A/N: First story in like a million years. With a bit of a twist at the end, too! Please read, and I hope you enjoy it. Please leave reviews.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing. If I did, though ... well ... all us slashers would be VERY happy ...

Summary: Ever since they were kids, Sammy had always had an almost unnatural obsession with Dean. Dean knew about it. And now he thinks he knows why Sam is so obsessed. ..unrequited WINCEST..

Obsession

Ever since they were kids, Sammy had always looked up to Dean. He worshipped him so much so that it could almost be called an obsession … an almost unnatural obsession. The looks that Sam shot him, the way he acted around him …

Dean first noticed it when Sammy hit puberty at around twelve.

Strangely enough, Sam had always been a small kid, but when he turned twelve, he shot up like a stalk, so much so that he was almost as tall as Dean.

This, of course, made Sammy look older than he was, although his physique had nothing on Dean's. Dean had prided himself on his muscular form since he'd been about sixteen, when he had achieved it and had figured out how to successfully maintain it.

Anyway, the two boys were lounging about on a rare night off hunting (well, Dean was lounging, Sam had his nose stuck in a book, as per usual) while their dad was out somewhere (Dean suspected a bar), when Dean decided, for lack of things to do, he'd take a shower.

Plus, showering was a rare luxury that the Winchesters almost never had due to the price of renting an en-suite hotel room or apartment.

Sam had nodded and made a noise of acknowledgment, apparently engrossed in his book, but Dean though that Sam's cheeks had reddened a bit. Shrugging it off, he entered the bathroom that was across the so-called corridor, which was about a metre wide, pulled off his shirt, took off his jeans and boxers and stepped into the shower, which, for once, had warm water.

Dean sighed as the water cascaded down his body, and muttered to himself, "Dad should pay the bills more often," as he ran his hands through his hair.

The bathroom door opened suddenly, and in walked Sam. Dean dropped the soap that he had just picked up in shock. Sam stood there, frozen, his hazel eyes wide and his mouth slightly open in shock, just staring at his older brother, butt-naked as the day he was born.

A few moments passed in silence during which Sam seemed unable to tear his gaze away from his brother's body, at least, not until Dean finally found his voice and screeched, "Dammit, Sam! Can't you hear the goddamn shower?"

Sam didn't reply, but ran out of the bathroom, his cheeks burning red.

Dean shook his head.

"Unbelievable," he said to himself. And he had told Sam he was going to take a shower. And how the hell could Sam not have heard the shower? He resumed washing himself, but then froze suddenly. The way that Sammy had been looking at him … before that thought could go any further, Dean shook his head in disgust, and finished his shower.

That night Sammy decisively stared at the wall while talking to Dean, trying not to blush, and Dean tried to ignore the vague discomfort he felt, the strange tightening in his chest, for the first time in his life while around his brother.

A few weeks after that, when Dean had just began to forget his suspicions, which had made him condemn himself for even thinking that his brother might be as sick as that, Sam did something that brought Dean's suspicions back again.

They had just returned home – which was, at that time, a motel in Illinois – after a hunt, during which Dean and John took care of a malevolent spirit while Sam helped, and John had retired to bed, telling Dean and Sam to keep it quiet while he slept.

"Wanna watch a movie?" Sam offered, sounding quite eager.

"Yeah, sure," Dean nodded. "What's on?"

"I dunno, but it's something involving blood and guts and 'ghosts'," Sam laughed. Dean chuckled. He loved to make fun of those films. They didn't know what they were on about. Pointing it out to them (well, to Sam and the television screen) was one of Dean's favourite pastimes.

Dean sat on the couch next to Sam and quickly became engrossed in the film and was saying things such as, "What, are they dumb? That is obviously not how you protect yourself from a ghost!" and, "Seriously, a gun with real bullets against a spirit? Amateurs," when he suddenly felt Sam's gaze on him.

Dean felt strangely nervous when he realised Sam's gaze had been on him for a while, and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He turned his face to Sam's and said, "What, dude?"

Sam was frowning slightly, looking as though he was deep in concentration, and slowly started leaning in towards Dean.

