Author’s notes: An epilogue of sorts. For anyone who was wondering where Sam and Dean go now. One guess: it’s not Disneyland. Dean’s POV.
The Falling Away of Masks (Part 4)
One fire burns out another's burning,
One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish. - Romeo and Juliet
Dean stood in front of the large picture window and leaned his forehead against its cool surface. The view was truly gorgeous here, but he was blind to it. As always, he had come here to lose himself in the beauty of the Hollywood Hills, and as always, he ended up so mired in his own bleak thoughts that he completely ignored what was before him.
The sound of faint footfalls alerted him to Sam’s presence a mere second before he felt the hand at his shoulder. He startled, but managed to relax almost immediately.
“Dean?”
The voice beckoned and he turned, lifting his eyes to look into Sam’s face. As usual, it wore a look of sternness which meant that he would have to be careful. He tried to ready himself, all the while knowing that he could never be ready enough.
“You were thinking about killing yourself again, weren’t you?”
“No.”
Sam’s hand lashed out, striking his cheek with unnatural force. “Don’t lie to me.”
The stinging pain brought tears to his eyes and it took him a moment before he could face his brother. It took him all of two seconds to weigh the pros and cons of lying again. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“So you were?”
“I was.”
Sam grabbed his hand, the hand that had been rubbing his aching cheek, and brought it to his own chest. “Why, Dean? Why would you ever think about that? You don’t want to leave me, do you?”
The hand grasping his was the only thing keeping Dean from falling to the floor in despair. He hated moments like this worst of all - when his brother acted like a human being. When he looked and acted as if he loved him. He swallowed hard and forced himself to answer, knowing that Sam didn’t want the truth this time. Life with his brother had become a tricky, unpredictable game, and Dean was finally learning how to play it. It had taken five long and painful months, but he was finally learning. “No, I don’t want to leave you. I’m sorry for thinking it, Samuel.”
Releasing Dean’s hand, Sam began to gently caress his face, the same place that still throbbed from being struck. “I hate it when you do that. It makes me worry. But,” he sighed, “you’re forgiven this time.” Leaning down, he placed a very soft kiss on Dean’s lips.
Dean opened his mouth, both accepting what was given and loathing it all at once.
Sam kept the kiss mercifully brief, something for which Dean was insanely grateful for. They parted and he stepped back, somehow managing to resist the urge to wipe the feel of his brother’s lips away. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “What did you want for dinner?”
“Actually, I thought we’d go out for dinner tonight.”
Dean’s eyes widened in surprise - one of the few true emotions he’d expressed around Sam in months. He hadn’t been allowed out of the house since Sam had killed the previous owner and moved them in. Every day, meals happened either one of two ways - either Dean cooked for Sam or he cooked for himself because Sam had gone out to eat without him.
“Really? Why?” he asked. His surprise caused him to be incautious and to forget one of the most important rules of their new, special relationship - don’t question Samuel. He realized his mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but it was too late to take it back. He prepared himself for the inevitable blow, yet it never came.
He decided that Sam must be in an especially good mood today, which boded well for him. Even so, he’d have to tread more carefully.
“You’ve been so good lately that I decided you deserve a little treat,” Sam explained. “I thought you might enjoy getting out of the house.”
Dean, still reeling from the idea that he’d be allowed to leave this prison, could barely find the appropriately sycophantic words. “Yeah, ok,” he muttered. “That’d be nice. Thank you.”
“Good, we have reservations at seven. Go get ready. And wipe that blood off your face,” Sam said, giving him a mild push.
He stumbled a little, but managed not to fall. He brought his fingers up to his mouth, surprised to find that he was bleeding. He turned and began to walk toward his bedroom, when Sam’s voice called out to him.
“Oh, and Dean?”
He stopped, suppressing a groan. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. He should have known. “Yeah?”
“I hope we’re not going to have the same problem that we had at that diner? Or the gas station? Or the store?”
“No. I’m not going to try to run away again.” And he meant it, leastways for now. The last time he’d tried to run away, Sam had beaten him so badly that he hadn’t been able to get out of bed for two weeks. The only way that he would ever try that again was if there was absolutely no way to fail.
