"It says here demons rarely leave their hosts voluntarily," Sam read out loud an hour later, his determination to learn everything he could about this new evil haunting his life, making Dean hate him, taking over every other thought. "Usually they cling to their hosts like parasites, feeding off their energy and memories to keep themselves strong." Sam glanced up at Dean, who was flopped on the couch with a beer in one hand, a car magazine in the other. "Usually they have to be exorcised, which sends them back to hell."
"My dad can do that," Dean commented, keeping his eyes on the magazine. "So can Bobby."
"Yeah, but I mean, the fact that the demon left voluntarily? Presumably to go back to hell of its own accord? That's– That's pretty unusual behavior. They hate being in hell, says here. They escape it every chance they get."
"I don't know, Sammy, maybe it was missing its girlfriend," Dean snarked, and Sam felt the flush rising in his cheeks.
"Maybe it had a message to deliver," Sam suggested miserably. "Maybe something called it back to hell so it could deliver its message."
Dean slammed the magazine down on the coffee table and stood up. "Okay, that's it," he pounded the beer down and reached into his pocket for his keys. "You know what? We're leaving."
"What?" Sam looked up, surprised. "But your dad said–"
"Yeah, well, I'm not sitting around here another minute," Dean had the keys out, glanced at Sam even though it still felt like Dean wouldn't really look at him. "It smells like rotten eggs in here, and I need to get out. You comin'?"
In the car they rode in silence, Sam sneaking quick glances at Dean's profile every couple of minutes, Dean keeping his eyes straight ahead, on the road, his jaw working as if he were grinding his teeth, and Sam knew that look. Dean had something on his mind, and he was determined to deal with it, the same way he dealt with any challenge. Straight on, without flinching, just getting the job done.
Sam had the wild thought that Dean was planning to dump him, was working up to telling him it was over between them before it had even started. Sam knew that was insane, that Dean couldn't possibly think of their relationship that way, but it made Sam's palms sweat and his heart pound and his breath speed up till he was almost hyperventilating by the time they pulled up to the lake. Dean found a quiet place to park where they had a view of the water and turned off the engine, then sat back, still staring straight out through the windshield, silent and still except for the bobbing of his adam's apple as he swallowed.
"This is where I taught you to swim," Dean said finally, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
"Yeah," Sam breathed out, realizing he had been holding his breath for awhile now.
"You were so little," Dean shook his head. "Like a little lost puppy who needed a friend."
Sam flushed at the memory, at the idea of Dean seeing him so small and helpless like that. It was such a contrast to how Sam wanted Dean to feel about him, it made him want to cry.
"When I pulled your bacon out of the fire that day, it was like I'd found my purpose in life," Dean went on, oblivious to Sam's distress, lost in his own memories. "You needed me, and I felt like I could take care of you, protect you, maybe take all the bad things that had happened to you and make it better. You know, like the song."
Dean smiled at his own joke, glancing at Sam for the first time since they got into the car at Bobby's. Sam frowned, raising his eyebrows in confusion, and Dean grinned wider. "You know, 'Take a sad song and make it better?' Dude, seriously? You don't know that song?"
Sam shook his head a little, shame making his cheeks flush hotter, and Dean shook his head, looked away at the lake again. "Man, that's pathetic," he mumbled. He took a deep breath. "Well, anyway, now you're bigger. You're growing up, and you're smart and talented and kind of amazing, really. You don't really need me anymore. And if you'd rather just strike out on your own or whatever, I don't want to hold you back, that's all I'm saying."
Sam stared, more flustered than he could admit by the turn in the conversation.
"Dean, you heard what that demon said back there," Sam protested, and Dean flinched, positively blanched. "Bobby heard it too. That thing was looking for me. I guess it's been looking for awhile. I'd probably already be a goner if it wasn't for you. Of course I need you, Dean, maybe more than ever now. I don't understand any of this, but I know I need to get to the bottom of it, I need to figure it out. And I need your help. I need you to have my back."
Sam drew in a breath, steeled himself, then continued. "But I totally understand if you don't want me around anymore," he went on, forcing the words out despite the thickness in his throat, the tears fighting to surface behind his eyes. "Maybe Missouri was wrong about me. Maybe I'm some kind of demon-spawn or something. Maybe that's where my abilities come from, and I'm just gonna turn dark-side one day and start destroying the world or something. Maybe I'm poisonous. Evil. Maybe it's just a matter of time before I turn into a monster."
Dean had started shaking his head four sentences ago, and by the time Sam stopped talking he was muttering, "No, no, no. No way," under his breath, had a hand up as if he meant to slap Sam or grab hold of him or put his hand over Sam's mouth to get him to stop. "No, you listen to me," he gestured firmly, right in front of Sam's face, turning on the bench to face Sam with a look that was stern and intense and took Sam's breath away. "You are not evil, okay? There's not an evil bone in your body. I know that, with everything I've got. You are not evil. Jesus, Sam, if anybody's evil here, it's me, okay? Thinking about you the way I do, the way I shouldn't, the way that demon said. That's evil, Sam. Taking advantage of an innocent kid who depends on me, that's evil. That's the twisted, sick thing about all this. Jesus."
Dean leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face, his handsome features flushed and contorted with his confession, with the sudden realization that he had put the words out there, in his rush to correct Sam, without thinking about what he was saying. Sam's mouth had fallen open; he could feel the air rushing in as he drew a sharp breath, almost a gasp, and stared at Dean, who was squirming on the bench like he wanted to climb out of his own skin, a wild look in his eyes that Sam recognized as sheer panic. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking back and forth, glanced at Sam and flinched.
"Fuck," Dean breathed. "Gonna take a walk."
He was out of the car and heading toward the lake before Sam could fully recover, before his brain could fully process what he'd just heard. He watched Dean's back as he walked purposefully toward the shore, watched his sure-footed, bow-legged stride, waited until Dean pulled off his over-shirt, then started on his tee-shirt, before Sam got out of the car to follow. It was a warm June day, and although Sam knew the water would be freezing, the air was definitely warm enough for what Dean obviously had in mind. Dean had already pulled off his boots and socks and was unzipping his jeans when Sam moved up beside him, silently removing his own shirts, toeing off his sneakers, hopping on one foot to pull off his socks.
