Archive of Our Own

It’s a nice evening.

They’re in Topeka, Kansas and they’re sitting in the middle of an empty baseball diamond in an elementary schoolyard, eating sandwiches from the Mini-Mart and splitting a six-pack. The sun set fifteen minutes ago and the sky is a breathtaking mix of colours, muted rays of light reflecting off the atmosphere and blanketing the clouds in vibrant reds and oranges.

A breeze blows over them, not quite chilly but the air is losing some of the oppressive heat of the day and Sam stretches out his legs, lets his bare toes slide through the grass. He smiles, looks over at Dean who’s examining his sandwich suspiciously, like he’s worried some lettuce might have gotten mixed in with the bacon and roast beef. He actually sticks his finger in there between two layers of meat just to make sure and instead of being disgusted Sam just smiles bigger, leans closer without even realising it.

Sam can’t help it; he’s in a great mood. It’s been a great day (a week long Tulpa hunt finally ending in the storage room in the school basement) and it looks like it’s shaping up to be an even greater night. They’re pretty much on a date, having a picnic in a pretty damn romantic setting – blanket, sunset, Sam’s ipod playing some of Def Leppard’s less offensive music.

Not that Sam’s about to point out any of the date-like qualities of their current situation, because if he did Dean would probably shout obscenities at him and vehemently deny it, storm off in a huff and Sam wouldn’t get laid for a while. But whatever. It’s true and Sam knows that Dean knows it, so as long as nobody mentions it Sam’s just going to soak up the atmosphere and nurse the feeling of warmth that’s settled in his belly and is slowly spreading through to his fingers and toes.

He crushes the can of beer in his hand slightly, just presses the aluminum in so that it dents and pings as he leans a little closer to his brother. His chin is almost resting on Dean’s shoulder, his breath puffing warm over Dean’s ear when Dean jerks and pulls back, turns to face Sam and shifts to put a little more space between them.

“Dude,” Dean says, screwing his face up tight. “You’re not gonna like, kiss me, are you? Because I think this moment’s got pretty much all the gay it can handle without any of that shit.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Sam says as he laughs shortly through his nose and rolls his eyes. Then he leans forward once again to press his lips unapologetically against Dean’s. Dean freezes against him for only a split second but then Sam feels him relax all at once, the tension of the entire past week leaving him in a breath as he opens his mouth and lets Sam’s tongue inside.

Sam watches Dean’s eyes flutter closed as Dean’s mouth widens, his tongue swiping gently over Sam’s and then pushing deep inside his mouth to lick across the roof. It’s over almost as soon as it starts, Dean pulling back and offering Sam a brief, honest smile before he stuffs the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth and swallows it down with a swig of beer.

It’s a few more minutes, the sun’s light fading and the sky turning a collection of soft, deep blues as one or two stars appear overhead, before either of them speaks.

“Blow jobs?” Dean asks with a grin, and Sam can see him not so subtly adjusting himself through his pants, hand cupping his crotch between his legs. “Not that this Hallmark moment is turning me on or anything, but it’s been like, two weeks. If we don’t do it soon, I’m gonna friggin’ explode.”

Sam lets his lips curl up in a secret smile as he kisses the back of Dean’s neck, before he opens two more beers and hands one to Dean. Dean takes it with a slight scowl, but doesn’t say anything.

It’s long past dark, the sky a deep velvet black while the lights of the city create a haze that blocks out most of the starlight, when their lips come together in a frantic mess of licks and bites. They strip out of their pants in clumsy movements before Sam pushes Dean down onto the thin blanket covering the chilling grass and climbs on top, straddling his waist.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean pants, head tilted back so Sam can’t help but run his fingers over the expanse of Dean’s neck. “Fuck yeah.”

Fuck yeah, Sam thinks as he lets a significant amount of saliva pool in his mouth before spreading it over his hand with his tongue. He reaches behind himself, slick fingers sliding between his cheeks and over his hole and he smirks internally when Dean’s head slams back into the ground and his body goes tight while he curses over and over to himself.

“Goddamn, Sam,” he gasps and it only spurs Sam on. He loves that Dean wants him like this, that he’s the one, out of everyone in the world, that makes Dean this crazy. “So fucking hot. Please. God, please.”

Sam takes Dean’s cock in his wet hand and presses the tip to his entrance before he leans forward and braces his hands on Dean’s chest. He sinks down quickly and his fingers curl, the nails dig into Dean’s chest cutting slivers in the top few layers of skin as the familiar burn gives way to pleasure and he starts to speed up.

He rides Dean right there, dim points of starlight twinkling above them while the glint of the streetlights reflect off the batting cage thirty feet away, and when they’re finished Dean pulls him down and rolls them over, splays himself out on top of Sam and kisses him until their lips are numb.

When they make it back to their motel room an hour later, Dean surprises Sam by climbing into bed with him instead of the one he’d been sleeping in the past six nights, and settling in to sleep with his ankle wrapped around Sam’s. For most people that would be a thoughtless gesture, wouldn’t mean much at all, but for Dean and Sam it speaks volumes. They’ve come a long way.

Sam falls asleep happy.

“Check them out,” Dean says, kicking Sam’s foot under the picnic table and nodding across the park. They’re eating hot dogs at a picnic table under a giant elm and Sam’s got his laptop open, researching the tenant history of a haunted building uptown.

“Hm?” Sam asks, swallowing his mouthful of food and washing it down with a swig of cola. “Who?”

“Them,” Dean says, nodding again and Sam turns.

It’s a man. He’s probably in his thirties and he’s kicking a soccer ball to a kid who looks to be about five or six, while a gorgeous woman with long red hair smiles and cheers them on. They don’t look possessed or anything, but there might be something Sam’s missing.

“What about them?” Sam asks.

“Ever think you might want something like that?”

Sam frowns. “I’ve never been into redheads. That’s more your thing, isn’t it?”

“Ha ha,” Dean deadpans. “No, I mean… the whole family thing. The wife, the rugrats, Saturday lunches in the park.”

“We’re family,” Sam says, looking sharply back at Dean. “It’s Saturday. We’re having lunch in the park.”

Dean’s quiet for several seconds, watching father and son play kickball over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I guess.”

“Dean.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean says, moving his elbow across the table to bump against Sam’s and Sam feels warm again. “Hurry up and eat, ‘cause we gotta be across town in a half hour.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Sam asks, shaking his head and looking at Dean like he’s lost his mind. Which is entirely possible.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean wheedles, actually wheedles, and it’s so damn cute that Sam knows he’s going to give in. It’s pathetic really, how Dean doesn’t even need to try and he’s got Sam wrapped around his little finger. It’s okay though. Sam knows it goes both ways. “It’s gonna be awesome, I swear.”

Sam still manages to look doubtful and he just wants to hug his brother when he cocks his head to the side and his face pulls in a pitiful expression.

“Please,” he begs, and Sam really likes the sound of Dean begging. It does things to him. “You’ll love it. And if you don’t, I’ll totally blow you. How can you pass that up?”

Dean’s smiling now, all teeth in a big goofy grin and Sam smiles back because Dean just looks so hopeful.

“Yeah, alright,” he concedes. “But I’m gonna hold you to that blow job.”

Three hours later, in the middle of a B-movie horror marathon at some theatre on the other side of Duluth, Dean makes good on his promise. Sam is not having fun. Scratch that, Sam wasn’t having fun, not until Dean scowled and shoved and grudgingly got to his knees in the back row to suck Sam down.

Sam tries to hold back, tries to make Dean work for it, but it’s no use. Dean’s good at this. Sam tries to think about a time a couple of years ago, when Dean had much less experience and Sam could hold out for as long as he liked. That’s not now though and Sam barely lasts three minutes with Dean’s lips wrapped around him, Dean’s hand cupping his balls with his fingers teasing his asshole before Sam’s biting his lip to keep from crying out and filling Dean’s mouth with his come.

Dean makes a face, Sam can just barely see it in the dim light, and he climbs back up into his seat. He shoots Sam a glare and steals the soda from between them, taking a large sip to wash Sam’s taste off his tongue.

“That’s still nasty,” he whispers and Sam smiles as his hand creeps across their laps and unfastens Dean’s pants, pulls him out and jerks him off. Dean’s pants are a mess afterwards and he has to fold his jacket over his arm and hang it in front of him as they leave the theatre and get into the car.

Dean heads straight to the bathroom to clean up when they get back to their room and he kicks Sam in the shin when Sam tries to get into bed with him after his own shower. Sam just chuckles and kisses the top of Dean’s head before he tucks himself into the other bed.

Things are good.

Sam has to admit that back when this started, he wasn’t sure if he’d expected them to be. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting at all, but he was well aware that Dean tended to get around back in the day, and there was a pretty major part of him that had been afraid that Dean would flake.

That once they were together, once they’d committed and decided to just fucking go for it, admit their feelings and move on from fuck buddies to actual boyfriends, that Dean would freak out and start screwing every girl that smiled at him just to prove how very heterosexual he was.

That didn’t happen and Sam feels stupid now for ever thinking it would. He should know Dean better than that. Hell, he does know Dean better than that.

They’ve gone through their paces, that’s for sure. They started out with grudging, hesitant fumbles, followed by loads of denial, mixed in with some uncertainty and topped off with wide and varied screw-ups. But none of that matters now.

All that matters now is that they’ve made it through all that bullshit and it’s good. Even when it’s painful, confusing, when it doesn’t make sense and when it’s pissing them off, it’s good. They’re happy.

Until Castiel shows up one day asking them for help, and things start to go to shit.

The thing is, Sam likes Cas.

Okay, so he’s not falling all over himself to make the guy happy, and he doesn’t have that weird kind of connection with Cas that Dean does, but Cas is an okay guy. He’s helped them out when he didn’t have to, had their back when he got his ass handed to him for it, repeatedly. He’s sort of a snob and he’s got a permanent stick up his ass and had his dick moments, sure, but overall he’s been there for them. He’s loyal, and Sam respects that.

Plus, he’s an angel, and while the shine has kind of rubbed off and his hero-worship has dimmed a little, it’s still pretty cool.

So when Cas shows up one afternoon in the backseat of the Impala asking for help, Sam’s the first one to readily nod his head, catch Castiel’s eyes in the rearview mirror and say, “Of course. Whatever you need.”

Looking back on it though, Sam would have answered differently.

It’s a pretty standard job, really. Just helping Castiel track down a board off the port side of Noah’s ark. Noah’s fucking ark. Seriously. It turns up pretty easily after less than a week, some old contact of their dad’s paying off after they follow a newspaper trail reporting excessive amounts of rain and unexplained flooding across the southwest.

It’s easy. It’s fun even, with the occasional fist fight, some vague threats, one near drowning and a subsequent soaked-to-the-bone-Dean, who Sam has a very good time warming up under a hot shower and then again in a hot bed. So yeah, mostly it’s fun.

The way Cas is acting though, it almost makes Sam wonder.

He’s… weird, for lack of a better word. Even for Cas. His eyes are glued to Dean even more than they normally are, carefully blank where they’re normally intense or confused. He looks at Sam too, sharp, disapproving snaps of his eyes, which is all kinds of weird.

Sam’s the good one. He’s never tried to get Cas laid by a hooker, or put a whoopee cushion on his chair or threatened a prophet at gunpoint. And he hasn’t been evil in a long time, so the chances of Cas still holding a grudge about that are pretty slim.

Sam ignores it. It doesn’t mean anything. Not anything that matters, anyway. Castiel has always been a little off. No big deal.

Except that the day after Dean almost drowns and then blows Sam in the shower before they spend well over an hour slowly fucking under a pile of blankets, Castiel greets Dean with a look like he’d sooner punch him in the face than have a conversation with him.

Dean just gives him a ‘what crawled up your ass and died?’ sort of look and they get in the car and head for Albuquerque.

The rest of the week passes with a lot of awkward silence. Sam almost thinks that whatever is wrong with Cas might just be in his head, because as far as Sam knows Dean hasn’t done anything to piss the angel off lately, but he’s still happy as fuck when that stupid-ass piece of wood is firmly in Castiel’s hand and he can fuck off back to Heaven.

Sam stuffs his room key into the lock and shoves the door open with a little too much force as he steps through and sheds his jacket and shoes. He turns to let Dean know he’s taking a shower (and hopefully make sure Dean knows it’s an invitation) but the flirty smile he’d been wearing drops and his face pinches tight as he watches Castiel grab Dean’s arm and pull him back outside.

Sam’s frown deepens when they step back behind the wall and out of Sam’s line of sight. He can barely see the bunching beige of Castiel’s coat and he can hear them whispering. Cas first, something Sam can’t quite make out. There’s silence for a while then and Sam considers following them outside to find out what the hell is going on, but then he hears Dean hiss something unintelligible and Cas responds in a low murmur.

It goes on for a few more seconds and then Castiel disappears, the beating of invisible wings on hot, stale air and a few scattered pieces of litter signalling his departure. Dean stumbles through the open doorway a few seconds after that, looking kind of dazed.

“What was that about?” Sam asks over the sound of the door closing. “Cas seemed kind of upset.”

“Fuck if I know,” Dean says with a shrug, avoiding Sam’s eyes as he strips off his jacket. “Angels, man.”

Sam opens his mouth to ask again, because obviously Dean’s hiding something from him but Dean ends the conversation by scrunching up his nose in Sam’s direction.

“Go shower,” he tells him and then flops down on his bed and flicks on the television. “You stink like gunpowder.”

It’s on the tip of Sam’s tongue to point out that that’s usually a turn on for Dean, but instead he just sighs and heads into the bathroom, alone.

Dean hasn’t touched him in the four days since that bizarre moment between him and Castiel outside the motel room. Four days isn’t all that long for them to go without sex, or even kissing for that matter, but Dean usually puts a hand on his shoulder when he leans over him to look at a book or a newspaper or Sam’s laptop screen. He usually brushes his knuckles over Sam’s when he hands him a beer or steals the remote. He usually slaps Sam’s ass when Sam heads to the shower and he usually nudges Sam’s knee with his own under the table while they’re eating breakfast.

Dean’s a tactile person, only he hasn’t been doing any of that lately.

Sam doesn’t mention it, because sometimes Dean does weird shit like avoid him for a while, or he has these silent, mini freak-outs because the moron occasionally likes to pretend he’s not ‘half gay’ for his brother. But things always go back to normal after a while and they will this time, too. He gives Dean his space and tries not to make something out of what’s almost certainly nothing.

“I think she’s sweet on you,” Dean tells him one night after they’re leaving the house of a grieving young widow with long dark hair and legs to die for.

Sam screws up his face and elbows Dean as he walks around him to get to the passenger side of the Impala. He checks the mirror and sighs as he thumbs off a smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth. She’d been grateful, sure. They’d saved her life and Sam had pulled her daughter out from under their rolled over Pathfinder.

And yeah, she’d maybe hugged Sam a little too long while they were saying their goodbyes after dropping them off at home, but she’d just had a pretty traumatic few days.

“Her husband just died.”

“Yeah, and she didn’t seem that torn up about it. Not with the way she was grabbin’ your ass back there.”

Sam narrows his eyes as he adjusts the mirror back to where it was. She’d done no such thing.

“What’s your point, Dean? You think she did it? Summoned something?”

