Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ Bust a Move ( Chapter 15 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: selena281 
Non Anime: Supernatural Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 04.13.2012 | Pages: 3 | Words: 8.2K | Visits: 169 | Status: Work In Progress
Non Anime: Supernatural Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 04.13.2012 | Pages: 3 | Words: 8.2K | Visits: 169 | Status: Work In Progress
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Asylum
Supernatural, AU
Dean/Sam
Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.
*Disclaimer* I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.
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Ch. 15: Bust a Move
“So,” Sam said quietly as he skimmed the books lining the metal shelving, “this is the library...”
Dean came up to stand next to him. “Told you it wasn't impressive.”
“Not as bad as you made it sound, though. There's history, science, modern mechanics--”
“Yeah, read that one.” Dean nodded, referring to the book on auto repair.
“What exactly were you looking for, then?” Sam glanced at him, studying his face. “There's some variety here, so it had to be something specific.”
Dean shook his head. “I just read through all the stuff that was mildly interesting and ran out.” He wasn't ready to bring up the supernatural stuff again, or hear Sam tell him he might be completely off his rocker. So, he wasn't going to mention how he'd scoured the library for books on the topic of ghosts and such.
Grey eyes narrowed. “You're lying.”
Dean shrugged off his suspicion. “Why would I lie about that?”
“I don't know,” Sam persisted, “but you are.”
Dean gave him a gimlet stare. “And how would you know whether I was lying? Your dreams tell you something like that, too?” It was a snotty thing to say, he'd admit. But Sam could be like a freaking bull terrier when he got something in his teeth. He just wanted to throw him off this subject and bypass the whole mess.
Sam rolled his eyes in irritation. “No,” he said. “I just know. You do this... thing.”
“Thing?” Dean said skeptically, raising his eyebrows in an obnoxious manner.
Sam shook his head, trying to put it into words. “You start acting all calm, cool, and nonchalant. And you get kind of obnoxious, sometimes, like people could kiss your ass and you'd be doing them a favor.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean said, making a show of looking over the books, though he'd done it countless times before. There was nothing new here.
“See? Just like that,” Sam muttered. “You start acting like a dick.”
Dean caught at Sam's shoulder, turning him roughly so they were face to face. He glared at his brother. “You got something to say to me?”
“Yeah,” Sam said in a harsh whisper, eyes tracking as some other people drifted into the room. He looked back at his brother, like he was willing him to come clean. “Why are you lying to me?”
“I'm not lying to you,” Dean bit out.
“You're doing it right now,” Sam accused him. “Didn't you notice how pissed off I got at you last time you did that shit, or doesn't that register on your scale of things to give a fuck about?”
“Oh, so now you're going to tell me what I do or don't care about?” he challenged him. Now this was getting under his skin - Sam was really dragging out the `we're not related' lie like a fucking show pony? When Sam knew why he'd had to lie about that, and that Bobby had practically twisted his arm to do it? Not only that, he could barely even stand to think about how he'd felt when Sam had found out they were related and confronted him over it. It had been horrible. Beyond horrible. He'd felt like his entire world was on the verge of shattering and that he couldn't do anything to stop it. “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” he said, deadly serious, staring back at his brother with hell in his eyes. Sam had some nerve trying to tell him what he didn't give a fuck about, especially that.
Sam looked down, unable to hold his gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered uncomfortably.
“Forget about it,” he said shortly.
Damnit, now he was feeling restless as hell. He was still pissed, and Sam looking like a beaten puppy wasn't really helping. It made him feel like he'd been a dick. Which maybe he had been, but that still didn't mean Sam could get away with saying whatever the hell he felt like. “I'm going over to the gym. I'll see you later.”
“Dean,” Sam appealed, shooting him a soulful look that was even worse than the abused puppy look.
Dean shook it off and left anyway. He had to. Things were getting confusing. He didn't know how to act. His defenses kept popping up and small things were setting him off. Most of all, he was having trouble in that he didn't know how to classify Sam or how to treat him. He'd never tried being with someone he actually cared about personally. And he'd never cared about anyone as much as he cared about his brother, except maybe his parents. Should he treat him like a brother? Like a lover? Like some freak hybrid of the two? But he couldn't even be sure about the `lover' thing. He wasn't exactly an expert in relationships that lasted longer than a one night stand.
Damnit, the whole thing was just weird.
And who could he talk to about it? No one.
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling frustrated. Sam was right, they needed to talk. All they had was each other to work this stuff out, but it seemed that all they kept doing is having petty little fights.
Maybe after he worked off some steam at the gym, he could try again. He couldn't blame Sam for getting pissed about being lied to, even though it was for a good reason.
It looked like he wouldn't be able to keep secrets and have things be okay between them. Lies were starting to look like the wedges that could break them apart, no matter how well intended they might be. He'd have to come clean and deal with whatever Sam's reactions were instead of hiding behind misdirection.
He'd have to tell him more about the hunting, about his research, and probably about his time in the mental hospitals.
Argh, he thought. Really not looking forward to that.
---
Sam stayed in the library, sprawled in a chair, brooding.
Today had not been going in any anticipatable fashion. Last night, he was really under the impression that if anyone would have a problem with this thing between him and his brother, it would be himself. Dean, on the other hand, had seemed resigned and accepting for the most part. He'd also been the one to keep pushing the bill and forcing things along.
Anyone would look at his behavior up until last night and figure he was fine with it. Yet today, he'd been going through moods like candy.
Sam leaned his head upon the back of the chair and regarded the ceiling. It was unimpressive.
He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of things. How was it Dean could look like he wanted to avoid him one minute, be mad the next, then somewhere in-between be looking at him like he wanted nothing more than to jump his bones?
It was obvious his brother was having issues.
It was also just as obvious that attempts to talk with him were meeting with a spectacular rate of failure.
He didn't know what to do. It seemed like everything was just getting more complicated. Was giving in to this thing between them actually going to break them apart?
But how could he fight something like this? It hadn't felt wrong when it had just been him and Dean in the heat of moment. He'd succumbed to the temptation of those lips on his and the wet, passionate caresses of that mouth as he sank into it. He hadn't cared about abstract concepts such as wrong or right. He knew what he wanted.
And what he wanted scared him.
He needed to talk to Dean. He couldn't fight this without help.
If Dean didn't put a stop to it... it was going to get so much worse. But what if Dean didn't want to put a stop to it?
He wet his lips unconsciously. It was something they just needed to figure out, and get on the same page with.
Maybe I should go look for him.
Sam didn't know where the gym was, but that's where Dean had been headed. It was his best bet for finding him at the moment.
He scraped himself up out of the chair and made his way out of the library. The hallway looked about the same on the left as it did on the right. He shrugged and went left. Soon, he'd need to get a better understanding of the layout of this place.
“Campbell?” an authoritative voice said from behind him.
