Chapter 1: Dream
Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time,
I need to break out,
Make a new name,
Let’s open our eyes,
It’s a brand new day.”
He’s sleeping in his bed, peacefully—oblivious to the world around him. He’s happy. He’s free. He doesn’t have to think about the world, or his worries. He controls what happens in his dream.
The corners of his mouth crease. He’s dreaming about a club filled with women, dressed in all sorts of lewd clothing—only for his viewing pleasure.
Nothing could touch him in his dreams. He had nothing to fear. If anything tried to enter his dreams, he’d simply put up a wall.
No one trespassed in his dreams.
They were his, and his alone.
He didn’t move as the door creaked open, a shadow manifesting against the moonlit wall. It looks frightened; unsure; scared, as if it didn’t want to be there, but it’s being forced to. It has no choice but to stand there in the doorway, looming and staring at the dream-bound body on the bed.
A hesitant foot steps forward—skin becoming clear. It’s human. That much is clear. It didn’t wish to be here. That is also clear.
Nervous energy coated the atmosphere. It fails to stir the man sleeping on the bed, unaware of the presence moving closer towards him.
It stands at the side of his bed—finally finding the courage to move closer, become more intimate. A shaky hand pulls the covers off his form, exposing his naked body completely, a proud member straining against a tanned navel, almost leaking—begging for attention.
The figures tongue peaks guiltily through its lips, ashamed.
It drops the covers from its hands, suddenly self-conscious.
There is no coming back from this now. It’s here. It’s been brought to this spot. It has to do this if it wants to stop thinking about what it might be like to hold the man’s warm penis in its hand and lead it to a healthy orgasm.
To taste the essence from his glory, savor and swallow it.
To ride it, even, for hours upon end, never stopping for a break, as it would surely only get one chance.
Would the man stay unconscious for that long? Would he be able to reveal all his fantasies in one night? Would the man hate him if he woke up? Would he continue? Would he snap and abuse him? Would he never speak to him again?
Would he. . . Abandon him?
Its eyes shifted to the awake organ throbbing, its head knocking against the heated skin of the beautiful specimen snoozing soundlessly.
It must do this.
And it does.
Tentatively, it takes a whole of the heavy girth, stroking experimentally. It elicits a satisfied noise from the owner, urging its confidence. It’s doing well. The vessel likes this! He’s not kicking it away! He’s not lashing out! He’s lying there, in a world of his own, spreading his legs slightly to give it more room; more access.
The figure goes for it, increasing the pace of its strokes—making sure not to apply too much pressure. It didn’t want to hurt the handsome man. It respects and adores this man. Never would it wish pain upon him, and it would hate to see as much as a wrinkle of distress on his gorgeous face.
It smiles shyly when the man’s breathing picks up, his hips involuntarily bucking into the steady grip around his member, provoking an improved rhythm between them.
Slowly, it moves, settling in between the unmindful bodies legs. It sends an apologetic smile towards closed eyes—genuinely sorry for what it’s about to do.
Apologies made, it dives down, takes ahold of the base to still the blood-filled penis before taking it into its mouth.
Previously asleep eyes crack open, disappointed that his dream was over. He feels a sensation between his legs—a sensation that he enjoys and knows all too well. He grins to himself, thinking that one of the ladies in the motel must have spotted him earlier and stalked him to his room, then waited for him to fall asleep.
While that thought is a bit creepy, he’s more than happy for them to work his prize-winning dick. He lifts his head and frowns. She’s still clothed, whoever the hell she is.
Without saying a word, the handsome man turns on the bedside lamp, ready to see how much game he really had, when he didn’t even have to chat the girl up to get her to sleep with him.
What he sees confuses him. He can only really make out the head, since she clearly decided to pull the covers over her back. He mentally shrugs, enjoying the shortness of her hair, and the slender parts of her body.
She’s good, whoever she is; working her mouth on his penis just the way he likes it. He bites back a moan after a particularly loud and spectacular suck.
She has skills, he’ll give her that.
Curious now to see who the girl is, he grabs her hair and lifts her head up.
“What the fuck? Sam?” he questions, jumbled.
Stunning blue eyes stare back at him.
Eyes that belong to his sixteen year old brother.
Eyes that should never see him naked.
Eyes that held so much admiration for him.
Eyes that, at the same time, scared the shit out of him.
Sam wieps the pre-cum from his bottom lip, his expression guilty. He feels dirty; ashamed; unwanted and sorry. He never wanted this to happen. He wishes he could take it all back. He loves his big brother, but he shouldn’t love him like this.
“Dean, I. . . I’m so. . .” the boy stutters, forcing back the urge to finish what he started—his mouth drooling for more of his brothers still hard member.
Dean’s face displays shock, and that’s all. There may be some fear in the mix. He wasn’t disgusted, for some reason unknown to him. He should be. He should be revolted by such a thing. They were brothers and this is wrong in every sense of the word.
He did the only thing he could think of. He smacks his brother clean across the face.
Sam falls to the floor, not even bothering to try and support himself. He knows what he did is wrong. He knows that he’ll never be forgiven for what he has done. He knows that Dean will abandon him for this act of vulgarity. He knows they can never come back from this.
Gingerly, Dean pulls the covers back over himself and points to the door. “Get the fuck out of my room, Sam. I won’t tell you twice,” he snaps, a feeling of guilt already washing over him for snapping at his brother.
Practically lifeless, Sam adheres to the command. He picks himself up off the floor and leaves the room, a river of tears ongoing down his crushed face.
Dean sits there, naked under the covers and remaining hard. He doesn’t understand why he didn’t go soft the second he realized his brother had been sucking his dick. He’ll never understand. He still feels horrible for slapping the younger Winchester.
What more could he have done?
Beaten the shit out of him?
Made Sam fear him for all eternity?
He’d of done of that if it were any random guy pleasuring his cock—he wouldn’t stand for it. He was not a homophobe by any means, but he would probably react that way in that type of situation, without even thinking.
Maybe that made him a bad person?
Dean snapped awake, a large breath leaving him. He panted listlessly, trying to get some air back in his lungs. He felt rotten and cold. What the hell was that dream about? Why was Sam in it? Why couldn’t he wake up earlier?
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Chapter 2: Send Me a Sign
Dean can't sleep, and he gets a present from Sam--a bracelet. Is it a sign?
Short chapter ahead. Setting the mood and stuff, you understand. o_o
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time,
I need to break out,
Make a new name,
Let’s open our eyes,
It’s a brand new day.”
The next day, he didn’t look at his brother.
The next night, he didn’t sleep.
He couldn’t. He was too afraid that if he shut his eyes for a moment of rest, that dream would resurface, and he would be painfully aware of the consequences.
There has to be something psychologically wrong with him to find enjoyment in thoughts such as those. Normal older brothers never strayed to indecent dreams of their younger brother. It’s their duty to protect the young, not do that to them.
What would their father say if he knew?
What would Sam say if he knew?
He’s a freak of nature and he deserves time in jail for his sick thoughts alone. That is how he felt about this situation: wrong; disgusting—nothing but a parasite.
His eyes betray him and close. They’re blood shot. Dark circles paint the undercarriages, accentuating his lack of sleep. All he needs is a ten minute snooze, and then he will be fine.
Sam’s petal-soft lips connect with his own, binding the two brothers.
He immediately comes back to reality. He can’t risk going to sleep anymore, for he hadn’t been asleep for more than a minute before his dreams turned incestuous.
What is he going to do with himself?
If he were to suddenly run away, they would get worried and come looking for him, with questions as to why he ran away in the first place.
They needed him here.
He needed to be with them.
They felt safe with each other, and could trust no one else.
That’s exactly how it is in their line of work.
Hunters have a lack of trust that stems on sociopathic.
They live with it, though, as all they need is each other and the hunt.
