To The Waters And The Wild part 10
1/13/09 10:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:To The Waters And The Wild
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 3860
Sam dragged himself out of bed and wished desperately he was still asleep--his head was pounding, his mouth so dry it felt like it was lined with tarpaper. Oh fuck, oh fuck…the front of his head was *begging* to be smashed in and fuck, right now, it seemed like a good idea. He hung off the edge of the bed feeling sorry for himself—and remembered Dean. Oh God. He'd left him alone--
He found Dean in the kitchen, as he watched, Dean's hand slapped down over an oil black beetle, lightning fast he lifted it to his mouth—before Sam could move, Dean bit down. Sam heard the little crunch, and his stomach fluttered with nausea. Dean looked up at Sam with a shy smile. He licked his lips.
"Dean! Uh--shit." Sam dropped down to the floor and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing. "Oh fuck…" He pressed his hands into his eyes but the tears came anyway.
Dean's eyes went wide and he scooted away from Sam, alarmed and only knowing to put distance between himself and unusual events. Sam reached out and he flinched from his touch, scrabbling backward until he slammed into the cabinets behind him.
Sam felt like the weight of—of---*everything*, was crushing him; the floor was smooth and cool under his palms, warmer where his head touched. He couldn't see anything but the speckled tiles and Dean's feet, and how the way he trembled made his toes twitch. With his hands and forehead pressed to the floor, Sam cried until his back and throat couldn’t take it anymore.
It hurt so much to admit that the person shaking to bits in his kitchen wasn't Dean. That no matter how much he wanted it to be, this was *not* the man who three years ago had stared Death in the face with bravery and Dean's unique brand of—of class, and the sheer bloody stubborn belief that something—something good was going to come of what was happening to him.
Dean had given all he could to Sam, he always had, with no expectation of return, for no other reason than he was Dean and looking out for Sam was his job. And this…was not Dean. This person couldn't give anything, had nothing to give….
Sam leaned back and rubbed his face dry. All right, fuck this--he had to let that other person go for now, and do whatever he could to help his brother adjust, do whatever he could to help him be *Dean* again. And if he never came back to who he used to be, it didn't matter…he had his brother again.
"Come on, dude, I won't hurt you, promise." He smiled, feeling it kind of dip and slide but it must have been enough because Dean gave him the same heart breaking little smile he'd given him earlier and crawled forward. He let Sam slide a hand up his arm, let it rest on his shoulder. Sam laughed a little and Dean flinched but didn't move away. "You need a hair cut," Sam said, and tried to keep the quaver out of his voice.
"What do you remember Dean?" Sam pointed at himself. "You remember I'm your brother right?" He moved his hand to palm the back of his neck, and Dean jerked away. It almost felt like Dean had punched him instead…Sam bit down hard on disappointment and leaned away but Dean hesitantly reached out.
Sam flinched inwardly, surprised that Dean was making an effort to touch him, hopeful…terrified that maybe he'd had gotten the signals mixed up again.
He swallowed, throat thick with anxiety but Dean only (thankfully) patted his wrist. Sam said, "Yeah. My brother, that's who you are and I love you."
Den sat back and stared at his mouth. His lips parted. He made a visible effort but nothing came, a hiss, a moan, nothing else. He took a deep breath, slowly and deliberately hissed, "Sam." It was wobbly, rough, and barely audible but definitely a word, definitely his *name*. Sam whooped and without thinking, grabbed him into a hug--
Dean tried to twist out of Sam's arms; the motion threw him back to slam against the floor, hitting so hard his head bounced against it with a frightening crack--his arms thudded against the floor as he shook. Dean writhed and howled, oblivious to Sam shouting his name, over and over…
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
"Dean!"
Dean heard Sam call his name but too late, Dean was gone from there, dropping through blackness….
Sam, Dean, brother, love, hate Father Mother baby child protect live life deathfirepainbrother family no. No—
His head swam and heat blasted him in slow motion waves and his skin was frying, he could hear it crackling, smell it cooking. He could feel his bones being twisted into horrible new forms. His tortured skin cracked open and bones broke with wet pops and something laughed and played with the new shapes and told him how very pretty he was, how very brave and it felt…good.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Sam freaked—only life long lessons kept him from completely panicking. He tried to hold Dean down, desperate to make sure he didn't hurt himself. Dean was still pumping out that high-pitched, unearthly whine that seemed impossible for a human throat to produce, twisting across the floor and dragging Sam with him. He wrapped himself around Dean like a monkey, and all the while Dean tore at himself and horribly, in the middle of what seemed god awful *torture*, he'd come. That'd shocked Sam stupid, almost drove him away from Dean, but he held on through the sheer stubborn belief Dean needed him to. He didn't know what else to do anyway. What if Dean didn't come back? What if Dean went crazy, completely nuts and left him alone again? What if—
A flailing limb whacked him hard in the face and knocked him back to reality. He grabbed it and held on. "Son of a *bitch* Dean! Knock this shit OFF!"
Dean came out of it all at once, "Sam…" His voice was rough and scratchy but not as weak—even better, he *felt* Dean relax against him, even push into his hold for a few precious moments before putting inches between them.
