Author's Notes: Um, okay, so. This may or may not be your run-of-the-mill insanity!fic. I don't read them all that much, though the couple that I've read have been awesome. This wouldn't exist without a few very special people: Trini, for not only the bunny, but general handholding and cheerleading and listening to my endless ranting. I about went crazy writing this one. :S ulysses3_de LJ for the charming beta and the help shaping this into something readable. Hope you get well soon! 3 Other than that, this is pretty... dark, but I think I've got more pride for this than just about anything I've done before. So yay!
Author's Notes Redux: Trini asks me to note that this was plotted, discussed, and written months before the promo for 5.11 was aired; therefore, there is nothing remotely canon about it.
Not mine, I just like to play.
Beware! This fic contains mature themes and character death. If you don't think you can handle it, you don't have to handle it. Nothing terribly explicit, so don't worry about that.
It was cloudy and dark the day Sam finally swallowed his pride and called his father.
The room he'd rented seemed to echo his words back at him. His voice was too loud in the silence; the neighbors arguing next door was the only other sound as he told his father about his girlfriend's death.
In the pause that followed, the beating of his heart swallowed even the muffled insults filtering through the thin wall.
"I'm sorry, son," was the first answer he got. The next, after another silence, "Are you coming home?" To-the-point. A trait that Sam had always loathed in his father suddenly seemed a little less horrible. He didn't have to ask, now. Didn't have to beg to be accepted back into the family.
"Yeah," he said, voice breaking. Something heavy lodged in his throat. "Yeah, I think I am."
He didn't tell Dad about the bus ticket already laying on the motel dresser.
The call ended almost five minutes later, and when Sam looks at the elapsed time displayed on his cell's screen, he finds it remarkably ironic that it didn't take longer.
Days later, when he stumbled off the bus smelling like week-old roadkill, the first thing he spotted in the station's overcrowded parking lot was the sun reflecting off the hood of Dean's car. The edge of excitement he'd felt as the bus made its way over state line after state line was slowly replaced by a creeping anxiousness that made him hesitate.
The driver was handing him his luggage out of the bus's cargo hatch, and he didn't have anywhere else to go, so he forced his legs to move in the Impala's general direction.
He threw his bags into the backseat when he got close enough and climbed into the front, carefully watching the other passengers through the windshield.
After everyone is gone, they stay like this. Sam watched Dean out of the corner of his eye, unable to not do so, and felt the full brunt of their history stretched out between them on the seat.
"Dude," Dean said, wrinkling his nose and making Sam jump with the suddenness. "You reek."
Things aren't comfortable, but they aren't uncomfortable, either. Sam could live with that. Hell, he probably deserved it.
He wished Dad had come to get him instead; that way, he wouldn't have to dread their reunion whole ride home. Sam didn't know what his father will do. Last time they'd seen each other, he'd literally kicked Sam out of the house.
"You're worried about Dad." It wasn't a question. Dean, perceptive as always, was able to tell what Sam was feeling without taking his eyes off the road. The fact that he wass still so readable made him ache a little. He'd thought he'd changed. He'd though that the person he was four years ago wasn't alive anymore, but Dean proved him wrong, always more aware of Sam than Sam was of himself.
He sighed, "A little."
"He's not going to be home for another three hours, so relax. He's not mad." He added as an afterthought, "He hasn't been mad at you for a long time."
Sam didn't say anything. He'd cross that bridge when he got there, but in the state he's in, he'd probably let Dad get away with saying anything he wanted. Up to now, he'd been staving off the impending anvil that Jess' death was going to drop. Now that he was home, just a little safer despite the hostile waters, he could let it fall on him.
Sooner than he liked, they were pulling into the driveway. Dean hit the automatic garage door opener and pulled the Impala into the cool, musty dark. Sam sat there for a little longer than was probably necessary before getting his bags and meeting Dean at the door that connected to the house.
Almost nothing had changed. Even the curtains were the same, and now that Sam thought about it, they'd been the same for as long as he could remember. Instead of fighting the homesickness like he expected, this urges it on. Sighing, he climbed the narrow stairs and found his room.
