The Other Side of Sunrise

Part One

Yet another two-star town, some backwater hole barely deserving a dot on the map. One gas station, one motel, one diner.

When the brothers stop in that town for the night, they check in to the motel under the names Page and Plant, and then go to the diner for dinner. Dean is starving; Sam is merely humoring him.

He finds himself doing that a lot, lately. Giving in to his brother's whims. And why shouldn't he? Sam owes Dean so much.

Crossroads. A heartbroken choice. No time, and an eternity, for regret.

So when Dean shoves his face full of pie and grins, Sam smiles back, even if that's the only reason to do so. He knows exactly how many days his brother has left.

Dean sits and methodically fills himself like he does at every diner, nothing about his actions belying the turmoil roiling just beneath the surface. He's grown used to reacting, the occasional clenching low in his gut. Most of the time he can ignore it.

He looks at his brother and sees, between the lines of youthful exuberance, how tired and wrung-out the kid has become. He watches as his brother rubs swollen eyelids and stares holes in the table. After all, Sammy always was the sensitive one.

Calmly, Dean finishes his pie. Laying the fork down, he watches Sam's struggle to stay awake for a moment longer before moving, awkwardly, to touch his hand. 

"Hey," he says gently. "Let's go get some shut-eye."

Sam nods blearily and allows Dean to lead him out of the diner and into the car. He dozes away the few blocks to the sad little motel, then stumbles into their room to flop on a bed and fall almost immediately into deep sleep. Concerned but amused, Dean stands in the doorway and maps the rise and fall of his brother's back as sleep evens his breathing, and as his waking cares fall away from his face by the light of the weak street lamp.

In sleep Sam is still entirely innocent—on nights when the nightmares don't come. These nights, he can be a child once again, and Dean can relax.

Except he can't, not tonight. His heart begins to race as he stands there watching his brother sleep, and with growing dread he feels the familiar tightening and realizes he needs to leave.

Dean staggers away, shutting the door as quietly as he can as his mind reels. He slams into the side of the Impala, not really seeing where he is, and gouges the key into the driver's side door trying to unlock her. He's in the driver's seat and turning the key before his racing thoughts can come around to what the fuck is wrong with me?

Question of the century, that one.

Ever since Sammy learned to drive the Impala, to hustle pool—ever since his first hunt—Dean has looked at his brother and seen more than just that kid he grew up with. As they both develop into competent hunters, into men, he sometimes sees his brother in a way that makes him stare, that honestly kind of scares him.

Now, when Sammy's all he's got, it's become more like an obsession. Gotta protect him, keep him close—but where do you draw the line with a relationship like theirs? The feelings swell within him, make him sick sometimes, and when Sam asks what's wrong Dean can't tell him, because he honestly doesn't know.

He's chalked it up to nerves, to the exuberance after a hunt, to aberrations in his genes or even something that he ate. But that night, Dean looked down at his brother and found no explanation for the way he felt. Only... stirrings, deep inside, inexplicable and disturbing.

He's dealt with it before. He'll just have to deal with it again—

—so Dean shakes his head to clear it, throws the Impala into gear, and drives like a bat out of Hell away from that dingy motel, out away from the lights of the town until he's passing through miles and miles of gently waving grass. The fields go on across the horizon in a rustling, sweet-smelling sea.

He finds a tractor trail and turns off the paved road, grimly clutching the steering wheel as he jostles along. Wind whips through the open windows, fluffing his hair, stinging his face and forcing his eyes to a squint.

He drives through the endless grasses for what seems like an eternity before he arbitrarily stops, slamming his foot on the brake, driving the pedal to the floor and slamming himself forward. Dean sits there, his foot the only barrier between movement and pause, his mind casting about for something to grasp—a lifeboat labeled sanity in the vast ocean of his fucked-up life.

Eventually he puts the car in park, almost absently shutting off the engine. The wind of his passing is naught but a gentle breeze; a light, richly-scented zephyr. It stirs him, and on his inhale something clenches low in his gut.

Images flash through his mind; Sam's grin, his expressions of glee, anguish, bemusement. His strong, tanned hands grasping a gun, flying over his laptop, running through his hair.

Dean groans, shifting in the seat. The feeling simmering below his stomach manifests itself, slung about his hips, making him bite his lip and grind his thighs together. The friction, however sweet, does nothing to allay his apparent need. Sighing, frustrated, Dean wriggles until he's comfortable, slouched beneath the steering wheel, and fumbles for the seat back lever. He flings himself back, letting the blood rush to his head. Slight pain, shock. Anything to delay the inevitable...

But the feeling floods back, and stronger, in sickening, heated waves. Dean can't keep his mind from pushing through memories, finding those small, cherished moments when he'd looked at Sam and found him utterly, devastatingly beautiful.

I am a freak, a fucking monster.

And the heat swells, answering his thoughts.

As Dean lets his mind wander, his hands do too. Independently animated, they stroke his taut stomach, his thighs, the growing bulge beneath his zipper. Feeling like the lowest life-form that ever crawled the earth, he pops open the button of his jeans and unzips, taking himself in hand. He focuses on a particularly scintillating memory of Sammy staring at him through half-lidded eyes, a sly smile playing about those full, flushed lips. It was one of the first times his brother had gotten drunk, in one of those faceless motels, and he'd danced his way across the room to AC/DC. Sam didn't even remember it. Dean would never forget.

As in his memory Sammy sways—you shook me all night long, yeah, yeah, you—so Dean strokes himself, growing harder with every pass of his hand. His lips part, whispering his brother's name to the windswept grasses, to the car, to the steadily lightening sky. His hand slides, strong and sure, over and over, tugging at the head of his cock and twisting down the shaft. He's panting, gritting his teeth, images of Sammy flashing through his mind until the whirlwind beauty, his surging need, and the sick feeling in his gut combine and tears spring at the corners of his eyes.

He's close, so close.

His mind lights on a recent memory, when he'd accidentally walked in on Sammy changing and saw his brother's slim, pale hips, his ass, his golden back, the wonderful spare frame that housed the person most precious to him. He has every line of that body memorized, but to see him -- Dean's breath had run out like he'd been punched. Thinking of it now sends a rush of heat down his spine and he can't help the groan that wrenches itself from deep within him.

The hand on his cock isn't his, it's Sam's. The breezes blow and he feels them as his brother's hot breath on his cheek, his ear. "Oh, god, Sam..." Dean groans, his thumb sliding raggedly up into the weeping slit, massaging the slick back down, and then his orgasm hits like a wall of liquid fire, prickling over his entire seizing body all at once. He cries out wordlessly just as the sun crests the horizon.

A lone ray strikes the rear view mirror and hits his eye, but he's already blinded. Unbidden tears drip down his face, staining his shirt, to mingle with the stringy substance coating his hand and jeans. God help me, I don't just want him.

I honestly think I love him, Dean realizes helplessly. I... what the fuck do I do?

Numbly he contemplates the encroaching light, the life he leads, his altogether sudden but fated conclusion.

Eventually Dean sits up, turns the key, and drives back to that dingy motel.

By the time Sam wakes up, his brother is waiting with breakfast. And if Dean's eyes seem a little red, Sam doesn't mention it.