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Ever since they’d left St. Louis, Sam had been thinking, as he’d sat shotgun beside his brother, looking out the window sightlessly as the Midwest rolled past them. Spending time with people from college had made him realize how little time he’d taken to process what had happened to Jess, and how his life had been completely torn apart in the same instant.
He had jumped straight into hunting and the search for Dad to try and get revenge for her death, and that had been a way to stop himself from having to deal with his grief. It was also a way to channel his guilt and the constant fear that it had been his fault for not telling her anything about his previous life and leaving her unprotected, and not taking his dreams seriously and acting on them. Sam had to admit to himself that he’d been running away from dealing with his feelings.
He thought about Jess and how he felt about her then; how much he’d cared about her, and how much he missed her. He put his guilt to the side for now, because he wanted to focus on the good memories, just for the moment. He remembered her smile, her quick wit, and how full of life and energy she’d been. Sam could remember the smell of her perfume, floral-sweet, and wished he knew the name of it, so he could buy some and keep it, and stop that memory from ever fading. The bottle she’d had, half-empty on the cabinet, had been burned up in the fire along with their present life and future dreams.
Sometimes, when passing a bakery, he caught a smell of something that reminded him of coming home to the warm, comforting scent of Jess’s home-baked cookies, in the only thing close to a real home he’d known, and would be hit by a wave of longing that he had to force back to keep himself from breaking down.
Dean had said they couldn’t ever get close to anyone in this job, because they weren’t like other people. That they were freaks. He hated to admit it, but Dean was right. While he was on this hunt for the demon, he couldn’t have a normal life, and that included a relationship like with Jess, even when he was eventually ready for one. That thought was painful.
Bec had asked him if this life was lonely. The question had surprised him; he hadn’t really felt lonely at any point during this trip, because he had Dean with him. It hadn’t occurred to him that this could be lonely, but he’d always been closer to Dean than most people seemed to be with their siblings, their weird, nomadic upbringing binding them together in a way that no other brothers ever could.
Thinking about Jess had, however, brought back memories of something else he’d lost - how she knew just what he needed when he was stressed or worried, whether it was a hug, or a little reassuring squeeze of his hand. It had made him realize how much he missed that sort of casual, everyday touch.
It wasn’t about sex. It would be easier if it was, because then he could just hook up, like Dean kept pushing him to do, and that would satisfy him. This was something else. It was about care, and tenderness. About just touching someone to show that you care about them. And there was only one person in the world he could do that with now in this oddly isolated life they had settled into, and Sam wasn’t sure how he’d react to such an approach.
Bec had told him that the shifter had talked about how hard it was to be different, and how he needed human touch. As Dean, the shifter had access to his brother’s memories and thoughts, and Sam wondered how much of what he’d said then came from Dean. If it had been Dean’s thoughts, maybe he’d be more open to the idea that had started to take shape in Sam’s mind than people would expect. Maybe he needed it as much as Sam did.
Sam was sitting on his bed in one of their usual motel rooms. The decor in this one was muddy green and brown, making it feel just a little more dank than the average. It might be Sam’s imagination because of the gloominess, but he was sure it smelt even more strongly of must and old smoke than these places usually did. Dean was sitting on the end of the other bed, zipping up his duffel. He looked a little tired, but still handsome, his cheekbones sharpened by the low lighting in the room.
He was the only person in the world Sam could ask for what he needed, and also probably the most dangerous. One day, when Sam was fifteen years old, on a glorious summer evening, he’d been watching Dean fixing the Impala, his arms bare in a white vest and layered in oil, his expression focused. He’d looked up at Sam, the sun setting behind him, and smiled at him, genuine and happy, and Sam had never seen anything as perfect in his life.
That’s when the crush started, or at least when Sam first became aware it had started. It didn’t really matter either way. The realization that he was attracted to his brother had terrified him, because there was obviously something very wrong with him. Thinking about his brother like that was sick, and something in their weird, isolated upbringing must have twisted something inside him.
After that, Sam had been careful, avoiding touching Dean unless he really had to, and trying not to let his gaze linger on him. It had been so difficult, with them living in each other’s pockets, but he’d managed it. When he left for Stanford, he’d missed Dean so much he felt the ache in his bones, but he’d told himself that at least the distance meant that he wouldn’t infect his brother with whatever was wrong with him.
He’d hoped, when he was at Stanford, that the time apart would kill off those feelings, and his brain and body would realize that Dean was his brother, and he couldn’t think like that. When Dean showed up in the middle of the night, however, cocky as ever and his muscles filled out just a little more, Sam had realized right away that the distance had made no difference at all.
But now, sick with the still-raw grief and craving touch, with his brother looking just as perfect to him as that evening in Missouri, Sam didn’t have anywhere else to turn.
“Dean? Can I ask you something?” He could hear the hesitation in his own voice, and Dean’s eyes were curious as he raised his head to look back at Sam. “It’s gonna sound really weird.”
Dean smiled a little, but the curiosity didn’t leave his face. “Weird? You do know who you’re talking to here. Not much sounds weird to me.”
He smiled back, but looked down at his hands, twisting in his lap. “Yeah, I think this will though. Dean… can I hold your hand?”
He felt ridiculous saying it, words better suited to an awkward teenager at a school dance, gawky and shy and about to be turned down by the most popular girl in the year, and he could feel confusion radiating from his brother. Nervously, he glanced back up at Dean. He was relieved to see only confusion there, rather than horror or amusement.
“Okay, that is weird. Dude, why?”
Sam fumbled for the words, the right ones slipping away from him like smoke on a breeze.
“I just… I miss it, Dean. I miss Jess. I dunno, I can’t explain it.”
Dean’s gaze on him was appraising, but concerned, and Sam could see him working it over in his mind. He kept quiet, giving Dean the time he needed despite Sam’s own nervousness.
Finally, Dean nodded. “Okay. I mean, it’s nuts, but if it’ll help… and god knows we’ve had to get a lot more up close and personal over the years. C’mere, if we’re going to do this.”
