SPN Fic: Smoke Drifting By - Chapter 4
See masterpost for summary and further information.
Chapter 4
Sam lost consciousness after his seizure. Dean was lost as to what to do. He should call the hospital, he knew, but they would take Sam away and not give him back. After what had happened, Sam wouldn’t want to come back. Dean had to talk to him. Had to explain that he never meant to hurt Sam, but he also needed an explanation or two himself.
Sam was breathing fine, so Dean assumed he would be okay. He’d wake up. No doctors needed.
So he did what Sam did not want him to do, because there was a reason for that and Dean was going to find out and fix this, somehow.
He would not think about Sam’s panic and what he’s said. There was a later time for that; a time when Dean did not feel like thinking about it might kill him.
Dean was very careful when he unzipped Sam’s hoodie and slipped it off him. Sam was wearing a t-shirt beneath it, but Dean didn’t need to bother with that as well. He found what he was looking for beneath a bandage around Sam’s left arm - a bandage that had not been there before and had nothing at all to do with Sam’s burns.
What he found beneath were a couple f cuts - some shallow, some so deep they had been stitched closed with the fishing thread from Dean’s storage room. That alone had to hurt like hell, and Dean was left to wonder where Sam had learned how to make stitches that neat while bleeding.
There was one cut on the underside of Sam’s arm, exactly in the middle between wrist and elbow, that showed clear signs of infection. It looked strange to Dean; very neat, but the stitches were bulging somehow, as if something was trying to break out from beneath. Dean inspected in more closely, and then he got a pair of small nail scissors from the bathroom, sliced them open and used a pair of pliers to pullout the broken razorblade that was embedded deep in Sam’s muscle. He emptied half a bottle of vodka over the badly bleeding mess, sewed it up again with more thread and wrapped it up tightly with a bandage. Then he went outside, onto the porch, and took deep breaths until he didn’t feel like throwing up again.
Sam had to have done that while Dean was at work. He must have done it in the bathroom - probably the shower, where he could easily clean away the blood. Sam was methodical like that. He had to have done it because he didn’t want Dean to worry all the time and stay home just for him. He didn’t want Dean to know how badly he was doing without him. Dean got that. He understood. It made him fucking angry.
When he felt he could breathe again he went back inside and sat beside Sam until he woke up.
-
Sam wasn’t, altogether, unconscious for more than half an hour. He woke briefly after Dean returned, and he woke whimpering. Dean was pissed, but he was also aching for him, so he held his hand when he said darkly, “I performed a little surgery while you were out. Must have hurt like a bitch - I bet you’re sorry you missed that.”
Sam’s long fingers wrapped around the new bandage, but whether to check what Dean had done or because of the residual pain Dean couldn’t tell. “You promised you would let me. You said you understood.” And damn, he sounded like a five-years-old there. Like a betrayed five-years-old.
“My understanding stops at self-mutilation, kiddo.” He squeezed Sam’s hand a little before letting it go. “If it was that bad you should have told me. I would have stayed here.”
“Didn’t want you to. You’ve done too much for me already. And…”
“And what?” Dean asked when Sam didn’t continue.
“It’s not just you. You being here helps…” He bit his lips as if regretting having said that, but he had and Dean fucking knew it! “But it’s been getting worse for a while now. I see… It’s harder to tell what’s real. Sometimes I think you’re here when you’re not.”
The thought of what Sam might have been seeing, what the Dean in his head might have done turned Dean’s stomach. Maybe there were awful things Sam didn’t even know hadn’t really happened. “But your injuries still have to hurt. You fucking whimper whenever you bend your knee!”
Sam shrugged. “I guess I just got used to that.”
“God damn it, Sam! This can’t go on!” Dean exploded. “You’re going to fucking kill yourself.”
“Perhaps that’s not the worst thing that could happen to us,” Sam whispered. And damn, he’d said ‘us’, so obviously he thought Sam killing himself would work awesomely with Dean’s plans for his future.
Dean didn’t know what to say. He had no idea what words could make Sam understand what that would do to Dean, so he kissed him instead. And this time he didn’t hold back. He put all his anger and love and half-buried desire into it, crushed their mouths together and didn’t leave Sam room to breathe.
Sam was still for a moment. Then he wrapped his arms around Dean, pulled him even closer and parted his lips as he kissed back with all he had.
-
There was still blood on the sheets. Sam’s blood. There was the pair of scissors which Dean pushed off so it couldn’t hurt them and the old, dirty gauze which he left there, beneath Sam’s back, as he pushed him down. There was a bottle of disinfectant on the bedside table and a roll of thread on the floor. All this should have pulled Dean back to reality, should have told him that this wasn’t okay, that Sam needed help and not this; that he had fucked up and was fucking up even more, right here, right now. It shouldn’t have turned him on.
It shouldn’t have felt right. But it did. This, them, among the smell of disinfectant and blood, rolling on dirty bandages, Dean’s hands running over scars and stitches. This felt right, like they belonged here, and Sam never once told him to stop but clung to him as if Dean could save him. He let Dean push him down, let him pin his hands down on either side of his head (Dean’s weight resting on his newly closed wound and Sam hissed and arched into him, like this, just like this). He let Dean lie on him, skin on naked skin and Dean didn’t even know what happened to their shirts, when they had pulled them off, and he didn’t know why this never happened in the shower, both of them naked and close and relaxed but here, among blood and pain and tension.
“Dean,” Sam gasped when he could breathe, like a plea for salvation and Dean growled in response, just growled.
He let go of Sam’s arms and moved his hands down his body, over protruding ribs (wrong!) and the scars left by his burns. Until he found Sam’s sweat pants, and he pressed his face against the bulge there and nuzzled it and blew and Sam jerked and made a noise that was something between a plea and a cry so Dean did it again.
