Cells, Supernatural, Dean/Sam, ONESHOT
Title: Cells
Author: losseflame
Chapters: Oneshot
Genre: Angst, drama, *some* romance
Warnings: incest (sort of), non- descriptive sex, angst
Rating: PG-15
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam (sort of)
Synopsis: The problem seems resolved, and three days later Dad comes waltzing back and they pack up their shit, get into their cars, and drive away to some new town for some new jobs.
And that’s that.
Except it isn’t, because they’re Winchesters, and problems never actually get resolved, they just twist and morph into something that’s even more fucked up.
Comments: This wasn’t supposed to be as angsty as it is. Oh, well
***
It starts with Dean waking up to see Sammy in the motel bed across from his, yelling and shuddering in his sleep.
And Dean is tired, so tired, because his dirty pile of clothes at the foot of his bed is still smeared with blood from the thing they just killed, and the silver knife underneath his pillow worked its way into his dreams and his little brother’s nightmares is the last thing he needs right now.
But Dad (and fuck Dad, because Dean’s the one who cooks Sammy food and makes him do his homework and signs his field trip permission slips with Dad’s forged signature; Dean’s the goddamn parent in this family) is off fighting another creature that clings to the dark, ripping and tearing the life out of the evil sons of bitches because that’s about the only thing he’s good at anymore. So now Dean is left with a pile of twenties for the motel, and brief goodbye of ‘take care of Sam’, like he hasn’t been doing that for the past thirteen years.
And Sammy with his nightmares. Sam moans and rolls his head to the side, his forehead creasing. Dean’s chest tightens, the automatic urge to protect Sam that must be inscribed into his bones or maybe even in every cell of his body overriding his exhaustion and his full bladder and his own nightmares. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and gets up, murmuring comfort even before he reaches the side of Sam’s bed and sits down.
“It’s okay, Sammy, shhhh, I’m here, everything’s okay.” Dean grasps Sam’s shoulder, and Sam starts with half-yell, scrabbling away from Dean. Which, yeah, hurts, he’s not going to deny. But the kid’s thirteen and just watched his big brother bludgeon an ugly son of a bitch (daughter, Dean reminds himself, but it’s hard to tell with all the fangs and wings and talons in between someone’s sight and the monster’s crotch) to death with a blunt fire axe, and that’s fuel enough for nightmares, so Dean shoves his manly sensitivity aside and more focuses on trying to keep Sam’s mental breakdown at bay.
“Sam, it’s me, calm your shit!” And maybe it’s the tone he’s heard damn near every time something like this has happened or the vulgarity that always prompts him to make a Disapproving Bitchface or just the familiar presence that’s been with him every day for his entire life, or maybe the kid’s just stronger than Dean’s willing to accept right now, but Sam takes a deep, whooping breath that he’s always claimed is some yoga trick he picked up from one of his three first grade teachers and blinks gummy eyes open.
“Dean?” This is the tone Dean hates the most, the rasping post-cry voice that makes Sammy seem even younger than he is.
“Yeah, you big baby, I’m here.” Sam nods, and Dean is expecting bony arms to yank him into a clingy, octopus-arm hug, but instead they just rest where they are. Yeah, that’s a little weird right there, but Sam’s around the age where you start hitting puberty, so maybe he’s decided that with the coming of pubic hair also comes maturity and independence and the lack of post-nightmare hugs.
That doesn’t explain the desperate puppy eyes he’s getting from across the span of the bed, so Dean decides to take matters into his own hands. He slides an arm around Sammy’s scrawny shoulders, and alternately moves closer and yanks Sammy’s bony-ass body towards him until their sides are pressed together, at which point he slings his other arm around into a proper goddamn hug.
“Dean!” Sammy is now taking on the protesting voice he uses when Dean buys skin mags or pie instead of ‘real dinner’, which confirms Dean’s suspicion. Dean dismisses this with a wave of his hand. Real men, as far as he’s concerned, cuddle with their coltish little brothers when they need it, pubic hair be damned.
