6.06 coda (Sam/Dean, pg, 1880 words, issues of consent)
Unbeta'd and unameripicked.
6.06 coda
(Sam/Dean, pg, 1880 words, issues of consent)
Sam came to before Dean had finished cleaning up his face.
A flicker of movement beneath his papery eyelids. His eyelashes brushed Dean’s fingers as Dean caught a dribble of warm water from his cheekbone. Then his hand snapped up and closed tight around Dean’s wrist.
Sam looked at Dean, recognized him, and then let another moment pass before he released Dean's wrist.
Then, when Sam just carried on sitting there, propped up by pillows on the edge of the motel bed, Dean figured he was allowed to continue.
He felt considerably less comfortable with Sam conscious. It was harder to sidestep the carwreck, harder to ignore the weight of expectation of the apology he should give. Looking at Sam's face, puffy and pink and tender, it was hard not to apologize. Of course, looking at Sam's face, it was also hard not to want to punch him again.
As soon as he was done with Sam's face, he was going to finish off the whiskey. That'd settle him. That'd quiet the whistling under his skin, between his bones.
Sam blinked his fat, black eyes at him. "Y'know, I tried really hard not to let you find out. 'Cause I knew you'd react like this." Sam waved a hand at his ruined face. "Well, not this exactly, but I knew you weren't gonna like it. But now…" He trailed off, huffed a small breath. "Now you know, it's kind of a relief."
Dean's lips thinned into a smile. "Well, that's fabulous, Sam. Good for you."
Sam was watching Dean's hands as he mopped up the tacky brown lines of blood on Sam's jaw. Dean followed his gaze and realized why: his hands were shaking. He threw down the cotton ball and wiped his fingers off briskly on the thighs of his jeans.
"You're all done," he said.
The bottle of whiskey was under the bed. Good couple of mouthfuls left in it.
"No, I mean it," said Sam, sounding earnest, like this was something genuinely interesting to him, and should be to Dean too. "You have no idea what it's been like, always trying to figure out if I'm saying the right thing, the thing you expect me to say. I can just… I can be honest now."
Dean laughed at that. He was amazed Sam could say it with a straight face.
The cap on the whiskey bottle was sticky and his hands couldn't untwist it quickly enough. He fumbled the cap off, latched on to the bottle's mouth, and let it burn him through. Afterwards, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, licked away the sweet stickiness of whiskey at the corners of his lips.
Sam was watching him. Dean looked away in order to toss the bottle cap in the trash. He took another mouthful of whiskey, like a mouthful of quiet, fiery sleep. But it wasn't enough to make him forget that Sam was still watching him.
"Like, did you know I wanna have sex with you?" said Sam. "I have done for years, Dean. I think pretty graphic thoughts about what I wanna do to you on a fairly regular basis."
Dean choked on the whiskey, sobbed on it. He looked to Sam sharply, feeling horrified and angry, and, somehow most of all, betrayed. But he found no sympathy or shame on Sam's face.
"Before the big showdown with Lucifer, I wanted to ask you to let me," said Sam. "I thought, hey, I'm going to Hell, might as well grab what it is I want before I go." He laughed, breathy and a little surprised at himself. "You know why I didn't? I was too scared of what you'd say. I mean, I was more scared of what you'd say, than I was of going to Hell. Pathetic, huh?"
"Shut up. Shut your mouth." Dean's voice was shaking. The whiskey had grown barbs, was rough in his throat.
Sam stood up, rising taller and taller in the room, like a black murder of crows rising up in the air.
"Or what? You'll punch me again? I don't care." He shrugged. He shouldn’t have been able to look so glorious with his face wrecked like that. "That's exactly what I mean, Dean. I don't care. It used to tear me up inside that you'd realize how much I wanted to just-" His hands curled into fists, mouth sealing into a line, and all his attention was fixed on Dean.
Again with a shrug, and Dean wondered if Sam had simply shrugged like that and shaken off all his fastidious moralizing and caring.
"Now I don't know what I was so scared of. I've said it, and the world hasn't ended. I mean, that's kind of crazy, don't you think? All this time afraid of it, and now… Doesn’t it make you wonder?"
He didn't touch Dean. Didn't have to. He was between Dean and the motel room door, and Dean didn't know if that was deliberate or not, only that that was something Dean had to think about. And wasn't that just a revelation?
Dean dragged up a smile. "Gee, Sammy, I'd say I didn't know you cared, but I know you don't." It was a good line. Dismissive, unconcerned. Reminded Sam that he was in disgrace while putting him back in his place as little brother.
Except Sam refused to budge. That was from his place as little brother too, a little brother who knew what he wanted and knew he'd get it if he just pushed hard enough.
