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mickeymTitle: This Fortress Made of Us
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,895
Spoilers: For Mystery Spot and Dream A Little Dream
Warnings: Note the pairing
Disclaimer: Sadly, they do not belong to me, and I'm not making any money off them or this.
Summary: Sam really didn't do very well without his brother.
A/N: This is the long over-due Sweet Charity fic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
montana_harper (and thank you for being so patient!). I'd had the idea for a Mystery Spot coda for awhile, and when I got the specs from montana_harper for what she wanted, I had an A-HA moment and knew what I was going to write. I really hope this story is to your liking, honey.
Huge, ginormous thanks go tothehighwaywoman for helping me figure out what I needed to do to get this story back on track, and to arabella_hope and rivers_bend for betaing and smoothing things out. The story is so much better thanks to their input and suggestions. *hugs* to all three of you. I hope y'all enjoy :)
I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three. ~ Author Unknown
When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life. ~Antisthenes
"Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?"
Sam hears the concern in Dean's voice; hears the confusion and the uncertainty, and wishes he could do something, say something, to alleviate it. All he can do is hang on, hold tight and hope to absorb some of Dean into himself.
"Enough," he manages, finally, his voice more than a little rough with the hysteria he's barely kept at bay all these fuck, how many, he doesn't know, lost track so long ago what's the use in keeping count when he's all alone now months. "Wait. What do you remember?
"I remember you were pretty whacked out yesterday. I remember catching up with the Trickster. That's about it."
Thank God. Bad enough he remembers. And will never, ever forget. "Let's go."
"No breakfast?"
Sam forces his face into a small smile. "No breakfast."
"All right, I'll pack the car."
No. Jesus God, never again, please. Though Sam knows eventually he'll have to let Dean out of his sight, he's not planning on it being any time soon--and definitely not today. "Wait, you're not going anywhere alone."
"It's the parking lot, Sam." Dean's frowning at him, confusion etching a vee between his brows.
"Just--just trust me." Never going to let you go, Dean. I can't. I don't care what the Trickster thought he was trying to teach me.
Too long a pause, because Dean's frown deepens. "Hey, you don't look so good. Something else happen?"
Sam shakes his head. "Just had a really weird dream."
God, if only.
"Clowns or midgets?" Dean's face is open, his smile like a quick burst of warm sunlight before he ducks out the door.
Sam stares at the room, the bed, wonders if he's really awake and Dean's really alive, or if this is just the same dream, same day, same everything. Clowns would be welcome, actually.
~~~~~
He keeps it together by force of will until they're out of Florida, but crossing over the state line brings a sense of relief so profound Sam feels light-headed with it. It takes another hour to believe maybe this time he's really awake, and this is really real. Dean's alive beside him, humming along with Joan Jett, of all things, fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel.
"Sammy?"
"Mmm?"
"You okay?" The vee is back between Dean's eyebrows, and Sam blinks.
"Yeah--why?"
"I know I'm good lookin', dude, but you haven't stopped staring since we left the motel this morning. I got something on my face? Miss some soap or toothpaste, or something?"
Sam flushes. He's been watching Dean -- can't seem to look away God, just one time if I glance away he'll be gone, dead, it'll start all over again or I'll be completely alone again for months and months -- and he knows it, but he thought maybe Dean hadn't noticed.
As if.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and glances out the window as the Georgia landscape flies by.
The Trickster might've been trying to teach him a lesson, but what does an immortal God like a Trickster know of love? What does he -- it -- know about sacrifice, and want, and need? When has it ever needed someone like Sam needs Dean, and vice versa?
"Hey, you hungry? I'm starving." Dean's voice pulls Sam out of his thoughts, and when Sam glances at him, he's still tapping on the steering wheel, dividing his attention between the road and Sam. "Someone didn't let me have breakfast this morning."
I couldn't stand it if I had to watch you eat Pig-in-a-Poke again. Or choke on sausage. God, Dean.
"Sure, I could eat. Not a diner, though, huh?" Sam's pretty sure he's never going to be able to eat at a diner again. Ever. Especially not for breakfast. Probably never going to have tacos again, either. Or fish. Or let Dean have any of those.
Dean takes the first exit that has a Steak 'n' Shake, and Sam's kind of surprised to realize he actually is hungry. He feels like he's waking up for real for the first time in forever months and months and months, and for the first time in that long, he has an appetite. He doesn't remember the last time he ate something and actually tasted it--
--slice stab chew swallow start the process over again beef chicken pork bread vegetables oatmeal drink eight glasses of water need coffee coffee no time for fancy drinks Dean laughs laughed at him for slice stab chew swallow until the plate is clean.
"Earth to Sam." Dean's waving his hand in front of Sam's face, frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward. It's hard, but Sam wrenches his focus back from that dark place in his head and on his brother, close enough to him that Sam can feel/smell/see that he's alive, solid, right there with Sam. "Sam!"
"Huh?"
"You're sure you're okay? You been kind of…off…all morning." The driver's side door creaks a little as Dean gets out, and Sam is positive he can see Dean making a mental note to oil it, later.
"Yeah, no, I'm good. Just kinda--tired." Sam bumps against Dean as they walk into the restaurant, shoving down the urge to wrap his arms around him and hold on tight.
"Right. Midget and clown dreams." Dean doesn't look like he's buying it, but will let it go. "Uh. Sam. Personal space, dude?"
"Oh--sorry. Yeah." Sam backs up a millimeter or two and tries to ignore the voice screaming at him to get closer, closer, don't look away.
Not that it mattered at all in Florida. Dean died over and over while he watched. Died in his arms.
"You're not coming down with something, are you?"
Sam glances up from the menu, not remembering the hostess seating them. "What? No. I'm fine. Really."
"Uh-huh." Dean gives him another look, then a smile. "I think it's been forever since we ate at one of these. They have the most awesome shakes."
Sam doesn't know what to say to that, if anything needs to be said. Instead, he nods and tries to pretend he's actually more sane than he feels. Right now, he feels like he's teetering on the edge.
Dean goes back to reading the menu, lips moving as he scans it. Sam glances away, trying not to think of them bloodied; so many of the deaths Dean had were violent ones.
The paper placemat crumples in his fist, one sharp edge cutting into the side of Sam's finger. The brief sting brings him back to the here and now, in time to give his order to the waitress: double steakburger, pepperjack cheese, mustard and pickles, an order of onion rings, bowl of chili and a chocolate shake. He blinks when Dean snickers and tells the waitress just to double that order.