Sam must have felt the truth in his words, because he merely smiled and waved him away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean had to admit that the restaurant had been a good idea, even if Sam did paw him occasionally throughout the meal and even if his touches invited the curious stares of the people around them. But the discomfort paled in comparison to the sense of freedom gained from being out of that damned house.
Halfway through the evening he noticed that their server; a pretty, young brunette, kept sneaking glances at him. At first he thought that she was one of the many curious. Then he entertained the idea that she was flirting with him. But finally he realized that what she was looking at was his face. Or more specifically, the left side of his face, where a spectacular bruise was in the process of forming.
Deflated, he realized that she was looking at him out of pity.
By the end of the meal, he was spectacularly depressed and wishing that they’d stayed at the house. Forced to choose between prison and abject humiliation, he now decided he would take prison any day.
Sam noticed the change in mood. He always did. “Is something wrong?”
Dean had to work to suppress the laugh that threatened to erupt. Everything was wrong. Everything was always wrong. “No,” he said. He paused, made sure that he would sound sincere. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, searching for the lie. But Dean had already composed his face so that it reflected nothing but his words.
“All right,” he said at last, apparently satisfied. “Well then, I need to go to the bathroom. Can I trust you to stay and get the check? Can I trust you to be good?”
“Yes, Sam. I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered.
“What did you call me?”
Dean looked up, saw that Sam’s eyes had grown dark and fierce.
“Samuel,” he amended hastily. “I meant Samuel.”
The darkness in Sam’s eyes cleared, leaving him looking benevolent and pleased. “Good. I’ll be right back then,” he said as he stood to leave.
Dean watched him walk away, breathing a sigh of relief once he could no longer see him. He reached for his glass and swallowed the generous portion of wine still remaining. Maybe, he reasoned, if he drank enough he’d be able to better handle what was sure to come later. He winced as the wine made its way down his throat. Beer was more to his liking, but Sam wanted him to have wine. And these days, Sam’s word was law.
He winced again, for entirely different reasons when he realized that their server was standing next to the table. He struggled to remember her name . . . Britney, Bridget . . . something pretty like that.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?”
He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the wineglass. “No.”
She placed the check in front of him, but did not leave. Curious, he finally looked up. There was no pity in her eyes, as he’d expected. Instead there were only compassion and warmth.
“So, umm . . . is that your boyfriend?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” he said.
“Oh . . . he . . . I . . . ”
“Look, is there something you wanted to say?”
She almost backed off. He could see it in her eyes, in her body language. But she gathered her courage and pulled herself together. “It’s just . . . that bruise looks really painful.”
“Oh, he didn’t do that,” he said quickly. “It was an accident. I slipped in the tub.”
Slipped in the tub? Could he possibly say anything stupider?
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that . . . my . . . my boyfriend used to hit me and I thought . . . ”
Dean’s heart sank at hearing her words. This pretty, young girl had been a victim and she thought she was reaching out to someone who was going through something similar.
But there was nothing that could compare to what he was living through.
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’m breaking up with him soon,” he said. “I just haven’t told him yet.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He tried for a smile. “He’s kind of a dick.”
She returned the smile briefly before turning dead serious. “You should. You really should. You don’t deserve that.”
“I know.”
“Oh shit,” she said as she looked up. “He’s coming back.” She hurried away from the table, her final words to him a whispered, “If you ice that, it’ll go away quicker.”
He didn’t turn around to watch her go. He stared at his wineglass instead, waiting for the moment when Sam sat back down.
She had been kind, and he regretted not thanking her.
He sighed, thinking on how things had changed; how he had changed. There had been a time not too long ago, when he would have seen her as someone to make a move on.
Now he saw her as an angel.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As soon as they entered the house, Dean knew something was wrong.
He knew it long before he felt the grip on his arm or the back of Sam’s hand across his face. He knew Sam wasn’t using all of his newfound strength, but it was still enough to cause him to fall backward onto the floor. Hard.
He looked up, just in time to see Sam’s foot coming at his mid-section. There was no time to maneuver away from it, so he absorbed the impact as best he could. Sam’s eyes were dark and tempest-tossed and he had to fight the urge to cower.