Dean glanced at him as he pushed down his jeans, exposing his pale legs and black boxer-briefs. Sam's hands shook as he pushed his own jeans down, grateful that at least this time he wasn't wearing tighty-whities, just a pair of Dean's boxers that had gotten a little too small for him. Before Sam was free of his jeans Dean took off at a dead run across the sandy beach and onto the dock, jackknifing into a perfect dive as soon as he got to the end, Sam on his heels. Sam's dive was a little sloppier, but he'd been practicing over the years in motel pools, had even tried out for the swim team freshman year, so he knew he looked better than he had when he was twelve.
The water was cold, as Sam knew it would be, but the experience of diving into it was nothing like that first time almost four years ago. This time there was no confusion, no blending of realities as the dark water closed around him, and when he surfaced it was controlled and instinctive at the same time. Dean had come up a few feet away, spitting water and swiping a hand over his face to clear his vision. When he saw Sam bobbing in the water, Dean's face broke into a shit-eating grin so genuine it made Sam's chest ache, and Sam couldn't help grinning back at him, giving into the sheer joy of doing something – anything – with Dean again.
And when Dean took off across the lake, taking long, powerful strokes through the water, Sam followed easily, matching the older boy stroke for stroke until they were side by side in an undeclared race for the bank on the other side. Sam's arms were sore and his lungs were aching by the time his feet touched the muddy bottom of the opposite shore. He scrambled up the beach, Dean right beside him, gasping with laughter and trying to push Sam out of the way, and they collapsed side by side, panting with exertion and gulping in lungfuls of air. They rolled onto their backs in the sand, arms barely brushing, and as soon as Sam caught his breath he was aware of the tingling of his skin where Dean's arm touched his. Dean didn't move, though, just lay still as his breathing evened out, staring up at the sky, and Sam stayed as still as he could after getting his breath back, soaking in the afternoon sun and Dean's closeness, wishing he could stop time right here, right now, and live here forever, with Dean warm and content beside him. When he finally felt Dean move beside him Sam grabbed his hand, the gesture so automatic he didn't have time to think about how needy and desperate it must seem. Dean went still again, letting Sam hold his hand, carefully lacing their fingers together.
"Sam," Dean's deep voice breathed softly beside him, and it sounded like a warning, almost like a plea, so Sam pulled Dean's hand up to his mouth and kissed it, letting his lips linger on the warm, smooth skin. Dean allowed it for a few seconds, then gently pulled away, murmuring, "Okay, Sam. Okay."
Sam turned his head slowly, watching as Dean disentangled their fingers, lay his hand flat on his own chest. Dean's face was still wet, his lashes dripping water, his lips parted and damp, his cheeks flushed with exertion. Sam watched as Dean slowly raised his eyes to Sam's, blinked but held his gaze, green eyes shining and huge.
"All my life, Dean," Sam whispered, staring straight into those beautiful eyes, willing Dean to get it. "For as long as I can remember. Always. I always wanted this with you."
For a moment, Dean's eyes softened; he seemed entranced, hypnotized, and Sam wondered if he could affect Dean psychically after all. Then he blinked, glanced down at Sam's mouth, then turned his head away quickly, as if he was dismissing an urge that Sam understood only too well.
"No, Sam," he said quietly. "You're too young. It's wrong. You look up to me. You trust me to look after you. And after all you've been through, all those bastards abusing you..."
"Nobody ever," Sam breathed, struggling with his own sudden need to reassure Dean, to force him to see how wrong he was. "Nobody ever did that, Dean, I swear. I'm okay. You're the first."
Dean looked sharply at him then, considering. "That the truth?" he demanded as he sat up, frowning down at Sam. "Nobody ever bad-touched you? All those foster homes and never once?"
Sam screwed up his face with the effort to recall those horrible years, years when he escaped into his dreams of Dean every chance he got to avoid the misery of his real life, the taunting, bullying children, the harried, unhappy foster-parents who seemed to care mostly for the money he made them.
"Nope," Sam shook his head. "Never. I was too much of a freak, I guess. I scared them."
Dean's expression changed from horrified fascination to fond admiration in the course of a couple of seconds.
"Of course you did," he murmured approvingly. "Read a couple of their pervy thoughts, kicked their trailer-trash asses. That's my boy."
"Am I?" Sam felt his heart surge with hope, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Am I your boy?"
Dean rolled his eyes, reached over and shoved Sam so he fell onto his side, catching himself on one hand. "'Course you are, Sammy, what'd'ya think? Duh, Nerd-brain. Your ass is mine. Always will be, ya doofus. Now come on. Race ya back across."
"No way!" Sam yelled as he leapt to his feet, chasing Dean into the water again for their race back across the lake, swimming so hard he pulled a muscle in his shoulder. Back where they'd started, they pulled their jeans on, stealing grinning glances at each other, bumping shoulders as they raced back to the Impala side by side, laughing and gasping for breath as they collapsed into the car, wet clothes sticking to the vinyl bench.
"I win," Dean announced, rolling down the window to let some air into the stuffy passenger cabin.
"Like hell you do," Sam protested. "I matched you stroke for stroke, dude. Totally a tie."
Dean shook his head, still grinning ear to ear as he reached under the seat to retrieve his keys. Sam wasn't quite sure where he got the courage, but it suddenly felt absolutely necessary to get Dean to kiss him, right then and there, before another moment passed, before Dean started the car and drove them back to Bobby's where they could pretend all of this had never happened. But Sam had never kissed anyone before; he'd only been thinking about kissing Dean for the past three or four years, and nobody else could have possibly fit the bill. So when Sam reached for Dean's face and leaned in, it was so awkward that Dean elbowed him in the gut, started to protest loudly before he looked up and realized that Sam's face was right there, lips parted, eyes closed because he read in a book he should do that when he kissed someone.
"Oh for God's sake, Sammy," Dean huffed. His breath smelled vaguely of onions, this close, and Sam leaned closer, managed to smash his nose into Dean's cheek and plant a kiss on the edge of Dean's mouth before Dean took charge of the situation.
"Not that way, you idiot," he chastised, and Sam's eyes fluttered open as he felt Dean's hand carding through the hair on the back of his neck, the other sliding along his jaw. "Hold still," Dean commanded, and Sam had a close-up glimpse of Dean's face, his eyes closed, long lashes sweeping his freckled cheek as he angled in, lining their mouths up so their noses wouldn't mash together, and touched his lips to Sam's.
