[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 3 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter Three 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 Three - by KnM
"John Winchester, you are an ass."
John stopped inside the hotel room, kicking the door closed behind him with his heel, his arms full of white cartons in plastic bags. The closest restaurant had been a rather dubious looking twenty-four hour Chinese place, but John hadn't been feeling choosy, wanting to get back to the hotel as quickly as possible.
He glared at Bobby, who was lounging on the near bed, boots off but cap still on, hands laced behind his head.
"Where's Dean and Sam?" he asked, running his gaze around the room as he crossed to plop dinner on the table. It was a stupid question, he knew, considering what he and Sam had been arguing about before he had left, and considering that now that he paused a moment he could hear the shower running behind the closed bathroom door.
"You think that just because you have Dean back, things will just go back to the way they were before," Bobby continued as though John had not spoken, his eyes sharp. "But your boy's been broken, and you're gonna have to work at putting him back together. You can't just ignore that and hope that everything turns out okay."
"I'm not!" John snapped, though he had the niggling feeling that he had been. He glowered, grinding his teeth. Bobby was right; Dean was broken. So much so that John had no idea where to even begin trying to put him back together.
"You gotta stop fighting with Sam," Bobby persisted. John didn't want to listen, but he knew that as the only objective presence, the man would have a better idea than he of how to go about the healing process. "He provokes you, I've seen it, but you gotta be the bigger man. Be mature -- you are the father, after all."
John grunted, sitting heavily on the bed opposite Bobby and unlacing his boots. Suddenly he was just exhausted.
"And another thing." Bobby had evidently just gotten started in his tirade and John sighed, too tired and disheartened to try to stop him. Bobby had undoubtedly been stewing over all of this while John had been out; it would be best to let him get it out of his system. After all, John owed him so much. Without Bobby's aid and support, he wouldn't have been able to get his son back at all.
"Sam ain't the only one to blame for the way you two fight," Bobby continued sternly. "You're stubborn and bull-headed, but that ain't the worst of it. You tell Sam to do something and expect him to just do it. This ain't the Marines and Sam ain't ten years old anymore. He's an adult and you gotta treat him like one. I know that to you he'll always be your little boy, but he's in this as an equal. He has blood on his hands, and that's as much your fault as it was his choice. And now, Dean's gonna need Sam just as much as he needs you. Maybe even more, since they were always so close while they were growing up."
"Sam just up and left--" John began heatedly, but Bobby interrupted him again.
"Don't you start with that! What Sam did was what most eighteen year old males do. He left the nest and set out to make a life for himself. And he was doing a damn fine job of it, and I know you were proud of him. Just 'cause it wasn't the life you woulda chose for him, just 'cause he gave up Hunting, doesn't make it any less valid. Hell, he helped you get revenge for the death of a mother he couldn't even remember; that shoulda been good enough! Now, whether you ever forgive him for leaving is your business. But until we get Dean fixed up, you're gonna have to let that go."
John sighed, rubbing his eyes. He was so tired, and he knew that Bobby was right, but he didn't want to admit it. "Are you done yet?" he asked wearily.
Bobby gave him a Look. "Are you hearing me, John?"
"Yes!" John snapped, glaring back. "I'm hearing you. And you're not completely wrong. I'm just... I'm tired. And I'm hungry. I want some food and some sleep and I'll deal with everything else in the morning, okay? Good enough?"
Bobby gave him a sidelong look, his lips pursed. "Mm. Well, since you asked, all right. But let me say this; you get in another argument with Sam tonight, just one more, and the next time your back is turned, I'm filling your ass with buckshot. And don't you dare to think I won't."
John stared at Bobby, knowing that he should take this threat seriously, wondering whether any of the guns Bobby had brought with him were loaded with buckshot, thinking how hard it would be to drive his truck in that condition. But before he could respond -- not that he had any idea of what to say -- the bathroom door opened and his two sons emerged in a puff of steam and the faint scent of vanilla.
"Is there food?" Sam asked, sounding a little raspy. His hair was wet but he was wearing the same clothes he'd had on earlier. His eyes were red-rimmed, but John couldn't tell if he'd been crying or if he was just as physically and emotionally exhausted as John felt. He needed a shave, and John felt a little ashamed for letting Sam bait him so easily. The boy had been dragged out of the safe, comfortable life with a bright future that he had carved for himself with nothing more than his own intelligence, talent, and hard work. Now his future was uncertain, and John had nothing to offer him but danger and certain distress. And, of course, seeing the older brother that he'd always looked up to brought down and broken the way Dean was now, well, that had to be traumatizing as all hell. Bobby was right; no matter how obnoxious Sam got, John should try to cut him a little slack. This wasn't an easy time for any of them.
