an:/

This beginning might be vaguely familiar to some of you kids who have been with me for a few years. This beast has lived in pieces on my desktop for a long time. I put it up and took it down and at some point just gave up.

But here it is again. For serious this time. It has an end and everything.

Done and done. I promise.

For those of you who were unaware that this was even a thing and have only joined me recently- yup.

I ship this too.

Wincest was my introduction to the wealth of fanfictions that y'all had to offer.
It is my first and most corrupted of ships.
I have no regrets.

Tulsa.

Fucking Tulsa had been a shitstorm.

Not the city itself. Dean had no qualms with the actual city. There had been a little diner on 12th street that served some damn respectable cheese burgers and their waitress had great tits.

No, Dean had nothing bad to say about the city Tulsa.

Just the fight that went down there and the aftermath.

And the subsequent nightmares that kept him just barely on this side of sleep deprived for weeks.

Dean supposed that the fight started at that diner, Sam would have said it did in any case, would have blamed the waitress. Which was wholly unfair. It really was not her fault that Dean had been flirting with her, or that while Sam was going up to pay the bill that Dean had snuck off to the bathroom with her. It was not even her fault that Dean was so lit from the four beers that he had had with lunch that Sam beat him at rock paper scissors and won the right to drive the Impala back to their motel.

Sam had been mad, Dean could tell by just the way he held himself, shoulders all hunched forward and his big hands strangling the steering wheel like he meant it. Even through the glorious, golden haze of beer Dean could tell his brother was pissed. Sam was lecturing him, yelling in his soft way about how Dean was being irresponsible.

"Irresponsible?" Dean tried to laugh it off. "When did you get promoted to Dad, Sammy?"

Sam made a bitter, guttural sound, teeth flashing and eyes narrowing at the road. "I'm just saying that the damn world is ending, we're trying to stay alive while every demon in the world is gunning for us- and you're off getting blowjobs from jailbait in the back of a Denny's."

He could have said that it was not a Denny's, he could have pointed out that he was almost one-hundred percent positive that she had been at least twenty-one, but he did not. "Hell, Sammy, it ain't gunna' suck itself."

Incidentally, Dean was a bit more drunk than he realized.

Sam actually turned in his seat to look at Dean, shock showing in the whites of his eyes and unsettled line of his mouth- and Dean had to hold back a laugh at how easy it had always been to surprise Sam. It would never matter how crass or abrupt Dean was, Sam still liked to pretend that they were some sort of gentlemen or something stupid like that. "Dean, she was like sixteen and-"

And then they were crashing.

There had been one of those freak summer storms that morning, all hot lightning and sheets of rain. It had let up hours before, but left the roads slick and the car in front of them stopped poorly, skidding through the oil laden rain water standing in the road.

The steel bumper of the Impala practically tore through the little blue Volvo. The sound of tires squealing and metal and fiberglass tearing in agony was such an ungodly noise that Dean sobered up in an instant.

"Fuck, Sam." And he threw himself from the car, running around to her front to see the damage. The Volvo was new-ish, designed to crumple in an impact, to cushion the passengers, and the little thing had. The trunk was practically in the back seat now, all mangled and broken and beyond repair. The Impala was fine. Maybe there was a bit of sky blue paint on her bumper, maybe it was just Dean's imagination. Either way, his baby was relatively ok.

The Volvo's driver was in better shape than the mass that used to be her car, luckily.

Unluckily, the Winchesters did not have car insurance and so the Volvo's widow was given all the money the brothers had in their wallets and then they drove off in a rush.

That had been the start of what Dean was mentally calling 'The Tulsa incident'.

.:.

It escalated when they reached the motel, Dean driving the rest of the way because he sure as hell was not letting Sam back behind the wheel. Sam was lucky he didn't have to walk.

The sky was still grey and threatening to rain again, the air practically alive with electricity and Dean was considering the best way to kill his brother.

"Four-thousand bucks, Sammy!" Dean was yelling as he paced the tiny room. "That's all the money from last night and then some." They had been bar hopping the night before, hustling pool and doing their best to get a little money in their wallets before taking the next hunt. It was all gone now and Dean was secretly grateful that he had decided to gas up the Impala that morning when he still had the funds.

"We can get more-"

"Don't talk to me, Sam. You tried to kill my car." Dean gave up his pacing, there was not enough room between the two beds to really walk off his anger anyways.