“No, of course not,” Dean says as he starts up the engine. “This is definitely a poltergeist. Just sayin’, she liked you. So did her kid. You could do worse.”

Sam breathes out a harsh, irritated breath. “Dean, knock it off. What the hell is your problem, anyway?”

“Nothing. Sorry, I… I’m being a dick. Still love me?”

Dean’s smile is crooked and goofy and Sam can’t help but laugh.

“Always.”

It’s eight days later that Dean jumps him. Crawls into bed with Sam first thing in the morning and coaxes him awake with a steady hand pawing at his groin. It’s so early in the morning it’s still night time, everything outside their room is still sleeping, quiet and still as Dean rolls Sam onto his back and climbs on top of him.

It’s dark in the room, so dark that Sam can barely make out Dean’s features, can’t really tell what he’s thinking because the shadows across his face leave his expression a mystery. It almost feels wrong, because Sam likes to know exactly what’s going on in Dean’s head, but it’s so fucking good when Dean slides a hand inside his shorts and pulls out his cock, strokes him to hardness with fast, efficient twists of his wrist. It’s so very good that it’s worth it, and Sam doesn’t complain.

It takes a little longer for Dean to get hard than it does Sam, but he gets there, face buried in the pillow next to Sam’s head as he tugs their clothes just out of the way enough that their cocks can slide together.

It feels great. It feels really fucking great, but there’s something off about it that Sam can’t quite put his finger on.

Dean’s hurried, for one thing. Ruts fast and careless, squeezes his hand around them tight and pumps his hips as fast as he can, works to get them off as quickly as possible, which is something Dean almost never does, not anymore. If they don’t have time, Dean waits until they do, but he doesn’t like to rush things. Not unless they have to.

Also, the lights are all off and Dean has his face turned so he can’t see Sam, jerks against him with their boxers barely tugged down enough to get their junk out. Dean pushes Sam’s face away every time he tries to kiss him, holds his hands down when he tries to touch, tries to hold Dean close to him but really, that’s nothing unusual.

Dean’s being a little more pointed about it than he normally is, but it’s still well within the defined parameters of their relationship.

He still doesn’t say anything, just grunts quietly as he brings them both closer to the end on more and more frantic thrusts, like it’s some kind of race or something, and he clamps a hand down over Sam’s mouth when he cries out his release.

And that? Is really fucking weird. Even if Sam could overlook everything else, that action sends up red flags. Because Dean’s always liked to listen to Sam, likes to hear the noises he makes, the noises Dean pulls from him, likes to hear him fall apart and scream for it. It’s an ego thing.

Dean follows him over the edge closely after, body rigid and cursing quietly to himself into the pillow. Sam doesn’t doubt for a second that it’s grudging, that Dean’s orgasm is forced and perfunctory. It’s also undoubtedly good, because the jerk of Dean’s hips and the catch of his breath can’t possibly lie.

Dean doesn’t give either of them a chance to recover, just pulls back and sits up even as he tries to even out his breath and slaps a wide open palm against Sam’s hip.

“Wipe that dreamy look off your face, man,” Dean says, with a slight smile and a shake of his head. “We gotta hit the road.”

“We need to call Cas,” Dean says, and it’s all Sam can do not to put his fist through his brother’s face. Whatever’s been wrong is still there, an incessant itch underneath his skin that won’t go away no matter how much he scratches, and the mention of Castiel’s name irrationally pisses him off.

“No. We don’t.” And okay, they kind of do, but the last time Cas showed up things got seriously fucked up for a while and Sam, while plenty secure in his awesomeness and Dean’s opinion of such, is just not in the mood to deal with whatever weirdness Cas is going to bring with him.

“Don’t be a bitch,” Dean tells him, even as he ducks his head and crosses his hands vaguely over his lap. He’s praying. Praying to Castiel. For some reason Sam hates that right now. “I’m not really in the mood for an angel lecture either, Sammy, but if this bitch we’re fighting really is the actual Persephone, we could probably use his help.”

“Yeah, but we could also probably get by without it,” Sam argues.

“Dude. What the hell is your problem?”

“I just… Nothing, Dean. Everything’s fine. Call him.”

Dean looks at him with a sceptical tilt of his head, but ultimately closes his eyes and mumbles Castiel’s name around a few other choice words.

He can’t help much, it turns out. Or he can, but he won’t, because Dean and Sam can more than handle this one on their own, and Castiel is busy. Apparently Heaven doesn’t run itself, which is a fact that Dean seems to think is pretty amusing.

Castiel doesn’t hang around long, half a day or so, only long enough to tell them they’re being idiots and point them in the general direction of the weapon that they need, but it’s long enough for Sam to notice that the something is still different between Cas and Dean. He can’t say exactly what it is, they’re not fighting, they’re not anything, really. They’re just off. And it’s unsettling, to say the least.

What’s more is that Dean is off with Sam as well, even more than he has been lately. He doesn’t go within five feet of him and he barely responds when Sam speaks, even when it’s about the case. Sam tries valiantly not to let it get to him, but it’s not that easy.

Dean always keeps his distance when Cas is around, which is fine by Sam. It’s a thing, it’s a defence mechanism. It’s not like he wants Cas finding out that they’re fucking, and it’s not like they’re really into the public displays of affection anyway. Hell, they’re not much into private displays of affection either, for the most part. Sure, there are touches, kisses, the occasional snuggle, but mostly there’s insults and shoving, interspersed with really hot sex. It works for them.

When Castiel leaves later that afternoon it’s not without one last seriously intense look at Dean. Dean swallows and ducks his head, lowers his eyes as Castiel flutters away.

If Sam was less secure, he might be getting ideas.

Two weeks later the ideas he’d decided against getting have regrouped and come back with friends. Something is clearly wrong and Sam doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that whatever it is, Castiel is at the centre of it.

Two weeks and Dean hasn’t come near him. Hasn’t even hinted that he’s got a dick and he wants Sam to touch it. Hell, he hasn’t even bothered to take his clothes off when Sam’s in the room, waiting until he gets into the bathroom to strip down for his showers and getting into bed in his fucking jeans.

Two weeks is not that long, sure, and they’ve gone longer than this without being intimate, but Sam knows this isn’t a normal dry spell and it’s driving him crazy, making his skin itch with the need to just grab Dean, shake him and ask him what the fuck his problem is. He’s tried giving Dean space but that’s obviously not working this time and he needs for things to go back to normal, now. He’s getting worried that whatever this is, it might be something more serious than he originally thought.

Dean tosses the remote across the small space between their beds and it lands next to Sam’s hip with a soft thud.

“Put on what you want,” Dean tells him, kicking under the covers and rolling to his side so he’s facing away from Sam. “I’m beat.”

Sam’s had enough. He picks up the remote control and pushes the power button, turning the room dark and quiet before he puts it down on the table and crosses to Dean’s bed. He slides his hand over Dean’s hip, rests it on his belly and kisses the side of Dean’s neck as he gently rolls him onto his back.

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, wiping a hand over his eyes. “I said I’m tired.”

“That’s okay, Dean,” Sam answers with a teasing smile. “Because I mostly just want you lie there.”

He reaches his hand into Dean’s pants but before he can wrap his fingers around Dean’s cock Dean is gripping him by the wrist and pulling him back out again.

“Dean,” Sam frowns, “what..?”

“Shh,” Dean tells him, pulls down on the front of Sam’s sweats and takes his dick in his hand. “Quiet. Just…”

Dean’s wrist starts to twist up and down, his fingers clench tightly around Sam’s hard shaft and Sam’s eyes roll back as he bucks up against Dean’s hand. He wants to stop him, wants to ask him what the fuck is going on, but damn Dean is good at this and Sam has been thinking about it for days.

He tries again to return the favour, take Dean in his hand and jerk him off, but Dean thwarts his attempts, pushes Sam’s hands down against the mattress, squeezes and presses hard so that Sam knows to leave them there. Dean finishes him off quickly, stares at a spot on the pillow next to Sam’s head and just grunts and rolls out of bed when Sam tries one more time to touch him.

He goes the bathroom to wash his hands and throws a damp cloth at Sam. Sam wipes himself down and he takes it as a good sign that Dean crawls back into bed with him, pulls the covers around his hips and buries his face in the pillow to sleep.

Yeah, something’s wrong, but Dean’s still with him, and he’s got plenty of time to figure out what it is.

The next day Dean acts like everything’s fine. He’s smiling, teasing, flirting. Mostly with the waitress serving them breakfast at the diner, but he sends a lewd comment or two in Sam’s direction and it makes him feel like things might be okay after all. He’s probably just been imagining things, and the weirdness these past weeks and last night was only in his head.

Dean just hasn’t been in the mood. It happens, right?

Only it’s not. It’s not in his head. Sam has to admit that now.

Two months pass. Two months, six hunts and seven failed attempts to get Dean into bed. Oh, Dean doesn’t just ignore Sam when he makes a move, tries to keep Sam mollified with perfunctory hand jobs but they’re always rushed, always in the dark and Dean never quite looks him in the eye while he does it. And Dean hasn’t once, in eleven weeks, let Sam anywhere near his junk.

Once, when they’re stuck sleeping in the Impala and Sam leans over to mouth at Dean’s cock through his pants, Dean actually tells him he has a headache. A fucking headache. Dean would have to actually be missing his head to turn down a blow job.

They’re pretty much his favourite thing.

Sam’s expectations hadn’t been high when they’d gotten into this relationship. He knew Dean played things close to the chest, kept a lot to himself and could be a thoughtless jerk on occasion, but Sam had gone for it anyway. And really, he’s mostly fine with it when Dean watches too much porn or forgets Valentine’s day or laughs at him when he gets his ass kicked by a girl. That’s all Dean, and he loves Dean for who he is and Sam can deal.

But there’s only so much of this… this freezing out that Sam can handle before he wishes that Dean would just hurry the fuck up and end things already, if that’s what he’s going to do.

The thought makes his chest clench with fear and his stomach knot up, but it would still be better than this. Except for how it wouldn’t be.

Bobby calls them.

A hunter friend of his needs help tracking down the source of a cursed diamond necklace and since they’re not into anything pressing at the moment they head to South Dakota to hit the books.

Bobby’s hunter friend is named Terry and turns out to be twenty-eight years old, female, gorgeous and extremely into Dean. Dean, of course, responds to the attention the only way he knows how. He’s all over her. He smiles smiles that promise things he’d better not be planning on delivering and he blatantly stares at her breasts, doesn’t look even the least bit apologetic when she catches him.

He brings her coffee and tells her she’s beautiful, blushes and ducks his head when she tells him she hopes they can meet again under better circumstances. It’s bullshit, it’s an act. Sam knows Dean has no intention of following through on anything and that coy routine is exactly that – a routine. Dean’s flattered, obviously, but acting like she’s the only other person in the room is only his way of keeping her interested because he likes the attention.

Which pisses Sam right the fuck off.

He takes her out on the front porch and they sit on Bobby’s swing together while they pore over a pile of books and Sam stares at them through the window while he flips through several hundred pages that he doesn’t read a word of. Thing is, this bullshit Dean’s pulling tonight wouldn’t have made Sam bat an eye a few months ago. Now though, it’s one more thing he can’t control, one more step away from him Dean is taking.

“I’m tired, Dean,” Sam tells his brother when he opens the front door, and Dean looks up at him with an odd expression. “I’m going to bed.” It’s pretty clear that Sam expects Dean to do the same, but Dean only raises one perfect eyebrow and cocks his head.

“Okay,” Dean says. “See ya tomorrow.”

Sam opens his mouth but quickly snaps it shut again. He has no idea what he even wants to say but he’s pretty sure anything would be a bad idea right now. He makes his way upstairs and settles into the more comfortable of the two beds in Bobby’s spare room and he sleeps fitfully. He’s unable not to notice Dean’s absence, the still-made bed on the other side of the room, especially when the clock on the dresser tells him it’s well past four in the morning.

Three hours later when Sam makes his way downstairs, overtired and with a crick in his neck from the too-soft pillow, it’s to find Dean and Terry huddled close together on the couch while Dean leans over to press his finger to the open book in her lap and mumble something into her ear that makes her laugh.

Sam doesn’t even remember the last time Dean was willing to do any research at all with him, let alone stay up all night with it and he swallows down his inappropriate jealousy, because really, there’s no reason for it. Dean’s not really interested in this girl, he knows that, and while Dean’s being kind of a dick Sam knows he’s not fucking around.

He doesn’t bother saying good morning to them, just heads into the kitchen where Bobby is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and some scattered notes.

“Those two look cozy,” Bobby says, nodding towards the living room.

Sam just grunts and pours himself a cup of lukewarm caffeine.

They leave a couple of hours later, Terry headed towards Richmond and a mage there that can hopefully be more help than Bobby turned out to be and the Winchesters just pick a direction and start driving.

Dean smirks at Sam when they’re inside the car, holds up a slip of paper between his first two fingers and when Sam looks closer he can see that it’s got Terry’s number written on it. Dean grin and winks, tosses the paper over his shoulder so it flutters to the floor in the back and Dean turns the key in the ignition and pulls out onto the road.

It’s about an hour into their drive, an hour of mullet rock and Dean’s terrible singing and Sam looking out the window and trying studiously to ignore him before Sam gives in and lets Dean have it.

“You’re a dick,” he says flatly and Dean jerks and shoots a glance in Sam’s direction.

“I’m what?”

“A dick, Dean,” Sam says again and reaches over to turn down the music. “You were all over Terry. Right in front of me.”

Dean rolls his eyes and lets out a long breath. “You’re not jealous.” It’s not a question; Dean knows he isn’t but Sam confirms it anyway.

“No, I’m not. But did you have to lay it on so thick? I’m your friggin’…” He trials off just before he lets the B word slip. Dean doesn’t like to hear it and Sam doesn’t really like to say it, but that doesn’t make it any less true. “We’re together, and that back there? Was pretty douchey.”

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean asks, shaking his head and pulling his mouth tight. “We were at Bobby’s place, for fuck’s sake. What, did you want me to be all ‘Hey Bobby, nice to see ya!’ and then bend you over the back of his couch?”

“No,” Sam says immediately, the word coming out strong and absolute. He most certainly does not want that, doesn’t want Bobby to have even the slightest sliver of an idea that the two of them are what they are. A part of him wishes it was different, that they didn’t have to sneak around and lie to the people close to them, but this is how it has to be. He knows that. “No, but…”

“But what, Sam?”

“You were all over her,” Sam says again, and this time there’s less bite to it. “Was that really necessary?”

Dean doesn’t answer and Sam lets it go. It’s not worth the fight.

“You’re right,” Dean says, when they settle in to their room for the night, halfway to Seattle and the Wendigo they’re probably hunting.

Sam just stares at Dean while he eats one of the apples they picked up at the last gas stop.

“You’re right, okay?” Dean says again, and this time he seems kind of pissed off about it. “I was a dick. Nobody knows about us. Nobody can. But the way I acted was totally uncool. You know you’re the only one. Right?”

Dean looks tired, miserable and even though Sam wants to punish him a little more, Dean sounds so damn sorry that Sam can’t help it.

“Yeah, Dean,” he answers with a crooked smile that he doesn’t really feel. Because it’s true. He does know that. He knows that Dean is committed to him, knows he’s not going to make it with some random pretty girl in Bobby’s living room while Sam’s sleeping upstairs. That’s not even what this is about, but Sam lets it go anyway. Because he is an awesome boyfriend and an even better brother. “I know.”

