A/N: Wrote this in microeconomics lecture when I was still half asleep. I cannot be held responsible for how depressing it is. Review please!
Disclaimer: Do not own. That honor belongs to the lovely Eric Kripke. Praise him.
Sam was waiting up for Dean when he came home from the bar. Sam was always waiting up for Dean. Because that's what Sam did. He sacrificed himself to make sure his big brother was okay.
When he heard Dean struggling to get his key into the lock he got up and opened the door. He looped his arm around his brother's shoulders and led him to the bed. Dean smelled like beer and cheap cologne. His lips were red and bruised and there were angry handprint bruises on his neck and chest that shouted at Sam when he helped Dean out of his shirt.
It pained Sam to see what Dean was doing to himself. He wished he knew why. He wished he could do something to help.
Dean was asleep as soon as he hit the sheets so Sam poured a glass of water and sat it on the nightstand for when Dean woke up. Then he sat down on his bed and watched his brother sleep.
It had been like this for a year, almost since Sam left Stanford. It started about a month after he and Dean had started hunting together again.
Sam knew it was his fault somehow, he just didn't know why. And so he did everything he could to make it better. Bu Dean was sinking deeper and deeper into his destructive habits. Sam had had to pick him up at police stations twice already this month, and had spent countless nights watching Dean sleep, making sure he didn't choke on his own vomit.
Tonight was just one in a seemingly unbreakable pattern.
Dean was so pale. The purpling bruises and the dark circles around his eyes were in painful contrast with his sickly white skin. Sam wanted nothing more than to shake Dean out of his stupor and beg him to stop doing this to himself.
But he'd tried that once and earned a black eye for his trouble. So instead he let Dean self-medicate whatever problem he was trying to deal with, and tried to make sure he didn't kill himself in the process.
Dean woke up in the middle of the night and puked his guts out into the trashcan Sam had placed next to his bed. Sam woke up with a start and rushed to Dean's side, handing him the water. Dean sank weakly into Sam's side as Sam rubbed calming circles into his back.
"You're okay, I got you," Sam mumbled. If he told Dean this enough maybe he would believe it. Maybe Sam would believe it too.
"Sam," Dean croaked. Sam's hand stopped.
"Yeah?"
Dean didn't usually speak, generally groaned and fell back into bed.
" 'm sorry," Dean turned his head away.
Sam frowned. "For what?"
Dean stared at the floor. "For putting you through this. For being a fucking mess. For everything Sam."
Sam was taken aback by Dean's words, the first time he'd ever acknowledged that something was wrong. "It's okay."
Dean turned to face him. "No it's not. I… I'm hurting you. And that's the last thing I want. Godammit Sam, I love you."
Sam wrapped his arms around Dean. "I love you too."
Dean shook him off. "No," he muttered. "Not you don't. Not the way I want."
Sam furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about, Dean?"
Dean took a deep breath, twisting his hands in his lap.
"Sam I can't do this anymore." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose like he was in pain. "I thought I could…"
"Could what?"
"Sam I love you. I'm in love with you."
The shock must have been apparent on Sam's face because Dean laughed darkly. "Yeah, disgusting, I know."
Sam flinched. That hadn't been what he was thinking. Surprising, unexpected, jarring, but not disgusting.
"I-I… Dean," he stammered. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why? Because I'm a selfish bastard. I tell you, you leave. I wanted to keep you around for as long as possible." Dean chuckled painfully, "Selfish, masochistic, I don't know. Doesn't matter now, right? You're going to leave and I'll never see you again."
Sam frowned. "No… I'm not leaving."
"Yeah? Is this part of your saving people thing? Gonna try to fix me?"
Sam couldn't listen to Dean talk like this.
"Dammit Dean, no. I'm not leaving, because…" he couldn't say it. It wasn't a lie, technically. He did love Dean, more than anything in the world, but not that way. But he couldn't handle the look on Dean's face.
So he leaned forward and kissed him.
Dean pulled back. "What are you doing?" he demanded.
Sam frowned. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
Dean nodded. "But not if you don't—"
"I do, Dean. I want this." He could do this, for Dean. He could give Dean what he needed. Because making Dean happy would make him happy.