A/N: Hello everyone and welcome to my Supernatural Fanfic. I'm super excited that you've decided to give this a look and I do hope you enjoy it. I want to give a very big thank you to my amazing Beta Exp232, who has some amazing material posted on this site that you should all totally read, and I also want to say that, obviously, I don't own Supernatural. I also don't own any of the songs I will be using throughout the course of this fanfiction. So, without further ado, I present to you: The Build Up.

I want you to notice when I'm not around

You're so fucking special

I wish I was special

-Radio Head

The motel was old and shabby just like many of the other places they'd stayed. That didn't really bother either of the Winchester boys, though. In fact, they were happy the hotel had a vacancy at all, and even more pleased that there was a room with two beds. Not that the boys really gave a flying fuck about sharing right about then, considering how fucking exhausted they were from hunting. However, Dean was also aware of the fact that Sammy wasn't exactly the sharing type. With his large frame and long limbs, Sam always hogged the bed on the very rare occasions when the brothers had to share a bed and, quite frankly, Dean liked to be able to sleep at night without someone else's arms and legs all over him.

"I call shower first," Sam said, tossing the room key on the closest bed and setting his laptop down on the dresser as he ran passed. He began shedding his clothes (shoes, jacket, socks) as he headed for the bathroom so Dean wouldn't have time to protest. As he reached his destination and closed the door, he didn't really think much of leaving Dean behind to do all the locking up. He was the oldest after all, and looking after Sam was his job, so he'd be just fine.

"Bitch," Dean yelled as he slammed the front door shut and locked it. He could hear Sam's muffled response of "jerk" before the sound of rushing water followed. Dean shook his head, fighting back a laugh.

The moment he heard the shower running, Dean began a quick check of the room to make sure the door and the window were the only places of entrance. It was more out of habit than the real need to feel secure since most of these dumps only had the two frames anyway. Afterwards, he salted and, as usual, sat down on the bed and waited for his turn in the bathroom.

The silence of the room was unnerving. It was a new place, and Dean couldn't say he was properly adjusted to the new change in their routine. Normally Dean was the first in the shower and once he was clean he'd go out and find a nearby bar. He'd have a few drinks, hit on a few chicks, and by the time he was heading back to their temporary home Sam would be knocked out or doing research.

Of course, this familiar pattern meant that Sam was left with warding the room because, unlike Dean, Sam was the type of person who always needed to do something. Not that the task took a long time, but Sam seemed to appreciate the busy-work. Dean liked it that way as well, since a busy Sam meant a happy Sam, not to mention one less annoying chore for Dean, who was always pleased whenever he could shoulder off a bit of responsibility.

While he tarried, Dean downed a few beers to work himself into a warm buzz. He'd sleep better if he was a little inebriated, and the buzz helped him ignore the pain, helped him forget about things he didn't like to remember. Things like Sammy being stabbed, or Devils Gate being opened, or the deal Dean made with the Crossroads Demon. Hell, even the fact that Dean shouldn't have been alive to have made the deal in the first place. Not to mention, getting a bit sauced always seemed to help pass the time, considering Sammy was such a fucking girl and always showered longer after a hunt, meticulously "cleaning" himself.

When his baby brother finally left the bathroom with a towel around his waist, Sam jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and said, "All yours."

Normally, Dean didn't have to be told twice, however, now that his brother didn't have any clothes obstructing his view, or blood, dirt and leaves all over Sam, Dean saw just how bad his brother's injuries were: lip split and puffy, a knick above his eyebrow, and jaw was a little bruised. Over all, though, his face was fine. It was Sam's torso that bared the bulk of his injuries.

Raw and red, Sam's chest was sporting four diagonal gashes. They looked deep and the wounds had already started swelling. There were bruises everywhere, worsening around Sam's ribcage, and small cuts running along his skin like tiny, red veins.

Bile rose in his throat. Fighting to keep it down, Dean tried not to eyeball the scar on Sammy's back as he turned around and looked through his duffle bag for something. There were a few black and blue areas on Sam's back accompanying his scar, abrasions he got from having been dragged across the ground. The icing on the cake was the slight limp Sam had developed. He was favoring his right leg.

An image of the Wendigo grabbing Sam flashed through Dean's mind. Dean thought back to their past hunts and realized that in most cases, Sam got the short end of the straw.

