Title: Closer Than Brothers
Chapter: 4/5
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Words: 410
Challenge: #4 - Intimacy
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: Not quite incest... yet
Summary: The brothers get closer.
Notes: Written for
stagesoflove Challenge #4 - 'Intimacy'.#1 'Attraction', #2 'Romance', #3 Passion.
Also posted here.
Sam was nothing if not persistent, he always had been, but now Dean was the sole focus of the beam of his intent. And Dad's old trick of stashing a new (to Sam) book or a candy bar beneath the car's seat didn't work now he was grown.
He wanted answers, and he didn't let Dean dissuade him. Not that Dean fought so very hard to keep his silence. Every time he tried to argue, to refuse, the scar that traced the curve of his left hipbone seemed to burn and throb, felt warm and damp beneath his jeans, and he smelled tears. He thought perhaps he should remember why.
For every scar and broken bone that he'd not witnessed, Sam insisted Dean tell the tale - he hung on every word. He pulled out details, probed the corners of Dean's memory, insisting on a clear, complete retelling of events.
He marked the pages of the journal to remind him which demon, ghost or beast had harmed his kin. Tiny pinprick spots of Sam's own blood smeared in the corner - penance and payment - a promise for the future.
The bench seat in the Impala appeared to shrink with every journey, bringing elbows, knees and thighs together much too much. Neither brother ever mentioned it or moved away.
The motel rooms seemed to grow ever smaller, twin beds forced closer to leave room for all their gear. A yard apart and then a foot, and then an inch was wasteful. Soon they took to renting doubles where they could.
The bathroom doors no longer closed the way they used to - warped by steam and years of misuse, they surmised. It wasn't worth their time to register complaints. They made the best of it.
The hot water for their showers grew ever scarcer and it seemed unfair to make one finish up his wash with cold. With a tilt of eyebrow and a small, crooked grin, they made a pact to share it equally.
Dean woke sometimes, in the fullness of the night, and listened as Sam whispered soft apologies. Fingers, feather-light and worshipful, traced the scars and bumps of broken bones he'd learned the truths of. And Dean smelled tears.
Dean caught his inner cheek between his teeth and bit down hard, holding back the sinful secrets he had still to share. His tongue traced the line of scar tissue the trick had brought him, and he smiled.