A week before Dean's year is up, Sam goes to the crossroads. Dean doesn't know he's there. He would have tried to stop him if he'd known.

When he gets there, Sam scuffs the ground with the heel of his sneaker, then digs with his hand. It's soft dirt, easy to clear. Sam buries the box he's brought along, packs the dirt down over it and waits.

It only takes a few seconds before Sam feels eyes on him, hears a low chuckle at his back.

"Sam Winchester. I'd been wondering when I'd see you," Sam hears, but the voice is low, too deep and all wrong.

Sam turns. A man is standing at the crossroads. He's wearing a rumpled tuxedo, tie loose and shirt unbuttoned at the top. He's got close-cropped blond hair and a bright flash of a smile, and he's nearly as tall as Dean. Sam catches the tell-tale flash of eyes: he's a demon, all right.

"Are you the one who made the deal with Dean?" Sam asks.

"Yes."

"I thought you were supposed to be a woman."

The demon laughs. "Oh Sam, how heteronormative of you. I am what you want me to be."

It takes a beat for that to click, and then Sam gapes. "But I don't -- I'm not--"

The demon tilts his head curiously. "Are you sure? I really wouldn't be so sure, if I were you."

"Shut up," Sam says. He remembers now: demons tell you the truth sometimes, when they know it'll mess with you, but more often they lie. The demon is just fucking with his head. Focus, he tells himself. Focus. He looks the demon in the eye and says, "I want to make a deal."

The demon grins. "I thought you might."

*

My soul for Dean's, Sam says. The demon agrees. You know how we seal these things, the demon says. Sam knows. A kiss on the lips, and it's weird that the demon is in the shape of a man, but there are other things to worry about. Sam's spent a year practicing for this moment, and now it's time.

You can draw a Devil's Trap in your mind if you're powerful enough, if you want it enough, and Sam is, he does; there's nothing in his life he's wanted more. The demon's tongue is in his mouth, the demon's body is pressing hard against his, and Sam draws the Devil's Trap, draws it fast and true. He traps the demon in it, breaks the demon.

Sam's mind is splitting open, his skull rending itself in two, but Sam holds on, yells and holds on and breaks the demon, and then there is blackness and it is gone.

*

Dean still yells at him for it sometimes but Sam's pretty sure Dean gets it now: when Sam told him he'd do anything to get Dean out of the deal, he wasn't kidding. It nearly killed him but it didn't; he was stronger than the demon and he'd do it again, he'd do it again in an instant.

Dean gets that now.

And mostly they're fine. Mostly there's not anything left to think about. But sometimes Sam thinks about what the demon said. I am what you want me to be.

Sam knows that was just the demon messing with him; he knows it, but he can't stop thinking about it. Sam's always liked girls, always known he did, but he's always been picky about them, too. Dean thinks it's because he wants to have some kind of connection, doesn't want it to just be casual sex, but that's not entirely true. It's also that not every girl catches Sam's eye. Not many at all, actually, and now -- because of the crossroads demon -- he's wondering: is it just because he's picky or it is because girls aren't what he's looking for at all?

At bars Sam waits until Dean's distracted, hustling pool or playing darts, and then Sam lets his eyes wander through the room, lets them settle where they want to settle. It's just because he's curious. And maybe the demon was just fucking with him, but it worked: now that Sam's thinking about guys as a possibility, it's all he can think about. He thinks about broad, calloused hands on his dick, about a flat chest pressed against his own, about being backed against a wall by someone strong enough to push him, and Sam wants it, all of it.

Does that make him gay? It's got to make him at least a little gay. The whole thing should freak him out a lot more than it does. Somehow, though, he's not all that surprised. That probably makes him pretty gay.

He wonders what Dean will say when Sam tells him. Probably not too much. After everything they've been through, Dean's not going to care that Sam is maybe gay.

Sam doesn't want to give Dean a maybe, though. Thinking about guys abstractly, watching them from across a bar, that's one thing; before Sam tells Dean, he wants to be sure.

*

Three weeks after the hellhounds did not come for Dean, Sam's got a dick halfway down his throat, and as for the gay thing? Sam's pretty damned sure.

The guy's name is Matt, and Sam's blowing him in the alley behind a bar in Denver. Sam met him less than an hour ago. Dean was working the pool table, Sam was nursing a beer at the bar, and Matt slid up next to him, said, "Buy you a beer?"

The signs were all there. Sam read them right, and now he's on his knees in an alley. Anyone could walk up and see him, his mouth spread wide around Matt's dick. Sam's moaning like a whore as Matt fucks deep into his throat; Sam loves it, knows his throat is going to be sore and loves it. Matt's groans go straight to Sam's dick. Sam has to grind a hand down on his crotch to keep from coming.

