Fanfic - SPN: IDKMUIMY - Ch.5 - I Laugh for You and Cry for Me
Title: I Didn't Know Me Until I Met You
Author: eboniorchid
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Chapter 5: I Laugh for You and Cry for Me
[052.Indescribable]
Non-dates could, apparently, end with real sex, though, just like real dates.
Sam couldn't help being a bit anxious, maybe embarrassed, maybe even angry, as he stood in Dean's motel room, with Dean's fingers on him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He wasn't mad at Dean for pushing this a bit. Sam wanted feel Dean against him again, but he couldn't help feeling like Kane's brutality would ruin everything, that Dean would be too horrified to go through with whatever "options" he thought he had in mind or that he would chicken out in a minute himself, not wanting to remember how tainted he was, how long he'd been that way. Dean might have some sense that it wasn't just his face that had been messed over, but Sam knew the extent of the damage that Kane left was always shocking, even to him. His father had told him once, after he'd punished Sam himself, that it was a good sign that Sam could withstand so much violent attention. It meant that the part of him that was Grigori was strong, strong and bonded deeply to the humanity in him, which made him slower to break and quicker to heal.
But for Sam it was never slow enough, and never quick enough.
Dean finished freeing the buttons of his shirt and pushed back on the cloth of the shoulders gently. Sam closed his eyes, feeling the cloth glide over his arms and down to the floor. He didn't want to see Dean's face when he saw how deeply bruised and scarred he was. But he didn't want to wait for Dean to nerve-up and yank his sleeveless undershirt up and over his head. So he did that himself, not bothering to open his eyes to see where the shirt flew when he flung it away.
"Sam. Look at me." It was a command, yes, but not like the ones Sam was used to. This one was soft and it seemed to have an unspoken "please" attached.
Sam reluctantly opened his eyes, meeting Dean's, expecting the wide shock of horror, but what he got was a thread of anger, reigned in tight, under a cloud of concern and desire and something Sam couldn't yet name. Dean's hands skimmed over the bruised skin of his arms, then his chest. His movements were so slow, calming, comforting, but also somehow cataloguing all the hurts, filing them away. It almost felt like he was pulling some of the strength from those hurts, lessening the pain.
"These don't mean that you belong to him." It was a statement of facts Dean knew nothing about and Sam's jaw set tight.
His words were true in some ways, but so terribly false in others. Sam knew he didn't belong to Kane, but it wasn't like there had ever been anyone steady and positive in his life to keep him holding on to anything outside his twisted family. He belonged to himself, in theory, but he knew his family all but owned him. The signs of kinship and loyalty on his back were only one step up from those humans in total servitude to the clan. Everyone knew that. And everyone knew what that meant, what they could get away with, what he was worth, what he was good for. He turned his head to face away, his teeth grinding.
As long as he had no Cloak of his own, he might as well belong to Kane and anyone else his father would turn a blind eye to.
But Dean's hand was firm on his chin, turning Sam back to look at him. "You don't belong to him."
Sam couldn't help but smile that bitter, dangerous smile he hadn't meant for Dean to ever see. The situation was so fucked up it was hilarious and sickening at the same time. Nights with Kane always made him colder, crueler, but Sam couldn't help that. He'd tried to get Dean to leave this alone, leave him alone, hours and hours ago, but Dean wanted this and Sam wanted it too. He just couldn't give into that want so easily, couldn't just take the comfort of a near stranger after a night of hell. So if Dean wanted him today, wanted Kane's leftovers, wanted to think he could wash away the stain of those hands on Sam's skin, then Dean would have to deal with the man that Kane had made, molded with all the harshest of tools.
Sam could feel the madness of that smile pulling aside the veils of humanity hiding his darker nature from view. But Dean didn't recoil, even though he tensed, searching Sam's eyes for something he was never going to find, because his instincts said something was wrong here.
Sam knew Dean wouldn't figure it out, though. Not like this.