Dean freaked out.

He jerked his head back, snapping, "What the hell, Sam?"

Sam's face was still leaning in, though. Dean swallowed again, thinking this is NOT happening, his heart thudding madly in his chest, when Sam lifted his hand to Dean's hair and gently picked something off it.

Sam grinned at Dean's shocked expression.

"Bug," he explained, and leaned back, away from Dean's personal space, his face turned back to the television.

Dean was tense for the remainder of the movie, and kept glancing at Sam, berating himself for feeling so freaked out. Of course he had a bug in his hair and Sam was getting it out … right? It had to have been true. Why else had Sammy been staring at him for such a while … and why else had he leaned in so slowly …

That night it took Dean hours to fall asleep to Sam's snores. He felt disgusting for thinking it, but he couldn't help himself. Was it possible that his little brother was getting a crush on him? He had just hit puberty, after all … maybe he was just confused, or interested in experimenting, or perhaps he just wanted to ask Dean about things that he was unsure about …

But over the next few months, Dean started to pay more and more attention to the looks that Sammy sometimes shot him. He would glance at him with those big hazel puppy-dog eyes of his, then look away.

And, Dean thought, sometimes Sammy seemed more 'scared' on hunts than usual, thus putting Dean in an older-brother-protective capacity, which Dean couldn't help, and therefore getting more of Dean's attention than his Dad or whatever they were hunting.

It wasn't like Dean felt uncomfortable all the time, hell no, this was his little brother, he loved him, of course he wouldn't feel uncomfortable with him, they hung out practically all the time, it was just … well, Dean remembered this one time, Sammy must have been about fourteen, which made Dean eighteen, so it must have been after Dean had finished school and started hunting full-time, when he returned home after a hunt with his dad (Sam had, amazingly, been allowed to stay home to study for his exams – although later, Dean had found out it was because his dad had considered the job too dangerous for Sam), completely exhausted and quite beaten (the demon had been a nasty one), and had collapsed on the couch, too tired to wash his wounds, or himself, or do anything, really, and Sam had approached him with a concerned look on his face.

"Dean, you and Dad have been gone a while. How did it go? Is it dead?"

Dean managed to nod weakly, and take his coat off, throwing it on the floor.

Sam gasped.

"Dammit, Dean, why didn't you say you were hurt?" he snapped, his eyes darkening slightly as they usually did when he got angry. Or turned on, Dean thought unconsciously, then decisively pushed that thought away, hoping that the weird feeling in his stomach brought on by that thought would subside.

There were bruises on his biceps and there was quite a bit of blood seeping through his T-shirt from where he had been scratched. Dean smiled weakly.

"I was wondering what that pain in my chest was. To tell you the truth, I thought it was some sort of late attack of the conscience for spilling coffee on your History book this morning, but …"

"You spilled coffee on my History book?" Sam screeched, which caused Dean to laugh.

"Only a little," he claimed, and Sam shook his head.

"I'll get you the iodine and some bandages," the younger Winchester said, and turned around, when Dean hit his arm lightly and grinned, "And a nice beer while you're at it, eh?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but complied with Dean's wishes. Dean opened the beer and lay on the couch, drinking it, while Sam went through the First Aid kit.

"So where's Dad now?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged.

"Had to go to the family of the girl that the demon got and tell them that it was gone or something, I dunno."

"What, and he left you to come home like this?" Sam sounded surprisingly angry. Dean blinked.

"Dude, it's not like these are serious injuries," he protested.

"Well, how do you know? Anyway, you could get an infection."

Dean rolled his eyes and Sam shook his head.

"Take off your shirt, Dean."

Dean blinked, automatically tense and on guard, and felt a bit sad about it as this was his brother, his little brother who he trusted completely … and just because Sam sometimes looked at him a bit differently didn't mean anything … he didn't have to feel uncomfortable around Sammy …

"Erm, yeah, sure," Dean said, put his beer down, and swiftly pulled off his T-shirt, resolutely not looking at Sam to see what he was staring at.

