Title: Can't Rain All The Time
Author: 427-67Impala
Rating: M
Warnings: Wincest (some underage - Sam is 14), graphic sexual content, language, violence, torture, plus a little hurt!Sam and a lot of hurt!Dean. The usual. ;)
Word count: 41k in total
Setting: Season 3, after Sin City

Summary: The clock is ticking on Dean's deal, and he doesn't react well when Sam wants to revisit their secret teenage romance. Following the trail of a missing witch and her elusive patron demon gets them stranded together in an abandoned house in the Maryland wilderness, where they've got no choice but to sort out their drama - except that house isn't so abandoned, and that demon isn't staying hidden anymore.

A/N: Written for the 2013 SPN/J2 Big Bang on LiveJournal, and being posted here (rapidly, I promise) chapter-by-chapter as I revise and refine some stuff ;)
Accompanying art and fanmix - which can be found on my LJ (meganlouise86) - was done by the lovely and talented jennybliss.

As we know, Sam and Dean belong to Kripke & co. - I'm just borrowing their toys...

Chapter 1

Boardman, Ohio

Wednesday night isn't exactly party night in Ohio. It was only 8pm but, besides Sam, there were only a handful of people in the bar. When Dean finally turned up, the number still wouldn't even make it into double figures.

The younger Winchester sat in a corner booth, slightly away from the other patrons, a map of the northeast US and some associated weather reports in front of him, some newspaper articles open on the laptop by his left arm, and a half-empty pint glass by his right. His back was to the wall and he had as good a view of the entrances and exits as he could get. When he sat down in his spot a couple of hours earlier, he hadn't even given it a conscious thought - after a lifetime of having it drilled into him, stuff like that was second nature.

Sam had wrinkled his nose when Dean said he'd meet him at Bridie's, expecting another beer-stained, cigarette-singed, dusty old dive, but he had to admit, Dean had chosen well this time.

The place had a vaguely 'Irish pub' kind of feel - warm lighting showed off the rich walnut-toned bar and casually-arranged tables, with comfortable-looking matching bar stools and chairs upholstered in burgundy leather. A couple of well-used pool tables sat to one side of the room, the glass shelves of spirits behind the bar shone, and he could even see out of the windows. Not that there was much to look at on the random city street outside, but still.

Sam tapped his pen thoughtfully on the side of his glass, frowning down at the map. He finally had a nice, quiet place to work with a good selection of rock and pop songs filtering through the wall-mounted speakers, but he'd hardly gotten any work done all night. He just couldn't concentrate. He was too busy thinking about Dean, off wrapping up another one of his last-year-on-Earth nights with yet another random girl from his past.

Sam sighed and took another long pull of his half-finished beer. His problem wasn't that they were racking up massive miles traipsing all over the countryside, or that he found himself doing all the research while Dean was off enjoying himself, or even that smug, satisfied smile he got on his face for days afterwards.

Honestly, he could understand this 'greatest hits tour' thing his brother had going. That was fine. God knows the guy deserved a little fun. Sam's problem was that he wasn't on his big brother's bucket list.

Sam swirled the remaining beer absently in the bottom of his glass, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Maybe they'd had something when they were teenagers. Maybe even something a little bit special.

But that was years ago, Sam reminded himself. As if that was going to make it hurt less.

Sam's pity party was interrupted by the rumble of a familiar engine outside, and he turned just in time to see the big, black outline of the Impala as it cruised past. Apparently, Dean was done with whats-her-name. He had said her name at some point, Sam was sure, but he had other things on his mind. Well, one thing.

He'd been thinking about it ever since Dean had come to get him from Stanford, but he just couldn't seem to work up the courage to say he wanted to try again. And if the thought had crossed Dean's mind, he sure as hell wasn't letting on.

But now there was a ticking clock looming. Sam was running out of time, and suddenly it was all he could think about. He was even dreaming about it lately - revisiting some of the nights they'd spent together, in all their sweaty, sticky Technicolor glory. Rather than making him feel better, though, they only served to remind him what he was missing.

