"While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth."

- Neruda, Every day you play

Jess breaks up with him holding hands in the bedroom where they lost their virginity together. It's the summer after he turns seventeen and her hair is falling into her eyes. She says Sam isn't invested in it as much as she is, that she can't waste her love on someone whose heart is elsewhere. Sam nods, tucks her wayward locks behind her ear, sorry I can't give you hope, and drives around town for two hours just to reach some pretence of order in his mind. It's kind of futile.

His heart comes home six weeks later, on a sweltering afternoon in July. There's nothing special about it, no fanfare or anything - he's just there one day when Sam ventures out into the backyard. They only have a patch of green grass that hasn't dried out yet. It's between a pair of tall lindens that have an amazing smell when they blossom in the middle of June. Freshly heartbroken and feeling very emo after Jess, Sam set up a hammock between those trees to brood and nap in pleasant solitude. Naturally, that's where Dean lounges at, skipping greetings and unpacking, and just going back to occupying Sam's space as if it was his own.

They haven't seen each other in a year, not even for Christmas, and Sam has to pinch himself in disbelief. What if Dean's a mirage, a trick of the light? What if he is a dream? But he doesn't vanish as Sam walks closer, stays just as solid as he looked from afar. His cheeks are a little rounder, expression brighter, the haunted restlessness gone, and Sam knows just from looking at him that they have a tabula rasa. A blank slate to start figuring out their relationship again. He's sporting a light stubble and his bare feet hang over the edge. Sam has the absurd urge to grab one and tickle its sole.

"That's mine." He says when it's apparent that Dean is content to maintain his lazy indifference.

"Big enough for two." Dean's eyes remain closed, but a pleased smile stretches over his face. He waves a hand beside his hip. "Come here."

Sam does not. He is not a little kid who will fall into his stupid brother's arms when he deigns him worthy of his presence. No, if Dean wants to touch him or engage him in conversation or whatever, he damn well has to work for it like any other human being.

"Okay, then." Dean grins and swings himself out of the thing with the sort of grace Sam's gangly body lacks at the moment. His eyes flick up to Sam's figure mid-step and he comes to a stuttering halt. His bewilderment looks comical on his handsome features. "Woah. You been snackin' on protein bars, Sasquatch?"

Sam can't help it, he cracks up. "Shut up."

Dean gives him a thorough once-over. "Seriously, you got all this from salad and shit?"

Smug satisfaction washes over Sam's mind. Yes, he had a growth spurt. He went from short and cute to ridiculously tall and thin in the course of a few months and now he's over 6'2 and this might not be the end of it. For the first time in his life, he doesn't have to look up to catch Dean's eyes. Come to think of it, he's looking a tiny bit down at the moment. "Wishing you didn't throw out all your pickles, huh?"

"Hell yeah." Dean gestures at him, at a loss for words. "Look at ya."

They stare at each other in the warm breeze, the leaves whooshing above. Dean clears his throat. It's getting awkward and Sam wonders if it'd be bad form to leave him to suffer the consequences of his actions alone. After all, if he hadn't left, they wouldn't have any problem acting around each other. Dean's gaze is still fixed on him, watching for signs of anger or resentment probably, and Sam starts to sweat under his scrutiny. There's a mosquito bite on his forearm and he scratches at it, anything to distract him from the desire to either punch his brother in the face or check if he feels any different wrapped up in Sam's arms.

Dean makes an abrupt, dissatisfied noise and grabs Sam's wrist, tutting and slapping his fingers away from the itch. Sam barely has time to process what's happening before Dean digs his blunt nail into the bite and makes a cross in it.

"Dean!" He whines. He fucking hates that. It hurts and stings like hell. Why can't he just scratch it? It's his fucking bite.

Dean smirks. "Better now, isn't it?"

His hand moves up to Sam's shoulder and squeezes. Then he hesitates, shifting from foot to foot, and that's something Sam can't take. Dean should never have to hesitate to hug him. He lurches forward and envelopes him in the tightest embrace he can manage, his pent-up tension rushing out of him at once.

"What?" Dean grunts, trying to cover how his body says I missed you too.

