[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 2 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter Two Author:kuwamiko Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Bobby Rating: R-NC17 Spoilers: nothing major (set in pre-series AU) Summary: Two years ago Dean disappeared. Now John and Sam have gotten him back. But how will the three of them deal with the unexpected changes his trials in the time between have effected? Warnings: Nongraphic references to non-con sex and underage prostitution. Violence. Language. Incest (duh). Author's Note: This is AU, utter self indulgence, and has massive Dean!whumpage. Will contain Wincest eventually. Set about a year before the pilot, with some major differences. [chpt 1] [chpt 2] [chpt 3] [chpt 4] [chpt 5] [chpt 6] [chpt 7] [chpt 8] [chpt 9] [chpt 10] [chpt 11] [chpt 12] [chpt 13] [chpt 14] [chpt 15] [chpt 16] [chpt 17] [chpt 18] [chpt 19] [chpt 20] [chpt 21] [chpt 22] [chpt 23] [chpt 24] [chpt 25] [chpt 26] [chpt 27] [chpt 28] [chpt 29] [chpt 30] [chpt 31]
"Do Dandelions Roar"
- Chapter Two - by KnM
He knew them but he couldn't remember who they were. They were from yesterday and all his yesterdays were mixed up and jumbled.
Today was different and different was bad. There was a lot of blood but none of it was his so he thought that it might be all right after all. Except that it wasn't because nothing was ever all right.
There had been a baby once, round and soft, smelling sweet with talc powder and sour with spit-up, fitting perfectly into arms that had been smaller then. Now he saw a tall young man with shaggy hair, angry eyes, and a gun in his hands. He knew that the two were one, only in different places in time. The baby was yesterday ago but he was pretty sure that the young man was now.
He looked at one of the other men and for a moment he remembered -- Dad! -- but then it slipped away again and the hatred and fury in the man's dark eyes and the beard that shouldn't be scared him.
The guns were loud, much louder than anything had ever been here, banging until he thought the noise would shatter the stained glass, burst his eardrums. He wanted to cover his ears, cover his eyes, but it wasn't allowed. Never make a move without permission.
Although, Rodgers, who had trained him, beaten that rule into his confused consciousness, was bleeding out of his neck, gasping in increasingly short breaths, so maybe the rules no longer applied?
Not worth the risk. It was easier to be a Good Boy. Easier and safer.
He quietly folded himself into the corner, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, keeping still and silent. Usually Royce dragged him out of any place he found to hide in, but Royce lay on the floor before him, his head resting crooked in an expanding pool of shiny dark red, and that meant that Royce wouldn't be grabbing him again, ever.
"Are they all dead?"
"Dead."
"Dead."
"This one will be."
He watched curiously as the oldest of the strangers kicked Engram's limp body with a heavily booted foot. It seemed like an odd thing to do. Though he did think that the bastard might deserve to be kicked. Engram had been the meanest of them all, and the one who had broken him to the bed. He tried not to remember those yesterdays. As far as he was concerned, those memories could stay lost.
"Dean!" The young man who had once been the baby was kneeling before him now, in his corner, grabbing at his arms so hard it hurt, shaking him a little. It scared him, the intensity in those wide hazel eyes, the fever on a face that ought to be familiar but wasn't. He whimpered, flinching, pulling back a little but not too much because it wasn't allowed, to try to escape, to try to struggle free. They only hurt you more then.
He closed his eyes, hoping that everything would go away, that it would vanish into the mess of yesterdays in his head. Because it was all new and different and he didn't have any way of coping. He didn't like the way things were every day, but at least he knew what was expected of him. Now he was cut adrift and didn't have a clue how to respond.
"Dean, look at me!"
The young man's voice was so anguished, and the order so plain, that he opened his eyes. But he wished that he hadn't because there were too many yesterdays in his head, all tangled inside and around each other, and he was being overwhelmed by them. A baby, a child, a boy, a man who turned and walked away, and they were all the same person, but he couldn't sort them out, and nothing made any sense.
"Sam, give him to me." It was the man who shouldn't have a beard speaking, his voice harsh and urgent, grating on his ears. He felt that he ought to be glad that the older man was here, that they both were, but he couldn't remember and he was only afraid. "We have to get out of here, fast!"
The young man's face fisted and it looked as though he would argue, but then he nodded tightly.