"Dean, God…Dean…" He choked up and fell silent. Dean was staring at Sam like he was the sun. He looked awe-struck and amazed and it was almost enough to make Sam loose it.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Night filled up all the too bright corners and it was soothing but he missed something…Sam wasn't in the room, or on the bed…he couldn't tell where Sam was and not being able to tell made him nervous. Dean sniffed hard, trying to track him by scent but his nose might as well have been stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t smell anything, he couldn't taste anything, he could barely hear anything. Felt like whole parts of his world had been stripped away. Home was an echo; Sam was an echo…echoes.
Sam…he blinked and Sam appeared and relief flooded him, made his tense muscles relax. He was saying something…Dean tried hard to hear him but his voice faded into silence.
When he first came out of hell, everything seemed to be happening at once, all the time. It was blinding and deafening and he constantly needed to shut down, to figure it all out, pick through the snarled strands and pull together the ones that made sense. It was easier to do now, but left him feeling less connected. Sam was more careful now; most times his touches were light and quickly gone—so much better now than when nearly every touch sent him into overload…he laid down where Sam wanted him to. He still wanted to slip under the bed into darkness but he willed himself to be still. He let Sam put his arm around him even though it hurt, it hurt a lot. What was important was making Sam happy. Sam was light, Sam was air and food and sleep and…and everything, and his job was to make him happy, his sole purpose in life was to take care of Sam, be what he needed.
The bed dipped with Sam's weight and Dean slipped into sleep with his scent anchoring him, his touch making nerves under his skin flare and burn but it was bearable now…he ground his teeth, he flinched and moaned and drifted deeper….
"This should be different…" A hulking, dark shape full of odd angles and too many eyes and mouths stroked a circle on his belly, pressed lightly.
He felt something go into him, so cold he screamed. It slid into his chest and sawed through bone, down, down, twisting until it surfaced again through the muscle of his hip. It skated over skin, separating muscle and bone, sifting strands, twisting and deforming him. He screamed until his throat was raw, screamed and screamed until a rough scaled hand reached into his mouth and snapped his jaw. Blood flooded his throat and he gagged.
"Fix that," the dark voice said and he was hoisted up, held by his legs until his throat cleared.
Down again and it was harder to breath. Something thick and black squeezed into him, filling every bit of him with cold fire that twisted and pulled at him from inside. Bones and skin and organs snapped back into place and it was worse than being taken apart.
"Who are you? You're nothing. Nothing. No one…" Who are you?
Pictures tumbled through his mind, himself, Sam…postcards from a life, shuffled like…like cards, like game pieces. Nothing This happened to him then, this happened here, this was a life torn up into pieces and crammed every which way back into his head, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. No one--
"Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? You're—"
"Dean—Dean Winchester!" It's his name, it's his and nothing can take that away from him. Nothing can….
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Sam had been hunched under the hot spray of the shower for a few minutes, counting every one as a grateful groan slipped out of his mouth. He couldn't help moaning, his body sucked up the heat, as hot water pounded against the gnarled knot of muscle at the top of his spine.
Fifteen minutes, he was sure that he could leave Dean on his own for fifteen minutes. He seemed more settled now, his nights were quieter. He slept on top of the bed now with very little coaxing and that had to be a positive sign. That *was* a positive sign. He tolerated touch, and sometimes, even seemed to want it…although in ways that made Sam sweat blood. He'd confined himself to sleeping on the couch for the time being. It was safer that way. Sure, sleeping on that couch, scoliosis was a danger but so was the way he felt when Dean squeezed so close to him in the night that he was almost under him, warm breath stroking and tickling his skin, warm ass pressed into the cradle of Sam's hips and—fuck! Just…fuck.
He needed either a more comfortable couch, or some way to rein in a rampaging libido. This…this wanting was a sickness, an evil kind of sickness lodged inside him along with everything else….
He leaned against the shower wall, arms extended, head hanging down, and tried to concentrate on the water rushing over him. Biggest positive point for the day--he could take a shower and not worry that Dean was out there chopping at himself, or trying to dig a hole through the floor, or eating…yeah. Best not to dwell on that. Anyway, Dean *was* changing every day, improving. It really was so much better now.
He washed himself, enjoying the soft sweep of soap over his skin. He rubbed his arms, worked up more lather and soaped up his chest…he didn't completely ignore the fact he started to get hard. What was it, like a million years since he'd last got laid? Or paid any kind of attention to himself? A really long time….he glanced at the door and wondered if he dared….
He really wanted to. He slid a soapy hand down his dick, cradled himself and huffed. His dick took an instant interest but…he slid his hand up and down his shaft a time or two…Dean might get anxious if he stayed in the shower any longer. He sighed deeply and let the water rinse away the soap and washed his hair until his erection subsided. Shit.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and headed to the bedroom, stopping in the living room first. Dean was cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. He was flinging kernels into the air and catching them, and it was just such a Dean thing that Sam had to stop and watch. It was so…normal for him. He smiled watching his brother's total concentration on the flying popcorn—he didn't miss once, not a single kernel.