No wonder he always took long showers.

"Sammy," Dean's voice was tight. It was strangely amusing how seeing Sam banged up made Dean immediately lose his buzz.

Fuck, he should have protected him!

He should have thought faster than Sammy and grabbed that man before he ran out of the protective circle.

Maybe Sammy shouldn't have been such an idiot and let that guy die.

No...that was wrong. That was their job; protecting people. Dean had lectured Sam with that simple fact enough for it to have stuck with himself as well. But fuck, that didn't do jack-shit to make Dean feel like he deserved to be even considered a good brother. He was painfully failing at his job. Again.

"Sam, those wounds..." Dean trailed off. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. John had always taught them to suck up their pain, to brush it off as if it didn't exist, but did that count for something as bad as this?

"I'm fine, Dean," came Sam's exasperated reply as he slipped into his boxers. "These really aren't all that deep," Same explained as he began carefully cleaning out the lacerations, grimacing from the sting of the alcohol. "I think the Wendigo was just pissed off, so it scratched me up a bit. I've had worse. Besides, that man is alive, and we found his sister."

That was Sammy, always looking on the bright side.

After a short moment of silence, Dean said, "Still looks like it hurts."

"It does, but it's really no big deal," Sam grunted as he began wrapping gauze around his torso. Dean offered to help but Sam brushed him off. "I'm not a baby, Dean. Besides, you should shower. You stink."

"Oh, like you didn't smell like shit before you got in there."

"Yeah but I don't smell like shit now," Sam smirked.

Dean just shook his head, ignoring the pain crawling up his chest at the thought of Sam not wanting-not needing- his help. He brushed off the urge to slap Sammy upside his thick skull. Instead, he glared at his brother and pointed in the fatherly fashion of his and said, "never do something that stupid again, Sammy, or I'll hurt you myself," because I didn't bring you back for you to die before my year is up.

Dean had already reached the bathroom before he heard Sam sarcastically mumbled, "So much for always protecting me."

Even though Sam said it in a light and joking manner, it still stung. Did Sam think otherwise, despite the casual tone? Was there truth in his words, hinting at a deeper question Sam had trouble finding an answer to? God, Dean hoped not, because the answer was simple, just as it had always been; there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Sammy. Not a damn thing.

"Fuck you, too, bitch," Dean chuckled, forcing away a sense of apprehension with the closing of the bathroom door, barely catching Sam's regular comeback.

"Jerk!"

I don't care if it hurts

I want to have control

Twenty minutes later, Dean was trying to clear his head more than his body. The eldest Winchester, for now anyways, turned off the water and exited the bathroom. As Dean had suspected, and sort of hoped (another reason why he'd stayed in the bathroom so long), Sam was already asleep. What he hadn't expected, though, was Sammy falling asleep on his bed. He scowled and went over to his brother, giving him a light shake. He really hated to wake Sam, but it came down to one of those unspoken rules they had; Dean always slept closest to the door. Not because he liked it or he wanted to, but because he was the oldest and he had to protect Sam.

"Sammy," he called out as he rummaged through the duffle bag and pulled out a pair of sweats. He slipped into them, hoping Sam would respond to the sound of his voice like he always did, but when Sam didn't stir, Dean shook his brother and called his name a bit louder. "Sammy, wake up. You need to move."

"Uh-uh. 'M too tired to move, De," Sam slurred. It was sort of cute, but Dean didn't have time for cute.

"You've got two choices; get your Sasquatch ass up and move or I'll move you myself," Dean threatened as he double checked the salt lines. They were fine, he knew that, but it was something to do while he waited for Sam to move.

Sam growled and rolled over to glare at Dean; half awake and all angry. "You've got two choices: sleep in the other bed or crawl in beside me. I'm sore and tired as hell, Dean. If you don't recall, I got my 'Sasquatch ass' handed to me by a Wendigo. I'm not moving." Sam rolled back over and pulled the covers up around him even more.

Dean smirked. So that's how Sammy wants to play? Well fine, two can play this game.

With a huff of false aggravation, Dean pushed gently on Sam's shoulder. "Scoot over and share, princess."

