Disclaimer: I don't own the boys of Supernatural. If I did there would be a lot more touching involved. Hugs? Would be the least of their worries.

Notes: To everyone who has reviewed my other fics in this fandom, I really appreciate it. All of my fics so far have been one-shots, as is this one. If it's a multi-chaptered fic, I'll let you know. If any of you are dying for more Supernatural slash go to livejournal and look for the snslash community. Or just go to my profile, my homepage is the link to my livejournal. There are more fics out there, just for some reason not many are posted on this site.

It's Hard Not to Notice (When you're so God damned Pretty)


You think his eyes are too pretty, and his lips are too red and full. It isn't fair,

you think. Why is he so God damned pretty? Why is he so fucking attractive to you, when, quite frankly, he Should. Not. Be.

Wendigo is a word you hate, but thinking it helps take your mind of his lips and how they look from this angle, still red and pretty. Wendigo makes you think of forests and underground rooms filled with the stench of dead, and the dead themselves. Sometimes in your mind Dean's still hanging there, and you have to look over at him to make sure he's still here with you now. You're feeling it right now, or maybe it's just an excuse not to take your eyes off of him.

"What's on your mind, little brother?" Dean sighs. "You're thinking too loud, I can hear it all the way over here on my side of the car."

"I'm just thinking about, you know, the Wendigo."

"Unintentional rhyme there, Sam. Sorry, anyway, go on."

"Just, what if I hadn't gotten to you in time or something? I know that a Wendigo likes to store its food, but still."

"Come on, Sam, you couldn't have actually doubted that you would save me, right? There was no question about it." Dean laughs, and he shoots a look at you. Is that underlying nervousness you detect? He's said on more occasion than one that he's counting on you to save his ass when the going gets tough.

"No, of course not, man. I was just, you know, worried."

"Awww, that's so sweet." Dean coos.

"Oh, get off it." You scowl, turning your head to look out the window. Much more fascinating sites out there than the way the sun hits his hair and the way he licks his lips absently.

Does he know what he does to you?


You can't ignore the way his clothes cling to him, wet and shaking a little as he shivers. If it was just you two you'd help him peel of his clothing, and you'd sneak the feel of his skin under your finger tips, until he looked at you and you knew that it was okay to do more than that.

Instead, you both stick around with Andrea and Lucas for a little bit longer, trying to console them as much as you can after the death of Andrea's father.

You know that every person's relationship is different with their father—and you don't really know much about how Andrea and her father got along on a regular basis—but you can't help but think she should be a little more upset than this. You say as much to Dean later on—after you've almost forgotten about the kiss she gave Dean—when you're off headed to God knows where. Wherever the road takes you?

"Dude, she'd just found out that her father had killed someone as a child, and now the ghost was threatening the lives of her and her child. It was Andrea and Lucas, or him. Of course she was upset, but she knew that it had to happen in order for Peter to stop taking the lives of people around Bill and Andrea's father."

"Yeah, I guess so." You mutter, still not being able to shake the feeling of worry about your own father, still annoyed that you know what Andrea's skin would feel like if Dean had gotten to touch her the way he wanted. "Do you think Dad's okay?"

"Sure he's okay." Dean says too quickly, and you know that he can't possibly be so sure of that since he bothered to come to you for help in the first place. Though, you're still glad he said it, because you don't think you could handle uncertainty from him right now.


You spend the night is some crappy motel that has really bad lighting. He strips down to his boxers, and you watch as the dim light of the room causes shadows to flit over the walls. You see him everywhere, even when you look away. His shadow on the walls, and in your mind the glimpse of skin when his shirt rides up, the way his boxers slip down just a little, showing the curve of his hip. Burned into your brain for God knows how long.

Fuck, you think. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You don't sleep much that night, so at the first hint of light in the morning, you head out to bring back coffee for him. It's hard, but you try not to watch him too much before you leave. You've already done enough of that during the night when you watched him turn and switch positions every hour or so. He's at an odd angle now, but you wish you could take the arm that's slung over his pillow and wrap it around yourself and press your face into his shoulder like you used to when you were younger— before you got too old for that to be acceptable anymore, or even comfortable, because now you're taller than him. It's funny, though, that when you imagine curling up next to him, he's still bigger than you. It doesn't make any sense that he's taller, bigger, larger than life, when he's in your mind, but he is. Always has been.

You go to get the coffee and whatever food appeals to you at the moment, and it occurs to you that if maybe Dean just would admit he feared something, then he wouldn't be so…untouchable. So perfect.

"Do you still dream about Jess?" Dean asks when you get back, and you hate how he uses her name like that, like he's as familiar with her as you were. Of course you still dream about Jess. At night you can't lie on your back anymore, because when you do you can't close your eyes, fearing that suddenly there will be blood dripping onto your forehead. There's been enough of that for one lifetime. Maybe even two.

Dean claims that all this doesn't get to him, which you want so badly to be a fucking lie, but maybe it's not. He does have more experience than you, and you're too far behind to even dream of catching up at this point. There was a time in your life when you wished Dean would be the one to go to college to even out the years of experience between you two. When did that change, you wonder, but it's been so long that you don't even remember when suddenly you couldn't take any of it anymore.

