reikah
in
inmyvortex
SPN: Hush (don't tell a soul) [3/6], R.
Title: Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [3/6]
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Author: reikah
Rating: R
Word Count: 30,275 in total, 4,893 this chapter
Betas: poisontaster & estrella30. ♥
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six]
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Chasing Cars
← previous chapter
It's late afternoon when Dean gets back from work, methodically kicking off his shoes near the door, hanging up his jacket, and making his way into the apartment. He carefully doesn't glance at himself in the mirror over the fireplace as he passes through to the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he goes; it is only when he is standing under the drizzle that passes for spray from his shower that he permits himself to relax.
He scrubs himself thoroughly, working the shampoo into his hair and washing it out only to repeat the process. He scrubs himself all over six times, and might have done so more, save for the hot water dying; it is with a carefully blank expression that he switches off the shower and leaves the bathroom, towelling himself dry as he heads for the bedroom, leaving wet footprints behind on the carpet.
He's not totally dry when he collapses into bed, donned in yesterday's t-shirt and today's boxers, and draws the covers up around him. The sun isn’t anywhere close to setting, the curtains wide open. It doesn't seem to matter. He's asleep within minutes.
Sam is waiting for him, cross-legged on the white bed. It's perfectly made, like the two of them hadn't been busy messing it up just a few hours before, and Dean belly-flops onto it with a grateful sigh.
"Hey," Sam says, softly, turning onto his side and pressing himself tightly against Dean, so that they're skin-to -skin. He reaches out, settling his hand on the small of Dean's back, and rubs softly.
"Today sucked," Dean mumbles into the sheets and Sam makes a curious noise, shifting closer and throwing a leg over the back of both of Dean's. He's warm, comfortable, and smells familiar; Dean turns his head towards his brother and Sam leans forward, rubs their noses together and gives him an affectionate kiss. "Mmm," Dean says, eyes lidding lazily. "Today sucked up until this moment, then."
"What happened?" Sam asks quietly, rubbing a little harder, forcing tense muscles to relax. God, sometimes Dean thinks Sam's backrubs are better than sex. Then they have sex again and he changes his mind quickly enough. "Dean? What happened?"
Dean sighs, closing his eyes, and Sam slows the massage, offering comfort rather than physical relief. It's just as good, really. "There was... a fire. In the suburbs," he says, and is proud of how even his voice is. "There were... um... twins. Two little girls, about seven. They tried to hide in their..." He tosses his head uncomfortably, clears his throat. Sam kisses his forehead, more of a gentle press of lips than anything else, and Dean sighs, turns onto his side, the better to face his dream-brother. "They hid in their closet," he says, voice flat and expression ugly, and Sam pales.
"Oh, Jesus," he says faintly, and Dean shivers despite himself, curls into his brother and presses his face to the hollow of Sam's throat. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't burn their house down," Dean says into Sam's skin, and Sam puts an arm around him, writing a name in tiny letters on Dean's back with his fingertips. "It's just, I was upstairs trying to find them, and there was... there was smoke everywhere and it was so hot and the roof was going and I just..." He trails off and shivers again, wrapping an arm around his brother and moving himself closer. Sam makes a soothing sound at the back of his throat, but Dean's rattled now, has been all day. "Some of the roofing came down not too far away from where I was," he continues, in a subdued little voice, and Sam doesn't say anything, just strokes him. "And I... I wondered... what would happen if it'd hit me?"
Sam's silent for a heartbeat too long, and when Dean finally, reluctantly frees himself from his brother, he sees Sam's face is surprisingly pale. "Are we talking suicidal here, Dean?" Sam asks after another beat, picking his words carefully, and Dean rolls his eyes.
"No. No, of course not. We just, I just..." Dean sighs, and when he continues, his voice is slightly miserable. "I'm twenty-six, man. I've got no parents, no real friends, no girlfriend - just a little brother who blew off my killer insect movie marathon two days ago to spend some time with his girlfriend and I just... I wonder..."
"If he'd miss you?" Sam finishes for him, and Dean nods curtly. Sam sighs and curls around Dean again, like he's maybe trying to protect him from something, and his hand resumes its slow caress of Dean's spine. "Why wouldn't he?"
Dean squirms, uncomfortable. Wild horses probably couldn't drag this out of him, not in the real world, but it's not like his dreams bear any reflection on reality. The naked Sam curled around him is example number one. "He has Jess," he says softly. "He has Jess. They adore each other, and I... I... I have a Playstation Two."
"Playstations are awesome," Sam says, and Dean snorts. "He's your brother, though, Dean."
"I know," Dean says, frustrated. "I know that, really. It's just, he loves her so much and I just... I wish he could be around more. I... care about him just as much as Jess does and he doesn't give me much opportunity to show it."
Sam kisses his temple gently and Dean tries his hardest not to stiffen, not to defensively move away, not from a Sam who actually wants him.
"I don't know about him, but I would," he says softly, and Dean stirs. "Miss you, I mean. I should've - I should've left ages ago, and I just... I haven't been able to. Leave, that is. Dean, I - I don't think..." He trails off and looks away, awkward. "I don't know who I am anymore," he adds, hesitant, clearly feeling each word out before saying it, and Dean blinks at him, puzzled.
"You're Sam" he replies slowly, carefully, and sits up, narrowing his eyes. Sam stares at him like Dean's just handed over the answer to everything. Just for a second, Dean thinks he sees something in Sam's eyes that strikes him as wrong - too old, far too impossibly old, and scoots back, something icy wedged in the pit of his belly.
Dean's muscles tense, and when he speaks, his tone is deliberate and thoughtful. "You... You... You're not just a dream, are you?"
Sam shakes his head and Dean's breath catches in his chest, sharp and rattling. "I'm sorry. I'm, I'm not bad. Not like what we used to - you and Sam and Dad used to hunt."
Dean pushes himself away, uncomfortable and suspicious. "What are you?" he asks, and Sam licks his lips.
"There's no word for th - us," he says, miserably. "We're not harmful, so nobody's ever bothered tracking us down. We don't kill or maim."
