Title: Hymnal
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13-ish
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, or the characters used in this fic.
Notes: Incest herein. First fic in this fandom, so any feedback you have would be wonderful and probably greeted with much enthusiasm.
Summary: And then he'd be okay. For awhile.

Hymnal

He doesn't come here for forgiveness. It's not in his blood. He's not meant for god, only demons and ghosts.

He doesn't come here, sit in the worn wooden pews by himself, to beg for his soul. Doesn't sit alone in the dangerous dark of whatever town they happen to be in just for kicks either.

He comes when his body is caving in, shaking, fatigued muscles barely moving. Comes when the circles under his eyes deepen into hollows, when the dreams he lives with begin moving into his waking world. Comes when he doesn't want his brother to see, to know, to worry; doubts that it works.

Clockwork. Every few months, six, eight even, sometimes, and then he's here, or some place mostly the same, somewhere else in Bumfuckville, USA, sitting with his feet flat on the floor, one hand on each knee, torso leaning slightly forward. Poised on some edge. He sits like that, hours in the position, muscles screaming at him to move, twitch, something, and as dawn creeps in, all of him relaxes at once. He leans back, slouches in the seat as is usual for him, maybe reaches behind him to finger the wood supporting his back.

And then he's okay. For awhile.

He starts at the long fingers that suddenly thread into his short hair. He should've known it would happen, eventually. He leans his head back, and Sam is standing over him, looking a little vexed, slightly put out. The hand slides out of his hair and over onto his shoulder, squeezing barest pressure and then releasing, arm returning slowly to his side.

"You go to a church?" Sammy says, voice surprised and out of sorts. Dean shrugs.

"Yeah."

"Why?" Sam asks, and Dean just shrugs again in response. Doesn't want to talk about it, not with Sam. Forces some of it out anyway.

"Something calming about churches." Dean tilts his head further back, neck resting on the wood back of the pew. He jolts slightly when Sam's hand touches his face, brushing over the dark circles under his eyes, the jut of cheekbone.

"You don't have to protect me, you know," he says, as if he understands. Dean says nothing in response, and Sam's hand eventually falls back. He turns, sighs and leaves the church, leaves Dean sitting by himself in the dark, staring at his feet.

It's not that he doesn't dream. He does, he's just quieter about it. He's just trained not to think about it so much.

It's not that he doesn't think about them, his dreams, his nightmares. It's not that he doesn't go into the bathroom and stand under the spray of the shower, no matter the water pressure, for hours, letting the water hit his back and run down, letting it trickle and pool into the cavities of his eye sockets when he turns his face upward, feeling the pressure on his eyes, eye lids.

It's not that he doesn't care; it's not that he's so frigid inside that nothing matters but the hunt. It's not that he doesn't use his grin to cover everything inside himself.

He does. He isn't. He does.

It's that he can't stand to let it out, let it be real. Can't stand to let the worry start, can't stand to make thoughts into words. It's too much for him, so he avoids. Lets the shampoo leave his hair, pretends to wash the demon blood off his already clean skin, pretends that he's in the shower for some other reason than to hide.

And then he's okay. For awhile.

He's toweling off his hair, harsh rub of towel over his scalp, standing in the doorway to the bathroom in his boxers, pulling himself together at the seams, patching himself up.

Let's the towel fall to the floor, collapses on the bed, notices that Sammy has left the room. Sam. What the fuck ever.

Pillows his head on his arms, and tries not to think of how much he doesn't want to sleep. Knows he needs to, though. One of them has to, after all, and he's sure as hell not going to make Sammy do it.

The door is kicked open, and he's already grabbing for the knife under his pillow before he even has a thought. Hand clasped on the hilt, relaxed position forgotten.

"Hands were full, sorry." And Sam doesn't sound particularly apologetic, with his cartons of Chinese in one hand, coffee in the other, wincing as it sloshes onto his hand. "Ow, fuck." He sets the takeout on a chair against the wall, and Dean slouches again, replacing the knife and staring at the ceiling.

Gasps at sudden fingers on his collarbone, two of them, pressed firmly, and looks to the side to see Sammy with a perplexed look on his face. There's residual wetness on his chest, pooling in the sharp bones, and Sam drags his fingers through it, slowly. Looks up, into Dean's eyes, expression startled as if he's just woken up. Dean shivers and resolutely doesn't think about why.

"You do know that this is the second shower you've taken in twelve hours, right?" He sounds worried, but he shouldn't be. Really.

"Yeah, so?" Dean manages a nonchalant shrug, tries not to think too hard about the index and middle finger pressed harder as if to hold him still.