He turned, seeing an orderly. “Yes?”
“Come with me, please,” the man who was built like a truck said.
“Uh,” Sam said, face twitching into a frown. “Okay...” He didn't want any trouble, so he decided to cooperate. With reluctance, he followed the orderly.
They walked in silence for a good five minutes before Sam asked, “Where are we going?”
“Doc wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” Well, this was nothing new. Bobby had called for him before. Though he thought it was Dean he'd wanted to see today. Maybe plans changed.
“Through there,” the man said, pointing him through a door that looked vaguely familiar.
Sam shrugged, turning the handle, and going inside. He was instantly hit with a chill as he recognized the room to be the infirmary. The pale bluish floor and the dingy quality of light was just like last time. Again, the room seemed empty. He immediately turned on his heel to go right back out again but the way was blocked. “I'm not staying in here,” he said shortly. “I'll meet him in his office.” This place gave him the creeps.
“You'll wait here,” the orderly said, closing the door. “The doctor will be along shortly.”
“No,” Sam argued, grabbing the handle and pulling against it with all his might. It dragged slowly shut, regardless. “No, dam nit!”
Hands closed upon his arms, two orderlies appearing out of nowhere to restrain him and pull him from the door and deeper into the room. He fought their icy hold instinctively, making them practically drag him. “I shouldn't be here,” he said. “Why am I here? Hey!”
The orderlies had no distinguishing features other than being incredibly strong. It was almost like they were faceless, living manacles. “The doctor will be along shortly,” one of them said tonelessly.
He shivered as the room got colder. He had to be under an air vent or something.
“Samuel,” a pleasant voice said from behind him. He was still facing the way out, his back to the rest of the room. “How nice to see you again.”
His body went rigid and he looked over his shoulder, vision swimming as he saw the bearded form of Dr. Walter. His teeth clenched and old, ingrained training from long ago told him he did not want his back to this man. His feet slid upon the floor as he tried to turn to face him, but the orderlies' grip was unyielding. “Why am I here?” he said again, trying to stay calm. “I didn't do anything.”
“Well, that is a matter of perspective,” the doctor said with a smile. “You see, Sam Winchester, it's not so much what you might have done, though I'm certain there is something; it is more a matter of what you will do... and what you will become.” His voice was threatening in the way it was so carefully modulated, the tones light and so evenly paced that it was almost lulling. It was a voice crafted to make other people believe the speaker was harmless or benevolent. It put Sam on edge.
“Dean is a bad influence on you,” the doctor continued regretfully, “as was John. They are bad eggs, Samuel.” He placed a cool hand upon Sam's forehead, tilting his head back and looking him in the eye. Sam's heart was beating within his chest like a caged thing. “It's in their blood, as it is in yours. It is only a matter of time before you sour in your shell, if you haven't already...” His eyes twinkled above his apologetic smile. “It's a family curse,” he said simply. “But maybe I can save you.”
Sam tried to shake off his hand, but his arms were stretched taut like a clothesline and he couldn't manage it. “You're fucking crazy,” he said angrily, seriously getting freaked out by the situation. What was wrong with these orderlies? Couldn't they see this was strange? Why weren't they doing anything?
Dr. Walter chuckled. “Surely you see it, Sam?” He switched to informal address then, as if that would suddenly make him more personable. “Their sickness? Their belief in all that is twisted and dark in the human imagination... it drives them to do things. Horrible things.”
“What are you talking about?” he ground out.
His head was rolled playfully side to side by a cold hand as the doctor continued. “Ghosts, werewolves, ghouls... countless things to hunt and kill, in the service of humanity. But did you ever stop to wonder what it would mean if they were killing these things, when they weren't even real? Did you ever stop to think, Samuel, what innocent people were dying at the hands of their delusions?”
Sam was breathing hard, not wanting to hear this. He was feeling sick and yet he couldn't tune it out, couldn't shake the words. It was like his dream, where Dean had killed Gordon, thinking him a monster, when he wasn't a monster at all. “Shut up” he said forcefully. “Shut up.”
“You know I'm right. You were the smart one. The brains of the family.” The cool hand left him and his head drooped to his chest in defeat. He couldn't make the words stop - he was a captive audience. And underneath it all, beneath his anger and frustration, buried under his resistance to listening to this man... was the festering seed of doubt. He could hear the muted click of the doctor's shoes upon the floor as he walked. “A full ride to Stanford. Quite impressive, Samuel. A lawyer. What promise you showed the world with your efforts. And yet...” Dr. Walter stepped in front of him and crouched down to meet his eyes. “Here you are.” He slowly shook his head back and forth as he regarded Sam. “Following in your family's footsteps, one small push from the edge.”
“Why are you saying all of this to me?” Sam rasped. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
“Because I want to help you,” the doctor said with an earnest voice that Sam couldn't bring himself to trust. “John, and Dean... they don't want to be helped. They know in their guts that they are right, and nothing will change them. So, they will persist in their sickness, harming others and believing themselves to be martyrs to some higher cause.”
“But what if they're right?!” Sam said, trying to fight off the lulling cadence of the doctor's voice. “You could be wrong - maybe they aren't delusions at all.”
“It pains me to hear you say that, Sammy.”
Sam bit into his lip, tasting blood, the mocking sound of the nickname that only his family used ringing in his ears. “Don't call me that,” he said in a low voice, a surge of anger rushing through him. The name sounded wrong from the man's mouth, like it was being sullied somehow. How had he even known of it?
“Is it special to you?”
“Stop mocking me,” he growled.
The doctor tsked at him. “It seems to me that you display the same kind of volatile anger as your brother. That pervasive feeling of being caged, the one you are experiencing even now, is a delusion, Sam. It will only get worse and it isn't even real.”
Again with the changes in the way he was addressed. It was confusing. Before, it was always Samuel, Samuel, Samuel. All of a sudden it was Sam, Sammy, Sam, like curve balls, each name having a different feeling, a different meaning to him, and it took him time to adjust.
In a flash, it seemed, Dr. Walter had his head tilted back in an iron grip, a syringe poised at his neck. Panic nearly blinded Sam at the sight of the needle. “No, don't!” His feet slid and kicked but still the needle came closer.
“Relax,” the doctor soothed. “This will make it better. You'll be able to deal with the things inside of you.” His calm voice was contradicted by the unrelenting hold he had upon Sam and the words that sounded like brainwashing.
“No! No!”
His eyes rolled back in his head as the needle pierced his flesh and nausea welled up almost instantly as his vision started going black.
“You know, Samuel,” Dr. Walter said as he took the needle away and Sam's head fell heavily to his chest. Your father was there when your mother died.” He paused for effect. “Of course, you could be right in that the things he hunts are real. But what if you're wrong?”
Sam tried to fight off the darkness, but it was overpowering. Dad...
“What if...” came the careful, snakelike whisper in his ear, “it was those very delusions that she and your girlfriend died for?”
