fic: older brother, restless soul, lie down
Okay, so I really don't know where this came from, maybe just snatches of images I got after tonight's (last night's) episode, all smushed into something vaguely (vaguely, very very vaguely) fic-like. Forgive me.
OMGWTF:unbeta'd; slashy gen, maybe; angsty big brother!Dean (zomg, yay, it's been so long, Show); tiny itty-bitty spoilers for last night's episode 6.something. I dunno ... words. writing. italics and periods and apostrophes and COMMAS, TEH COMMAS.
;D
older brother, restless soul, lie down
He was never prepared for this. For Sam. Looking and talking, broad shouldered and exasperated, Dean, always thinking before acting.
He's threaded through with words, turning Sam's name bloody and dangerous, full of hell and pain. Full of god, Sammys and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorrys.
His voice breaks. His shoulders burn, distance from Sam's warm chest, wanting to push back, to fall into, to brace against. Dean's too prickly, though, full of don't, full of let me protect you, save you. Full of let me save myself.
Sam's full of Death's work, his wall, a life and sanity that isn't his own, that he'll never have. Not again. Dean wasted a year (and it was; it was a waste, because Sam was being driven insane, painfeardespair, and Dean was in Indiana, failing and failing at something he never wanted and refusing to do the only thing he's ever really known how to do).
He knows he could have maybe saved Sam's sanity on his own, given that back to his brother (taken away hellhounds and begging, three hundred and sixty five days of watching Dean die, everything that started this mess), if he had just tried, just said Bobby or Cas.
Help me. Help Sam.
His voice breaks and shoulders burn. Sam's face fuckin lights up when Dean says clean slate. When he says I don't care. Smiles like he's still dirty and guilty and fuckin shameful, something fit to be tied. Too dangerous and not worthy and Sam's wrists are marked with rusty scabs he doesn't even see, because the only thing he cares about is the forgiveness that Dean's been hoarding, leaking out a crumb at a time (clean slate, clean slate, look, Sam, come and get it).
Dean can't look away. Tan, tapered hands, the bump and dip of bone (flicker and pound of a pulse that Dean can't see, not so far away) trailing into scratches and gouges. They're not deep, not damaging, probably won't even scar at all, and he knows Sam doesn't care. Doesn't care how he was the only one they were tempted to restrain. Not Dean, Not Samuel, just Sam.
All we're sorry. All only til we know (because you're dangerous, a killer, a monster. We know what you'll do).
Dean steps closer as they leave the graveyard (Bobby mourning and alone. We're family, you were family, empty words and empty face, and there's nothing Dean can (wants) to do about it. Not now, not right now. Maybe a state or a year away. Maybe then). He can smell Sam, sweat and soap and earth; he knows that Sam'll stay close (I've got your back, for what that's worth); he knows Sam won't touch.
He never does. Not now. Too polite, too unsure (scared and rejected). Dean doesn't, either, only because he'd never stop, never be strong enough, not again, not after so fuckin long without. Sam's arms are clasped behind his back. Left wrist held loose in his right hand, the knot pressing lightly against the small of his own back. Dean knows. It's the way Sam walks and stands now (don't, don't, can't, won't).
Dean wonders if the sweat stings when it seeps into his brother's broken skin.
**
Dean watches Sam scrub his hands, his face, in some non-descript rest stop bathroom. It's maybe a little weird that Dean barged in behind Sam, but the bathroom's a two-stall thing, so not that bad, maybe he had to piss, too, and that's why he's here, in here, right now.
Except Dean's leaned up against the wall, rough, untreated cinderblock clinging to his jacket, Sam pissing in a stall, sound hollow and too-loud against the grungy toilet. When Sam comes out he doesn't look over at Dean. Doesn't question.
Soap and cool water, tracks leading down, slipping toward his elbows, over the scabs (and Dean knows they have to be rough, now, aired out and maybe dirty, lint clinging to congealed blood, digging deep into Sam). Clean clean clean as possible in a place that doesn't really encourage it, and then water running over Sam's tired face, lines of him still and quiet. Expressionless, when Sam takes his hands away, lets them rest against the battered sink.
"Maybe we shouldn't have left Bobby," Sam says. He meets Dean's eyes in the mirror, and Dean can almost feel Sam at his back, begging Samuel over his shoulder tell me, I want to know. Yes, and Dean fighting for something he can name, for something he's wanted for years, now. No, Sam. Drop it.
"Too late," he says, and he keeps his eyes open, lips turned up, holding the door open for Sam who sighs through, past him, light brush of Sam's arm against Dean's chest when Dean leans in. A second, in some smelly, cruddy bathroom, and Dean stays a step, two, behind, Sam leading the way, strong shoulders shrinking and curling. Apologizing.
Dean pretends not to see.
**
When they stop for the night, Dean picks a nicer hotel. More expensive, but who the fuck are they kidding anyway? It's safe to say Mr. Schozzelipigus could give a shit.
At least, that's what he says when Sam sputters about Dean's choice. Just a damn Holiday Inn, Sammy, not the Hilton, chrissakes.