Dean snapped another bit of popcorn out of the air with a click of teeth and jumped when he caught sight of Sam, momentarily looking slightly guilty for some reason and then...he stared, his eyes grew wide and he blinked…his mouth opened slowly and a pink tongue tip swept his lower lip. "Hi…"
"Ah, hi—be right back!" Sam felt a flush wash over his face and hurried into the bedroom. He carefully closed the door and leaned against it with a deep sigh, pressing all his weight on it. Dean had looked at him with the same intense concentration as he had looked at his popcorn, and that should have made Sam laugh but…that tongue, that mouth…
*Fuck me* He pressed his palm against his dick through the towel. This was horrible, and really? He desperately needed some stress relief. Because he shouldn't have so much trouble controlling thoughts like this, he'd done so well before Dean was taken, burying them down deep and now…shit, they were running helter-skelter all over his mind like perverted fawns out to play….
His hand worked its way under the towel, wrapped around his dick like it had a mind of its own and tightened, ran down the shaft and up…"uh." His eyelids fluttered shut. Just this once, just real quick and totally thinking about—about—anyone but—
In the drawer in the night table, under a pile of receipts he'd meant to file, an outdated TV Guide and for some reason, a take out menu, he found a neglected, slightly sticky bottle of vanilla scented lube…he squirted some in his palm, took a few tentative strokes before settling into a good familiar rhythm and sighed. God yes…he should stop and lock the door. Really should, Dean always had had a very tenuous understanding of what closed doors meant—at least as they applied to Sam. But it felt really good, and it'd been a while and the shiver it sent up his spine felt so…he concentrated on the feel, the heat, the tension, spreading, pulling him tight. Muscles clenched and relaxed, he rose up on his toes and pushed in and out of his hand and some worry about Dean managed to work its way past the cloud of lust muffling his senses. Listen out for Dean, what if he walked in on—"ah!" He shuddered and his dick drooled thick and warm in his hand. Dean might walk in and…and…smile, yeah, that wet pink tongue tip dancing across his lip, making it gleam.
'Yeah, I'll help you. Let me.' Drop to his knees, kiss away the slick, lick it clean. Hot mouth…Sam threw his head back, his back arched and he groaned…Dean opened his mouth and the smooth wet heat sank down on him, the head of his dick nudged the back of—
Sam gave a short surprised yelp and came so hard everything went black…he swayed, swallowing moans that made his throat ache. He glanced at the door—still closed, thank God. Jesus, he must have lost his mind. What the fuck was he thinking—if Dean had walked in—
He tried to ignore the simultaneous sharp stab of lust and flaming guilt the thought brought.
He practically threw his clothes on, yanking on a Henley and almost popping the buttons in his rush, shoving his arms through the sleeves of one of the flannels piled up on the end of the bed. Guilt made him feel like he was some sixteen year old trying to get the hell out of someone's bedroom before their parents realized they weren't alone up the stairs. A glance at the bedside clock told him he'd been shut up inside the bedroom a little longer than he was really comfortable leaving Dean alone…he yanked his fingers through damp hair, swallowed, and strolled out casually to watch the movie with Dean but he wasn't there—shit! Sharp fanged panic bit into him. "Dean?"
The front door was locked; no one was in the kitchen, so that left…he rapped on the bathroom door. "Hey Dean, you okay in there?"
Dean quickly responded, loudly, clearly, urgently, "Sam."
Sam laughed in relief. "Okay, okay. Just checking you're all right. I'll be in the living room."
When Dean came out, he wandered over to the living room window, leaned against the pane and stared into the street below. The afternoon sunlight was vicious—it's glowing light illuminated just how ill Dean looked, how gray and drawn his skin was. Even as tall as he was, as broad as his shoulders were, in that light, he looked shrunken--almost fragile. Sam felt a fresh jolt of fear. Dean looked like he was slipping away again, drying up and wearing out….
They needed to get out of the apartment. *He* needed to get out—it would be good for Dean too. Fresh air, a change of view…Dean needed to get back out in the world around them....
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
It took a bit to get Dean dressed for outside. Digging through that bag in the closet to find Dean's boots had been strange; Sam still felt unsettled. Looking at Dean's stuff—*their* stuff--from before, had been like looking through a cloudy window into the past. Sam turned on the concrete stair of the apartment and looked back up at their apartment window. Upstairs, scattered over the bed, was all the evidence he had of the life he'd--they'd--lived before: the journal, some books, notes scribbled on various pieces of paper, some tools, that frankenstein EMF meter….
And here they were, outside—because he had this brilliant idea about fresh air, and sun, and…there was Dean, still at the apartment door, and Sam cursed himself for an idiot.
Dean was frozen against the closed door, his face a mask of barely suppressed terror. He was so white his eyes looked emerald green in contrast. His arms were splayed against the wood and it looked like he was trying to force himself between the molecules of the door and back inside.
"Dean?" He carefully laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder and felt the shiver all the way up his own arm. "Shit—let's go back inside. Come on, just--let go of the doorknob and we can go back inside, all right?" Sam slid his hands around Dean's face, cupped his cheeks and touching Dean like that should make him feel guilt, right? Well, fuck that. Dean needed him, need to feel grounded. Sam knew it, could see it in his eyes.