---
“Sammy,” a voice called, distorted and weak as it filtered through Sam's consciousness. It pierced him like a knife, feelings welling up in response like a rebellion; fear, doubt, anxiety. “Sam.”
Arms slid under his back and lifted him up, making his head roll. He groaned, the nausea creeping up on him again.
“Sam, it's me,” the voice said. “Can you hear me? It's Dean.”
Sam made an effort to open his eyes. Tension was rattling through him with intensity, pressing in on his chest as he drew short breaths. He saw white - white ceiling, white walls. He was in their room, he gathered, being held upright. Green eyes swam into view, setting off a chain reaction in him. He tried to push away from where he was being held against his brother's chest. Feelings suffocated him; reassurance, safety, desire, and pervasive, paranoid fear.
“Let go,” he said in a gravelly voice.
He could feel it now, they were on one of the beds, and Dean was holding him cradled in his arms like he was dying.
His eyes felt so heavy. He couldn't keep them open. And he couldn't make his limbs do much of anything.
“Just sleep it off, Sammy,” Dean said quietly, not letting go, soothing him with his familiar voice. “It's okay. It'll be better when you wake up again.”
The disjointed feelings of fear subsided and Sam relaxed little by little.
“That's it. Just go to sleep.”
---
Sam woke up some time later to a dark room. He slid slowly into a sitting position, putting a hand to his head. Dean was asleep next to him, his brows creased in a worried expression.
Last thing he remembered was being in the infirmary. He couldn't really remember why he'd been there, though. His memory was a wash of sickly blue linoleum tile, and claustrophobic anger.
Dean stirred. “Sam?”
“Hey,” Sam said, trying to figure out what the weird flashes of fear he kept getting were. They hadn't been there before. It was like when he was remembering the accident with his mom, back when he first got here. There was this feeling of unease, and these disturbing, ominous tremors to his thoughts.
He wasn't afraid of Dean. He knew that, and yet it was almost like he was expecting his brother to do something crazy and violent at any moment. The feeling jumped to the fore as soon as Dean did anything so much as twitch. It wasn't normal. Something was seriously off.
“Sammy, what happened?” Dean was suddenly awake and sitting up next to him. A hand rested upon his shoulder. “When I got back from Bobby's after the gym, you were laying on your bed looking like you were cracked out of your mind.”
“I don't know.” He pressed a fist into his eyes, seeing a face swimming before him. Twinkling eyes, and a placating, horrid voice.
“Someone gave you something, didn't they?” Dean said with bridled anger. “Who was it?”
“I don't know,” Sam said again. “I feel tired, and weird. I just want to sleep.”
“But you've been sleeping for over nine hours.” Dean said, sounding incredulous.
He shrugged and the effort cost him.
“Never mind,” Dean said, making him lay back down. “Just sleep till you're done.”
“Sorry,” Sam said as his eyes grew heavy, not sure why he was even apologizing.
---
Sam was dreaming again. He knew this somehow, a gut feeling, but it was a fleeting knowledge that grew faint and out of reach as he saw bloodied images and familiar faces.
Dad... Dean...
He saw them both, dressed in dark clothes, guns in hand, sneaking up upon something in the dark and communicating with hand signals. His dad was wearing Dean's leather jacket. No, not Dean's... he'd seen his father wearing it before, when he was young. I'd forgotten that was actually Dad's... haven't seen him in so long... Dean was wearing something else, something like an army jacket, form-fitting and utilitarian. His face was a blank mask, his eyes quick and alert as he loaded something into his gun by feel.
And then the dream was repeating from where it started. Everything was a mess of rapid movements, the ringing of shots, and blood. So much blood.
“Did you get it?” John asked, panting a little.
“Yeah, I got it,” Dean said. His face was sprayed in red and his green eyes looked strange - distant - broken.
John trudged over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, and the look vanished. “Good work, son.”
Dean flashed him a smile that wilted on the edges as soon as his father moved past him to the Impala. He stared into the night with a fixed gaze, a frown forming in the smile's place.
“You coming, Dean?” John called out, half in the car.
“Yeah.”
Sam watched his brother's face go carefully blank again, and a shrug twitch his shoulders briefly before he turned towards the Impala.
The dream faded and Sam found that he was not where he'd thought he was. He was in bed, but Dean was nowhere around and it wasn't even their room that he was in. Creeping anxiety began to flicker in his chest and in his gut as he recognized the cold, impartial walls of the infirmary.
Pain seared the crook of his arm, making him gasp through clenched teeth, and he saw a syringe sticking into his inner arm, held by firm, cold hands. His head swam as the plunger was depressed, shooting something into his vein little by little, and his stomach turned. He hated needles. Really, really hated them. He had worked on controlling his responses to them over the years and no longer reacted with a full panic attack, but he could feel it crawling just underneath the ice of his self-restraint. He was shaking and tension gripped his limbs. His heart was beating a sick cadence in his head. He barely had it in check.
“I'd like you to tell me more,” a pleasant voice said as the needle violated his flesh, stinging, stinging within his vein. Sam fought against it and found that he was bound to the bed. Leather straps cuffed his wrists and a band across his chest held him down. “Anything you want. About your father, about Dean... anything at all.”
Fuck you.
“I've been having these dreams.” Sam heard himself speak, but the words were disconnected from his thoughts. It was like he was trapped in his own head. He refused to cooperate with doctor Walter who was sitting at his bedside like a vampire, and yet, he couldn't say what he wanted.
“Go on.”
“Sometimes they seem so real. Like they are real.”
Sam thought his voice sounded flat and almost... trance-like.
“Do you believe them to be?” Dr. Walter asked. He had a pen poised over a notebook, and while his posture seemed relaxed, he gave the impression of being entirely too attentive.
“Maybe,” Sam's voice said in even, plodding tones. “But I don't want them to be. They scare me.”
“And what do you see?”
“Blood, sometimes. Death. Monsters.” His voice hitched and he fell silent.
“But that isn't all, is it, Samuel?” Dr. Walter prodded. “You see yourself, don't you? And your family?”
Sam's teeth ground together. He didn't want to talk about that. He refused to let anything out about the dreams he'd had with him and Dean. He couldn't afford to let the doctor know about the turn their relationship had taken, or the violence he'd seen. He'd incriminate them both. “I... don't want to...”
Gaining control of his own mouth was nearly impossible.
“What do you see?”
“No,” Sam fought the doctor's placating, forceful voice. “I won't...”
“You must. You do not have a choice, Samuel. But don't worry, you are safe here.”
Sam tried to shake his head, biting his lip against the words that kept trying to spill out.
The doctor's hand alighted upon his brow, smoothing the hair back from his face, making him twitch. He leaned in towards Sam. “Just as stubborn as they were,” he mused softly. “But you can't fight the chemicals in your blood forever, Sam. You'll spill your secrets eventually.” Sam wanted to shake the man's clinical touch from him and flee his disturbing voice. “But fear not, this will all fade from waking memory soon enough.”
