Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (4/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing: Dean/Sam (established relationship)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2136
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.


Part IV


When you’re nineteen and horny and can’t take your girlfriend out to a movie premiere on Friday night when all of your friends are going, and it makes her bitch at you for a half hour with the promise of not getting any in the near future, because your perfect job behind a motel counter is more important than her, your life officially sucks.  

An hour later, when your best entertainment is to count the cracks on the ceiling, your life still sucks. As you dream about coming back home and having some private time with the latest issue of Maxim, something weird happens. At first, you hear the screams and weird noises, and then, something in the air shifts, and it gets eerily quiet.

As you look around the lobby, confused and dumbfounded, trying to register any change, the annoyance starts to creep into you. You’re sure as hell this has something to do with that tall, weird guy.

Thing is, this guy checks in a week ago, and suddenly, it takes two minutes for every potential client to change their minds about staying here. And maybe you are overreacting, as your girlfriend has pointed out, but you saw The Silence of the Lambs; you know a psycho when you see one.
 
Then, the shorter guy moves in with him, and loads of money is shoved down your throat by the tall guy to not disturb them. As if you’re dumb enough to do anything to piss this guy off.  

The shorter guy hasn’t come out of the room, and you suspect him dead and cut into pieces by his roommate, if not for the screams and headboard smashing against the wall loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. And if this guy is crazy enough to get involved with the bat-shit crazy lover of his, it’s not your problem.

So, now, you try to listen for any disturbing sound that may come, but nothing happens. You relax, sighing, and say into the emptiness of the room, “My life totally sucks.” And it does, royally, as you stay gaping like a fish, because no sound is coming from your mouth. Oh, fuck.




Dean sits on a bed beside his brother and screams out loud, straining his ears in attempt to indicate, at least, the squeak of his voice, but the deafening silence laughs at him, stretching and spreading its force over the room.  

Dean moves away from Sam, uneasy and rushed, eyes looking everywhere but at his brother’s face, and tries to get his breathing under control, sitting on the edge of bed and counting from one to ten and back, eyes fixed on the wall.

It takes a couple minutes for the fear and confusion to lay low, and Dean briefly wonders if a person can explode without letting his emotions out.

Dean darts a look toward the window, feeling the burn of Sam’s eyes on his skin. Dean catches sight of birds flying and playing, wings flapping, and he swears he can see them singing, but there’s no sound. No sound at all. It’s like the half of the world is hidden from him, and he’s the one left to the empty nothingness. Alien to the world. Seems like hell found new ways to reach out for him.

Something close to a hysterical cry escapes his throat, and he cringes, anticipating hearing it out loud, but there’s nothing, just a puff of air and a shot of pain through his heart.

God, he wants to scream out loud, to strain his lungs and let it all out, to let his heart scream for him, to demand the answers from someone, from Sam. Damn, Sam owns him one hell of an explanation. But there’s just a silence eating up the room, greedy to swallow Dean’s questions and Sam’s answers.

Dean turns to look at Sam, turning his whole body to meet Sam’s gaze with an open and challenging gaze of his own. Dean’s anger is flaring on the surface and shielding the confusion that is hidden under his many layers.

Sam looks straight at Dean, not holding back. Then, he swallows as if something is stuck down his throat and it’s hard to breathe, and Dean can almost taste the soreness of his brother’s throat. His gaze follows Sam’s every movement.

Sam opens his mouth, lips moving, letting air ghost over his lips as he fights to frame a word. Dean recognizes his name in an instant, catching the shape of it before it fades away. Sam stubbornly repeats it one more time, his lower lip involuntary trembling. The third time, it comes with tears shining in Sam’s hazel eyes.

The fourth time is better; Dean’s name is a silent cry against Dean’s cheekbone, wet trails against his skin. Dean tries to catch Sam’s tears with his lips, take away the insulting weight of it and make them fade away, erasing the memory of it from Sam’s skin.




The stretching silence devours everything around making the world shrink to the size of the room, proclaiming the words overrated and useless.

When Dean enters Sam, no preparation, no teasing, just an urge to be in him, to possess each cell of his body, his skin burns with the restrained feeling. His blood thumps in his veins angrily, demanding to take control over the silence.

Dean’s body knows only one way out of it. Dean digs his fingers into his brother’s slim hips, lifting them, pulling almost all the way out and slamming into his brother with a muted grunt.

Sam opens his mouth, eyes wide and open, and arches his back, inviting to take him deeper.  
 
Dean’s second thrust is rougher, words rushing through his skin into Sam’s. What have you done to yourself?

Sam sobs silently as another thrust follows unexpectedly fast. What the hell did you do, Sammy?

Dean doesn’t let Sam find comfort in touching Dean. He slaps Sam’s hand away, gripping his brother’s wrists tightly one with one hand, pinning them above Sam’s head.  

The next several thrusts are hurried questions, outranging each other. Were the whispers about you in hell were true? Were they right about me? Who are you now? Who am I? What did they do to us?

The thrusts become frantic, and the world spins around them, pressing them with its weight.

Dean comes first, he fills Sam completely and pulls out to paint Sam’s ass with his rest of his come.

