So, onward we go, the basic warnings; Not mine, no money, Mature content, slash, language etc etc etc.

DEAN/ OMC and DEAN/SAM, this chapter contains weecest (Sam is 13, Dean is 17) don't read it if it hurts your feelings.

Leave reviews! If it's criticism (constructive criticism) I'm totally open to it.

The first time that Dean molested his little brother had been on Sam's thirteenth birthday, with Sam's lips parted and his hand in Dean's hair, the whole time panting, "Yes, more, please, please."

Dean wished he could say that he was drunk. It wouldn't be a complete lie; somehow, the brand new handle of vodka that he had bought to celebrate was almost a quarter gone and he knew that Sam hardly drank any of it. But if Dean was truly drunk, he wouldn't have come so hard and so fast in his pants as he humped the bed in time to Sam's gasps and moans. His lips were on Sam's cock, tracing the vein, discovering the delicate contours of the head and feeling a little jealous that somehow Sam had gotten the big cock gene. Just like his hands and his feet, the weedy teenager still had to grow into his extremities. That included dick, apparently.

Sam only was thirteen, he wasn't even done growing yet, puberty hadn't even finished its transformation and Dean was running his big, old, dirty hands all over Sam's virtually hairless body. Sam was practically a baby, just barely a teenager. He had been so earnest as he looked at Dean, as he held Dean's hand to his cock and pumped up into it, quietly begging him. Dean had never been able to deny Sam anything, not even his first blow job. His first blowjob, his rite of passage into adulthood had been given to him by his brother in a seedy motel.

The air conditioning didn't work, the tap water tasted like pennies, there were more than a couple of ambiguous stains on the bedding and the carpet and Sam was lying on his back, blissed out and reaching for Dean, trying to kiss his lover, strike that his brother. That was how it had started, after all. Sam, tipsy from his two shots of vodka, leaning forward to kiss his Dean, to learn Dean's taste and his rhythm. That was… it was too much. If Dean was going to do this, molest his baby brother, he wasn't going to pretend that it was anything besides an act of unforgiveable depravity.

Dean wasn't blind, he knew that Sam wanted him. Knew that his name fell from his brother's lips as the boy explored his own body. It should have been a beautiful time for Sam, learning his pleasure. Everything should have been beautiful for Sam, but no, he got a bisexual brother, motels that charged by the hour and a life that revolved around nightmares.

The least Dean could do for him was let Sam see how dirty it was. He wasn't about to let Sam think that this could be love, that that line could be blurred so easily.

Dean's first time had been around the same age Sam was now, but it was a really shitty thing to use as a measuring stick. It had been in a truck stop bathroom. Their dad had been trying to fix up the Impala, Sam had been knocked out in the backseat and Dean was restless. It wasn't a trucker, for which Dean was grateful, but it was one of the several boys who hung around the stops on the highway, looking to get somewhere else or get just high in exchange for a few minutes on their knees.

He was a cute boy, Mexican, probably. A kid who had run across the border, willing to suck a cock, mow a lawn, or install drywall for pennies if it meant that he was close to some grand illusion of the American Dream.

But he had pretty eyes. The kind that were soft and warm, even a little inviting. He was a whore along a highway, hadn't he seen enough to turn him cold and hateful? Why did he smile like that? He smiled like maybe, somewhere, someone would treat him like a human being. He smiled like he hadn't learned his damn lesson.

"How much?" Dean had asked him. Fuck, he wished he sounded more grown up, like they do in the movies, hard and indifferent. He was talking to a twink hooker, now was not the time to get nervous.

The boy smiled, cocked his head and laced his fingers with Dean's leading him into the bathroom and locking the door. Dean expected him to get to his knees, instead the boy dropped his pants and leaned over the sink, presenting himself.

"I… I don't have that much…" Dean murmured, turning pink.

"Primera vez esta gratis. First time? It is free."

"…I…"

"Para ti, esta gratis. For you, it is free."

And there was that smile again. Like everything was going to be alright. Stupid whore. Didn't he know anything? But Dean unbuckled his belt with shaking hands and the boy watched him through the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Now that the moment had come, little Dean was getting cold feet and Dean silently cursed his flaccid cock.

The boy had been watching him and smiled understandingly before turning and dropping down. He kissed around the base, nuzzled his lips into the curly hair and took a long inhale like savoring, as if Dean was something special. The boy looked up with those warm eyes.