Dean's lips were soft, softer than Sam had imagined. The kiss wasn't just one little peck and done, either. It was a soft press, then a release, then another soft press, just to Sam's upper lip this time, then another one to his lower lip. Sam sat perfectly still, not sure what he should do but afraid to move for fear it would stop. His eyes were still open, and watching Dean's face this close sent a shock to his groin more intense even than the feel of his lips. He's kissing me, he's really fucking kissing me, goddamn it, Sam's brain screamed as his dick filled harder than it ever had before and he was suddenly ready for anything. Everything. Whatever he could get. Beyond ready. In fact, Sam had been more than ready for so long he couldn't remember a time before he was an aching, hungry, desperate mess for Dean.
It was over too soon. In fact, Sam was pretty sure any time before the end of the world would be too soon, but when Dean's tongue lightly caressed Sam's lower lip just before he leaned back and released his lips, Sam was certain it was about a million years too soon.
Sam's body followed Dean's as he leaned back, Sam's lips chasing Dean's, needing to maintain the contact. But Dean had his hand against Sam's chest and was pushing him firmly back, shaking his head as he slid his other hand along the back of the bench so he could brace himself.
"No, Sam," Dean warned, his voice low and rough, like he'd been running and hadn't quite caught his breath. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were so bright they almost seemed iridescent. "That's enough. We gotta get back to Bobby's."
Sam nodded, forcing himself to be content with the kiss, their first kiss, but now Sam was pretty confident it wouldn't be their last.
"You ever done that before?" Dean asked as he searched Sam's face, looking for something, although Sam couldn't imagine what it could be.
Sam shook his head, and Dean nodded, a smug smile turning up the edges of his mouth as he reached for the ignition, turned the key.
"That's what I thought," Dean said as the engine roared to life.
As he maneuvered the Impala out of the parking area and back to the main road, Sam watched Dean's profile, looking away only when Dean caught him staring and called him on it.
"Dude, I know I'm hot," he said with his trademark cocky grin. "But you can stow the creepy stalker shit, y'hear me? It's just me, Sam. Same as it's always been."
And Sam didn't even try to argue, just lowered his eyes, blushing furiously. He didn't bother reminding Dean that for Sam, it had indeed always been this way. Sam made a mental note to ask Dean when he first realized his own feelings for Sam were more than just friendly, but he was fairly sure Dean wouldn't answer that particular question right now, might be too embarrassed by the answer. So he tried to be content with sliding a little closer on the bench, splaying his fingers on the vinyl so that he was just touching Dean's leg, keeping the contact until they pulled into Bobby's salvage yard and a brand new chapter of Sam's life.
In the days and weeks that followed, Sam went through the motions of researching demons and demon activity, helping John and Dean hunt down another werewolf, and teaching himself Latin and ancient Greek, since most of the texts containing the lore they needed were written in those languages. Being back on the road with John was both exciting and exhausting; although they couldn't come up with any more signs of demon activity, there were plenty of other supernatural creatures that needed hunting, and John had them moving all over the country that summer, helping him put down a half-dozen evil creatures before school started. When they collapsed into their motel room each night to sleep, shower, and patch each other up, Sam should have been too exhausted to keep a coherent thought in his head.
But the truth was, all Sam thought about that summer, all he really cared about, was Dean. He was so consumed with lust that it was sometimes impossible to keep his head in the game. Now that he knew how Dean felt about him, it was like a switch that had long been out of commission had suddenly been flipped on, and Sam was completely and utterly lost. It had been bad enough before, when he was overwhelmed by endless fantasies of touching, kissing, and doing things with Dean that Sam had no words for. But now, knowing Dean wanted him too, living day-to-day beside the boy of his dreams who had become the man who held his heart in his hands, it was almost unbearable. Because Dean insisted they do this the right way, the legal way, the morally correct way, so of course Sam had to wait, which was something he had never been good at, not when he really wanted something.
And Sam really, really wanted Dean.
"Legal age in Minnesota is sixteen, Dean," Sam whined the first time he demanded what Dean was refusing to give in to. "Even younger if the partner is only four years older."
"I'm four years and seven months older than you, Sam," Dean reminded him, "and you won't be sixteen for three more weeks."
"Fuck," Sam slammed his hands through his hair in frustration. "Since when do you care so much about the law, anyway? We live our lives outside the law. How can you be so randomly law-abiding about this?"
Dean sighed and pushed Sam away, for the fifth time that week, refusing to even so much as kiss him.
"No sense starting what we can't finish," Dean said, and Sam could've screamed.
"Sixteen is the age of consent in this state, Dean," Sam reminded him, a week after that, when John was out drinking and Sam had made a move on Dean in the motel, had just grabbed him and kissed him up against the wall. Dean allowed it for a minute or two before gently disentangling Sam's hands from the front of his shirt and pushing him away, holding him at arm’s length firmly.
"Sixteen," Dean huffed. "Right. And I'm almost twenty-one. I should know better."
"Dean, I couldn't be more consenting if I was one of those dashboard bobblehead dogs," Sam protested, and Dean took that in, thought about that for a minute.
"I am so getting one of those," he muttered, pushing past Sam and into the bathroom.
On July eighteenth, Sam woke up early, tingling with anticipation.
Nix that. On July seventeenth, Sam never went to sleep. He lay tossing and turning in the little twin bed, which was getting smaller and smaller he could swear, trying not to jerk himself off before midnight. He listened to Dean's deep breaths in the other bed, tried to ignore the glowing face of the clock on the bedside table between them, finally kicking off the sheet and palming himself through his boxers because it was hot and the air-conditioning didn't work very well and he was a sweaty, desperate mess, as usual. When the clock read 11:55 Sam's heart started to pound and he broke out in a fresh sweat, taking slow, deep breaths in an effort to keep himself from hyperventilating.
In an effort to keep his mind off the ticking clock, Sam thought back over the horror of their recent hunt. John had dumped them in this roach-infested Nebraska motel two days before, giving Dean time to recover from a particularly nasty clawing by a katshituashku, a bear-like creature that had eaten six people in three states. Dean had complained to no end about being forced to lay up for a few days while John took off after another lead, but Sam was secretly relieved to finally have Dean all to himself, even if it meant putting up with a continual diatribe of grumpiness.
"Goddamn cat-shit thing did a number on me, Sammy," Dean complained when Sam knelt next to him after stabbing the creature with an obsidian knife, the only thing that killed this particular creature, according to Cree legend. Sam didn't both correcting Dean's pronunciation of the monster as he examined the wound, which had torn several long strips of skin off of Dean's thigh and shredded his jeans above the knee. Sam took his shirt off to wrap the leg and staunch the bleeding, but he had to carry Dean out of the woods bridal-style, much to Dean's humiliation and John's admiration.
