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Sam’s chatting up a guy at the bar.
It takes Dean a bit to notice. He’s been working the pool table on the other side of the room, but casually; low stakes, just a couple of bucks on the table. Not enough that anyone would have to explain anything to any angry fathers or wives when they went home with lighter wallets. Of course, he and Sam haven't had to really run a hustle in years, not with Charlie and her bottomless credit cards, but there’s no harm in keeping their skills up (certainly saved their asses with the whole Fortuna business). Not to mention there are just some things you don’t want on a credit card bill, even a fake one. Plus, people are always looser with their petty cash around Christmas.
But the point is, Sam’s chatting up some guy and in his confusion, Dean completely blows his next shot, sending the ball he’d been eyeing spinning across the green in an undignified arc that misses its intended target by a mile. Dean’s opponent, an electrician who’s already mentioned his ex-wife one too many times for it to be comfortable, guffaws good-naturedly at his blunder. Dean has enough sense to offer up an exasperated, “Shitdamn,” in return which only makes the other man laugh harder. It’s fine. Guy doesn’t have the game to take any real advantage of Dean’s mistake and they’re playing for peanuts anyhow. Dean doesn’t take his eyes off his brother as the electrician walks up and down the sides of the table, hemming and hawing under his breath like he’s got any kind of strategy in mind besides luck and prayer.
It’s the distinction, Dean realizes, that’s really bothering him. Because he looked up and saw that Sam wasn’t chatting with some guy at the bar, oh no; he was chatting up some guy at the bar. The difference is painfully obvious.
Dean likes to tease, but he knows his brother’s got game when he bothers to play. Can even be a charming motherfucker when he wants to, though in a different way than Dean. Dean prefers going all in, laying the cards on the table from the get-go and letting his willingness to go just about anywhere and everywhere apparent from the jump; courting, even shallow attempts at it, should be saved for repeat customers of where there have been few in his life. Sure, this leads to a steeper win/loss ratio than he’ll ever admit to, but the value is quantity over quality in this case; and he’s had plenty of quantity, enough that the handful of misfires can be easily dismissed.
Sam tends to be more selective, though it’s more a preference than an actual rule. He wants someone he can win over, have a conversation with. They don’t need to be brainiacs, as Dean assumed when they were younger, just... interesting.
The guy Sam’s talking to must be very interesting. Sam leans in closer, hair flopping into his eyes. He pushes it out of the way and the guy’s eyes follow the trail of Sam’s fingers across his brow; Dean does too and his mood abruptly sours. Interesting indeed. Dean didn’t realize interesting included... male.
Sam must think this guy is attractive, Dean realizes abruptly. He wouldn’t be entertaining this whole thing if he didn’t find that guy attractive, would he? And the interest is clearly mutual. Sam says something and the guy laughs (loudly, showing too much teeth) and squeezes Sam’s forearm as he replies. Sam’s smiling.
The pool cue in Dean’s hand creaks as he squeezes it.
“Hey, bud,” says the electrician. Judging by his tone, he’s called out to Dean more than once. A hand claps on his shoulder and Dean clamps down on the instinct to swing around and crack the man across the jaw. It’s a friendly gesture, not an attack—he’s experienced enough to know the difference—but he still twitches as he turns around. Something must show on his face though because the electrician’s smile turns uneasy and he quickly backs up. “Your move, man.” He points at the table.
Dean looks. As he expected, his opponent bungled his turn. He could pretty easily wipe the floor with him but the desire to do so has completely evaporated. He’s the one who suggested he and Sam pull over in the first place, give themselves a little night out in between cases. Now he just wants to go back to the bunker and relax with his brother in the privacy of their own home.
“Know what, pal?” Dean says, letting his body slump into an amicable slouch. “Think I’m beat. Congrats on the win.”
The electrician’s tension evaporates. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dean confirms. He peels a few twenties out of his wallet and slaps them down on the felt. “Few too many, ya know? And it’s getting late. Gotta hit the road. Get little Susie that uh, bike. Show up the ex.”
If Dean got the name of the man’s daughter wrong, he’s not corrected. The money’s quickly snatched up, the man’s face beaming.
“Hell yeah,” he agrees. “Merry Christmas, man.”
Dean waves him off, returns the pool cue to the rack, and joins his brother at the bar.
Sam notices his approach right away, back straightening as Dean slides into the open seat next to him. “Hey,” Dean greets casually, though something within him thrums tense and uncomfortable. “Figured it’s about time to head out. We can get home in three, three and a half hours if we book it. Won’t have to spend the night on the road.”
His grin is wavering and unconvincing. Sam’s brow furrows, wordlessly asking if something’s wrong or something has come up that needs their immediate attention. His concern is understandable; they’d just wrapped up a case and were due for some R&R. They’d gotten better over the years about jumping straight from one case to another, reluctantly recognizing they weren’t in their twenties anymore, so taking off after something now would be a deviation from the norm.
Dean shakes his head slightly and shrugs. Nothing urgent, the gesture says. At the confirmation Sam’s expression shifts to one of annoyance, and then, to Dean’s discomfort, disappointment. But he doesn’t argue.
Sam turns back to his... companion. “My brother,” he explains with a tight smile. “Sorry. Maybe another time, Harry?”
It’s not strange that Sam got the guy’s name. It still makes Dean’s uncomfortable.
“I’ll take you up on that,” Harry warns with a thousand-watt smile, like he sells teeth whitening strips on late-night TV. His eyes only drift away from Sam once they all rise and he does a double take when he gets a look at Dean. “Hope you and your... brother have a happy holidays. You got my number.”
Dean hopes that’s just a line, though if it is one he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean other than the obvious.
Sam makes his goodbyes while Dean offers a sharp nod he hopes passes for polite as they take their leave. They’ve got a three hour drive to make and Dean’s not exactly looking forward to it.
*~*
To his surprise, Sam manages to restrain himself until they’re back in the bunker. Though considering how Sam gave him the third degree the entire three hours, maybe he shouldn't be.
“Ask.”
Dean doesn’t look away from unpacking the weapons duffel on the library table. “Is that a gun in your pocket or...?”
“Dean,” Sam rebukes sharply. “Don’t. Don’t pretend it’s not bothering you because it obviously is. Just ask.”
Dean sets aside a pistol and a box of rounds (running low on silver bullets, gotta remember to make more), then a shotgun, followed by a silver stake. He quietly goes through most of the bag before turning around and facing his brother. Sam’s stiff, much less confident than his tone suggests. They’re both on uneven footing here, which seems unfair considering Sam’s the one that felt the need to let some schmuck feel him up at a bar in front of god and everybody like it was no big deal.
“You gay, Sammy?” Dean asks as evenly as he can manage.
“No,” Sam replies promptly. He’s holding himself too still; overcompensating, Dean guesses, trying to conceal anxiety. The fact Sam feels the need to do so with him makes him feel a little sick. “But I am attracted to men.”
“Sounds a little gay,” Dean says, but Sam doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile, still standoffish and leery. “Bi then,” Dean concludes, leaning against the table.
“Probably the best word for it, yeah,” Sam confirms tightly. “That gonna be a problem?”
“Be a problem...? No, Sam. Jesus. You think I’m like that? That I’m some kind of homophobe or something?”
Sam relaxes, if only marginally. “No, of course not. I...” He looks down. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react if I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Dean points out.
“I know.”
“And why not, huh? Why didn’t you tell me? How long’s this been going on?”
I thought we were past this, teases the tip of his tongue but he bites it back. This isn’t remotely on the same level as drinking demon blood or secretly working with British douchebags behind his back. They’re not even in the same category. Not to mention he promised himself he’d stop dragging up old shit every time he and Sam had an argument. It’s a bad habit, a nasty habit, and he can tell it kills Sam a little bit every time he does it. He forgave Sam for all that a long time ago and he meant it, then and now. This? This isn’t something Dean can or should forgive anyhow. He’s not even sure he understands it.
