Chapter 4

After getting a little sleep, Dean wakes up hungry.

Sam's still out. Dean grabs the keys. Technically, he's going out for food, but he's going to use any excuse he can to leave. He's got to put as much distance as possible between himself and temptation.

He gets a horrifying glimpse of their future. One where he's always running. Always backing away. Always putting that distance between them, and it strikes him with a cold, lonely fear.

Dean can live without acting on his feelings for Sam. He's proven it.

But he can't live without his brother.

That dread builds inside him, until it verges on full on panic.

---

Sam's awake when Dean returns. He's sitting up in bed, and he's got the leather journal Dean took from the church open in his lap when he looks up.

Dean dumps the bag of burgers on the table, and he puts his hand inside, because he's starving, but also, he can't look at Sam right now, not while that fear is still fresh in his mind. "Is it juicy?" he asks. "Father Theo's Dear Diary mention his altar boy?" He risks a glance at his brother. "Is that really what you want to be reading?" He stuffs the burger into his mouth, takes a bite large enough to discourage himself from saying anything more.

Sam doesn't look up from the book. "It's his sermons," he says. "Mostly." He flicks between the pages, turning one, then turning it back to read the previous page again. "He kept notes. Who turned up, who didn't, people he wanted to check in on, stuff like that."

"And?" Dean speaks through a mouthful of burger, and Sam shoots him an exasperated glance.

"Horse guy is mentioned."

"Before, or after?"

"Before. He hadn't turned up for a few weeks. He was gonna get someone to look in."

"Well, keep reading. Might be something useful." Dean grabs the bag off the table and tosses it at Sam. "Eat."

---

This time, Dean's the one searching up names in the DMV database. He's not seen a single picture he recognizes, though they're all blurring together at this point.

If he knew he'd be doing this, he would have used it as an excuse to spend more time in the bar.

"Huh," Sam says, out of the blue. He hasn't made a peep in a while, and Dean tries to convince himself that he'd forgotten Sam was there.

It's bullshit, and Dean knows it.

Sam showered, and Dean couldn't stop himself from thinking about his brother under the hot water.

Sam got dressed, and Dean carefully averted his eyes.

Afterward, Sam opened Theo's notebook again.

Dean didn't think Sam would find anything of use there, still doesn't, so when Sam speaks, Dean doesn't move, doesn't react.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says, a little louder this time.

"What?" Dean makes another query to the database. He tells himself he's got to double check Sam's work, but it's just another excuse. If he looks at Sam, he'll break.

He still hasn't seen a single photo of anyone he remembers from the congregants list.

"He's talking about some guy called Jackie in here."

That names twigs at Dean's memory, and he glances back through the list, and there's no Jackie there. "Hang on. Isn't that what Harvey called the bartender?"

"I knew I'd heard it." Sam flips between pages again. "Recovering alcoholic, never been to church before, started attending a few weeks back. Wanted to help out."

Dean remembers the guy. He remembers the free drinks. And, somehow knowing what Sam is going to say next, he remembers the way he touched both Sam and Dean on the shoulders when he brought them free beer.

"Theo sent him out to see after Horse Guy," Sam says.

"He's our guy." Dean shuts the lid of the laptop. He jumps up from the table, and he climbs onto the bed. No matter what, he's still got the ability to stow his shit to get the job done. He yanks the book out of Sam's hands to see for himself.

"It's the bartender," Sam says. "First damn guy we spoke to in the place, and he's the cherub."

"We've got him," Dean says. He gets up, he checks the magazine of his gun, slides the weapon into the back of his jeans. He grabs the keys, and he's about to shrug on his jacket when Sam clears his throat.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Bar's open, Dean," Sam says. "We can't kill cupid with an audience."

"Goddammit." Dean's twitchy. Killing the bad guy isn't going to fix anything between Dean and his brother, but Dean wants payback, at least. And a distraction. "Okay. We go after closing."

Sam nods, and he gets up, and he closes the space between them. With Sam's stride, it's no more than half a step, and he leans in close, close enough that the scent of him, of soap and toothpaste and whatever crap he puts in his hair, washes over Dean and distracts him.

Sam pulls the gun out of the back of Dean's waistband.

He crosses into Dean's personal space to do it. He breaks open Dean's personal bubble, and that act, it holds so much more meaning now.

Dean's supposed to retreat. He doesn't. Sam stands so close Dean can feel the warmth of his body. All Dean's senses are alert, and yet, the thing that tells him to flee, that instinct, is dulled.

Sam is safe. That's not a revelation. It's not new, but the simple fact that Sam is close enough that Dean can touch him, taste him, for the first time ever—it's not a danger. Dean can risk temptation.

Sam places the gun, carefully, on the bed, but he doesn't move out of Dean's space.

He leans closer.

So close that Dean can feel Sam's breath on his face.

So close Dean can see the imperceptible changes in the dilation of Sam's pupils.

So close that Dean can see it in Sam's muscles when he makes the decision to act.

Sam closes the inch of space between them, and his lips press against Dean's.

Dean twitches back, eyes wide, breathing hard. He only retreats that same inch.

Sam doesn't move. His eyes are on Dean, and Dean could make this stop. He could end it, right here, right now. He could, without a word, ensure that Sam buries his feelings like Dean's been burying them half his life.

He doesn't want to.

They're both frozen. They stare, unblinking, into each others eyes.

Dean licks his lips.

Sam lets out a breath. Long and slow. He closes that inch again.

This time, Dean doesn't shrink away. This time he closes his eyes, and he parts his lips, and he sighs into his brother's mouth and pushes his body the length of Sam's.

Sam grabs Dean around the waist, and Dean wraps his arms around his brother's neck, and they spend as much time just breathing each other's breath as they do kissing. The slow pace and gentle movement belie everything Dean feels.

Dean is so fucking aroused it's embarrassing. Sam's hard against Dean's thigh, and it's as if they both are holding onto careful control. The moment either of them lets go, the dam will burst and they'll rut together like animals.

Dean doesn't want that. Not at first. Not with Sam.

Sam's worth more than that.

When they come apart, each of them gasping, adjusting themselves, Sam gazes at Dean and gives him a broad smile. "Holy shit," he says.

"Yeah," Dean whispers, because if a simple kiss—soft and slow and just barely past chaste—can do that, what's it gonna be like when they really let loose?