With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks to Emilia, AngstLovesWinchester, From Across the Pond, Starflow and Angel Jade for their kind reviews. Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!

With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Nine

Forty-eight days
----
When Sam drifted to consciousness, he could feel the rumble of an engine beneath, and he knew the sound, better than almost any in the world, the throaty roar that said Impala. Breathing hurt, so he experimented with not doing it for a while, and as his ears began to rush with blood he realised that he wasn’t where he should be, that the last thing he remembered was a soft mattress and a stranger’s face, distorted in pleasure, hanging above him like a sickly moon, not the car, not leather seats and Led Zeppelin and Impala.

Impala meant Dean. The two were always together in Sam’s mind. How had he gone from house and stranger to Impala and Dean?

He didn’t open his eyes yet; Dad had taught him that, drilled it into him over and over again. Don’t let the enemy know you’re awake, son. Find out everything you can about the situation before you lose your advantage. Of course, Dad probably hadn’t intended him to be using his training to hide from Dean. But Dad was gone, and Sam wondered suddenly if maybe that was why he had always been so hard on Sam, if he had known what Dean wanted, if he had been angry with Sam for corrupting his perfect soldier.

God, his head was fucked up. His thoughts were jumbled, disjointed, and he felt like maybe that was the way they always had been. He had been pretty sure, before, that once upon a time putting everything in order in his head hadn’t been this difficult, but he couldn’t remember what that was like now, so who knew if it had ever really happened at all?

The Impala’s engine quieted and it turned, Sam allowing the momentum to make him list against the passenger door. Don’t let him know you’re awake. A moment later, the car stopped and the engine cut out.

Sam concentrated on breathing evenly, even though his throat felt like he’d been practicing sword-swallowing and kinda sucking at it. He could feel his heart-rate increasing, and wondered if Dean could hear it too; it was so goddamn loud, how could he not hear it?

“Sam.”

Sam worked hard to make sure he didn’t screw his eyes up tight; that was always how Dean had known, when they were kids, had known when Sam was just pretending to be asleep.

“I know you’re awake Sam.”

Except Dean still always knew, even when Sam didn’t screw up his eyes, even when he put everything he had into putting up that mask. Dean knew everything about him. Dean knew him better than he knew himself. That was why he knew that Dean was right, right about what he was worth, because no matter how much Sam might bitch and whine and resent it, Dean always knew.

He opened his eyes. Dean was watching him, but Sam didn’t look, just felt the gaze on him, burning his skin. He didn’t speak, just clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.

Eventually, Dean sighed. “Let’s get you inside.”

----

“We need to talk, Sam.”

Sam didn’t answer. Dean sat on the edge of the chair and watched, just like he had been doing since they got back (got back from that house). Sam was curled on his side, back to Dean, burrowed under three blankets even though he was wearing about fifteen layers of clothing. We need to talk. They’d needed to talk for six weeks now, but they never had, and now things had been done that Dean couldn’t undo.

“Sam,” he said again, shifting position, but not going closer, because the last time he’d seen Sam had been (no, don’t think about that). “Sam, what were you...” How do you say it? What were you doing? What were you doing asking that guy to fuck you? To choke you? Asking him to rape you? Dean couldn’t say that; the words lodged in his throat until he couldn’t breathe.

Still no answer from Sam, and Dean felt frustration well up in him, four days, four days of not knowing where Sam had gone and what he had done, what was being done to him, and Sam, Sam who didn’t even nail chicks when they flung themselves at him, who was so goddamn uptight about sex and sexuality, Sam, who knew how Dean went out of his mind every time he went missing, goddammit, Sam.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Sam sat up then, suddenly, like something had snapped, and Dean could almost hear it go. “What, Dean? What do you want me to say? You’re the one who said you wouldn’t--”

No, no, Dean didn’t want to hear this. “Are you kidding me? You’re trying to blame this on me, because I wouldn’t-- Jesus, Sam, you are so fucking screwed up, you know that?”

