Part I

Thump. Thump. Blood. Blood is everywhere. Sticky and blinding him. Thump. Thump. Screams. Pain. Thump. Thump. Thump. Louder and louder. Dark whispers and screams, fading. Thump. Thump. Thump. Heart. His heart is beating. Louder and louder. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Suddenly, Dean is falling into nothingness, and he screams, opening his eyes. He’s somewhere small. It’s dark and quiet. So quiet. He touches his forehead to wipe off the blood, but there’s nothing. As the screams are fading, leaving the dreadful quietness to swallow him whole, the fear creeps in his heart. Dean screams so loud that his throat hurts and a throb of pain shoots through his head. The trap.  He’s in the trap. He needs to find a way out, to get out before they get him. Get out. Before they find Sam. Sammy.

When he’s clawing his way out, with dirt falling on his face and covering his eyes, Dean’s heart clenches with fear at the ignorance of the place he’s rushes to. But Dean just sets his teeth and furiously digs his fingers into the dirt above him. They won’t get him.

With the first intake of breath above the surface comes the understanding that he is closer to Sam than he expects. Sammy.

The abandoned church is in the middle of nowhere, protected by the gusty wind raising dust and his fellow travelers - the tumbleweeds.

Inside, a man kneels in front of the altar, raising his hands in what feels like a prayer. His voice is strong and loud, reaching every dark corner of the church.

“Castiel, it’s time for you to take a human form.”

The answers are only for this man to hear, sounding clear in his head.

“I take no orders from a human being.” The voice is emotionless; its purpose to deliver the information.

The man makes a wry mouth. “I’m nowhere close to ordering you. It’s what you need for contacting him.”

“I’ll let this information be considered.” The voice stops and then continues. “Explain to me, why you use your speech instead of talking to me with your mind.” 

The man smirks unkindly, “I’m tired of talking to myself. Sometimes, I need to hear my voice to remember who I am.”

The voice in his head sounds the same despite the interest it showed by asking, “You are strange creature, Samuel Winchester.”

Dean is riding shotgun in Bobby’s truck, eyes hidden from the sun with one hand, tiredly, trying to shut himself from the sounds and voices. His mind is clouded, and Dean can’t decide which voices that surround him belong to this world and which ones he brought as presents from Hell. But all of them are real, and he can’t wait to shut them away, at least for a moment, finding a peace in Sam’s arms. He only needs to get lost in his brother to feel alive again. The burn of tattoo on his chest is getting less painful and more demanding to be entwined with another one as each mile brings them closer to Sam. 

Sam stands in front of the mirror, looking at the tattoo on his bare chest. He feels Dean with each minute as he gets closer. Sam closes his eyes and inhales, trying to find his brother’s scent. Soon. He’s gonna be here soon. Sam opens his eyes and leans closer to the mirror; he touches the reflection of the tattoo in the mirror, deliberately leaning his palm against it, imagining his brother’s skin under his hands, and painting the picture on the mirror with his fingers, touching and imagining curves and freckles.

The desperation that he was choking on for four months is still stuck in his throat, but it’s less painful. It’s promising to slide away as soon as Dean’s scent fills his nostrils.

Sam can wait. He doesn’t let the tangle of emotions at the thought of seeing Dean come to the surface. He tries to lull their emergence to sleep, keeping them under his skin, feeling them with each breath he takes. It’s not the time. Sam will allow himself to feel when he feels Dean’s pulse beating against his lips.

The voice in his head interrupts his thoughts, unknowingly tactless, deaf to the human’s feelings. “I have to remind you to look surprised when you see him.” 

Sam swallows down the rising bile to keep from snarling that he remembers how to react and settles with “I don’t want any of you around when I see him.”

Silence is his answer, and Sam is grateful for small favors.

He looks around the room for any evidence pointing out at how changed he is now, and then, satisfied, settles down on the bed, stretching his long legs out, balancing the laptop in his lap.

He turns his back to the door, trying to look unprepared for Dean’s appearance and runs through the welcome, Dean scene in his head. The mirror hanging on the left side of the bed has a perfect view of the door, and Sam doesn’t need to turn his head to see Dean. He knows he’ll catch the first glimpse of his brother in this mirror. It’s really pathetic how Sam concentrates on the mirror, forcing it to show his brother right now. But in the last four months, he crossed more lines than just being pathetic, so he doesn’t give a damn. Sam waits.

Dean knocks on the door, with Bobby standing by his side, feeling the support of the man and the shoulder to lean on to if he needs to.  But that’s not what Dean needs.

Instinctively knowing that the door is not locked and refusing to wait for an answer, Dean pushes the door open and stops as his breath catches in his throat. Sammy.

Sam sits on the bed, and then, he’s turning around to face Dean. At that moment, Dean thinks that the world has stopped spinning or it just might be the end of the world. Dean’s tattoo is burning on his chest trying to say something to Dean, supported by the thunderous beating of his heart, insisting he get closer.

