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dean's sad face

New Wee!cest fic!

Title: Fever
Author: bksncleverness
Word Count: somewhere in the 5500 range, I think.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: wee!cest; Sam is 14, Dean is 18
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my smutty imagination.
Summary: Sam's sick when Dad's away. Dean takes care of him.
Notes: This is a story I wrote for mooncharm forever ago. I can't even remember why I wrote it except that I was home sick with a fever a few weeks ago and it inspired sick!sam fic. Also, mooncharm is awesome, and I would write anything for her. Many thanks to my two amazing betas: juice817 who read this at CorCon and was so incredibly supportive of it, and stephanometra whose facility with the language is a fuckin' inspiration to me.

When Sam doesn’t get up to say goodbye to Dad, who’s leaving for a job that will take him away for a couple of days at least, Dean just chalks it up to Sam being a pain-in-the-ass fourteen-year-old. When Sam doesn’t get himself up for school, though, Dean knows something’s wrong.

“Yo, Sammy,” Dean says from the doorway. He’s already dressed even though it’s early, preferring to be ready whenever Dad’s leaving just in case he wants or needs his help.

Sam just grunts in response.

“What’s up, man? You’re gonna be late for school.”

“M’not going,” Sam says weakly.

“Now that’s unusual for a nerd like you. What’s going on, Sammy? Somebody bullying you? You’re big enough to take care of yourself now. Hell, you’re almost as tall as me.” Dean says, walking into the room and over to Sam’s bed. When he gets close enough, he finally sees that Sam is shivering under the covers.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, his voice softening. “You sick?”

“Fever,” Sam mumbles, curling in on himself even more.

“Shit, Sam. Let me get you some aspirin or something.”

“Wait,” he says, looking up at Dean. “M’so cold. Could you just help me warm up for a sec?” Sam’s voice is shaking as he shivers.

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Sure. You want another blanket?” he asks, walking over to his own unmade bed to pull the covers off.


“There’s the heating pad in the first aid kit. I could get that,” Dean suggests, although he knows what Sam’s asking for. He’s taken care of a feverish Sam enough times to know that what his brother really wants is for Dean to get into bed with him. Warm him up with body heat, the way he used to. But that was before either one of them was old enough to accidentally pop a boner, and Dean’s self-conscious enough about the way he’s always horny. Hell, he’s been jerking off so much lately, he’s got it down to a two-minute science.


“You want me to get in with you.” Dean says, embarrassed to hear his voice cracking on the word “in.” It’s not a question.

“Come on. You’re like a f-furnace, and I’m freezing over here.”

Sam needs him. Dean huffs out a breath, considering for a minute going into the bathroom and cleaning the pipes before getting into bed, but all that stops when Sam says his name. “Dean,” he moans. “Please.”

Dean sits down on the edge of his own bed and unlaces his boots. He takes off his flannel shirt and walks over to Sam’s bed. Sam loosens the blanket and Dean gets in, positioning himself behind Sam. The bed is tiny and there’s barely enough room for both of them, but Sam still finds a way to push his butt and narrow hips in the space above Dean’s bent knees.

After straightening the blanket over both of them, Dean rests his hand on his own leg, but Sam wastes no time in pulling it over, across his stomach, hunching himself around Dean’s warm forearm.

Sam’s chills are strong, and Dean can feel the muscles in Sam’s stomach jumping under his hand. He pulls his brother even closer, tucking his knees behind Sam’s.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, holding him close, trying to quiet the shivers. Thankful that the needs of his own body are forgotten for a minute as he tries to comfort Sam.

“S-s-so cold,” Sam shakes, but his skin is hot. Dean thinks the fever might be about 102. “This is-is better.”

“Shh, Sammy. Let’s just warm you up enough so that I can go get you some aspirin.”

“Hurts, Dean,” Sam says, curling into himself again, and Dean knows he means the body aches that plague Sam whenever he’s feverish. Dean doesn’t know if the aches would be there anyway, or if it’s the body-wracking shivers that cause them. Doesn’t matter. He pulls hand back and rubs small circles on the small of Sam’s back, willing Sam to stop shaking, and keeping his chest to Sam’s shoulders.

“How’s that?” Dean whispers.

“S’good,” Sam says, and he takes a deep breath, as deep as he can manage.

“Try to sleep,” Dean says.

Sam falls asleep a little while later, and Dean must follow suit because the next thing he knows, Sam is shouting, reaching out at nothing.

