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Another shot of tequila burns his throat on its way down and spreads warmth in his stomach as it settles there. It feels good: the burn, the warmth. The oblivion it provides when he drinks enough, but he hasn’t drank nearly enough, not yet. It is still there, the feeling. The feeling he hates more than anything, and it refuses to go away.
Sam Winchester has always been logical. He doesn’t act on impulses, is rarely spontaneous. But this feeling is out of control. He simply can’t control it, doesn’t know what to do with it. Oh well, he does know what he should do; nothing, absolutely nothing, but it’s never that easy and no matter how hard he tries, the feeling doesn’t go away and it’s driving him insane.
He doesn’t remember when it all started. Well, he has a clue, but he prefers to stay in self-denial. It’s so much easier that way.
He downs another shot of burning amber liquor and sighs. He thinks about his brother, even when Dean is the last thing he wants to think of right now. Sam has always been honest to himself, honest to others. Lately he has not been, one way or another. Maybe it is time for a little honesty; at least for himself because come Hell or high water, Sam knows he can never be honest about this to his brother. Not about this.
It probably started when Sam was thirteen, maybe twelve, maybe even younger. The way he looked up to Dean and wanted to be like him; wanted to be him. Sam never looked up to his father like he did to his brother. Dad was never there.
Dean was always there.
Maybe that was the problem to begin with.
Sam feels like such a phony. All his life he has wanted to think of himself as the ‘normal’ one of this family, but now, along these feelings he has been forced to consider the fact if his quest towards normalcy has been just a desperate attempt to escape who he really is. Just a pathetic play he set for himself because it’s so much easier to lie than face the truth. And lying to yourself is even more pathetic than lying to others.
The more Sam drinks, the easier it gets to be honest. Dean was his hero when Sam grew up. Always was, still is. And there lies the problem. When they were younger, it was simple hero-worshiping from the younger brother towards the older one, but they’re not kids anymore, and Sam’s worshiping towards Dean has nothing to do with heroism. It’s something else.
Deeper, darker, sick.
It’s anything but normal, and Sam has absolutely no clue how to deal with it. So he drinks like the bottle of tequila could provide him some answers, when in fact it makes everything even blurrier, even more complicated, and the oblivion he came here to achieve is not coming.
He should have known this.
He has always told his brother that drinking doesn’t solve any problems and now he feels like a total hypocrite, even when he managed to prove his point; it really doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s a hypocrite and has been for years now. He pretends to be normal, when deep down inside he’s nothing but. If Dean only knew…
Thankfully he doesn’t. As far as Sam knows, his brother hasn’t had a clue, and that is just fine. More than fine, since Sam has absolutely no idea what he would do if Dean ever found out. Even the thought alone is so scary Sam doesn’t even want to think about it.
Sometimes Sam wonders this whole thing from a psychological point of view. He has been reading, has been studying things that have absolutely nothing to do with hunting or the research he usually does. He has been studying himself, doing research of himself to understand this better. Questions are ‘why’, ‘when’ and ‘how’. And he has found some answers, usually browsing the net during the dark hours of night when Dean is asleep, because if Dean saw what he’s reading… Sam has no idea how he could explain that. But the answers are there.
The absence of a parental figure: usually the father. It fits. Dad had always been absent, even when he was right there. Sam lost his mother when he was just six months old, so in fact he hasn’t had any parental figure at all. His brother practically raised him, but Sam has never thought of Dean as some kind of substitute for a father figure. Dean was just a kid too, and all they had were each other. Talk about dysfunctional families…
But it explains the almost unnatural bond they share with each other, but Sam knows that from his side the bond has grown too strong. It’s not healthy anymore. Sam would die for his brother, but that’s not what makes it unhealthy, because Dean would do the same for him. Has done already.
Sam is either not co-depended of his brother, no. That would be just too easy. Oh no, the reason that makes Sam’s bond to Dean unhealthy is something so much worse.
Sam brings the shot glass to his lips and only then realizes it’s empty. He orders another one and lets the liquid fire burn away his inner sins, his unhealthy thoughts, everything. The bar is smoke-dim and smells like old wood, booze and leather, and Sam curses under his breath because Dean too smells like leather. And gun oil and something unqualified that is simply Dean. Sam doesn’t need another reminder of Dean; he came here to forget about him.
