(no subject)
Title: What I Remember
Author: Sidium
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning: Schmoop, brief description of torture.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never was mine. Never will be mine.
Summary: Sam remembers what Dean's done a little differently than Dean does.
It took a few days, but when Sam finally notices, it feels more than a little obvious. Dean was never a touchy-feely person, that was a simple fact of life, but it's been two weeks since he came back from hell. Two weeks and he hasn't touched Sam once.
Not that Sam
was expecting him to cuddle up with him in bed or anything, but there's usually something; a hand on his back as they walk out of the motel room, a gentle slap upside the head as Dean walks past him, anything. But not now.
In fact, if anything, not only is he simply not initiating contact, he's avoiding it. Avidly. \
And to be completely honest, it's driving Sam fucking insane.
---
Now that Sam's noticed, he experiments a little bit. At breakfast in a local diner, Sam talks, non-stop about whatever pops into his head.
After hopping around 4 or 5 different topics, he ends up on a 10-minute rant about how movies are never as good as their written counterparts. Instead of participating in the discussion, Dean nods occasionally, and stares out into the parking lot of beat-down cars.
Sam gets his longest reply yet when he asks Dean what he thinks and Dean replies "You're right." Sam suddenly feels like a little boy.
Feeling impetulent at Dean's silence, Sam knocks his ankle against Dean's; a move that surely would've started a footfight under the table this side of a year ago. Now, Dean flinches and pulls his legs back as far as he can. Sam frowns and they don't talk for the rest of the meal.
==
That night, after they've settled into their room and showered, Sam walks out of the bathroom into the room, where Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed in a soft blue T-shirt and grey pajama pants. Sam sighs, frustrated, because as normal as it looks, he knows Dean is lightyears away from being anything close to okay. Sam grins to himself as a small, hopeful idea pops into his head.
"Food Network sucks, man." He playfully snatches the remote out of Dean's hand, flipping the channels until he lands on a documentary about the Civil War. Without fail, this always started a playful bickering/wrestling match over the remote. Even if everything else was shit, this was one little thing they always kept going. Until now. Dean doesn't say anything, just lets Sam take the remote and gets up, walking to the bathroom like nothing happened.
Sam has never hated the History Channel more than he does right then.
----
After a week of scenarios, each one making Sam feel small, stupid and increasingly hopeless; Sam calls him on it. They've packed up their stuff, and as they're hauling the last of their bags out of the room, Sam goes to clap Dean on the shoulder. Dean dodges the gesture and Sam stops, drops the bag of clothes he was carrying on the floor. Dean almost walks out of the room before he notices Sam hasn't moved an inch.
"What the hold up?" He asks, eyeing Sam up and down, warily. Sam feels sick, because those four words are more than Dean has said in the last few days. He's sick of Dean ignoring him, backing away from him, recoiling away like he's disgusted, and that's what he tells Dean.
"I don't know what's going on, Dean," Sam finishes, barely keeping his voice steady, "but please, either stop it, or at least tell me why."
Dean stares at the carpet, old and stained with God knows what. Sam's chest aches, because Dean's less than six feet away from him, but those six feet might as well be planets. He's never felt so distant, and it hurts.
"I'm sorry," Dean whispers, barely loud enough for Sam to hear, "I just need some time, okay?"
"Time to what? Remember how to look me in the eye?" Sam's pain is bleeding into his voice, he can feel it. Dean must be able to hear it to, because he finally looks up. He finally meets Sam's eyes, and Sam stops breathing. Dean looks as pained as Sam feels and Sam doesn't understand. He doesn't get this at all.
"Sam, it's not you," Dean says, slowly like he's speaking to a scared animal, "it's me. I've just got a lot of shit rolling around up here and it's taking me a while to go through it."
"Then talk to me. Please," Sam begs, he knows he's begging, he doesn't care. "Please, Dean, give me something."