Sam didn’t move, his head down, bangs hiding his eyes. “I know,” he said, and that kind of took the wind out of Dean’s sails,but he’d started now and he wasn’t going to let Sam shut him down.

“No, you don’t. You don’t know. You always think you know everything, goddamn college boy, well I got news for you. I don’t want whatever it is you think I want, and fuck you for thinking that I ever would. How could you think that, Sam, huh? How could you think that?” Even if it’s true.

Sam sat silent under Dean’s tirade, bowed as though he was weathering a storm, and Dean found himself running out of words, running out of strength. “Sam?” he said. “You gonna tell me what’s going on with you or what?”

Sam lifted his head, and his expression was blank. “You can’t keep me here.”

“What?” Dean shook his head, trying to work out how Sam’s statement was related to what they – what Dean – had been talking about, but Sam was already climbing out from under the blankets, heading for the door, and Dean moved without thinking, putting himself between his brother and another four days of fear. “Oh no, you’re not going anywhere.”

Sam glared down at him, using his height to his advantage as he rarely did, but Dean had neevr been intimidated by his little brother and he wasn’t about to start now. “What’s with you?” he asked softly.

“What?” Sam said. “You won’t give me what I want and you won’t let me find it elsewhere? Now who’s the selfish bastard, Dean?”

Dean felt the moisture in his throat dry up. “You don’t want that,” he said. “Sam, you don’t--”

“How the hell would you know what I want?” Sam asked, and he shoved Dean, so hard and suddenly that Dean staggered sideways in surprise, and Sam was past him, shit, Sam was opening the door, and Dean lunged, grabbed Sam by the arm because he had to keep him here, he couldn’t have that happen again, not ever, and later he wondered what the hell he was thinking, but the truth was he wasn’t really thinking, God, the only thing in his mind was stop him from leaving, and he did the only thing he could think of and pressed his lips to his brother’s.

Sam’s lips were chapped and dry, they didn’t feel soft and full and sticky with lip gloss like the kind of lips he was used to kissing, and a moment later Sam opened his mouth, and Dean thought Jesus fuck as he felt his brother’s tongue graze his upper lip, because it was Sam, God, what the hell was going on, and he tried to pull away but Sam grabbed the back of his head and held him there, forcing his mouth open, and their teeth clacked against each other and it was awkward and wrong and Sam’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth until even his own tongue started to feel like an intruder.

Finally, Sam let go of him and he pulled away, backed away, breathing hard, trying to hold back bile. It took him a moment to reorient himself, to organise the confusion in his thoughts a little (because he’d just kissed his own brother, he’d kissed Sammy), but then he realised something, and blessed relief spread through him.

“Sam,” he breathed.

Sam was watching him through his eyelashes, and his face was set. “What?”

“I’m not,” Dean swallowed, “I’m not hard.” God, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. It was all a mistake, it could all be taken back.

Sam’s head jerked, and his jaw tightened. “You’re lying,” he said.

Dean shook his head. “No, man, God’s honest truth.” He laughed, because Jesus, it felt like he’d been given a second chance. “Guess you’ll just have to believe me now, huh?”

Then Sam was stepping forward, reaching for Dean’s groin, and before Dean worked out what was going on he had his hand on Dean’s crotch and he was rubbing oh Christ, and Dean jerked back, grabbed Sam’s arm and twisted, and then Sam was pushing and Dean was pushing back, and Sam had hold of the back of Dean’s head and Dean was shoving Sam’s shoulders, and somewhere along the way their legs got tangled up and they fell, hitting the floor hard, Sam underneath, winded from the impact but still struggling and Dean holding him down by the elbows, trying to immobilise his arms and stop his hands from wandering to places where they were not welcome, and then suddenly Sam stilled, and it took Dean a moment to realise why, until he felt the hard flesh of his erection pressed up against Sam’s hip.

