„I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart."

- Neruda, Sonnet XI

The first time Benny laid eyes on his new co-worker, Dean Winchester, he was scrubbing the hood of a Thunderbird and had motor oil smeared all over his coverall. He was absolutely divine in a simple, natural way and Benny knew he wanted him within seconds of seeing his freckles. He wasn't an idiot, of course. For a mechanic to both swing in that direction and be ready to act on it, there would need to be some miracle involved. But they hit it off as friends and Dean seemed receptive of his flirting, gave him plenty of hope. They have been over at each other's places, watched baseball, gone drinking a couple times, shared looks behind braindead customers' backs - it has been going seamlessly. He is gearing up to take it to the next level when one afternoon, Dean gets a call in the middle of putting a Corvette's hubcaps back on.

"Yo." He says without looking at the caller ID, then jerks the phone away from his ear at the screaming that follows.

"I'm in!" A male voice shouts so loudly Benny can hear it from a good ten feet away. "I'm in, Dean, I got in!"

Dean's lips split into a blinding smile Benny has never seen before. He does a small fist pump, then schools his features back to an acceptably macho one. God. Benny loves when Dean slips and his facade lifts up, but not today. The acidic taste of unwarranted jealousy in his gut informs him that yes, this is the 'sorry, I'm taken' sign he wasn't given before.

"Knew it." Dean replies and leans against the car, unconsciously petting its new metallic polish. Some excited babbling starts up on the other end.

"Yeah, yeah, June 7. I can't wait." Dean interjects, and a faint blush rises to his cheeks. Then he glances up at the blue sky, his smile turning a shade softer. "Shut up, you sound like a girl."

If that's not a boyfriend he's talking to, Benny will eat a handful of nails. Just his luck. Always falling for straight fuckboys and unattainable hotties.

"You go do that. Can't believe you told me first." Dean says, tone more elated than the incredulous he is trying to go for. "Cause I'm four states away?" He laughs. "Go, tell her."

Then he hangs up and glances at Benny like Christmas came half a year early. Benny's heart thuds in halting syncopation. He forces a lopsided smile. "So, when do I get to meet the hubby?"

Dean chokes on nothing. "The what?"

"Your boyfriend." Benny gestures at the phone.

"Sam is not -"

"Spare me the bullshit, buddy." He smirks just as Charlie, their quirky receptionist, strolls over to them with a wide smile.

"'Sup, bitches?"

"Dean's got a boyfriend."

Like a bloodhound on the scent of fear, her gaze snaps to Dean's face. "That so?"

Dean groans. "I don't. He's my brother."

For an expert like Charlie, the millisecond of hesitation in his voice is a dead giveaway. "Suuure."

"I'm not gay."

She gives him a pointed look. "Could have fooled me."

Dean's taken aback. He looks over himself, confused, then frowns at them with aggressive challenge in his eyes. "I'm not a fairy."

"It's okay. Do I look like a fairy to you?" Benny grins at him and slaps a hand on his shoulder. He didn't formally come out, but he isn't making a secret of his preferences either. Dean must have realised, right? Well, looks like he hasn't. He seems to be disturbed by the notion, but not quite in a homophobic way. It's Benny's physique, maybe? Perhaps he's picturing him in pink tulle and glitters.

"It's complicated." Dean croaks out at last. And now he just sounds like a parrot, repeating things he must have said a hundred times by now.

"Every damn thing is complicated, bud."

"Oh, I almost forgot." Charlie interrupts before Benny could start on his motivational speech. "Do you guys wanna meet my little niece? She and my sis are here for their car."

Dean, halfway out of the woods of workplace gossip, jumps at the chance of a distraction, and that's how they end up scrubbing their hands clean and strolling up to the front desk to meet Charlie's sister, Carrie, and the gurgling bundle that's her seven months old baby.

It's all smiles, laughter and baby talk until Carrie asks Dean to hold her. It starts harmlessly enough - "Can you take her for a moment, please, I can't find my purse" - then Dean's got an armful of baby and he goes hauntingly pale. Charlie is rambling about the new computer system she's installing to all of Rufus' PCs when Benny sees him waver on his feet.

"Jesus, take that child from him." He exclaims and grabs him by the elbow.

"'M fine." Dean mumbles. He is anything but that. His limbs are shaking, and his eyes are glassy, unfocused. If he wasn't as young as he is, Benny would be afraid he was having a heart attack. As it is, he is concerned this is how an epileptic episode begins. Is he going to faint? Should they call an ambulance? They sit him down in Charlie's chair and rub his shoulders in clueless worry until he starts taking regular breaths again.

"I'll get some water." Charlie says and runs over to the cooler.

Benny helps Dean stand back up. "Dean, brother, are you okay?"

Dean shakes his head, but what he says is "Yeah, just spaced out for a sec."

"You looked like you saw a ghost."

"Happens sometimes." He runs a hand over his ashen face, then gestures at his phone. "I gotta -"

"Sure." Reluctant for more than one reason, Benny lets him go. Dean gives him a grateful smile, then walks away in the direction of their changing room, speed dialling a certain number. He is hugging his own torso.