“I’m sorry. Just because we can’t tell people that I sometimes like to stick my dick in you doesn’t mean I should act like I’m available.” Dean’s smiling a little now, which takes the bite out of his words.

“Well, maybe we could tell them about those times when I stick my dick in you?” Sam asks around a grin.

“You wish, asshole. Either way, you get why we got keep this quiet, right? I mean, Bobby would have a frickin’ heart attack.”

“Yeah, Dean, I get it. I don’t want this to get out any more than you do.”

“So… are we cool?”

Sam shoots Dean a flirty look and crosses the distance between them to take his hand and pull him close. He’s still not thrilled but this looks like an opening and he’d be a fool not to take it.

“Yeah,” he says, breathing the word across Dean’s cheek. “We’re cool.” And they’d be so much cooler if they could just screw each other already because Sam appreciates the teasing art of self-denial as much as the next guy, but he’s so ready for the big pay-off here, it’s not even funny. It’s been months.

“Awesome,” Dean says and presses a kiss to Sam’s cheek. He backs off with a guilty grimace and makes a beeline for the bathroom to get ready for bed without another word. When he comes out he mumbles a quiet “Night, Sammy,” and crawls into his own bed.

Well, that sucks.

It sucks a lot more two weeks later when Dean still hasn’t come near him with anything resembling sexual intent and the tension has built so high between them that they’re snapping at each other over nothing.

Dean forgets to order whole grain toast with Sam’s breakfast and Sam calls him an arrogant, self-centred prick and refuses to talk to him for the rest of the day.

Sam picks up light beer for them to drink while they’re poring over a case in a Michigan motel and Dean drinks three of them in five minutes before he storms out and comes back with a fifth of whisky that he downs without comment before falling asleep and leaving the rest of the research to Sam.

Dean uses up all the hot water in the abandoned house they’re squatting in while they track down an Ethros demon in Tallahassee, and Sam retaliates by dumping a pitcher of ice cold water over Dean’s head while he’s getting ready for bed.

It’s Sam’s turn to do the laundry but he forgets, and Dean’s left with no clean underwear and has to go commando for a day. Dean does the laundry instead and purposefully turns everything Sam owns pink.

Cas shows up while Sam is in the shower and when Sam gets out, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweat pants, him and Dean are talking quietly, intensely about something that they clearly want to keep between just the two of them.

“Think about it, Dean,” Cas says and Sam frowns, wondering what exactly Dean should be thinking about.

“Eat me, Cas,” Dean snaps and then turns to look at Sam. “And you, put a shirt on!” he yells and Sam’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t have to listen to Dean, least of all now that Dean’s apparently decided that their sexual relationship is non-existent.

“I’m fine, Dean. Cas, what…”

He doesn’t even come close to finishing his sentence before Castiel disappears and Sam just shoots Dean a scowl before sitting down at the table and opening up his laptop.

“Are we gonna talk about this or not?” Sam asks after they wrap up a standard ghost hunt and stumble back into their Pike Creek motel room a little worse for wear. Their communication isn’t what it normally is, and they’d paid for that in the form a pretty hardcore ass-kicking.

“Talk about what?”

Sam raises an incredulous eyebrow and his mouth twists into a sneer. “You’re kidding, right? This,” he says, gesturing between the two of them. “Us. You.”

Dean frowns and pours himself a glass of whisky. “What’s wrong with me?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. You’ve been acting weird, man. You’ve been distant, you won’t come near me, we’ve been fighting all the damn time for absolutely no reason.” Well, sexual frustration is a pretty good reason, Sam thinks, but not one of their usual. “And I don’t know what the hell crawled up Castiel’s ass and died, but the two of you can’t even be in the same room lately without the tension skyrocketing. What, did you break up or something?”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“I wish you would! We haven’t had sex in almost three months. Three months, Dean. And I’ve tried, but you’re just not interested.” He lets out a small, humourless laugh. “I didn’t even know you were capable of going that long without. Or maybe you haven’t been.”

He doesn’t even know where that last part came from, doesn’t believe it for a second, not really, but Sam’s been going crazy and it looks like now is when he snaps. Dean’s jaw tightens and his eyes go hard and Sam doesn’t wait to find out if he’s going to answer, just keeps on talking.

“If you’re done with this, if you want this to be over, then you should at least have the guts to tell me, instead of just ignoring me until I go away.” And okay, that might have been one step too far, because Dean actually flinches before his expression turns a deadly calm, and he stands up and makes his way to the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” Sam demands, even though what he really means to say is he’s sorry and can they please just talk about this because Sam loves him, Sam needs him to be okay, needs for them to be okay and clearly they’re not.

“For a drink,” Dean growls, without looking back. The door slams shut behind him and Sam blows out a long puff of breath and falls back down on his bed.

Dean’s ‘drink’ has taken seventeen hours and counting. Sam would be worried if he didn’t know what a stubborn son of a bitch Dean could be.

It’s ten o’clock the next night, Sam’s tried Dean’s cell three times only to hang up before he leaves a message and Sam is fucking sick of it. He’s half drunk off a cheap bottle of vodka, he’s restless, his brain hurts and he just needs to fucking forget all of this shit for a little while.

He needs to forget how he’s hopelessly in love with an emotional shut-in who may or may not be fucking an angel on the side. Needs to forget how Dean’s been pushing him away, how even the most casual of touches from Sam send him skittering in the other direction. Needs to forget how he’s not even sure if Dean loves him back the same way, because Dean’s never actually said so.

The bar is seedy, smoky and Sam’s a little hesitant at first to even sit down on the bar stool for fear of catching something, but two hours and eight shots later he’s feeling pretty good about everything. Including the guy who sits down next to him with a predatory smile and a cheesy pick-up line.

“I lost my number,” the guy says, pressing his elbow gently to Sam’s forearm. “Mind if I borrow yours?”

Sam just takes another shot and rolls his eyes. It’s almost funny in a way, because Sam’s never been interested in a man in his entire life, at least not one that wasn’t Dean, but apparently he gives off enough of a gay vibe these days to attract attention.

“Okay,” The guy continues, undeterred. “That was a line and it sucked. Sorry, I’m… I’m not very good at this.”

Sam turns to him with a disbelieving expression and the guy smiles, laughs a little and shakes his head. The guy is hot, if Sam’s inclined to notice that sort of thing. Almost as tall as him, well built with short brown hair and green eyes.

“Okay, fine,” the guy says, his smile turning coy and slight. “That was a line too. I’m awesome at this.”

“Wow,” Sam says. “Honesty. How many guys fall for that?”

“More than you’d think,” the guy answers with a wink. “So, what do you say?”

The guy reminds him so much of Dean and he’s interested and he keeps touching Sam and smiling at him and Sam misses that so much that when he flags the bartender down and orders them both another round, Sam thinks maybe he can pretend for a while.

He’s not Dean.

There’s a definite resemblance – the guy is the right size and the right shape, his hair feels the same when Sam’s hands try and fail to grip it tight. He’s hard and solid and strong just like Dean, arches his back just right and when Sam grabs his hips firmly in his hands and slams into him hard, Sam can almost pretend.

Almost.

His eyes are the right colour when he turns his head and looks at Sam over his shoulder, lips plush enough to rival Dean’s while he begs for Sam to fuck him harder, but his eyes are the wrong shape and his cheekbones slope lower and voice is too high.

The sounds he makes are wrong, the way he begs for Sam’s cock is wrong. The wanton way he screams out his release as he jerks himself to orgasm with Sam buried inside him is wrong.

The guy (Sam hasn’t bothered to catch his name, so that’s really the only thing he can call him, even in his head) is starting to collapse, limbs starting to lose strength and Sam can tell he’s tired and he just wants Sam to hurry the hell up already. Sam obliges as best he can, presses down on the guy’s back to angle him into the bed and picks up speed until he’s coming as well.

It’s good. It’s an orgasm, so of course it’s good, but it leaves him feeling hollow, empty and when it’s over the sudden, heavy press of guilt on his chest is almost too much to handle.

“I…” Sam starts, blinking and feeling abruptly, overwhelmingly sober. He pulls out, unable to believe that he just did what he did because seriously, what the hell is wrong with him? He doesn’t do shit like this, he’d never betray anyone this way, least of all Dean. Only he obviously has. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that the sex turned out to be pretty sub-par.

He pushes the guy away, turns to get off the bed so he can shower for about the next decade when he hears the high-pitched creak of the door opening and feels the slight breeze from outside.

“Sammy, listen, I…” Sam hears Dean say before the words break off abruptly into crushing silence.

No. No no no no, this cannot be happening.

“Dean,” he manages to croak out and the naked man who’s still half-hard and sticky next to him turns and looks between Sam and Dean with a confused expression that quickly turns apologetic.

“Shit, man,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

“Shut. Up,” Sam growls, scrambling to the edge of the bed and pulling the covers over his waist. He’s not sure what he’s trying to hide from Dean at this point, obviously his brother knows what he’s just done, but it just seems like good manners. “Dean, I’m…”

Except he doesn’t even know what he is. Drunk? Yes. Sorry? Absolutely. Going to regret this for the rest of his natural life? Without a doubt. He doesn’t think Dean is interested in hearing any of that right now so he just trails off, looks up at his brother with a pinched expression and prays for the world to open up and swallow him whole.

Dean blinks a few times and he swallows and Sam knows he’s trying not to flip out. He’s pissed, he’s hurt, he obviously wants to take a swing at Sam and his new friend but his hands just clench tightly at his sides as his eyes trail over both of them slowly, taking in every detail.

“Dean,” Sam begs, a plea for forgiveness without actually asking for it. He almost literally can’t believe this. It’s got to be some kind of fucked up nightmare. One too many shots of tequila, one moment of extremely poor judgement, one huge fuck-up, but this can’t be it. Dean’s got to give him a chance to explain, doesn’t he? Not that there really is any explanation other than Sam’s made a colossal mistake and he’ll do anything to make it better.

Except Dean’s face shuts down, just like that, hard and unfeeling and he nods once, a sharp jerk of his head. “Right. Got it.”

And then he’s gone, walking out the door without even bothering to shut it behind him. Sam hears the roar of the Impala’s engine a few seconds later and he doesn’t even look at the guy, still naked in his bed as he orders him out of the room, out of his life.

Sam just stares at the floor while he hears the rustle of clothes being put on, shifts and feels the used condom slide off his soft cock when the door shuts on a “sorry, man,” and it falls to the floor when Sam jumps up off the bed and runs to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet.

He tries Dean’s cell phone (all four of them) almost a dozen times over the next thirty minutes before he gives up. Then he drinks the last half of the bottle of vodka he picked up earlier and finally manages to fall into a drunken, tear-filled sleep at around four in the morning.

Dean’s gone for two days before Sam snaps out of it enough that he figures he ought to do something besides sitting around feeling sorry for himself. He plans to head to Bobby’s place, because really he’s got nowhere else to go and he doesn’t think he can get in the game enough to wrap his head around a case right now.

Dean’s taken the car, as well as the only two credit cards they have that still work, and Sam’s flipping his phone around in his hand as he scans the parking lot for a car to steal. He hates doing that, they have enough heat on them as it is without committing crimes they should be able to avoid, plus Bobby hates it when they shit in his backyard. But Dean’s gone and Sam is stranded and it’s not like he has much choice.

Besides, Bobby is probably his best bet if he wants to find a Dean who doesn’t want to be found by Sam.

He settles on a piece of crap Toyota, painted a garish red and rusted out along the sides. The owner will probably be happy to report it stolen and collect the insurance. He looks down at his phone, opens his address book as he crosses the room to sit on the bed. He needs to call Dean, let him know where he’s going even if Dean doesn’t want to talk to him right now.

Because Sam needs to believe this will pass. That Dean will take whatever time he needs, punish Sam with his absence and then come back so they can talk about this. So Sam can apologise over and over and maybe Dean can finally tell him what the problem was in the first place and they can get over this and go back to normal.

It’s going to happen. Sam knows it is. But for now, he just has to try to get by.

His finger hovers over Dean’s name in his contact list but before he hit the call button the door to the room opens and Dean steps in, the thunk of the door closing again snapping Sam out of his reverie.

“Dean,” he breathes out, standing up quickly, fingers going slack so his phone tumbles to the floor.

“New hunt,” Dean says, voice gravelly as he chokes over the words like he hasn’t spoken in days and he doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes. “Vampire nest just outside –”

“Dean.” Sam can’t help cutting him off because he doesn’t give a fuck about vampires or witches or poltergeists or what the fuck ever Dean wants to go kill right now. “I’m sorry…”

“Save it. I don’t want to talk about that, Sam. We’ve got some evil ass to kick, so let’s just bury that shit and go kick it.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, nodding reluctantly because he knows he can only push Dean so far and unless he wants to send him running again, his best bet for now is to just go along with him. “Yeah, okay Dean.” He looks around the room, picks his phone up off the floor and grabs his toothbrush out of the bathroom, throws them both in his duffle and follows Dean out the door.

In two days Dean has barely spoken one word to him. Sam lets him get away with it, even when he shouldn’t, even when it’s dangerous, but they clean out the nest with only minimal injuries and it’s not until Sam’s stitching up a nasty gash across Dean’s shoulder blade that he even tries to talk to him again.

The hunt’s over, they’re safe for the time being. They’re tired and they need to regroup and Sam just needs Dean to listen to him say he’s sorry and forgive him.

He puts in the last stitch and then lets his fingers ghost up over the top of Dean’s shoulder, pads skimming the skin as he works them towards the side of Dean’s neck. Dean flinches slightly but doesn’t stop him yet, so he presses more firmly, slides his hand forward to cup Dean’s chin and coax his head around so he can look at his face.

“Can we talk?” he whispers, afraid to break the silence, the tentative truce. “Please, Dean.”

Dean just shakes his head once, jerking it sharply as he turns his back to Sam again and inches forward, away.

“Not about that,” he answers, his tone final. “We’ll find something else to kill in the morning and then we’ll have something to talk about.”

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says, ignoring him, feeling his throat tighten around the words as he fights back tears. “I don’t have an excuse, because there isn’t one. But I need to talk about this with you.”

“Guess what, Sam. I don’t give a fuck what you need right now! I can’t… just.” He stands up and pulls his shirt down properly, wincing as it slides across the stitches. He rubs a hand over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not right now, okay?”

Dean obviously needs some more time, and Sam wants to respect that, really he does, but he feels like he’s about to fly apart at the seams, break out of his skin and scream for him and Dean to just be okay again. What he did… it feels far away. Like it happened to somebody else.

“Are we…” he starts, because he needs to know. He can give Dean all the time and space he wants as long as Sam knows that at the end of it Dean will forgive him. “Dean, it was a mistake and I’m sorry. Please. Tell me we can get over this. Tell me you’re not gonna leave me. Tell me…”

“You don’t get to ask me to do anything for you right now, Sam!” Dean snaps, and he chokes back a sob.

He nods dumbly and Dean takes a steadying breath. Sam’s at least a little relieved that Dean’s having a hard time with this too. The fact that he can’t just shut off his feelings like he wants to pretend gives Sam hope.