"No, you just pretend to be my brother and creep into my mind," Dean says, aware his voice is slightly colder than usual and making no effort to change it. Sam curls up on the bed, into a small ball, looking lost and confused. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"
Sam swallows nervously, wriggling a little away from Dean on the bed. "We live off sexual energy," he says, quickly. "Like a succubus, only, um, we're not evil. We just, slip into dreams, take and give what we need and leave. That's all. We, er, normally only stay one night."
Dean pauses, mentally dating his dreams, trying to figure out how long it's been. Eventually he sighs. "You know things about my brother," he murmurs and Sam nods. "You have his memories. How does that work?"
"We're incorporeal beings. We can only have substance here and we just... when we become the object of your fantasies, we literally become the object of your fantasies. Um. Like. If you dreamed about Pamela Anderson, I'd be Pamela Anderson. Not the real thing, just a copy, but enough to make the dream more real... you know?"
"I had a really, really hot dream about Madonna when I was thirteen," Dean offers slowly and Sam climbs up on his knees, nodding excitedly. "You're saying that was one of you guys?" When Sam nods he sits up, crossing his legs and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and scrutinizing Sam uncomfortably.
"I -" Sam begins, but Dean holds out a hand to shut him up. He's not quite sure he understands, but he thinks he gets the gist.
"Why are you still here?" he asks instead, simply. "If you feed off the sex, what's with the petting and the cuddling and the tell me how your day was?"
Sam fidgets and dips his head and mumbles something inaudible, and Dean raises an eyebrow. "You're gonna have to be louder than that," he says, and Sam clears his throat and says, "Because I'm Sam."
"Because what?" Dean asks slowly, and Sam licks his lips and glances at him and then away.
"Because I remember you raising me and I kind of, I think I love you? Only I'm not sure. That's why I like touching you, at least." He swallows nervously and then pushes ahead, continuing before Dean can voice his first question, "I don't know if your Sam loves you romantically or not. I have his feelings and I can, I can sort through them but I don't get them. Not all. Not yet." He glances over at Dean. "Um... What are you going to do? With me?"
Dean frowns thoughtfully and Sam cringes away from him physically, like a beaten puppy. He jumps again when Dean flops backwards on the bed, arms folded behind his head and eyes open; Sam hesitates, obviously torn between approaching him and hiding from him. Dean huffs out a long, slow breath, and decides to take pity on it.
"Come here," Dean says softly, and Sam slowly complies. Dean holds out his arm and, when Sam is close enough, turns it so his hand is extended, palm-up; Sam takes it cautiously and then yelps when Dean tugs him off-balance, pulls him down hard onto the mattress. "Okay," Dean says, voice brash and filled with false cheer. "On the one hand, you're an unknown supernatural creature living in my brain, you've caused me to become embarrassingly weepy due to the whole thinking-I-was-dreaming thing and you've led to me waking up either hard or covered in my own damn come for two weeks."
"Sorry?" Sam offers, meek.
"On the other, you're a Sam," Dean says, and Sam doesn't need to be a copy of Dean's brother to know what the crack in Dean's tone means.
"I am," he agrees softly, and Dean sighs, shifts. "I'm sorry, Dean. I -"
"Oh, shut up," Dean growls, placing one hand flat on Sam's chest and bending down to nip and bite at his lower lip.
Dean opens his eyes to find he's rolled onto his belly in his sleep, he's drooled on his pillow, and there's a heavy weight at the foot of his bed. It's been years since he last hunted anything, but he still keeps a knife under his pillow; it's sharp and jagged and he curls his fingers easily around the hilt, tenses his muscles -
"Hey," Sam says. "I know you're awake."
Dean lets go of the knife and sits up sluggishly, running a hand through his hair and stifling a yawn. His brother is sitting cross-legged, shoes off but still wearing socks. "Hey," Sam says, and smiles slightly. "Morning."
"Hey to you too, Sam, it's ten am. What's going on? And how did you get in?" Dean rubs at his eyes and pulls a face as the movement causes his t-shirt to ride up, dragging uncomfortably over the come smeared across his belly. He's grateful the covers hide that from Sam.
"I used to live here, moron," Sam says with a slight grin. His cheek dimples the way it always does when he smiles. "I still have a key. What are you doing still in bed? When did you go to sleep?"
Dean stretches, feeling his shoulders click, and pulls a face. "Dunno. Nine, I think. Last night."
Sam's brow furrows the way it always does when he's puzzling through something, and Dean tugs uncomfortably on his t-shirt. "You slept thirteen hours?" Sam asks slowly, and Dean nods jerkily, waves a hand at him.
"I was tired, it's fine. Sam, could you do me a favor and scoot? I need to shower and get changed for work." Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean just glares at him, and to his surprise his baby brother unfolds, stands up slowly and pads quietly out of the bedroom. A few minutes later Dean hears the clink of glasses and the clanging of pans, and guesses Jess threw Sam out to go spend time with his brother or something. They haven't hung around much over the last few weeks; with his nights filled with exquisite porn featuring his - well, a copy of his baby brother - and Dean isn't entirely sure he can keep eye contact with the real thing.
He makes it a quick shower, kind of worried about Sam's ability to cook things - Sam does okay with salads and stuff, but put him near an open fire and, well, Dean'll be working a few hours before his shift officially starts. He soaps himself down and blushes as he washes the come away, nipples tingling and cock stirring even after the orgasms teased out of him last night. He slaps a hand against the cubicle wall and dips his head, sucking in a few deep, steadying breaths. There's a line between fucking a copy of your brother every night in your head and masturbating with the real thing five feet away, probably humming some of that whiny grunge shit as he prepares one of his awful healthy breakfasts.
Instinct, however, cannot be denied, and he squeezes his eyes shut when he takes his cock in hand, lips fumbling over some half-formed prayer to a God he stopped believing in all those years ago to make him less of a pervert.
