Fic: The Widow Tree

[joans23]

Title: The Widow Tree
Author: joans23
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: 5,348
Summary: Dean's feelings for his brother get the better of him just as a cursed town needs a sacrifice.
Notes:The mood for some non-AU Sam/Dean suddenly took hold of me, and then this came about pretty quickly. Feels like I haven't posted anything in ages and ages! Thank you to kkgee for beta-ing this in a couple of hours, you are beyond amazing!! The idea of the Tree borrowed from Guy Gavriel Kay, no clever title this time. ;) In the ongoing battle of me vs summaries, you almost got: Dean kisses Sam and then hangs in a tree for 3 days. Oi vei.



Dean Winchester is in love with his brother.

It's not a new thing, no startling revelation. It's just always been that way. Somewhere between wiping the snot from the kid's nose and dropping him off at the bus station to run away to college, simple brotherly love became something else. More.

Most of the time it's just this constant ache in his chest that Dean's learned to live with. He's trained himself, sure as his father trained him with knife, shotgun and fists, not to look at the miles of gleaming skin on display as Sam steps from the shower with only a towel draped loosely around his waist. Not to touch when there's a spot of ketchup caught in the corner of Sam's mouth and all he wants to do is lick it away, taste the sourness of processed tomatoes against the bitterness of Sam's skin. Not to want. Everything.

But every once in a while, it gets the better of him. Like he's some kind of woman going through a monthly cycle that's as inescapable as the phases of the moon. Sam fills him, seeps into every little crevice, floods all his senses until he has to run away before he does something completely idiotic like kiss the living daylights out of his brother. He usually finds refuge on a well-worn bar stool, drowning his sorrows in whiskey and too-soft arms until the flame of his illicit desires burn less brightly.

This time is no different. Dean's felt it growing, building up like asbestos in his lungs until he can barely draw breath. His heart beats SamSamSam, so loud Dean has to get away before Sam hears it. But this time, he can't. Sam gets a bee in his bonnet about this little town in New Mexico that apparently hasn't seen rain in fifty years. Dean rolls his eyes at Sam and says, "It's New Mexico, Sam," like that explains it, and maybe it should, but Sam is still determined. He gets quiet and sulky until Dean wants to slap him. Or quite possibly cuddle him, but that's neither here nor there. In the end he gives in, which really, knowing Dean, isn't much of a surprise. He clamps down on the fire raging under his skin, convinces himself that he can do this, he can spend the next two days trapped in the car with Sam until they cross the Rio Grande and it'll be fine. He'll be fine. It'll turn out to be a hoax, at best a case of bad luck for a little town stuck in an already ill-fated arid climate. It'll be nothing.

It's something.

Dean can feel the moment they roll into Clairmont. A thrum in the air, popping his ears like he's just come racing down a steep hill without touching a foot to the Impala's brakes, wrong. Sam gives him that look, the one that says "I told you so", but Dean pretends not to see and doesn't scowl at him. Sam heads for the library and Dean leaves him to his books with a relieved sigh. He'll get his information the way he always does - by talking to people. Dean checks his pockets for his wallet and his phone. He knows he'll kill Sam if he needed to get hold of him and he didn't have it on him, so fair's fair. He looks down the street, hoping to spot a diner, and there's an old man standing across the street, watching him with milky white eyes.

"You looking for a cup of coffee, boy?" the man asks, his voice gravelled by smoke and drink.

"Yes, sir," Dean answers. Figures its pure coincidence that it was exactly what he was gonna ask.

"Lend an old man a hand, and I'll show you where it's at."

Dean crosses the street and offers his right arm to the old man's left, careful of the mean looking cane he's clutching on the other side. The man's grip is vice-like, startling Dean with its strength.

"Some juice in the old bones yet," the man says and chuckles. "What would you be called, boy?"

"Dean, Dean Wright," Dean says.

"Reckon the Dean part is true enough. Name's Wilson."

"Mr. Wilson..."

"No, none of that mister crap. 'Tis Wilson, plain and true."

"Wilson, I..."

"Ah, here we are," Wilson says, interrupting Dean again. He knocks on the door with his cane and Dean holds it open for him. They settle in a booth near the front, the smiling waitress filling their cups to the brim with the strong black brew she has on hand.