Dean sauntered in through the front door a couple of minutes later, smiling that wide, lazy, satisfied smile he'd been sporting a lot lately, and went straight over to the bar. Sam sighed, trying not to look as forlorn as he felt, watching the way his big brother's jacket stretched across his broad shoulders as he leaned over to rest his elbows on the bar, pulling up slightly to reveal a little more of that perfect, round backside…

Sam forced himself to look away. It wasn't like he didn't know he was being ridiculous - the last time he'd been with Dean was long before he even imagined going away to Stanford, but it was still as fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday.

But it didn't happen yesterday, Sam sighed inwardly. Which was the whole problem.

"Hey there, Sammy." Dean slid smiling into the opposite side of the booth. He set one glass down by Sam's empty one, and took a long pull from the other. He had that tell-tale grin and that tousled hair and that slightly-over-caffeinated spring in his step, and absolutely no clue what his baby brother was really thinking.

"In a hurry to get started?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow and trying to look indifferent.

"I'm kinda thirsty." Dean winked. He had to take a second to clear a spot on the table top before he could put his glass down. "So, what do we got?" he asked, brighter than a condemned man had any right to be.

"Ugh." Sam groaned and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "I don't know, man. A few weird deaths in southern PA. Maybe some demonic omens in Maryland." That wasn't just a result of tonight's half-hearted research session, either. It was just genuinely - annoyingly - quiet out there.

Typical. Just when I need a distraction, all the monsters take a frigging holiday.

"'Maybe?'" Dean quirked an eyebrow. 'You need a break, little brother." He pushed Sam's beer closer to him, but the younger Winchester only sighed unenthusiastically. Alcohol did tend to be good for dulling the pain, but he really didn't feel like putting on his "everything's fine" mask tonight. He just wasn't in the mood.

"Actually, scratch that; you need to get lucky," Dean told him, eyes sparkling.

"Dean..." Sam grumbled. His lack of enthusiasm was in danger of turning into full-blown apathy.

"I'm serious, Sam, " Dean told him. "You've gotta let off some steam."

"Why don't you let me worry about my own steam, Dean?" Sam bit back, more harshly than was necessary. He winced as he heard the words coming out of his mouth.

He hadn't intended to snap like that, but he was just so tired and frustrated, and sick of pretending. It was exhausting. Knowing the love of his life was going from one random girl to the next, who were doubtless falling all over themselves to jump into bed just because he'd asked them, spending hours wrapped around that lean, strong body and not appreciating how lucky they were-

Get it together, Sam. He gave himself a mental headslap, consciously putting those thoughts out of his mind. It's not Dean's fault he's oblivious.

"Okay, okay." Dean held his hands up, palms out, in a placating gesture. He could understand if Sam was touchy - he'd been hiding it well, but Dean knew he had to be hurting. The older Winchester had absolutely no intention of opening that can of worms and having a full-on chick-flick moment about it, but he was aware. It didn't even occur to him that his demon deal might not be the main cause of Sam's melancholy.

"Sorry, man," Sam sighed, conceding defeat and picking up his beer. He wanted Dean so much it hurt, but being near him made things... well, not better. Less terrible, maybe.

"Aw, it's okay." Dean grinned and reached out to ruffle Sam's hair, just like he knew his little brother hated. Sam grunted and slapped his hand away, bringing his glass to his lips to hide the involuntary little smile.

"Look, for once there's no monster in this town eating people's faces. We're gonna carpe diem or whatever and have a night off, okay?" Dean gathered up the maps and papers and stowed them under the closed laptop. "It's time for a little R&R, dude."

"That would be carpe noctem, technically," Sam pointed out, smiling. Dean rolled his eyes, but smiled back.

The Winchester boys spent the next few hours drinking, talking, and laughing - just relaxing and having a good time, for once. Between all their recent family drama and epic life-and-death battles, Sam had almost forgotten how nice it was to just sit down and have a few beers with his big brother.

It was nearly midnight when the bartender finally called last drinks, and by then it was becoming obvious to Dean that Sam had enjoyed the night a little too much. He wasn't singing or anything - yet - but he'd definitely had one pint too many when Dean shepherded him out the front door and down the street towards the little carpark where the Impala waited.

"That was fun," Sam grinned, only slurring a little. He was finding it a little tricky to walk in a straight line, and Dean got in between him and the street and gave him a gentle elbow away from the curb when he strayed too close.