Sam just shook his head, his smile softening, with a puff of laughter edged with arrogance. "You don't know anything about this, Dean." You don't know anything about me, Dean.
"Not the first time." His voice came out soft and serious, somehow distressed and reverent at once.
"Not the first time you don't know anything?"
"It wasn't the first time he … did this to you."
"Lucky you. You're the winner. What do you want for a prize, Dean? You want me on my knees?"
"Is that what he made you do?"
Sam knew that wicked smile was back, but he couldn't fucking help it. It was almost like just by telling Dean about the standard dose of torture in his life, he was cutting into Dean, drawing blood he couldn't see. Part of it was Dean's fault anyway, wasn't it? Shouldn't he feel this? Shouldn't Dean take some piece of this gnawing pain and shame that Kane had etched into every bend of his body? Sam could feel the press of his power wanting to wash over him, to help him draw that blood for real, to help Dean see what it was like to be helpless, to be used, to know that no matter how clean he got on the outside, there would always be that taint under his skin.
"Sammy?"
Sam swallowed, closing his eyes, struggling to press down the desire to huddle into the blanket of his power, to get away from the worry and near-fear that Dean was wearing, worry over something he couldn't do anything about, fear of something he didn't remotely understand.
Sam took a deep breath, shaking his head again, as if that would clear it, and opened his eyes, his voice low, but calm. No edge, just a friendly warning. "I don't think this is a good idea, Dean."
"Because you're angry? You're supposed to be angry."
"Not with you, though. It's mostly my fault."
"Mostly?"
Sam knew he'd slipped, but figured he could recover. "Mine and whatever little shoulder-devil pushes people to do fucked up things to one another."
"You were talking about me, though, Sam. Are you saying this has something to with me?"
"No."
"Was it a gay-bashing thing? Did he follow you home?"
"He didn't follow me home, Dean. It's not that fucking simple. And I'm not going to tell you. So if you'd like to sit around playing the guessing game all afternoon, please wait until the door locks behind me. You wanna fuck? That's fine, sounds like fun. But shut up about this already."
"I just-" Sam sighed, exasperated, bending down to grab his overshirt, before stomping over to the corner where his undershirt had landed.
Dean was sweet.
Dean was a good lay.
And Dean was fucking clueless about how much easier it would be if there was just some fucking bully in town beating him up because he went home with guys after last call at the local bar. That would be a fucked up situation in and of itself, but the fact that it was actually somehow less fucked up than his real circumstances just told Sam how much he'd been kidding himself when he'd thought he'd be able to get out of his head for a minute with Dean, to stop thinking about what it meant for him to be scarred up like this.
But then Dean's hands were on his back, tracing the dark angry lines inscribed in his skin.
Sam knew he'd been careless and should probably keep Dean's mind off the symbols there, but the brush of Dean's fingers, mapping his shredded back, sent a thrum of warmth through him and he couldn't make himself pull away.
"He was already at home." Dean's words were so final, flavored by a level of defeat.
He might not know everything, but he knew enough. He could read the scars not as symbols in a language familiar to him, but as brandings of ownership, markings of abuse, and old ones, at that, very old.
Sam didn't say anything, didn't have to.
Then Dean's lips were on his back, his arm around Sam's waist. It was like he could somehow kiss away the evidence of all those many tarnished years, laying his own tender claim over every jagged, blood-tinged line, and every blue-black patch of shattered skin.
Later, after Dean had covered nearly every inch of him, after Dean had swallowed him whole until he was arching up, Dean's name on his lips, after Dean had sunk slowly down onto his cock, riding him slow and hard until they were moaning in time with each other, in sync for a moment. Much later, Sam realized he still felt that warmth inside him, tiny embers different from the heat of his power, but filled with strength and comfort nonetheless. Dean was slipping in, under his skin. But it didn't feel like another stain, another taint he'd never wash away.
