Title: Polaris
Author: James Parker Lombard
Rating M: Language, Wincest (Sam/Dean? and a little Sam/Dean…why is Sam's name always first? More Dean/Sam for later?), General Skeeviness
Spoilers/Set: Season 3 between Ep.10 "Dream a Little Dream" and Ep. 11 "Mystery Spot."
Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester (Chapter Two, Sam POV)
Word Count:4,444!
Summary: Dean went dream walking where he shouldn't (in Sam's fucked up head) and now Sam needs to diffuse this situation stat, before certain things get...well…it's kind of too late for that. Here's the fallout.

Polaris

Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.
-Sigmund Freud

Dean turned from the door, his hands stilled. He kept them open in front of him, "What the fuck, Sam. What the…" his eyes rolled and he slapped his hands against his face, drug them down slowly as he walked over and fell back into the flimsy hotel chair. His voice all forced calm now as he said, "I don't even know what to say to you."

"Then get out." Sam replied, feeling a wave of intense nausea burning the pit of his stomach. What the fuck had Dean done by coming here? This was a fucking violation. Oh, god, had he kissed him? When had "Dean" changed to Dean? Sam had to come up with some reason, some explanation that Dean could understand. He knew, otherwise, this could end them. He could not have Dean leaving him now. Not now, the deal was almost up, he'd be gone forever soon enough unless Sam could find a way out. Why now? Why did Dean have to walk in here? Why did he have to see, that? There was no way he'd understand. Sam hardly understood.

"It's not like that, you dick. I told you it's a fucking metaphor. Dean, I didn't…I don't want…come on, man, do you think I'd really ever …" This was going badly; Sam couldn't even say the words. How could he convince Dean that what he saw wasn't what he thought it was? "You know, if you had gone to school, or even paid attention, you'd know some fucking thing about Freud." That was half-true, Sam thought, it was a metaphor, but still…he knew he took some pleasure from these dreams as well. This would destroy them. Fuck, fuck, fuck! His brain was going overtime trying to think of some explanation, some reason.

"Get out?" Dean spat, "I want out! Why don't you dream a fucking door back into this room, Sigmund?" Dean's heel was bouncing hard against the floor, his hands rubbing through his short hair like an OCD.

"People don't control what they dream," Sam's jaw hurt. Fucking Dean, Sam rubbed it, trying to soothe the physical sting of it. Sam was trying to sound certain, convincing. He knew that what he was saying wasn't entirely true, but he didn't want to argue nuances here. "Besides, sexual…"

"Shut up, Sam!" Dean leaned down with his head between his knees like he was going to pass out. Sam wondered if passing out in a dream would mean waking up. Maybe that was a way to get Dean out of here?

"You shut up, stupid. Asshole! Who asked you to fucking be here? Get out of my head, you judgmental dick! I am trying to tell you it isn't like that! Sexual activity in dreams is seldom sexual. It's about wanting to be closer to someone." Again, mostly true. Freud had said that, but these dreams were pretty sexual…and if Dean knew what they had "done" no amount of analytical argumentation would convince him it meant anything other than Sam had the hots for him.

To be honest, Sam didn't even know if it was a metaphor entirely. The dreams, the ones with Dean and him, they had been there for a while. And yeah, Sam knew that they were, on most levels, symbolic, some desire to be closer to Dean, to hold on to him or bind them together. Sex is always metaphorical.

Sam remembered the first time it happened, before he left for Stanford the first time, he couldn't look at Dean for days afterwards. He kept remembering not only the shame but the vivid memories of pleasure that burst through that shame, moments when he had Dean all to himself. Dean whispering how much he loved Sam, how much he wanted him. While he was at school, with Jess, the dreams disappeared—well, mostly. They came back hard after Sam 'awoke" after the incident at Cold Oak. The prospect of leaving Dean, of losing him, was again transforming itself into something sexual, pleasurable and intensely physical.

