Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3868531.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Consensual_Underage_Sex,
      Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-03 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 15673
****** What the Road To Hell Is Paved With ******
by Fenix21
Summary
     Christ he tried so hard to empty out his head of all the visions of
     Sam, tried to shoot them out his dick night after night in the
     mildewed showers of cheap-ass motels under lukewarm water, to drain
     himself so dry that he’d never again imagine Sam’s supple, willow
     thin body stretched out on a bed, all open and inviting Dean to
     touch.
      
      
     Dean knows it's wrong to lust after his baby brother. He knows it...
Notes
     Because she wanted pancakes, and she listened to me whine about my
     failure in writing young Sam and Dean, and I just really owe her a
     lot for this particular piece :) And of course, because I did promise
     pretty boys doing naughty things...
***** Chapter 1 *****
Dean Winchester had been lusting after his little brother since a Werewolf
forced the scrawny little fourteen year old to lengthen out his gate for the
very first time, and Dean had seen the sudden appearance of supple corded
muscles working under worn fabric in the dim silver haze of moonlight to gain
distance on the monster that brought death at Sam’s heels.
Trick of the moonlight, Dean told himself, and for the first time in his life
fumbled the draw on his gun.
‘Dean! Get down!’
John’s voice cracked across the clearing and Dean dropped on instinct. The
wolf, attracted by the new sound, swerved, leaped Dean’s prone form and raked a
fearsome set of claws in John’s direction before two sharp rapports from his
Bereta loaded with silver dropped it out of the air.
Dean carried no little amount of guilt over that night, and not just because it
was the first time his cock had twitched at the flash-thought of his hands
running all over Sam’s naked flesh, but because the reaction had caused him to
hesitate so long that John wound up taking a long gash to his shoulder blade
getting in the way of the thing so he could get a shot in before it devoured
his baby boy. 
‘Fuck, Dad, this is deep,’ Dean whispered raggedly, pressing another thick
patch of gauze that Sam handed him over his shoulder over the wound.
‘Just—pour the holy water over it,’ John gritted. ‘Get back to the hotel and
stitch it.’
Half delirious with pain he might be, but John’s tone left no room for
argument, and the disappointment in his eldest son’s sudden hesitation was
clear. Dean averted his gaze, taped the wound closed as best he could in the
half light of the moon, and did as John ordered.
Although, the situation would never have occurred if Sammy hadn’t disobeyed
Dean for the very first time in his life. Dad, sure, Sam disobeyed Dad all the
time, but Dean? Sam always, always did what Dean told him to and this time Dean
had told him to stay in the damn car. But Sam’s curiosity was getting the
better of him these days, and all that training that Dad and Dean kept
insisting on had to be working up to something, so Sam had decided to see what
it was all about.
‘Dammit, Sammy! The car. I told you to stay. In. The fucking. Car!’ Dean
shouted, palm smacking against the steering wheel with a loud crack that caused
Sam to flinch further into the corner of the backseat, and dammit. Sam had
never flinched from him before. Never. John’s commanding tone, yes, but Dean?
Christ. What the hell was he turning into?
Dean would probably never forgive himself for nearly letting Sam be gutted by
that werewolf, but he was so furious—at Sam, at himself, at the Werewolf—that
he didn’t talk to Sam for three days while the kid followed him around like a
whipped puppy, pleading and begging for Dean to forgive him, to say
something—anything!—or to at least hit him if that would make him feel better.
‘Please, Dean. Please! I’m sorry. I promise I’ll never do it again,’ Sammy
whined, tears collecting on his lashes, and Dean had to turn away because all
he wanted to do was reach out and cup the kid’s face and tip his head back and
kiss those tears from his cheeks and rub his hands over his shoulders and down
his thin back and fit him close against the length of his body like he had done
a hundred—thousand—times in the past.
He resisted though, mumbled something about gassing up the car before they had
to leave at five the next morning, because he wasn’t supposed to feel like
letting his fingers, as they traversed down his baby brother’s knobby spine,
slot into the carved spaces between Sam’s ribs because they just couldn’t feed
the kid enough to keep up with his growth spurts, or dip his hand down the back
of his jeans that were a half inch too short but way too loose on his bony hips
and flatten his palm into the sweet curve at the base of Sam’s spine, or tug
him close and fit the aching swell of his cock against Sam’s soft flat belly
that Dean now knew was hiding the beginnings to a Michaelangelo’s worth of
beautifully carved muscles.
He wasn’t suppose to feel any of that when he looked into those warm, wet, dark
eyes that were open all the way down to the bottom of Sam’s soul. He’d go to
hell for thoughts like that, no matter his good intentions of comforting his
little brother. 
So he turned away and grabbed the keys and left.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Banning himself from touching Sam in any way that wasn’t strictly necessary to
his care and safety was turning out to be a twofold bitch of a problem.
It made life hell for Dean, and that was without his little brother’s constant
guilty sulking brought on by his older brother’s sudden subtle but definite
change in attitude to him, because Dean didn’t realize how much he touched Sam
on a daily basis without even realizing it. Little brushes of fingertips,
knuckles against the kid’s cheek or ear, fingers sifting through and ruffling
his soft floppy hair, knees knocking or ankles and feet tangling together under
diner tables. 
Sparring became a torture session that Dean figured might just rank with
getting his blood drawn slowly from his body by some particularly sadistic
vampire, only with Sam it was his resistance because being in such close
proximity and usually with nothing more than thin track shorts and tees on to
separate them from skin to skin contact was a drain on Dean’s will power like
no vamp on earth could possibly be to his jugular.
There was a tension between them now, too, when they sparred. Part of it was
just Sam’s age, Dean knew. He remembered that roiling heat of teenage angst
that had no cause and no outlet and sat in his belly like lead, licking at his
insides and making his blood run hot and shivery and the only thing he could do
to alleviate it was jack off long and hard in the shower or beat the living
shit out of the most recent monster John let him come along on the hunt for.
The rest of it…well, Dean supposed he was to blame for that.
Sam was hurt and confused, never in his life having been denied the comfort of
everyday contact from his brother who was closer to him than any other human
being alive. That hurt and confusion sat and simmered in his gut and got all
mixed up with all the rest of the teenage angst and the anger at John that was
becoming more frequent and fiery, and it came out in their sparring sessions in
sharper, harder punches, quicker blocks, more well balance kicks and lunges.
On the one hand, Dean was impressed with the sudden improvement in Sam’s
fighting skills and the incredible laser focus of his already finely honed
powers of concentration. On the other hand, Dean was getting the shit kicked
out of him more often than not nowadays, and there were moments when the sun
caught in Sam’s eyes and glinted dangerously, that he was not so sure his
little brother was one hundred percent in control of himself.
Which was why Dean occasionally played dirty.
‘Dammit, Dean! That’s not fair!’ Sam fumed, twisting and thrashing under Dean
where he was still pinned, but not by much, and grappling to try and get a hold
on his older brother’s body that he could use as leverage.
‘Think the monsters are gonna play fair, Sammy? Huh?’ Dean asked, thrusting his
hips down hard and forcing Sam to stillness.
‘Get. The. Fuck. Off,’ Sam seethed, eyes flashing bright and hard in the mid-
afternoon sun. But his actions belied his words, thighs closing tight around
Dean’s leg, fingers digging hard into his brother’s taut biceps; and Dean’s
breath suddenly ran out.
Too close…too close! The voice in his head warned him, high and tight.
Dean shoved away, bouncing to his feet in one smooth motion leaving Sam looking
shocked and furious in the dust.
‘Fine,’ he said, turning back toward the motel, because seeing Sam all splayed
on the ground, chest heaving, lips parted, cheeks flushed, and eyes on fire,
was Dean’s final straw, and he wasn’t even sure the nearby reservoir had enough
cold water for the shower he was going to need. ‘I get first shower.’
Then there were the sleeping arrangements. 
John wasn’t around a whole lot once he dumped them off someplace these days. If
he didn’t skip town within twenty-four hours, then he spent most of his time
either scouting information from the locals which often somehow meandered its
way to the nearest bar or passed out over his journal and research at whatever
rickety table the motel had to offer, leaving both queen beds free for the
taking. Dean had never balked once about letting Sam crawl in under the covers
with him and curl his small, thin, bony body up into the hollow of Dean’s belly
to let himself be cradled by the curve of Dean’s broad chest and long thighs as
he wrapped himself around his little brother and held him safe against whatever
the night might bring to their door. It didn’t matter if there were two free
beds, or not, Sam nearly always ended up snugged against Dean by morning in one
or the other of them. 
Now, though, Dean waited until Sam was well asleep before he even attempted to
turn in for the night, and those nights that John was actually around and did
use the other bed, Dean slipped under the blanket but not the sheet and clung
to the edge of the mattress like a drowning man wrapped around the only stick
of driftwood on the whole wide ocean. 
He tried. Christ he tried so hard to empty out his head of all the visions of
Sam, tried to shoot them out his dick night after night in the mildewed showers
of cheap-ass motels under lukewarm water, to drain himself so dry that he’d
never again imagine Sam’s supple, willow thin body stretched out on a bed, all
open and inviting Dean to touch. Because he wanted to touch. He wanted to touch
Sam, needed to touch him like his next breath depended on it. 
But he didn’t dare, he just didn’t, because there were far too many mornings
cropping up on him that he woke from the warm clinging haze of a dream that
featured his little brother’s bare limbs wrapped all around him, rubbing
against him, and Dean’s morning wood was so hard it tented the sheets. On the
worst ones he’d wake up to a cooling sticky mess of cum pooled on his belly,
and Sam sitting in the next bed watching him with a curiously intent and
strangely hopeful look, and there would be an echo of Sam’s name ringing in his
ears that Dean hoped with a fervor he hadn’t spoken out loud.