“Stay away!” he screams. “I’ll kill you!”

“Sam!” Dean jerks awake, holds Sam so he doesn’t fall out of bed. “Sam what is it?”

“Vengeful spirit. Dean, get the shotgun,” he says over his shoulder. “Stay away!!” he screams in the other direction. It’s unusual for Sam to get delirious, but since his first real hunt a few months ago, Dean’s noticed Sam has more nightmares. Actually seeing a vengeful spirit—-up close and real—-is clearly still fresh in his mind.

“Shh, Sammy. Shh. Dad’s got it. It’s okay,” he says, trying to quiet Sam down.

Without finesse, Dean turns him around so the two are facing.

“Look at me. Look at me, Sam.” His voice gets more stern, deeper when Sam looks everywhere around him, as though spirits are circling their heads. “Samuel,” he grits, and Sam’s eyes snap to his. “It’s okay, you’re safe. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt us.”

Sam’s face, which had started to lose some of its pudgy boyishness over the last year now looks like it belongs to a very scared ten-year old. Dean pulls him close, cradles him. “Shit, Sam. I gotta get some medicine into you.”

Which is easier said than done. Sam’s fever’s so high he can’t keep anything down. The first two aspirin come back out, barely disintegrated at all, along with puke that looks like oatmeal, although Dean doesn’t remember Sam ever eating oatmeal.

Dean settles then for cool compresses which Sam fights because he’s shivering so bad.

“Dean, stop,” he tries feebly to push Dean’s hands away. “You’re making it worse.”

“I have to get your fever down enough so you can take some aspirin.”

The fight goes out of Sam after a while. He lays back while Dan keeps the compresses fresh and cool on Sam’s forehead.

He tries again to give Sam aspirin—-Dean’s covered his chest and lap with a towel just in case—-but this time, Sam keeps the pills down. And with Dean keeping him warm, he falls back to sleep. This time Dean can’t stand the closeness; it’s making him claustrophobic, so he slips out of Sam's bed, going over to his own. He picks up an old copy of Guns and Ammo and flips through it as Sam sleeps.

When the sun ducks behind the hills in the distance, Sam sits up.

“Dean?” he asks, looking around.

“Hey, Sam, you all right?”

“Think so.”

“You hungry?” Dean asks.

“A little.”



“Sit tight,” Dean says, tossing the magazine aside and getting up. He crosses the room and goes into the kitchen, getting a can of chicken rice down from the cabinet. He opens it and dumps the stuff into a small pot on the stove. He hears shuffling behind him. “What’re you doing up?”

“Bathroom,” Sam mumbles, sliding his bare feet across the yellowed linoleum.

“Need help?”

Dean figures Sam feels terrible, because instead of indignantly whining, I’m not a baby, Dean, he just shakes his head no and continues shuffling.

Dean fills the empty soup can with water from the tap and stirs it into the pot. While he stirs, he listens to Sam in the bathroom. Hears him take a piss, flush, and wash his hands. Dean’s listening for something to go wrong. Sam to fall or knock something over. He stares at the door. When it opens, he turns suddenly back to the stirring.

Sam walks slowly back, pausing at the table.

“Go back to bed. I’ll bring it to you,” Dean says, not looking up.


Dean cools off the soup with an ice cube and brings it to Sam’s bed. Laying a towel across his legs, Sam balances the bowl on his bony knees and tries to feed himself with weak, shaking hands.

Dean watches until Sam looks up and says, “I can handle it, Dean.”

Dean tears himself away from his brother, busying himself in the living room, but he doesn’t turn the television on in case Sam calls for him, needs him.

After a while, Dean hears the spoon hit the empty bowl. “Seconds?” Dean asks from the doorway.

“Nah,” Sam says, laying back against the thin pillow, bowl still perched on his knees.

Dean grabs the bowl and towel. “Rest now. I’m gonna go to the store. You want anything special?”

“No. M’gonna sleep.”

Dean puts the bowl in the sink, looks through the cabinets. Decides on more soup and some saltines for Sam. Maybe some juice. Opening the coffee can on top of the refrigerator, Dean finds a twenty and a ten inside. Dad probably won’t be gone more than a week at most, so he figures spending some of the twenty won’t be too much of a risk. He drives down to the little Superette in town. Picks up a can of concentrated orange juice, two more cans of store brand chicken rice, a box of saltines, some bread and cheese, three boxes of Mac and Cheese, and a package of hot dogs. In the checkout line, Dean finds himself tossing a crossword puzzle book into the basket and two cherry Charms blowpops. They’re for Sam, although Dean would never admit to anyone—-torture him up and down and sideways—-that he likes to watch Sam eat 'em.

