Bimbo Baggins (cherie_morte) wrote in infatuated_ink,
Bimbo Baggins
cherie_morte
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Supernatural: Like Puzzle Pieces From the Clay

Title: Like Puzzle Pieces From the Clay
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Genre: Schmoop (I will one day write something with substance again, I promise)
Rating: PG-13 for Language and Alcohol Consumption
Word Count: 1,648
Author’s Note: Today is the most beautiful feathertofly’s birthday!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO CASS AND HER GLORIOUS FACE. Cass asked for the following: “MFEO (SAM AND DEAN, NONE OF THAT LUCIFER SHIT IN THIS. ARGHHHH.)” and I did my best to deliver. Also taking care of this for schmoop_bingo: “Drunken Confession of Love,” and hitting these clichés: “Secret Admirers,” “Secrets and Lies,” and “Chemicals.” Title from Weecest: The Song, also known as Such Great Heights by The Postal Service. ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eosrose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: A drunken conversation makes Dean realize that maybe he and Sam really are soul mates, and maybe that’s okay with him.

It slips down Dean’s throat and spreads, through his chest, almost all the way to his fingertips and toes. There’s a burn at first, but it turns into warmth that’s safe and familiar. Dean loves it, loves that it excuses the light, giddy effect Sam’s smile is having on him.

Sam’s arm reaches out for the bottle and, Dean’s perception is definitely impaired, but he swears Sam’s fingers reach all the way across the room. Dean cracks up at that, shoving the bottle into his brother’s hand and Sam looks confused for half a second before he laughs and tips it to his lips, bourbon dripping down his chin when he misses on his first try.

“Think that’s a sign you don’t need any more, Sammy,” Dean says, or rather, Dean tries to say that and it comes out as one syllable and a drunken burp. Sam snorts and continues his quest to get at least some of what’s in the bottle into his mouth.

Dean watches him drink with his eyes half lidded and when Sam’s arm crashes to the floor, releasing the empty bottle lazily onto the carpet, Dean moves to sit against the wall beside his brother.

“I’m tired,” Sam says, same tone as when he was a kid. Dean smiles.

“You should be.” He rests his head on his brother’s shoulder and breathes deeply, hoping Sam is too drunk to notice or point out how supremely creepy he’s being.

Sam makes a content noise and turns his head a little, resting his chin on the crown of Dean’s head. Dean hasn’t been this happy for years. Hell, Dean hasn’t been happy at all, not since he watched Sam tumble down into that hole and out of his life for what was supposed to be eternity. For what wasn’t eternity after all, because here Sam is, sitting on Dean’s motel room floor, hiccupping like the lightweight he mysteriously is.

“I knew you were coming back,” Dean says, and right now he’s drunk enough to believe it.

“I knew I’d get back to you, too.” Sam’s suddenly subdued, all of the gaiety that had been in his voice fading and something far away and thoughtful taking its place. Dean is annoyed by it. Sam isn’t supposed to think right now. Now, Sam just needs to exist so Dean can feel him and be a complete person for the first time in months.

Dean tries to pull away, apologizing for getting too close and ruining the moment but Sam grips him and holds him down with a power that is, frankly, terrifying.

“You can’t, please. Please, just stay there for a few minutes, okay?”

Dean nods, his face pressed against his brother’s chest. “Yeah, of course, Sammy. Don’t…of course, I’m right here.”

They sit in silence and, damn Sam and his broody moods, because now Dean is thinking, too, only he’s too drunk to keep his thoughts from going down paths they should stay away from or realize if he’s thinking out loud where his brother can hear him.

Sam’s heart is beating against Dean’s ears and it’s only that sound that convinces Dean this is real. This isn’t some simulation in a Heaven Dean doesn’t want any part of. This is his brother. His…Dean licks his lips slowly.

“Sam, do you remember Heaven?”

He feels Sam freeze up under him and Dean only realizes his brother’s long fingers had been carding through his hair when they stop.

“Dean, I said I was sorr—”

“When Ash said that people who share are soul mates…I mean. Do you think…? We were both there. He had to use that machine to find us, but we found each other, because…we. That’s not what he meant, right?”

Sam is quiet for so long, Dean almost thinks Sam fell asleep, and he’s rarely been so relieved in his life. But then Sam says something, so soft it’s a whisper; Dean almost doesn’t make it out.

“You didn’t know.” Sam sounds disappointed. Dean sits up to look at him.

“Huh?”

Sam’s head falls back languidly and a smile overtakes his face—drunken, sloppy, and miserable. “I always knew.”

“Knew…?”

Sam lifts his head again with effort and once he’s gotten it level and managed to get Dean to meet his eyes, he tilts it a little. “What did you think you were made for?”