By the time he emerges from the bathroom, damp and clad in a shield of boxers, jeans and another t-shirt, Sam's jiggling a frying pan quickly over the electric burner, making what looks like bacon sandwiches. It's easy for Dean to brighten and announce that Sam's the best little brother in the world, to slip into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and allow his brother to pamper him just a bit.
They move in companionable silence as Sam hunts down plates and glasses and butters the bread, finally flipping the bacon out of the pan. He carries Dean's over to the table with a bottle of ketchup and Dean pours out a liberal amount, attention split between his food and his brother as Sam runs the pan under the tap, unfazed by the cloud of steam from cold water and hot steel. When Sam finally slides into the chair opposite him and reaches out for the ketchup, he's content to sit back, allow himself to relax.
Right up until Sam says, "So I heard there was a bad fire yesterday?"
Dean pauses, sandwich in hand, and swallows despite himself. He remembers the smell, the smoke, the heat; he remembers telling the Sam in his dreams about it, a broad hand stroking his back, Sam's voice pitched low and soothing. The Sam across the table from him is alert, green eyes bright, and is watching him carefully; he forces himself to sigh, put down the sandwich, and wipe his fingers off absently on his jeans.
"It wasn't so bad," he says. "Couple died, but that's all."
"You sure?" Sam peels the crusts off his the way he always does, shoves them in his mouth and continues talking. "I mean, I heard on the local radio - "
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dean scolds, and Sam blinks and then rolls his eyes, makes a show of chewing before swallowing. Some old habits die hard, and Dean mothered Sam long before they became orphans. "Yeah, Sam, I'm sure. Everything's peachy."
"Well, okay," his brother says dubiously. "It's still not like you to sleep for thirteen hours straight, though."
Dean shrugs, schools his face into something calm, blank, and reaches for what's left of his breakfast. His brother watches him for a few more seconds, then sighs, somehow deflating; finishes the last bite of his meal and licks his fingers clean, setting his palms to the table to help himself up. "Sam, I'm fine," Dean soothes, and Sam nods, slips the plug into the sink. His fingers are splayed out over the cheap ceramic plate, dwarfing it. Dean remembers when Sam was tiny enough Dean could cup both of his hands in one of his own.
"I just worry," Sam says quietly, twisting the tap on. "For the last two weeks you've just been so busy, and it feels like we don't have any time anymore." He pauses as the pipes clank and gurgle, as the water pours into the sink, before adding, somewhat shyly, "I miss you, you know."
"I'm only three blocks away," Dean says gently, although God, does he know. "You're even closer to the station, Sammy."
"Yeah, I know." Sam turns the tap off and the plumbing stops complaining. He hooks Dean's dishcloth out from behind the soap and makes a start on his plate. "I just miss - nevermind." Dean doesn't have a dish rack, so Sam dries the plate himself by hand.
"Look, Sam, it's okay," Dean says gently. "They've been messing around with my shifts at work recently, you know that. Now that the end of my probationary period is approaching and all. I'm just tired, okay? I'll adjust soon enough, and then we can heckle the new Dawn of the Dead remake together, I promise."
Sam shoots him a quick glance and then smiles slowly, mouth quirking like he's fighting it every inch of the way. "Alright," he says, and then, "Pass over your plate."
"Will you make me breakfast in bed if I sleep in late tomorrow, too?" Dean asks hopefully, and Sam throws the dishcloth at him.
Sam's been to the Palo Alto fire station countless times in the past, more when he and Dean still lived together. He used to bring Dean his lunch, and even though he wasn't technically allowed free rein, he was sensible and had killer puppy-dog eyes, and nobody had objected too much to his wandering around.
He hasn't been for a couple of months, but it feels the same as normal when he walks in on a hazy Wednesday morning, two days after he came and cooked Dean breakfast, a bag of Mexican takeout tucked under his arm and his schoolbag slung over his chest. Walter's talking with Ed, Dean's crew chief, and he only raises a hand and nods briefly at Sam as he passes on his way to the common room.
"Hi, guys," he says as he shoulders the door open, and drops the bag in the middle of the table, ignoring the fact that there's a poker game going. He doesn't need to look twice to know Frank's got a whole lot of spades. "My brother around anywhere?"
"Nope. He didn't call, either. You're not here to make his apologies?" Tom tugs the bag towards him and opens it, face splitting into a grin. "Oh, man, you got my burrito!"
Sam waves off his thanks, frowning. "Dean didn't come in today?" he asks, concern ripe in his voice, and Tom nods.
"Walter's gonna have his head," Frank notes, a hint of smug pride in his voice. Sam's noticed that the guy has it in for his brother, although Dean hasn't figured it out yet , still willing to believe the best. "Didn't call, didn't come over, just didn't show up."
"I'll go swing by his apartment," Sam says, concern morphing into full-out worry. "You guys enjoy your lunch, or whatever. Frank's got a royal straight flush, by the way."
He leaves just as Craig accuses the old guy of being a cheating douche, and Walter corners him on the way out. Sam straightens his school bag and stiffens his spine; the old man's not his boss, and he's not threatened by him the way Dean is. "Good afternoon," he says, politely.
"Where the hell is your brother?" Walter demands. He's not a man for niceties. "He was supposed to be in three hours ago."
"The flu," Sam lies glibly. "He's lost his voice, couldn't call. He sent me a text message to come down here on his behalf. I'm missing a class."
Walter scowls, but he can't really argue with that, and Sam knows it. He's a good liar, almost as good as Dean is, and he keeps the man's gaze, steady, unblinking. "Well, alright," he says eventually. "Tell him to get a damn girlfriend so she can call in for him on time, or something."
"Will do," Sam says, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket. "I gotta go pick up some, like, cough syrup for him or something. I'll call if he's not better by tomorrow."
"You do that," Walter says, giving him one last final glare before turning around and making his way back towards the office. Sam backs off, then forces himself to turn around and leave the station at a nonchalant pace, like there's nothing wrong.
As soon as he's out of sight, he breaks into a jog, and doesn't stop until he reaches his brother's apartment complex. He forgot his spare key, so he goes around the back. Thumping the bathroom window on the lower right pane with the heel of his hand causes the catch to click and the window to swing open, and it's a tight squeeze to get himself through. He nearly drops his schoolbag into the toilet, and has to spend a couple of minutes brushing himself down before shouldering it again and heading out into the living room.
