A bit of a profound, angst-driven Wincest, taking place a little after Season 1, though what drives Sam and Dean together is of my own creation outside of the plot's story-line. Focused on the amity of the brothers, completion, and so much more.
For SantaGod because she's a lovely individual, an on-going impetus for new ideas.
occurring just before sleep; applied to hallucinations occurring at sleep onset.
Ownership belongs to its respectful and respected owners. And to Castiel of course.
Forbearance had never been either of their strong suits. It might have been Sam's, refraining from platonic couplings to slake loneliness and urges whereas Dean's smile was always unwavering, lust sibilant and demanding to all those in his night-time company. Refusing to linger in one town for too long was Dean's vice, his fear of attachment, of people who would cloy and rattle his desire to kill the beasts of the world, quadrupling with Sam's intense diversion to lay down sentimental roots, knowing that they would indubitably be supplanted, again and again with each passing hunt, with the dawn that healed nothing.
Self-gratification was met on different levels with the two brothers, landing and coasting against the few pleasures they had at their disposal and enjoyment. Alcohol and the besotted mirth it could inspire, well-worn and loved cassettes that blared from the stereo at three in the morning that they sang along to, completed with the relief of checking into a hotel, and at last, falling easily into exhausted slumber.
Dean was content having Sam around, for his brother was a living and breathing testament that not only could he could love but he could protect another human life. That in itself stated that he was more than a calculated killer, that he was a human being, with family that he would die and kill for without a moment's hesitation on his end. Sometimes in the business of shadow-slaughter, a hunter could forget what they were fighting for, their purpose and impetus, and most importantly, how it all began. It began with Sammy and that was all he needed to know.
Sam remembered being in such a rush to get to that interview, to get beyond the achingly familiar areas of his past that were better off forgotten, forgotten in the kiss-given bruises Jessica granted his mouth, the grades he received of his own mind and hand, and the knowledge of knives and guns permanently ensconced in his mind. He had known a denial that shrouded sunlight in a rickrack of striated hues, revealing nothing more than the start of a new day, the horror beginning anew. He had known bitterness, an emotion that made his hands shake, his mind filled with what-ifs, thousands of conversations taking place with Jessica, that maybe if he had arrived earlier, maybe if he had explained himself, she would still be breathing. Now, he knew camaraderie, purpose and a strength that dictated the truth of a past loss, a past loss that nearly killed him. What more did he have to lose, unless it was his brother?
A comfortable pattern emulated, a creation of a levity known when they were both in the same room, freshly showered, murmuring good nights and whose aim was ultimately better. It was those times that the two cherished, where a few words of appreciation were spoken. Dean had bought their dinner, something from the local diner and instead of accepting the proffered meal in silence, Sam thanked him in earnest, forsaking his usual tirade of harangue and why they couldn't find day jobs instead of leaning on falsified credit cards for pure gratitude. That earned him a smile, a slash of the lips made with the intent of brevity, a smile so genuine Sam was basked in naked emotion. He matched it with a smile of his own, raising his brows in the "puppy-ish" way of his that he knew Dean secretly loved. Airs were strewn to the corners, unneeded in the company of brothers, facades obliterated and guards lowered for the sake of the meal. Their chewing mouths ensured the truth that, only in their dual company, neither were alone, that the business of exhausting and necessary fortitude could be shut off for the night.
Another cycle began, one of pain and grief the likes of which they had never known, the unknown element that there was something wrong with Sam's blood, that the Yellow-Eyed Demon had not chanced by their home on a sporadic twist of ill-fated destiny but with grim intent in mind. Sam had always known that his nightmares, those horrible, temple-pounding visions were so much more than happenstance and components of coincidence. He wished there was a way that he could have swallowed his screams, dealing with the missions and hunts on his own, instead of meeting his brother's concerned gaze every morning, knowing that whatever this was, was affecting the two of them in more ways than lost sleep and sweat-drenched sheets. Was there ever a way, he wondered in the blue-bathed early morning, that he could ever be free from his brother's suffocating questions, the ones that Dean refused to ask the loudest?
Happiness and misplaced blame had little to do with fear, stripping the notions until they hung, raw and bleeding in the exposed certainty: they had nearly lost one another too many times to count. This was said outside of the Impala, on a barren stretch of road that seemed to be swallowed in darkness, the moon casting no frosted light against the pebble-strewn path they traveled. They had been fighting about something irrelevant, voices escalating until they ricocheted back to their ears, circling back as if by aural bullet-fire, limbs outstretched as if seeking answers hidden in the night air, hands coming away as empty as the booming threats of the mouth.
Sam indicated that he wanted to do the mission on his own, and Dean said that his bag was in the car, that he wouldn't stop him and he'd leave his ass again, leave him the way he had done once before.
