AN: Beware! Homophobia and sexual acts between two consenting men (*gasp*) in this chapter. (I'm going to hell.)

You look even better out of that Dress, Baby

Since Dean arrived, Sam only ever goes over to Karen and Bobby's for the weekly dinner or when the salvage yard is closed and he knows for certain Dean isn't there, and he feels bad about it. He doesn't want to neglect his foster aunt and uncle like this, but he doesn't want to be subject to Deans straightforward flirting, and if he would show up in his other clothes while some of his schoolmates are there and witness him hitting on Sam, they'd maybe think he's trying to seduce Sioux Falls's most popular piece of male ass, and that would just end in needless drama.

He has considered leaving the bra at home and showing up in his 'normal' clothes to scare Dean off once and for all, but in the end, he'd always put even more time on picking his outfit and makeup. He's stupid like that. Crushing on a guy that's so straight you could use him as a ruler and spending every night jerking off to detailed sex fantasies featuring the only person who could make Tony Stark look gay.

But he just can't help it, and Dean hasn't stopped flirting with him, getting even bolder than before thanks to the personal challenge he has apparently set himself; seducing Sam Winchester. Last weekend, he'd even pushed Sam up against the kitchen counter while Karen had gone outside to bring refreshments to Dad and Bobby while Sam went on with preparing dinner. One moment he was chopping onions, the next he found himself pressing his dick painfully hard against the edge of the counter while Dean's breath brushed against his neck, both of his calloused hands propped up on the counter's surface, his body close to Sam's, but not quite touching yet, and Sam had desperately tried to become one with the hurdle in front of him while his body pleaded to just push back against Dean and let it all happen, fuck the consequences and enjoy it while it lasted. The scene would have fitted into a cheap porn movie with the title Not so Innocent Girl with Dirty Little Secret gets Deflowered in the Kitchen. Thankfully, Karen came back before Sam could lose the fight against his body's urges and Dean vanished before she could've seen the compromising position they'd been in. Would've spoiled dinner otherwise, but Dean still continued to drag his foot up and down Sam's calf beneath the table until Sam lost it and aimed a kick at his shin, satisfied when he'd hit his target. After that Dean had stopped, but Sam had no delusions about what the glint in his eyes meant.

The only thing is why. Why hasn't Dean given up yet? If Kate Kennedy's bragging can be trusted, he'd already had some fun with other, willing girls who'd made it their personal goal to get into Dean Milligan's bed at least once—and if not there, then the alley behind a bar would do too. So why does Dean still try to get into Sam's pants? It's a mystery, and Jess suggests that he'd maybe unknowingly hurt Dean's pride by turning him down and now he has to prove his manliness by conquering what was denied. Or he just likes a challenge. Sam's getting a headache and when he keeps kneading like this, the cookie dough will be the softest and best mixed in existence, but he has to let his frustration out on something.

Jess only shoots him sympathetic glances from her perch on the kitchen counter, the open cook book on her lap. They are making cookies for her brother Michael's birthday, and Sam has spent the last hour rambling about Dean and the unwanted-but-then-again-kinda-wanted attention he gives Sam.

It's Friday evening, and they plan on going out later to christen the new black skirt and ruffled cerulean blouse Sam has bought under Jess' supervision.

But because nothing in Sam's life follows the plans he has set, the evening becomes a lot more, and so much worse at that.

It all starts with a knock on the door, and Jess slips off the counter to open it while Sam shapes the cookies to put them in the oven, paying no mind to the muffled conversation drifting over from the front door until Jess walks back into the kitchen with Dean in tow and Sam nearly lets the bowl with dough drop. Three weeks of avoiding him, and Dean still hasn't given up yet. How much more bad karma does Sam have to work off until he's finally left off the hook?

"What are you doing here?" he snaps and turns back to the cookies, the combination of 'Dean Milligan' and 'kitchen' bringing all too vivid memories to his mind and he closes his eyes to will the images away. Or Dean could just go away, that would be fine too.

"Aw, sweetheart, you hurt my feelings," Dean mocks, his playful tone belying the words, and in the next moment he's leaning his hip against the counter next to Sam and picks some dough out of the bowl, bringing it up to his mouth, a pink tongue lapping the sweetness off the finger with seductive and obscene movements. Damn the food porn. And damn Sam's dick. It's hard being a crossdressing teenager in the vicinity of Dean Milligan. Sam levels a glower at him because he can't direct it at his hormones, and Dean chuckles, a sound low and velvety, that reminds him of a satisfied purring tomcat. "You should patent those bitchfaces, Sammy, nobody can do them quite like you," he tells him while scooping up more dough on his finger, and Sam bats his hand away.

"The cookies aren't for you. And get off my back!" he exclaims and slides dough and unfinished cookies out of Dean's reach. "But I'm not even on there yet, sugar plum."

If it was dark, Sam's cheeks would definitely give off enough light to illuminate the kitchen.

"What do you want?" He swears he's gonna hit him if Dean has the nerve to answer 'you'.

"Your Dad lent me the Impala. Thought I could take you for a ride." He waggles his eyebrows at the innuendo, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Jess and I have plans."

"C'mon, Sammy, show me Sioux Falls or somethin'. We can even go to a museum if you want."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I have plans for today." Sam glances at Jess for help, who's leaning against the door frame, staying out of the conversation but listening attentively until Dean turns to her and offers the best impression of a pout he has in his repertoire, full bottom lip pushing forward and green eyes wide, looking like someone just kicked his puppy. It's ridiculous, really, but apparently seals the deal, because Jess sighs, "it's alright, Sam. I have to learn for Mr. Finnigan's biology test next week anyway. We can do it another time and I'll just finish the cookies without you."

Sam tries to protest, stricken that his friend could betray him like this, but she talks right over him, shooing Dean out of the kitchen. "You go out and wait at the Impala while I have a quick talk with Sammy here."

Dean does as ordered with a satisfied grin and thanks Jess while he walks outside, no doubt already fumbling the car or some shit.

"What are you doing?" Sam demands in a hiss and corners her, using the couple extra inches he has at his side, however, Jess stands her ground unimpressed. "Giving you a chance to clear this once and for all. Go out, have a good time, and if he tries anything, tell him you're not as girly as you might look."

"But..."

She shakes her head, and the expression on her face changes to soft and understanding, her hands taking his to squeeze reassuringly. "He's not that bad, Sam. You deserve some distraction. And even when he turns you down it's better than not knowing if he would." Taking a deep breath, Sam closes his eyes and considers her words. It's highly likely this is going to end in tears, but Jess, as so often, is right. When Dean leaves without finding out what Sam's hiding, he'll mourn this lost chance for the rest of his life, because Dean isn't someone you easily forget, all swagger and sex and piece of art with eyes that promise a mind-blowing night, no strings attached. And Sam wants Dean, wants him since that first night when he called him gorgeous in that sexy voice of his, wants all his attention focused only on Sam, wants those strong hands exploring his body, wants to feel Dean, hear him breathe dirty things into his ear. If possible, for the rest of his existence.

So Sam steels himself and nods once.

"My makeup still where it's supposed to be?"

Sam reluctantly slips onto the passenger seat, ignoring Dean's smug expression, and makes himself as small as possible, pressing his side against the car door. They discuss where they are going to go while Dean brings them out of the driveway and onto the street, apparently not in the least concerned about speed limits and the like. Led Zeppelin is coming from the speakers and he bobs his head to the beat, drumming on the wheel. He's like a younger, skirt-chasing version of John Winchester sometimes, and that thought is just wrong. Sam is so disgusted by his own mind that he forgets to protest when Dean decides they are going to watch a movie and steers Dad's baby onto the parking lot of the theater.

The selection of movies is not broad; a romantic comedy, some historical garbage and one of those splatter B-movies with bad actors and too much blood and gore. Of course Dean decides they have to watch the latter and grabs Sam's hand to drag him into the theater, coaxing the girl at the counter into letting Sam in with the help of his disarming smile, because, hey, he's a responsible adult, and his little cousin here loves those movies and begged him to come with her for days. The girl hands him the tickets without sparing a glance at Sam, cheeks hot and red with her blush, and Dean purrs his thanks while winking at her.

Sam realizes he's still holding Dean's hand and lets go.

They buy popcorn and coke, and the showroom is nearly empty when they walk to their seats two rows from the back—there's only a couple making out somewhere in the front and a group of five teens in the middle, throwing popcorn at the couple and giggling childishly. At least everybody is too distracted to see Sam the Freak in Drag walking in with Dean the Sex God, but Sam precautionary sinks as deep into his seat as the worn cushion allows until the room finally darkens, just to be safe.

The movie is as bad as expected and one of those that seem to happen in an alternate reality where absolutely nobody watches a horror movie, since the college kids on the screen do all the stupid things anyone in their right mind wouldn't do; entering a haunted house for example and not running away when there are messages written in blood onto the walls. When they finally find one of their friends decapitated somewhere in the house (and there is not that much blood in a human body), it's too late to run and the group is chased through the house by a guy with a mask. And is that a fucking scythe?

