"I love you, Dean."

Dean jerks awake out of a deep sleep. Because his first instinct is to scramble away and push Sam's hands off, he is not certain where those hands were.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Sam's hands are cold as they press against Dean's stomach. Sam's breath is warm against Dean's neck. Dean grabs Sam's wrists and pulls his hands away.

"No, Sam."

"But I love you, Dean."

"I know, Sam. Just go back to your bed."

"But…"

"Now!"

Sam slides away into the darkness and Dean lays back down, but doesn't sleep for a long while.

"I love you, Dean."


Dean's been out all night. He's tired. Tipsy. He smells like pot, cigarettes and bonfires and he tastes Jack Daniels when he licks his lips.

"Hmm?" he says, flopping onto his bed.

"I love you, Dean."

"Mmm Hmm."

"Don't you love me, Dean?"

This is not Sam. This kid can't be Sam. He's got a wide, sure hand on Dean's stomach. He's got long limbs tangling Dean up. He's got stretch marks on his back, like he's growing out of his skin, and he's gasping under Dean's lips.

"Don't you love me?"

"I love you, Sammy."


"I love you, Dean."

Dean wakes and has to force back the vomit. His little brother's hands are on him and he shoves Sammy away as hard as he possibly can, his body shuddering where skin slides against skin. Sammy tumbles off the bed, flailing, taking down the bedside lamp with a crash.

Dean has time to pull his blankets up over his naked, sticky body and then John is there, aiming a shotgun at them both.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Bad dream," Sam explains and Dean wonders when exactly little Sammy got so damn good at lying.


"I love you, Dean."

"Go to hell."

Sam's hand slips down Dean's side, fingers tracing down the side seam of his jeans. Dean arms brace him against the porch railing, his back tense and aching under his t-shirt.

"Please, Dean," Sam whispers to him, bringing that hand up and worming the tips of his fingers under the waistband of Dean's underwear. "Please, I'm leaving tomorrow."

Dean pulls away violently, whirling around to face him. "No! Go to hell! Tell Dad. Do whatever you want. I'm not doing this. You don't touch me anymore," he spat, shoving past into the house.


"I love you, Dean."

Dean's mouth still tastes like the respirator and when Sam tries to pull him close, there, next to the dying glow of the pyre, Dean doesn't placate, doesn't coax, doesn't soothe. Dean just punches Sam in the face and takes off, wiping away tears as he runs.

There is no Impala to lock himself in and Dean longs for the smell of her leather seats, the throat burn of gasoline, the fresh crispness of her air conditioner, blowing away his sweat and soothing him with goose bumps. Anything really. Anything but the smell of this smoke.


"I love you, Sammy."

Sammy's hand is still between his own and the fingers won't bend right. Sunlight comes in through the boarded over windows, throwing stripes across his face. It's hot. Dean sweats. Sam doesn't.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you, Sammy."

He presses Sammy's hand to his lips and breathes in the smell of death.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he chants over and over again, as though a thousand and one times might pump life back into to that hand.

"I'm sorry," he says.

And "I'm sorry."

And, "I love you, Sammy."

And, "I'm sorry."