Blue Skies From Rain Part 3 - Chapter 12

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As they sat down, Dr. Baylor came in and took a chair, and behind him, Randy came in and stared at Sam. Right away, Dean could feel that Group was going to be more obnoxious than it usually was.

“I want to sit over there,” said Randy, announcing it. He pointed at Dean although he was looking at Sam, creating a little princess drama about the new guy.

“Dean,” said Dr. Baylor, “would you mind being flexible today?” He looked at Dean and pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the circle. Away from Sam.

“Why doesn’t Randy ever have to be flexible?” Dean asked, not moving. Beside him, Sam’s body stiffened as he shrank behind Dean. It made Sam uncomfortable to be the source of a confrontation. Dean felt the heat start to boil behind his eyes.

“Pardon?” asked Dr. Baylor looking up from his clipboard.

“Last time I had to be flexible. This time it’s his turn.” It sounded so stupid, like he was one of those idiots, someone like Randy who always wanted it their way. Like he was one of these men who belonged in a place like this because they couldn’t handle being all grown up in the outside world. But he’d rather be like that than let Mr. Pointy Fingers get his way again. Besides, he couldn’t leave Sam.

“I see,” said Dr. Baylor. He wrote something down on his clipboard. Probably something about Dean being inflexible. “Everyone please take a seat. Randy, you can sit by me.”

Beaming, Randy sat down, his chin up as he settled into the prize spot.

“Alright, Randy, we’ll start with you. How did you feel about not getting what you wanted?”

Without taking a breath, Randy started in, staring at Sam. “He almost killed that guy he put in the dryer,” said Mr. Pointy Fingers. “He had to go to the infirmary.”

“And you feel angry about that?” asked Dr. Baylor. He was balancing his clipboard over his crossed knees, looking like he was taking a break on a park bench. “It didn’t happen to you, did it?”

“He might do it to me,” said Mr. Pointy Fingers, actually pointing this time. “I don’t want him to do it to me; that guy had a bandage on his forehead the next day.”

“So you feel empathy for this other guy, Randy?” asked Dr. Baylor. “Empathy is a good emotion to have, it means that-.”

Taking a deep breath, Randy broke in. “I can see it in his eyes, if he gets me alone he might stuff me in the dryer, or if Mr. Neland isn’t looking, he might rape me in the laundry room.”

Beside him, Sam stiffened, looking like he felt too big for the chair, the room even, and every single face in the circle was turned towards him.

“Now, Randy, it’s unfortunate that you have to use such strong language, but Sam has never done anything bad to you, and when he was angry and things got out of control, yes that was bad. But Sam’s better now, why do you still think he would hurt you?”

Everyone shifted in their seats like they were watching a tennis match, but at least they were looking at Randy now.

“Look at his hands, his shoulders. He’s so big, he could pin me against the wall and take down my pants and-”

Dean stood up, outrage building in his chest so hard and so fast, he couldn’t stop it. “Maybe you want it, you little fucker, maybe that’s all you think about because-”

Randy shrank back, his eyes sparkling.

“Dean,” said Dr. Baylor, looking calmly at the group. “Dean is upset because he’s protecting his friend. He’s expressing empathy for Sam’s situation. Randy is projecting his fears about change onto Sam, which is-”

“This is bullshit,” said Dean. “You need to shut him up, not encourage him.” He whirled on Dr. Baylor, who had enough balls to look Dean straight in the eye.

“And you need to sit down, Dean.” Dr. Baylor pointed towards the red panic button behind him on the wall. In three seconds flat, there might be two orderlies banging through the door to take Dean away; he didn’t want that. Didn’t like it, but a twitch of Dr. Baylor’s finger in warning was all it took.

Dean sat down, feeling the muscles in his face twist, his mouth tight. He couldn’t even look at Sam.

“Strong emotions are difficult to deal with,” said Dr. Baylor to the group, “but they are appropriate when we feel threatened by something new or different. Handling things through violence is not appropriate, however, no matter what the provocation.”

Dean’s stomach felt sick with it, not figuring things out fast enough and getting them out of there. Letting some pervert lash out at Sam He leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, elbows digging into his knees, not participating anymore. He didn’t care. They could give him all the black marks they wanted, could scowl and write things down on their crappy clipboards. It was so out of his control, with every step he took, every advance he made, someone came along and grabbed that out of his hands and made him go backwards. He had to get them out of there.

