A/N: Yeah, well… Short chapter is short. XD Sorry about that. This is my first ever Wincest-fanfic, and I'm still a bit awkward about the whole pairing. (Not that it's not awesome, I'm just not sure what to do with it when I'm supposed to mold this clay of awesomeness into something readable) But for bearing with me, I love the hell out of all of you.
6: Too Late
Somehow, Dean manages to keep himself from running off that day. It's a combination of bad television, junk food, and Sam looming in the background instead of being all up in his face with his feelings.
It wouldn't be unlike him to run away. Find some stupid excuse. In a blank, cold way, he's kind of proud of himself, though. When Sam told him that he was leaving for Stanford, Dean spend the entire night smoking pot and drinking, making sure for Sam to be in eyeshot the whole time just so he'd know what Dean was going to be like when he left him. Compared to that, staring blankly into the TV screen isn't that bad.
Sam doesn't talk to him through this. In a way, Dean wants nothing more than for him to do so, but in the end, he prefers it this way. In his selfish moments, he just wants to curl up with Sam, fuck the hunting, forget about the world, the world could consist of nothing but Sam and him in bed for all he cared.
But if he's going to think about what's best for Sam, this is how it's going to be.
Sam probably knows he's thinking that way. He lies on his bed, reading a book, probably making some kind of point by not even watching the same screen as Dean, yup, they're really that far apart just because Dean doesn't want to fuck his brother.
(What did Dad say?)
It can't be wrong if it feels that right
(But he's never cared about your feelings)
Dad's not here now, is he
Sam turns page in his book. He seems to put an unnecessary amount of noise into a simple action. Dean glances over at him. Hopes he won't notice. Knows that he does.
Don't be mad at me, Sammy. I love you.
I would only do this if I didn't care about you.
None of this is for me.
Happiness and that shit. It's not for me.
Sam comes out of the shower later. Dean knows it's late at night, because the network just started showing reruns of Cold Case episodes that he saw this afternoon.
Sam must know it. When he comes out with the towel loose around his hips, his bangs all damp and ruffled. Eyes dark, or maybe it's just the light.
Sam's definitely, deliberately setting him up. And Dean doesn't care.
He's not sure who moves closer. Maybe Sam crawls up on the bed, maybe Dean pulls him there. Maybe one way or another, he's always been sitting on the edge of the mattress, knees spread so obediently, just waiting for Sam, who fits between them perfectly, their bodies molding together when Dean grabs his neck and pulls him down with him.
Dean can't think about what Dad's told him. He can't think about what's right for Sammy. He can't even think in terms long enough to think that considering how attached he already is to Sam, like the chair under his feet while he's got the noose around his neck, it's probably downright unhealthy for them to get connected this way, too.
He can really only hope that this is going to mess him up even more. Only hope, because he couldn't go back from here if he tried.
Sam tilts his hips up when Dean grabs the towel and drags it off with a wet slap and tosses it away. Eager hands fumbling under Dean's shirt, knowing every inch, probably better than Dean does himself. He knows that he could draw a damn blind map of every birthmark and scar on Sam's skin without even looking.
He's not even sure how Sam gets his clothes off, but he's grateful for it. He's not going to hold out for much longer, and if they're going to do this, he's not going to come in his pants like some fucking teenager.
It's a stupid, reckless thing, that somehow turns into something much deeper.
Dean wishes he could fall asleep afterwards, but can't really drift out when Sam's arm is around his waist. Every nerve in his body ignited and hot.
The morning light slowly creeps in through the curtains. Dean grumbles something and snuggles deeper into the sheets, musky and damp. He's not sure exactly when he fell asleep tonight, but now that he has, he doesn't want to wake up. He could actually sleep without nightmares for once, Sam enclosing him in his bubble of safety and thoughtlessness and all that shit. But he's waking up now, lingering effects of restlessness, his head feels like it's floating lightly above his body.
He's not going to open his eyes. He's never opened his eyes and seen anything being better that day than the day before. He's just going to stay here, next to Sam, all day…
That's when Dean notices how empty the bed is.
He rolls over, flings his arm out to Sam's end of the bed, trying to appear like a single drop of ice didn't just land in his stomach.
(who are you appearing to when you're alone)
Sam's not there. Dean sits up, looks around the room. Sam's always quiet when he wakes up before him, he could be in here, he could…
(He's not here.)
Dean stumbles out of the bed. Looks around again. Then to the bathroom door, banging it open so hard that it leaves a dent in the wall, but Sam's not there, either. Dean even pulls the shower curtain aside, turns around to look around the bedroom again, puts a hand over his mouth and doesn't even notice that it's trembling.
No, he's not. Stop it. Stop it.
Dean walks up to the front door, opens it, so scared that he doesn't care one damn bit that he's still naked. Steps out onto the deck. The Impala's still on the parking lot, the grounds are empty, painted pale by the morning light. But Sam could've gone to get breakfast, of course he'd walk, he doesn't take the car unless he has to, never…
Sam could be gone somewhere. Anywhere else except for in Dean's eyesight, completely safe and out of trouble.
He could be.
And still, Dean knows that that's not the case.
Just to be sure, he walks back inside and calls Sam's cell phone. He could be fine. He could be. Still. Please.
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester's voicemail. I…"
Sam's voice is one of the few things that can make him feel somewhat okay when he feels like this. But right now, it's like an ice block in his stomach where that tiny drop landed before.
Dean strides around the room, collecting the clothes that Sam tore off last night, putting them on even though every instinct he has tells him to just run for the hell of it.
He doesn't think for a second about what they did last night, but if he did, Dean would think about how stupid it was for him to act the way he did about it.
Loving Sam that way is such a tiny fraction of all the levels in which he loves him. And no matter how wrong it is, that wrongness is so small next to what's going on right now.
When he could actually lose him.
Dean runs towards the car, grabbing his duffel with the guns on the way. He has no idea where to go, but somehow, maybe in denial, he's absolutely sure that he's going to find Sam.
In a way, nothing's changed since last night. There's still only one thing on his mind.
Look after Sammy.
If he doesn't do it the way Dad would want to, fuck it.