***** Chapter 3 *****
The year turned over, Sam put on two more inches, and Dean got a grip on his
cock in deference to his little brother, sometimes more literally than others,
and the two of them had slipped back into a routine that might almost be called
normal. It wasn’t the same as it had been, and Dean wondered with no little
amount of regret if it ever would be, but it could almost be called
comfortable.
They had been shacked up for the last three months in a rundown house on the
edge of some small Kentucky town. Sam was on the debate team and had tried out
for soccer last week. He even had a couple of friends he had started hanging
out with on the weekends. Dean had gotten a job at the local hardware store and
had even asked the same little waitress at the local cafe out two Friday nights
running.
Which meant it was about time for John to blow back into town and screw up
everything.
Seeing as how he was never one to disappoint, he showed up right on time the
night before Sam’s state championship debate event, grizzled, dirty, and
smelling like three day old sweat and booze to pack them up and take them
eleven hundred miles north west to Idaho, but on the way there was a tribal
spirit god that needed putting to rest.
Sam threw an epic bitch-fit, the likes and increasing frequency of which over
the last year had been what prompted John to leave his boys behind more and
more often while he went on hunts alone much to Dean’s dismay and aggravation.
He didn’t mind taking care of Sammy. He always had taken care of him, but by
the time Dean was his age, he had long been taken out on hunts. Maybe not the
most dangerous ones, but still. John was training Sam, putting him through all
the same paces and expecting Dean to keep up both their training, but he was
leaving Sam behind, and by default Dean, more and more of late because Sam
wouldn’t quit complaining about how much school he was missing and how he never
got to do anything ‘normal’ and that the work they did was too dangerous and
crazy and how much their lives just sucked in general.
So, Dean was a little surprised that John had even bothered to actually come
back and retrieve them, but it turned out this next hunt was going to need more
man power than what John could muster by himself.
They ended up in the Minnesota woods after a Gorabaer, a particularly nasty
supernatural cousin to the North American Grizzly, touted to be the vengeance
seeking soul of a Native American shaman who, when his tribe was on the brink
of death from disease or starvation or ambush or whatever the fuck the European
stooges had rained down on them, he took the souls of the those remaining alive
and compressed them into himself and with the blessings of whatever gods he
prayed to became this immortal freakin’ grizzly that tended to attack anything
that came near it. Fortunately their territory wasn’t too wide—bounded by the
tribe’s original claim of ownership—and this one was living in some pretty
undeveloped country, though some surveyors had gone missing when some corporate
dip-shit had suddenly decided to scout out the area to build a resort about six
months ago, and then a smattering of hikers since then. 
Sam had simmered down a hundred miles or so back and was just sulking in the
backseat beneath the heap of debate notes he no longer needed and giving the
cardboard box of research for John’s most recent hunt that sat in the footwell
the evil eye for taking up his leg space. Dean managed to catch a couple of
hours of shut eye against the window when he was sure Sam wasn’t going to reach
across the seat back and try to strangle their father when he wasn’t looking.
John just drove them deeper into the woods until the road got too narrow and
even for the Impala to traverse without the risk of snapping her axels or drive
shaft. 
When he finally pulled off and parked, Dean rolled stiffly out of the front
seat and Sam started to scoot across to get out of the back, but John grabbed
the door and shoved it back.
‘You stay in the car,’ he said.
‘What the hell, Dad?’ Sam started.
‘Stay in the car.’
‘You said you needed more manpower,’ Sam objected.
John squinted down at him. ‘Yeah, well I don’t need you bitching over every
move I make. So. You’re in the car.’
Sam glared and shoved himself back across the seat, huffed a breath into his
bangs, and folded his arms tight around his thin ribs.
Dean leaned back in over the front seat. ‘Sam—.’
‘Just fucking go, already,’ Sam snapped. ‘I’ll stay here.’
‘Sam…’ 
‘I promise.’
It wasn’t how Dean wanted this to go, but at nearly midnight in the middle of
fucking nowhere after an eight hour drive, he wasn’t in the mood to argue with
either of them. He pushed back out of the car, slammed the door, and went back
to the trunk to help John gather the weapons they would need.
They tracked the creature back to its lair within a half hour, which was good
because despite it being April and wearing his heavy leather coat Dean was
still chilling to the bone, but things were going well, better than usual
honestly, and John had the damn thing in his gun site when Sam suddenly came
hurtling through the trees with a handful of his silver throwing knives that
Dean had gotten him as a not-Christmas present three years ago when the kid had
shown an aptitude for splitting a hair with a blade at fifty feet, but still
couldn’t manage to bullseye a beer can with a .45. 
Silver sang through the air and then there was a knife buried in the Gorabaer’s
brainstem. A good shot. A kill shot on anything maybe a third less the size,
but on this thing? Just pissed it off.
‘Sam!’ Dean yelled, hearing John curse profusely behind him, and lunged out of
cover toward his little brother who was still hurtling full speed toward the
giant mass of roaring fur and eight-fucking-inch claws. John popped off a
couple of shots to try and get the thing’s attention as it turned to meet Sam’s
charge, but it didn’t even twitch his way, silver bullets or no. 
Sam let fly two more knives, driving them home into each of the creature’s
eyes, but he didn’t stop there. He could have, and Dean wasn’t understanding
why the kid was trying to get in so fucking close. Even blinded the thing was
putting up a helluva fight, and those claws…those claws were way to fucking
close to Sam’s thin, dodging body for Dean’s comfort.
‘Sammy!’ Dean yelled again and scrambled forward over the thick underbrush
trying to reach his brother before those claws found their mark. 
Sam dodged left, ducked under the thing’s flailing arm, plunged a blade up
under its jaw and spun away but not fast enough. Blind and muted and pissed the
hell off, the mountain of a spirit-bear swiped wildly and caught a claw across
Sam’s thigh. 
Sam didn’t scream. He didn’t cry out or even whimper. He did go down, though,
and Dean came thundering through the broken undergrowth seeing more red than
just his baby brother’s blood welling up out of the wound on his leg.
‘Dean! The heart—cut it out!’ Sam shouted as he tossed his last knife up into
the air for Dean to catch as he came barreling past him.
Dean was honestly surprised when just his weight was enough to throw the
Gorabaer off balance and send them both crashing to the forest floor, but all
of Sam’s silver in him must have finally been taking a toll. Dean fisted the
last knife into the thing’s chest as they went over and wrenched down with all
his might, digging through flesh and muscle, hot blood pouring over his hand
and making his grip slip. Off to the side, he could hear John yelling and
pumping the thing full of silver bullets to try and keep it from ripping Dean
off and apart as he cut even deeper and then jerked the knife in a carving
motion and reached in with his other hand to rip the heart out of its chest and
throw it on the ground.
John plugged the organ, steaming eerily and giving up a last couple of feeble
thumps in the cold night air, with two shots just to be sure and the instant he
did, the creature under Dean went still.
‘Fucking Christ…’ Dean muttered, sliding free of the thing, backing off and
then promptly doubling over to puke in the nearest bush. He’d done a lot of
weird shit in his lifetime, but ripping the heart out of some supernatural
grizzly bear? That kind of topped the current top-forty. He swiped a hand
across the back of his mouth and nearly puked again when he caught the stinking
scent of the thing’s blood that he had just thoughtlessly smeared all over his
face. He gagged and drug his coat sleeve across his nose and mouth, cleaning as
much of the gore away as he could before pushing himself back into a standing
position.
‘Dean. Get over here.’
John’s tone was sharp and urgent from where he knelt in the bracken, hands
clenched on his youngest son’s leg and bearing down hard to staunch the
bleeding. Dean staggered over and dropped down across from John.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered, swallowing another surge of bile in his throat at the
sight of Sam’s thigh laid open and welling blood. ‘Dad?’
‘It missed the artery,’ John said tightly without looking up, ‘but it’s deep.
Give me your shirt.’
Dean shucked his coat and stripped off his flannel shirt. He gripped the hem
and jerked hard, tearing off a long, wide strip. He held it out to John.
‘Wrap it,’ John commanded, still holding the wound together as best he could.
‘What the fuck, Sammy?’ Dean murmured as he wrapped the strip and tucked it in
on itself and tore off another. ‘What were you thinking? Told you to stay in
the damn car.’
‘Was reading,’ Sam said shortly, teeth gritted together to keep from screaming
out at the pain as his brother pulled the makeshift bandage tight. ‘Was reading
the research…silver bullets just…stun it. Has to be a knife. Th-the eyes,
tongue, heart. Gotta cut out the heart.’
Dean tucked in the end of the bandage and leaned on his knees, arms finally
starting to shake a little from the let down. ‘Could you not have fucking
figured this out before we got out of the car?’
’S-sorry.’ Sam’s teeth were starting to chatter. He was only dressed in his
worn jeans, which were now shredded down most of one leg, and a tissue thin t-
shirt with a hoodie pulled on over it. But Dean knew it was more than the
chilly spring air making Sam start to shake. John’s hands were covered in
blood, and if the moon had been more than a sliver in the sky, Dean was sure
he’d have been able to see the pool beneath his brother’s body because he could
sure as hell smell it.
‘Take your brother to the car,’ John ordered as he thrust up from the ground.
‘Dad, what—?’
‘I’m gonna get Sam’s knives and torch this son of a bitch. We can’t leave it
here.’
‘It’ll burn down the whole fucking forest, Dad!’ Dean protested. ‘And we can’t
afford the time to stay and watch it. We gotta get Sam to a hospital.’
‘Go,’ was all John said as he turned to dig out the salt and lighter fluid from
their duffle. 
Dean swore viciously, but his voice was low and soothing as he bent over Sam
and took hold of his wrists. The kid would have balked any other time about his
brother trying to carry him, probably still would after this was all over, and
if Dean didn’t still have the thick threads of adrenaline pumping through his
veins, Sam would probably feel a lot more like the five foot eight inches and
hundred and forty pounds that he was instead of feather light and too goddamn
thin and rangy to have just nearly single handedly taken down the huge son of a
bitch that lay a few yards away from them.