"Sam, I'm gonna--" Matt bites out, tries to pull away.

Sam digs his fingers into Matt's hips, holds him steady and sucks harder all the way down until Matt comes.

Matt jacks him afterwards, short fast strokes; it doesn't take long. They stumble back into the bar, grinning stupidly, their eyes pleasure-wide, and Matt buys him another beer. Sam likes the way it mingles with the taste of come. Matt's hand is on his back, low and out of sight, and there's a low thrumming in his veins.

Sam is definitely gay.

*

Sam's trying to think of how to tell Dean about it, but it turns out he doesn't have to. The next morning Dean looks at him and says, "So, you and that guy last night. Did you do it?"

Sam carefully swallows his sip of coffee. "Yeah," he says. His voice is a little hoarse.

Dean nods. "Are you gay, then?"

Sam worries his lip between his teeth. "Yeah," he says finally. "I guess so."

"Huh," Dean says. "Okay."

And that's the end of that.

*

It doesn't change anything, not really. Sam picks up guys sometimes, blows them or fucks them or lets them fuck him, and he loves it, all of it, can't believe he never figured this out before. Dean's not visibly bothered by it. He doesn't seem to care that it's taken his younger brother twenty-five years to realize he likes dick.

"I always did say you were a little slow, Sammy," Dean tells him with a sly grin.

Sam shoves him, grins right back, and he's happier than he's been in a damned long time.

*

Sam doesn't get it at first, but after a couple of months he realizes Dean's stopped picking up random women in bars. When Sam asks him about it, though, Dean just shrugs.

"Hey, you're trying something new. Why can't I?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asks. There's an odd thrill in his gut.

"Monogamy," Dean says. "I'm kind of starting to wonder if there's something to it."

Sam chokes on a bite of breakfast burrito. Dean pounds his back. "You're joking," Sam wheezes.

"Nope," Dean says cheerfully. "I want to see how the other half lives. I'm curious, Sammy!"

Sam doesn't mention that the last time he got curious, he ended up being gay. Instead he says, "How, exactly, are you planning on being monogamous when we're moving around all the time?"

"I'll figure something out," Dean replies.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him, but Dean just grins and goes back to his breakfast.

But Sam watches Dean more carefully when they go to bars now. He keeps track of how many beers Dean drinks, how many women Dean talks to and for how long. The thing is, the numbers are coming up weird, too few of everything. It's like Dean's not even really trying.

After a while, Sam calls him on it. "You know, to be in a monogamous relationship, you have to actually be dating somebody."

"Fuck you, wiseass," Dean says pleasantly. "I just haven't found the right person yet. I'm working on it."

No, you're not, Sam thinks, but he doesn't say anything. It's stupid, but he doesn't like the idea of Dean as some nameless bimbo's boyfriend. If he's going to date it has to be someone special, someone good enough. It's stupid; Dean doesn't need Sam's approval.

It's not that Sam doesn't want Dean to date. He wants anything that'll make Dean happy. The thing is, Dean doesn't exactly seem unhappy the way things are, just him and Sam, and Sam doesn't want to mess with what's working.

As for Sam, he stops picking up random guys after a while. He was lying to himself before: he does need for sex to be more than a random thing.

And it's kind of nice, not having sex with random people, having it just be him and Dean. They both nearly killed themselves so they wouldn't have to lose each other; Sam thinks they should enjoy what they've earned.

*

It's not like it's never occurred to Sam before. He had it on his mind even before he went to the crossroads, but abstractly; it's just that what the crossroads demon said threw it into sharper relief.

Sam's always been hyperaware of Dean's presence, known the second Dean entered a room, known the exact amount of space Dean takes up at his side. Sam's body has always been more attuned to Dean's than it should have been.

But now, after the crossroads demon, his thought process goes like this:

1. Sam is gay; 2. He's around Dean all the time; 3. Dean is a really good-looking guy; 4. Fucking him seems like a good idea.

Sam tells himself he's only concentrating on it because of the crossroads demon. He's got himself most of the way convinced. He might have been able to get himself all the way convinced if life were fair. Of course, it isn't.

*

The way it goes down is, he walks in on Dean. They're in Ann Arbor, Michigan, working a cursed sorority house case when it happens.

"Dude, this is the kind of case I friggin' live for," Dean crows before catching sight of Sam's frown. "Aww, I'm sorry. Should I ask if there's a cursed frat around for you?"

Sam flips him the bird. He ends up volunteering to do laundry anyway, though, while Dean heads to a bar to try to see what he can learn.

They've got a lot of laundry and Thursday night at nine is a more popular time at the Laundromat than Sam would have guessed. He ends up having to wait on a couple of washers before he can get all of their clothes in. He's glad he brought the laptop and even gladder that he's picking up wireless from somewhere nearby. Three hours would've been a long time to play solitaire.