"They're all dead now," the oldest man spoke up behind them, his eyes hard and bright as jade. He had a beard too but it looked right. He was sad and angry and only a little scary. "Got the gas cans and the explosives ready to blow. We'd best get out of here before the law shows."
Huge hands wrapped around his bare arms and he whimpered, squirming, but found himself dragged out of his corner anyway. The young man handed him over to the other man that he ought to remember and he was wrapped up in a leather jacket that was warm and thick and smelled of....
His father. He remembered and it locked in, the broken jigsaw piece finding its place, and he knew that it was his father holding him close, strong arms and a broad chest, and it was Dad even with the beard, and he started to cry, to sob aloud, because he hadn't felt any real emotions, anything that wasn't disgust or pain or fear, in so long, and it was his Dad here and Sammy come to rescue him, and this knowledge now was going to get lost with his other yesterdays, but it was clear and bright in his head in this moment and it hurt a little but it was so good and it was okay to cry because it had been so long and they had finally come for him!
And then it was all too much and the world went away a little. His father tucked him closer to his chest. There were flames. There was the rumble of a truck and it was his brother holding him now, close, tight, as though he would never let go. And he knew that when things came back into focus he would be safe.
Because his Dad and Sammy had come for him. He'd forgotten, but they hadn't.
They had rescued him.
***
"I can't believe we blew the place up," Sam said. He felt numb from over stimuli, everything that had happened. And at the same time he was amazed by everything that had happened. He'd taken a life, shot and killed a man, and he had absolutely no regrets about it. He'd found his brother, younger as promised, naked and huddled in the corner. Dean hadn't seemed to recognize him and that shouldn't have hurt so much, but it did. And then Bobby had blown up the church.
Stained glass had shattered, flying wide, shards going everywhere, punctuating their retreat. It had seemed fitting, somehow, though he couldn't have put the reason into words if he had tried.
Now they were in his father's truck, driving through the night. Dean was in his arms, resting against his chest, not quite unconscious but in something like a catatonic state. Sam knew that if their father wasn't driving, John would insist on being the one who held Dean; so he was glad that John was driving.
Bobby was following in his own truck. They weren't going to stop until they reached Oregon, got out of Washington. There shouldn't be anything left linking them to the exploded, burning church and the dead men inside it, but they weren't taking any chances.
Sam cradled his brother close. Dean smelled different, nothing like he remembered, but his warmth was the same. He really did look to be about fourteen, maybe fifteen, as near as Sam could recall. Considering that he himself had been ten, eleven, at the time and his big brother had just been "Dean". His hair was almost shoulder-length, though, a lot longer than it had been the last time he had been this age.
And that was just a weird thing to think. Even weirder that the thought actually made sense.
Stanford was definitely a thing of the past. Sam didn't know what was going to happen from here on out, but he had a distinct feeling that things were never going to be "normal" again. And, really? He was surprisingly okay with that. He had Dean back now. Changed and broken, but it was Dean.
"I'm sorry, Sam," John rumbled, breaking Sam from his contemplation of the still boy in his arms. He glanced over, startled. John's eyes were fixed on the road before them, his knuckles white where he clutched the steering wheel.
"For what?" Sam asked, confused. They had Dean back. What could there be to apologize for? It was, after all, entirely his fault that his brother had been taken from them in the first place. If anything, he should be the one apologizing.
John's dark eyes flickered over, and he looked like he was in pain. "For making you a murderer," he clarified. "For dragging you into this. But Bobby and I... we couldn't do it alone. There had to be three of us."
"Dad," Sam exclaimed, trying to put all the force he felt into his voice. He hitched Dean closer, squeezing his unresponsive form tightly. "Do you have any idea how pissed off I would have been if you hadn't brought me into this?! If I hadn't gotten to take out at least one of the bastards holding Dean?!"
John didn't look appeased by this declaration; if anything his jaw tightened further. Not that Sam cared. Dean was breathing, warm, and heavy against his chest and that was worth everything. John's gaze dipped to his son's head where it rested against Sam's shoulder, and his expression softened a little. Then he returned his eyes to the road.
"We'll be in Oregon within an hour," he said, sounding tired and rusty to Sam's ears. The adrenaline was fading, and he began to feel more than a little wrung out himself. "We'll find a hotel."