A knock comes from the door. Dean’s head turns towards it, praying to anyone that is listening that it isn’t Sammy. He can’t deal with seeing him right now. He doesn’t know what he might do.
“Yeah?” he replies confidently.
The door opens and a disheveled Sam walks in, clearly having just got out of the shower. Dean swallows the lump forming in his throat and beats his thoughts into submission.
The water falling from the shower head onto Sam’s naked form, dripping through the ridges under his arms, pouring down his toned chest, swimming to the bottom of his abdomen-
“What do you want, Sam?”
Dean has to keep this brief. He has no idea how he can take control of his thoughts and feelings, and how long he can keep up a wall of calmness before it breaks.
Sam takes a few steps in to the room.
His brother wants to tell him to stay where he is, and that he’ll be safer there. He feels as though he’s a monster who should be kept from the public eye.
He doesn’t, however. Sam walks to the foot of his bed and grins, his hands tightly gripping something behind his back.
Dean is curious. What is Sam keeping from him? And why does he look so happy all of a sudden?
“Happy twenty-first birthday, Dean!” he beams. Sam is usually nose-deep in a book, so it’s nice for him to be excited for a change, and especially for him.
That may cause more bad than good right now.
A present is presented in front of him. It’s in a box that Dean does not recognize. He slowly reaches for it, shuddering when their fingers make contact. He shrugs it off, prying the lid off the box.
Inside the box is what looks to be a bracelet.
It’s brown, with writing on it, and it appears to be handmade with rope.
Sam calls for his attention, revealing that he too has the same bracelet around his wrist.
It isn’t girly. It’s actually kind of cool.
Dean puts it on immediately and tells Sam that it’s great, thanking him. Sam tells him to pay close attention to the writing. He reads it, his eyes softening.
Nothing Can Come Between Us.
A need to hug and kiss the younger Winchester almost overwhelms him, but he manages to control himself. He touches the bracelet instead, already appreciating its existence on his wrist.
“This means that no matter what happens, we’ll always be brothers!” Sam smiles enthusiastically. He thought Dean might give him a hug or something. He’s gone to a lot of effort to make those bracelets.
Maybe he should just initiate it?
He does so, kneeling on the bed and reaching his arms out for Dean. The older brother reluctantly accepts the hug, which causes a bit of upset on Sam’s part. He says nothing, however, mentioning that he’ll make the birthday man breakfast in bed when he wakes up.
It is three in the morning. Sam stayed up preparing Dean’s present. He wanted to be the first to get a smile out of the man on his big day, which he did, and for that he is truly grateful.
“I love it, Sam. Thank you.”
Sam grins despite himself, releasing his brother from the hold, who seems oddly comforted by the action. He tries not to let it get to him.
Telling his brother he should get some rest, Sam moves to leave the bedroom, intent on pondering this event in his bed.
A nervous hand stops him.
Dean sighs wearily. “This means a lot, really, Sam. To be honest, I’d like nothing more than to show ya’ how much I appreciate it, but I can’t. You won’t understand,” he informs, his tone uneasy and full of regret.
As Sam exits the room, he reminds Dean to look at the writing on the bracelet once again.
He does so.
Nothing Can Come Between Us.
Dean closes his eyes, thinking about how happy Sam was when he gave him the present, and how sad he looked when Dean hesitated to return his hold.
Is this a sign?
Ic nothing can come between them, would Sam reject him? Does he feel the same way?
He’s old enough to. He’s still underage for the ideas Dean’s sick mind had in store for him. The urge to throw himself out the window welled up inside his gut, his legs itching to run toward it at full force, barreling through the glass--
He calms himself with a breath, grudgingly relaxing into his bed--his head nestling on the pillow. He regards the bracelet one more time before he falls asleep, unable to help himself.
Nothing Can Come Between Us.
Somehow, he questions that.
Thanks for the comments and the kudos, and thank you for reading! :D
Chapter 3: Turn Back the Clock
Dean does something he regrets and turns to the bottle.
This is going to be a DARK chapter. It's not sweet. You'll understand if you read it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time,
I need to break out,
Make a new name,
Let’s open our eyes,
It’s a brand new day.”
Sam needs to stop what he’s doing.
This isn’t fair.
Why is he doing this to him? Didn’t he make it clear that he can’t show Sam how much he appreciates the bracelet? It was yesterday that the event happened! Why did Sam have to be oblivious half the time? How did he not realize that what he’s doing is driving Dean crazy?
Sam claimed he lost the remote earlier and has been looking for it the past ten minutes. The agonizing part is that he’s crawling around the couch and the bed searching for it, on his hands and knees, subconsciously wiggling his ass. Dean begs himself every second not to look—not to think those thoughts.
A beer or a glass of whisky has been constantly at his lips since he started. It only distracted him away from the sight for a very short time, however. He knows how close he is to taking advantage of his brothers position and he feels disgusting. A thousand showers could not wash away how nauseating he felt.
“Have you seen it anywhere, Dean? You know, instead of sitting there drinking yourself to death, you could help?” Sam mumbled above the pillow, reaching his arm down the couch. Why did Sam have to be this developed for his age? Dean swears the world must be out to get him or something. He’s being punished for having such incriminating thoughts about his own blood. He deserved it, to a degree—it turned him on more than anything else in history, but the painful truth he could never have what he wanted tortured him every nanosecond.
“Trust me, you’re better off me drinking,” he replies quickly, his control dangerously close to slipping. Sam shifts to all fours after he pulls his arm from down the couch. It’s only for a second, however Dean’s thoughts immediately stray to what he doesn’t want to think about. “Sam, get off the damn couch!” he demands, for Sam’s benefit.
Dangerous is going to turn critical in less than five minutes if Sam kept this up.
“Are you okay?”
A staggered breath left the older brother, the alcohol starting to jumpstart his confidence. The drinking may have backfired on him. This is not good. He needs to get out of this room or he’ll-
“Dean, talk to me, please?”
Sam is standing right next to him. His hand is on Dean’s shoulder, trying to engage him in conversation. Dean’s eyes darken, provoking alarm bells to ring for Sam—warning and danger signs joining the obnoxious sound.
“Dean?” A sliver of fear wracks Sam’s less developed frame. Dean stares deeply at him, but it’s not his brothers eyes. They have no emotion in them. Dean’s hand reaches out and grabs Sam’s arm, shoving him into the couch. Sam cries out at the pain, falling onto the couch.
Before he can begin to move away, Dean pins him down with his knee, pressing the condensed muscles into his stomach. Sam’s back attempts to arch in an attempt to relinquish the force. He doesn’t succeed. Dean’s soulless-looking eyes lock with Sam’s lips, then move to the creamy skin of his neck.
Famished teeth find his neck, sinking into the young skin.
Sam’s eyes crinkle, displaying his discomfort. Dean’s knee slips between his legs, rubbing against the younger Winchester’s crotch.
“Dean, no! Ah-what are you doing? Please stop!”
His cries go unheard by the influenced older brother. The unwelcome knee doesn’t stop its scraping against Sam’s covered privates, nor do the teeth halt their biting.
“Dad’s not here. Shh, baby, it’s okay,” he assures, sliding the adolescents shirt up, padding his fingers along the smooth skin. He shudders, lost in the feeling of his little brother.
His fingers work to unbutton Sam’s jeans, easily pulling them under his ass. Sam pleads for Dean to stop again, reminding him they’re brothers.
“Don’ worry, Sammy, you’ll enjoy it, I promise! I’ll make it so good for you!” The large percentage of alcohol the older man consumed during Sam’s frantic search for the remote hit him all at once. The thoughts he focused on mixed with the influence of the alcohol. At this point, Dean has no idea what he’s doing.
“Make what good? What are you going to do? P-Please? Don’t do what it is you’re thinking, Dean!”
