.0091 - Shoulder to Shoulder, Brother, We Carry No Arms
Dean/Sam
1,850 words
The Born-Again Identity
Title from Mumford & Sons
Teaser: “Stay with me. Please.” He sounds like a child, he knows, barely recognizes the words, his voice, so small and scared...
Tilting his head up, Sam leans his face into the water current and opens his mouth a little, letting the water roll over and in to wash away the taste of the hospital, the smell, the feeling itself. Finally, after twenty-eight years of age, of living on the road, existing, somehow, and years and years of hunting, monsters, angels, demons, and people, and nearly a handful of deaths, he’s got there. He’s gone medically, officially insane. And it wasn’t deliberating, like some people might assume.
The water feels like heaven. Even better than that, in fact, because the last version of Heaven Sam actually remembers seeing was more than just a tiny bit creepy and disturbing. And the silence. God, the silence. Unbelievable. Uncommon. Beautiful. For a moment, Sam thinks, is afraid, that he’s only deaf, temporarily, that Lucifer is still there, just waiting, for a heartbeat or two, maybe ten. Waiting for Sam to actually start believing that he’s free of him, his yells and constant jabbering, only to prove him wrong, again. Sam’s sure he’ll be back. That he will be back because he has to be, because he always came back, through sleeping pills and alcohol, through all the drugs they put in him. Only larger and louder, to scream into his face, tear his brain cells apart with his songs and old movie quotes, lethal, to crush even the tiniest particles of sanity Sam’s got left.
He finally caught a good few hours of sleep, quiet, undisturbed sleep, while Dean drove, taking them somewhere else again, somewhere, anywhere, just far. Far from demons and Meg, from Castiel who’s come back just to get crazy, sucked up into a whole new circle of crap, sacrificing his wits to save Sam’s own. That part alone is new, scary and awful, and nothing he’d wish to his worst enemy, but goddamnit, Sam’s glad it’s not him anymore.
He turns the tap a little more, making the pressure of the water stronger, the beat of it louder. It’s so silent now his head feels empty. Like it really is nothing more than a skull, just bones and cavity, empty and blank with no echo. And people hardly realize how amazing, how freaking wonderful silence and solitude are, until they’re violently torn away from them, replaced by a narcissistic version of the Devil, who’s got nothing better to do than to sing Stairway to Heaven or yell, “Good morning, Vietnam!” in the middle of the night. Sam’s own breathing sounds loud at this moment, and it feels like ages since he’s been actually able to hear it. It sounds nice. Familiar.
Sam walks out of the bathroom, slowly, steam billowing out in a cloud behind him, like a shadow, to find Dean hunched at a table, rubbing on his tired eyes and leaning too close to the bright blue screen of his laptop. Sam wants to know what he can do, wants to help, but he’s too tired to even wonder what Dean’s looking at. Or for. Standing up is tiring, even breathing hurts, and the bed, however cheap and squeaky, looks so good, so inviting, but so far. The smallest movement feels all of a sudden downright impossible. Sighing quietly, Sam leans against the doorframe, just for a moment, just to catch his breath, collect some energy.
Dean looks up with watery eyes, red rimmed and unfocused that move briefly over the room before they actually find Sam. “Sammy?”
Sam nods shortly, opens his mouth to say, “I’m alright,” but what really leaves his lips is barely more than just a breath, something close to “rgh”. He waves his hand instead, smiles weakly, bitter.
Moving at last, he takes a couple of unsteady steps towards the bed and picks up the clean clothes that Dean’s left for him there on the steel headboard. Black sweatpants, faded and worn to softness, and a light gray shirt, long-sleeved and thick, new. The pants are easy, but the shirt is all of a sudden too challenging. It’s unbelievable, quite ridiculous, really, but, somehow, Sam manages to tangle his arms in the soft fabric, completely. It’s like he’s got too many limbs suddenly, like his hair is even longer, curling around his fingers, and hurting, darkness obscuring his vision like it’s all there around actually is.