Dean claims that all this doesn't get to him, but you reach over and pull the scary-looking knife out from underneath his pillow. You lock eyes, and you know you've won even if he won't voice his admission.

Before you can say anything else, his phone rings, and before you know it you've got a new job.


You notice that he looks good in a suit. Admittedly, he does still remind you of a seventh grader, but if you met a seventh grader that looked like him you'd probably end up getting arrested.

"So Dad was really proud of me?" You ask him, and you wonder if your eyes are as bright as they feel. You try not to seem too eager, but you are.

"Yeah, he was. He talked about you a lot. He missed you, but he was proud of you. Dad believed in you, Sammy. He knew you'd go far, if you wanted to."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Believe in me?"

Dean shifts and you can tell he's about to say something nice that he'll try to disguise, because he always gets uncomfortable when you two have a moment. "Yeah, I did. I still do."

"Aw man, we don't have to hug do we?" What? You never said you knew how to act when you two had moments. But boy do you feel like an ass. Hugging is the least of your problems regarding things to do with Dean.

From the way he looks at you from the side, you can tell that he's thinking something similar to that. The look is just a look, though; it doesn't become words, and you wonder what would happen if the looks became words, and the words became actions. Is that a line you're ready to cross? Jess or no Jess, that's a line your toes have always been touching, a line that's always been a little bit blurry.


He's scared of flying and you want to laugh because Dean's really not supposed to be afraid of anything. You laugh to yourself, finding it fucking hilarious because you knew there had to be something that he couldn't just shake off.

You don't want to admit it, but he looks sort of endearing, cute, when he's scared like that. It's hard not to notice the way his hand keeps twitching towards yours like he just wants to latch on to you and cling for the entirety of the flight. He hums some unrecognizable Metallica song, though, and it makes you feel less nervous about this whole thing. Forty minutes, forty short minutes, and you could be dead. You could die soon, but for some reason you aren't scared.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man? You're not supposed to be the one in control." He hisses at you, causing you to smirk.

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh shit." Dean says, looking scared suddenly. "We're moving."

"That is generally what happens when the plane starts to take off."

"Oh. Right." He still looks like he's going to be sick at any moment, but you don't take his hand.


In your dream you're kissing Jess, you're kissing the Woman in White, you're kissing Andrea, you're kissing. Dean.

You wake up; you know you're awake, but then why do you still feel the cool brush of lips against you own? Open your eyes and you see Dean's face inches from you, lips still brushing against yours, eyes meeting your own.

Dean looks like a guilty child, but he knows that if he pulls away now it'll make things worse, like he's questioning it, like he's backing down. You watch as his eyes closes and he leans in farther, kissing you deeper.

After you can breathe again you cry, "Dean, what the fuck?" Because this is scarier than any Wendigo or exorcism in the world.

"Shhh, Sam." He whispers, and kisses you again, and you don't know why this makes you feel like broken glass, but it does. Sharp and fragile and shattered into thousands of pieces. Maybe it's because it brings back all those times when you were much younger and he said that to you when you whimpered in the dark.

And you wonder, how he can possibly know, how he can possibly see what's in your heart. This darkness that causes you to want what you shouldn't want. He kisses you again and again and your heart sings praises to whatever caused him to do this, to know this, because now you don't know how you could ever live without it. How you could live with the thirst, the craving.

He touches you everywhere, and you return the touches in perfect sync. You want him to own you as much as you want to own him. In blood, in skin, in mind, and heart, and fucking soul. This is feeling complete, you think. This is being whole.

Everything right in the world can go fuck off because this is your life, this is your soul to complete. Ignore Heaven and Hell; this is your paradise, right here.

You realize, sadly, that you've never felt so strongly about something. Not even about going to college. You've never before felt this fierce surge of self-righteousness, this driving anger that you feel towards anything that might dare to question your feelings.

Clothing comes off, and you feel like your shedding your skin and becoming someone new. His skin is shining with sweat and you watching with fascination as his limbs intertwine with yours.

Oh God.

He's inside you and it's so painful to be one person, but you've never felt so full. You bitterly hate yourself for this, for everything, but for a moment you forget and that in itself is bliss. You whisper things to him, and in return he does the same, but neither of you really hears the words, just the inflections, the tone. That's all that matters to both of you.

"Dean," You cry, a hoarse whisper as he flexes his hips once more and comes inside of you. Soon after you follow suit, stroking yourself off as he lifts himself off of you and settles down by your side.

Heavy breathing, and then, you speak. "You're good with kids, you know."

"Um, okay." Dean says, eyeing you strangely. "We just had sex, if we were debating you would lose on topicality."

"Sorry, I was just thinking. You're good with kids. If we do this, you won't have kids Dean. Neither of us will."


"Adoption, I know, but Dean we're—"

"It'll stay between us."

You're quiet, thinking about everything you'll never have, but then his hand comes to hold yours like it didn't on the plane, and you close your eyes. This is your paradise. This is your heaven on earth, and you won't let anything destroy that. Living on the edge of society is something that runs in your family. Returning to that part of yourself might be easy; you're willing to give it a try.

"I love you, Sam," He says, and that's everything you've needed to hear

When he sleeps you notice the way he wraps an arm around you protectively, like he never wants to let go. Like he's scared that if he removes his arm you'll disappear.

His lips still look red and full in the dark, and you wonder, simply, why.