-A-
When Sammy was fifteen years old, he had walked in on Dean with another boy.
Tommy was the son of Mr. Duvalle, the owner of a local garage where Dean had been part-timing for a few weeks, and on that particular day, Sam had opened the door to their motel room to find Tommy on top of his brother in one of the double beds.
"Jesus, Sammy!" Dean had shouted, leaping from the mattress and dragging the sheet with him. "I...you...I didn't think you would be here until four!"
Sam had stared, speechless, for several long seconds before averting his gaze and mumbling, "I was hungry."
"Tell the little brat to scram," Tommy had drawled with a lazy smirk. "We're not done, here."
Dean had shoved him angrily off the side of the bed.
"Don't you dare talk about him like that!" he had hissed, picking up a crumpled pair of jeans from the floor and throwing them unceremoniously at the other boy's chest. "Get the fuck out! I don't want to see you around here again."
Tommy had flushed a bright shade of red before shoving his pants on and elbowing past Sammy, who was still standing, dumbfounded, in the open door.
"This was a one-time deal, Winchester," Tommy had called over his shoulder, spitting out the last word in contempt. "Don't try to come 'round the shop asking for a redo, faggot."
"Yeah? What do you call yourself, then?" Dean had shouted after him, although Sam could see the look of shame that spread across his brother's features for the briefest of moments.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean had muttered, pulling Sam into the room by his arm and slamming the door behind him. "I'm...I'm sorry you had to see that."
Sam had shifted his weight nervously for a few seconds before lying, "It's fine, Dean. I don't care. I don't care about that."
"You must be feeling something, Sammy," Dean had said, his voice almost a whisper, but Sam had just shrugged, ignoring the painful knot that had reared its angry head somewhere in his gut.
"Yeah," he said, forcing a little smile and turning toward the pile of vending machine food they had stashed beside the TV, "hunger."
-B-
They never stayed anywhere for long, though, and Sam had felt a rush of relief when Dad had announced their departure.
"There's a job up in Colorado, boys," he had announced gruffly one morning. "Pack your stuff. We're leaving in an hour."
They had obeyed mutely, as they always did, but Sam had been uncomfortably aware of the fact that Dean was glancing at him every couple of minutes, as though waiting to see if his younger brother would suddenly snap and confess everything to their father before running for the hills.
The first chance he'd gotten, Sam had shoved Dean, narrowing his eyes a little in the dim light of the room.
"Stop it," he had hissed under his breath. "Dad's not blind, you know. He's going to figure out that something's going on if you keep looking me like I'm a fucking time-bomb. Just...chill out, okay?"
Dean had raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"I don't think I've ever heard you swear before, Sammy," he had said, smirking a little despite himself.
"Yeah, well, I'm not a kid anymore, Dean," Sam had huffed, grabbing his backpack. "And it's Sam."
A glint of amusement had flashed through Dean's eyes as he followed his younger brother toward the door.
"Yeah, okay, Sammy."
-C-
When Sam was eighteen years old, he had kissed his older brother. For the second time.
Dad had been gone for a few days on a hunt, and they were sitting on the edge of yet another motel-room bed when Dean had flopped down onto his back, stretching luxuriously.
"So, you're taking that Marissa chick to the dance, huh?" he had asked, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I guess you're a real Casanova, now."
Sam had rolled his eyes, turning to face Dean.
"If we're even still here in April, yes, I'm taking her to the dance," he had said, snapping his textbook shut. "As a friend."
Dean had scoffed.
"Riiight," he had teased, kicking Sam's leg playfully with the toe of his boot. "As a 'friend.' You know, you don't have to put on that act for me, Sammy. I'm not Dad. I don't care if you're fucking her. Or if you want to, or, you know, whatever."
Sam had glared down at Dean in frustration, feeling what had become a very familiar pang in his stomach.
"I'm not. And I don't," he had said succinctly, pursing his lips. "You're always asking me about girls, Dean. It's annoying. I don't...I'm not...interested in that."
Dean had sighed dramatically, turning onto his side.
"Jeez, Sammy, no need to get your panties in a knot. I was just curious."
"Well, what about you?" Sam had asked, flipping the focus. "Who are you fucking these days, Dean?"
Dean had shifted a little nervously, suddenly very intent on scrubbing an invisible piece of dirt off of the comforter.
"No one," he had muttered, plastering a small smile onto his face that didn't reach his eyes. "We move around too much, you know how it is. I just...I'm busy. And I can't stand the people in this godforsaken town. A bunch of amped-up rednecks...good for nothing jackasses, all of 'em..."
He trailed off, and Sam couldn't help but smile.
"Dean," he had said, lying down next to his brother on the bed, "can I...bring up something uncomfortable?"
Dean had crinkled his forehead, still pretending to be occupied with the blanket.
"Uh, sure, Sammy," he had said with a wary expression, "but I don't wanna hear any of the gory details about your sex life. Got it?"
Sam had laughed.
"Oh, really?" he teased. "You could have fooled me, Dean," and Dean had huffed in annoyance, giving his brother a little shove.
"Yeah, yeah, wise guy," he had said. "Get on with it, then."
Sam had paused, suddenly flooded with doubt. He had understood their unspoken agreement never to mention the little "incident" that had happened about seven months ago when Dean was drunk, but, frankly, he had grown tired of blatantly ignoring the elephant in the room every time he was alone with Dean.
He had figured this was as good a time as any. Dad wasn't in the next room. Dean was in a fairly good mood. And he was...well...he was dealing with a monster-sized case of confusion that wasn't getting any easier as time went on.
He had cleared his throat awkwardly and flipped onto his side to face his brother.