"The car is fine, Dean." Sam was trying to calm him down, was using his most sensible tone. Dean was having none of it.

"You turned my baby into a battering ram!" He was yelling now and he felt some vindictive thrill when Sam winced. "You are never allowed to drive her again. Hell, I don't think you're going to be allowed to ride in her either."

"I wouldn't have had to drive if you weren't drunk off your ass at two in the afternoon." Sam muttered quietly as he sat down on one of the beds, busying himself with the laces of his boots, ignoring Dean's empty threat about riding in the Impala. They both knew that by tomorrow Sam would be slouching moodily in the passenger seat, watching the flat country side whizzing by while Dean sang along loud and off key to whatever scratchy old cassette he was craving that day.

"What was that, Sam?" Dean folded his arms over his chest. He had heard his brother just fine, but he was in a mood, the last hazy fingers of alcohol still gripping at him, keeping him volatile.

"I'm gunna go see if the vending machine has orange soda." Sam pushed himself off the bed and made for the door, bare feet slapping against the threadbare rug.

"Don't come back without a twix, bitch." Dean yelled after him.

Sam flipped him off over his shoulder to indicate that he heard the request, before slamming the door almost gently behind him.

Looking back, Dean liked to think that if that damned vending machine had had some proper candy in it that the whole mess in Tulsa would have never been anything more than a bit of blue paint on the Impala's bumper. Something easily cleaned up and forgotten, only brought back up during the most petty of arguments. 'Yeah, Sam, like that time you ran that Volvo off the road in Tulsa' and never anything more than that. It could have just been another good excuse as to why Dean would not let his brother drive.

Sam came back with skittles, tossing the brightly colored package at Dean's chest.

"The hell are these suppose to be?" He knew very well what they were, but he made a show of inspecting the wrapper with mistrust and suspicion.

"They were out of twix." Sam sighed deeply, lowering himself to the chair beside the little table and the room's only window. He pulled out his laptop, large hands anxious, anger making his movements jerky and aggressive.

"So you got me mother fucking skittles? Dude, how is that even a substitute?"

"If you don't want 'em I'll take 'em." Sam popped the top of his orange crush, not looking at his brother.

"Screw you. I'm not playing your little game." Dean threw himself onto a bed, snatching up the remote control and turning the tv on far too loudly. He ate the skittles, hating the way that their hard candy shells broke apart and scraped against his gums and how the artificial fruity mush stuck to his teeth. Sam knew he didn't like skittles, but had bought them anyways.

Sam was still mad about the waitress.

So Dean ate all but the red skittles, setting those aside in a little pile on the nightstand between beds, half watching Terminator2 playing fuzzily through the poor reception on the little television set. He had not seen the flick in years and it was not nearly as good as he remembered it being. But he kept it playing, kept the volume turned up just loud enough that Sam got that little crease between his eyebrows to indicate that he was having trouble focusing on whatever he was doing in the corner.

After half an hour, Sam finally glanced up. "You wanna' turn that down a bit?"

"Nope." Dean kept his eyes on the screen, idly toying with a little hole in the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Sam sighed and hunched his shoulders lower, glaring at his computer.

Dean grinned to himself and folded his hands over his stomach, watching the rest of his movie in peace. "You know, Sarah Connor's kind a hot."

"Way too old for you, Dean." Sam glanced at the credits rolling by quickly, scrunched up in the corner while half the screen became populated with an ad for some sitcom that premiered next Thursday night. "She's probably fifty by now. Also, she would totally beat your ass."

"Age is not a problem, man."

"Is that really all you think about, Dean?" Sam's gaze shot sideways giving his big brother an exasperated look.

"Naw, it's not all sex with milfs up here." Dean tapped a finger against his temple for emphasis. "There's also pie and Metallica and heavy ammunitions." He let slip another grin, trying to be amicable now that he was fully sober. "But mostly it's just naked chicks."

Sam's expression took on a tone of disgust and he looked back at his little laptop.

Dean finally turned down the volume on the television. It was the first of his peace offerings that he did not feel that he owed his brother. Dean was not the one to kill a Volvo today, but he did sort of hate to see that look on Sam's face. In part it was because it made him feel guilty, but it also made him angry. It really was not any of Sam's business who Dean nipped off to the bathroom with. They were both adults. They could do what they wanted and neither of them had the right to criticize the other on who they did it with.

