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A Madness Shared by Two

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i. youth

Sam wets the bed. Well, okay, so Sam did that when he was a little kid, but the point still stands. Sam wet the bed, a lot, and it usually fell to Dean to take him to the toilet at night and then, if he had an accident, to change his sheets.

And who knows, maybe that's why. Maybe that's the reason that when Sam was six, he walked into the tiny bathroom connected to their motel room and stood on the edge of the tub, looking into the mirror, and deliberately peed into his sweatpants. It felt so naughty, and wrong, and he knew he was going to catch hell for it when Dean came back from the vending machines, but somehow, the way it felt, warm and running down his legs, caught all the rest of that worry into a net like a dreamcatcher and it couldn't touch him.

Actually, in the end he balled up the sweatpants and stuffed them into the back of the closet, and when they moved on from that motel, Dad did ask what happened to Sam's extra pair, and he shrugged, making his eyes as wide as they could, and pretended he had no idea.

Dad just accelerated the Impala, and Dean poked Sam in the belly, like he knew that Sam was telling a lie-and he probably did, Dean could always tell-but Dean didn't have any idea what the lie was, so Sam was safe.

Although, technically that's getting ahead in the story.

Sam was two, and it was Dean's job to demonstrate things like pissing into the toilet, but Sam was little, and even with the step-stool John bought, he couldn't reach. That led to... interesting things. Namely: Dean picking Sam up, and holding him against himself-and Dean was so strong, even at six-until Sam could reach.

But that did funny things to Sammy's insides. Like worms wiggling around in his belly, as he tried to pee, as Dean complained.

"You're heavy, Sammy, hurry up."

But Sam couldn't make it come out, even though he needed to go so desperately. And since John had already decreed that diapers were to be no more, this meant that when Dean finally gave up, and pulled up Sam's little cotton shorts and then the little fuzzy pants, Sam had to pee so badly he couldn't stand it.

Dean sighed, patted Sam on the bottom and then wandered off to watch T.V. And Sam... well, Sam walked into the other room and stood in front of Dean.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling the tears start as the dam broke and it all flowed out of him, down his legs and onto the floor. Dean gave an undignified shriek and jumped up.

"Jeez, Sammy! I just took you to potty!"

Maybe it started then. Maybe it was just a matter of time. Or maybe it came from somewhere else, some place deep inside, but Sam knows, thinking back, that something started then.

ii. February 2006

Sam stands in the little motel bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his cock heavy in his hand and his bladder equally heavy. Dean's gone out for dinner, and he's gonna be at least fifteen minutes, which gives Sam time-just enough, probably.

He steps into the the shower stall, turns to face the wall, and tips his head back, letting it all loose. He jerks his cock slowly at first, fingers rolling across the slit to break up the stream, and then he rubs the thin liquid of his own piss into his skin as his cock throbs from both how good it feels and how full Sam is. It's kinda like coming, this release after so long; Sam pisses against the back wall of the shower and then, when the stream slows, his cock stiffens up even more, pointing towards his belly, and Sam jacks it faster, the only lube his acrid-scented piss, and bites down on his lip hard as he comes, white streaking up and out, hitting his belly and chest, some of it even spattering against the wall.

He's never told Dean about this. Never could figure out a way to explain it. He flips on the shower faucets and rinses away the evidence, trying not to think about how much better his orgasms are whenever he's either just pissed himself, or just before, when his bladder's so full he almost can't come.

And sometimes, in Dean's bed, lying on his back with his knees bent, Dean between them, tongue on his dick, Sam wonders what Dean would do if that were the time he lost it, pissed before he came, what Dean would do if it caught him on the lips, settled onto his tongue.

And, Christ, but those thoughts make Sam so hard he figures he could probably chop wood with his dick; he ruthlessly always pushes them away and holds his secret close, because there's no way to say, Gee, Dean, I'd like to piss in your mouth.

Sam gets out of the shower, his curls damp at the back of his neck, and dries off using Dean's towel, and the door opens in the other room. Sam gives another cursory rub with the towel then walks, naked, out into the other room, greets Dean with a quick kiss crooked on his lips, and grabs for the food.

It's not the only secret he's keeping, so what the hell?

iii. old ghosts

"C'mon," Dean said, and even though he sounded exasperated, Sammy knew that Dean was never truly angry at him. He followed Dean, his feet slapping against the tile floor, leaving a streak of wet in his wake until he stood in front of the bathtub and Dean was efficiently stripping him out of his soaked clothes.

Dean patted his belly, still round with baby fat, and then picked him up and dumped him in the tub. He turned on the water, made sure it wasn't too hot, and began to wash Sam, long passes with a cloth to clean away the last of the pee that stained his skin.

But even after Dean had lifted him out of the tub again and dried him with a fluffy clean towel, Sammy couldn't help but feel like it was still there, like a ghost blanketing him.

"Dean," he said, tugging on his big brother's t-shirt with one hand. "Dean."

"Whatsamatter, Sammy?" Dean asked absently, then turned, knelt down on one knee to look him straight in the eyes. "It's okay, Sam. I know you didn't do it on purpose."

"Want diapers," Sam replied, and Dean gave a deep, passionate sigh.

"I bet, and it would be a good deal easier for everyone, but you know what Daddy says. Not anymore."

Dean was still wiping the floor-linoleum designed to look like wood-when Dad came back, still trying to erase the evidence of Sam's mistake, but he dropped the sponge when Dad came in, and stood up.

"We should get him a potty. Sir." Dean was barely looking up at John through the fringe of his eyelashes.

"He has to learn sometime, Dean," John said wearily, and avoided the spot on the floor. "Did you spank him? I told you, when he does that, you need to spank him to remind him it's unacceptable."

"He can't reach, daddy," Dean replied, bringing out the big guns. "And it's gotta go somewhere."

"Then teach him how to do it sitting down for now," John answered, and walked over, collapsed into an armchair and rubbed his forehead. "Enough of this, Dean. You could've figured all of that out for yourself."

"Daddy," Sammy said, and crawled over the floor, even the damp patches, to place himself right in front of John's chair. "Up."

John picked up his foot and crossed it over his other leg. "Not now," he said. "And you should be in bed."

Maybe it was partly that, too-that his own father never offered comfort when Sam wanted it-that led to future events.

Maybe Sam will never really know.

iv. new ghosts

He keeps things from Jessica, too. The fact that he learned to hunt supernatural monsters from the time he was nine years old. Or that he kissed his sleeping older brother on the mouth when he was sixteen, just old enough to finally work out that those urges weren't going away and maybe if he just did something about it he could stop it.

He keeps from her that Dean woke up in the middle of the sloppiest kiss probably in the history of forever, took charge of it, and schooled Sam in kissing in such a way that when Jess complimented him on his technique, there was no way he could attribute all of the credit to Dean.

It's a secret that he likes to piss in front of a mirror, or that he does it in the shower when she's at class.

And it's a secret that he keeps seeing her die in his dreams, over and over, crisping away to ash on the ceiling while he watches impotently.

In the scheme of things, one stupid little sexual kink that no-one knows about doesn't seem like it will ever make any difference. He's fucked up enough as it is.

v. fortitude

Sam didn't ask about the salt at the doors and windows until he was five. Dean, in his infinite wisdom, said it was because it kept the heat in. Sammy, already too smart to be swayed by that, pointed out that it was the middle of summer. Dean, in retaliation, suggested building a fort.

"Look, Sammy, so we turn this chair over--" and Dean pushed it over, narrowly missing Sam's little ankles which were stretched out on the floor-"and then we can take the sheet from the bed and pull it over the chair, tie it to the bedpost, and ha! Instant fort."

Sammy may have been too smart to be fooled by Dean's explanation, but he was still too young not to be redirected by the idea of playing beneath a fort.

"Can I be the princess?" he asked, poking Dean in the back of the ankle. "I wanna be rescued by the knight."

Dean looked torn for a moment, face twisted like he couldn't decide what to do. "Sam--" he began, than stopped. He grabbed Sam's ankles and swung him up into the air, making Sam shriek-and God help them if the people in the neighbouring rooms heard-and settled him upside down on his shoulder.

"Listen, Sammy," he said, his 'explanation-voice' in full-force, "no, you can't be the princess, because you're a boy. And while I, naturally, would be the knight, I have no-one to rescue. So instead..." Dean trailed off.

"Put me down!" Sam shouted, and Dean smacked his bottom as hard as he dared. Sam knew that no matter what their daddy said, Dean hated to spank him. "I'll scream," Sammy threatened, and Dean quickly dumped him onto one of the beds. Sammy clambered off and trotted back over to Dean.

"Keep it down, brat," Dean said. "If we get reported to the desk and Dad finds out, we're both toast."

"I like toast," Sammy replied with all of his five-year-old logic. "I mean it, Dean, I wanna play in the fort. I wanna be the princess!"

"All right, fine. So you've been imprisoned by the evil fire-breathing troll, and--"

"Dean? What if a fire-breathing troll gets me while I'm sleeping?"

"Jesus Christ, Sam. That's not gonna happen. I'm the knight, remember? I'll protect you."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"I don't wanna be the princess any more. I wanna be... ooh, can I be your horsie?"

"Sam, so help me, just get in the fort and stay there, and I'll come and rescue--"

"Is the fort burning down?"

"You and-wait, what?"

"If I'm a horsie I wouldn't need to be rescued unless the fort was burning down."

"Sam. You are not a horsie. And actually, none of this makes any sense anyway, because traditionally forts are where the army dudes hang out."

"Does that mean I'm in the army?"

Dean sighed, obviously exasperated. "You know what, Sam, just crawl around in there till you get bored. I'm gonna watch T.V."

Sam looked at the fort for a long second, unable to make up his mind. Then he looked back at Dean.

"I wanna watch T.V. too," he announced. "But the chair's upside down."

"Oh for heaven's--" Dean got up, and was walking over to right the chair, when the door opened and John walked in, carrying two grocery bags and a slender paper bag.

"Daddy!" Sam cried, dropping to his hands and knees and crawling across the floor to John's feet, looking way, way up into his father's face. "I'm a horsie!"

Somehow the look John gave him wasn't particularly encouraging. He tried another tactic, just as if he were one of the army guys in the fort Dean had built for him.

"Daddy? Why do you spill all that salt?"

"Because salt is protection, Sam," John said, even though he sounded about as exasperated as Dean. "It's a pure substance and it protects against anything that might want to harm you."

"Like bad people with guns?"

"Yes, like that." John turned his attention to Dean. "Have you been letting him watch grown-up movies again?"

"Not when I'm awake," Dean lied instantly, and Sam turned to him, lip curled.

"Dean--"

"Shut up, shitface," Dean said, and John put the bags down.

"God," he said, rubbing his forehead, "I go out for two hours and I come back and my sons are uncivilised savages. Pick up that chair, Dean, and put the sheet back on the bed, 'cause you're gonna want it when you're sleeping. And Sam, for Christ's sake, you can walk. Act like it."

Sam climbed to his feet and walked over to Dean, standing just behind him and stuffing his thumb into his mouth. Sometimes his daddy could be mean. And whenever he brought home paper bags like that, he got meaner. He sucked at his thumb, working it around in his mouth.

"Take your goddamn thumb out of your mouth," John raged, and Sam dropped his hand to his side. He stared at his father for a long moment.

Then he peed his pants.

Whenever Sam thinks back to that day, he almost wants to laugh at the expression that had been on his father's face. He might, still, if it weren't for the fact that John had undressed him, spanked him with his belt, and then put him back into diapers for two weeks. His little rebellion had embarrassing consequences, but it had been nice, just for once, to see his father look like he didn't know what to do, even if it hadn't lasted.

Somehow, Sam still doesn't think he's learned that lesson.

