Chapter Text
“Dean, you heard me. That was my final word.”
Sam sat inside the motel room, on his bed, his knees bouncing restlessly up and down. His index finger picked at the ripped hole in his jeans, which he had managed to tear about two inches wider in the past three minutes. His father’s voice still echoed through the closed motel room door.
They had been staying in this tiny town outside Kentucky for nearly two months now. Dad was working a bigger job somewhere in the area, though he wouldn’t tell either of the boys what exactly he was hunting.
So Sam had taken the opportunity to attend school, while Dean spent his days helping out at a nearby junkyard.
This year, Sam was officially a junior—and tonight was supposed to be his first prom.
Supposed to be.
But, of course, Dad had ruined it. Again.
Sam was starting to wonder if their father had made it his life’s mission to destroy any chance of happiness in Sam‘s life.
Whatever-it-was Dad was hunting was supposedly looking for them, and it was “too dangerous,” blah blah blah.
He’d fed them the same crap he always did.
Sam could feel the anger boiling in his chest. Angry at his father, who ruined everything. Angry at himself, for wishing he could stand up to that man. And angry just for existing. He hated his life—hated waking up every morning in filthy motel rooms, eating from cans, knowing he’d never have a real life. His nails dug into his palms, and he hissed sharply through his nose when he felt the sharp sting of skin breaking beneath the pressure.
His head snapped up when the door opened, but his body relaxed again when he saw who it was. Dean.
Dean he didn’t hate.
Dean was his brother—but that word didn’t mean what it did to other people.
To Sam, “brother” meant everything.
It meant the person who cleaned your wounds after a rough hunt. It meant the one who let you have the last slice of pizza and still let you wear his favorite clothes, even after you’d long since outgrown them.
It meant the one who would defend you against anyone—even your own father—without hesitation.
It meant bedtime stories every night until you were “too old,” and movie nights funded by Dean scraping together whatever cash he could.
Dean made every occasion feel like magic—Thanksgiving dinners out of cans, homemade fireworks for the Fourth of July, Christmas presents wrapped in crumpled newspaper.
“Brother” meant you didn’t need words—just a look was enough. Entire conversations passed between their eyes. Secrets hung in a blink.
It meant pillows and blankets in the backseat of the Impala. It meant large, rough hands stroking through your hair.
It meant Dean.
It meant Sam’s entire universe.
His fingers unclenched, muscles slowly releasing their tension as Dean walked toward him and sat down beside him on the bed. Sam already knew what he was going to say. He watched Dean’s face, how it struggled—how that sharp green gaze searched the room for the right words, how his lips tried and failed to form them. His jaw was tight, and he ran a hand through his hair with a sigh.
“`m sorry, Sammy. I tried.”
“I know,” Sam said, trying to smile.
A strong arm wrapped around his narrow shoulders. Dean pulled him gently against his chest. Sam was small and skinny for his age, still a little shorter than Dean. His thick brown hair fell in messy waves across his face, and Dean’s old clothes hung off him like he was playing dress-up. Next to his brother, Sam felt invisible.
He turned his head slightly, where it now rested on Dean’s shoulder, sneaking a quiet glance at him.
Dean had the greenest eyes Sam had ever seen, lashes so long the Amazons would’ve been jealous.
His teeth were perfect—so white and straight they must’ve been a dentist’s wet dream. They flashed in a soft smile. A pink tongue swept across a full bottom lip.
Sam could spend hours counting each of the freckles scattered across his face, tracing them down to his broad shoulders, where they faded slowly over his strong biceps and lean, muscular back.
Sam knew he sometimes looked at his brother a little too long.
Waited a little too eagerly for those rare moments when he felt like a kid again—when he could curl up in Dean’s arms or sit in his lap on bad days.
But he was too old for that now.
And he hated it, if he was being honest.
He missed that feeling of safety—the one only Dean ever gave him.
The night had settled over the motel like a heavy blanket—the kind that smothered more than it comforted.
The world outside was hushed, like it was holding its breath. And inside the room, it wasn’t much different.
Sam hadn’t moved from his place beside Dean. His head still rested lightly against his brother’s shoulder, and for a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it was like when they were younger. That everything was still okay. That Dean could protect him from everything.
But tonight, it didn’t feel like safety.
Outside, heavy footsteps crunched over the gravel.
John.
Dean didn’t move. Sam didn’t have to look to know his brother was listening, every muscle drawn tight, tracking their father’s every move like an animal waiting to flinch.
The slam of the trunk. A low mutter—words meant for someone else, never them.
Then the roar of the engine, the Impala peeling away into the night, swallowed by the dark.
Gone.
Sam pulled back, slowly straightening. The space between them widened like a crack in the floor.
Dean looked at him, jaw tense. “Don’t.”
Just one word, but it carried too much.
Don’t leave. Don’t go. Don’t want something else. Don’t want someone else.
Don’t need more than me.
Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Instead, he stood up quietly and crossed to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him.
He gripped the sink like it might anchor him, let his head hang forward as he breathed through his nose.
He could still feel Dean’s gaze on the other side of the door, like a pressure in his ribs.
Dean wanted him to be happy—he really believed that. But he also knew Dean was terrified of what Sam reaching for happiness meant.
That he’d reach for something—and someone—outside of this. Outside of them.
That he’d eventually stop reaching for Dean.
Twenty minutes passed.
The bathroom door creaked open. Sam stepped out. He was wearing Dean’s suit.
It didn’t fit. Not really. The sleeves hung long, the shoulders too broad. But it was the best he had. He’d ironed it. Combed his hair. Even used the good cologne, the one Dean always kept in the glovebox but pretended wasn’t his.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room and paused.
The suit didn’t look like it was supposed to. It looked like he was playing dress-up.
If Dean had been the one wearing it, he would’ve looked like something out of a movie—like James Dean or some 50s rebel girls tripped over themselves for.
