Deemed SalvageableAuthor: hansbekhartRating:
NC-17 for explicit sexual content.Summary:
Rocks fall, everyone dies. Not really. Surviving is all that Sam and Dean can do.Notes:
Spoilers up to Devil's Trap
, warning for character death. Written for fatale
for two reasons: first, for helping me smack my narrative into shape and second, that bitch has now declared Porn War
. Bring it on.
There is no sound and there is no pain, not for a long time. Sam’s eyes are closed and he is drifting through wordless confusion and a terrible weight on his chest, on his legs. There is no divide in his memory between Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror and then the filter of light through broken glass and the worst noise that Sam will ever hear in his life, only an unbroken sequence of time. He doesn’t think car accident
and he doesn’t think demon
; his thoughts fly only to Dean
The weight on his chest is Dean’s hand; the noise comes from him. His forehead is pressed against Dad’s shoulder, his other arm around Dad’s neck. The leather of the seat creaks beneath his face and the heaving of his shoulders and Dean howls his grief like an animal.**
Sam throws up at the hospital while a nurse pushes his hair out of his face and doesn’t try to put a bucket or a bedpan under him. She lets him get it out and then they wheel him to another room to pick at his stitches in his shoulder and stomach and wait for judgement. Dad is two stories below him in a steel box but he doesn’t know where Dean is, no one will tell him if his brother is all right.
The nurse doesn’t stay with him, but she does come back later. There’s a morphine drip in Sam’s arm by then and nothing to stop him from noticing that she’s exactly Dean’s type.
He sleeps the night through before they let him see Dean, wheeling him down spotless corridors that squeak under the nurse’s shoes. It’s a different girl, with light hair and a distracted, professional smile. Dean’s face is bloodless and his eyes are red, but his face is turned towards the door, waiting. He doesn’t smile. His mouth moves just a little bit, a little quirk of the lips or the beginning of Sam’s name. They park Sam close to the bed and leave them.
“Hey,” Sam says.
“Hey,” Dean says. He whispers as though he’s broken his throat from screaming. He’s lost in a sea of starched whiteness, tubes running everywhere, skin grey and Sam has been here before. He has stood at his brother’s bedside before and promised to save Dean, except this time Dean doesn’t even try to comfort him, much less crack jokes about fabric softener mascots. The silence is worse than anything.
Sam takes his brother’s hand and laces their fingers together. It hurts to lean forward but he bends his neck and kisses the back of Dean’s hand, one knuckle at a time. He rests his forehead on the back of Dean’s hand and it takes a long time, but eventually Dean’s hand shifts slowly across his own stomach and comes to rest on the back of Sam’s head. **
Surviving seems to be the only thing that they can do. Sam checks Dean out of the hospital before he can start climbing the walls and they burrow. They take a room at a motel with a kitchenette and they cook over a hot plate. They cremate their father. Sam suggests that they take him back to Lawrence, but Dean only shakes his head and Sam drops it. John sits in a white cardboard box on top of the table in the motel until Sam moves him to the trunk of the new car. He’s there alone; they lost nearly everything, every gun twisted and every amulet crushed. Dean’s dreamcatcher survived, perversely. The Colt was given back to them when they left the hospital, in a bag of what is left of their clothing. Dean’s clothing was cut off of him in the emergency room; Sam’s shirt, his jacket and their father’s jacket were deemed salvageable. John’s jacket disappeared before Sam could stomach throwing the bag out.
All of Dean’s tapes died with the Impala. The new car has a CD player, doors that swing open with effortless silence, leather seats. It’s a good car, black, a Camaro. Dean lets Sam drive. They listen to the radio.**
Sam listens to Dean sleep at night. His brother’s breathing is louder than motel white noise, even his snores a comfort. Sam has nightmares, always has, and Jess on her ceiling has been replaced by Dean’s howls, by the shriek of metal and the snap of their father’s spine. They slept in the same bed until Dean was fifteen and Sam was demanding a bed of his own, and Dean started using the pull-out sofa. Dean snuggles unmanfully in his sleep, not just an arm thrown over whoever happens to be next to him but thigh and foot hooked around and head nestled as close as he could get.
The night that they left the hospital, Sam climbed back into Dean’s bed for the first time in eleven years. Dean looked at him warily, as though expecting Sam’s next move to edge towards violence or - even worse - emotion, but he allowed it. They edged around each other warily in the bed, mindful of personal space and healing wounds. Sam woke at five with Dean’s foot in between both of his and Dean’s face pressed up against his naked back, his snores whistling against Sam’s skin.
It doesn’t happen often and they never speak about it. Dean interrogates Sam about his nightmares but Sam would never bring up the openness in Dean’s eyes when he first wakes up or the way that sometimes Dean whispers things in his sleep. One night he wakes Sam up by digging his fingernails into Sam’s chest, right above his nipples, and when Sam shouted with surprise Dean looked at him as though he was crazy until he saw the marks in Sam’s skin. They slept apart the night after that, and the night after that, but the third night Dean crawled into Sam’s bed and locked an arm tightly around his chest.**
When it happens, they aren’t drunk or thoughtlessly looking to relieve morning wood. It’s barely dawn and Sam is stirring contentedly from a sunlit dream when he feels a wetness on his back where Dean’s cheek is pressed against it. He freezes, certain that Dean is crying and will never, ever forgive him if he turns around, when Dean snorts loudly and Sam realizes that his brother is merely drooling on him. Well-being rises in his chest, too close to sleep to be choked by the knowledge of all that they’ve lost and Sam curls around it, his eyes shut tightly to keep the world at bay. He loves his brother so much that it’s nearly painful.