A new movie came on, Dean missed the title and didn't recognize the opening action sequence. He was not really interested anyways. Somehow, in that moment, Sam was far more fascinating to him. His little brother who had towered over him for years now, who needed a haircut and to do something with those sideburns that Dean swore were slowly taking over, his brother who had kicked a demon blood addiction and liked to shoot his sawed off shotgun with one hand, despite what it did to his accuracy.

Sam had looked so much younger when Dean had gone to California to find him and start their hellish cross country crusade. They had both aged far too fast in the last few years, lines of stress had bored into both of their faces, deep cuts that never really went away even when they slept (not that Dean spent too much time watching Sam sleep), but facing death on a regular biases was bound to take its toll one way one another. Dean guessed it was lucky that they both still had all their fingers and toes.

He watched Sam typing, his overly large hands dwarfing the little laptop, the tendons standing out sharply even from the other side of the room. His knuckles were scraped, scabbed over but no longer red and tender like they had been last night when they got caught up in a bar brawl. Dean had just been hustling some pool when they drunk guys at the table beside him and his victim had suddenly started going at it. Pool cues were broken, some more strangers got dragged into the bruha, beer was all over the floor and Sam was at Dean's side, tugging him by the collar of his coat, trying to get out of there. Somehow that had ended up in the middle of the fray, Sam at Dean's back, swinging like their Dad had taught them.

When it was all over they were the last two standing.

It had been a good night.

Dean always remembered moments like those with crystalline clarity, when they worked together, moved with one purpose. The feel of Sam behind him, knowing that it was just the two of them against the world and that was just fine with him.

"Come here." Dean's voice surprised him almost as much as Sam, lower and rougher than normal. Dean supposed that he might just be tired or the sugar had coated his throat in a bad way, in either case he decided it was best not to put too much thought into the change.

"Why?" Sam peered untrustingly at him, sucking in the edge of his lower lip.

"Don't be such a bitch and just come over here." Dean said in a way that was more affection than insult and that gentleness to his words was probably what got Sam to his feet.

"What?" Sam stopped at the foot of Dean's bed, still eyeing him in an untrusting way. They had been fighting since lunch and it was uncommon for Dean to forgive so quickly.

Clumsily, Dean scooped up his little horde of red skittles, (Sam's favorite flavor) clutching them in one hand. "Here." He nodded to the empty spot at his side where Sam should have been.

Either out of curiosity or because Sam had seen the handful of candy, he slipped between the two beds, looming over Dean, his knees brushing up against the side of the mattress.

Dean said nothing, just held out his fist full of candy as an offering, waiting. And sure enough, Sam hesitantly held out a cupped hand, still watching Dean with an air of apprehension. Seizing the opportunity before it passed, Dean grasped Sam's wrist with his free hand and leaned down, spitting into his brother's palm before dropping the handful of skittles in.

The noise Sam made was priceless.

Skittles littered the carpet and no matter how hard Sam rubbed his hand on the leg of his jeans he could not rid himself of the sticky red smear.

"Next time I tell you to bring me a twix you had better bring me a fucking twix." Dean was grinning from ear to ear, trying so hard not laugh that his stomach started to hurt.

Dean had ruined the little lull between them by the tainted offering of candy, and in that moment it was funny, and wholly worth it for what Sam did to the Impala. But if Dean had known how bad that night was going to get, perhaps he would have let the strained truce between them stretch a little further, would have tried to savor the last moments of peace before everything fell appart.

.:.

Sam was in the hotel bathroom washing red candy goo off of his hands, grumbling under his breath, something that sounded like 'immature- such a kid sometimes- never 'gunna grow up- can't believe I fell for that- fucking skittles- selfish'. Dean listened to the murderously quiet tirade from his comfortable lounging on the bed and he sort of had to agree… well, not with the being selfish part, but the rest? Yeah. It was a little pitiful that Sam fell for such an easy trick and yes Dean could be childish, but so could Sam. What was wrong with a little immaturity between brothers? It kept the brutal actuality of being a hunter at bay, kept them from going crazy. A little spit on each other's hand or plastic spoon in the mouth while sleeping was a small price to pay. Dean would take the brunt of the insults like a champ, but selfish?

Never selfish.

Dean would die for his brother- had died for his brother. His whole life, as far back as he could remember, had been dedicated to the yeti whining in the bathroom.

