Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I don't own em' didn't create them. Just love writing the fiction.
Warnings: brother slash
Notes: This was originally intended to be a really intense chapter fic, but I don't know if that's actually going to happen. Takes place sometime in season 2. This chapter is based on the two songs "Lost" and "Pieces" by Red. Enjoy!
Dean rarely dreams. His nights are dark and bleak and there are no traces that he was dreaming when he awakes. When he drifts into sleep, there is only aggravating emptiness. He tries to remember; he is positive he dreamt and yet the only mental image he can find is a black screen. A dark wall blocking something within that he can't grasp.
Despite that, sleep is still his favorite part of the day; at least he doesn't have nightmares about his girlfriend being murdered or visions of people dying every night. All of the indifference and mindless jokes towards Sam only prove true to his outer self. Internally, his sympathy for his brother is immense, especially when it comes to Sam's inability to sleep. There are some psychological problems with Sam that Dean can overlook, but he can't help but feeling sad for his brother's insomnia. Most nights, he stays awake to make sure Sam's alright whilst pretending he's asleep. He would never tell him, but he wants more than anything for Sam to be okay. He'll stay up long past normal sleeping hours, just monitoring Sam, who stays entirely oblivious. It's difficult for him to tell when Sam actually falls asleep, but some nights, he will lie there for hours before he can dose off, searching for a slowing in breath-pattern, a snore—anything.
Oddly, tonight, Dean falls fast asleep as soon as his face hits the pillow, without a second thought about Sam. And it is not the normal void either; the pitch black surrounding him is alive. He can feel it. He can sense it. There are chemicals in the air that infiltrate his mouth. His stomach threatens to give way to nausea, and he retches but nothing comes out. Peering up at the nothingness, he feels his legs begin to work. Instead of the blackness just being there, he can see it and his feet can feel it. He can see that it's dark instead of just knowing that it is. A horrid yet familiar smell enters the picture: sulfur. He retches again, but just like the first time, nothing comes out. White noise plays, slowly swaying from the background to the foreground and right now he would trade anything just to get back to his old, barren black-out, but there is no escape. He's started running and he can't stop. His mind doesn't even spare him the comfort of knowing that it's possible that it could be some supernatural occurrence that he has the power to stop. The thought doesn't even occur to him.
An uncomfortably warm breeze rolls in and doesn't leave. There's water at his feet. It's lukewarm and thick and he feels disgusted at the touch of it. He dry-heaves once more and his throat begins to choke up with tears that are brewing. He's being irrational and he knows that he is, but he can't help it. It's impossible for him to be rational right now. He needs Sam. Sam will help him. Sam will save him. "Sam! Sam!" he screams and his vocal chords hurt so badly from the stomach acid that has started coming up. He wonders when he became such a coward, when he started needing to be saved. But he doesn't care. "Sam!"
Suddenly, the realization that Sam could be out there and suffering just as much as him triggers the held-in tears to flow. He feels the ground slipping from beneath him and the water is gone but the heat isn't. Now he needs to find Sam. "Sammy! Sammy! It's okay!" It all makes sense; he's here to save Sam, but how can he? He thinks and thinks, turning around and trying to see something but it's far too dark. He feels helpless, and he hates it. His screams turn into cries, and his cries turn into pleas and before he knows it he's collapsed and weeping. "Sammy… Sam, I'll find you…" His voice has broken into heavy sobs. He places his hands down in an attempt to piece himself back together, but it's a lost cause. "Sammy!" His whines are becoming more and more hushed—he feels himself fading. He's falling. It's too hot and he tears at his clothes, all the while mutedly weeping his brother's name. His mind is stuck on repeat, refusing to leave those two little syllables: "Sammy…" and by now, he is begging his brother's name.
Then, abruptly, there is light. Not much, but enough to see. His rationale sinks in. He isn't afraid anymore. There is no more blinded lament. Everything from that dream—(was it a dream?)—is completely gone, save the temperature. It's still warm, but not to an uncomfortable degree; it's just right. He opens his tightly lidded eyes only to find Sam right before him. In fact, his brother is directly on top of him. "Sam?" he asks confusedly, thankfully leaving out the poignant tone his voice displayed only a few moments ago—(was that even him?).
"What the hell, man…" Dean tries to sit up and gather his thoughts, but Sam is on him, straddling him, and won't reply. He's too tired and worn out to even imagine why Sam would be on him in the first place, so he just focuses on finding out if he's okay. "Sam, you alright?" Again, no words come from his brother. Not even a nod or a shake of the head—complete stillness. Dean looks closer at him and manages to sit up some only to catch a glimpse of moisture on his cheeks. Sam's been crying, he can tell that much. "Listen, Sam—" Suddenly, the younger of the two leaps forward and is biting hot and hard at Dean's mouth.
