A/N: I am so sorry this took so long. I'm still flaring (thanks for the well-wishes 3) and Camp NaNo started a few days ago (you can read the fanfic bits of it over on my AO3; same username), and I slept through yesterday. But ta da! A chapter!

...half a chapter, actually. Y'all win. There's gonna be ten. I couldn't help it. I didn't add in anything that I wasn't expecting, I just forget that when Sam needs to talk, he talks. Anyway, I can't promise when the next (and last, for reals) chapter will be up, but I am still working on this despite flares and NaNo (obviously), so don't give up on me.

I love you all :3

ETA: Now with edits!

Chapter Nine: Talking Again

They were back on the road when Sam woke up. Dean was no longer curled up on top of him—of course not, he was driving—but Sam's feet were pressed against his legs and, even while wearing shoes, that was a lot better than if they weren't.

…that was a problem. A serious problem. Sam knew full well that he already had way more emotional and physical needs from Dean than Dean had of him, but if shoe-to-jean-covered-thigh contact was enough to make him happy, that was definitely a problem.

And in that moment, Sam made a decision.

They needed to talk.

Actually talk.

Now.

"Dean?"

Dean glanced over at him, and it was very difficult not to think about the look on his face when he'd been sucking Sam off.

"You're finally awake," he said. He sounded the same as always, like nothing had changed, and that was a problem. "Took you long enough; I've been driving for almost two hours."

"Yeah, okay," Sam replied, not really thinking. He pushed himself up into a more comfortable position, losing the shoe-to-jean-covered-thigh contact in favor of not breaking his back. "We need to talk."

Dean groaned. "Why? About what? Things are fine."

"No, they're not."

Dean looked at him again, and Sam realized how big a mistake that had been. It sounded like he wanted to stop. Like he didn't want it. Like something was wrong.

He shouldn't have started talking in the first place.

"You seemed pretty fine earlier," Dean said, but he was watching the road and his voice was guarded.

"That was—y-yeah, fine," Sam stammered and it had been except for all the reasons it wasn't. "Good, it was really good. But, um." He licked his lips, unsure how to continue. Dean wasn't helping, of course, just sitting there in a tense, awkward silence. "I just think we need to—"

"We don't need to do anything," Dean interrupted sharply. "Things are fine."

Sam's stomach started twisting angrily. "They're obviously not, and—"

"No ands," Dean snapped. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Sam asked, starting to sound as angry as Dean, not meaning to. It was anger or breaking down, and yelling was as ingrained into him as choosing fight over flight. "We've been not talking about this for a really long time now—" Longer than you know, Sam thought silently, "—and it has to stop."

Dean's lips thinned and the muscle in his jaw was woking, rhythmically clenching and unclenching. "Fine. It's stopped."

Sam broke out in goosebumps, actual, literally goosebumps, and he could have sworn someone had dumped ice water down the back of his neck. "N-no, I didn't mean—not stopping, not—I don't want to stop, I just meant—"

"Then what's the problem?" Dean yelled. "What, exactly, does the great Sam Winchester, king of emotions, mean?"

Sam opened his mouth, absolutely positive something clever and articulate and reasonable was going to come out. "Nothing," he said instead, voice dropped, only a few decibels above a whisper. "Nothing, it's nothing. I'm sorry."

"Fine."

Dean turned the stereo on, Zeppelin blared, and the conversation was over.

He knows, Sam thought emotionlessly, watching the plains turn into mountains. He knows this is more than sex. He knows I need more. He knows I need him, I love him, and he doesn't want me to say it.

At least he doesn't want it to stop.

It's convenient. A convenient way to get laid. That's it.

He's not getting laid.

…will be soon. Getting kind of inevitable.

Sam forced his mind blank. He couldn't have sex with Dean. Not more than they were doing. He meant it, he had to mean it, and he absolutely had to act on it. Not act on it, rather. He'd tried to draw the line before: first tried to stop it completely and then from progressing further, but he had to this time. Dean could make fun of him all he wanted and Sam would make up some sort of excuse, but he couldn't handle the lack of emotional attachment combined with an act that intimate.

