Dean couldn't help but slam the door loudly behind him. Right now he hated everything and everyone. The world could fucking explode and he'd be more than happy to sit back and watch. He flipped on the muted lights then walked swiftly into the cramped bathroom and turned on the faucet. He felt shaky and nauseous and guilty. God, feeling guilty was the worst. The coldness of the water felt refreshing against the warm flush of his skin as he rubbed his rough hands over his face.

He wanted to erase what had happened in the last five minutes. That image of Sam's confused face looking down at his room key was unbearable. But it was all for the best. It was for the best, wasn't it? He didn't know what was right anymore. Everything was so freaking messed up. "Dammit!" He shouted into the mirror and continued to stare at his reflection as if his mirror-self had the ability to shout back. If it could speak it wouldn't have anything helpful to say, just that he was being a spineless bitch about the whole thing.

He roughly smacked the chunky cabinet with the toe of his boot and in a fit of rage kicked anything that came within a two-foot perimeter of his outstretched leg including the ceramic toilet and the polyester covered plunger holder. He immediately regretted the tantrum the moment his toe cracked firmly against a crooked nail that surfaced itself from the uneven floorboards. "Shit shit shit." He winced as he limped over to the bed and harshly whipped his mud-clad boots against the wall. "I can't do this anymore!" He yelled to no one in particular as he glanced around the room. The gross brown and orange striped wallpaper and faded wood fixtures looked as horrible as he felt.

Sam had it all wrong. He wasn't mad at him. He was mad at himself. He hated himself for feeling what he did, for thinking about Sam in that way. It wasn't healthy and it wasn't natural, but there was nothing he could really do to stop it.

He'd given up months ago. Accepted the fact that his feelings were fucked up to the highest degree, that he'd reached the point where he was too far gone to deny it. Pretending sure as hell wasn't helping - not that he could pretend for much longer. The quick and unexpected surges of wanting now raged on as full-fledged desire - constant and nagging even when Sam wasn't near him.

Part of him wondered if Sam knew.

All the stolen glances, having to abruptly leave the room, the made-up excuses that allowed him to escape long enough to ease the sharp pain of wanting he felt…of course Sam knew, he thought bitterly, he always knew. Well maybe Sam didn't know the whole truth. At least not about the desirability and the salaciousness and what not; just that something was definitely off between them.

For the past few weeks he'd had to remind himself to be careful. 'Make sure your hand doesn't brush past his, watch where you rest your leg, don't look at him directly in the eye, Jesus fucking hell don't stare down there for fuck's sake.' It was like a constant mantra that played on repeat in his head. Everything he did lately was an act. He was playing some ridiculous game no one could win; he was the only person stupid enough to join in and all rules were aimed against him.

He'd discovered that anger was the best remedy. Artificial irritation masked the wanting he felt and made the whole situation doable. Hence the whole being a complete asshole attitude he'd adopted as of late. It was just easier to be pissed and cranky then to actually talk to Sam because what if the confession accidentally slipped out? You could be carrying on a low-risk conversation about that hot young waitress over there in those pink and black short-shorts and then all of a sudden you're tripping over your words and 'dude I need more coffee' becomes 'you got some jelly on your lip right there, lean in closer so I can lick it off.'

Everything Dean did lately was in an effort to deter himself from Sam. It just wasn't practical to have him that close anymore - too much temptation. Like someone was dangling a giant, juicy burger inches away from his grasp yet every time he went to take a bite the jerk on the other end would yank it further away, inch by agonizing inch. He wanted to bite it. Taste it. Swallow it. But right now all he could do was look. Resist the urge and keep his mouth shut – though he had to admit, self-control wasn't really one of his strong points.

With a frustrated sigh he fell back heavily on the hideous floral bed; the hard mattress springs poked uncomfortably against his spine.

Dean decided that even if a frickin' djinn manifested from behind the bathroom door he wouldn't flinch to grab the rock sat. He'd let it play its games. His wish would be for the doors and windows to bolt and lock themselves so he could stay exactly where he was for the next ten years – alone and untroubled.

Or maybe a better wish would be for Sam to be a girl. Nah, that was too easy plus the idea of Samantha his little sister was just plain creepy. Maybe he'd wish that they weren't related. But no, that alternate life was even worst than the girl idea. He could always wish away the twisted feeling he got in his gut whenever Sam looked at him with those eyes, all innocent and genuinely concerned…

'Doesn't matter,' he thought, 'wishing doesn't get you jack squat.' A big pile of nothing that's all you'd get. And it was a coward thing to do, to wish that things were different. 'You can't sit on your ass and hope for the best, you gotta get out there and make shit happen.' At least that's what their Dad had always told them.

He had to get a hold of himself. As far as he saw it he had two options: either get it under control or man up and confess. Not hide. He was a Winchester and Winchesters didn't cower. His dad sure as hell never cowered. But then again he'd rather not think about what advice his dad would bring to the table in a situation like this.

Some fucked up part of him wanted Sam to know, wanted Sam to share the pain he felt. And god, he'd gotten so close to telling him so many times.

