It all started with the fire that killed our mother.
I remember Dean telling me all those years later about him carrying me out of the house. In some ways he has been carrying me ever since. The story solidified the strong bond between us that nothing and nobody seemed to be able to break. Not some random mate, a cute girlfriend or even Dad ever managed to come between us. When I was younger, I worshipped my big brother. After hearing the story of him saving me from the fire at the age of ten, I assumed it was the reason for my hero worship as well as the warm feeling I would feel in my stomach when he sent me that smile reserved for me alone.
In due time, as puberty approached, I became aware I felt more for Dean than mere sibling love. It was James Morton, my history teacher, that first made me question my sexuality at the age of fifteen. From the first moment of meeting him, I felt something stir within me. Sitting in class as he was teaching, my thoughts would wander to running my hands through his dark locks, how the feeling would be to have his brown eyes fixated on me, burning with desire. Save to say, I never learned much about the Civil War. Once after class, Morton and I were alone in his classroom, discussing my latest project. Somewhere during our conversation, Morton put his hand on my thigh, seemingly without a second thought, but quickly pulled away when he thought better of it. His touch was the object of my thoughts for weeks on end.
Dad was gone at this time, and it did not take long for my brother at nineteen to recognise the symptoms of an unrequited crush. Teasing me as was his custom, he thought my sullenness and lack of appetite were merely manifestations of some crush on a girl that had a boyfriend. One morning, he asked me point blank who Morton was. I asked why this was relevant and Dean told me I had been muttering his name in my sleep. Growing redder than an apple for having accidentally outed myself, I tried to tell him he was a class-mate. Dean was having none of it and finally managed to extract from me his true identity and what had transpired in the classroom that day.
Before I could react, my brother had arisen from his seat, grabbed his jacket and the Impala was leaving the parking lot. I sat there motionless, waiting for Dean to come back but in the end deemed it best to go to school when he never returned. After all, we tried our best to not invoke attention of the authorities wherever we were staying, me not showing up for school might put us on their radar.
When I arrived at school, everyone was looking at me and whispering. Not used to such attention, being one of the geeky crowd, I quickly found one of my friends, named Benjamin, and he told me the story going around school like wildfire. Apparently, Morton had been in the middle of class when my brother walked in, pinned him against the wall and threatened to kill him if he ever came near me again.
That night, when Dean finally returned to our bedroom we had a fight of epic proportions. We had argued before, certainly, and took pleasure in calling each other names like bitch and jerk, those were after all our endearments for one another. Never like this, though.
"Morton is a good guy, he never did anything to me!" I yelled at him.
"That's because he never got his chance, Sammy!" my brother explained, his jaw set firmly, his face set in stone. "Guys like this groom their victims before they strike."
I calmed down at his words, but pointed our reasonably to my brother; "I'm not your little Sammy anymore. You can't protect me from everything."
Usually not one for physical contact, Dean reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder. "I know, Sammy."
When Dad arrived home that night having finished his latest hunt and hearing what happened, he packed us up and hit the road without even sleeping first. He did not want to risk the cops coming for Dean in case Morton filed charges.
In retrospect, this would be around the time I finally came to terms with my true feelings. For fear of rejection, however, I kept them from Dean who hated what he termed "chick-flick" moments. I kept them to myself for the next two years,
The situation took a drastic turn when I was seventeen. On yet another one of dad's many absences, Dean picked up a girl at the local bar and brought her back to our room. I was fast asleep after laying the saltlines like a good little soldier when they awoke me at three in the morning. They came bursting through the door like demons from hell, laughing like hyenas before Dean tossed the girl onto the bed before straddling her and making out with her. Apparently the girl liked what he was doing because she moaned like there was no tomorrow. Having finally had enough after years of watching Dean flirt with men and women and doing nothing about it, I arose from my bed like a ghost, pushed Dean off the girl and roughly pulled her across the floor using her dress which ripped a little on the way and promptly throwing her outside, I locked the door behind her. She knocked feebly on the door a couple of times but then went away, no doubt seeking another form of entertainment.
It took a moment for inebriated Dean to understand what had taken place. "What the hell dude!" was his exclamation laying on the bed, using his elbows to support his upper body.
Personally, I found drunk Dean much easier to deal with than sober Dean.
"Is this really what you want, Dean? Screwing a new woman every night?" I walked closer to the bed as I spoke and finally stood in front of it. Dean reacted faster than I could possibly imagine. He sat up, grabbed my buttcheeks and pushed me on top of him so I was straddling him on the bed.
"What I truly want, I can never have." Dean had clearly gained some liquid courage from his drinking, seeing as I had never seen his like this sober. It took a moment for his words to sink in.
"You mean me?" The realization of Dean sharing my twisted delusions made me smile like a lunatic. Suddenly it dawned on me that the reason he had been such a heartbreaker with the ladies was the fact he was trying to forget me.
I leaned down and joined my lips with his. Dean returned my kiss and his hands came to rest on my hips. My own began to run through his shorn locks. His stubble scratched my face invitingly as I felt Dean moan into my mouth when I deepened the kiss. His lips were soft like velvet and the familiar scent of leather and beer tickled my nose. Surprised by my own boldness, I pulled away finally for some air.
Dean must have sensed the hesitation. "I understand if you have changed your mind, Sam." I could see the vulnerability in his eyes, could sense the hurt in his voice. For once, my cocky, self-assured brother had left his heart truly exposed and open for me to read.
"Dean, I want this. But I don't want this first time to be a drunken romp between the sheets which you will regret come tomorrow."
"Who said drunken romps weren't fun?" To illustrate his point, my brother moved his groin up against my own. I grew hard instantly and it took the last of my fading resolve not to sleep with him then and there.
"Dean!" I gasped, as he smiled that cocky, teasing smile. Once I recovered, I elaborated on my train of thought. "This is different, isn't it?"
My brother nodded in consent.
"Then let's talk about it tomorrow when we are both sober." I move from straddling Dean but he's already preparing battle against me.
"Sammy…" he begs in that pleading voice of his, whining very much like a five-year-old.
"Dean!" I retorted in the voice I often heard him use when we were younger when he was telling me off. I slap him gently on the shoulder to illustrate my point and he finally consents, bidding me goodnight and turning away from me. I retreat to my own bed to maintain at least the illusion of propriety. It isn't long, however, until he begins to toss and turn in his sleep, muttering my name. I know it's going to be a long night ahead.