A Secret Shared

by Nomelon

Setting: post AHBL, spoilers for season 2
Disclaimer: all belongs to CW & Kripke. No money is being made, yadda yadda.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam/Dean
Summary: challenge response to the wonderful dreamlittleyo's Church Drabble Challenge of Utter Awesome, which can be found here. I recommend you go there to see the amazing artwork that inspired this little piece. FYI, I actually won the challenge *beams proudly* and will be receiving a piece of artwork to call my very own in return, which I shall display here at a later date *waits impatiently*.

~~~

Dean hears his name, whispered soft and concerned, echoing a little around the belly of the empty church. He knows Sam is standing a couple of pews behind him, knew that he'd eventually be found here, but it's still enough to make him jolt in his seat, elbows on his knees, clasped hands pressed tighter against his forehead where he sits.

'Hey, Sammy,' he says, trying for levity, though he's not sure why. His voice sounds rough to his own ears. He sounds weak. Self-indulgent. Pathetic.

A lost cause.

'What are you doing here?'

Dean can picture him, clear as day. Sam will be standing, maybe with his hands in his pockets, maybe hanging loose and ready at his sides, maybe balled into fists, all depending on how much Dean's little disappearing act has freaked him out. That concerned little kicked puppy frown of confusion on his face will be there though. That much Dean is certain of.

'Couldn't sleep,' Dean says, but it comes out like he's offering a line, one he knows Sam won't bite on.

Sam crouches down at the end of the pew. 'You okay?'

'Sure,' Dean says with a grin, but his face feels puffy, and he knows his eyes are red and streaming. He can't seem to make them stop. He's so tired of crying like a girl all the time. This past year... Jesus Christ. Have they worked a single case that hasn't brought on the waterworks? It's like his body's got used to it. He pretty damn sure he's cried more this year that the whole rest of his life combined, childhood included. His hands are trembling, moving restlessly, and he's so bone-weary that his whole body aches with it.

'I thought you didn't believe in... All of this.'

Dean gives a weak little shrug. 'Couldn't hurt. I just needed...'

Sam gets it; Dean knows that without doubt. He's sure that Mr I-Pray-Every-Day's prayers have changed a little of late and are now focused on one thing and one thing only.

Sam lays a hand on his thigh, warm and reassuring. 'Come back with me. You should get some sleep.'

'Sleep when I'm dead, right Sammy?'

The hand on his thigh clamps down, squeezes until it hurts. Dean lets it happen, welcomes it, focuses on the flare of pain.

'Don't you do that. Don't you say that.'

Dean tries to meet his eye, but he can't manage more than a quick glance at all that intense concern.

'Sammy, I--'

'It's only been five days, Dean.' Three hundred and sixty days to go. 'I have a-- I'm going to get you out of this. You know I am.'

Oh, he knows Sam's going to try. This is going to turn into another quest. Possibly the greatest Winchester quest of all time -- cue the dramatic music and dancing girls. He knows that Sam will be willing to put himself on the line to save his big brother, and that's something that Dean can't ever let him do.

Three hundred and sixty days to go.

That demon was one smart bitch. Ten years is a lifetime. More than Dean expects on a good day, considering his chosen profession. No time at all, the same deal as Dad got, that's too much like a clean break. But this? A year? A single solitary year that ceases to be an actual year as soon as the clock starts ticking down and becomes tiny little increments of months and weeks and days? A year is genius. A year is suffering and regrets and fear and not enough, never enough, don't let go. A year is hell already.

'I know, Sammy. I know.'

'Come on. Come back and get some sleep.'

Dean nods. He'd rather stay in the dark. It's peaceful here. It feels kind of like sanctuary, even though he knows it's an illusion. But Sam's asking him, so he slides to the end of the pew and turns his knees into the aisle.

He expects Sam to roll to his feet, offer a helping hand and guide Dean out of the church like he's an invalid, but instead Sam stays right where he is, blocking Dean's path. Sam's hands are on him, moving, like he's checking for injuries. One hand ends up wrapped around Dean's neck, his thumb on Dean's cheek. Dean presses into the touch before he realises he's doing it. He doesn't mean to, but the pads of Sam's fingers pressing into the back of his neck feel good.

'Dean, I...'

Then Sam mirrors the manoeuvre with his other hand and gently tilts Dean's face up. This is starting to feel really weird, really fast. Sam shifts his weight a little, like he's making up his mind, and leans in.

Dean shoves at Sam's chest, panic bringing him to life, knocking Sam away, making him lose his balance and slump to his knees. 'What are you doing?' he asks, the horrified whisper fast and burning in his throat.

'There's just... It's too much, y'know? I can't... I can't even...'

'This isn't the way to fix everything, Sam. Not even close.'

It's like Sam isn't really listening. Not really. Damn Sammy and his selective hearing, selective reasoning, selective everything. Just sees the world how he wants it and refuses to hear anything different. On a good day it drives Dean crazy. Today?

'Christo.'

Sam doesn't flinch. 'Jesus, Dean. What do you think I am?'

'You're my brother.'

Sam licks his lips. Glances at Dean's when he does it and Dean isn't prepared for the bolt of something horribly akin to lust that hits him like a gunshot. 'And you're mine. And I'm going to save you.'

'What is this, Sammy? Where is this coming from?'

'I love you,' Sam says, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

Dean grimaces and tries to pull away.

'No,' Sam says, not letting go, not letting Dean get away from him. 'No. And don't start in with that chickflick bullshit. Do you have any idea what you've... I mean, do you have any clue?'

'Sammy. That's just how it goes. This--' He gestures between the two of them. '-- isn't. I mean, come on, since when have you even... Y'know. Guys.'

Sam smiles, actually smiles, all shy and bashful. 'There's a lot you don't know about me.'

'I thought we'd given up on keeping secrets.'

Sam leans in again, moving slow and easy, his palm resting on Dean's heart, watching Dean carefully the whole time. 'So consider this a secret shared.'

Dean grabs at his elbows, intending to stop him, but ends up just holding on. 'That's a hell of a secret, Sammy,' he says, alarmed at how tiny and shaky his voice is, completely freaked to hell by all of this, feeling sick to his stomach like God's going to strike him down because of all the shit that Dean Winchester has pulled in a long and varied lifetime of shit pulling, this comes in free and clear at the number one top spot. But the worst thing is, past all the inherent wrongness of this and the very carefully not thinking about mom or dad, there's something, something, so appealing at having someone he loves more than anything else on this earth want him like this. Someone who's prepared to cross lines that should never, ever be crossed. Someone who loves him back, just as much, like nobody else ever has, who's prepared to risk it all, to be brave and, yeah, foolish enough to look at him like this. Like their whole world begins and ends with Dean.

Sam leans in again, and Dean... Dean closes his eyes.

When the times comes, Dean knows he's going to have to walk away. Otherwise Sam will do something crazy and heroic and the crossroads demon will break their deal with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. The thought of seeing the lights go out in Sam's eyes... Dean knows he can't watch that again. No matter what the cost.

So if this is what Sam wants? If this is the way forward? Dean can do that. It's his job to keep Sam safe. No matter what the cost. No matter what.

The end.