Supernatural Fic: and the complications you could do without
Title: and the complications you could do without
Author: ygrawn
Fandom: Supernatural
Category: Wincest, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17, implied m/m sex, some graphic content
Word Count: 5100~
Timeline/Spoilers: None. It probably fits into Season 2 what with its angst and doom.
Summary: Their worst fights are about kissing, which makes them the girls Dean says he is.
Author’s Notes: Drunk!Sam says give Ygrawn feedback. And pour him another shot.



********

Their worst (worst and silent) fights are about kissing, which makes them the girls Dean says he is.

Dean can be drunker than God, or sicker than dead, or bored, or impatient, or waiting on a red light in the Impala at some where-the-fuck-ever intersection of a town that’s nothing and nowhere, or cleaning weapons and humming Zeppelin, or spring-dew wet from a shower they might have shared, but he won’t let Sam kiss him, and Sam just.

It’s not the no that bothers him, it’s the lack of substantive reason, which is why he would have made a fucking awesome lawyer thank you, applying habeas corpus like some modern day person who applied habeas corpus but whose name is lost to history, and righting wrongs or wronging rights that were really wrongs because the law (Sam’s never studied it so he feels more than entitled to assert the same mass generalisations made by people who don’t know shit from fuck) the law is a son of a bitch that’ll screw you with your pants on and won’t leave a tip for the blow-job you gave him, which.

Well, it’s a little like Dean, who clearly loves it when Sam blows him but he never says anything about it or gives Sam what he wants in return, and kissing isn’t nearly as difficult as giving head unless kissing is more complicated than Sam remembers, which is entirely possible it’s been so damn long since anybody kissed him.

Sam is very good at giving head, about as good as he is at researching the occult and conjugating verbs in Latin, and one time when he was drunk (before this time now, because boy howdy is he heading for a stomach pump tonight) he asked a Rastafarian at some frat party how do you conjugate pain and then laughed and laughed at his own joke that wasn’t a joke at all, because Latin is deader than a dead thing.

So, he’s a little-lot drunk. Not scary motherfucker drunk, although he’ll try to get there if he can find the co-ordinates. He got lost ten minutes ago on the way to the bathroom and ended up informing the scarred, apathetic dartboard that Dean was an ass, an actual anatomical ass (points for pronouncing anatomical with nary a stutter Sam thinks) until two guys with faces not even their mothers loved and who were probably born wearing flannel hustled him out of the way, unless you’d like a dart in your head, kiddo?

And Sam thinks he wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t feel the pinprick or the pain, or anything, except the kiss Dean won’t give him like it’s syphilis or gonorrhoea, or Sam has halitosis, only he doesn’t, he doesn’t, he brushes more than Dean, he brushes like.

“All the time,” Sam says, startling the head-to-toe denim blonde from a bottle she paid less than five dollars for, who is sitting next to him. No, perching. She’s the kind of woman who perches and minces and would stab you in the heart with her second-best pair of stilettos because her best pair cost her $17.99 and have those fancy-pants rhinestones she loves and just My Name is Earl her already, Sam thinks, only she’s not funny, she’s just staring at him like he’s drunk.

“Because I am,” he adds.

Sam is aware (was aware until three shots of something vicious and wet ago when he fell off the edge of the map and here be dragons and personal demons, not the ones they usually deal with, but the ones that come with capitalised Issues) that when he’s this drunk he simultaneously loses higher brain function and starts thinking like the genius he is, damn it, and Dean’s an idiot of the first and worst order and always has been, and it would be funny, except it’s tragic that his brother won’t kiss him, because.

You know, he’ll let Sam lick his ass and open him up with three fingers and slide his cock on home, because it is home, it is some kind of deliverance and Sam doesn’t care how pathetic that sounds, and he’ll let Sam put his cock in Dean’s mouth for the love of all that’s holy, and yet, apparently, kissing is the one thing, the one damn thing that crosses the line that Sam and Dean maybe saw once receding in the Impala’s rear vision mirror when Sam was five years old.

Like Dean is Julia Roberts. Although he is a whore, not that she was, because hello, no hooker has skin that clean and a heart of anything except pure desperation, which has never been gold, not ever, and every time Jess made him watch Pretty Woman with her Sam would point that out and get kicked in the ribs for his trouble and he’s not sure if the kicking or watching Richard Gere was the worst part and he fucking hates that movie. And Dean is like a whore but worse because he’ll have sex with anyone for free, which is not empowering or emancipating, but just another way of drinking to the bottom of a bottle or the needle and the damage done, not that Sam knows from that kind of shit, he’s just a glutton for punishment all on his sober lonesome, no need for any other substances or obsessions.

