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phantismaFandom: Supernatural, Keeper!Verse
Title: Together
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean
Author: My friend M
Rating: R- for theme
Summary: The morning after Intervention, Sam is having difficulty coping, and Dean gets caught in his nightmare. When it's over, Dean wants Sam to talk about it. Sam...isn't exactly okay with that.
A/Ns & Warnings: This is all M, all I did was beta, but she wanted it here where it could live with it's siblings. She asks that I point out that, while one could read this on its own, it is really a part of an arc of stories that starts with Captivus, then Blowback and Intervention...and will likely have at least one more installment. This section has memories of child abuse and the brief mention of the death of a child.
Together
Starts 4-5 hours after end of Intervention:
In hindsight, a two hour session of sex had been a bad idea. Not the sex itself. That hadn't been bad as either an idea or in execution. That should have been filmed for posterity, the most physically aggressive sex they'd had in a decade, probably. They each ended up on all fours, Sam first on the bed and Dean second, kneeling on the floor, a couple of body-shaking orgasms a piece. Then, another half hour of tangled bodies and tongues buried in each other's mouths, rolling around and clinging to each other, sated, joyful. Hell, the sex had been off the fucking charts.....the timing though.....the timing had been all wrong.
They had managed to tidy the room a bit, straightened the sheets, wiped each other clean and pulled on boxers before they wrapped limbs and minds and let sleep claim them.
Dean had some vague inkling as he sank into slumber that it had been way too much shit in one day for Sam. On some level he knew that Sam’s defenses were adrift. In response, he pulled Sam in tighter to his body, kissed his forehead and protectively wrapped his mind a bit closer around Sam’s.
A semi slammed into his body sometime after he’d fallen asleep, jolting him awake in anguish. Dean reached for his head when a second truck broadsided him and sent him flying into the wall across the room. The next thing he knew he was sprawled on the floor, his head ringing, feeling like sharp spikes were being driven into his skull.
He struggled to sit but dark images clouded his vision and he couldn’t figure which way was up to pick his head up off the floor. He pushed back on it, struggled for control of the swirling dark and light, color and blankness. The abstract colors and light came into focus and he saw Sam on all fours submitting to a brutal beating. Dean tried again to extricate himself but couldn’t budge and couldn’t push it away. Then, the images starting flying past like a film gone wild.
Sam on his knees, head bowed, long, red, ugly welt marks decorating his back.
Sam begging to be released as the Harrier’s claws tore his right shoulder open, blood spurting.
Sam opening his arms wide, ghastly smile on his face, welcoming the demon into his body. Thanking the demon for honoring him.
A young Sam, tied face down on a cold cement floor, naked and freezing, begging for his father.
Sam’s hands around the throat of a dying young child
The bile rose in Dean’s throat as the realization dawned that he was trapped in Sam’s nightmare. Dean pushed at the images but couldn’t make them stop. To counteract, he tried to conjure good images but couldn’t hold them against the onslaught. The pain was overwhelming – he had to get out. So he pushed against Sam, fought to get Sam to release him.
Dean heard an audible popping sound and he was out, the images ceased instantly.
He looked up and saw Sam in a ball on the bed, holding himself, crying out, sweat soaked.
Sharply, “Sammy.” The dizziness prevented Dean from standing so he crawled across the floor to the bed. “Wake up Sam. Let it go,” he ordered.
“Sammy.” He was louder, insistent, shaking Sam.
Sam’s eyes blinked, his body recoiled and he fell out of the bed. He tried to crawl but collapsed forward and heaved. And kept heaving, losing his hard-fought dinner and dessert.
Dean scrambled across the bed and onto the floor, wrapping his arms around Sam’s chest and holding his head, keeping Sam’s face out of the growing puddle, keeping him from choking on it as it poured out of him. Dean touched Sam’s mind lightly. The ugly images had ceased, or retreated, but a cacophony of pain and guilt was left behind.
You’re okay babe. Just too many Oreos. You’re okay. Dean tried for the most relaxed tone he could muster, swallowing the panic that rose like bile from his gut.
Sam responded to his voice, pulling himself mentally toward Dean, toward comfort. Dean saw the pieces of the event slowly click into place in Sam’s head. Then shock swept across Sam.
You saw.
