Author's Note: I wrote this on a lot of Codeine and listening to Rihanna's 'Stay' on repeat the day after getting my wisdom teeth out. I feel like that's maybe relevant. Title taken from 'Down There by the Train' by Tom Waits (and Johnny Cash).
{I}
Dean didn't close his eyes.
He knew what he'd see if he did. Everything. Every fucking thing that he'd fucked up in his goddamn fucking life. Everything that was wrong with him, with Sam, with Kevin, and Cas, and even Crowley. Everything that was broken. Because of him.
Dean didn't close his eyes because if he did the tears that were threatening to fall would never stop.
Because Dean broke everything he touched, everything that dared to touch him. He didn't reach out because the hand that took his would be crushed in his grip whether he wanted it or not. But that wasn't even the worst thing. The worst thing...
The worst thing was that Sam had been right. Sam had hit the nail on its goddamn head, and it felt like it was coming down on Dean's. He didn't want to be alone. He couldn't handle the thought. Sam wasn't the only person who'd said it before. Hell, even Crowley had said it. But Crowley had said it to taunt him, to mess with him, and make him angry. But Sam, Sam fucking knew what it meant to him. Sam knew. He knew that he was right, and he knew that Dean would never admit it.
The only thing that made him feel worse than the shit he'd done was knowing that he did it for himself. He was selfish. And as much as he tried to convince everyone, convince himself that it was for the greater good, or some shit, he knew it wasn't, not really. The greater good wasn't even a thing, if he were totally honest. Who was it supposed to be? It certainly wasn't God or Heaven, or good Christian soldiers. It wasn't Ellen or Jo or Bobby. And if it wasn't them then was he supposed to be fighting for little girls with pigtails, newly-weds with bright futures, and pimply teenagers who worked diner night-shifts?
His greater good was his family. Just that. Nothing more. And his family changed, but Sammy stayed constant, the one thing that stayed constant, even when everything else fell apart around him.
So even then he could still ask, so what? So what if he was selfish sometimes? It wasn't like he hadn't earned it. If anyone in the world had earned it it was him. He used to think that the world owed him something. But then he'd grown up. He'd learned the hard way that the world didn't work that way, as much as he wished it would. The people in his life died, or worse, and sometimes it was his fault. Always, really, if he bent it far enough. And he did. Always.
But what Sam had said was so much more than that, so much worse.
Dean knew fear. He'd been to Hell and back, literally, to Purgatory. He'd seen people he loved die in front of him. He'd been haunted and possessed, he'd killed and tortured, he'd fucking died.
But nothing. Nothing came close to the blade of ice that cut hard through him when Sam was gone and left a single word echoing in his empty body.
Alone.
Dean didn't close his eyes, because that was the word that rung through his head when he did.
{II}
Dean didn't close his eyes.
He didn't even look up when Sam threw his door open. He'd been waiting for this, really, waiting for the fallout. Because of course this would happen – if he didn't lose Sammy to death, then he'd push him so far away that he'd lose him anyway. He tried to tell himself that at least then Sam would be alive, have a chance to be happy, or safe, or just not-dead. But it wasn't in the least convincing, because Dean knew that that meant a life without him. And how had he fucked things up so badly that those were his options? How had he fucked Sam up so badly?
Sam's face was fury, and when he hauled Dean to his feet by his shirt collar he didn't even try to defend himself. Sam's knuckles were buried against his neck, choking him as he tugged on his collar. One hand let go.
Dean didn't close his eyes, barely blinked when Sam's fist hit his jaw hard enough to send the headphones clattering into the wall. Pain shot through his jaw and neck, his face ached, and it wasn't enough. Dean finally looked at him, silently begged him to do it again. Sam did. Dean felt his lip split, blood hot on his skin, sticking to his stubble.
Sam's eyes were wet, and he thought that his probably were, too.
Sam lined up another blow, and Dean just looked. Maybe this was what they needed. Maybe this would make Sam better, make them better. Maybe this would keep them together.
"Dammit, Dean," Sam yelled, and the fist he expected never came. Instead Sam grabbed him around the throat and slammed him against the wall. His vision went grey, pain tingling across his scalp, his shoulders stinging even through layers of clothes where they scratched against the bricks. He was trapped in the corner, between Sam and the dresser. His head was reeling from pain, and Sam's hand tightened around his throat just a little. Just enough.
Dean tried to cough.
"You don't get to decide what's best for me, anymore," Sam growled. He loosened his grip on Dean's neck, and Dean realised that this was it. That Sam was leaving now, and that he couldn't do jack about it. That it was his fault, and that all he'd have to remember him by was another scar from another fight.
Sam's kiss took him by surprise. It hurt, shoving his head back against the wall, teeth scraping the new cut in his bottom lip. It was everything he needed and nothing, and Dean had no idea what to do about it. Finally, he reached up, trying to shove Sam off, but his hands were caught, slammed into the wall above his head. His knuckles stung, wet with fresh blood.
Dean didn't close his eyes, and Sam met his gaze.
"You don't get to decide anymore." He punctuated it by tightening his grip on Dean's wrists and shoving one thigh between Dean's. He waited, staring, and Dean realised that he was waiting for an answer. He could shove Sam away, hit him back, and maybe things would be the same tomorrow as they had been for a week. He could just leave, and that would be the end of it; they'd go their separate ways. But he didn't want either of those things. He wanted to fix this. He wanted this to be okay, and more than that he wanted Sam.
So he nodded.
