Crush Chapter 2

[sonofabiscuit77]

Chapter 2

January 2013

Sam stands by the upstairs window in the master bedroom. It’s dusk and the light is grey, faint and long-shadowed, the porch light already on. He leans his forehead against the cold glass, breath fogging the dirty pane as he watches Dean return from his run. Dean’s sprinting through the fields surrounding their property, Dougal barking and snapping deliriously in circles around him. He hears Dean call out, sees him vault over the wooden fence, clearing it effortlessly, the dog follows; slipping a lot less effortlessly underneath, paws burrowing furiously at the dirt. He emerges behind Dean, and Sam hears his brother’s voice rise in a half-laugh, half-pant as he bends at the waist to ruffle his dirty muzzle and filthy, floppy ears. Dean straightens up and looks up towards the house, raising his hand in greeting when he spots Sam.

Sam closes the window, hears the wrench of the back screen door, the thump of Dean’s sneakers on the bare wood stairs, the rattle of the bathroom door, everything loud and noisy and unrestrained. He moves to lean against the bathroom doorframe, unconsciously posing, legs crossed and arms folded as he watches Dean splash cold water over his face, skin flushed and damp from his run. Dean’s t-shirt is stuck to his back with sweat, he peels it off in one sweeping motion; shoulders glistening under the bathroom lights, and just like that Sam's desperate... he needs to get his hands on Dean, needs to touch him, an overwhelming rush of heat to his blood that has him crowding up against his brother, folding into his bodyline, arms encircling his chest. He presses his face into the sweat-damp of Dean's neck, the cord of Dean’s amulet against his cheek, the drum-thump of Dean’s pulse against his lips. Dean stills; mouth shaping his name, "Sam."

He licks a long stripe over the curve of Dean's neck; he tastes salty, tangy, familiar. The first time he kissed Dean he tasted like this: sweat and desire and familiarity, and he wanted to swallow it absolutely, to swallow up Dean, to get to that part of him underneath; to have all of him, to know all of him, to possess all of him. It's the feeling he has every time he touches Dean, as if nothing could be this intimate, no other two people could be this close, no one could love anyone this much.

He pulls Dean hard against him, licks him again, sighs, “You taste amazing. Want to. God. Got to bite you.”

Dean shivers, breathes, “Yeah, Sam, yeah.”

His hand dips under the waistband of Dean’s shorts, grasps his cock, already so hard for him, he opens his mouth over one of the tendons in Dean’s neck and bites, teeth sinking into the soft, golden skin. Dean shudders, his hand flutters upwards, fumbles open the bathroom cabinet, lube tumbling into the sink with a startling clatter. Sam raises his head, catches Dean's eyes in the mirror.

"Dude, that's gonna be hard to hide." Dean’s staring at his reflection, at the livid, mouth-shaped mark on his neck. "I'm not wearing no fuckin' turtlenecks."

"You said I could. Anyway. I know you; you’ll get off on giving everyone an eyeful."

Dean huffs out a laugh and pinches Sam's forearm, "You gonna fuck me, stud?"

He fucks Dean over the bathroom sink. Dean's fingers grip the enamel sink surround until they're white, his amulet a dull, brassy contrast to the pink flush on his chest. When he raises his head, Sam sees his brother’s eyes reflected back at him, pupils blown, eyelashes soft, whispery shadows against his cheek. He feels a fierce, terrifying rush of affection, as sharp and complete as any orgasm, and he freezes, lost in it, surrendered to this unconditional desire, this overwhelming completeness of being with Dean, being inside Dean… until Dean brings him back, an impatient, needy growl: “Move Sam, Godammit, fuckin’ fuck me already!”

He comes first, mouthing Dean’s name into his neck as his body shudders to a climax. Dean follows a second later, Sam’s hand on his cock, shooting and splattering across the toothpaste-streaked sink, panting, “Touchdown!”

Sam laughs shakily, whaps him on the shoulder. “Dork.”

