|Memories Of Me
Author: Gillian Middleton PM
While investigating a routine curse in a small California town Dean loses his memory. With only his brother to lean on feelings begin to develop that aren't exactly brotherly. How's Sam going to cope with that?Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Chapters: 4 - Words: 29,712 - Reviews: 102 - Favs: 352 - Follows: 39 - Published: 04-30-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2917754
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: Memories of Me
Author: Gillian Middleton
Total word count: 25 600
Authors notes: Amnesia story - which by its very nature could be construed as containing a character unable to give informed consent to sex. Not non-con, perhaps dubious-con? (Also I totally made up the town this is set in.)
Summary: While investigating a routine curse in a small California town Dean loses his memory. With only his brother to lean on feelings begin to develop that aren't exactly brotherly. How's Sam going to cope with that?
Memories of Me
Part 3 of 4
"I knew it, I knew I'd heard something like this before."
"What?" Dean pulled the chair up next to Sam and leaned over the faded old writing.
"This is a case Dad worked in '96 in Alabama. This guy had a collection of objects from an old hospital that had been operating back before the civil war. You know, bone saws and stuff."
Dean grimaced. "Yuck. Who'd want to collect something like that?"
"No idea. Anyway, there was a series of bizarre murders in the guy's apartment building and the guy himself was the suspect. Dad was investigating the idea that the dude had been possessed by the objects and using them to kill his neighbors. But before the guy could be arrested the whole collection was stolen."
"Did Dad find out who did it?"
"It was cultists," Sam said, pointing out the section on the page.
Dean frowned at the crabbed script. "How can you read that?"
"Yeah, it's a skill," Sam chuckled. "Anyway, long story short - these guys believed they could harness the power of whatever curse was haunting these objects. And take it for themselves. Now the Brackett Curse is pretty powerful, it's killed dozens of people over the last century. They must figure they have some way to steal that power, And I guess they know the whole 25 year thing as well as us, so it's not such a huge co-incidence that they should show up the same night we did."
"Yeah, if you say so." Dean picked up the photocopied page with Sam's neat pencil marks on it. "The power of the Curse can be unleashed by those who worship His Darkness," he quoted. "Looks like a similar deal all right. What now?"
"We hit the local occult stores, there can't be too many in a town like this. Find out where the Goths hang out."
"I got a question for you man," Dean said, tossing the page down on the table. "How come these freaks can waltz in and steal the jewels with no problem, and I just pick up that damned pendant and become Billy No-memory?"
"Remember my theory about those things knowing we were after them?"
Sam made his disbelieving face.
"I know, cursed objects don't think. I'm just sayin', when we find it we better make sure we can destroy it without touching it, that's all. Who knows what it... might..."
Suddenly Dean was gripping his arm, hard enough to hurt and one look at his face told Sam all he needed to know. Dean's eyes were wide with fear, his muscles already twitching.
"Sam," he gasped out. "God, Sam-"
"It's all right," Sam said, taking his brother by the forearms and pulling him from the chair and onto the bed. "It's all right, Dean. I've got you."
"Sam!" was all Dean had a chance to call out before he was arching in agony, back a perfect bow as the spasm shook his body. All Sam could do was watch helplessly again, shoving away the bedside table and anything that might connect with his brother's flailing limbs and cause injury.
"Dean," he murmured over and over again, helpless against the pain wracking his brother's body, the tears that poured down his temples onto the coverlet beneath his thrashing head. Sam wasn't timing it, he didn't have to, this one was longer than the last, nearly two minutes long. Two minutes that seemed a lifetime as the spasms faded, leaving Dean twitching, his breath heaving, his lip bleeding where he must have bitten it.
"It's okay," Sam said soothingly, wiping clumsily at the tears on his own face. When it was obvious the seizure was over he sprang into the bathroom and grabbed a clean wash cloth, soaking it with cold water before wringing it out with shaking hands. Back at the bed he gently wiped the blood off Dean's mouth and dabbed a soft corner of the cloth against the jagged tear on his lip. "You're gonna be all right."