"Shit, Dean," Sam breathed, and sounded so worried that Dean looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. Sam nodded at his chest, so Dean looked down, and winced. There were numerous scratches across his chest, maybe not that deep, but they were long and pretty wide.

"Well, at least I can say that I ran into Edward Scissorhands," Dean joked, but Sam didn't smile.

"Why can't you just be more careful, Dean?" Sam said, looking quite upset. "I mean, I bet you jumped the demon yourself, probably when it wasn't even necessary!"

"Well, I …" Dean started, but Sam's angry look quelled him. And anyway, Sammy was kind of right. Damn.

"Stupid," Sam muttered as he poured some iodine over some cotton wool.

"I'm injured, not deaf," Dean said sourly. He hissed when Sam ran the cotton wool over his wounds, the iodine disinfecting them. He hissed even louder when the cotton wool was softly smoothed over the middle, widest scratch, which seemed to be quite deep.

"Ssh, Dean, ignore the stinging, just focus on me," Sam said, looking so calm and intently focussed on his job that Dean did just that.

"You need a haircut, Sammy" he muttered, and his little brother smiled and corrected Dean automatically, "It's Sam," still focussed on the job at hand.

Soon he finished cleaning Dean's wounds and helped him sit up, one hand on his back and one – Dean noticed this especially – quite low on his stomach. Dean tried to swallow down the discomfort he felt with having his little brother's hand practically on his crotch, and, again, ignored the feeling in his stomach, and sat up and lifted his arms so that Sam could wrap the bandages around him.

Sam either seemed to be taking his sweet time, or time had slowed down for Dean. He suspected the former, because unlike his brother, Dean wasn't curious enough to run his hands down any guy's chest.

When Sam finished, he sat down next to Dean, sighing and looking at him. There was a strange look in his eye, or maybe it was just Dean. Sam leaned forward, and, as had happened before, for a crazy second Dean thought that his brother was going to kiss him, but Sam was only reaching for the beer Dean put on the table.

"Dammit," Sam cursed, when his hand knocked the beer over, apparently by accident, and the bottle rolled under the television, leaving a trail of beer on the mud-brown carpet.

"Aw, Sammy, why do you have to be such a klutz?" Dean complained. "It was half-full!"

Sam sighed, seemingly annoyed, and then got down on his hands and knees in front of Dean to try and grab the bottle from under the television set.

Dean swallowed, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable again. Sam was muttering, "Where the hell is it?", stretching his arm out and feeling around under the television set, with Dean's eyes fixed on his backside, which Sam was wiggling about slightly.

It was obvious what he was trying to do, and Dean couldn't believe how obvious Sam was being about it. Even if Dean had wanted to engage in incest with his brother, which he didn't, Sammy was fourteen – way too young for any kind of sexual activity with anyone, Dean thought, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that he had lost his virginity at fourteen. Sam should not be moving his ass around like that – if Dean had been someone else, some kind of old, paedophilic pervert, he might have gotten off on it. Dean hoped that Sam didn't do that to anyone but him.

After what seemed like ages, Sam finally pulled the bottle out from under the television set, looking triumphant, and Dean tore his gaze away from his brother's ass, feeling his cheeks flushing slightly, although he had not been the one trying to seduce his brother.

"You alright, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean gave Sam a grin.

"Peachy."

Sam's behaviour carried on for the next few years in a similar fashion, and Dean kind of got used to it, although he never said anything or gave Sam any indication that he knew why Sam acted the way he did.

In fact, once, when Sam was sixteen and Dean was twenty, they were chilling out at a motel room after a good hunt with their dad, all three of them, cracking jokes over some beers and watching a feel-good comedy on the television … like a real family. And Dean felt so comfortable sitting there between his dad and his brother, laughing along with Sam over one of his dad's surprisingly crude jokes, and then their drunken dad just fell asleep on the couch without warning, snoring loudly, and the two brothers laughed even harder …

But then Dean looked at Sammy, looked into his wide hazel eyes and saw the way that Sammy was looking at him, and that weird feeling in his stomach and chest was back again.

And then Dean's world stopped when he was twenty-two and Sammy was eighteen. Sammy got accepted to Stanford. Sammy was going to Stanford. Sammy was leaving them. Leaving Dean.

