A/N: This was inspired... by something JamesParker (dude? Let's just say you're my muse and get on with it, m'kay?) said to me on a PM (which I won't reveal in public cause I'm embarrassed by how my mind works; seriously, y'all would laugh your ass off -even though the fic is very very sad.
A/N 2: This story is based on actual events (go easy on me in the reviews... please.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Dean and/or Sam (and for this particular fic, I'm very glad I don't...)
Story Details: (you better read this) Pre-series and vague season 1. AU. John is missing, but not unjustifiably; before he left on a job with Bobby, John had sent Dean to Palo Alto, to act as Sam's invisible protector. Dean, whom had confessed to Sam that he had feelings for him, causing Sam to reject him and leave for Stanford, reluctantly complies to his father's orders. The story then falls alongside canon (YED attaches, murdering Jessica and almost killing Sam too, but Dean arrives in time to drag his brother out of his burning house.) After that, it's AU; Sam's on the road with Dean, both akwardly avoiding each other, while on the wait for instructions from John as to what to do next. Everything goes downhill when a distraught Sam reveals to Dean that he had also had feelings for him from before he left for college but the whole situation had been too much to handle...
Warnings: (for all chapters) Angst like whoa! Profanity. Generically Dark Themes. Dub-Con. Sexual Abuse. Mild Bondage (of sorts). Violence. Graphic Masturbation. Graphic Dean/OFC. Eventual Wincest. Eventual Schmoop.

"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us; and sometimes, they win." Stephen King

Nashville, Tennessee

Five weeks.

Five, unbearably long, weeks ago Dean had driven his beloved Impala as fast (and far) from California as humanly possible. Sam had been riding shotgun beside him, mostly in a catatonic state for the greater part of their route.

Four days ago the boys had skidded to a halt, and Dean, arms aching from putting miles and miles behind him all on his own (seen as Sam had been in no condition to drive,) had checked them into a motel -close to the border of Nashville.

Sam had locked himself in the bathroom of said motel ever since, without as much as a word to Dean. Dean had been left alone, to listen helplessly as his brother had sobbed and wailed and cried out Jessica's name and apologies non-stop. Dean had intensely pounded against the door, demanding to be let in, to no avail and to only cause Sam to mourn even more severely. After debating with himself, whether or not to break down the door that separated them and somehow console his brother, Dean had caved into staring at the walls around him in despair.

Sam finally emerged from his makeshift nest this morning, looking significantly more calm and composed, despite his blood rimmed eyes and sorrowful expression. He had even suggested at Dean (or, rather, at his nightstand -since Sam's eyes did eveything they could to avoid his brother's gaze) to go out and bring back some breakfast and some much needed coffee for the both of them.

Dean had agreed, grateful to be away from Sam for a while.

As soon as his younger brother had bolted out of the door, Dean had fumbled with his phone, impatiently typing Dad's number.

"This is John Winchester. I can t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean. 785-555-0179. He can help."

"C'mon, Dad. You're killing me here," Dean moaned frustrated as he snapped his phone shut.

Fed up with not knowing what to do, Dean headed for the bathroom to take a very much belated shower.

...

Dean was vigorously brushing his teeth, his body finally clean and dressed in fresh clothes, when he heard Sam's key turning in the lock of the motel's door. Dean spat toothpaste and saliva into the sink, before he shifted to his left, to steal a weary glance at Sam.

Well, at least Sam was looking at him. That was the first time in almost four years it had happened.

For a second both men paused and stared at each other.

Then Sam dropped his gaze and continued towards the table, where he disposed the bags he was carrying, sat and opened his laptop. Dean watched him out of his peripheral vision. He wondered if the younger man was as miserable as he was. He didn't look it. Sam wasn't smiling or anything, but he looked... great. Sam's eyes were still a bit puffy, but his clothes were perfectly clean, not one wrinkle in sight on his plain, black T-shirt or his ripped jeans, his long bangs falling casually against his forehead... ridiculously girlie, as always.

Dean's face almost flickered into a fond smile, but he managed to prevent it. How pathetic was he? Four years of avoidance and he was still hopelessly in love with his brother, as much as he ever had been. Dean turned, and faced the sink again, raising his head to stare at his reflexion inside the small mirror above it. Wouldn't it ever go away?

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, I just- I think I'm in love with you."

"Dean, if this is supposed to be a joke it's anything but funny!"

"Dude, I'm not shitting you! I want... damn, I wanna be with you all the time. It pisses me off when I have to go on a hunt with Dad. I miss you like crazy, not to mention I hate leaving you alone."

"You don't know what you're saying. This is incest; it's illegal!"

"I know, Sam! Fuck do I know it. But I don't care, as long as I have you nothing else-"

"I'm going to college."

"...What? No..."