Dean felt Sam retreat, physically as well as mentally trying to escape the reality that Dean had been stuck in the nightmare, had seen all of it…the awful truth…first hand.
Sam struggled mightily, trying to push Dean away and erect a barrier to push it all down, hide it…make it all go away. But his defenses were shot and it wasn’t working. Dean sensed Sam mentally flailing, images and thoughts fluttering around them, disconnected, rapidly firing and disorienting.
Then, Dean experienced more than saw a yellow light develop in Sam’s disjointed mind. Sam desperately tried to escape, mentally twisting and moving away, but it kept coming, growing…and at the last moment Sam pushed Dean urgently up and out of his head. Dean felt the world tip under him, his sense of up and down shattered and he reached frantically for Sam, “Focus Sam. Focus.” But, Sam couldn’t manage it, maybe couldn’t even hear him.
A second later Sam seized, rigid and twisting on the floor.
The seizure sent out a swell of psychic energy that blasted through Dean, tossing him against the bed. It beat against him and there was nothing he could do to stop it as he felt a searing pain rip across the nearly healed scars on his chest and his cheek, followed by wetness. He swallowed down a scream, his body in agony, as he focused his energy on getting back to Sam.
The door burst open and Dana and John came flying through a second later. They had been downstairs when Dean had last seen them. John had been teaching Dana how to bluff at poker.
The wave emanating from Sam stopped dead as soon as Dana crossed the threshold.
“What the hell?” John looked at Dean, saw him dazed and bleeding propped on the side of the bed. “You’re covered in blood.”
“Holy fuck,” Dana muttered, eyeing the mess of her two men covered in vomit, blood and sweat.
Dean hung his head, catching his breath. His chest burned like a motherfucker, the recent scar ripped open and bleeding as if it was brand new. Same on his cheek but less severe. He inched toward Sam. It’s ok. You hear me. It’s ok. Let it go.
Sam was mumbling, unintelligible words but definitely some kind of pleading.
Dana spoke up as she walked towards them, “I stopped the outward leaking. You’re safe Dad. You won’t be hurt.” Dean inched closer, wanting to touch Sam, but afraid it would only set off another round.
Dana lowered herself to the floor, glanced over her father’s injuries and reached out to grab his hand. “He’s a mess in there. Let’s go in and stop this Dad. You can help.” Dean’s head throbbed and his body was sore and he wasn’t convinced he could do anything to help end this. “He’ll respond better to you than me, easier on him. Can you go in with me?” Dana’s voice was tender, concerned…none of her usual bravado.
“Yeah Yeah,” Dean winced as her hand squeezed on his. Dana’s mental touch was no more gentle as she shoved Dean into Sam’s head, entering in behind him, using Dean as a shield to hide her presence. The whole space was filled with Sam’s dark memories…with demons and death, beatings and blood. It sickened Dean, the suffering, the torment, the darkness, the cravenness - Sam’s past.
Is this what he lives with? Dean asked, appalled.
This is what he buries, replied Dana, closing her eyes.
Dana guided Dean. Showed him the right technique to push back and down. Showed him where. Dean gave an almighty push. The filth washed over him, seeped into him…and he pushed, and he held. Then it weakened, and with its grasp loosened, Dana dissipated it completely with a wave of light and a gentle touch.
Sam went limp on the floor, unconscious.
Dana pulled them out, spreading a trail of periwinkle in her wake as they departed.
Dean hung his head in relief. He could barely breathe from it…from the knowing it…seeing it…the chaos, the agony. His own head was reeling, trying to make sense of it, organize it into something manageable…as if anything like this was manageable.
John disappeared into the bathroom and Dean heard the tub running. John re-entered the room saying to Dana, “Seizure?”
“Yeah Papa but not like before, more of a reaction.” She was holding her head in her hands, sitting back on her heels. “Should’ve insisted on him letting me put up some walls after dinner. He couldn’t even construct a sentence easily. Should’ve known he had no fight left for trouble.”
“Not your fault,” Dean said, as he checked Sam’s pulse, stroked his hair. “He’s too exhausted, my fault. I pushed too hard.”
“Enough of the blame,” John reached to lift Sam from the floor. Sam twisted away, fighting to stay close to Dean, reaching out blindly for him. Dean let him capture a hand and held it while John repositioned.
