PROLOGUE
The beer was damn good.
Dean took a long, indulgent sip, twirling the ice cubes around with the tip of his finger. The smell of sex and sweat filled the room: bodies meshed together, hands on hips, slicked mouths pressed together in unison. If there was one thing about hunting that Dean enjoyed, it was the bars they'd frequent to research at.
Pretty girls. Loud music. Alcohol.
It was a recipe for a happy Dean.
Sam on the other hand… not so much. His younger brother had his hands fisted around either side of his head, curling into his hair. His face was bent inches away from his laptop, and he hadn't touched his cocktail. One of the bartenders kept shooting him flirty winks, but Sam's eyes were laser-focused on his screen.
Irately, Dean ambled over to Sam. He slapped him hard on the back. "Sammy, you still researching?"
Sam's face twitched. "Yeah."
Dean eyed the sexy blonde barista. "You're researching when that hot chick clearly wants to play with you?"
Noticing her for the first time, Sam offered a shy smile to the bartender. However, his eyes immediately flew back to his laptop. He wasn't interested. Or, better stated, he couldn't afford to be interested. After what he'd done… he didn't deserve to mess around with girls. He didn't deserve soft kisses and long hair and pretty eyes.
"Vampire killings," Dean said, leaning over to peer at the screen.
"Looks like it." Sam wished Dean wouldn't lean in so close: he could smell the beer from his brother, and it wasn't pleasant.
"I think that's a fine case you've found there." Dean straightened up. "But I say we ought to take a break." He smirked seductively at a hot brunette. "You know… have some fun."
Sam looked irritated. "Is that all you think about?" he muttered. "Sex?" He said the word bitterly.
"Aw, Sam, you jealous you 'aint getting some?"
It was meant to be a joke, but there was a strange flash in Sam's eyes – gone before Dean could analyze it.
"I don't want sex," Sam mumbled.
"You don't – now, c'mon dude, every hot-blooded male wants sex. It's a male gene or something."
"You're so full of shit," Sam said.
"It's true. We evolved to have sex," Dean said.
"And you know nothing about biology," Sam concluded.
Dean made an offended sound, before taking another long gulp of beer. He sloshed the half-full bottle.
"Want me to hook you up?"
Maybe he should have let the subject drop, because Sam bristled.
"Just let it go," Sam snapped. "I'm not in the mood."
"Even for that rack?" Dean said suggestively, still wondering how his brother could pass up that beautiful blonde.
Sam's fingers curled around his own cocktail: his face went milky white. "You're such an ass Dean," he said. "She's a person, not a piece of meat."
Dean arched a lazy brow: the alcohol in his system relaxing his tight bones. "I didn't know you were such a feminist."
"I'm not – " Sam rubbed his face with his hands. "God, you're impossible."
Dean flashed a grin. "S'my job."
The older Winchester wanted to keep prodding his brother, but Sam had returned to his laptop, typing at a fervent rate. His fingers flew across the keypad, floppy hair occasionally flicking into his eyes. Dean watched him for a few more moments, relishing in the notion that his brother was currently safe, well-fed and warm.
That was all Dean needed to be happy. A safe Sam.
Still keeping half an eye on his brother, Dean trailed over to the brunette he'd been eyeing earlier. He gave her a Chesire grin, and she turned tomato red. A few charming moments later, and they were kissing, hands lapping at skin, mouths prodding upon. Even in such lust, Dean didn't close his eyes when he kissed – never, not now.
He kissed hard and heavy, but his gaze, as always, never left Sam.
His brother was safe.
It was Dean's job to keep it that way.
"We don't have time for you to get laid, Dean," Sam spat.
"Oh, but we have time for your pissy tantrums?" Dean ground right back.
The two of them stood outside the Impala, breaths coming out in a cold swirl of air. The sky was dark and starless, and faint music slid in through the crannies of the bar. Dean ran a rough hand through his hair, barely resisting the urge to growl. Sam was such a freaking cockblocker. Dean'd been semi-hard, digging his fingers into Sally's (Samantha's?) hair, tugging seamlessly at the straps of her dark bra.
"You wanna – take this somewhere else?" Dean had asked.
"God, yes."