“Why are you shaking?” Dean mumbles sleepily. Sam can feel him reach up and rub at his face, the back of his hand stroking accidentally over Sam’s skin. It makes Sam shiver harder, for a different reason, and he rolls over to face Dean and wraps long arms around his brother, hugging him close. Dean’s manly irritation is muffled against Sam’s chest. He pushes Sam away but he is laughing, his sleep-fogged openness making it easy for Sam to dig his fingers in under Dean’s armpits.
Dean chokes on laughter and writhes
It isn’t as though Sam never thought about it before. Once upon a time, he even blamed John for it, for bringing them up as warriors without normal boundaries or morals. Dean was striding onto countless sexual battlefields by the time Sam was just getting comfortable with his own dick, jerking helplessly off any spare moment he got, every scrap of detail that Dean let slip running through his head.
He pushes his hips forward anyway, meets Dean’s eyes when they snap open. He’s dizzy and can’t help but glance down at Dean’s mouth, pale in the shafts of light that pick out each hair on his head and shadows his face. Dean licks his lips, his eyes gone hunted-animal again, starting to shut down before Sam can reach him.
Sam almost lets his brother go, almost makes some crack that Dean will be able to absorb to right his world again. Dean has been walking through his days stooped, off-balance, flailing to be set right again without John’s shadow to fall into step with. It could be selfishness that firms Sam’s grip and makes him pull Dean up against him, skin against skin and an answering heat against his own erection. Dean looks terrified now but he hisses between his teeth as Sam trails fingertips down his side. He doesn’t push Sam away and that’s all the permission that Sam needs.
He fumbles a bit, getting his arm out from under Dean’s body. Dean winces, his ribs still sore even though weeks have passed and Sam kisses him without thinking. There’s morning stubble on Dean’s face and it scratches Sam’s mouth when he bites down on Dean’s lower lip, tasting his brother’s tongue. Dean pants into his mouth and fists Sam’s hair and then they are really
kissing, gasping into each other’s mouths. Dean is saying something but Sam doesn’t listen, desperate not to hear the word no
He wraps his hand around Dean’s cock, gingerly at first. Dean is bigger than he is, heavier in Sam’s hand than his own dick is and Sam can’t ever let Dean realize that fact because he would never hear the end of it.
The thought of it almost makes him freeze, almost brings him out of his own body and back into the normal world where people don’t jerk off their own brothers or want them so badly that they can’t even breathe. Dean’s skin against his own as Sam works Dean’s boxers off steals all breath and awareness from him. It isn’t hard to push all thought away.
He rolls Dean onto his back and Dean is already too far gone to worry about his ribs or his wrist to complain, his eyes dark and mouth open. He stares up at Sam as though waiting for some sort of judgement, his hands grasping lightly at the ridges of Sam’s hipbones, palms warm on Sam’s skin. His entire body jerks when Sam jacks him, twisting at the end of each long stroke. He holds Sam’s eyes as he reaches for Sam’s dick.
,” Dean whispers. It’s almost painful to bend so far forward but Sam does, pushing a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and lifting his brother up to kiss him messily, all coordination and skill gone at the touch of Dean’s hand.
He comes hard, spilling on Dean’s chest and Dean follows almost immediately, his eyes huge and fixed on the spurt of Sam’s cock before his head snaps back and his entire body clenches up under Sam’s weight.
Sam is boneless. It’s a strain simply to stretch his legs out and shift to the side. He rolls rather than moves and as soon as he is no longer touching Dean, his brother’s hand comes down to grab the closest body part he can reach. His fingers close tightly around Sam’s bicep and he doesn’t look up when Sam blearily tries to catch his gaze.
They fall asleep still tangled together.**
It’s full light when Sam wakes, no weight but a scratchy motel blanket haphazard across his legs, no sound but motel white noise. He blinks up at the ceiling and memory comes back to him in strangely gentle pieces: the line of his brother’s throat, the tracing of hair below his stomach. The bed is empty beside him and Sam runs his palms over the cool fabric.
“You finally up, princess?”
Dean is hunched over the table, one leg crossed at the knee, looking utterly at ease. He quirks an eyebrow at Sam and nobody else knows Dean well enough to see the uncertainty in his eyes and in the restless muscle at the corner of his mouth. Sam stretches, conscious of his brother’s heavy gaze. It’s a physical feeling, nearly a caress along his breastbone and tracing down to what the blanket barely hides. He laughs a little when he yanks his eyes back up to meet Sam’s, not quite embarassed, not quite as confident as he used to be. Sam gets up to shower and Dean follows him, an uneasy look in his face that Sam tries his best to banish.
He’s smiling, in any case, when they leave the motel. Their shoulders brush occasionally as they walk to the new car, and Dean steals the Camaro’s keys from Sam’s pocket.