Sam felt his perceptions growing hazy and he became less present.
“Tell me about John,” the doctor said, switching tracks and leaning back again. He was going for an easier subject, one that Sam wouldn't feel compelled to fight so hard against, so he could get the flow of words going again. “Tell me about how he raised you boys.”
“He wasn't around much,” Sam's voice answered mechanically. Sam was only marginally aware of it. He felt so tired all of a sudden. “He taught me how to shoot and how to protect myself... but it was mostly just my brother and me. Dean took care of me.”
“Did your father tell you what he was doing when he went away?”
“He was hunting...” Sam's voice paused. “He didn't tell me things, like what he was hunting. Dean knew, I think. But he wouldn't tell me either. They didn't tell me much of anything.”
“Did you feel helpless, being treated like that? Or did you feel protected?”
“I don't know.”
“Why do you think they were keeping secrets from you?”
“I-I don't know,” Sam said, frustration creeping into his pale voice.
“Maybe little Sammy was too delicate for such work?” the doctor suggested. “Or was he too like his mother? Too likely to question such behavior, like she did, instead of falling in line like a good soldier?”
“Dean,” Sam whispered, barely audible. He felt a tear roll from the corner of his eye. How hard it had to have been for him. His brother had always followed his father's every whim, set on making the old man proud. And he'd always had such a harsh, desperate expression on his face when Sam had questioned him on their dad, his training and what they were hunting. `You don't want to know, Sammy. Trust me.'
“Yes,” Dr. Walter said, “your brother was good at following orders, wasn't he?” He paused as Sam closed his eyes. “Do you think that made your father love him more, or did it just make it more apparent that you were the coddled favorite? How painful that must have been for him. How desperately he must have resented you all of these years.”
Pressure clamped down on Sam's chest and he felt like he couldn't breathe. There was nothing actually touching him though, only panic.
“And reunited at last, after you've spent years living a normal life.” The doctor tsked at him. “I think he's probably ready to drag you into the world he used to protect you from. All the dark, twisted and strange things he's had swirling around in that head of his, the very things that keep him here... he's ready to drown you in them and see if you don't go as crazy as he did.”
“Sammy, wake up!” a low voice said firmly. It didn't fit in here.
Sam shook his head, misery snaking through him. Did Dean resent him? He could understand it if he did, but...
“Just remember, Samuel, he has blood on his hands,” Doctor Walter said. “So much blood.”
“Sam! Wake the hell up, you hear me?”
Strong hands were shaking him and Sam slowly forced his eyes open. Dean was hovering over him, concern etched onto his face. They were in their room, like before.
Was I asleep?
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean muttered, sitting back. “Scared the hell out of me.”
“What do you mean?” Sam sat up carefully, feeling disoriented. He flexed his hands and looked about the room, trying to establish some sort of reasonable belief that he was actually really awake now.
“You were thrashing in your sleep and your whole body went rigid. It was like you were having an attack or something and I couldn't wake you up.”
“Sorry. I think I was dreaming.” He looked at Dean. “And maybe I still am. I can't always tell.”
“Well,” Dean seemed a little at a loss. “Would you dream about this?”
Sam frowned. “About wh--?” his words were cut off as Dean leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth unexpectedly. He honestly didn't know if he would dream something like this or not. Probably, he could, but he was certain he was awake. The soft press of lips upon his was inviting and desire lapped at his lower belly. Trepidation trickled in as well, but as he started to pull back, Dean moved with him. Almost as naturally as breathing, their mouths were parting and meshing, and Dean's hand was resting upon the back of his neck. Fear spiked like a warning, but it was like it wasn't even his own. It was that disembodied emotion that wasn't properly his, and it didn't have enough strength to burn through the mounting desire anyway.
Dean couldn't resent him, could he?
Not like this...
Sam kissed Dean harder, throwing all of his confusion and uncertainty into it, needing to be rid of it somehow. Dean pushed him down onto the bed, his mouth becoming more heated upon Sam's, and Sam did not protest the hand that trailed over his torso exploratively. It was warm and stirred pleasure in him as it stroked down his abdomen. He didn't stop it when it gingerly dropped lower, palming his need.
His hands clenched upon Dean, a moan in his throat.
He didn't know why he wasn't stopping it this time, only that he didn't want to. It didn't seem important just now, not more than the way Dean's hand felt upon him, making his heart speed in his chest and his lungs pump for more air. Clever fingers were working upon his aching flesh, pulling pleasure from his body nearly expertly, as if Dean knew exactly what he liked and how.
Sam knew he should fight it, that he shouldn't let Dean fall prey to this either, but he just couldn't.
He ran his hand down Dean's side tentatively, where his shirt had ridden up. His heart was in his throat as he considered it. He'd never done this before... But Dean's skin was intriguing to his curious fingertips as they traced down smooth contours of muscle and down the curve of his hip.
Dean broke the kiss as Sam stroked the soft skin of his lower belly, his breath catching in his throat. Sam lightly bit his own lip as his hand slipped lower and he touched upon the silken heat of more sensitive skin. It was hard beneath his hand and his face was flushing as Dean shuddered against him.
He started to hesitate, though his compulsion was to go farther out on a limb and discover exactly what his touch was capable of on this part of Dean that was so similar to and yet different from his own. The shape and feel of it, for one, and the length...
Dean's mouth began playing at his throat then, distracting, encouraging, and sharpening the ache in his gut. Not to mention the feeling of the bare skin of Dean's hand upon his own arousal as it moved beneath his waistband of his pants to stroke him.
“Uhn,” he groaned, starting to lose his head. Everything was becoming too hot. Dean's mouth on his neck, the way Dean was touching him, and even the way it felt to have Dean's arousal in his own hand. He could feel tension ripple through his brother as he stroked him off, he could hear every change in his breathing, and he was already learning what Dean seemed to react strongest to.
And every reaction his brother gave him was turning him on more, unbearably so. He sought Dean's mouth and sank inside, needing the hot wet heat of it and the passionate slide of their tongues penetrating each other's lips; it seemed fitting, as they clung to each other, hands moving upon desperate flesh. It was an echo of the `more' that he wanted. The `more' that he was afraid of, yet wanted so badly. He ached unbelievably with the thought of it - with daring to go that far and having Dean's hard length sheathed and thrusting into his own body instead of his hand. He wanted it as much as he feared it.
Climax was jolting ever closer, present in the soft, insistent sounds that remained in the muffled container of their kiss, and the shaking shudder of their bodies.
No, he thought as he panted, Not `as much' as I fear it, I want it more.
Dean tensed against him, going rigid like a tightly strung bow and writhing against his body as release shot through him. God help me, I want it. Sam thought desperately as pleasure spiked sharply and he groaned through clenched teeth as he came.
