AN: So I wrote this for the kinky-mini-bang over on livejournal during the worst time of my life. I know that sounds dramatic, but my mother was in the hospice and she was dying. I started the story before her admission there and then after her death I oddly thought that I owed it to her to do everything I could to the best of my ability. I finished the story in a haze, sent it in to my beta and artist. Sadly my artist, who was very sweet, didn't end up having the time to work on it and I never heard from my beta again despite trying to get a hold of her. Now, months later I decided to just post the story with my own editing and take on it. Warning it didn't turn out as quite as happy as I was hoping it would. I really hope you guys enjoy it and I'm sorry for the long winded authors note. Please R&R as I would LOVE to get the chance to turn the experience of this story around for myself

Chapter One


It's a Monday when the morning sun falls through the window at just the right angle that Sam is illuminated in his bed, fast asleep, and Dean thinks unabashedly that he is beautiful.

It's a rare occasion that Sam is not up with the sun and Dean can't help but watch his gentle, relaxed features in the warm glow. The thought simply strikes him as an absolute fact. Not as anything weird, just as the truth. His brother is beautiful and Dean just never really paid attention before.

He watches him for a full minute, wondering why he's never noticed, and also wondering how Sam can sleep with the sun in his eyes, and finally smacks him hard with a pillow, the moment gone.

"Eggs n' Bacon time, Sammy!" he says cheerfully.

Sam groans, burrowing his face in a pillow.

"God, you're such a dick."

Maybe this is why he's usually up before Dean.

On Wednesday night they're in a small town in butt-fuck nowhere, because of course vengeful spirits with a penchant for scalping were always in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.

Sam, covered in soot and dirt from head to toe, walks into the 7/11 while Dean waits in the car.

Dean is covered in blood.

Sam, in his dirt, is much more acceptable.

Then, for a moment while Sam is walking back to the car, his strong broad shoulders and narrow hips, the wisps of his hair, his confident stride, are all silhouetted in the stinging fluorescent lights. Dean is struck suddenly by how much he wants that.

Its sudden and jolting, the knowledge that he wants to look like his brother-which makes no sense at all because as far as he's concerned, he got the looks in the family. But it's there anyway, the burning desire to have 'that'.

He pushes it down, the twisting in his gut, and can't sleep half the night because the image of Sam silhouetted in light keeps burning behind his eyelids. It makes him feel hallow, like he's starving, and he doesn't know why. He doesn't get it.

By morning, when he wakes up ragingly hard, with those broad shoulders still seared into his eyes, he finally gets it.

He doesn't want to be like his brother, he wants someone like his brother.

As disturbing as the thought is, it makes sense. Sam is the person he's always been closest to. He's the person that Dean has always put first, even before himself, and he's the only thing Dean has ever has that has been at least a little bit constant. Death and dying aside, Sam is reliable, and Dean and everyone else, knows that he is never going to get that anywhere else.

It's no secret that Dean is lonely. If Sam wasn't with him he'd have gone ape-shit crazy by now. The problem is of course that most women, one way or another, reminded him of Lisa, and he still isn't ready for that.

A tall, broad man like Sam, on the other hand is more or less the complete opposite. It all makes sense.

He's never really thought about it in detail before. The mechanics of sleeping with another guy has always just seemed too complicated to bother with.

He tests it out all through breakfast while Sam reads his paper, shooting glances at the guys in the shoddy diner and eventually the girls. He doesn't know if it's the lack of fine pickings or the fact that he just still isn't ready, but it makes his stomach turn and gut clench whenever he looks at anyone else.

He fixes his gaze on Sam from then on. Sam is easier on the eyes than everyone here anyway.

They spend the rest of the day, and most of Friday, driving. Sam sits in shotgun with his hand hanging out the window. His fingers sift through the air and his eyes are shut. He looks completely at peace and Dean wonders if, now that everything is over, Sam is just grateful to be here, content to be alive and in the impala, tearing across the country side with Dean.

With a rush, Dean realizes that it's what he feels. The swelling gratitude in his chest makes him want to laugh and cry like a maniac because if Sam isn't here, if he isn't with Dean for the rest of his life then there is no point. No point of anything.

He remembers what it is like, living in that big house with Lisa and Ben, the impala hidden away in the garage. All signs of his previous life gone, because he knows, he knows that this time Sam wont be coming back.

And now, by comparison, the world has flipped over and turned inside out and brought Sammy back to him and now everything is right.

A cold chill slides over him as he finally realizes.

It isn't that he's not ready to be with another woman like Lisa yet. It's that the only person in the world that he'll ever want is Sam.

Sam starts to hum. It's a familiar tune but he can't quite make it out over the wind buffeting through the car. Even so, his voice melts over Dean, soothing his frayed nerves until he pulls off at the next exit.

Sam raises his brows at him but waits until they pull into the gas station before he says anything.

The tank is still half full, but Dean shrugs and gets out of the car to fill it the rest of the way. He needs to stop, collect his thoughts, figure out what's happening or at the very least remember how to breathe.

Taking the opportunity, Sam climbs out of the car, stretching his arms and legs and neck. Dean looks away until Sam leans casually against the car next to him and fixes him with his gaze.

"You feeling okay?" he asks.

Dean opens and closes his mouth for what feels like far too long before nodding jerkily.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"The last time you were so quiet you had strep throat."

He grins at Dean playfully and Dean's heart stabs into his ribs so hard he has to drag his eyes away to breathe.


A hand touches his forehead and Dean jerks away, stumbling. Sam is staring at him, genuine concern written on his face now.

"What's wrong?"

Shaking himself, Dean forces his eyes to Sam's.

"I think I'm coming down with something," he says.

Sam steps toward him.

"Like what, a fever?"


Sam stops in his tracks, officially confused and a little offended, judging by his expression. Great.

"I think it's a cold. I don't want you to catch it."

Sam doesn't look like he buys it, but he lets Dean go back into the car without commenting on the fact that he took the passenger seat. It's probably for the best. He can't concentrate and doesn't remember how he drove here at all after Sam started humming.

Sam finishes pumping the gas and goes inside to pay.

When he climbs into the driver seat he hands Dean a bag filled with chocolate bars and cold medicine.

"I'm glad you're here," Dean says. He doesn't mean to say it. Usually he swallows down this type of thing.

Sam snorts.

"Where else would I be?"

Dean shakes his head.

"No, I mean…" he puts his hand on Sam's forearm, feeling the hard, warm muscle beneath his shirt. Sam, who is slowly backing out puts his foot on the break and looks at him. "I'm glad you're here at all."

He can see the realization when it hits Sam, the way it chokes him.

He looks back out the window and starts to drive again. Why is it that Dean always relies on Sam to just know things like this? Why does he never just say it when he thinks it, like he did just now? Why hide it when it makes Sam so blatantly happy?

It's not until they're back on the highway that Sammy finally responds.

"Now I know you really are sick."

His lips tilt ever so slightly, the hint of dimples and straight teeth, and Dean realizes how officially screwed he is.

Another week passes before he figures out that it's a curse.