If We Live Through This - PART TWO
The drive to Whitefish, Montana, will take a little over sixteen hours, not counting stops for gas and supplies. After a breakfast of eggs and toast, Sam loads the car while Bobby gives directions and reassurance to Dean.
“Your brother’s gonna be fine, Dean,” Bobby assures him. “Nightmares never killed a man, as far as I know, and Sam’s tough. He beat the goddamned devil himself. That kind of fortitude don’t grow on trees. Just give it time. You’ll both be back in the saddle before you know it.”
Dean nods, but he’s still on edge. Lack of sleep and too much coffee probably don’t help. He tells himself Bobby means well. He can assure him that Sam’s no longer possessed (which Dean knew even without the testing) but Bobby can’t know what it’s like to spend forty years in Hell, can’t possibly understand how much worse Sam’s time there was than Dean’s.
Dark circles under Sam’s eyes tell Dean exactly how well his brother slept last night. As soon as they’re on the road, Dean turns on the soft rock.
“Get some sleep, Sam,” he says. “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out like a light, sleeps through their first stop for gas and food, doesn’t wake up until they cross the border into Montana. Dean glances over several times, just to be sure Sam’s still breathing, figures the familiar rocking motion of the car must be the perfect antidote to Sam’s sleeplessness.
Rufus’s cabin isn’t much to look at, and it’s even worse on the inside. There’s a bed, a couch, a table and a couple of chairs. Pumped well water and a generator for electricity, ancient ice-box packed with real ice.
“Hey, at least there’s a TV,” Dean remarks cheerfully as he sets his duffle down. “I’ll take the couch.”
Sam sets the bag of groceries and bucket of fried chicken on the table. “I’ll start a fire.”
Within the hour, they’ve got the generator running, lamps lit, fireplace and wood stove pumping out heat. It’s almost cozy.
“So you just woke up in a field,” Dean says as he sips his beer.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam says, taking a bite of salad. “Why?”
“It’s just that, when I got back, I had to claw my way out of that pine box you buried me in.” Dean bites into a drumstick and chews. “I had grave dirt in my underwear and my fingers were bleeding.”
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. Whatever brought me back just left me on that field. I didn’t have to claw my way out of anything.”
“Weird,” Dean comments. “I mean, if Cas did that, why couldn’t he get me all the way out?”
Sam shakes his head. “I dunno. Maybe he’s getting better at pulling people out of Hell. With you, he could only get you out so far.”
Dean considers this. “Maybe. Maybe he’d never done it before. Maybe I was his first.” He snickers and sips his beer.
Sam makes a face and takes a sip of his beer. Dean watches his throat move as he swallows, has to tear his eyes away the way he’s had to do too much lately. He’s worried about Sam, of course. But there’s more to it than that, and he doesn’t want to think too much about that.
He’s just tired.
“I think I’ll hit the rack,” he says as he gets up to grab his toothbrush. “Sleepless night plus long drive adds up to tired me.”
Sam nods. “I think I’ll just read for a while,” he says, pulling out one of the tomes he borrowed from Bobby’s house.
Dean shrugs. Sam got a lot of sleep in the car. He’s not sleepy, that’s all. It’s not that he’s afraid to go to sleep, of the nightmares. Dean’s not about to ask him if he remembers anything after last night. He sure acted like he thought he was still in the Cage when he woke up, and Dean’s not about to jog those memories for him. He’s just grateful he could be there to provide some reassurance.
Teeth brushed and face washed in the freezing well water, Dean’s out like a light within a few minutes on the couch in the warm cabin. He’s vaguely aware of Sam covering him with a blanket much later, when the fire’s going out and it’s getting cooler in the room. He’s peripherally aware of Sam getting ready for bed, leaving the door to the bedroom open, bedsprings creaking as he lays his ginormous body down, then quiet. A few minutes later, Sam’s even breathing fills the silence, and Dean lets himself slip into unconsciousness again.
“No!”
Dean wakes with a start. Sam’s yelling. It’s almost pitch-dark in the cabin, the only light from the embers in the fireplace.
“Stop! I said stop! Don’t!”
Sam’s voice rises in panic as something crashes to the ground, probably the light on the bedside table.
Dean’s up and headed into the bedroom without even thinking about it. He stubs his toe against the ugly trunk that poses as a coffee table, swears as his shoulder hits the door frame into the bedroom. It’s even darker in the bedroom, but Sam’s yelling is louder and more insistent, pleading now.
“No, please! Please don’t! Please, I don’t want this. Help! Somebody help me! Dean!”
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He steps on the broken lamp in his haste to make it to Sam, but he barely notices. One of Sam’s flailing arms catches him across the jaw but he doesn’t stop.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Sammy. I’m here. I’m right here, Sam. Sammy, wake up! You’re safe!”
Somehow he manages to grab Sam’s arms, getting kicked in the shin and head-butted for his efforts, but Dean finally settles Sam down, mostly by lying on top of him and pressing him down into the bed with all his weight, the way he did last night at Bobby’s.
He can’t see Sam’s face in the dark, but he can feel when Sam wakes up enough to be aware that Dean’s there, that Sam’s not in the Cage anymore. The nightmare is over. Sam’s body relaxes under Dean’s, his frantic breathing evens out.
“Okay.” Dean gives Sam’s arms a quick squeeze, starts to get up, but Sam grabs onto him, just as he did the night before.
“Stay,” Sam begs, his voice choked and broken. “Please.”
“Okay,” Dean assures him, sliding off Sam’s body to the mattress beside him.
Sam turns towards him, still clinging, scooting as close as he can as Dean rolls onto his back.
“Don’t go,” Sam whisper-pleads. He buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, slides an arm across his chest, a leg between Dean’s legs, pinning him down.
Dean pats the arm on his chest, his other arm crushed between them.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmurs. “Not going anywhere.”
Sam huffs contentedly into his neck, tucked securely against him. He slips back into sleep almost immediately, his breaths getting longer and more even as he relaxes completely.
He doesn’t let go of Dean, though, and when Dean tries to slip free, Sam scoots closer, tightening his hold in his sleep. His mouth opens against Dean’s skin, and Dean holds his breath, waiting.
For what? Does he expect Sam to kiss him in his sleep? Why isn’t he disgusted by that thought? Why doesn’t he try harder to untangle himself from Sam’s sleeping body?
“Dean.”
Sam breathes out the word and Dean feels it on his neck. He’s hyper-aware of his own bare legs, of the softness of the flannel sleep pants Sam wears, of Sam’s groin pushed up against Dean’s hip. Sam’s body is a furnace, keeping Dean warm despite the chilly air in the room, But one leg and arm are basically bare, and his toes are already cold. They both wore t-shirts to bed, and Dean always wears his boxers because it’s just easier to strip down to his first layer when he goes to bed, rather than putting on sleep pants or sweat pants like Sam wears.
One half of him is overheated, while the other half is getting cold. He can’t possibly fall asleep this way.
As he reaches down with his free hand to find the blanket Sam kicked off during his nightmare, Sam moans and nuzzles his neck. Sam’s leg moves between Dean’s and his hand clutches Dean’s t-shirt.
Sam’s groin grinds into Dean’s hip, and Dean can feel his erection. Dean’s own cock twitches in response, and he jerks away, scrambling to put a little distance between them as he grabs the blanket.
“Dean?” Sam’s sleepy voice goes straight to Dean’s dick.
“It’s okay,” Dean assures him. “Just pulling the blanket up. Not going anywhere.”
Sam sighs contentedly and scoots closer again, smashing himself against Dean’s side, half-erect dick pressed against his hip. Dean manages to pull his other arm free, turning on his side away from his brother, but Sam scoots into his backside, spooning him. Sam’s face presses into the back of his neck, and this time when he opens his mouth, Dean feels Sam’s lips on the nape of his neck. Sam’s tree-trunk arm circles his waist, big hand open flat over his chest, his heart.
This time, when Dean feels the unmistakable ridge of Sam’s erection against his ass, he allows it. Sam obviously gets comfort from cuddling his big brother like a teddy bear. His hard-on is just a physiological response to that. Doesn’t mean anything.
Dean’s always had an unhealthy obsession with Sam. Sam’s safety, Sam’s sex life, Sam’s romantic entanglements, any relationships Sam has outside of Dean. Knowing that doesn’t make it any better. Makes Dean feel like a bad person, maybe, but not bad enough to stop obsessing. Anyway, Dean couldn’t stop obsessing about Sam even if he wanted to. Sam is and always has been the center of Dean’s universe.
Now, if Sam needs this, Dean can’t think of a single reason not to give it to him, for as long as it takes.
It’s just cuddling, after all. Just comfort. After everything Sam’s been through, it’s the least Dean can do.
He falls asleep with Sam wrapped around him, barely feels it when Sam sleepily grinds into him, lips pressed to the back of his neck in what almost feels like a kiss.
Almost.
//**//**//
The first thing Dean’s aware of when he wakes up is that he’s alone.
The second thing is that he can hear the rhythmic, echoing pounding of somebody chopping wood outside.
He rolls over to reach for his jeans, remembers that he got undressed in the other room last night but ended up here because Sam was having another nightmare. Dean remembers Sam draping himself around Dean’s body like an octopus, remembers the feel of his body pressed close. His lips on Dean’s neck.
Dean shivers. He presses down on his morning wood, then takes a few moments to jerk off while Sam is obviously otherwise occupied. He tries not to think about how good it felt to be wrapped up in Sam’s arms as he comes, biting back a satisfied grunt.
He’s flushed and loose afterwards, lets himself doze for a couple of moments before cleaning himself up. The chopping has stopped. Now Dean can smell coffee, hears the sizzling of bacon on the stove. He drags himself up just as Sam opens the bedroom door. He tosses Dean’s jeans and boots on the bed.
“Rise and shine, sleepy-head,” Sam says, then frowns as he sniffs the air.
