dad left them for a hunt. it's the middle of the night, pitch black and silent save for the illumination and mosquito-like hum from the neon no vacancy sign outside their room.
they're both awake, and they're both aware they're both awake, staring up at the ceiling from their respective beds.
dean climbs in beside sam. he feels sick as he does. as he always does.
he wants sam to say no, to stop him. god knows he can't stop himself.
then, sam turns, facing his older brother with those puppy dog eyes. those sweet fucking puppy dog eyes. dean knows sam won't stop him.
sam curls close and presses his lips to dean's. he's had a growth spurt and doesn't need to crane his neck anymore. dean scrunches his eyes shut angrily, clambering over sam and smothering his body with his own, forcing his tongue past his little brother's lips in a manner that can only be described as mean.
he breaks the kiss only to hit him. one sharp, close-fisted crack to the face. sam's nose begins to run red, pouring like a faucet, and he whimpers. it gets dean hard when sam whimpers. it gets sam hard when dean hits.
he hadn't realised he was crying, but there are tears streaming down dean's face. he hadn't wanted to hit sam, he just wishes sam would stop him.
he dips his head back down to kiss him again, this time much more tenderly, a silent plea for forgiveness. the taste of metal fills his mouth with each shallow kiss.
"its okay." sam says softly, voice nasally from the bleeding. his teeth are stained an ugly shade of vermillion.
"no, it's not." dean says, frustrated and desperate and confused. he pulls back and hits him again. it's not okay, and dean wishes sam didn't think it was so sam would fucking stop him.
sam never does. sam never stops him.
in the morning, they will tell their father a tall tale of rough housing that got too rough, or of a shower that got too slippery to explain away sam's bruising and limping.
