Sam kissed him. Dean’s lips were warm and dry and trembling slightly beneath his, and he pressed in a little, trying to force away Dean’s uncertainty. He felt Dean’s fingers tighten in his shirt again, tugging at it, stretching it out of shape. Sam pressed in again, digging in his own fingers, pulling Dean closer. He let just the tip of his tongue slip past his teeth, let it just barely touch the curve of Dean’s upper lip, felt the huff of breath against his cheek as Dean breathed out.

Dean let out a small sound, almost a whimper, and opened his lips, letting go of Sam’s shirt to slide his hands beneath it. Sam felt his muscles twitch against Dean’s palms—rough and warm and as unsure as his lips—and shuddered as Dean moved his hands, his fingertips pressing into the knobs of Sam’s spine. Sam moved his own hands, letting go of Dean’s shirt to press his palms flat against Dean’s thighs, sliding them forward until his fingertips disappeared beneath the edges of Dean’s shorts, pushing his tongue past Dean’s teeth.

The velvet slide of Dean’s tongue against his made Sam hard in an instant and his sudden arousal startled him. His eyes flew open. There was Dean, close and warm and alive beneath his hands, breathing in short bursts against his cheek, letting Sam have what he’d asked for, giving back the best he could. Just like always. Sam suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Sam pulled away, catching his breath, and watched Dean’s eyes flutter open. Dean’s lids were heavy, drooping slightly over green eyes darkened by dilated pupils, and he met Sam’s eyes without blinking, pressing his fingers into Sam’s skin. Each fingertip was like a point of fire, white-hot and distinct, and Sam inhaled sharply at the feel of Dean’s thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the old scar along his spine—the scar from the wound that had killed him, had eventually killed Dean, too.

“Dean.” The name was a whisper from Sam’s lips, a breathless benediction. He couldn’t move. It was as if the whole world had been reduced to this moment, to this place, to just he and Dean. That was how it had always been, really. The two of them against the world. Even when they were kids.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean said, his lips forming the words Sam had heard his brother say a million times before. Dean moved his hands, fingertips skimming across Sam’s skin as he pushed Sam’s shirt up to just under his arms.

Sam didn’t lift his arms, couldn’t, just pressed his fingertips into Dean’s thighs and swallowed. Dean was looking at him—eyes intent, lips slightly parted and wet from their kiss. “Come on, kid,” Dean said, voice steady, as he tugged gently on Sam’s shirt. “Lift up.”

Lift up. Sam had a sudden flash of being four years old again, of having Dean undress him to put him into the tub. Even then, Dean had taken care of him.

Sam surged forward, caught Dean’s mouth, felt Dean kiss him back a second later. When Sam pulled back again, he lifted his arms, letting Dean pull his shirt all the way off. He watched Dean scan his skin as he catalogued Sam’s scars, watched the guilt settle in his brother’s eyes and knew that no matter what he said or did, he could never make it go away. He sucked in a sharp breath when Dean touched his fingers to the still-fresh scar on his arm.

“It’s getting infected,” Dean said. He looked back up at Sam, worry sharing space with the guilt in his eyes.

“I’m okay, Dean,” Sam said, catching Dean’s wrist in his fingers, brushing his thumb over Dean’s pulse. “Don’t worry about me.”

Dean tried to smile, but it died on his lips. “I can’t help it, Sammy,” he said, brushing across a scar beneath Sam’s eye with his other hand. It was barely visible now, but Dean had been there when it happened—had been there for most of Sam’s scars—and knew it was there. “I’ve always worried about you. Even in—” He closed his eyes, slid his hand backward and closed his fingers in Sam’s hair. “They told me you were dead, Sam. They said—”

Sam kissed him again and pressed Dean’s hand over his heart. “Feel my heart,” Sam whispered against Dean’s lips. “Feel it beating.” He pressed another kiss to Dean’s lips and snaked his hand through Dean’s hair, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m still alive, Dean. For you.”

Dean’s breath hitched and he moved his hand from Sam’s heart to curve around his neck, thumb brushing along Sam’s jaw. “Sammy,” he whispered, breath warm against Sam’s lips, and shook his head a couple times. Then his grip suddenly tightened in Sam’s hair and he tugged, crushing his lips against Sam’s hungrily, forcing his tongue past Sam’s teeth.

Sam grunted in surprise but didn’t pull away, instead snaking his hands under Dean’s t-shirt and digging in his fingertips, pulling his brother closer. This…this was something he could do for Dean: help him forget, even for a little while. And it wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t. Not when Dean needed him so much.

Dean pulled back—chest rising and falling with each breath, eyes dark with arousal—and started tugging impatiently at his own shirt, pulling it up and over his head as Sam watched, mesmerized at the way his brother’s muscles moved beneath his skin. Dean was right—all of his old scars were gone. But there were a few new ones now, one or two still healing, each one a reminder of Dean’s mortality, of his ability to bleed. To die. Again.

And of course, there was the handprint. Castiel’s handprint. The one that reminded Sam of his own failure. It had taken someone else to save his brother when it should have been him and he couldn’t forgive himself for it.

Dean kissed him again and ran his hands along Sam’s ribcage, making Sam shiver. Dean dragged his hands lower, until his fingertips skimmed over the angles of Sam’s hipbones, until the pads of his thumbs pressed into the hollows there. Then Dean’s thumbs dipped even lower, sliding inside the waistband of Sam’s sleep pants.

Sam sucked in another breath at the touch and jerked his hips. He moved his own hands, pressing one hand against Dean’s back to hold him there, fingertips digging into muscle, dragging his other hand around to the front and sliding it inside Dean’s shorts, his fingers just grazing the head of Dean’s cock.