Dean's bedroom door is wide open; Dean doesn't see much point in closing it when he's the only person in the apartment and he's alert enough to be up and get the drop on any intruder. Sam's feet on the threadbare carpet should awaken his brother, but when he reaches and leans against the door frame, Dean's still fast asleep, one broad arm tucked under the pillow keeping the knife he keeps there company and the other somewhere under the blankets. He doesn't seem to be sick, and Sam bites his lip, unhooking his bag and letting it drop to the floor at his feet as he pads quietly across the bedroom to his brother.
When he puts a hand on Dean's forehead, his worry increases. Dean's not running a temperature. His eyelids twitch in his sleep and he makes a soft little noise, a gentle exhalation. Sam sits on the edge of the bed and tries to resist the temptation to card his fingers through his brother's hair like Dean used to do with his when they were younger.
It's nearly one in the afternoon on a weekday, and Dean's asleep. Sam's pretty sure he doesn't have to be Dean's baby brother to know how fucked-up that is.
"Dean," he says quietly, running his fingertips over Dean's temple, down over the line of his jaw, sweeping his thumb up along his brother's cheekbone. "Dean," he says again, and he sounds helpless to his own ears, because there's something wrong with his brother and he doesn't know how to fix it.
He guesses the first part of dealing with the problem is to find out what's wrong, and he boots up the old desktop Dean bought back when Sam started Stanford, that Dean still uses occasionally to work out his finances, check out Metallica fansites, or surf for porn. Dean emerges from his bedroom half an hour into Sam's research, looking sleepy and content, and from the way he freezes when he sees Sam, it's obvious Dean didn't expect him to be there. Sam glances up and wrinkles his nose at the damp patch on his belly, and Dean grabs a towel from the back of a nearby chair, holding it over himself and swallowing nervously.
"Hi," Dean says, and bites his lip, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Sam's face darkens, and he clicks the window closed, leans down and turns the computer off at the tower instead of allowing it to shut itself down. "Um, Sam? Don't you have class?"
"Yeah, seeing as it's three-thirty in the afternoon, I do," Sam says, standing up and quietly folding his arms over his chest. "Dean? Don't you have work?"
"I... I called in sick," Dean says quickly, too quickly, and Sam's lips peel back from his teeth in a silent snarl.
"No you didn't, and you know how I know?" He pads quietly across the floor until he's standing inside Dean's space, using his height to full advantage. Normally Dean wouldn't stand for that, would shove him away, but now he shivers slightly and tugs the towel closer. "I went to see you at work. I bought you lunch. Frank said you never even called. I lied to Walter to cover for you; if he asks, you had the flu and lost your voice."
Dean nods, looks away, and suddenly Sam feels both tired and angry. "Thanks," he says hoarsely, and Sam rolls his eyes.
"Dean, man, something isn't right," he says softly. "You've never done this before. You're tired all the time and yet whenever I call you I seem to be waking you up. What's going on?"
Dean won't meet his gaze, and a sour sensation begins to grow then in Sam's belly, something he knew once before when he stood before his dad's grave with a stony-faced older brother by his side and knew, right there and then, that he and Dean were alone. It took him years to put a name to that feeling, and that name was fear. "Dean," he says, helplessly, and Dean sighs.
"It's... nothing," Dean says. "Just a phase I'm going through. That's all. You had some crazy ones yourself." He tries to crack a smile but Sam doesn't return it, and instead Dean raises his hand to his mouth, nibbles absently on his thumbnail and looks at the floor instead of Sam. "I'm fine," he adds, and Sam snorts. "Really."
"'Fine' wouldn't have you sleeping in sixteen hour stretches, Dean," Sam says, and his voice cracks on his brother's name. "Just - please, tell me what's going on. I'm your brother, man. You look awful."
"'s nothing," Dean repeats, gentling his voice some, and when he looks up, he makes eye-contact. "I'm okay, Sam. Promise."
Sam closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, and thinks of the medical dictionary he found, thinks of the entry titled depression and the smaller, underlined a significant increase or decrease in appetite and time spent sleeping listed neatly under the word symptoms. "No," he says, and the anger's back, heady and tight in his gut. "Dean, you need to see a doctor. You might be seriously ill and you're just... "
"Sammy, drop it," Dean snaps, voice hardening, and Sam growls. His brother looks far too small and maybe too thin, collarbones jutting out underneath his skin and dark rings around his eyes, and Sam thinks if Dean can't see what's happening he really is as stupid as he thinks he is.
"All I want is for you to go see a doctor, Dean, please. You're losing weight and you look like death warmed over." He has to grit his teeth and concentrate on keeping his voice bland, and Dean's mouth twists into a scowl, eyes cold. He shouldn't look so fucking hot when he's pissed, starving and possibly-maybe depressive, Sam thinks helplessly.
"I'm fine," Dean grinds out, clutching the towel closer to his chest, and snorts. "I'm going to take a shower. You should go, you've got your politics class at four. Take the Impala and get it back before seven."
"Dean -" Sam protests but Dean's already walking away, and the bathroom slams with a sort of finality only completed by the click of the lock. Sam scowls, his hands fisting at his sides, and then he forces himself to relax, runs them through his hair. Well. He should've known Dean was never going to cave under direct assault; that's not his way, and Sam ought to know that by now. You have to sidle up to him, capture him when he's off-guard.
The Impala's keys are on the kitchen table next to Dean's wallet, and Sam jingles them in his palm for a few seconds, thoughtful, before nodding. Dad used to say it was okay to back down in a fight; the phrase he used was lose the battle, win the war and it's stuck with Sam, even now.
He can do subtle. He can do sneaking. And he's sure he can deal with Dean.