“What the hell was that?” Sam screamed at him.
“What? What did I do?” he gasped.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you talking to that girl?”
Dean shut his eyes and groaned. He knew exactly where this was going. Two months ago, he’d been caught talking to a pretty girl outside a gas station. Sam had whipped him until he’d bled, then he had dragged him to an alley near the station and shoved his face into the gutted girl’s intestines.
He could not let that happen again.
“We were just making small talk,” he said. He hated that his voice sounded so desperate, but there was no way to avoid it. He was desperate. And he had to make Sam believe him. For the girl’s sake as well as his own. “Nothing more, I swear to you.”
“You weren’t crying to her about how I abuse you?”
The mocking tone in Sam’s voice caused a current of fear to race up his spine. “No,” he said.
“Why do you lie to me?”
“I’m not. I didn’t say anything bad about you, I swear.”
“Then you were flirting with her.”
“No . . . ”
“Making eyes at her. Batting those pretty little lashes at her.” And then with a movement so quick it was a blur to his eyes, Sam leaped forward and grabbed Dean’s arm, yanking him to his feet. “Is that what you like? You liked that little bitch?”
“No. It wasn’t like that, Sam . . . Samuel. I swear.”
“You whore. You lying whore. I give you everything. I provide for you, take care of you and this is how you repay me?”
The grip around his arm was like a steel band that wouldn’t stop tightening and for a moment he was afraid that Sam would squeeze until flesh and bone were pulverized.
“Please . . . I only talked to her. You have to believe me,” he cried. Then finally, he said the words he knew Sam wanted to hear. “I only love you, Samuel. There’s no one else.”
Sam stilled and stared down at Dean, looking at him as if he were a puzzle that he could not quite figure. “You mean that?”
“Yes . . . please . . . ”
The grip on his arm loosened by a fraction. “I believe you.”
Dean’s legs nearly collapsed under him, the wave of relief he felt was so great. He had seen the bloodlust in Sam’s eyes. He knew it had been close. But none of that mattered now - he had kept the girl safe.
He had kept himself safe.
So exultant was he in his small victory that he didn’t even protest as Sam dragged him by his arm to the master bedroom. He knew what was about to happen, but being fairly tipsy, he didn’t much care. He figured his alcohol buzz would last for a couple of hours, and by that time, Sam would be done with him and he’d be back in his own room; his sanctuary.
Sam walked him to the center of the room and stepped away.
“Dean. Get me a belt and take off your clothes.”
Dean’s jaw dropped at hearing the hated, familiar words. “What? Why?” he asked. “I didn’t do anything! You just said you believed me!”
“Don’t. Argue with me. Just do what you’re told.”
The severity of Sam’s tone told him that no argument would be tolerated. So he had not won after all. Not really. Defeated and disheartened, he walked to the closet and pulled out a belt at random. He placed it in Sam’s hands before beginning the process of undressing.
When he was completely naked, he assumed the position - hands clasped behind his back, legs spread wide.
And waited.
This was usually the worst part for him, the anticipation of the pain to come. But this time, it made no impression. He had lost. He would be punished. And so probably would the girl.
The physical pain could not compare to the crushing agony that was now gnawing at his insides.
He closed his eyes and in a small, tired voice said, “Any little thing.”
The belt snaked out and landed on his upper back, leaving a trail of white-hot fire in its wake.
“What did you say?” Sam asked.
He turned his head to the side, his breathing already heavy. He hadn’t meant for Sam to hear those words.
But now that he had . . .
He mentally debated the merits of shutting up and taking his punishment versus speaking his mind. Shutting up was safe. Speaking his mind was dangerous. But the alcohol still running through his system wanted him to take the dangerous road.
“I said ‘any little thing’. It doesn’t even matter what it is. You’ll find any bullshit reason to do this to me.”
Sam let the belt drop to his side. He stalked over to Dean, and grabbing him by one arm, turned him around so that they faced each other. “What are you trying to say? That I enjoy doing this to you?”
“If the shoe fits. Samuel.”
