My first Wincest fic. I have finally gone there. And yeah, for people reading my series WIPs, I will get to those; I've just had some serious writer's block. This is the second thing I've written in months and the first story that didn't come when I was hungover at eight in the morning. So yeah.

This is schmoop.

Sam and Dean are sitting on the hood of the Impala, watching the sun set from across the lake. The air is just this side of cold, but the brothers are close and they keep each other warm. Sam's left knee is pressed to Dean's right and with every joke Sam tells, Dean laughs, hearty and loud like he can't keep it contained, and with every laugh Dean lets out, Sam's heart swells just a little bit more.

They pass the last bottle of beer between them, alternating between gulps and sips to keep their attention on each other. Dean's lips tingle every time he takes a swig, tasting a bit of his brother with every drink and it only makes him drink faster,

The sunset's glow makes the green of Dean's eyes stand out; it highlights the laugh lines on Sam's face when he smiles. Dean tells a joke of his own and Sam bends, holding his arm to his side as if it hurts too much to laugh; he turns his head as if looking at his brother is too much to take.

And Dean's struck with how much he'd sacrifice to be able to have this, how much he'd give (hunting and drinking and road trips and world-saving) just to hear his brother laugh. It occurs to him that if he had to save the world or save his brother, that he'd choose Sam. And then it occurs to him that it shouldn't be possible to love someone that much.

"Dean?"

He's been silent too long; Sam's concerned, his forehead crinkling even though he's still smiling. Dean had loved Lisa. He had loved Cassie and maybe a part of him still does love them, but that love could never compare to this. No relationship could compare to the one he had with Sam.

"Are you okay?"

Dean wants to put it into words, wants to vocalize all the feelings (love and disgust and love and self-loathing and love), but he can't. He's never been able to do anything properly when it comes to Sam. So instead, he just leans forward and kisses him.

It's nothing like the dirty kisses he gives women behind bars after he whispers in their ears empty promises of affection. It's a soft pressure with no dirty talk and no tongue; there are no hands to keep Sam there if he wants to run away from this and there are no words for the feeling in Dean's stomach, for the coil of both dread and hope tangling his gut in knots.

He counts the time against his brother's lips with heartbeats instead of seconds, except he doubts the accuracy; his eyes are closed and so he can't react to Sam's expression (can't bear to see if Sam is pleased or disgusted by this, can't watch everything he loves fall to pieces because he loves it too much).

Dean pulls himself away and turns his body back to the sunset only to see it's gone, the faintest rays of light racing away from him. He thinks it should be colder now, but his body is on fire with both shame and lust (mostly shame; God, what was he thinking). Sam hasn't said anything, hasn't made a sound and Dean takes another sip from the bottle, draining the last of its contents.

He thinks now that maybe he should be the one to say something, that maybe Sam is waiting for Dean to explain himself, but he can't. He can only stare at that spot where the sun used to be.

"Dean."

He turns and Sam's smile is the light that leads him home.