Sam's heart swells and he laughs, holding on tighter. "Nothing. It's good to have you back."

Working at a swimming pool's snack bar isn't the most mentally challenging jobs Sam could have found and the stench of chlorine clings so hard to the place that he tastes it in the back of his mouth. But it's easy and provides him with an opportunity to check out the finest of the local girls clad in little more than scraps. Those tiny bikinis do nothing to disguise their bodies and for the hormonal height Sam has been riding lately, that's like staring into heaven through its golden gates. Dean seems to have realised this pro as well and grabs every chance to "visit" him and flirt. As he leans across the counter, winking at some busty redhead who ordered a PJ sandwich and onion rings (Sam's gonna be sick), a waft of his sunscreen scent hits Sam's nose and stirs his wistfulness. It's such a Dean-smell in his mind. His own tan skin never really called for creams, but Dean needs to be lathered in them to avoid the dreaded lobster-look. He has a smudge of it on his temple right now. Is it normal that Sam finds that cute?

There's a peach in his hand that he keeps rolling between his fingers instead of biting its lush curve. It's distracting. Sam seems to have all his nerve cells honed in on that fruit until someone gives his forearm a light tap. "Hey Sam."

He startles, then relaxes when he spots the guy who approached the stand. "Mick! Good to see you again."

They met last week during a similar lull in customers. It turned out that Mick knew a thing or two about law courses in the States and they struck up a conversation about them that lasted for an hour. Since then, Mick came to the pool every single day, even though he doesn't look like the type who can't survive the summer dry. He is a tiny bit fidgety if he only wears a swimsuit and his body - while not bad at all - isn't the finely sculpted bronze god thing most of the regulars prowl around with. And he keeps wandering back to the snack bar. Sam has an inkling it's not the food he's salivating for and it looks like Dean has arrived to the same conclusion, because he abandons his potential conquest and shoulders him aside.

"Can I help you?" He glares with open hostility and juts out his chin.

Sam rolls his eyes. "You don't work here. Go eat your peach." He wrestles Dean back and flashes Mick an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, my brother's an idiot."

Mick rubs his five o'clock shadow. "Is he always that…"

"Rude?" Sam offers and kicks out when Dean protests behind him. "Well, you don't have boobs. That makes you either a sidekick or an enemy."

"I see." Mick laughs and leans closer so that his next words are only for Sam's ears. "What about you?"

Sam furrows his brows. "What do you mean?"

"Do you mind that I don't have boobs?" Mick chews on his bottom lip, mesmerizing eyes fixed on Sam's.

And there it is. Sam's far from an expert on these matters and he wasn't that self-assured to believe he caught an older man's eyes, but he sort of hoped he read the signs right. The air turns heavy between them as they lean even closer over the sticky countertop. Under Mick's intense look, Sam finds himself getting half-hard. He knows it's not the body in general that's turning him on. Sure, he can appreciate it aesthetically, but he only ever felt attraction for other boys when there was something more there, some emotional or intellectual allure. He'd say he's a 1 on the Kinsey scale, but this is the first time he could actually go through with it and test that theory.

"I don't mind at all." He replies and mirrors Mick's answering smile.

"I will be honest with you, Sam." Mick starts after a deep breath. "I like you. And I'd like to get to know you better."

He drops his hand on top of Sam's. "Will you go out with me? On, uh, on a date?"

Sam's stomach flutters and he lets his slim fingers play with Mick's thicker ones. He thinks about Dean's inevitable disapproval, but... Whatever. Sam is single. He is allowed to act as coquettish as he wants. "Yes."

"Great." Mick lets out a short laugh. "What do you say to a movie? On Friday, maybe?"

"Sounds fine."

"Great." Mick repeats, eyes bright. "I'll go check what's playing." He stretches to his tiptoes and gives Sam a little peck on the cheek. "Be right back."

Sam stares after him, slightly creeped out. That kiss was way too smarmy for his taste. Or is that just how confident gay men act around each other? And by the way, if you plan to ask someone out, you research the goddamn options beforehand, don't you? That was just… weird. Still, he has a date. With a guy, nonetheless, and that's so thrilling he could sing along to the eighties pop hits blaring from the speakers around the stand.

