Fic: Your Blood in My Heart (In My Head) 2/3
Continued from here.
“Maybe staying overnight wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” the doc says. She doesn’t look or even sound smug but Dean scowls anyway.
“I’m fine.”
“You had a panic attack, Jensen. With your mind not really understanding what’s going on, it doesn’t surprise me. Which is why I wanted you to stay.”
“Yeah, yeah. But I’m fine now. So can I go?”
“Tell me what brought it on. I asked your friend to step outside for a reason,” she says when Dean remains stubbornly silent. “This is just between you and me. What happened?”
“My brother. He’s my little brother.”
Dr. Purcell opens her mouth as if to argue but then she just nods at him to go on. And suddenly Dean just feels so damn tired.
“It’s all I’ve known, my whole life, you know? To look after him. It’s my job, doc. It’s… It’s why I’m here.”
“Okay. But?”
Dean swallows. His chest is starting to hurt again. “But if it’s not real… If he’s not… If we’re not…” He shakes his head. “We’ve been through so much and sometimes…” He laughs tiredly. “Sometimes I’m so close to just checking out. But I don’t, no matter how bad it gets, because… I gotta look after my little brother. Gotta look after Sammy. But if he’s not… If we’re not…” Dean blinks as his vision gets cloudy. Crap. “It’s all for nothing. All of this. Everything we’ve suffered, everyone we’ve lost…”
“But you didn’t,” the doc says gently. “Jensen, none of it is real, including all that suffering, all that loss. It didn’t happen.”
“It happened in here,” Dean says, tapping his head. “And here.” He slams his fist into his chest. “It happened, doc. I remember it happening. I know it happened. But I can’t… I can’t feel it,” he admits.
She tilts her head, intrigued. “You can’t feel it? You can’t feel what?”
“The pain! The real physical pain of-” He cuts himself off before he starts raving about Hell and demons and torture. He’s not gonna let them lock him up, all wrapped up in a straitjacket. “I used to feel it. All the time. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat because… God, everything hurt so damn much.” He shudders, the familiar panic lurking in the shadows, ready to jump in.
“And now you don’t?” She lays a comforting hand on Dean’s arm. “Jensen, that’s because those aren’t real memories. You’re remembering what your character went through on the show, but you can’t feel it, because it never really happened to you. You were never really hurt. It was all make-believe.”
Dean shakes his head. “It’s real, doc. It’s real. I don’t know what’s happening but don’t tell me it’s not real.”
“There are no scars on your body, Jensen,” she points out. “There is no evidence of any of it.”
“I don’t know how they did that,” he says stubbornly. “Don’t matter, I know where they should be.”
The doc looks at him for a long time but then she just nods and steps back. “Alright, alright. Jensen, I think we should try medication.”
Dean shakes his head. He can’t afford some damn drugs slowing him down. “No.”
“I’m not talking anything heavy, not now. Just anti-anxiety pills. If it is just stress, the pills will help you deal with that, and the symptoms should go away. If it’s something else… we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
He stays silent, thinking. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He’s plenty anxious, he wouldn’t mind getting rid of some of that. Although… “What are the side effects? Come on, doc, I know there are always side effects with these drugs. And I ain’t got time to be drooling in some corner.”
“You’re right, there are side effects. They hit people differently but the most common are dizziness, fatigue, headaches, nausea, decreased sex drive-”
Dean reels back. “Whoa, whoa! Hold on there! I’m not taking drugs that make me sterile!”
She smiles indulgently. “Not sterile, just… less interested. And it’s temporary. Be honest, how likely are you to be having sexual relations in the near future, Jensen?”
“I could. I mean…” He looks away. Truth is, he hasn’t had any sex since he got back. Every time he even thinks of it… Alastair’s hands are there, touching him, pushing him down, making him-
“Jensen?”
“Listen, kid, either you want this gig, or you don’t.” Hands in his hair, pulling his head back, fingers grabbing his jaw, thick thumb forcing its way between his lips and -
“Whoa! Jensen, it’s okay. You’re safe. There are no monsters, it’s not real, you’re completely safe. Breathe.”
He blinks rapidly, breath coming fast and shallow. His throat hurts. Jesus, what the hell was that? Or rather, that wasn’t Hell. That wasn’t even one of his own memories of making quick cash when he’d run out of other options, and Sammy was too hungry to sleep. Or the times- He’d been scared then, sure, but this was different. This was shocked helpless terror. This was… real. It felt absolutely real, from the sting of his hair being pulled out of his scalp, to the pain of a thick heavy dick being forced down his throat, to the taste and smell and…
He shakes his head, shakes it off. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Back off, lady!” he warns when she makes to touch his shoulder.
She steps back, hands up. “Easy there. Tell me what just happened.”
“Nothing. I just…” He tries to grin but can feel his lips are twisted all wrong. “Remembered something, I guess.”
“Okay. From this life? Jensen’s life,” she elaborates when Dean blinks at her. “Or Dean’s life?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t…” He rubs a hand over his face, dismayed at how much he’s trembling. “Jensen’s, I think.”
“Something quite traumatic, it looked like. Do you want to tell me?”
Dean shakes his head. Like hell he’s talking about this to anyone. At least now he knows one thing: this Jensen dude is far from the perfect Hollywood golden boy Sam seems to think he is.
“Alright.” Dr. Purcell looks at him, thoughtful. “Did it feel different from Dean’s memories?”
He nods. “More… physical, I guess. Like, I can remember the actual… I can feel it, you know? I don’t just know it happened, I can feel…” He stops, breathing violently through his nose. If he opens his mouth, he might hurl.
