Title: two halves of one whole [ficlet]
Author: alakeowod
Warnings: General spoilers for what's aired of Season 6. Non-graphic Wincest.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~900
Summary: Even though Sam doesn't sleep, he always eventually finds himself curled up in the bed opposite Dean's. He likes to listen to his brother's familiar sleep sounds – his slow, even breathing that occasionally gives way to soft snores or hushed fragments of words – likes how they soothe him in a way not much has in the past year and a half.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
oxoxo
Even though Sam doesn't sleep, he always eventually finds himself curled up in the bed opposite Dean's. He likes to listen to his brother's familiar sleep sounds – his slow, even breathing that occasionally gives way to soft snores or hushed fragments of words – likes how they soothe him in a way not much has in the past year and a half.
It's all sensory memories, he's sure, but being around Dean brings a lot of those to the surface. It's probably always been that way; he's just never had the clearness of mind to process it all before. Like a month and two weeks ago, when his fascination with watching his brother sleep became something of an obsession.
Dean had been on his belly, one arm curled under the pillow beneath his head, the other tucked against his chest, and he'd already been asleep for hours. Sam had been across the room at the wooden table beneath the window on the far wall, laptop open, trying to find them another hunt. Dean had sighed, breathed out, "Sammy," love and awe and want coloring his tone, sending Sam's blood south. And Sam remembered countless nights from years ago he hadn't given thought to since he'd come back from Lucifer's cage. Reminded him of nights spent together too infrequently, pressed close in the dark to taste salt and skin and the last traces of toothpaste or beer. Sam closed his laptop and moved to his bed, situated himself on his side to watch Dean sleep, listening intently for his name on his brother's lips.
Tensions were running high the following morning as they prepared to leave, Dean still anxious and awkward around him like he's afraid to turn his back. And it was a simple moment, two common reactions from Dean during an argument outside their motel room. Dean had merely glared at him then shook his head like Sam's stonewalling the job, face washed pale under an overcast sky, and walked away.
And Sam was suddenly smelling salt and sea, felt the vestiges of a coastal storm gusting a weak breeze that caught and tousled his hair and slipped under the back of his jacket, a cool caress along his spine. The same actions from Dean – a glare and a shake of his head – but Sam had pressed his body closer to Dean's on the side of that Carolina highway, pushed his brother right up against one of the Impala's dusty fenders, and kissed him deep.
Now, in the present, Sam can remember the black-coffee maple-syrup taste of Dean's mouth. He remembers the warmth that burst in his chest in that moment, feels phantom heat bloom somewhere behind his heart and ward off the chill of the emptiness inside him, ease the ache.
The aged bedsprings that support Dean's mattress squeak in protest as he rolls over to find a new position and now he faces Sam.
Sam settles further into the threadbare blankets beneath him and bends his body to mirror Dean's. Slows his breath to sync the rise and fall of their chests. And he can almost imagine that they're two halves of one whole again, the way they were before Lucifer and the Apocalypse. But Sam's broken now, is missing a big, important piece, and they're incomplete.
Sam doesn't feel his soul's absence the same way as Dean. To Sam, things are clearer, his judgment never clouded, decisions easily made. Feelings don't interfere – but, sometimes, memories do, and promises he's made to Dean.
Dean, though, feels the absence like he's the one missing a vital part of himself – it's nearly physical for him. But it's not some small thing, like an arm or a kidney. It's Sam. Sammy, the brother he raised, taught to talk and walk, bathed, read bed-time stories to, watched out for at school, trained with, hunted with, fought with, loved.
And Dean, he sees this shell, this reminder, and he aches in a way that Sam, now, can't imagine. He thinks when he gets his soul back – and he will, because Dean's determined and Sam doesn't want to let him down (sensory memories of Stanford return and Dean's disappointment, his heartbreak, are crushing) – he's going to feel again. And there's going to be pain. The kind that will eclipse whatever Dean feels without his Sam, that will nearly (but nothing ever could) touch what it had felt like in Cold Oak and New Harmony because of what he's done and what he's put his brother through. But Sam will suffer through it – he'll suffer through whatever – for Dean and the unfailing knowledge that, more than he'll feel the pain of living, he'll be able to experience love as well. And love – Dean's love, the kind they'd once had, first as brothers, before it flourished and blossomed into something more, and Sam hopes (he hadn't known he'd had the capacity for hope until this moment, but oh, how he hopes) they'll have it again. Love, acceptance, completeness. They will all overshadow the pain, decrease the hurt, and make all the shit life throws at them worthwhile.
He knows it'll be hard – nearly impossible – when he gets his soul back and everything he hasn't felt for the past year and a half suddenly lights on fragile nerves and makes him feel.
It'll be hard, but Sam's never been one to do anything the easy way.