"That's more like it," Wilson says, taking a deep whiff of his coffee before taking a long drink. "Now, you here about the rain, Dean?"

"Yes, I am. My brother and I..."

"That would be young Sam, yes?"

"How did you know his name?" Dean asks, his hand sneaking up and under his jacket. He'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable with this conversation if he had his hand on the cool metal grip of his gun.

"I know a lot of things, if you'd be ready to hear 'em." Wilson is staring sightlessly over Dean's right shoulder and Dean has to keep fighting the impulse to look over it to see what the old man is looking at.

"What does that mean?"

"It means take your hand off of that pistol, for one. It means I know what's wrong with the weather and how to fix it, for another. And it means I know you ain't ready yet."

"Ready for what?"

"For what needs to be done to break the curse," Wilson says. "But," Wilson says, tilting his cup up to take the last sip and standing, "I know you will be, soon. And when you are, come find me, son."

"And where will that be?" Dean asks, bristling a little.

"It's not a big place, Clairmont. I'm sure you'll manage." Wilson turns at the door, looks back in Dean's general direction. "I'll be waiting."

Dean sits staring at his coffee for a while, feeling the cup growing cold between his palms, trying to make sense of the drivel the old man was spewing. Obviously he wasn't quite right in the head. What use could he possibly be to them? But... he did know Sam's name and that sets Dean's teeth on edge. He's overwhelmed by the sudden urge to see his brother, touch him, know that he's still safe, and with a few folded dollar bills left on the table and a murmured thanks, he makes his way quickly outside and towards the library. There's no sign of the old man anywhere. For a blind dude he sure moves fast.

He finds Sam coming down the street halfway there. The sight of him brings Dean to a dead stop. His shoulders slump in relief - he'd half-convinced himself that somehow the strange old man had gotten hold if Sam and had him hidden away somewhere. Eyes still locked on the photocopies in his hands, Sam's got a spring in his step, beaming with that same excitement he had bringing home his drawings from school, eager to show off to his big brother. Dean pulls himself together and resumes walking. Sam looks up, his gaze unerringly finding Dean, and he gives Dean a wide smile.

"Dude, I think I found it. It's a..."

"Curse," Dean finishes, stealing his thunder.

"Yeah," Sam says, barely sulking. "How did you know?"

"Little birdie told me," Dean says and nods his head over to the diner where all the patrons are openly staring at them. Sam nods and they start walking down the street side by side, heads low as Dean whispers, "Told me he knew how to break it too."

"And?"

"And nothing. I'm supposed to come to him when I'm ready."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Damned if I know, Sammy," Dean says louder, stopping to wipe a hand across his brow. "Lets find a motel, I'm frying out here."

The Copper Creek Motel is quaint, but clean; there are little shovels and pick-axes crisscrossing the fading wallpaper, but there's no mould growing around the sink. Dean calls first shower and then sits on the edge of his bed, flicking through the news channels while he waits for Sam to finish. He focuses on the horrifying images flashing across the screen to distract him from the thoughts of a naked Sam only a few yards away behind a flimsy shower curtain.

The shower helped, but Dean is drenched in a new layer of sweat the moment they step out onto the street again, even though the sun is fading fast and there is a slight breeze coming in from the north. Dean tilts his head, lets its cool flow dance across the back of his neck as they head back to the diner for a bite to eat. Dean drags it out as long as he can, ordering endless refills of coffee as Sam tears strips from paper napkins and curls them around his fingers. They head back to the motel to wait it out, but as soon as the door closes behind them, Dean knows it's a mistake.

Sam sits at the little desk, booting up his laptop, the glow from the screen catching on his cheekbones and his lashes. There's no other place for Dean to sit but the bed, and as he lays back against the cushions he can feel his erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. He sits up, folding himself in half as he shoves a pillow into his lap. Sam quirks an eyebrow at him, clearly biting back a laugh and Dean wants to shove a hand down the front of his pants right then and there.

"I, uh, need some air," Dean says and heads to the door.

"But what about..." Sam is saying, but Dean is gone, feet flying across the pavement. Its two blocks before he can even breath normally again.