Sam stared for just a second longer, as if to make sure, and he could tell that his expression matched Sam's: jaw clenched, nostrils flared, eyes this close to tears they'd never let fall. Dean felt a bruise coming hot on his cheekbone and hoped that Sam's knuckles matched.
And yeah, maybe he'd fucked them both up, but of all the things they'd done this was hardly the worst, and if this was all the consolation the universe was giving him, then he'd take it. It wasn't like he really gave a shit that it was fucked up, anyway. Everything else was. Heaven was closed for business, angels waging a civil war on Earth; Crowley was his only ally, and he'd let himself be branded by a Knight of Hell. The Knight of Hell, actually, and the second he thought about it, his skin grew hot, like the brand was being seared into his flesh all over again.
It shot across his body like fire. His fingers clenched under the tight grip. He growled into Sam's mouth, ground into his thigh. Sam pushed back, grip tight enough that he'd have bruises tomorrow, knee pushed under his balls, just this side of painful. The hand on his neck finally relented, and Dean kind of missed it until he felt it against his crotch, long fingers starting on the top button of his jeans. He didn't bother with the rest before he shoved his hand down, between layers of fabric. Sam's fingers curled down where his knee relaxed, palm forced into Dean's cock by the waistband of his jeans. He was already hard.
"Fuck, Sammy – "
"Shut up." He didn't know whether it was the nickname, or simply the fact that he was talking and Sam didn't want him to, but Sam pulled back and there was warning in his eyes. Anger. "Lube."
Dean swallowed hard. When he opened his mouth to answer, Sam pressed his palm harder, flatter against him, and Dean jutted his jaw toward the table behind them. Vaguely, he wondered what would have happened had he said he didn't have any. Would Sam have stopped? Would Dean have let him? He thought that maybe Sam would have pushed him to his knees instead, fucked his mouth while his fingers pulled at his hair. He would have come, and then left him hard and alone, left him with just the taste of Sam and sorry on his tongue.
Sam pulled away, pulled his hand out of Dean's pants to reach into the drawer, and Dean tried hard not to complain. He was painfully aware of the fact that any wrong move now would probably be the last wrong move he'd ever get to make with Sam. He clenched his jaw as the thought struck him, determined not to fuck up, just this once. Sam seemed to reconsider, though, and he grabbed the front of Dean's shirt again, almost throwing him against the table. The lamp toppled forward at the impact, bouncing quietly off the mattress to catch between the bed and the table. It seemed wrong, he thought, anticlimactic, the lamp falling so easily, so quietly and simply in the middle of this whirlwind. He braced himself against the far edge.
Sam was behind him then, hard cock against his ass through two pairs of jeans. A hand in his hair held him at an uncomfortable angle as Sam leaned forward, grinding against him as he fumbled in the drawer. When he found what he was looking for, he let go of Dean's hair, leaving his scalp tingling. Dean heard him place something on the ledge next to them, heard the clink of a belt buckle, and the distinctive rip of a condom packet. Always use a condom. It was Dean's first rule about sex, and the first one he'd taught Sammy. It sent a pang through him that Sam had obviously listened.
Without warning, Sam yanked Dean's jeans and briefs half way down his thighs, the unbuttoned waistband tight, burning across his skin. He gave a final shove between Dean's shoulders, pushing him lower over the table, exposing him, and he fought the urge to push Sam away and turn this around on him.
Dean didn't close his eyes. The lube was cold against his skin, and with no preamble Sam pushed one long finger inside. Dean bit his lip to keep from crying out. It hurt, just a little, just enough to match the now dull ache in his jaw. And Sam just stilled, just fucking waited for what seemed like a full minute of awful silence before he pulled out. For a second, Dean was certain that Sam was going to leave, but then two fingers pushed into him and he groaned into it.
Sam wasn't gentle when he finally pushed into him. The few times they'd jerked each other off, Sam had been so careful, so nice that Dean had brushed his hand away to finish himself off. But things had changed. They weren't horny teenagers, anymore, high after a hunt and desperate for some kind of touch that didn't leave them cold and bruised. Something to pass the time or the come-down or the darkness. Sam had never been assertive, never been angry.
Sam thrust hard, and the table threatened to tip forward completely. Dean just held on tighter.
He was so goddamn close, had been on edge since Sam shoved him against the wall. Then Sam's hand left his hip to cover one of his on the nightstand, grip just as tight, and Dean came untouched for the first time since he was sixteen. It tore through him like fire, like sublimation of ice and alone, leaving him empty and warm.
Sam didn't wait it out. The hand clenched in his shirt pulled harder, yanking him back into Sam's thrusts. It took all of Dean's willpower not to moan, oversensitive, legs and arms and jaw aching. Sam's thrusts kept him half-hard and he wondered whether he was allowed to touch. He didn't. Sam came with a grunt, hips stuttering forcefully.
The nightstand legs banged back against the floor when Sam eased off, letting go of Dean's hand. He heard Sam sigh as he pulled out, heard him sniff, the sound of a zip.
Dean didn't close his eyes, but he didn't dare look. The silence was almost as bad as before, but maybe now it would start to get better. Maybe tomorrow Sam would look him in the eye without distaste. Maybe tomorrow Sam would decide to stay.
He didn't move until he heard the door close. He cleared his throat and pried his aching fingers from the nightstand, stared at it for a second. Come threatened to dry against the wood, and without thinking he took his shirt off and wiped it clean. He tossed the shirt somewhere and pulled his pants up, not bothering to fasten them. The lube and condoms went back in the drawer, the lamp back on the table. Music was still coming from the headphones and he put them back on as he laid down. He winced slightly as he shifted his legs.
Dean closed his eyes and he saw nothing.