Dean snorts out a choke of laughter, bends away from him to let his cock slip out gently, slickly. Dean's face is flushed, beads of sweat collecting just under his hairline and in the short grey hairs around his ears. He grabs Sam's hand in his own and rubs one of Sam's fingers into the smears of come decorating the side of the sink.

"Open up," he tells him. Sam opens his mouth, sucks his finger in. It tastes salty, brackish and with a hint of something that's probably toothpaste or dried soap. He slobbers saliva over his finger, pulls it out with a squelchy, popping sound, reaching to smear the goop over Dean's face, tracing the scar that runs down from his hairline through his eyebrow and across his cheek.

Dean leers at him, face shiny and glistening with spit and sweat and come. Sam feels himself smile, and for a moment, everything’s quietly perfect. Dean rolls his eyes at him, all fond, exasperated affection, muttering, “You’re the dork,” under his breath as he pulls away to climb into the shower.

"Clean that up, would ya?" he says, and swishes the shower curtain closed before Sam can respond.

Sam waits for a couple of minutes; then just as he hears Dean's enthusiastic hum, he twists the hot tap, grinning when there's a strangled yelp from the shower and a shout of: "Motherfucker! Sam!"

He smiles to himself, turns off the tap, wipes away the traces of semen with Dean's facecloth and jerks the shower curtain open.

"Did you say something?"

"Did I say something? Sam - you know I fuckin' hate cold showers," Dean bitches, emerging from under the water. "You did that on purpose."

Sam grins and pushes his way inside. "Whatever."

"Don’t think you’re bargin’ on in here with your freak-ass ginormo body!"

"Shut up and make some room."

Dean splutters for a minute before begrudgingly moving aside, letting him shoulder his way under the hot water. "Don't you dare steal all the hot water..."

Sam rolls his eyes and reaches for the soap. "If you'll turn around I'll wash your back."

There's a cursory grumbling sound before Dean turns around. “Make it good, bitch.”

Dean fires up the barbecue, and when Sam comes out to give him a beer, he’s whistling happily to himself, squirting accelerant over the coals, the flames whooshing up and barely avoiding singeing off his eyebrows. By Dean’s feet, Dougal barks a warning and scampers away towards the back of the garden, Dean cackles out loud and calls him a big dumb dog.

“Jesus, Dean, you’ll do yourself a fuckin’ injury,” Sam tells him.

“No I won’t.” He takes a cheerful pull on his beer and drops the meat onto the grill with a satisfying sizzle. "Ahhh, hear that, dude, that's a good sound." He prods at the meat with the fork and throws Sam a smirk over his shoulder. “Awesome.”

Sam shakes his head at him, mouthing “pyro” as he goes back inside.

They go out after dinner. The nearest bar is under a mile from their place, so they leave the car behind, and that more than anything, is proof that their life is different now. Dean would never have left his baby behind in the old days, even for such a short walk as this, but now it’s different - the comfort it provided, the familiarity, the one constant in their fucked-up lives - they don’t need it so much anymore.

They talk as they walk, and it still amazes Sam that they can do this, even after so many years, hell, their entire fucking lives in each other’s pockets, they still have shit to say to each other. Dean talks about the garage, about a woman who came by that morning: "In a fucking Nissan. Shitty car, but man, she was hot. And totally into me. Dude, in the old days, I’d’ve totally hit that."

Sam says nothing, he knows Dean’s doing it deliberately - this typical, big-brother goading - but he’s so fucking good at it, knows exactly what to say or do to get under Sam’s skin, to make him feel like this - this stupid, irrational jealousy. It’s totally fucking ridiculous; even if Dean could fuck any goddamn chick or dude he wanted, it wouldn’t make a difference to their relationship, to what Dean feels for him, what they feel for each other. But still… it rankles with him, and Dean, of course, knows it, loves it, fucking gets off on it.

“Aw, is Sammy feelin’ jealous?”

“Fuck off.”

“S’not like I could do anything, even if I wanted to.”

“Did you want to?”

Dean shrugs, “If I say yes, does it mean you’re not puttin’ out later?”

Sam presses his lips together, glares at him, that expression on his face that he knows makes him look like a whiny, sullen teenager, he hates looking like that.

