Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner

My Little Universe

That itch had been crawling up his spine for six days when Sam had rolled his eyes and told him to go get his fix. Hours later and the itch was gone; the constant, driving urge was dispelled. He felt almost at peace – Zen, Sam would tease him.

That was until he walked into their motel room and found it empty.

Dean checked the room, though there wasn't much to check: the main room, the small bathroom, the minuscule closet. All empty, no Sam. It was good, it was fine. His little brother was probably out grabbing some ice or a bite to eat from one of the places down the street.

As the minutes ticked by, so did Dean's reasoning.

They had been living this crazy, on-the-run drifter life since Sam was fourteen years old: four years now. What if his brother was weary of it? What if Sam was weary of him? Of his eccentricities and his possessive rages and his need to do the things he did? Of his burning, consuming need for Sam? What if his brother, his beautiful, perfect, far-more-deserving brother, wanted more than Dean?

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth, fingers twitching, as he paced from the door to the bathroom and back. His eyes flicked to Sam's duffel, sitting next to his bed, for the hundredth time. His brother was coming back. Sam wouldn't leave him. His things were here, he only went out for a walk, he was coming back.

He was sitting at the small, round wood table in the corner an hour later - half-empty bottle of whiskey and his gun in front of him - when the door finally, finally opened and his brother entered the motel room.

Dean's eyes locked on his little brother – a young man now, his Sammy; tall & muscled and better than everything he had ever experienced – as Sam locked the door.

"Hey Dean," Sam greeted with a smile, a plastic bag of take-out in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other, "Took a walk to get some air, and came across this Chinese place. Conned that cute cashier down the street into selling me some beer, too. Feeling better now?"

His brother placed the items on the table and his gaze fell on the whiskey and the gun. Hazel eyes lifted to him, met his own green gaze, and Sam asked,
"Dean?"

The concern in Sam's voice, the worry, nearly did him in.
Dean swallowed hard; his voice was whiskey-rough when he asked,
"You think about leaving me, Sam?"

Sam stared at him for a moment, eyes flicking to the gun for a second and his brain working the puzzle which was Dean Winchester, before returning to his face. His little brother scowled slightly, brows drawing together.

"Dean," Sam's voice was soft as the younger man moved to his side. "Why do you do this to yourself? You know I would never leave you."

"No?" he would forever deny that his voice cracked on the word, "Gotta be getting sick of this life, Sam. Sick of me and -- Don't you want a house, stability, all that shit?" He watched, green eyes taking in Sam's every movement, as his brother stepped forward. A moment later, the younger man was on his lap, leg on either side of the chair and chest against his own.

"When I decide I want all of that, it will be with you."

Dean shivered, eyes slipping closed for a moment, as the younger Winchester leaned in to breathe against his ear, "And only you."
Fingers brushed through his hair, slipped down the side of his face.
"Dean, look at me."

He did as his brother requested and met Sam's hazel gaze. He raised a shaking hand to brush his fingers down his little brother's cheek, and Sam graced him with a smile. The love he saw on Sam's face had him swallowing again, heart trying to crawl out of his chest to join his brother's. His eyes fell to their hands as Sam reached out and took hold of his, placing it on Sam's hip.