‘Come on, Sammy, arms around my neck,’ Dean coaxed like he had when Sam had
been small, and Sam obeyed and held tight as he could while Dean lifted him off
the cold ground. 
‘C-cold, Dean,’ Sam chattered.
‘I know. Gonna get you warmed up. Don’t worry,’ Dean said. He snagged his coat
with a couple of fingers on the way up off the ground and headed in the
direction of the car. He prayed John would hurry the fuck up because he could
already feel Sam’s whole body starting to tremble against him. ‘Just hang with
me, Sammy, okay.’
Sam made a weak sound and dropped his head forward to bury it in Dean’s throat
and Dean ran through every Latin incantation he knew in an attempt to keep the
sudden sharp thrust of misplaced desire at bay that was turning his whole body
warm and making his jeans just a little too snug. Because what the fuck? His
little brother was bleeding in his arms and all his dick was interested in was
how perfectly every plane and curve of the long, lithe body he held fit against
him, how soft Sam’s breath was, coming in short little puffs against Dean’s
skin, how much better it would be if Sam’s breath were coming that short
because Dean was smoothing his hands over him, over every last inch of soft
skin, and pressing, molding….
‘Goddammit,’ Dean swore again.
‘D-Dean?’ Sam’s arms tightened around his neck. ‘Dean, I’m sorry. I just
thought…I thought if you and Dad didn’t know, and you thought you killed it and
then…you got to close…. It would have ripped you to shreds, Dean.’ Sam’s voice
went shrill and broke and he tucked in closer to his brother’s chest, and Dean
knew the convulsions he felt through his arms and chest were not from the shock
or blood loss but from Sam’s sobs.
‘Hey, hey, just—.’ Dean sighed and ducked his head to give Sam a quick kiss to
the top of his head. ‘Forget about it for now. We’ll talk about it later. We
need to get you patched up right now.’
Sam had left the car wide open in his apparent rush to get to Dean and John,
and Dean would have to remind him later to be a hell of a lot more careful, but
for now at least he didn’t have to jostle Sam trying to get the door unlocked
and open. He braced a knee on the seat and carefully lowered Sam down. Sam’s
breath hitched and he let out the first whine of pain since the Gorabaer had
flayed him. 
‘Sorry, kiddo.’
Sam gave a quick shake of his head and let loose of Dean’s neck. He pulled
himself backward across the seat to lean on the door and Dean slid in after
him. The Impala’s dome light wasn’t much in the pitch black of the dense
forest, but it was enough to see that the strips of Dean’s shirt tied around
the wound were soaked through already and Sam’s skin was a lot closer to the
shade of pale vengeful spirit than warm human being. Sam wrapped his arms
around himself and tucked further into the corner, shivering. Dean spread his
coat around Sam’s thin shoulders and the kid burrowed into it, but after a few
minutes of the shivers still not subsiding, Dean muttered something to himself
about fools and temptation and backed out of the car, came around the other
side and slid in behind Sam.
‘C’mere.’ He hauled Sam up onto his lap, situating himself in such a way that
he could get his foot up on the center hump on the floor and prop Sam’s
bleeding leg up. 
‘Dean, you don’t have to—. I know you don’t want to—.’
Dean scowled at Sam’s lurching protests. ‘Don’t wanna what?’
Sam just shook his head and turned further into Dean’s chest and pulled his
coat up under his ears. 
John made it back to the car about fifteen minutes later. He threw their gear
in the trunk and slid in to the driver’s seat, taking a second to lean over the
back and look at Dean. ‘How is he?’
‘Still bleeding pretty bad,’ Dean said. ‘Dad, we’re a hundred fucking miles
from nowhere. Sam needs a hospital. You got a plan?’
John turned back around and brought the engine to life with a rumble that
seemed way too loud in the stillness surrounding them, and Sam twitched and
moaned in Dean’s arms. 
‘There’s a hunter’s cabin about thirty miles east. It’s one of Bobby’s.
Hopefully it’s still standing and at least got a few supplies.’
‘Dad, I think—,’ Dean started to protest, to insist they find a hospital.
‘It’s just a flesh wound, Dean. It’s deep, but I’ve had worse. You’ve seen ‘em.
We’ll stitch him up. He’ll be fine.’ John turned back front and put the Impala
in gear and that as good as ended the conversation. 
Dean pressed his lips into a thin line and bit back against any further
protest. John would have none of it anyway. Hospitals were places you only went
if you were dying and/or already dead as far as John was concerned. They asked
way too many questions, and it was getting harder and harder to fake their way
through the insurance card scam, so. No hospital.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Sam was in a light doze by the time they got to the cabin, and Dean carried him
inside while John shouldered some of their gear and preceded him with gun in
hand just in case.
‘Wait here,’ John said and disappeared back out the door.
Dean shifted Sam against his chest, felt the sleepy hum he made against his
collar bone, and another spike of pleasurelustdesire speared through him,
making his belly clench up with the disgust that followed. The last forty-five
minutes had damn near been Dean’s undoing. He’d spent a lot of time over the
last months keeping his thoughts and urges under control and his damn hands off
of his brother in an attempt to nip any temptation in the bud. He couldn’t seem
to help the rush of blood to his groin that kept him half-hard all the way here
because of Sam’s ass, which was bony and cut into his thighs and should in no
way be a turn on, being in his lap.
God, he was a sick fuck. 
John got the generator going and came back a minute later to  switch on a small
lamp on a small table in the small one room cabin that was—besides a good
couple years worth of dust—relatively clean if spartan of furniture besides the
aforementioned lamp and table, one armchair, a folding table with a couple of
chairs, and a double bed on a box frame in the corner. 
Dean headed for the bed with Sam and gently laid him out, snugging his coat up
around his shoulders before leaving him to help John with their stuff. They
hauled in Sam and Dean’s duffles and the box of non-perishable foodstuffs that
got kept in the trunk for just these kind of occasions, and some of the
weapons, bags of salt, and a couple of gallons of holy water.
‘Take care of your brother,’ John said and turned away to set the salt lines up
at the doors and windows. 
Dean frowned at him, confused. ‘Dad, your stitches are way better than mine.
This thing’s gonna scar like hell anyway, but if you—.’
John straightened, grabbed the box of canned and boxed goods and deposited them
in the tiny kitchenette that wasn’t more than a mini fridge, hotplate, and a
utility sink, but hey, there was running water. That was a win. Meant there was
probably some closet of a bathroom behind the door to the side of the sink,
too, then. 
‘I’ve got to go meet some contacts. I’m already late.’
Dean stared at John, med kit in his hand forgotten in his shock. He shouldn’t
be surprised. He really shouldn’t. How had he thought this would go, anyway?
John sweeping into town to snatch them out of a few months of damn near normal
comfort where they hadn’t heard hide nor hair of anything supernatural besides
a couple of pathetic hauntings that were only causing more annoyance than harm
that he and Sam had taken care of on their own, and then dumping them in the
middle of nowhere with next to nothing for reasons he still hadn’t explained
and wasn’t likely to before he walked out that goddamn door. Again.
Dean felt an unfamiliar fury rise up in him. Something that he imagined Sam
might feel, but that he usually didn’t. 
‘You’ve got….’ He swallowed and tried again. ‘You got contacts to meet? You’re
gonna fucking leave! When your youngest son is bleeding out in some mouldering
cabin in BFE?’
John’s eyes flared wide for just a second at Dean’s outburst. It was the kind
of reaction he would have expected from Sam, but not his eldest, not Dean. Dean
was the good son, the one who didn’t ask questions. John couldn’t possibly have
any delusions that Dean wasn’t always happy with how this crazy ship of theirs
got run, but he nearly always kept his thoughts about it to himself. 
‘Watch your language, son, and yes. I have contacts to meet. I’ll be back.’
‘When?’ Dean demanded.
‘I’ll be back,’ John repeated with a tone of finality. ‘There’s antibiotics in
the kit. Give him a double dose tonight and in the morning, and wash the wound
out with holy water just to be on the safe side.
Dean didn’t have a chance to respond before John was back out the door and the
Impala was pulling away, her familiar, rumbling purr growing faint in the
distance.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Dean spat and spun around. 
But all the vehemence in his tone evaporated when he spied Sam looking at him
with wide, dark eyes from the bed, Dean’s coat clutched in his fists and held
tight under his chin. He looked all of about five years old again and afraid of
the dark, waiting for his big brother to banish the monsters from the closet
before he would go to sleep. Dean grabbed up the small duffle that held the
rest of their medical supplies and went over to the bed. 
‘Hey, kiddo. How’re you doin’?’
‘Still c-cold,’ Sam stammered. ‘Leg hurts.’
‘Yeah, I’m gonna fix that for you, Sammy, just hang tight.’ Dean set the
supplies down on the floor. ‘Let me get a fire going and get some light over
here. ‘Fraid you’re stuck with my handiwork. Know Dad’s got the steadier hand,
but….’
‘’S fine, Dean,’ Sam said in a tiny voice. ‘I prefer you.’
Dean looked over his shoulder and saw those dark eyes looking at him with an
intensity he couldn’t quite put his finger on the cause of, but it was making
that warm puddle of want that had been sitting in his belly under such close
guard for the last several months start to spread and push outward. He turned
back to the hearth where the cabin’s last occupant had thoughtfully left a nice
sized stack of split logs and a some rolled up newspapers to use as kindling.
Dean stacked up a few logs, lit a roll of paper with his Zippo and made sure
the flames were starting to catch before he went to wrestle with the lighting
situation and managed, between the lamp’s blessedly long cord and rearranging
the furniture so that the bed was pulled a foot and a half further down the
wall, to get enough light that he would be able to see what his hands were
doing on Sam’s leg.
