Hello everyone!
That's my very first story in the Supernatural fandom and I have decided to try and translate it in English too (you can find the original italian version here).
I'd like to thank my beta, Robin Mask, 'cause she was really awesome and helped me a lot.
The opening and closing quotes are from the song "Demons" by Imagine Dragons.
:)
WOVEN IN MY SOUL
When you feel my heat, look into my eyes
It's where my demons hide, it's where my demons hide
Don't get too close, it's dark inside
It's where my demons hide, it's where my demons hide
The room was hot, suffocating. The window was open, but all that came in was heat, together with a couple of thirsty mosquitos.
The two beds were clean, neatly made, but the green quilts were ruined, aged without grace. Between them, there was there was a space occupied by a wooden nightstand , with a drawer which didn't close properly (they had found a Bible inside; Dean had put his KY next to it).
The moquette was beige. Having it underneath their feet in July was a nightmare, but he knew there had to be positive aspects. In that moment, for example, it was soft under Sam's knees.
Dean lowered his eyes in the exact same moment Sam (his Sam, his pain-in-the-ass little brother, Sammy) raised his. He looked for uncertainty in his gaze, but all he found was excitement, nervousness and a little embarassment.
"Teach me, Dean".
And malice, maybe.
Damn, he thought, as he restrained himself from coming like that, untouched, only because of Sam's words.
As he struggled to find an answer, Sam took the initiative. His fingers unzipped his jeans, uncertain, and slowly lowered them. When they clasped the elastic of his boxers, Sam looked at him again, searching for approval.
Dean just nodded, his head spinning; the heat had nothing to do with it.
Teach me, Dean.
"The most important thing is-" he managed to say, his voice more hoarse than he had expected "-is being careful with your teeth. As for the rest... you're smart, Sammy. I'm sure you'll figure it out."
Sam did it, clumsy but enthusiastically, and Dean found himself moaning, forgetting about anything that wasn't that, that wasn't Sammy, while his inner demon exulted, wild.
(It had begun with weird thoughts, with looks that lingered more than necessary, with unexpected jealousy winces.
He had realized what it was all about and was horrified.
No. Not that, not Sam.
He had tried ignoring it, repressing every bad thought, every desire, every image that formed in his mind and drove away the ones of a hundred Kellys, Lucys, Annabelles and Christines.
As much as he tried, as much effort as he put into it, they remained nothing but faded names and faces, single images of blond hair, cheerleaders' miniskirts and small hands with pink polished nails.
Sammy, on the other hand... he was all the rest. Sam was the fight for the remote, he was an exorcism in Latin performed by heart, he was his beloved salad, he was too long hair, books in his hands and unexpected pranks. Sam was his brother, and Dean was a monster. How could he sleep at night, with a horror like that on his conscience?
His first hypothesis, obviously, had been for something supernatural.
A couple years before, when Dean was sixteen and Sam was too young to actively participate in a hunt, John and him had found and killed a succubus.
Dean remembered what the monster had forced people to think and to do. Visceral desires and evil cravings; acts that were violent, perverse, against nature.
The idea, as scary as it sounded, had filled him with hope; but when, despite the tireless research and the passing of time, nothing had changed, and none of the four purification rituals he had secretly performed had any effect, Dean had to give up.
The demon was inside of him.)
John was back and had occupied half of their room. He made an amused remark about the purple mark on Sam's neck ("looks like you've had a fun weekend, huh, Sammy?"), making him blush. As Dean watched the scene displaying nothing but good-natured indifference, Sam had turned around and winked at him.
That night they had to share the bed, which wouldn't have been too bad if their sleeping father hadn't slept less than half a meter away from them.
In the dim light of the room, with the oppressing heat that made it impossibile to hide underneath a blanket, Dean found himself watching Sam. His brother's eyes seemed to be shining, wet- maybe because of the absurdity of the situation, with John snoring in the bed next to theirs, or maybe because of the frustration for not being able to do anything.
Sam carefully placed a hand over his stomach, without moving further and without stopping looking at him. Dean swallowed and thought he was supposed to guard that innocence, he was supposed to escape his brother's adoring and faithful gaze.
And yet, once again his demon forced him to cover Sam's hand with his own, to whisper a quiet goodnight in his ear and falling asleep like that.
