amberdreams | Sam I Am - Part 2 of 2 (Reply)

Sam I Am - Part 2

Dean was relentless.

He called Kevin two or three times a day, always pushing for information the kid didn’t have. Meg vetoed his proposal to summon Crowley, promised that the King of Hell wouldn’t have any more idea where Sam was than she did. It was obvious Dean didn’t believe her, but to Castiel’s relief, he didn’t insist. Possibly because he didn’t want to be beholden to the King of the Crossroads, Dean didn’t say. They’d driven hundreds of miles in every direction without finding any sign that Sam had also passed that way. They were currently in Nevada, coming up as empty as the desert lands. The easy charm Dean had been able to wield like a weapon had eroded away, leaving the bare bones of his desperation raw and exposed to the world. It made dealing with people – difficult.

Castiel had witnessed Dean’s single-minded obsessiveness before, but never quite like this. The trouble was their unlikely alliance of angel, demon and hunter had nothing to go on, and nowhere to go, with the net result being that Dean’s energy had no outlet. Thanks to the Leviathans he didn’t even have the Impala to tinker with to take his mind off the gaping hole in his life where Sam should be.

“Can you not find your pet hunter a case or two, Clarence?” Meg stormed into the motel room that, much to everyone’s discomfort, the unlikely threesome were sharing. She came to a standstill in front of Castiel, elbows jutting out in an impressive double teapot. Her posture was angry, but her voice was plaintive, on the edge of begging, and Castiel knew what that meant. Sure enough, Dean wasn’t far behind the demon, sending the door crashing back into the wall, making Cas wince. The last motel had thrown them out after Dean had trashed a television by throwing a lamp at Meg, who used her demon powers to deflect it. Castiel barely restrained a long-suffering sigh.

“I don’t need a case, I need to find my brother,” Dean yelled. Meg opened her mouth to reply, no doubt with some sarcastic remark that would merely inflame the situation, so Cas pre-empted her with a swift (and he hoped, subtle) kick to the ankle. The pain elicited a yelp and a sharp look, but thankfully Meg took the hint and said nothing. Deprived of a reaction, Dean rapidly deflated.

He sat down heavily on the bed nearest the door, his back bowed and empty hands hanging between his splayed legs. Cas winced again, for a different reason this time. It was hard to be with Dean when he was full of rage, but it was harder when that rage ebbed away, stripping his friend down until he teetered on the edge of despair. Cas understood that the fact that Dean no longer tried to maintain his bravado in front of the demon he hated was a measure of exactly how low Dean felt. It was futile, because Dean always refused, but Cas was stepping forward with his hand raised to offer sleep when Dean’s cell phone rang. He answered promptly, frowning, and Castiel stopped in his tracks.

“Whoa, hang on Kevin, I’ll put you on speaker.”

The prophet’s voice sounded tinny and small even at full volume, but the content of his message was loud and clear.

“I think I’ve found something. It may be Sam, I dunno. It’s just a few lines in the Cambridge Gazette from five days ago. Before you say anything about me finding it sooner, it’s a small town and they’re slow putting stuff online. Listen.” Kevin started reading.

Wild Man Attacks Local Youth. Recently arrived in Cambridge, the vagrant known only as Sam went berserk yesterday down on the Weiser River Trail. Henry Adams 18, resident of 279 North Superior Street, reported that the vagrant behaved like a crazy man, saying the Devil was making him do things, before attacking Adams and his three friends – Darryl Hett 14, Eddie Lake 18, and Jordan Gross 19 – totally without provocation. The vagrant is being treated locally for injuries sustained in the altercation. It is expected that the Sheriff’s office in Cascade will come over to detain him within the next few days. None of the four Cambridge boys were hurt in the exchange apart from Adams, who has a black eye and broken wrist.

Kevin’s voice trailed off when Dean interrupted, already putting his jacket on and packing his meagre possessions into his duffel.

“Which Cambridge?” Dean demanded.

“Idaho, on US95,” Kevin replied, “Do you think it’s…?” But Dean had cut him off, shoving his cell into his pocket, and was halfway out of the door before Castiel thought to react. Hurrying after Dean, Cas almost had to run to catch up, Meg hot on his heels. He jumped into the shotgun seat of their latest (inferior) vehicle, while Meg dove in the back. They’d barely gotten the doors closed before Dean gunned the engine and headed out of the parking lot, tires squealing in protest.

