Disclaimer: Dean and Sam belong to Kripke, Sera Gamble (poor kids), CW, WB and all the rightful owners. They do not belong to me…no copyright infringement is intended
A butterfly of dream
All things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
And you are like the word Melancholy
Pablo Neruda
Hoping was dangerous. One good thing about hell was that there weren't false hopes: you knew what you got…pain, degradation, humiliation, blood…and more of it; leather, rinse and repeat. Hell might have broken him, carved something, a hole deep inside of him, that no amount of booze, pills or sex might ever fill again…but part of him rather relive hell, over and over, than hope.
He knew it was twisted and fucked up and ten kinds of wrong, he knew that it said a lot about his mind, but that was how things were for him.
Dean Winchester just hadn't the strength to hope any more. He supposed his last shred of strength had jumped into the cage a year and half before alongside Sam…life after that day had just been a let's pretend game: let's pretend I'm not falling to pieces, let's pretend to sleep or else Lisa will freak out, let's pretend I can keep Sammy's promise, let's pretend I give a fuck about my life, let's pretend I feel something when I slid into her and it's not someone else in my mind, let's pretend the fucker wearing my brother's face doesn't scare me, let's pretend I can still function. Let's pretend my soul isn't in the cage with Sammy. Let's pretend I can fix this.
He had become a pro at pretending, but then again…maybe he had always been. A decade pretending not to be in love with his brother had been a good school for him. A lifetime as John Winchester's eldest son had taught him how to keep going…even when he didn't see the reason.
His plan, should Death not have listened to him had been simple: slip something into Sam's food, put a pillow over his face and then pull the trigger…and then repeat the last passage on himself…his promise to Sammy notwithstanding.
He had tried to keep his promise, he had failed – big shock there – he had been free to suck on his gun. Being death for a few hours had slightly shifted his plan: he had fully intended to go to the fucker wearing his brother's (lover, soulmate, conscience) face and touch him. Just one touch and then no more Sam. No more mockery of everything that had made Sam unique. No more false hopes, no more freaking dreams.
He had asked Castiel, once, about his dreams. He had asked whether it was possible that Sam tried to communicate with him from hell. He didn't dream about Sam often – but then again he didn't sleep often, so it was only natural, he supposed.
He had gotten used to the dreams-memories of Sam falling into the cage: they were painful, they tore at his heart – and really, after so much tearing one would think that there was nothing left…so maybe he was still in hell…because apparently his soul, heart and love for Sam healed all over again so that it could get shredded by his dreams – but at least he saw Sam. He saw the love in his eyes, and even in his dreams he recalled what he had felt that day. He recalled how surprised he had been to see the love in Sammy's eyes.
It figured that he would get the magnitude of Sam's love for him, just mere seconds before he jumped into the cage…and he had got it alright: it had burned into him, so strong and powerful that even now, eighteen months later, he was still reeling.
Sam had loved him. He had really loved him…he had loved him so much that he had taken hold of Lucifer and beat him. He had seen it in his eyes…he had seen everything in them: their lives, the doubts, the shame, the fights, the doubts…and the love.
Funny – not really, but maybe the universe had a sick sense of humor or God was even more of a dick than he had thought – how a lifetime of doubts and insecurities and issues had vanished in a second…just to be replaced by the emptiness and numbness of a world without his Sam in it.
He could deal with his dreams-memories, as painful as they were. The other dreams? Not so much.
Sam was Sam in those dreams…but he wasn't at the same time. It was Sam's touch, his skin, his eyes: just flashes, feelings, tastes…and it was him, it had been him. It had been his dreams that had convinced him that the fucker he was spending his time with wasn't his brother, long before he went and used him as bait, long before Veritas spelled it out to him.
Sometimes there had been words in his dreams: they had been whispered in the dark, like warm embraces and kisses…but it had been just words. When he had tried to ask Sam about where he was, about how he was, Sam had silenced him, jolts of love and pleasure like sparkles on the sea, surrounding him, making him almost happy…and hopeful.
In some of the dreams they clung to each other…always in the dark, Dean didn't know whether he was clinging to a body or a soul…he had felt the scars and the shivers, he had seen Sam's soulful eyes without really seeing them, pleading and loving him, worshipping him as much as Dean's had worshipped him.
He had clung to him, not wanting to come back to reality, to the world where he lived and breathed and shared space with that mockery of his brother (lover, soulmate, conscience). He had been needy and selfish; he had tasted Sam in his dreams, breathed him in, taking it all in: the fear in him, the bitter taste of his tears, the coppery one of the blood he had been shedding in hell.
"I'm going to bring you back, Sammy." He had said one night, floating with him, somewhere, in the dark – they were always in the dark and Dean had thought that they had never been like that with sunlight on their skins…the brightest thing of his life had been always consumed in the dark – his words muffled by Sam, his essence filling him up, silencing him, until, mere moments before waking up he had heard Sammy whispering, "I'm not going to drag you down again, Dean…not ever!"