"I... I'm leaving, Dean. I got accepted at Stanford. I have the chance to do something in my life."

"Sammy, don't do this."

"I'm sorry, I- This is it. This is my opportunity to have a normal life; I can't throw it away."

"Don't leave me."

"I- I can't."

Dean gave up on trying to figure out if his messed up feelings would ever untangle themselves and reached for his towel to dry his face and hands. Behind him he heard the soft tapping noises Sam's fingers were producing, sliding against the laptop's keyboard.

Well, it was time for this almost-interaction to draw to a close. Dean snuck another half-look at Sam on the pretence of scanning the table for his keys, and then picked up his .45 from his nightstand and tucked it against the small of his back. Styrofoam cup in his hand, Dean murmured an uncertain "thank you" for the coffee, as he headed for the door -having no idea where he was going, only that he couldn't stay in such close quarters with Sam.

He had reached out his hand to pull the door open when he heard his name.

"Dean," Sam said.

For about a second, Dean thought he was having an auditory hallucination as he slowly turned on the spot to face his brother. Yes, Sam was looking at him. Directly at him. He had risen from his chair and it looked like he wanted to ask Dean something.

"Was it true? What you had said... back then."

There was probably only one thing Sam could mean by that, but Dean decided he needed clarification anyway. Obviously Sam didn't want to say the words out loud, so Dean would do it for him. "You mean about me being in love with you?"

Sam averted his gaze onto the floor briefly. "Yes," he muttered, "That."

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said, looking at Sam, who was still staring downward, "I meant it."

Sam didn't say anything else for a long time, and Dean continued on his attempt of exiting, but as soon as his fingers met the handle of the door Sam spoke again.

"Is it still true?" he asked.

Dean slowly turned around again wondering where this whole thing was heading. Sam was shyly looking up at him.

Dean scratched the back of his neck and nodded, "I don't think it's something that's gonna change anytime soon."

Sam nodded, and Dean waited a bit for him to say something else. When he didn't, Dean turned back around for the third time. He was about to leave when he decided to ask his own doorknob question. "Why are you asking?"

Sam sighed. "I've been thinking," he admitted, and for a second Dean felt a flutter of hope in his chest. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you, back then. I was..." he caught Dean's gaze and held it, "I... " Sam shrugged, "I just want us to be okay again."

Dean felt his heart pounding in his chest. Was this for real? Sam wanted to reconcile with him after all these years? After all that had happened between them? Dean wanted more than anything to hope, to hope he could have his Sammy in his life again, but he was hesitant. He took a few steps closer to Sam, studying him carefully. "And what about the fact that I'm in love with you?" Dean asked, his tone serious. "Doesn't it bother you?"

Sam shook his head. "It doesn't bother me, cause I think- No, I know... Dean, I- I'm in love with you too." Sam gave a heavy sigh that expelled a rush of air, and then he looked quickly up at Dean and started babbling, as though he needed to explain himself. "I think it's why I left in the first place. I had started to notice things; feeling things... that I was afraid to acknowledge, and then I went to college and I met Jessica and I started seeing her, trying to keep any thoughts of you repressed, cause I didn't know what was going on or what to do or what I wanted, but then I was missing you like crazy, and those feelings started dwelling on again, and then Yellow Eyes came and Jess was burning and I couldn't help her and I just wanted you there, and when you came and I saw you... I just wanted to run inside your arms and it terrified the crap out of me, and then I was depressed, because, honestly, Jessica was a great girl and none of this was her fault and she didn't deserve to die!" Sam sobbed at this point, tears, for the lovely blonde he had loved but hadn't been able to fall in love with, running down his cheeks as he hiccuped, "And I can't help but think that maybe if I had stayed with you, when you told me how you felt, Jessie would still be alive, and for the past few weeks I've been feeling so guilty for her death it almost got me sick, but, simultaneously, I couldn't ignore the fact that I'm with you again, and I... I've missed you so bad, and all I want is to be with you." Sam finally ran out of either air or things to say, and he looked up at Dean with a terrified expression on his face, as though Dean would deny him; tell him that he didn't want him anymore.

Partially, Sam was right, since Dean, disregarding his impressive speech, became fixated on one thing; one small detail. "You said you didn't believe me at first. What does that mean, exactly?" he asked.

"I... I didn't think you were serious," Sam explained, looking deflated that out of everything, Dean had focused on that.

"Excuse me?" Dean demanded, his suspisions confirmed.

"Dean, c'mon, to how many girls had you said sweet little nothings to get into their pants?"

"Hold on a sec, let me see if I got that straight," Dean seethed, pintching the bridge of his nose, feeling suddenly as if he was rapidly developing a headache. "You thought you were gonna be one more piece of ass to me? Someone I'd fuck and then throw away?" he clarified, dragging the sentence past his teeth so slowly, to the point it took him almost a full minute to get it out of his mouth.