Everything is going to be ok, they promised him.

Once he was half hard, the boy took him into his mouth with a happy moan and let Dean shallowly fuck his lips. Then Dean bent the boy over the sink again, slipped on a condom from the vending machine and slid into him from behind while both were facing the mirror.

And Dean realized that the kid wasn't much older than he was; a year, maybe two. He had lived a hard life, the kind of life that made Dean's look cozy, but they were both outsiders, selling their souls away, little by little.

This kid probably wouldn't make it to twenty-five. Every time he bent over a sink, every time he got to his knees, he would grow a little colder. Honestly, how much longer could this kid keep up that whole 'first time is free' crap? How much longer could the kid afford it before he grew distant and hard simply out of a need to survive?

And Dean? Would he make it to twenty-five? Following the family business, putting his life on the line for the safety of people who may never know his name? How long did he have before he grew isolated and cynical like his father before him? How much of a difference was there between them, after all? Between the whore and the hunter? They both sacrificed the most intimate parts of themselves to service strangers. The kid's exposed ass bent over a sink and Dean risking his life everyday. Was it really all that different?

As Dean watched their reflections move together, he had the fleeting thought that maybe, in some other life, one where he was more than a silent shadow flitting into people's lives and the boy was more than a fuck that came with a fill-up he and this kid could be lovers. Those were the kind of eyes that he could come home to, that he could wake up to.

But Dean didn't have a home, so he just fucked him.

He didn't last very long. He didn't really want to. The bathroom smelled like piss and the boy's hole was too loose to be really sexy, especially when Dean realized that he was probably not the boy's first companion of the night. A whore was a whore, he wasn't going to hold it against him but that didn't mean that Dean wanted to revel in it either. When he was done, the boy smiled and turned to him. Dean kissed him, partly because he couldn't help it and partly because he wanted to know what it was like. Dean had never kissed anyone before.

The boy let him and smiled sadly before shaking his head and saying, "No mas, no more."

Dean reached into his pockets and pulled out all the cash he had, about thirty five dollars. It wouldn't even be enough for a hand job from most people, most people who weren't on the pipe. It definitely wasn't enough for the soft eyes and tender smile of this beautiful boy, but it was all Dean had. The kid smiled gratefully and then walked out of the bathroom, giving Dean a little privacy to clean himself up.

Dean hadn't bought it again after that. He didn't need to and then there the rash he got afterwards. At first it was just a few bumps that showed up a week after, when he was three states and a whole hunt away. Then came a mild fever that progressed into a raging fever and John came home from the hunt to find a nine year old Sam holding a rag to Dean's forehead and glaring at their father as if it was his fault.

By then, the rash had spread to his stomach and John's eyes traveled the angry red bumps to where they disappeared into the waistband of his boxers. He took a long sigh, ran a weathered paw down his face and threw Dean in the car, telling Sam to be careful, not let anyone in and shoot if someone came in anyways.

It was the first time Dean could remember being alone with his father and it was waiting at the free clinic. Dean was glad that his dad was listening as the nurse behind the barrier glass handed him the antibiotics because Dean really just wanted to melt into the floor and die. When they got to the Impala, John tossed the pills and a box of condoms into Dean's lap and said, "Use these next time, huh Einstein?" When Dean just grumbled something, John rolled his eyes and said, "Even during oral." and that shut Dean up.

There was no discussion about waiting, about Dean being too young or even really an investigation into who would have sex with a thirteen-year-old and why would they be carriers of gonorrhea. John Winchester didn't go asking questions he didn't want the answers to. He would deal with a problem when it presented itself, but he didn't go snooping into Dean and his beautiful bathroom whore.

The kid was sick. Would he know enough to get tested? Would he be able to get antibiotics? Would he really even care? Dean didn't let himself think about it, because that wouldn't help anyone. He didn't know the boy's name, he didn't wonder if anyone knew the whore's name. He didn't wonder if the kid knew that his days were numbered. A little bit of Dean's soul, a little bit of his faith in humanity and a beautiful boy with soft eyes died right then.

So Dean wasn't going to let that happen to Sam. That was rushed and beautiful and sad and it would stay with him like a scar for the rest of his life. But he would be damned if anyone scarred his baby brother. By giving Sam what he thought he wanted, Dean would show him what he didn't. Sam didn't want Dean. Not really. Dean was there. Dean was all filled out and he knew how to talk to girls and he drove the Impala and people generally liked him. Sam wanted to be him, not have him but the kid didn't know the difference yet.

