Fic: Light Up
Jun. 3rd, 2019 11:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellerkayTitle: Light Up
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: Mature/R
Word Count: 4,129
Disclaimer: All for fun, none for profit.
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves connected in an unexpected way.
Warnings/tags: sibling incest, canon divergent, dreams, telepathic bond, telepathic sex, bittersweet ending
A/N: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wincest_reverse with beautiful art by the very talented ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kuwlshadow - leave some love for it! This story is quite outside my usual style, as I wanted to match lush detail of the art and the dreamy feeling it gave me.
Read on AO3
***
Sam dreams.
Warm, slightly chapped lips press to his. Sam tastes salty skin, smells motor oil and aftershave. His brother’s hands are on him. Sam feels like he is melting into Dean’s touch.
Dean, he hears himself say, meaning a thousand things at once. Dean nuzzles behind his ear. Sam’s eyes close and his mouth drops open as he tries to catch his breath.
Don’t worry, Sammy, Dean says. His voice is like raw silk, soft and warm and not quite smooth. I got you.
It is a relief to believe him. It feels like coming home to surrender to Dean’s care. As he gives in, Sam remembers how seductive Dean’s attention on him can be, bright like the sun. It is life-giving and it is blinding. In the old days, Sam would vacillate between wanting to bask in it and wanting to hide from its harsh light. It had been so hard to let it go.
Dean’s hands are on Sam’s hips, pulling him close for another kiss. Sam submits to it with fierce joy in his heart. The world gets brighter. The light seems to grow and grow the longer they are together. It flares when Dean slips his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Sam whimpers with need, the sound forced involuntarily from his chest.
He hears something else: a shrill electronic noise. He tries to ignore it, tries to stay in the moment with Dean, but the tone is insistent. It will not be ignored.
It’s his alarm clock, Sam realizes, as he comes awake from far away. It feels more like returning to consciousness after being knocked out than waking up from sleep. Sam hits the alarm and stares up at the ceiling of his dorm room.
His chest aches. These days he does all right not missing Dean too much, most of the time. It is like a punch to the gut when he is reminded of his brother unexpectedly. He thinks about how easily he and Dean fit back together in the dream. He wonders whether it would be that way if they saw each other again. He wonders whether they will ever see each other again.
He remembers his eighteenth birthday. Dinner with Dean: burgers and pool, Dean sneaking him beers. Dad off on a hunt – Sam glad, not wanting anything between him and the brother a part of him still worships and maybe always will. Sam remembers his own warm face, flushed with happiness and love. He felt like he was glowing. Him and Dean laughing and laughing at stupid jokes and at nothing at all. Driving to a field somewhere, laying on the Impala’s hood and staring up at the stars. More beers.
He can never remember which of them initiated it. Maybe it was both of them, the long pent-up mutual desire suddenly overcoming them at once. They had kissed, tentative for a moment, then urgent, then desperate, lips against lips turning into skin against skin.
They had spent the next month in a haze, frantic to be together. Sam knew why, knew the bomb he was going to drop after graduation. Dean seemed to sense it too, or maybe it was something else for him. It was a month of stolen, secret moments. Sam locked each one in his heart. He knew that if he didn’t leave, he would never leave. And even though he wanted to be with Dean, he didn’t want to be a hunter. He knew Dean would never leave the life.
So Sam left. And now he is at Stanford, dreaming of the bright flare of Dean, missing him viscerally. Sam shuts his eyes and brings up a hand to rub them. There is a strange light behind his eyelids.
Sam opens his eyes and stares at his glowing hand.
***
Dean dreams.
It is a dark day in a crowded city, wide sidewalks filled with hurrying people. The sky is leaden, promising rain but not yet delivering it. Thunder rumbles overhead.
Dean pushes through the crowd. He is chasing after someone. He isn’t sure who until he spots a tall, lanky frame a little ahead of him. And that walk. He would know Sam’s loping gait anywhere.
Dean has to get to him, although he isn’t sure why. Sam is the only bright spot in this grey, drab world. Dean walks faster and faster, hampered by people in his path that he can’t seem to push aside. He is running but Sam is still just as far away.
It starts to rain. People open up umbrellas. Dean loses sight of Sam. He stops, despairing, eyes still scanning the crowd in front of him helplessly.
Lightning flashes. Suddenly Sam is right in front of him, dimples showing. He is tan and thin, but not the underfed skinny he used to be when he was going through his late-teens growth spurt.
I thought I lost you, Dean says.
I’m right here, Sam whispers. His hand lands on Dean’s face. Dean turns into the touch, his eyes closing.
Don’t look away, Sam says. Dean’s eyes fly open.
I never would, he says. Sam smiles. He leans in as if for a kiss…
Dean wakes up, alone in the motel room. Dad is gone for a day or two, hunting down a lead. Dean groans and rolls over, trying to fall asleep again. The dream was awful, but he still wants to go back to it. He wants to see his brother, even just his brain’s imaginary Sam.
Eyes still shut, he shoves his forearms under his pillow and lays his head on it. The cotton is stiff and scratchy, like pillowcases in all motel rooms. Dean barely notices. It is a fact of his life and will never change.