He was never selfish. Not when it came to Sam.

"Suck it up, nancy. It's just a bit of food coloring."

"It was disgusting, Dean." Sam came out of the bathroom, flipping off the light behind him.

"You know I hate skittles." Dean bit back a frown, opting to stretch his arms up above his head, yawning loudly. He looked over at the nightstand clock, it was all of six pm. He felt like he was getting old.

"You didn't have to eat them." Sam started fishing through his duffle, looking for pants that did not have a smear of candy down the side.

Dean scoffed, annoyed by, but at the same time endeared by how meticulous Sam could be sometimes. He would not be going out again that night, so why did it matter what his pants looked like?

"It's not about the candy, Sammy. It's the principle." And Dean was nothing if not a man of principle… when it suited him.

Sam rolled his eyes but wisely kept his mouth shut, pulling out a pair of faded jeans and just changing right there in the corner of the room. Neither of the brothers were particularly the 'shying violet' type, having grown up sharing the same small bedrooms, hotel bed and backseat of the Impala. It was a certain necessary familiar intimacy that they had developed when they were small. If someone was changing, you casually looked at something else. If you needed a little 'alone time' with just you and your right hand- but were stuck in the same bed as your teenaged brother, you quietly rolled over, putting your back to him and he did the same. If you brought a girl back to the hotel or wherever, you put a sock on the door knob. It was awkward as hell sometimes, but they had an unspoken agreement to look the other way anytime things got a little too… naked. They were both straight… it was not a big deal.

Dean's mouth was dry and he couldn't look away.

Over his life he had had the unfortunate opportunity to see his brother broken, bloodied and striped down at least a hand full of times and no matter how much skin was showing Dean never even blinked, just focused on the carnage, checked for damage and moved on. Regardless of anything else, with or without injury, with or without the unspoken bro-code, Dean had always been able to overlook any glimpses of skin. He was not interested in men that way, and definitely not interested in his brother that way.

He still couldn't look away. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Sam did not even have a decent pair of legs on him and yet Dean inwardly mourned when the new, clean pants were tugged into place. He felt like a dear in headlights, completely stunned at what lay before him and completely without control over his own actions. He watched Sam's hands fumbling with the zip and then hesitated on the single metal button.

"The hell, Dean?" Sam's voice came out strangled.

Dean finally found the ability to blink, he had no idea how long it had been since he last did but his eyes felt very dry. He looked up at his brother's face and opened his mouth to say something- anything. To make some sort of excuse as to why had had been staring at Sam's crotch. He closed his mouth again. He had nothing to say. Words had left him, had fled before the storm of mortification at what he had done.

"The waitress wasn't enough and now you're making eyes at me?" His cheeks were pink, and despite the fact that Sam was far too old to be blushing like a little kid, it looked nice on him. "Jesus, Dean. What did they put in your food?"

Hope flared to life. "You think someone put something in my food?"

Sam sneered through his blush. "No, dude. You're just a horn dog and possibly still drunk." Sam looked away from his brother, a pained look passing through his eyes so fast that Dean almost missed it. "And you know how you get when you've been drinking."

That was a low blow. There had been an unspoken truce that they would not bring back up that particular night. Dean liked to pretend that it never happen (much as he would later try to pretend that this night in Tulsa had never happened); he had honestly been so drunk after their father had died that whole weeks were missing. But one afternoon still remained in hazy bits somewhere in the corner of his mind.

They had been staying at Bobby's house and Dean had been living off of rotgut moonshine and whisky for days. He was trying to drown John's death in the comforting heat of alcohol. Sam had brought him some coffee and a bit of pie- Sammy always knew the way to Dean's heart. Dean had almost started crying when he saw the pie, store bought and slightly over cooked and just the prettiest thing his drunk self had seen in ages. He had hugged Sam, going against his lifetime of boycotting anything too 'touchy feely' and just caught the dumb moose up in a tight embrace. Sam had forced a laugh, trying to be happy for his brother, trying to pretend that Dean was not falling apart and that a simple act of kindness had not almost reduced him to tears. Dean recognized the laugh, he could read his brother so well, and it killed him sometimes. He really did love his brother, more than he should, but right then it didn't matter, and right then he had pulled his laughing little brother down into a grievously drunken kiss.