“Okay.” The doc nods and writes something down on her pad. Dean’s pretty good at reading upside down but her handwriting is stereotypically awful. Probably for exactly this reason. When she looks up again her face is sympathetic. “I know it doesn’t feel that way right now, but this is actually good, that you’re starting to remember. Hopefully the next memory you get will be more pleasant.”
“No offence, doc, but I think I prefer my memories of Hell to whatever crap this dude’s got stuck inside his friggin’ skull. At least with my own, I know what’s coming.”
The doc opens her mouth then closes it again, sad pity flashing in her eyes for a moment before they settle back on professional sympathy. Dammit, he shouldn’t have said that. Now she probably thinks his “Hell” was servicing Chester the Molester as a kid. Which, sure, yeah, but he’s not gonna talk about that. Or any of it.
“I’m kidding,” he says quickly and tries for another grin. It goes better this time. “Just prefer what I know is mine to some other dude’s weird teenage drama.”
“Your memory was from when you were a teenager?” she prods gently but goddammit, Dean is not doing this.
“We done here?” he grumbles, standing up.
“No. Jensen, please, sit down.”
Dean sits, reluctantly, the urge to get up and run out of there making his skin crawl. Like he’s facing a whole nest of vampires instead of just a small middle-aged woman, watching him like he’s some sad but fascinating guinea pig.
“Can I be frank?” she says, leaning back. “I think we need to do a psychiatric evaluation. No, wait,” she adds firmly when he starts to stand up again. “Listen to me. Something obviously brought this on, and I’m beginning to think it’s more than stress. Your mind is trying to communicate with you, and I think you need to listen.”
“Lady, there’s not a damn thing in my mind that I don’t know about,” Dean grits out. “And whatever secrets this Jensen dude has, I’d prefer him keeping them to his damn self.”
“That Jensen dude is you,” she says, holding his gaze. “He is the real you. I know you don’t believe that,” she adds when he opens his mouth to protest, “but that is the truth. And we need to figure out how to convince him to come back.”
Dean nods, lips twisting into a snarl. “And for me to leave, right?”
“For Dean to leave. Because you are not Dean, you are Jensen.”
He nods again, fighting his anger. “So basically you want me to kill myself.”
She straightens up, studying him with a concerned frown. “You know that is not what I meant, but it’s interesting you see it that way. Does Dean often feel suicidal? I’m sorry, I’m not familiar enough with the show.”
“It’s not a show,” he snaps, “it’s my damn life! And no!”
Her eyebrows go up. “Really? You did mention wanting to ‘check out’.”
“No. I mean…” Dean swallows and averts his eyes. “It’s… Okay,” he admits. “When Sam left, I was… not happy. And after Dad died and Sam was… I thought he was… Doesn’t matter,” he dismisses. He’s not about to explain demon blood and going dark side to some damn civilian. “And yeah, okay, after I got back from- After I got back. After what I saw, what I… did. It was hard, okay? But I’m fine now.”
“Mhmm. And how long has Dean been back?”
“A few months. But I’m good. I’m fine!” he insists as she looks skeptical.
“A few months. After spending years in Hell. Really? I said I wasn’t familiar, doesn’t mean I didn’t do a little homework,” she explains when he gives her a startled look. “How many years again?”
Dean swallows. “Forty.”
“Forty years. Forty years of unspeakable torture, and he’s absolutely fine now?” She raises her eyebrows. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Not like you believe any of it anyway,” Dean grumbles. His chest is hurting again, and he rubs at it with his fist. He thinks of telling her the torture only went on for thirty years, but then he has to explain what he was doing for the last decade and… Goddammit, his chest really hurts!
“Doesn’t matter. I’m just looking at it from a professional point of view. Now, a human being can only endure excruciating pain for a limited amount of time before the mind and body breaks. And believe me, that time isn’t anywhere near forty years.”
He starts to get up, fury bubbling in his chest, but she raises a finger and he sits back, seething.
“As the person in this scenario is already dead, the body, however hurt, cannot die. That leaves us with the mind.” She shakes her head. “To have suffered the kind of torture I imagine there is in Hell… And yes, I’m sure whatever I am imagining, what Dean suffered was much worse. My point is, that kind of torment leaves scars on a person’s psyche. Scars that take a lot longer to heal than a few months, if they ever do. Hypothetically.”
“What’s your point?” he bites out, blinking rapidly. His vision keeps going blurry. The walls seem to be closing in. If she keeps blabbing on she’s gonna use up all the damn oxygen in the room.
“My point is,” she says, leaning forward and fixing her gaze on him, “if Dean says he’s fine, he’s lying. Big time. No one can be fine after something like that. No one. And you thinking he should be, makes me actually more worried about you.”
He sits silent, breathing deeply through his panic. Crap. “Alright, I’m not fine. I’m so damn far from fine it scares the hell out of me.”
“Nightmares?” He nods. “Flashbacks? Anxiety? Depression?” He nods after every word, lips pressed tight together. “Guilt? Shame?”
Dean looks up, startled.
“The human brain is stupid,” she explains. “It feels guilt over things you had no control over and would never be blamed for. Like surviving.”
“Depends on what you did to survive,” he blurts out, like a goddamn idiot.
“Ah.”
