Author's note: To be revised as I notice mistakes. Extra warning for: Wincest and explicit/graphic content.

"I really don't think we oughtta be doin' this, Dean."

He rolled his eyes and glanced over at his brother, eyes otherwise on the road. "Stop whining."

Sam scoffed. "I'm not whining. I just know when we're being idiots. Well, when you are. Like always, I'm stuck tagging along."

"This's my birthday present to you."

Dean saw his brother shake his head from the corner of his vision. "An early death?" he muttered.

For two weeks Dean had been following the trail of a werewolf a state over – a werewolf that was new and terrible at hunting. Hearts half-eaten, sometimes only punctured – victims left alive to bleed out. Dad had been gone for a week and had called them last night to tell them he'd miss Sammy's birthday by at least a few days. He hadn't wanted to talk, so Dad had hung up with a sigh. Dean didn't know what he was up to, but lately he'd been on some case (or so it seemed) that he wouldn't talk about, even with his eldest son.

"We should get out here." Dean slowed the Impala and maneuvered it slightly into the nearby woods, under the cover of trees and away from eye-sight of the road.

"How do you know we'll even find it?"

Dean opened his door and got out, closing it quietly and walking back to the trunk. "Saw him turn in his kitchen and head to his hunting grounds. These," he motioned around to the dark woods around them as his brother approached, "are his hunting grounds."

"Dad's gonna kill you if he finds out you took the car. And I bet he will."

"It's his fault for leaving it with us," joked Dean, then he accused: "What, are you gonna tell him?"

"No." Sam went quiet with thoughts, Dean assumed, of their father. "Why did he?"

"Doing his own hunt." He couldn't make it seem like he didn't know… Dad always kept Dean close to his cases, but lately he'd barely seen him for more than a day at a time. "Didn't need a car, obviously."

"Without us?" He handed him a silver knife, taking for himself a gun. "What the hell am I gonna do with this?"

He glanced at Sam as he filled the pistol with a cache of silver bullets. "Protect yourself and stop bitching."

"Why d'you get a gun?"

Dean scoffed. "You're eighteen and you sound like you're eight." He filled a second, smaller pistol and gave it to his brother. Sam rolled his eyes at the difference in sizes and started walking away. Dean closed the trunk and followed. "This way," he coaxed, pulling at his brother's sleeve. "All of 'em were found in a mile radius of each other. That's his house right there." Dean pointed at the very faint speck of light between the trees – the werewolf's kitchen window.

They walked along until Dean pulled his brother down so they could take cover behind a brush, though it did little to shield them from the night chill. Both silently listened for a good few minutes, until Sammy broke it.

"He's probably already home by now. You should've took me along at the start instead of waking me up in the middle of the night to come find him with you."

"Then you'd be complaining about the wait. Just like you are now." Dean heard his brother breathe a laugh and it made him smile. It was his birthday and he only wanted him to be happy – though he'd never tell him that. A few more minutes later, Sammy tapped him on the shoulder and motioned (close to his face so he could see) northward. The elder Winchester strained his ears and heard the faintest sound of growling, chewing, eating.

As silently as they could they crept along the fallen leaves (it was well into autumn, and Dean hated winter) toward the sound, Dean pushing his brother's shoulder to gesture him left while he himself went right. They'd have no problem cornering an inexperienced werewolf by themselves – they'd done it before. Kneeling down behind the rough trunk of a gnarled tree Dean looked onward. Through the moonlight and barren trees he could see it: not twenty feet away, a ravenous wolf-man noisily eating, blood coating most of him. He strained his sight hard to see what it was on the ground. There were hooves, he was sure, with a silent breath of relief.

That breath soon stopped when Dean felt a gust of wind at his back, chilling him – pushing his scent forward. In a matter of mere moments the werewolf became still and then rushed toward him, discarding his meal to make Dean the next one. He bounded forward just as the gun was raising, the creature on him before he could pull the trigger. His head hit the ground hard and he was dizzy, gun lost in the leaves near his outstretched arm. The other did its best to keep the creature at bay, hand at its neck.

"Sammy," he yelled, and not a moment later Dean was deafened by a gunshot and sprayed with blood. All was still except for human breath. The werewolf atop him had been shot through the heart, the bullet narrowly missing Dean's arm and instead thrust into the ground. The wound leaking blood onto the hunter was now not from a werewolf, but from a peaceful-looking young man with sand-colored hair and more freckles than Sammy had complaints.

"Dean," he heard, though his ears were will ringing. Feet crunched carelessly over leaves and he saw his brother over the shoulder of the man as he looked at his bloody face.

