Away to Darker Dreams, Part Eight
Sam finishes his tea and sets it on the dresser, slinking over to Dean and curling his arms around Dean's hips, tipping his chin up and smiling at Dean from under his eyelashes. Sam cocks his head and meets Dean in a playful kiss, and Dean can taste the tea in Sam's mouth. It's actually pretty delicious, but maybe that's just because it's in Sam's heaven of a mouth.
Sam's hands tighten over the rise of Dean's ass, and their bodies are pulled flush against each other as Dean finds the perfect angle to lick into Sam's mouth, their tongues swiping against one another.
Sam unwraps his arms from around Dean and grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward before tossing him down on the bed, the air going out of Dean in a quiet whumph as his head hits the pillow.
Sam's on top of him before he can blink, knees on either side of his hips, and Sam shrugs out of his shirt in one deft, practiced movement before he's kissing Dean again, his lips forceful with their intent.
Dean nudges Sam away with his nose. "Well, Sam," he says, grinning like a loser.
"Just wanted to thank you for the tea," Sam tosses out, too casual, rolling his hips down against Dean in a move that he's seen way too many times in pornos.
None of this sits right with him, and his half-hard cock gets no further than that. He pushes Sam away again and shuffles up the bed, sitting up on his elbows. Sam's got a look in his eyes that he's never, ever seen before. He thinks that it's the look Sam gave that guy in the car, the look Sam wore like makeup when street corners were his place of work.
"Is that what this is?" Dean chokes out. "What, you--you think you owe me sex, Sam? I don't want to be thanked with a fuck... god, Sam, what am I to you? Some john?" The words are bitter in his mouth and he lashed out too much, landed a real blow.
Sam hops off of him, and that canned rage he's always had brewing inside him is breaking out, his veins standing out on his forehead, his jaw locked tight. He shoves his shirt back on over his broad shoulders, tugging it down over his hips.
"Is that how you see me?" Sam counters. "A slut, a hooker, a whore? Did you want to be my first, Dean? Are you disappointed that I'm used goods?"
Dean jerks back, feeling a phantom sting on his cheek and down in his gut, like Sam has slapped him. "No... god, no, Sammy," he says, moving toward Sam, but Sam backs up with his every encounter, keeping the space between them, winding out the spool of discord until Dean is drowning in it.
"Save it," Sam snarls, his lips curling. "I'm not some precious fucking sweetheart virgin that you can hold close and call baby. I had sex every day for months with men older than Dad, with beer guts and cheaters and businessmen who like to choke and hit. Don't treat me like your innocent little brother."
"That's not what this is!" Dean says, his voice cracking with desperation, and god, he would give anything to stop Sam from keeping away from him, inching further and further like a cornered animal, eyes flashing with defiance, not one to go down easy. It shouldn't be like that, never, not ever again, and Dean's going to fix this even if he has to get down on one goddamn knee. "Would you just--just listen to me, Sam, please. Just hear me out, okay? That's all I'm askin' for. Nothing else."
Sam's eyes are getting redder by the second and he nods, still tense and angry, his movements stiff. His hands are curled up into tight fists, but they loosen when Dean sits back onto the bed and looks up at his brother.
"I just..." Dean runs a hand through his hair. "I just thought we'd be different, y'know? And I don't... you know I can't talk about this shit..."
"At least try," Sam hisses, but his voice is full and pinched like someone on the cusp of a full breakdown.
"I am. I will," Dean says, and shit, his voice is no better. "I thought you n' me would be a thing, we'd be together, you know? A team. You and me, come whatever, all of that crap. And I'd get to, get to kiss you and you'd swing your legs around me and grin and we could take our time. I know the life you led, Sammy. And I'll listen when you want to talk about it. I'll be here, okay? 'Cause I know it bothers you, it gives you nightmares, even if you act like it was no big deal."
Dean pauses to take a breath. "I just thought you wouldn't wanna be reminded of that with me, you know? I was thinkin' we wouldn't even have real sex for awhile now, so your memories wouldn't be bothering you. I know I act like hot shit all the time, but I don't need sex from you, Sam. If it hurts you, I don't even want it. I'm not some mindless dog. And it's you, Sam, I mean. You gotta know how I feel about you, okay? You'd never be any of those words to me. I don't know if I'm getting any of this across but I just wanted you to trust me, to take it slow, you know? I wanna take my time with you. I don't want you to think about any of that crappy shit when you're with me."
Dean presses his head into his hands but looks back up a moment later, forcing his face to contort into a sad grin as he gazes over at Sam. "I want to make you happy."