Dean would suck his cock. He wouldn't suck his lips. He wouldn't let Sam think that sex with Dean was anything more than sex, period. It wasn't for the girls he brought into the car and it wasn't for the boys he sucked off in alleyways so it definitely wasn't for his baby brother.

But the worst part of it, the part that kept him up at night, was that he wanted it. Just for Sam, always for Sam had been his mantra since he had been old enough to speak, since he had been old enough to clutch an infant to his chest and run as fast as his little legs could carry him. He wasn't watching his house burn, he wasn't hearing his mother scream, hearing his father cry her name, long and mournful like a wounded wolf crying to the moon for the sun. He was saving Sam. He was running for Sam. His legs didn't hurt, his lungs didn't contract with ash, his eyes didn't water, because they couldn't. Because he was too busy saving Sammy for that sort of stuff.

He could give Sammy the last of the Cheerios. He could let Sammy have the remote because sacrificing things was easy when Sam looked up at him with those beautiful eyes and said, "Thanks De." But Dean was sporting a boner as he sucked Sam's cock. He was sporting a boner that just grew more insistent when he thought about his bulging pink dick in Sam's hand, in Sam's mouth, in Sam's… fuck, no child molester.

He wasn't immune to the sounds Sam made as he touched himself beneath the blankets, lips forming his name. He wasn't made of stone when Sam's eyes softened, when his pupils dilated, when he shifted in his chair to ease the tension in his pants as he reached for Dean over the cheap alcohol.

If Dean caught wind of a seventeen-year-old boy wanting, touching, sucking his baby brother, he would have been furious. He would have hunted the bastard down and ripped his balls off. He knew how to shoot a gun, how to hide a body and he wouldn't even think twice about doing that to someone who touched his brother. Someone who touched his brother like he was touching him now; with his hand at the hilt of his dick, grazing his balls and thrusting his head like some kind of professional.

"Dean…" Sam moaned, once and loudly and Dean fucked into the unyielding mattress hard enough to hurt before he was releasing into his pants as Sam released into him.

He let Sam's soft cock slip from his lips after it finished pulsing but then Dean needed to shove off his brother and race into the bathroom. Dean's vomit tasted like come and vodka. He didn't come out of the bathroom that night.

He didn't know if he was relieved or horrified that John had come home while he was curled up around the toilet bowl purging Sam's beauty and the cheap poison from his system. All he knew was that he was hung-over and he didn't have to talk to Sam about the molestation of the night before.

John peered at him over the paper before tilting his head towards the half-empty bottle (when did that happen?) and saying, "Maybe wait until Sammy's a little older, would ya?"

And Dean had to turn around and vomit again.

It wasn't just that one night and Dean never really thought that it would be. It didn't happen every night, or even every week and Dean was grateful for that. John bought a truck and gave Dean the Impala when he turned eighteen and Dean abused the Hell out of it with girls in the backseat, in the front seat, driving out to the lake with the radio turned up so they could roll around together on the sand.

Sam didn't say anything. At least not until he was sixteen and started bugging his brother about hogging the car. But Sam would glare. Sam would narrow his eyes at the girls who would flock to Dean at school, who would disappear with him into janitor's closets. Dean started to recognize it building like a volcano, an eye roll at first, then, a week later, a frown. A few days after that would be a snippy comment accompanied by the bitch face until finally, as they both laid in bed, in the dark and in the comfort of their own smells and their own things, Sam would whisper "Dean…"soft and pleading. Not pathetic, not really, just sad. Just sad that Dean would kiss and stroke and hold all the girls in the world but he wouldn't do it to Sam. He would suck Sam. He wouldn't kiss Sam.

Dean heard it every time. He always found Sam in the night and would crawl into his bed and wrap his arms around his baby brother as Sam fucked against his leg, as Sam slipped his fingers into Dean's hair when Dean went down on him, as Sam begged him please, PLEASE.

Sam would reach for him but Dean wouldn't let Sam do anything more than dry hump him. Usually Dean could come just by sucking Sam off, hearing Sam moan his name as he gave him what he needed. If that didn't work, if Sam came too fast or Dean was too drunk (the latter was the most frequent of the two) Dean would fuck his fist looking down at Sam's naked body, watching Sam watch him. One time Sam told Dean to come on him and traced a middle finger lazily over his own chest and up to his lips, marking the trail Dean's come could follow.