Sam was squirming when Dean palmed him while licking a trail up his belly. He squirmed but made no sound, and when Dean looked up he saw that he was biting his arm - not putting it in his mouth to keep quiet but really biting down, to cause pain. There was some blood - not much, but it was there, smeared over Sam’s lips and the corner of his mouth and it send something hot down Dean’s belly, made him even harder even as it made him angry because this was wrong and had to stop.
So he growled again and said “Stop.” Pulled Sam’s arm away from his face, roughly because Sam needed that, needed it to hurt. He sat on the other man so his knees pinned down Sam’s arms and fished for Sam’s shirt, the one he ruined when he pulled the razor blade out of his arm, and tore it to shreds. (He’d never done that before but it felt so familiar he found himself grinning, or maybe just baring his teeth.) Then he pressed Sam’s arm against the bedpost and wrapped a stripe around his wrist and the wood so he was trapped. Repeated it with the other arm and Sam let it happen, didn’t even watch what Dean was doing, just watched Dean.
When he was done he kissed Sam again - shoved his tongue deep into the other’s mouth and let their teeth clash, and when he pulled back he caught Sam’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard enough to hurt. Sam needed it to hurt to be grounded in reality, but Dean wouldn’t let him hurt himself. Sam didn’t know when to stop, so he had to learn to trust Dean with this. Trust that he would do what he had to, that he wouldn’t be too gentle, too much in love to do what must be done.
But he was. He didn’t want to hurt Sam, couldn’t, but he had to and it made him angry, and he let that anger guide him, let it lead his hands and his mouth, let him grab Sam rougher, bite down harder.
His nails scrapped over Sam’s skin when he pulled off his pants, and hell, his legs, his skinny, mangled legs, it had to fucking hurt. But Sam moaned deeply and opened his thighs for Dean, so all thoughts Dean might have been having about it rushed south and disappeared.
-
Sam strained against the bonds, and that had to hurt, with all the damaged skin on his arms and hands it had to hurt. Dean bit down hard to remind him that this was his job, catching the soft flash of Sam’s buttocks between his teeth and Sam was still; panting but still, and then moaning when Dean moved just that little bit and teased Sam’s opening with the tip of his tongue. Dean licked, and Sam arched, and then Dean blew and licked again and tried to go a little further, and Sam nearly screamed.
Dean was pretty sure that he had never done anything like this before. Not even as a hallucination.
-
It wasn’t Dean’s first time with a man (not entirely) but it appeared to be Sam’s. For all Dean could tell he had never been taken before, not in any time that he or his body remembered, and as long as Sam didn’t beg and name him the Devil again that would be enough for him.
He was open beneath him, so open and willing and saying “Dean, Dean, Dean,” and “Please” with every breath, every pant and moan, and Dean was only panting and moaning, rocking in and out, in and out and hard and fast because it had to be rough, it had to be and he couldn’t slow down now if he wanted to, couldn’t do anything but go on and on and on and his mouth had forgotten how to speak, but in his mind he was chanting Sam, Sam, Sam, Sammy, and Yes, God, finally, and Mine.
-
Afterwards he freed Sam’s arms and kissed his tender wrists over and over again. Sam just sighed and rested his head on Dean’s chest, and in the end Dean pulled the blanket over both of them and they fell asleep like that: sweaty, sticky and together, Sam nestled safely in Dean’s arms.
-
“You need to understand,” Dean said the moment Sam stirred against him, “that I didn’t plan this. Really. You gotta believe me, this isn’t why I offered to take you in.”
Sam blinked at him. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Seriously, Sam. I need to clear that up.”
Sam moved away a little and made a face. He seemed more concerned with the fact that they were disgusting than anything else. “How long have you been lying awake, waiting for me to wake up so you can tell me?”
About an hour. “I just don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. I know how this must look.”
“I never worried about that. If you hadn’t started with this, I never even would have thought about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know you. You’re not that kind of guy.”
“You don’t know me that well.”
Sam shrugged. “Yes, I think I do. Or are you that kind of guy?”
“Of course not!”
“So what, then?” Sam rolled away and Dean saw him flinch when the movement hurt something in his body or maybe everything. He didn’t comment on it. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Good luck with that,” Dean grumbled. Sam’s wheelchair was, after all, in another room and walking, even three steps, was still a big no-go. But Sam just pulled a face at him, so Dean didn’t have any other choice but give in and pick him up like a child. Sam was taller than him, so this was always a little awkward, but Dean was strong and Sam was thin and in this case Dean’s naked body was very interested in feeling Sam’s naked body against it.
“You’re doing well today,” he observed. “I don’t know. I was worried. Yesterday…”
“Yesterday wasn’t a good day,” Sam admitted. “But I woke up and knew what was real. I’ve never felt this certain for as long as I can remember. Being with you… I guess it grounded me. Nothing like that ever happened in my mind. Not like that…” His voice trailed off at the final words and Dean held him a little closer as if he could protect him from something that was long ago and had maybe never happened. But then Sam squirmed and said, “You know, you could just have gotten the wheelchair for me.”
“Less romantic that way.” They reached the bathroom and Dean placed Sam on the bench above the bathtub and ran the water, waiting for it to get warm. Now, in the bright light of the lamp overhead Sam was a skinny collection of scars and bruises and Dean felt a new wave of shame run over him that made him place the shower in Sam’s hand and step back.
“Are you planning on staying dirty all day?” Sam called after him when he left and maybe he really wanted Dean to stay. Maybe he just wanted him to feel better. Dean was willing to take what he could get.