"And then?" he couldn't help asking.
"I don't know." John's answer, at least, was honest. Sam didn't find it to be very comforting, though. It didn't help to know that their father was as lost as he was.
Letting the miles wash over him, roll beneath him, the truck's tires eating up the night that had fallen as they fled, Sam sank into contemplation of the boy resting on his lap. He almost couldn't believe that this was Dean. After two years of nothing, not even rumors, finally Dean. The joy and wonder of this was shadowed, but not eclipsed, by the fact that Dean was different now, changed and damaged.
Sam ran his hand through Dean's hair, almost unconsciously. It was soft, silky, twining around his fingers. At least the bastards had kept him clean; probably better for "business", but Sam's brain shied away from that horrifying thought. In the truck everything was dark, but Sam had seen in the church, Dean's hair was dark brown at the roots, the slight curls at the end a light brown, and the tips gleaming golden. John would want to cut it, Sam knew. Sam wasn't sure what he wanted, but that didn't matter, because it was Dean's hair, and he should decide.
His fingertips trailed of their own volition along the side of Dean's neck, lingering over the steady pulse beating beneath the delicate skin. It was so precious, meant so much. Lower, his thumb rubbed over the raised line of a scar on Dean's sharp collarbone. He remembered how Dean had gotten that; falling out of a tree while they'd been on a shrike hunt six years ago. This discovery and the realization sent a flash of hope through Sam. If Dean still had scars that he had gotten after his fourteenth year, then it was to be assumed that he would still have all of his memories as well. Sam was inordinately relieved by the thought that his brother might not have lost the last ten years of his life.
But then, why didn't he seem to remember John or Sam? His own father and brother? His terror and blank stare lacking all recognition hadn't been feigned. How broken was his brother? And what had done it; the Melusine, or his captivity and torture at the hands of humans?
A sudden surge of rage filled Sam and he wished that there were some way to resurrect the men he, his father, and Bobby had shot tonight. Their deaths had been too quick and painless. He wanted a chance to destroy them, utterly, lingeringly, painfully. And if that made him an evil person, so be it. Because they had committed inexcusable sins against his brother.
Dean's chest twitched beneath his hand, and Sam realized that Dean was picking up on his anger and was trying to cringe away. While this was more response than he had shown to anything since they had dragged him out of the church, it wasn't exactly an emotional reaction that Sam wanted to trigger.
Sucking in a deep breath, he did his best to set aside his fury. It was futile anyway; the men were already dead. Sam pulled his hand away from Dean's chest and wrapped his arms tightly around his slim form. There was no struggle. Dean simply settled against him, lax, head on his shoulder, breath gusting warm and moist through the material of Sam's shirt. He seemed to be calm and Sam allowed himself to hope. Maybe Dean hadn't forgotten him. Maybe Dean wasn't so broken after all.
Then Sam recalled that those freaks in the church had been selling his brother for sex, and how could he be okay after that? He grimaced. He wasn't going to lose all hope, but he was feeling a little less than optimistic at the moment.
Dean's legs were bare, looking pale and vulnerable where they stuck out from under John's jacket. They were going to have to buy him some clothes, Sam thought suddenly. Even Sam's tightest fitting pair of pants wouldn't fit Dean now. So much for the days of Dean wearing Sam's cast-offs. That wouldn't happen again for a few years.
Sam was startled when he felt Dean's hand come to rest on his chest, palm open. He tilted his head down, fighting the urge to twine his own fingers through those slender digits, not wanting to freak his brother out again. He thought of the silver ring on his finger. If they were lucky it might fit Dean's thumb. Back to the physical age of fourteen, Dean's hands were smaller, more slender and delicate. There was no chance he would be able to wear his ring the same way he had used to.
This, more than anything else, drove home to Sam the fact of Dean's change. He bit back a whimper, remaining silent with an effort, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in Dean's hair. There, somewhere beneath the strong odor of baby shampoo and the cloying scent of incense, was the smell of his brother, of Dean. It was there, and nothing could remove it entirely, and nothing was going to take his Dean away from him now.
"Here we are. Stay put while I get us a room."
John's voice broke into Sam's introspection, waking him from the half doze he had fallen into without realizing.