“You only want it like this,” Sam said, and Dean saw the bruising around his neck like it was in fucking technicolour, each mark of a finger accusing him, you want to hurt your brother, Dean, you get off on the idea of it, you’re sick in the head, you should be put down.

“Sam,” he said, and he tried to get up, but Sam reached up, grabbing his wrists, forcing him to stay put, straddled over Sam’s hips. “God, don’t do this.”

“Why do you always lie to me?” Sam asked, like he was asking why Dean liked cupcakes for breakfast. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Get off me,” Dean said, pulling at Sam’s grip, but it was like all the strength had melted out of his body.

“You can’t pretend it’s not true,” Sam said,and he jerked on Dean’s wrists sharply, so that Dean overbalanced and fell forwards, throwing his hands out to break his fall, his face ending up inches from Sam’s. “Don’t pretend it’s not true,” whispered Sam. “You don’t have to any more.”

“Sam.” Dean pulled away, and Sam let him go, finally, finally. He struggled to his feet, but Sam didn’t move from his position on the floor, just propped himself up on his elbows and watched Dean pace.

“I don’t,” said Dean, and God, how could he say this, how could he tell Sam? Except that telling Sam was the only thing left, because the other options were to let Sam go or punch him out, and while the second option sounded pretty damn appealing right now, it was only a temporary solution, and Dean had really had enough of them for one lifetime. “I,” he started again, and Sam just watched him, kept on fucking watching him, which really wasn’t making anything any easier. “I have these dreams,” he said finally, and admitting it, saying it out loud, made him feel like he was being strangled, Jesus, and he hadn’t even got to the bad part (the fucking horrible part) yet.

“I know,” said Sam, and Dean froze.

“You know?” How could Sam know?

Sam shrugged. “You dream about it. I know. Don’t worry, Dean, you can’t help it.”

“But...” Dean sat down on the bed (because it was either that or fall down). “How... How long have you known?” It sounded lame, God, it sounded like an admission of guilt (and that was exactly what it was).

“A while,” Sam said, and Dean was suddenly very aware that he was still sprawled out on the floor, like he was expecting something.

“I’m not going to...” Dean gestured helplessly. “God, Sam, no. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, and his eyes travelled down to Dean’s crotch. Dean shifted, trying to hide his continued arousal (why did his fucking body never do what he wanted?) “I’m not. I don’t.” Christ, he didn’t know how to have this conversation.

“It’s OK, Dean, really it is,” Sam said. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I fucking do!” Dean jumped to his feet, he couldn’t sit still, he felt like the air inside the motel room had increased in weight by about a hundred times, and Sam was still just staring at him, just waiting for Dean to-- “Christ, isn’t it enough that I did this to you once already?”

“I didn’t want it then,” Sam said, and he didn’t move, just his eyes following Dean around the room. “I want it now.”

“No,” Dean said. “You don’t, Sam, your head is all messed up, everything’s all messed up.”

“OK,” Sam said.

Dean stopped pacing. “OK?” This conversation was making his head spin and sweat creep down his spine.

Sam climbed to his feet. “OK,” he said. “I’m going out.”

“No,” Dean said. “Sam, no.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I’ll come back when you’re done lying,” he said, and God, he was so matter-of-fact, like this was just an argument about whether Angelina was hotter than Scarlett. “You let me know when you’re ready to be honest with me. And with yourself.”

“Sam, no,” Dean said again, felt like he’d said it a hundred times already today, and Sam already had his hand on the door handle, was opening it, and Dean closed his eyes and clenched his fists until he felt the nails break the skin and said, “OK. OK, Sam. Stay, God, please, just stay.”

Sam didn’t smile; if anything, his face fell into an expression of supreme indifference. But he closed the door, and for now, that was good enough, except that Dean had just agreed to something he knew was going to destroy them both. As they stood there, staring at each other across the bed like condemned men, Dean wondered if maybe this was what the demon had had in mind all along.