-tbc
Next chapter →
Chasing dreams can make you lose your way
Sit by me and just enjoy the day
Get There
Edit: Thanks to xtreme17nc13 for pointing out a chronological error! I have fixed the fic accordingly. ♥
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Author: reikah
Rating: R
Word Count: 30,275 in total, 4,893 this chapter
Betas: poisontaster & estrella30. ♥
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six]
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Chasing Cars
← previous chapter
It's late afternoon when Dean gets back from work, methodically kicking off his shoes near the door, hanging up his jacket, and making his way into the apartment. He carefully doesn't glance at himself in the mirror over the fireplace as he passes through to the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he goes; it is only when he is standing under the drizzle that passes for spray from his shower that he permits himself to relax.
He scrubs himself thoroughly, working the shampoo into his hair and washing it out only to repeat the process. He scrubs himself all over six times, and might have done so more, save for the hot water dying; it is with a carefully blank expression that he switches off the shower and leaves the bathroom, towelling himself dry as he heads for the bedroom, leaving wet footprints behind on the carpet.
He's not totally dry when he collapses into bed, donned in yesterday's t-shirt and today's boxers, and draws the covers up around him. The sun isn’t anywhere close to setting, the curtains wide open. It doesn't seem to matter. He's asleep within minutes.
Sam is waiting for him, cross-legged on the white bed. It's perfectly made, like the two of them hadn't been busy messing it up just a few hours before, and Dean belly-flops onto it with a grateful sigh.
"Hey," Sam says, softly, turning onto his side and pressing himself tightly against Dean, so that they're skin-to -skin. He reaches out, settling his hand on the small of Dean's back, and rubs softly.
"Today sucked," Dean mumbles into the sheets and Sam makes a curious noise, shifting closer and throwing a leg over the back of both of Dean's. He's warm, comfortable, and smells familiar; Dean turns his head towards his brother and Sam leans forward, rubs their noses together and gives him an affectionate kiss. "Mmm," Dean says, eyes lidding lazily. "Today sucked up until this moment, then."
"What happened?" Sam asks quietly, rubbing a little harder, forcing tense muscles to relax. God, sometimes Dean thinks Sam's backrubs are better than sex. Then they have sex again and he changes his mind quickly enough. "Dean? What happened?"
Dean sighs, closing his eyes, and Sam slows the massage, offering comfort rather than physical relief. It's just as good, really. "There was... a fire. In the suburbs," he says, and is proud of how even his voice is. "There were... um... twins. Two little girls, about seven. They tried to hide in their..." He tosses his head uncomfortably, clears his throat. Sam kisses his forehead, more of a gentle press of lips than anything else, and Dean sighs, turns onto his side, the better to face his dream-brother. "They hid in their closet," he says, voice flat and expression ugly, and Sam pales.
"Oh, Jesus," he says faintly, and Dean shivers despite himself, curls into his brother and presses his face to the hollow of Sam's throat. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't burn their house down," Dean says into Sam's skin, and Sam puts an arm around him, writing a name in tiny letters on Dean's back with his fingertips. "It's just, I was upstairs trying to find them, and there was... there was smoke everywhere and it was so hot and the roof was going and I just..." He trails off and shivers again, wrapping an arm around his brother and moving himself closer. Sam makes a soothing sound at the back of his throat, but Dean's rattled now, has been all day. "Some of the roofing came down not too far away from where I was," he continues, in a subdued little voice, and Sam doesn't say anything, just strokes him. "And I... I wondered... what would happen if it'd hit me?"
Sam's silent for a heartbeat too long, and when Dean finally, reluctantly frees himself from his brother, he sees Sam's face is surprisingly pale. "Are we talking suicidal here, Dean?" Sam asks after another beat, picking his words carefully, and Dean rolls his eyes.
"No. No, of course not. We just, I just..." Dean sighs, and when he continues, his voice is slightly miserable. "I'm twenty-six, man. I've got no parents, no real friends, no girlfriend - just a little brother who blew off my killer insect movie marathon two days ago to spend some time with his girlfriend and I just... I wonder..."
"If he'd miss you?" Sam finishes for him, and Dean nods curtly. Sam sighs and curls around Dean again, like he's maybe trying to protect him from something, and his hand resumes its slow caress of Dean's spine. "Why wouldn't he?"
Dean squirms, uncomfortable. Wild horses probably couldn't drag this out of him, not in the real world, but it's not like his dreams bear any reflection on reality. The naked Sam curled around him is example number one. "He has Jess," he says softly. "He has Jess. They adore each other, and I... I... I have a Playstation Two."
"Playstations are awesome," Sam says, and Dean snorts. "He's your brother, though, Dean."
"I know," Dean says, frustrated. "I know that, really. It's just, he loves her so much and I just... I wish he could be around more. I... care about him just as much as Jess does and he doesn't give me much opportunity to show it."
Sam kisses his temple gently and Dean tries his hardest not to stiffen, not to defensively move away, not from a Sam who actually wants him.
"I don't know about him, but I would," he says softly, and Dean stirs. "Miss you, I mean. I should've - I should've left ages ago, and I just... I haven't been able to. Leave, that is. Dean, I - I don't think..." He trails off and looks away, awkward. "I don't know who I am anymore," he adds, hesitant, clearly feeling each word out before saying it, and Dean blinks at him, puzzled.
"You're Sam" he replies slowly, carefully, and sits up, narrowing his eyes. Sam stares at him like Dean's just handed over the answer to everything. Just for a second, Dean thinks he sees something in Sam's eyes that strikes him as wrong - too old, far too impossibly old, and scoots back, something icy wedged in the pit of his belly.
Dean's muscles tense, and when he speaks, his tone is deliberate and thoughtful. "You... You... You're not just a dream, are you?"
Sam shakes his head and Dean's breath catches in his chest, sharp and rattling. "I'm sorry. I'm, I'm not bad. Not like what we used to - you and Sam and Dad used to hunt."
Dean pushes himself away, uncomfortable and suspicious. "What are you?" he asks, and Sam licks his lips.
"There's no word for th - us," he says, miserably. "We're not harmful, so nobody's ever bothered tracking us down. We don't kill or maim."
