A. N. Ok, I'm not sure if leaving prison means I'm going off-topic, you can stop reading here if you want, but...I had to write this.

Chapter 2: Blues

It's one of these things that just...happen, and then end up in the oubliette of your mind, never to be dredged up again. Yes, Sam has the worst tendency to want to talk things out. Feelings and all that. But surely, even he understands that there are things you do not poke at again. Not if you plan to survive them. Ok, maybe that's the keyword here. Because Christ, his baby brother worries him. He could probably worry Dean to death, if he really tried.

They've just finished the case, free as birds, if they can manage to stay that way. Back into another motel - the cheapest, as far as Dean could drive them before crashing... himself rather than the car. Frankly, it's not the moment to splurge, not when they don't want to attract attention.

He actually barely manages to shower before falling asleep, sure that the morning can only be better. At least they're on their own, nobody else to be concerned about. Instead, he wakes up to a miserable baby brother, curled up in his own bed.

Ingrained instinct makes him go over to check him, but he gets only a vague mumble, so. Coffee first. Maybe being plied with that and the healthiest snack he can find will set Sammy right. One can hope.

...He should have known better. Sam was apparently giving him a few moments of grace, because when he's back, trying to get Sammy to uncurl and sit up at least, like he's some sort of skittish stray, he actually hears a mumbled, "Just put me down."

Dean sighs, deeply. "We've discussed this. I don't care what dad said, I don't care what you say, and whatever has been brewing in that brain of yours all night, please dump it in the nearest sewer, because it's not going to happen. I'm not going to let it. "

"You already did." Soft-spoken, but the accusation stings. What - how did Dean fail? And who does he have to murder? (Not Sammy. Never Sammy. But surely, killing someone could help?)

"What?" His own voice is strangled.

"Come on, you can't have missed that."

"You know I'm the dumb one." He shrugs.

"They were right." Ok, so Dean needs to kill a whole lot of people. No problem. "I'm sick."

Even first thing in the morning... that does ring a bell. Oh fuck, no! "You?" Dean sounds as incredulous as he feels.

"I loved it, Dean."

"Ok, but...physical stimulation, yadda yadda, come on, Sam, you're the one who knows everything about politically correct and all. It's - ok, I actually got you to agree, because you were scared, but you should fucking know that coming doesn't have any bearing on how invested you are. Speaking of can't miss, if anyone has to be killed for liking that, it's me. You can't take the blame because I know how to make my lays happy."

Sam shrugs. "As you said, physical stimulation and all... I'd never blame you, Dean. See, it's different. You were protecting me. There was never a doubt you could perform."

"Protecting? Is that a kink, now?"

His brother offers a wet laugh. "Not exactly. But you've always done everything for me. I...kind of assumed you'd learned a spell in that couple years we weren't together."

"Ok, now I'm offended. Sick, sure. A monster, if you want. But going around learning sex spells? You think I'd ever need one of those?"

Sam gives him a flicker of a smile. "Look, I don't know how you did, but - you're not. You can't be. You're good, Dean. I know it like I know your name. You're not like me."

No, he isn't. He's a get yourself in a mess now, find a way to get yourself out later person. Drink your mistakes away, forget them to the best of your ability. That's why his list is ever-growing. Sam can never turn off his brain, and despite having a precious short list to go through, he keeps getting swallowed by it. How is Dean supposed to pull him out over and over if his brother really ends up demanding a life for the latest...thing?

Sam curls up a little more, and Dean wonders if he should move, but can't make himself. And as much as he doesn't want to talk, maybe if his brother does, he'll see how stupid he's being. "Ok. What didn't work?"

"I, uh, actually had never -"

"Fuck it, Sam, I asked!"

"Let me finish, ok? I - did fool around in college. But I, uh, topped. Every time. And since – running away never managed to cleanse me of, of wanting you, not once, I thought. Maybe. Maybe if I did have you, and it was as - terrible as possible. Traumatic, even, preferably. Maybe that'd finally get it in my head that no, this was...a nightmare, not a fantasy. I'd stop."

Dean actually tastes bile for a second, but no matter how much he's tempted, throwing up (traumatized; his baby boy tried to use him to traumatize himself) won't help anyone. Certainly not Sammy. He can't offer more than a vague, shocked sound, though.

Sam laughs again, sharp as glass. "Well, it turns out that I don't give a shit about the circumstances. So long as you're - you'll have me, I'll love it and beg for more, too. I woke up, and all I wanted to do was slither into your bed and just...see what I could get. " His groan of despair mingles with Dean's own, which is pure want.

"Do that."

Sam stares at him, thoughtful. He might have discounted everything Dean's said till now, assuming - some weird thing for his sake, apparently? But he knows horny Dean. (Again, accidents, he's told himself. No boundaries, other people would probably declare, shaking their heads. Well, they're not here.)

A deep breath, and - "For real?" His brother's voice trembles a bit, as if there's still a shadow of doubt in him that Dean might possibly be playing his part to fulfill the younger's needs. Wishes. Whatever he wants to call this attachment they have.

"Try me, baby boy. Anytime, anywhere." Dean can't help himself. One of his hands makes contact, gently inching up a mile-long leg.

"But.."

Dean knows that tone. It's Sam's concerned tone. Well, fuck it. If Sam craves it, and – well, the less said about Dean, the better – he's not letting thoughts of anyone else get in the middle.

"We'll be careful, promise. And yeah, we're going to hell, I guess, but you know what? If we don't pin him before, maybe that'll finally be our chance to kick Yellow-Eyes' ass."

Sam laughs again, and this time, it's full on dimples, soft, and a little bit adoring. "You idiot," he says.

"Your idiot." Dean grins. "And you're mine, aren't you?."
This time, Sam's moan is needy, too. Well, on to an important question. One he hopes will become routine. "So, breakfast first, or do you want to feast on me?"