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Dean wakes with a start.
He reaches under his pillow and closes his hand around the cool handle of his knife. He listens, disorientated, unsure why, suddenly, he was woken up. Brief snatches of his dream come back to him, blurs of a gas station aisle, Charlie’s face, and someone demanding a pack of menthols.
Dean blinks hard, trying to focus on the present moment.
A noise from the other bed, and Dean knows what must have woken him.
He lifts his head and sees Sam shifting under the quilt in the dark, a darker outline of his hulking figure outlined by the faint street light coming in through the motel curtains.
“Nai-lthe,” Sam mutters, “Shai-tak.”
Dean releases his grip on his knife, flexing sleep-slow fingers in the cool comfort of the bottom of his pillow. Dean rolls over, his spine cracking as he sits up in bed. Sam is still barely moving, but Dean knows this for what it is.
Sam is having a nightmare, and soon his thrashing will wake him up, throwing him from blood-soaked visions into waking that offers no relief.
Dean’s head throbs as he sits fully up, and he looks over at the alarm clock to reluctantly count the hours of sleep he had gotten.
3:32 AM
Three hours. Well, shit.
They had blown into town on a haunting, a cut-and-dry case that eased them both back onto their sea legs after Cas and Bobby and…everything. It had almost been too easy, a lumber magnate from the 1910s being quickly dispatched after throwing a few people into a lumber processor last month.
Dean had been hoping that after washing the sawdust out of his hair he could catch a cool seven or eight hours before finding another case.
But Dean had been carefully honing himself to Sam’s every movement, an already skewed vision being carved specifically to only pick up on Sam.
It was like every protective instinct Dean had cultivated over decades of following this kid like a religion had been launched into hypersensitivity, and every second without knowledge of Sam’s exact position shredded across his nerves.
He’s tried to avoid splitting from Sam on hunts now. They interview witnesses together, tag along to research in the library like they hadn’t done since Dad first disappeared, eat at restaurants with drive-throughs so Dean doesn’t have to get out of the car and let Sam out of his sight to go inside and pick it up.
Sam had been the exact same, always keeping fingers stretched out so he can touch the hem of Dean’s jacket in grocery stores, leaning into his space at diners, getting antsy when Dean gets up to go to the bathroom at a bar.
A part of Dean, selfishly—so goddamn selfishly that it makes him honestly sick of himself—loves it.
Sam needs him so much now, and it’s torture.
Dean is torn between loving it (Sam’s constant attention, his eyes following Dean across the room when he moves, Sam’s fingers always inches from his hand) and hating it (Sam is so scared now, he jumps at the slightest sounds, his eyes are always a little distant, he has night-terrors just like this one).
If Dean could trade it, he would in a second. Of course he fucking would, he’s not a monster. He’d always Sam rather be healthy and safe than have Dean stitched to his side like an all-too-willing tumor.
Sam is so unsure now, so hesitant.
Anytime anyone seems to recognize him, or gets a little too friendly, Dean sees him shoot a panicked look his direction, a Do I know them?
Sam’s haunted by two ghosts: the soulless husk that walked the earth and the bleeding-raw soul that swelled below. He can find no respite in either.
Sam skulks around, making himself as small as possible, as little of a threat as possible. As little of a target as possible. He tries to be better at it, and Dean catches him straightening up if Dean looks at him for too long.
There’s not exactly a road-map for this, or a How-To guide on de-traumatizing your brother from spending one hundred eighty years with The Original Evil.
Dean’s lost, and he’s flying by the seat of his pants here. But he’ll do anything for Sam, so God help him—or wait, He wouldn’t, never fucking mind—Dean tries.
Sam snaps awake in his bed, shooting up into a sitting position so fast that Dean thinks for a second he must be possessed. Sam’s chest is heaving, and Dean can see that a thin sheen of sweat is laminating his skin. Sam’s eyes are wild as he scans the room for a second, eyes flicking over the sticky kitchen table, the run-down appliances, the leaning TV, their duffles gutted on the dresser.
Then finally, his eyes trail over to Dean.
