Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2611757.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Past_minor_character_death, Mental_Health_Issues, Underage_-_Freeform,
      medically_incorrect_stuff, Angst
  Collections:
      Sam/Dean_OTP_Minibang_2014
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-13 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 11497
****** Bend My Finger Back (Snap) ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Dean is only seventeen when he hits his lowest, losing his mother in
     a fire. After that, his family seems to fall apart -- his father is
     suddenly distant, and between therapy sessions and trying to struggle
     through each day, Dean and his brother Sam grow apart as well, even
     though they used to be more than close before the fire. It takes Dean
     two years to grow tired of this and decide to do something about his
     life for once... but there's no telling whether his decisions are the
     right ones and whether they will eventually lead to the happiness he
     desires.
Notes
     Please consult this_post for additional warnings -- they are
     spoilers/plot twists, but you should check it if you really need to.
     Thank yous/other notes can be find there as well.
     Go HERE to check out the art -- beware, though, it is a bit spoilery.
***** Chapter 1 *****
“Ah, Harry, we have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach
  home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness.”
                          Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf
                                      --
Dean has been silent since saying good morning to his dad; playing with his
cereal, his spoon going in circles, clinking against the ceramic bowl.
The bags under his eyes should speak for him, really, but his dad seems to be
in a chatty mood this morning, and as he sits down behind the kitchen table, he
asks anyway.
“Nightmares again?”
Dean looks up from the bowl. His left leg is slowly going numb because he’s
been sitting on it for over five minutes, so he shuffles and sighs as he sits
down on his right one instead. “Yeah,” he nods.
“When’s your next appointment with your therapist?” Dad asks.
Dean can hear the disappointment in his dad’s voice. He’s not even hiding it
anymore, like he used to. Two years ago, just after it happened, Dad would
tiptoe around him despite his own grief. Two years ago, some things were
different, but most of them were the same, exactly the same as they are right
now in this moment.
And that’s a disappointment. Dean should have gotten better. After they carried
him out of the burning house, Dean was lost for a few days. Wouldn’t talk,
wouldn’t look at anyone. He was assigned a therapist (who was a complete dick
even in his Dad’s opinion), and he was supposed to get better.
Technically speaking, Dean is better. He talks, he lives a considerably normal
life – although he did have to drop out of high school and ever since then,
it’s been a part-time job here and there and lying around most of the time,
rubbing holes into the old sofa with his ass. The only thing that hasn’t gotten
better is that he still needs his meds, and he still doesn’t remember the night
the fire happened.
That’s why the fact his mom is no longer there, the fact she turned into dust
before a priest could let her with his words echoing through the room, is still
just an alien digging around his brain.
And it’s enough for his Dad to be disappointed. See, he won’t even say the
therapist’s name. Sarah. He just won’t say it. It’s a miracle he acknowledges
it at all today.
“I only saw her two days ago,” he mumbles. “Monday again, as always.”
“Good. Talk to her about it.”
Dean grits his teeth. Of course. Because we don’t talk about it. We pretend it
didn’t happen. We pretend we’re a happy family whose house didn’t collapse in a
fire and that we didn’t lose her. We just don’t talk about the freaking fire.
The monologue presents itself in Dean’s head with surprising clarity – it
wouldn’t be the first time his Dad said that, Dean has heard it every time he
tried to talk about it.
“Yes, Sir.”
Dean picks up a spoonful of cereal and forces it into his mouth even though he
doesn’t feel like eating at all. His stomach has been a numb piece of stone for
the past few days anyway – he hasn’t felt actual hunger in forever. Better than
starving, he likes to think.
He wishes Sam would actually sit with them sometimes. During school, he’s
always out before Dean can catch him, and now when it’s summer, he sleeps until
noon and Dean can beg him for a breakfast together and still not get it. Not
that he actually tried.
“Listen,” Dad breaks the silence sharply and Dean startles. His eyes shoot up.
“I wanted to tell you something, so you hear it from me and not some random kid
on the street.”
“What is it?”
“A guy from Michigan bought our old house two days ago,” he tells Dean in a
cold voice, informative rather than compassionate. “He wants to tear it down
and build a new one. Got a family and a lot of money, apparently.”
“Oh,” is all Dean can truly manage.
He has been avoiding the ruin that used to be their house ever since it
happened, but somehow, what he’s feeling could easily be compared to a punch in
the gut. To think that the place his childhood is tied to won’t exist anymore –
it almost sounds as if he himself could disappear any second, now that he won’t
belong anywhere. He might not live in the house anymore, but just the fact that
it’s still there… even so many streets away, it still brings the idea of home.
Of warm Sunday mornings, of him and Sam fooling around, the older they were the
more daring they became.
For a minute, he allows himself to think about his life as it once was; the old
house with sunlight shining through it. He thinks of the blanket he and Sam
used to hide under, remembers the taste of Sam’s mouth. All the places he
tasted him; in a few months, they won’t exist. He feels the realization claw at
his skin, carving it’ll be like it wasn’t real at all into his skin.
Dean wonders what kind of expression must have taken over his face, because his
Dad frowns as he finishes his scrambled eggs and swallows down the last piece
of bread.
After he gets up and puts the used plate away, he actually comes up to Dean and
places his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“You’re not getting bad again, are you?”
Dean desperately wants to shake his father’s hand off, desperately wants to get
up and disappear. He feels like a child, and no wonder, with his father
hovering over him like a mountain, reclaiming his superior position over and
over again.
“No, I’m not,” he grumbles and sinks the spoon back into the half-empty bowl,
just to distract himself so that he wouldn’t have to look up.
His dad sighs again. “Just take your meds, okay?” a gentle squeeze on Dean’s
shoulder. “I’ll be back around five, as always. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, his voice noticeably louder. It’s a wonder he didn’t
shout, really.
                                      --
Shortly after Dad leaves for work and the whole house shrinks around Dean so
that its quietness hammers against his ears, Dean walks up to the door of Sam’s
room.
He carefully puts on his happy face, despite the conversation he’d just had
with Dad. “C’mon, wake up, lazy ass!” he shouts. Nothing. “It’s your last
summer before high school is over! Come on, I’ll take you for a ride in Baby.”
Indistinct mumbling from behind the door is an enough reminder that cheerful
tone won’t bring Sam back at all.
He drags his feet down the hallway, grabbing his keys. He might as well go for
a ride on his own.
He feels sick when he realizes he’s glad Sam didn’t tag along. He wouldn’t have
been able to keep his mask on, and for some reason, he felt like he couldn’t
approach Sam without a smile on his face. He couldn’t stand the idea of letting
even him down.
                                      --
The one thing Dean loves about having a car and a driver’s license is that he
can simply get in and drive for hours without having a real destination. It’s
what he does with a lot of his days.
There’s a half-empty pocket of Doritos, and what once used to be a six-pack is
now two cans of beer on the passenger’s seat. It’s almost as if Impala was his
other home – he sure feels that way when his fingers grip the wheel and he
twists the key in the ignition, setting off.
He doesn’t feel particularly bad about leaving Sam alone in the house.
