Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/839756.
  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, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weechesters, Pre_Season/Series_01, Case_Fic, Haunting, Sibling_Incest,
      Underage_Sex, Established_Relationship, Demons, Demon_Blood, Dreams_vs.
      Reality, Psychological_Horror
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Georgian
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-12 Completed: 2013-06-27 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 10468
****** The Georgian ******
by compo67
Summary
     Set when Sam is 14 and Dean is 18, John leaves them in an abandoned
     mansion off the coast of Maine for the summer. Something is watching
     them.
Notes
     The first part of a series. Nothing explicit in this chapter.
***** Classical Order *****
One summer, when Sam had just turned fourteen, John left them in a run-down-
seen-better-days-100 years-ago mansion off the coast of Maine.
The place belonged to a hunter who owed John a favor. That’s as far as details
went with John.
Even though it had technically once been a mansion, that didn’t mean anything
to the Winchesters. It didn’t mean anything fancy; it just meant everything was
old and there was more of it. They only had electricity in half the mansion,
running water in the kitchen and one of the many grimy bathrooms. Somehow the
universe had managed to string together a series of motel rooms, smash them
into one place, and put the Winchesters in it.
“You boys don’t need much more than that,” John declared as they hauled packs
and bags in from the Impala and John’s truck. “Figure it’ll be plenty while I’m
gone.”
That was it. Nothing more was said about where they were staying or for how
long or why this particular area. John only spoke in statements.
 
 
Sam was set up in the room that had two working light bulbs.
“There are from the 1800’s,” Dean muttered as he turned the knob to one. “See
how they’re brown at the bottom, Sam? Shit’s lasted longer than most of this
place.”
It was a source of interest to Sam, that delicate light bulbs had managed to
survive and function against odds like Maine winters and dry summers, but he
couldn’t entirely pay attention. He felt something in the house and couldn’t
shake the feeling. He figured it must be him, because if neither Dean nor John
felt it then it was probably nothing.
The room only had one tiny twin bed, with dusty sheets and a lace coverlet. Sam
threw his duffel on top of it and wrinkled his nose at the tufts of dust that
puffed up and settled back down. John told Dean to take another room and let
Sam settle in. Settling in took all of five minutes. His belongings were
limited to one duffel and Sam had learned long ago to never own anything small.
He had a few books, his clothes, a butterfly knife, and a flashlight. He had
one poster—more like a print, of a stylized Tesla—that had fought for its
perseverance through hunts and being tossed around, but he didn’t unpack it.
And he didn’t clean. He didn’t see the point.
Dean came in and barked at him. “Get up and make this place decent,” he went
on. “We aim to stay a while.”
Sam refused, crossing his arms over his chest. Dean hugged and grumbled
something about uncool, inconsiderate little brothers as he left, boots
stomping loudly throughout the grungy, poorly lit hallways. Sam followed,
silent from years of practice and the aid of his soft sneakers, to where John
was in the kitchen cleaning guns and sharpening knives. This was one of the
most normal things about their family; they always cleaned the weapons in the
kitchen no matter where they were. Sam was sure that some families out there
did the same thing; they just used the weapons for different things. Very
different things.
John was leaving them the Impala, which possibly meant a longer stay, but Sam
had been proven wrong before.
“Dean, I don’t want problems.”
“Yes sir.”
“You spar every day with Sam. And I want to see progress on the bow by the time
I get back.”
“Yes sir.”
“Man by the name of Eric Dale has work for you in town. Construction or at the
garage—your pick—but I want you here, Dean. You work you come back. Is that
understood?” The few times John did ask questions they were for clarification
of yes-dad-yes-sir-be-sure-to-do-as-we’re-told-sir. Dean gave another clear yes
sir and John stood up. Sam took a risk and peered in on father and eldest son;
drill sergeant and grunt. “He’s fourteen, Dean. Don’t forget that.”
They’re standing a foot apart and John puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, gives it
a squeeze. “You’ll do fine.”
As quietly as he followed, Sam retreats and explores the mansion, not finding
much of interest until he stumbles onto a library. It’s damp and he’s sure most
of the books are goners, but it’s somehow familiar and comforting. He pokes
around, kicking aside debris, until he hears John call for him.
John gives him a similar speech; he has to listen to Dean, don’t spend all his
time inside, and remember to work on the bow. He scruffs Sam’s hair despite the
complaint and packs up the truck, giving one wave to them as he drives down the
steep driveway. Dean and Sam watch him and stand outside for ten minutes, no
words or movement passing between them.
Sam wonders if whatever is watching him is also watching Dean.
 
 
The next morning, after an uncomfortable night of sleep, Sam wakes up before
Dean. He can hear his older brother snoring from the room he randomly chose to
sprawl out in.
They’re all small rooms, which might have been bigger to the people who
originally lived in them. Everything is dark still but Sam can still clearly
make out the lines and curves of Dean’s body. He settles down next to Dean and
presses his nose against Dean’s chest and inhales deeply. Wrapping his arms
around Dean’s body, entwining their legs, Sam holds on and closes his eyes.
There was a serial killer John and Dean hunted down—thought he was a
shapeshifter at first—who cut open his victims from head to toe and pried them
open. Most nights, Dean reported to Bobby who all thought Sam wasn’t listening,
it seemed like he’d place personal objects of his or the victim’s inside the
bodies. Some nights though, the man would sleep inside the slits, as far in as
he could go, just to feel closer to them.
Sometimes Sam feels like that man.
And sometimes, he knows, Dean feels that way too.
He presses in further against Dean, digging his fingers into Dean’s back.
Finally, Dean snorts and grunts awake, mumbles something against Sam’s
forehead, and blindly reaches for the thin blanket they own, covering them both
up with a whoosh and a flutter.
“Let me sleep,” Dean gruffly mutters and slings a protective arm over Sam.
“’Kay,” Sam whispers, settling in. He doesn’t fall back asleep but he’s
comfortable and warm. An hour later, he’s halfway into a fuzzy, dreamy world.
He wakes up because Dean shifts and there’s a familiar bulge pressed up against
Sam’s stomach.
“Fuck,” Dean groans and exhales, stretching and running a hand over his face
and through his hair. “Sammy, get off me.”
“No,” Sam snaps and pouts, clinging tighter. He pushes himself up a bit and
presses their hips together. “Wanna,” he deliberately purrs up towards Dean,
fingers bunched in the faded gray tee Dean wore to bed.
“Yeah, well, I need to piss, so too fuckin’ bad.” With that, Dean
unceremoniously shoves Sam away and gets out of bed, a few joints popping. Dean
stretches more and scratches at the waistband of the boxer briefs he’s wearing,
looks around, and grumbles off to the nearest bathroom. Sam sighs, rolls over
onto his stomach and buries himself in Dean’s pillow.
He hopes he doesn’t spend the entire summer getting rejected.
 
