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Sometimes, Sam is sure that Dean knows. He can't know, because if he did he'd be...horrified, guilty, angry, confused. Sure that it was all his fault and looking for some demon or monster to blame. If he knew it'd be all we can fix this, Sammy, and no we don't need to talk about it, don't wanna hear any more, there's something wrong with you and we're gonna put it right.
But there are nights, moments, where Sam could almost believe that Dean knows about the strange urges Sam gets, the way he has to count the seconds he spends looking at Dean to make sure it's never too many at a time, the way he has to clench his fists and bite his lips to not lean across and press his mouth to Dean's neck, taste leather and sweat. Almost believes that Dean has heard Sam's most secret thoughts in the dark, plucked them out of his head as easily as if he'd said them out loud in the silence of their cramped room, and doesn't care. Thinks it's a joke, just another funny thing about his little brother. You're a strange one, Sammy. Cries over animals but a fiend up close with a knife. Never think of anything but fucking your brother and schoolwork. How'd I get such a geek for a little bro?
There are nights when Sam's sure Dean knows, and is taking extreme delight in driving him crazy with it.
A case in point.
'Dean,' says Sam, half annoyed and half pleading. He doesn't know exactly what he means. Everything is so much harder now than when they were kids.
'Don't worry, Sammy,' grins Dean, watching Sam's flushed annoyance and teenaged embarrassment. 'I'll protect you.' He slings an arm over Sam's shoulder – on a level with his, now – snaps his gum, and winks at a couple of blonde middle-schoolers hurrying past them.
'Dean,' huffs Sam again, shrugging out from under Dean's arm. 'Stop being an asshole. I don't need fucking protecting. I'm just saying, I'm not doing the fucking clown-tent, ok? You can do it. I'll do the 'coaster.' He slides his EMF meter into the inside pocket of his jacket. Dean's jacket. Sam outgrew most of his clothes over the summer.
Dean yanks him back in, smirking as if Sam hadn't said anything., and then he actually runs his free hand across Sam's chest in a stroking motion. No reason for it, nothing functional in the gesture. It looks careless, as if he doesn't realise what he's doing. Sam grits his teeth. Of course he doesn't realise what he's doing. 'Ain't no clowns coming near you. C'mon. Let's go win you a goldfish to cry over.'
Maybe it's the buzz and rush around them, screams and whoops and adrenaline thick in the air. Maybe it's the sweet smell of cotton candy and pretzels, alcohol and the heave and throb of teeming bodies, small-town teenagers at their most daring, wild and liberated and out on a schoolnight. Mabe it's the carnival lights flickering over the contours of Dean's face, framing his jaw and widening his eyes, his beauty almost painful. Either way, something seems to have shaken loose in Dean tonight. Everything he does seems calculated to drive Sam crazy, make him want more than any one person should be able to handle.
Dean's all over Sam, all the time, fingers in his beltlloops or at his neck, lips against his ear, want me to win you a prize, sugarlips? Near the rollercoaster he grabs Sam and pushes him behind him, backs up against the wall and holds him there with his body, his back to Sam's chest, ass pressed up against Sam's junk, the smell of Dean's hair product and aftershave in Sam's nose. Sam can't breathe, just closes his eyes and prays, makes promises he'll never keep. When Dean lets him go, Sam manages to moan out a frenzied 'The fuck, Dean?' Dean just winks at him and says 'Clowns,' before ambling onwards.
Sam can't stop looking at Dean's mouth, his tongue. Licking powdered sugar from his fingers, licking ketchup obscenely from his hotdog. Licking his upper lip before he cracks off a shot on the rifle range, dark eyes flicking to hold Sam's as he pulls the trigger. Big smile on his face as he hands Sam the pinkest, sparkliest giant teddy bear he can find, a different smile for the guy he hands the rifle over to and holy shit, is Dean? Is Dean flirting with the fucking rifle-range guy? Easy posture as he leans up against the counter, slight cant to his hips, coy tilt to his head. Sam's seen it a hundred times before. Sam's suddenly consumed by something black and violent; he replaces the bear on the counter with exaggerated care and hustles Dean out of there as quickly as he can, blood throbbing in his ears and an irrational desire to go back and throttle the rifle-man, who was at least thirty and what the fuck, Dean.