Sam?
He looked like a kid pretending to be something he wasn’t.
Dean stood up slowly. “You’re seriously going?”
Sam didn’t answer right away. His voice, when it came, was soft.
“I need to. Just this once.”
Dean stared at him for a long moment.
And in his eyes, Sam saw a storm he wasn’t sure he could name. Anger. Hurt. Fear.
A need so deep and raw it made Sam’s stomach twist.
But Dean didn’t yell. He didn’t say a word.
And somehow, that was worse.
A knock came at the door. Sharp. Then again—softer, hesitant.
“Sam?” a girl’s voice called through. “It’s Keira.”
Dean flinched and looked at the door as if it had betrayed him.
Sam’s breath caught. He’d forgotten she was coming.
He moved toward the door, but Dean stepped in front of him. Not aggressively—just enough to stop him.
Just enough to make Sam look up.
They stood chest to chest, and for the first time in months, Sam realized just how much bigger his brother still was. How much space he took up—physically, emotionally.
How much Sam still wanted that space, even if he hated himself for it.
Dean’s voice was quiet, but his words cut deep. “You gonna be able to watch your own back?”
Sam rolled his eyes, a reflex, but it lacked bite.
There was something oddly tender in the way Dean said it, and Sam felt it like a weight behind his ribs.
He pulled up the back of the suit jacket just enough to show the pistol tucked into his waistband. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
Dean’s eyes dropped to the gun. Then traveled over Sam’s frame, lingered on the collar too big for his neck, the sleeves bunched around his wrists.
Then back up, to Sam’s face. His eyes.
There was something there. Something Dean wasn’t saying and Sam couldn’t point out either - what was rare.
“Yeah,” Dean said finally, voice gravel-rough. “I can see that.”
He stepped aside—slowly. Like it physically hurt to do so.
“You’ll be back before midnight,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.
Sam hesitated, just for a breath. “Yeah. I will.”
He opened the door and Keira stood there in a pale blue dress, her smile soft.
She looked like springtime, like promise, like all the things Sam had dreamed of from the backseat of the Impala. The things he could never have.
He gave her a small smile. Took her arm.
And just like that, they stepped into the night.
Behind him, Dean stood in the doorway for a long time after they’d gone.
The silence they left behind wasn’t peaceful. It was hollow.
And it rang in Dean’s ears like a warning.
⸻
Sam had met Keira two months ago—right after he started attending school again. A junior was getting bullied in the hallway, and she had stepped in like a damn hurricane, planting herself in front of a guy who was easily a foot taller and twice her weight, telling him to back the hell off. No fear. Just fire.
He’d noticed her ever since.
Eventually, she caught him staring and called him out for looking at her like a “creepy stalker with a secret fantasy.” After that… well, somehow, they became best friends. It wasn’t immediate, but it was inevitable. Like gravity. She wormed her way into his life with her boldness and sarcasm and stayed because she saw him—the real him. Not just the Winchester kid with baggage and scars. She knew more about him than anyone outside of Dean ever had. Hell, in some ways, she knew him better than Dean. Maybe that’s what real friendship was supposed to look like.
And he’d told her the truth. Not the watered-down version. Not the one with monsters as metaphors. The truth. About the hunting. The ghosts. The guns. The legacy.
Something he could never bring himself to tell Dean or Dad, they would kill him. But with her… it had felt good. Like being seen and not having to flinch away from it.
His chest tightened painfully at the thought that one day, she’d be gone. Like all the blurry snapshots of roadside towns seen through the Impala’s window, she’d fade into the rearview mirror. Just another thing he wasn’t allowed to keep.
“You good, Sam?” she asked, linking her arm through his as she crushed her cigarette under the heel of her Chuck Taylors. The smoke curled away like a ghost.
He looked at her and smiled, soft and sad.
If she hadn’t become his best friend, he was pretty sure he would’ve fallen for her. Hard. She was the most incredible girl he’d ever met. A year older than him but still in his grade—held back once, she never talked about it. Her curls framed her face like wild ivy, and she was tall—nearly his height. Always in band tees and leather jackets, with music blasting so loud her headphones might as well not exist. She said whatever the hell she wanted. And he admired that. God, did he admire that.
She reminded him of Dean.
“Yeah, I’m good. My dad didn’t want me to go, but… he’s gone now,” he said with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant, like the aching in his chest didn’t matter.
She grinned. “Bad boy.”
He rolled his eyes with a laugh.
Then she shot him a look. A teasing, wicked look.
“Okay, but real talk—how the hell did you not tell me your brother is hot as sin? Like, holy shit.”
Sam swallowed hard. He should’ve seen it coming. Dean couldn’t enter a room without drawing attention—without owning it. That smile, those damn dimples, those emerald eyes, and a voice like it belonged in a bedroom whispering dirty promises. Sam had seen it. Over and over. The way women—and sometimes men—melted for him.
“Yeah, I know. Let’s not talk about it,” he mumbled.
She raised a brow, clearly catching how his face twisted just slightly. She giggled and offered him a cigarette. He took it without a word. He didn’t even remember when smoking had become a thing for him—somewhere between motel rooms and loneliness, probably.
“God, I hope there are some hot girls at prom tonight. I need someone else to think about, so I can stop picturing your brother’s sex face.”
Sam nearly choked on the smoke. She patted his back with a chuckle.
He tried to laugh it off, but something twisted inside him. A dark knot of jealousy. The kind that didn’t make sense—not if he thought about it too long. He was used to being the sweet one. The sidekick. The one girls called “cute” while drooling over Dean. But Keira wasn’t allowed to want Dean. That felt… wrong. Like betrayal. Even if he couldn’t explain why.
He focused on her words again—especially the part about girls.
That made him smile, just a little.
She had told him early on that she liked girls too. That little confession had unlocked something in him. A quiet door in his head he didn’t even know existed. And ever since, he’d been noticing things.
