When Dean wakes up, the midday light pouring in the windows is blinding, haloed around a dark silhouette. Dean's knife is pillow-warm in his hand. He's brought the warm knife to a warm throat before he's even fully conscious. Half-dreaming, Dean finds himself transfixed by the pulse beating in that throat, tha-thump. Dean blinks three times before the sunspots finally clear from his eyes, and then he's fully awake and there are no more reasonable explanations for what he's seeing. Tha-thump tha-thump.
"Dean." Sam's smile is a growing thing, starts off small and then takes over his features till he's nearly glowing. Sam shakes his head slowly, not seeming to notice the shallow line Dean's knife is tracing over his throat, a thin seam of blood rising to the surface. Dean drops his knife and wraps his hand around Sam's throat instead, palm to Adam's-apple. He feels Sam's blood beading against his skin. Sam's voice cracks. "I missed you."
Dean's hand tightens. He's keenly aware of the knife tapping up against his knee on the bedspread, and of the fact that his instinctive reaction to seeing his little brother bleed is finally, finally going to get Dean killed. Killed by a monster wearing his brother's skin, on a flowery bedspread, after waking up hungover at noon.
What's particularly cruel is that this monster doesn't look like Sam did the last time Dean saw him. He looks older. Tall, broad, a man without a hint of boy in him. No gaunt cheekbones, no circles under his eyes. Tan and healthy, eyes shining with light, with an honest-to-god smile making him look like a big old dork, like the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen. It's either especially cruel or especially kind, because Dean gets to see Sam's stupid face one more time before he dies. And that's something Dean was never going to have, because Dean's little brother has been dead for two years.
The thing with Sam's skin seems to register Dean's dread. "Okay," it says. "I get it." The monster layers its hand over Dean's on its throat, pats lightly. It meets Dean's eyes and doesn't look away. "I'm so sorry, Dean." Dean shudders when the monster leans in to press its forehead against his. Its breath and Dean's breath share space, become one. "I never meant to be gone for so long."
The mattress rebounds when the monster gets up, springs squeaking. Dean watches it cross the room favoring its left. It has Sam's limp. It returns with a cup of cold coffee and a plate of hashbrowns and scrambled eggs. "I would've waited to make breakfast, but I thought you'd be up earlier." It smiles indulgently. It presses a fork into Dean's hand. Numb, Dean eats a bite of his potatoes.
Dean looks down at the plate, and his first words to his dead brother are, "I like my eggs fried."
"Fried is gross," Sam says, nose wrinkling. "The yolks are gooey. I'm not gonna make them."
The coffee goes on the bedspread and the plate, and the potatoes and scrambled eggs -- scrambled, Sam's favorite, the little tyrant -- go on the floor. Dean wraps himself around Sam before Sam can flicker out like a mirage, before he can walk away, before he can die. "Sammy," Dean says into Sam's neck, words muffled, face squashed.
Sam's practically petting him, hands smoothing over Dean's hair, down his back. Dean shakes and doesn't object. "I know," Sam says. "I know." Sam's warm and huge and his thumb is playing over the knob at the top of Dean's spine. "I missed you."
Sam cranes his neck at a sharp angle to kiss Dean and Dean snaps, doesn't unwrap either arms or legs from around Sam but tips them both back till Sam falls on him, heavy, crushes him into the bed. He pulls at Sam's clothes ineffectually, can't remember how to work zippers or buttons. But Sam is magical and smart, Sam makes their clothes go away, makes them naked.
It was never like this. Not before. Sam never kissed Dean's mouth. Sam never said Dean's name, certainly not again and again and again. Sam never spread Dean out on the sheets and sat back on his heels for a long, shameless look at him.
1/2
When Dean wakes up, the midday light pouring in the windows is blinding, haloed around a dark silhouette. Dean's knife is pillow-warm in his hand. He's brought the warm knife to a warm throat before he's even fully conscious. Half-dreaming, Dean finds himself transfixed by the pulse beating in that throat, tha-thump. Dean blinks three times before the sunspots finally clear from his eyes, and then he's fully awake and there are no more reasonable explanations for what he's seeing. Tha-thump tha-thump.
"Dean." Sam's smile is a growing thing, starts off small and then takes over his features till he's nearly glowing. Sam shakes his head slowly, not seeming to notice the shallow line Dean's knife is tracing over his throat, a thin seam of blood rising to the surface. Dean drops his knife and wraps his hand around Sam's throat instead, palm to Adam's-apple. He feels Sam's blood beading against his skin. Sam's voice cracks. "I missed you."
Dean's hand tightens. He's keenly aware of the knife tapping up against his knee on the bedspread, and of the fact that his instinctive reaction to seeing his little brother bleed is finally, finally going to get Dean killed. Killed by a monster wearing his brother's skin, on a flowery bedspread, after waking up hungover at noon.
What's particularly cruel is that this monster doesn't look like Sam did the last time Dean saw him. He looks older. Tall, broad, a man without a hint of boy in him. No gaunt cheekbones, no circles under his eyes. Tan and healthy, eyes shining with light, with an honest-to-god smile making him look like a big old dork, like the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen. It's either especially cruel or especially kind, because Dean gets to see Sam's stupid face one more time before he dies. And that's something Dean was never going to have, because Dean's little brother has been dead for two years.
The thing with Sam's skin seems to register Dean's dread. "Okay," it says. "I get it." The monster layers its hand over Dean's on its throat, pats lightly. It meets Dean's eyes and doesn't look away. "I'm so sorry, Dean." Dean shudders when the monster leans in to press its forehead against his. Its breath and Dean's breath share space, become one. "I never meant to be gone for so long."
The mattress rebounds when the monster gets up, springs squeaking. Dean watches it cross the room favoring its left. It has Sam's limp. It returns with a cup of cold coffee and a plate of hashbrowns and scrambled eggs. "I would've waited to make breakfast, but I thought you'd be up earlier." It smiles indulgently. It presses a fork into Dean's hand. Numb, Dean eats a bite of his potatoes.
Dean looks down at the plate, and his first words to his dead brother are, "I like my eggs fried."
"Fried is gross," Sam says, nose wrinkling. "The yolks are gooey. I'm not gonna make them."
The coffee goes on the bedspread and the plate, and the potatoes and scrambled eggs -- scrambled, Sam's favorite, the little tyrant -- go on the floor. Dean wraps himself around Sam before Sam can flicker out like a mirage, before he can walk away, before he can die. "Sammy," Dean says into Sam's neck, words muffled, face squashed.
Sam's practically petting him, hands smoothing over Dean's hair, down his back. Dean shakes and doesn't object. "I know," Sam says. "I know." Sam's warm and huge and his thumb is playing over the knob at the top of Dean's spine. "I missed you."
Sam cranes his neck at a sharp angle to kiss Dean and Dean snaps, doesn't unwrap either arms or legs from around Sam but tips them both back till Sam falls on him, heavy, crushes him into the bed. He pulls at Sam's clothes ineffectually, can't remember how to work zippers or buttons. But Sam is magical and smart, Sam makes their clothes go away, makes them naked.
It was never like this. Not before. Sam never kissed Dean's mouth. Sam never said Dean's name, certainly not again and again and again. Sam never spread Dean out on the sheets and sat back on his heels for a long, shameless look at him.