“Since... always, I guess,” Sam admits. He sinks into a chair and Dean reluctantly joins him. A real conversation then, not just a snappy back and forth. Can’t say he’s looking forward to it but it’s better than the alternative—them shouting at each other and Sam hating his guts, again.
“Always? Seriously?” Dean replies skeptically.
Sam laughs. “Yeah, Dean. It’s not like a woke up a week ago and just realized, ‘Hey, I think I like dick.’” Dean flinches; Sam smirks. “Look, man, we were teenagers in the nineties. Not exactly the greatest time for finding yourself. I already felt like a freak. I wasn’t going to bring up that I liked Kate Winslet and Leo Dicaprio to my brother.”
Dean can’t even find it in himself to make a Titanic joke, mind racing as he realizes how long ago that was—puts together that Sam’s been holding on to this for practically an eternity. “But you’ve only dated women.”
Sam’s gaze cuts away. “Yeah.”
“So... why now? What changed?”
Sam half-shrugs. “I dunno.”
“Come on, dude,” Dean complains.
Sam shoots him a glare. “What do you want from me? It just seemed like the right time. Safe, maybe. Safe as we ever get anyhow.”
Dean takes in the defensive curl of Sam’s shoulders and the last of his indignation sputters and dies. It’s awful the amount of sense it makes, that Sam wouldn’t try something until after everything with Chuck. Sam probably spent months wondering if that was even a real part of himself, or just something put there to make him feel worse about himself as a kid (maybe even older) for Chuck’s emotional torture porn. Christ knows Dean spent time doing the same with aspects of himself, obsessing over the details of their lives and wondering what were merely props and set pieces and what was coincidence or nature.
“Yeah,” Dean says softly. “Yeah, I get it.”
Sam nods then drops his head, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to tell you.”
“Get that too,” Dean says. “I was, uh, a real asshole as a kid.”
“Was?” Sam snarks, a smile teasing at his lips.
“Shaddup,” Dean huffs. “I’m trying to be genuine here.” And there it is, small but real—a smile blooming over Sam’s face. “I’m just sorry you had to wait until now.”
Sam shook his head. “That wasn’t your fault. I mean, it’s nothing you did. I just... couldn’t.”
“Still, Sammy. That ain’t right. You don’t need my approval or anything, obviously, but, you know, you have it. If you want it.”
Sam’s quiet for a moment and Dean wonders if somehow, despite his careful steps, he managed to fuck it up. But his fears are unfounded when Sam finally opens his mouth and says a little shakily, “Thanks, Dean. I mean it.”
Dean waves it off. “S’nothing,” he grunts. “Seriously. ‘Specially since you decided to come out by hitting on Herbie the Christmas Elf right in front of me.”
“Harry,” Sam corrects exasperatedly. “Although...”
“What?”
Sam’s cheeks are a little pink. “...He was a dentist.”
“I knew it!” Dean explodes. “Knew it! But a dentist, Sam? Come on, that’s like one of the most boring jobs in existence but you were looking at him like he had the Library of Alexandria in his pants. They’re not even real doctors, you know.”
“He wasn’t boring,” Sam counters defensively. “He had a lot of interesting thoughts on this crime podcast we both listen to—” Dean mimes snoring and Sam leans over to thwap him sharply on the knee. “Screw you. Besides, he was hot.”
“I can’t believe I ever thought you had standards,” Dean sneers with an exaggerated shake of his head. Hopefully, it conceals the sudden jump in pulse at the words: He was hot. He was hot. He was hot. Somehow those words more than anything make this whole thing real. Sam thought a guy was hot and told him about it. The tips of Dean’s ears burn. “Boring. Ass. Christmas. Elf.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “You are not as funny as you think you are,” he says. Before Dean can point out that he is, in fact, hilarious, Sam continues. “Speaking of... are we doing anything this year? For Christmas?”
Sam’s attempt to change the subject is not subtle in the slightest. Dean doesn’t call him on it though, happy to move on.
“You want to?” Dean asks, genuinely curious. The season hasn’t really come up in over a decade, barring the holiday marathon extravaganza with Mrs. Butters (which, of course, didn’t count considering it was May at the time). The December immediately after Chuck’s defeat had been an odd affair where they were still too on edge to celebrate anything, let alone Christmas. Dean couldn’t speak for Sam, but he suspected his brother had felt the same, still raw from the losses and the manipulations and afraid that at any moment the rug would get ripped out from under them revealing that, surprise!, the few months of peace were yet another fucked up game in a long line of fucked games that made up the fabric of their fucked up lives. This year, though, the freedom finally seemed real, perhaps even permanent.
Still, Sam’s never been big on the holidays to begin with. The last time they’d celebrated, Dean had been on his way to Hell. It can’t have great associations for Sam.
Sam just shrugs. “Might be nice to do something. Nothing big. Since we’ve got a place we might as well take advantage, right? Decorate or something?”
They’ve had the bunker for years. But Sam said he feels safe. Maybe, for the first time, he even feels like he’s home. Dean’s heart swells.
“A tree?” Dean suggests. “Something small, like one of those little Charlie Brown cuttings. An actual dinner and Rudolph on the tube?”
“If you’d like,” Sam offers generously.
“Well, yeah,” Dean says. “ Shit, sure. Still got, what, like three weeks? We can throw something together. I’m no Mrs. Butters, but I can figure out how to roast a damn turkey.”
“What, you don’t want to go the full turducken?” Sam teases, leaning forward. “First time I heard of that monstrosity I thought you’d somehow put together the most elaborate prank of the century. Was sure it was something you made up.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Dean warns. Then, almost admits, You got my number. At the last moment, he decides to keep it to himself. He doesn’t even know what it means.
*~*
Despite promising himself to practice restraint, Dean buys a full-sized tree, decked out with tinsel, ornaments, and the rest. String lights from storage end up wound around the staircase and draped over a few of the book shelves as well, though whether they’re from the bunker’s prior tenants or summoned up magically by Mrs. Butters during their Christmas-in-May he can’t say. He stops himself short of hanging any wreaths or holly, though, and the boughs of mistletoe remain in their boxes, too (not that he ever considered putting them up in the first place).
Sam assists every step of the way, though his expression alternates between amused and mystified the entire time. Part of Dean thinks, even hopes, that the source of Sam’s bewilderment is that this is his first real Christmas. A Christmas where the aches of loss are softened and no sword of Damocles hangs over their head reminding them of mortality, fate, and misery. An uncomplicated Christmas. Dean’s determined to make it a good one.
Dean thinks he might be succeeding. Sam smiles and laughs openly, and it only stings a little when Dean realizes it may have been a decade or more since he’s seen his brother so joyful and unafraid. That he’s the cause fills him with a familiar smugness, the same pride that means, I took care of Sammy. This is the best he’s ever done.
Then, one evening, Sam wants to go out.
“Out?” Dean asks. He’s stretched out over two library chairs, idly tossing a tennis ball for Miracle as he researches recipes on his tablet. That all the best recipes come from mommy blogs where he has to scroll past ten thousand pages of inane suburban story time is wearing on his patience.
“Yeah,” Sam confirms. He shuffles in place and tries too hard to look Dean in the eye. “Might be gone a few hours.”
“In town?”
“Nah. Thought I’d go a little farther out.”
He was hot.
Sam doesn’t want to drink in town because he wants to go pick someone up. No, not someone—a guy. Sam wants to go hook up with a guy.
Dean stares. He only realizes he’s taken too long to reply when Sam coughs and gestures towards the door.
“So... yeah,” Sam surmises awkwardly. “I’ll take one of the other cars, so...”
Sam barely takes two steps before Dean leaps to his feet. “Wait!”
“What?” Sam asks, startled and a touch defensive.
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “I’m coming with.”
