"You want a beer?" Sam called from the kitchen as Dean lazily flipped through the channels on the cabin's beaten-up TV. "Or something stronger, maybe?"

Dean's eyebrow quirked, and he glanced through the doorway to see Sam taking a swig from one of John's "hidden" flasks with one hand while he poured corn kernels into a pot on the stove with the other.

"Christ, Sammy," he groaned, letting himself fall against the back of the couch with a loud huff. "Dad will kill you if he finds out you've been drinking his whiskey, and, more importantly, he'll kill me for letting you."

Sam just chuckled, taking another long sip.

"You're whipped, you know that?" he said, and Dean sighed, palming his forehead.

"No, I'm reasonable," he muttered. "You're just insane."

Truthfully, now that the idea was in his head, though, he really did want some of that whiskey.

"Give me that," he snapped, holding his hand out and trying to put on his best stern adult face. "I'm sure as hell not letting you finish off the whole thing. I don't want to spend the rest of my night cleaning up your puke."

"Yeahhh, okay," Sam said with a grin, stepping into the living room to hand over the flask. "Half of that is mine, though, so don't even think about chugging it!"

Dean just rolled his eyes, taking a long, gratifying sip and leaning back against the couch again.

"So, which one is it gonna be tonight, Sammy? The Evil Dead? Poltergeist? Nightmare on Elm Street?"

It was a ritual of sorts for them. When Dad was gone, they'd pop some popcorn and watch an 80's horror movie each night before falling asleep.

John didn't really like it when he was home.

"We see enough of this kind of stuff daily without having to watch it in a movie," he'd say with a little click of disapproval, but Sam and Dean were young boys, and watching Freddy Krueger slash someone while stuffing salty snacks into their mouths was just…fun, hunters or not.

"You pick," Sam said nonchalantly, already in the kitchen again, and Dean felt a little twinge of nostalgia, remembering how excited Sam used to get about nights like these when he was younger.

As he watched his brother poke at the popcorn with a long wooden spoon, his thoughts drifted back to Sam's song…to everything that had happened.

Maybe it was the little bit of whiskey he had in his system or the fact that he had used up all of the stress his brain could manufacture in a day, but he didn't feel all that upset about the fact that these thoughts were in his head yet again.

Or at least, he didn't feel nauseated by them.

In fact, he found himself just casually wondering if his assumptions really had somehow been wrong.

Sam certainly wasn't acting like he was…like he was "enamored" with Dean.

If anything, he seemed a little bored.

Mentally running through what he could remember of Sam's lyrics, Dean's brow furrowed. It just seemed so…like them, but surely he would have picked up on something coming from Sam now that he knew to look for it.

There had been the thing with their legs when they were swimming, but that had really been him, hadn't it?

Had it?

And Sam had said some things…but Dean hadn't exactly been in the right mental place for clarity. Now that he really thought about it, he could have easily exaggerated them in his mind.

And Sam would have lied to Dean if he had a girlfriend. Of course he would have. He wouldn't want Dean to know something like that.

Dean was quickly realizing that for the first time since all of this had happened, he was actually finding it believable that everything he had been panicking about could really be just a big, big misunderstanding on his part.

It should have felt like a relief, finally allowing himself some room to doubt the disturbing conclusion he had come to about Sam's interest in him, but it didn't feel…quite like that.

Why didn't it feel like that?

Why did it feel like, well…like something else?

That's when the nausea came.

"Jesus fuck, dude," he silently berated himself, his heart beat speeding up. "Stop that. Stop that right now."

It was no secret to him or to anyone else that he was a bit possessive when it came to Sam, but to wish…even for just a second…that his baby brother was in love with him just because that would mean that he wasn't in love with someone else was twisted on so many different levels.

Was that even what he had wished, though? And if it was, was that why he had wished-

"Dean," Sam said, his voice close, and Dean snapped out of his downwardly-spiraling train of thought to see Sam leaning up against the wall just five feet away, a bowl of popcorn in his hands and an expression of concern on his face. "Dude, you keep telling me that everything's fine, but I'm losing track of how many times I've caught you doing this today. I mean, man, you look like you just saw a pile of dead puppies or something. I get that you don't want to tell me, but you're freaking me out a little. Nothing's…really wrong is it? Like…Dad, or something? Because if it is, you have to tell me."

"No. No, no," Dean sputtered quickly, smoothing his hair and plastering a smile onto his face. "I'm sorry, man. I know I've been acting weird. It's not…it's-

Sam wasn't going to let this go.

It's…I-I…girl trouble."

Fuck. What? Why?

Sam shifted his weight uncomfortably, his expression of worry melting visibly into one of annoyance.

"Oh," he said, pursing his lips. "Okay. So…okay. I didn't know you were seeing anyone."

Dean cleared his throat nervously, feeling like a complete idiot.

"Yeah, I…not really. Well, a bit. Just…you know."

Boy, that had really cleared everything up.

"Whatever, man. It's fine," Sam said a little harshly, and Dean felt suddenly guilty, like he had said something offensive.

"No, I mean it's really nothing," he rushed, grabbing the flask from the table and avoiding his brother's eyes while he did exactly what Sam had told him not to do. "Look, you, uh…Dad's got another one of these in his closet. You go...grab that. Really, it's not a big deal. Let's just watch our movie, okay? It's nothing."

Sam's withering gaze was obvious, even before Dean glanced over at him.