"It was," Dean agreed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as they ambled down the deserted sidewalk. It was a cool, clear summer night with no clouds to cover up the stars, but they were the only ones out walking. "You really took a shine to that microbrew they had on tap, huh?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, 'lil bit."

"Well, I did say you needed to blow off some steam," Dean chuckled too. Sam drifted into him again, and he gave his baby brother another good-natured little shove.

"And you were right," Sam said, still grinning. He was pleasantly surprised to realise that he actually felt pretty good. The alcohol had lifted the weight off his shoulders, however temporarily, and he felt like he could breathe for the first time in weeks. Just the lack of tension was an almost euphoric feeling in itself.

"It was good, having a night off. We need to relax more often, Sammy," Dean declared, stopping at a side street to let a car pass by. It was then that Sam leaned in and kissed him, right on those soft, silky lips.

He heard his big brother make a surprised little noise, and after a couple of shocked seconds Dean shoved him away, hard - really hard. Sam took a stumbling step back and grunted as he slammed into the brick wall of the building behind him, sharp pain radiating out from the back of his shoulder.

"What the hell was that?!" Dean demanded, glaring at Sam as he wiped the back of his shaking hand across his lips. His heart was beating so hard against his chest he thought it was going to punch through.

Sam blinked, still leaning against the cold brick wall, surprised and confused at the raw anger in Dean's voice. He reached across to his shoulder with his right hand, wincing as he touched the sore spot.

"I'm sorry, Dean - but it's not like it's the first time." Sam hadn't intended to kiss him - it just sort of happened - but even so, he wouldn't ever have expected this reaction.

"We've grown up since then, Sam!" Dean shot back, his voice still hard, and he saw Sam actually flinch as the words stung him. He looked crestfallen, rubbing his shoulder as he searched Dean's face for a clue to what was going on in his head. Trying to understand why his brother was literally pushing him away.

There was a little pang of guilt in Dean's chest as his heart rate started to drop, and he took a long, deep breath. "I don't want to go back there," he went on, trying to soften his words but failing miserably.

Sam's eyes filled with tears and he turned his back, holding his left arm close to his body, and started wordlessly back the way they'd come.

"Oh, come on Sam!" Dean called after him, but got no response. "You can't walk all the way back to the motel!"

He took a couple of tentative steps after his baby brother, but that was all. Sam could hear him, he knew, but the younger Winchester didn't even break stride - he evidently wanted to be alone. Dean saw him lift one hand to his face and wipe it roughly across his eyes, and that little pang of guilt stung him again as he turned and started for the carpark.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Hanover, Pennsylvania

"So talk to me about these weird deaths," Dean said, as he pulled on his FBI suit jacket. It was the longest sentence either of them had said since they left Boardman the day before.

It had been a very long, very quiet drive from Ohio to southern Pennsylvania. They'd got into Hanover after dark, too late to do any serious digging into the mysterious deaths that had brought them to town, so they'd spent a similarly tense, quiet night in their motel room, which had then turned into this tense, quiet morning.

Sam was over by the mirrored wardrobe door, and it took him a second to answer. "Three people dead in a week," he replied, his tone neutral as he did up his tie. He didn't look over at Dean. "Two men and a woman. All relatively young and healthy, until they all dropped dead for no apparent reason."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, that's weird. Any connection between them?"

"The two guys worked at the same office in town, but I don't know about the woman yet." Sam's voice was so calm and impassive that he might have been talking about the weather, not three unexplained deaths. As per usual, he was covering the pain with detached professionalism while Dean's coping mechanism of choice was to blatantly ignore all the emotion piling up in the space between them.

"Okay," Dean said, with more enthusiasm than he felt. "We'll divide and conquer - I'll drop you at the ME's and go check out the guys' office. Cool?"

Sam shrugged noncommittally. "Whatever you think."

Dean glanced over at him, but Sam was looking intently at the knot in his tie, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

It was a ten minute drive to the Hanover coroner's office, but neither of them said another word. Even when Dean stopped the Impala at the main entrance, the only sound was the squeaking of the door hinges as Sam got out.

He could feel Dean's eyes on him as he went up the steps of the nondescript, standard-Government-issue brick building, but he kept his eyes forward until he pushed open the heavy glass doors. He heard the Impala's engine growl and threw a quick glance over his shoulder just in time to see Dean peal away, re-joining the relatively light late-morning traffic a bit more aggressively than was necessary.