He rubs at his chest, the pain no less real, now he knows what is happening. She is watching him, no doubt noting every sign of his impending panic attack, but apart from noticeably slowing her breathing, she doesn’t interfere. He closes his eyes and listens to her deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth and forces himself to match them, just like he made Sam do, after he killed his first monster, and again, during those first months after Jess died. After a while the pain in his chest eases a little, and when he opens his eyes he can almost see clearly again.
“So, you hurt people. Research,” she reminds him when he stills, thinking she must be reading his mind, that maybe she’s a damn demon after all. “I’ve only read about what they’ve aired so far of this season but apparently there’s a scene where you confess to Sam that after thirty years you escaped further torture by agreeing to hurt other souls instead.”
It feels like someone struck him, like someone hit him with a sledgehammer, right in the chest. His deepest darkest secret, and it’s just out there, in plain sight, for everyone to know about? “That’s private. That’s … You had no right!”
“Jensen,” she reminds him patiently. “Again, it’s not real. It didn’t really happen. It’s not your life; it is all fiction. Dean is only a character you play, whatever happened to him did not actually happen to you.”
He bristles. “Lady-!”
“But we’re discussing Dean,” she continues, like he isn’t sitting there, fists shaking. “What kind of torture did he endure? Can you tell me?”
Dean shakes his head. He couldn’t get the words out even if he tried.
“Beatings? Broken bones?”
He lets out a snort of laughter. “Where you think I was, doc? Boot camp?”
“Okay. Alright. Worst things I can imagine. Hellfire?” He closes his eyes. “Sharp instruments?” He flinches. “Ah. So, they cut him?”
“Lady, they carved every ounce of meat from my bones,” he grits out to get her to shut up. “Every damn day. When they weren’t busy-” He chokes on his words, his throat so tight it hurts.
There’s silence for a long time. He can feel a tear trickling down his nose and wipes it hurriedly away. He still can’t open his eyes. Most of all he just wants to not be here.
“Jensen, was there sexual torture?” she asks, voice low and quiet.
He presses his hand over his eyes, squeezing them shut as hard as he can. It’s still not dark enough to hide in.
“Okay,” she says quietly over his harsh breathing. “Jensen, am I right in assuming the memory you had earlier was sexual in nature? Were you being sexually assaulted?”
“Jesus, will you shut up! Stop it. Hold still! You’re making this so much harder on yourself. Guys, some help over here? Hold him down if you ever wanna get your turn.”
“Jensen. Jensen, calm down. Breathe. You’re here, you’re safe, no one can get to you.”
He looks around, frantic. She is crouching in front of him on the floor in the corner of the room, where he’s pressed up against the wall. His heart is hammering so hard it hurts. His breathing is sharp, and shallow and he feels cold all over, so much he starts shaking uncontrollably. He has no memory of how he got here.
“Get him out! Get that sonofabitch out of my head!”
“Jensen, breathe. Slow down. In-out. In-out.”
He purses his lips, humming Metallica in his head as he tries to follow her breathing.
“Look at him. Isn’t he a pretty little thing? Now, now, don’t be like that, kid. Just relax. You’ll like it. Hell, you were pretty much made for this.”
He bangs his head against the wall in his panic, but it doesn’t help. He’s right there seeing everything that’s happening, feeling the hands holding him down, the heat of flesh against his body, the stink of their sweat, the foul taste in his mouth, and pain, pain, pain!
“Jensen, it’s not real. Jensen, do you hear me? Jensen, I need you to calm down. Listen to me. Jensen, you need to- Oh, to hell with it. Dean, come back!”
He snaps his eyes open, gasping for breath. He’s covered in sweat, his clothes plastered to his body like a second skin. His heart is beating so fast he feels dizzy. His head hurts like a sonofabitch and when he reaches back his fingers come away bloody.
“Jensen, are you with me?”
“No,” Dean says, his throat so dry and strangled the words sound like gravel. “And I’m not letting that little shit anywhere near my friggin’ head, ever again!”
There’s silence for a long time. Then she stands up and holds out her hand. He shoves it aside and gets slowly to his feet. The dizziness lingers, probably because it looks like he caved his head in on the friggin’ wall, judging by the bloody smear on the otherwise brilliant white surface.
“Come sit down. Let me look at that wound.”
“I’m fine,” he grumbles but does as she asks. Not like he can reach the back of his head anyway, and the Sam he’s got waiting out there probably has no clue how to stitch up anything.
He sits silent while she cleans the wound, clenching his jaw at the sting of the disinfectant. He can feel blood trickling down the back of his shirt and has to fight to sit still as it tickles its way down his spine. Head wounds always bleed like a bitch.
“Well, I think we may have found what started all this,” she says quietly as she puts in the first stitch. Not the smoothest stitcher, it stings a lot more than all the other times he’s had this done and he trembles with the effort of not jerking at the unexpected pain. “If what your partner said is true, you have a tendency to go too deep with your character. I think that might be what happened here.”
“Cut the psychobabble, doc,” Dean growls. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, if Dean was sexually abused in Hell, that may have made your subconscious think of what happened to you - Jensen. And to protect yourself, you retreated into the mind of your character who, despite having endured literal Hell, still feels safer than reliving things that actually happened.”
“Lady, not a word of that made sense,” he rasps out.
“And by refusing to acknowledge that Jensen is in fact you,” she continues calmly, “you are keeping the illusion alive. Except your mind isn’t that easily tricked, Jensen. It still keeps showing you flashes of memories. And I think it will continue to do so as long as you keep hiding.”
“Not hiding from anything,” Dean snaps.
“Mhmm. You need to face your own trauma, Jensen,” she says, holding his gaze. “And it seems clear you’re not going to do that on your own. So, therapy.” She smiles.