"Sonuva bitch," Dean swore groggily, eye lashes fluttering. "Did you get the name of that truck?"
"Don't try and move yet," Sam said thickly.
"No problem." In fact it seemed to be all Dean could do to open his eyes and he blinked in the harsh light before Sam remembered to lean over and wrench the plug from the wall.
"Sam," he said groggily.
"I can't do this any more." A fresh tear trickled from the corner of his eye and Sam gently swiped at it with the cloth.
"I know, man. We'll fix this, I promise."
"Don't take me back to the hospital, all right?" Dean murmured, then his eyes were drifting closed and his hitched breathing began to even out as he drifted into sleep.
Sam bowed his head, not even bothering now to wipe away his own tears. It was weird, to be sitting so close to his brother and yet to miss him so much. He couldn't help thinking that Dean would know what to do here. Couldn't help wishing he could just talk to Dean for a few minutes, the old Dean, the one who always made even the worse problems seem small enough to cope with.
"Nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I'm here."
Sam stirred awake as the side of his bed depressed with Dean's weight. He opened sticky eyes and peered up at him, noting by the long shadows in the room that it must be close to sunset. "Dean?" he murmured. "You okay?"
"Sorry," Dean murmured. "Ouch." He licked gingerly at his swollen bottom lip. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," Sam said gruffly, pushing his elbows underneath him to rise. Dean's open hand came down on his chest and pushed him back onto the mattress.
"Don't get up," Dean said softly. "You look like you really need the rest. In fact you look worse than I do."
Sam studied his brother's face through sleep swollen eyes. Other than pale smudges around his eyes and the torn lip Dean did look much better. Though Sam had to wonder how many more seizures like that his brother's body could take.
"Why are you dressed?"
"I'm starved. In fact I'm so starved even a Big Mac sounds good to me right now."
"Wait for me and I'll come with you," Sam said but Dean just pushed him back again.
"It's next door, dude. I think I can make it next door."
Sam tilted his head and just looked at him in concern. "Dean," he began in his best reasonable tone.
"Sa- am," Dean mocked back. "I'm okay, all right? Odds are I won't spaz-out again so soon."
"We don't know that."
"We don't know much of anything, do we?" Dean said quietly. "We don't know where the jewels are, we don't know who took 'em. We don't know why my brain is attacking me from the inside." He looked down at his hand where it still lay on Sam's chest, fingers idly playing with the button on his flannel shirt. "We don't know why..."
Sam frowned at the soft pain in his brother's voice. Suddenly he was ultra aware of the warmth of Dean's hand through the layers of his shirts. Aware of the intimacy of the small room, the long shadows, the quiet hiss of traffic on the wet road outside.
Never rains in California, my ass, Sam thought.
More than anything he was aware of Dean in a way he had never been before. The warmth of his hip at the edge of the mattress. The cool scent of his breath. The fine golden rasp of beard on his cheeks. His eyes as he lifted his lashes and gazed down.
"Dean," Sam said gently, shaking his head. "No."
"I know," Dean returned, his voice a whisper of sound. "I know, Sam. See, that's the only thing I do know." The hand still on Sam's chest slid up, over his breast, his collar bone, onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck. Sam's heart was pounding, but despite the vulnerability of his position there was no fear in him. No panic. Just an ineffable sadness because he could see what his brother wanted now, what he needed, what he craved.
And he knew he couldn't give it to him.
The warm hand reached his cheek, cupped it, thumb stroking, barely grazing the fullness of Sam's bottom lip. Dean's eyes were dark, his tongue darted out and touched his bottom lip again and then he was leaning forward, and it would have been so easy to just relax under that, to give Dean what he needed and wanted, to maybe even make up for those times when he hadn't been able or willing to give Dean what he wanted.