"Yeah." He had to bite back an unexpected rising of resentment. He found himself wishing that their father wasn't here. It had been due entirely to John's persistence and hard work that they had even found Dean. But the man was so heavy-handed, and Sam was afraid that John would only make things worse for Dean. He wished that he could find a place to hide away, just him and Dean, until he had fixed his brother.
"Don't worry, Dean," he whispered into that soft gold-brown hair. "I won't let Dad screw things up for you. I promise."
Dean curled closer, his hand fisting in Sam's shirt over his heart, a soft sigh gusting from between his parted lips. It sounded like he had breathed, "Sammy."
Sam chose to take this as a good sign.
***
Less than ten minutes in the hotel room and already they were at each other's throats.
Bobby gritted his teeth, resisting the overwhelming urge to knock a couple of thick Winchester heads together. For God's sake, you'd think they could put Dean's well-being ahead of their own fool-headed, stubborn pride and alpha male posturing! You'd think so, he growled, but you'd think wrong.
Dean was huddled on one of the beds, back pressed against the headboard, arms locked around his knees like when they had found him curled in the corner back at the church. He was still naked, wrapped in his father's jacket. His green eyes were huge, swallowing up half his pale face, glassy with fear, and he looked about two heartbeats away from panicking.
It was a stupid fight, but one that seemed to have been inevitable. Sam wanted to give Dean a bath, insisting that his brother would want to wash away the touch of his captors, symbolically wash away two years of torment, cleanse himself. John didn't argue that point, but he thought that Dean ought to be sent in to shower by himself while the three of them sat out here and decided what to do next.
Bobby thought that Sam had the right of it. He also thought that John was being wildly optimistic, and he doubted that Dean would be capable of bathing himself. He'd barely begun to come out of his fugue, responding to the world outside his head, when John and Sam had started in locking horns and sent him right back into being frozen in terror.
As well, Bobby could sympathize with Sam's obvious need not to let Dean out of his sight. Maybe John couldn't read it, wouldn't understand, but Bobby saw it clearly. And he agreed; at this point Dean ought not be left alone, even for a moment.
Of course, he wasn't going to speak out, support Sam. Because then John would feel ganged-up on and put on the defensive, and things would just get even more ugly than they already were.
Besides, Sam was being stupid too, butting heads with his father like this, yelling in front of Dean. The boy had always been eager to go on the offensive, ready for battle, always questioning his father. But now was not the time. Dean needed them to be calm and united. Instead they were toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose, in each other's faces, and the fight didn't look like it was going to be resolved any time soon.
Bobby'd had quite enough. Things were getting ridiculously out of hand.
"All right, you two, shut up!"
The startled faces they turned to him might almost have been comical... if Dean hadn't been such a frightened coil of agony on the bed. Bobby glared at them both, stumping over to where Dean was huddled, reaching to place a careful hand on the boy's head.
Anger faded, replaced with realization and chagrin. John's face reflected more guilt, Sam's more worry, but both clearly recognized that they'd been behaving badly, and that was what Bobby had needed.
"You ought'a be ashamed of yerselves," Bobby blasted at them, glaring back and forth impartially. He raised a hand as Sam opened his mouth, presumably to speak out in self defense. "No! Not another word outta either of you! You both are gonna listen to me!"
John's brow beetled but he remained grimly silent. Sam chewed on his lower lip, giving Bobby a set of puppy-dog eyes that worked just as well now as they had when he had been eleven. Fortunately for Bobby, he had always been immune to their powers.
He shook his head, exasperated beyond belief by the two. "All right. We're gonna need something to eat; all of us. John, you go and get something. Bring it back here. And no booze!"
John's face darkened, but his eyes flickered to the terrified boy on the bed and he looked suddenly stricken, completely defeated. It wasn't an expression Bobby had ever wanted to see on his friend's face, but he knew how John felt.
Fisting his keys, John slammed out of the hotel room. A moment later the truck engine roared, and Bobby breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"You wipe that smug look off your face, boy," he instructed, not even glancing in Sam's direction, seating himself down on the mattress, his eyes focused on Dean. "Get your brother something to wear out of your duffel."
"I don't think I have anything that'll fit." Sam sounded forlorn as he moved to do as directed. "Maybe a pair of boxers and a teeshirt?"
"A sweatshirt," Bobby said. Dean's hand was cold under his, and a hot shower wasn't going to be enough. They'd need to bundle him up afterward. "We'll just roll up the sleeves."
