A/N: This was inspired by a beautiful image I saw at google. If anyone is curious, just search Sam/Dean images and click on the first one, where they are on a bed. I don't know who made it, but they have done an amazing job! Spare a minute to find it, you won't be disappointed!
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke still owns the boys. (And if he could just give them to me already! *growls frustrated*)
Story Details: Story is vaguely related to my other one (Home Again). It could pass for a sequel (if you squint, and you tilt your head a little to the left, and stare at it for a little bit... No? mmm'kay) Dean/Sam people, don't like? don't read ;)
Warnings: Rated M for implied incest. If you're offended by it please press the back button.
The motel room was as indifferent as the dozens (hundreds?) of others had been. The boys had temporary lived in the majority of any existing options, for brief periods of time, while hunting evil things all around the country.
As any other, of the aforementioned rooms, this place also consisted by a cacophony of useless decorations, faceless and tedious, an uncomfortable bed, a poor imitation of a bathroom, and dirty walls that used to support another color.
This fact however is meaningless, and quite unnecessary to be mentioned, as Dean's attention is forever focused elsewhere, regardless of his unpleasant surroundings.
You see, Dean has a secret; one that is dark, unholy, and he would rather spend the eternity getting tortured by all demons that go around the earth and hell combined than to reveal his... kink one might say.
He loves to watch Sam sleep.
It surprises Dean sometimes, that odd mixture of tenderness and protectiveness it evokes within him. His brother's, six feet four inches, tall figure -all toned muscles and sharp edges, yet surprisingly soft skin.
And so there he was, this cold night in the heart of December, sheltered under scraggly blankets beside Sam; well, if we were to be accurate, Dean was practically half on top of him. One could dispute this, and rightly so, since Dean is not the cuddle type of guy. But, then again, when had Sam not been the exception to all of Dean's rules?
Dean's pestered body lies on a sheet which he's almost certain it's soaked in some sort of grime, his eyes are caressing the shapes a drizzle paints indolently on the, oddly clean, window; his mind is embroiled within lethargic circles involving the unsuspected, inside his deep sleep, Sam.
Maybe this was not the best room the boys could have booked, and maybe their life was more complicated than the average -why, for that matter, to whom all come as he wants them to. And if there is one thing Dean has learned, is that nothing in this life is perfect, but, there is always something that is enough to make you happy.
What matters ultimately is that Dean, fortunate inside this series of unfortunate events that constitute his life, has found that essential something. And he'll be damned, if he was to let anyone take his version of Eden away.
Sam stirred slightly, and Dean averted his eyes from the gentle raindrops to turn them towards his brother. Sam released a sigh, and nestled closer to the warmth Dean's body altruistically supplied him with.
A wave of affection flooded Dean's senses, and he couldn't suppress the urge to touch the non-conscious youngster. His finger reached out and traced the seashell shape of Sam's ear; it trailed down over the man's strong jaw-line to the curve of his chin, where he rested his fingertip for a moment before continuing down his neck.
With his whole palm, he cupped the full column of Sam's throat, sleep-warm and vulnerable; Dean ached to kiss his way down to Sam's collarbone. He dragged his fingertip over his Adam's apple, down to the base of Sam's throat, where he circled around the hollow, hidden in a shadow darker than the already dimly lighted room, and pressed his finger softly into it.
Dean looked up at Sam's face, to affirm he hadn't disturbed him enough to wake him; Sam still lay completely relaxed, his features blank -as though the young hunter hadn't had a care in the world.
Dropping his gaze again, Dean drew a straight line from over the well-defined ridge of Sam's clavicle, all the way to his toned shoulder. Dean's eyes followed his fingers, down the underside of Sam's arm, circling the point of his elbow, stroking the bend opposite it. Lazily he dragged his hand down Sam's forearm and from there lower even, where Dean flexed his palm, and softly closed his fingers around Sam's wrist.
Dean remembers the first time he got to hold Sam, in the hospital mere hours after the boy was born, his mom smiling tiredly, yet with pride, at both of them. He remembers how incredibly small and fragile Sammy's body seemed; that the little bugger was pink from head to toe, and his skin wrinkled.
He remembers the first few weeks after mom died, every night crawling into Sammy's bed to curl around him; to protect him from the bad thing that took mom, and any other potential threats, from the creatures his father always talked about. It got to a point where Sam would have nightmares, if he was forced to sleep alone.
