AN: This is both for Red and Freddy. Hope you guys like it!
I grew up taking care of my baby brother.
When he was a new born, it was because he was my brother.
When my mother died, it was what my dad asked of me.
When my dad was gone, it was what was expected of me.
And now that he's all grown up, it's what I full heartedly want to do.
No need for anyone to tell me anything. No need for fear of failing my dad.
He's my brother.
He's all that I got.
But I would love him all the same, even if all of our family was still intact.
But I have a secret. Something that, if he knew, I'm terrified he'd hate me for it: I'm in love with him.
My brother was a beautiful little boy. I loved him like a father is supposed to love his son. And as he grew up, I felt immense pride as he developed into the intelligent, independent man he so longed to be.
I didn't expect him to get so handsome though…
Puberty did him really well.
His hair, which he refused to cut short like ours, grew longer and longer.
His shoulders got broader.
The heavy lifting of a hunter's life developed his muscles in a way that made all the girls (and especially me) go crazy with desire.
And the fierce defiance that was so bright in his eyes brought a sense of that bad boy personality that makes people irresistible.
"God, Sammy! Pretty soon I'm gonna have to use this gun against the monsters that are trying to fuckyou instead of kill you!" I joked one day.
He laughed innocently, and the blush that coated his cheeks made me twitch with a desire I was not too familiar with in this context.
I chuckled, trying to shake it off, but ever since they day, these thoughts and these feelings have assaulted my ever tormented senses.
One day, I still feel guilty, but I kind of took advantage…
In my defense, I was very drunk. In his defense, he was too.
Dad had just told him earlier that day that, if he went to Stanford, he could never come back. He was so depressed, he managed to get some alcohol and started drinking himself into a stooper. He was resolved to go to college so could "finally be normal," but it still stung to hear dad say that. And I know it stung when I didn't say anything in his defense.
The guilt ate at me, so I joined him in his drinking baptism.
"Why doesn't dad understand!" he had yelled.
"Why can't he just TRY to see why I want to get out!"
Tears had streamed down his face; his face contorted in pain; he was puffy and red; yet, he retained that bit of beauty that was so unique to him. He kept that bit, through the pain, that made him Sam, MY Sam.
My dear, dear Sam…
He chugged down a beer and wiped his face furiously. He was so tortured, I wanted to do something to help.
I wanted to give him some words of comfort, or just let him know that, despite what dad said, I was here for him.
When I reached my hand forward, I meant to squeeze his shoulder, NOT pull him closer.
When I opened my mouth, I meant to say, "Don't worry, Sammy," NOT place my lips on top of his.
And when I put my other hand on his chest, I meant to push him away, to stop myself. I didn't expect him to pull me closer…
That night, we spent exploring each other in a way neither of us ever had. We kissed every inch of each other's bodies, and mapped every bit of skin and toned muscle. We understood each other like we never had before.
Sam was so rough, so aggressive, but I loved every second. He never had any real control in our lives, so I understood this was his way of taking control now. He gripped me tight, bent me over, and left love marks all over my chest. The marks he left after he clawed at my back burned for days, just like my ass after he made his way inside and fucked me raw. Though it hurt, the pain brought me such satisfaction, so much fulfillment, that I didn't care if we never made love again.
And for my part, I tried to be as gentle, as mark-less for him as possible.
I kissed his neck, I kissed his lips, I felt every single inch, but denied myself the privilege of leaving marks on him too so he wouldn't know.
If he was sober enough to remember, I didn't want him to regret.
And if he was too drunk to make memories, then I didn't want to give him a hint of anything.
But after that night, our relationship changed.
He left, but when we said our last goodbye, he hugged me tighter than normal; his hands lingered longer than normal; he rested against more than usual. And as he rubbed his hand on my back, he slowly moved his fingers in a slower, gentler version of what his fingers did the night before.
A shiver ran up my spine, and electricity sparked down to the tip of my cock.
'Does he remember?' I had wondered.
But all too soon, I had to let him go; I had to say goodbye.
We never spoke of that night. It was a night I will always remember dearly though, so we don't need to.
And as horrible as this sounds, when my dad disappeared, I was glad.
Glad because this gave me the opportunity to see my brother again.
My dad disappearing gave me the chance to touch my brother, even if it was just a hug for us to share…
Wrestling him was fun. And him pinning me down like he had that night years ago was… interesting, to say the least.
Did I lie when I said I couldn't do it alone? Not completely, but he didn't know that.
So I owned up in my own way: "I can't do this on my own… Well, I don't want to."
To some people, this love may be sick, it may be twisted, but this is right.
We are co-dependent, irrationally and (sometimes) erotically, on each other, but that's what it means to be Sam and Dean Winchester.