Dean can't recall noticing before Sam was dead, laid out on a dirty mattress in a ghost town full of demons.
He kissed him, like Sammy was Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, like it would bring him back. He did it without thinking, did it out of grief and the desperate thoughts of things he could never have.
And he wasn't thinking right. What with keeping the dead body of his baby brother, watching over him for days, refusing to give him a proper, hunter's funeral. Wasn't thinking right when he went to the crossroads and made that deal.
There was something wrong in his head that day, when he held his dead brother's face in his hands and pressed his mouth to Sam's cold lips. Something off, when he grieved for never having had the chance to feel Sam's bare skin against his own and hear him cry out in pleasure.
Dean should have put the thought away after, pretended it never crossed his mind, but something made him hold onto it, as if, once noticed, he'd always see it.
A lot of years have passed since that day, since he noticed the way he felt about his brother. There's a place inside his mind where it lives, a secret, shameful space that only he knows about. Dean has a lot to be sorry for, a whole lot of stuff he can never make right. This is the one thing he can never share with Sam.
"I can't believe you'd rather die than tell me."
"There ain't nothing gonna make me tell," Dean says. His voice is weak and it hurts to speak. He tries to pull himself up on his elbows, gives up, collapses back onto the mattress. "It's nothing good."
"What?" Sam says, wringing out another wet rag to lay across Dean's brow. "Is it illegal? Immoral?"
"In all fifty states, far as I know." Dean pushes away Sam's hand as it lingers on his skin. "And hell, yeah."
Sam freezes, his hand hovering over Dean's forehead, his fingers curled, poised to press the backs of his knuckles to Dean's feverish skin. Long moments pass.
Dean closes his eyes against the scrutiny.
Then Sam moves, as if his stopping was just a glitch, pressing his fingers to Dean's forehead. "You're burning up," he says, then takes his hand away and the sound of a pill bottle rattling reaches Dean's ears. "Tell me what you need, Dean, and I'll get it for you. I'm not going to let you die."
Dean opens his eyes when Sam pushes two pills and a glass of water into his hands. He swallows the pills, something to bring his fever down, then the water, passes the empty glass back to Sam.
Then he lies back down on the bed, stiff motel sheets against sweaty, sticky skin, and he rolls to face the wall.
He touched a hex bag. The witch they were hunting forced it into his hands, muttered some words in Latin he didn't catch. She took it when she ran, and they can't burn what they don't have. Sam translated the spell later, after Dean started getting sick. He sweated and ached while Sam figured out what the words meant, and when Sam read them to him, told him what would cure the fever, he knew he was going to die.
Dean's not really awake. Sam's fingers hold his face, sliding on sweat-slick skin, hold his mouth open to place something on his tongue. It's cold, metallic. He shakes his head, weakly, but Sam holds him tighter, murmuring something in a low voice.
Then it's gone. Sam's fingers are gone. Dean fumbles for the blanket, tries to pull it up to cover himself because he's cold again.
"Dean." Sam's hands are warm and damp on his face. "Dean, wake up." His voice is urgent, panicked. "You're going to die, Dean, and I'm not going to lose my brother. You have to tell me."
Dean moans, shakes his head, but he can't dislodge Sam's grip. "Can't," he mutters, "you're my brother, can't have you."
"What?" Sam's fingers tighten on his face. "What did you say?"
Dean tries to shove him away, but Sam's hands grip his wrists, tight. "You've got a fever of a hundred and five, Dean, and it's still rising. It's going to kill you. The spell can only be broken if you 'act on forbidden desires'. If that's got something to do with me, you gotta tell me. Because I'm right here. I can help you. Tell me."
Dean hears him, understands him, but the struggle to consciousness feels like swimming through thick mud. He tosses his head, arches his back off the bed because everything hurts, and he cracks his eyes open.
Sam's right there, blurry and indistinct. "You'll leave," Dean moans. "You'll go away and I might as well be dead."
Sam shakes his head, let's out a rough, halting breath. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean." He loops his arms beneath Dean's shoulders, hauls him up into a sitting position, but Dean can't hold himself up, ends up slumped in Sam's arms, head laid against Sam's shoulder. Sam slides his fingers through the hair on the back of Dean's head, a gentle, caressing touch. "I can help you," he whispers. "I'm gonna help you." Then his fingers grip the back of Dean's head, and turn it so his breath washes over Dean's lips. "I'm not going to let you die."
"You don't want this," Dean rasps, right before Sam's lips come down on his own.
He's cold, shivering, slick with sweat, and aching from head to toe. He's going to die without this, Sam's lips on his, more, because that's what he thinks about when it's dark and quiet. But he pushes against Sam's chest, against damp flannel. "You don't want it."
Sam's face comes into focus, and his eyes are rimmed with red, but his pupils are blown wide and black. "It doesn't matter what I want." He kisses Dean again, harder this time and his lips are just as soft as they were years ago, but this time they're warm, and wet, and mobile.
