tebtosca | FIC: Blood Runs Crazy (Sam/Dean, R)

spnspringfling reveal! Anyone guess this one was mine? Also, don't forget to check out the gift written for me, Air and Earth, revealed to be by the awesome

keep_waking_up

Title: Blood Runs Crazy
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 1458
Warnings: AU, dark themes

Summary: Sam’s first memory is a little boy with freckles on his nose.

Author's Notes: Written for the divine

quickreaver, who I adore. Sorry I didn't write you Abaddon!Sam but blame Jeremy Carver for keeping me far away from current canon lol

Thanks to

fiercelynormal for the late-night beta

Title from Dirty Knife, Neko Case's elegy to madness, which I listened to on repeat while writing this. Check it out!

“Do you have a Daddy, too, Dean?”

“I do, Sammy.”

“Is he nice like my Daddy?”

“One day, you’ll meet him, kiddo. Then you’ll see for yourself.”

“I’m excited, Dean.”

“Oh, Sammy. You have no idea.”

==

Sam’s first memory is not the smell of his mother’s milk or the scruff of his father’s beard.

Sam’s first memory is a little boy with freckles on his nose and eyes glinting jade in the shadow of the nursery. The little boy smiles, his front tooth missing, and reaches in to Sam’s crib. He shouldn’t be tall enough, but that doesn’t stop him.

“Heya, Sammy. I’m Dean,” says the little boy, his voice touching Sam like moonlight through the window.

Sam is six months old, yet the face of his Dean is imprinted on the back of his eyelids like a brand.

Sam’s first memory is his favorite, until one day it isn’t.

==

There’s a boy in school. His hair is red like Raggedy Andy, with cheeks as ruddy as the break of winter. He carries a Transformers lunchbox and eats a peanut butter and banana sandwich every single day.

Dean likes peanut butter. He doesn’t eat it because Dean never eats, but the smell makes him smile that special smile that’s only for Sam.

Six-year-old Sam is desperate for that smile.

Raggedy Andy is on the ground crying, the thermos from his lunchbox lying broken on the floor. Milk spills out, creamy white mixing with the red of the blood running from those ruddy cheeks.

“Why ya gotta do that, Sam?” Raggedy Andy cries.

“Big baby,” Dean says softly, just for his Sammy.

“Big baby,” Sam hollers at Raggedy Andy, kicking him again.

Raggedy Andy sobs until Ms. Milton comes to see what the commotion is.

She looks at Sam, mouth tightening at the corners.

“Dean likes peanut butter,” Sam says simply, like it’s the answer to everything.

Sam feels a hand trace secret shapes up his spine.

“Who is Dean, Sam?”

==

Sam can never take Dr. Singer seriously. There’s a ring of sweat around the top of his balding head like a crown, and his suit jacket never quite fits. Dean says he looks like he’s playing dress-up, and it makes Sam laugh right to the man’s face.

“Tell me about the girl, Sam. Tell me about Amy.”

“She was a monster. Dean told me.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably from his place in the middle of the couch. Brown leather squeaks when Dean drops down next to him. He puts one hand on Sam’s knee, and it’s more calming than any of the pills that Dr. Singer can give him.

“And what about Ruby? Is she a monster, too?”

Dean giggles. Sam giggles, too.

“Ruby’s a demon, Doctor. Duh.”

Dr. Singer pauses, swiping a hand absently over the top of his head. Sam can see the moisture shine on his fingertips. Sam taps his own fingers on the top of Dean’s hand where it rests on his knee.

One-two-three-four-five-six.

“Sam, I’m going to recommend that you come back to the hospital, just for a little while. Your parents agree with me, and the parents of the girls agreed to not press charges. You’re young, and we all think we can help you.”

“My paper is due. Mrs. Harvelle will be mad.”

Sam’s chest constricts. Dean squeezes his knee.

“We’ll get your homework for you, Sam. You just take your pills and focus on getting better.”

Sam spends his sixteenth birthday in a white bed in a white room with white walls. Dean’s eyes are green, though, and Sam sinks into them.

Green like grass, like spring, like glass, jagged cut glass makes red, red like blood, like fire, like fear.

Dean kisses the wetness on Sam’s cheeks. Sam breathes in, breathes out.

“Happy birthday, Sammy,” Dean whispers.