“You are?”
“Sure,” Dean confirms, though earlier in the day he had no intention of leaving his chair until he’d figured out a complete Christmas dinner menu. “Why not? Wanna stretch my legs. That a problem?”
Sam hesitates and Dean worries for a minute it is, in fact, going to be a problem. But in the end, Sam nods. “Uh, no. Not a problem.”
“Great! I’m driving.”
Surely Sam had a location in mind before Dean invited himself along but his brother says nothing when Dean pulls them into some nowhere country-themed spot two hours outside of Lebanon. The music sucks but they’ve got El Sol on tap and amazing beer-battered wings. He can tell Sam’s annoyed with him but has him cracking a smile by the end of the night when Dean takes pictures with an enormous plastic bull in the back of the bar, decked out with a giant-sized Santa hat. Dean counts it as a win.
It’s not the last time Sam tries to take off in the days leading up to Christmas. Each time, Dean plasters himself to his brother’s side before Sam can make it out the front door. Dean’s aware he’s being annoying. He’s aware he’s being unreasonable. What he’s completely unaware of is the reason for his own behavior, which eludes him no matter how hard he thinks about it (which, admittedly, he doesn’t actually do frequently). But his instincts demand that he doesn’t let his little brother out of his sight and, as always, this is an instinct he mindlessly obeys.
The pressure cooker of agitation builds. Then, after about nine days of Dean pretending they’re conjoined twins, Sam says the fateful words once more: “I’m going out.”
Dean stands, coat already in his hand. “Grea—”
Sam rounds on him, pinched tight and eyes blazing. “No! Not great! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Dean jolts back in surprise and Sam immediately deflates. This makes Dean feel even worse; Sam hasn’t really expressed outright anger in years, but even now, when he has every right to be annoyed, he refuses to indulge.
“I... I thought you were okay with this, Dean,” Sam says, shoulders sagging. “You said you were okay with it.”
He doesn’t need to say what ‘it’ is. They both know what he’s talking about.
“I was. I am!” Dean quickly corrects. “I just, you know, want to spend time with my favorite little brother. Is that a cri—”
“You say, ‘Is that a crime?’ and I’m gonna lose it,” Sam interrupts. Dean’s jaw clicks shut. “Look, you’re not fooling anyone. Clearly you have some kind of problem. What I just don’t get is what or why.”
That makes two of us, Dean thinks. “I don’t have a problem,” he insists. Sam scoffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t! I... don’t know what’s up with me, man. It’s new and weird—”
“Thanks,” Sam adds dryly.
Dean waves him off. “You know what I mean. I’ve known you your whole life and this is something I knew nothing about. You’ve had time to get used to the idea. I haven’t. I’m just, you know. Adjusting.”
Sam reluctantly looks back over, studying Dean from top to bottom, nose wrinkled in a way that Dean knows means he’s trying to figure something out. Dean knows what Sam’s thinking because he knows all his brother’s expressions backward and forwards, maybe knows almost everything about him—except this. And, yeah, it’s a little unnerving after living on even ground for years now. It’s a reasonable explanation for his behavior.
Except it’s bullshit. But Dean doesn’t have a real answer to give so this one will have to do.
“Adjusting, huh?” Sam says finally, uncrossing his arms.
He bought it. Dean relaxes. “Something like that,” he says. “I don’t mean to, uh, cock-block you.”
“I bet,” Sam laughs. Then, his face turns more serious. “Look, it’s no different than me... meeting up with some girl. You get that, right?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Obviously. ” Except it is. It somehow is and he hates that he can’t put his finger on why (aside from the obvious differences, of course). “’Course, you’d have to actually get with girls for that to make any sense. You get that, right?”
“Oh, screw you,” Sam shoots back, though there’s no heat to it. They’re okay now. “Look, I’m heading out. Alone, preferably. Is that okay with you?”
No. “Yeah, yeah,” Dean replies. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Sam’s responding grin is flippant and bright—he’s excited, and Dean would be happy for him if he didn’t know the reason. “Uh, I kinda am. That’s sort of the whole point,” Sam teases. He’s halfway out the door before Dean manages to put together any sort of reply.
“Well, I don’t pick up elves—or, uh, don’t pick up any of Santa’s workers if you know what I—”
The door shuts. Sam’s gone.
“Dammit,” Dean grumbles, dropping his head into his hands. He needs to pull himself together soon or it won’t just be his comebacks that suffer.
*~*
Dean turns in at about 1 AM. In reality, this means he lies in bed staring at the ceiling until he hears Sam tiptoe down the hall about an hour and a half later. The urge to confront him is nearly overwhelming. Dean violently punches it down. Sleep refuses to come. Sam smiles through to the next morning. Dean acts appropriately disgusted, sticking out his tongue and rolling his eyes until Sam thwacks him with a damp dish towel to the face. Genuine nausea hits him when he spots the bruise on Sam’s clavicle, revealed by a slipping shirt collar.
Two days later, they hit up a routine salt-and-burn in Colorado. The holidays make them reluctant to go far from home but they can never allow themselves to stop working completely. This is a neat compromise—they’re in and out in twenty-four hours flat, stymieing any potential guilt from being away from the job for too long, and grateful for it.
Sam has two more... “dates.” He doesn’t call them that and Dean sure as hell doesn’t either, and the term, even in the privacy of his own head, makes him cringe. Dean hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask about the kinds of guys Sam’s been seeing (or trying to see), or even if he’s seeing the same guy more than once—and he’s not sure he wants to know. Dean knows Sam has a type, at least with women. He doesn’t know if it’d be better or worse if his tastes run similarly with men. And the idea he’s trying to see someone with any consistency...
The thought occurs to him days after Sam’s second outing. “Is that why you haven’t called Eileen?”
Sam looks up from his book (some enormous tome on Enochian summoning rituals; just glancing at the text has Dean going cross-eyed), perplexed. “What?”
“Is this whole... guy-thing the reason why you never picked things up with Eileen again?” Dean asks. “Real shame. She likes you, you know. No clue why, but she does.”
Sam’s eyes narrow and every inch of him turns to ice. “No,” he says tightly. “The ‘guy-thing’ isn’t why I haven’t gone out with Eileen again.” Sam slams the book shut loud enough to make Dean jump. “I’m finishing this up in my room.”
“Touchy,” Dean mutters as Sam rounds the corner, leaving frost in his wake. It was just a question. But he doesn’t ask about Eileen again, even though Sam’s reaction leaves him more confused than ever. Sam still likes women, he confirmed it. So why not take up with Eileen? She’s attractive, smart, and a hunter to boot—the whole shebang. So what gives? It couldn’t just be that Sam was curious about batting for the other team, could it? Dean just doesn’t understand the appeal.
So maybe getting that appeal would help him figure out why the idea of Sam with a dude got him so... weird.
(The fact that similar discomfort wracks him when he thinks about Sam and Eileen being more than just go-to bunk buddies goes into a mental lock-box to be examined again never.)
The next time Sam’s out, Dean grabs his laptop and heads to his room, locking the door behind him. Sam shouldn’t be back for several hours but you never know, right?
He gets comfortable, stripping down to just his boxers and plopping onto the bed, propping himself up with some pillows against the headboard. A familiar position, though the motivations this time around are a bit... different. He contemplates headphones for a few seconds before deciding against it. The bunker’s empty and the door’s locked. That’s plenty of precaution for what he’s about to do.
Dean props his laptop on his thighs and looks up gay porn.
It doesn’t take a lot of hunting to find. Most mainstream porn sites have at least a gay category, and of course there are plenty of places dedicated solely to dick-on-dick action. No, Dean’s real problem is that he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for specifically. What do gay (and bi, he supposes) guys find attractive about other guys? What gets their motor running? It’s all a mystery to Dean. For decades, his porn consumption had included what he could only assume was a fairly common rule—don’t look at the balls. Guys were a means to an end only. He doesn’t exclusively watch POV or anything, but the men in the stuff he usually peruses aren’t exactly Fabio; it could all be the exact same shaved-head, thirty-something, kinda buff, tattooed white dude for all he knows. It’s not what he’s there for so he’s never paid attention.