It’s no use. He’s awake. He doesn’t get up, instead fixing into his mind the details of Sam’s face in the dream. He remembers how Sam used to taste, like soda and shame. The guilt was always there, in that brief month they’d been lovers, but Dean had barely noticed it. He had been lost in a fog of Sam’s nearness, of the feeling that Sam belonged only to him. It was suffocating and it was addictive, like living in an opium cloud. Dean knew even then that it had to end, but it had still hollowed him out inside when Sam left.
He remembers the last time he kissed Sam, the morning before Sam told them about Stanford. He remembers the pain in Sam’s eyes, the way Sam had clung to him. Dean had known something was coming. It was still worse than he had imagined.
Life now is still life. There are hunts, there are girls, there are burgers and beer and pie. There is Dad. Dean will keep marching as long as Dad tells him to. He will live, and sometimes he will enjoy it. The adrenaline rush of the kill, the hoppy taste of the celebratory drink, the soft curves of some gorgeous thing that Dean loves for a night.
But there is no Sam, and without him, everything is a little duller, a little flatter around the edges.
Dean puts these thoughts into one of the boxes in his mind labelled “Sammy.” There are an infinite number of them. He is always making new ones, and always ignoring the stacks that are already there. He sits up, and knows something is wrong.
His eyes dart around. Nothing out of place, but his senses are on alert. It’s the light in the room – something about it is off.
Dean looks down. His hand is glowing.
***
Sam stares at Dean’s number in his phone.
Dean stares at Sam’s number in his phone.
They call. The connection crosses and they hear the other’s voicemail, hearts aching at the sound of each other’s voices.
They leave a message. They hang up.
Dean’s phone beeps. Sam’s phone beeps. New voicemail notification.
“Dean, hey, it’s me.” A pause. “I, um. I know it’s been awhile. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay. I was – ” Another pause, longer. “I was thinking about you. And now something weird’s happening to me. Maybe our kind of thing. Call me when you can.”
“Hey, Sammy.” Forced casualness in his voice; forced cheer. “Sorry I haven’t checked in for a bit. Lotta hunts lately. You know the drill. Anyway…” An audible swallow. “So, I woke up with – well, it’s a weird situation. And this is going to sound crazy, but I got a feeling it has something to do with you.” Nervous laugh. “I’m probably out of my mind, but – call me, okay?”
***
They have checked in with each other over the year and change since Sam left for Stanford. Once every month or two one of them will call or text the other. They take turns, more or less, but it’s not a hard-and-fast rule. Neither suggests that they meet up. Dean does not tell Sam when he is in California. Sam does not ask Dean to come see him. It hurts them both, but they know that it is better this way. Sam cannot live the life, and Dean cannot leave it. They have to exist separately.
Talking reopens scabbed-over wounds. Sam’s soft tones rend Dean’s heart just as Dean’s gunmetal growl tears at Sam’s, but the lesions close again in time. They will never heal completely. Sam and Dean don’t want them to. They must be apart; that doesn’t mean they will break their connection completely. They both know that’s impossible, anyway, even if they never spoke again.
***
Two days after their dreams, the Impala pulls into the Greyhound bus station in Durango, Colorado. Mountains loom over the town. The September day is overcast and damp, but Sam breathes deep, relishing the bite of the chill air. It clears his head, makes him feel alert and in control. He’s glad of the cold. Unlike on the bus – and in his dorm, before he left – no one looks twice at the thick gloves on his hands.
The Impala pulls up beside him. Dean leans over and opens the passenger-side door.
“Get in,” he says. “We’re going to miss the train.”
Sam gets in silently, trying to process this greeting. Dean has the heat blasting in the car. The air is warm and thick with the smell of Dean’s skin.
Dean keeps glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye, noticing every difference the last sixteen months have wrought. Hair too long. Not so skinny, though still a little thinner than Dean would have liked. The differences don’t bother him; it’s the similarities which make his chest hurt. It’s surreal to have him back, or maybe it’s surreal that he was ever gone, like those months were just a dream.
“What train?” Sam asks finally. His voice is honey and charcoal. Dean breathes deep like he can inhale the sound into his body.
***
The Narrow Gauge Railroad is a coal-fired, steam-powered locomotive that has been in continuous operation since 1882. Sam hears the word “cowboys” in an employee’s opening talk and no longer wonders why Dean is so gung-ho about this.
The wooden seats almost like park benches are uncomfortable, especially combined with the motion of the train, but the view is beautiful. Sam stares out the window as Dean gets them coffee, then joins him to gawk. The seat is small and their bodies are pressed together. Sam stifles the urge to take Dean’s hand. Dean’s eyes keep flitting from the scenery to the curve of Sam’s neck.
“I’m surprised you didn’t want to just grab a room and talk about – the thing,” Sam says eventually. He sips his coffee, which is strong and not as bad as he’d expected. The bitter flavor is comforting, the whiskey burn from Dean’s flask a pleasant surprise.