Now for the fun part.
Dean pressed the antibiotics at Sam with a swig of holy water until he could
test the water from the tap to be sure it was still drinkable, and then pulled
out the painkillers and the bourbon. Sam screwed up his face.
‘Take your pick, little brother,’ Dean said with a tense smile. ‘Personally,
I’d recommend both.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Sam insisted. 
Dean sighed and unscrewed the cap on the bottle of bourbon. ‘Seriously, Sam,
you’re gonna need something. I’m gonna have to put like thirty stitches in your
leg. So, come on. Take a swig. ‘Cause I know you’re just gonna puke up the
painkillers.’
It was true. They hadn’t yet managed to find anything above the level of
Ibuprofen that could stay settled on Sam’s picky stomach. He inevitably ended
up throwing them back up within an hour. No sense wasting good drugs. Sam shook
his head again, but Dean pressed the bottle at him.
‘At least just a swallow, to take the edge off. We’ll see how you do after
that,’ he said. 
Sam took the bottle reluctantly, wrinkled his nose up as he got it near his
mouth and then tipped it back for a huge, burning swallow that left him
breathless.
‘Atta boy,’ Dean smiled, taking the bottle and setting it down at his feet,
then he set to work.
After divesting Sam of the remains of his jeans, Dean found the wound was
blessedly straight and clean when he unwrapped it, and he thanked every version
of every deity he could rattle off the top of his head, though it was still
awfully damn deep. So deep, in fact, he thought he might have to run two sets
of stitches in order to keep it closed long enough to heal especially given
that it was across a major muscle group that Sam would be flexing with about
every move he made. Jagged flesh would have made the job ten times worse and
the scar left behind ugly, and Dean hated the thought of scars on Sam’s body.
He had plenty of his own, and that was okay with Dean, they were kind of like
badges of honor, wounds from a war no one knew was going on; but Sam’s body was
pretty much virgin territory except for a few minor cuts and scrapes, until now
anyway. 
Dean poured the holy water over the wound and then doused it with the contents
of the bottle at his feet, offering Sam another swig when he gasped, bit down
on his lip and fisted Dean’s coat so hard the leather creaked. He grimaced when
Sam refused the bottle but didn’t fight him and went to work on stitching. 
Sam’s skin was soft and hot under Dean’s hands, something he didn’t fail to
notice even as fresh blood welled up to hinder his work, making the edges of
Sam’s sliced skin harder to see. He daubed it away and continued across Sam’s
thigh one stitch at a time. The wound was almost seven inches long and ran from
the middle of his left thigh up and inward toward his groin. It was just a damn
good thing it wasn’t an inch longer or it might have laid open that artery John
had been initially worried about. 
Dean paused for a second and took a steadying breath, suddenly lightheaded from
the brief flash of Sam stone white and cold on the forest floor because there
would have been no way to stop that kind of bleeding in time, and even if they
had, there was no hospital in range that could help them after. Sam would have
lost a leg at best and died at worst.
He breathed in again, swallowed thick and audible, and nearly gagged anyway at
the bile surging up the back of his throat, until he felt a timid hand at the
side of his neck. He jerked his gaze up. Sam was looking at him, face all open
and concerned and half-fearful, overriding the pain that had to be coursing
through him at the work Dean was doing on his leg.
‘Dean?’
Dean shook his head a little, trying to pull away from that hand, the hand of
which he wanted more than anything to just turn his head a fraction to the side
and plant a kiss in the palm. ‘I’m fine kiddo. Sorry.’
Sam dropped his hand a little reluctantly it seemed and clutched the coat to
his chest again, resetting his teeth against the pain as Dean threaded his skin
with the needle again. As Dean worked in toward Sam’s groin, his hands started
to shake just a little, not enough that Sam noticed, but enough that Dean had
to consciously tense his arms and shoulders to get them to stop, and he shifted
on the bed in an attempt to take the pressure off his dick which was pushing to
life against the back of his zipper as his knuckles brushed against Sam’s inner
thigh while he stitched. 
‘Dean, could you—could you stop for a second?’ Sam asked. ‘I think I’m going
to…I need….’ 
He clapped one hand over his mouth and waved the other in the direction of a
metal trash can under the utility sink. Dean was up and moving and had the
trash can held under Sam’s chin and an arm around his shoulders while he
retched long and hard into it.
‘Hey, careful there,’ Dean soothed. ‘You’ll pop my beautiful stitches before I
even get done.’
Sam huffed a miserable laugh, wallowed his tongue around his mouth and spit and
then lifted his head, breathing unsteadily. ‘’S-Sorry.’
‘Nothin’ to apologize for, Sammy,’ Dean said, sifting his hands through the
thick hair at the back of Sam’s head, waiting until Sam gave him the go-ahead
to put the trashcan down.
Sam nodded weakly and leaned back against the wall, and Dean took the trashcan
and sat it a few feet away but within easy reach if Sam decided he needed to
avail himself of it again.
‘Just a few more, Sam,’ Dean said, picking up the needle and bending over Sam’s
leg again. ‘'M almost done.’
It turned out Sam needed thirty-seven stitches, and they both sighed in shaky
relief when Dean tied off the last one. Sam had gagged a couple more times but
managed not to actually throw up, and Dean washed the wound with holy water
again, slathered it with anti-biotic ointment and then wrapped it up good and
snug.
‘You stay put while I clean this up,’ Dean ordered. ‘Then I’ll get you some
fresh clothes and see if I can find any sheets for the bed.’
A battered trunk in the corner revealed a supply of bedding, and Dean was right
about the closet of a bathroom off the kitchenette. By some miracle
aforethought, Bobby had installed an ancient washing machine opposite the
shower, jammed in right beside the toilet. No dryer, but that was okay. It
wouldn’t be the first time Dean had hung clothes over any available surface to
dry, and at least he wouldn’t be washing them out in the sink. He rinsed the
trashcan in the utility sink, bundled the bloody bandages and other supplies
into a bag and threw them in the steel bin out back, jamming the lid down tight
so the smell hopefully wouldn’t draw any animals. He rummaged the trunk and
came up with sheets, a blanket, and a nice heavy quilt, but before he bothered
with that, he ran a pan full of steaming hot water, found a washcloth and towel
and went over to the bed.
Sam’s color was a shade more toward living, but he was still shivering. Dean
knelt down and felt for his pulse, and Sam turned blearily, pain-filled eyes
toward his brother. ‘'M okay, Dean. You don’t have to….’
Dean waited a second to see what Sam was going to say, but the kid just closed
his eyes and turned his head away, dislodging Dean’s fingers over his pulse
point. It was a little fast, but pretty steady and strong enough that Dean
didn’t think they needed to worry about full-on hypovolemia any more.
‘Don’t have to what, Sam? You keep saying that. What? You think I don’t want to
take care of you, or somethin’?’ Dean asked, keeping his tone level, even
though the very thought made him bristle. ‘I’ve been taking care of you my
whole life, Sammy. Nothin’s changed.’
‘Something has.’
Dean almost missed it, the tiny whisper into the shadows on the other side of
the bed to where Sam had his face turned. ‘Sam?’
But Sam pressed his lips together and kept his face turned away. Dean hesitated
a few moments, wondering if maybe he should just cover the kid up with a
blanket and leave him for the night. For both their sakes. Sam was still
shivering intermittently, though, and needed to be cleaned up and then bundled
warmly, so Dean eased down onto the bed and set to work sponging away the blood
and mess from Sam’s legs. He pulled one of the towels up to cover him until he
had a chance to change the damp bedding and get Sam into his sweats to keep him
warm. Next he gently pried his coat from Sam’s fists, draped it down over his
legs, too, and then slipped his hands under Sam’s t-shirt. 
It had been a long time since he’d dressed or undressed his brother, and in his
months long mission to not touch Sam, he’d almost forgotten just what it felt
like to frame that thin ribcage with his broad hands, skimming Sam’s soft, bare
skin with his palms as he pushed the shirt up and waited a heartbeat for his
little brother to give in and raise his arms up. 
‘That’s it, Sam,’ Dean praised in a whisper, driving down the sudden stab of
wantneed at seeing the firelight flicker over Sam’s pale skin. ‘That’s good.’
He rinsed the washcloth and made quick work of wiping Sam’s arms and chest
down, strokes efficient and sure but gentle just the same. He lifted Sam
against his chest and started wiping down his back. He was holding him with one
strong arm and rubbing the cloth in gentle circles with the other when he felt
the first body wracking shudder go through Sam.
‘Sam?’
Dean dropped the cloth and pulled Sam close, trying to tip his head back so he
could see his face. If he’d started convulsing, that was bad. Very bad. But
Sam’s arms snaked around him and held, screwing down tight with more strength
that Dean remembered the kid having, and he buried his face in Dean’s neck.
‘Just—stop. Please.’
‘I’m almost done, Sam. Let me get you dried and dressed and—.’
Sam burrowed deeper. ‘Not what I mean.’ 
Dean stilled, held his breath. ‘Sam, just—.’
‘I said I was sorry, Dean. I meant it. I don’t—I don’t know what else to do.’
The shudders were sobs. Dean had held Sam enough over the years through crying
fits brought on by tantrums, disappointment, pain, and anger, to recognize that
this was fear. Nye on to full blown terror. But of what?
‘Just please stop being mad at me. Please…’ Sam sniffled against Dean’s throat.
‘I’m sorry I got out of the car—.’
‘Sam, I told you, we’d talk about that later—.’
‘But it’s been months, Dean! And you still won’t—won’t even touch me!’
Dean’s breath came out in a huff of shock as Sam’s arms squeezed against his
ribs. It was like being caught in a vice, and Dean was amazed again at the
strength hiding in those skinny limbs.
