + +
The sound of the shower stops, abruptly, and Sam hears the door squeak as Dean steps out. He thinks it's a little weird, how quiet everything still is, and he thinks the cadence of Dean's footsteps don't seem to be as steady as they usually are.
Sam's heart stops when he hears the thump of Dean's body falling to the floor.
He's trying to force himself to remain calm as he sprints down the hall towards Dean; curses the damned Men of Letters and their labyrinth of a headquarters, and then he sees that Dean's eyes are closed and his chest isn't moving, and there it is; there's the cold fear spiking through Sam's chest and the pit in his stomach.
Dean," he says, shaking him gently, trying to keep from sounding hysterical, trying not to let the panic creep into his voice. "Hey, hey, Dean, you're okay. It's okay. Come on. Wake up."
Dean opens his eyes slowly, and they're wide and unfocused; dart around like he's looking for a spirit or a creature or some other explanation for why he's on the floor. Sam helps him sit up, slowly; winces at the dirt and dust lining the cuts down Dean's back and hopes they're not going to get infected.
Dean stands and wobbles-Sam catches him and Dean laughs, weakly: "Feel like I'm you, Sammy; you were such a mess when you were learnin' how to walk." Sam smiles back; is fully aware it looks more like a pained grimace, and helps his brother stand again.
Sam supports Dean all the way to his bedroom. Dean doesn't complain-not once-and it scares him.
+ + +
By the time Sam gets Dean cleaned up and onto the bed, Dean's shivering and clammy; cold sweat even in the midst of his fever.
He's oddly pliant and docile; is still letting Sam clean and bandage every cut and scrape without making a single remark and Sam doesn't know how to deal with this person that isn't his brother.
+ + +
Three days later, Dean finds welts all over his body.
Sam does some quick research and finds out that it's urticaria; that Dean idio-fucking-pathically ended up getting hives from the goddamned mutated virus he caught and that there's no real way to treat them except to take allergy medicine.
"It says you need something with an antihistamine," Sam says, brow furrowing as Dean coughs so hard he can feel his lung coming up.
"Like, what, Benadryl?" Dean asks between hacks.
"Yeah." Sam nods, and Dean feels momentarily vindicated by the surprise on his face. "But it's two thirty-eight in the morning, and Google says that the closest drugstore doesn't open until six."
Sam helps Dean strip his shirt off so he can survey the damage, and Dean sees them everywhere; crawling up his inner arms and invading his abdomen and chest; stretching their ugly patchy itch down his legs from his inner thighs to his feet.
It feels like a thousand million trillion gazillion needles stabbing him at once and the burn of the itching is so intense it's got Dean twitchy and hot and bothered and he can't sleep; hasn't been able to for nearly twenty-four hours and Sam tells Dean that he looks so exhausted he could die.
Dean responds, half-jokingly, that they both could.
+ + +
His fever gets worse, abruptly; temperature climbing higher and higher so rapidly that Sam swears he can feel the air get warmer. Dean's deathly pale and Sam can't tell if he's even breathing, so he puts his cheek down to Dean's mouth and Sam holds his breath until he feels the faintest puff of air against his skin.
He stays awake the entire night, too caught in wide-eyed panic every time Dean coughs to even think about feeling tired, and his brother looks so pallid and frail and not Dean not dean not dean that, very briefly, Sam wonders if he's back in Hell.
+ + +
The minute the clock flashes 6:00, Sam is out the door and driving as fast as he can to the drugstore in town.
When he gets back to the bunker, he finds Dean sitting up on the bed. Sam tosses him the box of Benadryl and Dean pops a pill; downs it with water and lies back. He manages not to cough for a while, his eyes close, and his breathing slows; evens out.
Sam waits until he's sure Dean's asleep before he leans down; slow, gentle, soft as he dares. "God, Dean, you're such a dumbass sometimes," he murmurs, and kisses him.
+ + +
The question comes out of the blue. "Why'd you do it?"
"Why'd I-w-what?" Sam stammers.
"Why'd you kiss me, Sam?" Dean asks, and he's so subdued and quiet and un-Dean-like that Sam's blood runs cold.
"I was worried, okay?" he says, perhaps a little more sharply than he meant to.
"So you just-decided to kiss me?" Dean sounds incredulous.
Sam's about to further defend his actions when something tugs at his brain; flash of a memory and-suddenly-he's had enough of Dean's shit. "Wait, so I kiss you and you confront me about it, but you ignored me when I brought up the fact that you gave me a handjob and then fucking blew me?"
"That was-that was ages ago-"
"Oh, so now it exists? Okay, what about that time we fucked, huh? All those years ago? What about that?"
"I'm-"
"What do you want me to say, Dean? I'll say anything you want-I can pretend nothing ever happened-but you don't get to go all weird over a kiss when I never got a straight answer from you!"
It's a long, long silence before Dean speaks. "I-didn't know," he says, visibly struggling for the words. "I thought…I thought that you'd forgotten. That they were just one-time things."
Sam's eyes close involuntarily; flutter like his heart and he turns away. "If it bothers you that much, you can leave. I'll be fine."
Dean's quiet again, and his voice is uncharacteristically soft when he answers. "Sam. Don't be stupid."
Sam looks back at him, and he's overwhelmed-not at all sure what to do with this-this look on Dean's face like he might die on the spot; too much love and nowhere to put it and not enough time in the world.
"We're stupidly, stupidly codependent upon each other," Dean says, "and I wouldn't have it any other way, and if you crack a joke about girly shit right now I swear to God-"
Sam doesn't wait to hear the end of the threat before he hauls Dean in for a kiss, and it's good, really fucking good the way his brother's always bragged about. Dean's mouth is hot and wet and Sam's got stars for blood and clouds for thought; light on the horizon and nothing in sight but he feels like he could melt through the floor and drip through the cracks.
He kisses back just as hard, keeps his eyes open so he can look at Dean's face and tag his freckles but he loses count somewhere around twenty-seven and his eyes slide shut when Dean surges into his mouth like forever and a day, grief and worry and love, making its way into Sam's system and seeping through his skin.
+ + +
"Nice tattoo, by the way."
Dean opens his eyes but can't see Sam's face, so he assumes Sam's wearing a smirk.
"Bitch," Dean says, "You have the same one."
"Wasn't talking about that one."
Sam tilts Dean's head so he sees that Sam's genuinely smiling, not teasing, and Dean realizes what Sam's talking about.
"Oh," he breathes, and when Sam drops kisses across the tattooed image of the amulet, Dean realizes this is it; this is i love you, i forgive you; this is you and me against the world, and they are endgame.
They end up on the bed somehow, kiss growing hotter as Sam travels up Dean's chest and neck and mouths over his jaw; bites his shoulder and sucks bruises into his throat; grinds against Dean's dick, hard and dirty, before flipping him over. "You fucker," Dean gasps against the sheets. "Fucking touch me."
"I'll do better," Sam tells him. "I'll fuck you until you can't stand."
"Promises, promises," Dean says, cocksure as always, and Sam grins.
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