He pays attention now. The front page of several sites are dominated by burly bearded guys with big bellies separating boys into the naughty or nice list; Dean clicks on one ad for a laugh and he spends more time being impressed by the quality of the Santa suit on and chuckling at the dialogue than figuring out if the scenario’s supposed to be actually hot or not. He clicks off when “Santa” takes the “naughty” boy over his knee, though—he seriously doubts Sam’s into bears punishing twinks in elf costumes.
Dean pauses. Maybe he does know what he’s looking for. He’s looking for whatever Sam’s into. But he has no idea what Sam looks for in—
Except he does. Herbie or Harry or whatever, the dentist. Dean’s got a memory for faces (comes with the job description), so it takes almost no effort for him to recall what the guy at the bar looked like: tall (though not as tall as he or Sam, though it was hard to tell with him sitting down), short dark hair, lighter colored eyes (though he’s not sure if they were blue or green). Kinda pouty lips.
Dean holds the picture in his mind and starts browsing. He gets distracted, though, when he catches sight of a different kind of man entirely—longer hair, sharp line of the nose, sort of elegant profile. Mouth wrapped around a cock.
He doesn’t overthink (or think) at all. He clicks.
It’s a pretty basic video, truth be told. Dean wouldn’t consider himself picky but he tends to go for elaborate set-ups rather than just jumping head first (so to speak) into the action. Yeah, the dialogue’s awful and the scenarios run from unbelievable to downright ridiculous, but he enjoys the build-up, the anticipation. This video, which is clearly a edited down from a longer film, has none of that. The two men barely exchange two words before it cross-fades to the long-haired guy on his knees. His partner (stockier, but still kind of tall, shorter hair) slaps his dick on long-haired guy’s mouth a few times before letting it get sucked. And the cock-sucker is really hungry for it in a way Dean assumes all women in porn are faking; it would never occur to him to see that same expression on a man.
It takes a moment for Dean to realize he’s hard. Another to stick his hand down his boxers. He doesn’t overanalyze it.
When it transitions from blowjobs to anal, Dean’s sure that’s when his libido’s going to tap out. He’s watched some anal, even tried it a handful of times, but it’s not a particular kink of his. If some sweet thing with black hair and cute tits getting her ass pounded doesn’t really get him going, he doesn’t see how a dude getting reamed would do anything for him.
Then the long-haired guy arches his back and cries, “Harder!” and, well, that’s game over for Dean.
It’s not until he’s done cleaning himself up that he realizes exactly what transpired. And it’s fantastic.
*~*
“I’m bisexual,” Dean announces.
Sam leans over the library table, chin in one hand, eyes flicking as he watches something on his laptop. “No you’re not.” He doesn’t even look up from the screen.
Dean sputters at the dismissal. “Excuse me?”
“I said, no you’re not.”
“Uh, I think I’d know if I was bi or not, okay, Mr. Sexuality Expert.”
“And when, exactly, did you come to this conclusion?”
“Yesterday.”
Sam sighs and shuts his laptop, finally looking up at Dean. “And you figured this out by...?”
“You know. The usual method,” Dean replies evasively.
“‘The usual method,’” Sam mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Dean, you don’t just become bisexual overnight. That’s not how it works.”
“And how would you know?” Sam shoots him a dirty look. “Okay, fair enough. So ask me something! Something only a bisexual guy would know.”
Now it’s Sam’s turn to sputter. “We’re not in some secret club! It’s not like there’s a knock or a handshake!”
“Ask me!” Dean urges.
“Ugh, fine! Name a guy you find attractive. One guy.”
Dean has an answer, but the guy I jerked it to last night probably won’t go over all that well. “Brad Pitt.”
“Brad Pitt is cheating. There isn’t a straight guy on Earth who wouldn’t go gay for Brad Pitt. Pick someone else.”
“You said one!”
“Pick. Someone. Else. And don’t say George Clooney.”
Dean thinks about it. He really does. He runs through every movie and TV show he’s ever watched, all his favorite rock stars, and falls short. So he goes back to porn guy, his long hair, the shape of his face, and tries to think of anyone, anyone at all who has a passing resemblance to him. If A = B, and B = C, then A = C, right? If he finds him hot, then any guy who looks like him would be hot to him too.
He flips through the pop culture catalog in his mind. When the answer comes to him, he could slap himself. But before he can blurt out his answer (sure, Dr. Sexy’s not the most dignified answer, but it’s still an answer) he meets Sam’s eyes and he falters.
Longish hair. Profile. Tall, even by Dean’s standards.
He practically swallows his tongue. Mistaking Dean’s silence for victory, Sam smirks.
“See?” his brother says imperiously. “You’re the straightest guy I know. Like, ruler straight. And that’s fine, Dean.”
“I thought we could, you know, go out together,” Dean mumbles. “Pick up guys.” Now that he says it out loud, it sounds totally insane. Now that he knows exactly what brought him here, it’s even worse.
Sam’s face softens. “You’re so weird,” he says fondly. “Dude, we’ve never even picked up girls together and you wanted to pick up guys?”
Not for lack of trying, Dean realizes. A disturbing pattern is starting to emerge, one that, thankfully, Sam hasn’t seemed to have picked up on. “I’m an amazing wingman,” Dean protests weakly.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, ‘You can be my wingman anytime.’” He stands. “Look, I was gonna go out tonight but I’m not really up for it. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is on tonight. Why don’t we grab dinner and have a night in?”
They have their night in, sprawled out over the couch in the Dean Cave sharing a bucket of KFC, which Dean is equally appalled by and pathetically grateful for. But halfway through the Griswold family shenanigans, Dean has to threaten the delicate peace to soothe his stung pride. “How did you know?”
“What?” Sam asks vaguely. It’s a commercial break and he’s gnawing on a chicken thigh as if he’d been starved his whole life, the animal. It’s endearing as hell.
“That I’m not, you know, queer. You didn’t even consider it for a second. Why were you so sure?”
Sam licks his fingers (Dean looks away) and sets down the chewed-up bone on the growing pile between them balanced precariously on the couch. Dean wanted to give them to Miracle as an early Christmas present but Sam bitched him out about how chicken bones were bad for dogs, how they could splinter in their throats. Miracle will be getting the biggest bone-shaped dog toy he could find under the tree instead.
Satisfied that he’s chased down the last bit of chicken with his tongue, Sam finally speaks. “I know you,” he says simply. “And if you were ever going to go for a guy...” He shrugs. “Well, there was only one option, right? And you didn’t. So that’s that.”
Dean blinks. “What do you mean?”
For the first time, Sam looks uncomfortable. “Well, you know. Cas.”
“Cas?” Dean repeats dumbly but it doesn’t take long for him to put the pieces together. “I never should have told you about that,” he grumbles but he doesn’t really mean it. It’s taken a long time for him to come to terms with Castiel’s final words to him and he’s still not sure how he feels about it. He’s not even 100% sure what the angel meant, if it was a proclamation of brotherly devotion or... something else. When he confided in Sam, Sam made his opinion known and apparently that opinion hasn’t changed since. “You know I didn’t—”
“I know,” Sam interjects. “But what you and Cas had... How’d he describe it once? ‘A profound bond?’ I know you didn’t have any romantic feelings for him,” he clarifies quickly as Dean brow furrows. “But it wouldn’t have taken much, you know, for it to go further. But it never did, and if it never did with Cas then it never would, you know?”
Dean disagrees. ’Wouldn’t have taken much’ seems like a gross overstatement. It would have taken a hell of a lot. More than Dean could conceive. In fact, he couldn’t even imagine it. “Okay...”