Dean looks away, dropping his bag from his shoulder onto the floor. "Okay, Sammy, you wanna know what's going on?" Dean looks back at Sam and Sam can see desperation, fear, and anger in his eyes. If it were anyone other than Dean, Sam would be a little scared.
"Every time I look at you, I remember Hell." Sam flinches like he's been slapped and he stares at the floor. He wants Dean to tell him, but at the same time, he desperately wants him to shut up. But he asked for this and Dean's not gonna stop. "I remember the smell of burnt blood, charred flesh, and pain. I remember the shit I did. I remember all the shit I did to you." Sam eyes widen as he meets Dean's gaze again.
"Yeah, Sam. That was their favorite game. To put you on the rack in front of me. God, the unbelievable mess I made with you. I would skin you alive, slowly, with you screaming at the top of your lungs the whole time. I would cut you open and remove your organs one at a time while you bled all over the floor, begging me to stop." Sam's stomach turns, and suddenly everything seems forty times worse than it did ten minutes ago.
"And those are just a couple of things I did, Sam. Just a few examples out of a long list. I remember all the ways I hurt you, over and over. And I don't want to." Dean's voice goes from hard and vindictive, to soft and devastated. "I miss looking at you and feeling... something other than self-hatred for ever laying a hand on you."
Sam nods slightly, as Dean picks his bag back up. "So just drop it. Please." Dean turns around and walks out to the car. Sam flinches when he hears the trunk slam shut, and he picks up his own bag when he hears the driver's door slam next.
They don't talk for the rest of the day.
---
The next day, they're waiting at a stop light in the middle of a little redneck town, when Sam sees two little kids riding bikes up and down the sidewalk. Suddenly, Sam's feels a little tiny spark of hope in his chest.
"Remember when I was like, six?" Sam asks, not expecting an answer, "And we stayed in that shitty little trailer park in Missouri... All the kids rode bikes almost every afternoon and I didn't know how. I felt so stupid for not knowing something that any normal kid would know." Sam hesitates long enough to glance at Dean as he accelerates through the traffic light. He knows Dean's not talking, but he's pretty sure he's listening, so he continues.
"I was miserable for days. Finally, one day, you went and talked to one of the old women living their and asked her if you could borrow her grandson's bike while he was on vacation or some shit, and she let you. You taught me how to ride it, how to stay upright and not fall over. I was thrilled." Sam smiles a little at the memory.
"It was what, two days later? I came inside that stupid little trailer, both knees ripped up from wrecking on the gravel." Sam nearly jumps when Dean speaks in a dry-tone, "You wouldn't stop crying."
"No," Sam grins, "I wouldn't. But you," He grins a little wider and goes on, more confident now that he knows he has Dean's attention, "You took me into that gritty little bathroom and you cleaned me up. You spent, like, an hour picking out all the gravel out and taping gauze over both of my knees, trying to make me laugh and promising me I'd be okay. That everyone falls."
"There a point to this story, Sam?" Dean asks, with an annoyed edge to his voice.
"No, I guess not."
It's a lie and they both know it.
---
It's a few days later when Sam catches his next oppotunity. They're helping Bobby do research for a friend, both of the sitting around the motel room surrounded by ancient reference books. Sam glances up from his currently monster of a book, and watches Dean's lips move slightly as he reads to himself.
"Remember when I was like, seven? And all the other kids in my class at school could read and I couldn't?" Sam asks, and Dean glances up and meets Sam's gaze. One split second of connection before his eyes go back to being glued to
the Mesopotamian dictionary in front of him. "Yeah, so?"
"I felt so stupid, cause all the other kids could just pick up books and cruise through them and I could only read our names. The kids would make fun of me and tell me I was retarded. We came home from school that one day and you pulled this stack of kids books out of your backpack and I was terrified. I knew I was a lost cause. You talked me into it, and we spent days doing nothing but going over them, again and again, until they started making sense and I could read them on my own."
"It took a year before you stopped asking me how to prounounce longer words." Dean says, his lips flickering into a small, almost sad smile.