Dean’s got a defensive retort ready for Sam’s complaint about the room smelling like sex, but he doesn’t say it. He just lowers his eyes and leaves the room, but Dean could swear Sam’s cheeks got pink. He’s wearing his jeans and boots and the t-shirt he slept in, his bare arms shiny with sweat from the exertion of chopping wood.
Dean’s dick twitches. He ignores it, grabbing his jeans and getting dressed quickly in the chilly room.
Plates of bacon, eggs, and toast greet him in the main room. The fire has been stoked and fed with freshly-cut firewood, taking the chill out of the air. As Dean looks up at his brother, impressed, Sam barely suppresses a satisfied grin.
“Eat,” he orders, gesturing at the table.
Neither of them mentions last night’s comfort session, but Dean’s pretty sure that’s all it was. No need to talk about it.
“You’re up early,” Dean comments as he settles onto his chair, accepting a cup of black coffee from Sam.
“Figured I should start pulling my weight again,” Sam says with a shrug. “After breakfast, I figure we could head into town, pick up a newspaper and some library books, see if we can find us a hunt.”
“Whoa there, cowboy.” Dean puts up a hand, shaking his head. “You just got back from Hell, Sammy. Don’t you think we should put hunting on the back burner for a few weeks?”
“Why?” Sam piles eggs and toast onto his plate. “I’m better. I feel ready. No reason why I can’t get back in the game.”
“Yeah, there’s a reason,” Dean insists. “Hell. Don’t think I don’t remember what that was like, those first weeks after getting topside.”
“Pretty sure you jumped back in,” Sam reminds him. “Probably needed to. You remembered Hell. I can’t even imagine what that must’ve been like.”
He takes a bite of his eggs, reaches for his coffee. Dean watches, momentarily speechless.
“You’re having nightmares, Sammy,” he says finally. “Usually those things trigger memories, whether you want them or not.”
Sam shrugs. “Well, not for me. I still don’t remember a thing.” But he doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes.
He’s lying.
Dean takes a bite of his bacon, chews thoughtfully.
“Okay, we’ll go into town, take a look around,” he concedes. “You probably need some books just to keep you from going totally stir-crazy anyway, so I’ll agree to the library visit. And the newspaper. Also, we should totally get some snacks. Maybe some popcorn for movie night tonight, more beer, and some pie, goddamn it.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he smiles, too, dimples popping, so Dean wins.
“Right,” Sam agrees, feigning the long-suffering little brother resignation that Dean used to love so much. It almost feels normal.
Dean’s heart clenches. Part of him knows it’ll never be normal again, not after what Sam’s been through. But he’ll take the little win, the little moment of almost-normal, for now.
If it was only so easy to put everything back to the way it was, before.
If only Dean didn’t have to fight the urge to reach across the table and lay his hand over Sam’s big paw, just to reassure him, just to let Sam know that Dean gets it. Dean knows how hard it is, pretending to be normal when your head’s full of Hell and you can smell your own skin burning.
Dean knows how vital it feels to do something - anything - to get those images and that smell out of your mind, however temporarily.
Dean’s determined to help Sam get through this, whatever it takes.
//**//**//
They spend the morning in town, mostly in the library, which Dean tolerates because Sam needs it. He can see that it grounds Sam to be among books, it always has. There’s something permanent, solid, unchanging about libraries and the shelves of books they contain. Dean can understand why Sam likes it there, even if the place bores Dean out of his mind.
They pick up supplies, including snacks and beer, and a newspaper, then stop for lunch at the diner next to the gas station. The diner has a bakery display with fresh pies, so Dean picks two, one blueberry and one cherry because it’s his favorite.
Sam rolls his eyes but says nothing.
Dean grins.
It’s almost normal. Dean will take it.
//**//**//
Back at the cabin, Sam chops more wood than they could possibly burn in a month. He’s coiled up with unspent energy, obviously needs to hit something, so Dean leaves him to the chopping, stays clear of Sam’s swinging ax by watching afternoon TV, which sucks as much as it ever did, but at least he gets a nap out of it.
They hike down to the lake in the late afternoon, strip down to their boxers, and plunge into the cold water, racing each other across the lake just to keep warm. Somebody - probably Rufus - built a dock with an old boat hitched to it, so the brothers dry off after their swim by lying side by side on the dock, shoulders touching, letting the cool autumn air pebble their skin as it dries. When they can’t stand the cold for another moment, they get dressed and hike back up to the cabin to stoke the fire and warm up.
They don’t talk much, but it feels so good just to be together again after their separation that they don’t need to talk. Dean grills steaks for their supper while Sam chops vegetables for a salad, and it’s so good Dean feels like crying.
After supper, Dean makes popcorn while Sam chooses the movie from Rufus’s collection of ancient VHS tapes. He’s got all three of the original Star Wars movies, so they settle in for a marathon, side-by-side on the couch with the bowl of popcorn between them. It feels so good to feel his brother’s warm, solid body, strong and alive, that Dean barely watches the movie. He casts sidelong looks at Sam’s profile every few minutes, beyond grateful, half expecting Sam to disappear on him.
Sam catches one of his glances, grins so adorably that Dean has to get up to relieve himself.
He tells himself it’s normal to react to Sam’s presence with a hard-on. It’s just Dean’s body’s way of expressing his gratitude, his joy at having his brother by his side again. It’s sheer pleasure, sitting here with Sam after the day they’ve just had. Nothing weird about it.
Dean’s always been a sexual person. Being around attractive people always makes him hard. Sam’s attractive, plus Dean loves him. It’s logical for his body to respond to Sam the way it does. Now that Dean thinks about it, it’s always been that way.
Better not to overthink it, he tells himself as he joins Sam on the couch again.
Sam puts the second movie into the VHS player, sets the empty popcorn bowl on the little coffee table, and sits down next to Dean, pressed close from shoulder to thigh.
Dean reaches for the bottle of whiskey, takes a swallow straight from the bottle before passing it to Sam, who shakes his head. He’s still finishing his beer.
He glances over when Sam takes a sip of his beer, watches Sam’s throat move as he swallows. The whiskey makes him loose and warm, gives him courage. He lets his gaze sweep down over Sam’s body, admiring how tall and well-toned he is, how long his legs are. Dean thinks back to the afternoon, to Sam’s nearly naked body moving gracefully through the lake as he swam. He recalls the little shock of pleasure as Sam took his shirt off, pushed his jeans down to reveal those long, long legs of his.
Dean’s little brother is built like a Greek god. Dean’s proud of him. It’s only natural to be turned on by such obvious beauty. Sam’s beyond gorgeous. Dean loves and admires Sam more than anyone else in the universe. Of course, he does.
Sam shifts next to him, and Dean’s eyes drop to Sam’s lap, to the obvious bulge there.
Is that a banana or are you just happy to be sitting here practically in my lap?
Dean doesn’t say it, though. This is too new, for Sam. Too recent. Dean doesn’t want to poke at Sam’s trauma directly by joking about anything that might jog his Hell memories.
Dean knows all about the way demons torture in Hell. He remembers too well. The slicing and dicing is the easy stuff.
When he lifts his eyes to Sam’s face, his brother’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t return his gaze, so Dean looks away, takes another swig from the whiskey bottle.
By the end of The Empire Strikes Back, Dean’s buzzed. He looks down and is surprised to see his hand on Sam’s thigh. He doesn’t remember putting it there, can’t imagine how long it’s been there or why Sam didn’t say something or move away. He considers leaving it there or letting it slide into the space between Sam’s legs, to the inseam of his jeans. He could leave it there, close to Sam’s crotch, pretend he didn’t even notice.
Sam clears his throat and gets up, leaving Dean’s hand to fall onto the warm couch where Sam’s body was a moment ago.
“What do you say? ‘Return of the Jedi’?” Sam asks, bending toward the TV to replace the videotape.
“Sure. But hold on. I gotta take a leak.” Dean gets up, only a little unsteady, misses the door to the bathroom, and opens the door to the porch. The cold air revives him a little, and he goes ahead outside to piss off the side of the deck.
He barely makes it through the opening credits. He’s vaguely aware of Sam tucking him in, moving his legs to stretch him out on the couch, turning down the lamps so the only light comes from the dying fire in the fireplace. Then he’s out.
//**//**//
“Dean! Oh god, no. Dean! Help!”
Dean’s up like a shot, stumbling towards his brother as Sam calls for him over and over.
“I’m coming, Sammy! I’m coming!”
He hits his shin on the side of the bed, falls onto it across Sam’s flailing body, effectively pinning him to the mattress.
“It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay. I’m here.”
Sam continues to writhe and moan for another moment, then relaxes as he becomes aware of Dean’s presence.
“Dean.” He pants, relief replacing his panic.
“Yeah, Sam. That’s right. I’m right here.”
Sam wraps his arms and legs around Dean, holding him tight, breathing into his neck. Dean lies still, letting Sam clutch his back reflexively, feeling Sam’s pounding heartbeat slow gradually against his chest. When Dean feels wetness against his neck, feels Sam’s body shaking, it takes him a moment to realize that Sam’s crying.
“He pretended to be you, sometimes.” Sam’s voice is choked, hoarse from screaming. “He could read my deepest, darkest thoughts. Things I never said out loud to anyone. He knew.”
“Shhh.” Dean reaches up, patting awkwardly at Sam’s hair and face, trying to soothe. “It’s okay, Sam. You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”
“No, I need to,” Sam says, half-whispering. “I need to tell you, so it can’t be his secret anymore. I can’t let him have it. I can’t let him have any part of me.”
“Okay.” Dean tamps down on his dread of what Sam’s about to say.
“I know I’m a disappointment to you, Dean,” Sam mumbles miserably into his neck. “I know I let you down.”
“No, Sammy, you’re not. You didn’t.” Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, over and over. “You saved the world, Sam. I’m so proud of you.”
Despite the warm furnace of Sam’s body under his, Dean shivers. He thinks he might be crying a little.
Sam shakes his head. In the dark, Dean can feel it, even if he can’t see it.
“You think I’m a monster,” Sam half-whispers.