Dean doesn't share the sentiment. "Who's that guy?"

"His name is Mick. We met here the other day." Even though he has yet to tell his brother, Sam has been considering law school for a while now. He is smart enough and the way he grew up, he has been trained to fight tooth and nail for the things he wanted. That tenacity would come in handy in a courtroom.

"I don't like him."

"Too bad, 'cause I do." Sam smiles to himself and rearranges the box of suckers on the counter. "He's very smart."

Dean scowls. "Too old."

"He's only twenty-five." Sam's voice is chirpy from mirth. Dean mutters something about perverts and jailbait little shits with a frown that amuses him to no end. It's quite entertaining to watch his brother fume, so he decides to add more fuel to the fire. "He asked me out to a movie, you know."

Dean's fingers curl up into a fist. "You ain't going."

"I'm capable of making my own decisions, Dean. You can't just waltz in and order me around. When he comes back, I'm gonna give him my number."

Dean growls. "Can't come back if I break his legs."

"Why are you so hellbent on sabotaging my romantic life?"

"I'm not. But I won't let anyone take advantage of you."

That's ridiculous and sweet in a sort of overbearing way. Sam is neither small nor innocent anymore. He's almost an adult. Not exactly easy to be taken advantage of, even if his face is boyish and smooth (much to his chagrin).

"I really want to go out." Not true, but if Dean goes into control-freak mode, he feels entitled to whine.

"If I take you myself, will you stop talking to that asshole?"

"He's not an asshole." Unlike someone else...

"Will you?" Dean grips his upper arm. He looks dead serious and… God, does that mean he would take Sam on an unofficial date? That would be a dream come true.

He's not about to give his eagerness away, though. "No promises." He says with a smile, then begins bracing himself for the hurt look on poor Mick's face.

Dean seems satisfied with that answer. He releases Sam's arm and bites into his peach at last, munches on its flesh with voracious hunger, as if it was Mick's jugular. The juice drips down his chin, messy as he always is, and Sam's stomach somersaults from how badly he wants to lick it off. His summer job shapes up to be quite awesome.

Dean's obviously not taking their date as a date. He is in the same clothes he wore in the morning, makes a joke about Sam's hair and gets confused by the smell of cologne when Sam sits in his car. It's okay. Sam has been counting on that and he's not disappointed in the slightest, but nothing could have prepared him for the monstrosity that The Creature 2: Evil Fun is. He's surprised this shit even made it to theaters. There are decaying bodies and excessive bloodshed in it with a villain that's half zombie, half cannibalistic clown. Also, the movie is kinda tit-heavy, and by that Sam means none of the actresses are keen on wearing bras. Some of them might have been porn stars. It's tacky and the type of bad that makes Dean chortle - but something about the lunatic killer clown has Sam's insides shrinking in fear. Every single time that thing graces the screen, he flinches and gasps. There's nothing he can do about it. He just wants to get out of here now. He's not even fighting for the second half of his own popcorn anymore, lets Dean gobble that up too. Why didn't they go for the new X-men?

"Did you see that?" Dean guffaws and earns himself an outraged hiss from the bunch of nerds sitting in the row behind them. Why the hell are they so close? There's no one else in here, they could have sat anywhere. Sam turns his probably ashen face to look at his brother. Gets a popcorn-filled smile in return. His stomach does a weak flutter, part smitten, part ready to puke. The clown aka The Creature grins at the camera again. Sam carves his nails into the armrests. Just as he's starting to think Dean is too engrossed in the film to pay attention to him, a heavy hand lands on the top of his head and smooths down to the back of his neck. It finds a home there despite the uncomfortable angle and Sam's clammy skin.

The touch doesn't make everything magically better, but it gives Sam something else to concentrate on. He closes his eyes and lets it soothe him until the disturbing sounds of the cackling clown dissolve into background noise. Dean's thumb rubs circles behind his ear, wanders under his earlobe. That's where Jess used to… Shit. Sam can't help the U-turn his mind takes to lead him down the public boner lane. The arousal his fear pumped through his veins gets the memo lightning fast and within seconds, Sam finds himself hard as steel only inches away from Dean's sprawling body. Torture.