"Sure thing, sweetie. Y'all need anything else to drink? Tea, soda, water?" She's not pretty, but she has a sweet, honest face and eyes that look tired beneath the service-with-a-smile smile she's wearing.
"I'll have a glass of water please," Sam says, and Dean says, "a Coke for me," and she smiles once more and sashays away. It almost looks like she's moving in time to the oldies songs pumping out of unseen speakers.
"So you got any leads on a job?" Dean's leaning back against the vinyl booth, casual and relaxed, and Sam closes his eyes for a minute. It's been one day, for Dean. One short, over-and-done-with day.
"No," he manages finally, voice faint. "I, uh. Can we just take a day off? Drive a while longer, then stop for the night? We can look around for jobs tomorrow."
"Sam--" Whatever Dean's about to say is interrupted when the waitress appears with their drinks.
"Chili'll be up in a few minutes, boys." She smiles, distracted by the large party being seated right behind them. "I'll check back with you before then."
"Sure," Sam says, grabbing up his water. "Thanks."
Dean doesn't try to pick up the conversation again, though he throws puzzled and concerned looks at Sam every couple of minutes. Their food comes in fits and starts: bowls of chili first, burgers and onion rings next, shakes appearing when they're about halfway through. Sam closes his eyes and savors the food, but it's more than that. It's Dean, slurping noisily across from him, quiet grunts and wet sounds as he chews and swallows, enjoying his food as Dean almost always does.
Months of nothing but his own sounds, his own voice, just him. Months.
Sam's struck by the sudden realization that he's never going to be able to get close enough, long enough, to satisfy the need humming through him. It's like a tickle; he needs Dean -- needs to touch him, hold him, feel his heart thumping beneath Sam's palm and hear his breath whooshing in and out. That he's running out of time, knowing what the future without Dean looks like…feels like, makes pain shiver through him, a physical sensation he doesn't know how to block or stop.
"Something wrong with your burger, sweetie?" The waitress is back, giving Sam a puzzled look. Dean's looking at him like he wants to ask the same thing, and Sam shakes his head slowly.
"No, sorry. Just--no. It's fine."
Their waitress -- Marcy, her tag reads, and Sam wonders why it took him this long to notice -- nods. "I'll leave the ticket, but if there's anything else I can get for you, just let me know, okay, boys?"
"Will do." Dean gives her the patented melt-their-panties-off-of-'em smile and snags the ticket out of her hand. "Thanks, sweetheart." Another glance at Sam, and he asks, "do you want to stop here?"
"No." Sam definitely doesn't. There isn't enough highway yet between them and Florida. "Let's just--let's drive a while longer, okay?"
He crowds up behind Dean when they pay for their lunch, and shadows close behind him walking back to the Impala. Sticks like a burr to him when they stop to get gas, and again at the rest stop a couple hundred miles up the road. Sam doesn't need to use the bathroom, but he'll be damned if he lets Dean go anywhere he can't see him…and since he hasn't figured out how to see through bricks, well.
And if Dean grumbles about it, Sam doesn't care. Dean wasn't the one left behind over and over again.
~~~~~
They're on the north-west side of Birmingham before Sam feels like he can really, truly, breathe again. Before he starts believing maybe the nightmare is over, and Dean's not going to vanish if he turns away or blinks.
They've been on the road for over twelve hours, and the sun's just about down. It's that magical hour of twilight, when the night music begins: a chorus of frogs, crickets, whip-poor-wills and assorted other bugs and critters. Most of the time it soothes Sam; he has a lot of fond memories of twilight, stuck in this motel or that, or sometimes hanging out in a house or cabin if they were staying put for a while. It's a little early in the year yet for lightning bugs, but Sam remembers running around Bobby's yard with an old mayonnaise jar, holes already punched in the lid, just waiting for the bugs to come out. More distant memories provide him with Dean doing the same, showing him how to scoop them into the jar. Many nights at Bobby's they went to sleep with a jar of lightning bugs as a nightlight.
"You ready to stop for the night?" Dean is uncharacteristically gentle, his voice softer than Sam's heard it in a while. Don't think about how long you didn't hear it for. "Or do you want to drive a while longer?"
"Nah, this is good." Sam sighs. "I just--needed some distance between me and Florida."
"So I gathered." Dean glances at him, one eyebrow raised. "You gonna tell me what that was all about?"
Sam shakes his head. There's no way he can talk about it without losing the little bit of grip he's managed today.
"Wanna hit a bar, see about some pool with the locals?" Dean's obviously scanning the area as he drives, unerringly finding the area of town with no-tell motels and bars lining the streets, gaudy neon signs flashing half-lit "V can y" or some variation of it.
"Find a motel first. I wanna shower the road off."
"Good plan." Dean hums approvingly and soon enough is guiding the car into a parking lot with a sign that promises vacancies, and rooms-by-the-week with kitchenettes.
~~~~~
It takes everything Sam didn't know he had in him to let Dean into the bathroom alone, though he sneaks in under the pretense of needing a glass of water to plug the razor in while Dean's busy in the shower. And maybe he hovers right outside the door. Just until he hears the water go off.
His hands are shaking by the time Dean's finished showering and shaving, and Sam sends up a quick prayer that all this anxiety eases quickly, because Dean's starting to look at him like he's lost his mind completely.
He forgets how sneaky his brother can be, though, when he knows Sam's hiding something from him. That's his first mistake.
Mistake number two is letting Dean get the drinks and not paying attention to how many he's had. The tequila burns going down, but settles to a tempered warmth in his stomach that spreads out, loosening everything up. Before too long, Sam's feeling more relaxed than he has in ages. Relaxed enough to smile and raise his beer in salute when Dean clears the pool table for the second time.
By the time Dean slides into the booth beside him -- nice, but really unexpected -- Sam is pretty well on to drunk. Not so drunk he can't sit upright by himself, no. It's Dean's fault for being so warm and close -- close and warm and alive -- that makes Sam slump over so he's practically cuddling against Dean.
"You'd think a guy as big as you could hold his liquor better," Dean mutters, but he's relaxed against Sam, arm just brushing against the back of Sam's neck when he stretches it out along the back of the booth. "I know you been drinking long enough; I gave you your first booze."
"Mmm. Was nasty, too. Straight Jack. Thought I was gonna puke it right back up." Sam squints at Dean. "Wha' was I, fourteen?"
"Yeah." Dean snickers. "Got you drunk for your birthday. Dad was so pissed."