“I didn’t mean...”
“You didn’t. It’s fine. I, uh, guess you’re right. About me, I mean. Guess guys aren’t on the menu for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
But it’s bullshit. Sam’s right about Cas, right about Dean and other men, but he’s missed something colossal, something Dean himself had missed for years. But now that he’s figured it out, he wishes he’d never even thought about it in the first place because it’s so, so much worse than discovering he’s bi in his forties.
*~*
Dean doesn’t have the hots for guys. He has the hots for his brother.
Despite Sam’s conviction, Dean does take a few more nights perusing gay porn sites for even a hint of inspiration. To his dismay, the pattern holds: he can only get off to guys who share more than a passing resemblance to his brother (though fake incest videos, despairingly, also make his dick twitch).
He’s known for a long time that his feelings for Sam went beyond that of normal brothers. All the soul-selling and world-ending didn’t exactly equate to sitcom family wholesomeness. But he’d still managed to convince himself, somehow, that it was still brotherly, that his feelings were familial in their core. They were... intense feelings, sure, but it was still about family. Two brothers against the world; all for one and all that.
This latest development has blown all that out of the water. Whatever he feels about Sam doesn’t fit in a neat little box called “family.” It’s more than that. Deeper. Rawer. Emotional boundaries had long since left in the dust and now he has to admit he’s been eyeing the physical ones too all along. He’s always been way too invested in his brother’s romantic dalliances, after all. Occasionally, he’s used the excuse of his brother making a terrible fucking decision to stick his nose in Sam’s business. But most of the time he just... wants to know. No, he needs to know. Is entitled to know. That he has an entire other half of the population to worry about now hasn’t changed things or made them worse; it’s just Sam in tenth grade all over again, Dean demanding to know all the details about the very first girl his little brother ever kissed because he somehow missed it and it pissed him the hell off. Infuriated him that Sam had grown without him knowing and that there’s a part of him Dean would never know.
He realizes now the line that kept him from keeping him from slipping into total insanity was knowing he never stood a chance with his brother. Not because they’re brothers (that would make too much sense) but because it simply wasn’t on the table because they were both guys. It just wasn’t an option.
Now, his brain (or more pertinently, his dick) thinks he’s got a shot. All because Sam looked at some stupid misfit elf across the bar and decided to go for it for god knows why. Because he felt safe. Because it was Christmas. Because it’s always been Sam’s job to drive Dean absolutely bonkers at every opportunity.
Dean decidedly doesn’t panic as he puts this together. He’s held it together for two decades without incident, he can keep going for... forever. The fact that he was missing some extremely critical information for those two decades (namely that Sam had a non-academic interest in cock) doesn’t matter. He’s got this under control.
Then he starts to notice things.
Well, that’s not quite right. He’s always been aware of the way Sam will occasionally mouth along to entire paragraphs as he reads to digest information; always attentively observed how Sam tucks his hair behind his ear when he’s embarrassed; always known that Sam is at his most unrestrained, gleeful, and sweet when he rides that thin line between tipsy and drunk. And all these observations in the past had always been accompanied by the thought, That’s my baby brother, possessive and admiring all at once, and he’d somehow thought that was normal; but now he knows better and it’s all mixed up, tainted. Now, Dean knows he’s taking in the shape of Sam’s lips, how his fingers play along the curve of his ear, the intoxicating warmth of a smile he and he alone is privileged to see. It’s sick. And he can’t stop looking.
It’s easy to blame Sam, at first. Sam, who all of a sudden decided that just dating women wasn’t good enough. Sam, who decided he just had to do this around the holidays so the air is full of disgusting good cheer while he does it. Sam, who can’t help but be handsome and kind and intelligent and the whole goddamn package—while also being Dean’s brother to boot.
The whole scenario is infuriating. Of course, he can’t actually blame Sam for this (as tempting as it is) and with Sam taking every opportunity to explore his expanded options, Dean can’t pretend he knows what he knows now either. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place... in more ways than one.
(He’s been jerking off. A lot. It’d be just embarrassing if it wasn’t absolutely mortifying instead.)
Sam knows something’s still up with him, of course. But thanks to Dean’s botched coming-out party, it seems he’s willing to blame all his newfound idiosyncrasies to Dean “adjusting.” He won’t stay oblivious for long, though, so Dean has to figure out something, and fast.
The season rolls on, Christmas edging closer like a ticking time bomb. Along with Sam, Dean’s taken to blaming the holiday as well. Every time he stops in a store the endlessly looping music makes his teeth grind; he’s half convinced Mariah Carey is secretly some country-wide death echo phenomenon that needs salt, lighter fluid, and a match taken to her as soon as possible. As his mood spirals, Sam’s only grows. For the first time in their lives, Dean catches his brother humming Christmas songs under his breath as he moves through the bunker. The Grinch and the Who have swapped and Dean doesn’t like it one bit.
The night before Christmas Eve, Sam knocks on Dean’s bedroom door. He’s been sulking for the last two hours, listening to Zeppelin on vinyl in a vain attempt to lift his spirits and seeing Sam in his doorway in a red sweater that hangs off his shoulders in an endearing Hallmark movie love interest fashion makes him want to punch reindeer.
“Hey, so I was going—”
“Jesus, are you trying to break a record or something before New Year’s?” Dean snaps. “Or just trying to get a head start on the next?”
Sam stares. Dean stubbornly stares back, refusing to back down. Finally, Sam exhales slowly.
“I was going to the grocery store for cranberry sauce,” Sam says evenly. “You mentioned they were out when you were stocking up for Christmas dinner and I was going to see if they restocked.”
Dean’s stomach sinks to his knees. “Oh.”
“Shouldn’t take long,” Sam continues, voice suspiciously even. “Did you need anything else?” Dean wordlessly shakes his head. “Okay then.”
Sam leaves. There are no reindeer that need an ass-kicking but Dean does manage to bruise his knuckles good on the walls of his room, which is almost as satisfying.
*~*
Dean tries to apologize when Sam gets back but Sam isn’t having it. He drops the can of cranberry sauce on the kitchen counter and promptly turns right around, sneering he needs to hurry if he has any chance of taking the record. What else can Dean do? He lets Sam go and spends the night with a bottle of Jack and the dog; and even then, after a while it’s just the bottle after hugging Miracle too hard for the fifth time sends the good boy fleeing to the opposite side of the bunker. He only considers burning the Christmas tree down once.
Christmas Eve is an awkward affair. They’d agreed early on to no presents, but now the empty space under the tree and the first edition copy of The Silmarillion hidden under his bed seem woefully inadequate for everything he wants to say. He wants to at least swallow his pride, suggest they drive out to find some cool Christmas lights or check out the gingerbread house contest they’re having two towns over, but the words get stuck in his throat.
They do manage to come together by the time the sun sets though, awkwardly running into each other in the kitchen.
Sam pulls out a cutting board. “Chili?” he says. Dean nods. “I’ll get started chopping onions, you brown the beef?”
Dean agrees. Eating chili on Christmas Eve isn’t exactly the most typical of traditions but it was the practice the handful of times they were at Bobby’s for the holiday over the years. It’s an olive branch if Dean’s ever seen one and he grabs it eagerly. Neither of them can quite manage the eye-watering burn Bobby did when he made his chili but it’s comforting and familiar all the same.
Before long they’re in front of the TV with two bowls of piping-hot chili watching Bruce Willis defend the occupants of Nakatomi Plaza with a machine gun. For the first time that month, Dean feels the stirrings of the Christmas spirit.
Sam’s spoon clinks across ceramic and he sets the empty bowl aside. Dean follows suit, letting loose a belly-rumbling belch as he does so. He shoots Sam a sheepish grin and Sam smiles back. Now’s as good time as any to give a real apology; hopefully, he won’t manage to bungle it too much.