"Hey, wanna get out of here?" Dean whispers into his ear, nose brushing Sam's temple, and Sam snaps his eyes open, alarmed. He couldn't have meant that as it sounded, right? "You look sick, Sammy."

Good, he's oblivious. Which means there's still a sliver of a chance to get away with this hard-on. Judged by Sam's average stamina nowadays, it would take five minutes to get rid of it in the restroom and about the same for it to spring back up again. But maybe, if he went for seconds -

"You know what, this movie sucks. Let's get burgers." Dean cuts in with his habitual split-second decision making and ushers him to stand.

Sam panics, trying to angle his hips away from his brother's. "No, no, no. We should stay." The tent in his pants is too big to cover with his hoodie, he can't leave like this. As soon as they step into the light, Dean's gonna spot it and make fun of him for it the rest of the month. "You like it."

"Nah." Dean denies it with a wave, even though it's blatantly obvious he does. His gaze keeps flicking back to the gore on screen, lips twitching up. The last thing Sam wants is ruining his fun.

"You don't need to -"

"Hey, faggots!" One of the uglier nerds calls out, throwing popcorn at them. "Sit the fuck down or leave."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. His posture turns threatening right away. "You talking to me, Jabba?"

It's a greasy-haired guy who answers instead of his friend. "Yeah. Go suck your boyfriend's dick elsewhere. Fucking homos."

Given their physiques and Dean's shady past, Sam suspects they could beat this group into a whimpering pulp without breaking a sweat. But as much as he wants to shove their slurs back down their throats, this is the first time that he and Dean have been mistaken for a couple and it does complicating things with Sam's brain. He doesn't want to cool his ass in a holding cell while sorting them out, so he drags Dean down the stairs (thank God he's big enough to restrain him now) and pushes him out the doors. Unsurprisingly, he's not hard anymore.

On their way to the car, Dean is ranting about people who should be taught a lesson, but Sam blocks him out and marvels over what the hell happened. He liked to be called Dean's boyfriend. It made him proud, because it implied he was the one who took care of Dean, that he was the person who had such a special relationship with him. And the pulse of attraction he felt that moment had nothing to do with adoration or looking up to his brother. He loved the equality of it. Not little brother or Sammy, no, in the eyes of those bastards, he was Dean's boyfriend. His partner. It's a revelation. Although he knew that his old feelings have never disappeared completely, he didn't realise they changed and evolved since Dean came back into… whatever this is. Something driven less by selfish need and more by a desire to share.

Dean gets them burgers and coke at the closest drive thru and takes them to a deserted Walmart parking lot which looks like prime hunting ground for psychos. They sit on the Impala's hood and eat in companionable silence by the flickering street light. There's an upended garbage can ten feet away. It's as though Dean puts a special effort into being the least romantic (not)date ever. And yet, Sam finds himself watching his content face as he chews his way through three burgers and a chocolate chip cookie. He is crass and shameless and so, so lovely. There are beads of perspiration on his forehead that glisten in the orange glow as he leans back and throws an arm around Sam's shoulders.

"Okay?" He asks, frowning at a battered pigeon that goes to sit on the lamp post next to the car.

Sam grins. God help that bird if it puts a smear on Baby. "Yeah."

Dean smiles back, mock-punches Sam's chin and goes to stand. "Let's roll."

Sam clears his throat and halts him with a hand on his wrist. If he wants to tell him… this is as good a time as any. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Their knees rub together. Sam watches the point of that contact and thinks, this is Dean's way of saying you can tell me anything. It's funny, how comforting such a small gesture could be. "I want to go to Stanford. After graduation."

"Good choice, Sammy." He says softly.

He doesn't get it. They have only just got each other back, Sam can't toss that out the window, can he? Even for the school of his dreams. Even for the life of his dreams. "But it's in California. Two thousand miles away. Five hours by plane, twenty-seven by car, five hundred -"

"I don't think anyone would walk that far, smartass." Dean quips and knocks their legs together again. "We'll just take my Baby." He pats the metal they're sitting on. "I might even let you drive."