When Dean was about ten or eleven, he'd resented Sam so damn much. Stuck in a motel room with Sam, cooking meals for Sam, cleaning up after Sam, forcedly forgiving him when Sam messed with his stuff, and all the while knowing that if Sam hadn't been there, John would have taken Dean with him.
Sometimes, spiteful and eaten up by the unfairness of it, he'd wished Sam had died in the fire with Mary. And now, sometimes, he wished Sam had never climbed out of the cage. Because Sam ruined everything eventually.
"We've been heading to this for years, Dean. You know it as well as I do. It's inevitable. Even now. I still have needs, Dean, physical needs that I have to take care of."
His hand finally came down on the back of Dean's neck, curled there. It was a big hand. Not one that had to tighten its grip to let you know it had you.
Beneath bruises, Sam's eyes glittered. There was something living inside that battered flesh, and Dean hadn't even touched it.
Sam's voice dropped to a vicious, solicitous whisper, a secret between him and Dean and another in the species of anonymous motel rooms in which they'd lived out their lives.
"You gonna tell me we’re brothers? I don’t care. You wanna think I’m a freak? I don’t care. You wanna tell me Bobby and Cas and Samuel wouldn’t approve? I don’t care."
It came to Dean, stupidly, that Sam's face was too bruised for him to be thinking about kissing. He had a childish moment of thinking that meant he was safe, and then a longer, indignant moment of knowing that it didn't mean that at all.
A laugh shook itself out of him. "You got any idea how ridiculous you're being right now?" said Dean. His eyes were blazing wet. He needed another mouthful of whiskey but he couldn't take his wet eyes off of Sam. "You're standing here, talking about…" He couldn't say it. He wasn't like Sam. He couldn't say it. "That's some serious crazy talk, Sam."
Not even a hesitation. "I don't care," said Sam.
His thumb flicked over the nape of Dean's neck. The room swam and Sam was suddenly closer now. There was clear intent in his eyes, and Dean was transfixed by it, fascinated by the horrible wrongness of what was happening.
Dean had loved the idea of self-destruction about as long as he'd loved Sam. Sam just loved to destroy things. He broke things, things Dean cared about. Twice, Dean had had a family, and twice Sam had carefully, carelessly unstitched them.
Until all Dean ever had left was Sam, clinging to him like the wreckage of his own self-identity. And now Sam was ruining that too.
Dean had loved him through Stanford and Azazel's plan and Hell and destiny. He'd loved him when Sam had drunk demon blood, and he'd loved Sam when he'd put himself between Lucifer and Michael. He'd still loved him when he'd been one of Lisa's heartbeats away from ripping out her throat and drinking her blood.
Sam's thumb stroked backwards and forwards over his neck: thoughtlessly, relentlessly touching him.
Right then, Dean loved him a little less, and he could clearly see that there was a future, as unthinkable as a brand new color in his head, where maybe he didn't love Sam at all.
They struggled then. Dean wasn't sure how it started, whether Sam was leaning in and Dean moved to stop him, or whether Dean lashed out again unprovoked. There was just pushing and heat, and the weight of Sam's body against his.
It was uncoordinated and unthought-out. Dean's fingers gouged red lines down Sam's neck as he tore at his collar, and Sam slammed the bar of his forearm over Dean's throat. Dean's back hit the wall. Sam's mouth set into a childish, displeased pout as Dean jabbed the heel of his hand clumsily into Sam's collarbone.
The whiskey bottle hit the floor between them, and they both froze, like John had slammed the door shut and they knew they were both going to be in trouble.
Sam's hands were still on Dean, and Dean was holding him too - holding him back, holding onto him, a little of both.
"You care if I say I don't want this?" said Dean.
Sam cocked his head and studied him. His lips flicked into - not a smile.
His hands dropped from Dean and he took a step back.
"We should go before someone finds Veritas' body," he said.
The bottle of whiskey was on the floor in a puddle, empty. Dean stared at it, hit out of nowhere by a strange sense of grief and unable to shake it off. The empty bottle was a tragedy. It was immense and unfixable. Such a fucking waste of whiskey. He blinked back tears rapidly, bewildered that he was going to cry over a damn whiskey bottle.
Sam picked up his duffel and began stuffing his clothes into it. When Dean just hung there, he glanced over his shoulder at him and frowned.
"Dean, come on," he said, like he'd never herded Dean into the corner of the room, telling him he wanted to fuck him.
His hands were shaking again as Dean tenderly picked the bottle up and put it on the side. He reached for his duffel and tried to remember how he did this, how his clothes got in there, how he closed the duffel afterwards and what he should do with it then. Sam waited by the door, watching with a faintly pained expression and tapping the doorframe impatiently.
Shouldering his bag, Dean raised his eyes to Sam as he passed. "Your lip's bleeding again," he said.
Sam swung the door open and gestured for Dean to go out. "Yeah, I know," he said. It wasn't a smile his lips made again. He looked right at Dean as he said, "I told you, I don't care."