Beside him, while Dr. Baylor droned on and actually encouraged someone other than Randy to speak, Sam shifted in his chair. The attention of the room wasn’t on either of them, so that was good, but Dean didn’t have the energy to lift his head. Then he felt something on his leg, and looked down. Sam’s fingers had tucked themselves in to the top of his thigh, behind Dean’s elbow, resting like a little lifeline. Dean reached down with his opposite hand, tucking it low, curling his fingers around Sam’s.

Sam’s hand was warm and firm and strong in his. Screw what anyone thought, they were already thinking it anyway, what did it matter. What mattered was Sam, reaching out like that. Especially after Sam’s attentiveness of the day before, even if no one wrote it down on a chart, or even noticed it, Sam coming out of his own head like that was an advance. One that no one, not even Dr. Logan, could take away.

After Group, the day dragged like it had weights attached to it, and Dean was heartily sick of the walls and the smell and the sounds. The laundry room was boiling hot, and Sam sticking close to his side while they folded didn’t make it any cooler, but Dean didn’t move away. Across the room, Randy, who was making himself look busy by assuming himself to be Neland’s assistant, eyed them constantly, watching Sam. Frowning the whole time.

Dean could see Sam trying to shrug it off, literally, shrugging his shoulders, and moving his neck to ease the tension there. Acting like he couldn’t see Randy, looking only at Dean, or the towels in his hands.

The roar of the dryers kept them from talking much, but at one lull, Sam dipped his head in Dean’s direction, like he wanted to say something.

“I would never do that to you,” said Sam.

“Never do what?” Dean asked, tipping his head to hear better.

“Never without your permission.”

The dryers started up again and all the washing machines joined in the din, and they couldn’t talk. Dean couldn’t figure out what Sam meant, or why he would need permission, or what he wouldn’t do without it. So he folded towels, tried to enjoy being warm for once, wondered what was for supper. Thought about the broken window, and how he could figure out where that storeroom was in relation to their room. How he could get some wire to pick the locks on the doors, how many locked doors were between them and the storeroom. And why, finally, they couldn’t just waltz out the front door?

Dean knew that sometimes the best strategies came out of idle thoughts, so he let them occupy him while they folded. Then the chime rang for lunch, and they lined up to march down the hall. At one point, some other group, going in a different direction, moved too close to their line. Sam, in front of Dean, moved to the outside, so when someone bumped him in the shoulder, Dean was shielded from banging in the wall. Sam had probably seen it from his great height, the collision coming at them, however small, and had moved so that Dean wouldn’t get smashed.

Up against the wall.

They were in line to get food when Dean got it. It had come from what Randy had said, the little pervert, about Sam shoving him against the wall and taking his pants down, about Sam having his wicked way with him. Flat out rape was apparently Randy’s fantasy, back alley style, up against a wall. Not something Sam wouldn’t do, but something Sam said he wouldn’t do without Dean’s permission.

For a second, his mind tried to organize around the mechanics of sex that way, standing up, then his stomach lurched and his feet got tangled somehow, landing him against Sam, who turned to look at him, pushing him away with an elbow. Dean started up at him, thinking about what Sam wanted, what Sam had never said he wanted, but what he’d been thinking about. A few kisses, getting him clean of the meds, and wham, his libido was back in action. All well and good, except his sole focus was Dean. Sometimes what Sam wanted, Dean decided as he got his tray of food, was not good for either of them. A bath was one thing. Fantasies about this sort of thing, no way.

*

At lunch there was no desert, and without the meds clouding his taste buds, the slices of meatloaf tasted like the pile of creamed corn that tasted like little mushy pebbles. The milk was cool, at least, but the bread was hard as a rock, and everything tasted exactly like nothing. A dull grey nothing. That taste might have a color might interest Miss Windle a great deal, but it just left Dean starving. He made himself eat a little of everything, both to keep prying eyes at bay and because he’d regret it later if he didn’t. There was no walking down the road to the nearest gas station or bar for a late snack, not when there were at least three doors between him and the outside.

He’d counted them. Locked door to dorm room, locked door to ward, locked door to outside. It might be that the door between them and the stairwell was locked but it didn’t make much difference if it was. Four doors, tops.

“What are you thinking about,” asked Sam. He was pushing around his food as if he too found the fare a little grey.

“Counting doors,” he said, not stopping to think how strange it sounded. Apparently no stranger than Sam spouting off about blue men and vampires, because Sam just nodded.

“Why are you thinking about that?”