Dean starts groping Sam's knee fifteen minutes into the film, when onscreen the stereotypical jock takes off the bra of his stereotypical hot cheerleader girlfriend, and the only thing surprising Sam is that Dean resisted for so long. As soon as he feels the warm, calloused hand settling on his knee, right where the skirt's protective layer of cloth ends, Sam reaches out without looking, takes Dean's hand and puts it on his own knee before demonstratively leaning his legs towards the empty seat next to him.

There is a pause after that in which Dean seems to be forming new plans in his head while stuffing his face with popcorn, too distracted to moan over his food as he usually does. Sam is left in peace and can not-enjoy what is happening on the screen for the next five minutes as the stereotypical group of college kids meets up to debate which reckless stuff they are going to do next in their summer break until they decide on breaking into the old, apparently haunted mansion with the convenient urban legend about it. He doesn't even catch what it's this time, but he bets it's either some guy who murdered his inbred family or a doctor who was known for particularly disgusting experiments on humans. Oh, they went for creepy adopted child with a scythe, however, it doesn't matter anyway, because that's when Dean does the old stretch-and-wrap-an-arm-around-the-girl trick, his left hand landing on Sam's shoulder and pulling him tightly against Dean's side. Sam is shortly thrown off course by Dean's bold confidence, but then again he's sitting next to the guy who's more or less pressed him up against a kitchen counter before, and he really shouldn't be surprised. Said guy is smirking at him, predatory and feral, his body way too hot against Sam's, sending alarms off in his mind, but he's too distracted by the way Dean smells. It's a mixture of sweat, the leather of his jacket, motor oil and some tangy cologne, and Sam is getting high on the dangerous cocktail that is Dean. He doesn't know how he does it, but he manages to raise his hand and pinch the back of the hand resting on his shoulder, hard, making Dean's finger twitch, but he doesn't back off. Instead, he presses Sam even closer to his side until he has to shift in his seat and rest his head on Dean's shoulder to remain comfortable. He makes a big show of it, rolling his eyes and elbowing Dean's side not so accidentally, trying to bring across that he doesn't want this, although he sorta kinda really does.

Dean doesn't try anything further, just holds Sam as he relaxes against his side, head on the broad shoulder. After a few moments, Dean's thumb starts drawing circles onto Sam's skin softly, and Sam lets him.

Tugging his jacket closer and hugging himself, Sam blinks up at the dark sky when they exit the theater. It has gotten cold over the last few weeks, autumn slowly but surely paving the way for winter, and soon there will be snow and colorful lights blinking in every shop window while plastic Santas wave at passersby and Christmas songs drift through the air.

But first there's Halloween in one week, and Sioux Falls has already prepared itself by putting carved pumpkins in every free space available and looking through the shop window next to the theatrer, Sam finds himself eye in empty eye socket with a grinning plastic skeleton. Jess has invited him to a Halloween party of a friend, and he's still considering if he should go there, not too eager for the day of slutty costumes. The most he'll likely do is standing in a corner anyway and sipping his beer while the others dance on tables and make out around the room, guys like Dean shoving their hands up the short skirt of a nurse, a cat, or a police woman.

"You goin' to a party on Halloween?" Dean asks when he follows Sam's gaze to the shop window. "Already decided on the costume?"

"Haven't decided yet. But slutty anything isn't really my style, y'know."

"Bet you'd make a hot nurse." He winks, his hand laying heavy on the small of Sam's back, and Sam rolls his eyes and takes a step to the side, immediately missing the contact but unwilling to admit it. "Not your thing? How about hot zombie?" Dean goes on while they start walking back to the car, his shoulder brushing against Sam's every few steps.

"I don't even know if I'm gonna go. Not like it's gonna be fun watching a room full of teenagers trying to shove their tongues down each other's throats and their hands beneath clothes."

"Aw, Sammy. But it is fun, I can show you." Before Sam can respond to the offer, a hand comes up and squeezes his ass, and Sam freezes so abruptly he stumbles and his face nearly ends up getting up close and personal with the sidewalk. "Dean!" he yelps as soon as he's caught himself against a wall—and his ears are only red because it's cold, no other reason—but Dean has walked on, chuckling softly at Sam over his shoulder, eyes glinting with amused challenge.

"Nice ass, Sammy. You working out?"

He's gonna wipe that smirk off Dean's face one day with his fist, but for now he has to wait until his knees stop being jelly, so he settles for, "fuck you."

"You gonna help me with that?"

"Ha fucking ha, asshole." His knees are still a bit wobbly, but he walks up to Dean anyway, scowling, and stops short again, staring at the group of people coming their way. This is exactly what he's tried to avoid, and his mind is rattling down a litany of stupid, stupid, stupid, Sam! as Kate Kennedy walks up to Dean with her entourage of loyal apprentices and says, "hey Dean." She's using that ridiculous sing-song voice that basically translates into I want your dick inside me, and Sam has half the mind to cringe while looking at his feet, praying for what it's worth that nobody's gonna recognize him beneath the shield of his bangs if someone happens to tear their eyes off Dean and look his way.

"Hey, uh..." Dean answers, her name clearly forgotten, and Sam bites his lips to stifle a snort, unable to not feel malicious glee over him forgetting Kate Kennedy's name.

"Kate," she provides, her voice having dropped to a much colder level.

"Right, Kate. Hi." Real smooth, Dean, Sam thinks and his jaw is trembling from the way he presses his lips into a thin line to create a barrier against the laughter bubbling up his airways. Kate would never forgive him for laughing at her, and even though he doesn't in the least care about what she thinks of him, pissing off the queen of his school is like picking a fight with every single jock roaming the halls, and Sam wants to survive until he graduates, thanks.

"What are you doing here, Dean? I though you had a date tonight?" Kate pouts, and Sam's head snaps up so fast he thinks he felt something pop in his neck, but never mind, because what? Date?

Dean puffs himself up, grinning smugly. "Yeah, and I'm still on it."

Both Sam's and Kate's jaws drop, because that can't be right. She voices out loud what Sam only thinks, "You're kidding, right? On a date with Sam Winchester?" The way she says his name makes it sound like an insult, and it stings, but Sam has to clear this, because if Kate tells people Sam's trying to seduce Dean then his life in Sioux Falls is fucking over, so he chimes in right as Dean straightens up and glowers down at her, defending Sam loudly, what creates a disharmony of protests.

"No, we're not on a date. No way!" Sam assures while Dean exclaims, "damn right I'm on a date with Sammy! You got a problem with that?"

Sam palms his face.

And Kate? Kate outright laughs at Dean's face. "With that freak? You could have me," she gestures towards her body, that night wrapped into a tight and short dress that barely covers her ass and sparkles softly in the street lights, "and you decide on going out with... that?"

There's disgust in her voice and every word stabs into Sam like a knife, making his throat clamp shut and his hands close to fists until he feels his blunt nails digging into skin. Dean is staring at Kate, caught up in a mix of confusion and anger, mouth opening to reply something Sam doesn't want to hear, so he talks over him. He's had enough.

"You know what, Kate? I didn't even know he was dragging me on a date. It was shitty anyway, so why don't you two go off and have some fun. I bet some back alley will be enough for your standards."

To underline his words, he gives Dean a hard push, and he staggers forward and into Kate, caught off guard by Sam's outburst. Dean curses and calls Sam's name, but he's already slipped through the row of people behind Kate and is running down the street, floundering when he nearly loses one of his shoes. From behind him high-pitched screeches reach his ear, and he thinks he can make out Dean shouting something along the lines of 'get your hands off me, bitch', but he doesn't care, just runs on, ignoring the tears stinging hot in his eyes. He's not going to cry. Not over Dean. And not in the world over anything Kate Kennedy has to say. Dean is following him, still calling Sam's name, and Sam wishes he'd put on sneakers, because the sound of Dean's heavy biker boots on the pavement draw closer and closer until a hand closes around him and he's dragged into an alley and pressed against a brick wall.

"Get off me, Dean!" Sam struggles against the death grip Dean has on his wrists to pin his hands to the wall, and he's satisfied to hear a pained curse when his foot connects with Dean's shin. "Ow, fuck, Sammy, calm the fuck down!"

"Then let go!"

"And then what? You—ow—gonna run off again? Stop that!"

Sam is straining against the hands holding him in place, his knuckles scraping over the bricks, stone tearing on skin, but he's too angry to care, too much adrenaline in his system to feel the pain of his skin breaking, and he kicks out at Deans shins, tries to stomp on his feet or knee his balls. Dean is getting visibly frustrated, telling Sam to stop and calm down again and again, but Sam's only spitting curses back at him, his vision blurry with unshed tears.

Then Dean takes a step forward, and suddenly there's a wall of unmoving muscle pressing down on Sam, covering his body and taking away his ability to struggle and kick, and Dean's mouth is next to his ear, hot and damp breath brushing over his skin when a calm and deep voice repeats, "Sam, stop."

It's like someone cut the strings holding Sam up. His muscles relax immediately, and he sags against Dean, his broad chest and strong arms the only thing preventing Sam from collapsing in a heap to the dirty ground. The calloused hands that had held him down just seconds ago are now sliding along his arms and down his sides to his hips, thumbs rubbing soothingly through the fabric along the outline of bones there, and Dean leans slightly back to look Sam in the face, the smile on his lips so soft it's unfamiliar. "There, that's better."

