A/N: Set Season 7, anytime between "Death's Door" and "Repo Man." Established Wincest. Also, I'm completely ashamed of the title, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed like something Dean would think is way funnier than it actually is, so there ya go. Pain and boykissing ahead!
Dean clutches two cups of coffee to his chest and puffs out a breath into the sharp January morning. Doesn't make sense, this kind of weather, the sky so blue it aches and the sun bleaching everything white, but he can feel his blood crackling in his veins as it freezes. It makes him uneasy, a lingering sense of "too quiet" nagging at him.
He makes the walk back to the motel in five minutes, glaring and checking behind him constantly. They're in Pittsburgh, which Sam loves for some reason, always going on about the "atmosphere," which Dean takes to mean he's got a weird thing for urban decay. Dean thinks it looks like Singer Salvage got a hundred times bigger and sprouted churches.
When he finally steps into the room and closes the door behind him, relief floods his body and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The room is dim and warm and it smells like gun oil and Sam's shampoo, which they both used in the shower last night. Dean bitched that he didn't want to smell like a bitch but then Sam started kissing his neck and massaging his head and he got his hair washed anyway. He doesn't really mind smelling like Sam.
The only light in the room is from the window, sunlight striping across the bed through the blinds. Setting the coffees down on the table, Dean goes and sits on the bed, in which Sam is sprawled beneath the blanket, breathing slowly and deeply.
Dean hates waking him when he's actually sleeping. He strokes the hair back from Sam's face and sighs, debating with himself just blowing off this hunt and every hunt after and finding a little cabin in the woods and holing up for the winter with Sam. Besides killing Dick Roman, this is his fondest daydream. Sam would probably even agree; he apparently doesn't need to fill the searing emptiness of Bobby's death with revenge the way Dean does, or maybe he's just handling it better. By running or eating fruit or something.
Sighing again, Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's cheekbone, ghosts fingertips over his twitching eyelids, cups his ear. "Sam. Sammy. Time to wake up."
Sam lets out a garbled moan, pressing his face into the pillow, his long fingers clutching the blanket.
"Come on, I know I'm a jerk. But we gotta get going, 'less you think this ghost is gonna gank itself." Running his fingers through Sam's hair, Dean leans down and plants a kiss on the corner of his eye. Then another, on the bridge of his nose, his forehead, and somewhere in there Sam's eyes flutter open.
"Mm… De, are you petting me?"
"Nope. You're still asleep, I'm waking you up." The skin under Dean's hand as he cradles the back of Sam's neck is soft and fever-warm with sleep. He kisses Sam's temple, then the tip of his nose, getting a soft chuckle.
"'K then. You let me know when I'm awake." Sam closes his eyes and tilts his face up, an irresistible invitation.
Dean kisses the smirking lips gently, slowly, and Sam opens his mouth, humming happily around Dean's tongue. When he pulls back Sam opens his eyes and yawns, looking around the room.
"What time is it?" Sam scoots so he's sitting up against the headboard, bars of sunlight rippling over his bare chest.
To stop himself from trying to devour Sam on the spot, Dean gets up and grabs their coffees, then hands one to Sam as he sits back down. "A little after nine."
"What? Why'd you let me sleep so long?"
"Eh, we're not talking to the cops 'til ten, so I figured you didn't need to be up too early."
"And you're worried about me." That look, Dean hates that look, all soft eyes and knowing smile like he's the one having screaming night terrors all the time. He's not the one that needs reassuring, why is he getting the look?
Dean looks down at his hands. "You had... a bad night, man. Just wanted to let you sleep some without Lucifer crashing the party."
At the mention of Lucifer Sam's smile falters and Dean mentally kicks himself for even bringing it up. Then Sam sets his coffee on the nightstand and reaches out to place a hand on either side of Dean's face, stroking his thumbs over his cheeks. "Hey. It's ok, I'm ok. The nightmares aren't gonna hurt me, 'cause you're here, right?"
Jesus. Kid's pulling out the big guns. Blinking to make the stinging in his eyes go away, Dean nods, pulling his face out of Sam's hands and taking a sip of his coffee.
"Hey." Sam gently takes Dean's chin and turns him to face him again. "Right?"
Damn little brothers and their stupid smiles and their stupid hair that flops in their eyes and their stupidly large hands wrapped around your neck. "Right," Dean rasps.