Dean shook his head jerkily, but emphatically, 'no'. Sam sighed. "All right then, let's get lunch, okay? But if I think it's getting to be too much…" Dean looked at him from the corner of his eye and after a few seconds nodded. Sam smiled. "Okay, that's good, then." Dean's hands came up, quickly flitted over Sam's, who dropped his own hands reluctantly.
They walked towards the café Sam frequented and all along the way Dean's head swung from side to side, his chin up and nostrils flaring as if he was testing the air. He hesitated, started to quiver and Sam was just about to stop them when Dean reached out and tapped Sam's hand. Sam automatically closed his hand around Dean's wrist. He heard him sigh, a soft, barely audible shudder of breath. That little sign of trust, that sigh of relief, made Sam's chest swell. Dean snorted softly. Sam glanced at him and Dean was smirking—exerted a little pressure on Sam's wrist and pulled forward, so forward they went.
Sam stopped near Café Savant and pointed. "Here it is, this is where we get lunch," and hesitated, waiting for Dean to say…something. He just crowded up against Sam's side, barely an inch between them and gazed around, silent, so tightly strung and achingly alert, it almost hurt to watch. "Let's get a seat," Sam said, feeling defeated, and also ridiculous for feeling so. It had been way too much to hope for, to get some sort of positive reaction from his brother, but still…he couldn't help hoping. Shit, what they'd accomplished so far was amazing.
They sat at an outside table, but one that was in the shadow of the awning and butted against a wall. He figured Dean would need it and yeah, he sat himself so that he could see the street, with his back against the wall. Sam sat next to him, still holding Dean's wrist, fuck what it looked like. The street and small park across the way were in view, and while they waited for their orders, Dean watched the kids running around a small swing set. He smiled…a tired, sad smile.
Above the sound of the kids playing, Sam became aware of an odd sound, a weird, twisting wail, rising and falling in the distance…it was coming from the direction of the park. No one else seemed to notice. Dean's eyes flicked from point to point on the street, but he seemed calm, if a little pale. Sam huffed. No one else *was* hearing it. That meant…Fuck. Fuck. Not this, not now….
A man burst from the park entrance and into the street. Bone white, razor thin shapes poured out of the park after him, flowing around and between the legs of bystanders. They howled, half wolf's call, half scream, as they chased down their prey. Hellhounds—Sam glanced at Dean, but he was staring blandly at some distant point, unaware. Thank God, at least not being under a curse anymore spared Dean the sight of them, the sound of them.
In the street, traffic shrieked to a halt, the man stumbled and went down under the white wave of the hellhounds. They tossed their heads, needle filled jaws pulling something grey out of the man's chest, ripping it to shreds, diving into the solid earth, pulling the shreds of grey with them…cries of 'ambulance, heart attack,' reached his ears. His mind was months, years away, all he saw was blood, smelled death, heard screams of pain…he saw blood spray, and gobbets of flesh spatter the street but he was the only one to see it. The 'gift' of living in the doorways between the worlds….
Eyes stinging, he hung his head and concentrated hard on his coffee, feeling like the mug in his hands was about to shatter, his grip was so tight. A few waiters and some patrons of the café ran to the curb to watch. Sam stayed put, snaked his hand out and latched onto Dean's wrist again. His jaw worked hard as he struggled to justify not moving, not…he couldn’t have saved that man; he knew how powerless he was against something like that, there was nothing he could have done, nothing….
Dean was shaking a bit, his cup chattered against the table top and Sam's head jerked up—a little coffee slopped over the edge and splashed against the table.
"Hey Dean, is it okay if we call it a day? I'm a little tired." Dean grinned lop-sided at him, like he got exactly what Sam was doing. Sam glanced away toward the street again and that prickly, unpleasant blanket of energy settled over him. He turned and found himself eye to eye socket with a lone hellhound. Its jaw dropped and he had the distinct feel of laughter in his mind. Dean made an odd sound, his eyes locked on Sam like he was the only thing on the planet. A horrible suspicion formed…"Do you…is there something you're seeing, something--?"
Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, and slowly shook his head. He glanced about, and jerked his head toward the crowd with a questioning look, but…there was something in his eyes, his face….
"No, I meant…never mind." No, of course he didn't. There was nothing here but the customers, himself and Dean, and a tragedy unfolding a couple of blocks away. Anything else was a hallucination. And that hallucination was sniffing heavily in Dean's direction, its head so close that Sam felt his heart clench, in fear….
Sam snapped his fingers and the hallucination whipped back toward him, fast as a striking cobra. He spoke to it inside his mind, forming thoughts like knives and shoving them into the narrow bone blade of its head. Beat it, you bony freak. You know I can send you back. It'll hurt like a mother fucker, I'll make sure of that..
The thing skittered away like a nervous greyhound but Sam still felt its laughter shivering in his head. It was eyeing Dean and licking its ivory jaws. Eyeing Dean as it backed away, still laughing, until it sank into the ground like fog.
Dean opened his mouth and with a voice rusty with disuse, managed to croak out, "Home? Now?"
Sam stared at him, stiff with shock. That had been a—a sentence; hell, close enough to being one…"Dean…" Hope was a bright, burning thing in his chest, filling him, chasing away the guilt, chasing away anything but wonder at what his brother had done.