Sam doesn't say anything. He walks over and sits down next to Dean, staring at the floor. Dean gives him his space, gives him his time, gazing across the room without seeing it. All he can see is the skinny, haunted boy that he'd stumbled upon in some miraculous twist of fate. He can still see that boy in Sam. It hasn't even been that long since that day. Sam is still healing.
Sam sniffles, and Dean peeks a look over at him, and he's greeted with the sight of wet cheeks and glassy eyes, Sam biting his lip as he tries to cry as quietly as possible.
Oh, god damn it. Dean feels a sympathetic pain all the way down to his toes. He guesses he does still sorta see Sam as a little, innocent kid, and maybe Sam still would be if none of this nightmare shit had ever happened to him. It's not fair, and Dean knows one day he'll get his god damn revenge, he'll see his father again. He feels it with the certainty that comes with revenge and redemption, a burning, continuous fire down low in him. Dean is gonna slit that demon's fucking throat and laugh at its pathetic death throes.
Sam collapses against his side, jarring him right back into the present. His anger won't do either of them any good right now. He loops an arm around Sam and pulls him close. He reaches up and combs his fingers through Sam's hair, cooing little meaningless nothings.
"It's okay, Sammy," he murmurs, "you don't have to say anything, we don't have to do anything. Does your head still hurt?"
Sam turns and buries his nose into the crook of Dean's neck, shivering. "I don't know what to do," he croaks, sniffing. "I want to, I do, but when I think of you seeing me like that... it's like you're seeing me with all those guys, like I'm dirty. Like I'm not clean. And that time in the car was amazing, and I do trust you, Dean, I do, but it still feels like a job. Like if I don't do it you'll get tired of me. And I know that's bullshit but I can't shake it."
Dean stares up at the ceiling and blinks away the burn in his eyes. He runs his hand up and down Sam's shoulder. "Then we should wait," he says. "I'm okay for foolin' around, I'm okay for anything as long as you're good with it. But you don't owe me shit, Sammy. And never in Hell will I ever leave you, not for a single damn reason. So maybe we should cool it, okay? Take it easy. Things don't have to change between us, even with physical stuff. I wouldn't want 'em to."
"Okay," Sam breathes out, curling a little closer to Dean like he's trying to burrow into Dean's skin, to hide from the mess of reality. "It'll be different. I want it to be different, too, like you said... I guess I'm just scared," Sam says hoarsely.
"Me too," Dean says, turning his head to plant a kiss on the top of Sam's head. He squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Me too, dude, but that just means it's something important, right? And nothing's more important than Sammy."
Sam pulls away and smiles up at him with teary eyes and blotchy cheeks, his dimples wavering as he tries to keep from breaking down. Dean traces a thumb over Sam's cheek, knowing his face is a fond, gooey mess right now, but Sam's eyes are drawing him in and he can't hide any of himself.
Dean pulls his hand away. The smile never leaves Sam's face. "There's nothing more important than Dean, either," he says, grabbing Dean's hand.
Dean twines his fingers with Sam’s, his heart threatening to escape out his throat. He's never felt anything like this. He feels like his old definition of love is obsolete, is garbage, nothing compared to what he's experiencing now, something he could never begin to put into sufficient words.
He stands and stretches. He coughs and claps his hands together to avoid the alternative of bawling his eyes out. "Good talk," he says, nodding, and before he can change the subject to something less life-shattering, Sam keels over, slipping off of the bed and onto the floor.
"Sam?!" Dean barks, falling to his knees beside Sam, pressing both of his hands to Sam's chest, pushing him upright.
"Oh, oh, oh god," Sam gasps, crying out and digging his fingernails into his scalp. "It's a vision, it's a vision, I don't want it..."
"Shit," Dean growls. He grabs Sam by the shoulders and shakes him until Sam's eyes open, mere slits, eyelids drooping back down almost immediately. "Sam, look at me, focus, hey, this is what you've been working on, huh? With Missouri? The meditation? You have to go there now."
"I can't," Sam whines, squeezing his eyes shut again, a fat tear slipping down the apple of his cheek. "It hurts too much, I won't be able to do it, he'll see everything, he'll come for me."
"Hey. No." Dean pets Sam's back in little circles, his heart going scared rabbit-fast. He stands and leaves Sam for a moment, even as it kills a part of him. He opens the door to call to Missouri but stops when he hears footsteps storming up. Missouri appears around the corner a second later, looking more harried and distressed than Dean has ever seen her. He equates her with serenity, with confidence, but now her hair is slipping out of her headband, her shoes tossed off as she runs.
"What about the-"
"Sent him home, told him want he wanted to hear," Missouri interrupts, bustling into their room and sitting down next to Sam. She puts a hand on his forehead and he leans into it. She makes a low, worried noise in the back of her throat, shuffling around until she's sitting cross-legged. She looks at Dean.