"On the table," Bobby answered, when John didn't. He rose off the bed and crossed, pulling cartons out of bags. "Looks like your Dad got a little bit of everything."
"It was the only chance I had of getting anything that was actually edible," John offered, remaining where he was. His gaze fell on Dean, who had always been his older son, but who was now his younger son... in a manner of speaking.
Dean looked a little better now than he had when Bobby had chased John out, though he was still far too pale and quiet, his eyes too wide. He was standing carefully immobile, Sam hovering behind, over, and around him, one hand resting on a narrow shoulder. Dean was wearing a Stanford sweatshirt, which was just so ironic and wrong that John felt torn between laughing and weeping. He didn't have the energy for either, really, which was fortunate, because now was not the time for hysterics. He could see some plaid boxers beneath the hem of the sweatshirt and made a mental note to get out shopping first thing tomorrow, to buy some clothes that fit. He'd been so intent on saving Dean that he hadn't given consideration to anything that would come after. Clearly that had been short-sighted on his part.
Dean's hair was damp, tucked behind his ears except for a few escaping tendrils that clung to his temples. They were going to have to do something about that tomorrow too. His cheeks were pale despite the shower he had just taken and he had obviously been crying. John frowned, but didn't ask.
He could remember what Dean had looked like at this age last time -- strong, willful, golden from the sun -- and this boy before him now was a thin, pale shadow of that. But it was still Dean, still his son. And he was so incredibly grateful to have his boy back.
"Come on, Dean." Sam was carefully urging Dean over to the table, hovering, one hand still on Dean's shoulder, the other around his waist, propelling him forward.
John scrubbed at his beard, feeling gritty and dirty but too tired to shower. He could use a little freshening up, though. While Sam seated Dean in one of the two rickety chairs at the table and Bobby broke out the limp chow mein and the plastic forks, John grabbed his duffel bag and headed into the bathroom.
The mirror was still a little foggy, but he didn't need to see his reflection to wash his face or change into a clean shirt and pair of pants. Before he left he grabbed his jacket from where Sam had left it on the towel rack.
Back at the table, Sam was trying to coax Dean to eat in between inhaling his own share of the Chinese food.
"Dad, this stuff is awful," he offered, pulling a face, and John shrugged. He wasn't going to let Sam get to him now, and not just because of the threat of an ass full of buckshot. They were in this together, and so they were going to have to act like it. Besides, he could tell just by looking that the food was awful.
"How you s'posed to convince your brother to eat it, you say things like that, Sam?" Bobby asked dryly, one brow quirked. He'd finally taken his cap off and John couldn't say that it was an improvement on his looks.
Sam glanced at Dean, his brow furrowed in worry. "Come on, Dean," he murmured, nudging the box that Dean was holding in lax hands. The plastic fork in Dean's other hand fell from his fingers, onto the floor, and Sam bit back a soft curse.
John wanted more than anything to shove Sam aside, take over and feed Dean himself. He caught Bobby's knowing eye, and instead crossed to grab a carton of something that looked like orange chicken and his own fork. It was just as bad as it had looked, but it was food and he needed to refuel.
"You've got to be hungry," Sam said to Dean, and with his own fork and a hell of a lot of persistence, he actually got his brother to eat a few bites. More than that, though, was just not going to happen.
"It's been a rough day for Dean," Bobby finally intervened, clapping a hand to Sam's hunched shoulder. "And this crap probably ain't all that appetizing. Let him be and we'll get a nice big breakfast in him in the morning."
Sam grimaced, but since Dean was tight-lipped and had his face turned away, it was easier to let it go. "All right. Let's go to bed, then."
The greasy Chinese that he'd eaten was sitting heavy in his stomach as John eyed the two queen sized beds. "So, how are we going to--"
"Dean and I call that one," Sam interrupted, pointing at the bed further from the door, closer to the bathroom. John blinked at his son, and Sam's chin jutted defiantly, though he was clearly too exhausted to get himself properly worked up. "What? I called it."
"You regressing too, boy?" Bobby drawled, tossing empty cartons into the trash.
Sam just gave him a dirty look, then dragged his brother over to the bed he had claimed as theirs. Without bothering to so much as undress, he got them both settled under the covers.
