Absolution
Title: Absolution
Author: missyjack
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Dean/Sam
Words: 3,734
Spoilers: up to 2x09 Croatoan. Fic assumes final scene of that episode didn’t occur.
Disclaimer: Kripke has given Sam and Dean to PT for her birthday, so I am just borrowing them from her.
Beta: veronamay and plutogirl10 were the betas from heaven for me.
Summary: Dean and Sam are separated from each other by their own pain and confusion over what is happening to them.
A/N: Oh what a world that has people such as poisontaster in it! This is the birthday fic I wrote for her.
Traditionally, dawn is the point at which a white thread can be distinguished from a black thread. However sometimes even when the sun is high in the sky it can be hard to tell them apart.
Dean woke with his usual disappointment. He was awake, therefore he was alive, and that meant there was another day to get through.
Whether he had slept for two hours or twelve, Dean was always weary. Just for a moment he kept his eyes shut tight, as if that would hold back the day. A minute he thought, or two, that was all he wanted. He lay still, curled in on himself, as if he could hide from the pain and the hurt and the worry but they sat heavy on his chest, like hungry beasts ready to pounce as soon as he stirred.
This was the worst part of the day, the terrible anticipation of the desolate hours ahead until he could once again claim the sanctuary of sleep. Sam would have got up early, as was his habit, to go for a run. And while his brother was, in a dozen different ways, at the centre of all his pain, Dean wished he would get back so he could get this day underway; all the sooner to see it end.
****
Sam paused at the door, and balanced two grande lattes - Dean’s straight up, his soy chai - in one hand while he fished out the room key. Sam tried to give Dean some time alone each morning; he hoped that was something that might help. Pausing with the key at the lock, Sam rested his head against the door, but couldn’t hear anything. A small knot formed in his chest; Sam dreaded that each new day may be the one where he lost Dean. Or the one when he had to leave him.
Sam pushed the door open with his hip, and found Dean dressed and sitting at the table in front of the laptop. The beds had already been pushed back to their respective sides of the room.
“Thanks, Starbuck.” Dean accepted the coffee, removed the lid and blew gently across the top of the hot foam before taking a sip.
Sam smiled to see a milky moustache across Dean’s top lip.
“You’ve got a ...” Sam waved his finger in front of his own mouth.
Dean licked his lip, partially removing the foam. Sam couldn’t resist, and wiped his thumb across Dean’s lip. When Dean didn’t say anything, he leant forward and kissed the remaining few flecks of froth from his mouth.
Dean didn’t kiss him back.
Sam pulled away, and Dean turned back to the laptop.
“I’ve been putting together some more info on those hauntings Bobby called us about.” Dean swung the laptop around so Sam could see the screen. “They’re all in the same county, but so far there seems to be nothing linking the families or their houses. However I did find out that…”
Sam sat down and stared at the screen but he really couldn’t focus on what Dean was saying, because back in River Grove Dean had said he wanted to die.
When Dean had given the others the key to the Impala and sent them away, Sam had thought Dean was sacrificing himself for him. Get out of here, you can go on, Sam had pleaded. What if I don’t want to? Dean replied, and that was the most horrifying thing Sam had ever heard.
Dean said it wasn’t just because of Dad, he said something about a weight he was carrying, and then he’d looked at Sam. Just then the doctor had returned, and the moment was gone. Dean, of course, wouldn’t talk about it later and while Sam pushed him, he didn’t push too hard because he feared the answer.
Dean was afraid of Sam.
It made sense. They’d seen that the others with abilities like Sam, those chosen and touched by the Demon, had the seed of evil within them.
Maybe Dean was relieved that Sam had been infected, that he would have an excuse to kill Sam now before the real evil within him started manifesting. It must be tiring for Dean, Sam thought, keeping vigil and looking for signs that Sam was, well, going over to the dark side.
