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justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest (Sam is a few months shy of legal age)
Word Count: 1800
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just for fun.
Summary: Ever wonder how Dean started talking dirty? The genesis is in the way Sam and Dean make their feelings for each other physical. This story has dirty talk, all the feels you can handle, infinite love and even a plot that develops into a nail-biting narrative, with the best kind of hurt/comfort.
Chapter Summary: The doctor warned them that between the side effects of the pain medication and what Sam endured, he might have vivid nightmares. The doctor was right.
You can read the entire story up until the most recent chapter here:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/411362
Chapter 15 here:
http://justinedelarge.livejournal.com/20447.html
Chapter 16: Stay Awake Don't Nod and Dream
The screaming woke Dean.
He should have been prepared for it. The doctor warned them. He should have been prepared.
He wasn’t.
The sound that reverberated off the walls and made Dean sit bolt upright next to Sam was like the terrifying one in that book John used to read to him when he was little, that he still remembered almost word for word, so profoundly had it affected him.
"I don't like that sound," Fezzik said, his skin, for the moment, cold.
Inigo grabbed the giant and the words began pouring out: "Fezzik—Fezzik—that is the sound of Ultimate Suffering.”
And that was the sound Sam was making now. The scream would have been horrifying anyway—so much pain, so much terror carried in the sound wave—but it was so much worse because it came through a throat already wrecked from screaming. So this scream carried the echo of its thousand brothers and sisters with it.
Sam was rigid on the bed, body bowed, weight supported by only his heels and shoulders, head thrown back, cords of the muscles in his throat standing out. And the scream. It went on, and on, and on.
Then he stopped, sucking in a huge, agonizing breath. And all the air left the room, and Dean couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, knowing what was going to happen next.
Sam screamed again, screamed through the agony of his torn throat, screamed through his broken ribs and bruised mouth. This time the scream was darkened by the despair of being bound and hung from a hook in a deserted warehouse, helpless and alone but for the men hurting him.
“Sam! Sam… wake up. Come on, Sammy. Oh god, please wake up, Sam, just wake up.” Dean seized Sam by the shoulders, frantically ran his hands over Sam’s face, took hold of his hands, desperate to do anything to save Sam from the nightmare that was savaging him all over again.
Sam didn’t feel him. Sam didn’t hear him.
The sound of heavy footsteps up the stairs, down the hall, and the bedroom door slammed against the far wall. “Sam!” John fell to his knees by the side of the bed.
Sam’s eyes were open, but they saw nothing. Nothing in the actual world, at least. His mouth frozen open, he screamed a third time.
Bobby stood in the doorway, tears welling in his eyes.
John took hold of Sam’s face. “Sam. Look at me. Come on. Wake up.”
Sam didn’t wake up. Just stared into nothingness, his face contorted.
Dean didn’t know what to do. He had to do something, and he didn’t know what to do.
He pressed his hand to Sam’s chest, warm and real, skin to skin, and whispered in his ear, so soft, so quiet.
Sam’s eyes fluttered open. He saw Dean. Still half in dream, confused, he stared at him, his expression softening.
“I got you, Sammy. I got you.”
Sam watched Dean like he was afraid he was going to vanish in a puff of smoke.
His eyes darted to John, then Bobby.
John gave a weak smile, relief tainted by the fear that still pumped through him at the sound of his boy screaming to wake the dead. “Hey, buddy. You’re alright now.”
Sam blinked, still half-caught in his nightmare. “You came for me.” His voice sounded like his throat had been flayed from the inside out.
Bobby closed his eyes. John stroked Sam’s sweat-damp hair. “Of course we did.”
Sam turned his face to Dean. “You.” His face was grey. “You saved me.”
Dean couldn’t even speak. He just held Sam’s hand, a tear rolling down his face.
Sam opened his mouth again, forced two more words from his abused throat before it refused to make another sound. “Thank you.”
Dean glanced over at John. He had tears streaming down his face.
Bobby snort-sobbed from the doorway, and Dean and John stifled involuntary laughter.
“What? We don’t all cry pretty.” Bobby complained, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
Sam screwed up his face, arched his back with a hiss, clearly in sizeable pain.
“Hey. Hey, Sam. Time for another pill, yeah?” Dean grabbed up the bottle and snapped the lid off.
Sam nodded furiously, eyes closed.
Dean gave him a pain pill and Sam swallowed it gratefully.
John took Sam’s hand. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, Sam. You’re safe. Ok? They’re dead. They’re all dead. And your badass brother here killed most of them all by himself.” John looked at Dean with quiet, deep pride. “And I don’t think you’re gonna be able to pry him off you with a crowbar now, so you’ve got the best bodyguard a man could hope for.”
Sam was still caught in the fine tendrils of the nightmare, not catching everything, but Dean noticed the word choice John made.
“And this place is protected now six ways from Sunday. Got some backup. So it’s ok to relax. You’re safe.”
Sam nodded, but his body remained taut.
His breath was rabbit-fast and shallow. This worried Dean.
“Your ribs. Really hurting, huh?”
