Companion fic to In The Flesh (A Vernacular of Scars)
beta by rayvenblackwood and candygramme
Lying in ruins
Job's done. Ghost's banished. Time to celebrate.
Sammy's slumped over the seat and you wonder what he's angsting about now, and how you can make it all better.
You ask Sam what's bothering him, and he just shrugs and says "nothing" in that mumble of his.
Man, sometimes you wish there was just some kind of magic powder that you could sprinkle on people to make them happy. Well yeah, there's cocaine, but you'll kill Sam if he ever, ever touches the stuff.
This used to be easy. When Sammy was still a kid, all you had to do was play with him or tell a funny joke or make him that gross food that he liked so much. You remember when all you had to do was to push Sam onto the bed and give one big fat raspberry on his tummy, and he'd be laughing for hours.
These days, it's getting harder to make Sam even smile.
You shrug and start the car.
It takes you three days to figure out that Sammy's angsting about you.
You find out it's not actually angst but guilt.
For someone who hasn't done anything wrong, Sam likes his guilt way too much.
It's when you take your shirt off, and Sam stares at the scar on your belly that clues you in to what Sam's feeling. Guilt for not being there, guilt for trying to be normal when you and Dad were off saving people.
You've had four years of having a mom who smells of baby oil. Four years of a dad who forgot the pain of a war and lived the love of family. Four years of normalcy.
Sam had four too.
You don't remember much of it. But Sam will remember his.
You wonder which one of you is worse.
You lie on the bed and a moment later, Sam joins you, hands resting on that scar, stroking.
It's okay. You want to say that you're not mad at him (which you were but you just want Sammy to feel better).
You want to tell him that he came back. That, at least, Sammy chose to come back.
You wonder how long you can keep believing that.
It's a surprise to catch Sam crying.
You're not supposed to be back yet.
But the bar's quiet, and you don't do quiet. Quiet is only when you're stalking the engkanto that's been turning people inside out. Quiet is only when you're trying to avoid being seen by a pack of hellhounds.
You can see him through the door, hunched over a picture of Jess and just breaking. Nothing's supposed to make Sam cry. Not while you're still around.
The last time you cried was when you were four and missed your mommy so bad it hurt your little boy bones. Afterwards, Dad told you that you had to be strong for little Sammy. So you vowed never to cry again.
But for a moment, you feel like you want to cry with Sam. If only to show him that you're still here, still big brother Dean.
It would cost you too much if you entered the room now. It would cost Sam too much if he knew that you've see him at his weakest.
So you stand outside the door, watching your little brother like you have all these years - silent and unnoticed.
You keep quiet.
In Utah, there's a demon that shoots poison spikes, and you push Sam out of the way. Afterwards, you're feverish for three days, puking and sweating, and Sam alternates between begging you to be all right and cursing at you for being so stupid.
In Emmerdale, you make the black dog follow you as Sam leads the kids to safety. You run from it, shooting now and then to slow it down. But it lunges and catches up to you, biting your arm before shaking its head, violently waving you around like a rag doll. You hear the inevitable snap of bone, before it's followed by three rapid gunshots. Sam comes running to you and tries to mop up the blood.
In Texas, there's a Hellmouth and when you close it, it spits out one last gush of fire. You don't even think twice. You just fling yourself over Sammy and think this is it, the fire finally caught up. The fire won't get you, Sammy. I won't let the fire get you. Even as the flames burn and consume the skin of your back, all you ever think is Please, please let Sammy be okay.
Half of your wounds have been sustained, because you threw yourself in front of Sammy.
The other half are the ones Sam gave you.
It's a wound on your chest from a kappa that opens all the old wounds.
Everything that is ugly and hateful and sneering comes out, and you shout at him, telling your little brother that you hate him for leaving. How the fuck could he leave you? When all you've ever done is love him? How could he throw that back in your face and just turn his back on you and leave?
And you spit on his dreams of normalcy and tell him that you Winchesters are all freaks, and normal kills us. Normal will put fingers around your necks and squeeze, until there's no life left.
You see his fist coming, but you don't bother to dodge it. You take it, feeling the satisfying crunch of pain, before you're hitting back with your fists too. You both fight, too familiar with one another to be able to do any real harm.
And familiar enough to know each other's weak spots.
You're spitting blood, and your jaw aches. His right eye is swollen, and he has a nasty cut on his temple.
And just like that, you don't want to fight anymore, don't want to hurt Sammy anymore.
He sucker punches you and you think, yeah, this is what it feels like.
Just like that one night, that slow, sweet night that broke everything.
You fucked your brother the night before he left for Stanford.
Rough, tender, loving and hating, proud and vindictive.
And you told him, this is what you're leaving, Sam. Can you do it? Because if you were ever going to have one moment of selfishness, it was that.
Can you do it? Can you leave this behind?
