Drowning (Dead In the Water)
Dean remembers the last time they had been at a lake.
It was December and Dad had picked up a case in Washburn, Wisconsin. Three people dying, every three years, right beside the lake - bodies found smashed and mangled and freezing. Dean couldn't have been more than sixteen - Sammy was barely twelve - but he remembered Dad saying that it sounded like their kind of thing.
It turned out that it was, as they found out the hard way. A ghost tractor haunted the muddy shore, the real one rusty and sunk at the bottom of the lake. It had chased all three of them along the bank, lights flashing threateningly and engine roaring, and they had run like their lives were depending on it 'cause, fuck, they were. But the thing had been fast and also did Dean mention that it was a freaking ghost tractor and it was closing up on them? Sometime between the swearing and the chasing and the falling down, they had jumped right into the water - black and glimmering under the night - to avoid its running over them.
Dean still remembers the disorientation - the feeling of being sucked down into freezing flames. It had been dark and black and cold and Dean couldn't tell the surface from the bottom. Damn, he couldn't tell if that cold thing he felt was water inside his lungs or the air he had sucked before diving. When he had come up, minutes later, panting and gasping for breath, Dad was already crawling at the lakeside, coughing out moisture. Alone.
Dean hadn't thought about it twice. "Sammy!"
It hadn't occured to him that, if the darkness of the lake was bad for him, then the weight of the water must have been worse for Sam - skinny and small, battling for breath in the black abyss. He had dived right back in, eyes open in the water but unable to see anything, and he had groped blindly, trying to remember where Sam had fallen, where he had hit the water, where Dean had seen him last. Last - no, Dean didn't want to think about that. He had swam deeper and deeper, the water and blackness becoming denser around him and enclosing him in a suffocating embrace. Slowly and painfully, the panic and fear had gripped at him, squeezing his lungs tighter than the lack of oxygen.
Then his eyes had caught something - something green and blinking, breaking the nothingness with sharpness. Sam's watch. If Dean had been able to breathe, he'd have let out a huge sigh of relief right then. Muscles complaining with the strain, he had moved forward quickly, almost slipping his shoes out in the process. He had taken hold of his brother, his left hand on his wrist and his right one around his chest, savoring the contact, and had brought him out of the water, not at all withheld by the extra weight (no - not dead weight, cause, fuck, this was Sammy and he couldn't be dead).
Sam's head rolled back onto Dean's shoulder as they had emerged, and Dean had felt his gasp. His mind - afraid and confused and panicked - had processed it too fucking slowly. Sam gasped. Sam was breathing. Sam was alive. Alive.
He had brought him at the wooden pier, lying him down at the mud. His blond hair had dripped water onto his brother's face, but Sam's eyes had remained closed, unaware of the water trailing down on them. Dean had breathed hard, his right hand over Sammy's cheek, caressing and patting the wetness there, the other one gently resting and groping on his neck, all the while muttering his name. ("Sammy, hey, hey, Sam, Sam, Sam.") Sam's blood had suddenly beat against his trembling fingers, fast and strong. Pulse - there had been a pulse.
Dean had smiled in welcome relief. "Sam, hey, Sammy. C'mon, man. Sam."
Sam had coughed water - cold and dirty - all over Dean's shirt, but Dean didn't mind, cause Sam's eyes were open. He had held him up, waiting until all the blackness was out of his brother's lungs, and then he had put both hands on Sam's cheeks and had pushed him back softly, getting a good look at his brother's face, eyes as grey as rain and wet hair sticking to his forehead.
Sam's eyes locked onto Dean's with familiar guilt. "Oh God, Dean, I'm so sorry."
Dean didn't care that Sam had almost drowned - he could have punched the idiot right in the face for being...well, Sam. He had rolled his eyes with a smile, his fingers holding tighter onto Sam's temples, thumbs caressing the hair away from his eyes, faces too close that their foreheads were almost touching. "Shut up."
Dean had done something then that had seemed and felt normal - almost automatic and reflexive. He had leaned in and had kissed Sam. Not a lips-to-lips kiss, but not a peck on the cheek either. It was simple, just a brush of his wet lips against the corner of Sam's mouth - almost at his chin. He could taste the water on him, the musky smell of gunpowder, the mud he had dropped him onto, but under it all, he could taste something sweet and salty and sweaty that he will always identify as Sam. And, this time, Dean was the one drowning.
Sam had smiled, and he had scooted his face closer to Dean's, burying his nose onto his brother's cheek and then Dad had been there, a firm and painful hand pushing Dean back and another Sam. He had shouted at Dean about many things ("why did you let Sam out of your sight, why didn't you find him sooner, why did you find him when he should be learning to take care of himself, 'cause you won't always be there, and why, why did you do that thing?") and Dean had listened.
He hadn't understood why Dad had gotten so angry just because he had shown some brotherly affection, but he hadn't cared either, because Sam's eyes were open now and they were watching him with openess, gratitude clear in his eyes.
So, now, when Dean sees Sam crawling out of the lake (a grown man that can take care of himself, even though Dean will always be there), coughing out water, shaggy hair clinging to his forehead and eyes as grey as rain, he only remembers that night and he runs to him. He kneels right to where Sam is lying on his back, arms spread at his sides and chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. His hands skim all over his brother, fumbling and hovering and lingering over him - over his arms, his temples, his neck and chest - automatically checking for injuries and cuts and anything - anything - to indicate that Sam's not okay. Sam in conscious (he can tell so from the slightly bitchy face he's making because of Dean's prodding fingers) but his eyelids are closed and suddenly Dean is too aware of the black smudges around his brother's eyes, of how thin his skin has gotten, of how fucking tired he looks. And he's also aware of how the skinny, small boy that almost drowned in that lake about ten years ago has grown into this giant and strong and beautiful and stubborn son of a bitch.
"You okay, Sammy?"
"Yeah," Sam rasps, eyes still closed. "Yeah, the kid?"
"The kid's gonna be fine," Dean replies and sighs with a small laugh. "Gotta be honest, I thought I'd have to save your ass again. Didn't know you could swim."
Sam doesn't open his eyes, but his mouth loses its tightness as he smiles broadly and punches his fist right into Dean's stomach in a familiar gesture, shoving him back slightly. "Screw you."
Dean laughs and does something then that seems and feels normal, automatic and reflexive. He leans down and places a kiss at the corner of Sam's lips, wet skin against wet skin, chins brushing, hands pushing hair back, fingers brushing temples gently and carefully. Sam pushes his face in the small space between Dean's nose and cheek, sighing deeply. It is simple, but under it all, Dean can still taste Sam and, at that moment, he doesn't care that there's a mother a few feet away, probably watching, or that Dad may come to push them apart now - though Dean will still not understand why - but he doesn't care because Dean has grown up too along with Sam and, this time, he can push back.