It felt like … it was almost as if … and Sam knew it made no sense … but somehow … it felt right … like Dean belonged there … like Dean was meant to heal the wounds that others had laid bare.
---
That was only the beginning, though.
Andover might not have been a central location on any major map, but Dean would breeze through for a few days on occasion. And they actually talked. Not about work, of course, because both figured the other wouldn't have the faintest clue how to process what they each did for a living, but they kind of checked in on occasion. After that first weekend together, at first Dean rang his cell phone to ask are-you-dead-or-alive type questions and do-I-need-to-hurt-someone-for-you kinds of things. But after a while, it got to be about little things, like how it really did rain all the time in Seattle, or how new management of a perfectly good bar could kill all the fun in the blink of an eye, or how much respect you had to give Nature after seeing the devastation of the Mississippi River's bi-annual flood, or how people often get the wrong impression about people just trying to do the right thing.
They were more than friends, but they were also almost actual friends.
Sam didn't know where this was going, but it was a ride he couldn’t get off of. He knew he had his mission to tend to, and he would, because he knew it was what had to be done, that his mother deserved that, and that he deserved the Cloak, that he needed it. But he knew that line would be one he'd never be able to step back over once he'd crossed it. And he didn't want to lose what he had with Dean, whatever it was, before he absolutely had to.
It wasn't just that his skin, and mouth, and hands, and body, craved Dean's, though they certainly did that. It turned out that they craved everything about each other. Hours spent near to one another felt right in that precisely indescribable way that all their time apart felt so wrong. Every time Dean came into town it got that much harder for him to leave, for Sam to let him leave, for them to not either stay or go together. But they each had responsibilities, work, family, and they knew their relationship would never be okay in the spheres of life they traveled in, though each had different reasons. That knowledge didn't stop the want, though, didn't stop the need, didn't mute the connection they'd built up between them, didn't make them turn away, turn back. Even with all the alarm bells chiming in his mind, the ones he knew were echoed in Dean's, Sam knew this was what felt good for them, what seemed right for them. And he knew that neither of them would give it up without a fight.
Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12
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Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Additional Series Info
Chapter 5: I Laugh for You and Cry for Me
[052.Indescribable]
Non-dates could, apparently, end with real sex, though, just like real dates.
Sam couldn't help being a bit anxious, maybe embarrassed, maybe even angry, as he stood in Dean's motel room, with Dean's fingers on him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He wasn't mad at Dean for pushing this a bit. Sam wanted feel Dean against him again, but he couldn't help feeling like Kane's brutality would ruin everything, that Dean would be too horrified to go through with whatever "options" he thought he had in mind or that he would chicken out in a minute himself, not wanting to remember how tainted he was, how long he'd been that way. Dean might have some sense that it wasn't just his face that had been messed over, but Sam knew the extent of the damage that Kane left was always shocking, even to him. His father had told him once, after he'd punished Sam himself, that it was a good sign that Sam could withstand so much violent attention. It meant that the part of him that was Grigori was strong, strong and bonded deeply to the humanity in him, which made him slower to break and quicker to heal.
But for Sam it was never slow enough, and never quick enough.
Dean finished freeing the buttons of his shirt and pushed back on the cloth of the shoulders gently. Sam closed his eyes, feeling the cloth glide over his arms and down to the floor. He didn't want to see Dean's face when he saw how deeply bruised and scarred he was. But he didn't want to wait for Dean to nerve-up and yank his sleeveless undershirt up and over his head. So he did that himself, not bothering to open his eyes to see where the shirt flew when he flung it away.
"Sam. Look at me." It was a command, yes, but not like the ones Sam was used to. This one was soft and it seemed to have an unspoken "please" attached.
Sam reluctantly opened his eyes, meeting Dean's, expecting the wide shock of horror, but what he got was a thread of anger, reigned in tight, under a cloud of concern and desire and something Sam couldn't yet name. Dean's hands skimmed over the bruised skin of his arms, then his chest. His movements were so slow, calming, comforting, but also somehow cataloguing all the hurts, filing them away. It almost felt like he was pulling some of the strength from those hurts, lessening the pain.