Finally all the laundry's done. Sam loads it into the back seat of the Impala and heads for the hotel.

He isn't really paying attention as he goes to the door. Dean hasn't picked up anybody in months, not since the start of his supposed monogamy kick, so Sam's started to let his guard down where Dean's concerned. He doesn't bother to double-knock on motel doors before opening them anymore. Dean hasn't been bringing anybody home lately; there's been no need to.

Tonight, though, Sam's wrong.

He opens the door and stares: Dean's on his back on the bed and a girl with long brown hair is riding him. Her hair spills down over her shoulders, shielding Dean's face from view. They're close, both of them; Sam can tell from her high gasping breaths and from his brother's deep groans. That would explain why they haven't noticed he's there. There's a stitch in Sam's side like he's been running for too long and he can't figure out just what is causing it, why it won't go away.

Sam doesn't know how long he stays frozen in place, but it's long enough for Dean's muscles to clench, for him to thrust hard upwards once and come, biting out a single word, guttural but perfectly clear:

"Sam."

He heard it right -- he can tell from the churning of his guts, from the fact that the stitch in his side is gone. His body works on autopilot. Back through the door, pulling it to slow-quiet. Unlock the Impala, lie down on the back seat, do not think. Pretend to be asleep until it is true.

*

It's after two a.m. when the girl leaves. Dean opens the door of the Impala, looking guilty as hell, and says, "Hey. You can come in now."

Sam slides out and stretches, his spine popping. It's been a long time since he could fit comfortably in the back seat and he's grateful for the motel bed. He burrows his head into the pillow and breathes in cheap laundry detergent. It's almost enough to cover the smell of sex.

*

They don't talk about any of it in the morning: the sex, the fact that Sam walked in on them, what Dean said when he came. Sam's not sure Dean's even aware of the last of those. He thinks Dean knows he walked in on them, but Sam can't be sure. If Dean's not going to bring it up, though, Sam's not going to, either.

*

It could have gone on just fine, if Sam hadn't walked in on Dean again.

Sam had gone to the library to research a case. What looked like an angry spirit is attacking teenage boys in Barrows, Minnesota -- only after about five minutes of research it's clear it's not a spirit at all. It might be a trickster, Sam thinks, only he can't be sure. The one thing he knows is that whatever it is, they're back to square one.

When Sam gets back to the hotel room, though, it becomes clear that Dean thought Sam was going to be gone for much longer than he was. Dean's on his back on the bed just like before, but there's no girl this time. There's only Dean.

He's pumping his cock with his left hand. His right leg is bent up and his right hand is disappearing between his legs, fingering himself with long slow strokes. He's panting. Sam's lube is open on the nightstand.

Dean's eyes are closed and he's too close to have heard Sam enter the room. He twists his fingers inside himself, arches up and comes. There's a name on his lip, recognizable even before the sound is out of his mouth:

"Sam," Dean gasps, shooting all over his hand and stomach. Sam's dick throbs against his jeans, and then Dean's eyes fly open. "Sam."

Sam wants to flee. He means to, but Dean's eyes are on him and he can't. Dean pulls his fingers out of his ass -- too fast, Sam thinks as Dean winces -- and then sits up, shifting so that his feet are hanging over the end of the bed. The blood is pounding against Sam's temples, and there's something in Dean's look that makes Sam wonder: does Dean know what he said? Does Dean think Sam didn't hear it? Then Dean's face changes. He does know, Sam thinks. He knows what he said and he knows Sam heard him. Sam is frozen in place.

But then, Dean cracks a smile and says, "Hey man, it's no big deal. It's just something that happens, you know? It doesn't mean anything."

Sam's pretty sure Dean is still talking, only Sam isn't hearing the words. Sam is concentrating instead on the way Dean's smile is strained around the edges, on the way Dean's fingers curl nervously into the bedspread.

Sam swallows. He's got an idea of what's going on, has had one for a while, if he's honest. Ever since Dean stopped picking up girls, maybe even before that. He doesn't know for sure, and he doesn't think he can ask Dean, not outright. But he steps forward, puts a hand on Dean's shoulder and says, "Dean?"

It's as close as Sam can get to saying, What do you want? He has to trust that Dean will understand it.

Dean does. He looks up into Sam's eyes -- Sam is struck by how much shorter Dean is than he, how small -- and then Dean grabs him, lightning-quick, and pulls him down. Sam is sprawled all over Dean, awkward angles and he's got to be crushing Dean, but Sam's the one who feels like he can't breathe.

They lie there for a moment, a tangle of arms and legs, until Dean whispers, "You okay with this?"