Castiel hadn't been able to give him an answer about his dreams… he hadn't been surprised, though…he had actually almost smiled…the way Castiel did sometimes, but he hadn't said much more…he had just reminded Dean that Sam and he were soulmates.
The decision had been made then. Bringing Sammy back…or killing the motherfucker who wore his face, who smirked and fucked and killed, and stole the world away from Sammy, not caring about anything and anyone but himself and the hunt. Not caring about him, except when he saw the lust in his eyes and knew what he wanted, how he wanted it…and he was almost tempted to give in, to fuck him or let himself be fucked…but then it would mean Sammy was really gone and beside it would have been like cheating…
…and there was just Sam, it had always been just Sam. That thing wearing his brother (lover, soulmate, conscience)…that empty shell walking around, was not Sam.
You two have the most unhealthy, crazy, tangled up thing I've ever seen..
Lisa had meant well…although Dean hadn't missed the bitterness, the jealousy in her tone, Lisa hadn't known the truth…the whole truth. Unhealthy? Yes, and not just because he was in love with his brother…crazy? God, yes! What they had done for each other and to each other had been crazy: the words, the blows, the way they had fucked, bitten each other, held each other, bled for each other.
Tangled up: they had been…so much that their breathing space had been filled with each other, that Dean hadn't known, hadn't cared, where Sam had begun and he had ended; he hadn't cared that they had finished each other's words and even their thoughts sometimes.
It had been scary as fuck sometimes how much tangled up in each other they had been…even when things were hard, when he had wished nothing else than to hate him…because it would have been easier, it would have given him some respite…
Even when his brother (lover, soulmate, conscience) had been in the cage, being gang banged by the two head dicks of angels…they had still been tangled up together. Sam had been still there, in the words he hadn't said, in the hollow space in his heart, flowing in his veins, filling his dreams.
And the tear in his soul…the empty space within him, caused by Sam's jump – because Sammy couldn't die like anybody else…no, he had to jump right into the cage bringing with him Lucifer and the head dick of angels – had become so big that it had overwhelmed the one hell and Alistair had carved inside of him.
The dreams had stopped when Death had shoved Sam's soul back into his body. Not that he had slept a lot, but when he had, there had just been run of the mill nightmares: hell, dad, Cold Oak, Stull Cemetary, more of hell…him torturing Sam while being worn by Michael…the whole greatest hits.
Ten days. Seconds that had blurred into minutes, hours and days…as Sammy didn't move and he looked peaceful, young and innocent, like the kid he had been so long ago…
And Dean had looked at him, for hours, his body numb with booze, pills and lack of sleep, his mind wired…as he fingered the vial of potassium doctor Robert had slipped into his hand.
"It's quick and effective, no pain…just lights out." He had explained and Dean still didn't know whether he had offered him a way to off himself, Sammy or both.
Ten days, 240 hours give or take…minutes and seconds, too much time not to think about everything; too much time not to remember: the first time Sam and he had kissed, for real, in a motel room, both drunk and wired and just too damn tired of ignoring what had been happening between them for a long time…
He had recalled how that kiss hadn't lead nowhere, except to more denial for a while, more shame and pent up anger…until the deal.
~"I'm going to hell it doesn't mean you have too!"
"None of us is going to hell, Dean…not for this, not for…everything"
"Sammy…"
"I love you"
"You're scared…"
"I am…I am terrified, but I still love you. I'm still in love with you"
"You don't know what you're saying…"
"Don't I?" ~
He recalled how Sam had kissed him, that night, his mouth tasting of eggnog and hope and tears, how he had been relentless, until he had kissed him back, until all he had been able to taste and feel it had been them.
He realized, while watching Sam, while trying not to hope, not too much at least, that he had never said he loved him. Not that night, although God knew whether he had loved Sammy that night, not every day after that.
Too much time to think about …things, about their last night together before Detroit…how he had come close to say the words, how he had held him, tasted him, worshipped him…knowing it would be the last time, knowing that there would be no more Sam…no more anything.
Ten days, 240 hours and his body giving out, from time to time, exhausted, his fingertips on Sam's wrist, his dreams painfully empty and barren, without Sammy in them.
The vial was still close, the easy way out for both of them. He could live without Sam…he could open his eyes, he could move, breathe, talk, fuck, eat and drink…he just didn't want to. There weren't promises to bind him on Earth this time; there weren't missions…apocalypses or plans. If he were forced to kill Sammy, he'd follow him: heaven or hell, it didn't really matter to him…
He knew they'd be together, this time.
Sammy, though, woke up. His name on his lips, his arms enveloping him in a hug, a real one, that made him dizzy and ridiculously happy and alive.
