Supernatural: Mind's Eye
Title: Mind's Eye
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for Sexual Content, Alcohol Use, Mild Violence, and Language. SPOILERS UP TO 7x10: DEATH'S DOOR.
Word Count: 7,362
Author’s Note: Written for the spn_j2_xmas exchange for insertcode11, who had such awesome likes and prompts that I had a spectacularly hard time deciding which ones to write. I ended up going with this one: "4) Wincest or J2, the boys have a psychic connection" and hopefully hit these likes along the way: "first time, some angst, top!Jensen/Dean (sort of), protective!Dean, happy endings, clothes sharing, kissing, hurt!Sam/Jared, UST, powers!Sam." I really hope you enjoy your fic, bb, and HAPPY HOLIDAYS!! I'm so sorry your gift is a little late, but I really hope you like it, anyway! ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Everything is just about as bad as it can possibly get. And then one day, completely out of nowhere, Dean disappears.
Everything is just about as bad as it can possibly get. And then one day, completely out of nowhere, Dean disappears.
Just to be clear, he doesn't leave. No, it's not that, not this time, though it has been more times than Dean wants to remember. He doesn't go anywhere. He's right where he's always been: two feet away from his brother and aching because even that's too far.
He just vanishes.
Sam wakes him up that morning, as Sam tends to do, because Dean's brother doesn't appreciate the finer parts of life, for example sleeping the fuck in every now and again. Not that Dean is really having the most peaceful sleep in the world-when is he these days? But, you know. Principles.
"Dean?" Sam asks, and Dean blinks his eyes open to see his little brother sitting up on the bed to his right, eyes scanning the room from one side to the next. He's got a huge patch of hair sticking straight up and pillow creases on his cheek, and Dean's pretty sure it's the best thing he's seen in months.
He swallows a lump and makes sure his tone is grouchy when he answers. "Yeah, what?"
"Dean?" Sam asks again. His voice hitches up and the easy, sleepy expression Dean had been enjoying so much is gone in an instant. He pushes his covers aside and stands up. "Dean?"
"What? What the hell do you want, it's like eight in the goddamn morning."
Sam ignores him, and Dean sits up, rubbing his face and trying to remember if they're fighting. He's pretty sure not. They kind of put everything on hold after Bobby-well, point is: Dean doesn't think he screwed up since last night.
Sam paces across the room, sticking his head into the bathroom and looking around. He says Dean's name again, and Dean is inclined to ask if he needs someone to hold it for him, because there's no fucking logical reason Sam woke him up just to use the bathroom.
He comes back out a few seconds later though and walks to the window. He pushes the blinds aside and makes a perplexed face at whatever he sees in the parking lot, letting go and sighing as he turns back to Dean.
"See something?" Dean asks, hunter mode kicking in. "What's up?"
Sam chews his bottom lip and apparently decides he's still not talking to Dean. Instead he huffs out a bitchy noise and trots to the nightstand where his phone is charging. He picks up and dials, putting the phone to his ear, and Dean's cell goes off, still in the pocket of the jeans he was wearing last night.
"Oh, come on, really?" Dean grumbles as he rolls over to sort through his things and answer it. "How old are you, man?"
He doesn't get a chance to pick up; Sam sighs as soon as it starts ringing and hangs up. He closes his phone and presses it to his mouth, looking thoughtful for a few seconds before shrugging. "Better be breakfast," he mutters, and then he crawls back into bed, still without acknowledging Dean once.
Dean is really fucking confused, but then again, neither of them is entirely sane right now. Maybe Sam just needs to sleep it off a little more.
And hey, that means more sleep for Dean, too.
_______________________________________________________________
A few hours later Dean awakes to find Sam sitting at the table by the window on his laptop. He doesn't look like he just woke up, and Dean glances at the clock next to his bed to see he slept past noon.
"Hey, man," he says. "Thanks for letting me sleep in."
Behind his computer screen, Sam makes an annoyed sound. Dean just rolls his eyes and takes the empty seat across from Sam. There are papers spread all over the table, like Sam's either looking for or just found a hunt. Dean smiles. It's a good idea, he thinks. They've been too idle lately; they've had too much free time to mourn.
"What'd you find, Sammy?"
Sam reaches out for a Starbucks cup that's sitting by his wrist and takes a sip. Dean finally gets a glimpse at his face when he puts it down, sees that his brother's expression is just a little too tight. Trying not to look worried. He's mostly succeeding, but if Dean couldn't read into the way his brother's lips are pressed together, it would probably mean the end of the world.
"Leviathans?" Dean asks. He sits up straighter, hoping to muster up enough bravado to sound convincing. "Good. I'm gonna rip them all to shreds. Every single one of those sons of bitches you find, Sam."
Sam's eyes dodge to the door, then to a second cup of Starbucks sitting on top of the dresser by the door. Dean jumps up and goes to get his drink, but when he tries to pick it up, his fingers go right through it. He can feel the Styrofoam cup and the coffee inside-lukewarm from sitting too long-but it doesn't move an inch.
"Holy shit," he says, turning to face his brother. "Did you see that?"
Sam is still staring at the cup, the same hidden panic in his eyes as before. He doesn't react with surprise to Dean's magic trick. There isn't so much as a blink to acknowledge that he's seen anything.
That's when Dean realizes that Sam still hasn't talked to him once all day and there's a sick sort of twist in his gut telling him that's not because Sam's being a bitch.
"Did you see anything?" Dean asks, moving across the room and sitting back down in the chair across from Sam. "Sam, answer me."
Sam looks quickly to his left and then away just as fast. Dean knows what's there, what Sam's trying to ignore looking at. Lucifer almost always sits to his left.
"Sam, come on. He's not there, remember? Just you and me."
"Shut up," Sam mutters. Then he shakes his head and pushes his thumb into his injured palm, wincing a little as he does it. "I'm talking to myself. There's no one here."
"I'm here," Dean tries, though he's already pretty sure it won't work.
Sam fixes his eyes back on his screen, and Dean moves until he's standing behind him, pressing in so close his face is almost on Sam's shoulder. Sam has a few windows open: their current bank accounts with no new charges, Dean's rarely-used email, a map of the town they're in with all the bars and diners highlighted. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Sam is looking for him.
Sam pokes around online for half an hour longer, just long enough for Dean to read through the lists and articles sitting on the table. He can't see everything, some of the papers are stacked on each other, and Dean can't move them. But it's clear Sam's looking for a case tipoff that might have sent Dean out or something to that effect. Sam's already noted about ten places in town where he's checked for Dean, and Dean nearly laughs at that, at Sam driving around like a chicken with his head cut off looking for Dean while Dean was passed out exactly where Sam left him.
Then Sam slams his laptop shut, the hidden panic in his face starting to surface, and it's not really so funny.
"Alright," Sam says, annoyed. "I'll just wait here, I guess."
And wait he does. Sam sits on his bed staring at the door for nearly two hours before he finally stands up, apparently pissed, and informs the empty space in the left corner of his room that "No he didn't, why don't you fuck off?"
He writes out a hasty note-"Went out looking for you. Don't leave. I'll be back at 6. PS: Take your fucking cell phone next time."-before grabbing his coat and stomping out of the room. Dean follows him, and when the door slams in his face, he walks right through it.
_______________________________________________________________
For a week and three days, Sam stays in town. He gives Dean full credit, proceeds as if he's working a kidnapping. The only problem is, there isn't a single clue to back up his faith, and as the days pass, Sam looks increasingly to his left.
He checks nearby towns, retracing their steps before Dean "went missing," but he always comes back to the same motel, the same room, and always looks freshly disappointed when it's clear no one has been there.
He buys two breakfasts. Two lunches. Two dinners. He pays for both beds in the motel. Sam is running out of money, but he chooses again and again to sit at a table across from what he thinks is an empty booth, staring at an untouched plate.
He makes endless phone calls, and no one ever picks up. It's rarely Dean's phone that rings. Sam gets shaken every time he does call Dean, his face twisting with hurt when the ringtone sounds from inside their room. It must bother him enough that he remembers not to call Dean most of the time, even if he probably doesn't usually remember why. But when Dean looks at Sam's recent calls over Sam's shoulder, there's ten Bobbys for every Dean that shows up, and that's not really any better.
He digs through Dean's duffle at night, pulling out the shirts Dean usually wears to bed. He smells them and then pulls them over his head, closes his eyes, and smiles as he gets under the covers. They're too tight, of course; they stretch over Sam's chest and Dean would complain that he's ruining an already shoddy wardrobe, but he can't take his eyes off the way Sam's muscles bunch under the fabric. And if it helps Sam sleep-well, it's worth sacrificing a few shirts. Sam wears his jacket during the day, the leather one he got from Dad. His favorite. It looks stupid, Sam doesn't have the attitude for it, now even less than usual. Dean would give anything to be able to tell Sam that.
He mumbles to himself more as the days go by. Dean can hear him losing his conviction. "Dean wouldn't," turns into "you don't know him," which turns into, "I don't think he would," until Sam wakes up and all he knows how to say is, "no, no, no, no, no."
