FIC: In media res
Oh my darling Clementine...
This is what I did instead of finishing my abouttwoboys. Which I will finish, and then dedicate the rest of my energy to Big Bang and Sweet Charity.
I tried to make this user-friendly for those who haven't seen the movie, and I hope it is. This is rife with time/place/mind jumps throughout, just so you know.
Title: In media res
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC, implied Sam/OMC
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,320
Theme: ELO - Mr. Blue Sky
Notes: Fusion with/based around the movie Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, AU from the Pilot. Indented sections take place inside Dean's head.
Thanks: The lovely wendy and incomparable rejeneration for beta(s)!! ETA: And thanks to the wonderful dark_reaction for giving me the Dean pseudonym. :D
Summary: Dean meets Sam, and they fall in love. Sam leaves Dean, and they fall apart. Then Dean meets Sam, and they fall in love...
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
In media res
Or
The Divine Comedy of the Winchester brothers
and what they saw there
"Tell me why you're doing this."
"Revenge. Spite. The usual."
"Tell me the real reason."
"Well, I've always wanted to know what it'd be like to have my brain washed."
*
They're standing, face-to-face in the hallway of his apartment building.
Sam's still naked from the waist up, face unshaven, hair mussed, heart pounding-must be beating through his chest. Every deep breath, every nervous twitch of his mouth, his hands.
"I should go," Dean starts, turning away again.
"Wait-"
*
Meet me in Montauk.
Dean wakes up, and for the first time since he can remember he's not groggy, his eyes don't fight the sunlight. He trudges to the small motel kitchenette, automatically reaching for the instant coffee. He finds only empty packets, and puzzles over them, he doesn't remember drinking it all the night before.
So he dresses, throws on a jacket and pockets his car keys, heading out to the nearest diner to get breakfast and his caffeine fix. Dean stands outside, not a car for miles, just your average, sleepy little town. Jericho's been pretty much a bust in the search for his father, and he knows it. He should check out early, hit the road and chase down the next one of Dad's leads.
But something along the horizon catches his eye.
A train.
*
The ice is hard, cold against him, the fabric of his jacket kind of sticking to it.
But he doesn't pull away, he lets him press down on his chest, mouth covering his own.
*
There's a beach, it's the last stop on the train, and Dean decides that's where he's going.
He finds a seat in the back of the car, right by a window. It's nearly empty in the early morning, the rush of commuters having already passed through. There's discarded newspapers, the free kind you see outside of the station, sitting on a few of the seats. Some with half-finished crosswords and abandoned sudoku puzzles.
Dean slides his walkman out of his jacket pocket, puts on his headphones and leans back as the train lurches forward.
*
He looks right at him, but Dean might as well be made of glass.
"Sam?"
He doesn't move, just continues working behind the desk, scanning library books.
"Sam," someone else says before Dean can repeat himself. And it's some guy, kinda short, wearing a hoodie and leaning over the back of the counter, Sam twisting in his chair to smile, to meet his mouth with a kiss, fingers tugging gently at his collar.
The guy has crazy eyes, Dean can tell.
When Sam turns around to ask the next person in line to step forward, Dean's gone, pile of books discarded on the desk.
*
The train stops. Dean hears the squeak of the loudspeaker, and he hits pause on his Walkman, a tinny voice is announcing there's a delay due to an electrical issue.
Dean passes the time by people-watching through the window, smudged with fingerprints and fogged with condensation from the air-conditioner. College kids in college sweaters. Mothers with children, arms and hands full of them. A sweet-looking blond girl, cupping a cell phone to her chin and smiling as she speaks.
Two guys at the back of the platform walk towards the train, arguing back and forth. One of them tall, messy hair and messenger bag slung over his shoulder, arms crossed. The other is almost comically shorter than him, Dean smirks at the sight of the giant boy towering over him. Shorty is gesturing wildly, pulling at his hair and running ahead of the first guy, making him stop in his tracks so he won't step on him. He grabs the taller guy's wrists, and tries to undo the crossed arms with his hands and soft words.
Lover's quarrel, Dean figures, raising an eyebrow.
The body language of the taller guy is closed-off, angry, unforgiving; how Shorty can be so oblivious, Dean's not sure. He's begging, pleading with him, grasping his broad shoulders and trying to hold on.
But the tall guy pushes him back, and turns towards the train, running on and spinning around to shout, "Leave me the fuck alone! I'll fucking call the cops!" And the train doors ding-dong shut, leaving the jilted lover standing on the platform, wide eyed and shocked.
The guy's muttering under his breath. "Creepy little shit." And he takes the seat right in front of Dean, tuft of brown hair peering over the seat.
He is tall.
*
Lacuna, Inc.
It's the only lead Dean has, but when he sneaks in after clinic hours, he's expecting some elaborate Bourne Identity schema, complete with sinister brainwashing and training rooms and mindless automaton servants. He's sort of disappointed to stumble upon a Lonely Hearts Club with People magazines in the waiting room and central air. Now that's a new one.
Doctor Mierzwiak walks in just as he pulls Sam's file out of the desk drawer.
*
Dean's tuned out to the music-he might be humming-it's a bad habit of his to hum without realizing. As he considers the plausibility that he's not only humming, but whispering the refrain under his breath, a head pops up from over the back of the seat, mouth moving. Dean furrows his brow and slides one of the earpieces off.
"What?"
"I said, is that AC/DC?" His fingers grasp the edge of the seat, they're long and lithe and all Dean thinks is:
Big hands.
"Yeah, I'm sorry I didn't think it was that loud-"
"Oh no, I'm not complaining, I just recognized-it's Highway to Hell, isn't it?"
"Yeah, you're a fan?"
"No," he says, matter-of-factly. "I just heard it a lot growing up, every day, on repeat."
Dean scoffs, "Wow, that's a whole, what, two years ago for ya? Take you all the way back?"
The guy's face is stuck somewhere between incredulous and bemused. "Excuse me?"
"You're how old, seventeen? Eighteen?"
"I'm twenty-two. And were you," he shakes his head in disbelief, biting coyly at the corner of his mouth, "were you just asking if I was legal?"
"Easy there, tiger," Dean says, smirking, eyebrow firmly raised. It's almost too easy, flirting falling into place, making Sam's face turn all sorts of colors, all kinds of expressions pulling at his lips. Smile breaking through as he laughs in spite of all efforts not to. And Dean laps it up, flashing him a strip of teeth with a Cheshire grin.
All the kid manages is, "Jerk," before turning back around to face front.
"Bitch,” Dean answers in kind. Easy and free, it comes.
*
Dr. Mierzwiak has Dean pegged within the hour. He's got this strange kind of disarming charm to him, Dean wonders if it's something supernatural. One minute he's ready to run off with the file, or make up some bunk story about why he's there; and the next minute he's lying on the couch, pouring his heart out, life story exposed.
It's easy enough to get the next step. The doctor makes the offer-so earnest, so genuine-to help Dean to erase the pain, the sting of Sam's betrayal, the slap in the face he'd given both him and their father when Sam had left. All in the pursuit of some kind of idyllic, "safe" life.
Turnabout’s fair play, and maybe Dean's hurting more than he wants to admit. It aches him to think about Sam wanting to forget being a Winchester. About being half of them, Sam and Dean Winchester, hunters, brothers, best friends-
And towards the end, something much, much more than that.
With all that hurt, and all that anger, Dean is clay in the hands of Rembrandt. The clipboard slides across the table to him, consent forms, medical history. The doctor lets him fill it out while he goes to set up the tape recorder.
*
Dean's skipping rocks, trying to beat four jumps when he hears the sound of footsteps tromping along the pebblestone beach, closer and closer to him.
"Hi. I'm Sam."
"I'm Dean," he turns to face the guy from the train, Sam. He flashes another knowing smile and skips the rock across the ocean, three jumps.
He looks back at Sam, holding up a flat rock, "You?"
"I don't really know how."