Dean flinches back and tries to push Sam off, but it doesn't work. He doesn't want this; he does not want to use his brother, not for antics so trivial. But as the kiss goes on he finds that he's pushing into it, wrapping his arms around his brother's neck and forcing him down harder on his mouth. He's not turned off by the situation at all, and that scares him the most. He is not as surprised as he should be. Sam pulls away momentarily, and Dean doesn't even know what to say. He just stares forward, eyebrows slightly lifted, mouth parted. "S-Sam..." is all he can squeeze out. But before anything else is said, he leans back in, licking his brother's lips in an attempt to get the motion started again. It works. He's not even sure how or when, but Sam lightly sinks his fingernails into the sides of his torso and then slides his own shirt off of his shoulders. Dean wants to stop him, he really does, but goddamn, this feels so good. Besides, Dean reasons, what badness could come from Sam taking his own shirt off? …What could it hurt to take his brother's pants off too? He reaches down, grabbing the hem of Sam's jeans, done toying around. He pulls them down and goes for his own shirt.
Dean knows why he's like this. He knows why he even considered doing what he's doing in the first place. He hasn't fucked one single chick since his dad died, which was quite some ago. He needs release besides that inflicted by his own hand, and hell, Sam wants it, so why not? Normally, he would never go near a guy, but Sam's different. Sam is beautiful, somewhere underneath all of the layers of self-loathing and wrath and hatred towards everything. And beyond all of that, Sam is his brother. His father asked him to take care of his brother, to give him whatever he needed. And, clearly, Sam needs this.
He slides a tentative hand into Sam's jammies, letting his fingers slide on the hot, hardening flesh. He can't believe he's doing this. The thought of it two minutes ago was nowhere near as frightening as actually doing it. They break the kiss and resituate, Dean's hand residing on his brother's length all the while. Dean navigates on top of Sam, who is lying beneath him and panting harder than he should be for the given situation. He hides how nervous he is by being harsh and direct: "do you want this?"
"Why else would I—" He pauses mid-sentence and looks down, face flushing. "Yeah, fuck Dean, I do..." Sam rolls his eyes as Dean leans forward, slowly applying pressure to the tip with his palm. He can't find the words to agree with Sam, even though they're so simple: Me too. He starts massaging faster. He unbuttons his jeans with his free hand and pulls his boxers down to his knees as Sam rocks into his hand and breathes so loud and so quickly that it makes Dean embarrassed. He pushes closer to Sam and starts sucking his neck. He feels long fingers wrap around his revealed shaft and moans—(has he ever moaned before now? He can't ever remember moaning during sex before.)—partly because it feels good to have another hand touch him besides his own and partly from the extreme shock of it being Sam's hand. They thrust against each other's palms, desperate for feeling. Sam gives a breathy cry and pauses servicing his brother, too lost and overwhelmed by the feeling. Dean feels water drip into his ruffled hair and can't decide whether or not it's sweat, but upon looking up, he sees all the tears that are streaming from his brother's squinted eyes. He slows down his movements and fights the urge to be affectionate towards Sam. "Dean..." Sam's voice cracks as more tears come down. He holds his breath for a moment before continuing, unsure of whether he should say it. "Inside me… go inside… please…" He trails off, averting his gaze from the tense, unbelieving set of eyes that are now staring him down in question.
"No. Absolutely not," Dean says, sternly absolute as he moves away from his brother to sit at the edge of the bed, hiding his crotch as best he can from Sam's view. Sam stares at him nonetheless, his eyes teary and full of want. It's hard to hold under that gaze, and Dean's eyebrows crease a little. "C'mon, Sam. I can't handle that."
"Why? Do you seriously think I can't handle it? …After everything I've been through?" His voice rises indignantly. "After everything we've been through?
"Sam! This isn't about that! Back the hell off!" His voice is so stern and normally Sam listens and agrees after that but he gets the feeling this isn't going to be normal—(where did he get the idea this was normal?). He gets the feeling Sam isn't going to back down. A flicker of fear sparks in his eyes, but he hides it with a half-assed smile.