Dean talked—had really talked--to him!
part 11
Tbc
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count: 3860
Sam dragged himself out of bed and wished desperately he was still asleep--his head was pounding, his mouth so dry it felt like it was lined with tarpaper. Oh fuck, oh fuck…the front of his head was *begging* to be smashed in and fuck, right now, it seemed like a good idea. He hung off the edge of the bed feeling sorry for himself—and remembered Dean. Oh God. He'd left him alone--
He found Dean in the kitchen, as he watched, Dean's hand slapped down over an oil black beetle, lightning fast he lifted it to his mouth—before Sam could move, Dean bit down. Sam heard the little crunch, and his stomach fluttered with nausea. Dean looked up at Sam with a shy smile. He licked his lips.
"Dean! Uh--shit." Sam dropped down to the floor and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing. "Oh fuck…" He pressed his hands into his eyes but the tears came anyway.
Dean's eyes went wide and he scooted away from Sam, alarmed and only knowing to put distance between himself and unusual events. Sam reached out and he flinched from his touch, scrabbling backward until he slammed into the cabinets behind him.
Sam felt like the weight of—of---*everything*, was crushing him; the floor was smooth and cool under his palms, warmer where his head touched. He couldn't see anything but the speckled tiles and Dean's feet, and how the way he trembled made his toes twitch. With his hands and forehead pressed to the floor, Sam cried until his back and throat couldn’t take it anymore.
It hurt so much to admit that the person shaking to bits in his kitchen wasn't Dean. That no matter how much he wanted it to be, this was *not* the man who three years ago had stared Death in the face with bravery and Dean's unique brand of—of class, and the sheer bloody stubborn belief that something—something good was going to come of what was happening to him.
Dean had given all he could to Sam, he always had, with no expectation of return, for no other reason than he was Dean and looking out for Sam was his job. And this…was not Dean. This person couldn't give anything, had nothing to give….
Sam leaned back and rubbed his face dry. All right, fuck this--he had to let that other person go for now, and do whatever he could to help his brother adjust, do whatever he could to help him be *Dean* again. And if he never came back to who he used to be, it didn't matter…he had his brother again.
"Come on, dude, I won't hurt you, promise." He smiled, feeling it kind of dip and slide but it must have been enough because Dean gave him the same heart breaking little smile he'd given him earlier and crawled forward. He let Sam slide a hand up his arm, let it rest on his shoulder. Sam laughed a little and Dean flinched but didn't move away. "You need a hair cut," Sam said, and tried to keep the quaver out of his voice.
"What do you remember Dean?" Sam pointed at himself. "You remember I'm your brother right?" He moved his hand to palm the back of his neck, and Dean jerked away. It almost felt like Dean had punched him instead…Sam bit down hard on disappointment and leaned away but Dean hesitantly reached out.
Sam flinched inwardly, surprised that Dean was making an effort to touch him, hopeful…terrified that maybe he'd had gotten the signals mixed up again.
He swallowed, throat thick with anxiety but Dean only (thankfully) patted his wrist. Sam said, "Yeah. My brother, that's who you are and I love you."
Den sat back and stared at his mouth. His lips parted. He made a visible effort but nothing came, a hiss, a moan, nothing else. He took a deep breath, slowly and deliberately hissed, "Sam." It was wobbly, rough, and barely audible but definitely a word, definitely his *name*. Sam whooped and without thinking, grabbed him into a hug--
Dean tried to twist out of Sam's arms; the motion threw him back to slam against the floor, hitting so hard his head bounced against it with a frightening crack--his arms thudded against the floor as he shook. Dean writhed and howled, oblivious to Sam shouting his name, over and over…
"Dean!"
Dean heard Sam call his name but too late, Dean was gone from there, dropping through blackness….
Sam, Dean, brother, love, hate Father Mother baby child protect live life deathfirepainbrother family no. No—
His head swam and heat blasted him in slow motion waves and his skin was frying, he could hear it crackling, smell it cooking. He could feel his bones being twisted into horrible new forms. His tortured skin cracked open and bones broke with wet pops and something laughed and played with the new shapes and told him how very pretty he was, how very brave and it felt…good.
Sam freaked—only life long lessons kept him from completely panicking. He tried to hold Dean down, desperate to make sure he didn't hurt himself. Dean was still pumping out that high-pitched, unearthly whine that seemed impossible for a human throat to produce, twisting across the floor and dragging Sam with him. He wrapped himself around Dean like a monkey, and all the while Dean tore at himself and horribly, in the middle of what seemed god awful *torture*, he'd come. That'd shocked Sam stupid, almost drove him away from Dean, but he held on through the sheer stubborn belief Dean needed him to. He didn't know what else to do anyway. What if Dean didn't come back? What if Dean went crazy, completely nuts and left him alone again? What if—
A flailing limb whacked him hard in the face and knocked him back to reality. He grabbed it and held on. "Son of a *bitch* Dean! Knock this shit OFF!"
Dean came out of it all at once, "Sam…" His voice was rough and scratchy but not as weak—even better, he *felt* Dean relax against him, even push into his hold for a few precious moments before putting inches between them.