Dean didn't. He wasn't going to come on his brother's face, but the image started showing up in his dreams, started invading his thoughts even as he was awake, even as he was inside a girl. It made him come harder than anything that had ever come before it.

When Sam was seventeen was when things finally breached that line, that faint, but immovable line that separated weird from fucked up, from just a phase to something much more twisted.

Sam climbed into his bed.

Dean didn't know what to say to get him out and the part of him that he hated, the part that wanted Sam in every way, couldn't even muster up the allusion of wanting Sam to be anywhere besides between his sheets. So Dean pretended that he was still asleep, not able to dredge up a protest and yet not trusting himself to stop at just sucking Sam's cock. Not tonight. Not with Sam stroking his fingers down his back, not with Sam's lips at the base of his neck. Dean let his knees fall apart against the bed and his hips stretched deliciously against the mattress as he arched into it. Sam saw the movement.

"Dean…"

He pleaded like he had been since he was twelve, touching himself in the dark. Like he did that fateful night of his thirteenth birthday. But this Sam, the young man straddling his spine wasn't weedy and thin anymore. He'd shot up a foot over the winter and had adopted an appetite for weight training. Sam was still the beautiful boy with the hazel eyes that had asked for seconds of Cheerios and always gave him the prize at the bottom of the box, but this time it was accompanied by the strong, taut body of a man who was much harder to resist.

Fuck, every part of this moment, of these hands on his spine should make Dean want to vomit. He shouldn't be able to remember Sam in diapers and want that same cock, hairy and musky with masculinity now, between his lips or in his hand.

Just for Sam, always for Sam, had gotten him through a lot of shit. The messed up thing was that if Dean wasn't dying for it too, he'd have probably given Sam what he wanted, everything that he had to give a long time ago. But no, this was something Dean needed too, and that made it dirty somehow.

Sam was the pure one, soft as snow, young enough to still believe in love and everything being alright and Dean was the one who fell in love with beautifully dirty hookers in truck stop bathrooms and vomited Sam's come with vodka and shame.

"Dean?" Sam murmured, hesitant now that Dean was still unmoving. Sam stopped mapping Dean's body with his hands. Dean stifled a moan at its loss. "I… I'm so…." Sam's voice was fragile and he started hurrying to get off of his brother.

Four years of Dean sucking his cock and not letting Sam return the favor was starting to draw Sam to the only logical conclusion that his freakishly fast mind could come up with. A conclusion that Dean wished was true, one that would be normal and healthy and better for the both of them in the long run, hell, in the short run.

Touching your brother like this should have never even felt ok. But Dean wasn't ok; Dean had learned his lesson a long time ago that ok was an unreasonable expectation for life.

"Sam?" he responded, his needy plea matching his brother's for once.

But his brother had made up his mind that he'd been letting Dean sacrifice for him still. Dean could see it in his face, hard and determined. Just like their father.

"Fuck, Dean, you shouldn't have…" Sam rasped, "I thought… us… I didn't know… just me…"

"Sam" Dean pleaded, rolling over onto his back and showing Sam the stiff proof between his legs that he needed to see. "Sam" Dean whispered again, but he didn't need to since even in all the darkness of the motel room, he knew that Sam could always find him.

And Sam did.

Sam reached forward, stroking Dean's cock under the blankets of the motel bed, touching it for the first time. He tugged the sheets down like something in Dean's angry red cock was sacred and holy. He touched his nose, then his lips against the tender silken flesh. A tentative tongue flicked against its head and the world stopped spinning for a moment.

"Dean…" Sam whispered hesitantly, "Dean, I need… I want… fuck me?"

Dean shook his head 'no' before he even gave the idea much thought, or at least more thought than a late night shower fantasy. He'd had dreams of Sam bent over a bathroom sink, presenting himself to Dean, giving Dean the most intimate part of himself. But he wanted to protect Sam from that. Protect him from having to give himself away. Sam was beautiful and the only dirty thing about him was Dean. But Sam's cock was so hard against his thigh and his stupidly long hair was tangled in Dean's fists and Dean couldn't have stopped at a blow job if all the world depended on it. He rolled back over onto his stomach and got onto his knees, awkwardly kicking off his boxers and giving Sam everything he had to give.