"Turn off the lights, please, Dad?" he yawned, already looking more than half asleep. Dean was tucked up against his chest, Sam's chin resting on the top of his brother's head, and it didn't look as though either of them was going to be moving until morning.
John thought back to all the nights Dean had spent curled around his baby brother just after Mary's-- their mother's death, how it had been the only thing that kept Sammy from crying. Their roles were reversed now. He only hoped that Dean would take as much comfort from it now as Sam had when he had been a baby. They were both going to need all the comfort they could get.
Feeling numb, he did as asked, turning off all the lights except the lamp on the small table between the beds. Sam seemed to have fallen asleep already, but Dean was still awake, watching Bobby and John move around with eyes that were bright and clear beneath heavy lids.
John traced a hand over Dean's cheek, worried by how cool his son's flesh was under his fingers and saddened by the way that Dean flinched from even that simple touch. "Good night, Dean," he rasped, and there wasn't so much as a flicker of recognition in those dark green eyes.
He had to turn away. Bobby was done in the bathroom, wearing a pair of sweats and a teeshirt, which was as close to pajamas as John ever wanted to see him in.
"Shall we do rock-paper-scissors for the bed?" he asked. There was no way in hell they were sharing; he'd sooner sleep in the truck.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "You can have it," he shrugged. "This room's got a pull-out. I got no problem with that. Though, if we're still here tomorrow night, I might want to trade off."
"You could rent your own room," John suggested, turning down his sheets and sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching as Bobby set his own bed up. "Get some peace and quiet. I'd give you the money."
"And leave Dean alone with you two boneheads?" Bobby snorted, flopping down and tucking the khaki blanket up around his ears. "Like hell. Now turn out the light."
John tried to think of something cutting to say, but his brain was a blank, and so he just shut off the last lamp as directed.
He'd been afraid that sleep would be long in coming, but actually, he was gone the moment his head hit the pillow.
***
Never make a move without permission.
Never disobey a direct order.
Be a Good Boy.
Different. Different, not bad but different and it was hard to tell how to be a good boy, impossible to know what was expected of him, what he was supposed to do.
Yesterday he had known what to do. But that was yesterday and this now was different. He knew that they wanted things from him but he didn't know what. He wanted to be good but he just didn't know how.
Now it was dark and that was a little easier, but panic was still surging through his veins, stripping him raw, and he was bleeding out any sort of sense that he might have been able to pull into his tattered mind.
There were arms wrapped warm around him and he could hear breathing in the dark. These men, he ought to know them, he had known them in another life, in a different yesterday. But not now. Now they were strangers and he couldn't understand what they wanted. He didn't know what they expected and he didn't know what to expect from them and so he was afraid.
Be a Good Boy.
He wondered where Rodgers was, then remembered that he was dead. There had been blood and fire, and he thought that he remembered a fire many yesterdays ago, a fire that had stolen something important away from him. But then there was water, cold salt sea water and a chill kiss and there was no fire because no flames could survive in the depths of the ocean.
She was smiling at him, her eyes dark and hungry, she took from him, hurting him, but then he opened eyes that he hadn't known he'd closed and that yesterday slid away. He was laying in a bed, a large male body wrapped around him, and there was the smell of old sweat and uneaten food in the room, not the bitter bite of the sea. That yesterday was gone. She didn't hold him anymore.
He was waiting, he realized, waiting for Royce or Engram to drag him out of bed, to punish him for failing to do as was expected of him. Earlier. In the shower, with the man who had once been a baby, who had the face that he knew he ought to remember. He had tried, but it hadn't been right. And he got hurt when he didn't do what he was supposed to and he got hurt when he didn't do as he was ordered. He'd tried to do as expected but he'd been told "no". So he'd failed twice, and he was confused, because that had been what he was supposed to do... wasn't it?
This now was different and he was afraid. He knew that Royce was dead, that Engram was dead, but they were still in his head, when his yesterdays got mixed up with his now. They were in the dark room. No, they weren't. They weren't.
Never make a move without permission.
He knew this lesson, he had learned it in blood and bruises, painted across his body and with copper in his mouth, but sometimes he slipped. And sometimes it was worth the punishment, to do as he willed, to feel alive again for just an instant. To imagine that he knew who he was, even if the feeling slipped through his fingers like her sand had done.