"Hey, it's a long journey from Dr. Suess to this." He said, holding up the massive book, making Dean's grin a little firmer before it dies away completely.
"Shut up, Sam."
"No."
They go back to reading.
When they finally take a break to eat, Dean slides a hand up Sam's back and grips his shoulder just a little as they walk to the car. Sam has to fight back tears of relief.
---
They're exhausted. It's been a week since the last story and the latest salt-and-burn was perfectly textbook. They're covered in mud from digging up the stupid grave and it feels like Sam's muscles may never forgive him. They both collapse on their beds and try to decide if they should shower or just fall asleep dirty.
For some reason he, himself, doesn't even understand, Sam decides this is a great time for another memory.
"Oh god, you remember that time when I was like, eleven and I got the stomach flu in Nevada?" Sam asks, and this time he actually gets a reply, "You hurled up corndogs for like five hours."
"Yeah, that. God, that was awful. I felt like I was gonna die. And you sat with me in that grimy motel bathroom, rubbing my back and making me drink water and Pepto, even though it didn't help."
"Sam."
"I felt like shit for days. You practically had to force-feed me soup and you read to me until I fell asleep."
"Sam, shut up."
"No, Dean. I won't. I'll keep talking for as long as it takes."
"Fine," Dean growls as he stomps his way into the bathroom. "Keep talking."
Sam knows Dean's genuinely annoyed, but any regret he had dissolved instantly the next morning, when Dean playfully slaps Sam's ass when he gets up to go to the bathroom. Being slapped on the ass has never made Sam so happy. His plan's working, however slowly.
---
A week and some odd days later, they're in Montana, in between hunts. It's a new motel room they've seen a thousand times before. They've eaten, showered and lying in their respective beds. Sam doesn't know why, but he knows what he needs to say.
"You remember how I was after Jess died?"
"Sam."
"I was miserable. I loved her so much and losing her felt like... it felt like dying. I just... didn't care about anything. I used to sit and just feel my chest ache from missing her so much. I can still feel it when I think about her."
"Sam," Dean says quietly.
"Everything seemed stupid and pointless and I remember being so depressed and angry," Sam takes a deep breath, his heart hurts remembering, "and I remember you. I remember how you'd make me get up in the morning. You'd make sure I ate, that I slept. You made me laugh and feel like maybe there was a way I could survive losing her. You gave me hope."
"Why are you telling me all this, Sam?" Dean asks, his voice raw and quiet.
"Because, Dean, you tell me you can't look at me without remembering what you did to me in hell. So I'm reminding you, that wasn't me down there. I don't remember all of those heinous things because you didn't do them, not to me. I want you to remember what I've always known. You've never hurt me, you never would."
Sam pulls the covers back on his bed and crawls in next to Dean. Dean doesn't move a muscle or look away from the ceiling.
"Every memory I have of you, you're helping me. You're picking me up off the ground and making sure I'm okay. I mean, you're probably laughing a little while you do it," he jokes, and Dean grins just a little, "but you're not hurting me. These stories I'm telling, I have more. Probably hundreds if I stop and think about it, and I'll keep telling them for as long as it takes for you to see yourself like I see you. I have never been afraid of you, I've never had a reason to be".
Dean doesn't answer, stays silent for a full minute before he turns to grab fistfuls of Sam's t-shit and pull him close, pressing his face into Sam's shoulder, where it meets his neck. Sam doesn't say a single word, just wraps him arms around his brother and breathes.
They fall asleep like that.
---
The next morning, Sam wakes up, opens his eyes and realizes Dean's already awake and he might be two inches away, but it's probably less. They stare at each other for a long moment before Sam leans over and gently, so gently, presses his lips to Deans. Dean startles just a twitch before he's pressing back, neither one of them deepening the kiss but both of them understanding the implications of it.
Finally, Sam pulls back, and they go back to staring. It's a minute or two of silence before Sam says very quietly,
"I remember this one time, when I was like, 14..."