“God, you’re such a moron sometimes. Jealous? Jesus.” Dean elbows him, shakes his head in fond exasperation.

“And you’re a fuckin’ tease!”

Dean chuckles dirtily and grabs his ass, “Whatever. You love it.”

As soon as they get to the bar, a guy, Gary or Matt or something, (Sam doesn’t remember his name, though they’ve probably been introduced at some point) accosts Dean and starts talking at him. He leaves Dean to it, goes on inside to get their drinks. Dean knows a lot of people in town, and their nights out always feature important cameos from various town acquaintances: Bob from the hardware store, Janice from Dean's favorite sandwich deli, Ethan the grocery store delivery boy, bartenders and waitresses, garage customers and garage suppliers, even Frank, the super-friendly mailman.

Sam was worried that Dean would end up resenting him when they first settled here, that Dean would feel out of place and suffocated by the small-town environment. But Dean adapted quickly, even came to like it in his own way. And the locals liked him back, respected him. It makes Sam want to laugh sometimes when he remembers the attitude they both used to get when they were teenagers, the whispers he’d sometimes hear behind his back: God, that new kid’s so weird. Man, yeah, did you see his brother? Fucking psycho, way he was staring at me, Jenna swears she saw him with a knife at recess. Curtis says they’re staying at that roach motel and you know what kinda folk stay there… Someone should call someone and report them; it can’t be right…

It’s quiet as usual inside the bar, it’s generally always quiet, the main reason they come here so often. He orders from Bartender Cliff, sparing a couple of minutes to shoot the shit: his wife Wendy's new entrepreneurial venture in the gift basket market, his daughters, Clarice and Stephanie, on their way to junior high now, my, how time does fly. Dean's at their usual table when he turns around, talking to yet another acquaintance, head cocked back, body carefully angled away from any possible contact. Sam watches the line of Dean's jaw, the curve of his throat as he talks, and he thinks about how his mouth was right there, not four hours ago. The thought grinds him to a halt, a flush of lust spinning out through his body, burst of sweat under his shirt, his fingers suddenly more sensitive as they grip the cold, glass bottles, moisture icy to the touch. He takes a long pull on his beer, forcibly calming himself, making himself drag his eyes away from Dean, from the curve of Dean's throat. It’s crazy how Dean can do this to him, can wreck him so easily, can send him reeling with a tilt of his head, it’s been over five years, but he’s never gotten used to it and he doesn’t think he ever will.

Dean takes the beer from him, purposefully grazing their fingers together, other hand coming out to bracelet Sam's wrist as he pulls up the spare stool. Dean never used to be so tactile in public, but so much has changed between them, and Sam finds it a useful gauge for assessing his brother’s comfort levels: if he’s at ease in a place then he’ll touch Sam willingly, almost thoughtlessly. Here, at Pete's, he's in his comfort zone, thinking nothing of leaving his hand resting on Sam's thigh or his arm hooked around the back of Sam’s chair so his fingers can play with the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck. It's amusing sometimes to watch people's reactions to Dean's little displays of affection, their eyes always drawn irresistibly to the spot where Dean might be massaging Sam's elbow, or resting his hand on his shoulder and occasionally, after a few beers, nuzzling his neck. It's almost as if they're compelled to look while trying to stay cool, attempting to continue the conversation unflustered and unbothered by the "homosexuals".

The thing that surprises him about most people in town is that they're more or less cool with him and Dean. Okay, so they’re locally notorious, because let’s face it, there aren’t that many “guys like them” standing up to be counted around here, but their novelty status has pretty much worked in their favor: the locals coming to gawp at one of the town’s token homosexuals when they need their car fixing. They could’ve tried to hide, could’ve pretended to be brothers, and that’s got to be about the freakiest thing about this entire situation - pretending to be something they actually are - but he finds it hard to keep his hands off Dean these days, to act around him like he is only his brother, when they’re so much more than that. There’s too much between them, too much they’ve gone through, to not live this life on their own terms, too much that’s still not right, that’s still not perfect, for them not to make the most of what is… and honestly, life’s just too goddamn short and too goddamn dangerous to hide forever.

