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Between the sun setting and rising, the universe spills dark, adorned with lurid stars and silence and it's here that Sam crosses a line.
They're lost somewhere between the last case and the next one, letting the road take the lead for a few stretches until they get to where they're going. There's no one for miles and the road is quiet as the moon reaches her zenith, re-imagining the world with silver-flecked dreams. There's a tremble in Dean's hands when, in that quick moment between shooting stars, Sam leans over and puts a small kiss there to the corner of his mouth. It's half a secret, half a question, and Dean is a man of honest truths. And if there is one honest truth about Sam that Dean knows, it's that Sam is made of secrets. Pages and pages of them, overlapping shadows that make new shapes out of his brother's familiar face. He can only stare at Sam and the blurred, dream-like line between them.
What the hell?
There is a line, this line, between who they are that shouldn't be crossed. A line that Dean has toed and traced and pressed his ear against to listen to the sound of Sam breathing to be sure that his world remains in tact, but never crossed. He promises never to cross it, promises to keep himself in check, promises that if he can't cross this line then he'll keep Sam safe and call it the same thing. Lines and limits, however, are not things that Winchesters know well. Out here, no one has to know the things they do. Dean swallows hard and Sam shifts closer and those lurid stars overhead are the only witness to their secret and honest truths.
Dean grabs the front of Sam's shirt, his nails scrape skin through the fabric, and yanks him forward. His kiss is not small. He is a man of honest truths and that small kiss spins him out of control. Sam crashes into him, mouth eager and warm and Dean swallows him whole. It threatens to overwhelm him. The need to have him by any means is how Dean has survived, living off the crumbs he licks off his fingers after squeezing Sam's neck, clapping his shoulder, or grabbing his hand to haul him to safety. The hunger that lies beneath is dark and unfurling and ravenous.
Out of everything in this godforsaken world, what terrifies him the most is the honest heart in his chest: he loves him. It isn't some new, shy blooming thing. There is nothing tender in the way that he loves Sam. He loves him and it's a shameful thing. He loves him and it's a heavy thing. He loves him and it is his burden to carry.
He loves him and there is nothing he can do about it.
Possession and obsession tie a knot between their fingers. Sam opens his mouth and Dean crushes them closer as he grips a handful of dark hair, deepening the kiss. In it is everything and everything that Sam is, belongs to Dean. The shape of his lips as they brush against his own is his. The groan in his throat is his. Those hands pressing against his chest, twisting into his shirt, are his too. That tremble is still in his hands as he shifts, turns and grips the sides of his face and whispers Sam's name against his mouth and it's half a truth, half an answer. The responsibility of him fanned itself into a need, into a desire, into an unending want to have and with familiar hands, Sam gives him what he wants. He licks the mess of his kiss from Sam's bottom lip, catches it and drags his teeth as though he means to act on his hunger.
It wouldn't satisfy him. He's Tantalus, ever reaching but never able to have. There is desperate, aching want but it will never be satisfied. He knew that if he had him right here, splayed out beneath the dream of moonlight, flush to the bone, that it wouldn't be enough.
Whatever words Sam tries to say, Dean doesn't let him. They're caught on his tongue by Dean and devoured, leaving behind only the noise. He doesn't want secrets, Dean wants the honest truth of him. The air in this moment blurs with the shape of his mouth and the line so sharply, so inevitability, crossed that Dean doesn't want to let it go. He sucks against his tongue, traces the edge of his teeth, leaves a wet trail of salvia to wipe away and he is not done. He'll take every inch of him. God, he is starving. The wet noise of his mouth, the sound of his kiss, every touch and tilt makes him hungry for more. That mouth opens for him, need gleaming in the silver dream of this night and Dean groans into it. He pushes further, pushes into Sam until Sam parts his legs and Dean slides his thigh in between. His touch is rough, scraping and pulling and squeezing and Dean almost wants to bruise him. He wants to linger beneath his skin, he wants to pool dark inside, he wants Sam to look at him and know what happened.
It's not a secret. It can't be denied: Here is where my brother kissed me. Here is where I kissed him back.
The kiss only breaks apart for breath and, as Sam pants, catching himself against the Impala, Dean trails his kiss to the curve of Sam's chin, to the soft underside of his jaw, to the line of his neck where he scrapes his teeth against the flesh. Dean groans again against that pulse thundering beneath the flat of his tongue. That heart of his, full of secrets, belongs to Dean. His cock hardens at such a thought and he rocks his hips forward, grinding into Sam. His brother. Keep him safe, protect him, your job is to Sam — and Dean holds those words like a prayer he repeats over and over. He is not much of a worshipping man but the altar he dutifully keeps is his brother. The safest place for him is right here, pressed against the Impala, and the heat of Dean's body. It's here that he can keep him safe, here that he can erase line and limit.
He holds his Sam close and but that hunger aches for something closer. All of it. Let the world fall apart, let the stars fall from the skies and moon turn red with blood and he'll still cling to the truth that Sam is his brother and he is his, wholly. It'll be a secret for Sam to tuck behind his teeth, a truth to only talk about when the world gets quiet and spins out of control and Dean needs something to cling to. Dean straightens, his mouth red and flushed with this kiss and these new lines, and looks at Sam. God, what else can he do?
& Sam, his beloved wretch of a brother, smiles.