"Me too, next mornin'." Even now, more than halfway to plastered, Sam remembers that first hangover. "Hangover from hell," he says, the words soft and unformed in his mouth. "Wanted to die. Wanted to kill you." And, God. With those words, Sam goes rigid against Dean; feels Dean's arm move against him when he sighs.
"I know." Dean's fingers are light, gentle, ruffling the short hairs on the back of Sam's neck. A few minutes of careful petting makes Sam relax back against Dean's side, the alcohol buzzing through him until he feels boneless again. Dean's voice seems far, far away when he says softly, "You gotta talk about it some time, Sammy. It'll fester inside you, otherwise."
"Can't," Sam mutters. "Hurts too much. Y'were gone, and it hurt." Images flash through his mind: Dean dying from a gunshot. Hit by a car. Flattened by a desk. Choking on food. Slipping in the shower. Electrocuting himself. Dead by Sam's own hand, fighting over a stupid axe. He chokes on the bile rising in his throat and elbows Dean. "Move--gotta. Gonna--"
He makes it to the bathroom just in time to bring up everything in his stomach, retching until there's nothing left and all he can do is dry heave.
Dean's a solid, silent presence behind him while he heaves; afterward he hands Sam a damp paper towel to wipe his mouth and face on. When Sam's sure his stomach is reasonably settled, Dean guides Sam out of the bar and into the Impala.
"He lied," Sam says softly, when they're back inside the car. It's kind of funny in a way: the only place he ever feels safer than inside the car…is beside Dean. He'll blame Dean, and feeling safe, for the words that surge up and out without his permission. "Stupid lying son-of-a-bitch." The words are bitter, tinged with acid, burning his tongue. "Said it--it wouldn't happen again."
"The Trickster?" Dean's voice is soft; as gentle moving around Sam as his fingers were on the back of Sam's neck earlier.
"Yeah." Over and over and over. Like a carousel he couldn't get off from. The words want out now, and Sam's too tired and still too drunk to stop them. "Said he was teachin' me a lesson, wha' life would be like without you. That I couldn't save you, no matter what I did. An' I didn't know there were so many ways to die, and it kept going on and on. When I figured it out, he--I was ready to kill him. Had the stake and everything."
"Right." Dean nods, and Sam knows he remembers at least some of that. "But you didn't." The interior of the car is lit with the sodium lights from the parking lot; Dean's face is partially shadowed, one eye dark and hidden, but Sam sees the sadness there.
"No. He said if I couldn't take a joke then that was it, we'd be out of it, I'd be out of it and when I woke up it'd be tomorrow, I mean today--it'd be Wednesday. I said he was lying and I should kill him and he said no. That if he was lying, we'd know where to find him."
"But it is Wednesday."
Sam swallows hard, bile rising in his throat. "It's Wednesday--again," he says, coughing against the urge to hurl.
"Again? What? Wait--you gonna be sick again?" Dean tenses beside him, and Sam shakes his head roughly.
"No. I--no." He swallows over and over until he's sure he isn't, then raises his head to look at Dean. "The--the first time it was Wednesday, you--you died. Again. Went down to pack the car, and I dunno. I heard a gunshot and when I got downstairs, you were already--I couldn't--and I couldn't get my hands clean, Dean. No matter how many times I washed 'em, and your blood, it was, there was so much of it. Everywhere. And I didn't--I didn't wake up again. It didn't start over. It just. You were gone." Sam coughs once more, and gets the door open just a split second before the bile comes up again.
Dean rubs his back gently while he pukes, dry heaving until his stomach muscles ache. Over the sounds of his retching Sam hears, "s'okay, Sammy. It's okay. I'm here, I gotcha."
"Six months," Sam gasps around the bitter aftertaste. "You were dead, six months, an' I kept trying, I kept hunting, but I felt so fucking empty, like I was dead too--" He's not full-on sobbing or anything, but tears have lurked so close to the surface for so long, and like with the words he's too tired and too drunk to hold them back.
"Shhh. Sam. Sammy. It's okay, bro." Dean's hands are large and warm on Sam's face, cupping and stroking, wiping away tears and snot and spit with a bandana pulled from under the seat. "Let's get you to bed, okay? Think you're okay for the drive back to the motel?"
"Yeah." Sam closes his eyes and leans back against the seat, wishing the swirling images in his head would just go the fuck away.
It's quiet in the car; Dean switches the radio off as soon as he starts the engine. It's nice to hear the familiar hum and growl; Sam finds it almost as soothing as Dean does. He listens to the sound of the transmission shifting, wishing he could get lost in it.
"Sam." Dean's voice is soft, just a hint of a question, full of hesitation. "You said--you said it's Wednesday again?"
"He gave you back," Sam says, eyes still closed against the world. "I don't--I don't know why, but he did. When we, when I, got up this morning you were there and it was Wednesday again and the whole six months hadn't happened." Sam sighs and turns enough to see Dean when he opens his eyes. "But I can't forget 'em."
Dean reaches out and gives Sam's hair a gentle tug. "I'm sorry, dude."
He doesn't move his arm or hand, and its weight and heat are enough to help Sam relax for the remainder of the trip back to the motel.
~~~~~
Sam's dreams are fractured bits of the time still remembered in his head, and what he imagines will be Dean's fate if he can't find a way to save him.
He wakes well before dawn -- there isn't even the faintest hint of light around the edges of the curtains -- and for a split-second panic thumps through him wildly, spurred on by the dreams he had, sure that he's by himself in a motel room, that Dean is still dead and gone. It's only when Dean mutters something in his sleep and shifts, that Sam remembers Dean's alive, he's here, and the panic fades.
He turns on his side to watch Dean sleep, smiling a little at the sight. The only time his brother looks young and carefree is when he's sleeping; the years and weight of responsibility slide away to leave innocence and a sort of peace Dean hasn't known in decades. Not for the first time Sam regrets leaving, going to Stanford. He feels vaguely disloyal to Jess for that thought -- does, every time he thinks it -- but if he'd known then what he knows now--
--like, that he was going to lose his brother.
How much he needs his brother.
How much he loves his brother.
Dean wrinkles his forehead and smacks his lips before shifting and rolling over onto his stomach, a small snort of laughter following him. Sam smiles faintly, glad Dean's dreams are pleasant. One of them should enjoy sleep. Sam's not sure he's ever going to, again.