"Well, it's obviously something," Sam said in a strained voice, tossing the bowl of popcorn unceremoniously onto the couch. "But, whatever. I'll go get that. You can put the movie in."

He half-turned to walk away before adding, "Just…next time, how about you let me know when there's something actually wrong and when you're just hung up on some girl, okay? I've been worried about you all day for nothing."

Blinking dumbly at his little brother, who rolled his eyes a little before stomping out with an audible huff, Dean inhaled deeply, giving his brain cells a chance to reassemble.

Wait a minute.

Sam wasn't mad. Well, not for the reason he had claimed, anyway.

It was suddenly so obvious.

Sam was jealous.

Sam was…jealous.

Oh, God.

A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~A~

"Okay, I don't get it," Sam slurred, half-rising from the couch before falling back down again, defeated by gravity.

"You've seen this movie like eight times, Sam," Dean said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry about how drunk his brother had gotten. "Which part do you not get?"

"Not that, jerk," Sam retorted, slinging an arm against the back of the couch to steady himself. "I don't get how you have a girlfriend that's serious enough for you to mope about for a day, and I don't know about her."

Dean's pulse quickened, but not as much as it would have if he didn't have a large flask of whiskey and four beers pumping through his blood.

"Oh, that," he coughed, brushing some invisible dirt off his knee. "I don't. I mean, I don't have a girlfriend. I said girl trouble, okay? That doesn't mean girlfriend."

"What, did you knock someone up?" Sam asked, his voice much higher than usual. "Oh my god, did you?"

"Christ, Sammy," Dean groaned, pressing a palm to his forehead. "No, I did not knock someone up. Jesus. Can you just…can we drop this? Let's just finish our movie and go to bed, okay? You need to sleep it off big time, man."

Sam's lips pressed into a pout, and he didn't respond for a minute, leaning back and taking a deep breath.

"Hey, Dean," he finally said, his eyes half-closed in the dim light of the room, "I think I'm drunk."

Dean raised his eyebrows, looking over at Sam, who was now keening dangerously toward him.

"Yeah, no kidding," he murmured, shaking his head a little. "I think you passed drunk about three beers ago, buddy. Why don't we just-"

"You know, I think I'll just take a little…nap," Sam interrupted, and before Dean could stop him, he was stretching out like a big cat, his legs hanging off the end of the couch and his head and shoulders falling heavily onto Dean's lap. "You just…you wake me up when the movie's…"

His voice trailed off, and Dean sat frozen in place, staring down at his brother in disbelief.

This was just great.

Sam was an immovable log when he wanted to be, or in this case, when he was unconscious, but Dean had to try to squeeze out from under him. There wasn't enough alcohol in the world to make it okay that his brother's cheek was pressed right up against his…

He just couldn't stay there. Not with everything that Dean knew now.

"C'mon, man," he chided himself, feeling guilty. "Let him sleep. He needs it."

He did look peaceful, and if Dean could forget the fact that Sam was passed out drunk after a bout of poorly-concealed jealousy over Dean's fictional girlfriend with whom Sam possibly wished he could trade places with…well, this could almost be like when they were younger and Sam would fall asleep before the movie was even over.

Back then, though, he was little enough to be picked up and carried to his bed.

There was nothing little about Sam anymore.

Dean found himself smiling despite everything as he looked downed at Sam's face. From a purely aesthetic viewpoint, his little brother was beautiful. The way that the bluish light from the TV caught his features in the otherwise darkened room was perfect.

Without thinking, Dean's fingers found a lock of hair that had fallen across Sam's eyes and brushed it to the side.

He would never admit this to Sam in a million years, but he loved his brother's hair.

There was something almost regal about it, like Sam could be the young, charming prince on the cover of some romance novel, and despite his nearly constant teasing that he would have to buy Sam a bra and a dress soon if he didn't get a haircut, he had always secretly hoped that Sam wouldn't take his words to heart.

Following Sam's hair with his fingers down to just above the concave area between his neck and shoulder, Dean's hand suddenly itched with the desire to touch the skin there.

A couple of inches lay exposed above the hem of Sam's t-shirt, and it just looked so smooth, so flawless, so unlike any other skin he had ever had beneath his fingertips.

Sam was unconscious. Dean was just curious. What would be the harm in just-

His fingers moved of their own accord, slipping under the fabric and traveling in a feather-soft stripe down Sam's chest.

His breath caught in his throat as his thumb and forefinger came to rest about an inch above Sam's nipple.

He felt a sudden flurry of sensations deep in his stomach, and he could feel the color rising in his cheeks.

"Jesus, what are you doing?" he murmured to himself, but before he could pull his hand away, Sam's eyes fluttered open prettily, and Dean froze again like a deer in the headlights.

Oh, God.

Please go back to sleep. Please go back to sleep. Please don't notice.

Sam shifted a little, causing Dean's fingers to slip even lower, and Dean couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. He couldn't look away.

After what seemed like a small eternity, though, Sam's lids drooped, and in the next moment, his eyes were shut again and his chest was rising and falling with the slow, deep breaths of sleep.

Dean slowly removed his hand, stretching his arm out to the side as far away from his brother as he could manage without pulling a muscle, and what was left of the feelings in his stomach from just a minute ago now felt like he had just been punched…hard.

"I'm never drinking again," he thought angrily, forcing his eyes back to the movie. When it was over, he would wake Sam up. He would wake Sam up, and they would go to bed, and Sam wouldn't…he wouldn't remember.

And this would never…never…happen again.