-
After they were both clean again, Dean carried Sam over to his own room, went back and fetched his wheelchair and then went to get his clothes. Stepping into his bedroom he was hit by the smell of sex and once again by the reality of what he had done. The sheets were soiled with dried blood and now, in the light of day, Dean could hardly stand the sight. He tore them off, but the bedding beneath was ruined as well. In the end he stuffed everything into the washing machine, added far too much powder and turned it on, unwilling to look at the mess any longer. He threw out the bandage and Sam’s ruined shirt, slipped into the first pair of pants he could find and went back to see if Sam needed any help.
He did. Apparently, Sam ached all over, and while he did not mind that, it made it hard for him to move. He had managed to half get into the pajama pants Dean had handed him and was now lying flat on his bed with tears in his eyes, breathing hard.
So Dean helped him with that. Pulled the pants all the way up, but when he was done his hands remained on Sam’s thighs, feeling the skin and bone and muscle under his palms.
“Was that really okay with you?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, Dean, it was okay. It was good. And I don’t believe you will kick me out now you’ve got into my pants. I just…”
Dean closed his eyes. “Just?”
“I still don’t understand why you invited me in the first place. If it had been this, at least I’d know. But I don’t. And it makes no sense. And then I wonder…”
He wondered if any of this was real at all. Dean didn’t need him to say it to understand. It suddenly made so much sense.
And Dean realized he had to give some kind of explanation - the one he had been avoiding because giving it to Sam also meant giving it to himself, and a part of him maybe feared that things would make too much sense then. “It’s hard to explain,” he began none-the-less. “My reasons were pretty selfish, though, if that’s any consolation to you. I… wanted to belong. With someone.” And yeah, that made sense.
Sam seemed to think so, too. “What about your friends? Your family? You’re not lonely.”
“I’m not. But I don’t have family. At least not that I know of.”
In Sam’s eyes Dean could see sympathy. Perhaps he had forgotten that he had even less. “What happened?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I lost my memory. Just like you. About a yeah ago, I was found by the side of the road beside my car, not ten miles from here and I never remembered anything before that.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. He was right - how likely was that?
“Did you ever find out who you are? There must have been someone missing you.”
No one ever missed Sam, but he didn’t seem to think the same should apply to Dean. “To be honest, I never looked.” He shook his head at himself, for the first time realizing how absurd that was. “I just… didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to think about it. I was happy like this. I kind of forgot there ever was a life before this.”
“And that doesn’t seem strange to you?” Sam whispered.
“Actually, no. Yeah, I know, that’s odd. I kind of think so now, yet I still don’t really care. I have my job, my friends, and just thinking about my past makes me head swim. Except it was never… there was always something missing. And I didn’t even realize it until I met you.” The next words were possibly the most girly ones Dean would ever say and he really hoped Sam wouldn’t bother to remember them later. “The idea of you going away terrifies me. And I don’t scare easily.”
Sam snorted softly, but he still looked pale and somewhat lost and Dean didn’t know what to make of that. Sam’s hand found his face, though, and cupped his cheek and how bad could it be if he was doing that? Why did he look so scared?
Dean climbed up the bed that was so much higher than his own and stretched out alongside his housemate, his lover. Sam clung to him as if Dean’s closeness would protect him from something Dean couldn’t even see. “So there you have it,” Dean murmured. “All selfishness on my part. I know saints don’t fit in your worldview, anyway. We good?”
“I don’t know,” Sam whispered. “I don’t know.” And that wasn’t what Dean was hoping for but yeah, better than No.
Sam was trembling, though, so Dean pulled the blanket over both of them and held him close. Sam held him right back, and perhaps Dean needed to be held just as much as him. “It’s just so odd,” Sam said. “Don’t you think this is a little too much of a coincidence? Both of us losing our memory at the same time, both of us not interested in getting it back, and then being so drawn to each other.”
“Now you mention it, it’s kind of suspicious,” Dean agreed, a little reluctantly. He didn’t really want to think about this. He just wanted to lie here, hold Sam, and relish the fact that his life was now better than before, with this crippled, insane little bitch at his side. “But we found ourselves in entirely different parts of the country. Unlikely that we were sitting in a car together, crashed and were separated due to amnesia like couples in telenovelas.”
“And yet I ended up here.”
“Coincidences do exist, you know?”
Sam made a none-committal sound, and Hell, why couldn’t he just accept things the way they were and shut up about it? Always had to question everything, from “If Dad was here on Christmas then why didn’t he wake me up?” to “How could Cas possibly burn the wrong bones?” The thoughts were out of Dean’s mind before he even finished thinking them, leaving only a feeling of uneasiness in their wake.
“You wanna do research on out pasts?” he asked. “See if there’s a shared secret or some evil organization that erased our memories because we knew too much?”
“No” Sam admitted. “I don’t. And I think there’s something wrong with that.”
He was probably right, but Dean was tired of thinking about it. For now, at least. Now he wanted to cuddle and forget that he had to go to work tomorrow.
“I have to go to work tomorrow,” he said. “I think there is something wrong with that.”
Sam made an annoyed sound. “You’re getting off topic.”
“It’s kind of a very real, very pressing topic.”
“You’re right.” Suddenly Sam was sounding a somewhat down again, and okay, his mood changes always took Dean a little unprepared, even on good days. And this was a very good day. “If I’m staying,” Sam continued, giving Dean an idea what was wrong this time. “If I’m staying here I can’t just go on living like this, eating your food, without contributing to the income.”
And there went Dean’s good mood, because how could he possibly say, “You’re too crazy to work,” without making Sam even more depressed.
The way he sounded so sad, he was probably thinking the same anway.
“First of all you have to get back on your feet, to whatever measure that’s gonna be in the end. Then we’ll see. I’m pretty sure there are plenty of things that can be done from home.”
Sam didn’t reply, clearly not convinced. And why would he be? Even working from home it would have to be something that wouldn’t suffer from him losing it every now and then. But Dean would think about it when the time came. If it was just up to him Sam wouldn’t need to work at all, but Dean could well imagine how useless he would feel if he didn’t. And perhaps a purpose would help him stay grounded.
