Wild Men Who Caught and Sang the Sun

General warning: this is a crazy angstfest.

For more specific warnings, scroll to bottom of page.

Wild Men Who Caught and Sang the Sun

Sam’s always been a fighter.

He didn’t know it, at first, didn’t recognise the differences between himself and Dean, because it was him and Dean, they were the same, extensions of each other, there could be no differences. He just thought that Dean always got what he wanted, and that was why he never had to stand and fight. And then, when he got older, he saw the way Dean’s eyes would slide sideways, just for a moment, as he said yessir, learned to recognise it for the thwarted desire it was, realised that right there, that was it, that was why he was not Dean and Dean was not him, and it hurt, hurt him so bad to realise that he was on his own. And later still, he started to fight for Dean, too, to dig his heels in when he saw that little slip-slide, wanting for Dean to have what he wanted, wanting for Dean to want it hard enough to fight for it, goddammit.

But Dean was not Sam, and Sam was not Dean, and Dean stayed silent, his eyes always sliding away.

Sam never understood. Dean was the strong one, the one they both relied on; Dean had a sure aim, a steady hand, Dean could kill something (kill you) in seconds and never falter. But Dean never fought when it counted; Dean never fought for himself. Sam couldn’t understand, and that hurt even more, the day that he realised he didn’t understand his brother, another reminder that they were not the same, that for all Sam could reach out any time and Dean would be there, Sam would never again see out of his eyes. And although Sam knew then that actually he never had, he had just thought he had, thought that there was nothing to choose between them, it hurt all the same, a feeling in his gut like something was tearing, like that sliding sideways-glance was edged with barbs.

He learned to stand alone, after that. Dean was not Sam, and Sam was not Dean, and if Sam couldn’t be Dean then he would have to be himself, and that was hard, maybe the hardest thing he’d ever done, to be alone in his skin, but eventually he made it, he conquered it and was Sam. And being Sam cost him a lot, in the end, cost him more than he’d ever have been willing to give, if he’d known -- but then, he never really had a choice about it. No matter how hard he’d fought for just that, how many campaigns he’d waged, how many times he’d felt his head ache from trying so hard to get Dad to see that Sam was not Dean and Dean was not Sam, in the end, he’d only ever thought he’d won. But even now, looking back, he doesn’t know if there was any way he could have done it differently.

----

The day that Sam stops fighting, they’re in the car somewhere between Boise and Portland. It’s summer, and Dean’s singing along to the radio, and it’s three years since Dad died, two since they’ve heard anything from the demon. Dean’s happy, happier than he’s been for a long while, and Sam’s trying to be happy too, but he’s scared, because maybe Dean can pretend that it’s all over, but Sam knows it’s not. The longer the quiet goes on, the more Sam feels stretched, like he’s going to snap (and maybe that’s what it fucking wants). The day that Sam stops fighting, the sunlight spears through the window like tiny knives, and it’s been so long that when the pain comes Sam doesn’t recognise it at first, and by the time he does it’s too late.

It’s never been like this. The visions are confusing, a jumble of images, but each one clear and complete. And now, now there are two, two playing at the same time, superimposed over each other like someone’s been fucking with a video. Sam tried to see them, tries to separate them, but it’s so confusing, there’s fire and blood and Dean, Dean, and then everything goes black.

When he wakes up, he’s lying on a bed in a motel room somewhere between Boise and Portland, and Dean’s not singing any more. The pain’s still there, a dull throb that every now and then crescendos into a sharp pang. Dean’s sitting in a chair watching him, with his hand over his mouth and chin in that way he has when he’s almost out of his mind with worry, and Sam thinks you were happy. An hour ago, you were happy.

It wasn’t an hour, though, as it turns out, but more like four, and Dean’s done his best to clean Sam up but there’s still blood crusted around his nostrils. Dean asks him what he saw, of course he does, even though he doesn’t really want to know, and Sam closes his eyes and sees two images, one on top of the other: Dean burning on the ceiling while Sam stands by and smiles; Dean pulling the trigger and Sam slumping to the ground. Dean believes the future can be changed, that nothing’s set in stone, and Sam knows now that that’s right, that there is a choice, and that he has to make the right one. Sam isn’t Dean and Dean isn’t Sam; one of them will die, and the other will live.

That’s when Sam stops fighting.

----

He’s watching for it all the time now. Before, before the two years of silence which made Dean happy, the visions used to come true in hours or days. He knows that’s not going to happen this time, though, knows that he has time, maybe years, but knows too that eventually, that time will run out. He could do it now, just take the .45 his father once put in his hands and stop either of the visions from coming true; he almost does, any number of times, but in the end he’s too much of a coward, he doesn’t want to die, he’s not ready. Dean watches him and knows something’s wrong, even though Sam says he can’t remember the vision. Dean’s not happy any more.