It seems like a miracle to him, that, here, right now, after everything, they’ve managed to find this: something that’s permanent, something that’s theirs. It’s not exactly what he used to dream of when he was a teenager, but it’s pretty fucking close.

Dougal launches himself off the front porch to greet them as they scuff up the dusty driveway a couple of hours later. He circles them in a giddy run, panting and barking enthusiastically, Dean bends down to pet him, using that affectionate, dopey tone of voice he reserves especially for the dog:

"How's my big, dumb boy? You been out, dude? You been out showin' the ladies a good time, huh? I betcha have. But listen, boy, shhhh; don't tell Sammy, you know how he gets..."

Sam shakes his head and leaves them to it. He unlocks the door, hears Dean approaching, porch steps creaking as he follows Sam inside, Dougal sneaking in around his legs. Before he's had chance to lock up, Dean's on him, pressing him back against the door, one hand cupped around his jaw.

"Hey," he murmurs, breath warm and whisky-sweet in Sam's face.

"Hey." He can’t stop himself from smiling as he looks into Dean's pink, alcohol-flushed face, his own slutty, wanting mouth moving instinctively for his brother’s lips.

Dean sways slightly as he pulls Sam away from the door, directing them towards the den, hands fisted in Sam’s jacket and legs intertwined as they stumble past the coffee table and tumble onto the long worn couch. Sam lets his head fall back over the armrest, and feels Dean’s hands fumble with his fly, popping the buttons open one by one in tortuous, slow motion. He groans out loud when Dean’s hand slides into his boxers to grasp his cock, palm sweaty and warm, mouth babbling and moaning incoherent, breathy words.

“Yeah, Sam, God, yeah. So fuckin’ hot, little brother.”

He arches up into Dean’s thick fingers, the friction so fucking perfect, Dean’s continued murmurings making his blood swim, his pulse quicken. Dean stares down at him, at his cock, tongue swiping soft tracks over his lips, feathery lashes making shadows against the hollows of his face.

“Fuck, Sam, I wanna suck you. Wanna do it so fuckin’ much. So fuckin’ amazing.”

He’s drunk, Dean’s like this when he’s drunk, so needy and slutty he can’t keep his mouth shut. He’d be embarrassed if he were sober, but he isn’t, and Sam wants him so fucking much, wants to hear him like this, feel him like this.

"Jesus, Dean. Fuckin’ - yeah. Do it already.”

Dean grins down at him, wide and dazzling, lips smacking together in anticipation. He takes him in, one long swallow, Sam gasps, breath catching, hips jerking up involuntarily, so warm and hot, so sizzling. His eyes lock onto his brother, onto his blood-red cock going in and out of Dean’s mouth. Dean angles his head so he can stare back up at him, lowering his lashes in a way that's so provocative and filthy that Sam can practically feel his balls tighten, like it’s too fucking much, already.

He can’t hold back, never can, not when it’s Dean… and he jerks, shudders, comes with a cry, Dean's palm spread-eagled across his belly, holding him in place as he licks and swallows, moaning and groaning like Sam’s jizz is the best kind of vanilla ice cream. Sam heaves out a sigh, long and happy, and watches his big, sticky cock slide out of Dean's mouth, slapping wetly against his belly. Dean looms over him, lips red and bruised and sticky slick, Sam cranes his head up, takes his brother’s mouth in a kiss which Dean returns hungrily. His hands frame Dean’s face, thumbs digging into his temples as he devours his brother’s mouth, his shiny, spit-slicked lips. He can taste his own come in Dean’s spit, and he thinks, as he often does, how much it tastes like Dean’s own, the thought strangely comforting.

Dean pulls away, nuzzles at his jaw, “Do me, gotta do me now.” He grabs for Sam’s hand, pulls two of Sam’s fingers into his mouth, slobbering all over them as his lips shape a cocky smile. “Make it easier for you.”

