Chapter 1

Blood drips from Dean's fingertips onto the scuffed linoleum, splatters out into star shapes. There's a trail of them, from the open door of their motel room, to the table in the small kitchenette. Dean collapses into a chair and lets his injured arm drop down at his side. The blood stops blooming into flowers and starts pooling. "That was awesome," he huffs, breathless laughter, and grins at Sam in the open bathroom door.

"It was stupid." Sam crosses the room, dumping the first aid kit, towels, and a bowl of water on the table. It rocks under the weight on uneven legs. "You could have been killed, Dean. You were already hurt. You should have left it to me." The scene replays in Sam's mind; Dean crashing through a window, the squirt of blood as he tugged a long shard of glass from his arm before diving back into the fight.

"And let you have all the fun? Hell no." Dean's a little pale, but not from fear.

Sam knows the difference between Dean hiding his worry behind a brave front, and simple joy in the fight. Dean's hiding nothing. His pallor is blood loss, most of it left behind in the condemned office block where they tracked the werewolf, fought it, and killed it. There's a dead man in the trunk of the Impala, Dean's silver knife still lodged in his heart. Sam makes a mental note to retrieve it before they dispose of the body after he's patched Dean up.

Dean was laughing when he drove the blade home, like the werewolf's lethal jaws didn't phase him at all. Blood spilled from his injured left arm as he held the monster by the throat, surging as Dean's muscle worked harder every time the creature lunged. Dean's eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth as he forced the blade through muscle and bone.

Dean's shirt is soaked with blood. Sam cuts the sleeve off his arm, because it's ruined anyway, and lets the pieces fall to the floor in a soggy pile. "You scare me, sometimes," he whispers, and keeps his eyes on his work as he cleans away blood and dirt from the tear that runs down the inside of Dean's upper arm.

He can almost hear Dean smiling, can certainly feel it as Dean's chest puffs up. The movement opens the wound again, and blood spills over Sam's fingers, soaking through the cloth in his hand. "Are you trying to pass out?" He presses his free hand, palm flat, to Dean's bare chest, forcing him back in the chair. "Relax and let me do this."

Dean's quiet and still after that, and Sam can work without further interruptions. He's closing off the final stitch when Dean speaks again.

"Remember the first one I killed?"

Of course Sam remembers. It's not something he'll ever forget. It wasn't Dean's first werewolf, and it wasn't even Sam's first hunt, but it was the first time he saw the violence and the deadly force that his brother was capable of. The first time he realized that Dean was utterly ruthless, and terrifyingly lethal. "Yeah." He can't keep the heat from his voice, keeps his eyes down and drops his head to bite off the thread as he finishes. "How could I forget?"

Dad was gone, had left them in a motel while he chased leads halfway across the country. Dean was seventeen, and when bodies started turning up with their hearts removed, Sam couldn't stop him hunting the werewolf responsible.

All he could do was insist that he go with, so Dean wouldn't be alone. He was thirteen, and he watched in terrified awe as Dean stood his ground while the werewolf bore down on him, and put a silver bullet in its heart a second before he would have got his throat ripped out.

"Yeah," Sam repeats, his voice with a little more heat and a shake to it. He looks up, locking eyes with Dean for a split second as he reaches for a bandage to cover Dean's wound. All of the breath rushes out of him when he sees Dean's pupils suddenly expand, like he's remembering more than just the hunt as well.

There's more to Sam's memory of that hunt. More like tonight, the aftermath of the fight, and Dean didn't get cut then, but he was bruised all over, his ribs, his back, across his cheek. He stripped down to his waist that night as Sam looked him over to make sure nothing was cut or bitten or scratched, to make sure nothing was broken. At thirteen Sam was a mass of uncontrollable hormones, couldn't get the look of fierce intent on Dean's face or the shift of the muscles in his forearm when he pulled the trigger out of his head, couldn't understand why seeing his brother kill something for the first time made him hard, made him ache.

He was scared, because Dean came inches from dying, and if the bullet hadn't found it's target, or if Dean had been a split second late in pulling the trigger, Dean would have been bleeding out on the ground. But there was a kind of thrill to it as well, the way Dean roared as he raised the gun and fired, tendons standing out on his neck, eyes flashing with deadly intent. And as a teenage Sam dragged his thumb across the bruise blooming over his brothers cheek, he succumbed to impulse and kissed him.

Sam covers the wound, stitched and stained yellow with iodine, wraps the bandage and fastens it before he looks up again. "That was the first time I knew what you were capable of," he says. "How easy it was for you to kill, how good you were at it."

Dean's pupils are still blown wide open, and he lifts his chin in a challenge. "And it scared you. I scared you."