“Baby, baby, calm down. It’ll be amazing, I promise! The best sex ever, okay?”
The alarm bells that were there before switched to fire alarms. Sam struggled to get away from Dean, punching at his chest, trying to knock the wind out of him so he can find a moment to escape.
“There’s no need for that, Sammy!” Dean insists, harshly gripping small wrists and holding them above Sam’s head. He undid his belt with one hand, then tied Sam’s wrists together, grinning at his handy work.
“Please don’t, Dean? You’re my brother!”
Tears stream down pale cheeks, unrelenting.
“I know, baby, I know! But you want this, I can tell, so just relax and enjoy it. I promised you it’ll be amazing, and it will be!”
Why isn’t Dean listening to him? What’s he talking about? He never said he wanted this! Dean’s acting like this was the plan from the beginning. Sam’s terrified. Dean looks dangerous, moving off the couch to pull Sam’s jeans off, briefly rubbing a spit coated digit against his hole.
Why is he doing this? Can he not see how scared Sam is? Doesn’t he care? Sam just made him a bracelet yesterday and wished him a happy birthday first! He was so happy in that moment. Sam had been upset Dean hesitated to hug him, but he never could have imagined this could be the reason for that neglect!
“Gotta get ya’ nice and slick for my dick, yeah?”
Sam’s tears were endless. He couldn’t comprehend anything that was going on. He tries to roll off the couch, but Dean keeps him there with his knee again.
“Stop struggling, Sammy! We can do role play some other time. I’m making you feel special tonight!”
His brother is completely delusional! He’s thinking of this like it’s some great moment for them and this has happened before!
“Dean, why are you doing this?” he begs again, pleading with Dean to untie his hands.
“No, you’re being bratty, and I’m not dealing with that,” he replies, pouring lubricant onto his fingers. Immediately, he forces two inside his brother, who goes red and shouts at the pain, kicking his legs out.
His heel catches Dean on the face, but he acts as if it’s nothing but a fly. Sam pushes himself away from the intruding fingers. Dean yanks him back in position, digging around inside to find the spot that he’s confident will change this situation. He’s read enough about this stuff to have a good idea.
“Ah!” Sam cries, a twinge of pleasure in the sound.
“There it is, Sammy! See? It’s all good, just relax, okay?”
He does because he’s been begging for the past however long it’s been for Dean to stop what he’s doing.
Dean removes his fingers and unzips his jeans. He grabs Sam and flips him on his stomach, placing him on his knees in front of the couch. “Yeah, that’s hot, baby! This is gonna be so good. I want to fuck you so bad!” Sam’s face breaks out in pain indications, as Dean unceremoniously slides in, complimenting how easy Sam’s taking his dick today.
Silent tears continue to fall, but he cries no more.
Why? What did he do to deserve this?
Dean pulls back and thrusts in, starting a frantic pace. His balls slap loudly against Sam’s premium. Sam feels sick. He almost throws up on the couch in that moment, but he remembers what their father said.
What would John say? Why isn’t he here? Why hasn’t he gotten back from the hunt yet and saved him? Saved him from the one person that Sam thought would never hurt him intentionally. Some part of Sam’s mind processed that this person isn’t Dean. Dean would never in a million years do this to him.
It’s still happening, though. This is not a dream. This is reality. His brother, who he worships more than anyone else in the world is raping him.
That is the reality here.
And what hurts Sam the most is that this means somewhere deep inside Dean, wherever he may be, his brother thought about this before. Perhaps not rape, but taking advantage of his younger brother.
“Ah, yeah! Sammy, you feel so good! Better than any girl or anything! I love you so much, baby boy!” he unconsciously rambles, pistoning into his brother’s tight heat over and over, his eyes rolling back into his head as the tight ring slides over the head of his dick.
Dean pants behind Sam, having been pounding the younger Winchester for ten minutes now. Sam’s sore. He’s in terrible amounts of pain. His hole is red raw. Dean keeps pulling out completely, admiring his handiwork and thrusting back in, ignoring the look of trauma and something deeper in Sam’s eyes.
He’ll never recover from this.
They’ll never recover from this.
Dean won’t remember this.
Dean won’t know what happened.
Dean will think they’re okay.
Sam will know otherwise.
“Gonna come, Sammy!” he exclaims, gripping the back of Sam’s long, brown hair. He pulls him back until he reaches Dean’s face, whose teeth sink into Sam’s neck, rocking a few more times into the adolescent, until rounds of semen spill from his dick into Sam’s anal cavern.
He collapses on top of Sam, who does nothing. His face is turned to the side, focused solely on the adjoined kitchen and not Dean’s sweet nothings whispered along his spine.
Each one felt like a slap to the face.
“That’s my boy. You took more than last time! God, I love you so much, Sam! You’re so beautiful. You’re mine and I want you all to myself!”
Dean’s false affection went on deaf ears.
I used to love you, too. Not like this, but I did.
Dean wakes up in his bed, naked and sticky, with a splitting headache. Well, his dick felt sticky and gross. The rest of him is fine. He has a quick shower and leaves his room to find Sam. He sees him in the living room, curled up on himself.
“Hey, Sammy,” he greets.
The boy flinches, the hairs on his arms standing on end.
“H-hi,” he replies rigidly, not looking at Dean once. The memories of last night would not leave him. Not even for a second. He felt so filthy and unnatural, even if he took no part in it—not consensually! He still felt disgusting.
Dean’s head pangs, a wave of pain hitting him at once. He notices that his belt and all his clothes are scattered over the living area of the motel, much like they were in his dream where he ra-
“Sam? Did I-“
“We-we’re not t-talking about this. Pl-please leave me a-alone?”
How could I do such a thing? What kind of a fucking brother am I? I did th-that to my little brother? I hurt him so much that he can’t even look at me, and he looks traumatized as shit!
Dean leaves the living room immediately, locking his door and raiding his mini-refrigerator for alcohol. He snatches a bottle of whisky, twisting the cap off before downing five shots worth in one.
I am fucking disgusting… I, my Sammy! How the fuck could I do that? Why? I thought I was keeping it together- I…
His eyes water and tears of deep regret fall.
I've never written rape before... It was hard. And it was scary. I cried while writing it. Sorry if I didn't deliver the emotion well, though!
Chapter 4: Give Me Some Time
John finds out.
It’s been two weeks since the rape. They’ve barely spent time in each other’s company. Dean is at the bar most every night. Sam reads like it’s going out of fashion. John cannot understand what is going on with his two boys. They fought over the dumbest things sometimes, but they’ve never not been able to speak to each other because of it.
Sam goes pale at the mention of his brother. John wants to know why. He’s asked a few times if Dean did anything that he should know about, but Sam just shakes his head and goes back to reading.
Even if he wanted to interrogate his older son, he’d have to seek him out at the bar first. He came back drunk as all hell every night, with a new girl on his arm. They were always gone before John woke up, along with the blond.
He only ever caught sight of him if he asked him along for the hunt, or they had food to eat at the motel.
Even then, the man would not say a word to him or his brother.
John is pissed. Dean’s his good soldier, who follows orders and puts the job before his own personal feelings. He couldn’t have him keeping secrets from him. His mission is to look after his brother, and John would make certain that he never forgets that.
“Sam, why don’t you go take a step outside for a minute? I just need to talk to Dean.”
Sam does as he is told immediately, without a look back.
Dean’s blood goes cold when Sam leaves the room. He didn’t want to be in the same room as his father. If he ended up revealing what he’d done, John would disown him forever.
John spoke gruffly.
“What’s going on between you and Sammy?”
“Nothing, sir. Why would you think there was?”
“You’re constantly at the bar and he hasn’t said a word since two weeks ago, that’s why. Don’t take me for a fool, boy! I know something happened and I want to know what—now!”
John’s serious. He has no time to be messing around with this. He wants answers.