His sticky, smeared fingers make a quick job of jerking Dean off, quick and furious twists of his wrist, just how Dean likes it: his brother’s mouth against his cheek, pouring out a steady stream of filthy groans that vibrate against the side of Sam’s face.

He falls asleep with Dean on top of him, dimly aware, at the back of his mind, that their pants are still undone, and that Dean’s come is drying, scratchy and flaky, on both their bellies and balls. His last thought as he slides into a thick, alcohol-blurred sleep, is of Dougal, slowly licking the taste of Dean’s come off his fingers as they dangle off the couch.

******************

July 2007

The first time it happened between them it was his fault, his and the goddamn county pageant that meant there were no twin rooms available in a fifty mile radius of where they needed to be. He woke up in the middle of the night to the unmistakable sound of Dean jerking off in bed beside him; because, of course, the lack of twin beds in Fulward County would not dissuade Dean from his regular, masturbation schedule. To give him some credit, Dean was trying to be stealthy, trying to repress the needy moans, the breathy hisses of arousal... sounds that made Sam's cock hard, heavy and thick and ruthless in his boxers. Sleep-drunk and horny, only half aware of what he was doing, he rolled over and fumbled into Dean’s space, grabbing onto him with both hands at the exact moment Dean shuddered and came. He can still remember what it felt like to feel his brother’s come splash onto his fingers - hot and sticky and really, really weird.

Sam rolled over and felt Dean leave the bed, heard him pad across the room, bathroom door closing behind him with an air of finality that was like a book thumping closed. End of story. It definitely felt like it should be the end of something - Dean had just shot his load on him - that should mean something… shouldn’t it? He reached down for his discarded shirt and wiped his hands clean, thinking: Did I just do that? Was that really Dean and me? Am I seriously wiping my brother’s jizz off my hands with my own shirt? This is so fucked-up.

He didn’t sleep that night, and Dean didn’t come out of the bathroom until they absolutely had to leave, forcing Sam to take a leak by the dumpsters, it was either that or confront Dean, and anything was preferably to that, even the smell of rotting dumpsters.

The second time he awoke to Dean jerking off, he didn’t hesitate. It was like the first time hadn’t even happened, or maybe, like it had happened, but it had happened differently, less awkwardly, like they’d already come to an agreement without either of them realizing. This time he didn’t think, just rolled over, felt Dean freeze for a second, then suddenly melt and reach out for him with needy, expectant hands.

They carried on that way for a while, a week, maybe two... It was weird. Uncanny how during the day Dean would be Dean, but at night… a whole other story.

What he does remember is being the one to bring it out in the open, to acknowledge it, force it out from under the bedcovers and into the harsh light of day, making them both confront what they were actually doing with each other.

Dean didn’t thank him for it. In fact, Dean took off in the middle of the night, ditching him with all the money he had, ($232), an old Motorhead mix tape and his favorite shotgun. As far as parting gifts went, they pretty much sucked.

In the end, it only took Sam two days to run Dean down. He picked the lock on his motel room and waited for him, perched, ram-rod straight, on the edge of the unoccupied bed. Despite being on his own, Dean had still gotten a room with two queens - a fact Sam found both infuriating and endearing - kinda like Dean himself. Dean unlocked the door, paused in the doorway and groaned out: "Oh, you have got to be kiddin' me! Already? Dude, is this some of your freaky-ass, psychic shit?"

He closed the door when Sam didn’t reply; warily taking his cue from Sam's taught-ass, pissed-off body language. He sank down on the other bed and ran an awkward hand through his already mussed hair. He looked debauched, skin pink, eyes bloodshot and mouth puffy, the instantly recognizable twinned smells of sex and booze sliding off him as he shuffled his coat off, unable to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam felt a thick stirring of anger deep down in his belly, resentment and bitterness flaring to the surface… How could he? How fucking could he? Just - just sit there, stinking of sex and alcohol, with other people’s fingerprints all over him...

"So… uh, how'd you find me?"

