"Do you want me to do the airplane thing with the spoon?"
Sam glances up, and stops. He looks, really looks, at Dean. When did those creases between his brows deepen and become permanent? Sam always thought he knew Dean's face better than he knew his own, from the long eyelashes he sometimes dreams he can feel, fluttering against his cheekbones, to the way Dean's luminous green eyes can harden to a glint when faced with a demon, or how their shine becomes muted when drowned with tears, to the knee weakening way his lips shape themselves into a pout when he concedes another victory to Sam. Now, Dean's face is both familiar and alien. The crinkles around his eyes that used to only appear when he smiled stay put, set in worried lines that Sam wants to smooth out.
Dean stands over him, holding the spoon half expectantly, as though he's waiting for Sam to nod and say "Aaah" like a three year old. As long as Sam can remember, Dean's been mother, father and brother to him. Dean's stance reminds him of when he had the chicken pox, and Dean had to practically force-feed him. Rigid with frustration, Sam sighs and Dean flings down the spoon. This always happens. Sam's always the little brother, helpless, vulnerable, while Dean swoops in and saves the day. Every. Single. Time.
What makes it worse is that Dean's never been wrong. Dean's never let him down. His brother, quite possibly, is the most perfect man to ever walk the Earth. And Sam's let him down at every turn. Everything, now, he sees it. From the day he walked out the door to go to Stanford, no, from the day he ignored Dean's pleas and commands to forget about Dad's journal, he's disappointed Dean. But, resolve gathering in his limbs, no more. Sam never wants to see that expression on Dean's face again, eyes half shut, jaw clenched in the pain of having his trust broken.
Sam inhales sharply through his nose, ignoring the scent of his blood within him, and stands. He wants to show Dean that he is strong. He can take whatever is thrown at him. He wants Dean to know that he need never be afraid of being disappointed in Sam ever again. But, his legs fail, and he stumbles forward. And, just like he always is, Dean's there. Catching him, there to help at the slightest sign of weakness. Sam's face is buried in Dean's neck, and suddenly he doesn't smell his own blood, he smells mint, spice, gunpowder, salt, sweat, he smells Dean. Dean's arms are around Sam's waist, supporting him, one hand reaching up to the spot behind his shoulder blades and stroking Sam's shirt with his thumb, soothing. Sam sighs with involuntary relief, feeling as though he's suddenly stopped fighting something he wasn't aware he was fighting. If he could just stay here, like this, for a little while…
Dean's voice pulls him back to reality.
"Come on, Sammy, you need to get some rest, get better." The deep basso tones of Dean's voice rumble through Sam's body, and the tips of his ears turn red. Dean's voice has been in his dreams since before he can remember, and when it started in his rather more adult dreams, he fought it for a while, and then, stopped. Dean half carries and half drags Sam to his room, looks around and tsks disapprovingly. Sam's room is a mess; books and clothes everywhere, some of the clothes bloodstained, tissues littering the floor.
"Awww I love it when you get all mom-like on me." Sam murmurs, allowing the movement of his lips to barely, just barely, graze Dean's neck. Blood rushes through his head, whistling through his ears, and so he's not sure if he imagined Dean's sharp intake of breath, a sudden tremor shaking his body.
"Believe me, Sammy, the last thing I want to do is be your mom." Is Dean's voice rougher than usual? Sam wants it to be. He's wanted it to be for years. But he's not going to take that chance, not now, not when Dean wouldn't trust him. Dean groans and keeps walking down the hall, turning into his room.
"You can bunk with me tonight. To be honest, I kind of miss having you around. Knowing you were less than two metres away, hearing you breathe."
Sam just sort of disintegrates, internally. His core warms up, feels like it's melting, with love for this man who is and has always been everything to him. Dean unceremoniously dumps Sam on the right side of the bed, and sits next to him as Sam slowly, uncertainly, sits up, the memory foam cushioning every movement. Dean is smiling wistfully at him.
