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All of the words we said
we can’t take back
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It was the hunt, the hunt that did this to him. It was the violence and the death and the desperate need to feel alive. Sam could accept it. Sam even wanted it for himself, but that didn’t stop the searing ache when Dean would slip his hand lower on her back and guide her out of the bar. Understanding that Dean sometimes needed to show Dad that he was still a man didn’t make Sam feel any less lonely when he returned to the motel alone and lay down alone and went to sleep alone. And seeing Dean’s just-laid grin and smelling Dean’s just-come scent when he finally returned certainly wouldn’t turn Sammy’s tears into smiles.
He pretended to be sleeping when Dad came in and silently prepared for bed. He did the same when Dean came in. The shower running was obscenely loud. He lay and listened to the sound of the water washing away the visible dirt, but never the emotional scars. He kept his eyes squeezed shut when Dean whispered his name, when he knelt beside him and ran a thumb over his mouth. He didn’t move when the mattress shifted under the added weight and Dean’s form filled the empty void on the other side of the bed.
And then, “Sammy?”
Dean’s voice was soft, barely audible, immediately swallowed by the thick Alabama heat. He smelled of soap and shampoo and Dean. His touch was temporary – a brief press of fingers along Sam’s side. His breath came in relaxed puffs against Sammy’s neck. He was too close but it wasn’t close enough.
“I know you’re awake.”
The tears that flowed weren’t new. They were ancient, broken tears that mixed into the time-old sea of pain and anguish. He felt them burn in his eyes, and slide salty paths down his skin. He felt his chest tighten against the urge to sob – to breathe, he just wanted to breathe – but Sam was stubborn.
He wasn’t going to give in when Dean put his strong arm over him. He wasn’t going to give in when he splayed his fingers over his chest, spooning him back and against his body. His resolve wasn’t going to crack just because Dean was moulded against him and running butterfly kisses behind his ear and down his neck. And he certainly would not falter just because Dean was whispering his name and trembling behind him, and wetting his neck with tears of his own.
But when Dean went silent and rolled over on to his side of the bed, when the warmth of his body was replaced by empty space, Sammy knew it was over. Still feeling his own damp tears lingering on his face, he turned.
Dean was staring at the ceiling. His chest was heaving with sobs that caught and died before being sounded. And his hand closed automatically over Sam’s when he scooted closer to his brother. He let Sammy half roll him back towards him until they were almost face to face.
“Sammy,” he whispered as Sam laid his head on Dean’s chest, when their hands folded together and their legs tangled. “Sammy,” he mumbled when Sam pressed a kiss through the fabric of his t-shirt. “Sam.”
“Sh,” Sam answered. Right now was not the time for talking. There was never time for talking, not for the Winchesters. There was never anything to be said. Just hot touches when they were alone, and quiet cuddling when Dad couldn’t see. Just this. Just the present moment.
Sam felt Dean’s hand come up and rest in his hair, felt Dean’s heartbeat slow as he drifted into sleep. Dad would be the first one awake but by that time the boys would have shifted. Dean would have rolled to his front to lay with his hand under the pillow. Sam would have rolled to the other side of the bed to let his hand hang off. And only Sam would ever know how much his heart was breaking.
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A thousand lost forevers
And the promises
You never were giving me