Author: Sidium
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning: Schmoop, brief description of torture.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never was mine. Never will be mine.
Summary: Sam remembers what Dean's done a little differently than Dean does.
It took a few days, but when Sam finally notices, it feels more than a little obvious. Dean was never a touchy-feely person, that was a simple fact of life, but it's been two weeks since he came back from hell. Two weeks and he hasn't touched Sam once.
Not that Sam
was expecting him to cuddle up with him in bed or anything, but there's usually something; a hand on his back as they walk out of the motel room, a gentle slap upside the head as Dean walks past him, anything. But not now.
In fact, if anything, not only is he simply not initiating contact, he's avoiding it. Avidly. \
And to be completely honest, it's driving Sam fucking insane.
---
Now that Sam's noticed, he experiments a little bit. At breakfast in a local diner, Sam talks, non-stop about whatever pops into his head.
After hopping around 4 or 5 different topics, he ends up on a 10-minute rant about how movies are never as good as their written counterparts. Instead of participating in the discussion, Dean nods occasionally, and stares out into the parking lot of beat-down cars.
Sam gets his longest reply yet when he asks Dean what he thinks and Dean replies "You're right." Sam suddenly feels like a little boy.
Feeling impetulent at Dean's silence, Sam knocks his ankle against Dean's; a move that surely would've started a footfight under the table this side of a year ago. Now, Dean flinches and pulls his legs back as far as he can. Sam frowns and they don't talk for the rest of the meal.
==
That night, after they've settled into their room and showered, Sam walks out of the bathroom into the room, where Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed in a soft blue T-shirt and grey pajama pants. Sam sighs, frustrated, because as normal as it looks, he knows Dean is lightyears away from being anything close to okay. Sam grins to himself as a small, hopeful idea pops into his head.
"Food Network sucks, man." He playfully snatches the remote out of Dean's hand, flipping the channels until he lands on a documentary about the Civil War. Without fail, this always started a playful bickering/wrestling match over the remote. Even if everything else was shit, this was one little thing they always kept going. Until now. Dean doesn't say anything, just lets Sam take the remote and gets up, walking to the bathroom like nothing happened.
Sam has never hated the History Channel more than he does right then.
----
After a week of scenarios, each one making Sam feel small, stupid and increasingly hopeless; Sam calls him on it. They've packed up their stuff, and as they're hauling the last of their bags out of the room, Sam goes to clap Dean on the shoulder. Dean dodges the gesture and Sam stops, drops the bag of clothes he was carrying on the floor. Dean almost walks out of the room before he notices Sam hasn't moved an inch.
"What the hold up?" He asks, eyeing Sam up and down, warily. Sam feels sick, because those four words are more than Dean has said in the last few days. He's sick of Dean ignoring him, backing away from him, recoiling away like he's disgusted, and that's what he tells Dean.
"I don't know what's going on, Dean," Sam finishes, barely keeping his voice steady, "but please, either stop it, or at least tell me why."
Dean stares at the carpet, old and stained with God knows what. Sam's chest aches, because Dean's less than six feet away from him, but those six feet might as well be planets. He's never felt so distant, and it hurts.
"I'm sorry," Dean whispers, barely loud enough for Sam to hear, "I just need some time, okay?"
"Time to what? Remember how to look me in the eye?" Sam's pain is bleeding into his voice, he can feel it. Dean must be able to hear it to, because he finally looks up. He finally meets Sam's eyes, and Sam stops breathing. Dean looks as pained as Sam feels and Sam doesn't understand. He doesn't get this at all.
"Sam, it's not you," Dean says, slowly like he's speaking to a scared animal, "it's me. I've just got a lot of shit rolling around up here and it's taking me a while to go through it."
"Then talk to me. Please," Sam begs, he knows he's begging, he doesn't care. "Please, Dean, give me something."