Sam couldn’t speak at first, he’d spent the past two days thinking of the many ways he was going to punish Dean for abandoning him like that, thinking of all the nasty shit he could say to get under Dean's skin, thinking of how fucking angry he'd been, how fucking angry he was right now. He raised his eyes again and stared at Dean, boring his steel-eyed, Dad-like glare into his brother’s face, fucking showing him, making him realize what he’d done, what he’d put him through.

But Dean wasn’t responding, was taking it as if it were his due, not even putting up a glimmer of a fight and that… that wasn’t what he wanted from Dean right now, not this, this goddamned guilt and the endless fucking martyrdom…

"Doesn't matter," he muttered finally.

Dean sighed wearily, “Yeah, yeah, okay.” He coughed, spread his arms, “So, I guess you, uh, you wanna take a swing at me. And you know, that’s cool, if you want. I don’t mind. Fuck, Sam, I’d feel the same way in your place.”

Sam didn’t stop to think, just launched himself forward and tackled Dean, wrestling him down to the floor. They rolled across the dirty worn carpet, his arms a bodybind around Dean's torso, furious and tight-skinned and so fucking angry…. He wanted to punch him, wanted to hit him, to hurt him, but he couldn’t let go, couldn’t release his stranglehold on his brother’s body for long enough to do it. Dean struggled, bucked and twisted under him, trying hopelessly to push him off, but Sam’s fingers were locked too tightly around Dean’s back, not letting go, never letting go.

Dean squirmed and cursed as they collided with the other bed, a bitten off motherfucking sonofabitch spat into Sam’s ear as Sam’s elbow knocked against the metal frame with a sharp crack of pain. He swore loudly, and released Dean for a second to grab his throbbing elbow; Dean collapsed to the floor under him, chest spasming, and for a moment, Sam was terrified, thinking Dean was having a fit, a heart attack… until he realized Dean was laughing his body shuddering with hysterical, stupid laughter.

Sam felt like cracking then: overwhelmed by the desire to hit him, to hurt him, he couldn’t believe Dean was laughing when he was so mad at him, only Dean, fucking Dean, could make him feel this fucking crazy, this fucking furious. He jerked against him, pinned him to the floor hard, his palms grinding into Dean’s shoulders, his hips flat against Dean's and -

Oh my God... the realization dawned red and hot and oh shit no, please no... he was hard, his cock, his stiff, throbbing cock was pressing down into his brother’s stomach, hard and unmistakable. He closed his eyes and tried, searched, for the courage to open them and look down at Dean...

Dean was staring up at him, all trace of hysterical laughter wiped from his face. His eyes were burning, dark and iridescent, pupils dilated in a way that would later become so familiar, but was now… otherworldy. He shifted under Sam, and Sam felt it then: Dean’s own cock… a hard, thick giveaway through the thin, worn denim.

There was nowhere to hide for either of them.

They both went still, deathly, quietly still... then Sam felt his body start to move, his hips jerking, grinding down against Dean’s, getting that beautiful friction, that just-right-just-fucking-perfect friction against his aching cock as Dean met every grind and thrust with a jerk of his own, his own cock slotting against Sam’s as they hissed and moaned and panted and arched. Sam buried his face into the crook of Dean's neck, scrunched his eyes tight shut and inhaled the alcohol-sour, sweat-damp scent of his brother's skin. His fingers were crushed under Dean’s back, thighs braced either side of Dean’s body as they thrust and jerked and ground… his one conscious thought to rewrite the patterns on Dean’s skin, to scour away every other person who had ever touched his brother.

It was quick. Ridiculously, embarrassingly quick. Sam came with a full-body spasm, he felt like he was letting something go… releasing something… that incessant, throbbing, never-ending tension, and Jesus fucking Christ, it felt so good. He felt Dean come seconds later, fingers digging into Sam's waist, thumbs grinding against his hipbones, chest heaving under Sam. Sam shivered, exhaled painfully into Dean's collar, eyes still tight shut, wet patch forming by his panting mouth.

Dean twisted underneath him and shoved him off, eyes wide and panicked.

"Dude, dude, what the fuck?"

Sam just laughed, jagged and rueful and mostly embarrassed. "Sorry. I didn't - that wasn't supposed to happen."