“No, never. I never thought that. Even if I might have said it, I never thought that, Sam. You have to believe me.” Dean babbles, a litany of heart-felt words spewing out, self-soothing as much as comforting. “You’re a hero, Sam. You’re so strong, you know that? Stronger than me, that’s for sure. What you did? Putting Lucifer back in the Cage? That’s amazing, Sammy. That’s awesome.”
Sam half-laughs, half-sobs into Dean’s neck.
“Hey, hey, listen to me, Sam, listen to me, okay? He doesn’t know you. Maybe he could read your mind, but he doesn’t know you like I do. He can’t see how brave and strong and good you are.”
Dean shivers again, and this time, Sam notices. He lets Dean go just enough so that he can pull the blanket up around them, then pulls Dean against him under the covers, pushing his face into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He nuzzles Dean's skin like a baby animal, snuffling and sucking as if he means to draw Dean into his mouth and lungs the way a baby does when it nurses. Breathing. Tasting.
“I pretended it was you, when he touched me,” Sam murmurs. “When he did things to me, I thought about you and I got through it. I never stopped believing you would save me, never for a moment.”
Shame, hot and heavy, runs through Dean’s body. He slides his hand deep into Sam’s hair, tips his head back so his face is turned up to Dean, his thumbs swiping the tears from Sam’s cheeks. Even in the dark, he’s got Sam’s attention, knows Sam’s staring at him, even if he can’t see him.
“I would’ve done anything to get you out,” he swears fiercely. “Anything, you hear me? I would’ve let the world burn, if I thought it would save you. Every day, I thought about you, what you must be going through down there, with him, and it killed me. Every day, it killed me a little more.”
“I know,” Sam whispers. “I never doubted you, Dean. I had faith you would come for me. I believed in you, Dean. I always have.”
When Dean feels fresh tears on Sam’s cheeks, he leans in and kisses them away, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sam’s tears taste salty and bitter, mixed with the unique tang of Sam’s sweat. Sam gives a little gasp, whether of surprise or pleasure, Dean’s not sure and doesn’t really care. When he feels Sam lean in to return the kisses, he lets Sam find his lips, slots their mouths together in a series of soft kisses that feel like a benediction. Forgiveness.
Dean pulls away first, pushing Sam over so that he’s on his side, Dean slotted close behind him.
“Okay, okay,” he murmurs into Sam’s ear, leaving a soft kiss on the shell, another on the lobe. “Now, sleep. No more nightmares, y’hear? Time to sleep now.”
He feels Sam nod, doesn’t pull away when Sam snuggles back into the curve of his body. He doesn’t pull back when Sam settles his ass against Dean’s erection, wiggles it enough to make Dean even harder.
He’s pretty sure Sam’s hard, too. Pretty sure all Dean would need to do to get them both off is reach into the front of Sam’s sweatpants, wrap his hand around Sam’s huge, hot cock, and rub himself off on Sam’s ass as he gave Sam a handjob.
He doesn’t do it, not because he doesn’t want to, but because this is enough, for now. Just knowing Sam would let him do it is enough.
He waits until he hears Sam’s breathing even out in sleep, then he lets himself sink down into unconsciousness.
//**//**//
Sam’s gone again when Dean wakes up the next morning, head throbbing, mouth dry. The sun has already climbed halfway to noon. Sam must’ve decided to let him sleep.
Sam’s at the kitchen table, reading yesterday’s newspaper, cup of coffee in his hand.
A glass of water and a bottle of painkillers sit at Dean’s place at the table.
Sam looks up, raising his coffee cup. “Figured you could use those,” he says, nodding at the painkillers.
“Thanks.” Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and joins Sam at the table, nodding at the newspaper. “Find anything?”
Sam shakes his head. “Just the usual,” he says. “We should probably call Bobby, let him know we’re available if he needs help with anything.”
“Right.” Dean knocks back a couple of painkillers, swallows the entire glass of water.
Sam clears his throat. “Dean.”
Dean raises an eyebrow, tries to look clueless.
“About last night,” Sam clarifies.
Dean puts up a hand. “Hey. We don’t need to talk about it,” he assures Sam. “What you went through in the Cage, that stays with you if you want it to. I already told you I’m available if you want to talk, or whatever. But we don’t need it to be anything you don’t want it to be. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dealing with it just fine. Better than fine, in fact. Hell, you’re dealing with it about a thousand times better than I dealt with my time downstairs, that’s for sure.”
Sam blinks, starts to say something, then nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Dean says. “Tell you one thing, though. We should probably just share that bed from now on. I’ve banged my shins so bad my bruises got bruises.”
Sam smiles then, relieved and grateful. His dimples pop and Dean will do anything to keep that happening. Stupid Dad jokes, whatever. Sam needs to keep smiling.
The day is spent much like the previous day. After the call to Bobby, which produces zero leads, they drive into town for brunch and flies for the fishing rods Dean found in Rufus’s basement. Dean thinks maybe Bobby’s deliberately giving them more time off by pretending there’s nothing to hunt, but he’s okay with that. It’s not that Sam isn’t ready to return to hunting. Dean thinks he’s coping pretty well, as he told him.
But Dean’s not ready to go back to their old lives. He likes having Sam all to himself, alone. This vacation or whatever it is can go on for a while yet, as far as he’s concerned.
When they get back to the cabin, they pick up the fishing tackle and hike down to the lake. It’s colder today, autumn closing in, so they don’t go swimming, which disappoints Dean a little more than he’ll admit, since he wouldn’t mind seeing Sam without clothes again. But he’s still got plenty of quiet time alone with Sam, so he’s happy.
Like yesterday, they don’t talk much, but Dean’s fine with that, too. If truth be told, it’s not just because Sam needs time to heal that Dean doesn’t want to jump right back into hunting. He’s enjoying the alone time with Sam, giving them time to heal their relationship. Things were pretty hairy in the couple of years between Dean getting back from Hell and Sam jumping into the Cage. The brothers’ relationship took a lot of hits during that time. Now, just sitting quietly on the dock, gazing across the lake at the changing leaves, taking deep breaths of the clear mountain air, Sam and Dean are better than they’ve been in a very long time. Too long, maybe.
They each manage to catch enough fish for their dinner, which Dean cooks over an open fire in the back of the cabin because he remembers their dad cooking fish that way, wrapped in foil, and he remembers it as the best thing he ever tasted.
“That’s because we were starving,” Sam reminds him. “It was that wilderness trip, remember? We had to make our own weapons, and you speared that fish with a stick you whittled down to a point. Took you most of the day to catch that one fish.”
Dean shrugs. “Not bad for a ten-year-old, I guess.”
“I’ll never forget the poison ivy,” Sam says. “And the mosquito bites.”
“Yeah, I guess that trip pretty much put us off camping for life,” Dean says.
As they wash up after dinner, side by side in front of the little sink with its freezing well water, they rub shoulders and elbows. When they play cards in front of the fire afterward, they knock their knees and feet together under the table.
“If you make it through a night without nightmares, we should totally rent a motel room, just so we can get warm showers,” Dean muses as they brush their teeth in the tiny, cramped bathroom later.
“Hey, we’re just lucky this place has an indoor toilet,” Sam reminds him, and Dean can’t argue with that.
As he undresses for bed, Dean tries not to look forward to the possibility of cuddling with his brother, but it’s a lost cause. When Sam turns off the bedside lamp and scoots under the covers next to him, Dean turns towards him in the dark and Sam reaches for him, pulling him close. Sam scootches down so that he can fit his head under Dean’s chin, against his chest, obviously comforted by the feel of Dean’s heartbeat against his ear. Dean slides his hand into Sam’s hair and leaves it there, running his thumb in circles over Sam’s temple.
They fall asleep like that, Sam cradled against Dean’s chest like the small child he no longer is, and Dean has a memory of holding young Sam like this when they were children. Many memories, actually. In the back seat of the car, on a bed in a motel room, in Sam’s crib when he couldn’t have been more than a year or two. When Sam needed comfort at that age, it was always easier to just crawl into the crib with him.
They got too big at some point. Dean missed co-sleeping with Sam more than he would ever admit. Holding his huge little brother in his arms again feels weirdly cathartic, like he’s being given the chance to fix all those times he couldn’t be there for Sam, either because they got too big to sleep together or because Sam was away at college or in the Cage.
He’s mostly asleep when he feels Sam press a kiss to his chest.
//**//**//
Sometime in the night, Dean wakes up with Sam’s hands all over him, Sam’s mouth leaving warm, wet kisses under his jaw, along his cheek to his ear.
“Need this,” Sam breathes. “Need you.”
“Okay,” Dean acquiesces. “Whatever you need, Sammy.”
Sam wraps his big hands around Dean’s head, rubs his thumb over Dean’s lips. When he replaces his thumb with his mouth, Dean gasps. Sam kisses him with purpose this time, with obvious intent, deep and consuming, plunging his tongue into Dean’s mouth, growling.
“Mine,” he murmurs when he comes up for air. “My Dean. He can’t have you. You’re mine.”
He’d been dreaming again, Dean realizes. More of Lucifer’s torturing, making Sam think he already had Dean in Hell, right where he wanted him. Like Alastair. Lucifer had made Sam think the worst possible thing had happened: permanent separation from his brother. Forever.
Dean knows this because it’s what Alastair did to him, making him think Sam was already in Hell, cut off and separated from Dean for all time. Alastair convinced him he’d never see Sam again, and it was that belief that finally broke Dean. Not the physical torture, or even the hallucinations, but the conviction that Sam was lost to him.
Dean trembles as Sam’s hands roam up and down his body, clutching and claiming. Sam shoves one of his big hands down between them, finds Dean’s erection, and squeezes possessively through the thin cotton of his boxers as he kisses him deeply.
“Yours,” Dean agrees when Sam releases his mouth, kisses along his jaw to his ear again. “All yours, Sam. Always.”
“Dean.”
“Right here, buddy,” Dean assures him. “Not going anywhere.”