Dean knows the day Sam gives up on him. He knows from the moment Sam rolls over awake, from the way he stares unseeing at the ceiling and doesn't get up to continue his hunt until an hour and a half has passed.
Sam stops at a diner before he does anything else, as if he has all the time in the world. And he does in a way, because he doesn't expect to find Dean at this point, the looking is just a formality.
"Welcome to Eddie's. I'm Agnes and I'll be your server. What can I get you, sugar?"
The waitress is an old lady, one with a kind face. Sam usually sits up straighter for waitresses like this one, speaks very slowly, like he's checking everything over to make sure he won’t offend. Dean always used to tease him for his eagerness to please, but Sam hardly looks up this time.
"Two cokes," he says. "One Caesar salad, one bacon cheeseburger with extra onions."
"Sure are hungry today, huh?" she says, smiling like she approves.
"We are," says Sam. Agnes dodges her eyes to the other side of the booth, her eyebrows drawing close together in clear confusion. But she doesn't say anything, just jots down Sam's order and turns to leave.
"Please remember about the onions," Sam says quietly as she walks away. "They make him happy. And if he's happy he'll-" The waitress is long gone, and so is Sam. "No, you're jealous. You're just jealous. He's stronger than you, and you know it. You know it, he beat you."
Sam starts rocking, and Dean moves to sit next to him, puts his hand on Sam's back. "Sammy, you're the one that beat him. You're stronger than him. Come on. He's not even real, man."
"He didn't leave me then," Sam looks up, fire in his eyes as he tilts his head to the left, "he wouldn't leave me now."
Whatever Lucifer says, or whatever Sam thinks he says, it makes Sam's lip start trembling. "But if he didn't then," he says, voice shaking, "if he didn't-he didn't. He wouldn't. No, I didn't, I didn't. I didn't."
Sam goes back to rocking, repeating it over and over. I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, and whatever it is, it's clear Sam thinks he did.
"Didn't what, Sam? What didn't you-?" Dean sighs. Sam doesn't hear him. All Sam hears is Lucifer laughing. Dean's fucking useless.
And damned if Agnes doesn't bring back a burger stacked with onions. Dean can smell it, it smells like Heaven should, but he doesn't let himself want it too bad. In the last week he's figured out that he's only hungry when he thinks he should be, only tired because it's a habit. He feels what he touches only because he expects to, and when he stops expecting to be solid, he can sink through anything. It would be cool if Sam wasn't perpetually half a room away slowly unraveling.
Sam pushes his food around on his plate, takes maybe one bite in the whole meal. Agnes comes back with a sad look on her face as she lays down the check and squeezes Sam's shoulder when she leaves.
She comes back with a free slice of pie, because evidently she's one of those grandmas who fatten their family up to say, "I love you." Sam bursts into tears as soon as he sees it-the first tears he's cried since Dean's disappearance.
Before he leaves-dropping the last of his cash on the table for Agnes-he shoves a butter knife into his palm until the wound is torn open again, bleeding into his salad.
That's where it all ends. And, hey, Dean knows Sam deserves a lot of credit for holding it together as long as he did, especially considering the state he's in. But that doesn't make it easier to watch once the dam is broken.
Sam drives for eleven hours straight after that. Dean guesses where they're headed once they've covered three states. They're in Ohio when Sam finally stumbles his ass out of the car, and he lets out a sob as he steps forward, pulls the tarp off Dean's baby.
He stands there for a few minutes, his eyes wet, and chews his fingers.
"You know I wouldn't have left her," Dean says, coming to stand next to Sam. "You know me better than that."
Sam turns to face the opposite direction. "See?" he says proudly. "He would have come back for her. If he chose to leave me. He would have-" Sam shakes his head. "Not that desperate. He didn't want to lose me that bad. He-he didn't, right?"
There's no answer but a soft breeze, but Sam nods grudgingly. "Knew I'd come here looking."
Lucifer must add something else, because Sam steps forward as if he's about to attack someone, then grabs his hand and squeezes it instead. He frowns, still staring at where he thought Lucifer was a few moments ago. "After Bobby. He might have done that. He's tried it before." Sam bites his lip, shaking his head. "But you don't know him. I know he's wanted to die for a long time, but he wouldn't do that while I still needed him. He can't be dead."
Sam listens quietly and bows his head, nodding along with whatever Lucifer is telling him. Dean's fist curls, he grits his teeth; nothing is more annoying to him than the thought that Sam has no one but the Devil left to talk to.
"I want to be dead, too," Sam admits after a long period of silence.
"Don't you talk like that, I'll kill you," Dean says, and of course Sam's only response is to walk right on past him. He stops in front of the Impala, runs his clean hand along the side of her. Then he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and jingles the keys for a few seconds before shaking his head, reaching back for the tarp, and covering the car back up.
"Goddammit, Sam," Dean says. "Don't you get that she's yours now?"
Sam leans down over the hood, whispers before he goes, "I miss him, too."
_______________________________________________________________
His next stop is a bar. Dean is no one to throw stones about drinking problems, but he's not exactly thrilled about this, either. Sam's brain is scrambled enough without tossing whiskey into it, but anyway, it's no use. Sam is going to do what Sam is going to do. Dean wasn't even good at talking him out of shit when Sam could still hear him.
He sits for an hour by himself, drinking like a fish, his eyes going darker and darker as he stares across the bar. The bartender gives him weary looks every time he asks for a refill, but Sam's not bothering anyone and is clearly cracked enough to be dangerous, so the guy decides to keep him happy.
Eventually, a brunette in a tight halter top and even tighter jeans takes the stool next to Sam-where Dean had been sitting, thank you very much-and smiles, her eyes batting. "Hey," she says, leaning in. "I'm Genie."
Sam turns his head just a little. "What do you want?"
The girl pulls back with a stung expression, but after a few seconds, she apparently decides Sam is worth a little extra effort. Smart girl. "Thought you looked lonely," she says, sliding a hand onto Sam's arm. "Like maybe you could use some company?"
Sam laughs. "Yeah, I'm lonely," he says. "Everyone I care about is dead, so yeah. I'm lonely."
Genie's eyes widen. She looks away, probably toward a group of girlfriends she's trying to decide if she should return to. Instead, she frowns and gives Sam's arm another gentle touch. "I'm so sorry," she says.
Sam drains his glass and calls out for the bartender. "Except my big brother." Sam smiles, finally turning his attention to her. "I've got the best big brother in the world. Did you know that?"
"Uh, no, I guess I didn't," she replies, faking a smile. "But that's good."
"No, I." Sam laughs again, still trying to get the bartender's attention. "'m in love with him. 'Cause he's so good to me. I loved him so much and I-"
Genie shifts uncomfortably. "Maybe you should head home or something. Is there someone I can call for you? Your brother, maybe?"
"Are you an idiot?" Sam asks her. "Did you not just hear me say I want to fuck him?"
The girl sits back, apparently deciding Sam's beyond her help and trying to find an out. "Uh-"
"You think anyone is good enough to stick through that? Even Dean," Sam adds. "I needed him so much. And even Dean, even Dean finally got sick of it." Sam slams the glass he'd been trying to get refilled down on the bar so hard it shatters, but he goes on like he hasn't noticed. "I was trying not to ask for too much. I was trying to be okay for him. But he knew. He knew, and he got sick of it. I drove him away."
Sam starts slamming his hand down on the counter then, repeating it over and over. "I drove him away! I drove him away! I drove him away!" until the whole bar is staring at him and the bartender is trying to make him leave and Dean is pretty sure his heart is going to shatter just like that glass did.
"Get him out of my bar," the bartender says.
A group of big guys come to stand behind Sam. One of them puts a hand on Sam's shoulder and says, "Okay, buddy. Time to go."
Sam stands up, turning to face him. He's a good half a foot taller, but he's not standing like he's ready for a fight, like Dean taught him to do in situations like this. He's swaying back and forth and grinning goofily. "And how're you gonna make me?" he asks.
One of the men behind the one Sam's talking to cracks his fists, which makes Sam laugh.
"Is something funny?" the first guy asks.
Sam pats his face. "I was picturing you and your girlfriends trying to make me leave," Sam says, sounding more like Dean than anything. "It was cute."
He turns back to the bar, but the guy pulls him back around by his shoulder. Dean sees him lift his fist, tries to call out to warn Sam. Sam must know it's coming without his help, but he doesn't duck or block it, just takes the punch right in his eye.
"Still laughing, funny guy?" the first guy's friend asks, bald head shining in the bar lights.
Sam brings his hand up to his eye and makes a serious face. "No, man, I'm not laughing now. Grown man punching like that? That's not even funny. That's just sad."
The man who punched Sam bunches his hands in Sam's jacket and pulls him forward. "You want more?"
"Stop it," Genie says, which is when Dean realizes she's still standing there. "Jesus, can't you see the poor guy's crazy?"
"He just needs a good lesson taught to him," says Baldy, and the guy holding Sam nods.
"Man, I wish there was someone who didn't hit like a child around to teach it to me."