But, yes, Dean is a whore.

Which makes Sam something, somebody who sleeps with a whore, which is much better than the other word that neither he or Dean ever say because it’s dirtier even than fuck or cunt, which Dean says occasionally and then immediately apologises about because he knows it offends Sam so much, and Sam thinks he only became the grandma of their relationship by default because somebody has to draw lines for Dean somewhere and Sam is the only one who knows Dean could be more, so he has to expect and demand it of him and hit his brother over the head with it, or, you know, he’ll end up in a bar, drunk off his ass off the stool, which.

He is.

He’s tried in so many ways too and fucked if Dean doesn’t have some sixth sense for fraternal kissing. Figures Sam gets lumped with the Yuri Geller shit and Dean gets the power to sense when Sam is about to kiss him.

Because there was this one time in Green Bay after Dean let Sam fuck him face to face which was about as big a geo-political event in the world of Sam and Dean as the fall of the Berlin Wall in East-West relations, but without David Hasselhoff (thank Christ) and Dean fell asleep with Sam’s semen splattered across his stomach and a hand tucked under his pillow and Sam waited and waited until Dean was even snoring and he started to lean in for one sweet, stolen kiss (not knowing equals not hurting or something like that because how is it unreasonable for Sam to want to kiss the person he’s having sex with) and Dean cracked an eye and said I’ve got a knife in my right hand, Sammy and Sam flounced (yes, he’s drunk enough not to care about being embarrassed, he really flounced) over to the other, cold bed and slept there as noisily and unhappily as he could which was lost on Dean, like every other childish, woman-scorned, why won’t you love me (kiss me) play of Sam’s.

And maybe he’s the girl of the relationship because somebody has to be because they aren’t gay, they had that conversation and sorted that out, although it means nothing because clearly they aren’t entirely straight, although they aren’t entirely anything except demon hunters, so the bold-line delineations of any social norms leave them out on their lonesome, with only each other and their ragged banner of truth and heroism to keep them warm, so they’ve practically got hypothermia by now, so no wonder there’s the sex – they need the circulation – and it burns hotter, fierier, sharper than any alcohol Sam knows of that his quest for normal is more doomed than the Donner party’s expedition.

“Except maybe absinthe,” he helpfully tells the bartender, who looks.

Just looks at him. Obviously absinthe isn’t something that’s ever fallen into his world-view, although that’s no surprise, they’re somewhere between the potatoes of Idaho and the nothing of Kansas, so the guy probably doesn’t know there’s ocean on either side of America. At least he’s not going to cut Sam off, Sam knows that for sure, because a bar this far into the middle of nowhere needs the money like Sam needs a kiss from his withholding son of a bitch brother, who’ll happily give Sam his dick (Sam mentally giggles, sees the bartender’s expression and scratches mentally) but won’t kiss him.

And, oh, there have been the times in the shower and the times Dean or Sam were sick, which surely were his best shot because of the painkillers and the luxury of pretending you don’t remember anything, only Sam knows that if it ever happens that kiss will be carved into his brain like Jess burning on the ceiling and his father saying not to come back and the first time Dean took Sam’s seventeen-and-a-half-year-old cock in his calm, careful (loving) hands and tugged and jerked until Sam stroked out and lost the power of vision and speech.

And he could cry about the whole damn thing, so maybe he really is that much of a girl, because kissing is.

Kissing is it. Kissing is the ballgame. Kissing is what you’d do if you had a minute left to live. Kissing is some universal communicator, a perfect, unmistakable way of passing love, a silent language, unbroken and endless and good. Good like most things aren’t because Sam’s an expert on things being shittier than shit. Kissing is what poets bother writing about in between being depressed and having no money. Kissing is what people do when they, when they love each other, and okay, they do it when they don’t love each other, and maybe that’s Dean’s problem, maybe he doesn’t love Sam like Sam loves him?

Even fuck-the-glass-give-me-the-bottle drunk Sam doesn’t believe that for any longer than it takes for a cell to divide, and he snorts and the blonde finally gets up and moves, prances, to another stool and the bartender frowns at Sam, which dents him like gravity.

He’s smart, so he should be able to figure it out. Dean is no great mystery (actually, the greatest mystery) of Sam’s life, and he’s hardly a member of Mensa, so Dean’s thinking on the kissing can’t be too complicated, only it is, because Sam can’t work it out.