But instead Sam brought his own hand up and gently gripped Dean's shoulder, stilling his movement, stopping that downward glide.
Dean's eyes moved from his lips to his eyes and Sam tried, he really tried to convey everything he was feeling there. His love, his understanding. Even his forgiveness.
A frown flickered across Dean's brow and then his lashes dropped over his eyes. "I know," he said again, voice dull. With a sigh he pushed up off the bed and paced the room.
"Dean?" Sam said quietly, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and sitting up. "I'm sorry."
"What are you apologizing for?" Dean said with a bitter laugh. "None of this is your fault."
"It's not your fault either."
"Yeah but I'm the one feeling this," Dean said thickly. "I'm the one feeling this way." He spun around jerkily. "Why is this happening, Sam?"
"I don't know," Sam said painfully. His eyes stung as he watched a silent tear slide down his brother's cheek.
"How can I love you so much when you're the one person on earth I can never have?" Sam winced at the agonized question. "It's not fair."
"It'll be all right," Sam insisted. "When you get your memory back-"
"When you get your brother back you mean," Dean said bitterly.
"You're my brother," Sam said deeply.
"No, I'm not," Dean said, lips twisting derisively. "I'm not him. To tell you the truth - I'm starting to hate him."
"Don't say that," Sam protested, eyes bruised.
"I mean it. You'll get him back and then I'll just be some memory the two of you will laugh about. I'll be gone."
Sam shook his head fiercely, jumping to his feet and reaching for his brother's shoulders. "You are him, Dean."
With shocking speed both Dean's hands came up and pushed. Taken by surprise Sam stumbled back, his butt hitting the edge of the bed and sliding off until he sat hard on the floor. He stared up at Dean in surprise but his brother was looking at his own hands, self disgust on his face.
"I can't do this any more," Dean muttered. He met Sam's eyes, shaking his head in denial. "I can't do this any more."
And before Sam could do more than propel himself to his feet Dean was hauling open the front door and disappearing into the new night.
His feet were bare and the asphalt was cracked and broken but Sam still hobbled all the way across the forecourt in the rain before he admitted he wasn't going to catch up with Dean. Cursing all the way he limped back to the room and wasted long minutes drying his feet and jamming them into trainers. Then he grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out.
San Marco was a typical California beach town after dark. Long dark stretches of closed stores and outlets, and then one whole street lit up and pulsing with life, cars cruising, gaggles of girls and guys hanging out on corners, in cafes, spilling into the street from the bars. Music beat a powerful rhythm, different in every venue but somehow combining into a steady booming drumbeat of sound that pounded in Sam's ears and made his temples throb.
He kept spotting Dean look alikes everywhere in the crowd, the right haircut, leather jacket, all in black, wraparound shades - who wears sunglasses at night?
But time after time it was someone else, sometimes not even close but desperation was coloring Sam's vision, sheer yearning to find his brother deceiving him time after time.
"Dammit, Dean," he swore under his breath, but how could he blame Dean for this? How could begin to understand how difficult this must be for his brother?
And yet, what else could he have done? In a way Dean was ill, not in his right mind. It was all very well telling himself he could have offered Dean some little comfort to get him through this painful time. But soon - god willing - his Dean would be back, prickly and wise cracking as ever. And how the hell could Sam have borne to face him if he'd given into this Dean?
Guiltily he was aware he was doing just what Dean had accused him of an hour earlier. Separating them in his mind, this Dean, that Dean. His Dean, and this new Dean. This stranger who looked at him with his brother's eyes but with desires his brother had never felt for him in a million years.
But I could have reached for him, Sam thought painfully as he drove yet another street, cruised by a bar in a seedier part of town. Even if I couldn't kiss him, even if that was out of the question. I could have put my arm around him, offered him comfort. A hug.
Even at lunch when Dean had sought the comfort of his hand Sam had pulled away.