Looks.
Not from girls.
From men.
In the locker room, when he’d stretch to reach his top locker and his shirt would ride up, revealing the thin curve of his waist. When he wore shirts just a little too tight, and his happy trail peeked out above his jeans. When he caught older, broader eyes lingering on him a second too long.
He saw it now. He felt it all the time.
And maybe—maybe—he liked it.
Just a little.
⸻
The gym had never looked like this before.
It was drowning in cheap fairy lights and fake crystal streamers, like someone had tried too hard to make magic out of plastic. A rented fog machine coughed weak mist across the dance floor, and the music—too loud, too desperate—vibrated in Sam’s ribs.
He stood at the entrance, unsure.
Keira glanced up at him, then gave his arm a light squeeze. “C’mon, Winchester. We’re already here. Might as well commit to the crime scene.”
He huffed out a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
They stepped in together—her in that deep blue velvet dress that shimmered like midnight and clung to her edges just right, boots peeking out beneath the hem, cigarette smoke still faintly clinging to her curls. Sam, by contrast, felt like a kid playing dress-up. Dean’s suit didn’t fit right. The shoulders were too broad, the sleeves too long, and the collar kept brushing against his jaw in a way that made him feel smaller.
Everyone else looked like they belonged. Like they’d been waiting for this night all year.
Sam just felt like he was waiting for it to be over.
“Jesus,” Keira muttered beside him, scanning the dance floor with narrowed eyes. “You’d think prom would be less awkward when you’re old enough to buy cigarettes and trauma meds.”
Sam chuckled under his breath. “You think anyone’s noticed we’re here yet?”
“Of course not. We’re ghosts, remember?” she said, then leaned in. “Sexy, socially invisible ghosts.”
He smiled. Not because he felt like it. But because it was her, and with Keira, everything was just a little bit easier. Even now, when his stomach was tight with nerves and his thoughts kept circling back to Dean’s face—stone-cold and unreadable—as he let him walk out the motel door.
A song changed, something slower. More romantic. The kind of track meant for girls in expensive dresses and guys with hair gelled like TV stars. Sam caught a glimpse of a couple making out in the shadows by the bleachers. It made his chest ache.
“You okay?” Keira asked softly, catching his expression. She tilted her head, brows furrowed.
Sam hesitated. Then nodded, once. “Just… weird being here. Like I’m pretending to be someone else.”
She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder. “That’s high school, Sammy. A four-year-long Halloween party where the masks start to feel permanent.”
He looked down at her, surprised by the honesty in her voice. Vulnerable. She was always so sharp-edged, so bold. But tonight, something was different. Softer.
“Is that why you didn’t come with anyone else?”
She shrugged. “There was no one else. Most people think I’m too weird, too loud, too… gay, depending on who you ask.” She said it casually, but Sam heard the crack under her words.
He nodded. “I didn’t ask anyone either. I knew what the answer would be.”
Keira rolled her eyes. “Idiots, all of them.”
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the mess of teenagers pretending tonight mattered. Then, Keira turned to him, that familiar fire back in her gaze.
“Dance with me.”
“What?” Sam blinked.
She grinned. “C’mon. We came together. Let’s make at least one good memory before this night turns back into a pumpkin and we go back to being invisible.”
He hesitated, heart thudding, but she was already pulling him toward the dance floor.
And for a moment—for just a little while—Sam let go. Of the motel, of the salt and the guns and the weight of things he couldn’t say. He let her hands guide his, let the music fill the empty space inside him.
They didn’t belong. But they had each other.
And that was enough.
⸻
They’d danced through two songs—clumsily, laughing like they had nothing to prove to anyone. Keira spun him like she didn’t care who saw, like the world was theirs just for a moment. It felt good. Easy. Real.
They were about to fall back into their usual corner, to mock the music and share a cigarette just outside the gym doors, when something shifted. A current in the air. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. And Sam felt it before he even looked.
Dean.
He stood in the entrance of the gym like a storm held in human form—completely out of place, but commanding every eye in the room. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms, the collar undone and open at the neck. The black dress pants clung to his legs in a way that felt unintentional but lethal, molded to someone who never dressed up but somehow always looked like he belonged on the cover of something.
He didn’t walk in. He arrived.
Girls noticed. Of course they did. They straightened their backs, twirled strands of hair between fingers. Whispered behind painted lips and wide eyes. The room shifted around him like the gravity had tilted, and Dean had become the new center.
Sam felt it like a punch to the chest. Not because of Dean’s looks—he was used to that. It was why.
Dean didn’t go to dances. Dean didn’t belong in places like this. But he’d come.
For Sam.
Beside him, Keira blinked, stunned. “Holy shit. Is that your brother?”
Sam’s voice was barely there. “Yeah.”
“He looks like he walked out of a Calvin Klein ad and is about to kill someone.”
A dry laugh slipped out of Sam, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s... kind of his thing.”
Dean’s gaze swept the gym like it was enemy territory—like he was scanning for exits, threats, anything that might try to take Sam away. Then their eyes met. And Sam forgot how to breathe.
He cursed himself in that moment—for stealing Dean’s suit earlier that day. That suit had felt like armor, like protection. But now, standing here watching Dean wear it better, own it in a way that felt worse, it felt like a betrayal. A deeper kind.
There was nothing dramatic in Dean’s expression. Just something steady. Focused. Watching. But Sam knew that look. He’d known it since he was a kid.
Mine.
Dean started moving through the crowd. Slowly. Deliberately. Sam could see the muscles in his jaw clench, his hands loose at his sides—too casual to be real. People moved for him instinctively, like the sea parting.
And suddenly, Sam was fourteen again. Small. Uncertain. No matter how much taller he’d grown, no matter how many new thoughts had started rooting inside him lately—Dean still stood there, older, broader, inevitable.
