Title: somewhere a clock is ticking [7/?]
Author: alakewood
Warnings: Very slight spoilers for AHBL, and minor Wincest (finally!).
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 970+
Summary: Dean finally learns what's been going on with Sam, and that Sam had suspected it for some time.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.

oxoxo

Sam had been in and out of the hospital to see this doctor and have that test, to have blood taken and taken again. He'd gotten the last round of results the previous day, wouldn't allow Dean into the doctor's office with him, so Dean was left completely in the dark as to what Sam's condition was. The whole drive back from the hospital, Sam stayed quiet, just as he had been the last time he'd discussed his test results with his doctor. But Dean was tired, didn't force the issue – Sam was going through enough as it was. If he wanted to talk, he'd talk.

They'd returned home and Sam looked even paler than usual as he climbed out of the Impala, squinting into the bright afternoon sunlight as he peered over its roof at Dean. He looked as though he were about to say something, his mouth slightly open, tongue darting between parted lips to wet the lower. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and turned away from his brother to head into the house without a word.

And Dean watched him go. He briefly debated heading into the house after his brother, but he was tired of the silent treatment, was beginning to crave noise and socialization in a way he hadn't in a long damn time. All he needed was an hour, maybe two...

It was almost midnight when Dean stumbled out of Stu's, spitting out the piece of peppermint gum the blonde that had been hitting on him all night had shoved into his mouth – along with her tongue – when she'd forced herself on him as he'd come out of the bathroom. She didn't take his rejection well, slapping him and stalking away, all her girlfriends glaring at him as he returned to his stool at the bar to pay off his tab and leave.

Every window of the house was dark when he returned home, the front door open just as Sam had left it hours before. Dean didn't even bother trying to be quiet as he entered the front door – Sam had always been a heavy sleeper, his current medical condition (whatever it was) seeming to make even more difficult to wake – so he let the screen slam shut, tossed his keys on the low table beside the door and started kicking of his boots.

"Where have you been?" questioned Sam's voice from the darkness of the living room.

Dean started, his surprise nearly knocking him off balance as held a foot in one hand, tugging at his laces with the other. "Sam?"

The lamp beside the couch clicked on, illuminating the room with a dim glow. Sam sat at the end of the couch wrapped in an old quilt they'd picked up at a Salvation Army or a Goodwill or a garage sale. Some of the seams were frayed and the fabric faded, but it wasn't unlike the rest of their meager possessions. Sam pulled it tighter around his bony shoulders as he rose and crossed the scuffed wooden floor to stand before Dean. "Where have you been?" Sam asked again. "I've been waiting for you. I called your cell and it just kept going to voicemail."

"It was off."

"What if I...what if...?" He trailed off, eyes shining in the faint light.

It took a moment for Dean to understand what Sam couldn't say. He shook his head. "Sam-"

"Cancer," Sam interrupted abruptly. "It's cancer."

That hit Dean harder than a physical blow, felt like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him. "What?"

"An inoperable brain tumor. It's why I've been sick, tired. It explains the headaches, the nosebleeds, the vertigo, the weight loss."

Dean reached for the wall, suddenly not trusting his legs to hold him up. "How long have you known?"

"The doctor just told me-"

"How long have you suspected?"

"Since the nosebleeds started."

The last of the oxygen in Dean's lungs left in a rush. "Sam."

The look on Dean's face – Sam had to wonder if that's how John's looked as Mary died; how his own looked as he witnessed Jess burning on the ceiling of their apartment. Was it the same expression Dean had worn as he'd watched Sam nearly die back in Cold Oak?

"I can't do this again," Dean whispered, haunted eyes not meeting Sam's, before stumbling towards the door.

"Dean?" Sam's heart faltered, shuddered, perhaps even stopped altogether. "Don't leave."

"God, Sam." Then Dean's arms were around him, and he felt small and safe. "I will never leave you," he said against Sam's hair, clutching him to his chest.

Sam could feel the uncertain beat of his heart again as he took a shallow breath. "Then where are you going?"

Dean hesitantly let go of his brother and stepped away, looking only a little embarrassed by his uncharacteristic display of emotion. "To get some answers."

"Answers? Dean..." Suddenly, his need for Dean was so profound. They'd been denying it for so long, the twisted desire between them – it had begun so innocently, so subtly. But he couldn't ignore it anymore. He reached for the front of Dean's shirt and pulled him closer, leaning his head down to cover Dean's mouth with his own. Tasted whiskey and a hint of something minty on his tongue.

Dean stood stock-still for long, countless moments before his mouth started moving fervently against Sam's, tongues pressing and sliding, teeth knocking together.

The quilt fell to the floor, pooled around Sam's bare feet as Sam used both hands to tug Dean towards the stairs.

Dean caught a glimpse of the heat, the want, the need, the lust, in Sam's shadowed eyes and followed.