The headache he's been doggedly ignoring since waking up decides it's not going to be ignored any longer. Sam crawls out of bed and into the bathroom, leaving the door partially open. He doesn't want to wake Dean up, but his raging paranoia and anxiety need at least a nod toward them and that's the best he can do right now.
Dean's awake when Sam comes out of the bathroom, though he isn't up. He's sort of propped up against his pillows, arms folded across his chest.
"You get any sleep last night?" He still sounds sleepy, but not pissed like Sam would've expected, for being woke up at oh-dark-hundred.
"Little bit." At least his head doesn't hurt so bad any more. "Want breakfast?" His own stomach turns at the thought of food just yet, but Dean likes to eat pretty much first thing.
"Breakfast?" Dean looks and sounds amused. "Sammy--you got any idea what time it is?"
"Uh." It's hard to balance on one foot to pull shorts on when your balance is off due to hangover. Sam's just glad he doesn't topple over completely, because he would never get Dean to shut up about it. "No?"
"It's not even four, dude."
Oh. Well. That explains why it's still completely dark outside. Sam stares at his duffle like it holds all the answers to the questions he can't figure out how to ask, then glances at Dean. "Sorry?"
"No sweat." Dean shrugs, then pushes the covers back. "Gotta take a leak, don't go anywhere."
As if. Sam snorts, but his eyes follow Dean, track his movements into the bathroom. He tries to pretend he's not pathetically grateful when Dean leaves the door cracked open, but he isn't fooling anyone, least of all himself.
Judging from the sounds within, Dean brushes his teeth after using the can, but rather than coming out and getting dressed, he heads back to bed, sliding down under the covers. When he holds them up and raises an eyebrow, Sam frowns. "What?"
"C'mon. You might sleep better."
"You want me to--" God, when was the last time he and Dean shared a bed on purpose? Sam's not sure but he thinks he was probably twelve? Not much after that, in any case, other than the occasional shit-we're-short-on-money. "Uh."
"Look." Dean scowls, and sounds a little cross for the first time since--well, for the first time in a while. "Either get in or don't, but I'm going back to sleep for a while, and you should, too. It's too early to be up."
Sam watches Dean get himself settled, breathing evening out into a slow, steady rhythm before he manages to make himself move, and even then he hovers between the beds for several long moments before grabbing his pillow and sliding under the covers with Dean. Dean rolls to the side, making room for Sam, and mutters something that sounds like, "and no cuddling, bitch."
Sam's almost asleep when Dean shifts beside him, snugging up against Sam's back, and sliding one arm over, palm resting over Sam's belly.
Sam can't remember the last time he felt so safe -- never? -- and he slides into a deep, dreamless sleep, Dean a welcome heat against him.
~~~~~
Wakefulness comes in slow, lazy stages. Sam's warm, held close and snug. There's hard heat held close to him; being pressed gently against his thigh in a lazy, rhythmic motion. All around him is the scent of soap and sweat, faint traces of aftershave and cologne. Sam leans in toward the warmth and nuzzles, lips stinging pleasantly when they're scored by whiskers.
"Mmmm." Dean's voice, not words so much as a low, rumbling purr. Sam smiles against Dean's throat and nuzzles again, kissing up to his jaw. The heat pressed against him becomes solid and thick, throbbing gently when Dean shifts forward and back. "Sammy--"
The rest of whatever he was going to say is swallowed when Sam brushes his mouth over Dean's, tongue teasing along Dean's lips. It's wonderful, perfect, Dean's so close and Sam can touch him, he's alive and real--
They spring apart at pretty much the exact moment, staring at one another like they've never seen each other before. Dean coughs, and Sam's sure he's going to spontaneously combust, based on how hot his face feels, and wow, this isn't awkward at all.
Sam licks his lips, and oh, bad idea, because he still tastes Dean there. "I, uh. Um."
Dean nods. "Yeah. I. Me, too." He rolls away from Sam and out of bed, staggering once as he gains his footing before disappearing into the bathroom.
Sam watches him go and wonders what just happened.
Wonders when his response to waking up kissing his brother was disappointment that it didn't last longer, or go further, rather than what the fuck just happened here?. He doesn't really have an answer for himself, either.
~~~~~
By mutual, unspoken agreement, they don't talk about it. Not once over breakfast; not while Dean pours over the local newspaper and Sam surfs around his sources online. But every so often Sam will look up, glance over at Dean, and catch his brother watching him. Studying him.
Sam watches, too. Studies Dean when Dean's focused on his newspaper. Notes the faint flush of color along his cheekbones, and the whiskers catching the light here and there. Sam's lips sting with the memory of stubble chafing, and he licks them, remembering the warm, salty flavor of Dean's skin.
"Hey." Dean's hand is warm on Sam's arm, pulling him back from his thoughts. "I'm here, and I'm not goin' anywhere, Sam." Dean sounds gruff, but not mean. Not teasing, though a part of Sam wishes he would. Wishes there was some way for him to forget the last however long days days days months forever.
"You will if I can't figure out--how to stop this. Your deal."
"You will. I know if--I know you will." The unspoken if there's any way to do it, you will hangs in the air and Sam swallows, opens his mouth to say something, anything, except Dean's not done. "I want some lunch. You?"
"Not really hungry," Sam murmurs. "If you want something, though, we can go--"
"I can run to McDonalds by myself, dude. You don't need--I promise nothin's gonna happen." Dean squeezes Sam's arm once and lets go.
"You can't know that. Dean. I just--you--"
"I do know that. The whole thing with the Trickster, it's over. You said he's gone, we're back…in synch with time, or whatever, we ain't hunting anything, so there's no reason I can't go get a couple burgers and come back. Just like any other day."
Except it's not just like any other day, but Sam doesn't know how to express the way terror floods his body at the thought of letting Dean out of his sight for even ten minutes.
"Okay, yeah," he says finally. "Go, uh, get lunch. Get me an ice tea, wouldja?" He can do this. He has to do this.
"Sure." Dean's on his feet, keys jangling in his hand like he needs to hurry, before Sam changes his mind. "I'll be right back, and I got my phone, Sam. Okay?"
Sam nods and sternly tells himself to get a fucking grip.
He wishes it was that easy.
On to Part Two
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,895
Spoilers: For Mystery Spot and Dream A Little Dream
Warnings: Note the pairing
Disclaimer: Sadly, they do not belong to me, and I'm not making any money off them or this.
Summary: Sam really didn't do very well without his brother.