"You're really growing, Sammy," John commented as they maneuvered Dean into the backseat of the Impala. "You're going to be taller than I am one of these days."
John already sensed the change in the relationship between the boys, and although he had mixed feelings about homosexuality in general – he'd seen too much bullying of gays and effeminate men in the marines to wish that kind of attention on his son – he felt grateful for yet another testament of Sam's devotion to Dean, yet another layer of the bond between the boys. Sam read John's renewed interest in Sam as it seemed to be intended, like he was a potential son-in-law being tested and interviewed for the job of life-time partner to John's son, and Sam decided he was perfectly okay with that. In fact, it felt kinda like being welcomed into the family all over again, in an oddly more legitimate way than just in the role of substitute little brother.
But the whole waiting thing was a serious drag. Sam supposed he had the demon to blame (or thank? how crazy was that?) for laying bare all the feelings that Dean had clearly been bottling inside for some time. Sam wondered if Dean would ever have revealed his feelings to Sam if not for the stark way they were laid out that day, in front of Sam, no less. Maybe Dean had told himself he would wait until Sam was at least sixteen, but Sam couldn't even be sure of that. He wondered if Dean had buried what he felt to be inappropriate feelings so deep he might never had admitted them. It made Sam's heart ache to think he might never have known, could have gone on for years thinking Dean didn't care about him like that, tearing himself apart inside over feelings he couldn't control and which he believed to be tragically unrequited.
In fact, if Sam really thought about it (and Sam did too much thinking, he knew that was one of his greatest flaws), he wondered if it might have been a little too easy, the way the demon just happened to be there at the right time and place to make Dean face his desire for Sam. "Love" was too strong a word; although Sam knew he loved Dean with all his heart and soul, he wasn't ready to entertain the idea that Dean might feel that way too. In fact, maybe that was at the core of Dean's moral dilemma; if he couldn't love Sam, then his lust was an empty expression of physical desire which he would've done better to have kept to himself.
Such was the way Sam's thinking went that night of July 17, waiting for the clock to tick out the time to his birthday, when he was determined to confront Dean and at least get him to make good on that demon's word, even if love was something Sam couldn't begin to hope for. And that was okay, Sam decided. He was completely okay with taking whatever Dean would give him. Dean had grown up without the love of a mother, just as Sam had, and maybe Dean's ability to love someone like that had died in that nursery all those years ago, had just turned to ash and flame. Dean hadn't had a dream-life to sustain him, as Sam had; Dean hadn't had a brother who loved him more than life itself, who breathed every word he spoke like it was his own special brand of oxygen, who never left his side and mimicked his every move and followed him around like he was the second coming. Sam had loved dream-Dean with a passion that was beyond any normal brother-bond, and it had been easy for Sam to transfer all that love to the real Dean.
But Dean had only known Sam these past four years, hadn't grown up with his little shadow following him around everywhere, adoring and hopeful and showing him how great he was, what a hero Dean Winchester was, at least in the eyes of an adoring younger brother. Dean's only experience of love after his mother died was a bitter, alcoholic father who resented him, however unfairly, for surviving the night that took his beloved wife and baby. A father who demanded he grow up as soon as possible so he could help take on the burden of revenge for their deaths. Dean’s existence until then was a constant reminder of John's failure to protect and save all of his family, not just this one small dependent boy who cried and woke up from nightmares needing comfort John couldn't provide because he was too consumed by his own grief to acknowledge Dean's suffering, much less to assuage it.
Sam was dying to make it up to Dean, dying to go back in time and just be there for him all those nights when he woke up sobbing, needing someone – anyone – to hold him and wipe away his tears and tell him, ‘it's okay, Dean. I'm here. It's okay.’ He would die for a chance to do just that. Seriously, Sam told himself with utter conviction, if he could go back in time and be there for Dean the way dream-Dean had been there for him – he would sell his soul.
Sam wasn't sure Dean would ever allow that comfort now, not from him, not from anyone. Dean had acquired a toughness, a shell to hide behind and protect himself with, a veneer of cocky bravado that no one would likely ever break through. Especially not Sam, the boy Dean had rescued from the fire and felt responsible for, the boy who had given Dean's life a kind of purpose for the first time, as he admitted to Sam that day by the lake.
"Dean," Sam whispered in the dark as the clock glowed 12:01. He stared across the space between their beds at the lump that was the love of his life and hissed his name again, louder this time, "Dean!"
Dean was on his stomach, covers kicked back as Sam's were on this warm night, arms tucked under the pillow where he kept his gun, probably touching it, calming himself with the feel of its cold metal against his fingers. When Sam punched out his name a third time, Dean stirred enough to turn his face toward Sam, eyes still closed, moving his mouth in that intoxicating way that made Sam think he was dreaming about sucking something, and God, that did things to Sam. That and the way Dean wiggled his ass as he settled into his new position, grinding his hips into the mattress so that he was probably feeling a little friction against his dick...
"Dean," this time the name came out on a moan, and Sam slid his hand down his chest, palmed his own dick as he imagined Dean's, and oh God all he ever did was think about Dean's body so it didn't exactly take any effort...
Dean's eyes slid open, sleepy and dark, and stared straight at Sam, catching him with his hand between his legs and his head thrown back, and Sam knew how depraved he must look and he almost lost it right there, feeling Dean's eyes on him while he touched himself...
"Happy birthday, Sam," Dean's mouth turned up in a tiny smirk as Sam squeezed the base of his cock and stifled another moan, closing his eyes tight in the effort to control his urge to come right then and there, just at the sight of Dean sprawled out and looking at him, just on the sound of Dean's voice alone.
"You want a little birthday present, Sam?" Dean's low, sleepy voice drawled, and Sam couldn't hold back the whimper that escaped his throat. Dean grinned wider and rolled lazily onto his side, patting the space beside him on the narrow bed. "Come on and see what I got for you, kiddo."
Sam didn't need to be asked twice. Slipping off his own bed, he climbed into Dean's and stretched out beside him, the sheet still warm from Dean's body. He lay on his side, one hand tucked under his head, the other laid carefully on the mattress between them, gazing at Dean expectantly, waiting, his whole body trembling with anticipation.
"You ever done this before?" Dean asked, his smirk turning fond, making his eyes shine in the dark.