Sam tried kissing Dean again this evening when they were watching Dancing with Somebody on Ice while Swapping Something with Somebody Else and Being a Loser and Making Millions for basically being prepared to be humiliated like you’re worth nothing more than dirt on national television for the enjoyment of TV-dinner eating Neanderthals with the combined brain power of Stephen Hawking’s thumbnail, which they’d swapped to because it was half-time on the football and Dean was barefoot and stealing pieces of chicken out of Sam’s kuang pao because Dean was almost as sneaky with his chopsticks as he was with his heart (maybe not sneaky but parsimonious) and he jostled Sam’s elbow every time he moved and when Sam bent his knees and tucked a foot under Dean’s thigh Dean didn’t do anything about it and when Sam smiled at Dean with his whole heart, body, life, Dean smiled back, so Sam tried to kiss him, but Dean kicked him off the bed with a well-placed foot on Sam’s stomach and Sam ended up on the floor with kuang pao chicken on his shirt and Dean’s dead eyes for an answer, so.

“At least I changed the shirt,” Sam tells the bar because it’ll probably listen about as well as everybody else has tonight.

And it was one of Dean’s shirts he took in his haste, which was a mistake, because now Sam is kiss-less and surrounded by the smell of Dean, which is more familiar than the back of Sam’s hand, which is actually kind of fuzzy now, like those optical illusions he liked as a kid: if he can just focus the picture will unfold and he’ll be able to see his fingers but Sam will still be bereft of kisses.

He’s tried not trying too, in a spectacular stab at reverse psychology, which only works if your subject has some basically analysable psyche, which isn’t the case for Dean, who never cares what side of normal anything is and has a world which consists of his weapons, his car, evil things, and Sam, which should be all the more reason he’d be happy to kiss Sam, and Freud would’ve killed for a shot at Dean, but using any kind of mind-meld, lie on the couch now tactics on his older brother isn’t worth a dime in a stack of Benjamin Franklins.

Sam’s also tried withholding the one weapon he thought he did have, the one card he thought would trump his brother’s determination: the actual sex they have like they’re the first people in the world to have sex because my God, Sam’s brain melts and resets and melts again every time he lies (stands, straddles, sits, kneels) with Dean and there are times he thinks he’s going to die his body gets so hot and full with desire.

Dean didn’t even notice, because Sam’s self-abnegation lasted less than twenty-four hours and disappeared into the ether because they were sitting on the hood of the Impala in the middle of nowhere, drinking beer on a job well done, and Dean rucked up his T-shirt and idly scratched the rippling, firm muscles of his stomach and licked a drop of condensation from the neck of his bottle with his perfect pink tongue and the need came like hot, twisting fire in Sam’s belly, like some rampant disease, and Sam attacked Dean, honestly attacked him, and Dean dropped his beer in surprise and it spilt all over their jeans and when they were done, when they were lying in the grass, half-clothed, totally destroyed, when Sam was quivering in Dean’s arms, a mind-blowing orgasm and no kisses later, Dean said, Jesus what a waste of beer – give me some warning before you rape me next time, Sammy.

And it felt exactly like that, like Dean had made Sam somebody he isn’t, a guy who rapes his brother, just because he wants a goddamn kiss.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t kiss anybody at all ever like some freakish, buckle-wearing Puritan. There are the girls, so many girls, like Dean’s trying to beat Casanova’s clearly trumped up, I’m-in-front-of-the-guys-so-I better-make-it-sound-good, record. Sam believes in having goals, in going places (which is sometimes why their life, such as it is, feels like Sam is screaming on the inside and the outside to an audience of deaf mutes what with their directionless meanderings that are two generations too late to write a book about and wear white suits and be famous) but surely the goal of fucking the largest number of women in America is not one to be proud of, and of course Dean kisses them with his lips that invade Sam’s dreams, Sam has seen it, but he was not.

“Spying, not spying,” Sam assures his five and a half hands, and Dean better come and get him soon because Sam’s nearly at the lying down on the floor and dying from alcoholic poisoning stage.

That Dean will save him from, because Dean will come and get him soon, because that’s how it works.

Sam’s got nothing. Nothing. No kisses, no answers, no Dean, no chance at law school or an apartment, no way to get anywhere or get anything, because he’s with Dean until there is no Dean anymore, and mostly Sam hopes that will be forever and grey hairs and wrinkles away, but right now, in this bar, after being kicked off the bed, their bed, like a dog by the person he loves and loves all the time, all the day with his body and his soul and his prissiness and jealously and his nagging and his affection that is boundless and requires fucking kisses, Sam kinda wouldn’t mind if that forever came and went now and he could be done with this, because, because.