The man wrapped around him grunted, shifting and loosing a sound of discontent when he wriggled free, sliding from under the covers and over the edge of the mattress onto the floor. He was being bad, being a Bad Boy, and there was sure to be punishment, but he had to get away. He could almost remember, almost remember, but he couldn't remember what it was that he could almost remember and it hurt inside his head, until he almost wanted to scream. Except that he thought he'd forgotten how to do that too. He could only scream when they hurt him, when they wanted him to scream.
His body remembered how to move silently, even though he didn't know why. He was wearing clothes, and it felt strange. His feet were cold on the floor, the carpeting thin and ragged, like his consciousness. He paused a moment, looking around in the dark. The window glowed, streetlights slicing through the blinds, more light than there was at the bottom of the ocean.
The man who had held him lay on his side, face curling in discontent, before he fell into deeper slumber. He suddenly longed for those arms again, an embrace more gentle than he had felt in all the yesterdays he could remember, not since a soft golden-haired woman, who slid away out of his mind as quickly as he recalled her, though her rose-sweet scent lingered in his senses. But gentleness could not be trusted; it only led to betrayal and more pain, and so he turned away, his gaze running over the other occupants of the room.
The man who shouldn't have a beard was on his back, the covers pushed down around his waist, one arm flung over his eyes, his other hand resting on his chest. There was a metal band gleaming around one finger, and he almost remembered... something. But then it was gone again, and there was an empty hole where the memory had almost been, and he stuck a finger in his mouth, biting at a knuckle in frustration, tears pricking his eyes. He held them back this time, because boys didn't cry. No matter what happened or how much they hurt you.
He moved away from that bed, toes clinging to the dirty carpet as he padded across the room. It was a relief, as always, to feel the ground firmly beneath his feet. He remembered water and tides and suddenly he couldn't breathe, the air sucked out of his lungs, but then the now came back to him, and he was in a dark room, his hair clinging to perspiration-damped temples, his chest heaving, and he was safe, but nothing was the same, everything was different and he was still lost and afraid.
The last man looked different now, without the cap on his head. He also lay on his back, his hair thin and pale in the darkness, a faint snore coming from his open mouth. He looked safe, but looks could be deceiving. That was one lesson that he always remembered, even when he forgot his other lessons, even when his yesterdays all got tangled and mixed up and curdled together with his now.
He nipped at his finger, eyes fixing on the door. He hadn't been outside in a lot of yesterdays, didn't remember what it felt like to have the wind in his hair, to feel the freedom that he knew that he'd had once. There was something waiting outside, something waiting for him, and he didn't know what it was, but he knew how to get there.
The knob was locked, but his fingers remembered how to twist the little button. He only opened the door wide enough to slide through, and closed it soundlessly behind him. He leaned a moment, eyes huge, petrified by the wideness, the openness, the deepness of the night sky overhead. It was black and hollow, like the floor of the ocean had been, and the night wanted to grind his bones, devour him, chew him up until there was nothing left....
And then the world tilted and he could smell vanilla on the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing, and it was all right. He was safe, and the night folded its black wings around him, a soft breeze running fingers through his hair.
He padded forward barefoot. There was a big black truck parked in front of the building he'd emerged from, and he touched it, wondering, feeling that it was real. His mind held the image of a smaller vehicle, black, sleek, holding just as much power, but it wasn't here, and he knew that was what he was looking for. But there was only this truck, cool and smooth under his fingertips.
His feet were cold, the pavement rough beneath them, and his knees were trembling, but he didn't notice. It felt good to run his hand along the flank of this mighty beast, touching it, soaking in the strength that it held. It was asleep now, but he could feel the echo of its roar, tingling through his hand, running down his arm and filling his limbs with a strange sort of exaltation.
"Dean?"
He barely heard the voice, the night breeze catching it and breaking it up, tossing and toying with it before tumbling it into his ears.
"Dean."
He started, shaken from his illicit pleasure, cringing up against the sheltering side of the truck as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up, and up, and in the dark the beard didn't look so wrong, and he could almost remember who the man was and why he didn't have to be afraid of him.
"Dean, what are you doing out here? Come inside."
Never disobey a direct order.
He followed obediently when the tall shadow steered him back into the room. He'd escaped and been caught again but it was all right. It wasn't Royce that had found him. He wouldn't be punished. He'd been a bad boy, but something from the yesterdays that he couldn't remember told him that this man wouldn't hurt him. There was worry in his voice, and a little fear, but he wasn't angry.
He'd been bad, but it was okay. Just this once it was okay. Because things were different now. And maybe different wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either. Even though he was still confused and afraid.