"Kind of." Sam blinks and drops his eyes, can't bear to watch his own reflection in Dean's eyes. "But, also..." He trails off, never any intent to complete the thought, because Dean knows, he remembers. For the first time, Sam knows he remembers.

Back then, seventeen year old Dean pushed Sam away, eyes wide with shock, put his hand on Sam's chest and shoved. "No, Sam," he said. "What the hell—? Jesus. Just go to sleep."

Sam remembered. He was reminded of it every time he saw that look in his brother's eyes, every time he saw Dean revel in the death of a monster at his own hand. Even the curl of his lip as he dropped a match into an open grave brought back the first time Sam watched Dean kill, and the effect it had on himself.

But he never tried to kiss Dean again. The careful detachment, the way Dean stiffened and looked away as Sam stitched him up or bandaged a wound kept that urge firmly in check.

Until now.

"Also?"

Sam looks up sharply, searching Dean's face, because this is different. That first time, there was pride, elation in Dean's face. A new experience, the conquering of the beast. A thing he'd done on his own, found his own way, his own rhythm. Thirteen year old Sam reacted to that instinctively, but never again. There wasn't the chance, because Dean was never so open after that.

But now, Dean's completely exposed, like he's stripped away all the walls. His eyes dart around the room, but always return to Sam with a detachment that's feigned. It’s a ruse Sam easily sees past. His skin is pale from blood loss, freckles visible in a stark contrast, but there's a pink flush across his cheeks.

Sam lets his eyes drop, slowly tracking down Dean's bare torso, where blood still stains one side of his body. He pushes himself to his feet, grabs the bowl of pink water and the washcloth, and heads for the bathroom. "You should clean that off," he says.

Dean follows, standing in the bathroom doorway as Sam pours the contents of the bowl down the sink. "You were thirteen."

"Haven't been thirteen for a long time." Sam squeezes blood out of the washcloth, rinses it under the tap, then puts the plug in and starts to fill the sink with warm water.

"I know." Dean's reflection in the mirror leans in the doorway, eyes drifting off somewhere around the ceiling. It's a little awkward, stark contrast to his surety during the fight. "I had to think about it some."

Sam doesn't reply, just steps to one side of the counter, making a space for Dean to fill. He squeezes moisture from the washcloth so it doesn't drip, but leaves it on the edge of the sink. Dean could take it from him and clean up himself, same thing he usually does, or he could stand and wait for Sam to do it. The question, the possibility, hangs in the air between them as Dean takes two slow, agonizing steps across the room.

Dean doesn't reach for the washcloth. He backs up to the counter, puts his hands on the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening as he grips it tight.

Sam starts at Dean's collarbone, wiping away the tiny flecks of blood that have already dried, makes his way down over Dean's nipple. It hardens as the rough fabric slides over skin, but the water is warm, and the air isn't cold. It's just a tiny smudge of blood, but Sam lingers, fascinated, unable to tear his eyes away from the hard peak.

Dean's muscles quiver as Sam finally works his way down Dean's side, rinsing the cloth several times to clean away the worst of it. Water drips into the waistband of Dean's jeans, but they're soaked through anyway, red with Dean's own blood.

Sam drops the washcloth into the sink when all of Dean's exposed skin is clean again. They're close, only inches between them, and Sam can feel Dean's warm breath, rapid, shallow puffs of air, on his throat. He puts his fingers lightly on the damp, stiff denim at the side of Dean's jeans, drags them slowly around to the front. "You're gonna have to get these off," he breathes, suddenly aware of his own laboured breath. His fingers play at the button, not tugging, just...there, and he wills himself to meet Dean's eyes.

They're wide and staring, pupils almost eclipsing the iris. Quickly, Dean looks away and swallows hard. His jaw works, but he could be grinding his teeth for all Sam knows because he doesn't say a word.

He's different from all the other times. He hasn't stiffened up or pulled away, and all he does when Sam tucks his fingers behind the button is suck in a harsh breath and bite down on his lower lip.

Sam's heart hammers in his chest as he slips the button free. Dean lets out a breath like he's been holding it forever, and he shivers. His head's turned away, and the tendons in his neck are straining, like he's fighting the urge to look up, or maybe trying to get away. Sam figures it's the former, when, as he slides his fingers further, behind the zipper, he feels the tip of Dean's erection straining against damp, sticky fabric.

Dean jerks and shudders and swallows a grunt. He breathes harder, faster, his body on the edge of movement, like something quick and almost violent, humming like he's about to explode.

Sam can relate.

He pulls back, then, half a step, jerking the front of Dean's jeans so the zipper slides down. "Off," he says, and his voice is too rough, too raw. He clears his throat, reaches again for the washcloth, rinses blood out under the tap.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Dean's head snap around, and the movement, though lacking detail, indicates frustration. Maybe even accusation. Sam lifts his eyes, glances at Dean in the mirror, and almost rolls his eyes when Dean immediately turns away again.