“I’ll stay,” Dean continues. “I’ll stay with you because we have a job to do, because you’re my brother, and I’m not gonna let anything take that away from me, not even… But that other stuff, you and me, that’s fucking done, got it? Done.”

“I never even knew his name,” Sam says helplessly, and this time he can’t stop the tears.

Dean laughs, a short bitter burst. “I think that actually makes it worse.”

Dean steers clear of him.

Doesn’t say anything to him at all that doesn’t have to do with a hunt and even then only when he can’t possibly avoid it. They don’t eat together, they don’t research together, Hell they haven’t slept one night in the same room since they cleared out that vampire nest and started after a zombie outside Boise.

The first time Dean had ordered two single rooms at the check-in desk Sam had tried to protest. Dean had simply ignored him except to pass him his key and a list of phone numbers.

“Set up interviews with these people,” he’d said, shouldering his bag and unlocking the door to the room next to Sam’s. “We’ll head out at ten.”

Sam tries. He’s careful not to push, because he knows that won’t get him anywhere, but he can’t just do nothing while Dean slips away from him.

He picks Dean up some chilli cheese fries one evening from the diner and when he knocks on Dean’s door with them Dean just grunts that he’s not hungry and closes the door in Sam’s face.

A few days later he offers to take Dean’s laundry since he’s already going to wash his own, but Dean tells him it’s cool, he did his last night.

He buys coffee for Dean every morning, has it waiting when they leave their rooms and get into the car. Sometimes Dean even drinks it and it’s stupid how happy those times make Sam.

It’s a quiet night. Warm and dark, with no streetlights on the highway and only the fluorescent glare of the vacancy sign lighting the walk outside their rooms. Sam watches Dean fiddle in his pocket for his key and Sam knows Dean’s still not ready but he doesn’t care.

Sam needs to talk, get things out in the open, get Dean to understand.

Dean needs to forgive him for this. He has to, because if he doesn’t Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do. Dean’s right there, sitting next to him every day for hours while they drive, he’s right there next to him while Sam knifes a demon in Pittsburgh and he’s there when they burn some bones in Newark.

He’s right there, all the time, but he might as well be on the other side of the world. It’s killing Sam. He’s known for a while that he’s completely fucking head over heels for Dean, but it’s only lately that he’s realised that Dean is pretty much his whole world. He can’t lose him, not over this.

“Dean, wait,” he says, as Dean pushes open the door to his room. He stops and looks back, face blank, expressionless. “Can we… Look, I need you to know that I’m sorry. Really fucking sorry. And I’ll do whatever it takes, Dean. Anything. So just… Just tell me. Please.”

“Sam, I can’t… Just drop it, okay?”

Sam opens his mouth to say more, but Dean slips into his room and the door shuts in Sam’s face. It’s the longest conversation they’ve had since Sam fucked up and the next day they’re right back to not speaking at all.

Cas shows up one day.

Hell, for all Sam knows Cas has been showing up in Dean’s room every day lately but it’s not like Sam would know that. The idea grates but he forcefully shoves down his irritation because he knows he did this to them in the first place.

He leaves his room on a Tuesday morning after he hears a short rap on his door. It’s Dean’s signal, means he’s ready to go and if Sam’s not in the car in the next two minutes Dean’s leaving without him.

He throws his bag in the trunk and gives Dean a look when he gets in the car. The same look he gives him every day, the one that says ‘Please, Dean. Stop being such a stubborn son of a bitch and just talk to me because I’m sorry and I love you’, and he carefully doesn’t say anything at all about the fact that Castiel is sitting in the back seat.

At least Sam’s still got shotgun.

There’s no reason for Castiel to be there. They don’t need him to tell them where the werewolf lives; they already know that. They don’t need him to point out that the way to kill the poor son of a bitch is to shoot him in the heart; they know that too.

They don’t need him to stand around and watch while they do all the work and they sure as fuck don’t need him riding back to the motel in the car with them after.

Dean pulls up in front of their rooms but he doesn’t shut off the engine. Sam turns to look at him curiously and he can only see the barest hint of a tick in his jaw as he studiously ignores Sam.

“Hey Cas,” Dean says, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.

Castiel looks up at Dean’s reflection in the mirror but Dean’s eyes remain forward facing.

“I could really use a drink, man. What do you say?”

Sam’s eyes widen and he glances back briefly at Castiel because as far as he knows, his brother and the angel don’t go out to shoot the shit over beer and wings. Castiel just narrows his eyes at Sam, mouth pulled tight before he looks back at Dean and nods his head. Not that Dean’s looking.

And what the fuck did Sam do to him anyway? Sure, Dean’s got plenty reason to be pissed off at the moment, but Cas? Sam’s sort of starting to feel like the loser in third grade that the other kids point and laugh at but he doesn’t know why.

“I think I have time,” Castiel answers softly and Sam notices Dean’s tense shoulders ease a little.

Dean does look at Sam then, turns his head just enough to direct a flat expression at him before giving himself away with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. He looks almost nervous, apologetic, but he’s not. He can’t be.

“I’ll have something new in the morning,” he tells Sam, settling back into the seat and looking forward again. “See you then.”

It’s a clear dismissal and Sam doesn’t fight it, even if he wants to.

It sort of makes Sam want to scream, tell Dean no, he’s not allowed to go out and get shitfaced with Cas, not allowed to get all sloppy and talk too much and get Cas to half carry him home after because that’s Sam’s job. Funny, a few months ago it wouldn’t have bothered him at all. He’d probably have welcomed the night to himself.

He bites his tongue and gets out of the car, watches Dean and Cas drive off.

Really, he doesn’t have the right to do much else.

He finally falls asleep at three in the morning, curled up on his bed and facing the window, looking for the shine of headlights and listening for the roar of an engine that don’t come that night.

They’re digging up a grave north of Miami and Sam waits until Dean’s shovel hits the coffin, waits until they hop out of the hole and Dean tosses his lighter inside before he apologises again.

“Dean, I…” he starts, and his voice sounds hoarse. He doesn’t think he’s actually spoken in over a day. “You have to forgive me. I know what I did was wrong, but I can’t even… I’m so sorry.”

“Sam, seriously,” Dean says tiredly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not angry, not anymore.”

Sam ignores him.

“Do you… do you want me to try to explain?”

Dean just stands there a minute, watches the flames engulf salt and bone and wood, turn a bright orange and flare up. It’s pretty, almost.

“Could you?” Dean asks, but something tells Sam he shouldn’t answer just yet. “I mean, could you really explain? How do you explain that?”

“I can try,” Sam answers, watching as a spark flies off the fire and lands at his feet. “If you let me, I can try.”

“I’m not sure I want you to. I don’t know if I want to hear it.”

“I know it’s cliché, and I know cheating assholes everywhere say it, but…” But Sam never in a million years thought he’d be one of them.

Dean sits down when Sam pauses, picks up a blade of grass and starts to carefully tear it down the middle.

Sam joins him.

“He meant nothing, Dean. You know that. I know you know that. It was a stupid, drunken mistake.”

Dean’s quiet for so long that Sam thinks maybe that’s the end of the conversation. Even if it is, Sam’s happy with it. It’s further than he’s gotten in weeks.

Only it’s not the end.

“A guy, Sam,” Dean says quietly a few minutes later, tossing the shredded blade of grass aside and picking up another. “I was gone for twenty-four hours and not only do you figure that’s your chance to loan your dick out, but… a fucking guy?”

“At least it wasn’t a girl.”

“That’s supposed to be better?”

“He was never a threat, there was no chance I’d ever even like him, let alone…”

“But see, that’s the thing. A girl I could understand. If you miss that… I get it. I do too, Sam, but I’m fucking dealing. Was dealing. Because you meant more to me. And I get that a chick can give you something I can’t. But… another guy? What could he do for you that I couldn’t? I got all the equipment, Sam, and I’m right fucking here!”

“No, you’re not,” Sam challenges, voice rising to Dean for the first time since he got caught with his pants down. Because really, that’s what started this. Yes, Sam cheated, but things were far from perfect before that happened. “That’s the thing, Dean. You’re not here, you haven’t been here in a while. Too busy cozying up to fucking Cas to even come near me lately. Since long before I messed up.”

Dean just looks at him, blinks, his jaw ticks slightly and he stands up and grabs his shovel, starts piling dirt onto the fading flames.

Well, shit. That was the wrong thing to say.

Whatever the fuck was wrong with Dean before they broke up is something that Sam wants to talk about ten times more than he wants to talk about his cheating, but clearly blaming his brother for the whole thing was the wrong move. Even if it was half his fault.

“Tell me what I can do, Dean,” he says, begs, as he watches the muscles along Dean’s back and arms bunch with his movements, burying the ashes in dirt. “Anything to make this better, anything you want. And I’ll do it. Please.”

Dean pauses for a moment, he turns his head around so that he’s almost, but not quite, looking at Sam.

“You can start by picking up a shovel.”

It takes Dean a while. Over a month.

Sam’s actually surprised. He’d expected it sooner rather than later.

Five weeks and Sam hasn’t seen Dean so much as glance in a woman’s direction but one night in Broken Bow when Sam’s looking out his window, he sees Dean usher a tall brunette into the room next door.

They’re loud.

Sam drinks too much and tries not to die inside.

Once Dean gets started it’s like he’s out for blood.

Oh, he never eases up on hunting, they’re constantly on the move, constantly pushing, never taking a break. But almost every single night, no matter where they are or what they’re doing, Sam sees different women coming and going from Dean’s room, hears them slamming each other into the walls, rocking up and down on the bed.

Sometimes it’s quiet, and Sam hates those times most of all, because maybe that means they’re talking. Maybe that means Dean’s being Dean and he’s being soft and considerate and he really likes them instead of just using them to get back at Sam.

After that starts up, Sam embraces Dean’s policy of silence for a while. He doesn’t want to know what Dean will say if Sam asks about his conquests.

Sam knocks on Dean’s door one morning after he knows Dean’s alone and tells him he’s going to get breakfast.

“You want anything?” he asks, trying not to look as shocked as he feels that Dean actually answered the door.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, cracking his neck and not looking at Sam, and Sam tries not to fall over. “Thanks. Bring me back some bacon and eggs. Then we can go over that shit tonne of newspaper articles we’ve got piled up.”

Sam nods and goes, tries not to be too hopeful, because the fact that Dean’s actually talking to him might just be a wacked out daydream.

When he gets back to Dean’s room though, Dean lets him in. They sit, they eat, they go over two weeks' worth of obituaries and they actually do it together. Dean talks to him, asks him questions, offers his own insight.

Sam can almost forget how wrong it all is, he can almost pretend that everything is fine again between them. Especially when Dean calls him a geek with a barely there smile and Sam is overcome with a crippling desire to kiss it off his face. God his brother is beautiful.

But then Dean turns his head, cranes his neck as he reaches across his bed to grab some of the papers that are scattered there and Sam catches sight of a deep purple bruise peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

Ice shoots through Sam’s veins and his lust disappears in a flash, replaced by a wave of nausea. He has to put his computer down and go to the bathroom to splash some water on his face because if he just sits there staring at the cold hard evidence of what Dean’s been up to nearly every night, he doesn’t know whether he’s going to cry or throw up.

It’s not like he didn’t know. He’s heard him often enough and it’s killed him each and every time. Every thud against the wall, every squeak of the bed springs, every high-pitched laugh or scream of pleasure – all slowly eating away at him. But he’s dealt with it, put up with it and still tried to make things right with Dean, because he deserves it. Sam seriously fucked up here and if Dean needs to work out some of his anger and resentment by sleeping his way across the country then Sam can deal with that. For a while.

But God. Seeing that hickey just makes it too real and Sam’s scared. Really, honestly scared now that Dean’s not going to get over this. That Dean really has moved on and he doesn’t want him anymore.

It’s a full five minutes before he can bring himself to leave the bathroom and face Dean again and when he does, Dean’s got the collar of his shirt turned up, hiding the mark.

They take off an hour later for the county morgue and they’re two states over by midnight.

They’re driving down I-95 after a tip about a shapeshifter and a handful of dead-end phone calls. They’ve got nothing but night time and blacktop in front of them for hours and Sam leans forward and turns the music down. It might be a terrible idea but Dean’s been pretty cool today and Sam can’t think of a better time to try.

Sam opens his mouth to speak but Dean cuts him off.

“Don’t.”

It’s short and tight, final but Sam doesn’t agree.

“No, Dean. We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” Dean argues. He shakes his head once but doesn’t let his eyes leave the road. “We had a thing once. It was awesome but it’s done. Now we’re just brothers again. Hunting partners.”

“Which would be great if we were actually either of those things,” Sam says, even though he doesn’t believe it. Sam supposes he could manage to survive if all he had of Dean was a platonic partnership, but every single fibre of his being wants more. Wants what they had and Sam threw away in a moment of insecurity and drunken neediness.

“But we’re not. You’re not my partner. You’re not my brother. You’re acting like some stranger I ride in a car with and who happens to be there when we catch the bad guys.”

Dean laughs, almost.

“You seriously don’t see how what you did could make it hard for me to trust you? Might make me not feel like catchin’ a ball game or sharin’ some pie?”

“No,” Sam agrees. “No, I do. I totally do. Just… Look, I know what I did was fucked up, Dean, and I can’t even… I’m so fucking sorry. I know I can’t ask you to forgive me, because I don’t deserve it, but… But I need to know, man.”

“Need to know what?” Dean asks, casting a glance to his right.

Sam takes in a deep breath and barrels forward, because at this point there’s not much left to lose. It Dean gets defensive it’s not like Sam’ll be in a worse position than he already is.

“There was something wrong before what I did,” he says, not a question and not something he hasn’t already told Dean. It’s a safe place to start and he gives Dean a minute. He doesn’t pull the car over and tell Sam to get out, so Sam takes that as a sign that Dean’s willing to at least listen. Maybe to talk.

“You were acting weird, avoiding me. For so long you wouldn’t even come near me and when I tried to be with you, you… It was like you couldn’t understand why the fuck you would even want to. I just… I don’t get it. Why, Dean? Was it me? Did I… were you going to end things anyway? Even if I hadn’t cheated?”

It’s a good thing they’re on a long, straight road, because Dean looks over at him then, keeps his eyes on Sam for several long seconds.

“How can you even ask me that?”

It helps that Dean really can’t believe Sam would think that. Helps Sam pretend that everything can still be okay. Eventually.

“Then what?!” Sam feels like he’s going crazy. “What the hell was so wrong between us that you couldn’t even touch me in almost two months?”

Dean looks forward again and he doesn’t answer for so long that Sam thinks he won’t.

“Cas,” Dean finally says, quietly and through clenched teeth as he pulls off at the exit for Fayetteville. He checks Sam out but he pretends not to, pretends to check his blind spot even though the road is practically empty other than them, has been for hours.

He looks guilty and Sam sees red. This is it. This is when all his suspicions are confirmed and just no. No. Sam wants to take it back. Doesn’t want to know, just wants to go back to being in Dean’s bed again, to having Dean’s arms around him and being able to kiss Dean in the bathroom or blow him in the car.

But he can’t.

Because… Cas. Jesus, no. Please.

“What?” Sam asks. His voice is low, he knows. Dangerous, because he doesn’t know for sure what kind of a reason ‘Cas’ could possibly be, but he suspects. And the images his mind supplies of Dean and Cas and all the reasons Dean could have to keep Sam at arms length, they’re terrifying.