“Shaddup, Sammy, and feel the love.” Only Sam remains stiff, the inches between them kept carefully in place. Dean feels like he was run over by the Impala, crushed and slightly betrayed, as the pieces finally click.
Nobody really wants to snuggle with the succubi’s equivalent of Jack the Ripper, especially if you just had a nightmare focusing on a witnessed murder.
Which Dean can understand, except that he kind of doesn’t want to.
Dean then decides to treat Sammy’s realization of how much blood (monsters’ blood, but blood all the same) is on his hands as any other problem that pops up between the two that can’t be solved by a charming grin. He decides to run away for a bit and hope that it blows over.
“I gotta take a piss.” He uncurls his arms and starts to get up, only to be stopped by Sam’s delayed girlish reaction.
“Wait, no!” Sammy’s arms tighten around Dean’s middle and he tries to use all 100 pounds of himself to bring Dean back next him. Dean smiles. Now there’s the Sammy he knows.
So he lies back down and Sammy curls around him, all elbows and shoulders and sharp angles. Sam passes out in less than a minute, breathing out once and closes his eyes before falling into a coma.
Dean tries to follow suit, closing his eyes only to snap them back open when Sammy’s hips make contact with his thighs.
There’s another glorious moment of realization and relief, because Sammy’s nightmare wasn’t about him, wasn’t a replay of Dean pulverizing the succubus.
This is quickly followed by a wave of self-loathing, because seriously, how much did Dean fuck up in raising Sammy if the kid twists his first wet dream into a nightmare?
.:.:.:.
So the next day Dean subtly works in ‘puberty doesn’t kill you, neither will wet dreams’ into every conversation, which ends in Sammy giving him looks that scream INSANE, DEAN, YOU’VE GONE ABSOLUTELY INSANE and covering his ears at one point. But Dean gets that all the time anyway and since Sam stops waking up screaming and spends more time in the shower than necessary he considers it a success.
The problem seems resolved, and three days later Dad comes waltzing back and they pack up their shit, get into their cars, and drive away to some new town for some new jobs.
And that’s that.
Except it isn’t, because they’re Winchesters, and problems never actually get resolved, they just twist and morph into something that’s even more fucked up.
.:.:.:.
Sammy is fourteen, and Dean gets it, he really does, but sometimes he doesn’t and so that’s how he ends up outside the pathetic shack Dad’s rented shooting beer cans off the fence while Sam sulks inside, over the aftermath of the biggest bitchfit Dean’s seen all week. Which, honestly, is really saying something.
Every day is either the best or the worst at the age Sammy’s at, because your voice cracks and your dick suddenly decides every goddamn thing is as sexy as hell in the weirdest, most inappropriate moments and you have just enough facial hair to see it but not enough for it to look good and hormones control everything you think about and life sucks and nobody understands you at all.
So yeah, Dean gets it. But he doesn’t get the wall Sammy’s put up, or his urge to nitpick and fight with Dad at every opportunity, or his wildly ranging extremes of shutting Dean out and screaming at him to ‘leave me alone!’ and clinging to Dean desperately like at any second Dean’s gonna up and leave. Or Sammy is. Which is a whole other side of things Dean doesn’t want to get into and isn’t going to.
Which brings him back to his first point.
Dad had decided that finding someplace to settle until Sammy had ‘got it out of his system’ - whatever ‘it’ was - was a peachy decision, thus he rented a shitty cottage in the ass-end of nowhere, set Sammy up with his laptop and his books and booked it out of there to go hunt, because monsters are easier to understand and deal with than his hormonal son.
He even offered a place for Dean to come with him, which Dean did, once, to escape the wrath of Sammy and the even more terrifying wrath of his inner critic for not knowing how to help Sammy in the first place. Only that didn’t work because Dean couldn’t concentrate on the job, got himself a set of stitches on his shoulder because of it, and landed his ass back in the shitty cottage.