"Take it easy." Benny calls after him and forces himself to stomp down his selfish need to comfort him. Dean doesn't want his consolation, he wants someone else's, and Benny has to get ahold of his crush and banish it from his mind. He has to stay what he is to Dean, a good friend. However hard that's going to be.

Sam can't believe they are finally going to live alone, truly alone, just the two of them. It has been his dream ever since Alastair and Hell. He used to fantasize about running away to a place where no social worker could find them and now it's coming true, it really is. He and Dean against the world. To say that he is jittery would be a gross understatement.

Their rented flat in Palo Alto is the tiniest thing that's suitable to house two grown men who are supposed to sleep in separate beds. It's technically a one-bedroom, but there's a half wall installed in the living room to divide Dean's bed and the rest. It came unfurnished and stayed mostly that way because Dean is a slob who is content living out of one set of drawers. Jody balked at the sight of the bare walls and Dean's unintentional minimalism, then took an emergency trip to IKEA. That was two days ago and since then, Sam's room has acquired a bed, a desk with a matching chair, a wardrobe and a bookcase that's still in its brown cardboard waiting for assembly.

Sam has been all kinds of horny ever since they touched down at LAX, but Dean is a little hedgehog at the moment and there's no sure-fire method to mellow him out. Must be because Jody and Bobby are still in town and he's paranoid of getting caught. It's frustrating. Tonight is the first Sam is spending here and not at the hotel with their parents but there might not be any celebration just yet. And the worst is, he doesn't just want to jump Dean, he wants to snuggle and squeeze him close and just generally fondle him all over until he gets his fill, but that Dean would veto even on his best days.

"Take out the trash!" Dean calls out from the kitchen. As if the process of reheating Jody's stew prevented him from taking the two-minute trip down to the entrance of their apartment complex. Sam grabs the stinking bag and gives him a dirty look. Then a butt slap, because, well. Not even the smell of rotten bananas could quell his low-key arousal.

He doesn't wait to see if Dean will tear him a new one but runs out the door and down the stairs before any sort of retaliation could reach him. The bins are outside, so he punches the button that opens the entrance and trots down to the side of the street. It's only when he tries to get back inside that he realises he's in trouble. He doesn't know the combination for the entry system and the intercom isn't working in their apartment yet (oh, the perks of renting a cheap place…) His phone is on the kitchen counter - he has no way to get in without disturbing one of their neighbours or breaking a window with a rock to catch Dean's attention. He is pacing in a circle, hands in his hair, when his saviour shows up in the form of a petite brunette in a leather jacket.

"Can I help you?" She says, looking him up and down on her way to the intercom panel.

"I, uh, locked myself out." She squints at him dubiously, ready to pull out a pepper spray or something, so Sam rushes to clarify. "I live with Dean Winchester, you might know him."

Her elegant eyebrows twitch up. "That jerk from 42? Ha, do I know him."

She snorts, eyes dark and derisive, and that right there is an instant clue for Sam to start wondering if they hooked up while he was waiting for a graduation that couldn't come soon enough. They didn't talk about exclusivity, but he thought... Love does imply an only you, right? Three months really isn't that long a time. Did Dean get his fix elsewhere instead of waiting? Is that why he's acting like a stick is up his ass? He did give Sam suggestions about bed partners, but he chalked them up as jokes, was he wrong? He thought they could survive a few months without romps in the sheets with slutty coeds.

"Jerk?"

"I don't like guys who hit on me but don't intend to follow through." She replies with a sultry smile. Yeah, she's definitely the type Dean would hit on, then get cold feet from.

Sam's breath leaves in a relieved rush. "He's my boyfriend." It slips out on the exhale.

Then it dawns on him that - Oh no. No, no, no - Dean didn't say if he was okay pretending or not. They circled around the topic before, but… What if Dean doesn't want to play this game?

"What a shame." The girl says, ogling his chest, then makes a face and finally lets them in.

"Thank you." Sam smiles at her as they walk up the stairs. "I'm Sam, by the way." They reach the second floor in silence. He's not about to take her up on her unsaid offer, but it would be good to have friends amongst the neighbours. She seems to be a reliable person. Sam should at least get her name. "And you are…?"

"The girl that just saved your ass." She smirks, flicks her hair over her shoulder and opens the door of the flat to their right. "See you around, Sam."

Sam is still thinking of her an hour later when he is in the middle of putting that godforsaken bookcase together. There's sweat dripping down his brow, but he doesn't even notice his wet bangs, he's so deep in his own thoughts. What is Dean going to say? What if he flips out? God, he can't tell him yet. Not tonight, when this is their first time alone together in three months. He can't ruin this.

"That's actually the bottom part." Dean says right behind him, making him jump and drop the plywood he has been trying to secure to the other piece. Both things tumble and end up in a screwed-up pile on top of each other and the cardboard proudly displaying "BILLY". Sam sneezes, wonders if he is allergic to Swedish furniture as well.

"You could help me." He says with a pitiful pout, sitting back down with his ankles crossed. Dean has smaller hands anyway. They could fix those screws in the corners better than Sam's oversized ones.

