Chapter Text
Dean can feel something bad buried in his bones.
The kind of itch beneath your skin that makes you want to scratch your flesh right off. He’s standing on old crunchy carpet by the dirty window of this motel. Gazing out at the poorly lit up pool and seeing the water gently lapping up against the concrete edge, stale summer breeze blowing wayward trash into its depths.
It’s a sweltering 96 degrees out tonight in bumfuck wherever they ended up after pulling off highway 1-31. The no vacancy sign keeps flickering, the static hum droning on and off. Out back there’s the howling and hissing of a cat fight. Litter’s skittering around the parking lot kicking up dirt and taking it along with it. A plastic bag tumbleweed floats on by.
He decides to have another beer. Last one of a six pack. Cracks it open with his ring and sits down hard on the bed. Dust from the coverlet flies up around him, floating in the stale cigarette scented air. It’s the one closest to the door just like always even though Sam isn’t here. He’d gotten his own room after their fight earlier. An especially bad one this time.
Neighbors banging on the wall screaming just as loud as them, shut the fuck up already.
It’s never gotten this tense between them before but the last thing Dean feels is a sense of surprise.
Sometimes it feels like Sam’s the only thing keeping him alive and other times it feels like it’s killing him, this desire sitting heavy in his chest. Sickness bubbling up in his throat. There’s hot acid burning up on the back of his tongue from the gas station cheeseburger he ate while Sam ate nothing.
He had just stared at him, jaw set and determined. Their knees shoved against each other under the shitty formica table, its legs wobbling every time one of them shifted.
“What?” It was barely a question, the way Dean had bit it out.
Sam shrugged, bitch face set in stone.
“Fuck off and go watch crap tv if you’re going to keep looking at me like that, weirdo.”
Harsh breath puffed out from Sam’s flared nostrils and he stood up so fast the table nearly fell right over. Dean brought a hand down and slammed it back on the floor so hard his palm hurt. Hot sting. Tossed his burger wrapper down, got up and moved into Sam’s space, right up close to his hostile face.
“Seriously, what’s your problem, man?” Dean’s so tired of this shit. A long time ago, there had been a point where he felt like the two of them were always on the same page. They probably haven’t been since Sam got taller than him and lost any patience for their father.
Years. Years and years. Decades on top of decades if you count the time they spent in the place they don’t like to think about and can’t help but think about all the same.
He can’t get a read on him anymore and it drives him crazy. Lately, there’s this side of Sam he doesn’t have any patience for. This Sam, that glares and grinds his teeth and furrows his brow and asks a question with his eyes that can’t be spoken out loud.
You want me?
The answer, of course, they both know.
Yeah, duh. What an idiot his little brother is for thinking they could ever do a thing about it.
They were standing there in a stalemate unmoving until-
The punch from Sam came so fast he was blindsided and then crunch, blood pouring fast from his nose. Broken and dripping, steaming hot. Dean gathered as much as he could into his mouth and spat it right into his face before he said, taunting with fingers curled and beckoning, “Fuck you, c’mon. That all you got?”
Sam actually growled, oh shit, and lunged forward. Dean was tackled onto the ground and his head barely missed the edge of the dresser before he made contact on the disgusting floor with a thud. All the air knocked out of him and Sam’s hands dug into his shoulders before he pulled his fist back, about to hit him again.
On his back, Dean braced himself and prepared for contact in three, two, one. Instead of slugging him, Sam’s hand dropped to rest on his collarbone.
“Why are you just letting me do this? You fucker, why can’t you just-” Sam’s voice broke off harshly. Pure fury, chest heaving as he hovered above Dean. Eyes wild and sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. Blood from his nose to his chin.
So beautiful that Dean ached with it. He spit again, nose still trickling warm iron into his mouth. Sam barely flinched when it made direct contact with his lips. He licked at them and swallowed. Smiled huge and red coated the cracks between his teeth.
Paralyzed to the floor, Dean couldn’t move an inch. They’ve gotten so fucked up, he was pretty sure then that they were never coming back from this.