It was a spotty memory at best. He could remember the pie but not the flavor, the dim light coming in through Bobby's dirty kitchen window, the feel of Sam in his arms and the way that Sam had pushed Dean away, roughly planting him in a chair and stiffly telling him to drink his coffee before practically running from the room. Dean hated that memory.

He sighed, a rusty sound, and finally managed to take his eyes off his brother. He looked down at his hands, wishing for the first time in his life that someone had poisoned him. It was a much nicer alternative than willfully perving on Sam as he changed clothes.

"I-I'm going for takeout." Dean stumbled to his feet, avoiding eye contact like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He grabbed the Impala's keys from the top of the tv and slid his feet into his boots, not even bothering to lace them up, he could do that in the car when he got away from Sam and the tightness in his own chest. Something was definitely wrong with him.

Too long on the road, or too long without a good night's sleep… something, but it was not anything that some Mongolian beef and chowmein couldn't fix. Dean had to believe that, because otherwise-

Sam grabbed his shoulder, his hand hot and not wholly an unwelcome weight keeping Dean in place. He pretended to tense, because it was what he was suppose to do anytime Sam got all 'touchy feely' with him. Besides, he was not in the mood for a lecture, or worse: an 'it's ok, I know you didn't mean anything by it' sympathy speech. It was not ok, Dean knew it was nowhere close to ok. But Sam did not criticize, or comfort. He just roughly turned Dean around by his shoulder and kissed him.

It was far from romantic, or well orchestrated, or even skilled. It was sloppy, all teeth and tongue, the whole while Sam holding Dean in place with a death-grip on his shoulder.

After a stunned moment and a possible (but very slight) growling moan which may have been from Dean (but that could not be proven), he pushed away. He shoved Sam in the chest with considerably more force than necessary, sending his younger brother stumbling backwards.

Catching himself, eyes wide as saucers, Sam gaped at him in shock as if it had been Dean who had tried to defile his mouth and not the other way around. "Fuck, Dean."

"The hell is wrong with you, Sam?" Dean wiped the back of a wrist over his mouth, trying to ignore the fact that his hand was shaking slightly.

"Me?! What's wrong with me?" The shock was gone, replaced by anger. Sam had found himself quite a temper after the whole demon blood and letting the Devil out of his box incidents from the previous year. Sam pushed him back, palms flat against Dean's chest, and Dean hit the wall behind him.

"You're the one, sitting around, looking at me like that- for months! What the hell am I supposed to think?" Sam pushed him again, even though Dean was not going anywhere, fully trapped between his brother and the wall as he was.

"I- no!" Dean tried to get away from the hands on his chest. There was no way that he could have been eyeing Sam from months.

No Way.

He was not interested in his brother like that, not for any length of time, not tonight, not ever. It had been a long day and they were in an Oklahoma heat wave that was trying to melt Dean's soul out of him. He had just been confused, tired, a little addled. He didn't mean anything by watching Sam changing or if he did, it didn't mean whatever Sam though. He pushed Sam back, just trying to get some space to himself. Sam was just too damn close to him. Dean couldn't think straight with his brother so close. He couldn't seem to get enough air.

Then Sam sucker punched him square in the jaw. It was the first time they had actually hit one another since the night Sam broke the last seal. It didn't hurt too badly, which was a testament to Sam's mood. He could have broken Dean's jaw with that one punch, but he didn't.

He was trying to make a point.

But Dean had no idea what that point was. So he hit back and things dissolved quickly. They were almost gentle blows, like back when they were kids and Dean had been teaching his little brother to fight. The bruises would be terrible tomorrow, but nothing would be broken.

They tussled and it was all for show, but neither of them could have said who they were playing it up for. Dean managed a handful of Sam's t-shirt and spun him around, trying to pin him in a corner, to limit the range of ridiculously long arms. But Sam had been stronger than Dean for years and would not be cornered so easily. He swept the leg, a dirty old trick that their dad had taught him and Dean went down hard. He slammed against the thin carpet between the two beds, the wind knocked out of him, and before he could roll himself over and struggle to his hands and knees, Sam was on top of him.

He expected his brother to punch him again, for Sam's fist to connect with Dean's already split lip, and he braced himself for the blow.

Sam kissed him again instead. The jolt was just as painful as a punch would have been, the shock of it thrumming through Dean like electricity. His chest burned, tight with the lack of air and the weight of Sam pressing down on him. Dean gasped into Sam's mouth, fighting to catch his breath, to break free. Turning his head to the side, he finally found the air he had been lacking. All he could see was the edge of the blanket and all he could feel was Sam. Sam pressed against him. Sam's gasping breaths hot against his neck. Sam's hand caught up in Dean's short hair.