It was certainly wearing Sam down. The other day he should’ve shot that Tanner kid as he ran off, but all Sam could think was, am I doing this to save people or because I want to kill? For every action he took, large or small, he couldn’t trust what was motivating him. The irony was Dean seemed to be on a killing spree of late, almost as if he tried to do it all so that there was no opportunity for Sam to.
“So, sounds like a plan?” Dean asked
“Yeah sure,” Sam replied, with no idea of what he’d agreed to. “Look I’m going to take a shower,” he said as he stood and rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tensed almost as if the touch turned him to stone. Sam pulled his hand away and stalked off to the bathroom.
****
Dean could feel the lingering warmth from Sam’s hand as the bathroom door closed. In the past Sam would’ve slammed the door, and then reappeared in two minutes demanding to know what the fuck was wrong. These days, he just had an air of sad acceptance about him.
Dean still let him push the beds together at night. Sam had reasoned it was the only way he could get enough mattress for himself. He couldn’t help it if he accidentally ended up with an arm or leg flung over Dean during the night. And while Dean knew the real reason was to keep this one bit of closeness between them, this link to when things were better, he pretended to believe the lie. It was the least he could give Sam, and at the moment also the most.
The truth was that every time Sam touched him he feared he would break.
Break apart and drown Sam in the secrets and darkness he held within him.
Break apart and confess how afraid he was of what he’d become, or the path he was taking, of his inadequacy for the task ahead.
Break apart and admit how angry he was with Dad for sacrificing himself and leaving Dean to bear the burden of being loved so much.
Break apart and ask Sam to hold him, help him.
Break apart and kill everyone.
Once or twice under the cover of darkness and the silence of the night, Sam had reached out to him, and Dean had not pushed him away. Like two nights ago, how could Dean reject Sam when twenty four hours earlier he thought he was doomed to die - and not by the virus but by his own hand or Dean’s? That night Dean had drawn him in and tried to give him what he wanted. But as he moved with Sam, moved inside Sam, it cost him every ounce of willpower to hold back and not to take what he really needed. After Sam came, Dean rolled off and turned away from him. Sam had reached out. C’mon you haven’t…let me. S’okay mumbled Dean, who knew that he couldn’t allow himself any release.
Sam emerged clothed from the bathroom, towelling his hair dry.
“I can’t stop wondering why I had that vision about Duane Tanner. I mean all my visions have involved the other children, the ones like me. Do you think maybe Duane was one too?”
“Well we know his mother didn’t die in a fire,” replied Dean. “Because, hey, I shot her. Three times.”
“Not biting, Dean. Anyway, we know the fire thing didn’t happen to everyone.” Sam sat on the end of the bed, the wet towel still in his hands.
“Maybe you’re being too specific. I mean, maybe your visions are just about stopping bad things and saving people.”
“I suppose, but they have all involved Max, and Anson and things connected to the yellow-eyed demon. Why did I have this vision?” asked Sam, “Did the yellow-eyed demon cause the virus?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s simpler than that,” said Dean. “Maybe it was so you could stop something evil. Like me.”
“What do you…?” Sam’s face was incredulous as he rose to stand in front of Dean. ”You are not evil.”
“Changed your tune, Sammy?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Because I seem to remember you said I was just like one of those infected things.”
“Dude, I do not think you’re evil. You were just,” Sam searched for the right words, “stressed out.”
“Was I stressed out when I plugged Mrs Tanner? One word from you Sam and it was bam, bam bam!” Dean clasped his hand together into a gun and pretended to fire at Sam’s head. “Admit it Sam - you’re scared, scared of me and what I might do. And if you’re not you should be, because I know I am.”
“Dean…” Sam moved towards him, but Dean stood up and shouldered past him.
“I’m going to get some supplies.”
And with that he was gone. Sam knew when he came back it would be as if this conversation had never happened. Dean was right about one thing though; Sam was scared of what Dean might do - not to others but to himself.