“Hey,” Dean said when he reached them, his voice low, calm, like none of this was out of the ordinary. “Thought I’d check in.”
Sam tried not to sound breathless. “Didn’t think you’d come.”
Dean shrugged, glanced around. “Didn’t think I would either.”
Keira looked between them, then at Sam a second longer than necessary. “I’m gonna grab a drink,” she said softly, touching Sam’s arm with quiet knowing before slipping away into the crowd.
And just like that—it was only them.
Dean’s eyes didn’t leave Sam’s face.
And Sam noticed, for the first time in what felt like forever, how close they were standing. How overwhelming it felt to be that close again. He and Dean had always been close—shoulders pressed on motel beds, a knee draped lazily over the other's lap, Dean’s arm curling around him in sleep when the night felt too long or too cold.
But that had changed almost a year ago. Dean had pulled away. Gotten quieter. More guarded. Like a switch had flipped somewhere inside him.
And Sam had missed it. God, he’d ached for it.
But now, with Dean standing this close, those bright green eyes fixed on him like they could see things no one else was allowed to see, Sam wasn’t sure how to breathe.
“I let you go tonight,” Dean said, his voice low enough to drown under the music. “But that didn’t mean it was easy.”
Sam swallowed hard, forcing himself to come back down to earth. “You’re not my warden.”
“No,” Dean said, almost smiling. “But I’m not exactly a spectator either.”
Sam looked away. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. He hated how easily Dean could do this to him. Just be there, and everything inside Sam rushed to the surface—doubt, guilt, longing so fierce it felt like it might split him open.
A sick twist of shame coiled in his gut, tight and burning. This wasn’t right. These thoughts. These feelings. It was wrong. It felt dirty. And yet… he couldn’t stop wanting to be near him.
Dean stepped in, just a little. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough for Sam to feel the warmth of his body, the slight dip in his chest as he exhaled. The light caught in Dean’s eyes made them darker, richer, infinite.
“I get it,” Dean said quietly. “You wanted something normal.”
“Is that so bad?” Sam asked, voice hoarse.
Dean hesitated. And in that hesitation, Sam saw something flicker behind his brother’s eyes. Something raw. Frightened.
“No,” Dean said finally. “But it’s not easy watching you try to live in a world that might take you away from me.”
Sam couldn’t breathe.
Dean looked down and let out a short, soft laugh. “And for the record—your friend Keira? Total badass. Way too cool for you.”
That made Sam laugh—really laugh, finally. Something in his chest cracked open, something that had been locked up too long. “Yeah,” he said, eyes still fixed on Dean’s mouth. “I know.”
They stood like that for a while—turned toward each other, not touching, but close enough that Sam could smell Dean’s cologne. The same one he remembered from motel pillows, from car rides half-asleep. It filled every corner of him.
He knew it wasn’t normal. Knew it couldn’t be.
But it was his.
It was theirs.
“I’ll grab us something to drink, okay?” Dean asked, stepping back just slightly—but it was enough to let the spinning in Sam’s head slow down, enough to pull him back into the present.
Sam only nodded, already knowing that Dean would probably get cornered by some girl on the way. Always did.
Dean threw him a look that said trust me, I’ll be right back, then turned and walked toward the drink table.
Keira reappeared like she’d been launched around the corner. “What was that?!” she hissed, eyes wide with disbelief as she grabbed Sam’s arm.
“Everything’s fine,” Sam muttered, rubbing the back of his neck in a hopeless attempt to scrub away the heat there. His skin felt like it had been branded.
Keira squinted at him, unconvinced.
“He can be… intense. He’s just worried. You know—hunter stuff,” Sam added, keeping his voice casual, hoping she'd buy the lie. She seemed to.
That was one thing Sam knew he would never tell her. Never tell anyone. Whatever was broken and bent between him and Dean—that strange, unspoken line they always danced around but never dared cross—that was his. His burden. His shame. And it would stay locked in the darkest parts of his head, where no one else could see.
“Okay, but seriously—your brother? He looks like he stepped out of a CW show and probably bench-presses emotional damage,” Keira laughed, then quickly sparked the joint she’d rolled earlier, exhaling before Dean made his way back.
Sam waited until she passed it over, and then—gratefully—closed his lips around the filter and took a long pull. The smoke was scratchy and warm, just the kind of burn that settled in his chest like comfort. He exhaled with a sigh.
“Oh, Keira,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Thank you for introducing me to the joys of getting high.”
But the moment shattered as the joint was suddenly plucked from between his fingers.
“Without me?” Dean asked, mock offended. He handed them each a drink, that familiar lopsided grin on his face—the one that could charm the world or destroy it, depending on his mood.
He brought the joint to his lips and inhaled smoothly, letting the smoke curl out between his teeth as he turned to Keira and held out a hand.
“Dean,” he said, casual and cool, lips still ghosted with smoke.
Sam knew that smile.
He knew that smile.
It meant believe me, by the end of the night—sooner rather than later—you’ll want me to fuck you.
And Keira, the coolest, toughest girl Sam had ever met, blushed. Her fingers lingered in Dean’s for a second too long. She looked up at him like she was already falling.
Sam’s stomach twisted, a sharp churn of nausea that caught him off guard.
He just wanted to disappear.
“Friend or date?” Dean asked suddenly, not looking at Keira—his eyes flicked to Sam, just for a moment. Just long enough to search his face for something. For permission, maybe.
Sam hesitated.
“We’re just friends. Didn’t want to go with anyone else,” he said, and it felt like kicking himself in the gut. Like giving something away he hadn’t meant to.
“I see,” Dean said, smirking, but his gaze never left Keira now.
Something in Sam curled up and closed off. He hated this. Hated how easily Dean could turn on the charm, how fast the world bent around him when he wanted it to. And he hated himself more—for the part of him that was angry at Keira for this.