Dean breathes deep, clenching his jaw so hard he can feel it ticking. When the hell is this nightmare going to end?
Sam stands up as soon as Dean comes out into the waiting room, the worry that is visually riding his shoulders flipping into freakout when he notices the stains on the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Jesus, is that blood? Are you okay? What the hell happened?”
“Hit my head,” Dean dismisses, meaning to stalk by him but Sam grabs him by the arm, stopping him in his tracks.
“In there?” he asks incredulous. “How?”
“Can we get out of here?” Dean hisses, still not sure they won’t come after him with a straitjacket to lock him up. Sam stares at him stubbornly, and Dean sighs. “Sam, I’m okay. I’ll tell you about it in the car.” Well, that’s a lie, but he’s sure he can come up with some explanation. After all, he lies for a living, and this Sam is as innocent as a civilian. Only bright spot in this whole damn mess.
He looks around when they reach the parking lot, having forgotten for a moment that his Baby isn’t there. Again it stings, actually hurts, to think of her somewhere else, with people that have no idea how precious she is. Seriously, this Toyota may be sweet, but she is no substitute. Sam insists on driving, and Dean allows it for now since his head hurts like hell, and he’s still feeling pretty dizzy. Not a concussion, according to the doc, but apparently banging one’s head against the wall is never a good idea.
“So what happened?” Sam says again once they’re on their way. It’s weird, Dean is pretty sure they’ve never, in all their travels, been to Canada but for some reason he feels strangely at home on the streets of Vancouver.
“Lost my balance, banged my head,” Dean dismisses.
Sam looks over at him, frowning. “Must have banged it pretty bad.”
“You know head wounds always bleed like a bitch. It’s no big deal.”
“Right. So how did you lose your balance again?” Sam asks, looking even more worried. “Did you feel dizzy?”
“Well, I do now. ‘Cause I banged my friggin’ head, Sam!”
“Yeah, no, I get that. But you’re like the steadiest person I know. Me, I trip all the time. You’re like a fucking statue, man.”
“Can’t I have a bad day? Like, you know, the last friggin’ 24 hours! Back off, Sam.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Sam still keeps looking over at him, like he’s waiting for him to start bleeding from his ears or something. “It’s so weird, I just noticed,” he says after a while. “You don’t say ‘fuck’.”
Dean frowns at him. “What?”
“Fuck. It’s like your favorite swearword, Jen. You use it all the time. Except now.” He smirks. “I guess Dean keeps his vocabulary PG-13, like in the show.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I say fu- I…” Dean grits his teeth. What the hell? “I say f-fuck.” It’s a real effort to get the word out, like his brain doesn’t want to let him. “I’m a friggin’ hunter, dude! You think I’m watching my friggin’ language?”
Sam’s lips twitch. “You did it again just now. Said friggin’ instead of fucking.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did.” Sam snorts.
“You think I’m PG-13? I’ll show you frigging PG-13. F-fuck you! There! Ha!”
Sam bursts out laughing. Like, he actually laughs. It looks completely natural, like it’s something he does every day. Dean stares at him. At the laugh lines, the open, innocent happiness in his eyes over something so small. Guess Sam wasn’t lying. He actually is happy. When his brother isn’t having a psychotic breakdown, that is.
Sam looks over at him, and the laughter dies, the smile going stale. “What?”
Dean blinks, clearing his throat. “Nothing. Just… It’s good to see you laugh, Sam.”
There’s that pain in Sam’s eyes again, the one that flares up every time Dean doesn’t call him by that weird name, Jared. But just like they keep calling him Jensen, like that will make him turn into that dude, Dean can’t stop calling Sam Sam, because he needs Sam to realize that’s who he’s supposed to be. God, he just wants his brother back!
For once Sam doesn’t correct him, like maybe he can tell how Dean’s feeling. Instead he reaches over and lays his hand on Dean’s knee, squeezing it. “It feels good to laugh. I miss your laugh, too. Jensen.”
Dean sighs. And there it is. He looks down at Sam’s big hand, covering his knee and half of his thigh in its gigantism. It feels weird, they don’t normally do this, but he doesn’t push it away because… well, it feels nice. Reassuring. “You really like this Jensen dude, huh? So, what’s he like?”
Sam stares at the road ahead, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Weird how Dean’s never noticed before how long his brother’s neck is. No wonder monster’s love to wrap their hands around it. Hands, tentacles, invisible mojo fingers. He’d do it too if he was… Crap. Don’t go there.
“Jensen, my Jensen…” Sam starts, like he’s resigned himself to the state of things, but then he gets that stubborn look on his face that used to drive Dad crazy, because it was usually directed at him. “You,” Sam continues, shooting Dean a try-to-argue-with-me-so-help-me-God look, “are sweet. Kind. To everyone, but especially kids. Guess you and Dean got that in common. You are fiercely loyal to your friends and family. That’s the same as well. Truth is, there’s a lot of you in Dean. I think that’s what makes Dean so real to watch. But it’s probably also what makes you sometimes take on a bit too much of Dean’s troubles. Like now.”
Sam falls silent, his face painfully sad, before he clears his throat and shoots Dean another smile. “You used to be really shy around our fans, still are sometimes, but it’s been amazing to see you open up and relax more around them. I’m the goofball, and sometimes you need to reel me in, but that’s the thing, Jen, you’ve never treated me like…” He sighs. “I was always the kid, you know, every set I’ve been on. Like, people never really took me seriously. And I could so easily have been on this set, too, but you’ve always treated me like an equal. I think maybe that’s why I fell in love with you. Although, your ridiculously pretty face didn’t hurt.” He shoots Dean a look that is so filled with love it makes Dean’s heart stutter.