"You think?" Dean barked out a nerve-ragged laugh and plucked at his pants, disbelief still written large on his flushed face. "I - Jesus Christ, Sam, you made me come in my goddamn pants! I haven't done that since I was sixteen years old! Fuck!"

"I've never done it," he murmured.

"Figures."

They lay there, staring at each other for what felt like an hour, but was probably only a minute, until Dean finally spoke up, "I guess me runnin' away like that didn't work out so good, huh?"

"No. And don't even think about doing it again. Because, seriously, Dean, I will fuckin' kill you, if you ever do that to me again. I swear to God, because I know I’ve done it to you, but Jesus -” he trailed off; eyes locked on Dean’s, face set and hard.

Dean took a breath, and when he spoke, he sounded resigned: “Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry, I didn’t… I panicked, okay? It was fuckin’ wrong, dude. Sammy, it was wrong, you’re a guy and you’re - fuck - not just any guy, you’re you, and what was going on, and I just - I thought I could make it better if I left.”

“Well that succeeded brilliantly.”

Dean snorted humorlessly, pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, exhaling on a shrug, “Right.”

There was another long moment of silence. Sam stared at a vague point in front of him, noticing the dirt and dust bunnies collecting under Dean’s bed, the cobwebs clinging to the feet. He could sense Dean moving; see him from the corner of his eye, getting slowly to his feet.

“Dean…”

Dean hesitated, angled his head towards Sam.

“Maybe we should, uh, talk about this?”

Dean stiffened. Sam swallowed back the sudden urge to laugh, instead hastily adding: “Or not? I mean, not right now.”

"Oh, thank God," Dean breathed.

He got up, shucking off his shirts as he stalked towards the bathroom. Sam watched him, drinking in his half-nakedness: muscles slick with sweat, his pale, soft skin, the jut of his shoulder blades, curve of his spine and dip of his ass. As Dean slammed the door shut behind him, he realized miserably that he was getting hard again, and that this - this fucking weirdo attraction he’d suddenly developed for his brother - it was not going anywhere anytime soon.

They packed up the car in silence, pulled out the parking lot in silence, headed for the state highway in silence. Hell, it was exactly like a million other times they’d sat in the car in deathly excruciating silence, except this time, it really, really wasn’t.

Sam had his eyes closed, trying to feign asleep when he was jolted back to reality by Dean pulling the car over and yanking on the parking brake with none of his usual care. He blinked his eyes open and turned to look at Dean: Dean was holding the steering wheel in a death grip, a small muscle at the corner of his mouth twitching as he ground his teeth loud enough for Sam to hear over the cooling engine.

“Okay, okay, so I’ll bite,” Dean muttered at last. He swallowed, his shoulders stiffening further, if that were possible, “Look, dude, Sam. I’m freakin’ lost here. I have no idea what the hell’s goin’ on? You wanna enlighten me?”

“Me?”

“Do you see anyone else around here? Jesus, Sam, of course I mean you!”

“I, uh, I don’t know. I was hopin’ you could tell me.”

“Oh God,” Dean groaned. His grip on the wheel got even tighter, and he bent forward, humping his body over until his forehead was resting on his hands.

Sam stared at him in dismay. “Dean? Are you okay, man?”

“What do you think, genius?” There was a long, loaded silence, then he spoke again, voice cracking over the words: “Everything’s fucked up, Sammy. I’m sorry, I fucked everything up. I shouldn’t have left you like that. I should never have -“ he broke off, took a breath, “I’m sorry. For - uh, that… And, uh, everything else…” The words were partly muffled by his hands, but Sam could hear the desolation in Dean’s voice, cutting through to him, through every fucking layer he had and making his chest ache.

He snapped off his seatbelt and crowded closer to Dean. “No you didn’t. You didn’t fuck anything up. It doesn’t have to be fucked up.”

Dean huffed out a pained breath, “Sam -“

“- No! Dean, listen to me! Come on, it’s okay. We’re okay, aren’t we?”