Dean has taught himself how to be alone, and he would bet half of the money he
has to his name (which isn’t much), that Sam has done the same. That’s why they
can exist in the same house, but rarely together.
Today, Dean drives out of town towards one of the fields surrounding it.
It’s a considerably nice day – the sun is high by the time Dean brakes and the
tires screech against the sandy road. Dean is glad he never grabbed his jacket
– although, on second thought, it would be nice to lie down on it and look up,
let the bright sky blind him.
He lies down on the ground, then, not thinking about bugs and dirt that could
possibly crawl over his body, staining him more than he already is.
Instead of looking up, he closes his eyes. It’s strangely quiet here – the wind
playing with the corn surrounding him, creating a nice background buzz.
In a way, it truly hurts to remember the house as it once was – because that’s
what Dean is thinking about. That’s why he’s in the mood he’s in. Because he
keeps imagining a stranger walking up to the house that was once his safe
place, blowing it to pieces with the air stored in his lungs or simply nudging
the broken remnants of the house, and bringing it down. Just like that. Just so
he can build another safe place, for someone else, and perhaps hope that they
won’t ever ruin it.
They most likely will. After all, that’s what people do. They ruin things.
Cold fear grips Dean tight, though, when he imagines this.
He feels the empty space in his memory more than usual today.
The thought that he’s been struggling with for two years now, the one that’s
bugging him so persistently today, is the thought that maybe, if he could just
remember the night he lost so much, maybe it would all get better. Maybe, it
would erase the disappointment from his Dad’s voice, maybe, it would bring Sam
closer again. Maybe they could be together again, if only Dean remembered.
It’s a stupid thought, one he tries to shoo away every time it attacks him,
because he knows there are more things broken than his memory. There’s nothing
logical in believing that remembering would change anything.
Perhaps it’s not logic Dean has been trying to seek; it’s more of the one last
straw a drowning man would hold on to.
With a sigh, Dean fishes a little something out of his pocket, clutching it in
the sweaty realm of his palm.
Meds. Dean has been on meds for way too long, and it’s been clouding his mind
ever since. He doesn’t like it, and even after his Dad’s request that very
morning, he starts to despise it wholeheartedly as he squints in the sun,
glaring at it just lying in his hand.
The decision to not send it down his throat ever again is sudden and Dean is
surprised to realize he has been planning to do so for a very long time. Well,
long enough for him to be at peace with it. Strange – maybe he left the house
already knowing he would end up tossing the capsule full of chemicals away, to
lose it.
A wave of relieved heat covers him when the pill is gone. A smile tugs at his
lips when he daydreams, for only a second, of driving out here every single day
and throwing his daily dose away, just like that. Every single sunny day.
A part of him wants to get up right now, so that he could start the engine and
run away from this decision before it can burn holes in his brain and fill them
with doubt, but he forces himself to lie back down, for only a second more.
With a certain nostalgia and sudden sentiment, he remembers the day he went to
this field with Sam. Two years and then some months ago, they were here, and
they were so close. They were both so playful, shouting ‘Marco!’ and ‘Polo!’ at
each other, and then, when they bumped into each other, the bony structure of
Sam’s teenage body bruising Dean’s back, fell into the corn in an embrace.
Happy, twisted days. Dean wants them back. Even after two years, he’s not ready
to let go.
What if he doesn’t have to? Dean feels strangely light after deciding to
abandon the meds, and for the moment, everything looks possible. His breathing
quickens, chest heaving in long excited breaths, and he sits up.
Suddenly, he knows all he needs to do is get up and go and approach Sam like an
equal – not like a traumatized child, or like his Dad approaches Dean. He just
needs to be honest. He needs to leave his mask behind along with his pills.
That’s doable. And it’s something.
                                      --
Dean gets back home when it’s a few minutes past four. For a second, it doesn’t
register with him, but when he realizes he’d been gone for hours, he frowns. It
felt like two hours at most, at most. Maybe he dozed off in the field – after
all, it was a lovely day out, the air humid enough to make him want to close
his eyes for a few moments.
Dean brushes it off.
He only has less than an hour till his Dad comes back from work, and he knows
that if he doesn’t do it now, he won’t do it later.
For the second time that day, Dean walks up to Sam’s door and knocks on it
twice before he can so much as hesitate. He feels as if someone forced a
handful of mashed potatoes in his mouth and he can’t speak, and when he finally
swallows it down, his throat is raw.
“Sammy?” he calls, hoping it will carry through the wooden surface of the door.
Seconds tick by in a quick manner, leaving Dean waiting. “I wanna talk to you.”
It must sound sincere and interesting enough for Sam to react, because Dean can
hear shuffling behind the closed door.
“Come in,” comes Sam’s voice a second later and Dean takes a deep breath before
he does so.
He hasn’t been in this room for ages. Weeks, probably. It looks the same, and
Dean wishes he could say it’s a perfect replica of the one he had in the old
house. It’s not, though. It’s a lot emptier, as if the one occupying the room
was too afraid to put posters up or build a bookshelf after a delivery from
Ikea because they were too scared of it being torn down again.
There are a few books scattered across the floor, and a piece of clothing here
and there, but other than that, there’s nothing special to make the room look
and feel like Sam.
Sam himself is on his bed, knees pulled up to his chest, a book in his hands.
It’s the Steppenwolf, Dean notices.
Sam’s pursed lips speak for him – he’s not going to encourage Dean before he at
least shows he’s got the guts to actually speak this time. Small talk Dean can
handle, he can handle faking cheerfulness for a certain amount of time, but the
trouble calls when he tries to actually talk with meaning.
“Hey,” he says dumbly.
He allows himself to flop down on the spinny chair by Sam’s table, and touching
the ground with his toes, he moves from side to side, as if trying to distract
himself.
“How are you doin’ these days?” he tries with a hand gripped tightly around his
lungs, preventing him from taking a proper breath and for oxygen to travel up
to his brain so that he wouldn’t actually talk nonsense.
Sam furrows his brow but he must see that Dean is serious about this, because
he decides to be merciful and actually give an answer.
“I’ve been worse, definitely,” he says and puts the book away, placing it by
his side on the bed. “Actually, I kind of regret not going with you in the
morning. Sometimes I get sick of just sitting around, waiting for I-don’t-know-
what to happen.”
Dean snorts. “That’s mostly why I go out, even though it’s just to drive around
without anywhere specific to go.”
That might be the most personal piece of information he has given in a very
long time. Even when talking to his therapist, he’s very careful about the
words he might use, very careful about what he wants to let her in on. He’s
mastered keeping everything to himself – and he’s mastered the ability to
always say something without giving anything away.
The whole world falls silent for a moment.
Dean can’t help but wonder whether they’re both thinking about the same thing.
Because now that he’s in Sam’s presence, now that he’s alone with him, once
again being able to appreciate it and breathe in the typical smell of them
being together, as if it was actually something real hanging in the air, he
can’t do anything but think back to when they were together.
