A/N: Hey! Before you read, please know that due to it's dark nature, it's kind of a hard one to write. I don't know how often I will be updating, and my other stories take precedent.

Sam slid to the floor in the bathroom of the motel of the week, rolling up his sleeves for what felt like the umpteenth time since they got here. Things were getting rough- Dean was hurt pretty badly the last hunt (now on bed rest), Dad was being an insufferable ass, and school was hell. It was hard to tell which of the last two was worst, but Dean was definitely taking precedent in his mind. He was stuck in the hotel room, waking up only for food and restroom usage. Dad was off hunting the beast that had infected his eldest son with god-knows-what venom. Thus, Sam was almost entirely alone.

He had already re-salted the door and windows, making sure to use extra, per his father's orders. He checked his brother's fever with a palm to his forehead, which had gone down a bit. He woke Dean up a while ago to eat some soup, not that he could keep down much of it. He needed to tend to himself now.

That used to mean taking showers mid-day to quell the painful erections that Dean inspired. Now, it meant holding a lighter under a spoon full of powder to make it something he could shoot through his veins. Yes, there was poison in him. But it was the only way to silence his needs. Truth be told, he needed Dean a hell of a lot more than words could express. There was want, sure, but it was so much deeper than that. One thing was for sure- falling in love with your own brother was bound to be a disaster.

Thus, he placed a rock of heroin in the center of his shiny silver spoon, mixed in with a little water, and took his brother's lighter to the bottom. He always used Dean's lighter; it was symbolic of the drug burning away the pain of his addiction to Dean. It took his mind away, from the man in the other room, and from pretty much everything else he had to deal with. Somehow, his schoolwork wasn't suffering from it, so what was the harm?

Sam sucked the white liquid relief into his one syringe, which he had thoroughly sanitized (he wasn't stupid, after all), and he placed it flat against the crease of his arm. It had been a while since he had been so dependant on it. He was on the fast track to becoming an addict. Last time Dean had been hurt, it had taken about a week to kick it. A painful detox it was, but necessary. Somehow, neither he nor Dad found out.

The needle pressed painfully into his vain, a practiced hand was sure to be in the right place, and he placed his thumb firmly to the end, pressing the drug into his system. It burned like fire in his arm, dulling out as the calm set in. Sixteen years of miserable life was silenced in an instant. Here, in his high, he could be free.

It was at that point that Dean shot upward in bed, breathing heavily, and dripping sweat. He surmised that Dad's remedy of weird herbs he was forced to swallow after getting hit in the face with the monster's goo-like poison was responsible for his sudden alertness. It must be working. He looked around quickly, sweeping the room with his eyes, as he had been too out of it as of late to know his surroundings. The salt lines looked good. The room was nice. But something was missing…where the hell was Sam? It then occurred to him that the only light in the room was coming from beneath the bathroom door. Sam must've been in there, but everything was silent. It was strange, hearing nothing from the bathroom when Sam was there. Usually running water would accompany moans and gasps, which Dean tried to ignore, as it went straight to his dick; or a flush of the toilet; or something. It was too quiet for his liking. Something was off.

He slid out of bed, quietly padding over to the closed door in the corner. A tentative knock was administered by a worried Dean, while he listened for any sign of movement. Nothing.

"Sammy?" He called, "Are you alright?" Once again, nothing. He turned the knob slowly, pushing the door inward. The sight before him was not one he was expecting, or remotely ready for. Sam sat on the tile floor by the tub, silver spoon, bag of white rocks beside him, and Dean's favorite lighter. A needle stuck haphazardly out of his arm, as if abandoned. He wasn't moving. Dean wasn't sure how he got to the floor, but he was suddenly checking for a pulse. It was there, and Sam turned his head.

"Dean?" He mouthed, breath barely coming through to make sound. As large as he really was, he suddenly looked so small, like the little boy Dean used to care for when he was a child himself. It was frightening.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here." He choked back the tears that threatened to fall, sinking further to straddle his brother, placing a warm hand on one of his pale, cold cheeks. It was freezing in the room, and yet, Sam didn't seem to mind.

"Are you better now?" He sounded so innocent, looked so innocent. It was terrifyingly reminiscent of his three year old self. When Dean was seven, he had caught the flu, and still had to take care of Sam. The whole time, his little brother asked the same question throughout the day.

"I think so, Sammy, but you don't look so good." He finally had the sense to reach down and remove the needle from his brother's arm, placing it on the floor next to his other drug paraphernalia.

"I am so…high right now. And I'm so sad." He began to sob uncontrollably, slowly shuddering beneath Dean.

"Hey…Sam. It's okay." He held the weeping boy to his chest tightly, rubbing circles into his back, just like he used to when Sam would cry as a child. He stopped doing it when Sam was about ten, as he had decided that Sam was too old for that sort of coddling.

"It's never okay!" He near shouted, though muffled against Dean's chest. "You don't love me!" That hurt. A lot.