Dean grunted deep in his throat and bit Sam’s bottom lip, his fingers gripping Sam’s hips and tugging him closer. Sam slid his hand lower and wrapped it around his brother’s erection, which was hot and heavy against his palm. He held it carefully, getting used to the feel of it, then drew the pad of his thumb over the tip.

Fingertips pressed into his hips, hard enough to bruise, nails biting into flesh. Dean broke away from Sam’s mouth and Sam, afraid Dean would pull away completely, closed his hand tighter around him. But Dean just looked at him, heavy-lidded and needy, and touched a hand to Sam’s cheek. “On the bed,” he said, his voice rough. “I don’t want you on your knees.”

Sam nodded and withdrew his hands, bracing them along the edge of the mattress as Dean slid across the surface towards the far side, kicking the blankets to the end of the bed as he went. Then he reached over and switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Sam knew it was because Dean didn’t want to see; it was easier to pretend it wasn’t a sin in the dark.

He dug his fingers into the mattress and swallowed past the lump in his throat. He wanted to tell Dean everything was alright, but he knew it wasn’t. It probably never would be. And this…this would just be something else Dean would blame himself for—Sam’s final fall into wickedness, courtesy of Dean Winchester. He’d wear it like a thorny crown, as a reminder of his weaknesses.

“Dean,” Sam said, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness. Dean had removed his shorts and was lying naked on the bed, propped against the headboard against one of the over-soft pillows he hated. Sam saw his brother looking back at him, heard his steady breathing, and had to force himself to say his next words.

“We…you don’t have to do this. I know it’s… Let’s just go to bed.” He nodded once when Dean didn’t respond, as if his lack of response was a response. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.” He took a breath, ran his tongue over suddenly-dry lips and pushed himself up, his knees popping in the quiet darkness. He walked around the foot of the bed, careful not to look at Dean, and felt Dean’s eyes on him.

He stood by his bed and bent to push back the covers when he felt Dean’s hand close around his wrist. “Sam,” he heard Dean say and closed his eyes.

“Sam,” Dean said again after a moment, and Sam opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Dean in the darkness. Dean’s eyes looked black in the dim light, but they held Sam’s gaze unwaveringly.

“Dean—” The urge to kiss him was so strong, it was almost like a physical pain, sharp and heavy in Sam’s chest.

Dean tugged on Sam’s arm. “Come here,” he said. “It’s alright.”

Sam turned to face him, the sound of the blood rushing in his hears so loud, he almost missed it when Dean said, “Closer.”

Dean sat up when Sam stepped closer, lifting his hands to the drawstring on Sam’s sleep pants and tugging at the bow. Sam held his breath as Dean’s fingers slid inside his waistband and closed his eyes when Dean tugged them carefully down, out and over his erection. He felt sudden heat beneath his skin; he was blushing.

A small sound escaped Sam’s throat and his muscles jumped beneath Dean’s lips as his brother pressed a kiss to the skin right above his navel, Dean’s hands splayed over his sides. Sam’s fingers found Dean’s hair, the short strands soft against his palms. Dean dragged his lips across Sam’s skin and kissed lower, his mouth so close to Sam’s cock, Sam had to grit his teeth to keep from jerking his hips.

Then Dean’s hand was wrapped around his dick and Sam’s eyes flew open, his fingers closing in Dean’s hair. He tugged Dean’s head back, forcing Dean to look up at him. “Lie back,” Sam told him. Dean blinked up at him and Sam wondered briefly if the words even registered, but then Dean let him go and slid back along the sheets until he was lying across the mattress. He propped himself up on his elbows and met Sam’s eyes across the distance.

Sam stared down at Dean, ready and open and waiting, and finally admitted to himself that this was something he’d wanted for a long time. He’d managed to convince himself it would never happen, that it wasn’t supposed to anyway, goddamn it, so stop thinking about it already. But then Dean had gone to Hell, had taken Sam’s whole world with him, and Sam hadn’t been able to stop wondering what Dean would’ve tasted like, what he would’ve felt like moving beneath his hands, what he would’ve sounded like as he came.

And here he was, so close to learning all of those things. The realization of it stole his breath.

“Stop thinking, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was rough and cut through Sam’s thoughts, clearing them away, leaving only he and Dean again in that pinpoint of existence Sam wished they could stay in forever.

His brother’s words prompted him to move and he slid his body alongside Dean’s on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow and placing a hand on Dean’s belly. Dean lowered himself to the bed and turned his head to look up at Sam.

“I love you, Dean,” Sam said suddenly and felt that blush again, creeping along his skin. He didn’t know why he’d just said that, really, except that it was the truth. Only, they’d never really said that to each other, not in so many words, and the words felt almost foreign on his tongue. “I-I just want you to know that,” he added softly.

Dean’s face clouded and he chewed at the inside of his bottom lip. After a moment, he nodded and turned onto his side so he was nearly flush with Sam. He pressed his hand to Sam’s cheek and when he spoke, it was with a hoarse voice. “I’ve always known that, Sam. I just…I hope you know I—”

Sam kissed him then, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s wrist to keep him close. Dean leaned into the kiss, sliding his leg between Sam’s and flipping him onto his back. He pressed his body flush against Sam’s, and Sam groaned into Dean’s mouth at the friction.

“Dean,” Sam breathed, drawing one knee up, Dean’s skin hot against the inside of Sam’s thigh.

But Dean shook his head, pulled back just enough to press his fingers to Sam’s lips. “No more talking,” he said.

Sam learned a lot about his brother that night, learned the answers to all the things he’d wondered about when he’d let himself think about them. What did Dean taste like? Life. What did Dean feel like? Home. What did Dean sound like? Hope.

And when he opened his eyes later and found himself alone in his brother’s bed, beneath a blanket he didn’t remember crawling under, he learned something else about Dean: His regret sounded just like running water.