“Help me out here Dana.” John and Dana managed to get Sam up, moving him slowly between them and into the bathroom. Dean rested his head back, looked at his bright red chest, the gash had stopped bleeding thankfully.
Dean heard the splash of water a few minutes later and Dana walked out. Her face was pale, but she smiled as she came to squat beside him. “Papa told me to get you fixed up.” She scrunched her nose at the smell, blood and vomit and bile. “Can we do that in my bathroom?”
Dean nodded
Sam stirred late morning. He was clear-headed, there was no real pain for the first time in who knows how long.
The Healing.
He reached mentally and touched its soft, squishy exterior eliciting a soft reverberation from his toes up through his stomach to his chest and warming his cheeks, Valium-like, without the mind-numbing side effects. He examined his hip and his eyes widened, the lack of pain wasn’t just psychic Vicodin; there was actually tissue repair occurring. Fucking miraculous. Maybe Dana was right in thinking he was blessed.
And, although his hip didn’t hurt, his ass burned like a bitch. Oh, yeah, the marathon romp last night. Sam smiled. He hadn’t managed to hold himself up on all fours in ages much less follow it with a lengthy hip-exhausting pounding of Dean. Lord, they are going to have to do that a lot to make up for lost time. His cock was strangely non-responsive to the seeringly hot memory. Sam held back a laugh. Dean had finally worn out his cock.
I did not wear out your cock.
Sam flipped over with a smile on his face and froze.
“Bandages?” he mumbled and the memory leaked out from behind its soft barrier. Sam’s eyes widened in dismay as he reached out to his prone brother, “Dean?”
Dean smiled softly, gently. Sam touched the barrier, sensing Dana’s touch…he pushed and the barrier collapsed; the horrible entirety of what had happened rushed in.
Nightmare. Dean. Dean inside the nightmare. Saw. Dean saw.
“Don’t you dare freak,” Dean shifted carefully to position himself to look right into Sam’s eyes. “I’m fine. Just a little surface tearing.”
“I…I did that,” Sam voice shook. Dean saw. Everything.
Dean’s voice was calm. “I want to talk about it Sam.”
“Nnnnnoooo,” Sam gasped, flipped over and moved to get out of bed, looking desperately around the room for his clothes.
“Don’t you move away from me. Don’t you dare. You hear me?” Dean’s tone was firm. Sam could feel Dean’s eyes bore into the back of his head. “We’re in this together.”
Sam felt the warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, comforting. It was everything he wanted, and everything he couldn’t handle.
“I can’t get up so you need to lay back down.” Sam sat on the edge of the bed, stuck in place then acquiesced and sat back, against the headboard, stiff, staring straight ahead.
“Dude, I can not see you up there. Get your butt down here.”
Sam scooted down slowly until he was flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Dean’s hand touched his face and turned it towards him with intent. His words were deliberate. “We talk about this. No more burying. No more Sam deals alone or not at all. We deal together.”
Sam blinked. “Breathe Sam.” Sam actually didn’t realize he was holding his breath. He exhaled and inhaled, struggled for control of the panic that was swirling around in his stomach, threatening to explode.
“I swear to you. Nothing you can tell me or show me will change anything. Nothing.” Sam desperately wanted to believe that. But it just wasn’t possible. Sam’s vision swam. He wanted to run but Dean had a tight grasp on his bicep.
“Where do you want to start?” Dean asked, releasing Sam’s bicep and clasping Sam’s left hand firmly, entwining their fingers.
“I don’t,” Sam replied.
“I realize. You want me to pick?”
Silence. Minutes passed. Sam couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t choose to talk about this. Not even with Dean. Maybe especially not with Dean. He breathed and pushed the panic away yet again, then Dean spoke, “Ok, I’ll pick. How old were you when the beatings started?”
Sam’s right hand covered his face, now flushed dark red. He curled his legs up to his chest.
“Just tell me your age Sam, how old were you?” Dean asked gently, thumb stroking Sam’s hand encouragingly.
“Eight, I think I was eight,” it was said so softly that Sam himself wasn’t sure if it was spoken or thought. Which meant…slightly louder he asked, “How are you in my head? I don’t have a connection up.”
“Dana left a connection in place for me so I could check on you during the night, make sure you were okay. Don’t cut it yet. Can you lower your hand? I can’t see your eyes.” Dean’s voice was calm, almost serene. His mental touch was soothing, and Sam wanted to sink into it, but didn’t dare.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t want you in here. You’re getting too much feedback.”