“Sammy, Jesus, I-” Dean’s whispering was cut off by Sam’s giant hand suddenly bearing down on his windpipe. Dean flailed, tried to knock him off but his brother had his whole neck wrapped up and his full weight on him. Adrenaline pumping, he could hardly breathe, started smacking Sam’s hand and his body wherever he could reach.
Sam said lowly, “I know what you want. I know you know I want it too. Stop being such a fucking coward. You think I’m such a little bitch and you can’t even look me in the eye half the time. We can’t keep avoiding it.”
He let up on Dean’s throat enough that he could draw in one sharp breath before Sam gripped it tight again. Reaching a point of lightheadedness where spots had appeared on the corners of his vision, Dean was thinking his heart had never pounded faster in his life.
Suddenly, Sam didn’t look angry anymore. Just tired and so sad. “I never wanted it to come to this, De.” Shook his head and released Dean entirely as he staggered backwards and up on shaky feet.
Sucking as much air back into his lungs as he could and rubbing his neck, Dean was struck with so why do you insist on pushing this far? Why can’t you just let sleeping dogs lie?
Sam was looking out at the parking lot. Scanning for something.
Oh no.
“I’ll just, uh. Steal a car. Go away for a while. I don’t want us to keep doing this.”
Dean cleared his bruised throat and managed to croak out, “Sam, dammit. You listen to me. You could break every bone in my body but you leaving… it would be worse.”
Sam’s gaze drew back to him. They were both panting still. His face carefully blank as he said, “It’s getting to a point where if I stay I might do that.” He’d laughed then, a weak huff of air and hardly anything more. “I fucking hate you sometimes, you know?”
Dean closed his eyes, raised a shaking hand to his face and wiped at it. Offered it to Sam, “Help me up. You gotta reset my nose.”
He made an annoyed sound in response, came over and instead of grabbing Dean’s hand to pull him from the floor, he leaned down to grasp his arm and licked a long line from wrist to fingertips. Getting all the blood, Dean realized after his brain came back online from short circuiting. Yanked his hand away hard. Barked out, “Hey! What the hell?”
“Fix your nose by yourself, jackass! I’m getting my own room.”
They were both yelling and by the time the people next door were giving them a piece of their mind, Sam had slammed the door behind him.
So here Dean is. Fairly buzzed and laying back on a dust mite city duvet and debating about getting up to get his flask of cheap piss whiskey. His nose is pulsing something terrible. Dean’s sort of enjoying it, if there’s any enjoyment to be had in any of this. Sam’s always the one crawling up on the cross but he can move over, let big brother have a turn. You think you’re hurting for this, huh? Well, Dean’ll show him.
This game they keep playing is so twisted and so sick. You can touch me as long as it results in injury. How on earth is that ever gonna end well?
Dean knows he could allow something other than violence. It’s only down to him letting it happen. Knows Sam is eager for it because Sam lets him know every day lately. Brings him coffee and breakfast in the morning and lets his fingers linger on Dean’s when he hands it over. Purses his lips every time Dean flirts or even checks out a girl.
I’m yours, his brother says with his hands and his eyes. But are you mine? This he asks with his fist.
All this resentment at what could be is souring what they do have.
Would it really be so simple as kissing and making up? Dean sincerely doubts that. When he thinks about what he wants from Sam, sex isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t have words for it but it sure feels like there’s a hell of a lot more going on than simple desires of the flesh.
But what’s left? Are they really going to just keep letting this build and build until what little love they have left between them boils off into nothing?
Dean thinks of putting his hand on Sam’s face, pulling him in, taking his mouth, tongue licking his teeth, sucking on his bottom lip. His body’s aflame. He’s gotten up and finished off what was left in his flask. All the alcohol’s catching up to him and he’s so drunk. He’s hard in his jeans. He doesn’t bother taking his clothes off before he crawls under the covers. His eyes are hot with unshed tears and he’s swallowing around a lump in his tender throat.
This isn’t fair, nothing in their stupid cursed lives has been fair. Why can’t they just be brothers, why can’t this just be something they can leave aside? It’s a wound festering and rotten and they keep rubbing salt in it. There’s no healing it so maybe they should just let it bleed.
