Here I thought you were the smart one. And how do you feel, Moose, when you catch him staring a little too long? Or better yet, how do you feel when he brings someone else to bed?
Heâs trembling with rage and with something else, something empty and desolate and afraid. The answer assembles itself against his will, ignoring every instinct and attempt to fight it. Heâs powerless, and it strips his bones bare.
He does, sometimes -- catch Dean staring just a little too long, eyes lingering sad where they think that Sam wonât catch them, or where they simply canât bear to look away. He knows why.
   Itâs been a long time since he was the Sam that Dean remembers,   from before heâd run away to Stanford and everything had changed.   Thatâs who he is, now; heâs the one who lets Dean down, who canât   make things the way they were, the way they used to be, when they   had been younger and shorter and carried lighter loads across their   backs. Dean is staring at him and searching for Sammy, for the round-   faced teenager who Dean had taught to shoot and drive and shoot    pool, who heâd stuck up for endlessly and without question, and whoâd   never turned his back or fucked up badly enough to hurt his family.
These things gather on his tongue like poison, but he swallows them down. Thereâs enough venom of his own lining his throat, his stomach, that a little more canât hurt him now.
Itâs all the answer Crowley will get, because thatâs the trick, isnât it? Itâs still the truth, pressed down as small as he can make it. Thereâs a headache building itself behind his right eye, sharp pain against this small rebellion. He doesnât care.
    When Dean brings someone else to bed -- not bothering to hide it,    not bothering to give him warning or time enough to clear out     before he has to see Deanâs fingers hooked lazy in some girlâs    jeans pocket, curled at her waist or, where impatience wins out,    tangled in hair, shoved under shirt -- Sam canât help the fire that    burns itself in his blood, even as he hates himself for it. Dean is    his brother, his everything; Dean deserves good things, deserves    enjoyment, no matter where he finds it. Deserves to lose himself    in touch and gasping kiss. Still, jealousy coils tight around Samâs    throat when he does, this heady contradiction that leaves him a    guilty, worked-up mess. Dean deserves what these girls give him,    what Sam canât, but he still envies them the chance.
The two syllables are bitten out, curt despite the urge to elaborate, to pour his words in front of Crowley until thereâs none left inside him, until his bones are hollow and brittle and fit to break.