 
They spend the day cleaning up portions of the mansion. Dean makes Sam come
with him on a preliminary tour of the grounds. Sam agrees only if he can hold
Dean’s hand.
“You,” Dean declares as he looks Sam up and down, delicate eyebrow lifted, “are
so fuckin’ gay.”
But he gives in and they hold hands. Sam rubs his thumb over Dean’s palm.
The mansion follows other layouts and plans common for their time. There’s an
underground cellar that Dean insists on opening up and checking out. He’s armed
and has Sam stand back just in case. The heavy doors creak and groan as Dean
pries them apart to open. They fly open with a firm push and a foul odor knocks
the wind out of them.
Dean covers his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and peers in,
shines the flashlight in front of him. Sam hovers, anxious. Small, closed
spaces make him nervous.
“Just a bunch of rotting preserves,” Dean announces, coming back up and shaking
his head before he gets to close the doors. “Canning jars and that shit. Stuff
must’ve been left there when this place was actually worth something.” With a
grunt, he shuts the doors and bolts them. “We ain’t got any business going in
there, you get me, Sammy?”
He nods his response and goes for Dean’s hand again, who grumbles about it but
relents.
For once, Sam wishes he knew more about architecture styles. It’s not really
something he’s ever needed to know about; monsters aren’t exactly picky about
where they dwell. But as they’re walking, Sam can’t accurately describe the
building or categorize its shapes and it bothers him. Vines have long since
crept onto the walls, dangling off the three small balconies that are in the
back. He hasn’t seen the rooms they’re connected to. They pass a side door that
Sam thinks might have been a servant’s door, and it’s missing a window pane at
the top.
The entire mansion is made out of brick, which Sam thinks must have been a
cherry color when it was first built. Now, it’s more like the faded red, rust
tint that their blood looks like on clothes and hasn’t been washed out in a
while. The vines wrapping around it all creates an almost violent contrast.
“So far I’ve counted twelve rooms,” Dean murmurs, kicking aside some loose
bricks. “Got two dining rooms, a sitting room, the main kitchen and a smaller
back kitchen. Four bathrooms total, but only one has a toilet. There’s no
basement except that janky cellar. There’s an attic but Dad says that’s off
limits.” It takes them ten minutes of brisk walking to circle the entire
building. Everything is overgrown and bricks are scattered like mines. Sam
nearly twists his ankle on one.
“It’s all two rooms deep, except for this one corner,” Dean continues, yanking
Sam closer to him. “Where it’s one big room and some crap hole of a closet or
something in the corner pocket. I want you to stay in the center, where we’ve
already set up. It’s nearest the smaller kitchen and one of the servant’s
staircases.”
They’ve swung back to the front of the house. The entire property consists of
five acres, so there’s nothing around them for a good distance and the gravel
driveway makes plenty of noise when a car is on it. There’s an odd sense of
stillness in the air, around the tree line, but Sam doesn’t think too much into
it.
“Big ass place,” Dean says and slips his hand free of Sam’s to scrub his face.
Sam only nods in response. He looks towards a small window near the attic. He
knows nothing is there, he doesn’t see anything. But he feels it. It’s watching
him carefully.
“I want to go into town,” Sam murmurs and tugs on the sleeve of Dean’s jacket.
It’s only the beginning of June but it’s not hot at this time of day.
“Later,” Dean dismisses and walks ahead of Sam, back inside the house.
It’s still there, with undivided attention on Sam.
“No!” Sam gasps. “Now, Dean. Now, please.”
“Sammy,” Dean growls, taking two steps forward to Sam and grabbing him roughly
by the shirt collar. “Are you seeing shit that I should know about?”
He shakes his head and scrunches his eyes closed tight. He launches himself
into Dean’s chest and clings. “No, Dean, no. I just… I get this feeling.”
Dean tenses up. He pulls away slightly, enough to look down at Sam and run a
hand through his hair, then to rub Sam’s bottom lip with his thumb.
“Sweetheart, you’re awfully quiet lately. Not like you.”
Unsure of what to say to that, Sam just forces them back together, so he’s
pressed into Dean’s chest again. His brother’s heart beat is strong and sure.
All those tiny parts inside his chest working together every second, every
minute to give him this. Dean sighs and tells Sam to go wait in the Impala. He
left his wallet inside.
Sam slides into the front seat—his spot when Dean is driving—and keeps a steady
watch on Dean. He breathes in and breathes out, focusing and willing himself to
relax.
Dean comes out two minutes later, stuffing his wallet into his right back
pocket.
“Okay, let’s head out,” he says and the Impala roars to life, gravel crunching
underneath.
It’s watching Dean too.
 
 
***** Decorative Crown *****
Chapter Summary
     Town is explored and something might have followed.
Chapter Notes
     I've decided to do these as chapters instead of as a series. I think
     it works better format wise, since this will all be Sam's POV.
     Georgian architecture characteristics will be the titles and tie ins
     to the chapters. Explicit Weecest (with breath play) in this chapter.
     Sam is 14.
Town is about fifteen hundred people who primarily make their living in
fishing, food, or tourism. There are a few streets of lush, carefully
maintained houses and apartment complexes. They drive by a man mowing his lawn,
sweating and drinking a glass of lemonade while he steers with one hand.
Motels don’t have lawns that require mowing.
It’s a place that’s a little more high end than they’re used to. It’s small
town America but it belongs to the kind of people who have second homes and
SUVs and simple, pressed designer clothes. The kind of clothes that looks
plain, but has quality to it. The kind of clothes that never ends up in a
thrift store bin for others to dig through and have something halfway decent to
wear for yet another stint at another new school.
Sam sighs, Dean nods. He’s thinking the same.
The Impala rumbles into the parking lot of a modest grocery store in the center
of downtown. Most of the buildings that line Main Street are smaller versions
of the mansion. Sam is pretty sure this is classic New England architecture.
Dean parks away from other cars at the end of the lot and cuts the engine, his
touch on the Impala respectful and reverent. He looks out the his window once
and then turns to Sam, examines him with questioning, sharp green eyes. Sam
blushes and fidgets. He knows Dean isn’t looking at him that way. But Sam is
fourteen. He gets hard at the thought of Dean.
His older brother puts an arm up on the seat and spreads his legs open. Such a
simple set of gestures with such deliberate purpose. He’s trying to make Sam
feel comfortable by having open body language.
John doesn’t just teach them weaponry and combat; Sam has always taken to the
psychological side of training more than the physical aspect. Sometimes he
wonders what that says about him as a hunter, as a person, as a teenager. Does
it mean it doesn’t like to get his hands dirty? Or that he simply knows how to
inflict damage through other methods, ones which keep his hands clean?
There, in the warm leather seat of the Impala, is Dean, spread out, and Sam has
a need to be in all of that open space. To be seated in the firm vee of Dean’s
lap.
He pushes himself forward and presses their mouths together.
Did it follow?
Dean kisses back with a tenderness Sam isn’t used to. Sam lets out a broken
moan and has his hands on Dean’s neck. The trust Dean has to allow Sam to place
his hands here—and any, everywhere else—never ceases to awe him. His brother is
dangerous. His brother can and does hurt things. But here, in the front seat of
the Impala, he allows Sam to push his fingertips into the soft, slightly
stubbly skin at his throat.
“Don’t,” Dean warns and initiates a second, rougher, deeper kiss. When they
pause for breath—when Sam feels the same sensation as when he stays underwater
too long—Dean’s hands are on Sam’s slim hips, fingers digging. “I… I won’t
stop,” Dean admits and waits. Because as much as he says he won’t, he will. He
will for Sam if that’s what Sam wants.
“Do it,” Sam mumbles into the delicate bones of Dean’s left ear. He presses his
lips in the space behind Dean’s ear.
 