Dean shrugs. “Been awhile. Figured we deserved a second to catch up. Do a stupid tourist thing.”
Since when, Sam wonders but does not say, do they ever do stupid tourist things? He longs to be alone with his brother. But he is not sure what will happen once they are alone. He’s not sure what should happen. Only what he wants.
If Dean is being honest with himself, it feels safer to be in the public with Sam for a while. If Dean is being painfully honest with himself, it is difficult even here not to surge forward and cover Sam’s mouth with his, to drink him down and absorb a little of Sam’s warmth through his skin. And he is not sure he can do that and be okay when Sam goes back to college. He survived it once, but he fears the widening of the hole in his heart.
They speak rarely as they sip their coffee, dealing in occasional pleasantries like they are old friends instead of something closer to halves of a whole. When the coffee is gone, they head outside the car, easily finding a space without anyone else around. Tourist season is over, and the train is half-full at best.
They lean against the railing, backs to the scenery going by behind them. The leaves are starting to turn and they pass over a stream which is aqua even in the diffused light, but they are oblivious to everything but each other. Even the wind whipping around them is barely registered. They take off the gloves which have been their camouflage and stare in wonder at each other’s glowing hands, mirror images.
“I dreamed about you,” Sam said suddenly. Dean looks up at him, startled. “I dreamed about you, and when I woke up…” He gestures with his luminescent hand.
“Same,” Dean says hoarsely. Same, Sam.
Sam reaches out, hand cupped. Dean reaches out too, his fingers curling in. He wants to touch Sam. It is practically all he has wanted for a year and a half. The glow flows out of their palms, coalescing into a ball of light floating between them. Dean knows suddenly that Sam wants to be touched. Sam’s fingers are twitching, hand trembling. Dean will have to bridge the gap. Sam is afraid that Dean is too angry over his abandonment. Dean can taste Sam’s fear like copper on the back of his tongue.
Dean pushes through the light, not caring about it right now, only wanting Sam to feel better. Sam’s palm is cool and he threads their fingers together, gripping Dean’s hand tightly. It reminds Dean of when they were little kids. Sam used to cling to his hand when Dean walked him to school.
I remember that. Sam’s words echo in Dean’s head. Their eyes lock, mouths open. Neither of them has spoken aloud since Dean said “same.”
The light in the barely-there crack between their palms flares so brightly they have to close their eyes. When their vision clears, the light is gone.
***
They take the bus down from the top of the mountain and get a room in the first motel they find. Several hours of feeling each other’s longing as well as their own has made them frantic. For a while most of that was below the surface, under the silent discussions of how? is it a spell? is it a curse? anything weird happen to you lately, besides, obviously, THIS? with no resolution, and trying to get used to having someone else’s thoughts and feelings in their head. They figured out almost immediately how to close certain doors. There are some things they don’t want to see and some things they don’t want to share. But Dean is surprised by how much of himself he does want to share with his brother. Sam is not surprised. He opens like a flower. Dean is reminded of Sam as a little kid, when he wanted to tell Dean practically every thought in his head.
Sam is not a little kid anymore. Under their confusion and elation is an ache to be closer, to have more, to make their bodies one as well as their minds. They hardly stop holding hands the rest of the trip, sitting close together and stopping themselves from kissing, again and again. It is like drowning in molasses, thick and sweet and bitter with need. They can hardly breathe.
The motel room door is barely closed behind them before Sam’s mouth is on Dean’s, their heads clearing as if by a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day. It is strange and perfect, touching each other and seeing exactly what that touch does. Sam feels how Dean’s whole being seems to light up when Sam’s hands land on him. Sam mirrors his joy. Dean feels Sam’s surrender, his utter certainty and trust. Dean feels like his heart might burst with love; he thinks he wouldn’t really mind going out that way.
Don’t you fucking dare, Sam says, an audible gasp even in the silent words.
Dena grins. He can’t help it; he couldn’t stop smiling right now for a billion dollars. Wouldn’t dream of it, Sammy.
They move in perfect concert, barely making a misstep and able to pull it back immediately when they do, tuned in to every nuance of each other’s desire. Every intake of breath and sound of pleasure seems amplified in the silent motel room, echoing in their heads as well as their ears. They kiss like they need it to live, touch like it would kill them to stop. Dean smells like mountain air and the oil he uses to clean his guns. Sam’s fingers are like fire on Dean’s skin.
When it’s over, they fall asleep in each other’s arms and dream the same dream. They are driving down a light-dappled highway, green trees on either side, sweet spring air blowing in through the open windows. Dean plays “Ramble On” too loudly and Sam laughs at everything and at nothing.
***
They test the strength of the connection. First in another room, then another block, then Dean driving miles and miles away. It never seems to break or grow fainter. They learn to block when they need to. A man needs his privacy every now and again, Sammy, Dean says solemnly. Sam agrees.
Will you tell Dad? Sam asks later.
Dean chews a mouthful of burger for a moment, his thoughts running too fast for Sam to keep up. It’s none of his business, he replies finally. Unless we find out there’s a problem, there’s no reason he needs to know.