"Then, tell me Dean, what the hell is it about? Every day I have to live with knowing that I might hurt someone the next and here you are, curling up in a little ball! What the fuck are you afraid of?" Dean stares at him, angry and aroused, weak and broken. He tries to think of how the hell he could communicate to Sam how afraid he is of hurting his little brother, hurting him and making him bleed, breaking him beyond repair.
"I just—I can't do it," Dean says, turning away as he does it because he's afraid that his emotions are leaking though despite his experience in the art of hiding his true feelings. "You have to let me pass on this one," he mutters. The pressure weighs down his whole body. This is way bigger deal than Sam is making it out to be.
"Goddamnit, Dean!" Sam bellows, approaching his fear-ridden brother. "Just… Just do it! I need it. I'll be fine, I…" he whispers and nips the cartilage of Dean's ear. "I haven't eaten in a few days, so I won't throw up or anything." Dean's eyes widen at that, and he pushes Sam away. His heart beats heavily under sick solid blood and he feels like it's sinking.
"You haven't eaten? Just for this…?" He gazes on in shock, unable to accept that Sam could do that to himself. Sam glares at him with disheartened eyes, like trying to start an argument without saying anything. "Don't even try to defend yourself… It's plain fucked up! I don't want this if it means you're going to be hurting yourself." Dean attempts to shut out the blame but he can't stop telling himself this never would've happened if he had just tried talking to Sam earlier.
"I'm a big boy, Dean! I can make my own choices! And right now, it's my choice to let you do this to me!" Sam yells in that oddly calm tone, as if he's sneering. Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head, a rusty disappointment touching his features—(this is all wrong.). He gets off the bed, not wanting to succumb to his brother's orders. And suddenly a small, penetrated cry comes from behind him, one he never thought he'd hear from Sam. "Please…" it's weak, like any dignity that once may have been inside Sam evaporated into nothing more than a manipulative, desperate whimper. His hesitance leaves him as his rage hardens—towards all of the bullshit he could never stop, towards the way Sam always treats him, towards not being able to save his own father. He decides this is best for them; he can let all of that out in one act of primal passion. Except this time, with someone who matters, someone who isn't just some bar whore with nice tits. He turns around, wishing he could find comfort somewhere in the scattered shambles of their relationship.
"Fine." His voice is resigned, withered. He doesn't even look his brother in the face. "But I'm not doing this by myself, Sammy, you have to let me drink…" He begins asking himself when he started asking Sam for permission—he's the older sibling, he should do what he wants. But Sam nods sympathetically, as if he finally understands how hard Dean is taking this.
Dean unscrews the lid to the flask of alcohol that was sitting on his bed side table and takes a massive gulp before getting back on Sam. Their lips meet and the kiss is tender; much more relaxed and genuine than before. Dean tastes the alcohol mix with his brother, and once the kiss falls apart of its own accord, Dean can't tell whether he was the one drinking or if it was Sam. Their saliva is mixed perfectly. They kiss for a while, stark naked, before Dean even thinks about putting anything in his brother. He finally slips a finger into the puckered, quivering flesh, but Sam protests with his trademark snappiness.
"No. Your fingers? Really? Just do it!" Sam yells, and Dean's face falls into an indignant grimace. Even if his brother wants it, how could he ever hurt him that much? He'd rather die than harm Sam, no fucking question—(so why is he letting himself do this?). He takes another swig off of the flask, the metal cooling his hand. The liquor subdues any hesitation as he leans forward and licks his lips. A broken smile ends up on his face because he can't seem to just say 'okay' and get on with it; he'd rather use fake facial gestures. That's typical weak Dean in action; running from the pain rather than just dealing with it.
Dean's whole body is filled with the same crawling heat from inside that horror-story nightmare, save the one hand that's clutching the container full of his temporary medicine. He knows that after drinking enough, he'll be able to do it without completely breaking in the process, but it's also in plain view that the escape won't last forever. Tomorrow he'll wake up and the guilt will be in an overdose-associative quantity. Tomorrow he will be sick. Not that being sick is anything new. He's used to feeling useless, always under the weather, like a permanent jetlag. It's all because of Sam. It's always been about Sam. Sam is his weakness, his obsession, the sickness he can't shake off. The alcohol really has nothing to do with it. It's only the means for gratification in between the streams of pain, the blockade for the symptoms of a heart-borne illness that he contracted from none other than his infamous demon boy—Sam Winchester. He'll never get rid of it or feel above the weather. He'll always be one step behind. Because Sam is in front of him, and always has been—(no retreat, no surrender). There is no leaving this commitment.