---
TBC
A/N: Chapter title from Infected Mushroom - “Bust a Move”.
Asylum
Supernatural, AU
Dean/Sam
Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.
*Disclaimer* I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.
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Ch. 15: Bust a Move
“So,” Sam said quietly as he skimmed the books lining the metal shelving, “this is the library...”
Dean came up to stand next to him. “Told you it wasn't impressive.”
“Not as bad as you made it sound, though. There's history, science, modern mechanics--”
“Yeah, read that one.” Dean nodded, referring to the book on auto repair.
“What exactly were you looking for, then?” Sam glanced at him, studying his face. “There's some variety here, so it had to be something specific.”
Dean shook his head. “I just read through all the stuff that was mildly interesting and ran out.” He wasn't ready to bring up the supernatural stuff again, or hear Sam tell him he might be completely off his rocker. So, he wasn't going to mention how he'd scoured the library for books on the topic of ghosts and such.
Grey eyes narrowed. “You're lying.”
Dean shrugged off his suspicion. “Why would I lie about that?”
“I don't know,” Sam persisted, “but you are.”
Dean gave him a gimlet stare. “And how would you know whether I was lying? Your dreams tell you something like that, too?” It was a snotty thing to say, he'd admit. But Sam could be like a freaking bull terrier when he got something in his teeth. He just wanted to throw him off this subject and bypass the whole mess.
Sam rolled his eyes in irritation. “No,” he said. “I just know. You do this... thing.”
“Thing?” Dean said skeptically, raising his eyebrows in an obnoxious manner.
Sam shook his head, trying to put it into words. “You start acting all calm, cool, and nonchalant. And you get kind of obnoxious, sometimes, like people could kiss your ass and you'd be doing them a favor.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean said, making a show of looking over the books, though he'd done it countless times before. There was nothing new here.
“See? Just like that,” Sam muttered. “You start acting like a dick.”
Dean caught at Sam's shoulder, turning him roughly so they were face to face. He glared at his brother. “You got something to say to me?”
“Yeah,” Sam said in a harsh whisper, eyes tracking as some other people drifted into the room. He looked back at his brother, like he was willing him to come clean. “Why are you lying to me?”
“I'm not lying to you,” Dean bit out.
“You're doing it right now,” Sam accused him. “Didn't you notice how pissed off I got at you last time you did that shit, or doesn't that register on your scale of things to give a fuck about?”
“Oh, so now you're going to tell me what I do or don't care about?” he challenged him. Now this was getting under his skin - Sam was really dragging out the `we're not related' lie like a fucking show pony? When Sam knew why he'd had to lie about that, and that Bobby had practically twisted his arm to do it? Not only that, he could barely even stand to think about how he'd felt when Sam had found out they were related and confronted him over it. It had been horrible. Beyond horrible. He'd felt like his entire world was on the verge of shattering and that he couldn't do anything to stop it. “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” he said, deadly serious, staring back at his brother with hell in his eyes. Sam had some nerve trying to tell him what he didn't give a fuck about, especially that.
Sam looked down, unable to hold his gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered uncomfortably.
“Forget about it,” he said shortly.
Damnit, now he was feeling restless as hell. He was still pissed, and Sam looking like a beaten puppy wasn't really helping. It made him feel like he'd been a dick. Which maybe he had been, but that still didn't mean Sam could get away with saying whatever the hell he felt like. “I'm going over to the gym. I'll see you later.”
“Dean,” Sam appealed, shooting him a soulful look that was even worse than the abused puppy look.
Dean shook it off and left anyway. He had to. Things were getting confusing. He didn't know how to act. His defenses kept popping up and small things were setting him off. Most of all, he was having trouble in that he didn't know how to classify Sam or how to treat him. He'd never tried being with someone he actually cared about personally. And he'd never cared about anyone as much as he cared about his brother, except maybe his parents. Should he treat him like a brother? Like a lover? Like some freak hybrid of the two? But he couldn't even be sure about the `lover' thing. He wasn't exactly an expert in relationships that lasted longer than a one night stand.
Damnit, the whole thing was just weird.
And who could he talk to about it? No one.
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling frustrated. Sam was right, they needed to talk. All they had was each other to work this stuff out, but it seemed that all they kept doing is having petty little fights.
Maybe after he worked off some steam at the gym, he could try again. He couldn't blame Sam for getting pissed about being lied to, even though it was for a good reason.
It looked like he wouldn't be able to keep secrets and have things be okay between them. Lies were starting to look like the wedges that could break them apart, no matter how well intended they might be. He'd have to come clean and deal with whatever Sam's reactions were instead of hiding behind misdirection.
He'd have to tell him more about the hunting, about his research, and probably about his time in the mental hospitals.
Argh, he thought. Really not looking forward to that.
---
Sam stayed in the library, sprawled in a chair, brooding.
Today had not been going in any anticipatable fashion. Last night, he was really under the impression that if anyone would have a problem with this thing between him and his brother, it would be himself. Dean, on the other hand, had seemed resigned and accepting for the most part. He'd also been the one to keep pushing the bill and forcing things along.
Anyone would look at his behavior up until last night and figure he was fine with it. Yet today, he'd been going through moods like candy.
Sam leaned his head upon the back of the chair and regarded the ceiling. It was unimpressive.
He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of things. How was it Dean could look like he wanted to avoid him one minute, be mad the next, then somewhere in-between be looking at him like he wanted nothing more than to jump his bones?
It was obvious his brother was having issues.
It was also just as obvious that attempts to talk with him were meeting with a spectacular rate of failure.
He didn't know what to do. It seemed like everything was just getting more complicated. Was giving in to this thing between them actually going to break them apart?
But how could he fight something like this? It hadn't felt wrong when it had just been him and Dean in the heat of moment. He'd succumbed to the temptation of those lips on his and the wet, passionate caresses of that mouth as he sank into it. He hadn't cared about abstract concepts such as wrong or right. He knew what he wanted.
And what he wanted scared him.
He needed to talk to Dean. He couldn't fight this without help.
If Dean didn't put a stop to it... it was going to get so much worse. But what if Dean didn't want to put a stop to it?
He wet his lips unconsciously. It was something they just needed to figure out, and get on the same page with.
Maybe I should go look for him.
Sam didn't know where the gym was, but that's where Dean had been headed. It was his best bet for finding him at the moment.
He scraped himself up out of the chair and made his way out of the library. The hallway looked about the same on the left as it did on the right. He shrugged and went left. Soon, he'd need to get a better understanding of the layout of this place.
“Campbell?” an authoritative voice said from behind him.
He turned, seeing an orderly. “Yes?”
“Come with me, please,” the man who was built like a truck said.
“Uh,” Sam said, face twitching into a frown. “Okay...” He didn't want any trouble, so he decided to cooperate. With reluctance, he followed the orderly.