This earns him blinding grin and dimples, which really no one should have to put up with so he sets his coffee beside Sam's and lunges, pressing him back against the headboard with a kiss. Long arms wrap around him and then slide under his shirt. Hands grip his hips and thumbs slip under the waist band of his jeans to massage maddening circles over his hipbones.
"Gaahh… Sammy, Sammy, we can't, we don't have time… we have to go talk to idiots with badges… mmm…" Despite his words Dean can't seem to pull himself out of Sam's engulfing arms, too busy licking the taste of coffee from his mouth.
Finally, Sam releases him and he drops his head into Sam's neck, breathing in the smell of his skin and listening to his pounding heart.
"You," Sam rumbles from above him, running a hand over his hair, "Are downright cuddly this morning. You trying to get me to do the laundry or something?"
"M'not cuddly, Sam, shut up. And you should do the laundry; I did it the past, like, three times." Dean gets out of the bed and grabs his coffee, swatting Sam over the head as he walks away to sit at the table. "Get up and get your fed suit on, bitch."
SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN
That night, Sam follows Dean up the wet, scrub-covered hill, listening to his brother muttering to himself. Dean's contentment had evaporated the second they stepped out of the motel room that morning. At the sight of the shitty red sedan they were driving, his mouth had twisted in disgust, only relaxing again when they got inside and Sam pressed him back against the driver's seat and kissed the anger away. It came back, though, Dean's hands going white-knuckled on the steering wheel. By the time they were through talking to the baffled police and the few witnesses Dean had storm clouds in his eyes and practically sparking at Sam's touch.
"Finally." Dean growls, and dumps the bag of salt and gasoline as they reach the top of the hill, where Edmund Harris Fowler is buried. They have never known so little about a ghost's motivations or methods before the salt and burn, but they found the grave and really, what was the point of more research if they already knew how to kill it? It bothered Sam, made him certain that something they didn't know was going to bite them in the ass, but he'd been unable to argue with Dean's battering-ram logic.
"Hey, wait a sec," says Sam, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder as he reaches for one of the shovels.
"What, Sam? Let's get this over with; I'm sick of this case already."
"Yeah, I can tell. You ok, man? You've been tense all day." He tries really, really hard not to sound judgmental or worried or any of the million emotions from which Dean instinctively flees.
"You wanna have a heart-to-heart over dude's grave, here? I'm fine. Let's get this done." He stabs the shovel into the dirt with the same expression he wears when staking vamps.
Sam runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Yeah, you seem fine. Did the ground say something about Mom, or do you just not like its face?"
With a snarl, Dean throws the shovel down and turns on Sam, but it's not anger in his expression, it's pain. Wide green eyes and gritted teeth beg him to make it all right so Sam does the only thing he can: he catches Dean's broad shoulders and pulls him in. Resting his mouth on top of Dean's head, Sam whispers, "What is it? What can I do?"
"Nothing. Nothing, stop it, I'm fine, let's – "
"You're not. You're not fine, and we've had this conversation so many times I can recite your lines, dude. Just tell me what's up and we can fix it, like we always do, right?" He squeezes the nape of Dean's neck, rubs his thumb over the short, baby-soft hair there.
They stand clutching each other by the grave in the damp night air, cold slashing at their faces and hands. The cemetery air is thick with quiet, broken only by the snap of tree branches hitting each other.
Finally Dean sighs and says into Sam's neck, "It's just… I'm just letting things… Sam, will you run away with me?"
"What?" Sam lets out an incredulous laugh and pulls back a little to see Dean's face. He's pale and pressing his lips together like he does when he's holding back tears and all the humor in the situation disappears when Sam sees that. "Dean, love, what are you talking about? Run away from what? To what?"
Before Dean can answer a shriek blasts over the still air, and the ghost of Edmund Harris Fowler appears behind his gravestone, flying at them with clawed hands.
"Fuck!" Dean dives for the bag and yanks out a shotgun, bringing it up just in time to blow Fowler away, the glowing fingers inches from his head. Sam catches the other shotgun as Dean tosses it and they both back toward the grave, watching for the ghost's reappearance.
In life, Fowler was a steel tycoon from the twenties, which meant he had enough money for the citizens of 1920's Pittsburgh to call him "eccentric" rather than "a hoarder." When he died, it was on a mountain of newspapers in his opulent dining room, severely dehydrated and exhausted after spending weeks doing nothing but memorizing articles at random. Even weirder, Sam and Dean have yet to uncover any connection at all between him and his victims, having tracked him down because he left the title of the article about his own death scrawled in ectoplasm over the walls by the victims.