There are other things Sam doesn’t tell Dean. He doesn’t tell him about the time he needed a pen and one slid across the table to his fingers. He doesn’t tell him that sometimes he can hear snatches of people talking even though they’re not moving their mouths, and that he thinks maybe he can hear their thoughts. He sure as hell doesn’t tell him that once, when he got impatient with interviewing a witness, he told her to tell the truth and she did, like she didn’t even know she was doing it. It’s not like there’s anything Dean can do if he knows these things, except worry, and Sam thinks he’s worrying Dean enough for the time being.

They keep going, and Sam has the vision again, every couple of weeks, always the same, always strong enough to knock him out, to make him bleed, to have him wake up to Dean’s haunted eyes. He wonders if Dean knows that he’s lying when he says he doesn’t remember. He wonders what Dean’s thinking.

A year after it all started again, four years after Dad died and three since his last normal vision (normal vision), he finds out.

He’s used to the babble by now. Every time he has the vision, the voices get stronger, more consistent. He doesn’t know if the other abilities do too, he does his best not to use them, but it seems like this is one he can’t shut off. It’s useful, sometimes; helps on jobs, even though Dean has started to look at him oddly when he always seems to know more than he should. Most of the time, it just gives him a headache, and he’s eternally grateful that it doesn’t seem to work on Dean, because that would really be awkward.

He doesn’t realise how awkward until one morning while Dean’s in the shower he catches a flash, an image of his own naked back and Dean’s hands splayed out on his hips, like he’s seeing through Dean’s eyes (but Dean’s not Sam and Sam’s not Dean, and Sam has never seen through Dean’s eyes, even when he thought he was). It’s gone as soon as it came, so brief that Sam can almost convince himself that he imagined it, except for the feeling of relief, of control that came with it and that lingers on, a foreign feeling because Sam’s never felt in control, not really, even though he’s been fighting for it all his life.

It happens more often, after that. Sam knows it’s his fault, some of it; since the first vision, Dean’s been insisting that they lie low, make as little contact as possible with the outside world. Fear of the cops and other hunters is a decent enough excuse, but Sam knows it’s really just a return to the old ways, Dean’s new way of saying let’s go to Amsterdam, let’s go to the Grand Canyon, let’s pretend the demon doesn’t exist and maybe you’ll be safe. This time, though, Sam lets him do it, lets him wrap them into a tiny little world, because there isn’t anything left to fight for any more. And now they have nothing but each other, and maybe that’s how it was before, too, but at least then he could pretend that they could have something else. Dean doesn’t even go to bars any more, hasn’t stayed away all night for months, and Sam supposes that’s what’s going on when he catches glimpses of sweat and flesh, hears panting breath and sees his own face, eyes closed, mouth open. It unsettles him (Jesus, of course it does, his fucking brother), but encouraging Dean to go out more doesn’t help, just makes Dean’s face smooth out into that determined mask, the I’m going to save you and there’s nothing you can do about it look, and Sam thinks yes you will, Dean, you’ll save me when the time comes, I believe in you.

He lives with it like he lives with everything else, with the babble in his head, with the visions, with the knowledge that time is running out. He clings to Dean even though he knows that he shouldn’t, want to make every moment he has left with him last. It’s selfish: he should cut Dean loose, let him go and live his own life, not keep drawing him in close because Sam knows that the closer he lets Dean get, the harder it will be for him, after. He should use that bullet he’s been keeping in his .45. But he can’t, he can’t bear the thought of being alone, and now he thinks he knows how Dean’s always felt, just a little (but Sam isn’t Dean and Dean isn’t Sam). So he pulls harder, and Dean lets himself be pulled, pulls back, until neither of them can see anything but the other.

It’s not until five months after the first snatch of Dean’s thoughts that Sam starts getting non-sexual images from him, and it’s then that he realises that he and Dean are more alike than he always thought, that Dean’s a fighter too, and that they’ve been fighting for the same thing, all this time. All Sam’s ever wanted is control over his life, and all Dean’s ever wanted is control over Sam’s life. Sam needs it because he has to be alone in his own skin, and it’s the only way he can bear it; Dean needs it because he can’t be alone in his own skin, because he, unlike Sam, has never resigned himself to the fact that Sam isn’t Dean and Dean isn’t Sam. Dean can control himself just fine, but only the part of himself that actually resides in his own body. The other part, the part that is Sam, has slipped further and further from his control as time’s gone on, at first because Sam wanted to control himself, and later because everyone in the world, or so it seemed, hunters and demons and college buddies, everyone wanted to control Sam. And now that Sam’s given up fighting, Dean’s fighting harder than ever, with force that sometimes strikes Sam in the gut when he's least expecting it, when they’re driving or eating or just sitting and Dean looks at Sam like he’s just looking, just glancing, and he doesn’t know that Sam can feel his boundless need.