‘Sam, I’m not mad,’ Dean murmured. He tried one last time to hold his distance,
to just get this done, to take care of Sam like he always had and only feel
what he had always felt. Except that he was starting to wonder if he had always
felt just like this: like there was a river of warmth running through him at
the very thought of holding his baby brother close, a thread of heat strung
through his veins that came alive at Sam’s touch and sang through his blood.
Because he didn’t feel any different, he just had a name for it now. 
He gave up and dropped his head down, tucking his nose into the soft curls
behind Sam’s ear. ‘'M not mad, Sammy. I swear it. I just….’ He shook his head a
little, sifted his hand up into the tangle at the back of Sam’s head and
scratched lightly. ‘I swear nothing’s changed. You’re still my little brother.
I still want to take care of you, and I still…love you.’
Sam flinched at the last words, almost like they stung him in some way, but his
arms loosened a little and he let Dean towel him off and pull a clean hoodie
over his head, then lay him back and very carefully pull a pair of sweats up
his legs. He gathered Sam up and carried him to the one armchair by the fire
and tucked a blanket around him, then he went back and dragged the bed closer
to the fire and made it up with the sheets and quilt he’d found. He transferred
Sam back to the bed and tucked the quilt and blanket close, propping his bad
leg on a rolled up towel to keep it elevated. 
He sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand to Sam’s forehead, testing
for fever in the guise of sweeping his bangs out of his eyes. ‘Can you sleep?
Do you want the pain killers? Or another shot?’
Sam’s jaw was set tight, and Dean was no fool to believe that he wasn’t in
pain, but he just shook his head to all the offers and closed his eyes. Tears
dribbled out of the corners and Dean felt a wrenching pain in his chest, like
something tearing loose, and he reached out and brushed them away. He hated
seeing Sam hurt. He’d hated his first baby teeth and how they’d made him
feverish and sick. He’d hated his bumps and bruises and scrapes when he learned
to walk and run and spar with his older brother. He hated his broken arm when
he’d jumped off that damn shed in Bobby’s salvage yard. He hated anything that
caused his little brother pain, and he’d never hurt this much before. 
He’d never been wounded because he’d never fought, and Dean realized with a
suddenness that took his breath away, that he never wanted him to again. He
never wanted Sam in this fight. Had never wanted him in this fight. Dean might
be built and bred for it, but Sam was not. Sam was meant for a different kind
of life. Not because he was weaker or a poor fighter, but because he was
better. He was so much better.
‘Dean?’
Dean blinked and looked down into Sam’s wide, worried eyes. Somehow he had
managed to tangle his fingers in the curls at the nape of Sam’s neck and fist
them in his frustration at the undertow of emotions trying to pull him under.
Sam’s thin fingers crawled over the back of his hand and tried to pry it loose.
Dean let go, all of a sudden, and jerked away like he’d been burnt. Sam’s eyes
filled and his breath caught on the back of a choked cry, and Dean hated
himself. He tried again, putting his hands to either side of Sam’s face.
‘Shhh. Shh, Sam. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Dean, please…lay down with me?’ Sam begged in a tiny voice. ‘So I can sleep?’
‘I…I need to clean the guns, kiddo, and get our supplies in order. Don’t know
how long Dad’s gonna be gone this time,’ Dean hedged.
Sam nodded and turned his face away. Dean watched the exaggerated slow-motion
rise and fall of his chest and knew that there were sobs punching at the tail
end of each of his brother’s forced breaths fighting to get past his control,
and he swore at himself.
‘Okay, Sam. Okay.’
Dean loosened his laces and toed off his boots and moved around the bed to lay
down on top of the quilt.
‘You’ll get cold, Dean,’ Sam whispered. 
‘I’ll be fine, Sammy.’
They lay in silence, on their backs, staring up at the flickering patterns of
light on the ceiling. There was a scant inch or two between them, but to Dean
it felt like an impassable gulf. 
‘Dean, I—.’
‘Go to sleep, Sam,’ Dean cut him off quietly.
Sam tucked his chin to his chest and pressed his lips into a thin line and
closed his eyes. He didn’t make another sound. Dean continued to stare at the
ceiling until the fire died to embers and sleep, when it came, was sharp edged
and fitful.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Dean would have expected Sam to be the one to wake on the muted edge of a
scream from nightmares, not himself.
After all, Dean had been on lots of hunts with John, up against creatures
nearly as terrible as the Gorabear. Sam, though, had not. He’d been on some
straight up salt and burns and tangled with a few vengeful spirits, but he’d
never been up against anything so lethal as he was last night.
So, it took Dean unawares when he was the one to jerk awake, chest tight, mouth
forming Sam’s name on a silent scream, blinking away images of Sammy cold and
pale lying in the trampled underbrush with John’s hands buried uselessly in his
gored and shredded chest instead of holding together the flayed flesh of his
thigh.
Fury surged up the back of Dean’s throat, and he threw himself from the bed,
bracing himself on the sink and retching hard. He was furious with the creature
for existing and hurting his brother; he was furious with John for uprooting
them and dragging them out here where Sam could get hurt; but he was even more
furious with Sam for throwing himself in harms way without a thought, and after
all the years Dean had spent taking care of him, watching out for him,
protecting him. He would go and throw himself headfirst into danger, and for
what?
The answer made Dean’s knees buckle, and he dropped hard, forehead resting
against the cold composite plastic of the sink.
Sam had done it for the same reasons John did, for the same reasons Dean did;
he’d done it to protect his family. To protect Dean. 
‘Dammit, Sammy.’
Dean rolled over onto his hip, propped himself against the metal leg of the
sink and dragged a trembling hand down his face.
How could he blame the kid for becoming what he and John were training him to
be?
Across the room, Sam moaned a little in his sleep. Dean shoved up off the
floor, rinsed his mouth and spit in the sink, and went back to the bed. Sam’s
eyes were still closed. Dean brushed a hand across his forehead and cheek to be
sure he wasn’t running a fever. He’d check the actual wound later when Sam woke
up. For now, he just needed to sleep. The grey-blue of dawn was only just
starting to lighten the grubby little panes of glass in the tiny windows and
herd the dark shadows of night closer to the hearth where they clung to the
last glow of dying embers there.
Dean slumped on the edge of the bed, hands between his knees, head hung low,
trying to relinquish the last of his fury, to let it shiver itself out through
his trembling hands and still rabbit-quick pulse. He needed to do something. He
needed to keep his hands busy, to stop them from itching to touch Sam’s long,
thin body stretched out under the quilt if only to reassure himself that he was
still warm and alive and breathing.
He started to get up—the guns still needed cleaning along with Sam’s
knives—when hesitant fingers picked at his shirt sleeve, fiddling with the
button on the cuff and the thread coming loose from the frayed seam.
‘Hey, did I wake you?’ Dean asked softly, looking down at his brother’s long,
absently plucking fingers.
Sam didn’t speak, just fluttered his sleepy eyes a time or two before giving in
and letting them fall closed and stay that way. He curled his fingers into the
fabric of Dean’s sleeve and gently tugged.
‘C’m back to bed. ’S too early,’
Dean covered Sam’s hand, gently disentangled his fingers, and laid it back on
the bed.
‘Think I’m up for the day, kiddo, but you go back to sleep. Rest.’
Sam gave a little whine deep in his throat and Dean reached to stroke his hand
through his brother’s hair. Sam turned into the touch, nestled into Dean’s
palm, and a shaft of wanting speared through him so sharp and quick it took his
breath away.
‘Sleep, Sammy. Sleep for a while longer.’
Dean unconsciously began to hum an old Zeppelin tune as he stroked Sam’s hair
until his breathing evened out again and continued humming as he moved over to
the fire with their duffle of weapons and pulled out Sam’s knives and started
to meticulously clean them until they shown in the cold encroaching light of
dawn.
——
Sam slept three more hours and by the time he woke, the tiny one room cabin was
filled with the scent of cooking.
‘Dean?’ Sam elbowed into a half sitting position, knuckled at his eyes, and
winced as the stitches in his leg pulled with his movement.
‘Heya, Sammy,’ Dean said with a grin. He flipped something vaguely round and
very flat in the cast iron pan that overflowed the little hot plate on the
counter. ‘You up for breakfast?’
Sam scented the air. ‘You made…pancakes?’
‘Yup.’
‘How?’ Sam’s eyes were wide in astonishment.
‘Had to get creative with some condensed milk, powdered eggs, and bread crumbs.
Hey, baking soda doesn’t go bad, does it?’
Sam frowned in confusion. ‘I don’t think so, but Dean? You’re supposed to use
baking powder.’
‘Eh, same thing,’ Dean shrugged.
Sam rolled his eyes and grinned. ‘Says the guy who put marshmallows in my mac
and cheese.’
‘Hey! Don’t knock it. You loved that.’
‘Yeah. I did,’ Sam smirked. He threw back the covers and levered himself to the
edge of the bed.
‘Hey, hey! Take it easy,’ Dean scolded. He flipped a flatter than normal
pancake onto the plate beside the skillet (‘cause, yeah, maybe the kid was
right, and it should have been baking powder) and threw the spatula down. He
wiped his hands and strode to the bed, put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Where do
you think you’re going?’
Sam scowled. ‘Dean, I gotta pee.’
‘Oh,’ Dean conceded. ‘Well, I don’t want you putting any weight on that leg
just yet, so, here…’
Dean got Sam under the arms and slowly lifted him into a standing position, let
Sam find his balance and get his feet under him, and then helped him limp to
the bathroom. He got Sam stabilized and braced against the wall and then took a
step back and turned around.
‘What? Not gonna hold it for me?’ Sam chided.
Dean nearly choked and spluttered some unintelligible answer and was eternally
grateful that his back was to Sam so his little brother couldn’t see the sudden
flush that leaped to his cheeks.
