Disclaimer: Neither Sam nor Dean nor anything else Supernatural belongs to me and I am not making a profit from this.
Advisory Note: There be Wincest herein... so if you don't like it... turn back now
Summary: Sam watches over his sleeping brother and thinks over the development of their relationship so far.
Spoilers: quite a lot of references to Faith and Something Wicked from Season 1.
I hate the fact that it is only in moments like these that I can truly see my brother. He's so much younger, so much less secure, so much more vulnerable than he acknowledges in daylight. We lie here in the dark, dim light infiltrating the window from the street lights outside; he is finally asleep, wrapped in my arms. I can't soothe his fears for they are too real to ever actually be soothed away with words, but his doubts I can work on. So strong in daylight, so strong when we're hunting, yet here now he's fragile.
He drove for hours after we left Michael's mom's motel. Once we'd finished clearing up after the job with the Shtriga and we saw Michael on his way to the hospital to see his brother, we left, headed out into the distance. There was no thought to where; I think he just hit the first road out of town and stuck with it. He drove and I slept and when I woke he was still driving and he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't change seats and let me drive. He drove until he couldn't keep us on the road, he drove without speaking, barely even blinking or breathing.
When he finally pulled off into a motel, he parked the car and opened the door. The exhaustion overwhelmed him as he got out though and he stumbled. I'd made it round the car from my side and so I pushed him back to rest against the side of the car, "I'll go in, just wait here, I'll sort it." He finally gave in and nodded. He slumped back into the seat and his fight vanished. I bent down before him, taking his hand in mine, "We're okay, Dean, we're okay."
But as I walked over to reception, I realised that we're not okay, not by a long way. I might be, but Dean isn't… he's falling apart, this job, this life is killing him, shredding his soul and eating him alive. He's seen too much from too young. He's been undervalued for too long. Dad and I have always just assumed that he'll come when we call, he'll jump when we say, he'll do what we need… and he does… without question.
I had never really thought about what life was like for him when we were younger, until he told me about the Shtriga… I remember the days of sitting around bored in motel rooms with nothing to do and Dean not allowing me out. I remember complaining to Dean about the food we had to eat, the food we didn't have to eat when we were running short, the lack of anything to do, complaining like it was his fault or he could do something to change it. He sucked it all up and took it. I can barely remember a single occasion when he complained, let alone argued back.
He watched and I slept secure in the knowledge that I was safe with him protecting me… well now, it's my turn to protect. So much blame, so much tortured pain inside him and he doesn't find release. I think even this causes pain for him, this thing we have. In the dark, with the curtains closed and the world shut away, we have something the world wouldn't approve of, something tender, something intimate, but whilst I cherish it, know it is our secret, I think he is just filled with the fear of us being found out. I think he expects Dad to find out somehow, Dad who we trail the country trying to find and can't, Dad who never answers the phone, not even when his son was dying, just sends co-ordinates… somehow, Dean expects him to know what we do behind those closed doors. He believes what we do is his fault, even though we both know I made the move and continue to do so… I thought I'd lost him, thought the Rawhead was the end of my brother… it was unjust… I couldn't do anything; we didn't… not then… I was too frightened of doing anything that might push him to the end before I found a way to right it. But I held him and I wouldn't let go. Whenever he turned round, I was there at his side, at his back, touching him, holding him, supporting him, determined to never let go. He fought me, tried to stand on his own feet, in his own space and I saw his life slipping away as he got weaker… day by day… then hour by hour and then, the night before we went to LeGrange, it seemed to be fading by the minute. Then he finally caved, let it go, the front, the rock hard exterior and the jokes to deflect the truth. I was already holding him, already burdening him with my fear of letting him go… when he… he let go and the tears came and as I kissed the tears away, he whispered of his fear of leaving me alone, his fear of where he'd go, his fear of it hurting and his fear of not knowing that I was alright. How could he be afraid of where he'll go… my brother, he has sacrificed more than anyone to save others, sacrificed everything in his life to keep me alive and happy and Dad sane and he's afraid he'll go to Hell. And when he finished whispering his fears, I carried on kissing him, trying to force my willpower into him, to keep him alive long enough to find an answer. I savoured his taste, longing for more and finally he slept and I heard the dragging laboured breathing and prayed he'd last, prayed he'd hold on, prayed that we'd reach LeGrange the next day and he'd save Dean.