Dean keeps going round in circles, sidestepping the warm light spilling from living room windows where he can. It's cool, the chill almost unnatural after the day's intense heat and Dean wishes for his jacket. He wraps his arms around himself and keeps walking. When his watch tells him midnight has come and gone, he finally makes his way back to the motel. The sea of emotion washes over him the moment he walks through the door. Sam is in his bed at the far end of the room, splayed out on his back with the covers thrown off. Dean is drawn to him so immediately, so intensely that for the first time it occurs to him that this is not just another symptom of his usual neurosis, that something darker and more sinister might be at work.

It's all for naught though. It doesn't matter where it came from, or what's fueling it, Dean is still helpless to resist. His hand reaches out, wipes the hair back from Sam's forehead and Sam sighs in his sleep, turns into Dean's touch. Dean falls to his knees and his mouth follows; dry lips lightly brushing over Sam's eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, his lips. Sam's breath hitches, his lips parting and Dean sneaks in his tongue, tracing across the seams, teasing over his teeth, tasting Sam. Dean becomes aware of his brother's mouth moving beneath his and he groans, attempts to deepen the kiss before he realises Sam is trying to say something.

"Dean," Sam says when Dean manages to tear himself away and his hands are on Dean's chest, pushing him away. "What are you doing?"

Dean sits down heavily, makes an undignified oomph noise when his ass connects solidly with the floor. He looks up at Sam, eyes wide with terror, and clamps a hand over his betraying lips.

What is he doing?

Dean scrambles backwards, pushing with his hands and the heels of his feet until he's upright and then he's pawing at the door, begging it to open, open, for the love of God, just open, until it does and he spills out into the night. Sam is calling out to him, fishing for the light switch, but Dean can't, won't wait around for that. The night air burning in his lungs, he blindly picks a direction and runs, runs like the hounds of hell themselves are nipping at his heels, runs until he reaches a dead end street and he can't run anymore.

"It's mighty late for a run," Wilson says and Dean isn't surprised. Not one little bit.

"I'm ready," he says.

"I reckon you are," Wilson says. "And just in time too. Dawn is only an hour away. Come with me, Dean."

Dean goes.

The old man leads him round the house and through the back gate, across endless miles of dead grass and sand. Dean touches a fingertip to his lips - they're still tingling. He stops, watching the rise and fall of his feet when Wilson starts to speak.

"Nobody knows what caused the curse. Some say it was the usual - a lover scorned - others claim everything from an angry god to the apocalypse. But they all know what it'll take to break it. They suffer, see their lives crumbling to dust before their very eyes, and still none of 'em is willing to make the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?" Dean asks.

"Don't be coy with me, boy. You know the only thing to break a curse this old, this deeply rooted, is a sacrifice. Given willingly, to be bound body and soul for three days and three nights to the Widow Tree."

"And what happens after three days?"

"To the one bound, that don't matter. All they have to worry about is lasting through all three days; before the end they have to face the darkness of their souls, the heat of their desires, the hunger of their passions and the chill of their rejections."

"How do you know all of this?" Dean can't help the suspicion that's still gnawing at his gut.

"We all have our crosses to bear, Dean," Wilson says. He moves closer to Dean, grabs hold of his arm. "There will be temptations. Oh yes, there will be temptations to abandon this quest, but once it is started, it must done complete or it will be the end of us. One chance. And if it fails, there will be no other. Do you understand?"

They've come to the center of a slight rise, to the place where a large old tree stretches its gnarled and twisted limbs up into the sky. Dean looks back towards the way they came and what he left behind; the look on Sam's face when he pushed Dean away. Dean can never go back to that.

"I understand," Dean says, and bends to take off his boots. The old man says nothing, only holds out his hands for Dean's shoes, pants and shirts. Naked and shivering slightly, Dean stands to see the first sign of the day breaking in the east, tendrils of dark purple bleeding into the black.

"We have to hurry," Wilson says.

Dean climbs into the tree, the foot and hand holds seem to have been carved out exactly for him and holds still as Wilson's clever hands work to bind Dean's body to the tree as fast as he can. If Dean had a hand free, he'd be tempted to wave it in front of the blind man's face, just to make sure. Dean tracks the sun's bright red arc cresting over the horizon, and when he blinks down at Wilson again, the old man is gone.