He almost involuntarily remembers Sam’s longish hair and how it felt slipping
through his fingers; he remembers cutting it one day, just because they were
both bored and Sam kept complaining about his neck being too hot. He remembers
the tug of Sam’s fingers on Dean’s jeans as he pulled them down; he remembers
the sun in their hair when they stopped in the next town and ate outside,
laughing about Dean screaming when a bug crept up on his left arm. He remembers
all the times they were together -- how they were together, and it’s been so
long since he felt the sense of belonging somewhere with someone that he
wonders whether it had burned down along with everything else. Whether there is
no coming back.
“I decided to not take my meds anymore.” Dean blurts it out without
preparation; for a second, he’s not even sure if it wasn’t just in his head,
but when he sees the look of concern form on Sam’s face, he knows he uttered it
out loud.
Sam sits up and leans closer. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“You’ve never been on meds,” Dean snaps back. He realizes that was too
defensive and he sighs, rubbing his face with his hand, momentarily hiding from
the world. “Sorry. I just don’t feel like myself anymore and I want to see if
this helps.”
“So you’re not sure it’s a good idea.”
Dean, not willingly but out of the need to be honest for once, shakes his head.
“No, not really. But I need to do something and this sounds as legit as
everything else at this point.”
Sam nods, as if considering it. “I guess you’re not telling Dad.”
Another snort. “Of course I’m not. He would shove the freaking stuff down my
throat if he had to. Sometimes I think it’s just because he doesn’t want to
deal with me.”
Sam hums. “Yeah, he’s like that. I think he’s got a handful of problems himself
and there’s not much time left for his kids.”
“Which is fucking bullshit. When was the last time he really talked to you?”
Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean, and that’s answer enough.
“I haven’t been very chatty either. Sorry.”
Sam shrugs. “As long as you come around eventually, I’m good. I know you have
it hard. Harder than me. Maybe I should have taken the step and talk to you.”
Dean’s face scrunches up. “Now, don’t take it too far. I’m the one with guilt
issues, okay? Let’s keep it that way.” They both laugh – the sound fills the
house to the top, the walls not used to noise like this, and Dean almost fears
it will blow the roof off.
He can feel the blush crawling up his neck up up up till it colors his cheeks
in gentle red. Dean watches in amazement as Sam bites down on his lip and bows
his head, only to look up a second later through his bangs.
Something in Dean’s chest hitches. “I should cut your hair again. It’s getting
too long.”
The right corner of Sam’s mouth goes up in an amused smirk. “Maybe you should.
We’ll see.”
It’s a promise, Dean is sure of it. The little something that hitched and
stopped working gets into motion again, making his heart beat twice as fast.
It’s a promise for something more and nothing -- no one could tell Dean
otherwise.
Embarrassed and red in the face, Dean smiles and gets up from the chair. He’s
at a loss for words, desperately trying to come up with something to say. “Just
don’t tell Dad, okay? I promise, if things start to get bad, I’ll start the
meds again.”
Sam nods, picking up the book again, going back to it before Dean can even exit
the room.
                                      --
That very night, Dean wakes up to a leg cramp. He automatically grits his
teeth, but his eyes shoot open to the darkness of the room. He’s lying on his
stomach, fists pulling at the bed sheets until the pain stops as abruptly as it
started. Dean hates leg cramps.
In the span of those short four or five seconds that the cramp lasted for,
small drops of sweat appeared on Dean’s forehead and he dries them away, rubs
them against the pillow as he turns around to lie on his back instead. He
checks the clock lying on his nightstand. A few minutes past three. He can hear
his Dad snoring downstairs; incredible.
Usually, he’s able to fall asleep right after his muscles relax, but this time,
even after ten minutes, he’s idly rubbing the previously cramping calf with the
toes of his other leg.
When he finally dozes off, a sharp noise wakes him up again. For a split
second, he feels like he’s about fall off the bed and his feet kick out, but
then his muscles relax and with a clearer mind, Dean realizes it was just a
knock on his door.
It creaks open not even a second later.
The room might be dark, but Dean knows it’s Sam. He hears his little brother
close the door and then tiptoe barefoot across the room, till he hits his shin
against Dean’s bed and swears under his breath.
“Sammy?” Dean half-whispers.
“Scoot,” Sam almost commands in a quiet voice and just like that, he’s pressing
himself against Dean. His cold feet brush against Dean’s calves, his toes
digging into his skin. “Had another nightmare,” Sam informs him as he buries
his face in Dean’s neck, his hand across Dean’s chest.
Dean sighs; but it’s a sigh of relief, not anger or annoyance.
Sam rarely comes into Dean’s room like this anymore. Ever since the fire –
although sometimes Dean feels like he’s not allowed to even think about that –
they’ve grown apart. Sometimes, they don’t talk for days, Dean finding
sanctuary in his own room and Sam as well.
It’s strange but so good to be like this again. Dean feels like a plant that
has just been watered – he perks up, comes alive when Sam shifts and his weight
seems so heavy against Dean’s side. When Dean breathes in, it feels like fresh
air penetrating his lungs, instead of the humid air of his tiny room.
“Do you still have nightmares?” Sam inquires, and when Dean turns to look him
in the face, Sam’s expression is surprisingly clear and readable in the dark.
It almost seems as if Sam stands out in the dark, some sort of light
concentrated on his face and on his fingers clutching Dean’s t-shirt. Sam’s
face is as clear as if it was dawn already.
“I do.”
Sam nods, serious. He rests his head against Dean’s shoulder eventually and
they both fall silent.
It takes Dean a while to get used to Sam being so close all of a sudden, his
toes as cold as when he stuffed them under Dean's blanket. His breath evens at
some point and he likes to think it syncs with Sam’s to the point where their
lungs expand to let more air in at the exact same second.
Dean is starting to doze off when he feels Sam move again, the hand that had
been resting on his chest now moving downwards.
“I miss you,” Sam admits quietly, as if it was a dirty secret Sam didn’t even
dare to share.
But then again, that’s exactly what this is. It’s what it always has been and
nothing could have prevented it.
Dean shudders at the thought.
“Don’t you miss me?” Sam bugs with something comparable to a pout on his face.
His fingers are now hooked over the hem of Dean’s shorts, teasing. Before Dean
can answer, they move over it and Sam palms Dean’s soft dick gently. “Seems
like you don’t after all.”
Dean whines low in his throat, giving up. It’s impossible to resist Sam’s
fingers and it’s impossible to deny the look on Sam’s face. His hips move, and
one of his hands wraps around Sam’s neck, grabbing a fistful of his longish
hair. He pulls him close, but Sam resists, staying in one place, doesn’t let
Dean kiss him.
“Yeah, I miss you,” Dean breathes out, thinking that’s the issue. Sam purses
his lips, though, as if the reassurance came too late, and Dean feels suddenly
tense. This is not how they used to be – which should make sense. They’re not
the same people. Sam is two years older, Dean hasn’t been with him in two
years, and he truly can’t help but wonder whether he’s bigger than he used to
be. He must be, and Dean is haunted by this, too haunted to ponder their
actions or think about how this is wrong and how they promised they wouldn’t do
it again.