"You just kinda flick it, like a Frisbee. Y'know, I hear you college boys like that kind of thing."
Sam rolls his eyes, "I don't play Frisbee, actually." But he takes the stone from Dean, fingers briefly, briefly touching his palm and Dean loses focus again.
Big, big hands. Long fingers.
Sam attempts to skip it and fails, whipping it right into the water, with a deep plunking sound. Dean laughs, "You want me to show you-"
"No, I just kinda want to sit here."
Dean blinks a few times.
"I'm gonna sit here, okay? Right next to you, so don't get freaked out. But I have abandonment issues and I just broke up with my boyfriend this morning and I need to not be alone. You don't have to talk to me, you barely have to acknowledge I'm here (save for not stepping on my hands), and you can leave whenever you want. It's just you're pretty much the only other person around here not preoccupied with throwing bread at seagulls or asking me where all the goddamn sea lions are. So, yeah, and if I haven't completely scared you off by now, then I can buy you lunch for your trouble." Sam breathes out and takes a seat, right on the ground by Dean's feet, legs crossed.
Dean lets the remaining pebbles drop from his hand, right on the ground. He's boneless as he flops down next to Sam, bracing himself with his hands, legs outstretched. He's still facing the ocean when he answers him.
"It's okay."
*
"I could swear, I've seen him somewhere before," Patrick says, as he paces the motel room.
Dean's sleeping, knocked unconscious by the sleeping pills the Doctor gave him after their session. Dean drove back to the room, with further instructions from the doctor to rid himself of any of Sam's things he still had. After he'd gone to bed, the doctor's technicians would come to finish the process as he slept. They'd set up the big brain erasing machine and he'd be done with Sam by the morning, and not even remember going to Lacuna in the first place.
Dean didn't have much of Sam's, so he spent most of his time clearing out his guns and hunting gear from the room, trying to make it look as normal as possible. It worked, the technicians didn't really think much of him. Well, Stan didn't. Then again Stan got so focused when he was doing the actual erasing that it wouldn't ever occur to him that Dean was someone he should be wary of.
"I'm working," Stan warns, fingers blurring over the keyboard. The first memory is easy enough, and the brain's lighting up, all ripe for the picking.
"It's just, 'James Osterberg'?"
Stan turns his head and shrugs.
"Oh come on! It's made-up!" Patrick shrieks.
Stan throws a pillow at his head and shushes him.
Patrick throws the pillow back and whispers harshly, "It's Iggy Pop's real name!"
*
Sam's looking under the table, over Dean's shoulder.
"What?" he asks around the mozzarella burger.
"I'm sorry, I'm just looking for the rest of you." Sam nods his head to the impressive spread of fried and cheese-covered foods Dean's ordered for himself.
"Verrah funneh," Dean says, swallowing and cocking his head. "You wanted my company, codependent-lad. And probably my ass."
Sam laughs, tossing one of Dean's French fries at his nose. It bounces off and lands on his plate. "Please, you're totally getting off on all the attention."
"I'm an only child, I need it."
"Well, I'm an orphan. I need people to pay attention to."
Dean sucks his teeth, "Ouch. Okay so, abandonment issues, " Dean pauses.
"I've got 'em to spare."
*
Patrick settles once he gets some coffee in him, his boyfriend's been fighting with him. Stan doesn't really blame the guy, Pat's as strange as they come. But hey, he's good at his job.
"Serves you right for being dumb enough to get close to a client." Stan says, erasing another memory with a few deft keyboard strokes. "And by that, I mean fucking stealing the guy's jock and stalking him for a week."
"You don't understand real love," Patrick scoffs.
*
"So, he's kinda," Dean makes a face, twist of his hands, "short."
"Yeah?" Sam laughs around the neck of his beer.
"And you're really tall. It doesn't look right, dude."
"You're short too-"
"Ahh, but I don't have crazy eyes."
Sam gets quiet. "No, no you don't." He puts the beer down, and looks at Dean, straight on. "I don't usually go for guys like you."
Dean shrugs. "I don't usually go for guys." And Sam bursts out in a peal of laughter, leaning back in his chair and Dean's just so stunned by it, he almost doesn't come back with anything other then a muttered swear.
"I'm sorry, it's just! C'mon dude you've been on me the moment you saw me sit down on the train! Don't give me that whole, 'I'm only gay for you' shit." Dean coughs but doesn't really answer, just thumbs the label of his beer, peeling the corner off.
"Y'know, that's a sign of sexual frustration," Sam adds.
*
"Fuck, Stan I saw him move. His eyes! He’s not in REM, I swear."
"He's not awake. Shut up and do your job. Drink all his fucking coffee."
"Stan, he's waking up."
"Do your fucking job, and I'll do mine."
*
"Shit. Fuck!" Stan ashes his cigarette. "I lost him."
"Call the fucking doctor," Patrick's eyes are wide and scared. This doesn't happen to Stan.
*
They sit next to each other on the train, talking all the way.
Dean's in the middle of a story about how he broke his nose in high school when Sam interrupts.
"My stop is next."
Dean blinks a few times. "Oh, oh yeah. My car is further down."
Sam pulls at the corner of his mouth with his teeth. "I could give you directions-"
"We should have dinner-" Dean says at the exact same moment.
They laugh, Sam pulls at Dean's jacket. "Hey, we could get something nearby and then I could drive you back. Right?"
Dean smiles as the train starts to halt, pulling into the station. "So I guess this is my stop too?"
*
Dr. Mierzwiak isn't too happy to be there. But he's in charge for a reason. He calmly takes a look at the computer, checks all the connections to the electrodes and starts re-configuring the system to account for the anomaly.
"Looks like, I can put this back on the right track soon," he says, tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. Patrick wipes nervous palms on his jeans and Stan just drinks even more of the shitty instant coffee the guy has in his room.
*
"Nice place," Dean says, looking around the sparse apartment.
"Thanks," Sam shrugs, dropping his keys on a table and shrugging off his jacket. "You wanna give me your coat?"
Dean unzips it. "Just the coat?"
Sam smiles, "We'll see how it goes."
"You let me know," Dean winks and Sam takes his jacket. He shucks off his boots in the hallway like Sam does, still covered in crumbs of sand from the beach. Sam offers him beer or coffee, and Dean chooses the beer. They sit on the couch and Sam grabs the remote and starts flipping through the stations, finally settling on some old movie.
"It's the original Thomas Crown Affair, ever see it?" Sam asks Dean. He shakes his head no.
"I like Steve McQueen, though."
"Figured you would."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean angles his eyebrows and Sam just shakes his head, tilting his beer to his mouth.
Halfway through it, Sam's nodded off with his head pillowed in Dean's lap, long legs hanging over the edge of the couch. Dean doesn't mind, one of his hands settling on Sam's head, stroking his hair.
*
Sam wakes up the moment Dean turns off the set. It makes Dean shake with laughter, which is just the catalyst of it all. Sam's lips on his and Dean smiles through the kiss.
"You're so beautiful," Sam whispers.
"You're such a dork about this," Dean says, bumping his nose against Sam's, letting his mouth fall right into place, kissing Sam again. Sam's hands cup his face, thumb rubbing against his stubble.
Sam's mouth is amazing, and Dean's tongue is coaxed out, licking it's way inside. They taste each other, beer and saliva and the salt of their skin. "Bed," Sam breathes into Dean's mouth. They break apart long enough to stand, Dean swaying just slightly on his feet.
"Are you sure?" Dean asks.
"Do you want to?"
"Well, yeah but, you didn't strike me as the type."
"The type of guy to have sex on the first night?"
"The type of guy to have only that." Dean looks to the side, not wanting to see Sam's face fall. "I'm leaving in the morning."
Sam swallows.
*
They lie side by side on the bed, Dean's eyes are closed as he rests; his head pillowed on the crook of his arm. Sam’s watching him.
"I can't make you stay?" Sam whispers.
Dean shakes his head no.
"I can only have this?"