Baldy's friend raises his arm again, and the bartender reaches out. "Take it outside, Earl. I don't need this in my bar."
Earl nods, shoving Sam, and Sam lets the group of men jostle him into the parking lot. He's not bothering to find a way out of this, he's not even trying to fight back. Dean can't stop yelling at him, but he knows he's wasting his breath. This is exactly what Sam wanted from the start.
They beat the shit out of him, and that's putting it mildly. Sam doesn't throw one punch, but he keeps getting back up, keeps running his mouth. Dean almost wants to take a swing at him just for being so damn stupid.
They keep going until Sam is on the floor, curled in on himself as they kick him, until finally, finally one of them says, "I think he's had enough, guys. Let's go get some beers."
They all agree, though Earl stops as he's walking away to give Sam one last good kick in the ribs. Sam manages to laugh at him, and Earl curls his lips, spitting on Sam before finally walking away.
"You better hope I never see you again once I'm back from this," Dean yells after him. "Because I'll fucking kill you."
He turns his attention back to Sam, who's attempting to raise himself onto all fours. He falls, settles for turning onto his side and coughing up blood instead. Dean kneels next to him, his hands checking over Sam for the damage. He can feel all of it and do nothing to fix it and this whole thing is really getting pretty old.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean says. "What the fuck were you thinking, man?"
Sam looks to the left-always to the left-and smiles. "It's different," he manages to say. "It's different from when you do it." He lets himself sink back into the gravel, smiling up at the stars. "You're not real," he singsongs. "Not real."
"Great, this is my fault, too." Dean frowns. "I was trying to help. Just trying to help."
It takes ten minutes for Sam to finally pull himself together enough to get up from the floor. He only makes it as far as the crappy station wagon they took off Bobby's lot, but it's not like he has money for a motel, anyway. Sam curls up in the back seat, and Dean tries to help make him comfortable. He can hold Sam now, and it makes him feel better even if it does jack shit for Sam.
Sam cries for a long time. Dean thinks he's going to cry himself to sleep, but he doesn't. He just keeps crying and shivering and bleeding into the upholstery, and Dean isn't even relieved. He wishes this were the Impala so she could shelter Sam if Dean can't.
"Why now?" Sam asks. "Why'd you have to leave me now?"
"I didn't, Sammy," Dean whispers, right into his brother's ear.
"Needed you. More than I have in such a long time, I needed you. You knew that."
Dean hides his face in Sam's neck. "Yeah, I knew. I know."
"You can't just quit and leave me here. It fucking sucked for both of us, but I never even thought of-you can't do this, it's not fair. Not now. Not when I need you."
"I didn't. You know I wouldn't ever."
Sam finally closes his eyes, one last tear slipping down his cheek. "I won't be mad if you come back. Please just come back, okay?"
Dean sits awake all night with his brother whimpering in his arms, tossing and turning. And finally he can't fight the urge, he leans forward and presses a kiss to Sam's mouth. Sam said he wanted it, and Dean should have years ago. It's not like he'll know, anyway, which is less of a comfort than an excuse.
Sam stirs. Dean pulls away, caught red-handed, because Sam is blinking awake and sitting up very quickly. "Dean?" he says. "Dean?"
"Yeah, Sam."
Sam turns, he's looking right at Dean. "Dean?"
"You can see me?" Dean asks. "God, I should have thought of kissing you sooner."
Sam frowns. "I thought…"
Dean smiles. "What, Sammy?"
"Thought you were here," he finally says, looking down. "Fuck."
Fuck just about sums it up. Dean's hope all crashes right down as Sam brings a hand up to his forehead and groans. Just that movement must remind him of how sore the rest of him is, and Dean can't help thinking he brought it upon himself.
"Oh, like you're one to talk," Sam mutters. He opens the car door and throws up, then gets out and into the driver's seat. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel. "Today's gonna suck."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, slipping into shotgun. "Probably is."
Sam's head snaps up very quickly, and he looks around, laughing to himself. "Well, now you've really lost it," Sam tells himself.
"Like you hadn't before?"
"Har har, so funny." Sam shakes his head. "God, I feel like shit." He looks into the rearview mirror and winces. "God, I look like shit."
"I think you're beautiful," Dean says, even though Sam's drawn and pale and he's got two black eyes and a split lip. He means it. "Always thought you were."
Sam rolls his eyes. "That's really mature, Dean. I've never heard a joke about my face before."
Dean smiles. Even if Sam can't really hear what he's saying-Dean likes Sam hallucinating him a hell of a lot better than the other option.
"Yeah," Sam says as he starts the car. "Of course you're hungry."
Sam goes straight to McDonald's, because a hangover cure is a hangover cure, and the lady at the drive-thru gives him a terrified look. Must be because Sam's covered in blood and looks like a maniac.
"Are you talking to yourself?"
Oh, right. And there is that.
"Nah," Sam answers, handing her a credit card and accepting the bags of food she offers. "Just hallucinating my brother because it's better than not hallucinating him."
He smiles so wide his face must hurt, and the lady tilts her head as she hands back his card and coffee. Sam gives her a friendly wave and pulls back onto the road, laughing.
"Man, did you see her face?" He's still smiling. Sam sticks his hand into the bag to steal a few fries, laughing as he does it. "Priceless."
"I was too busy staring at her tits," Dean replies, because that's just what comes out.
Sam huffs a laugh. "You're a pig."
Dean sits up. "You know, if you knew I was gonna say that, it means you were staring at her tits, too."
"Was not," Sam mumbles.
"Were too."
"Was not." Sam makes a bitchy face. "Are you gonna eat since you were so hungry?"
"Trust me, Sam. If I could, I would."
"Well, fine," Sam replies, taking another handful of fries. "More for me."
"Fatty."
Sam smiles, looking over at the passenger's seat. "Dean, are you there? Are you really there?"
"Yeah, Sammy," he says. "I'm right here."
Sam smiles brightly. "I knew you'd come back," he says. "I told him you'd be back."
"He's not real, Sam. I'm real."
"But why can't I-?" Sam snorts. "Because you're still talking to yourself, crazy."
Though Sam doesn't sound as convinced as he has since this started.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam goes through the day talking to Dean-and maybe he doesn't always respond like he heard exactly what Dean said, but he's so close it's scary. And it's not just Sam knowing Dean-because Dean's sure Sam can guess what he's going to say, but that doesn't explain why he suddenly knows to look in Dean's direction when he talks. That doesn't explain why he suddenly starts acting like he's got some hope this might turn out okay.
And there's something else to it. Dean can feel his brother's excitement as if it's his own. Everything Sam says or does, it tingles under Dean's skin.
Sam finds a motel after breakfast and holes up inside it, laying out all the research he's done since Dean disappeared. It's not the hunt the way he's been doing it for the last few days-without hope or haste. Sam's acting like he actually expects to find something.
"I have a headache," he whines. It's probably the fiftieth time today. Dean has stopped feeling sorry.
"It's called a hangover, genius," Dean tells him, pacing.
Sam's eyes track across the room, a few seconds behind Dean's actual progress. "Think it's a hint."
Dean pauses. "A hint you were a fucking idiot last night."
Sam shakes his head. "No, it's not that kind of headache. It's kind of like before."
"Before?" Dean steps closer, dropping into the chair across from Sam. "Like psychic headache before?"
Sam nods. "I didn't think it meant anything. I wasn't having visions or anything, so I figured it was just, I don't know. I was remembering trauma or something. It's not the worst thing my brain's made up lately."
"How could you not tell me that, man?"
Sam frowns. "I hope you're not mad at me."
"Not mad," Dean promises, reaching out. He puts his hand over Sam's, and Sam stares down at his open palm like there's something beautiful inside it.
"Didn't want you to worry," Sam says quietly. "I didn't want to ask for too much."
"You never could."
"Didn't wanna drive you away," he says, sounding scared again. "Don’t be mad."
"I'm not. Sam, I'm not mad."
Sam looks up, right through Dean. His eyes dodge left.
"Is he back?" Dean asks.
Sam nods slowly. "He says you're not real."
"I'm real," Dean reminds him, trying to squeeze his hand. "He's the one who's not real."
Sam bites his lip as he turns to look at Dean. Well, he's actually looking just past Dean's right ear, but it's close enough. "I can see him. Can't see you."
"You feel me, don't you, Sammy?" Dean sees Sam starting to lose hope, so he leans across the table and tries kissing him again.
Sam's lips turn up against Dean's. "No, you're real. I know you are."
It's an incredible relief after so many days being useless. Every time Lucifer tries to crash their party, Dean just stands behind Sam, wrapping his arms around him. With his body between his brother and Lucifer, Sam laughs at the devil, tells him he's not real without having to poke holes in himself to believe it. That's something Dean couldn't make him believe when he was still flesh and bone, and it's about time this whole mess has some kind of silver lining.
"So headaches," Dean says, just to distract Sam. Maybe to test him a little, too. He's still not entirely sure if they're both imagining this or if Sam can actually sense him. Abrupt change of topic seems like a good way to find out.
