#implied samdean

[crying-in-the-pews]

Soulless Sam in ‘You Can’t Handle the Truth’ trying to keep his cover but Dean keeps asking sappy questions.

“Hey, Sammy, you remember when you were 8 and you scraped up your knee at school? You wouldn’t stop crying until the teachers came and got me from my class…” Dean asks, soft voiced and timbre, the motel dimly lit by the street lamps outside and Sam’s luminescent laptop screen.

No. “Yeah, De, ‘course.” Sam hums. “New school, unfamiliar people- just wanted you.”

“Sammy?” He asks, for what feels like the millionth time. “Yeah?” Sam answers.

“Do you love me?”

Jesus Christ. Sam has to close his eyes so he doesn’t roll them- hard. Not that he’d be able to see it. “Yes, Dean. I love you.”

“Are you- are you in love with me?” Dean breathes. Sam can really only see his silhouette in the darkness, propped up on the other bed, that and the nervous glint in his eyes.

Sam can’t remember what it felt like to love, but he knows he used to. Answering that question- in any caliber- will undoubtedly distract Dean from the hunt and cause a whole litany of problems.

From the drowsiness in Dean’s voice, Sam thinks he can get away with disobeying the compulsion pattern. Dean probably won’t remember a word of this in the morning.

“Go to sleep, Dean. I’ll keep watching the tapes.”

And he does.

[samsjon]

[crying-in-the-pews]

That one scene in 7x06 ‘Slash Fiction’ …

Sam struggling against his bonds, the metal of the cuffs clinking- he’s panicking now but trying not to show it, giving that thing wearing his brother the satisfaction.

“You know,” he casually starts, “in the time I’ve spent inside your brother, I’ve really grown to resent you both.” The leviathan says, perching himself up on the edge of the table.

Sam avoids his eyes. He’s difficult to look at- heart thrumming with familiarity and relief at his face, his smell, his voice- brain knowing better.

“Always um-ing and ah-ing and never just doing!” He chastises, “Well, aside from that one time… he still remembers it, y’know? That lonely night before Stanford? God, you were a wild one weren’t you? Where did you ever learn how to do that?” He’s biting his lip, smirking, red in the cheeks as if reminiscent. None of it is genuine.

The real Dean doesn’t remember- Sam chants to himself- a mantra- they were drunk, Dean drunker, he would have said something if he remembers it, right? He doesn’t.

“If you’re going to eat me, just get it over with. Spare me the victory speech.” Sam grunts, straining away from the warm shape at his side. Sam hopes real-Dean is fairing better than he is.

“Dean” grins- something all-too toothy.

“Now where’s the fun in that, pretty boy? Maybe I wanna see if you’re just as good as he remembers.”

[crying-in-the-pews]

Dean’s always been the one to tie Sam’s ties. Doesn’t matter if he can do it- Dean’s ‘big brother,’ and ‘big brother’ ties your ties.

But, when he wraps the satin around his thick, scarred fist, waiting, impatiently, in front of the mirror for Sam to slot into position up against his chest, the younger’s mind tends to wander.

Sometimes he thinks about it being tied behind his head, gagging his mouth so he’s forced quiet- a drooling mess, soaking the fabric dark. Sometimes it’s fastening his wrists together, tight and biting, hands immobilised above by knots not even Sam can wriggle out of. Other times he thinks about the tie looped over his eyes- black, black, black is all he’ll see as he’s left blinded and vulnerable to brother’s whim. Others, it’s a collar Dean uses to yank him about, tightening it up when Sam does something he doesn’t like.

Sam’s eyes widen as Dean, jokingly, snaps the tie like a belt. He chuckles to himself, before grabbing out at Sam and tugging him in tight.

Dean’s chest is warm through their matching white shirts and Sam’s red-faced and twitchy in the mirror’s reflection.