“We’re gonna cross that bridge when we come to it,” Dean decided. “Let’s see what the doc says tomorrow. First your surgery, then thoughts on the future, okay?” He kissed the top of Sam’s head. “You hungry?”
“No. Cold. Tired.”
Not a surprise, there. Sam was rarely hungry and always cold. Dean was pretty hungry himself, but it could wait. “Sleep, then. I could do with a nap myself.” It was a lie, actually - so Dean was mildly surprised when he started to drift off just a few minutes later.
He heard the ringing of the doorbell, but couldn’t summon the energy to wake up and go there. This was nicer. Whoever it was could come back tomorrow if it was so damn important.
-
The sound of footsteps penetrated Dean’s dreams before he was even fully asleep. For a moment, he was convinced that Sam had gotten up and was now sneaking about, trying to be quiet so Dean wouldn’t be disturbed, but Sam was usually better at being quiet than that and finally Dean remembered that Sam couldn’t even walk.
Then he became aware that he was hardly even hearing the footsteps. It was more an instinct warning him of the presence of someone else, and the same instinct made him reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. (Why would it?)
His movements woke Sam, who tensed immediately. He was lying perfectly still, but Dean sensed that all his attention was focused on the outside of this room.
Both of them sat upright in shock when the door was opened and a man stepped inside. He was older, old enough to be their father, and he was holding a gun in his hand, and his eyes were wide as he stared at them.
Dean stared back, and so did Sam. The man didn’t point his gun at them; instead he lowered it as if it had become too hard to lift it up.
Sam pressed against Dean and Dean could feel him tremble. He was too aware of their nakedness, feeling vulnerable, defenseless. He couldn’t even imagine how Sam was feeling but he felt him tremble and knew that whatever progress Sam had made last night, it had disappeared the moment this stranger walked into the room.
So Dean hissed, “What the fuck are you?” and was ready to jump into the guy’s face more for the fact that he had disturbed Sam than that he had come into their bedroom with a gun in his hand.
But the man stumbled back before Dean could even move. His face lost all color and he turned his face towards the ceiling and cursed, “That son of a bitch!”
-
“Just, for God’s sake, just get dressed. I’ll be waiting outside.”
The man didn’t seem worried that Dean might take a gun of his own and shoot him. He just retreated, almost fled, from the room, closing the door behind him.
Dean didn’t intend to get dressed. He was wearing pants and so was Sam and that had to be enough.
“You okay?” He cupped Sam’s face, held it still. Sam nodded, but he was still trembling.
“I know him, Dean,” he said. “I’ve hallucinated him. I’ve seen him die.”
It just kept getting stranger. “Wait here,” Dean ordered. “I’ll take care of this.”
“No.” For all Sam’s confusion, his voice was not lacking in firmness. If Dean left him here he would crawl after him, that much was clear.
“Are you sure?”
“I need to talk to him. Where is…”
“Outside by the couch. C’mon.”
Sam grabbed the thin jacket slung over the bedpost and slipped it on before slinging his arms around Dean’s neck and allowing him to lift him up. Dean himself refused to dress into any more than he was because some old guy breaking and entering into his home did not get to dictate what he should wear for their meeting. He did understand, though, that Sam needed the illusion of security clothing provided.
The stranger was pacing up and down the room, between door and couch, his face troubled and his gun gone. His frown deepened in confusion when Dean entered the room with Sam in his arms, then his expression turned, briefly, to anger, then to worry as he watched Dean carefully place his precious burden in the wheelchair.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked gruffly. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Take a wild guess,” Dean growled back. Sam wrapped the jacket tighter around himself and seemed perfectly content with staring at the man with a pale face and otherwise leave the talking to Dean.
“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” Really, Dean should have called the police. He didn’t even know what he was doing here or why he thought it was a good idea to take Sam along. But then, Sam looked ready to flip and Dean certainly wasn’t going to leave him alone so he could mutilate himself some more.
“You really don’t remember me, do you?” The man groaned and sat down on the couch as if he could no longer stand. “That explains a lot. What happened to Sam?”
Sam flinched the moment his name was spoken and Dean instinctively moved in front of him. “How about you first tell us who you are and why I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand?”
“Name’s Bobby Singer. I’m a friend. Been looking for you for a long time.”
“Why would you?”
“Friend, Dean,” Sam muttered. Dean threw him an annoyed look. Sam still looked imbalanced, to say the least, but at least he seemed to have a relaxed a little.
“How can we know that? How do we know it’s not his fault we can’t remember anything in the first place.”
“That wasn’t me, that was Castiel.” Singer spit the name like it was something particularly distasteful. Dean and Sam shared a look and shook their heads.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dean said.
“No shit, dumbass. That doesn’t exactly come as a surprise right now.”
“Why would he do that? Who’s Castiel?”
“An angel,” Sam whispered.
Dean whipped around. “What? Bullshit! Shut up, Sammy, you don’t remember shit.”
“How do you know that?” Bobby asked, very interested.
Sam seemed to shrink into himself. “There’s… There’s a guy standing behind Bobby. He said so.” He was staring at something just behind Singer and then he flinched and clenched his fists. Dean knew if he follower his gaze he wouldn’t see anything.
To his surprise, Singer seemed to know as well, because he looked pained but didn’t turn around. “Still hallucinating? Well, there goes a terrible plan if I’ve ever seen one.”
“How do you know that?” Dean snapped. He had the odd urge to take Sam into his arms and shield him but didn’t move.
“Because I know you! And I know Sam. Better than you know each other at the moment.”
“I think I know Sam very well, thank you very much.”
“Yeah?” The man glared at Dean in a way that made him ridiculously uncomfortable. “Do you know, then, that he’s your brother? Because I didn’t get that impression just now.”