He wonders, too, at times, what Dean had thought of that whole debacle. He hadn't interceded to keep Sam from getting the belt, though he had soothed him later by smoothing ointment into the reddened, painful area.

vi. fifth of vodka

After Sam's fifth coke, Dean raises an eyebrow and looks meaningfully at the empty cup. "You after winning some kind of contest, or something, Sammy?"

"Nah," Sam replies, attempting nonchalance. "Just really thirsty today. It's fucking hot out, Dean."

"It's gonna be a hot time tonight," Dean replies, throwing Sam a smug grin, like he's the funniest dude in the universe. Sam turns his head to look out the window, watching the scenery of the back roads fly by the Impala's sleek black sides, and every time they hit a bump, he can feel it jostle all of the water and soda inside of him. Sometimes, when Dean's trying to be amusing, it's best to pretend he hasn't heard. This time, though, even though he's got his perfected 'I'm not paying attention to you' posture going on, Dean keeps talking to the back of his head.

"You gonna need a pee break before we get to the motel?" Dean asks, and the Chevy suddenly swerves to the right, making Sam grab for the dashboard to steady himself. Deep down, in his aching, tight bladder, he can feel a pulse of pure urgency. It takes all of his willpower to keep from letting any of it out, and by the time the car is straight on the road again, Sam's got everything back under control.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam says, and leans back against the seat, tilting his head toward the window as if he's going to nap.

"Are you thinking about something... naughty?" Dean says, and Sam opens his eyes, looks at Dean, then looks down, as if he needed to do that to know that his dick is hard and straining the fly of his jeans. Consequence of having to pee so achingly bad.

"Thinking about tonight," Sam says, injecting a note of sly, sexy darkness into his tone. "About how good you're gonna look on the bed with all the day's sweat still on you, making your skin glow."

Dean swallows with a click that's even audible to Sam, and Sam, deliberately not being shy, lets his gaze wander down to Dean's crotch, where his brother is sporting wood, now, too.

"Well, you did ask," Sam says into the accusatory silence, and Dean huffs out a breath.

"You don't think we could each at least shower first? 'Cause, damn, Sammy, you're right and it's hotter than Angelina Jolie out there."

"Dude, if you'd rather bang Angelina Jolie, at least drop me off somewhere on your way to Hollywood, all right?"

"Sammy, now don't be jealous. If you had tits it would be different."

"I always knew titties would come between us someday," Sam snarks back, and puts his head against the window again. There's no way he can sleep with his bladder this full, but Dean doesn't need to know that.

There's a lot of things Dean doesn't need to know.

Just before he deepens his breathing to feign sleep, he says, "Oh, and by the way, Dean, the next time we stop for gas I could go for some cold bottled water. This fucking heat is killing me."

He can't see Dean any longer, but he hears the slight chuff of laughter his brother makes seconds before his hand comes slapping down onto his thigh, jarring him enough that he almost lets go a little bit.

"I think you must have a hollow leg or something," Dean comments, "because I have no idea where you're putting all of that."

"That's usually about what I'm thinking about you when we go out to a bar," Sam replies without opening his eyes. "It's barely even a nuisance yet, Dean, just keep driving." Not at all the most difficult thing I've had to do not to piss the leather seats.

"I'd say, 'you're the boss, chief,' except it so ain't true," Dean says. "Goddamn roadkill," he swears after a moment, swerving again. "I think they're all dying in the middle of the road from heat exhaustion."

"I'm sleeping, Dean," Sam mumbles, even though he knows that's not likely to cause his brother to can it. Dean's too persistent and annoying for that.

"I can hear you thinking from over here," Dean shoots back, and Sam shifts in the seat, wishing that his bladder weren't so full about the same way he wishes that he could just tell Dean to pull over, strip, and piss all over him. Wash the sticky sweat of the day off of him with his piss. The thought makes his cock twitch feebly against the constraints of his jeans as his bladder throbs along with the pleasure in his dick.

"Someone has to do the thinking around here," Sam rejoins, and he can hear Dean scowling, even though his eyes are still shut. Dean loves to dish it out, but he's not as fond of having his own limitations handed to him on a silver platter.

Sam thinks it has something to do with John and the way they grew up, the way that Dean always wound up mothering Sam while John went out and left them alone; something to do with the way that John never quite let Dean know that he'd done a good job.

Then again, thinking back to how he peed himself as a child whenever he wanted to piss-heh-his father off, it's no wonder, maybe, that John didn't praise Dean.

Even though Dean had done the best he could. Even though probably no-one could have predicted that Sam would grow up and find himself thinking-more often than one might expect-that perhaps pissing himself as a child hadn't been such a bright idea.

The Impala jounces over another bump in the road, and Sam has to stifle a hiss as it jolts straight down into his bladder.

Even though he's about full to bursting already, he's planning to drink at least one more bottle of water before they finally stop for the night. He's not sure why; the thing is, he's not going to be able to piss himself with Dean around, and there's no way Dean's gonna go out now that Sam oh-so-intelligently put thoughts of wild sex into his head.

"You know, Dean," Sam begins, trying to keep from grabbing at his cock.

"Thought you were sleeping," Dean remarks, as he turns on the speed, letting the Impala fairly take flight as she streaks down the road.

"Maybe you should go pick up a chick tonight."

"You on the rag, Sammy?" Dean fiddles with the tape deck, and Led Zeppelin blares out of the speakers. Great. And now Dean's cranky.

"You know I'm not," Sam says, even though the whole conversation is pretty damn ridiculous. "I just thought it might be nice to have, uh, someone to play with. Wanna see you plow some chick hard and deep while I fuck my cock into you, that's all."

"I don't think so," Dean says, and Sam can barely hear him over the music now. Music loud enough that the drumbeat is actually reverberating in his bladder, and that is a recipe for disaster. Although not, apparently, as much as the sudden cutting in and out from the tape player, the static, and what might be words. Fuck. E.V.P.

"Goddammit," Sam spits out just as Dean does. Dean pushes the button to stop the player, and Sam's eyes are wide open now, scouting around them, as Dean pulls the car off the road and slides her into park.

"This is fucked," Dean says, staring into the falling darkness. "We don't even know--"

"So we should find a motel around here and check it out," Sam says, trying to be reasonable even though he's about two seconds away from pissing himself, and it's not from fear, though Dean would probably never let him hear the end of it if he did. Because Dean would find it endlessly and hilariously funny if he thought Sam had wet himself out of fear of the supernatural.

"Ghostie, you think?" Dean asks, throwing open his car door and heading for the trunk. Sam gets out too, follows Dean.

"Or a demon," he says, not particularly encouraged by the idea of either. "I gotta take a leak, Dean, I'm just gonna..." he gestures over to the trees, trailing off.

"Don't get eaten," Dean says, and Sam gets the feeling he's only partially kidding.

"I'll take a sawed-off," Sam says, "but I bet I just wind up shooting my dick off."

"Oh, you know you have better aim than that," Dean says, grabbing for his own shotgun. Sam grins into the night.

"You know I do, baby," he says, and he knows that Dean will take it as his propensity to hit Dean's prostate during sex, and not, as Sam intended, a double entendre on how good he is at aiming his piss wherever he wants it to go. Like in his mouth.

He tries not to waver in his stride as he heads for the trees, the urge to piss so sharp in his body now that he's barely managing to keep from doing the pee-pee dance.

He finds a tree, and unzips, yanks out his cock and has just started pissing when he feels eyes on his back. And, shit, but that's not good. He's got his dick in one hand and the sawed-off in the other, but he's still caught, quite literally, with his pants down-not that he had a choice, since he'd've pissed his jeans if he'd tried to hunt when he was this full. He wants to whirl around and face whatever's coming, but he's not finished yet-he grits his teeth so hard they squeak together and manages to stem the flow. He tucks his dick back into his jeans, barely taking the time to zip up, and spins around, scanning the trees and grassy area beyond for anything preternatural or evil.

Dean walks out of the shadows and catches Sam's eye. "I don't feel any cold spots," he says, and Sam realises, with only partial relief-his bladder's still almost full-that the eyes he felt on his back were his brother's.

"I don't think we should go after whatever it is in the dark, in what's probably its hunting grounds, before we know what we're walking into," Sam says, trying not to grimace as his bladder protests being made to wait after all.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Dean says, and his voice sounds a little funny. "C'mon, Sammy, we'll find a motel."

Getting back into the Impala is an almost-agony of his bladder spasming, but that's part of it, part of what he likes, and he knows his cock is stiffening up again, but it's dark now, and even the streetlights painting stripes across their bodies don't really give enough light for long enough that Dean might notice. At least, Sam hopes not.

But as Dean starts searching for a motel, Sam is reminded of the first time he figured out that it was pleasure-arousal even-that he felt when his bladder was this full.

vii. sick

He'd been just starting high school, still a stupid kid who didn't have a fucking idea what was going on in his life, except that he started to feel funny, get butterflies rumbling in his stomach, sometimes when he looked at Dean.

In the interest of the best policy he could come up with at the time-classic Winchester avoidance-he pushed it down and refused to acknowledge it, even though he was old enough to know what it was.

He spent a lot of time that summer trying not to look at Dean, trying not to react when Dean got close. Trying not to think about how hard and muscled Dean's body was when it slammed into him while they were sparring.

And, because he needed something to distract himself, for some reason it seemed like a good idea at the time to wait for John and Dean to go out, and then he opened the closet door and stared at himself in the full-length mirror.

He hadn't gotten quite as tall as Dean yet, which meant he could pretty much see himself entirely in the mirror-okay so his head was a little cut off-but the point was, he could see his worn, frayed jeans, his oldest pair.

Could feel the stinging heaviness of his bladder as he stood there.

He knew it was wrong. He knew that what he was about to do couldn't be passed off as childish rebellion, couldn't be explained away.

Still, though. He'd taken a deep breath, braced his legs a little further apart, and worked as hard as he could at relaxing muscles he was used to keeping taut at times like this.

The first spurt of it caught him by surprise. It was strange, really, since he'd intended to do it, but in the mirror he watched the uneven spot bleed through the material of his jeans, and he felt his body clench up, stopping the flow.

But that's not what he wanted to happen. He wanted to feel it, like when he'd been six years old and could still claim an accident; he wanted it to run down his legs in rivulets that stained and seeped through his jeans. He wanted to pour the contents of his entire bladder out into his clothes, as if that could somehow keep him from thinking about Dean, like the way he'd looked that morning as they battled each other, standing with the sunlight filtering through his hair and turning the sweat dripping onto Dean's lower lip golden.

And ahh, but that had gotten to him, had turned his knees soft and loose, had helped him to relax again and let a little bit more out. The second pulse of it into his underwear, soaking through to visibility on the outside of his jeans, didn't so much catch him by surprise as cause him to catch his breath.

And then Dean walked in.

"Sam?" he'd said, and he'd cased the room-Sam knew it, he could feel it and he knew Dean always did that first-before he came round the closet door and stared at Sam.

Sam's jeans were cooling wet against his body, and there was blatant evidence of his piss halfway down one thigh. Dean stared at him for a long second, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing, and then he stalked forward and grabbed Sam, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other Sam's chin.

"Are you hurt, Sam? Or sick?"

Sam could barely move his head in the bruising hold, but he shook it as little as he could.

"You--" Dean stopped, lifted one hand away to flail it helplessly in the air. "What are you doing?"

"I should think it would be obvious," Sam said archly, trying for a strain of self-confidence he didn't feel. Maybe he could play it off, maybe-

"You know what, Sam, no. I can see what you're doing-I've got eyes-but I've got fuck all of an idea why you'd want to." Dean let go of Sam. He stepped back a pace, eyes flicking down to Sam's dampened crotch, and Sam felt his own eyes go to Dean's.

He didn't know why. Maybe it was because the flush on Dean's face implied something more than anger at Sam for doing something so-so wrong.

And suddenly he didn't know why he'd done it. It was childish, stupid. It was reckless. It made no fucking sense. Why would anyone in their right mind stand in front of a mirror and watch themselves piss their clothes?