Sam crossed the line when he put his fingers into Dean's pants. He took it past the point where they each could deny that their relationship, their feelings for each other went beyond brotherhood. He doesn't know whether he's giving Dean a chance to back out now before it goes further, or if he needs this time to collect himself, to remember how to breathe, to let his heart settle back down into a regular beat before it explodes. This is something he's kept inside for more than a decade, pushed to the back of his mind, only letting it out when he was alone in the dark. Believing, as he did at thirteen, that it was something Dean would never want.

But Sam can read Dean like a book, and something has changed.

With the washcloth warm and wet in his hand, Sam turns again to Dean. Dean's staring back, breathing slow and even now, but it's all for show. He's gone calm, cold and hard like he's staring down another werewolf. It sends a rush of heat through Sam, a wave of desire and want and need that burns his skin and makes him ache. He crowds in on Dean, drops the washcloth on the edge of the sink and grabs at the top of Dean's open jeans. "I want them off," he rasps, the words tumbling from his lips, uncontrolled, rough and raw. "Off." He shoves them down, over Dean's ass, so they bunch around Dean's thighs.

Dean lets him do it, stares up, and his eyes are wide and fierce, flashing with a kind of fire Sam's only ever seen before when something is about to die. He's shaking, though, chest rising and falling as he sucks in air through his nose like he's already gone several rounds. "We gonna do this?" he asks, and his voice is rough and raw and broken. "Huh, Sammy? Come on."

Sam's nostrils flare and he can't keep the sneer from curling his lip. It figures that this won't be much different from when they fight. He takes another half step closer, so his chest presses against Dean's, and he looks down into Dean's eyes, watching as Dean licks his lips, plump and full and red.

Dean's cock is still hard, and it presses against Sam's thigh through damp underwear. Damp with blood as well as precome, and that thought, as it occurs to Sam, stops him even as his mouth is a hair’s breadth away from Dean's lips.

He slowly, never taking his eyes from Dean's, sinks to his knees.

Dean's mouth drops open, and Sam smirks. Eyes still on Dean's, he tugs at his jeans. They're sticky where they're wet with Dean's blood, but he gets them down and off his feet. Dean's thigh is smeared with red, flaking in places where it's started to dry. The washcloth is cold in Sam's hand when he reaches for it, and he savours the way Dean's muscle quivers as he slides it over Dean's skin.

"Not done yet," he breathes, as he rises again to his feet, almost sliding up Dean's body, keeping a bare inch or so between them as he does. He reaches past Dean to turn on the tap, and their bodies brush together. Sam's cock presses against Dean's as he leans forward, and he can't help grinding against him.

Dean moans and shivers and closes his eyes. They're still closed when Sam drops to the floor again and tucks his fingers into the elastic waist of Dean's boxers. They're soaked through at the hip with drying blood, and there's enough of Dean's blood in his clothes that Sam glances back up at Dean in wonder that he's still conscious, let alone capable of an erection. But while his skin is still pale, it's not deathly so, and they stopped the bleeding long ago.

Sam tugs Dean's boxers a little way down over his hips. This is the line. They can tell themselves that Sam's cleaning Dean up, taking care of him, but he knows—they both know—that Dean could handle this fine on his own, and once Dean's shorts come off there's no going back.

There's a lump stuck in Sam's throat, like his lungs have solidified, and crawled up there to block his breathing. He swallows hard, but can't shift it. Sam's wanted this since he was a kid, but he's aware it'll change things, and quite likely not for the better. As it is they walk a line between sibling rivalry and all out war half the time. This could be the thing that breaks them.

"Dean." Sam's voice is weak and broken, and he can't stop it. He's scared, goosebumps on his arms, his heart in his throat, his lungs tight kind of scared. "Dean."

Dean's eyes, already closed, squeeze tighter. His knuckles as his hands wrap around the edge of the basin whiten, and he slowly shakes his head, a movement that's almost imperceptible. "No, Sammy," he breathes, rasps, rough and raw. "Whatever you're about to say. Don't."

The words die in Sam's throat, and his lips part on a sigh. That's as close as Dean's going to get to admitting he wants this, and he wants it bad enough to let it get this far in the first place. Dean's walls are still up, but there's a chink there large enough that Sam can see inside. His eyes are still on Dean's face when he starts to drag Dean's boxers down, low enough to expose the slick head of Dean's cock, and maybe the air cools the moisture there, because Dean sucks in a quick breath.

Sam's eyes flick down in time to see a bead of precome well up in the slit and slide down. His mouth waters and the impulse to lean forward and lick it up is overwhelming.

