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S8 drabble - first kiss, wincest
Redeem Me
Sam’s skin is blotchy and pink, like he’s tried to scrub himself raw. A towel is wrapped around his hips where he sits on his narrow bunker bed, head resting in his hands. His shoulders are trembling, droplets of water rolling down them. Dean pushes the door open without even thinking; Sam’s obvious distress is calling out to him, it’s his most basic instinct – Sam’s hurting, make it stop.
Dean crouches on the floor in front of his little brother. “Sam? Hey buddy, you OK? Is it the trials?”
Sam looks up, and the pain in the hazel eyes is so piercing and raw that it makes Dean’s gut clench.
Sam looks at him for a short moment before his head drops again and he wraps his arms around himself, making himself smaller; as though he doesn’t feel entitled to the space he’s occupying.
“Sam,” Dean says, softly, “Please. Talk to me.”
Sam’s voice is heavy with confusion and sorrow when he finally asks: “Why do you still even care about me, Dean?”
Dean reaches out then, wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrists and forces him to look at him. “What the hell are you talking about, Sam? You’re all I’ve got. Now talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Me,” Sam replies hollowly. “Everything about me is wrong.”
Dean’s grip tightens. “Sam.”
“The demon blood. Ruby. Yellow eyes. My damn soul. Not-“ Sam’s face is wet now, and not from the shower – “Not looking for you. I can never redeem myself, not with these damn trials, nothing. Castiel was right. I’m an abomination. I don’t – I don’t deserve to live. And you…” A glimpse of something, admiration or awe, maybe, ghosts over his miserable face for a second. “You deserve so much more than me.”
Dean’s chest aches, his thumbs drag along Sam’s face, wiping at the tears. “You’ve got nothing to prove, least of all to me. I know I’ve said things to you, but know this, little brother: I’ve seen your soul. I’ve seen you. The brightness. God, Sam. You’re…”
Dean leans forward, touching his forehead to Sam’s. “You’re no abomination. You’re good, ok? So fucking good and beautiful.”
A sob tears through Sam’s throat then as he allows Dean into his space, his exhale damp and sorrowful against Dean’s face: “I’m so scared I’ll drag you down with me.”
Dean’s hand curl around Sam’s neck. He wants to be close to Sam, to anchor him, and something inside him slides into place as he feels Sam relax and melt against him - it’s like he’s been searching for something in the dark for so long and now the lights has been switched on and he can see plainly what’s been in front of him all along. Dean lets out a helpless sort of laughter before he says, in a voice far more husky then he is prepared for: “Sam, I’d let myself be dragged anywhere with you.”
Sam’s hair falls into Dean’s face; tangles with his lashes. The air seems to set around them, like a calm before a storm. Sam’s palm is large and hot against Dean’s neck, long fingers ghosting over his collarbone. “That’s what scares me, Dean.”
Dean watches Sam’s face. The tense line of his pursed lips, the lines of guilt creasing around his eyes. The thirst in his eyes. And just like that, Dean gives in. He leans in, closes that small space between them and touches Sam’s lips with his own.
Sam pushes him away, softly. “Don’t pity me,” he begs, wetness clinging to his lashes.
Dean takes Sam’s hand then, presses it against his chest, Sam’s hand against his bare skin beneath the flannel shirt, letting him feel his heart race beneath his fingertips. “This is not pity, Sam.”
Sam gasps, stares at his mouth, and Dean leans forward again, whispering against Sam’s lips: “I want. Sammy, I want.”
And Sam lets him; his mouth opens beneath Dean’s in the messiest, most wonderful kiss he’s ever had and he can’t help the whimper that escapes him. Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, and as Dean’s warm, pliant body settles over his, Sam finally learns about forgiveness and redemption.