It's sick. He knows that, on some level—on every level, really. It's obvious and staring him in the face, how wrong it is, because honestly, it goes against nature.
But, on nights like this, with Dean asleep on the bed next to him, the motel Air Conditioner wheezing out lukewarm air that's only slightly cooler than the humid night outside, he can't remember why it's wrong to look at your brother the way he's looking at him right now.
His (ironically) big brother is stretched out on the bed, limbs pulling in all directions, with his head lolled to the side, toward Sam. His face is clear, calm, peaceful. For once there is no tenseness in his jaw, no creases in his forehead. His lips are parted slightly, allowing Sam to just barley hear the whisper of his brothers breath from his spot three feet away.
Dean has always been beautiful, Sam thinks. When they were growing up, he would watch him as he rose and got ready for school, stumbling sleepily, pulling his jeans up his legs and shoving his feet into his boots. His hair always stood up in a tousled mess that made Sam's heart ache for as long as he could remember. Dean would mumble, stepping as lightly as possible to try not to wake Sam, and as he would pass Sam's bed, the younger Winchester would shut his eyes and even his breathing, just listening to the sound of Deans steps to the kitchenettes of the motels that became their childhood homes.
Sam would watch Dean in the hallways of the many schools they'd attended—and to the passing stranger it looked like Dean was Sam's hero, which he was, but that's not why he watched him.
He'd peer around lockers, staring at Dean as he sauntered down hallways, never bothering to carry books along, because what was the point? He always seemed to have his own gravity—and girls followed him with puppy eyes, right into Janitors closets, the back of the Impala, Under the bleachers, and though Sam never knew why, he would always send those girls hateful glares when Dean looked away for a second too long.
As he'd grown, he would stay up to watch Dean sleep when their father was away, and in this way he'd memorized the way Dean moved. The unconscious slide of his fingers over the cheap cotton sheets, the twitch of his nose as he dreamed, the whisper soft breath that breezed through his lips.
He knew it wasn't right to sit up at night, and quietly kneel beside his brothers bed, lay his face beside Dean's and drink in the beautiful features that were as familiar to him as his own. But when Dean would mumble in his sleep, on the rare occasion it happened, and he would whisper Sammy, and Sam would lose all semblance of sanity and ever so lightly, brush his lips against his brothers cheek, his forehead, and crawl back to his own bed, trying to ignore the tight feeling in his chest that's fighting to pull him closer and closer to Dean every day.
In all honesty, Sam had to admit that even after he left for Stanford—even after he met Jess, that tight knot was still there.
Jess was sunshine and flowers and peace, all the things that Sam had wanted in a life of constant violence and blood and fear—she was always smiling at him, her eyes filled with sweetness that Sam, in all his life, had never known before. Jess was warm and soft and she smelled good and never came through the door bleeding or drunk of toting other girls along—he loved her because she wasn't Dean. But, he can never lie to himself convincingly enough to believe that he was in love with her.
So when Dean came through his door that night, it was like a punch in the gut, because two years can change a lot about a person—but Dean hadn't changed a bit. Sam stared at him through the dark, right back to where he started, watching Dean while Dean watched everyone else.
The rest is history, and none of it really matters because he's sitting on this bed with it's itchy sheets, breathing in Dean's exhaled breath and wondering what it would be like to pass his hand over his big brothers cheek, down his neck, across the expanse of his wide, muscled shoulder and down his arm, to twine his fingers with Deans and lift his hand, to press his lips to each finger, to silently tell him all the things he's felt since he was ten years old.
He doesn't move from his bed.
::
The morning sends weak shafts of sunlight through the thin curtains over the windows, and the light struggled to illuminate the darkness of the room. Sam shifted in his sleep, whimpering as the light spilled across his face. He knew he should've gone to sleep earlier, but even when he'd laid down, closed his eyes, he always found himself opening them again—watching Dean.
Dean, hearing Sam's noise of mild distress slowly began to rouse, and Sam opened his eyes to watch.