Sam winced as his left shoulder twinged, and let the door fall closed behind him. He knew this silent treatment was making his brother uncomfortable, but he just didn't have it in him to pretend everything was okay.

He took a deep, calming breath before he strode up to the reception desk, but the receptionist barely glanced at his fake FBI ID before she handed him a sign-in book and a visitor's badge and directed him to the bank of elevators in the back of the lobby. That done, she immediately turned her attention back to her computer, and Sam heard the keys clicking rapidly as she continued with her typing.

Having signed in under the alias displayed on his ID, Sam clipped the laminated, business-card-sized badge to his lapel and headed for the lifts. The building itself was J. Edgar Hoover-era, but the interior had apparently been updated relatively recently - the floor was a shining expanse of warm sandy-coloured tiles, and the walls were clad in rich coffee-coloured wood panelling that absorbed the echoes of his footsteps. Even the sandstone-coloured chairs and low, walnut side tables looked new.

The morgue itself was in the basement of the building, only a couple of floors below the lobby, and the elevator doors opened on a corridor that looked - and smelled - like it belonged in a hospital. There was a small arrow-shaped sign on the wall opposite the elevator that proclaimed the autopsy room to be down the hall to the left, so Sam followed it.

This floor wasn't as well-lit as the lobby, but it wasn't dim either - there were no windows, obviously, but there were fluorescent lights set into the ceiling every eight or ten feet. The walls were painted a light blue, with wide wooden rails running along at waist height, punctuated by the occasional door. They were painted a darker blue with black room numbers emblazoned in the middle at eye level, and those narrow, A4-sized windows set slightly off to the left.

All in all, it was the nicest morgue he'd been to in a while. Despite all his drama, the thought that he was at a point where it was normal to critique the interior decor of morgues made Sam smile.

He was only walking for about 20 seconds before he came across a set of double doors, with a long glass window in the wall next to them. The Venetian blind was half-closed, but Sam could see the first in a row of stainless steel tables, and the name plate on the doors read 'Autopsy'.

He straightened his jacket and knocked sharply on the door before he pushed it open and stepped in. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of pine disinfectant, which didn't quite cover the underlying odour of decomposing flesh, and he reflexively wrinkled his nose as he looked around.

The space was bigger than a lot of autopsy rooms he'd seen. It ran another fifteen metres along the side of the corridor, at least, and there was a row of four stainless steel tables down the middle. The walls were bright white tiles three-quarters of the way to the ceiling, with a strip of light blue painted drywall above that, and the floor was a blue-grey linoleum that managed to compliment the paint and all the stainless steel at the same time.

"Can I help you?"

Sam turned to his right to find a bespectacled, middle-aged man standing in the doorway to a dim little office - evidently, this was the coroner. He was about 5'10", wearing an off-white lab coat over olive green scrubs and white cross trainers, and he didn't look thrilled at this intrusion of a living soul into his morgue.

"Agent Hammett, FBI," Sam told him, briefly flipping open his ID before tucking it back into his jacket.

"You're here about the three DBs from that ad agency?" the coroner asked, before Sam could get another word out.

"Uh - yeah," Sam replied, blinking. He hadn't known they were all from the same agency, but still. "How did you know?"

The coroner grunted and went over to the wall opposite the entrance, where a grid of three-foot-square stainless steel doors were set into the wall, three high and five wide. "Three people, all dead for no apparent reason? Figured it was just a matter of time before PD called you lot in," he sniffed, checking the small white labels on a couple of doors before he opened three in the bottom row.

"They all came in over four days last week," the coroner continued, businesslike, pulling three trays out of the open fridges as Sam came over to join him. "The woman was first, then male victim number one the following day, and the second male a couple of days after that." He pointed out each body as he spoke.

Sam leaned in for a closer look, and was immediately struck by the absence of things to look at. The victims were all relatively young, barely into their thirties, and looked to be in good physical shape - apart from the fact they were dead.

"What killed them?" he asked. He was used to seeing an obvious cause of death, but here he there was nothing. No lacerations, teeth marks or trauma of any kind on the pale, dead flesh - not even a hangnail.