“Feedback. Good word. Exactly what I want. So, you think you were eight?”
Sam’s stomach clenched. Dean sent calm at him, warmth, light. “Don’t want to talk about this Dean, really don’t.”
“I get that babe, loud and clear,” Dean acknowledged. He lifted their joined hands and kissed Sam’s fingers. “Why were you beaten at eight?”
Sam sighed, gave in, “I was little, scrawny, probably underfed. He beat me because…I think it was because I was small for my class, didn’t do well with physical things. Don’t really remember specifically.”
“So, when you go weeks without eating, you’re reliving this somehow?”
“That is kind of psychoanalytical for you, isn’t it Dean?” Some of Sam’s chest tightness loosened all of a sudden. He was able to take a deep breath.
Dean produced half a smile. “Good, I knew you were in there somewhere. How often were you beaten when you were that young?”
“Not often,” Sam paused then it rushed out, almost involuntarily, “Mostly I was locked in the hall closet, sometimes for a couple of days.”
Sam saw the memory tumble out from the depths and went to wall off Dean. Dean pushed back, It’s okay to let me see. Images of a small boy, crying and begging, wetting his pants, thirsty, frightened, flooded their thoughts. Welts and bite marks covered his legs. The door to the closet closed and the image was lost to the dark.
Sam turned his head away from Dean. Dean reached for his face, moved closer, kissed his forehead and turned his face back. No shame. I’m glad you shared that. I can handle it.
Sam looked up and saw the wet in Dean’s eyes and felt the moisture rise in his own. Dean leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. I love that little boy, ya know? He was brave and strong…..Enough for now. Dean moved to wrap his arms around Sam but Sam pulled away.
“You saw me kill Tabitha.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
They laid there looking at each other, air thick around them. Sam studied Dean’s face, looking for shock, revulsion, anything. Dean stared back placidly, not even raising an eyebrow.
Dean broke the silence first, “The demon in you killed Tabitha, Sam. There is a difference. But enough for now.”
Dean pulled Sam close, wrapped his arms around his waist, rested his head on Sam’s shoulder. “We can do this Sam. Together.”
Title: Together
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean
Author: My friend M
Rating: R- for theme
Summary: The morning after Intervention, Sam is having difficulty coping, and Dean gets caught in his nightmare. When it's over, Dean wants Sam to talk about it. Sam...isn't exactly okay with that.
A/Ns & Warnings: This is all M, all I did was beta, but she wanted it here where it could live with it's siblings. She asks that I point out that, while one could read this on its own, it is really a part of an arc of stories that starts with Captivus, then Blowback and Intervention...and will likely have at least one more installment. This section has memories of child abuse and the brief mention of the death of a child.
Together
Starts 4-5 hours after end of Intervention:
In hindsight, a two hour session of sex had been a bad idea. Not the sex itself. That hadn't been bad as either an idea or in execution. That should have been filmed for posterity, the most physically aggressive sex they'd had in a decade, probably. They each ended up on all fours, Sam first on the bed and Dean second, kneeling on the floor, a couple of body-shaking orgasms a piece. Then, another half hour of tangled bodies and tongues buried in each other's mouths, rolling around and clinging to each other, sated, joyful. Hell, the sex had been off the fucking charts.....the timing though.....the timing had been all wrong.
They had managed to tidy the room a bit, straightened the sheets, wiped each other clean and pulled on boxers before they wrapped limbs and minds and let sleep claim them.
Dean had some vague inkling as he sank into slumber that it had been way too much shit in one day for Sam. On some level he knew that Sam’s defenses were adrift. In response, he pulled Sam in tighter to his body, kissed his forehead and protectively wrapped his mind a bit closer around Sam’s.
A semi slammed into his body sometime after he’d fallen asleep, jolting him awake in anguish. Dean reached for his head when a second truck broadsided him and sent him flying into the wall across the room. The next thing he knew he was sprawled on the floor, his head ringing, feeling like sharp spikes were being driven into his skull.
He struggled to sit but dark images clouded his vision and he couldn’t figure which way was up to pick his head up off the floor. He pushed back on it, struggled for control of the swirling dark and light, color and blankness. The abstract colors and light came into focus and he saw Sam on all fours submitting to a brutal beating. Dean tried again to extricate himself but couldn’t budge and couldn’t push it away. Then, the images starting flying past like a film gone wild.