He reached forward, ignoring the instinctive flinch this movement engendered, running a gentle hand over Dean's scalp, through his long hair. Who knew the boy had curls? He'd always worn his hair military-short before. Like this he looked even more like a girl, though there was still something masculine about him; his jaw and cleft chin. Certainly not his pouting lips and those impossibly long, thick lashes.
"Things'll be all right, Dean," he crooned at the boy, before he even realized he was going to speak. Dean's eyes locked on his, then fell immediately to his chin. He wondered whether it was a trained reaction or a natural one. Dean was white beneath his freckles, and Bobby could feel those slender fingers trembling under his hand. He wanted more than anything to be able to just make things right for the poor abused child. But he couldn't.
Well, at least he'd gotten one half of the battling duo out of the hotel for the moment. And that surely went a long way toward helping. Honestly, if John and Sam were going to fight like this all the time....
"Bobby?"
He smiled faintly. Sam sounded so trepidatious, as though he thought he risked being yelled at some more by drawing attention to himself. Well, good. Maybe he was learning.
Bobby rose, turning to eyeball the youngest Winchester. Only he wasn't the youngest anymore, was he. Things were bound to get confused, but at least they had Dean back.
"Take your brother in and bathe him, Sam," he instructed, ignoring the way the boy's face lit up. "Tub or shower, it's up to you. But best try to be done by the time your Dad gets back. Dean could probably use some food, and I know I'm starving."
"Thank you, Bobby," Sam said, the words feverish and heartfelt. Bobby nodded shortly, then turned his back as Sam moved to pry his brother off of the bed and into the bathroom. There were tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked them rapidly away.
He'd helped to find Dean, but it looked as though his task here was far from over. Because if he didn't stay to help, who would keep John and Sam from each other's throats? It had to be about Dean, and getting him as healed as was possible. His father and his brother were going to have to recognize that.
Dear God, why did You make the Winchester males so damned stubborn?
Bobby sighed, listening absently as the shower started up, then going to his bag and hauling out his flask. He'd told John no alcohol, but he suddenly felt in need of a little fortifying.
They had Dean back. But things were only going to get worse before they got better. He was certain of it.
***
There was a mildew stain on the shower curtain that looked like Lincoln's profile and the mirror glass was warped at the top. There was rust running down the back of the sink, the frosted window was cracked, and the linoleum was peeling.
Sam bit back a grimace of distaste, setting down the clothes he'd chosen for Dean. They'd stayed in worse hotels during their childhood, but this one was certainly no prize. He found himself thinking longingly of his own apartment, tiny and spartan but clean and home. He wished he could take Dean there, back to his own personal living place, but somehow he didn't think that was in the plans. He probably wouldn't ever be going back himself.
He twisted the water on in the shower, nice and hot, then turned. His reflection caught his eye, as the mirror fogged over, filmy white slowly swallowing the image. He needed a shower himself. He was sooty, sweaty, deep bruises shadowed under his eyes, and he could use a shave. No wonder Dean had seemed so frightened by him.
"Dean?" he queried, turning his attention to his brother. Dean looked completely zoned out, his arms wrapped around his torso. Sam gingerly lifted his father's jacket off of his brother's shoulders and slung it on the towel rack where it wouldn't get wet. "You ready for a shower?"
It was the first time he and Dean had been alone since they had recovered him. The first time, with all the fire and madness and night driving, that he was actually able to look at him. Sam realized when he began to feel dizzy that he was holding his breath. Oh God. It was Dean.
"Dean." he half-sobbed, folding his brother into his arms. The top of Dean's head barely came to his shoulder. His body was stiff yet pliant in Sam's embrace, a strange contradiction. As though he wanted to pull away but didn't dare to. His brow creasing in a frown, Sam drew back, his hands on his brother's bony shoulders, gazing down at him.
Dean's eyes were round, fixed on the center of Sam's chest, his face carefully expressionless. Sam slipped one palm tenderly under the sharp point of Dean's jaw, tilting his brother's face up toward him.
"Dean?" he whispered. His brother hadn't said a word since they'd rescued him. Sam chalked it up to shock, but he really wanted to hear Dean's voice. Even though it would be the voice of a teenage boy, not the man he had been the last time Sam had seen him.