Nevertheless, his eyes found Dean's groin, flickered away, then back and caught. Dean was turned on. Sam knew by now what that looked like-Dean was four years older, and he wasn't really shy around Sam.

Dean had turned away, then back, scrubbed his hand down his face, still red, and finally let his gaze land back on Sam, heavy and pointed, almost like a blade against Sam's skin.

"I don't have any fucking idea what you're doing or why," Dean had growled out, "but you better not let Dad find out."

And yet, despite the disapproval, it was Dean who took the jeans and underwear out behind the motel and burned them, while Sam shivered in a cold shower, trying to wash away the remnants of what could only be termed a mistake.

Yet it clung to him. It clung like cobwebs in his brain, and the smell stung his nose still, and all he could think of, as he stood there and tried to soap it all away, was how beautiful Dean had looked when he was angry. Or maybe it was the sight of his arousal that had made him so beautiful.

Sam put his face in his hands and felt his cheeks burning with shame.

viii. disheartening

Sam's bladder throbs as Dean drives the Impala towards whatever motel he can find, and Sam remembers how badly he'd felt, how much he'd wanted to take it back.

How guilty he'd been for weeks afterward, too chastened by Dean's reaction, and even Dean had seemed a little different after that, like he didn't know how to handle Sam.

Sam stares out the window into nothingness; it's too dark to see anything. It had taken him a long time to get over that feeling, but eventually the urge to do it again-and again-had overwhelmed him. But Dean had been particularly inventive with things he wanted from Sam back then-Sam did a lot of Dean's chores, cleaned a lot of weapons, made a lot of beds and fetched a lot of coffee on foot to buy Dean's silence.

Sitting next to Dean now, on the bench seat, Sam wonders if Dean remembers that incident. If he still has a slightly reserved way of looking at him that comes from thinking his brother is a freak.

But Sam's been a freak all along, and Dean once said, Well, I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you... All the way.

It should have been heartening. Instead it just makes Sam's heart throb hard once in time with the pulse of his insistent bladder.

He drops his head against the window with a resounding thunk and tries not to think about how hot it gets him to be this full and this close to Dean.

ix. vanishing acts

When Sam was very small, in fact little enough that both he and Dean fit in the same bathtub, John went out for some reason or another and Dean put Sam in the tub for his night-time bath, just like he always did.

"Dean!" Sam'd cried, waving his plump little arms. "Want!"

Dean had sighed, then stripped out of his clothes and got into the tub with Sam. "C'mon, Sammy, you don't really need--"

"Wash," Sam had demanded, and Dean looked at him, then grabbed up the wash cloth and rubbed some motel soap onto it, then started sliding it over Sam's skin.

"Dean," Sam had said contentedly, and he leaned back, letting Dean take care of him just like he always did, and then Dean was soaping up his little belly, and Sam'd realised something.

He was like, three years old, and as soon as the thought occurred to him, he gave into it.

When Dean dropped the wash cloth back into the water, Sammy sat up and threw his fat little arms around Dean's neck, burying his face in Dean's shoulder.

"Love you," he'd whispered, but he didn't tell Dean he'd peed into the water. After all, once out of his body, it was gone.

At least, Sam reflects, when you're three, you do sort of think that if you pee in the bathtub it just automatically disappears.

Sometimes Sam would really like to know what caused it. Whether that was normal, whether the things he did even as a young child were depraved, or just the side-effect of childhood and ignorance.

And he thinks maybe Dean would know, if Sam had the courage to ask. To say: Dean, when you were little, did you ever pee in the bathtub?

But he's too afraid of Dean's answer to actually find out.

x. first kisses

Dean's so incredibly beautiful. Sam's known it for so long, like it's been carved directly into his bones, like he can, if he closes his eyes, feel Dean's beauty like a physical weight on his skin.

And he's known forever that the way he feels around Dean isn't normal, or right. More like screwed every possible way.

What guy gets a boner watching his brother sleep? Sam sits up more in his bed, balanced on his elbow on his side, and watches Dean, the way the moonlight silvers Dean's lips, a pretty metallic highlight to something already almost inhumanly beautiful.

It makes his dick so fucking stiff in his boxer briefs, and he wants to reach down beneath the fabric and touch heated, hard flesh, but he doesn't dare.

He's only sixteen years old, for Christ's sake. He's never really touched anyone the way that he wants to touch Dean.

Whatever the fuck possesses him, he'll never know, but he slips out of bed, pads over to Dean's, breaks up the moonlight with his shadow spilling over Dean, and then he goes to his knees by the bed.

He's taller than Dean, now. Tall enough that he can still lean forward and touch Dean's forehead, brush a finger across his hair, without even having to get on the bed.

God, he's so ashamed of himself. He's so wrapped up in Dean, in every single thing Dean likes or does-God, even Dean farting makes Sam kinda crazy with want-that he's never been able to kiss anyone.

Mary Rose in the ninth grade had cornered him once, by his locker, and she'd been so pretty and he'd been so tempted, but then he caught sight of her lower lip, such a similar shape to Dean's, and he just-he couldn't.

So he'd kind of brushed past her, almost frantic, and run home to Dean, to his homework while Dean cleaned his gun, obsessively and with incredible concentration like always, and tried not to think about kissing Dean.

How could any sixteen-year-old be so lame as to never have even kissed anyone? Sam puts his hand flat on the bed, still feeling stupid and young, and what the hell, Dean's asleep. It's not like he'll ever know.

Sam's lips come down over Dean's with the type of clumsiness he should have expected. Dean's lips-holy fucking Christ-they feel so fucking soft, yet firm enough that there's substance to press against.

Sam tries, but he's not sure what to do, and his eyes are open like the inexperienced idiot he is, and then he catches sight of the moonlight reflecting off of Dean's eyes in a pretty, ethereal sparkle.

Dean's awake, but he doesn't push Sam away in disgust. He doesn't punch him or throw up or do any of the things Sam thinks he might-wishes he might-but angles his head a little on the pillow, just enough to separate their lips.

Into the silvered darkness, he whispers, "Did you really think this could go any other way?"

Sam's not even sure what Dean's asking; he's suddenly reminded of that summer and pissing himself, and wants to ask, quite abruptly, whether Dean thinks he's gross or somehow mentally deformed, but then Dean is turning his chin a little.

"Just you and me," he murmurs, and then he takes Sam's lips again, and teaches him how to kiss.

It involves a lot of tongue and spit and the soft swell of lips being bitten and sucked on, and Sam finally gets to do everything he's wanted for so long, to run his tongue along Dean's lips, to push inside and flatten it against Dean's teeth, and Dean is-well, Sam can't say Dean is the best kisser he's ever kissed, not yet, because it's only his first.

But it's sort of wild and dramatic, the kind that fills Sam's entire body up with fireworks, all of them popping and exploding and making his whole body fire and tingle, and he knows, somehow instinctively, that most first kisses aren't this good. That he's damn fucking lucky.

But he's kissing his brother, and when that registers, he pulls back a little, stares at rosy, plumpened lips, still wet with Sam's saliva. Maybe kissing one's brother is what makes it so good. Maybe it's the mere fact that they shouldn't.

He can feel his dick in his underwear, feels harder than it's ever been, and then Dean's hand is suddenly huge and heavy on the side of his face.

"Don't think about it so much, Sammy," he says, and some combination of the words plus his tone combined with the look of him, sends Sam reeling right over, coming untouched into his underwear, sticky and gross.

And maybe it's the darkness surrounding them, pressing on silky like a lover, that makes Dean say, so open,

"You're fucking beautiful when you come, Sammy."

And yeah, that's only one of the things he's never told anyone about.

It's an almost physical, painful, twisted-up ache in his chest not to be able to tell Dean everything.

xi. the internet is for porn

The internet is an amazing thing. Sam figured that out for the first time when John took Dean on a hunt and left Sam alone with the laptop-telling him to research.

Sam researched all right; he looked up porn. He poked around until he found what he was looking for-a website all about, well, pissing. Oneself and others. He was sort of relieved when he found it; he wasn't the only freak on the planet, then. So yeah, the internet is an amazing thing: you can find just about anything on there. And, Sam discovered, there was porn for just about any subject he could think of.

Looking at the pictures, sampling the videos on various websites, Sam came to the conclusion that he-felt odd. His stomach was all fluttery and his pants felt kinda tight and all in all it was just-odd.

He closed the tabs, cleared the internet history, and sat, staring, the laptop screen in front of him glimmering merrily in the darkening room. He knew he had work to do, and he knew that if it wasn't done by the time John and Dean got back that there was going to yet another raging argument, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. It hadn't really occurred to him before that the whole-thing-was something more than just, well, a thing.

Sam closed the browser and reopened it. He clicked around, trying to keep his mind on the research at hand, but he just kept feeling that low warm throb that suggested something-but he wasn't sure what.

He resolved to question Dean, much much later, when they were crushed into the same damn bed again because this motel didn't have cots and the room had two queen beds-and the only person who'd fit in a bed with John was Sam, and no fucking way was Sam going to try sleeping in the same bed as his father. It just wasn't happening-he could visualise the argument already.

His Google-fu seemed to be on the fritz, and he could only figure it had something to do with the preoccupation of his brain, but dammit, he had to find something of use before they got back. He couldn't fail Dean. No matter how much he hated it, he had to be a part of the team, because being a part of this team meant helping to keep Dean safe, and there was nothing on earth more important to Sam than that.

Of course, there would come a time when that feeling of obligation would shift and change, but Sam didn't know it yet.

Sam recollects that day sometimes, and it's always funny to him to picture the look on Dean's face when he asked about what he'd been feeling-of course, Dean never lets him forget it, though. Privately, Sam knows that's just as it should be-he's still carrying around blackmail material on Dean from when they were kids.

xii. slit-rimming

"God, Dean, hold still." Sam pushes Dean's hips back down against the mattress, flattening one arm across his lower belly, which causes Dean to hiss in a breath at the sensation.

"Do you have any idea how badly I have to piss right now?" Dean asks, a petulance to his tone.

"Dean, do you remember last week? When I held it for twenty-four hours? I think I know." Sam lets his weight fall more onto his arm, pressing even more heavily against Dean. He's rewarded with a curse and Dean's thighs tensing inside the legs of his tight jeans. Sam grins.

"I've got a surprise for you," Sam murmurs, and slowly, so slowly, he moves his arm, using that hand to trail through the slight trail of hair until he's got his thumb against Dean's zipper. "And I know you'll love it. And then this won't seem like such a bad thing."

"Well, fucking get on with it, then," Dean says, still sounding more like a child denied a cookie than as rough as he probably wishes he did. Sam thinks back to last week, how badly he'd had to piss, how much he'd drunk; the thoughts bring him even closer to an already perilous edge. He's not gonna come in his pants. He's gonna fucking come on Dean when the time is right, dammit.

Sam lowers Dean's zipper in increments, separating the teeth one by one, until Dean's jeans are open and the ruby red head of his cock is just visible. Dean lets out a strangled sigh, and widens his legs; Sam allows it, parting the flaps of his jeans and reaching inside to take out Dean's cock.

Dean's hard, but not overly so; the need to piss must be warring with the need to come, and Sam knows just how difficult it's going to be for Dean to let go-it's never easy to piss when hard. Sam plays his fingers along the length of Dean's cock, teasing, sometimes just the edges of his nails against sensitive skin.

"Christ, whaddya doing, Sammy? 's making me crazy. I gotta-when are you gonna let me-?"

Sam ducks his head down, buries his nose into the thatch of sweaty curls at the base of Dean's dick, inhales the scent of Dean's sweat and the musk of his cock before sticking his tongue out, placing it against the very base, and beginning to slide it up Dean's shaft. When he gets to the crown, he pauses; then slowly wiggles his tongue against Dean's slit until it's inside the tiniest bit, holds it in place as Dean makes some unidentifiable noise and bucks his hips again.

