The first thing Sam saw was the light from the dingy windows peeking out from behind the cheap motel curtains. A glance at the digital clock next to him tells him that it’s 7:34 and the first thought to occur to him was that fuck his head hurt, and the second was Dean.
Holy shit, Dean.
Sam twisted around in bed to where Dean had fallen asleep holding him, but the bed was empty. Relief washed over him as he realized the bathroom door was shut and he smelled a hint of Dean’s shampoo. Part of him was a little put out that Dean hadn’t stayed in bed longer. This was the culmination of a lifetime of friendship and love and he wanted to savor it, damn it. He chuckled to himself because he could almost hear Dean’s voice saying, No chick-flick moments, Sammy. Sam softened. Okay Dean – this time.
The memory of what they had done raced through his mind. The alcohol, the kissing, the mind numbing blow job. He had spent years looking at his brother’s full lips and wondering what it would taste like to lean in and kiss them. Every time he had to patch a wound or massage a cramp out of Dean’s shoulder he imagined, in technicolor detail, how Dean would react if he had reached around Dean’s waist and drove his hand down the front of his brother’s pants.
Now he knew and he was so excited that he felt butterflies in his stomach.
He sat up as Dean (finally) came out of the bathroom, fully dressed and freshly shaven. Sam felt a lump in his throat when Dean didn’t look at him. His body language was obvious, slumped shoulders and darting eyes (everywhere but at Sam), as he picked up his jacket from the chair and put it on.
“Hey,” Dean said, barely audible. He stood in front of the dresser and began to load rounds into the magazine of the gun he had cleaned yesterday.
Sam watched Dean’s reflection for a moment before replying. His mouth had turned dry and the butterflies were gone. “Hey.”
Dean’s fingers continued to nimbly shove brass into the magazine. “I thought I’d get us some breakfast.”
“Okay.” Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought. “We’re okay…right?”
Dean froze; a round halfway inserted sprang out of the magazine and fell to the dresser. The clink it made was deafening in the quiet room. Dean allowed his hand to fall on the dresser and looked at Sam in the mirror’s reflection.
Sam saw that his face was painted with regret.
“Yeah. Look, Sammy…I…I’m sorry. I guess when I drink too much, right and wrong sorta get mixed up in my head, ya know?”
Sam stared back in stunned silence before he yelled, “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me!” only nothing came out.
Dean looked down and slapped the magazine into the gun with the palm of his hand. “You know, on second thought, I think I’m going to drive out to the hospital and talk to some more of the employees. I’ll be back before dark.”
Dean pulled the slide back and released it to chamber a round and caught Sam’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror for just a moment before tucking the 9mm into his waistband and turning towards the door.
Sam wanted to say something, yell at Dean for being so stupid and ask him what the hell happened between last night and this morning, but someone closed down the road between his brain and his vocal cords and they forgot to put up the detour signs.
Sam flinched as the door slammed behind Dean. He stared blankly, listening to the throaty rumble of the Impala’s engine as it sped out of the gravel lot.
The room fell silent and Sam was left alone with his thoughts and his broken heart, wondering what the fuck was going to happen next.