"Yeah. I can try and be really bad at it so you won't be so disappointed, but that's scientifically impossible."
"Oho!" Sam cracks a smile, shifting to climb atop Dean, straddling his hips and bracing his hands on Dean's chest. "Scientifically, eh?"
"Mmm hmm, I'd have to break all the laws of physics and thermodynamics and the moon would have to fall out of orbit in order for me to be bad at sex." Dean opens his eyes, runs his hands along Sam's thighs. "But I'll try and do my best to hold back, if you want."
Sam leans in to kiss him, "I want. Even if it's just tonight, I want." He pushes himself up, off the bed and starts undressing, Dean following suit. It's strange, the unspoken agreements between the two of them. Sam knowing Dean doesn't want his clothes flung everywhere so it's easy for him to leave in the morning.
It doesn't kill the romance really, when Sam goes right for the condoms and the lube, crossing the room naked to put them on the night table. They don't need some passionate fit tonight, arms flailing and grasping for things in the dark. Hands fumbling and buttons popping off.
It's better when Sam hits the light and Dean's ready for him, for his mouth on his and his arms around his neck. It's better when the rest of the world fades away and there's just Sam and him. Mouths fitting together, bodies as well. Sam's fingers, those big hands surprisingly gentle as they start sliding into him, stretching him and slicking him up. Sam's hands on his dick while he's inside him. Big, big hands.
Dean must be thinking aloud because Sam laughs and says, "Tell me about 'em."
"You have fucking enormous hands, you monster," Dean says as he squeezes down on Sam's cock, eliciting a gasp and a moan from Sam.
"You love them," Sam picks right back up, stroking his cock, one-handed.
Dean comes shouting, Sam follows minutes later, deep thrust into Dean as he finishes.
Dean pants, Sam pulling out of him, rolling to one side of the bed to discard the condom. When he finishes, Sam covers them with the blanket, almost immediately falling asleep as he curls close to Dean.
*
"Sam," Dean whispers, brushing his bangs back, trying to make them stick up in the air with just the sweat from his brow. He's gonna look so funny in the morning if Dean can get him to sleep on them like that.
"Yeah, Dean?" Sam says through a tight, tired mouth.
"Nothing," Dean says as Sam rolls over onto his side in just the right way. After he's done messing up his hair enough, Dean fits his chin into the crook of Sam's neck and shoulder. Kissing the skin there and settling in for the night, spooning Sam to his chest.
"I'd stay if you asked me too." Dean realizes, saying it aloud.
"Stay," Sam mumbles.
*
"We done now?" Stan asks, the doctor sitting back in his seat.
"Yeah," Dr. Mierzwiak nods
*
"What the hell?" Sam says to his reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering how his hair could defy gravity while he was sleeping.
Dean sticks his head out from behind the shower curtain. "C'mon and get in here, you stink."
"Well, whose fault is that?"
"Not everyone appreciates your man-musk, okay Sasquatch?"
Sam shoves the curtain away and steps in, pinning Dean to the wall with his arms. "You are so lucky you're in the shower because I would take you down for saying that on dry land."
"Is that a promise for later?" Dean asks, hands resting on Sam's hips, drawing him flush against his body. Wet, warm and soapy.
Sam opens his mouth to answer when a ring comes from the bedroom. "That's not my-"
"That's my phone, I gotta!" Dean hops out of the shower, quickly grabbing a towel so he doesn't freeze as he runs for his jeans pocket. "It might be my Dad!" he shouts to Sam. Quickly he flips it open, the number is restricted. "Hello?"
"Mr. Osterberg?" Huh. James Osterberg is a name he uses sometimes for cases, but Dean hasn't used that one in a while. Maybe John gave the name to someone else to find him.
"Yeah, this is he."
"I'm at your motel room, and the clerk gave me your cellphone from the check-in desk. I have a package that must be hand-delivered, where are you?"
Hand-delivered package? It sounded like something John would do. "Yeah, yeah I'm not there, I'm at a friend's house, let me give you the address." Dean puts the phone to the side and yells to Sam for his apartment address.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes, thank you." Dean shrugs and closes the phone, walking back to the bathroom and Sam.
*
Sam's towel-drying his hair when there's a knock on the door and he tells Dean to get it while he goes to put on sweatpants. "Mr. Osterberg?" the courier hands the package over, and Dean signs for it at the door. Then he reaches into his bag and produces another one. "I have one for this address too, Samuel Winchester?"
Sam's behind Dean now, and he raises his hand, "Right here."
Winchester, Dean's heart skips a beat or two. The name isn't completely unheard of, but something about Sam having it, just doesn't sit right.
Sam hasn't asked his last name either. The entire time-
"Huh, it's a tape, what did you get?" Sam asks. Dean shakes himself out of his thoughts and opens the padded envelope.
It's also a cassette tape. The mailing label says Lacuna, Inc. No other address. There's a note in the package which Sam starts reading to himself while Dean loads his tape in Sam's stereo and hits play.
"Tell me your name."
"James Osterberg."
"Tell me why you're doing this."
"Revenge. Spite. The usual."
"Tell me the real reason."
"Well, I've always wanted to know what it'd be like to have my brain washed."
There's a heavy sigh on the tape.
"It doesn't work unless you tell the truth. The whole truth."
"My name, is Dean Winchester."
Sam gasps, but they listen on.
"I'm doing this to erase my brother, Sam Winchester."
"Why?"
"Well, I mean he did it to me first. Turnabout is fair play."
"And?"
"And... I don't want to remember how much I want him. I don't want to know what I'm missing."
"It can't be," Sam says, but they don't stop it. They don't stop listening and the tape plays out, then Sam reads the letter to Dean. It's from Dr. Mierzwiak's jilted mistress, his secretary, explaining her side of the story. She was convinced by the doctor to erase the memories of their own affair, and upon discovering the truth, she'd decided to purge her guilt and try to make things right with all the rest of Dr. Mierzwiak's patients. Dean's mouth is dry and he stands, grabs his jacket and runs to throw open the door, walking out of the apartment.
He hears a shout behind him, pleading, "Dean! Please!"
He turns around. They're standing, face-to-face in the hallway of his apartment building.
Sam's still naked from the waist up, face unshaven, hair mussed, heart pounding-must be beating through his chest. Every deep breath, every nervous twitch of his mouth, his hands.
"I should go," Dean starts, turning away again.
"Wait-" Sam touches his shoulder. Dean doesn't flinch, he should flinch away from any touch but, he just can't. Instead he turns, leans into it, almost.
"We need to listen to mine too. We should hear both sides. Then you can leave, please Dean. Don't make me listen to it alone."
"You're not an orphan-"
"Please, Dean."
*
"Tell me why you're doing this."
"It's, my childhood was troubled. I can't, I can't live with the ghost of my father in my head."
"And Dean?"
"Wh-what?"
"Why Dean, too?"
"I told you. Our relationship, it wasn't right. It's gonna fuck me up for the rest of my life."
"Okay, let's get started."
"Wait."
"Samuel?"
There's a pause.
"It doesn't work unless I say the whole truth, right?"
"No, no it doesn't. Don't be afraid, Sam. This is a safe space."
"I don't hate Dean, and that's the problem. I should hate him too, right? I shouldn't be going crazy out of my skin without him. Needing him, wanting him, every second of every day."
"Sam?"
"I'm erasing him so I don't have to love him anymore. So I won't know what I'm missing."
Dean stops the tape before it goes any further, he's heard enough. Sam doesn't move from the armchair, knees up to his chest, chewing on his thumbnail, not looking at Dean.
"We're completely fucked, aren't we?" Dean asks.
Sam nods.
"I should, be more upset than I am, right? This should be something that bothers me, but-"
"It doesn't," Sam finishes. "What the fuck is wrong with us?"
Dean laughs and Sam stands up, intense stare. "You, you're so fucking beautiful. God, I can't stop myself." Sam takes Dean's face in his hands.