Nothing here had changed, either. Dean followed him up, and just as Sam was settling his bags on the familiar lumpy mattress, he spoke. Softly, almost uncharacteristically soft, barely more than a whisper.
"Welcome home, little brother." He didn't look up from the spot he'd been eyeing on the carpet, but the sincerity of the words made Sam's chest seize.
The first hour was uncomfortable. Dean didn't know what to do with himself, whether to follow Sam around like a lost puppy or go about his business as normal. Sam could have unpacked, but he didn't feel up to it. Anything else left his hands free and his mind wandering, so he fidgeted.
Dean noticed the silence for what it was, but didn't bring it up. Instead, he found a ratty deck of cards and ribbed Sam until he agreed to play just to shut Dean up. He was reminded, as he gathered his hand from the space just in front of him where Dean's been dealing, of middle school. Of nights, after homework was finished, when he and his brother would occupy themselves with a deck of cards. This same one, probably.
Afterwards, when he went to college (ran away), he'd still keep a deck handy. Not to play with, but just to shuffle. To keep his hands busy.
Sam always had to have his hands busy.
For the next hour and a half, he was so absorbed in beating Dean (and ignoring the way he gloats when he's winning) that he temporarily forgot his nerves. Until just about fifteen minutes before Dad was supposed to be home, Sam was lost in a haze of mild happiness, feeling lighter than he'd been in a while.
And then he looked at the clock.
When they actually get to the meeting, it wasn't half as bad as he'd expected. He thought at the very least they'd have a yelling match, and worse-case scenario he'd get his ass kicked. But when John got there, he took one look at his son and drew him into a hug that knocked the wind out of him. Sam was so surprised that, at first, he didn't react.
They ordered pizza and sat around the dining room table that'd always been set for four, talking about nothing. The silence wasn't deafening; it wasn't awkward. They were all lost in their own thoughts and, for once, the companionable silence was welcome.
The days continued in much the same way; Sam allowed himself to think for what feels like the first time in forever. He sat up in his room, perched on the lumpy mattress that he used to hate so much, and thought about Jess.
If what emerged from the room afterwards didn't look quite as sane as it did when it went in, Dad and Dean didn't comment. Sam was grateful for their silence.
The weekend approached rapidly. Dad owned partial share in a garage downtown, and he and his business partner were discussing the relative merits of either giving Dean his own share of the garage or at least leaving it to him. The two of them alternated days, so one of them was always there to watch over things.
The first day Dean was off, Dad worked late. Sam didn't have anything better to do, hadn't been out of the house (hadn't even been out in their own attached garage) since he arrived, so Dean dragged him away to one of his favorite local hunts. Sam remembered it, in a vague way, but he'd never actually been inside.
For every round Dean bought, he offered Sam one; Sam always refused. He didn't want to remember how it felt to be numb, less tormented, afraid he'd get used to the feeling. Though he knew neither his father nor his brother would let him drink himself into a stupor just to forget, he didn't want to give them the opportunity to refuse him. He did it himself.
It's how he ended up the designated driver. Dean hadn't had enough to be drunk and wasn't sober enough to be trusted with any sort of machinery, so Sam drove them home and hauled his brother up to bed. It felt good to take care of someone again, even if the roles were reversed. Like he was actually needed and didn't just exist in the grey space.
Dean didn't need much help, but it's the general idea. He flopped down onto his bed and rolled over, grasping the hem of his t-shirt and wriggling it up his torso. Sam half-sighed, too close to amusement to actually be exasperated, and stepped over to help him.
Once his shirt was off, flung to a dark corner of the room, Sam reached for the button on Dean's jeans. Common sense, really; he couldn't sleep in his clothes and Sam had to help him get them off. But his hands shook for some reason he couldn't explain, and before he managed to work the button out of the hole, Dean's hand was on his cheek.
"Sammy," he breathed, voice rough and torn around the edges. Sam looked up, fingers still fumbling with the clasp, and met Dean's hazy eyes.