They research and give themselves every test they can think of or find. There is no evidence that what’s happening to them is anything but a mysterious blessing. Sam is a little worried; Dean is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But most of the time, they can’t help but enjoy it. They soak each other in like spring sunshine after a long winter. Dean’s arm flung over Sam while they sleep. Sam’s hand on Dean’s leg while Dean drives. Silently sharing the same side of the booth in a diner and getting sideways glances when they burst out laughing after a telepathic exchange. Being together, experiencing each other’s feelings, is a high they don’t want to come down from.
It can’t last. Sam has missed a week of classes, and Dean can sense his growing unease. The next day, Dad calls, wanting Dean to join him for a case two states away. Dean hedges and prevaricates and finally, in a very un-Dean-like move, says he’ll call back later and hangs up on him. The phone immediately begins ringing again. Dean shuts it off.
“I have to get back to school, anyway,” Sam says. His voice is hoarse from disuse. He thinks it might make them feel better to talk out loud, but he immediately feels worse, and so does Dean.
“I know,” Dean replies. His voice is hoarse, too; Sam can feel Dean’s unshed tears heavy in his own chest. He steps towards Dean, but Dean flinches back, avoiding his eyes.
Sam stops, blocks his hurt and pain before Dean can feel it and spiral into guilt. He thinks about touching Dean’s arm, the way he wants to. Dean’s head whips towards him.
Could you feel that? Sam says, excited and amazed, knowing the answer before Dean’s slow nod.
Kind of, he says.
Let me try again, Sam says. He focuses, sees himself reaching out and taking Dean’s hand, interlacing their fingers. The callouses on Dean’s palm. He jumps when Dean squeezes back.
You feel it? Dean asks eagerly.
Sam nods, eyes wide.
They practice for hours, lying on the bed centimeters away from each other. It isn’t exactly like being together; they cannot feel the other’s touch on their actual bodies. It is like a crystal clear memory, magnified by the attendant emotions. It is not everything they could want, but it is so much more than they had before.
They don’t sleep, abandoning their mental exercises for one last night of corporeal pleasure. As best they can, they memorize each other’s scent and taste so that they will be able to call it up in the future. It is like that last month before Sam left, crammed into a few short hours. They fall into a doze a little before dawn, clinging to each other like barnacles on a ship’s hull.
When they dream, they dream together. They are on the side of the road, the Impala pulled over behind them. Thunder booms overhead. Forks of lightning flash. Rain lashes down and soaks them to the skin. They are still holding on to each other.
Don’t cry, Sammy, Dean says, unsure if those are tears or raindrops on his brother’s face. Maybe the storm itself is Sam.
I’m still here, Sam says. I’m always here.
***
Dean calls Dad back the next morning, apologizes but does not explain. Dad finally accepts it. Sam listens to Dean’s “yessir”s and “nosir”s and feels the tension in his brother’s shoulders. He wishes he could bring Dean with him to Stanford. He feels Dean wishing Sam could stay on the road with him.
But they have this now, Sam thinks. The tightness in his chest eases a little. He feels Dean relax a bit.
Dean drives Sam to the Greyhound station. Sam sits as close as he can, hand warm on Dean’s knee. When he doesn’t have to shift with it, Dean covers Sam’s fingers with his own. For a moment, Sam thinks he sees a faint glow in their palms, but it’s gone in a blink. Perhaps it was his imagination.
Before he gets out, Sam pulls Dean to him and kisses him as hard as he can. He pours the emotion of years into it, telling Dean in their minds how much he loves him and how much he will miss him. How much he hates it when they’re apart. For a moment, Dean is startled, and then he opens the floodgates and lets Sam see him. It’s more than he’s shown this past week, even. Sam is gasping when the kiss ends. He presses his forehead to Dean’s, and then he makes himself open the car door.
He has only taken a step away from the Impala before he turns back. Dean rolls down the window, and Sam leans down, puts a forearm on it.
“Call me if you work a case in California, okay?” he says.
Dean nods fast. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “You lemme know if you have a vacation or a free weekend or something, huh?”
Sam’s dimples make Dean’s breath catch. Sam wants to lose himself in Dean’s eyes.
“Definitely,” Sam says.
***
Together, they travel in opposite directions. Sam sits on the bus and watches for Dean’s face when Dean glances in the rearview mirror.
Turn that down, he says, when Dean plays Led Zeppelin so loudly it makes him wince.
No way, Dean says. Ugh, that bus looks fuckin’ filthy. Wash your hands after you touch anything. Sam smiles, looking at his own reflection in the window so Dean can see.
They drift apart for a while when Dean meets up with Dad. Some things are still complicated. They are both feeling too much to bring Sam’s relationship with their father into it right now.
When Dean finally goes to bed, though, Sam joins him. Their legs intertwine and they clasp hands. It feels like the memory of a touch, but they know it is happening. They cannot warm each other with their bodies, not right now, but the glow of their love for one another is enough for the moment.
Sam cannot be in the life. Dean cannot leave it. Still, they fall asleep knowing that their connection will never break.
