It was late.
It was late, and Dean Winchester was done. He slammed the door of his black Chevy Impala, sliding comfortably into the familiar leather of the seat. He hesitated on starting the engine, letting his head rest against the cushion. It had been a long, hard day—one of many. He sighed, wiping the dirt and gore from his face, as his brother joined him in the passenger's seat.
"You alright?" Sam asked casually, as the engine turned over and they started the drive back to town, where the motel was.
Dean raised his eyebrows, glancing over at Sam. "Yeah. Fine."
The hunt that day had been like any other—a poltergeist in an old house outside of town. The problem had been, there were people living in that house, and it was a nasty spirit, and it had put up a hell of a fight.
They managed to convince the family to leave the house when they had seen for themselves what terror was in it, and it had been hours after that before the brothers had discovered the cursed object their ghost was tied to. They torched it and left, beaten and bloody from the drawn-out battle.
Then came the usual silence that followed a hunt. It was awkward for neither of them, as they were used to it. What can one say after killing a monster? Feelings of victory, corruption and burden of the difficult life would swell in their chests, and nothing could be said, for they knew without speaking what the other was thinking.
They shared a bond like no other, not only familial but deeper than that. Ever since their father was killed by the demon Azazel, they felt burning hatred and hunger for revenge—and the weight of only having each other. Things had changed in both of them, especially Dean. He had been so much closer to their father than Sam, who didn't understand his brother's blind faith; but the loss had taken an equal toll on both of their hearts.
Dean cared for Sam greatly, but lately he had been thinking—possibly too much—thoughts he was certain a demon had somehow inflicted on his mind. Though Sam was the psychic one, it didn't stop the dreams he had in the dead of the night. He kept all of these strange occurrences to himself, troubling Sammy with it would cause him to worry and distract him from the task at hand. These new emotions that tugged in his chest, he refused to understand them. He was barely able to convince his brother that he was fine.
After the short trip that seemed all too long to the older Winchester, he parked the Impala in a spot under shade, as the sky was dense with black rainclouds. The brothers climbed out of the car and walked tiredly to their room, waving half-heartedly to the clerk as they went.
Once within the walls of the motel room, the boys changed out of their torn and bloody clothes, doctored wounds and opened a beer each. They clinked green bottles and sat back in the patchy armchairs, and still quietness was like an invisible veil between them.
"Dean?" Sam finally said, his voice quiet and hesitant. He saw this unusually peaceful night as an opportunity to speak up.
He knew something was going on with Dean, and it wasn't about their father, Azazel, or the question of his psychic abilities. This was different. His brother hadn't been showing his cocky and self-confident attitude like he did when he was hiding pain. Instead, he had been making feeble attempts to cover up something that Sam read on his face so clearly when he thought he wasn't looking. Guilt. Knowing Dean, he only got that way when had done something that he felt terrible about, and it must be something awful by the way he dreamed about it every night.
Aside from that, Dean had also been neglecting to acknowledge when a pretty girl was present. This was particularly odd, because he used to follow them with his gaze as they walked away, trying to explain to his younger brother that they were allowed to have fun. But when their waitress gave him a sly smile and her phone number, he didn't even look up.
"Hmm?" Dean replied, turning his head and blinking sleepily.
Sam flicked off the TV, gaining a lazy groan from Dean as he'd been watching the news for more jobs in the county before they headed out the next day. The younger man turned in his chair and looked seriously at his brother, setting down his empty bottle.
"Man, I was watching that." Dean frowned and crossed his arms grumpily.
"I know, but I need to talk to you about something."
Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, getting up to kick his shoes off. "What?" He grumbled.
He hated when Sam did this, he knew the question he would ask would be about how he was coping with the recent events they'd gone through, though Dean had reassured him several times that he was doing alright. Of course that was a partial lie, but feelings were nothing they needed to be worrying about now; they needed to find Azazel, and end him. Though he tried to ignore it, a knot in his stomach reminded him that Sam may have picked up on his secret little dilemma, and was ready to confront him about it. He shrugged off his jacket and turned away from his brother, unable to mask his nervousness.
"Well…" Sam faltered, unsure if he wanted to know the truth. He decided hastily that he did. No matter what, he always worried about Dean. "I just wanted to know if you're okay. I mean, with everything that happened, and now you're having nightmares…"
Dean looked at him for a brief second, and Sam saw the blame in his eyes. Now he was determined to find out what was going on, one way or another. "I just want to know what's up with you lately. It'd be much better for the both of us if you'd just tell me," He stood up and strolled over to him, his expression reassuring yet serious.
