Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1491880.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Collections:
      Kamikaze_Remix_2009
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-20 Words: 1913
****** And Underneath It All Is Love (The Tear Down Your Walls Remix) ******
by Marcia_Elena_(marciaelena)
Summary
     What's true never changes.
Notes
     This story kicked my ass. It did not want to come to me until one day
     before the deadline, and I had to wrestle my muse for each and every
     word. So I'm a little worried about the end result; it's possible
     that it turned out being too loose an interpretation of the original
     basic premise. My apologies to the original author if that's a
     disappointment.
     Probable shmoop. Also wee!cest; though their ages aren't specified in
     the story, in my mind Sam is 16 in the one sex scene I wrote.
  This work was inspired by
      If_These_Walls_Could_Talk by missyjack
Dean can still remember their house in Lawrence. Not as it was when they helped
Jenny and her children (the second floor rebuilt and the walls repainted) but
the house as it used to be. Once, long ago, before the fire. Before their
mother burned, before fear and monsters and salt and scars.
Not before Sammy, though. There are no memories before that. As if Dean's life
didn't really start until Sam was a part of his world. As if nothing had made
enough sense before he knew he was going to be a big brother.
Dean's earliest memory is of sunshine coming in through the kitchen windows.
Sunshine, golden-yellow and warm (and everything he remembers from that time is
tinged that color) glowing in Mary's hair, streaming down her neck and arms
like water. Her hands rubbing up and down her pregnant belly as she told Dean
about his baby brother. Not quite there yet, but soon.
He remembers sitting on the floor as he covered the walls with drawings, his
crayons scattered next to him, a rainbow at his fingertips. Brown and green
were for the trees and ground and grass, yellow for the sun. Sensible colors
for a sensible world. The blue was for the sky, worn down to nothing because
Dean was always trying to draw it as big and tall as it looked. The black was
of course for Daddy's car, and there were flowers too because Mommy liked them,
pretty purple ones, even though Dean had wanted to draw purple dinosaurs
instead. The orange he used to draw Mommy and Daddy with, himself and baby
Sammy; barely more than stick figures, but when Mary smiled at him, indulgent,
affectionate, Dean was sure that this was his best drawing yet; even better
than the race cars that were usually his favorite, big-wheeled and happy-
colored, chasing each other endlessly around the kitchen walls.
"Even when you're all grown up," he remembers Mary telling him as she looked at
his drawing, "your family will still love you more than anything else."
The red crayon had rolled away from him, nearly under the fridge, and after
Dean scrambled to get it, he drew a heart around Mommy and Daddy, then another
one around himself and baby Sammy.
"This much?" he asked his mother, rubbing his nose and coming to stand next to
where she was sitting at the kitchen table.
"This much and more," Mary said, stroking his hair. And Dean leaned into her
and closed his eyes as she hugged him, feeling the baby kick inside her belly
as he hugged her back.
Sometimes, Dean almost convinces himself that he can still remember how warm
and soft his mother had felt.
*
His bed had been warm and soft too. Cozy, safe, Mary's goodnight kiss still
lingering against his forehead when her scream woke Dean up the night of the
fire.
What Dean remembers the most is the heat. Not really the fire itself; not that
first time. (Not like when Jessica burned.) Heat shimmering like a wall between
him and Sammy's nursery as he stood in the hallway calling for his mother. He
remembers the urgency in his father's voice, the baby's weight as he was
pressed into his shaking arms.
He wasn't supposed to run on the stairs. Mommy and Daddy were always telling
him to be careful. With the stairs, and with the baby. But Dean ran anyway,
hurried through the dark house, burst out panting and wide-eyed into the night,
clutching Sammy tight to him.
Later, after the shouts of the firemen and the curious stares of the neighbors,
after Daddy's incomprehensible words (Mommy's gone) Dean's world slowed down to
a near halt for a while. There'd been a long trembling pause (days, weeks) when
he didn't speak, didn't draw any pictures, didn't have Mommy's arms around him
anymore (She's not coming back) and, most of the time, not Daddy's either.
Daddy had smelled like whiskey all the time then. Mommy had never liked it when
Daddy smelled like that, and Dean found that he didn't like it much either.
Sammy would cry constantly, as if letting Dean know he was missing Mommy too.
So Dean would hold his baby brother (Daddy was too sad) and whisper words that
were barely audible, meant for Sam alone. He'd curl around Sam as they slept,
shielding him with his body, his love, his will. The only things Dean had to
offer him.
And it's funny. Remembering it, Dean would laugh if it didn't hurt so much.
Funny how, even so many years later, those are still the only things he has to
protect his brother with.
*
All he has to give is himself, and they're pressed tight together, Sam's chest
to Dean's back, Sam's cock buried up to the balls inside him, Sam's hand
cupping and stroking him, Sam's lips against his neck, against his ear. Sam's
breaths, Sam's scent, Sam's thrusts; it's all Dean knows, all Dean wants. The
only thing keeping Dean upright is the wall Sam is fucking him into, Dean's
cheek rubbing against it, Dean's hands splayed wide against the ugly wallpaper.
