Resisting Everything but Temptation

Title: These Things I Know Are True [on AO3]
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Wordcount: 4,700
Spoilers: through 6.22
Summary: Post 6.22, Sam's barely keeping it together, and Dean's trying to figure out where they go from here.
Notes: This is a direct result of me watching 5.18 and 6.21. I blame Winchesters. Thank you so much to laurificus for the super-speedy beta! (It's also a little bit of a fill for this prompt at the ohsam comment meme.)
Warnings: Schmoop, and also schmoop.

* * *

There are probably things Dean could be doing right now. It’s been less than three days since Cas went nuclear, and Dean's not gonna take any prizes when it comes to translating ancient texts, but almost anything would be more productive than what he is doing, which is sitting on the hood of his car in Bobby’s salvage yard with a case of beer for company, watching the shadows stretch along the ground.

It’s not like the alcohol really helps any more. Lisa was right about that, like so many other things; it just makes him feel worse, but it’s the only coping mechanism he’s got. They don’t make a pill for the kind of lives they lead, and there isn’t enough therapy in the world.

He’s not surprised when Sam finds him. Sam barely knows which way is up, half the time, but he still has a sixth sense when it comes to Dean. It goes both ways; Dean senses him coming before he hears him, feels him close before his long shadow falls across Dean’s arm.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“Hey.”

Sam gets himself a beer from the cooler and cracks it open, then hoists himself to sit next to Dean.

“Bobby know you’re out here?”

“Probably. Why you ask?”

“Think he wanted to go over something he found,” Sam says. “He didn’t say what.”

Dean’s stomach tightens at that, but he tries his best to ignore it. He and Bobby have been tip-toeing around Sam the last couple of days, scared that if they say the wrong thing, it’ll trigger another one of Sam’s flashbacks. They’re not as bad as the seizures, or the catatonia that freaks Dean out worse than almost anything, but they’re bad enough. The first time it happened, they were running from the explosion when Cas blew Crowley and Raphael’s little love nest apart, and Dean was forced to knock Sam out and carry him bodily away from there—no easy feat. He’d been half-terrified Sam wouldn’t wake up.

“We can’t keep relying on Bobby like this,” Sam says then.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, one of us locked in the panic room every time something goes wrong. I mean, half the time he’s in danger, it’s because of us. I mean you drinking up all his whiskey. It’s a lot to ask.”

Dean reads between the lines, and gets what Sam’s saying. Dean doesn’t consider Sam the liability he thinks he is, but he doesn’t exactly disagree. Bobby won’t ever turn them away—they’re family—but it is hard on him, dealing with them and all their issues. It’s not fair to him. And it’s worse since that dickbag walking around wearing Sam’s face tried to kill him.

Dean grunts in answer, not ready to think about leaving the only home they have right now, the only place that feels remotely safe, even if that is an illusion.

Sam lays a hand on the Impala’s hood, flattening his palm like he’s feeling for a heartbeat. “She running okay?”

The heaviness in Dean’s stomach eases a little. “Yeah. Few hoses, some broken windows, few dents I gotta knock out, nothing serious. She’s a trooper.”

“Guess that’s one thing to be grateful for.”

“Hell, yes it is.”

Sam lets out a soft laugh. “Too bad you can’t fix me up the same way.”

Dean looks over at him. It’s still an unpleasant shock, every time he looks at Sam and sees how much older he looks, how much thinner. How every awful thing he’s seen and everything he’s suffered is there in his face the way it never was before. His skin is drawn too tight, pale over bones that look too fragile, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that feels bigger than the world, deeper than any human should ever know.

“Would if I could,” he says, his voice rough. “Believe me.”

“I know,” Sam says. His gaze falls. He takes a drink, and Dean tries not to notice that his hand trembles.

“You know you don’t have to deal with this stuff alone, right?” he tries. Sam grimaces, and Dean frowns in response. “What?”

“Dean, I don’t know if I can hunt like this.”

“Yeah, well. We don’t have to decide that right now. In case you haven’t noticed, we kind of got our hands full with this Cas situation.”

Sam nods, but he still won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I know. It’s just. I don’t like the idea of being a burden on you.”

Dean sets his beer down and looks hard at Sam. “Okay, that’s enough. I don’t want to hear you talking like that.” Sam’s expression doesn’t change, and Dean plunges ahead, a little desperate. “Look, I might rag on you sometimes, but that’s just me giving you a hard time, same as always. It’s never gonna be like that for me.”