Sam just chuckled, did his business, and then smacked Dean on the back of the
head to get his attention and they limped back across to the bed.
As Dean steadied Sam while he stretched out his aching back from lying in one
position all night, he noticed how tall the kid was getting. He’d put on
another couple of inches, sure, but Dean couldn’t recall when exactly he’d gone
from fitting comfortably under Dean’s chin to being even with his nose and
maybe a little more. He was still a skinny waif, but he was growing. Fast.
‘Dean, could I sit in the chair maybe?’
Dean blinked. ‘Yeah. Sure. We just need to keep you warm and keep that leg
elevated.’
He helped Sam over to the dilapidated armchair and settled him into it with a
blanket around his shoulders and one of the folding chairs under his calf to
prop up his leg. Sam shifted around trying to get comfortable, and Dean cringed
at every wince and caught breath, and it wasn’t all just from the wound on
Sam’s leg.
‘I’ll work on your back later if you want,’ he offered quietly.
Sam looked up, surprise registering in his bright, hopeful eyes, and it cut at
Dean to think Sam had come to expect him not to want to touch him. 
‘That would be…great,’ Sam said in a small voice.
Dean nodded once and went back to the skillet and hot plate. Three more
pancakes later he brought the stack over with half a bottle of honey under one
arm and two cans of lukewarm soda.
‘Breakfast of champions,’ he said. He folded his legs up under him and sat down
on the floor at Sam’s feet and offered up a soda.
Sam took it, grinning, with a raised eyebrow at the stack of suspiciously flat
pancakes.
‘No syrup,’ Dean said as he squirted a liberal amount of honey on one of his
creations and folded it in half and handed it to Sam.
Sam eyed it. ‘You said you used breadcrumbs and powdered eggs?’
‘Yup.’
‘Ooo-kay.’ Sam took a cautious bite and chewed gingerly. His brows lifted in
pleasant surprise, and he took another bite. ‘Huh. Pretty not bad.’
‘I know, right?’ Dean winked. ‘’Cause I am awesome.’
Sam laughed outright and reached to cuff Dean gently upside the head. Dean
turned at the last second and caught Sam’s finger between his teeth, bit down
and held. It was a playful gesture he’d used so many times in the past, but now
the side of his tongue slid across Sam’s skin, and he tasted honey and
something even sweeter, and a spark of wantlustneed ignited in his gut. He
closed his lips without thinking and slowly sucked Sam’s finger clean.
‘Oh…’
Sam’s breath hitched and held. Dean’s eyes darted up, and he saw his brother’s
lips parted on that breath, eyes wide and dark, folded pancake forgotten and
dripping honey in his other hand. 
Dean quickly pushed Sam’s finger out of his mouth. He forced a grin past the
knot in his belly and the tightening in his groin.
‘You’re makin’ a mess,’ he said, tilting his chin at the dripping honey in
Sam’s hand.
‘Uh. Yeah.’ Sam stuffed another bite of pancake in his mouth and licked at the
honey, hesitating a fraction of a second when his gaze smacked into Dean’s
while the tip of his tongue scooped the sticky mess from between his fingers.
They ate most of the rest of the stack, finishing off the honey between them,
in silence after that with Dean keeping his eyes fixed on the ghostly embers of
last night’s fire and Sam sneaking nervous, furtive glances at his brother.
‘Dean, about last night—,’ Sam started.
‘Sam,’ Dean cut him off, waving a tired hand. ‘Look, you saved our asses last
night, right? I can’t really complain about that. What I ought to be
complaining about is how the hell Dad missed it in the research.’
Sam shrugged noncommittally. ‘Seems he’s doing more and more of his research at
the bottom of a bottle these days.’
Dean glanced up sharply but then let it go with an uneasy shrug. Wasn’t like he
could argue with the kid. John was going through a bad spell at the moment, it
seemed. He’d ease back sooner or later, he always did, but until then Dean
would worry about him on hunts. Would worry about both of them if he kept
making oversights like this one.
‘Yeah, well, we’re still alive thanks to you, so…’
‘Then…you’re okay?’ Sam asked timidly.
Dean sighed long and deep and rubbed a hand over his hair. ‘Yeah, Sam. Yeah,
I’m good.’
He raised his eyes to meet Sam’s and the kid looked so relieved that Dean
couldn’t help but grin, and at seeing that swift quirk of his brother’s lips,
Sam instinctively reached for him to tumble into his lap just like he used to
do when he was little, but his stitches pulled sharply, and his back twinged
hard enough to make him gasp.
Dean caught his shoulders and pressed him back. ‘Whoa, Sammy, take it easy.’
Sam leaned back in the chair, whimpered when the muscles in his lower back
locked up, making his fingers curl convulsively around the arms of the chair.
‘Sam, relax,’ Dean instructed. He kept a hand on Sam’s shoulder as he reached
for the rickety looking end table and pulled it in front of Sam’s chair. He
really needed to get him back to bed, lay him out on his stomach and work him
over, but he was afraid that would put too much pressure on the fresh stitches.
So, he settled for testing his weight on the table and, finding it to be a bit
more stable than it looked, he scooted as close to Sam as he could and then
very carefully reached behind Sam’s thighs and lifted him into his lap.
Sam’s arms instantly went around Dean’s neck and his eyes flew open. ‘Dean,
what are you—?’
‘Scoot forward, Sam,’ Dean said and lifted Sam closer across his thighs. Sam
hissed in pain and Dean froze. ‘Leg?’
‘No,’ Sam huffed. ‘Back.’
Dean ran his hands up Sam’s back to his shoulders, pulling his full weight in
to rest against his chest. ‘Lean into me. I’m gonna take care of your back.’
Sam didn’t hesitate to collapse into Dean’s chest, dropping his arms to hang
loose at his brother’s hips and burying his face in the crook of his neck.
Dean felt the warm weight of his brother drape across him, and his dick was
hard and aching with the sweet pressure, but he ignored it. It was not nearly
as important as taking care of Sam. Taking care of Sam always came first, and
armed with that, Dean could ignore the hot, smoldering coal of desire licking
at his gut.
He spread his palms flat over Sam’s back and noticed how they didn’t span from
shoulder to shoulder like they use to. Now, they fell an inch or two short and
the angle down to Sam’s hips had gotten steeper, more defined. Dean dug his
fingers into the thinned out layer of baby fat (and that was new, too) and deep
into the muscles beneath on either side of Sam’s spine and slowly worked his
way down and then back up, pushing his fingers all the way up into the hair at
the back of Sam’s skull and rubbing hard and then working out over his
shoulders and part way down his biceps (still whipcord thin, but definitely
more defined) and then back in and down his back again.
He dipped down the back of Sam’s sweats, pressing hard into his lower back,
working at the twitching muscles there. Sam moaned low and long, arching into
Dean’s chest, and unconsciously rolling his hips down, and Dean felt a long,
hard line of heat against his thigh. His breath left him in a rush, and Sam
went utterly still beneath his hands.
‘Sam…?’
Sam got his hands against Dean’s chest and pushed. ‘Dean, I—.’
Sam leaned back, looking at Dean from beneath his tousled, brown silken curls.
His cheeks were crested high and hot with sweet stains of color and his bottom
lip, where it was caught between his teeth, was swollen and plush and pink and
Dean could feel the tip of his tongue creeping between his own lips and licking
in anticipation.
‘Dean, I—I’m sorry,’ Sam stammered. ‘Please, I didn’t mean—it’s not—.’
‘Sam.’
Dean took the chance of a lifetime in the next second, hoping to hell he was
reading all the signals right. He covered Sam’s hand on his chest and dragged
it slowly down his tight, quivering belly.
‘Dean?’ Sam breathed.
Dean brushed Sam’s fingers against the hard ridge of his erection through his
jeans. This was it. Sam was either going to punch him out or scramble away in
disgust—or both—or maybe, must maybe the hard heat he felt against his thigh
was evidence of something else, of a need unfulfilled, a desire dark and
unrequited.
Sam whimpered high and light at the contact and when Dean let his hand fall
away, Sam’s fingers stayed, fluttering and uncertain against the bulge in his
brother’s jeans.
‘Jesus, Dean…’
And here it came, Dean thought, bracing himself. The rejection delayed by
shock. But then Sam’s fingers moved, and Dean felt the broad warmth of his
brother’s palm engulf his swollen flesh and he moaned, hips instinctively
rolling, scooping his pelvis forward to get more of that heavenly warmth. Sam’s
palm curved and fit itself to Dean’s erection and then he squeezed, just a
little.
Dean made an unintelligible sound that ended on a growl muffled against his
brother’s clavicle where he had let his head fall to rest. Sam squeezed again,
harder.
‘Oh fuck, Sammy,’ Dean punched out. His dick twitched painfully in the confined
of his jeans and he felt the hot, hard knot in his belly that had been slowly
tightening over the last months give a swift, hard tug that sent sparks of
white fire across his vision. Sam fit his palm even closer around the bulge of
Dean’s aching cock and pressed harder, letting the tips of his fingers scoop
back under his brother’s balls and lift just a little.
‘Dean…’
Dean’s name sounded like a plea and a prayer on Sam’s lips and it made the knot
in his belly slide tighter still and harder and put a lump in his throat that
he could barely breathe around. Sam licked his lips at Dean’s ear, breath
coming in sweet little huffs of sound, and then rolled the heel of his palm
across the swollen head of Dean’s too ready cock and that was it. He was gone.
The white sparks became a raging fire that tore through Dean like he was so
much bracken, dry from a hundred year drought. His fingers curled into Sam’s
hips and jerked him forward. Sam hissed at the sudden sharp move and then Dean
felt slender fingers dig into his biceps and Sam’s hips punched forward and
Dean thought he heard a tiny startled cry over the rush of blood in his ears
before his brother shuddered and slumped against him.
