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When Dean finally came back the next day, it was past four in the afternoon, his clothes were a rumpled mess, and he smelled of stale liquor and cheap perfume. He bypassed Sam and headed straight for the shower, came out fully dressed and left once more without a word, didn't come back until around midday. Sam tried to talk to him as soon as he stepped into the door but Dean cut him off with a "Dad just called, he's 10 away and he sounds pissed." Sam sighed as he and Dean set to picking up the trash strewn around the room.

John came home cradling a bad shoulder, mumbling and cursing "Motherfucker got the drop on me." And "bad shot" and the occasional "fucking Caleb". Sam decided not to press when John cringed and downed a handful of Oxy with half a bottle of Gin. His only reward for his self-control, however, was Dad driving them out to some local field for shooting practice.

John set up a neat row of empty bottles and cans on a fence post a good 30 yards away, against the sun.

"Start here and work your way out" Dad called out, voice carried out by the wind as Sam stared down the black barrel of the shot gun. He took one shot, bang, and barely grazed the top of one of the rusted cans, knocked it down with a muffled clank. The second shot missed completely. "The hell was that?" Dad yelled out, words slurring a bit together. "You two even been practicing?" He started off on one of his usual rants "what we do is important. We save lives" and how not training "is what get people killed".

"He'll get the next one, Sir." Dean's voice cut through. "Sam can do it." Sam's body tensed at the tone of Dean's voice. At the implication of a trust and belief in Sam so great that he'd actually stand up against their father even marginally. He set the sight back on the target. His hands trembled and he squinted, the too bright sun making his eyes ache and water, and beads of sweat break out across his temples. He was going to fail; everyone knew it, everyone except Dean apparently. Dean who was looking at him with a face so sure it made Sam's lungs stutter. He gulped and focused on the glass bottles glinting like jewels in the setting sun. The blue grass shivered and rippled lazily like waves on a lake, fluctuating between minty green, white and almost turquoise. Sam adjusted for the wind resistance. The first shot echoed in Sam's ears, drowning out the crack of the glass, but the small curve to the corner of Dean's lips was all the confirmation he needed. He set his sight to a rusty beer can next and squeezed slightly on the trigger, almost jerked when he felt Dean kick his feet apart, and the press of Dean's palm against his lower back to straighten his stance. Sam took two consecutive shots, which hit right in the center of the targets, sent the aluminum cans flying. "My turn" Dean's voice was smug.

"You need to practice more." Dad began. "Your brother's not always gonna be there to-" John's voice was cut off by the sound of Dean picking off the rest of the targets, pop pop pop pop, metal and shattered glass raining down like diamonds. Dean winced as he lowered the shotgun, rolled and rubbed at his shoulder which struck Sam as odd since the kickback of the shot gun hadn't been that bad.

"Out'a targets, Sir." He spared a quick wink at Sam, and for a moment Sam felt his stomach bubble over.

"Yeah, let's get heading back." John groused, spun on his heal and started to walk away.

From then on out everything seem to be back to normal, their own particular brand of normal, which was hardly normal at all. Dean still teased Sam incessantly, refused to take a side whenever Sam and Dad would argue, pissed them off more with his failed attempts to mollify them both, and constantly made bad jokes and puns. Still, everything felt slightly off for some reason, barely perceptible, like someone had picked up the world and moved it two inches to the left.

Dean had been flirting extra hard with the 7-11 clerk, Angela her nametag said, and was cajoling into meeting up after her shift was over. Normally that wouldn't really strike Sam as odd, Dean had always been a bit of a philanderer, but the way his voice wavered was. He sounded anxious, like he was dreading her saying no. She acceded of course. He was Dean, they never said no. When they got back to the room Dad left "for a few hours" and Dean slipped out like a ghost not fifteen minutes later. And Sam had been so sure that they were past the avoidance.

It was a little bit before 5am when Dean finally walked through the door. There was lipstick on his collar and he looked debauched. School started at eight and for a while Sam thought he'd end up missing Dean completely. Dean quirked an eyebrow in Sam's direction, he tossed his keys and a bag of donuts on the scarred wooden table and wordlessly made his way to the bathroom, pointedly not looking in Sam's direction. Sam stared at the plywood door for an hour, soundlessly tearing apart a bear claw –Dean's favorite- into a million little pieces.

