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[somewhere i have never travelled]
sam/dean
adult
2,559 words

spoilers for season one and season two








i.

---
somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near

---


Sam’s sitting at the edge of the gravel parking lot, back to the motel, to Dean. Dean’s boots crunch on the loose pebbles but Sam doesn’t move, just throws a few stones across the roadway into a ditch; outside it smells like pine, stagnant water and dead carcass. It’s late October, and their breath-white clouds dissipate slowly, and Dean wonders when Sam preferred to be out here rather than in there.

It’s been one fight after another, more than moodiness or hormones Dean knows, and Dad doesn’t, and neither one of them brings it up when Sam slams a door, or walks away, or doesn’t speak to either of them at all. Sometimes it’s easier that way, to just ignore what’s there and pretend it isn’t, because it could go away tomorrow- everything could be fine. Dad says it’ll pass, Sam’s just angry because he doesn’t have what other kids have, and Dean understands; he can’t bring any friends home – when they stay in a place long enough to finish a school term or for him to actually make friends – because they don’t have a home, or a mother to make snacks for him and his friends, to teach him about things Dad can’t find words for and Dean doesn’t know how to tell him. It’s harder now, though, because Sam’s older and it’s not so easy to console and say everything is going to be fine, you’ll see.

“Dad’s asleep,” Dean says, finally coming to sit down next to his brother. Sam doesn’t say anything, just glances sidelong at him, and Dean picks up a few rocks and chucks them across the street too. Sam’s silences are long lately, settling in the greens of his irises and the blacks of his pupils. Dean watches him push stones aside, slide his worn sneakers (more hand-me-downs) across the dirt. “Sam.”

Sam turns his head, looks at Dean, and the changes here are stark in the moonlight. His face is changing, and his shoulders are broader; he’s taller and leaner, and fifteen seems a lot older than it did five months ago. Sam lowers his eyes, his head, and Dean’s trying to see him through long lashes and moppy hair, because when Sam looks at him he can see I love you or please and he always, always sees Dean and need you.

He doesn’t really think about it, it’s just sort of natural now, and his hand is sliding up under the hem of Sam’s tee-shirt and jacket, his cool fingers against Sam’s warm skin. Sam’s breathing becomes audible, and Dean flattens his palm against Sam’s back, pulling him. Sam’s looking at him through his eyelashes, and their noses bump awkwardly – it’s hard to do this in the dark with no light – and Dean realizes Sam’s been out here pretty long because his nose is cold and his lips feel chapped. It’s hard to breathe for a minute, Sam consuming all his air while their mouths press and pull, but it’s ok. Sam’s pressing against him, and he pushing back, pushing Sam down into the gravel and dirt, covering him with the length of his body. Sam presses back and gives no protest, even though Dean knows the pebbles are digging and biting into his skin. Sam’s lips are still boyishly soft, and his mouth is warm, and it’s Dean’s, always been.

Sam breathes hard against his mouth and then presses his face into Dean’s neck; he wraps a leg around Dean, pulls and pushes against him, grinding against Dean’s thigh. He can smell Sam, everything that’s all Sam, and it wraps around him tighter than anything. Dean nudges his chin with his nose, presses his mouth against Sam’s again, touches his cheek and whispers “It’s ok.”




ii.

---
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

---


After the wendigo Sam drives for miles in silence, Dean staring out the passenger window. He remembers when Sam was a kid, sitting like this in the car, only Sam was in the back seat angry at the world and wishing he was driving them out of the next nowhere town instead of into it. He doesn’t mind that the music is off; it’s not something missing anymore than anything else is- like the pieces of Sam that burned up at Stanford, or got left at the cemetery with Jessica. He’s not a sentimental guy, he doesn’t wear his heart or his emotions on his sleeve, but Sam’s his softer spot; it’s always hurt a little more with Sam than anybody else. But Dean’s always been good at dealing with whatever, with anything, so he relaxes against the seat and closes his eyes for a while.