Castiel didn’t bother asking if Dean knew where he was going. He’d learned early on in their acquaintance that Dean’s knowledge of the Middle America road map was second to none. Neither did he ask Dean to take a break during the long, tense drive that followed. He knew it would be a waste of breath. From Tonopah, Nevada, to Cambridge, Idaho, was nearly six hundred miles and they made the trip in just under nine hours of virtual silence. It was just after dawn when they arrived, and Dean broke his silence with an exclamation of disbelief as they passed the town sign.

Welcome to Cambridge, Gateway to Hell’s Canyon.

“Fuck, Sammy. Were you trying to get a gold star for irony stopping here?”

Meg chuckled. Castiel didn’t understand what was so funny.

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Dean’s heart wouldn’t stop its clamouring. His blood was rushing noisy as Niagara inside his skull, he was so afraid of what he’d find. Sam’s hurt, Sam’s alone, Sam’s crazy, while over and around and under everything wound the other thread of it’s my fault, it’s all my fault. The thoughts bounced round and round until he felt breathless and dizzy. It had been seven days since the report of the incident – anything could have happened to Sam since then. Even though Dean knew they had an angel in their corner, and that Cas was fully powered up, he wasn’t looking forward to busting Sam out of custody if that was what it took. If that was all it took – because they’d said those kids, those fucking, ignorant, hick-trash kids had hurt Sam.

Driving through the one-horse town that was Cambridge (population 328, second largest town in Washington County, Ida-fucking-ho), Dean’s hands were trembling so hard he had to hold onto the plastic steering wheel of the shit-heap car just to stop himself shaking into pieces. The main drag had a small museum (closed) and a few shops (also closed) and then, on the crossroads of US95 and the state road, Dean spotted a motel with a diner attached, open for breakfasts. Maybe he could get some answers in there.

He swung the car into a space and parked up. Meg heaved a pointed sigh and Cas tentatively said “Dean?” but Dean ignored them both. He got out of the car and tried to find some sort of composure before stepping inside the diner. He took a couple of deep breaths then spun around at the creak of the car’s doors opening.

“She stays in the car,” he said, pointing at Meg, who already had one booted foot firmly on the asphalt. She flung him a dirty look but swung her leg back inside the car, slamming the door with emphasis. Dean couldn’t give a flying fuck. He didn’t offer any invitations but Castiel joined him anyhow, and they entered the muggy warmth of Dusty’s Diner together. He’d never admit it, but having that trench-coated shoulder next to his was comforting.

Dean slid into the nearest available booth, which happened to be in the window overlooking the motel’s parking lot. Meg glared at them through the doubled up panes of glass. At the back of the diner, one of the servers was having a quiet but spirited disagreement with a guy dressed like a chef. Dean looked over the menu without enthusiasm, even though his stomach was letting him know he hadn’t eaten for more than twelve hours. On any other occasion the list in front of him would have had his eyes lighting up with delight, especially combined with the awesome smells wafting over from the busy kitchens. Now, his hunger was overwhelmed by worry.

“So, what can I get you boys?”

The server who’d been arguing with the cook was smiling down at him, and she’d snuck up on him without him even noticing. Fuck, if she’d been one of Crowley’s demons he’d be dead by now. Stupid, Winchester, pay attention. He turned his best aw-shucks smile on the server (her badge said her name was Stella). She looked wise enough to recognise it as bullshit, but was hopefully woman enough to appreciate it anyway.

“Actually, Stella, we’re looking for some information, about a guy. He was in the news a few days ago…”

Stella’s expression hardened and she held up a hand to cut Dean off.

“Are you press?” she asked. Hostility was in every line of her, even her frilly apron was bristling with it, and the contempt she imbued in the noun was daunting. Dean quickly revised his cover story, decided he’d risk honesty for a change. Something about Stella’s defensive stance spoke to Dean of caring, which was unexpected, given that the story they’d read had Sam coloured as the villain of the piece.

“God, no, nothing like that. The guy in the article, the supposed vagrant? I think he might be my brother.” Dean didn’t mean to, but his voice broke a little on the word, and he saw how Stella softened at the hint of vulnerability. He pressed his advantage. “Can you help us?”