So instead of his brother Sam thinks about Jess, sweet Jess. Jess, who made him feel almost normal during those few precious years. Sam is thankful for that, but at the same time he feels guilty as hell. If he would have been honest about who he truly was, Jess could still be alive. He doesn’t mean being honest about hunting, the way he was raised like a warrior, about the life he swore to leave behind. If he would have been honest about Dean and the real reason why he left his family and ran to California, Jess would never had wanted him, they wouldn’t have started dating. They wouldn’t have rented apartment together, and Jess would not have died. It was all because of Sam. Jess died because Sam lied to her, even when technically he didn’t, but leaving things unsaid, things she had a right to know was just as same as if Sam would have lied straight in to her face. The secrets he kept killed one of the most important person in his life, and nothing, absolutely nothing Sam does or doesn’t do can ever make that up. If he could go back in time he would do things differently He would be honest, to himself and to Jess. Jess deserved so much more than Sam could ever give her.
“You miss him.” Jess once said and Sam looked at her like he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Your brother.” She continued, but Sam just laughed and said something about burnt bridges before quickly changing the subject. Jess left it at that, but Sam noticed how she sometimes looked at him, like she knew, even when she possibly couldn’t.
The truth is so absurd and grotesque that probably no one would even want to think about it, or try to guess what goes on inside Sam’s head. Not to even mention that the whole concept is so wrong, so forbidden, a taboo—Even if someone knew, they probably would keep quiet about it. Some things are not to talk about out loud. Sam’s sin is one of them.
*
It’s three in the morning when Sam stumbles back to the motel room – their motel room, and Dean is still awake, watching some old black and white horror movie. The volume is low and in the dim light of the TV-screen the room looks weird, colorless, like they are in their own little horror film. And it’s true, at least for Sam. He is a monster, and Dean has no idea that he’s the prey.
Sam wants to ask him things, many things, like how can’t Dean see what this does to them? The close proximity, the intimacy, being so fucking close to each other day after day, night after night?? It doesn’t seem to bother Dean. It most likely wouldn’t bother Sam either if he were normal.
Normal.
How does one define normal anyway? By the norms? Norms are set by the society, by the majority of people. How many of them can call themselves normal? Sam knows that he and his brother have never fit into that description, the way they have been raised and the way that they live. And what about animal instincts, so suppressed in the world today. Wolves mate for life. Or was it swans…?
Sam knows he’s drunk. He knows that his thoughts don’t make any sense at this point, and he knows he should just shut up and go to sleep.
“How can ya live like this?” He slurs at Dean who looks up at him, puzzled.
“What do you mean?” He asks, but Sam has already started his next question: “Doesn’t this bother you?”
“What do you mean, ‘this’?”
“This!” Sam spreads his arms to point around the room like it would explain everything, and even when he knows that his brother can’t understand what he means it still angers him that Dean doesn’t.
“Dude, you’re drunk.” Dean points out rather unnecessarily. “Go to bed. Sleep it off.”
“I killed Jess…” Sam says quietly, sitting down on his bed. “I killed her…”
“Sam…” Dean’s voice is patient and comforting and Sam hates it. “You gotta stop blaming yourself. There was nothing you could’ve done.”
“You’re wrong.” Sam sneers and smiles a little but it’s more like a grimace. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong. I should have told her.”
“About hunting?” Dean raises a brow. “About what’s really out there? Man, she wouldn’t have believed you anyway. Or maybe she would’ve, but that wouldn’t have changed anything. Yellow eyes was after you. You know that, Sam.”
“You don’t understand…” Sam mutters and Dean huffs, which is quite uncharacteristic for him. “Then why don’t you explain it to me.”
Sam covers his face with his palms, and the gesture suggests despair and exhaustion. Finally he looks back at Dean, no matter how hard it is; how hard it is to see Dean. His bother. His mentor. His everything.
“It had nothing to do with hunting”, Sam finally says, “I just… I should’ve told her who I really was. Who I really am.”
Dean sighs. “Dude, you’re not making any sense.”
“I know.” Tiredly. “ You could never understand.”
“Why won’t you just tell me!?” Dean’s patience is running out. “Just tell me for Christ’s sake!”
Sam opens his mouth and closes it again. His eyes look moist, but Dean can’t be sure if Sam is on the edge of tears or if it’s just the alcohol. Sam’s eyes seem to glow every time he drinks, and that doesn’t happen very often. Tonight he has drank a lot more than usually, and that alone sets alarm bells ringing inside Dean’s head. Still, he doesn’t say anything, just waits for Sam to continue.
“I’m sick.” Sam finally says, voice full of self loathing and Dean is starting to feel uneasy. “Dean, I’m fucking sick.”