He pays for the food, gets a sympathetic smile from the old lady at the register. She obviously knows someone at home is sick. He walks out to the car, winter chill cutting through his jacket. Dean looks in on Sam when he gets back. Kid is still sleeping. He puts everything away. Makes himself a cheese sandwich and decides to watch Sam instead of TV.

Sam’s face is slack with sleep, pink mouth opened slightly. Hair especially messy and greasy, all over his forehead and the pillow.

It’s not...worry, exactly. Dean knows Sam’s gonna be fine. He’s seen the kid through countless colds and the flu three years in a row. Sam suffers hard—-he’s prone to fevers—-but bounces back quick. So Dean’s not worried about it. Not really. The tightness in his chest is something else. Something that comes out of knowing someone so well that you actually miss them when they’re sick. Something that comes from finding home in a person rather than a place. Something that comes from protecting the person you love most in the world. It makes Dean dizzy to contemplate how much he feels for Sam, never mind that his emotions cover the gamut from typical big-brotherliness to...stuff Dean can’t even put into words. Not that he’d want to.

Dean eats his cheese sandwich quietly, taking swigs from a bottle of beer he thinks Dad won’t miss. When he’s done and Sam’s still snoring softly, Dean gets up, takes his plate to the kitchen sink and washes it. He reaches up to place the dish into the cabinet, hissing when the head of his half-hard cock catches in the fabric of his underwear. He’s been trying to ignore the fact that it’s been like this since he started back home from the Superette. Trying to ignore the rush of feelings he knows he’ll get as soon as he lets himself think. It isn’t any use. It’s inevitable, but Dean puts it off for a little longer, going into the living room and watching TV for a while. Something stupid, a sitcom, a courtroom drama, syndicated crap. Keeps lowering the sound to hear the Sam’s slow, even breathing from the other room.

When he can’t take it anymore, he strips his clothes off as he heads for the shower. He washes his hair, his face, his body. He’s fully hard now. It’s what happens when he spends the day around Sam, so Dean goes out as much as he can. Picks up odd jobs in the neighborhood, makes time with some of the girls that hang around the bar in town. But there’s a part of him that knows he’s just shoveling shit against the tide. He can’t hold back these feelings, just has to figure a way around them, maybe get better at jerking off and hiding it, maybe spend more time away from his brother.

He gets a hand on himself, biting back a moan of anticipation for the release he knows is coming. He forces himself to stare at the hand on his dick and think only about that, about the feel of his grip, the slickness of the soap in his palm, the twist he gives at the head. His eyes fall closed and he can feel his thoughts traveling to places he doesn’t want them to go, so he tries to remember the last girl he kissed, but the image doesn’t stick. Never sticks. And soon he’s thinking about Sam’s pink mouth, and before he can even wrench his mind away from the image, he’s coming in hot sticky pulses over his hand. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Once he’s out and dried off, he goes into the room he shares with Sam, pulls on a pair of underwear, some sweat pants and an old t-shirt. He’s about to climb into his own bed when Sam starts and turns over.

“Dean,” Sam says. There’s so much in that word, and Dean can hear it. Sam feels bad and wants Dean close, wants his warmth and comfort. The only comfort he’s ever really known. Dean’s held him during nightmares, bandaged his cuts, iced his bumps and bruises. Dean knows every scar on Sam’s body, could tell the stories of them better than Sam himself. He knows the way Sam goes deadly quiet when he’s hurt bad, knows how he leans into Dean when he’s tired.

“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says quietly.

“I hurt all over,” Sam says, and Dean can see the way he’s curling in on himself again, fever must be going back up. “Cold.”

“Hang on, I’ll get you some more aspirin,” Dean says, quickly making his way to the medicine cabinet and shaking two tablets out of the bottle. On the way back, he pauses in the kitchen to fill a glass with water. The glass is barely half full when he hears Sam moan from the bedroom. He drops everything and runs back. Sam has broken out in a cold sweat, kicked the covers off. He’s soaked through the shirt he’s been sleeping in. “Hey, Sammy. You sit tight, I’m gonna get you a cool washcloth for your face.”