 
Ten minutes pass and they have changed drastically. Sam is thankful Dean parked
in the back of the lot. The Impala is creaking; Dean is pushing and holding Sam
down as his back arches and twists in the most agile lines, keeping Sam from
being seen through the windows.
It’s easier to fuck the other way, with Dean pushing in from behind, but Sam
has an ache and a want and it’s been two weeks since the last time. He could
sob out his relief as Dean lifts up his hips and slickly slides in and out. Sam
does make a small noise when Dean presses a hand on Sam’s lower stomach,
pushing down and tilting their hips up.
“I’m here,” Dean pants, his eyes half lidded. “Right here, Sammy.”
That’s all it takes for Sam to lose it and come untouched, spurting all over
Dean’s stomach and his own.
“Ha… ah…” Sam pants in response, trembling because Dean is now hitting his
prostate on every stroke. There are times like these when Sam does not mind
occupying this fourteen year old body; he’s hard again in minutes.
“Closer,” Sam cries and reaches his arms out for Dean. “Closer, please,
please…”
“I got you sweetheart,” Dean purrs and leans down, the muscles in his arms
flexing. Their foreheads press together for a moment, and then Sam is slipping
his tongue into Dean’s mouth. He bites and pulls at his brother’s bottom lip,
mewling as Dean slips a hand to his throat. “Like this?” Dean asks, even though
he doesn’t need to. After the first time doing this, Sam could barely have sex
without it.
He wonders how Dean learned this. How to place the right amount of pressure to
create pleasure and pain against Sam’s windpipe. Sam bares his throat and lets
go. Dean swears and thrusts harder, each push brutal.
It followed.
Sam feels his mouth form into an O and his entire body spasms. Dean releases on
his throat and shouts his name.
Sam makes a mess of them for a second time.
 
 
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hurt Sam’s eyes.
His ass hurts too, but he minds that less. Dean licked him clean all over, a
tender gesture that tells Sam Dean is concerned.
He wishes Dean wouldn’t worry so much. He wishes John worried more. In ways
that mattered.
“I’ll blow you when we get back,” Sam says as he picks up a gallon of icy cold
milk. Dean freezes and glares, grabs Sam by the wrinkled collar of his shirt
and twists.
“Sam,” Dean warns. “Quit it.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well say it a little less loud, will ya?” Dean grumbles and walks off with the
cart. His gait is a little slower, little more forced. Sam smiles and squashes
a laugh. Dean pulled a muscle.
 
 
They don’t talk much. They’ve never really had to. There are slight movements
Dean makes, or the way his body language shifts, that tell Sam plenty. Sam
could write a book about Dean’s nonverbal cues; he supposes he could write a
smaller book on John’s.
The rest of the day is spent in town, until Dean remembers that there’s milk
and perishables in the Impala. But before that, they stop at an ice cream
parlor with only four flavors (chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and coffee) and
Dean takes exactly three licks off Sam’s before Sam punches Dean in the
shoulder.
Things almost feel normal.
At two in the afternoon, they over to Dale’s Garage, as the sign states. Sam
examines the curves the letters make as he hangs back, allows Dean to slip on a
mask and become Dean Winchester, John’s boy, here looking for work, sir.
He listens in on the conversation between Eric and Dean.
“Knew your dad in Kansas, never figured he’d come out this way,” Eric rattles
on. “He teach you about cars?”
“Yes sir,” Dean replies smoothly. “We spend a lot of our time on the road, him
and my brother.”
There’s a pause, which means Eric is looking Sam over. Sam’s not facing them.
He’s concentrating on the ground because now he feels nausea creep up from the
pit of his stomach to the tip of his tongue.
The tip of his tongue where Dean’s tongue was not too long ago.
“Your brother don’t talk much, huh?”
“He’s… shy,” Dean mumbles. “Y’know how it is.”
Eric tells Dean the garage could use more help than the construction site. Pays
a touch better, too. Dean shakes the man’s hand and walks out to see Sam.
“Dean,” Sam blurts out, “I think I’m gonna…”
“Oh shit, Sam,” Dean mutters and steps towards Sam. He knows the look on Sam’s
face because he’s always been there to see it. The look that says Sam is two
seconds away from throwing up and vomiting everywhere. Sam knows that some
people think that’s endearing. It is, in a way, but mostly it’s just Dean.
Vomit rushes up his throat with a force he didn’t know could happen.
He’s crying and whining in between heaves, getting sick all over himself and
Dean, bent over and struggling to stand. Dean holds him up. Dean steadies him
and says things like sweetheart and baby and my boy. Dean sweeps the hair out
of Sam’s face.
“There you go. That’s it.”
Sam wishes he could concentrate better on Dean’s voice. On those lovely little
things he’s saying because he doesn’t say them often, especially not outside
the Impala. But something is overriding Dean. And that truly frightens Sam.
Nothing has ever overridden Sam’s natural instinct of Dean. Not even John. Not
even when John digs and cuts into him about training and hunting and work the
bow Sam, work it, you’re not trying hard enough. Little does John know Sam
works the bow of Dean’s back, works the heavy weight of Dean’s cock hard enough
that Dean will gasp, “Sammy,” and groan and lick the sweat off Sam’s neck.
 
 
Something blocks Dean out for thirty seconds.
It’s thirty seconds and Sam panics.
His eyes are open, he knows this, because he’s turned up and looking towards
the sun, but he doesn’t see Dean. He doesn’t even see the sky. He just knows
the sun is there and something else.
There is no glimpse of it.
 
 
Thirty one seconds pass and Dean is allowed back. Sam takes a gulp of air and
reaches out to grab some part of Dean. Any part.
“Jesus Christ, Sam, Sammy,” Dean spills and touches Sam’s face.
They’re in the Impala again.
She is still warm and comfortable and smells like sex between two teenaged
boys, with a trace of gunpowder under all of that.
“You threw up blood, Jesus fucking Christ.”
Sam can’t reply. His throat hurts and for a second he’s sad Dean wasted the
money on ice cream. Look how it all ended up.
 
 
Something creeps over Dean’s shoulder and stares.
It stares and stares and stares.
It kisses the place behind Dean’s ear.
Sam threw up blood and it looked like a sunset splattered on the sidewalk of a
nice town with nice people and nice things.
 