Sammy was waiting with bated breath, so Dean muttered, "I'm fine," and finally took his eyes away from the man's face to roll him off himself.

"He didn't bite you, did he?"

"No." Dean said softly, though his heart was racing in his chest. He looked down at his clothes, wet and red. "Goddammit. This's my only good shirt."

"What the hell was that?" Sammy demanded, dumbfounded at his experienced brother's predicament.

Dean struggled to his feet and jerked his hands out to get the blood off them. "I did that on purpose," he lied, grinning faintly. "Your birthday present was feeling like you could save me."

"I did save you."

"Well, happy birthday, then."

His little brother was still upset despite Dean's (funny, he thought!) joke. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he repeated, walking closer to the corpse to verify that it was only a deer. "Shut up."

"If he'd been any better at hunting you'd be dead."

"You sound like dad. You hate him so much but you're becoming just like 'im." That was the wrong thing to say, because Sammy huffed in offense and stormed off to the car, no longer caring about his brother's well-being. "Sam," he called after him, his tone apologetic – the closest thing the kid would get to 'sorry'.

After piercing the man through the heart again ('for good measure,' Dean would defend, but honestly it was simple revenge) with his knife, Dean made his way back to the car, where Sam was putting his weapon back just the way they'd gotten them. He set his own down so Sam could bother with it while he shed his wet clothes. He was guilty – his brother had saved him and only gotten insulted as a 'thank you'.

"Any clothes back here?" he asked, but Sam refused to answer and instead went to slunk in the passenger seat once he was finished. Dean looked himself, finding only a stained but clean t-shirt and donning it. After doing his best (which sucked) to clean his jacket and wet shirt and leaving them in the trunk, Dean came to the familiar driver's seat. He turned the car on just to heat it up – no surprise, blood goes cold.

A stained-but-dry hand reached out to grasp his brother's shoulder, staying there even after the shoulder shrugged. "Hey," Dean said softly. Sam didn't move. "That wasn't your only birthday gift," he continued, smiling a little when Sammy's head turned faintly in curiosity. "Look."

Dean stretched and reached into the back, pulling up a plastic bag – retrieving a pack of beers and a Little Debbie boxed apple pie. When he looked at his brother again, he was smiling, and it made him smile, too. The kid was handsome when he wasn't pouting (but still handsome when he was).

"You got me your favourite stuff for my birthday?"

"You don't like beer and pie?"

Sammy laughed. "Yeah, I do."

Pulling his matchbook from his jeans pocket, Dean stuck a match in the unboxed little pastry and lit it with a second one. The smell filled the air. "I'm not lighting seventeen more," he teased his brother, offering it to him. With arms still crossed but a smile on his face, Sam blew out his 'candle' and took half of the pie when Dean had broken it. He shoved his own half in his mouth so he could use both hands to open two beers.

"Thanks," Sam muttered through a full mouth and soon filled it fuller with beer.

They sat like that for a few more minutes, eating and drinking, silently together, Dean soon turning off the car so it was all the more quiet. Soon he said, "You know how I always had to look after you?"

"I'm not a kid-"

"No, I know," Dean nodded. "I mean, you know, when we were kids. Dad would go away and I'd have to watch you?"

"Yeah?"

He racked his brain for words that weren't too emotional, because he hated that. "I know I was a dick sometimes, but, you know… if it'd been just me, I don't think I coulda done it."

Sam hesitated. "Done what?"

He shrugged, eyes on the woods, though he could tell his little brother's were looking at him. "Grown up. Schools changing, friends changing. Only thing the same was you and dad." Sam didn't say anything so he continued. "We fight, yeah. All three of us. But you and me… well-" Dean interrupted himself to finish his first beer.

"What?"

"You're my best friend, y'know? Grown up together, almost always only ever had each other."

"Are you drunk already?" They both breathed laughs. In all truth, that half-pie was the first thing Dean had eaten for a while and it was never a good idea to drink on an empty stomach.

"No. I just, I know you want away from… this. Wanna, y'know, go out and do what normal people do. But-" he wouldn't say don't go, because that was dramatic, "I'd miss you. Or whatever."

"Me, too. Or whatever."

With four beers left out of twelve (Dean having most of them), and an hour into 'remember that time when', Dean and his brother were far too drunk for their own good and wouldn't be driving back to the motel any time soon. On the bright side, Sam had spent the last little bit of his birthday with a smile on his face and laughter in his chest (and sometimes hysteric tears in his eyes). They had gone so far as to reminisce about some of Dean's more awkward sexual encounters in high school when Sammy admitted he'd never had sex.