His fingers twitch wanting to touch his brother, but Sam feels too good inside
him and Dean doesn't really want to move unless it's to rock back to grind
against Sam. He's so close already, so close; Sam is pure heat, sweet and
hungry, enveloping Dean completely, and Dean is helpless against it. He
surrenders himself, answering with heat of his own, staining the wall and his
brother's fingers with slick-wet spurts as he comes, Sam's name on his lips,
Sam's moans vibrating against him as his brother follows, spilling himself into
Dean.
There's cum running down the wall when they pull away from it, but they don't
bother cleaning it up. They've left so much of their blood everywhere they've
been, on walls and sheets and tiles, grass and asphalt, the Impala's
upholstery. Their life ebbing away, a trickle/rush at a time. This at least is
joy instead of pain.
When they were kids, for a long time it'd been shadow puppets on the walls
instead. When they'd had no TV to pass the time, no new comic books, nothing to
distract them from loneliness and empty stomachs while they waited for John to
return from one of his hunts, Dean would make their motel room walls come alive
with birds and elephants and horses for Sammy's amusement. Just a well-placed
lamp and Dean's clever hands had been enough to make Sam smile.
They fall in bed together now, and Dean finally touches his brother, running
his hands all over Sam's body. His fingertips trail over each angle and plane,
tracing careful (hopeful) dreams into Sam's skin. And when Sam smiles into his
kiss, Dean's glad that he still knows how to keep his brother happy.
*
Neither of them is smiling when Sam leaves for Stanford. John's angry words
hang too heavy and solid between them as Dean drops Sam off at the bus station;
yet Dean can't bring himself to turn the car around and go without saying
goodbye.
"Take care, Sammy," he whispers, the words choking him, his insides clenched
tight. "I hope you find what you're lookin' for."
"Dean," Sam tries, reaching for him. But Dean shakes his head and pulls back as
far as he can, twisting away from Sam; doesn't move or flinch when he tries to
press himself flat against the door and the handle digs awkwardly into his
side.
"Just go," he says, closing his eyes, gripping the steering wheel tight. Dean
thinks Sam might be crying as he gets out of the car, but he forces himself not
to look. He can't.
Driving back to his father, going in the opposite direction that Sam's heading
in for the first time in his life, Dean starts to painstakingly build a wall
around his heart, swearing to himself that he's never letting Sam that deep
inside him again.
*
But he is. Sam. So deep inside Dean, a bright, aching thing that he never stops
feeling, pulsing in his blood, shuddering in his every breath.
My weakness, Dean keeps telling himself. Over and over, even (especially) after
Sam's back in his life.
"You're my weakness, Sammy," he keeps telling his brother, again and again and
again.
It takes too long (so long) for Dean to realize that what they've always been
is each other's strength.
*
They're driving down a dusty road. Just the two of them, no one else for miles,
hours. The sun is setting behind them, a blazing orange orb slowly painting the
sky in deepening shades of blue and purple. The field of wheat on both sides of
the road stretches far and wide, yellow turned into gold by the light.
This could be any road. It could be anywhere, anywhen, space and time turned
meaningless because they're together. The ground under the Impala's wheels, the
wind coming in through their rolled-down windows, the comfortable silence
between them, it all feels familiar, even though Dean's pretty sure he's never
lived this exact moment before.
Sam is familiar beside him; it's been like this for a while now (months, years)
and on days like this one Dean has no doubts about anything. He and his brother
won't be going anywhere without the other ever again.
His brother. Dean steals glances at him, smiles with contentment when Sam
glances back at him and rests his hand on his thigh. His thumb rubs against
Dean's jean-clad knee, and he smiles at Dean too before turning his face to
look out his window again.
"Pull over," Sam says after a moment. Relaxed. Easy.
Dean cuts his gaze to him, raising an eyebrow. "Why, you gotta pee or
somethin'?"
Sam huffs out an amused sound, more a breath than laughter. "Just pull over,
Dean," he says again, giving Dean's thigh a squeeze before moving his hand
away. Offering Dean only a smile as explanation.
Dean rolls his eyes, but he shrugs and does as Sam's asking. Steps out of the
car when Sam does, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs even if he isn't
saying so.
There's nothing out here. No one else. Just the road and the field and the sky,
going on and on and on, everything open wide, so wide that Dean can hardly
breathe for an instant as he looks up into that vast distance. And when Sam
comes around the car and steps into Dean's space, reaching for him, Dean goes
without a fight. Sam's hands come up to cup Dean's face, and Dean opens his
mouth under his brother's and lets him in, his hands fisted in Sam's jacket.
Pulling him close, closer, deeper in as Dean opens his whole self up to him,
wider than the sky.
No one will ever love you more, Dean thinks, kissing that certainty into his
brother. No one else I could ever love this much.
It's dark already by the time they get back in the car. Dean lets Sam drive,
and as he dozes off in the passenger seat, he dreams about their house in
Lawrence. The rooms as they'd once been, his toys, the pictures on the walls.
John and Mary and sunlight coming in through the kitchen windows.
He dreams about Sam, safe in the knowledge that wherever this road might lead,
it can't take them anywhere but home.
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