 
Except for something.
***** Double-Hung Sash Windows *****
Chapter Summary
     Sam descends further into something's grasp. It brings a friend.
Chapter Notes
     I have to stop writing these before I go to bed. I end up sleeping
     with all the lights on. ;-;
     If the narrative seems confusing, it's meant to be. Hoping it comes
     off that way--as purposeful instead of just bad writing.
     Explicit Weecest in this chapter. Also, small implications of self-
     harm, suicide.
The first thing Sam asks when he wakes up is, “Dean?”
 
And the first thing he hears in response is, “Sammy?”
After that, he asks a few more questions and Dean answers back.
“Back at the old place, Sam,” Dean mutters and pulls the blankets up around
Sam. The tenderness is gone after that. “I want answers, now.”
Sam isn’t proud of this, but he stalls, asks for a glass of water and a change
of clothes. Seems that he’s soaked through the boxers and undershirt Dean
stripped him down to. He smells like cold sweat and vomit and he really wants a
bath but he has no energy. Dean does all the work for him, undressing him
completely and slipping him into a pair of Dean’s charcoal gray boxer briefs.
Sam trusts Dean’s hands on any and every part of him.
“Don’t,” Sam whispers as Dean moves to get up.
“You want water, I gotta actually go get it.”
“No, it’s okay, I’m good.”
They’re in the room with the two working light bulbs. One flickers on and off,
while the other is constant. They each cast light on the wallpaper Sam hadn’t
noticed before. It’s a vine print, like the actual vines outside, covering and
sheltering the house.
Keeping things out.
Keeping things in.
“I need to research,” Sam mumbles and tries to sit up, roll off the bed. The
world around him swims and Dean is a gradient.
“Yeah, see how far you get,” Dean replies roughly and stands up, the mattress
creaking. “I’m gonna get you water and some aspirin. You’ve got a fuckin’
fever. And don’t complain because I can’t stay by you every god damned second.”
Sam’s mind flits back to that serial killer.
If he were an object, would someone place him inside Dean? Or perhaps vice
versa?
 
He knows Dean’s worried and that’s why he’s being gruff. Sam twists his fingers
into the blankets and tries not to focus on anything in the room. He counts to
fifteen and Dean returns with a pitcher, glass, pills, and a piece of bread. As
soon as it’s clear Sam can keep down the water, Dean breaks off pieces of the
bread and hands them to Sam, who eats slowly, holding out his hands for more
each time he’s finished.
“Enough,” Dean snaps, agitated. “Start talking.”
Is it around?
Can it hear?
Does it understand speech or only emotion?
It’s not near Dean.
“I… I can’t see it. I just know it’s there, honest, Dean. I would’ve said
something you…”
“Don’t,” his older brother interrupts and squeezes the bridge of his nose.
“Facts, now.”
He tries his best to say every detail and he keeps his voice down. He tries to
focus on capturing details because John trained them that details might be the
difference in breathing and not breathing.
He winds down with, “I don’t know what it is. It’s just… there. And it can
follow. And…I think…it has emotions.” Dean is pacing the small room now, hands
behind him, braced on his neck. His eyes are hard and cold, determined and
angry.
“Don’t you ever keep shit like this to yourself again, do you hear me?” Dean
growls in Sam’s direction but doesn’t stop pacing. “I have to know I can trust
you, Sam! Do you understand? I have to know that you’ll speak up when something
is wrong. I can’t be there every second!”
“Why not?!” Sam shouts without meaning to. “Why can’t you be there every
second?”
“Because you’re not a baby!”
“What if I want you there every second, huh?”
“Shut up Sam,” Dean barks. “Shut up and go back to sleep!”
“Where are you going?”
“Out! To figure this shit out because you obviously don’t fuckin’ care!” Dean’s
storming through the hallway, down to his room and Sam is following, staggering
and stumbling after him. He trips because he’s so fucking dizzy, nothing he
does will get rid of it.
“This isn’t you,” Dean shouts and gets to his knees in front of Sam. “This
isn’t you.”
“This isn’t you!” Sam snaps back. “Don’t, Dean, please…” Sam starts sobbing,
unable to stop. He’s a trembling mess in Dean’s arms, clinging to him as hard
as he can grip. He can’t focus his eyes on any single spot. He’s having
nightmares while he’s awake. At least he thinks he’s awake. Does Dean talk to
him—treat him—like this in Sam’s dreams? Most nights Sam dreams of Dean and him
ten years down, sharing an apartment and sleeping on real beds, sometimes
together, sometimes apart, but always under the same roof. He dreams of Dean
all to himself, until a natural order demands one of them away and even then,
Sam knows—he feels it in the marrow of his bones—that neither one of them would
be too long to follow.
“Dean!” Sam screams and twists in Dean’s arms, which become a mattress and Sam
is throwing up the slice of bread and glass of water.
“No, no, no…” Sam continues to sob when he’s done retching, clutching at his
heart. He leaves Dean. Dean refuses to go with him somewhere warm. There’s
someone like Dean burning on a ceiling but it’s not his mother. He sees this
with adult eyes this time, and watches as the flames eat into their body,
smells their burning flesh and breathes in pieces of their ash.
This is all going to happen.
Something knows.
A vine breaks in through the window, shatters the glass and the pane. It curls
and flexes out, swiftly towards Sam on the bed.
It touches his cheek, like a mother would, Sam imagines.
The only mother Sam’s ever had is Dean. And Dean is so many things in Sam’s
small life, Sam wants to be all of them in return for Dean.
But you aren’t, the vine tells him, stroking under his chin and wrapping around
his neck in elegant swoops. And you never will be.
Sam could handle some of this—Dean still sleeps with women when they’re on the
road, as an outlet when he can’t have Sam and to make John proud.
“Lady killer,” John says with frequency, gives Dean an affection pat on the
back.
You will be the death of him.
The vine strikes at Sam twice, whipping him fast and brutal across his bare
chest, directly above his heart. It snaps back through the window as if it were
elastic. Glass is everywhere and Sam’s bleeding.
Something is watching.
It’s waiting.
It’s very patient and pleased.
 
 
The way Sam hears it later, Dean never fed him a slice of bread.
“You’re burning up,” Dean mutters as he sets the thermometer down on the
nightstand. “Hundred and four and climbing, shit. Here.” Dean shoves three
aspirin into Sam’s left hand. “Sammy, god dammit!” He barks and kicks around
shards of glass and pieces of broken pane. “I went through this whole place
with my EMF and found squat. What is going on with you? Why… why would you hurt
yourself?”
His older brother points an accusing finger at the blistered red marks on Sam’s
chest.
Then there’s that look.
It’s one John gets when Sam doesn’t hit the mark during target practice.
Or when Sam fails to join in on John and Dean’s exuberance during a hunt.
Sam curls up on the bed, knees to his chest. He doesn’t look at Dean while he
tells him about the vine.
“Sweetheart,” Dean says, suddenly sitting next to Sam, holding a glass of water
to his lips. “Drink up.”
Confused, Sam drinks and reaches out for Dean, who allows Sam to rest his sweat
damp head on his shoulder. Dean rubs his back in slow circles; the ring he
always wears is a comforting presence. Sam is dressed in one of Dean’s old
Zeppelin shirts and a pair of gray boxer briefs. He looks onto his chest and
there aren’t any wounds, only faint welts.
It’s all so unclear.
 
