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Expectation

It wasn't something that happened overnight, a sudden realization that he was utterly and completely in love with his brother. There was a growing feeling, shifting from a wondrous adoration and admiration for his older brother that was so much cooler and stronger than he was. There was slight changes, a day by day thing, that were so small and so long ago that they blend together in his memories, hiding the exact ages when he thought his brother was so cool, then so handsome, and then so incredibly masculine and sexy that he could barely stand it anymore.

He could, however, remember the single day, the single moment, where the feelings he hid within his heart surfaced. They were shoved in his face, as well as Dean's crotch.

Dean marked it up to the alcohol he had consumed, and Sam agreed if only to soothe the man's ego. Certainly, the older man had drunk a number of beers, but Sam was inclined to think that he hadn't been all that drunk.

He wasn't entirely sure how the events leading up to it ran, as he knew he had a fair amount of alcohol in his own system. Enough to lower his inhibitions and allow him to reveal his desires. What he did know was that he was sitting on the bed of their motel room, his fingers bumbling with the button on Dean's jeans. He heard moans and groans, mumbled and incoherent words reaching his ears like a sin filled prayer. There were licks and nips that were enough to be playful and not hurt too much – because this is Dean and Sam would never want to hurt his Dean – until he came and they were panting and soaking in the realization of what they've done, oh God, what have they done?

Sam does not regret doing what he's done, he really doesn't, because it's something he's always wanted and he would give nearly anything to do it again. What he regrets are the words "We shouldn't have done this." That are about to spill forth from Dean's lips, and "We were drunk." That he keeps repeating and repeating until Sam agrees, adding a small slur in his voice just to seem that much more drunk. It seems to work, and the matter is dropped between the two.

What Sam regrets is the fact that this is not just some lust he's built up over the years of it being only him and Dean. He regrets the utter and complete rejection that Dean gives him afterwards, and he regrets staying around in the bars that they go to long enough to see Dean hit on some girl (and it's always a girl, because as much as Sam wishes, Dean is straight) and later guide her out for a night of pleasure that Sam wishes he could give. But he can't, because as Dean's actions have said and Sam's own thoughts have confirmed, Dean is most definitely not gay.

All Sam has are his fantasies, his daydreams of the various and romantic ways that he and Dean could become closer. He had gone through soft-spoken confessions while they lay awake during a sleepless night and (one of his favourites) rough lips pressed against the other when pushing them against the nearest wall after a heated argument. The idea that, after a particular hunt where Sam would end up injured just a little too much, Dean would rush to his side and proclaim his undying love for him.

But Sam had already gone through an ordeal like that, even after That Night. One annoying demon had run rampant through some small town, and had run a small dagger through Sam's shoulder. Dean subdued the demon while Sam writhed on the ground, clutching his bleeding shoulder and his own teeth in an effort to not cry out in pain. Dean had hovered over him, asking Sam if he was okay in a tone that showed he was worried, he really was, he just wasn't worried enough to rush to his side and stop the bleeding. Sam grit his teeth and mumbled that yeah, he was fine, and forced himself to stand up, even though every small movement hurt and when he placed pressure on his hand so he could stand up, it hurt like a fucking bitch that made Sam want to let loose a string of curses that Dean didn't even know that Sam knew. Instead, he spoke the words they needed for the exorcism, even though his voice trembled at some points (Dean didn't notice, he didn't say anything. He just clapped Sam on his good shoulder and said they should get out of there.)

It wasn't something worth remembering. Still, he clutched close all the memories about Dean that he could, treasuring them like jewels. And he used them when he couldn't stand things anymore.

Things started to reach that state about a month after That Night. What was it they were chasing? Sam started to lose track. They were in another of those run-of-the-mill bars that they always seemed to find, a perfect information gathering center, Dean called them. The only information he seemed to be gathering was what the pretty, young ladies inhabiting the bars were doing that night.

Sam can't remember what the first guy looked like. All he remembers for the first part is watching Dean with blatant jealousy and want in his eyes and drinking another beer as soon as he saw Dean's hand on the girl's hip. She was probably blonde. He thinks the guy was blonde, too, but he can't remember, so he places an image in his mind, something as different from Dean as he can get.

He remembers he went to the bathroom first, and the (blonde?) guy followed in after him. He can't remember what was said, who asked who first, but soon they were hiding in a stall and he was on his knees, bringing out the memory of Dean in his mouth so that he can't catch up with what he's really doing.

They finish without a bang, without anything special, and the other man leaves without another word, leaving Sam with the thought that if he drank enough of the toilet's water he could wash the taste of the other man out of his mouth. But he's not quite stupid enough to do that, so he settles for the water from the sink instead.

It goes on like that for a while, and Sam is sure that Dean doesn't notice anything, not the constant trips to the bathroom Sam happens to make, or the calluses that begin to form on his knees. He's too occupied with the women he meets and beds, and Sam makes sure that he stays in the bathroom long enough that he can't see when Dean leaves with the woman on his arm.

It's never any problem, since the men never expect anything more and Sam keeps moving from town to town like he's trying to avoid them anyway. But he's just hunting, and he just keeps doing that, because that's what he is and what he knows, and he can't stop doing that, just like he can't stop imagining that it's always Dean's hips he has his hands pressed firmly against, that it's Dean's scarred hands clutching his hair and pressing him down, further, like he's pressing him right down into Hell. Sam sometimes thinks he's about to go to Hell for all these acts he commits and the love he harbors for his brother.

He never lets the men kiss him, and rarely do they expect one out of him, because he hasn't kissed Dean yet and until he has a memory of how Dean's lips feel against his own, he won't let his lips touch someone else's, because he needs a memory so he can pretend that it's Dean, Dean, and only Dean.

Because, really, it's all he has. It's all he expects.