fic: how the mighty fall (in love) - 4/6
prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | epilogue
Dean visits the cemetery all the time; commits it to memory as he looks for his brother, waiting for something-anything-to appear.
And, all-too-often, he finds that he has to dig deep to answer the questions he's being asked; simple things like where are you from and what do you do. It's been a long time since he moved in with Lisa, and the only thing he can come up with is still pest control.
At least it lets him talk about Sam, however indirectly; lets him talk about the partner he once had, a partner who sacrificed everything to save the world (from pests, Dean thinks, and laughs joylessly).
He thinks chicks have an innate sense for guys who are really still available, too, because he keeps getting numbers from waitresses and bartenders; wonders if they'd still like him if they knew; wonders if they can tell he misses Sam like breathing.
+ + +
Death considers Dean, very carefully. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But make this quick, Dean. I'm very busy."
Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and clears his throat. "Sam's stuck in the Cage. Adam is trapped in there, too. And I want you to get them both out."
"And what, exactly, made you seek me out?"
"I figure you're something like the only person that can jailbreak it."
"I assume you have an outstanding and eloquent reason as to why I should help you, when you and your brother are such utter affronts to the natural order?"
Dean flounders. He hadn't thought about it. "I-uh-well-"
Death harrumphs; chews and swallows a fry. "Pick one."
"What?"
"As a rule, I don't bring people back. I might make an exception once, but certainly not twice. So pick."
As a courtesy, more than anything, Dean takes a moment to think-but no matter how many times this moment replays in his head; no matter how much he'll regret not being able to save Adam, too-give him a million wishes, and Dean knows what he'd ask for again and again and again.
"Sam."
But then Sam doesn't wake up, and when Castiel comes he frowns over Sam's lifeless body; tells Dean that "If you wanted to kill your brother, you should've done it outright."
+ + +
And then, one day, Sam walks into the kitchen and sees Dean and Bobby sitting at the table, Dean barely even lifting his head as he tips a mug of beer down his throat, downing the amber liquid like a lifeline.
"Do you want some coffee with your cirrhosis?" Sam asks.
Dean's eyes go wide; he nearly chokes on his beer trying to stand up and push his chair out at the same time. He stares like he can't quite believe Sam's there and makes a beeline for Sam, pulling him into a hug so tight Sam thinks his eyeballs might pop.
When Sam tells Dean that the last thing he remembers before waking up in the panic room is falling into Hell, Bobby's mouth goes tight like anger and his voice grates like metal. "Well, ain't this just neat and clean."
It's not a question. Sam wonders why; asks, "Is there anything I should know?"
"No," Dean says, and shoots Bobby a furtive look that he thinks Sam doesn't see.
+ + +
They're hunting again, and Sam's back now-all patched up; good as new-but he doesn't remember anything from Hell.
And Dean suspects Death blocked some extra things, too, because Sam's happy; bright and open like the stars and Dean can't help but see that expression on his face and think of all the other times he's seen it; thinks of toddler Sammy giggling at big brother Dean and of teenaged Sam grinning (when he wasn't sulking) and of adult Sam, all dimples and dumb hair and miles of tanned skin.
And, what with the way Sam is suddenly Mr. Sunshine, Dean thinks-inevitably-of Sam, that one night, fucked out and smiling and breathless and looking like everything Dean's ever wanted.
He wonders how it ever came to be like this; hates himself for being so weak; knows he's fucked in the head and Sam's just being pulled along for the ride, but as of late Sam's weirdly fixated upon Dean's mouth and keeps touching touching touching and Dean's chest feels so tight when the two of them are in the same room that he can barely breathe for all his want.
And Dean can't quite prove it; never really catches him, but he thinks-knows-that Sam keeps looking, and despite Dean's best efforts to bury everything, all the sexual frustration and misguided anger he keeps bottled up still bubbles over and spills out, manifesting itself in frequent alcoholism and bouts of violence and a rather poorly-conceptualized piece of sarcasm.