“Dean.” His own voice startles him, so low and rough, like he hasn’t used it for days, weeks, so weak. Like he’s drowning in darkness, dark water, in his own panic, bound by shirt sleeves and his fears, and Dean’s name is the last sound, the only sound he can push through before the water surface closes above him completely.
Dean’s already there, though, his rough, calloused hands brushing Sam’s arms and his sides, his heat filling up the space between them, his smell; sweat and soap and dirt, and just the hint of a cheap cologne, caressing Sam’s senses. “I’ve got you,” he says, his tone just a murmur brushing Sam’s skin, cracked. He sounds tired, too, exhausted, and like it’s also been a few days since he’s actually slept.
“I’m here,” Dean says.
Finally, his arms slipping through the sleeves, Sam shakes his head to push his wild, refractory hair out of his eyes, and looks up at Dean, unshaved and ashy gray, worn out. There’s a bruise on his left cheek, a bluish green shade ebbing into a healing yellow, and a barely visible cut just above his hairline. There’s a whole untold story in his gaze, the tale of Castiel and what Dean’s gone through, Cas’ betrayal and loss, his rebirth. How really scared he was. How terrified he still is.
“Dean.”
“How you feelin’, Sammy?” Dean asks, smoothing out the shirt down Sam’s arms and stomach. So gentle and careful. So Dean.
“Dean.”
“He really gone?”
Sam ignores Dean’s question, because Dean ignores him. “Dean, have you slept?”
“I’m fine.”
Sam chuckles, dark and hoarse, scaring not only Dean, but even himself with that odd, unexpected sound. “You’re not fine. Neither of us is.”
“Were we ever?”
Sam doesn’t reply, he doesn’t think it’s necessary. Dean is right.
Dean stands up, touching Sam’s shoulder in some kind of a caress, unsure, awkward. “Sleep, Sammy. You gotta sleep.”
Sam’s fingers wound around Dean’s wrist on their own accord, and they hold tight, just that unwillingly. “Stay.”
“I’m right here. I’ll be just--“ Trailing off, Dean jerks his head towards the open laptop, the lines of beer cans, empty or full to one thirds, the plastic box with cashew nuts, the only, kind of, food Sam actually saw him eat. He thinks that Dean’s stomach must be in an equally fucked-up state as Sam’s brain. Minimally so.
“Stay with me. Please.” He sounds like a child, he knows, barely recognizes the words, his voice, so small and scared. He understands that Dean’s got better things to do, more important stuff at his hands, but he’s scared the devil will come back when Dean’s far, he’s suddenly terrified to be alone.
Dean sighs, but he caves in, giving Sam a little nod, and something that could be a smile, should be a smile, but is too weak, too twisted to be. He sits down onto the edge of the bed, his knee almost touching Sam’s, and doesn’t move away when Sam reaches towards him, his fingers curling around the collar of Dean’s plaid shirt. Hands shaking with tiredness, Sam pushes the shirt off Dean’s shoulders, past his elbows. Dean feels stiff, painfully so, all taut, strained muscles, and wrinkles that no longer fade. He looks, almost, old. But he’s beautiful. He reaches out, puts a trembling palm to Sam’s rough cheek, runs the pad of his thumb along Sam’s lower lip. Lightly, he guides Sam’s head a little closer and presses their foreheads together, his eyes catching with Sam’s, wounded and deep, endless wells of what he’ll never say. And still it feels nearly like something more. Something they’ve never said out loud.
Dean’s thin. Sam had noticed that before, couldn’t not, but he’s never realized how much weight he’s actually lost, since Bobby, Castiel, since the wall, built up and broken down, had never enough time or opportunities to let his gaze wander, move to where flesh used to be and now is nothing but thin skin and bones.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, whispers, when Dean has finally stretched beside him, washed out, dirty T-shirt and the soft fabric of his underwear keeping them apart, along with immense number of years and miles between then and now.