"Dean, God…Dean…" He choked up and fell silent. Dean was staring at Sam like he was the sun. He looked awe-struck and amazed and it was almost enough to make Sam loose it.
Night filled up all the too bright corners and it was soothing but he missed something…Sam wasn't in the room, or on the bed…he couldn't tell where Sam was and not being able to tell made him nervous. Dean sniffed hard, trying to track him by scent but his nose might as well have been stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t smell anything, he couldn't taste anything, he could barely hear anything. Felt like whole parts of his world had been stripped away. Home was an echo; Sam was an echo…echoes.
Sam…he blinked and Sam appeared and relief flooded him, made his tense muscles relax. He was saying something…Dean tried hard to hear him but his voice faded into silence.
When he first came out of hell, everything seemed to be happening at once, all the time. It was blinding and deafening and he constantly needed to shut down, to figure it all out, pick through the snarled strands and pull together the ones that made sense. It was easier to do now, but left him feeling less connected. Sam was more careful now; most times his touches were light and quickly gone—so much better now than when nearly every touch sent him into overload…he laid down where Sam wanted him to. He still wanted to slip under the bed into darkness but he willed himself to be still. He let Sam put his arm around him even though it hurt, it hurt a lot. What was important was making Sam happy. Sam was light, Sam was air and food and sleep and…and everything, and his job was to make him happy, his sole purpose in life was to take care of Sam, be what he needed.
The bed dipped with Sam's weight and Dean slipped into sleep with his scent anchoring him, his touch making nerves under his skin flare and burn but it was bearable now…he ground his teeth, he flinched and moaned and drifted deeper….
"This should be different…" A hulking, dark shape full of odd angles and too many eyes and mouths stroked a circle on his belly, pressed lightly.
He felt something go into him, so cold he screamed. It slid into his chest and sawed through bone, down, down, twisting until it surfaced again through the muscle of his hip. It skated over skin, separating muscle and bone, sifting strands, twisting and deforming him. He screamed until his throat was raw, screamed and screamed until a rough scaled hand reached into his mouth and snapped his jaw. Blood flooded his throat and he gagged.
"Fix that," the dark voice said and he was hoisted up, held by his legs until his throat cleared.
Down again and it was harder to breath. Something thick and black squeezed into him, filling every bit of him with cold fire that twisted and pulled at him from inside. Bones and skin and organs snapped back into place and it was worse than being taken apart.
"Who are you? You're nothing. Nothing. No one…" Who are you?
Pictures tumbled through his mind, himself, Sam…postcards from a life, shuffled like…like cards, like game pieces. Nothing This happened to him then, this happened here, this was a life torn up into pieces and crammed every which way back into his head, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. No one--
"Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? You're—"
"Dean—Dean Winchester!" It's his name, it's his and nothing can take that away from him. Nothing can….
Sam had been hunched under the hot spray of the shower for a few minutes, counting every one as a grateful groan slipped out of his mouth. He couldn't help moaning, his body sucked up the heat, as hot water pounded against the gnarled knot of muscle at the top of his spine.
Fifteen minutes, he was sure that he could leave Dean on his own for fifteen minutes. He seemed more settled now, his nights were quieter. He slept on top of the bed now with very little coaxing and that had to be a positive sign. That *was* a positive sign. He tolerated touch, and sometimes, even seemed to want it…although in ways that made Sam sweat blood. He'd confined himself to sleeping on the couch for the time being. It was safer that way. Sure, sleeping on that couch, scoliosis was a danger but so was the way he felt when Dean squeezed so close to him in the night that he was almost under him, warm breath stroking and tickling his skin, warm ass pressed into the cradle of Sam's hips and—fuck! Just…fuck.
He needed either a more comfortable couch, or some way to rein in a rampaging libido. This…this wanting was a sickness, an evil kind of sickness lodged inside him along with everything else….
He leaned against the shower wall, arms extended, head hanging down, and tried to concentrate on the water rushing over him. Biggest positive point for the day--he could take a shower and not worry that Dean was out there chopping at himself, or trying to dig a hole through the floor, or eating…yeah. Best not to dwell on that. Anyway, Dean *was* changing every day, improving. It really was so much better now.
He washed himself, enjoying the soft sweep of soap over his skin. He rubbed his arms, worked up more lather and soaped up his chest…he didn't completely ignore the fact he started to get hard. What was it, like a million years since he'd last got laid? Or paid any kind of attention to himself? A really long time….he glanced at the door and wondered if he dared….
He really wanted to. He slid a soapy hand down his dick, cradled himself and huffed. His dick took an instant interest but…he slid his hand up and down his shaft a time or two…Dean might get anxious if he stayed in the shower any longer. He sighed deeply and let the water rinse away the soap and washed his hair until his erection subsided. Shit.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and headed to the bedroom, stopping in the living room first. Dean was cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. He was flinging kernels into the air and catching them, and it was just such a Dean thing that Sam had to stop and watch. It was so…normal for him. He smiled watching his brother's total concentration on the flying popcorn—he didn't miss once, not a single kernel.
