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My fingers shake as I get the water started in the shower. I long for a whiskey but didn’t think to bring anything 40 proof into the motel bathroom with me. I don’t even think we have anything in the room. I can’t blame what just happened on the alcohol because I was sober as a baby.
Baby. Sam was my baby once. And I just—
My stomach roils but I don’t give in to the urge to retch and step under the spray. It’s pleasantly warm, so I crank it up as high as it can go. My skin pinks up, then reddens, but it’s less I deserve. If I could jump into a pool of boiling lava right now, I would. Yeah, death by lava would be just about right.
I soap myself up fast, even though the sooner I finish my shower the sooner I’ll be on my way to a broken jaw when Sam comes to his senses. Or maybe he’ll already be gone when I get out. The idea that I’ll be left with an empty hotel room, an empty passenger seat, after the most monumental fucking stupid boneheaded slip-up of my life hurts worse than the imagined lava. Nearly thirty years I buttoned this up and all it took was Sam batting those goddamn eyes and asking me to— Dean, you fucking moron. You imbecile. How could you do that to your baby brother?
I lose track of time for a while, imagining the various things I could have said, could have done, instead of letting Sam put his big paws on me, his perfect lips on me. I should have stopped him. I should have said no.
I couldn’t say no.
I didn’t want to say no.
And now everything is ruined.
Because there’s no way Sam didn’t see how much it meant to me. My stupid fucking bleeding heart was probably all over my stupid fucking face and now he’ll know and—
The bathroom door opens and my entire body tenses, my flight or fight dial set permanently to fight. But it’s just Sam, buck naked, smelling like sex, sliding into the shower behind me. He wraps his octopus arms around my waist, tucks his sharp little chin into my shoulder, then hisses at the water temp and reaches around me to turn it down. “You trying to boil yourself alive?” he asks. Then he freezes, while I memorize the feel of his skin plastered to mine, the sensation of his soft cock grazing the crack of my ass. “You are, aren’t you? God, I should have known you’d be freaking out about now.”
He physically turns me around, tips my chin up so I have no choice but to look into his eyes—those goddamn eyes that have been getting me into trouble since 1983. He speaks slowly, like I’m brain damaged or something. “I don’t regret what happened and neither should you. I love you, Dean. You hear me? And I’m not giving you up now. So get over yourself. And kiss me.”
And just like that, every doubt melts away. Because this is Sam. My baby. My life. So I do what he says, and I kiss him. And it’s pretty fucking great.