Sam’s hand slides down his back, into his boxers. Dean gasps as Sam’s long middle finger slips between his ass-cheeks, finds his hole, keeps it there as he grinds his erection against Dean’s. Even through two layers of cotton, it’s good. There’s enough friction for them to get off this way.
“Need you like this,” Sam pants against Dean’s ear.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean agrees. “Whatever you need, little brother.”
Sam stiffens and gasps, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s going to lose it.
“Not yet,” Sam whisper-gasps. “Not yet.”
He takes his fingers away from Dean’s hole, shoves them into his own mouth, slurping noisily, urgently. When he returns them to Dean’s ass. Dean braces himself as Sam’s long, now-wet middle finger pushes into his hole.
“Need you,” Sam pants. “Need you like this. Just like this.”
He grinds, keeping his finger in Dean’s hole, just to the first knuckle, and Dean’s dick throbs, his orgasm builds. Sam’s mouth sucks on Dean’s skin. Then Sam stiffens, letting out a long moan, shoving his finger all the way in, and Dean whites out as Sam rocks into him, shaking with his own orgasm.
When Dean comes to, Sam’s kissing his neck, slow and deliberate.
“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”
Dean hisses as Sam pulls his finger free of his body, starts to roll over onto his back, away from Dean.
No way can Dean let that stand. Sam’s got nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.
“Hey,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up Sam’s big chest to find his face in the dark. “None of that, now. No apologies, you hear me? I was right there with you, Sammy. Right here.”
Sam’s cheeks are wet with fresh tears. Dean wipes them away from one cheek, leans in and kisses them off the other.
“Sam Winchester cries when he has sex,” Dean murmurs fondly.
Sam huffs out a breath. “Shut up.”
Dean chuckles. He takes his t-shirt off, kicks his soiled boxers off as Sam does the same. They use their t-shirts to wipe themselves off, dropping the soiled clothes off the side of the bed. It’s too cold to get up. Still too dark.
They curl up together naked for the first time, and it’s unbelievably good. Dean doesn’t understand how they never got around to doing this before. Sam’s warm skin slides against Dean’s as he spoons him, nestling his soft cock against Sam’s ass, and Dean never wants to be anywhere else, ever again.
Sam scoops Dean’s arm up from where it lies across Sam’s waist. He tangles their fingers together, pulls his hand up to Sam’s lips, and presses a kiss against Dean’s knuckles.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
“Goodnight, Sam.”
//**//**//
It’s not perfect after that, but it’s better. Sam still wakes up with nightmares, still clings to Dean as he comes back to himself and remembers where he is, remembers that he’s safe with Dean instead of still in the Cage with Lucifer.
It’s not perfect, but it’s definitely better.
After about a week, they give up the pretense of having sex only when Sam wakes up in the night, only in the dark, and that’s better, too.
“So, this is what you’ve always wanted?” Dean asks him one afternoon, when they’re lying together in the gloom after a vigorous round of sex, during the day for the first time.
“Pretty much,” Sam nods. “You?”
Dean frowns. He doesn’t remember when he first thought about Sam this way. Maybe he always has but he just didn’t realize it.
“Honestly, I got no idea,” he admits. “I just know it never would’ve happened if you didn’t start it.”
“Really?” Sam blinks, surprised. “You would’ve kept it bottled up forever?”
Dean shrugs. “Didn’t even know it was bottled up,” he admits. “Tell you one thing, though. I probably never would’ve uncorked that bottle, even if I had known.”
“Huh.” Sam thinks about that for a moment, until Dean rolls over and pins him to the bed, holds his wrists up over his head, and gazes down into his face, still flushed from their recent exertion.
Dean’s little brother is beautiful. Dean’s the luckiest man alive.
“Now shut up and kiss me,” he orders gruffly.
And Sam does.
//**//**//
A week later, Castiel shows up. He looks at Sam with narrowed eyes, and Dean has a feeling he’s not exactly happy to see Sam again, but he doesn’t say so.
“I am not the one who raised you from perdition,” he tells Sam.
“Well, can you tell us who did?” Dean demands, frustrated by Castiel’s obvious disregard for their situation.
“No,” Cas answers bluntly. “But I can confirm that the Cage is still intact. Lucifer and Michael are still trapped there.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Dean says. He glances at Sam, who closes his eyes and lets out a sigh of relief.
“Michael left a power vacuum in Heaven,” Castiel growls, angrier than he has a right to be, in Dean’s opinion. “I have been extremely busy attempting to bring order to the chaos that Michael’s absence has wrought.”
He continues to glare at Sam, as if all of that is Sam’s fault.
“Now wait just a minute,” Dean puts up a hand. “That’s got nothing to do with us. Sam’s done enough. He’s paid his debt. Whatever’s going on in Heaven with the angels, that’s on you, Cas. Sam and me have played our parts. We’re done.”
To be honest, Dean’s relieved Castiel didn’t rescue Sam from the Cage. He didn’t like feeling like he owed the angel anything when he pulled him out of Hell, and he didn’t like the idea that he might be in Castiel’s debt yet again for pulling Sam out.
Truth is, Dean would be happy to never see another angel as long as he lives. Even Cas. Maybe especially Cas.
Castiel turns his inscrutable blue gaze on Dean, and Dean feels like he’s a bug under a microscope, as he often does when Castiel looks at him. It’s profoundly unnerving.
“Very well,” Cas says. “Then this is goodbye, Dean. Sam. My business here on Earth is done. I will not answer if you pray to me again.”
And before Dean can respond, he disappears, leaving behind only the echo of wings flapping.
Dean takes a deep breath and turns to Sam. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. Now we know it wasn’t him.”
Sam frowns. “I just wish I could remember.”
“Well, maybe it’s better you don’t,” Dean says. “The main thing is, you’re out, and we don’t owe that to the fuckin’ angels. I say we win.”
//**//**//
Bobby calls them the following week. He’s got a case for them that sounds like werewolves, so they pack up and hit the road, get back to a life of routine hunting. They spend their nights in cheap motels, snuggling and cuddling, sometimes not even being overtly sexual.
Dean might never admit it, but the cuddling thing is really, really good. It’s not just for Sam’s sake, not just about keeping the nightmares at bay. Dean likes it for himself, far more than he can say.
They never do learn for sure just how Sam escaped the Cage, and Dean’s okay with that. Just having Sam with him again is enough.
Sam can’t let it go, though, and one night Dean wakes up to Sam standing over the bed, shaking him.
“Come on, Dean, let’s go.”
Dean blinks sleepily up at his brother. “Go where, Sammy? What’s going on?”
“Come on, Dean. We have to go before he sees us.”
Dean’s confused. The urgency in Sam’s voice doesn’t quite match the vacant look in his eyes. Sam’s sleep-walking, he realizes. He thinks he’s somewhere else.
“Before who sees us?” Dean asks, then ventures a guess. “Lucifer?”
Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder, shaking him. “Come on, Dean. We can get out, but we have to go now.”
“How, Sammy? How do we get out?” Dean figures it’s easiest to play along, fascinated despite himself.
“This way,” Sam insists. “Just like you showed me.”
“Just like I showed you,” Dean echoes, dragging himself out of bed. Sam’s already dressed, so Dean takes a quick moment to pull on his jeans and boots, sure that Sam will wake up any moment.
But Sam stands patiently by, waiting for him. When Dean’s ready, Sam leads him to the door, where he pulls out his lock pick and crouches down in front of it. Dean watches as Sam pantomimes picking the lock, then opens the door, looking up at Dean for approval.
Dean nods encouragingly, playing along.
“This way,” Sam says.
But when he crosses the threshold, he collapses into a silent heap on the ground.
“Sammy!”
Dean drops to his knees beside his unconscious brother, feels for a pulse to confirm that Sam is, in fact, just asleep. He’s a dead weight, but somehow Dean manages to get back inside the room and onto the bed, where he snores the night away while Dean sits in the armchair, watching for any further sign of sleepwalking.
As the sunlight begins to creep over the Eastern horizon and through the curtains into their room, Sam wakes up with a start.
“Morning, sunshine,” Dean greets him with a tired smile.
Sam looks down at his fully clothed self. “What happened?”
“You tell me,” Dean says. “You were sleepwalking. I think you thought you were still in the Cage, but you found a way out.”
Sam blinks. “No, you found a way out,” he says. “I remember now. You showed me how to pick the lock on the Cage. You got me out, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head, almost sorry. “No, I didn’t, Sammy. I was topside with Lisa the whole time. She can vouch for that.”
“No, you were there, I swear.” Sam’s confusion grows as he sorts through his memories. “You got in somehow and showed me the way out. Then we - I mean, then I - “
Dean shrugs. “I think you did it yourself, little brother,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Maybe you hallucinated me, but I wasn’t really there. It was all you.”
“You really think so?” Sam’s confusion clears as he considers the possibility.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong, I wish I could take the credit for getting you out.” Dean really, really does. It makes him sick to think he let Sam rot in that Cage with the devil for even one day, let alone four months. “But it looks like you did it all on your own, just like the way you wrestled the devil into the Cage in the first place. All you, little brother.”
Sam gets to his feet, reaches down, and pulls Dean up out of his chair, a look of wonder and gratitude in his eyes, so much emotion there that Dean has to look away, embarrassed.
“No, Dean, it was you,” Sam insists, shaking him. “It was my faith in you, don’t you see? I believed you would rescue me, and so you did. I couldn’t have done that alone.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sammy, but it sure looks like you did it alone.”
Sam shakes his head, his eyes filling with tears. He pulls Dean against him, hugging him fiercely as he speaks into his ear, his voice hoarse and broken with emotion.
“You’re in me, Dean, don’t you see? My soul and yours are the same. You were with me the whole time I was down there, and you helped get me out. It was you.”
“And you,” Dean whispers, turning his face into Sam’s, pressing his lips against Sam’s stubbled cheek. “My beautiful baby brother.”
Sam huffs out a laugh, turning his face so that he can capture Dean’s mouth with his. Sam’s mouth tastes salty with tears, bitter with sleep, minty from last night’s toothpaste.
