Category: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Rating: R (was PG-13 for this standalone chapter)
Spoilers: Skin (but mostly AU)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were.
Author’s Note: This begins with an AU version of one of the scenes from Skin. It was originally posted as a standalone two months ago, but I have now added some additional chapters.
x-x-x-x-x Standalone, or Chapter 1: Broken x-x-x-x-x
The blanket came off just as Dean was starting to think he would suffocate.
The sewer was… wetter than he remembered when he had followed the Shapeshifter down here. The air itself was wet, although the smell was not as bad as he would have expected.
“What do you want with me?” Dean asked.
“You?” The Shapeshifter laughed. “What makes you think I’m interested in you? You’re way too stuck on yourself, dude.” He set aside some rope, next to an array of knives. “I don’t want you. You’re just a tool to get what I do want. Ooh, tool—bet you’ve heard that one before.”
Dean had never realized just how annoying that smirk of his was. He felt the urge to smack that smug face. His face. Whatever. He squirmed irritably in the chair, the ropes digging into his skin.
“You see, you don’t really have what I need,” the Shapeshifter went on. “I mean, yeah, the packaging is nice—I could have some fun with it. But as a victim, you leave a little something to be desired.”
Dean felt relieved at that, until he caught the evil glint to the Shapeshifter’s smile.
“Now, your brother Sammy,” the Shapeshifter said as he circled behind Dean. “He’s much more tempting. He’s still got some innocence in him, some hope. That’s gonna be one tasty soul when I get through with him.”
“Don’t you touch him!” Dean yelled. He jerked forward in the chair, only to find that it was chained to a sewer pipe.
“Ooh, it’s so cute the way you’re so protective,” the Shapeshifter murmured into Dean’s ear. “Too bad it won’t help. I’m sure Sammy’s on his way down here to rescue you right now, and I’ll just be here waiting.” He licked up the side of Dean’s neck, as Dean jerked his head away. “No? I guess you’re not as big a narcissist as I thought. Too bad—you’re missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”
The anger in Dean’s eyes was so focused it could have split atoms.
“That’s okay—you’re not really my type. Now your brother? Delicious.” The Shapeshifter licked his lips at Dean. “I can’t decide whether to fuck him or bleed him.”
Dean jolted forward in the chair again. “You son of a bitch! I’ll kill you!”
“Nice try,” the Shapeshifter said. “Too bad I know all your tricks. It’s one of the perks of being you.”
He reached over to stroke up the inside of Dean’s thighs, keeping carefully off to the side. “I think you’re going to enjoy this,” he said. “I’ll let you listen in on the whole thing, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let your brother live.” Dean snapped to attention at those last words.
“You leave Sam alone!” he spat, veins pulsing on his skin.
“Sorry, man, no can do. Got my evening all lined up, got my equipment all ready.” The Shapeshifter waved at the table, the knives, the tarps. “The best part is, it’ll be you that Sam sees, but I’m the one who gets to have all the fun,” the Shapeshifter smiled at him. “Everything you ever wanted but were afraid to do yourself—I’ll get to do it. And when I’m done, he won’t be able to look at you again without remembering. Your smell, your touch—they’ll haunt him forever. I’ll destroy every last bit of light inside him, and leave you the shell so you can regret each other the rest of your days.” The Shapeshifter ran his hands over Dean’s chest, caressing the muscles there, as Dean jerked away from the touch. “Two for the price of one. It doesn’t get much better,” he laughed.
Dean’s head swiveled around, looking for a break, an opportunity. Nothing. Yet.
The Shapeshifter picked up some duct tape, shutting up Dean’s mouth. Then his hand came back, and the last thing Dean remembered was the sudden pain in the back of the head before everything went dark.
The fog was thicker this time, and his head was killing him, as he fought up through the darkness. The darkness lightened, but didn’t lift, and he realized he was back under a blanket again.
He could hear Sam’s voice, arguing with someone. Arguing with Dean himself, it sounded like.
“Boy, does he have issues with you,” he heard his voice say. A litany of accusations and complaints spilled forth, twisted truths that he never would have said himself. He didn’t hate Sammy for leaving. Yeah, he’d been mad at first, but mostly hurt. Four long years of hurt. That wasn’t anger. Anger would have felt better.
“You ran off and left me with Dad! You were so worried about what you wanted, you didn’t give a damn about what I wanted or what anyone else wanted.”