"We-we can't really?" Dean reaches his hands up to cover Sam's, pulling them away.
Sam's hands fall to his sides. "We can't."
Dean pauses, placing his palms flat on Sam's chest, feeling the heart beating beneath the skin. "But- I mean, we're going to anyway."
Sam presses his lips together into a tight line. "I know."
"Okay."
*
The sky is cloudy-cold overcast, almost as white as the sand on the beach.
"You better take your boots off in the next 5 seconds or I am going to hurt you," Dean threatens, arms crossed.
Sam leans up from where he's laying against the Impala's hood. "I'm not scuffing your precious, hey!" Dean's already got his hands on his feet, trying to yank the boots off so Sam kicks him away and slides off the hood of the car. Dean chases him down onto the beach.
They tumble against each other. Pushing and tripping into the sand as the wind whistles a chill into their bones. Noses and cheeks and the tips of ears cherry-red from the cold.
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean chants into his skin, pulling him close, fisting his windbreaker and Sam's hands are in the back pockets of his jeans, Sam's mouth biting his jaw.
"Easy," Dean warns, and Sam nods.
"I know, you told me. Hairline fracture, wires in it for weeks."
Dean pushes him to the crumbling walls of sand, created by the low tide. Covers Sam's body with his own and kisses him, over and over again. Sam is gentle with him, cradles his jaw lovingly in his hands while Dean moans into his mouth, hands bracing against Sam's neck.
"I got you, Dean."
fin
This is what I did instead of finishing my abouttwoboys. Which I will finish, and then dedicate the rest of my energy to Big Bang and Sweet Charity.
I tried to make this user-friendly for those who haven't seen the movie, and I hope it is. This is rife with time/place/mind jumps throughout, just so you know.
Title: In media res
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC, implied Sam/OMC
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,320
Theme: ELO - Mr. Blue Sky
Notes: Fusion with/based around the movie Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, AU from the Pilot. Indented sections take place inside Dean's head.
Thanks: The lovely wendy and incomparable rejeneration for beta(s)!! ETA: And thanks to the wonderful dark_reaction for giving me the Dean pseudonym. :D
Summary: Dean meets Sam, and they fall in love. Sam leaves Dean, and they fall apart. Then Dean meets Sam, and they fall in love...
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
In media res
Or
The Divine Comedy of the Winchester brothers
and what they saw there
"Tell me why you're doing this."
"Revenge. Spite. The usual."
"Tell me the real reason."
"Well, I've always wanted to know what it'd be like to have my brain washed."
*
They're standing, face-to-face in the hallway of his apartment building.
Sam's still naked from the waist up, face unshaven, hair mussed, heart pounding-must be beating through his chest. Every deep breath, every nervous twitch of his mouth, his hands.
"I should go," Dean starts, turning away again.
"Wait-"
*
Meet me in Montauk.
Dean wakes up, and for the first time since he can remember he's not groggy, his eyes don't fight the sunlight. He trudges to the small motel kitchenette, automatically reaching for the instant coffee. He finds only empty packets, and puzzles over them, he doesn't remember drinking it all the night before.
So he dresses, throws on a jacket and pockets his car keys, heading out to the nearest diner to get breakfast and his caffeine fix. Dean stands outside, not a car for miles, just your average, sleepy little town. Jericho's been pretty much a bust in the search for his father, and he knows it. He should check out early, hit the road and chase down the next one of Dad's leads.
But something along the horizon catches his eye.
A train.
*
The ice is hard, cold against him, the fabric of his jacket kind of sticking to it.
But he doesn't pull away, he lets him press down on his chest, mouth covering his own.
*
There's a beach, it's the last stop on the train, and Dean decides that's where he's going.
He finds a seat in the back of the car, right by a window. It's nearly empty in the early morning, the rush of commuters having already passed through. There's discarded newspapers, the free kind you see outside of the station, sitting on a few of the seats. Some with half-finished crosswords and abandoned sudoku puzzles.
Dean slides his walkman out of his jacket pocket, puts on his headphones and leans back as the train lurches forward.
*
He looks right at him, but Dean might as well be made of glass.
"Sam?"
He doesn't move, just continues working behind the desk, scanning library books.
"Sam," someone else says before Dean can repeat himself. And it's some guy, kinda short, wearing a hoodie and leaning over the back of the counter, Sam twisting in his chair to smile, to meet his mouth with a kiss, fingers tugging gently at his collar.
The guy has crazy eyes, Dean can tell.
When Sam turns around to ask the next person in line to step forward, Dean's gone, pile of books discarded on the desk.
*
The train stops. Dean hears the squeak of the loudspeaker, and he hits pause on his Walkman, a tinny voice is announcing there's a delay due to an electrical issue.
Dean passes the time by people-watching through the window, smudged with fingerprints and fogged with condensation from the air-conditioner. College kids in college sweaters. Mothers with children, arms and hands full of them. A sweet-looking blond girl, cupping a cell phone to her chin and smiling as she speaks.
Two guys at the back of the platform walk towards the train, arguing back and forth. One of them tall, messy hair and messenger bag slung over his shoulder, arms crossed. The other is almost comically shorter than him, Dean smirks at the sight of the giant boy towering over him. Shorty is gesturing wildly, pulling at his hair and running ahead of the first guy, making him stop in his tracks so he won't step on him. He grabs the taller guy's wrists, and tries to undo the crossed arms with his hands and soft words.
Lover's quarrel, Dean figures, raising an eyebrow.
The body language of the taller guy is closed-off, angry, unforgiving; how Shorty can be so oblivious, Dean's not sure. He's begging, pleading with him, grasping his broad shoulders and trying to hold on.
But the tall guy pushes him back, and turns towards the train, running on and spinning around to shout, "Leave me the fuck alone! I'll fucking call the cops!" And the train doors ding-dong shut, leaving the jilted lover standing on the platform, wide eyed and shocked.
The guy's muttering under his breath. "Creepy little shit." And he takes the seat right in front of Dean, tuft of brown hair peering over the seat.
He is tall.
*
Lacuna, Inc.
It's the only lead Dean has, but when he sneaks in after clinic hours, he's expecting some elaborate Bourne Identity schema, complete with sinister brainwashing and training rooms and mindless automaton servants. He's sort of disappointed to stumble upon a Lonely Hearts Club with People magazines in the waiting room and central air. Now that's a new one.
Doctor Mierzwiak walks in just as he pulls Sam's file out of the desk drawer.
*
Dean's tuned out to the music-he might be humming-it's a bad habit of his to hum without realizing. As he considers the plausibility that he's not only humming, but whispering the refrain under his breath, a head pops up from over the back of the seat, mouth moving. Dean furrows his brow and slides one of the earpieces off.
"What?"
"I said, is that AC/DC?" His fingers grasp the edge of the seat, they're long and lithe and all Dean thinks is:
Big hands.
"Yeah, I'm sorry I didn't think it was that loud-"
"Oh no, I'm not complaining, I just recognized-it's Highway to Hell, isn't it?"
"Yeah, you're a fan?"
"No," he says, matter-of-factly. "I just heard it a lot growing up, every day, on repeat."
Dean scoffs, "Wow, that's a whole, what, two years ago for ya? Take you all the way back?"
The guy's face is stuck somewhere between incredulous and bemused. "Excuse me?"
"You're how old, seventeen? Eighteen?"
"I'm twenty-two. And were you," he shakes his head in disbelief, biting coyly at the corner of his mouth, "were you just asking if I was legal?"
"Easy there, tiger," Dean says, smirking, eyebrow firmly raised. It's almost too easy, flirting falling into place, making Sam's face turn all sorts of colors, all kinds of expressions pulling at his lips. Smile breaking through as he laughs in spite of all efforts not to. And Dean laps it up, flashing him a strip of teeth with a Cheshire grin.
All the kid manages is, "Jerk," before turning back around to face front.
"Bitch,” Dean answers in kind. Easy and free, it comes.