Dean's deep laugh echoes in the box-filled room as he stands behind Sam and ruffles his hair. "Never had any legos, Sammy. Enjoy the adult version."

Sam groans and leans into Dean's legs. His lower back is aching from all the crouching and bending and he's nowhere near done yet. "I'm beat."

The fingers in his hair card through the locks hanging into his eyes, soft fingertips brushing his forehead. Whatever Jody put into that stew, it seems to have cracked Dean's shell and got him from feral to cuddly for tonight. It's funny, how much a full belly does to a man. Dean's hand scratches and moves down to Sam's nape. It's a soothing touch, feels just as comforting as it did when Sam was five and one of their fosters forced him to get a buzz cut. He wasn't prone to tantrums as a child, but that one time he screamed the head off that poor woman until Dean promised to lend him a baseball cap. How Dean managed all those years, he has no idea. Being a mom, a dad, a friend, a pillar… Sam just hopes he will be able to give something back in return, now that they are starting a life together.

"You still with me?"

"Sure."

Dean smirks. "Do you need to have your beauty sleep?"

Sam tips his head back and does his best puppy eyed look. "Do you think so?"

Predictably, Dean changes tracks before he could get flustered. Not one to throw compliments at every fishing comment Sam gives him. "Hey, you're paler than me."

Sam scowls. "Am not."

"Yes, you are." Dean laughs and tugs at Sam's ear. "Jody said so too. Told me I look healthier. Though I think she's just glad I left my asshole of a boyfriend behind." He snorts. "Little does she know he's now even closer than he used to be."

Nothing gets much closer than that. "Could you blame her?" Sam cringes. "Dean, I'm so sorry for that weekend."

"One more sorry and I'll punch you."

"Sss - So. Uhm." Sam backtracks because Dean will punch him if he says that word again. And he has a mean right hook. "Did you keep your promise?"

"What promise?"

"Of course you didn't." Sam sighs. "Alright."

Dean's lips press into a thin line. "Sam…"

"You know you gotta make good on it."

"Thought you've been too drunk to remember." Dean sulks.

"Stupid."

"Yeah, yeah, should have known your freak-brain soaks up data like a goddamn sponge. Can't get out of it now, can I?" He drawls and crouches down, his chin brushing Sam's shoulder.

Sam grins at the waiting BILLY shelves in front of his feet. "Nope."

"What if I make it up to you?"

Sam opens his eyes wide, blinks into Dean's twinkling gaze. "How?"

Dean smirks, kisses his cheekbone, then, after a moment of hesitation, his lips. "We're still doing this, right?"

"Yeah."

With a megawatt grin, Dean pushes at his chest. "Lie down."

"Right here?"

"Yes."

"Bed is two feet over." Sam starts, but Dean growls and starts unbuttoning his pants, leaving no room for questions or complaint. IKEA dowels roll around the half-built bookcase, running away from the debauchery that's about to take place between half a dozen boxes and an unmade bed. Dean's shiny wet mouth descends to the curve of Sam's stomach. His hand slips into Sam's briefs.

"Alright, fuck, here's good." Sam groans, and lets his head thump to the floor.

Turns out Dean is rather spectacular at assembling furniture if he's given the right motivation to start. He's still liable to have a plummeting mood though.

"Scoot over, I'm falling off." Sam mutters when Dean refuses to budge from his sprawl in the middle of his bed.

"Not my fault my bed is too small for your gigantic ass." Dean grouches, facing the half-wall. Is he embarrassed, or what? It's not like Sam is going to rib him for finally taking the lead and saying he wants things. "Who said you could crash here, anyway?"

Sam decides not to deem that question worthy of a reply. Grumpy might just be Dean's default mode when he is unable to express his thoughts. He snuggles closer instead and rucks up Dean's shirt to make him move. To his surprise, Dean goes stiff as a board and yanks it back down, clutching its hem in a death grip. Rookie mistake - now, Sam has absolutely no doubt there's a specific reason why Dean wants him out of his bed. He worms his hand back under the fabric and touches the skin under it, waiting for a sign. Dean wiggles away as far as he can, leaving three fourths of his bed for Sam to take.

"Have your damn place and let me sleep now." Undeterred, Sam curves his hand around Dean's hip to pull him back. Dean shudders. "Don't touch that."

It takes a moment to realise he's referring to the burn scar he has there. Sam frowns. "Why not? You let me do it back home."

"Because I don't want you to. Leave me alone."

Sam purses his lips and swallows the first reply, then the second, goes only with the third. "I wish you'd drop the act." He says with a hint of bitterness. His fingers dance up over the goose bumps on Dean's side to curl around his elbow in a light hold. Dean's biceps jumps at the touch. "At least when we are like this."

In the almost complete darkness of their flat, Dean's false-starts sound even louder to Sam's attuned ears. A thousand scenarios swirl in his mind. Dean did something to himself again. Used a cigarette. Someone else used a cigarette to do something to him. He saw a fire. He had to go to a hospital and kept it from Sam. He wants Sam to stop touching him altogether.

"Stop freaking out."