Dean nibbled on his roll, licking the icy butter off a corner and thought about it. It was probably best not to tell Sam quite yet about the escape plan. Not just because it was still a vague outline in Dean’s head but because Sam was still pretty devoted to the idea that this place would get him better.

Though, recently, he’d been looking at Dean with eyes that were filled with the unswerving belief that that was due in large part to Dean himself. Large, little brother eyes had been tracking him since Sam could focus; Dean tried not to squirm at the thought of those eyes focusing with memories of them kissing and narrowing with something more akin to hate and disgust. He had to take it slow. He had to get Sam and him out of there, and then, well, after then, they could straighten everything out.

“No reason,” he said, finally, swallowing the last of his milk. “Just a lot of doors in this place, is all.”

“You should think about windows instead,” said Sam, echoing Dean’s movements with his own.

They finished their meal, and then picked up their trays and took them to the counter and then got in line with the other men, where they trundled down the slick hall to the Day room.

*

They worked outside in the afternoon, in the chilly air and the straggled sunshine, shoveling gravel and spreading it out along the front drive with long, dull-edged hoes. The fence didn’t go beyond the cream-colored sides of the hospital. The front of the hospital grounds had no borders, so there were more orderlies than usual, though just as many patients. Dean had volunteered to shovel the gravel into the wheelbarrow and haul it to various areas along the drive, and Sam thought that made sense, because Dean seemed more coordinated and alert than most of the patients. Though, truth be told, since they were taking fewer meds each day, Sam felt more alert too.

It was nice to be in the sunshine and air, watching Dean handle the shovel, watching him take off his jacket and lay it along the edge of the grass, muscles standing up beneath his short-sleeved cotton shirt as he hefted the two handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it along. He was enjoying himself, it was easy to see. It was the way his body moved, easing out from stiffness as he hefted and pushed, his shoulders going back. Sam saw him take in a deep breath, saw him smiling to himself.

Compared to Dean as he passed out shovelfuls of gravel, the other patients seemed to be moving in slow-motion. Their hoes moved one or two pieces of gravel, their eyes were dull, their hands clumsy as though their fingers were thick and numb, picking up a handful of gravel only to put it down a mere six inches away, if that.

The orderlies watched and advised, and everyone was calm. The orderlies stood about, talking to each other sometimes, and no one seemed worried that the job wasn’t getting done, that half the drive was still almost completely bald and that the other half was still speckled with grass. But the patients were smiling, and even Bellows wasn’t eating anything, and it was so pleasant, that finally Sam figured it out. The point wasn’t to have the patients do a great job, the point was to get them working, to make them feel productive. That’s why no one had ever filed a lawsuit, because it just didn’t matter.

As he hunkered down near the edge of the drive to pick bits of gravel that had fallen in the grass and put them back in the driveway, he wasn’t sure, why he’d not figured it out before. His head felt much clearer today, so the decrease in meds must be the reason. The memories of the zombies and vampires and the blue man were just as certain as ever, and not a lie, no matter what Miss Windle said, but he felt sure that if someone, anyone other than Dean, were to ask him about them? He’d be able to keep his mouth shut, no problem.

After an hour or two, the patients had slowed down to moving at zero miles an hour, the clouds were starting to get riled up as the wind moved the tops of the trees with wet, smacking sounds. The backs of his legs were starting to feel the effects of all the bending and stooping, and there was even dirt under his nails. As for Dean, as he reached his arms overhead to stretch out his back, Sam realized there were sweat marks under his arms and along his spine.

Sam stood up and went over to Dean, the smudges on Dean’s face coming into focus, the edge of sweat along his neck dotted with dust. One of the orderlies was saying something to him, but as Sam came close, Dean was smiling and only at Sam. This made Sam smile in return, it was almost hard not to, and he thought about how Dean had been right about the meds, and then Dean licked his bottom lip with his tongue.

Sam stopped, frozen for a minute, feeling something nice rush through him, like it was getting reading, anticipating something. Even his cock hardened, waiting for it, and he remembered the other night, when he’d been drying Dean off, there at Dean’s feet, looking up. He’d been rubbing Dean’s legs, and Dean’s stomach had twitched as his cock, nestled among the nest of dark curly hair along his thighs, had started getting stiff.

Just then, Sam had remembered what that felt like, how it felt good if you could do something with all that hardness. How Dean’s face had flushed a little, how he’d looked over Sam’s head at the bathroom wall. How he’d said enough, and how his mouth had thinned. How Sam’s own body had stirred, but in a far-off way, from a distance, with only the whisper of warmth between his legs, the soft sigh of something building pleasantly in his stomach.