It’s been long. So long. Long before Hell; Sam’s, Dean’s, dad’s. Before Stanford and Jessica. Just a few nights of reciprocal want and need, something none of them had expected, had been ready for, but couldn’t really deny. Nothing they had wanted to admit, that they had ever talked about, or mentioned later. Now, though, and not for the first time, Sam just wants to feel, his brother, his lean body, his warmth, the beat of his heart, make it the only sound there. Feel them.
Dean nods, his lips so close, so sinfully plump and inviting, his breath warm, tasting of beer and the dirt of the road they’ve put behind. “Anything.” The word does mean exactly that, Dean’s tone, his expression. Anything. Everything you need. My heart. My life. His eyes are soft, warm like Sam doesn’t remember seeing them, not for long, maybe never.
Sam touches Dean’s side, with just the tips of his fingers, cold, because they’re only cold these days, and curls them around the bare, hard arch of Dean’s jutting hipbone. Dean flinches at the first contact, eyelashes fluttering like it hurts, like he’s wounded, but his breathing changes, and it’s not pain. Not that kind anyway.
Sam watches, with a silent fascination the path of goose bumps that follows his touch, showering Dean’s pale skin all the way up to his neck when he pushes his hand higher, sliding it beneath the hem of Dean’s T-shirt. He shifts a little closer, nudging his face beneath Dean’s chin, into the warm place in the crook of his neck, and presses his lips there, parting them, slick and wet, upon Dean’s pulse point. “Sammy.” Dean’s sigh, something between a moan and a hitch in his breathing, makes Sam’s shiver, press just that bit closer, until their bodies create one line, thighs touching, bare legs entangled. So warm, so close. So safe.
Dean moves then, finally, shifting his hand, the knuckles of his fingers over Sam’s back, his shoulder blade to entangle in his hair, probing it lightly, and tugging, gently, at the wet roots.
Sam falls asleep with his hand on Dean’s stomach, long fingers splayed over warm skin and firm muscles, feeling the echo of Dean’s breathing, his heartbeat, the tips just barely grazing the thin line of coarse hair that leads lower. He falls asleep to Dean’s, “I’m so sorry, Sammy, none of this should have happened.”
“Among other things,” Sam thinks to himself. “Among many things.”
1,850 words
The Born-Again Identity
Title from Mumford & Sons
Teaser: “Stay with me. Please.” He sounds like a child, he knows, barely recognizes the words, his voice, so small and scared...
Tilting his head up, Sam leans his face into the water current and opens his mouth a little, letting the water roll over and in to wash away the taste of the hospital, the smell, the feeling itself. Finally, after twenty-eight years of age, of living on the road, existing, somehow, and years and years of hunting, monsters, angels, demons, and people, and nearly a handful of deaths, he’s got there. He’s gone medically, officially insane. And it wasn’t deliberating, like some people might assume.
The water feels like heaven. Even better than that, in fact, because the last version of Heaven Sam actually remembers seeing was more than just a tiny bit creepy and disturbing. And the silence. God, the silence. Unbelievable. Uncommon. Beautiful. For a moment, Sam thinks, is afraid, that he’s only deaf, temporarily, that Lucifer is still there, just waiting, for a heartbeat or two, maybe ten. Waiting for Sam to actually start believing that he’s free of him, his yells and constant jabbering, only to prove him wrong, again. Sam’s sure he’ll be back. That he will be back because he has to be, because he always came back, through sleeping pills and alcohol, through all the drugs they put in him. Only larger and louder, to scream into his face, tear his brain cells apart with his songs and old movie quotes, lethal, to crush even the tiniest particles of sanity Sam’s got left.
He finally caught a good few hours of sleep, quiet, undisturbed sleep, while Dean drove, taking them somewhere else again, somewhere, anywhere, just far. Far from demons and Meg, from Castiel who’s come back just to get crazy, sucked up into a whole new circle of crap, sacrificing his wits to save Sam’s own. That part alone is new, scary and awful, and nothing he’d wish to his worst enemy, but goddamnit, Sam’s glad it’s not him anymore.