"Dude, no chick flick moments, remember?" Sam asks wryly, while his actions belie his words, his hand, working independently of his mind, covering Dean's. Dean snorts and Sam could swear that Dean is looking a little more flushed than usual. Dean reaches out and musses Sam's hair, his hand trembling, as it stays longer than it should. Sam's eyes are fixed on Dean's, questioning. Dean looks like he's struggling with himself, battling something, looking everywhere but at Sam. But, when he finally does look at Sam, he stops looking conflicted, his green eyes, with rings of gold around the irises, calming down. His fingers curl into a fist in Sam's hair, and his hand slides up Sam's arm, compelling him, pulling him closer.
Sam loses everything he's built up in that moment. The years of restraint, of hoping against hope, of self-control built on the fear of seeing that look of disappointment mixed with revulsion. Years of learning how to stifle his need to call out Dean's name in a mouldy motel shower, breathing hard and leaning against a wall. Years of stopping himself from touching Dean more than necessary, and living in agony when someone else was. Leaning forward, he takes the lead, kissing Dean, lips crushed against his mouth with all the force of his pent up longing and desperation. Teeth knock against teeth as Sam slowly pushes Dean downward, kissing him, his hands shaking on Dean's strong shoulders, his breathing heightened. But Dean is rigid, and doesn't kiss back.
When Sam gets this, he freezes and pulls back like a gunshot. Dean's looking at him with that heartbroken look, the one Sam dreads the most. Maybe he was imagining everything. Maybe he can pull it off as a joke. Maybe he could go find the nearest demon and ask it nicely to shoot him.
"Sam…Sammy!"
He looks back at Dean, mouth open with the pure pain in Dean's voice. But Dean doesn't look like he's in pain. He looks hopeful, tortured, uncertain. Sam breathes in slowly. This is the precipice moment. This is the moment before everything he knows changes.
"Sammy, don't… Please, don't tell me you didn't mean that. If you say that was a joke, I will kill you." Dean's voice cracks as he looks down, anywhere but Sam, who, if he didn't know any better, would say he saw a sparkling drop roll off Dean's nose. Reaching out, he lifts Dean's chin, and moves closer, closer still. Their foreheads are pressed against each other, their breath intermingling, He can feel Dean's eyelashes lightly brushing against his cheekbones, and he knows this is it. The real deal.
If a first kiss goes awry, the second is doubly important for setting things straight. Sam brushes his lips tenderly against Dean's, and then again, more firmly, their mouths opening and god, the taste of Dean is everything he ever imagined. His tongue traces along Dean's upper lip, and Dean growls.
He fucking growls, and Sam has an instant hard on. He felt that, vibrating all along his body, reducing all thought to need.
Dean pushes Sam down this time, kissing him as though he hadn't been touched in years, his hand running through Sam's hair, knotting in it, wrenching Sam's head back so he can kiss his neck, the touch of his teeth and tongue against the soft, sensitive skin on his neck, the scratch of Dean's rough stubble against Sam's jaw draws a moan out of Sam, long, breathy, and Dean almost freezes. He bites down, hard enough to hurt just a little and send an electric shock of pain jolting throughout Sam's body, as Dean swings his leg over Sam and straddles him, rolling his hips back and forth. Sam moans again, the friction against his hard on intensifying as he realises how much Dean is enjoying himself. Shirts are ripped off in a frenzy and Dean's skin is cool against Sam's fevered touch. Dean kisses down across Sam's collarbone to Sam's nipple and he stops. Sam waits for two seconds in a pleasurable agony of expectation and then looks up. Dean looks back at him and the tender, loving expression his eyes have make Sam melt all over again. The bottom of his stomach falls out and he feels this surge of overwhelming affection for this man, who, now, is definitely everything to him. They both sit up, Dean shifting until he's off Sam, who wants to reach for a blanket or something, to cover up how hard he is. He can't remember being this turned on since he was a teenager.
"Sammy, God, I've wanted this for years. If you only knew how hard it can be….But that's stupid, you do, don't you? We'll do this right, baby boy, not when you're hacking up your lungs, not when you're hurting and aching, Sammy." God, Dean's eyes are huge and beautiful and Sam can't stop staring at them like a brain dead zombie. Dean smiles, running his hand down Sam's cheek, and leaning in and kissing him, softly. Sam smiles against his mouth and they both lie down, together, Sam's head on Dean's shoulder, Dean's arm curved around Sam's torso, holding him close.
"Sam?"
"Mmmm?"
"We're going to need a bigger bed."