Dean swallows. “Sammy…” It comes out breathier than he meant, and suddenly he wishes he’d never started this conversation.
“It’s why I, Jared, fell in love with you, Jensen,” Sam says, squeezing Dean’s knee. “Okay?” Dean nods. “Want to hear more?”
No. He doesn’t. He wants to tell Sam to shut up, to stop talking, to stop the car and let him out to breathe, or run, or just do anything other than be here. But instead he just nods again.
“You are…” Sam laughs quietly. “And this is gonna sound funny, but you are probably the most well-adjusted person I know. I mean, I get periods of feeling like really down and… like crap, you know. But you… You’re always calm. Collected. Doesn’t matter if you’re tired, or homesick or whatever, you just soldier on. And not like Dean, not with whiskey and denial, but like, like you honestly believe things will work out okay. It’s kind of amazing.”
“Thought you said he was a broody sonofabitch,” Dean mutters.
“More quiet, and only when Dean is weighing on your mind. When we’re off work, during hiatus, you’re relaxed and… you laugh a lot. Giggle actually. You have the cutest giggle.”
“Like hell I giggle,” Dean says indignant. “Chicks giggle. I might chuckle. On a good day.”
Sam laughs. “I’ve got you on camera. Giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s adorable.”
“Well, good for him,” Dean scorns.
Sam looks at him and sighs. “Jen, I’m talking about you.”
“Yeah, whatever. What else?”
Sam shrugs. “Honestly, I could talk about you all day, but I’m not sure what you’re looking for here. What is it you really want to know?”
‘I want to know why you want him rather than me, but guess that’s obvious,’ Dean thinks, feeling bitter and hurt. Who the hell would choose an alcoholic, emotionally stunted headcase over that perfectly happy pretty boy? Except he isn’t, is he? Pretty boy is just a damn good actor. He’s shoved the horrors of his past so far into the closet they’re busy blowing Aslan in Narnia. And Sam, or this Jared Sam thinks he is, obviously has no idea.
Maybe that’s what Dean should do, spill Hollywood’s secrets, see how eager Sam would be to get that liar back then. Except Dean’s not actually a jerk, whatever people say. Dude wants to keep his secrets, that’s his right. Plus, Sam would probably only want him back even more than before. Wanting to comfort his sad, traumatized lover boy. The way Dean can never allow himself to be comforted, hasn’t been able to, not since Mom died. Oh, he cried and shared his pathetic little feelings about being a sadistic bastard in Hell, but if Sam had tried to touch him…
Sam squeezes his knee, and Dean breathes in, fighting the urge to jerk away while simultaneously reveling in the heat of Sam’s palm, seeping into his bones.
He's saved from having to answer as they roll into the driveway of the house Dean just can’t think of as home. He’s only had two homes in his life, his parent’s house in Lawrence and the Impala. And still he gets this weird feeling when he steps over the threshold. Like he doesn’t want to leave. Like he’s safe. Which is so wrong because there aren’t even salt lines in the windows or any kind of wards anywhere. Again he has to remind himself that this world doesn’t have any monsters. Well, except human. Plenty of those around, judging by the newspaper he flipped through while waiting at the doctor’s office. Maybe he could get a job hunting those down. Not cop though. Too many rules, and he’d spend half his time taking down his own people. Bounty hunter maybe.
“It’s late,” Sam says, voice quiet and hesitant.
Dean nods. It must be getting near midnight, and he feels bone-tired despite having spent the day doing next to nothing. “We should hit the hay,” he agrees and then it hits him why Sam is looking at him like that, all sad but hopeful. “I’ll take the other room,” he says quickly and Sam’s shoulders slump.
“Yeah, sure. Your toothbrush is in our bathroom,” he adds awkwardly when Dean starts heading for the stairs.
He stops, closing his eyes briefly, then keeps his voice as light as he can manage and says, “Thanks, man. I’ll get it.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Jensen.”
“Goodnight, Sam,” Dean answers. Even with his back turned he knows he just brought tears to Sam’s eyes. But damn it, he can’t. He just can’t!
He hurries up the stairs, leaving Sam gazing after him, his sad, no doubt moist eyes boring into his back.
He’s lying in a bed that actually feels amazing, even if it smells faintly of dust and non-use, and still he can’t sleep. Sam stayed downstairs for a long time, Dean didn’t hear him come up until he had already stripped down to his boxer briefs and crawled under the covers, Sam’s slow and heavy steps making Dean’s stomach clench. He feels guilty, which is ridiculous, because he has nothing to feel guilty about. Sure, they shared a bed more times than not growing up, but not since they got back together again. For one thing, they’re both too big for it but also there’s no need, now Dad’s no longer occupying the other bed in the motel rooms they usually stayed in.
There have been times Dean’s sat on the edge of Sam’s bed, hand on his shoulder or chest, when the nightmares get so bad nothing else seems able to calm him down. Sometimes Dean’s wondered if maybe they would both sleep better if he just gave in and lay down beside his brother, giving him the comfort he obviously needs. (The comfort they both need, but he’s not about to admit that.) If he were perfectly honest with himself, which he never is, because there’s not enough whiskey in the world to drown all his issues, he’d admit he misses sharing a bed with Sam. When Sam left for Stanford he’d sometimes felt so lonely he’d-
Nuhuh, he’s not going there.
