Chapter One: It's Hopeless, Sam

It had been a long time since Dean had slept such a deep, hard, and dream free sleep. Waking up from the black grip of unconsciousness felt like trying to break himself free from the sucking mire of a peat bog. His mind refused to cooperate, to let him shake off the last dregs of heavy sleep that clouded his senses.

"Dean. Dude. You alright?" That voice. Dean groaned.

'Shit, Sammy, how much did I drink last night?" Dean replied to his brother, finally piecing together where he was, and more importantly, who he was with. Propping himself up on one elbow, Dean glared blearily around the tight quarters of their hole-in-the-wall motel room. His brother was sitting on the edge of his own bed, fully dressed, both of his huge hands wrapped around a disposable cardboard coffee cup, a half-cocked smirk creeping up the side of his mouth, eyes slightly quizzical.

"I don't know Dean, you tell me. I kind of lost track of you after you left with that horny bartender. What was her name? Bambi?" Dean groaned again, collapsing from his partially upright position back onto the bed. Rubbing his face with both hands, Dean cleared his throat roughly.

"Darci, man. Bambi, Sam, really? You think I'm into fucking deer?" Dean replied, voice muffled by his hands. Truth was, Dean was into just about anything these days, to an extent that was starting to worry both brothers. Dean had always had an overactive libido, but never to the point of pulling them from an active case.

"Dean, seriously, I don't care what her name was or how much you drank. What is going on with you, dude? We were hot on the trail of that vamp. Now he's had a head start, who knows if we'll be able to find him again." Sam furrowed his brow, staring down at his cold coffee. Running his thumb over the mouthpiece of the cup, he lowered his voice and finished, "Not only that, but you're starting to really freak me out, man. I haven't seen you eat a decent meal in like a month, you're drinking through every bar we see, and I'm pretty sure at the rate you're hooking up you're gonna wind up with some nasty form of super AIDS."

Sam hadn't heard a sound as Dean climbed out of the bed, so he was surprised to feel his brother lift his chin with a crooked index finger, giving him a roughish Winchester grin coupled with a mimed kiss.

"Buck up buttercup, one of these days you'll make it through puberty and learn how to put down the kombucha and pick up the bourbon, not to mention the babes." With that, Dean tripped past Sam, tousling his hair, and entered the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Sam shook his head bitterly, sucking down the rest of his unsweetened brew, and crumpled the cup in frustration, throwing it into the closed bathroom door. Of course, Dean wouldn't take his concerns seriously. Every time Sam tried mentioning to Dean that something was off, that Sam was worried, his concerns were just turned into a joke. But Sam wasn't being paranoid, something was going on with his brother. Living in such close proximity to someone, day in, day out, every day of your life- you begin to know that person like the back of your hand; better than you know yourself. Sam's brother is- was- a glutton. Eating everything in sight, as long as it wasn't a fruit, or heaven forbid, a green vegetable. Sam could swear he could count the amount of times he's seen Dean in his down time not stuffing his face on one hand- until recently. Dean had a fast metabolism and a beyond healthy level of physical exercise, which were probably his only saving graces from morbid obesity. As it was Dean was relatively stocky- not chubby of course- he didn't have an ounce of body fat on him. But the massive amounts of calories he consumed coupled with the active hunter lifestyle and constant training had turned Dean into a powerfully muscled young man. Not that Sam would know. It's not like he ever found his eyes drifting to his brother's muscle-corded torso when he came out of the shower sleek and gleaming, or had to force himself to look away when Dean would shamelessly toss the towel aside to pull his boxers up his chiseled thighs…

Sam could feel his neck burning, the tips of his ears turning red. What the hell was wrong with him? The whole point of this train of though was working through the changes in his brother, and the concern Sam was feeling. And instead, here he is, picturing his older brother, BROTHER, naked after a shower. Sam pounded a fist into his thigh and winced. Apparently Dean wasn't the only one having issues lately. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Sam closed his eyes and leaned back onto his mattress. No, it wasn't just the fact that Dean wasn't eating the way he used to. Stress can attribute to a lack of appetite, and Lord knows they have their full share of stress. But the way Dean was behaving, you'd think he had a death wish. Drinking to the point of oblivion every night, the random outbursts of temper, the long stretches of bleak withdrawn silence, the almost desperate need to fuck any woman who succumbed to his chiseled features, and forest green eyes, and that spattering of chestnut freckles that lightly dusted his nose….

"Hey Sammy, whatcha daydreaming about? A kale salad and a nice pool boy named Enrique?" Dean leaned in the open bathroom door, arms crossed, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, a towel wrapped around his waist. Yes, Dean had been losing weight, and with nothing but a towel covering him, the loss was apparent. Freckles. Sam tried not to notice that his brother didn't only have freckles on his face. He had them all over his body, as far as Sam could see, and maybe even…

"Yeah Dean, that's exactly what I'm thinking about, not anything to do with how freaking weird you are, you jerk." Sam growled out, relieved when Dean disappeared back into the bathroom to spit out his mouthful of toothpaste. "Since when do you bother with oral hygiene? I don't think I've seen you brush your teeth since you were twelve."

"Since I can still taste Darci in my mouth. By the way, you might want to buy a new toothbrush, I wouldn't recommend using this one again." Dean's voice came from the bathroom, sounding as light and cheerful as always, a tone Sam hadn't heard much lately.