Stella still looked wary, pointed at Castiel. “So who’s this then? Your tax accountant?” Dean couldn’t help it. He grinned while Castiel frowned and started to put her right. Dean got in first, before Cas said something about being an angel of the Lord and got them thrown out.

“Cas? Nope, he’s just a friend with no dress sense. I’m Dean, by the way.” Dean fumbled with his wallet. “I’ve got a picture of my Sam here, is this your guy?”

Stella fished reading glasses out of a pocket under her apron and peered at Dean’s photo. She nodded. “Yeah, I reckon so. He’s got a lot of facial hair and he’s a lot skinnier, but that’s our boy.”

“Please, where is he? The news report said he’d been hurt.”

“Yeah, unfortunately they got that part right, nothing much else,” Stella paused, looking round as the diner door swung open and a young guy swaggered in. She stiffened. “Excuse me one sec.”

The boy, who looked to be late teens, had the remains of a colourful black eye, and sure enough, when Dean checked, his right wrist was bandaged. It had to be the kid from the report, the ringleader, Henry Adams. It was Dean’s turn to tense up, hackles raised in attack dog style, but he needn’t have bothered.

“Henry Aloysius Adams,” Stella didn’t shout, but her voice carried across the busy diner and Dean saw the boy wince. He couldn’t help a quick glance at Cas to mouth Aloysius? Was that even a real name? His attention quickly returned to the scene before him, because this Stella was fucking awesome. “Have you made your statement to the county sheriff yet? Because until this whole mess of lies is cleared up once and for all, you’re not welcome here, boy.”

Adams flushed a deep red, and started making some sort of spluttering protest, but before he’d managed a couple of words, Stella had the boy turned around and was ushering him out of the door. As the door was swinging shut behind him, Stella delivered her parting shot.

“Dusty’s Diner ain’t no place for liars, bullies and hoodlums. You remember that, son. And don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out.”

As she walked back to Dean’s table, the customers of the diner broke into a spontaneous round of applause. By the time she reached Dean, her angular cheeks were flushed but she was smiling, and looked ten years younger.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Dean said, “but that report said Sam had beaten up those kids. How come nobody here seems to believe that? I know my brother wouldn’t harm a couple of teens like that, but I’d have thought you guys would believe your own over some stranger.”

The smile vanished from her face like someone had wiped it off with a cleaning cloth, and she wiped her hands on her apron in a gesture that spoke of worry.

“Come with me, Dean, Cas. I’d best take you to Sam and I’ll explain on the way.”

She took off her apron and quickly told the other girl serving where she was going, before leading Dean and Castiel outside. As they walked round the diner past the long row of motel rooms out the back, Stella told them what had really happened.

It seemed that although the four boys were all consistent in their story at first, one of the kids, the youngest one called Darryl, had eventually broken down and confessed that they’d been the ones who’d attacked Sam. The only damage Sam had done was while he was wrestling with Henry Adams for possession of the baseball bat, which had hit the older boy in the eye, and ended up with Sam twisting the bat out of his hand, causing the sprained wrist. Sam on the other hand was in much worse shape, Adams having got in a few good hits with the bat while the other two older kids had held onto Sam’s arms, before Sam had been able to get free and close Adams down.

Dean gritted his teeth and wished he’d followed his instincts. He should have laid into Adams when he’d first realised who the little fucker was back in the diner. Castiel’s hand on his arm calmed him a little, enough to wonder where Stella was leading them as they rounded the end of the block and approached the edge of the parking lot. It appeared to be deserted, apart from an outhouse so ramshackle he could see right through it, and an old rust bucket of a Buick Electra. Stella stopped and faced them, the concerned expression back in full force.

“I don’t know what happened to Sam before he arrived in Cambridge, he hasn’t been able to talk about it to anyone here, but you should be aware, he doesn’t remember much of anything. And he was like that before that stupid bully Adams cracked his head and ribs with that baseball bat. But since then, after our sheriff released him, I haven’t been able to get him to come out.”

Dean looked around. “Come out of where?” Stella pointed to the wrecked car and Dean rubbed a hand over his face as realisation sunk in. It was no Impala, but the 1971 Electra was maybe as close as Sam could get. Aw hell, Sammy.