Dean clears his throat and turns down the volume on Hans Gruber giving orders to his men. Sam immediately sits up a little straighter, eyes searching.
“So, uh, I guess I owe you an apology,” Dean says.
“You guess?” Sam asks.
Dean winces. “I definitely owe you an apology,” he clarifies. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that and I’m sorry. It was crappy of me and I shouldn’t have done it.”
Sam nods. “I accept your apology.” Dean exhales loudly, dragging hand down his face. “But...”
Dean tenses.
“Why did you freak out on me? I mean, you’ve been blowing hot and cold ever since I came out. I just want to be able to wrap my head around it, man.”
That’s fair. Of course that’s fair. But what the hell can Dean even say? Not the truth, that’s for sure. I got the hots for you and it’s confusing and terrifying so I lash out in an effort to cover up my feelings? Yeah, that would go over well.
The best lies have an element of truth, Dean reminds himself. “Well, shit. I was... I was scared,” he says quietly.
“You were... scared,” Sam says in astonishment. “Of what?”
“Man, I don’t even really know,” Dean admits. Curled up at their feet, Miracle lifts his head and gives a whine. Dean gives him a good scritch behind the ears. “It’s just... I know everything about you but now it turns out there’s this part of you I didn’t know anything about? Worse, it’s something I don’t even understand? And now you’re out exploring yourself for the first time and maybe you’ll find more of yourself out there without me. And who knows where that’ll lead, right?”
“Dean, I’m just going out, man,” Sam says softly. “Having fun. It’s not serious.”
Dean shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Who knows, right? I’m not there. I’ve got no clue.”
Sam studies him and Dean feels wanting under his gaze. But that he can live with. Really, all he wants is for Sam not to cut him off completely when he’s off becoming a bigger, better person. He’s not really lying here; that fear is real and it’s not even a new one. It’s the same fear that struck when Sam announced he was going to college over a decade and a half ago. Sam’s always wanting to grow, to discover more about the world and himself as a person, while Dean sinks his claws in trying to keep things the exact same. For a guy who’s defeated a god of time and the literal embodiment Death, even Dean can admit he sure doesn’t handle change well.
Sam exhales, then carefully says, “Dean, you know I’m not... going anywhere, right?”
“Sure,” Dean replies blandly. Sam frowns. “Look, I’m well aware that you’re not going to run off with Brokeback the Christmas Elf anytime soon, okay?”
“Or ever,” Sam interjects, and Dean can’t smother the audible scoff that escapes him. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” Dean agrees tiredly. “Look, we’re gonna miss the helicopter blowing up.”
Dean reaches for the remote. Fast as bullwhip, Sam grabs him by the wrist, quick enough that it startles Miracle to his feet and sends him trotting out of the room.
“You scared the dog,” Dean complains but Sam doesn’t let go. “Sam, come on—”
“You come on, Dean,” Sam counters fiercely. “I’m not leaving. Especially not for some... some guy.”
“I’m not worried that you—”
“But you are,” Sam insists. “You’ve always been afraid I’m going to take off at any moment. And I’ve made mistakes in the past, I’ll admit it. But I mean it, Dean. I’m not going anywhere this time. I just don’t understand what it is about me liking men that has got you so freaked out about this again.”
“It’s not about that,” Dean protests. “I told you.”
“But it set it off,” Sam says. “Something about me and guys—”
“Fine!” Dean snarls. “Fine! I don’t want you going out with guys, okay? I don’t like it. It drives me goddamn nuts. The idea of a man putting his hands on you pisses me right the hell off. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Sam lets him go.
Shit. Shitshitshitshit. Of course Dean managed to screw this up. Of course he did. He might not have given the game away but he sure as hell implied it. Now, he can only pray Sam’s too ticked off to put the pieces together.
When Sam finally speaks, it’s so soft Dean has to strain to hear him: “You can’t do this to me.”
Dean swallows. “I’m sorr—”
Sam lifts a hand. Dean falls silent. “I held this part of me back for years. Years, Dean. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was so sure you’d be pissed at me for keeping it secret in the first place that I kept holding it back and holding it back. Then I finally let it out and you say you’re okay with it but then you keep jumping down my throat only to apologize a day later and acting like...”
He trails off. Every instinct in Dean tells him to bolt. He tells his instinct to shove it. He owes Sam. At the very least he can hear him out.
“...like you’re jealous.”
Dean looks away, but slowly; so slowly that he catches the light of realization dawning in Sam’s eyes. Instinct is there for a reason. He should have run.
“No,” Dean says. It’s not a denial; not, No, it isn’t true, but, No, I don’t want to hear it. God, he doesn’t want to hear it.
“You are,” Sam says, stunned. “You... I can’t believe this.” Sam turns away, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t know... you have no idea...”
“Sammy,” Dean croaks. “It ain’t... It ain’t like that. I mean, it’s not...”
He’s stammering like a child. He needs to face this like a man. Dean takes a breath and steadies himself.
“It’s not that big a deal,” he says. It is a big deal. “Won’t be a problem.” It’s already a problem. “Nothing has to change. You won’t even notice.”
Everything’s changed.
Sam shakes his head, pulling his hand away from his mouth. Dean’s heart shrinks and writhes in his chest. “Since when? How long has this been going on?”
It’s a twisted parody of their conversation from weeks earlier. Dean envies the Sam from back then, nervous that his big brother might be a homophobe instead of a freak and a pervert.
“Since always, maybe,” Dean confesses, playing his part. “But I didn’t realize until...”
“Until I came out,” Sam concludes. “Jesus.”
“Sam, Sammy, I promise, I—”
“Shut up,” Sam says quickly. “Just...shut up. For a second. I need to think.”
Dean shuts up. This is it, he realizes. This is the moment Sam finally leaves. All those other times were just warm-ups. In desperately trying to preserve his relationship with his brother, he’s inadvertently destroyed it. Chuck couldn’t have written it better himself.
“All this time,” Sam whispers. “All this time.”
Then, to Dean’s horror, Sam starts laughing. It’s not a normal, joyful laugh—it’s overly loud, almost manic in its excessiveness. Sam sounds crazed, unhinged. Dean’s broken his brother.
“I’ll go,” Dean says. “Shit, Sam, calm down, please, I’ll just go—”
But Sam claps his hands over his mouth, shaking his head. His chest heaves from the effort of containing his outburst, eyes wide and tearing at the corners as he shakes. Twin streaks of tears slip down his cheeks and he wipes them away, sniffling and shaking his head.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “I never even let myself look at a man. I didn’t even dare when I was at Stanford, I was so terrified. I was so sure you’d figure me out. Thought you had, at times, but you never said anything. Over fifteen years, even after everything, you never knew, so I thought, ‘At least have this. Can’t have what I really want but I can have this.’” He lets loose with another twisted giggle. “And this whole time you were looking at me too.”
Looking at me too.
“What?” Dean gasps.
“Tell me the truth, Dean,” Sam begs. “Tell me this isn’t some weird reaction to me being bi, some twisted way to try to keep me here, because I couldn’t take that. I was finally coping with what I’ve wanted from you my whole life for the first time by coming out, and if you take that away with some messed up mind game, I swear—”
Dean shuts him up the only way he knows how: he grabs Sam’s face, wet with impassioned tears, and pulls him into a kiss.
It’s strange at first. He can feel Sam stubble against his own, and even sitting down he can tell he’s kissing someone taller than himself—kissing a man. His first kiss with a man. A man who is his brother.
Just as Dean’s readying to pull back and beg for forgiveness (again), Sam relaxes in his hands. Then he goes on the attack, grabbing at Dean’s shirt, dragging him closer. Dean groans and Sam takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into Dean’s mouth. The embrace turns messy and desperate as they paw at each other.
They miss the helicopter exploding.
*~*
“So,” Sam says.
“So,” Dean concurs.