"These don't mean that you belong to him." It was a statement of facts Dean knew nothing about and Sam's jaw set tight.
His words were true in some ways, but so terribly false in others. Sam knew he didn't belong to Kane, but it wasn't like there had ever been anyone steady and positive in his life to keep him holding on to anything outside his twisted family. He belonged to himself, in theory, but he knew his family all but owned him. The signs of kinship and loyalty on his back were only one step up from those humans in total servitude to the clan. Everyone knew that. And everyone knew what that meant, what they could get away with, what he was worth, what he was good for. He turned his head to face away, his teeth grinding.
As long as he had no Cloak of his own, he might as well belong to Kane and anyone else his father would turn a blind eye to.
But Dean's hand was firm on his chin, turning Sam back to look at him. "You don't belong to him."
Sam couldn't help but smile that bitter, dangerous smile he hadn't meant for Dean to ever see. The situation was so fucked up it was hilarious and sickening at the same time. Nights with Kane always made him colder, crueler, but Sam couldn't help that. He'd tried to get Dean to leave this alone, leave him alone, hours and hours ago, but Dean wanted this and Sam wanted it too. He just couldn't give into that want so easily, couldn't just take the comfort of a near stranger after a night of hell. So if Dean wanted him today, wanted Kane's leftovers, wanted to think he could wash away the stain of those hands on Sam's skin, then Dean would have to deal with the man that Kane had made, molded with all the harshest of tools.
Sam could feel the madness of that smile pulling aside the veils of humanity hiding his darker nature from view. But Dean didn't recoil, even though he tensed, searching Sam's eyes for something he was never going to find, because his instincts said something was wrong here.
Sam knew Dean wouldn't figure it out, though. Not like this.
Sam just shook his head, his smile softening, with a puff of laughter edged with arrogance. "You don't know anything about this, Dean." You don't know anything about me, Dean.
"Not the first time." His voice came out soft and serious, somehow distressed and reverent at once.
"Not the first time you don't know anything?"
"It wasn't the first time he … did this to you."
"Lucky you. You're the winner. What do you want for a prize, Dean? You want me on my knees?"
"Is that what he made you do?"
Sam knew that wicked smile was back, but he couldn't fucking help it. It was almost like just by telling Dean about the standard dose of torture in his life, he was cutting into Dean, drawing blood he couldn't see. Part of it was Dean's fault anyway, wasn't it? Shouldn't he feel this? Shouldn't Dean take some piece of this gnawing pain and shame that Kane had etched into every bend of his body? Sam could feel the press of his power wanting to wash over him, to help him draw that blood for real, to help Dean see what it was like to be helpless, to be used, to know that no matter how clean he got on the outside, there would always be that taint under his skin.
"Sammy?"
Sam swallowed, closing his eyes, struggling to press down the desire to huddle into the blanket of his power, to get away from the worry and near-fear that Dean was wearing, worry over something he couldn't do anything about, fear of something he didn't remotely understand.
Sam took a deep breath, shaking his head again, as if that would clear it, and opened his eyes, his voice low, but calm. No edge, just a friendly warning. "I don't think this is a good idea, Dean."
"Because you're angry? You're supposed to be angry."
"Not with you, though. It's mostly my fault."
"Mostly?"
Sam knew he'd slipped, but figured he could recover. "Mine and whatever little shoulder-devil pushes people to do fucked up things to one another."
"You were talking about me, though, Sam. Are you saying this has something to with me?"
"No."
"Was it a gay-bashing thing? Did he follow you home?"
"He didn't follow me home, Dean. It's not that fucking simple. And I'm not going to tell you. So if you'd like to sit around playing the guessing game all afternoon, please wait until the door locks behind me. You wanna fuck? That's fine, sounds like fun. But shut up about this already."