“We’ve been bringing him food, since he won’t come to the diner any more, but I don’t think he’s washed in a week, and he wouldn’t let me or anyone tend to his injuries after the nurse at the clinic dressed them. I’m so worried about him, so if you can help, brother or not, well, that would be awesome.”

“He is indeed Sam’s brother, ma’am,” Cas spoke up for the first time since they’d arrived, and somehow imbued his words with all his angelic authority. Dean wished he knew how that trick worked as it would come in real useful sometimes. “His name is Dean Winchester, and I am Castiel. Perhaps Sam has mentioned us?”

Stella shook her head. “Like I said, he can’t remember anything. Oh except he sometimes sees his dead girlfriend, Jessica. And he argues with the Devil a lot.” She shrugged as if such conversations were commonplace in Cambridge, Idaho, and who was Dean to say they weren’t? He kind of wanted to hug her for her utterly pragmatic kindness. First things first, though. He had an injured, delusional brother to save. He couldn’t think further ahead than that.

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It was cold enough that Sam’s breath was visible in puffs of white mist every time he breathed. He found it soothing, evidence he was still alive, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been warm. His head ached constantly, a throbbing in the background like an engine running, a low persistent vibration that made his teeth feel loose.

“You stink,” Lucifer observed, flicking peanuts at Sam’s head. They bounced off to ping softly against the glass of the car windows, plink, plink, plink. Stink, stink, stink. Sam giggled softly. He ran a hand through his hair but his fingers got tangled up and he struggled to drag them free. Maybe Lucifer was right, maybe Sam should use Stella’s washroom key, but that would mean going outside, and Sam didn’t like it outside. He didn’t even go out there to the toilet any more, just opened the car door and aimed as best he could. It was insanitary and disgusting, but he didn’t care any more. He settled back into the sleeping bag Eddie had given him, and listened to the peanuts hitting the glass. He didn’t even wonder where Lucifer got the nuts from.

He was content, almost happy, until the hypnotic pinging sound ramped up the volume a few notches, before morphing into a loud rapping from Outside. Sam curled up, hugging his knees and started rocking gently, back and forth. Someone was Out There. A man’s voice swore (probably stood in something unspeakable) then called Sam’s name. Sam moaned and covered his ears. Then someone was opening the car door, and trying to come Inside and that was not right, not right, this was his space and nobody was allowed Inside except Lucifer and that was only because Sam didn’t have a choice.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight and kicked out.

“Ow, fuck, Sammy!”

Lucifer was yelling, trying to drown Sam in noise, but for the first time in a long time, Sam was able to block the Devil out.

“Sam?”

He knew that voice. It was…it was…

“Sammy, it’s me. Dean.”

Dean.

Something exploded in Sam’s brain and he breathed in and forgot to breathe out.

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“Sam! Sammy, come on, it’s okay, just breathe,” said that rough voice he knew, and there was a calloused hand patting his bearded cheek, a strong arm round his shoulders, bringing Sam upright and not flinching from the bad smells. This could only be one person, the one person Sam should never have forgotten. Sitting up sent pain stabbing through his injured ribs, which at least had the advantage of bringing Sam back to full wakefulness. He hissed involuntarily.

“Easy there, Sammy, let’s get you out of this heap of junk and have a look at the damage, hey?”

Dean’s face was almost too close to focus on, but even over his own none too fragrant aroma, Sam could smell the layered peppermint and whiskey on his brother’s breath, and see the poorly veiled anxiety in Dean’s eyes. A fresh wave of guilt washed over him. Dean’s hands came up to cup either side of Sam’s face, palms warm against the chill in Sam’s bones.

“I can see you thinking, dude. None of that now, come on. This isn’t your fault.”

“This is so touching,” Lucifer cooed, “I do love a good reunion scene.”

Sam flinched and jerked away from the simpering Devil. “Shut up shut up shut up,” he muttered, and Dean’s hands dropped. Sam grabbed them, held on. “Not you, Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Dean’s eyes were wide and wary, but he nodded.

“Yeah, okay.”

Then Sam was out of the car and standing, even if he was swaying a little. Dean didn’t let go again, had slid in beside him as a buffer between Sam and the Outside. Sam was grateful for the support, in every sense. Especially when he saw Castiel. He stiffened and leaned heavier against Dean, who was the only thing that felt solid, real and trustworthy right now.