Dean drops down and folds up his legs. "Hey, Sammy?" he says, low and urgent, leaning forward and curling his hand behind Sam's ear. "Sam, you gotta sit like us, finish the triangle, so we can meditate and help you take away the pain."
"It won't work. I can't do it," Sam cries, but his colt legs shake and slide until he's sitting, hunched over his lap with his hands over his eyes.
"Sam, honey," Missouri tries, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Do you feel me? Can you sense me? Follow that energy, honey, it's completely fine, you're fine. Pain is physical, but you aren't."
Dean thinks that's a load of shit, but hey, if psychic placebo works, who is he to dispute it? "Yeah," he agrees, petting Sam's hair with the tips of his fingers, hoping Sam will show his face. "Power through it. Where is your calm place Sam? Go there. Ignore the bastard knocking on your door."
Sam sighs and nods, sitting up straighter. "I'm trying," he wheezed, "it's gonna come anyway."
"It will, you aren't strong enough to block it yet," Missouri says, and Dean gapes at her nerve. "But you can fight the pain. You can see it without being hurt, without the migraines. And you can see it without him knowing where you are. You might not be able to shut out the vision, but you can sure as hell shut out him. You're damn strong enough. You're a fighter, boy, I saw that in you the moment you came in here. So fight for me now."
Missouri puts a hand on Dean's knee and on Sam's, and now Dean's getting close to tears, too, all of his emotions roiling around inside him, unsatisfied. He says thank you thank you thank you in his mind, and Missouri's eyes move over to him, shining too, and she nods, smiling.
Sam's spine goes rigid and his hands fall away from his face. His eyes have gone that sick shade of grey again, but the rest of his face isn't dead, not like before, and he's not rocking back and forth like a man who's too far gone.
"I can see it," Sam says, his words choked and garbled, his eyes going side-to-side like the tail of a kit-cat clock. "It's hurting..."
"Shut it out," Missouri orders, hushed and meaningful. "He's not yours to take."
Sam's mouth falls open. "A highway, in the woods," he says, body being wracked by one large shiver. "There's a woman, a woman in a white dress."
Sam's eyes scrunch up and he laughs, another tear rolling down his face. "It's Dad. I can see Dad," he forces out, his voice harshed by the emotion lodged in his throat. "Dad's got a lead, he's leaving that place... he's going after the demon."
Sam gasps. "We have to find him. We have to help. He can't do it alone."
Dean puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "And we will, Sammy, when you're stronger."
He doesn't think Sam can hear him.
The vision ends like Sam's power cord has been unplugged and his eyes roll up into his head as he falls backward. Dean jumps forward and catches him, hefting him into his arms and depositing him onto the bed. He busies himself with stripping Sam of his jeans, tucking him under the sheets and folding Sam's arm on his chest. He checks Sam's pulse, Sam's temperature, and is satisfied with the results of both.
He turns back around to find Missouri's keen eyes on him, way too knowing, peeling down his carefully-built layers in half a second. He feels naked.
"You don't go breaking that boy's heart, you hear?" she asks, and Dean flushes, looking away.
"I, uh, I won't," he coughs, looking back up at her, and she beams.
"As if I couldn't see it," Missouri scoffs, like she's talking about the most normal, mundane thing in the word. "Even without reading your thoughts and moods, you boys moon after each other and pine and pine and pine, even though you've got each other in your pockets. You act like soulmates, if I've ever seen them. Just be careful with that, with your ability over him, okay?"
"I always am," Dean says, and he can't think of anything to say, but he guesses that his thoughts pretty much sum it up. He's only known Missouri for a couple of weeks, but she feels like an old friend, like a surrogate mother-mentor. She squashes him against her chest in a constricting hug, petting his hair.
When she releases him, he takes a moment to breathe again. She laughs. "I'll check up on you two in a while, okay? Just take it easy. Lord knows you deserve it."
Missouri disappears down the hall and Dean carefully closes the door, stripping down to his boxers and carefully slipping into the bed behind Sam, laying an arm across Sam's waist and nuzzling Sam's head.
Sam makes a baby noise in his sleep and shifts restlessly, but a single word from Dean is all it takes to make him relax. Maybe he does have a power over Sam, but if he does, then Sammy sure as hell has a power over him.
He doesn't mind. Not in the slightest. He wouldn't trade it for the world.
Sam is okay in the morning. His head doesn't hurt, and they're down to only one pill a day.
Even so, they take it easy, lounging in bed in sweatpants. Missouri brings up an old, boxy T.V., and they watch the Saturday morning cartoons on it.
"This shit was so much better when we were kids," Dean grouses, gesturing toward the weird sponge on the T.V. "You remember Thundercats, Sammy? You loved that shit."