"No, you just pretend to be my brother and creep into my mind," Dean says, aware his voice is slightly colder than usual and making no effort to change it. Sam curls up on the bed, into a small ball, looking lost and confused. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"
Sam swallows nervously, wriggling a little away from Dean on the bed. "We live off sexual energy," he says, quickly. "Like a succubus, only, um, we're not evil. We just, slip into dreams, take and give what we need and leave. That's all. We, er, normally only stay one night."
Dean pauses, mentally dating his dreams, trying to figure out how long it's been. Eventually he sighs. "You know things about my brother," he murmurs and Sam nods. "You have his memories. How does that work?"
"We're incorporeal beings. We can only have substance here and we just... when we become the object of your fantasies, we literally become the object of your fantasies. Um. Like. If you dreamed about Pamela Anderson, I'd be Pamela Anderson. Not the real thing, just a copy, but enough to make the dream more real... you know?"
"I had a really, really hot dream about Madonna when I was thirteen," Dean offers slowly and Sam climbs up on his knees, nodding excitedly. "You're saying that was one of you guys?" When Sam nods he sits up, crossing his legs and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and scrutinizing Sam uncomfortably.
"I -" Sam begins, but Dean holds out a hand to shut him up. He's not quite sure he understands, but he thinks he gets the gist.
"Why are you still here?" he asks instead, simply. "If you feed off the sex, what's with the petting and the cuddling and the tell me how your day was?"
Sam fidgets and dips his head and mumbles something inaudible, and Dean raises an eyebrow. "You're gonna have to be louder than that," he says, and Sam clears his throat and says, "Because I'm Sam."
"Because what?" Dean asks slowly, and Sam licks his lips and glances at him and then away.
"Because I remember you raising me and I kind of, I think I love you? Only I'm not sure. That's why I like touching you, at least." He swallows nervously and then pushes ahead, continuing before Dean can voice his first question, "I don't know if your Sam loves you romantically or not. I have his feelings and I can, I can sort through them but I don't get them. Not all. Not yet." He glances over at Dean. "Um... What are you going to do? With me?"
Dean frowns thoughtfully and Sam cringes away from him physically, like a beaten puppy. He jumps again when Dean flops backwards on the bed, arms folded behind his head and eyes open; Sam hesitates, obviously torn between approaching him and hiding from him. Dean huffs out a long, slow breath, and decides to take pity on it.
"Come here," Dean says softly, and Sam slowly complies. Dean holds out his arm and, when Sam is close enough, turns it so his hand is extended, palm-up; Sam takes it cautiously and then yelps when Dean tugs him off-balance, pulls him down hard onto the mattress. "Okay," Dean says, voice brash and filled with false cheer. "On the one hand, you're an unknown supernatural creature living in my brain, you've caused me to become embarrassingly weepy due to the whole thinking-I-was-dreaming thing and you've led to me waking up either hard or covered in my own damn come for two weeks."
"Sorry?" Sam offers, meek.
"On the other, you're a Sam," Dean says, and Sam doesn't need to be a copy of Dean's brother to know what the crack in Dean's tone means.
"I am," he agrees softly, and Dean sighs, shifts. "I'm sorry, Dean. I -"
"Oh, shut up," Dean growls, placing one hand flat on Sam's chest and bending down to nip and bite at his lower lip.
Dean opens his eyes to find he's rolled onto his belly in his sleep, he's drooled on his pillow, and there's a heavy weight at the foot of his bed. It's been years since he last hunted anything, but he still keeps a knife under his pillow; it's sharp and jagged and he curls his fingers easily around the hilt, tenses his muscles -
"Hey," Sam says. "I know you're awake."
Dean lets go of the knife and sits up sluggishly, running a hand through his hair and stifling a yawn. His brother is sitting cross-legged, shoes off but still wearing socks. "Hey," Sam says, and smiles slightly. "Morning."
"Hey to you too, Sam, it's ten am. What's going on? And how did you get in?" Dean rubs at his eyes and pulls a face as the movement causes his t-shirt to ride up, dragging uncomfortably over the come smeared across his belly. He's grateful the covers hide that from Sam.
"I used to live here, moron," Sam says with a slight grin. His cheek dimples the way it always does when he smiles. "I still have a key. What are you doing still in bed? When did you go to sleep?"
Dean stretches, feeling his shoulders click, and pulls a face. "Dunno. Nine, I think. Last night."
Sam's brow furrows the way it always does when he's puzzling through something, and Dean tugs uncomfortably on his t-shirt. "You slept thirteen hours?" Sam asks slowly, and Dean nods jerkily, waves a hand at him.
"I was tired, it's fine. Sam, could you do me a favor and scoot? I need to shower and get changed for work." Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean just glares at him, and to his surprise his baby brother unfolds, stands up slowly and pads quietly out of the bedroom. A few minutes later Dean hears the clink of glasses and the clanging of pans, and guesses Jess threw Sam out to go spend time with his brother or something. They haven't hung around much over the last few weeks; with his nights filled with exquisite porn featuring his - well, a copy of his baby brother - and Dean isn't entirely sure he can keep eye contact with the real thing.
He makes it a quick shower, kind of worried about Sam's ability to cook things - Sam does okay with salads and stuff, but put him near an open fire and, well, Dean'll be working a few hours before his shift officially starts. He soaps himself down and blushes as he washes the come away, nipples tingling and cock stirring even after the orgasms teased out of him last night. He slaps a hand against the cubicle wall and dips his head, sucking in a few deep, steadying breaths. There's a line between fucking a copy of your brother every night in your head and masturbating with the real thing five feet away, probably humming some of that whiny grunge shit as he prepares one of his awful healthy breakfasts.
Instinct, however, cannot be denied, and he squeezes his eyes shut when he takes his cock in hand, lips fumbling over some half-formed prayer to a God he stopped believing in all those years ago to make him less of a pervert.
By the time he emerges from the bathroom, damp and clad in a shield of boxers, jeans and another t-shirt, Sam's jiggling a frying pan quickly over the electric burner, making what looks like bacon sandwiches. It's easy for Dean to brighten and announce that Sam's the best little brother in the world, to slip into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and allow his brother to pamper him just a bit.