“Stella, sweetheart, is there somewhere I can take Sam to get cleaned up?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll give you the key to Room 33. It’s a family room, two queens plus pull out beds, so all three of you should be okay. Take as long as you need.”

“Stella, you fit your name perfectly, you are a star.” Dean said with a grin, and Sam smiled his thanks too, as Dean steered him along. “Come on, sasquatch, let’s get you into the shower before you suffocate us all. Man, you really reek.”

Sam turned his head and saw that Castiel was following, his expression pensive. Sam thought about protesting, but it was taking half his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, while the other half was occupied ignoring Lucifer, who was dancing along beside them.

Dean’s grip tightened as if he could sense Sam’s distress.

“What is it?” Dean asked, keeping his voice soft so only Sam could hear. “Is it him?”

Sam was both grateful and frustrated that Dean wouldn’t say Lucifer’s name, though he understood why. He nodded, then wished he hadn’t, as the movement made him woozy. Lucifer cackled and capered like some sort of manic jester, and Sam gritted his teeth, clinging onto Dean as tightly as he could. Everything hurt, but feeling Dean pressed warm and solid against his side was keeping Sam anchored when he was so afraid he’d float away.

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A strange calm descended over Dean the moment Sam leaned into his shoulder when Dean extricated him from the car. All Dean’s uncertainty was replaced with the knowledge that this was where he was supposed to be, this was what he was supposed to be doing. Looking after Sam. Fuck douche-Dick Roman and his Leviathans, fuck saving the world. He just wanted his brother back.

Sam’s muttering was almost constant, he didn’t seem aware he was doing it. Dean’s heart was being squeezed in his chest every time he noted how frantically Sam’s changeable eyes flitted around, and he wondered what Sam was seeing. Was Sam being haunted by more than Lucifer? Dean wondered whether he was maybe seeing Jessica, or Dad, or Bobby. He tightened his grip, hating the way Sam’s limbs were trembling, as if Dean’s hands were the only thing stopping him shaking apart. Dean grimaced ruefully. It seemed Sam had settled right back under Dean’s skin, an ache that couldn’t (shouldn’t) be shifted.

Stella unlocked the room and handed Cas the key, as Dean was unwilling to take his hands off Sam for even one second. He’d lost Sam too many times before, he wasn’t going to let go again.

“There’s plenty of hot water, and fresh towels on the bed. Come on over to the diner when you’re ready, any time. Sam’s not been eating right since those boys attacked him, and my Dusty makes the best burgers in the whole of Idaho. Oh, and I bake a mean cherry pie, ask Sam.”

Stella was gone before Dean could thank her properly – not that it mattered, even the allure of cherry pie was forgotten in the time it took for Cas to close the door and Dean to manoeuvre Sam into the surprisingly spacious bathroom. Sam allowed himself to be manhandled, obedient and pliant as a child – not that he’d ever been that kind of kid. No, Sam had always questioned everything, argued and pushed back, always demanding answers, looking for reasons why he should do as he was told.

Now he sat placidly when Dean sat him down on the toilet, didn’t move while Dean went back into the bedroom to pick up the towels from the bed. Castiel was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“I should fetch Meg from the car,” Cas said, frowning as he stared at Sam through the open bathroom door.

“Sure, whatever,” Dean said, already turning away. Sam needed him.

Sam’s darting gaze finally stopped when it landed on Dean’s face, and the knot in Dean’s stomach finally began to unravel. Underneath the dirt, the greasy hair, and who knew how many days growth of beard, Sam’s skin looked kind of grey and too pale, but his eyes were clear, and for the moment anyway – lucid. Dean counted that as a win. His smile when he spoke was unforced.

“Come on then, strip those rags off and let’s get you clean.”

Dean leaned across and started the shower, turning the heat up so the bathroom quickly filled with steam. Sam was undressing with painstaking slowness; his hands were shaking so much he kept fumbling with buttons and zippers like he’d never encountered such things before. After a couple of minutes, Dean cracked.

“Here, let me,” he said, and gently helped Sam strip off the layers, one by one. When they reached Sam’s skin, Dean’s calm deserted him, swamped by a flood of rage.

