TIME Chapter 3

I have no claim on the characters that I am writing about.

Its wincest, baby!

Dean lays on the rack that night, his thoughts clamoring so loudly in his own head, that its like being caught in a wind tunnel of his own voice screaming different things, all at the same time. He doesn't know how to put things in order so he just can just fucking think for a minute.

He feels the horror of his own desire for Sam burning up the back of his throat, and if he still ate or drank anything, Dean would vomit all over himself, but in hell, there is no eating, or sleeping, or even shitting. Its nothing but the rack.

Dean now knows that Alistair has seen his mind, because that is the only way he would have thought to show Dean that scene starring Sam, the porn star, jerking off for Dean's own entertainment.

Dean lets the earliest thoughts of Sam inch into his frontal lobe for the first time in what feels like a hundred years. The thoughts that had sickened and horrified and excited Dean all at once, to the point that the only way Dean could keep functioning at all, was to lock them away in his mind, away from the rest of his thoughts.

About 12 years ago, when Sam was 14, Dean had realized that he had abnormal feelings for his brother. He caught himself watching Sam too much, and no amount of spin he tried to place on it made him think that it was only in a "protective, gotta watch Sammy" kind of way. He searched for Sam constantly whenever they were anywhere near each other, and his mind knew it was wrong, but he couldn't stop. He just needed to see him, to look at him, to watch him. Just one more time, just for a few minutes longer.

He was obsessed with Sam, and no amount of self disgust or hatred ever lessened it. He spent hours in his own mind thinking of Sam's cocky smile, his sweet smile, his cheeky smile, every smile really. He thought of Sam's hair, how soft it looked, thought of ways he could touch it innocently, now that his hands itched to know how soft those brown waves really were. He thought of Sam's pink cheeks, his long neck, his dimples. Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam. Its all Dean knew. All he ever wanted to know.

Dean would jerk off in the shower every morning now, needing release almost constantly, his brothers face the only thing that brought him any pleasure. His self loathing thickened over him and settled on his shoulders like an old, comfortable blanket, and Dean could scarcely bring himself to care. He would stroke himself frantically and his mental eye would see Sam's mouth wet and hot and on Dean, or Sam's extra large hand would replace his own in his mind and Dean would strangle back his groans of pleasure as he came.

The first time he physically got a hard on because Sam was too close to him, was the only time Dean ever seriously thought of leaving his Dad and brother behind for good.

They had been watching TV in an old motel outside of Wichita and Sam was 16. Sam was wearing a pair of basketball shorts and no shirt, because the motel didn't have air conditioning and it was the middle of August. Dean's obsessive attraction to his own brother was so implanted in his psyche by this time, it seemed almost normal now, and there were times he could even forget about it for a while.

Dean had grabbed the remote and changed the show Sam was watching and Sam had kicked out at him, one big foot hitting Dean's shin and Dean had sneered at him. He clicked again, a challenge clearly implied in his actions and then Sam had been upon him, wrestling for the remote, skinny limbs and huge hands flailing wildly as he tussled with Dean.

It had started out innocent, he was just teasing the kid, and when Sam had jumped on top of him, Dean's only thought had honestly been to best the kid, because the kid was getting bigger and harder to take down by the fucking day. But as he had held the remote just out of arm's length while laughing at Sam's antics, Dean had suddenly been aware of how close Sam was. How he was sitting almost on Dean's lap as he scrambled around trying to get the remote. How Sam's tanned chest which was just starting to have real definition was tantalizingly close to Dean's mouth and how Sam's neck was in stroking distance, and Dean had felt his belly get warm, and then the tell tale twitch in his pants, signaling his desire. Sam had stopped squirming suddenly and had just sat there, in Dean's lap, panting and staring down at Dean with those wide eyes and fuck me mouth and Dean barely managed not to grab the fucking kid and kiss the shit out of him.

He threw Sam off of him, chucked the remote right after him, and had scrambled from the room, almost shouting at Sam, "I was fucking kidding, you stupid little bitch" before locking himself into the bathroom, hearing Sam's strangled sob, and the hoarse, "I hate you Dean" hit his back the second before the door closed.

In the bathroom, Dean mentally packed his bags, checked his wallet, and loaded his gun, because no fucking way could he stay knowing that he wanted Sam in that way. It was one thing to jerk off to his image in the shower (yeah Dean's brain had made excuses for that) but it was something else entirely to almost rape the fucking kid. The lust that had risen up in Dean when Sam was on him had been terrifying with its intensity and Dean knew that it was never going away. So he was.

In the end, he had left the bathroom and before he could get to his bag, Sam had looked up at him from the other bed and said, in all his 16 year old innocence. "I'm sorry Dean, I didn't mean it, I just wanted to watch that show. I still love you the most Dean."

Dean had felt himself splinter into pieces in that moment, fragments of himself falling onto the mustard yellow carpet in the motel room, because at that moment he was so in love with Sam, that he knew he was never going to leave him. So, he had sat down on the opposite bed, and focused on the TV and said in an almost normal voice. "s'ok Sammy, forget it."

Dean had been shattered that night, and the only thing he could do was pick up the pieces of his own heartbreak and put them away in a pocket of his mind that he wouldn't have to see them. He would always be in love with Sam, his heart already knew it, but he would pack it away so tightly, he would never think to act on it ever again.

Sam's leaving for Stanford had been a whole new kind of torture for Dean, who had thought it so fucking awful that he lusted after his brother, was in love with his brother, but it was nothing compared to the chilling emptiness being away from Sam gave him. He pined for Sam in a way that he knew was almost unhealthy in its intensity and he dreamt of his face almost every night, waking with dried tears on his cheeks almost every morning.

When he and Sam had reunited, he had vowed not to let those memories out ever again, and he pushed himself harder than ever before to not feel for Sam that way. Some days it was easier than others. But no matter what thoughts might sneak into the tired or drunken edges of Dean's psyche, he had a firm grip on them, and knew he could hold himself away from his insane love and attraction and just be Sam's brother.

Dean feels the sickening dread rise up in him now that he understands what Alistair is using against him. Himself. His own secrets. His own mind.

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