“No,” Sam groans. “Gonna be sick,” he says, sitting up. Dean grabs him up, slings one long arm across his shoulders and half carries Sam to the bathroom. Sam slumps on the floor in front of the toilet and Dean lifts the lid just as Sam throws up the soup from a few hours ago. It doesn’t take long. Sam heaves a couple of times and Dean is there, brushing the hair off Sam’s sweaty forehead, splaying a hand over his chest, feeling the muscles bunch underneath as Sam strains forward. The bathroom is tiny and Dean only has to lean back a bit to grab a washcloth from the edge of the tub and wet it. When the coolness hits the back of Sam’s neck, under the hair curled there, he shudders and sighs. “I’m okay,” he says, breathing hard. “Okay.”

“Sure, Sammy?” Dean asks, one hand on Sam’s neck the other still curved around his chest.

“Yeah,” Sam says, drawing in a breath. “Feel better.”

Dean flushes the toilet and helps Sam up. Sam leans over the sink, washes his face and rinses with some water, Dean doesn’t let go for a second, afraid his brother will fall. They walk slowly back to the bedroom together, Dean taking the abandoned aspirin and glass of water from the kitchen and leaving them on the bedside table. “For when you feel up to it.”

Sam sits on the edge of his bed, as if testing how he feels. Without saying a word, he pops the two aspirin into his mouth and swallows them with a tiny sip of water. Dean watches him wait to see if they’ll come up. They don’t. Dean fishes another shirt out of Sam’s dresser drawer and makes him change out of the sweaty one he’s been wearing all day. The sweatpants Sam’s been sleeping in could use a change as well, but he doesn’t have another pair that fits, so Dean takes his off and gives them to Sam, kneeling to pull the dirty ones off of Sam’s long legs. Dean’ll sleep in his boxers. He always gets warm when he sleeps anyway. He dumps Sam’s clothes into the laundry basket.

Sam lets himself be tucked in, but when Dean turns to go sleep in his own bed, Sam just grabs his wrist and gives it a small tug.

Dean shakes his head, but goes around the bed anyway, slipping in behind Sam, getting his brother in the place that just fucking fits. He’s grateful for his time in the shower, because even though he can feel his body stirring with Sam so close to him like this, his exhaustion wins out and soon both Winchester boys are asleep.

They barely move the whole night. There’s nowhere for them to go anyway. No room for tossing and turning. Dean wakes to Sam kicking the covers off in the morning. He’s sweaty again, but this time Dean can tell it’s because the fever’s broken. His skin isn’t clammy any more, and Dean can just sense, in the way Sam stretches against him, that his muscles don’t ache as much. Sam’s first shift brings his ass into contact with Dean’s morning wood, and Dean barely suppresses a groan at the brush of the curve against his dick. He sort of freezes, not really sure where to go, whether to get up and get out of bed, or pretend he’s still asleep. His arm is still curled around Sam’s stomach, knees still tucked in behind Sam’s.

Sam shifts again, brings his butt further back to brush against Dean. Dean’s not sure, but this time, it seems like it’s on purpose. Sam lays his hand on top of Dean’s forearm, and Dean thinks for a minute Sam’s going to toss it off and get up, but instead he gives a little push so that Dean will move his hand lower. Dean keeps his arm rigidly in place, deciding that what he needs to do is pretend to be asleep. Sam tries again to push Dean’s hand lower, and soon Dean can’t ignore the Sam’s hand urging him lower. He “wakes” with a start, pulling his hand out of the danger zone.

“Morning,” Dean says, as sleepily as he can manage, even though his heart is beating so hard he’s sure Sam can hear it.

“Hey,” Sam says.

Dean reaches up and feels Sam’s forehead with his hand. “Think the fever’s gone, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, rolling out of bed. He stands next to it, not even trying to hide the tent in the sweatpants he’s borrowed from Dean. “I feel better.”

“Some breakfast?” Dean asks, about to toss the covers off and get up, looking everywhere but at Sam.

“Maybe. I just wanna shower first. I feel gross.”

“Are you gonna be…okay? You can take a bath instead if you’re still feeling weak.”

“No. I can shower,” he says, pulling his t-shirt off and walking towards the door.