***
A/N: The title is taken from "Run" by Snow Patrol, a lovely song with very appropriate lyrics for this story.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: Mature/R
Word Count: 4,129
Disclaimer: All for fun, none for profit.
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves connected in an unexpected way.
Warnings/tags: sibling incest, canon divergent, dreams, telepathic bond, telepathic sex, bittersweet ending
A/N: Written for the
wincest_reverse with beautiful art by the very talented kuwlshadow - leave some love for it! This story is quite outside my usual style, as I wanted to match lush detail of the art and the dreamy feeling it gave me.Read on AO3
***
Sam dreams.
Warm, slightly chapped lips press to his. Sam tastes salty skin, smells motor oil and aftershave. His brother’s hands are on him. Sam feels like he is melting into Dean’s touch.
Dean, he hears himself say, meaning a thousand things at once. Dean nuzzles behind his ear. Sam’s eyes close and his mouth drops open as he tries to catch his breath.
Don’t worry, Sammy, Dean says. His voice is like raw silk, soft and warm and not quite smooth. I got you.
It is a relief to believe him. It feels like coming home to surrender to Dean’s care. As he gives in, Sam remembers how seductive Dean’s attention on him can be, bright like the sun. It is life-giving and it is blinding. In the old days, Sam would vacillate between wanting to bask in it and wanting to hide from its harsh light. It had been so hard to let it go.
Dean’s hands are on Sam’s hips, pulling him close for another kiss. Sam submits to it with fierce joy in his heart. The world gets brighter. The light seems to grow and grow the longer they are together. It flares when Dean slips his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Sam whimpers with need, the sound forced involuntarily from his chest.
He hears something else: a shrill electronic noise. He tries to ignore it, tries to stay in the moment with Dean, but the tone is insistent. It will not be ignored.
It’s his alarm clock, Sam realizes, as he comes awake from far away. It feels more like returning to consciousness after being knocked out than waking up from sleep. Sam hits the alarm and stares up at the ceiling of his dorm room.
His chest aches. These days he does all right not missing Dean too much, most of the time. It is like a punch to the gut when he is reminded of his brother unexpectedly. He thinks about how easily he and Dean fit back together in the dream. He wonders whether it would be that way if they saw each other again. He wonders whether they will ever see each other again.
He remembers his eighteenth birthday. Dinner with Dean: burgers and pool, Dean sneaking him beers. Dad off on a hunt – Sam glad, not wanting anything between him and the brother a part of him still worships and maybe always will. Sam remembers his own warm face, flushed with happiness and love. He felt like he was glowing. Him and Dean laughing and laughing at stupid jokes and at nothing at all. Driving to a field somewhere, laying on the Impala’s hood and staring up at the stars. More beers.
He can never remember which of them initiated it. Maybe it was both of them, the long pent-up mutual desire suddenly overcoming them at once. They had kissed, tentative for a moment, then urgent, then desperate, lips against lips turning into skin against skin.
They had spent the next month in a haze, frantic to be together. Sam knew why, knew the bomb he was going to drop after graduation. Dean seemed to sense it too, or maybe it was something else for him. It was a month of stolen, secret moments. Sam locked each one in his heart. He knew that if he didn’t leave, he would never leave. And even though he wanted to be with Dean, he didn’t want to be a hunter. He knew Dean would never leave the life.
So Sam left. And now he is at Stanford, dreaming of the bright flare of Dean, missing him viscerally. Sam shuts his eyes and brings up a hand to rub them. There is a strange light behind his eyelids.
Sam opens his eyes and stares at his glowing hand.
***
Dean dreams.
It is a dark day in a crowded city, wide sidewalks filled with hurrying people. The sky is leaden, promising rain but not yet delivering it. Thunder rumbles overhead.
Dean pushes through the crowd. He is chasing after someone. He isn’t sure who until he spots a tall, lanky frame a little ahead of him. And that walk. He would know Sam’s loping gait anywhere.
Dean has to get to him, although he isn’t sure why. Sam is the only bright spot in this grey, drab world. Dean walks faster and faster, hampered by people in his path that he can’t seem to push aside. He is running but Sam is still just as far away.
It starts to rain. People open up umbrellas. Dean loses sight of Sam. He stops, despairing, eyes still scanning the crowd in front of him helplessly.
Lightning flashes. Suddenly Sam is right in front of him, dimples showing. He is tan and thin, but not the underfed skinny he used to be when he was going through his late-teens growth spurt.
I thought I lost you, Dean says.
I’m right here, Sam whispers. His hand lands on Dean’s face. Dean turns into the touch, his eyes closing.
Don’t look away, Sam says. Dean’s eyes fly open.
I never would, he says. Sam smiles. He leans in as if for a kiss…
Dean wakes up, alone in the motel room. Dad is gone for a day or two, hunting down a lead. Dean groans and rolls over, trying to fall asleep again. The dream was awful, but he still wants to go back to it. He wants to see his brother, even just his brain’s imaginary Sam.
Eyes still shut, he shoves his forearms under his pillow and lays his head on it. The cotton is stiff and scratchy, like pillowcases in all motel rooms. Dean barely notices. It is a fact of his life and will never change.
