February
Sam woke to find that Dean was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.
"Dean, are you alright?" He pulled the sheets around his naked form, and awaited an answer.
"No, not really." His brother watched as he stood up, and walked to sit at the table, where breakfast was waiting.
"Well, we can't pretend that nothing happened."
"I know that." He rustled in the bag of doughnuts, and pulled out a stick, looking down at it with slight disgust.
"So I think we should talk about it." Sam wrapped the sheets around his waist, and joined his brother at the table.
"Look, Sam," He said, pointing with his donut stick, "I was drunk, and I told you my greatest secret. Then, I was so drunk I proceeded to act on it. It was wrong, and I don't know what to do." The donut suffered a fatal bite, and fell to the table. Sam looked down to his lap, before replying.
"What if I feel the same?" he twirled his thumbs, and bit at his lower lip.
"Sammy," His voice was pleading, which depressed Sam to no end. He prepared for the inevitable jilt. "You know we can't. We're brothers." There it was.
"Does it really matter?" He lifted his head, allowing Dean to see the sincerity of the words in his eyes. "I mean, since when do we conform to societal rules?"
"It's more than a societal rule. Incest is a stigma."
"So is digging up dead bodies, but we do that all the time."
"That's different."
"How so?"
"We do that for the greater good, and all that crap."
"And when was the last time we did anything for ourselves?" Dean's breath came in short, near panicked bursts, before he gave in. He stood, walked over to the other chair, and straddled Sam, before leaning in. He pressed their lips together harshly, running his fingers through soft, brown locks, and slightly rolling his hip's against Sam's hardening length. Moments later, he pulled back, and looked deeply into his brother's eyes. Dean spoke one word, and one word alone.
"Okay."
Sam and Bobby shared one last shot before the older (and less drunk) of the two men closed the bottle.
"Come on, Bobby…one more?" Sam shamelessly put on his biggest puppy dog face, and pleaded with his eyes.
"No, Sam. You've had enough. It's time for bed." He moved past the knackered young man on the couch, and locked the remaining booze in the safe, so that said young man wouldn't be tempted.
"Aw, Bobby…" He wined. The older man threw him a blanket from across the room.
"Go on, Sam, get some sleep." He didn't get a response; instead, the drunken man lied back on the sofa, barely covering himself, and shut his eyes. Bobby smiled a bit, and went upstairs to sleep.
The next morning, Sam woke up with the massive, yet entirely expected migraine. He sat up, holding on to the coffee table to keep the room from spinning. Bobby was in the kitchen, and the scent lofting in the air told him that there was coffee to be had. Yet, he dare not move, for fear of falling down.
"Hey, Bobby." He managed to call out to the man in the kitchen.
"Mornin'." Bobby walked into the room with two cups of steaming brown liquid, one of which he set in front of Sam.
"Listen, I-" he was cut off by the look on Bobby's face.
"It's okay, Sam. I know it was tough, talkin' about all of that last night, but that's what I'm here for. You don't have to explain anything.
"Thanks, Bobby." He took a tentative sip of his beverage, and moaned out of sheer delight.
"I had some of that vanilla junk you like to put in there."
"It's great!" He smiled for a moment, and then it faded.
"What is it?" Bobby sighed, sensing what was to come.
"It's just, the last time I had this stuff in my coffee was that morning that Dean and I…"
"Became lovers?" As harsh as it sounded, it needed to be said, and Sam couldn't do it.
"Yeah."
"Wanna tell me more?"