Dean handed the joint back to Keira and took a sip of his drink, all smooth confidence and slow-burning magnetism.
“So,” Keira said, a little breathless. “You don’t look like the prom kind of guy.”
Dean grinned. “’m not.”
“Then why’d you come?”
Dean’s eyes flicked to Sam again—just for a heartbeat, almost imperceptible.
“Had a feeling I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
That silence that followed was heavier than it had any right to be.
Sam drained half his cup in one go. The drink tasted awful—cheap sugar and artificial fruit—but he welcomed the burn. He needed something to numb the noise.
Keira kept talking, something about how bad the DJ was, but Sam wasn’t listening. He could feel the tension radiating off Dean, could sense every movement like static on his skin. Every time Dean laughed, it felt like gravity shifted. Every time he smiled at her, something inside Sam cracked a little deeper.
He took another sip. Another drag.
Dean didn’t say anything more—but Sam felt him watching. Always watching. Like he was waiting for Sam to run, or to say something, or to break.
He didn’t know which would come first.
⸻
When Dean went to get the second round of drinks, Keira spun toward Sam, cheeks flushed bright red.
“Please tell me this is okay,” she said, almost pleading, eyes wide and searching his face for something—permission, maybe. Sam swallowed hard and tried to keep the jealousy out of his voice.
“Of course,” he muttered, tugging at the sleeves of his suit jacket. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
Keira arched an eyebrow. “Jesus, no wonder you feel awkward—you need to learn how to dress,” she sighed, and before he could react, she was already peeling the jacket off his shoulders.
She swung it over her own like it was nothing, then started unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt.
“Hey—what are you doing?” Sam grabbed her wrists in panic.
“Hold still.”
She rolled his sleeves up further, then crouched slightly, undoing the bottom buttons of his shirt and tying it at his waist in a snug, cinched knot. The fabric hugged his slim torso, the knot pulling it tight just above his hips. Dean’s dress pants—too big, too loose—hung low on Sam’s hips now, and a sliver of tanned skin peeked out between the waistband and the hem of his shirt. His stomach, smooth and tight from too many sit-ups and restless nights, was suddenly on full display.
Keira stepped back, biting her lip. “Sam. You look fucking hot.”
He glanced down at himself, unsure, his face flushing all over again.
“I… I look gay,” he said, almost in a whisper, and instantly regretted it.
Keira narrowed her eyes, arms crossing. “You look hot. Trust me.”
Before he could say anything else, Dean returned.
He slowed when he saw Keira in his jacket, eyes scanning over her before they flicked—quickly, sharply—to Sam. And then they lingered.
Sam felt it. That slow, deliberate sweep of Dean’s eyes down his body. Over his bare arms. His exposed waist. And, for just a second, Dean’s gaze caught at his hip, at the tied fabric, at the faint line of skin. Sam could’ve sworn his brother’s breath hitched. But maybe he was imagining that. Probably.
Dean’s eyes finally met his. They held for a beat. Then another. And whatever Sam thought he might read in them—disapproval, confusion, heat—vanished behind a blank wall. A neutral smirk.
He handed them their drinks without a word.
⸻
The music thumped around them, heavy bass and bad remixes. The air in the gym was thick with sweat, perfume, and cheap punch.
They drank. More than they should’ve.
Sam kept sipping, more and more, trying to stay numb. Trying to silence the storm building inside him. Dean and Keira were flirting now—soft laughs, close body language, touches that were a little too long, too familiar. And Sam?
Sam felt like he was vibrating out of his own skin.
Keira passed him the joint again. He didn’t hesitate this time. The smoke filled his lungs, gave him something to focus on other than the ache building in his chest. Than the way Dean’s hand brushed Keira’s back. Than the curl of her fingers in his jacket.
Sam leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting lazily across the room, glass loose in his hand.
That’s when he noticed him.
A senior—tall, broad-shouldered, probably captain of some team—was watching him. Not watching them. Just him. Sam blinked, unsure if he was imagining it, the haze from the joint already humming in his blood.
The guy didn’t look away.
His gaze was intense. Curious. Almost appreciative. Sam shifted, tugging the shirt-knot a little looser at his waist, suddenly hyper-aware of his body. Of how he must look right now—half-undressed, flushed, pupils blown from the weed, mouth slightly open as he tried to breathe normally.
Dean laughed again behind him, low and warm, and Keira giggled in response.
Sam took another drink. Then another.
And still, across the room, that senior didn’t stop looking.
His eyes were like hands. Slowly, deliberately, undressing Sam in a way that made his skin crawl and tingle all at once. Sam couldn’t tell if he wanted to vanish or walk straight across the room and say what are you staring at?
He pressed his back harder to the wall. Closed his eyes. Tried to pretend he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Tried not to wonder if Dean had noticed. If he cared.
The air was heavy.
Smoky. Sweet from the weed, sharp from the alcohol, thick with hormones and flickering lights. The music pulsed like a heartbeat — slow, dark, seductive. It felt like the whole room was breathing in sync with it.
Sam leaned against the wall across the room, half in shadow, half caught in the blinking red lights. His pupils were blown wide, lips slightly parted, breath shallow. The weed hummed in his veins, the alcohol made everything soft and syrupy.
But not that.
Not them.
Dean stood with Keira directly under the red spotlight, as if the entire world had rearranged itself to frame them like a scene in a movie — too beautiful, too charged, too perfect. Dean was close now, closer than before, his half-smile dripping with that smug, dangerous confidence he wore like a second skin.
His hands weren’t just on her hips anymore. She wasn’t dancing anymore. She was melting into him.
Dean had her entirely under his spell, her eyes locked on him like nothing else existed. Sam couldn’t even blame her. It was Dean. He knew exactly how to pull people in — how to make them forget themselves.
Dean leaned in and whispered something into her ear — low, gritty, the kind of voice that said I want you, and you know it. Her cheeks flushed pink with arousal and her lips trembled just slightly before he kissed her.