Sam lets him take the shower first when they get back to the motel; he doesn’t say it, but Dean can read it’s because he’s more beat up than Sam is this time, and yeah, he really needs to just stand under the hot spray and let his muscles relax and un-tighten.

The bathroom is small, cramped, and barely fits Dean’s duffel on the toilet lid. He starts the shower and peels off dirty, bloodied clothes, lets them pile on the floor like he used to when he was a kid. The water is hot, almost too hot but not quite, and he hisses when it touches his abraded skin. He ducks under the spray (which is more or less a trickle, because all motel water pressure sucks) and closes his eyes, breathing. It’s a small space, a cubicle with a curtain almost, and he and Sam used to compact themselves in one of these when Dad was out, or wasted, or just dead tired. They used to press and pull each other, tongues and hands and skin slippery with water and saliva. They used to taste and tease- they used to know each other. When Sam left, when he found better and everything not-Dean, Dean closed it all off, is still closing it off because everything – even them – are different and it’s not so easy.

He half hears the door open, and assumes Sam has to take a piss and says “Dude, don’t flush or I’ll kill you,” and keeps his eyes closed. The sudden rush of cool air makes him open his eyes, and he can’t breathe for a minute. Sam’s standing there in his jeans, shirt off, body-changes all visible, and he’s looking at Dean, looking for something. “Sam…” Dean half-whispers because he can’t do this; he can’t open right back up, pretend there isn’t all this space and time and Jess between them. And Sam’s still silent when he looks at Dean, asking permission, and Dean… It’s always been Sam for him, it’s always been them, and he can’t say no- he won’t say no to him. He nods, just once, and Sam’s unbuckling his belt and dropping his jeans in a puddle on the floor.

Dean’s breathing is audible because it’s been a long time, and there’s even less space now than there was then. Sam’s steps closer to him and Dean watches Sam’s hands tremble when he reaches for him, when his fingers touch and slide tentatively over Dean’s chest; his stomach dips in when Sam touches there, and slides his palms against Dean’s sides, pulling him closer. He trembles, too, when their bodies touch, wet skin and heat and everything that was them is them still.




iii.

---
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

---


It’s not long enough, and Dean’s thinking it’s never going to be long enough. He can hear his father’s voice, can feel his breath right next to his ear, and he doesn’t understand how he could put this on him now. Now. When there’s no one but him and Sam and all this mute space and air, and this. He’s been sitting out here for hours (it’s been that long since he destroyed the trunk and he hasn’t tried to fix it yet) and it’s been dark for the last few, bright moon and pale stars making their way into an indigo sky. Sam hasn’t come back out and he can’t bring himself to go in, to try and fix him because he shouldn’t have to.

Sam’s always been his responsibility, and it’s always because he wanted it that way, loved Sam more than anyone ever and never trusted anyone but himself with Sam’s safety, and it scares the goddamn hell out of him that this could have changed, now. Sam’s face when he was standing ten feet away, breaking, was something Dean wasn’t used to- too open, too painful, too broken. Sam’s always been easier to read than Dad, but harder than most people they meet in passing, and seeing everything in Sam’s face is an indicator that he’s passed fragile, so far passed it. It scares the ever loving shit out of Dean that he knows how that feels.

He locks the back door when he comes inside. Thankfully Bobby’s gone to bed so he won’t have to look him in the face because he knows they heard the noise, knows they looked out that back window and saw him destroying the last piece of his father he worked so hard to put back together. He shuts the light off above the sink before he goes upstairs, and he goes to Sam’s room instead of his own. He stands in the doorway for a few minutes staring at Sam, who’s still awake, standing by the window at the far end of his room with his hands shoved in his pockets. It scares him that Sam might see everything in his face when he turns around, but it scares him more that he’s standing there because he feels like he has to.

“Are you done beating the shit out of things?” Sam asks quietly and doesn’t turn around. “I know I make a good verbal punching bag for you, but maybe you’d like to try the real thing.”