The door finally clicked open and Dean stepped out, face faltering for a moment before pulling up a mask of casualness.

"Dude, not the Bear Claw." He walked up to Sam voice full of mock indignation as he tried to pry the still half complete pastry out of his hands. Sam looked up at Dean's face; paled from the lack of sleep, dark smudges underneath his eyes, a light ghosting of stubble; acting as if everything was okay. Dean was ignoring it, pretending as if that night hadn't happened, and today was just another normal day, and that made Sam angry. Angrier than Dean running away that night leaving Sam with a fuzzy head and Jizz soaked pants. Angrier than those red and purpling marks peaking from underneath his T-Shirt collar, made him feel. Sam clamped a hand onto Dean's wrist, before he could pull away. They both stared at each other intently, Sam challengingly, Dean's façade faltering slightly, his Adam's apple bobbing marginally with a dry swallow.

"I'm not giving up, Dean." He tightened his grip, wanting to leave his own marks on Dean. Wishing he could erase the one's that he had nothing to do with.

"Let go a'me." Dean's voice vibrated over Sam, a warning and a promise all in one. "You don't know what you're doing."

"No matter what you do –who- I'm not going to stop feeling this way." Sam struggled to keep his voice calm. "I'm not gonna stop wanting this."

"You're Sixteen, Sammy. You don't know what you want." Dean's agitated words only inflamed the rage building in Sam's belly as he pulled out of Sam's grip.

"It's Sam, God damn it." His voice rose and octave. " m'not a kid!- And what? Just 'cause I'm sixteen I'm not supposed t'know what –who- I want? Just cause I'm Sixteen I'm not supposed to want sex?"

"You're not supposed to want it with me." Dean shouted exasperated.

"Well too bad, Dean." Sam steeled his voice. "Because I do. More'n anything." He stood up and breached the space between them, cautiously pressed his fingertips to Dean's jawline, above a recent bruise. Dean stilled, screwed his eyes shut and shuttered.

"How'd I screw you up so bad?" And wasn't that just like Dean? To blame and beat himself up when it was Sam doing everything himself. "You're supposed to be different, Sammy." Dean's face pressed into Sam's palm out of its own volition and Sam could feel the flutter of razor-tipped butterflies slicing up his insides. "I don't wanna ruin you."

"You won't." The words scrapped at Sam's throat like broken glass.

"Yeah." Dean huffed out and Sam wasn't sure if was admission or reassurance. It didn't really matter though. Because that's the moment John's truck decided to pull into the drive, all loud Diesel engine and squeaky breaks. They separated quickly, Dean shoving a pastry in his mouth as their Dad walked in. Sam handed a donut to John who stared at them with thinly veiled suspicion. You have no idea, Dad. He licked the melted sugar off of his fingertips and only tasted the salt of Dean's skin.

-W-

Dean cut down on his overactive flirting and avoidance of Sam. He didn't, however, stop pushing Sam's advances away. Whenever Sam would get too close Dean would push him away, hold him still at arm's length; not wanting to let go, but too afraid to let it progress beyond a few longing looks and chaste, stolen touches. It was, quite frankly, beginning to get on Sam's last nerve.

School had just let out and pretty soon they'd pick up and leave to wander through every back road and backwater town in search of one hunt after the next. Dean was out, having been guilted into "celebrating", with a few guys from the local garage he'd been moonlighting at. Sam sat quietly, on the bed closest to the door –Dean's bed- waiting in the dark. It was around 1am –Way before last call, Sam noted- when Sam heard the quieted click of the door opening and closing. Sam flicked on the lamp sitting on the side table, casting the room in a warm, golden glow.

"Sammy?" Dean spun to face him, startled, back plastered to the beige plywood door. His eyes were glassy, and his face was ruddy –every freckle standing out- because of his inebriation. "what're you still doin' up?"

"Waiting for you."

"Wh-" Dean cleared his throat. "What for?" The husk in Dean's voice sent chills up Sam's spine. Sam peeled off his T-shirt, his skin somehow feeling twice as hot without it on. "Sam?" Dean croaked out.