Dean turns his head away. "This isn't a fucking fairy tale, Sammy," he says. "It's gonna take more than a kiss to bring me back to life." It doesn't work in real life, Dean's tried it before and it didn't work. Sam stayed dead even after Dean kissed him, stayed dead until Dean sold his soul to bring him back. He can't let Sam do something just as desperate, just as stupid.
Sam's hand is hot and clammy on his cheek as he pulls Dean's head back around. "I know," he says, and then his hand slides away, down Dean's throat, to press against his bare, sweaty chest. "I'm your 'forbidden desire', aren't I? Admit it, Dean. It's me, isn't it?"
Dean shakes his head like he can knock the words out and forget he ever heard them. He wants to shrink away, to hide, but Sam won't let him and god, Sammy actually sounds happy about it. "I won't let you," Dean says. "You'll never be able to look at me again, Sammy, and I'd rather die."
"You're wrong," Sam says, and he kisses Dean again, pushing him back down onto the bed. He pushes the blanket away, and the motel air conditioning chills Dean's bare skin. "We don't have time to argue, Dean. You don't have time, so let me do this." His hands move down between them, and Sam shrugs off his shirt, drops it to the floor beside the bed and then Sam's bare skin is on Dean's, burning hot against his chilled flesh.
"Sammy," Dean moans, as Sam drags at his lips with his teeth. The weight of Sam's body on him has his dick filling, despite his weakness, and a part of him that's so used to hiding it wants to shrink away as a panic sets in. "Sammy, stop."
"I can't." Sam pulls away, rises up on his knees as he unbuckles his belt. He steps onto the floor, drops his jeans, and Dean blinks as his eyes struggle to focus on Sam's tented shorts. How is he even hard? "If I stop, you'll die, and I'm not going to let you die." He leaves his underwear on when he crawls back onto the bed. "But you gotta tell me, Dean." He's panting when he holds Dean's face in his hands, when he ghosts his lips over Dean's mouth. "It's your party, you gotta tell me how you want it."
Dean struggles, weakly. "I don't."
"You do." Sam slides his thigh between Dean's legs, rubs over his still filling cock. "So do I. We've been hiding the same thing, Dean. If it was me caught that hex bag, we'd still be right here, doing this. But I need to know. When you think about us like this, am I inside you, or are you inside me?"
Dean arches up off the bed and moans as need twists, tight, in his belly. "Fuck, Sam. Oh, Sammy, fuck."
"Come on, Dean. Tell me." Sam kisses him again, hard and deep, as he grinds his cock against Dean's leg. "I'll tell you, okay?"
"Yeah," Dean groans, then clenches his jaw. This can't be real. He's delirious, gone too far, maybe his brain's mush from the fever. "Tell me." Maybe he's dead already, and this is someone's idea of a joke because Dean can't figure out if it's heaven or hell.
Sam lets out a sigh, somewhere between relief and desperation. He grinds down on Dean, aligns his hips so their cocks fit together and he rocks his pelvis. "I wanna be inside you, Dean, feel you so tight around me I can't think—"
"Sam," Dean groans, and he digs his fingers into the meat of Sam's shoulders. His legs part without conscious effort, and he tries to pull Sam into him. Inside him.
Sam shifts his leg, puts himself between Dean's legs, grabs hold of Dean's thighs to pull them around his hips. "This how you want it? Because you can fuck me if that's what you need."
"No." Dean shakes his head until it hurts. "Won't work, you gotta— Jesus, Sammy. You gotta fuck me, please, I gotta turn over, I dream about it, Sammy, all the time, just like that, you behind me, so full—"
His words are cut off when Sam kisses him again, hard, deep, his tongue licking into Dean's mouth to stroke his own. Then he pulls back, rolls Dean onto his stomach. "Wish I had more time," he hisses, as he tucks his fingers into the waistband of Dean's boxers and strips them down his legs. "Next time, I swear, but right now I have to just..." He pulls away, and Dean tips his head to the side, watches as Sam kicks off his shorts and rummages in the bottom of his bag.
Dean's never seen Sam's cock like this before. So hard, so thick, so long. It's an angry red at the tip, leaking moisture and he still doesn't know if this is torture or a reward.
Sam comes back with a bottle of lube in his hand. He wastes no time squirting it onto his fingers and then sits down on the edge of the bed. "If I had more time," he says, his eyes on his hand as slick fingers push between Dean's cheeks. Two fingers circle Dean's hole, slick and warm, and Sam's eyes flick up to Dean's face. "You ever—?"
Dean jerks his head for no. All he's had up there before is his own fingers, one or two sometimes, but it's awkward, uncomfortable.
Sam nods. "Okay," then lets a slow breath out before he pushes one long finger into Dean.
Dean stiffens and whines, and it hurts as his body tries to keep Sam out, but Sam's moving too fast, and his finger sinks all the way inside.
"Sorry," Sam whispers, his brow furrowed as he moves his hand, out a little way, back inside. "I promise you, Dean. Next time—"
Dean lifts his head, sucks in quick, shallow breaths as Sam's finger moves inside him. "Next time?"