Nor did he think that was a bad thing, in fact.

But Dean was Dean so there'd have to be an excuse unless Sam really did want to straight up tell Dean that he was in love with him, and that didn't sound appealing.

At all.

As in never.

—

Things didn't smooth out during the job.

Six demons had invaded a hospital, switching bodies every few minutes, their only goal to kill as many as violently as possible. The hospital was under quarantine, police, troopers, FBI, SWAT, you-name-it outside trying to figure out what the fuck was going on, and it had been easy enough for Sam and Dean to slip in without being noticed. At first the demons had laughed at them, but it only took one of Sam's handy exorcisms to scatter them.

Sam and Dean had needed to split up as well, and Sam spent the entire time flipping between miserable and angry at Dean and terrified that Dean was lying dead somewhere, blood splattered everywhere, soul somehow dragged back down to hell even though that made no sense. Sam managed to exorcise the next three demons without a problem, and it was only then that he realized he and Dean had left their phones in the car and had no way of getting in touch.

The resulting sprint throughout the hospital, frantically screaming Dean's name, had not been the highlight of Sam's hunting career. Or his relationship with Dean, who started yelling at him as soon as he found him, going off about how unprofessional and dangerous it is to be advertising his location like that, and it was lucky he hadn't gotten the both of them killed.

Then the last of the demons had almost killed them, which made Dean even more furious than usual.

They were also covered in blood, and Dean nearly got himself arrested for antagonizing the head of the SWAT team while looking like the killer himself. It was only through good fake badges, better luck, and an alarmingly convincing calm Sam forced himself into that they were allowed to leave. Dean spent the drive back to their motel muttering angrily under his breath about demons, powers, and blood in his Baby while Sam grasped at the last vestiges of his calm. He was hyped up from his powers, overtired from having stayed up all night, on edge from dealing with that many demons who had that many bodies to possess and were that violent, and frankly terrified of whatever was happening between Dean and himself. There had been riffs and chasms between then before, more than Sam could count, but Dean had never seemed so close to just leaving.

He couldn't leave. He wouldn't. Rationally, Sam knew that.

Right now, though?

Right now rationality was a long ways away.

—

They parked behind the motel down an alleyway where no one would see the blood-soaked leather. A flash of jealousy coursed through Sam at the way Dean's fingers trailed along her steering wheel; it was idiotic, but they hadn't ever touched, not like that, and Sam wanted.

Of course he did.

He wanted everything.

Then there was the traditional sneaking-around-the-motel-race to see who could get to the bathroom and clean off without being caught by anyone who might ask about the blood. Dean won, barely, and Sam accidentally left half a bloody handprint on the bathroom door from slamming his fist against it while Dean crowed that he would always be better, smarter, faster, and everything else he thought of. Sam spent Dean's shower scrubbing away the handprint, and the ones on the front door from coming inside, and then figuring out how to undress without blood permanently absorbing into and staining the carpet.

When Dean came out of the bathroom, Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, naked, making absolutely certain he wasn't getting blood everywhere. Dean, on the other hand, was wrapped in a fluffy white towel, steam billowing around him, water dripping down his torso accentuating every perfectly defined, blood-free muscle.

"Who knew hospitals had so much blood in them, eh?" Dean asked happily, flopping onto his own bed.

Sam glared at him. "Good to know your five hour shower cheered you up."

Dean grinned. "You bet it did."

"Jerk," Sam muttered, and slammed the bathroom door behind himself.

"You're cleaning Baby!" Dean called after him. "It's your turn!"

"Over my dead body!" Sam yelled back before turning on the shower and drowning out any response.

A cold shower, because Dean hadn't left him any hot water.

"I hate you!" Sam screamed, and he could have sworn he heard Dean laughing.

Sam spent as little time in the shower as possible, scrubbing off the crusted-on blood, giving his hair a cursory rinse, and that was it. He dried himself off as quickly as possible, but he was still shivering when he came out, thinking about nothing other than how many blankets his bed had and how soft the sheets were.

"You look freezing."

Sam looked over at Dean, who was sprawled naked on one of the two beds.