"Sneaky bastard," Dean mumbles and sets about surviving the first day. All in all, it's not as bad as he thought it would be. Sure, it's hot and the sun's burning the shit out of him, he's thirsty and hungry, but it's not anything he hasn't had to deal with before. Mostly he's bored. He hums AC/DC, makes up his own words to Zeppelin tunes, maybe even does a little Journey. Hey, there's no one around to judge, and it passes the time. Dean tries to ignore the growing pressure in his bladder as long as he can. He knows trying to retain the moisture isn't gonna do him any good. He's not too thrilled about the prospect of pissing himself, that's all. He has whole conversations with Bobby, Ellen, Ash. Dad. He takes apart the .45 in his mind's eye a hundred times, overhauls the Impala's engine a dozen more. There's one thing he refuses to think about though. No memories. No fantasies. Nothing. Dean doesn't even wonder if he's looking for him yet.

The sun is setting, the last few rays slanting across his back, when Dean sees him for the first time.

Sam.

He's standing far enough away that Dean can't quite make out his features, but he knows it's him. Sam's watching him, making no move towards Dean, just looking.

"Sammy," Dean says and closes his eyes. He pinches them shut as tight as he can and counts to ten. When he opens them again, Sam is gone.

The night is bad. Worse than the day, but still bearable. The temperature drops sharply, and Dean's wrenched by uncontrollable shivers. They pull on his bound limbs, threatening to tear them from his body with their violence. Dean hears coyotes call in the distance, hears them coming closer until he swears he can see their eyes glow red in the dark. Dean feels panic start to creep up on him - if they decide they're hungry enough, he's got no way to chase them off. He watches them near and recede, increase and disappear, until his eyes burn with the strain and he has to close them for a second, just a second. Some time later he comes too with a jerk, jarring his bones.

"Fuck," Dean swears loudly. He startles an owl that's taken up residence on a nearby branch and it launches itself into the night with an equally crass call, whipping its wings through Dean's face. Dean ducks his chin, manages to evade the claws.

It gets real quiet after that. Dean hears the wheeze of his breath as his lungs fill, the whistle of it being expelled. The beating of his heart is a metronome that wants to lull him back into sleep, and Dean succumbs for indeterminable stretches of time, but whenever he wakes, it's still night.

Until at last it's not. The sun is rising, the first day done, and Dean basks in its gentle warmth. The heat grows, spiking suddenly and Dean clings desperately to the last hints of coolness lingering on the morning breeze.

The second day is definitely worse.

Dean passes out a few times before noon. It's not his proudest moment. Mostly he's just pissed off when he comes too with a start, jarring everything again. He cranes his neck, peering up at the sun almost directly above him through a tight and painful squint. Halfway done. Dean tries to lick his cracked lips, but his mouth is so dry already, no spit left to spare for such a banal task.

Sam is there when he drops his gaze.

He's closer than before, no shirt, barefoot, dressed only in a pair of jeans that ride low on his hips. Dean can make out more of his features this time; the soft curls falling in his face, the unmistakable curve of his jaw. Dean opens his mouth to tell Sam to put something, a towel, anything, over his shoulders before he burns, but he doesn't. That was before.

Before he kissed his brother and ruined everything.

Dean looks again and it's not Sam, but Sammy. Standing there is the little brother he was told to take hold of, the little brother he cared for, the little brother he had to help raise. He's looking up at his big brother, waiting for him to show him what to do.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I didn't mean to."

It's a lie, and Dean knows it.

Sam changes back and Dean feels the want punch him in the gut like ten pound hammer. He closes his eyes until Sam goes away, or he passes out again. He's not sure which one happens first.

It's dark when Dean opens his eyes. He's shivering and it fucking hurts. It's a couple of hours singing the nursery rhymes his mother used to sing to him, rambling off the exorcisms his dad taught him, and then Sam's back. The old guy wasn't kidding about the temptations, that's for damn sure.

Sam's closer than ever, so close. If Dean were free, he could take two steps, reach out and touch him.

"Are you thirsty, Dean?" Sam asks. He takes a bottle of water from behind his back, unscrews the cap and lifts the bottle to his lips. Sam takes a small sip, lets a little run down his chin and wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"You know I am," Dean says, "but that shit ain't real. You're gonna have to do better than that."

"Better like..." Sam cocks his head, watches Dean shiver. "A blanket?"