"I just-" Sam sighed, exasperated, bending down to grab his overshirt, before stomping over to the corner where his undershirt had landed.
Dean was sweet.
Dean was a good lay.
And Dean was fucking clueless about how much easier it would be if there was just some fucking bully in town beating him up because he went home with guys after last call at the local bar. That would be a fucked up situation in and of itself, but the fact that it was actually somehow less fucked up than his real circumstances just told Sam how much he'd been kidding himself when he'd thought he'd be able to get out of his head for a minute with Dean, to stop thinking about what it meant for him to be scarred up like this.
But then Dean's hands were on his back, tracing the dark angry lines inscribed in his skin.
Sam knew he'd been careless and should probably keep Dean's mind off the symbols there, but the brush of Dean's fingers, mapping his shredded back, sent a thrum of warmth through him and he couldn't make himself pull away.
"He was already at home." Dean's words were so final, flavored by a level of defeat.
He might not know everything, but he knew enough. He could read the scars not as symbols in a language familiar to him, but as brandings of ownership, markings of abuse, and old ones, at that, very old.
Sam didn't say anything, didn't have to.
Then Dean's lips were on his back, his arm around Sam's waist. It was like he could somehow kiss away the evidence of all those many tarnished years, laying his own tender claim over every jagged, blood-tinged line, and every blue-black patch of shattered skin.
Later, after Dean had covered nearly every inch of him, after Dean had swallowed him whole until he was arching up, Dean's name on his lips, after Dean had sunk slowly down onto his cock, riding him slow and hard until they were moaning in time with each other, in sync for a moment. Much later, Sam realized he still felt that warmth inside him, tiny embers different from the heat of his power, but filled with strength and comfort nonetheless. Dean was slipping in, under his skin. But it didn't feel like another stain, another taint he'd never wash away.
It felt like … it was almost as if … and Sam knew it made no sense … but somehow … it felt right … like Dean belonged there … like Dean was meant to heal the wounds that others had laid bare.
---
That was only the beginning, though.
Andover might not have been a central location on any major map, but Dean would breeze through for a few days on occasion. And they actually talked. Not about work, of course, because both figured the other wouldn't have the faintest clue how to process what they each did for a living, but they kind of checked in on occasion. After that first weekend together, at first Dean rang his cell phone to ask are-you-dead-or-alive type questions and do-I-need-to-hurt-someone-for-you kinds of things. But after a while, it got to be about little things, like how it really did rain all the time in Seattle, or how new management of a perfectly good bar could kill all the fun in the blink of an eye, or how much respect you had to give Nature after seeing the devastation of the Mississippi River's bi-annual flood, or how people often get the wrong impression about people just trying to do the right thing.
They were more than friends, but they were also almost actual friends.
Sam didn't know where this was going, but it was a ride he couldn’t get off of. He knew he had his mission to tend to, and he would, because he knew it was what had to be done, that his mother deserved that, and that he deserved the Cloak, that he needed it. But he knew that line would be one he'd never be able to step back over once he'd crossed it. And he didn't want to lose what he had with Dean, whatever it was, before he absolutely had to.
It wasn't just that his skin, and mouth, and hands, and body, craved Dean's, though they certainly did that. It turned out that they craved everything about each other. Hours spent near to one another felt right in that precisely indescribable way that all their time apart felt so wrong. Every time Dean came into town it got that much harder for him to leave, for Sam to let him leave, for them to not either stay or go together. But they each had responsibilities, work, family, and they knew their relationship would never be okay in the spheres of life they traveled in, though each had different reasons. That knowledge didn't stop the want, though, didn't stop the need, didn't mute the connection they'd built up between them, didn't make them turn away, turn back. Even with all the alarm bells chiming in his mind, the ones he knew were echoed in Dean's, Sam knew this was what felt good for them, what seemed right for them. And he knew that neither of them would give it up without a fight.
Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12
Back to the Table of Contents