"Get back into bed."
"Dean?"
"He's here."
The man who had been the baby reached long arms and drew him back against his chest, and he let his body relax. He could smell the outside, now, on his clothing, mingling with the faint scent of vanilla, and sweat and blood and tears, but these weren't bad smells. There was no fire, and no salt-water.
"Where was he?"
"Outside. Go back to sleep, Sammy. We'll talk in the morning."
The man holding him shifted a little restlessly, but then tucked him close and yawned. "Go to sleep, Dean."
It was a direct order and maybe he could follow it now, because the panic was gone and he felt safe. He was still lost in his yesterdays and he knew there were things missing. And in the morning he might not remember that this was all right. He might be afraid again. But right now it was safe and warm and he was all right.
Be a Good Boy.
He could be a Good Boy and do as he's been ordered. Because now it was safe to sleep. Even if it wasn't safe to dream.
***
Despite the stress and excitement of the day before and their interrupted sleep, everyone was up before dawn. John mumbled something about getting coffee and breakfast then vanished from the hotel room. Sam was out of bed and in the shower before Bobby could even take his morning leak. He was a little ticked by that fact, but fortunately the matter wasn't too pressing.
That left Bobby alone in the hotel room with Dean, and this made him feel a little trepidatious. He'd awakened during the boy's little escapade last night but hadn't involved himself; John'd had things well in hand. Though damned if Bobby could figure out how Dean had managed to sneak out of a room housing two seasoned Hunters without waking either. Thank God something had gotten John up and he'd realized that Dean was gone. Bobby would have to wait until John got back to ask him about the whole thing.
"G'morning, Dean," he said, setting his cap back on his head and scrubbing at his beard. He really needed a hot shower and a change of clothes, but that race had gone to the young. He'd have to give Sam shit for it when he got out. He had a few things he wanted to say to that boy anyway -- John wasn't the only Winchester male who deserved a slice of his mind.
Dean was sitting where he had sat the night before, but this morning he was clothed. His hair was mussed and falling into his face in untidy curls, and he appeared a little less freaked out. His eyes were still wide and watchful though, his cheeks pale. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, one arm wrapped around his legs, and he was nibbling on the sleeve of the borrowed sweatshirt he was wearing.
Bobby hadn't really been expecting a response to his morning greeting, but he was still little disappointed when all the boy did was blink at him.
Yawning, creaking, and groaning quietly to himself, Bobby folded his bedding and put the pull-out away. He could feel Dean's eyes on him and he made sure to keep his movements slow and steady, non-threatening.
Flopping down into the chair at the table, Bobby wished for some home-brewed coffee in his favorite old chipped mug. He sincerely hoped that John was bringing back something more substantial to eat than donuts.
"Come here, Dean," he requested, holding out a hand in invitation. Dean eyed it closely, and Bobby bit back a grimace; instead smiling as reassuringly as he could. "S'okay, boy. I won't hurt you. Come here."
Dean's eyes flickered in a way that Bobby didn't like at the word "hurt" and he regretted using it. But it was too late, the promise which should have been unnecessary had been spoken, and now it was up to Dean whether he believed it and came over.
Cautiously, Dean uncurled himself and slid to the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on Bobby. He looked feral, skittish, as though he might flee at any sudden movement and Bobby made sure to remain sitting absolutely still, lowering his hand slowly and leaving it palm up on his thigh.
Dean stepped across the room, his head turned slightly to the side, keeping Bobby in the corner of his eye. The sweatshirt was slipping down one shoulder, his hands already lost as the sleeves started to come unrolled, his collarbone sharp where it was exposed, underlining the fact that he needed to regain a lot of weight and muscle. He probably hadn't been allowed to get much exercise since those bastards had taken him, and he was definitely more skinny and less toned than he had been the last time Bobby had seen him at age fourteen.
Bobby smiled warmly at Dean once the boy reached him, standing and shifting from bare foot to bare foot. Slender fingers slid hesitantly over his palm and he had to fight not to curl his fingers in at the ticklish sensation. Soft fingertips came to rest on his wrist, pausing, then tracing back to his palm. He thought that he caught the faint scent of the ocean, but it was taken over in the next moment by the smell of vanilla, Sam's soap.
"Good boy, Dean," he said, carefully closing his hand around Dean's, hoping that the boy would react favorably to the clasp of his hand, and not see it as entrapment. He kept his grip loose, holding Dean's hand as gently as though it were a wounded bird.