"Stop fuelling my worry."

Dean takes a deep breath, giving in. Always giving in. "Do you remember the fire?"

"You know I don't. Not at all. As if I wasn't even there."

"What do you mean?"

"I remember the sirens and the lights, but not the fire. And that loud sound I've told you about. Of the house collapsing or something."

"Yeah, well. I hardly remember anything, but uh… when I called you back after you got your Stanford letter - you know what I'm talking about, right?"

Sam hums. "Yeah. That was weird." He sounded like he got run over by a bus.

The pads of Dean's fingers touch Sam's knuckles. "Someone put a baby in my arms. And. I had a flashback. Of the fire."

Sam's heart pauses mid-beat. Hell no, what kind of flashback? All his previous ones had been horrible memories of Alastair and his cellar. Please, don't let it be too bad this time. Please, God. "You never had - You sure it was the fire?"

Dean's fingers press down and wedge between his to find something to hold onto. "I'm sure." He clears his throat. "I didn't know how to tell you over the phone. I couldn't ruin your day."

"Telling me you're upset isn't ruining my day." It makes Sam so sad that he can't get this into Dean's stubbornly self-deprecative mind. He wants to hear these things. He wants to know about them and be there to help, he doesn't want to be protected and put in a bubble of fake-happiness. He's not five and having a tantrum about hair anymore. "Is this why you've been so prickly since we arrived?"

Dean shrugs. Yes, totally, Sam's brain translates. "It's just a snapshot. I fell against a staircase railing that was on fire."

Did they have more than one floor? Huh. Sam has a picture in his mind of a small, yellow-painted thing… He must have been generating fantasy-memories again. "You've been upstairs when it happened?"

Dean's hand twitches. "I don't know. I - There was something heavy in my arms and I stumbled. A loose bar pierced my shirt and burnt me… right there."

Sam swallows around the knot in his throat. "It might just be something you saw in a movie and built in as a missing piece. Didn't Cas say something about this?"

"It was a flashback." Dean repeats and turns around to stare at the blanket bunched up around Sam's torso. He doesn't attempt any sort of eye contact. "I've been having nightmares since then. Walking down a burning staircase, over and over, praying not to drop that thing…" His voice cracks. "I'm trying so hard, but I always stumble, and it always falls, and, and I think it's you. I dream about losing you in that fire."

There's nothing Sam can do but plaster himself over Dean's body and push their heads together. "I'm here, I'm fine. You didn't lose me."

Dean's breath shakes. "I'm so…" Afraid, Sam's mind fills it in. "Don't you think something is going to snap? That the memories are going to come back? I feel like they are ready to blow up in my mind." He lets out a pained noise. "I don't want them. I don't. Sam, keep them… please, keep them there…"

Christ. He sounds more terrified than Sam has ever heard him before. It's hard to imagine how it feels to have something looming behind you all the time, some sort of darkness that has been dormant for so long, then have it start spewing hot lava drops of memories back into your mind. Without rhyme or reason.

"They'll stay where they are, Dean, I promise." He traces the crease between Dean's brows. "They won't come back."

Being alone comes with so much freedom they barely dare grasp it. Dean's nightmares wear off in time with Sam getting his own side in Dean's bed. The flashbacks fail to come. As the period of peaceful summer days stretches out, the current of emotions in their home changes from apprehensive to anticipating. They operate on a constant level of tension around each other. Sometimes conversations grow stilted, words get bitten off, bodies freeze. At nights, their hands keep straying to previously unexplored places, and the vein in Dean's temple throbs as their startled gazes meet through the charged air. Next time, he says whenever Sam prods, and they buy a bottle of lube that stays untouched on Sam's nightstand until that next time does come around.

It's about a month into their new lives that things come to a head. Dean has just taken his nightly shower and settled on the couch watching Once upon a time in the West when Sam barges in through the front door and throws a sweaty shirt on his head. It's soaked and smells like testosterone and the gym around the corner. Dean sputters and flicks it aside, upper lip curling up in disgust. "Hey!"

Sam is cackling on the threshold of their bathroom, scratching his belly and looking like sex on legs. Dammit, but California agrees with him. "Man, your face."

Dean doesn't have a good comeback right away, but it doesn't really matter, because Sam turns his pretty butt around and disappears inside before Dean can wipe that smug look off his face. It wouldn't have been dramatic enough anyway, retorts delivered in a soft grey robe and checkered boxers are just… lame. And Dean is nothing but the epitome of cool. He can't waste his good remarks on childish pranks and snotty little brothers.

Twenty minutes later, Sam is crowding him against the arm of their couch, probably half asleep and going on autopilot. He's not the biggest fan of western, which Dean can't empathize with in the slightest. Western is awesome. Badass dudes, hot girls, guns, knives, bars, poker - what's not to love? And boy, Claudia Cardinale… Dean could cry odes about that woman. Those sad doe-eyes, that elegance, her get-up -

"So beautiful." Dean whispers in awe.

"Yeah." Sam jolts out of his dozing and nuzzles the side of Dean's face, kisses a line down his neck to the patch of skin just above Dean's amulet.