To Dean's relief, his father never seemed to prevent them from sleeping on the same bed. John had put Dean under oath to always protect his younger brother since the boy could perceive the concept of an order. Although, Dean had swore to himself the same, with twice as much fervor, the night he was standing on their front yard, watching helplessly at the flames consuming their house, with the infant wrapped snuggly inside Dean's embrace.
Nevertheless, Dean swore to his father he'd die before he would left anything hurt Sam. He still means every word he said back then. He's selfish enough he'd die in Sam's place in an instant, if given the choice; He'd keep dying, even if it meant going through the nine circles of Hell. If only because Dean, tried as he might have, never saw something in this world worth saving, but his baby brother.
Sam is everything. Dean's reason to be alive, his home, his family, and the love of his life. And, this sounds abnormal, but, of course it's Sam; because no one else could have ever become important enough, to claim such title in Dean's life.
Dean, knows how people would react to these words. They would think of this as immoral, unconventional, illegal, maybe even sick at times, and wrong. Dean doesn't blame them, for they don't know.
They don't know that, when Sam was gone, Dean's heart felt as if it was an open wound, which kept bleeding. His soul was blown about to and fro by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without hope of rest. His body ached, as if lying supine in ice; every inch of the flesh covered under the frozen water, making breathing the most painful punishment.
They don't know that, after a while, Dean's torture faded to nothing more than a dull ache. That's the funny thing about pain; when you're exposed to it long enough, you stop noticing it, and eventually you just grow numb.
They don't know that, Dean spends excessive amounts of time tracing Sammy's scars with his, calloused but gentle, fingers remembering every time he almost lost him. Or how he holds his breath sometimes, in order to listen closely to Sam's inhales and exhales. How Dean places his hand, palm flat, on top of the younger's heart and revels at the rhythmical beat under the warm skin. How he happily wastes many hours every night seeking solid proofs Sam is there and safe.
Dean shifted slightly on his right side, turning his head at Sam again, and gazed down at the familiar face. Something sweet and warm swelled inside his chest, so huge it almost hurt, made it hard to breathe; but, in a bizarre way, the feeling was soothing.
Dean is familiar with every line, every curve; Sam's soft hair -stray strands forever falling inside his eyes-, his nose, bumped and broken too many times to count, the dimples in each cheek, that has been Dean's secret weakness while the boys where growing up.
To say that Dean loves his brother, would be a major understatement.
Sam is the reason Dean believes in love. Real Love - the kind where you would sacrifice anything and everything for the other person. He can't explain why Sam was placed on this earth as his brother, but, if he was to be honest, he had needed someone like Sam in his life from the very beginning.
"Dee, go back to sleep, man." Dean winced as he heard his brother's voice, groggy and heavy with sleep.
"Did I wake you?" He knew it was a stupid question. Sam had that affect on him.
"Dude, you've been fondling me for like an hour. That's not exactly the definition of subtlety, Dean." Sam slurred lazily. Dean felt the vibrations of Sam's quite laughter against him.
Dean chuckled and kissed the top of his brother's head. He tucked his baby boy closer to his chest, and run his hands on Sam's back soothingly, murmuring apologies and alluring him back to sleep.
"Love you, Dee." Sam breathed, his mouth ghosting Dean's skin, causing the hairs on his neck to stand in attention.
"I love you, Sammy." he murmured inside the night, not afraid to express such warm and fuzzy feelings, he used to make fun of, aloud anymore.
In this dark world, where Dean is a hunter, with twenty aliases and twice as many perpetrated hucksterings, where there is always another state to go to, another law to break, another creature to kill and everything around him are equivocal... He has accepted that the only constant, the only thing that's irreplaceable, and will forever remain this way, is his love for Sam.
Thus, that simple phrase holds the only truth Dean has got left.
A/N: I have a question for you guys... Did I get Sam's height right? I don't know how to write feet and inches (should I have written 6'4" instead?). If it's a glaring mistake let me know and I'll fix it.
Also... I am aware that we have March, but I wanted it to be December and... lo and behold *chuckles*
Lastly, now that I've got all the fluff out of my system, I'm working on a story about the boys that you'll get to see a lot of angst.
So if you like my style of writting expect better things to come.
Hope you enjoyed reading this, review if you'd like :)