Now that feeling was back again, that curling, warm thing, but stronger, and Dean was only inches away. Fully dressed this time, but looking at him, smiling, his lips wet. And the memory of how they’d tasted when Sam had kissed him that night, to be nice, to settle Dean down, to keep him from crying too hard. Those kisses had tasted like salt, had tasted sad, and Sam didn’t think Dean had really enjoyed them, for all his body had been warm and curving beneath Sam’s. He felt like he needed to fix that.

“Everybody pile your tools over here,” said the nearest orderly, loud in Sam’s ears, “and let’s see if we can actually get inside before it starts raining this time.”

They got in line, and Dean was close by, so Sam could smell his sweat, and thought about how familiar it was, and again, how Dean had told them they’d known each other a long time. He could never get Dean to tell him about his brother, but maybe he would some day. Or maybe he would remember on his own. In the meantime, they followed the line, and got their pills, and palmed most of them. They sat side by side at the round table, and ate their supper, not saying much. Dean dug into the lasagna, only to make a face when it turned out to taste not as good as he’d obviously been expecting it.

“When I get out of here,” he said, low, to Sam. “The first thing I’m going to do is eat some real food. Chipped Beef on Toast. Day old hash. I don’t care. Just something that tastes like something. You know?”

Sam nodded, even though the idea of Dean’s wanting to leave stirred him into confusion. He knew that he needed to be at the hospital, because that’s where he would get better. That’s what the doctor’s said; Dr. Logan, especially, was always harping about it. On the other hand, being off the meds, like Dean suggested they do, was making him feel better every day. More alert and aware. Balanced. Being with Dean, every day, made him feel good. He watched Dean take a swallow of milk, watched him lick his lips. Milk was the only thing that tasted good in this place. Sam copied Dean and drank some milk, too.

In the Day room they were able to snag a table, and Dean picked out a new puzzle for them to work on. It was a picture of a castle, filled with grey bricks and puffy white clouds, and with far too many pieces to make it suitable for crazy people. As Dean set everything up, Sam looked at him.

“Doesn’t this puzzle seem a little too complicated for a mental institution?” he asked, reaching for the straight-edged pieces. All green, the many, many parts of the trees around the castle. “I mean-”

“Yeah,” said Dean with a soft laugh that swirled into Sam’s brain, like a sweet breeze. “If you weren’t crazy when you came in, you’d be crazy pretty fast working on one of these.”

The look he gave Sam seemed to say that he was pleased that Sam had figured this out on his own, making Sam wonder what else he was supposed to figure out. Whether Dean smiled at him on purpose, licking his lips like he’d done because he wanted Sam to think about that, to do something about that. Maybe he did. There was only one way to find out.

*

Once they were locked in their room, Sam realized he felt tired. Pleasantly so, in a normal way, the way you were supposed to feel tired after working outdoors all afternoon. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, with Dean at his side, brushing his teeth, content to tip back his head and gargle, rolling his eyes at Sam, wide, to remind Sam how obnoxious he could be. This was a familiar sight, Sam realized, something he knew about Dean from before, the memory sparking along his brain like it was trying to pick other memories up as it went.

“Must you do that?” he asked, in mock irritation.

Dean just smiled around the foam in his mouth as he spit into the sink and turned on the tap to rinse it away. Then as Dean bent down, and started washing his face, Sam saw the line of grit along his neck.

“Hey,” he said. “I could give you a bath, if you want.” Completely ignoring the fact that he wanted to be able to crouch at Dean’s feet and rub his legs with the towel. To see Dean look down at him with his eyes sparking, his mouth, lush and damp.

“No you can’t,” said Dean, straightening up. “You can’t hold the soap, goofball.”

Sam thought about this as he spit into the sink, too. “Actually, I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean dried his face on one of the towels so his words came out a bit muffled. When he pulled the towel away, his hair was standing up in glistening spikes.

“I’m only not supposed to touch the soap if I’m going to eat it,” he said, reaching around Dean to dry his hands. His arm brushed against Dean’s shoulder, which was warm. He wanted to press into it, but made himself wait. “But, if I’m not going to eat it, if I don’t want to eat it, which I don’t, then it’s okay.”

“Told you getting off the meds would help,” said Dean, smug. He started walking out of the bathroom, but Sam stopped him with a tug on his sleeve.