“This isn’t me,” Sam sputters and looks up at Dean. “Dean, I can’t wake up.”
“Buddy, you’ve been asleep since you puked all over the street. That was hours
ago.”
“I… I know…and I’m not awake now.”
Dean eyes him cautiously. “Yeah, you are. Your fever finally broke.” Dean
places a hand on Sam’s forehead as if to reassure himself of what he just said.
“C’mon, you stink and you sweat through everything. I’ll get you a bath and you
can rest more after that.”
He doesn’t know what to do. Is he dreaming again?
Dreams or not he’ll trust Dean.
 
It must be so easy to manipulate him.
 
He wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and Dean hefts him up, muttering something
about not being able to do this much longer, he can tell Sam’s going to hit a
growth spurt soon. Carefully, Dean gets them to the working bathroom. “Cleaned
it while you were out,” Dean murmurs, as if Sam cares at this point. Sam
concentrates on Dean, trying to evaluate his movements, the tone of his speech.
“Up.” Dean pulls the shirt off Sam and then the boxers.
He’s never been self-conscious in front of Dean.
Suddenly, he is, and he’s not sure what to do.
“Easy,” Dean says softly, reaching over and checking to see if the water is
warm enough. “You’ll feel better after this.”
Sam isn’t sure whether he is annoyed or grateful.
He can handle a .45 just like the rest of them. He can be a hunter. It’s
possible because John has seen to that. He can get out of this nightmare
because it isn’t a nightmare. He sinks into the tub and sighs. He doesn’t know
how a place this old and run down still has a functioning water heater, but he
doesn’t care. Dean found a way to make it work.
“Come in with me,” Sam mumbles, eyes closed.
“Ain’t room enough for both of us, Sammy.”
“There can be,” he says, eyes open.
Dean frowns; he looks older when he does that. “Take your bath, Sam.”
This isn’t a nightmare. This is real.
“I wanna…” he breathes and his right hand travels down, dipping through the
water and onto his cock. He starts with slow strokes, spreads his legs apart,
and adjusts for more thorough access. He looks at Dean the entire time, who
watches him and his hand. “I’ll feel better.”
“How is that gonna make you feel better.”
“I’ll know you’re real.”
“You know I’m real. I told you.”
“But I’ll feel it. And I wanna feel it, Dean. Please.”
His brother gives in. This is real. Dean strips and makes Sam stand up in the
tub so he can get in. He lowers himself and Sam admires the way the muscles in
Dean’s arms flex. There isn’t much room to move, so Sam perches on Dean’s lap,
Dean’s chest pressed to his back. He sits slightly above Dean’s half hard cock,
leans back and bares his throat.
“Jesus,” Dean swears and runs a hand down the length of Sam’s throat, down his
chest, middle, thighs. “Sammy, are you…”
 
Something isn’t around. For now.
It’s not watching them.
It’s not anywhere near Dean.
 
Sam reaches back and tugs on Dean’s short hair, grinding his hips down,
listening to the water slosh. Dean’s toes curl and his thighs tense up. It’s
not too much longer when Dean has his mouth on Sam’s neck, biting down roughly.
Each of them has a hand on the other’s cock. It’s awkward and slippery and the
water is too hot.
The bathroom is small. It’s got a sink, a toilet, and the claw foot bathtub.
Nothing is fancy and nothing is new, even the toilet. Whatever hunter had this
place before can’t have added anything recently. There no windows in the
bathroom, not even a mirror.
Sam isn’t sure who groans, or if it’s both of them. He braces himself on the
edges of the tub, Dean’s hands on his hips, groping and squeezing his ass. He
slips a finger in like he’s putting on a glove. Sam takes it easily, just like
he takes the next two, until he’s begging Dean to stop because fingers are good
but there’s better to be had and Sam wants it all.
“Easy,” Dean purrs, reclining back and angling his hips up. “Not all at once,
sweetheart.”
At the press of the thick head against him, Sam’s fingers dig into the tub. He
breathes and pushes out, just like Dean taught him, and feels the head slide
in. His cock jerks and he’s about to come just from that, but Dean’s hand is at
the root of him. Sam’s skin itches.
They’ve never had sex in a tub before. The sensations are new to Sam. He
constantly feels like he’s going to slip off Dean’s lap or tumble out. But
Dean’s hands are there, grounding him.
“Shit,” Dean moans. “Sink down, that’s right, easy baby. Fuck yes.” His hips
stutter but he stays mostly still as Sam works his hips down, inch by inch. Sam
lets out a groan and pushes his spine straighter, shoulders back. When he’s
seated, he needs a minute to adjust. He looks up at the ceiling and gasps when
Dean runs a hand down his back. Sam brings a knee up and starts to get the
leverage he needs to move up and down.
Shouldn’t the water be getting colder, not hotter?
Dean hits his prostate and that thought dies quickly.
The pace they set up is fast, both of them working past the difficulty of the
space and water. Sam almost comes again because Dean is hitting is prostate on
every thrust. His balls feel heavy and his cock is throbbing against the tight
hold Dean has on him. Dean forces Sam’s hips down and pushes up, as deep as he
can, sitting up now and pressing them chest to back like before. Sam whines,
his eyes fluttering open and close as he contracts the muscles snug against
Dean. Dean groans in response.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Sam isn’t sure who is saying that.
There’s steam now, though it wasn’t there before.
And there’s a smell that Sam can’t quite pin. He’s trying though. He knows that
smell. Knows it like Dean’s aftershave.
“Let me come,” Sam pants, trying to move. Dean holds him still, arms wrapped
around him.
“Wanna see a big load baby,” Dean pants back and bites his neck again. “Hold
off for me.”
Dean thrusts in shallowly, but his aim is true, and Sam is wound up. He
tightens and swivels his hips as much as he can and he’s crying from over
stimulation. Sometimes they have sex that’s fast and brutal. Sometimes they
have sex that’s slow and breaking. Dean rips him apart—tests his limits—and
sorts through the pieces.
The single light bulb in the bathroom goes out just as Dean releases his hand.
Sam screams and rocks against Dean as his orgasm hits. He clenches his ass as
hard as he can. He feels so full. So filled.
“Coming, coming,” Sam gasps and watches Dean’s hand stroke him through it. He’s
lifted up, so the tip of his cock pokes out from the water. Dean angles them up
and back and Sam’s coming all over himself with a force that has him shaking.
Ropes of come hit his belly first, then his throat, and as Dean’s still fucking
against his prostate, on his chin and cheek. Sam is slipping and sliding, all
but flailing in the tub as Dean pushes him to another orgasm, his hand stroking
rougher and tighter, his cock pumping into him with heat and hardness.
“I’m here little brother,” Dean groans and presses his free hand to Sam’s lower
stomach. “Right here.”
Sam feels his face scrunch up as he opens his mouth to shout. He lets out a
string of curses and moans and comes again, tensing up. He feels Dean’s cock
twitch and throb and he’s filled with a wetness that comes from him, not the
bath water.
 