Sam felt his shoulder muscles relax, the nervousness he’d been holding there flowing out of him. He still wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but he hadn’t freaked Dean out too much with it, so that was something. He stood up and closed the distance between their beds with a single step, then sat on Dean’s left, both turned slightly towards each other. His awkwardness still lingered, not quite sure how to start this, but knowing that it had to be him. He was the one who’d asked for it, after all.
He reached out his right hand, tentative and slow, and took Dean’s left hand, palm to palm, closing his hand around Dean’s. It was larger than Jess’s hand had been, and more calloused, the fingers not quite straight in places, but it was warm, a gentle, comforting pressure against his own as Dean held his hand back. Sam had expected Dean’s hand to be a motionless thing in his own, and was secretly pleased that it wasn’t. It made this feel less artificial, less weird; instead, it made Sam instantly feel some reassurance and relief from the loss that was constantly itching in the back of his mind.
Sam’s hand was even bigger again, and he let his thumb run over the back of Dean’s. The skin there was surprisingly soft, with a few scratches and old scars testifying to the physical life Dean lived. It felt good, and comfortingly real against Sam’s own skin. He meshed their fingers together, and the whole thing was much less strange and clumsy than he’d feared.
It made him brave, and he raised his other hand towards Dean’s face, pausing when he was still about six inches away, examining his brother’s expression carefully. He seemed comfortable enough with this so far, and nodded in response to Sam’s questioning look.
Sam closed the distance with his hand, and rubbed the tip of his thumb against Dean’s skin, tracing his cheekbone and the line of freckles scattered haphazardly that highlighted the contours of his face, then pressed his palm to Dean’s jaw. The skin of Dean’s cheek was smooth under his fingers, his stubble sharp against the heel of his palm, and he could feel Dean leaning into the touch, just slightly.
He could see Dean considering, hesitating, and then Dean raised his own hand to Sam’s face, the tips of his fingers resting on Sam’s cheekbone. Sam could smell the lingering hint of gun oil and gunpowder on Dean’s hands, both ever-present on his brother with his daily cleaning and maintenance ritual.
The room was unusually, almost surreally, quiet, just the sound of their breathing and the occasional scrape of stubble against calloused skin breaking the silence. Dean’s hands were gentle, and felt so reassuringly intimate and caring, that Sam didn’t care how strange other people would find this. Two brothers sitting in silence in a grimy motel room, holding hands and touching each other’s faces was weird to most people, Sam knew that.
But they hadn’t grown up like most people. They didn’t live like most people. From the way Dean seemed to savor the touch, Sam thought that he’d been right, and Dean had needed this as much as Sam.
He carefully broke it off after a few minutes, before it had a chance to feel weird for them too.
“Thanks, Dean. That helped.”
Dean’s expression was one Sam was familiar with over the years; trying to make sense of his emotions. He’d timed it correctly then, and he decided to give Dean some space.
“No problem, Sammy.” His tone was casual and relaxed, and he settled back to lie down on the bed.
Sam stood carefully and moved back to his own bed, feeling a lot lighter than he had just ten minutes ago, and relieved that things didn’t feel awkward between them afterwards. They spent the rest of the night watching bad TV together in a comfortable silence.
——
They continued this little ritual over the weeks that followed, each time for a little longer, and their hands drifting to new places on each other’s faces. The last time, it had ended with Sam’s hand on Dean’s neck, and Dean’s fingers tenderly carding through Sam’s hair.
It wasn’t just Sam who’d pushed things. He had, a little, allowing his hand to linger on Dean’s jaw, or wander up to play with a tendril of his hair. Dean tested the boundaries of their strange arrangement too, however, like the time he let his thumb run over Sam’s lip, pressing and tugging at the skin, his eyes fixed on his brother’s mouth, sending guilty shivers through Sam.
It felt like they both needed this, drew comfort from it on the nights when they were battered and bruised, or the hunt for Dad seemed impossible. The nights when Jess’s loss felt like a gaping wound and his guilt an unbearable weight, or when Dean had tried to hook up with someone and struck out.
He didn’t know how Dean felt on those nights, but sometimes it was him who approached Sam when they were back in the motel, touching him on the shoulder and asking if he needed anything. It was always in a way that he could say it was for Sam, and offering to help him out, but his expression was always a little bit different to anything Sam had seen on Dean before. It was softer somehow, gentler, and almost skittish, as if he was afraid Sam would say no. It felt as if Dean had needed this too, and hadn’t realized until Sam had shown him what he’d been missing.
Sam knew that he would never be able to say no. He knew that he was taking a risk every time, and there was always a chance that he’d cross a line and do something that would expose his twisted crush, but he wanted it too much to stop or turn Dean down.
That day, they’d been chasing down a suspected haunting that had turned out to just be someone trying to tank their property value during a bitter divorce. It had been a long drive out here to tiny but wealthy Briarwood, North Dakota, and they’d spent the day wasting their time while being patronized by upper middle class suburbanites. The nearest motel to the town was miles away; the well-heeled citizens of that town would never have tolerated an establishment like the ones they usually stayed in within their midst, and it was far too small to have anywhere else to stay anyway. There wasn’t even an empty property to spend the night. By the time they got back they were both exhausted, grumpy, and frustrated.
Dean clicked on his bedside lamp, then dropped his duffel to the floor with a sigh. Sam smiled at him wryly; he’d known Dean would be like this, all pent-up energy and restlessness after a dead end with nothing to take it out on.
“On the plus side, at least we won’t have to spend half the night knee deep in graveyard dirt.”
Dean barked out a laugh as he shrugged off his jacket and slung it over the nearest chair. “Yeah. What a damn waste of time this one’s been.”
Sam dropped his own bag, and pulled his own coat off to join Dean’s. “Well, at least we’ve got a night off.”
“In the most goddamn boring place in the country.” Dean groused, sitting down on the bed and working to pull his boots off.
Sam hid his smile; Dean was determined to be pissed off.
“Hey, we’ve got beer in the cooler, and there’s a TV and Magic Fingers. I’m sure you can make the most of it.”