“So let me give you a bath, then. You worked today, you’re all sweaty.” He thought that maybe it sounded like he didn’t want to sleep with a sweaty Dean, but he didn’t care about that. He just wanted to take care of Dean like Dean had taken care of him. Plus, running his hands across Dean’s bare skin was nice, for him and for Dean. Even if Dean hadn’t said anything like that, when he’d done it before, Sam had almost been able to hear Dean purring.

“It’ll feel nice,” he said now, watching Dean’s face as Dean turned around toward him.

“I don’t need a bath,” said Dean. “If I do, I can give myself one.”

“It’ll be okay,” said Sam, not sure why Dean was being so reluctant. “It’ll help you sleep better.”

He turned and bent along side the tub, turning on both tabs full bore. As he put the rubber stopper in the drain, he could hear Dean shifting behind him, but it didn’t sound like Dean was taking off his clothes. He looked up. Yes, he was at Dean’s feet, where he’d thought about being earlier, but Dean wasn’t smiling. His eyes looked a little dark, hooded beneath his eyebrows, and he wasn’t smiling.

“Please?” asked Sam, over the thunder of the water coming from the tap. “You’ve been doing everything for me, let me-” he stopped a minute, thinking of how to phrase it. “You can’t be the only one doing all the helping, the nice things.” He paused again and then gathered his breath. “It’ll make me feel like I’m getting better. Dr. Logan said that part of getting better was being able to think about someone else, to help them, and-”

“Okay, oaky,” said Dean, almost throwing up his hands as he gave in. “Jesus, okay already.” He started peeling off his pants as he toed off his shoes and socks, like he was eager in spite of the edge to his voice. “Then I’ll give you one.”

“No,” said Sam. He tested the temperature of the water with his hand. “I didn’t work very hard. You did. This is for you.”

He turned his head away from the tub and saw the last of the expression on Dean’s face before he pulled his shirt over his head. There’d been something wide around his eyes, like surprise, and pleasure, like he wanted what Sam was offering only he didn’t want to admit it. Stubborn, that’s what Dean was.

He watched the tub fill the rest of the way, which, given the height of the drain, wasn’t very far, then stood up and turned off the taps, reaching for the soap along the sink and the washcloth on the towel rack. Dean looked a little chilly, with his bare feet on the bathroom tile, his shoulders curled forward like he was cold. And yes, there were little goose bumps along his shoulders. Sam touched one and thought about how nice the bath would feel. Even though it wasn’t as warm as it could be, there was still a little steam rising up in the air above the surface.

Dean drew away from his hand a little bit, but got in the tub without pushing Sam out of the way. He wasn’t looking at Sam as he did this, and Sam tried not to stare, but his eyes followed the length of Dean’s ribs, which glittered with dirt and sweat, and the hollow where the skin dipped in around his hip. Dean’s cock seemed interested in the warm water at any rate, dark against the pale of Dean’s thighs. Dean made a low sound as he lowered himself into the water, his hands along the sides of the tub.

Sam knelt down, getting the washcloth wet, dipping the soap, and lathering it up in his hands. He started washing Dean’s neck, wrapping the soapy cloth along the curve of Dean’s neck as the water streaked down his back, leaving thin, white trails along his spine. Dean wasn’t looking at him, and was holding himself up, hands still gripping the edges of the tub like he didn’t quite like it. But Sam didn’t let that stop him, he ran the cloth along Dean’s arms, and under his arms, dipping it into the water as often as he could, moving the soap with his other hand until the back of Dean’s upper body was sheened in white.

He let the soap melt down Dean’s back, and shifted on his haunches till he was facing Dean’s front, lathering up the cloth and raising it to scrub along the front of Dean’s neck, and down his chest. That’s when he saw Dean’s eyelids fluttering, almost half shut, his mouth softly open; he didn’t even know how tired he was, how relaxing this was. But his body would know, and would finally get the message to his brain, if Sam didn’t screw it up and start talking like he wanted to.

Sometimes, he remembered a voice saying, it’s okay to shut up, Sam. It might have been his brother’s voice, it was certainly different than the other voice. But it was kind, even though it sounded mean, because it felt like there was affection in it. And truth. So Sam listened to it and clamped his mouth shut, and scrubbed at Dean’s chest and his sides, dipping a bit lower, till he could feel the curve of Dean’s hip beneath the cloth, and this seemed to bring Dean to life.

“Could you, um, just wash my hair instead?” This said low, guttural, like Dean could barely get his throat working.

Sam smiled but obliged, working the soap through Dean’s hair, bringing up the washcloth, only slightly soapy, to wring out over the top of Dean’s head, sending a little waterfall running down over his head and his ears, down his back, and finally Dean sighed.