He tastes like a miracle. Like redemption. Forgiveness.
Like home.
fin
BACK TO MASTERPOST
“Your brother’s gonna be fine, Dean,” Bobby assures him. “Nightmares never killed a man, as far as I know, and Sam’s tough. He beat the goddamned devil himself. That kind of fortitude don’t grow on trees. Just give it time. You’ll both be back in the saddle before you know it.”
Dean nods, but he’s still on edge. Lack of sleep and too much coffee probably don’t help. He tells himself Bobby means well. He can assure him that Sam’s no longer possessed (which Dean knew even without the testing) but Bobby can’t know what it’s like to spend forty years in Hell, can’t possibly understand how much worse Sam’s time there was than Dean’s.
Dark circles under Sam’s eyes tell Dean exactly how well his brother slept last night. As soon as they’re on the road, Dean turns on the soft rock.
“Get some sleep, Sam,” he says. “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out like a light, sleeps through their first stop for gas and food, doesn’t wake up until they cross the border into Montana. Dean glances over several times, just to be sure Sam’s still breathing, figures the familiar rocking motion of the car must be the perfect antidote to Sam’s sleeplessness.
Rufus’s cabin isn’t much to look at, and it’s even worse on the inside. There’s a bed, a couch, a table and a couple of chairs. Pumped well water and a generator for electricity, ancient ice-box packed with real ice.
“Hey, at least there’s a TV,” Dean remarks cheerfully as he sets his duffle down. “I’ll take the couch.”
Sam sets the bag of groceries and bucket of fried chicken on the table. “I’ll start a fire.”
Within the hour, they’ve got the generator running, lamps lit, fireplace and wood stove pumping out heat. It’s almost cozy.
“So you just woke up in a field,” Dean says as he sips his beer.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam says, taking a bite of salad. “Why?”
“It’s just that, when I got back, I had to claw my way out of that pine box you buried me in.” Dean bites into a drumstick and chews. “I had grave dirt in my underwear and my fingers were bleeding.”
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. Whatever brought me back just left me on that field. I didn’t have to claw my way out of anything.”
“Weird,” Dean comments. “I mean, if Cas did that, why couldn’t he get me all the way out?”
Sam shakes his head. “I dunno. Maybe he’s getting better at pulling people out of Hell. With you, he could only get you out so far.”
Dean considers this. “Maybe. Maybe he’d never done it before. Maybe I was his first.” He snickers and sips his beer.
Sam makes a face and takes a sip of his beer. Dean watches his throat move as he swallows, has to tear his eyes away the way he’s had to do too much lately. He’s worried about Sam, of course. But there’s more to it than that, and he doesn’t want to think too much about that.
He’s just tired.
“I think I’ll hit the rack,” he says as he gets up to grab his toothbrush. “Sleepless night plus long drive adds up to tired me.”
Sam nods. “I think I’ll just read for a while,” he says, pulling out one of the tomes he borrowed from Bobby’s house.
Dean shrugs. Sam got a lot of sleep in the car. He’s not sleepy, that’s all. It’s not that he’s afraid to go to sleep, of the nightmares. Dean’s not about to ask him if he remembers anything after last night. He sure acted like he thought he was still in the Cage when he woke up, and Dean’s not about to jog those memories for him. He’s just grateful he could be there to provide some reassurance.
Teeth brushed and face washed in the freezing well water, Dean’s out like a light within a few minutes on the couch in the warm cabin. He’s vaguely aware of Sam covering him with a blanket much later, when the fire’s going out and it’s getting cooler in the room. He’s peripherally aware of Sam getting ready for bed, leaving the door to the bedroom open, bedsprings creaking as he lays his ginormous body down, then quiet. A few minutes later, Sam’s even breathing fills the silence, and Dean lets himself slip into unconsciousness again.
“No!”
Dean wakes with a start. Sam’s yelling. It’s almost pitch-dark in the cabin, the only light from the embers in the fireplace.
“Stop! I said stop! Don’t!”
Sam’s voice rises in panic as something crashes to the ground, probably the light on the bedside table.
Dean’s up and headed into the bedroom without even thinking about it. He stubs his toe against the ugly trunk that poses as a coffee table, swears as his shoulder hits the door frame into the bedroom. It’s even darker in the bedroom, but Sam’s yelling is louder and more insistent, pleading now.
“No, please! Please don’t! Please, I don’t want this. Help! Somebody help me! Dean!”
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He steps on the broken lamp in his haste to make it to Sam, but he barely notices. One of Sam’s flailing arms catches him across the jaw but he doesn’t stop.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Sammy. I’m here. I’m right here, Sam. Sammy, wake up! You’re safe!”
Somehow he manages to grab Sam’s arms, getting kicked in the shin and head-butted for his efforts, but Dean finally settles Sam down, mostly by lying on top of him and pressing him down into the bed with all his weight, the way he did last night at Bobby’s.
He can’t see Sam’s face in the dark, but he can feel when Sam wakes up enough to be aware that Dean’s there, that Sam’s not in the Cage anymore. The nightmare is over. Sam’s body relaxes under Dean’s, his frantic breathing evens out.
“Okay.” Dean gives Sam’s arms a quick squeeze, starts to get up, but Sam grabs onto him, just as he did the night before.
“Stay,” Sam begs, his voice choked and broken. “Please.”
“Okay,” Dean assures him, sliding off Sam’s body to the mattress beside him.
Sam turns towards him, still clinging, scooting as close as he can as Dean rolls onto his back.
“Don’t go,” Sam whisper-pleads. He buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, slides an arm across his chest, a leg between Dean’s legs, pinning him down.
Dean pats the arm on his chest, his other arm crushed between them.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmurs. “Not going anywhere.”
Sam huffs contentedly into his neck, tucked securely against him. He slips back into sleep almost immediately, his breaths getting longer and more even as he relaxes completely.
He doesn’t let go of Dean, though, and when Dean tries to slip free, Sam scoots closer, tightening his hold in his sleep. His mouth opens against Dean’s skin, and Dean holds his breath, waiting.
For what? Does he expect Sam to kiss him in his sleep? Why isn’t he disgusted by that thought? Why doesn’t he try harder to untangle himself from Sam’s sleeping body?
“Dean.”
Sam breathes out the word and Dean feels it on his neck. He’s hyper-aware of his own bare legs, of the softness of the flannel sleep pants Sam wears, of Sam’s groin pushed up against Dean’s hip. Sam’s body is a furnace, keeping Dean warm despite the chilly air in the room, But one leg and arm are basically bare, and his toes are already cold. They both wore t-shirts to bed, and Dean always wears his boxers because it’s just easier to strip down to his first layer when he goes to bed, rather than putting on sleep pants or sweat pants like Sam wears.
One half of him is overheated, while the other half is getting cold. He can’t possibly fall asleep this way.
As he reaches down with his free hand to find the blanket Sam kicked off during his nightmare, Sam moans and nuzzles his neck. Sam’s leg moves between Dean’s and his hand clutches Dean’s t-shirt.
Sam’s groin grinds into Dean’s hip, and Dean can feel his erection. Dean’s own cock twitches in response, and he jerks away, scrambling to put a little distance between them as he grabs the blanket.
“Dean?” Sam’s sleepy voice goes straight to Dean’s dick.
“It’s okay,” Dean assures him. “Just pulling the blanket up. Not going anywhere.”
Sam sighs contentedly and scoots closer again, smashing himself against Dean’s side, half-erect dick pressed against his hip. Dean manages to pull his other arm free, turning on his side away from his brother, but Sam scoots into his backside, spooning him. Sam’s face presses into the back of his neck, and this time when he opens his mouth, Dean feels Sam’s lips on the nape of his neck. Sam’s tree-trunk arm circles his waist, big hand open flat over his chest, his heart.
This time, when Dean feels the unmistakable ridge of Sam’s erection against his ass, he allows it. Sam obviously gets comfort from cuddling his big brother like a teddy bear. His hard-on is just a physiological response to that. Doesn’t mean anything.
Dean’s always had an unhealthy obsession with Sam. Sam’s safety, Sam’s sex life, Sam’s romantic entanglements, any relationships Sam has outside of Dean. Knowing that doesn’t make it any better. Makes Dean feel like a bad person, maybe, but not bad enough to stop obsessing. Anyway, Dean couldn’t stop obsessing about Sam even if he wanted to. Sam is and always has been the center of Dean’s universe.
Now, if Sam needs this, Dean can’t think of a single reason not to give it to him, for as long as it takes.
It’s just cuddling, after all. Just comfort. After everything Sam’s been through, it’s the least Dean can do.
He falls asleep with Sam wrapped around him, barely feels it when Sam sleepily grinds into him, lips pressed to the back of his neck in what almost feels like a kiss.
Almost.
//**//**//
The first thing Dean’s aware of when he wakes up is that he’s alone.
The second thing is that he can hear the rhythmic, echoing pounding of somebody chopping wood outside.
He rolls over to reach for his jeans, remembers that he got undressed in the other room last night but ended up here because Sam was having another nightmare. Dean remembers Sam draping himself around Dean’s body like an octopus, remembers the feel of his body pressed close. His lips on Dean’s neck.
Dean shivers. He presses down on his morning wood, then takes a few moments to jerk off while Sam is obviously otherwise occupied. He tries not to think about how good it felt to be wrapped up in Sam’s arms as he comes, biting back a satisfied grunt.
He’s flushed and loose afterwards, lets himself doze for a couple of moments before cleaning himself up. The chopping has stopped. Now Dean can smell coffee, hears the sizzling of bacon on the stove. He drags himself up just as Sam opens the bedroom door. He tosses Dean’s jeans and boots on the bed.
“Rise and shine, sleepy-head,” Sam says, then frowns as he sniffs the air.
Dean’s got a defensive retort ready for Sam’s complaint about the room smelling like sex, but he doesn’t say it. He just lowers his eyes and leaves the room, but Dean could swear Sam’s cheeks got pink. He’s wearing his jeans and boots and the t-shirt he slept in, his bare arms shiny with sweat from the exertion of chopping wood.