'C'mon now, Sammy,' murmurs Dean in the shadow of the big wheel. ''You don't gotta be jealous. You know you're the only one for me.'
'Shut up, Dean,' snaps Sam. His head hurts and he's eaten too much cotton candy and feels kind of like he wants to hurl. 'We're here to fucking work, so let's just get this done and get out of here.'
Dean steps forward, face unreadable in the dark. When he speaks, it surprises Sam with its softness.
'C'mon, Sam.' He tucks a strand of Sam's hair back behind his ear. His head has that dangerous tilt again. 'We're allowed to have a little fun.'
He turns and heads into the hall of mirrors. Sam follows him, dazed and so angry, angry at his brother for being so beautiful and so infuriating and so innocent of the taint that infects him, angry at the world for not allowing him this one thing, angry at himself for being broken and defective.
The mirror house wasn't a good idea. When he catches up to Dean, Dean smiles across at him, ethereal in the half-light, and a thousand Deans echo it, in front of and behind and above and below Sam. Dean slides his hand into Sam's back pocket and Sam can see it, repeated wherever he looks, can see Dean's strong arm all the way from the sleeve of his black t-shirt down to the posessive splay of his hand across Sam's ass, as well as Dean's face, brght and painful to look at, and his own face, flushed and avoiding his eyes. It's confusing Sam, these multitudes of Deans and Sams, hip to hip and endless, just two boys all alone, the way it's always been. They could be anyone. They could be. No.
Sam's eyes dart to Dean's and Dean's looking too, looking at the reflections of the two of them, a smile on his face that could break Sam's heart if he let himself look at it, but looking away proves to be his downfall because the minute he does Dean's in his ear again, breath warm and smelling of cotton candy and beer, whispering 'Look, Sammy, look at us, just you'n me. No clowns gonna touch you, I'll just tell 'em you're mine. They can't have you.'
That's....that's just enough.
Sam shoves Dean, hard. His back thumps into one of the mirrors; the whole flimsy construction shakes, but doesn't break. Sam gets up in Dean's face, right up close, arms bracketing him in, and snarls 'Dean. Cut. This. Shit. Out.'
Dean looks floored, caught out and shocked and a little defiant.
'Wasn't doing anything, Sammy,' he manages with something of his usual smugness.
No. He probably didn't think he was. He was just having a good time and messing around with his little brother. The restraining hand he's got on Sam's chest turns placating, smoothing gently up towards his collarbone. Sam bats it angrily away.
'Dean,' says Sam, breathing through his nose and trying to speak calmly. 'Dean. I want you to listen to me. Unless I'm. Unless I'm hurt, ok, or in danger, or something urgent – just....Don't touch me, ok? Not ever.'
Sam sees, as if in slow motion, the words hit Dean, like physical impacts to the vital organs, sees Dean stagger and recover almost in the same moment, his shoulders square and his jaw come up.
'Well, alright, Sammy,' he says, easily, smooth and casual. He ducks out from under Sam's arm and unties Dad's old leather jacket from around his waist, shrugs it on and pops the collar. 'Didn't have to yell.' There's something vital gone from his voice, and Sam wants it back so badly.
Dean turns and heads out, stride jaunty, hands in his pockets, nothing real in the lightness of his stride. Sam follows, waiting for the weight of what he just did to Dean to fully descend.
Can't take much more of this, he thinks numbly. You just hurt him, hurt him so bad because you're a fucked up pervert, and you're gonna keep doing it and he'll never know why.
And then, clear as a bell, You have to go.