“That was-do that again, okay?”

Sam did it several times, till the soap was rinsed away, and the water was getting cold. Sam wrung the washcloth out over Dean’s shoulders, and his front, using his hands to scoop more water, till finally Dean opened his eyes.

“Put a fork in me,” he said, half smiling. “Man. I could sleep right here.”

Just to tease him, Sam reached down, ignoring Dean’s legs as they stiffened against his arm, and pulled out the plug. The water rushed past Dean’s body to get down the drain, and Dean stood up fast. A little too fast, unsteady as the blood obviously couldn’t keep up. Sam grasped his arm to steady him, and Dean’s look of thanks was again hooded, but warmer now, like it couldn’t quite make a joke of it or brush it off. Like Dean needed this, needed exactly what Sam had given him.

“Towel,” said Dean, stepping out of the tub, not saying please. Sam didn’t care. He pulled the towel from off the rack and started rubbing Dean’s hair and his neck and his shoulders. At one point, Dean tried to reach for the towel but Sam batted his hand away.

“Just let me do this,” he said, continuing on. But he made it businesslike, so as not to make Dean stiffen up and draw away. He wanted Dean to relax, so he handed Dean the towel and went to get their p.j.’s. When he got back to the bathroom, the warmth of the bathwater was already dissipating, and Dean seemed to shiver as he finished drying himself off and put on the p.j.’s. Sam put his on as well, and took their dirty clothes and put them by the door where the orderly could get them in the morning.

Outside in the hallway, the chime sounded, and Sam looked at Dean. The lights would go off in a minute or two, but, like he’d told Dean before, he wasn’t going to do something that wasn’t wanted. If Dean didn’t say yes because he didn’t understand, then Sam would ask him out loud if he could sleep with Dean. After that, with as relaxed as Dean was and as wound up as Sam felt, who knew what cool things could happen.

“Okay,” said Dean, with a little smile, “just don’t hog all the covers like you do. Like you always do.” This little bit of mock drama and irritation was accompanied by a sweep of Dean’s arm, but as Sam moved close, Dean didn’t move away. “And no snoring either.”

“I don’t snore,” said Sam, climbing into the bed as Dean got the pillow and blanket from the other bed. “You snore.”

“Do not.”

“Do.”

“Not.”

“Do.”

It was comfortable and familiar and Sam liked to watch Dean slide into bed because that felt safe and normal and right. Just right. It was hard to put into words, but then, obeying the voice from earlier, he didn’t have to. Just wait until the lights went out, which they did, making it seem like the temperature in the room dropped several degrees very quickly. He moved a little towards Dean, shy for a minute until he realized how warm Dean was. Then he plastered himself up and down along Dean’s side, pushing until Sam heard a sigh in the darkness and felt Dean lift his arm so Sam could scoot even closer and put his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Which is where he’d wanted to be all day. This was the best part of his day, this moment right here.

By Dean’s breathing he could tell Dean was relaxing into sleep, so it might be alright if he just reached out his hand and touched. Yes, it might be alright if he just stroked his hand like this. Yes. He reached across Dean and petted his arm, slowly, up and down, up and down, liking the slight friction of his hand against the cotton cloth. Liking the faint sound Dean made, like he didn’t realize he was doing it. Then he moved his hand up to Dean’s shoulder, and followed the path down the side of his chest, clear like it had been drawn out for him. Dean’s muscles over his ribs expanded and contracted in an even, assuring rhythm.

Another sigh from Dean. “Wha’re you doing, Sam?”

“Helping you fall asleep,” said Sam. Which was partly true, because if that’s what this did, then fine. Then he amended that to include anything else that might happen. “Taking care of you. Like you do for me.”

“I’m good,” said Dean, but it came out a mumble as he raised his hand and tried to push Sam’s hand away. Sam felt that, let his hand be pushed, and continued petting, even and slow, across Dean’s ribs, across his chest.

Then Dean said, “Hey, now,” and pushed again, and as Sam’s hand moved down Dean’s body, he felt the slight dip of Dean’s stomach with his fingers, and, along the outside edge of his palm, the heat and hardness from Dean’s groin.

As Sam tucked his hand up, out of the way, flattening it across Dean’s chest muscles, Dean stiffened a bit, his whole body a little tighter along the length of Sam’s body, and Sam felt Dean’s head turn on the pillow. He looked up and saw that Dean was looking at right him in the near dark, the light from the window shining across Dean’s eyes.