Sam would be lying to himself if he said it wasn't good, or that these weren't the dreams he begged for in comparison to the awful ones which were more frequent. Some nights he couldn't make it here, to this spot, this part of the recurring dream. Some nights he was flayed alive emotionally in that field. This dream was the prize at the end of the tunnel-Dean in a way Sam could never have him—vulnerable, open, loving, even tender. Although, it often got fairly hot and heavy, it was best to keep that to himself, Sam thought.

"Closer? Oh, that was too fucking close." Dean raised his head, and stuck out his tongue in an exaggerated throw up face. "The two of us, you, me, I, ewh, you, no…fuck! Why? I need to bleach my fucking eyeballs." Dean's face was red. "Dream me a knife so I can cut them out. Goddamn it! It is in your head, Sam!" Dean paused like he was thinking, "Dream me a knife and I'll kill you," he smiled. "Or myself, that's fine too. Dream me a window; I'll jump out of it."

"It's not like that." Sam tried to control the panic that bubbled up in the face of Dean's anger, his outright disgust. The only way to salvage this moment was to convince Dean that what he saw wasn't literal, that he didn't think about him like that, because…he didn't, right?

"It looked like that. It's exactly what it looked like. With…tongues, and hands and fully erect parts, and ewh..I, no. If that's not what the fuck it was, then what the fuck does that look like, Sam? Tell me. Oh, God, no don't." Dean leapt to his feet and hurried to the wall, was feeling around again with his hands like he was looking for some crack or seam. Sam wasn't entirely sure how he managed that trick. At the moment all he could think was "Dean can't leave." Then, poof…bye-bye escape route.

Sam fell back on the bed and stared at the stained ceiling. Even his dreams had water spots.

"I keep saying it isn't like that. Just fucking calm down? These dreams aren't about sex, Dean." He tried to keep his voice steady, sure. There was no room for doubt to sneak in, Dean would hear it.

"These? Oh, my god, as in plural?"

"Fuck you." Shit, Sam thought. Shit, shit, shit.

"Apparently."

Sam huffed, trying to feign annoyance and matter-of-factness, instead of blind fear.

"Since when, Sam?"

"I don't want to bang you, you retard!"

"Bang? No…guuuuuh! The dreams, oh, my god!"

"Senior year." He heard Dean make a little gasping noise, maybe it was surprise, or more disgust, Sam didn't lift his head to look. "I was applying to schools. I knew I was going to have to leave soon. I was scared of leaving you, what you'd do, how you'd react." Sam paused. "They stopped after that, but…um, after Cold Oak, after I found out about what you did…" Sam shut his eyes tightly, he didn't like thinking about the dwindling number of days Dean had left. "I, uh, I guess they started up again."

"Is this like a nightly occurrence?"

"No. I can't control it, but no. It's not like that. It's the field, more than anything. That? Did you?"

"Yeah, I saw it, Sam. Quite the horror show you put on for yourself, isn't it?"

"It's not like I control that either. I don't control any of it. You do get that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah… so you keep saying." Dean paused. "But, you were just going to let that me do stuff to you?"

"It's not like that."

"Dude, it's a little like that."

"It's not literal."

"It looked literal."

"It's symbolic."

"Says the man begging for it. At least tell me I'm on top. I'm on top right?"

"You are seriously concerned with which one of us imaginary tops the other?"

"I'm on top. You are my bitch."

"Seriously, you're bothered by my, totally normal by the way, symbolic dream in which my subconscious transforms my desire for closeness into a physical manifestation, and I'm not supposed to be bothered by you staking some sort of incestuous claim on pitching?"

"You were begging, Sam, beg-ging. 'Oh, Dean, blah, blah.' Having tooled around in your subconscious now, I can safely say that this is the gayest you have ever been."

Sam felt another wave of nausea, and sat up on the end of the bed hoping to settle his stomach. He still couldn't look at Dean, the shame was too much, but he had to know. "What did you see?"

"Too much." Dean's voice softened, "Perversion aside, that field, Sam, you are torturing yourself. Jess? Dad? And what's with the sobbing mini-Sam? Jesus, you almost killed me with that one."

"I can't control it. Not the field, not the room."

"Fine." Dean paused. "Hey, is your jaw okay? I'm sorry I hit you. I just reacted."