Dean shoots another Coors Light can off the fence for target practice, because fuck Coors Light, that’s why.
He pulls the trigger again, finds that he just wasted all his bullets on the cans of shitty beer he only bought because Dad is going through a midlife crisis, curses because that means he has to go inside again, attempts to find an excuse to stay outside, finds none, and turns to walk back into the house.
Besides, it’s getting dark and Sammy hasn’t eaten dinner yet. The rickety door claps against the frame as Dean lets gravity close it.
“Sam, what do you want for din-” Dean stops, because Sammy is standing in the living room with his hands down his pants, which is hardly surprising, because he’s fourteen and when Dean was fourteen he spent his time alternatively taking care of Sammy, bitching about (and killing) shit and having his hand shoved down his pants.
Except Sammy’s standing in front of the window overlooking the yard where Dean was just shooting beer cans, which means that Sam had his hands down his pants while watching Dean.
There are tears in Sammy’s puppy eyes, and there’s something twisted and just a little broken hiding just behind the haze of tears.
Deans stops breathing, because all the air fled the room when Sammy opens his mouth, shirking whatever words were going to come next.
“Dean.” And Dean flinches, because the voice is quiet and desperate and it sounds like Sammy is gutting himself, ripping out who he is in all his flaws and perfections with that one word and giving it to Dean like Dean knows what he’s supposed to do with it.
He doesn’t, because there is fucked up and then there is fucked up, and they’re blurring that line already, and God, how much will this screw Sammy up? But if Dean turns around and walks out and drives around until enough time has passed for Sammy to compose himself and pretend this never happened, how long will it take for whatever the hell Sammy is feeling to gather in the base of him, curdle and turn corrosive and make him well and truly hate himself?
So Dean makes his decision, not on the basis of what’s good and what isn’t (his mind is screaming at him; incest and taboo and wrong) but for Sammy.
It’s always been for Sammy, anyway, and he’s probably going to hell already.
Dean tries to smile and say it’s okay, but it isn’t and it won’t ever be and he’s never been much of a liar when it comes to family anyway. So instead he takes a small step forwards and Sam chokes, chokes like whatever he’s feeling is gathering in his throat and cutting of his air, his life, and stumbles towards Dean with his arms outstretched.
Sammy presses his face into Dean’s neck, and Dean wraps his arms around him and can almost pretend it’s innocent. But then Sam tilts his head towards Dean’s, and Dean can’t give him that, he can’t, so he turns his head to the side and tries not to feel the sob that shakes both of them as Sam tucks his face into Dean’s collarbone.
Dean closes his eyes and prepares to take the plunge, taking Sammy’s hand and guiding it until it’s over his groin.
“Is this what you want, Sammy?”
Then Sam takes both of them into his hand and mouths ‘Dean’ over the skin of his neck, and Dean closes his eyes and tries to pretend his brother is no one.
Afterwards, it’s so easy - way too fucking easy, like maybe this is just another facet to themselves - to fall away from it after the act and clean up and make dinner. Sammy is sitting there eating spaghetti and canned meat sauce, and Dean is just waiting for the guilt and revulsion and self-loathing the overwhelm him and send him into the washroom to puke up his guts, only they…don’t.
The only moral qualm he’s having is the fact that he should be having more moral qualms, and how well and truly fucked up he is if he’s being this good about everything.
Sam looks up at him and smiles, actually smiles, with genuine happiness that Dean hasn’t seen in weeks, and Dean decides that whatever the fuck is going on, it’s okay in some sick, twisted way that isn’t okay at all, but this family in general is like a walking example of that, so whatever.
If God (who probably doesn’t exist anyway, but for arguments sake) has a problem with brothers loving too much, He and all His angels can damn well storm the shitty drywall kitchen Dean’s sitting in, because Dean’s sure as hell not repenting for something that may have helped Sammy.
Besides, they have a lot of shit to answer to.