“I’m all relaxed and stuff. That’s all.”

“I could relax you more,” said Sam. He thought he remembered how it could feel to be that relaxed, to take the hardness that the body could make and turn it into something soft and warm and sleepy. And nice. So very nice.

“I don’t-” said Dean. Then he stopped. “No, okay? Just no.”

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Sam. “Here you are. Here we are. So why not?”

“You’re my-” And then he stopped again, something blocking the rest of his words as if with all the force of a granite dam.

“I’m your Sam,” said Sam, finishing Dean’s sentence for him. He thought about the little dip beside Dean’s mouth that formed when he was thinking and thought nobody was watching. Or when he was trying not to smile because he thought somebody was. Sam leaned in and cupped his hand around Dean’s face, pulling it close. He didn’t stop to think about it, just leaned in and flicked out his tongue to lick it. Landed pretty close, and tasted Dean, felt his mouth open.

“Sam, what the hell.”

“I’m taking care of you, Dean,” said Sam.

“Sam,” said Dean. “Before we ended up in the loony bin, we liked girls. I know you don’t remember that, but we did.”

“Fine,” said Sam, pushing closer, and feeling Dean not pull away, at least not much, was not deterred. “But I like you now.” And realized it was true. He had vague images of girls, their soft lines and liquid eyes. And breasts, yes he remembered those. But only in a faceless, nameless way. They were nothing like what he had next to him now, angular and hard, muscles pushing strength outward with every move they made. “I like you.”

He breathed the last word with kisses, and curved in to touch the side of Dean’s mouth with his, to flick his tongue again, to taste the moistness of Dean’s mouth, opening. Realized he was shaking pretty hard now, hard himself, his head spinning a little as sharp currents started to build up everywhere.

It was overwhelming, because for as long as he could remember, not very long, all he’d felt was numbness. Or fear. Now he had something new to feel, and while it had seemed a good idea at the time, now he didn’t know what to do with it. If he couldn’t let it all go, if he couldn’t spread it all over Dean, it might build up inside of him and maybe it would become like acid and eat him from the inside out. Which would hurt, hurt so badly, maybe he would cry, and then they would-

With a sharp sound in his throat, Sam pushed away and tried to sit up, but his legs were trapped among Dean’s legs, and his arm was shaking so much it wouldn’t quite support his weight. All he could do was push back, till his spine was flat against the cold wall. The sheets fell away, and the blanket, leaving him shivering in the chilly air, the darkness coming down like a cloak. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of those unproductive things Dr. Logan warned against. Like waiting in a dark hallway with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. Where had he learned to shoot a gun? And why the hell was he chasing something so fucking scary that he not only wanted to pee himself over, but that he couldn’t bring himself to give a name to?

Someone was whispering in the dark, the voice coming closer, and there were hands on his shoulders, soft and warm. Solid. Sam made himself open his eyes because of course you had to watch where the monsters were coming from. But it wasn’t a monster. It was Dean, bending close, pulling Sam away from the wall, his mouth moving, sounds that were gentle reaching out to Sam. He could feel his own heart thudding in his veins, the sweat cooling fast along the back of his neck. Dean’s skin was warm.

“Sam,” said Dean. “You okay? Here. Put your head back on the pillow. Put your-here.” He moved Sam bodily lifting him for a second, and then back down, flat on the mattress. Hovered over Sam. “What happened there?” he asked. “You kind of, uh, freaked out.”

Sam closed his eyes for a second, and swallowed, trying to breathe slow. “I just wanted to touch you, and have you touch me,” he said, low. “It was too much, and I was afraid you wouldn’t, and then, I would get eaten by acid. From the inside.” He covered his face with his hand, his palm almost too hot, feeling incredibly stupid, hearing how bizarre the words sounded, knowing he couldn’t explain himself more than that.

“Acid?” Dean’s voice rose.

“I know,” said Sam, the words tumbling out of him like bitter pellets. “I might be crazy, I get that. Maybe I should go back on the pills, you know? Maybe Dr. Logan is right, maybe that’ll help. Maybe I won’t be so weird then. Maybe when you go away-”

“Sam,” said Dean. He pushed Sam’s hand away, his hand covering the side of Sam’s face, warm and still. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you behind. Besides, you don’t need those stupid pills. Not when you’re more yourself when you’re not on them. And you have me, so you don’t need those.”

Sam could feel Dean’s breath stirring, somewhere close, but he didn’t want to open his eyes and look. Dean’s body was warm and close and still, and he didn’t want to make it go away, didn’t want Dean to push him away again. But he had to know.