Force of habit? The Winchesters were not a touchy feely family. Sure his Dad would give them rough hugs when they were kids, a gruff 'Way to go, kiddo,' a tousling of hair that always made them grimace and smooth the offended locks back down but had them grinning inside.
But they'd grown out of that as they'd grown into men. The only time in the last decade that Sam could remember a hug from his Dad had been their aborted meeting in Chicago months before.
The memory brought tears to his eyes and he pulled over to the curb to wipe them, reflecting on how emotional he'd been the last couple of days. How Dean would laugh at him if he knew. How he'd playfully mock and call him a girl.
"Where the hell are you, Dean?"
When had he last hugged Dean anyway? Could he remember the last time? Was it back before his boyish admiration for his big brother had turned to teenaged impatience with everything about their lives?
How much money did Dean have? Why had it not occurred to him to ask? But Dean took care of the money, picked up the credit cards from their post office boxes, made up the names to put on the applications, hustled at pool and cards.
And Sam just sat back and let him - teased him about it even. But didn't complain when it paid the bills and restocked the armory and filled the car with gas.
When had he last hugged his big brother? He'd tried that last day before leaving to go to college, when his fists were still clenched from that last fight with Dad, when he'd walked out of their last digs with his duffel bag and 160 bucks in his worn old wallet. He'd tried to hug Dean then, tried to reach for him. But Dean had only slapped at his hand, grabbed it and when Sam had pulled back there'd been another $200 in twenties in his fist.
And Dean had been gone, jumping into the car and tearing away with the smell of rubber burning on the road.
That extra 200 had sure made a difference blowing into San Francisco.
"Just say you'll take care of yourself."
The town just wasn't that big, it just didn't have that many bars but Sam had scoured them all before deciding there was no more he could do that night. It was maybe midnight when he pointed the car back to the motel and nosed into the lot. And then he let out a breath he felt he'd been holding for the last few hours as the headlights swept the figure crouched under the awning by the door, head bowed against the damp chill of the rain-swept night.
He wanted to curse and rail and dammit Dean where the hell have you been? But Dean didn't even look up as Sam swung his long legs out of the car and when he finally did tilt his head a little towards him Sam saw the blank pinched misery of his face and he didn't have the heart to.
He unlocked the motel door and stood back as Dean crossed the threshold, booted feet leaving damp tracks on the carpet.
Sam went straight to the bathroom and cranked the shower up, waiting till steam billowed out before leaning out the door. Dean still stood where he'd left him, shoulders hunched, shivers trembling up and down his frame.
"Dean," he said firmly, holding out his hand and Dean shrugged and walked over, avoiding his hand and sidestepping into the bathroom.
"Leave the door open," Sam told him. "And for god's sake if you feel a seizure coming sit down fast. Better than falling down."
Dean's jaw tightened at the command which Sam actually took as a good sign. Quiet-compliant Dean was actually more disturbing than I-want-to-mack-my-brother Dean. Ignoring his instruction Dean closed the door behind him with a slam and Sam sank down onto the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands. The relief at having Dean back safe and sound was dizzying. Every nightmare scenario that had run through his head over the last few hours made a return appearance and he groaned at the thought of how badly things could have gone wrong.
What if Dean had just vanished? Hopped a bus, cadged a ride, walked away from the weirdness of the life he had woken up to and the stranger who'd spent the last few days drawing him close and pushing him away?
Who the hell could have blamed him?
The door swung open and Dean appeared in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist and an irritated expression on his face. "Check it out," he snapped. "The grown man managed to bathe himself without dying. You must be so proud."
"Where did you go?" Sam asked quietly.
Dean rolled his eyes and stomped over with as much attitude as he could manage in bare feet and a pink towel.
"Where the hell was I gonna go?" he grumbled. "That's the whole reason I was in a snit, wasn't it? I don't even know anybody except you."
"Was that why you were in a snit?" Sam tilted his head and huffed a laugh. "In a snit?"