“Nothing’s happened. Don’t worry about it,” Dean replies, trying to come across as honest.
John demands that he stop when he grabs his jacket. His son offers a look the man doesn’t recognize and leaves the motel, heading for the bar.
Once Dean exits, Sammy comes back in and goes back to his reading, taking a second to thank their father for the food.
Several hours later, the door to the motel slams wide open.
Dean enters, a sick grin on his face.
“Well, well, there’s the little birdy. Isn’t he cute?”
John’s head snaps towards the voice, his eyes going wide when black orbs meet his vision. His son has been possessed by a demon! He’s quick to grab the bottle of holy water in his jacket pocket.
Before he can use it, he’s thrown against a wall, held there by the smirking imitation of his eldest son. “Daddy needs to stay put for a while, okay? My business is with the quavering little princess over there,” the demon says, stalking over to the youngest Winchester.
“Oh, Sammy, the things I can see in this melon. So many thoughts of suicide, regret, and abandonment, all because of that stuff you call the devils juice and a whole lot of mixed signals.”
He pins Sam up against the wall, holding his face roughly in his hands.
“I have to hand it to your big brother. The way you were crawling around, swaying that ass, I wouldn’t have lasted more than a minute. I can, however, see what he was thinking during that time. And he acted on it eventually, just a lot differently than the fantasy itself.”
Sam’s eyes cloud over with fear. His hands shake around the sturdy wrists of his brother, who he once felt protected by. Now, all he feels is conflicted. The man in front of him is his brother, only with a demon renting out his being. Sam knows this sick bastard is telling the truth.
Dean had thought about him in that way.
And he did act on it.
The admittance of Dean’s thoughts of suicide and abandonment upset him, but he’s so scarred that all he wants is to be left alone. If that meant Dean walking away from his life—no longer a constant reminder of that event, he could live with that.
“You should hear him screaming in here. It’s adorable. ‘If you hurt him, I swear to God I’ll rip you to pieces’. Just precious, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Who are you?” John snaps.
Dean looks back at the hunter, his smirk malicious.
“You have no business knowing who I am. But you should know this,” he rumbles, pleased with himself. He turns back to Sam for a moment, breathing in his scent deeply. He licks his right cheek and grins.
“Dean fucked your son!”
At the announcement, John’s eyes widen. Anger began welling up in his stomach. He didn’t want to believe that his son could do such a thing to his own brother. Demons didn’t work this way. They could do a lot more damage than this, given the right material—physical damage. Mentally messing with someone is also their style, but this subject has never come up before. With the way his sons have been acting around each other, he’d be stupid not to think it’s true.
The demon turns back to Sam once again and winks before its mouth opens and black smoke flies out of the older brother. It exits through the open door and Dean falls to the ground, releasing Sam.
Quickly, the brunet runs away from his brother, giving his father a please don’t do anything to him look on his way out. John didn’t consider letting this go for a second.
He picks himself up off the ground, having slid down the wall moments prior. He watches Dean slowly get up, coughing violently. He’ll be coughing up something else when John gets through with him.
Dean stands on his own two feet, unsteadily.
He doesn’t stay up for long.
A fist of rage and disappointment connects with his face, sending him hurtling to the ground. He grabs the inflicted area, pressing the tip of his finger against the broken skin.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
John delivers a brutal kick to Dean’s stomach, causing the man to lurch and expel blood onto the floor.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, boy?”
“That’s your brother! That’s Sammy!”
John grabs Dean’s jacket collar and slams his back against the wall.
“You’re supposed to protect him! Not do stuff like that to him, you monster!”
Dean says nothing as John continuously presses against his bones. He hears a rib crack, but he ignores it. A dormant side to him relishes it all. He’s being punished in the proper way for raping his brother. Right now, he wouldn’t care if John killed him.
He deserves it.
A single tear falls down his face and he says sorry once more.
“You’re sorry? Sorry? Sorry isn’t going to cut it!” John yells and throws Dean onto the table. The weight of his back snaps it in half. He stops himself from crying out. John stands over him. “Get the fuck out of here, Dean. I don’t ever want to see your face again, you understand me?” Dean nods.
He gradually pushes himself to his feet and walks on wobbly legs out of the motel. He whispers goodbye to Sammy before he leaves, closing the door shut behind him.
Dean stumbles down the walkway, a psychotic look on his face. He’s been punished, but it wasn’t enough.
Maybe he’ll die from blood loss?
Chapter 5: I Need To Break Out
Dean wakes up somewhere unfamiliar. A stranger gives him advice and he makes a decision.
Dean wakes up in an unfamiliar place. He’s in a bed—that much is obvious, from the comfort and the pillow keeping his head risen. The light from the sun is gleaming in through a window, so it must be morning by now.
The question is, how the hell did he get here? Where the hell is he? And why did someone help him in the first place? He didn’t deserve to be treated with any such kindness.
No, he’s a monster.
“Finally waking up?”
Dean snaps up to a sitting position, ignoring the burning pain in his sides. He observes the poorly wrapped bandages around his body and arms, narrowly spotting the plaster just under his eye.
“You were in pretty bad shape,” the person continues, bringing a tray of food, coupled with a fresh glass of water over to the injured man. “I’m not going to ask you how you got like that, so don’t be alarmed.”
Who is this guy? Why did he help him? He didn’t ask for anyone’s assistance! He just wants to rot outside like the piece of trash he is.
“Why did you help me?” Dean spits, throwing the covers off himself. He clutches his stomach as he tries to get up from the bed. “I never asked to be saved. You should have just left me there to bleed to death—I fuckin’ deserve it!”
“Why is that?”
Dean’s eyes turn cold. “Look, dude. Thanks for the food, the hospitality or whatever, but I don’t deserve this, okay?” he retorts, standing to his feet. His eyes flick over the room in search of his belongings.
“Your clothes are in the wash. They were soaked with blood. Like I said, I’m not going to ask you what happened—not if you don’t feel like talking.”
That isn’t good news for the blond. He’s not going to disgrace the world with his body. He would rather die in his clothes. It’s not a matter of dignity… Not at all…
“It seems to me like your running from something.”
“So what if I am?”
The stranger nudges the tray toward him, finally having set it on a table. He passes Dean the water in hopes that he’ll drink it. He noticed Dean’s voice faltering earlier—possibly from the slight strangulation he received.
Dean tries to tell him he doesn’t want any of it again, but this time his stomach yells at him for turning down such good looking food. He indulges, albeit reluctantly. Oddly, he’s not too uncomfortable with this unfamiliar man asking him more questions about his situation. To keep his family out of the loop, he changes some words.
Carefully, he explains what he’s guilty of. He’s surprised that the guy doesn’t flinch at all from his details of how he took advantage of someone innocent—someone dear to him. He leaves out the part about it being his younger brother. Dean’s not sure he can handle even rolling that name off his tongue right now.
In response, the stranger tells him that it’s the alcohol that drove him to do that, and that he didn’t remember doing anything until he had been reminded by the victim? Dean answers yes, and the other moves on to speculate that there must have been an unintentional provocation to trigger suppressed feelings like those.
Dean doesn’t quite understand what he’s referring to. All Sam had been doing was crawling around the sofa on all fours looking for the remote, while the older brother took sip after sip, focusing his eyes away from the curve of Sammy’s ass.
Can that be seen as a provocation on Sam’s part?
That little display hacked into his subconscious and brought forward his suppressed feelings for his baby brother?
“What are you saying, dude?”
“You did take advantage of that person. That much is true. But you didn’t even remember it happening. You must have strong feelings if it was so easy for you to be influenced to do something like that. I’m not justifying your actions. Rape isn’t justifiable. I’m simply telling you that you aren’t completely at fault here. And the man that did this to you, was he involved with the person you forced yourself on?”