A/N: This is the long over-due Sweet Charity fic for
montana_harper (and thank you for being so patient!). I'd had the idea for a Mystery Spot coda for awhile, and when I got the specs from montana_harper for what she wanted, I had an A-HA moment and knew what I was going to write. I really hope this story is to your liking, honey.Huge, ginormous thanks go to
thehighwaywoman for helping me figure out what I needed to do to get this story back on track, and to arabella_hope and rivers_bend for betaing and smoothing things out. The story is so much better thanks to their input and suggestions. *hugs* to all three of you. I hope y'all enjoy :) When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life. ~Antisthenes
"Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?"
Sam hears the concern in Dean's voice; hears the confusion and the uncertainty, and wishes he could do something, say something, to alleviate it. All he can do is hang on, hold tight and hope to absorb some of Dean into himself.
"Enough," he manages, finally, his voice more than a little rough with the hysteria he's barely kept at bay all these fuck, how many, he doesn't know, lost track so long ago what's the use in keeping count when he's all alone now months. "Wait. What do you remember?
"I remember you were pretty whacked out yesterday. I remember catching up with the Trickster. That's about it."
Thank God. Bad enough he remembers. And will never, ever forget. "Let's go."
"No breakfast?"
Sam forces his face into a small smile. "No breakfast."
"All right, I'll pack the car."
No. Jesus God, never again, please. Though Sam knows eventually he'll have to let Dean out of his sight, he's not planning on it being any time soon--and definitely not today. "Wait, you're not going anywhere alone."
"It's the parking lot, Sam." Dean's frowning at him, confusion etching a vee between his brows.
"Just--just trust me." Never going to let you go, Dean. I can't. I don't care what the Trickster thought he was trying to teach me.
Too long a pause, because Dean's frown deepens. "Hey, you don't look so good. Something else happen?"
Sam shakes his head. "Just had a really weird dream."
God, if only.
"Clowns or midgets?" Dean's face is open, his smile like a quick burst of warm sunlight before he ducks out the door.
Sam stares at the room, the bed, wonders if he's really awake and Dean's really alive, or if this is just the same dream, same day, same everything. Clowns would be welcome, actually.
He keeps it together by force of will until they're out of Florida, but crossing over the state line brings a sense of relief so profound Sam feels light-headed with it. It takes another hour to believe maybe this time he's really awake, and this is really real. Dean's alive beside him, humming along with Joan Jett, of all things, fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel.
"Sammy?"
"Mmm?"
"You okay?" The vee is back between Dean's eyebrows, and Sam blinks.
"Yeah--why?"
"I know I'm good lookin', dude, but you haven't stopped staring since we left the motel this morning. I got something on my face? Miss some soap or toothpaste, or something?"
Sam flushes. He's been watching Dean -- can't seem to look away God, just one time if I glance away he'll be gone, dead, it'll start all over again or I'll be completely alone again for months and months -- and he knows it, but he thought maybe Dean hadn't noticed.
As if.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and glances out the window as the Georgia landscape flies by.
The Trickster might've been trying to teach him a lesson, but what does an immortal God like a Trickster know of love? What does he -- it -- know about sacrifice, and want, and need? When has it ever needed someone like Sam needs Dean, and vice versa?
"Hey, you hungry? I'm starving." Dean's voice pulls Sam out of his thoughts, and when Sam glances at him, he's still tapping on the steering wheel, dividing his attention between the road and Sam. "Someone didn't let me have breakfast this morning."
I couldn't stand it if I had to watch you eat Pig-in-a-Poke again. Or choke on sausage. God, Dean.
"Sure, I could eat. Not a diner, though, huh?" Sam's pretty sure he's never going to be able to eat at a diner again. Ever. Especially not for breakfast. Probably never going to have tacos again, either. Or fish. Or let Dean have any of those.
Dean takes the first exit that has a Steak 'n' Shake, and Sam's kind of surprised to realize he actually is hungry. He feels like he's waking up for real for the first time in forever months and months and months, and for the first time in that long, he has an appetite. He doesn't remember the last time he ate something and actually tasted it--
--slice stab chew swallow start the process over again beef chicken pork bread vegetables oatmeal drink eight glasses of water need coffee coffee no time for fancy drinks Dean laughs laughed at him for slice stab chew swallow until the plate is clean.
"Earth to Sam." Dean's waving his hand in front of Sam's face, frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward. It's hard, but Sam wrenches his focus back from that dark place in his head and on his brother, close enough to him that Sam can feel/smell/see that he's alive, solid, right there with Sam. "Sam!"
"Huh?"
"You're sure you're okay? You been kind of…off…all morning." The driver's side door creaks a little as Dean gets out, and Sam is positive he can see Dean making a mental note to oil it, later.
"Yeah, no, I'm good. Just kinda--tired." Sam bumps against Dean as they walk into the restaurant, shoving down the urge to wrap his arms around him and hold on tight.
"Right. Midget and clown dreams." Dean doesn't look like he's buying it, but will let it go. "Uh. Sam. Personal space, dude?"
"Oh--sorry. Yeah." Sam backs up a millimeter or two and tries to ignore the voice screaming at him to get closer, closer, don't look away.
Not that it mattered at all in Florida. Dean died over and over while he watched. Died in his arms.
"You're not coming down with something, are you?"
Sam glances up from the menu, not remembering the hostess seating them. "What? No. I'm fine. Really."
"Uh-huh." Dean gives him another look, then a smile. "I think it's been forever since we ate at one of these. They have the most awesome shakes."
Sam doesn't know what to say to that, if anything needs to be said. Instead, he nods and tries to pretend he's actually more sane than he feels. Right now, he feels like he's teetering on the edge.
Dean goes back to reading the menu, lips moving as he scans it. Sam glances away, trying not to think of them bloodied; so many of the deaths Dean had were violent ones.
The paper placemat crumples in his fist, one sharp edge cutting into the side of Sam's finger. The brief sting brings him back to the here and now, in time to give his order to the waitress: double steakburger, pepperjack cheese, mustard and pickles, an order of onion rings, bowl of chili and a chocolate shake. He blinks when Dean snickers and tells the waitress just to double that order.
"Sure thing, sweetie. Y'all need anything else to drink? Tea, soda, water?" She's not pretty, but she has a sweet, honest face and eyes that look tired beneath the service-with-a-smile smile she's wearing.
"I'll have a glass of water please," Sam says, and Dean says, "a Coke for me," and she smiles once more and sashays away. It almost looks like she's moving in time to the oldies songs pumping out of unseen speakers.
