fic: Beneath Our Blackened Hearts (Sam/Dean, NC-17) Part 3 of 4

[smalltrolven]

Back to Part 2

Dean is heading to the kitchen to hopefully salvage dinner, even overcooked lasagna is usually still good in the middle. And he’d had it in the oven with tinfoil on top, so maybe it won’t be too burned. He knows Sam likes the burned edges of lasagna the best anyway. As he turns the corner in the hallway he hears the scuttling down at the dark end, by the door where he’d almost killed his brother with a hammer. He hates remembering that, but it’s part of their history with this place.

Thoughts of all the good things and bad that have happened to them in the bunker run through his mind, pushing out the impulse to go check on what creepy crawly critter is making a home for itself in their home. “Rat traps, gotta get some rat traps next time we’re out,” he mutters to himself.

Dean doesn’t find the lasagna burning in the oven, instead he pulls the perfect lasagna out of the refrigerator, where Sam had put it, only after he’d taken a big corner piece for himself, Dean notices with satisfaction. He’s a little disappointed though, he’d wanted them to eat it together, hell he’d even made Sam a damn green salad with his favorite veggies. Dean leans up against the counter and picks at the lasagna he’s heated up for himself. He touches the edge of the counter and realizes what happened in this exact spot just a few hours ago.

Dean is overwhelmed with the mere thought of what Sam had offered right here in their kitchen, to have him, like that—forever, no strings, no discussions, just everything he’d ever wanted basically for free. It still doesn’t seem possible. Before he can finish his lasagna, Sam’s taking the plate out of his hands and setting the fork down. His brother looms over him, trapping him in place against the counter. Dean’s losing his balance so he sets his hands on Sam’s hips. They fit perfectly, just like the rest of their bodies do. Sam is pressing them together, his hips moving in an insistent rhythm. Dean knows he should stop this, make Sam talk, extract some promises at least, but all he wants is to give himself over, and take and give and have.

“Dean, want it again, need it, please,” Sam says in this delicious begging tone.

Dean gets both of them out and in his hand, sliding together sloppy with their excitement. Sam’s mouth is a cavern devouring him from above, he’s leaning back like some damsel in distress on a romance novel cover and it’s ridiculous how he’s grabbing onto Sam’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. Then one of Sam’s giant hands wraps around his own and it’s suddenly perfect and hot and both of them are done for. Sam grins down at him, licks his own palm clean, slow and careful so Dean can see his tongue in action.

“Thanks for dinner,” Sam says, grinning again while zipping himself back together. He’s out the kitchen door before Dean can even say anything. What is this fuck-around-and-run business anyway? He’d always figured that Sam would be the lounge around cuddling in bed and talk about your feelings type of guy. Not that he’d ever fantasized about that, oh no, of course not. He mentally kicks himself in the head and cleans himself up.

“Thanks for fucking dinner, huh? That’s the best you can do, really?” Dean asks the sink of dirty dishes that they hadn’t finished the first time. The rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing puts him into a trance.

He comes back to himself, his hands are wet and slick with soap. No…not soap, it’s blood again, and he’s not holding a scrubby sponge or a dirty plate, it’s the biggest sharpest chef knife he owns. He’s gripping it and bringing it down, again and again. Someone is begging him to stop, pleading with their last breath, Jack finally dies under his hands. Dean drops into a heap on top of the blood-soaked bodies of Cas and Mom, still stabbing at them randomly even though they’re already dead.

The knife is so sharp, so slick with blood. So much blood, all on him, on his hands, in his mouth, why is it in his damn mouth? He spits to get the taste of it out.

Why didn’t anyone stop him? Didn’t they know he was capable of this? He always has been, especially after the Mark. They should have been more careful, he was like an armed nuclear bomb, hair trigger ready to blow.

It must have been a remnant of Michael left inside him that made him do this, it can’t be just him. Why can’t he stop stabbing even though they’re all dead? They’re dead and why is there still so much blood—so much blood because they’re already dead. It should stop, it really should stop. He can hear Sam’s footsteps pounding down the hallway, coming through the kitchen door and he can’t stop bringing the chef’s knife down and down again. Sam will make him stop. Please, you have to make me stop.

Sam’s holding his hand. Dean can see that his own hand is clenched tight in a fist like he’s holding a knife he can no longer see. Sam’s pulling his fingers apart from Dean’s clenched fist, stroking the back of his hand gently, his eyes searching the room for an attacker. “Another bad one, huh?” Sam asks, voice quiet and soothing.

Dean closes his eyes and nods. He leans into Sam and rests his head on his brother’s broad chest. The fast beating heart under his ear slows as Sam calms down along with him.