Sam only huffs in defeat, mind focused on the up and down and up and down of Dean's fingers, the sensation muffled by cloth but still there and incredible, teasing, tickling, not enough and too much at the same time, setting his nerves on fire and making his body beg for more, more, more. His breath is coming in short, quick gasps, and he can feel Dean's heart beating as fast as his own against his chest. There's a moment where the two of them are just staring at each other, their breath mingling in the space between them, brushing over Sam's skin, tickling his lips. Green eyes drop to Sam's mouth, and when they look back up, Sam can see the pupils are dilated, two black holes surrounded by a thin ring of deep green.

Dean leans in and presses his lips to Sam's.

It's the last straw, and all of his good intentions are thrown overboard with a salute to his sinking mind. His reaction to the kiss is almost violent, hands fisting into the back of Dean's jacket, trying to pull him closer although there is no space left between them, head lifting off the wall and lips mashing together hard, before Sam parts his with a gasp and Dean takes it as an invitation, pushes his tongue between them and tangles it with Sam's, soft and hot with a lingering taste of popcorn. Teeth clash and nip and even bite everything they can reach. Dean's fingers tighten around Sam's hips so hard there will be bruises tomorrow, marks in the form of his fingertips Sam can look at, proof that all this isn't a dream, and he's here, really here, pressed up against the wall of a back alley by Dean's body, Dean's mouth on his own, Dean's hands sliding from his hips and around him to grip his ass, give it a squeeze so firm it's edging on painful but in a good way, in a breathtaking way, in a moremoremore way.

Dean breaks the kiss and Sam draws in a deep breath, already missing the touch and the warmth. But then Dean starts nuzzling the crook of his neck, kiss-bruised lips pressing a line of hot, wet kisses along his neck up to his ear, softly nipping on the lobe before biting down harder, the sensation sending a white hot jolt through Sam's body with an explosion of fireworks at his nerve endings.

"You're mine, Sammy," Dean rasps into his ear possessively, and Jesus, they aren't even dating or something, but that's fucking hot, especially since Dean slips his hands down to Sam's thighs and hoists his legs up to wrap them around his hips, skirt riding up and exposing naked flesh to cold air and hot hands. Alarm bells go off in Sam's mind but he can't remember why it's supposed to be a bad idea to allow Dean to press their hips together when it feels so good, his dick already—

"Well, well, well," Dean drawls, smirk sharp and broad, but not in the least surprised, "Sammy's got a dirty little secret!"

Fuck. Fucketyfuckingfuckfuck!

Sam starts struggling again. He's gotta get the fuck out of here, fast!

But Dean isn't letting him go, pressing their crotches together and holding him in place, hands holding his legs tightly, and Dean knows, he found out, he felt it, Sam's dick against his, rock hard and solid and undeniably there!

"Woah, Sammy, calm down, it's okay, it's alright, Sammy, hey," he tries to sooth, but fuck no, it's not alright! He's gonna laugh at him, he's gonna make fun of him, he's gonna—

Dean lets go of Sam's legs and grabs his face instead, holding him in place and then his lips are back on Sam's, but the hunger is gone, no more nipping and intruding tongues, just an urgent press of lips forcing him to shut up and grounding him until the kiss turns into something softer, almost languid, before he leans back again, thumbs drawing idle patterns onto Sam's cheeks and jaw. Sam is still breathing hard, his chest brushing against Dean's on every deep inhale. Dean's eyes are soft seas of green and Sam is drawn in by them, he's sinking, drowning, clinging to Dean's broad arms like he's his anchor, and then Dean starts talking and Sam gets colder with every word.

"I already knew Sam, knew from the very beginning when I saw that cute, perky ass in the green dress, and I just had to—"

Sam's head snaps forward, clashing foreheads together painfully, because he can't hear Dean say it, can't bear the humiliation, and Dean staggers back, hands leaving Sam in favor of rubbing the hurt skin above his eyebrows, and he hisses in pain.

"Had to what, Dean? Had to fuck the little freak in skirts? Make me another notch on the bed post, your very special conquest? A tally in fucking rainbow colors on your list?"

He's screeching hysterically, tears hot on his cheeks, but he doesn't care, he's had enough of Dean Milligan and his games. His arm draws back and the next thing he feels is his fist connecting with Dean's brow, and it hurts but creates a wonderful counterpoint to the pain inside him. Dean cries out and stumbles against the wall, cursing loudly and colorfully. Sam doesn't listen though, just turns and runs, out of the alley, down the street, Dean's footsteps and shouts for him to fucking wait and listen following him, and he's catching up again, dammit.

Sam sprints over a street, and the next thing he hears are car horns and screeching tires, then shouting between two men, one of them Dean, followed by a thump when someone slaps a flat hand onto the hood of a car.

He runs on, and Dean isn't following him anymore.

He loses one of his shoes on the way home.

The lights are still on in their house, and Sam can see Dad moving around in the living room, watching some bullshit on TV. Fortunately, the driveway is empty, so Dean hasn't come by yet and Sam is stupidly relieved. He walks up the gravel driveway as silently as he can manage, grimacing when the stones push unpleasantly into the sole of his naked foot and the smaller cuts he's already got there from walking half the way home with only one shoe. Stupid ballerinas, was a pain in the ass to find one in his size.

With hands shaking from the cold—at least that's what he tells himself—Sam needs a moment to fumble the key into the lock, metal scratching over metal. When he shoves the door open, Dad's already leaning against the doorway of the living room, smile slipping from his face when he takes in his son, face smeared with tears and snot, feet and calves sprayed with mud, one shoe missing, naked foot leaving brown footprints mingled with blood. In a second, Dad's in front of him, scooping him up into his broad arms and pressing him against his chest, making Sam feel very small, yet impossibly safe and protected.

"What happened, Sammy?" Dad asks, unable to keep the anger and worry from his voice, but trying nonetheless, carrying Sam over to the couch. "Who did this? Where's Dean, dammit?!"

"'S just my foot, Dad," Sam mumbles and sinks deeper into the cushions and his jacket, wrapping his arms around himself while Dad rummages in the bathroom, pulling on drawers and slamming cupboard doors until he finds the first aid kit. He cleans and bandages Sam's foot in silence, shooting glances at Sam every once in a while. When he's finished, he slips onto the couch next to his son and pulls him so that Sam's head rests on his legs, combing fingers through tangled strands of hair. The sobbing starts only a few minutes later, and Sam tries hiding his face in his hands, cringing when he moves the already swollen knuckles of his right hand.

Dad grabs his wrist and pulls the hand up, inspecting the torn skin while it turns blue and purple. "What happened?" The words are pressed through clenched teeth, and Sam can feel Dad tensing with anger.

"Hit someone. Thanks for teaching me the tricks by the way," he mumbles into the denim of Dad's jeans, and Dad laughs in surprise. "Who'd you hit?"

"Doesn't matter. But I wish it was that bitch Kate."

"The Kennedy girl?"

"Yeah. Bitch. With her high heels and short skirts and big boobs, and, and, and..." He's cut off by the strangled sobs fighting their way up his throat and out, and Dad holds him close while he shakes and cries into the broad shoulder, drenching the gray shirt Dad's wearing.

They are interrupted by the rumble of the Impala pulling into their driveway, making Sam stiffen, and Dad, curse the damn Marine reflexes, catches up on it, is on his feet and out the door before Sam can stop him. He hobbles after the seething form of his Dad and out onto the porch, freezing in shock when he sees Dad grabbing the front of Dean's shirt, shouting right at his face, saliva spraying. "What'd you do? You were supposed to watch out for him, Dean!"

He gives Dean a hard shake, and Dean lets him, isn't even looking at John and instead at the ground next to him. "Only one condition to take him out on a date, Dean, and you mess it up! He walked the whole way back, even lost his goddamn shoe!"

"Dad! Dad, stop!" Although he knows it won't help, Sam tugs on Dad's arm, because Dean is looking like a kicked puppy by now, hanging in Dad's grasp, suddenly small and vulnerable, swagger and confidence gone. "It's not his fault, Dad."

"So why is he wearing a black eye with the name Sam Winchester on it?!"

"Okay, yes, I hit him, but that's it," Sam exclaims, still tugging on Dad's arm, and surprisingly, he lets go of Dean and takes a step back. "I solved it, alright? It's not his fault I ran away. Now, just, go inside and let me handle this." Hands on Dad's chest, Sam ushers him back to the house, smiling as reassuringly as he can manage. Dad nods, but remains standing in the doorway anyway, looming over them with his arms crossed over his chest and a glare firmly in place.

Sam and Dean just stare at each other for a time, until Dean rasps, "thanks," his smile wary and awkward, and Sam shakes his head.

"Didn't do it for you." He walks over to the Impala, leans against her hood, the surface still warm from the engine. "He likes you. My dad, I mean. The way he talks one could think you're his son." The gravel scrunches beneath Sam's feet when he kicks out softly, following the small stones with his eyes as they bounce off into the darkness.

"I'm gonna talk to him, tell him I freaked out because of Kate and you unfortunately got in the way. It's gonna be alright again tomorrow."

"Sam..." Dean begins, but doesn't go on, the word hanging in the silence between them, heavy with all the things Dean doesn't want to say and Sam doesn't want to hear. He looks sad, shoulders hunched and hands buried in his pockets, digging the tip of his shoe into the ground.