"Dean?" Sam murmured, running a cautious hand over the swell of Dean's ass, his thumb cleaving between the cheeks, finding the hole. Dean couldn't speak because his entire body was trembling with nervousness and want and need, so he just nodded furiously, positive that he wouldn't be able to breathe until Sam's really big dick was all the way inside of him. This was the way it should be, Dean giving himself away to Sam.

"Dean… you've never..." Sam said as his index finger started tracing the tight entrance, "You've never done this before, have you?"

"No."

"But… I've seen you with guys. So that means that you've always been on top."

"I wish you hadn't seen that, Sammy." Dean sighed, tucking his head between his elbows, "Dad doesn't know, does he?"

"Probably not."

"Ok. That's ok. It's ok, Sam. Yeah. I always topped before."

"I've never… at all."

"I know, Sammy. It's ok."

"So maybe you should this time too?"

"No, Sam." How could Dean explain that? How could Dean explain that Sam was something goddamn near divine and if he ever did get onto his knees or back for a man, if he ever was a bottom, that it should be for someone almost as perfect as he was? Dean fucked whores in bathrooms. He would never forgive himself if he fucked Sam like that too. "No, do it like this… this way it's a first time for both of us."

Dean could have gone his whole life never having a dick up his ass, but this was the most effective way to get Sam on board. The older Sam got, the more furious he was every time he realized that Dean was sacrificing on his behalf. When he was a kid, Sam never realized that seconds of Cheerios meant that Dean didn't get some the next morning. Sam never realized that Dean hated ThunderCats and only watched it Sam loved them.

"Ok," Sam exhaled.

Dean was almost surprised at Sam's ability to restrain himself as the wet tip of Sam's dick trailed between his cheeks. When Sam hesitated, Dean realized that Sam was waiting for instruction. Funny how Sam took orders at this moment, but on a hunt, life and death, Sam questioned everything that came out of their dad's mouth. Now was really not the time to think about Dad.

"Lube," Dean said, "In my…"

But Sam was already across the room, digging through shaving lather and toothpaste, retrieving the tiny bottle. Dean felt especially stupid and vulnerable as he had his ass in the air on the cold bed, but before his logic kicked in, Sam was mercifully up against him again, his cock just as hard as it was a few seconds ago and Dean knew he could, he wanted, to go through with this.

"Lots of it, Sammy," Dean coached, "More than you ever thought you could want or need, loads of it."

Dean heard Sam's breathing, heard the tube squeeze, and heard Sam warm it between his fingers for him. Dean hadn't even remembered to ask Sam to do that. His thoughtful, genius brother was going to make some man very happy someday. There was yet another thought Dean didn't need to have right this second.

"Ok, one at a—" Dean gasped as an index finger breached him, barely to the first knuckle but his massive brother had some massive hands and Dean had never even had his own fingers up there.

"Are you OK?" Sam asked, "I'm sorry Dean, I'm just going to explode back here."

"Yeah, fine, just…" Dean swirled his hips to get used to the sensation, pushing them back to Sam's finger. "Ok, a second one, do the second—holy Jesus" he cried out as Sam obeyed him.

He could feel Sam hesitate. He could feel Sam's reluctance, like maybe he wasn't ready for this after all. Anal sex was a Big Deal and Dean could practically hear Sam thinking that it was too much. But Dean had two fingers in his ass and he would be damned if they stopped now. Actually, he probably would be literally damned to Hell if he went through with it. But if it gave Sam something he needed, Hell seemed a small price to pay. So he started jutting his ass against Sam's fingers, moaning, maybe a bit more than absolutely necessary. Sam still was unsure, so Dean grabbed Sam's hand and put it over his hard cock, jacking it with Sam's fingers. Emboldened, Sam scooted forward on his knees and slid the head of his dick against Dean's ass. He took some more of the lube and Dean heard him stroke it over himself and then pulled his fingers out.

Uh oh.

"Sam, Sammy, wait... I'm not read—"

Dean wasn't even sure that Sam heard him as he shoved his thick, hard, delicious, burning length into his ass. He stilled for a second too long and a second too little before he started pulling out, just to push into Dean again. And again. And one more time before something inside Sam snapped and his hips were no longer stroking but pumping, no longer exploring but claiming and Dean carded his fingers in the sheets and waited for it to be over with. Every thrust was another foreign inch of Sam's cock into his ass and Dean wanted to cry with the beauty and the pain of it.

