He’s angry. Dean can tell he’s angry. A blind, deaf, and dumb three year old could tell that Sam is angry. He knows why, he isn’t that dense yet, but it’s not like he’s never done this before, rushed in with no help, no back up, no idea what he’d find when he got there. Time was it happened every week or there about. Even if he isn’t sorry, even if he’d do the same thing again in a heartbeat, he knows Sam likes the gesture, the words. He flops down on the bed nearest the door and addresses the ceiling. “Look, I’m sorry.”

They haven’t had a lot of need for personal space in the past weeks, since it came out of him and Sam grabbed his arm and wouldn’t let go, but Sam won’t get near him right now. Sat pressed against the door in the Impala, two steps in front of him all the way to the room.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Sam continues picking at his clothes, folding and refolding things in the duffel, like anything could keep them from wrinkling. He’s still wearing the shirts Dean stole and Dean thinks he should always go designer. Something about the way Sam wears them.

Dean sits up, hands reaching out, apologies and promises on his fingertips. “You-”

Sam jerks away. “Is this how it’s going to be now?” He wads up the t-shirt he’s been holding and rounds on Dean. “You running into any fucking situation, back up or no, I mean, hell, even knowing what you’re dealing with at all, because you don’t care anymore? I thought we were past that. I thought-” He trails off, bites his tongue and turns away, hands clenching against his legs.

Dean reaches his hand to Sam, apologies on his fingertips. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t try to tell me that. Dean.” He backs up when Dean stands too and it explodes a ball of panic welling up in Dean’s chest and he can’t handle it, he’d do anything to fix that. He needs his hands on Sam yesterday. “You knew what you were doing,” Sam’s still saying. “You knew what it could do. If it hadn’t made that stupid mistake, you’d be hobgoblin toast.”

“And my alternative was what?”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“You were down for the count, I did what I had to do.” Should still have the bump on his head to prove it.

Sam’s hand flinches, like he wants to brush it over his head but catches himself in time, doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction. “You could have fallen back, regrouped.”

“Given it a chance to get away? Not happening.”

“You are so stupid!”

And that’s nothing new. “Dude, what happened to not wanting to talk about it?”

“You started it. I thought-” Bites it off again and Dean can’t have that anymore.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Time was, Dean would have let it go, slide under the carpet with all their other secrets, all the other things they never say. But that was then, when there was more to their lives than just each other, what seemed like an army of people between them and the bitter end. Now it’s just them and Dean’s grasping at straws and loose ends and scattered thoughts and incomplete sentences and he won’t let Sam go again. “No,” he says, “that’s the second time you’ve started that sentence and despite all previous evidence to the contrary, I actually do want to hear the end of it.”

Arms at his side, head down, Sam’s the picture of defeat and weariness and Dean would give anything, anything to take that away. He almost can’t hear Sam when he says “I thought you didn’t want to die anymore.”

“Sam-”

“I thought I was enough.”

“God, Sam.” And suddenly it’s like he can’t get close enough, like one more second without being pressed so tightly against his brother that nothing, absolutely nothing could tear them apart would kill him. Sam doesn’t back away and the panic turns to something else, something warmer and happier and maybe he doesn’t deserve it but Sam does. He presses Sam against the wall and curses the good genes Sam got that he has to hitch himself up on his toes to kiss him.

Simple, just a press of their lips together but it’s so much more, it’s everything and Dean wants to climb inside him, poke around in Sam’s massive brain and his massive, bruised heart and he knows if it were possible that Sam would let him.

There are times, when he goes outside their hotel room, when he turns on the TV and sees normal families, normal people interacting with each other in normal ways and he gets smacked over the head with the utter normality of the whole wide fucking world, times that he knows this is wrong. Times he knows he should step back, be the older brother and take responsibility and just say no for once, if not for himself for Sam. But he’ll never be that guy. Never be that guy that’s been given anything, everything he’s ever wanted in one slightly awkward and unwieldy package, that guy that can have all that and say no. Sam’s holding onto him, hands clenched in his shirt and his head is tilted at just the right angle and his knees are bent just the right way and Dean knows that Sam doesn’t want that either.

