Ask Your Brother

[veritas_st]

So this came from the line by Uriel in Its The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester.  And after savingfaith333 practically ordered me to continue it...this is what came out.  There will be more coming soon. 

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Uriel - "Ask your brother what he remembers from hell."

Sam practically had to hold himself from running to his brother after Uriel left. After the odd sensation of talking to an Angel had ebbed, he was out of the door. The worry for his brother making his feet move faster than normal walking speed.

He found him sitting on a bench, looking out over a playground, talking to Castiel. The other Angel, the one who actually had the tiniest hint of human emotion in his eyes, unlike the warmongering Uriel, looked concerned, as his eye squinted against the late afternoon sun.

Sam had the uncontrollable urge to rush over and throw the Angel away from Dean, he didn’t know why but something about him being next to his brother made his blood boil all of a sudden. He pushed away the jealousy and closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face.

When he opened his eyes, the Angel was gone, leaving Dean looking small and lost, sitting alone on the bench in the middle of the park. And before Sam knew what he was doing, he was walking over to his brother, his hand stretched out hesitantly to touch. He snatched it back when Dean turned, his third sense of where Sammy was, working in over drive.

Dean took one look at his face and knew what he wanted. They always had this uncanny ability to read each others thoughts. Sam cocked his head, waiting for the “I don’t want to talk about it” speech his brother had perfect over the years.

”I don’t want to talk about it Sammy.” Sam resisted the urge to laugh bitterly. “I’ve already told you it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Then why not talk about it?” Sam asked, relentless in his task. Dean shot him a warning glance, his green eyes flashing dangerously. Sam knew he could either stop now, or push his brother even closer to the line.

“Because…”

“That’s not good enough Dean.” Sam stated, inspecting his shoes, not wanting to look into those green eyes which were currently burning a hole in the side of his head, because evidently Sam couldn’t let it go. He wanted, no needed, to help Dean, to relieve the weight from his shoulders that Dean always carried.

“Sammy…” Dean began, in the voice that told Sam enough was enough, that is conversation was not going any further.

“No Dean.” Sam stood up and paced in front of Dean. “I’ve had enough.” He countered before Dean even had a chance to say he’d had enough. Sammy and Dean shared thoughts sometimes.

Dean looked at his brother’s desperate face. He wanted to tell him what he remembered, wanted to open up and share the pain he felt, but he knew Sam would run 10,000 miles if he knew what they had done to him, what he had done to others. And he didn't want to burden his baby brother, didn't want to take the last tiny shred of innocence that he always believed his brother still had.

The faces of every soul he ever tortured was ingrained on his memory, every face was there when he closed his eyes.

He suddenly had an image of Sam’s grief stricken face if he ever opened up and promised himself that he would never do that to him, never hurt his brother in that way.

He stood up and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Sam turned those deep brown eyes to him.

“I promise you Sammy, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He left “please let it go” hanging in the air between them.

Sam seemed to visibly slump. He nodded once, but Dean knew that this wasn’t the end.

“Fine…but you know I’ll be here when you feel like telling me?” He said. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and plastered his patented Dean Winchester grin on his face. Sam saw through it, he always did.

Dean gently pushed him in the direction on the motel.

“I know Sammy, I know.”

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Sam watched Dean closely as they pulled into a motel, another nondescript motel. His brother’s jaw was set, the muscles working over time.

Brushing off yet another two queens joke, Dean grabbed the keys from the clerk with an almost silent growl, his nerves has been on edge since Castiel had left him in the park, since Sam had confronted him, not for the first time. And Sam hated seeing him like this.

Hated the fact that there was nothing he could do to calm the frayed nerves, the tense muscles that his brother was projecting to anyone who was unfortunate enough to walk passed.

Dean opened the door and walked in, without the preamble of holding it open for Sam, or checking the room first, he just walked in, his shoulders hunched over for too long. Sam shut the door behind him and something about the soft snick of the door made his brother sag. He collapsed onto the bed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Dean...” Sam began, his voice full of worry. Dean held his hand up, brushing off the inevitable questions. He was tired, he was remembering hell, remembering the terrible things he did and he didn't want to talk, he wanted to sleep.

He stood and toed off his boots, watching Sam out of the corner of his vision as his baby brother laid the salt lines, checked the locks on the windows and door turned back to him. Dean averted his gaze and pulled his t-shirt over his head, dropping his jeans in a puddle at his feet.