Sam dropped the belt completely, then brought Dean’s hands down, holding them tightly in his own. “How can you say that? I don’t enjoy this. I do things like this to keep you in line. If you didn’t misbehave so often, Dean, I wouldn’t have to.”
He pulled his hands away and staggered backward. “Keep me in line?” he yelled. “I spend every waking minute of my life saying what you want me to say and doing what you want me to do! I couldn’t possibly be more ‘in line’, Sam!”
“Don’t call me that, Dean.”
“Fine. Samuel. Whatever. What the fuck ever.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you. I take care of you, I make sure you have everything you need and this is how you act. Ungrateful, little . . . ”
“You call this taking care of me?” Dean asked as he gestured toward the belt with his hand.
Now that he had started this, he was finding it hard to stop. Months of bowing and scraping and begging had taken their toll, and as far as he was concerned, the proverbial floodgates were open. “You beat me for every little thing, you keep me a prisoner in this house . . . and . . . oh here’s the best part, you rape me every god damn night. And you have the fucking nerve to say you’re taking care of me?”
“Those things are called discipline, Dean. And I don’t rape you,” Sam said as he reached out a hand toward Dean’s face.
He slapped it away before it could touch him. “Really? Cause last time I checked, no was supposed to mean no. What the hell part of that one word don’t you understand?”
“I’m loving you, Dean.” Sam spoke calmly, his tone soothing. “You just don’t want to accept it, but I know you will eventually. I know it.”
Dean could feel the tears in his eyes, could hear them in his voice, as he spoke. “Are you that far gone that you don’t see what you’re doing to me?” he asked. “You’re not loving me. You’re killing me.”
“No,” Sam said softly, once again reaching out to him.
This time he did not shy away from Sam’s touch. Allowing Sam’s hand to graze his cheek, he felt only tenderness. He leaned into the touch and asked, “Isn’t there anything left of my brother in you? Anything? Please, Sammy.”
Sam closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around him. And Dean, powerless against any show of kindness, fell against him, hands grasping at Sam’s shirt as he began to sob.
Sam leaned down and placed his mouth next to Dean’s ear. His words were mere whispers. “You know how much I love that talented little tongue of yours. But if you ever call me by name again, I will cut that tongue out of your head.”
“No . . . ” Dean pulled out of the embrace and fell to the floor, horror-stricken. He could not believe . . . he had honestly thought . . .
His thoughts would not gel. He sat on the ground, defenseless and paralyzed against this latest betrayal.
“You know, Father told me this would happen. He told me you’d be trouble.”
He stared up at Sam, trying to understand. “Dad?”
“Not dad, you idiot. Father. He told me that I’d be better off killing you after I got what I needed from you. He said you’d never adjust to the new status quo. That you’d always pine for the way things were.”
“Well, maybe you should listen to him then,” he said, as he struggled to pull himself together. “Maybe you should kill me and be done with it.”
Sam smiled tolerantly. “No, Dean, that’s not going to happen. No matter how much you might want it to. Do you know why?”
Dean slowly shook his head no.
“Because I love you and I want you with me. And because you, in your suffering, are the most wondrous thing I have ever seen. Pain suits you, Dean. It elevates you, from something that’s merely beautiful, to a work of art.”
Sam’s words were the harbingers of insanity and Dean dropped his head into his hands, feeling sick just hearing them. “Oh God.”
“And that is why,” Sam continued, “I will never let you leave me and I won’t let you die. You are going to be at my side for a very long time. Long after you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be your own man. Long after you’ve forgotten what the name Dean Winchester even means.”
Dean shook his head, desperate to deny his words. “No,” he whispered.
“Yes. Now . . . be a good boy and stand back up so we can finish with your punishment.” Sam held out his hand and pointed. “And afterwards I want you on this bed, on your back. You know it’s my favorite position.”
Dean choked back a sob as he struggled to comply with the order. There was no fight left in him tonight; not anymore. He would do what Sam wanted and pray that the pain would not last long. There were no other options.
“And hurry,” Sam added with a horrid grin. “It’s getting late and there’s still a pretty young thing waiting for me to rip her apart.”
The Falling Away of Masks, Epilogue