Sam starts chewing on his lip. "No, that doesn't make any sense."
"What doesn't?" Dean lets go of Sam and walks around him. "Work with me here, man. Only one of us is in that giant skull of yours."
"But that would make this my fault," Sam says sadly. "And I wouldn't…"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Just tell me what you're thinking, man."
Sam rubs his temple and sighs. "What if I'm the one doing this, Dean? What if I don't see you because he doesn't want me to?"
"Nobody else sees me, either."
"He's in my head with the psychic shit. It's still in there. All locked up because I don't touch it, but it's in there."
"So, what? You're thinking maybe the part of your brain that believes there's a Lucifer met the part of your brain that can do magic or whatever and now he's playing with it?"
Sam shrugs. "Makes as much sense as anything else."
"Not really," Dean says. "All you did was have visions. Maybe move some shit. Never-"
Sam's eyes dodge down to the tabletop. "You know that's not true."
"Fine," he snaps. "But unless you've been chugging demon blood again."
Sam shakes his head. "He made me see a whole damn office building with people inside. He's stronger than you want to give him credit for, Dean. Even if he isn't real."
"So you think I'm cut off from the world or whatever because some guy in your head decided I should be?"
Sam looks up, right into Dean's eyes, as if he actually knows where they are. "It's what he has to do to win. Separate us." Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "He almost won this last week. I did want to die."
"Come on, Sammy, don't say th-"
"No, Dean, it's true. No use pretending otherwise." Sam smiles. "Or maybe I'm making this whole thing up. Maybe I'm the one pretending."
"I'm here, stop questioning it." Dean reaches out, runs his fingers on Sam's cheek. He can feel how warm it is.
Sam closes his eyes and leans into the touch, which makes him slip right through Dean's fingers. But he smiles too, a soft, peaceful smile. "Feels so good to have you again," he says. "It can't be real."
"It's real."
"That's okay, though. I don't care if this just means I've finally lost it completely." Sam's smile widens. "Completely crazy is beating the shit out of mostly crazy."
_______________________________________________________________
Annoyingly enough, Sam spends the next three days flip-flopping back and forth. He believes Dean's real, he doesn't believe Dean's real. The devil is on his shoulder, the devil is rotting in a pit. He doesn't believe any of them all the way, and Dean's pretty sure that's why he's still Casper the Friendly but Frankly Fucking Pissed Off Ghost.
But then, there are perks to being invisible, even if they kind of make Dean feel like a creep. Sam is lying in bed, presumably trying to sleep, and Dean's sitting up on Sam's mattress instead of on the empty bed across the room. Whatever this connection this is, Dean can feel what Sam is thinking.
"Do it," he says. "Come on, Sammy."
Sam turns over on his back, looking up at Dean. "Dean, are you here?"
"Where else would I be, moron?"
"I think you're here." He sits up and swallows hard. "I want…I want you to see something."
Dean licks his lips as he watches Sam, his big hand moving down his body. "Wanna see it so bad," Dean tells him.
Sam pushes the sheets he's wrapped in away and Dean can see Sam's dick straining against his boxers. He's hard. Dean doesn't even know why it excites him so much-he's got nothing to gain except a peepshow to add to his lifetime of sexual frustration. But Sam pushes his boxers away so Dean can see his dick and Dean doesn't blink.
"Want you to be here for this," Sam whispers, his fingers curling around the base of his cock. "I'm sorry this is how you have to find out. I'm sorry," his words get all breathy as he starts jerking off, "I'm sorry if this isn't what you want."
Sam's hips arch off the bed as he works himself. Dean reaches down, groping his own boner through his jeans. He's tried jerking off like this before, and it's nothing but a bad idea. Dean can feel it just the same as before, he can feel anything he expects. But it's only in his head, and when it comes time to finish, Dean can't. His dick just sits there, hard as marble and desperate for release, and there's nothing for it but to wait until it goes away.
"You're killing me, Sam," Dean tells him, sliding down the bed. He lines his body up right next to Sam's, leans in so he can feel Sam's breath picking up.
"Tell me you want it too, Dean," Sam says.
"Want it." Dean reaches out, stopping before actually touching Sam. It feels weird, even knowing Sam wants him, to touch his brother when Sam won't know he's doing it. Wrong. Sam won't feel it. But Dean will, and all he fucking wants right now is to know what his little brother's cock feels like.
"Please," Sam says quietly. "If you're here. If you don't hate me for wanting this."
Dean does it. What the hell, he figures, why not. If they were both too stupid to try this before, this could be his only chance. Sam might not be bold enough to try this when Dean's back-and Dean will be back-Dean isn't blowing this chance.
Sam gasps the second Dean touches him. He groans, loud and shameless, and turns his face into his pillow as he starts thrusting into Dean's fist. "Oh God," he says. "Oh God, Dean. You're real, aren't you?"
Dean kisses him, because that usually works, but now Sam just talks against his mouth. "Do you think if I-?"
Sam pulls his hand away so that it's only Dean touching him, and his eyes widen as he looks down at his dick. He's still thrusting up and his face is even more flustered than before, so Dean figures it must be working.
"Jesus, Dean, Dean."
Dean puts his mouth on Sam's neck. "Gonna fuck you," he says. "It's gonna be the first thing I do."
Sam makes a sound that isn't even close to whatever he was trying to say and fucks into Dean's fist faster. He reaches up with the hand he's no longer using to jerk off, sucking on two of his fingers for a few seconds before reaching back down.
Dean thinks he's going to die when he realizes what Sam's doing. He pulls away from his brother just enough to watch as Sam sinks a finger into himself. He's so hard he can't stand it and that only makes it worse-and now would be a really great time to get his body back so he can fuck Sam.
He tells Sam as much, and Sam doesn't last long with Dean stroking him and whispering every dirty fantasy he's had in the last ten years right into his ear. Maybe Sam can't actually hear it, but Dean's pretty sure he's getting the message across.
When he comes, Sam shouts out Dean's name, and after a few seconds of recovery, he laughs. "That had to be real, right?"
"Mmm," Dean replies. Maybe Sam is ready to talk, but Dean's still got a killer boner and no fucking way to get rid of it. He's not feeling chatty.
"There's no way I just made myself-" Sam grins. "No, yeah. That had to be real."
Dean stands up. "Fuck you," he says. "Fuck you, Sam."
Sam frowns, putting his hand out where Dean had been sitting. "Dean?"
"This is in your head, you fucking idiot. If you would stop doubting this, I could come back, and then I wouldn't have to die of blue balls. Just stop fucking doubting me."
"Dean, where'd you go?"
Dean sighs, about to get back in Sam's bed, but he stops at the last second. "No, Sam, you know what? I'm sick of this." He climbs onto the other bed, as if spending a night sitting two feet away while Sam sleeps is going to make any kind of impact when Sam can't even see him doing it. "You're doing this yourself, and I'm sick of it."
To Dean's surprise, Sam gets out of bed then, tucking his dick back into the pair of boxers he'd been wearing earlier. "Dean," he says, sitting on Dean's bed and groping blindly at the air right next to him. "Dean, please don't be mad at me."
"Why can't you just believe I'm here?" Dean asks. "If this is in your head, all you have to do is-"
Sam stops trying to find Dean and his shoulders slump. "Help me out here."
Dean smiles. "You're fucking useless without me, you know that."
The corner of Sam's mouth turns up just a bit, but he admits nothing.
Dean puts a hand on each of Sam's cheeks and leans in slowly, giving him a long kiss before pulling back. Sam smiles, holding himself still, like he's trying very hard to keep his face wrapped in Dean.
Then he shakes Dean's hands away and extends a palm out, imitating the way Dean was holding him a moment ago. Dean moves slightly to the right so that his face is where Sam thinks it is, and as soon as his cheek touches Sam's palm, Sam breaks into tears.
"Oh lord," Dean says. "You're such a girl sometimes, Sammy."
Sam laughs through a sob, his other hand coming up to cup Dean's other cheek. His fingers curl around Dean's neck like he knows exactly where it is, and Dean only gets the chance to say, "You can see-?" before Sam is brushing kisses all over his face.
Dean laughs, shoving him away. "Slow down there."
Sam doesn't listen, just pulls him in for a suffocating hug. "Dean. Man, it's good to see you."
"How about a little breathing room?" Dean says, his words muffled by Sam's shirt.
Sam squeezes a little harder before letting go. "Right, right, yeah, breathing room. Of course." He manages to keep his hands to himself for all of three seconds before he's pawing at Dean again. "You're back," he says. "You're really-you're right here."
"Never left," Dean says. "Dude, do you have any idea how much I missed-" Dean can't hold back his smile. "-eating burgers?"
Sam barks out a laugh and pushes Dean down into the mattress, climbing on top of him. He leans down, about to kiss Dean, then pulls back an inch. "This is okay, right? I didn't imagine that part?"
"Not okay," Dean says, and Sam's eyes go all weepy and hurt for a few seconds. It gives Dean the chance to catch him off guard, flip him onto his back. "Big brother goes on top."