Sam shook his head. He didn't trust himself to speak, afraid of scaring Dean or giving him any reason to decide this wasn't a good idea after all.
"Ever?" Dean clarified. "Even with a girl?"
Sam shook his head again, suddenly terrified that this might be too much for Dean, finding out that he was Sam's first. It might be too much responsibility. Sam held his breath, waiting for Dean to make a snarky comment about his inexperience, his damn stupid virginity.
"Okay," Dean breathed finally, sucking in another shaky breath as if to fortify himself. "Wow. No pressure there, huh? Well, you probably ought to know, nobody's first time is that great. I mean, it's just sex. It's not all fireworks and moonbeams, like in the movies."
A stab of lust speared through Sam's loins as Dean said the word ‘sex,’ the deep, gravelly voice just hitting every target in his already over-sensitized body.
"I know," Sam breathed, hating how young and shaky his voice sounded, grateful at least that it didn't squeak anymore, that it was pretty much done changing, as far as he could tell.
"Okay," Dean murmured. "So, you wanna?" he gestured at Sam's dick. "Or do you want me to?"
The idea of Dean giving him a hand-job was sending Sam's libido into overdrive, but when Dean's eyes flicked up and met his again and he saw the look of helplessness, contrasted with the determined set of his jaw, Sam was even more overwhelmed by a sudden tenderness, a need to soothe Dean's obvious panic.
Sam hand slid across the sheet and touched Dean's, nudged his fingers between Dean's so he could clasp his hand and pull it up to his mouth, pressing his lips against the bruised knuckles, the torn skin, barely kissing along each one, then the back of his freckled hand. Then he lay Dean's open palm against his cheek, kissing the fleshy pad before pushing Dean's hand along his jaw, curling his fingers around the back of Sam's neck, tangling them in Sam's hair. When he opened his eyes, Dean was gazing steadily at him, lips parted, eyes at half-mast, just watching as Sam made love to his hand.
"Kiss me," Sam whispered, eyes dropping to Dean's mouth, and damn it if Dean's lips didn't part just a little more, if his pink tongue didn't flick out and lick the dryness away so that now the damn things were glistening, looking stung and swollen.
Dean's breath huffed out in a short laugh that was nervous and sweet at the same time. "Bad breath," he muttered. "Been sleeping."
"I don't care," Sam persisted. "Kiss me. Please." He added the plea instinctively, sensing Dean's hesitance to give in to an order from Sam, but his inability to resist when Sam begged.
And maybe because it was something he knew how to do so well already, or because they'd already done it once so it lacked the pressure of a "first time" experience, Sam didn't really care because Dean was tugging on the back of his neck and leaning in at the same time, angling their noses just right, eyes flickering over Sam's features, lingering on his mouth before closing completely as his lips touched Sam's. This time Sam closed his eyes too, let the sensation of Dean's mouth moving against his overwhelm all other senses, unable to prevent a tiny moan from escaping his throat as he gave in to the kiss.
Dean's bottom lip had been split in the struggle with the katshituashku, so that the slight tang of hurt skin was the first thing Sam was aware of tasting. He sucked carefully, running his tongue over the lip as if he could heal it with his spit, before pushing into Dean's sleep-sour mouth, sliding his tongue along Dean's teeth, then the roof of his mouth, exploring, tasting, claiming. Sam had somehow managed to push Dean over, onto his back, or maybe Dean had just laid back and surrendered, so that Sam was suddenly in control of the kiss, holding Dean's jaw as he plundered his mouth, all his pent-up need and long-withheld desire for Dean just coalescing in this sudden connection, this moment of pure driving need.
He wanted to crawl inside Dean's mouth, inside Dean's body, and never leave, just crawl deeper and deeper inside him until he was a part of Dean, till every molecule and bead of blood was soaked in him, became threaded with his muscle and bone. The need was so consuming Sam was only peripherally aware that he was rubbing himself against Dean's hip, would probably have kept rutting until he came in his shorts if Dean hadn't whimpered and shuddered against him, shifting away a little so that Sam suddenly remembered his injury and pulled back with a start.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry," Sam mumbled, scooting back immediately to take the pressure off Dean's wound. "I forgot."
Dean's chest was heaving, short, panting breaths escaping his parted lips, swollen and shiny with spit, eyes glistening up at Sam with an animal intensity Sam had never seen in them before.
"It's okay," Dean breathed out, voice hoarse and ragged. "Don't stop."
Sam was ridiculously on board with that command. Kneeling eagerly next to Dean on the bed, he pulled his sweat-soaked tee-shirt off, then stood up to wiggle awkwardly out of his shorts, letting them drop on the floor, exposing his throbbing, swollen cock. He gave it two rough, quick strokes before clutching the base, holding back the orgasm that threatened to burst forth at the sight of Dean sprawled out beneath him, looking up at him with lust-blown eyes.
"Sam," Dean whispered, reaching out, brushing Sam's hip with his fingertips. "Look at you."
Sam watched Dean's face as he carefully straddled his hips, leaned down to capture his mouth again. Dean reached up, tangling one hand in Sam's hair as he let the other hand slide slowly down Sam's back, smoothing the sweat-slick skin. Sam pushed his painfully hard dick into Dean's stomach, then rocked back a little so his ass fit perfectly over Dean's still-clothed erection, moaning into Dean's mouth. Dean gasped at the friction, so Sam did it again, then began a steady rocking and rhythmic sliding, riding Dean's dick through his briefs, releasing Dean's mouth and sitting back to get a better angle, so that he could see Dean's face while he did it.
Dean's head was thrown back, exposing his throat, his lips parted and eyes almost completely shut, just a sliver glistening under his long lashes to tell him that Dean was watching Sam too, obviously liked what he saw. Dean reached up and ran his fingertips lightly over Sam's pecs, down his stomach, and Sam's gasped as Dean's fingers brushed over the tip of his cock, curled around the shaft. Sam fought back the urge to come yet again, squeezing his eyes shut and going utterly still as Dean took his dick firmly in hand, waited a beat as Sam adjusted, then started slowly jacking him as Sam went back to rocking on Dean's dick.