He was… saved… but that wasn't how it felt… or not for him anyway. Knowing another had died so he could live, it broke him that much more. We left the area and he wouldn't let me near him, wouldn't speak more than he had to. He blamed me…and I accept that blame. It's wrong to say it, but I'm glad we didn't find out how LeGrange's wife was doing it until it was too late, until Dean was saved. I feel for the family of the man who died, but my brother deserved to live too. I wanted him to live.
We went for almost two weeks, he barely ate, barely slept and then one night, with no hunt because he was in no state to function, I'd drawn a line and we couldn't cross it. I closed the door. I shut the curtains. I pushed him to sit on the bed. I knelt before him, and took his hands in mine and told him he had to stop killing himself, because I couldn't do it, I couldn't live without him. I felt the tears slip from my eyes… and his fingers pulled away from my hands and moved to wipe my cheeks dry. I moved forward, knocking his hand gently from my cheek as I moved up to kiss him. I took his face in my hands and held it still, angled so I could plant kisses gently on his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead… his mouth. Finding his mouth, I paused, drawing breath, relishing the moment, then resumed my exploration of his lips, they opened just a fraction and I forced my tongue inside. He tried to pull away, but I held his face tighter, keeping him with me. Suddenly his eyes widened as he began to respond, his own tongue pressing against mine. He closed his eyes tight and tried to pull away again, but I held him, not allowing it, I held him, not wanting to let him slip away. He sobbed and I moved my hand to caress his hair. I drew back for an instant, releasing his mouth. Standing up, I forced him back onto the bed.
"Ssh, don't worry, I've got you." I whispered as the sobs continued, almost silent little gasps of air that shook his body. I didn't ever lose contact with him, but lay beside him and drew him close again, resuming my kissing by this time kissing away the tears. "I won't let you fall Dean, just let it go." I kissed my way back to his mouth and as he gasped, let my tongue slide back into his mouth. He tried again to get away from me, but I held firm and as he relaxed against me, I moved my kiss down, to his chest, lifting his shirt to kiss the skin below.
"Sam!" he sounded lost, rather than shocked or disgusted. I lifted my head, eyes searching for his. I can see the depths of pain and lift myself to lie beside him, one hand propping my head, the other resting over his heart. "No!"
"It's okay, I've got you. We can do this, it's just us."
He moved across to kiss me, in that instant believing what I told him, and I knew it was right. His kisses were tender, soft and loving. His hands seemed sure, yet tentative. He knew what he was doing, certain of the effect it would have on me if I allowed him to continue and that was where the apprehension came from, he didn't want to overstep the line. There was no line, the line had gone, erased when first I kissed him, when he didn't push me completely away in disgust.
I can honestly say he is the most considerate lover I've had, intimate, gentle, tender. It was a surprise that first time but it hasn't changed in the times since. He holds and touches with infinite care, touches my body like he's frightened he could break it, like he's being allowed to touch something precious. How can I let him see that the reverse is true, that he is precious, he is loved, he is worth more than he ever believes?
That first time, we were gentle, we took time exploring one another's bodies, so familiar and yet… this was new. I knew his body almost better that I knew my own, I've run my hands over his skin, cleaning wounds, placing stitches and dressings but this… this was more than that, this was… I never wanted to let him go, I never wanted to stop. My fingers burned with the sensation, my senses heightened, I could smell, taste, touch him, hear his breathing and watch his every reaction. That night we learnt each other, learnt where we each liked to be touched and how, learnt what we could really be together. I learnt not just about him, but me, he touches me in a way no-one has ever done before, makes me feel something I've never felt before… ecstasy, tripping, new heights… old hat… they don't describe what we have… nothing can.
Now, weeks or months, I've stopped counting, I just treasure each moment and he's just more and more fragile. I worry that it is me who's breaking him. I stand back, don't make a move on him, see the hesitant wariness, the crumpling that shows me he can't come to me; he needs me to make that move. He can't admit until the world is shut away outside our door, until the lights are out and he's safe in my arms that he isn't coping, that it is all too much for him, like it's too much for me in daylight.
I realise how much reliving our childhood as we tracked the Shtriga has thrown him; how his supposed failure and my close call had scarred him inside. He drove because he doesn't want to think, doesn't want to stop, can't deal with the pain he's got inside. I hold him and he can't put it into words. He trembled and said Michael's name and I realise now how much it hurt him to have to use the child as bait. I hadn't recognised it at the time. He wants to save the children from the life we led, protect them so they can go on believing there are no monsters in the closet. The words he said as we left the motel that he wanted me to still have that kind of innocence, just march between us like a ragged wound that refuses to heal, because he has never been able to protect me from the life that has torn our family and him to pieces. He can protect me from harm, protect me from danger, stand between me and the monster of the day, but he can never protect me from the knowledge of what's out there.