The coroner didn't answer right away, and when Sam looked up his mouth was set in a hard line as he stared down the corpse of the young woman. It was obvious he didn't have an answer for that.

"Doc?" Sam pressed, and the coroner threw him an annoyed glance.

"Well, Agent, apart from the fact they're dead, all three victims were in perfect health: no heart attacks, no strokes - no pathology of any kind," he said, his tone clipped. He evidently wasn't used to not saying 'I don't know', and didn't enjoy it one little bit.

Sam asked a few more routine questions, but it was painfully obvious that medical science wasn't going to help them solve this one, so he was happy to get out of the morgue and leave the coroner to it. The guy seemed happier down there by himself, anyway.

While he made his way back up to the land of the living, Sam mulled over what could have killed three people and left no physical trace. Witchcraft was the frontrunner, he figured, but beyond that he was no more enlightened than the coroner.

He stifled a yawn as he walked out to stand on the steps of the building. He checked his phone, but there was no news from Dean - it hadn't taken long to get that non-information out of the coroner, though, and he was probably still checking out the victims' office.

Sam sighed and looked around him. It was a mild, sunny summer day, but he didn't particularly feel like killing time on the steps of the coroner's office. That wasn't very FBI-like, anyway. So he sent Dean a text to let him know he'd come up empty, and flagged down a passing cab for a ride back to the motel.

It was nice to have the place to himself for a while, actually. He shrugged out of his jacket and kicked off his shoes, then sat on the couch and flicked on the TV. There wasn't much on, though, and it didn't take long for his eyelids to start getting heavy.

Between John's death, Dean's deal and the demonic fallout from their monumental fuck-up at the Devil's Gate in Wyoming, he had plenty to keep him up at night. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep…

Sam grabbed a spare pillow off the floor, still sitting where Dean had tossed it last night, and settled down for a nap.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Portland, Maine
February 1998

It was a cold, windy night outside, and the Winchester boys were languishing in yet another random, unremarkable, two-decades-out-of-style motel room. They were alone, as usual - John wasn't going to be back till the following day, weather permitting. He was still two states away wrapping up the loose ends on a poltergeist.

The motel wasn't far from the water, and Mother Nature was getting a head start on the winter storm that was supposed to be coming in tomorrow. The wind was bone-chilling cold and already blowing at a steady 50mph, so they were stuck inside with the ancient heater cranked as high as it would go.

Despite the fact he was only just eighteen, Dean had managed to lay his hands on a bottle of Jack Daniel's and was considerately sharing it with his baby brother, who wasn't even fifteen. They'd been through about a third of the bottle and were sprawled out on the couch with the TV on, but the weather interfered with the signal so much the random 80s action movie was almost more snow than film.

"You don't date, Sammy," Dean said suddenly, when the hero and his damsel in distress disappeared into a blizzard of static again.

"When've I got time for that?" Sam sniffed. Between school and hunting and training and sleep, there was precious little time for anything. "Plus, we only move on anyway." He heaved a sigh and grabbed the bottle for another swig.

"True," Dean said thoughtfully, giving a conciliatory nod. "So, don't date. Take it one night at a time."

Sam snorted. "What, like you do?"

"I'm a shining example of all the fun that can be had with no strings attached."

"I've seen you crawl back in the morning after, and 'shining' is not the word I'd use," Sam told him drily, looking back to the TV as Dean chuckled. He couldn't argue with that. It took a few hours' sleep, a shower and a handful of aspirin to even approach 'normal'.

There was a pause as a moment of clear picture came through the static, just long enough to watch a building blow up, but then the movie disappeared into snow again. "What do you tell them you do?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.

"There's not usually that much talking," Dean said pointedly, taking the bottle back.

Sam shrugged, eyes still on the snowy screen. "I like to talk."

"God, don't I know it," Dean teased.

Sam glanced over, but resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at his big brother. "Girls like to talk, too," he pointed out.

"Then give them something else to do with their mouth, Sammy!"

Now it was Sam's turn to chuckle and Dean looked over at him with a little smile on his lips. "It is girls, right…?" he asked after a short pause, eyebrows raised suggestively.

Sam frowned for a second, confused, and then his eyes suddenly widened as realisation dawned on him. "Oh God - yes, Dean!" He grabbed the bottle, trying not to blush. That was even true, mostly, but Sam didn't know what to worry about first - the fact that it actually wasn't just girls, or that his social life was so abysmal that his brother thought he might be gay.