*
Dr. Mierzwiak has Dean pegged within the hour. He's got this strange kind of disarming charm to him, Dean wonders if it's something supernatural. One minute he's ready to run off with the file, or make up some bunk story about why he's there; and the next minute he's lying on the couch, pouring his heart out, life story exposed.
It's easy enough to get the next step. The doctor makes the offer-so earnest, so genuine-to help Dean to erase the pain, the sting of Sam's betrayal, the slap in the face he'd given both him and their father when Sam had left. All in the pursuit of some kind of idyllic, "safe" life.
Turnabout’s fair play, and maybe Dean's hurting more than he wants to admit. It aches him to think about Sam wanting to forget being a Winchester. About being half of them, Sam and Dean Winchester, hunters, brothers, best friends-
And towards the end, something much, much more than that.
With all that hurt, and all that anger, Dean is clay in the hands of Rembrandt. The clipboard slides across the table to him, consent forms, medical history. The doctor lets him fill it out while he goes to set up the tape recorder.
*
Dean's skipping rocks, trying to beat four jumps when he hears the sound of footsteps tromping along the pebblestone beach, closer and closer to him.
"Hi. I'm Sam."
"I'm Dean," he turns to face the guy from the train, Sam. He flashes another knowing smile and skips the rock across the ocean, three jumps.
He looks back at Sam, holding up a flat rock, "You?"
"I don't really know how."
"You just kinda flick it, like a Frisbee. Y'know, I hear you college boys like that kind of thing."
Sam rolls his eyes, "I don't play Frisbee, actually." But he takes the stone from Dean, fingers briefly, briefly touching his palm and Dean loses focus again.
Big, big hands. Long fingers.
Sam attempts to skip it and fails, whipping it right into the water, with a deep plunking sound. Dean laughs, "You want me to show you-"
"No, I just kinda want to sit here."
Dean blinks a few times.
"I'm gonna sit here, okay? Right next to you, so don't get freaked out. But I have abandonment issues and I just broke up with my boyfriend this morning and I need to not be alone. You don't have to talk to me, you barely have to acknowledge I'm here (save for not stepping on my hands), and you can leave whenever you want. It's just you're pretty much the only other person around here not preoccupied with throwing bread at seagulls or asking me where all the goddamn sea lions are. So, yeah, and if I haven't completely scared you off by now, then I can buy you lunch for your trouble." Sam breathes out and takes a seat, right on the ground by Dean's feet, legs crossed.
Dean lets the remaining pebbles drop from his hand, right on the ground. He's boneless as he flops down next to Sam, bracing himself with his hands, legs outstretched. He's still facing the ocean when he answers him.
"It's okay."
*
- The first one is the phone call. The first one to go is the last. They go backwards, but not quite, since Dean's last memory of Sam should be running into him at the library, and him not recognizing Dean. But that one's not to be dwelled upon much longer, Dean thinks.
"Dean? Dean is that you?"
Dean doesn't answer, just holds the phone close to him, cupping it to his cheek.
"Fuck... I can't do this anymore, Dean."
There's a click.
"I could swear, I've seen him somewhere before," Patrick says, as he paces the motel room.
Dean's sleeping, knocked unconscious by the sleeping pills the Doctor gave him after their session. Dean drove back to the room, with further instructions from the doctor to rid himself of any of Sam's things he still had. After he'd gone to bed, the doctor's technicians would come to finish the process as he slept. They'd set up the big brain erasing machine and he'd be done with Sam by the morning, and not even remember going to Lacuna in the first place.
Dean didn't have much of Sam's, so he spent most of his time clearing out his guns and hunting gear from the room, trying to make it look as normal as possible. It worked, the technicians didn't really think much of him. Well, Stan didn't. Then again Stan got so focused when he was doing the actual erasing that it wouldn't ever occur to him that Dean was someone he should be wary of.
"I'm working," Stan warns, fingers blurring over the keyboard. The first memory is easy enough, and the brain's lighting up, all ripe for the picking.
"It's just, 'James Osterberg'?"
Stan turns his head and shrugs.
"Oh come on! It's made-up!" Patrick shrieks.
Stan throws a pillow at his head and shushes him.
Patrick throws the pillow back and whispers harshly, "It's Iggy Pop's real name!"
*
- Sam is leaving.
Dean's heart catches in his throat, this day, again this day, again, again.
He knows this argument, knows what he's saying to Sam, what Sam's saying to him. He knows the moment John storms in. And the moment he leaves. All the things they say they can't take back. All the times he's wished this day never happened.
Until he realizes he's said that aloud. Sam is stalking past him, and he's watching from outside but Sam's face is blank.
"Today's your lucky day, isn't it, Dean?"
It never happened.
Sam's looking under the table, over Dean's shoulder.
"What?" he asks around the mozzarella burger.
"I'm sorry, I'm just looking for the rest of you." Sam nods his head to the impressive spread of fried and cheese-covered foods Dean's ordered for himself.
"Verrah funneh," Dean says, swallowing and cocking his head. "You wanted my company, codependent-lad. And probably my ass."
Sam laughs, tossing one of Dean's French fries at his nose. It bounces off and lands on his plate. "Please, you're totally getting off on all the attention."
"I'm an only child, I need it."
"Well, I'm an orphan. I need people to pay attention to."
Dean sucks his teeth, "Ouch. Okay so, abandonment issues, " Dean pauses.
"I've got 'em to spare."
*
- The last good night they had was cut short by a hunt.
But Dean's in the before-then. Prelude to a downfall, postscript to a broken arm and fractured jaw. Epilogue for a lingering-long embrace and a flesh-licking lips and Prologue for the last everything.
But now, darkness and Sam spread against his body, head pillowed on his chest. Fingers drum along his pectorals, Dean's hand steadying him, grabbing his wrist.
"Sammy," Sammy Sammy Sammy. This is it, this is the goodbye fuck. This is the last kiss and the last touch and the last wrong thing in his-
"I can't sleep."
"Shhhhhh," Dean kisses the top of his hair, softness against his lips and smell in his nose, and then gone. Alone in the dark bed. Not well-fucked but well-rested.
Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.
Patrick settles once he gets some coffee in him, his boyfriend's been fighting with him. Stan doesn't really blame the guy, Pat's as strange as they come. But hey, he's good at his job.
"Serves you right for being dumb enough to get close to a client." Stan says, erasing another memory with a few deft keyboard strokes. "And by that, I mean fucking stealing the guy's jock and stalking him for a week."
"You don't understand real love," Patrick scoffs.
*
- Things are tense.
It's a storm, building up. And all Dean can do is hold on for dear life.
His head in Sam's lap, big strong hands-when did Sam get bigger, it's a mystery, but it doesn't seem fair.
"I got you, Dean."
Head in Sam's lap, hands cradling his jaw, his split lips bleeding tomato-red blood everywhere, rivers of red trickles in-between Sam's fingers.
"Try not to shout Dean, this is going to," Dean interrupts him, hands signaling for him to just do it already. He has to stay quiet, bite down on his jaw as hard as he can so they can stay hidden, not draw the attention of the angry spirits they're hunting.
Horrible cracking sound as Sam snaps his arm back into place, he's not going to miss that. But alone, on the ground with a broken arm. No one holding him, talking him through it.
"So, he's kinda," Dean makes a face, twist of his hands, "short."
"Yeah?" Sam laughs around the neck of his beer.
"And you're really tall. It doesn't look right, dude."
"You're short too-"
"Ahh, but I don't have crazy eyes."
Sam gets quiet. "No, no you don't." He puts the beer down, and looks at Dean, straight on. "I don't usually go for guys like you."
Dean shrugs. "I don't usually go for guys." And Sam bursts out in a peal of laughter, leaning back in his chair and Dean's just so stunned by it, he almost doesn't come back with anything other then a muttered swear.
"I'm sorry, it's just! C'mon dude you've been on me the moment you saw me sit down on the train! Don't give me that whole, 'I'm only gay for you' shit." Dean coughs but doesn't really answer, just thumbs the label of his beer, peeling the corner off.