"Shut up," Dean ordered. He sat on the edge of the bed and dragged his duffel over. "Do I own anything that isn't black? Oh, look." He pulled out a shirt. "Gray. Protect my eyes from the burst of color."
"It's how we grew up," Sam shrugged. "Dark colors don't show the dirt or blood stains."
"No offense to the way we grew up, dude, but that is a jacked up reason to buy clothes."
"Yeah." Sam watched as Dean finally grew impatient with the search and tipped the whole bag onto the bed. Finally he plucked out a clean pair of shorts and a khaki t-shirt.
"Cos khaki's almost a color, right?"
"Dean?" Sam said huskily. "I'm sorry about before."
Dean looked down at the soft old clothes in his grasp, tightening his hands around the worn fabric. "I told you," he said softly. "You don't have anything to be sorry about."
"Maybe. I probably could have handled all that a bit better. But I want to tell you - there is no other Dean, okay? You are him. You may not remember everything right now, but you are the same person - I see it in everything you say. Every move that you make. You were worried about not backing me up, but, man, you were there behind me every step of the way today. It would have been easy to forget that you were going in blind, working without a map. You had my back just like you always do."
"I'm the one should be saying sorry," Dean admitted lowly. "I just wanted..." His cheeks flushed. "Well, you know what I wanted. It wasn't fair to put you in that position."
"None of this has been fair." Sam pushed his fingers through his damp hair ruefully. "You know if you had your memory back right now you'd be ribbing the hell out of me for the way I've acted through this. Like some damned girl."
Dean's gaze flickered up to him. "I would?"
"Yeah." Sam thought about it. "Actually for someone who admires women so much you can be a bit sexist with your choice of insults."
"I'm a dog, remember?"
"And a sleaze," Sam teasingly reminded him.
Dean smiled lopsidedly over at him and Sam began to think that maybe it would be all right, that they would get through this.
"Tomorrow," Dean said abruptly. "I mean today I guess."
"Those jewels, Sam, they could be anywhere, and you know it.'
"And if this cult thing doesn't pan out. If these things are gone... Then so am I."
Sam gaped at him.
"And I'm not coming back."
"What are you talking about? We'll break this curse, Dean. Whatever it takes, we'll do it."
"Maybe," Dean said dubiously. "I'm just saying, if we don't."
"But where would you go?" Sam stuttered, trying to wrap his head around the idea. Dean didn't leave. He was the one who walked away, not Dean.
Dean shrugged. "Away from here," he said simply.
Sam's throat tightened. "You mean away from me, don't you?"
"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said sincerely, eyes sad. "I wish I could make you understand. How hard it is to be so close to someone and yet so far away. I mean, rejection I can handle." Dean smiled again, with his mouth if not his eyes. "Must be one of those skills I still have even if I don't know where I got it. But you don't know what it's like, Sam, when you look at me with so much love in your eyes. Or when you touch me with such tenderness. And I can't reach out and touch you back without it being wrong."
Sam could only nod, fighting back his tears, jaw clenched against the pain.
"All this," Dean whispered, gesturing at the room around them, the intimacy of the lamplight and the tumbled sheets. "I can't live like this. I'm not strong enough. I know that makes me a selfish prick, and I'm sorry. I just know if I try to stay I'm going to do or say something that will step right over that line."
"You shouldn't have to feel like this," Sam said, eyes stinging painfully. "You shouldn't have to feel guilty for loving somebody."
"Not somebody," Dean said painfully. "My brother. I saw your face when you realized what I wanted. You were horrified, man. You knew it was wrong."
Sam frowned, trying to remember those moments of shock and horror. It all seemed so long ago now. "You know, Dean," he said slowly, feeling his way. "You and I have had a few problems over the years. In fact we didn't even talk for more than two years once."
Dean blinked in surprise. "Really?"