Hearing those words stung. Forced on. Rape—took advantage. Each word felt like a knife piercing through his heart, and wilting away his sanity.
“Take some time. Figure out what you want—think about their feelings as well. You said they asked you never to talk about it again—“
“But he flinches when I’m around him! Every time he looks at me, I can see fear in his eyes… It shouldn’t be like that! He was innocent, and I took that away from him… I should be in jail for the things I’ve done!” he yells, punching the wall and splitting the skin open. The blood seeps through the gaps in his fingers, falling with the fresh tears spilling from guilty eyes.
“I never wanted to hurt him—never. He’s everything to me!”
The stranger watches in astonishment. He feels sorry for this man. Last night, he spotted him passed out on the ground, wounds littering his body—broken. It’s not often that a good Samaritan comes along and helps out a person in need. The boy looked like trouble, but he felt sympathy for him, and so he carried the unconscious man to his house.
After patching up all the wounds, he noticed a numerous amount of scars that weren’t fresh. They had been there for a few weeks, he assumed. There were blade marks along his arms, down his legs—even across his back.
He hadn’t been sure if they were self-inflicted or if someone else had administered them. Nevertheless, they were no less dangerous.
“If you never intended to act that way, you should do something about it. I can’t imagine that they will be pleased if they find out you oft yourself because of a mistake. There’s always a chance to work things out, kid.”
Dean glances at the guy. What is he talking about? There’s no way Sammy will ever forgive him for what he’s done! And he can’t go back. John demanded that he never return to them. Honestly, Dean didn’t blame his father. He isn’t deserving of their forgiveness. Most likely, he won’t be forgiven at all. He’ll continue to spiral out of control until he one day takes the plunge and falls on his sword.
John will be happy.
He’ll have received compensation for Dean’s disgusting behavior.
“Then again, keep thinking like you’re the worst thing to have ever existed, and you’ll find yourself in a ditch somewhere in no time. Take my advice, don’t take my advice. At the end of the day, it’s up to you what you choose to do—just think about them, and not just yourself.”
Hours have passed. Dean’s clothes finished washing several minutes ago. He’s now ready to leave. He’s not sure what his next move will be, but he’s probably going to steal a car and find somewhere to hide out.
He’ll start hunting on his own.
He has the skills to do it. And he can be of great help to many people. Maybe he’ll run into his brother and father along the way? He doesn’t know. If great minds think alike, it shouldn’t be too long before that happens.
Before he starts up hunting, he’ll have to collect his supplies. A few years back, he started building up his own storage of guns and detailed books on every son of a bitch that goes bump in the night.
John has no idea that Dean has been planning to begin his own hunting business when he turns twenty one. It’s not too far away, so this isn’t necessarily such a bad thing.
Dean’s ready to leave. He’s ready to get out there. He’s ready to do some good deeds to maybe one day repent for his sins. He’ll miss Sammy more than anything in the world, and a part of his life will always be missing without his bundle of joy.
Chapter 6: And Make A New Name
A new start.
I'm doing my best at the moment to start finishing stuff because I feel bad for them being here for so long. If it helps, I got something I hadn't updated for two years, finished in three days, so, yay? XD
Anyway, enjoy. :x
It's only a short one. This one doesn't really need much.
And make a new name. . .
Dean did his best to cover his tracks after that day. With every part of America he traveled to, he made sure that not a trace of his identity was left over. Starting over was hard for him. He had to reinvent himself to the finest degree. No longer could he go by the last name Winchester, but, rather, he adopted Singer into his last name. Bobby had been more understanding than John of what went down. He had been furious at first, and had gone as far as to aim a Shotgun right at Dean's head after the words left his mouth. At that point, Dean hadn't wanted to do anything to stop him. If Bobby had wanted to kill him, then that meant that he had no one else left to turn to in this world, and he may as well have just given up right there and then.
Bobby had dropped his aim, though, shaking his head. Dean hadn't tried to say anything, knowing that it would be on deaf ears at the time. He knew in that moment that he had to give Bobby the space that he needed to process what he had learned. As expected, it had taken a long time for Bobby to come around. He told Dean that he didn't want to hear about what happened from that point onwards, and even though he had been inebriated at the time, it did not excuse his actions. Dean understood completely and promised that he would never touch alcohol from that point onwards.
Dean had to find other ways to cope. He hadn't wanted to risk accepting that poison into his body, knowing what sort of effect that it can have on him in the long run. He knew that it wasn't likely that he would run into Sam--that didn't change his feelings at all towards any form of that shit. It had been his own fault for developing a dependency for it, anyway. For all he knew, it could have been what fueled his dark dreams and desires, leading him astray.
Once Bobby thought calmly and clearly about the events that transpired, he revealed to Dean that regardless of what happened, John shouldn't have attacked him like that. Dean hears it in Bobby's tone each time John calls to ask for information on a monster hunt. Dean's not sure if he agrees with Bobby or not. At the time, he felt like he deserved it. At the time, he also could have died.
Sometimes he questions why he's still alive. Why he's even still driving cross-country, seeking out the bottom-dweller's of the world, taking them out one by one, and then moving onto the next venture. He used to take a lot of satisfaction out of killing those monsters. Now, he's not sure which one of them is the monster.
Dean regrets what he did to Sam every day. Thoughts constantly cloud his mind of his wrongdoings, and he does whatever it is that he can to vanquish them, whether that be pressing his foot on the gas pedal that much harder, or stopping the car abruptly to get out and run until his heart is pounding against his ribcage. Anything to stop those thoughts from attacking him. He knows that he'll never be able to forget what he did. He also knows that he'll never be able to forgive himself for what he did--not that he ever should. Someone like him doesn't deserve forgiveness. Someone like Sam never deserved to have a brother as fucked up as he is.
The irony hits Dean every now and then that Sam used to worship the ground that he walked on, and he turned out to be the demon in the night. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. If that dream had never happened, maybe it wouldn't have ended up like this. If he hadn't turned to the bottle, maybe it wouldn't have ended up like this. Dean has no clue what to think anymore. All he does is keep moving, hoping that he never runs into John or Sam. He can't bear to see that look of unbridled fear on Sam's face. . . Knowing that he's the one that put it there all those years ago.
He still has the urge to make sure that Sam is doing okay, though. That never goes away. And he fights it tooth and nail every time. He doesn't deserve to see how Sam's doing. He doesn't deserve to be in his presence. Not after what he did. Not after what he put Sam through. . . Not after he single-handedly destroyed the relationship that they had together. Unfortunately, he can't help but miss those times. He can't help himself from thinking about the smiles Sam used to give him, the ones that seemed as though they were reserved purely for his eyes only. Sam didn't smile much around John. Many a time, Sam would confide in Dean about how John scared him because of the lives that they live. Dean felt the same way. It was equal admiration and fear, but that's just how John kept them in line. Maybe that was John's way of maintaining their constant devotion to his cause.
Bobby has made it easier for Dean. Every now and then, he'll let Dean know that Sam's doing okay. Bobby knows because they swing by from time to time if they happened to be in the area, and Bobby has something that they need for the current case that they're working on. Dean makes himself scarce in those times, hiding out in the basement, keeping the noise down to the minimum, forcing himself to stay put, no matter how anxious his body is to close the distance between him and Sam. He's undeserving and he knows it. Nothing he can say or do will ever change what he did that one time, and he'll have to suffer the torture of never being able to lay eyes on Sam again because of it.
Right now, Dean's on the road, heading towards a no-name town south of North Dakota. He caught wind of a possible Vampire nest using the locals as their blood supply from Bobby, when he had been on his way back from taking care of a Wendigo in Palm Springs, of all places. He has an idea in mind of how he's going to get the information that he needs to track down their nest, but he won't get there for a few more days. Dean had said to Bobby that he might be better off finding someone that's closer to the mark, but Bobby told him that as odd as it sounds, he is the closest that he has on speed dial. Dean didn't argue anymore after that, knowing that Bobby would have thought things through before making his move. Dean's not so great at that himself, but he's learning a lot from being around the seasoned hunter.