They walked in silence for a good five minutes before Sam asked, “Where are we going?”
“Doc wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” Well, this was nothing new. Bobby had called for him before. Though he thought it was Dean he'd wanted to see today. Maybe plans changed.
“Through there,” the man said, pointing him through a door that looked vaguely familiar.
Sam shrugged, turning the handle, and going inside. He was instantly hit with a chill as he recognized the room to be the infirmary. The pale bluish floor and the dingy quality of light was just like last time. Again, the room seemed empty. He immediately turned on his heel to go right back out again but the way was blocked. “I'm not staying in here,” he said shortly. “I'll meet him in his office.” This place gave him the creeps.
“You'll wait here,” the orderly said, closing the door. “The doctor will be along shortly.”
“No,” Sam argued, grabbing the handle and pulling against it with all his might. It dragged slowly shut, regardless. “No, dam nit!”
Hands closed upon his arms, two orderlies appearing out of nowhere to restrain him and pull him from the door and deeper into the room. He fought their icy hold instinctively, making them practically drag him. “I shouldn't be here,” he said. “Why am I here? Hey!”
The orderlies had no distinguishing features other than being incredibly strong. It was almost like they were faceless, living manacles. “The doctor will be along shortly,” one of them said tonelessly.
He shivered as the room got colder. He had to be under an air vent or something.
“Samuel,” a pleasant voice said from behind him. He was still facing the way out, his back to the rest of the room. “How nice to see you again.”
His body went rigid and he looked over his shoulder, vision swimming as he saw the bearded form of Dr. Walter. His teeth clenched and old, ingrained training from long ago told him he did not want his back to this man. His feet slid upon the floor as he tried to turn to face him, but the orderlies' grip was unyielding. “Why am I here?” he said again, trying to stay calm. “I didn't do anything.”
“Well, that is a matter of perspective,” the doctor said with a smile. “You see, Sam Winchester, it's not so much what you might have done, though I'm certain there is something; it is more a matter of what you will do... and what you will become.” His voice was threatening in the way it was so carefully modulated, the tones light and so evenly paced that it was almost lulling. It was a voice crafted to make other people believe the speaker was harmless or benevolent. It put Sam on edge.
“Dean is a bad influence on you,” the doctor continued regretfully, “as was John. They are bad eggs, Samuel.” He placed a cool hand upon Sam's forehead, tilting his head back and looking him in the eye. Sam's heart was beating within his chest like a caged thing. “It's in their blood, as it is in yours. It is only a matter of time before you sour in your shell, if you haven't already...” His eyes twinkled above his apologetic smile. “It's a family curse,” he said simply. “But maybe I can save you.”
Sam tried to shake off his hand, but his arms were stretched taut like a clothesline and he couldn't manage it. “You're fucking crazy,” he said angrily, seriously getting freaked out by the situation. What was wrong with these orderlies? Couldn't they see this was strange? Why weren't they doing anything?
Dr. Walter chuckled. “Surely you see it, Sam?” He switched to informal address then, as if that would suddenly make him more personable. “Their sickness? Their belief in all that is twisted and dark in the human imagination... it drives them to do things. Horrible things.”
“What are you talking about?” he ground out.
His head was rolled playfully side to side by a cold hand as the doctor continued. “Ghosts, werewolves, ghouls... countless things to hunt and kill, in the service of humanity. But did you ever stop to wonder what it would mean if they were killing these things, when they weren't even real? Did you ever stop to think, Samuel, what innocent people were dying at the hands of their delusions?”
Sam was breathing hard, not wanting to hear this. He was feeling sick and yet he couldn't tune it out, couldn't shake the words. It was like his dream, where Dean had killed Gordon, thinking him a monster, when he wasn't a monster at all. “Shut up” he said forcefully. “Shut up.”
“You know I'm right. You were the smart one. The brains of the family.” The cool hand left him and his head drooped to his chest in defeat. He couldn't make the words stop - he was a captive audience. And underneath it all, beneath his anger and frustration, buried under his resistance to listening to this man... was the festering seed of doubt. He could hear the muted click of the doctor's shoes upon the floor as he walked. “A full ride to Stanford. Quite impressive, Samuel. A lawyer. What promise you showed the world with your efforts. And yet...” Dr. Walter stepped in front of him and crouched down to meet his eyes. “Here you are.” He slowly shook his head back and forth as he regarded Sam. “Following in your family's footsteps, one small push from the edge.”
“Why are you saying all of this to me?” Sam rasped. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
“Because I want to help you,” the doctor said with an earnest voice that Sam couldn't bring himself to trust. “John, and Dean... they don't want to be helped. They know in their guts that they are right, and nothing will change them. So, they will persist in their sickness, harming others and believing themselves to be martyrs to some higher cause.”
“But what if they're right?!” Sam said, trying to fight off the lulling cadence of the doctor's voice. “You could be wrong - maybe they aren't delusions at all.”
“It pains me to hear you say that, Sammy.”
Sam bit into his lip, tasting blood, the mocking sound of the nickname that only his family used ringing in his ears. “Don't call me that,” he said in a low voice, a surge of anger rushing through him. The name sounded wrong from the man's mouth, like it was being sullied somehow. How had he even known of it?
“Is it special to you?”
“Stop mocking me,” he growled.
The doctor tsked at him. “It seems to me that you display the same kind of volatile anger as your brother. That pervasive feeling of being caged, the one you are experiencing even now, is a delusion, Sam. It will only get worse and it isn't even real.”
Again with the changes in the way he was addressed. It was confusing. Before, it was always Samuel, Samuel, Samuel. All of a sudden it was Sam, Sammy, Sam, like curve balls, each name having a different feeling, a different meaning to him, and it took him time to adjust.
In a flash, it seemed, Dr. Walter had his head tilted back in an iron grip, a syringe poised at his neck. Panic nearly blinded Sam at the sight of the needle. “No, don't!” His feet slid and kicked but still the needle came closer.
“Relax,” the doctor soothed. “This will make it better. You'll be able to deal with the things inside of you.” His calm voice was contradicted by the unrelenting hold he had upon Sam and the words that sounded like brainwashing.
“No! No!”
His eyes rolled back in his head as the needle pierced his flesh and nausea welled up almost instantly as his vision started going black.
“You know, Samuel,” Dr. Walter said as he took the needle away and Sam's head fell heavily to his chest. Your father was there when your mother died.” He paused for effect. “Of course, you could be right in that the things he hunts are real. But what if you're wrong?”
Sam tried to fight off the darkness, but it was overpowering. Dad...
“What if...” came the careful, snakelike whisper in his ear, “it was those very delusions that she and your girlfriend died for?”
---
“Sammy,” a voice called, distorted and weak as it filtered through Sam's consciousness. It pierced him like a knife, feelings welling up in response like a rebellion; fear, doubt, anxiety. “Sam.”