The older Winchester stretched his long arms, his lips falling open in a groan—green eyes slowly opening to the prospect of a new day, their color always enough to make Sam shiver, bite his lips and turn away. Dean slowly levered himself up, and reached a hand across to Sam, the warmth of his skin against the bare skin of Sams back is almost too much, but Sam fakes waking anyway. He sits up and rolls his shoulders and mumbles with false drowsiness about food and a shower, and hides himself in the bathroom to deal with the ever tightening knot that will never go away.
With water falling against his skin, gently washing Dean's hand-print from his lower back, Sam allows himself to day-dream. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall, his imagination conjuring up Dean's lips against his neck, strong arms around his waist, pulling him ever closer. He breathes out harshly and sees Dean's strong fingers dance up his chest, stopping to lay his hand over his heart, to feel the pounding rhythm that always seemed to beat out Dean's name. DeanDean DeanDean.
Sam imagines Dean's voice in his ear, whispering sweet "i love you"s that make Sam melt against him, and finally the feeling of Dean's hands around the most intimate parts of him, his lips against Sam's, blissful friction and glorious need so great that Sam can forget that it's not really Dean's hands, but his own.
The shower is over far too quickly, and he takes his time getting dressed, pulling the jeans up over his hips, slowly buttoning the shirt. He feels raw and open and vulnerable. He always feels this way after imagining Dean, and so it's even harder to exit the small tiled room and pretend like he's not in love with the man humming Black Sabbath as he packs up the bags and smiles at his little brother.
It's been this way forever though, and so it's second nature to smile back, to help shove clothes and food and guns into their respective bags, to laugh when Dean does a little dance to the tune in his head, and to follow him to the Impala, keeping the feelings locked inside of him where no one can see.
::
It's several weeks before anything of note happens. They finish a hunt down in Alabama and head back to their Motel sweaty and bloody—nothing new for a Winchester.
Sam watches Dean limp his way to the door of their room. His ankle is undoubtedly twisted, but Sam knows that Dean wont say anything, because Sam's got a pretty nasty cut on his thigh that needs tending, and he can feel a few more on his shoulders that'll need stitches. Something rises up in Sam's throat, something that almost feels like tears, because it's always been Dean taking care of him, forever—but sometimes Sam needed to take care of Dean too.
When the door clicks shut, Dean turns back to Sam and gruffly tells him to sit on the bed. Sam crosses his arms defiantly. "You're hurt." He says.
Dean rolls his eyes, "I'm not nearly as banged up as you. Sit your ass down." He speaks with the this isn't up for discussion tone, and Sam knows there's no use in fighting with him.
"Dean. Your ankle is probably sprained." Just because it's a losing battle, doesn't mean that Sam's not going to fight it.
The almost-argument ends when Dean grabs Sam by the upper arms, and pushes him down onto the bed. Sam may be bigger, but Dean, in the end is stronger.
He sighs, watching his brother limp to the first aid kit stashed in one of the weapon bags, trying to ignore Dean's wince when he moves the wrong way. The thick feeling in his throat is back and it's choking him, he doesn't care that he's bleeding out from the gouge in his thigh, because Dean's eyes just flashed with pain and Sam's cursing every creepy crawly thing out there because this is Dean's life and his life and he would probably see that look in his brothers eyes countless more times and he hates it.
Dean knelt in front of his brother, setting the timeworn white box on the bed and mumbling for Sam to pull his pants down. Sam swallowed thickly and slipped the ripped denim over the wound, letting it pool around his ankles and rolling up the leg of his boxers far enough for Dean to be able to get at the cut.
It was messy and bloody and made Dean feel sick to his stomach as he poured alcohol over the flesh of Sam's leg, feeling his brother grab onto his shoulder for support, biting down on his lip to hold back the pained gasp. If there was one thing he hated, more than the life, it was the after affects. The fights that left him and Sam broken and bloody, and more than once, dead.
Once the wound was clean, Dean glanced up at his brother, the needle gripped tightly in his hand. Sam stared back levelly. He'd been through this before, it was anything but new—but he still grabbed onto Dean's shoulder and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
The first stitch burns, almost worse than the alcohol before it. His fingers spasm and dig into the dips where Dean's muscles overlap. He tries not to think about it too much.