“Don’t know what the hell’s the matter with me,” he mutters. Been a bitch of a day but enough is enough.
He turns over and stares at the wall. After a while he turns over on his stomach, hugging his pillow. Feels frigging weird not having any weapon under there. Actually, it feels too damn weird, not being protected, at all. What if Sam’s wrong, and this world does have its own set of monsters, except this Sam is just too civilian to know about them?
Crap.
Dean slips out of bed and tiptoes over to the door, opening it carefully. There’s no sound in the house, not even Sam’s snoring, which means he’s probably still awake. Well, Dean can be stealthy.
He’s just finishing salting the kitchen window with the salt that was in a small bowl on the table (there has to be more, somewhere) when the lights are turned on and Sam says, “What are you doing?”
Dean jumps, like actually jumps and swings around, heart in his chest. Jesus, he didn’t even hear Sam come down the stairs. What happened to his vigilance? Did they take that away, too?
“What’s it look like I’m doing, Sam?” he snaps to hide how spooked he is.
“It looks like you’re wasting our pretty expensive sea salt on warding against nonexistent monsters,” Sam says, managing to sound both patient and incredibly condescending.
Dean looks at the salt spread thinly across the windowsill. It does look a bit different. “This isn’t rock salt?”
“No. Jen, why are you up?”
“Why are you up?” Dean shoots back.
Sam sighs and rubs his face. His eyes are rimmed red. “Can’t sleep. Was getting a glass of milk.”
“Milk. Huh.” Dean contemplates it but shakes his head. “You got any whiskey?”
Sam takes a deep breath but then he sort of deflates and sighs. “Yeah, sure.”
They sit down on the couch with a glass each, the bottle settled between them. Dean waits impatiently while Sam pours him what’s really a toddler’s portion and downs it all in one swig. Then almost chokes at the strong burn filleting his throat. “What kinda crap booze is this?” he gasps.
Sam chuckles. “Jensen, you don’t even like whiskey. You hardly ever drink anything stronger than beer.”
“Shut up, you heathen!” Dean shakes his head in disgust. “What the hell you on about, I drink whiskey all the time. Hell, you’re the one that keeps giving me crap about it.”
“Dean drinks all the time. You don’t.” Sam sighs when Dean glares at him. “Dude, how much more proof do you need that you’re not Dean?”
Dean sighs and drops his head back. “Can we not do this? Not now? I just want to have a quiet drink with my brother and then go to bed and maybe, just maybe, I’ll wake up and this whole friggin’ nightmare will be over.”
“I’d say me too, except we’re not talking about the same nightmare,” Sam says quietly. “I want my Jensen back.”
“Well, I want my Sam,” Dean grumbles.
“Did the doctor say anything about what might have caused this to happen?” Sam asks. “I mean, it can’t just be stress. Something must have brought it on.”
Dean quickly sits back up and pours himself another drink. He takes a small sip this time. It burns just as badly going down but at least now he’s prepared for it.
“Jen? What are you not telling me?”
Dean sighs. “Sammy, don’t. He wouldn’t want me to tell you.”
Sam glares at him, so much like his brother and yet so different it makes Dean’s heart hurt. “Of course you would! We tell each other everything!”
“Sam.”
“No. If you know, you gotta tell me! If you were yourself, Jen, you would tell me!”
“She thinks it got something to do with my time in Hell triggering… She thinks…” Dean groans. “Sam, please.”
“No. Tell me.”
Well, hell, not like it matters, right? Not like it’s real. “He’s got some awful skeletons in his closet, okay? He’s been sending me flash cards. Full on mini-movies, man. It really freaks me out, okay?” Dean swallows. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sam puts his glass down, his hand shaking. “What kind of skeletons? Tell me!” he demands when Dean still hesitates, and, damn it, Dean’s had enough.
“Think Deliverance meets Mystic River,” he says, voice flat.
Sam stares at him, face turning pale. “What? No. You would have told me.”
“Sam, I don’t think he’s told anyone,” Dean sighs and rubs a palm over his face. “I really feel for the guy, I do. He’s friggin’ traumatized. Like… Well, like me, I guess. I just wish he’d keep his damn trauma to himself. Or get a shrink or something. Not friggin’ mind-rape me with it!” Dean takes another sip, grimacing as it burns its way down. “Doc thinks that’s why this happened. That we somehow got our wires crossed or something. I don’t know. I think it’s all crap. I mean, why would he care what I went through, huh?”
“But… Dean wasn’t sexually abused,” Sam says helplessly, like that will make it all a lie. Dean can’t blame him. He would love to deny any of this ever happened if that would make it go away. Like this conversation, he would really love for this conversation to not be happening. Sam was never meant to know about any of this.
“Sammy…”
Sam shakes his head. “No, that’s not in the script, Jen. It’s not in the fucking script!”
“It was Hell, Sam. Any idea how many pissed off demons I’ve put down there?” Dean swallows. “I don’t, I lost count after the first month or so. All I know is they loved making the great Dean Winchester their bitch.”
Now Sam looks even more freaked out. “Jesus, Jen! What have you… Why? Why would you make all that up? It’s not in the damn script!”
Dean snorts. “Dude, you heard Alastair say we were ‘close’. What did you think he meant?” He gives Sam a tired smile. “It’s alright, Sammy. Not like it was my first time.”