"So...Dean," he began, stopping as soon as he had started and immediately hating himself for not planning out an exact approach.
"That's my name," Dean had replied with a smirk that made Sam's toes curl. "Don't wear it out."
"Very funny," Sam had muttered, his voice close to a whisper and his heart thudding as he suddenly wondered if maybe this hadn't been a good idea after all...
He could still get out of it. He could...make something up. He could put this away once and for all and never drag it out again. That's what he would do. He would-
"Earth to Sammy," Dean had called, interrupting Sam's rapidly spiraling train of thought, and then, in a softer tone, "Don't panic, okay? I can see you panicking, and there's no need for that. You're completely transparent, you know that, Sammy? I know what you're going to say, and I'm not going to freak out, so just...say it."
Sam's breath had caught painfully in his throat at Dean's words, and he looked up at his brother questioningly, doing exactly what he had been told not to...panicking. "Y-you...you know what...I-I...well I just, I...you-"
Dean held up a hand.
"Alright, baby brother. Just stop talking before you hurt yourself. You want to know why I kissed you? Back in Pennsylvania. Am I right?"
Sam had choked a little, completely taken aback by Dean's bluntness and apparent composure. And by the fact that he had been addressed as "baby brother," something he did NOT approve of, especially given the current topic of conversation.
"I..." he had started, but his tongue had felt swollen for some reason, so he had just nodded mutely, clutching his hands together in his lap.
"Okay, Sammy," Dean had replied, his voice almost professionally calm but his eyes shrouded in something that looked like sadness. "This talk should have happened a long time ago, and that's on me." He had paused for a moment, throwing a sideways glance at Sam before continuing. "I was drunk. I was really REALLY drunk. I didn't know what I was doing. I mean, god, for all I knew, you were the fucking sexy guy from the Old Spice commercial. Seriously. And...I'm sorry, okay? The last thing I ever wanted to do was traumatize you. You're my kid brother. Fuck. I'm supposed to take care of you."
He had trailed off then, and Sammy had finally found his voice.
"Stop calling me that!" he had said, his voice almost a whine, and, god, of all the fucking things he could have, SHOULD HAVE, said. What the hell was wrong with him?
He had cleared his throat while Dean watched him, eyebrows raised and mouth open.
"I mean," he continued, giving dignity another shot, "that I don't want to be your kid brother, okay? Not just your kid brother, Dean. And I wasn't fucking traumatized. I...I can't stop thinking about it, but not because...not because I'm traumatized."
Dean had a look on his face that somehow conveyed both incredulity and fear simultaneously, and Sammy had to shake off the shiver he felt as a result of it.
"We might as well get it all out the table, Dean," he had continued, pulling some kind of resolve out of his psyche that he didn't even know he had. "I know that you...keep a picture of me in your bedside drawer...inside one of your magazines, and that you look at it when you-"
"Shit, Sam," Dean had muttered darkly, interrupting him and pulling himself into a sitting position. "Shut up, okay? Just shut up."
Sam had pushed aside the sting he felt at those words and had grabbed Dean's arm almost angrily.
"No, Dean!" he had growled, feeling every repressed emotion bubble up to the surface like lava. "No. Not this time. We are not putting this off for another seven months while you pretend to be interested in things like me going to a dance with fucking Marissa! No. I'm sorry, but no. I can't take that."
Not wanting Dean to have a chance to logic him out of it, Sam had lunged forward, pressing his lips against his brother's.
It was a quick, chaste kiss, and after only a brief moment, Sam had felt Dean's hands on his chest, pushing him away.
"Jesus," Dean had said, wiping his sleeve across his mouth, "We can't do that. I...I can't let you do that, Sammy. You don't understand, okay? You don't know what you want."
Sam had groaned in frustration, pulling his knees up to his chest and rocking back and forth.
"Don't give me that," he had hissed, infuriated by the tears that were threatening to spill down his cheeks. "That's bullshit, and you know it."
Dean had sighed sadly and stood from the bed, turning away and hunching his shoulders miserably.
"Sam, I can't drag you into this," he had whispered, holding on to the wall for support. "Can't you get that? You deserve to have a normal life. Normal. I mean, as normal as it gets for people like us."
"So, what?" Sam had asked, feeling as though his stomach had plummeted to the floor and been trampled on several times. "That's it, then? You're just going to pretend that this...thing...doesn't exist between us? Is that it?"
Dean had slowly nodded his head without turning around.
"It's for the best, Sammy," he had muttered. "Just trust me on this."
Without thinking, Sam had punched the wall angrily, leaving a fist-sized hole and cuts on his knuckles that he barely felt. Dean had spun around in surprise, still rooted to the spot but with desperate concern written all over his face.
There had been a shocked moment of silence between them before Sam had folded his arms defensively, staring his brother down.
"I got accepted into Stanford, you know," he had said, reveling a little in the shocked expression on Dean's face. "I'm going. I don't care what Dad says. I'm not staying with you two, that's for damn sure."
Dean hadn't said anything.
"Well?" Sam had pushed, "does that even bother you a little, Dean? You're never going to see me."
Dean had sighed again but continued not to acknowledge the news that Sam had shared with him. He had taken a few shaky steps toward the sink, aimlessly grabbing a box of pasta from the counter and gripping it tightly.
"Are you...are you hungry, Sammy?" He had asked, his back still turned. "Let me make you something to eat. Just let me...make you something to eat."
Sam had felt a twinge of sadness mix with his residual anger, but he had pushed it down, watching his brother's fingers fumble with the cardboard on top of the box.
"No, Dean," he had said, turning to grab his bag off the bed and slinging it over his shoulder. "No, I'm not fucking hungry."