"Save it, Dean," Sam says, tired, and walks back into the house.

Sam spends the weekend on the couch in the living room with Jess, their favorite movies, and enough food and chocolate to feed a family of five. They talked about what happened, and Jess didn't stop to apologize until he told her to leave it alone or he'll kick her out. After that it was business as usual.

Until the damn phone rings on Sunday. Sam and Jess are watching Star Wars, yelling at Leia and Han Solo to finally kiss and make up, because there is totally something going on between them, they shouldn't even start denying it, when Dad picks up the phone. After a minute, a glass shatters in the kitchen.

"Dad?" Sam calls out over his shoulder, but there is no answer. He's on his feet and in the kitchen in a second, looking at Dad, who's leaned over the sink, the phone discarded beside it, glass shards all over the floor. "Dad?" Sam tries again, his voice wavering with concern, and he carefully steps through the shards, his hands coming up to Dad's back, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.

"Jimmy Marcus died this morning," Dad answers and reaches into the cupboard to retrieve the bottle of whiskey stored there.

James 'Jimmy' Marcus was nineteen years old when he hit a woman while driving home from a party. Drunk as he was, he had not thought of putting on a seat belt, what resulted in him being thrown out of his car through the window when he drove into a concrete wall after running over Mary Winchester.

Mary died at the scene.

Jimmy fell into coma.

And now, years later, they turned off the machines that kept him breathing.

Sam finds a note when he comes home from school, telling him that Dad's running an errand for Bobby and is getting groceries on the way, so he'll be home later. Like for the past five days, Sam climbs up the stairs and goes into his room, lays down in bed and wraps the covers tightly around himself.

He's cold, and nothing helps.

This is all too much. Too fucking much. First the whole shit with Dean, now this. The guy who killed his mom is never going to jail. Of course, he's dead, and he spent the last few years in a coma, people can say that was justice enough, however, Jimmy never realized he took a woman's life. He never got to know Sam and John Winchester, never found out what happened to their lives, how they hurt, how they grieved, only because he couldn't stand keeping his hands off alcohol and his car keys.

For Sam, the world had stopped spinning the night he was sitting in the living room in Lawrence, pressing up against Missouri's chest for comfort, silently sobbing into her teeshirt while the police men told him his mom was never coming back. It had taken the world years to start moving again.

The hole in Sam's chest had closed, stitched together by every good thing that happened to him, by every person who loved him, every year going by making the hole less and less, until it turned into a pink scar, healed, but still there, sometimes itching slightly, but not hurting that much anymore.

Now it was deep red and hurting again, flayed at the edges, so painful.

Sam pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and stares at the photo on his nightstand, Mom's face smiling back at him.

There is a hesitant knock on his door after some time. Sam doesn't know how long he's been staring at the photo, and he sighs. "Yeah?" His throat is slightly raspy from not being used in a bit, so maybe it's been hours.

"Sammy? It's me, Dean."

Sam buries his head in the pillow and groans. He doesn't have the energy for this. "Go away."

Dean pauses, shuffling his feet, biker boots scrubbing over carpet, then the door opens and the bed dips under Dean's weight. When Sam looks at him over his shoulder, Dean has his back to him, head lowered.

"I said go away," Sam mumbles and lies back down.

"Didn't understand it the first time."

Dean doesn't move to leave, just sits there, the silence between them only occasionally interrupted by the scratch of stubble on skin when he rubs a hand over his jaw.

"What do you want, Dean?"

"What do you need?" He turns around to look at Sam, green eyes dull and tired, lacking the mischievous glint he has become so used to seeing in them. It's confusing.

"I need you to go." Scooting to the very edge of his bed, Sam turns to the photo again. He can't stand to look at Dean any longer. The weight on his mattress shifts, and for a moment, he thinks Dean is about to leave, and cold fingers wrap around his insides. Stupid. He doesn't want to be alone now, desperate for company, even if it's Dean's. No, that's wrong. He's desperate for Dean's company, after everything that's happened, he's still longing for his smug smile, the blazing green eyes, the touch of calloused hands. So much he's disgusted by himself. His hands flex, clutching the sheets hard while his eyes squint shut against the tears threatening to come.

Dean's hand is hesitant, almost gentle, when it lays down on his shoulder and rolls Sam onto his back. Suddenly, there's that face again, sad but still beautiful, hanging above Sam's in the air, smile resigned and unhappy. He leans in without warning, and Sam's head isn't fast enough to react, too mesmerized by Dean's face getting closer and closer, until there is no space anymore and his eyes have to cross to keep it in his vision.

The kiss is chaste and over before it properly began, just a brush of chapped and dry lips, and Dean's face vanishes, leaving Sam to stare at the crack in the ceiling Dad hasn't fixed yet, his lungs burning with the breath he's holding.

"Your dad's worried about you, Sammy. Karen, too. We all are."

And then Dean is gone, the only thing staying the tingling on Sam's mouth, and he slips his tongue over his lips, taking in the taste of Dean.

The weekend comes and goes featuring crappy horror movies on TV for Halloween. Jess calls and asks if Sam really doesn't want to come to Emily's party. It could take his mind off things maybe. A bit of fun wouldn't hurt, right?

Sam only tells her to enjoy herself and slips back onto the couch next to Dad while Jason Voorhees chases teenagers over the screen.

He's going crazy, Sam decides when he walks out of school on Monday. It's either him or Dean, and, considering his mental scarring, he's clearly the more likely option, because there is no way Dean Milligan is really standing over there, leaned against a Harley while waving at Sam with the most dorky smile on his face. At Sam's side, Jess hesitates, her head jerking slightly back in surprise, so Sam isn't going crazy, yet he glances over at Kate Kennedy for ultimate proof, who throws him a nasty glare and then stalks off to her group of fans to polish up her self esteem with the help of their leers and wolf whistles.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean calls out when Sam still hasn't moved, successfully drawing the attention of every last person on the school grounds to them, and Sam just wants to sink into the ground and never come up again. Ever. When he looks to his side for reassurance, Jess's lips are twitching as she tries to win a battle against her smile, and she nudges him softly in the side, nodding towards Dean.

With a long-suffering sigh, Sam steels himself and walks over to Dean and the Harley, trying to ignore the way his lips tingle with the memory of a short, stolen kiss. Dean is still grinning broadly when Sam comes to a halt in front of him, keeping his distance. "What are you doing here, Dean?" He's tried to make it sound annoyed, but it comes out more tired than anything else.

"Picking you up from school on my new baby," Dean responds and pats the leather of the seat almost fondly. The bike is an old Harley Davidson Hummer who's clearly seen better days, blue paint already peeling, yet the engine looks newer, undoubtedly Dean's doing, and Sam eyes the machine suspiciously, especially the smaller leather cushion above the rear wheel. "There's no way I'm gonna sit on that," Sam says and points at what has to be his seat, but Dean only grins, throwing him a black half helmet.

"You bet your sweet little ass you gonna, Sammy. I hid your math textbooks, and I'm not giving them back until you gave it a try at least once." His grin is positively smug when he pulls his own helmet over his head, closing it with a click while Sam fumes with rage, gripping the helmet in his hands tightly and grinding out, "you didn't."

Dean just shrugs and swings one leg over the bike, sitting down and kicking the stand back. The engine springs to life with a twist of the key, rumbling loudly in a way newer engines don't do anymore, deep and pleasant with power, a sound that reminds Sam a lot of the Impala. "Good luck with that test next week," Dean shouts over the noise and lets the engine growl, threatening to take off, and Sam shoves the helmet quickly over his head and climbs onto the bike, wearing his anger and annoyance openly on his face while Dean throws his head back and laughs. Sam reluctantly snakes his arms around his waist and holds on, face pressing into the leather jacket, every breath he takes tinged with the smell of Dean. For a heartbeat, he allows himself to sink into the moment, the bike rumbling beneath him, vibrations chasing up his spine, Dean's stomach rising and falling against his hands with every breath.

"Don't strangle me, alright, sweetheart." Dean says softly, his words nearly getting lost in the rumbling of the engine, and Sam nods against his back. He doesn't want to forgive Dean, but when he finds himself sitting on the Harley, clinging to his waist, senses full of Dean, the wind whipping his face while they speed down the streets, it's hard not to consider it at least.

They're halfway to the Winchester home when Sam remembers his math books are in his backpack, and he smiles.

Sam cuffs Dean in his arm when he climbs off the bike, staggering slightly. Dean only laughs, knowing he's been found out. "Took you long enough, Sammy. For someone with a brain like yours you sure as hell can be a bit slow sometimes."

"You're a manipulative asshole," Sam informs him, deadpan, and hands the helmet back, determined to punish Dean with the silent treatment for that little stunt from now on, but his mind is derailed when calloused and warm fingers close around his wrist and he's pulled forward, hands fumbling for something to hold onto and finding Dean's forearms. Then there's a another hand on the back of his neck, holding him in place while a familiar pair of lips presses against his own.