A month ago after finishing a hunt the words practically spilled out. They were in Minnesota, or was it Michigan? Wisconsin? Well, wherever they were he was drunk; so shitfaced it wasn't pretty. An almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels held loosely in his hand, eyes were glassed over. Sam entered into the bar, looking like one of those haggard housewives. He made a beeline straight to him, removed the bottle, wrapped an arm around his waist and hoisted him effortlessly to his feet. It was just a simple gesture, yet the touch caused the words to practically shoot out of Dean's mouth the instant Sam's large hand gripped him firmly at the hip. Though he never made it past a slurred rambling of 'dude, d'ya wanna hear somethin' funny?' because at that moment the whiskey thought it'd be hilarious to come back up all over his leather jacket.

Karma. What a bitch.

Dean moaned and stuffed a pillow over his face. The thing smelled of dew and old lady but hey, if he couldn't tell Sam and he couldn't wish for things to be different, he might as well just suffocate. He pushed the pillow further into his face waiting for the unconsciousness to come, knowing all the while that melodramatic, angsty ploys weren't exactly his thing.

After a few prolonged minutes of getting absolutely nowhere, he gave up on the death wish and instead hurtled the pillow at the television set. The collision of heavy cotton impacting with the small metal box caused the damn thing to teeter itself off the flimsy table and smash against the carpet. At first he crossed his fingers that the three-inched shag carpeting would brace the fall, but being his luck the TV cracked hard against the floor and shattered the entire front panel. Small sparks shot up and the smell of burning feathers infested the room.

"Oh come on!" He shouted towards the ceiling as if God himself had planned the whole thing and was up there laughing himself silly at the pitiful look on Dean's face. He looked around the desolate room. Great. Just fucking fantastic. No Sam and now no TV.

The quiet seemed unnatural. He wondered what Sam was up to. Probably doing research, the geek, unless of course he'd fallen asleep. Sleep actually sounded pretty damn wonderful right about now. To just close his eyes and forget about everything for a few hours. He still had some time before Sam would be knocking on his door all sunshine and rainbows. How anyone could be that freakishly happy in the morning he had no idea.

He pulled at the bronzed chain that dropped down from lamp that rested above the bed frame, cloaking the room in total darkness. 'Just sleep.' He told himself. But he couldn't sleep. His betraying mind wandered back to thoughts of Sam and the fact that he was a whole building away. He hated thinking about him like that – alone, confused, abandoned.

Besides the two-room thing was weird. He missed the nagging comments about his dirty socks, the soft click of the keyboard. He started to regret the whole 'let's not sleep in the same room' thing. At the time he though he was being pretty clever but now it just seemed like a shitty idea. Plus, he'd developed this weird quirk where he couldn't properly fall asleep unless Sam was in the room with him.

'Christ,' he thought. 'He's turned me into a fucking fruitloop.'

He needed to get out of the room. Needed to get away. Maybe if he found some bimbo that would come back to the room with him or he could always grab a case down at the gas station…

Slowly, he rolled out of bed and shuffled on his shoes, flung open the door and started to make his way across the threshold when his knee suddenly collided with a heavy mass. The outline of a large duffle bag was placed outside his room.

His heart swelled with the knowledge that Sam had actually thought about him, that he actually tried to see him, that he didn't totally hate him. Maybe he should just see what Sam was up to. Apologize, clear his conscience, get some sleep, and deal with everything else in the morning.

'Grow some balls, Dean' he told himself as he threw the bag inside the room and shut the door behind him.

–

Once he was sure 215 was, in fact, the right room – the old man in 251 was a crabby son of a bitch – he rapped three times on the faded blue door, cracked his knuckles and waited for the worst.

Nothing.

He knocked again, louder this time, and waited for the lights to turn on or for the sound of Sam's feet…

Dead silence.

"Sammy!" He shouted. "Sam, open up!"

Still nothing.

Maybe he was just asleep.

"Sam!" He called again but no answer came.

Panic began to flood his veins. What if something was wrong? What if he left? 'Oh he better not have left' he thought angrily. He placed a firm hand around the gun he carried in the back of his jeans and swiftly glanced around the abandoned parking lot. Nope, Impala was still in clear view. Dammit he knew something like this was going to happen. Why the hell did he leave Sam alone? You'd think he'd have learned his lesson by now. You don't leave Sam by himself. Ever. The kid was a walking magnet for bad situations.

"Sammy? You in there?" His fist slammed hard against the door.

"What's goin' on?" The shadow of someone's tall frame stepped out into the lit patch of the walkway.

Dean turned behind him, gun aimed at Sam's chest. "Dude, don't do that!" He gazed up at Sam's confused face.

"Do what?"

"Leave like that! I told you not to take off somewhere." He pocketed the gun.

"I just went to get something to drink. I was gone a whole two minutes." He took another sip of his soda, eyes never wavering from Dean's angered face.

"I thought something happened." He breathed out deeply.