“Cas,” Dean says again, his voice disturbingly flat, not giving anything away.

“Yeah, I heard you, Dean,” Sam says calmly, trying not to freak out and demand to know everything, demand Dean tell Sam he loves him and only him. He can’t ask that. Doesn’t even know if it’s true. “What about Cas?”

Dean snorts, but it doesn’t sound warm or comforting, isn’t the sound of shared amusement. It’s ugly. Even Dean thinks it’s ugly, Sam can tell.

“Jealous,” Dean says, shaking his head. “That’s… that’s funny.”

Sam can’t really deny it, because yeah, he is jealous. He doesn’t want to be, knows it’s stupid considering he’s the one who stepped out on Dean, not the other way around, but… fuck. Yeah. He can’t help thinking that Dean wants Cas. That maybe he always has and maybe he’s always been fucking him on the side, while they secretly laugh at Sam.

Stupid, yes, but it’s not the first time he’s thought it and it won’t be the last. He still hates it.

“Do you seriously think I’m fucking Cas? Well let me tell you, Sam. Even if that was true, you have no fucking right to feel any Goddamn thing about it. Not after… Not after what you did.”

“Dean…”

“Hey, you know, maybe I should start,” Dean says, flippant and considering, like he’s talking to himself. He shrugs and purses his lips, tilts his head slightly. “I mean, he’s not a bad lookin’ dude, if I went for that sort of thing. A little scrawny maybe, but he’s strong and he has pretty cool hair. And I’ve never really thought about it before, but his eyes are pretty intense. I just bet…”

“Dean.”

“And I mean, he’d probably go for it. He gave up Heaven for me once, what’s giving up his ass, right?”

“Dean!”

Dean’s quiet then. They both are, until eventually Dean says, “We’re here,” even though they’ve been there, in some motel parking lot in the space next to a neon vacancy sign for the past five minutes.

Dean slips out of the car quietly and Sam does the same, watches as Dean goes into the office and comes back with two keys.

“Meet me outside in the morning,” he says, handing one to Sam. “We’ll go talk to Mrs. Hatfield. She’s gotta know something she isn’t saying about the way her husband died.”

Dean checks them into a motel in the outskirts of Omaha at around two in the morning. It’s raining outside and Sam watches the drops bounce off a puddle in the parking lot while Dean stands under the awning and works open his door.

They don’t have anything to hunt at the moment, just booked it out of Minneapolis as fast as they could after the local police chief had ended up on the wrong side of a demon possession and they were the ones left standing over the dead body. He knows Dean will probably start looking for something new as soon as he wakes up, maybe even before he goes to sleep tonight, but Sam really needs a day or two off and fuck if he doesn’t really need to spend them with Dean.

It’s been so long and he just wants to hear Dean laugh, to feel Dean’s fingers on his skin to know that his whole world isn’t falling apart.

“Dean, I…” he starts and Dean pauses, his shoulders tense but he slowly turns to face Sam. “I need a break. Do you want to maybe, I don’t know, just chill for a couple days? Watch a movie together or something, get a case of beer?”

“Sam, I’m not… I know this sucks for you, okay? It sucks for me too, but I’m not ready for that right now. And even after I am, we can’t ever go back to…” He lets the sentence trail off, but Sam knows exactly what it means.

It’s like a vice around his heart because even though Dean’s told him it’s over, even though Dean’s been fucking his way from town to town with unrivalled vigour, Sam’s been playing the waiting game. He’s been hoping that Dean will come around eventually, that they can go back to what they had, be together again, be lovers again as well as brothers, instead of just near strangers.

Sam nods and takes a deep breath.

“I miss you, Dean,” he tells him, earnest and tight. “I know I fucked up and I know I don’t get to make any demands here, but we can’t go on like this forever. If we’re going to get better we need to start getting better. But if you can’t forgive me, then please just put me out of my misery.”

Dean’s eyes meet his and he keeps them there for a beat or two before looking back at his door and pulling the key out.

“We’ll stay put for a day or two, rest up,” he says, looking out at the streetlights to avoid Sam’s gaze. “And I’m working on it, Sam. But what I’m working on is being your brother. I’m not even thinking about anything else. I mean it.”

Sam just nods again, his hand grips the doorknob to his own room so hard his knuckles go white and he can’t decide whether he wants to wrap his arms around Dean or deck him. Dean’s promising to be his brother again, or at least try to. And that’s everything to Sam, really it is, but he’s still lost the best relationship he’s ever had. Christ, it was one fucking mistake! Why can’t Dean see that?

“Let me know when you’re ready to hit the road,” Dean says, and Sam watches him disappear into his room.

He’s sitting at the table by the window finishing off his third beer, bag of microwave popcorn half empty next to his computer where he’s browsing for, of all things, local movie listings. Dean’s already out, Sam doesn’t know where but he left a couple hours ago and Sam’s been stuck in his room most of the day, alone and bored.

It’s past midnight but there’s a theatre a few miles down the road that runs all night and at this point Sam just needs get out, do something to take his mind off everything. There’s a 12:30 showing of some action flick that looks like Sam could just park his brain in neutral throughout and still have a pretty good time and Sam is just about to close his laptop and grab his wallet when he hears the Impala pull up outside and the engine shut off.

He goes to the window, can’t help it, and looks out. Dean gets out of the car and he’s not alone. Sam hadn’t expected him to be, but what really gets his attention is that the person getting out the passenger side is a man. Well, boy really, Sam thinks when he cranes his neck to get a better look. He can’t be more than about seventeen or eighteen years old by the looks of him.

He thinks maybe Dean’s picked up a new case, maybe this is a witness or a suspect and Sam stands to make his way to the door.

But then the boy sidles up to Dean, presses himself against Dean’s hip as Dean pulls his key out of his pocket, nuzzles Dean’s neck while he works it in the lock. Sam’s out the door and standing there on the pavement a few feet away from some kid trying to hump his brother’s leg in a parking lot before he even realises he’s moving.

“Dean,” he says, and the word comes out strained. He’s confused, he’s hurt and he’s angry.

Dean and the boy both look up and least Dean has the decency to look vaguely guilty. His eyes go wide and he takes a step away from the boy but then his face closes off and looks carefully blank. The boy just grins slyly at him and Sam feels cold.

“Sammy…” Dean says, but the kid doesn’t let him finish.

“Hey,” the kid says, leering as his hand snakes around Dean’s middle and drifts over his inner thigh. “You joining us?” He looks up at Dean again and his hand slides across Dean’s crotch blatantly. “‘Cause that’s extra.”

Sam blinks, takes an unconscious step backward and looks from the boy’s hand, palm grinding down against Dean’s dick, over Dean’s chest and up to his eyes.

“What…” he starts, but he’s not exactly sure how to finish that, because seriously? Dean’s picking up probably underage, definitely male hookers now? Despite Sam’s insistence that Dean is, in fact, bisexual, Dean has never shown any kind of interest in any man other than Sam.

Obviously that’s not true anymore and Sam’s head is kind of spinning. Yesterday Dean had been telling him how maybe one day they can be brothers again and now he’s paying to fuck some piece of jailbait with a cock? Fucking asshole!

Sam opens his mouth to tell Dean as much, but Dean cuts him off.

“No,” Dean growls, shooting a warning glare at Sam before pushing the kid into his room. “Just us tonight, kid.”

“Dean,” Sam says again, almost whispers as Dean starts to follow the boy, the whore, into his room.

“Tomorrow,” Dean snaps, ending the conversation and Sam flinches when the door slams in his face.

It’s been a long time coming. Sam knows he screwed himself over by picking up some nameless ass because he got huffy over Dean’s lack of attention. Screwed Dean over too, broke his trust and broke his heart.

But that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been pissed off at Dean, hasn’t wanted to kill him for shutting Sam out when they could just fucking talk about it and move past it instead of bottling it all up inside and letting it eat away at them, rot their hearts and souls from the inside.

Sometimes he hates Dean for putting them both through all this. He knows it’s hard on Dean, he does. But it’s hard on Sam too, and fuck. He knows Dean. He can tell just how much this is killing him, can see when he looks at him just how much he misses what they had, how much he wants it back.

It’s bullshit. It’s bullshit and Sam is fucking pissed. Enough.

So when Sam looks out the window and sees the boy leaving Dean’s room just as the sun is coming up over a dirt road in Nebraska, he finally flips his shit enough to do what he’s been itching to do since Dean walked out on him after catching him with his dick hanging out and a naked man in his bed.

He hits him.

The kid leaves a good two hours before Dean does and Sam doesn’t want to think about what Dean’s doing in the room that takes so long. Showering the smell of sex off, probably, making himself all perfect and gorgeous so it drives Sam crazy.

Sam’s been ready to go for hours, hasn’t gotten any sleep at all. He’s poised and waiting on the bed watching the window with the curtains spread wide when he sees Dean’s door open next to his. Hears Dean rap twice on his door and then sees him toss his bag in the trunk, lean against the driver’s side with his hip resting by the door handle.

He’s waiting for Sam, waiting for him to get in the car so that Dean can start driving, pull them into some other town, some other hunt, where they won’t have to speak and Dean can go on avoiding him.

But Sam’s done with that. Fucking done. He’s angry and it’s about time Dean knows it and he can say he’s sorry all he likes but Dean’s not fucking listening and Sam can’t take it.

He’s out the door even before Dean even has time to lean in and honk the horn like he sometimes does, and before he even knows what he’s doing he’s giving Dean a taste of his formidable right hook. Dean’s head snaps back, sharp and fast and when he turns to look back at Sam there’s a split second of shock before his face hardens again and he shoulders Sam gently out of his personal space, blood pooling up in the corner of his mouth.

“Jerk!” Sam shouts, his face twisted up in anger and pain and Dean licks the small drops of blood away slowly with his tongue.

Dean doesn’t hit back, doesn’t tense up like he wants to, doesn’t even take on a defensive stance. Just lets out a breath and calmly turns his back to Sam, opens his door and gets in the car.

It takes a few seconds and a few deep breaths before Sam doesn’t actively want to kill him anymore, and when he gets in the passenger seat next to his brother it’s all Sam can do not to apologise.

Because really, that was all kinds of uncalled for. He punched his brother. He punched his fucking brother. And sure, Dean’s socked Sam a few times but Sam has never ever hit Dean first. Not unless he’s been possessed or something and he feels like absolute shit for it because he did it out of jealousy.

Dean can fuck whoever he wants. They’re not together anymore, not like that. And when that fact hits home yet again, Sam just barely manages to hold back his tears.

It’s about two hours down a long, boring stretch of road later when Dean finally breaks the crushing silence.

“I didn’t fuck him,” he says, eyes fixed firmly forward and his voice is eerily level. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Sam’s caught between relief and asking what they hell they did do all fucking night, but relief wins out and he keeps his mouth shut. At least for another fifty miles.

“He was in your room for six hours,” Sam says when Dean gets on the off-ramp into Grand Junction. “Did you just spend that whole time playing Scrabble, or what?”

Dean tenses, just the barest hint of stiffness in his shoulders but other than that he does a pretty damn good job of pretending Sam doesn’t exist. For a while.

“I tried.”

“Huh?”

“I tried,” Dean says again, more forceful this time. “I tried to fuck him. Couldn’t. Couldn’t even get hard.” He breaks off and laughs, a hysterically bitter sound. “Maybe all I can see is you. Hell, maybe I’m really not into guys. Who the fuck knows? Anyway, the kid cleaned out the mini bar and took a nap. I watched Casa Erotica, but I couldn’t even fuckin’ jerk off with him next to me.”

Sam stays silent and Dean laughs again, lighter now.

“Worst five hundred dollars I ever spent.”

Dean pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned steel mill around two in the afternoon and after he shuts off the engine he reaches into the back seat and throws a newspaper clipping at Sam.

“This is an easy one,” he says, giving Sam a few minutes to look the article over. “Ready?”

It is an easy one. They’re in and out in just a few hours. A spirit has attached itself to a cursed lathe on the fourth floor and they manage to melt it down enough that they’re pretty sure he won’t come back. They decide to stick around town until tomorrow anyway, just to make sure and Dean swings them by Denny’s afterwards to grab some supper.

They don’t really talk while they eat, but Dean orders Sam a beer and steals a couple fries off his plate and Sam can almost pretend things are normal for a while. Pretend they’re happy again.

That night they check into a motel room a few blocks over from the haunting site. Room. Just the one and Sam stands back with wide eyes and tries not to let his mouth gape. Tries not to run to Dean and wrap his arms around him, kiss him until Dean loves him again.

Dean hands the guy behind the counter a few bills and accepts the key and Sam follows his brother down the hall, awkwardly adjusting the bag over his shoulder while Dean fumbles the door open.

He watches Dean cross the threshold and drop his own belongings in the corner before he turns around and looks at Sam expectantly, nods at the open entryway. Sam shuffles uncertainly in the doorway, moving his weight from foot to foot as he slowly closes the door behind him.

“Dean…”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Dean growls, grabbing the remote control and pointing it at the television, jabbing the buttons to turn it on so hard Sam’s surprised he doesn’t break a finger. Dean can’t stand quiet these days. Not when Sam’s around anyway. “This doesn’t mean… We’re low on cash, that’s all.”

Yeah, of course they’re low on cash. Dean spent it all on a fucking hooker last night. The fact that Dean didn’t actually fuck the boy is of little comfort. He tried to, he wanted to, and he ended up letting the kid sleep in his bed. Something he hardly ever let Sam do, even before.

Sam doesn’t say any of that though, knows it will only drive the wedge deeper between them if Sam brings it up, points fingers. He contents himself with knowing that Dean’s letting him closer, he’s warming up and when Dean opens a bag of pretzel’s halfway through Poltergeist 3 on cable and offers Sam the first handful, Sam’s jealousy eases a little.

It’s progress. Dean will get over this. Sam will prove himself and Dean will let it go and they’ll go back. Sam knows it. All he has to do is give it time. Even he can tell it’s getting past cute and into lame that he still thinks that.

They’re ‘low on cash’ every night from then on.

Things don’t change after that though, not really, not all at once. Not that Sam had expected them to fall straight back into bed together, for Dean to kiss him and tell him everything’s fine and Sam is forgiven. It’s a good thing he didn’t expect it, because it doesn’t happen.

There are little things though, things that give him hope. Like when Dean smiles and tells Sam ‘thanks’ like he actually means it when Sam remembers the extra onions on his cheeseburger, or when they share a laugh over a ridiculous old Three Stooges movie, Sam’s beer spilling over the top as he shakes so hard he nearly falls over, and Dean snorts loudly on the opposite bed.

Or when Dean catches Sam in his arms after a ghost nearly pushes him out a window, and Dean holds on just a little too long, heart pounding and breathless, stares at his lips briefly before he remembers and gently pushes Sam away.

Most of all what does it is the way Dean stops sleeping with every girl who pushes her boobs in his face.

They’re eating supper one night in a burger joint in Prescott and Sam tries to bite back his roaring jealousy when the waitress is once again making moon eyes at Dean, and he’s responding in kind.

Dean surprises him though, when at the end of the meal she leaves him her number and he flat out tells her “Sorry, sweetheart, but I’ve uh… I’m kind of working tonight. I’ll call you, though.”