Sam is laughing when Dean kisses him.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for Sexual Content, Alcohol Use, Mild Violence, and Language. SPOILERS UP TO 7x10: DEATH'S DOOR.
Word Count: 7,362
Author’s Note: Written for the spn_j2_xmas exchange for insertcode11, who had such awesome likes and prompts that I had a spectacularly hard time deciding which ones to write. I ended up going with this one: "4) Wincest or J2, the boys have a psychic connection" and hopefully hit these likes along the way: "first time, some angst, top!Jensen/Dean (sort of), protective!Dean, happy endings, clothes sharing, kissing, hurt!Sam/Jared, UST, powers!Sam." I really hope you enjoy your fic, bb, and HAPPY HOLIDAYS!! I'm so sorry your gift is a little late, but I really hope you like it, anyway! ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Everything is just about as bad as it can possibly get. And then one day, completely out of nowhere, Dean disappears.
Everything is just about as bad as it can possibly get. And then one day, completely out of nowhere, Dean disappears.
Just to be clear, he doesn't leave. No, it's not that, not this time, though it has been more times than Dean wants to remember. He doesn't go anywhere. He's right where he's always been: two feet away from his brother and aching because even that's too far.
He just vanishes.
Sam wakes him up that morning, as Sam tends to do, because Dean's brother doesn't appreciate the finer parts of life, for example sleeping the fuck in every now and again. Not that Dean is really having the most peaceful sleep in the world-when is he these days? But, you know. Principles.
"Dean?" Sam asks, and Dean blinks his eyes open to see his little brother sitting up on the bed to his right, eyes scanning the room from one side to the next. He's got a huge patch of hair sticking straight up and pillow creases on his cheek, and Dean's pretty sure it's the best thing he's seen in months.
He swallows a lump and makes sure his tone is grouchy when he answers. "Yeah, what?"
"Dean?" Sam asks again. His voice hitches up and the easy, sleepy expression Dean had been enjoying so much is gone in an instant. He pushes his covers aside and stands up. "Dean?"
"What? What the hell do you want, it's like eight in the goddamn morning."
Sam ignores him, and Dean sits up, rubbing his face and trying to remember if they're fighting. He's pretty sure not. They kind of put everything on hold after Bobby-well, point is: Dean doesn't think he screwed up since last night.
Sam paces across the room, sticking his head into the bathroom and looking around. He says Dean's name again, and Dean is inclined to ask if he needs someone to hold it for him, because there's no fucking logical reason Sam woke him up just to use the bathroom.
He comes back out a few seconds later though and walks to the window. He pushes the blinds aside and makes a perplexed face at whatever he sees in the parking lot, letting go and sighing as he turns back to Dean.
"See something?" Dean asks, hunter mode kicking in. "What's up?"
Sam chews his bottom lip and apparently decides he's still not talking to Dean. Instead he huffs out a bitchy noise and trots to the nightstand where his phone is charging. He picks up and dials, putting the phone to his ear, and Dean's cell goes off, still in the pocket of the jeans he was wearing last night.
"Oh, come on, really?" Dean grumbles as he rolls over to sort through his things and answer it. "How old are you, man?"
He doesn't get a chance to pick up; Sam sighs as soon as it starts ringing and hangs up. He closes his phone and presses it to his mouth, looking thoughtful for a few seconds before shrugging. "Better be breakfast," he mutters, and then he crawls back into bed, still without acknowledging Dean once.
Dean is really fucking confused, but then again, neither of them is entirely sane right now. Maybe Sam just needs to sleep it off a little more.
And hey, that means more sleep for Dean, too.
_______________________________________________________________
A few hours later Dean awakes to find Sam sitting at the table by the window on his laptop. He doesn't look like he just woke up, and Dean glances at the clock next to his bed to see he slept past noon.
"Hey, man," he says. "Thanks for letting me sleep in."
Behind his computer screen, Sam makes an annoyed sound. Dean just rolls his eyes and takes the empty seat across from Sam. There are papers spread all over the table, like Sam's either looking for or just found a hunt. Dean smiles. It's a good idea, he thinks. They've been too idle lately; they've had too much free time to mourn.
"What'd you find, Sammy?"
Sam reaches out for a Starbucks cup that's sitting by his wrist and takes a sip. Dean finally gets a glimpse at his face when he puts it down, sees that his brother's expression is just a little too tight. Trying not to look worried. He's mostly succeeding, but if Dean couldn't read into the way his brother's lips are pressed together, it would probably mean the end of the world.
"Leviathans?" Dean asks. He sits up straighter, hoping to muster up enough bravado to sound convincing. "Good. I'm gonna rip them all to shreds. Every single one of those sons of bitches you find, Sam."
Sam's eyes dodge to the door, then to a second cup of Starbucks sitting on top of the dresser by the door. Dean jumps up and goes to get his drink, but when he tries to pick it up, his fingers go right through it. He can feel the Styrofoam cup and the coffee inside-lukewarm from sitting too long-but it doesn't move an inch.
"Holy shit," he says, turning to face his brother. "Did you see that?"
Sam is still staring at the cup, the same hidden panic in his eyes as before. He doesn't react with surprise to Dean's magic trick. There isn't so much as a blink to acknowledge that he's seen anything.
That's when Dean realizes that Sam still hasn't talked to him once all day and there's a sick sort of twist in his gut telling him that's not because Sam's being a bitch.
"Did you see anything?" Dean asks, moving across the room and sitting back down in the chair across from Sam. "Sam, answer me."
Sam looks quickly to his left and then away just as fast. Dean knows what's there, what Sam's trying to ignore looking at. Lucifer almost always sits to his left.
"Sam, come on. He's not there, remember? Just you and me."
"Shut up," Sam mutters. Then he shakes his head and pushes his thumb into his injured palm, wincing a little as he does it. "I'm talking to myself. There's no one here."
"I'm here," Dean tries, though he's already pretty sure it won't work.
Sam fixes his eyes back on his screen, and Dean moves until he's standing behind him, pressing in so close his face is almost on Sam's shoulder. Sam has a few windows open: their current bank accounts with no new charges, Dean's rarely-used email, a map of the town they're in with all the bars and diners highlighted. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Sam is looking for him.
Sam pokes around online for half an hour longer, just long enough for Dean to read through the lists and articles sitting on the table. He can't see everything, some of the papers are stacked on each other, and Dean can't move them. But it's clear Sam's looking for a case tipoff that might have sent Dean out or something to that effect. Sam's already noted about ten places in town where he's checked for Dean, and Dean nearly laughs at that, at Sam driving around like a chicken with his head cut off looking for Dean while Dean was passed out exactly where Sam left him.
Then Sam slams his laptop shut, the hidden panic in his face starting to surface, and it's not really so funny.
"Alright," Sam says, annoyed. "I'll just wait here, I guess."
And wait he does. Sam sits on his bed staring at the door for nearly two hours before he finally stands up, apparently pissed, and informs the empty space in the left corner of his room that "No he didn't, why don't you fuck off?"
He writes out a hasty note-"Went out looking for you. Don't leave. I'll be back at 6. PS: Take your fucking cell phone next time."-before grabbing his coat and stomping out of the room. Dean follows him, and when the door slams in his face, he walks right through it.
_______________________________________________________________
For a week and three days, Sam stays in town. He gives Dean full credit, proceeds as if he's working a kidnapping. The only problem is, there isn't a single clue to back up his faith, and as the days pass, Sam looks increasingly to his left.
He checks nearby towns, retracing their steps before Dean "went missing," but he always comes back to the same motel, the same room, and always looks freshly disappointed when it's clear no one has been there.
He buys two breakfasts. Two lunches. Two dinners. He pays for both beds in the motel. Sam is running out of money, but he chooses again and again to sit at a table across from what he thinks is an empty booth, staring at an untouched plate.
He makes endless phone calls, and no one ever picks up. It's rarely Dean's phone that rings. Sam gets shaken every time he does call Dean, his face twisting with hurt when the ringtone sounds from inside their room. It must bother him enough that he remembers not to call Dean most of the time, even if he probably doesn't usually remember why. But when Dean looks at Sam's recent calls over Sam's shoulder, there's ten Bobbys for every Dean that shows up, and that's not really any better.
He digs through Dean's duffle at night, pulling out the shirts Dean usually wears to bed. He smells them and then pulls them over his head, closes his eyes, and smiles as he gets under the covers. They're too tight, of course; they stretch over Sam's chest and Dean would complain that he's ruining an already shoddy wardrobe, but he can't take his eyes off the way Sam's muscles bunch under the fabric. And if it helps Sam sleep-well, it's worth sacrificing a few shirts. Sam wears his jacket during the day, the leather one he got from Dad. His favorite. It looks stupid, Sam doesn't have the attitude for it, now even less than usual. Dean would give anything to be able to tell Sam that.
He mumbles to himself more as the days go by. Dean can hear him losing his conviction. "Dean wouldn't," turns into "you don't know him," which turns into, "I don't think he would," until Sam wakes up and all he knows how to say is, "no, no, no, no, no."