Sam still doesn’t say anything, and Dean feels a little sick at the idea that this is what’s been eating Sam up this whole time. His face burns with how stupid he feels saying this crap out loud, but in for a penny. “Sam, listen to me. It’s not. End of story. Misplaced guilt complex aside, I’m older, so you’re just gonna have to take my word for it.”

Sam’s shoulders stay tense, but then one corner of his mouth turns up, a curve so slight Dean might have imagined it.

“Still bossy, I see.”

“Hey, whatever works.”

Sam looks at him at last, and the uncertainty in his face makes Dean’s gut feel like he’s swallowed rocks.

“So, what are we supposed to do? If it turns out we can’t hunt together.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Dean says, but what he’s thinking is, Keep fighting until we go down. Or until I do, and then Sam can—

Can what? There was a time when he believed that. He would go down fighting, make their dad proud, maybe save some people doing it. And Sam would grieve for him and then he would pick up and move on. Maybe he would keep hunting for a while, but eventually he’d get sick of it and he’d settle down somewhere, live a life.

Dean realizes that’s what’s really getting to him. Sam needs him now. Nobody else can keep his brother’s swiss-cheese brain together. Even if Sam ever lets himself look at a woman again after this last year—and that’s a big if—Dean knows that what they’ve been through, what they’ve dealt with, isn’t something a normal person can handle. He knows it first hand. Lisa tried, and she was amazing, one of the best, most generous and loving people in the world. Dean still can’t believe some of the crap she’d put up with, but in the end, he’d paid her back by hurting her over and over, almost getting her and Ben killed.

The depression seeps back in, and he tips the bottle back, swallowing cold, bitter comfort. The odds of Sam meeting someone as amazing as Lisa are vanishingly small—there aren’t that many women like her. And even if he did, how would that work? How’s Sam supposed to have some kind of normal life, when he is, for all intents and purposes, certifiable? He’d end up locked up somewhere, and it would be a disaster for everyone involved. Sam really would go crazy, then, and people would end up dead.

It’s only with Dean and Bobby that Sam can function, and Dean’s the only one who can ever really understand. He knows which pieces of Sam are the real thing. He can reach Sam when he gets lost, help him when he gets confused, because he knows his brother inside and out, knows all the roads back to Sam-and-Dean. The last few days, Dean’s been the only thing Sam’s sure of, the only one who can talk him back to himself when the waking nightmares seem more real than reality.

It’s a bitch, but it’s true: he and Sam work, somehow, same way they always have. There’s not going to be any future for Sam without him. Which means there’s no way out for him without Sam, even if he wanted that. Conjoined twins, two halves of the same soul. But what does it say about them? His freaking life partner is his brother, for God’s sake.

He loves Sam so much it’s all he can think about, some days, but that doesn’t make him any less pissed about it. Sam’s right. What are they supposed to do? It’s like they’re in exile. They can’t talk to anyone, can’t have friends, or a family—maybe not even Bobby. After a lifetime of getting jerked around by demons, losing everyone he loved, Sam killed himself, doomed himself to the worst Hell imaginable to save the fucking world, and he still can’t catch a goddamned break.

They’ve got Cas to thank for that. After everything they went through together. Dean’s pissed about that, too. He still doesn’t know if he can kill the son of a bitch—assuming they figure out a way—but he thinks, maybe, yeah. Maybe he can. For Sam. Goddamned angels never lifted a finger to help Sam when it counted, and now—

Dean’s finished his beer without realizing it. Sam glances at him, reading him too well. He reaches down and gets a cold one, cracking it open before handing it to him. “Listen,” he says, “I know this sucks, okay? But I’ll figure something out.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam’s expression quirks. “I know, sucks doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Dean grunts agreement. He drinks, tearing at the label for a minute. Finally, he steals a fast glance at his brother. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“When I left you, in the panic room. I gotta be honest, I didn’t think you were gonna wake up. Like, ever.”

Sam looks at him, surprised. But he gets what Dean’s asking; Dean watches him think it over. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “I guess I knew somehow that I had to? Maybe a part of me was aware of what was going on.”

“Yeah, but dude, Cas made it sound like if that wall came down, that was all she wrote. I mean, I musta talked to you for two days straight, and nothin’. I was pretty sure that was it, the whole ballgame.”

Sam shrugs. He’s uncomfortable now, Dean can tell. Embarrassed, like he doesn’t want to admit he did anything special. “I knew you were in trouble,” he says, like it explains everything.

Dean waits for more, but Sam only looks at him. “That’s it. You knew I was in trouble.”

Sam shrugs again, and finishes his own beer. Dean’s lips quirk. “So, basically what you’re saying is that Death, a super-powered angel, and the King of Hell all underestimated you.”