In all honesty, this was the nicest room they’d slept in for months. The lighting wasn’t yellow-toned, there was no mold in the bathroom, and the bedsheets didn’t smell like they’d been in a musty closet for six months. He sat down on his own bed and started pulling his boots off too, glancing at the back of Dean’s head as he did so. He would have been able to see in the set of Dean’s shoulders that he was on edge, even if he hadn’t spoken.
“Yeah, I guess.” Dean paused, and Sam waited, giving him the time and space he needed to speak. “Could you… when you’re finished, could you come over here? If you want to.”
Dean turned to look at Sam over his shoulder, and the nervousness was obvious; Dean could never hide how he was feeling from him. They knew each other too well, and all this time together was only honing that instinct to razor sharpness.
Sam was halfway through pulling off his second boot at this point. This was the first time Dean had framed this as something he wanted, rather than something he did for Sam, but he knew better than to mention it. He couldn’t think of anything more likely to make Dean shut down and put an end to this, even though he seemed to get something out of it too.
Instead he nodded at Dean, and replied with “Yeah, of course”, keeping his voice casual, continuing to unlace his boot as he slid it off his left foot. Acting normal, like this was no big deal, was the best way to handle Dean now, he thought.
Setting his boots neatly aside, he turned towards Dean’s bed and walked over, sitting on the edge with Dean to his right as usual. His brother had already turned slightly to that side, and Sam angled himself towards him too, so they were sitting face to face. The red neon of the ‘No Vacancies’ sign that stood by the entrance shone through the window, the second stroke of the ‘V’ vivid across Dean’s face in the low light of the room.
He reached out and took hold of Dean’s left wrist, as gentle a touch as he could; just an invitation for Dean to touch him back and take the comfort he needed. He could see the hesitation in Dean’s face, and the moment that he steeled himself - so much more difficult for him than to use himself as bait, which he did so casually - just before placing his right hand on Sam’s shoulder.
They sat like that for long moments, Sam letting Dean lead this as a few drunken shrieks and shouts broke the silence for a moment, before being cut off as a door slammed. He was surprised when Dean let his hand slide down from Sam’s shoulder and onto his upper back, then moved his other wrist out of Sam’s loose grip and put his arm around him, then leaned in close against him, tucking his face into Sam’s neck. Acting on instinct, Sam put his own arms around Dean, pulling him a little closer, their chests touching, his face grazing Dean’s hair.
It wasn’t just a hug, Sam knew. This was an embrace, long and intimate, but it seemed to be just what Dean needed to deal with the frustration of time wasted and futile effort. The tension slowly seeped out of his body and he loosened in Sam’s arms. The shift in their position on the bed had put the neon light directly in Sam’s eyes, sin-red, like the blood hammering in his ears, filling his dick, rock-hard just from this. The feel of their chests pressed together, Dean’s warm breath on his neck, and the smell of cheap shampoo from his hair was enough to turn Sam on, and it was terrifying. He was playing with fire, and he’d known that from the start, but he hadn’t thought he’d be set alight like this from so little, aware of the blood coursing through his whole body as he futilely wanted.
He couldn’t let Dean know how he was feeling, however. He’d probably punch him, and god knows he’d deserve it. Instead, he kept his breathing as controlled as possible, and rubbed a palm on Dean’s back in a way he hoped was calming. It seemed to work, as Dean relaxed and eased his body into Sam’s, bringing them even closer, and Sam felt him sigh into his neck, warm and intimate. He bit his lip as he tried not to react, glad that Dean couldn’t see his face right then.
Time stretched, with Dean feeling warm and pliant in his arms, just as Sam wanted, but trying to keep his self control and not give away his arousal added an ache to the embrace. Focusing on keeping his breaths even made him aware of every second ticking, and the feel of the blood pounding in his veins made every heartbeat last for minutes. He had no idea how long they spent like that, just holding each other, Dean softening and calming, while Sam tensed up with shame and guilt, but he let Dean take the time he needed, being there for Dean just as he had when Sam had needed him.
Eventually, Dean moved his face from Sam’s neck, and they untangled their arms from each other, Sam making sure to get control of his expression in the short moment of disengaging. When they were separate again, just two brothers sitting together on a bed, Sam had managed to arrange his face into a blank expression, but Dean hadn’t, and he looked almost shy.
“Thanks, Sam.” He awkwardly patted Sam’s shoulder, looking at the floor as he did so.
“Any time, you know that.”
But as he stood up, turning so that Dean wouldn’t notice the bulge in his jeans, Sam knew he definitely had a problem. And he had no idea what to do about what he’d started.
——
They’d driven for hours, leaving Cape Girardeau and Cassie far behind them. While Dean had shrugged off his question about whether this life was worth it when it meant losing a chance of something more, he’d been quiet the whole journey, pretending to sleep behind his sunglasses while Sam drove, and turning the music up too loud for conversation when they switched.
Sam wondered what his brother was thinking about.
He himself spent most of the journey thinking about Dean, and what he’d learnt the last few days. Any claim that he was happy with how his life was, just hooking up, getting laid and moving on, had been exposed as a facade. He’d only known Cassie for such a short time, but he’d told her everything. The secrecy and the isolation weighed so much more heavily on Dean than he let anyone know.
It wasn’t fair. Neither of them had chosen this life, but it had been forced on them when they were just kids, and now Dean couldn’t imagine anything more for himself. Sam felt a flicker of an old rage and resentment in his chest, as he looked at his brother with a fresh understanding.
He obviously wanted and needed more, but was so entrenched in this life their dad had forced upon them that he could see no way to have anything different. Dean couldn’t see a path where he could have the life or the intimacy that he so clearly craved. Sam could see that now, and he also knew that Dean would never admit to it.
Sam spent the time he should be sleeping watching Dean as he drove, his own heart aching for his brother, and wondering what he could say or do to bring comfort to him. He knew that this search for their father was isolating them further, and enmeshing them ever closer, and he didn’t know how to stop it. Or if he wanted to stop it.
If he was being honest with himself, what he actually wanted was more. It terrified him, because the more time they spent side by side, the more he wanted.
He had too much to think about to sleep. Which was why, when the clock hit midnight and Dean was starting to fade, he was exhausted himself.