"Are you serious?" Dean asked, almost offended on his behalf.

Sammy was blushing as he shrugged. "Yeah. Been kissed, and all, but yeah, never… just never."

"How far have you gone?"

"Uh… Hickies?"

Even Dean thought Sammy was cute. Surely he had to be lying. "What about that girl in your senior year? You never did anything with her? You were always together."

He shrugged again, seeming to shut down. Dean leaned forward to meet his gaze. Finally Sam answered, "I realized some stuff."

"About her?"

"About me."

Dean was dumbfounded. "What's that mean?" When Sam shrugged again, Dean pried. "Sammy."

"It's not a big deal," he started. For being not-a-big-deal, he sure wouldn't meet his older brother's gaze. "I could've… we almost did, y'know. But I realized, it's not girls I like so much."

Silence.

He almost couldn't breathe for a second. Was Sammy telling him…? "You're gay?" Dean exclaimed, brows furrowed in disbelief. More silence. "I didn't mean it like that," he assured quickly. "I just mean… do you mean… you're gay?"

"Yeah," Sam finally answered. "I guess."

Dean looked around at the woods. It wasn't that he didn't approve – he just had no idea. How did he never know? Why was Sam already a man before he told him? He sipped from his beer and softly responded, "Oh. That's cool." But then he got to thinking: did his admission still apply? "So, you've never-" Dean cleared his throat and drank more of his beer. "You've never been with a guy, even?"

"Just kissed, like I said."

The elder Winchester almost blushed. It was a weird feeling – jealousy? "Who?"

"Some kid in school. And I went on, uh, a date or two with another. But then we moved." At a loss for what to say, Dean finished his beer and moved to discard the empty bottle, realizing again how drunk he was. "I feel like I'll never find anybody," Sammy slurred suddenly. Dean looked at him and he continued. "Already eighteen. Barely kissed anyone. Think how hard it is to find girls, movin' around like this. But guys? And rarer – guys who'll like me?"

Dean sat back, looking at his defeated brother. "You're cute, Sammy," he admitted to reassure him.

"I don't wanna be cute." Those arms were crossed in defiance.

He grinned, blushing faintly still, hand reaching over the seat to grasp his shoulder. "Fine. You're handsome." Teasingly he pulled at the wisps of hair that descended the back of his brother's neck.

Sammy's head moved slightly, eyeing his brother from the corner of his vision. Ashamed, almost, Dean took his hand away. "Have you ever," Sam soon started, "uh, ever done anything with a guy?"

"No."

"You ever want to?"

After swallowing thickly, he fumbled over his answer. "Never met the right one, I guess- I mean, I'm straight, and all, but, I wouldn't be opposed to trying, or whatever. Y'know? Mouth's a mouth, I guess."

"Yeah. Sure."

"You'll find somebody. Someone cute- or, whatever, you know," he scoffed playfully, "handsome. We'll never find those married-with-kids-in-the-suburbs kinda dates, but we can find those damp-sheets, wet-mouthed, Summer-Lovin' kinda dates." Sammy breathed a laugh and he did, too. "You'll be deep in some sweet-lipped hunk before you know it."

"Hunk?" Sam laughed.

"What? Is that, like, not the right word?" Dean had slumped down into his seat now, body heavy with alcohol.

"You're an idiot," Sammy smiled, finally looking over at him – that slender hand suddenly reaching for Dean's lap, opposing brows furrowed and confused, watching as his little brother gently traced his fingertips over the spots of werewolf blood over his thigh.

"What are you doing?" Dean's heart was pounding in his chest.

But Sammy only offered a cool, calm: "I just wanted to see if it was still wet."

"Oh." A huff. His excitement and fear had turned to… disappointment? No, that couldn't be right. "I thought you were..." he trailed off.

"What?" Sam was amused, Dean could hear, but he couldn't bear to look at him. "I'm not into hand-jobs."

Another huff. A slight smile. Dean was good at banter. "Really? You look like you'd put those hands to work."

"Only on myself."

Tell him to shut up, Dean told himself, heart pounding. He could only whisper, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Somehow Sammy was closer to him and their knees bumped gently. "Probably'd be too eager to stop at just using my hands. On some hunk, I mean." He was teasing him, but instead of playfulness it invoked an anxious, deep warmth in his stomach.

"What would you do?" he pried breathlessly.