“You okay, Dean?” Sam asks, and the gorgeous rumble of his voice shakes the last tears from Dean’s eyes.

He nods slow and deliberate, enjoying the pull of Sam’s shirts against his cheek. It’s ridiculous how much he loves this, Sam almost holding him in an embrace. It’s such a comfort, he couldn’t possibly explain how much he craves this. As if he’s reading Dean’s mind, Sam’s arms come around him and hold him, not in a squishy glad-you’re-not-dead hug, but just a protective embrace.

“You’ll be okay, Dean,” Sam says, and rubs one of his hands in a wide circle over Dean’s back. He relishes being surrounded by Sam on all sides, and sighs as he lets himself melt into his brother’s hold.

“Glad you liked dinner, Sammy,” Dean says in a mumble as Sam walks him back to his bed.

******

Sam thinks he’s dreaming at first, but he doesn’t usually smell things in his dreams. What could make a smell so strong that he woke up? He sits up and leans over, he can smell that something strange is coming from under his bed. It’s intense, coming at him in waves, it smells like blood, just like old blood. He leans down just enough to see under the bed. There’s a bloody hand, he pulls on it, and feels its warmth, can feel a faint pulse in the wrist. Whoever this is must still be alive. He pulls and tugs and he can see the face—it’s his father. An accusing voice in his head intones, You’ve forgotten the face of your father.

“Dad! Oh shit, Dad!” Sam yells, leaping out of the bed, not caring that he’s still completely naked from last night with Dean. He yanks his father out from under the bed the rest of the way. There’s a knife stuck in his dad’s stomach, and it’s his own knife, the one he never uses, the curved one he’s had ever since he left for college. It’s stuck there in his dad’s barely breathing body, most of the curve buried deep in his belly.

His hand is on the knife’s handle, trying to pull it out when Dean comes in yelling for him. Wait, why wasn’t he already in here? Dean was sleeping wrapped up around me less than an hour ago, flashes through his mind, but it can’t possibly win over the panic, the all-consuming fear of his father dying right here on his bedroom floor with him unable to do a damn thing to stop it. It’s like the fucking hospital all over again. Sam can practically smell the coffee he’d dropped that day rushing to his father’s bedside, only to be too late again.

“Sam? Are you okay? Why were you yelling?” Dean asks, sounding near panic. And why isn’t he panicked, it’s his father too, can’t he see him dying down here?

The knife is gone, it’s not in his hand anymore, and there’s no nearly dead father on the floor. There’s no blood on the floor or his hands, there’s nothing he can see but the corner of his memory box sticking out from underneath his bed. He wipes his non-bloodied hands over his face, tries to stuff back in the terror and the tears that had come in that instant of relief. He feels Dean’s hand clamp down on one shoulder and he can’t…all the uncertainty and strangeness between them. He can’t deal with it and seeing this shit too. He must have been dreaming—right?

“It was just a bad dream. I…uh, I need to be alone right now, Dean,” Sam says, ducking his shoulder from underneath the weight of Dean’s hand. He wishes more than anything he’d put his pajamas back on last night. Especially since Dean is completely dressed, even has his boots on. Had he been leaving?

“I’m here if you need me, you know that, right, Sam?” Dean asks, hand on the doorknob to leave.

“Yeah, thanks, I probably just need some rest. See you in the morning,” Sam says with a little wave of a hand that he knows looks sad, but he still hopes it’s enough to get Dean out of the door.

Sam waits a few beats after Dean’s left and closed the door behind him. He pulls his sweats and flannels on and crouches at the side of his bed. The corner of his memory box is still showing, so something must have moved it. He can smell the strange old blood scent from before, but it’s not quite as strong as in his dream. He reaches down to pull out his memory box the rest of the way and opens the lid. There’s a nasty blackened lump on top of everything, it’s a burned up heart. And he’s seen this before and he’s trying to remember and then—wham!

Something hits him upside his head and he’s out cold.

He wakes up who knows how much later, tied to his own metal desk chair, with a gag in his mouth. He knows that this chair is unbreakable, it’s from the 1940s or 1950s, probably army surplus or something that the Men of Letters had bought back then. He tries, but he can’t get himself untied. Yelling through the gag as loudly as possible doesn’t work either. He strains his ears to hear if there’s any sign of his attacker, any movements out in the hall. He hopes that Dean comes back in to check on him. Maybe he will, because the door is wide open. Sam starts hopping the chair in small, pathetic baby steps towards the doorway and out into the hall. He stops for a moment to catch his breath and hears what sounds like talking down in the garage. He keeps jumping the chair in ridiculous little hops down the long hallway, wishing they lived in a smaller place. Hoping that the attacker won’t hear him coming.

***

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