A/N: (Pokes supposedly dead fanfic) …hey. Wakey-wakey. Don't just lie there, we have a very small circle of readers to please. (Drags it off the ground and tries to mold it into something presentable) There. Now stand up straight, and let them have a look at you. If they throw eggs, just remember to duck.

Yeah, so… I'm not dead. XD Sorry about the wait. I haven't really been in a state of writing lately, so this was put on hiatus. If anyone's still interested, I've got another chapter, and I hope to god anyone out there is still interesting in reading the damn thing.

7: Cut the Hero Crap

"Dean! Dean, look!"

Dean walked up to Sam, standing by the edge of the cliff, pointing at the thing circling below them. He felt the usual stab of fear at the sight of Sam so close, on the very border between safe next to his brother and complete disaster, but luckily, Sam was frozen in the spot. He was staring at the giant bird with the amazement only the young minds could feel, and admittedly, Dean was jealous. Those feelings were long gone for him. Seventeen and already jaded to life's wonders.

He followed Sam's pointed finger to the birds below. They were enormous, even from a distance, and up close, they'd be as tall as Dean standing on his father's shoulders. And these were the things dad planned for them to kill.

"You scared yet, Sammy?" he asked, giving Sam a playful nudge, making sure to grab his sleeve and pull him away from the edge in the process. He could stand living on the road, at this age having been almost killed more times than the average eighty year-old war veteran, all of it. But he couldn't stand the thought of Sam hurt.

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes, making a bit too much of a show of it for Dean to buy it.

"No. But I still don't get how we're going to do it. I mean, those things…"

He faded out. Dean pointed to a cliff a few feet below the bird, jutting out from the rock wall.

"That's its nest. The place dad's been tracking these couple of weeks. What do you think it keeps there?"

Sam was quiet for a bit, before answering: "its kids."

"Damn straight. Its kids are there, she… it only leaves them to get food. Dad's going to take one of them, lure it down here, where we can burn it."

Sam stared at the cliff, like he could already see the frail little bodies, gaping for the food brought to them out of nothing but thin air and motherly affection.

"Doesn't it know it's going to die when it goes after the kids?" he finally asked. Dean gave him a sideway glance, shifting a little.

"Uh… yeah. I guess. I don't know, I haven't really asked." It didn't come out as a joke. "It wouldn't matter if she… it did. It'd still come. You can't really… you can't really think about that stuff when it's about someone… something… that important."

It didn't go unnoticed to either him or Sam that he already had a hard time calling the bird 'it.'

He'd never had problems distancing himself from the things they had to kill. But it wasn't easy objectifying something so completely driven by love.

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Was it always supposed to be this way? Dean doesn't know.

He has no memory of thinking of Sam like that when they were younger. When he longed for Sammy when he was at college, he longed for dimples, wrestling matches, pulling pranks in the backseat of the Impala while waiting for dad to come out of the store, giggling like actual kids before he came back, when Dean saw the neck of the Whiskey bottle sticking out of the paper bag he was carrying, and quickly becoming serious.

Now, alone in the Impala, Dean longs for hot, tight skin, insistent tongue, those big hands. But also for the dimples. The companionship, just having someone next to him, loving him no matter what.

He just needs that. That's all. If he can only have it is as either a brother or as a lover, never both, that's fine.

He guesses he must've either thought about Sam for so long that he didn't even feel it anymore, or he didn't know he was thinking it at all.

xxxxxxxxxxx

It probably doesn't take long to find Sam. Dean's never had that much of a concept of time, every day was basically the same, time crept by, and then all the sudden they were in lethal danger or Sam needed to be retreated from some vengeful spirit, and then hours could pass in a black, screeching haze until he had him back, safe.

It probably doesn't take long, but it feels like forever. And when he does find Sam, he's not really in lethal danger. He wouldn't do it, not really. No matter how desperate he sounds when he asks Dean to do it, no matter how often those thoughts flash across his eyes when he thinks Dean can't see.

Dean still approaches him slowly.

You won't do it, Sam. You wouldn't do that to me. Put the gun down.

"Don't come any closer."

"You know I will, Sammy. Just relax, okay? Take it easy."

He knew Sam wouldn't be in a place where Dean couldn't find him. In the end, they both want to be found. He had to ride around for a while, but eventually, he found Sam here, in the woods where they burned dad. Kind of hokey, but to be fair, Sam doesn't exactly seem to be thinking straight.

"You're not going to do it."

"Fuck you," Sam sputters. Saliva hanging in strings from his lips, eyes glistening. Vacant, slipping, but there's a tiny piece of him still here, still with Dean, and that's enough for Dean to pull him out of it. Has to be.

"Dean, I… I'm sorry I made you… I…"

"It's not your fault," Dean cuts him off. "You hear me, Sammy? It was never your fault. Hell, I'm not even sure it's my fault. We were just… we were fucked from the start, weren't we?"

He thinks Sammy can hear the joke in it. He hopes he can.

Sam's making these little soft whimpering noises. The gun's trembling, Dean was pretty sure he'd lower it, but then Sam's whole arm starts to shake and he's suddenly very, very afraid that this will be the end of it.

"But it's not like that now!" Sam explodes. "I… I ruined it! You're the only thing in my life that I… and I just… because I…"

Half-baked sentences; Dean understands, of course he does. That's about as coherent as his own thoughts are right now.

"You didn't ruin anything, Sammy," he says, gravelly. "There's no ruining us."

Sam's eyes; a bit of him coming back. Not crazy Sam, but Dean's Sammy.

"I thought it, too," he goes on. "Okay? I thought… things would be different, but honestly, we're too fucked up for this. When was the last time social norms applied to a Winchester, huh? I mean, look at us! You really think sleeping with your brother is weirder than half the shit dad put us through?"

Trembling against his temple. Put it down, Sammy.

"I just want you back," Dean says. "I want you to put that fucking gun down. If you do that, I don't care about what we do afterwards. Fuck, hunt, go and have a burger, whatever. Just come back with me. Stay. And stop worrying about being a freak."

Sam shakes his head. A couple of tears trickling down, the next few words, he chokes out, grimacing, like he's working past years of repression.

"But I… I am a freak."

Dean shakes his head. Sammy. His Sammy.

His Sammy, always so concerned with what people thought of him. Sammy, who could be sad all day if he stepped on a spider. Sammy, so receptive to emotions. Dean knew it'd hurt him one way or the other.

"You're the best person I know," Dean says. "If you're a freak, who the hell cares. Then I am, too. Only a freak could… love another freak this much."

He doesn't say it often. When he does, he does it like this, in subtext. Still sees where it hits Sam, right where it was intended. His eyes clear out, and he's back. Sammy. His Sammy.

"You can't leave me, Sammy. Without you, I'm…"

Dean can't finish the sentence. He's afraid to even finish the thought.

Sam lowers the gun, drops it on the ground with a heavy clunk, takes two big strides up to Dean. Dean thought he'd kiss him, but instead, Sam hugs him, bone-crushingly, I-thought-I'd-lost-you-forever-hug.

Eventually, Sam lets go, and then they go back to the Impala.

Like they always do. All that's needed.