Dean's eyes flickered again, and Bobby thought that if the boy could remember how to smile, he might have in that moment. There was a strange sort of peace that overcame him, a glow, and Bobby relaxed along with Dean, his smile becoming wider and more sincere.
"That's a good boy," Bobby repeated, reaching up and running his fingers lightly through Dean's curls. Who knew the boy's hair would be so soft? He was warm to the touch, which was a great improvement over the night before, and Bobby allowed himself to begin to hope.
His hand still held in Bobby's, Dean took two small steps, bringing him between the man's knees. Bobby supposed in the next moment that he really should have been expecting what happened then, but it somehow still managed to take him by surprise.
Dean's mouth pressed against his own, awkward and heavy, the sort of caress a toddler who was still learning to kiss would give. His head bumped the bill of Bobby's cap, knocking it askew, and he reached up to catch at it, an automatic move that kept him from shoving the boy away. Once he got over that first moment of shock, he was grateful for this distraction, because that last thing Dean needed was any sort overreaction or rejection from him.
Rearing back, and settling his cap down firmly, Bobby then clasped Dean's upper arms in both hands, carefully pushing Dean away from him a couple of inches. Dean looked confused, fear beginning to rise in his dark eyes, and that was something Bobby didn't want.
"It's all right, Dean," he whispered, tugging Dean into his arms and giving the boy a loose hug. He knew when he felt a light touch at his crotch that he was giving Dean mixed signals, but he was not going to freak out or push the boy away. That would do more damage than he felt he could live with. Circling Dean's slender wrist with his own callused, grease-stained fingers, he redirected that touch, tucking Dean's hand up against the boy's own chest, Dean's head on his shoulder. He needed to keep touching Dean, because he felt that it was what the broken boy needed right now, but he had to make sure that it didn't become sexual.
"It's all right," he repeated, and he realized that the shower had gone off. He definitely didn't want Sam to see his brother feeling the old family friend up. "Here, Dean," he said, half rising to guide Dean to sit in the other chair. He hoped that John would get back soon with their breakfast. They needed to get some meat on Dean's bones.
Dean let himself be manipulated, passively sitting down and staring at Bobby. He caught the sleeve of his sweatshirt between white teeth again, tugging at it absently. Bobby gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but Dean's gaze was glazing over, his eyes sliding over Bobby's shoulder and into the distance.
"All yours, Bobby," Sam said, coming out of the bathroom in a puff of steam. He was shaved and wearing fresh clothes, and he looked entirely too chipper for Bobby's liking.
"Thanks," he said dryly, standing and moving to take his turn. He was going to be back out shortly, though. He had a few things he wanted to say to Sam before the young man's father returned.
Sam's gaze immediately fixed on Dean, and there was an expression on his face that Bobby couldn't read, even though he was usually adept at figuring out what anyone was thinking.
Shaking his head, Bobby strode toward the bathroom. It was the fact that he still needed to get in and take his morning piss that made his groin feel a little heavy. Sam could take care of Dean for a few minutes. And hopefully Dean wouldn't react to Sam the same way he had to Bobby.
As for what had happened between himself and Dean.... Well, maybe he'd freak out about it later. But Bobby Singer was a realistic man, and he knew what Dean had been going through for the past two years. He could deal with it and move on. There was a lot of darkness in the world, and not all of it was supernatural. This wasn't about his feelings or reactions. It was about Dean and what it was going to take to bring the boy some healing.
But heaven help him if John Winchester ever found out!
***
It was only an automatic reaction to waking with a warm body in his arms, Sam resolutely told himself. After all, it wasn't as though he was a virgin; he was a healthy young male and he had all the instincts and inbuilt expectations that came with being twenty-one and a little repressed.
He wasn't a virgin, but he hadn't been with anyone while making his somewhat shy pursuit of Jess, and so it had been several months now. Which, surely, only added to the whole thing.
His first and best resolution for the reality of waking up with a raging hard-on was to speed to the bathroom as soon as he was lucid enough to be aware of the problem, locking the door and hopping in a lukewarm shower. He didn't quite have the balls to turn the water to cold, even though he was really horrified with himself. It was one thing to get half hard when Dean had been handling his dick the night before -- that had been an involuntary response -- but to wake pressed tightly to his brother's slim body, his stiff cock pushing insistently up against Dean's hip... well, that was just beyond the pale.