“Shit, Sammy,” he said, his fingers ghosting over Sam’s pecs and down the xylophone of his ribs. Under the layer of grime and chest hair were dark shadows of purple, green and gold, bruises a week old and still showing up like a fresh oil painting on his brother’s skin. Dean was torn between the anguish of knowing those sons of bitches had whaled on Sam with a fucking baseball bat, and the knowledge that Sam had clearly not been eating properly for some time, if the excessive leanness of his torso was anything to go by.

Sam shivered under his touch, goose-bumps following Dean’s fingertips, and Dean shook himself out of his trance. He needed to get Sam in that shower and warmed up – everything else could wait.

“Stand up, you need to get those jeans off.”

Easier said than done, and Dean didn’t want to think how long Sam had been wearing them since they were almost stuck to his legs in places. He held his breath as he finally wrestled Sam out of the offensive pants and added them to the pile of stinky material on the floor, good only for burning. Sam was swaying on his feet as if he was on a boat in a rough sea, and Dean rapidly revised his plan about leaving Sam to shower on his own.

“Okay, princess, let’s get you clean, shall we? The sooner you’re all pretty again, the sooner I get my pie.”

He had to physically turn Sam around to point him in the right direction, and hovered anxiously while Sam stepped up into the steam-filled stall. The water flow was powerful and Sam flinched as it hit his shoulders, hunching up under the spray. His eyes were tightly closed and Dean watched in dismay as Sam gradually canted sideways until he was leaning like that old tower in Pisa. Evidently it was only the wall that was keeping him upright.

Aw, fuck.

“Hold on there, Sammy,” Dean said, tugging at his button-down shirt. He shed his clothes as quickly as he could, but even so he only jumped in behind Sam seconds before Sam started sliding, less than gracefully, down the tiles. Dean caught Sam round his too-slim waist and hauled him upright.

“Stay with me, Sam, come on. No sleeping on the job, right?”

Sam hummed in response. His eyes were heavy lidded, and most of his weight still being handled by Dean, but at least he was upright. Okay, Dean could work with that. Dean freed one hand and reached for the small bottle of complimentary shampoo. With both arms tucked under Sam’s arm-pits, he awkwardly squeezed out some liquid and started on Sam’s matted hair. He massaged his fingers into Sam’s scalp, working up a nice lather. Suds slithered down Sam’s shoulders, making white trails as the ingrained dirt washed away. Dean hoped Stella was right about the unlimited hot water, because cleaning Sam up was going to take a while, especially if he kept pressing back into Dean’s groin like that.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean moaned when Sam did it again, and his dick slip-slid along the crease of Sam’s ass. “Don’t do that, man, it’s not… Oh god.” Dean flushed as his cock inevitably started to fatten up. “Fuck,” he said again. Dean was getting repetitive, but sue him, all his blood was rushing south and consequently his brain was being starved of oxygen. Yes, he was fully aware Sam was his brother. And currently filthy, smelly and practically sleep-walking. And so not his type. But. It had been a long fucking time since he’d had a happy ending, all right? He was only human.

He attempted to concentrate on the task in hand (in hand, ha! Not helping…), the shower spray needling his back as he manhandled Sam, trying to work the soap through the layered dirt. Sam’s humming got louder when Dean’s hands moved over Sam’s hairy chest and down over those ridiculously lean abs. There really wasn’t an ounce of fat left on Sam’s body. Dean started, then closed his eyes when Sam grabbed his right hand and dragged it lower, following the line of coarse hair that led to Sam’s cock.

Sam was hard.

Dean’s fingers moved independent of thought, exploring. He’d seen Sam naked before, even seen him aroused – because sharing rooms since forever made it inevitable that the veil of privacy would be torn on occasions, no matter how hard they clung to its raggedy edges. He’d touched Sam before too pretty much everywhere in the course of their many training bouts and the tending of many injuries – but never combined the two, touch and arousal. Never wanted to, either, so why did this feel so good now?

Maybe Sam wasn’t the only crazy Winchester.

Dean pulled his hand away. Sam had just spent a month not knowing who Dean was, or even his own identity; he was probably hallucinating, nearly asleep on his feet, he couldn’t know what he was doing or with whom. This was wrong on so many levels, Dean couldn’t even begin to articulate them all.