“Show me how much you’ve missed me,” Sam prompts. His hand stops, Dean fully
hard now, and he shuffles on the bed until he’s sitting between Dean’s spread
legs, waiting.
Dean frowns. “What do you –“
“Show me what you do when you miss me and want me here,” Sam says and it
couldn’t be clearer now.
Sam’s words fit together like pieces of a puzzle in Dean’s mind. His face is
covered in red when he realizes what Sam wants him to do, but they’ve been
apart for so long he doesn’t consider refusing. It only takes a few seconds
before he manages to move, momentarily stuck in a stone-like state.
He moves upward on the bed, staring at Sam positioned between his legs. What he
does when he misses Sam, when he wants him here – which is embarrassingly often
– is he touches himself. And he whimpers Sam’s name into the pillow, hoping the
fabric will absorb it and store it for later or for somewhere where no one can
hear.
Dean doesn’t know what he would say at all, and so he wordlessly slips his hand
into his shorts and pulls out his cock, hard and impatient in his hand.
He starts working it in a quick pace – he hasn’t done it in a while, and he’s
stupidly shy. Quick pace means quicker release means less time spent under
Sam’s eager gaze.
Sam doesn’t tell him to slow down. No, he just lets Dean look while pumping his
fist, because that’s only fair.
And so Dean’s stare is as intense as Sam’s. He bites down on his lip, squeezing
his fingers around the base of his cock, and when Sam mirrors this and abuses
his lip as well, Dean lets out a quiet moan. Excitement boils in Dean’s belly
and he starts thrusting into his own fist, an occasional sigh of relief
escaping his lips.
Sam’s cold fingers wrap around Dean’s ankle and travel a few inches up. He
squeezes Dean’s calf, near where it cramped seemingly oh-so long ago, in
encouragement.
“Look at you, how gorgeous you are like this,” he mumbles.
It’s frightening how different this is from the Sam that was two years younger;
frightening how Dean used to be the one using these exact words with him such a
long time ago when he wanted him to come.
Sam’s fingers squeeze even more. “Come for me, Dean, come for me now.”
Dean’s eyes flutter close as he comes as if on command.
When his muscles relax, Sam’s fingers relax as well and he moves on the bed
again, cuddling up next to Dean. With no more commands and no more words on his
lips, Sam picks Dean’s hand up and looking down, he licks the come off of his
fingers, sucking each finger tenderly for long seconds, almost getting Dean
hard all over again.
“I really do miss you,” Dean murmurs into Sam’s ear.
“I know, Dean.”
It feels like another secret is hanging in the air, and just when Dean is about
to reach out and grab it, imprison it in his palm, they both hear their Dad
snore downstairs so loudly it startles them. The secret, offended by the lack
of attention, disappears before Dean can hold on to it.
They look at each other and Dean almost feels as if this is the first time he
ever looked into Sam’s eyes, really looked at them and actually saw the
universe in them.
He’s too big of a coward to ask what brought this change on, whether Dean’s
honesty about the meds or his honesty in general lately has caused the sudden
affection. So he doesn’t ask, but he holds Sam’s hands so close to his heart it
must be truly obvious how happy it all makes him.
For the first time in two years, he falls asleep without the heavy weight of
the monster of what happened two years ago sitting down on his chest and
controlling his breath. He falls asleep happy.
                                      --
Next time Dean wakes up, the alarm on his nightstand tells him it’s half past
five.
The space beside him is empty, the bed looking just as ordinary as if Sam
didn’t lie there mere minutes ago. Dean presses his hand against the wrinkled
bedsheets, feeling how cold it is. Even as he pulls away, he feels the
emptiness of the moment linger, cling to his fingertips.
He rolls around and buries his face in the pillow. It’s way too early to be up.
But what can he do when he keeps dreaming red, waking up to someone screaming.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Dean manages three whole days before fucking up.
He doesn’t even know, doesn’t even realize until his Dad knocks on his door on
Saturday evening – which is suspicious enough as he never does it after
agreeing that closed doors means no disturbing.
“I need to talk to you,” is all he says in a low voice, and Dean knows he’s in
trouble. This gut feeling is only encouraged when his Dad disappears a second
later and closes the door behind him; meaning they can talk in the kitchen.
Kitchen means war-zone; kitchen means Dean doesn’t get to feel comfortable, as
he would in his room.
Dean gulps and gets up from his chair where he’d been sitting, scribbling down
lyrics from his favorite songs just to kill time and prevent himself from
sneaking into Sam’s room. They talked earlier that day, when Dad went out to
mow the lawn, holding each other for a few precious minutes, like they used to.
On his way to the kitchen, Dean’s palms get sweaty from anxiety as his mind
races in desperate need to figure out what he’s done to be told off like a
child. He rubs his hands against his jeans, to no avail.
“I’m here,” he announces in a tiny voice, leaning against the doorframe,
obviously hesitant to step into the well-lit kitchen.
Dean’s Dad is sitting behind the table, something in his hand that he’s toying
with. He looks up.
Dean looks down, to the something in his Dad’s hands, and if you took a blade
and tried to cut through his skin when he realized what it is, you wouldn’t
draw a drop of blood. Dean goes completely still, freezing.
The little something in John’s hands are Dean’s pills. Or rather, it’s the
small white box that should have had two tablets less, if only Dean remembered
to take them out the day before and today. But he didn’t go out, didn’t drive
out to the field because his chest felt too heavy and his mind wanted him to
stay home and hang around without meaning, and so he forgot about it
completely.
“Here,” his Dad says and motions for Dean to take it. He looks genuinely scary
as he reaches out with his hand, and Dean doesn’t dare to protest. He takes the
pills and wraps his fingers around it, worried that his palms are so hot they
might cause the tablets to dissolve into nothing. “Now check the plate.”
Dean does so, almost happy to be able to look away from Dad’s tired face.
“How many are there?”
“Seven,” Dean breathes out, giving up.
“Why are there seven?”
“Because I…” Dean trails off, looking around as if the air should whisper the
correct answer into his ear. As if there was a correct answer.
His Dad sighs. “Because you stopped taking them. Why would you do that?”
When their eyes meet once again, Dean sees the fight leave his Dad’s eyes and
all that is left is tiredness. It shoves even the disappointment away, covering
John Winchester’s face completely.
Dean feels guilty, but only momentarily. Then he remembers that he’s nineteen
now, he doesn’t have to listen, doesn’t have to answer for this or that
decision as he had to when he was a teenager missing the curfew by half an
hour.
“Dad,” Dean starts, but he trails off when his own voice sounds shaky to him.
He clears his throat and looks up, desperately trying to be brave. “Dad. I’m
okay now. I’ve been okay for a while. I don’t want to stuff myself with that
anymore.” As he says that, he sends the plate with pills flying till it hits
the table, screeching against its surface as it moves another few inches.