Die Hard is long over. They made out through the end credits and into the streaming service auto-playing the first few minutes of the sequel. They only stopped when Sam’s hand (his big, masculine hand) wandered up his thigh and onto his prominent erection, sending Dean jumping about two feet into the air from the shock. Now, they’re sitting on opposite sides of the couch. Dean stole the only pillow, so Sam has his legs crossed, not hiding much of anything. The air is awkward but still sizzling with potential; Dean thinks he may catch on fire at any moment, but if it’s from frustration or embarrassment he couldn’t say.
“Guess I was wrong about you being bi,” Sam jokes shakily.
“No, you were right about that,” Dean says. “It’s, uh. It’s just you, I think.”
“Oh.” Sam sounds strangely relieved. “That’s good. Not that... I mean, you’re free to... you know.”
Dean slyly glances at him. “Guess I’m not the only jealous one, huh?”
“Guess not,” Sam agrees shyly. “But Dean... are we okay?”
Sam sounds like Dean could destroy his world with a single word. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once. “Shit, Sammy, I dunno. I hope so.” Dean risks shifting closer. “So, uh... all your life, huh?”
“Shaddup,” Sam grumbles. “At least I knew. You’re way worse. It took you having a big gay freakout to figure it out.”
“I did not have a big gay freak out,” Dean huffs. “I was just concerned about my little brother’s after hours activities, that’s all.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I bet.” He inches closer to Dean, tips of his fingers teasing Dean’s hand. “I guess you don’t have to worry about that anymore though, huh?” he asks lowly.
Dean swallows. “Uh, I guess not. If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
Dean’s cheeks flame, heart kicking back up into double time. He’s going to send himself into cardiac arrest. Sam’s palm lands on his knee and he dies a little.
“You know, some people have this tradition,” Sam begins, tracing the seam of his jeans. “On Christmas Eve everyone picks out one gift to open early.”
Sam’s eyes are big and hopeful. Even as his body threatens to combust, Dean can’t help but laugh. “That’s what you’re going with? Dude, you gotta work on your material.”
Sam grins. “Learned from the worst,” he says. “Besides, I’m out of practice. That’s the great thing about guys. You don’t need pickup lines. You just say, ‘Hey, wanna fuck?’ and that usually does the trick.”
Dean swallows hard. “That what you want, Sammy? You wanna fuck?”
Sam gets as pink as Dean but his eyes grow dark. “Fuck... yeah. Yeah, that’s what I want. Jesus, I want that so bad.”
This is real. This is real and it’s really happening. Dean tries not to think about it too hard, letting years of amorous dealings lead the way instead.
Dean rests his hand atop Sam’s, urging it higher up his thigh. “Then maybe we should start a new Christmas tradition?” he suggests, hoping his lazy smile convinces.
Sam laughs but his flush deepens, his thumb pressing against the crease where Dean’s leg meets his hips, dangerous close to cock. “My room or...?”
Oh, god, they really are doing this. “Gotta feed the dog,” Dean blurts. Judging by the look on Sam’s face, he may as well have announced that he has to wash his hair or has a headache. “And put away the leftovers. And—”
Sam nods once and removes his hand. “Go take care of Miracle,” he says gently. Humiliation curls in Dean’s chest. “I got the leftover chili.” He gets up, grabbing their empty bowls before heading toward the door.
“Sam?” Dean calls desperately before he can get too far. Sam stops, looking at him patiently and without expectation. His brother’s so damn sweet it’s infuriating. “My room, after?” he asks hesitantly. “Your mattress... it’s like a damn rock, man.”
The smile Sam shoots him is blinding. “Your room,” he confirms, then disappears down the hallway.
As soon as Sam disappears, Dean lets out all the air in his chest in one long whoosh, dropping his head into his hands.
“Get it together, Winchester,” he orders himself. “It’s just your brother. Your little brother... who you’re going to have sex with. And it’s going to be awesome.”
Dean groans. This is going to be a disaster.
*~*
Dean takes his time with Miracle, not only filling his food and water bowl, but also taking him outside so he can do his business—the last thing he wants is to be interrupted by the dog. He takes the time to calm himself down, though the nagging anxiety remains. He breathes through the nerves and takes care of Miracle.
Thankfully, Sam’s not waiting for him in his bedroom when he’s done. He casts his eyes over the room, fretting over the state of it (clothes on the floor, bed unmade, scattered empty bottles) before remembering he’s invited his brother to his room, not some classy date; Sam’s seen everything already and doesn’t care as long as nothing’s growing.
He cleans up anyway.
Dean’s busy debating whether he should be standing up or sitting down when Sam arrives. Sam knocks on the door even though it’s wide open. “Uh, can I come in?”
“I invited you, dude,” Dean points out and Sam steps inside. It’s awkward as all hell, the two of them standing around like middle schoolers not sure if “study” actually meant “making out” or not.
It’s Sam who ultimately has to break the tension, stepping forward and announcing, “I’m going to kiss you now,” like they’re rehearsing for a play; Dean barely has a moment to stammer his acceptance before Sam cups his face and kisses him. It’s softer this time, less frantic than earlier, and Dean melts, just a little bit. His brother’s good at this, and the pride mixed with jealousy that wells up within him is confusing.
Dean doesn’t realize they’re backing up until his knees hit the back of the bed and he falls, pulling Sam down on top of him. They both laugh way too hard and just like that, Dean anxiety evaporates. He pulls Sam into another kiss, arm wrapped around his broad shoulders and hand stroking at his chest—then under his shirt, against bare skin. Sam keeps himself propped up on his elbows, shuddering as Dean teases at his waistband. The third time Dean’s fingertips snap the very edge of his boxers, Sam presses their mouths together bruising-hard and sits up on his knees, crossing his arms to take off his shirt.
Dean stops him with a touch. “Thought I was supposed to do the unwrapping,” he says; it’s meant to be a corny line but comes out husky and wanting. Sam lets his arms fall; Dean’s entranced by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he waits for Dean to take what is offered.
They undress each other slowly. Dean always knew his brother was an attractive man but now he can look and appreciate it, murmuring, “Goddamn,” under his breath as he caresses miles of skin that’s his alone to touch. Sam appears similarly stunned, drinking him with greedy eyes as he peels Dean out of his clothes. Dean’s been on the receiving end of those kinds of looks before, of course, but never by someone like Sam—not just a man, but someone who’s his everything. It’s overwhelming, and it’s only the fact that Sam looks equally lost that keeps him moored. He needs, wants, to stay present in this moment, for Sammy.
“We’ll only go as far as you want,” Sam promises, cradling his face.
“I know I’ve never batted for this team but I’m not a virgin,” Dean replies scornfully; Sam snorts. “Sorry if I’m not as experienced as some people...”
Sam’s expression loses its mirth. “I’m not as experienced as you think,” he says solemnly.
“Yeah?” Dean says, heart jumping at the admission.
“Yeah. Just hands...” Sam traces nonsense patterns along Dean’s torso. “And mouths,” he murmurs, mouth pressed against Dean’s jawline. “And sometimes nothing at all.”
“What do you mean?”
Sam smiles ruefully. “Yesterday when I ran off I was pretty pissed,” he says. “But I didn’t end up meeting up with anyone. I left just to screw with you.”
“Knew it,” Dean mutters even though he didn’t know it all; Sam’s smirk tells him all he needs to know about his believability.
“Point is, I was... working up to it.”
“So you haven’t...” Sam shakes his head and Dean’s breath hitches. “Well, Merry Christmas to me, then,” he breathes. “Uh, so, if you haven’t... gone all the way—”
“If you can’t talk about it—” Sam sing-songs; Dean flicks his ear in retaliation.
“Are you a pitcher or catcher?”
“You know, a lot of gay men only have penetrative sex rarely, sometimes not at all,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “It’s not the be-all end-all of sex, you know.”