They’re both panting and out of breath for a good while.
 
Sam closes his eyes and rests against Dean, one arm slung back, hanging over
Dean’s shoulder. Dean kisses his cheek and licks off the come he can reach
without moving them.
He relaxes. Dean will pull them out and put them both to bed.
When his eyes open next, he’s in the tub and Dean isn’t there but he’s not
alone.
 
 
The vine is there. 
***** Blind Dormer *****
Chapter Summary
     A new addition to the mansion arrives, Sam can't wake Dean up.
Chapter Notes
     Short chapter here, with no explicit sex.
“Do you call anyone else sweetheart?”
“No, just you.”
“Only me?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. Only you.”
 
 
It’s strange, but Sam remembers his mother’s death.
Moments are fragmented but they remain, occupying his nightmares from time to
time, like a pot being stirred. They rotate in and out. They happen more often
when John is upset with Sam’s lack of enthusiasm for hunting.
So Sam has learned to be quiet.
Because he can only take so much.
She hung from the ceiling and her face was twisted in pain. She was gasping,
mouth open like a fish.
Dean remembers her making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with the crusts
cut off.
Sam remembers her bleeding.
 
 
Something is snoring.
No.
It’s not something.
Sam jerks awake and kicks a foot out. Dean snorts and shoves at Sam in
immediate retaliation, but doesn’t wake up. It’s so normal, Sam could cry.
Tufts of dirty blonde hair stick up from under the blankets they are both
nested under. They’re on the floor. Sam guesses there wasn’t enough room for
both of them on the twin bed. It’s comfortable though. Dean made it so.
Sam scoots over, closer to Dean, huddles under the blankets and presses them
flush together. He has his chest pressed to Dean’s back this time. Dean’s
snoring lulls him, soothes him into a state of calm numbness. It’s a constant
sound that Sam thinks of as one his most precious possessions. The sound has
always been there with him. He can carry it to every moldy motel room.
“Used to find Dean in your crib most mornings,” John told Sam once. “No getting
him out of there either.”
Sam sighs and holds onto Dean. In a few hours it’ll be morning. His eyes close
and he feels himself pulled back into sleep.
He rolls over, onto his stomach, sniffling slightly. He hears floorboards
creaking. The sounds of shuffling and dragging are loud in the otherwise empty
mansion. The footsteps sound heavy and slow, like they can’t see or they aren’t
familiar with the layout.
Like they’re searching.
Sam opens his mouth to call out to Dean, to tell him he’s a fool for getting up
to piss without a flashlight in this place. But he turns slightly and sees that
Dean’s next to him. He has been this entire time. And he’s still snoring.
For a second, Sam thinks John might be back. Maybe he’s injured. But Sam knows
what John’s footsteps sound like in any situation—from angry to sad to drunk.
It’s not John.
Carefully, he sits up. He has to wake Dean.
 
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees the vine.
It bobs in the air outside the window of this room. It’s smiling as a snake
would.
 
“Dean,” Sam whispers, forcing himself to look away from the vine. “C’mon Dean,
wake up!”
Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and shakes him. Whoever is in the mansion is
moving around freely, in and out of all the rooms down the hallway. Until it
reaches the room next to the one they’re occupying. It takes its time. The
floorboards groan.
Sam shoves Dean harder, annoyed that Dean can sleep through this. He pushes too
hard and Dean flips over, onto his back, sprawled out. His eyes are wide open.
His mouth hangs open with his tongue peeking out slightly, like he was mid-
scream.
Dean’s…
His entire abdomen has been ripped to shreds.
 
 
Sam’s hands are covered in his brother’s blood.
The snoring isn’t snoring. It’s breathing.
And that breathing belongs to the footsteps.
And the footsteps are at the doorway.
 
 
The vine taps against the window and throws itself back, screeching in glee.
 
***** Golden Ratio *****
Chapter Summary
     John leaves Sam and Dean in a mansion during the summer, when Sam is
     fourteen. This is not what Sam expected.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for another short chapter, but this felt like a good place to
     end this one.
     Warnings here for gore and ideologically sensitive content.
At first, Sam doesn’t recognize the person in the doorway.
He has John’s build.
But Sam—as his hands grip onto Dean’s still, cold shoulders—remembers back to
the Impala. Back to where Dean had him, tight and flexing, warm and aching.
Back to a few simple kisses shared between them in the warm leather hold of the
only home they’ve had.
Right after.
After clean up and grocery shopping and Sam sneaking a hand into the back
pocket of Dean’s jeans in the empty bread aisle.
Eric Dale stands there, a smile on his face.
There’s that smell again.
His eyes are red. He focuses them on Sam.
 
This is a dream. It has to be. It just has to. He wills himself to wake up. He
will wake up in the backseat of the Impala. This is a product of too many late
night horror movies and junk food with Dean. This is a dream. A nightmare. And
nightmares have to end.
 
“Tell yourself that, boy,” Dale sneers with a voice that is twisted, distorted,
muffled like it’s underwater. It’s nothing like what it was at the garage. Dale
remains in the doorway, taunting from a distance because dream or not, there’s
a line of salt between them.
“You’re special, didn’t ya know that? Or you too busy fucking around to notice?
Your daddy knows. And I know, too. I smelled it on you—along with the filth and
sin you committed. You two think you’re in your own little world and you’ve got
it all wrong.”
Sam can hear himself breathing in short, panicked gasps. He has to
simultaneously ignore and decode what Dale is spitting out, while trying to
figure out how—how the fuck—to get out of this.
 
Because Sam has had enough.
 
Dean’s knife is under his pillow. Sam moves to get it.
“It’s not there,” Dale laughs. “It’s not there.”
Sam only knows one way of escaping nightmares and he needs a weapon.
“They’re all trying to mold you into their pawn, Sammy. The further away you
drift from daddy and big brother, the angrier you make everyone. And you, boy,
have some seriously interested parties.”
Shadows in the room become people. They reach out—from the floorboards and
walls—and wrap around Dean. Sam screams. He goes to throw himself over his
brother’s body but they burn him. They don’t leave marks but he can feel each
sting from the writhing mass of inky forms. He notices that they all have eyes,
which stare back at him wide and mad. They’re shadows of skeletons, silently
screaming, twisting, pulling, and roaring.
“Souls from hell that are irredeemable, boy,” Dale says with a guffaw. “And
your brother—he’s destined to join ‘em!”
“No!” Sam gasps, struggling and burning himself over and over. If Dean’s… if
Dean’s…
“What scares you more?!” Dale shouts and the walls shake. “That you are or
aren’t dreaming? What hurts more to know, boy? Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”
The shadows swell, more are joining, rushing at Sam and Dean. They frenzy and
give one hard pull. Dean’s body is dragged—slid—into a dark corner of the room,
disappearing. The noise and whirring they brought with them is gone. Dale’s
breathing remains.
 