It’s too late for that anyway.

He hooks his fingers in Sam’s belt loops and pulls him away from the wall and Sam won’t let go of him long enough to make it to the bed. It’s an awkward amble, legs and arms tangled together, Sam’s mouth still pressed to his and he swings Sam around like they’re at the junior prom, slow and easy like he’s practiced that move before and maybe he has, but he never thought he’d use it on Sam. Sam lets out a surprised grunt when his knees hit the bed and he tumbles down, eyes wide and his hands stretched out toward Dean. Dean slips his shirt over his head and damn if he’ll ever get used to that look on his brother’s face when he does, hungry and aching and everything he never thought he’d see directed at him. Sam’s up on his knees now, scrambled around in a snarl of bed sheets, solid and firm against Dean’s chest and his hands reach out to trace the pattern over Dean’s heart. Dean slips his hands under Sam’s shirt, mirrors the gesture.

Sam leans back just enough and Dean slips the shirt off over his head and when they come together again it’s stupid, it isn’t real but Dean swears he feels Sam’s tattoo against his, warmer and darker than the skin around it. Another point of connection, another thing that ties them together and sets them apart.

His hands graze down Sam’s lanky torso, over scars old and new and he can’t help it, he lingers over the one just beneath the tattoo and his fingers tighten a little bit and he wants to erase it, the whole thing, make it never have happened. Sam’s hand over his, apology and acceptance all at once and they’re still so screwed up but Dean thinks maybe he can see the light at the end still.

Hands at his waist and Sam unbuttons his jeans, long fingers slipping inside and no one knows how to touch him like Sam. He returns the favor, quick work of Sam’s jeans and the hot skin of Sam’s cock in his palm. Sam groans, low and deep in his throat and he falls back on the bed, acres of brown skin over white sheets.

Spread before him like a banquet.

He didn’t even say those words, he didn’t, but his mouth did and he still remembers the way they tripped off his tongue. Blood and pain and a sick stutter in his chest, queasy and it goes as quickly as it comes and Dean shakes it off, the demon can’t have this, can’t have Sam. He tugs at the legs of Sam’s jeans, gets them over his feet and drops them, leaves them where they fall and he steps on the ends of his, wiggles out of them before he drops on the bed, spreads himself over Sam like a too-small blanket.

Warm and familiar skin against his and even if it’s a new and slightly sick situation, Dean’s hands have cradled Sammy since he was born.

Sam arches under him and the room wasn’t warm before but it is now. Their cocks slide against each other, perfectly lined up like it’s old habit instead of new. Weeks, just weeks since they came together and Dean knows at some point that the feel of his brother’s dick in his hands won’t be weird, won’t be something that stirs his insides till he wants to giggle like a kid. He hopes it takes a while. Sam’s hands, giant like the rest of him, skim over Dean’s sides, around to his ass and he pulls Dean tighter against him. Their lips come together, warm breath mingling as Dean nips at Sam’s mouth.

Hard, fast kisses, like Sam would devour him were it possible, just to keep him close forever. Dean knows the feeling, but he doesn’t always trust it.

He slides his mouth over Sam’s cheek, slick tongue over Sam’s jaw line and he feels the words as Sam says them. “I want you to fuck me.” Whisper swallowed on his tongue and Dean pulls back a bit, braces himself above Sam. That’s new.

“Sam-” A million reasons he doesn’t want to do that (and several very compelling reasons he does) but his dick doesn’t need much encouragement. It leaps at the thought, drawing tighter against his abdomen and he knows Sam didn’t miss that.

“We haven’t-”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.”

“You know I have.” Of course Sam knows, he remembers that room as well as Dean does.

Sam shrugs, quick gesture and there’s still anger behind it, Dean can see he’s still angry, at Dean, the demon, at life. “So?”

He doesn’t know how to tell Sam. How to tell Sam he wanted that before everything, that it was one of the demon’s favorite things about him, that the demon called up the image all the time, anywhere, and it would cackle with glee inside him when Dean’s body got hard. That while the idea is still there, still something he thinks about, he isn’t sure if it’s him or the demon that still wants it.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Dean levels his gaze at him and Sam meets it head on, belligerent and needy and Dean almost wants to laugh at the whole screwed up thing but he can’t. “It’ll hurt, Sammy. Don’t make me explain the mechanics to you.”

