(Part 2 of previous chapter) Summary: In a dark motel room, Dean watches the shadows & thinks about Sam. [Dean's POV. A bit of a jaunt into his psychological welfare (or is that warfare?)]
Dean watched as shadows flickered across the ceiling, cast by the streetlights sneaking in through the blinds. Rorschach images, dancing paths across fading ceiling panels. He glanced down at the young man in his arms as Sam shifted in his sleep.
Sam. His Sammy.
He tugged the other closer, careful not to wake him, and pressed his lips against Sam's warm neck. He breathed the other in, catching the natural, warm, woodsy scent beneath the smell of cheap motel soap. Another press of his lips against that enticing neck; a smile touched his lips as Sam's head turned slightly in his direction, instinctively seeking him out.
His thoughts touched on the man he had basically dissected several hours prior, and a crease touched his brow. He was pissed, still, at the now dead man in the pool across the street. Dean tightened his arms around his brother without realizing it as he stared at the far wall; he glanced back to Sam and loosed his hold the slightest bit as the other squirmed in his sleep, a protest at being held so tight.
Dean raised his hand to run his fingers through Sam's shaggy locks. He loved Sam's hair, the feel of it, the way it slid between his fingers, the way he could grab it while fucking the other and use it to maneuver Sam how and where he wanted him.
Dean's eyes shifted back to the ceiling as a car drove down the street by the building, sending more light and more shadows into the room. Sometimes he wondered if his life, if he, was made of shadows.
There were days when that was all he saw, when not in Sam's presence. Shadows and darkness, red-tinted along the edges. Every person he passed, everyone who spoke to him. He would look at them and see darkness and red. Sam was the exception.
Sam was always the exception.
His brother was the light in his constant dark and rage and urges to destroy. Light and joy and quiet. His heart beat his younger brother's name with every thump against his sternum. Sam, sweet and often submissive to his whims; oddly sympathetic of those dark compulsions that consumed him; forgiving and understanding of Dean's need to satisfy them, often going as far as to help him do so.
Dean had killed their father for hurting Sam, and he was willing to burn down the world for him. The younger Winchester had been his from the moment he had laid eyes on him; their bond had been created the moment their mother placed Sam into his arms when Dean was four-years-old. He would destroy anything in their path for the younger man.
He buried his nose in his little brother's hair, breathing in his scent as he hugged him close. Was it irony that, if his brother asked him to stop, he would stop (or at least give it an honest shot)? Yet Sam hadn't asked it of him, not yet. When the day came that he did, Dean would. He would do anything for the younger man.
Sam was the submissive one yet he held all the power, and he didn't even realise it. His hold on Dean was absolute, as was Dean's hold on him.
Dean knew that, if ever he was caught on his path of destruction, they would take the boy from him. He wasn't an idiot, far from it: he knew that if he was ever caught, Sam would be taken and tried as an accessory, a partner to his lusts and rages, or he would be considered a victim who hadn't had a choice. Either way, he would be taken from Dean, and that wasn't acceptable.
He couldn't live without his Sammy. Oh, he might survive for a short while, he might carry on for a bit. It wouldn't be for long, though, and he would cause a hell of a lot of suffering before he crashed and burned or offed himself. He hadn't been exaggerating when he told his brother that, should Sam ever leave him, he would hunt him down, rip apart anyone Sam was with, and then he would end the both of them.
He glanced down at his brother as the younger man (and he was practically a man now, tall and beautiful and perfect) shifted closer in his sleep. He tangled his fingers in the other's hair, lips pressed against his throat and other arm around his waist. He smiled against Sam's skin as the other turned his face toward him, mumbled without opening his eyes,
"'sa matter, De?"
"Nothing, sweetheart," he returned softly, fingers tugging gently at the younger man's hair. Sam settled again, a smile touching the corner of his mouth, as Dean breathed against his throat, "Everything's perfect."
Rorschach images painted the ceiling again, shifting as the light shifted, and Dean watched as they devoured one another.