But they go up, and heh, up in an elevator, inside, and so sue him, it's something new, and there's the one bed, like Dean expected and Sam so obviously didn't. They clean up, heat and steam, enough for both of them, twenty or thirty minutes each. Sweet smelling crap that Dean loads up on, two more in the trash from Sam's turn. It's good, great even, climbing out, dressing in briefs and an A-shirt. Salt still at the door and the wide window overlooking a glowing pool from three stories up.
Sam's in bed, t.v. off, lamp on, laying on his side closest to the bathroom wall. Dean doesn't climb in although he's tired, feels sleep pull at him, sand-filled legs, trembling muscles, burning eyes. Sam's stiff as a board, unmoving and unnatural, and Dean sets up his laptop at the table. Clickclacks the keyboard until Sam's breath is deep, unrushed, louder than when he's awake.
Dean turns off the light when he gets up. There's enough coming from the uncovered window - bright white-blue light sliding in through clear glass from above, warmer amber creeping in from below. Dean can move around, easy, whooshwhoosh of feet over carpet (pilled and worn but clean). Here from the table to there at the dresser, there from the dresser to Sam, so safe on his side, almost falling off, legs straight and tight, one on top of the other, one hand brushing the bottom frame of the bed, knuckles curled into a loose fist.
Dean's maybe been waiting all day for this, kneeling into the small space between the bed and the wall, in front of Sam's hidden face, to pick up the hand (cold, cold in the air conditioned room), watch the arm bend in sleep, fingers uncurling long enough to find Dean's, and then slowly closing again, no pressure and no effort but more need than Dean can remember Sam ever showing.
Dean lifts their joined hands higher, the back of Sam's hand against Dean's cheek, and Dean presses it to himself a little more firmly, smooth skin and hard bone. He turns his head toward the inside of Sam's arm, thinner skin there, and his lips brush against too new, too damaged areas. The taste of Sam is similar to his smell, but sharper, the heat of Dean's breath making it stronger.
Not a kiss, he thinks, nothing like that, but his mouth hovers over the damaged wrist, the sleep-steady beat of blood, until Sam's skin warms, something closer to normal. Dean can finally tuck his brother back in, sheets and comforter pulled up and tight (stay, stay because I want you to, because you want to (not because I have to watch you, keep you from hurting people, keep you hurting me) please stay).
Dean's knees creak as he walks, as he lifts the covers, as he stretches out, looser and easier than Sam, pushing close enough to brush foot against foot. Sam doesn't flinch, and Dean doesn't move away.
"Good night," he whispers. Sam breathes. Dean aches.
OMGWTF:unbeta'd; slashy gen, maybe; angsty big brother!Dean (zomg, yay, it's been so long, Show); tiny itty-bitty spoilers for last night's episode 6.something. I dunno ... words. writing. italics and periods and apostrophes and COMMAS, TEH COMMAS.
;D
older brother, restless soul, lie down
He was never prepared for this. For Sam. Looking and talking, broad shouldered and exasperated, Dean, always thinking before acting.
He's threaded through with words, turning Sam's name bloody and dangerous, full of hell and pain. Full of god, Sammys and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorrys.
His voice breaks. His shoulders burn, distance from Sam's warm chest, wanting to push back, to fall into, to brace against. Dean's too prickly, though, full of don't, full of let me protect you, save you. Full of let me save myself.
Sam's full of Death's work, his wall, a life and sanity that isn't his own, that he'll never have. Not again. Dean wasted a year (and it was; it was a waste, because Sam was being driven insane, painfeardespair, and Dean was in Indiana, failing and failing at something he never wanted and refusing to do the only thing he's ever really known how to do).
He knows he could have maybe saved Sam's sanity on his own, given that back to his brother (taken away hellhounds and begging, three hundred and sixty five days of watching Dean die, everything that started this mess), if he had just tried, just said Bobby or Cas.
Help me. Help Sam.
His voice breaks and shoulders burn. Sam's face fuckin lights up when Dean says clean slate. When he says I don't care. Smiles like he's still dirty and guilty and fuckin shameful, something fit to be tied. Too dangerous and not worthy and Sam's wrists are marked with rusty scabs he doesn't even see, because the only thing he cares about is the forgiveness that Dean's been hoarding, leaking out a crumb at a time (clean slate, clean slate, look, Sam, come and get it).
Dean can't look away. Tan, tapered hands, the bump and dip of bone (flicker and pound of a pulse that Dean can't see, not so far away) trailing into scratches and gouges. They're not deep, not damaging, probably won't even scar at all, and he knows Sam doesn't care. Doesn't care how he was the only one they were tempted to restrain. Not Dean, Not Samuel, just Sam.
All we're sorry. All only til we know (because you're dangerous, a killer, a monster. We know what you'll do).
Dean steps closer as they leave the graveyard (Bobby mourning and alone. We're family, you were family, empty words and empty face, and there's nothing Dean can (wants) to do about it. Not now, not right now. Maybe a state or a year away. Maybe then). He can smell Sam, sweat and soap and earth; he knows that Sam'll stay close (I've got your back, for what that's worth); he knows Sam won't touch.