"Twenty minutes ago you couldn't wait to get away from me, but now you're all concerned?" There was acidity in his voice though the hostility never reached his face. Dean went to say something but quickly bit his tongue. "So what? Did you need something? I put the bag outside your door." Sam turned around to look towards the building Dean was staying at.

"Yeah, I know. It's just, I was just thinkin'," he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "You wanna do something? We could, uh, put on some pay-per-view or play some poker or –"

"It's four in the morning." He eyed him suspiciously and swallowed the rest of his soda.

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. "It is, isn't it? I just thought, ya know, maybe one room makes more sense." He peered out across the nearby highway and hoped he didn't sound as retarded as he felt.

"What? Miss me already?" Sam asked with a coy smile.

"Nah, just thought you had a point. Why pay for two rooms, right?"

Sam smiled then reverted his eyes to dwell on the bronze room number sign that dangled from its screwed in peg. Dean didn't know if he was just pausing for emotional effect or if he was really contemplating his choices, whatever he was doing it was making him nervous. "Yeah, okay" he finally said. "Just let me get my stuff." He went to step but Dean grabbed his arm mid-stride.

He stared down where his hand was and quickly dropped it back to his side. Damn reflexes. "No, let's take your room."

"Why?"

"Uh…my TV broke."

"Again? Jeez what is with these places? You'd think they'd at least have working stuff."

He tried not to smile. "Yeah they're all crap. Anyways," he started walking backwards. "I'll go tell the landowner we only need one room." He almost backed straight into the brick wall of the neighboring building. "This time don't take off. Sam, I mean it. Stay put. I repeat. Do not leave." He pointed a stern finger at Sam.

"Alright, alright. I'm not leaving."

"And lock the door!" His voice loudly ricocheted off the buildings.

Sam looked at him with his arms raised by his sides, "Who's gonna get me, Dean?"

"Lock it!" He shouted.

Sam shook his head with an amused smile. "You've got issues."

"What?" He called from across the parking lot.

"Hurry up! I'm tired!" He tossed the empty can into the fly covered dumpster before shutting the door and bolting the lock.

–

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean slipped underneath the fresh, crisp sheets. They had three hours until they planned to get back on the road. Though the likelihood of them actually waking up in three hours was slim to none.

"Yeah?" Sam turned off the lights and fidgeted around until the mattress felt just right against his body.

"About earlier, in the car…I shouldn't have yelled at you–"

"Don't worry about it."

"It was just the storm and then—"

"It's okay." The faint glow of Sam's cell phone shone from across the room. A little jingle played as it powered down.

"Okay." He pulled the comforter around his body. "Hey Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Try not to snore, alright? The other night I swear it sounded like a whole army of snow plows were parading through our room."

"Shut up." Sam laughed and threw one of his extra pillows at Dean's face.

"Night Sammy." He put the thrown pillow behind his head and snuggled deeper into the mattress.

"Mm-hmm." Sam was already asleep.

Dean glanced out of the corner of his eye at his brother's still frame. He knew it would only bring him more pain but sometimes he couldn't help but stare. He loved the moment right before Sam fell asleep, when his knees curled up close to his waist and the rise and fall of his chest began to slow. Man, he was beautiful. His eyes came to rest on Sam's tan neck where his hair had a habit of softly curling up underneath the slight curve of his ear. God bless the fool that discovered the magical capability of the cold shower.

He turned over on his side facing the opposite direction. If he was going to get any sleep tonight he'd have better luck if he stared at the blank wall. It was moments like this that gave Dean hope. A small sliver of possibility wiggled its way through the dark cracks of his doubts and sparked the notion that if he told Sam the truth, everything might be okay. The more logical part of him wondered if it would be cruel to tell Sam what was really going on. The kid had just gotten over Jess's death – the last thing he needed was a self-proclaimed declaration of love from his big brother of all people.

'His brother.' He mused over the words not liking how he suddenly acquired a metallic taste in his mouth. 'Brother.' Realistically he knew the idea should repulse him, repel him. But it was Sam. His Sam. And fuck if it didn't feel damn near perfect.

But it didn't matter how much he wanted it. Nothing mattered because he'd never be able to speak the words out loud.

What held him back wasn't the fear of failure. Of course to look into Sam's eyes knowing that the feelings weren't mutual would be awkward at best, and let's face it, uncomfortable at the family dinner table didn't even begin to cover it. But what really stopped him from telling Sam the truth wasn't about rejection or disappointment or any of that. It was the fear that he would push Sam away. That Sam would leave again. If he left again…

He blocked the thought. He didn't like to think about Stanford.

Sometimes, Dean liked to pretend that those years at Stanford never took place. He liked to think that the night before Sam left for California - well, the night before the night where all shit hit the fan and it was like a goddamn screaming match - was the night where things just paused. And picking him up that night in Palo Alto? That was right where they picked back up again.

And Stanford? A leaping gap in the timeline of their lives that, as far as Dean's concerned, never even happened.

He slowly exhaled, discarding the negative thought as sleep consumed him.

Tomorrow things would make sense. Tomorrow things would be different. Tomorrow he would tell him.

Well, maybe.