He woke up in the middle of the night because of the heat and he found Sammy sleeping with his head on Dean's shoulder. He gently pushed him away and turned on the other side, afraid of what his father would see the morning after, or maybe just scared of the sweet warmth that vision had released into his chest.
But by then, he thought, going away was useless.
~ It's woven in my soul
I need to let you go
Your eyes, they shine so bright
I want to save that light
I can't escape this now
Unless you show me how
(Differently from what he expected, it had been Sam the first to take a step in that direction.
One night they were in Wyoming, John being away to keep researching about a complex familiar tragedy that had caused the birth of a poltergeist. Dean had been back in the tiny apartment they had for rent late, at about three a.m., visibly drunk and with a sporting a black eye.
"What happened?" Sam had asked after making him sit on the bed, a tone of resignation to his voice, as though he was used to such scenes. Maybe he truly was, Dean had confusedly considered, thinking back about the times he had been the one to collect the pieces when John had come back like that. For a moment, he had almost felt guilty; then he had remembered the reason why he hadn't stayed home with Sam.
I did the right thing, he had told himself without much conviction.
"I was at this chick's house," he had said, alcohol slighltly slurring his syllables. "Blonde, with extra long legs and those lips that... well, anyway, her boyfriend got back. He was pretty pissed, and he had two friends with him." Sam watched him expressionless, simply dabbing disinfectant over the cut on his eyebrow. "I kicked their asses, obviously," Dean had concluded.
Sam had placed the cotton and disinfectant on the nightstand and had taken a deep breath, clenching his fists, as though he was making a serious effort not to slap his brother.
"Sometimes I wonder, Dean," he had said, his voice impressively clear, "if it wouldn't be easier for you, instead of going around looking for trouble, to just come to me."
Dean had suddenly lifted his head up, sure he had misunderstood. Sam had held his gaze.
"I don't know what you're talking about" Dean had said firmly, defensive.
"You must really believe I'm stupid, if you think I haven't noticed" Sam had replied, sour.
He had stood up and turned around, exiting the room.
Dean had stood still, trying to give a sense to what he had heard, the alcohol's effects quickly disappearing, his demon powerlessly fidgeting inside of him.)
They had to wait an entire week to have another night by themselves. They were running short of money, so they had stayed in the backseat of the Impala.
Sam was over him – he was lighter, even though he was dangerously close to becoming taller – and he was kissing him, with all the frenzy of his fourteen years and the long days of forced abstinence.
"Easy, tiger" Dean laughed, reversing their positions and blocking his wrists with one hand.
Sam smiled and tried to break free, but it was useless. So he raised his hips, which tore a surprised whimper from Dean and allowed Sam to sit, laying with his back against the car door.
"I don't want us to stop, this time" he said.
Dean, sitting on his legs, shook his head.
"There's no need to rush things, Sammy" he stated.
"There's no need to slow them down either" Sam replied.
"It's your first time. I don't want it to happen like this, in the car. And it's too soon anyways."
"You were younger than me!"
"Yeah, and look how that turned out."
"I should be the one to decide!"
"Some things, in case you haven't noticed, have to be done together."
"Then why doesn't my opinion matter?"
"I said no, Sam. Stop arguing" Dean blurted out, in his best big brother tone.
Sam drew his legs back until he could push Dean away from himself, angry.
"What's your problem?" he asked.
"I told you what my problem is" Dean answered, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You're scared, aren't you?" Sam insisted, ignoring his answer. "You think you're corrupting me or something."
"I think this discussion is proving how not mature you are."
"I'm right, aren't I? You think you're spoiling my innocence?"
"Bullshit."
Silence fell over them. Then Sam tightened his lips, straightened his t-shirt and got out of the car.
For a second, Dean felt like he couldn't breathe. He looked out of the window: Sam took a couple of steps away from the Impala, then he stopped. Dean saw his shoulders rise slowly multiple times, with the rhythm of as many deep breaths.
Don't leave, his demon thought. Go away, the rational part of his mind countered.
Sam turned around and got back. He opened the driver's door and settled on the front seat.
Dean lay on his side and closed his eyes; in the dark, he could hear the light breath of his brother's.
He was almost falling asleep when his voice reached him in a whisper:
"I want it too, Dean. You're not ruining me for anyone else, because there's no one else I'd like to be with. No one but you. All the girls I know... hell, even the boys... they don't mean a thing. They're faces I'll forget as soon as we move for the thousanth time. But you... you're the only constant. And I want you, Dean, so bad it hurts. Is it that hard to accept?"