"I would have hit you too, Dean. It's fine. It doesn't hurt too bad."

Dean sighed, as he began speaking again, "So, god, I do not want to be saying this, but, please, explain what was, um, metaphorical about what I walked in on?"

"Okay, okay…um, I'll try. That Dean, isn't, I don't know how to explain it. He isn't…this is hard." Sam winces, there is no way he'll be able to explain this to Dean, so he figures he might as well blurt it out, "He loves me."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Sam, obviously I, whatever…not like that or anything. But, I fucking sold my soul for you. Doesn't that say something?"

"Yes, god Dean, of course, I know you 'whatever.' I know you love me. We're brothers. But sometimes our life is so stupid and big and horrible, and I feel like I'm alone, like part of you is always pulling away, so, that Dean…um, he doesn't? He doesn't pull away. He tells me things. They're not always nice. The Dean in the field is the part of you that I know hates me, he won't talk to me. He won't even really look at me, like I'm the most disgusting thing in the world and it kills me, strips me raw."

"He talked to me."

Sam looked up, Dean was leaning against the wall. "What?" The silent, judgmental Dean in the field had never said one word to Sam, no matter how he pleaded or begged.

"I set him straight."

"What?" Sam both did and did not want to know what they had said to one another. Dean versus Dean? He is surprised it hadn't come to blows, or maybe it had?

"He's an idiot…so are you, I don't hate you. How could I hate you? Even he knew that. He said so. Dammit Sam, how could you think that? If all it takes is me saying I love you, then fine, I love you, idiot! Now can you please for the love of god, stop with the weird dreams and let me out of here?"

"Dean, I don't…that wasn't a…I know you love me."

"Yeah. I don't have to like say it a lot or anything do I? Because I guess I…will it stop these weird dreams?"

"Dean, fuck, I don't know. And no, I don't need you to…" Sam paused, had he ever heard Dean say that he loved him? He must have, and yet. "Dean?"

"What?" Dean huffed and glared at Sam.

"Have you ever said that?"

"Said what?"

"That you love, well…anybody?"

"I…" Dean opened his mouth and closed it quickly. His forehead furrowed and he stared at the headboard. Avoiding me, Sam thought.

"You never…but, Dean you have loved somebody, right?" Sam thought Dean had loved Cassie, and he certainly had a thing for Lisa…that had been made clear in their last little Dream Root escapade with that Jeremy asshole. "And you have to have said it to someone, right?"

Dean didn't move, didn't answer.

"Not even when I was little?"

"You knew," Dean said it with a sense of certainty. He was right, Sam knew. Even if Dean had never said it, Sam knew.

"It wouldn't hurt to say it."

Dean started to blush, and Sam wondered if he had actually ever seen Dean blush before. It was kind of cute. He stammered out, "The Sam in the field kissed me. The Dean in the field warned me that something strange was going on…I suppose I should have listened to myself?"

"I kissed you? In the field?"

"Not you, you're a pervert, you were all…tongue…" Dean shook visibly, "The Sam in the field, the…you were like fourteen, must have been the age you were when we stayed here."

"You remember?"

"Yes. What? Of course I remember. I remember lots of things. That girl at the counter, you liked her a lot."

"I liked this place, that's probably why I dream of it rather than anywhere else. We spent all summer together, no pressure, no worries. This was the first time I felt a little like we, you and I, had a home." Sam paused. "I mean, it was all over come fall. I was back in school and you would leave with Dad. I was alone a lot, but…here, this place, that summer." Dean seemed a little calmer, and a little less visibly disgusted at Sam. "It was just you and me."

"It's just you and me now, Sam."

"No, Dean," Sam shook his head, looking down at where his bare toes ruffled the carpet, "It's not just you and me anymore. It's you and me on a deadline. You and me and the rest of the world, all those evil things, fucking insanity…there's no lazy by the pool, no mac and cheese."

Dean's chuckle surprised him, and Sam risked a little smile back. "That's my specialty. Give me a box of noodles and some orange powdery cheese and I'm an Iron Chef."

"It was a good summer, Dean." They smiled at each other across the quiet, tension-filled space of the small hotel room. That, Sam thought, was a good sign. "So, fourteen year old me in the field?"