Sam's heart all but stops. "We?"

"Yeah. Or you think they don't need mechanics for all those fancy cars over there?"

"You'd come with me?

"Hell yeah. College chicks and beaches? Count me in."

Sam could kiss him for those three words. He would risk doing it too if he didn't think that would screw this fragile promise all up. He settles for a bump of shoulders and a smile so wide it hurts his cheeks. Dean answers with his own dorky one. The pigeon above them coos. It's beginning to look like a prelude to a chick-flick moment when something collides with the car's spotless windshield and leaves a large blotch of dirty whiteness on the glass. Oh God, it did poop on Dean's treasure. As his brother goes livid and runs around in search of rocks to throw, the smile stays bright and gleeful on Sam's face. Dean calls him a bitch. Sam laughs and starts rooting for the bird, just to see the ridiculous look on Dean's face a tiny bit longer. If this isn't love, he doesn't know what is.

In October, Sam hooks up with a girl called Amy, who keeps sitting at his table in the school library. In the stress and pressure of senior year they have a good time finding relief in each other's bodies. She gets him, physically and emotionally too. They could make it official, but she's pining for the lacrosse captain and Sam would be lying if he said he didn't want something else all along, so they split after a few weeks and vow never to mention it again.

In the meantime, his feelings for Dean blossom and grow into a forest of what ifs. What if he wants Sam too? What if they do it and get caught? What if they don't? His thoughts keep running down that path. Could he build a life of deception and sin with his own brother? If so, there would be no kickass career or marriage, just lies atop lies. Could he do that? And what if they get together, then split up? So many questions. The ache of this limbo state is both easier and harder this time around. Easier to put aside than his old infatuation had been. There's nothing obsessive about it, it doesn't occupy every waking hour. When it does hit him, though… Suffice to say it feels like being carved out with a spoon.

By the time Christmas is on their doorstep, he feels ready to confess and be done with it for good. He knows that Dean would take care of him either way. It doesn't help his mood that he is in the middle of another growth spurt - hopefully the last - and it hurts like hell. His shins are on fire and his favourite trousers have stopped covering his ankles. Dean has been joking about wearing Sam's outgrown clothes, but it's getting less and less funny by the day.

On top of that, he gets ravenous at the oddest times, it even wakes him up on occasion. Christmas Eve or not, tonight is no exception. Sam's eyes snap open two minutes before midnight and his growling stomach informs him that the leftover turkey should not see daylight again. It's a good thing their fridge is always well stocked - he's so hungry he would chuck down raw eggs with flour. For the thousandth time, he thanks all deities for sending Jody their way. Before the adoption, their Christmases have been particularly gloomy affairs. It was supposed to be a week for families and gifts, but the handful of times they actually received some they contained second-hand clothing or cheap sweets. Holiday feasts consisted of sausage or meatloaf. Eating an actual turkey on Christmas Eve? It will never stop being amazing.

He has a vivid memory of the first December they spent here, in Sioux Falls. They had been gearing up to another let down regarding the presents, but when they tramped down the stairs on Christmas Day, there was a bunch of neatly packed boxes under the tree with their names written on them. Not one, not two, but a whole bunch of presents. Sam had been euphoric, jumping for joy. Dean on the other hand… He looked like he saw a ghost. And next thing Sam knew, he was running back to their rooms and throwing up in the closest bathroom. He remembers being completely dumbfounded by that reaction. He watched Jody peel Dean's lethargic body away from the toilet and cradle him on the cold floor, and listened to Dean's weak voice as he mumbled something about bad Christmas experiences, but he didn't understand it. Seeing his brother that out of sorts was incomprehensible.

So yeah, Christmas is always a stressful time for Dean. Not quite as much as before, but it's rough enough that Sam isn't surprised to bump into him on his way back from his midnight snack. He is slouching on the couch in the living room, watching a muted TV with zoned out eyes. He has some sort of grey robe on and slippers, which may just be the most grotesque thing Sam has seen this year. He'll never get tired of discovering the odd habits Dean developed while he was away on his "road trip".