Arms slid under his back and lifted him up, making his head roll. He groaned, the nausea creeping up on him again.
“Sam, it's me,” the voice said. “Can you hear me? It's Dean.”
Sam made an effort to open his eyes. Tension was rattling through him with intensity, pressing in on his chest as he drew short breaths. He saw white - white ceiling, white walls. He was in their room, he gathered, being held upright. Green eyes swam into view, setting off a chain reaction in him. He tried to push away from where he was being held against his brother's chest. Feelings suffocated him; reassurance, safety, desire, and pervasive, paranoid fear.
“Let go,” he said in a gravelly voice.
He could feel it now, they were on one of the beds, and Dean was holding him cradled in his arms like he was dying.
His eyes felt so heavy. He couldn't keep them open. And he couldn't make his limbs do much of anything.
“Just sleep it off, Sammy,” Dean said quietly, not letting go, soothing him with his familiar voice. “It's okay. It'll be better when you wake up again.”
The disjointed feelings of fear subsided and Sam relaxed little by little.
“That's it. Just go to sleep.”
---
Sam woke up some time later to a dark room. He slid slowly into a sitting position, putting a hand to his head. Dean was asleep next to him, his brows creased in a worried expression.
Last thing he remembered was being in the infirmary. He couldn't really remember why he'd been there, though. His memory was a wash of sickly blue linoleum tile, and claustrophobic anger.
Dean stirred. “Sam?”
“Hey,” Sam said, trying to figure out what the weird flashes of fear he kept getting were. They hadn't been there before. It was like when he was remembering the accident with his mom, back when he first got here. There was this feeling of unease, and these disturbing, ominous tremors to his thoughts.
He wasn't afraid of Dean. He knew that, and yet it was almost like he was expecting his brother to do something crazy and violent at any moment. The feeling jumped to the fore as soon as Dean did anything so much as twitch. It wasn't normal. Something was seriously off.
“Sammy, what happened?” Dean was suddenly awake and sitting up next to him. A hand rested upon his shoulder. “When I got back from Bobby's after the gym, you were laying on your bed looking like you were cracked out of your mind.”
“I don't know.” He pressed a fist into his eyes, seeing a face swimming before him. Twinkling eyes, and a placating, horrid voice.
“Someone gave you something, didn't they?” Dean said with bridled anger. “Who was it?”
“I don't know,” Sam said again. “I feel tired, and weird. I just want to sleep.”
“But you've been sleeping for over nine hours.” Dean said, sounding incredulous.
He shrugged and the effort cost him.
“Never mind,” Dean said, making him lay back down. “Just sleep till you're done.”
“Sorry,” Sam said as his eyes grew heavy, not sure why he was even apologizing.
---
Sam was dreaming again. He knew this somehow, a gut feeling, but it was a fleeting knowledge that grew faint and out of reach as he saw bloodied images and familiar faces.
Dad... Dean...
He saw them both, dressed in dark clothes, guns in hand, sneaking up upon something in the dark and communicating with hand signals. His dad was wearing Dean's leather jacket. No, not Dean's... he'd seen his father wearing it before, when he was young. I'd forgotten that was actually Dad's... haven't seen him in so long... Dean was wearing something else, something like an army jacket, form-fitting and utilitarian. His face was a blank mask, his eyes quick and alert as he loaded something into his gun by feel.
And then the dream was repeating from where it started. Everything was a mess of rapid movements, the ringing of shots, and blood. So much blood.
“Did you get it?” John asked, panting a little.
“Yeah, I got it,” Dean said. His face was sprayed in red and his green eyes looked strange - distant - broken.
John trudged over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, and the look vanished. “Good work, son.”
Dean flashed him a smile that wilted on the edges as soon as his father moved past him to the Impala. He stared into the night with a fixed gaze, a frown forming in the smile's place.
“You coming, Dean?” John called out, half in the car.
“Yeah.”
Sam watched his brother's face go carefully blank again, and a shrug twitch his shoulders briefly before he turned towards the Impala.
The dream faded and Sam found that he was not where he'd thought he was. He was in bed, but Dean was nowhere around and it wasn't even their room that he was in. Creeping anxiety began to flicker in his chest and in his gut as he recognized the cold, impartial walls of the infirmary.
Pain seared the crook of his arm, making him gasp through clenched teeth, and he saw a syringe sticking into his inner arm, held by firm, cold hands. His head swam as the plunger was depressed, shooting something into his vein little by little, and his stomach turned. He hated needles. Really, really hated them. He had worked on controlling his responses to them over the years and no longer reacted with a full panic attack, but he could feel it crawling just underneath the ice of his self-restraint. He was shaking and tension gripped his limbs. His heart was beating a sick cadence in his head. He barely had it in check.
“I'd like you to tell me more,” a pleasant voice said as the needle violated his flesh, stinging, stinging within his vein. Sam fought against it and found that he was bound to the bed. Leather straps cuffed his wrists and a band across his chest held him down. “Anything you want. About your father, about Dean... anything at all.”
Fuck you.
“I've been having these dreams.” Sam heard himself speak, but the words were disconnected from his thoughts. It was like he was trapped in his own head. He refused to cooperate with doctor Walter who was sitting at his bedside like a vampire, and yet, he couldn't say what he wanted.
“Go on.”
“Sometimes they seem so real. Like they are real.”
Sam thought his voice sounded flat and almost... trance-like.
“Do you believe them to be?” Dr. Walter asked. He had a pen poised over a notebook, and while his posture seemed relaxed, he gave the impression of being entirely too attentive.
“Maybe,” Sam's voice said in even, plodding tones. “But I don't want them to be. They scare me.”
“And what do you see?”
“Blood, sometimes. Death. Monsters.” His voice hitched and he fell silent.
“But that isn't all, is it, Samuel?” Dr. Walter prodded. “You see yourself, don't you? And your family?”
Sam's teeth ground together. He didn't want to talk about that. He refused to let anything out about the dreams he'd had with him and Dean. He couldn't afford to let the doctor know about the turn their relationship had taken, or the violence he'd seen. He'd incriminate them both. “I... don't want to...”
Gaining control of his own mouth was nearly impossible.
“What do you see?”
“No,” Sam fought the doctor's placating, forceful voice. “I won't...”
“You must. You do not have a choice, Samuel. But don't worry, you are safe here.”
Sam tried to shake his head, biting his lip against the words that kept trying to spill out.
The doctor's hand alighted upon his brow, smoothing the hair back from his face, making him twitch. He leaned in towards Sam. “Just as stubborn as they were,” he mused softly. “But you can't fight the chemicals in your blood forever, Sam. You'll spill your secrets eventually.” Sam wanted to shake the man's clinical touch from him and flee his disturbing voice. “But fear not, this will all fade from waking memory soon enough.”
