Lust. They don’t know when affectionate glances bled into something more, when watching each other undress became a ritual or when they began to whisper dirty things to each other in the dark. What they both know, however, is that they want. Want to feel and taste and bite and fuck, and they both worry John can feel the Impala quiver with tension as they drive through the stuffy hot Midwest with Dean’s fingernails dragging along the line of Sam’s leg beneath their blanket in the backseat.
Gluttony. When everything comes to a head, it’s almost violent. The door has barely slammed shut behind John before Dean pins Sam to the kitchen counter, his hands firm on Sam’s barely covered ass as he growls into his little brother’s ear: “Fuck you Sammy, parading your little ass around for me in skimpy little shorts, I bet dad noticed how I couldn’t tear my eyes away.”
Sam throws his head back against Dean’s shoulder and mewls into the morning sunlight: “Just wanted you to touch me, Dean. Please, you want. I know you do. Please, fuck me, Dean. Can’t take you teasing me anymore.”
Dean tears Sam’s shorts to shreds and fingers his brother open right there bent over the kitchen counter. When he slides into his brother all lubed up with olive oil, extra virgin, Sammy keens beneath him and Dean promises with a firm hand around Sam’s throat: “Gonna fuck you until you can’t walk, baby brother. Gonna make you pass out from my cock.”
Greed. “Gotta taste you,” Dean mumbles as he pushes Sam into the gas station bathroom. “Now.” John’s inside paying for snickers and coffee that tastes like gasoline, but Sam’s hair is tousled and so well-fucked that Dean can’t help himself: he needs to get to his knees, needs to make that pink little mouth moan for him, needs Sam’s cock down his throat and –
“Deaan,” Sam whines above him as Dean gets dirty on the reeking floor, “Fuck, your mouth – born to do this, I swear to fucking God.”
Sam’s dick is salty and heavy and dripping in Dean’s mouth, and all Dean can think is: More.
Sam throws his head back against the tiled wall, tugs at Dean’s hair as he shoves deep into Dean’s throat and comes, swearing into the back of his hand.
Dean swallows it all, gets up from the dirty floor.
Sam kisses him like he’s air, tasting himself on Dean’s tongue.
Sloth. They never talk about what they do. They never talk about their shared last name or the fact that they both seem to come apart when they call each other brother like it’s the filthiest thing in the world: they never once talk about the normalcy Sam craves or the denial Dean clings to, because it’s so much easier to fuck each other blind until they both pass out; too tired to ask questions they are too scared or too reluctant to voice. It’s not laziness, they tell themselves – merely self-preservation.
Wrath. When Dean sees Sam with little Natalie Chase, he tastes blood at the back of his mouth. Sam has her pinned against her locker and his dark bangs falls into his eyes as he smirks down at her in the same way Dean had done to him so many times, and she laps it up like a starving cat around whipped cream; giggles like she’s getting paid for it and flutters her eyelashes at Sam like he’s the only sixteen-year-old with a dick in the entire school.
Dean strides down the hallway and grabs Sam by his arm, shoves him up against the lockers and glares down into Sam’s smoothly arrogant face. “Problem, big brother?” Sam asks in a drawl, eyes defiant and cool.
Dean’s grip grows tighter, and he can feel the girl’s stare in the back of his neck. “Yeah,” Dean tells him. “Big fucking problem. You’re done here.”
Sam looks like he’s going to protest, but then he turns to blonde little Natalie. “I’m sorry. Gotta go. Next time, girl?”
Natalie bites her lip around a smile. Dean wonders what noises she would make if he pulled out her fingernails.
When they get out of the school, Dean’s still shaking with fury. “You’re mine,” he tells Sam, voice cold and furious. “Don’t make me remind you again.”
Envy. Sam watches the way Dean imitates their father in every way; the perfect little soldier in that flannel armor and all that blind obedience. Dean doesn’t even blink when John gives him an order – Yessir, I’ll jump off that cliff, give up my childhood and my own will, yessir, whatever you say.
Sam watches, sick with envy and worry where Dean’s loyalty truly lays, and he wonders: If I left, would he come with me, or am I just a pretty mouth?
Pride. Dean feels something die in his chest when he sees Sam all packed up and realizes it’s true. The air drains from his lungs, and all that’s left is the white-hot urge to remain calm. Sam is leaving him, them, their everything: the soft whispered nights and the bright and lovely need and the heat and the fucks and the love, all of it, and Dean wants to punch Sam in the throat.
Instead, he regards him coolly beneath the motel’s fluorescent lights. “Have fun in California, fratboy.”
Sam looks like he’s about to cry, like his backpack weighs like a lifetime.
Dean supposes it does.
“Dean,” Sam croaks into the night. “Just… Just ask me to.”
Ask me to stay, I’ll do it, I’ll live like this. For you, I’ll live like this until we both go down in flames, like we both know we were meant to.
Dean stares to the asphalt. He shouldn’t have to ask. He says, defeatedly: “Goodbye, Sammy.”