Once he’s gone, Dean sinks back into the bed, hating himself for being the weak one, for almost taking something Sam was surely not offering. Sam didn’t know what he was doing, moving Dean’s hand. He was probably just shifting to get more comfortable. And Sam's ass brushing against Dean's crotch? Surely that was accidental. It was just Sam trying to keep from falling out of the tiny bed. Dean scrubs a hand over his face, forcing himself to breathe.

When he hears the pipes groan and the shower start, he looks at the clock on the bedside table. Sam takes quick showers so he probably only has a few minutes before Sam comes back. Dean looks down at himself, pink head of his cock already hard and leaking, peeking out of the slit in the shorts. He should really be doing this in his own bed, but fuck it, he thinks. The smell of Sam is everywhere. Dean turns his head into the pillow and smells Sam’s hair, his sweat, the musk of his skin. This time, he doesn’t think at all, because he barely pulls himself up, one two three, before he’s coming, letting it paint his shirt and the sheets. He’s going to have to change them, but he doesn’t care. Bites his lip to keep from saying, “Sammy, Sammy,” but it’s there in his mouth. The desire to say it out loud, and have it mean something else, something it’s never meant before, is too much. He says it once, in a whisper, making sure the shower’s still going when he catches his breath.

The shower squeaks and the water stops. Dean gets up quickly, stripping the bed and taking off his own pajamas before pulling on a pair of jeans and a thermal. He’ll have to wait a few minutes for the hot water to come back before starting the tiny washing machine in the place, but it’ll be fine. He grabs the laundry and dumps it in the machine anyway, praying the bleachy scent of his come is hidden by the detergent he pours on top.

Sam comes out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, and Dean turns away from the sight of Sam’s wiry chest and arms and speaks into the kitchen cabinets, as he gets the coffee can down from the shelf. “Better?”

“Yeah. Like, a million times better.”

“Must have been a twenty-four hour thing,” Dean says.

“I hope so. I can’t remember the last time I felt that bad.”

“Two years ago. In Ohio," Dean says quickly. "You were down with the flu. Dad was taking care of that poltergeist in Indiana.”

“Oh yeah,” Sam says.

“You hungry?”

“A little.”


“Sounds okay,” Sam says. Dean can tell he’s wary to eat too much. Sam hates throwing up more than anything else in the world, practically. Sam goes in the bedroom to put on some clothes. He comes back out dressed and holding the wet towel which Dean snatches away from him and stuffs into the washer.

Dean gives him a bowl of cornflakes with milk and then goes about mixing up the orange juice. When that’s done, he pours his brother a glass and sets it down in front of him. “Here,” he says. “Vitamin C.”

Dean sits across from him, eating a bowl of cereal, and neither one says much. Sam finishes his cornflakes but doesn’t get seconds. Probably just trying to take it easy.

Sam gets up from the table, putting the bowl in the sink, and shifts his gaze from the bedroom to the living room. Dean watches him try to choose where to go next. “I took the sheets off your bed. They were all sweaty. You can sleep in my bed if you want to rest some more."

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says, but his voice sounds funny. Thicker. The sound of it makes Dean shift in his seat a little. Sam goes into their bedroom and Dean can hear the creak of his bed as Sam lays down in it.

He finishes his cereal and coffee and washes the dishes. He goes into the bathroom, brushes his teeth and washes his face and gets ready to go tinker with the Impala. On the way there, he stops and looks in on Sam.

Sam’s wide awake, looking at the door, like he’s been waiting for Dean to come and stand in the doorway.

“Something you need, Sammy?” Dean asks.

Sam just nods his head.

“What? Aspirin? Heating pad? Another blanket? Wait, I almost forgot, I picked this up for you last night,” he reaches over to the couch where he threw it, and brings the crossword puzzle book over to Sam. “Thought you might get bored in bed.”

He hands it over, but Sam doesn’t take it, just grabs Dean’s wrist again, looks up at him with those big wide eyes. There’s something like fear in those eyes. It’s not fear, though. Dean knows what Sam’s fear looks like. This is something similar, but not the same.

“What, Sam?’

“My...I’m still sore,” Sam says, pulling Dean’s arm. “My back is just...could you?” he asks, already turning onto his side and making room for Dean to slip in behind him.

Dean looks at his back, drops the crossword puzzle book and clenches his fists at his sides. “You’re fine, Sam,” he says, and he can hear the edge creeping back into his voice. The edge he didn’t use the whole time Sam was sick. And here it is again, and Dean knows it’s because he’s setting up the walls again. Don’t get into bed with your little brother, don’t rub little circles on his back, don’t let him grind his ass against you. “I have to go fix the car.”