NEXT
Chapter 4
Sam lost consciousness after his seizure. Dean was lost as to what to do. He should call the hospital, he knew, but they would take Sam away and not give him back. After what had happened, Sam wouldn’t want to come back. Dean had to talk to him. Had to explain that he never meant to hurt Sam, but he also needed an explanation or two himself.
Sam was breathing fine, so Dean assumed he would be okay. He’d wake up. No doctors needed.
So he did what Sam did not want him to do, because there was a reason for that and Dean was going to find out and fix this, somehow.
He would not think about Sam’s panic and what he’s said. There was a later time for that; a time when Dean did not feel like thinking about it might kill him.
Dean was very careful when he unzipped Sam’s hoodie and slipped it off him. Sam was wearing a t-shirt beneath it, but Dean didn’t need to bother with that as well. He found what he was looking for beneath a bandage around Sam’s left arm - a bandage that had not been there before and had nothing at all to do with Sam’s burns.
What he found beneath were a couple f cuts - some shallow, some so deep they had been stitched closed with the fishing thread from Dean’s storage room. That alone had to hurt like hell, and Dean was left to wonder where Sam had learned how to make stitches that neat while bleeding.
There was one cut on the underside of Sam’s arm, exactly in the middle between wrist and elbow, that showed clear signs of infection. It looked strange to Dean; very neat, but the stitches were bulging somehow, as if something was trying to break out from beneath. Dean inspected in more closely, and then he got a pair of small nail scissors from the bathroom, sliced them open and used a pair of pliers to pullout the broken razorblade that was embedded deep in Sam’s muscle. He emptied half a bottle of vodka over the badly bleeding mess, sewed it up again with more thread and wrapped it up tightly with a bandage. Then he went outside, onto the porch, and took deep breaths until he didn’t feel like throwing up again.
Sam had to have done that while Dean was at work. He must have done it in the bathroom - probably the shower, where he could easily clean away the blood. Sam was methodical like that. He had to have done it because he didn’t want Dean to worry all the time and stay home just for him. He didn’t want Dean to know how badly he was doing without him. Dean got that. He understood. It made him fucking angry.
When he felt he could breathe again he went back inside and sat beside Sam until he woke up.
-
Sam wasn’t, altogether, unconscious for more than half an hour. He woke briefly after Dean returned, and he woke whimpering. Dean was pissed, but he was also aching for him, so he held his hand when he said darkly, “I performed a little surgery while you were out. Must have hurt like a bitch - I bet you’re sorry you missed that.”
Sam’s long fingers wrapped around the new bandage, but whether to check what Dean had done or because of the residual pain Dean couldn’t tell. “You promised you would let me. You said you understood.” And damn, he sounded like a five-years-old there. Like a betrayed five-years-old.
“My understanding stops at self-mutilation, kiddo.” He squeezed Sam’s hand a little before letting it go. “If it was that bad you should have told me. I would have stayed here.”
“Didn’t want you to. You’ve done too much for me already. And…”
“And what?” Dean asked when Sam didn’t continue.
“It’s not just you. You being here helps…” He bit his lips as if regretting having said that, but he had and Dean fucking knew it! “But it’s been getting worse for a while now. I see… It’s harder to tell what’s real. Sometimes I think you’re here when you’re not.”
The thought of what Sam might have been seeing, what the Dean in his head might have done turned Dean’s stomach. Maybe there were awful things Sam didn’t even know hadn’t really happened. “But your injuries still have to hurt. You fucking whimper whenever you bend your knee!”
Sam shrugged. “I guess I just got used to that.”
“God damn it, Sam! This can’t go on!” Dean exploded. “You’re going to fucking kill yourself.”
“Perhaps that’s not the worst thing that could happen to us,” Sam whispered. And damn, he’d said ‘us’, so obviously he thought Sam killing himself would work awesomely with Dean’s plans for his future.
Dean didn’t know what to say. He had no idea what words could make Sam understand what that would do to Dean, so he kissed him instead. And this time he didn’t hold back. He put all his anger and love and half-buried desire into it, crushed their mouths together and didn’t leave Sam room to breathe.
Sam was still for a moment. Then he wrapped his arms around Dean, pulled him even closer and parted his lips as he kissed back with all he had.
-
There was still blood on the sheets. Sam’s blood. There was the pair of scissors which Dean pushed off so it couldn’t hurt them and the old, dirty gauze which he left there, beneath Sam’s back, as he pushed him down. There was a bottle of disinfectant on the bedside table and a roll of thread on the floor. All this should have pulled Dean back to reality, should have told him that this wasn’t okay, that Sam needed help and not this; that he had fucked up and was fucking up even more, right here, right now. It shouldn’t have turned him on.
It shouldn’t have felt right. But it did. This, them, among the smell of disinfectant and blood, rolling on dirty bandages, Dean’s hands running over scars and stitches. This felt right, like they belonged here, and Sam never once told him to stop but clung to him as if Dean could save him. He let Dean push him down, let him pin his hands down on either side of his head (Dean’s weight resting on his newly closed wound and Sam hissed and arched into him, like this, just like this). He let Dean lie on him, skin on naked skin and Dean didn’t even know what happened to their shirts, when they had pulled them off, and he didn’t know why this never happened in the shower, both of them naked and close and relaxed but here, among blood and pain and tension.
“Dean,” Sam gasped when he could breathe, like a plea for salvation and Dean growled in response, just growled.
He let go of Sam’s arms and moved his hands down his body, over protruding ribs (wrong!) and the scars left by his burns. Until he found Sam’s sweat pants, and he pressed his face against the bulge there and nuzzled it and blew and Sam jerked and made a noise that was something between a plea and a cry so Dean did it again.