Blood and spit and come and the thought of it is vile but oh, the satisfaction of finally scratching that itch. The kind he hasn’t been able to reach, can’t get himself. He could fuck anyone in any bar anywhere and it wouldn’t ever do a damn thing. He knows, he’s tried. Nobody’s Sam. There’s people that aren’t Sam and then there’s him.
There he is, in the passenger seat. In a diner booth across from him. His boy, the baby he helped raise. Sitting in the library at a computer, his eyes scanning fast while Dean spins in the chair next to him trying to distract himself from how gorgeous he is. Looking at his nose, wanting to lay a peck on it like when they were kids. Stupid stupid stupid. Not even pulling pigtails on the playground and chasing after childhood crushes did a single person ever bring out the sap in him like this. He wants to hold Sam close to him, get his fingers in his hair, show him how much he cares.
Thing is, they’ve let this go on so long, he doubts it’ll be gentle. Dean fears the kind of damage they’re doing to each other right now, with their words and bricked up silences. It isn’t even going to compare to the pain that might come if they succumb. Sam looks at him and Dean sees a simmering rage. It doesn’t burn off easy, that sort of anger. He could get the full third degree. He craves it.
Sam’s the sun. What does a planet revolve around anyway?
His whole life changed forever when Sam’s baby fingers reached out and grasped his own, little nails digging in. Dean remembers it clearly, feeling the pinch and not drawing his hand back. He’s always let Sam hurt him and never thought anything of it. How was he supposed to know he would grow into this? You can give someone every single thing they could ever want from you and they will still want more.
Dean’s made a lot of mistakes and maybe some people would say that giving into your kid like that isn’t a good idea but Dean never had it in his heart to deny Sam. He was his to protect. He feels like such a failure. Only thing left to do for Sam is give him what he wants. It’s just coincidence, really, that it happens to be what Dean wants too.
This isn’t anywhere close to okay, way out of the ballpark. It’s getting harder and harder to care. It’s going to break them either way. Might as well try to enjoy it.
Love doesn’t cover what they have, need makes it sound selfish and while it is, there’s something more. Dean wants to consume Sam in a way that should send him running for the hills. But oh, he’s glad he doesn’t. He’d run after him, handcuff them together if he had to. Use glue from head to toe, sticky and stuck. To never separate.
Remembers seeing him that night in Palo Alto after all that time apart, on his back on the floor just like earlier. Thinking, I’m never letting you out of my sight again.
Dean’s hungry and Sam is setting the table for dinner. The closer this gets to feeling like starvation, the more Dean thinks he’ll tuck in.
_
They’re obligate parasites, Sam thinks as he washes Dean’s blood off his face. Debates rinsing out his mouth but decides to keep the taste of his brother there as long as it’ll last. In science class once, he learned about baby sharks in the womb, one absorbing the other. Would’ve been easier for everyone if Dean and him had been twins and he had just eaten him up then. They’re trees growing too close together, roots winding to the point where it's impossible to tell which one they belong to. Sam feels like all his roots belong to Dean and he doesn’t want it any other way.
There’s an image in his mind of Dean sitting heavy on his hips, dangerous, grinning feral and wicked. He wants Dean to fuck him up, he doesn’t want to feel alone in this anymore. Dean’s so stupidly stubborn and pigheaded that Sam has no idea how to go about convincing him to do what he wants. Let go, give in.
Sam made his peace with being Dean’s shortly after getting back on the road with him. Dean’s Sam’s too, even if he’s too buried in himself to see it. They belong to each other whether they like it or not.
He wants to feel Dean’s hand under his tongue again. Wants to wrap his hands around his neck one more time and squeeze the life out of him as much as he doesn’t. Sam wants to open him up, crack his brother’s ribs open, get inside and make himself a nest.
He’s so depraved but he knows Dean is too.
Sam turns off the bathroom light, strips off his clothes. Goes to bed, listening to the sound of crickets and a tv blaring in the next room. Falls asleep as he’s reminiscing on how they slept as kids. Dean wrapped around him. Holding him safe and sound. Sam wishes things were still so simple that he could go back and pull back Dean’s covers, tell him he’s scared and be let right in the way he would’ve been when he was still small enough to fit in his brother’s arms.
It’s a fitful rest without the sound of Dean’s breathing from the other side of the room.