"Wonder why," Sam snapped, heading for the other bed as quickly as possible.

"Where're you going?" Dean asked, and while he almost sounded casual, Sam could hear the strain beneath it.

"Blankets," Sam answered before thinking, then quickly added, "Unless you have a better idea."

"Course I do," Dean replied easily. He patted the empty space next to himself. "Blankets are lame. Get over here."

Sam hesitated for a split second before dropping his towel to the floor and sitting next to Dean. "Just remember I'm cold."

Dean grinned at him. "I'm pretty sure I know how big your dick is by now."

Sam flushed. "Yeah, well. Then get to warming."

Dean rolled onto his stomach, slowly licked his lips, and started trailing a hand up Sam's thigh. "This is what you want?"

Sam froze. "I—sorry? Are you really asking me if I want a blowjob?" he asked, knowing that wasn't at all what this was about.

Dean drew his lower lip between his teeth, and Sam let out a quick puff of air.

"Yeah, I guess I am. Making sure it's not too far, or whatever you've been saying."

Sam forced himself to look normal, sound normal, say normal things. "It's not too far. Obviously, or I wouldn't have sucked you off last night."

Dean placed a gentle kiss on Sam's thigh, still tracing patterns along the sensitive skin, and Sam gasped. They hadn't—kissing wasn't, even like—Dean had—

"Is that?" Dean asked softly, and oh fucking Christ he did know.

"I—" Sam needed to talk. He'd wanted to talk. Talking was necessary. Only there were no more words available, nothing he could say that would get him out of this alive, and he was shaking but at least he could blame that on the cold. "Y-yeah."

You promised yourself.

Shut the fuck up.

"Hm." Dean's hand trailed up to Sam's hip, bypassing his erection but only barely. Sam whimpered, thrusting up, which Dean completely ignored. Instead he used his thumb to rub circles into Sam's hip, lips resting on Sam's thigh but not doing anything else, and Sam was shaking and couldn't stop and his heart was doing strange things that almost hurt but also were perfect, and Dean needed to do something now.

"Dean?" The word escaped as a whisper, a fucking terrified whisper, but it worked. Dean let out a low rumble that reverberated through Sam before licking a stripe along his thigh, stopping just shy of his balls. Sam let out a quiet cry, hips jerking up again, heart still twisting uncomfortably but perfectly, hands balled tightly in the blankets, making absolutely certain he didn't touch Dean. He didn't know exactly why that was so important, but it really seemed like it was.

"Okay?" Dean asked, voice just slightly huskier than before.

"Yes," Sam murmured, ignoring the part of his brain that was screaming no very loudly. "Why—"

Dean nuzzled his balls, just slightly, but Sam could feel his breath, could feel skin-on-skin, could definitely feel the sparks of pleasure shooting out, the way he was suddenly as close as he'd been the night before, how mortifying that was, how little he could help it.

Dean was going to give him a blowjob—again—and that fact alone was more than enough.

"Too far?" Dean hummed, the vibration too much, too good, and Sam let out an involuntary breathy moan.

"No, no it's—" Sam was so muddled, thinking was so hard when Dean's face was in his crotch, and apparently Dean thought now was the optimal time for a conversation. Or he was teasing. Or something else that Sam couldn't think of because he couldn't fucking think with Dean's face in his crotch. "Please?"

For a split second, so fast it almost didn't happen, Dean rubbed his cheek against Sam's thigh. Comforting. Sweetly. Lovingly. And with a day-and-a-half's worth of stubble and so close to all the right places. He hummed again and bushed his lips along Sam's sac, not kissing or licking, mouth closed, but breathing and the suggestion and the lightest of pressure and—

"Fuck."

"Gonna come before you're in my mouth, Sammy?" Dean asked, continuing to mouth his balls, not letting up and not adding more and more, Sam needed more now, and he pushed up unthinkingly but Dean stayed with him, keeping the pressure so light it nearly tickled, and Sam vaguely thought there was a question he needed to answer, only he couldn't.

Because Dean's mouth was on his balls.