His pupils are pin-point thin, and his hair is straggling in his face so Dean can’t see most of what expression lies there.
Sam usually wakes up from nightmares in one of three attitudes: confusion, fear, or calm. A scary, sense-prickling calm that Dean hates more than anything else. Resignation, almost.
“Nai-lthe,” Sam greets quietly. “Mhal’bok chisa?”
Dean nods slowly, pushing the covers back so he can throw his legs over the side of the bed.
“Fhuw-oi, vralna.” Dean whispers, leaning up and forward.
He had scoured Bobby’s old books for Enochian phrases, eyes straining over pages so stained and dense that Dean had to take literal naps between translations. Sam would wake up screaming for mercy in a language that Dean did not know, and it would eat him up that he could offer no comfort in words he could understand.
Dean was not fluent—no where close—but he had managed to scrap together a few words to reassure Sam that he was not still in the Cage. If Cas were still here…No. Fuck Castiel. Castiel had hoped to slow them down—hoped to slow Dean down—so he had reached inside Sam and pulled out horrors that he knew Sam could never recover from. Dean had a complicated time mourning him—a friend, for a long time, but in the end, another person that had proven they would use Sam and Dean against each other to reach their own ends. Who had proven that Sam and Dean themselves were worth less than the functionality they could provide to the user. Dean had a hard time forgiving that, even in death.
Everything Enochian online was mostly crack-pot spell-work and words Dean had no use for, like “begotten” and “praised be to the savior.” Sam’s Enochian were not words of praise, not words of comfort or peace. Sam’s Enochian was a language of fear. Of bargaining. Of pain.
Dean had thought that some lingering pieces of Lucifer must have been controlling Sam’s knowledge of the language, but Sam had told him one night that it was the only language Michael and Lucifer would speak in the pit. He and Adam had caught on quick—a century and change is enough to learn a language, even one as old and primordial as Enochian.
Sam nods slowly at Dean words. He pushes a hand over his face, and swipes the straggly pieces of hair off of his forehead.
Dean can see his eyes clearly now, and is relieved to see some emotion in them.
When Sam got Calm, Dean couldn’t get through to him, no matter what he did or said. It could take days for Sam to speak again, or to eat, or to shower.
“Do you want some water?” Dean tries in English, after Sam continues to scan his face for a few minutes. Dean will let him look his fill. Sam didn’t talk much of the Cage, but some things became necessary after Sam’s nightmares started shaking them awake nightly.
After four bottles of beer, Sam had told him that one of Lucifer’s favorite forms of torture was psychological. He would trap Sam in his own mind and make him live entire lifetimes. Sam would be normal, have a job, have a wife, but it would slowly start to fall apart. Sam would be forced to kill his wife, be alienated from his friends, burn his home.
Dean was apparently the big star in most of these projections, and a supporting character in all the rest. Dean would get hit by a drunk driver on the way home, would run into the road to save Sam’s daughter, would drown in a pool of his own blood after Sam killed him with a hockey stick.
One time, I was the best man at your wedding. I lived the longest in that one, I think. It got hard to tell. Michael liked that one the best, anyway, because he got to design your wife. Her name was Kara. Sam’s mouth had twisted into a bitter smile. She fucking hated my guts. The point of that one, I think, was you slowly cut me out of your life. Over years. You stopped trusting me, stopped calling, stopped…stopped loving me.
Dean had opened his mouth to protest, but Sam had continued.
I knew…I started knowing when it wasn’t real. No one said your name.
My name? Dean had asked, and Sam’s eyes were so dead that Dean had immediately regretted asking.
They called you ‘sword.’ Everyone spoke in Enochian, because English didn’t really exist in the Cage. It…It doesn’t do the Cage justice, or something. So there was no ‘Sam,’ or ‘Dean,’ or ‘Lucifer.’ You were ‘sword.’ Michael…Michael called you ‘I’In,’ which means ‘mine.’
What…What were you? Dean had asked, afraid of the answer.
‘Affa,’ Sam had said, eyes looking through him. It means ‘empty.’