Dean’s dick twitches. He ignores it, grabbing his jeans and getting dressed quickly in the chilly room.
Plates of bacon, eggs, and toast greet him in the main room. The fire has been stoked and fed with freshly-cut firewood, taking the chill out of the air. As Dean looks up at his brother, impressed, Sam barely suppresses a satisfied grin.
“Eat,” he orders, gesturing at the table.
Neither of them mentions last night’s comfort session, but Dean’s pretty sure that’s all it was. No need to talk about it.
“You’re up early,” Dean comments as he settles onto his chair, accepting a cup of black coffee from Sam.
“Figured I should start pulling my weight again,” Sam says with a shrug. “After breakfast, I figure we could head into town, pick up a newspaper and some library books, see if we can find us a hunt.”
“Whoa there, cowboy.” Dean puts up a hand, shaking his head. “You just got back from Hell, Sammy. Don’t you think we should put hunting on the back burner for a few weeks?”
“Why?” Sam piles eggs and toast onto his plate. “I’m better. I feel ready. No reason why I can’t get back in the game.”
“Yeah, there’s a reason,” Dean insists. “Hell. Don’t think I don’t remember what that was like, those first weeks after getting topside.”
“Pretty sure you jumped back in,” Sam reminds him. “Probably needed to. You remembered Hell. I can’t even imagine what that must’ve been like.”
He takes a bite of his eggs, reaches for his coffee. Dean watches, momentarily speechless.
“You’re having nightmares, Sammy,” he says finally. “Usually those things trigger memories, whether you want them or not.”
Sam shrugs. “Well, not for me. I still don’t remember a thing.” But he doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes.
He’s lying.
Dean takes a bite of his bacon, chews thoughtfully.
“Okay, we’ll go into town, take a look around,” he concedes. “You probably need some books just to keep you from going totally stir-crazy anyway, so I’ll agree to the library visit. And the newspaper. Also, we should totally get some snacks. Maybe some popcorn for movie night tonight, more beer, and some pie, goddamn it.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he smiles, too, dimples popping, so Dean wins.
“Right,” Sam agrees, feigning the long-suffering little brother resignation that Dean used to love so much. It almost feels normal.
Dean’s heart clenches. Part of him knows it’ll never be normal again, not after what Sam’s been through. But he’ll take the little win, the little moment of almost-normal, for now.
If it was only so easy to put everything back to the way it was, before.
If only Dean didn’t have to fight the urge to reach across the table and lay his hand over Sam’s big paw, just to reassure him, just to let Sam know that Dean gets it. Dean knows how hard it is, pretending to be normal when your head’s full of Hell and you can smell your own skin burning.
Dean knows how vital it feels to do something - anything - to get those images and that smell out of your mind, however temporarily.
Dean’s determined to help Sam get through this, whatever it takes.
//**//**//
They spend the morning in town, mostly in the library, which Dean tolerates because Sam needs it. He can see that it grounds Sam to be among books, it always has. There’s something permanent, solid, unchanging about libraries and the shelves of books they contain. Dean can understand why Sam likes it there, even if the place bores Dean out of his mind.
They pick up supplies, including snacks and beer, and a newspaper, then stop for lunch at the diner next to the gas station. The diner has a bakery display with fresh pies, so Dean picks two, one blueberry and one cherry because it’s his favorite.
Sam rolls his eyes but says nothing.
Dean grins.
It’s almost normal. Dean will take it.
//**//**//
Back at the cabin, Sam chops more wood than they could possibly burn in a month. He’s coiled up with unspent energy, obviously needs to hit something, so Dean leaves him to the chopping, stays clear of Sam’s swinging ax by watching afternoon TV, which sucks as much as it ever did, but at least he gets a nap out of it.
They hike down to the lake in the late afternoon, strip down to their boxers, and plunge into the cold water, racing each other across the lake just to keep warm. Somebody - probably Rufus - built a dock with an old boat hitched to it, so the brothers dry off after their swim by lying side by side on the dock, shoulders touching, letting the cool autumn air pebble their skin as it dries. When they can’t stand the cold for another moment, they get dressed and hike back up to the cabin to stoke the fire and warm up.
They don’t talk much, but it feels so good just to be together again after their separation that they don’t need to talk. Dean grills steaks for their supper while Sam chops vegetables for a salad, and it’s so good Dean feels like crying.
After supper, Dean makes popcorn while Sam chooses the movie from Rufus’s collection of ancient VHS tapes. He’s got all three of the original Star Wars movies, so they settle in for a marathon, side-by-side on the couch with the bowl of popcorn between them. It feels so good to feel his brother’s warm, solid body, strong and alive, that Dean barely watches the movie. He casts sidelong looks at Sam’s profile every few minutes, beyond grateful, half expecting Sam to disappear on him.
Sam catches one of his glances, grins so adorably that Dean has to get up to relieve himself.
He tells himself it’s normal to react to Sam’s presence with a hard-on. It’s just Dean’s body’s way of expressing his gratitude, his joy at having his brother by his side again. It’s sheer pleasure, sitting here with Sam after the day they’ve just had. Nothing weird about it.
Dean’s always been a sexual person. Being around attractive people always makes him hard. Sam’s attractive, plus Dean loves him. It’s logical for his body to respond to Sam the way it does. Now that Dean thinks about it, it’s always been that way.
Better not to overthink it, he tells himself as he joins Sam on the couch again.
Sam puts the second movie into the VHS player, sets the empty popcorn bowl on the little coffee table, and sits down next to Dean, pressed close from shoulder to thigh.
Dean reaches for the bottle of whiskey, takes a swallow straight from the bottle before passing it to Sam, who shakes his head. He’s still finishing his beer.
He glances over when Sam takes a sip of his beer, watches Sam’s throat move as he swallows. The whiskey makes him loose and warm, gives him courage. He lets his gaze sweep down over Sam’s body, admiring how tall and well-toned he is, how long his legs are. Dean thinks back to the afternoon, to Sam’s nearly naked body moving gracefully through the lake as he swam. He recalls the little shock of pleasure as Sam took his shirt off, pushed his jeans down to reveal those long, long legs of his.
Dean’s little brother is built like a Greek god. Dean’s proud of him. It’s only natural to be turned on by such obvious beauty. Sam’s beyond gorgeous. Dean loves and admires Sam more than anyone else in the universe. Of course, he does.
Sam shifts next to him, and Dean’s eyes drop to Sam’s lap, to the obvious bulge there.
Is that a banana or are you just happy to be sitting here practically in my lap?
Dean doesn’t say it, though. This is too new, for Sam. Too recent. Dean doesn’t want to poke at Sam’s trauma directly by joking about anything that might jog his Hell memories.
Dean knows all about the way demons torture in Hell. He remembers too well. The slicing and dicing is the easy stuff.
When he lifts his eyes to Sam’s face, his brother’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t return his gaze, so Dean looks away, takes another swig from the whiskey bottle.
By the end of The Empire Strikes Back, Dean’s buzzed. He looks down and is surprised to see his hand on Sam’s thigh. He doesn’t remember putting it there, can’t imagine how long it’s been there or why Sam didn’t say something or move away. He considers leaving it there or letting it slide into the space between Sam’s legs, to the inseam of his jeans. He could leave it there, close to Sam’s crotch, pretend he didn’t even notice.
Sam clears his throat and gets up, leaving Dean’s hand to fall onto the warm couch where Sam’s body was a moment ago.
“What do you say? ‘Return of the Jedi’?” Sam asks, bending toward the TV to replace the videotape.
“Sure. But hold on. I gotta take a leak.” Dean gets up, only a little unsteady, misses the door to the bathroom, and opens the door to the porch. The cold air revives him a little, and he goes ahead outside to piss off the side of the deck.
He barely makes it through the opening credits. He’s vaguely aware of Sam tucking him in, moving his legs to stretch him out on the couch, turning down the lamps so the only light comes from the dying fire in the fireplace. Then he’s out.
//**//**//
“Dean! Oh god, no. Dean! Help!”
Dean’s up like a shot, stumbling towards his brother as Sam calls for him over and over.
“I’m coming, Sammy! I’m coming!”
He hits his shin on the side of the bed, falls onto it across Sam’s flailing body, effectively pinning him to the mattress.
“It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay. I’m here.”
Sam continues to writhe and moan for another moment, then relaxes as he becomes aware of Dean’s presence.
“Dean.” He pants, relief replacing his panic.
“Yeah, Sam. That’s right. I’m right here.”
Sam wraps his arms and legs around Dean, holding him tight, breathing into his neck. Dean lies still, letting Sam clutch his back reflexively, feeling Sam’s pounding heartbeat slow gradually against his chest. When Dean feels wetness against his neck, feels Sam’s body shaking, it takes him a moment to realize that Sam’s crying.
“He pretended to be you, sometimes.” Sam’s voice is choked, hoarse from screaming. “He could read my deepest, darkest thoughts. Things I never said out loud to anyone. He knew.”
“Shhh.” Dean reaches up, patting awkwardly at Sam’s hair and face, trying to soothe. “It’s okay, Sam. You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”
“No, I need to,” Sam says, half-whispering. “I need to tell you, so it can’t be his secret anymore. I can’t let him have it. I can’t let him have any part of me.”
“Okay.” Dean tamps down on his dread of what Sam’s about to say.
“I know I’m a disappointment to you, Dean,” Sam mumbles miserably into his neck. “I know I let you down.”
“No, Sammy, you’re not. You didn’t.” Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, over and over. “You saved the world, Sam. I’m so proud of you.”
Despite the warm furnace of Sam’s body under his, Dean shivers. He thinks he might be crying a little.
Sam shakes his head. In the dark, Dean can feel it, even if he can’t see it.
“You think I’m a monster,” Sam half-whispers.