****
The backseat was piled with rock salt, rope, a new hatchet and food supplies. Dean had stopped for another coffee at a local place called Les Beans. He’d sat in the café watching normal people going about their normal lives and he felt like a monster amongst them.
A young guy in bike shorts picked up his bag of muffins and drink, shared a laugh with the woman behind the register and turned to leave. He smiled at Dean as he left, and Dean felt a surge of rage. He wanted nothing more than to pull his gun and pop the guy right there.
Dean closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. Grasping his amulet in one hand he tried to use it to focus on a calm safe place within him, one that was getting harder to find.
In amongst the dark oppression of living, Dean had moments when he felt dangerously alive, when it seemed as if he could do anything; act on any impulse with impunity. He didn’t know if it came from having cheated death or feeling he had nothing to live for or just the fact that deep down he really was evil. Evil in a way that wasn’t supernatural or demonic but just mundanely human.
After another ten minutes, Dean felt calm enough to head back to the motel. As he turned off the main street, he spotted the St Thomas Aquinas Parish Church. It was one of those seventies monstrosities that looked like a cross between a ski-lodge and the Brady Bunch House. He drove past, and noting the car park was empty, Dean swung the car around and parked a couple of hundred yards down the block. Leaning across into the back seat, he tipped the shopping out of one bag, and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
Churches creeped him out. He used to think it was because he always expected to get into trouble around them, not surprising given that he was usually there to steal, or vanquish some spirit or demon. Now he wondered whether it wasn’t something more, whether something dark in him felt unwelcome in these holy places.
Dean didn’t think about God, or a supreme whatever, often. While he relied on the rituals and beliefs of religion when he was hunting, he felt no more need to think about God than he felt the need to ponder the architect who designed the motel he was staying in.
The front door was open, which was not so usual these days, even for a church. The foyer was quiet and empty and Dean crossed it quietly. He picked up a leaflet lying on the floor - An Examination of Conscience . He flipped it open. There were a list of questions about commandments the reader may have broken; it looked like a pop quiz for sinners. Dean ran his eyes down the list - getting a huge score was probably not a good thing. He screwed it into a small ball and tossed it into a small wastepaper basket, opened the next door and slipped inside the church proper.
The church was well lit from the morning sunlight pouring in through the stained glass windows. The air held a hint of incense - something woody and spicy. Frankincense, Dean thought, maybe some sandalwood too. He couldn’t see anyone sitting in the pews.
Dean took a large hip flask from inside his jacket and submerged it in the font of holy water, a pink marble hexagon just inside the door. Dean watched air bubbles break the surface. Little packets of nothing, he thought. Spaces of air.
The flask full, Dean walked between the pews to the front of the church. The hair on the nape of his neck prickled; he couldn’t get over the feeling of being watched. Dean looked around but could see no-one lurking in the shadows.
The votive candles were on a pedestal, to the side of the main altar. They were short fat yellow candles and Dean was pleased, because they worked much better for longer rituals than the little tea-light candles commonly used. He popped a handful in the plastic shopping bag, and stuffed a ten dollar note in the offering tin.
As he turned to go, his eyes landed on the face of the Virgin Mary who stood gowned in white, arms outstretched over the candles. Her face was full of love but Dean also saw sorrow there. Without knowing why he reached out towards her. His fingers were brushing her veil when he heard a noise in the foyer.
Dean looked around for a side entrance, an escape route, but found none. He turned and saw a man enter the church. A priest. Dean shoved the bag of candles under his jacket, and walked towards him.
“Morning Father.”
“Don’t let me disturb you. It’s a pleasure to see a new face in the Church.” The priest, a middle-aged man, was shorter than Dean and as lean as a whippet.
“Think I’ve got all I came for.”
“Glad we still offer something to the young people. I’m here to rehearse my sermon.” The priest laughed. “It’s hard to compete with the mob down the road. They have Krispy Kremes, and gospel rap.”
“Stick with the classics Father. Always thought it was a shame they got rid of the Latin,” Dean added ruefully.