Sam turned his head to look at his brother, but he couldn't look back – he could only slightly tremble, too drunk and ashamed at this familiar but incestuous feeling. "Kiss 'im. 'Til my lips were raw. Leave marks on his neck." Dean could feel Sammy's faint, warm breath as he spoke just half a foot away from his skin. He desperately wanted him to stop – to tell him I'm your brother and I know it's terrible and wrong but you're turning me on. He was drunk, that's all. A drunk body couldn't tell a brother from a lover. That's what he told himself. "Leave a wet trail down 'im. Put my hands all over his skin."

A moment of silence later, Dean whispered, "You're good with words, Sammy."

"I've thought about it a lot." Sam was still looking at him. From the corner of his vision he could see him looking down at the hands in Dean's lap. "Little stuff, too. Like holding hands."

Finally Dean smiled. That was cute, and did nothing to slow his pounding heart, but it was an opportunity to tease. "So sweet I feel sick."

"Can I tell you something?"

Shut up, Sam. As hard as Dean willed himself to say it, he couldn't. "'course."

"Well, are you drunk?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, good," Sam whispered, and through the silence that followed Dean heard his brother swallow. "I don't want you to think I'm… well, I just hope you won't remember."

"What?"

Another moment of silence. Sam sighed. "You were always- I mean, everyone always had a crush on you. I-" shut up, Sam, "-did, too."

He had nothing to say. The anxiety in his stomach made him want to get sick and pass out – no, wait, that was mostly the beer. Sam had him trembling with goosebumps. His own brother…? He couldn't even put it into words.

Dean didn't think it was as strange as he should've.

Sam was cute. Dean had gotten into the habit of calling him 'prettyboy' these last few years. Had that been a mistake? The silence between them had gone on long enough for Sam to stop looking at him. The eldest Winchester turned his head to see those dark eyes looking shamefully at their own lap. He could only imagine how he felt – telling his own brother he had feelings that spanned beyond familial and getting only painful silence in response.

They were all each other had. They were the closest thing either would ever find to a 'soul mate' - they both knew that. This life allowed no picket-fence romance. The moment Dean saw his brother's eyes gloss over with emotion, he lifted his arm and put it around Sammy's shoulders. His hand grasped the side of his neck that was on the opposite side of him and a moment later Sam had turned his head to him almost in disbelief.

Dean didn't know what he was doing. He was drunk and slightly hard and this was his brother. Perhaps that term didn't go deep enough: this was not only his brother, but this was his Sammy.

Whatever justifying he was doing was stifled by Sam leaning closer. Thoughts stopped. Hot breath mingled. Dean leaned closer, too. Lips met lips – soft and warm and both tasting like beer. That warm and wet mouth was barely felt with an eager tongue before Sam broke away.

"Sammy-" Dean started, apology heavy in his voice.

"It's okay," he whispered back pleadingly, panting so hard Dean was nearly suffocating on his hot breath. That slender hand reached up to caress his older brother's rough cheek and again their lips connected – feverishly this time, mouths opening to accept the other inside and tongues flicking clumsily along wet teeth. They kissed, heads tilting and turning this way and that – only breaking the connection when one of them needed a deep breath of air (or had to exhale hard from arousal). Hands were only lost in each other's hair or skimming along a jaw or grasping at a neck.

Inching ever closer, Sammy was soon halfway in his brother's lap. Drunken hands were skimming blindly up barely-legal ribs underneath his shirt. Firm and tall bodies maneuvered awkwardly in the small space. The steering wheel had never felt so close.

Dean tried to pull away to speak but Sam followed his lips wherever they went – forcing him to bring his hand up through the neck of Sammy's shirt to grasp his throat and hold him still. When he was finally able to open his eyes and look at him, he saw his little brother's fevered, depraved expression. Like a werewolf himself.

"Backseat," Dean nearly demanded, and his brother eagerly obeyed: crawling over the front to settle himself into the back. The older Winchester was far too drunk to do such a thing so he slipped out of the Impala, stumbled over leaves, and finally found his place in the back – crawling atop his lying brother. Legs between legs, Dean had to focus all his attention into holding himself up lest he burden Sammy with all of his weight. Those hands were in his hair, grasping his ears, nails digging into the skin on the back of his neck. Dean was beside himself with arousal. Sammy really had thought so much about this.

His own faintly-red-stained hand slid down along a lightly muscled torso to take its place underneath the shirt once more. Their lips had connected again immediately and left no time for speech – no time to reconsider what they were doing, no time to whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears. Dean doubted he'd be able to put a sentence together, but if he did, it'd be about how deep he wanted to feel Sammy and how hard he wanted to make him come.