Logic blotted out wrath, modicum by modicum until they were left panting, glancing at one another every so often, both understanding without words what had just taken place: they had nearly died, leaving the other without a brother, without a twin, without a walking parallel that would create phantom-aches, twinges of pain for the one person that would ever be on their minds for the remainder of their lives. They had nearly lost each other by the accidents and dangers that accompanied their soldier status, and here they were, arguing about something unimportant, something that had little to do with what should have been taking place.
Neither would say it outright for a few hours, hours spent in listening to the endless droning of cassette tapes and traffic sounds, but their eyes spoke volumes.
"I'm sorry I'm such an idiot," forest-green pupils stated, the crinkle around his eyes showing that he meant it.
"I'm sorry I lost sight of what's important," honey-hazel eyes implored, seeking warmth and forgiveness that was mirrored in his own gaze for his brother's sake.
Their eyes spoke of how they loved one another, despite what happened, the turmoil that they devised by their own flaws.
That silence would be what ultimately saved them, the companionable quiet inspiring not only words, but significant actions that would mend them. Missions always had the potential to go awry, to veer off of the course of research, pursuit and the kill; some factors were simply beyond their control.
It had been two ghosts, ghosts that wanted to remain attached to a maze of tunnels beneath a city. Their desire was so great to stay in their place of haunting that any who attempted to end them would wind up trapped, gravely injured, or simply killed off for their arrogance.
It had been the former, trapping the pair in a darkness that was so encompassing, so mind-numbing, both had thought they had gone mad. It was obvious that it was simply darkness, no boogey-men and monsters hiding in the eternal shadow, but that was the enemy in itself. There was no sliver of light anywhere, no saving beam of flash-light that could grant temporary reprieve from the black that festered against their vision, gnawing at their memory of sunlight, of the dawn, of the ability to recall the hourglass shape of light-bulbs.
For, no source of light worked here.
They had tried everything: beating against the walls, wasting bullets against whatever manner of bar or door held them, trapping them in a world of midnight that knew no end.
The ghosts had to get bored with them sometime, or reveal another part to their plan. But until then, they had to remain sound and intact, free from any notion of panic, any thought that there might not have been a way out of this, that this would be their untimely end, gobbled to bits by a darkness that had no literal limit, by an enemy that they couldn't see.
It was then that they began talking, voices working for the sake of sound, for the sake of the echo that would remain and serve as a comfort that would prove to them that they were not alone in this, that if they were to die, they would die together. They talked about memories, about cereal related times when their father had tried to make breakfast and wound up burning everything, settling instead for the safe cereal and days-before-expiration orange juice, about the time when Sam offered Dean the prize, giving him a little reward for letting him have the last bowl of their favorite cereal. They talked about how angry they had made one another, wrath inspiring blows, screaming matches that resulted in unspoken apologies, forgiveness coating the other in a warm patina, a layer of heat that would thaw any chill, any frigidity of winter.
And then the doors were opened at dawn, the guns were fired and the bones of a brother and sister thief were laid to rest, burned and dissolving into the ash of what remained of the brother's shared cordon: never would they keep something from the other, no matter how horrible, no matter how painful it was to communicate.
They exchanged smiles over the flames, fire lapping at the shadows of their eyes, igniting a twist of guts, of bodily inertia that smashed through the pair, enveloping them in a spell of their own makings, something they would have their own share of distress over.
'He's Sammy; I got no right to even think of that.'
'He's Dean; he's my brother, he protects me and he's saved me.'
They lasted a full month, a month of lingering stares that give birth to bone-deep shame, a month of dreams that left Dean aching for the warmth of hands against his chest, leaving Sam with the afterglow of a release that was all in his mind. They were disgusted with how they felt, floored by the thought that their brother, their big and younger brother could elicit what they had only felt for women, for the ladies Dean had taken a liking to dancing with and Sam had, to his morning chagrin, taken into the bathroom for two hours.
Wasn't that wrong? Wasn't it wrong to feel this way for your own sibling, no matter how much you shared and went through with one another? Wasn't it a crime against God, a God that Sam still prayed to every day, to consider acting on such yearnings? Wasn't that breaking some sort of big-brother rule that you should never admire the dip of your brother's stomach, dotted with perspiration from the shower as he changed?
Right and wrong were lines that they understood. Killing was necessary, life was painful but worth it for the minor pleasures they could find. Peace was there and it could be found by the little things, by the drinks, by the memories...but above all, with that one person who was in tandem with you, that one person that could buoy and hold you afloat in a world that had gone to hell, by that one person who could assuage the appetite for the things that you couldn't name, filling your heart with a relief that had everything to do with their mere presence, saying their name and knowing that they were right there with you, facing the night and all the creatures who inhabited it.
