Dean hasn't always been in love with his brother. Sole focus, yes, he can say that. That Sam has always been the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up, that Sam has always been the most important thing in Dean's world.

But he hasn't always felt like this.

Course, up till a couple weeks ago, Dean hadn't even seen Sam for the better part of two years. More, maybe. Dean doesn't remember, doesn't keep track of shit like that. He always knew where Sam was, how he was doing, made sure he knew Sam was safe.

But the last time Dean swung by, looking at Sam didn't do this to him.

This is heart in his throat, guts churning, palms sweating. It's like facing down a werewolf alone, no hope in sight, gaping maw dripping with steaming saliva, inches from his throat. It's like waking in a crappy motel in nowheresville, unable to see through the darkness but knowing there's something in the room.

It's desperate want, the need to reach out and touch, so hard it hurts and all he's doing is watching while Sam taps away on his laptop.

"There's only two cemetaries in town," Sam says, and he doesn't even look up from the screen. "He's buried in the one just outside the city limits. Might as well pack up and get it done on the way out."

The worst thing is that Sam's still grieving, his wounds still fresh and raw and open. It hurts to see him in pain, and that's no different, it would be like this even if Dean didn't want to strip him naked and take him to bed and make him forget, even just for a moment. So there's guilt on top of guilt, piled up like vials of poison gas that will kill everything if they fall and break.

Dean doesn't say a word. Doesn't know what to say, can't let himself speak because there's so many things on the tip of his tongue that'll just come spilling out and wreck everything, so he seals his lips shut tight and starts packing.

---

Didn't take long for Sam to get back into the swing of things. He stands over the open grave, salts and burns with barely a flicker of emotion on his face. It looks wrong, cos he still looks like he did as a teenager, a little taller now, but still awkward, like he's not quite comfortable in his skin.

Dean wonders if that will ever go away.

Dean's gotta look up at Sam now, and there's all kinds of things wrong with that, like the way it makes him flush, warmth rushing over him, glad that it's dark and the fire is hot because that kinda thing shows on Dean's fair, freckled skin.

"What," Sam says, as he catches Dean's eye. There's no inflection in his voice, no question, and like he doesn't care enough to wait for an answer, he looks back down at the flaming bones in the hole.

"What," Dean echoes, and it's stupid, but all he can think to say, because what has Sam seen in his face? Does he know, has he guessed, is it right there for him to see, are Dean's efforts to hide the way he feels now pointless?

Inexplicably, Sam makes an expression. The corner of his mouth pulls up, and it's more than Dean's seen on Sam's face since it happened. It sends a rush of pleasure through his body, tingling over his skin, making him hard in his jeans and tight in his chest.

"You're an idiot," Sam says, and the hint of a smile spreads, becomes something that sparks inside Dean and spreads.

And then the words sink in. "What?" He shakes his head, and offence creeps in and grows, because no matter what he feels for Sammy now and how different that is, Sam's still his baby brother and there's some things even this kind of love can't change. "What the hell did you say?"

Sam throws his head back, and he laughs, and the sound rings out over the cold, dark cemetery, and Dean stops breathing.

---

Another motel. Just far enough away that if there's heat from the grave desecration, it won't touch them, just close enough that they can keep tabs and act if what they did didn't stop the ghost.

Check in, salt the doors and windows, wash off the blood and dirt and soot and get some sleep. It's routine, his years away haven't dampened what Sam learned growing up on the road. It happens in silence, same as it's happened in all the other motels since the fire, except this time when Dean comes out of the shower, Sam's eyes are on him.

His hair is still wet from his own shower, the longer strands at the back of his head dripping onto the collar of his shirt and darkening the fabric. His eyes are searching, focused and fearful.

Dean's jaw aches as he resists the urge to question Sam's scrutiny. It'll sound just like it did back in the cemetary, it'll come out wrong, and his voice will break because he can't seem to get his breathing under control.

"It's weird, huh?" And maybe Sam's having the same problem, because the words are shaky, with odd inflections.

Dean's brows draw down in confusion, and his lips barely make the shape of the word. "Wha—?"

"Us," Sam says, and he pushes himself to his feet. "I can't even look at you anymore—"

And that's it. Over. Done. Busted. Sam's gonna leave, because Dean's sick and he's broken, and it's the kind of thing you can't fix.

"—without wanting to touch you." Sam's voice breaks for real, rasping and rough.

Dean's head jerks up in shock. "Huh?" His heart's pounding like it's going to explode, and the heat that spreads over Dean's skin, Dean's face, must be lighting him up like a Christmas tree. "What? Sammy, what?"