“You’re okay, Dean,” John says and gets up from behind the kitchen table, but
it’s not as menacing as it could be now that they’re both almost the same
height, “because of the pills. If it weren’t for the pills, you would – “
“I would do what? What exactly?” Dean spits out, the long ago hidden anger now
transformed into poison. “Maybe I finally wouldn’t live in a freaking fog all
the time. Maybe I would actually remember, or insist on visiting mom’s grave,
is that what you’re scared of? That for once, I would actually want to deal
with things?”
“I won’t have this,” Dean’s Dad says exasperatedly. “I’ve paid a lot of money
for you to get better. Thousands and thousands of dollars. I won’t let you
throw it away just because you think you’re better than the pills that are
keeping you sane.”
“I don’t even wanna talk to you if you’re just going to start throwing money
issues around,” Dean grimaces. “And I told you, Dad. I’m okay. I stopped taking
the pills five days ago and I’m fine.”
“Dean,” John almost whines, obviously feeling as if every single word he says
hits a brick wall and doesn’t get to Dean. “Please understand, the pills help
you. It takes more than five days to get bad, just – please, Dean. I just want
the best for you. Please take the pills.”
Dean is not used to begging, all around. He is not one to beg himself, seeing
it as weakness, and watching it happen in front of his eyes – especially with
his Dad mouthing the word ‘please’ over and over again – is mind-blowing. It
shakes the ground he thought he was standing still on, and he loses balance.
His tongue is heavy against the roof of his mouth as he tries to react with
something that would shout over Dad’s pleas and convince him otherwise.
Dean doesn’t have a lot of weapons in him. A person can easily be a weapon
themselves, but it’s safer to hide weapons inside, and Dean doesn’t have a lot
of them. His weapons are secrets, and occasional arrogance, his weapon is fear
and sadness; they all seem to win a war here and there.
They are not enough here – they are, actually, the mine Dean and John both
stepped on and now have to deal with the consequences.
The only other weapon Dean has is Sam. In his mind, he uses it often – to chase
the demons of doubt and loneliness away – and using him against his Dad doesn’t
seem quite right. They are a fragile family, three broken pieces trying to
exist together, but Dean has run out of options.
“Even Sam thinks I can at least try to live normally, so I don’t see what the
problem is. You just need to calm down and just, support me for once.”
There’s a lot packed into that sentence.
Dean sees it all reflect on his Dad’s face – pain flashes across it in a
surprising wave, and he is obviously taken aback, at a loss for words. He
stares at Dean, the only detail that could possibly make this real life
painting better would be his mouth slightly ajar.
“Dean,” his Dad breathes out, “Dean, Sam is –“ however John wanted to end the
sentence, he never dares to.
Dean thanks him in his head – thank you for not saying he’s a kid, a dumb kid,
a dumb kid who doesn’t understand, thank you. Saying that would mean a lot more
than Dean could handle.
John takes a tentative step towards his son, the plate with pills once again in
his hand, once again offered to Dean. “Please, please just take your meds,
okay? And everything will be fine.”
Dad’s stubbornness is indestructible, or so it seems – and it’s not what Dean
would have expected. It sparks anger and hate in his gut, and he wants to kick
and scream and run away all at the same time, hoping it would hurt his Dad as
much as he’s hurting now, thanks to his parent’s words.
He grabs the plate out of his father’s hand and throws it at him, almost
missing, hitting one side of John’s face and scratching his ear.
“Fuck you!” he yells, letting out all the anger he had stored in himself after
every unsuccessful conversation, every repressed and hidden feeling, and every
let-down he and his dad ever brought on each other.
It scares Dean, that he’s able to actually say those words out loud. He feels
like a five year old tasting them in his mouth for the very first time, and
irrationally – or maybe not – he gets scared a slap will follow. When he sees
John reach up with his hand, a phantom of pain after a smack in his face hits
him and he steps back.
He turns around fast enough to not see that his Dad reached up only to touch
his own face where the plate of pills had hit him.
Dean runs, breathing panicky. He grabs the car keys and his jacket with shaky
hands and slams the door behind him, hoping that would be an enough indicator
that he doesn’t wish to be followed. It’s not like Dad ran after him, though.
He jumps into his car, hissing in pain when his ass hits something firm and
pointy. He pulls up a book from under his butt, Steppenwolf, and without
thinking about it, he tosses it to the backseat.
He starts the car and drives away as fast as he can, the tires screeching
against the asphalt of this lovely neighborhood that never felt like home.
                                      --
Dean pulls up into the nearest Walmart parking lot, surrounded by other cars.
He turns off the engine and takes the key out, causing the lights to die out as
well.
He leans back in the driver’s seat and closes his eyes, trying to count to ten.
Even the voice in his head is shaky, just like his hands, legs, his whole
being. That did not go well.
The street lamps and all the light radiating off of the building in front of
him pierce Dean’s eyes when he finally opens them a few seconds later.
He stopped counting at seven. He couldn’t get past seven. He simply couldn’t,
it wasn’t an option. His brain broke off and scattered into ten thousand
thoughts, and he couldn’t possibly get past seven, even though he tried.
Dean’s hatred for his father sits low in his stomach solid as a rock. It weighs
him down and pushes him deeper into the seat, to the point where Dean has to
fight to stay sitting upright.
When his phone rings, Dean has to admit to himself that he has no idea how long
he’s been sitting here, hiding in the relative dark of the large parking lot,
people passing by without even registering an old black Chevy Impala right next
to them. He could have been here for minutes, hours. He wouldn’t know.
However, as he fishes the ringing phone out of his pocket, he notices his hands
aren’t shaking so visibly anymore, and his voice doesn’t trip over anxiety and
stress either.
“Hey.” Sam’s voice calms Dean down right away. “Are you okay?”
“I’m at Walmart,” Dean tells him. “The parking lot. I’m – I’m fine.”
“I heard your fight with Dad. Sorry I didn’t come to the rescue.”
“It’s okay,” Dean shushes him quickly, “It would have only been worse. I’m glad
you stayed out of it, really.” Dean allows himself to listen to Sam’s breathing
for a second before asking, “You think you could sneak out of the house? I
could pick you up and we could just… get lost for a few hours.”
“Sure, Dean. I’ll wait outside.”
This one time, Dean is glad he can drive the car with a clear destination in
mind. He still feels as if he was just floating through space, through the
distance between Walmart and the house, but he gets there nonetheless, his
senses betraying him not even once.
Dean breathes out in relief when he sees Sam standing there, hands in his
pockets, swaying on his heels. He’s hiding just out of the reach of the street
lamp, its light creeping up onto the tips of his shoes. Dean pulls up next to
him and reaches across the car to help Sam open the door although it’s not
necessary.
As they move, Dean’s eyes lock on the house, so unfamiliar even after so many
months spent inside its walls. He thinks he sees a dark silhouette through the
kitchen window, thinks it’s his father pouring a drink down his throat. Before
it can sting him, they drive past and Dean doesn’t dare to check the rearview
mirror.
                                      --
For a few numb, silent minutes, Dean just drives them around the block, letting
it empty him. At some point, though, he sub-consciously takes a turn and they
both know right away where they’re headed.
“Are you sure you want to go back?” Sam asks in a quiet voice. Dean doesn’t
register worry or anxiety in it, though, so he doesn’t worry and fret either.
