Dean pretended that he didn't see the first time. Of course he fucking noticed the dirt on Sam's pants and how he favored his right hand where the knuckles were all bruised and how red his eyes were, but he didn't say anything. Not the first time.

It happened again less than a week later and Dean couldn't just ignore that Sam had a broken wrist, but he acted as though he couldn't tell that Sam had been crying again. Just splinted his wrist and gave him shit for fighting at school and not beating the shit out of the other kid before they hurt him. He knew something was wrong, knew there was something he ought to be protecting Sam, his little Sammy, his baby brother from, but they'd just fought about how overprotective he was. And Sam thought Dean shouldn't've put the last bully who touched his Sammy in the hospital. That he should've let Sam deal with it himself. So Dean tried.

He tried so fucking hard. And he even did pretty well. Well, for a week. Until Sam came home with bruises on his ribs and tears streaming down his face.

He managed not to say anything while Sam hugged him. Just stroked his ridiculously long hair and bit his tongue so hard it bled. But later that night when they were lying together mostly naked on their bed Dean noticed that Sam's bruises had fully formed, revealing shoe impressions a couple different sizes. Then Dean couldn't fucking bite his tongue hard enough.

"Who the fuck did that?"

Sam, already half-asleep, put on a confused face. "What're you talking about?"

Dean laid a hand on one of the bruises. He'd meant to push hard, make it hurt, but his hand had slowed just before he made contact and landed gently, tenderly. Mad as he was, he couldn't hurt Sam. Not on purpose. "Who gave you these?"

"No one, Dean, I—" Sam's voice quavered like he was scared. No, like he was about to cry again. The sound made Dean's stomach turn. "I tripped."

"Bullshit."

"Please, Dean, I don't want to talk about it."

"No, Sam. I kept my mouth shut because I knew you'd throw a bitchfit, but—"

And just like that, like a switch had been flipped, Sam was crying, shoulders shaking, choking on sobs. Equal parts contrite and terrified, Dean reached for him, cradled Sam in his arms.

"Sam," he whispered. "Sam, Sammy, baby, what happened?"

Sam spoke into Dean's chest, nearly inaudible, shaky. "I didn't know what to do. I'm not like you. I can't just hide things, I can't just act cool—the guys from the complex down the street jumped me … I didn't know what to do."

"Sammy, on a good day you can kick my ass. Why would you let them hurt you?"

Sam was quite for a long time, his breath still hitching, but no longer quiet.

"They called me a faggot."

Dean sucked in a harsh breath, but before he could speak Sam was talking again.

"They've been on me since we got here. Called me all kinds of names. Freak. Fag. I didn't think they'd actually do anything. They're just assholes. A couple weeks ago … They-they called me …"

Dean bit back an angry reply. He knew from the way Sam's voice had trailed off, from the nervous patterns Sam's fingers were making on his arms, from the way Sam's neck and face were flushed red and hot against him that there was more.

Sam's voice was thick with shame. "They started slapping my ass and telling me to suck them off and …" He drew a trembling breath. "They called me bitch. C'mere, bitch. Down on all fours, bitch. Suck my cock, bitch. "

Before Dean could respond Sam was talking again, stumbling over his words as if he had to get it out so that Dean would understand, so that Dean wouldn't hate him.

"I know what you're going to say—that I shouldn't've let them do it and I shouldn't listen to them because they're little shitheads, but, Dean, they're right. I know they're right. What we do? What I am? I'm a fucking little faggot. A little freak. A little bitch." Sam's voice broke on the last word.

Dean stroked Sam's hair for a moment as Sam began crying again, desperately fighting the urge to kill the fuckers who had made his beautiful Sammy doubt who he was or what they had. He knew that Sam would see any anger in Dean's response as anger at him. Then, when he was breathing easily again, Dean reached down and tilted Sam's face up toward him.

Sam's face was red from crying and he looked fucking terrified. It was physically painful knowing that that expression was partially fear that Dean would think he was a bitch too.

Dean pressed his lips to Sam's carefully, trying to impress on his little brother just how precious he was. Sam clung to Dean, still shaking. He tasted like tears; Dean felt one fall and run down a spot where their cheeks touched.

When the kiss broke, Dean leaned in and pressed his forehead to Sam's.

"D'you know what "bitch" means to fuckers like that, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head. His breath was heavy and hot against Dean's cheek.

"It means you're so fucking smart you make them feel like the idiots from bumfuck, nowhere that they are. It means you're so confident, so sassy, such a fucking smart alec that you make them feel like shit every time they look at you." Dean kissed Sam's forehead. "Means you're so fucking hot it makes them question their sexuality. Means they're jealous, baby boy."

Sam pulled back and looked at him, skeptical, but not crying anymore. That, at least, was progress. "Really?"

"Fuck yes, really, Sam." Dean cradled Sam's face in his hand. Fuck, Sam was so pretty. ""Bitch" is a good thing."

Sam smiled tentatively, like he was starting to believe Dean.

"Besides, you're my bitch. And that's enough to make all those repressed bastards jealous."

Sam punched him playfully, but Dean could tell that he liked the idea that the boys who teased him for his sexuality secretly pined for the kind of relationship they had. Which was fucking good, because he was never letting Sam go anywhere.

Dean leaned in and kissed Sam again, opening his mouth with little nips. He rolled on top of Sam, holding him in place so he had access to kiss his brother properly. Sam spread his legs around Dean's hips, letting their crotches rub together. He arched against Dean.

Dean pulled away, nuzzling his little brother's neck. Sam bucked against him, already hard, straining in his boxers. Fucking teenagers, able to go from miserable to rock hard in seconds.

Sam probably wanted Dean to fuck him, but Dean couldn't pull away long enough. He needed to be right there, skin on Sam's, showing his Sammy how much he needed him. He rutted against Sam, tasting his mouth with long, tender laps of his tongue. Sam responded eagerly, sucking Dean's tongue with technique that made Dean's cock twitch.

When Sam came, Dean leaned back just far enough to watch, drinking in the way Sam gasped for air, eyes closed, teeth gritted, nails biting into Dean's shoulders. He pumped his hips, rubbing his cock against the wet stain in Sam's boxers, working Sam through his orgasm.

Sam blinked up at him, hips twitching as Dean fucked against his sensitive cock relentlessly. Then Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's neck, tugging him down for a deep kiss.

"They should be fucking jealous," Sam panted.

The fucked-out sound of Sam's voice was just enough to send Dean over the edge. He came hard, holding Sam tight against him. He could feel Sam's heartbeat pounding against him.

It probably wasn't smart. He knew he shouldn't've said it the moment it came out of his mouth, but Dean was too high from his orgasm. He whispered, "Such a good bitch, Sammy. My little bitch."

Sam stiffened instantly and Dean pulled back.

"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry—"

Sam reached up and stroked his cheek. "'s okay. Like it coming out of your mouth."

Dean grabbed Sam's hand and kissed it. "I still shouldn't—"

"Don't be an ass, Dean." Sam pushed against him until Dean rolled over. "I'm your bitch. I'm more than okay with that."

"I don't mean to be such a jerk, Sammy."

"I love you, even if you are a jerk." Sam gave Dean a peck on the lips and rolled off the bed. "I'm going to get cleaned up."

"Bitch." The word rolled off his tongue so easily. Dean could've killed himself.

But Sam just glanced back at him and smiled.

"Jerk."