He wasn't nearly stretched enough for this. Sam didn't use nearly enough lube. Dean forgot to remind Sam to use a condom because Dean was a filthy man whore and had learned the hard way that STDs were fucking rampant among people like beautiful Sam's dirty brother.

And just as Dean's erection started to flag, Sam hit that spot that Dean had only ever stroked but had never been stroked. Dean suddenly understood why any man would be a ok with bottoming 100% of the time. Dean's cry of surprise and ecstasy reminded Sam that Dean was down there and he reached forward and started working his brother in time with his thrusts.

"Love you, Dean. Love you, love you, love you, loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou….." Sam panted before stilling and spilling his come all over Dean's ass and thighs.

It was a good thing that Dean got off on hearing Sam get off because his perfect brother completely forgot to jack him for those few seconds that Sam was driving the orgasm express. Dean hitched a ride with his brother's broken moan and both collapsed in a connected heap of muscles and hair.

"Love you Dean, love you so much." Sam sleepily whispered into Dean's hair.

And Dean fell in love with Sam in that moment.

So it was no longer Dean doing this with Sam because he loved his brother, it was because he was in love with his brother. Duty and sacrifice wouldn't soothe his conscience anymore. For Sam, always for Sam wouldn't cut it. Dean needed Sam, probably more than Sam needed Dean because Sam wasn't scarred and hateful. Sam still had sweet eyes and dreams of normal and ok and safe. Sam was beautiful.

And Dean was selfish for wanting that, for wanting to leech onto Sam and share in that beauty, that optimism that people were alright and the world wasn't such a terrible place and even in truck stop bathrooms and seedy motels with his kin wrapped around him in ways that blood should never touch, there was something beautiful and good. Dean knew better. He did, he really did. He knew he was contaminating Sam, because if it was something that made Dean happy, there was something wrong about it. That was the most fundamental difference between him and his brother; Sam was beautiful and Dean dirtied everything he touched.

The next morning, Dean was in the shower when Sam woke up. His cock was sinfully raw and his back was deliciously sore and all Sam wanted to do was fling open the motel bathroom and see Dean, wonderful, naked Dean in the morning light. Also, he kind of felt gross. Wonderfully gross, if that was a thing. His own come was flaking on the front of his thighs from spilling out of Dean's ass. He smelled like dried sweat from fucking into the man he loved. Wonderfully humanly disgusting. And then there was a little something else on his dick, he realized as he looked down his body at his sleepy little member. Dried lube wouldn't have that particular shade of…

Dried blood. Like the kind their dad scrubbed out of his coat in the bathroom sink. Sam scrambled out of bed throwing the blankets off and seeing the horrifying evidence on Dean's side of the bed. A spot here and there and then a very tiny but very distinct puddle. Where it pooled. As Dean slept. After Sam fucked his ass raw. Sam wanted to hurl. Sam wanted to hit himself for being so stupid.

"Dean!" Sam roared, terrified and furious, as he slammed his fist on the bathroom door. Why the fuck didn't Dean tell him to stop? "DEAN."

"Whoa, where's the fire?" asked Dean, opening the door and looking up at Sam with concerned eyes. Concern for Sam. After Sam did that. Sam's throat closed up and his eyes watered, he hated it when he cried. "Whoa, Sam, Sam" Dean murmured, pulling his little brother's head down to his shoulder. Stroking his hair, like he did when Sam was a kid and when he looked out for Sam.

"Don't, Dean." Sam barked, batting Dean's hand away. "I mean it, fucking stop it." He smacked Dean's hand in midair as it went back to stroke his face again.

"Sammy, I'm so sorry" Dean looked at the ground and Sam wanted to lift him off his feet and shake him.

"LOOK, Dean." Sam ordered, moving aside and pointing at the bed, the crime scene. Dean's eyes flicked over it once and then fell back on Sam's. He wasn't getting it. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?"

"It's just a little blood, Sam, it happens."

"It happens to women, Dean. This means that I ripped your skin, it means that you could get an infection now. It means that I hurt you and you didn't tell me to stop." Sam's stomach dropped as Dean kept looking at the floor. No way. No way did Sam do… "You didn't tell me to stop, did you?" he whispered. "I mean, you didn't tell me no, right? I didn't just not hear, did I? I didn't rape—"

"Jesus, no, Sam. No. I'm a fucking adult, ok? And if I say it isn't a big deal, it isn't a big deal."

"You're my brother Dean. I love you." Sam whispered.