Fowler appears a few feet away, shrieking again, his vest and coat flying in tatters as he lunges. Dean ducks and rolls, comes up shooting but stops himself just in time from shooting Sam. "No! Dean!" Sam yells as he sees a decision made in his brother's face, but Dean just grins at him and clambers to his feet, already backing away and yelling at Fowler.
"Hey! You crazy-ass motherfucker, come on! Yeah, you want a piece of this sweet ass?" He shoots, but – Sam's jaw drops and he clenches his fists, he is going to kill Dean for this – he doesn't even bother to aim and Fowler just screams louder as the rock salt blows by his head.
"Dean! Dammit, be careful!" Nothing to do now but finish the job. Sam grabs a shovel and starts digging, cursing the frozen ground.
"Just dig, Sammy!" Dean yells, then turns and sprints away down a line of graves like broken teeth, feet crunching on the dead grass. "Come and get it, Fowler, I'm right here!" Another blast of the shotgun cuts off the screaming for a few seconds and then it's back, growing fainter as Dean leads the ghost away from Sam.
Time stretches and warps as Sam digs frantically, leaving him with no idea whether he's been out here for minutes or hours. His harsh breathing and scrape of the shovel are loud in his ears over the faint wailing from the other end of the cemetery.
Suddenly the wailing stops and Sam's heart stops with it. Dean is screaming in agony, a sound Sam has heard his brother make in his nightmares about Hell but never with his eyes open. Dropping the shovel in the half-dug grave and snatching a shotgun, Sam races toward the sound. It goes on and on, how can Dean have any breath left to scream with?
At the end of a long, meandering row of ancient gravestones, Fowler stands, emitting sallow light, his hands wrapped around Dean's head. Dean is shaking, still screaming, and his gun drops from his fingers. As Sam watches, the translucent fingers sink into Dean's head. With a wordless shout, Sam raises his gun and blows Fowler away.
The scream immediately cuts off and Dean crumples to the ground, convulsing.
"No, Dean!" Sam drops to his knees and gathers Dean into his arms, holding him still, trying to brace his neck against the convulsions. Dean is gasping, his skin pale and running with sweat, and the violent tremors wracking his body are showing no signs of abating.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Ok, we have to get out of here. Come on." Sam is aware he's babbling a little, but figures he's entitled to some freaking out after watching a ghost stick its fingers into his brother's brain. He's getting ready to pick Dean up off the ground when Dean arches, feet shuffling and hands clawing at the air, and then collapses limp into Sam's arms.
Putting his ear to Dean's chest, Sam listens desperately for a heartbeat. It's there, but it's slow and faint and every beat sounds like it'll be the last. Panic clenches Sam's chest but his hands are working without him, stroking the pale cheeks, checking for other injuries.
"Dean? Dean, love, can you hear me? Come on, you wanna make me carry you? Because I will, I promise. And I'll call you Princess Deanna for at least a week, come on." Deciding he'll wait ten minutes, then get Dean to a hospital if he doesn't wake, Sam settles his head more comfortably in the crook of his elbow and wraps a hand around his neck. "Please, wake up. Please, love, please."
A sudden stinging in his eyes and throat makes Sam stop and clear his throat, and when he speaks again his voice is thick and wavering. "Please… Goddammit, Dean, you can't do this to me. Why do you always have to do the crazy deathwish thing?"
Then Dean shivers, and his eyelids twitch, and he makes a tiny noise that might be Sam's name and Sam nearly goes limp with relief. Too many times, he has been in this situation too many times, looking at his brother pale and unconscious and maybe dying. "Oh, thank God, Dean? Can you hear me? Come on, just let me know you're in there." Sam takes his brother's limp hand and squeezes it, and is rewarded a few seconds later with a slight curling of Dean's fingers. Not a squeeze, but he'll take it.
Next step, see how much of Dean is present. "Ok, that's awesome, now do you think you can open your eyes for me?"
Dean whimpers and another shiver wracks his body, and he turns his face toward Sam. The pulse in his neck is slow, too slow; maybe they should go to the hospital anyway. But he's trying, hard if the labored breathing is anything to go by, to open his eyes. He gasps a few times and Sam shushes, stroking his hair, telling him to take his time.
Finally, Dean's eyes drag open, and he blinks slowly, staring straight through Sam. Another weak sound of distress escapes his lips, and his eyelids droop.