He came back to him…
He pinned Sam against the wall, the minute they closed the door of their motel room. He had been good..very good. He had spent the previous night watching Sam sleep, marveling at the soft rising of his chest, at the creases on his forehead, at the sounds he had made.
Sammy…sleeping, without nightmares, without shadows.
He didn't even miss the dreams. He had the real thing, now..and he wanted to taste, feel it…
Sam…his hot breath against his lips, his hands pulling him closer, as if he had been waiting for that moment, for the moment where their lips would meet, their bodies close, heat surrounding them, their taste mingling, becoming one. Them.
His hands fumbled with Sam's tie – and fuck if the same clothes that douchebag had been wearing for six months didn't look a whole of a lot hotter on his Sam, ignoring his brother's chuckle and getting drunk on it, at the same time.
Sam's taste, on his lips. Sam's hands on his waist, Sam…his brother, lover, soul and body…close too close and not enough.
"I thought…" Sam panted against his lips and Dean swallowed his words, swallowed the lingering threads of fear, melting against Sam, his tie in his hand, his left hand digging in Sam's hair to get him closer.
Sam pulled him closer, his movements so familiar and yet, somehow, so new, that Dean had to take a step back, had to draw in a breath, and another.
Sam was looking at him, his eyes pools of desire, of soul…and love. Like that day…like every day.
He was back. He was really back.
Sam tilted his head on side and Dean wasn't even aware of how Sam's fingers were trailing on his face, almost as if he was memorizing it…and it was too much, suddenly: the desire, the love…the need he felt to feel his brother (lover, soulmate, conscience).
"I thought you had…" Sam whispered.
No chick flick moments, Dean wanted to say. Not now, because Dean knew what Sam wanted to say. He shook his head, claiming Sam's mouth with his, his tongue teasing his way in, licking, tasting, feeling, shivering when he felt the same urgency in Sam.
Never, Sammy…I could never move on…never forget this. Dean whispered, with each kiss, as his hands went on Sam's chest, easing him out of the jacket, his hands brushing Sam's shoulders, the heat of Sam's skin against his.
A sigh, a fluid movement and they were on the bed, Sam's hands tilting his head on a side, to deepen the kiss, to absorb whatever words he might have said if he had been someone else, his hips grinding against Sam's, the need to feel Sam's skin was becoming almost a physical ache. Yet, when Sam broke the kiss and tilted his head back, to look at him, he had to blink and lick his lips, at the look in Sam's eyes.
He knew that look, it was want, need, it was them…and countless nights…and the first one…and it was now…
Sam's chest was heaving, as his hands trailed down his chest, freeing him from the tie, ripping his shirt open, "Are you going caveman on me, Sammy?" Dean asked, a hint of cockiness in his voice, his heart beating so fast in his chest that Dean was surprised he could manage to talk, his cock twitching…because he really, really liked the idea of Sammy going caveman on him. It was totally on board with the idea.
"Shut up" Sam said, his voice dark, his hands trailing down on his torso, hot against his skin, before resting on his waist, digging at his hips, and Dean sought Sam's lips, again, groaning against them, when Sam's hand palmed his cock through his trousers, a smirk on his lips and Dean, again, felt dizzy and a moan escaped from his lips, when Sam's mouth was on his neck, tasting him, nibbling at his skin, jolts of pleasure reverberating through his body, his world zeroing on Sam – nothing new there, it had always been like that…it'd always been - and how hot his mouth was against his neck, against his skin, how talented his fingers were.
He arched against his brother, feeling needy, feeling breathless and mindless. "Sam…" he whispered, again and again, between kisses, touching him, freeing him from his clothes, unaware of the urgency in his movements.
It was like in his dreams: Sam's essence surrounding him, jolts of pleasure making him blink, making his breath catch in his throat….while he tried to feel, taste him, and in his ears Sam's voice, kept echoing, whispering his name, like a prayer, kissing him, like he was thirsty, like somehow he felt how long it had been.
Sam broke the kiss, again, and Dean's lips were tingling, his chest heavy with emotions so raw and strong, that he had to grip Sam's shoulders, as his brother trailed open mouthed kisses on his neck, torso, stomach, his tongue, tracing lazy patterns on his skin, trails of fire that left Dean breathless.
Sam's eyes were on him, deep pools of almost blue depths boring into him. Dean was panting, arousal pooling in his groin, making every nerve in his body hyperaware of Sam's touch, he swallowed, realizing his throat was dry…which was too bad…or maybe not, because if his tongue hadn't been stuck, he might have said things.
He might have said how much he had missed Sam, how much he loved him, how much he needed him to fuck him, to make sure they were both there, that it was real…that he wasn't stuck in a dream only to wake up with the asshole wearing his face creeping on him or, worse, him dead.
He didn't talk, though, his hands reached to Sam's face, brushing his lips with his thumbs, feeling how warm his skin was against his fingertips.
