A/N: I feel I should first state that I am not a fan of Wincest. I'm in no way homophobic or even anti-Wincest… it's really just not my thing. I'm pretty much a canon girl when it comes to my fandoms, so something as AU as Sam and Dean together just sort of weirds me out.
But inspiration struck, loosely brought upon by a scene from Grey's Anatomy that I caught on rerun once.
I have a feeling that this may stir up some... controversy, on both Sam and Dean's actions in this story. I hope no one is offended by anything they read here – I don't think this will be the case with everyone, but I do think some people may be left with some opinions.
This was done as an experiment – it's not my type of writing generally, but I wanted to challenge myself, and this has been sitting in my documents for weeks and weeks. I can say it's been the hardest thing I've ever written.
I would love feedback, thoughts, opinions, anything really. I thrive on it – I don't write for anyone other than myself, but it's always nice to know that people are giving me the time of day, and feedback of any kind is really the best kind of motivation, motivation to keep writing, to keep working at it.
Warning: This is Wincest and deals with some very mature themes, though it is not rated 'M' as most of it is implied and not explicit. I don't want to give too much away, but please note that it may be considered disturbing to some, but like previously stated, it is not my intention to offended anyone.
Spoilers: Up through Everybody Loves a Clown.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A Matter of Debt
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When Sam came out of the shower, Dean was crying.
Perched on the edge of one of the beds, hands gripping his knees, sniveling and wet, with big fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His leather jacket had been flung unceremoniously; he hadn't even gotten his boots off yet.
"Dean?" Dressed in his sleeping shirt and boxers, Sam paused in the doorway of the bathroom, one hand frozen in place mid-run through his wet hair, the other gripping one edge of the doorframe. The shower had helped – the steam fogged up the mirror, saving him from having to stare at the lingering bruises from the car accident, and the water turned so hot it burned but it was the only thing that would rid his skin of the stench of his father's burning corpse.
He'd seen Dean's few tears as they watched John's body burn, but pretended for Dean that he hadn't. His brother had shut down after, stoic and silent throughout the car ride and the motel check-in, offering only a minute headshake when Sam had asked if he wanted first shower.
This was not what he was expecting to find.
"…Dean?" he asked again, softer now, coming out of the doorframe and approaching his brother with gentle steps. Dean didn't respond, his eyes staring wetly ahead, and another tear slipped out from each eye.
Sam's concern spiked. He knew his brother – he knew how Dean worked, how he shoved his emotion and heartbreak and pain and fear away, locking it all up until there was too much to handle, too much to pretend that everything was okay, and then cracks would start to appear and Dean would break apart. He just didn't expect his brother to break so soon.
Sam paused in front of his brother, crouching down to Dean's eye-level. "Dean?" A third time.
Dean gave a small start, pulling his eyes into focus and recognition sparking as he met Sam's gaze, as if he had just noticed his presence. Sam stared for a moment, eyes searching his brother's. "You okay, Dean?" he asked, voice just barely above a whisper, fully expecting his brother to pull away, put that lock back on and his walls back up. What he didn't expect was for Dean's face to crumble, a strangled sob hitching in his throat, two more tears squeezing out as he blinked his heavy lids over bloodshot eyes.
"He's gone, Sam." Dean's voice was deep and hoarse, rough with emotion. It was a tone Sam rarely heard from his brother, thick and heavy with grief and precious vulnerability, raw and heartbreaking.
Sam bit the inside of his lip, wanting to reach out and touch his brother, but resisting the urge for fear that Dean would pull away. Dean's breakdowns always left Sam metaphorically flailing – his brother's emotional moments were so far and few between that Sam never knew exactly how to respond. He wanted to comfort him, to help, to ease the burden that Dean always seemed to force himself to carry, but didn't know what he could do or say that wouldn't just make it all worse, and more often than not, stayed silent in the background while his brother bared his soul.
Dean's flat statement – like it had just finally all kicked in – pulled at Sam's heart, sharp and painful, leaving him gasping.
He was gone. John was dead.
It was no secret to anyone that John and Sam hadn't seen eye to eye for a good half of Sam's life, but beyond all fighting and disagreements, the blame, the accusations and even the hatred for the man, even though not too long ago John had been absent from Sam's life entirely, there was always the knowledge, the safe and steady truth that his Dad was out there somewhere. Fighting people, saving lives, doing good and just being. Always the raw and childish belief that when the brothers got in a jam, got into real trouble, that their daddy would be there, guns blazing, to save them. The inescapable fact that a boy's father would always be his hero.