"Woah, no, no, no, Dean! Come on, stay awake, stay with me." Sam pats his cheek and Dean's eyes stay open, though he's still blinking and trying to focus. "Good, that's good, stay with me, ok? I'm gonna get us out of here."
With a sharp gasp, Dean grabs Sam's shirt. "Sss… Sammy…" he mumbles, finally focusing bright green and frightened on Sam's face. "Wh… Y'ok? Y'get Fowler?"
Sam wants to slap him, would, too, if he were injured anywhere but his head. "You… incredible douchebag. I'm fine, and no, I didn't get Fowler, he was trying to scramble your brains. Jesus, Dean," all the air gusts out of Sam's lungs and he rests his forehead on Dean's, taking deep, steadying breaths. "You have to stop being a distraction. We have to come up with a new plan. Or any plan, actually, any plan at all other than 'jump in and see what happens.'"
For a minute they both just breathe, Sam trying to regain some equilibrium and Dean trying to stay awake. Then Dean coughs and says, "K… get me up. Gotta… go finish th'job."
"What? What the hell are you talking about; we're going to a hospital."
"Nn… can't. What 'f… f'he kills again? 'Sides, what're y'gonna… tell th'docs? M'brother s'attacked by a ghost? Not t'mention… Leviathans… ever'where… no insurance…" By the time he's done, Dean's eyes are closed, and he's mumbling into Sam's shirt as his head lolls.
He's right. It's probably a good thing he's lucid enough to argue, but dammit, just once could they not have to make the hard decision? The Leviathans can't actually be everywhere; it's far more likely that they aren't at the closest hospital than that they are.
Thing is, though, they pretty much can be everywhere and Sam knows it. "Alright," he grunts, lifting Dean's shoulders so he's sitting up.
"Woah…" Dean gasps and fresh sweat breaks out over his face, and he hangs on Sam's shoulders, trying to get his breath.
"It's ok. Take your time. Fowler seems to have fucked off for now, no idea why though. You good?"
"Yeah." Dean is still breathing heavily, but he nods and grits his teeth and hangs on tight as Sam slowly hoists them both off the ground. Dean's legs buckle immediately, and he groans into Sam's shirt as Sam holds him up, feeling Dean's fingers twitch and go slack against his jacket.
The walk back to the grave takes forever. Dean is good for little more than keeping his eyes open and wrapping his arms around Sam, his efforts at walking more a hindrance than help. The sweat dries from his face and leaves him shivering, huddling close to Sam for more than support. When they make the grave, Sam lowers him gently to lean against the headstone and squats in front of him with a flashlight.
"Dean? Hey, open your eyes for a sec, I want to look at you." Sam cups his chin and lifts his heavy head. "Come on, love, I really don't think you should go to sleep. Guess we're using concussion protocol since I have no idea what a ghost sticking its fingers in your brain actually does."
"Sam… Sammy…" Dean's face twists in pain and he slumps, heading for the ground.
"Shit!" Sam catches him and props him back up, slapping his cheeks. "Stay awake, you hear me? Stay with me, Dean, do not check out."
"Mm… m'head… gghh – Sammy – " Eyes screwed shut, tears streaming down his cheeks, Dean flails and Sam takes his hand, cradling Dean's head with the other so he doesn't smack it against the headstone. He's twitching, legs kicking like he's fighting something, and then he starts whimpering – Sam wants to scream. If he thought God was listening he'd be praying as hard as he could, but he knows for a fact they're alone in the world.
Failing divine intervention, Sam would take the ground opening up and swallowing them, right now, rather than listening to Dean choke on his own agonized breath.
Since neither of these things happen, Sam again does the only thing he can: he sits on the freezing, wet ground and wraps as much of himself around Dean as he can. He hopes Dean won't go into convulsions again. He strokes Dean's hair and tells him it's ok, and wipes away a few tears of his own.
For once, his paltry efforts are enough. Dean goes quiet and slack in his arms, breathing hard but no longer contorted with pain. When Sam lifts Dean's head, however, there is a trickle of red coming from both nostrils, smearing the side of his lips. His eyes are closed, tears shining on his face.
"Oh, fuck…" Sam whispers, and then he decides he doesn't care if Fowler kills a hundred more people that night, he's getting Dean back to the motel and calling everyone in his phone. He tosses everything but one of the shotguns in the bag, slings it over his shoulder, and picks Dean up bridal-style, figuring a fireman's carry might not be the best thing for that nosebleed. Twenty muscle-tearing minutes later, he's easing Dean into the passenger seat and buckling him in.