Work Text:
Temerate - (v.) to break a bond or promise
Your brother is sitting in the corner of the motel room. His big hands are worrying at each other; he squeezes them together, fingertips white from the pressure of his grip. He meets your eyes and his gaze is like a lightning strike.
There’s a hand at your chest, snaking around your body from behind, where the angel stands against your back. It settles itself over your heart, presses through the worn cotton of your t-shirt. His voice is the rumble of thunder in your ear: “Do not try to hide this from me, Dean.” Your breath catches, and still your brother does not look away. “I can see what you need.” His teeth graze against the shell of your ear. “We both can.”
Your brother stands. His shoulders are so wide, chest so vast. You’ve seen him grow before you every day and you wonder if he’ll ever stop, if he has become so expansive because you’ve willed him to be so in your mind, thoughts always of Sam, Sam, Sam making him more physically realized than any creature on earth has ever been. His steps are slow, and the desire that radiates from him pushes you back in fear. But the angel pens you in, a solid barrier of heat—long, graceful lines fit tight to the curve of your spine. “Let us give it to you,” he commands.
Your brother is here, his breath hot and pulling restlessly from his lungs. He’s so close that no matter where you look there is only more of him to see. There is an ozone smell in the air and you can feel the low reverberation of the angel’s laugh. The waves of it transfer through you like a conduit and pull your brother’s mouth into a smirk. Has there ever been anything more intricate than the architecture of his dimples, little indents like divine thumbprints?
You are forgetting to breathe.
His face, so near yours, tilts gently to the side and moves until you are cheek to cheek. His hair is in your face and you drag in the scent of him on every inhale. The angel hums in acquiescence, and the hand on your chest constricts as your brother kisses him. You can’t see it, only hear the soft, needful sounds, feel the drag of stubble as your brother’s mouth opens to receive communion. You shiver.
They separate and you are achingly hard, have been since the beginning, but now it contains the sharp edge of what comes next and you can no longer ignore it. The angel’s hand trails lower, flattens against the clenched muscles of your stomach. Your little brother stares down at you and his lips are wet. You could taste the both of them on his tongue in less than the space of blink, if you wanted to.
You don’t really mean to do it, to cross the proverbial Rubicon. But you believe in the angel—you believe in him more than you’ve ever believed in god, and you have never been one to defy an order. Your brother, though—ever-willing to disobey, simply welcomes your mouth with a reverent sigh. The hush of it communicates more than a thousand words ever could: yes, it says, let us break the promise of our past. The callused pads of his fingers press into your jaw in supplication.
The promise, necessary and final, made to save your souls, if not your lives. The promise of never again unspoken between you the night he left and the night you came for him and all the long nights since.
Until now. Until the angel, his firm mouth kissing down the nape of your neck. His guiding hand on your shoulder, electric on your skin, giving you permission to break it.
And so you do. God help you, so you do.
A storm kicks up outside, but the one that’s raged inside you for years is quieting.