After a long, painful moment, Dean looked up, Sam stared back at him, feeling perversely close to laughing out loud, his brother looked so lost, almost laughably so: eyes scrunched up and eyebrows knotted together.

"Okay? God! This is not okay! We can't - all this shit that was happening before... it was wrong. Don’t you get that?"

“No, I don’t. Cause, Dean, please, listen to me, you didn’t take advantage of me. I know you’re panicking about that. But, come on, I’m a grown man, I can take you -“ a snort from Dean, Sam rolled his eyes, “I can so take you. If I thought you were fuckin’ - I don’t know, forcing me into it - which for the record, you weren’t - but if you were, then I’d’ve pushed you away. You know I would. Give me some credit, man.” He paused, bit his lip; he could feel his face begin to redden, the words forcing themselves out so he was practically whispering, “I didn’t do that. Cause I - I liked it. I was hard,. I wanted it. You.”

“Oh God, Sammy, this is so fucked up..."

"You were hard too, I felt it.” He needed to get the words out, had to have them out there before he lost the nerve, before he went back to pretending everything was all okay, pretending that what had been going on under cover of darkness for the past few weeks was just some sort of vivid dream. "We got each other off. We made each other come. And, we’ve been doing it for weeks."

Dean made a strangled noise and bent over again, hiding his face in his hands. "I can't talk about this. This is just... wrong."

"It doesn’t have to be." He stretched out a hand, he needed to touch him, calm him, reassure him… but he let it hover there for a moment, unsure what to do. "Dean, I love you. You're all I have, and I love you, and you - you're plannin’ on leaving me here. On my own. And you know, I'm gonna do all I can to not let that happen, but in the meantime," he hesitated, eyes locked on the back of Dean's head, his ear tinged pink, his neck, the short, bristled hairs at his nape, he could feel the tight, burning sting of tears behind his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost breaking, "I want to get to know you - to get to have all of you..."

“Sam -“

He spoke over Dean’s interruption, voice shaking and tears starting to blur his vision, "Dean, please. I have to - I want to know all of you, like, everything, I want everything, I want the real you, not just some bullshit facade..." Dean tried to open his mouth again, but Sam thrust out a hand, cutting him off. "No! Just - just listen to me! If you leave me and I can't save you, for any reason that doesn't work out, then I - I want to know that I knew you, completely and utterly because I love you, man, God, Dean, so fuckin’ much, and I just want -"

Dean was on him, pressing his lips against his, pushing his tongue into his mouth, teeth clashing at all the wrong angles, noses squashed into cheeks, and lips mashing together with all the finesse of two thirteen year olds. They were kissing. It dawned on Sam slowly, then he realized, they were kissing; he raised his hands, grabbed Dean's head, pulled him closer, chests touching and lips, tongues, exploring and slobbering and… He tasted... it was... God, he was kissing Dean. It was - Christ, unreal. They’d never done this before, in all their previous gropes and jerk-offs, it had never been like this, this, this intimate… It seemed to go on forever, but when Dean began to pull away, sucking Sam’s bottom lip between his teeth as he did; it was already too soon.

"Uh, Dean? What just happened?" He gaped at Dean, probably looking like a complete idiot, mouth wide in shock, lips glistening with their shared saliva.

Dean looked stricken for a moment, then he cleared his throat, raised one hand to his jaw, touched his lips, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.

"Dude, uh, Sam, that - was okay, wasn't it? You wanted it too?"

He nodded, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, "Yeah. It was - good. Weird. But, good."

"Well, it wasn't any of my best moves." He darted Sam a look, shyness tinged with awkwardness.

"Will I get to experience them?"

Dean laughed, a sharp, ragged sound. "If, uh, you want."

"I do." He felt himself smile, his mouth widening, a sensation of something close to joy began to gather inside him. He reached out to cup Dean's jaw, forced him to look at him. "I do, Dean. Me and you, right?"

It was obviously the right thing to say because Dean nodded, relief beginning to lighten his expression. When his eyes locked with Sam’s, his smile was blinding. "You'd better believe it."

Chapter 3