When did it start?
Dean glanced at the sleeping angel beside him.
When did Sam stop being his snot nosed, pain-in-the-arse kid brother and turn into the man that was now stretched out – like an open invitation – across the passenger seat of the Impala?
. . .
Maybe it was in the three years they'd spent apart while Sam was at Stanford . . . or maybe even before that, on the night when he'd left, and Dean had been torn between hurt and fury and admiration for him, that he actually meant it, that he actually had the guts to just . . . walk out. And Dean hated him for it, but hated his father more for telling him to stay gone. Maybe it had started when Dean had watched Sam drive away, wondering if he would truly never see him again, and it had felt like Sam had ripped the heart right out of his chest and taken it with him.
. . .
Or maybe when they'd met up again and Dean had felt so stupidly, helplessly pleased to see Sam again. Was it then that he'd noticed for the first time how ridiculously tall Sam had grown?
But when had Dean started watching him while he slept? When had he first become fascinated with the delicate lines of his brother's features? Or the curve of his lips? Or the way his hair flopped over his forehead and curled around his ears and neck? When had it first occurred to Dean that his brother was beautiful?
He remembered the first time he'd become confused when Sam had stepped out of the shower at their motel and stood before him, half naked, with powerful muscles rippling beneath the glowing flesh of his torso . . . Dean passed a hand over his own eyes and tried to blink the memory away before the fluttering sensation in his groin could become more than just an uneasy stirring.
This was such a fucked up situation. Dean wasn't gay. Not that there was anything wrong with that . . . he guessed, but he wasn't. And even if . . . Sam was his brother for chrissake!
Though sometimes the connection between them seemed to go even deeper than that, like they were . . . soul-mates . . . or some shit like that. Like they were two halves of the same . . . whatever . . . but like they belonged together, so maybe . . .
But even if . . .
It didn't matter, because he knew Sam wouldn't go for it. Not Sam. Dean might joke about his effeminacy and take every opportunity to cast aspersions on Sam's sexuality – and why did he do that, anyway? – It didn't matter. Because the truth was Sam was a fine upstanding . . . anal, uptight, pious son-of-a-bitch and if he even got a whiff of the kind of thoughts Dean had about him sometimes he'd be so freaked - !
God, he hated Sam sometimes. He hated the way Sam was always so sure of himself, always thought he knew the difference between right and wrong. And Dad wanted Dean to save him. Save Sam! What a joke! Sam didn't need saving, he was half way to being an angel already. Sam was the one who'd taught Dean to have a conscience, to care, to draw lines. Sam didn't need Dean to save him. Sam didn't need Dean.
And Dean hated him for it.
. . .
But Dad had said if he couldn't save Sam he'd have to kill him. What did that mean? How could he even have . . .
Dean pictured himself reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out his gun – saw himself raising it and resting it close to Sam's forehead – felt himself slowly squeezing the trigger – felt the recoil – heard the explosion – saw Sam's beautiful face blown away and his blood spread across the interior of the Impala.
There was a fragment of a moment of something diabolical and ghastly, something almost like satisfaction, before it was swept away by empty, caustic, agony - and a fresh image haunted Dean's thoughts: an image of his own heart ragged and bleeding in the dirt, still beating, but with nothing to contain it.
I can't do it.
. . .
Sam slept peacefully, his beautiful face at rest, his chest rising and falling to a steady, gentle rhythm.
I don't want to kill you, Sam.
Dean's own breathing caught trembling in his throat. "I want to fuck you," he whispered.
Sam stirred, grunted and shifted in his seat, and every muscle in Dean's body tensed painfully. He turned quickly and faced the front of the car. As quietly as he could he turned over the engine, steered the car out onto the road, and drove.