Even though Sam is surprised at Dean's coherence, his brother manages to grit out,

"I can't-Sammy, I swear to God, I can't hold it much longer and I'm gonna-"

Sam removes his tongue for a second, meets Dean's eyes over the rich red column of his dick. "Go on," he says. "Do it."

And then he urges his tongue back inside Dean's slit. It takes a minute, Sam licking in and around the area, before the piss starts to dribble out, and Sam lets it flutter warm and liquid against his tongue, sometimes breaking the flow by filling up the little hole with his tongue again, and then Dean makes another, almost aborted noise and his body clearly gives up the ghost.

Sam continues to lick up, down and around Dean's cock as he pisses, a brilliant golden arc, and still, the flat of his tongue across the slit every once in awhile, interfering even as Dean groans at the relief of it.

It coats Sam's chin, thin trickles running down; it catches in his eyelashes as Dean's body goes lax underneath Sam; it's bitter-salt on the roof of Sam's mouth as he continues to drag his tongue against the skin of Dean's cock. He traces the vein, he flicks the tip of his tongue to the slightly widened slit, and Dean pisses himself dry with Sam still laving at his dick.

When Dean's done, Sam stuffs the tip of his tongue back into Dean's piss slit and holds it there, still tasting the warm liquid, and begins fucking it in and out until Dean stiffens beneath him, fisting the sheets, and comes in a creamy splash against Sam's chin.

"My turn," Sam says, and shoves Dean, so that his brother moves over and makes room for Sam to lie down. He licks at his chin and can taste the salty and bitter mix of Dean's piss and come, the flavour similar to Dean's blood. It should probably bother him that he's tasted just about every bodily fluid of Dean's, but there's not really a lot of room left in his mind for feeling bad about things that happened long ago and can't any longer be changed.

Dean doesn't move for a long moment, and Sam kicks at his shin with the heel of his foot. "Seriously, Dean, I gotta piss too, and you don't get to come and that's it. Otherwise I'm going to start thinking you're becoming an old man."

"I'm only twenty-eight, Christ," Dean mumbles. "I can even get it up again."

But when the next thing out of Dean is a snore, Sam throws a pillow at him. "It would serve you right if I pissed on you while you were asleep," Sam grumbles, but he climbs out of bed. And then stares at his brother. "Jesus, fuck, really?"

Dean huffs a little and turns his head on the pillow, still lying in a wet puddle. Sam knows his eyes are probably anime-wide. Then he throws a shoe at Dean, which gets his brother's attention. His laughing attention.

"Oh, you dick," Sam shouts, and throws himself down on top of Dean. They're both laughing now, Dean's hand on Sam's cock through the thick denim of his jeans, and Sam tries to hold on, but Dean runs the edge of his fingernail down the line of Sam's hard dick and Sam cries out, body tensing, and comes against the inside of his underwear. He whaps Dean with the back of his hand and says, mock irritation-well, mostly-, "You are such a dick, for crying out loud. I didn't wanna come in my pants again like a kid."

"You'll always be my kid brother, Sammy," Dean says, and then slides his hand up Sam's jeans, over the bulge, to his belly, bare above his waistband. "You gonna do it, or not?" he asks, and Sam grins, his most wicked and enticing grin, and starts pissing.

It floods his jeans and soaks through, and Dean moves his hand again, right over the head of Sam's dick, and Sam sighs in relief, tosses his head back and just enjoys the sensation of the hot liquid as it smothers his jeans and Dean's hand.

Dean laughs, bright and thrilled, and Sam can't help the spasm it sends through him, even though he's already come and won't be able to do so again for at least a few minutes.

"Still think I'm a dick?" Dean asks, and Sam is forced to concede the point.

xiii. let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel

It was Madison who figured it out first, the only person to do so at the time-at least so far as Sam knew. And even then, it was an accident; she was riding Sam, her body's smooth inner walls cradling Sam's dick, and then she got rough-he didn't know why at the time-and thrust down against him as hard as she could, sending shockwaves of pleasure through the nerves in his cock and spreading throughout his body.

"Oh, oh," she moaned, and her head fell back, exposing a long stretch of the lily-white skin of her neck. "Oh, Sam," she went on, and her body clenched around him, wracked with her orgasm, and Sam grabbed tight to her hips and shoved up hard, burying himself inside of her as far as he could-so tight, and she made an animal-like sound that Sam discounted-and he felt the sweat drying on his skin even as more sprang into existence as she rode him.

The flood of liquid that covered his dick and belly and wet down his pubic hair was a surprise, though. He opened his eyes again and met hers, and she looked almost shocked, but not quite.

"I never thought that could happen," she said, and Sam drove into her again.

"Did you just piss on me?" he asked, as he kept up the rhythm as best he could, even though his entire body was clamouring for release at just the thought of it.

"No," she laughed, her long dark hair swinging back into her face, clothing his chest and sticking to the perspiration there. "I came." And then, even though her eyes were mostly obscured by long strands of hair, he could see the gears turn in her mind.

"It-" he started, and then his body took over and took his mind with it. When he could breathe again, come thick and sticky inside of her, he pushed the curtain of hair out of her face. "It wouldn't've been a bad thing if you had," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I wouldn't've held it against you."

"Oh, Sam," she said smoothly, and flattened against him to kiss his lips, her breasts squashed against his chest. Into his mouth, she whispered, "would you like it if I had?"

He couldn't find words, so he kissed her fiercely, crushing their mouths together in a way he usually tried to gentle whenever he made out with women-they weren't playthings to be used carelessly, at least in his own personal opinion. When she broke away again, she was laughing.

"As if I haven't slept with people with worse kinks than that," she said. "Like Kurt, for instance."

"I don't-" Sam protested, but she just kissed him again.

"I don't mind," she said, her lips curving against his. "Do you want me to piss on you?"

Sam had said no, of course, because he was still hiding in that particular-water-closet, if you will. And then, later, when he held the gun against her heart, her tears fell and Sam couldn't help but wonder what he'd done.

He hadn't been thinking clearly at the time, of course, or he would've known what he knows now, which is that just liking a particular kink and having someone find out about it doesn't mean you wind up killing them to keep your secret.

He hadn't killed her for that reason, and he's sure of that now. But sometimes he still thinks about her, that pretty laugh, that pretty smile, and wonders if he wasn't, at the time, still glad somewhere that he didn't have to worry she'd tell Dean.

xiv. old habits die hard

Sam wets the bed. Yeah, so that's how the story began, but Sam's seventeen years old and lying back on a motel bed, hand covering the half-hardness of his dick through his jeans, trying not to think about what Dean and his father will do if they come back and find him missing.

He'd snuck out a couple of times and practised hustling pool, even though he hated doing it, just so he could get a room of his own while they were off hunting some revenant or something. So that he could do this: what he's doing now, sprawled on top of the hideous comforter that looks like it's either covered with nauseated ducks or really puke-green coloured paisley swirls-and frankly, the bedcovering is so ugly he's pretty sure he's doing the motel a favour. Or at the very least, that he'll enjoy dirtying it up, since it can only get better, really. There's no way it can look worse.

He strokes his cock through the denim fabric, idly because he doesn't want to be hitting the twelve o' clock marker or anything, but if he's gonna do this, he's gonna enjoy it. As best he can.

It'd taken a long time for him to get to this point: able to say, hey I like this, and maybe I should just try it once more to see what happens.

To hustle enough money at pool-and fuck Dean, Sam was just as adept at it, even though he kept that fact hidden from his brother-to pay for the anonymous motel room in the run-down place down the road from the one where he was 'officially' staying with his father and brother. Because this motel room put that one to shame, yet another reason Sam isn't about to feel guilty about what he's going to do.

"Okay, Sam, get on with it," he coaches himself, because he knows he doesn't have much time. John will start and all-out search if Sam isn't back by the time they are, and while he knows that they've planned to be gone all day and into the night-researching at hospitals and grave-digging after that-Sam still doesn't want to take any excessive chances.

So he lets his eyes fall closed and leans his head back on the pillow, draws his hand away from his dick and up to his belly, which is rounded with how badly he needs to piss. He rubs his belly, soothing circles at first, then strokes it up and down, fingers scratching through the trail of hair leading into his jeans.

"You can do this, you want to, go on," he coaxes himself, even though Dean would mock if he could see Sam talking to himself. Worse than that, though, is what Dean would do if he caught Sam doing this again-after all, Dean had figured it was some kind of prank or something last time, but Sam knows his brother, and he knows Dean's clogged up the laptop with porn sites. Dean's got a lot of appetites of his own, and surely he must have stumbled upon this kink one way or another at some point, which means that now, with Sam seventeen years old, if Dean catches him he's bound to know what's really going on this time.

That thought more than anything else spurs him to relax, which oughtn't work, but it does; he imagines all of his muscles are liquid and loose-which reminds him of how full of liquid his bladder is, and his thighs fall open a little, his toes uncurl, and he can feel it building in his belly, sweeping up the line of his cock and then overflowing.

The piss overwhelms his clothes, turning them into sopping heavy fabric in seconds, streams down his hips and onto the bedspread, even puddles up over his distended belly and pools in his navel.

It's like an unstoppable force once it gets going, and Sam can't do anything but revel in the feel of it as it breaks him down into atoms of nothing but pleasure. He breathes heavy and languid, allowing the feel of it to swamp him-okay, that was a bad pun, but Sam can't quite think clearly-and then, slowly, it reverts to a trickle, then a droplet or two, then nothing but his body, drained by the experience.

He has almost no energy, but he reaches down and, with difficulty, unzips the saturated fabric-which is starting to cool now even as the heat of his piss is still steaming in the air-conditioned room-and tugs his cock out, makes a fist and fucks into it, feeling the piss smear onto his palm and dribble in between his fingers as he jerks fast and hard, and the whole thing is like going over a waterfall, and he comes with Dean's name on his lips, even though he knows Dean would be disgusted if he knew about this.

When he's finally finished, all he wants is a nap, but he knows he doesn't have the luxury, so he forces himself to get up and strip out of his wet clothes, then shower away the evidence-even though he kind of likes the smell and would like to keep it on him to remind him-and then dresses in the clean clothes from his duffle, before stuffing his wet things into a plastic bag. He doesn't bother with the bedspread; he signed in as Horatio Leonard and he paid in cash, so he's leaving the key card on the night table and not coming back.

He walks down to the laundromat in the late-afternoon heat, and it makes the clothes, even tied in the plastic garbage bag, smell more pungent than ever. But all that does is make his dick twitch in his jeans-and he's forgotten to bring an extra pair of underwear, like an idiot, so his cock and balls are chafing against the inner seam as his dick hardens up from the scent memory.

By the time he gets there, it's almost five in the afternoon and he's tired even though he's in excellent shape, because he's walked a couple of miles already and has another three or so to go before he gets back to the other motel. He knows he looks shifty as he begins putting the things in the washer-there's only an old man and an old woman to see, but still-and he stuffs the quarters into the slot and punches the buttons for the heavy-duty cycle before settling in to wait.

By the time the laundry's dry enough to take out and bring home, it's almost seven p.m. and Sam knows that he really has to haul ass now. He fumbles his now clean clothes back into his duffle and walks out into the hazy heat of evening as the sun starts its descent from the sky.

The walk back to the other motel is actually kind of peaceful, even though the seam of his jeans is starting to rub his balls kind of raw; his duffle doesn't feel all that heavy and his orgasm has left behind a pleasant all-over glow that doesn't seem to want to dissipate. He figures he probably still looks kind of shifty as he fishes the key card out of his pocket, but before he slides it into the slot, he listens at the door.

It's true the Winchesters can be very quiet when they want to be, especially if they're trying to lie low due to a case, but Sam is a Winchester too and he's trained to pick up on the slightest sound and identify it, and when he doesn't hear anything for a few moments, he slides the key card in until it beeps green and then slips inside.