He doesn't. Instead he drags Dean's boxers the rest of the way off, and Dean's eyes are still closed as he lifts each foot in turn so Sam can cast them aside.

With the boxers gone, Dean's cock, heavy, full, bobs in front of him. Another bead of liquid falls, hits the floor. Dean's head rolls on his neck, falls forward, as though he wants to look down, but his eyes are still screwed tightly shut. "Sammy," he breathes, barely shifting the air as he speaks. "Sam."

Sam wants to take Dean into his throat, wants to choke on his brother, but he thinks back, to when he was just a kid and surrendered to the impulse to kiss Dean after watching him kill for the first time. Sam knows that whatever drives these feelings is messed up, knows that it's messed up to want his brother this way, but their lives aren't exactly normal. Never have been.

But Sam wants that kiss. Wants it the way he wanted it then, wants to not be pushed away.

So when he leans in, it's not to take Dean's cock into his mouth, it's to press his forehead to Dean's quivering thigh, still stained with flaking blood. He breathes, slow and deep, then he pushes himself to his feet.

As though Dean can feel him, Dean's closed eyes follow him as he rises, then, finally, they open. Dean's heavy-lidded, and his pupils are blown wide. He looks drunk, even as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth and drags his teeth across it.

His lip turns white, then red as blood floods back into it, and he drags his tongue across it. Slow, leaving it slick and shiny. It’s an obvious invitation, one Dean can’t give him in words, so Sam leans in.

They both moan when their lips touch, a sound of desperate relief at being given something they've both been denied for far too long. All the tension in Dean's body flows away like water, and he crowds in even closer, until they're joined from chest to knee. Dean's hips jerk, his cock trapped between them, rubs his naked flesh against Sam's clothes. As if they planned it, each of them tips their head to the side and deepens the kiss, Sam licking into Dean's mouth as it opens, as Dean seems to surrender.

Something breaks, like floodgates opening. Their movements, until now careful and measured, turn sudden, almost violent, as Dean's hands go to Sam's belt and Sam grabs hold of Dean's arms and pulls him away from the counter, pushes him toward the open door, toward the bed.

"Off. Off," Dean gasps, tugging at Sam's clothes as they get closer to the bed. Threads break and buttons hit the floor and roll away to hidden corners. The sound of Sam's zipper coming down disappears beneath Dean's footfalls as he stumbles backward. Sam almost trips in his haste to get out of his jeans, and he leaves them where they fall, steps out of them and climbs up onto the bed to cover Dean's body with his own as he crawls backward.

They each gasp into the other's mouth as Sam drags his cock the length of Dean's.

They're both so slick with precome that it's an easy slide. Sam's cock is aching, throbbing against Dean's, and he feels like he's been on the edge for years, ready to come, needing, but denied. He pulls back, rocks against Dean again, breaks their kiss to stare down into Dean's eyes. "Years," he says, and rolls his hips again, revelling in the way Dean's eyes roll back into his head. "Wanted it for years, since—"

Dean surges up, cuts Sam off with a hard, biting kiss. "Shut up and—" He chokes and groans with the next roll of Sam's hips. "Yeah." Another thrust. "Fuck, yeah." He collapses back down onto the mattress, puts his hands back to grip each side of the pillow beneath his head. "Just— Don't— Fucking— Stop."

"Should'a said something," Sam hisses, as sparks zing up his spine and his balls tingle dangerously.

Dean jerks his head to one side and hisses through his teeth. "Could'a tried again."

"You shot me down." Sam's thrusts go jerky, erratic. "Come, Dean. Dammit."

Liquid fire spreads through his body, starts at the base of his spine, shoots out to his fingertips and his toes. His cock jerks and spills as Sam goes rigid.

Dean lets out a soft whimper, every time Sam's dick contracts, like he's marking time as spurts of fluid hit his belly and spill over his cock. Then he shudders, and there's as answering twitch against Sam's dick, and more fluid heat joins the mess between their bellies.

Then they're both gasping for breath, Dean's knuckles still white as he grips the pillow beneath his head like it's a lifeline, and the muscles in his arms shake and quiver with tiny aftershocks.

Sam rolls off of him, takes Dean’s injured arm by the wrist, coaxing him to release his grip. "You've torn a stitch. You're bleeding."

Deans throat rasps as he turns his head to look. "It's fine." Turns back again, like he can't risk meeting Sam's eyes. "You don't have to redo it."

"Dean."

"We're not doing this, Sammy." Dean rolls to the edge of the bed. He bends to pick up a discarded shirt to clean himself with. "The talking thing? Unless you wanna get into why you get like this whenever you watch me kill something."

"I don't know," Sam says, truthfully.

"I got a few ideas," Dean says, and then he gets up, and disappears into the bathroom.