“I feel like we need to talk,” Dean offers.
“We do. It still feels like a safe place to you, though? After all this time? I
mean, it’s nothing but a ruin. It’s been so long, Dean.”
“I know,” Dean replies, his eyes glued to the road in front of them. The sun is
setting behind them, it’s almost dark, everything is covered in melancholy
tones, but Dean’s knuckles go bright white when he grips the wheel tighter. “I
haven’t been there since – “
“I was wondering,” Sam cuts him off, cruelly taking the chance of talking about
that night away, stealing it right from in between Dean’s fingers. “I was
wondering when you would take us there.”
Dean shoots him a side glance. “You should have told me you wanted to go back.
I would have taken you months and months ago.”
Sam shakes his head, leaning against the passenger door with all his weight.
“You weren’t ready. You’re ready now, so we’re going. That’s what matters.”
Sam’s hand comes to rest on Dean’s thigh, and Dean can feel the light touch
even through the denim of his jeans. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m good,” Dean reiterates what he’d said at least five times tonight. “And I
told Dad the same damn thing. I’m fine. I’m not a child. I can handle myself
without having to swallow pills for breakfast.”
Sam smirks as if he’s been let in on some secret he’s not allowed to share with
Dean.
“You’re jumpy. I meant, how are you feeling after the fight? You’re not really
running away, right?”
“I guess not,” Dean shrugs, “We’ll see. I just need one moment of quiet, Sam,
to finally hear my own thoughts without something numbing it.”
Sam’s fingers moves across Dean’s thigh, quiet and light like five little
snakes twisting and crawling around. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been, you
know.”
“Yeah.” Dean tilts his head a bit, considering his next words. “I’m sorry I
wasn’t there for you.”
“It’s okay. A lot of things happened, you were – well. I’m just glad you
decided to be honest with me, and to come back to me.”
A small smile creeps onto Dean’s face, and if he could, he would lean in to the
touch. He can’t , so he only steps down on the gas pedal.
                                      --
They enter the house with caution. Dean is aware that what remains standing of
their old house could very well collapse all around them and smash them to
pieces, but the invisible string in him – someone is pulling at it, and Dean
can’t help but follow and disappear in the dark ruin.
He half expects to step in and be met with the old familiar smell of what used
to represent home when he was little. It’s a let-down when that doesn’t happen.
They step into something that is now unrecognizable but they both know it used
to be the hallway.
Dean’s steps lead him right into what used to be the living room. He leaves Sam
behind and feeling the dirt underneath his shoes, he moves through the ruin.
He had been told that the fire took the living room down, and when Dean steps
in, the scenery in front of him definitely corresponds with that. The wall with
windows, where his mom used to put dark velvet curtains up, no longer exists.
Dean could simply step into the backyard without opening and closing any doors.
The fact that he can hear a dog outside bark as if he was right next to it
makes Dean cringe; his whole body jerks when he realizes there is nothing,
nothingabout this place he would call home. Not anymore. It’s not what he had
imagined when he spent hours thinking about coming back to this place. He was
so sure it would speak to him and that he would remember – but not even this
place rings true anymore.
Dean retreats from the living room quickly, almost tripping and falling into
the moss growing wild and happy on the floor.
He lets out a held-back breath when he’s in the safety of the ruined hallway –
anything is better than the cold unfamiliarity of the living room.
“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this place still stands. How come they never
tore it down?”
Sam motions towards the walls that are still somewhat standing. Dean looks on,
noticing the graffiti covering them for the first time.
“I guess no one ever cared. Teenage kids must have loved hiding in this place.”
They step further into the house together, Dean thinking that sounds dangerous
enough to make someone want to bring the place down entirely.
It only takes seconds until they get to the staircase. Dean’s eyes want to
follow the stairs up, but the only step still standing is the very first one.
Beyond that, there’s a hole that almost looks like a portal to another world.
Dean looks up and squints at the non-existent ceiling. But he knows, he knows
there used to be a ceiling, and up there, there used to be Sam’s room and their
stolen moments together.
“They said the stairs were gone in minutes. Sometimes I can’t believe they got
you out of there,” Dean utters, sudden chills making the hair on his arms stand
up.
Silence follows Dean’s statement, and it carries on until Dean isn’t staring up
and centers his attention on Sam standing next to him.
“Did they?” Sam asks, his face a question mark.
Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Did they get me out of there, Dean?”
Dean snorts, his face scrunching up in a grimace. With furrowed brow, he looks
his brother up and down. “You’re standing right here, aren’t you? Of course
they got you of there, Sammy. Don’t be silly.”
“I might be standing here, but that doesn’t mean they got me out. They didn’t,
Dean,” Sam tells him gently and looks at Dean questioningly. “They didn’t. I
died here.”
“Sammy,” Dean laughs, but a pang of anxiety and fear threads through his voice
in a distinct pattern. “Stop fucking with me.”
“Check your phone,” Sam prompts him, and even though his voice sounds kind
enough, Dean can’t miss the hidden command in it.
“Check my –“ When he sees the look on Sam’s face, so obviously serious and
stone-like, not even one muscle moving, he sighs. Dean really feels jumpy now,
and his fingers take on the same shakiness they did back after he stormed out
on his Dad. “Jesus, okay. Checking it now.”
He pulls it out of his jeans’ pocket and presses the unlock button impatiently.
He frowns when the screen stays the same pitch black.
“It’s dead,” Dean comments.
“Turn it on and then check your last call.”
The frown on Dean’s face deepens as he does what he’s told. It feels like it
takes three thousand years till his phone starts up, and he gets older and
older and older in the span of only a minute, until he’s only an old shrunken
wrinkled man with a little heart beating too fast by the time he goes to check
his calls.
His last received call dates back to Tuesday when his Dad called him to ask
whether Dean would mind if they had Chinese for dinner. Dean remembers that
call – remembers it as clearly as the one he had with Sam barely an hour ago,
except there’s no evidence for that one. And he didn’t delete anything, he
didn’t even touch his phone.
“That’s impossible,” Dean breathes out, too scared to even look up at his
brother who may or may not be there at all.
Sam’s voice is disgustingly comforting when he speaks up again. “I’m sorry. I
really am.”
What – what could he possibly be sorry for? For taking Dean’s phone without him
noticing and deleting his last call to fuck with him here? What else could he
be sorry for? Because that was the only rational thing that could be going on
right now, it’s not like Sam could actually not be his Sammy, not be real, it’s
impossible to even think that Sam might have died here and Dean was too much of
a coward to live with it so he decided to live with his own made up version of
him.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, but even the way he’s keeping his distance, almost as if
he were in Dean’s head and knew that was expected of him instead of a hug and
comfort, is nauseating. “You needed me here, so you made me be here. For you.
It’s okay, Dean.”
“Sammy, you’re not – you are – “
Dean makes himself stop mid-sentence as he remembers the fight with his dad.
Dean, Sam is -
Dean is terrified when he realizes that he didn’t mean to finish that sentence
with “just a kid”. He meant to finish that sentence with “dead”.
