Slipping Through The Cracks

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: Adult

Year/Length: 2006/~1940 words

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Spoilers: The Pilot

Disclaimer: Sadly they belong to someone else. I merely play with them very gently.

Warning: Wincest

Summary: "I can't save you from your nightmares, Sammy. I would, if I could, but I don't know the way."

Beta: Huge thanks to el_gilliath and ailurophile6 for taking me in hand and making my words make some sense.

The little sounds wake me, as they have done every night since we left Stanford – little gasps, whimpers and moans that escape him as he dreams. I don't suppose he’s aware that he wakes me. I expect he'd be mortified if he ever did find out, but I can't help it – can't help lying awake here, listening to him grieve, knowing that there's nothing I can do for him but suffer with him and wait, and he all unknowing.

The night presses down on us, thick folds of darkness that hide the salt at the door and the shotgun on the dresser. I turn my head and look over to where Sam lies, head rolling from side to side as he tries to dislodge the course of the dream – shake loose its grip on him.

I know for a fact that he's only been asleep for a few minutes, and that he fights sleep even more bitterly than he fights the demons we hunt. I know it, because I've spent the last few months watching him prowl at night, watching him pace and channel surf and hold out until he can't stay awake another moment, and then I’ve woken night after night only to see him struggle, hear the words he cries out, raging impotently, knowing that there is no way to turn back the world and send him back to Jess, even if I wanted to.

The neon light out at the front of the motel sends a ghastly blue glow through threadbare curtains, and I can see his face, if I lift my head and turn toward him. I do so-as I've done so many times lately. I watch him writhe and struggle against the bedclothes; somehow I believe that keeping this vigil for him is my duty as much as it's my duty to take care of him, safeguard him.

Sam, Sammy, my Sam – I watched you grow up, saw you change year by year with your long, fine bones, thoroughbred body and sweet, stubborn face. From babe in arms to skinny, mutinous kid, to handsome, sleepy-eyed man, I've taken care of you almost since the day you were born, but now you seem to be going somewhere I can't reach you. I can't save you from your nightmares, Sammy. I would, if I could, but I don't know the way.

He bites off a cry, and it's all I can do to keep my own cries from resonating with his. I don't know what to do, how to help him. I'm not his mother, not his comfort zone. In many ways I believe he doesn't see me as a friend, but I guess them's the breaks when you have to stand in for mother and father too. Being his brother doesn't really stand a chance when there’s all that extra responsibility overlaying the relationship. He’s rejected what I had to offer twice now, and I've got no reason to suspect he might ever decide to change his mind. He left me when he headed out to Stanford, and he’s not interested in staying with me once he’s got his revenge.

His cheeks shine wet, and he whimpers, 'no,' and I can't stay aloof any longer. I throw back the bedclothes and cross to him.

"Sam?"

Deep in the throes of the dream that's killing him, he whimpers, but he doesn't seem to hear me. I lay a hand on his shoulder, feeling it damp with the sweat of fear, and try again. "Sammy? Come on, Sam!"

His eyes open, blank and black in the faint blue light, and he looks through me at the vision of the girl he loved as she burns. "No! Jess!"

"Come on, Sam, it's okay. You can stop now. Let it go." What do you say to a dreamer anyway? I want to shoot it – this thing that he sees, pump it full of rock salt, mercury and silver bullets, but I can only pat him impotently and try to make him see me instead of the fire.

"Dean?" The question is plaintive, his voice once again the Sammy that I cared for through the measles, and the bad dreams and the tummy aches. I lay my hand against his cheek, feeling it still slightly damp although the tears are almost dry now. It's the tears as much as the tone of his voice that make me slide down alongside of him, so that I can take him into my arms. It's the memory of my little brother with his skinned knees, and his insecurity with the start of each new school term - and each new school - that makes me offer him my warmth as a comfort, and I half expect him to cuss me out of his bed and back to my own, but he doesn't.

He pulls me close and buries his face in my neck, and he cries.

I'm used to his silent suffering – the grief expressed only by the set of his mouth and the lack of focus in eyes that stare with horror into the past. I'm not prepared for him to break down, but that is what he does. As the dam against his feelings is swept away once and for all, he cries, great gusting sobs that tear from him as he clings to me. At first I don't know what to do, and I pat him aimlessly, but he's too lost in his grief to notice how ham-handed I am, and after a while I forget that we don't touch each other any more and pull him hard against me, pressing my own face in tight against his hair as I pet him, stroke him, try my best to soothe him.