"Take it off," demanded Sammy, having broken their kiss with his hands all the way up to Dean's bare shoulder blades. With help, he pulled his barely-used t-shirt and soon did the same with Sam's. With chests bare he pressed down against his brother, lips meeting his neck instead of that sweet mouth. Sam was working at Dean's belt when he started laughing breathily.

"What?" was whispered into his ear, Dean panting like a wolf and grinning drunkenly.

"You were almost a werewolf tonight," Sam explained, hands now feeling over the blood stains on Dean's denim. He laughed, too, and resumed wetting that boyish neck with a smirk on his lips. "You're lucky I saved you."

Dean hummed an acknowledgment, then said, "This's me repaying it."

Somehow, even tangled up in each other, bodies half naked in a way no brothers should be, they still reverted to banter.

Jeans were pushed down, hickies were given, hands were wandering. Sam had taken to moaning every few moments – Dean could feel how hard he was through his briefs as he grinded his own hips down.

"I wanna blow you," was whispered into Dean's ear, a chill rushing down his spine. With that he sat up on his knees, looking down at his brother who soon reached to free the elder's cock from its last fabric. There was hunger on his face – staring and dilated eyes, parted lips soon wet with a slight rolling tongue. "You don't know how much I've thought about it."

"Sucking cock?" Dean pried, sitting properly now and letting his brother position himself to lie across the backseat, angled for his lap. He never thought he'd be talking like this to Sammy, but it made him all the harder.

"Just yours." A moment later Sam engulfed him in a hot, wet, fleshy mouth, tongue curving down his length as he took it. Dean made a desperate moan – hand reaching down his brother's bare back to slip underneath his underwear, grasping firmly at a mound of flesh and muscle. Sam bobbed his head and hollowed his cheeks while Dean kneaded and massaged at his ass, his free hand tangling in brown hair.

"Fuck, Sammy," he groaned, muscles weak with building pleasure. He never had such a hair-trigger, but he could blame that on alcohol and the pure, almost uncomfortable lust that came with fucking your own pretty brother.

"You gonna come?" he muttered against the head of his cock, gasping slightly from his work on the stiff, now-dripping rod.

"Yeah," Dean admittedly breathlessly, hips pumping up the moment Sammy dared to take him as far down into his throat as he could manage, gagging on it almost in unison with Dean's orgasm – desperate moans escaping him as he thrust upward and upward and upward, cock twitching in that mouth as it shot thread after thread of hot semen.

By the time he was done his heart was pounding so fast he was sure it was humming. Sammy had made sure he'd taken it all before swallowing with Dean still deep in his throat, the air that hit his bare and sensitive cock after Sammy pulled away almost hurting. Sam sat up and looked at him – waiting, it seemed, for some kind of reaction – those lips reddened and wet, his chin dripping.

"You pretty fucking boy," he said, words slowly emphasized. Dean grasped that mess of hair and pulled him closer to kiss, tasting himself in that mouth. When he pulled away to give him the same attention, he saw a damp line of pre-cum marking Sam's briefs – though it was almost missed, given how much attention his cock drew, fully hard and peeking through the leg of the fabric. "How do you want me to get you off?" Eyes (vision wavering) flicked up to that face and he grinned. "It's your birthday."

"I wanna..." he started, then stopped. No time to be shy, now! Dean thought. "Can I come on you?"

After an aroused exhale and a nod in affirmation, Sammy straddled his brother and finally slipped those briefs down just enough for his hard length to spring free. Dean grasped it with a very warm hand and began to pump him, glancing between the reddened cock and his brother's reddened face.

If Dean had a hair-trigger, there was no name for what Sammy had. Not a minute into Dean's hand working him, Sam was a mess of squirming and moaning, grinding in his older brother's lap and holding onto his shoulders. Without warning Sam shot ribbons of hot seed all over the opposing torso, gasps of breath taken and even Dean moaning at the sight. He was sure Sammy had never come so much at once – he was practically soaked in it. From the dripping he felt at his shoulder, he could only assume Sammy had marked the backseat of the Impala, too.

In his haze of post-orgasm, his little brother became very affectionate – arms around Dean's head, nuzzle given to his jaw, lips pressing little kisses over his bare neck. Dean was sure they would both regret this (even now he was starting to feel a deep tingle of shame at his core) but he would enjoy this: kneading Sammy's muscles, caressing his skin, kissing the hickies he'd left on his neck. Dad wouldn't notice those, even if he was looking straight at him.

He would make this moment last as long as he could: simple, sweet, where they worried about nothing except comforting the other's spent bodies before they would try to clean up their lustful mess and really think about what they'd just done.

"Good birthday?" Dean huffed, voice trembling just like the rest of him.

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "Good birthday."