It's frigid within the room from the a/c, but Sam doesn't shiver because his body is still overheated from the intensity of his climax and the warmth of the evening, even though the cool air does make the sweat covering his skin prickle.

He takes another shower, rinsing himself even better because he swears he can still smell the piss on his skin; he washes his hair thoroughly-he doesn't wash it that often because there usually isn't time-and then when he gets out, he slums it in sweatpants, throwing himself down in front of the television and surfing for anything interesting that might be on.

There's some show about whether a paranormal story is fact or fiction, and while Sam waits for his family to come back, he identifies every false story and every true experience, mostly from his own knowledge of the supernatural.

He falls asleep on the couch with the television on, and as he's dozing, he knows just how good it was to do what he'd done-and he refuses to feel guilty, even though he's sure come the next time he sees his father or Dean-especially Dean-the guilt will come raging back.

xv. leave it in the rearview mirror

Sam always remembered the moments with Dean best, like when he was about five years old and sick with the flu. Dean had been right at his bedside for the entire week he'd been sick, bringing him comic books he'd stolen off store shelves and canned soup he'd conned out of the little old lady down the road.

He'd never complained, not even once, when he smoothed the lukewarm washcloths across Sam's forehead to try and lower his fever. John had been gone for days, hadn't even called to check in, but somehow Dean managed to take care of them both, even though he was still young enough that they both knew he couldn't be caught out as the only person looking after Sam.

And then Sam had worsened, sick to the point that he couldn't get out of bed at all, shivering and achy and almost delirious-Sam knows that his memories of that time, those last couple days before he started to heal, were hazy at best.

But he'd been lying in bed one night, long past midnight because the infomercials Dean had been watching had finally switched over to the coloured bars, and he had been so hot his pajamas were sticking to him with sweat and beneath the blankets felt like an oven. Dean had come over to the bed, his Sam-instinct so acute that he'd known almost before Sam had that Sam was awake.

Sam had been sore all over and feeling sorry for himself that Dean was on the floor in front of the television instead of curled up in bed with him, but as soon as Dean realised he was awake he'd crawled under the covers-"God, you're like a furnace, Sammy"-and patted Sam's little round belly. He'd still been young enough back then that John hadn't expected him to train with Dean yet, to burn away the baby fat that had actually clung to his bones until he was almost thirteen.

Sam had snuggled up to Dean, because in his fevered state he was so hot that even the warmth of Dean's body had felt cool against his flushed and burning skin. Dean had wrapped his arms around Sam and rested his chin on the top of Sam's head, and Sammy dozed for awhile, still trembling in Dean's arms, and then he'd woken up again, suddenly, as if he'd heard a noise that had startled him awake.

After a few moments of querying his body, he'd realised he had to pee, but he was too sick and too weak to even contemplate getting out of bed, so he'd feebly pushed at Dean's chest until those green eyes, reflecting the light of the television, had focused on him.

"Whatsamatter, Sammy?" Dean'd asked, stroking sweaty hair out of Sam's eyes and off his forehead. Sam had wriggled, uncomfortable and his little lips hot, and burrowed up against Dean, barely conscious. He was aware of Dean holding him, and knew that if he didn't get up something would happen, but the fever had been rising and every urge other than the one to seek comfort had been subsumed by the sickness in his veins, up to the point that he still-even to this day-had only the palest shadow of memory of what had happened next.

Dean had scooped him into his arms-and had Sam been more astute he would've questioned, even at five, why Dean was so strong (but he didn't know about monsters yet, of course)-and carried him into the bathroom. He'd efficiently stripped him out of his pyjamas and plonked him in the empty bathtub, and the cool porcelain had felt like heaven against his feverish skin.

Dean had sat down next to the tub and petted Sam's hair, waiting for something-but Sam's head was lolled against the side of the tub, face pressed to Dean's forearm, and he was barely even aware of the trickle at first, followed by the stream as it arced up over his little belly and swirled down the drain.

Dean had never-not in all the years they'd grown up together-mentioned that experience again, but something about it had pierced the fog of Sam's illness and snagged in his memory forever.

He knows, now, if he thinks about it, that Dean had been making it as easy on him as possible-he never could've even sat the toilet, he was so out-of-it, and Dean, always quick to uncover the solution needed in any situation, had figured out that Sam could pee into the bathtub without hurting anything, and then, businesslike as usual, had taken care of the problem without ever once drawing attention to the fact that Sam had essentially peed himself.

Sam's thoughts on that experience now, of course, are very different than they were when he was a child. Mostly because peeing himself by this point has taken on a significance it didn't have-not the same one, anyway-when he was a little kid.

When he'd been finished, Dean had turned the water on, lukewarm mixture, and rubbed his belly down with a cloth, cleaning away the piss and sweat from the fever. When that was done, Dean emptied the bathtub again and rinsed while Sam still sprawled against the side of it, and they'd remained there for hours, Dean never telling Sam he was stiff from sitting on the tile, and Sam practically asleep against Dean's chest.

Every so often, Dean ran the lukewarm water again and wiped Sam down with it, and by the time the sun had started to rise and spill through the little window, Sam's fever was down. Dean had lifted him out of the tub and carried him back into the other room, placing him on the only clean bed-Dean's bed-and lying down beside him, laying a sheet over him to cover his nakedness without putting him in anything too heavy that might make him sweat again.

So Dean probably doesn't even recollect it, but Sam does, and he hasn't said anything to Dean, either. Because what if Dean does remember? What if Dean thinks back on it, and then to when Sam was in high school-well, Sam figures it could go one of two ways: either Dean will think it's his fault that Sam is so damaged, or Dean will be disgusted by what it says about Sam.

Sam rolls over in bed and clutches the extra pillow to his chest, imagining it's Dean in his arms, even though he left Dean in a bar hours ago, chatting up some girl and probably expecting to get lucky.

With Dean's charm-and his luck, ironically enough-he probably would get lucky, which would lead to the same conclusion: Sam in bed, alone, thinking about Dean and thinking about their first kiss, the sloppy way it had burned his lips for weeks afterward, or their last kiss, the way it had preceded the biggest argument he'd ever had with Dean.

It's only been a little over a week since Jess died, and Sam's lying in what is essentially a puddle of misery in his bed, wishing Dean were there with him, wishing that Dean hadn't picked him up from Stanford and not even tried to resume the relationship they'd had before Sam had left.

God, the thought of Dean in that bar sours Sam's stomach to the point where he's actually nauseous. He flips over in bed, taking the pillow with him, and faces the door, wishing Dean would walk through it-alone-and come over to Sam's bed, settle himself on Sam's mattress like he always used to do when he wanted to be irritating, and crowd Sam up against the other side of the bed. Sam would welcome it, even if he fell off the bed like he had when they were teenagers and rough-housing and Dean always won.

Sam hopes that this time won't be the time that Dean brings the girl back to the motel room and pretends that Sam is asleep while he bangs her, but he doesn't really hold out much hope for that, because Dean is vulgar and crass and all the more likely to do something like that.

Christ. Sam buries his face in the pillow underneath his head, inhaling the scent of cheap detergent and feeling the way the cheap cotton abrades his face as he cries, because Dean's not here to mock him for it, or to mock him because he's realised Sam is crying over Dean and not Jess, and that's just fucked up anyway.

Up until Dean had come to pick him up, Sam hadn't even thought about how much he still wanted Dean; he'd been content with Jessica, deeply in love and happy enough that he should've known-with his family and the courses his life always took-that it was all going to end in tragedy.

And now he's alone in the room, the asthmatic wheeze of the air conditioner filling his ears with an annoying hiss, hanging on to a pillow like it might somehow magically become either Jess, who he knows is gone forever, or Dean, who he's pretty sure is not going to kiss him again. The tears drip into the fabric under his cheek and Sam tries not to hate the fact that he really has no-one to blame but himself for the fact that Dean doesn't want him any more.

If he hadn't crapped all over their relationship and run away from his family, Dean might be in here, kissing Sam, reaching into his underwear, using all of his charm and talent and expertise to make Sam feel like the only person in the world who mattered to him.

Sam isn't asleep when he hears the door open and close, and then he listens to Dean brush his teeth, take a piss-and that does funny things to Sam's dick-and come into the main room, fluff up his own pillows and slide in between the sheets with a sharp rustle that makes Sam ache with want.

"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean whispers, and Sam knows that Dean's only saying it because Dean has never-not even once-gone to sleep without saying goodnight to Sam. Sam knows this like he knows his own name, like he knows that his girlfriend is dead, like he knows that listening to Dean piss will inevitably make him hard.

He even knows that Dean probably used to say it every night when Sam was gone, light-years away in Palo Alto.

Sam deserves the loneliness he feels, he knows that now. As soon as Dean's breathing evens out and deepens, Sam begins stroking his own cock to the memory of Dean in the bathroom.

And he knows that he's a freak, and he embraces it, because if he's a freak-well, then Jess was too good for him anyway, and Dean would be better off without him.

xvi. hookers and lies

It's Sam's fault-both his own stupidity and his stupid kink-that Dean breaks up with him just after his twenty-third birthday. Mainly because he's getting so caught in his own head about it that he buys a hooker that promises to do anything within reason and takes special kinks into consideration and Dean happens to walk into the motel room much earlier than Sam was expecting-consequences of watching Dean flirt and figuring Dean wouldn't really notice when he snuck out the back door-and catches him with her.

She's barely gotten Sam out of his flannel shirt and Sam's belt is unbuckled, but she's wearing only a g-string already and there's no way to play it off as something it's not, so the best Sam can do is stammer something about meeting up with her in the bar and hoping the girl won't tell Dean that Sam hired her, because, well, Jesus. Dean would never let him get over that.

Unfortunately, by the time she's gone, Dean's back is against the door, his ankles crossed and his arms crossed over his chest too.

"Paying for it now, eh, Sammy?" Dean asks, eyes dark with something that could be anger-or lust. Somehow Sam doubts it's the latter.

"Look, Dean, it's not-"

"That is the oldest excuse in the book," Dean says, losing his cool and shouting out the words. "I used that one on Dad when I was still a kid, Sam, let's try and behave like adults, and not pretend like I don't know exactly what it is you were doing. I'm not blind, Sam, and I know a girl that screams 'hooker' when I see one."

"Dean, look, I'm sorry, but-" Sam doesn't know what he's going to say, really, because that's about as far as his short-circuiting brain can get. He's never been good at lying to Dean.

"Sammy," Dean says, lowering his voice again, this time hissing out his name. "What, am I not good enough for you? Do you miss college and the girls that much? Because this was your idea from the beginning, and I don't appreciate being used, Sam. I mean, fuck, I don't know what your game is, but you kissed me and started this whole thing, and when I got you from Stanford, again it was your idea to pick up where we left off, so, what? You just messing with me? Because, fuck, Sam. I'm already gonna go to Hell just for allowing this to happen, and-"

"Stop," Sam says miserably. "It's not like that at all, honest, Dean. I'm not just fucking with you."

"No, you're just fucking me, is all, and then apparently buying hookers for God only knows what reason, because-Jesus, Sam, I've been trying to get you to take an interest in girls all along, figured it was the healthy thing-better than sleeping with me, at any rate-and yet you always turn me down, like I'm really what you wanted, and you know what, I thought-" Dean stops for a moment, almost like he's swallowing back tears of his own. "And now it's like you don't think you can get a date. That's it, Sam, I'm done."

"No, Dean, please," Sam pleads, ashamed of himself for even lowering himself enough to do so, but Dean doesn't respond to that. He just storms into the bathroom and slams the door so hard that Sam's handgun goes skittering off the night table.

Sam goes to bed alone that night, and dreams of Jess.