Dean's breath has no business getting trapped in his throat like it is now. "C'mon, watch it." He mutters. He kinda wishes he wore more than his current outfit to his Saturday lazy time. If things progress the way they usually do, he won't get to see the rest of the movie. "Look."

"'M looking." Sam mumbles into his chest, damp breath running up to Dean's collarbone in a shiver. Cheyenne's theme starts up in the background, just as playful as the hand sneaking into Dean's robe and tweaking one of his nipples. A tongue dips into the hollow between his clavicles, another hand glides up his thigh.

"Like hell you are." Dean protests, but the weak tremor in his voice spoils the gruff act he tries to put on. God, he is close to the point of saying fuck it, let's step over the line tonight. And why not? He feels comfortable and happy. He wants it.

Sam straightens up and presses his lips to Dean's temple. His skin is fever-hot and slides softly over Dean's sandpaper stubble when their cheeks rub together. "I want you so bad." He breathes into Dean's ear and runs his palm down the plain of Dean's stomach.

Woah, someone's feeling pumped up from their workout tonight. "Yeah?"

"Hm-m."

God knows Dean has tried to reason himself out of this, but he can't even convince his mouth to cooperate, least of all his heart. "Me too." He mumbles and plunges between Sam's lips to find the last traces of toothpaste mint on his tongue.

They barely make it to the closest bed and Dean's already wondering how many nerve cells he knocked out in Sam's brain by saying yes. Must have been quite a few. "I - I'll just get the - hold on for a sec." Sam rambles and stumbles away towards his room.

Dean is once again amazed by how his brother can go from pushy to flustered in under minute. "I'm not going anywhere." He mutters to no one and on a whim, shucks his underwear and throws it in the direction of his discarded robe. Yes, he took his sweet time getting here with Sam, but he's not a virgin, he doesn't need to be deflowered. He can wait in his birthday suit if that's what he wants. Nothing shocking about that.

It still seems to shock Sam as much as a successful Hail Mary pass would. "I see you have started without me."

Dean gives him his best lecherous smile and touches himself, bending a leg. "Damn, boy." He says, mostly to boost Sam's confidence, but it's not a faked sentiment. Sam does look crazy good in his black boxer briefs. Did he spend special effort on picking out the best pair? Dean bets he did.

"I've been working out." Sam replies dumbly.

Dean, the gentleman he is, refrains from making fun of him. It's a close thing though. "Get over here." He jerks his head to the side.

Sam practically trips into Dean's embrace in his haste to comply. "Do you wanna top?" He mouths against Dean's lips, running his hands all over Dean's sides and chest. His hips hover above Dean's, just shy of pressing down.

Dean shakes his head and pulls him the rest of the way down between his legs, getting a whiff of his fruity smelling hair. The single layer of cloth between them rubs over Dean's erection in such a delicious way that he bucks up to find more of that friction against Sam's crotch. Sam grunts and kisses him again, like a spoiled brat, lazy and confident in the certainty that he will get what he wants. His heavy body feels better than any woman's Dean had on top of him before. Incomparable.

"Hurry up." Dean hisses. Sam's cheeks heat up. He apologizes and starts shimmying out of his underwear, one large, warm hand slipping under Dean's butt. His erection springs free of its confines and slaps against Dean's with a wet smack. They shudder at once. Sam has an intense look of awe on his face, even though they have already passed this part before. His pointy nose twitches in his concentration, tongue sticking out for a second to wet his lips. He's lit up by the glow of the city's night that filters in through the light curtains they picked out together. God, Dean is crazy for this son of a bitch. He is hit anew by how many things he feels for him, how deep he has fallen since he truly let himself want. The last thing he needs is hurting Sam in any way. He's only going to let him bottom when he's sure it won't harm him one bit. And… he never thought he would say this, but he likes that he can trust him enough to put the reins into his hand and let everything go. Not every time, but on occasion. This is what he craves now. He wants to float while they are both having a good time, and he knows Sam is the one who can deliver this to him.

"Here we go…" Sam pops the lube open. He fumbles and spills a good portion on Dean's thigh before he manages to coat his fingers well enough with it. The cold liquid drips down Dean's burning skin like a handful of rainwater, trickles over the soft inner side of his bent leg. Dean shivers from head to toes and relaxes into the first finger Sam pushes against his tight heat. The other times he let this happen, when he let a man touch his ass, it hurt enough to make him cry. Just what he wanted, back then. A burning ache and hot tears. The first time, he picked the guy off the street because he had dimples when he smirked, and asked him to go to town. They fucked twice, kissed never, and Dean relished the dirty hurt of it for days. It chased away the pressure in his chest better than slamming a door on his arm or punching a brick wall. But that's not something Sam would be willing to give him. No, he will take him gently, even if he begs, even if he needs more, needs everything, needs to be turned inside out and taken apart just to be put back together by that lovely mouth and those giant hands.

"Okay?" Sam whispers insecurely, hair hanging around his face like a dark halo.

Dean bites his lip and takes deep, deep breaths to keep himself from spontaneous combustion. He nods, clasps a hand over Sam's nape, and watches the hazel rings in his eyes shrink to thin circles around blackness, then pushes his chin up into a kiss.