The kiss isn't that chaste this time, but not as wild as their first, lips moving slowly against each other for a couple moments, and Sam should really not be doing this, because now Dean is nipping softly on his bottom lip, hot tongue slipping out and licking, just for a second, before drawing back in. It feels way too good, and his body is saying it's not enough while his mind is screaming it's too much, his nerves burning with the sensations, but then Dean's lips are gone again, cold breeze brushing over now heated skin, leaving Sam to stare unmoving.

A slap on his ass jolts him out of the stupor violently, and Dean chuckles and winks at him while he rolls out of the driveway, unfazed by the glower Sam is sending his way as he rubs the sensitive flesh of his butt.

The next morning, Dean and the Harley are waiting in the driveway for Sam, and he gets on without a word. It's the same in the afternoon, when Dean picks him up again from school. He doesn't want to admit it, but he waits for a kiss that day when he gets off the bike at home, but it never comes. Slightly disappointed, and hating himself all the more for it, Sam shuffles inside, listening to the rumble of the engine fading away.

He finds Dean waiting for him the rest of the week and the one after that. Sometimes, there's a kiss, and Sam's heart pounds against his rip cage every time they pull into the driveway, his body longing for the touch of lips against his. More often than not, he's left to stand on the gravel, hands empty and body begging while Dean drives off without so much as a smile as goodbye.

But when they kiss, it's breathtaking, every new kiss more fervent than the last one, step by step turning from chaste and short to hungry and passionate, with teeth nipping and tongues battling. Dean's hands, however, always stay above Sam's clothes, holding on to his shoulders, his waist and hip or cupping his cheeks.

Sam doesn't know what to make of it.

Then the weather gets too bad, and Dean doesn't pick him up with the bike anymore. He tells himself he doesn't care, but he knows it's a lie.

They go over to Karen and Bobby's for Thanksgiving, and Sam helps with the turkey while Dad, Bobby and Dean are sitting in front of the TV, watching the game and sipping on their beers between comments on this player or that one. It's surprisingly peaceful to listen to their low murmur and deep laughter while preparing dinner, and Karen and Sam speak as little as possible, small smiles on their lips.

At one point Karen leaves for the bathroom, and Sam is left alone, concentrating on the cranberry sauce as Dean saunters in, drawling, "look at this. Little Sammy is definitely a keeper, aren't ya?"

"Ha ha." Sam tries for nonchalance, fails horribly, and settles for refraining from blushing instead, but considering how hot his face already feels, he assumes it's already taken on the color of his burgundy dress. Grinning smugly, Dean walks over to him, pressing up against his back and resting his chin on Sam's shoulder to look at the sauce, one hand absentmindedly stroking his hip.

Dean is warm and solid, and although Sam is already 5' 9'', he still feels small next to Dean. Surprisingly, it doesn't bother him, and he leans back into the touch, a sense of protection and comfort taking over and making him relax. It's nice, he thinks, and, Dean is nice.

They stand like this for a moment, and Sam relishes the warmth of the body behind him, the smell, the slight scratch of stubble against his shoulder where the fabric of his dress is thin and the small hairs poke through it. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "Why are you doing this?"

Dean slightly tenses, and Sam curses inwardly, already mourning the moment. "Doing what?" Dean's voice sounds cautious, as if he's sending the words through a mine field, fearing to set one off if he goes too far, asks too much.

"This." Sam turns around to face him, already missing the touch but determined to get some answers. Dean has been acting strange around him, doing all these considerate and sweet things, like picking Sam up from school, bringing him a cup of coffee when he's sitting in the library to study, and keeping his hands above Sam's skirts. Of course, Dean does it with a teasing remark about Sam being a nerd and a slap on his ass, but there's a softness hidden behind all these gestures that Sam can't help but notice. He hadn't thought it possible that Dean, who was all predatory smirks and lewd humor, could actually do things that would fit better into a chick-flick than into real life. Nights have gone by with Sam rolling around in his bed, the moments with Dean playing on repeat in his head while he analyzes every second, every gesture, every look. His first guess was that this was all another plan to get into Sam's pants, but he couldn't really see Dean, womanizer extraordinaire, trying so hard to get some when there are women who are only a wink away from throwing their panties at him. However, the other option is something Sam doesn't even want to think about.

Dean looks at him for a long moment, lids heavy and face blank before a small and soft smile starts playing around his lips. "Maybe not everything you thought about me is actually true."

"Maybe."

Sam bites his lip, and after a second of debating with himself, leans in. The kiss is slow and almost chaste, lacking tongue and burning passion, but it's still good, even though Sam is a bit hesitant. It's special, at least to him, because it's the first kiss Sam started. Before, it was always Dean, leaning in, pulling Sam down, gripping him, pressing up against him, and in the back of his mind, a small voice whispers he's just done a mistake, that he should stop and forget Dean and everything that happened, but Sam knows it's too late. Has been for a very long time.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Sam says when he breaks the kiss, voice breathless and barely more than a whisper.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Dean answers and winks, slapping Sam's butt as his grin returns to being predatory, and Sam rolls his eyes.

However, this time he does it in a playful way.

This was bound to happen, Sam thinks as he runs down the dark street, slipping on the thin layer of snow and stumbling on, breath forming white clouds in front of his mouth. Behind him, Kyle Williams calls, "where's your boyfriend now, Winchester?", drawing a choir of snickers from his jock friends as their footsteps come steadily closer. If Kyle were alone, Sam could take him on, no doubt. Sure, he would have to take some hits, but Dad's lessons in self-defense have been thorough and long, taught under the motto: 'blood in training spares blood in a real fight'. Kyle might have an advantage in muscle and bulk, but even that can't make up a well-aimed hit to his solar plexus or throat. However, as things are, he didn't come unprepared, bringing three of his friends along to ambush Sam on his way out of the library, and the first punch caught him straight in the jaw, throwing his head back and splitting his lip. Sam hadn't even bothered trying to counter-attack when he saw the group of boys, had just turned on his heels and run like hell, the others following him with taunts on their lips and bursts of laughter echoing through the streets. Now, Sam's whole head is pounding, neck stinging, jaw throbbing. His mouth tastes of copper and when he spits out, there's a small red spot on the white snow.

"Hey Winchester, I thought guys like you like a bit of a gang bang," Kyle yells, and Sam staggers into the next alley he can find, which turns out to be one of his worst decisions so far, since he finds himself facing a brick wall, and he curses, looking around frantically for an escape, anything.

His eyes find a fire escape, ladder pulled up, but if he climbs on the garbage container next to it, he can maybe jump up and pull it down. It's his only other way out, if he doesn't want to get intimate with Kyle and his friends's fists, and Sam scrambles onto the container, prepares himself for the jump, and—

Hands close around his ankles and pull him back. The world is rushing towards him, face connecting with the container's metal surface painfully, sending a jolt of white hot pain through his nose and forehead and he gasps, air supply cut off. The hands continue to drag him down and off the container, regardless of Sam's hands trying to hold on, and the air is forced from his lungs when he tumbles to the pavement in a heap of bruised limps and strained muscles. A foot presses into his side and he's rolled onto his back, body aching. Kyle crouches down next to him, grinning while he shoves his ugly mug into Sam's line of vision, vile smirk stretching his lips and baring his teeth. "Little freak," he snarls, "seducing good men."

Sam spits out, leaving a trail of saliva and blood on Kyle's face, and he grins satisfied. "Says the guy who showers with ten other guys." Kyle's face is a grimace of disgust and anger when he wipes the spit and blood off his face, and his voice is dangerously low when he goes on, "you're gonna pay for this, Winchester. Let's find out if your boyfriend will still look at you when you have a broken nose."

Sam only laughs because the other option would be crying, and he's not gonna give them that. Kyle stands and draws his foot back, and Sam sees an opening, punches the side of the other knee, the one Kyle has all his weight on currently, and watches with glee when the answer is a yelp of pain and the jock goes to the ground, clutching the hurt joint. But he doesn't have long to enjoy his little victory, because then Kyle's friends are on him, two of them holding his arms and legs while the third kicks him in the rips, yelling that Sam's a disgusting fag and should be locked up in the loony bin with the others of his kind. Sam tries to curl up on himself to protect his torso, but the two guys hold on tightly, not giving him an inch, no matter how hard he struggles. On the third kick there's a crack and sharp pain that makes his head spin so much he nearly doesn't hear the shout of, "hey!"

The kicking stops, but his limbs are still restrained, however, all of them are looking at the man standing in the mouth of the alley, hands in his pockets and bow legs spread. Sam feels relieved and insane laughter clawing up his airways, but it comes out weak and gurgling from the blood pooling in his throat. Figures that Dean would be his Knight in shining Armor, fulfilling the cliché.

Dean's voice is calm but icy cold when he speaks. "Wouldn't do that if I were you."

Kyle, who's climbed to his feet again, rubbing his hurt knee absently, sneers and spits out. "What? You gonna stop us?"

There's a pause in which Dean seems to be considering, tilting his head back and taking a step closer, his gait nonchalant. "Don't think I can. I mean you're two more than us, and Sammy doesn't look like he can do much by now. But," he adds when Kyle opens his mouth for a retort, "I know John Winchester. Makes me wonder if they'll find your bodies in one piece. If they ever find anything, of course."

