Title: Two Roads Diverged
Pairing: Sam/Dean - very mild.
Well, I wrote the first installment expecting to have more little bits and bobs along the way. And here's the first 'bit'. A little out of sequence, since the first part ended with a teaser into 'Scarecrow' and this takes place at 'Asylum'. But since this is AU, anyway, i figure i'm allowed. :) In this AU 'verse, Sam has his 'powers' from babyhood on. Spoilers up to Asylum, obviously.
I wasn't sure if we were allowed/supposed to keep posting here, but i figure - what the hey! More birthday fic should go in the birthday journal! :)
The first part is here.
Sam's hands were shaking too hard but he couldn't stop. He had to finish this. He pushed Dean's shoulder just a little, getting him to turn toward the light. The florescent bulb made Dean's skin look grey – made the blood smeared there look like garish paint. Not real.
Except that it was real, and it was all Sam's fault. *God, what a fuck up, should have been paying more attention, never should have – oh fuck!* "Sorry, man," Sam muttered as his hand slipped and the forceps dug in. Dean just gave him a look from under his eyelashes and went back to staring somewhere over Sam's head and Sam bent down again and probed carefully for the next piece of rock salt.
Sam's nose was running but he was ignoring it because God damnit, Dean was hurt and it was his fault and he wasn't going to be a fucking bitch. Even if he had to sniff and wipe his nose on the back of his wrist and blink once – twice – to clear his eyes. Pluck out another crystal of salt, its white, crazed surface marbled with scarlet. Let it drop into the sink, porcelain clatter.
"Never really mattered what I did, you did it first. You always did it first, and you always did it better and he always made sure I knew. You're always holding me back, Dean! Don't use your power, Sammy, do it without. Don't be special, don't be better, don't be you..."
"I think that's all of it," Sam said, looking over the bloody little pocks one more time. Dean made a sort of hmmph-noise and pushed away from the counter where he was leaning – pushed right past Sam, heading for the shower. "Dean –"
"Not really in a caring and sharing sorta mood, Sam," Dean snapped. He heeled off his boots and kicked them toward the dresser and then the bathroom door was shutting between them with a little hitching thump, swollen from the damp.
*Fuck, fuck, fuck...* Sam listened – as deliberately as he had ever listened. Biting his lip and feeling a little sick as he all but pushed, odd flex of a not-muscle somewhere deep inside. And reeled back as if he'd been physically slapped in the face by the fierce, focused 'back off' that came through.
*Oh God, oh fuck...* Dean was pissed. He had every right to be but...he was pissed, and it was a little scary. Sam hated it when Dean was mad at him. It made everything feel...off kilter. *Deserve whatever he wants to do to me, though. Deserve it if he just...walks out, if he...hates me.*
Sam leaned his palms on the counter, staring down into the sink. Staring at the scatter of blood-stained rock salt – at his own fingertips, which were speckled with Dean's blood. "Dean, I didn't...Jesus, I didn't...it's not like - Dean!" Sam spun around and hammered his fist down on the bathroom door – heard a thump from inside.
"Fuck off, Sam!"
"I need to talk to you!" Sam shouted, and his fingers closed around the door knob. Locked, of course. *Like that does any good.*
"And I said fuck off!"
"God damnit –" Sam wrenched at the door knob – rattled it in frustration and then closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating. The tumblers clicked over with a little snick and Sam shoved the door open hard enough to dent the wall behind it. "Dean –"
"Jesus, Sam." Dean's voice just sounded...tired. The shower curtain was pulled only half way and Dean was leaning with his palms flat on the wall, the hot water beating down on the back of his neck – over his shoulders. Running in pinkish trails across the dull white of the tub. "Can we just not do this right now?"
"When should we, Dean? When should we do it? Half-past never? I – I have to - tell you –"
"You told me enough already today, okay Sam?" Dean ran his hand back over his head – let his elbow bend and his forehead come to rest on his wrist, eyes closed. "Just...lemme alone for a while."
"Dean –" Sam felt the decaying bits of that rage – that hate - in his blood. Sick little frisson that wasn't, this time, directed at Dean but at himself. He could see Dean's face, flecked with blood – smudged with dust. Drawn tight with pain and '...do you really hate me that much?'
"I don't, I don't – listen –" Sam didn't think – he moved. Stepped over the edge of the tub and took Dean's shoulder and pulled him around – pushed him back against the wall. Sam's boots squeaked on the fiberglass and his left sleeve and thigh became instantly soaked – warm and heavy with water.
"What the fuck, Sam!" Dean barked, and Sam just shook his head, his chest aching and his throat so tight that he couldn't talk – could barely breathe. There were drops of water on Dean's lashes and his eyes were dark and hot with anger. With hurt, and Sam felt that like a knife in the gut.
*I did that. Another thing that's my fault. Betrayed him – hurt him – Jesus Christ, almost killed, he'd be better off if I just -*
"Stop it, Sammy." Dean's voice was rasping – cracked and wavering and his eyes flickered to the side, attempt to hide. "I know what you're thinking, just – stop it –"
"I don't hate you," Sam breathed, and then he leaned forward and just – kissed him. Kissed Dean, mouth pressed to wet, chapped mouth – huff of air against Sam's cheek as Dean breathed in, surprised gasp. It was the only thing Sam could think of. The only thing that was true enough – open enough. The only thing that would rip him open and let him bleed, just like Dean. *Now push me away, tell me fuck off, hurt me like I hurt you...*
But Dean was kissing him back, fingers twisting tight in Sam's sodden shirt, knuckles bruising Sam's breastbone. "I don't hate you, I don't," Sam muttered, and Dean made an irritated sound, like a stepped-on cat.
"Shut the fuck up. You talk too much."
"Okay, yeah – okay –" Dean tasted like salt and clean water – like forgiveness, maybe. He didn't say, and Sam was afraid to ask, but he took what Dean gave him and let it be...enough.
Two Roads Diverged...part two - raise your glass and toast.
to the glory of...