Dean, Sam is dead.
In this moment, Dean knows it to be true.
He still doesn’t remember the fire, or the way it crawled across the house and
knocked on Sam’s door forcefully, but now he remembers the rest. He remembers
his father’s swollen, red face – probably from crying – telling him that Sam
was in there too when it happened. He remembers countless conversations he used
to have with his therapist back two years ago about his dead brother. He
remembers eavesdropping on his dad and his therapist, as they discussed that
not reminding Dean of Sam’s death might be the best solution.
Because he kept forgetting. His mind just refused to believe that his heart
could have lost so much. Dad agreed that day – it was the last time Dean heard
Sam’s name, if he wasn’t the one muttering it idly. Dean wants to laugh when it
gets to him, how ridiculous all that is – they never even talked about Sam,
ever, and Dean finally realizes it wasn’t grief on Dad’s part – just the fact
that one of his sons is no longer there and he is not allowed to talk about it
with his other one.
It makes an awful lot of sense, even in Dean’s mind – the mind he shouldn’t
even trust anymore, but he does, because although insane, it’s the only thing
he’s got left. He forgets about the phone in his hand.
For a second, all he can think about are the pills, and how he could only talk
to Sam after he decided to drop them. He thinks back to those days where they
never talked – all days he didn’t forget to swallow his morning pill like a
good boy. And he, with a blush, remembers all those days he didn’t even say
hello to his brother, how he excused it with not being in the mood, with Sam
being out of the house… while he was never truly there. When was the last time
Dad talked to you? Dean remembers asking. He didn’t get an answer. Because the
last time Dad talked to Sam was two years ago and an imaginary brother wouldn’t
dare to be so rude as to remind Dean of that.
It feels as if centuries have passed since Sam opened his mouth to speak.
Dean’s throat is dry; he feels like someone forced his mouth open and then
poured dust and sand in it without offering a drop of water to swallow it down
with.
Dean looks at the shadow of his brother. “Can you tell me what happened that
night?”
“That’s not the only thing that’s important. There’s something leading up to
that, too, that you should know about.”
“Can you tell me?” Dean tries again, suddenly very tired. He feels his knees
give in, but he forces himself to stay standing, at least for one more second,
and then another, and then another.
Sam shakes his head. “I’m you. And you can answer that for yourself. You can
remember, if only you let yourself.”
Dean grits his teeth, suddenly wanting to punch Sam in the face, but he knows
it wouldn’t do anything. He would literally fly his fist through thin air, no
matter who he thinks is standing in front of him.
And so he does let himself remember instead. The moment he thinks about it,
just a clear and quiet – I wanna know – it comes to him.
                                      --
They are squeezed in Sam’s bed, next to each other, fingers entwined like in
the worst romantic movie not one member of their family would ever watch. It
feels normal, though, and warms Dean’s heart to the point where he doesn’t want
to move ever again.
Dean, at the back of his mind, knows that what they are doing is dangerous.
This is not the back of his car on an empty old road, this is not having the
whole house to themselves. Their parents are downstairs, not so far from them,
and even though they locked the door, Dean feels like the lock is not keeping
the world away from them, not in the slightest.
He is too comfortable to do anything about it, though. Every time he breathes
in, it’s Sam’s smell that fills his nostrils. The room is packed with it – it’s
radiating off of the walls, the bedsheets, and after all, Sam himself is right
next to Dean.
“I wish we could always be like this,” Sam mutters, almost in the mean pouty
tone only teenagers master and can handle with precision.
Dean sighs. “C’mon, Sammy, it’s not that bad. We get to spend plenty of time
together, don’t we?”
Dean can feel his brother shrug next to him. “I guess. But we still have to
hide.”
“You understand why we need to keep this away from Mom and Dad, right?” Dean
asks cautiously, worried that Sam might explode if he felt like he was being
accused of not understanding.
Sam huffs out an annoyed breath. “Of course I do. I’m not an idiot. I just
wish… it’s just that sometimes I wish they weren’t here, so that we wouldn’t
have to hide.”
Without a word, Sam shuffles on the bed. He pulls his hand away, breaking the
comfortable warm connection, and he moves downwards. He’s two years younger
than Dean, only fifteen, but he’s already taller than him. Tall and skinny, but
lovable.
He rests his head on Dean’s chest like a little kid, and Dean wonders if he’s
going through the phase when you simply love, like he did – it’s so hard to
sustain all the love, sometimes it’s better to just rest your head for a while.
Dean almost giggles when he realizes he’s going through the very same phase. He
only rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder, as if trying to keep him close and next
to him.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean nods, trying to ignore Sam’s fingers that are now dancing
across his belly as if his younger brother was trying to play the piano.
A few minutes pass in silence, and worry covers Dean. Maybe this isn’t what Sam
wanted to hear. Sometimes, and he knows this very well, silent compassion won’t
cut it. So he takes a deep breath and with sweat breaking out above his upper
lip, maybe the hot day causing it, maybe his worry, he speaks up again.
“But imagine, Sammy. I’m eighteen next year. And then, after you finish high
school, we can just… get up and go.” Sam perks up immediately, his head
shooting up, his chin buried in Dean’s chest as he looks up at Dean and listens
intently. “You should go to college, and I could go with you. You could find
something far away from here and we could tell people we are together instead
of telling them we’re brothers. We could live a completely normal happy life in
just a few years. You’re a smart-ass, I can practically see you in a suit,
lawyering and stuff.”
“That’s an awfully long time away,” Sam comments, but it must have been what he
wanted to hear anyway, because he leans in and kisses Dean playfully.
Dean smiles into the kiss, his hand rubbing circles into Sam’s back and then
running down, stopping at Sam’s bony hips, locking there. “I know,” he mutters,
his eyes already fluttering closed to enjoy the kiss, “Can’t wait already.”
Sam laughs into Dean’s mouth, the vibrations travelling down Dean’s throat and
setting his belly on fire with want and anticipation.
“I just wish,” Sam breathes into the kiss as he holds himself up so that he can
slide between Dean’s already parted legs, “It could be sooner.”
Dean holds back a moan when Sam moves his lips down to Dean’s neck, licking and
sucking. It’s incredibly easy to stuff his hand down Sam’s jeans – they are too
big on him – and squeeze, the skin on Sam’s ass smooth and warm.
“Ah,” Sam lets slip out of his mouth and his hips jerk forward. This would be
the first time. They’ve never actually done it in a bed. It’s too tempting. “I
just,” Sam says between kisses that he peppers Dean’s neck and jaw with, “Want
you with me – always – not in a few years.”
Perhaps that’s when an idea starts to root in Dean’s brain.
He’s currently too busy to pay attention to it, too full of love and gracious
emptiness, but he will go back to it later. He will.
                                      --
“Dean.” Sam’s voice carries over, his impatience almost tangible, as if it was
liquid Dean could bury his fingers into and it would chew off his fingernails.
“We need to talk about the fire.”
“We don’t talk about the fire,” Dean begs, head hanging low.
He no longer finds solace in those words. They don’t ring true. He never
believed them in the first place. It was his dad’s mantra, after all, not his.