~end
6.06 coda
(Sam/Dean, pg, 1880 words, issues of consent)
Sam came to before Dean had finished cleaning up his face.
A flicker of movement beneath his papery eyelids. His eyelashes brushed Dean’s fingers as Dean caught a dribble of warm water from his cheekbone. Then his hand snapped up and closed tight around Dean’s wrist.
Sam looked at Dean, recognized him, and then let another moment pass before he released Dean's wrist.
Then, when Sam just carried on sitting there, propped up by pillows on the edge of the motel bed, Dean figured he was allowed to continue.
He felt considerably less comfortable with Sam conscious. It was harder to sidestep the carwreck, harder to ignore the weight of expectation of the apology he should give. Looking at Sam's face, puffy and pink and tender, it was hard not to apologize. Of course, looking at Sam's face, it was also hard not to want to punch him again.
As soon as he was done with Sam's face, he was going to finish off the whiskey. That'd settle him. That'd quiet the whistling under his skin, between his bones.
Sam blinked his fat, black eyes at him. "Y'know, I tried really hard not to let you find out. 'Cause I knew you'd react like this." Sam waved a hand at his ruined face. "Well, not this exactly, but I knew you weren't gonna like it. But now…" He trailed off, huffed a small breath. "Now you know, it's kind of a relief."
Dean's lips thinned into a smile. "Well, that's fabulous, Sam. Good for you."
Sam was watching Dean's hands as he mopped up the tacky brown lines of blood on Sam's jaw. Dean followed his gaze and realized why: his hands were shaking. He threw down the cotton ball and wiped his fingers off briskly on the thighs of his jeans.
"You're all done," he said.
The bottle of whiskey was under the bed. Good couple of mouthfuls left in it.
"No, I mean it," said Sam, sounding earnest, like this was something genuinely interesting to him, and should be to Dean too. "You have no idea what it's been like, always trying to figure out if I'm saying the right thing, the thing you expect me to say. I can just… I can be honest now."
Dean laughed at that. He was amazed Sam could say it with a straight face.
The cap on the whiskey bottle was sticky and his hands couldn't untwist it quickly enough. He fumbled the cap off, latched on to the bottle's mouth, and let it burn him through. Afterwards, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, licked away the sweet stickiness of whiskey at the corners of his lips.
Sam was watching him. Dean looked away in order to toss the bottle cap in the trash. He took another mouthful of whiskey, like a mouthful of quiet, fiery sleep. But it wasn't enough to make him forget that Sam was still watching him.
"Like, did you know I wanna have sex with you?" said Sam. "I have done for years, Dean. I think pretty graphic thoughts about what I wanna do to you on a fairly regular basis."
Dean choked on the whiskey, sobbed on it. He looked to Sam sharply, feeling horrified and angry, and, somehow most of all, betrayed. But he found no sympathy or shame on Sam's face.
"Before the big showdown with Lucifer, I wanted to ask you to let me," said Sam. "I thought, hey, I'm going to Hell, might as well grab what it is I want before I go." He laughed, breathy and a little surprised at himself. "You know why I didn't? I was too scared of what you'd say. I mean, I was more scared of what you'd say, than I was of going to Hell. Pathetic, huh?"
"Shut up. Shut your mouth." Dean's voice was shaking. The whiskey had grown barbs, was rough in his throat.
Sam stood up, rising taller and taller in the room, like a black murder of crows rising up in the air.
"Or what? You'll punch me again? I don't care." He shrugged. He shouldn’t have been able to look so glorious with his face wrecked like that. "That's exactly what I mean, Dean. I don't care. It used to tear me up inside that you'd realize how much I wanted to just-" His hands curled into fists, mouth sealing into a line, and all his attention was fixed on Dean.
Again with a shrug, and Dean wondered if Sam had simply shrugged like that and shaken off all his fastidious moralizing and caring.
"Now I don't know what I was so scared of. I've said it, and the world hasn't ended. I mean, that's kind of crazy, don't you think? All this time afraid of it, and now… Doesn’t it make you wonder?"
He didn't touch Dean. Didn't have to. He was between Dean and the motel room door, and Dean didn't know if that was deliberate or not, only that that was something Dean had to think about. And wasn't that just a revelation?
Dean dragged up a smile. "Gee, Sammy, I'd say I didn't know you cared, but I know you don't." It was a good line. Dismissive, unconcerned. Reminded Sam that he was in disgrace while putting him back in his place as little brother.
Except Sam refused to budge. That was from his place as little brother too, a little brother who knew what he wanted and knew he'd get it if he just pushed hard enough.
When Dean was about ten or eleven, he'd resented Sam so damn much. Stuck in a motel room with Sam, cooking meals for Sam, cleaning up after Sam, forcedly forgiving him when Sam messed with his stuff, and all the while knowing that if Sam hadn't been there, John would have taken Dean with him.