Time passes. I’m lost in the memories he brings back to me. My Sammy – the little boy who was so afraid of the monster in the closet, so afraid of the bullies in the playground, and yet fearless when facing Dad - or me. He’s so dear to me that I indulge for a moment in a little game of ‘might have been.’ Holding him in my arms like this, I let myself believe just for a moment that he’s mine and that he’s here to stay.

I think I doze, because I’m awoken suddenly by the touch of lips on mine.

It brings me awake with a start, fumbling for the knife that is under my pillow and out of reach. My left arm is asleep from the weight of him, and he’s half pinning me. His body is warm and taut, and I’m suddenly shivering as his mouth brushes mine, soft as a whisper.

"Sammy?" It’s hard to keep my voice steady. I can feel it wanting to rise to octaves it hasn’t reached since puberty, and I can’t stop my hands from shaking as I reach up to brush his hair away from his forehead.

"It’s okay, Dean," he murmurs, voice smoky-soft and tender, and something low in my belly melts at the sound.

I can’t speak – can’t think of anything to say; I just lie there, looking up at him. His eyes are puffy and swollen, and his face has tear tracks. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. He must see the question in my eyes, because he bends again to kiss me.

This time, I’m ready for him. I thread my fingers through his hair, cup the back of his head and deepen the kiss – no longer a swift brushing of lips but something more – a sinking of myself into him as our tongues touch, then slide, then dance a dance of sweet exploration.

It’s hard to let him go; I don’t quite know what’s happening between us, and I can only pray that it’s something we can both live with, once the light of morning turns it tawdry.

"Ease off there, Sammy, just for a minute. Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?"

Impossibly heavy lashes flicker once, and then open to reveal cool green doorways into hell. The arm around me tightens and those soft, expressive lips smile once, before moving forward again to fasten onto mine. There’s no way I can fight him. This is my Sammy, and I’ve wanted him since I was four and he was given into my arms.

My chest is tight. I can't breathe. His lips are sliding over mine, his head turning as he burrows into my mouth, tongue plunging between my lips as I jerk my head in protest. He's kissing the soul from out of my body. I struggle to get out from under him as his kiss continues, paring the flesh of my resolve away from my bones. As he continues to claim my mouth, hand playing with my hair, my ear, my neck, I am aware again of what I have known for as long as he has been in my life. He is mine and always has been.

In the end, I can’t fight him, can’t do anything but let him reduce me to the quivering mess that thoughts of him always do. I’m hard and trying not to let him know; although why I bother I don’t quite understand. He’s in control, as he always has been, and his hand slides down over me while I cling to him and pray that he won’t run from me once this is done.

His hand skims my hip, warm against my wanting skin. I gasp, and suddenly find my voice, only to murmur his name over and over as I gaze at him, the desperation in my eyes giving away just how much I want him.

His fingers slide down the groove between my thigh and belly, and my cock suddenly defies gravity, leaping and twitching, tenting my boxers, while his lips drift lazily down over my chin, tongue swirling, mouth drawing sensation from me until I writhe under his hands and beg him to touch me.

When at last he does, his hand slides into my boxers to take hold of me, knowing fingers stroking just the exact place to send a shiver through me, and I’m lost.

"God, Sammy, you…"

"Hush, Dean," he murmurs. "It’s all right. We can do this." His skin is flushed, his eyes are closed, the thick dark lashes curling sweetly onto his cheeks. His lips are parted and he shows just a glimpse of white teeth, pink tongue curled like a leaf gleaming wetly. I can only squirm out of my underwear and press myself against him, desperate to be close to him.

His hand presses his cock to mine and begins to move, thumb teasing as he drags us higher and higher. I bite my lip and moan, and he echoes me, shuddering together as we feel the sensations mount.

I can’t hold on any longer. Eyes fixed on him, I feel myself reach the peak and tip over, sticky fluids coating us both as I come. I want to tell him that I love him, but he knows, I can see it in his eyes; he’s always known it, and I can at least take pride in that.

There’s no sudden understanding between us. Sam smiles at me, tired now, and I smile back, and we sleep, nothing more. I can hold him at least for tonight, and when the morning comes, then we’ll see.

I watch as his eyes drift closed again, and kiss him on his forehead. My Sam. Mine now at last, where he always should have been.

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