It's funny how quickly the color drains away from Kyle's face, because everybody knows of John Winchester since three years ago when Dad got into a fight with three low-life thugs who threatened a woman for her purse. The guys ended up in hospital with broken fingers, rips and noses, their black eyes refusing to fade for weeks, and Dad hadn't gotten more than a split lip and bloody knuckles, what resulted in rumors cursing about his time with the Marines. Some had even been convinced Dad is a retired CIA agent or some bullshit, and everybody had refrained from doing more than threatening bodily harm against his freak son. Kate must've been quite convincing to talk Kyle into this. Maybe she'd promised him a blow job or something.

Dean's smirk is positively evil, and he looks after them when the jocks run past him and out of the alley, shoving each other out of the way as if they're running from the Devil himself. When they're gone, Dean's mask of confidence falls, and he's at Sam's side in a second, patting along his ribs for broken bones and bruises, mumbling, "you alright, Sammy?"

"Yeah, 'm fine." Sam coughs and sits up with Dean's help, arms shaking with the weight of his tired body. He just wants to go home.

"You good to stand up?" Dean's voice sounds so concerned, eyes flickering over the wounds in Sam's face, the cuts and bruises and the small trickle of blood still running from his nose to his lips, painting them in an angry shade of red. He only shrugs as answer, tongue too heavy to form words properly, and Dean pushes his hands under Sam's shoulder to pull him up, holding him steady against his side when Sam staggers, knees giving out slightly. "Assholes got you good, huh? John's gonna kill somebody."

"Don't tell him, okay?"

Dean looks at him for a long moment, eyebrows raised, and Sam smiles weakly, explaining, "visiting hours in jail are a bitch."

Dean laughs and nods, walking Sam out on the street, one of his arms slung over Dean's broad shoulders. "Alright, don't even know their names. But I'm not so sure your Dad's not gonna find 'em anyway."

The Impala is parked not far away, and Sam feels relief flooding through him. He'd dreaded he'd have to walk the whole way home. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Your dad asked me to pick you up from the library. Said something about shitty bus hours and all that. Saw those dicks kicking someone on the ground when I drove by. Didn't even know it was you until I walked up to them." Dean's voice gets angrier with every word and his body tenses, his left hand curling around Sam's side protectively. Small muscles in his jaw twitch when Sam turns to look at his profile, and he can't help the smile slipping onto his lips as he sees how upset Dean is by Sam being hurt. It makes something warm spread in his stomach, and he would like to kiss Dean again, close the gap between their faces and press their lips together until they can't breath anymore and longer even. But his face is covered in blood, so he settles for leaning his forehead against Dean's temple, and the hard lines in the perfect face soften, eyes closing for a moment.

"Thank you," Sam whispers, and Dean shrugs, cheeks slightly pink.

"Just wish I'd been here sooner. C'mon, I'll get you home."

Sam nods off on the way home, and Dean softly shakes him, muttering something that sounds like 'concussion' and 'those assholes gonna pay for this', but Sam's too tired to really care.

Dad comes running out of the house when he sees the two of them staggering over the gravel, scooping Sam up in his arms like he weights nothing and demands of Dean to tell him who did this, barely keeping himself from yelling. As Sam is getting patched up on the couch, Dean cleaning his face with a wet cloth and Dad checking his ribs for fractures, Dean recounts what happened, only hesitating when John asks for names.

"Don't know 'em," Dean answers truthfully, softly wiping the cloth over Sam's nose. "But Sammy got one in the knee from what I saw. Fucker had to limp away."

Dad nods, frowning in concentration, oblivious to the way Sam's eyes narrow at Dean, who shrugs helplessly. "He'll find them anyway from the way they skitter away like cockroaches when he comes near," he says with a grin, and Sam snorts, imagining Kyle's head on the body of a cockroach, fleeing under a cupboard from Dad's feet.

When Dad's finished, he sends Dean home, thanking him for his help with an awkward slap on the shoulder before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. Dean wheezes and nods, rubbing his ribs when he tells John to call him if he needs more help, saying goodbye to Sam with fingers ruffling through the shaggy strands of hair.

Dad tries asking for the names again when he returns to the couch, sitting down and letting his son put his head onto his lap, but Sam refuses to say anything, just curls up on himself and falls asleep.

In the morning, he wakes up to Dad snoring, his head tipped back over the back of the couch in a way that will doubtlessly cause him pain later, and Sam wakes him up with a cup of coffee at the ready and a smile on his lips.

A few days later, Kyle is making a beeline for the doors, eyes sticking to the ground, whenever Sam enters a room or they walk past each other in the hallway. When he asks his Dad about it later, John laughs but quickly settles for a mocked innocent expression.

"I didn't do anything, Sammy. Just told them I'm considering teaching you some tricks I learned as a Marine. How to easily break someone's arm for example."

He winks conspiratorially, and Sam cuffs his shoulder playfully, rolling his eyes.

Christmas is coming closer and brings blizzards along for the ride. Sam is over at the Singers's when one hits and from the looks of it, it won't stop anytime soon, so Karen tells him he can stay the night and sits him down on the couch with a hot chocolate, marshmallows swimming around on the surface. A fire is crackling in the hearth when Dean barges in, covered in snow, jacket and jeans drenched, shivering from the cold.

"Where have you been?" Sam asks and sips on his drink, chocolaty sweetness exploding on the tip of his tongue, focusing on the book in his lap when Dean starts peeling off his drenched clothes.

"Locking up my baby in the shed." His jaw is chattering, and oh god, he's only wearing boxers and a teeshirt by now. Sam swallows, eyes flickering to the exposed flesh of Dean's thighs, drinking in the outlines of muscles and the dark blond dusting of hair he sees there. When he looks up again, Dean is smirking at him, all sharp teeth and lewd intent, growling, "you know you could help me getting warm again." He waggles his eyebrows and walks over to the couch, slipping past Sam as closely as he can, providing him with a good eye-full of black boxer briefs, and Sam is suddenly very concerned the book might slide off his lap.

Sam sighs and scoots over to the edge of the couch as Dean sits down on the other end, wrapping himself into a blanket. "Why don't you ask Kate or one of your other booty calls to do that?" Sam draws his knees up to his chest and hugs them close, resting his chin on them while he stares at the fire dancing in the hearth. There is a moment of heavy silence between them, and Sam looks over to find Dean staring back at him, almost sadly, lips pressed into a thin line. Dean looks to the side, laughing short and dry, a sound that hits Sam like a whiplash, tearing into his gut with a blade of ice.

"You really think I'm such an asshole, don't you, Sammy." It's not a question. He sounds so... hurt with all that resignation in his voice, and Sam suddenly feels like a dick. But why? He's not the one who played Dean—okay, he pretended to be a girl with a deep voice all this time, but it was necessary, right?—instead Dean acted like he didn't know about Sam's little secret, pushing him up against kitchen counters and brick walls while trying to get into his pants. And anyway, it's not like what Sam hinted at isn't true. There are several girls claiming to have had a night with Dean, all drooling after his butt like it's the Holy Grail of Asses, and Dean has done nothing so far to disprove the rumors, flirting with every woman that comes near him like it's his last night before the end of the world. It's like Dean read his mind, because now he says, "guess I deserve it, huh? Flirtin' with all these girls an' all." He's still not looking at Sam.

"Dean..."

"Nah, 's alright Sam, I get it. You hear them talking about me, saying they got me into their bed and all, and you don't even think of asking me yourself. You just assume it's the truth, because it fits. 'Cause you think just because there are a handful of pretty girls trailing me everywhere I go I'm not interested in a guy dressing up like a girl when he misses his dead mom."

Now Dean looks at him, and Sam can't stand it, can't bear how he looks right through his defenses, reads his mind like an open book and drags all his doubts to the surface. So Sam looks away, at the marine blue sweater he's wearing, and it's one of Mom's, the one she often wore in winter when she baked cookies and the whole house smelled of it for days.

"Dean." It's a sob, and there should be more words following, but they are stuck in his throat, edges digging into his tubes to only let out the strangled gasps slipping through the cracks between them. Dean is at his side in an instant, mumbling softly and urgent while he drags Sam onto his lap, hands rubbing over his back and shoulders, pressing his head down and into the crook of Dean's neck where the skin is slowly warming up again, "woah, hey, easy Sammy. I've got you, baby. I'm sorry. Don't cry, baby. I've got you."

Sam laughs, breathless and sad, hiccuping inbetween. This is all so ridiculous and wrong. He should be the one to apologize, not Dean. He hadn't listened, hadn't asked if all the girls said was true. And Dean had been so sweet over the last couple weeks, in his own way at least. Even then Sam had thought he was just playing with him, still trying to get into his pants, get his very special notch on the bedpost, not willing to even consider Dean felt something like genuine affection towards him.

"'M sorry, Dean," Sam finally chokes out through his tears, clinging to Dean like his life depends on it, hands clutching the back of the teeshirt. Dean only grips him tighter, hands slipping up and down his back soothingly, leaving a trail of heat along Sam's spine. Dry lips press against his neck and shoulder, putting small kisses there, and Sam shivers, something warm pooling in his chest and spreading from there through the rest of his body, making his fingertips prickle, and suddenly it's not the crying anymore that makes Sam breathless.