There's moisture shining on Sam's eyelashes as he takes a step forward.

"It's twisted," Sam says, inching closer, long stride covering ground, but slow, careful, like he's afraid Dean's gonna bolt. "I know." His lips are quivering, just like when he was five years old, fallen over and skinned his knee and trying not to cry because dad said he had to be strong. "She's only been dead a few weeks, and even if you weren't my brother it'd be too soon—"

Dean couldn't run if he wanted to, and he does want to, should want to, but his feet won't move, and he can only watch as something inside Sam breaks, as tears start to flow, running down his face and dripping from his jaw, like now the dam's broke, there's no stopping it. Dean's tongue feels thick, and his throat closes up, and he can't tell Sam no, can't stop him in his tracks with words, can't turn away.

As he chokes, frozen, movements jerky and aborted, he can only pull Sam closer when he reaches out, twists his fists into the front of Dean's shirt.

There's space, still, between them, but personal space doesn't exist anymore. Dean wants to pull Sam closer, wrap him up, slide his hands down Sam's back and over his ass. Wants to do it slow, wants to make him strip, get his mouth on parts of Sam he hasn't seen since they were kids and still showering together.

"Fuck," he finally gets out. And that's it, that's all, throat locking back up again, something thick swelling in there, can't breathe, can't speak, can't move.

He doesn't have to. Sam does it for him, fists unclenching, releasing the flannel caught in them, flattens his palms on Dean's chest, eyes following as they slide down Dean's body.

Sam's eyes are downcast, long lashes brushing his cheeks, teeth pressing hard into his lip. There are still tears, running in rivulets down Sam's face, and he licks them from his lips and gives a small shudder. It's so much like Sam as a child, so much like when he was small and helpless, that Dean feels sick.

"We...we can't— We're not— Sammy, no."

Sam's eyes flick up, and he sets his jaw, defiant, just like Sam, always got to make it difficult, always got to fight about it, can't just shut up and do what he's told, and Dean's about to push him away, tries, but for every step Dean takes backward, Sam follows, until Dean's backed up against the wall.

"You're all I've got," Sam croaks, voice rasping like he's been screaming, like it's almost gone. His hands are on Dean's belly, thumbs playing at the dome of Dean's jeans, and the denim is soft and well worn and it won't take much to get them open, and they're so tight the zip will just come down on its own, and Dean wants it, needs it, so bad he aches.

Can't breathe, heart pounding, sweat, clean, just-showered sweat, dripping from his brow and sliding down his spine, and he closes his eyes and drops his head back. "Always been like that," he rasps. "Always been just you and me against the world, Sammy."

Sam cups him through his jeans, hand sliding down, long fingers curling under his balls, and Dean groans, drawn out, strangled, wants to come, needs it. Through his jeans, in his baby brother's hand. Sam mouths at Dean's jaw, whimpers and grunts as he rides Dean's thigh, like Dean's words, his statement of fact is some kind of permission.

And Dean can't tell him no, now, couldn't stop if he wanted to, can only beg. "Please," he breathes. "Please, Sammy. Please."

He comes in his jeans like he's fourteen years old, pulsing into Sam's hand, a strangled moan that's as painful as each forceful spurt. He's not finished coming when Sam puts his mouth over Dean's open lips, swallows his last gasps.

He feels the moment when Sam's thrusts against him falter, tastes the strangled groan when Sam starts to come, warmth soaking into his thigh. And it's sweet, feeling his brother come apart like that against him, shudder against him, fingers gripping tight, digging into Dean's flesh like he's afraid to let go.

Still clinging when he drops his head to Dean's shoulder, huffing, panting out damp, warm air against Dean's throat. And then hot moisture, tears, not sweat.

Dean feels him start to pull away, lets his hands slide over his brother's body, needs to feel Sam under his fingertips but not prepared to hold him back if he wants to run. Logically, Dean knows it was Sam that did this, Sam who started it, but he can't help the guilt he feels, can't help thinking that Sam's going to leave, now that he knows how wrong Dean really is, how sick, how broken, he's just going to walk away.

"Sorry," Sam mutters, as he starts to turn. "God. I'm so messed up."

Dean keeps his fingers on Sam until he's too far away, then lets his hand fall. "You've got every reason to be," and when he gets no response, "Sammy. It's okay."

Sam stops then, and he turns just his head, not his body. His eyes show how much he's hurting, and maybe some of that is Dean, some of it is Dean's fault. He looks as though he's about to speak, like he's about to argue, but he doesn't. He just nods, and then he disappears into the bathroom.

fin