707 words long. Consider this song (iheart, piracy)
by Ian Moore. Also, it's about as angsty as I get. Which means you know exactly how it's going to end, haha. ♥
Everything's muddled; foggy and cloudy and - soft. Soft. Soft hipbone skin under his thumbs, skin at the side of Sam's neck beneath Dean's lips.
He'd be disgusted with himself if he was sober enough to consider that Sam was using him. Just a body, just a warm body with all the right empty spaces, but he was drunk and he was happy inside of Sam, and he didn't care.
Not then, anyways. Perhaps things would look different in the morning.
This time, though. This time, with Sam beneath him and sobbing - he knows he's being used.
Still doesn't care, because he's closer to Sam than anybody will ever be, and that's enough.
Sam watches him carefully now. Pours out his drinks after the third glass.
"What are you running away from?"
There's anger in his voice, and he knows it isn't his but Sam doesn't and Dean can't think of a way to say it's not me that wouldn't come out harsh and twisted.
Sam's eyes widen. He nods, and Dean's suddenly reminded what rock salt to the chest feels like.
He wakes up to Sam patching up his chest, and he can't remember what happened.
"You were possessed." Sam explains, not meeting Dean's eyes. Dean laughs, because he can't remember being shot for his own good. Because he's usually the one to talk Sam down afterwards.
The clickclick still echoes, and he didn't think he'd live through it again.
Sam's fingertips smooth down the edges of the bandages on Dean's skin.
"I didn't want to hurt you." Sam says, and Dean turns his head towards Sam's voice.
Sam whispers something, and Dean struggles to catch it. He doesn't move from the bed but he does wave his hand a little, gets Sam's attention.
"Sam?" he says quietly, and Sam swivels away from the laptop. His eyes brighten, and he tilts his chin a little at the coffee waiting on the nightstand. Dean reaches out and takes a slow sip because it's still hot.
"How are you feeling?" Sam asks, and Dean doesn't want to answer. Sam pauses, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
"I'm not using you," Sam starts, and Dean is absolutely certain he doesn't want to hear the rest of the sentence.
Sam looks away. "I'm not. I wish I was, 'cause this would be a whole lot easier. But I'm not."
"Hmmm." Dean says, turns three-quarters towards Sam and angles his face away. Sam gets up and settled down beside him on their bed, and Dean doesn't have the heart to ask him to move away.
Sun slants in through the window, and Dean figures it's five'o'clock or so. Sam lets out a slow breath and curls his hand around the inside of Dean's elbow, scars and painkiller needle marks in his skin.
Dean wakes up, and Sam's gone. His clothes are gone, duffle bag and one gun off the kitchenette table.
He's not sure what he's going to do. He rolls over and considers that maybe sleep and a stiff drink will make it go away.
He's not sure how much time has passed, or how long he slept. Everything was still fuzzy from pain, and he wished Sam had better timing.
Sam's folding clothes on the other bed. Dean chokes out a laugh, and Sam looks up quickly, catches Dean's eyes. Holds.
"I thought you left." Dean says, and he wishes he phrased it different.
"I'm not going to leave you." Sam states, all matter-of-fact. Dean doesn't believe it.
The painkillers really put him under, and he sleeps more than he knows he should. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, not exactly, but Sam is lying behind him, breathing slow in his ears, arm wrapped around his waist. Holding him closer than he should, close enough that Dean can see Sam borrowed his huge black sweater again; the one he wore all last winter and that probably still smelled like him and woodsmoke and the apple cider he stole from a grocery and managed to spill all over himself when it was too hot.
Sam holds on like he isn't planning on ever letting go.