The feel of Dean's hand on his dick was too much; Sam leaned down to kiss Dean again just to stop his strokes, sucking Dean's luscious lips one at a time before pushing his tongue between them, wiggling his ass against Dean's erection, holding Dean's beautiful face between his hands, thumbing along his cheekbones. He released Dean's mouth so he could nuzzle along Dean's jaw, relishing the scrape of stubble against his own smooth, sensitive cheeks as he buried his face in Dean's neck and inhaled. He took Dean's earlobe between his teeth and chewed gently, then dipped his tongue into the shell of Dean's ear, feeling Dean shudder and cry out softly, felt Dean's dick throb against the cleft of his ass.
"Like that?" Sam whispered, licking along the tender skin of Dean's ear as he rubbed his ass against Dean's dick. He could feel the moment Dean tensed up, the moment he gasped in a breath and held it, grabbing Sam's biceps for leverage as his orgasm surged through him, and Sam only had long enough to raise his head, to watch Dean's face as his body came undone beneath him. Sam's body responded in kind, his orgasm hitting him, rushing through him like a log-dam breaking, building momentum until he whited out. The little stars at the back of his eyes sparkled like electricity, making him feel like a live wire on the edge of an explosion. All the power focused on this moment, carrying him out of his brain until he was floating above the bed, looking down at his own naked body, crouched on top of Dean's, shaking and moaning his release as Dean held him, stroking his back and murmuring into his ear.
Sam knew he'd passed out for a few minutes, because the first thing he became aware of was sweat cooling on his back, making him shiver. He shifted a little, grateful for the warm body under him, and he snuggled instinctively into the warmth, turning his face into heated, damp skin. He fit so well here, collapsed limply on top of Dean, his cheek rasping against Dean's stubble, he could almost ignore the sticky mess slowly drying between them.
Then Dean squirmed a little beneath him, slid his hands along Sam's sides, and tickled him.
"Oh, man!" Sam jerked away, lifting his head and rolling off the older boy with a huff of breath, skittering away from the suddenly lethal fingers till he was on his feet, backing away from the bed, out of reach. He stared down at Dean, who lay grinning up at him, green eyes twinkling, tee-shirt a rumpled, sticky mess, not to mention the dark, damp stain on the front of his boxers. Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, ran a hand over his head, making his hair stand straight up, and looked down at himself with a grimace.
"Damn, that was way messier than girl-sex," he declared, then glanced up at Sam, letting his gaze sweep down over his body. "You need a shower, dude."
Sam flushed, lowered his eyes, hot with shame and embarrassment, wishing he could run and hide so Dean couldn't see how gross he was, how disgusting.
"Hey," Dean reached up and grabbed his wrist. "Hey, Sammy. Look at me." And Sam did because it was Dean, and he could never not do whatever Dean wanted him to. Dean was smiling, his eyes warm, reassuring. "You were great, okay? Best sex I ever had with a guy. Hands down."
"Dean, I'm pretty sure that was the only sex you ever had with a guy," Sam ventured, hesitant because he honestly didn't know if that was true and he suddenly needed to know, like it was the most important thing in the world.
And damn it if he wasn't right. Dean lowered his eyes, smiling a little, almost shy, for God's sake, and it just about did Sam in right then to see that this was actually kind of a big deal for Dean, that it was a first for both of them.
"Yeah, well, don't get a big head about it or whatever," Dean muttered. "I still like girls. Like, pretty much only girls. Not like you turned me gay or anything."
Sam shook his head because Dean was right, there wasn't a normal way to explain why Sam's only sexual interest was Dean, and Dean's had apparently been pretty exclusively female until Sam, a fact that comforted Sam more than he wanted to admit.
"Shower with me," Sam offered, pulling against Dean's hold on his wrist.
Dean looked up, startled, like Sam had asked him to marry him, instead of just getting naked together and washing off. "Yeah, okay, sure," he hemmed and hawed, and Sam was amused at his obvious panic because really, they'd just rubbed off on each other so how could a shower be so scary?
Except yeah, it meant getting naked together. And this thing between them was still so new it felt like taking another step toward even greater intimacy, and Sam could understand why that might freak Dean out a little. It wasn't like Dean had had a lot of practice being close to somebody.
"It'll save water," Sam shrugged, trying for a nonchalance he didn't feel. "I mean, there'll be enough hot water for both of us that way."
"Right," Dean agreed, nodding without looking Sam in the eye, and Sam could tell he was nervous, but he let Sam help him into the bathroom, lean him up against the sink while Sam ran the water, test it until the temperature was just right, then turn back to help Dean undress.
Dean had already pulled his tee-shirt off, had gingerly pushed his boxers down over his injured thigh, grunting in pain as he yanked the sticky material off his pubes. Sam started to bend down to help, and it wasn't like he hadn't been helping Dean get dressed and undressed over the past couple of days since the injury, and it sure wasn't like they hadn't been naked in front of each other before. But now a line had been crossed. Now Sam's touches were interpreted by Dean as sexual. As if that hadn't been the case before, Sam sneered to himself; as if Sam wasn't thinking about sex every time he looked at Dean, much less touched him, since forever. But Dean pushed him away this time, insisting he could do it himself, pushing the soiled boxers down far enough that he could wiggle and step out of them, giving Sam a hard-on just watching his ass move as he did it, which of course in the small space of the bathroom meant that when Dean started to straighten up, Sam's swollen dick was almost right there in his face.
"God, Sam!" Dean complained, backing up against the sink. "Put that thing away! Jesus! Goddamn battering ram! Gonna take down Fort Knox with that thing, huh? Damn it!"
Sam couldn't help the grin that split his face, making him blush and look down and –
Damn. There was Dean's dick, and even all flaccid and covered in jizz and surrounded by those dark, damp curls, all sticky with more jizz, it was magnificent. Dean in his glorious freckled nakedness was the most beautiful thing Sam had ever seen, hands down.
"Sam!" Dean's voice was full of warning, and when Sam looked up to meet his eyes, Dean's eyebrows were raised expectantly. "Water? Shower? Can we stick with the program here, Sammy?"
'Yeah," Sam breathed out, moving to help Dean get into the shower, steeling himself against the tantalizing feel of skin against skin as he slid his arm around Dean's waist, letting Dean lean on him as he limped into position under the water. "Sorry."
Sam did the best he could to keep Dean's bandaged leg out of the direct flow of water, but it was awkward, and Sam wasn't getting any water, so Sam stood still and let Dean hold onto him as he washed himself, wishing he dared to do it himself. Dean had his eyes closed, head tipped back into the shower, letting the water flow over his head and down his chest, between his legs. He had the foot of his injured leg propped on the edge of the tub, thereby keeping the bandage mostly dry, but also keeping himself dangerously off balance, so that he leaned heavily on Sam as he handed the soap to Sam and rinsed himself off. Sam quickly soaped himself up, but before Dean could finish and get out of the shower, leaving Sam to rinse off, Sam dropped to his knees and took Dean's quickly hardening dick in his mouth, making Dean gasp.