"So you got any leads on a job?" Dean's leaning back against the vinyl booth, casual and relaxed, and Sam closes his eyes for a minute. It's been one day, for Dean. One short, over-and-done-with day.
"No," he manages finally, voice faint. "I, uh. Can we just take a day off? Drive a while longer, then stop for the night? We can look around for jobs tomorrow."
"Sam--" Whatever Dean's about to say is interrupted when the waitress appears with their drinks.
"Chili'll be up in a few minutes, boys." She smiles, distracted by the large party being seated right behind them. "I'll check back with you before then."
"Sure," Sam says, grabbing up his water. "Thanks."
Dean doesn't try to pick up the conversation again, though he throws puzzled and concerned looks at Sam every couple of minutes. Their food comes in fits and starts: bowls of chili first, burgers and onion rings next, shakes appearing when they're about halfway through. Sam closes his eyes and savors the food, but it's more than that. It's Dean, slurping noisily across from him, quiet grunts and wet sounds as he chews and swallows, enjoying his food as Dean almost always does.
Months of nothing but his own sounds, his own voice, just him. Months.
Sam's struck by the sudden realization that he's never going to be able to get close enough, long enough, to satisfy the need humming through him. It's like a tickle; he needs Dean -- needs to touch him, hold him, feel his heart thumping beneath Sam's palm and hear his breath whooshing in and out. That he's running out of time, knowing what the future without Dean looks like…feels like, makes pain shiver through him, a physical sensation he doesn't know how to block or stop.
"Something wrong with your burger, sweetie?" The waitress is back, giving Sam a puzzled look. Dean's looking at him like he wants to ask the same thing, and Sam shakes his head slowly.
"No, sorry. Just--no. It's fine."
Their waitress -- Marcy, her tag reads, and Sam wonders why it took him this long to notice -- nods. "I'll leave the ticket, but if there's anything else I can get for you, just let me know, okay, boys?"
"Will do." Dean gives her the patented melt-their-panties-off-of-'em smile and snags the ticket out of her hand. "Thanks, sweetheart." Another glance at Sam, and he asks, "do you want to stop here?"
"No." Sam definitely doesn't. There isn't enough highway yet between them and Florida. "Let's just--let's drive a while longer, okay?"
He crowds up behind Dean when they pay for their lunch, and shadows close behind him walking back to the Impala. Sticks like a burr to him when they stop to get gas, and again at the rest stop a couple hundred miles up the road. Sam doesn't need to use the bathroom, but he'll be damned if he lets Dean go anywhere he can't see him…and since he hasn't figured out how to see through bricks, well.
And if Dean grumbles about it, Sam doesn't care. Dean wasn't the one left behind over and over again.
They're on the north-west side of Birmingham before Sam feels like he can really, truly, breathe again. Before he starts believing maybe the nightmare is over, and Dean's not going to vanish if he turns away or blinks.
They've been on the road for over twelve hours, and the sun's just about down. It's that magical hour of twilight, when the night music begins: a chorus of frogs, crickets, whip-poor-wills and assorted other bugs and critters. Most of the time it soothes Sam; he has a lot of fond memories of twilight, stuck in this motel or that, or sometimes hanging out in a house or cabin if they were staying put for a while. It's a little early in the year yet for lightning bugs, but Sam remembers running around Bobby's yard with an old mayonnaise jar, holes already punched in the lid, just waiting for the bugs to come out. More distant memories provide him with Dean doing the same, showing him how to scoop them into the jar. Many nights at Bobby's they went to sleep with a jar of lightning bugs as a nightlight.
"You ready to stop for the night?" Dean is uncharacteristically gentle, his voice softer than Sam's heard it in a while. Don't think about how long you didn't hear it for. "Or do you want to drive a while longer?"
"Nah, this is good." Sam sighs. "I just--needed some distance between me and Florida."
"So I gathered." Dean glances at him, one eyebrow raised. "You gonna tell me what that was all about?"
Sam shakes his head. There's no way he can talk about it without losing the little bit of grip he's managed today.
"Wanna hit a bar, see about some pool with the locals?" Dean's obviously scanning the area as he drives, unerringly finding the area of town with no-tell motels and bars lining the streets, gaudy neon signs flashing half-lit "V can y" or some variation of it.
"Find a motel first. I wanna shower the road off."
"Good plan." Dean hums approvingly and soon enough is guiding the car into a parking lot with a sign that promises vacancies, and rooms-by-the-week with kitchenettes.
It takes everything Sam didn't know he had in him to let Dean into the bathroom alone, though he sneaks in under the pretense of needing a glass of water to plug the razor in while Dean's busy in the shower. And maybe he hovers right outside the door. Just until he hears the water go off.
His hands are shaking by the time Dean's finished showering and shaving, and Sam sends up a quick prayer that all this anxiety eases quickly, because Dean's starting to look at him like he's lost his mind completely.
He forgets how sneaky his brother can be, though, when he knows Sam's hiding something from him. That's his first mistake.
Mistake number two is letting Dean get the drinks and not paying attention to how many he's had. The tequila burns going down, but settles to a tempered warmth in his stomach that spreads out, loosening everything up. Before too long, Sam's feeling more relaxed than he has in ages. Relaxed enough to smile and raise his beer in salute when Dean clears the pool table for the second time.
By the time Dean slides into the booth beside him -- nice, but really unexpected -- Sam is pretty well on to drunk. Not so drunk he can't sit upright by himself, no. It's Dean's fault for being so warm and close -- close and warm and alive -- that makes Sam slump over so he's practically cuddling against Dean.
"You'd think a guy as big as you could hold his liquor better," Dean mutters, but he's relaxed against Sam, arm just brushing against the back of Sam's neck when he stretches it out along the back of the booth. "I know you been drinking long enough; I gave you your first booze."
"Mmm. Was nasty, too. Straight Jack. Thought I was gonna puke it right back up." Sam squints at Dean. "Wha' was I, fourteen?"
"Yeah." Dean snickers. "Got you drunk for your birthday. Dad was so pissed."
"Me too, next mornin'." Even now, more than halfway to plastered, Sam remembers that first hangover. "Hangover from hell," he says, the words soft and unformed in his mouth. "Wanted to die. Wanted to kill you." And, God. With those words, Sam goes rigid against Dean; feels Dean's arm move against him when he sighs.