At some point, Dean is going to need to stop at a motel for the night. It's no good risking getting knocked off the road because he's too tired to focus on what might be around him. He spots a sign that says the next Motel will come into view within the next one hundred miles or so. He still has a way to go before he reaches that point, so he may as well entertain himself with some classic rock. He'll sing along to the lyrics as they play through, needing the distraction from the constant memories plaguing him like a never ending infection. It doesn't matter if they're good or bad. Thinking about them is just going to draw his focus away, and he has to commit himself to a possible Vampire nest hunt in his near future. A trip down memory lane will stall him for far too long, and he's already looking at about another three days of travel. Three days means more victims. Unless he's lucky, which he never is.
As Metalica blasts through his car radio, Dean taps a beat on the steering wheel, singing in sync with James Hetfield, while doing his absolute best to forget about just why he loves this type of music, and just who it associates him with.
Dean gets through about ten orso songs before he has to shut the music off. As if by chance, it's just as a sign appears off to the side of him that says that Motel he's planning on spending the night at is just up ahead, and soon he can put his head down.
Dean does as soon as he's parked up, paid for one night, and closed the door behind him on his room for the night. He throws himself on the bed, not bothering to take his clothes off. Right now, all he wants to do is sleep. He wants to sleep and forget all the memories coming at him from all different angles. He just wants to see darkness. Just black. Nothing else. No smiles of a young man he once knew and cherished--none of it.
Just total darkness.
Eventually, he gets it.
Chapter 7: Let's Open Our Eyes
Dean gets set up on that hunt. Sam is the one behind it.
The last one is after this. :D
I'll be able to tick this one off as well. Please do let me know if I've completely ruined this for you. . . I mean, I did start it a long time ago, and I'm mostly just running on instinct at this point. . . But I don't want you to be dissatisfied, so let me know. ;D
Let's open our eyes. . .
Dean's starting to feel like this Vampire hunt that he's supposed to be on is a lost cause. Everyone he's spoken to has looked at him like the information he received from Bobby is total bullshit. After his sixth rejection, he decided to just have a look around for himself. He's pretty good at choosing where Vampires might hide out. A storage facility is a good place for them. The sun doesn't get in because there aren't any cracks--and even if there was one, it would be minor, which is nothing for them. He also searched warehouses, old cabins in the woods, and came up empty. There was absolutely no sign at all that a Vampire is, or ever has been here. Dean couldn't quite believe that Bobby could steer him wrong since the seasoned hunter's instinct has so far always been completely on point. He's called Bobby a few times to get his take on it and was told that all the intel that he had in front of him seemed legit. Dean expressed that no one else agreed with that, but Bobby assured him that there must be something there.
Not wanting to give up so easily, Dean hit up some other spots. He's on day four now of his investigation here. So far, he hasn't gotten a whiff of anything linking to the Supernatural, other than something fishy that had been dealt with by another hunter several years ago. That had nothing to do with a Vamp nest, so Dean chose not to look any further into it. Also, when he called to ask about it, Bobby said that the case was closed for good on that one.
Dean can't help feeling as though something bigger is happening here. Not in the Supernatural sense of the word. Something else. Something different. Something that he's just not quite getting right at this moment. Could it be that he's been set up? That seems highly unlikely. He's sure that every case that he's handled has been just that. Handled. So why would someone or something summon him here? Dean dismisses the thought, on the grounds of it being ludicrous to even entertain. Dean's not aware of any enemies that he might have that aren't already six feet under.
Deciding to let the subject go, for now, Dean settles in his Hotel room for another night. He hadn't planned on being here this long, so he's had to chip into some of the other accounts that he has access to. There's not much for him to do here other than take a shower and go to bed, so he heads in the direction of the bathroom, grabbing a towel from the designated draws before he goes.
When he's all showered and adorning one of the fluffy white towels, Dean exits the bathroom, leaving the door open. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he's not alone in his room. Momentary panic sinks in before he allows his instincts to take over. Just as he's about to run for his gun, the figure calls out to him, using his name. His real name. Not the fake one he used at the reception. This tall, built person, knows his real name, and this could be really bad.
"How do you know who I am?" Dean demands, cataloguing each movement the man makes, looking for any signs that he might be planning to attack him. With his size, he may be hard to handle, so Dean needs to keep his guard up.
"I'm sorry, uh. . . This was the only way to get you to come," the man says, looking awkward and nervous as he takes a seat on the bed, eyes respectfully on the other side of the room.
"What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?" Dean snaps, catching his thrown sweatpants on instinct. He doesn't show his gratitude as he slips into them under his towel, a puzzled expression betraying his puffed out chest as he grips the lobbed shirt a few seconds after. Once he's fully dressed, the man averts his eyes from the pale blue wallpaper, focusing them on Dean instead. "So, you hand me my clothes after you break into my room, reveal to me that you set this whole thing up, and now you're expecting a thank you?"
"What? No. Uh, look. . . This is a little awkward for me," the man admits, shielding his eyes with his fringe. "I just don't really know what to say now that I'm here."
"You could start with your name. That would be very helpful," Dean suggests, although it sounds more like an order as he takes a step closer, wanting to feel bigger than the large man sat on his bed.
"It's me, Dean. . ."
Time stops for Dean in that instant. That me isn't just a word. It holds the foundation of his life in the past. It holds the soul of a boy he once knew. A boy that he cherished with all of his heart. A boy that he should have kept at arm's length. It instills in Dean the memory of his little brother kneeling before his beaten up body, checking for signs of a concussion and asking questions to identify whether or not he's aware of their surroundings. Dean knows that voice. He knows that hair. . . Longer now, possibly hard to tame. He knows those eyes. . . That nose. . . Those moles. . . Those dimples--He knows that the man sitting on his bed is his little brother Sam, and he suddenly has the crushing desire to run and never look back again.
Dean can't do this. Sam can't be here. Doesn't he remember what happened between them? Doesn't he remember what Dean did to him? Nausea crashes into Dean at the memory of those shattered eyes, no longer filled with love and devotion to a certain older brother, replaced with fear and anxiety--constant anxiety caused by him. What is Sam doing here? What does he want? Why would he want to come near him? Sam should be terrified. Sam should be holding a gun to his face while he does this, not resting his ass on the foot of the Hotel bed.
He can't bring himself to say Sam's name. He doesn't deserve to. He will never deserve to. Years ago, Dean resigned himself to never seeing Sam's face again, no matter how sad and alone that made him feel. Every fiber of his being is in agreement that he hasn't earned the right to lay eyes on him for the rest of his life. He's not fit to be around Sam.
"You need to leave," Dean intones, not willing to look up from the ground that he dropped his eyes to the second he figured out just who he's talking to. "Please. . . Get out."
There's movement from the bed, but Dean dare not move. "I know you've been living with Bobby."
That makes sense. He's here as a courtesy to let Dean know that he didn't move far enough away. Being at Bobby's means that there's a possibility for them to run into each other. Sam must be doing this behind John's back because there's no way that the man would let them meet in person otherwise. Message received. As soon as he gets back to Bobby's, he'll pack up his shit and leave. It's the least he can do.
"Before you assume, I'm not hunting with Dad anymore. To be honest, I haven't seen him in a while, not after we had a fight. We were fighting about you, Dean. . . I told him that I wanted to get in contact with you, and he flipped. But, I'm a grown man now and I can make my own decisions. I decided that the past is in the past. Sure, it was hard at the time. What hurt the most was that it was you. Whatever you were thinking, I don't think that's what you really wanted. I remember some of the stuff that you said to me. . . And it sounded more like there was something already between us, so I figured out that you were completely out of it. It doesn't excuse what you did, Dean. . . I just want us to have a fresh start."