Sam on his knees, head bowed, long, red, ugly welt marks decorating his back.
Sam begging to be released as the Harrier’s claws tore his right shoulder open, blood spurting.
Sam opening his arms wide, ghastly smile on his face, welcoming the demon into his body. Thanking the demon for honoring him.
A young Sam, tied face down on a cold cement floor, naked and freezing, begging for his father.
Sam’s hands around the throat of a dying young child
The bile rose in Dean’s throat as the realization dawned that he was trapped in Sam’s nightmare. Dean pushed at the images but couldn’t make them stop. To counteract, he tried to conjure good images but couldn’t hold them against the onslaught. The pain was overwhelming – he had to get out. So he pushed against Sam, fought to get Sam to release him.
Dean heard an audible popping sound and he was out, the images ceased instantly.
He looked up and saw Sam in a ball on the bed, holding himself, crying out, sweat soaked.
Sharply, “Sammy.” The dizziness prevented Dean from standing so he crawled across the floor to the bed. “Wake up Sam. Let it go,” he ordered.
“Sammy.” He was louder, insistent, shaking Sam.
Sam’s eyes blinked, his body recoiled and he fell out of the bed. He tried to crawl but collapsed forward and heaved. And kept heaving, losing his hard-fought dinner and dessert.
Dean scrambled across the bed and onto the floor, wrapping his arms around Sam’s chest and holding his head, keeping Sam’s face out of the growing puddle, keeping him from choking on it as it poured out of him. Dean touched Sam’s mind lightly. The ugly images had ceased, or retreated, but a cacophony of pain and guilt was left behind.
You’re okay babe. Just too many Oreos. You’re okay. Dean tried for the most relaxed tone he could muster, swallowing the panic that rose like bile from his gut.
Sam responded to his voice, pulling himself mentally toward Dean, toward comfort. Dean saw the pieces of the event slowly click into place in Sam’s head. Then shock swept across Sam.
You saw.
Dean felt Sam retreat, physically as well as mentally trying to escape the reality that Dean had been stuck in the nightmare, had seen all of it…the awful truth…first hand.
Sam struggled mightily, trying to push Dean away and erect a barrier to push it all down, hide it…make it all go away. But his defenses were shot and it wasn’t working. Dean sensed Sam mentally flailing, images and thoughts fluttering around them, disconnected, rapidly firing and disorienting.
Then, Dean experienced more than saw a yellow light develop in Sam’s disjointed mind. Sam desperately tried to escape, mentally twisting and moving away, but it kept coming, growing…and at the last moment Sam pushed Dean urgently up and out of his head. Dean felt the world tip under him, his sense of up and down shattered and he reached frantically for Sam, “Focus Sam. Focus.” But, Sam couldn’t manage it, maybe couldn’t even hear him.
A second later Sam seized, rigid and twisting on the floor.
The seizure sent out a swell of psychic energy that blasted through Dean, tossing him against the bed. It beat against him and there was nothing he could do to stop it as he felt a searing pain rip across the nearly healed scars on his chest and his cheek, followed by wetness. He swallowed down a scream, his body in agony, as he focused his energy on getting back to Sam.
The door burst open and Dana and John came flying through a second later. They had been downstairs when Dean had last seen them. John had been teaching Dana how to bluff at poker.
The wave emanating from Sam stopped dead as soon as Dana crossed the threshold.
“What the hell?” John looked at Dean, saw him dazed and bleeding propped on the side of the bed. “You’re covered in blood.”
“Holy fuck,” Dana muttered, eyeing the mess of her two men covered in vomit, blood and sweat.
Dean hung his head, catching his breath. His chest burned like a motherfucker, the recent scar ripped open and bleeding as if it was brand new. Same on his cheek but less severe. He inched toward Sam. It’s ok. You hear me. It’s ok. Let it go.
Sam was mumbling, unintelligible words but definitely some kind of pleading.
Dana spoke up as she walked towards them, “I stopped the outward leaking. You’re safe Dad. You won’t be hurt.” Dean inched closer, wanting to touch Sam, but afraid it would only set off another round.