And despite the looks that Sam always shot him that spoke volumes, despite the desire in his eyes, despite the pats of Dean's hand and knee that seemed to last a bit longer than necessary, Dean loved his brother, he loved him and cared for him and protected him and he did not want him to go.

But Sammy, little Sammy, "It's Sam," he had corrected Dean, had been adamant about leaving, leaving their life, their cruel, terrible life and he was leaving Dean.

At first Dean couldn't speak, he was so pissed off, could barely even look at his brother, and Sam was shooting him looks more and more often, and so Dean yelled, "Why, Sammy? Dammit, why do you have to leave? You can't leave, I – we – we need you, we need you in this family!"

Sam had replied, "You're a grown up, Dean, you're fully capable of helping Dad on your own! This is just … where I wanna go. Where I need to go."

"But why? Aren't we enough?" Dean screamed. What he wanted to ask was, aren't I enough?

"Dean," Sam said, and his eyes were so full of emotion that Dean looked away. He felt Sam reach out for him, and put his long arms around his brother. Dean grit his teeth and hugged Sammy back, hard, and when he let go his chest was hurting and his head was pounding.

Then Sam left and Dean missed him.

For four years they barely saw each other. It really killed Dean. He couldn't stop thinking about his brother, his little brother who was gone and living the life he wanted to, with his knowledge and his books and college girls.

Dean thought and thought about the feelings Sam had for him, and once or twice, when he was having sex with some girl he'd picked up in a bar, he'd close his eyes and, without even wanting to, imagine Sammy beneath him, legs spread, urging Dean to go faster.

But only once or twice.

Dean cursed Sammy sometimes, cursed him for his glances and his hugs and the tightening of the chest it gave Dean, cursed him for being so obsessed with Dean and making him feel so weird that Dean actually thought about Sam's feelings for him in such great detail that his brother accidentally made Dean think of him during sex with a girl.

And he cursed him for leaving.

But he guessed that if it made Sammy happy, then it was OK with him. Sort of.

But was Sam really happy at college? Without his family? Without Dean?

Dean was thinking about Sam's strange obsession with him the entire night in the bar he was in, relaxing after a hunt, and downing shot after shot after shot. Sammy had gone to their hotel room to put the supplies away, or something, Dean wasn't sure, but Dean assured his brother that he wouldn't be too long and he'd be back at the hotel room before Sam knew it.

When the two brothers had reunited, Dean had noticed the way that Sam had looked at him, holding Jessica in his arms, and had felt himself smile.

The look in Sammy's eyes was still the same. And, to his slight surprise, Dean didn't feel all that weird about it anymore.

He guessed four years without Sammy was more than enough time to think about it and fully accept it.

So they went on their prolonged road trip, looking for Dad, looking for the Demon That Had Killed Mom, fighting evil demons and spirits and whatever along the way, and it was almost like old times.

Sam still shot Dean those looks, and sometimes, when Dean looked back at him, gave him such a sweet smile that Dean couldn't help grinning back.

He was with his brother again.

But what scared Dean was not the desire in Sammy's eyes so clear when he was changing, not the 'accidental' brushes of their arms and of Sam's hand with any part of Dean's leg, not the way that Sam still got so annoyed and worried when Dean put himself in any unnecessary danger, but the fact that any day, any given day, without hardly any warning, Sammy could just pack his bags, and leave.

Hey, he'd done it before.

Done it to go to Stanford, then done it when he got pissed off with Dean and refused to follow their dad's orders, and then again when Dean had told him that their dad had told him Sam would turn evil and if Dean could not stop it, Dean would have to kill him.

Well, there was no way that Dean could do that. Absolutely no way. Not even if the whole world was at stake.

Sammy was his world.

But Sammy was always leaving. He just kept leaving Dean, and, after the eight (nine? Ten?) shots of whiskey that Dean had swallowed down, he thought he had finally figured out why.

It wasn't because Sam wanted to be Joe College, it wasn't because he was pissed off with Dad telling them what to do all the time, it wasn't because he needed to find out if that 'prophecy' or whatever it was was true, it was because, quite simply, he was in love with Dean.