No hesitation.
No teasing build-up.
Just Dean, like a match to gasoline — instant, consuming heat.
He pushed her back against the wall. One hand slid down her thigh, the other pulling her flush against his body. His mouth crashed into hers — hot, hungry, hungry — his lips parting hers like he owned them.
His tongue swept into her mouth and Sam could see it — could see the way one movement of Dean's tongue made her whole body shiver. Her moan was lost beneath the music’s throb, but Sam felt it. Her fingers tangled in Dean's hair, those short blond strands Sam had touched too many times to count. Familiar. Intimate.
Dean’s knee slipped between her legs just enough to press up against her center, his body arching and moving in ways god never intended. She gasped, arching into him, and Dean only deepened the kiss, hands roaming up her waist, over her breasts, curling behind her neck — then down, over the curve of her ass, gripping tight, pulling her into him like she was already his.
Like he'd done it a hundred times.
And still — still — while Dean kissed her like he was starving…
…his eyes kept flicking back to Sam.
Slow. Lingering. Burning.
Sam couldn’t look away. Every stolen glance from Dean was a sucker punch straight to his gut — hot in his belly, cold in his chest. His entire body buzzed. He didn’t know if he wanted to scream or collapse.
Dean was kissing her like he meant it.
But his eyes — his eyes never stopped returning to him.
“Fuck,” Sam muttered, turning away so fast he nearly lost his balance. He pressed his hand to the wall, head down, breath catching in his throat. His chest was rising and falling like he’d run a mile. His heart hurt — a real, physical ache.
“You good, boy? You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
The voice came low and close, unexpected.
Sam startled, turning sharply. It was the older guy from earlier — the one who’d been watching him. But now he was close. Really close.
He had kind eyes. A knowing smile. Not predatory — just curious. Present. Like he saw Sam, not the version he tried to be.
“Hey,” the guy said softly, his smile gentle. “You looked like someone who forgot how stunning they are.”
Sam blinked, stunned.
“H–Hi,” he breathed.
“You okay?” the boy asked, voice warm. “Can I…?” He reached out slowly, fingers brushing Sam’s arm. Not forcing. Just… offering contact. Something real.
Sam didn’t pull away.
Instead, he followed the guy around the corner — just slightly out of view, deeper into the shadowed corridor. The guy leaned with one hand against the wall beside Sam’s head, the other gliding gently to Sam’s hip. His thumb brushed along the line of bare skin between his waistband and his open shirt. Slow. Grounding. Intimate.
The stranger moved closer. His face inches from Sam’s, nose grazing his. Their breath mingled. Sam trembled, every nerve lit.
The boy‘s hand slid up his bare stomach, fingers trailing along warm skin, and Sam shivered. His lips were almost on his now, just a whisper away. The music throbbed around them, distant, forgotten.
A hand cradled Sam’s jaw, tilting his face up, thumb brushing his cheekbone with infinite care.
Sam held his breath.
His first kiss. Oh God.
The guy leaned in — their lips met, barely. Just a brush.
A whisper of warmth, heat, promise. Sam let out a shaky gasp, his whole body swaying forward like he couldn’t help it. His hands clenched at his sides, too overwhelmed to touch back, to move, to think.
Then—
“Sam.”
The voice cracked through the moment like a whip.
Sam flinched hard.
Dean was standing there.
His lips were swollen from kissing, red and slick. His pupils were still blown wide, eyes half-lidded from arousal. He looked wrecked — mouth tight, chest rising and falling, strands of hair falling into his face. But his gaze — that dark, unreadable look — was locked solely on Sam.
Rage, yes. But also something deeper. Something raw and unspoken.
The older guy straightened, instantly sensing the shift in air, in power.
“Friend of yours?” he asked, polite, cautious.
Dean stepped forward, slow and dangerous. “He’s not interested.”
Sam jerked his chin up, heart pounding. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Dean’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped, low and rough. “No, but I do get to stop you when you’re about to do something that’ll haunt you.”
The music continued to pulse in the distance, but between them was silence. Tension.
Sam didn’t move.
The older boy frowned. “What did you just say?”
He stepped forward — not threatening, but challenging.
Dean moved with him instantly. Chest to chest. Eyes locked. Dean's hands fisted at his sides, like he was holding back something dangerous.
“You should back off,” Sam said quickly, voice strained. It wasn’t fear — not exactly. But there was no mistaking the energy between them. “He’s not worth it. Trust me.”
The guy was a little bit younger but taller than Dean, broader — built like a linebacker. But Sam could already see it: Dean wasn’t going to back down. Not an inch. He never did. And he never lost a fight.
There was a long, heavy pause.
Then the guy glanced between them — at Dean’s eyes, at Sam’s flushed face — and exhaled sharply. “Right,” he said, with something like pity in his voice. “Got it.”
He gave Sam a faint smile, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
The second he was gone, heat flared up in Sam’s chest. Anger. Shame. Confusion. All of it boiling over.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sam snapped, pushing past Dean, heart thundering. “Haven’t you screwed me up enough already? Isn’t your existence punishment enough?!”
“My problem?” Dean echoed, voice sharp and incredulous — and then he laughed. Bitter, hollow. He grabbed Sam’s wrist before he could fully walk away, spun him back around with force.
In one swift move, he yanked him in close.
“My problem,” Dean hissed through clenched teeth, “is you letting some creep put his hands on you. Like you belong to him. Like he has the right.”
His voice shook with intensity, eyes gleaming with something Sam couldn’t name — fury, yes, but underneath that? Something wounded. Something desperate.
Sam tried to yank his arm away, but Dean didn’t let go. Instead, he shoved him hard against the nearest wall. One hand landed beside Sam’s head, the other on the opposite side. Caging him in.
Too close. Too hot. Too much.