He dreams of Jess, and their apartment. The washer and dryer combination that he took shameful advantage of whenever she was going to be gone more than a few hours-and even in his sleep, he bites down on his pillow and wonders why, why, why. Why is he like this? Why does he want it, and why does he so badly need to share it with someone else, and why can't Dean just see and understand like Dean sees and understands everything else?

xvii. prison bitch

Apparently Dean can hold a grudge for nigh onto forever, because he doesn't properly accept Sam's apology and let Sam kiss him again until they're in jail together, which Sam suspects is partly to keep both of them from becoming someone's bitch.

In the end it doesn't matter because once they escape, the first thing they do after they go deep to ground is wind up grappling in the same motel bed, doing things to each other they'd never even really tried before.

Even then, though, Sam doesn't have the guts to ask Dean for what he really wants.

xviii. feels like the second coming

Sam doesn't have the guts to ask Dean for what he really wants. Maybe he used up all of his courage telling his father he was going away to college, but he has to piss so badly his hard-on is about ninety-percent desperation-induced, and Dean doesn't even know it; Sam's on his haunches, his jeans stretched taut across his throbbing dick-and Sam has no idea how much of the throbbing is due to Dean being about an inch away from him and how much is because of his little 'problem'-and Dean's right in front of him, also sitting on his calves, back up against the headboard of Dean's bed.

Sam drives his fingers hard into Dean's stomach, toned but still a little rounded-and Sam is in love with that, had no idea Dean looked like that until recently-and listens to the way Dean's breath pushes out of him. He lifts Dean's shirt up more with his other hand and Dean raises his arms above his head, letting Sam tear the t-shirt off. And then Dean's hands are on his shoulders, gripping so tight Sam can feel it practically down to the bone, and Sam bites down on his lower lip and shoves his hand down between their bodies, getting it right up snug against Dean's hard dick encased in forgiving, worn denim.

"Sam," Dean pants, and grinds forward, rocking up and into Sam's hand, and Sam goes punch-drunk at the feel of that hard cock-and all for him-and slides his knee in between Dean's thighs, so that now they're slotted together like one of those cardboard boxes that you fold for yourself, and with his hand still plastered to Dean, he rocks forward too. Manages to skip his hand down to the base of his dick and hang on tight.

The movement drives their cocks right up against each other, and the friction of his cotton underwear, his jeans, and the overwhelming heat of Dean's cock soaking through all of that fabric makes him scrape in a breath. Dean's hands are inside the neckline of his v-neck t-shirt now, his nails cutting into bare skin as his head drops forward and he breathes, erratic and hot against Sam's neck, and Sam lets his head dip back to give Dean more room, and keeps rutting up against Dean's cock, every movement pulling pleasure up and throughout his body.

The urge to piss just keeps getting more intense with every thrust against Dean's stiff cock, and Sam's eyes fall closed and he squeezes his thighs together-or tries to, and winds up crushing Dean's thigh between his, and Dean gasps, moist puff of air staining Sam's skin, and rocks forward again.

Sam is almost delirious with the effort of holding back, of keeping from pissing himself and Dean, combined with the feel of Dean's fucking cock against his own, and that's when he realises-and he doesn't even know how he has any brain cells left to rub together-that Dean's not wearing any underwear.

The thought makes him shoves his own dick forward and up against Dean even faster, trying to get Dean off, because it makes his boxer briefs sloppy with pre-come to think of Dean losing it against the inner seam of his jeans-of Dean having to take them to the laundromat crusted over with his own come, and come that his brother helped put there.

But every roll of his hips, every motion towards orgasm, also pushes him closer to the edge of his control. Sam is still sucking on his lower lip and Dean has managed to yank the neck of his shirt to the side-Sam figures it'll be all misshapen after this-and is mouthing at Sam's neck, and Sam sinks his teeth into his own flesh to keep from just... losing it all over them both. But God, he wants to. He wishes he had the courage to turn his head, slide his lips over Dean's ear, and say, I wanna piss on you, Dean. But he doesn't have it. He reaches for that well of self-assurance and self-confidence he had when he left for school at eighteen and it's not there. It's just gone.

Instead he keeps his head tilted to the other side to give Dean better access and concentrates on keeping the piss in his bladder where it belongs, and hopefully on coming any second now. Dean's getting louder, his mouth dragging wet across Sam's collarbone, and Sam figures, as he cants his hips into Dean's cock, that his brother is getting close.

They haven't spoken, just fumbled at each other's skin when they got back from the bar, drunk as loons from their pre-Christmas celebration and more than ready to just cross that burned bridge-and Sam finally does turn his head, grabbing at the back of Dean's skull and twisting Dean's face up to his, kissing him with a mouth full of saliva and teeth, and Dean falls into it like a drowning man, eating the words Sam can't say out of his mouth, sucking at Sam's lips and tongue driving up behind Sam's teeth and then it's Dean's turn to bite Sam's lip as he comes, his hips jerking against Sam's, the incredible heat of his jizz sweltering against Sam's dick.

Sam can't breathe, really, kissing Dean this deep and feeling Dean's cock spasming against his, but his hand flies up to his belly as if pressing on it will stop the overflow, but just as he's sure he's going to lose it-and Dean's going to be so fucking angry-Sam comes, instead, the feeling ripped right out of him.

His whole body feels raw from the sensation of coming that hard while he still has to piss so bad, and the feel of his heartbeat in his bladder intensifies and he pulls away from Dean, staring at his brother like he's never seen him before.

It was a huge risk to take, but he'd been so full of liquor, and Dean had been sloshed enough to start kissing him before they'd even gotten into the motel room, that Sam hadn't wanted to say, hey, man, I gotta take a leak first. That and he was a coward-he wanted to know what it felt like, to be so full and so achingly turned on, and to get off with Dean while he felt like that... Yet Sam knows he didn't have the guts to ask Dean for that, so he had to be sneaky.

But now that the inside of his underwear is sticky with come, he just has to piss with an ache so deep it burns inside him, and he pushes against Dean again until Dean falls back against the wall, his head lolling against the hard surface, lips flushed and swollen and cheeks flagged with stark red, and Sam gasps in a hasty breath and jumps off the bed, takes off for the bathroom.

"You gonna hurl, Sam?" Dean calls lazily, still sounding completely blissed out, and Sam hollers back,

"No, but I am gonna shower," because he can't admit to it now, either, so he turns the faucets on high before he takes a piss.

It rushes out of him like the rain must've fell during those Biblical forty days and forty nights and Sam can't even believe how much piss there was inside him, or how he kept it there with all that stimulation, but it feels like coming again as he pisses and pisses for what feels like forever. Like Tom Hanks' character did in that movie-what was it? The one with the all-girl baseball league. He finally drains himself dry and pitches forward a little, balancing his forehead on the cool tile, sweaty and spent in so many ways, hand still circled loosely around his dick.

By the time he stumbles into the shower, he barely has the energy to wash the crust of come off his cock.

xix. moment of reckoning

The hunt does not go as planned. Sam wrenches his back, and while he's crumpled up like a pretzel on the ground, sucking at the air like a dying fish, Dean has to take out the monster all by himself. And then, once that's taken care of, he has to haul Sam's heavy ass back to the Impala with Sam barely able to offer any assistance at all, but there's no way Dean can carry him without putting more strain on his back, so Sam just flops against Dean and apologises over and over until Dean finally snaps,

"Oh shut up, Sam, Christ, I know you didn't do it on purpose. And we have at least another hundred yards to go before you can have the painkillers I've got in the trunk."

And wow, do painkillers sound like a sweet idea right about now, so Sam shuts his mouth and works at trying to make his feet move forward instead of dragging obstructively on the ground.

Dean arranges him in the back seat and Sam swallows the pills offered, then closes his eyes and drifts until they get back to the motel.

Once inside-and that was an interesting manoeuvre-Sam falls into bed and takes the muscle relaxants that Dean has scrounged up by rummaging around inside his duffle.

"Thanks," he wheezes through a battered throat-and seriously, what is with monsters and beasties choking him, anyway?-and glides off into dreamland without another thought beyond how floaty and relaxed he feels.

Sam jolts awake sometime hours later, his back telegraphing pain throughout all of the muscles, and blinks fast a few times to clear his vision, then wishes he could move well enough to see the clock.

He no sooner has that thought when he realises he has to piss really bad. But he can hardly move, so he shuts his eyes again and begs sleep to come back and have mercy on him, but it's not happening so he fumbles around on the nightstand while trying not to jar his back until he finds more of the pills Dean left for him. He gulps them down dry and winces at how they abrade his already roughened throat, then lies there motionless, still trying to get back to sleep, but it's not working, and the urgency is only intensifying with every breath he takes.

He doesn't know how long he lies there, but it's evident soon enough that either he has to get up and get to the bathroom, or he's going to piss the bed-and while that might not have worried him if he were alone, Dean's in the other bed. So he scrunches up his face and concentrates on moving in tiny little increments, but all that does is make his back spasm, and he lets out a gasp of pain, and then, to his eternal shame, he also accidentally lets out a little droplet of piss or two, dampening his underwear and he discovers as he manages to force himself upright that at some point, Dean must have undressed him.

He's still hoping for some relief, so he tries to get to his feet, but his body fails him. His arms windmill, he curses under his breath, and pitches forward into darkness.

Dean's Sammy-sense must've been tingling or something, because before Sam hits the floor and re-injures his back even worse, he winds up on Dean's lap, his knees on either side of Dean's torso and his dick pressed against Dean's belly, which is bare. Dean's not dressed in anything except underwear, either, and Sam barely has time to register that fact before he registers that the forward movement has jostled his bladder past the point of repair, especially since his body is still lax with the drugs.

So he's straddling Dean's lap, with Dean on his ass on the carpet, his arms held loosely around Sam's chest to hold him up, and just like that, he's pissing a river into his underwear and it soaks straight through and then it overflows through the waterlogged fabric and up and over Dean's belly.

Sam can't really see Dean's expression in the dark, but he can feel his cheeks scorched with shame as he tries to twist away, which sends pain spiralling through him and he cries out, then grabs for Dean and just hangs onto Dean's shoulders for dear life as he pisses and pisses and pisses and there seems to be no end to it, just the shame of doing it all over Dean and the inability to stem the flow now matter how much he tries.

"What were you doin', Sammy?" Dean whispers into the dark, and Sam's underarms are wet with perspiration from so shamefully losing control-that, and the fact that were this any other situation, it might've been something he'd asked for and he might've just got an orgasm out of it. As it is, he can barely speak, because surely it's obvious?

"I had to piss," Sam says, and Dean's lips are suddenly right there, against his own. "I didn't wanna wake you," he adds, and then Dean drowns out his words kind of like the way Sam is drowning Dean in urine.

Dean doesn't stop kissing him until his bladder's empty, and then Sam's meds begin to wear off a little and he becomes aware that he just pissed himself, Dean, and the worn, scratchy motel carpet. Oh fuckdamn.

"Shoulda woke me up," Dean says, clearly smirking in the dark. Sam's face is still burning, and he knows Dean must've felt that-felt the heat in his cheeks the same way there was no way he could miss the heat of Sam's piss against his bare skin. By this point, Sam can tell that both of their underwear are sopping wet, and just before he tries to wrest himself from Dean's grasp again, something snags his attention. Admittedly, he's still a little loopy from the meds, brain not quite engaged properly, or he would've noticed it sooner: Dean is hard.

Dean is hard against Sam, even after that horrifying, embarrassing display. That excruciating lack of control.

Dean tightens his arms to keep Sam from moving and hurting himself, which is something Sam had forgotten about in his mortification.

"Relax, Sammy," Dean says, his grin still evident. "'s happened to me when I was drugged to the gills on muscle relaxants. The things are fantastic for easing pain but they do have their downside. Think you were at Stanford at the time, and I can tell you, Dad was torn between laughing his ass off at me and scolding me for pissing the bed-'at your age,' I think he said at the time."