“Underestimated something, anyway,” Sam says, his voice pitched low and color rising on his cheeks. Dean can tell he wishes they would change the subject, and it’s getting pretty chick flick for Dean, too, but his brother basically fought his way out of Hell for him, so excuse him if he can’t help wanting to dwell on the moment just a little.

“Well, anyway,” he says at last, and clears his throat. “Thanks.”

“For what? It’s not like I did any good. I just pissed him off.”

Dean elbows him sharply. “For waking up, you moron. For not—” leaving me alone out here, he wants to say. “—checking out on me. ’Cause I gotta tell you, you’re really boring when you’re unconscious. Well, more than usual, I mean.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth turn up at that. “Hey, maybe I could get a job,” he offers. “Support you in the manner you’ve never become accustomed.”

Dean gives a soft laugh, thinking, how’s that gonna work? He can just see what would happen the first time Sam has a flashback. But he sees Sam’s face, sees how he doesn’t really believe it, either, and his stomach tightens. They’ve got a long way to go before Sam’s gonna be able to be on his own for any length of time.

Then he thinks, a job isn’t a bad idea. Maybe he could do that. Not now, not with Cas still out there. But eventually. He’s done it before. He could find them a place somewhere, construct an identity for them. With Bobby’s help, they could do it. They could still help Bobby out, and the other hunters. Maybe in time Sam would get better. Enough, at least, so that Dean wouldn’t be scared to leave him alone for more than five minutes.

And, yeah, he thinks glumly. He is actually thinking seriously about settling down with Sam, maybe for good. Worse, it sounds a little bit like heaven to him right now. Like he might not need anything else, if they can just have that.

“You know what really sucks?” he asks.

“What’s that?”

“Most people spend their whole lives wondering, is this it? When I die, is that the end? And if it’s not, will I go to Heaven, or the other place? But we’ve been to both of 'em. We don’t get to wonder. I always heard people say ignorance is bliss, but I gotta say, I think they’re right.” He’ll take Heaven any day over the alternative, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“After such knowledge, what forgiveness?” Sam murmurs.

“What?”

“Something I read, once.”

It makes Dean think of Cas. But then he glances at Sam, sees the exhaustion in his gaunt face, and any thoughts of forgiveness evaporate. “You okay?” he asks, before he can think better of it.

Sam’s eyebrows twitch; he shrugs. “Hell if I know.”

It’s oddly reassuring. Sam’s shoulder is solid against Dean’s, and despite everything, Dean feels a kindling warmth in his stomach at the sudden knowledge that whatever happens, whatever shit the Universe is gonna fling at them tomorrow, Sam’s with him. The real Sam, with his real memories—all of him. That Sam got up out of a freaking coma because Dean needed him. That Sam has been putting one foot in front of the other every minute of every day, doing his best to cope with the mess inside his head because he won’t leave Dean alone again.

It hits Dean that he really believes that, for maybe the first time in his life. Sam isn’t going to leave him again, and it’s not because he can’t. Dean knows that if Sam really wanted to check out, to wipe himself off the map, he could find a way in a heartbeat. He’s pretty sure there’s nothing Sam can’t do if he wants it bad enough.

It doesn’t change the fact that Sam’s walked out on him more times than he cares to count. Dean hasn’t always blamed him for that. Sometimes he’s even been glad for it. Nothing between them has ever been easy, and there’ve been times when Dean wished nothing more than for Sam to get out, to get away, to escape this life even if Dean couldn’t.

Now, Sam’s been through every kind of Hell there is, and he’s a mess, there’s no denying it. Everything Cas and Death warned Dean about came true. Dean’s pretty sure Sam will never be the same, and he blames himself for that more than anyone, but it doesn’t matter. Sam’s not leaving. And he’s not giving up. After everything, his little brother’s still fighting his way through Hell every day just to sit here drinking a beer with him.

“What?” Sam says, feeling Dean’s gaze on him.

Dean can’t say anything. Everything he feels is suddenly heavy in his chest, a pressure that makes it hard to breathe.

And Sam gets it. He nods to himself, huffs a breath that might be a laugh.

Then he reaches out and rests his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, like Dad used to when they were little. He doesn’t look at Dean, just lets Dean rest his weight against him, and Sam’s solid, unyielding. He’s a freaking giant, and comes home to Dean that despite everything, right now, Sam is the one thing he can count on.

Dean feels slow and shaky with that knowledge. A terrible pressure builds up in his chest and throat, but he can’t let it win because if he does, he’s gonna do something he’ll never live down. He’s gonna hold on to Sam and sob like a baby, and that’s not something he can deal with, not in this lifetime.