Also an involuntary response, he resolutely told himself, scrubbing shampoo into his scalp, trying his best to ignore the hardness bobbing before him. It wasn't going away, and the unrelenting ache was driving him crazy, no matter how he tried to pretend it wasn't there. He didn't think he'd ever had such a persistent erection; not even when he'd been going through puberty.
Finally, Sam was as clean as he could get, had even shaved in the shower, and his dick was as swollen as it had been when he had fled to the bathroom, if not more so. He really needed to pee, he was so hard he almost hurt, and there only seemed to be two solutions. Either turn the water entirely to cold and freeze his balls, literally... or give in to nature and jerk himself off.
Despite his upbringing, Sam Winchester had never been much of a masochist, wasn't prepared to take the painful choice when there was something else he could do. He'd leave the self sacrifice to his father, thank you very much.
Besides, he could tell himself as he wrapped his hand around his demanding hard-on, this had nothing whatsoever to do with Dean or with what had almost happened in the shower the night before. It was simply about having a need and dealing with it. And it was something of a relief that the rising wash of pleasure kept his mind wiped blank. He was free of spiraling thoughts, recriminations, and niggling self doubts as he let himself be taken away by the purity of his passion and release.
Eventually he had to leave the warmth and safety of the shower, wriggling into a clean teeshirt and a fresh pair of jeans. His now flaccid dick was still tingling, and he felt that he was a little flushed, but he tried to set these things aside as he opened the door and strode back into the hotel room.
"All yours, Bobby," he offered, only just realizing how rude it had been of him to pop into the bathroom first thing, without giving the older man a chance to use the toilet.
"Thanks," Bobby replied, his tone dry, and Sam couldn't blame him. But before he could apologize, his gaze fixed on his brother, who was sitting at the table now. It was a shock all over again, to see Dean looking fourteen, only more pale and still and silent than he had been the first time he had been that age. Sam wondered when Dean would begin speaking again. He knew that he'd been through a lot -- more than Sam could ever or would ever want to know -- and he didn't want to push him, but he desperately wanted to find out what was going on in his brother's mind.
He was vaguely aware of Bobby disappearing into the bathroom, but his eyes were only fixed on Dean's face. Dean was sitting at the table now, his bare toes brushing against the floor. His eyes seemed a little glazed over, his face blank, and he didn't respond in any way when Sam walked over and sat in the chair Bobby had recently vacated.
Sam scooted the chair closer, so that their knees were almost touching. He reached forward, one hand cupping the side of Dean's face. He hadn't forgotten last night or his own response to it. But he wanted and needed so badly to reconnect with Dean that he could set his discomfort aside.
"Dean," he whispered, brushing the pad of his thumb over one sharp cheekbone. He wished that he could have gotten Dean to eat more the evening before, and he wondered when their Dad was going to get back with the promised breakfast. It was almost seven, and John had been gone for a little over an hour. Sam wasn't worried yet, but he was beginning to consider giving his father a ring on his cell phone. If John would even answer.
"Dean, will you talk to me?" he asked quietly, his thumb straying down to caress Dean's plump lower lip. He knew that he shouldn't, that this was a touch too easily interpreted as sexual, but the mouth was where Dean's voice was hidden away, and he wanted so badly to get a word, just one word out of his brother. "Please?"
Dean's lips obediently parted, his eyes suddenly focusing on Sam's face, and he snatched his hand back as though stung. In a way, he had been. There was no mistaking the intent in Dean's darkening gaze, and there was nothing there that Sam had intended to spark. Still, he had, even though he had damned well known better. He'd been playing with fire, and now he felt burned.
He hoped those bastard were roiling in agony in Hell for programming his brother this way, for forcing him to let men use him, for turning him into this broken creature that made Sam feel so unsettled, even though he still loved Dean with everything that was in him.
"We'll fix you, Dean," he promised, his hands sliding into Dean's hair as he gripped his head and fixed his eyes on Dean's. "I swear to God, I swear on everything in this universe, I will find a way to bring you back!"
Dean's eyes slid away from his, over his shoulder, as the bathroom door opened again. Sam was a little surprised, since he'd been half expecting Bobby to take a shower in his turn. He sat back a little, releasing his hold on his brother's face, but clinging to one hand through the long sleeve of the sweatshirt, unwilling and unable to entirely let go.
"You okay, Sam?" Bobby asked, walking over and clapping a heavy, warm hand to his slumped shoulder. It was strangely comforting. Sam knew that Bobby understood, as much as he could, and that he was already doing as much as he could to help them all.