Sam is starting to look more angry than shocked, which is good if a little insensitive. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Sam, c’mon. You remember what I looked like. Like a friggin’ twink, man. If I’d shot every sonofabitch that just commented on my face, my goddamn lips, I’d be a serial killer.” Dean shrugs. “Look, Dad took me to all kinds of shady dives. Sometimes he didn’t have enough money for what we needed. Sometimes… things just happened.”
“No. No! Jen, that is not part of the story. That is not…” Sam runs his hands through his hair, tugging it hard in his distress. “You made that part of Dean’s backstory? Are you fucking kidding me? John selling him for what? Ammo? Dean getting… God, I can’t believe this.”
Crap. He never should have opened his big mouth. “Look, it’s okay. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t care about Dean, man!”
Dean flinches. “Well, don’t hold back, Sam. Give me all the love.”
Sam sighs, frustrated. “I don’t mean… I mean, I care about you, Jensen. I care about what this says about you. That you would…” He swallows, eyes widening. “Because that’s what you could relate to, is that what you’re telling me? Your parents… selling you?”
Dean frowns, pushing his hurt aside for now. “What? Sam, I don’t know. Not like he’s told me the whole story. Just… glimpses. But hell, those were…” He shudders. “That kid’s gone through hell. Well, not literal Hell, that would be me, but close second. Let me tell you, if I don’t get back to my own world, I’m going after those sick sonsofbitches. Frigging pedophiles.”
Sam breathes in through his nose, the air whistling like a whirlwind. “You were a kid?” he whispers.
Dean squirms. “Which one of us are you talking about again?” He sighs when Sam just looks at him. “Right, Jensen.” Well, that’s easier. “I mean, he was in double digits? I think. I don’t know when he got into this gig.”
Sam swallows. “You were seventeen when you got your first role.”
Dean breaths out. “Well, that’s something. Not that it’s ever okay,” he adds hurriedly when Sam looks at him again with those big, sad eyes. “Just… felt younger.” He rubs at his chest.
“You did some modelling as a kid,” Sam says quietly. “And… commercials. Think you were just a toddler when your parents first got you into the business. So you could have been a lot younger.” He lets out a shaky breath. “Jesus.”
“Oh. That’s…” Dean breathes in. Out. “Yikes. Poor bastard.”
Sam looks like he doesn’t know whether to cry or hit someone. Finally he settles on moving close enough to put his arm cautiously around Dean’s shoulders. Dean allows it, but only because he’s starting to feel chilly, dressed only in his boxers. Sam’s arm is warm and comforting, and when he turns and pulls Dean closer to envelope him in his octopus arms, Dean lets himself be drawn into the warm embrace, one hand coming to an awkward rest on Sam’s waist, the other on Sam’s back, his head dropping on Sam’s shoulder. God, it feels…
Thing is, apart from the hugs Bobby and Sam gave him when he got back, he hasn’t been touched kindly by anyone in what feels like forever. Well, forty years at least. He hadn’t realized he was so starved for it. He should push Sam back, move away, before it gets awkward - or worse, before he gets used to it - but the thought of letting go of that warmth, that closeness, is literally painful.
“I guess that’s where John pimping out Dean comes from. Did your parents know?” Sam asks quietly, his breath shaking in Dean’s ear.
“I told you,” Dean mumbles, wishing Sam would just shut up and let him have this moment in peace. “I don’t think he’s told anyone.”
Sam’s fingers start carving through Dean’s hair, and God, that’s it, he’s gonna lose it. “Did it happen more times than once?”
‘Me or him?’ Dean thinks. But of course it’s Jensen. All everyone cares about is this friggin’ Jensen dude. And it hurts. It hurts that he just told Sam one of the worst secrets of his life, and Sam just… doesn’t care.
“Least three times he’s shown me,” Dean says, swallowing the dryness in his mouth. It only makes his throat feel tighter. “Can we stop talking about this? It freaks me out. I’m not kidding. I don’t want another frigging mind-rape.”
He tries pushing away but Sam just holds him tighter, his hand cradling the back of Dean’s head, careful not to touch his stitches. His friggin’ paw is so gigantic his thumb and pinky finger reach from ear to ear. They seem to have shifted without Dean even noticing, sliding sideways on the couch until Dean is practically lying on Sam’s chest. Which should feel weirder than it does. He hasn’t been the smaller one in a cuddle situation… well, ever.
“Is this why you hit your head?” Sam asks. His voice sounds broken. “You had a flashback?”
“I banged my own head,” Dean admits grudgingly. “Just wanted them to stop.”
Sam shudders. “Oh God, baby, I’m so sorry,” he sobs and kisses Dean. Only on the side of the head, where Sam can reach with Dean practically melted into his chest by this point. It still feels weird. And nice. But mostly weird. And seriously, ‘baby’? He’s not a friggin’ chick.
“Jen? Can I try something? Please.”
Dean raises his head. Sam is staring down at him, eyes wide and hopeful and glittering with tears. Dean sighs and offers a strained smile. Like he could ever deny that kid anything. “Sure.”
“You promise you won’t let Dean freak out and hit me?”
Dean frowns. “What? Why would I hit you? Come on! What you take me for?”
And just like that, Sam’s lips are on his, kissing him. Dean goes rigid, his first instinct to push Sam away and clock him. But he promised. And maybe he’s just really, really tired, or maybe he’s just as crazy as Sam seems to think he is, but… it feels nice. It feels really good. He relaxes slightly, and Sam seems to take that as encouragement because he rolls them over on the couch, until he’s on top, licking across the seam of Dean’s lips, and Dean parts them without thinking. It isn’t until Sam’s tongue is actually in Dean’s mouth that it hits him what they’re doing. Except it doesn’t hit him with the usual panic and shame of when he wakes up from the dreams he really shouldn’t be having. It hits him with heat, and lust and want, want, want. And just like that they’re really kissing, not just Sam, but Dean giving as good as he gets, with low sounds of desperate need escaping with his every breath.