"How can you say that, Sam. I love you more than I love anyone." More than myself, he meant to add, but couldn't seem to say.

"Not like that, De." He sounded annoyed, frightened, angry, and somehow rather resolute at the same time.

"Come, on, Sam." He stood pulling the younger man with him. "Let's just go to bed. We can talk in the morning." He followed obediently, though avoiding his own bed, and slid into Dean's with him. But it was okay. They both needed the comfort.

When Dean woke the next morning, there was no sign of Sam. The blankets on his side of the bed were pushed up, and a quick glance told him that there was a note on the table. Thus, he pushed himself awkwardly out of bed, and rushed over to read it. Sam's handwriting was slightly more illegible than usual, but he could still make out the words:

Dean,

I went to get us some coffee from the little shop down the street. If you still want to talk about it, I won't protest, but I want you to know that it's not going to be easy to hear.

I'm sorry.

He didn't even put his name at the bottom, which was unusual for him. The note slid from Dean's hands back on to the table, and he gently sank down in the chair facing the door. It wasn't a particularly long wait, but with the inevitable conversation looming, it felt like ages. Dean needed answers. Like, why the hell was Sam doing drugs? When did he start? Why?

Sam returned before he thought too long on it. He had two to-go cups in his hand, stacked, so he could open the door. He gently placed them both down, went back to close the door, and sat down in the other chair. Dean took his coffee, gulping it down as if it were the booze he really felt like having, and scolding his tongue for it. He bit back a hiss at the burn, inwardly swearing at his own short-sightedness.

"Sam, I think you know what I gotta ask you first." He started, hoping to get it over with.

"If you're wondering if I'm high right now, I'm not. I haven't had any since last night."

He tapped his fingers absentmindedly on his coffee, trying not to fidget any more than he had to. He needed a fix. Badly.

"Good." He placed his hands in his lap, unsure of what to do with himself. It wasn't exactly the kind of conversation he ever planned on having, and it was a bit confusing. "So, when did you start?"

"Why don't I just tell you the story, from the beginning, and that way, you can just listen. I know that this is hard for you." He looked up, catching his brother's nervous eyes.

"Yeah, okay Sammy." He leaned back in his seat, trying to replace his cool façade, which both men knew was a lie.

"About a year ago, I started to notice myself change. It was little things, really. I realized that I liked to watch you train with Dad. You had, and still do have, this grace about you; when you move in a fight, you move with purpose. I chalked it up to hero worship at the time." He paused, looking up at Dean for any sort of reaction. He had none, so at least he wasn't freaking out yet.

"Then, I began to get rather angry when random chicks would flirt with you, and you did nothing to discourage it. It took me forever to realize that I was jealous." Of them, he wanted to say, but didn't want to reveal anything too early.

"After that, it would just be stupid, everyday things. I would get so wound up at the lightest mistaken touch, or the way your voice would get kind of gruff when you were angry. Suddenly, I found myself becoming obsessed."

"What are you saying, Sam?" Dean asked, looking rather confused.

"I'm saying that I'm in love with you. I love you more than I should, and that scares the shit out of me!" He began to raise his voice, as the tears from last night returned. "I knew you would never feel the same. So one day, about three months back, I decided I didn't want to deal with it any more. I stole some money from Dad's wallet to buy some drugs from this kid I knew at school."

"Dude, are you that fucking stupid? Do you really think that in all this time, I never felt the same? When I started begging Dad for my own bed, that was because being so close to you was dangerous! I don't know how many times back then I had to sit on my hands just to keep from reaching out to wrap myself around you while you were sleeping. I told myself that it was wrong, and that Dad would kill me if he knew the thoughts I had about you. If you had told me…well, things might have been different!" He stood up, began to pace, and rubbed his hand over his mouth in shock of what they admitted to one another. And then, there was still a matter of the drugs.

"Would you be with me now?" Sam ventured, hoping for an answer in his favor. Dean stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to him.

"If Dad found out, you know we'd be dead."

"He doesn't have to know." Sam stood, taking a few long strides to stand in front of Dean. "Please?"

"You need to get clean, first. It won't work if I have to worry about you like that."

"I know. But I can't go cold turkey. That kind of shit could kill me."

"Let me help you, Sam." He quietly begged, pulling Sam closer to him by wrapping his arms around his waist.

"You do know it'll take a while for me to wean myself off of it safely, right?"

"Yeah, but I'll help."

"I know." Sam pulled away, heading for the bathroom. "I need some now, before I jump out of my skin." Dean gulped, frightened, but knew it was the truth.

"Okay, Sammy. But I wanna watch. I don't need a repeat of last night." He hesitantly added the last bit, trying to gauge his brother's reaction.

"One condition…" Dean nodded. "Don't tell Dad?" It was more a fearful question than anything, which made Dean chuckle slightly.

"Sure, Sam. We're in this together now."