Dean looks away, dropping his bag from his shoulder onto the floor. "Okay, Sammy, you wanna know what's going on?" Dean looks back at Sam and Sam can see desperation, fear, and anger in his eyes. If it were anyone other than Dean, Sam would be a little scared.
"Every time I look at you, I remember Hell." Sam flinches like he's been slapped and he stares at the floor. He wants Dean to tell him, but at the same time, he desperately wants him to shut up. But he asked for this and Dean's not gonna stop. "I remember the smell of burnt blood, charred flesh, and pain. I remember the shit I did. I remember all the shit I did to you." Sam eyes widen as he meets Dean's gaze again.
"Yeah, Sam. That was their favorite game. To put you on the rack in front of me. God, the unbelievable mess I made with you. I would skin you alive, slowly, with you screaming at the top of your lungs the whole time. I would cut you open and remove your organs one at a time while you bled all over the floor, begging me to stop." Sam's stomach turns, and suddenly everything seems forty times worse than it did ten minutes ago.
"And those are just a couple of things I did, Sam. Just a few examples out of a long list. I remember all the ways I hurt you, over and over. And I don't want to." Dean's voice goes from hard and vindictive, to soft and devastated. "I miss looking at you and feeling... something other than self-hatred for ever laying a hand on you."
Sam nods slightly, as Dean picks his bag back up. "So just drop it. Please." Dean turns around and walks out to the car. Sam flinches when he hears the trunk slam shut, and he picks up his own bag when he hears the driver's door slam next.
They don't talk for the rest of the day.
---
The next day, they're waiting at a stop light in the middle of a little redneck town, when Sam sees two little kids riding bikes up and down the sidewalk. Suddenly, Sam's feels a little tiny spark of hope in his chest.
"Remember when I was like, six?" Sam asks, not expecting an answer, "And we stayed in that shitty little trailer park in Missouri... All the kids rode bikes almost every afternoon and I didn't know how. I felt so stupid for not knowing something that any normal kid would know." Sam hesitates long enough to glance at Dean as he accelerates through the traffic light. He knows Dean's not talking, but he's pretty sure he's listening, so he continues.
"I was miserable for days. Finally, one day, you went and talked to one of the old women living their and asked her if you could borrow her grandson's bike while he was on vacation or some shit, and she let you. You taught me how to ride it, how to stay upright and not fall over. I was thrilled." Sam smiles a little at the memory.
"It was what, two days later? I came inside that stupid little trailer, both knees ripped up from wrecking on the gravel." Sam nearly jumps when Dean speaks in a dry-tone, "You wouldn't stop crying."
"No," Sam grins, "I wouldn't. But you," He grins a little wider and goes on, more confident now that he knows he has Dean's attention, "You took me into that gritty little bathroom and you cleaned me up. You spent, like, an hour picking out all the gravel out and taping gauze over both of my knees, trying to make me laugh and promising me I'd be okay. That everyone falls."
"There a point to this story, Sam?" Dean asks, with an annoyed edge to his voice.
"No, I guess not."
It's a lie and they both know it.
---
It's a few days later when Sam catches his next oppotunity. They're helping Bobby do research for a friend, both of the sitting around the motel room surrounded by ancient reference books. Sam glances up from his currently monster of a book, and watches Dean's lips move slightly as he reads to himself.
"Remember when I was like, seven? And all the other kids in my class at school could read and I couldn't?" Sam asks, and Dean glances up and meets Sam's gaze. One split second of connection before his eyes go back to being glued to
the Mesopotamian dictionary in front of him. "Yeah, so?"
"I felt so stupid, cause all the other kids could just pick up books and cruise through them and I could only read our names. The kids would make fun of me and tell me I was retarded. We came home from school that one day and you pulled this stack of kids books out of your backpack and I was terrified. I knew I was a lost cause. You talked me into it, and we spent days doing nothing but going over them, again and again, until they started making sense and I could read them on my own."
"It took a year before you stopped asking me how to prounounce longer words." Dean says, his lips flickering into a small, almost sad smile.