Sam was squirming when Dean palmed him while licking a trail up his belly. He squirmed but made no sound, and when Dean looked up he saw that he was biting his arm - not putting it in his mouth to keep quiet but really biting down, to cause pain. There was some blood - not much, but it was there, smeared over Sam’s lips and the corner of his mouth and it send something hot down Dean’s belly, made him even harder even as it made him angry because this was wrong and had to stop.
So he growled again and said “Stop.” Pulled Sam’s arm away from his face, roughly because Sam needed that, needed it to hurt. He sat on the other man so his knees pinned down Sam’s arms and fished for Sam’s shirt, the one he ruined when he pulled the razor blade out of his arm, and tore it to shreds. (He’d never done that before but it felt so familiar he found himself grinning, or maybe just baring his teeth.) Then he pressed Sam’s arm against the bedpost and wrapped a stripe around his wrist and the wood so he was trapped. Repeated it with the other arm and Sam let it happen, didn’t even watch what Dean was doing, just watched Dean.
When he was done he kissed Sam again - shoved his tongue deep into the other’s mouth and let their teeth clash, and when he pulled back he caught Sam’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard enough to hurt. Sam needed it to hurt to be grounded in reality, but Dean wouldn’t let him hurt himself. Sam didn’t know when to stop, so he had to learn to trust Dean with this. Trust that he would do what he had to, that he wouldn’t be too gentle, too much in love to do what must be done.
But he was. He didn’t want to hurt Sam, couldn’t, but he had to and it made him angry, and he let that anger guide him, let it lead his hands and his mouth, let him grab Sam rougher, bite down harder.
His nails scrapped over Sam’s skin when he pulled off his pants, and hell, his legs, his skinny, mangled legs, it had to fucking hurt. But Sam moaned deeply and opened his thighs for Dean, so all thoughts Dean might have been having about it rushed south and disappeared.
-
Sam strained against the bonds, and that had to hurt, with all the damaged skin on his arms and hands it had to hurt. Dean bit down hard to remind him that this was his job, catching the soft flash of Sam’s buttocks between his teeth and Sam was still; panting but still, and then moaning when Dean moved just that little bit and teased Sam’s opening with the tip of his tongue. Dean licked, and Sam arched, and then Dean blew and licked again and tried to go a little further, and Sam nearly screamed.
Dean was pretty sure that he had never done anything like this before. Not even as a hallucination.
-
It wasn’t Dean’s first time with a man (not entirely) but it appeared to be Sam’s. For all Dean could tell he had never been taken before, not in any time that he or his body remembered, and as long as Sam didn’t beg and name him the Devil again that would be enough for him.
He was open beneath him, so open and willing and saying “Dean, Dean, Dean,” and “Please” with every breath, every pant and moan, and Dean was only panting and moaning, rocking in and out, in and out and hard and fast because it had to be rough, it had to be and he couldn’t slow down now if he wanted to, couldn’t do anything but go on and on and on and his mouth had forgotten how to speak, but in his mind he was chanting Sam, Sam, Sam, Sammy, and Yes, God, finally, and Mine.
-
Afterwards he freed Sam’s arms and kissed his tender wrists over and over again. Sam just sighed and rested his head on Dean’s chest, and in the end Dean pulled the blanket over both of them and they fell asleep like that: sweaty, sticky and together, Sam nestled safely in Dean’s arms.
-
“You need to understand,” Dean said the moment Sam stirred against him, “that I didn’t plan this. Really. You gotta believe me, this isn’t why I offered to take you in.”
Sam blinked at him. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Seriously, Sam. I need to clear that up.”
Sam moved away a little and made a face. He seemed more concerned with the fact that they were disgusting than anything else. “How long have you been lying awake, waiting for me to wake up so you can tell me?”
About an hour. “I just don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. I know how this must look.”
“I never worried about that. If you hadn’t started with this, I never even would have thought about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know you. You’re not that kind of guy.”
“You don’t know me that well.”
Sam shrugged. “Yes, I think I do. Or are you that kind of guy?”
“Of course not!”
“So what, then?” Sam rolled away and Dean saw him flinch when the movement hurt something in his body or maybe everything. He didn’t comment on it. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Good luck with that,” Dean grumbled. Sam’s wheelchair was, after all, in another room and walking, even three steps, was still a big no-go. But Sam just pulled a face at him, so Dean didn’t have any other choice but give in and pick him up like a child. Sam was taller than him, so this was always a little awkward, but Dean was strong and Sam was thin and in this case Dean’s naked body was very interested in feeling Sam’s naked body against it.
“You’re doing well today,” he observed. “I don’t know. I was worried. Yesterday…”
“Yesterday wasn’t a good day,” Sam admitted. “But I woke up and knew what was real. I’ve never felt this certain for as long as I can remember. Being with you… I guess it grounded me. Nothing like that ever happened in my mind. Not like that…” His voice trailed off at the final words and Dean held him a little closer as if he could protect him from something that was long ago and had maybe never happened. But then Sam squirmed and said, “You know, you could just have gotten the wheelchair for me.”
“Less romantic that way.” They reached the bathroom and Dean placed Sam on the bench above the bathtub and ran the water, waiting for it to get warm. Now, in the bright light of the lamp overhead Sam was a skinny collection of scars and bruises and Dean felt a new wave of shame run over him that made him place the shower in Sam’s hand and step back.
“Are you planning on staying dirty all day?” Sam called after him when he left and maybe he really wanted Dean to stay. Maybe he just wanted him to feel better. Dean was willing to take what he could get.
-
After they were both clean again, Dean carried Sam over to his own room, went back and fetched his wheelchair and then went to get his clothes. Stepping into his bedroom he was hit by the smell of sex and once again by the reality of what he had done. The sheets were soiled with dried blood and now, in the light of day, Dean could hardly stand the sight. He tore them off, but the bedding beneath was ruined as well. In the end he stuffed everything into the washing machine, added far too much powder and turned it on, unwilling to look at the mess any longer. He threw out the bandage and Sam’s ruined shirt, slipped into the first pair of pants he could find and went back to see if Sam needed any help.