It’s no use. He’s awake. He doesn’t get up, instead fixing into his mind the details of Sam’s face in the dream. He remembers how Sam used to taste, like soda and shame. The guilt was always there, in that brief month they’d been lovers, but Dean had barely noticed it. He had been lost in a fog of Sam’s nearness, of the feeling that Sam belonged only to him. It was suffocating and it was addictive, like living in an opium cloud. Dean knew even then that it had to end, but it had still hollowed him out inside when Sam left.
He remembers the last time he kissed Sam, the morning before Sam told them about Stanford. He remembers the pain in Sam’s eyes, the way Sam had clung to him. Dean had known something was coming. It was still worse than he had imagined.
Life now is still life. There are hunts, there are girls, there are burgers and beer and pie. There is Dad. Dean will keep marching as long as Dad tells him to. He will live, and sometimes he will enjoy it. The adrenaline rush of the kill, the hoppy taste of the celebratory drink, the soft curves of some gorgeous thing that Dean loves for a night.
But there is no Sam, and without him, everything is a little duller, a little flatter around the edges.
Dean puts these thoughts into one of the boxes in his mind labelled “Sammy.” There are an infinite number of them. He is always making new ones, and always ignoring the stacks that are already there. He sits up, and knows something is wrong.
His eyes dart around. Nothing out of place, but his senses are on alert. It’s the light in the room – something about it is off.
Dean looks down. His hand is glowing.
***
Sam stares at Dean’s number in his phone.
Dean stares at Sam’s number in his phone.
They call. The connection crosses and they hear the other’s voicemail, hearts aching at the sound of each other’s voices.
They leave a message. They hang up.
Dean’s phone beeps. Sam’s phone beeps. New voicemail notification.
“Dean, hey, it’s me.” A pause. “I, um. I know it’s been awhile. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay. I was – ” Another pause, longer. “I was thinking about you. And now something weird’s happening to me. Maybe our kind of thing. Call me when you can.”
“Hey, Sammy.” Forced casualness in his voice; forced cheer. “Sorry I haven’t checked in for a bit. Lotta hunts lately. You know the drill. Anyway…” An audible swallow. “So, I woke up with – well, it’s a weird situation. And this is going to sound crazy, but I got a feeling it has something to do with you.” Nervous laugh. “I’m probably out of my mind, but – call me, okay?”
***
They have checked in with each other over the year and change since Sam left for Stanford. Once every month or two one of them will call or text the other. They take turns, more or less, but it’s not a hard-and-fast rule. Neither suggests that they meet up. Dean does not tell Sam when he is in California. Sam does not ask Dean to come see him. It hurts them both, but they know that it is better this way. Sam cannot live the life, and Dean cannot leave it. They have to exist separately.
Talking reopens scabbed-over wounds. Sam’s soft tones rend Dean’s heart just as Dean’s gunmetal growl tears at Sam’s, but the lesions close again in time. They will never heal completely. Sam and Dean don’t want them to. They must be apart; that doesn’t mean they will break their connection completely. They both know that’s impossible, anyway, even if they never spoke again.
***
Two days after their dreams, the Impala pulls into the Greyhound bus station in Durango, Colorado. Mountains loom over the town. The September day is overcast and damp, but Sam breathes deep, relishing the bite of the chill air. It clears his head, makes him feel alert and in control. He’s glad of the cold. Unlike on the bus – and in his dorm, before he left – no one looks twice at the thick gloves on his hands.
The Impala pulls up beside him. Dean leans over and opens the passenger-side door.
“Get in,” he says. “We’re going to miss the train.”
Sam gets in silently, trying to process this greeting. Dean has the heat blasting in the car. The air is warm and thick with the smell of Dean’s skin.
Dean keeps glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye, noticing every difference the last sixteen months have wrought. Hair too long. Not so skinny, though still a little thinner than Dean would have liked. The differences don’t bother him; it’s the similarities which make his chest hurt. It’s surreal to have him back, or maybe it’s surreal that he was ever gone, like those months were just a dream.
“What train?” Sam asks finally. His voice is honey and charcoal. Dean breathes deep like he can inhale the sound into his body.
***
The Narrow Gauge Railroad is a coal-fired, steam-powered locomotive that has been in continuous operation since 1882. Sam hears the word “cowboys” in an employee’s opening talk and no longer wonders why Dean is so gung-ho about this.
The wooden seats almost like park benches are uncomfortable, especially combined with the motion of the train, but the view is beautiful. Sam stares out the window as Dean gets them coffee, then joins him to gawk. The seat is small and their bodies are pressed together. Sam stifles the urge to take Dean’s hand. Dean’s eyes keep flitting from the scenery to the curve of Sam’s neck.
“I’m surprised you didn’t want to just grab a room and talk about – the thing,” Sam says eventually. He sips his coffee, which is strong and not as bad as he’d expected. The bitter flavor is comforting, the whiskey burn from Dean’s flask a pleasant surprise.
Dean shrugs. “Been awhile. Figured we deserved a second to catch up. Do a stupid tourist thing.”