Dean knows the day Sam gives up on him. He knows from the moment Sam rolls over awake, from the way he stares unseeing at the ceiling and doesn't get up to continue his hunt until an hour and a half has passed.
Sam stops at a diner before he does anything else, as if he has all the time in the world. And he does in a way, because he doesn't expect to find Dean at this point, the looking is just a formality.
"Welcome to Eddie's. I'm Agnes and I'll be your server. What can I get you, sugar?"
The waitress is an old lady, one with a kind face. Sam usually sits up straighter for waitresses like this one, speaks very slowly, like he's checking everything over to make sure he won’t offend. Dean always used to tease him for his eagerness to please, but Sam hardly looks up this time.
"Two cokes," he says. "One Caesar salad, one bacon cheeseburger with extra onions."
"Sure are hungry today, huh?" she says, smiling like she approves.
"We are," says Sam. Agnes dodges her eyes to the other side of the booth, her eyebrows drawing close together in clear confusion. But she doesn't say anything, just jots down Sam's order and turns to leave.
"Please remember about the onions," Sam says quietly as she walks away. "They make him happy. And if he's happy he'll-" The waitress is long gone, and so is Sam. "No, you're jealous. You're just jealous. He's stronger than you, and you know it. You know it, he beat you."
Sam starts rocking, and Dean moves to sit next to him, puts his hand on Sam's back. "Sammy, you're the one that beat him. You're stronger than him. Come on. He's not even real, man."
"He didn't leave me then," Sam looks up, fire in his eyes as he tilts his head to the left, "he wouldn't leave me now."
Whatever Lucifer says, or whatever Sam thinks he says, it makes Sam's lip start trembling. "But if he didn't then," he says, voice shaking, "if he didn't-he didn't. He wouldn't. No, I didn't, I didn't. I didn't."
Sam goes back to rocking, repeating it over and over. I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, and whatever it is, it's clear Sam thinks he did.
"Didn't what, Sam? What didn't you-?" Dean sighs. Sam doesn't hear him. All Sam hears is Lucifer laughing. Dean's fucking useless.
And damned if Agnes doesn't bring back a burger stacked with onions. Dean can smell it, it smells like Heaven should, but he doesn't let himself want it too bad. In the last week he's figured out that he's only hungry when he thinks he should be, only tired because it's a habit. He feels what he touches only because he expects to, and when he stops expecting to be solid, he can sink through anything. It would be cool if Sam wasn't perpetually half a room away slowly unraveling.
Sam pushes his food around on his plate, takes maybe one bite in the whole meal. Agnes comes back with a sad look on her face as she lays down the check and squeezes Sam's shoulder when she leaves.
She comes back with a free slice of pie, because evidently she's one of those grandmas who fatten their family up to say, "I love you." Sam bursts into tears as soon as he sees it-the first tears he's cried since Dean's disappearance.
Before he leaves-dropping the last of his cash on the table for Agnes-he shoves a butter knife into his palm until the wound is torn open again, bleeding into his salad.
That's where it all ends. And, hey, Dean knows Sam deserves a lot of credit for holding it together as long as he did, especially considering the state he's in. But that doesn't make it easier to watch once the dam is broken.
Sam drives for eleven hours straight after that. Dean guesses where they're headed once they've covered three states. They're in Ohio when Sam finally stumbles his ass out of the car, and he lets out a sob as he steps forward, pulls the tarp off Dean's baby.
He stands there for a few minutes, his eyes wet, and chews his fingers.
"You know I wouldn't have left her," Dean says, coming to stand next to Sam. "You know me better than that."
Sam turns to face the opposite direction. "See?" he says proudly. "He would have come back for her. If he chose to leave me. He would have-" Sam shakes his head. "Not that desperate. He didn't want to lose me that bad. He-he didn't, right?"
There's no answer but a soft breeze, but Sam nods grudgingly. "Knew I'd come here looking."
Lucifer must add something else, because Sam steps forward as if he's about to attack someone, then grabs his hand and squeezes it instead. He frowns, still staring at where he thought Lucifer was a few moments ago. "After Bobby. He might have done that. He's tried it before." Sam bites his lip, shaking his head. "But you don't know him. I know he's wanted to die for a long time, but he wouldn't do that while I still needed him. He can't be dead."
Sam listens quietly and bows his head, nodding along with whatever Lucifer is telling him. Dean's fist curls, he grits his teeth; nothing is more annoying to him than the thought that Sam has no one but the Devil left to talk to.
"I want to be dead, too," Sam admits after a long period of silence.
"Don't you talk like that, I'll kill you," Dean says, and of course Sam's only response is to walk right on past him. He stops in front of the Impala, runs his clean hand along the side of her. Then he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and jingles the keys for a few seconds before shaking his head, reaching back for the tarp, and covering the car back up.
"Goddammit, Sam," Dean says. "Don't you get that she's yours now?"
Sam leans down over the hood, whispers before he goes, "I miss him, too."
_______________________________________________________________
His next stop is a bar. Dean is no one to throw stones about drinking problems, but he's not exactly thrilled about this, either. Sam's brain is scrambled enough without tossing whiskey into it, but anyway, it's no use. Sam is going to do what Sam is going to do. Dean wasn't even good at talking him out of shit when Sam could still hear him.
He sits for an hour by himself, drinking like a fish, his eyes going darker and darker as he stares across the bar. The bartender gives him weary looks every time he asks for a refill, but Sam's not bothering anyone and is clearly cracked enough to be dangerous, so the guy decides to keep him happy.
Eventually, a brunette in a tight halter top and even tighter jeans takes the stool next to Sam-where Dean had been sitting, thank you very much-and smiles, her eyes batting. "Hey," she says, leaning in. "I'm Genie."
Sam turns his head just a little. "What do you want?"
The girl pulls back with a stung expression, but after a few seconds, she apparently decides Sam is worth a little extra effort. Smart girl. "Thought you looked lonely," she says, sliding a hand onto Sam's arm. "Like maybe you could use some company?"
Sam laughs. "Yeah, I'm lonely," he says. "Everyone I care about is dead, so yeah. I'm lonely."
Genie's eyes widen. She looks away, probably toward a group of girlfriends she's trying to decide if she should return to. Instead, she frowns and gives Sam's arm another gentle touch. "I'm so sorry," she says.
Sam drains his glass and calls out for the bartender. "Except my big brother." Sam smiles, finally turning his attention to her. "I've got the best big brother in the world. Did you know that?"
"Uh, no, I guess I didn't," she replies, faking a smile. "But that's good."
"No, I." Sam laughs again, still trying to get the bartender's attention. "'m in love with him. 'Cause he's so good to me. I loved him so much and I-"
Genie shifts uncomfortably. "Maybe you should head home or something. Is there someone I can call for you? Your brother, maybe?"
"Are you an idiot?" Sam asks her. "Did you not just hear me say I want to fuck him?"
The girl sits back, apparently deciding Sam's beyond her help and trying to find an out. "Uh-"
"You think anyone is good enough to stick through that? Even Dean," Sam adds. "I needed him so much. And even Dean, even Dean finally got sick of it." Sam slams the glass he'd been trying to get refilled down on the bar so hard it shatters, but he goes on like he hasn't noticed. "I was trying not to ask for too much. I was trying to be okay for him. But he knew. He knew, and he got sick of it. I drove him away."
Sam starts slamming his hand down on the counter then, repeating it over and over. "I drove him away! I drove him away! I drove him away!" until the whole bar is staring at him and the bartender is trying to make him leave and Dean is pretty sure his heart is going to shatter just like that glass did.
"Get him out of my bar," the bartender says.
A group of big guys come to stand behind Sam. One of them puts a hand on Sam's shoulder and says, "Okay, buddy. Time to go."
Sam stands up, turning to face him. He's a good half a foot taller, but he's not standing like he's ready for a fight, like Dean taught him to do in situations like this. He's swaying back and forth and grinning goofily. "And how're you gonna make me?" he asks.
One of the men behind the one Sam's talking to cracks his fists, which makes Sam laugh.
"Is something funny?" the first guy asks.
Sam pats his face. "I was picturing you and your girlfriends trying to make me leave," Sam says, sounding more like Dean than anything. "It was cute."
He turns back to the bar, but the guy pulls him back around by his shoulder. Dean sees him lift his fist, tries to call out to warn Sam. Sam must know it's coming without his help, but he doesn't duck or block it, just takes the punch right in his eye.
"Still laughing, funny guy?" the first guy's friend asks, bald head shining in the bar lights.
Sam brings his hand up to his eye and makes a serious face. "No, man, I'm not laughing now. Grown man punching like that? That's not even funny. That's just sad."
The man who punched Sam bunches his hands in Sam's jacket and pulls him forward. "You want more?"
"Stop it," Genie says, which is when Dean realizes she's still standing there. "Jesus, can't you see the poor guy's crazy?"
"He just needs a good lesson taught to him," says Baldy, and the guy holding Sam nods.
"Man, I wish there was someone who didn't hit like a child around to teach it to me."