“I’m beat, Sammy. Gonna have to sleep in the car for a bit.” Dean eyed Sam from the driver’s seat. “I know you haven’t slept today, and there isn’t a motel for hours.”
Sam nodded tiredly at him; he’d rather sleep on a car seat than die in a car wreck, after all. “Yeah, no problem.”
Dean pulled the car off the road into a bleak, barren field; unhoed and unsowed, it looked abandoned, so hopefully no farmer would show up to chase them off. He switched the engine off, and they both stepped outside, opening the back door to grab their duffel bags.
They brushed their teeth with bottled water, spitting out the toothpaste into the verge. This routine was practiced, years of preparing to sleep cramped up on leather seats meaning they didn’t have to think about it.
Sam always took the back seat, because there was a little more room to tuck his legs in there, and reached for the door handle automatically. He was surprised to feel Dean’s fingers, chilled from the wind, close around his wrist as he did so.
He turned to look at him, and was surprised at the expression on Dean’s face. Unsure, and a little lost, his hair tousled and messy, he looked unusually young and vulnerable.
“Can I sleep there with you?”
Sam stared as Dean bit his lower lip, and he thought his brother might actually look a little scared. As if he was sure Sam would turn him away and leave him to sleep alone. Sam could feel his own face soften with affection and sympathy.
“Of course you can.”
Dean’s face relaxed instantly, and he smiled slightly, that small, secret way that made Sam want to pull him close every time. The fingers unwrapped from his wrist, and Sam opened the door and slid into the car.
He lay down on the seat, leaning down to pull the slightly scratchy but warm blanket from under the seat as he did so. Dean followed him, closing the door awkwardly behind him and climbing on top of Sam, who pulled the blanket over his shoulders.
They shifted together, arranging the blanket over themselves, legs moving and slotting into a familiar pattern, Sam’s left leg between both of Dean’s. He felt Dean rest his head on his chest, hair brushing Sam’s chin and his hands settling on Sam’s shoulders. Sam lifted his left arm from its position between his own body and the back of the seat and let it slide across Dean’s back, the leather of his jacket smooth and creaking a little as they adjusted, until his hand rested on Dean’s left hip, gently pulling him a little closer.
His right arm was hanging off the side of the seat; there had been a time when they had both fitted on the seat comfortably with room to spare, but that had been a long time ago. Back then, he had been the one with his face pillowed on Dean’s chest, and it had been by necessity, with dad taking up the front seat. He’d always felt safe and comforted like that, hearing Dean’s heart beat in his chest underneath him, his arms holding him so he wouldn’t fall, and the familiar, homely smell of leather seats and what he now knew was gunpowder enveloping him as he fell asleep.
He hoped he was doing the same now for Dean.
Sam moved his head slightly, pressing his nose into Dean’s hair, which was soft in spite of the cheap motel room shampoo he always used, and let his lips touch against Dean’s forehead. It was as light as he could make it, not firm enough to really be a kiss, still room to pretend, but just enough pressure to show Dean he was open to it, if that’s what Dean wanted.
Dean lifted his head, and shifted position just slightly, then raised himself on arms braced against Sam’s body, and looked down at him. He still looked shaken, in a way Sam had never seen him before, and then Dean carefully, tentatively leaned in and kissed him.
The kiss was soft, gentle, with no tongues or biting. It felt as sweet and innocent as Sam’s first teenage kiss, which was absurd, because kissing his older brother on the backseat of the car, when he was suddenly and painfully aware of their dicks hard against each other’s thigh, shouldn’t feel anything like that pure.
Dean broke the kiss with a sigh, then moved back down to rest his head back on Sam’s chest.
“Night, Sammy.”
He drew his right hand up and found Dean’s hand on his shoulder, letting it close around it.
“Night, Dean.”
He listened to Dean’s breathing as it slowly steadied into sleep, the smell of leather, gunpowder, and generic shampoo all around them. Dean was warm and comforting in his arms, and it wasn’t long before his eyes were closing too.
—-
The next morning, Sam woke to the feel of Dean shifting above him, stretching stiffened muscles from the awkward, cramped position they both fell asleep in. Sam tried to move his left leg, wincing at how locked up and uncomfortable it felt from being jammed underneath the front seat all night.
“Forgot how much space you take up, Sammy. Probably didn’t need me here all night.”
Dean was still very close, but avoiding Sam’s eyes. He guessed that Dean was a little embarrassed by wanting to curl up with him all night, looking for comfort that he pretended he didn’t need.
“Hey, it’s fine. Really. You’re warm, dude, and it was freezing last night.” Giving Dean an out for what he really wanted had always been the easiest way to defuse things, and he felt Dean relax almost immediately.
They were both hard against each other again, and Dean awkwardly lifted his hips from Sam in a way that was obviously meant to minimize how much contact they made with each other’s cocks. Dean pulled the blanket off, let it drop to the car floor, and sat up just enough to snap open the car door by Sam’s head, then slid out.
Sam followed him, clumsy from stiffness, and they both stood by the car, stretching out necks and arms tentatively, assessing how much the less than ideal sleeping position had jacked them up. After a quick self-audit, Sam decided the worst was his legs from being scrunched-up, but a few moments of walking around and they already felt looser.
“I’m gonna go take a leak.” Dean said, easily and casual, any unease at how they spent the night already evaporating. Sam was relieved; he hated seeing how Dean would deny himself basic human needs, because it had been drilled into him that he had to put others first, or that it made him weak.
Taking a leak. This had been code for years, and they both knew all too well what it meant. I might be a bit longer because I really gotta jack off. Sam felt a hot jolt in his groin, the idea that Dean needed it from spending the night curled up against him making him feel arousal, fondness, affection, twisted up in his stomach and chest, followed by a stab of guilt. He had started this in the wake of his grief over Jess, and he still missed her every day. It felt like a betrayal to want someone else, worse that it was Dean, but he couldn’t change how he felt.
“Yeah, me too.” Sam replied, trying not to look nervous.
He caught Dean’s eye, and saw surprise, shock, then something else. Something raw, and heated, and for just a moment, Sam thought Dean was going to reach for him, push him against the car door and cross a line they could never, ever undo.