Since when, Sam wonders but does not say, do they ever do stupid tourist things? He longs to be alone with his brother. But he is not sure what will happen once they are alone. He’s not sure what should happen. Only what he wants.
If Dean is being honest with himself, it feels safer to be in the public with Sam for a while. If Dean is being painfully honest with himself, it is difficult even here not to surge forward and cover Sam’s mouth with his, to drink him down and absorb a little of Sam’s warmth through his skin. And he is not sure he can do that and be okay when Sam goes back to college. He survived it once, but he fears the widening of the hole in his heart.
They speak rarely as they sip their coffee, dealing in occasional pleasantries like they are old friends instead of something closer to halves of a whole. When the coffee is gone, they head outside the car, easily finding a space without anyone else around. Tourist season is over, and the train is half-full at best.
They lean against the railing, backs to the scenery going by behind them. The leaves are starting to turn and they pass over a stream which is aqua even in the diffused light, but they are oblivious to everything but each other. Even the wind whipping around them is barely registered. They take off the gloves which have been their camouflage and stare in wonder at each other’s glowing hands, mirror images.
“I dreamed about you,” Sam said suddenly. Dean looks up at him, startled. “I dreamed about you, and when I woke up…” He gestures with his luminescent hand.
“Same,” Dean says hoarsely. Same, Sam.
Sam reaches out, hand cupped. Dean reaches out too, his fingers curling in. He wants to touch Sam. It is practically all he has wanted for a year and a half. The glow flows out of their palms, coalescing into a ball of light floating between them. Dean knows suddenly that Sam wants to be touched. Sam’s fingers are twitching, hand trembling. Dean will have to bridge the gap. Sam is afraid that Dean is too angry over his abandonment. Dean can taste Sam’s fear like copper on the back of his tongue.
Dean pushes through the light, not caring about it right now, only wanting Sam to feel better. Sam’s palm is cool and he threads their fingers together, gripping Dean’s hand tightly. It reminds Dean of when they were little kids. Sam used to cling to his hand when Dean walked him to school.
I remember that. Sam’s words echo in Dean’s head. Their eyes lock, mouths open. Neither of them has spoken aloud since Dean said “same.”
The light in the barely-there crack between their palms flares so brightly they have to close their eyes. When their vision clears, the light is gone.
***
They take the bus down from the top of the mountain and get a room in the first motel they find. Several hours of feeling each other’s longing as well as their own has made them frantic. For a while most of that was below the surface, under the silent discussions of how? is it a spell? is it a curse? anything weird happen to you lately, besides, obviously, THIS? with no resolution, and trying to get used to having someone else’s thoughts and feelings in their head. They figured out almost immediately how to close certain doors. There are some things they don’t want to see and some things they don’t want to share. But Dean is surprised by how much of himself he does want to share with his brother. Sam is not surprised. He opens like a flower. Dean is reminded of Sam as a little kid, when he wanted to tell Dean practically every thought in his head.
Sam is not a little kid anymore. Under their confusion and elation is an ache to be closer, to have more, to make their bodies one as well as their minds. They hardly stop holding hands the rest of the trip, sitting close together and stopping themselves from kissing, again and again. It is like drowning in molasses, thick and sweet and bitter with need. They can hardly breathe.
The motel room door is barely closed behind them before Sam’s mouth is on Dean’s, their heads clearing as if by a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day. It is strange and perfect, touching each other and seeing exactly what that touch does. Sam feels how Dean’s whole being seems to light up when Sam’s hands land on him. Sam mirrors his joy. Dean feels Sam’s surrender, his utter certainty and trust. Dean feels like his heart might burst with love; he thinks he wouldn’t really mind going out that way.
Don’t you fucking dare, Sam says, an audible gasp even in the silent words.
Dena grins. He can’t help it; he couldn’t stop smiling right now for a billion dollars. Wouldn’t dream of it, Sammy.
They move in perfect concert, barely making a misstep and able to pull it back immediately when they do, tuned in to every nuance of each other’s desire. Every intake of breath and sound of pleasure seems amplified in the silent motel room, echoing in their heads as well as their ears. They kiss like they need it to live, touch like it would kill them to stop. Dean smells like mountain air and the oil he uses to clean his guns. Sam’s fingers are like fire on Dean’s skin.
When it’s over, they fall asleep in each other’s arms and dream the same dream. They are driving down a light-dappled highway, green trees on either side, sweet spring air blowing in through the open windows. Dean plays “Ramble On” too loudly and Sam laughs at everything and at nothing.
***
They test the strength of the connection. First in another room, then another block, then Dean driving miles and miles away. It never seems to break or grow fainter. They learn to block when they need to. A man needs his privacy every now and again, Sammy, Dean says solemnly. Sam agrees.
Will you tell Dad? Sam asks later.
Dean chews a mouthful of burger for a moment, his thoughts running too fast for Sam to keep up. It’s none of his business, he replies finally. Unless we find out there’s a problem, there’s no reason he needs to know.