He turns the tap a little more, making the pressure of the water stronger, the beat of it louder. It’s so silent now his head feels empty. Like it really is nothing more than a skull, just bones and cavity, empty and blank with no echo. And people hardly realize how amazing, how freaking wonderful silence and solitude are, until they’re violently torn away from them, replaced by a narcissistic version of the Devil, who’s got nothing better to do than to sing Stairway to Heaven or yell, “Good morning, Vietnam!” in the middle of the night. Sam’s own breathing sounds loud at this moment, and it feels like ages since he’s been actually able to hear it. It sounds nice. Familiar.
Sam walks out of the bathroom, slowly, steam billowing out in a cloud behind him, like a shadow, to find Dean hunched at a table, rubbing on his tired eyes and leaning too close to the bright blue screen of his laptop. Sam wants to know what he can do, wants to help, but he’s too tired to even wonder what Dean’s looking at. Or for. Standing up is tiring, even breathing hurts, and the bed, however cheap and squeaky, looks so good, so inviting, but so far. The smallest movement feels all of a sudden downright impossible. Sighing quietly, Sam leans against the doorframe, just for a moment, just to catch his breath, collect some energy.
Dean looks up with watery eyes, red rimmed and unfocused that move briefly over the room before they actually find Sam. “Sammy?”
Sam nods shortly, opens his mouth to say, “I’m alright,” but what really leaves his lips is barely more than just a breath, something close to “rgh”. He waves his hand instead, smiles weakly, bitter.
Moving at last, he takes a couple of unsteady steps towards the bed and picks up the clean clothes that Dean’s left for him there on the steel headboard. Black sweatpants, faded and worn to softness, and a light gray shirt, long-sleeved and thick, new. The pants are easy, but the shirt is all of a sudden too challenging. It’s unbelievable, quite ridiculous, really, but, somehow, Sam manages to tangle his arms in the soft fabric, completely. It’s like he’s got too many limbs suddenly, like his hair is even longer, curling around his fingers, and hurting, darkness obscuring his vision like it’s all there around actually is.
“Dean.” His own voice startles him, so low and rough, like he hasn’t used it for days, weeks, so weak. Like he’s drowning in darkness, dark water, in his own panic, bound by shirt sleeves and his fears, and Dean’s name is the last sound, the only sound he can push through before the water surface closes above him completely.
Dean’s already there, though, his rough, calloused hands brushing Sam’s arms and his sides, his heat filling up the space between them, his smell; sweat and soap and dirt, and just the hint of a cheap cologne, caressing Sam’s senses. “I’ve got you,” he says, his tone just a murmur brushing Sam’s skin, cracked. He sounds tired, too, exhausted, and like it’s also been a few days since he’s actually slept.
“I’m here,” Dean says.
Finally, his arms slipping through the sleeves, Sam shakes his head to push his wild, refractory hair out of his eyes, and looks up at Dean, unshaved and ashy gray, worn out. There’s a bruise on his left cheek, a bluish green shade ebbing into a healing yellow, and a barely visible cut just above his hairline. There’s a whole untold story in his gaze, the tale of Castiel and what Dean’s gone through, Cas’ betrayal and loss, his rebirth. How really scared he was. How terrified he still is.
“Dean.”
“How you feelin’, Sammy?” Dean asks, smoothing out the shirt down Sam’s arms and stomach. So gentle and careful. So Dean.
“Dean.”
“He really gone?”
Sam ignores Dean’s question, because Dean ignores him. “Dean, have you slept?”
“I’m fine.”
Sam chuckles, dark and hoarse, scaring not only Dean, but even himself with that odd, unexpected sound. “You’re not fine. Neither of us is.”
“Were we ever?”
Sam doesn’t reply, he doesn’t think it’s necessary. Dean is right.
Dean stands up, touching Sam’s shoulder in some kind of a caress, unsure, awkward. “Sleep, Sammy. You gotta sleep.”
Sam’s fingers wound around Dean’s wrist on their own accord, and they hold tight, just that unwillingly. “Stay.”