Instead, his brother nodded briefly, then turned and walked towards some large bushes at the edge of the field.
Sam felt tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying fade slightly from his body, and an odd pang of disappointment. It was followed by a rush of shame, because he knew he shouldn’t want to cross that line. Hell, he should be running as far away from it as he possibly could.
It’s what he should do, he knew. But that wasn’t what he wanted.
He walked in the opposite direction to Dean, where a small clump of white-barked trees, bare and skeletal-looking, huddled together at the edge of the field, skinny branches pale and stark against the iron-gray sky. Once he reached them, he picked out a tree closest to the middle to lean against, hoping it would give him some cover, and hastily unzipped his jeans. Sam pulled his dick out, wrapping his hand around it roughly, not wanting to spend time on this - when he used the code, it was usually the shower he was jerking it in, not outside in some field like a pervert. He stroked once, his mind summoning images of last night, thinking of Dean’s lips against his, twice and he remembered how wide and scared Dean’s eyes had been, then a third time, focusing on how hard they’d both been, and then he was already coming, so hard he felt his knees buckle slightly.
Gasping against the tree, his own breath hanging in the air in front of him in the damp morning chill, his hand sticky from coming harder than he can remember from mental images of his own brother, Sam knew that he was in big trouble. This was so fucking dangerous, becoming so emotionally entangled with his own brother. Especially when he’d had this strange, twisted crush for so long, and knowing that, even if it’s reciprocated, it would always have to be a secret. God knew they had enough secrets to keep already.
He thought about how Dean looked at him just a few minutes ago, and how they’d both been hard against each other, and he was pretty sure that he wasn’t the only one thinking of his brother as he jerked off that morning.
This was getting far too dangerous. But he didn’t know how to stop it, and deep down he knew he didn’t want to.
——
In the few days since they’d left New Paltz, Dean had been looking at him in a way that was appraising yet sympathetic all at once. It was disconcerting, like Dean knew exactly what Sam hadn’t been able to tell him, because he’d read it right from Sam’s mind.
Sometimes, Dean could be much more observant than people gave him credit for. Especially when you didn’t want him to be.
Tonight’s motel room was in Connersville, Indiana, a dying manufacturing town full of empty houses and derelict shops they were stopping off in on their way to a case in Nebraska, the motel threadbare and musty even compared to their usual rooms. Only one lightbulb in the room was working, the single lamp between the two queen size beds, the bed linen didn’t match - Sam’s was lime green, Dean’s a particularly nasty shade of yellow - and full of small holes, and the faded red carpet was worn away to the brown backing fabric in more patches than Sam could count.
He hadn’t looked at the bathroom yet, but he didn’t expect anything good based on what he’d seen everywhere else.
They’d just finished their meal, terrible burgers that tasted of rancid old grease in stale, dry buns which they’d eaten as quickly as they could so they didn’t have to taste them, Sam crunching up the wrapping and wrinkling his nose at the slimy texture of the disintegrating paper as he started to clean up. Before he could leave the table, Dean suddenly spoke.
“I think I get it, now.”
He looked over at Dean, and saw no teasing there, or amusement at Sam’s expense. Such a sincere expression on Dean’s face was frankly unnerving and Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation.
“What do you get?” He tried not to let his wariness show, and keep it casual and light, but he wasn’t sure he pulled it off.
“Why you don’t hook up. It’s… part of why you need what we do. Isn’t it?”
His mouth dry, his throat locked up and feeling like he’d swallowed sand, all Sam could do was nod.
“Whatever it is we’re doing, anyway.” Dean was looking at him seriously, no hint of brotherly teasing on his face. “There’s something I get from it you wouldn’t.’
Sam took a moment to think. “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t do the same for me. It’s hard to explain.”
He chose to ignore the comment about whatever it is we’re doing, because he didn’t know what that was. He didn’t think there were any words to describe or explain that to anyone, or that there was a single other person who’d understand outside of this room.
“Yeah, I get that.” His brother’s voice was unusually soft. “I can’t explain it either. I’m not going to stop hooking up. But yeah, I get something different from… our thing, too. And if you want more, you can have it.”
Sam stared at him, wondering if Dean could possibly mean what he suspected he did, and he found himself replying before he could properly think things through.
“Yeah, Dean. I want more.”
Dean stood up, and before Sam had a chance to register what was happening, his hands were on Sam’s face, tilting him upwards, and then Dean was kissing him. It wasn’t like the kiss in the back seat of the car that night; instead, this was deep, possessive almost, and his tongue was in Sam’s mouth, insistent and desperate.
Sam’s brain was screaming at him to stop this, that he’d started and now it was out of control, burning through what flimsy boundaries they’d had and heading somewhere dangerous. He was the one who needed to put an end to this, he was responsible for what was happening. His body, on the other hand, wouldn't let him. Dean’s hands on his face were slippery with grease, his lips had an oily sheen, and his mouth tasted like bad fried food, and it was still everything Sam wanted, impossible to pull himself away from. He’d wanted this for years, thought about it in the dark corners of his mind, never quite managing to smother it with guilt or extinguish it with distance. He might as well tell a forest fire to extinguish itself than stop himself from letting Dean consume him.
He heard himself moan into Dean’s mouth, and that was it. There was no coming back from that. Kissing like before had been skirting dangerous ground, but like this, with their tongues touching and gasping into each other’s mouths, was something they couldn’t pretend was just brotherly comfort. He gave into it fully, letting the pleasure of kissing someone he cared about and had wanted for so long take him over. Dean was fucking good too, teasing along Sam’s lower lip in a way that made him shiver. In the back of his mind, Sam thought of course he’s good, he’s got to be to get laid so often, but before he had a chance to linger on that thought, Dean’s hands had moved to the front of his shirt, pulling him to his feet and starting to tug at the buttons.
Sam had to lean down to kiss Dean now, stooping just a little, his own hands reaching for Dean’s belt buckle without even having to think about it. It was chaotic, messy, with oil-slippery fingers fumbling with buttons, trying to pull off clothing without breaking off their greasy, hungry kissing, and both their boots still on, stumbling around the tiny room. Sam cracked his shin on the bedframe, and Dean’s head hit the headboard as Sam pushed him backwards onto the bed.