"Feeling old, grandpa?" Sam teases and flops down right next to him.

Dean gives him a lopsided smile. "Careful there. You may be all grown up, but I can still whoop your ass."

Sam would like to see him try. He's too sleepy to voice that thought, though, so he falls silent instead and doesn't speak up again until the show ends and Dean changes the channel. He's pretty comfortable with Dean's arm pressed flush against his side, but a half-naked Stallone performing self-surgery is not something he's gonna ignore. "I'm not watching the Rambo trilogy again."

"C'mon, that's a classic!"

"Dude. We've seen it, like, a million times before."

"Still a classic."

He reaches for the device in Dean's hand, but it's snatched away before his fingers make contact. Sam purses his lips. "Gimme the remote."

Dean grins back. The pink tip of his tongue pokes out between his teeth. "No."

Sam makes a grab for it again. Dean pushes him on the centre of his chest. He pushes back. "Dean!"

"No."

Disaster is inevitable at this point. They start shoving and pulling at each other, scuffling like little brats until Dean loses his balance and topples to the ground, yanking Sam right after himself. He ends up between Dean's legs, headlocked against Dean's chest. He struggles for a second, then gives up and tries to catch his breath. Damn, he lost again. The hold around his neck is tight as a vice, no getting out of it. He squirms and inhales as much air as he can. It smells like pine, fudge and detergent, homey-sweet. Dean's chest rises and falls in metronomic precision, heart beating a fast-paced dum dum dum under Sam's ear. With a bit of difficulty, he turns his face into Dean's soft woolen robe and squeezes his waist.

"Uncle?" Dean chuckles.

"Screw you." Sam mumbles, but the arms around him ease up and lower anyway. He rises to his elbows to deliver a remark, but he's forced to swallow it back and blink, spellbound. The sight that greets him holds him captive. Takes his remaining breath away. In the television's dim light, Dean's skin looks blue and sleek and his hair is in complete disarray. He's flushed and glowing from the thrill of their tussle. His expressive eyes start losing their cockiness the longer the moment stretches, go wide and trusting. There's a tiny ball of fuzz on the side of his neck that Sam picks off without thinking, then freezes with his fingertips grazing over Dean's pulse point, five little pinpricks of warmth. He hears Dean's breath speed up, then catch in his throat and with bubbling fondness, Sam realises where the smell of caramel comes from. He tilts his head to taste it.

The remote clutters onto the floor.

Kissing Dean reminds Sam of space travel. He gives in to gravity and as if falling into a wormhole, six years fold in on themselves and he is back in the scrap yard, getting his first kiss ever under a full moon and hiding stars. His heart stutters. Those lips are just as soft as he remembered. There's a dam breaking in his chest, his locked-up emotions spreading out all the way to his limbs. It's like speeding through an intergalactic shortcut and finding a whole new world of wonders. Guilt has no chance to follow them there. Sam hums into the kiss and Dean surges up to catch that sound with such a fierce determination that Sam's forced to sit up, straddling his lap. There's a shade of stubble on his jaw and it drags across Sam's skin when he opens up and welcomes the wet-heat-delight of their tongues brushing together. Their teeth bump in their hectic urgency, mouths begging for more, more, more. It's noisy and awkward and aggressive, so intoxicating that it makes Sam dizzy. The sweetest thing he has ever tasted. His reserves evaporate. He presses down even harder and captures Dean's bottom lip, runs his tongue over its plumpness. It trembles in his mouth. He has been dreaming about that lip for years, can't stop giving it little nips, going back again and again lest he forget how it feels to nibble on it. Dean goes pliant under the attack, just keeps running his hands up and down Sam's back until Sam feels close to passing out from nerves and a debilitating happiness he hasn't felt before. He gives Dean's lip one last bite, then pulls it out before releasing and watching it turn rosy red.