They sat in a sagging heap, tucked into each other, faces hidden in each
other’s necks, breath coming harsh and uneven in the silence of the cabin.
‘Sam, did you…?’ Dean finally managed.
‘Yeah.’ Sam gave a jerky little nod. ‘Yeah, I did. Dean, I’m sorry, I—.’
He tried to lift his head, but Dean tucked it back hard against his shoulder.
Just a second more. That’s all he wanted before the fucked-up reality of what
he had just let happen crashed back in on them.
‘Shh, Sam. It’s all right. It’s gonna be all right. I promise.’
Sam nodded weakly and let his hands crawl up to clutch at the back of Dean’s
shirt. Dean turned his mouth and nose into the tangle of soft hair above Sam’s
ear and whispered tight and low,
‘I love you, Sammy. Always have, always will. You gotta remember that. So that
someday, when you can forgive me for this, if you ever can, you call me. You
call me and I’ll come. I’ll always come for you. You remember.’
‘Dean?’ Sam’s voice was sharp with fear and his hands fisted hard in Dean’s
shirt, skinny arms tightening like steel bands when Dean tried to pull back, to
set Sam away from him.
‘No, don’t,’ Sam begged. ‘Dean, don’t do this! This wasn’t you. It was me.
Please, Dean!’
Dean forced Sam’s arms open and set him gently back in the chair and stood up.
Wiry fingers clamped at his wrist when he turned away and hung on like the jaws
of a bear trap. He looked down at himself and swore viciously. He was a mess,
the front of his jeans and t-shirt damp with the evidence of his twisted lust.
‘Dean, don’t go.’
Sam’s voice had dropped deep like it did when he was making a last desperate
plea for reason with John, and it sparked something in Dean’s chest, made him
look down at his kid brother just weeks away from sixteen and see the rough
sketch of the man he would grow into instead of the boy he was. 
‘Don’t you dare run, Dean. Don’t you dare. You didn’t do this. I wanted this. I
wanted it.’
Dean glanced down at the front of Sam’s sweats, wet blossom of his release
spread like a stain to show the world their sin. No, Dean’s sin. Because this
was on him. Sam would never have done this if Dean hadn’t tempted him, if he
hadn’t given in to that one second of weakness.
‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Sam.’
Sam’s fingers cinched tighter, ground down on the bones of Dean’s wrist, and
his eyes flashed with fire.
‘I’m nearly sixteen, Dean, I—.’
‘You’re a fucking child!’ Dean snapped.
Sam jerked back in shock, grip loosening enough momentarily that Dean could
wrench his wrist free and get a few feet between them. Sam looked stunned and
angry, eyes filling up fast with tears, lips pressing into a thin line, and
Dean could almost hear the kid silently telling himself not to cry after he’d
just declared himself grown up enough to commit an act of underage sexual
incest with his brother.
‘So, what, Dean?’ Sam shot back. ‘I’m old enough to feel you up and get you to
come so hard your eyes roll back in your fucking skull without hardly touching
you, but I’m not old enough to know what I want!’
Dean flinched at the crass description of what they’d just done. ‘Fuck, Sam…’
‘Sure, Dean, I’m up for that, too,’ Sam bit out. ‘Oh, but wait…I don’t know
what the fuck I want because, ‘I’m still a fucking child!’’
‘Sammy, I—.’
‘You know what, Dean? Just—,’ Sam lurched out of the chair without thinking and
then bit back a cry at the sharp pain that lanced across his thigh, and he
started to stumble.
Dean moved the same instant Sam did and had him under the arms and held tight
against him before he even thought.
‘Dammit, Sam, you’ll pull your stitches,’ Dean whispered harshly.
Sam whimpered in pain and hid his face in Dean’s shoulder, fingers twisted up
so tight in the fabric that his knuckles were white, until he could breathe
normally again. Dean tried to ease him back down into the chair but Sam shook
his head, refusing to let go.
‘Sam, we need to get you off that leg. I need to check the stitches,’ Dean
said. ‘You wanna lay down on the bed?’
Sam gave a reluctant nod that said, no, he really didn’t, but of the choices
available, it would have to do. Dean hitched him up tight against his side and
practically carried him to the bed, Sam’s toes just barely grazing the floor.
Dean let him down slow and lifted his legs up onto the mattress. He reached for
the waistband of Sam’s sweats, hesitated a fraction of a second, and then
tugged them down carefully.
He tried to ignore the cooling, sticky film of cum on his brother’s hip and
thigh and lower belly as he examined the bandage for signs of bleeding. He
tried not to let the half hard length of his brother’s ample endowment catch
him off guard when he’d expected a soft, flaccid, spent cock to be tucked
between his thighs.
He felt his nostrils flare out in betrayal of his notice and forced his
concentration to gently unwrapping the bandage to get a look at the wound and
stitches underneath. Thankfully, everything looked intact and the edges of the
wound weren’t red or puffy or hot with any signs of infection, and there was
very little oozing, so Dean slathered it liberally with another layer of
ointment and put fresh gauze over it and rewrapped it.
‘I’ll get a washcloth to clean you up,’ Dean said quietly, and pushed off his
knees to retrieve said washcloth from the bathroom.
He tried for quick and efficient in wiping Sam down, but his hands betrayed him
and moved slowly, lovingly over the dip of Sam’s narrow hipbone, down the warm
skin of his inner thigh, and over the soft white expanse of his belly that was
lightly dusted with fine dark hairs that curled like the ones on his head. He
smoothed the washcloth over the length of Sam’s cock and felt it grown warm and
swell under his touch.
Sam made a tiny sound in his throat, and Dean glanced up to see him looking
back, heavy lidded, lips parted, cheeks pink and flushed, and under his hand
that had stilled without his knowing on his brother’s cock he felt Sam twitch
and grow harder.
‘Jesus, Sam,’ Dean choked out between ragged breaths, willing himself to move
his hand and let go of Sam’s hot gaze.
Sam licked his lips slowly. Whether it was a conscious gesture or not, Dean’s
cock didn’t care. It bulged eagerly in his jeans, ready and willing to respond
to all the not so subtle signals of want rolling off of Sam’s body.
‘Dean, I know you don’t believe me—,’ Sam started.
‘Sam, this is all me,’ Dean cut him off. ‘It’s sick and twisted, and I know—I
know—I’m wrong…’
He stumbled, shoulders slumping, gaze still locked with Sam’s.
‘Then that makes two of us,’ Sam whispered, and he rolled his hips upward,
pressing the full, hard length of his cock into his brother’s palm and moaning
as if to prove his point.
Dean answered with a guttural groan of his own. He moved the washcloth and his
hand, and Sam whined in protest until he saw Dean staring at the hard, long,
blood fattened organ and licking his lips. Dean had never put his mouth on
another man. Never wanted to. Sure, he’d gone down on lots of girls. Safer that
way. Not like he needed a string of illegitimate rug rats trailing across
forty-eight state lines. But men had never appealed. Just Sam. And his mouth
was practically watering at the thought of curving his tongue over that velvet
soft head that was stretched and full and rigid and wanting.
He sucked in a breath and rolled his tongue around his mouth, trying to dispel
the thought, but Sam had started rocking his hips on the bed and his cock was
now front and center and so full it was standing up off his flat belly on its
own, begging—just begging—for Dean’s mouth.
He obliged it.
Dean dipped down and pressed his lips to the bulging vein that ran the length
of his little brother’s cock, and Sam nearly squealed in shocked response. Dean
couldn’t help the grin that split his face. He wanted to hear Sam make that
sound again. So, he shifted sideways, putting more of his weight up on the bed,
reached across Sam’s thighs and braced himself up. Then he licked a long, slow,
wide stripe up his brother’s cock from base to  swollen head.
‘Holy shit!’ Sam nearly shouted, and he twisted on the mattress, one hand
fisting tight in the sheets, the other reaching up under his t-shirt and
spreading over his chest, reaching for a hard, pert nipple to pinch between his
fingers.
Dean watched in rapt astonishment from under his lashes and had to shift
positions because his own cock was getting too hard and too full to be trapped
inside his jeans.
‘Take it out, Dean,’ Sam panted high and light. ‘I wanna see it.’
Dean groaned again and reached with one hand to undo his zipper and lay open
his jeans so that at least the only remaining pressure against his overfull
erection was the blessedly soft cotton of his boxer briefs. Sam’s eyes zeroed
in on the swollen ridge of flesh and widened in appreciation.
Before he could become too self-conscious under Sam’s intense gaze, Dean made
another pass at his brother’s cock with his tongue, this time lingering at the
full, soft, mushroomed head and sliding the tip of his tongue under the ridge
and tracing it around one side and back and over to the other. Then he daringly
flicked it over the slit and caught the first heady taste of Sam on his tongue.
He had expected—well, he didn’t know what he expected, but not the double
barrel force of shock from the sweet, musky taste on the tip of his tongue
laced with salt and tasting of all Sam. He pursed his lips and pressed them to
the very tip of Sam’s cock and sucked ever so lightly, tasting another drop of
pre-cum against his lips.
Sam whined and twisted under him. ‘Dean! Dean, stop…please, stop. I’m gonna
come… You’re gonna make me come again.’
‘That’s the idea, Sammy,’ Dean hummed against Sam’s hot, stretched flesh,
licking the head with a broad flat stroke for emphasis.
Sam shivered, full body. 'N-no. Dean, I wanna—I want to come with you this
time.’
‘Did the last time, baby brother.’
Sam tossed his head on the pillow in frustration. ‘I mean, I want to come
against you. Want to feel you, Dean…sliding…’
Sam couldn’t seem to get out any more words. His face was flushed like he had a
high fever and his eyes were shining a bright mosaic of blue and green and gold
as if they were lit from within. Dean swore he’d never seen anything so
beautiful.
‘Sam, I…I don’t want to hurt you—.’
