Title: Whiteness I Remember
Author: Vee017
Disclaimer: It all belongs to that wonderful Kripke man.
Rating: NC-17
Setting/Season: AU-ish. Pre-Civil war era
Summary: He didn't know which battle they had come from, but it looked like they had crawled through hell. Sam/Dean

Whiteness being what I remember
About Sam: whiteness and the great run
He gave me. I've gone nowhere since but
Going's been tame deviation.
-Sylvia Plath

He'd had a brother once. And in some ways Dean reminded Sam of him.

It was in the way he held himself, the aura that surrounded him, the way he unknowingly drew a person straight to him and left them ignoring all else.

And didn't that make it all the more wrong what they were doing.

He'd never been with a man before, but there was just something about the worn Calvary man that got to him. That made him want to give him whatever he needed.

Sam had been raised with God in him, but there couldn't be evil in the way that Dean touched him. God had created them as they were; and even if they were sinners, they could redeem. Wasn't that what Jesus had died for? For their salvation…for their eventual return to the Kingdom?

There was no hatred in God, no matter what the parish preached about sodomites.

He trailed his hand softly across Dean's bare back. Ugly bruises marred his ribs, cuts that had scarred over and those that were only just beginning. The military unit had stopped in their town to re-supply and take comfort where they could. War weary and tired, they needed it.

Did they ever.

He didn't know which battle they had come from, but it looked like they had crawled through hell. The worst wounded had been delirious, muttering about moving trees and Indian curses. It was nonsensical, but whatever really happened, the men looked haunted.

He had been hauling bags of flour to Sarah so she could get started on bread, when he had caught his first sight of Dean.

He didn't know why he had been drawn to the man, why he offered him his body, how he was even sure that he'd be taken up on the offer, but he had. Dean's eyes had flashed grateful, and bright green. He had beautiful eyes, long-lashed and wide. He was a beautiful man.

Sam pushed Dean's bangs off his forehead. He was special this one. Different. Sam felt it down to his bones, even if he couldn't sort out exactly what it was, or why he felt this way.

It was strange but felt…fated.

It was the same thing that had led him to study science beside his bible, what led his mind to shift and change with so many ideas, all concentrating solely, and narrowing down to one single point. The more he looked into materials and schematics, the more he wanted to learn. It all felt like something was coming to a head, leading him down a path that he would have no choice but to follow. A path that would lead him…

He didn't know where. Just that this man in his bed was important, even if his mind wouldn't clear the answer from its murky depths. He would follow his gut, like he always did.

And it was screaming at him about Dean Johnson.

Dean sighed, and opened his sleep heavy eyes. The bruises under them were more pronounced than they were the night before. Weariness weighed heavy on him.

"When do I have to be up?" he asked.

"We still have time."

Sam ran a hand through Dean's hair, and down his neck. Tracing the dip of his spinal column, he let his fingers slide into the crease of Dean's ass.

"Please."

Sam pressed his lips to the base of Dean's spine, as he moved between his legs. How could something so foreign feel so natural?

With gentle prodding, mindful of Dean's injuries, and thick-throated instruction, he managed to slick them both enough, and push inside. Heat surrounded him, coursed around him, settled into his chest and into his heart.

He moved slowly, his body nestled deep inside Dean's, throwing more speed and weight behind his thrusts when Dean spurred him on harder. Harder and rougher, please more, he needed it.

Orgasm neared, impossible to stave off, and he found himself spurting his seed inside Dean's body. Dean's insides holding tight onto his cock as the last bit was drained from him.

Reaching beneath Dean, his hand touched sticky wetness. Dean had come without being touched.

He smiled, lowering himself lightly onto Dean's back, far enough that he didn't touch bruises, but close enough to lay deep kisses across his freckled shoulders.

Rolling over, they lay beside each other, sweat drenched and breathing heavy.

Dean's head rolled onto his shoulder, tucking underneath his chin as he fell back asleep. By morning, Sam knew he'd be gone. More battles were to be fought and won, and he probably wouldn't come back. Dean would disappear as quickly as he'd arrived.

But tucked now into Sam, he was safe for the moment they had stolen together. Dean muttered sleepily, barely aware.

Sam stroked his arm, brow furrowing at his companion's quieted whisper.

Wendigo?


The sun sat centre in the sky.

The men who could still ride were mounting their horses, cleaned weapons and food loaded for the journey ahead; those too injured were remaining with the town until they were well enough to rejoin their brothers-in-arms.

They stood in the foyer, Sam watching as Dean buttoned his jacket. He caught the winces, as the material pulled across his back, but nothing he could say could make Dean consider staying. All the able-bodied men were to start moving again to another battle, another place. The few days they had stopped to rest had to be enough. They were on some sort of schedule, not that Sam could decipher any thoughts that went on in the minds of military men.

"You know um…I…"

Sam waited patiently for Dean to finish. Whatever he was trying to say wasn't making it out.

"It's just…it's not often that I get to…" he looked meaningfully at Sam.

Sam smiled, and nodded. Understanding what Dean was trying to get across.

"Take care of yourself, all right?"

"Always."

And there it was. The culmination of three days, come to an end. Dean would leave with his men, and they would never see each other again. The country was large and ever expanding. There was always a need for soldiers and soldiers died on the plains spilt with their blood, fighting for their causes, for what they believed.

Sam walked to stand in the newly opened door and watched Dean go. His eyes and touch would remain in his memory. No matter what happened to the man, he had left an everlasting mark.

He watched Dean make his way down the stairs, tilting his head he called back over his shoulder to Sam. "Maybe we'll meet again someday."

Sam kept his vigil, watched as his shoulders set like the weight of the world had come down on him as soon as he set foot off of Sam's property. "Maybe."

And they would. Years later when Dean showed up ragged and bloodied on Sam's doorstep, making a request in a comet's wake, and Sam would learn the truth.

"Hey wait," said Dean. Turning around, his eyes lingered on Sam's face, memorizing. "I never got your full name."

Sam smiled.

"Colt," he said. "Samuel Colt."