When Sam wakes up, he likes to look at everything carefully, like he can see the one inconsistent detail that will unravel the world like an elaborate puppet show. Sam likes to look at Dean the most, so Dean tilts his face up a little so it’ll catch the faint light coming in from the window.
He stares at Sam head-on, blinking slowly against sleep-stinging eyes.
“Nai-lthe?” Sam asks again. He looks unsure. Sword?
“No. Dean.”
Sam nods, but his facial expression doesn’t move. He’s processing, repeating it in his head.
“Dean,” He says slowly, like he’s pronouncing it for the first time. It was his first word, when he was a baby.
Sam starts nodding faster, and Dean can see his face crumple like he’s about to start crying.
“Yeah, Dean.”
Sam is trembling like a leaf, and Dean sees his hand fisting the covers so tightly his knuckles are a sickly white.
“C’mere.” Dean murmurs as he leans back on his bed. “C’mere, Sammy.”
Dean pulls his legs back onto the mattress, and strips his t-shirt over his head.
Sam struggles to get out of his own shirt because he’s trying to move too fast, legs scrabbling against the mattress as he almost tumbles to the floor.
“Easy, easy tiger. I’m not headed anywhere.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam mutters frantically, and Dean knows that he needs to work this out himself, so he just flips the covers open and slides back in, holding one arm out for when Sam gets there.
Dean learned the hard way that crowding Sam’s space, especially when he can’t see Dean approaching, is a mistake.
Dean hears fabric hit the floor and feels the bed sink a second later. He opens his eyes in just enough time to get a face-full of hair as Sam slowly lowers himself onto the bed.
He does it like this every time, like he’s sinking into a hot tub, or easing his way into an ice bath. His breath stutters.
Dean’s eyes slip closed again as Sam’s skin slides against his, a bare forearm to Sam’s hand as Sam braces himself to lower against Dean’s side. He starts slow, too, just touching the edges of Dean’s arms before he gets all the way close.
This was something they had started after the Cage, too.
Sam had told him, although it took a long time. Dean hadn’t helped the process, being flippant and scared and so damn desperate for his boy to be okay.
They wouldn’t…um…touch me. Sam had said, looking down at his beer instead of in Dean’s eyes. They had been sitting on the trunk of the Impala, pulled over into a field, and stargazing. Sam had loved it before the Cage, but loved it so much more after.
(Even when they tried to trick me into thinking I was out, he said. They never could get the stars right. They don’t love them like humans do.)
What do you mean they wouldn’t touch you? Dean had asked.
Well, they did, obviously they did. Sam had gotten flustered, fumbling for words. They would play this game sometimes, where they would go a decade or two of not laying a hand on me. See how long I could go before I begged them to torture me again, just…just so I could feel something. Anything.
Dean had gone blind, incandescent with rage.
Even now, Sam had said, penetrating the fog of Dean’s bone-melting fury. It’s…it’s like my skin is too tight, all the time.
Does this help? Dean, careful with his trust and kindness and tenderness around anyone but Sam, had reached a beer-cold hand out and laid it on top of Sam’s.
Sam had sucked a breath in when their fingers touched, index and thumb spasming under his palm.
Ah—I. Um.
You’ve already bought me a beer, Sammy. Dean had held up his bottle in a faux-cheers. A little hand-holdin’ is the least you’ve bought a ticket to.
You’re that cheap of a date, huh? Sam had said, voice choked and high and slowly shoving more of his hand under Dean’s. Dean had spread his fingers out so Sam would have maximum real-estate to work with, and Sam could barely hook his pinky around Dean’s because he was shaking so hard.
Say your name. Sam had begged after a few minutes, eyes snapping up to meet Dean’s.
My name is Dean. Dean said, and Sam had closed his eyes. He was clearly thinking, translating it in his head to see if it was English or Enochian. Sam had sighed, slouching to the side and letting Dean take his weight.
Yes, yes it is.
In the present, Sam wraps a hand fully around Dean’s forearm, using it to pull himself closer to his body. Dean watches as Sam closes his eyes tightly, exhaling sharply, as he presses the side of his right arm to Dean’s left. They had found out how bad it was on accident, bumping into each other swapping out of the shower.