That's not possible. Not after what he did. They can't come back from that. There's just not a chance that it could ever be reconciled. He did the worst thing that he can imagine to his little brother. Even if Sam does want to try and put it behind him, Dean's not sure that he can. He won't be able to look Sam in the eye ever without seeing the looks that he gave him. He won't be able to block out the fear. He won't be able to be in the same room as him without feeling like he's going to do something. . . Something unforgivable.
"Look, I know that you hate yourself. I've been keeping tabs on you for a while now. . . I needed to find the right time to see you in person. Then I got to thinking, when is the right time? When is the right time exactly to set up a hunt that turns out to be nothing, just to get the man that hurt me when I was younger to meet with me in person? And I discovered that there is no right moment. . . Dean, I want you to know that regardless of what happened back then, I've missed you. You just ruined what could have been a good thing, you idiot. . ."
Dean looks up at that. Ruined what could have been a good thing? Just what the Hell is Sam trying to tell him here? From what he can remember, the bond that they shared as brothers', at the time, had been unbreakable. He would consider it to have been a very good thing, before. . . That.
Sam's twiddling his thumbs in his lap. Other than that, he looks more relaxed than he sounds right now, and Dean hasn't the slightest idea what all of this is leading up to, but he can't in good conscience accept Sam's proposal for them to get to know each other again, when there will always be the lingering self-disgust that his thoughts may or may not invoke. He's pleased to admit that he's not having any unsightly hallucinations right at this moment in time, nothing that makes him feel sick to his stomach. It's the nightmares that give him that feeling.
"What I mean by that is. . . Dean, I felt the same way back then. But I wasn't ready. We were't ready. And you scared the shit out of me when you did that. Regardless of how I tried to bury those feelings, they never went away. And that's why I'm here. To tell you that. . . To tell you that I want you back in my life. . . I can't forgive what you did, but you won't forgive what you did, either, so we're even on that front. However, we can try. . . You know. . . To reconnect?"
"What are you trying to say?" Dean questions.
Sam brings his eyes up to meet Dean's. "I'm saying I want you back in my life. And I want us to do it right this time."
Dean shakes his head in the negative, begging his legs not to give out on him. "You can't be serious. . . I stayed away from you for a reason. This is wrong. . ."
"Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Why does it even matter? You obviously feel the same way that I do--you just messed up back then. But we're both adults now, and if you try to force yourself, then you'll be glad to know I'm pretty strong," Sam says, laughing nervously.
There's nothing more to say here. Dean knows what he needs to do. He needs to leave, and he needs to do it now. He closed the door on this all those years ago, and he cannot reopen that can of worms.
"I'm sorry. . .," Dean mutters, reaching for his jacket with his car keys in it. Sam makes no move to get up, which Dean's grateful for. He doesn't want to fight about it--he just needs to run.
"Before you go, Dean. . . I put my number in your pocket if you ever feel the need to give me a call," Sam admits, looking defeated.
Dean feels like he should say something, but he doesn't have words. Only actions are fueling him right now, so he runs out of the door without putting his shoes on.
This is so messed up.
Chapter 8: It's A Brand New Day
Sam can't wait for Dean to call.
Yay. This one is finished now, too. I hope it's not a huge disappointment.
It's A Brand New Day. . .
Nothing Dean does is enough. He can't get the thought of what Sam said to him out of his head. Even the bottle seemed like a better way out to him in that moment, but he decided against it. Swearing off that stuff for good is what he needed to do, and it needs to stay that way. He can't fall back on that promise that he made--especially not now. Dean hasn't been able to return to Bobby's. He's got in his head that when he gets there, Bobby is going to tell him that Sam was supposed to kill him in that room, before finishing the job himself. It would make sense. Kind of like tit for tat. Dean wouldn't object to it. Dying by the hands of the little brother that he wronged is almost poetic.
In that Hotel room, Dean felt nothing but sincerity from Sam. Although it's been a while since they last saw each other, he knows when Sam is lying to him. They've been able to read each other like biographies from the time that they were very young. Words weren't always needed between them to know what the other was thinking. In that moment, Dean didn't feel like he was being set up for something bigger. He truly felt like Sam wanted them to be in each other's lives again. Dean can't do that to Sam, though. The potential of putting Sam through that trauma again is just too much to bear. Sure, he concurs that Sam could definitely put up a significant fight, but size doesn't matter. Dean's taken down guys twice his size because he knows how to. He knows the tricks to win in fights like that. The fact of the matter is, if he lost his way again, he could end up using those skills against Sam, and he just can't take that risk.
It's been a few weeks since Sam's unexpected visit to his Hotel. Each night, Dean's found himself staring a hole through the phone number on the creased piece of paper. There's no guarantee that this will always be Sam's number. Hunters tend to change their contact information almost on a weekly basis, so even if he did tap out the number a couple of times and hover over the dial button, it's not unlikely that if he had pressed it that he would reach a number still in service.
Dean wants to call Sam. The only thing stopping him is the potential risk. That barrier that he just can't get through, no matter what. Of course he wants to talk to Sam. Of course he wants to get to know his little brother again. He loves him more than breathing, and having Sam back in his life might give him the sensation of being alive again. To Dean, he feels like he's been nothing but a shadow since that day. His soul died that day. His heart broke that day. He lost everything that day. . .
Sam could put those pieces back together with just a smile in his direction, but Dean doesn't deserve that. Not one bit. So he can't call Sam. He can't expect anything good to happen between them again because he's sick and twisted, and now Sam is telling him that they could have something that goes beyond the line of brothers. His infection has spread--spread to the one person that Dean never intended to hurt. . . Never wanted to lay a forced finger on. . . Only wanted to touch with gentle pats of encouragement, digs in the arm to show a good job, or to fake offense when they bantered--hugs for the special moments. The ones that they would share together. . . That's what Dean wanted before this shit storm ruined his life. He just wants to be clean again.
One time, Dean told a stranger about Sam. He didn't mention anything beyond how much he missed him, and some of the good times and bad that he shared with him, and the first thing out of the stranger's mouth was that lovers fight sometimes. Dean didn't know what to say after that. He wanted to clarify that Sam was his brother, but he didn't. He doesn't know why he didn't just correct their mistake immediately. Maybe it would have stopped him from having a meltdown in his room that night, their words reminding him of what he did. Dean had just wanted to share with someone that didn't know him. . .
Sam's number is clutched in his hand. He can't bring himself to throw it in the trash. It's right below him, but he doesn't have the willpower to open up his hand to let it fall. He's truly pathetic. He can't even do this one simple thing. All he has to do is get rid of the temptation. Then, he'll never be able to track Sam down. His urges won't be able to locate Sam even if they do resurface. He needs to do this for Sam's sake.
But he can't. He can't let go. His whole body is telling him not to drop it. His heart is telling him to call Sam. His subconscious is telling him that he hasn't earned the right to hear his voice. Dean's subconscious is right. He doesn't. Why would he after what he did? Sam's better than he is. He'll move on from this quickly. He'll find some cute woman, get married, have some kids and. . .
Why doesn't he want that? Shouldn't Sam's happiness be his only desire? Sam is perfect. He deserves someone who is perfect. Not ruined like Dean. Not disgusting like Dean. Not fucked up in the head like Dean. Anyone but Dean. That's just the way that it has to be. It's the only way that Sam is going to lead a winning life. That's what Dean keeps telling himself. He tells himself that Sam doesn't need him in his life. He tells himself that he would only get in the way. He tells himself that the things that Sam said in the Hotel must have just been. . . Dean doesn't know exactly, but he's sure that they were just words, and Sam meant nothing by them.