He did. Apparently, Sam ached all over, and while he did not mind that, it made it hard for him to move. He had managed to half get into the pajama pants Dean had handed him and was now lying flat on his bed with tears in his eyes, breathing hard.
So Dean helped him with that. Pulled the pants all the way up, but when he was done his hands remained on Sam’s thighs, feeling the skin and bone and muscle under his palms.
“Was that really okay with you?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, Dean, it was okay. It was good. And I don’t believe you will kick me out now you’ve got into my pants. I just…”
Dean closed his eyes. “Just?”
“I still don’t understand why you invited me in the first place. If it had been this, at least I’d know. But I don’t. And it makes no sense. And then I wonder…”
He wondered if any of this was real at all. Dean didn’t need him to say it to understand. It suddenly made so much sense.
And Dean realized he had to give some kind of explanation - the one he had been avoiding because giving it to Sam also meant giving it to himself, and a part of him maybe feared that things would make too much sense then. “It’s hard to explain,” he began none-the-less. “My reasons were pretty selfish, though, if that’s any consolation to you. I… wanted to belong. With someone.” And yeah, that made sense.
Sam seemed to think so, too. “What about your friends? Your family? You’re not lonely.”
“I’m not. But I don’t have family. At least not that I know of.”
In Sam’s eyes Dean could see sympathy. Perhaps he had forgotten that he had even less. “What happened?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I lost my memory. Just like you. About a yeah ago, I was found by the side of the road beside my car, not ten miles from here and I never remembered anything before that.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. He was right - how likely was that?
“Did you ever find out who you are? There must have been someone missing you.”
No one ever missed Sam, but he didn’t seem to think the same should apply to Dean. “To be honest, I never looked.” He shook his head at himself, for the first time realizing how absurd that was. “I just… didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to think about it. I was happy like this. I kind of forgot there ever was a life before this.”
“And that doesn’t seem strange to you?” Sam whispered.
“Actually, no. Yeah, I know, that’s odd. I kind of think so now, yet I still don’t really care. I have my job, my friends, and just thinking about my past makes me head swim. Except it was never… there was always something missing. And I didn’t even realize it until I met you.” The next words were possibly the most girly ones Dean would ever say and he really hoped Sam wouldn’t bother to remember them later. “The idea of you going away terrifies me. And I don’t scare easily.”
Sam snorted softly, but he still looked pale and somewhat lost and Dean didn’t know what to make of that. Sam’s hand found his face, though, and cupped his cheek and how bad could it be if he was doing that? Why did he look so scared?
Dean climbed up the bed that was so much higher than his own and stretched out alongside his housemate, his lover. Sam clung to him as if Dean’s closeness would protect him from something Dean couldn’t even see. “So there you have it,” Dean murmured. “All selfishness on my part. I know saints don’t fit in your worldview, anyway. We good?”
“I don’t know,” Sam whispered. “I don’t know.” And that wasn’t what Dean was hoping for but yeah, better than No.
Sam was trembling, though, so Dean pulled the blanket over both of them and held him close. Sam held him right back, and perhaps Dean needed to be held just as much as him. “It’s just so odd,” Sam said. “Don’t you think this is a little too much of a coincidence? Both of us losing our memory at the same time, both of us not interested in getting it back, and then being so drawn to each other.”
“Now you mention it, it’s kind of suspicious,” Dean agreed, a little reluctantly. He didn’t really want to think about this. He just wanted to lie here, hold Sam, and relish the fact that his life was now better than before, with this crippled, insane little bitch at his side. “But we found ourselves in entirely different parts of the country. Unlikely that we were sitting in a car together, crashed and were separated due to amnesia like couples in telenovelas.”
“And yet I ended up here.”
“Coincidences do exist, you know?”
Sam made a none-committal sound, and Hell, why couldn’t he just accept things the way they were and shut up about it? Always had to question everything, from “If Dad was here on Christmas then why didn’t he wake me up?” to “How could Cas possibly burn the wrong bones?” The thoughts were out of Dean’s mind before he even finished thinking them, leaving only a feeling of uneasiness in their wake.
“You wanna do research on out pasts?” he asked. “See if there’s a shared secret or some evil organization that erased our memories because we knew too much?”
“No” Sam admitted. “I don’t. And I think there’s something wrong with that.”
He was probably right, but Dean was tired of thinking about it. For now, at least. Now he wanted to cuddle and forget that he had to go to work tomorrow.
“I have to go to work tomorrow,” he said. “I think there is something wrong with that.”
Sam made an annoyed sound. “You’re getting off topic.”
“It’s kind of a very real, very pressing topic.”
“You’re right.” Suddenly Sam was sounding a somewhat down again, and okay, his mood changes always took Dean a little unprepared, even on good days. And this was a very good day. “If I’m staying,” Sam continued, giving Dean an idea what was wrong this time. “If I’m staying here I can’t just go on living like this, eating your food, without contributing to the income.”
And there went Dean’s good mood, because how could he possibly say, “You’re too crazy to work,” without making Sam even more depressed.
The way he sounded so sad, he was probably thinking the same anway.
“First of all you have to get back on your feet, to whatever measure that’s gonna be in the end. Then we’ll see. I’m pretty sure there are plenty of things that can be done from home.”
Sam didn’t reply, clearly not convinced. And why would he be? Even working from home it would have to be something that wouldn’t suffer from him losing it every now and then. But Dean would think about it when the time came. If it was just up to him Sam wouldn’t need to work at all, but Dean could well imagine how useless he would feel if he didn’t. And perhaps a purpose would help him stay grounded.