Sam’s knees had buckled brushing his arm on Dean’s bare torso, and Dean’s heart pretty much stopped. After Sam had waved it off, Dean started introducing more bare skin contact into their routine. He had searched “touch hurts” and then “need touch” when the first result turned back mostly nerve disorders.
We should start sleeping together, Dean had said one morning, and Sam had spewed his cereal all over his face.
Yeah, okay, I deserved that, Dean had said after making sure Sam coughed up the rest of the milk he inhaled. I just meant shirtless. For your touch thing.
That doesn’t clarify anything, Sam had wheezed, and Dean slid him the article he had printed out.
They had eventually agreed, after Sam made Dean say his name a few times in English, that only after certain nightmares would Sam need this. Dean didn’t argue, he was just so damn grateful that there was finally something he was useful for.
He had been carving a home into his body since he was born, so Dean had gotten good at making sure his shoulders were broad enough for Sam.
He had taken knives, bullets, claws, ghosts, punches, hits, kicks, bites, and one time a tentacle-sucker-punch, for his little brother. Sam needing a little cuddle time was literally the least Dean would be willing to do for his brother.
Dean had built shrines for Sam in his ribs, carved out spaces between his organs, lit fires in his lungs to keep Sam warm. This was nothing. This wasn’t anything Dean hadn’t done before.
Dean can’t understand—can never understand—what Sam’s been through, and it destroys him. A part of his brother will be gone forever from him now, and Dean will never be able to get it back. He’s losing Sam to Hell, to Lucifer, to his own head.
Dean wants to crawl into his head some days, just press everything aside and fight his demons for him, blow Lucifer and Michael to smithereens.
He’ll have to settle for this, for shielding Sam with his body.
Sam makes a little broken noise through clenched teeth, and Dean slowly tilts his arm out. Sam takes the hint, and slowly rolls himself into Dean’s embrace.
“Ah—“ Sam hisses, like it burns. It might.
Dean shushes him, runs a hand through Sam’s hair. Sam is making frantic little breathing noises, like he used to make when he was younger and needed to breathe around straight-chugging a glass of water. His breaths would echo around the inside of the cup and make him sound like some distressed little animal.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, and Sam hums. He rubs his face against Dean’s bicep, and Dean can feel his nose bend when it pushes against the bone.
In 1995, there had been a tough hunt in North Carolina. A woman had died and was possessing her husband to get revenge on those she had felt wronged her in life. It turned out when they got there that the husband knew about the possession, knew about his wife’s ghost, and wanted to be possessed.
He was run completely mad by grief, and wanted whatever pieces of his wife he could still get. Dad had knocked him out when he had gotten in the way, and the wife had possessed his unconscious body and tracked them to the graveyard where Dean, Dad, and Sam hoped to burn her remains.
It was a tough hunt, and Dean looked up the man years later to find that he had killed himself a week after they split town.
The night they burned the body, Sam—gash on his cheek and wild twelve-year-old eyes—had crawled into their bed and grabbed Dean by the amulet.
Promise me, he begged with all the solemnity his young voice could muster, that if you’ll die, you’ll possess me.
What the hell? Dean had said, recoiling only so far because he didn’t want to break the leather cord holding the pendant. No, I’m not gonna do that—that’s insane.
I…I can’t lose you. Sam had tears in his eyes, and Dean was only sixteen, and he’d do anything for his baby brother. He tried to make his next words more kind and scratched his fingers through Sam’s buzzcut (Dad had handed Dean a pair of clippers the week before and told him to “Handle Sam”).
You wanna end up like that guy? That’s not aspirational, Sam.
You wouldn’t hurt anybody. I know you wouldn’t. Sam’s voice had gone all needling and high, and Dean had to look away because this kid was about to cry.
Spirits don’t get a choice—they go bad, no matter what. Their dad snored in the next bed. And don’t let Dad hear you talk like this, okay? He’ll whoop your ass.
I wouldn’t let you go bad. We look out for each other, right?
Dean had softened, and pulled one of his arms out of the covers so he could throw it across Sam’s shoulders and tuck him into his chest.