Eventually, the pain dulls, but it's a large cut, and Dean runs out of thread, has to turn away for more. Sam watches his face, the intensity in his eyes is so familiar to him that he can read it like a book. Sam can almost feel Dean beating himself up inside, and it kills him, because in the end, it was Sam's own fault that he got hurt. Dean would never realize that though.
When the cut is finally sewn, Dean reaches for the bandages, and the pain fades almost completely. The silence in the room is total and deafening, it bleaches out the sounds from the road outside and the huffs of their breathing through their own separate aches. Dean is so intent, so focused, because it's always Dean taking care of Sam.
Sam lifts his leg when Dean nudges his knee, bandages in hand, and doesn't bother insisting that he could do this part on his own. He watches, biting his lip when Dean pulls the knot too tight. Dean looks up, concerned, and Sam's faced with forest green and lips that look like rose petals and too close, too close. He tries breathe, smile, tell Dean he's fine—but Dean's eyes are probing and deep and Sam can smell the smell that never seems to wash off of Dean's skin and it's getting hard to focus.
Dean pulls back suddenly, clearing his throat, his eyes on the first aid kit again. "Turn around and take your shirt off. I've gotta do your shoulders now."
Sam doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed, so he settled for standing up and pulling the blood stained shirt over his head before flopping face first onto the bed, giving Dean access to the wounds that dotted his upper back.
Once again, the burning sting of alcohol has Sam gasping, trying not to cry out like a child, and Dean swallows back the hatred as he watches the liquid roll off of Sammy's defined shoulders and seep into the covers of the bed. For a long moment, he couldn't take his eyes off the quickly drying trails that mapped Sam's muscled back. When had he grown up? He hadn't been this way when he left for College, and though Sam had been shirtless plenty of times—Dean hadn't ever really paid attention. "Dean? You ok?"
Dean jumped, jerking his thoughts back to his brother, who'd turned his face to gaze up at him innocently from the bed. He nodded, clearing his throat and rubbing his hands over his face. He got off with the excuse of "Just a bit tired Sam." And moved back to grab the needle and thread again.
Sam pressed his face into the covers, his fingers clenching the cheap material bracing himself for the sting of the first stitch. He felt Dean's hand slide up the bed, resting over his own, gently pressing against his whitened knuckles, relaxing Sam. He took deep breaths, relaxed his hand and went limp against the bed. He could hear Dean's intake of breath, and then the burning puncture of the needle though the broken skin.
By the time all of Sam's six cuts are taken care of, Dean is a mess. It's obvious that he's hurting, and he's also exhausted. Sam doesn't even know what other injuries Dean might have, any blood stains are hidden entirely by his black shirt and stoic expression.
Dean helps Sam to sit up, his arms warm around his chest and back, the tape stiff on his shoulders and the knot tight around his thigh. Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, turning his gaze to his battered brother. Dean finally lets himself sink onto the mattress beside Sam, leaning down to pull his boots from his aching feet, leaving Sam to let his eyes wander the smooth curve of Dean's back, the graceful roll of muscle as his hands wrestle with the complicated knots. He tears his eyes away and suddenly wishes for more restrictive pants.
Dean sits up, stretching his leg out in front of him, and even from here Sam can see the swelling. He lets out a tired sigh and turns his eyes up to Deans face. "What else?" He asks. His older brother turns back, already opening his mouth to say Nothing Sam. I'm good. Sam stops him before he can begin. "Shut up and tell me." Dean narrows his eyes at his little brother and, when it seems like there will be no winning this fight, he huffs indignantly and pulls his shirt over his head.
Sam's head swims as Dean wrestles with the blood hardened material—his eyes tracing the familiar bronze tinted skin, there's a nasty gash in Deans side that's still leaking blood, and a few minor scrapes across his chest, but despite the garish sight, Sam can't get over the beauty that is Dean.
Dean finally gets the shirt over his head and turns to Sam for diagnosis. Sam winces at the gash, knowing it's going to need stitches. He can't remember the last time they used the stupid needle so much, though, he knew this particular Ghost had been quite the fighter. He tries not to dwell on it.