Because he was in love with Dean and Dean wasn't in love with him.

Because he had promised himself it wouldn't go farther—or maybe that it would stop altogether, he couldn't remember—and it was and it couldn't stop but it had to but it couldn't.

Dean opened his mouth, breathed hot, moist air on him, and slowly, so slowly, ran his tongue along the bottom of Sam's balls, rolling them together, and he kept his mouth open, not licking again, but open and breathing and teasing and Sam was whimpering, falling back against the headboard and lodging himself at a horrible angle, completely unable to rearrange himself or stop or do anything other than feel.

Still feather-light, Dean's tongue trailed lower, pressing along his perineum, swiping over the small stretch of skin a maddeningly short number of times, before gently, so fucking gently, brushing Sam's hole.

Sam tensed, every muscle tightening, and maybe he was going to come before Dean blew him, except he was about to cry, was almost as close to that as he was coming, and it actually had to stop.

Now.

"That feel—"

"No," Sam interrupted, hating himself, knowing he was destroying his only chance, hating himself for always being the mature, responsible one, wishing just once he could let go.

But it was better this way. He knew it was.

Even if he thought he might be actively dying.

"Y-yeah, I mean—good, it's—" Sam took a deep breath and scooted back up so he was sitting again, so Dean's face wasn't quite so close, so he could no longer feel his breath on his skin. "I—n-no, it's." He took another breath, hoping Dean would interrupt him, but he didn't. Complete silence. "T-too. Um. Too far."

Dean was still quiet. Was he waiting for Sam to continue? For an explanation? Trying to figure out a way to get himself out of this before it got any worse? Trying to fix what could never, ever be fixed? What Sam had broken forever, had allowed to be broken forever?

Not that Sam was saying anything either. He had a vague notion of apologizing but that seemed worse than nothing, and anyway it was Dean's turn to talk, wasn't it?

"Everything, or…?"

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Yes, everything. From the very beginning it had been too far. But he had been handling it, hadn't he? Mutual masturbation, that hadn't been so bad. There had been no emotional breakdown. And the same bed, that had been good. It had been pretending, and that was bad, yes, intellectually that was very bad, but it was good and Sam was willing to sacrifice that piece of his sanity to continue.

Touching, though. It had escalated so quickly from handjobs to blowjobs to whatever Dean had been about to do, and Sam didn't know, how could he possibly know when all he wanted to do was take it back and pretend he'd never said anything and find out exactly what Dean was about to do with his tongue?

"I—I don't—."

Sam had to look away. Not that he'd been looking at Dean, that was obviously a horrible idea, but he really was dangerously close to tears and Dean knew him too well, he'd know immediately, but he'd also probably let Sam pretend he wasn't, as long as they weren't making eye contact.

"I don't know," Sam finished, the words sounding like they were coming from someone else, someone far away who wasn't Sam because it couldn't be Sam, that was just dumb. "Maybe."

The bed shifted as Dean let out a deep sigh, and without looking Sam knew he had sat up and was running a hand over his face the way he did when he was upset, more than upset, and it was Sam's fault and he had to fix it, only he couldn't.

"Sam."

Hearing his name like that was worse than a gunshot, than a knife tearing through him, and he waited in silence for Dean to finish his thought. With every second that ticked by it seemed more and more like that was his thought, like there wasn't anything more, but if Sam tried to talk he'd end up crying, and that was a big, fat no.

"I—I'm sorry."

Sam froze.

What?

He could probably count the number of times Dean had apologized on one hand, and now he was, and for what? For not being in love with his own fucking brother? That wasn't exactly something that needed an apology. For letting it continue after he knew? No, Dean wouldn't do that, he couldn't have known before now.

He couldn't let Dean take the blame for this. It was Sam's fault, Sam had allowed it, Sam had known better, and Sam deserved the guilt. Nothing about this could be pinned on Dean.

"You don't—you don't owe me an apology," Sam said tonelessly. "I shouldn't have—i-it's fine, okay? We'll just forget it ever happened."

Which was clearly, obviously impossible, but what else was he going to do? Beg Dean not to leave him?