"Sam!" Dean stumbled back, slamming one hand against the tile wall of the tub to brace himself, the other hand in Sam's hair as Sam sucked on the velvety head of his cock, keeping his teeth carefully tucked under his lips, letting his hand caress Dean's hip soothingly. He ran his tongue over the slit, then under the ridge of the head, exploring, tasting, before opening his jaw and taking down as much as he could of Dean's now fully erect dick.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean breathed, sliding his hand through Sam's hair before grabbing a handful, holding on tight. Sam had practiced this so often, although usually with an empty whiskey bottle, it was easier than he expected, despite the obvious difference in girth. His jaw unhinged naturally to accommodate Dean's dick, so that when it hit the back of his throat Sam didn't even gag, although it became impossible to breath and his eyes filled with tears. Dean gasped, thrusting reflexively, shallowly, kneading Sam's scalp as he grabbed more of his hair, and when Sam managed to look up, blinking tears, Dean was looking down with intense concentration, eyes blown completely dark, jaw clenched, lips pushed out in a tense pout. When their eyes met Dean squeezed his shut tight and Sam could feel Dean's dick twitch in his mouth, the skin feeling impossibly tight against his tongue.
Sam slipped his hand between Dean's legs and cupped his balls, and that was it. Sam got only a strangled "Oh shit!" as warning before Dean was releasing down his throat, pumping hot come as Sam swallowed, leaning back so he could suckle every last drop of the salty, bitter fluid, flicking his tongue over the silky smooth skin of Dean's slit one last time. He savored the taste and feel of it before letting it go and burying his face in the crease of Dean's trembling thigh; wrapping his arms around Dean's waist and sucking a mark into the tender skin as Dean stood shaking and panting a little, fingers carding through Sam's hair as he came down.
When Sam lifted his eyes again Dean was looking down, an expression of fond wonder in his eyes; he slipped his hand along Sam's cheek, swiping his thumb over Sam's bottom lip, shaking his head a little.
"Not even gonna ask where you learned to do that," he murmured, and Sam smiled a little, feeling warm and praised.
"It was okay?" he asked, not really wanting to think about all the blow-jobs Dean had already received, hating to imagine them or his ranking among them.
"Best damn head ever, Sam," Dean's voice shook a little, his eyes looked like they might tear over. "You – you're amazing, you know that?"
Sam grinned wider, lowered his eyes, flushed with the praise and the feel of Dean's gentle hand on his face, caressing his cheek, his lips.
He helped Dean out of the shower, then rinsed himself off in the rapidly cooling water while Dean toweled off. They didn't speak again as Sam toweled himself off, then bundled Dean back into the bedroom and into the unused bed, but when he started to pull away to go sleep on the floor or the chair, to give Dean some room, Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him down, let Sam spoon him on the bed.
"Injured player has to be little spoon," Dean mumbled as if he had to excuse his obvious desire to be cuddled, and Sam huffed out a breath and went with it, grateful for the contact, the soothing feel of Dean's back against his chest, his arm clutched to Dean's chest like a damn teddy bear while Sam curled the other one under Dean's pillow and pressed his face into the back of Dean's neck, leaving soft kisses against the skin as Dean settled into contented, blissed-out sleep.
Sam tried not to let his erection press too hard into Dean's backside, tried not to think about slipping it between Dean's ass cheeks and getting off that way, but it wasn't easy, and when Dean released his arm and reached behind to grasp Sam's hip, pulling their bodies flush and turning his face against Sam's arm, kissing and suckling and pushing back against Sam's straining cock, Sam was only too ready to comply with Dean's non-verbal invitation. And it only took a few thrusts before Sam was there, coming in long, hot spurts between Dean's legs, sinking his teeth into the meaty juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder, moaning loudly as he did. He lay breathing hard, dazed and content, until Dean reached back and swatted his ass, pushing against him so he got the message and climbed out of bed to get the warm washcloth to wipe Dean's ass and legs, in the course of which Dean became dangerously hard again and fuck it all anyway, who needs sleep?
The rest of the week passed pretty much in bed. In between mind-blowing sessions of increasingly better and better sex, Sam brought in food, using the last of Dean's money, then the last of what John had left them, then stealing what he could from local markets until he found a food pantry in the local church, where the kindly older women stuffed his arms full of bread and peanut butter and cans of soup.
Dean lay around watching t.v. and healing. He was surprisingly good-tempered, taking his incapacitation more mildly than Sam could have expected, allowing himself to be tended and fed and generally taken care of with a minimum of protest. It was so out of character that Sam was tempted to worry about him, if it hadn't been for his seemingly boundless interest in getting laid. By Sam. He finally decided that the sex was good for Dean, helped him relax and heal faster, and if it mellowed him a little at the same time, maybe that was okay too.
It took Dean a couple of days to get adjusted to the fact that he was having sex with a dude, though; he never seemed to get quite comfortable with the idea, even when Sam insisted he was obviously bi-sexual, just hadn't realized it before now.
"It's perfectly normal, Dean," Sam assured him, although all of Sam's research and reading on the topic hadn't fully prepared him for how challenging it was to be his lover's first confrontation with that aspect of his sexuality.
They were sitting on the bed, playing gin rummy with an old greasy card deck, both naked except for boxers; the room was hot and stuffy because the air-conditioning wasn't working very well and neither boy wanted to ask the motel manager to fix it because they were pretty sure John had only paid up through the end of the week, and that was yesterday.
"But you – you're just gay, right? Never so much as looked at a girl?" Dean was so earnest, seemed so determined to figure this out, damn it, that it made Sam ache for him.
"I guess," Sam answered. "I don't really know. I've only ever wanted you. Maybe if you were a girl – "
"Shut up," Dean growled, frowning, thinking about this for a minute. "That's not how this is supposed to work, is it? You either like boys or girls or both, those are the choices. Not girls and Sam but not boys. Not me but no girls or other boys."
Sam rolled his eyes, finally losing patience with the whole subject. "All I know is, it's what it is. Maybe it's not normal, or maybe there's something extra-normal about it. Missouri Moseley told me we were soul-mates. Maybe that's what this is."
