Work Text:
Beautiful
by Pirate Turner
He sat in the dark, his every keen sense listening and waiting. He waited as he heard the water start. He waited as he heard him step into the tub. He waited, his eyes closed, as he imagined the water running over his hard, tired body. He saw, in his mind's eye, the younger man pick up the bar of soap and begin to work up a lather around the blood that had drenched through his clothes.
He stood, still listening. He knew this ritual of his brother's well. Too well, perhaps, for he could still remember the first times they had worn the stains of their kills. Like his brother, he had gone, the first time, to the water only to be jerked away by his father, angry and furious by the one who had gotten away. His yells still echoed in his ears today.
He rubbed his head, and his mind changed to when his brother had first ran to the water to cleanse him. He remembered taking his smaller hands in his and feeling the water rush over both their hands. The water could not cure them, he remembered telling him, for there was nothing wrong with them. It could not cleanse them for there was nothing evil to what they had done other than that they had fought an evil, but that was the Dark Side, not their side, never their side.
He had listened. He knew he had, but still he ran for that water, especially now, after learning what their father had told him. His hands clenched into fists. What right had he had, he thought for the hundredth time, to put such a burden upon him? He would never do it, he swore, never, and there was nothing that could make him do it. He would always be there for Sam, and he would never let him turn. He would never let the darkness, or the blood, overtake him. Never!
He stepped silently through the bathroom door, dropping the last of his clothes to the hardwood floor, and strode purposefully over to the tub. He barely rustled the shower curtain as he stepped inside. He knew the very moment Sam realized he was there for he tensed as his hand covered his.
He had never been much of one for words. Their father had seen to that. Instead of words, he leaned closer to Sam and blew his hot breath gently across the back of his neck. The hand beneath his relaxed, and he took the soap. He lathered Sam's back and washed it thoroughly, carefully mending the wounds he found there, the wounds Sam hadn't bothered to tell him about.
Neither spoke a word. Dean knew it would be pointless to scold Sam for not telling him he was injured for Sam would pull one of his oldest antics on him. He'd brush them off as being nothing more than a few bruises and a couple of cuts. In truth, had the injuries been on Dean, he wouldn't have cared, but they weren't. They were on Sam. His Sam. The man he would protect to the death and beyond, as long as there was anything left to his capabilities. The man who he would fight all the Demons in Hell to save. The man he cherished. The man he loved.
"Sam," he spoke his name at last, and Sam turned partially to look at him. Dean knew it was more than water that ran down Sam's face. It was a difficult life they led. More than difficult, but he didn't care, not really. He didn't care as long as he had Sam. As long as they were together, he could take on the world and anything above or below. Yet he knew it was tiring. He knew it was exhausting, both to the body and to the soul, and he knew all too well the thoughts that coursed through Sam's mind.
Those were the thoughts he'd come in here to stop. "Sam," he whispered his name against his younger brother's lips before taking his mouth with his own. He kissed him gently at first, then deepened their lips' embrace, his tongue slipping into Sam's mouth to more fully explore him and taste the sweetest nectar he'd ever found. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Sam's. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Dean," he answered, turning to meet his love. "It's just . . . " His hands trembled; he shook his head. How could he explain to Dean, without hurting him, what this life of killing did to him? Did to his soul, did to his heart? Without Dean, his world would be black. Without Dean, life would be meaningless.
Dean gently cupped Sam's face in his strong hands as he looked straight into his eyes. "I know, Sammy," he told him, his voice thick with sincerity and other emotions that he was barely holding in check. "I know." {All too well,} he thought.
Sam sighed; he lowered his eyes. "I don't want . . . "
Dean quirked a brow at him. "To disappoint me? To upset me by telling me that you wish we didn't hunt, that this wasn't our lives?" He lifted Sam's chin with a crooked finger, bringing his eyes back to meet his. "You could never disappoint me, Sam, not really, not as long as you're you and . . . you . . . you love me." He grinned lop-sidedly. Things were beginning to get a little too mushy for him, but he could handle it. With Sam, always and only with Sam, he could handle it.
Sam's dark eyes shone with confusion, and his facial expression bore the same marked emotion. "But . . . before . . . you said . . . "
Dean studied Sam for a moment, trying to figure out what he was saying, and then it hit him. "You mean before when I . . . sort of . . . pitched a fit when you talked about leaving?" At Sam's nod, Dean grinned. It was a true, honest grin that lit up his handsome face like a rainbow after a furious storm. "You weren't just talking about leaving the hunting, Sammy. You were talking about leaving me."
"That's why . . . ?"
He nodded.
Sam shook his head. "I could never do that, Dean. Not now. Not now that you know how I feel about you and you feel the same about me. I love you."
"And I love you, Sam," Dean reminded him. He started to kiss him again but paused as he remembered the blood. He wiped one of the few remaining wisps off of Sam's chest. "And this whole blood thing . . . ? I wish you'd forget about it," he told him honestly. "I understand why you get so upset over it, but hell, you're even beautiful coated in it. You're always beautiful to me." He kissed him again, and then let his body do the talking.
The End