Yeah, Sammy, we do.
Then please, Sam had muttered, muffled by Dean’s chest and lips indented by one of the horns on the pendant. I just—I’d need to feel you. I’d go crazy if I didn’t.
Dean thinks about that now, as Sam snuffles at his bicep. If he could pry his way into Sam’s skin, he would. He wonders if Sam remembers that, if Sam would still welcome it, if Sam would hold open his ribcage and let Dean burrow his way in.
Sam’s hand twitches towards Dean’s sternum, to the outline where his amulet used to be. Dean closes his eyes against it, and he can feel Sam hesitate. He used to grab it when he was smaller, a reflex ingrained, and Dean yearns uselessly for it again. His chest aches to think of it in the bottom of a landfill somewhere.
Sam shifts again, and Dean loosens his legs as he realizes that one of Sam’s knees is pressing against his calf. Sam shifts down farther so when he scoots closer, his head could rest on Dean’s chest.
Sam uses one of his legs to push under Dean’s and lift it up, so he can maneuver it between his own. Dean’s knee is now firmly slotted between Sam’s ridiculously strong thighs, and his toes brush Sam’s calves, warm even through fabric.
Sam rolls closer, propping his bare chest up against Dean’s so he’s tilted over him, left arm coming around to hold Dean’s right side, pulling him farther into his body. His head finds rest on top of the skin where shoulder meets chest, just under the curve of his neck. Dean feels each breath that Sam takes, the deep inhales and shaky exhales.
Dean can feel the elastic of Sam’s sweatpants against the top of his thigh, and he has to swallow hard. Even through the fabric of his own boxers, he can feel the heat of his skin.
A year ago, Dean would’ve rejected this touch. He had clung to his personal space like he had clung to life, essential and close and guarded with sharp words meant to cut. Hugging was for pussies. Cuddling was the sissiest-goddamn-shit, and Dean would rather die than let Sam—let anyone—this close.
His baby brother was so big now. The last time Dean had let Sam hug him like a teddy bear, Sam was probably three feet shorter. Dean can feel the scratch of Sam’s day-old stubble on his pec, and it sends shivers down his spine that he locks his body to avoid showing.
But Sam’s needs must be met—any cost—come hell or high water. Or in this case, come Dean’s shirt off. If Dean were normal, he would probably be able to admit that the touch was nice, that he hadn’t realized how much he needed this, too, until he was actually allowed to feel human skin when the world wasn’t ending.
When Dean needed a hug before, he would set the shower to scorching until the hot water ran out and it felt close enough.
But Dean’s not normal. He doesn’t…He doesn’t love Sam normal. Sam sighs, and Dean knows exactly what his face must look like, slack in comfort and ease, because he’s memorized every single thing about his boy.
Dean hasn’t let himself unpack this…this want. This love that’s crooked, bent a little out of shape, a little too strong to go undetected in a glass of water. He won’t start, either. Sam needs him, in a way he hasn’t needed Dean since he couldn’t tie his shoes.
Sam needs Dean’s support and his patience and a foundation that’s not cracked-through with desire.
Even now, Sam’s touch makes his skin burn. Dean closes his eyes tightly and forces himself to remember that this is for Sam. Sam needs this, and he doesn’t need Dean’s baggage and his sick longing.
Sam is being the most vulnerable he could possibly be, the most trusting, and if Dean lets his body betray that he’d…he’d—
Dean doesn’t know what he’d do. Hurl himself off a mountain, probably.
Dean exhales slowly, and it must shake because Sam tenses, just a bit.
“Is…Is this okay?”
“Yeah, ‘f course.” Dean tilts his face down so his noise ruffles Sam’s hair. Sam relaxes slowly against him. “You where you need to be?”
Sam nods a little, and Dean hums. Sam shivers. Dean moves his nose in Sam’s hair again. Sam didn’t take a shower tonight (will probably save it for tomorrow morning), and Dean inhales guiltily. He loves Sam the most like this, dry sweat and faint shampoo and Sam—that indescribable scent that’s hard-wired into Dean, ingrained like DNA.