He never does. Not now. Too polite, too unsure (scared and rejected). Dean doesn't, either, only because he'd never stop, never be strong enough, not again, not after so fuckin long without. Sam's arms are clasped behind his back. Left wrist held loose in his right hand, the knot pressing lightly against the small of his own back. Dean knows. It's the way Sam walks and stands now (don't, don't, can't, won't).
Dean wonders if the sweat stings when it seeps into his brother's broken skin.
**
Dean watches Sam scrub his hands, his face, in some non-descript rest stop bathroom. It's maybe a little weird that Dean barged in behind Sam, but the bathroom's a two-stall thing, so not that bad, maybe he had to piss, too, and that's why he's here, in here, right now.
Except Dean's leaned up against the wall, rough, untreated cinderblock clinging to his jacket, Sam pissing in a stall, sound hollow and too-loud against the grungy toilet. When Sam comes out he doesn't look over at Dean. Doesn't question.
Soap and cool water, tracks leading down, slipping toward his elbows, over the scabs (and Dean knows they have to be rough, now, aired out and maybe dirty, lint clinging to congealed blood, digging deep into Sam). Clean clean clean as possible in a place that doesn't really encourage it, and then water running over Sam's tired face, lines of him still and quiet. Expressionless, when Sam takes his hands away, lets them rest against the battered sink.
"Maybe we shouldn't have left Bobby," Sam says. He meets Dean's eyes in the mirror, and Dean can almost feel Sam at his back, begging Samuel over his shoulder tell me, I want to know. Yes, and Dean fighting for something he can name, for something he's wanted for years, now. No, Sam. Drop it.
"Too late," he says, and he keeps his eyes open, lips turned up, holding the door open for Sam who sighs through, past him, light brush of Sam's arm against Dean's chest when Dean leans in. A second, in some smelly, cruddy bathroom, and Dean stays a step, two, behind, Sam leading the way, strong shoulders shrinking and curling. Apologizing.
Dean pretends not to see.
**
When they stop for the night, Dean picks a nicer hotel. More expensive, but who the fuck are they kidding anyway? It's safe to say Mr. Schozzelipigus could give a shit.
At least, that's what he says when Sam sputters about Dean's choice. Just a damn Holiday Inn, Sammy, not the Hilton, chrissakes.
But they go up, and heh, up in an elevator, inside, and so sue him, it's something new, and there's the one bed, like Dean expected and Sam so obviously didn't. They clean up, heat and steam, enough for both of them, twenty or thirty minutes each. Sweet smelling crap that Dean loads up on, two more in the trash from Sam's turn. It's good, great even, climbing out, dressing in briefs and an A-shirt. Salt still at the door and the wide window overlooking a glowing pool from three stories up.
Sam's in bed, t.v. off, lamp on, laying on his side closest to the bathroom wall. Dean doesn't climb in although he's tired, feels sleep pull at him, sand-filled legs, trembling muscles, burning eyes. Sam's stiff as a board, unmoving and unnatural, and Dean sets up his laptop at the table. Clickclacks the keyboard until Sam's breath is deep, unrushed, louder than when he's awake.
Dean turns off the light when he gets up. There's enough coming from the uncovered window - bright white-blue light sliding in through clear glass from above, warmer amber creeping in from below. Dean can move around, easy, whooshwhoosh of feet over carpet (pilled and worn but clean). Here from the table to there at the dresser, there from the dresser to Sam, so safe on his side, almost falling off, legs straight and tight, one on top of the other, one hand brushing the bottom frame of the bed, knuckles curled into a loose fist.
Dean's maybe been waiting all day for this, kneeling into the small space between the bed and the wall, in front of Sam's hidden face, to pick up the hand (cold, cold in the air conditioned room), watch the arm bend in sleep, fingers uncurling long enough to find Dean's, and then slowly closing again, no pressure and no effort but more need than Dean can remember Sam ever showing.
Dean lifts their joined hands higher, the back of Sam's hand against Dean's cheek, and Dean presses it to himself a little more firmly, smooth skin and hard bone. He turns his head toward the inside of Sam's arm, thinner skin there, and his lips brush against too new, too damaged areas. The taste of Sam is similar to his smell, but sharper, the heat of Dean's breath making it stronger.
Not a kiss, he thinks, nothing like that, but his mouth hovers over the damaged wrist, the sleep-steady beat of blood, until Sam's skin warms, something closer to normal. Dean can finally tuck his brother back in, sheets and comforter pulled up and tight (stay, stay because I want you to, because you want to (not because I have to watch you, keep you from hurting people, keep you hurting me) please stay).
Dean's knees creak as he walks, as he lifts the covers, as he stretches out, looser and easier than Sam, pushing close enough to brush foot against foot. Sam doesn't flinch, and Dean doesn't move away.
"Good night," he whispers. Sam breathes. Dean aches.