Dana lowered herself to the floor, glanced over her father’s injuries and reached out to grab his hand. “He’s a mess in there. Let’s go in and stop this Dad. You can help.” Dean’s head throbbed and his body was sore and he wasn’t convinced he could do anything to help end this. “He’ll respond better to you than me, easier on him. Can you go in with me?” Dana’s voice was tender, concerned…none of her usual bravado.
“Yeah Yeah,” Dean winced as her hand squeezed on his. Dana’s mental touch was no more gentle as she shoved Dean into Sam’s head, entering in behind him, using Dean as a shield to hide her presence. The whole space was filled with Sam’s dark memories…with demons and death, beatings and blood. It sickened Dean, the suffering, the torment, the darkness, the cravenness - Sam’s past.
Is this what he lives with? Dean asked, appalled.
This is what he buries, replied Dana, closing her eyes.
Dana guided Dean. Showed him the right technique to push back and down. Showed him where. Dean gave an almighty push. The filth washed over him, seeped into him…and he pushed, and he held. Then it weakened, and with its grasp loosened, Dana dissipated it completely with a wave of light and a gentle touch.
Sam went limp on the floor, unconscious.
Dana pulled them out, spreading a trail of periwinkle in her wake as they departed.
Dean hung his head in relief. He could barely breathe from it…from the knowing it…seeing it…the chaos, the agony. His own head was reeling, trying to make sense of it, organize it into something manageable…as if anything like this was manageable.
John disappeared into the bathroom and Dean heard the tub running. John re-entered the room saying to Dana, “Seizure?”
“Yeah Papa but not like before, more of a reaction.” She was holding her head in her hands, sitting back on her heels. “Should’ve insisted on him letting me put up some walls after dinner. He couldn’t even construct a sentence easily. Should’ve known he had no fight left for trouble.”
“Not your fault,” Dean said, as he checked Sam’s pulse, stroked his hair. “He’s too exhausted, my fault. I pushed too hard.”
“Enough of the blame,” John reached to lift Sam from the floor. Sam twisted away, fighting to stay close to Dean, reaching out blindly for him. Dean let him capture a hand and held it while John repositioned.
“Help me out here Dana.” John and Dana managed to get Sam up, moving him slowly between them and into the bathroom. Dean rested his head back, looked at his bright red chest, the gash had stopped bleeding thankfully.
Dean heard the splash of water a few minutes later and Dana walked out. Her face was pale, but she smiled as she came to squat beside him. “Papa told me to get you fixed up.” She scrunched her nose at the smell, blood and vomit and bile. “Can we do that in my bathroom?”
Dean nodded
Sam stirred late morning. He was clear-headed, there was no real pain for the first time in who knows how long.
The Healing.
He reached mentally and touched its soft, squishy exterior eliciting a soft reverberation from his toes up through his stomach to his chest and warming his cheeks, Valium-like, without the mind-numbing side effects. He examined his hip and his eyes widened, the lack of pain wasn’t just psychic Vicodin; there was actually tissue repair occurring. Fucking miraculous. Maybe Dana was right in thinking he was blessed.
And, although his hip didn’t hurt, his ass burned like a bitch. Oh, yeah, the marathon romp last night. Sam smiled. He hadn’t managed to hold himself up on all fours in ages much less follow it with a lengthy hip-exhausting pounding of Dean. Lord, they are going to have to do that a lot to make up for lost time. His cock was strangely non-responsive to the seeringly hot memory. Sam held back a laugh. Dean had finally worn out his cock.
I did not wear out your cock.
Sam flipped over with a smile on his face and froze.
“Bandages?” he mumbled and the memory leaked out from behind its soft barrier. Sam’s eyes widened in dismay as he reached out to his prone brother, “Dean?”
Dean smiled softly, gently. Sam touched the barrier, sensing Dana’s touch…he pushed and the barrier collapsed; the horrible entirety of what had happened rushed in.
Nightmare. Dean. Dean inside the nightmare. Saw. Dean saw.
“Don’t you dare freak,” Dean shifted carefully to position himself to look right into Sam’s eyes. “I’m fine. Just a little surface tearing.”
“I…I did that,” Sam voice shook. Dean saw. Everything.
Dean’s voice was calm. “I want to talk about it Sam.”
“Nnnnnoooo,” Sam gasped, flipped over and moved to get out of bed, looking desperately around the room for his clothes.