"Really. But whatever we've been through, however much we've argued and bitched at each other I never doubted one thing." Sam looked up and met his brother's eyes squarely. "That you love me. As much as I love you."
"Well," Dean said, red flags blooming on his cheeks.
"You've always been there for me, man."
Dean gave him a pained half smile and Sam looked back at him with a lifetime of love. He hated this feeling of helplessness. Hated that he wanted to offer comfort but didn't know how to without making the situation worse. Fear was lancing through him now, acid hot. He was losing Dean, losing his brother, he could feel him slipping further and further away with every moment that passed.
Maybe tomorrow, if they could find this damn pendant, end this Curse...
But right now tomorrow seemed a million years away. In this crappy little room, in this strange town. In a lifetime full of strange towns. All he had now was Dean, and he couldn't lose him, not to this, not to some lunatic old curse. He couldn't let his hopes for tomorrow cloud what had to be done tonight, right now, this minute. To get them to tomorrow.
And then suddenly his path was there before him and he was amazed he hadn't seen it before. Because Dean had always been there for him, even when he hadn't agreed with him, even when it would have been a hard fight to pick out which of them had been acting like the biggest immature jerk.
And now it was Sam's turn to be there for him.
On legs suddenly shaky with nerves Sam stood and took that small step to Dean's side, sinking down beside him on the edge of the bed. The eyes Dean lifted to him were weary, ages old, filled with sadness. And confusion.
Slowly, to give Dean the chance to pull away, Sam reached for his brother's hand where it lay nerveless on the crumpled clothes on his lap.
"What are you doing?"
Swallowing hard Sam lifted Dean's hand and grazed the knuckles with his lips.
"Sam?" Dean said, voice trembling.
Sam moistened his lips nervously and kissed Dean's hand again, turning it gently and laying a soft caress on his calloused palm. Dean's fingers jerked convulsively and he lifted his free hand and touched Sam's wrist, wrapping his fingers around it and holding it tight.
"Please, Sam," he said brokenly. "Don't."
Sam smiled against the shower-warm skin, feeling the tremors in Dean's body next to his, hearing the shortness of his breath.
"Why?" he whispered, feeling Dean shake at the warm exhalation of breath against his sensitive skin.
"Because you don't want this," Dean forced out.
"Apparently I do."
"No," Dean said forcefully, pulling his hand out of his brother's grip. "I didn't tell you I was leaving to force your hand, Sam. I wasn't trying to blackmail you."
"I never thought you were," Sam said honestly. He reached back over and slowly and deliberately took Dean's hand in his own again.
"Then what the hell is this about?" Dean said, eyes wide as Sam lifted the captive hand and shaped it around his jaw, leaning into it with a sigh. "Is this some kind of guilt trip? You think you owe me? Or is this your idea of brotherly love?"
Sam gazed at his brother, knitting his brow while he genuinely turned the options over in his mind before deciding on his answer.
"Yes," he said simply. "All of the above." Taking a deep breath he leaned over, keeping his eyes open and watching as Dean's eyes widened even further. But the other man didn't pull away and then it was happening, Sam's lips were pressed to Dean's and they kissed for long moments. It was so chaste it almost counted as brotherly, or it might have if Dean's eyes hadn't been smoldering so fiercely as Sam pulled back.
"We're brothers," Dean whispered hoarsely, putting it out there, stating it baldly as if convincing himself as well as Sam.
Sam met his eyes. "I haven't forgotten," he whispered back.
Dean's other hand came up and he cupped Sam's face tenderly. "I have."
"I know." Sam's eyes flickered away for a moment. "That's something to worry about tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Dean said bemusedly "That's a million years away."
Despite the intensity of the moment Sam huffed a laugh, marveling at how much alike they were sometimes, for all their differences. Oddly it made him feel better.
Dean's eyes followed the dimpled smile and produced a big eyed reproachful look. "Oh that's not fair," he said defensively. "No fair pulling the big guns on me."