They came together in a night that was more gray than black, the sun streaking its last light across the skies. Their lips met in an exasperated parting of mouths, tongues snaking out, probing forward and tasting with animalistic urgency, a franticness stating that they had waited far too long to act, far too long to make something of this need. So much so, that they were worried for a moment that it was all in their mind, that neither had had a brother who they loved with this intensity, that they really were crazy and in hell somewhere, chained and bound, bleeding and surviving off of unreal visions that had created a being they knew, inside and out.
Clothes were shed, strewn about the room with pieces of their armor, their status of being heroes to some people, enemies to most and strangers to all but one discarded, buckles removed and zippers going down, seeing one another with lover's eyes, naked and raw acceptance in emerald and hazel pupils.
A few times throughout the night, they whispered in one another's ears that they couldn't believe this was happening, that they could have never fathomed the thought that they would be here right now, lying and waiting for their strength to return so that they could go for another round. Instead of killing off any notion of a repeat, of the mood laced in carnality instincts, they agreed with one another. Never in their wildest dreams and nightmares did they think they would be here, that they would return here, that they would think of the other as anything more than a sibling and a teammate, as two sides of the same coin and weapon.
But for now, dreams were never more distant, sleep promising strong arms, calloused hands that would remain gentle; but the time for something soporific was not now, drowsiness a concept beyond the reality that they knew to be composed of warm skin, exploratory tongues and fingertips, muscled legs clamping and releasing numerous times throughout the night.
Dean wondered if Sam regretted it, of taking this out on his brother, of bedding his best friend and hunting partner; Sam wondered if Dean remembered what he said about not making this his life, that after a certain point, he would leave Dean to his own devices and leave the life of a hunter behind him.
Sam stated that no, he regretted nothing, that he willingly chose this. Protests were silenced by a sliding tongue, by parted lips that stated that yes, he was worthy of this sort of love, this slaking of bodies and hearts, of hips and hushed thoughts. Dean told him that yes, he remembered, and if he still wanted to leave him for a life of his own, he could and he wouldn't stop him.
"No. I'm not leaving you." He had turned his back on his family far too many times before, his shadow blending into the night, his dreams filled with un-attachment, with a shade of normalcy that he had once craved with every fiber in his being, his tongue thirsting for that seemingly unattainable notion of independence; he understood rebellion, the persona of the prodigal. It was time he started sticking around, time he laid down roots of his own.
Dean said nothing, and that was what spoke volumes, rolls of parchment revealing every thought, every nuance of gratitude flashing before his expression, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, tears he wasn't ready to release just yet. It was in the way his hands twitched, fingers seeking skin, the skin of Sam's back, fingertips probing for the heartbeat, for a strand of hair, for his chin, for anything that proved to him that he was real and there, in his arms, in this bed that provided the answer: "Good. Because I don't think I can deal with you leaving me again."
The dawn came, pooling through the tissue-thin curtains of the motel, basking them in a current of radiance that was more divine than celestial-induced. Sleep came, a sleep that restored, a sleep that was the panacea with bare skin, with limbs that gripped the opposite limbs as if their very existence in life depended on it, on the thought that, even concealed in somnolence, they had to hang on to one another. It was because their lives could be taken with one misstep, with the failure of a weapon, the truth of a monster's appetite or a demon's curse, from stepping foot out the door.
They were both scared because they knew what was out there in the dark, for they had been trapped in it before, trapped with only their voices and memories to keep each other sane. But they were reassured with one another's presence, a calming sedative to their nerves, their other half giving them a harmony that they believed could only come with the few pleasures they knew. And in this remedy of limbs swathed in covers, they knew only joy, a joy that only an iota of hunters knew about.
They would never have what others had, the blissful commonality of a home, of friends, of a life outside of killing the horrors and evils that lumbered the earth. What they did have was better than that, better than the constancy of clashing weapons, of death, of fighting and remembering the lessons their father taught them.
It was something they created and found themselves, something that had nothing whatsoever to do with a spell, with some trick a demon played on their hearts and minds, framing their imagination and fantasies to believing that they were more than brothers ever could be.
It was all them.
And that, the way Dean would let Sam embrace him every so often outside of their shared bed, the way Sam talked more about his visions, about what he might become, was their new standard.
"Let's go." Green eyes scanned the hotel room, the scrutiny making sure that they had misplaced nothing, that they had forgotten nothing. Only their doubt lingered in the room, coating the walls in their confessions, with the emotions they had unleashed within one another. "You ready?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready."
This was about so much more than instant relief, than a prize of the flesh, than a domination and loss of control in a world where they had to be constantly in control; it was about more.
They met each other's gaze, missing nothing and seeing all; yes, they were ready.
"...From the summer to the spring.
From the mountain to the air.
From samaritan to sin.
And it's waiting on the air..."