Dean's thick lashes flickered, hiding his eyes. He seemed unwilling or unable to meet Sam's gaze. Sam wished that there was some way he could make Dean look at him, but he was well aware that forcing anything on Dean was about the worst thing he could possibly do.
"You're safe now, Dean," he whispered, bending and pressing a quick kiss to his brother's brow, because he was overflowing with emotion. Love and gratitude and sadness and worry. "We saved you. I've got you."
Now Dean looked at him, his face unreadable, his eyes dark, but something was there, they weren't blank and glassy anymore, and Sam held out a moment's hope that Dean recognized him, that he would speak.
Dean didn't say anything, though, and Sam stifled a heavy sigh. "It's all right," he said, the words more for himself than Dean, running an hand over his brother's head. "It's all right."
Dean swayed a little where he stood, his eyelids suddenly drooping, and he looked pale in the dim bathroom illumination. Sam caught him, hand wrapped around his upper arm, and tried not to notice when Dean instinctively flinched away from him.
"Let's get you in the shower," Sam said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. Really, he was hollowed out, every moment that passed, every new interaction convincing him further of how much Dean had lost. He just wanted things to be the way they had been, before. When Dean had been the one who always took care of Sam, without his ever needing to ask.
But now it was reversed. Really, he had no problem with being the strong one, being the big brother. But Dean was so very broken and Sam was so scared that he was only going to make things worse. He didn't want to be the one to hurt Dean more. He wanted to help Dean become the man he had once been. But he didn't know how he was going to do that.
"I'm going to come in with you, okay?" Sam let go of Dean cautiously, keeping a watchful eye as the boy backed into the towel rack and leaned there. Once he could be sure that Dean wasn't going to fall over without his support, he began stripping out of his clothes. He wished that he'd thought to bring in a change for himself, but it was too late now. Bobby had told him to hurry and he'd already spent too long.
Dean's gaze was dark, hooded, and once again unreadable as he closely watched Sam take his clothes off. Sam felt himself blushing at the scrutiny, and he rushed to take his jeans down so fast that they tangled around his ankles and he almost fell over.
"Sh-shit!"
He half expected Dean to laugh at him, and it was a wrench when there was absolutely no response to his stumble.
Kicking the jeans aside, he grabbed the bottles he'd brought in along with the clothes for Dean. No cheap hotel shampoo and soap for his brother. He'd brought his own bathing supplies. If Dean couldn't smell like himself anymore, at least he could smell of Sam. It was a selfish compromise, but Sam wasn't ashamed of his desire.
"Come on," he urged, pulling aside the curtain. Water splashed out of the tub and hit his thighs, and he shivered. Crappy hotel shower. He hoped that there'd be room for them both in there. "Dean, come here."
It was the direct order that seemed to penetrate. Dean's eyes didn't seem to want to rise above Sam's navel, and he blushed again at the thought that Dean was looking at his crotch, but Dean was his brother, and there was nothing unseemly about this whatsoever. He and Dean had bathed together all the time!
Of course, that had been when Sam had been a toddler....
But, still, it was fine, and he couldn't trust Dean to wash himself without falling. He practically had to manhandle his brother into the tub, and hold him steady once he was there. Sam was hungry and exhausted, but as a college student he was used to dealing with these conditions. He was more concerned about Dean, who was not doing so well. Unsteady on his feet, with an unhealthy pallor despite the heat of the pounding water.
Sam manipulated his brother beneath the nozzle, flinching when Dean flinched. The temperature was perfect, just warm enough, so he couldn't tell why Dean looked like it hurt him. It wasn't as though the water pressure was outstanding; it was mediocre at best.
Sighing, Sam squirted some vanilla-scented liquid soap into his palm. He remembered about five years ago, when Dean had discovered that he used the stuff, and the ribbing he had taken. He'd been ready to kill his brother for all his teasing. Now he just wished he had that obnoxious, snarky, loudmouthed Dean back.
The Dean that he had now stood passive, head down, limbs lax as Sam rapidly lathered him up, then turned him in a slow, careful circle to wash the bubbles away. Dean's hair got damper and damper, darkening and curling around his neck. He looked so frail, so delicate, that Sam was almost scared to tilt his head back, sweeping wet hair out of his face.
"Dean," he breathed, fighting tears. "Are you okay? Tell me you're okay."