Baldy's friend raises his arm again, and the bartender reaches out. "Take it outside, Earl. I don't need this in my bar."
Earl nods, shoving Sam, and Sam lets the group of men jostle him into the parking lot. He's not bothering to find a way out of this, he's not even trying to fight back. Dean can't stop yelling at him, but he knows he's wasting his breath. This is exactly what Sam wanted from the start.
They beat the shit out of him, and that's putting it mildly. Sam doesn't throw one punch, but he keeps getting back up, keeps running his mouth. Dean almost wants to take a swing at him just for being so damn stupid.
They keep going until Sam is on the floor, curled in on himself as they kick him, until finally, finally one of them says, "I think he's had enough, guys. Let's go get some beers."
They all agree, though Earl stops as he's walking away to give Sam one last good kick in the ribs. Sam manages to laugh at him, and Earl curls his lips, spitting on Sam before finally walking away.
"You better hope I never see you again once I'm back from this," Dean yells after him. "Because I'll fucking kill you."
He turns his attention back to Sam, who's attempting to raise himself onto all fours. He falls, settles for turning onto his side and coughing up blood instead. Dean kneels next to him, his hands checking over Sam for the damage. He can feel all of it and do nothing to fix it and this whole thing is really getting pretty old.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean says. "What the fuck were you thinking, man?"
Sam looks to the left-always to the left-and smiles. "It's different," he manages to say. "It's different from when you do it." He lets himself sink back into the gravel, smiling up at the stars. "You're not real," he singsongs. "Not real."
"Great, this is my fault, too." Dean frowns. "I was trying to help. Just trying to help."
It takes ten minutes for Sam to finally pull himself together enough to get up from the floor. He only makes it as far as the crappy station wagon they took off Bobby's lot, but it's not like he has money for a motel, anyway. Sam curls up in the back seat, and Dean tries to help make him comfortable. He can hold Sam now, and it makes him feel better even if it does jack shit for Sam.
Sam cries for a long time. Dean thinks he's going to cry himself to sleep, but he doesn't. He just keeps crying and shivering and bleeding into the upholstery, and Dean isn't even relieved. He wishes this were the Impala so she could shelter Sam if Dean can't.
"Why now?" Sam asks. "Why'd you have to leave me now?"
"I didn't, Sammy," Dean whispers, right into his brother's ear.
"Needed you. More than I have in such a long time, I needed you. You knew that."
Dean hides his face in Sam's neck. "Yeah, I knew. I know."
"You can't just quit and leave me here. It fucking sucked for both of us, but I never even thought of-you can't do this, it's not fair. Not now. Not when I need you."
"I didn't. You know I wouldn't ever."
Sam finally closes his eyes, one last tear slipping down his cheek. "I won't be mad if you come back. Please just come back, okay?"
Dean sits awake all night with his brother whimpering in his arms, tossing and turning. And finally he can't fight the urge, he leans forward and presses a kiss to Sam's mouth. Sam said he wanted it, and Dean should have years ago. It's not like he'll know, anyway, which is less of a comfort than an excuse.
Sam stirs. Dean pulls away, caught red-handed, because Sam is blinking awake and sitting up very quickly. "Dean?" he says. "Dean?"
"Yeah, Sam."
Sam turns, he's looking right at Dean. "Dean?"
"You can see me?" Dean asks. "God, I should have thought of kissing you sooner."
Sam frowns. "I thought…"
Dean smiles. "What, Sammy?"
"Thought you were here," he finally says, looking down. "Fuck."
Fuck just about sums it up. Dean's hope all crashes right down as Sam brings a hand up to his forehead and groans. Just that movement must remind him of how sore the rest of him is, and Dean can't help thinking he brought it upon himself.
"Oh, like you're one to talk," Sam mutters. He opens the car door and throws up, then gets out and into the driver's seat. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel. "Today's gonna suck."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, slipping into shotgun. "Probably is."
Sam's head snaps up very quickly, and he looks around, laughing to himself. "Well, now you've really lost it," Sam tells himself.
"Like you hadn't before?"
"Har har, so funny." Sam shakes his head. "God, I feel like shit." He looks into the rearview mirror and winces. "God, I look like shit."
"I think you're beautiful," Dean says, even though Sam's drawn and pale and he's got two black eyes and a split lip. He means it. "Always thought you were."
Sam rolls his eyes. "That's really mature, Dean. I've never heard a joke about my face before."
Dean smiles. Even if Sam can't really hear what he's saying-Dean likes Sam hallucinating him a hell of a lot better than the other option.
"Yeah," Sam says as he starts the car. "Of course you're hungry."
Sam goes straight to McDonald's, because a hangover cure is a hangover cure, and the lady at the drive-thru gives him a terrified look. Must be because Sam's covered in blood and looks like a maniac.
"Are you talking to yourself?"
Oh, right. And there is that.
"Nah," Sam answers, handing her a credit card and accepting the bags of food she offers. "Just hallucinating my brother because it's better than not hallucinating him."
He smiles so wide his face must hurt, and the lady tilts her head as she hands back his card and coffee. Sam gives her a friendly wave and pulls back onto the road, laughing.
"Man, did you see her face?" He's still smiling. Sam sticks his hand into the bag to steal a few fries, laughing as he does it. "Priceless."
"I was too busy staring at her tits," Dean replies, because that's just what comes out.
Sam huffs a laugh. "You're a pig."
Dean sits up. "You know, if you knew I was gonna say that, it means you were staring at her tits, too."
"Was not," Sam mumbles.
"Were too."
"Was not." Sam makes a bitchy face. "Are you gonna eat since you were so hungry?"
"Trust me, Sam. If I could, I would."
"Well, fine," Sam replies, taking another handful of fries. "More for me."
"Fatty."
Sam smiles, looking over at the passenger's seat. "Dean, are you there? Are you really there?"
"Yeah, Sammy," he says. "I'm right here."
Sam smiles brightly. "I knew you'd come back," he says. "I told him you'd be back."
"He's not real, Sam. I'm real."
"But why can't I-?" Sam snorts. "Because you're still talking to yourself, crazy."
Though Sam doesn't sound as convinced as he has since this started.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam goes through the day talking to Dean-and maybe he doesn't always respond like he heard exactly what Dean said, but he's so close it's scary. And it's not just Sam knowing Dean-because Dean's sure Sam can guess what he's going to say, but that doesn't explain why he suddenly knows to look in Dean's direction when he talks. That doesn't explain why he suddenly starts acting like he's got some hope this might turn out okay.
And there's something else to it. Dean can feel his brother's excitement as if it's his own. Everything Sam says or does, it tingles under Dean's skin.
Sam finds a motel after breakfast and holes up inside it, laying out all the research he's done since Dean disappeared. It's not the hunt the way he's been doing it for the last few days-without hope or haste. Sam's acting like he actually expects to find something.
"I have a headache," he whines. It's probably the fiftieth time today. Dean has stopped feeling sorry.
"It's called a hangover, genius," Dean tells him, pacing.
Sam's eyes track across the room, a few seconds behind Dean's actual progress. "Think it's a hint."
Dean pauses. "A hint you were a fucking idiot last night."
Sam shakes his head. "No, it's not that kind of headache. It's kind of like before."
"Before?" Dean steps closer, dropping into the chair across from Sam. "Like psychic headache before?"
Sam nods. "I didn't think it meant anything. I wasn't having visions or anything, so I figured it was just, I don't know. I was remembering trauma or something. It's not the worst thing my brain's made up lately."
"How could you not tell me that, man?"
Sam frowns. "I hope you're not mad at me."
"Not mad," Dean promises, reaching out. He puts his hand over Sam's, and Sam stares down at his open palm like there's something beautiful inside it.
"Didn't want you to worry," Sam says quietly. "I didn't want to ask for too much."
"You never could."
"Didn't wanna drive you away," he says, sounding scared again. "Don’t be mad."
"I'm not. Sam, I'm not mad."
Sam looks up, right through Dean. His eyes dodge left.
"Is he back?" Dean asks.
Sam nods slowly. "He says you're not real."
"I'm real," Dean reminds him, trying to squeeze his hand. "He's the one who's not real."
Sam bites his lip as he turns to look at Dean. Well, he's actually looking just past Dean's right ear, but it's close enough. "I can see him. Can't see you."
"You feel me, don't you, Sammy?" Dean sees Sam starting to lose hope, so he leans across the table and tries kissing him again.
Sam's lips turn up against Dean's. "No, you're real. I know you are."
It's an incredible relief after so many days being useless. Every time Lucifer tries to crash their party, Dean just stands behind Sam, wrapping his arms around him. With his body between his brother and Lucifer, Sam laughs at the devil, tells him he's not real without having to poke holes in himself to believe it. That's something Dean couldn't make him believe when he was still flesh and bone, and it's about time this whole mess has some kind of silver lining.
"So headaches," Dean says, just to distract Sam. Maybe to test him a little, too. He's still not entirely sure if they're both imagining this or if Sam can actually sense him. Abrupt change of topic seems like a good way to find out.