"What can I say?" Sam chuckled. "The dimples get 'em every time." He turned his cheek into Dean's hand, feeling the warmth emanate from his flushed skin. "You want this, Dean. You need it."
"So you make some kind of sacrifice of yourself?"
Sam considered this. "A loving sacrifice," he allowed honestly. "It's all I have to give you now."
"I want you to want it too."
"Then show me," Sam challenged. "Make me want it too."
Dean's eyes searched his and Sam met them fearlessly, more sure than ever that this was right.
"I warned you I wasn't strong enough," Dean told him and Sam knew the battle was over. Dean would not fight this any more.
Oddly this was when Sam began to feel really nervous. He could feel his heart pounding under his ribs as Dean's hands gently worked the buttons on his flannel shirt open. He spread the sides apart and studied the gray t-shirt Sam had on underneath. "How many layers are you wearing?" he murmured.
"I feel the cold," Sam stuttered as he slipped his arms from the long sleeved shirt.
"I'd say you were too skinny, but, dude," Dean said admiringly as he smoothed his hands over the planes of Sam's chest through the thin material. "I've seen you without your shirt on."
The open admiration brought a flush to Sam's cheeks and he ducked his head shyly as Dean chuckled.
"You blushing?" he asked delightedly and Sam could feel himself squirming. He so did not blush. After his awkward teenage years he'd actually become quite comfortable with women, easily making friends as well as attracting potential lovers.
But he wasn't with a woman now and he amazed himself at how insecure he felt about all this. It was so important that he get this right, so important that he be there for his brother, that he give him this. Suddenly impatient he pulled his shirt over his head and pushed Dean back down on the bed, shivering as Dean's bare thigh slid against the well washed fabric of his jeans, fine dusting of golden hairs rasping softly.
Frowning in concentration Sam licked his lips and leaned forward, pressing an urgent kiss to Dean's lips, deliberately opening his mouth and stroking his tongue over the ripe fullness.
"Ouch," Dean muttered and Sam felt a sting of shame as he tasted blood in his mouth.
"Oh god, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, rolling over onto his back, bringing a shaking hand to his brow and rubbing his forehead worriedly. "I forgot your lip."
"Sam, it's okay," Dean said soothingly, heaving himself up a little on the bed and rolling to his elbow. The lamp was behind him, limning his hair, turning it a soft gold in the muted light. "Calm down, okay? This isn't some kind of test you're taking."
Sam relaxed at the gentle humor in Dean's voice, laying back on the pillow and gazing a little anxiously into worried green eyes. "I don't want to mess this up," he admitted.
Dean laid a hand on his brother's chest over the wild throb of his heart. "We can still stop this," he offered quietly. "It already means so much that you want to give me this. Please don't do something you'll regret later."
And Sam actually considered that for a moment, considered getting up off this bed and crossing to his own. Stepping away from this intimate little space they had created in this cozy little room. Outside cars swept along the wet road and the wind blew a gust of raindrops against the window. Outside was the real world, the one they had never quite fitted into, the one where they were always the outsiders.
Sam shivered and reached out, wrapping a big hand around Dean's shoulder, curving it over the smattering of freckles on the golden skin.
"I don't want to stop," he admitted. "This... This isn't just about you, Dean. It's about me too. Me giving to you. Please let me? Please?"
Dean's gentle concern faded and his eyes grew heated as they flitted over Sam's face, from his beseeching eyes to the soft flush mantling high cheekbones to the fullness of his lips.
"Stop me if it gets too much," Dean said thickly, but he didn't leave Sam even a moment to agree to the shaky request before his lips were descending and there was no pushing him away this time as Sam parted his lips to that unhesitating exploration, strong jaw opening as Dean's hand rested against it, cupping, stroking.
It was strange, a man's lips on his, that soft rasp of incipient beard, a strong jaw working against his own. The flat planes of a man's chest against his own broad rib cage.