It shouldn't have sounded as wrong as it did. It shouldn't have held those connotations. It shouldn't have been silently followed with, And I'm sorry if I hurt you while my dick was in your ass. But it did. And Sam, really, truly, wasn't bothered by the fact that Dean was his brother. Not for a second. He realized that it made him different, that it made him a weird. But, he didn't like snow cones either. And he knew three different ways to kill a ghost. Sam's list of 'weird' was long and tedious and Dean was one of the few things that made him happy, so, no, he didn't care.

"Yeah, well it's my ass, so calm your tits." Dean snapped. Turning away and stepping back towards the shower. Exposing his tender red skin to Sam. Limping despite himself.

Sam wanted to yell. Sam wanted to cry. Sam wanted to pull his hair out because what the fuck was wrong with Dean that this could happen and Dean would just look at him with worry? What was wrong with Dean that he could be hurt and wounded and still have it in him to look out for Sam? Even when no one was looking out for him.

Just because someone thrust an infant into Dean's lap and told Dean that it was his responsibility to take care of it didn't mean that Dean didn't deserve to be taken care of. Sam had no idea what it was that made Dean think that the world didn't give a fuck about him. He had no clue why Dean seemed to think that leaving people, getting hurt, getting fucked bloody wasn't a big deal because it was.

If it was their father that made Dean feel like he was second class, then Sam hated their father. He hated him. And not for the moving. Not for the monsters. Not for the unending revenge for a corpse he couldn't remember, but because he did this to Dean.

But John Winchester couldn't be fully blamed for the atrocity that occurred the night before in his children's' motel room. Their dad may have made Dean that way, but Sam was the one who asked Dean for it. Sam was the one with the blood on his cock. He loved Dean, he loved his brother in every way that he shouldn't and Dean didn't tell him to stop. Dean never told him it was too much. And, Sam realized with disgust, Dean never would.

Sam Winchester had his bag slung over his shoulder. He had all the money he could muster in his pocket, three hundred dollars in small bills. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough for a bus ticket.

"You walk out that door, Sammy, don't you ever come back," John spat from the kitchen, his knuckles white on the counter, his breathing short and measured like a bull before the charge. He thought Sam was bluffing again.

Dean was beside their father, the coordinates of a hunt lying out and open on the table. It was a night like eighteen years of those before it except for this. Except Sam's bag was full this time. Except Sam had a plan this time. Sam couldn't meet Dean's eyes, though he should have. This was for Dean.

"Fine." Said Sam, calm and cool, just like he had rehearsed in his head a thousand times. "Fine. I'll never see you again, and you can just die alone and bitter with your hunt. You always just wanted to be alone and bitter with your hunt, didn't you, Dad?"

It was mean. It was the meanest thing Sam had in his arsenal, but Sam was fucking done with guilt trips and duty to a memory that he didn't even possess.

The door was louder this time, he was sure of it. It was louder as it slammed behind him, as if it knew that things would never be the same again.

Sam circled around the house, standing in the woods so that he could just barely see his brother and his father through the window as they watched the front door slam. He could see their father counting in his head, "five, four, three, two…" All those other times, this was when Sam would walk back in, tail between his legs, slinking up to his room. Sam watched John gave Dean a nervous look. " five, four, three, two…" Still nothing. They should have listened to the front door as it screamed to them, "No, this it. This is really it. Go after him if you want to keep him, you idiots." But Sam was old enough to know that his father would never change. Old men never do.

Through the dirty window of the by-the-week rental cabin, Sam saw John jerk his head at Dean. His father had learned a long time ago that Dean was the only one who had a popsicle's chance of keeping Sam there. Sam stood still and silent, knew that Dean would find him. Dean could always find Sam in the dark.

"What's up, Sam?" Dean whispered as he reached out, a cautious hand against a wounded animal. But Sam was free now.

He laughed at Dean's understatement. What's up? I'm free, Dean. I'm free, for once. Finally.

"Come back inside, Sam," Dean scolded, but Sam could see the panic. Dean could tell things were different this time.

"No." It wasn't mean. It wasn't sad. It just was.

"Sam, I get it, I do, come back inside."

"No, Dean."

"Sam—"

"I'm ditching my phone, Dean. And… I'm going off the grid. Even our 'off the grid' grid."

"Don't be stupid, Sammy, how could we find you?"