Their breathless pants are the loudest sounds in the shocked silence that follows. Dean rubs his forehead against his, then draws away a few inches. He looks wrecked. Too afraid to talk, Sam leans back in and presses a chaste peck to Dean's lips, a question and a statement in one. Dean takes his right hand off Sam's waist and strokes the back of his fingers down his face, traces the line of Sam's eyebrow with his thumb and circles the mole beside his nose. He stares at that spot for a beat or two, then looks up into Sam's eyes and licks his lips.

"I love you." He whispers. As a lover, his touch says. Sam's mouth twists into a dimpled smile and he nods, I know. He drops his forehead to Dean's and breaths him in until his joy is too much to bear alone. Then he kisses him again and travels through myriads of galaxies with the mindless action flick forgotten in the background.

It's not exactly smooth sailing after that, but it's a steady flow. Sam lives for the little things. The brush of a hand on shoulder blades, a stolen nuzzle over dirty dishes. A shared look. And sometimes, late at night, they sneak into each other's rooms and he kisses the sleep-warmth out of Dean's mouth just to press it back into his freckled cheek, his neck, his palms, his chin. As for the other things, the heavy ones, they just… wait. They are taking it slow and it suits Sam just fine as long as they are taking it.

It's the week approaching Dean's birthday that he dares pushing things further. Jody and Bobby are on a sheriff's retreat or something and will be gone the whole weekend. No better chance than this. He has been jittery from excitement ever since the rumble of Bobby's truck faded away, but Dean fled and spent his entire day in the salvage yard, only coming back inside when night has fallen and Sam has gone through a book without remembering the protagonist's name. He looked filthy and exhausted, so Sam used the last of his patience to wait until he took a shower before tugging him into his room.

They are in his bed now, Dean half on top of him and oozing the citrus smell of shampoo. His neck tastes clean and bland, not a drop of salt left, and Sam mouths at its supple flesh almost desperately. He's leaving marks, but neither of them cares, they have been at it long enough that their need knows no control. Sam has to get at more skin or he's going to combust.

He releases Dean's throat and tugs at his shirt like a clumsy virgin who has never undressed another person before. That's not the impression he wants to give off, but it's very hard to think straight or talk when they are doing this. He has to second-guess every word and movement in fear of spooking his brother or ruining the ambience. Their equilibrium could shatter any moment and he can't afford that again. He's been waiting for so long. "Take it off?"

"Okay." So far, Dean has been strikingly obedient during their make out sessions so as not to "force himself" on Sam or some other bullshit, he guesses. This time isn't different. Sam blinks and one layer between them is gone, leaves nothing but his tank top and their underwear to separate their bare fronts.

Dean's torso is pale and smooth, heftier than Sam's skinny one, and his nipples are dusty pink and hard. The sight of them draws Sam's eyes like never before. He wants to suck on them and see if they are as sensitive as they look. He keeps himself in check, though, and applies only the lightest of touches as he slides his hands around to rest on the flat plane of Dean's back. Dean's breath shakes and his eyes are closed, but he leans into the kiss Sam offers and returns the embrace, wedging his arms under Sam's waist.

With one hand on Dean's hip, Sam moves the other around until he finds the knife scar that has him equal parts horrified and in awe. He runs his fingers over it, up and down. Dean freezes, pulls back and stares at him. Sam smiles and does it again just to see what it does. Dean's reaction doesn't disappoint. He grinds down into the mattress, to get away from the touch or to take the edge off his arousal, Sam's not sure. Encouraged, he traces the scar all the way down to the top of Dean's ass and further, slips the tips of his fingers under Dean's boxers. Then he takes a deep breath and goes even further until his palm curves over the firm globe of Dean's butt. Oh God. He's touching his brother's butt.

Dean turns his head into Sam's shoulder and hides, muscles clenching under Sam's palm. His poised charm is in tatters. The hesitant hold he has of Sam's hips screams nervous nervous nervous and somehow that's what calms Sam's own fears. He tries to say it's okay, I want it without actually saying it and ruining their bubble. They stay like that for a while. The room smells like the old books on Sam's bookcase and Dean's shower gel. He is surrounded by things he loves and it gives him such a heady buzz of joy. He tries to engrave that scent into his memory while he's rubbing a stripe of soft skin with his thumb. Dean just keeps breathing into his arm. In the nerve-wracking silence, Sam shifts and bumps his head into the side of Dean's. He pulls his hand back and grabs the elastic of Dean's underwear. "Hey." He presses a kiss to the hinge of Dean's jaw. "Can I take this off too?"