‘You won’t,’ Sam insisted, getting a fist in Dean’s shirt and tugging him
upward.
‘We can’t put pressure on that leg, Sam,’ Dean cautioned, and was met with the
biggest, saddest, most desperate eyes, and his heart just turned right over in
his chest. He stood up beside the bed and shucked his jeans and shirt without
ceremony and then reached down to carefully tug Sam’s legs the rest of the way
free of his sweats. He got an arm under Sam’s shoulders and lifted him into a
sitting position, then held him while he scooted in behind him and leaned up
against the wall. ‘C’mere, Sammy,’
Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s chest and lifted him up, pulling him back up
to sit on his thighs with his back to Dean’s chest. Sam tensed momentarily. 
‘Dean—.’
‘Shhh, shhh,’ Dean soothed, situating Sam closer and shifting his leg so it was
crooked to support Sam’s wounded thigh. ‘We’re not gonna do that. Not until
you’re ready. I promise.’
Sam melted back into Dean, all of his muscles going loose and just becoming a
puddle of warm wanting in Dean’s arms. Dean slid down the bed just a little,
enough that he could curl his hips up underneath Sam and let him feel the long,
hard heat of Dean’s erection rubbing up under his balls, gliding against the
underside of his own fully engorged flesh.
Sam shivered, whined, rocked his hips back and forth and almost cried at the
glorious, sweet friction of their cocks sliding together. ‘Dean…oh, God…’
Dean made sure to keep enough attention on Sam’s leg that it didn’t get moved
in any way that would hurt him, and then spread his hands across Sam’s chest,
brushing calloused fingers across the hard nubs of Sam’s flushed nipples. Sam
moaned so prettily that Dean did it again, and again, and when he heard his own
answering moan rise up to meet Sam’s, he muffled it against his brother’s neck,
biting down gently and sucking, drawing patterns against his heated skin with
the tip of his tongue until Sam reached up with both hands to the back of
Dean’s head and tried to find purchase for his long fingers in his too short
hair.
‘Dean, oh God…touch me. Please,’ Sam begged. He pushed one of Dean’s hands down
between his legs where their cocks were slip-sliding together in a still uneven
and unpracticed rhythm. ‘Please, Dean…wanna feel us…go together.’
Sam was gasping, rocking, moaning, trying desperately to find the friction that
would give him the release he needed. He wasn’t going to last long. Not much
longer than it was going to take Dean to get a grip on him. That didn’t matter,
though, because none of Dean’s dreams had prepared him for the real thing, for
Sam’s warm, sweat and cum slicked ass grinding down against his groin. For all
the visions he’d had of Sam naked and wanton and begging Dean to touch every
inch of his skin, Dean was not prepared for the lapful of hot, sexy brother he
had trying to ride him right now, and he was only a couple of minutes and a few
good strokes away from shooting the load of his lifetime all over both of them.
Dean scooped his broad palm down between Sam’s thighs and lifted his balls,
rolling them in his fingers until Sam nearly screamed in frustration, then
fisted their cocks together and pumped slow and easy a few times to bring Sam
in line with his rhythm. Sam’s head lolled back on Dean’s shoulder, mouth going
lax in the certainty that what he most needed was only seconds away, and he let
out the filthiest, loveliest moan, bringing his hips forward in time with
Dean’s thrusting, pushing his cock into Dean’s fist.
‘That’s it, Sam,’ Dean whispered, pushing his nose up under Sam’s ear and
licking and nibbling at the softer than soft skin. ‘That’s perfect. Just like
that.’
‘Jesus, Dean…I’m gonna…I can’t hold it,’ Sam panted.
Dean felt a thin, constant trickle of wet heat drip over his fingers, slicking
his grip and letting him fist them even tighter so that Sam groaned mightily
and his fingers dug in at the back of Dean’s neck where his hand still rested.
The other hand he cupped over their bulbous, swollen heads on the Dean’s down
stroke and gave a slick twist and squeeze.
‘Fuck!’ Dean jolted at the sensation of Sam’s hand on him and his head smacked
the wall behind him. ‘Christ, Sam, that’s…’
Sam did it again, turning his head so that he could suck at a soft spot under
Dean’s jaw at the same time.
‘Holy God, Sam…’ Dean gasped. ‘I can’t—it’s too good—Jesus!’
Dean thrust up into his own fist, felt Sam slide against him, and then Sam’s
wet palm was there squeezing and rolling across their swollen heads and they
were coming together hot and hard, Sam crying out long and low and shuddering
like he might come to pieces while Dean tried remember how to make his lungs
work and pull in air as he pushed back up toward the surface of whatever deep
pool of sensory overload his orgasm had thrown him into. 
Sam collapsed in a boneless heap against Dean, breathing so hard, that for a
second Dean was afraid the exertion had been too much.
‘Sam? Sammy, you okay?’ Dean whispered urgently at his brother’s ear, cupping
his jaw with his free, clean hand. ‘Sammy?’
‘'M good,’ Sam mumbled, and Dean could hear the sleepy smile in his voice.
‘Soooo…good.’
Dean grinned in relief and let his head drop back against the wall. He never
wanted to move again. He couldn’t remember ever coming so hard in his life.
None of the fantasies he’d built of Sam that had seen him through so many long
hot showers came anywhere close to the real thing. He felt empty, drained, and
exhausted, but it was a good empty, the kind that came after some incredibly
important decision had been made and the only course of action now was to
follow the flow of that decision. 
Dean patted around the bed for the damp cloth that was now cold, but at least
it was something, and wiped them both down quickly and tugged the quilt up and
over them, tucking it under Sam’s chin and around his shoulders. 
‘Stay,’ Sam murmured sleepily.
‘Not goin’ anywhere, little brother,’ Dean answered as he settled his arms more
firmly around Sam’s chest.
‘Good.’
It was the last thing Sam mumbled before he drifted back to sleep, and Dean was
close behind him.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Dean woke to the tickle of soft hair under his nose and the scent of
hotsweetsamsex clinging to every pore of his body.
His eyes shot open and he looked down, stomach knotted in sudden unreasonable
fear, to find Sam looking back at him, his hazel eyes clear and shining and
smiling, happier than he could remember seeing the kid in a long, long time.
Sam lifted a hand to press against Dean’s jaw, rubbing his thumb lightly over
the growing stubble. ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered.
Dean relaxed incrementally. His stomach unknotted a little and let him take a
breath. It was okay. Sam said it was okay. Sam was okay with what they had
done. Dean’s brain worked to process that and soak in the full meaning, but it
did not entirely dispel his fear because there was a shitload of ‘what-ifs’
that went with this, and he knew what they had done, but he wasn’t sure what it
had meant.
Something in his face must have given away the doubts crowding in on him
because Sam turned more fully into his chest, gingerly swinging his legs to the
side and letting them drape over Dean’s thigh, and then reaching around his
brother to wrap him in a steel banded hug that nearly took his breath away
again.
‘I love you, Dean,’ he said softly, tucking his head under Dean’s chin and
turning enough to brush his lips against the hollow between Dean’s collar
bones. ‘I didn’t do this just to get off, you know. I did it—wanted to do
it—because I love you.’
‘I love you too, Sammy,’ Dean said. It was a rote response. Of course he loved
his little brother, and of course his little brother loved him. That’s the way
it had always been, but there was another layer here now. Sam was trying to
tell him that, and he had to be careful, to be sure that Sam knew he understood
that when he said it.
‘Dean?’
Dean tipped Sam’s head back with a finger under his chin and looked down at
him. For a long stretch of heartbeats, they stayed like that, and Dean could
see the soft green of his own eyes buried deep and reflected back in his little
brother’s gaze. He rubbed a thumb along Sam’s bottom lip until his mouth parted
on a breath and a tiny, needy sound, and then Dean dipped his head very slowly
to press his lips ever so lightly to his brother’s. He rested them there, just
barely touching, sharing the air with Sam, feeling the tremble that was working
its way out from Sam’s mouth to the rest of his body. He angled his head and
pressed closer, just a gentle pressure to mold them together, nothing
demanding, nothing wanting, just warmth and mutual giving. 
Sam’s trembling increased, rising in frequency, and Dean angled the kiss
deeper, parting his lips just a little and letting his tongue sweep very softly
across Sam’s bottom lip. Sam keened, long and low, and Dean felt the full-on
shiver that might be a precursor to a sob ripple through his brother’s body. He
delved deeper, slipping his tongue past Sam’s lips and tasting the sweet, wet
heat of his brother’s mouth, pushing their tongues together, enjoying the soft
velvety slide until Sam was struggling to breath past the sobs forcing their
way up out of his chest, and he tore his mouth from Dean’s and buried his face
in his brother’s throat and cried so hard Dean was afraid he might have done
something wrong.
‘Sammy. Sammy, I’m sorry, I didn’t—.’
‘No…no, it’s—,’ Sam tried to choke out, tilting his tear stained face back up
so he could look at Dean. He was smiling, unbelievably. ‘I just dreamed…so many
times…of this. Just this. And it’s…perfect, Dean. You made it perfect.’
Dean felt tears of his own threatening at Sam’s soft, broken confession and the
light in that smile did something to his insides, worked its way in and started
to take all the shadows apart, filtering through the cracks and building up in
intensity until he felt like he might fly apart into a million particles of
light. Photons, didn’t Sam say that’s what they were called? 
Dean laughed despite himself and cupped the back of Sam’s head and kissed him
again, long and deep. He could do this forever. He didn’t need anything else.
Never another thing for as long as he lived.
‘You’re my everything, Sam. Always,’ Dean whispered against Sam’s mouth. ‘I’ve
got you. And I’m never gonna let you go.’
Fresh tears surged past Sam’s lashes as he pressed up into another kiss, felt
Dean’s warm palms cradle his face, because it was the best confession of love
Sam had even heard or read about. And it was all his. Forever.
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