Dean panicked, clearly intimidated by the question. "Well, uh…nightmares," He chuckled awkwardly. "How'd you know about those?" He wandered away from Sam's stare to deflect the tension.
"You wake up screaming every night, dude. I'm surprised we don't get complaints." Sam leaned on the wall, frustrated already. He wasn't going to admit anything easily. "What are they about?"
Dean paled as he started to clean one of his guns and reload it with rock salt. "Oh, you know. Flashbacks. Memories. Things like that." Another partial lie.
"And they freak you out to the point where you wake up, screaming?" Sam raised his eyebrows.
"Have you LIVED our life?" Dean scoffed.
Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "Dean, I know something's up. I can see right through you. Now what is it?"
Dean breathed unsteadily and put the gun down, switching to polishing a knife so he had something to busy his nerves with. "Nothing's wrong, now we should hit the hay soon, we've got a long drive tomorrow."
Sam was getting mad now. "No. Not until you tell me the truth."
"There's no truth to tell," He shrugged, staring at the table.
"You don't have to lie."
"I'm not. Nothing's wrong with me, Sam."
"STOP DOING THAT!"
Sam inhaled sharply and charged all too suddenly towards him, slamming him against the other wall. He loomed over his older brother, his arm locked over his chest.
Dean dropped the knife, his eyes widening as he was pinned back. He made no effort to escape, his mouth falling open in surprise. He was so out of it that his own brother caught him off guard.
"Cut the crap. Something is bothering you and I know it. You always do this, you always lie, put on this show like you don't care, and I'm sick of it!" He glared down at him, furious. His temper had gotten much shorter as of late, and it wasn't hard to guess why. He'd been bottling up all of this rage since their father died, and Dean's simple sassiness had sent him over the edge.
"I'm your brother, Dean, and I care about you, and I don't like it when you're suffering, especially when I don't know why! We're in this together, so if you've got a problem I need to know what it is so I can help you out. Is that so hard to understand?" Sam growled, his eyes flashing with anger and eminent concern. He was so tired of having to do this over and over. The secrets needed to stop.
Dean's green eyes were brimmed with tears, his teeth grit as he let his brother yell at him. Guilt washed over his bold expression, his hands shaking. He wasn't able to hide it anymore. The harshness of Sam's voice cut him like a knife.
"Sammy, you don't want to know," He barely said, not afraid of his brother but afraid of himself and his own godforsaken state of mind, the dreams he had of Sam dying over and over in his arms—it was emotional trauma for even such a strong man.
"Yes. I do." Sam said, firmly, but in a much gentler tone. He saw how Dean had reacted to that, and felt it was his fault for being so hard on him. It was so unlike his older brother to let someone push him around, especially Sam.
Dean shook his head, staring shamefully into Sam's eyes. "It's bad. It's wrong."
"I don't care. Things that most people consider 'wrong' are in our daily agendas."
"Yes, but…" Dean's voice shook. "You won't like it…Dad wouldn't of…if he…" He sniffed, wincing. His broken side was showing, and there was nothing he could do about it now.
Sam's eyebrows furrowed and he released the pressure from Dean's chest, taking a half step back, though his hand stayed on his shoulder. "Hey, hey, it's alright. You know you can trust me." He leaned down so he was at eye level. "What'd you do that was so terrible?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does, damn it!"
"No…"
"Just spit it out!"
"Sam…"
A tear ran down Dean's cheek as he looked his little brother in the eyes, feeling sick. He hated the truth, he wished it wasn't this way; by God, if he could only control it. He'd known for quite a while, but had built walls around those forbidden thoughts, and now they were tumbling down.
"Please." Sam leaned close to him, honey-brown eyes huge and sad and mesmerizing as always. His tousled hair framed his soft expression of deep caring, and Dean failed to resist the rush of warmth to his cheeks. He almost choked on his inhale, the dreaded tingling feeling spreading under his skin, the taste of acid in his mouth. He couldn't take it anymore, it hurt too much to hold back the words.
"I fell for you."
Sam blinked.
Though it had been barely a whisper, he heard it perfectly. It was like a gunshot went off in his head, followed by the insane white noise of jumbling thoughts. He froze, his face going blank.