Dean laughs. It rips from his throat and sounds about as painful as it feels.

"See, if you were the real thing, you wouldn't be wasting my time with the small stuff." Dean says. "I taught you better than that."

"If I were there the real thing... Isn't the real thing what got you into this mess in the first place, Dean? Look at this," Sam says and spreads his arms wide. The muscles in his stomach tighten, the ones in his chest flex. "This is just like the real thing, but better, Dean. This way you get it all, without the guilt."

"No, I don't want it," Dean says.

"You're a liar, Dean."

Dean doesn't need to be told this. He knows.

Sam goes away after a while. Dean thinks about Dad. And Mom. What they would say, seeing him here like this. He hears the accusations, the disgust. Sam pipes up to every now and again. All Dean hears from him is pity.

Dean could weep with relief when the sun finally rises on his third and final day. Maybe he does. He's tired, so tired, but he knows it's almost over. Only one more day and he'll be free from this treacherous body and mind, free to rest. Free.

He keeps waiting for Sam to show up, curious to know what new ways he'll devise to torture Dean, to tempt him. Dean has long since given up trying to keep up any kind of strong front, and hangs there empty and silent as the hours pass him by, one after the other. He no longer tries to amuse himself, to keep his mind occupied - it requires energy he no longer possesses. The sun passes through its zenith and beyond and still Sam does not come. The longer Sam stays away, the more worried Dean gets that he's saving up for something big.

If there's one thing Dean can still trust, it's his instincts. Turns out he was right to be worried.

Sam comes to him as the sun hangs low on the horizon, a fiery red ball casting Sam's skin in hues of copper and gold. He's naked, not a stitch of clothing on him as he walks right up to Dean, close enough for his breath to raise goose-flesh on Dean's exposed skin.

"Dean," he whines. "Need you, Dean."

Sam's hand is on his cock, stripping it fast and hard.

"Need your hands on me, Dean. Need it so bad."

"Sam, no," Dean pleads.

"Yes. Yeah, say my name, Dean. Want to hear you say it."

Dean bites his tongue, bites it hard enough to taste blood in the back of his throat and still Sam is jerking himself off, back arched and chest open, letting Dean see.

"You want this, Dean, and I want to give it to you. Just take it, Dean. Take me."

Dean's shaking his head, whipping it from side to side as fiercely as he can, but he can't look away, can't tear his eyes away from the slippery slide of Sam's cock into his own fist, the head an angry red as it slips past his glistening fingers.

"Fuck, Dean, feels so good. Imagining it's you touching me, making me come," Sam says, keeping up the stream of filth as his hips pump faster, harder, until he's coming, coming all over his hand, coming for Dean. He slows his hand, stroking himself through the aftershocks, gasps at the last few jerks of his hips.

"Wanna taste me, Dean?" Sam asks, letting go of his cock to smear some of the come on his fingers over his lips. "Kiss me, and clean it all off with your tongue?" Sam licks his lips, makes a show of it as his eyes roll back in his head and a smile of utter bliss stretches his mouth. "Mmm, tastes good."

Dean doesn't plead with him to stop, to go away. He knows it won't do any good. So he weeps and curses the tears in his eyes making it harder to see as he looks and looks and looks until Sam goes away again.

The night is the coldest one yet, or maybe the last of Dean's resistance against it has just been stripped away. He can feel his body weakening, the dull thud of the heart in his chest slowing as around him, he can feel the power growing in the air, the land coming alive again. It's working.

Dean wakes. He's got no idea how long he's been out - probably most of the night because he can't remember much about it. The sun is rising and there, framed in a nimbus of the most brilliant light and running towards him, is Sam.

No, not now. It's almost done and Dean can't... He's got nothing left to fight with.

"Dean," Sam says and then he’s touching him, his hand against Dean’s face, cupping his cheek, so softly and this. This is new. Sam’s never come this close, never touched him before. It must be getting desperate, and oh, if it had only known and done it the first night. Because Dean is powerless against this; knows he is going to give in to this one, to this Sam.

"What did you do, Dean?" Sam asks, running his hands over the ropes crisscrossing Dean’s body and God help him, Dean is hard, cock jutting from his body, hoping and praying for Sam’s hand to reach lower.

"Don’t," Dean tries to say, but it comes out a broken croak, voice ruined by three days’ thirst and silence. Please don’t.