"Yeah?" he asked, but before he got the word completely out, Dean was sitting up, threading his fingers through Sam's hair and yanking him forward. Before he could completely register what just happened (can you get drunk through osmosis?), Dean's mouth was on his.
Sloppy, wet. Completely uncoordinated, and Sam jerked away. "Dean-"
"Don't leave," Dean said, moistening his lips, making them ridiculously wet and shining. "Please, Sam. Don't leave. Missed you so much."
He couldn't move away in time. Dean was kissing him, and a moment later he realized that he was kissing back. He'd imagined, back when he actually allowed himself to imagine, that kissing Dean would be like fighting, like a battle of wills that can't be settled with words. Instead, it was gentle, so gentle it hurt. It felt like Dean was tearing out every emotion Sam had ever repressed, pulling them out just to use them against him, making him fight back twice as hard just to understand how he felt.
He tasted like alcohol and smoke, and Sam'd never been as homesick as he was in that moment.
After what felt like hours, days, he realized he couldn't breathe and pulled back. Dean's eyes were closed, insanely long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Sam realized he was crying only when the whuff of his brother's alcohol-scented breath hit his face, icy where it ghosted over the wet of his tear-tracks.
Dean's eyes cracked open slowly, brilliant green filled fit to bursting, and Sam didn't stop him. He should have, but he didn't, and that's where it all went to hell.
~
Three days later, they still hadn't spoken about it. It was a tangible presence in the room, between them no matter how far apart they were. They spoke around it, wedged in the space that wasn't consumed by it.
Sam couldn't breathe sometimes with the weight of what they'd done on his lungs.
The plumbing in the kitchen sink was stopped up, and Sam went out to meet Dean in the garage to tell him as soon as he heard the door open. Dean was dirty, greased from head to toe, stains all over his clothes, in his hair, and he didn't acknowledge Sam's presence before he'd shut the Impala's door and was kissing the life out of him.
It was another few seconds before Sam's brain caught up with the sense-memory of Dean's hands on him. By then, he'd come to his sense and braced his hands on Dean's chest; he pushed as hard as he could, only managed to send Dean stumbling back a few steps.
"Stop, okay? I… we can't do this. I can't do this. This isn't even what you want." His stupid voice broke on the last syllable. It wasn't what he wanted, either. Even if it was, he couldn't have it. It wasn't fair to Dean, not fair to him, not fair to Jess. "It's not right. I don't…" And he's never been good at lying, but he honestly tried this time, because it was spinning out of his control faster than he could grasp it. "I don't need you like that."
His lungs constricted painfully. He was crying again, fidgeting, twisting his hands together like that'd make it better.
But all Sam could hear were his own words impacting the air, lies that sounded so believing he'd even fooled himself. I don't need you.
When he looked up again, went to look Dean in the eye, his expression was no longer shocked. Stoic, strong again. Unaffected.
At least until he got to his brother's eyes. The brilliant green is fractured, so many cracks shone through with golden flecks of light.
"Dean?"
He wanted Dean to yell, to punch him, to… do anything. Instead, he just stood there, broken into so many pieces; unfixable. It happened to fast, but with the force of his words alone, Sam'd done something.
He tried again and again, called his brother's name, even resorted to punching him. But Dean never spoke, stayed emotionless and staring straight ahead.
Sam called Dad, because he didn't know what else to do. When he got there, he tried the same techniques to get Dean to respond but nothing worked. They called an ambulance, and, seven hours and twenty discarded coffee cups later, Dean finally spoke.
"Sam?" he asked, and Sam breathed for the first time all day.
"I'm here," he answered, moving to the side of the bed and grasping his brother's hand. 'I'm here."
Dad isn't, but Sam could deal with that later.
"Sam, don't worry. We'll get the Demon. When we find the bastard, I'm going to kill him."
Sam was stunned speechless for a moment, running over the words in his mind again and again, trying to get them to make sense any other way.
Sam called for the doctor.
Two days later, they were calling the institution.