"Cause, you know, I figured that might explain why you never seem to get friendly with them," Dean went on. "It'd be okay, you know - if it wasn't girls," he added, and took another drink. He was trying to keep his voice light, but he was only half-joking. Sufficiently uninhibited by the bourbon, he was actually seriously trying to ask the question.

Sam said nothing, just watching as Dean ran his tongue across those pouty, bee-stung lips to catch a stray drop of bourbon. "Have you ever thought about it?" he asked, before he knew he was speaking.

"What, another guy?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," Sam replied. He heard his voice crack a little, and winced.

Dean paused, chewing on his bottom lip, and Sam turned a little further to study him. He was staring at the snowy picture on the TV, brow furrowed and gnawing so hard on that lip that it was getting rosy red.

"You have," Sam gasped, trying not to sound incredulous.

Dean stared at the TV for a couple of seconds longer. "Yeah. Couple of times," he admitted, with a shrug. "Was stoned the first time," he added, casually.

Just the first time? Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But you're not…?" He waved his hand around in a vague 'you know' kind of gesture, hoping Dean couldn't see the way it was trembling.

Dean shook his head with a chuckle. "Nah. Girls are my thing. It's just a curse, being this pretty," he said, and smiled widely at Sam. "So what about you, baby brother? Ever gone there?"

Sam shrugged, immediately looking away. It wouldn't change anything if he told Dean he was interested in other guys - as evidenced by what his big brother had just told him - but knowing that and actually saying the words were two completely different things.

"Come on, Sammy - you're not allowed to start holding out on me now," Dean admonished him good-naturedly. "I showed you mine, now you've gotta show me yours."

"Well, there is one guy I'd like to get to know better…" Sam started, but trailed off, avoiding Dean's eyes. "He has no clue I'm interested." He felt a little pang in his chest. Every word of it was absolutely, painfully true.

"You sound disappointed." Dean sat up a little straighter. This was all news to him.

Sam heaved a sigh as he stared out the window, watching the trees whipping around in the wind and darkness outside. "It's just… I'm curious, you know?" he said, with a shrug. It just so happened that most of that curiosity centred around Dean, and had done for a while now, but there was no way in hell he was going to say that out loud.

"Yeah, I know." Dean smiled. If there was one thing Sam was, it was curious.

They took another couple of silent drinks each, lost in their thoughts, and suddenly most of the bottle was gone. Sam stole a look at Dean, sitting down the other end of the couch from him, face unreadable as he stared at the TV screen.

Now that he knew Dean had been with other guys, he just couldn't get the image out of his head. He'd always imagined his brother being on top, and the thought of Dean holding that other guy down - kissing his neck, massaging his back… if he was honest, it made him jealous.

But brothers don't do that sort of thing, he reminded himself. Tell Dean you've dreamed about him fucking you senseless and you'll probably wind up with a black eye.

Sam sighed and settled into the corner of the couch, one slender leg hanging over the edge and an arm thrown up behind his head, eyes on the snowy screen. Somebody was shooting at someone else with some ridiculously oversized automatic weapon, but the picture was so bad he couldn't quite tell who was who.

Next thing he knew, Dean's unbelievably soft, silky lips were suddenly pressed against his. And not just a quick peck - Dean was kissing him. Arms around him, pushing him back into the couch, kissing him.

He made a pleased little sound in the back of his throat and let Dean push him down into the corner of the couch, relishing the hot, wet, bourbon-soaked heat of his mouth as he leaned in to press his hard, lean body against Sam's, his hands-

There was a thump as the bottle of Jack fell out of Dean's hand and onto the floor, and then, just as suddenly as it started, Dean pulled away.

Sam opened his eyes and blinked a few times, as if waking up from a dream, and found Dean looking down at him. His eyes were wide, those lips parted in a gasp of shock as if he'd only just realised what he was doing.

"Fuck, Sam - I'm sorry." Dean was on his feet before Sam could react. He sat in the corner of the couch looking up at his big brother, standing a few feet away and as white as a sheet, and Sam couldn't tell if he was more horrified at what he'd just done or the fact that he obviously wanted to do it again.