"Dean," Sam murmurs. "A shower would be good right about now, and then what are we going to do about the carpet?"

"Sneak out in the middle of the night? Stiff the motel? You think you can stand being in the car?"

"Guess I'll have to," Sam replies. "It's my fault, anyway."

Dean runs his hand up the slope of Sam's naked spine and cups the nape of his neck. "Told ya not to worry about it," Dean says. "Doesn't matter. Come on, I'll help you into the shower. And join you." The leer is in Dean's voice, and Sam's sure that if he could make out Dean's features in the dark, he'd see Dean waggling his eyebrows in the most exaggerated fashion he can muster.

That makes Sam laugh in spite of everything, and they stumble into the bathroom, Dean stashing Sam in the shower and stripping his soaked underwear down his thighs and calves, and then divesting himself of his.

Dean climbs into the shower with Sam, and helps wash him down in much the same way he used to when Sam was a kid, and Sam leans back against the tiled wall, hair dripping into his eyes, and stares at Dean.

And wonders.

xx. After

Dean's out picking up dinner, and so that gives Sam some time to himself-although this time, he doesn't use it to whack off in the shower, he uses it to boot up his laptop-the computer that Dean uses too-and start looking through the history.

Sam knows that Dean is a pretty good hacker when it comes to finding out illicit information-like police reports and other confidential documents-but he's not sure how good Dean is at wiping the computer's memory of what he used it for, so he's optimistic that he'll be able to find something that will tell him what he needs to know.

It's been about a week since The Incident, as he's taken to calling it in the privacy of his own head, and his back is-thankfully-much improved. His mind, however, won't let it rest. Dean had been hard, dick lining up with Sam's almost perfectly, and there was no way that Sam could've missed that, or misinterpreted that, unless he was more drugged than he'd thought.

So he's resorting to being sneaky and prying into Dean's web-surfing habits even though he knows that he should just ask Dean-but that'll never happen, not without something to fall back on. Something Dean can't lie his way out of. Because it might just kill Sam to be wrong, to ask Dean about his reaction only to find out he's mistaken-maybe Dean hadn't been hard after all, maybe Sam's mind, under the influence of powerful substances, had invented the whole thing out of a terrible, all-consuming desire for it to be true.

Which is why he's backtracking through all of the history on the computer until he starts turning up porn websites-Busty Asian Beauties.com, for example-and then he hits paydirt. The first thing he stumbles across is a website dedicated to gay men, which makes him want to backhand Dean across the mouth for looking at porn about other guys when he has Sam, but he figures he deserves that one after that incident with the hooker, so he moves on.

And finds a website that is all about shaved girls-typical Dean-and just as he's about to click out of it, he sees a little banner that reads, golden showers inside! Sam stares at it for a long moment. Could be coincidence. Could just be that Dean had been on this website for the shaved chicks-who are pretty hot, Sam has to admit, from what he's seen of the samples-but then again, Sam remembers doing his own search years and years ago, and he didn't really stick to websites that offered his kink as a secondary item.

So he navigates to the next page and finds himself on Watersports Palace! Come in and be treated like a king!

Okay, that's pretty blatant. Sam doesn't think there's any way to misinterpret that, really, unless Dean suspects something about him and has been researching it-but Sam doesn't think that's the case. His gut is telling him rather strenuously that Dean wasn't looking at this website and thinking about Sam. Or, not about whether Sam had the kink.

He checks the date that the site was visited, and comes up about three days before The Incident in the motel, with his injured back and his stupid rebellious bladder. He goes back a little farther and finds even more websites that are either exclusively watersports, or have entire sections dealing with the kink, some from as far back as weeks ago.

Sam scours the internet even more, but by the time he looks up from his screen, he realises Dean had been gone a long time-at least forty-five minutes. Suspicious-well, more so than he was before-he stands up and stretches the muscles in his still healing back, and then closes out of the history window and grabs his cell phone off the table.

It would be just like Dean to leave that evidence hanging around on purpose, because he must've known Sam would find it eventually. That means either Dean knows-and therefore those websites were research or curiosity-or Dean suspects and likes it too, in which case those websites were spank bank material. Sam's got a pretty good notion of which one of those three possibilities it is.

He pushes the speed dial button for Dean's cell phone, and his brother answers on the first ring, sounding way too cheerful.

"Hey, Sammy," he says, all upbeat nonchalance.

Sam doesn't waste time with pleasantries or bothering to pretend like Dean is doing. "Where are you?" he asks, instead. "I thought you were getting burgers."

"Well, they didn't have your pansy ass salad that you wanted, so I drove to-"

"All right, cut the bullshit, Dean," Sam breaks in. "I know you wouldn't go to all that extra trouble because it would be much more entertaining for you to get me something I wouldn't like, just so you could have it. When are you coming back? We need to talk and I'm not doing it on the phone."

"I don't know," Dean replies thoughtfully, "maybe a half hour?"

Sam gets the impression that's supposed to mean something else, too, something more ulterior than it does. He grips his phone to the side of his sweaty face and tries to slow his racing heart, to calm down the nerves that are taking over. This has been his entire life, his every utmost personal experience, and he's about to bare it all, heart and depraved soul, to Dean the next time he sees him. The thought makes his hand quiver on the cell.

"Okay, see you then," Sam says, hoping his voice doesn't quaver and give him away. He can actually hear Dean wave, as if Sam could see him, but Sam smiles a little because of course Dean would know that Sam would be able to imagine the gesture without Dean being in the same room with him.

Dean hangs up, and Sam drops the phone on the bed and starts pacing. And keeps pacing for thirty-four minutes until Dean walks in, his hands empty.

"Where's dinner?" Sam asks, but the look on Dean's face suggests he knows what's going. Maybe better than Sam does. Sam suddenly has the disconcerting thought that Dean's been planning this, that he's just been biding his time and waiting for Sam to turn to the same page of the textbook that Dean is already on.

"The car," Dean says. He reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out a bottle of hard liquor though; Sam can't tell if it's whiskey or tequila from this distance. Dean sets it down on the little table in the corner of the room and looks at Sam like he's just waiting.

Sam blurts it out, surprising himself by the fact that he didn't just meander around the bush for three hours: "You've been looking at piss kink websites."

"Yeah," Dean says easily. Confidently. "I have."

It's a stupid question, with the way Dean reacted to that, but Sam asks it anyway: "Why?"

Dean rolls his eyes and gives Sam that Look that means Sam is being a complete fucktard, and sighs heavily.

"Because I like it, dimwit," he says. "College boy couldn't come to that conclusion on his own?"

"You... like it." Sam scopes out Dean, taking inventory of his brother's body, his face, all over again, as if this new knowledge has remade him into something new, a shape he doesn't recognise, skin he hasn't touched in every imaginable place. And then he meets Dean's eyes, which show a tiny flicker of nervousness at the same time that they broadcast the same arrogant confidence Dean has always had. Sam narrows his own eyes. Dean's not actually, in reality, that confident. That's his swagger for everyone else, to hide his true personality. But Sam knows Dean, really knows him, and that gives away more than anything else that Dean is both telling the truth and trying to couch it in a way that will express to Sam that he's not judging him, even though he must've figured it out.

Dean is so very carefully trying to give Sam the space to make his confession, while making a confession of his own so that it will be easier for Sam. This is so much like the Dean Sam does know-the person who always thinks about Sam first, even when he's stomping on his feelings to be funny. Because even then, Sam knows Dean doesn't mean those things-and Dean does it simply because that's who he is. And he likes to get a rise out of Sam.

"How long have you known?" Sam asks, swiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. Dean shrugs with one shoulder.

"Sammy," he says, and comes a little bit closer, close enough to touch a damp lock of Sam's hair, "you never were a very good ninja around me."

"That doesn't answer the question," Sam says, caught up and out and needing to just know already.

"God, Sam, I don't know," Dean says. "For a long time. But I didn't-I didn't want to say anything to you because I knew you'd freak out."

"You chastised me," Sam says, weak accusation, and Dean shrugs again, lets the tips of his fingers linger against Sam's temple. This touching, casual yet so very deliberate, is a little bit unlike Dean. A little too much like a girl might concentrate too hard and attach too much significance. It makes Sam antsy.

"I was-I was surprised. And I'd been thinking about you so much, and then you did-did that thing, and I didn't have a fucking clue why I liked it so much, so I just... I overreacted, Sammy, I'm sorry. I should've said something a long time ago."

Sam probes Dean's eyes as deeply as he can, searching for hidden meaning, for anything that might suggest Dean isn't completely earnest. There's nothing, though.

"My whole life," Sam says, then watches the sentence dangle in the air in front of him. Right in Dean's face. He forces himself to speak the rest of the words. "I've had this weird attraction my whole life. When I was a little kid I didn't know what it was. I didn't really understand it until I was in high school. I didn't figure out that it was a legitimate kink till about then, either. But I still-I still felt like a freak."

Dean echoes himself, whether consciously or not, Sam doesn't know. "I'm right there with you, all the way," is what he says. And kisses Sam right on the mouth, not trying for dominance, not even trying to get inside, just a quick press of lips.

"Dean," Sam says, and the next words surprise him. "Do you remember when I had that fever?"

Dean runs his fingers down along the side of Sam's face, shapes his jawline with them and then leans into another kiss. When he pulls back a little, he replies, "Of course. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Sam."

"That's not what I mean. Or that time-"

"Sam," Dean says with force. It stops Sam's thoughts from circling like vultures in his brain. "I said it's nothing to be ashamed of. It may be considered taboo to other people, or a more extreme kink, but it's just a kink like any other. Sammy, your hair would curl if I told you some of the things I've tried."

"Really?" Sam feels some of the nervousness start to slide away from him. "Like what?"

"Not tonight," Dean deflects, though. "Someday. Tonight we're just going to sit on the couch next to each other like real men and watch a hockey game. And no cuddling."

Sam laughs. "All right, Dean. But I'll have you know it's always you who falls asleep on me first, cuddling and drooling all over my shoulder. Do you know how many of my shirts I always have to wash the drool out of?"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, and steps around him, switches the television on.

For the first time in Sam's life, the atmosphere doesn't feel heavy and pressing like the urge to piss himself always has.

:::

Sam has been drinking liquids all day. He's tried to be covert about it, so that Dean won't notice or at least so Dean won't suspect anything, and by the time it's early evening Sam has to piss like he hasn't gone in days. Dean's in the shower, and Sam's been doing research on the laptop for about an hour, which is the last place Dean had seen him before he closeted himself in the bathroom.

Sam sucks down his last bottle of water and gets to his feet, stretches, arms high above his head. His shirt rides up and his belly is exposed, and Sam knows that if he looks down at it, it'll be slightly swollen with the fullness of his bladder. That thought makes him shiver with anticipation.

He's wearing his oldest pair of jeans, the hems frayed, one of the buttons missing on the fly, and a grey v-neck t-shirt, and he's ready now. He's going to have to take the plunge someday, right? And then Sam smothers a giggle-so very not masculine-and thinks about how 'taking the plunge' is a metaphor that deals with water, and so it's scarily apropos.

He can hear the shower pounding against the tiles in the bathroom, and he waits, standing with his feet a little bit apart on the side of the room that houses the little kitchenette, complete with a linoleum floor. He rubs his forehead and drags his fingers through his hair, feeling it fall into his face in tangled strands, and waits. The water hitting the floor of the shower stall is making his need more and more urgent by the second, but he knows he doesn't have to wait too much longer, so he just hangs on, one finger caught in the waistband of his jeans.

And then the water stops. Since they've started this thing between them again, Dean has even less modesty than before: he walks around stark naked while trying to find clothes to wear, and that can take awhile-most of them barely pass the sniff test on a good day. The jeans Sam is wearing now are almost dirty enough to stand up on their own, and so what he's about to do to them is actually more likely to make them cleaner than they currently are.