Dean clears his throat. “What do you mean?” His voice is small and choked, like he really doesn’t want to know but still has to ask. “Like… physically?”
Sam laughs, hard and harsh, and although it doesn’t happen very often, right now Dean finds his brother’s behavior so unlike Sam that it makes him worried.
“No, Dean.” Sam says Dean’s name like it’s a curse. “Not physically. Mentally. I’m a goddamn freak!”
“You’re not a freak.” Dean tries but Sam interrupts him: “You can’t say that. You have no idea!”
“Then tell me.”
And suddenly Sam looks vulnerable, like he could break down any second, and it’s amazing how a guy who’s over six feet tall can all the sudden look so small.
“I can’t.” Sam’s voice sounds like he is in pain. And he is. All these feelings, emotions and contradictions are skinning him alive and he’s scared, because one of these days when this thing has stripped the flesh off his bones, Dean will see what’s really inside, and then Dean will hate him.
Sam’s vision is swimming in and out of focus and he falls back first to bed. Some part of his drunken brain acknowledges that talking will not solve this, especially when Sam can’t talk. Not honestly anyway, because that would lead to a disaster, and then Dean would loath him and Sam just couldn’t handle that. He needs Dean. His brother, his mentor, his everything.
*
Sam can’t concentrate and it backfires at him. On their next hunt he nearly gets himself killed because he’s out of focus, out of balance. When they get back to the motel, Dean yells at him. Sam doesn’t really mind, it’s what Dean does when something scares the crap out of him.
After that Dean tries to talk to him, asks what’s wrong, but Sam doesn’t answer him. Not honestly anyway. Sam may not understand it, but Dean is trying to get through to him because his greatest fear is losing Sam. Sam doesn’t talk because if he really told what’s bothering him, Dean would think he’s sick, and Sam’s greatest fear is losing Dean.
They are running around in circles. Day after day, night after night.
*
Sam starts having dreams. About the past, and after a while he’s not sure if they really are dreams or memories or just a product of his imagination.
After a while the dreams, or whatever they are, turn into memories; memories when Dad was still alive and Sam hadn’t left to college. He remembers how awkward it felt to sleep in the same bed with Dean because he was sixteen and Dean was twenty and they were way too old to share a bed. It didn’t happen often, but that time the motel had been full, they were all exhausted and needed a place to crash for the night. So Dad had taken the only room available, and there were only two beds. John took the other one, Dean and Sam shared the other.
Sam was laying on his side and Dean’s presence was so strong. Dean was just inches away, and Sam knew that if he moved just a bit, his back would connect with Dean’s chest. At that time he didn’t really know why he did it, but he moved, closed those few inches between them and pressed his body against his brother’s.
Dean pretended to be a sleep even when Sam knew he wasn’t, but Sam acted like he didn’t know that and pretended to be asleep as well. Sam kept his eyes closed even when Dean pressed himself closer to Sam, tight against him, and Sam could feel that Dean was hard. Then Dean started moving against him; small, shallow moves, his hips against Sam’s ass, and still they both pretended to be asleep. After a while Sam felt Dean’s body going rigid, heard a soft gasp, and then sticky warmth spread between them. Dean brushed his lips against Sam’s neck and whispered: “It’s okay…” so quietly it was hardly audible.
They never talked about it. Now Sam doesn’t know what to think of it. What did it mean, or did it mean anything at all? He doesn’t know and he’s scared to ask. So he doesn’t. But it doesn’t stop the old memories reaching the surface of Sam’s mind.
Like that one time when Dad was in Michigan and they had no idea when he would be coming back. Dean wanted to spar, so they did. Dean had more muscle mass and was still slightly taller than Sam. Sam put on a hell of a fight, but it didn’t take long before he found himself lying on his back on the floor, Dean on top of him, and suddenly everything was just… silent. Dean kept looking at him, and Sam looked back. Then Dean bent down, just a little bit. Their lips didn’t even touch, but Sam felt his brother’s hot breath against his mouth as Dean whispered just one word. Sammy.
After that Dean was like paralyzed for few seconds before he got up faster than Sam had ever seen, rushed into the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind him and locked it.
Sam was confused.
Yeah. Maybe those were the moments when their brotherly bond turned into something entirely different, at least for Sam.