…yeah, probably. He'd do that. But not yet, not if there was another way.

"I started it," Dean said almost angrily. "Back in Nebraska. With that porno. You didn't do anything."

"I—yes, I—" Sam was lost. How was this turning into an argument? Even more, a self-pitying argument, and that wasn't something Dean did. Sam was aware that he himself could have a bit of a martyr complex, but Dean?

Well, maybe sometimes.

But not about things like this.

Not that there was anything like this.

"Don't go martyring yourself over what I did," Sam said, because Dean did have a martyr complex, and Sam had forgotten that, forgotten that if he stopped things Dean would blame himself, and that was so completely unacceptable it felt like Sam was going to explode with need to fix it. "I could have said no. I could have kicked you out, or stopped, or whatever. This is on me."

"You always fuckin' do this," Dean said, and yes, he was yelling, at least almost. "This isn't some goddamned job where you can't tell right from wrong, or another fight about Dad. You genuinely, honestly did nothing wrong. Don't fuckin' make me say it."

Sam's head reeled. Say what? Had Dean known from the beginning? Or was he apologizing for not having realized sooner? Did he just not want to acknowledge anything about Sam's feelings at all (which would be a huge bonus)? Did he just want Sam to forget about it?

Not that he could.

"Okay, fine, technically it can't be helped, but it's still not your responsibility to take care of me," Sam replied, and he honestly couldn't tell if he was raising his voice as well. He was too upset. But at least he could pull a Clinton and talk about it instead of anything more damning. "I'm not a kid. I don't need you looking out for me."

The bed creaked as Dean turned to look at him, boring holes through the back of Sam's head.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Sam almost turned to look at him but instead furrowed his eyebrows at the wall, completely lost.

"I can take care of myself," he repeated slowly. "This is my problem, it was up to me to stop it, and I didn't."

The silence was long, very long, terrifyingly long, and when Dean finally did break it, he sounded strange, nothing Sam recognized.

"What, exactly, is your problem?"

More silence, because Sam had no idea what they were talking about anymore. If Dean actually didn't know, then why the fuck did he think they were stopping? He wasn't about to come out and say because I'm in love with you if Dean thought it was some hangup about incest (which did actually make sense, way too much sense, when exactly had Sam forgotten they were brothers?) or being gay (which made very little sense) or whatever it was he thought? If Dean didn't know, there was no chance in hell Sam was going to tell him.

"That, um." Sam didn't know what the rest of that sentence was supposed to be. "What do you think it is?"

"I don't have a fuckin' clue," Dean replied, still sounding weird, especially since he wasn't shouting anymore. "If you're so convinced it's your fault, fine. Go. Tell me why. You talk first."

Shit.

That was not the desired outcome.

On the other hand, this conversation was going on for far too long and they needed to start pretending it had never happened sooner rather than later, so why the fuck not.

Aside from all the reasons not to.

"That I have." Sam cleared his throat. "Feelings?"

Dean huffed. "Yeah, I got that. Wanna tell me what they are?"

No, not really.

But begging Dean not to make him say it hadn't worked, and they were long past that anyway.

"For." Sam licked his lips. He could do this. Like a bandaid, just rip it off and get it over with. "You, that I have feelings for you, that I've been in love with you since I can remember and—"

Strong hands were at his shoulders, whirling him around, and suddenly he was staring into Dean's eyes, huge and green and dark and shining and then he couldn't see anymore because Dean crashed their lips together, too violent to be called a kiss except it was, and Sam couldn't do anything but sit there, stunned.

"You fucking idiot," Dean mumbled against his lips, still not breaking the kiss, and Sam was almost aware enough of what was happen to respond but not quite yet because was Dean actually kissing him? "I started it, why did you think I started it?"

That was sort of an interesting question, somewhere far away where Sam could think, but he was pretty sure Dean was kissing him.

"Because you." And now Dean's words were completely smeared together, unintelligible except Sam knew him to well for anything to be really unintelligible. "Thought it was all I could get."