He could hear Sam’s responses, a little muffled at times, and was grateful that Sam knew it wasn’t him. A sharp cracking sound made Dean gasp, and he could hear the strain in Sam’s voice after that. That demon was beating up Sam, and calling his hatred Dean’s.
He felt sick listening to it, and to the conversation that followed.
“Dean needs you, and you didn’t even care,” the Shapeshifter said.
“I know he needs me,” Sam said, “I need him too.”
“Not that kind of need. Need,” the demon said. “He wants you. He dreams of you. Was that why you left? Too afraid to give him what he wanted?”
“It’s not like that,” Sam said. “Dean’s never needed anyone that way.”
“What the fuck do you know?” the Shapeshifter yelled. “You’ve never worried about what he wants. It’s always what you want. You. Because it’s all about Sammy, it always has been.”
Dean heard a slap that made him struggle with the chair again. The silence that followed worried him even more. Then he heard it.
“Now this… this is what Dean wants.” There was a wet sound, and rustling.
“Don’t,” Sam’s voice said weakly.
“Oh, Sammy,” the Shapeshifter breathed menacingly. “It’s not your choice to make this time.” Dean could hear more wetness, and sounds of protest coming from Sam. They turned to whimpers, accompanied by the sound of ripping cloth. And finally, “Don’t! Don’t! Stop! Please, Dean—stop!”
Dean’s eyes stung. Sam had called the Shapeshifter by his name, had begged it in terror. Those were the last words he heard from him then—only sniffles and other noises remained. After awhile, Dean heard the Shapeshifter groan, the satisfied sound all too familiar, and his heart stopped for a second. Another sound, like a punch, and then Sammy’s muffled sobs. Dean could hear the Shapeshifter’s footsteps starting to fade off. “Something to remember me by,” came the distant taunt.
He’d already inched the rope around into position by then, and was working the knots loose as fast as he could. Finally! He burst out of the chair, throwing the blanket off as he ran to Sam.
“Sammy?” he asked, leaning over to look at him. There were tears, streaks of blood, and patches of skin that were already bruising. A cut on Sam’s throat trickled red. “Sammy?” he pleaded. He reached out gently and turned Sam’s face toward him, but Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and whispered “Let’s get you out of here.”
Untying the knots was a welcome distraction, but Sam’s silence ate at Dean. He pulled the ropes off Sam, helped ease him up out of the chair, and grabbed one of the larger knives on the way out. It might not kill the Shapeshifter if they ran into it, but maybe it would slow it down.
He guided Sam toward the car, gently helping him in as if he were made of glass. He got in the other side, locking the doors, and tried again. “Sammy? Are you all right?” he asked. Sam didn’t respond, but the tears began again and he closed his eyes.
Dean inched closer. “I’m so sorry, Sammy,” he said. He put a hand on Sam’s arm, but Sam flinched at his touch. Dean reached for his hand then, squeezing Sam’s fingers as Sam cried and Dean bit his lip to keep his own sorrow from bursting forth.
Finally, Sam pulled his hand free and wiped his face.
“It’s OK. I’m fine,” he said, pushing Dean away for the thousandth time since they’d driven away from Stanford.
“Are you sure?” Dean whispered, peering anxiously into his face.
Sam still would not look at him. “I’m fine,” he said again. “Let’s get going.”
Reluctantly, Dean slid over behind the wheel. His stomach was so knotted he could barely breathe, but he started up the Chevy and turned toward the motel. He drove slower than usual, afraid of jarring Sam, but at last they were there. He got out, and went around to open the car door for Sam, but Sam just pushed past him and waited for Dean to let them into their room.
Sam headed for the shower immediately, the door slamming behind him, as Dean stood there in stunned silence.
He sank down on the bed, then, unsure what to do with himself. The combination of sickness and worry paralyzed him but at the same time made him want to jump out of his skin. He sat there for awhile in a daze, thoughts churning in his head. He didn’t give a damn about Sam’s friends or their problems. He just wanted to take Sam far away from here and fix him, if he could. But he knew what a fight Sam would put up over that. He’d never abandon his friends, not when they were in danger. Stupid, stubborn loyalties.
The shower seemed to be running forever, and Dean went over to the bathroom door to check on Sam. He could hear it now, the sound of sobbing underneath the steady rhythm of the water. He rested his head against the door, his throat suddenly tight and his mouth twisting in helplessness.
When Sam finally came out of the bathroom, he thought at first that Dean had gone out. The room was so quiet that it seemed empty. A second glance revealed Dean, sitting on one of the beds, arms locked around his knees and red-rimmed eyes staring off into space.