Sam starts chewing on his lip. "No, that doesn't make any sense."
"What doesn't?" Dean lets go of Sam and walks around him. "Work with me here, man. Only one of us is in that giant skull of yours."
"But that would make this my fault," Sam says sadly. "And I wouldn't…"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Just tell me what you're thinking, man."
Sam rubs his temple and sighs. "What if I'm the one doing this, Dean? What if I don't see you because he doesn't want me to?"
"Nobody else sees me, either."
"He's in my head with the psychic shit. It's still in there. All locked up because I don't touch it, but it's in there."
"So, what? You're thinking maybe the part of your brain that believes there's a Lucifer met the part of your brain that can do magic or whatever and now he's playing with it?"
Sam shrugs. "Makes as much sense as anything else."
"Not really," Dean says. "All you did was have visions. Maybe move some shit. Never-"
Sam's eyes dodge down to the tabletop. "You know that's not true."
"Fine," he snaps. "But unless you've been chugging demon blood again."
Sam shakes his head. "He made me see a whole damn office building with people inside. He's stronger than you want to give him credit for, Dean. Even if he isn't real."
"So you think I'm cut off from the world or whatever because some guy in your head decided I should be?"
Sam looks up, right into Dean's eyes, as if he actually knows where they are. "It's what he has to do to win. Separate us." Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "He almost won this last week. I did want to die."
"Come on, Sammy, don't say th-"
"No, Dean, it's true. No use pretending otherwise." Sam smiles. "Or maybe I'm making this whole thing up. Maybe I'm the one pretending."
"I'm here, stop questioning it." Dean reaches out, runs his fingers on Sam's cheek. He can feel how warm it is.
Sam closes his eyes and leans into the touch, which makes him slip right through Dean's fingers. But he smiles too, a soft, peaceful smile. "Feels so good to have you again," he says. "It can't be real."
"It's real."
"That's okay, though. I don't care if this just means I've finally lost it completely." Sam's smile widens. "Completely crazy is beating the shit out of mostly crazy."
_______________________________________________________________
Annoyingly enough, Sam spends the next three days flip-flopping back and forth. He believes Dean's real, he doesn't believe Dean's real. The devil is on his shoulder, the devil is rotting in a pit. He doesn't believe any of them all the way, and Dean's pretty sure that's why he's still Casper the Friendly but Frankly Fucking Pissed Off Ghost.
But then, there are perks to being invisible, even if they kind of make Dean feel like a creep. Sam is lying in bed, presumably trying to sleep, and Dean's sitting up on Sam's mattress instead of on the empty bed across the room. Whatever this connection this is, Dean can feel what Sam is thinking.
"Do it," he says. "Come on, Sammy."
Sam turns over on his back, looking up at Dean. "Dean, are you here?"
"Where else would I be, moron?"
"I think you're here." He sits up and swallows hard. "I want…I want you to see something."
Dean licks his lips as he watches Sam, his big hand moving down his body. "Wanna see it so bad," Dean tells him.
Sam pushes the sheets he's wrapped in away and Dean can see Sam's dick straining against his boxers. He's hard. Dean doesn't even know why it excites him so much-he's got nothing to gain except a peepshow to add to his lifetime of sexual frustration. But Sam pushes his boxers away so Dean can see his dick and Dean doesn't blink.
"Want you to be here for this," Sam whispers, his fingers curling around the base of his cock. "I'm sorry this is how you have to find out. I'm sorry," his words get all breathy as he starts jerking off, "I'm sorry if this isn't what you want."
Sam's hips arch off the bed as he works himself. Dean reaches down, groping his own boner through his jeans. He's tried jerking off like this before, and it's nothing but a bad idea. Dean can feel it just the same as before, he can feel anything he expects. But it's only in his head, and when it comes time to finish, Dean can't. His dick just sits there, hard as marble and desperate for release, and there's nothing for it but to wait until it goes away.
"You're killing me, Sam," Dean tells him, sliding down the bed. He lines his body up right next to Sam's, leans in so he can feel Sam's breath picking up.
"Tell me you want it too, Dean," Sam says.
"Want it." Dean reaches out, stopping before actually touching Sam. It feels weird, even knowing Sam wants him, to touch his brother when Sam won't know he's doing it. Wrong. Sam won't feel it. But Dean will, and all he fucking wants right now is to know what his little brother's cock feels like.
"Please," Sam says quietly. "If you're here. If you don't hate me for wanting this."
Dean does it. What the hell, he figures, why not. If they were both too stupid to try this before, this could be his only chance. Sam might not be bold enough to try this when Dean's back-and Dean will be back-Dean isn't blowing this chance.
Sam gasps the second Dean touches him. He groans, loud and shameless, and turns his face into his pillow as he starts thrusting into Dean's fist. "Oh God," he says. "Oh God, Dean. You're real, aren't you?"
Dean kisses him, because that usually works, but now Sam just talks against his mouth. "Do you think if I-?"
Sam pulls his hand away so that it's only Dean touching him, and his eyes widen as he looks down at his dick. He's still thrusting up and his face is even more flustered than before, so Dean figures it must be working.
"Jesus, Dean, Dean."
Dean puts his mouth on Sam's neck. "Gonna fuck you," he says. "It's gonna be the first thing I do."
Sam makes a sound that isn't even close to whatever he was trying to say and fucks into Dean's fist faster. He reaches up with the hand he's no longer using to jerk off, sucking on two of his fingers for a few seconds before reaching back down.
Dean thinks he's going to die when he realizes what Sam's doing. He pulls away from his brother just enough to watch as Sam sinks a finger into himself. He's so hard he can't stand it and that only makes it worse-and now would be a really great time to get his body back so he can fuck Sam.
He tells Sam as much, and Sam doesn't last long with Dean stroking him and whispering every dirty fantasy he's had in the last ten years right into his ear. Maybe Sam can't actually hear it, but Dean's pretty sure he's getting the message across.
When he comes, Sam shouts out Dean's name, and after a few seconds of recovery, he laughs. "That had to be real, right?"
"Mmm," Dean replies. Maybe Sam is ready to talk, but Dean's still got a killer boner and no fucking way to get rid of it. He's not feeling chatty.
"There's no way I just made myself-" Sam grins. "No, yeah. That had to be real."
Dean stands up. "Fuck you," he says. "Fuck you, Sam."
Sam frowns, putting his hand out where Dean had been sitting. "Dean?"
"This is in your head, you fucking idiot. If you would stop doubting this, I could come back, and then I wouldn't have to die of blue balls. Just stop fucking doubting me."
"Dean, where'd you go?"
Dean sighs, about to get back in Sam's bed, but he stops at the last second. "No, Sam, you know what? I'm sick of this." He climbs onto the other bed, as if spending a night sitting two feet away while Sam sleeps is going to make any kind of impact when Sam can't even see him doing it. "You're doing this yourself, and I'm sick of it."
To Dean's surprise, Sam gets out of bed then, tucking his dick back into the pair of boxers he'd been wearing earlier. "Dean," he says, sitting on Dean's bed and groping blindly at the air right next to him. "Dean, please don't be mad at me."
"Why can't you just believe I'm here?" Dean asks. "If this is in your head, all you have to do is-"
Sam stops trying to find Dean and his shoulders slump. "Help me out here."
Dean smiles. "You're fucking useless without me, you know that."
The corner of Sam's mouth turns up just a bit, but he admits nothing.
Dean puts a hand on each of Sam's cheeks and leans in slowly, giving him a long kiss before pulling back. Sam smiles, holding himself still, like he's trying very hard to keep his face wrapped in Dean.
Then he shakes Dean's hands away and extends a palm out, imitating the way Dean was holding him a moment ago. Dean moves slightly to the right so that his face is where Sam thinks it is, and as soon as his cheek touches Sam's palm, Sam breaks into tears.
"Oh lord," Dean says. "You're such a girl sometimes, Sammy."
Sam laughs through a sob, his other hand coming up to cup Dean's other cheek. His fingers curl around Dean's neck like he knows exactly where it is, and Dean only gets the chance to say, "You can see-?" before Sam is brushing kisses all over his face.
Dean laughs, shoving him away. "Slow down there."
Sam doesn't listen, just pulls him in for a suffocating hug. "Dean. Man, it's good to see you."
"How about a little breathing room?" Dean says, his words muffled by Sam's shirt.
Sam squeezes a little harder before letting go. "Right, right, yeah, breathing room. Of course." He manages to keep his hands to himself for all of three seconds before he's pawing at Dean again. "You're back," he says. "You're really-you're right here."
"Never left," Dean says. "Dude, do you have any idea how much I missed-" Dean can't hold back his smile. "-eating burgers?"
Sam barks out a laugh and pushes Dean down into the mattress, climbing on top of him. He leans down, about to kiss Dean, then pulls back an inch. "This is okay, right? I didn't imagine that part?"
"Not okay," Dean says, and Sam's eyes go all weepy and hurt for a few seconds. It gives Dean the chance to catch him off guard, flip him onto his back. "Big brother goes on top."
Sam is laughing when Dean kisses him.