Sam whispers his name like he knows something that Dean doesn’t, and the next moment, he crushes Dean with enough strength to kill him. Bobby is the one to pull Sam away, convincing him that it really is Dean. Dean stares at Sam in confusion, a tiny voice flickers in the back of his mind whispering that Sam’s reaction wasn’t fast enough, that Dean would be dead in a second if Sam wanted. Dean, disinterested, tries to shoo the voice away.  It’s not important. It’s nothing, because, now, Dean is having problems breathing, being smashed against his brother’s solid chest, with the tattoos beating faster than their hearts, and it’s not nearly enough. Sam whispers “Dean” against Dean’s neck, and it’s familiar, it’s how Sam sounds when he’s brokenhearted, and that Dean can relate to.  

Bobby takes three cool bottles of beer out of the fridge and hands two of them to the brothers as they sit in the silence on opposite sides of the bed while looking at the same meaningless spot on the wall in front of them. He watches them each take a beer from his hands, avoiding looking at each other. Bobby opens his beer and takes one big gulp, sighing with satisfaction, and clears his throat.

“Well, boys, you need to talk, that’s for sure.” He looks up at the guys with an understanding look and moves towards the door. Bobby tries not to pay attention to the thick-with-tension look the boys exchange as he turns to the door. When he was a kid, his father taught him better than to stick his nose in someone else’s business, and it was pretty good advice. “You know where to find me when you’re ready to talk, and the three of us are gonna need to talk.” He turns to look at them to deliver his point.

“See you, boys.” Like his father, John taught his boys good manners as well, as they both stand up to walk him to the door, giving him a tight hug. “Dean. Sam.” Bobby nods to both of them before walking out the door, holding a bottle of beer in his hand.

Sam closes the door behind Bobby and locks it, feeling his heart pounding in his chest with the fact of Dean being here. He wants to turn around and touch Dean, kiss him, fuck him, hold him, dig his fingers into him. Sam is one step away from breaking into million pieces of being closer to Dean and not being able to close the last inches between them. Before Sam can even turn around, his body is slammed from behind. Dean clings to his back, leaning his whole body on Sam and not letting go.

“Sam, Sam, Sammy,” Dean chants into Sam’s neck, his lips sucking on his brother’s neck, while his fingernails are scratching the flesh of Sam’s shoulders, making him believe that Dean is really here.

Sam can’t find his voice, the lump in his throat is too big for him to swallow, and he either ends up sobbing like a girl or collapsing down on the floor, or maybe both. But Dean is here, and Sam doesn’t need words. Dean knows; he always does. He tugs Sam backward until they reach the bed in a weird dance of legs, and soon, they're crashing down onto the bed awkwardly in a tangle of limbs. As long as Dean keeps holding him, it’s perfect.

Dean brings Sam’s body closer, caressing him like a baby, moving him, until they lay on the bed face-to-face, and Sam just clings to his brother, holds tightly to any part of the body he can reach. Sam can’t see clearly, his gaze is cloudy, and he feels like a newborn kitten stupidly trying to reach out for the warm body and not knowing what to do next. His hunger for Dean isn’t decreasing, and he’s desperately trying to take everything he can get from Dean before someone takes him away.

“Sam, c’mon, Sammy, look at me,” Dean’s soothing voice gets through his blurry mind, and Sam tries to focus on Dean’s green eyes, Dean’s eyes, as Dean’s fingers wipe the tears from Sam’s face, and Sam wonders when he started crying.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here,” Dean insists like Sam doesn’t get it, and Sam desperately nods, digging his fingers into his brother’s shoulders. He gets it. He knows.

“No. No, Sam. C’mon, you have to trust me.” Dean cradles Sam’s face in his hands, looking inside him, and Sam is mesmerized. He holds his brother’s gaze, sipping in all the emotions Dean has to offer and, finally, going slack in his brother’s arms.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, referring to all the months he had to live without his brother, revealing the truth of how he felt all this time.

“I know,” Dean simply says, bringing Sam even closer, making the tattoos slide against each other, feeling the power of connection even through the layers, his eyes focused on Sam, not leaving him.

They stay that way for several minutes, and then, Dean is kissing Sam, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. Sam lets him, listening to what it means, not missing a beat of information Dean opens to him. Sam feels as the tattoo on his chest plays under his skin of being closer to Dean’s and then starts drinking in the memories from it.

The grip of resolution tightens Sam’s mind as the truth of what Dean felt, sinks in.  

Sam moves lower, not letting go of Dean, until Sam’s head is on his brother’s chest, until Dean’s heartbeat is a loud thump against his lips.

“Dean,” he says firmly, and he means mine and they’re gonna pay.     

Part II