Dean tried to choke back a laugh, but it only half-worked so it came out as an odd-sounding gurgle. He ignored the odd look the barmaid shot him and smiled to himself.

It was so obvious. Why hadn't he realised it earlier? Sam kept leaving because he was in love with Dean, and he was terrified that Dean would find out. Damn, Dean could be so slow at times.

And the looks and the touches were getting more and more frequent recently, and that usually happened before Sam did a runner, but Dean was damned if he would let it happen again.

He swallowed down his final shot, slammed it down on the bar, and stood up on shaky legs, the room spinning slightly. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a bit to steady himself, then requested a glass of tap water, which he tried to take down in sips so as not to throw up all over the bar.

He would go back to the hotel and tell Sammy that he knew.

And then he would tell him it was OK.

And then he would tell his brother how he felt about Sam's obsession.

Dean nodded smugly to himself, finished drinking his water, and walked out of the bar slowly, holding onto chairs and walls occasionally to make sure he didn't trip over something drunkenly and knock himself out. Luckily, the hotel was right across the road, so Dean, narrowly missing being hit by a car (at which he swore loudly), more or less safely crossed the road and managed to make his way up to the third floor, and knocked on the door of his and Sam's room.

"Sammy, open up! It's me!" Dean bellowed.

Sam opened the door, looking pissed.

"Dammit, Dean, when you said you'd be quick, I thought you meant you'd be half an hour, not three hours!"

Dean stumbled into the room and sat on the bed that Sam slept in, smiling up into his brother's angry face.

"I had a lot to think about, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes and shut the door.

"It's Sam, Dean, how many times?" He wrinkled his nose and Dean couldn't help thinking, he is so cute, and said, "Dude, how much did you drink? You stink of liquor."

Dean shrugged.

"Dunno. I had a few shots … well ... more than a few … well … I dunno, Sammy, I lost count."

Sam frowned.

"Why would you drink so much?"

And there it was. That look. That look in Sammy's eyes.

Dean's breath caught in his throat.

Sam was looking at him with worry, and it was the hottest thing Dean had ever seen.

He opened his mouth and what came out was, "I don't want you to leave."

Sam frowned, and sat down on the bed that Dean slept in, so the two brothers were facing each other, their knees almost touching as the beds were so close.

"Dean, what are you talking about? I'm not gonna leave."

Dean shook his head, and smiled.

"No. Not anymore." He chuckled to himself and said to Sam, "I've finally figured it out, Sammy. It only took me about fourteen years. I'm just sorry I'm so slow."

Sam's frown deepened.

"Dean," he said slowly. "What the hell are you talking about? What have you figured out? And why do you think I'm gonna leave?"

"You always leave," Dean explained softly. He saw the hurt in Sam's eyes, and said quickly, "But it's OK, I get it. I know why."

The hurt turned into confusion.

Dean smiled. He stood up and sat down next to Sam. Sat down so close that their thighs were touching each other, as were their arms. Sam turned his face to Dean's.

"Dean, you're really drunk," was all he said.

Dean's smile widened and he leaned in towards Sam a bit.

"It's OK, Sammy. You won't have to leave again." He leaned in closer, so that his lips were millimetres away from his brother's and he could feel his brother suck in a sharp breath. "Because I've finally figured it out. I feel the same way," Dean whispered.

Sam leaned back a bit, frowning again. He looked suspicious.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

Dean licked his dry lips unconsciously and the corners of his lips quirked upwards. To think, after all these years of feeling so weird about Sammy's feelings for him …

"I'm in love with you, Sammy."

There was silence.

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. Opened it, then closed it.

Dean's small smile grew.

"I …" Sam said, then shook his head, his beautiful hazel eyes wide. "What?" he hissed.

"I love you, Sammy. I feel the same way. And I'm so, so sorry it's taken me so long for me to fall in love with you, but now I am, I feel the same way, so you don't have to leave anymore." Dean's smile was so big his eyes were crinkled and blinding. "You can have me."