"Right, Sammy?" Dean says one particularly hot day, slamming his empty beer into the wastebasket and feeling oddly satisfied when the glass bottle shatters the way he feels. "Nothing like a little incestuous fucking to cope with our codependency issues, huh?"
"What the fuck, dude?" Sam looks genuinely confused, but Dean knows better, so he narrows his eyes and strides right into Sam's space; smashes their mouths together and kisses Sam, hard.
"Dean-don't-you're drunk-"
"Off of a couple beers?" Dean laughs. "Don't play dumb, Sam. I've had enough of your bullshit," he growls, and pushes Sam's jeans down; palms his cock over his briefs.
Sam's completely wide-eyed; dazed and confused even as he hardens so fast Dean's mouth waters.
"Like this, don't you?" Dean asks, and strokes from tip to root, Sam hot and heavy in his hand, long firm pull that has his brother arching away from the wall as Dean tightens his grip just a little and gives Sam's cock another stroke before taking Sam's hand and placing it onto Dean's own crotch.
"You feel that, Sammy? Damn zipper hurts like a bitch."
Sam keens and Dean swears, pressing in closer. Sam's dick is slick with precome, and Dean works the shaft-tight strokes up to circle the head and back down, spreading the wet all over Sam's skin and-there, slow slide up and a twist at the top before Dean sinks down to his knees, jeans still untouched.
"Dean," Sam chokes out, "Dean, you-."
"Knew you'd get with the program," Dean says; flashes all his teeth and takes Sam into his mouth. Sam yelps and slams his head into the wall and Dean hollows his cheeks as he sucks and looks up at his brother, who looks positively wrecked, hips bucking uncontrollably.
Sam feels fucking electric underneath Dean, trembling like he's gonna jump out of his skin, and his fingers card restlessly through Dean's hair and fumble like they can't get a grip-Dean's hair is too short-and Dean groans appreciatively when Sam trails his fingers down Dean's face to slide them in alongside his dick. Dean hums happily before he slides his mouth back up; flicks Sam's slit with his tongue and pulls off before wrapping his hand around Sam's shaft again, Dean's spit slicking the way as he resumes stroking.
Sam's been reduced to unintelligible mutters and something that sounds suspiciously like Dean's name and Dean moves a hand to his own lap; foregoes the zipper and just rubs at his crotch. "So fucking hot, Sam, look at you, give it up, come on-"
Sam throws his head back; shoots all over Dean's fist and Dean brings his hand up to his mouth to lick the come off his fingers.
But Sam grabs Dean's wrist and stops him; lowers himself to the ground and takes Dean's finger into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering. Sam's mouth is hot and wet and perfect and Dean's dick blurts precome but he's utterly entranced by Sam moaning as he sucks his own come off of Dean's hand.
Sam opens his eyes, slowly, still heavy-lidded and pupils blown. Dean comes in his jeans.
+ + +
"Hey, so, what was that all about?"
"What?" Dean asks, never taking his eyes off the road. "What was what all about?"
"You know, back there." Sam flounders, not quite believing that Dean has no idea what he's talking about. "The whole-handjob-"
"You were horny," Dean says, curtly, cutting Sam off. "Fuckin' with the whole atmosphere. I helped you out. Shit happens."
Sam frowns-is pretty sure he remembers that Dean got off, too-but his brother clearly doesn't want to talk about it, and he doesn't push the subject.
+ + +
Castiel's grin is so large it's borderline carnivorous, and he's glowing, which Dean never takes as a good sign. He sighs, happily. "You can't imagine what it's like. They're all inside me. Millions upon millions of souls." He turns to Dean, looking him straight on with that creepy Joker smile. "I saved you."
"Yeah, man, sure thing," Dean agrees amicably. "Thanks. Now what d'you say we defuse you?"
Castiel looks utterly confused. "Whatever could you possibly mean?"
"You're full of nuke, Cass. It ain't safe. So let's get rid of this juice before it kills us all and send those souls back where they belong."