Sam nodded, barely moving his head, eyes clenched tight.
Bobby said, “I’m going to make you up an ice pack, Sam. Won’t take but a second.” He thumped off down the stairs.
“Let’s get him sitting up. Might make him feel better,” John said.
Dean surveyed John as though deciding whether or not he was going to let John touch Sam.
And he was.
“Ok.” Dean slipped his hand behind Sam’s back and did most of the lifting, only letting John hold Sam’s left shoulder. “Careful of his arm,” he muttered.
John was exquisitely careful, but got the distinct impression that wasn’t good enough for Dean.
When they had gotten Sam into an upright position, he sighed, clearly more comfortable. But there weren’t enough pillows to hold him in the position in which he was most at ease.
Dean had an idea. “Hey, Sam. How ‘bout I carry you downstairs, and you can lay back in Bobby’s recliner, watch some TV with me? I’ll even let you pick what we watch.”
Sam’s eyes flashed open. He liked this idea. He tapped his right hand on Dean’s thigh, once.
“You got it.” Dean didn’t even let John go through the formality of asking to help. He scooped up his brother like he weighed nothing, lifting him with smooth grace and such care, John couldn’t help but marvel at it.
Sam barely even winced when Dean placed his good arm around his neck and picked him up, as though there was no place on Earth more free from pain and fear than Dean’s arms.
~
Dean held Sam in a perfect upright position, the exact position that gave Sam relief from his pain. He carried Sam down the hall and turned at the head of the stairs, angling Sam’s back toward the staircase so he didn’t bang his legs on the banister.
Dean lowered Sam into the recliner. “Is that good?”
Sam’s face radiated gratitude. He took Dean’s hand, squeezed it.
“Alright. Whattaya want to watch? Die Hard?” Sam tapped twice. “A Bond movie?” Sam thought about it. Then tapped twice. “Oh, hey… how about Toy Story?” Sam didn’t even have to tap once. The look in his face said everything.
Dean grabbed a couple of cokes out of the fridge, cracked Sam’s open and put it into the drink holder on the right side of the recliner and popped the tape into the VCR. As the trailers for new movies started playing, Bobby showed up with four bags of frozen peas duct-taped into an elaborate rib pack harness, and laid them carefully on Sam’s torso, over his t-shirt. He draped a large, soft blue blanket over Sam. “That’s gonna start feeling real good any second now, Sam.”
Sam reached out for Bobby’s hand as he tried to walk away. Mouthed “Thank you.”
Bobby couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes. “Absolutely nothing to be thanking me for. If your dad and me hadn’t—“
“Bobby. Wanna make us all some popcorn?” John’s voice was smooth, but everyone but Sam knew that John had cut him off deliberately.
John settled on the far right end of the couch, a beer in his hand. Dean sat on the couch on the far left, trying to hide the expression put on his face by the fact that Sam was three feet away.
John noticed, and stood up. “Let’s bring him a little closer.” They each took a side and lifted the recliner with Sam in it, setting it down gently right next to the couch, next to where Dean had been sitting. Dean fell back into his seat, much relieved, as Sam was now only separated from him by the thin arm of the couch and the round arm of the recliner.
Sam scrabbled at the blanket, pulled the end free and tossed it over Dean. Dean got the hint, and spread the blanket over both of them.
Bobby brought a massive bowl of popcorn and settled in between Dean and John. Sam drank his coke slowly, smiling at the antics of Woody and Buzz.
Dean slipped a kernel of popcorn into Sam’s mouth. “How’s that? Hurt to chew?” Sam shook his head no. Dean fed Sam kernel after kernel of popcorn, swigging his own coke, eyes lit up and fixed on Sam, hardly paying attention to the movie at all, just drinking in Sam watching it.
After about 20 minutes, Sam started breathing better.
Dean took a deep breath along with Sam, and realized he’d been breathing shallow in sympathy with Sam since the movie started.
Sam set the half-finished coke in the drink holder, slipped his hand under the blanket, and took Dean’s hand in his.
Two minutes later, he giggled.
“And there you go. Pain meds finally kicking in,” Bobby said. “Frozen peas too.”
Sam giggled again. Took a deep breath, expanding his rib cage, and rubbed his stomach like he was proud of himself.
He turned his head toward Dean, working his hand beneath the blanket again, taking Dean’s hand and squeezing it. His face obscured from the view of Bobby and John, he mouthed something Dean hadn’t been sure Sam would ever want to say to him again.
Dean felt the warmth bloom in his chest, tears welling in his eyes yet again. He let his mouth form the shape of the words, said them silently back to Sam. I love you.
As Sam drifted into a blissfully pain-free slumber, Dean thought of the look on John’s face when he cut Bobby off. Didn’t want him to finish his sentence. Absolutely nothing to be thanking me for. If your dad and me hadn’t— Thought of how sweet Sam had been with Bobby and John. How not angry he was.
Then he realized.
Sam didn’t know. He didn’t know that he was taken on purpose, hurt deliberately, tortured the same ways John and Bobby had tortured Spivey’s boy.
Sam didn’t know.
