Chapter 3

Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him, all the way back to the motel, and it doesn't stop, even when they're inside.

"What?" he demands, when the intensity of Sam's gaze starts shifting things inside him, when Sam's inching closer, reaching out. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Dean," is all Sam says.

He hits the wall, backed up against it, unable to retreat as Sam advances on him.

Sam reaches out. He cups Dan's cheek, and his thumb strokes Dean's cheekbone. "My god, Dean," he breathes. "You're so—"

Dean jerks away, twists out of Sam's reach. "He got you. That fuck got you."

Sam gazes at Dean, hurt, wistful. "Yeah," he says. "How are you so— How are you so together?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean's eyes scan the room, and he puts furniture between Sam and himself, like Sam's a monster they're hunting and Dean's just trying to stay alive. "Do I look remotely together right now?"

It's a fucking disaster. He's fantasized about it, about just this thing happening—but not like this.

In Dean's dreams, his imaginings, Sam would come to it on his own—he'd love Dean like Dean loves him, but it would happen naturally. Slowly, like an ember, heating the tinder it rests on, until finally it burst into a flame.

Not like this. This is a sudden explosion, and there's no way Sam can process it, no way he can be subjective.

He doesn't have the years of practice Dean has.

"It's not real," Dean says. "What you're feeling, Sammy? It's not real."

"It was real for Mom and Dad. It feels real, Dean. Like I've never really looked at you before. How did I not know how fucking beautiful you are? Dean, I lo—"

Dean vaults over the bed between them and clamps his hand over Sam's mouth. "I'm your brother, Sam. And not like those guys at the bar. Not 'we're best buddies, almost like brothers'. We're blood. Same mom, same dad. More than that. I changed your fucking diapers. Nursed you when you were sick. I fucking raised you. What you're feeling right now? It's wrong. It's not just wrong, Sam. It's sick."

Dean pulls his hand away, and Sam's face— Sam wears an expression like he's just been sentenced to death. Because he knows. The explosion did the damage, and all it leaves in its wake is choking black smoke and destruction.

"Why?" Sam asks, and his eyes well up and tears run down his cheeks. "It's me, Dean. Why is it just me? What the hell have I done that it's just me feeling like this?"

Dean doesn't know what to say. There's no undoing the effects of cupid's arrow. Dean's been alone, all these years. Fighting the way he feels about his brother for years, struggled with the unrequited desire—with love—for his brother for most of his life.

Can he condemn Sam to that? Can he let Sam think there's something wrong with him? Can he sentence him to the loneliness, the self-hatred, of knowing that your deepest, darkest desire is your own flesh and blood?

"It didn't work on me," he finally says. He's gonna save Sam from the isolation, at least. "Because I already love you." He chokes on the words. "More than I should. Because I already feel what you're feeling, Sam. You're not alone.

"But this was done to you. It's not your fault. I came to it on my own, and that's on me, so if I ever catch you beating yourself up over it, I swear to god, Sammy, I will kick your ass.

"You're gonna do what I've been doing all these years. You're gonna fight it, Sam. You bury it. We're brothers. That's the bottom line. So you bury it deep."

---

Sam hacks into the DMV. They should have done that before charging into the bar like they did and getting Sam whammied, and that's on Dean.

It's Dean's fault this happened to Sam. Each of their feelings for the other—it's all on Dean.

Dean pulls himself away to prep their weapons. He ditches the witch-killing bullets, and he lays out a couple of angel blades. He grabs the angel cuffs, too.

That, at least, is a bonus. Witches can do more damage than just hurl random love spells. They can make you choke on razor blades. They can turn you into monsters that turn on each other.

This cherub, he's done his worst. Cherubs aren't fighters, they're not soldiers. This dick might be an angel at his core, but the only real tools he has, he's already using. He's killing people with those tools, but for Sam and Dean, the damage is already done.

Dean loads his gun with the bullets made from melted down angel blades.

He's gonna take this fucker out.

---

Sam's been at the DMV records for hours, and the sun is rising. Dean's been with him for most of it, and all they've come up with is Jukebox Guy and a couple of adulterers, and it can't be them because they're the ones who've been hit.

The more tired Sam gets, the harder this is for him, and it's driving Dean to distraction.

Sam keeps looking at him, a weird mixture of awe and anguish in his expression, and Dean can't do this anymore.

Sam leans close, too fucking close, and Dean can't stop staring at Sam's lips. He's got to do something, or he's gonna break.

He shoves away from the table, his chair screeching on the linoleum, and he backs away, looking daggers at Sam because it's all he has left to work with. "What the fuck, Sam?" he blurts, anger his only option because the alternative is dragging his brother into bed. "Stop fucking smelling me."

"I wasn't—" Sam protests.

"Whatever," Dean says, and he grabs the keys. "I'm gonna get us some breakfast."

He storms out of the room. Yeah, he's angry, but not at Sam.

None of this is Sam's fault.

---

It's not until Dean's in the car that he lets the mask slip. He drops his head to the steering wheel and he fights to control his thoughts, his emotions.

It's never been this difficult before. Before, he could bury it. It was his only option, because if he'd acted on his feelings, Sam would have been horrified. He would have pushed Dean away, so there wasn't even a question when he thought about what he wanted.

Sam's not going to do that now. Dean could have what he's wanted all these years, he only needs to reach out and take it.

And he doesn't know if he's going to be able to resist.