“Oh, come on—”
“Both,” Sam says. “I think. But for tonight—” He leans over, pecking Dean on the nose. “—I’ll catch. Since I know you’re too chicken.”
Dean pouts but doesn’t protest—taking it up the ass is a bit much for his first gay experience with his brother.
Sam rolls off him and digs around in the drawer of his nightstand. A condom hits Dean in the middle of his chest. “How do you know it’ll fi—”
“It’ll fit,” Sam says vaguely, opening another drawer. “I know what size you use.”
Dean casts a hard look at his brother. “You know my condom size?” he asks incredulously.
Sam turns around, a small, innocuous bottle in hand. “I’ve thought about this a lot,” he says simply. “For a long time.”
Any desire to tease Sam dies. Sam smiles, awkward and endearing, then nudges him aside, taking his place sprawled over the mattress.
Dean opens the condom packaging clumsily, distracted by Sam spreading his legs wide, bending one leg and rubbing a finger along his...
He drops the condom. Dean snatches it back up quickly, but not so quick that Sam doesn’t notice. Sam doesn’t laugh though, biting his lip and looking at him under hooded eyes.
“Would you, uh, watch me? Please?”
Dean swallows. “I—yeah. Yeah, Sammy. I’ll watch ya.”
Sam gives him a shaky smile then resumes pressing his middle finger against his hole. Dean watches him as requested, jacking himself as he does. He hisses and squeezes himself when Sam goes up to two fingers, then three. He’s not sure he could get any harder when he finally manages to roll the condom over his cock. Sam keeps his eyes on Dean the whole time, mouth parted as he moves his fingers in and out, fingers loosely circling his dick.
“That feel good?” Dean asks breathlessly. It’s a genuine question but Sam moans like he said something dirty, grip tightening around his cock.
“Y-yeah,” Sam stammers. “It’s good. Fuck, Dean, come on. Get in me.”
No need to tell him twice. He lubes up his length as fast as he’s able without spilling the stuff all over the sheets. Then he’s between Sam’s legs, gently guiding them over his shoulders. “Alright?” he murmurs, drawing circles into Sam’s calf.
Sam shivers and nods, then tilts his hips up. “Hurry up,” he says. “I want you.”
The words hit Dean like a punch to the gut. Sam wants him; of all people, when he could have anyone else in the world. But he’s here with Dean.
“Yeah. Shit, yeah, okay,” Dean says; he’s usually smoother in bed, cooler, but it’s Sammy and he doesn’t want to pretend. He guides himself into Sam’s wet hole and is nearly bowled over by the pressure, the clenching heat. Sam groans as he pushes, gasping as the head breaches him. They’re both shaking before Dean’s even halfway inside.
“God, you’re big,” Sam gasps and Dean preens to hear it. “I wasn’t expecting... Christ.”
“Too much?” Dean manages, though he might actually cry if he has to pull out now. Sam’s tight around him, hole fluttering and enticing him deeper, begging for him to thrust.
“No, no, no, no,” Sam chants. “Keep going, keep going, don’t stop.”
Dean doesn’t stop. Soon their hips are snugly pressed together and Dean doesn’t understand why it took him so damn long to figure out he wanted this— closer physically and emotionally to anyone than he’s ever been before, and all because it’s with Sam. He’s finally got Sam where he’s always wanted and needed him, and it’s the greatest, most mind-blowing feeling in the world.
He can’t hold back any more. “Sam,” he entreats, “Sammy, please, let me move, let me—”
“Do it, do it, fuck me,” Sam commands. He barely has time to finish his sentence before Sam starts thrusting, grabbing hold of Sam’s hips to pull him down on his dick. His back is going to bitch tomorrow but right now he can’t be bothered to give a damn, especially with the way Sam cries out and lifts up to meet him. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—”
Dean agrees but he’s far too gone for words. He gives it his all, refusing to slow even as fatigue tugs at his muscles; how can he stop now, with Sam squirming and whimpering on his cock, demanding More, more, more, please, Dean, more, and looking so goddamn pretty while doing it? So he ignores his body’s bitching and pounds his little brother’s hole like he asks.
He pauses for just a moment to readjust when his knees slip on the sheets and Sam lets out a sharp cry. “There, fuck, right there,” he wails, clawing at Dean’s arms. So Dean bends his brother in half, caging him in with his arms and capturing every cry with his mouth. “Not gonna last,” Sam warns, working a hand between them; Dean can feel his knuckles against his stomach as Sam furiously jerks himself off.
Dean knows the feeling. If he comes before his brother he’ll never forgive himself, so he churns in deep and hard, grunting from the exertion as he jackhammers down and in, in, in. Then Sam stiffens and bucks in his arms and, fuck, he hopes that’s Sam coming because Sam’s body clamps down hard around him and Dean’s shooting his load, balls slapping against Sam’s ass as he empties himself, the orgasm almost painful from the intensity.
He comes down slow, breathing hard against Sam’s neck. Even though Sam must be uncomfortable with Dean splayed on top of him he says nothing, silently stroking Dean from the nape of his neck to the center of his back as he twitches through the aftershocks. Every so often, Sam’s ass flexes and Dean, oversensitive, whimpers in response; he can’t tell if Sam’s doing it on purpose or not.
Eventually Dean pushes himself upright. He grips himself at the base of his cock and pulls out, knee-walking backwards. Sam’s hole clenches around nothing and Dean knows the sight of his brother’s asshole, slightly gaping, will stay with him for the rest of his life. The condom is carefully removed, tied off, and dropped in the trash can. Sam wriggles to make room and Dean collapses next to him, them staring at one another.
It’s quiet for a long time. Sam’s eyes, heart-breakingly soft, make Dean ache; this time; he’ll be the one to make the first move. Dean scoots just a hair closer so their noses bump together, then kisses him. Sam sighs into the embrace, tracing his cheekbone. Then his gaze flicks past Dean’s shoulder, then back to Dean. He smiles.
“What?” Dean asks.
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
Dean rolls over and, sure enough, the clock on the shelf reads 12:02. “Well, damn. Look at that.” He’d completely forgotten the date.
“Good Christmas?” Sam asks.
“So far,” Dean confirms. “But we still got a whole day left. Could get even better.”
Sam smirks. “Count on it. Though, uh, maybe not a repeat of this so soon? Little sore.”
“Just a little?” Dean mocks. “What happened to, ‘Oh, Dean, you’re soooo big—’”
Sam shoves him and it’s almost enough to send him off the edge of the bed. “Nuh-uh, no, you can’t make fun of anything said in bed, that’s the rule. Especially when I was getting my ass-cherry popped, that’s just unfair.”
Dean’s breathing stutters for a moment. “Yeah,” he murmurs, squeezing Sam’s thigh. “Guess special considerations should be made.”
Sam must see something in his gaze because he guides Dean’s hand back over the swell of his ass. “They should,” he agrees heatedly. “You know, there’s other stuff I haven’t tried either.”
“Then I’ll keep those considerations in mind for next time,” Dean says, massaging the mound of flesh in his hand. He bumps their foreheads together. “But after that, all bets are off.”
“Whatever,” Sam says. “I was so good your brain turned to mush. I could probably get you to do anything.”
“Probably,” Dean agrees. “Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“Uh, I.” Dean swallows. He’s said it a thousand times, a million times in his head, but now the words are stuck in his throat. “You know,” he settles on instead, though the words are woefully inadequate.
“I know,” Sam says, mouth twitching in the corners. “Me too.”
They kiss until they’re yawning into each other’s mouths. The bed can barely fit them side by side but there’s no way Dean’s letting Sam out of his sight now. Sam falls asleep first, though he pulls Dean into his arms, head tucked under his chin, before he nods off. Dean allows it, just this once.
“Thank you,” Dean whispers once he’s sure Sam’s asleep. That’s what you say when you’ve been given a gift, right?
It is Christmas, after all.