"Y'know, that's a sign of sexual frustration," Sam adds.
*
- "Don't ever stop fucking me."
Sam's brow against shoulder, sweat-soaked forehead and then teeth digging into the skin there. Lips and tongue and Sam plowing into him, faster strokes.
"Wasn't planning on it," Sam says right before he comes.
Dean whips around and grabs him, as the scene fades and he holds air, nothingness, space.
"Don't!" he shouts.
"Fuck, Stan I saw him move. His eyes! He’s not in REM, I swear."
"He's not awake. Shut up and do your job. Drink all his fucking coffee."
"Stan, he's waking up."
"Do your fucking job, and I'll do mine."
*
- Dean knows what happens here. It's Tempe, Arizona and he and Sam are alone. Sam's naked under the covers and Dean know he's supposed to slip underneath them, and slowly kiss Sam awake, stroke his thick, hard cock.
But instead he pulls Sam out of bed, fully dressed now, both of them.
"They're coming for me, Dean."
"I'll protect you-" but that Sam is already vapors. Ether in the air. Dean goes through the door to Olympia, Washington. He's in the record store where Sam kissed him in public while John was miles away, checking out a lead. Dean's fingers skimming over the E's, looking for The Eagles and then Sam's hands on his shoulders, lips on his nape. Nose poking at the short hairs on the back of his neck, breath warm and leaving gooseflesh in it's wake.
Dean whips around and shouts, faceless people in the store surrounding them. And Sammy. Sammy-Sam.
"Dean?"
Takes Sam in his arms and this time, has the good sense to make a run for it.
Hide me somewhere safe.
Dean's dragging Sam by the air, thick like water. It's harder, heavier to walk through. Solid mist, cold and dry, lungs filling up and Dean thinks he might be having a heart attack-but then Sam squeezes his hand.
He's still got him. Still got Sam.
It's a maze of motel-room doors in decaying houses and the next door they burst through leads to a suburban living-room. Milquetoast décor from Martha Stewart, pictures on the mantle, a Mom and a Dad and two kids and their dog, all smiling back at them.
And on the cream colored couch is a girl in her late teens, her shirt unbuttoned and legs hooked around Dean's shoulders while he's buried in-between. The twitches of her legs and toes, the moans she makes and the way she grips his head tells all.
"Oh," Dean says, a little embarrassed he brought Sam here, but maybe it's the last place they'd be found.
Sam cups a hand over his mouth and stifles a laugh, which Dean thinks is odd, considering he's just the memory of Sam, but this is the only Sam he has now, he can't lose him.
"Go ahead, laugh," Dean sighs, and Sam does. He ends up leaning on Dean's side, face pressing into his shoulder, arms slinging around his chest in a half-embrace. The girl from Dean’s memory starts coming, shouting harder and deeper and faster and Sam just laughs even more.
"It's just," the memory-Sam wipes tears from his eyes, "isn't that Chelsea Borders? The Congressman's daughter who went to our high-school?"
"Yeah," Dean nods, "she was the last girl I ever went down on."
"Ever? But, we didn't, you dated other girls after her, right?"
"Just watch, it's coming." Dean leans his head back as Chelsea's father comes banging into the room, home early from dinner with his wife. Dean looks up, ready to take off and Chelsea's so startled she kicks Dean right in the face, heel going straight into his nose, cracking sound and Dean falling on the floor unconscious.
Darkness, it's where the memory ends but when the light comes back, there's blood pouring from his nose and there's Sam doing his stitches. But it's not the same place, not the same time because he's older and Sam's older and no. No, he doesn't want to forget this night.
He doesn't want to forget Sam tugging him into bed, doesn't want to forget the feeling of Sam's mouth around his cock, doesn't want to forget the way Sam fell against his body, head tucked under his chin as Dean flipped through the channels looking for something to watch before they went to sleep. He found the original Thomas Crown Affair with Steve McQueen, on basic cable and Sam fell asleep halfway through. But Dean stayed up for the whole movie, holding Sam and stroking his hair.
"No, no we shouldn't be back here."
"Almost done, Dean."
The edges of the scene start to blur, the motel room falling to pieces, wood floor breaking and the ceiling starts collapsing. Horrible noises, slow crunching of textiles and gnarling of wood and plaster. Dean grabs Sam and makes another run for it.
"Shit. Fuck!" Stan ashes his cigarette. "I lost him."
"Call the fucking doctor," Patrick's eyes are wide and scared. This doesn't happen to Stan.
*
They sit next to each other on the train, talking all the way.
Dean's in the middle of a story about how he broke his nose in high school when Sam interrupts.
"My stop is next."
Dean blinks a few times. "Oh, oh yeah. My car is further down."
Sam pulls at the corner of his mouth with his teeth. "I could give you directions-"
"We should have dinner-" Dean says at the exact same moment.
They laugh, Sam pulls at Dean's jacket. "Hey, we could get something nearby and then I could drive you back. Right?"
Dean smiles as the train starts to halt, pulling into the station. "So I guess this is my stop too?"
*
- "What the?" Sam peers through the branches, pushes them aside to the green, green lawn. A small boy stands in front of him, Dean transformed by his memory.
Back before you were even born, Sammy
"Bang bang!" he says, pointing his two hands at Sam like a gun. Sam doesn't move, just smiles and Dean stamps his foot, tipping his cowboy hat up. "You're dead!"
Sam tilts his head and he just goes with it, Dean's subconscious changing him as well. Now they're both toddlers in the backyard, Sam's got a blue t-shirt on with a red towel pinned to his shoulders like a cape. "Nuh-uh! I'm Superman, you can't harm me!" And Sam takes off laughing.
Dean follows shouting, "But I have kryptonite bullets!"
"I had my force-field up!"
"You're cheating!"
They run after one another, shouting back and forth until Sam gets tired and flings himself down on the grass. "Okay, you got me."
Dean's at his side. "I wish it really happened like this, Sam. That we got to grow up together."
"We did grow up together!" Sam laughs.
"Yeah, but,” the screen door creaks and Dean turns his attention to the porch, "not like this."
Sam sits up and looks where Dean is focusing. "Hey! That's Mom, right?"
"That's Mom," Dean stands up, holding his hand out. "We should go say, hi." Sam takes it, pulls himself up off the grass.
They walk to her, hand in hand.
Dr. Mierzwiak isn't too happy to be there. But he's in charge for a reason. He calmly takes a look at the computer, checks all the connections to the electrodes and starts re-configuring the system to account for the anomaly.
"Looks like, I can put this back on the right track soon," he says, tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. Patrick wipes nervous palms on his jeans and Stan just drinks even more of the shitty instant coffee the guy has in his room.
*
- Dean's under the kitchen table, crying, holding on to Sam.
"Dean, Dean what's wrong?" Sam twists in his grip.
"I br-broke the plate! The one from Mom's wedding china!" Dean sniffles.
Sam's grown up now, holding up the tablecloth, giving him a worried look. "Dean, something else is happening, you have to get out of here."
"I'm sorry Mommy!" Dean sobs, tiny hands rubbing at the corner of his eyes.
"Dean! Dean we have to run!"
"I'm sorry!"
"Dean!"
White light, the memory gone. Dean sinks his shoulders. It's another hunt with him and Dad and Sam. They're marching through the woods, off to go waste a couple of Banshees in Colorado.
"I can't stop it, can I Sam?" he asks, hands stuffed in his pockets as he jogs to catch up with him.
"We turned off the trail here, Dad," Sam says to John, not looking up from the compass in his hands. John grunts in response and they swing left.
"You're going to disappear, forever."
"East is left," Sam says.
Dean jogs up to put his arms around Sam, it's not what really happened but he doesn't care. He holds Sam, stops him from walking, freezes the memory, his father standing in place, his back to them.
"I should just... I should just take everything I can get now, Sam. I should just enjoy it, because when you're gone, I won't remember to miss you."