“No, never. I never thought that. Even if I might have said it, I never thought that, Sam. You have to believe me.” Dean babbles, a litany of heart-felt words spewing out, self-soothing as much as comforting. “You’re a hero, Sam. You’re so strong, you know that? Stronger than me, that’s for sure. What you did? Putting Lucifer back in the Cage? That’s amazing, Sammy. That’s awesome.”
Sam half-laughs, half-sobs into Dean’s neck.
“Hey, hey, listen to me, Sam, listen to me, okay? He doesn’t know you. Maybe he could read your mind, but he doesn’t know you like I do. He can’t see how brave and strong and good you are.”
Dean shivers again, and this time, Sam notices. He lets Dean go just enough so that he can pull the blanket up around them, then pulls Dean against him under the covers, pushing his face into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He nuzzles Dean's skin like a baby animal, snuffling and sucking as if he means to draw Dean into his mouth and lungs the way a baby does when it nurses. Breathing. Tasting.
“I pretended it was you, when he touched me,” Sam murmurs. “When he did things to me, I thought about you and I got through it. I never stopped believing you would save me, never for a moment.”
Shame, hot and heavy, runs through Dean’s body. He slides his hand deep into Sam’s hair, tips his head back so his face is turned up to Dean, his thumbs swiping the tears from Sam’s cheeks. Even in the dark, he’s got Sam’s attention, knows Sam’s staring at him, even if he can’t see him.
“I would’ve done anything to get you out,” he swears fiercely. “Anything, you hear me? I would’ve let the world burn, if I thought it would save you. Every day, I thought about you, what you must be going through down there, with him, and it killed me. Every day, it killed me a little more.”
“I know,” Sam whispers. “I never doubted you, Dean. I had faith you would come for me. I believed in you, Dean. I always have.”
When Dean feels fresh tears on Sam’s cheeks, he leans in and kisses them away, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sam’s tears taste salty and bitter, mixed with the unique tang of Sam’s sweat. Sam gives a little gasp, whether of surprise or pleasure, Dean’s not sure and doesn’t really care. When he feels Sam lean in to return the kisses, he lets Sam find his lips, slots their mouths together in a series of soft kisses that feel like a benediction. Forgiveness.
Dean pulls away first, pushing Sam over so that he’s on his side, Dean slotted close behind him.
“Okay, okay,” he murmurs into Sam’s ear, leaving a soft kiss on the shell, another on the lobe. “Now, sleep. No more nightmares, y’hear? Time to sleep now.”
He feels Sam nod, doesn’t pull away when Sam snuggles back into the curve of his body. He doesn’t pull back when Sam settles his ass against Dean’s erection, wiggles it enough to make Dean even harder.
He’s pretty sure Sam’s hard, too. Pretty sure all Dean would need to do to get them both off is reach into the front of Sam’s sweatpants, wrap his hand around Sam’s huge, hot cock, and rub himself off on Sam’s ass as he gave Sam a handjob.
He doesn’t do it, not because he doesn’t want to, but because this is enough, for now. Just knowing Sam would let him do it is enough.
He waits until he hears Sam’s breathing even out in sleep, then he lets himself sink down into unconsciousness.
//**//**//
Sam’s gone again when Dean wakes up the next morning, head throbbing, mouth dry. The sun has already climbed halfway to noon. Sam must’ve decided to let him sleep.
Sam’s at the kitchen table, reading yesterday’s newspaper, cup of coffee in his hand.
A glass of water and a bottle of painkillers sit at Dean’s place at the table.
Sam looks up, raising his coffee cup. “Figured you could use those,” he says, nodding at the painkillers.
“Thanks.” Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and joins Sam at the table, nodding at the newspaper. “Find anything?”
Sam shakes his head. “Just the usual,” he says. “We should probably call Bobby, let him know we’re available if he needs help with anything.”
“Right.” Dean knocks back a couple of painkillers, swallows the entire glass of water.
Sam clears his throat. “Dean.”
Dean raises an eyebrow, tries to look clueless.
“About last night,” Sam clarifies.
Dean puts up a hand. “Hey. We don’t need to talk about it,” he assures Sam. “What you went through in the Cage, that stays with you if you want it to. I already told you I’m available if you want to talk, or whatever. But we don’t need it to be anything you don’t want it to be. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dealing with it just fine. Better than fine, in fact. Hell, you’re dealing with it about a thousand times better than I dealt with my time downstairs, that’s for sure.”
Sam blinks, starts to say something, then nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Dean says. “Tell you one thing, though. We should probably just share that bed from now on. I’ve banged my shins so bad my bruises got bruises.”
Sam smiles then, relieved and grateful. His dimples pop and Dean will do anything to keep that happening. Stupid Dad jokes, whatever. Sam needs to keep smiling.
The day is spent much like the previous day. After the call to Bobby, which produces zero leads, they drive into town for brunch and flies for the fishing rods Dean found in Rufus’s basement. Dean thinks maybe Bobby’s deliberately giving them more time off by pretending there’s nothing to hunt, but he’s okay with that. It’s not that Sam isn’t ready to return to hunting. Dean thinks he’s coping pretty well, as he told him.
But Dean’s not ready to go back to their old lives. He likes having Sam all to himself, alone. This vacation or whatever it is can go on for a while yet, as far as he’s concerned.
When they get back to the cabin, they pick up the fishing tackle and hike down to the lake. It’s colder today, autumn closing in, so they don’t go swimming, which disappoints Dean a little more than he’ll admit, since he wouldn’t mind seeing Sam without clothes again. But he’s still got plenty of quiet time alone with Sam, so he’s happy.
Like yesterday, they don’t talk much, but Dean’s fine with that, too. If truth be told, it’s not just because Sam needs time to heal that Dean doesn’t want to jump right back into hunting. He’s enjoying the alone time with Sam, giving them time to heal their relationship. Things were pretty hairy in the couple of years between Dean getting back from Hell and Sam jumping into the Cage. The brothers’ relationship took a lot of hits during that time. Now, just sitting quietly on the dock, gazing across the lake at the changing leaves, taking deep breaths of the clear mountain air, Sam and Dean are better than they’ve been in a very long time. Too long, maybe.
They each manage to catch enough fish for their dinner, which Dean cooks over an open fire in the back of the cabin because he remembers their dad cooking fish that way, wrapped in foil, and he remembers it as the best thing he ever tasted.
“That’s because we were starving,” Sam reminds him. “It was that wilderness trip, remember? We had to make our own weapons, and you speared that fish with a stick you whittled down to a point. Took you most of the day to catch that one fish.”
Dean shrugs. “Not bad for a ten-year-old, I guess.”
“I’ll never forget the poison ivy,” Sam says. “And the mosquito bites.”
“Yeah, I guess that trip pretty much put us off camping for life,” Dean says.
As they wash up after dinner, side by side in front of the little sink with its freezing well water, they rub shoulders and elbows. When they play cards in front of the fire afterward, they knock their knees and feet together under the table.
“If you make it through a night without nightmares, we should totally rent a motel room, just so we can get warm showers,” Dean muses as they brush their teeth in the tiny, cramped bathroom later.
“Hey, we’re just lucky this place has an indoor toilet,” Sam reminds him, and Dean can’t argue with that.
As he undresses for bed, Dean tries not to look forward to the possibility of cuddling with his brother, but it’s a lost cause. When Sam turns off the bedside lamp and scoots under the covers next to him, Dean turns towards him in the dark and Sam reaches for him, pulling him close. Sam scootches down so that he can fit his head under Dean’s chin, against his chest, obviously comforted by the feel of Dean’s heartbeat against his ear. Dean slides his hand into Sam’s hair and leaves it there, running his thumb in circles over Sam’s temple.
They fall asleep like that, Sam cradled against Dean’s chest like the small child he no longer is, and Dean has a memory of holding young Sam like this when they were children. Many memories, actually. In the back seat of the car, on a bed in a motel room, in Sam’s crib when he couldn’t have been more than a year or two. When Sam needed comfort at that age, it was always easier to just crawl into the crib with him.
They got too big at some point. Dean missed co-sleeping with Sam more than he would ever admit. Holding his huge little brother in his arms again feels weirdly cathartic, like he’s being given the chance to fix all those times he couldn’t be there for Sam, either because they got too big to sleep together or because Sam was away at college or in the Cage.
He’s mostly asleep when he feels Sam press a kiss to his chest.
//**//**//
Sometime in the night, Dean wakes up with Sam’s hands all over him, Sam’s mouth leaving warm, wet kisses under his jaw, along his cheek to his ear.
“Need this,” Sam breathes. “Need you.”
“Okay,” Dean acquiesces. “Whatever you need, Sammy.”
Sam wraps his big hands around Dean’s head, rubs his thumb over Dean’s lips. When he replaces his thumb with his mouth, Dean gasps. Sam kisses him with purpose this time, with obvious intent, deep and consuming, plunging his tongue into Dean’s mouth, growling.
“Mine,” he murmurs when he comes up for air. “My Dean. He can’t have you. You’re mine.”
He’d been dreaming again, Dean realizes. More of Lucifer’s torturing, making Sam think he already had Dean in Hell, right where he wanted him. Like Alastair. Lucifer had made Sam think the worst possible thing had happened: permanent separation from his brother. Forever.
Dean knows this because it’s what Alastair did to him, making him think Sam was already in Hell, cut off and separated from Dean for all time. Alastair convinced him he’d never see Sam again, and it was that belief that finally broke Dean. Not the physical torture, or even the hallucinations, but the conviction that Sam was lost to him.
Dean trembles as Sam’s hands roam up and down his body, clutching and claiming. Sam shoves one of his big hands down between them, finds Dean’s erection, and squeezes possessively through the thin cotton of his boxers as he kisses him deeply.
“Yours,” Dean agrees when Sam releases his mouth, kisses along his jaw to his ear again. “All yours, Sam. Always.”
“Dean.”
“Right here, buddy,” Dean assures him. “Not going anywhere.”
Sam’s hand slides down his back, into his boxers. Dean gasps as Sam’s long middle finger slips between his ass-cheeks, finds his hole, keeps it there as he grinds his erection against Dean’s. Even through two layers of cotton, it’s good. There’s enough friction for them to get off this way.