“I’m right here. I’ll be just--“ Trailing off, Dean jerks his head towards the open laptop, the lines of beer cans, empty or full to one thirds, the plastic box with cashew nuts, the only, kind of, food Sam actually saw him eat. He thinks that Dean’s stomach must be in an equally fucked-up state as Sam’s brain. Minimally so.
“Stay with me. Please.” He sounds like a child, he knows, barely recognizes the words, his voice, so small and scared. He understands that Dean’s got better things to do, more important stuff at his hands, but he’s scared the devil will come back when Dean’s far, he’s suddenly terrified to be alone.
Dean sighs, but he caves in, giving Sam a little nod, and something that could be a smile, should be a smile, but is too weak, too twisted to be. He sits down onto the edge of the bed, his knee almost touching Sam’s, and doesn’t move away when Sam reaches towards him, his fingers curling around the collar of Dean’s plaid shirt. Hands shaking with tiredness, Sam pushes the shirt off Dean’s shoulders, past his elbows. Dean feels stiff, painfully so, all taut, strained muscles, and wrinkles that no longer fade. He looks, almost, old. But he’s beautiful. He reaches out, puts a trembling palm to Sam’s rough cheek, runs the pad of his thumb along Sam’s lower lip. Lightly, he guides Sam’s head a little closer and presses their foreheads together, his eyes catching with Sam’s, wounded and deep, endless wells of what he’ll never say. And still it feels nearly like something more. Something they’ve never said out loud.
Dean’s thin. Sam had noticed that before, couldn’t not, but he’s never realized how much weight he’s actually lost, since Bobby, Castiel, since the wall, built up and broken down, had never enough time or opportunities to let his gaze wander, move to where flesh used to be and now is nothing but thin skin and bones.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, whispers, when Dean has finally stretched beside him, washed out, dirty T-shirt and the soft fabric of his underwear keeping them apart, along with immense number of years and miles between then and now.
It’s been long. So long. Long before Hell; Sam’s, Dean’s, dad’s. Before Stanford and Jessica. Just a few nights of reciprocal want and need, something none of them had expected, had been ready for, but couldn’t really deny. Nothing they had wanted to admit, that they had ever talked about, or mentioned later. Now, though, and not for the first time, Sam just wants to feel, his brother, his lean body, his warmth, the beat of his heart, make it the only sound there. Feel them.
Dean nods, his lips so close, so sinfully plump and inviting, his breath warm, tasting of beer and the dirt of the road they’ve put behind. “Anything.” The word does mean exactly that, Dean’s tone, his expression. Anything. Everything you need. My heart. My life. His eyes are soft, warm like Sam doesn’t remember seeing them, not for long, maybe never.
Sam touches Dean’s side, with just the tips of his fingers, cold, because they’re only cold these days, and curls them around the bare, hard arch of Dean’s jutting hipbone. Dean flinches at the first contact, eyelashes fluttering like it hurts, like he’s wounded, but his breathing changes, and it’s not pain. Not that kind anyway.
Sam watches, with a silent fascination the path of goose bumps that follows his touch, showering Dean’s pale skin all the way up to his neck when he pushes his hand higher, sliding it beneath the hem of Dean’s T-shirt. He shifts a little closer, nudging his face beneath Dean’s chin, into the warm place in the crook of his neck, and presses his lips there, parting them, slick and wet, upon Dean’s pulse point. “Sammy.” Dean’s sigh, something between a moan and a hitch in his breathing, makes Sam’s shiver, press just that bit closer, until their bodies create one line, thighs touching, bare legs entangled. So warm, so close. So safe.
Dean moves then, finally, shifting his hand, the knuckles of his fingers over Sam’s back, his shoulder blade to entangle in his hair, probing it lightly, and tugging, gently, at the wet roots.
Sam falls asleep with his hand on Dean’s stomach, long fingers splayed over warm skin and firm muscles, feeling the echo of Dean’s breathing, his heartbeat, the tips just barely grazing the thin line of coarse hair that leads lower. He falls asleep to Dean’s, “I’m so sorry, Sammy, none of this should have happened.”
“Among other things,” Sam thinks to himself. “Among many things.”