Finally, they were on Sam’s bed, shirts off, jeans and underwear around their knees, boots still on, with Sam on top of Dean as he hungrily ground his hips down into his brother’s, their cocks rubbing together, making them both groan.
“I know, Sam. Been a while, yeah?”
Sam could only whine in response, raw and needy. Now they were here like this, he was struggling to hold back from grinding against his brother until they both came. Dean had one hand tangled in Sam’s hair, stroking it almost soothingly.
“I got you, it’s okay, Sammy. Gonna feel so good.”
He felt Dean press one sticky kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his hand moved from Sam’s hair to take both their cocks, holding them together as he pushed his own hips upwards, and they both moaned again, the sound mingling and echoing through the barren motel room. He followed Dean’s lead, wrapping one of his own hands around them both, adding to the pressure and friction.
They both thrusted together, into the tight warmth of their hands, sweat and the pre-come already slicking their cocks and taking the edge off the friction. It was all heat, and closeness, and Sam was overwhelmed by the amount of skin against skin, and someone else’s hand on him. It had been so long, and it was Dean, the source of his most shameful fantasies for years now, and all he could do was moan Dean’s name into the pillow as their hips stutter together.
Dean was holding together a little better, letting his free hand drift over Sam’s back, up his ribs, then into his hair - still a little greasy from their meal - and telling Sam how fucking good he felt. The smell of sweat, bad burgers, and stale air filled the room, but Sam didn’t care. He was too lost in the sound of Dean’s voice, the feel of his skin, and the joy of feeling pleasure with someone he cared about. It burned away any guilt and shame he might have felt, and let him just lose himself in sensation.
He could feel Dean’s breath on his neck, hot and intimate as he whispered a litany of adoration into Sam’s skin. He was losing track of Dean’s words, and he had no rhythm to his movements as he started to shake.
“Gonna come, Dean.” He was shocked by how broken his voice sounded, rough and hoarse through bitten-raw lips.
“Yeah, Sammy. Wanna hear you come.” Dean sounded wrecked too, in a way Sam had never heard before.
That was enough, and Sam felt himself come, sudden and hard, shaking against Dean’s body and muffling his cries into the pillow. Dean kept working his hand against them both, murmuring encouragement as Sam finished in his arms.
He was sweaty, sticky, and he’d collapsed on top of Dean without even realizing as he’d come harder than he could ever remember. He pulled himself back up on one still-shaking arm, pressed a kiss to Dean’s damp forehead, and took Dean’s cock in his own hand completely, pushing Dean’s hand away.
“Let me get you off?” The question was nervous on his lips, and he was relieved when Dean groaned underneath him, followed by a mutter of ”Fuck, yes, Sammy.”
He started to work his hand on Dean’s cock, setting a rhythm similar to what they had before, and it didn’t take long before Dean was arching up on the bed, and Sam could feel Dean’s hands clutching at his shoulders. He looked down at Dean’s face, cheeks flushed just the right amount, his eyes closed tightly and the eyelashes clumped together with sweat, and he was moaning Sam’s name through swollen, shiny lips. God, he’s so beautiful Sam thought, almost reverentially, as he watched his brother come apart from his hand.
Dean was gasping on the bed, his hands down by his sides now as he came down. Sam looked at Dean’s stomach, sticky with both their come, and the reality of what they had just done hit him, fear and worry twisting in his gut, making him feel sick. This was something irreversible, and if Dean regretted this, it would destroy their relationship forever. He couldn’t stop himself from being terrified that Dean would panic about this, even though Dean had initiated it, because this was such a weird, fucked up thing they’d just done. If he was being honest, he couldn’t blame Dean if he was horrified.
All Sam could do was stare down at his brother as he stared back, their heavy breathing filling the room.
The minutes stretched out endlessly, and Sam waited for Dean to push him away and jump off the bed in disgust and horror, and maybe tell Sam to never contact him again. He was suddenly very aware of how heavy his boots were, the sensation of grease on his face and body, and how uncomfortably scratchy the denim around his knees was. They’d been so horny and frenzied they hadn’t even washed their hands after dinner, or gotten completely naked.
Finally, Dean gave a long, satisfied-sounding sigh, and raised his right hand to cup Sam’s face tenderly. Sam leaned into it, relief blooming tentatively.
“What’s wrong, Sammy?”
The tone was so gentle, so full of concern, that Sam couldn’t help but smile a little. He shook his head slightly.
“Nothing. I just… I thought you might think we shouldn’t have done this, that’s all.’
Dean’s hand stroked up into Sam’s hair. “Hey, my idea, yeah?”
Sam nodded hesitantly, still a little unsure.
“Honestly, I thought the same about you. You good with this, Sam?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” Sam braced himself on the bed with his now-sticky right hand, freeing his left to touch Dean’s face, mirroring how Dean was touching him.
“Then maybe we should both stop worrying so much.”
He relaxed a little as Dean pulled him down into a soft kiss, leisurely and gentle, the heat and need that had taken over them both now more controlled. Dean broke the kiss, and sighed. “Damn, we need a shower after that. Think there’s enough hot water?”
“Probably not for one shower, let alone two, in this dump.”
“Mmmm.” Dean’s voice was practically a purr, languid and post-coital underneath him, in a way Sam didn’t think he would ever forget. “Guess we’ll just have to share. C’mon, up you get.”
Dean gave Sam’s shoulder a little push, and Sam clumsily pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, feeling uncoordinated from having just come hard, and his movements restricted by his jeans. He bent down and started unlacing his boots, and setting them neatly under the bed, then took his jeans, underwear, and socks off, leaving them on the floor. Dean was beside him doing the same thing; Sam was used to being naked in front of Dean, because it was unavoidable in the tight quarters they lived in, but like this, both sticky with each other’s quickly drying come, Sam felt an unfamiliar pang of embarrassment. This was, after all, uncharted territory.
Dean was standing up already, stretching his shoulders out, apparently nowhere near as out of his depth as Sam was.
“You seem more relaxed about this than I expected, Dean. I thought you might freak a bit.”