“Please, Dean?” Sam says into his pillow, almost too quiet to hear. “Need you.”

Dean closes his eyes for a second, trying like hell to figure out what that means. Is it just comfort Sam wants? Does he still feel bad and want some babying? Is he delirious? Sam squirms a bit closer to the far edge of the bed, as if to show Dean how much room there is.

He takes a step forwards before he even decides what he’s doing and soon he’s in the bed behind Sam, rubbing his hand up and down his brother’s back.

He props his head up on one elbow while using the other hand to rub, determined not to get too cozy. Then Sam moans. The kid fucking moans when Dean’s hand rubs along his lower back. He even tips his head back a bit to do it, and the sound is far too much for Dean. If he wasn’t blindingly hard before, he is now. Dean runs his hand along the same place and Sam moans again, drawing in a shuddery breath at the end. “Feels good,” he murmurs.

Dean tenses, ready to throw himself out of the bed and run barefoot to the state line when Sam reaches back and grabs his wrist, pulling him around.

Dean resists, not wanting to get close. He’s too hard, and Sam would freak out, or not understand, or worse, understand completely. Dean’s about to make some excuse, until Sam pulls again and settles Dean’s hand low on his belly. A little nudge further down and Dean feels the head of Sam’s dick, hard underneath his hand. Dean sucks in a breath, a gasp really, of surprise. “It’s not just you,” Sam says, so quietly Dean almost doesn’t hear him.

Dean’s about to yell, about to tell Sam that this is wrong. Comfort is one thing, it’s not like they had a mom who could take care of them when they were sick. Or even a dad who’d stop the crusade of his life to wipe a runny nose. No, it’s just them against the world, and maybe Sam’s feelings are all jumbled up because Dean’s been taking care of him since before he could talk.

“You’re just...confused Sam. That’s all. Your emotional wires are crossed, or something,” his voice is low, like a growl.

“Oh yeah?” Sam whispers. “What’s your excuse?” he asks, deliberately pushing his ass back to rub against Dean’s hard cock.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and he’s not even sure why he says it. He’s pissed Sam’s figured him out; he thought he was so good at hiding it. But now he’s screwed worse because he’s going to have to be the adult for both of them now, trying to convince Sam that he doesn’t really want what he thinks he wants.

“It’s wrong,” Dean says weakly. “I want what’s wrong. And I can’t have it. I just have to deal, okay? It's not your problem.” He lays his head down on his arm and whispers: "I can't do that. Not to you."

Sam rolls his hips back again, and where the hell did he learn how to do that? “What if I want you to do it to me?” Sam says, that edge in his voice he gets when he's being a smartass.

“Sam, you’re only fourteen. And I made a promise to Dad that I’d take care of you. I’m not gonna hurt you like that. You’re just a kid,” Dean says, already feeling like the blanket and sheets are going to suffocate him.

“M’not,” Sam says, reaching back to palm Dean’s cock through his jeans.

“Sammy, no,” Dean says, batting his hand away. Sam turns to him and they tussle, Sam trying to get his hands on Dean, Dean trying to hold Sam’s wrists and control him. They fall off the bed, neither one of them clearly gaining the upper hand. Dean, who can fight dirty, isn’t doing everything he can to win. Sam leaves himself open for a groin hit, but Dean doesn’t take it, opting instead to surge forward onto Sam’s thighs. The accidental contact they have as they fight keeps distracting Dean from getting full control over Sam. And Sam keeps moaning, as Dean covers his body with his slightly heavier weight. The moaning, on top of everything else, is fucking killing Dean. Soon, the fight isn’t a fight anymore. Dean lets Sam’s wrists go in favor of grabbing his hips, while Sam’s newly free hands come up to hold Dean’s shoulders as Sam pulls himself up, slotting their hips together and arching up.

It only takes a minute before Sam’s coming in his jeans, his dick jumping against Dean’s hip as he stutters a groan into Dean’s neck. He doesn’t stop moving, though, and with one more roll of his hips, Dean’s coming too, determined not to make any sound because somehow it won’t count if he doesn’t make any sound.