It was a vain plea, though Dean did open his eyes, his lashes starred with moisture, the green gleaming deep and dark. He watched Sam silently as he rubbed the shampoo in, obediently tipping his head back further when Sam moved him to rinse it out.
Sam couldn't resist, pressing another kiss to Dean's brow and then a sharp cheekbone. He'd used to kiss Dean a lot, back when he was a toddler and young child. He remembered, even though Dean hadn't thought that he remembered. Now he was the one wondering if Dean remembered.
Puberty had changed a lot of things. It had been confusing to Sam, because he'd always been four years behind Dean. Around Dean's eleventh year he'd begun pushing Sam away, at least so far as physical affection was concerned. Sam had only been seven, and he'd been hurt by this perceived rejection. But it wasn't that Dean had stopped caring. There were no more kisses and hugs, no more crawling in bed with big brother after a bad dream. But Dean had still cooked his meals, done his laundry, bandaged his scrapes, and in every other way shown that he cared.
Now it was Sam's turn to be the big brother, to make sure that Dean knew he cared. And he wasn't going to be silly about it, all macho or whatever bullshit had made Dean shove him away. He wanted to make sure that Dean knew he was loved and that Sam would keep him safe. And what better way to do that than a kiss and a hug?
Dean leaned forward, resting his head against Sam's broad shoulder, and Sam tipped his head back, sighing gustily, his fingers curling in the wet hair at the nape of Dean's neck. Maybe things would be all right. He could do this. He could be the big brother, the strong one.
He'd just made this resolve and felt that if it wasn't true now, he could make it be true with a force of will, when he felt it. Slender fingers curling around his cock, and the sensation was so unexpected, so completely impossible, that he just stood there for a moment, his mouth hanging open.
It wasn't the most helpful of responses. He realized that a moment later, when Dean's slim form began to sink before him. He thought for just an instant that Dean was passing out, and that he had accidentally grabbed Sam there in order to catch himself.
But Dean was on his knees, those plush lips were parted, the caress was meant, and Sam somehow managed to clap his hand over Dean's mouth a second before he raised his brother's cock and slipped it in.
"Holy shit!" Sam gasped, staggering back and fortunately falling against the wall, not the curtain. "Dean, what the fuck--?!"
Dean raised his eyes, his look of complete and utter confusion shifting rapidly into raw fear. Sam ignored the fact that his dick was stiffening, because any man would respond to manual stimulation, and reached down to pry his brother's fingers off.
"Dean, no!" he managed to get out, then guilt broadsided him through the shock and disbelief that he was feeling as Dean's face crumpled. "Shit!"
It was like when Dean had broken down in the church, only this time it was Sam who lifted him and held him while he cried. It didn't last very long, for which Sam was glad, because having Dean's wet, naked body pressed up against his was doing strange and bad things to his libido. What the hell?!
Deciding that the best thing to do, for now at least, was to pretend it hadn't happened, Sam turned off the water and helped his brother out of the tub. He hadn't gotten to wash himself, but that hadn't been the point of the bath. Dean was clean and smelled of Sam's soap and shampoo, and oh my God, he tried to give me a blow-job!
And maybe Sam wasn't as "over it" as he wanted to be.
Toweling Dean off briskly, he tried to ignore the fact that Dean was half hard too. By the time he'd bundled Dean into his borrowed clothes and reluctantly put his own dirty jeans and teeshirt back on, their mutual... troubles... had faded away, and Dean was wavering on his feet again. Sam could hear their father's voice on the other side of the door, which meant that there was food. Good! They needed it!
He brushed Dean's damp hair quickly back from his face, checked to be sure that they were both presentable, and then led his brother out of the bathroom.
God, that had been bizarre! And who was he going to talk to about what had happened in the shower? He had to discuss it with someone....
Not their father -- oh, hell no! He repressed a shudder at the very notion.
Bobby? Even if he could get a moment of privacy with the man, he really didn't want to have to bring it up in conversation.
Hey, Bobby. While we were in the shower tonight, Dean tried to suck my dick.
Um, no. No way. No way was he telling Bobby that. Even worse was the truth that he tried to press down, hide even from himself. But the words were bubbling up, beyond his ability to control. Words he would never speak aloud. To anyone. But they rang in his head, completing the thought for him, beyond his will.
And I think that maybe a part of me wanted to let him.