“I have nothing,” Sam pronounces, already proffering another five bucks for whatever poison it is the bartender’s been slinging Sam’s way all night. The shot arrives promptly, blessedly. Sam tosses it back and ends up imbibing the alcohol through a mouthful of hair and he could not care any less.

Fucking fuck Dean, he thinks, deciding he need be no more coherent than that, which is of course when Dean arrives, from somewhere, nowhere, probably through the bar’s entrance door, which Sam is no longer watching like he should.

“Hey there Sammy,” Dean begins, which as opening salvos go, sucks.

The blonde who has been swallowed by denim could have done better, but then again Sam doesn’t have any history with her, and Dean and Sam have a ten-volume encyclopaedia between them.

Sam licks his lips. “Dean.”

“You drunk yet?”

Sam props his elbow on the bar and tries to rest his chin in his hand but ends up missing the bar and his hand entirely and nearly face-plants the floor but for a tidy save at the last second.

“There’s my answer,” Dean observes.

“I’m not…” The sentence stalls.

Sam stares at Dean instead because his lips look pinker and fuller in the shadowy, smoky light of the bar and his eyes seem brighter and it’s completely unfair that Dean got all those good looks like a weapon.

Dean flags the bartender down. “Miller, thanks. Nothing for him,” he adds the moment Sam opens his mouth.

“Yes, for me,” Sam insists.

The bartender stares straight through them, as if the wall is more interesting than Dean’s killer looks and Sam’s impending implosion.

“Really, he’s fine.”

And the bartender pays attention to that tone of voice.

Frankly, Dean is talking out his ass when he says Sam is the only Winchester with people skills. Ghosts, dead people, police officers, young children and pissy teenagers pay attention to that tone of voice. It’s the kind drill sergeants wish they had because not only does it brook no argument it’s seductive enough to make you think that following Dean’s instructions is your own idea.

It’s his blow-job tone of voice, Sam always thinks to himself.

The one time Dean used it when they were in bed – actually they were on the floor next to the bed and Sam ended up with a case of carpet burn that would’ve made even Superman cry – he ordered Sam to come and Sam came instantly and everywhere and he swears he could feel Dean’s smile of satisfaction all the way to his curled toes.

The stain Sam left was no more noticeable than any of the others littering the motel’s threadbare Nixon-era carpet like a Jackson Pollock painting.

“You hate Jackson Pollock,” Sam informs Dean confidently. “And I want ‘nother drink.”

Dean’s beer arrives and the bartender scurries to the other end of the bar. If Sam had the co-ordination he’d climb over the bar and serve himself but they don’t have enough cash to cover the damage he’d cause.

“I’ma gonna have your beer,” Sam pronounces. He reaches for it and grasps air. “Hey!”

Dean makes sitting on a stool look cool, sliding easily and smoothly into place, necking beer the whole way until he’s leaning against the bar at a right angle to Sam, his body one long, sinuous, sinful line, his elbows up on the wood, the bottle half-finished and his smirk at full mast.

“Sure you are, Sam. Couldn’t find your dick with both hands you’re so drunk.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Sam mutters.

Damn Dean, too cool for school. He’s not going to talk to him. Let Dean drink his beer and look superior because he can hold his liquor like a camel.

“Your fault anyway.”

Sam immediately claps a hand over his mouth. He’s not talking to Dean. He’s not even looking at Dean and the indolent, hotter than a hot thing way he’s leaning against the bar, which was just like every other forgettable bar in America until Dean arrived and made it look like a photo shoot for the cover of Rolling Stone or a movie or something.

He decides he’ll look at the guys playing darts, but it hurts his eyes after a few minutes because every time they throw Sam sees three or four dart when he’s sure there’s only supposed to be one. And the lights are getting hard to look at too, throwing his focus and blurring everything except Dean who is.

Always in focus, always the sharpest image in Sam’s mind, burnt on the back of his eyelids so that even though he was at Stanford for four years he could picture Dean perfectly on the first and hundredth and four hundredth day they were apart.

He’s losing Jess, now, piece by piece, state by state, job by job: the shape of her nose, the curve of her back, her tired expression, her wink, the smell and feel of her all disappearing inexorably.

But he’s cursed to remember Dean perfectly and absolutely, forever.

Dean doesn’t appear to have a problem with the silence. When he finishes his beer he deposits the empty bottle lightly on the bar, next to a bowl of stale peanuts.