They haven't had the luxury of letting go too often back home, Jody and Bobby would have caught them. But there's no one here to judge now, no one to interrupt and Dean feels like the tension seeps right out of his body as Sam's fingers stretch him open. His lips fall agape on their own accord and the first moan slips out, sounds loud and dirty and unfamiliar. He likes to be quiet, he is quiet - he should get a grip on himself. He doesn't know why it's so imperative to keep the noises inside, but it is. Perhaps it's his baggage, the constant oppression, the need to be invisible in order to survive. Being louder than a murmur feels wrong. Maybe sounds make it real, drive home the fact that Dean's gonna get fucked by his own brother.

A blush spreads on his cheeks. Thank God Sam can't see that, too busy licking inside Dean's lips. It's embarrassing, wanting and loving it this much, but Dean can't help his body. His legs fall further apart, and he makes another noise, even louder, lets it reverberate in his chest. He can't, for the life of him, stop the noises tonight. Sam pauses.

"Keep going." Dean grits out before God forbid Sam says he wants to talk.

The fingers of Sam's free hand slip into the gaps between his and squeeze in answer. The third finger joins the first two inside Dean's ass. They shift angles, bump into Dean's sweet spot on accident. Then brush it again and again, at least ten times in a row. Sam seems to be oblivious, but Dean this close to break and start demanding things he would regret later. Desperate, he breaks free of Sam's lingering kiss and raises a hand to bite his fist and keep the sounds muffled.

Sam pulls it out of his mouth, rubbing his abused knuckles. "What is it?" He murmurs into the groove of Dean's neck.

"Nothing, nothing."

"Does it hurt? Want me to stop?"

"No. It's… it's good."

"Okay."

"Sam…" He pleads. "Get on with it."

The last step in their depravity - it feels momentous and scary. Sam gulps and gives him an expression that's the oddest mixture of anxious and thrilled. He puts the condom on and reaches for Dean's hip to turn him around. "I - I read it's less likely to hurt if, uh -"

Dean resists and shakes his head firmly. The only way he will do this is face to face. He can still take back the control then if he needs to, he can spot the moment Sam regrets it and he can end things right then if need may be. Sam accepts it without a word - he must know that Dean has his good and bad days with his scars, and it's not a surprise he can't make himself have back to chest sex when he feels self-conscious anyway.

Sam pushes at his legs, parts them wider, then there's a sudden burst of blunt pressure and an excruciatingly slow glide in that just keeps going and going until they settle at last, joined in the deepest way possible. Sam is trembling, sweat drops beading on his temple. Christ, he is big enough to take Dean's breath away. He is inside, they have done it, it's over, their last barriers are crushed. No going back to normal. No going back. Never again. Dean feels like crying, even though he is aroused and happy, he truly is, it just feels so… overwhelming. Sam's eyes glisten as they roam over Dean's face. His hands spasm in the white covers under them, clench and unclench in the rhythm of his panting breaths. He lets out a short laugh, gifting the moment with the sight of his dimples, bright smile in place. "I wanna say so many sappy things right now."

Dean huffs. "Don't."

"Can I call you -"

"No." He glowers and shifts his hips up as much as he can. Time for the fun part. "Move, you moron."

Sam's lashes flutter. His bottom lip droops. "You're not very nice."

"Stop talking."

Sam grins again, broad and brilliant, and does as he has been told, starts rolling his hips. Dean pulls him down by the neck and kisses the soap-sweet spot behind his ear, licks and nibbles at it as Sam's thrusts get smoother and harder, start edging him on the brink of rapture. Sam's right hand finds his cock, trapped between their stomachs and begging for relief, strokes it the best he can. Dean's delight ripples through his body. The bed creaks and groans.

Sam puts Dean's hands together and holds them in one grip above their heads. "So that… you can't bite them." He explains with a wicked smirk and keeps making slow, slow love to him that seems neverendingly teasing – too little sugar in a tea cup.

This is the best sex Dean has ever had, period. And not because of Sam's technique, his size or the setting, but because he has never felt anything beyond the primitive and carnal needs before and this is completely different. Compared to those meaningless lays, what he has here is a whole new level of sex. It blows his mind. He wants Sam so much, finds him so very fine that it's almost painful not to just taste his flesh, trying to consume him whole. It's something he never experienced before. The feeling when you want someone so much you want to crawl under their skin and take their body for yourself to live in, move with their muscles and breathe with their lungs until you are not two but one, with one soul and one blood and one heart. It's a distinct possibility that Dean is going crazy. Or going crazy again, whatever. Maybe he never fully got out of it in the first place, been a lunatic all his life.

"Oh" He squeezes his eyes shut to evade facing his humiliation. He can't stop without biting something and Sam has his wrists pinned to the bed with the iron grip of his left hand. "It's so good, Sam, so -"

Sam groans and nips at the underside of his jaw. "Let me hear it, please let me…" He pants, pushes harder, deeper, still at that leisurely pace that punches gutted sounds out of Dean's mouth every other second. His too-warm exhales blow over the sweat gathering on Dean's face. "I can't hold back." He gasps, speeds up, then cries a broken moan into Dean's neck. "Dean, I -" He grunts and comes.