"Dean…" Sam whispered softly, like a benediction. "Damn it, Dean. Look at me." He was almost begging, almost desperate.

But Dean couldn't look at Sam, not without losing himself. His thoughts were running a million miles a minute, almost as fast as his heart. And he knew without a doubt that if he had to look up into Sam's big, dark eyes, that he would come undone. He felt like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff, toes already grasping at empty air.

Sam's lips shakily pressed to the edge of his jaw. "Please. Dean."

It was the please that got him. They both used the word so sparingly with each other, there was no way that hearing it from Sam wouldn't catch at his heart, wouldn't do funny things to his stomach. He turned his head so slowly, like he was afraid to break something. Dean fumbled through his words, wanting to say something along the lines of 'what the hell is wrong with you?' or 'maybe you're the one who's drunk', but before he knew what he was doing, he leaned up and was kissing Sam. And Sam wasn't arguing.

Hands were pushing Sam's shirt up and distantly Dean realized that they were his. Someone was rolling Sam off, pinning him between the apex of the bed and floor, and somewhere in the back of his mind Dean knew that was him too. He was lost to the feeling of it, to the pure animal sensation thrumming through him, tightening his stomach and curling his toes. Sam's mouth was against his, hot and hungry and honestly Dean could not remember any kiss ever feeling like this.

He carded his hands through Sam's too long hair, pulling a little harder than he should and receiving a low growl for his efforts. That sound shot through him and he felt his hips buck involuntarily. It was almost mortifying, almost enough to make him stop right there. He was like a teenage boy, hot and heavy and in no way in control of his body. He ground down into Sam, pressing as close together as clothing would allow and he wanted more, needed more. Dean pulled one of Sam's legs up over his waist and felt his brother's hips rise up to meet him, welcoming the friction. Sam's hot hands ran down Dean's backside, scissoring his own legs further open, and holding tight while Dean rode him into the carpet.

Sam's mouth never left his, wanton and hungry, begging without words.

Or maybe that was Dean.

It was worse than indecent. It was like too kids in the back seat of a car going at it on prom night- and Dean had attended enough prom night debacles to recognize the frantic nature of it.

And faintly, like the light of a candle struggling against the darkness of a storm, Dean knew how wrong this was. He bit Sam's lower lip hard enough that he tasted blood and the resulting moan was not enough to drown out the little voice of warning in the back of Dean's mind that sounded suspiciously like their father's.

Dean buried his face in Sam's neck, trying desperately to lose himself in the scent and the feeling of it, trying to somehow pretend it was not Sam beneath him, because it felt too good to stop but it felt to wrong to keep going.

It was rough and messy- no love lost between the two. Sam was breathing his name over and over again. "Dean-Dean- Christ, Dean. Don't stop." And then his hand was moving down Dean's stomach, tickling over the trembling muscles, fingers fumbling along the edge of his pants and Dean knew he was lost. Everything in the world was ground down and forced into a single point as Sam's hand slid into his jeans. There was no going back even if he wanted to, his body was on auto pilot, and he no longer had the ability to make rational decisions.

Not that Dean had ever been big on being rational. It just wasn't his style.

He was much better at making wildly bad decisions that left him kicking himself for many sullen months afterwards.

Besides, it was Sam's job to be the smart one, to tell Dean when they needed to stop. When to back down. But all Sam had to say were dirty things best not repeated that in no way helped Dean to make anything resembling a good choice.

They jerked each other off right there on the dirty floor, and it felt right. Fitting somehow. It would have been wrong if it had been something romantic and slow on the bed like normal people would have. They weren't normal. Dean was a guilt ridden monster with his brother's cum smeared over his stomach, on his hands- and as he struggled to catch his breath the only thought he could seem to have was relief. Relief that John was long dead and would never have a chance to know what a depraved scoundrel his eldest son had become. John would have… he would have… Dean did his best not to think what his dad would have done if he found them like this, jeans pushed down, shirts rucked up, a sweaty, hedonistic tangle of limbs, denim, and plaid.

All their best parts were still pressed together and the pulse of desire was still thrumming through Dean like standing too close to a power line. He felt drunk. He felt sick. He felt ready to have another go.