"Dean-" Sam started to get up, but paused when Dean stepped back a couple of paces, trying to keep the distance between them.

"Sam, you're my little brother. We can't." Then the older Winchester turned and escaped into his bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

Sam was on his feet and after him almost instantly. He was sure he wanted this and, with the courage bestowed on him by half a bottle of Jack, he wasn't about to let the moment pass him by. He opened the door to find Dean sitting on the end of the bed in the dark, with his head in his hands.

"Dean?" Sam asked, and turned on the dim, grimy overhead light. Dean looked up at him, but even then he didn't quite meet his baby brother's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, again, and looked away.

"Don't be," Sam said, but Dean didn't reply. "You want it as much as I do," Sam told him, with a lot more conviction than he felt.

Dean considered that for a long moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. "You're not even fifteen yet. You don't know what you want," he said, sharp edges on his words. "You don't know what I want, either."

"You started this," Sam said, uncertainty creeping into his voice as a frown creased his forehead. Had he read this wrong? He knew what he wanted, without a doubt, and he was pretty sure about Dean. At least, kinda pretty sure…

"I know, I know," Dean groaned, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was acutely aware that he was the one that opened Pandora's Box here, and he wanted to dive in. So much. But Sam was his baby brother, and they couldn't.

"So what's the problem?" Sam asked, unable to hide his disappointment. Dean didn't answer him - he didn't know what to say.

As he stood there in the silence, Sam started to think he'd made a mistake. His eyes searched Dean's face for a clue as to what was going on in his head, but he just sat there for what seemed like forever, absolutely still with his eyes on the floor.

Sam turned to leave, tears stinging his eyes, but before he could take two steps Dean reached out and caught him by the wrist. He wordlessly pulled Sam down to sit over his lap, and the older Winchester's hands came to rest on his hips like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean leaned in to give Sam a soft kiss on the cheek, lips slightly parted, only closing them when they touched his skin. It was the gentlest, most feather-light kiss Sam could imagine.

"I'm going to Hell for this," Dean sighed, and glanced apprehensively skyward. Sam chuckled breathlessly, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

"What's so funny?" Dean asked, a smile spreading across his face.

"Nothing," Sam told him softly, as Dean's arms wound around his back and hugged him closer. "I just really thought you were going to let me leave."

"I should've," Dean sighed, one hand rubbing rhythmically up and down Sam's back.

"So why didn't you?"

Dean shrugged a shoulder. "Just couldn't."

"I'm not stupid, Dean. I know we're not supposed to do this," Sam told him softly.

Dean gave him another soft kiss, this time on the mouth, and he felt Dean's hand move up under his shirt. It rubbed gently up and down the smooth, sensitive skin of his left side, and his brother's hands were softer and gentler than he expected. Dean paused to drag his t-shirt off, then pulled Sam's up over his head and tossed it onto the floor too.

"You ever done this before?" Dean asked softly, stroking the back of his knuckles gently up and down Sam's abdomen.

Sam shrugged a little. "Not all the way," he replied, slowly.

"Not even with a girl?" Dean raised his eyebrows, eyes sparkling just a little.

Sam shook his head. Now, half-naked and sitting astride his big brother, he was suddenly feeling very self-conscious about it - he knew for a fact that Dean hadn't been a virgin since Sam was in elementary school.

Dean leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss. "Don't worry, okay? It's really not that hard."

A smile tugged at the corner of Sam's mouth, but he didn't say anything. He just ran one hand over the crotch of Dean's jeans.

"Yeah, funny." Dean kissed him again and Sam felt the warmth of his skin against his chest as his big brother pulled him in closer.

He reached a hand up to touch and it was all warm, smooth skin over hard ridges of muscle that shifted under his fingers as Dean moved, deepening the kiss. He tasted good, like bourbon and the cheeseburgers they had for dinner - just how Sam thought he should.

Sam grunted in surprise when Dean suddenly pushed him gently down into the pillows of the unmade bed. "If you wanna stop, just tell me," he breathed, and reached down to undo Sam's jeans. They joined the t-shirts on the floor, and then Dean set about stripping off his own jeans to reveal the slim, athletic physique beneath.