There's a knock at the door. Dean's not expecting any company. He's at a Motel in the middle of nowhere, and he doesn't think that they have room service here. The knock doesn't have an emotion to it. It's not forceful. It's not anxious. It's not desperate. It's not scared, so Dean has to pre-determine that it could just be another guest at the Motel. Maybe they want to ask him if he has any extra towels spare. He doesn't, and he wouldn't hand them over if he did anyway.
Dean closes his eyes for a moment and secures Sam's number back in his pocket. He steps away from the bin that he's been standing over for a long stretch of time now and walks over to the door. He doesn't bother to ask who's there before he's opening it, keeping his hand on the butt of his gun, just in case it's needed in this situation.
"I thought maybe you'd call me," Sam says, shoulders slumped in defeat. "I kept the number the same, thinking that you'd need some time first."
"You can't be here," Dean says flatly, about to shut the door when Sam's foot slots between it. "I'm serious."
"I tried staying away, Dean. I tried, but I don't want to anymore," Sam intones, getting his hand on the side of the door for leverage. "You made a mistake. Mistakes happen, Dean--"
"I didn't just make a mistake, Sam. I raped you," Dean whispers fiercely, averting his eyes.
Sam sighs deeply. "You were out of it. If you were such a monster, why would you run away? Why would you keep your distance? Why would you hide yourself so that you wouldn't do something like that again?" Sam interrogates, fingers tensing in their hold. "Those aren't the actions of a monster. Like I said before, it doesn't excuse what you did, but I want to move past that."
"Well, I can't. Okay? I can't move past that. I can't look at you without seeing what I did. I can't sleep without having nightmares about what I did. . . I ruined you."
"Dean, you didn't ruin me. I'm here aren't I?" Sam reminds him, tone light and comforting. "Just let me in, and we can talk about this, okay?"
"What's there to talk about? I said this isn't a good idea. Me around you isn't a good idea, Sam. It's just not--"
"Why? Because you want what I want?" Sam snaps, shoulders rising and falling. "Or are you saying that you want me to be younger?"
"What? No!" Dean nearly yells, a feeling of revulsion welling up inside him.
"Exactly, Dean. It's not about my age. . . You're not sick and twisted. And if you are, then I am, too, because I've had a long time to think about what I want," Sam explains, tone softening again as he gently pushes the door open a little further. Dean doesn't stop him, even though he probably should. "If you're worried about people knowing that we're brothers', then we won't tell them, but Dean. . . I really miss you, man. It doesn't have to be right away, I mean. . ."
Dean resigns himself to finally meeting Sam's eyes. They're still as breathtaking as they were when he saw them for the first time. He's grown up to be very handsome. He saw him back at the Hotel, but as soon as he realized it was Sam he was looking at, his head dropped on instinct, knowing that he didn't have a right. Dean's not sure how he feels about the sudden temperature change of his body and the pulse in his groin. It's just confirming his suspicions that this isn't a good idea.
"I want this, Dean. I do. Your worry is that you'll take advantage, right? Well, if I'm consenting, then you're not taking advantage," Sam reasons, stepping forward until their chests are almost aligned, breaths mingling in the minuscule distance between them. Sam's a lot taller now. He's got a few inches on Dean. His lips look so soft and pliable--kissable. Dean shakes his head in the negative to that thought, about to push Sam away when he steps in that little bit further, making that task a lot harder to accomplish. "Please. . . Don't push me away again."
Dean doesn't realize Sam's hugging him until his arms go loose at his sides and he feels his chin resting on one of Sam's shoulders. "How can you even be near me when I did that to you?"
Sam squeezes Dean in his hold. It's not intended to crush, but to comfort. "When it happened, I was young. I had feelings for you back then, Dean. I was hurt. You were off your ass and you weren't taking no for an answer. I was heartbroken because that's not the way I wanted it. I know you hate cheesy stuff, but I think I've earned the right to be cheesy."
A lot of emotions hit Dean in that moment. Fear. Denial. Self-disgust. Self-loathing. Sadness. Regret. All of the things that make up his bread and butter today hits him all at once, and he just wants them all to go away. He doesn't want to feel like this anymore. "I hurt you. . . Sam, I hurt you. . . I'm so sorry."
Sam pulls away from the embrace to hold Dean's head between his hands, soothing his thumbs over Dean's cheeks. "I know you're sorry. And you did hurt me. But I'm a big boy now, and I can handle myself. I just want us to start over. . . Together."
"How do we do that?" Dean mutters, feeling lost.
"Like this," Sam states before sealing his lips over Dean's own. There's resistance at first on Dean's side--the part of him that thinks that this will just lead to more hurt, but the desire pressing against him, the pressure of Sam's lips telling him that he really wants this, gives Dean the courage to finally meet Sam halfway, tentatively sliding a hand into Sam's hair, moving down to the nape of his neck to urge Sam forward that little bit extra.
Sam's mouth opens, and Dean presses inside, meeting Sam's tongue in the total darkness their connected lips create. It's warm inside. It's thrilling inside, and Dean basks in it. Basks in the taste of Sam, all the different textures exploding on his tongue as he dives back in after they separate for a brief moment, allowing Sam to taste him in return, flavors mixing together to create a D.N.A. cocktail that's for their senses only.
They both breathe in deep through their noses as groins circle at the core of their bodies, neither one holding anything back as they dance together, growing harder and more vibrant in their actions with each passing second. A feeling of right bursts through the insecurities in Dean's mind, offering him the nerve to deepen the kiss that little bit extra, to guide Sam close towards his body, to get his thigh between Sam's slightly parted legs to brush rhythmically over Sam's hardened cock, earning him a tight moan into his mouth.
Dean gives Sam control of the kiss as he gets his hand inside Sam's jeans, reaching for the engorged flesh pulsing against the cotton fabric of Sam's boxer-briefs. He takes hold of it, the angle only allowing for a conserved back and forth along the heated flesh, inadvertently breaking Sam's hold on the kiss, and guiding it towards the center of Dean's chest as he pants for breath, pulling his jeans down his legs along with his boxers, exposing his length to the temperature of the room. Dean stares down at Sam's rising shoulders, using his uncovered access to guide his fist from base to tip, adding pressure in the areas that he, himself, enjoys when he finds the time to do this to himself.
Sam curses softly, lifting his head to lock eyes with Dean, asking for permission to start returning the favor. Dean shakes his head. This is about Sam right now. His own needs can wait til later.
"Oh, God, Dean!" Sam moans into his neck, breathing unevenly over his pulse point as he lazily licks and sucks at it, as Dean quickens the strokes of his hand, using Sam's essence to slicken his path along the skin, focusing on the nerves surrounding the head, squeezing that little bit more each time and mentally recording each reaction--verbal or otherwise--it gets him.
Sam warns in the next few minutes that he's going to come soon, so Dean pulls Sam up to take his mouth again, keeping them connected, ignoring the burn in his arm as he hasten his strokes that little bit more, swallowing the moans expelled into his mouth, chasing Sam's tongue with each opening given between them, putting his own needs to the back of his mind so he can focus solely on getting Sam off.
He's overcome with the beauty of it. Sam comes over his hand, Dean's fist gathering it up as he gently circles his grip just around Sam's crown, making sure to milk him all the way to the last drop, the both of them breathing into each other's mouths. Sam's breathing from the rush of his euphoria. Dean's breathing from the beauty of Sam coming apart at the seams like this. It's something that he wants to be able to see for the rest of his life.
When their breathing starts to even out, Sam presses a meaningful kiss to Dean's lips. Dean can tell that Sam's talking without words. He's asking him if that was so bad? Or if Dean's still not sure about what Sam wants. . . It could be either one. Dean knows one thing for sure, though.
"I can't run away from you anymore," Dean admits, grinning like a fool.
Sam returns his grin in earnest. "No, you really can't."