(Wincest, pre-series through 1x11 Scarecrow, angst, 324 w)
Sam wakes up, brushes his teeth, looks at the crooked one and eight Dean drew with ketchup on the breakfast sandwich he’s passing to the birthday boy, and then he kisses Dean because he doesn’t care about any other present but this.
And then Dean kisses back, and Sam didn’t even hope he would, but he does, and they tangle, mingle, twine together until they never sleep in different beds again.
And then Bobby calls because the letter’s in his mailbox, and Sam can’t tell anyone else, and he fucks Dean stupid, begs Dean to fuck him till he can’t walk, and it feels like heaven, like hell.
And then Sam walks out into the night, Dean’s eyes fixed on his back, and the words they didn’t say hang behind him in the air, and he knows, makes himself know that they will say them one day.
And then life tackles Sam, out of left field, so much of it, more than he’s ever had, and he thinks he found a new way, a license to a different kind of being, with nights that don’t fill you with dread.
And then Dean visits, and Sam drowns in him again, and it’s what he wants, and it’s not what he wants at all.
And then he pulls his clothes on, he waits till Dean’s dressed, too, and he crosses his arms as he says, “This is what we are going to do. We are going to live our own lives. I, here; you, wherever you want. And we will never talk about this again. We never should have.”
And then Dean, on a shaky laugh, “We never talked about it, dude.”
And then Sam, nails digging into his elbows, “Goodbye, Dean.”
And then comes fire, comes blood, comes grit and dirt and cold sweat, comes nothing and everything, and Sam doesn’t know what he knows anymore.
And then Dean says this, and the joke bleeds.