As Sam opens his mouth to beg silently, Dean sucks on his own fingers and then pushes three of them into Sam’s ass, watching Sam intently while hitting his prostate over and over again. It doesn’t take long for Sam to grab hold of Dean by his hair, pulling his brother’s head down to cover his mouth in a rough kiss and finally shoot on both their bodies.

As they both lie trembling, Dean is a solid weight on Sam’s body; Sam summons all his strength to wrap his hands around his brother.




One state away from Winchesters, there is an old house on the side of the road near the filling station, dark and silent. The clacking sounds of the grasshoppers’ wings are the only sounds to disturb the peaceful night.  

On the second floor of the house, inside the bedroom, a man in mid-30s, the proud owner of the filling station, lies on a bed, convulsing. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, his throat is cut open and the blood is painting the snow white sheets underneath him.

The clock on the wall is ticking quietly, striking 2:00 a.m.

The bed dips as Meg sits down next to the man. An irritated line crosses Meg’s forehead as she casually pushes away the man’s hand without looking back at him in order to sit properly.

Meg concentrates on a goblet in her hands, smiling warmly as she starts to swirl the blood with her finger.

The moon through the window lights her form as she chants in Latin, the blind faith and devotion are evident upon her face. The man’s rattle accompanies the chanting, coloring her words with death’s signs.  

The minutes pass by, and the rattle stops. The Latin words are the only sounds left to fill the room.

The wind is kissing Meg’s lips as she pauses, and after, it takes away one word from Meg’s mouth, “Brother.”

Meg slowly pulls out her index finger from the goblet, blood dipping from the painted-black nail. She tilts her head to the side to catch the drops of the blood with her tongue, and then, places the finger between her pink lips licking away the blood.

“Tom.” she whispers, eyes black. She sits on the bed in silence, unmoving, watching the sun rise.

As the sun light breaks through the window in a useless try to warm up Meg and the lifeless body behind her, exposing the blood stains on the sheet, Meg closes her eyes and lets out a little sigh.




Another morning for Bobby starts with a call from his fellow hunter.

Bobby pulls the covers away, rolling out of bed, and half-blindly reaches for his cap, pulling it on, before reaching for his cell phone on the night stand.

It’s not the alarm clock to wish for, and there’s no snooze button. Though he’s not one to complain, he has experienced worse substitutions for a wake up clock.  

As Bobby’s mind concentrates on the received information and processes the facts, he steps into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

As it turns out, some strange activity was registered in the south where a couple of towns went silent for hours, with TV cables and phone lines switched off, and people unable to hear each other.

Bobby finishes the talk and sips his coffee, looking out the window, wondering what wheels are working and how fast he can reach one of the named towns and visit the Winchester boys. Damn! Boys.




Sam’s voice returns to him when Dean fucks him for the third time in a row, and Sam is too fucked out to register his own please coming out in a whisper.

Through blurry eyes, Sam watches as Dean keeps pounding into him, rough and merciless, not easing up, and Sam thinks that his heart might stop any minute, but his fingers tug at Dean’s hair, bringing him closer, while turning his head aside and purposely exposing his neck for Dean’s bites and licks.

Sam hisses as Dean catches sensitive skin with his teeth, burning the mark into Sam’s neck and not bothering to lick away the pain.

Sam’s legs are almost sliding off Dean’s slick with sweat shoulders. Sam tries to concentrate on clutching onto his brother, but Dean is the one to keep Sam in place, in one piece. Dean’s body is pressing Sam’s down, come and sweat are the combined mess between their bodies, and Dean is like a constant owner of Sam’s body, keeping him from breaking apart until Dean lets him fall into million pieces for Dean to pick up.

When they both come, unexpectedly crying out loud, they find their own voices alien and strange, intruding on the bubble they locked themselves into.

After, they lay in silence on the bed, bodies close to feel the heat of the other’s body, but not close enough to touch, sated and worn out, both more than willing to postpone the inevitable questions.

When the silence changes, taking the intense notes, starting to separate them, Dean turns his head wanting to catch Sam’s every expression, and offers a peace for both of them.

“The voice I’ve heard when-”, Dean starts, eyes fixed on Sam. In the back of his mind, he registers that the world is filling with sounds, but the most important thing is still here, with him.

“Castiel,” Sam helps him, turning on his side to face Dean properly, the bed dipping under his weight.

Dean’s forehead wrinkles with lines of confusion. And Sam is the only one who has the right to witness Dean lost and uncertain. “How could I - Was I suppose to hear him?”

“No,” Sam answers straight away. “And I don’t know how or why it happened.”

Dean believes, without a doubt, that Sam is sincere, but the fog in his head isn’t clearing. “What is he doing visiting your head?”

Sam winces but doesn’t take his gaze away from Dean. “It’s the angels’ way of controlling my actions.”

Dean considers Sam’s answer. Knowing what a stubborn son of a bitch his brother is, something is definitely wrong with that. Dean gives Sam with a doubtful look, “Huh. Does it work?”

And predictably, the smug smile spreads across Sam’s face. Bastard. “No, but they believe it is.”


TBC