"Oh, don't remind me," Sam groans, "I think I still have some of the episodes memorized. So many reruns."
"Motel cable, good times," Dean laughs, stretching out his legs and wiggling his toes. When he’s not as bone-dead tired, he’s gonna drag Sam out for a ride in Baby, maybe grab some grub.
He glances over at Sam, pausing when he sees Sam's clenched draw, the worry wrinkles on Sam's forehead.
"Hey," he barks, slapping Sam on the chest, startling him. "Earth to Sam."
"What? Sorry," Sam says, blinking rapidly, his cheeks burning. "I was just thinking."
"You wanna share with the class?"
Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm just thinking about the vision. About Dad."
Dean shuffles closer and yawns, tossing his arm across Sam's shoulder. "And?"
"I looked up the place I saw, that highway? Breckenridge?" Sam says, staring at the T.V. but not focusing on it. "It's in California. Jericho."
Dean sits up. "That's near Palo Alto, isn't it? North of Sacramento?"
"Yeah, it is," Sam says, his voice quiet and thick with unshed tears. "Maybe--maybe we could go find him there, say goodbye to Jess. Say sorry."
"Hey," Dean growls, tugging on Sam's shoulder until Sam rests his head against Dean. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, okay? And it sounds like a good plan, Sam. Wouldn't it be nice to be on the road again? You n' me in baby, saving the world?"
Sam smiles. "We just gotta find Dad," he croaks. "It's all I can think about. I've got to find Jessica's killer, find the thing that did this to me."
Dean takes a shuddering breath. His grip tightens around Sam. He never wants to let go. "And we will, okay? But not by rushing in headfirst. You need to practice more, you need to learn more things, get stronger."
"But the trail will just keep getting colder, Dean," Sam argues. "I saw him leave Jericho in my vision. If we wait, he'll be long gone, and there'll be no trail to follow."
"Didn't you say he was working on a hunt?"
Sam hesitates, but nods. "Yeah, why?"
"He wouldn't let more people get hurt, he wouldn't leave people to die. He's still there, right now. Just stay here for a couple of days, okay? Just to get your strength up?"
"Fine," Sam says. "I just hate feeling useless."
"You're doing your best by being here," Dean assures him. "Why don't we go train right now?"
Sam holds a deck of cards in the air for a minute straight with just the power of his giant geekbrain, and Dean tells him that he's a hotter psychic than Jennifer Love Hewitt, by far. Sam tells him to shut up.
They break early, and Sam disappears into the bathroom while Dean and Missouri drag the couches back into place and fix up the living room.
"There's something I want to teach you, Dean," Missouri says out of the blue, setting a candle back onto the coffee table.
Dean stands up straight, tossing a pillow onto a couch. "Yeah? A Vulcan mind meld?"
"You have a connection with Sam," Missouri ignores him. "And you two can't stay here forever, even though I'd like to keep you hidden here ‘til the end of my days."
Dean smiles at her.
"I can teach you how to lead Sam through meditation, how to help him practice his telekinesis and his empathy. I can teach you how to teach him, so that when you're gone, you can keep helping him block off his psychic signature, you can help him get stronger."
"I wanna learn," Dean tells her. "Tell me everything you can."
That night, Dean is fucking exhausted. He'd bought a journal and written down everything Missouri had told him, taking notes on her little tips, putting down his own ideas. It seemed simple enough. He just had to guide Sam into the right frame of mind, open up his psychic link or whatever. He could definitely do that. He's already number one champion at calming down Sam, and to-may-to, to-mah-to, right?
Back upstairs, Sam watches from the bed as Dean tucks the journal into their duffels, which are back out of the closet, the symbol of a change. As eager as Dean is to get back to Dad, to be a family, he is sure as hell gonna miss this place. Before they got here, he and Sam were lost, and Sam was hurting in a deep, unreachable way.
Missouri fucking saved them, and he'll never forget that. He'll never forget her. He can understand why his Dad latched onto her so thoroughly when he was still reeling from the loss of the love of his life.
Dean watches Sam watching him. He can't imagine.
"You okay over there?" Dean asks, walking over to the bed.
Sam reaches up like a kid wanting to be picked up, wrapping his arms around Dean and kissing him gently. "Now I am," he says against Dean's lips.
Dean smiles, briefly pressing a kiss to Sam's forehead before pulling away and sliding onto the bed. "Long day, huh?"
"Not just for me," Sam points out. "How was it with Missouri?"
"It was great. I'm like your psychic guru now."
Sam looks down at his chest, holding the gemstone of his amulet in his palm. "Maybe I won't need this soon," he says.
"Keep it on, just to be safe. That way we can match."
Sam's eyes are drawn to Dean's amulet, a token of their love, and he smiles. "Yeah, okay."
on to part nine