His heart speeds up, drumming an erratic rhythm against the cage of his chest. His nerves are tingling where Dean presses his lips to the quickly heating skin, and Sam wants. Wants this. Wants more. Wants so hard it hurts. Body tense as a bow string, his breath comes in shallow, quick gasps, every movement of Dean sending fireworks through his body, and those deft fingers draw patterns down his back and slide to his hips, down to his ass, squeezing softly.

Dean pulls Sam's head back by his hair, gently, and when Sam looks at his face, he sees it like he's only ever seen it in his dreams; cheeks red, lips parted and slightly wet from kissing, pupils blown wide, eyes heavy lidded and dark with arousal.

"Dean," Sam says again, and it's the only word he knows. It's a name, a plea and a prayer all at once. It's all he wants.

Dean's voice is deliciously husky, brushing against Sam's lip in a hot rush of air. "Let's go upstairs."

Dean carries him up the stairs, Sam's legs wrapped around his waist, large hands holding him up. They just look at each other, eyes flickering to one another's mouths, breath mingling between them. It's an eternity and only a second until they're in Dean's room, door kicked closed behind them, soft mattress giving in when Sam is placed onto it, shortly followed by Dean climbing between his legs and on top of him, pinning him down with the weight of his body, hard muscle pressing against Sam's lean frame.

"So pretty," he breathes against Sam's lips. "So fucking pretty with your dimples and eyes that can't decide which color they're."

Dean closes the gap between them, bringing their lips together.

It's overwhelming, their hundredth and first kiss at the same time, and it starts out slow, lips moving together gently, then a tongue ventures, licking over Sam's bottom lip, asking to be let in, and Sam opens his mouth, greets it with his own. From there it spirals into passionate, fervent, hot—teeth nipping and biting, lips sucking, tongues pushing and sliding against each other. Sam's breath starts shortening again, hot, quick bursts of air brushing against Dean's cheek, and he moans into the mouth covering his while Dean's hands finally, finally, slip beneath his sweater, fingertips brushing over his skin, his sides, following the line of his hipbones, the waistband of his jeans, before pushing the top up inch by inch, baring naked skin to be shortly after covered by wandering hands.

Sam has expected it to be urgent and wild, resulting in torn clothes and bodies covered in bruises and bite marks, but this is so much better, gentle and slow, and almost loving. Dean takes his time with him, exploring every outline of bone and muscle with his hands and then his mouth, brushing his lips against hot skin, closing his teeth around hardening nipples gingerly to send a sharp sensation through Sam that makes him jolt, back arching, before it gets kissed better again. Hands with long fingers that are made to play piano, shake when they lift off the bed, letting go of the sheets they have been clinging to for dear life, in favor to touch. Sam pushes his hands under Dean's shirt, dragging them along the muscles he feels moving there, coaxing a moan from Dean's lips that is breathed against the crook of Sam's neck, making shivers run down his spine, but he doesn't stop touching, doesn't deny himself any longer what he has been longing for since Dean swaggered into his life and threw the world off course.

Sam wants this.

He needs this.

His fingertips drag over Dean's shoulder blades and back down again, taking a hold of the teeshirt to pull it up and off Dean, ruffling his dark blond hair on the way and making it stand up every which way, begging for Sam to drag his fingers through it, smoothing the strands before disheveling them all over.

Dean pulls Sam up into a sitting position, making it easier to get the thick sweater out of the way, pressing their heaving chests together while they kiss again, Dean's mouth so hot it burns against Sam's, and he wants more, more heat, more touch, more everything.

"Dean," he whimpers when they break the kiss, laying back down, and it says all he can't, making Dean growl deep in his throat while his hands slide down to Sam's crotch, palming the erection that's pressing against the denim there, desperate to be touched. Button and zipper are opened with quick movements and Dean hooks his fingers in the waistband of jeans and boxer briefs to pull both off at the same time, leaving Sam completely naked and writhing under his heavy and hot gaze. "So fucking gorgeous," Dean rambles as his eyes wander over the lanky boy beneath him, skin glinstening with the sheen of sweat already there. "Beautiful Sammy, all hot and desperate."

Sam tugs helplessly on Dean's boxer briefs, begging for friction and more naked skin, mind too occupied to be embarrassed by Dean's words. Dean complies and then they're both naked, Dean leaning in and pushing their hips together, their cocks sliding against each other, sending jolts of electricity rippling along Sam's spine, fireworks going off in his head until his back arches and his eyes roll back, teeth tearing on his bottom lip. Dean licks and nuzzles his chest while he rolls his hips into Sam's in a steady rhythm, whispering words into the skin there Sam can't understand, but he doesn't care for now because it feels all so good, every drag of skin on skin making his body tingle, waves of pleasure clashing over him and ebbing away before it starts all over again. His mind is so caught up in the sea of ecstasy that he doesn't register Dean producing lube from somewhere until a slick finger slips between his asscheeks, startling a loud gasp from his lips and his eyes snap open.

"Shh, it's alright, Sammy, I've got you, baby," Dean murmurs soothingly as his finger circles Sam's hole before pushing in. "I've got you."

Sam's had his own fingers up there already countless times (pretty recently, actually), and he's dreamed of this exactly—being spread open by Dean's thick fingers, teasing with the promise of what's to follow—but even when he's imagined that not his but Dean's fingers were pushing inside him, it's never felt as good as this. Dean's fingers are so much thicker and more skilled than Sam's, and the knowledge of who's touching him alone makes Sam fear he's gonna pass out if he doesn't watch out. With every movement of Dean's finger, sparks travel through Sam's spine and dick, and when Dean brushes over Sam's prostrate, he fears he's gonna lose it. Dean's other hand is rubbing soothing circles into Sam's stomach, only interrupting them sometimes to trail fingertips over Sam's straining cock, and Dean's whispering huskily, "gonna make you feel so good, Sammy. Wanna fuck you until you pass out 'cause it feels so good," and Sam can do nothing else but nod and ramble a mixture of 'yes, please' and 'more'.

Dean's finger is pushing deeper inside until Sam can feel Dean's knuckles against his ass, and Dean draws back again, pushing in and out slowly to coax his body into loosening up for him. Sam's mantra of 'Dean, Dean, Dean' is interrupted by moans and gasps, the burn of the stretch fading away gradually until it's renewed when another finger is pushed inside and pain has to be turned into pleasure again. He loses all feeling of time while Dean works him open, whispering sweetly into his ear and placing kisses all over his over-sensitive body. For all he knows it could've been years when Dean draws his fingers out and his hips are lifted off the mattress, a pillow shoved benath the small of his back. And then there's something else, something incredibly hot and thick pressing into him, the generously applied lube not enough to douse the burning of the stretch, muscles clenching to fight the intrusion. Sam bites his lip and grunts while Dean pushes further in, pausing again and again to coax him into relaxing before he goes on until he bottoms out. Then Dean stills, taking deep breaths while his fingers fist into the sheets and his eyes are firmly shut.

"Feels so perfect, Sammy. So tight," Dean moans and it looks like it costs all his willpower to hold still and give Sam all the time he needs to get adjusted to the new sensation.

Sam is overwhelmed by the feel of Dean inside him, and he wants to make this good, make it perfect, for the both of them, so he moves his hips, carefully, drawing a startled gasp from Dean and ignoring the spike of pain. Unable to resist any longer, Dean starts moving, pulling out until only the head of his cock is still inside Sam, then pushing back in, speeding up on each thrust, every moan and gasp dropping from the lush and kiss-bruised lips beneath him spurring him on, and Sam arches his back, legs wrapped around Dean's waist in the desperate attempt to get more, deeper, harder. Dean snaps his hips forward, speeding up even more, hands on Sam's hips tightening and pulling him in on each thrust in, balancing a line between gentle and hard.

"So good, baby, so good," Dean whispers breathlessly, right as he hits the bundle of nerves inside Sam and his whole body jerks, a cry breaking loose from his lips to be cut off by Dean's mouth on his.

Sam's dick is rubbing over Dean's stomach, twin sensations of pleasure making his body tremble, every thrust bringing him closer to the edge, hands clawing into Dean's back to leave red streaks there, and Dean angles himself just right, brushing over Sam's sweet spot again and again and again, until there are spots dancing in his vision and his cock is throbbing with the plea for sweet release.

"Come for me, baby boy," Dean Says and sits up on his haunches, one hand wrapping around Sam's cock, jerking it in rhythm to his thrusts, and it's all Sam needs. He topples over the edge with another cry that is caught by Dean's lips on his own, eyes rolling up and back arching, every part of his body clenching down, and thus dragging Dean along with another two or three thrusts into the tight heat.

When Sam comes down from his high, his body is still shaking, and Dean lies on his chest, stubbly cheek pressed against him, eyes closed. The pain returns slowly, but it's muffled by the pleasure still washing through him when he combs his hands through Dean's hair, something that's answered by a content sigh.

Sam smiles tiredly and lets his eyes fall closed.

Everything is good.

Karen is sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace in the living room, humming softly to herself while she knits, paying no attention to what's happening on the flickering TV screen, the wind blowing outside their house and pressing snow against the windows.

There's a cut off cry from upstairs, and Karen looks at the ceiling, a pleased and mischievous smile on her lips when she reaches for the remote and turns the volume up.

