fic: MMOM #12: Down the Wrong Road Both Ways (2/2) (Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Castiel)
Title: Down the Wrong Road Both Ways (2/2)
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, Sam, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1150
Notes: Spec fic for season 4 finale and beyond. My first Sam/Dean and boy was it lovely to write. For moodswingers if she does not mind, because of Sam, and Jason Molina’s music (title source), and all-around awesomeness.
Part 2 - Dreaming
In the meantime, the fallen brother and the fallen angel travel from empty room to empty house to empty road and back again.
In the meantime, Dean walks through his dreams like a ghost.
Sometimes Dean is distant and peaceful. He is sitting in a park, watching children play; he is fishing alone on a pier, looking out at nothing, seeing nothing, blissfully empty. Then Sam will turn around and find the damaged Castiel, haunted look in his eyes, kneeling on the earth and looking at Dean. Castiel never acknowledges him, and Dean never speaks. Sam knows these are Castiel’s dreams.
Castiel has other dreams, on nights when he is angry. In them, Dean is all smiles and freckles, his eyes light and shining. Dean is gentle hands and naked flesh caressing innocent bodies, blondes unaware of the monsters in the closet, tough waitresses connecting with his weary sensitivity, even if they don’t know what’s behind it. Dean is slow and deliberate and patient. Dean is sweat and moaning, overcome again and again, coming harder than he’s ever seen him before, red and flushed and alive. Sam knows these are Castiel’s memories. It makes his eyes shot with black. His blood feels like it’s boiling.
Sometimes it is the Dean from his own memories, the Dean he knows. Dean -- courageous and true and never doubting. Never, he knows now. Never. He misses his brother so much it makes him ache. He imagines every feeling his brother must be feeling; it is all the worse that he actually knows; it is all the worse that he is the cause. Of Dean -- faithless, humble, and weary -- made to stand as the fearsome true face of an unjust Heaven.
Dean, who never went to church, or had a birthday party, or a home. Dean, who only wanted to save his life, and Castiel’s. Dean, who knew full well how much they had both betrayed him, because everyone always did, and he gave his life expecting no different.
On those nights, Sam finds himself sitting quietly in the silent dark, the way he used to do when they would be driving in the car, and Dean would apologize to him. He would try to understand him, reach out and get turned away, not because Sam didn’t want him to understand. Only because Sam wanted to give Dean some faith and reassurance, some way to make them both ok, and the thought shut him down to a familiar cold feeling. He couldn’t. He was alone with his demons and that was the end of everything. There was never any different. Never would be.
Sometimes he dreams of the nights with Dean when it felt like they were the last ones on earth. When Dean was 17 and old enough to do whatever he wanted, with whomever he wanted, but he would still fall asleep with his arms wrapped around Sammy on the most uncomfortable bed they could find.
When Dean was 28 and teaching him how to fix his most important possession in the world, because he was dying, and his little brother needed to know.
When Dean was 16 and Dad had chewed him out about a hunt; when Sammy awoke alone to the sound of Dean simpering, jerking off in the bathroom, fingering a dark bruise forming around his left eye, from a monster or their father, he didn’t know. He didn’t know about monsters then. He only knew about men.
When Dean was 26 and afraid of Sam’s nightmares after Jess; when he woke him up with soft kisses and soothing hands and sweetly saying buddy and bro and kiddo and Sammy and hands and mouth never stopping moving, until Sam, pulling him close and rocking against him to the sound of Dean’s buddy and bro and kiddo and Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…
When Sam has these dreams, no one else can see.
As if he could be most proud of what he was once most ashamed of. As if this was the kind of miracle only Dean could have taught him, Dean who did not believe in miracles, but lived one every day.
The way it breaks Sam so much more now than when it had happened, like he’s looking back with a clear rear view, and the more time passes, the farther he moves away from him, the sharper Dean looks in his mind, and he doesn’t doubt that it’s worth the world now, if he ever had before.
The worst dreams of Dean are not of Dean. Sam sees himself at the center of everything - he can see through the veil of the world to the other side, to above and below and beyond - and it is more than he’s ever imagined. It is all of the secrets of the secret world he had tried to understand since he was 12 years old. Since before.
He had only been a child playing with power. He knows that now.
The power the angel with Dean’s face - Dean’s awful, soulless, faceless face - offered to him was greater than any promise of power Ruby’s blood might have held. It was boundless, doubtless, from god himself.
In his dreams, the angel with Dean’s face holds his face in his fingertips and kisses him with open eyes. When it doesn’t work, when Sam shudders with anything but desire, Michael with Dean’s face flips a switch and suddenly Dean is there, saying Sammy and smiling and making him feel like he wants to scream.
He comes to him in the night more and more. Like Castiel must have done, Sam thinks. Like you must have wanted him to, Dean, Sam thinks when he awakes. Then Sam rolls over, finds out Castiel’s soft belly with his hand, pulls his body up underneath him, finds his entrance and starts rocking into him, moving his hand lower the more Cas feels him.
One night, Michael is there again in the red abyss and the light and the darkness all around them. He moves aside, and Sam can see he’s brought someone.
Michael moves aside and there is another Dean there. The real Dean. And Sam stands still when the Dean kneeling on the ground just looks at him, his eyes and his shake of his head and his brow and his shoulders all saying, shaking, no and stop and please, stop. He’s not saying it to Michael. He’s saying it to Sam, and Sam knows exactly what he means, just what he means.
Stop looking for me. Stop dreaming of me. Stop hurting Castiel. Stop trying to make it better. There is no better. This will never be better.
I swore a vow. I made a promise.
Sam hears all of this with his eyes, with his soul. His dreams are, if nothing else, truth.
So Sam speaks the only truth he knows.