"Nice place," Dean says, looking around the sparse apartment.
"Thanks," Sam shrugs, dropping his keys on a table and shrugging off his jacket. "You wanna give me your coat?"
Dean unzips it. "Just the coat?"
Sam smiles, "We'll see how it goes."
"You let me know," Dean winks and Sam takes his jacket. He shucks off his boots in the hallway like Sam does, still covered in crumbs of sand from the beach. Sam offers him beer or coffee, and Dean chooses the beer. They sit on the couch and Sam grabs the remote and starts flipping through the stations, finally settling on some old movie.
"It's the original Thomas Crown Affair, ever see it?" Sam asks Dean. He shakes his head no.
"I like Steve McQueen, though."
"Figured you would."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean angles his eyebrows and Sam just shakes his head, tilting his beer to his mouth.
Halfway through it, Sam's nodded off with his head pillowed in Dean's lap, long legs hanging over the edge of the couch. Dean doesn't mind, one of his hands settling on Sam's head, stroking his hair.
*
- "It's gonna be okay, Sam. You gotta stay quiet," Dean whispers.
Sam's shivering, clinging to him as Dean clamps his mouth shut to keep him from screaming, leading him through the room where the hanging ghost is. She's in rare form, dangling herself from the ceiling, blood pouring from her mouth.
"It's just a ghost Sam, but you can't shout. If you shout she'll leave and me 'n Dad'll have to hunt her down again. She might hurt someone else, so you have to promise to stay quiet when I let go. Promise?"
Sam wavers, but starts nodding slowly. Dean moves his hand from Sam's mouth, and he doesn't shout.
"Okay, okay, good Sam. Now put your hands over your ears." Sam complies, still staring dumbly at the spirit.
"Good, good job Sammy. It's almost over," Dean cocks his rifle and trains it right on her. "Because I'm about to fill her up with rock salt and send her packing."
The gunshot is louder than Sam expects, and the second she dissipates from the shot, Dean's at Sam's side. Sam screams, tears streaming down his cheeks, hands still tightly covering his ears.
"It's too loud!" Sam yells, kicking at him as Dean wraps him in an embrace. "My ears! They're ringing and I can't hear myself!" Sam is shrieking, his own cries louder than Dean's heard since Sam was teething.
"I know, I'm here, Sammy. I got you."
Sam's moaning into his shirt, repeating over and over: "I wanna go home."
Sam wakes up the moment Dean turns off the set. It makes Dean shake with laughter, which is just the catalyst of it all. Sam's lips on his and Dean smiles through the kiss.
"You're so beautiful," Sam whispers.
"You're such a dork about this," Dean says, bumping his nose against Sam's, letting his mouth fall right into place, kissing Sam again. Sam's hands cup his face, thumb rubbing against his stubble.
Sam's mouth is amazing, and Dean's tongue is coaxed out, licking it's way inside. They taste each other, beer and saliva and the salt of their skin. "Bed," Sam breathes into Dean's mouth. They break apart long enough to stand, Dean swaying just slightly on his feet.
"Are you sure?" Dean asks.
"Do you want to?"
"Well, yeah but, you didn't strike me as the type."
"The type of guy to have sex on the first night?"
"The type of guy to have only that." Dean looks to the side, not wanting to see Sam's face fall. "I'm leaving in the morning."
Sam swallows.
*
- The lake is frozen over completely, and Dean tugs Sam forward, onto the ice.
Dean rolls his eyes when Sam smacks his hand away. "C'mon, you're not gonna break your ass."
"I might!" Sam says, holding his arms out to steady his balance.
"Whatever," Dean shakes his head, stepping forward. He gets to the center and yells at Sam, still carefully teetering to him. "Hurry up!"
"Quit rushing me!"
Dean laughs and sits on the ice, cold only slightly coming through his down jacket. He lays back, looks right up at the star-dusted sky, gibbous moon sitting fat and bright in the hemisphere. Sam's face then, obscuring his vision.
"Hi," Sam smiles.
"Oh, glad you could mosey on down here, Sam," Dean smarms, Sam sticks his tongue out and lies down next to him, looking straight up.
Sam's breath comes out of his mouth in puffs of gray vapor. "Whoa, okay, so that is pretty cool."
Dean shuffles closer. "I told you." His face drops, the memory and his conscious mind vacillating form one to another. "We made out here for hours, Sam. I really thought you were gonna give me frostbite."
"Is that Orion's belt?" Sam points to the sky.
"But first of course, you're gonna geekboy out on me about the constellations." Sam starts talking again, pointing at the stars and yammering about Venus. "And I'm gonna listen, but really I'm just watching you, watching your mouth. Thinking about how you have better things to do with it. You're going to show me, tonight. Afterwards, I'll pull you across the ice to the car, because it's fucking freezing, Sam. And we're gonna steam up the windows in her until the break of dawn. Then we’ll slink back to the motel, and do the walk of shame to breakfast with Dad in the diner."
"-and it's really a Summer constellation, but you've got that one star down there that you start seeing in early Spring. See it, Dean?"
"I see it, Sam."
They lie side by side on the bed, Dean's eyes are closed as he rests; his head pillowed on the crook of his arm. Sam’s watching him.
"I can't make you stay?" Sam whispers.
Dean shakes his head no.
"I can only have this?"
"Yeah. I can try and be really bad at it so you won't be so disappointed, but that's scientifically impossible."
"Oho!" Sam cracks a smile, shifting to climb atop Dean, straddling his hips and bracing his hands on Dean's chest. "Scientifically, eh?"
"Mmm hmm, I'd have to break all the laws of physics and thermodynamics and the moon would have to fall out of orbit in order for me to be bad at sex." Dean opens his eyes, runs his hands along Sam's thighs. "But I'll try and do my best to hold back, if you want."
Sam leans in to kiss him, "I want. Even if it's just tonight, I want." He pushes himself up, off the bed and starts undressing, Dean following suit. It's strange, the unspoken agreements between the two of them. Sam knowing Dean doesn't want his clothes flung everywhere so it's easy for him to leave in the morning.
It doesn't kill the romance really, when Sam goes right for the condoms and the lube, crossing the room naked to put them on the night table. They don't need some passionate fit tonight, arms flailing and grasping for things in the dark. Hands fumbling and buttons popping off.
It's better when Sam hits the light and Dean's ready for him, for his mouth on his and his arms around his neck. It's better when the rest of the world fades away and there's just Sam and him. Mouths fitting together, bodies as well. Sam's fingers, those big hands surprisingly gentle as they start sliding into him, stretching him and slicking him up. Sam's hands on his dick while he's inside him. Big, big hands.
Dean must be thinking aloud because Sam laughs and says, "Tell me about 'em."
"You have fucking enormous hands, you monster," Dean says as he squeezes down on Sam's cock, eliciting a gasp and a moan from Sam.
"You love them," Sam picks right back up, stroking his cock, one-handed.
Dean comes shouting, Sam follows minutes later, deep thrust into Dean as he finishes.
Dean pants, Sam pulling out of him, rolling to one side of the bed to discard the condom. When he finishes, Sam covers them with the blanket, almost immediately falling asleep as he curls close to Dean.
*
- Montauk Point, New York, 1998. The beach on a dreary, overcast day. There's a row of fishermen casting lines out in the early morning. One of them brought a dog and is letting Sam play with him, throwing a piece of driftwood back and forth. Dean jogs towards him, Sam laughing, tugging the driftwood from the dog's mouth.
"Sam!"
Sam picks his head up, "Yeah, Dean?"
"I'm supposed to be telling you to come back inside, Dad wants to talk to you, something like that. God, you looked so happy here."
"What does Dad want?"
"I wish it could have gone different, Sam."
Sam turns angry. "Well he can tell me himself!" It's like having two different conversations, the one he wants to have, and the one his memory of Sam reacts to.
"Sammy," Dean touches the collar of his windbreaker.
Sam leans close to whisper in Dean's ear.