Sam pushes himself up off the mattress, moving around Dean to grab the first aid kit and the Ace bandage he'll need for Dean's ankle. Taking the advantage, he grabs a fresh pair of jeans and pulls them on, thanking his lucky stars that he had the strength to keep his arousal at bay.
He shuffled back around the side of the bed, back to his spot and lifted Dean's arm over his shoulder for the best angle to sew up the wound. Sam pushed all thoughts of how warm Dean's skin is against his from his mind and reaches back for the bottle of Whiskey they've been using as disinfectant and, flicking his eyes up at Dean, an apology written in them, gently poured the burning liquid over the torn skin. Dean hissed and his hand scrabbled against the smooth skin of Sam's back, below his bandaged shoulders. The pain isn't nearly as bad as some he's experienced before—but he's exhausted and his emotions were chasing each other around enough to make him dizzy.
Sam winced, feeling his brothers pain more sharply than he'd felt his own, and mumbled an apology, reaching for a fresh needle.
Dean watched his little brother work, his head bent, intently focused on making Dean better. Something warm bubbled in Dean's chest that he didn't know what to make of. His eyes roved over the sweaty tendrils of Sam's hair that rubbed against the skin of Dean's arm, The gentle look in his eyes as he sewed his brother up, and the pull of muscle under skin as he reached around Dean to grab the bandages. Dean swallowed thickly and pulled his mind from the disconcerting place that they'd been going for years now, locking himself back into the present as Sam taped the edges of the bandage to his skin.
Sam carefully put the two needles on the table to be disinfected later and started cleaning up the blood that had leaked from the cut, down Dean's stomach. The knot in his chest grew unbearably tight and he fought with everything he had not to press his lips to the skin of Dean's shoulder as he pulled back.
Dean watched carefully as Sam moved from the edge of the bed, heading to the trash can to throw away the bloodstained tissues. Sam moved carefully, keeping the weight off of his leg as he moved back to Dean, painstakingly sinking to the ground in front of his brother and reaching for the Ace bandage he'd left on the edge of the bed.
Unbidden, other images of Sam on his knees swirled up in Dean's mind, and he cursed himself for thinking it—Sam was his brother. If he ever knew.. Well, Dean didn't want to think about it, so he pushed the image of Sam, on his knees before him with Dean's dick in his mouth, out of his mind.
Sam carefully rolled the ankle of Dean's jeans up and pulled off his sock, wincing at how large it had gotten in just a short time. There was no way they were going anywhere for a while. Sighing, Sam unraveled the bandage and began to tightly wrap Dean's ankle. Pinning the fabric together, Sam struggled to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom to get both him and Dean some washcloths since showering was out of the question tonight.
Too tired to move to his own bed, Sam sat down on Dean's handing his brother his own wet towel to clean himself with and tugging off his jeans to deal with his legs after he finished his chest. They scrubbed in silence until Sam encountered an area he couldn't reach because of the thick bandages around his shoulders. "Uhm.. Dean?" He said, his voice cracking.
Dean glanced up at Sam, his expression cloudy like he'd just been dragged from a dream. "Yeah, Sam?" He waited while his brothers face flushed—and Dean couldn't help but marvel internally at the color.
"I can't.." Sam swallowed thickly, feeling like he was about to die of embarrassment. "I can't get my legs because if I bend forward the stitches will pop." He flushed even brighter as understanding dawned on Dean's face.
Clearing his throat, Dean nodded and gently pulled the damp cloth from his brothers hand. Don't think. Just don't think. He slid off the bed, careful to keep his ankle out from under him, and began from Sam's ankles up, all the while coaching himself not to think about his almost naked baby brother. It didn't work, and before long Dean was hard beneath his jeans, cursing himself for being so sick.
Above him, Sam breathed deeply in through his nose, fighting against the images racing through his brain, all centering around Dean on his knees before him. He was fighting a losing battle of control against his persistent arousal. The towel crept up his legs washing over his dirt covered knees and then stopped.
Opening his eyes he saw Dean, staring into Sam's lap with a look of awe. Fuck. Sam thought, knowing instantly that he'd lost the battle.