He collapses on top of Sam, breathless. They’re in the space between the beds, blankets and sheets everywhere around them, tangled up in their legs. Dean lifts his head to look at Sam. Sam meets his gaze and there isn’t anything else there but love and admiration. The thing that was something-like-fear is gone. And Sam lifts his head to place a kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean gasps at that. It’s almost as startling as coming, because it says everything about how Sam’s feeling.

“I just...” Dean begins, making a move to get up, get out of the room, the apartment, the city, the state.

“Dean,” Sam says. “I’m okay. Really. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Sammy, I,” Dean says, wanting to apologize.

“Make me some lunch, okay? Some soup?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah. Okay." He gets up, untangling himself from the sheets and from Sam. He walks through the kitchen and goes straight into the bathroom, wiping the mess up. His hands are shaking. What have I done? he thinks. And then his mind switches into overdrive. Shame washes over him, colors his face; regret nags at him; he bargains with some unknown authority by reasoning that he didn't use his hands or make any noises so somehow it's not as bad. All the while, he's trying to ignore that one place in his brain that's rejoicing because Sam feels the same. Sam said: it's not just you, and that is isn't enough to make it right, but it's something. Still, Sam's a kid. Dean leans against the door of the bathroom, head falling back. His breathing hitches and his eyes water. Wanting Sam like this...it's like a fever and it's burning Dean up. And nothing is ever going to cure it.

"Dean?" Sam asks through the door.

"Gimmie a minute," Dean says, willing his voice to stay steady. He splashes cold water on his face and opens the door.

"You okay?" Sam asks, and before Dean can answer, Sam starts talking again. "Because I am. I'm really okay. Totally."

Dean turns away, gets the small pot out of the cabinet under the sink, and puts in on the stove. His hands are really shaking now, and he places them flat on the counter to steady himself. The tears come. He doesn't want them to, but they do. His shoulders shake as the tears drip onto the formica. He's ruined everything. Ruined Sam forever. Broke his promise to Dad, broke those silent promises he makes to Mom every night. He's failed, and he hates himself for it.

Sam comes up behind him, places a hand on his back.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean says. "I was weak and I made a mistake."

"No, Dean. You didn't. I wanted it, too. I want it."

"You don't know what you want."

"Yes, I do. And you do, too," Sam says, pressing in closer. Dean wants to get away, but Sam's warmth is like a magnet, drawing him in. "You want me."

"Doesn't matter, Sammy. I can't have what I want. Not now. Not ever."

"It's not true, Dean."

Dean shakes his head.

Sam lifts Dean's hand and slips in between Dean and the counter. Dean stares at the faded picture on Sam's t-shirt, breathing hard. Sam leans in, pressing his lips to Dean's. Dean can tell Sam hasn't done much kissing yet because he doesn't move, just waits for Dean to take over. When Dean stays still, Sam pulls away a fraction of an inch.

"I need you, Dean," Sam whispers to Dean's lips. "Help me," he says pushing forward.

Need you and help me echo through Dean's brain. Dean doesn't know if Sam knows that these are the words that could make Dean do anything. He'd run through hell itself barefoot if Sam needed him to. And Sam is there, right fucking there with fistfuls of Dean's shirt in his hands, asking. Dean's stretched and tense, torn between what he wants and what he knows is right. And then he decides.

Dean opens his mouth slightly and catches Sam's lips in a kiss. It's so sweet, so perfect, that Dean decides he'll take it all: Dad can kill him, Sam can hate him someday, he can hate himself, he can go to hell, but he's going to do it. He'll take the consequences like a man, when they come, and they'll all be worth it.

Sam pulls away, laces the fingers of his right hand through Dean's left hand. "I'm, uh, not really hungry yet," he says, smile in his eyes. "I'd rather go back to bed." He moves sideways, and pulls Dean along with him back to their bedroom. And Dean thinks of pulling back, saying no, until Sam turns and looks over his shoulder at his brother. "Teach me?" Sam asks quietly.

Dean just nods and follows. He'd do anything for Sam.



You are so kind to me. I'm so happy you liked this. It felt really canon to me when I was writing. It was almost like I just watched it unfold in my head and I wrote what I saw.

I'm really pleased that it was effective. I loved telling the story, and I'm very sure that you will find the words to write what you are writing.

We always do. Sometimes it just takes longer. If you're anything like me (and I think you are), you'll be affected by someone else's fic, but then you'll absorb it and your voice will re-emerge.

I'm going to read your stuff this weekend! w00t!