"Yeah," Sam said, knowing that the older man could hear the lie in his hoarse reply. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just...."
"You just found your brother, broken and abused," Bobby said, his hand more steady than his voice. "You just took a man's life for the first time. You just left behind your home and all your friends. You left behind your future. And you've got no guarantee that you'll ever get your brother back the way he was before. No guarantee that he'll ever get better."
"He'll get better!" Sam interrupted hotly, straightening and shrugging off Bobby's hand. He'd been right, though; Bobby understood. And he was speaking the truth, even though Sam would die before admitting it aloud.
"Listen to me, boy," Bobby said, and his tone was enough to make Sam turn in his chair to face him and actually listen as instructed. "You're not in this alone. I've already talked to your Dad about this, and I hope he paid attention. No matter what happens, no matter what shit goes down, no matter what he says or does, you two have got to stop fighting! I wouldn't care if you wrasseled until one of you broke t'other's neck if it were just the three of us, but you got someone here who needs you to be united, not at odds."
Sam glanced at Dean, wondering how his brother was taking being talked about as though he wasn't there. But, really, he wasn't there. His green eyes were dull and heavy lidded, and he was nipping at one of his fingers again, staring at the wall above one of the beds. He seemed lost in his own head, and Sam's heart hurt.
"I know your Dad can be an ass," Bobby continued, recapturing Sam's attention. "And I told him so last night, while you were showering. But he ain't t'only one. You let the smallest thing get to you. You take offense where none was meant. And you gotta get over your resentment. I don't know everything about your childhood or the break you made when you left for college. I do know that it was Dean who kept you two together and kept you from each others' throats as much as he could. Well, it's gonna have to be the same now. You're gonna have to behave for Dean. Only now he can't get between you two like he used to; the effort is going to have to come from you and your Dad. It's gonna be tough for both of you. I know that. It's gonna be real tough. But your brother's worth it, ain't he?"
"Yes," Sam answered, his voice cracking into pieces over the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, he is."
Bobby nodded approval. "Look, I ain't asking for miracles. You'n your Dad, you're too much alike in a lot of ways and completely different in others. You'll never see eye to eye until one of you is dead. But you're both going to have to try to get along. You're all Dean has, and he needs you to meet each other halfway."
"I know," Sam said, scrubbing his face with both hands. "I know, and I already thought of all this. It's not as easy as you make it sound, though. You don't know--"
"No, I don't," Bobby interrupted. He shook his head at Sam. "I told you that. I can't know what things were like, what they're like now. But I do know this. Dean needs you. He needs you to not shout at your Dad. He needs you to not get in your Dad's face. I know that John belts out orders and jest expects you to follow them. I told him so, and I hope he paid attention. He ain't likely to stop though. And you're gonna have to accept that. He does something like that, you look at me. I ain't family, I can't be what Dean used to be, but I'll do what I can to keep you two from fighting."
"Thank you," Sam whispered, then he met Bobby's eyes, his own gaze steady, his expression solemn. "Thank you, Bobby. I'll try. I'll do my best. But I can't...."
"Make any promises," Bobby finished for him with a shrug. "You're only human. All I ask is that you try. I'm gonna go shower now."
Sam blinked, then sat back and ran a hand through his drying hair. "Sure. Okay. Thanks again, Bobby."
Bobby grinned crookedly, grabbing his bag and heading for the bathroom. "If your Dad gets back while I'm in there, make sure that you leave me somethin' to eat."
"No promises," Sam smirked, and it felt good to be able to smile. He was so glad that Bobby was with them. For Dean's sake more than his own.
Bobby shut himself in the bathroom, and Sam heaved a deep, heart-felt sigh, trying to pull himself together. After a few moments, he rose and took Dean over to the bed, soul aching at the passive obedience with which his brother allowed himself to be moved. It made things a little easier now, but it just wasn't right.
He settled them both against the headboard, his cheek pressed against the top of Dean's head where it was resting on his shoulder. Dean was still staring into space, his eyes glazed, and Sam sighed, again. They'd get things worked out. He'd sworn it.
They sat quietly, listening to the water running in the shower, Sam running his fingers absently through Dean's soft curls, until the roar of the truck in the parking lot roused them. Dean stirred, and Sam braced himself. He'd listened to every word Bobby had said, and he'd internalized the lecture. Now the biggest test would be how well he implemented his newfound resolution.
He was not going to let his father get to him. For Dean's sake.
They had a lot to do, and they were going to have to do it together.