Dean's jaw goes slack as the fire burns through him and takes him down along with Sam. Pleasure licks up his spine and his breath hitches, tumbles out of his mouth in staccato little whimpers until the sounds of Sam's bright-hot satisfaction push him over too.

He is out of it for a few minutes after that. It's a very blissful afterglow, some mindless stroking and snuffling into each other's ears. No need to scramble for clothes and get out of Dodge, this is not a one-night stand. Sam might just try keep him on this euphoric high the whole night. Dean's on board with staying like this forever, joint and stuck together, but the ever-present guilt makes its way back into his chest, curls up in its rightful place inside his bones. Nights with Sam are too sweet for that ugly thing, it lusts for the sourness of bruises. Dean suppresses a sigh. The vices around his lungs snap back together, it's harder to breathe by the second. No doubt Sam knows it already. He kisses Dean's unresisting lips and pulls out just as gently as he handled this whole thing, taking painstaking care of not giving Dean the satisfaction of hurt if he can help it. That's his master plan, Dean figures, showing ways of stress relief that have nothing to do with pain. Massage, chocolate, other sorts of girly crap. He's probably hoping that if he manages to keep Dean clean of this so-called "self-harm" - Dean is sticking to his opinion, that label doesn't apply here - long enough, the issue is going to solve itself without professional help. Fat chance of that. He has no idea how the most innocent things can be of use when Dean can't bear the withdrawal any longer. It's sort of a cat-and-mouse game. Finding the holes in each other's thinking.

Sam mumbles something about cleaning up, but Dean has no desire to get out of bed yet, so he keeps his eyes shut and tries his best to regulate his breathing, pretends sleep. If Sam gets up without him, he can at least bite at his wrists a little bit, just until he can see the indents before they fade away. No longer lasting damage of course, he wouldn't want to upset his brother.

Sam does not get up though. He discards the condom and leans over the edge of the bed, picks up Dean's boxers to use those for wiping up some of their mess. By the time he is about to lie back down, Dean can hardly take half a lungful of air in without hyperventilation. Usually, it doesn't get this bad, but of course his body is going to react to a huge step forward in their relationship with an equally big meltdown. Dean hears Sam freeze, even though the blood is pounding in his ears, but no way will he open his eyes now. Sam puts a hand on the centre of Dean's chest, fingers spread out like a maple leaf and palm pushing down as he lies back in a comfortable position on his side. It feels like a glass cage shuttering. The end of Dean's windpipe aches, but he is able to take a deep breath again.

His eyes snap open and his right hand darts out, grabs Sam's wrist tight enough to feel the bones digging into his palm. Sam frowns at him, the tell-tale concerned furrow between his brows deepening. "What do you need?"

Dean raises his eyes heavenwards at the dramatic question. He doesn't need anything. Sam's palm pressing down on his chest feels good, that's all. For some reason, the actual physical pressure seems to help with the guilt-induced anxiety he was about to get a fit from.

"Does my hand help?" Sam inquires quietly. Dean gives him the best deadpan look he can conjure in this feeble state. That earns him a hum that sounds way too intrigued to his liking. "What if I do this?"

Sam's hand presses harder, most of the strength concentrated at the heel of it that's pushing down on Dean's sternum. It's perfect. Dean's lips fall open, eyes closed. His anxiety filters out of his body in gradual little portions within three minutes, and he comes out at the end just as tired, satisfied and happy as Sam has been after the first time Dean went down on him. Dean opens his eyes with a big, cheeky grin, and finds Sam's face a mere three inches from his own, his clever gaze searching.

"How was -" He starts, but Dean cuts him off.

"Awesome." Whether he meant the sex or this hoodoo-witchcraft-spell he did with his hand after, they were both awesome. No bruises, no fighting, just Sammy and his big paws and Dean is back in order, the darkness in him fed and pacified. What the heck was that? Is it gonna be a one-time deal or can it be… ? Is it possible that they stumbled upon something that will be able to hold his demons at bay?

The morning after, Sam wakes up to an empty bed and a running shower. His heart speeds up - he made it a rule since he moved in for real to wake up before Dean to watch out for suspiciously long showers and baths. He's not letting Dean hurt himself again. Even if he remains an obstinate asshole and doesn't get professional help, Sam is going to make him drop the habit. No matter what. Self-harm is no joke.

He had surprising success yesterday. What could it have been? Dean melted under that light pressure he applied, even though he didn't react this favourably to Sam's attempt at a massage. This is something he will definitely look into - the more tricks he has up his sleeve, the better he will be able to guide Dean through these tricky months. He spoke to a local counsellor, she would gladly take Dean's case, she said. Gave Sam a few pointers and the numbers of some emergency hotlines. He told her that Dean isn't suicidal - at least, not to Sam's knowledge. He very much likes life, he is a lively guy. His self-harm is all about handling the things he can't let out in other ways, particularly not in words. So that's another project of Sam's - getting Dean to talk. It's not easy, but… baby steps.

