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The first time Sam has the dream, he runs all the way to Flagstaff.
Sam wakes to sunlight streaming in through the cracked window, dust motes illuminated in the golden light, every pale hair on Dean's creamy skin picked out in soft focus. Sam wriggles a hand over towards him, just needing to touch him, and makes a weak fist in Dean's grey t-shirt.He's warm and solid and everything to Sam. Sam lets out a little hum, a little noise of satisfaction, and Dean's green eyes open, lucid and lazy and content, staring straight at Sam.
'Sam,' he says, voice husky with sleep, that one word love and safety and home.
Sam kisses him. It feels right, like sunshine and honey and long summer nights. Dean holds him in his big hands, thumbs rubbing lazy circles in the muscles of his back and neck, the warm smell of sleepy Dean surrounding him, and kisses him back, tender and thorough.
Sam wriggles in delight and gets his hands inside Dean's shirt, loving all the warm, smooth skin under his fingers, loving the little shivers and tiny noises Dean makes, the way his back arches when Sam brushes over his nipples, the lazy growl in the back of his throat when Sam runs a hand over his stiff dick in his boxers.
Dean pushes Sam over onto his back, kisses down his throat, pulls his shirt off over his head, callused hands gentle on Sam's skinny body. Sam's head goes back as Dean works his way down his stomach, lets out a stifled moan when Dean takes him in his mouth, wicked eyes looking up at him through dark-swept lashes, fingers sliding inside his little brother easy as breathing, opening him up and making him twist and pant and beg, lips and tongue obscene on his cock.
Dean inside him is everything, everything, all the pieces of him that have never made sense put together and perfect, fireworks in his head, a completely different world dizzyingly high above the clouds. They were never meant to be two people anyway. Dean fucking him slow and beautiful, talking to him in his husky morning voice, saying oh God, Sammy, so fucking perfect, look at you, come on, come for me, wanna make you, wanna see, feel so good, Sammy...'
Sam wakes up to grey skies and Dean snoring in the next bed, hard and aching, realises that he just had a graphic sex dream about being fucked in the ass by his brother, throws some clothes in a bag and heads for the highway, breathing sharp and panicked, black spots behind his eyes.
The second time Sam has the dream, he runs away to Stanford.
He dreamt that Dean and he were fighting. That happens a lot these days. He dreamed that they were fighting, but when Dean threw him up against the Impala and came for him, Sam just wrapped his legs around Dean's waist and kissed him hard in the rain, bared his throat and dared Dean to do his worst, and Dean let out a curse and a groan and put his teeth to Sam's slick skin, yanked at their jeans, fucked Sam up against the car while lightning lit up the darkness.
Sam left that night, a warm summer night without a cloud in the sky.
The third time he has the dream, Sam doesn't run anywhere.
Sam wakes up to sunlight streaming in through the motel window and Dean sprawled on his front on the other bed, blankets slipped off onto the floor and his hair spiked into unlikely morning shapes. Sam breathes deeply, lets the remains of the dream wash over him. He's not the same boy he was the last time he dreamed the taste of Dean's skin, the rasp in his voice when Sam makes his eyes roll back. That boy, his hopes and his despair, burned up on a ceiling in a nondescript student apartment in Palo Alto, was lost in the forest near Blackwater ridge, drowned in a lake full of ghosts.
Dean shifts.
'Timezit?' he mumbles.
'Eight,' says Sam softly.
'Gon'gobacksleep.'
'Dean.'
'Lemmesleep.' Dean rolls onto his back, eyes closed and legs splayed.
'Dean, I gotta tell you about this dream.'