Dean shrugged, just a little awkwardly. “I told you, we’re both freaks. We do a lot of things other people would think are pretty screwed up. I thought about this since we slept in the car that time. It ain’t hurting anyone, and if it’s what you need, and you’re good with it, then I’m good with it. Can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it too.”
He thought about that for a moment. Dean was resolutely practical, and had always embraced the way how they lived set them apart from other people in a way Sam never could. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that Dean would be more comfortable about crossing this line. Or maybe he was just playing it big brother cool; either way, he didn’t seem about to start swinging punches, and that was good enough for Sam.
“That makes sense, I guess.” Sam said, a little more certain now. He also had lingering thoughts of Jess, and how betrayed and disgusted she would feel at what he’d just done, and how he’d felt about Dean before he even met her. That was his guilt to deal with, however. As long as things were okay between himself and Dean, he could deal with that later.
“‘Course it does. Now, shower.”
The bathroom was filthy, the towels as musty as the bedlinen, and the shower had three dead spiders that Sam had to remove before Dean would go near it. Once in, they washed quickly and efficiently, a well-practiced system from years of motels with limited hot water.
The pitiful stream went cold halfway through, even with their two minute wash, and they brushed their teeth side by side shivering as they were wrapped in already-damp towels, a situation as familiar as breathing. Sam started to feel grounded by the routine and familiarity, old rituals from so far back in his childhood he couldn’t remember them beginning.
This will be okay, Sam found himself thinking as he spat his toothpaste into the chipped avocado sink.
Once they’d dried off the best they could, and thrown their towels over the rack again, they headed back into the bedroom. Sam grabbed some underwear to sleep in and heard a throat being cleared from the other bed as he pulled them on. He looked around to see Dean in his own bed already, his shoulders bare, looking over at him.
“Your bed’s all gross. You can share mine, if you want?”
He looked down at the hideous green fabric, stained with bodily fluids and burger grease, then back over at Dean, who looked a little hopeful. That was twice now that Dean had asked Sam to spend the night with him, so yeah, Dean definitely got something from this too.
“Sounds good to me.”
Sam crossed the room to Dean’s bed and let himself be pulled under the sheets, arranged on his side with his head on Dean’s chest. The bed was smaller than even their usual motel queens, and their legs tangled together in knots so they could fit. Once they settled, just about comfortable, Dean’s hands played with his hair, caressed his back, and ran soothingly down his ribs, and he relaxed against him a little more.
He felt Dean nuzzle into his hair. “I know you have special shampoo you try to hide from me. It’s girly as all hell, but I gotta say, it smells good.”
“You’re an idiot.” Sam said, affectionately and half-muffled against Dean’s chest.
Yeah, they were going to be okay. Home used to be baked cookies and floral perfume, but as he inhaled the scent of musty bedlinen, fried food, and gun oil, he thought that maybe this was home now.
——
They’d been back with Dad for a few days now, and the routine and rhythm they’d worked out together slipped away, like music when an instrument slightly out of tune joins in, making everything clashing and discordant from its presence. The habits of comfort that they had gotten into had to be put aside for now, they both knew without having to discuss it. If their dad even suspected that they’d been sleeping in the same bed together, let alone having sex, he’d go into a fit of rage, and Sam knew exactly who it would be focused on. Never mind that Sam had been the one to initiate; Dean would be blamed for corrupting his younger brother, because their father blamed Dean for nearly everything Sam did that John didn’t like.
Sam hadn’t noticed until they were gone how, outside of the more deliberate touching at night on and in bed, that their days had slowly become filled with small, casual touches, similar to what he’d had with Jess, like a quick hand on a shoulder as he walked past Dean, or Dean ruffling his hair over breakfast. Their legs would casually bump together under tables, and their arms would brush as they walked. They’d had to dial all that back as well, and Sam missed the constant reassurance it gave as much as anything more obviously intimate.
He was pretty sure that he wasn’t the only one feeling the loss. He and Dean had snapped at each other in a way they hadn’t when it had been just the two of them, dangerously close to an old dynamic of Sam lashing out at their father’s control, while Dean attempted to keep the peace between them.
And then Dean had spoken up when Dad had been berating him about not calling him about Sam’s visions, and it felt like everything shifted back into place and they were in sync again. He’d never heard his brother speak to Dad like that, and while he’d hidden it a little, deep down he was pleased and proud. He had always hated how Dean would become smaller, somehow, in front of their father, curling into himself and following whatever direction he was given. To see him arguing back had Sam fighting the urge to hug him in congratulations and solidarity. He knew what it must have taken for Dean to have the strength to do it.
Now, Dad had left with the fake Colt, and it was just the two of them once more. After he’d driven off, they had gone back into the motel room, with a few hours left before they had to go and carry out their part of the mission. Dean sat down on the side of the bed with a sigh. Sam joined him, sitting to Dean’s left as always, their shoulders just brushing together, and Dean reached out to take both Sam’s hands in his.
He closed his eyes, letting himself begin to feel grounded by the touch, savoring the warmth of Dean’s skin and the intimacy in the way he brushed his thumbs over Sam’s knuckles, with a gentleness most people wouldn’t expect from Dean’s strong, calloused fingers. But he knew better. Sam had felt those hands on his body all his life, and they were capable of the most tender care.
Sam was on the receiving end of that now, as Dean’s right hand moved to Sam’s shoulder, holding him in closer, their foreheads touching.
“Missed this, Sammy.” Dean said, his voice soft and warm, his breath hot against Sam’s cheek. Sam felt a little flutter in his chest at that; he knew he shouldn’t, and the fact that they’d had to tiptoe around Dad should have been the wake up call they needed to stop this.
But he just couldn’t. Even the guilt he’d felt about it being a betrayal of Jess had been pushed into the background of his mind, because he needed it too much. And judging by how quickly he’d started touching Sam, Dean couldn’t either.
“Mmm. Me too.” He moved his left hand, now free, to Dean’s thigh and squeezed lightly. “Never heard you speak to Dad like that before.” He was curious how Dean would answer, or even if he would, but kept his tone light, not pushing.