"She said what?" Dean stared, eyebrows lifted so high they were practically touching his hairline. "She said we were what?"
"Soul-mates," Sam repeated. "Like twin souls. She thinks that's why I dreamed about you all the time when I was little. That was my soul reaching out to yours on some astral plane or something."
Dean shook his head, huffed out a laugh, then screwed his face up in disgust. "Oh, that's just fuckin' weird," he said. "That's just the weirdest fuckin' thing I ever heard."
Sam shrugged. "Yeah, she kinda said you'd feel that way about it. She sorta suggested I not tell you till after we were bonded. She said it would freak you out."
"Bonded, huh?" Dean's eyes were round and dark in the shadowy room; they had left the light on in the bathroom, but otherwise didn't want to draw attention to their presence in the room. Sam had been sneaking in and out through the bathroom window since the day before yesterday. "Sounds like a curse."
Sam's insides twisted sharply and he tried not to wince. "It's supposed to be a good thing, I think," he said, trying not to pout. "It means we're more aware of each other, like if something happens to one of us, the other one knows. Just senses it, or something."
Dean put his hands up, cards carefully facing away. "Hey, you're Haley Joel here, not me," he protested. "I've got about as much psychic sense as a beefsteak tomato."
"Actually, Missouri said you've got it too," Sam decided to go for broke, just spill all the beans at once, to hell with the consequences. A week of nearly constant sex could do that to a man, Sam decided; he was feeling reckless because he was more sure of Dean than he'd ever been before, and he needed him to see that. "You're psychic too. You just don't know it."
Dean stared, mouth dropping open adorably. Sam watched as his face changed color; even in the dim light Sam could see Dean's jaw clench and unclench, his frown deepening until his face seemed ghastly and contorted, fury and fear building in his body till he started to shake with it.
"Oh no," he sputtered, dropping the cards and pressing the heels of his hands against his temples. "You're fuckin' kidding me, right? That has to be wrong! Sam, I've never – I never – I can't do that. She must be wrong."
Sam shook his head. "She was pretty clear about it, actually," he said, feeling suddenly contrite for springing this on Dean so ruthlessly. It felt almost abusive, especially since Dean was taking it so badly. "You and I are more alike than you think. It's supposed to be a good thing, I think."
"You think," Dean repeated, still staring, equal parts horrified and furious. "You're telling me I can read minds? Do what you do? And it's a good thing? I don't know what you've been smoking, Sam, but me with psychic mojo is definitely not a good thing." He looked wildly around the room, as if he was looking for a way out, as if escape suddenly felt like the best strategy. "Jesus. Dad's gonna kill me."
He was off the bed, limping around stuffing clothes into his duffel, moving like a man possessed, muttering to himself, "This isn't real. It can't be. There's no way I'm a goddamn psychic. No way. Fuck!"
"Dean," Sam cajoled, backing off the bed slowly, raising his hands in a placating gesture, moving carefully as one would approach a wild animal. "Dean, it's okay. I've been living with it all my life, and it's not a big deal. The fact that you haven't ever manifested – maybe you never will. Maybe your ability is dormant, maybe it's a really low-level thing that's just there on a subconscious level or something. Trust me, it's not like you're gonna start levitating suddenly, or starting fires with your mind when you get angry."
Dean stopped pacing and stared at Sam, half-full duffel grasped in one hand, dirty tee-shirt in the other. "Well, that's a relief, Sam," he said, eyes wide and accusing. "'Cuz here I was starting to think I could turn into Carrie on prom night and nobody bothered to tell me, goddamn it. How could you keep something like that from me? What's the matter with you?"
"I didn't want you to freak out," Sam sighed. "And it's not like that, I swear. Being psychic can feel like a curse at first, but after awhile you get used to it. It's just a part of you."
"Oh, like Peter Sellers. Now I'm Doctor Strangelove, learning to love the bomb. Love your reasoning, there, Sam. It's just peachy," Dean spat, thrusting the tee-shirt into his duffel and limping into the bathroom for his toothbrush.
"Dean," Sam waited till Dean came out of the bathroom, then moved quickly, right up into Dean's space, so that he had to stop, stare up at Sam, which is when Sam realized he was taller, that sometime in the past month or so he had grown over Dean's head, at least while Dean was stooped a little from keeping his weight off his injured leg. It was disconcerting to both of them, and for a minute all Dean could do is stare at him, breathing a little too hard. "I swear to you, this is not a terminal illness. It's not the end of the world, and it sure as hell isn't gonna take over your life. You're still you, the guy who stumbles through life without ever using his hidden talents. And I'm still the freak who does. Nothing's really changed, Dean, you have to see that."
And to his credit, whether it was Sam's nearness. his soothing tone, or a sudden insight of his own, Dean calmed down visibly, took a deep breath, and dropped the duffel, following its descent with his eyes as he nodded.
"Okay," Dean sighed, lifting his eyes to Sam's again. "I don't know why, and that sucks the big one, but I believe you." He laid the palm of his hand against Sam's chest, over his heart, and took another deep breath, letting it out slow. "I'm not gonna start second-guessing my own instincts here, and right now I trust you, Sam." He closed his eyes, hesitated a moment, let out another shaky breath as he slipped his hand down Sam's chest, grabbing his belt and yanking him in, so their bodies were almost flush. "It's like something I know in my gut. You're somebody I trust." He opened his eyes, gazing steadily into Sam's, serious and intent. "So if that's the mojo talking, then that's what it is. Don't know, don't care. You're still the kid who's got my back, Sam. And I'll always have yours. That's what I know."
Sam felt tears smarting the backs of his eyes, felt his chest constricting painfully. He took the last step into Dean's space, so that they were pressed chest to chest. Dean's eyes fluttered closed as Sam cupped his cheek, gazed reverently at Dean's perfect features, ran his thumb over his soft bottom lip, trembling a little at Sam's touch.
"Always," Sam whispered his agreement as he took Dean's plush mouth in his, sealing the deal with a kiss as deep and meaningful as any they'd shared so far, maybe more so now that all the secrets were out, now that Sam didn't have to keep hiding anything.
And Sam decided then and there that he would never keep anything from Dean again, that keeping Dean's trust was too precious, too important, and he would never jeopardize that, no matter the circumstances. There was no situation that Sam could imagine in which he would ever willingly keep Dean in the dark, ever again.
ON TO PART FIVE - Back to Masterpost