Sam's eyes slide up from where his finger is moving in and out of Dean's ass, up to his face. He leans forward, presses an open, wet kiss to Dean's shoulder. "When you're better, we'll go slow. But right now..." He drags his finger out of Dean's ass, and a thicker pressure, two fingers this time, pushes against him.
Dean whimpers, pain spreading over his skin, as Sam goes deep.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispers between kisses to Dean's shoulder, his free hand stroking down Dean's spine. "I'm so sorry." He thrusts, mercifully slow, then does something, touches Dean in a place inside that makes him arch and moan. "You're so hot, Dean," and it's said with concern. "I gotta—"
"Do it," Dean spits, pulling his elbows beneath him, lifting his head off the mattress. "Just do it, Sammy."
Sam moves fast, drawing his fingers out of Dean's body, crawling up onto the bed and kneeling between Dean's spread thighs. With a hand on each of Dean's hips, he pulls him up, pulls him back, and Dean can't hold himself up.
He sinks back down to the mattress, knees bent beneath him, cheek pressed to the sheet. He's spread open, exposed, Sam's large hands on his ass cheeks, thumbs holding him open.
Sam lines up his cock, and starts to push in.
Dean's whole body hurts, the fever a constant burn, but the stretch as Sam forces his way inside sends sparks of pain rushing over the surface of his skin. He cries out, a wordless, high pitched cry, and jerks beneath his brother's weight.
"I'm sorry," Sam moans, wraps one arm around Dean's chest and shoves in the rest of the way. "I'm so sorry."
Dean just groans, loud and long and wrecked, as he's split open on his brother's cock.
Slowly, the pain eases. They're both still but for the panting, the heavy breaths they both take. The burn that tingles over Dean's skin fades, until all that's left is a heavy ache inside him and the fullness. Dean's head clears a little, he can think better than he has since he woke, and it all comes crashing in.
"Sam," he says, and his voice is thick with anguish. "God, Sammy."
But Sam just holds him tighter, drags his lips over the back of Dean's neck. "You feel good," he whispers, and then he moves, rocks his hips, shifting his cock inside Dean's body.
Dean moans, but this time not in pain. Every nerve ending begins to sing, pleasure bordering on something else, something he can't quite grasp. There's a thick layer of shame there, because now Sam knows what he's wanted all this time, and Dean fights with himself. Part of him needs to run, to hide, to push the want down deep, but he's still weak, couldn't break Sam's grip on him if he tried.
The rest of him revels in the weight of Sam's dick inside him, deep in his ass. He reaches back, fingers tracing the edge of his stretched out rim, the place where they're joined. "Sammy," he whines. "Jesus, Sammy."
Sam grunts, jerks his hips in an aborted thrust. "So good, Dean. I wanna—" His hips move, more controlled this time, he slides his cock out, nice and slow. "Gotta move, Dean. Gotta... Fuck." He pushes back in, long and slow, lets out a satisfied groan.
Dean pushes back. Lifts himself up off the mattress, and his muscles are screaming, but he holds himself up, leans back on Sam's cock to take him deeper. "That's it, Sammy. Do it. Fuck me, Sam." The words spill out before he can stop them. "Come inside me."
Its just like in his dreams. Sam behind him, pounding into him, sweat rolling off him. Fingers bruising Dean's hips, hard jerks into his body, and he can feel it in his belly, Sam's big cock slamming deep, over and over again.
Sam cries out as he comes. It's a desperate sound, primal, fierce. Fucks through it, off-rhythm and out of control.
Come slicks down the inside of Dean's thigh. Sam whimpers, sinks into Dean and goes still.
"Don't go," Dean croaks, and reaches for his cock. "Stay inside. Please."
"I've got you," Sam says. Wraps an arm around Dean's chest, supports his weight. "Come for me."
It takes almost nothing. Like when he wakes from those dreams, heart pounding and cock aching and a couple of strokes and he's coming, but this time Sam's arms are around him and they both cry out at once as Dean's body tenses, tightens, squeezes, and then lets go in a violent wave of release.
The only sound in the room is their breathing. They're tangled, sticky. Lying in filthy sheets. The room stinks of sweat and come and sickness, but Dean feels better.
Physically, anyway. Apart from the ache in his ass, the sting of stretched skin. He's not feverish anymore. He's not dying.
But he's horrified. The enormity of what just happened crashes down on him, and all he wants to do is leave.
His body tenses as he prepares to pull away, but Sam senses it.
Sam lifts himself, rolls Dean onto his back. "Don't." He presses his lips to Dean's forehead, and then kisses his mouth. "I told you. I want it, too."
"Then we're both completely fucked up," Dean says. "And I'm not gonna thank that witch for clearing the air, if that's what you think. Or let her get away with it."
"Hell no," Sam says. "We're gonna hunt her down. But it can wait. I made you a promise, and I'm gonna keep it."
Dean swallows, hard.
"When you're better," Sam says. "We are gonna do this again. We're gonna hole up somewhere safe, Dean, and we're gonna take our time."
A shiver spreads throughout Dean's body, and it's nothing like the feverish chill of before. He knows he should argue, insist that they put it behind them, pretend it never happened.
But he can't. And he won't.