"He's gone," his brother repeated, hollow and coarse, sandpaper on stone.
Dean was breaking right in front his eyes.
Suddenly, Sam understood. Now Sam had to be the protector for a change. The strong one. Dean had Sam's back his entire life – he'd always been the leader, the guardian. Now, Dean needed Sam… and Sam would do anything he had to.
"We're gonna be okay, Dean." Sam kept his voice as gentle as possible, placing a soft hand on Dean's trembling knee. It was a promise Sam intended to do anything to keep.
Dean lowered his puffy eyes to gaze at Sam's hand, raising his own after a moment to place it atop his brother's, his calloused palm sweaty and warm. Sam looked down too, surprised by his Dean's obvious display of affection, usually delivered in a sarcastic jab or nickname.
When he looked up, Dean was staring at him, his green eyes glassy and boring straight into Sam's, his pain and weakness laid out so overtly that it almost made Sam gasp. A second passed in silence as the two brothers stared at each other, Dean in desperation and Sam in determination, a silent promise to help his big brother, even if it meant just being there. He owed him that.
Without any warning, Dean suddenly leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sam's, kissing him roughly. Sam stiffened, eyes widening almost cartoonishly as Dean continued to move his lips against his, unaware or uncaring that Sam was not returning the gesture. Abruptly, Sam jerked away, stunned into silence. No, no, no. Wrong.
Dean met his eyes, inches away, welling with fresh tears. He looked broken.
Sam bit the inside of his lip and directed his eyes away, beginning to pull back. He racked his mind for excuses for his brother, for reasons. Dean was hurting. He was lost, and Sam was there. He was confused and Sam… Sam was there. Like he always had been. But this had just come to a place that Sam didn't expect, didn't want, didn't ever occur to him as something that he would ever have to deal with. This was Dean.
Dean's hand closed on his wrist, halting his movements. Sam froze, unwillingly raising his eyes to meet his brother, who was still staring at him with that same awful gaze. Suddenly, it turned pleading, and not for the first time that night, Dean's face crumbled.
"Please," he choked, and Sam's heart shattered. "Sammy."
Lurching forward, Dean kissed Sam again, rougher than before, and Sam could feel his brother's tears on his face. His jaw stiffened, his body's natural aversion keeping him from doing much else. Dean sobbed another "please" against his lips. He was begging.
Ignoring every nerve in his body screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, Sam unwillingly began to move his lips along with Dean – God, his brother – feebly returning the kiss. He felt Dean's hands tangle themselves in his hair, his lips pulling anxiously at his, like a drowning man gasping for air.
There was no passion in Dean's kiss, no lust or pleasure, just a desperate, needy fervor, a hopeless search for love, for family, for comfort, for something. Something that Sam suddenly felt very inadequate to provide, something he wished he didn't have to provide. How much longer could he let this go on?
Dean ran his hands down Sam's neck, over his shoulders and sides, tugging at the bottom of his grey sleeping shirt. Sam paused, heart quickening nervously. Dean, sensing his brother's hesitation, slid his hands under Sam's shirt, fingers digging into the warm flesh of his back, and pulled Sam's body towards his, a small sobbing noise choking in the back of his throat. Please. I need this. I need you.
Sam choked back his own fear and disgust, allowing Dean to pull him down so he was on top of him, hands braced against the thin flowered bedspread on either side of his brother. Dean continued to slide his hands up Sam's back, pulling his shirt up as he went. Suddenly feeling very exposed, Sam felt his own tears begin to prick at the back of his eyes at what he was about to do – what he was about to let Dean do.
Dean had always been the one in charge. Every since they were kids, Dean was the leader. While Sam scoffed as his father's barked commands, he would always do what Dean asked. His brother always had his back, and Sam repaid him by having his too – by helping, by listening, by trusting.
Dean needed Sam more than ever now, and Sam didn't have it in him to say no. He couldn't do that to Dean. He couldn't.
His shirt was off. He squeezed his eyes even tighter, tried to imagine Jess, but it was of no use – he knew it would be. Dean's kisses, his touches, they weren't the same, not even close. Rough and desperate, these were, filled with pain and heartbreak.
This needed to stop. Sam needed to stop it right now, before it went too far, to the point of no return.
But if he stopped it now, if he said no and pulled back and left Dean to look at what he had done, at what he had tried to do – it would kill his brother. The shame, the guilt. It would kill him.
He owed Dean. He'd owed Dean for twenty-two years.
Feeling Dean's hands pull gently, pleadingly, at his boxers, Sam choked back his own sob.
It was a matter of debt, he told himself, and was pulled down.