"I…" Sam started, his hands digging on his hips, his hold almost painful.
"Whatever you want…" Dean said…and fuck…he was breathless, his voice coming out as a broken whisper, so unlike every other time, so unlike the many times they had kissed, fucked, felt their skins against each other's.
Sam noticed – he always did - , his eyes filling for a moment with questions, with so much love that Dean had to close his eyes, and close his hands in tight fists against his sides, when he felt Sam's fingertips brushing his hips, and then he opened his eyes, surprised, when they rested on his closed fists.
"I'm here…" Sam said.
Dean nodded, swallowing when Sam pried his hands open while, at the same time, his hot breath was against his cock.
Their hands were intertwined, resting against his hips, and Dean was mesmerized, not even really aware of his body's movements, only of the heat, of Sam's eyes on him as he took him in his mouth.
I'm not going anywhere…
Sam's eyes were telling him, and Dean gripped his hands, as pleasure curled in his spine and his breath came out in soft pants while Sam's tongue trailed down his length, his wet heat enveloping him.
That was Sam…who had kissed each word, doubt and fear away that first night, until they had been both breathless.
That was Sam…and with him sex was messy and fun and too intense.
That was Sam…who didn't give a fuck about being a girl and said, whispered, cried out his name, said that he loved him…and never expected Dean to do the same.
~ "If you say that it's wrong, I swear to God I will punch you in the face!"
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth?"~
And Dean had said the truth…not using words, he had tried to show it, he still did…even now, as Sam lips were tightly wrapped around his cock and he didn't mind how his hips jerked up and he was still gripping his hands, adjusting to his rhythm, humming in the back of his throat, sending sparks of pleasure throughout Dean's body.
That was Sam…who held his heart in his hands, always had…and always would, and had found a way into his dreams even from hell.
That was Sam, who didn't let go of him, even as waves of pleasure shook him, bringing him to an almost painful climax. That was Sam, dimples and floppy hair as he crawled up, blanketing his body with his as he kissed him, and Dean could taste himself on him and needed, more than he actually cared about breathing, to feel Sam inside of him, to know again the feel of Sam's skin against his.
Sam seemed to sense his urgency…or maybe he was feeling the same thing, because his kisses grew with intensity, his hands were now trailing through his body, fingernails scraping his skin and Dean had to break the kiss, to draw in air, to look at Sam.
If he were another man, one who could still hope without being terrified, even while being held by a miracle, he would say the words, he would let Sam say them, that time….but he wasn't. He would never be, probably…and Sam seemed to sense that, he smiled and Dean felt stupidly breathless for a moment, because it was really Sam smiling at him: his pupils blown with arousal, his cheeks flushed and that goofy grin that reminded him of summer nights under the stars and songs sung off key…and everything that douche bag wearing him hadn't been.
"What were we saying about me going all cavemen on you?" He asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, his hips grinding against his, seeking friction.
"Something about we having a plan?" Dean replied, surprised by how cocky his voice sounded, how normal…when he was feeling everything but.
Sam let out a chuckle, that Dean was only too happy to smother with a kiss…and then it was them, skin on skin, eyes locked on each other. It was celebration and reaffirmation, and hands mapping each other's bodies, it was Sam's throat exposed and a thin sheen of sweat he hungrily licked away, it was his back arched, when Sam finally slid into him, and the sting of it stealing his breath for a moment and Sam's hands on his hips, bruising and claiming him, it was their bodies, moving together, in synch, like always. It was the questions that even amidst the haze of arousal and pleasure engulfing Sam, didn't leave his eyes, questions Dean ignored, kissed away, because he still wasn't ready to talk about it.
It was pleasure, it was Sam shaking and the rhythm of his thrusts becoming convulted, frenzied; it was the hungry kiss they shared, as he felt Sam spilling inside of him, his teeth scraping his bottom lip and the whispered "I love you" against his neck when they broke the kiss.
It was Sam tracing his lips, the curve of his profile with his fingertips, later, like he had already done…and Dean cocked his eyebrows, in silent question.
"I remember your face…" Sam said in a low voice, "before…" a pause and then repeated, "before…"
Dean sighed, "man" he said, "your pillow talk suck…"
Sam rolled his eyes at his words, but didn't add anything, he just shook his head and whispered, "you didn't leave…"
He could have replied with a wisecrack, with a smirk, instead he just shugged, "What was I supposed to do?"
Sam nodded, pulling him closer, despite his protests, "shut up" Sam said.
Dean did. It was Sam…his heartbeat, their legs tangled, the air in the room warm and their smells mingled. It was Sam…and his breath evening out, his arm draped around his shoulders, enveloping him, like in his dreams.
It was Sam…it was hope.
And Dean Winchester, for the first time in a very long time, wasn't afraid. Not any more.
-the end.