He liked to listen to it and follow it, occasionally, but as he tries the words
in his mouth, it’s easy to figure out he doesn’t really mean them.
He has always wanted to talk about the fire, and he has always been terrified
of doing so.
The ghost of Sam’s fingers cradles his chin and brings it up gently. Dean
wonders how someone who is a fantasy can touch him with those icy fingers, and
how it is possible at all that Dean feels the touch on his skin. He shudders,
even though sweat is now covering nearly every inch of his body, pumped by
adrenaline.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Sam comforts him, his thumb caressing Dean’s
cheek, cooling it. “Tell me about the fire.”
Dean finally looks up. Before his eyes set on Sam’s face, they land on the wall
behind him, blackened from being licked by the vicious fire.
“Someone finally bought this ruin, you know,” Dean mumbles instead, and he
gulps. “Dad told me a few days ago.” He’s terrified. It’s quiet all around
them, no cars driving up the street, no TV humming in the background, and Dean
can hear the persistent beat of his heart in his ears. It sounds like it’s
about to explode.
Sam’s expression remains the same, but it feels like his fingers are now
sinking in to Dean’s skin like knives, their press hard and constant, reaching
the edge of uncomfortable.
“The fire, Dean.”
Dean’s eyes flutter closed. There’s no escaping. He’s been running away from
this for two years, and he knows that as soon as the words are out, it will
sound anticlimactic and stupid.
“I set the fire,” he breathes out and now, when he needs to feel Sam’s fingers
against his skin the most, his little brother lets go. Dean is afraid of
opening his eyes – what if he’s not there anymore, what if the truth drove him
away? – but he makes himself do so.
“It’s okay,” Sam nods. “I know why you did it. You did it to protect us.”
“I didn’t know you were in the house,” Dean says, “You were supposed to be out
with someone. Why were you in the house, Sammy? Why didn’t you tell me?” His
voice trips on a held-back sob.
Sam hums. “If you waited an hour or so, I would have been out. It was a slight
change of plans. Charlie was just late. I wasn’t planning on staying home that
night.”
Dean’s laugh bubbles up his throat as if he was coughing up blood. “It was
supposed to be us, Sammy, not me and dad. Not me and dad.”
“I know, Dean,” Sam sighs and his fingers are back on Dean’s face, once again
cooling it and bringing his attention to him. Dean’s vision is blurred by
tears, but he sees Sam lean in and the press of his mouth against Dean’s lips
is too familiar to not recognize it.
He wants to disappear in the kiss. He desperately wants to get lost in it, one
last time, he wants one last kiss and he wants it to last for minutes and he
wants it to fill his mouth and he wants to forget that once the kiss is over,
this all is over.
None of that happens, though.
With the press of Sam’s lips against his, Dean remembers the night. The night.
The night of the fire.
He had it all planned. Mom and Dad were supposed to stay home and Sam was
supposed to go out. Dean knew how he would do it, and in his mind, he was
perfectly clear about why he wanted to do it. He loved his parents – they
weren’t perfect, but they were his, and Dad told him about Metallica and Mom
made Dean feel safe – but he loved Sam more, and he knew what he’d rather
sacrifice.
Mom used to light vanilla scented candles in the living room. That was Dean’s
certainty, something he could build this on.
With Sam out, Dean thought it would be easy to set the house on fire. Mom was
in the bathroom taking a bath and Dad was in his ‘office’, taking care of his
fishing attire, probably preparing hooks and food. Sam left half an hour ago,
Dean heard the door slam. Or so he thought.
The only thing he wasn’t mistaken about was his mom taking a bath. The rest got
mixed up. Sam was still hiding in his room, as he always did during hot summer
days where moving your hand caused sweat to break out on your skin. It was Dad
who slammed the door half an hour ago, leaving to buy stupid mangos. Dean
didn’t know that at the time. He thought his set up was perfect.
He had gasoline, had stored it in the Impala’s trunk for about two weeks now.
That’s how long it took him to get up and just do it. He thought it would work.
He poured some near the bathroom door. On the stairs. Even in front of Sam’s
room upstairs, so the fire would reach it eventually. He left a trail behind,
and when he got to the living room, he used the last drops on the curtains. He
took one of the candles, as if not using matches or a lighter would take some
weight off of his tired shoulders, and he held it up to the dark velvet fabric.
It reacted immediately.
The fire spread within minutes. It’s amazing how quickly it traveled from room
to room, poisoning the wooden floor and the walls one by one.
He was just walking out, ready to act out his cry for help, when he heard a
scream. For a split second, he thought it was Mom letting all the remaining air
out of her lungs with a shriek before it got filled with smoke. But it wasn’t
Mom. It was high-pitched, but it wasn’t mom. Dean knew this scream.
Knew it from when Sam fell off a tree and broke his leg. He knew it from when
Sam accidently touched the oven when it was on, and his scream of pain filled
the house. He knew it from when they fucked for the first time a few months ago
in a field, and afterwards, Sam walked up to a nearby tree and kicked it for
minutes, screaming. This was Sam’s lungs producing the inhuman noise.
One sharp intake of breath later, Dean – his nostrils filling with smoke – made
his decision. Fear gripping his guts, making him feel like the world was just a
bubble about to burst and he was just a random person in the audience watching
the spectacular show, he ran back into the house.
He was late. The stairs had collapsed under the weight of the fire, the wood
creaking and breaking in its power. Dean tried anyway, but before he could
reach Sam’s door, he heard himself scream as well and the smoke drew a curtain
over his mind.
He floated in between consciousness and fainting, and when he felt strong arms
grip him and carry him out of the house, his mind decided for the latter. He
passed out, alone. So utterly alone.
“You can let me go now,” Sam breathes into his mouth, making Dean feel like
someone just poured ice cubes into his mouth. “Or you can let yourself go,” his
brother adds, his hands gripping Dean’s hips. His lips are still hovering over
Dean’s when he finishes, “Check your pocket.”
Dean’s shaky fingers bury into his jacket pocket, wrapping around a tiny pack
of matches, feeling their rough edges underneath his skin.
Unlike Sam, it is very real.
He swallows and pulls the matches out, ready.
                                   THE_END.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, I might have
     some bonus stuff for you, like a few songs, a book, and a movie.
     Finger_Back_by_Vampire_Weekend was originally a kind of random song I
     snagged my title from. The more I listened to it, though, the more I
     loved it and the more sense it made in my head.
     Fire_Meet_Gasoline_by_Sia is atmospherically off and perhaps too
     literal, but I love it very much anyway.
     Things_We_Lost_In_The_Fire_by_Bastille is a song I'm currently
     obsessed with and it's my everything, basically.
     We_Were_Liars_by_E._Lockhart is a book I read back in June and
     disliked most of it. Thinking back to it now, though, I think it
     might have inspired me to write this. Somehow. I don't know.
     A_Tale_of_Two_Sisters is a brilliant Korean horror movie that I
     watched shortly after finishing the fic, and it made me think of it -
     - although, the movie is much much better.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!