Dean. No. No, Dean, I won’t.
And he runs away from his brother as fast as he can.
The End
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, Sam, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1150
Notes: Spec fic for season 4 finale and beyond. My first Sam/Dean and boy was it lovely to write. For moodswingers if she does not mind, because of Sam, and Jason Molina’s music (title source), and all-around awesomeness.
Part 2 - Dreaming
In the meantime, the fallen brother and the fallen angel travel from empty room to empty house to empty road and back again.
In the meantime, Dean walks through his dreams like a ghost.
Sometimes Dean is distant and peaceful. He is sitting in a park, watching children play; he is fishing alone on a pier, looking out at nothing, seeing nothing, blissfully empty. Then Sam will turn around and find the damaged Castiel, haunted look in his eyes, kneeling on the earth and looking at Dean. Castiel never acknowledges him, and Dean never speaks. Sam knows these are Castiel’s dreams.
Castiel has other dreams, on nights when he is angry. In them, Dean is all smiles and freckles, his eyes light and shining. Dean is gentle hands and naked flesh caressing innocent bodies, blondes unaware of the monsters in the closet, tough waitresses connecting with his weary sensitivity, even if they don’t know what’s behind it. Dean is slow and deliberate and patient. Dean is sweat and moaning, overcome again and again, coming harder than he’s ever seen him before, red and flushed and alive. Sam knows these are Castiel’s memories. It makes his eyes shot with black. His blood feels like it’s boiling.
Sometimes it is the Dean from his own memories, the Dean he knows. Dean -- courageous and true and never doubting. Never, he knows now. Never. He misses his brother so much it makes him ache. He imagines every feeling his brother must be feeling; it is all the worse that he actually knows; it is all the worse that he is the cause. Of Dean -- faithless, humble, and weary -- made to stand as the fearsome true face of an unjust Heaven.
Dean, who never went to church, or had a birthday party, or a home. Dean, who only wanted to save his life, and Castiel’s. Dean, who knew full well how much they had both betrayed him, because everyone always did, and he gave his life expecting no different.
On those nights, Sam finds himself sitting quietly in the silent dark, the way he used to do when they would be driving in the car, and Dean would apologize to him. He would try to understand him, reach out and get turned away, not because Sam didn’t want him to understand. Only because Sam wanted to give Dean some faith and reassurance, some way to make them both ok, and the thought shut him down to a familiar cold feeling. He couldn’t. He was alone with his demons and that was the end of everything. There was never any different. Never would be.
Sometimes he dreams of the nights with Dean when it felt like they were the last ones on earth. When Dean was 17 and old enough to do whatever he wanted, with whomever he wanted, but he would still fall asleep with his arms wrapped around Sammy on the most uncomfortable bed they could find.
When Dean was 28 and teaching him how to fix his most important possession in the world, because he was dying, and his little brother needed to know.
When Dean was 16 and Dad had chewed him out about a hunt; when Sammy awoke alone to the sound of Dean simpering, jerking off in the bathroom, fingering a dark bruise forming around his left eye, from a monster or their father, he didn’t know. He didn’t know about monsters then. He only knew about men.
When Dean was 26 and afraid of Sam’s nightmares after Jess; when he woke him up with soft kisses and soothing hands and sweetly saying buddy and bro and kiddo and Sammy and hands and mouth never stopping moving, until Sam, pulling him close and rocking against him to the sound of Dean’s buddy and bro and kiddo and Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…
When Sam has these dreams, no one else can see.
As if he could be most proud of what he was once most ashamed of. As if this was the kind of miracle only Dean could have taught him, Dean who did not believe in miracles, but lived one every day.
The way it breaks Sam so much more now than when it had happened, like he’s looking back with a clear rear view, and the more time passes, the farther he moves away from him, the sharper Dean looks in his mind, and he doesn’t doubt that it’s worth the world now, if he ever had before.
The worst dreams of Dean are not of Dean. Sam sees himself at the center of everything - he can see through the veil of the world to the other side, to above and below and beyond - and it is more than he’s ever imagined. It is all of the secrets of the secret world he had tried to understand since he was 12 years old. Since before.
He had only been a child playing with power. He knows that now.
The power the angel with Dean’s face - Dean’s awful, soulless, faceless face - offered to him was greater than any promise of power Ruby’s blood might have held. It was boundless, doubtless, from god himself.
In his dreams, the angel with Dean’s face holds his face in his fingertips and kisses him with open eyes. When it doesn’t work, when Sam shudders with anything but desire, Michael with Dean’s face flips a switch and suddenly Dean is there, saying Sammy and smiling and making him feel like he wants to scream.
He comes to him in the night more and more. Like Castiel must have done, Sam thinks. Like you must have wanted him to, Dean, Sam thinks when he awakes. Then Sam rolls over, finds out Castiel’s soft belly with his hand, pulls his body up underneath him, finds his entrance and starts rocking into him, moving his hand lower the more Cas feels him.
One night, Michael is there again in the red abyss and the light and the darkness all around them. He moves aside, and Sam can see he’s brought someone.
Michael moves aside and there is another Dean there. The real Dean. And Sam stands still when the Dean kneeling on the ground just looks at him, his eyes and his shake of his head and his brow and his shoulders all saying, shaking, no and stop and please, stop. He’s not saying it to Michael. He’s saying it to Sam, and Sam knows exactly what he means, just what he means.
Stop looking for me. Stop dreaming of me. Stop hurting Castiel. Stop trying to make it better. There is no better. This will never be better.
I swore a vow. I made a promise.
Sam hears all of this with his eyes, with his soul. His dreams are, if nothing else, truth.
So Sam speaks the only truth he knows.
Dean. No. No, Dean, I won’t.
And he runs away from his brother as fast as he can.
The End