"I can't stop thinking about you." Sam's body slid down the bed in one fluid motion, head on the pillow, and rapidly swelling cock tenting the front of his thin cotton pajama pants. "I can't help it, Dean. I just start thinking of you and my skin goes all tight." Sam craned his head back, ran his hands from his throat down his chest, thumbing at his nipples so that the little nub of flesh was hard and sensitive, and over his taut belly. Dean's breath hitched as he pressed himself harder into the door, hand holding on to the metal doorknob like a lifeline. Sam hooked his thumbs underneath the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms, at the wings of his hips, and arched his back. He pulled them down slowly, over the swell of his ass, his straining dick, let the fabric scrape against his trembling thighs and over his knees, kicked them off when he could no longer reach.

Sam slid his hands over his thighs, dragged his blunt nails down the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, leaving faint red trails over the paled flesh. He cupped at his tight, heavy balls with one hand while the other played at tracing lazy patterns over the hair at the base of his cock. The air around them felt stuffy and thick to them both, judging by Dean's heavy, unnaturally loud breaths. Sam's eyes fluttered closed as he wrapped his dry palm around his hot length, gave it a few leisurely tugs before running a thumb over the leaking head, smearing the precome down the overheated skin to make the movements smoother. He let go of his balls, pressed firm, circular motions over his perineum, and felt his body jolt at the sensation. "Sometimes I imagine touching you." He stole a peek at his brother through his lashes. Dean's chest was heaving, his eyes void dark, his hand white knuckled against the doorknob as if he would bolt any second now, and Sam wondered if the only reason he didn't was the thick bulge of his cock straining down one of the legs of his jeans. "Sometimes I imagine it's you touching me." A deep raucous moan tore from Sam's throat. He lifted his hand to his mouth, sucked and laved at his fingers greedily, his other hand picking up the pace on his aching prick. He let go of his fingers with a loud slurp and lowered them to in between his legs, ran a saliva soaked digit across the furled skin of his entrance. "I wish it was you touching me." Sam moaned. "Your hands, your mouth." Sam's pace quickened, hand pulling and tugging frantically at his swollen dick, wrist flicking with a twist at the drooling head. "Your fingers" he tentatively pressed his finger past the quivering muscles of his clenching hole, let it stretch and drag against the skin before adding another, pushing and pulling until he hit that one spot that made colors explode behind his eyelids. "Your –cock" the last word scraped out of his throat, pulling all the air from his lungs along with it as his fingers hit against his prostate just right. He felt his balls draw up and came in long, drawn out spasms, come landing in spurts over his convulsing belly.

Dean's fingers slipped off of the doorknob and for a moment Sam was sure he was going to turn tail and run. So Sam was dumbfounded when instead of slipping out of the room Dean crossed the space separating them in three long strides. He planted a knee between Sam's bent legs and hesitantly placed a rough hand over Sam's knee cap. Dean pushed Sam's legs apart enough so he could fit in between them and ran a large, calloused palm over the rapidly cooling come on Sam's abdomen, spreading it and painting slick trails on previously dry skin. Sam whimpered as Dean's hand ran over his chest and scraped over the sensitive bud of his nipple. Something in Dean broke. He let out a noise analogous to a growl and gripped Sam's thighs hard enough to bruise, pulled him over his lap, the rough denim of Dean's jeans scraping almost painfully against the over sensitized flesh of Sam's thighs and ass.

Dean undid his belt, the metal buckle and leather slapping and stinging against Sam's skin, undid his pants, and winced as he finally freed his huge, throbbing cock, the angry red, swollen head oozing wet. Sam gulped, both in trepidation and excitement. Dean's piercing gaze caught him, swallowed him up until Sam forgot just how to breathe, but it didn't really matter, not with the groan Dean let out. Dean started to stroke himself with a frantic, punishing rhythm, chest heaving with huge, pained gasps. Sam whimpered at the indescribable sounds emanating from his older brother. "Dean" his voice hitched and Dean let out a deeply pained out moan, like a death rattle and came brutally all over Sam, painting his stomach, chest and even face with thick gobs of searing heat.

Sam panted in stunned silence as Dean's eyes snapped open. He could feel a small amount of come clinging to the corner of his lower lip, and without thinking he stuck his tongue out and licked it clean. It tasted salty and bitter, kind of gross to be honest, but also kind of wonderful because that was the taste of Dean.

Dean jerked up, eyes wide and face with a look full of guilt. Sam really fucking hated that look.

"I'm sorry." He croaked, tucking himself back into his pants and running out the door like the house was on fire. Leaving Sam a wrecked, filthy mess.

Covered in come and ruined as prophesied.