*
Sam is consumed by his memories. Or are they still just dreams or fantasies? It doesn’t matter, because no matter what they are, Sam is still out of focus, maybe more than ever. During their next hunt a vicious spirit almost guts Sam but he dodges at the last second and the spirit’s claws only tear his shoulder open. Back at the motel Dean doesn’t say anything, just digs a first aid kit from his duffel, and takes out a needle, string and disinfections. And it’s million times worse than if Dean would just yell at him, just get it out of his system, because yelling Sam can take. It’s these icy silences that make him want to die.
“Take your shirt of.” Dean says quietly. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
Sam doesn’t move a muscle. His shirt is soaked with blood, but he still doesn’t want Dean to see him like that. Vulnerable. Naked. Weak.
“Come on, we don’t have all night.” Dean says but doesn’t sound irritated. Sam sighs and starts removing his shirt, grimacing when the partially dried blood makes the fabric stick into the wound. Finally he manages to take the shirt of, and Dean sits down next to him on the bed.
Dean is too close.
“I’d say this will hurt”, Dean smiles a little, “but you already know that.”
Sam watches as his brother sets the needle and the string before disinfecting the wound with something that feels like liquid fire and makes Sam’s eyes water though he doesn’t make a sound.
“It’s not that bad.” Dean looks at the wound. “Six, seven stitches and that’s it.”
Everything changes when Dean takes a hold of Sam’s bicep, and Sam shudders.
“What is it?” Dean asks, worried.
“Don’t touch me.” Sam says with a small voice. “Just please don’t touch me now.”
Dean looks worried. “Sam. What’s wrong?”
Sam wants to laugh. What’s wrong?? Aside the fact that the small skin on skin touch they had shared made Sam feel like his whole body was on fire? Nothing… Absolutely nothing.
“I can stitch myself.” Sam says with as calm voice as he can manage. “Gimme those.”
Dean gives him the needle and the other supplies, and Sam starts working, stitching himself without any local anesthesia, not even the whiskey Dean tries to offer him. He needs this pain, needs it to take his mind off other things. Off Dean who doesn’t go anywhere, just sits on the bed next to Sam, watching him. Blood is floating down Sam’s arm; it colors his skin dark red and some of it even drops down on his jeans. Twenty minutes after pain-indulged oblivion he’s done, tightens the last stitch and closes his eyes.
“Why won’t you let me touch you?” Dean asks quietly. Sam doesn’t open his eyes, just sits there.
“You remember.” Dean simply says. “What I did to you… when we were just…” He can’t complete the sentence.
“I remember.” Sam whispers, eyes still closed.
“I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam opens his eyes. “You should be.”
“I…” Dean stutters. “It was like I couldn’t control myself. I hurt you. And I’m so sorry, you gotta believe me.” Dean’s eyes are desperate.
“You didn’t hurt me.” Sam says with a blank voice. “Not then. After, yes.”
“What do you mean?” Dean is confused.
Sam smiles bitterly. “After showing me what it could be like… you just took it all away.”
Dean looks like someone have just hit him. “Sam. I made a promise to Mom. I made a promise to Dad. Always take care of you, to protect you, even if it means that I have to protect you from myself.”
“Whatever.” Sam says and gets up, walks to the bathroom to wash the blood off of him and locks the door behind him.
*
When Sam comes back from the bathroom, all fresh and clean, few Tylenols numbing the pain, he finds Dean waiting for him by the doorframe.
“Shut up.” Dean simply says and pushes Sam gently against the wall, careful with the stitches. Then his lips are on Sam’s, touching, tasting, testing. Sam squeezes his eyes shut; this can’t be real. This is just another one of his fantasies and it will end any second now. But it doesn’t end, instead Sam feels the tip of Dean’s tongue gently pressing against his lips, and Sam is too weak to resist; he opens his mouth and lets Dean in. Dean tastes exactly like Sam has imagined; dreamed. His tongue is exploring Sam’s mouth, then nipping his lips before licking them, and then his tongue is inside of Sam’s mouth again and Sam is lost, he’s lost in his brother and the mouth that devours his own.
After a while Dean pulls apart. “Open your eyes, Sammy.”
Sam is scared; afraid that the spell might break and he would be here alone, in his bed, and all this would be just a dream. But when he opens his eyes, Dean is looking at his hazel ones, smiling a little. Then he turns serious and Sam feels a slight worry inside of him.
“If we’re gonna do this”, Dean starts, “ I wanna take it slow. Okay, Sammy?”
Sam can only nod.
“Good.” Dean smiles again. “Why don’t we continue from where we left when you were sixteen?” Dean grins. “The bed is big enough for the both of us. Wanna climb in?”
Sam doesn’t need to be told twice.
-FIN-