Dean's mouth went dry, staring at the sizable tent in Sam's boxers. He had to be imaging it right? For the longest moment Dean kept staring, oblivious to Sam squirming above him, embarrassed and afraid. If it was possible, Dean's cock became harder. Finally, his eyes flickered to Sam's face and upon seeing the horrified expression, knew he wasn't dreaming.
"Look, I can explain—" Sam began, but stopped, because how the fuck was he going to explain that he was in love with his older brother. Dean was still waiting on an explanation that wasn't going to come, and Sam closed his eyes and covered his face.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice broke the deafening silence and Sam jerked, fear swallowing him whole. Sam didn't move, couldn't move. He kept waiting for Dean to start screaming. Tell him that this was wrong, sick, bad, taboo. All things Sam already knew. But that never happened.
"Sam." Dean's voice was closer, and then he was pulling one of Sam's hands away from his face, down—and suddenly he was touching Dean through the denim of his jeans. "It's ok.. See? Me too." Dean said, his voice breathy because oh god Sam's hand was on him, and he was right there and he was going to faint, explode, die.
Sam's heart stopped, and then went into overdrive because this was better than any dream he'd ever had and he was only touching him through his jeans. But Dean didn't understand. To him, this was just lust—to Sam it would always be more, and so he had a choice to make. Tell him or back away and pretend it never happened.
Dean waited, his heart about to pound out of his chest in this deathly silence, when Sam's eyes finally met his. "Dean.." Sam began and Dean felt any hope he had fade. "I've loved you since I was ten. I would watch you sleep at night and wake up in the morning—I'd follow you in the halls, hating all the girls who threw themselves at you, wishing it was me in those closets with you, in the back of the Impala, God, Dean.." His voice broke as he watched Dean's eyes flicker with understanding. He gulped down air, pressing forward because now that it was started it needed to be finished. "I know it's wrong, I know. But I love you. I still watch you sleep, because god you're so beautiful and I hate the girls who watch you everywhere we go—I hate that you go home with them, and you go to their bed and not mine an—" But he didn't get a chance to finish because suddenly Dean's lips were against his, Dean's arms around him, pulling him to the floor so that they lay hopelessly entangled on the floor in a matter of seconds.
Dean couldn't think, all he could do was act—pull Sammy, his Sammy off the bed, and onto his body, their lips fused together with lust and love and need and so many different emotions that he couldn't begin to name. God, Sammy loved him. Loved him. Not just wanted, thought he was gorgeous, lusted after him—but loved him. And for once the whole world felt right, even though he knew it was wrong.
Sam fit so perfectly against him, his body molding against Dean's like they were made to fit together that Sam couldn't even breathe. He felt Dean against him, hard and needy through his jeans—years of pent up lust and desire pouring through him, he reached down to undo the button, pull down the zipper and shove both his jeans and boxers as far down Dean's legs as he could.
"God Sam," Dean gasped, pulling back for air. "Not on the floor." He wrapped his hands around Sam's waist, lifting him back up onto the bed and then lifted himself back to his knees. Sam, remembering his sprained ankle helped Dean up onto the bed, and once he was situated, carefully climbed into his lap, pushing his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down.
Dean groaned, finally released from the cloth and pulled Sam closer. Their lips melded together again, desperate and filled to the brim with energy, needing each other. Dean's hands slipped down Sam's back, finding the waist band of his baby brothers boxers and dipping under them to grab Sammy's ass. Sam moaned at the feeling of Dean's hands on him, like a dream, a life time of longing finally coming to fruition. He pulled his head back, lifting his hips as Dean pushed his boxers down off his hips. When they were finally naked before each other, there was a moment of breathless, tender silence.
Sam let his forehead press against Dean's, staring into the endless green of his brothers eyes—enraptured by them. "God, De, You're so beautiful." He whispered, ghosting his lips over his brothers. Beneath him, he could feel Dean shiver—his heart aching for Sam in a way it'd never ached for anyone.
Dean arched off the bed, gently fusing their mouths together—forging a bond, crossing all lines, sealing themselves into hell—and neither one cared.