So, they sit, and they drink beer as the sun paints the sky red, until Dean can breathe again and his head is, at last, mercifully quiet.

When the sun finally goes down, Sam slides off the hood of the car and takes his hand. Dean protests, tries to joke about it. “What, is it couples skate and nobody told me?” But it’s so lame. Sam only looks at him, then laces their fingers together and takes him back to the house.

* * *

More than a year ago, now, Bobby set up a bed in the back room, barely bigger than a twin. Sometimes one of them crashes on it while the other one sleeps on the couch.

Tonight, Sam pulls Dean down in the moonlight, lays him down and kisses him for the first time. He slides a hand in under Dean’s shirt, curves it around his waist and spreads his palm against the bare skin of Dean’s back. Dean feels like he’s lit up from the inside, like he’s in danger of catching on fire. He watches Sam with his eyes wide in wonder. They can’t do this, he thinks. This is the worst idea they’ve ever had. But he doesn’t stop himself. Can’t stop the way his heart opens up, the way he needs this. Maybe he’s always wanted it. Maybe they both have. He fists his hands in Sam’s shirt, lets Sam kiss him, his heart in his throat and his tongue pressed against Sam’s. It’s too good, too much, and he’s shaking like he’s going to come apart, but he can’t stop himself from taking what Sam’s offering.

It’s not new. He realizes that with quiet inevitability. It goes back. Everything he believed about them, everything he believed about himself his whole life was underscored by this. And Sam knows. Dean wants to deny it, but he can’t because Sam already knows. Maybe has for years.

Sam gets his jeans open, jerks Dean’s naked cock gently, kisses him like they’ve done this a hundred times, until Dean can’t stand it any more and yanks Sam’s open shirt down over his shoulders, pushes him onto his back and straddles him. His hands spread against the thin cotton stretched over Sam’s chest, fingers clutching at him like he can get a hold that way. Sam’s hands go to Dean’s hips; Sam’s breathing in soft, ragged gasps, his eyes wide now in the dark.

“This is nuts,” Dean says, to nobody in particular.

“It makes sense, though, right?”

Dean has no idea what Sam’s talking about. There’s nothing about this that makes sense—except it does, on some level of crazy he’s never even considered. And he wants it. He really fucking wants it.

So does Sam, if the feverish racing of his heart and the size of his erection are anything to go by. Dean can feel Sam hot and hard between his legs, pushing up against Dean’s crotch, and the feeling makes his body sing with heat, his stomach drop out like he’s suspended over nothing but miles of air. His throat goes dry, the thought of Sam’s dick up against his, or down his throat, making him break out in a sweat. Sam’s eyes are bright in the shadows. It figures that even half out of his head, he knows Dean so well, there’s no doubt there at all.

“Christ,” Dean mutters, and stares, fingers curling against Sam’s chest. “You got no idea how bad I want to do you right now.”

“Then do it,” Sam dares him. His lips are swollen from the kissing, and he licks them like he can taste how good it’s going to be. “Come on, please.” And then, like he’s found the key: “It’ll be okay. Trust me.”

Dean’s got no defense against the way he reacts to that. After everything they’ve been through, every broken promise and misunderstanding, every missed signal and every betrayal great and small, he does. He trusts his brother, knows Sam has his back, and the feeling is indescribable. Scary as hell, but at the same time, it does things to him that make his face burn hot, his chest hurt. “Sammy,” he says, like a warning.

But Sam isn’t afraid, not of this. He reaches for Dean, drags him down, and his mouth opens for Dean like he’s been waiting all his life for Dean to figure it out, like Dean is air he needs to breathe. Maybe that’s true, Dean thinks, his head spinning and his body alight. Sam’s more himself right now than he’s been since forever, and he feels alive and real, tastes real, his tongue hot against Dean’s. Maybe he knows something Dean doesn’t.

It’s the last thing he thinks that can be put into words. The rest is just him and Sam, an inevitable mess of sex, and fear, and love.

* * *

“I used to think about this,” Sam says, when they’re lying sweaty and sticky, sprawled against each other in the dark. “When you were gone. What it would have been like if we’d gone through with it.”

“Yeah?” says Dean. He has no idea what they’re talking about. Any brain cells he had, he sacrificed a couple of minutes ago, and Sam might as well be speaking Swahili.

“Yeah.”

Dean’s eyes are closed. He feels disconnected, like he’s floating. He’s so content right now, they could power the planet on it for a couple of days at least.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

Sam’s quiet for a minute. His fingertips skate along Dean’s arm, his shoulder. They trace his jaw, his cheekbone, draw a gentle touch through the hair at his temple.

