Ngh, hastily done, I just wanted to write something before heading off to the beach to BURRRN.

Supernatural, Sam/Dean | R
Word count: ~1400
Summary: They were never meant to be apart, and now, with Dean opening his lips against Sam's, it feels a lot like penance. Sam is sorry. 4.22 Coda.


and if he repent

If thy brother trespass against thee,
rebuke him;
and if he repent,
forgive him.
--Luke 17:3

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, as if the words could close the gate he opened and push Lucifer back into Hell, back into the recesses of whatever cage was built to keep him from tearing the world apart. As if the words could make Dean forget.

Sam knows it’s not enough. The gate is still open and gaping and Lucifer is free, but Dean—

Dean clutches at him, like he’s not holding on to the one who brought on this whole mess, the one who set off the fucking apocalypse.

Sam wonders how Dean can still bear to touch him at all.

+

They’re running out of St. Mary’s as the white light envelops them, Sam not really knowing where to go. Everything is too bright, blinding and burning, and the only thing reminding Sam that he’s still alive is Dean’s hand on his wrist, gripping hard and pulling.

Sam follows blindly, runs and runs until they’re out, and he’s tripping over rubble and debris. Sam squints and adjusts his eyes to the lack of blazing light.

Dean’s hand is still on his wrist, and Sam says, “Dean,” before everything goes black.

+

Sam dreams.

There is only him and Lilith’s blood rushing across the floor, curving here and there, forming new carmine rivers off those already running, completing the circle. Sam tries to interrupt the flow, smears the edges of its odd shape, swipes his hands sloppily over the outline—-he can stop this, can make everything okay again if he can just stop the gate from forming. Sam can stop this.

Except the blood on his hands is moving, slithering like a thin snake, up, up over his forearms and biceps and shoulders, coiling around his neck like a seduction before it crawls and makes its way up his face and into his eyes. Sam screams but nothing comes out. Though he tries, scratching violently at his own face, he can’t tear away this thing that seems to have inscribed itself into his skin.

The streams of blood on the floor meet in the middle, and the gate still opens.

+

Sam opens his eyes.

Fluorescent lights come into view, bright and nauseating, before he registers that Dean is over him, holding his wrists down onto the bed, and he’s shouting.

Sam stops mid-yell when he realizes this. He doesn’t know what he was saying.

Dean is looking at him with worry and something suspiciously close to fear. “Sammy,” Dean says, “You okay?” Sam nods, and Dean lets him go. The sudden absence of contact makes Sam gasp, and Dean frowns at him. Then he makes a small movement and places the tips of his fingers on Sam’s arm. The ghost of the touch calms Sam down.

“You were scratching your own face off, man,” Dean continues. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg dangling off and the other bent towards Sam.

Sam sits up. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and he doesn’t know what for, but it felt like he should say it anyway.

Dean stares at him for a long moment, and Sam tries to meet his gaze until he can’t. Until it’s all too much, like Dean is stripping him down with his eyes alone, can see all of the dark ugly streams running through him, like Sam imagines the demon blood would.

Then Dean reaches up and runs his hands through Sam’s hair, stops to curve around the back of his neck. Sam closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath as Dean presses his lips against his. Behind his eyelids Sam can imagine Dean, beautiful and golden. He had missed this, had ached for it when it was gone, felt it every day he’d been away from Dean, like a wound that was always new and raw and bleeding. They were never meant to be apart, and now, with Dean opening his lips against his, it feels a lot like penance.

Sam wants to ask Dean if any of this means he’s forgiven, but realizes before the question is out of his mouth that he’s terrified of the answer. So instead he says against Dean’s mouth, “I’m sorry,” and swallows the enormity of the other question down deep.

Dean pushes him down onto the bed.

+

Sam looks around. The wallpaper is a pattern of sickening green and yellow, corners peeling off, revealing fragments of a brown, mangy wall underneath.

For a second it almost feels normal, like a usual hunt— before Lilith or Lucifer or things that couldn’t be killed with salt and matches and holy water and the right research. Before any of them ever died.

And then Sam thinks for a gut-wrenching moment that there is no before.

It had to be you. Ruby’s words ring vile in his memory, full of flattery and praise for this horrible thing inside of him.

And Sam doesn’t know how he can apologize for being who, what, he is. Doesn’t know where to begin. It all feels futile.

Dean is sleeping, naked and careless under the harsh artificial light of the motel. It had been a slow fuck with Dean gripping his arms and wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist, Never leaving again, Dean had whispered, over and over, as he tried to pull Sam impossibly deeper inside himself. Sam had looked down at him and nodded, Never, never.

Now Dean is completely unguarded, nothing but the covers over his body, and Sam tries not to get angry at him for being so thoughtless around Sam. He wants to shout at Dean, ask why he’s letting Sam touch him at all when he had reshaped himself into this monster that hates and drinks demon blood and kills.

He traces the curve of Dean’s mouth with his fingertips, and marvels at the simple fact that he can.

Dean’s eyes flutter open, and when his gaze centers on Sam, he smiles, smiles like the world isn’t ending, like Sam isn’t— Sam takes a huge breath, fills more than his lungs can take, and thinks he can’t bear to be himself any longer.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

Dean pushes himself up on his elbows. “It wasn’t that bad, Sammy,” he says, “Coulda done better in the oral aspect, I mean, I like your tongue but—”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, looking at him hard. “Don’t do this, not now.”

Dean grins, then sighs. “Look, it’s okay, Sam,” he says. “I, uh,” he pauses to scratch his jaw, “forgive you. If that’s what you needed to hear.”

“Dean,” Sam says again, eyes stinging, sounding so broken he wonders if it’s his own voice.

“Hey,” Dean says, sitting up, probably noticing how his little brother is about to fucking cry. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Sam looks at him, turns the question over in his mind and laughs bitterly. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

“I mean, aside from the whole apocalypse thing,” Dean waves it off.

Sam opens his mouth, closes it again. “Aside from that,” he manages, “I’m—”

“Back in the game,” Dean finishes for him.

Sam shakes his head, frustrated. “Dean, this isn’t just another hunt, we fucked up the entire world, here.”

Dean shrugs. “We’ll fix it.”

Sam can only stare at him, at his brother who keeps saving his life, over and over, who came back from Hell and talks smack at angels, who was ripped apart in ways Sam can’t imagine, and still, still forgives.

The world could be burning outside, the complicated mess of angels and demons and everything caught in between set on fire, and it astonishes Sam—like the sudden answer to an unsolved case— that despite all of that, this thing between his brother and him is just this terrifyingly simple.

Dean is just happy he’s back.

Sam lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and pulls Dean to him roughly. Dean oomph’s against his shoulder, and sighs softly when Sam finds himself a warm place in his neck. His arms come up around Sam.

“We’ll fix it,” Sam whispers against skin, and with Dean hanging on to him just as fiercely, he suddenly has no doubt that they will.


END