To Save Sammy
Annaleise Marie
cross-posted from livejournal
username: girlgotagun
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam
Full List of Kinks: caught in the act, blood play, hurt/comfort, angst, anal, fingering, riding, underage (Sam is 17)
WARNING: contains descriptions of self-harm and implications of death/suicide acceptance
Originally written for an anonymous prompt submitted to my livejournal.
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The best place to start any story is at the beginning. Usually. Unless, like Dean Winchester, you can't really remember anywhere how the story began.
Then you start somewhere at the middle, offer some background if you can, and stumble your way through as though the beginning didn't matter.
Or you start at the end. You start at the end when the beginning really idoesn't/i matter.
The end of Dean Winchester's story took place in a motel room. It was like any other seedy place the Winchesters stayed while on a simple hunt—for the bigger jobs they'd find cheap, by-the-month apartments—and Dean and Sam were alone while John went to take care of the salt-and-burn. The door shut, and the Impala left the parking lot, the growl of the engine fading into a low purr and then nothing.
Dean was sitting at the cheap pressboard table, shuffling cards but never dealing. He didn't look up when Sam came out of the bathroom, gave him a moment to collect himself. Sometimes, when Sam would emerge, it would be to discover that he wasn't really ready yet. His throat would swell, his eyes watering, and he would have to go back until he could finally look at Dean.
So until Sam could look at Dean, Dean wouldn't look at him.
One beat. Two.
How many beats were in the end? Or had Dean started in the middle of the story?
"You okay, Sammy?" Still he didn't look up. The cards came together with a rattle as the glossy edges skidded across the pads of his fingers to smack into each other. Twenty-six tiny collisions.
His brother sat down; the bed creaked under him, sounding as weary of its life as he did. He didn't answer Dean. How do you really answer that question? Your manners tell you to say yes. And manners are important, because after all, that's why they're asking. No one really wants to know the truth. But Sam didn't lie to Dean. Sam never lied to his big brother.
So Sam didn't say anything.
Dean set the cards down, heaved himself to his feet. He was tired. They were both tired. Sam was seventeen. It was getting worse between him and their dad. Six months—how many beats?—Sam would be eighteen. A man. No longer Sammy. No longer Dean's. Sam would run, would bolt, would slam that door one last time.
You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.
It had been one of the worst things that John could say. It gave Sam permission.
Dean had saved a lot of people, hunted a lot of things. Destroyed the big, scary dark stuff that hid under beds and in closets and waited in the shadows.
He couldn't kill the things in the dark corners of Sammy's mind. He couldn't save his brother. He was trying; he had tried.
He sat down on the bed, took Sam's hand in his, lacing their fingers together. Sam had held his hand like this when he walked him to his first kindergarten class. Sam had held his hand like this the first time Dean kissed him. Maybe that was the beginning. That was definitely the point they crossed a line; the first time that Dean had seen it, and Sammy had cried, and Dean had brought his lips to the tears and tasted the salt.
Three beats. Four.
And now, like then, Dean rolled up Sammy's sleeve. He was more careful now; knew what he would find. He hadn't known then. Thought Sam had been attacked. Panicked.
His heart didn't even beat hard with fear anymore. His heart was broken; a miracle it still beat at all.
Five beats. Six.
He took it in; let his eyes trace over the mess of Sam's arm. Old and healing; fresh and sharp. Shiny scars stretched tight, his skin desperately trying to hold itself together. Angry red as his insides tried to escape. Sammy's skin was losing the battle.
Most hunters wore a lot of scars. They were pieced together, sewn up at the seams until they fell apart. Hunters didn't live long. Dean used to worry that Sam wouldn't live as long as a hunter. Dean was tired. They were both tired.
Sam carved up his own skin; a memorial for everything that festered inside. Tear it apart; let the poison, the hatred, the fear, the pain spill out. Hope it heals better—let the scars stand en memorium.
This one was for Dean.
That one was for John.
For the girl in Wichita that he couldn't save.
For the boy who called him a freak.
They all had names; they all had stories.
Most were John's.
They all were Dean's.
Because Dean tried to save Sammy, and his name was scribbled across every failure; every point of proof that Sammy slashed into his skin.
He brought his lips to the new one, marked iJohn/i, let them linger as the pain/poison/hurt/anger stained his rosy skin.
Seven beats. Eight.
Where had it started? How had they gotten here?
Sam didn't make a sound as he cried, as Dean sat up and pulled his little brother close to his chest, arms encircling him. What they did, it was an old dance. It had its own rhythm, its own music.
Dean guided his little brother's face up to look at him, didn't give him long to look before bringing his lips to meet his. If Sammy looked too long, he would see Dean's pain. And Sammy drew pain in, took the burden from those around him, pulled it into himself and let it rot before draining it out. Dean would appear once more on Sam's arms.
He let Sammy move, let him crawl onto his lap, long colt-like legs folded under him on either side of Dean's. He let Sammy take what he needed, let him take something good to replace the bad he had bled out.
It was never enough; there was too much bad. Too much ugly. Too much pain and rot and poison.
There wasn't enough good in Dean to pour into Sammy to replace it all. Eventually Sammy would drain out or rot from the inside.
It wouldn't stop Dean from trying to save him.
Nine beats. Ten.
Blood stained Dean's skin as Sam lifted his shirt, as he slowly undressed Sam, as his brother's arms circled around him. A streak on his back. His chest. His own arms. Sammy painted Dean in his pain, and Dean tried to paint Sammy with comfort as his lips traveled over his little brother's skin, as his brother opened his jeans and gasped when Dean's fingers slid inside of him, curling and stretching.
Dean wore Sammy's blood en memorium when he finally slid home.
For Sam.
For baby boy.
For his little brother.
For the person he loved more than anything.
For the boy he couldn't save.
For the man he couldn't keep.
Eleven beats. Twelve.
And then Dean knew that they were at the end. Knew it when the door opened. Knew it when the beats stopped. Knew it when John started yelling. Knew it when he couldn't stop himself as his eyes met his dad's and he came hard as his little brother arched against him, hips slamming down on his dick.
Knew it when Sam didn't yell back.
He wasn't going to be able to save Sammy.
The End.
I hope you enjoyed it. :)