“You don’t know what it was like,” Sam says at last, so quiet it’s almost inaudible. “I know you think you do, but you don’t.”

Dean catches Sam’s hand before it can escape, draws Sam’s fingertips into his mouth. They taste salty-sweet. He lets his tongue follow the warm pads of Sam’s fingers, brushes them against his lips. He bites. “Not really sure what you’re talking about, but I’m pretty sure it’s full of crap.”

“When you were in Hell,” Sam clarifies. His fingers curl into Dean’s mouth. “When I thought I couldn’t save you.”

Dean grabs Sam’s hand and pulls it away. He shifts to look up at his brother, the effort costing him. “Yeah, that’s bullshit.” He meets Sam’s eyes and he really, profoundly does not want to have this conversation. But he can’t let that go; he can’t. “A goddamned year, Sam. So don’t tell me I don’t know what it was like.”

Sam shakes his head, his eyes haunted. “It’s not the same.”

“Are you kidding me right now? Of course it is. Jesus.” He can’t get mad at Sam. It could trigger him, Dean knows that—but this cuts too deep, too fast. Dean swings his feet to the floor, rubs his hands over his face, and gets hold of himself with an effort. He looks at Sam over his shoulder. “What is this, some kind of contest? Which one of us gets the grieving widow award? Because I assure you, I’ve got street cred on this one. Although you do win for fastest attempt to kill the mood, I’ll give you that, but what’s your point?”

Sam swallows, like he’s seeing something else, some future he can’t stand to think about. “I’m saying, I can’t do it, Dean. Anything else, but please don’t give up on me. The mess in my head, I can take. But if you give up on me again—“

“I won’t. I told you that.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t blame you. I get it.”

“Fuck that noise. I won’t ever give up on you, don’t you get that?” Dean shifts to face him. “I won’t, Sam. I swear to you. Even when I said I did, I didn’t.”

“Really?” The hope in Sam’s eyes is so fragile, Dean thinks it might break him.

“Remember when you said that you couldn’t do it alone? That I was the only game in town? That goes for me, too.” At the look on Sam’s face, Dean grimaces. “Now, can we please skip past the heart-to-heart soul-baring session, and move on to the part where we come to terms with how much more messed up our lives just got? Because I gotta tell you, that sounds like a barrel of monkeys by comparison.”

Sam stares at him, looking like he wants to torch the countryside, set the world on fire. “I know,” he says, and swallows convulsively, but he doesn’t move. “I know you never want to talk about stuff like this, but I’m scared. Dean, I’m scared of letting you down again. I love you so—” He chokes on it. “—so goddamned much. But I don’t even know who I am any more.”

“I do,” Dean says, and he’s never been more certain in his life. “I do, okay?” His hands are on Sam’s face when he says it, and he doesn’t know how that happened. His eyes are wide, burning at the sudden rush of emotion, but Sam sits up into his arms and Dean doesn’t hesitate. He lets Sam get ahold of him and doesn’t fight it; he wraps his arms around Sam, holding on like he can keep Sam together with brute force and the fierce knowledge of everything that’s good in his brother, every reason he has to believe that they’re going to make it. That they can have this, for more than just tonight.

It takes Sam a minute, his heart racing too fast, his face hot against Dean’s neck. “Okay,” he says at last.

“Damn right, okay,” Dean tells him, and lets out a shaky breath of his own.

* * *

They don’t sleep much that night. They keep quiet, as best they can, but Dean’s the first to admit he might not be the best judge of what constitutes quiet. When he’s got Sam naked beneath him, the two of them sweating and straining and holding on to each other and Sam’s body opening up to him like he’s been dying for it, Dean can’t be held accountable for what curses or prayers slip past his lips. Same goes for when Sam’s got him on his knees, his back sweat-slick against Sam’s chest, his thighs spread wide over Sam’s and Sam’s cock inside him, Sam’s fist wrapped around him.

Just thinking about it later makes his dick twitch, and goddamn, he’s going to be sore tomorrow, but he can’t regret it. He should, he knows. He should be burning up with shame for the things they’ve done. But when they finally rest, Sam curled heavy against his side, all he can feel is soul-crushing relief.

“We have to stop crashing at Bobby’s,” Sam says, when morning comes.

Dean thinks, there’s no place we can go that this will be okay. There’s no life we can have, no home we can make that’s more than this, and I don’t care. I don’t. This, until we crash and burn.

He kisses Sam, and tastes the answer in the salt on his brother’s skin.


~ end ~