"Shhh," Sam says. "I’ve got you."

Sam’s hands are on the ropes binding Dean’s wrists and Dean is crying, his eyes burning with the stinging tears welling up and rolling unstoppable down his cheeks. He whimpers when the salty moisture reaches his cracked lips.

"Please," Dean manages, begging the vision to stop. It doesn’t, freeing Dean’s wrists and it’s all been for nothing, Dean’s arms falling limply at his sides. Dean screams, unable to stop as the pain sears through his shoulders and back.

"Almost there," Sam says and he’s crying too, big heaving sobs, like when he fell off his bike the first time Dean taught him how to ride it.

Dean sags against him, his upper body splayed over Sam’s shoulder as Sam works the knots on Dean’s legs and ankles.

"No," Dean tries weakly, voice muffled against this dream brother’s skin and then it’s over, Sam lowering him gently to the ground. Dean tries to curl up into himself, the pain and shame and failure too much to bear. Sam lets him for awhile, holds him as Dean struggles to find the way back. Then Sam moves away and no, that’s too much, being denied his prize after he gave up everything for it. But Sam’s just taking off his jacket, holding onto Dean with one hand as he shrugs out of it. He lays it down on the ground and maneuvers Dean onto it before letting his hands run over Dean’s body, pressing his thumbs into the grooves bitten into Dean’s skin by the tight ropes and down, over his legs, digging into the soles of his feet, rubbing away the cramps that have his toes reaching towards his heels.

Dean closes his eyes, he can’t stand the vision of his brother touching him anymore and wraps a hand around his aching cock, wanting more than anything for it to be over.

"Dean," Sam says and now he’s laying next to Dean, his mouth breathing hot and wet against Dean’s neck as he molds himself to Dean’s side. He reaches down and replaces Dean’s hand with his own. "Let me."

And Dean does, lets Sam touch him, curl his long fingers around his cock, jerking him just hard enough, just fast enough, efficiently working at ending the torture. "Got you," Sam says and Dean bucks, hips straining upwards as he comes, pleasure being wrenched painfully from every fiber of his being, come landing on his belly, Sam’s hands and on the barren earth.

Dean stares it, mesmerized. He failed. First by kissing Sam, by giving in to the thing he'd tried to hide from for more than a decade, and now finally, in this, in having some good come of it at least. Dean blinks, once, Sam's face swimming in his blurry vision and then he passes out.

He wakes up his bed in the motel, no idea how he got there and not really caring. His throat is on fire, still so thirsty, every inch of his body a never ending black hole of pain, cold despite the coarse weave of the sheet against his skin and the unbearable weight of a heavy blanket.

Dean tries to lift a hand to free himself from the bedding, but Sam is there instantly, taking his hand and tucking the blanket in tighter around his shoulders.

"Take it easy," Sam says. "You're okay. I could kill you for this, you stupid idiot, but you're okay. I've got you."

Dean winces, it's too close to what the Sam in his dreams said when he was stroking Dean's orgasm out of him. "Not okay," Dean says, not sure if he's talking out loud or just thinking it. "Failed."

"Failed? I don't know why you felt you had to do this, but you didn't fail. Listen Dean."

Dean does. He holds his breath, closes his eyes when he hears it. Raindrops pelting against the windows. It's raining.

"Did it... because of before. I'm sorry, Sammy. So sorry."

"You should be," Sam says. "Ran out without answering my question. Without giving me a chance to do this."

"Do what?" Dean asks, but there, right there, Sam kisses him. It's just a soft press of his lips against Dean's sore ones, but it could very well be the greatest kiss Dean has ever had.

"Don't ever do that again, okay?" Sam whispers against his mouth. "Nearly died when I saw you hanging from that tree. Thought you were... Don't ever do that again."

"You took me from the Tree? That was real?"

"Yeah, you thought..? It doesn't matter. You don't have to tell me. Just rest now so you can get your strength back. Can't wait to do that again," Sam says and gives Dean a wink and a lewd grin to rival any of his own. Dean happily sinks back onto his pillow, the linen no longer so rough, heat finally beginning to seep into his bones.

Yeah, Dean is in love with his brother. But that's alright, because apparently, his brother is in love with him too.

End.