Sam’s a really good kisser, Dean thinks absently, and then, with a start, ‘This feels familiar’.
And it does. He knows the inside of Sam’s mouth, knows the weight of him pressing him down into the couch, the feel of his gigantic hands in his hair. ‘But I never,’ he thinks bewildered and more than a little freaked out. ‘I only thought about it, I never actually…’
Oh God, he’s kissing Sammy!
Dean breaks away, heaving for breath. “Wait, wait! Sammy, wait!”
Sam pulls back, staring down at him, eyes wild, lips red and swollen. “Not Sam, Jen. Jared. I’m Jared!”
He sounds heartbroken, despairing, and Dean realizes with a bang that Sam hoped this would break the spell. True love’s kiss, or whatever. And God, he wishes it’d worked, because if there was ever a true love it’s how he feels about Sam, his love so hot and desperate it burns in his chest. He just never expected it to actually lead to this.
“Sam,” Dean stresses, because he needs to know. “Did I… Did we used to do this?”
“Yes!” Sam says, hope brightening his eyes. “Yes, baby. We did.”
“No. I mean. Did I…” He swallows, the pain so fierce in his heart he thinks it might be breaking. “Sammy, did I use to molest you?”
The emotions flickering across Sam’s face are terrifying. Shock, anger, sadness, and finally love so warm it makes Dean tear up. “No. Dean would never do that to Sam.”
Dean shakes his head, because God, Sam’s so wrong. Dean would, he almost did, so many times. “But this feels… I remember doing this!”
“Yes,” Sam says gently. “Because you, Jensen, and I, Jared, have been doing this for almost four years now.”
Dean draws in one shaky breath after another. “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he chokes out. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”
“This is real,” Sam says, and then he’s kissing him again. Soft, and sweet and loving. And it feels like they’ve never done anything else. It feels right. It feels…true.
Dean grabs Sam hard by the neck and kisses him back with desperation, trying to hold on to that feeling of finally belonging, of finally feeling real. He buries his hands in Sam’s hair, presses his whole body as close as he can, wanting to crawl into Sam’s skin, because it’s the only place that feels like home. He can feel himself growing hard, and he doesn’t even care, because yes, this is Sammy, yes, this is his baby brother, but this feels right, this feels like the only true thing in this chaos of hallucinations and confusion. He doesn’t even flinch when Sam’s hand slips inside his boxer briefs, Sam’s long fingers wrapping around his dick like they belong there. He just kisses Sam harder, his hips moving of their own accord, trying to get Sam to speed up. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he should be reciprocating, but the heat, the touching, the taste of Sam’s mouth, the smell of him, of sweat, and sex and home, is so overwhelming it’s all he can do to hang on and not lose his mind completely as his orgasm hits him in an almost painful wave of intensity.
It isn’t until he’s lying there boneless, breath labored like he’s been running four miles from a werewolf, that he comes back to his senses, and the panic and shame hits him, just like always. Except this time, it wasn’t just a fantasy. This time he actually did it, he crossed that line. This time he’s not just guilty, he condemned Sammy right along with him. Oh God, what has he done?
“Don’t,” Sam says, and Dean blinks up at him, tears and sweat mingling in the corners of his eyes, so salty it stings. “I can see what you’re thinking, Jen. Don’t. Please don’t ruin this. Let me have this. Please.”
“You’re my brother,” Dean rasps. That tightness is back in his throat, like the fires of Hell have dried it into beef jerky. And his chest really, really hurts. “Sammy, you’re my brother.”
“Jensen, baby, I’m not,” Sam says gently. “But even if I was, I still wouldn’t regret a single kiss I shared with you. Because I love you, so damn much.”
“You can’t… No.” He puts his hands on Sam’s chest and tries to push him off but Sam won’t budge. He just sinks lower into the couch, laying his whole weight upon Dean until he can hardly breathe.
“Jensen, Dean; it doesn’t matter which one of you it is,” Sam says, tone firm but his voice so soft, the way Sam never speaks, not to Dean, because they may be many things and most of them not healthy, but they’ve never been this before. They’ve never been lovers. “I will always want this. I will always want you.”
“But…”
Sam shakes his head. “No. You don’t get to feel guilty about this. You don’t get to feel guilty about making out with the love of your life.” He smiles as Dean stares up at him, flustered. “Yeah, you told me that. And I know, I know, that Dean feels the same way. There never has been and never will be anyone he loves more than Sam. Just like there will never be anyone I love more than you. Be it Jensen and Jared, or Sam and Dean, this is who we are.”
Dean closes his eyes, breathing in slowly. The weight of Sam is crushing him, but he doesn’t feel smothered, he actually feels grounded for the first time since this whole nightmare started. He still feels guilty, still feels shame, but the relief trickling into his heart, the hope he never allowed himself to feel but is suddenly burning like a small flame in what is left of his wretched soul, makes him breathe a lot easier.
“We are so damn messed up,” he mumbles, and Sam shakes on top of him, relieved laughter blowing through his hair. And that’s how he falls asleep, with Sam’s body a warm, heavy blanket of comfort, and Sam’s breathing a lullaby in his ear.
Concluded here.