"I know." Dean's fingers are light, gentle, ruffling the short hairs on the back of Sam's neck. A few minutes of careful petting makes Sam relax back against Dean's side, the alcohol buzzing through him until he feels boneless again. Dean's voice seems far, far away when he says softly, "You gotta talk about it some time, Sammy. It'll fester inside you, otherwise."
"Can't," Sam mutters. "Hurts too much. Y'were gone, and it hurt." Images flash through his mind: Dean dying from a gunshot. Hit by a car. Flattened by a desk. Choking on food. Slipping in the shower. Electrocuting himself. Dead by Sam's own hand, fighting over a stupid axe. He chokes on the bile rising in his throat and elbows Dean. "Move--gotta. Gonna--"
He makes it to the bathroom just in time to bring up everything in his stomach, retching until there's nothing left and all he can do is dry heave.
Dean's a solid, silent presence behind him while he heaves; afterward he hands Sam a damp paper towel to wipe his mouth and face on. When Sam's sure his stomach is reasonably settled, Dean guides Sam out of the bar and into the Impala.
"He lied," Sam says softly, when they're back inside the car. It's kind of funny in a way: the only place he ever feels safer than inside the car…is beside Dean. He'll blame Dean, and feeling safe, for the words that surge up and out without his permission. "Stupid lying son-of-a-bitch." The words are bitter, tinged with acid, burning his tongue. "Said it--it wouldn't happen again."
"The Trickster?" Dean's voice is soft; as gentle moving around Sam as his fingers were on the back of Sam's neck earlier.
"Yeah." Over and over and over. Like a carousel he couldn't get off from. The words want out now, and Sam's too tired and still too drunk to stop them. "Said he was teachin' me a lesson, wha' life would be like without you. That I couldn't save you, no matter what I did. An' I didn't know there were so many ways to die, and it kept going on and on. When I figured it out, he--I was ready to kill him. Had the stake and everything."
"Right." Dean nods, and Sam knows he remembers at least some of that. "But you didn't." The interior of the car is lit with the sodium lights from the parking lot; Dean's face is partially shadowed, one eye dark and hidden, but Sam sees the sadness there.
"No. He said if I couldn't take a joke then that was it, we'd be out of it, I'd be out of it and when I woke up it'd be tomorrow, I mean today--it'd be Wednesday. I said he was lying and I should kill him and he said no. That if he was lying, we'd know where to find him."
"But it is Wednesday."
Sam swallows hard, bile rising in his throat. "It's Wednesday--again," he says, coughing against the urge to hurl.
"Again? What? Wait--you gonna be sick again?" Dean tenses beside him, and Sam shakes his head roughly.
"No. I--no." He swallows over and over until he's sure he isn't, then raises his head to look at Dean. "The--the first time it was Wednesday, you--you died. Again. Went down to pack the car, and I dunno. I heard a gunshot and when I got downstairs, you were already--I couldn't--and I couldn't get my hands clean, Dean. No matter how many times I washed 'em, and your blood, it was, there was so much of it. Everywhere. And I didn't--I didn't wake up again. It didn't start over. It just. You were gone." Sam coughs once more, and gets the door open just a split second before the bile comes up again.
Dean rubs his back gently while he pukes, dry heaving until his stomach muscles ache. Over the sounds of his retching Sam hears, "s'okay, Sammy. It's okay. I'm here, I gotcha."
"Six months," Sam gasps around the bitter aftertaste. "You were dead, six months, an' I kept trying, I kept hunting, but I felt so fucking empty, like I was dead too--" He's not full-on sobbing or anything, but tears have lurked so close to the surface for so long, and like with the words he's too tired and too drunk to hold them back.
"Shhh. Sam. Sammy. It's okay, bro." Dean's hands are large and warm on Sam's face, cupping and stroking, wiping away tears and snot and spit with a bandana pulled from under the seat. "Let's get you to bed, okay? Think you're okay for the drive back to the motel?"
"Yeah." Sam closes his eyes and leans back against the seat, wishing the swirling images in his head would just go the fuck away.
It's quiet in the car; Dean switches the radio off as soon as he starts the engine. It's nice to hear the familiar hum and growl; Sam finds it almost as soothing as Dean does. He listens to the sound of the transmission shifting, wishing he could get lost in it.
"Sam." Dean's voice is soft, just a hint of a question, full of hesitation. "You said--you said it's Wednesday again?"
"He gave you back," Sam says, eyes still closed against the world. "I don't--I don't know why, but he did. When we, when I, got up this morning you were there and it was Wednesday again and the whole six months hadn't happened." Sam sighs and turns enough to see Dean when he opens his eyes. "But I can't forget 'em."
Dean reaches out and gives Sam's hair a gentle tug. "I'm sorry, dude."
He doesn't move his arm or hand, and its weight and heat are enough to help Sam relax for the remainder of the trip back to the motel.
Sam's dreams are fractured bits of the time still remembered in his head, and what he imagines will be Dean's fate if he can't find a way to save him.
He wakes well before dawn -- there isn't even the faintest hint of light around the edges of the curtains -- and for a split-second panic thumps through him wildly, spurred on by the dreams he had, sure that he's by himself in a motel room, that Dean is still dead and gone. It's only when Dean mutters something in his sleep and shifts, that Sam remembers Dean's alive, he's here, and the panic fades.
He turns on his side to watch Dean sleep, smiling a little at the sight. The only time his brother looks young and carefree is when he's sleeping; the years and weight of responsibility slide away to leave innocence and a sort of peace Dean hasn't known in decades. Not for the first time Sam regrets leaving, going to Stanford. He feels vaguely disloyal to Jess for that thought -- does, every time he thinks it -- but if he'd known then what he knows now--
--like, that he was going to lose his brother.
How much he needs his brother.
How much he loves his brother.
Dean wrinkles his forehead and smacks his lips before shifting and rolling over onto his stomach, a small snort of laughter following him. Sam smiles faintly, glad Dean's dreams are pleasant. One of them should enjoy sleep. Sam's not sure he's ever going to, again.
The headache he's been doggedly ignoring since waking up decides it's not going to be ignored any longer. Sam crawls out of bed and into the bathroom, leaving the door partially open. He doesn't want to wake Dean up, but his raging paranoia and anxiety need at least a nod toward them and that's the best he can do right now.
Dean's awake when Sam comes out of the bathroom, though he isn't up. He's sort of propped up against his pillows, arms folded across his chest.
"You get any sleep last night?" He still sounds sleepy, but not pissed like Sam would've expected, for being woke up at oh-dark-hundred.