They move in companionable silence as Sam hunts down plates and glasses and butters the bread, finally flipping the bacon out of the pan. He carries Dean's over to the table with a bottle of ketchup and Dean pours out a liberal amount, attention split between his food and his brother as Sam runs the pan under the tap, unfazed by the cloud of steam from cold water and hot steel. When Sam finally slides into the chair opposite him and reaches out for the ketchup, he's content to sit back, allow himself to relax.
Right up until Sam says, "So I heard there was a bad fire yesterday?"
Dean pauses, sandwich in hand, and swallows despite himself. He remembers the smell, the smoke, the heat; he remembers telling the Sam in his dreams about it, a broad hand stroking his back, Sam's voice pitched low and soothing. The Sam across the table from him is alert, green eyes bright, and is watching him carefully; he forces himself to sigh, put down the sandwich, and wipe his fingers off absently on his jeans.
"It wasn't so bad," he says. "Couple died, but that's all."
"You sure?" Sam peels the crusts off his the way he always does, shoves them in his mouth and continues talking. "I mean, I heard on the local radio - "
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dean scolds, and Sam blinks and then rolls his eyes, makes a show of chewing before swallowing. Some old habits die hard, and Dean mothered Sam long before they became orphans. "Yeah, Sam, I'm sure. Everything's peachy."
"Well, okay," his brother says dubiously. "It's still not like you to sleep for thirteen hours straight, though."
Dean shrugs, schools his face into something calm, blank, and reaches for what's left of his breakfast. His brother watches him for a few more seconds, then sighs, somehow deflating; finishes the last bite of his meal and licks his fingers clean, setting his palms to the table to help himself up. "Sam, I'm fine," Dean soothes, and Sam nods, slips the plug into the sink. His fingers are splayed out over the cheap ceramic plate, dwarfing it. Dean remembers when Sam was tiny enough Dean could cup both of his hands in one of his own.
"I just worry," Sam says quietly, twisting the tap on. "For the last two weeks you've just been so busy, and it feels like we don't have any time anymore." He pauses as the pipes clank and gurgle, as the water pours into the sink, before adding, somewhat shyly, "I miss you, you know."
"I'm only three blocks away," Dean says gently, although God, does he know. "You're even closer to the station, Sammy."
"Yeah, I know." Sam turns the tap off and the plumbing stops complaining. He hooks Dean's dishcloth out from behind the soap and makes a start on his plate. "I just miss - nevermind." Dean doesn't have a dish rack, so Sam dries the plate himself by hand.
"Look, Sam, it's okay," Dean says gently. "They've been messing around with my shifts at work recently, you know that. Now that the end of my probationary period is approaching and all. I'm just tired, okay? I'll adjust soon enough, and then we can heckle the new Dawn of the Dead remake together, I promise."
Sam shoots him a quick glance and then smiles slowly, mouth quirking like he's fighting it every inch of the way. "Alright," he says, and then, "Pass over your plate."
"Will you make me breakfast in bed if I sleep in late tomorrow, too?" Dean asks hopefully, and Sam throws the dishcloth at him.
Sam's been to the Palo Alto fire station countless times in the past, more when he and Dean still lived together. He used to bring Dean his lunch, and even though he wasn't technically allowed free rein, he was sensible and had killer puppy-dog eyes, and nobody had objected too much to his wandering around.
He hasn't been for a couple of months, but it feels the same as normal when he walks in on a hazy Wednesday morning, two days after he came and cooked Dean breakfast, a bag of Mexican takeout tucked under his arm and his schoolbag slung over his chest. Walter's talking with Ed, Dean's crew chief, and he only raises a hand and nods briefly at Sam as he passes on his way to the common room.
"Hi, guys," he says as he shoulders the door open, and drops the bag in the middle of the table, ignoring the fact that there's a poker game going. He doesn't need to look twice to know Frank's got a whole lot of spades. "My brother around anywhere?"
"Nope. He didn't call, either. You're not here to make his apologies?" Tom tugs the bag towards him and opens it, face splitting into a grin. "Oh, man, you got my burrito!"
Sam waves off his thanks, frowning. "Dean didn't come in today?" he asks, concern ripe in his voice, and Tom nods.
"Walter's gonna have his head," Frank notes, a hint of smug pride in his voice. Sam's noticed that the guy has it in for his brother, although Dean hasn't figured it out yet , still willing to believe the best. "Didn't call, didn't come over, just didn't show up."
"I'll go swing by his apartment," Sam says, concern morphing into full-out worry. "You guys enjoy your lunch, or whatever. Frank's got a royal straight flush, by the way."
He leaves just as Craig accuses the old guy of being a cheating douche, and Walter corners him on the way out. Sam straightens his school bag and stiffens his spine; the old man's not his boss, and he's not threatened by him the way Dean is. "Good afternoon," he says, politely.
"Where the hell is your brother?" Walter demands. He's not a man for niceties. "He was supposed to be in three hours ago."
"The flu," Sam lies glibly. "He's lost his voice, couldn't call. He sent me a text message to come down here on his behalf. I'm missing a class."
Walter scowls, but he can't really argue with that, and Sam knows it. He's a good liar, almost as good as Dean is, and he keeps the man's gaze, steady, unblinking. "Well, alright," he says eventually. "Tell him to get a damn girlfriend so she can call in for him on time, or something."
"Will do," Sam says, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket. "I gotta go pick up some, like, cough syrup for him or something. I'll call if he's not better by tomorrow."
"You do that," Walter says, giving him one last final glare before turning around and making his way back towards the office. Sam backs off, then forces himself to turn around and leave the station at a nonchalant pace, like there's nothing wrong.
As soon as he's out of sight, he breaks into a jog, and doesn't stop until he reaches his brother's apartment complex. He forgot his spare key, so he goes around the back. Thumping the bathroom window on the lower right pane with the heel of his hand causes the catch to click and the window to swing open, and it's a tight squeeze to get himself through. He nearly drops his schoolbag into the toilet, and has to spend a couple of minutes brushing himself down before shouldering it again and heading out into the living room.