Dean opens the bathroom door, strides out in all of his nude glory-and Dean Winchester nude? Is a truly glorious sight-and then pauses when he sees Sam, just standing there. Dean's cock is soft at the moment, but Sam knows that won't last long. And Jesus Christ, but Dean's dick is like, halfway down his thigh even when it's soft. It's impressive.

Sam very deliberately and slowly licks his lower lip, then his upper, then unhooks his finger from his waistband and unfolds his hand, gliding it down the front of his jeans, until he's cupping his own swelling dick. He has to be careful-he's still so full he's about to burst-but a little stimulation won't hurt, and it will do things to Dean that Sam is really hoping for.

And in keeping with that, he flicks his gaze down to Dean's cock, which is lengthening and filling with blood and Sam grins, a wicked little smirk of his lips, and then takes the bottom one in between his teeth.

"I've got a surprise for you, Dean," Sam says, and pulls his hand away from his crotch. For the beginning, at least, Sam wants Dean to see it. Dean's eyes are locked on Sam's groin anyway, on the swollen line of his cock through his fly, and Sam draws in a deep breath and works on relaxing all of the muscles necessary to just let it go.

"And what's that, Sammy?" Dean asks, a little breathless already, his dick well on its way to fully hard, almost pressed to his belly with want.

"You said you like this, Dean," Sam says, a last ditch plea to make sure this is all right before Dean does something like ridicule him forever. But Dean just nods, like he's starting to get an inkling of what's coming-and, well, Sam's hoping it will be Dean, all things considered. Himself, too, but that's for later-once Dean's gotten an eyefull. This time, Sam's not going to stop, and he's pretty certain Dean's not going to scold, so Sam spreads his legs just a bit wider and lets out the breath he'd taken.

And piss spurts up out of his dick, just a little at first-it's always like that-and then Sam bears down a little to force more of it out, and Dean's gaze is arrested by Sam's jeans now, by the dark stain slowly spreading outwards, uneven and inescapable. Sam can hear Dean's breath catch in his throat, can see his brother swallow so hard that his Adam's apple jumps.

But now that it's started, Sam is good. He's had to piss so bad all day that this is it, he's gotten over the first obstacle of doing something considered so forbidden, and now it's flowing easily, drenching his jeans and pouring down the legs of his jeans in twin rivers, sticking the denim to his legs in places. Sam looks down at himself, at the wet streams, shiny in the light of the motel room. It reflects off of the piss, and then Sam dares to look up, to meet Dean's eyes.

Dean's not really looking back at Sam, though; his face is slightly slackened around the mouth and his eyes are glazed as he watches Sam, and when Sam darts a glance down at Dean's dick, he can see it's flat to his belly and curved a little to the left, streaking pre-come along the fine, beautiful skin of his stomach.

By this point, Sam's socks are soaked and his feet are hot and wet with piss, and he's almost done, bladder deflating as all of it floods into his jeans, filling in every empty space with liquid. Sam reaches down and cups himself again, presses against the fabric, making a puddle of urine swell out from inside of his jeans, and watches Dean the whole time, treated to the sight of his brother gasping, his hips making a little abortive movement forward, and then he's coming in white creamy streams of his own over his belly.

Sam's been pretty much holding his own breath, but at the sight of that, Dean losing it without even touching himself, Sam's sure, once and for all, that Dean really does like this. He thinks back to all of those things he's thought over the years: Can I piss in your mouth?, Can I piss on you, Dean? and Will you piss on me, Dean?

His breath rushes out of him much like his bladder just emptied, and Sam stands there a little awkwardly as the warmth begins to cool.

Dean finally meets his eyes, and his sculpted face holds an expression like he's just been completely humbled by Sam's trust in him, by Sam's faith that he won't be rejected.

"Sammy," Dean says, but that's it, just Sam's name, and that's all that's really needed.

When Dean walks over, knocking Sam's hand out of the way and flicking open the buttons of his wet jeans, Sam can barely breathe, even when Dean touches his cock for the first time, as if the piss doesn't bother him at all, and starts jerking him to full hardness.

Dean isn't the only one humbled by the experience.

xxi. consummation

"How bad is it, Dean?" Sam asks, and trails his fingers over Dean's belly, barely touching. Dean's stomach muscles flutter and his brother gasps, body shaking apart underneath Sam. "Come on, answer me," he cajoles, and Dean's eyes are practically rolling back in his head, but he manages to eke out,

"So bad, Sammy. And like-like just about to come bad, it feels so good."

Sam knows the feeling. He plops an open-mouthed kiss over the round swell of Dean's distended belly, his other hand between Dean's thighs, seeking in the humid darkness Dean's hole. He finds and it knuckles his finger inside, careful but at the same time reckless. The lube on his fingers is dripping onto the bed sheet, cold against his knee where he's kneeling on the bed, and he fights two more fingers inside of Dean, stretching him open on the width of his fingers.

He moves his lips without losing contact with Dean's skin, and with his free hand he starts to thumb over the head of Dean's dick, flicking pre-come off of it and onto his belly, and then he pushes one fingernail right up against Dean's slit and ever so carefully widens the tiny hole so that the very tip of his finger can almost slide inside. Dean moans and grunts and Sam can barely keep him on the bed-Dean's hands clutching at Sam's hair, his skull.

He spreads kisses over more of Dean's belly, then lifts his head just a little and shapes his lips around the crown of Dean's dick, fingers sliding out of the way and palm landing heavily on Dean's stomach. Dean curses in a strangled voice and bucks on the bed-Sam presses down more forcefully.

And Dean must remember the way this went before; maybe he even thinks Sam's going to lick at him while he sprays them both with piss again, but no, not tonight-Sam has other plans.

He urges his fingers deeper within Dean, and pushes up against his prostate and puts pressure on Dean's bladder even from the inside. Dean lets out a bona fide scream and his hands tighten to painful claws on Sam's head.

Sam licks the little hole again, tasting pre-come and the slight bitter flavour of a droplet of piss squeezed out of Dean, then wraps his hand around the base of Dean's dick and begins to jerk it carefully, still touching his tongue every so often to Dean's slit.

And then he pulls his fingers out of Dean's ass, wipes them against his own bare thigh and picks up his head to look at Dean, who is flushed so red he's practically glowing, pre-come shockingly pale and shining against his skin, and his cock is pointed towards the heavens. Sam shakes his head until Dean loosens his death-grip from his hair, and slowly runs one finger along the pouty edge of Dean's lower lip.

"Are you ready, Dean?" Sam asks, taking Dean's wrists in his hands and guiding his brother's hands down to his dick. Dean obediently holds it, and Sam lets go, puts both hands on the bed beside Dean's head, knees bracketing Dean's hips, and whispers, "Aim it and go on, Dean, let it go."

His own taut stomach and hard dick are above Dean's now, in prime position for a soaking, and Dean bites his lip and watches Sam's eyes the entire time, from the first spatter against Sam's belly that drops down onto his own, to the sudden surge of piss that shoots up and drenches Sam's skin, his dick, the curling hair at the base of his shaft.

Once Dean gets going, really really letting it all loose, it's like a geyser that immediately drowns them both in piss, and floods Dean's navel and spills over his hipbones onto the bed, pooling underneath him in the crack of his ass.

Sam drops his head down so that their foreheads are pressed together, all heat and sweat, and breathes in Dean's air in staccato gasps at the feel of it, as Dean keeps changing the aim, higher, splashing Sam's nipples; lower, spraying Sam's balls, and then the gush turns to a stream to a trickle to the last few drops, and Dean has completely inundated them both now. The scent of it hangs heavy in the air, thick enough to taste at the back of Sam's throat.

Sam moves his hands down the length of Dean's body, sitting up more now, feeling the piss draining off his skin in hot rivulets. The lube on his hand is watered down now, so he grabs some more from the bottle on the bed-now lying in a puddle-and pours some onto his hand, then fists his dick and strokes it up and down to get it nice and slick.

Dean's panting, body slack against the bed, and Sam knocks his thighs apart, using both hands to bend Dean's knees, and Dean weakly manages to hold them up and apart, and Sam stuffs his thighs underneath Dean's to help hold his legs in the air, then lines his lubed cock up with Dean's hole.

The first press inside is scorching, both the heat of Dean's body and the warm piss saturating his hole, and Sam chokes on his own breathing and tries not to come without even getting inside. This is the first time for both of them-doing this, going all the way. It's weird that in all the years he's been lusting after-and in love with-Dean, it's always been the forbiddenness of pissing himself that bothered him most, far more than the incest ever has. But Dean has taken the stinger out of that wound, removed that thorn. Dean has shown him with just his love and devotion to Sam that this is okay, both the piss kink and the relationship they share, and it all floods Sam's body like the piss had only moments before, as he pushes at the ring of muscle that's holding him at bay. But not for long.

"All right," he says, mostly to himself, and with one hand still wrapped around the base of his dick, he scoots in another inch, feeling Dean's inner walls suck at his cock and swallow him down.

Dean's still breathing like he's being chased by a monster and Sam can hear how loud his own breathing is, feel the sweat dribbling down his temples and his underarms, can even see sprinkles of it hit Dean's chest and nipples as he works his dick the rest of the way inside.

He makes one last drive forward and sinks up to his balls, his cock completely disappearing into Dean's hole. They're both covered in piss, his pubic hair's wet, Dean's ass is wet, and the inside of his body is startlingly hot, like Sam just put his dick inside an inferno or some such, and he starts to move, to rock back and forth, easy thrusts that gradually take on more power and torque, sending Dean sliding up towards the headboard and sending piss sloshing over the side of the bed.

But Sam's not worried about that; all he can think about is how amazing Dean feels, how silky and smooth, and he grips Dean's dick and tugs on it until Dean's as hard as he can get, gigantic even in Sam's gigantic hands and Sam concentrates on moving his hand in counterpoint to his dick going in and out of Dean's ass.

He can feel his own pre-come mingling with the piss and lube inside of Dean's body, making Dean wet and sloppy and Sam's cock by extension, and he angles so that the thick head of his cock scrapes across Dean's prostate, which makes Dean scream again and spill over Sam's hand, body clenching down forcefully on Sam's dick until he can't move. All he can do is jam his hips forward a little and stay mostly in place as Dean's body contracts and flexes around him.

When Dean finishes coming, Sam speeds up, fucking him with even more force, and Dean raises his hips to meet him, splays his legs even wider apart so that Sam can get in even deeper, Dean's body clinging at every inch of Sam. Sam can feel every muscle in his body go taut, knows his head is thrown back, mouth a pornographic 'O', the tendons standing out in his arms and thighs as he loses it finally, slams home one last time and fills Dean up with spunk.

Dean's hands find their way back into his hair, stroking through the perspiration-wet strands, and Sam grunts heavily and pulls out, collapsing half on top of Dean.

The lake of piss on the bed is pretty cold now, but Sam doesn't wanna move, and even though Dean shoves at him once or twice, he's not trying very hard and pretty soon they both subside into a stupor of satiation, limbs languid and heavy, hearts still racing terribly fast-Sam can hear Dean's as it's right next to his ear-and Sam's breath is damp and hot every time it bathes his forearm.

Dean's hands are still in his hair.

"Why didn't I tell you about this kink years ago?" Sam asks, and it's a rhetorical question, but he should've known that Dean either wouldn't get that or wouldn't care.

"I have no idea, dumbass," Dean says, the smile perfectly clear in his voice.

"Can I fuck you again tomorrow?" Sam asks, shifting a little. The entire room smells like a gas station bathroom by now.

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean says. "I might need a little recovery time, I was a lily-white virgin and-"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says.

Even though Dean's answered his question, Sam finds himself still asking it, over and over inside his head.

For the first time, though, he's at peace with himself-with the kink, with the sex with his brother, with the lifestyle that has enough perks now-and he wouldn't change a thing.

end.