A million answers go through Dean’s head. They’re all the wrong ones. Fate and Destiny and years of preparation, all the things the angels and demons had spent so long telling them both, the things neither of them had ever believed. Then Sam’s lips turn down, a broken expression that Dean’s instinct tells him to soothe away at any cost—and there’s the correct answer right there.

“Wasn’t for Michael. Or God. Or some fucking war. Or to be Dad’s little weapon. It was for me.” Sam glances at the empty bottle on the floor with a betrayed look. “Didn’t you know I was supposed to be yours? I thought you knew. I just always assumed you pretended it wasn’t there because, well, you know why.”

Dean bites his lip. “Sam, you’re really drunk and you’ve had a long day. You should go to bed.”

“Ah, good ol’ big brother. Trying to pretend I didn’t just tell you I’ve been in creepy love with you my whole life,” Sam laughs humorlessly, “I am going to have some serious fucking regrets tomorrow morning.”

Dean shakes his head. “No, Sammy, you—”

“I wanna kiss you,” Sam interrupts. “Tomorrow morning, when I’m hungover and I want to kick myself for this? I’m still gonna wanna kiss you. Wanted to kiss you yesterday. Wanted to kiss you last year…” Sam’s fingers come up and trace Dean’s lower lip. Dean trembles. “I can’t believe how deep in denial you are. I mean, the archangels know. The demons know. The people at motels take one look at us and know. Fucking Castiel knew and he’s denser than iron about these things.”

Dean reflects on it. Follow the road and you’ll find Sam and…wow. It’s a little weird to realize that the angel you hang out with thinks you’ve been fucking your brother and is okay with it.

“You never told me.” It’s a flimsy argument, but it’s all Dean has.

“Well, I’m telling you now and it’s not doing me much go—”

Dean cuts Sam off with a kiss. Sam responds immediately, like a wild animal that’s just scented blood. His hands pull Dean’s face closer, his mouth opens, and Dean feels like Sam’s taking everything Dean has out by the mouth and replacing it with his tongue, with whatever he still has to offer Dean. They went through all the alcohol they had and it’s this, kissing his brother, that overwhelms Dean’s senses until he’s dizzy and drunk and maybe dying from overdose, but not about to stop and find out.

Suddenly, the power shuts down and everything goes dark, the quiet hum of appliances deafening in its absence. Sam pushes Dean away and makes a strange sound. Dean feels something cold pass through him, but he laughs it off.

“That’s weird. Weather was perfectly fine earlier.”

“It happens.”

“Yeah, I know but usually—”

“No, I mean, around me. When I get too worked up…it happens. I think it’s…”

Dean can’t see Sam’s face, but from the strain of his voice, he’s scared enough for it to worry Dean.

“Go to Lisa, Dean. Take back whatever you said when you left. Please. Go right now, go before I can hurt us.” The lights flicker just long enough for Dean to see that Sam’s almost crying. It’s the kind of fear Dean hasn’t seen since the night Sam found out the truth about what Dad hunted. Next time, Dean thinks, he’s going to check on Sam’s mental state before getting him too drunk to function.

“Sammy, what is it?”

“It’s him. I can’t control it. I can’t make it go away and…I should have never fucking told you I was back. I’m sorry, Dean, I just couldn’t sit there and look at you and not tell you I was here. But you know now, so…please go back to her.”

Dean frowns. “But we’re…are you insane?”

“Maybe.” Sam moves down until he’s no longer leaning on the wall. Instead, he spreads out on the floor like a kid making angels in snow. All the sadness seeps out of his voice and Sam’s tone turns ironic, genuinely amused in some dark, ugly way. “Maybe I am. You shouldn’t wait around to find out.”

Dean pulls Sam up a little so that he’s reclining halfway on Dean’s legs, his head resting in Dean’s lap as Dean gets his fingers tangled in Sam’s hair.

“You should kiss me again,” Sam says hopefully. “Before you go. You should.”

Dean leans down and presses his lips into the top of Sam’s head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers.

Dean slides until he’s lying on the floor, too, wraps an arm around Sam’s middle, and pushes his forehead against Sam’s until their noses brush. “You’re an idiot if you think I’m going anywhere.”

“I was kind of hoping you might say that,” Sam still sounds afraid, but there’s something like trust in his words and Dean thinks that’s a good start. If Sam trusts him, he can make Sam trust himself. Dean doesn’t care how long it takes. That’s what he’s here for, after all.

They lie there in the dark for a long time, bodies pressed together. They don’t kiss, just touch: soft, soothing reassurances until Sam’s heart is back to its usual beat and his breath is calm and easy. Dean falls asleep wrapped up in his-brother-turned-soul mate and he can’t bring himself to be as uncomfortable about it as he thinks he should be.
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