"Ugh! Really Dean? You can't go get in the other bed?" Dean only chuckled as Sam threw his hands up in exasperation and covered his face in frustration. He'd officially sent Sam into bitch mode, but Dean didn't really care. He only had so much time left to torment his brother, after all, and he wanted to make it count.

"This is my bed, bitch. You know that. Besides, you offered."

"I didn't think you'd take me seriously. Go away."

"No. I'll sleep where I damn well please."

Sam groaned again, but he rolled over and allowed Dean access to the bed. Dean could only smirk as he listened to his brother muttering, 'stupid Dean and his stupid rules. Stupid jerk-face,' and so on and so forth. "I love you too, Sammy."

"Shut up," Sam hissed. Dean complied without question.

Of course, that wasn't the end of it. Dean never did know when to give up. Shifting a bit so that his back was to Sam's he slipped his hand in his pants and began stroking himself, thinking about that busty blonde he'd met in a bar earlier in the week. Yeah, she had been hot in a pouty let-me-give-it-to-you-rough sort of way.

The uncomfortable squirming beside Dean let him know that Sam knew exactly what Dean was doing before he asked. Hell, Dean wasn't even sure why Sam asked, but that was Sam after all, so inquisitive.

"What are you doing?" Sam's voice went an octave higher like it did sometimes when he was really confused or offended, but knew the answer to his question. And God, Sam almost sounded like a chick. Dean groaned, squeezing his cock just a little as he continued pumping, twisting at the head and then coming back down to slick the precum along his length.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"Thats gross, Dean. What's wrong with you?"

"This is why we have separate beds. You can move."

"No, this is why there is a bathroom, you pervert!"

Dean continued making noise, being none too quiet either, just to fuck with Sam. It was times like these that Dean knew why he would never win the brother-of-the-year award. When he wasn't failing Sam by accident, he was failing him on purpose, doing anything he could just to get a rise out of Sammy. It was childish and, on occasion, inappropriate, but Dean couldn't help himself. And, God, did Sammy have to just lie there and complain? The other bed was a few feet away and Sam was closer to it now than he was before Dean woke him up. And shit, Dean was really close to being done. Like seriously, rest easy, done and Sam wasn't moving but he kept complaining, and no, Dean was notgetting harder at the sound of his brothers voice. Things were about to get really awkward because Dean couldn't stop now.

"Dean," Sam's voice was hard and desperate. A cross between a whine and a groan (maybe a moan) and suddenly the image of that busty blonde was Sam; pouty lips and sultry green eyes and fuck it was doing something really weird to him. Then Sammy was squirming again and it was driving Dean wild. So much so that he could feel the need to release even stronger now. The tension in his muscles, the fire in the pit of his stomach; all the tell-tale signs that told him to increase his speed and the friction, which he did, while conjuring up more images of Sam to get him off. Then, Sam called his name again, in that whiney and girly voice of his, and that was enough to throw Dean over the edge. He came violently.

The temporary high was amazing, like nothing Dean had ever felt by simply jacking off. When he came to, however, he realized that Sam was still in the bed next to him, panting heavily, as if he could throttle Dean if he weren't in so much pain. Suddenly Dean felt disgusting.

Reaching over to the nightstand for a few tissues, he cleaned his hand and tried not to think about what it meant that Sam had been his poster girl. He told himself that it wasn't Sam's voice that had triggered the natural reaction, regardless of the fact that Dean had thought about him in that way. Instead, Dean convinced himself that Sam calling out to him had been horribly, but perfectly, timed with his orgasm which was predestined to happen just when it did, since Dean had been so close anyway. It was bound to happen eventually. After all, being in love with Sam had nothing to do with it. Samhad nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

Recovering from his orgasm quickly (and now that his hand was clean) Dean reached for Sam, trying to form the words of an apology, but Sam just brushed him off with the jerk of his shoulder, as if he never wanted to be touched by Dean again. Instant guilt seized Dean's throat, making it hard to breathe. It was even worse when, with a hiss, Sam slid painfully slow out of the bed and just as carefully made his way to the other one, curling up on his side and making sure his back was turned to Dean.

"I hate you," Sam whispered, so softly that Dean almost hadn't heard him, and the words shook Dean down to his core. He couldn't tell if they were said angrily in the heat of the moment, or if they reflected how Sam truly felt about...well...everything. Dean was afraid to ask.

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo

What the hell I'm doing here? I don't belong here.