.:.:.:.
When Dad comes back he takes Dean aside and asks what exactly Dean did to bring Sammy out of the darkest mood of many dark moods. Dean freezes and panic swirls in his chest, because Dad just doesn’t get it, doesn’t get that God and rules and taboo and the rest of the world isn’t his responsibility, Sam is, and that everything dims and fades to insignificance when it comes to that responsibility. Dad certainly wouldn’t understand, and Dean doesn’t even want to know what his reaction would be.
John Winchester’s eyes scan him (in this moment he isn’t Dad, he’s an outsider who shares Dean’s last name but nothing else with no understanding of how far the boy in front of him would go for his little brother, and no compassion to care) and Dean swallows, wonders if John’s eyes can see where Sammy pressed against him, where their skin brushed each others.
John’s eyes leave, and years of instinctual lying take over. “We just chilled, you know? The kid just needed a break.” This isn’t the first time Dean has had to conceal the truth from someone who doesn’t know and wouldn’t get it.
Dad nodded, and his face broke out into a smile. “You did good, Dean-o.”
The praise warms Dean, and he lets a smile grow. For about a second until Dad says that they’re leaving and Dean is put in charge of making sure everything is packed.
Damnit.
.:.:.:.
Things go back to normal, or as normal as can be considered in a hunter’s life.
The Winchesters drive around, looking for jobs, finding them, and taking care of them. They stay in motel rooms and wash their clothes in Laundromats and Sammy goes to school while Dean and Dad take the research he did the last night and put it to good use. They eat cheap take-out and watch bad pay-per-view and Dad, more often than not, starts to leave Dean to take care of Sam as he spends more and more time searching for the thing that brought them this life in the first place.
It’s not a bad life, if nothing else.
Dean can almost look at Sam without having flashbacks to the thing he isn’t going to think about that happened in the shitty cottage in Wyoming, can almost stop comparing the guys he brings to his own room to someone else.
It’s still an almost, so he takes more girls than anything else, because girls are soft and round with voices that are smooth even in desperation and long, painted nails and they almost always have longer hair than Sammy.
And it’s okay. Sammy smiles more than he bitchfaces, gets better marks than Dean ever did even before he started thinking of dropping out, and his nightmares seem to be kept to a minimum.
He even gets asked out by some girl to the semi-formal. She has bottle-blond hair and is at that age where she’s old enough to put on makeup but doesn’t how to wear it well yet. Her name is Kristen, and she’s the one who picks Sam up for the dance, effectively emasculating him forever in Dean’s insults. Her skirt and her shirt don’t look good together, because pink and red weren’t exactly made for each other, and she’s wearing beaten Mary Janes, and her glasses make her eyes slightly googly.
But when Sam opens the door and sees her standing there holding a paper flower made from gum wrappers, he smiles big and wide in a way that encompasses the stuff worth fighting for in the world, and Dean decides that she’s beautiful.
They leave for teenage merriment and awkward dancing, and some weight is suddenly gone off his chest that Dean didn’t even notice is gone.
The lack of it almost hurts.
.:.:.:.
Kristen is killed by a ghost in the high school four weeks later.
Sam is the one who salts and burns the remains, a bellyful of girlish tears hiding behind the poisonous glare he sends Dad.
For once, Dean almost wants to join in, only he doesn’t because he is Dean and John Winchester is his father, and Dean respects him even if he didn’t tell his youngest son his high school was haunted and let him learn the hard way to always look for signs, no matter where you are.
Dean helps Sam sneak into the funeral, and as Sam slides the paper flower into Kristen’s cold hands with veins empty of anything but chemicals, Dean feels the weight return, sliding over a place in his chest he might even call his heart.
Only it didn’t really leave, did it? Kristen just shared it with him.
.:.:.:.
Sam attempts to be quiet when he sneaks into Dean’s room later that night, only it doesn’t work because the kid shot up four inches in a month and he’s still getting used to having so much of himself. The adjustment period is not a graceful one.