Sam’s breath hitched.
Dean leaned in, face inches from his.
“What the hell do you want, Dean?” Sam demanded, voice ragged. “You get to hook up with whoever you want, including Keira — literally making out with my best friend like your dick’s going out of style — but I make one connection, one, and suddenly you give a crap?”
He saw it — the way Dean flinched. Not dramatically, just a subtle shift in his jaw, the stiffening of his shoulders.
Like the words landed somewhere that hurt.
Dean opened his mouth, closed it again — tried to find words.
His eyes moved over Sam’s face slowly, like they were searching for an answer but got distracted somewhere along the way. He was studying him — the curve of his mouth, the flush in his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell too quickly.
Sam couldn’t lie to himself anymore.
Dean was looking at him. Really looking.
Then, Dean leaned in — not toward his mouth, not yet. Just close. His breath ghosted against Sam’s ear, hot and intimate. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, but it vibrated through Sam’s entire body.
“You ever kissed anyone before, Sammy?”
Sam shuddered.
The sound of Dean calling him that, in that voice — it was enough to short-circuit every remaining thought in his head. He couldn’t speak. His mouth had gone dry.
So he just shook his head.
Dean hummed, slow and dangerous, like the sound of someone who had already decided something.
“And you were gonna waste your first kiss on that fucking idiot?” he muttered through gritted teeth, lips brushing the shell of Sam’s ear. His breath made the hairs on Sam’s neck stand on end.
Sam felt like his legs were going to give out.
Dean didn’t pull back.
“You know,” he said, voice low, teasing, almost cruel, “first kisses are supposed to be special, Sammy. You only get one. And if you want… I could show you how it’s really done. You know.. for the next time.”
Sam’s blood turned molten in his veins.
That wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
He had to be dreaming — some weed-fueled hallucination, some cruel trick of his subconscious. But then Dean’s nose grazed down his cheek, slow, deliberate, and real.
Sam sucked in a breath. His whole body buzzed like a live wire.
He could hear what Dean was saying, even under all the bravado, under the teasing tone. Dean was saying:
It should be me. Only me.
So Sam nodded again.
Of course he did.
Because it was Dean.
Dean didn’t hesitate.
His lips met Sam’s in a kiss that was nothing like the timid almost one before. This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t hesitant.
Dean kissed him like he owned the moment. Like he owned him.
And even if Sam was inexperienced as fuck, it just felt so damn right. Like it always should’ve been like this.
His mouth was hot, firm, confident — lips moving slowly but deliberately over Sam’s, coaxing him open. Sam melted instantly, grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s hair like he might fall otherwise. Dean groaned low in his throat at the contact, deepening the kiss, pressing closer.
Their bodies collided.
Dean tilted his head, licked into Sam’s mouth, and Sam moaned before he could stop it — before he even knew he was making noise. Dean’s tongue was demanding, searching, teaching. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. It was messy and wet and perfect.
Dean pulled back just enough to speak against Sam’s mouth.
“That’s a real kiss, Sammy.”
Sam blinked up at him, dazed. His lips tingled. His chest ached. He didn’t even get a chance to respond.
Dean surged forward again — hands gripping Sam’s hips, forcing his body flush against the wall. One thigh shoved between Sam’s legs. Sam gasped and instinctively ground down — just a little, just for relief — but it was enough.
Dean growled, low and guttural, and slammed their mouths back together.
It wasn’t slow anymore.
It was heat and pressure and teeth clashing and breathless gasps. Dean kissed him like he needed it, like he’d waited years for it — like he was going to take every second back.
Sam couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He let Dean lead, let him take and push and control. His fingers gripped Sam’s jaw, tilting his face up exactly how he wanted it. His other hand slid down Sam’s waist, around to the small of his back, yanking him closer.
Sam gasped into his mouth, and Dean used that moment to slide his tongue deep again — filthy and consuming.
Dean rolled his hips against Sam’s.
Once. Twice.
Slow, deliberate grinds — enough for both of them to feel it.
Sam whimpered.
Dean chuckled darkly, lips brushing his jaw now, moving down to his neck. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
Sam nodded frantically. His brain was gone. He was nothing but sensation.
Dean thrust again — firmer this time. Sam’s cock rubbed against Dean’s thigh through his jeans, pressure sharp and perfect.
“Oh my God,” Sam breathed.
Dean’s mouth dragged across his neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin beneath his ear.
“Yeah, Sammy,” he rasped. “Just like that.”
Sam keened, bucked up into him.
Dean gripped both of Sam’s hips now, fully rutting against him. Grinding hard and slow, forcing their bodies to feel everything. Sam's head fell back against the wall with a thud, lips parted, panting.
“You feel that?” Dean whispered, lips at the base of his throat. “That’s what a kiss does when it’s real”
Sam couldn’t speak.
He was floating. Drowning. Burning.
Dean was everywhere — mouth, hands, body. Every time Sam shifted, Dean met him with more pressure, more friction. His lips captured Sam’s again, hungry, possessive, dragging his tongue deep while his hips kept moving in time with the beat of the music they couldn’t even hear anymore.
The rest of the world had disappeared.
There was only this.
Only him.
Dean kissed him like he was starving.
“Jesus, Sam,” he rasped between kisses, voice ragged and breathless. “You don’t even know… fuck, you don’t even know what you do to me.”
Sam whimpered as Dean bit down on his lower lip — not enough to hurt, just enough to own him. He sucked it into his mouth, kissed it better, groaned like it wasn’t enough.
“Mine,” Dean breathed. The word was barely audible, like a slip, like it escaped without permission — but it made Sam shiver.
Dean gripped his hips harder, grinding down in sharp, slow rolls. His cock was hard — unmistakably, undeniably pressing against Sam’s through layers of denim, and it felt like he was trying to mark him through his clothes.