“Sam. Stop.” His voice cracked, suddenly hoarse. “I’ll just…” He kept his eyes squeezed tight shut and tried to step backwards, feeling for the glass door so he could get out, escape, run away from this – whatever this was.

“Dean.”

Just one word; probably only word that could have stopped him in his tracks. An affirmation.

Dean opened his eyes. He shook his head slightly, blinked the water out of them. Sam had turned to face him and was standing close, not attempting to touch but instead pinning Dean in place with his gaze. Dean couldn’t look away.

Sam was washed clean and gleaming, coated in a translucent gloss of water. He was pale and pink and speckled with moles like punctuation marks. His hair was water-dark and his face all sharp angles and he was more than beautiful, he was everything. Dean didn’t know what to do with that, never had.

Dean never blinked, yet somehow Sam was right up inside his space without Dean seeing him move, the whole warm wet length of him pressing up against Dean. Sam bent his head, pointy nose poking insistently into Dean’s neck, his breath tickling Dean’s ear.

“Please, Dean, just let me.”

Dean’s head snapped back and he gasped in shock. Sam had slid a hand between them, wrapped it around their swelling erections, bringing satin skin on satin, enfolded in one large, rough grip. Sam shuffled them both back under the heat of the shower and Dean thought he was going to drown, not from the water in his face, but from being immersed in Sam.

“I know, you, Dean. Now, I know you. Even when I’d forgotten, I knew I was missing something important, deep inside me,” Sam whispered in a continuous stream as he worked their cocks together, but now he wasn’t talking to imaginary devils or ghosts, he was talking solely to Dean. Now it was Sam who was holding Dean up, while he methodically took his big brother apart, piece by piece. “We are part of each other, spine and heart and blood and bone…”

Dean didn’t know how Sam could still be talking when all he could do was mewl like a drowning kitten. He couldn’t really comprehend words any more; he was unravelling into a trembling, shaking mess, and maybe some of the water running down his face was a little more than blood temperature and salty. If so he couldn’t tell, would never admit it, even if it was true.

Sam was silk and satin and touching him should have been soothing, but it was burning Dean up from the inside out. And the worst thing was, he didn’t care. So when Sam told him to let go – he did.

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It wasn’t about sex. Sam knew that, though he wasn’t sure Dean understood. It didn’t matter. He watched Dean’s eyes flutter shut, felt Dean’s heartbeat race where Sam pressed his tongue flat to his brother’s neck, tasting Dean through the warm water. He wanted to strip Dean down like one of his guns, dismantling him; to lay out those complex pieces – expose all their intricate beauty – simply so he could put Dean back together again, clean and shiny and new. He hoped that maybe Dean could do the same for him, because since Dean had climbed into the shower with him, everything had been blessedly silent.

No Lucifer, no Jess, no ghosts or visions or hallucinations – just Dean, filling up Sam’s world with that stupid, annoying, caring presence. Sam was certain, one hundred per cent, that all of this was real.

Sam wanted to do something, he didn’t know exactly what, only that it was important that he should do something to keep Dean here. He wanted to thank Dean for not giving up, for coming to find him. He had no way of knowing how long the madness could be kept at bay, so there was only the present in which to act. A present where they were both naked and wet, and full of each other in a way they hadn’t been for years, if ever.

So turning round to face Dean, moving as close as he could physically get to his brother, all seemed totally logical. His brother’s dick in his hand was hot and hard and real, and he didn’t want to stop until Dean was unmade, simply so that Sam could remake them both, better, stronger, happier.

Of course, it didn’t work out like that. Sam should have known better than to hope. Hope was a killer emotion, always ready to cut him down, leave him flatter than Kansas. When both of them had shuddered through their orgasms and let the still warm water wash them clean, Sam’s nightmare was waiting for him. Outside.

They stepped out of the shower together in silence. Already Sam could feel the chill of awkwardness cooling his skin. As Sam wound himself in the towel Dean handed him, he tried desperately to think of a way to stop the inevitable tension building, only to look up and see Lucifer perched on the washbasin, drawing hearts in the steamed-up mirror.

“I never thought you had it in you, Sammy boy. Incest, huh? I’m proud of you, I really am.”