Yawning, he crawls out of bed with crusted eyes and a severe case of bed hair - or is it sex hair? - and pads towards the bathroom. The hallway is filled with the sounds of a yowling tomcat, commonly known as Dean singing to himself in the shower. It sounds happy. Sam's stomach does a little flip in joy, but he doesn't trust first impressions, especially because last night has been a significant step Dean was reluctant to take for a long while. He has to check.

Despite the threat of ear damage, he cracks open the door and sticks his head in. "Dean, you okay?"

The shampoo bottle that Dean most likely used as a mic clatters to the floor. Dean's figure jumps behind the curtain. "Shit! You scared the hell out of me."

Sam grins. Cursing is good. It's probably second best to Dean talking to him in sexual innuendos or inviting him into a shared shower. Alas, he is now too riled up to do either – the downside of giving him a scare. Worry wart instincts now satisfied, Sam goes out into the kitchen to make some coffee.

Last night was the best night of his life. No other contestants stand a chance against it. He is over the moon, hyped from the overflowing happiness in his veins. He had real sex with a man. Real sex with his boyfriend! The only way it could have been better if Dean let him bottom and get that first out of the way. Well, at least they have something to look forward to. Sam already wants to do it all over again. To feel Dean's well-built body under his, hear his moans, see the lust in his eyes, thrust into his perky ass - God, that ass. Sam is in love with it. And with Dean. Mostly with him. But his ass is nice too.

The whistle of the coffee machine interrupts his increasingly lewd thoughts and pulls him back down to Earth. He's hard as steel, but if he knows Dean well, it's gonna have to be Sam and his right hand for a few days, until the experience slots into place in Dean's mind. He's still not over the whole… well, the whole taboo-thing, but Sam is sure he'll come around. They wouldn't be doing this if he had no intentions of making his peace with it.

Morning coffee done, he decides he would rather not wait with his regular shave until after breakfast. Dean is in the shower anyway and Sam wants to be as close to him at the moment as he can. He might be addicted, is that normal? There's this wolf howl of wantwantwant going on inside him that he can barely resist. Some twisted form of the call of the wild. Also, he is giddy as fuck.

Back inside the bathroom, he tries to go through his routine as usual, even though his hands are shaking, and he is pitching a tent down in his sleep pants. The singing has dwindled down into quiet humming by now, which is way too adorable, and Dean will probably kill him if he realises Sam has been listening to it. Sam lathers his face with shaving cream and starts on his right cheek. The sounds behind him stop, then there's a beat or two of silence before Dean yells at the top of his lungs. "Sam!"

Sam makes a face at the volume. Looks like Dean hasn't realised Sam came back inside the room. "Stop shouting, I'm right here."

From the mirror, he can see Dean's head snapping in his direction. "Your hair's clogging the drain."

Ew. "Well, get it out." Why is it his hair, by the way? Could just as well be Dean's.

Dean flicks his fingers at the shower curtain. "Hell no. I'm not touching that shit."

The razor glides across Sam's jaw with a smooth swish. "It's just hair, dude."

"Your hair. You take care of it."

Sam looks up at the ceiling for God to have mercy. After this shit, Dean has no fucking right to call anyone a wuss for not touching spiders with their bare hands. No right at all, he thinks, then accidentally cuts himself on the side of his chin. "Ow. Fuck -"

"Sammy?"

"Shit…"

Dean pokes his head out from behind the curtain, round green eyes framed by his wet lashes, mouth puckered in confusion. Seeing that, Sam's momentarily rendered useless. His blood dribbles onto his toes in fat, crimson drops. "Jesus, what are you doing?"

"Huh?"

At the sight of blood, Dean jumps out of the shower and roots around in the cabinet for bandages - stark naked. There's still some shampoo in his hair and Sam has the other half of his face covered in shaving foam. The mirror is getting fogged up from the hot water still streaming behind the curtain. Dean comes up with a bundle of gauze, presses it to the bleeding wound, fussing like a mom.

"Didn't I teach you how to do this, buddy? You'd better not been trying to multifunction again, or else…"

They paint such a ridiculous picture. One pair of shorts between the two of them, an oversized piece of gauze for a negligible wound, half a face shaved, two thirds of a hair washed. Matching erections. Sam bursts out laughing and catches Dean around the waist, leans forward to kiss him and earn his invitation to that shower, but Dean leans away before their mouths could connect.

"You know how vile that tastes?" He wrinkles his nose, glaring at the shaving foam. "Clean up and we can talk." He mutters and leaves the bundle in Sam's hand, gets back into the shower. Sam watches him in silence until he sighs, turns half a step back. "Get the fuck in here. But no frisky business!"

Sam grins like the cat that got the cream and shucks his pants. Best night before, best morning after, best shower together, razor cuts and tangled hair notwithstanding.

…

A/N Fun fact: I thought the chest-thing Sam does is something totally random that only works for me when I get anxious. But when I decided to include it, I did some research, and it turned out that there's an anxiety-relieving acupressure point there, the CV-17, just where the heel of the palm is in this case.