Sam stretched out, shifting beneath him, wiping his hands on the edge of the blanket. It was Dean's blanket, and he thought momentarily of complaining, but his throat was raw and it wasn't worth it. Neither of them could manage to make eye contact- but Dean did his best to not read too far into that one because it only helped to widen the growing hole in his gut.

"You still with me, Dean?" Sam asked quietly, his voice carefully neutral.

Dean cast a sideways glance at his brother, his high cheeks still flush, his oddly autumn colored eyes not quite meeting his.

"Shit," Sam swore under his breath. "You're gunna' get all weird about this, aren't you?"

"Fuck you, Sammy."

And Sam's mouth quirked just a bit, fighting down some kind of joke which would only make things worse. "This is… it's fine, Dean." His now clean hand carefully came to rest on the back of Dean's neck, like he was readying himself to pull his big brother in for another kiss.

With something halfway between horror and fascination, Dean could see that Sam had a split lip, though if it was from the punching or the biting, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that there was a copper taste on the back of his tongue which he knew he would associate with his brother for sometime after this had all passed.

"It's not-" the words kind of broke and Dean had to clear his throat and try again. "It's not fine, Sam. We just- I just-"

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare make this into some kind of guilt trip for yourself." Sam's voice held a note of warning. He knew Dean too well. Far too well.

"I'm supposed to protect you, not-" he huffed and tried to push himself up to his elbows, but his arms felt weak and all he managed was to put a few inches between them and all that did was give him a better view of his brother.

Afterglow made Sam look as good as original sin, his eyes dark and alien, his mouth abused and red. It wasn't helping Dean.

"I'm not supposed to…"

"To fuck me in a seedy motel?" Sam asked helpfully.

Dean knew that he must have paled, a distress look on his face, because Sam immediately looked stricken, apologetic.

"Don't, Dean." And it was Sam's turn now. "I wanted to, I still do." His voice had taken on a weird timber, a little too high, panic creeping in around the edges. "I've wanted you since I was sixteen and-"

Dean was trying to pull away, to get to his feet, despite the fact that Sam was still holding the back of his head, tight as a death grip.

"Damn it, Dean. Just listen-"

"This was a mistake."

"No." Sam held him in place, voice shaking.

"Sam- I. It's just too damn long on the road- it's-" He needed an excuse, because the word sixteen was going to plague him for possibly forever. There was no way. Sam couldn't be this kind of broken for that long. Dean would have noticed. This sickness had to be limited to him and him alone. They couldn't both be this messed up. "I was still drunk. I shouldn't ha-"

Sam sat up and crashed their mouth together, obviously intending to swallow Dean's words down before they had a chance to taste air and reap their destruction. For a moment, Dean kissed back, licking into his brother's mouth, tasting the sweat and blood slick on his teeth. And Sam groaned, rutting against him, already half hard against Dean's thigh.

All the dark promises of the road they were headed down flashed before Dean, visceral and red, fast as a guitar string snapping and he pulled away with a gasp. He couldn't do this.

He couldn't.

Not if he wanted to ever be able to look himself in a mirror again.

It took almost every last ounce of will that Dean had to pull away, his mouth feeling abandoned, his stomach feeling like he had just been sucker punched. "No." He managed to force out.

"Dean," Sam sounded utterly lost, his eyes half lidded, looking up at Dean like a bloodied saint. Perfect and broken in the same instant. Completely ruined beyond what Dean had the capacity to fix.

"No." He said more firmly, no hesitation, no uncertainty.

Sam got that look of his, where his mouth became a thin line of anger, his eyes slitted. And he glared up at his big brother. When Dean didn't move, didn't let his face show how morally bankrupt he really was, Sam pushed him away.

Dean sat back, not bothering to fix his clothes, just trying to sit straight and tall and not watch as his brother buttoned up his jeans, straightened his clothes.

Sam left without a word, not needing to narrate his fury.

And Dean let him go, because he knew that Sam needed some space. Needed a little time to come to terms with the fact that Dean and openly refused what had just happened, and they both knew that Dean was one of the most stubborn sons of bitches to ever walk the earth. He wouldn't be swayed too easily.

Sam would come back when that temper of his had a chance to cool down.

But Dean was still waiting for him three days later.

Dean was still waiting three weeks later.

Sam didn't answer his phone anymore.

And after five months, Dean stopped calling.