“It’s not like that!” Sam almost shouted, then froze, horrified. In that moment, he knew he’d lost all the ground he’d gained. His brief freedom from care was swirling down the drain along with dirty shower water and hot come. He didn’t want to see the expression on Dean’s face when his brother turned to ask him what was up, so he made a dash for the bathroom door.

“Sammy?” and “I think giving your big brother a hand job certainly counts,” came from behind him, but Sam ignored both brother’s question and Devil’s drawl, only to find there was nowhere to hide in the motel room. Because Castiel was standing awkwardly by the door, while Meg was sitting at the table in the window, flipping channels on the TV. The pleasant tang of citrus shampoo that had wafted out of the bathroom dissipated instantly, leaving nothing but the bitter residue of failure.

Lucifer rested his chin on the oblivious Castiel’s shoulder and waved at Sam.

“Oh look, it’s my little brother. Do you think he’d jerk me off too, if I asked him nicely?”

Sam’s legs were shaking and there was a bed nearby, so he sank down onto it, clutching onto the thick coverlet with both hands. When Lucifer cackled with laughter, Sam drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped both arms around them. He was vaguely aware of Meg saying something, then Dean and Cas talking, but it was hard to care any more. Not when the little flame of hope that had kindled inside him had been so cruelly snuffed out. He wondered how long it would take Dean to acknowledge the stench of his own failure too and return Sam to the psych ward.

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Dean followed Sam into the bedroom, his guts twisted into a raging knot of worry. The twitchy nervousness that Dean had come to recognise as a clear sign Sam was seeing things was back and Dean thought he’d go crazy himself if he had to take Sam back to that hospital. His mind was already racing, coming up with strategies to go all Cuckoo’s Nest and get admitted alongside Sam, when Castiel spoke.

“Dean, I know I said I could not rebuild Death’s wall, but there is one thing I could try. I may be able to shift the problem.”

Dean’s heart lurched painfully as if it had been kick-started and he saw Meg look round, alarmed. As if he cared what that bitch thought.

“Shift it?”

“Yes. It could get Sam back on his feet.”

Cas sat on the edge of Sam’s bed, ignoring the way Sam flinched away. Sam’s eyes were darting around the room, following movement no one else could see and Dean didn’t want to know what (or who) that might be. If Cas could fix this, get Sam back…

“Do it,” Dean said, fists clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms. He balked at adding please, he was still too angry at Cas to plead with him.

Meg stood up, telling Cas to wait, but Cas ignored her and took Sam’s hand.

“It’s better this way.”

Sam’s eyes lit up like glowing coals and his face contorted in pain. Dean leapt forward in horror, only to see the fire had already left Sam’s eyes and was travelling down his body, drawn irresistibly towards Castiel’s hand where it was gripping Sam’s. Dean hovered, helpless, as the burning madness left Sam and took hold of Castiel. All he could do was be there to steady Sam when his brother swayed where he sat, then looked around, alert and clear-eyed for the first time in longer than Dean cared to remember.

Dean touched Sam’s cheek, hesitantly, hardly daring to hope.

“Dean.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.”

Meg snorted derisively.

“I hate to interrupt your Jerry Maguire moment, but I think our little tree topper’s fallen off his Christmas tree.”

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Castiel might not be the most perceptive angel in Heaven, but he knew Dean better than anyone, angel or human. The look on Dean’s face when he followed Sam out of the bathroom was as close to devastation as Castiel had seen since telling Dean he had been responsible for breaking the first seal. Except this time, it was Castiel’s actions that were the direct cause of Dean’s pain. He couldn’t blame the orders of Heaven or duty for what he had done.

That made it even more important to try and put this right, any way he could.

The process started swiftly the moment Castiel took Sam’s hand and he barely had time to register the pain before it engulfed his entire vessel. His eyes closed and he rode it out for a moment or several; he wasn’t sure how long it was in reality, but it felt interminable. Gradually the burning sensation in his human blood and tissue subsided and cautiously Castiel opened his eyes.

The room was empty. No Sam, no Dean, no Meg. Castiel felt rather than saw a darkness around the edges of his grace. He reached out to test its boundaries. A low chuckle came from behind and he whirled around at the sound. Panic washed over him as he saw who was standing there, though really, he should have expected it.

“Well hello, little brother. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

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The End