He shifts in his sleep, burrowing backward deeper into my side, even asleep he needs to know I'm here now. I wonder how he's survived so long alone, when his whole being now calls out to be held, to be taken care of. We argued, badly, a couple of weeks ago when I saw him flirting with some girl in a bar. I told him what I thought of the skanky bitch he was flirting with, how much of a feeble mind he must have to be chasing her, how little must I mean to him. His first defence was that I should trust him, but as my rage grew, so he shouted that I should mind my own business and leave him be, if that was all I thought of him.
I didn't see him leave the bar but he left ahead of me, without the girl. I stayed watching her, wondering where he was, expecting him to continue his pursuit… planning on tormenting myself with his supposed infidelity… and when I got back to the motel, he was already in bed… his bed… the smaller of the two… the one we never use anymore…feigning sleep… a clear message that this argument was not going to be resolved in bed that night. Three days later and he hadn't said a word that wasn't related to the job we were on. On the fourth night, we tracked down the spirit, found the grave and burnt the remains. He'd dug the grave almost alone. Instead of the steady pace we normally set, the change and change about of turn to make sure we don't strain ourselves, he had dug solidly at a far faster pace and I'd only been able to help when there was room for two. As we walked back to the Impala afterwards, he handed me the keys without a word and climbed into the passenger side. He'd fallen into an uneasy but exhausted sleep in the car and that was when I noticed the way he held his hands, even in his sleep, out and away as if avoiding them coming into contact with anything. Paused at a stop light, I'd reach over and gently turned the nearer hand to see the bloody mess of burst blisters and torn skin and heard him moan as even that light touch had aggravated the pain. I ran my fingers through his hair and felt him relax again. I turned my attention back to the road. I parked up as close to our room as I could get, got out and opened the motel room door, then went back to wake him. He came to with a groan of pain, hands and already stiffening muscles combining in their assault. I didn't let him out of the car, until I had whispered my apologies and kissed him gently, lovingly, then I guided him up supporting his tired frame back to our room… so reminiscent in my mind of the time before LeGrange, I had to resist the urge to check him over for some other unknown injury.
I cleaned and covered his hands, feeling every wince of pain, hearing every groan he tried to stifle and throughout he whispered a non-stop stream of apology until I brought his lips to mine and ceased them with a kiss. I moved behind him and drew him into my hold, then whispered the question that still burned inside me… had been burning since I first saw him with the girl… "Why? Why her, when you've got me? Why aren't I enough?" He hadn't bristled angrily, he hadn't pulled away, he'd just got smaller, less sure of himself. "Please tell me, because I can't stand this distance between us anymore, Dean," I urged.
He'd told me then… his fear that someone, somewhere would see us, would send word to Dad… what better way to make sure no one suspected what we did than for him to be seen with the sluttiest girl in a bar, how to throw them all off the scent of the truth. After all, everyone knows Dean Winchester has no standards and he told me of the times Dad had torn him apart for his choice of women, 'sluts and whores' he said… and that's when he admitted the truth… he'd leave with them, escort them home and once they were safely in, he would make an excuse and leave, wandering the streets until a suitable time had passed for him to head back to Dad, reputation intact as he prepared for another round of abuse for his behaviour. What hurts is the realisation that he has carried it on as we've travelled, presuming he needs to hide the truth from me as well. Even before this, I wanted the truth not a front, not a show with a mask; I wanted my brother to be who he really is. I'm not sure he even knows how anymore, too used to pretending, to used to trying to live up to our expectations of him, the good and the bad.
"Why, Dean? Why not find some nice girl and make your move? Is this because you don't like chicks?" The questions can fall thick and fast when I think of my brother, but the answers are almost always the same… he feels he isn't worth someone or something better, doesn't deserve anything good.
Dean, That's why you're falling apart in front of my eyes isn't it? You love me with your being, your soul, your essence, but you don't believe that you deserve to be loved… but you do. You deserve the world, happiness, peace. You deserve it all but you can't see it, can you?
You roll over in your sleep, clearly dreaming, as you mutter, "… Sammy … need you…" I lower my lips to the top of your head and plant a kiss there and you settle back further into sleep, your hand now resting over my heart. You hold it in your hand, Dean, my heart… there is no one else I would trust with it, like I trust you…
Author's Note: So this is my first ever piece of Wincest... does it work? I'd appreciate comments (of the non-flaming type). For the moment this is listed as In Progress as I have some thoughts towards a sequel but it may be a while in the writing. Thanks for reading.