(lost in you…)
Dean has adjusted; his torso against Sam's lean, trembling back. His throat tightens as he wraps his shaking arm around his brother's stomach. He chugs down the rest of the liquor with his free hand and carelessly throws the flask onto the cheap, ugly, geometric-patterned carpet before continuing in pecking down Sam's spine. His kisses become sloppier and sloppier until they turn into full-fledged licks. His dismal concerns distort gradually into an impenetrable misery. Helpless anger. He holds it in with all of the energy he has, because Sam doesn't deserve it—(or does he? Where was he when things needed to be done and I sat alone, crying?).
"D-Dean, I need—" Sam's voice sounds like a high-pitched school-girl begging for release. "I need it now," he whines, and Dean's mercy is gone. He pushes Sam forward onto his knees and unexpectedly leaps to his feet, stumbling to the small motel fridge. He yanks the six-pack he planned on saving for tomorrow against his chest and tosses them on the bed. Sam stays positioned on his hands and knees, too scared to move. Dean crawls back onto the bed, glancing at his brother as he sees one ounce of fear multiply into thousands on his face.
"Do you want it slow or…?" Dean asks into the back of Sam's head, but doesn't wait for an answer to begin. Sam doesn't expect the push as his brother drives in, hard and sloppy. He feels himself tear, water lining his bottom eyelid. He cranks his head back and looks at Dean, seeming to absorb the lack of condolence on Dean's face—it's as if Dean's mind is somewhere else, green eyes turned gray and distant, face washed with a stone-cold apathy.
Dean can feel his brother's eyes on him, and though he's trying his best to put his thoughts away and pretend like he's not dealing the damage, he can't stand Sam staring. Just as he pulls out, he shoves it back in harder and Sam's locked gaze is torn away as his neck whips forward onto the sheets. Dean ignores the guilt and puts all of his focus on the rhythm of the thrusts. After all, this is about pleasure, about release, about orgasmic bliss for the both of them and nothing else. "S-Sam…" he cries as a wave of pleasure ripples over him— (it's all about pleasure). He increases the speed and his brother is panting pleas and threats through hasty breaths and it's only making him hornier. He rips a beer from the surface of the bed and pops the lid off as quickly as possible, turning back to his brother with an intensified drive. He gulps the whole thing down and all of his worries and ache seem to melt, leaving only anger behind. His vision blurs, but he keeps going, harder and faster and tougher than ever. Tears form in his eyes as Sam leans back into him and kisses him on the mouth. His hands find his brother dick and he presses his fingers against it. His brother's body shudders against him as his ministrations become longer and more drawn out—teasing and tender all at once.
"I…" Sam appears as if he's trying to talk but can't form the words. Dean's body tingles and his legs grow numb against the sheets as Sam grabs his hand and squeezes as hard as he can. "Damnit…!" he lets out, but his brother doesn't hear him. He is a failure. More tears form in his eyes, the combination of his aching cock and the opaque guilt that has been buried inside of him for more than a year. He tried to hold everything together, he tried everything he could to hold the family together, but it all broke; it all came raining down on him, weights on his shoulders. Sam and John hated each other to the very last moment they spent together and it was his entire fault. It was all Dean's goddamn fault. "I tried so hard…" he yells, scratchy vibrato dragging the words out. "So hard…" A pained hum catches in his throat as his length seizes and pleasure flushes over him. His come mixes with sweat and tears until there's nothing but the taste of salt in the air. He twitches and feels Sam tremble on top of him, both of them simultaneously collapsing beneath their burnt-out frustration.
"I know… me too," Sam states jadedly, volume hardly above a whisper, his voice hoarse. Dean breaths are loud and the two of them lie there panting on the sheets, exhales and inhales coming so close they can't tell them apart. He stays on his brother, limbs too heavy to move and they both cry shamelessly alongside each other, not knowing where else to direct their grief. "Dad…" Dean mumbles, his arms tangled around his brother's body. He tried, he tells himself, he tried and that's all that matters. The thought won't even leave him in peace with after-sex silence.
The family fell apart, Sam went to college, his dad died, and he couldn't stop it.
But he tried. He tried so hard he sometimes feels like he wasted his whole life on something that was never meant to be. And as the moon shines into the damp, exhausted room, he wonders why he said yes. Why he let Sam convince him to do it. His blood flows thick with alcohol and though he's starting to black out, vision narrowing, he can't stop himself from wondering.
Everyone always told him "just give it time" or "it'll get better," his dad included. As he drifts into blackness, sweat and liquid gluing him to his brother, he wonders when things get better. Or if they get better at all.
(everywhere I run… lost in you…)