“Ready to go?”

Sam waits.

“Sammy?”

Sam clenches his fist, grits his teeth, tries desperately to keep his mouth shut, but, “No.”

“You’re walking out of here with me or I’m dragging you out by your hair. Your choice, princess, but I know how much you like your hair.”

“I know how much you like my hair.” Sam finally turns to look at his brother. “Don’t you?”

“Alcohol fries your brain – didn’t they teach you that at college?”

“You like to run…” The words get too complicated. “Jus’ go away.”

“C’mon, Sammy, you can sulk in our room. I’ll even let you have a rant or something.”

“No you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” Dean admits. “You’re gonna hurl in about five minutes and it’ll make everyone’s life easier if you do it in a bathroom.”

“Don’t care.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

Dean stands up, all business, all big brother, like he got some extra chromosome, some genetic mandate that means he can decide they won’t ever kiss, never, and Sam will just follow along like a good boy, like a fucking puppy and he’s got the eyes, sure, but that’s the end of the resemblance.

“I’m gonna be a baby if I want.” Sam tries to cross his arms but he’s gone from having four of the damn things to none at all because he sure as shit can’t feel them. “Dean, I can’t…”

“You’re feeling numb? Two minutes and counting.” Dean manhandles Sam off the stool. “The goddamn things I do for you.”

“Everything but kiss me.” Sam lets his head drop back and feels the stretch of his neck down to his fingernails. “I don’t care if we’re in a public place, you non-kissing jackass.” The ceiling seems closer than it should be.

“I’m amazed you can still talk.”

Sam snaps his head back up and the room wobbles. “And walk and everything, like a real boy, Dean, so why the hell you won’t you…”

“One minute. I’m not saving you when you puke on the bar and the bartender wants your head. Get moving.”

Sam does, of course. What the hell else is he gonna do? Plus, Dean is right. Sam can already feel his stomach contents shifting like an unstable tectonic plate and he knows he won’t make it to the motel.

“Bathroom,” Dean says, one hand on the small of Sam’s back, propelling him adroitly past the flying darts, down a long, dank hallway to a bathroom that hasn’t seen a cleaning product since man landed on the moon.

Sam takes two crooked steps into the blue-tiled grotto and vomits noisily into the hand basin near the door.

Dean says nothing, but his eye roll pierces Sam through his taut shoulder blades and lodges somewhere near Sam’s heart. It says many things: you can’t hold your damn liquor Sam, you’re a loser, I shouldn’t breathe too deeply, now I have to get him back to the hotel room and why do you have to be such a fucking girl about the kissing?

“Because I want to,” Sam hiccups. His stomach is preparing for round two. “I want to…Dean…” He begins to turn around.

Dean holds him firmly in place. “Sammy, you heave on me I’ll leave your drunk ass here on the dirty floor.”

“Kick me to the floor,” Sam manages to mutter before he succumbs to another Technicolour display of kuang pao chicken marinated in hundred-proof liquid.

“I didn’t…” Dean sighs. “Fuck, Sam.” Dean steps closer to him, plants one hand in the swale of Sam’s back, the other on his clammy neck. He pushes a thigh between Sam’s and kicks Sam’s legs apart, forcing Sam to bend over the basin again. “C’mon – you’ve got one more round in you.”

Dean is proven right twenty seconds later, which is the biggest son of a bitch of the whole evening. Sam rests his burning forehead against the cool, bacteria-infested mirror above the basin and takes deep breaths that do not help to centre him. It’s possible he’s just regurgitated a vital organ.

Dean disappears momentarily, but when he returns he presses something wet and cool and wonderful to the back of Sam’s neck and he runs his hand up under Sam (Dean’s) shirt and rubs circles on Sam’s bare skin with his hands that could hold the world together, Sam knows it.

“Let me kiss you,” Sam says, to Dean or his reflection, he’s not sure.

And Dean laughs, which is just perfect. “With your breath stinking like a dead thing? Uh, I’ll pass, Sammy.”

“No.” Sam manages a complete turn this time, his shaky legs no competition for his shaking heart. “Let me kiss you. Or.”

“Or?” Dean’s arrogant amusement is as insulting as it is hot. “You’ll get drunk and hurl some more?”

“Just let me…God, please?” Sam begins to reach out, wanting to touch his brother because it’s Dean and they’re alone in the same room, so it’s just automatic. And he knows he’s begging and he knows that it gives Dean the kind of power Sam doesn’t want him to have although he accepted years ago that Dean has always possessed it.