"Hey, it's a long journey from Dr. Suess to this." He said, holding up the massive book, making Dean's grin a little firmer before it dies away completely.
"Shut up, Sam."
"No."
They go back to reading.
When they finally take a break to eat, Dean slides a hand up Sam's back and grips his shoulder just a little as they walk to the car. Sam has to fight back tears of relief.
---
They're exhausted. It's been a week since the last story and the latest salt-and-burn was perfectly textbook. They're covered in mud from digging up the stupid grave and it feels like Sam's muscles may never forgive him. They both collapse on their beds and try to decide if they should shower or just fall asleep dirty.
For some reason he, himself, doesn't even understand, Sam decides this is a great time for another memory.
"Oh god, you remember that time when I was like, eleven and I got the stomach flu in Nevada?" Sam asks, and this time he actually gets a reply, "You hurled up corndogs for like five hours."
"Yeah, that. God, that was awful. I felt like I was gonna die. And you sat with me in that grimy motel bathroom, rubbing my back and making me drink water and Pepto, even though it didn't help."
"Sam."
"I felt like shit for days. You practically had to force-feed me soup and you read to me until I fell asleep."
"Sam, shut up."
"No, Dean. I won't. I'll keep talking for as long as it takes."
"Fine," Dean growls as he stomps his way into the bathroom. "Keep talking."
Sam knows Dean's genuinely annoyed, but any regret he had dissolved instantly the next morning, when Dean playfully slaps Sam's ass when he gets up to go to the bathroom. Being slapped on the ass has never made Sam so happy. His plan's working, however slowly.
---
A week and some odd days later, they're in Montana, in between hunts. It's a new motel room they've seen a thousand times before. They've eaten, showered and lying in their respective beds. Sam doesn't know why, but he knows what he needs to say.
"You remember how I was after Jess died?"
"Sam."
"I was miserable. I loved her so much and losing her felt like... it felt like dying. I just... didn't care about anything. I used to sit and just feel my chest ache from missing her so much. I can still feel it when I think about her."
"Sam," Dean says quietly.
"Everything seemed stupid and pointless and I remember being so depressed and angry," Sam takes a deep breath, his heart hurts remembering, "and I remember you. I remember how you'd make me get up in the morning. You'd make sure I ate, that I slept. You made me laugh and feel like maybe there was a way I could survive losing her. You gave me hope."
"Why are you telling me all this, Sam?" Dean asks, his voice raw and quiet.
"Because, Dean, you tell me you can't look at me without remembering what you did to me in hell. So I'm reminding you, that wasn't me down there. I don't remember all of those heinous things because you didn't do them, not to me. I want you to remember what I've always known. You've never hurt me, you never would."
Sam pulls the covers back on his bed and crawls in next to Dean. Dean doesn't move a muscle or look away from the ceiling.
"Every memory I have of you, you're helping me. You're picking me up off the ground and making sure I'm okay. I mean, you're probably laughing a little while you do it," he jokes, and Dean grins just a little, "but you're not hurting me. These stories I'm telling, I have more. Probably hundreds if I stop and think about it, and I'll keep telling them for as long as it takes for you to see yourself like I see you. I have never been afraid of you, I've never had a reason to be".
Dean doesn't answer, stays silent for a full minute before he turns to grab fistfuls of Sam's t-shit and pull him close, pressing his face into Sam's shoulder, where it meets his neck. Sam doesn't say a single word, just wraps him arms around his brother and breathes.
They fall asleep like that.
---
The next morning, Sam wakes up, opens his eyes and realizes Dean's already awake and he might be two inches away, but it's probably less. They stare at each other for a long moment before Sam leans over and gently, so gently, presses his lips to Deans. Dean startles just a twitch before he's pressing back, neither one of them deepening the kiss but both of them understanding the implications of it.
Finally, Sam pulls back, and they go back to staring. It's a minute or two of silence before Sam says very quietly,
"I remember this one time, when I was like, 14..."