“Yeah. I guess that this year, just the two of us, gave me time to think about how he treats us, you know? And you’re right, sometimes it isn’t fair. And if you’re strong enough to speak back to him when he’s wrong, then I gotta try to be too. Told you before, I always admired that about you. You must have been a good influence on me.”
Sam smiled and nodded against Dean’s forehead. “Glad you admit it. And I’m not as pissed off with him as I used to be. Guess we influenced each other.”
They sat like that for a few more moments, Sam feeling some of the restlessness and irritableness he’d been feeling start to slowly fade away, taking in the feeling of being safe that he’d only ever truly felt with Dean. He knew, logically, that they never had been and never would be truly safe, but the comfort of the illusion was enough.
Eventually, he moved away from Dean slightly, raising his hand from Dean’s thigh. “Guess we better start getting ready for tonight. Gotta be prepared.”
Dean patted his shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks, Sammy.”
They spent the rest of the time available working together to get their gear ready for that night, checking and double checking everything in the smooth, practiced drill they’d got down to a fine art.
—-
They’d burned their dad’s body that night.
Everything since that moment of peace in the motel room just after their dad had left with the decoy, things had been frantic, full of terror and pain.
The time Dean had spent in the hospital had been the worst of Sam’s life, exacerbated by Dad sending him from pillar to post, pulling his strings like a puppet as usual. He’d never forget the taste in his mouth when Bobby had told him what the stuff Dad had wanted was actually for, bitter fear that Dean would have gone while he was away on this errand, mixed with anger at the fact that the reason why his dad had sent him on it was for his own obsessive desire for revenge.
Dean had told him more about what was going on and his plans, and he’d been in a fucking coma. Sam’s feelings about his father hadn’t become any less complicated in his death, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to lose him. It did, bone-deep pain layered over the constant ache over Jess that had never gone away.
Being able to sense Dean had been the only thing that had given him hope. That moment by his brother’s hospital bed, the air stale and cloyingly hot, when he couldn’t feel him nearby, had been the bleakest time of the whole ordeal, worse than seeing him being resuscitated. Worse even than the moment they’d called it for Dad. He’d known, in that moment, that he wouldn’t survive losing him too, and all he wanted to do was to crawl into the bed beside his brother and wrap his body around Dean, thinking that, if he could cling tightly enough, maybe he could keep him safe.
Dean had looked so much smaller and more fragile in the bed like that. Seeing his larger than life big brother, who had always been there to look after him and seemed so strong covered in wires and tubes and so very vulnerable, had been the most frightening moment he’d had in a lifetime of them. He’d had so many things that he’d wanted to say, confess just how long he’d wanted to kiss him, how he had been the only thing positive keeping Sam going since losing Jess. But he couldn’t. Hospital staff had probably heard their share of shocking bedside confessions, but this would have been a new one even for the most experienced. He’d settled for something about them being brothers again, which didn’t even begin to cover his real feelings.
He’d also felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. At the time, he was sure he’d done the right thing in not killing the demon, and his dad alongside it, but what his dad said played on his mind. It had also brought the guilt he felt about Jess back, the constant nagging pain in the back of his mind pulled to the front, raw and bleeding once again.
If you'd killed that damn thing when you had the chance, none of this would have happened. Your brother would be awake right now.
And now Dad was dead anyway, and the demon was still alive. Maybe his dad had been right, and he had done the wrong thing.
He’d been thinking about that again as they watched his body burn, the smoke drifting into their faces. Usually Sam tried not to think about the fact that the ash from these pyres contained pieces of the person being cremated, that they were being coated in a layer of human remains; it was different this time, however, and somehow almost a comfort in a way he couldn’t explain to even himself.
Afterwards, they went back to yet another cheap motel room, another place that smelt of stale air, old smoke, and not enough cheap cleaning product. Just another faded room, blending in with every other grimy, threadbare place they’d ever slept, the smell of transience and decay so consistent between them that it almost smelled like home. They climbed into the shower together and tried to wash off the ash that covered their exposed skin, but the weak trickle of water and the terrible shower gel, which refused to lather up against their skin at all, were nowhere near enough to get it totally off their hands and faces. Dean still had a gray streak across his forehead, and Sam could see traces of ash clinging in his cut-up knuckles.
Dean had been wordless, and unusually blank for him. Sam was so used to seeing Dean’s emotions on the surface, coming out in angry shouting, or laughter-filled teasing, that to see him so shuttered was more frightening to Sam than if he was punching the wall, or crying helplessly. He watched as Dean flung his towel to the bathroom floor, then padded over to bed, looking hunched in on himself. It was as unfamiliar and worrying as the frail Dean he’d seen on the hospital bed.
He followed Dean’s lead, throwing his towel on the rack and heading towards his own bag, and they both pulled on clean underwear and t-shirts, wordlessly, by the light of the single lamp between their beds. As he put his t-shirt on, he could hear the bedsprings behind him as Dean climbed into bed.
The smell of smoke was still in their hair as Sam did what he’d wanted to do in the hospital and slid into bed beside Dean, pulling him close and surrounding him with his own long limbs. He knew he couldn’t protect him, but he wanted to hold on to the illusion for at least one night.
Dean tucked his face into Sam’s neck, folding himself willingly into his brother, and whispered, “Just us now, Sammy. We’re all we’ve got”.
His voice sounded smaller too, and younger than Sam thought he’d ever heard it. He inhaled the scent of his brother underneath the smoke - gun oil, leather, something indefinably Dean - and thought Yes, this is what home smells of.
They held each other sleeplessly all through the night, long bleak hours surrounded by the smell of a funeral pyre and old bedlinen. While they lay there, for the first time since starting this unnameable thing between them, Sam thought that maybe something positive could come from it. At least they weren’t both alone in the darkness for this. They had each other.
Sam still didn’t think that it was a good idea for him to have started this. It was so fucked up and weird, he was sure that it couldn’t end in anything other than disaster. To be so emotionally caught up in each other was dangerous and reckless. Sam knew that.
But he also knew that they were both pretty fucked up, their lives were weird and dangerous, and disaster had just happened. If this provided some comfort for them both, then he’d take it now, and pay the price later.