"Sammy…" Dean started, staring painfully at his brother. He was ready to be punched in the face, or shunned, or whatever Sam's awful reaction would be. And he could accept it. It was his own fault, after all, for allowing it to happen. "I-I wish it wasn't…I wish…" His voice was strained and hushed, as every cell in his body wanted to self-destruct.
Sam's face flushed after he'd thought about it for a few seconds. He looked at the floor, swallowing hard.
Dean's eyes didn't move from Sam, his heart beating rapidly. He was shocked too. He'd actually said it, and admitted it to himself. He stepped back, so Sam's hand slipped off his shoulder. Without another word, he moved past his stunned brother, being sure to avoid their arms brushing. The stiffness in the air was unbearable.
His eyes were on the cold doorknob, and his only thought was camp out in the Impala to wallow in regret and self-hatred. Being in the same room as Sam was too uncomfortable.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the coffee table, shoving things in as quickly as he could, and opened the door, ready to escape. It wasn't like him to run away, even temporarily—but he could have just destroyed everything he cared about, and there wasn't anyone to blame but himself. It still felt like shards of ice were jabbing at his heart. Sam didn't want or need him there, so the best he could do was stay at a distance.
He had taken half a step out the door when Sam spoke.
"Don't leave."
It wasn't a whine, or a complaint, it was a command. Dean turned slightly, and Sam was walking towards him, his expression solemn. Dean braced himself—he wouldn't fight back, not against the kid he'd always protected, and loved more than anything.
Once he was within two feet of Dean's vicinity, Sam slowed down, taking careful steps. His breathing was hitching, and he was hoping Dean couldn't hear. He stood directly in front of him, sadness shining in his eyes, as he grabbed Dean's arm and pulled him back inside cautiously. "Please. Don't leave." His voice was soft, and he hid behind his long bangs, his expression unreadable.
Dean's pain stopped all at once. Now, his only concern was for his brother, and the burden he'd just laid on him with his own suffering. He stood speechless, no words coming to mind.
"Come here," Sam whispered, and wrapped his arms gently around Dean's back, pulling him forward into a warm hug.
Dean was suddenly flustered, as his arms moved automatically to cradle his brother close. What the hell was he thinking, walking out like that?
"I'm not going anywhere," He said, his voice breaking, hands gripping the cloth of Sam's coat. "I'm never leaving you, Sammy."
Sam melted into Dean's embrace, burying his face in his shoulder like he always used to do as a kid. It didn't even matter that he was taller, he felt small next to his big brother.
There was a cut on Dean's neck that he'd forgotten to clean, and it stained Sam's cheek with his blood. It didn't bother either of them. It was the same blood, anyways.
In the neon light that poured through the window from the motel sign, they pulled apart, and Dean looked at him with that shamefaced expression again. He was about to turn away, to lay down and hope that sleep would wipe both their memories of this, but Sam stopped him.
The shadows danced across his face, tears in his eyes. "Don't move."
Dean stopped breathing as Sam, trembling in fear, leaned forward slowly and reached for the unknown, sealed their fates for the worst.
"Sa—"
His brother's lips were on his before he could finish, and in all his time he'd held back that urge, he let it go. He was broken like a curse. His arms pulled Sam as close as he could, and Sam held his hips as he was kissed like he'd never been kissed before. The rush in his veins was surely toxic and lethal, but it wasn't like he could stop now. Both of them were crying, their tear-stained cheeks colliding as the guilt became mutual.
Dean disconnected their mouths to back him up against the wall, this time having the upper hand. "This is so wrong," Sam said bitterly, though his eyes were dark with desire, consumed by a love for Dean he'd never acted on or thought about before, though it had always been there.
"Then, I'll be damned," Dean breathed, his hands quaking. "I don't wanna be right." He kissed him again, his chest on Sam's chest, feeling his heartbeat and how it synchronized with his own. Sam smirked weakly, turning his head to deepen the kiss, one hand at the back of Dean's neck, the other on the small of his back. "I'm going to hell…" He mumbled dazedly. He could see the fire already, burning in Dean's eyes, and the heat rising within him.
"Not without me, you aren't." He pressed his lips to Sam's jaw, and moved down to his neck, his stubble rubbing against Sam's prickled skin.
Sam closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Jerk."
"Bitch."