The less time they spend with other people, the more Dean’s thoughts creep into Sam’s mind. At first he can keep them separate, because they feel like Dean, blunt and forceful and shot through with fear. But more and more Sam finds Dean’s need thrumming in the background of his every action: it’s with him when he wakes up in the morning and stays there like a quiet ache until he finally falls asleep, exhausted by it, wondering how Dean can stand to live with it always there. It gets to the point where his head is so full of Dean that he finds it astonishing that Dean can’t hear his thoughts, too, that he starts to forget that Sam isn’t Dean and Dean isn’t Sam, starts to think maybe Sam doesn’t exist at all. He doesn’t want it; it feels shameful, to invade his brother’s privacy like this, to break down the wall that Dean spends so much time and energy constructing. But there’s nothing he can do – he has no control, and he’s given up fighting for it.

It’s when he wakes up after another vision and Dean’s need slams into him hard enough to make him gasp that he realises, because this time it’s accompanied with images of Sam on his hands and knees, of Dean curled over his back, thrusting, lost inside Sam, closer to Sam than Sam’s ever felt to anyone since he realised he was alone in his own skin, and Sam is hit once more with that feeling of relief, of control, and he gets it, gets that it’s not about lust, it’s not about not having gotten laid in months, it’s not even about the way they’re too close, now, clinging to each other because there’s nothing else. He wonders if Dean’s always imagined this, always thought of this as the one way, the ultimate way, to win the battle he’s been fighting all his life.

Sam knows how the battle ends, or at least, he knows it’s one of two ways, and he supposes that if it goes the way it has to go, then Dean will have won, in a way, will be the person who has the final say in Sam’s life. He’s seen it, over and over, a build-up of pain that’s almost too fast for Sam to warn Dean, and then the two images, Dean burning on the ceiling, Dean pulling the trigger. Dean losing control. Dean taking control. He knows how the battle ends, and knows that Dean has to win; but he doesn’t think Dean will be happy, after.

One day, Sam buys a bottle of vodka from a gas station when they’re stopped, hides it in his duffle. He produces it in the evening, and Dean raises his eyebrows and worries about whether Sam’s depressed (Dean worries about Sam all the time, Sam’s discovered, his mind shot through with it). Sam hands it over, watches Dean get drunk, drinks a little himself. He stopped fighting almost two years ago now, but even so, it’s hard to let this last little piece of control go. He can do it, though. He’s not ready to take the last, unselfish step, but this thing he can do, for Dean.

It’s almost two am when Sam judges the time to be right. Dean’s eyes still slip-slide away, he still never fights for what he wants, and he will never take this unless Sam offers it first. So Sam presses his lips to Dean’s, and Dean starts away, but at the same time the need increases in pitch in Sam’s brain, and he forgets about Sam, lets himself be subsumed in Dean.

Dean pulls back, keeps his hand on the back of Sam’s head, asking if it’s OK, is this OK, is it OK?, eyes wide, fear and worry and desire tangled up in Sam’s head. Sam nods; OK doesn’t mean anything any more. He doesn’t know how much time he has left, but he needs to make it count.

Sam’s never done it before, not with a guy (his brother). He wants to get straight to the deed, make it over, because he thinks after the first time it’ll probably be easier, but he knows that Dean needs something else, needs to mark every part of Sam until there’s nothing left, until he’s all Dean. It makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly, but he lets Dean touch him, with his fingers, with his mouth, touches Dean back as much as he can bear to, tries to enjoy it. Every time Dean touches a new place, he looks up at Sam with those wide eyes, and he doesn’t always ask, not out loud, but he doesn’t need to, even though he doesn’t know Sam can hear every thought in his head, he knows he doesn’t need to ask, is this OK, is it OK? Sam’s been able to hear Dean’s thoughts for almost a year, but he’s been able to communicate with him without words for a lot longer than that.

Sam always nods, always smiles, it’s OK, it’s OK, Dean. It’s not OK, but Dean doesn’t know that. Dean has no idea how good an actor Sam is, and Sam realises that Dean doesn’t know Sam, that Sam knows everything about Dean now and Dean knows less about Sam than he ever did. It strikes him as unfair, but worse, it makes him feel even more alone. Sam is Dean, but Dean still isn’t Sam, Dean will never be Sam.