He leaned in towards Sammy, but Sammy stood up, his eyes still wide.

"Dean," his voice was nervous, "you're drunk. You're drunk, Dean, you don't know what you're saying. It's me, Sam, Sammy, your little brother. You can't be in love with me, Dean, we're … we're brothers."

Dean thought it sounded like disgust in his voice, but that couldn't be. Sam was obsessed with him. Sam wanted him. Sam was in love with him. Dean frowned a little, and took Sam's hand in his.

"Sam, why are you pretending? There's no need anymore." Dean was feeling remarkably sober, and flinched when Sam wrenched his hand out of Dean's and sat down on the bed opposite.

"Dean …" Sam was looking so horrified and why was he looking horrified? "Dean, how … why … why are you saying these things? What exactly do you think I feel for you?"

Dean tilted his head, a suspicious look in his drunken green eyes.

"You love me, Sammy."

"Yeah, I do. As a brother, Dean," Sam stressed the word 'brother', "I love you as my family, my big brother. I'm not in love with you."

Dean frowned. What? But … this was all wrong. Why couldn't Sam understand that Dean wasn't teasing him, wasn't joking with him, Dean was in love with his little brother, he felt the same way! Why wasn't Sam rejoicing, jumping around the room and whooping, kissing Dean?

"But … no," Dean shook his head, then stopped when he realised it made the room spin. "Dammit, Sam, can't you stop being a dick? Just admit it! You want me! You've wanted me since you were twelve! And I felt all weird about it and shit for years, but now that I'm finally telling you I feel the same way, you're pretending it was all a lie? What the hell, Sammy?" Dean snapped angrily. Why was his little brother doing this to him? Didn't he realise how hard Dean had to work to admit to himself he was bisexual, let alone in love with his baby brother?

Sam took in a deep, steadying breath, not taking his eyes away from Dean's.

"Dean, please calm down. You're freaking me out," he said quietly, calmly. Dean noticed that his hands were shaking. He looked at his brother.

"Why are your hands shaking, Sammy?" Dean asked. "Oh man, you're not gonna tell me I'm scaring you, are you?" he felt suddenly worried. "'Cause you shouldn't be scared! I'm not gonna push this. I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to do. I'm just putting my feelings out there, you know, letting you know. And I think it's time that you're honest with me, Sam. You've been hiding it for so damn long, but I know."

The looks, the touches, the emotion written so clearly over Sam's face for so many years … it was fruitless for Sam to deny his feelings for Dean.

Sam shook his head.

"Dean," he said softly, "what exactly have I been hiding? And if so, how do you know about it?"

Dean laughed shortly.

"I told you, Sam, you want me. Ever since you hit puberty when you turned twelve. Remember? When we were staying in an apartment that actually had warm water and a shower?" Dean smiled at the memory. "I told you I was gonna take a shower, and you clearly heard, so I went, and then you walked right in and stood there, staring at me, naked, for like a million years. I told myself that you made a simple mistake, but then I kept asking myself, how the hell could he not have heard the shower running?"

Sam was still shaking his head, a weird look in his eyes, which were strangely shiny.

"I was listening to music," Sam said quietly. "I was reading my book, and listening to the walkman I borrowed off one of my friends. The walkman was under my book. I guess you didn't see it. And I knew you said something, I just pretended to have heard it. I couldn't hear the shower 'cause I was listening to music, so I didn't know."

Dean frowned. That was such a lie … right?

"But you … you just stood there, staring … and after that, you couldn't look me in the eye at all! You kept, like, looking away and … and blushing …" Dean said slowly.

"Dean, I had just seen my older brother naked in the shower. I was pretty shocked, having not seen you naked before. I mean, I was embarrassed," Sam said rationally. "You were my big brother, the one that I idolised. I couldn't believe that I had seen you without your clothes, I mean, without your layers, so vulnerable." He laughed shortly, tensely. "Plus, I had just hit puberty and I was worried that my dick was too small."

Dean's frown deepened.

