"How do you feel?" Sam asks, pen poised over his notebook.

"I feel this was a bad idea."

Sam sighs and pushes his fingers through his hair. "What's your name?"

"Dean Winchester. What? Do you think I'm gonna lie about my name?" Except that he does that sometimes. "To you?" he adds.

Sam smirks. "Try."

"Lem—" Dean tries. "Fuck. Le— L—" His jaw hurts. "Dean."

Sam grins.

"Fuck you. Happy now? The stuff works. Can I go?"

Sam scribbles in his notebook. "Hang on. It's not exactly dire if you can't lie about your name, Dean. Not to me. I need something bigger."

Dean chokes on his tongue. "What?"

"You gotta give me something big. Something you'd never tell me in a million years."

Dean tastes bile. "Sam, no."

It's a truth spell Sam found in the archives. It's life or death, and they need information, right now, but demons lie. They need to know it will work.

Dean drew the short straw. He's the guinea pig, and he's fucked. He never would have signed up for it if he'd realized what lurked beneath his consciousness. "It's pulling up shit I didn't know I knew, Sammy. Things I stuffed right down inside and tried to forget about and I can't, Sam. Please."

Sam immediately looks stricken. "Dean." He puts his notebook down and reaches out. "Are we talking Hell...or...?"

Dean shakes his head, presses his lips together tight because the effects are still kicking in, and it's right there in his throat, threatening to bubble out.

Sam presses his hand to Dean's chest. "Did someone do something to you?" He swallows, like he's tasting bile himself. "What happened?"

"I thought you were done in the shower." It just comes out, and Dean snaps his jaw shut but there's more and there's no stopping it. "I walked in. You were seventeen and you had your hand on your dick and I watched—"

The words are still coming but they're muffled because Sam clapped his hand over Dean's mouth.

"Okay, okay," Sam says. "This was a bad idea." He pulls Dean to his feet, gets behind him, so he can hold Dean's mouth closed. "We're gonna walk you to your room and you can just wait it out, okay?"

But Sam's pressed up against Dean's back and Dean can feel the bulge in his jeans against his hip and he moans against Sam's fingers because he can't shut it out, can't shut down how much he wants.

Sam locks him in. Dean leaves it as long as he can bear before he goes for his lock-picks, stands at the door and talks because he needs Sam to hear him and it feels like it won't go away until he's been heard.

Inside the bunker the walls are thin, the doors thinner, and Sam must be able to hear as Dean tells him all the things he wants Sam to do to him, all the things he wants to do to Sam. But it doesn't stop. He repeats it, over and over again, and then he drops to his knees and unlocks the door.

He finds Sam back in the library, and he's mixed up more of the stuff Dean drank, and the cup is still on his lips when he turns.

Dean doesn't care that the cup falls and breaks when he takes hold of Sam, twists his fingers into the front of Sam's shirt and holds him as he speaks, words coming in a rush, throat raspy and hurting. Sam's eyes go wide, his jaw drops open in shock. He's only just drank the stuff, there's no way it should be affecting him yet, so Dean doesn't know whether to believe him when Sam says "Yeah. Me too."

It's dangerous, this stuff, not only compels you to air all your secrets, but act on them, and now they're out, Dean can't stop himself.

He's got one hand twisted into the front of Sam's shirt and the other ripping open Sam's jeans. His knees go out from under him and he takes his brother's cock so far into his throat that he chokes on it.

Sam's rattling off aliases until he can't anymore. "My name is...Jim— J— Fuck. Dean." He pushes his fingers through Dean's hair. "I wanna come in your mouth."

Dean moans and pulls Sam deeper into his throat and swallows around him until he does.

"I was fifteen," Sam says, later. They're in Dean's room, on Dean's bed, with the blankets kicked to the floor. "The first time I wanted this I was fifteen."

It's pretty much worn off. Dean couldn't open his mouth if he tried, now, and it's probably finished with Sam, too. When he says it, it's without urgency, and he's staring at the ceiling, off into space.

They both said all they needed to say when they were tearing at each other's clothes and ransacking Dean's drawers for lube and when the headboard was knocking plaster off the wall. Dean shivers, suddenly cold, and reaches for the blankets. "I think I'm in shock," he says, when Sam shoots him a worried look.

"Yeah," Sam says. "That was kind of intense."

It's the understatement of the century. "Are we okay? What the hell happens now?"

Sam frowns, the crease appearing between his brows. "Do you wanna pretend it never happened? Because the damage is done, Dean. The cat's out of the bag. And I gotta be honest. I don't wanna put it back in."

Dean laughs, though it's lacking mirth, and it hurts muscles he didn't know he had. "We've had enough honesty to last the next year. For us."

Sam smiles and drops his eyes. "Yeah."

"Leave it out."

Sam lifts his head. "Huh?"

"The cat." Dean lifts the edge of his blanket, inviting Sam under. "I've been carrying it for too many years. I'm tired, Sammy. I'm done."

Sam curls in behind Dean, wraps his arms around him from behind. "Okay, Dean."

fin