My second Supernatural fanfic, written on a whim tonight. It's a bit all over the place, but please enjoy. Not set to any specific episode.

The minutes ticked by and Sam wanted to, needed to, knew he had to do something, but the minutes ticked by and he remained in the chair.

Staring at his brother.

Staring at Dean in that damn hospital bed.

He looked helpless, Sam had to admit. Dean was never one for helplessness.

"Sammy," Dean groaned desperately.

Desperation perhaps, but never helplessness.

Sam swallowed.

The memory kept coming back in white flashes of pleasure and he suspected, knew that it was entirely inappropriate for the situation.

Hell, it was inappropriate for any situation.

Sam laughed an empty laugh, and his eyes found Dean once more; his hand followed, finding bare skin.

He could feel the muscles in Dean's thighs, taut with suspected want and need. When Sam looked up at his brother, he found confirmation in Dean's eyes.

He licked his lips.

Sam let go of Dean with a gasp, found himself on his feet a second later. He toyed with his cufflink, giving the material his full attention. He couldn't look at Dean, couldn't let those thoughts remind him.

It took him eighteen seconds to give in and look back at his brother. Sam had counted in his head, like always, wondering how long it would take.

It usually took less, but Sam had always argued with himself that those little looks were alright. He was looking, not touching, and hadn't everyone had those sorts of thoughts about a sibling once in their lives?

Sam had told himself that. Reassurance and denial followed the same pattern in his head.

He hadn't even noticed when Dean started looking back.

"So I've had a few beers," Dean said as he took another step closer. "I know what I want, Sammy."

Sam smacked the wall lightly with an open palm, sending a glare in Dean's direction. His features softened in a beat and Sam took his seat once more, let out a sigh as he did so.

He scrubbed at his face angrily, wincing as his hands aggravated the few cuts on his face.

God! It wasn't fair. Wasn't fair that it was Dean laying there, not him. Wasn't fair that Dean had started looking back.

Dean had always been pissed that he had ended up the shorter one of the two, but Sam couldn't help but wonder if he was suddenly enjoying the height difference. Dean wasn't leaning up, wasn't moving, was just looking up at Sam with a small, knowing smile.

His breath tickled Sam's chin, smelling distinctly of alcohol, and Sam couldn't help the shudder that went through him. Dean was waiting for him to make the first move. That way it would be Sam's fault that it happened, not his. Perhaps he would sleep better at night.

Perhaps he wouldn't sleep at all.

Sam smiled grimly, and took Dean's hand in his own. He held it loosely, his eyes staring at their intertwined fingers. Sam's fingernails, still dirty from the fight, Dean's immaculately clean, thanks to the nursing staff. Sam's smile grew wider and less grim, and he let a finger trail up Dean's arm.

Things he couldn't do when Dean was awake. Things he probably shouldn't do, awake or not. He ignored his logic, and continued stroking Dean's arm, worrying his lip with his teeth. He allowed himself the moment, almost feeling the seconds drip from his fingertips as the moment went on and on.

Sam raised an awkward hand, grazing Dean's cheek before letting the hand drop back down to his side.

Dean laughed. "Such a chick," he murmured. Sam kept down a sarcastic retort, managed just to flash a shaky smile. He had a feeling that, from the way Dean was looking at him, Sam could do almost anything to his brother till the alcohol wore off.

Sam watched Dean's chest rise and fall, their hands once again intertwined on the bed sheets.

The rise and fall was mesmerizing. Sam felt like he could watch it for hours, knowing what it meant.

Dean was still alive.

That knowledge was comforting in so many different ways. He had his brother still, by some unknown force, his brother was living and breathing in front of him, when Sam was sure he should have been dead and buried.

But he'd held on and Sam couldn't help but hold on as well. He tightened his grip on Dean's hand, let out a small sigh.

It had just been one time, only one night, and Dean had never mentioned it. Sam hadn't been sure if he'd wanted him to.

He swallowed, the seconds ticking by as he watched Dean's chest rise and fall. He'd pressed his lips against that chest; his teeth had bitten into the skin.

Sam pulled his gaze away, but he couldn't stop his mind. He couldn't help but wonder if, when Dean woke up, would they end up in the same situation?

Sam knew what his answer would be.

Dean was alive.

That thought was suffocating.

Dean was still watching him, still waiting for him to move. He couldn't wait forever, Sam knew. It wasn't in Dean's nature. They were alike in that way.

Sam raised his hand again, steady this time, and grabbed the back of Dean's neck. To hell with being gentle, he thought he pulled Dean towards him. Then their lips met, opened, and he stopped thinking completely.

Sam stood again, knowing he couldn't just sit there. He'd known that for hours, but now, he knew he had to go, get out of the room. Get away from Dean, at least for a while. It was the only way he could stop the thoughts; the memories.

He gave his brother one last look. Dean's eyes were still closed; the doctor had said they might stay closed for a while, perhaps even forever. Maybe that was Dean's answer.

Sam felt tears burn in his eyes, and he allowed himself that for a few seconds, before another memory came flooding back and he tore his eyes away from Dean.

He left the room in a hurry, not looking back, and the door shut quietly behind him.

"Sammy," Dean groaned desperately. His fingers were digging into Sam's back, hard enough to hurt. "Fuck me."

Sam hoped that he would bruise.