Her husband comes trudging up the stairs from the basement shortly after, scrubbing a hand over his beard and looking through the room for something.

"Where's Dean?" he asks, and walks over to his wife to place a peck on the crown of her hair.

"Upstairs," Karen answers, nimble fingers going on with the knitting. There's a glint in her eyes that Bobby can't quite place, but he dismissess it to have something to do with Sam or Dean. "I need him to help me," he informs her and turns towards the stairs, but she holds him back by his arm.

"It can wait." Her voice allows no objection. Bobby tries nonetheless. "Whatever the boy's doing up there, I don't care. He can damn well get down here and—"

Another cut off cry comes from upstairs, and Karen's smile widens into a grin, one of her brows raising as Bobby's ears turn pink.

"It can wait," he says, and Karen turns the TV louder, patting her husband's knee comfortingly when he sinks into the cushions next to her with a heavy sigh.

Sam wakes the next morning to his body being sore, every muscle groaning when he dares moving them, but he doesn't care, because Dean is pressed against his back, every deep breath tickling Sam's neck and he allows himself to close his eyes again and doze a bit more. Eventually, he gets up and throws on one of Dean's shirts, inhaling the scent deeply before he slips into his boxer briefs, wincing when he notices how sticky his butt and thighs are. He definitely needs a shower. With one last glance at Dean's sleeping form he leaves the room and shuffles sleepily into the bathroom, turning the shower on and stepping under the spray, hot water helping his muscles at least a bit to relax. He only remembers that the lock in the upstairs bathroom doesn't work when the shower curtain is shoved to the side, and he nearly slips and tumbles out of the tub with the attempt to hide his nakedness. A hand snaps forward and steadies him. "Easy, sweetheart. Don't want you to hurt your pretty head."

It's Dean, standing there in only his boxer briefs, grinning smugly and giving Sam a once-over with blunt lust in his eyes, making a blush creep up Sam's neck. "Jesus, Dean, don't scare me like that."

"Not my fault you're fantasizing about last night and didn't hear me come in." Dean winks and climbs into the tub, wrapping his broad arms around Sam, pressing them tightly together. Sam sighs and lets his head drop back onto Dean's shoulder, enjoying the warmth against his back while Dean draws pattern onto his sides. "How you feelin'? Not hurting too bad?" There's definitely a bit of concern in Dean's voice, and Sam chuckles, it's just too adorable.

"What? You scared you fucked me too hard?" Sam retorts to chase the worry away, and Dean laughs, slightly relieved. "Oh, that mouth on you. Didn't know you had it in you, baby."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," Sam tells him while Dean starts nuzzling into the crook of his neck, kissing and licking the sensitive skin there.

"For example?"

"That I know how to give amazing blow jobs. In theory."

Dean laughs against Sam's skin, digging his fingers into Sam's hips as he presses closer, grinding his hard dick against Sam's ass to tell him what he thinks of the mental image, and Sam moans softly. "Yeah? Why don't you show me?"

"I—ah—I have school, Dean."

"Too bad. You little nerd." Dean bites into Sam's neck, sucking softly on his skin, letting his hand wander to Sam's crotch and closing his fingers around the erection he finds there.

When they come downstairs a bit later, Sam wearing one of Dean's hoodies, Karen has pancakes, eggs and bacon ready for them. She doesn't comment on the change in Sam's clothes or the fact that Sam didn't sleep on the couch as planned, and Sam hopes that maybe, she hasn't noticed anything. But when he kisses her goodbye, she holds him in place by his shoulder, whispers, "nice hickey, Sammy," and winks.

Sam blushes with the heat of a Supernova and slaps a hand to the side of his neck, glaring at Dean who smirks back at him.

Dean asks Bobby for his truck to drive Sam to school after they stopped to pick up his backpack from home, and Sam is a bit nervous as to how he should react when they say goodbye until later. Is he allowed to kiss Dean in front of that many people or does Dean want to keep whatever they have behind closed doors? Karen, Bobby and Dad knowing is one thing, but what about the homophobic pricks? Maybe Dean would feel uncomfortable with the constant glances and sneers. The thought hurts, but Sam understands. Dean has seen first hand what happened to Sam when Kyle thought it was a good idea to ambush him with a couple friends. He can't really be angry at Dean for not wanting that to happen to himself...

By the time they pull up to the curb in front of Sam's school, Sam has a headache from thinking too much, and his bottom lip is tender from worrying it for the whole way. He still doesn't know what to do, so he simply slips out of Bobby's truck with a mumbled, "see you later, Dean," throwing his backpack over one shoulder. He's already taken a few steps when he hears the other door of the truck being thrown shut and Dean calls after him, "hey Sammy, wait up!"

Sam turns and Dean is jogging up to him, smiling reassuringly, before reaching one hand out, giving Sam enough time to sidestep if he doesn't want to let his whole school know. He's sometimes considerate like that. Grinning broadly, suddenly very happy with the world, Sam lets himself be dragged against Dean's chest and into a searing kiss, only yelping slightly when Dean tips him back in a full-on Hollywood-style kiss. Wrapping his arms around Dean's neck for support, Sam ignores the barrage of cat calls and wolf whistles erupting around them, drowning out the quieter boos. He thinks he can hear Jess whooping the loudest.

"Have a nice day at school, nerd," Dean says when he's put Sam back on his feet and lets go, smirking predatory. Sam pulls his backpack back up onto his shoulder and straightens his jacket, blush hot on his cheeks.

"Jerk!" he calls after him, and Dean grins.

"Bitch."

Sam nearly leaps up the stairs to where Jess is standing, beaming so broadly he's rivaling the sun.

Life is good. Sam's grades are outstanding, he has an awesome best friend, neighbors that are like aunt and uncle to him, and a father that loves him. He has a place he calls home.

And now, he has a boyfriend. A boyfriend with a predatory smirk who likes to waggle his eyebrows at him and make lewd comments, if they fit the situation or not. A boyfriend who presses him up against the kitchen counter and whispers dirty things into his ear while the rest of their patchwork family is sitting in the next room. A boyfriend who calls him a nerd when he's sitting in the library, but still brings him coffee over while he looks through stacks of books, continually rambling about how boring libraries are, however, staying with him until Sam leaves.

A boyfriend who claims he doesn't do chick-flick moments, yet does all these sweet things for Sam.

Life is perfect, and Sam hopes Mom can see how happy they all are from wherever she is now.

For Christmas, Dean buys Sam red lace panties, and Sam blushes hard when he opens the present in front of his Dad and foster aunt and uncle.

"Dean!" he exclaims and chases him through the house while Dad sinks as deep into the cushions of the couch as he can manage, face bright red, accepting the glass of eggnog from Bobby without comment but a thankful look that is answered by a sympathetic one, and Karen laughs. When Sam finally catches up with Dean, he's hoisted up over the broad shoulder in a fireman's lift and carried back into the living room, struggling and switching between laughter and demanding loudly to be let down, the lace panties clutched in his fist. Dean throws him onto the couch and leans over him to give him a long and promising kiss that leaves Sam breathless and wanting more, but then Dean produces another wrapped present from somewhere, grinning broadly and satisfied when Sam's eyes widen in surprise.

It's a perfume, the bottle green and shaped like an apple, and when Sam opens it to spray some of it on his arm and neck, it smells of lemongrass, cinnamon and Granny Smith apples. He inhales deeply as Dean climbs onto the couch behind him, pulling Sam to his chest and nuzzling his neck. "Smells good," he comments, and Sam hums in agreement.

When he gets home, he puts Dean's second present next to his mom's perfume before slipping into bed with Dean, who sleeps over now more often than not (turns out it's very easy to climb over the back porch's railing onto its ceiling and from there through Sam's window). Sam is nearly drifting off to sleep with the help of Dean stroking tenderly over his back, as Dean whispers, "you gonna wear the panties sometime for me, baby?" smug grin audible in his voice. Chuckling, Sam punches his arm softly.

"Only if you do it first."

They both laugh and fall asleep with their legs tangled and arms wrapped around each other.

the end

(*whispers* and they lived happily ever after)

AN: Behold, the plot-hole-that-wasn't-a-plot-hole has been filled. 'Dean's Bitch' pointed out to me that a man like Dean—a connoisseur of the female population so to speak—would no doubt notice that Sam is not who he appears to be on the first glance, and yes, she's right. As Dean says in this chapter, he knew from the beginning, not only because he apparently can make out a person's gender by taking one look at their ass, but because (off-screen) John Winchester gave him The Sam Talk, which, in the short version, is basically: My son wears skirts sometimes, you say anything against it, I'll make sure your parents receive your fingers as a Christmas gift.

Concerning the question if John would really allow Dean to sleep over already (being a daddy-with-a-shotgun and all), well... I first said Sam bribed him into it, but now changed it into Dean sneaking in through the window. That doesn't mean John doesn't know what's going on, but he knows his son would climb the barricades if he'd forbid Dean to sleep over, so let's say they've got a bit of a don't-ask-don't-tell policy going on.

ANYWAY, thank you all for reading this little fic of mine, thank you for leaving reviews and adding it to your favorites, it makes me very, very, very happy to know you've liked this story!

Love, Sijglind