Sam suddenly found it hard to breathe. The air in the room suddenly felt like the air before a storm, and he didn't know if it was a precursor of things to come, but his chest felt tight. He tried to ignore the fact that it had tightened when his brother, his brother, gripped the bottom of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, leaving his stomach taut and exposed for a few seconds. His now immaculate skin exposed to the suddenly cloying air in the room.

Dean didn't seem to notice and slipped into bed, turning his back on Sam and the room. Sam briefly wondered when Dean had started sleeping in the bed as far away from the door as possible. He used to always sleep next to the door, protecting, even subconsciously, his family, his world, his baby Sammy. But since his return, Sam's chest tightened again at the memory of Dean standing at the door and Sam not knowing what to do, since his return he had taken to sleeping with Sam in between the door and himself and Sam didn't want to hope that perhaps it meant that Dean wanted to be taken care of, to be looked after, for once in his life. And he couldn't help the swell of pleasure that Dean had chosen Sam to do the protecting.

Sam slipped into his own bed and turned the TV on, hitting the mute button. The images sending strange lights bouncing across the walls. He glanced at Dean who was doing a very good impression of sleeping, but Sam knew his brother, had spent too many nights curled up next to him on the back seat of the impala, or in a single bed in a crappy motel whilst their father slept on the chair, or the floor between them and the door. He knew his breathing, knew that Dean slept on his stomach, one knee hooked over the other, one hand curled around the knife under his pillow. He always had. But right now Dean was on his side, studiously ignoring the eyes that were boring holes into his back.

Sam sighed, wondering if they would ever get back to the time when nothing mattered except having the other by their side, or how much room they were taking up in the car, elbows and knees colliding with each other whilst John sat in the front and tried helplessly to stop their bickering.

“Sam?” Dean's voice sounded small in the quite room with only the hum of the TV keeping them company, and Sam jumped slightly.

“Yeah, Dean.”

“Go to sleep, Sammy, I'm fine.” Dean mumbled into his pillow, turning onto his stomach. Sam smiled and switched off the TV, plunging the room into orange light as the streetlamp outside shone in through the threadbare curtains.

But Sam didn't sleep. He didn't sleep when he heard Dean's breathing even out. He didn't sleep when he had counted every tile on the ceiling, every crack, every stain.

And he certainly didn't sleep when Dean started whimpering.

He hated nights like this, when the only sound in the room was Dean whimpering in the bed beside him. He hated the fact that he was always half pleased that it was his name that he called out, his name sounding like it should be on his lips, he hated those nights, when the nightmares became too much for his reluctant hero brother that the front he put on, even in sleep, cracks.

Sam is out of bed and hovering over Dean before he even knows what he's doing.

“Dean.” He whispered, his fingers brushing his brothers forehead and he tossed and turned in his sleep, Sam's touch feather light ghosts of a touch. “You're dreaming. Wake up.” He said the last bit more forcibly, wanting to rouse his brother from the nightmare.

“Sam.” His name was drawn out, almost silent, more like a frightened whisper than anything and Sam swallowed down the overwhelming fear for his brother.

He scooted up on the bed, running a hand down his brothers face, trying to pull him out of his nightmare by touch, like Dean had done for him so many times.

It was then that Dean sat bolt up right and threw himself into Sam's arms. And Sam caught a glimpse of wide terror filled eyes before his senses were assaulted by Dean. And he clutched at Sam, his fingers curling into Sam's t-shirt, fisting in the material, and pulling him tight against his chest.

Sam couldn't breathe, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Dean was trying to squeeze every square inch of oxygen from his lungs, it was the sheer closeness of Dean, the fact that his brother never touched, never sought comfort and he was now in Sam's arms, choking back sobs. Dean's hands left Sam's shirt and roamed over his body, patting, testing for broken limbs, new wounds, new scars, like he had done some many times on a hunt when Sam was hurt, but this time it was as if Dean needed to know that Sam was there. And Sam let him, let his brothers hands feel across his face, down his chest, and back up, down his arms before clutching at his hands as a tear slipped out and ran down his cheek, landing on Sam's bare knee.

And Dean's eyes still looked wide and full of panic and terror.

Sam didn’t think twice about how he instinctively knew how to calm Dean, because Dean always knew how to calm him. He didn’t think twice about pulling his brother practically into his lap, whispering inconsequential words into his ear, as he drew signs of protection, protection spells that he knew by heart, on to Dean’s back, between his shoulder blades, and he didn’t spare a thought about that fact that it might be wrong that he knows Dean’s skin by heart too.