Dean, his eyes clenched shut, couldn't say anything for a few seconds.
"Hold on, I'll go search for a tissue" he finally muttered, finding in sarcasm a comfortable refuge. "It was really moving, Sammy."
Sam snorted and didn't say anything else: he knew Dean had listened and he wasn't expecting a serious answer.
Dean, on his part, did his best not to ponder every syllable, but it was completely useless.
No one but you... the only constant... I want you... so bad it hurts.
His demon laughed in uncontainable joy; Dean himself couldn't help but smile, quickly hiding it in the jacket he was using as a pillow.
How can you sleep at night? Deep and dreamless, it seemed: better than he had slept in the past six months.
(A few weeks later, John had found a plausible track for the yellow-eyed demon; he had left his kids an easy ghost haunting, an abandoned house, only frequented by teenegers searching for adrenaline.
It wouldn't have been anything special – a couple hours of resarch guided by Sam, followed by salt, gasoline and a lighter to throw on decades old bones – if it hadn't been for the victim's sister, who had lauched herself against Sam, who, surprised, had lost his balance and hit his head against a Dean swore and got out his salt-loaded shotgun, Sam had fell and lost his consciousness.
The second ghost had been defeated with another tank of gasoline and a huge amount of salt; the Dean had rushed to his brother's side. Sam had woken up a few minutes before and was trying to get back on his feet.
"Easy, easy" he had exclaimed. "Stay down and follow my finger with your eyes."
After he had made sure everything was alright, Dean had escorted Sam to the Impala, parked outside the graveyard. They hadn't said a word while they travelled back to the motel, embarassment and tension apparently an obstacle too difficult to overcome.
Finally, when they had been safe behind the closed door of their room, Dean had made his brother sit on the bed and had disinfected the wound on his head, which kept bleeding.
He's only fourteen, he had thought, not for the first time. He shouldn't be doing this. And then, there are many things he shouldn't be doing.
"You're not the only one" Sam had suddenly said.
Dean had raised an eyebrow.
"And I thought I had made sure you were in full possession of your mental faculties."
"You're not the only one having those thoughts" Sam had specified, turning to look him in the eyes.
Dean had played his "I don't know what you're talking about" card already, so he picked a different strategy.
"You don't know what you're saying, Sam. You'd better go to sleep."
"Stop treating me like a child: I'm not one. I know what I want, Dean."
"Do you really?" Dean had chanted, almost teasing him, all his barriers raised, trying to keep his brother at a safe distance, emotionally speaking.
"I want you" Sam had replied, with no hesitation.
Afterwards, Dean had tried telling himseld that, after all, Sam had been the one to begin it all, with those three words that had shattered his every certainty; but, every single time, he remembered exactly who had been the first to take the other's head in his hands, to press his own lips against the other's, to firmly make him part them, without finding any resistance anyway, while Sam grasped the amulet around his neck and pressed it inside his own palm.
Dean had kissed his brother and the world had kept standing.
His demon had sung, full of pride and unrepressable happiness.)
In the end, it had happened in a motel in Delaware, of all places.
Sam had looked at him with his puppy dog eyes and Dean hadn't been able to find any more reasons to resist. After all, they both wanted the same thing.
It had been with gentleness that he had guided his brother on the bed, with patience that he had removed all of their clothes, slowly, in no hurry; they had explored each other's bodies with their eyes, their hands, their lips.
They had murmured nonsensical words... and they had made love.
Dean would never had said it aloud – he had a reputation to maintain – but that was what it had all been about. He had protected Sam all his life, he had always been the sun he found himself rotating around. That last step, being inside of Sam in every sense, had seemed natural, right. Dean's place was with Sam, he couldn't deny it anymore, and he proved it to him with every caress, every kiss, every look, always better with facts than with words.
Sam, though, was good with both, and had whispered for a long time, in his ear, inebriating and honey-sweet sentences. "Dean... I love you".
Sammy was sleeping next to him, his head on Dean's shoulder, his lips slighlty ajar and his hair messy.
Dean looked at him and smiled. His demon was glowing: this is my kingdom come.
For once, he didn't wish for him to hush.
No matter what we breed
We still are made of greed
This is my kingdom come
This is my kingdom come ~