The waitress just raises an eyebrow and then smiles, tilts her head and looks at Dean like he’s the most precious thing she’s ever seen. Which he can’t really blame her for.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says, still smiling as she starts to back away and onto the next table.

As soon as she’s gone Dean gets up and throws down a twenty, grabs the receipt with her phone number on the back. Sam follows him up and out of the restaurant and raises an eyebrow when Dean crumples up the piece of paper and throws it in the trash can by the door.

“Dean, what are you…” Sam starts when they get outside and he reaches out to catch Dean’s arm in his fist. “You just blew that girl off. Why?”

He knows this is risky, knows he’s bringing up something that Dean has told him over and over again not to. But this is all taking way too long and Sam needs it to just be over, one way or the other. Except for how he’s only willing to let this end one way.

Dean jerks out of Sam’s grip and stalks over to the car, puts his hand on the metal frame beside the front window and ducks his head. Sam takes advantage of his hesitancy, pushes because he’s got nothing to lose at this point and walks up behind Dean, touches him on the shoulder and squeezes his hand slightly, lets Dean know he’s there and he’s not going anywhere, not ever.

Dean spins around suddenly, clamps his hands down over Sam’s biceps and spins them, slams Sam against the side of the car and crowds in. Sam’s nearly hard by the time they’re halfway around and he’s ready to cut glass when Dean pushes him back hard enough to wind him and presses in so close that there are no secrets.

“I just…” Dean says and his voice is tight, almost a whisper but not nearly as weak and breathless as Sam feels.

Then Dean kisses him. Well, it’s sort of a kiss, might be more punishment because of how it stings and makes Sam’s lips swell and ends so quickly. God, Sam would take that kind of punishment forever and ever, it’s been so damn long.

But it doesn’t last. Dean breaks away after one, maybe two brutal seconds of sucking and biting, but Sam doesn’t let him go far.

“Dean, I…” he says, taking Dean’s hand and wrapping his fingers around Dean’s, slow and timid, twisting their arms up so he can press soft kisses to Dean’s knuckles. Dean doesn’t pull away, just sucks in a shaky breath so Sam counts that as a win. He leans forward again and brushes his nose against Dean’s jaw, kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Dean, I love you,” he whispers, afraid to say the words too loud.

“Sam,” Dean says, bristles and immediately steps back.

“No, Dean. I love you. How long are you gonna put me through this? I fucked up, okay. I know I did, and I’ve told you a million times I’m willing to do what you need. I can wait. I have waited, but Dean, man, you gotta tell me. What’s it going to take?”

“It’s not always all about you, you know.” Dean tells him sharply and gets into the car, looking pointedly at Sam to do the same.

Sam does and keeps his mouth shut, wants to keep on this, take advantage of every single crack in Dean’s armour he can, but thinks if he does he might just end up pushing Dean away for good. There’s no way in hell he can keep from flipping his shit if that happens so he keeps quiet, talks to Dean only when Dean talks first, tucks himself into bed six feet away from where he wants to be every single night and just lets himself be happy that they’re at least in the same room.

He convinces himself that it’s not the end of the world because he wakes up each morning to Dean sitting at the table with a cup of coffee for each of them while he scans the internet for something else to kill. Falls asleep each night to Dean flicking through the stations on the television and feels warm all over every time they walk somewhere and Dean puts his hand at the base of Sam’s spine to push him in the right direction.

They’re not where he wants them to be, but they’re getting there.

“Fuck!” Sam screams, ducks his head and tightens up his face as Dean shoves his dislocated shoulder back into place. “Fucking ghouls.”

Dean’s face remains impassive, the thin line of his lips constant and unmoving as he feels around Sam’s shoulder and down his arm with the insistent tips of his fingers. Sam winces every once in a while, tries not to jerk too badly and lets Dean examine him, make sure nothing besides his shoulder and already bandaged up ribs are broken or sprained or out of place.

Dean’s hands work down his bicep and take some time over his elbow. It hurts like a bitch but that’s normal when something just about wrenched your arm off and then used the dangling limb to throw you into a wall. When Dean gets to his wrist the kneading fingers hurt less and eventually Dean lets him go, satisfied.

“Looks okay,” Dean tells him, and then all of a sudden Dean deflates, lets out a huge breath and slumps forward, head in his hands. “Jesus Christ, Sam, I thought…”

“I’m okay, Dean,” Sam tells him softly, puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and slowly moves it up so that it’s cupping Dean’s cheek. Dean lets him, doesn’t pull away until Sam turns his face up so that they’re looking straight at each other.

“You almost weren’t,” Dean says, gets up off the bed and paces the room impatiently. “You almost… Fuck, Sam you almost died! You just about got your damn fool self killed because of me!”

That’s completely true. Sam had seen Dean pinned to the wall by two of the fuckers with a third on his knees in front of Dean about to take vicious bite out of Dean’s tasty tummy. So Sam had busted in and started swinging. Without thinking first and sure that was a stupid-ass move, but it was Dean he didn’t have fucking time to think.

And yes, it got him hurt, got his ass handed to him, complete with dislocated shoulder, broken rib, a stomach full of bruises and a mild concussion, but fuck. Sam would do it again and Dean would have done the same for him. Lovers or not.

Dean stops walking and stares at Sam, looks at him like he expects Sam to apologise for saving Dean’s life. Which is so not going to happen. Sam just takes a steadying breath, stands up and moves to the other side of the room to stand in front of Dean, so close he can feel Dean’s breath across his neck.

“We’re fine,” he says quietly, voice pitched low and soothing. “We’re fine, Dean.”

Dean pulls in a shaky breath and puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck, tilts it down so he can rest their foreheads together.

“No we’re not,” Dean tells him on a pained exhale. “We’re not even close.”

Sam’s working his way up to a pretty good drunk.

Dean’s halfway to smashed too and they’re both exhausted and stressed out after two gruelling weeks of chasing a mothman across Nevada. They’re taking the night off, drinking whisky straight from the bottle that they’re passing back and forth while they lounge against the headboard of Sam’s bed and watch Critters 3 on cable.

Dean hasn’t had sex in two months, at least not that Sam’s seen and for Sam it’s been almost twice that long. Dean’s been on edge, Sam can tell. He’s not ignoring Sam anymore, which is good, but he’s short with him, snapping for no reason and he puts a little too much force into mundane actions like starting up the car or packing up his bag.

Sam knows his brother, knows the signs, and Dean needs to get laid. Bad.

Which is probably the only reason he doesn’t punch Sam in the mouth when Sam sinks to his knees on the floor next to the bed and pulls Dean to the edge, spreads his legs wide and settles between them to opens his pants.

Dean tenses at first, his body jerks when Sam’s knuckles brush over his dick as he lowers his zipper, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop Sam. Sam can feel him hold his breath as Sam pulls out his flaccid cock and then he feels Dean relax all over when Sam’s lips close around him, teasing him to hardness with his tongue.

It takes a while for Dean to get hard – Sam beats him there by a good two minutes – but as soon as he is Sam makes it as quick as he can. This is about release, about relieving some pent up sexual energy. Dean’s not ready for it to be more, not yet, and Sam’s not going to force him into something he’ll regret later.

As it is, Sam’s not sure how Dean’s going to take this once the edge is off and they start to sober up.

He works a hand down his own pants, brushes his palm over his dick a few times, comes at the same time Dean shoots down his throat. God, he’s missed this. Not sucking cock, no (because while he doesn’t quite have the same distaste for it that Dean does, it’s not really on his top five list), but touching Dean, bringing them both pleasure, being close. He’s missed it and it feels good.

He lets Dean slide out of his mouth slowly and sits back on his heels, looks up hesitantly to see Dean’s fingers still gripping the whisky bottle loosely in one hand while he rests the other on the bed to keep his balance.

Sam doesn’t say or do anything, waits for Dean to because Sam’s suddenly so scared that this was too much, that Dean’s going to leave, shout at him, hit him. That he’ll stop talking to Sam completely, start sleeping in a separate room again because clearly Sam’s an impatient, thoughtless douche who takes advantage of his half-drunk brother to get off.

But Dean just laughs a slightly broken laugh and tucks himself back in, puts the bottle down on the table and rubs a hand over his face.

“Fuck, I love blowjobs,” he says, and Sam barks a laugh as well, stands up and strips out of his dirty pants and underwear and grabs a clean pair from his bag.

Dean hasn’t moved from his place on the bed when Sam turns back around. He’s staring at a spot on the carpet and he’s not smiling anymore and the only sounds in the room are coming from some screaming girl on the television and the hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

“Dean,” Sam starts as he crosses to the bed to sit down again. He’s not quite sure what he wants to say but he knows he has to say something, stop Dean from getting maudlin and shutting him out.

“No, Sam,” Dean says before he can figure out what he wants to say, what he can say to make this all okay.

Dean gets up as soon as Sam’s thighs touch the mattress, grabs the bottle and sits back down on his own bed.

Fuck.

“Just… leave it alone, okay?”

Only Sam can’t.

He bites his tongue for about another hour, while they finish off the booze and the movie, but by time the credits roll and the bottle is empty Sam’s drunk enough and needy enough to press.

“So when are you gonna tell me?” he asks, the words coming out sloppy and slurred as his head lists slightly to the side. He’s way too drunk to have this conversation, he knows that but he just can’t keep his mouth shut. They’ve been good lately. Not back, but good and he just swallowed down a load of his brother’s jizz and came all over the inside of his pants while doing it.

Dean obviously still wants him, obviously still cares about him and it’s just about fucking enough already. Sam needs to know what the hell went wrong in the first place between them and he needs to make sure it never happens again. He needs Dean back. Really back.

“Tell you what?” Dean asks, which is actually more than Sam had been counting on. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d just ignored him and rolled over, fallen asleep without acknowledging the question.

“What went wrong,” Sam says, and looks over at Dean. “Between us.”

“You fucked someone else,” Dean tells him and there’s absolutely no inflection in his voice whatsoever. The words are flat and matter of fact, and Sam doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Before that, Dean,” Sam says, shaking his head. “There was something wrong before that and you know it. You were distant. I tried to talk to you. I tried but you just kept pushing me away and I fucking… I missed you. I needed you and you were being an asshole and Cas was around all the fucking time and then I ask you about it and… And you tell me you wouldn’t go near me because of him and so. So what, Dean? What the fuck?”

Dean sits up straight then and his eyes turn hard. His jaw ticks and his lips purse. He suddenly looks much too sober.

“So what?” he asks. “I don’t want to fuck you on every available surface so you find someone who does? I slow things down for a while so you go find somewhere else to sick it? That was my punishment for putting the breaks on a little?”

Sam feels a little sick because shit no, that’s not even close to what it was and he sits up too, wobbles slightly as he tries to focus on Dean. At least he’s got the chance now to explain. Dean’s listening, finally listening, and he can try to explain.

“No,” he says, as soon as he’s sure he’s not going to fall over. Fuck, he shouldn’t have drunk so much. “Shit, no, Dean. It wasn’t a punishment. No.”

“You should have said something, man,” Dean tells him as the brief flash of anger leaves him and his face softens, his eyes crinkle as his face twists in all too familiar pain. God, Sam wants to just cross to the other bed and hug him until they both pass out. “If you wanted out, you should have just ended it instead of…”

“No!” Sam shouts, can’t let Dean even think something like that. “No, Dean I didn’t, I don’t want to end us. You were the one pulling away. I thought… I don’t even…”

“The thing is?” Dean continues, like he doesn’t even hear him. “If you’d just told me, Sam. If you’d just said ‘Hey Dean. I wanna fuck other people’ then I could have… I don’t even fuckin’ know, man. I could have prepared I guess? Could have gone back to what we had before, I could have known it was coming and not felt like such a complete fucking idiot.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“No. I never wanted anyone else. I swear, Dean.” And he never did, really. Except for that one crucial split second when he made the decision, drunk and angry and lonely. Biggest mistake of his fucking life. “I fucked up. I was stupid and drunk and I thought you were fucking Cas, and I just… I’m sorry, Dean. Please.”

He’s crying now, which is just fucking terrific, really. His eyes are starting to turn red and his nose is puffing up. Pretty soon he’s going to start snotting all over the place if he doesn’t get himself under control.

“I let you in, Sam. I let you in, and I let myself… And it was so fucking stupid.”

“Dean, please. Please don’t think that. Please don’t think that loving me was stupid. We can make this better.”

“No, it’s cool,” Dean tells him and rolls his shoulders. “I’m not gonna make that mistake again. Go to sleep, Sam.”

Dean shuts off the television and turns so that his back is to Sam. His breathing is even but even after twenty minutes Sam knows he’s not sleeping. Sam chokes back a broken sob as he bunches his pillow up under his head, can’t keep the sound back entirely because it’s too much. He broke Dean’s heart. As much as Dean broke his first, he broke Dean’s heart and he’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his life.

“I love you, Dean,” he says quietly.

Dean doesn’t look back at him, doesn’t move at all, not even a twitch and Sam isn’t sure if Dean even heard him. He almost hopes not.

“Cas knew.”

They’re the first words Dean has spoken to him in three days and when Dean finally speaks them they’re rough and gritty, throat hoarse from lack of use.

Dean was gone when Sam woke up the morning after the drunken blow job and ill-fated heart to heart and he hadn’t come back until the following evening. Since then they’ve been doing their best to avoid each other while they checked out the internet and national papers for something to hunt.

It’s well past supper now, the leftover pizza cooling on the table and Dean closes his laptop and looks over at Sam.

“What?” Sam asks, feeling warm and cold at once because Dean’s talking to him again but he has no idea where this is going.

“About us,” Dean says, clearing his throat while Sam pushes his own computer out of the way. “Cas knew. That’s what he was talking to me about, that first night he came to us for help. Told me he saw us. Doing… you know…” Dean waved a hand around and Sam cringed a little. Not because he was embarrassed, not exactly, but clearly Dean was. “And then he just fucking stared at me, like he could see right through me and I freaked out.”

Sam stares at him for a few seconds, but when Dean doesn’t continue he blinks and thinks really? That can’t be it.

“So that’s what that was about? You pulling away from me? Because Cas is a voyeuristic perv?” Sam sort of can’t believe it. He thought they’d been stronger than that. “You couldn’t have just told him to knock first?”

“That’s not…” Dean sighs in frustration and pokes at a cold slice of pizza. “It wasn’t about him catching a peep show, Sam.”

“Then what?” Sam tries to sound calm, tries to ground himself and not scream and curse Castiel’s name and tell Dean to stop being such a fucking pussy just because his angel boyfriend gets jealous.

“He… He didn’t approve. God, and I don’t blame him. This thing between us is fucked up, Sam. It’s wrong, you gotta know that. And Cas knew and just… fuck. Every time I went near you after he told me that I just kept thinking about him, what he’d say, what he’d think.”

Dean’s voice is so quiet when he says it, low and almost shy, like they’ve really got something to feel bad about and he owes Castiel an apology for fucking his brother on a regular basis.

Hell, maybe they do, and maybe Dean does. Yeah, Sam knows it’s wrong. At least it’s supposed to be. Doesn’t feel wrong though. Nothing has ever felt so right before as being with Dean. Not since he’s finally gotten over himself and let himself be happy. If only Dean could do the same.

“Because we’re brothers?” Sam asks. It really doesn’t matter why, in the end. Sam still sort of wants to know.