And the next day, you are mine became you are gone.
Because there's something about you that is easy to leave.
Sometimes, you just want to be enough to make people stay.
He makes you remember.
Even if you're not sure you want to.
Sam makes you remember that he loves it when you have three fingers up his ass. He makes you remember that the skin above his hip is delicate and soft. That he loses it when you gnaw at his collarbones. He makes you remember how much he wants you to fuck him. How much he loves it when you just grip his hair and thrust into his mouth, until he chokes. That keening noise he makes when you shove your cock into him dry. How much he loves it dirty and rough and unforgiving.
He makes you remember how much you need him.
And you learn as well.
You learn that he doesn't smell like baby powder anymore. You learn that he can come just from being fucked. That Jess used to watch him make out with other guys. That he loves to fuck as much as he loves to be fucked. That he can now take all of your cock down his throat. You learn that he loves to watch you jack off. That he now grunts instead of moans when he's about to come. That he's not ticklish on his belly anymore. That he loves it when you hold his wrists above his head. You learn that he gets turned on when he sees the bruises you've made on his hips. That he loves it when you reek of sweat and come.
It's all these new things and you don't know where Sammy ends and Sam begins.
You don't know everything about your brother anymore.
You look out the window of your car, watching as the houses pass by, one boring building after another.
The monotony is enough to make you throw up, but the alternative is to look at Sam. And you're just not ready for that yet.
It never occurs to you that you can look forward too.
You see the people outside their homes, playing with their kids. Inside, mommies are probably making dinner, and dads are watching the sports channel.
These are the people you save. And yet, they're the ones who think you're crazy trailer-trash.
The thing is, you don't care.
There are only two people whose thoughts that you've cared about. One is missing. And the other is sitting beside you, driving the car.
It's fucking ironic that you haven't lost a fight against a werewolf or a demon, but all it takes is one touch from Sam, just one touch, and that's it. You're defeated, broken - a stained glass window shattered into a thousand flawed pieces, struggling to find enough shards to try to rebuild yourself into something that might vaguely resemble a person.
You put up your defense against the world, building the wall brick by brick. And it's so fucking tough that the world can shoot you with a goddamn nuke, and they'll never get in.
Thing is, you've spent all your time shutting the world out, but you don't even have a prayer of a defense against your brother.
And then it slows down.
It's raining outside. A loud thunderstorm that'll probably be there until tomorrow. The room's cold and there's no TV.
Sam's head is on your chest, and you palm his back, feeling the bumps and roughness under your fingers.
He's breathing on your nipples and you flinch when he licks one. Your breath is quickening when his mouth slowly wanders lower, until it's kissing the trail of hair on your belly.
It's almost like reverence and you bask in it. He licks your cock, slow, easy, before he takes the head in.
He's so good at this and when he nudges you with his fingers, you can't help but open your legs. He slides two fingers inside your ass, smooth and sure. Those big fingers of his start working you from the inside and it makes your head spin.
Your fingers twist into his hair, grabbing fistfuls and hearing the answering moan from Sam. He curls his fingers and you jerk-freeze, trying to catch up with him. He leans up and kisses you, messy, spit-slick but gentle.
And suddenly, you need him closer, more than skin on skin, closer, closer, because Sam is always too far away.
You pull him up, and he settles on top of you. You both take your time, and you wonder why you're doing it, because soon there won't be any time left. Soon, there'll be no Sam.
He makes you kneel on all fours and he pushes his cock into you, steady and breathless. No rush when you want it faster. Unhurried when you just want to finish it, so that you can take more. More, until it'll be enough to remember him when he goes back to his normality.
He takes your cock in his hands, tender and starts to jack you off, careful, doing everything that makes you whimper. He's breathing words onto your shoulder. You hear your name on his lips, and it sounds like the goodbye before the telephone click.
You turn your head towards him, kissing him, wondering why he tastes so good. His hips are fast now, orgasm approaching. His fist grips you hard and rough, because he knows that you like it that way.
And then, and then the terrible burn washes over you, and it's good, especially when you hear Sam saying your name over and over as he comes too.
You fall down on the bed, and Sam collapses on top of you. You turn your head to the window.
It's still raining outside.
Sammy used to love playing out in the rain, playing with you and asking for piggybacks. If you squint hard enough, you can see Sam running, and you trying to catch up.
There's a hand on your wrist, and the hold tightens.
I'm not going anywhere.
Okay, you say. Because you always believe Sam, even if it was never the smartest thing to do.
His fingers slip between the gaps of yours, and he curls his hand around them. He kisses your ear, neck and temple.
You can feel the beat of Sam's heart, faint against your back.
You look away from the window and decide to look at Sam.
The rain doesn't stop.
You hear the steady beating on the roof, a rhythm to fuck to later. For now, it's just soothing.
You lie here and maybe this time, Sam will stay with you.