Dean can tell from the set of Sam’s shoulders and the rough sound of his breathing that he was just crying, maybe still is, and Dean is relieved and alarmed.
Relieved because Sam is an absolute girl and cries over everything, so his lack of tears at the funeral was disconcerting.
Alarmed because at the end of the day she was only a girl, and not the first they’ve known to die. The jagged breathing and trembling hands and shaking shoulders speak of something much worse and it scares Dean shitless to know that Sammy’s hurting and not know why or how to help.
It’s like watching the house burn down all over again, having Sammy cry as they stare up at the flames consuming everything that matters and not being able to do anything but hold him.
“Sammy-”
He’s crawling in beside Dean now, pressing his face against Dean’s shoulder. He mumbles something, and curls into himself, going tense even as he clings to Dean.
Dean didn’t hear what Sam said and isn’t sure he wants to, so instead he keeps his silence and wraps his arms around his baby brother and lets his favourite Led Zeppelin shirt get covered in tears and snot. Sam calms down after a while, breathing in and out against Dean’s neck.
It brings up a flashback that he shouldn’t be thinking about, so he pushes that delightful thought to the back of his head and focuses on Sammy.
“Are you done?” Sam nods, and hiccups once. Dean smiles and tries not to sound as relieved as he is. “Good.”
Only it’s not, because Dean doesn’t know what the problem is and he can’t fix it if he doesn’t know what it is. “What was that about?”
Sam stiffens. Dean can feel each muscle in Sam’s body tense and strain under the weight of whatever is going on through his mind where he is pressed against Dean.
“Sammy? R’you in trouble or something? Was Kristen pregnant? What?” A tired slur is starting to creep into Dean’s voice even as he tries to shake it off, because fuck sleep, Sammy needs him. Dean really hopes that his shot in the dark with Kristen is wrong. Not only would that mean that Sam is de-hymenized at fifteen, but that would also mean he just lost his child, and Dean doesn’t know if there’s even a scope for that kind of pain.
Sam chokes, and Dean worries he might have just opened the floodgates again (and fuck, what if he guessed right? God, what could he do to make that better?).
“Sam?”
“I’m just so fucked up, Dean. I’m a whole new level of freak.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, to ask ‘what the hell is going through your head, Sam?’ but Sam rises on one elbow above him and Dean is frozen.
Sam’s face is a mixture of anger and anguish as he leans over Dean. He moves closer, so much closer until Dean can feel Sam’s breath puffing over his lips. Sam’s eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot as he looks down at Dean.
“She had your eyes.” And then Sam is demolishing the space between them, moulding his lips against Dean’s.
Dean freezes, because he’d already decided this was the one thing he couldn’t give Sammy. But that was a stupid thought, because there is nothing, nothing he won’t give to Sam, nothing so important he’d choose it over Sam. Not even the world.
Dean reciprocates, gives Sam everything he has to give and whatever else he can find in the air around them as Sam moves over him, sliding and gasping and mumbling a mantra of Dean’s name and professions of self-loathing.
He kisses those words away, mumbles lies of how this is fine, how everything is fine, into Sam’s skin as he palms Sam’s skinny, angular hips through flannel pyjama pants.
Sam collapses next to Dean afterwards, pressing himself even closer than before.
“Are you…are you really okay with this?” The with me tacked onto the end is left unsaid, but Dean knows it’s there. Sam’s tone is hopeful, like Dean will give him the world if his next words are right.
So Dean makes a decision. He lies.
“Yeah, Sam.”
[In a few years, Dean will look back and remember Sam’s confession, his declaration of this ‘whole new level of freak’ and he will laugh a whiskey-and-bitterness soaked sound, because those kids didn’t have a clue as to what was coming for them.
Yeah, God has a lot of shit to answer too.]
***
A/N: I don’t even really like Wincest that much, but this plot bunny just infected my brain. There might even be a sequel. Tell me what you think!