"I... I don't know. It's just-" Sam looked away again, quite obviously dejected, "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I knew you like the 'Wham, bam, thank-you-ma'am' type. You hadn't been serious about anyone up until then and I-"

Dean wasn't listening anymore. All this... the separation, the uncertainty, the days and weeks and months Dean had angsted -and trembled- for his brother's safety... the heartache he had felt every single day for four years... It was all because Sam had made the assumption that Dean was a creepy, lust-crazed bastard?

"I hate you," Dean cut off Sam's rambling, his voice flat and absolute, "I hate the fact that you ruined the only thing I've ever cared for; our family." His eyes turned on Sam, but they were unable to focus, as if Dean had been blinded. He was so utterly angry with Sam that he wasn't seeing him.

"I hate the easiness with which you left me. I hate Stanford and all the little intellectual buddies you made there, who would look at me as if I was a monkey in a lab. I hate Jessica and that you were gonna propose," Dean spat each word along with venom, disgusted with the way his voice cracked as if he was about to cry. His gut clutched viciously inside him, as if to reprimand, to remind him that he had no right to talk about an innocent, dead girl like that.

"I hate that you moped around all these weeks, like you're the only person on the planet that has lost someone. I hate the way you've shut me out, as if you believe I couldn't possibly understand how you feel," he accused again and again, not knowing if he'd be able to stop now that he had gotten the hang of it.

"Stop!" Sam demanded looking as if he was in pain, "You don't know how much it hurts to-"

"I lost you," Dean hollowed in such agony it startled him, "Yes, you didn't die, but that's just worse cause you chose to leave me."

"And you might not remember Mom but I do," he added, unable to contain himself, "And she was much more important than a girlfriend who had no clue who you really are, Sam!" Dean admonished, not even caring that Sam had started to gasp and pant as if he had a hard time breathing.

"Mom was everything to me! And for the last 20 years, I've spend every day wishing I had her back! So don't you dare talk to me about pain! Don't you dare tell me I don't know what it feels like!" Dean heaved for breath, as he ran a hand across his face only to get even angrier with Sam when he discovered wetness on it.

"You think I didn't have dreams?" Dean snarled at him, a rush of satisfaction taking him by surprise when Sam cringed at his accusatorial tone, "'Think I didn't wanna go to school, settle somewhere, make a life? I did. I had plans, Sam -tons of them!"

Dean paused to take a breath, but it didn't help -his voice came out tired when he continued. "But, unlike your versions of normality, mine included you. I was never able to see myself without you; I didn't want to," he said, averting his gaze to stare hard at the floor.

For a moment, Dean wanted to snatch Sam and just beat the crap out of him. Make him pay physically for all the emotional pain Dean had to endure all those years for him. Then, a thought crossed his mind and, even though the rational part of his brain protested strongly that he wouldn't be able to do that to Sam -he wouldn't be able to bare it, Dean decided there was another way to make Sam pay for everything he had done to him. A much more painful way than via punches and kicks.

"Why now?" Dean asked absentmindly, weels turning in his head, trying to come up with a well-structured plan.

"What?" Sam questioned disoriented.

"You heard me," Dean growled with anger, "Explain to me why you're telling me all this now, but when I wanted you, you bailed."

"That's not fair," Sam protested weakly, "I didn't leave cause I didn't want you. I was young and scared and-"

"What about me?" Dean snapped, his temper wearing thin, "I was all mature and tranquil about being in love with my little brother? That's what you think?"

"No, I just-" Sam tried but stopped when he couldn't find the words.

" You just nothing," Dean rudely concluded. "Tell me why."

"Cause I can't be without you anymore," Sam threw his hands in the air exasperated.

"Boo fuckin' hoo," Dean tossed back. "That's not enough, Sam," he shook his head disappointed.

"Why?" the younger male inquired desperately.

"Cause when I couldn't be without you, you left me. That's why," Dean forced out through gritted teeth.

"But it's different now," Sam countered, but to no vail.

"Different, huh?" Dean smirked, a plan forming in his mind. He wanted Sam to show him what he meant; convince him that he'd give up everything to be with Dean. For a moment, he was certain he wanted Sam to hurt. To make him suffer the same -if not more- feelings of rejection, inadequacy, humiliation, Dean had been through when Sam walked away from him.

When your heart breaks it can grow back crooked; it can grow back twisted and gnarled and hard. If Sam thought of Dean as an asshole who only thinks about sex and how to get some... that was exactly what Sam would get. Dean felt something dark and twisted washing over him as Sam's gaze turned from confused to fearful.

"Prove it," he demanded, his voice a guttural sound that made his own skin crawl.