Chapter 1

Truth is relative, Sam realizes about three months into his first year topside. It isn't concrete for everyone like it is for him. For Sam, either something is, or it isn't. And it applies blanketly; there are no grey areas. With people, (well, people with souls, that is) truth changes from thing to thing, person to person. He also notices that more often than not, people don't want the truth. Not really. The truth is ugly and harsh, and when people say "give it to me straight," or "I want your honest opinion," what they really want is a comforting lie.

It doesn't make sense to him. What's the point in deluding yourself? All it does is get you in varying degrees of shit later.

Dean – case in point. He wants Sam's opinions, his input. But he doesn't, really. He wants Sammy's opinions, the reserved and edited ones that he would give to placate Dean, make him happy or keep him from hurting. Sam can remember doing these things, remember his thought processes, but not having a soul really makes filtering those kind of thoughts from brain-to-mouth much more difficult.

He wishes Dean would just get the fuck over it. He's not his precious Sammy, no, but he shouldn't have to put up with all these piteous and/or incredulous looks Dean gives him every time he says something off. It makes Sam want to gouge his brother's eyes out with the keys of the Impala. But he restrains himself, because some echo of his soul reminds him that Dean is important to him. More important than anything else. And his memories of the two of them together are proof of that. Out of respect for that feeling, that echo, Sam never lays a finger on Dean.

Well, at least not out of anger. And he doesn't start with his fingers.

Twenty-three days after Sam and Dean start hunting things again without interruptions from Ben or Lisa, Sam is lying in the shitty hotel bed with scratchy sheets and lumpy pillows with his eyes closed, mulling over the clues they'd pieced together about their current hunt. They're missing something, something obvious, and it's pissing him off. He freezes when he hears a muffled sound – a moan? - from Dean's side of the room. He stills, and listens intently for a moment, and when he hears nothing, he relaxes. The moment he does, a whispered "Sammy" passes Dean's lips as another moan. Sam's cock throbs gently in arousal as he realizes what Dean is doing. The softest rustle of sheets hit Sam's ears, along with the quiet sound of skin on skin. Sam's eyes are boring holes into Dean's back from his side of the room, remaining motionless as he watches the small movements of his brother in the dark. The second time he hears Dean moan his name, he's so hard it hurts.

Fuck, De, Sam thinks as he resists the urge to grind into the sheets. Didn't know you had a thing for your baby brother. Well, that's not exactly true. The boys shared a tentative, experimental kiss that Dean initiated when Sam was about ten after watching a sex scene in some B movie on the shitty hotel cable while John was on a hunt. He remembers how soft and pliable Dean's lips were, and how he let Sam lead the kiss, even though Dean was the elder and had supposedly plenty of experience with that sort of thing. Obviously, that had been over a decade ago, and they hadn't touched since, nor did they talk about the kiss – ever - but Sam wonders what Dean's lips feel like now, what his mouth tastes like. Sam indulges in that fantasy for a few minutes, listening to the soft sounds of self-pleasure coming from his brother's sinful lips. When Dean whimpers softly from his bed, Sam can hear that his pace has increased, and Sammy's name becomes a chant- a prayer, even. He must be close. His cock throbs painfully again at the thought. He's ten seconds away from losing all control and taking Dean there and then when Dean lets out one last muffled cry of his brother's name, the sound almost completely swallowed by what Sam deduces to be a pillow his big brother was currently biting a chunk out of. Warring with himself, Sam's nails bite into his palm so harshly he knows there'll be bloody crescents in the morning. He'd rather rake bloody lines down Dean's back at this point, but he knows if he even breathes right now, Dean will probably shoot him. Soft rustling brings him back to reality, and he watches in the dark as his brother quietly slips out of his bed and into the bathroom. The second the bathroom door clicks shut, his hand is on his cock, pumping furiously.

Fuck, Dean, he thinks again, so fucking hot. He hears the faucet turn on, and he fists his cock faster, knowing if he doesn't hurry up he won't get his release before Dean comes back. He closes his eyes and pictures Dean on his knees, begging like a whore for his little brother to fuck his face, letting Sam yank on his hair, cuffed to the bed with his legs spread, scratch angry red marks across his skin, slam his cock into that tight little ass until…

"Fuck," Sam groans, biting his hand to muffle his voice as his orgasm crashes over him like a freight train. He keeps pumping slowly as he coats his stomach with his own come, riding out the last waves of bliss until he lets his head thump against the pillow with a shaky breath, his legs trembling with the force of his orgasm. Sam's no two-pump chump; Ruby could attest to that. Well, if she wasn't dead. But the incident that just took place nearly brings Sam to the edge of insanity. Or whatever insanity is to someone without a soul. After a moment to catch his breath, he yanks off his boxers and wipes himself off, then tosses the soiled garment on the floor by his bed. Once he stills, Sam hears a quiet sound coming from the bathroom that sounds an awful like a sniffle. Upon further listening, Sam realizes that it was a sniffle. Dean is crying. Sam wrinkles his nose, confused. People don't usually cry after they just get off. Well, Sam amends, they could, but not this kind of crying. These are bitter tears. Sam wouldn't have been able to tell the difference if it wasn't Dean, whom he had spent almost every second of his life right beside. He wracks his brain for a few moments before it clicks – he is crying over Sam. The Sam that isn't him. He isn''t sure about the nuances, but it's probably a combination of feeling guilty over jerking off thinking of his brother, (which Sam thinks is stupid – why feel guilty for wanting something, and taking it?) and not having his version of Sammy in the bed next to his. He thinks it's pretty pathetic, but hey, if he had a soul and had some guilty crush on his brother, who was currently soulless, he would probably cry too. He used to be a pussy like that.

Now that he's caught his breath, Sam gets up silently and pads over to the AC unit jutting out of the window, cranking it down to 62. It's too fucking hot. All the time. Everywhere. (Especially after THAT.) Sam has come to the conclusion it's because after tasting the frosty bite of Lucifer's burning touch, even chilly weather would be hot. He supresses a shiver at the memory and climbs back into the bed quickly and covers himself exactly as he was before Dean left, and his brother opens the door not a moment after he stops moving.

Dean climbs back into bed quietly and drifts off to sleep, sniffling until slumber takes him.

This exact scenario happens four times before Sam formulates a plan. He should want Dean to be happy, right? That's what you want for important people in your life, isn't it? So, Sam decides to make that happen. But that doesn't mean he can't get what he wants, too. And now, what he wants is Dean.