Dean snapped another bit of popcorn out of the air with a click of teeth and jumped when he caught sight of Sam, momentarily looking slightly guilty for some reason and then...he stared, his eyes grew wide and he blinked…his mouth opened slowly and a pink tongue tip swept his lower lip. "Hi…"
"Ah, hi—be right back!" Sam felt a flush wash over his face and hurried into the bedroom. He carefully closed the door and leaned against it with a deep sigh, pressing all his weight on it. Dean had looked at him with the same intense concentration as he had looked at his popcorn, and that should have made Sam laugh but…that tongue, that mouth…
*Fuck me* He pressed his palm against his dick through the towel. This was horrible, and really? He desperately needed some stress relief. Because he shouldn't have so much trouble controlling thoughts like this, he'd done so well before Dean was taken, burying them down deep and now…shit, they were running helter-skelter all over his mind like perverted fawns out to play….
His hand worked its way under the towel, wrapped around his dick like it had a mind of its own and tightened, ran down the shaft and up…"uh." His eyelids fluttered shut. Just this once, just real quick and totally thinking about—about—anyone but—
In the drawer in the night table, under a pile of receipts he'd meant to file, an outdated TV Guide and for some reason, a take out menu, he found a neglected, slightly sticky bottle of vanilla scented lube…he squirted some in his palm, took a few tentative strokes before settling into a good familiar rhythm and sighed. God yes…he should stop and lock the door. Really should, Dean always had had a very tenuous understanding of what closed doors meant—at least as they applied to Sam. But it felt really good, and it'd been a while and the shiver it sent up his spine felt so…he concentrated on the feel, the heat, the tension, spreading, pulling him tight. Muscles clenched and relaxed, he rose up on his toes and pushed in and out of his hand and some worry about Dean managed to work its way past the cloud of lust muffling his senses. Listen out for Dean, what if he walked in on—"ah!" He shuddered and his dick drooled thick and warm in his hand. Dean might walk in and…and…smile, yeah, that wet pink tongue tip dancing across his lip, making it gleam.
'Yeah, I'll help you. Let me.' Drop to his knees, kiss away the slick, lick it clean. Hot mouth…Sam threw his head back, his back arched and he groaned…Dean opened his mouth and the smooth wet heat sank down on him, the head of his dick nudged the back of—
Sam gave a short surprised yelp and came so hard everything went black…he swayed, swallowing moans that made his throat ache. He glanced at the door—still closed, thank God. Jesus, he must have lost his mind. What the fuck was he thinking—if Dean had walked in—
He tried to ignore the simultaneous sharp stab of lust and flaming guilt the thought brought.
He practically threw his clothes on, yanking on a Henley and almost popping the buttons in his rush, shoving his arms through the sleeves of one of the flannels piled up on the end of the bed. Guilt made him feel like he was some sixteen year old trying to get the hell out of someone's bedroom before their parents realized they weren't alone up the stairs. A glance at the bedside clock told him he'd been shut up inside the bedroom a little longer than he was really comfortable leaving Dean alone…he yanked his fingers through damp hair, swallowed, and strolled out casually to watch the movie with Dean but he wasn't there—shit! Sharp fanged panic bit into him. "Dean?"
The front door was locked; no one was in the kitchen, so that left…he rapped on the bathroom door. "Hey Dean, you okay in there?"
Dean quickly responded, loudly, clearly, urgently, "Sam."
Sam laughed in relief. "Okay, okay. Just checking you're all right. I'll be in the living room."
When Dean came out, he wandered over to the living room window, leaned against the pane and stared into the street below. The afternoon sunlight was vicious—it's glowing light illuminated just how ill Dean looked, how gray and drawn his skin was. Even as tall as he was, as broad as his shoulders were, in that light, he looked shrunken--almost fragile. Sam felt a fresh jolt of fear. Dean looked like he was slipping away again, drying up and wearing out….
They needed to get out of the apartment. *He* needed to get out—it would be good for Dean too. Fresh air, a change of view…Dean needed to get back out in the world around them....
It took a bit to get Dean dressed for outside. Digging through that bag in the closet to find Dean's boots had been strange; Sam still felt unsettled. Looking at Dean's stuff—*their* stuff--from before, had been like looking through a cloudy window into the past. Sam turned on the concrete stair of the apartment and looked back up at their apartment window. Upstairs, scattered over the bed, was all the evidence he had of the life he'd--they'd--lived before: the journal, some books, notes scribbled on various pieces of paper, some tools, that frankenstein EMF meter….
And here they were, outside—because he had this brilliant idea about fresh air, and sun, and…there was Dean, still at the apartment door, and Sam cursed himself for an idiot.
Dean was frozen against the closed door, his face a mask of barely suppressed terror. He was so white his eyes looked emerald green in contrast. His arms were splayed against the wood and it looked like he was trying to force himself between the molecules of the door and back inside.
"Dean?" He carefully laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder and felt the shiver all the way up his own arm. "Shit—let's go back inside. Come on, just--let go of the doorknob and we can go back inside, all right?" Sam slid his hands around Dean's face, cupped his cheeks and touching Dean like that should make him feel guilt, right? Well, fuck that. Dean needed him, need to feel grounded. Sam knew it, could see it in his eyes.