Sam's stomach lurched. That was—that—Dean—

He grabbed Dean's face, finally kissing him back. Dean moaned, and Sam nearly stopped again, short circuited enough that any movements at all were impossible, but some base part of him was running the show now and stopping was nowhere close to an option. He licked Dean's mouth open and then their tongues were dueling as well, still too much teeth and too hard but who the fuck cared? It was so much better than anything Sam had ever imagined and it could last forever and still not go on long enough.

Dean tasted like black coffee and classic car and sweat and motel soap and a deep, full, addicting musk that was pure Dean.

Dean tore himself away, hands sliding up to wind through Sam's hair while Sam's stayed on his face. Their eyes met again, and now it was obvious. All the lust and desire and want and need and—ohgod—love from the past who-knows-how-many years reflected back at him. Sam couldn't breathe and he didn't know why they weren't kissing anymore but he couldn't think well enough to do anything but what he was currently doing.

Staring into Dean's eyes, that's what he was currently doing.

"Do you need to talk?" Dean asked, voice strangled. "I can't—don't make me stop again."

Sam let out a breathy whimper. "No. Yes. I don't—" Dean interrupted him with a kiss, a soft kiss, red and swollen lips pressing lightly against Sam's. It helped steady him, and god, how could Dean possibly know that? "Dean?"

Dean sighed quietly, not sounding upset, just like their world was flipping and spinning and tilting and breaking apart to form something new and different and so, so much better. He leaned their foreheads together. "Yeah, Sam?"

Sam licked his lips, and they were close enough that he brushed Dean's as well.

"I told you I love you," he said quietly. "Don't you think we need to talk about that?"

"No," Dean said. "Do you?"

Sam processed this. Tried to. Everything was so difficult, he couldn't figure it out, and it felt like his head was going to burst with confusion and grinding gears and what, exactly, was happening?

"Want—" He stopped, cleared his throat. "D'you want to maybe say it back?"

Dean laughed, not unkindly. "Jesus, Sam, you're such a fucking girl."

Sam waited, but that was apparently all Dean was going to say.

His head hurt.

"Dean."

Dean kissed him again, and it almost fixed his head, drove out everything that wasn't Dean and now and perfect and did Dean know how soft his lips were, because they were really fucking soft.

But Sam couldn't stop himself from thinking, he never could, Dean had yelled at him so many times about it but he'd saved their lives a thousand times over by memorizing some ancient ritual or double checking that they had salt or—

Focus.

Sam pulled away, just slightly, just enough to break the kiss.

"Please? I-if." Sam cursed himself. "If you do. I know it's going to be a—a thing, you'll never—that's fine, but once. Now. Yeah. I need to talk. I need that."

Dean groaned, head falling down to rest on Sam's shoulder, sort of but not quite in the crook of Sam's neck.

"C'mon."

Doubt started creeping in, the same way it always did when it came to Dean, and Sam's displaced hands dropped to Dean's waist, only they were at an awkward angle, so one was on his hip and the other on his thigh.

"Dean."

"Fucking hell." Dean took a deep breath, exhaling warmth on Sam's shoulder. "Sam—Sammy, god, there's just no pleasing you, is there?"

Sam stayed where he was, only not pulling away because he was glued in place. Dean didn't. He felt—wanted—something, something more than there had been, but not what Sam—not as much, not the same—

"If you do," Sam repeated.

"You're a goddamned idiot," Dean said, turning his face in so it was pressed against Sam's neck. Hiding, almost definitely. It was some sort of adorable, Sam thought. Assuming it meant what he thought it meant.

Thought? Hoped? He had no idea.

"Yeah, Sammy," he mumbled, lips sliding along Sam's neck, sending shivers through him. Shivers, sparks, everything, and Sam moved a hand to Dean's back, gently stroking along overheated skin with something like wonder. "I fuckin' love you. We done?"

Sam let out a quiet, measured breath.

His head stopped hurting. Thought vacated completely, leaving only Dean and himself in its wake.

"I seriously hope not," Sam said. "Weren't you doing something fantastic with your tongue?"

Dean sat up, grinning, all predator and Sam happily melted into prey.

"Yeah, pretty sure I was."