"Oh, no," Castiel says, serenely, "no no no, they belong with me. You're just afraid. You're just saying that because I won."
"Look, I know there might be a lot of bad water under the bridge, but we were family once. I would've died for you."
"Dean," Castiel says, and steps up to stroke his face. "I have no family."
Sam plunges the angel sword deep into Castiel's back, and the angel's smile flickers and his eyes fade for the briefest of moments before he pulls the sword out without so much as a scratch.
He tsks as he flings Sam into a cart. "I'm glad you made it, Sam, but that's no way to treat your new God. So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord, or I shall destroy you."
Sam groans as he tries to stand up; attempts to reason with the angel, but Castiel strikes him back down.
+ + +
"Hi, Sam," Lucifer grins. "Long time no spooning."
"You're not here," Sam tells him, "You're in Hell. My brain's leaking memories."
Lucifer laughs at him. "You're one for three, Sammy-whammy. You're not the one going batshit crazy. Everything else is."
"That's impossible."
"No, escaping was impossible. You never left the Cage, Sam. You're still there, with me, and I must say-I think this is my best torture yet."
+ + +
Sam closes his eyes but doesn't sleep; when Dean puts food out in front of him he eyes it apprehensively before taking a bite and Dean nearly cries when Sam yells and flings the plate across the room.
The cheap chinaware breaks upon contact with the wall with a kind of ringing permanence and Sam stands abruptly, chair pushed back so fast it topples and flips, twice; two perfect backwards circles.
Dean sees Sam's hand go reflexively to where the glass cut him; twelve neat black stitches harsh against Sam's tanned palm, sewing him together and keeping him there like Dean can't.
"You good?" Dean asks; hopes; wants Sam to lie because he doesn't think he can cope-you can't handle the truth-
His brother finds the presence of mind to pull himself together, but Dean should know better by now, because nothing comes easy for Winchester blood.
"It's getting worse," Sam says, simply, and speaks no further.
+ + +
Lucifer's everywhere; he's in Sam's head and in Sam's face and in his dreams but Sam knows Dean's real; Dean's real dean's real dean's real dean's real-
+ + +
"The third pig was the smartest, Sam-lamb. He went out and got himself some bricks."
Sam doesn't bother looking at him. "That's why he lived, you dumbass."
"Ooh, mean." Lucifer says, closing his book and leaning back in his chair. "You keep that up, and it's gonna be a helluva long time 'til I let your heart stop."
Sam closes his eyes again; hears snippets of a conversation over Lucifer's rendition of "Highway to Hell":
there's nothing-? until his candle blows out?
i'm sorry, i can't fix it. but maybe-i can shift it.
+ + +
Sam's head is spinning and he keeps blinking to clear his vision; doesn't know when he last shaved and can't quite remember how he ended up sitting in this bed, but there's an oppressively bright light in the corner of the room.
Something tells him it's not the sun, and it's not just because the window is on the other side of his bed.
"Cass?" Sam asks, squinting at the blurry glowy light, "Cass, is that you?"
"Sam," Dean sighs, "we can't bring him with us."
+ + +
Dean's utterly head-over-heels all over again; missed his brother so fucking much that he can't keep his eyes off him; keeps finding reasons to bump into him, unnecessarily, and make sure Sam's alive.
And on top of Sam being okay, they've got everything they need to take Dick down. But Sam's bitchface has been getting increasingly impressive as they drive closer to Dick Roman Industries, so Dean turns to look at him.
"Man, you look like you're suckin' on a lemon. What's up?"
Sam's still frowning. "Nothing."
"Hey," Dean says, "don't worry your pretty little head, Samantha. We'll beat Dick," he says, and flashes his best grin. "I mean, I've got loads of practice."
Sam's still got that same sour look on his face, but his mouth curves upwards a little and Dean's smile widens in response until the look on Sam's face is gone.
Dean focuses his attention back onto the road; pats Sam's shoulder. "Seriously. It'll be fine."
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