“Sam.”

Sam’s hands find Dean’s face. Sam’s slow-moving fingers skim across Dean’s skin, the contours of Dean’s face a map Sam has read a hundred times, although much of the terrain is still a mystery.

“Dean.” Sam murmurs his brother’s name, breathes it out against Dean’s cheek. “Why?”

“Sam, let’s just get back to the motel.”

“You kicked me off the bed.” Sam presses his thumb into the divot above Dean’s upper lip. There skin there is always smooth, even when Dean hasn’t shaved. “Like a dog.”

“Yeah.” Dean meets Sam’s eyes and the Sam can see the faint shadow of guilt lurking there, and it buoys him, gives him hope. “Yeah, I did. It wasn’t…I didn’t mean…”

It’s not an apology – it’s maybe two suburbs and a short bus ride from an apology – but it’s the closest Dean ever gets.

“God Dean, it’s always this far and no further Sam, this much but no more, don’t come too close, and I…”

Dean shakes his head sharply. “Sam, you don’t really want…”

“I want to kiss you,” Sam whispers. “You let me…” Sam reaches out and presses his palm against Dean’s cock. “You let me do this…”

Sam breathes heavy and harsh against Dean’s cool neck and touches Dean hard and hot and fierce, the way Sam knows his brother likes it, but when Dean tightens his grip on Sam’s waist and steps closer Sam removes his hand entirely.

“But I can’t kiss you? You’re a…” Sam looks around the bathroom. “I’m…we’re in this stupid bathroom, and we fuck each other, Dean. We fuck each other.”

If Sam was sober he’d have seen the punch and probably could have blocked it although his reflexes have always been a sliver slower than Dean’s, but he’s so drunk he wouldn’t notice if the Minutemen marched through the bathroom, so Sam doesn’t see the punch until he feels it, until he’s on the floor with blood in his open mouth.

Sam looks up, licks blood off his lips, and finds nothing in Dean’s eyes at all.

“Shut the fuck up, Sam,” Dean says, needlessly, his fists having spoken aptly for him. And then, because he’s Sam’s older brother, he offers a hand to help Sam stand up. “C’mon.”

“I hate you.” Sam staggers to his feet, every part of his body sending a different message of pain or impending pain. “I hate you.”

“So leave. Leave me.” Dean’s irises look black, metallic, inhuman. “This…it’s all just something you have to do until you can leave, right?”

“What the fuck?” Sam can’t concentrate, he can’t, because Dean just punched him and he is blind and broken with hurt, a hurt that is totally unconnected to the punch, because Dean will never kiss him. “Dean…”

“It’s nothing.” Dean kicks the bathroom door open. “After you, sweetheart.” He looks away from Sam.

Sam walks, a drunk man walking, vertical mainly by miracle rather than any law of physics, he walks and doesn’t look behind him, doesn’t check to see his Eurydice is following, he doesn’t wipe away the blood that drips down his split lip, he doesn’t see the disturbed looks thrown his way – even the bartender quirks an eyebrow – he just walks out of the bar, across the street, through the half-empty parking lot to their motel room, his heart on the bathroom floor behind him.

Sam must make to a bed, somehow. He can feel the rough cotton of the pillow slip beneath his flushed, sweaty cheek. The sheets tangle in his legs. His throat burns. Everything throbs. The bathroom light stabs at his wet eyes. But he is not crying. He is not. Sam is too much for his body, not enough for Dean.

The world begins to fall away and there is a gentle hand on the back of his neck and Sam knows it is Dean.

It is always Dean.

********

In the morning, Sam wakes up with his head on backwards and Dean’s mouth on his cock. He’d protest, he’d pull away, he’d leave, but he can’t make any part of his body except his cock work.

Some functioning part of Sam’s brain manages to process what Dean said last night in the bar’s fetid bathroom. Dean won’t kiss Sam because he thinks it will make Sam stay. If Dean makes it unattainable, Sam won’t ever leave. Or maybe Dean won’t get his heart broken if he pretends it’s just sex.

The idea that Dean is so terrified of being without Sam, so terrified that he’d risk entirely alienating Sam over a fucking kiss, so terrified he’d deny himself something he must want too because he loves Sam, he does, it’s enough to make Sam cry.

But Dean twirls his tongue in some perfect way and Sam comes, instead, with Dean’s name sweet and heady on his lips and nothing else.

********

End


And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth
—“Casimir Pulaski Day”, Sufjan Stevens