“No,” Dean says, pained. “Yes. Shit, probably, but… But look, it doesn’t matter, okay? The point is, he was right. You and me, we’re fucked up, and we’re better off not… fucking each other. Fuck, Sam. It’s incest!”

“Dean, that is such bullshit. What did he tell you?”

“Sam, do we have to…”

“Yes!” Sam shouts, slams his fist down next to his laptop and Dean flinches just slightly. “Yes, Dean, we do,” he continues with a forced calm. “If this is what took away the best thing that’s ever happened to me, then yes, I’d like to hear it.”

“He didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know, Sam.”

“Dean, just… what?”

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes back in his chair, looks at a spot on the wall over Sam’s shoulder.

“He told me to be careful, that I’d get hurt. That I always put you first, that I’m… I’m blinded by my feelings for you and you and me being together is just gonna bite me in the ass. Told me you’d leave. Again. And I’d feel like shit in the end.”

“And you…” Sam swallows back a wave of tears. “You believed him?”

“Like I said,” Dean says with a nonchalant shrug. “He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. You’re everything to me, Sam. But I know you don’t feel the same way.”

“You’re a fucking idiot!” Sam says, exploding out of his chair and slapping his hands down on the table in front of Dean. “God, I can’t believe this is all because of your fucking insecurity and your stupid need to impress Castiel by proving him wrong and leaving me first!”

Dean stands up then too, eyes narrowed as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Let’s not go forgetting that he actually turned out to be right. You decided that sticking your dick in some guy whose name you didn’t even know was worth throwing away everything we had.”

Sam wants to shout at him but the thing is, Dean’s not even entirely wrong.

He’s not entirely right either, but he’s got enough of a point to deflate Sam a little, get him to drop it for now. His shoulders slump and he pushes off the table, walks aimlessly toward the bathroom but stops before he gets there.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says for about the tenth time since Dean caught him with someone else.

Dean just looks at him for a moment before he flips open his laptop again and starts reading.

“Me too, Sam,” he says after a while, so quiet that Sam almost thinks he imagined it. “I’m sorry, too.”

The next day everything’s normal.

Too normal.

Dean touches him again, shoves and elbows him, insults him once in a while and points out a particularly voluptuous hooker on the street corner. He replaces the Maxim Sam was reading with a copy of Vanity Fair and makes fun of the salad Sam has for lunch.

It’s like Dean’s trying too hard to force them back into being just brothers again when it’s crystal clear to them both that they don’t really belong there. Not anymore. They’re more than that now, have been for a while and they probably can’t ever really go back, no matter how bad they want it.

It’s sucks in a way, because if everything else really is done between them that means Sam’s lost his brother too, the most important person in his entire universe. Sam needs him. Any way he can get him Sam needs him, because Dean was so fucking wrong when he said that Sam doesn’t feel the same.

Sam manages to hold it together, just barely, while Dean flirts with their dinner waitress and manages not to hit something when Dean leaves with her after her shift, winking at Sam and giving him a stupid fucking thumbs-up as he goes.

“Castiel you stupid son of a bitch!” Sam screams at the top of his lungs when he gets back to their motel room, alone. It’s the first chance he’s had to call on him since Dean told him what had actually been going on. “Get down here!”

There’s a few seconds of nothing, just Sam’s rapid breathing after his three block sprint and the sound of his blood pumping in his ears.

“Cas!”

Still nothing, shock of shocks.

Castiel doesn’t answer Sam on a good day, he’s sure as shit not gonna show up when he hates Sam for breaking Dean’s precious little heart and Sam hates him right back for starting all this bullshit in the first place. God, the most important relationship of his entire life, and now every aspect of it has gone completely to shit and all because Castiel can’t mind his own fucking business.

He sighs and grabs his computer, boots it up and places it on his lap as he settles on the bed. There’s got to be something to kill around here.

“It’s not fair, you know?” Dean says, and he sounds raw and broken as he pushes open the door to their room and kicks it shut behind him. He’s holding a bottle of vodka and some of the clear liquid sloshes out over the top as he trips over his own feet and tries to stand up straight.

It hasn’t even been two hours since Dean took off with the girl, but he’s back already and clearly shitfaced.

“What’s not fair?” Sam asks as he turns on the bed to face Dean where he sways by the door. He’s almost afraid to hear the answer.

“You fucked up, Sam.”

“I know,” he says weakly, because he fucking knows, God, why can’t Dean just let it go already?

“You fucked up and I’m the one that has to suffer,” he slurs, as if Sam’s not suffering. Fucking selfish prick. Yeah, Sam monumentally fucked up, but if Dean doesn’t think this is killing Sam too, he’s stupider than Sam thought.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and he’s getting sick and fucking tired of saying it but it’s still just as true as it always is. “I’ve told you I’m sorry, Dean. Over and over. I meant it then, I mean it now. And I will do whatever it takes to make this work, but… But man, you’ve got to make a choice. If you think you can give me another chance, then give it to me. I promise I will give it 100%. But if you can’t, then you gotta let me go. Stop fucking punishing me for one lousy mistake.”

Dean just blinks at him, puts the bottle down on the table and opens and closes his mouth a couple of times like he’s not entirely sure how to respond to that. Good. Maybe he’ll get his head out of his ass a little.

“I mean… How many chances have I given you?”

“That’s not quite the same thing,” Dean says, and no, it’s not. Dean has never betrayed Sam quite like this (ogling strippers and forgetting their anniversary aren’t exactly in the same league as cheating) but he’s fucked up in this relationship more than his fair share. For months Sam was nothing but patient and understanding while Dean pushed him away and Dean can’t even… Fuck.

“Maybe we should split up,” Sam suggests. Even though it kills him to even think it, it might be for the best. If Sam doesn’t have to see Dean every day and not have him, maybe he can start to breath again. “Hunt separately for a while, until I can get over this.”

Yeah, like Sam would ever just ‘get over this’.

“Oh, so those are my choices?” Dean snarls, works his coat off in jerky movements and throws it down on one of the chairs. “Take back my cheating whore of a boyfriend or lose my little brother? Fucking… that’s fucking awesome, Sam.”

“Dean,” Sam nearly sobs, sucking in a sloppy breath and he can see Dean’s face change abruptly with regret.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean breathes out. “I’m sorry, man. Shit, I didn’t… You’re not a whore. I didn’t mean that. God, I’m sorry. I’m just feeling kind of crazy here. And…” He breaks off for a beat to laugh self-deprecatingly. “And drunk. Really fucking drunk.”

Sam gets that. He’s been feeling nothing but crazy for months now.

“Do you love me?” he asks, and the question surprises even him. And then he keeps going, which surprises him even more. “I don’t mean as a brother, I mean… Do you love me?”

“No,” Dean answers, and Sam does let a tear fall then. But before it can even slide over his chin Dean is crossing the room and he’s right there in front of him, wiping it away with his thumb and kissing Sam. It’s closed-mouthed, soft and it makes his chest hurt. Sam’s lips open and he lets out a hitched sob when Dean’s tongue licks gently over his and it feels like the first time Sam’s heart really, finally beats since Dean broke up with him.

Because maybe… Yeah, maybe.

“No,” Dean says again when he pulls back and Sam chases his lips briefly before he lets out a breath.

Dean’s not looking at Sam, his eyes are on the floor as he takes two steps back. “I can’t let myself.”

And then he’s disappearing into the bathroom, the sound of the shower spray breaking the silence in the room.

Sam’s gone by the time Dean gets out.

It’s a dick move, taking off while Dean’s not looking, but if he’d stayed around to tell Dean to his face that he had to leave, he never would have been able to follow through.

He leaves a note though. A stupid, pussy note telling Dean he’s sorry and he needs some time.

He does need time, he thinks as he drives a stolen ’92 Dodge Shadow north down two-lane blacktop. He loves Dean, more than he’s ever loved anyone or anything, but he can’t keep breaking himself on his brother and winding up frustrated and heartbroken because Dean’s too stubborn to realise just how much Sam loves him.

He needs this, this distance, this separation. Needs to get his head on straight, needs to learn to get by again without Dean for a while, if that’s even possible at this point. And maybe when he learns how to breathe on his own again, maybe when he doesn’t want to put his hand through a wall (or Dean’s face) when Dean ignores him in favour of a busty waitress or a particularly flaky piece of apple pie and tells Sam he ‘just can’t right now’, maybe then Sam can go back. But he’s not counting on it.

Damn Dean, kissing him like that, taking Sam’s breath away with those fucking lips of his, touching him with those fingers and getting his hopes up. Ripping Sam’s heart out again and again and jerking him around like a friggin’ yo-yo because he can’t just let it go.

Sam had obviously been delusional if he’d thought for a second that Dean would actually let him live this shit down, if he’d thought they could be together again. And it’s been looking more and more like Dean won’t even ever let them be family.

Family.

The one thing Dean has always claimed was more important than anything else, and Dean throws it out the fucking window over too much tequila and a split second of poor judgement.

Well, fuck that.

It sucks. This whole thing fucking sucks ass start to finish and damnit, Sam just can’t deal with Dean anymore. He’s sick of being the bad guy when all his attempts at apology and redemption are ignored.

He dumps the car at a gas station in the middle of Dallas and takes a bus to a motel just east of the city. He pays cash in advance for three nights because it’s all he can afford until he hustles some pool or steals something. He doesn’t want to use the credit card he’s got. Dean knows the name.

He’s still got his cell phone, knows Dean can track him if he wants to. He keeps it, but he shuts it off for now. Buys another one at a convenience store and starts using that instead.

He hunts. It’s pretty much all he does. Hunts, eats, sleeps.

He wins enough money in an underground poker game to last him a while and he skips town in a Greyhound to avoid having his kneecaps blown off by a mobster.

He picks up a local paper when he checks into a motel two days later and he starts hunting again.

Twelve days into his self imposed exile, he gets a visitor.

He doesn’t want one, not really, but he’ll take it, because at the moment it’s better than nothing. Better than hustling pool by himself and drinking too much and nearly shooting an innocent man through the heart because Sam had been distracted and made a mistake identifying the werewolf he’d been hunting.

It’s better than another night alone, trying to fall asleep through the haze of alcohol and the Dean-shaped hole in his chest.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t punch you in your stupid fucking face right now,” Sam says, pushing his legs over the side of the bed and putting the half finished bottle of Jack down on the table as he stands up.

He wobbles a little, so maybe he’s drunker than he thought, but he manages to stand up straight and focus without too much trouble.

Castiel’s eyes narrow and he cocks his head, like the guy is actually trying to come up with a good reason. That clueless shit is really starting to grate.

“A broken hand will be a hindrance,” Castiel answers, so fucking matter of fact that Sam wants to hit him even more. “I know you’re angry with me, but violence will have little effect.”

And yeah, okay. Sam knows that, or would if he was thinking clearly. Dean’s told him what happened when he tried to punch Cas and Sam is in no hurry to slam his knuckles into solid steel. But fuck, Sam is so pissed off.

“What are you even doing here anyway?” Sam asks, snarling slightly. “Come to brag that you finally did it? Finally made sure Dean and I are over?” He’s called Cas a few times over the past couple of weeks, but he’s never gotten an answer. Not until now.

Castiel’s eyes narrow briefly before his face evens out.

“You did that, Sam.”

“Fuck that! You’re the one that told him…” Sam takes a breath and closes his eyes. Opens them again. “You told him that… that we’re wrong. That what we had was wrong and you made him…”

“What you had was wrong, Sam. But my telling him that wasn’t what made him leave you.”

“How can you…” Sam starts, shaking his head as his face screws up into something he’s sure is entirely unpleasant. He can’t see himself, but he can see Castiel’s reaction, see his anger and his pity. “How can you fucking say that? How can you say we were wrong?”

“If the two of you needed to fornicate, you could have found more appropriate outlets,” Castiel doesn’t quite answer. His scowl is pretty damn epic though and Sam almost congratulates him.

“Fornicate?” Sam asks with a slightly hysterical edge. “You think that’s what we were doing?”

“I know that’s what you were doing,” Castiel tells him, his voice low and menacing, like he expects Sam to back down.

“Wow, you’re a moron,” Sam says. “Yeah, we were fucking, Cas,” he goes on and feels an irrational satisfaction when Castiel flinches at his choice of words. “But that’s not all it was. We loved each other. So much. We still do and if it wasn’t for you, sticking your Goddamn nose where it doesn’t belong I’d still have him!”

“Forgive me for being crass, but I believe Dean is no longer with you because it was you who stuck something where it didn’t belong.”

Sam snorts and balls his hands into fists at his sides to keep from taking a swing at Castiel.

“Wow,” he says. “Dean would be proud he’s rubbing off on you.” Castiel doesn’t say anything to that so Sam takes a breath and keeps talking.

“I’m in love with him,” he says helplessly. “We were happy and we weren’t hurting anyone.”

“Then why were you with another?” Castiel challenges and Sam opens his mouth to protest but Castiel cuts him off. “I saw it, Sam. I saw it before it happened and I saw Dean. Saw his pain.”

“Wait, did you…” Sam starts, sobering up a lot more in just the few seconds it takes to process that. “Is that what you told Dean? You told him I was going to cheat on him so he would end things before I got the chance? You dick!”

“I didn’t tell him that,” Castiel says. “I’d hoped he would never have to deal with the knowledge that his feelings were never truly returned. I hoped he’d leave you before that happened.”

“His feelings are returned, asshole,” Sam scowls. “And then some. What the fuck did you tell him?”

“I told him that letting you use him for sexual release was wrong, and that when you moved on he would regret it.”

“So… So him pushing me away was all because you put it in his head that I was using him for sex?! That I don’t really love him? What the fuck, man?” he continues, more to himself. “Dean knows better than that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sam,” Castiel tells him, eyes narrowing more now than they have since he showed up, and he takes a few slow steps towards Sam. Sam swallows, stands up straighter and makes a concerted effort not to step back, not to allow Castiel the advantage of intimidation.

It’s hard, but he does it. Castiel looks almost as pissed as Sam and he’s a hell of a lot tougher.

“You’re a smart boy,” he says, and Sam doesn’t bother to thank him for the compliment. He isn’t so sure that’s what it is, really. “But you can also be incredibly stupid. Especially where Dean’s concerned.”

“What are you getting at?” Sam demands, not in the mood for Castiel’s obtuse doubletalk. “Dean knows I love him. I tell him all the time!”

“Your brother is far more insecure than you give him credit for. He’s never felt that he’s good enough for you, in any respect. And historically speaking, you haven’t done much to dissuade him of those ideas.”

“Fuck you,” Sam snaps. “I never made Dean feel like he wasn’t good enough!”

Except hasn’t he? Castiel raises a disapproving eyebrow and Sam realises that yeah, he kind of has. Since Dean first asked him to… ‘go steady’ for lack a better term, Sam’s been expecting Dean to fuck up. And no, Dean’s never exactly been a great boyfriend, but he’s tried. For Sam he tried, which is more than he’s done for just about anyone else.

“Not only that,” Castiel says, interrupting Sam’s thoughts and Sam can’t help but think back further.

Really think, about growing up and about his relationship with Dean. Dean’s an asshole. Dean’s been picking on him for as long as he can remember. He’s an arrogant, bossy son of a bitch and he always thinks he knows best, has always expected Sam to just do what he says even when Sam knows that he’s right and Dean’s wrong.