Sam’s heart caught then, at the sight of Dean’s misery. He’d fallen so deep into self-loathing and remorse that he’d forgotten about how this might affect his brother. His pain was Dean’s, and the need to help and protect him was such an essential part of Dean’s nature. Knowing that the Shapeshifter had hurt Sam, wearing his own face, would surely consume Dean with guilt.
Sam was on the bed before he realized it, clutching Dean to him and cradling his head against his shoulder. Dean leaned against him gratefully, his breathing strained. A few tears slipped out unbidden, and Sam felt like the worst brother in the world at that moment. “I’m sorry,” Dean gasped out. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t get there in time.”
Sam’s grip on him tightened. “Dean, I don’t blame you for that. You’ve always done the best you could. I know that.”
“But he hurt you,” Dean whispered tightly. “And you thought it was me.”
“No, no,” Sam said, rubbing his hand up and down Dean’s arm. “That just slipped out. I always knew he wasn’t you, Dean. You would never do that to me.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Dean said, suddenly exhausted and overcome with relief. The tension quickly drained out of his body, and he sank against Sam, sniffling quietly and barely able to move.
Whatever fear Sam had had of being touched, especially by Dean, was gone. He couldn’t change what had happened, but he could at least keep from torturing Dean the way he had before. He knew how persistently Dean had tried to help him since Jess died, and he had made that so much harder than Dean deserved. Pulling back, especially tonight, had been cruel. Sam had never of himself as being capable of that.
Dean lifted his head up wearily, and his hand crept up to brush Sam’s cheek as he took in the extent of the injuries. “Your face,” he groaned. It looked worse than it had in the car.
“I’ve had worse,” Sam said, trying to smile for Dean.
“Not from me,” Dean said, and looked away.
“Not you,” Sam said. “It was never you.” He grabbed Dean’s chin until their eyes met and he had his full attention. “I need to make sure you understand that.”
“Do you? Understand it?” Dean asked. His expression was bleak.
“Absolutely,” said Sam. “I never doubted it.” Dean looked unconvinced. Sam stroked his cheek with his thumb, looking at him, looking into him. He could see the sadness that had taken hold in Dean—from this, or from something else. Maybe it had been there before, and he had just never noticed it. Never wanted to be responsible for it.
He felt Dean’s pain inside him them, stronger than he’d realized, and Sam found himself leaning forward and kissing him, answering that pain with reassurance. Dean’s lips were soft, hesitant, as Sam moved gently against them. He felt wetness slip past his cheek, and pulled back to look at Dean, whose eyes were bright and spilling over. For a moment, he thought he had made the wrong choice, had hurt Dean even more, and he sat frozen in worry. But then Dean leaned toward him and kissed him back, hands gently slipping through his hair as though he was afraid Sam would melt away right in front of him.
There was a feeling of wonderment in the way Dean kept kissing him that nearly broke Sam’s heart. So there was truth in what the Shapeshifter had said. Not all of it, and not quite the way he’d said it, but some parts were clearly true. He had abandoned Dean, even though that was not the real reason why he’d left, and he had created a wellspring of fear that Dean had hidden from him but not conquered. And the other part that was now obvious… Dean did need him, needed his love in a way that Sam would never have imagined. More than just his presence, his company, Dean needed Sam to see him, to acknowledge some small part of what Dean had always given so selflessly. Sam did need to appreciate his brother more. The Shapeshifter was right about that too.
He lowered Dean back onto the bed, lying down alongside him and kissing him a few more times before putting his head down on Dean’s shoulder and pulling him close. Deans’ arms came around him then, holding him in a way he had not felt since he got lost in the woods on a hunt when he was ten, and Dean had finally found him. He was encircled in Dean’s love once more, suddenly more content than he’d been in ages, and it came to him suddenly that letting himself be loved like this was a large part of loving Dean back. This was a message Dean recognized, one that Sam had denied him for so many years.
“I missed you, Dean,” he murmured into Dean’s neck, as he stroked his arm and breathed in comfort, Dean, and solace. They were one and the same.
“I missed you too, Sammy,” Dean whispered, leaning his head into Sam’s and kissing his hair. His voice was strained, but his arms were tender, holding onto Sam like he was the end to a long journey. Dean's grief was quieted now, his panic laid to rest. He felt Sam's body and his own blending together, forming a completeness that he had never known he was chasing.
For the first time he could remember, Dean felt at peace.