Meet me in Montauk.
"Sam," Dean whispers, brushing his bangs back, trying to make them stick up in the air with just the sweat from his brow. He's gonna look so funny in the morning if Dean can get him to sleep on them like that.
"Yeah, Dean?" Sam says through a tight, tired mouth.
"Nothing," Dean says as Sam rolls over onto his side in just the right way. After he's done messing up his hair enough, Dean fits his chin into the crook of Sam's neck and shoulder. Kissing the skin there and settling in for the night, spooning Sam to his chest.
"I'd stay if you asked me too." Dean realizes, saying it aloud.
"Stay," Sam mumbles.
*
- Mary in the bedroom, yellow light of the afternoon spilling in. She's in the bed, white dress, white pillows and billowing cream-colored sheets. In her arms she cradles a pale white bundle.
John scoots him forward, and he toddles to her on stumbly little legs. Her smile, wide and lovely.
"Dean, would you like to meet you little brother?"
He nods.
She turns the swathed child in her arms to him, showing him the rumpled pink face.
"This, is Sam."
Bye, Sam.
"We done now?" Stan asks, the doctor sitting back in his seat.
"Yeah," Dr. Mierzwiak nods
*
"What the hell?" Sam says to his reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering how his hair could defy gravity while he was sleeping.
Dean sticks his head out from behind the shower curtain. "C'mon and get in here, you stink."
"Well, whose fault is that?"
"Not everyone appreciates your man-musk, okay Sasquatch?"
Sam shoves the curtain away and steps in, pinning Dean to the wall with his arms. "You are so lucky you're in the shower because I would take you down for saying that on dry land."
"Is that a promise for later?" Dean asks, hands resting on Sam's hips, drawing him flush against his body. Wet, warm and soapy.
Sam opens his mouth to answer when a ring comes from the bedroom. "That's not my-"
"That's my phone, I gotta!" Dean hops out of the shower, quickly grabbing a towel so he doesn't freeze as he runs for his jeans pocket. "It might be my Dad!" he shouts to Sam. Quickly he flips it open, the number is restricted. "Hello?"
"Mr. Osterberg?" Huh. James Osterberg is a name he uses sometimes for cases, but Dean hasn't used that one in a while. Maybe John gave the name to someone else to find him.
"Yeah, this is he."
"I'm at your motel room, and the clerk gave me your cellphone from the check-in desk. I have a package that must be hand-delivered, where are you?"
Hand-delivered package? It sounded like something John would do. "Yeah, yeah I'm not there, I'm at a friend's house, let me give you the address." Dean puts the phone to the side and yells to Sam for his apartment address.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes, thank you." Dean shrugs and closes the phone, walking back to the bathroom and Sam.
*
Sam's towel-drying his hair when there's a knock on the door and he tells Dean to get it while he goes to put on sweatpants. "Mr. Osterberg?" the courier hands the package over, and Dean signs for it at the door. Then he reaches into his bag and produces another one. "I have one for this address too, Samuel Winchester?"
Sam's behind Dean now, and he raises his hand, "Right here."
Winchester, Dean's heart skips a beat or two. The name isn't completely unheard of, but something about Sam having it, just doesn't sit right.
Sam hasn't asked his last name either. The entire time-
"Huh, it's a tape, what did you get?" Sam asks. Dean shakes himself out of his thoughts and opens the padded envelope.
It's also a cassette tape. The mailing label says Lacuna, Inc. No other address. There's a note in the package which Sam starts reading to himself while Dean loads his tape in Sam's stereo and hits play.
"Tell me your name."
"James Osterberg."
"Tell me why you're doing this."
"Revenge. Spite. The usual."
"Tell me the real reason."
"Well, I've always wanted to know what it'd be like to have my brain washed."
There's a heavy sigh on the tape.
"It doesn't work unless you tell the truth. The whole truth."
"My name, is Dean Winchester."
Sam gasps, but they listen on.
"I'm doing this to erase my brother, Sam Winchester."
"Why?"
"Well, I mean he did it to me first. Turnabout is fair play."
"And?"
"And... I don't want to remember how much I want him. I don't want to know what I'm missing."
"It can't be," Sam says, but they don't stop it. They don't stop listening and the tape plays out, then Sam reads the letter to Dean. It's from Dr. Mierzwiak's jilted mistress, his secretary, explaining her side of the story. She was convinced by the doctor to erase the memories of their own affair, and upon discovering the truth, she'd decided to purge her guilt and try to make things right with all the rest of Dr. Mierzwiak's patients. Dean's mouth is dry and he stands, grabs his jacket and runs to throw open the door, walking out of the apartment.
He hears a shout behind him, pleading, "Dean! Please!"
He turns around. They're standing, face-to-face in the hallway of his apartment building.
Sam's still naked from the waist up, face unshaven, hair mussed, heart pounding-must be beating through his chest. Every deep breath, every nervous twitch of his mouth, his hands.
"I should go," Dean starts, turning away again.
"Wait-" Sam touches his shoulder. Dean doesn't flinch, he should flinch away from any touch but, he just can't. Instead he turns, leans into it, almost.
"We need to listen to mine too. We should hear both sides. Then you can leave, please Dean. Don't make me listen to it alone."
"You're not an orphan-"
"Please, Dean."
*
"Tell me why you're doing this."
"It's, my childhood was troubled. I can't, I can't live with the ghost of my father in my head."
"And Dean?"
"Wh-what?"
"Why Dean, too?"
"I told you. Our relationship, it wasn't right. It's gonna fuck me up for the rest of my life."
"Okay, let's get started."
"Wait."
"Samuel?"
There's a pause.
"It doesn't work unless I say the whole truth, right?"
"No, no it doesn't. Don't be afraid, Sam. This is a safe space."
"I don't hate Dean, and that's the problem. I should hate him too, right? I shouldn't be going crazy out of my skin without him. Needing him, wanting him, every second of every day."
"Sam?"
"I'm erasing him so I don't have to love him anymore. So I won't know what I'm missing."
Dean stops the tape before it goes any further, he's heard enough. Sam doesn't move from the armchair, knees up to his chest, chewing on his thumbnail, not looking at Dean.
"We're completely fucked, aren't we?" Dean asks.
Sam nods.
"I should, be more upset than I am, right? This should be something that bothers me, but-"
"It doesn't," Sam finishes. "What the fuck is wrong with us?"
Dean laughs and Sam stands up, intense stare. "You, you're so fucking beautiful. God, I can't stop myself." Sam takes Dean's face in his hands.
"We-we can't really?" Dean reaches his hands up to cover Sam's, pulling them away.
Sam's hands fall to his sides. "We can't."
Dean pauses, placing his palms flat on Sam's chest, feeling the heart beating beneath the skin. "But- I mean, we're going to anyway."
Sam presses his lips together into a tight line. "I know."
"Okay."
*
The sky is cloudy-cold overcast, almost as white as the sand on the beach.
"You better take your boots off in the next 5 seconds or I am going to hurt you," Dean threatens, arms crossed.
Sam leans up from where he's laying against the Impala's hood. "I'm not scuffing your precious, hey!" Dean's already got his hands on his feet, trying to yank the boots off so Sam kicks him away and slides off the hood of the car. Dean chases him down onto the beach.
They tumble against each other. Pushing and tripping into the sand as the wind whistles a chill into their bones. Noses and cheeks and the tips of ears cherry-red from the cold.
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean chants into his skin, pulling him close, fisting his windbreaker and Sam's hands are in the back pockets of his jeans, Sam's mouth biting his jaw.
"Easy," Dean warns, and Sam nods.
"I know, you told me. Hairline fracture, wires in it for weeks."
Dean pushes him to the crumbling walls of sand, created by the low tide. Covers Sam's body with his own and kisses him, over and over again. Sam is gentle with him, cradles his jaw lovingly in his hands while Dean moans into his mouth, hands bracing against Sam's neck.
"I got you, Dean."
fin