“Fire and brimstone and all the wages of sin stuff just doesn’t draw the crowds like it used to.” He offered his hand to Dean. “But thanks for the advice”.
Dean took the man’s hand, and the priest shook it with a strong two-handed grasp. For a moment Dean felt faint and strange, almost as if those hands were reaching inside him. When the priest dropped his hand, the feeling was gone as if it were never there.
Dean smiled and walked past the priest toward the door. He paused as he got there and looked over his shoulder.
“Your sermon Father. What’s it going to be on?”
“How to find the right path,” the priest replied.
“And how’s that?” asked Dean.
“Act out of love - that will guide you to the right path. Love of God, love of your family, love of yourself.” The priest turned away from Dean towards the altar.
Love of God, love of your family, love of yourself, repeated Dean as he strode out of the church.
Maybe one of those he could do.
*****
At the motel, Sam had packed and was sitting on the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, while he watched a college basketball game on TV. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine his life was different, that he was just on a break from college, on a road trip with his big brother. That Jess wasn’t dead. That Dad wasn’t dead.
Maybe I don’t want to. Dean’s words and the look of utter hopelessness on his face tore at Sam’s heart. What sort of man was he, to have let his brother slip into such a place of despair? He pressed a hand to his head.
The door swung open and Dean walked in, a six pack in one hand.
“Sammy,” he said dropping the cans on to the floor and rushing to his side. “You okay?”
“Dude,” Sam smiled, “It’s okay, it’s just a headache.”
Dean was on his knees by the bed. He leant over and brushed his hand over his brother’s forehead, before pressing his mouth over Sam’s. The kiss was light and hesitant. Sam reached around a hand to cup the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean broke off the kiss but didn’t move back. He looked at Sam, holding his gaze with eyes that had seen too much for a man so young.
“Dean…” whispered Sam but Dean kissed the rest of the sentence from his mouth, as he climbed onto the bed.
They lay facing each other and, for the first time in what seemed like forever, started to explore each other with their eyes open, in the full light of day.
Hands moved slowly across broad backs, bodies pressed together with desire but without desperation. Tentative questions were asked and answered with a look. Words had always been dangerous weapons in a Winchester’s hands; they were much more fluent in a language composed of actions and touch.
Dean buried his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, as Sam took his cock in his hand. He crooked a leg over Sam’s hip and drew himself closer. His hands pushed down Sam’s sweats and Dean grasped his brother firmly. Together they moved, in a gentle rhythm, each one’s eyes locked on those of his brother. There was no doubt now, no fear, just an acceptance of what was.
Sam came first with a shudder and a smile. Dean could feel himself holding on, holding back, until Sam leaned in and kissed him. Only then did Dean let himself come, let himself feel that release.
And he did not break apart.
*****
The priest was on his knees before the altar when he felt a tremor of terror course though him. To be in the presence of something so old, so other worldly and so immensely powerful, was to know true fear.
“He came as you said he would,” the priest stuttered. “I could sense his thoughts, his feelings. He is afraid, but committed to his course. I could sense confusion in him and a great sadness. But I do not doubt he will stay true to his path.”
“That is well then, because we need him now as never before.” The voice sounded like a whisper inside the priest’s mind.
“And we must use him like this? He has goodness in him. Aren’t there other…creatures you can use for the killing and the slaughter?” The priest knew the horrors Dean had seen, had committed, were just beginning.
“No, it must be a human, a righteous human. And don’t forget who his brother is. It must be him. .”
“His soul is forfeit already isn’t it? He cannot be saved.” The priest raised his eyes toward the altar and gazed into her face, feeling calmed by her grace.
“We are fighting a war against the forces of chaos and darkness. We need soldiers, and some will fall.” Her voice was as gentle and soft as a mother’s kiss and as stern as an army’s general. ”The soul of Dean Winchester will be a casualty of this War.”
She reached a hand out in benediction, and he whispered in prayer:
“Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.”