Dean shook his head jerkily, but emphatically, 'no'. Sam sighed. "All right then, let's get lunch, okay? But if I think it's getting to be too much…" Dean looked at him from the corner of his eye and after a few seconds nodded. Sam smiled. "Okay, that's good, then." Dean's hands came up, quickly flitted over Sam's, who dropped his own hands reluctantly.
They walked towards the café Sam frequented and all along the way Dean's head swung from side to side, his chin up and nostrils flaring as if he was testing the air. He hesitated, started to quiver and Sam was just about to stop them when Dean reached out and tapped Sam's hand. Sam automatically closed his hand around Dean's wrist. He heard him sigh, a soft, barely audible shudder of breath. That little sign of trust, that sigh of relief, made Sam's chest swell. Dean snorted softly. Sam glanced at him and Dean was smirking—exerted a little pressure on Sam's wrist and pulled forward, so forward they went.
Sam stopped near Café Savant and pointed. "Here it is, this is where we get lunch," and hesitated, waiting for Dean to say…something. He just crowded up against Sam's side, barely an inch between them and gazed around, silent, so tightly strung and achingly alert, it almost hurt to watch. "Let's get a seat," Sam said, feeling defeated, and also ridiculous for feeling so. It had been way too much to hope for, to get some sort of positive reaction from his brother, but still…he couldn't help hoping. Shit, what they'd accomplished so far was amazing.
They sat at an outside table, but one that was in the shadow of the awning and butted against a wall. He figured Dean would need it and yeah, he sat himself so that he could see the street, with his back against the wall. Sam sat next to him, still holding Dean's wrist, fuck what it looked like. The street and small park across the way were in view, and while they waited for their orders, Dean watched the kids running around a small swing set. He smiled…a tired, sad smile.
Above the sound of the kids playing, Sam became aware of an odd sound, a weird, twisting wail, rising and falling in the distance…it was coming from the direction of the park. No one else seemed to notice. Dean's eyes flicked from point to point on the street, but he seemed calm, if a little pale. Sam huffed. No one else *was* hearing it. That meant…Fuck. Fuck. Not this, not now….
A man burst from the park entrance and into the street. Bone white, razor thin shapes poured out of the park after him, flowing around and between the legs of bystanders. They howled, half wolf's call, half scream, as they chased down their prey. Hellhounds—Sam glanced at Dean, but he was staring blandly at some distant point, unaware. Thank God, at least not being under a curse anymore spared Dean the sight of them, the sound of them.
In the street, traffic shrieked to a halt, the man stumbled and went down under the white wave of the hellhounds. They tossed their heads, needle filled jaws pulling something grey out of the man's chest, ripping it to shreds, diving into the solid earth, pulling the shreds of grey with them…cries of 'ambulance, heart attack,' reached his ears. His mind was months, years away, all he saw was blood, smelled death, heard screams of pain…he saw blood spray, and gobbets of flesh spatter the street but he was the only one to see it. The 'gift' of living in the doorways between the worlds….
Eyes stinging, he hung his head and concentrated hard on his coffee, feeling like the mug in his hands was about to shatter, his grip was so tight. A few waiters and some patrons of the café ran to the curb to watch. Sam stayed put, snaked his hand out and latched onto Dean's wrist again. His jaw worked hard as he struggled to justify not moving, not…he couldn’t have saved that man; he knew how powerless he was against something like that, there was nothing he could have done, nothing….
Dean was shaking a bit, his cup chattered against the table top and Sam's head jerked up—a little coffee slopped over the edge and splashed against the table.
"Hey Dean, is it okay if we call it a day? I'm a little tired." Dean grinned lop-sided at him, like he got exactly what Sam was doing. Sam glanced away toward the street again and that prickly, unpleasant blanket of energy settled over him. He turned and found himself eye to eye socket with a lone hellhound. Its jaw dropped and he had the distinct feel of laughter in his mind. Dean made an odd sound, his eyes locked on Sam like he was the only thing on the planet. A horrible suspicion formed…"Do you…is there something you're seeing, something--?"
Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, and slowly shook his head. He glanced about, and jerked his head toward the crowd with a questioning look, but…there was something in his eyes, his face….
"No, I meant…never mind." No, of course he didn't. There was nothing here but the customers, himself and Dean, and a tragedy unfolding a couple of blocks away. Anything else was a hallucination. And that hallucination was sniffing heavily in Dean's direction, its head so close that Sam felt his heart clench, in fear….
Sam snapped his fingers and the hallucination whipped back toward him, fast as a striking cobra. He spoke to it inside his mind, forming thoughts like knives and shoving them into the narrow bone blade of its head. Beat it, you bony freak. You know I can send you back. It'll hurt like a mother fucker, I'll make sure of that..
The thing skittered away like a nervous greyhound but Sam still felt its laughter shivering in his head. It was eyeing Dean and licking its ivory jaws. Eyeing Dean as it backed away, still laughing, until it sank into the ground like fog.
Dean opened his mouth and with a voice rusty with disuse, managed to croak out, "Home? Now?"
Sam stared at him, stiff with shock. That had been a—a sentence; hell, close enough to being one…"Dean…" Hope was a bright, burning thing in his chest, filling him, chasing away the guilt, chasing away anything but wonder at what his brother had done.
Dean talked—had really talked--to him!
part 11
Tbc