"I don't want you to find me. Dean, I know that you and Dad will track me down one day. But I hope that you leave him before that happens." Dean looked back up to the kitchen window, he watched their father wringing his hands together. Watched him rumple his hands against his hair and keep looking back at the front door as if his sons were right on the other side of it, as if nothing was different.

"Take me with you." Dean suddenly pleaded. Changing his tactic, trying to throw Sam off his game, "We can leave together."

"I'm leaving you both."

Dean reeled back like Sam had punched him.

"Dean, you're not happy like this. Not with me. Not with Dad. You don't want me the way I need you. You never will. You deserve… you deserve something else, ok? I deserve something else. As long as you and I are together… we'll always be like this. As long as we're us we'll always be hiding."

"Then we won't stop, Sam. We can keep doing this. I don't care. I don't."

"No, Dean. I don't care. Would you quit treating me like a kid? I know that you want it, want people. Friends. Dad. I can't spend the rest of my life making you lie to them, hurting you when they find out because, honestly Dean, one day they'll find out. Maybe not anytime soon, but in ten years? Twenty years? We're toxic together. I'm just going to pick a side of the country and you pick another and we just won't anymore."

"You're being fucking selfish, Sam. I need you."

"For the first time, I'm not being selfish, Dean."

"Take me with you, Sam. Take me with you."

"Goodbye, Dean."

"Sam, Sam, SAM." Dean cried as Sam turned away.

Sam cried too. Sam cried as he walked away from Dean. He never thought he'd actually be able to do it. Never thought he'd be able to have Dean practically throw himself at his feet and be able to walk away, but he did.

There was a reason that incest was taboo. There was a reason that every society in the world abhorred it. It was this. It was people falling so co-dependently into each other that they couldn't function. Sure, normal people could look at their lover and say that that person was their everything. But it was like saying that their lover was the sun. Beautiful, poetic and yet entirely unrealistic, and with good reason. Most people had family or friends in their lives as well, their love wasn't all in one fragile, fucked up basket. But with Sam and Dean, it was and it always would be. Sam's guardian, his brother, his best friend and the love of his life were literally all concentrated in the same single soul. Sam only wanted Dean, only needed Dean, and that was terrifying. They couldn't just stop, they would never be able to just stop.

What would the future look like for Sam and Dean, lovers and brothers? Date night to the movies? Dinner parties with the neighbors? Kids? No. They'd have to hide. They'd have to hide who they were to each other, to the world all the time. Their hunting friends would reject them fast enough. They already knew that Sam and Dean were both Winchesters. What would they say when they found out that that their genetic make-up made them share the same hair color and their love made them share the same bed?

What about when they tried to settle into civilian life? When people started asking questions about their childhoods, their relatives? What then? And kids? Adoption processes were brutal and lengthy and a quick internet search could unearth that they shared the same parents. And their father? What would he say and do when he found out that his sons were doing something so horrid right under his nose? Sam didn't mind John hating him, but he knew that Dean wouldn't be able to stomach it.

Sam didn't need people. Not really. He was fine on his own. There was enough shit between him and the world to keep him locked out. Sam wanted a roof over his head, he wanted a steady income and he wanted to sleep in the same bed with the same things around him every night. Sam wanted a home, the rest was sentimental. When Sam envisioned the future, he didn't always envision someone in the bed beside him. It was nice idea; after all, no one wanted to die alone. He wouldn't avoid it, but if that part of his life never fell into place, it wouldn't be all that bad.

Dean was twenty-one and a master of denial. He lived his life like an alcoholic, one day at a time, and Sam was pretty sure Dean didn't think he would live long enough to make a family, one that didn't fight, one that didn't leave in the middle of the night. One that didn't beg for him or fuck him bloody. It didn't even occur to his brother to entertain the notion of settling down, but Sam could see it in him. The father that their father never was. All soothing words and band aids over scraped knees. A tiny hand gripping his finger, his heart-stopping green eyes given to a tiny little person that he could love and not have it be this mess that Sam put him in. Dean didn't want a house or a career but something much more substantial. Dean wanted a family. He just couldn't see any light at the end of the tunnel that their father had led them down.

Dean wanted friends and family and connections to people. Ultimately it was their most fundamental difference. If Dean was with Sam, he was only with Sam forever and ever and Sam could never do that to Dean. So this he did for Dean, always for Dean. For once in his whole existence, Sam was giving Dean something. He was giving Dean his freedom.

It was one of the happiest moments of his life