"Yeah," Dean was blushing, "you were crying. Then—whammy kiss! You were so small. You were crying so hard."

"I know. I'm sorry." Sam had seen himself there many times, his fourteen year old self pleading with him. All those insecurities, they weren't in the past, he had never really grown out of them; they were just smothered. Dreams revealed them. Everything that other Sam ever said was true, all the pain he felt, the fear of losing Dean for good, the sometimes suffocating love: all of it embodied by this one small imagined version of himself. "He, um…he…"

"I know, Sam." Dean took a deep breath. "You think I don't, but I do." His voice cracked. "I spent my whole life, um…looking after, um…" Was that a tear? Was Dean crying? "l..um…loving? Loving…"

Sam didn't know what to do, Dean was shaking, crying. That hardly ever happened. Sam was too afraid to move towards him, but it killed him not to.

"…you. I don't…I mean you know, right? I…I would…fuck, that fucking field. And you. You're like an emotional booby trap, goddamn it." Dean scrubbed the back of his hand over his cheek hard like he was trying to remove any evidence of emotion.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Shut up. Just…I don't mean to be leaving. I know what it's like, this life…it sucks alone. It sucks with you, but…alone?" Dean moved his hands away and looked up at Sam, "I didn't want this for you, but I couldn't let you die. I love you. Okay? I love you way too much to let that happen. And this shit, this shit in your head, Sam, you gotta know it's fucked, right? That stuff in the field, it's not real. Jess, we didn't know. You didn't know, and she loved you. She wouldn't have blamed you for this. She wouldn't want you to suffer. And Dad? Sammy," Dean shook his head, "Sammy, you know that's not real, right? I mean, you know that's not true."

"I know Dean, but some little part of me, I guess."

"And the you in the field?" Dean chuckled nervously, "Damn, I thought that little kiss would be the most disturbing thing I had to face tonight. Wow, was I wrong."

"Dean, I know what happened in here, uh, it doesn't…" Sam wasn't quite sure what he was trying to say. "I mean it's an exaggeration of real, all twisted around."

"Twisted is a good word for it." Dean raised an eyebrow. "You don't really want…?"

"No, I think it's more complicated than that. Like my subconscious manifesting its need for some affection and confirmation into something physical."

"Oh?"

"You're like all I have, you know? It's not like we get relationships, right? You're weirdly the closest thing I have in that respect. I feel like I'm married to you sometimes."

"Gross."

"You know what I mean." Sam rolled his eyes. "It's, uh, like I pour everything into you? I mean, in some ways it makes a kind of sense? How, um, this dream transforms it? All I have is you. You know?" As Sam said it he thought, well that seems kind of negative. "Not, that it's bad, you know? I mean. We're fine, right?"

"I guess," Dean said suspiciously, "Does this mean I have to be all girly with you? Please say no."

"God, no." Sam laughed. Maybe they would be fine?

"Sam, you know that this is some Flowers in the fucking Attic level shit."

"Dean, I don't…" Sam started to object, then twitched his head in surprise, "Wait, what the fuck? How do you even know what Flowers in the Attic is?"

"I know shit. I went to fucking school, Sam." Dean blinked slowly, scowled; his top lip rose in a tell that signaled how much he still wanted to punch something. That something, Sam reckoned, was Sam. Dream or not, that first punch hurt. His jaw was still throbbing.

"Did you," Sam was pushing it, but he couldn't stop himself, he had to know, "did you, um, read it?"

"Fuck no!" Dean flapped his hands, and shook his head, the sneer turning quickly into open mouthed incredulity, "Unlike you I am not a fourteen-fucking-year-old girl with…Oh, God, whatever problem you are having."

"It actually might be a bit like Flowers in the Attic. You know they were trapped together with no one else. It wasn't as gross as it sounds in the book." Even Sam cringed at that. The vulnerability of the dream was fucking with his filter. It seemed his mouth was against him tonight.

"Oh, lord. Can we just wake up?"

"I don't know how."

"Fuck." Dean rolled his head in his hands again.