Sometimes, spiteful and eaten up by the unfairness of it, he'd wished Sam had died in the fire with Mary. And now, sometimes, he wished Sam had never climbed out of the cage. Because Sam ruined everything eventually.
"We've been heading to this for years, Dean. You know it as well as I do. It's inevitable. Even now. I still have needs, Dean, physical needs that I have to take care of."
His hand finally came down on the back of Dean's neck, curled there. It was a big hand. Not one that had to tighten its grip to let you know it had you.
Beneath bruises, Sam's eyes glittered. There was something living inside that battered flesh, and Dean hadn't even touched it.
Sam's voice dropped to a vicious, solicitous whisper, a secret between him and Dean and another in the species of anonymous motel rooms in which they'd lived out their lives.
"You gonna tell me we’re brothers? I don’t care. You wanna think I’m a freak? I don’t care. You wanna tell me Bobby and Cas and Samuel wouldn’t approve? I don’t care."
It came to Dean, stupidly, that Sam's face was too bruised for him to be thinking about kissing. He had a childish moment of thinking that meant he was safe, and then a longer, indignant moment of knowing that it didn't mean that at all.
A laugh shook itself out of him. "You got any idea how ridiculous you're being right now?" said Dean. His eyes were blazing wet. He needed another mouthful of whiskey but he couldn't take his wet eyes off of Sam. "You're standing here, talking about…" He couldn't say it. He wasn't like Sam. He couldn't say it. "That's some serious crazy talk, Sam."
Not even a hesitation. "I don't care," said Sam.
His thumb flicked over the nape of Dean's neck. The room swam and Sam was suddenly closer now. There was clear intent in his eyes, and Dean was transfixed by it, fascinated by the horrible wrongness of what was happening.
Dean had loved the idea of self-destruction about as long as he'd loved Sam. Sam just loved to destroy things. He broke things, things Dean cared about. Twice, Dean had had a family, and twice Sam had carefully, carelessly unstitched them.
Until all Dean ever had left was Sam, clinging to him like the wreckage of his own self-identity. And now Sam was ruining that too.
Dean had loved him through Stanford and Azazel's plan and Hell and destiny. He'd loved him when Sam had drunk demon blood, and he'd loved Sam when he'd put himself between Lucifer and Michael. He'd still loved him when he'd been one of Lisa's heartbeats away from ripping out her throat and drinking her blood.
Sam's thumb stroked backwards and forwards over his neck: thoughtlessly, relentlessly touching him.
Right then, Dean loved him a little less, and he could clearly see that there was a future, as unthinkable as a brand new color in his head, where maybe he didn't love Sam at all.
They struggled then. Dean wasn't sure how it started, whether Sam was leaning in and Dean moved to stop him, or whether Dean lashed out again unprovoked. There was just pushing and heat, and the weight of Sam's body against his.
It was uncoordinated and unthought-out. Dean's fingers gouged red lines down Sam's neck as he tore at his collar, and Sam slammed the bar of his forearm over Dean's throat. Dean's back hit the wall. Sam's mouth set into a childish, displeased pout as Dean jabbed the heel of his hand clumsily into Sam's collarbone.
The whiskey bottle hit the floor between them, and they both froze, like John had slammed the door shut and they knew they were both going to be in trouble.
Sam's hands were still on Dean, and Dean was holding him too - holding him back, holding onto him, a little of both.
"You care if I say I don't want this?" said Dean.
Sam cocked his head and studied him. His lips flicked into - not a smile.
His hands dropped from Dean and he took a step back.
"We should go before someone finds Veritas' body," he said.
The bottle of whiskey was on the floor in a puddle, empty. Dean stared at it, hit out of nowhere by a strange sense of grief and unable to shake it off. The empty bottle was a tragedy. It was immense and unfixable. Such a fucking waste of whiskey. He blinked back tears rapidly, bewildered that he was going to cry over a damn whiskey bottle.
Sam picked up his duffel and began stuffing his clothes into it. When Dean just hung there, he glanced over his shoulder at him and frowned.
"Dean, come on," he said, like he'd never herded Dean into the corner of the room, telling him he wanted to fuck him.
His hands were shaking again as Dean tenderly picked the bottle up and put it on the side. He reached for his duffel and tried to remember how he did this, how his clothes got in there, how he closed the duffel afterwards and what he should do with it then. Sam waited by the door, watching with a faintly pained expression and tapping the doorframe impatiently.
Shouldering his bag, Dean raised his eyes to Sam as he passed. "Your lip's bleeding again," he said.
Sam swung the door open and gestured for Dean to go out. "Yeah, I know," he said. It wasn't a smile his lips made again. He looked right at Dean as he said, "I told you, I don't care."
~end