Sam sits.
He sits and he stares at his hands.
His hands that are once again clean.
Maybe they were never clean.
 
“Isn’t it fascinating, Sammy? That this could very well be your reality and not
a nightmare?” Dale’s voice whispers directly into Sam’s ear, causing him to
shudder. “This is the life you’re gonna have until you fall into a pit—alone
and unremembered.”
Noises at the window distract Sam for a moment. He takes a deep breath and
tries to steady himself. He has to remain calm. He can’t slip out of the tub.
He can’t tumble out of the Impala.
 
The vine is at the window. Again.
 
But it’s lost its sense of calm.
It’s panicking.
It’s winding and banging against the window repeatedly. Thwap thwap thwap. Sam
can hear it shrieking and yowling in desperation, losing control of itself,
leaves turning in every direction.
Why can’t it get in?
It’s beating itself to agony trying, the force with which shakes the walls,
causes pictures and paintings to fall and break. Large dark spots appear on the
floor and Sam stands, trying to brace himself. Dale is laughing hysterically,
giggling and snorting at times. Sam’s eyes widen as he realizes the spots turn
into freckles that turn into freckles on a back that turn into Dean’s smile.
His stomach turns but he leans forward to kiss Dean anyway.
They press together and Sam resists the twinge in his heart.
He ignores the burning in his hands as Dean laces their fingers together.
He focuses on the familiar, wet, hot comfort of Dean’s mouth. Sam leans in. Sam
begs for more. He mumbles out a string of “Dean, I can’t… Dean, more… Dean, I
have to have more…” until Dean is ripping Sam open.
Forehead to mouth to throat to chest to stomach to hips.
Blood and rotting vines pour out. Fire surrounds them. And that smell. Always
that smell.
Sam howls in grief, even when he’s torn apart, and becomes the husk for his
brother to slip into.
 
 
Dean slots into Sam.
            A perfect fit.
***** Symmetrical Exterior *****
Chapter Summary
     Sam is breaking in every way possible.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the long wait!
It’s something that saves Sam.
 
Well, it takes him out of the mansion—away from Dale—at least.
Something reaches out and Sam reaches back.
It grips onto his heart, but Sam grips onto nothing. It seizes soft, silky
tissue and peers inside with delicate instruments. It smiles, like things are
right. Like it is satisfied with Sam as a product, as a result of some unknown
action.
Something surrounds him with a million, tiny, sharp teeth. It expands and
laughs as it drags its teeth over Sam just enough to get him to tense up, just
enough for his blood to rise to the surface of his skin. The teeth let go and
Sam is dropped into the backseat of the Impala, parked innocuously on the
gravel drive outside the mansion.
Sam lets out a small laugh and falls back onto her leather seats. He takes a
moment; he feels his heart beating erratically and he can’t stop shaking. The
world around him is in constant focus and refocus. He either sees everything or
sees nothing at all. It makes it difficult to concentrate on breathing.
 
There’s energy under his skin that feels foreign and somehow intimate. It makes
him sweat; it feels like an intense craving, similar to when he crave his
brother’s…
 
A hand hits the window on Sam’s left, jolting him out of his thoughts.
He may have jumped and startled a little, but he was proud of himself for not
screaming.
It’s not the vine.
And it’s not something. Nor is it Dale.
 
It’s Dean.
Dean is pounding his right hand against the window and trying to open the door.
Muffled shouting and swearing gets through. “Sam! Sammy! Open up! We have to
get out of here, dammit! Quit dragging your feet and let’s go! Move!”
Sam does not move. He stays perfectly still. If they had to leave, Dean would
be trying to get into the Impala, not away from her. Whatever this thing is,
this copy that looks like his brother, is trying to lure Sam out into the open.
Sam lets the imposter keep screaming and punching the car door. Dean would
never hurt his baby like that. He peers out from his place, trying to see the
mansion. Lights are on in the mansion, despite John having checked every room
and light bulb, announcing that only two were working.
Even then, the two light bulbs flickered.
The imposter gets increasingly irritated and desperate, now trying to pick the
lock, and loudly cursing Sam all the while. Sam wonders what would happen if he
became completely passive. If he yielded to these things that cradle his heart
and head in a private well of nightmares and sickness.
What could they possibly take from him? They already had Dean.
He has nothing more than the blood in his veins that had cost them all the life
of his mother. Whoever she was, whoever she could have been, whatever she might
have done in and for the world is gone. Never again possible because of Sam’s
existence. The lives of the Winchester men forever altered because of each
breath Sam took. They did this—all of this—now because of him.
The Impala keeps Dean out.
The imposter sinks down to sit against the door. He appears to give up.
Sam catches a glimpse of movement in the mansion. He leans forward slightly,
grateful for the momentary quiet. He squints his eyes and tries to focus. What
is he seeing and what does he think he’s seeing?
 
A copy of himself is in the attic, banging at the small attic window in the
center of the mansion.
Sam feels no sympathy for the copy. Something is behind this. Something dares
to take his image and manipulate it right in front of him. Something dares to
put two Sam Winchesters in the world at once when one fucks things up enough.
Sam watches, still as ever, as the vine curls up and around the copy. It stokes
his cheek in the same way as the copy tries to get away. The copy does not
twist elegantly. It writhes and twitches. It claws at the window. Sam knows
it’s screaming, or at least trying to. It doesn’t realize that struggling makes
it worse. The vine laces itself all over the Sam copy, coils tightly around his
neck.
As the vine gracefully loops itself around every inch of body, Sam reads two
words written in blood on the window.
Get out.
The copy stops struggling. Sam feels a twinge in his neck. The copy’s neck
snaps.
Sam feels a curt degree of relief.
 
 
Under the front seat of the Impala, Sam finds the silver knife John keeps
there. It’s sharp and slick. He holds it with his right hand and feels the
weight of it. Sam is panicking. But he’s so calm.
He grips onto the knife and slowly opens the door opposite from Dean.
As he steps out, he’s hit by a chill. Night time is different here, wherever
here is. It’s cold but that doesn’t quite cut it. It’s a deep, burning, biting
freeze that touches him everywhere. It violates every once-warm part of him and
sticks onto him, relentless. Darkness feels like the color yellow mixed with
black and slathered in thick, nauseating layers. He feels like he will remember
this in the future.
“Sammy!” Dean is back, his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Fucking hell, Sam. Follow
me. C’mon!”
“No!” Sam spits out and tries to strike against Dean. This Dean is older. His
eyes are sadder. And he doesn’t have his amulet on. Sam wants to hurt this
copy. His copy died, this one should have the decency to join it.
“Don’t! Don’t you fuckin’ dare!” Dean roars and slams Sam against the Impala.
“This is real, Sam. You are real. All of this is happening, do you understand
me?” Dean smacks the knife out of Sam’s hand; it falls pointing towards the
mansion.
“I have to get you out of here, Sam. Listen to me.” Dean forces them close, his
voice rough and eyes desperate. Despite the chill, Sam can’t see his breath.
“Snap out of this Sam! You’re not dreaming anymore!”
His face is no longer youthful. His eyes are not playful. He feels like the
same kind of cold that pervades the night.
“You’re not real,” Sam mumbles sadly.
 