"That doesn't seem like a lot to you? We didn't even kill a demon or anything between then and now." Worry makes Sammy look more exhausted, and Dean just wants to make that go away. Feels like this instinct is the bastard child between brotherly and maternal, and doesn't know what to make of it. But still, he hates how pale Sammy's skin has become, how drawn and thin he is, how the darkness under his eyes rivals Dean's own.

"I'm okay, Sammy." And he can tell that Sam doesn't believe him, can hear in the fact that he says nothing of the nickname, can see it in the set of his jaw. Eventually, Sam's fingers drag through the water on his chest, and he turns and leaves, slouches into his own bed, turns on the TV, and says nothing else.

He doesn't know what to do with this life. Doesn't know what he'd do without it. He can't imagine anything else, and that makes him sad. Can't place why, doesn't want to stop to think about it. He doesn't know when killing became instinct, when wariness overran optimism. He can't think about it, let the thought weaken him, and so, as his boot crunches into the skull of the fallen enemy, he can't help but push it roughly away. Not to be pondered again, not in the waking hours of his life. Even if he knows he will, it will come to him.

He doesn't want to think of the way claws in his arm don't affect him, how the thought of more scars only makes him feel resigned. There is no horror anymore, not after all he's seen, and it's a wonder he talks to people he doesn't know. It's a wonder he can live with the amount of skepticism that he needs just to survive.

But he sees the woman with her children, safe. Sees the image of his father telling him he's doing just fine. Sees his brother sleeping soundly, for once, on the bed in their hotel room.

And then he's okay. For awhile.

The door bangs shut as he slams it behind him with his shoulder, limping into the room, and the noise startles Sammy from his sleep. His right arm is still bleeding, blood trailing sluggishly to drip off of his fingertips. He thinks he's just twisted his ankle, and he sits heavily on his bed, tries to pull of his boot, but the blood on his hand makes it slippery, and his fingers just glide off. He grunts in frustration, and then Sammy is there, cursing fervently under his breath, soft voice filled with vehemence and anger. First aid kit from the bathroom counter, and peroxide on the gouges in his arm. He hisses low, dragging the sound out at the sting and the cold, wonders if his side will bruise too badly, if there will be distinct boot marks on his chest. Winces just thinking about it, and looks down at Sammy, where he's kneeling on the floor by Dean's knees.

"What the fuck happened, Dean?" voice cold, and Dean wonders who exactly Sam is mad at.

"That last straggler, the one we didn't get, surprised me on the way back from the deli. Lost the food, sorry. Got him, though." And Dean can still feel, hear, the crunch of bone as he stomped on the fucker's head, skull crushing under his foot like a raw egg.

"I don't give a fuck about the food, Dean." And Sammy's hands are careful on his arm, gaze set there as he bandages. The anger in his voice makes no sense with the gentleness of his touch.

"Sam, get my boot, the left one, I think I twisted my ankle." The throb is more important than the anger at the moment, and he grits his teeth, almost manages not to make a sound, almost a whimper, as Sammy tugs on the laces of his shoe, pulling it off slowly, steadily.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Anger still there, mixed with concern, and Sammy still doesn't look at him. It's starting to disturb him.

"Just going to have some bruises on my chest and right side, nothing to worry about." Sam grunts but doesn't say anything else. Doesn't move though, fingers pressed lightly to the clean white bandage on Dean's arm.

"You can't do this anymore." Then Sammy's hands are under his shirt, pushing it up over his stomach, chest, shoulders. Dean lets him pull the shirt over his head and off, doesn't want to think about it, and so he doesn't. Focuses on the burning in his arm, the throbbing of his ankle.

"What, Sammy?" Sam's fingers prodding the flesh on his torso already darkening with bruise, and when Sam finally meets his eyes, there's something torn in there.

"You can't leave without telling me where you're going. You can't leave things out, not tell me, hide from me. You can't get hurt." Fingers touch his face, his left cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the pulse point on his neck. Touch infinitely soft, almost not there at all, and Dean lets out a small sigh without even meaning to. Feels his eyes threaten to close, and makes himself return to what Sam is saying. "Dean, Dean, fuck. Dean, you're all I have now, you're everything. Everything." And you're not allowed to go anywhere is implied but not said. He seems so much younger than he's ever seemed before, even when he was six and riding on their dad's shoulders, so much more vulnerable. And there's something achingly right in the way that Sammy presses his lips to the skin over Dean's heart, the curve of his shoulder, the joint where neck meets shoulder, and Dean can't help but run his fingers through his brother's hair when he presses his face into that crook of shoulder and neck. Dean can feel Sam's breath, shallow, fast, against his skin, and knows he'd do anything to preserve this, protect it.

"Sam, Sammy, you've always been everything. Always." And he knows he can't promise anything, can't say they both won't die tomorrow, but he knows that he won't ever need anything more than this. A bandage over his wounds and breath against his neck.

Word Count: 1,941