They research and give themselves every test they can think of or find. There is no evidence that what’s happening to them is anything but a mysterious blessing. Sam is a little worried; Dean is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But most of the time, they can’t help but enjoy it. They soak each other in like spring sunshine after a long winter. Dean’s arm flung over Sam while they sleep. Sam’s hand on Dean’s leg while Dean drives. Silently sharing the same side of the booth in a diner and getting sideways glances when they burst out laughing after a telepathic exchange. Being together, experiencing each other’s feelings, is a high they don’t want to come down from.
It can’t last. Sam has missed a week of classes, and Dean can sense his growing unease. The next day, Dad calls, wanting Dean to join him for a case two states away. Dean hedges and prevaricates and finally, in a very un-Dean-like move, says he’ll call back later and hangs up on him. The phone immediately begins ringing again. Dean shuts it off.
“I have to get back to school, anyway,” Sam says. His voice is hoarse from disuse. He thinks it might make them feel better to talk out loud, but he immediately feels worse, and so does Dean.
“I know,” Dean replies. His voice is hoarse, too; Sam can feel Dean’s unshed tears heavy in his own chest. He steps towards Dean, but Dean flinches back, avoiding his eyes.
Sam stops, blocks his hurt and pain before Dean can feel it and spiral into guilt. He thinks about touching Dean’s arm, the way he wants to. Dean’s head whips towards him.
Could you feel that? Sam says, excited and amazed, knowing the answer before Dean’s slow nod.
Kind of, he says.
Let me try again, Sam says. He focuses, sees himself reaching out and taking Dean’s hand, interlacing their fingers. The callouses on Dean’s palm. He jumps when Dean squeezes back.
You feel it? Dean asks eagerly.
Sam nods, eyes wide.
They practice for hours, lying on the bed centimeters away from each other. It isn’t exactly like being together; they cannot feel the other’s touch on their actual bodies. It is like a crystal clear memory, magnified by the attendant emotions. It is not everything they could want, but it is so much more than they had before.
They don’t sleep, abandoning their mental exercises for one last night of corporeal pleasure. As best they can, they memorize each other’s scent and taste so that they will be able to call it up in the future. It is like that last month before Sam left, crammed into a few short hours. They fall into a doze a little before dawn, clinging to each other like barnacles on a ship’s hull.
When they dream, they dream together. They are on the side of the road, the Impala pulled over behind them. Thunder booms overhead. Forks of lightning flash. Rain lashes down and soaks them to the skin. They are still holding on to each other.
Don’t cry, Sammy, Dean says, unsure if those are tears or raindrops on his brother’s face. Maybe the storm itself is Sam.
I’m still here, Sam says. I’m always here.
***
Dean calls Dad back the next morning, apologizes but does not explain. Dad finally accepts it. Sam listens to Dean’s “yessir”s and “nosir”s and feels the tension in his brother’s shoulders. He wishes he could bring Dean with him to Stanford. He feels Dean wishing Sam could stay on the road with him.
But they have this now, Sam thinks. The tightness in his chest eases a little. He feels Dean relax a bit.
Dean drives Sam to the Greyhound station. Sam sits as close as he can, hand warm on Dean’s knee. When he doesn’t have to shift with it, Dean covers Sam’s fingers with his own. For a moment, Sam thinks he sees a faint glow in their palms, but it’s gone in a blink. Perhaps it was his imagination.
Before he gets out, Sam pulls Dean to him and kisses him as hard as he can. He pours the emotion of years into it, telling Dean in their minds how much he loves him and how much he will miss him. How much he hates it when they’re apart. For a moment, Dean is startled, and then he opens the floodgates and lets Sam see him. It’s more than he’s shown this past week, even. Sam is gasping when the kiss ends. He presses his forehead to Dean’s, and then he makes himself open the car door.
He has only taken a step away from the Impala before he turns back. Dean rolls down the window, and Sam leans down, puts a forearm on it.
“Call me if you work a case in California, okay?” he says.
Dean nods fast. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “You lemme know if you have a vacation or a free weekend or something, huh?”
Sam’s dimples make Dean’s breath catch. Sam wants to lose himself in Dean’s eyes.
“Definitely,” Sam says.
***
Together, they travel in opposite directions. Sam sits on the bus and watches for Dean’s face when Dean glances in the rearview mirror.
Turn that down, he says, when Dean plays Led Zeppelin so loudly it makes him wince.
No way, Dean says. Ugh, that bus looks fuckin’ filthy. Wash your hands after you touch anything. Sam smiles, looking at his own reflection in the window so Dean can see.
They drift apart for a while when Dean meets up with Dad. Some things are still complicated. They are both feeling too much to bring Sam’s relationship with their father into it right now.
When Dean finally goes to bed, though, Sam joins him. Their legs intertwine and they clasp hands. It feels like the memory of a touch, but they know it is happening. They cannot warm each other with their bodies, not right now, but the glow of their love for one another is enough for the moment.
Sam cannot be in the life. Dean cannot leave it. Still, they fall asleep knowing that their connection will never break.
***
A/N: The title is taken from "Run" by Snow Patrol, a lovely song with very appropriate lyrics for this story.