“Need you like this,” Sam pants against Dean’s ear.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean agrees. “Whatever you need, little brother.”
Sam stiffens and gasps, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s going to lose it.
“Not yet,” Sam whisper-gasps. “Not yet.”
He takes his fingers away from Dean’s hole, shoves them into his own mouth, slurping noisily, urgently. When he returns them to Dean’s ass. Dean braces himself as Sam’s long, now-wet middle finger pushes into his hole.
“Need you,” Sam pants. “Need you like this. Just like this.”
He grinds, keeping his finger in Dean’s hole, just to the first knuckle, and Dean’s dick throbs, his orgasm builds. Sam’s mouth sucks on Dean’s skin. Then Sam stiffens, letting out a long moan, shoving his finger all the way in, and Dean whites out as Sam rocks into him, shaking with his own orgasm.
When Dean comes to, Sam’s kissing his neck, slow and deliberate.
“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”
Dean hisses as Sam pulls his finger free of his body, starts to roll over onto his back, away from Dean.
No way can Dean let that stand. Sam’s got nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.
“Hey,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up Sam’s big chest to find his face in the dark. “None of that, now. No apologies, you hear me? I was right there with you, Sammy. Right here.”
Sam’s cheeks are wet with fresh tears. Dean wipes them away from one cheek, leans in and kisses them off the other.
“Sam Winchester cries when he has sex,” Dean murmurs fondly.
Sam huffs out a breath. “Shut up.”
Dean chuckles. He takes his t-shirt off, kicks his soiled boxers off as Sam does the same. They use their t-shirts to wipe themselves off, dropping the soiled clothes off the side of the bed. It’s too cold to get up. Still too dark.
They curl up together naked for the first time, and it’s unbelievably good. Dean doesn’t understand how they never got around to doing this before. Sam’s warm skin slides against Dean’s as he spoons him, nestling his soft cock against Sam’s ass, and Dean never wants to be anywhere else, ever again.
Sam scoops Dean’s arm up from where it lies across Sam’s waist. He tangles their fingers together, pulls his hand up to Sam’s lips, and presses a kiss against Dean’s knuckles.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
“Goodnight, Sam.”
//**//**//
It’s not perfect after that, but it’s better. Sam still wakes up with nightmares, still clings to Dean as he comes back to himself and remembers where he is, remembers that he’s safe with Dean instead of still in the Cage with Lucifer.
It’s not perfect, but it’s definitely better.
After about a week, they give up the pretense of having sex only when Sam wakes up in the night, only in the dark, and that’s better, too.
“So, this is what you’ve always wanted?” Dean asks him one afternoon, when they’re lying together in the gloom after a vigorous round of sex, during the day for the first time.
“Pretty much,” Sam nods. “You?”
Dean frowns. He doesn’t remember when he first thought about Sam this way. Maybe he always has but he just didn’t realize it.
“Honestly, I got no idea,” he admits. “I just know it never would’ve happened if you didn’t start it.”
“Really?” Sam blinks, surprised. “You would’ve kept it bottled up forever?”
Dean shrugs. “Didn’t even know it was bottled up,” he admits. “Tell you one thing, though. I probably never would’ve uncorked that bottle, even if I had known.”
“Huh.” Sam thinks about that for a moment, until Dean rolls over and pins him to the bed, holds his wrists up over his head, and gazes down into his face, still flushed from their recent exertion.
Dean’s little brother is beautiful. Dean’s the luckiest man alive.
“Now shut up and kiss me,” he orders gruffly.
And Sam does.
//**//**//
A week later, Castiel shows up. He looks at Sam with narrowed eyes, and Dean has a feeling he’s not exactly happy to see Sam again, but he doesn’t say so.
“I am not the one who raised you from perdition,” he tells Sam.
“Well, can you tell us who did?” Dean demands, frustrated by Castiel’s obvious disregard for their situation.
“No,” Cas answers bluntly. “But I can confirm that the Cage is still intact. Lucifer and Michael are still trapped there.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Dean says. He glances at Sam, who closes his eyes and lets out a sigh of relief.
“Michael left a power vacuum in Heaven,” Castiel growls, angrier than he has a right to be, in Dean’s opinion. “I have been extremely busy attempting to bring order to the chaos that Michael’s absence has wrought.”
He continues to glare at Sam, as if all of that is Sam’s fault.
“Now wait just a minute,” Dean puts up a hand. “That’s got nothing to do with us. Sam’s done enough. He’s paid his debt. Whatever’s going on in Heaven with the angels, that’s on you, Cas. Sam and me have played our parts. We’re done.”
To be honest, Dean’s relieved Castiel didn’t rescue Sam from the Cage. He didn’t like feeling like he owed the angel anything when he pulled him out of Hell, and he didn’t like the idea that he might be in Castiel’s debt yet again for pulling Sam out.
Truth is, Dean would be happy to never see another angel as long as he lives. Even Cas. Maybe especially Cas.
Castiel turns his inscrutable blue gaze on Dean, and Dean feels like he’s a bug under a microscope, as he often does when Castiel looks at him. It’s profoundly unnerving.
“Very well,” Cas says. “Then this is goodbye, Dean. Sam. My business here on Earth is done. I will not answer if you pray to me again.”
And before Dean can respond, he disappears, leaving behind only the echo of wings flapping.
Dean takes a deep breath and turns to Sam. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. Now we know it wasn’t him.”
Sam frowns. “I just wish I could remember.”
“Well, maybe it’s better you don’t,” Dean says. “The main thing is, you’re out, and we don’t owe that to the fuckin’ angels. I say we win.”
//**//**//
Bobby calls them the following week. He’s got a case for them that sounds like werewolves, so they pack up and hit the road, get back to a life of routine hunting. They spend their nights in cheap motels, snuggling and cuddling, sometimes not even being overtly sexual.
Dean might never admit it, but the cuddling thing is really, really good. It’s not just for Sam’s sake, not just about keeping the nightmares at bay. Dean likes it for himself, far more than he can say.
They never do learn for sure just how Sam escaped the Cage, and Dean’s okay with that. Just having Sam with him again is enough.
Sam can’t let it go, though, and one night Dean wakes up to Sam standing over the bed, shaking him.
“Come on, Dean, let’s go.”
Dean blinks sleepily up at his brother. “Go where, Sammy? What’s going on?”
“Come on, Dean. We have to go before he sees us.”
Dean’s confused. The urgency in Sam’s voice doesn’t quite match the vacant look in his eyes. Sam’s sleep-walking, he realizes. He thinks he’s somewhere else.
“Before who sees us?” Dean asks, then ventures a guess. “Lucifer?”
Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder, shaking him. “Come on, Dean. We can get out, but we have to go now.”
“How, Sammy? How do we get out?” Dean figures it’s easiest to play along, fascinated despite himself.
“This way,” Sam insists. “Just like you showed me.”
“Just like I showed you,” Dean echoes, dragging himself out of bed. Sam’s already dressed, so Dean takes a quick moment to pull on his jeans and boots, sure that Sam will wake up any moment.
But Sam stands patiently by, waiting for him. When Dean’s ready, Sam leads him to the door, where he pulls out his lock pick and crouches down in front of it. Dean watches as Sam pantomimes picking the lock, then opens the door, looking up at Dean for approval.
Dean nods encouragingly, playing along.
“This way,” Sam says.
But when he crosses the threshold, he collapses into a silent heap on the ground.
“Sammy!”
Dean drops to his knees beside his unconscious brother, feels for a pulse to confirm that Sam is, in fact, just asleep. He’s a dead weight, but somehow Dean manages to get back inside the room and onto the bed, where he snores the night away while Dean sits in the armchair, watching for any further sign of sleepwalking.
As the sunlight begins to creep over the Eastern horizon and through the curtains into their room, Sam wakes up with a start.
“Morning, sunshine,” Dean greets him with a tired smile.
Sam looks down at his fully clothed self. “What happened?”
“You tell me,” Dean says. “You were sleepwalking. I think you thought you were still in the Cage, but you found a way out.”
Sam blinks. “No, you found a way out,” he says. “I remember now. You showed me how to pick the lock on the Cage. You got me out, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head, almost sorry. “No, I didn’t, Sammy. I was topside with Lisa the whole time. She can vouch for that.”
“No, you were there, I swear.” Sam’s confusion grows as he sorts through his memories. “You got in somehow and showed me the way out. Then we - I mean, then I - “
Dean shrugs. “I think you did it yourself, little brother,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Maybe you hallucinated me, but I wasn’t really there. It was all you.”
“You really think so?” Sam’s confusion clears as he considers the possibility.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong, I wish I could take the credit for getting you out.” Dean really, really does. It makes him sick to think he let Sam rot in that Cage with the devil for even one day, let alone four months. “But it looks like you did it all on your own, just like the way you wrestled the devil into the Cage in the first place. All you, little brother.”
Sam gets to his feet, reaches down, and pulls Dean up out of his chair, a look of wonder and gratitude in his eyes, so much emotion there that Dean has to look away, embarrassed.
“No, Dean, it was you,” Sam insists, shaking him. “It was my faith in you, don’t you see? I believed you would rescue me, and so you did. I couldn’t have done that alone.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sammy, but it sure looks like you did it alone.”
Sam shakes his head, his eyes filling with tears. He pulls Dean against him, hugging him fiercely as he speaks into his ear, his voice hoarse and broken with emotion.
“You’re in me, Dean, don’t you see? My soul and yours are the same. You were with me the whole time I was down there, and you helped get me out. It was you.”
“And you,” Dean whispers, turning his face into Sam’s, pressing his lips against Sam’s stubbled cheek. “My beautiful baby brother.”
Sam huffs out a laugh, turning his face so that he can capture Dean’s mouth with his. Sam’s mouth tastes salty with tears, bitter with sleep, minty from last night’s toothpaste.
He tastes like a miracle. Like redemption. Forgiveness.
Like home.
fin
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