“Where is it? In your head?” Dean’s fingers pressed into Sam’s scalp, but gently.

“No,” said Sam. His lips felt thick. “It’s here, something all built up and pushing and behind that there’s this wall of acid-” His voice actually quavered as he said this. It was still there, he could feel it, and it was freaking him out because it was going to start eating him-

He reached up his hand to touch Dean’s hand, squeezing hard, like it was a lifeline.

Dean’s whole body twitched at the touch of Sam’s hand. He seemed to pause, then pulled Sam’s hand down to rest against his chest.

“I’ll get rid of it,” said Dean. Like he’d made up his mind to do it and that was that.

Before he could draw another breath, Dean had moved, his thighs, dense and muscled, his chest, pressing on Sam, hands on either side of Sam’s face. Without preamble, kissing Sam, his mouth a little salty, damp, light kisses on Sam’s mouth. Sam sighed, and Dean’s hand reached down between Sam’s legs.

“This is what you need, right?” he heard Dean ask. Sam nodded, feeling the acid shoot out of his body, his mind’s eye seeing the streaks, feeling the clean spaces left behind. Felt Dean’s hand on his cock, outside of his p.j.’s and boxers, felt the shift of Dean’s body so that his thigh was between Sam’s legs. “I’ll do this for you,” said Dean, “and then we’ll sleep. No more acid, okay? It’ll be all gone.”

He thought he might tell Dean that the acid was leaving, had left, that even the notion of it being an issue was already a hazy, distant idea that didn’t bother him now, but as Dean moved his hand up Sam’s stomach and slipped it next to his skin, he locked the thought away. He didn’t want Dean to stop, and if he told him the truth, Dean would. It was better this way, better to have Dean’s hand on him, stroking him slowly. Fingers curving around his cock and pulling, the angle strange and almost backward, but the awkwardness of it felt good, a little jerky, Dean’s movements unexpected and startling as the good heat started to build in Sam’s stomach and spread everywhere. Everywhere.

Dean rested his head on Sam’s shoulder, Sam could feel the muscles in Dean’s arm as it moved across his stomach, bunching with each stroke. Felt Dean’s breath, and sank into that, into the sparks and friction coming up from his groin, moisture building, Dean’s hot mouth on his neck. Stroke, and stroke, and stroke, Dean’s fingers gripping his cock and sliding up and down, and Dean pulling him, little flicks of his thumb, and Sam leaned his head down to find Dean’s mouth with his. Heard the small utter of protest, and swallowed that, tasting Dean, and all at once, there was a little explosion in his head, and heat pouring out of his cock. Like jets of heat.

If he remembered women and their softness, he’d forgotten this, the whiteness everywhere, and it was a little like acid, only when it burned, it burned away clean and left something good behind. Something boneless, like tumbling, and when he could take a breath, Dean was leaving soft pets along his limp cock, and pulling up Sam’s boxers and his p.j.’s, putting everything back into place.

Sam’s head felt like it weighed as much as his whole body, but he moved it down till it was resting on Dean’s shoulder, where he liked it to be. Dean curved his arm around Sam and pulled them close, their bodies like one warm line under the covers.

“Better?” asked Dean.

“Uh.” It was all Sam could manage. He felt like he’d been washed clean, inside and out. “Now you,” he said, thinking if he could just lift his head, he could take care of Dean much better. Now that he knew what it all meant. “Your turn.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Dean. Firm.

Under Sam’s arm, Dean’s stomach tightened. He pushed Sam’s away in the dark, and Sam had to let it, because he had absolutely no energy, just the pulsing warmth in his stomach and the easy silence in his head. He pulled his leg up and over Dean’s thighs, and Dean let it stay there, like he liked the weight of it, and then he settled his arm over Dean’s stomach, where he could feel the tension settle out of it.

“Is all the acid gone?” asked Dean now as the air became still around them, the dark quiet.

“Yeah,” Sam said, barely managing this. “Like it never was. You dissolved it, Dean. All of it.”

He heard Dean give a little huff in his throat, almost like laughter, patting Sam with the flat of his hand, but lazy, like Dean was almost asleep himself. Sam let himself settle into sleep, thinking that he would make it Dean’s turn next time, because everyone deserved to feel this boneless, this good. Acid free and sleepy and calm. Dean needed it too, only he probably didn’t realize it. Like Sam hadn’t. Till Dean showed him. His Dean.

Chapter 13

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post