But when Sam looks back now, he can see that Dean’s been pretty awesome too. More awesome than Sam’s really ever given him credit for.

Lucky Charms for supper and stolen Barbies for Christmas seemed pretty shitty when he was six or seven, but in retrospect he knows Dean did the best he could. And he knows that Dean still feels like a disappointment. Because Sam made him feel that way. Not that Dad didn’t help out.

“Dean’s problems are his own, Sam,” Castiel tells him, and Sam really wishes he would stop reading his mind. It’s creepy. “He doesn’t blame you. But everyone Dean has ever loved has left him.”

Castiel’s voice startles Sam and he blinks rapidly, shaking his head. Mom. Dad. Cassie, Lisa, Jo, Ellen… Even Castiel and Sam have left him at one point or another.

“Bobby hasn’t.” Which, yeah. A list of one is a pretty lame list and he should probably have just kept his mouth shut.

“You did.”

“What did you even come here for?” Sam asks, feeling like this entire confrontation has gotten away from him.

It takes Castiel a good thirty seconds to answer, his eyes on the floor next to Sam’s feet the whole time. Sam is just about to give up, yell, scream, tell Cas to get the fuck out of his room, but then Castiel quietly speaks.

“I was wrong,” he says.

“About?”

“You and Dean. It… It shouldn’t be right. But it is.”

“You’re not really making a lot of sense here, Cas.”

“Despite what I lead Dean to believe, incest is not a sin. It’s your society that condemns it, not my father. I was concerned for his well being because I believed you would betray him. As you did. My mistake was underestimating the overwhelming capacity for love and forgiveness between the two of you. My brothers and sisters… do not share that kind of bond.

“He’s not angry with you, Sam. He hasn’t been angry in a long time. He’s used what you did as an excuse because he believes you deserve better, because he thinks he can never make you truly happy.”

“He’s an idiot,” Sam says, kind of dazed. Wow, that’s… Yeah. He really hadn’t seen that coming. Maybe he should have.

Castiel smiles then, that crooked, half-smile and cocks his head slightly. “Yes,” he answers, then sobers again. “You are what he needs, Sam. You need each other, whether he realises that or not. Don’t give up on him.”

“He’s the one that gave up on me,” Sam protests, but it’s weak even to his own ears.

Castiel just stares at him for a beat, lets him know what he thinks of that statement. “He’s looking for you. If you truly love him, if you can withstand the doubt that he’ll always harbour within him despite your assurances, don’t hide.”

Castiel is gone before Sam can blink and he curses under his breath before picking up the bottle of whisky and downing three swallows before he falls back on the bed and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

Two weeks.

It’s been two weeks since Castiel showed up in his motel room in Mississippi, and Sam’s been staying in the same room ever since. If Dean wants to find him, he’s made it pretty damn easy. He’s started to use the credit cards again, turned his cell phone on and if Dean cares enough he can just ask Castiel.

It’s good though, the time. Gives Sam a chance to think about what Castiel said. Think about all that Dean’s said, all he’s done, his friggin’ boatload of issues and whether or not Sam can actually live with them. Gives him time to think about how Dean was right all those months ago, up against the Impala in a diner parking lot, when he told Sam that it wasn’t all about him. These are Dean’s problems and Sam, essentially, has fuck all to do with them. All he can do is try to be supportive, try to be the best relationship Dean’s ever had and try not to get so caught up in his own problems that he turns to someone else for the comfort and companionship he should be getting from Dean.

He’s had two weeks, but the thinking was over and done inside of twenty-four hours and he’s been going slowly crazy for the past twelve days, waiting for Dean to show up. Hoping he hasn’t changed his mind.

He’s not an idiot. If Dean never really trusts him, never really feels like he’s good enough, their relationship is always going to have its problems. Sure, Sam could move on. Might even be able to find someone to settle down with one day, like Dean’s mentioned a couple of times. But Dean never, ever will.

No matter who he’s with, he’s never going to feel like he’s worthy. He’ll never be comfortable and happy and confident in a relationship. It’s just not who he is. But Sam’ll take him. Crazy insecurities and all. Because he loves Dean and he knows that Dean loves him and even if it’s hard, it’s better than not having each other. Even if he has to remind Dean every single day that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

Whatever bullshit they seem to be destined to forever put each other through, it’s all worth it. At least to Sam it is. And if Dean comes for him this time, he’s not taking no for an answer. He’s going to hold Dean down every morning for the rest of their lives and kiss him until he promises not to leave. If Sam has to be the one who holds them together, he’s okay with that.

So he waits, makes too many phone calls and pays his room bill under the name ‘Wedge Antilles’ and hopes that Castiel wasn’t wrong.

At two weeks and one day, Dean knocks on his door.

“You open the door without a gun in your hand?” Dean accuses, eyes slightly glazed as he looks Sam up and down. He’s drunk. Sam wonders if he’s been drunk this whole time. It would make Sam feel a little less pathetic over the amount of alcohol he’s consumed.

“I saw you pull up two hours ago,” Sam tells him. He’s also been watching out the window that entire two hours, saw Dean head into the bar on the corner and watched him come down the walk just now. “How’d you find me?”

Dean laughs at that, a short, sharp bark and shuffles inside the room as Sam steps back.

“You practically shot off a friggin’ flare, man.” Dean sighs and shuts the door behind him, rubs his hand over his face. He snickers as he picks up Sam’s half-full bottle of gin from the table and helps himself to a swig. Sam doesn’t protest.

“I’m sorry I made you leave, Sammy,” he says. “Sorry I made you feel like you had no other choice.”

“Dean…” He doesn’t know if he wants Dean to stop or go on. Just knows that he kind of wants Dean to finally say that he loves him and that he wants them to go back.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come after you right away. I should have. Shouldn’t have let you get this far, shouldn’t have made you wait. I just didn’t know…” He trails off and takes another swig of gin before he puts the bottle back down on the table.

“Didn’t know what?” Sam asks quietly.

Dean shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing the question as he rests his ass against the table and crosses his arms over his chest. They only stay that way for a second before he opens them up again and they fall to his thighs, stutter and come to rest on either side of him on the table edge.

“See, here’s the thing,” Dean says, crossing his legs at the ankles and ducking his head. “You’re in me, Sam. You’re in me and I can’t fucking get you out. I hate you. Fuckin’ hate you so hard for what you did but…”

“But it’s not even really about that, about what I did. Is it?”

Dean snorts, an unpleasant sort of sound and doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

“No,” he answers. “No, not really. I mean, what you did sucked, but… But it was just kinda the nail in the coffin, you know?”

Dean stands up and takes a few wobbly steps in Sam’s direction, stumbles closer and falls on Sam when he moves to catch him, pressing Sam into the wall at his back. Dean’s chest is pressed tight against his own and Dean’s forehead is pressed against the wall by Sam’s neck, but Dean’s lower body is carefully angled away from Sam’s.

“Dean…”

“But I look at you, when you’re eating or reading or kicking some zombie ass and I just…”

Sam wants to talk but he’s afraid that if he does Dean will run. This here, this is precarious, delicate and Sam doesn’t want to shatter it. Dean’s finally fucking telling Sam what he wants to hear, sounds like maybe he might be one heartbeat away from telling Sam’s he’s forgiven and that Dean wants him again and Sam doesn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise that.

“What the fuck am I even…” Dean goes on, shakes his head and tilts it down so his chin rests on Sam’s shoulder. “I mean, shit Sam. Do you still want this? Me? Or am I just making a fucking fool out of myself here?”

“Dean, are you...? Really? Because, I mean…” Sam breaks off to let out a soft laugh and his hands come to rest on Dean’s hips. “Yes. Okay, yes. I want it, want everything.” God, does he ever. Even knowing it’ll never be perfect, he wants it.

Dean pulls back just enough that Sam can see his face, bites his lip, nods a jerky nod and leans closer again. His lips are less than an inch away from Sam’s when Sam’s hand on his chest stop him and Sam groans as Dean backs off, closes his eyes and bangs the back of his head against the wall.

Because he’s a damn idiot. Dean had been right there, so fucking close, everything Sam’s been wanting within arm’s reach, and now Dean’s several feet back, staring daggers at him.

But Dean’s done this before, Dean’s kissed him and held him and acted like maybe he wanted this only to change his mind after and Sam can’t really handle that again.

“This some kind of game to you?” Dean accuses, and Sam’s heart clenches. “Tell me you’re sorry, tell me you want me… and then just shut me down?”

“No. God, Dean, no. Of course not. I just… You’re drunk, man. Really drunk. And I don’t want to take advantage. I want you to be sure. I want you to mean this and… I guess I want to hear that you forgive me. I want you to say we can really be together again. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and have you resent me, or go back to ignoring me again until you get drunk enough and horny enough that we’re right back here.”

“Sam,” Dean says through a sharp breath, air getting caught in his throat and hitching as it passes into his lungs. “This is fucking hard, man.”

“I know.” God does he know. “Just, do me a favour. Please.” Dean doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t punch Sam out, or storm off in a huff, so Sam takes it as acceptance. “Sleep it off. Sober up and talk to me tomorrow. If you still feel the same way, I promise, I’ll give you anything you want.”

Dean nods, which at least is something, but the next thing he does is leave, shutting the door quietly behind him, so it’s probably not enough.

Sam looks at the table by the door and sees Dean’s car keys sitting there next to his wallet. At least he knows Dean won’t be driving.

He stares out the window most of the night and finally falls asleep when the sun is peaking up over the horizon and through the curtains, flooding the room in deep orange.

When the slam of the door wakes him up not even half an hour later Sam blinks his eyes open and can’t even manage to feel pissed off about the lack of sleep. The soft reddish light pours into the room over Dean’s shoulder and then mutes out when Dean moves, turns back to yellow and makes the room sort of glow.

It’s possible Sam’s hallucinating. Because Dean’s back. He’s here and he’s smiling and he’s looking kind of stupid and dopy like Sam’s the best thing he’s seen in days.

“So?” Dean asks, yanking out a chair by its back and sitting down in it, leaning forward slightly with his elbows resting on his thighs. “We gonna be sweeties again or what?”

“Dean…” Sam says, blinks and sits up in the bed. He rubs a hand over his face, stretches it out, tries to get the blood flowing enough to fully wake him up. The blanket falls around his waist, baring his chest. Dean looks tired, bags under his eyes dark and heavy, but he looks happy, eyes crinkling around the corners and Sam wants to kiss him. “Where the hell have you been?”

Dean ignores the question.

“I forgive you,” he says instead, and then Sam doesn’t care where Dean’s been, only that he’s okay, and that holy crap, Dean forgives him. “And I’m… I’m sorry. I know I was kind of a dick about the whole Cas thing. Know I should have just said something, instead of being… well, me.”

Yeah. Sure. Dean’s right, of course. Finally. He should have talked to Sam. But fuck, he should have talked to him a hell of a lot sooner and about something completely different. But if Dean needs to pretend that’s all this is about, pretend the wedge that was driven between them was all about Castiel and then later Sam’s cheating, Sam can pretend as well.

They’re Winchesters. Pretending is sort of their way. It’s unhealthy and dangerous and will probably only lead to more problems in the future, but as long as they’re together again Sam’s got time. He can make Dean believe he’s worthy of being loved, eventually. And even if he can’t, he’ll never give up trying.

“Dean, it’s fine. You don’t have to-”

“Sam, just shut up and let me say this, okay? Been practising this speech all fucking night. And just so you know,” he says, corners of his mouth turning up, “if you don’t take me back after this, the waitress at the twenty-four hour coffee shop down the road will.”

Sam smiles then and bites his bottom lip, waves a hand at Dean for him to continue.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I kind of keep things to myself.”

Sam laughs, because yeah, he’s noticed, but he keeps quiet otherwise.

“I know that’s not cool. I’m not much for sharing and caring, don’t know that I ever will be. So uh… Yeah, I’m probably not the best catch ever, and I’m going so off-script here it’s not even funny, but… But I want you to want me anyway. Even…” Dean gets quiet then and Sam has to stop breathing just so he can hear the next whispered words. “Even if I don’t deserve it. Even if you should have so much better.”

“I do,” Sam whispers. “God, Dean, I do. And there is no better than you. Not for me.”

“And even after you fucked around I should have just… I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. Yeah, you broke my heart, but I know you didn’t set out to hurt me. It was a stupid mistake, I get that, I do. God knows I’ve made plenty. But I just couldn’t get over myself enough to move past it.

“The thing is, before you, sex didn’t really mean much. But then you… and we… and it was…”

“Yeah,” Sam says, smiling and rescuing Dean from an incredibly awkward tangent that Dean’s not ready for. Sam can wait. “Yeah, I know. Me too.” Only not, because sex has hardly ever been meaningless for Sam. It’s not the sex that’s different with Dean, it’s everything else. It’s love, complete and absolute, honesty to a degree that’s been foreign to Sam if not to Dean. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Dean smiles back, just barely. A silent ‘thanks’ even though he knows Sam’s full of shit. The smile fades pretty quickly though, and Dean gets serious again.

“And then when I saw you, with that guy, it was… It was like it was all a lie, you know? Like I was right in the first place and I shouldn’t have let it mean so much. It fucked me up.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “But I was kind of a bitch about it. I know that. I didn’t think it would hit me that hard, didn’t think it would hurt like that. I was a douche and I should have just shrugged it off. No big deal.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, Dean. It was a big deal. I fucked up, broke your trust and I’m so fucking sorry.” There’s a part of Sam that can’t help but agree that Dean had pushed the moping and bitching a little past what was strictly necessary. He figures it’s best to just let it go though. It’s over. They’re back.

“I wish we could have had this conversation months ago, but that doesn’t matter now. Not if you really mean it. I love you. I want you. Please, can we just…”

The rest of what Sam wants to say is cut off by Dean’s lips pressed against his. His brother is up off his chair and across the room almost before Sam can blink, joining him on the bed and covering Sam’s body with his own. This time Sam doesn’t protest. If Dean’s not sure now, Sam doesn’t want to know.

He’s not letting go after this. Dean’s his, and he’s just going to have to get used to that.

After, when Dean’s still buried inside of him, face tucked into the crook of Sam’s neck with Sam’s come still warm and sticky between their bellies, Dean says “Hey Sammy?”

“Hmm?” Sam answers, fingers tracing lazy patterns over the soft skin of Dean’s back. This is one of the best moments he’s experienced in a damn long time. He kind of doesn’t want Dean to talk, because when Dean opens his mouth at times like these it’s pretty much for the sole purpose of ruining the mood.

“I love you too,” Dean tells him, quiet but sure, and his hands give Sam’s shoulders the tiniest of squeezes as he presses a kiss to the sensitive patch of skin below Sam’s earlobe.

Okay, so he was wrong.

Sam’s arms hold Dean tighter as he shifts over him and his ankles cross over Dean’s calves as Dean settles in. Sam can feel the smile against his neck and he returns it with a wide grin of his own.

Sam turns his head and nudges Dean’s nose with his, angles Dean’s face so that he can place a lingering kiss to his lips. It’s amazing. They’ve got work to do and it’s possible Dean will never be as happy and as sure about this as Sam is, but it’s so much more than worth it.

“Took you long enough.”

END