It had started out so simply.
John had just dumped them here and they were going to fall deep into a rhythm
that had no name. They were going to lounge in empty rooms, swapping kisses and
come, lounging and stretching out like housecats. They were going to share one
bed. They were going to have entire conversations with glances and swift licks
and marking bites.
 
“I am real,” Dean hisses, bringing Sam back to the present. “The fuck, Sam?
You’re just givin’ up? That how it is? You’re just gonna lay down? Roll over?
Fine. You couldn’t save me, why should I think you could save yourself.” He
shoves Sam away from him and turns, walking angrily into the forest.
Sam watches. He watches and his heart snaps.
The sun rises.
It doesn’t get any warmer.
 
 
Back inside the relative safety of the Impala, Sam attempts to clear his head
and piece things together.
The vine and something are linked; perhaps they are working together. In this
moment, something is gone and the vine is nowhere to be seen.
Dale is a curious third-party. There’s a commonality there, but Sam thinks it’s
unexpected.
 
He stretches out in the backseat. Little brothers’ territory.
He thinks back to the garage, being there with Dean. How at first he’d stood
side by side with him. He listened to Dale and Dean go on about cars and parts.
Sam could feel the familiar rumble of his brother’s voice on the space above
his heart.
Sam felt tired but happy. Worn out from sex, his muscles a little sore from the
confined space. He had plans for bath later on. He wanted to wash the come and
sweat from himself before settling in for the evening beside Dean.
Twisting, his mind flits back to a lesson at the last school Sam attended
before summer break. Some miniscule school with good teachers and actual meat
in their cafeteria food. The kind of school that got enough funding and all of
its students were well-dressed in smart, pressed khakis. The kind of school Sam
wondered what John had to do to get him and Dean into. The kind of school that
could have been.
 
He thinks of this lesson. He keeps meaning to share it with Dean. Even if Dean
will call him a nerd at the end of it.
There are millions of planets in solar systems outside our own.
They’re called exoplanets.
They can resemble Earth by being rock based, but many are jovial giants, like
Jupiter.
Sam enjoys the word jovial. He turns it around some.
Exoplanets have their own stars that they orbit. There are many exoplanets that
orbit its star incredibly close; the exoplanet is constantly on fire.
Burning is all the planet knows.
 
 
Sam knows there’s a deeper meaning here.
 
 
Something agrees.
***** Baseboard, Crown, and Casings *****
Chapter Summary
     Just a summer in Maine.
Chapter Notes
     Thank you for sticking through until the end! I had fun writing this.
     I don't usually do fics like these. Kudos are lovely and comments are
     so very appreciated.
At five in the morning on a gray Tuesday, Dean watches his brother.
He holds his breath as Sam’s eyes slowly open, blinking away sweat and crust. 
Dean presses a damp cloth to Sam’s forehead and eyes, wiping gently. He will
never admit to anyone the kinds of things he whispers as he makes his brother
comfortable. Sam lets out a small sob and sniffles.
Efficiently, but with a careful hand, Dean fixes the blankets. John says that
they’re moving out; they’ll drive to their next hunt and stop in town to see a
doctor before settling in.
Dean murmurs a “yes, sir” and transplants Sam from the dirty motel bed to the
backseat of the Impala. Sam’s getting taller—and less sinewy—but Dean can still
carry him. He wants to hold onto that always.
He never does take his eyes off of Sam.
 
 
 
Sam wakes up with a clarity he hasn’t felt in an age.
He sits up and sees John driving, Dean looking back at him from the front seat.
Blankets and Dean’s jacket cover him despite the sun outside. But he’s right.
He feels right. His brother smiles, relieved, and says, “Hey little brother,
welcome back.” The amulet is there. John turns down the music, as much
recognition as any. The rumble of the Impala is true.
“Where are we?” Sam asks, shifting around, stretching. There are things that
Sam remembers in jagged pieces that scrape against his heart and mind. He knows
he’ll never be quite the same. He understands a portion of the road ahead. The
urge to crawl inside Dean is still there, but it shares a place with a pull at
his veins. He is trying his best to focus on one thought at a time; the term
exoplanet catches his attention one second and is gone the next.
 
John mutters to Dean to check the map.
Dean is quick about it and Sam can’t get enough of watching him. He never wants
Dean to get old and bitter. Part of him is already because he’s been a
Winchester too long. But Sam will try.
He’ll try to take care of Dean as long as he can.
His brother folds out the map, licks his lips, and clears his throat.
“Just ‘bout 100 miles from the Maine state line.”
 
Sam’s stomach drops.
“Got a hunt I need to get to. Friend of a friend owns this portion of land;
used to be a mansion. You boys don’t need much more than that. Got work for you
too, Dean.” John announces in a deep rumble that matches the Impala. “Figure
it’ll be plenty while I’m gone.”
 
Sam opens his mouth to protest.
He notices something out of the corner of his eye.
It’s the vine.
Wound around his left ankle, cut off and frayed at the end, dripping with
blood.
Something leaves. But it promises to come back.
 
Sam screams.
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Summary
     Years after, something meets someone new.
Chapter Notes
     At first I wasn't going to write an epilogue, but then I reread
     things and figured this piece could use it.
For a few years in hell, Dean Winchester is pleased.
The thing before him is his own special project.
The very first to have a taste of his own set of tools, given to him by Master.
At first something resists. It fights and lashes out and is very, very
disobedient. But that’s okay. That’s cool. Dean loves each twist away from him,
each howl of pain, each filthy prayer as it begs for mercy.
 
Master makes him stop.
Only because there is nothing left.
Nothing more to play with.
 
It used to be one of Azazel’s loyal little buddies. Sent to torment fourteen
year old Sam in his dreams. For that alone, Dean wanted it. Wanted it so badly
in his apprentices’ hands he craved it. Knowing that this particular demon
flipped the switch for the demon blood in Sam’s veins—manipulated a nasty ivy
vine on top of it—and got carried away, Dean screamed along with it.
He screamed with it for years.
“We’re best friends, you and me,” he sang to it often.
 
Master makes him move on.
But because Master is pleased with his progress, he gives Dean two gifts. One
new set of tools and a man no one misses or mourns. A man who, busy toying with
minor demons and addicted to blood himself, stumbled upon Sam and Azazel’s pal.
A man Dean wants to play with.
 
“Eric Dale,” Dean laughs, excitedly examining his new blade. “Let me introduce
myself. Dean Winchester, just like you said. Let's get started.”
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