Dean's bedroom door is wide open; Dean doesn't see much point in closing it when he's the only person in the apartment and he's alert enough to be up and get the drop on any intruder. Sam's feet on the threadbare carpet should awaken his brother, but when he reaches and leans against the door frame, Dean's still fast asleep, one broad arm tucked under the pillow keeping the knife he keeps there company and the other somewhere under the blankets. He doesn't seem to be sick, and Sam bites his lip, unhooking his bag and letting it drop to the floor at his feet as he pads quietly across the bedroom to his brother.
When he puts a hand on Dean's forehead, his worry increases. Dean's not running a temperature. His eyelids twitch in his sleep and he makes a soft little noise, a gentle exhalation. Sam sits on the edge of the bed and tries to resist the temptation to card his fingers through his brother's hair like Dean used to do with his when they were younger.
It's nearly one in the afternoon on a weekday, and Dean's asleep. Sam's pretty sure he doesn't have to be Dean's baby brother to know how fucked-up that is.
"Dean," he says quietly, running his fingertips over Dean's temple, down over the line of his jaw, sweeping his thumb up along his brother's cheekbone. "Dean," he says again, and he sounds helpless to his own ears, because there's something wrong with his brother and he doesn't know how to fix it.
He guesses the first part of dealing with the problem is to find out what's wrong, and he boots up the old desktop Dean bought back when Sam started Stanford, that Dean still uses occasionally to work out his finances, check out Metallica fansites, or surf for porn. Dean emerges from his bedroom half an hour into Sam's research, looking sleepy and content, and from the way he freezes when he sees Sam, it's obvious Dean didn't expect him to be there. Sam glances up and wrinkles his nose at the damp patch on his belly, and Dean grabs a towel from the back of a nearby chair, holding it over himself and swallowing nervously.
"Hi," Dean says, and bites his lip, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Sam's face darkens, and he clicks the window closed, leans down and turns the computer off at the tower instead of allowing it to shut itself down. "Um, Sam? Don't you have class?"
"Yeah, seeing as it's three-thirty in the afternoon, I do," Sam says, standing up and quietly folding his arms over his chest. "Dean? Don't you have work?"
"I... I called in sick," Dean says quickly, too quickly, and Sam's lips peel back from his teeth in a silent snarl.
"No you didn't, and you know how I know?" He pads quietly across the floor until he's standing inside Dean's space, using his height to full advantage. Normally Dean wouldn't stand for that, would shove him away, but now he shivers slightly and tugs the towel closer. "I went to see you at work. I bought you lunch. Frank said you never even called. I lied to Walter to cover for you; if he asks, you had the flu and lost your voice."
Dean nods, looks away, and suddenly Sam feels both tired and angry. "Thanks," he says hoarsely, and Sam rolls his eyes.
"Dean, man, something isn't right," he says softly. "You've never done this before. You're tired all the time and yet whenever I call you I seem to be waking you up. What's going on?"
Dean won't meet his gaze, and a sour sensation begins to grow then in Sam's belly, something he knew once before when he stood before his dad's grave with a stony-faced older brother by his side and knew, right there and then, that he and Dean were alone. It took him years to put a name to that feeling, and that name was fear. "Dean," he says, helplessly, and Dean sighs.
"It's... nothing," Dean says. "Just a phase I'm going through. That's all. You had some crazy ones yourself." He tries to crack a smile but Sam doesn't return it, and instead Dean raises his hand to his mouth, nibbles absently on his thumbnail and looks at the floor instead of Sam. "I'm fine," he adds, and Sam snorts. "Really."
"'Fine' wouldn't have you sleeping in sixteen hour stretches, Dean," Sam says, and his voice cracks on his brother's name. "Just - please, tell me what's going on. I'm your brother, man. You look awful."
"'s nothing," Dean repeats, gentling his voice some, and when he looks up, he makes eye-contact. "I'm okay, Sam. Promise."
Sam closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, and thinks of the medical dictionary he found, thinks of the entry titled depression and the smaller, underlined a significant increase or decrease in appetite and time spent sleeping listed neatly under the word symptoms. "No," he says, and the anger's back, heady and tight in his gut. "Dean, you need to see a doctor. You might be seriously ill and you're just... "
"Sammy, drop it," Dean snaps, voice hardening, and Sam growls. His brother looks far too small and maybe too thin, collarbones jutting out underneath his skin and dark rings around his eyes, and Sam thinks if Dean can't see what's happening he really is as stupid as he thinks he is.
"All I want is for you to go see a doctor, Dean, please. You're losing weight and you look like death warmed over." He has to grit his teeth and concentrate on keeping his voice bland, and Dean's mouth twists into a scowl, eyes cold. He shouldn't look so fucking hot when he's pissed, starving and possibly-maybe depressive, Sam thinks helplessly.
"I'm fine," Dean grinds out, clutching the towel closer to his chest, and snorts. "I'm going to take a shower. You should go, you've got your politics class at four. Take the Impala and get it back before seven."
"Dean -" Sam protests but Dean's already walking away, and the bathroom slams with a sort of finality only completed by the click of the lock. Sam scowls, his hands fisting at his sides, and then he forces himself to relax, runs them through his hair. Well. He should've known Dean was never going to cave under direct assault; that's not his way, and Sam ought to know that by now. You have to sidle up to him, capture him when he's off-guard.
The Impala's keys are on the kitchen table next to Dean's wallet, and Sam jingles them in his palm for a few seconds, thoughtful, before nodding. Dad used to say it was okay to back down in a fight; the phrase he used was lose the battle, win the war and it's stuck with Sam, even now.
He can do subtle. He can do sneaking. And he's sure he can deal with Dean.
-tbc
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Chasing dreams can make you lose your way
Sit by me and just enjoy the day
Get There
Edit: Thanks to xtreme17nc13 for pointing out a chronological error! I have fixed the fic accordingly. ♥