"Sick dude! You used my toothbrush? Why didn't you use your own?" Sam called back to him, scrunching his eyes closed and wondering what exactly on Darci Dean was still tasting.

"I don't have a toothbrush, I always use yours, dumbass. Have you ever seen me buy a toothbrush?" Dean responded, chucking. Oh yeah, he was definitely in a good mood, for whatever reason. When Dean didn't hear a disgusted or offended reply, he stuck his head through the doorway to look at Sam. Sam stared back, surprisingly silent. His face was blank, and he immediately dropped his eyes and refused to make eye contact with his brother. Getting up swiftly, Sam turned and stalked to the front door of the hotel room, long legs eating up the distance quickly.

"Whatever Dean, I'm going to the store. Try not to get drunk or fuck anybody while I'm gone." With that the front door slammed, and Dean was along in the room, left with only his thoughts.

And boy, did Dean have thoughts. As soon as the door swung shut, the nonchalant smile on Dean's face faded. He slumped against the wall of the bedroom and slid down to sit on the floor, resting his arms on his knees and burying his head in his arms. He didn't have the energy to do this anymore. Pretending everything was fine was eating him up alive. Pretending nothing was wrong felt like pushing his hands into a live fire and being expected to smile and act like his flesh wasn't curling away from the bones of his fingers while his skin sizzled and popped. Goosebumps pebbled Dean's skin as the analogy sprang into his mind. Truth be told, he felt like someone had thrown his heart into a fire. He felt actual physical pain in his chest all the time recently, and a tightness in his stomach that no amount of distractions could unwind. Dean had managed to hide from Sam the reason why he wasn't eating anymore. Every time he tried, his stomach immediately rejected the food, and he found himself crouched over the porcelain god, violently expelling anything he managed to choke down. The only thing he could keep in anymore was his steady diet of various forms of alcohol. His stomach felt so sick and tight all the time lately that Dean found the only way he could sleep was when he was so inebriated that he blacked out into unconsciousness. When the sedating effects of the alcohol he had imbibed inevitably wore off and he sank into real sleep, his disturbing dreams always wrenched him immediately awake. Dreams of sun browned skin slick with sweat passing under Dean's hands, silky chestnut hair grasped in his fingers. A hot mouth sucking against Dean's body, greedy and ardent. Brown eyes gazing into Dean's, full of hunger and need, pupils dilating with desire. Dean's brow furrowed. This isn't right. Why is he flashing back to these dreams while he's awake? Is he so screwed up now that even his conscious thoughts are reaching out for the one worst thing that Dean could ever want? And with that Dean felt his stomach wrenching, his throat burning. He was having a physical response to the disgust he felt in himself.

Sam walked back through the door with his sack of groceries, feeling less off kilter than when he had stormed out of the motel room. He could do this, Sam though, he can act like the though of something as innocent as his brother sharing his toothbrush hadn't caused a searing warmth to seep into his loins. He can stuff these thoughts down deep and….

"Dean! Shit, man, this isn't just a hangover is it?" Sam expelled worriedly, tossing his groceries down on the table and loping across the room to bend over Dean and place a warm hand between his shoulders. Dean was on his hands and knees, halfway in the bathroom, coughing and retching over a puddle of vomit that was clearly just bile and whatever liquids Dean had in his system. Dean struggled to throw Sam's hand from his shoulders, but found he was too embarrassingly weak to do much more than shift his weight on his hands. He hunched over again, like a cat hacking up a fur ball, swallowing back stomach acid and roughly barked out,

"Don't touch me Sam, get the hell away from me." Sam's brow furrowed. Instead of removing his hand, he wrapped his arm around his brother's torso and lifted him up, pulling one of his arms over his shoulders.

"Stop trying to be so macho, Dean. You're clearly not well and we gotta get you better. " Dean slumped into Sam slightly, and allowed himself to be half dragged/half carried to the closest bed, which happened to be Sam's. Sam plopped Dean down in the bed and lifted his legs to swing them up into the bed. "Are you okay? Should I bring you a wastebasket?" Sam asked, sitting down next to Dean and feeling his forehead for a temperature. Dean turned his head away from the reassuring touch and buried it into Sam's pillow, breathing through his mouth and immediately relaxing as he inhaled the scent, the taste of Sam's sandalwood and cedar aftershave and unique Sam-ness left on the pillowcase.

"I'm alright Sam. I promise. It's just the hangover." Dean muttered, curling in on his side into the fetal position, shivering slightly in nothing but the thin motel towel tied around his hips. Sam didn't say anything more, just pulled the blanket up over his brother's shoulders. "Just gotta sleep it off Sammy, okay?" Dean said, eyes tightly shut, feeling a cloud of exhaustion seep into him, erasing his ability to stay awake.

"Yeah Dean. You do that. We're gonna get you better. You'll be fine in no time." Sam whispered, brushing the back of his fingers along the side of Dean's jaw. Sam was sure Dean was already asleep and felt guilty for the touch, but he couldn't see his brother like this and not express some physical bit of tenderness. Hefting his bulk from the bed to walk over to where he had set the groceries down, Sam could have sworn he heard a broken voice reply, "It's hopeless, Sam." But of course, that was just in his head, Dean was already snoring.