But it was also wildly familiar because this was Dean's mouth on his, Dean's hands that stroked, slid over his skin, calluses caressing deliciously. Dean who was making love to his mouth as if worshipping it, twisting his head, making throaty little noises.
And Sam could feel the familiarity of it through the strangeness - that these were the hands that had held him his entire life, that lifted him when he fell, supported him when he stumbled, soothed him when he was fretful. Shouldn't that familiarity be wrong, wasn't that the taboo being broken here? Shouldn't it have felt wrong? Did it? Through the familiarity and the strangeness and the unexpected accord and the heat?
Where was the wrong?
There was a subtle shift of weight and then Dean lay on top of him, around him, body pressed to his, hot naked skin sweat damp with arousal, pulse points beating rapidly. His eyes were wide open in the dim lamplight, fixed on Sam's and so full of love that Sam felt his throat close up, felt tears start in his eyes and roll down his temples.
"Shh," Dean soothed, soft lips tracking the tears, kitten-rough tongue tasting them. "Shh, Sam. It's all right."
It had been so long since he'd felt the satisfaction of a lover's weight pressing against him. Dean flexed his hips and instinct Sam didn't even know he possessed had him spreading his legs, gasping at the pressure. Lifting his hips he pressed through the soft denim at the warmth and heat. "Feels good," he gasped.
"It's supposed to." A soft murmur as talented lips crushed his mouth again and then strung a pearl necklace of kisses along his jaw. He found Sam's dimple and blessed it with his tongue, causing the younger man to shiver and smile, deepening the dimple to a crease and bringing forth a groan deep from Dean's chest.
"God, Sam," he muttered, kissing feverishly down Sam's neck and into the hollow of his throat. "Tell me this feels good to you too. Talk to me."
"I can't," Sam gasped, throwing his head back against the pillow, arching his spine again, seeking that hardness in the place where he was now hard, hungry, needy. "Dean, help me," he muttered, shaking hands reaching for his waist, searching for the buttons to release himself from this prison. "I need to feel you," he moaned, beyond strangeness and familiarity, beyond right and wrong, falling deep into hunger and desire.
It had been so long since anything had felt this good, Sam thought as Dean tugged the buttons free and then pulled at the waistband, taking jeans and white jockeys together and stripping them down long legs that bucked impatiently and kicked them loose.
And now it was all hot flesh and they were both beyond words as strong masculine hands roamed, stroked, pressed into smooth young flesh, glorying in the sheer carnality of touch and sensation of taste. Sam gave himself over to it, never before having lain beneath another and been loved so selflessly. Always the one who kissed and so rarely kissed himself and perhaps never so thoroughly, Sam could only toss his head on the pillow and grip sweat slicked flesh that had picked up a rhythm now, as familiar as his heartbeat, sliding against the cradle of his thighs.
Long legs lifted and wrapped around Dean's narrow hips.
It had been so long since he'd been touched, and held and stroked. Since hands other than his own had slid down the flatness of his belly and just the act of someone else's hand, Dean's hand touching him there was enough to send wild flutters through his overcharged senses.
And then Dean's hand found him, wrapped around him, wrapped around both of them and Sam didn't even have time to find that heartbeat rhythm again, he was coming, arching his back, gripping with his hands, gritting his teeth and throwing his head back as he erupted.
There was a flush of wet heat between them and then Dean was stiffening against him and Sam shivered again as he felt the pulse of moisture jerk against his belly and the sensation, the sheer reality and breathtaking intimacy of what was happening pulled another spasm from him, and then another.
Finally, wrung out and exhausted he felt Dean relax on top of him, his muscled form easily finding all the places they fit together and curving into them. He should have been heavy, it should have been uncomfortable, instead it was the comfort Sam didn't even know he'd been craving for such a long time. Dean's arms holding him, cradling him, Dean's body shielding him.
Sam drifted into the sweetest sleep he'd had in months.
End of Part Three
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