Dean raises his head, eyes searching. "No going back if we start this." He warns. Sam gives him a devilish smile and yanks the fabric over his brother's hips.

Afterwards, Sam drapes himself over Dean's body before he can run away and do something stupid. He wants to ask if Dean is freaking out, but he has no idea what to follow that up with and he is sure about the answer anyway. As he fights the haze of post-coital sleepiness, he waits for the nauseating guilt to descend on him too, but all he feels is a throbbing pain in his chest, because he can't spare his brother this burden, he can't take it away. Dean's always gonna be the older one and he will take full responsibility, whether he needs to or not. Sam will just have to wait until he calms down and comes out of it.

Having sex with Dean turned out to be astonishingly easy. They are so different everywhere that when it came down to it, nothing reminded Sam of the taboo they were breaking and he forgot it in a way, felt as though they surpassed it and reached a level of connection beyond blood. It was weird at first, because Dean was incredibly quiet and it made Sam nervous he was not doing it right. He was making these soft sounds, not quite whimpers, and basically that was all. No moans, no high-pitched cries. His body was obviously strung tight with pleasure, but Sam wouldn't have known if he only had the noises as a clue. He's kinda curious if that's normal for Dean or it's some side-effect of being with Sam.

"I've never done that before." He confesses, even though it must have been painfully obvious, and gives Dean's neck a wet kiss. Dean hums. "You?"

There's a moment of hesitation before Dean replies. "I'm not quite that green, Sammy." He mutters. "Ain't my first rodeo."

"You mean… you had sex with a…?" Sam props himself up on his elbow and makes a gesture that's supposed to sign 'another guy'. Dean's sheepish eyes say it all. "Oh my God. All the way?"

Dean shrugs, disgruntled by Sam's amazement. The sneaky bastard. Why didn't he say anything? Sam has been so torn up over guessing whether Dean was okay with the gay part of their thing or not. If only he knew... Sam shakes his head in disbelief. They will have to work on this communication issue. Later. Right now, he puts it aside and kisses the peeved look off Dean's face until his mouth is going numb and Dean starts falling asleep on him. "Want to do that with me?" He whispers into Dean's cheek self-consciously. "Not today, just... When we are ready?"

"If." Dean says with a crestfallen puff of air.

"If." Sam concedes. "If we ever get there, will you have real sex with me?" He wants to take it back, because talking, serious talking is the one thing that's sure to make Dean run for the border. He can already see the guilt trudging back into his happy-boneless body, but he seems to fight it down this time, because he rolls his shoulders and looks Sam square in the eyes.

"Yes."

There's a sense of liberation in the finality of it. They have chosen a path in Sam's forest of what ifs and they are going to go through it together, hoping against all odds that it's not leading them down a cliff edge.

"Remember how you got this?" Dean asks out of the blue and caresses the white scar on Sam's left palm. "At our second group home, we sneaked into the director's office and you broke that vitrine."

Sam closes his eyes and pillows his head on Dean's chest. "You mean, when you coaxed me into playing blind tag in there."

Dean's laugh jostles him back and forth. "You've been so afraid of her that we kept it secret as long as we could."

"What a great idea. I got an infection." They both sober up at the memory. That was a scary time. Hospital stays and loads of drugs aren't Sam's cup of tea.

"You had a nasty fever." Dean says and pulls him closer. Sam has a hunch that they are getting to the crux of the matter. "Couldn't tell what was only delirium and what was real until I told you to -"

"- press my thumb into the wound." Dean seemed to be the only real person back then, everyone else morphed into demons and ghosts for his fever-addled brain. Sam looks up and only just realises that Dean isn't caressing anymore but pressing on it and watching his face.

"Is this real, Sam?"

He doesn't know if he means their feelings or what they are doing with each other, but the answer is the same. Always the same. "Yes, it is."

It feels like the only real thing that matters in Sam's life.