"But … Sammy, that's not the only thing you did … I mean, when I got home all injured and shit, you'd … you'd touch me, you know? I mean, you put your hand on my chest, my leg, my stomach … it was unnecessary touching, and it made me feel kinda odd … I mean, it gave me this weird feeling in my chest, and low in my stomach … I figured it to be discomfort, man, I mean, I'd never been touched that way by a guy before," Dean explained, trying to get Sam to see how obvious he'd been about his feelings for Dean.

Sam let out a noise that sounded like a half laugh, half choked sob.

"I was just taking care of you, Dean. I mean, you always took care of me and were there for me and looked after me, and I was just repaying the favour. I was taking care of your wounds, Dean, and that required me to touch you. I swear, whenever I wrapped you in bandages or whatever, I was not trying to feel you up," Sam said firmly, and Dean saw distress in his eyes.

It confused him, and the confusion was felt even harder because he was still drunk.

"But … Sam … over the years, all those looks, those touches … seriously, dude, you did it when you were younger and you're still doing it now …"

"Dean, whenever I touch you, it is not because I'm trying to cop a feel!" Sam snapped angrily.

Dean blinked. He was feeling unsure now.

"But … but … the looks you shot me … when we were younger, every time I looked at you, I mean, when you were looking at me … there was … Sam, there was desire in your eyes, plain and simple, no two ways about it. How do you explain that? I mean, I'm damn good at reading you, Sammy. Right?" Dean said, kind of desperately.

A tear fell down Sam's face, and Dean lifted his hand to wipe it away – he didn't want Sammy to cry – but Sam pushed his hand away.

"How did I look at you?" Sam whispered, staring right into Dean's eyes with those beautiful, wide hazel eyes, so full of love ...

"Like that," Dean whispered back, his chest tightening. "You looked at me like you're looking at me now."

Sam shut his eyes for a few seconds, and more tears fell down his face, and then he opened his eyes again. He looked as though he was trying not to scream.

"I look at you as a brother, Dean," he explained gently. "I've always looked at you like this. No desire, no lust … just brotherly love."

Dean jerked as though he'd been hit.

"But … no …" Why was he so lost for words? Brotherly love? Brotherly love? "No way, dude," Dean shook his head. "How can that be? I mean, I've been watching you since you were twelve, and every time you've looked at me or touched me or hugged me, I swear that you-" Dean broke off suddenly at Sam's choked sob.

"Exactly," his brother whispered. "It was when I turned twelve that you started looking at me differently, Dean."

Dean's eyes widened and he shook his head, horrified.

"No," he whispered to himself. "No, no, no, no, no, it was you, you, Sammy, who made me feel like this, it was you who felt like this first!" he yelled. "Wasn't it?" he whispered desperately, brokenly, looking deep into Sammy's eyes for any inclination of the feeling that Dean felt for Sammy, any at all.

But there was none.

Sam stood up, and put his hands on either side of his own face and made a noise like a strangled scream.

"Dammit, Dean, this is so fucked up!" he screamed. "How can this have happened? How? How? Why? We're brothers, Dean! We're always there for each other, we take care of each other! This is wrong!"

Dean just sat there, blinking up at Sammy, feeling hollow. He realised that he had the same odd feeling in his chest and in his stomach, the same feeling he'd had since he'd been sixteen and Sammy had hit puberty at twelve, since Sammy walked in on him in the shower and Dean thought that Sammy looked at him like he wanted him.

It was since he was sixteen and since Sammy was twelve that Dean had noticed the 'looks' and the 'touches' and thought that they had been occurring more than usual, when maybe, it was Dean who was inducing them and, dammit, he'd thought about Sammy enough over those years!

Sam collapsed on the bed opposite Dean, again, and looked at his brother through hidden lids.

"I love you, Dean," he whispered, "but I'm not in love with you. We're brothers. And now I finally know why I keep leaving."

Dean was unable to speak, unable to feel anything but pain and there was a roaring in his ears. He was unable to tear his gaze away from his brother, his beautiful younger brother who he adored and worshipped and would do anything for.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean found himself whispering, tears making their way down his face.

Turns out that little Sammy wasn't the one with the unnatural obsession with his brother after all.

It was Dean.

The End.