“We’re gonna cross that bridge when we come to it,” Dean decided. “Let’s see what the doc says tomorrow. First your surgery, then thoughts on the future, okay?” He kissed the top of Sam’s head. “You hungry?”
“No. Cold. Tired.”
Not a surprise, there. Sam was rarely hungry and always cold. Dean was pretty hungry himself, but it could wait. “Sleep, then. I could do with a nap myself.” It was a lie, actually - so Dean was mildly surprised when he started to drift off just a few minutes later.
He heard the ringing of the doorbell, but couldn’t summon the energy to wake up and go there. This was nicer. Whoever it was could come back tomorrow if it was so damn important.
-
The sound of footsteps penetrated Dean’s dreams before he was even fully asleep. For a moment, he was convinced that Sam had gotten up and was now sneaking about, trying to be quiet so Dean wouldn’t be disturbed, but Sam was usually better at being quiet than that and finally Dean remembered that Sam couldn’t even walk.
Then he became aware that he was hardly even hearing the footsteps. It was more an instinct warning him of the presence of someone else, and the same instinct made him reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. (Why would it?)
His movements woke Sam, who tensed immediately. He was lying perfectly still, but Dean sensed that all his attention was focused on the outside of this room.
Both of them sat upright in shock when the door was opened and a man stepped inside. He was older, old enough to be their father, and he was holding a gun in his hand, and his eyes were wide as he stared at them.
Dean stared back, and so did Sam. The man didn’t point his gun at them; instead he lowered it as if it had become too hard to lift it up.
Sam pressed against Dean and Dean could feel him tremble. He was too aware of their nakedness, feeling vulnerable, defenseless. He couldn’t even imagine how Sam was feeling but he felt him tremble and knew that whatever progress Sam had made last night, it had disappeared the moment this stranger walked into the room.
So Dean hissed, “What the fuck are you?” and was ready to jump into the guy’s face more for the fact that he had disturbed Sam than that he had come into their bedroom with a gun in his hand.
But the man stumbled back before Dean could even move. His face lost all color and he turned his face towards the ceiling and cursed, “That son of a bitch!”
-
“Just, for God’s sake, just get dressed. I’ll be waiting outside.”
The man didn’t seem worried that Dean might take a gun of his own and shoot him. He just retreated, almost fled, from the room, closing the door behind him.
Dean didn’t intend to get dressed. He was wearing pants and so was Sam and that had to be enough.
“You okay?” He cupped Sam’s face, held it still. Sam nodded, but he was still trembling.
“I know him, Dean,” he said. “I’ve hallucinated him. I’ve seen him die.”
It just kept getting stranger. “Wait here,” Dean ordered. “I’ll take care of this.”
“No.” For all Sam’s confusion, his voice was not lacking in firmness. If Dean left him here he would crawl after him, that much was clear.
“Are you sure?”
“I need to talk to him. Where is…”
“Outside by the couch. C’mon.”
Sam grabbed the thin jacket slung over the bedpost and slipped it on before slinging his arms around Dean’s neck and allowing him to lift him up. Dean himself refused to dress into any more than he was because some old guy breaking and entering into his home did not get to dictate what he should wear for their meeting. He did understand, though, that Sam needed the illusion of security clothing provided.
The stranger was pacing up and down the room, between door and couch, his face troubled and his gun gone. His frown deepened in confusion when Dean entered the room with Sam in his arms, then his expression turned, briefly, to anger, then to worry as he watched Dean carefully place his precious burden in the wheelchair.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked gruffly. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Take a wild guess,” Dean growled back. Sam wrapped the jacket tighter around himself and seemed perfectly content with staring at the man with a pale face and otherwise leave the talking to Dean.
“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” Really, Dean should have called the police. He didn’t even know what he was doing here or why he thought it was a good idea to take Sam along. But then, Sam looked ready to flip and Dean certainly wasn’t going to leave him alone so he could mutilate himself some more.
“You really don’t remember me, do you?” The man groaned and sat down on the couch as if he could no longer stand. “That explains a lot. What happened to Sam?”
Sam flinched the moment his name was spoken and Dean instinctively moved in front of him. “How about you first tell us who you are and why I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand?”
“Name’s Bobby Singer. I’m a friend. Been looking for you for a long time.”
“Why would you?”
“Friend, Dean,” Sam muttered. Dean threw him an annoyed look. Sam still looked imbalanced, to say the least, but at least he seemed to have a relaxed a little.
“How can we know that? How do we know it’s not his fault we can’t remember anything in the first place.”
“That wasn’t me, that was Castiel.” Singer spit the name like it was something particularly distasteful. Dean and Sam shared a look and shook their heads.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dean said.
“No shit, dumbass. That doesn’t exactly come as a surprise right now.”
“Why would he do that? Who’s Castiel?”
“An angel,” Sam whispered.
Dean whipped around. “What? Bullshit! Shut up, Sammy, you don’t remember shit.”
“How do you know that?” Bobby asked, very interested.
Sam seemed to shrink into himself. “There’s… There’s a guy standing behind Bobby. He said so.” He was staring at something just behind Singer and then he flinched and clenched his fists. Dean knew if he follower his gaze he wouldn’t see anything.
To his surprise, Singer seemed to know as well, because he looked pained but didn’t turn around. “Still hallucinating? Well, there goes a terrible plan if I’ve ever seen one.”
“How do you know that?” Dean snapped. He had the odd urge to take Sam into his arms and shield him but didn’t move.
“Because I know you! And I know Sam. Better than you know each other at the moment.”
“I think I know Sam very well, thank you very much.”
“Yeah?” The man glared at Dean in a way that made him ridiculously uncomfortable. “Do you know, then, that he’s your brother? Because I didn’t get that impression just now.”
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