“Dean.” Still looking at him and Dean wants to flinch away from that look, from those eyes that could always read him better than anyone else. He can’t hide anything from Sam.

“I don’t-”

“What?”

Urgency gone, his dick still hard but it’s patient, he’s in bed with a sure thing and there’s time for this.

“I can’t help feeling like I’m fucking you up.”

“Huh?”

“You’re only doing this because I wanted it. Because it told you I wanted it.”

Surprise unknots Sam’s eyebrows and laughter spills from his lips, incredulous and sad at once. “You think you turned me gay?”

“Didn’t I?”

Sam’s hands are warm on his back and sides, fingers digging into the muscle like Sam will never let him leave. “Maybe I never thought of it before, but maybe it was always something at the back of my mind. We’re not normal, Dean. We never were. We’re grown men without a home, without friends or family. We’ve got each other and that’s it and stop it, stop blaming yourself for that.”

“It’s just-”

“I know,” Sam says, and maybe he does. If anyone, Sam would understand and just that, and Sam’s hands on him and their dicks still pressed together and the whispered “please” that Sam mutters into the skin of his neck makes him think that maybe it’s all right.

He eventually gives into the puppy dog eyes and the crushing weight of inevitability and he’s already screwed Sam up most of the way, no sense in leaving a job half finished. “Okay,” he says, and feels Sam relax beneath him, tension and anger ebbing for the moment, just this moment.

Hands still splayed over Sam, cupping skin and bone and Dean has always known the human body is fragile, breakable. You can’t grow up a Winchester and not know that and it makes him scared, frantic sometimes. Fragile skin, fragile bones beneath his and they’re the most precious things in his world.

“Sam,” he whispers, mouthing along Sam’s collar bone, hands spreading over Sam’s ridiculous abs and he likes that no one sees this anymore, no one but him. Like a secret he gets to keep to himself.

Mouth lower, his tongue traces the devil’s trap on Sam’s chest, black lines against his skin and maybe it isn’t real, but the black lines burn his mouth as he moves over it. Sam’s hands are in his hair, fingers raking across his head and one large hand cups the back of his neck. Dean’s mouth is lower now, breath gusting over Sam’s cock and Sam’s mouth twists on a strangled moan as Dean swallows him down.

Sam’s hips buck against him and Dean cups his hands over Sam’s hip bones to hold him down. Warm weight in his mouth and yeah, he thought about it before but he had no idea, no idea that he’d love it this much. Warm and salty and heavy in his mouth, down his throat and it drives Sam crazy and he loves it. He pulls off a minute and Sam whimpers, whimpers into his hand and Dean will so give him crap for that later, after he’s done pulling Sam’s brain out through his dick. He leans over and snags the lube from the nightstand, coats his fingers and swallows Sam down again.

Slick fingers underneath and Sam’s hips twitch under Dean’s arm, still holding him down. One finger slips inside, stretching and twisting and Sam’s too caught up in it, Dean can tell, the anger and the hurt and the need and there aren’t words anymore, just wordless sounds, moans, grunts.

Another finger and he scissors them, spreading Sam open and he hits the spot, the sweet spot again and again and Sam says “Dean” and comes.

Long fingers curl under his arms and Sam pulls him up and licks into his mouth, chasing his taste, Dean’s tongue and breath. Sam’s hand curls around Dean’s still slick one and they both have Dean’s dick in their hands and Sam jacks him and spreads the lube over him. Sam lifts his knees, thighs pressed against Dean’s hips and he’s there, tight against Sam’s ass.

“You sure?” he says, looking into Sam’s eyes and he doesn’t see hesitation or doubt.

“Yeah.”

He leans forward, mouth pressed against Sam’s as he presses inside and he doesn’t miss the hiss, the clenching teeth. “Relax,” he says, rubs his hand over Sam’s stomach. Sam does, muscles unclenching and he sinks a bit further into the mattress and Dean presses forward again, further until he’s there, buried against Sam’s ass and it isn’t anything like he thought, nothing like he pictured before. It’s entirely new, entirely his, entirely theirs.