They'd been so ready when Sam had come, threw a fit, and dragged Dean off toward the car.
"We have a case," Sam said, raising his hands defensively. "But all you can think about is sex."
"Seriously?" Dean said. "We can do the damn case in the morning. We always do it in the morning. And I haven't had sex in like…" Dean paused. "Five nights. Five nights!"
"Oh, poor you," Sam said venomously. "It's almost been a whole week."
"Not everyone's a freaking prude like you."
There was slight hurt in Sam's face, but Dean pushed it away. He didn't know why, but Sam had been really frustrating for the past week. He'd been pissy and moody and strange. All he cared about was research, and whenever Dean came near him, he scuttled away. Half the time, he was lost in his thoughts, a sad, shiny look in his eyes.
Hell, on Tuesday, he'd stumbled home at midnight, locked himself in the bathroom, and refused to come out until Wednesday evening.
"Sam," Dean pleaded. "Can you just calm down?"
"No," Sam said, and his face was dark. "Not until you stop having sex."
Now Dean was pissed: his eyes went hard, and his jaw set firmly. "The hell did you say?"
Sam swallowed, and his eyes instantly flew to the ground. "You shouldn't have sex," he said hoarsely.
The words sent a crawl down Dean's back. The message was strange enough – but Sam's soft, resigned tone was considerably worse. Sammy and him were pretty close, but this was weird, even for them. Who did Sam think he was, telling Dean how to manage his sex life? He was in no position.
Sam hadn't had sex in… Dean didn't even know when Sam had last had sex. Maybe Jessica?
Was he that jealous of Dean?
But the vulnerability in Sam's eyes wasn't jealousy: it was worry.
"You don't have to," Sam said, voice running like a tap: harried and embarrassed. "You don't need to force yourself to."
Okay. Okay, hold up? Now Dean was even more confused.
"Dude, are you drunk?" Dean accused.
"No." Sam bit his lip between his teeth. "I'm just saying."
"You're just saying that I shouldn't have sex?" Dean clarified. "Do I need to toss holy water on you?"
"No. Look, forget it." Sam slumped his shoulders. "I was being dumb."
"Hell yeah you were," Dean emphasized. "You don't tell me how to live my life, especially when it doesn't affect you."
Sam swallowed, lashes fluttering. "Sorry. I didn't – I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Okay from what? Pretty girls?" Dean said incredulously.
"No. Yeah – Just. Just forget it." Sam's gaze lingered awkwardly on the slope of Dean's nose.
Dean had a feeling unspoken words were hanging in the air, but problem was, he had no damn idea what they were saying. Unable to form a coherent thought, him and Sam just stood there, staring at each other. A cool wind passed over them, and shivers crept in through Dean's baby blue shirt. He snatched his keys from his pocket, and forced his legs to move.
"Uh, we should head back," he finally said.
Sam nodded, a beat too late. "Sure."
Dean slid into the driver's seat, and Sam settled into the passenger.
The engine revved, and Dean jetted out of the bar: lit lights and party music fading to the sound of wheels on pavement.
They passed a good few miles before Dean spoke, unable to help it: "You okay?"
Sam tensed. He played with his hands, and spun the silk frayed edges of a blanket tightly around his finger.
"Fine," he said.
"If you want to grab some porn on the way-"
Sam whited. "No! No, god, I don't."
Dean bit his lip hard, swallowing down a few choice words. He'd thought maybe Sam was sexually frustrated or something – the kid was being really weird about sex. But the horrified look on Sam's face at the mention of porn clearly ruled that out. Slumping his shoulders, Dean decided Sam was probably just annoyed that Dean was wasting time when they could be researching.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
That had to be it. From his side, Sam bobbed his head lightly, headphones tucked into his ears.
His brother was just… going through some kind of quarter-life crisis. If that was a thing.
There was nothing seriously wrong with his Sam.
Couldn't be.
Dean wouldn't forgive himself if there was.
But then Sam offered a quick, shy smile to Dean as they met eyes, and Dean concurred that there was nothing to worry about.
Content with this revelation, Dean let himself be whisked away by open roads, his worry lifting, but for some reason, never quite drifting completely away.