When Dean moves inside Sam for the first time, Sam is lost. It’s like the vision, there are two images superimposed. Sam can see the pillow in front of him, feel Dean’s slick flesh moving against his, the fingers gripping his hips so hard; he can feel the sick fluttering in his stomach, the feeling of wrong and not OK. And he can feel the need letting up for just one moment, if he closes his eyes it’s like he can see his own back, feel how it is to be thrusting inside himself, the satisfaction of it, the power. He can feel the relief, so strong that it’s almost happiness, the feeling of everything finally being right. He tries to push it out, feeling like he’s being torn in two, but it invades him, it clings and won’t let go, Dean is in him everywhere, in his mind, in his body. It’s like Russian dolls: Dean inside Sam inside Dean inside Sam. It goes on for ever, makes his head hurt, but he can camouflage his gasps and grunts now, at least.

Sam doesn’t know how long it goes on for; by the time it’s over, he’s lost all sense of the passage of time, drowning in a wave of sensation not his own, lost inside himself, lost inside Dean. When Dean thrusts his hips forward a final time and groans so loud it’s like the sound is coming from inside Sam’s head, everything goes white for a moment. When it clears, his head is quieter; Dean’s still there, but his thoughts are languid, almost slurred, and happy, God, happy. The need is at a lower level than it’s been for months, and the worry is all but gone. Dean whispers I love you just before he falls asleep, and Sam knows that, of course, has known it all his life, long before he knew everything about Dean; but all the same, it’s nice to hear it, and Sam thinks that if this is what it takes to have that, then it’s worth it.

----

It turns out that Sam’s a better actor than even he thought. He still has the visions, but they’ve started coming at night now, not like dreams, not that easy, but it does at least mean that often he regains consciousness before Dean wakes and is able to clean himself up, to pretend that nothing happened. Dean sleeps better, now (and if Sam sleeps worse, well, it’s a small price to pay), and he’s almost happy, close enough, Sam thinks, as close as I can make him, anyway. He still asks if it’s OK, all the time, with words and without, and Sam always says yes. He doesn’t know how much time he has left, how much time he can give to Dean before they both have to stop pretending, but he’s going to make it count.

And sometimes, when Dean’s thrusting into him and Sam’s caught in that labyrinth of emotion, when he starts to lose track of what’s Sam and what’s Dean, he thinks that the feeling of power is his, and it almost makes him choke with the irony when he realises, that only by giving it up has he finally gained a feeling of control over his own life, and that even if it isn’t really his he’ll take it anyway. Sometimes, Sam thinks maybe he’s gone insane, but those times he’s not sure he cares.

One night he comes to suddenly shortly before dawn and his nose is still bleeding, even though he thinks the vision must have been hours ago now. There’s a dead feeling in his stomach, and he knows: there’s no time left, now. It’s soon. It’s too soon.

He’s thought about using his power of persuasion on Dean. He knows Dean doesn’t believe he can keep the promise he made Sam, and he knows that Dean has to, or they’ll both lose what they’ve always been fighting for. It would be so easy, to make him promise again, in a way that he wouldn’t be able to resist. But Sam’s never used that power since the first time he realised he had it, doesn’t want to use it because it feels so much closer to the darkness than telekinesis or telepathy or even visions. And using it on Dean, to have his last action towards Dean to be to snatch away the control he’s so desperate to keep, would be a betrayal of a magnitude Sam can’t even imagine.

Even so, Sam needs to do something. It’s too soon, and his plan has backfired, giving Dean control has just made him even more sure that he can’t keep the promise. Sam’s seen the future, he knows that there are only two outcomes; but destiny isn’t set in stone, he can change it. He has to change it, because Dean isn’t going to.

He slides out of bed gently, so as not to wake his brother; pauses at the edge before breaking all contact, feels the warmth of Dean’s skin and closes his eyes, wanting to keep this for just a little longer. But he’s delayed long enough. Dean thinks he can’t go on without Sam, but Sam isn’t Dean and Dean isn’t Sam, they have separate hearts, separate lungs; Dean doesn’t need Sam to breathe for him; Sam hopes with all his heart that eventually, Dean will realise he doesn’t need Sam at all.

They’ve been fighting for the same thing all their lives; for a while, Sam gave it to Dean, but now he needs to take it back. He’s delayed and delayed because he was afraid, he didn’t want to die alone. But Sam hasn’t been alone in his own skin for more than a year, and even now, as he feels the weight of the .45 in his hand, as he soundlessly turns the door handle, Dean is thrumming in the back of his brain, quiet, asleep, almost happy. Sam stopped fighting two and a half years ago.

He’s fighting again now.






More specific warnings: Non-graphic incest, could be seen as dubious consent, implied character death.