"Little bit." At least his head doesn't hurt so bad any more. "Want breakfast?" His own stomach turns at the thought of food just yet, but Dean likes to eat pretty much first thing.
"Breakfast?" Dean looks and sounds amused. "Sammy--you got any idea what time it is?"
"Uh." It's hard to balance on one foot to pull shorts on when your balance is off due to hangover. Sam's just glad he doesn't topple over completely, because he would never get Dean to shut up about it. "No?"
"It's not even four, dude."
Oh. Well. That explains why it's still completely dark outside. Sam stares at his duffle like it holds all the answers to the questions he can't figure out how to ask, then glances at Dean. "Sorry?"
"No sweat." Dean shrugs, then pushes the covers back. "Gotta take a leak, don't go anywhere."
As if. Sam snorts, but his eyes follow Dean, track his movements into the bathroom. He tries to pretend he's not pathetically grateful when Dean leaves the door cracked open, but he isn't fooling anyone, least of all himself.
Judging from the sounds within, Dean brushes his teeth after using the can, but rather than coming out and getting dressed, he heads back to bed, sliding down under the covers. When he holds them up and raises an eyebrow, Sam frowns. "What?"
"C'mon. You might sleep better."
"You want me to--" God, when was the last time he and Dean shared a bed on purpose? Sam's not sure but he thinks he was probably twelve? Not much after that, in any case, other than the occasional shit-we're-short-on-money. "Uh."
"Look." Dean scowls, and sounds a little cross for the first time since--well, for the first time in a while. "Either get in or don't, but I'm going back to sleep for a while, and you should, too. It's too early to be up."
Sam watches Dean get himself settled, breathing evening out into a slow, steady rhythm before he manages to make himself move, and even then he hovers between the beds for several long moments before grabbing his pillow and sliding under the covers with Dean. Dean rolls to the side, making room for Sam, and mutters something that sounds like, "and no cuddling, bitch."
Sam's almost asleep when Dean shifts beside him, snugging up against Sam's back, and sliding one arm over, palm resting over Sam's belly.
Sam can't remember the last time he felt so safe -- never? -- and he slides into a deep, dreamless sleep, Dean a welcome heat against him.
Wakefulness comes in slow, lazy stages. Sam's warm, held close and snug. There's hard heat held close to him; being pressed gently against his thigh in a lazy, rhythmic motion. All around him is the scent of soap and sweat, faint traces of aftershave and cologne. Sam leans in toward the warmth and nuzzles, lips stinging pleasantly when they're scored by whiskers.
"Mmmm." Dean's voice, not words so much as a low, rumbling purr. Sam smiles against Dean's throat and nuzzles again, kissing up to his jaw. The heat pressed against him becomes solid and thick, throbbing gently when Dean shifts forward and back. "Sammy--"
The rest of whatever he was going to say is swallowed when Sam brushes his mouth over Dean's, tongue teasing along Dean's lips. It's wonderful, perfect, Dean's so close and Sam can touch him, he's alive and real--
They spring apart at pretty much the exact moment, staring at one another like they've never seen each other before. Dean coughs, and Sam's sure he's going to spontaneously combust, based on how hot his face feels, and wow, this isn't awkward at all.
Sam licks his lips, and oh, bad idea, because he still tastes Dean there. "I, uh. Um."
Dean nods. "Yeah. I. Me, too." He rolls away from Sam and out of bed, staggering once as he gains his footing before disappearing into the bathroom.
Sam watches him go and wonders what just happened.
Wonders when his response to waking up kissing his brother was disappointment that it didn't last longer, or go further, rather than what the fuck just happened here?. He doesn't really have an answer for himself, either.
By mutual, unspoken agreement, they don't talk about it. Not once over breakfast; not while Dean pours over the local newspaper and Sam surfs around his sources online. But every so often Sam will look up, glance over at Dean, and catch his brother watching him. Studying him.
Sam watches, too. Studies Dean when Dean's focused on his newspaper. Notes the faint flush of color along his cheekbones, and the whiskers catching the light here and there. Sam's lips sting with the memory of stubble chafing, and he licks them, remembering the warm, salty flavor of Dean's skin.
"Hey." Dean's hand is warm on Sam's arm, pulling him back from his thoughts. "I'm here, and I'm not goin' anywhere, Sam." Dean sounds gruff, but not mean. Not teasing, though a part of Sam wishes he would. Wishes there was some way for him to forget the last however long days days days months forever.
"You will if I can't figure out--how to stop this. Your deal."
"You will. I know if--I know you will." The unspoken if there's any way to do it, you will hangs in the air and Sam swallows, opens his mouth to say something, anything, except Dean's not done. "I want some lunch. You?"
"Not really hungry," Sam murmurs. "If you want something, though, we can go--"
"I can run to McDonalds by myself, dude. You don't need--I promise nothin's gonna happen." Dean squeezes Sam's arm once and lets go.
"You can't know that. Dean. I just--you--"
"I do know that. The whole thing with the Trickster, it's over. You said he's gone, we're back…in synch with time, or whatever, we ain't hunting anything, so there's no reason I can't go get a couple burgers and come back. Just like any other day."
Except it's not just like any other day, but Sam doesn't know how to express the way terror floods his body at the thought of letting Dean out of his sight for even ten minutes.
"Okay, yeah," he says finally. "Go, uh, get lunch. Get me an ice tea, wouldja?" He can do this. He has to do this.
"Sure." Dean's on his feet, keys jangling in his hand like he needs to hurry, before Sam changes his mind. "I'll be right back, and I got my phone, Sam. Okay?"
Sam nods and sternly tells himself to get a fucking grip.
He wishes it was that easy.
On to Part Two
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-03-02 06:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-04 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-04 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-17 06:08 pm (UTC)I have had it up on a tab ever since you posted it to sn_slash and it popped up on my friendslist... I finally read it! Now for part 2 because part 1 was sooooooooooooo awesome and I grinned AND -wibble-'d through it.
-runs off to part two and hopes it doesnt take her this long again to read this-
no subject
Date: 2009-07-08 07:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-28 03:46 pm (UTC)This is beautiful though; can't wait to read part II. ^^
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Date: 2010-03-02 02:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-11 02:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-29 01:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 04:31 am (UTC)I enjoy your writing style.
I loved the fic (and the title, and the quote by the unknown author ;).
It was beautiful. You can feel the love, the need...
The flashback to their childhood was adorable.
Can't wait to read part 2. Thank you for sharing :)