"What?"

"I have an idea."

"What?"

"Remember when I said I loved you?" Dean was blushing again. Sam wanted to look away, but couldn't. It really was kind of cute.

"Like five minutes ago? Um, yeah."

"Okay, smartass, first of all, it was a big fucking deal. Second, I hate you now, just so you know. And third, I think I know what your fairy fucking princess ass needs to wake up."

"What?"

Dean stood up, breathed deep, squared his shoulders and walked towards Sam.

"Here goes nothing, princess."

Dean knelt down, looking Sam straight in the eyes with a little smirk on his face.

"No, Dean, are you fucking kidding me?" Sam's heart was thumping against his ribcage and he could feel the blush rising in his face.

"Wake the fuck up!" That was all the warning Sam had before Dean's mouth was on his. And Sam fucking swooned. Lights out! Maybe Freud was right, maybe sometimes things aren't metaphorical at all.

When Sam opened his eyes he was laying on his stomach, the room was dark, except for a crack of light through the curtains. His heart was still beating wildly in his chest. He was afraid to turn his head. He could hear Dean breathing, rapid breaths at first, slowly becoming lighter and deeper. He lay too afraid to move for several minutes.

"Sam?"

Sam rolled over. Dean was looking at him…that was a shock. "Dean?"

"Does this make me your Prince Charming?" Dean laughed.

Was he seriously making a joke of this?

"Come on, Sam. It's kinda funny, right? I mean, it's kinda funny."

"No, Dean. I don't know that it is. What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Says the man that was all 'Oh, Dean, blah, blah?'"

"You, uh, you…" Sam swallowed, his mouth was suddenly full of spit. "That's what you decided to do? You're fucking crazy."

"Whatever. It worked. I mean we're out of your melon and back here on planet Sane."

"But?"

"But, shmut. Don't analyze it, right? It's a metaphor."

"A metaphor?"

"A metaphor." Dean nodded. "Freudian. Id. Ego. Whatever. It's all very symbolic. It's syzygy! I know shit. That's Jung. I'm smart as fuck! Carl motherfucking Jung. It's only you think I'm dumb. And it's not at all gay or incestuous or incestuously gay."

"No?" Sam almost laughed at that one. Sam knew Dean wasn't dumb, but syzygy? That was kind of impressive.

"No, Samantha, it's just a dream, right?"

"Right."

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Can you cool it now? With the, you know?"

"Yeah, Dean. We good?"

"A little grossed out, a little confused, but yeah, we're good."

Dean sounded sure. Sam knew he wouldn't be running for the hills now. And maybe things would be strained for a while, but, Sam thought, they'd gotten through some epically weird shit before—this was just another epically awkward bump in an otherwise epically fucked up road.

"So, Samantha, am I really the man of your dreams?" There was a hint of laughter in Dean's voice as he asked.

This was the way Dean was—disarm the situation, make it a joke, play it off and move on. Usually Sam hated this, but now? Now he was thankful for Dean's ability to see the "little bit of funny," in everything.

Sam hoped the little light in the room wouldn't show the blush he could feel burning his cheeks. Dean had kissed him. Fucking kissed him. Not dream Dean, real Dean. And even though it hadn't happened "for real," it didn't keep a little bolt of lust from thumping around in Sam's chest. It wasn't necessarily a passionate kiss, it wasn't desperate, but it was weirdly intense. He wanted to press his fingers to his mouth, wanted to remember the way it felt, but the feel of Dean's lips had faded with the dream. It wasn't real, Sam told himself. But that, that was a lie, and now, he'd just have to keep on lying.

"Sure, Dean," Sam pushed as much sarcasm as he could into his response. "You're my fucking knight in shining armor."

"Damn right I am!" Dean crowed, his laughter so bright sounding in the small room that Sam winced.

Dean rolled away from him, cracked his shoulder and said "Go to sleep. No dreams."

"I promise, no dreams," Sam said, looking at the curve of Dean's shoulders in the darkness. As he rolled onto his back, he did press his fingers to his mouth. What the fuck? Sam thought. What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into? There was no way in hell he'd be able to fall asleep now.