“Sam.” It comes out angry and he doesn’t mean it to. Sam turns around and Dean can see he’s pale, and there are bruises under his eyes because he hasn’t been sleeping well. He wants to say something, and he opens his mouth but nothing comes out, so he closes it again. He clenches and unclenches his fists, takes a step forward and then stops. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, where things go, how to put everything back together after every thing that’s happened. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

He shouldn’t do this now, and he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s tired and empty and he wants this, wants Sam. He’s angry as hell, but he needs to feel Sam, needs to feel his skin warm-alive, feel him breathing, taste his skin and his scars. He needs. He crosses the room too quickly leaving Sam slightly wide-eyed, and grabs him, pulling him body-close. He fists his hands in Sam’s shirt, just holding on- just… holding on. Sam bends slightly, until their foreheads touch, and Dean closes his eyes as Sam breathes, his breath warm across Dean’s skin. But Sam doesn’t move, waits for Dean, for this, and Dean pulls him down by the back of his neck, pressing his mouth to Sam’s with an almost painful intensity. Their teeth clack, and their noses bump together, and Dean’s pushing him backwards, trying to find the bed – even the hard floor – just to have this.

Sam whispers “Dean,” when they bump against the bed, falling in an awkward tangle of limbs and tongue. Dean bites at Sam’s mouth and he can taste blood, metallic and warm and alive on his tongue. He pins Sam down, straddling his waist, and shucks off his own shirt, and then pulling at Sam’s almost violently until it’s on the floor. He flattens himself against Sam, biting at his neck, and Sam whispering in his ear; it makes his stomach turn that all he can think about is Dad’s damp-hot breath ghosting his ear, telling him secrets he never asked to know, never wanted to know. He unbuckles Sam’s belt, and tears at his jeans until the button is undone and the fly is open. He lacks grace and a lot of other things when he shoves a hand down the front of Sam’s pants, grabbing his cock almost too roughly and stroking hard- Sam’s grunt lets him know that, yeah, he’s being a little rough. He presses his forehead to Sam’s chest and closes his eyes, stroking Sam’s dick hard, and he chokes for a minute because God help him, he hates his father for what he knows now, hates that this isn’t the same anymore.

“Sammy…” It comes out more broken than he means it to, than he wants it to, and Sam’s pulling at him, grabbing his face and crushing their mouths together, bucking into Dean’s hand. It doesn’t take long, and Sam’s coming, saying Dean’s name and almost sobbing, and then Dean’s undoing his own belt, shoving off his own jeans.

“Lift up,” he says, his voice gravelly and worn out, and Sam does and Dean pulls off his pants and boxers in one movement. “Turn over.” He helps roll Sam over, and licks his fingers clean, almost sobbing at the taste of Sam (because nothing is ever going to be the same now, Sammy), and then presses his fingers into Sam. Sam’s body jumps, and Dean knows he should take this slower but he can’t and Sam won’t tell him to.

He fucks Sam open on the mattress, Sam’s face pressed into the pillow, fucks him harder than he should, and he knows he’s hurting him and it makes him choke. Sam grunts, gasps in pain, and the only thing Dean can offer is a soothing hand at the base of his spine. Dean breathes hard and gasps when he feels his balls rising, the coiling heat in the pit of his stomach, thrusting hard and deep when he comes. Sam has his face turned to the side and Dean can see the pain.

“Don’t go,” Sam whispers, eyes closed, breathing focused Dean knows because he just tore Sam apart. He sits there balanced on his knees for a moment. He stares at Sam, feels every broken thing between them, and he can’t go. He takes a shaky breath, grabs the blanket bunched at the end of the bed and pulls it up when he lies down. Sam’s shaking when Dean pulls him in, his back flush to Dean’s chest.

Dad asked him to protect Sam. He’s always done it, always kept Sam safe because it’s always been his responsibility- Sam’s always been his. It’s him and Sam, it’s only always going to be them, now.

And all they have is death and forever.

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May 2010

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