Sam felt his perceptions growing hazy and he became less present.
“Tell me about John,” the doctor said, switching tracks and leaning back again. He was going for an easier subject, one that Sam wouldn't feel compelled to fight so hard against, so he could get the flow of words going again. “Tell me about how he raised you boys.”
“He wasn't around much,” Sam's voice answered mechanically. Sam was only marginally aware of it. He felt so tired all of a sudden. “He taught me how to shoot and how to protect myself... but it was mostly just my brother and me. Dean took care of me.”
“Did your father tell you what he was doing when he went away?”
“He was hunting...” Sam's voice paused. “He didn't tell me things, like what he was hunting. Dean knew, I think. But he wouldn't tell me either. They didn't tell me much of anything.”
“Did you feel helpless, being treated like that? Or did you feel protected?”
“I don't know.”
“Why do you think they were keeping secrets from you?”
“I-I don't know,” Sam said, frustration creeping into his pale voice.
“Maybe little Sammy was too delicate for such work?” the doctor suggested. “Or was he too like his mother? Too likely to question such behavior, like she did, instead of falling in line like a good soldier?”
“Dean,” Sam whispered, barely audible. He felt a tear roll from the corner of his eye. How hard it had to have been for him. His brother had always followed his father's every whim, set on making the old man proud. And he'd always had such a harsh, desperate expression on his face when Sam had questioned him on their dad, his training and what they were hunting. `You don't want to know, Sammy. Trust me.'
“Yes,” Dr. Walter said, “your brother was good at following orders, wasn't he?” He paused as Sam closed his eyes. “Do you think that made your father love him more, or did it just make it more apparent that you were the coddled favorite? How painful that must have been for him. How desperately he must have resented you all of these years.”
Pressure clamped down on Sam's chest and he felt like he couldn't breathe. There was nothing actually touching him though, only panic.
“And reunited at last, after you've spent years living a normal life.” The doctor tsked at him. “I think he's probably ready to drag you into the world he used to protect you from. All the dark, twisted and strange things he's had swirling around in that head of his, the very things that keep him here... he's ready to drown you in them and see if you don't go as crazy as he did.”
“Sammy, wake up!” a low voice said firmly. It didn't fit in here.
Sam shook his head, misery snaking through him. Did Dean resent him? He could understand it if he did, but...
“Just remember, Samuel, he has blood on his hands,” Doctor Walter said. “So much blood.”
“Sam! Wake the hell up, you hear me?”
Strong hands were shaking him and Sam slowly forced his eyes open. Dean was hovering over him, concern etched onto his face. They were in their room, like before.
Was I asleep?
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean muttered, sitting back. “Scared the hell out of me.”
“What do you mean?” Sam sat up carefully, feeling disoriented. He flexed his hands and looked about the room, trying to establish some sort of reasonable belief that he was actually really awake now.
“You were thrashing in your sleep and your whole body went rigid. It was like you were having an attack or something and I couldn't wake you up.”
“Sorry. I think I was dreaming.” He looked at Dean. “And maybe I still am. I can't always tell.”
“Well,” Dean seemed a little at a loss. “Would you dream about this?”
Sam frowned. “About wh--?” his words were cut off as Dean leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth unexpectedly. He honestly didn't know if he would dream something like this or not. Probably, he could, but he was certain he was awake. The soft press of lips upon his was inviting and desire lapped at his lower belly. Trepidation trickled in as well, but as he started to pull back, Dean moved with him. Almost as naturally as breathing, their mouths were parting and meshing, and Dean's hand was resting upon the back of his neck. Fear spiked like a warning, but it was like it wasn't even his own. It was that disembodied emotion that wasn't properly his, and it didn't have enough strength to burn through the mounting desire anyway.
Dean couldn't resent him, could he?
Not like this...
Sam kissed Dean harder, throwing all of his confusion and uncertainty into it, needing to be rid of it somehow. Dean pushed him down onto the bed, his mouth becoming more heated upon Sam's, and Sam did not protest the hand that trailed over his torso exploratively. It was warm and stirred pleasure in him as it stroked down his abdomen. He didn't stop it when it gingerly dropped lower, palming his need.
His hands clenched upon Dean, a moan in his throat.
He didn't know why he wasn't stopping it this time, only that he didn't want to. It didn't seem important just now, not more than the way Dean's hand felt upon him, making his heart speed in his chest and his lungs pump for more air. Clever fingers were working upon his aching flesh, pulling pleasure from his body nearly expertly, as if Dean knew exactly what he liked and how.
Sam knew he should fight it, that he shouldn't let Dean fall prey to this either, but he just couldn't.
He ran his hand down Dean's side tentatively, where his shirt had ridden up. His heart was in his throat as he considered it. He'd never done this before... But Dean's skin was intriguing to his curious fingertips as they traced down smooth contours of muscle and down the curve of his hip.
Dean broke the kiss as Sam stroked the soft skin of his lower belly, his breath catching in his throat. Sam lightly bit his own lip as his hand slipped lower and he touched upon the silken heat of more sensitive skin. It was hard beneath his hand and his face was flushing as Dean shuddered against him.
He started to hesitate, though his compulsion was to go farther out on a limb and discover exactly what his touch was capable of on this part of Dean that was so similar to and yet different from his own. The shape and feel of it, for one, and the length...
Dean's mouth began playing at his throat then, distracting, encouraging, and sharpening the ache in his gut. Not to mention the feeling of the bare skin of Dean's hand upon his own arousal as it moved beneath his waistband of his pants to stroke him.
“Uhn,” he groaned, starting to lose his head. Everything was becoming too hot. Dean's mouth on his neck, the way Dean was touching him, and even the way it felt to have Dean's arousal in his own hand. He could feel tension ripple through his brother as he stroked him off, he could hear every change in his breathing, and he was already learning what Dean seemed to react strongest to.
And every reaction his brother gave him was turning him on more, unbearably so. He sought Dean's mouth and sank inside, needing the hot wet heat of it and the passionate slide of their tongues penetrating each other's lips; it seemed fitting, as they clung to each other, hands moving upon desperate flesh. It was an echo of the `more' that he wanted. The `more' that he was afraid of, yet wanted so badly. He ached unbelievably with the thought of it - with daring to go that far and having Dean's hard length sheathed and thrusting into his own body instead of his hand. He wanted it as much as he feared it.
Climax was jolting ever closer, present in the soft, insistent sounds that remained in the muffled container of their kiss, and the shaking shudder of their bodies.
No, he thought as he panted, Not `as much' as I fear it, I want it more.
Dean tensed against him, going rigid like a tightly strung bow and writhing against his body as release shot through him. God help me, I want it. Sam thought desperately as pleasure spiked sharply and he groaned through clenched teeth as he came.
---
TBC
A/N: Chapter title from Infected Mushroom - “Bust a Move”.