Dean knows that when he gets to Heaven again—if Heaven still exists for someone like him—it’ll just be this: the flat of Sam’s palm against his ribs, the quiet breaths huffing across his sternum, owned and owning and possessive and possessed, warm stubble and sleepy skin and trust and home.
Dean wraps his left arm around Sam’s back, slips it up so he can hold the back of his head. He slides his fingers through Sam’s long hair and presses down lightly against his scalp, light enough to be denied if Sam asks. Sam tilts his head, and his sideburn tickles Dean’s skin.
“This okay?” Dean asks, words slurred. Sam makes an aborted little move, but settles again, all two-hundred pounds propped up against Dean’s body like a ship come to harbor.
“Yeah.” Sam rasps, and Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek because he can feel Sam’s lips moving on his chest.
Dean will be what Sam needs. He’ll bend himself into a shape that Sam recognizes, for as long as Sam can stand him. Sam’s mouth goes slack as he’s pulled into sleep.
But Dean is only human—painfully, irredeemably human—and Sam’s skin is warm and Dean’s chest aches with it, with this. He tilts his head forward, just enough, pressing his lips into Sam’s hair, right at his temple.
He closes his eyes, mouth pressed to Sam’s hair, love with no one to witness it.
Dean moves away, blinks up at the ceiling and is surprised to feel wetness at the corners of his eyes. Sam shifts. Dean tenses, panicked—Sam, did Sam feel—but Sam turns his head up, tilts towards Dean. The lock of hair covering his temple falls away, and Sam leans further into Dean.
It’s…Sam’s brow is slightly furrowed. Dean blinks. Sam can’t…
Dean leans forward again, and presses his lips to Sam’s skin this time, at the newly revealed delicate skin of his temple. Sam sighs, brow smoothing. Sam’s lips twitch, and Dean can feel the last of the tension in his brother’s body dissipate, slack and warm and liquid as he tilts his face into Dean’s chest.
Dean wishes—childishly—that time would stop. The alarm clock on the nightstand with its red numbers (3:49 AM) would stay that way. Let it be 3:49 AM for the rest of time, Sam’s quiet breaths on his sternum.
Let the world rot, all of the Leviathans and Castiel’s betrayal and death and monsters rot. Dean has all he needs right here, and the world has taken too much from Sam already. Let them rest. Let them fall asleep like children in a fairy tale and let the world spin and fight and let them sleep.
“Good night, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. Sam’s hand twitches on his side as he’s pulled farther into sleep. Dean closes his eyes tightly, and his next inhale shakes in Sam’s hair.
He gently brushes lingering strands of Sam’s hair off of his neck, fingers prickling as it brushes against Sam’s day-old stubble. Dean knows that Sam gets too hot if he falls asleep with his hair over his own neck, sleeps restlessly. Dean will care for Sam like this, where there is on one to see, where no one can take Sam away, where no one can look at them and see something wrong.
Tomorrow, Dean will have to let Sam go. Sam will get up, and he’ll pull on one of Dean’s old t-shirts and pretend that he doesn’t know who it belongs to. He’ll go for a run, and come back with breakfast, greasy and fatty and still warm.
He’ll lean into Dean when they unpack the food, take his shoes off at the door so he can press his bare ankles to Dean’s calf at the table, trail after him into the bathroom so their bodies skim waist-to-shoulder as they brush their teeth.
Tomorrow, things will be normal again. Dean’ll laugh and joke and bitch like normal. They’ll hop into the Impala and Dean will pretend he can’t see the yawns that Sam muffles into his palms.
Tomorrow, Dean will be Dean again, an older brother who can look at his younger sibling and feel nothing but annoyed, detached affection. Dean will slap him on the shoulder, over Dean’s ratty Creed t-shirt, and they’ll find the next hunt. They’ll keep moving, and only look at each other for necessary things.
But for now, for tonight, Dean closes his eyes, gently moves so Sam’s nose is resting perfectly along his collarbone, and holds Sam together.
Tonight, Dean makes a home for Sam out of his body that won’t burn, that already been tried in fire and found strong.
Tonight, Sam and Dean tangle their bodies into one, and disappear.