“You were gonna let him touch you?” Dean growled, voice deeper now, rougher, his forehead pressed against Sam’s. “That fucking guy? After everything?”
Sam tried to answer — tried to shake his head — but Dean didn’t give him the chance. His mouth was back on him, kissing him like it was the only way to make the world make sense again. His hands were everywhere — gripping Sam’s waist, threading into his hair, sliding up under his shirt to feel bare skin, greedy and unrelenting.
“Nobody gets to touch you”, Dean muttered against his neck, teeth scraping skin.
Sam gasped. “Dean—”
“Nobody.”
His voice was fire and desperation and need.
Sam’s fingers curled in Dean’s jacket. His legs were trembling. His heart was pounding so loud it was all he could hear.
“You,” he whispered.
Dean froze.
Just for a second.
Then—
He moaned — low, wrecked, full of something raw and broken — and shoved Sam harder into the wall, slotting their bodies together like puzzle pieces. His hips moved faster now, grinding down with force and rhythm, chasing friction, chasing release. Sam could feel the tension in Dean’s thighs, in his chest, in his breath.
He was losing control.
“Fuck, Sammy—” Dean gasped. “You don’t even—God, you don’t even know—”
Sam grabbed his face, pulled him down into another kiss. It was clumsy, open-mouthed, desperate. Tongues tangled, breath stolen, spit shared. Dean kissed like he was trying to crawl inside him, like it wasn’t enough to be close — he wanted to consume.
One of Dean’s hands slid down to grab Sam’s thigh and hooked it up around his hip, opening him up more, claiming space. Their cocks ground together, trapped between their bodies, and Sam cried out — helpless, overwhelmed.
Dean bit down on his throat, hard enough to bruise.
“God, Sammy,” he growled again.
“You’re mine.”
Sam didn’t argue.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t want to.
Dean’s thrusts slowed again, rolling hard and deep against him, drawing out every sound from Sam’s lips. The pressure was perfect, relentless. Sam could feel the heat building, boiling over, Dean’s breath hot in his ear, panting, cursing, needing—
“I’m gonna—fuck—” Dean groaned, voice breaking. “You’re gonna make me—”
He buried his face in Sam’s neck, his whole body shaking.
And then he froze.
Just for a second.
Breathing hard. Still grinding, slower now, but still there. Still pressed tight, like he couldn’t bear to let go.
Sam’s fingers tightened in his shirt, anchoring them both.
Dean didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t pull away.
He just stayed there — body trembling, cock throbbing through his jeans, face hidden against Sam’s skin.
Like he’d finally gotten what he needed.
But now didn’t know what to do with it.
Dean didn’t pull back.
If anything, the stillness only made it worse.
Because a second later, he snapped.
His mouth was on Sam again — but this time it wasn’t a kiss.
It was a claiming.
Teeth scraped against his jaw, down his neck, over his collarbone. Dean yanked Sam’s shirt down just enough to bare more skin, to bite and suck bruises into the hollow of his throat. His fingers dug into Sam’s waist like he wanted to bruise him there too — to leave fingerprints as proof.
Proof that he was here first.
That no one else got to touch him like this.
“That fucker touched you,” Dean growled against Sam’s skin, voice wrecked, guttural. “He put his hands on you. On my fucking baby brother.”
Sam gasped at the possessiveness in Dean’s voice — how low and guttural “baby brother” sounded when it was wrapped in heat like that. How fucking sick it was.
Dean didn’t care.
He was rutting against him now, hard, filthy, grinding with intent — pulling Sam’s hips down to meet every thrust like he needed friction or he’d die.
Sam cried out, clinging to his shoulders, panting into his mouth.
“Dean—!”
But Dean didn’t stop.
He pressed harder.
Faster.
His breath was hot against Sam’s neck, damp and frantic. His hand slid down between them, not quite inside, but under Sam’s waistband, just enough to feel skin-on-skin. His thumb stroked the line of Sam’s hipbone, and Sam arched.
Dean’s lips were at his ear again, snarling and whispering all at once.
“You don’t need him.”
Sam whimpered.
“You don’t need anybody besides me; no one else gets to touch you like this—”
Dean growled, low in his chest — something primal, hungry — and shoved his thigh between Sam’s legs again, forcing him open, pinning him with his whole weight. His hands never stopped — gripping, sliding, exploring every inch he could get to. His teeth dragged along Sam’s throat, and Sam shook.
It was too much.
Too fast.
Too good.
Dean knew exactly what he was doing — how to roll his hips, how to move just right to make Sam feel every inch of him, even through the denim. He rubbed his cock against Sam’s with desperate, brutal friction, like he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.
Sam’s vision blurred.
“Dean—I’m—gonna—”
“Yeah,” Dean groaned. “Do it. Fucking do it for me. Come in your jeans like a desperate little—fuck—mine—mine—”
Sam shattered.
His back arched, thighs trembling, a strangled moan breaking from his lips as he came hard, everything tightening and then releasing in a rush of heat and shame and unbearable pleasure. His hands clawed at Dean’s back, fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, holding on for dear life.
Dean didn’t stop moving.
Didn’t stop kissing him.
Didn’t stop whispering filth into his ear like he’d been waiting his whole damn life for this.
And then—
Dean froze.
Again.
But this time it was different.
His whole body went tight.
And then Sam felt it — Dean pressed harder, his hips stuttering, a guttural fuck escaping his lips — and then he was coming too, grinding deep against Sam, panting like he couldn’t breathe.
They stood there, tangled and sweating and shaking, pressed to the wall like it was the only thing holding them up.
The music still pounded in the distance, blurred and far away now. The prom went on. But they didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Dean’s forehead was pressed to Sam’s. His eyes were still closed. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow gasps.
His voice was barely a whisper.
“Tell me I didn’t fuck everything up.”
Sam didn’t answer right away.
Because he didn’t know.
But he didn’t pull away either.