He was a lot better-built and more defined than Sam expected, covered in layers of lean muscle under expanses of smooth, fair skin, but his eyes only really widened when Dean took off his boxers. He was hard - very hard - and although it was gorgeous and maybe a little more generously proportioned than average, like the rest of him, considering he was about to let Dean put that inside him Sam thought it looked enormous.

Dean saw all that play out on his face, and knelt beside him to give him a kiss. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he whispered, running a hand back over Sam's hair and pushing stray strands out of his face. Sam murmured an acknowledgement, and Dean gave him one last kiss on the lips before he placed a few more on his jawline, down his neck and across his collarbone.

Sam felt the wet heat of Dean's mouth on his nipple, tongue flicking, and let out a short gasp as Dean bit gently down. He laid a line of kisses down Sam's sternum and then ran his tongue over the gentle definition of his abs, one hand rubbing his baby brother's side as he laid a meandering line of long, slow kisses below his navel.

Dean paused there, rubbing one hand gently over the soft, sensitive skin at the top of Sam's right thigh and on up towards his hip, just watching, in case he didn't want this as much as he thought he did. But that little smile stayed on his lips and he stayed relaxed, just enjoying Dean's hands on him.

He kept his eyes on Sam's face as, still rubbing at his hip, he wrapped the other hand gently around his little brother's cock. It was hot and hard and velvety-smooth, and Sam's mouth dropped open in a breathy little gasp as he felt Dean's hand close around him.

Even as Dean started to slowly work his hand up and back and Sam's eyes flicked downwards to watch, neither of them could really believe they were actually doing this. Sam hadn't ever expected Dean would want it, and Dean had never expected Sam would let him.

Dean let one hand rest on Sam's thigh and laid the other flat on his pelvis, right at the base of that hard, leaking cock. Then he leaned down and took Sam into his mouth as deep as he could go, to the point where the hot, smooth head touched the back of his throat...

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Sam."

Sam grunted and tried to turn over, away from the annoying voice, but there was something in his way. He opened one bleary eye and came face-to-face with the back of the couch.

"Sam," the voice said again. It was Dean's voice, and from the tone of it he was repeating himself.

Sam reluctantly turned back towards him, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. He frowned slightly when he saw the undisguised amusement on Dean's face.

"What-" Sam started to sit up, and immediately realised what Dean found so humorous. He groaned and pulled the pillow over the obvious erection that tented the front of his pants, and Dean dissolved into laughter.

"You really do need to let off some steam," Dean chuckled, as Sam sat there staring daggers at him and trying not to blush.

"You done?" He tried to stay impassive, but it was hard with Dean smiling like that, his whole face lit up and his eyes sparkling…

"For now." Dean smiled widely at him.

Sam sat up straighter and rubbed at his gritty eyes with one hand as he held onto the pillow with the other. "So? Did you find out anything useful?" he asked, pointedly changing the subject.

"All three vics worked at an advertising firm downtown called 'Kinnetic'." Dean perched on the edge of the table, still looking far too amused for Sam's taste. "The guys were Mad Men ad exec types, but victim number one, the woman, was a secretary - specifically, victim number two's."

"I think they prefer 'administrative professional' these days," Sam told him, drily.

"Yeah, whatever." Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Point is, all three worked in the same office, literally down the hall from one another. The two execs were involved in landing some big ad contract not long back. I got the impression they really pulled that one out of thin air - like no-one ever expected it to happen," he said, pointedly.

"Sounds witchy," Sam commented, interest piqued. Facts were starting to stack up, and things were starting to make a little more sense.

"Does, doesn't it? And that's not even the good part." Dean's eyes were all but glittering. Sam waited for him to continue, but he didn't - he was waiting for Sam to ask the question.

"And what's the good part…?" he obliged, with a sigh.

Dean beamed at him. "Victim number three, the other ad exec - his secretary hasn't been seen since her boss bit it."

A little smile touched the corners of Sam's mouth. "Well, that's not suspicious at all."

Dean waved a scrap of paper grasped between two fingers. "Just so happens I have Moneypenny's address." He glanced at the pillow in Sam's lap. "You wanna go now, or do you need a minute to finish up…?"

Dean saw it coming, but still barely managed to avoid the pillow when Sam abruptly hurled it at his head.

The fic is complete, I promise! I'm just polishing as I upload. Stay tuned!