==

Dean hollers louder than any of them when Sam walks across the platform and accepts his diploma from Principal Turner. Sam turns and waves, sees Dean in his leather jacket, horned necklace glinting in the sun. Sam’s parents stand next to Dean but don’t acknowledge him.

That’s okay though. Sam and Dean make a pact when Sam gets out of the hospital. Dean teaches Sam how to hide the pills in the little pocket of his cheek. Dean teaches Sam how to smile at his parents and his doctors and pretend that Dean doesn’t mean anything to him. That Dean isn’t his whole world.

That Dean doesn’t exist.

Sam leans against him the entire bus ride to Palo Alto. Dean is strong and solid underneath him, his heartbeat a steady thump against Sam’s ear.

“I’m glad you are going with me, Dean,” Sam says, his voice a mere murmur.

“Where else would I be?” Dean replies, teasing.

“I can’t do this alone.”

“Yes, you can.”

Sam looks up at him. Dean’s breath is hot on Sam’s mouth, and as Sam speaks, he accepts the shared air like a communion.

“Yeah, well... I don’t want to.”

==

Jess is pretty and smart and sweet. She smells like flowers while Dean smells like oil.

Sam doesn’t know where Dean goes when Sam sinks into Jess. Dean used to stay before. With Amy, with Ruby, with Jo and Amelia and Paul and Christian.

Sometimes he would stay silent, just sitting in the corner of the room as Sam cries out, moving faster and faster, a whirlwind of sensation. Dean’s gaze would be heavy on Sam’s skin as sure as two palms on his hips.

Other times, Dean would talk. Nonsense words, or with a tone so low that Sam only understood because of the buzzing that Dean’s voice caused in his ears. Those times were when Sam would come the hardest, his entire body disintegrating from the inside out until there was nothing left but ephemeral bliss.

Sam and Jess are together for ten months and twelve days when the itch under Sam’s skin becomes too much and he crawls out of the flower-scented bed and goes to find Dean.

Dean twists fingers around the too-long strands of hair on the back of Sam’s neck. Rocks him asleep, safe in Dean’s arms.

Jess, perplexed, finds Sam sleeping on the floor in the middle of the hallway the next morning.

It’s ten months and fifteen days when Dean cracks the door open and Sam can hear Jess talking low and hushed to his roommate Brady.

“I’m worried about him, B. He’s acting strange lately, and I keep waking up to find him asleep in odd places.” Jess’ voice is concerned and earnest and it burns Sam up inside with what feels like rage.

“Maybe he’s sleep-walking,” Brady suggests.

Jess pauses, but then finally releases a heavy breath and a shaky laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Finals get to all of us, right?”

Brady laughs with her, and the sound is a little too airy. “Tell me about it. Go take your boy and have a goddamn drink.”

Dean shuts the door.

==

It’s a full moon the night that Dean tells Sam what he needs to do next.

Jess is away for the weekend visiting her parents, but she will be back soon. She leaves him a note when she leaves, purple pen and two hearts on a notecard balanced atop a plate full of chocolate chip cookies.

The plate shatters when Dean slams Sam bodily on top of the counter and runs fingernails up Sam’s bare flesh.

Finally, Sam thinks, wild with the ecstasy of no longer being made to wait.

Dean lives inside of Sam, every moment of every day, yet he’s never touched him like this. With purpose, seeking pleasure, crawling into the only secret crevices Sam has left.

Dean breaks Sam open, right there on the kitchen counter.

Afterwards, dizzy with surrender, they sink to the tiled floor and Sam looks into Dean’s eyes. They pool black like ink and Sam at first thinks it’s just an illusion.

Sam’s favorite memory will one day be the green that he’s lost.

==

Red like blood, like fire, like fear tinges the smoke that rises from what was once Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore’s apartment.

Dean leans against the shiny black car that matches his eyes. He runs a hand over the metal with the grace of a lover, and then opens the passenger door to Sam.

Dean smiles that special smile that’s only for Sam, and Sam can’t resist smiling back. Twenty-two year-old Sam is still desperate for it.

Dean pats the door again and crooks his head, beckoning Sam to come. Like Sam knows how to do anything else.

As Sam bends his body to fit along unfamiliar leather, Dean whispers in Sam’s ear in a voice singed with pungent promise.

“We’ve got work to do.”