That breaks the moment, breaks Sam's fear. Sam laughs hysterically. "Am I okay with this? Are you okay with this?"

Dean gives Sam a long, withering look. "Dude. When I said I wanted to give monogamy a try, what did you think I meant?"

Sam groans. "That is the cheesiest thing I've ever heard. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" But he's grinning; he can't help it.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Can we skip the mood-killing and go straight to the sex?"

Sam swallows, considers asking Dean to stop and think about this a little, because a) it's incest and b) last time Sam checked, Dean isn't gay, except Dean was just fingering himself -- which isn't definitive, Sam knows that, although maybe it kind of is since Dean's pulling Sam's shirt over his head now and working Sam's jeans open and even if there were a need to talk about this, the time for talking has passed.

It seems to take forever before Sam's naked, and at the same time it's entirely too soon. Sam's breath hitches at the first touch of their cocks. He's done this a dozen times before. It shouldn't feel like something new, and yet it does: it feels like something different entirely.

Dean rocks up, hooks his legs around Sam's waist and pulls him down to kiss him on the lips, closed-mouthed. What he wants is clear from his eyes, hot and heavy-lidded. Sam doesn't even have to ask. Dean cants his hips up anyway and groans, "Yeah, Sam. Do it."

Something tightens in Sam's chest. "Okay," he agrees, just that easy. He shifts forward and reaches for the lube.

"Condoms are in the drawer," Dean breathes.

Sam bites his lip, trying to keep himself under control, and fishes for a condom. Finally he locates one and grabs the lube. His hand is trembling. He thinks to ask again if this is okay, but Dean's eyes are trusting and he knows that it is.

Sam takes a breath then tears the condom open and slides it on. He slicks his fingers and his dick. Another breath and he pushes a finger into his brother's ass, slick-slow. Dean's muscles are still loose from before; Sam can fit another finger in and still not meet resistance. Sam groans as he curls his fingers up, feeling for Dean's prostate. He doesn't think he's hitting it yet, but then Dean's eyes shoot wide.

"Okay," Dean pants. "Okay, Sam, now."

Sam presses a kiss to his jaw. "Roll over."

"No," Dean says. "I don't -- you can do it this way, can't you?"

Emotion slips across his face, too quick for Sam to catch. Sam watches him for a long moment, hoping for it to reappear; it doesn't. "It'll hurt more this way," Sam says finally, but Dean recognizes the words for what they are: Sam agreeing to it.

"That's okay." Dean kisses him, tongue sliding along the line of Sam's teeth. "It's okay."

Sam misses the first time he tries to push into Dean, he's so nervous. Dean doesn't comment, just rocks his legs up impossibly higher and crosses his ankles behind Sam's neck. Sam's never been more aware that it's the middle of the afternoon, no darkness to veil what they're doing, and he's about to fuck his brother.

But then Dean says again, "It's okay," and Sam knows that it is. After all that they've been through already, after all that they've done, Dean isn't going to let this not be okay.

Sam lines his dick up and pushes in slowly. Dean screws his eyes shut. Sam waits for him to adjust before he starts to move: shallow thrusts at first, then deeper when Dean groans, "More."

Dean keeps his eyes open after that, his pupils large and irises dark. He gasps out stuttery breaths when Sam hits his prostate, digs his fingers hard into Sam's hips.

And Sam, he feels like his organs are too large for his skin, like he's full to the point of overflowing. If he hadn't managed to destroy the demon, Sam thinks, if he hadn't succeeded, he never would have known this, but more than that, he wouldn't have had Dean at all -- it's too much for Sam, all at once, and he comes inside of Dean, gasping out words he can barely hear over the rush of his orgasm and the dull roaring in his ears: God Dean love you sorry don't leave me can't--

He pushes his hand between their bodies and finds Dean's dick. Sam jacks it slow and firm and Dean comes almost immediately, biting down on the soft skin of Sam's shoulder.

*

Sam wakes up hours later and thinks to panic. It's early evening, light still filtering through the blinds, and his brother is naked and sticky on the bed beside him. Their legs are entwined. Sam goes to disentangle himself, but the movements waken Dean, who blinks his eyes open and fixes Sam with a lazy smile.

"Hey, none of that, now." Dean touches his thumb to Sam's jaw. "We're okay, Sam, you know that."

The same feeling from before is there, that of being full to the point of overflowing, but it's a good kind of too-much now. Sam knows that Dean is here to stay. Still he hesitates, swallowing, before saying, "I guess . . . I guess I just needed to hear you say it."

Dean stares at him for a moment, then kisses him on the mouth. "I always did say you were a little slow," he replies.

"Hey!"

Dean's smiling at him fondly, though, and nothing, nothing about this moment could be wrong.