“Sam,” he says, just that, everything and nothing and Sam’s hands on his face tell him he understands.

“Told you,” Sam says on a moan, breathy and sharp. “This is not fucked up.” Cocky prick, and Dean pulls out a bit, thrusts back in, and again. He feels Sam’s cock hardening against his belly and he reaches down, tugs it in time with his thrusts. Time stops, it starts, something and it’s never been like this, never been this good. He could stay here forever and Sam’s thighs clenching around his tells him that Sam would let him. Sam’s hand clenches around his, squeezing tighter around Sam’s cock and he’s getting close, closer. Sweat pours off Dean and gets trapped between their bodies, sticking them together tighter than anything. Sam lifts his other hand, presses it against Dean’s chest, against the trap and Dean imagines it burning the pattern into Sam’s palm. Dean leans down, changes the angle and he’s hitting the sweet spot over and over again and Sam is tight and hot around him. He mouths along Sam’s collar bone, up his neck and catches Sam’s mouth with his, slips his tongue inside to chase the moans.

“Again,” he says against Sam’s lips. “Again.”

Sam whimpers again, still, a word, his name. Dean swallows it down as Sam comes again, slick against Dean’s belly and he clenches around Dean and it’s enough, just enough and Sam’s name trips off his tongue and he comes.

Stars in his eyes, harsh breath against his neck and he pulls out, falling to his side against the sheets. Sam follows and maybe he’s still mad, maybe he’s still hurting but it isn’t enough to make him not want this. He wraps himself around Dean like a starfish, a barnacle, something else you can’t pry loose even if you wanted to.

Lips pressed against Sam’s ear and Dean’s heart thumps, hands clammy and his stomach churns and he’s so far out on a limb he can’t even see the tree anymore but this is Sam and he needs something, anything, and what’s enough for Dean has never been enough for Sam.

“Listen, Sammy,” he says, quiet and low and Sam stills against him. It isn’t something he wants to lay on Sam and he knows he needs Sam more than Sam needs him, even though Sam doesn’t know it. He doesn’t really want to tell Sam he still expects him to leave, to finish up the last semester of college and go to law school and become something, make something of himself that doesn’t have anything to do with guns and ghosts and demons. He didn’t want to, not ever, but the words are there, spilling off his tongue and he couldn’t stop them if he tried and it doesn’t matter anymore. Part of him thinks that Sam can’t leave, that he killed every avenue, every way out that Sam ever had and part of him wonders if that wasn’t the demon’s plan all along. He’s the worst enemy Sam will ever have, Meg told him that but he’s also all Sam has and it’s hard not to feel like that’s his fault, but it’s even harder to think Sam doesn’t know what he means, what he is. Sam’s hair tickles his mouth as he whispers. “I’m only going to say this once so listen. You’re enough. You’re everything. All I’m fucking living for and all that sappy crap. I made mistakes before and I’ll make them again but don’t ever think it’s got anything to do with you. You’re. You’re it. The whole world.”

His breath hitches and he’ll deny unto death the tears coating his eyes and he keeps his head pressed against Sam’s so he won’t see, won’t have to tell. “You’re the glue holding me together, Sam,” he says.

Sam trembles against him and Dean pulls back a bit and Sam is laughing, open and free and happy and Dean loves it but it also annoys the crap out of him.

“I knew it,” Sam says. “You are totally sap.”

“Am not.”

“You are maple syrup. Straight from the tree.”

“Shut up.” He rolls over, makes to get up but Sam reattaches himself from behind, huge paw spread over Dean’s devil’s trap and his mouth warm and wet against Dean’s neck.

“I love you, too,” he says.

Dean smiles even though Sam can’t see him and he’s happy, content even, and it’s only Sam that gets him this way anymore. He feels Sam’s breath against his neck, soft rhythm of home and love and security, everything in this world he ever wanted for Sam and it evens out, falling into sleep and Dean lets himself go, relax. It’ll all still be there when he wakes up.