“Don’t you move away from me. Don’t you dare. You hear me?” Dean’s tone was firm. Sam could feel Dean’s eyes bore into the back of his head. “We’re in this together.”
Sam felt the warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, comforting. It was everything he wanted, and everything he couldn’t handle.
“I can’t get up so you need to lay back down.” Sam sat on the edge of the bed, stuck in place then acquiesced and sat back, against the headboard, stiff, staring straight ahead.
“Dude, I can not see you up there. Get your butt down here.”
Sam scooted down slowly until he was flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Dean’s hand touched his face and turned it towards him with intent. His words were deliberate. “We talk about this. No more burying. No more Sam deals alone or not at all. We deal together.”
Sam blinked. “Breathe Sam.” Sam actually didn’t realize he was holding his breath. He exhaled and inhaled, struggled for control of the panic that was swirling around in his stomach, threatening to explode.
“I swear to you. Nothing you can tell me or show me will change anything. Nothing.” Sam desperately wanted to believe that. But it just wasn’t possible. Sam’s vision swam. He wanted to run but Dean had a tight grasp on his bicep.
“Where do you want to start?” Dean asked, releasing Sam’s bicep and clasping Sam’s left hand firmly, entwining their fingers.
“I don’t,” Sam replied.
“I realize. You want me to pick?”
Silence. Minutes passed. Sam couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t choose to talk about this. Not even with Dean. Maybe especially not with Dean. He breathed and pushed the panic away yet again, then Dean spoke, “Ok, I’ll pick. How old were you when the beatings started?”
Sam’s right hand covered his face, now flushed dark red. He curled his legs up to his chest.
“Just tell me your age Sam, how old were you?” Dean asked gently, thumb stroking Sam’s hand encouragingly.
“Eight, I think I was eight,” it was said so softly that Sam himself wasn’t sure if it was spoken or thought. Which meant…slightly louder he asked, “How are you in my head? I don’t have a connection up.”
“Dana left a connection in place for me so I could check on you during the night, make sure you were okay. Don’t cut it yet. Can you lower your hand? I can’t see your eyes.” Dean’s voice was calm, almost serene. His mental touch was soothing, and Sam wanted to sink into it, but didn’t dare.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t want you in here. You’re getting too much feedback.”
“Feedback. Good word. Exactly what I want. So, you think you were eight?”
Sam’s stomach clenched. Dean sent calm at him, warmth, light. “Don’t want to talk about this Dean, really don’t.”
“I get that babe, loud and clear,” Dean acknowledged. He lifted their joined hands and kissed Sam’s fingers. “Why were you beaten at eight?”
Sam sighed, gave in, “I was little, scrawny, probably underfed. He beat me because…I think it was because I was small for my class, didn’t do well with physical things. Don’t really remember specifically.”
“So, when you go weeks without eating, you’re reliving this somehow?”
“That is kind of psychoanalytical for you, isn’t it Dean?” Some of Sam’s chest tightness loosened all of a sudden. He was able to take a deep breath.
Dean produced half a smile. “Good, I knew you were in there somewhere. How often were you beaten when you were that young?”
“Not often,” Sam paused then it rushed out, almost involuntarily, “Mostly I was locked in the hall closet, sometimes for a couple of days.”
Sam saw the memory tumble out from the depths and went to wall off Dean. Dean pushed back, It’s okay to let me see. Images of a small boy, crying and begging, wetting his pants, thirsty, frightened, flooded their thoughts. Welts and bite marks covered his legs. The door to the closet closed and the image was lost to the dark.
Sam turned his head away from Dean. Dean reached for his face, moved closer, kissed his forehead and turned his face back. No shame. I’m glad you shared that. I can handle it.
Sam looked up and saw the wet in Dean’s eyes and felt the moisture rise in his own. Dean leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. I love that little boy, ya know? He was brave and strong…..Enough for now. Dean moved to wrap his arms around Sam but Sam pulled away.
“You saw me kill Tabitha.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
They laid there looking at each other, air thick around them. Sam studied Dean’s face, looking for shock, revulsion, anything. Dean stared back placidly, not even raising an eyebrow.
Dean broke the silence first, “The demon in you killed Tabitha, Sam. There is a difference. But enough for now.”
Dean pulled Sam close, wrapped his arms around his waist, rested his head on Sam’s shoulder. “We can do this Sam. Together.”
