The door pushing open started the sound of glass bottles clinking. Sam jolted to see his big brother entering the room. Dean looked at his feet as he entered to see the floor littered with empty beer bottles and cans. Swiping a path through the mess with his foot, he closed the door behind him. Sam could feel heat rising in his cheeks.

"So, did I miss a party?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised in the direction of his little brother who was wavering in the center of the room with a panicked look on his face.

"N-No, Pfft, no. Nope," Sam said quickly, still wavering between the two unmade queen beds that took up most of the room.

"Party of one, then?" Dean prodded, stepping further into the tiny space.

"You don't get it," Sam muttered, the hint of a whimper shivering in his voice.

Dean rolled his eyes at the stereotypically teenage-angst statement that had just drawled from Sam's lips. "Dude, you're drunk out of your head."

"I'm not," Sam said, sticking his chin out defiantly.

"Oh, right. Of course not," Dean muttered, watching the way Sam struggled for balance. Dean shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it on the closest bed and beginning to pick up the bottles that were strewn about.

"You don't have to clean up my mess. I can do it myself," Sam slurred, leaning forward in an attempt to help. He lurched forward. Dean reached an arm out to catch him, but Sam shook his head. He slowly and carefully straightened himself up, realizing he was inevitably going to make a fool of himself. The only question was to what degree.

"Dad finds the place like this and you on the verge of passing out - he's gonna kill us both. It's not about cleaning up your mess, it's about saving your ass," Dean said, glancing warily at the motel door as though superstitious that the mere mention of their father might make John appear. He began to pile the discarded cans and bottles into a tiny trash bin by the dresser.

"So, where'd you get the booze?" Dean asked.

Sam staggered back, perching precariously on the edge of one of the beds before sliding off of it. Giggling, he landed on the floor in a pile of shaking limbs. His little laughing fit subsided after a moment. "Isn't 'why' a better question?" Sam asked.

"Okay... why?" Dean indulged his brother. "Why does a sixteen-year-old nerd get wasted by himself on a Thursday night?"

Sam scoffed indignantly. "My age has nothing to do with it! You started drinking when you were younger than me."

"Yeah, well I didn't get shit-faced," Dean said, straightening up and crossing his arms in front of his chest. It was a flat-out lie; he'd been drunk out of his mind plenty of times in his youth, but he could handle his liquor. Sam, on the other hand, clearly could not.

"I'm not shit-faced," Sam denied stubbornly.

"Dude, you're spread-eagled on the floor," Dean said, gesturing to his brother before he jammed the last empty can into the now-overflowing trash.

A renewed fit of laughter burst forth from Sam, making his chest heave. "I love you," he muttered, still chuckling.

"Yeah, okay. I love you too, buddy," Dean said, rolling his eyes as he helped Sam up off the floor. He settled his little brother on the bed, making sure Sam was centered on the mattress so he wouldn't slide off of it again.

Sam grabbed at his brother's face, brushing his thumb clumsily over Dean's jawline. The stubble gently scratched at his fingertips. Dean pushed him away. "What's going on with you?" Dean asked, pulling his face away from Sam's clumsy fingers. Sam shook his head and shrugged, scooting back and collapsing onto the bed again. Dean sighed and took a seat on the opposite bed.

"Ugh, I don't feel..." Sam groaned softly to himself, burying his face in the pillow underneath his head.

"Are you gonna heave?" Dean asked.

"Uh..." A wave of nausea and a sour, salty taste spiked in the back of Sam's mouth. "Y-Yeah."

"Okay, come on," Dean said, rushing to action. He hoisted Sam off the bed and dragged him quickly to the bathroom, flipping up the toilet seat.

Sam dropped to his knees, clutching the rim of the bowl and breathing heavily. He felt the bile rising up in his throat, along with words he was desperate to speak, but couldn't. He moaned and leaned in closer to the toilet, throwing up in great, shuddering heaves. He heard Dean sigh beside him, an impatient, disappointed sound that made Sam's heart sink, though he knew he deserved judgment. He expected Dean to leave him to sober up. Instead, he felt a firm hand on his back, gently rubbing up and down.

"Just get it out of your system," Dean said softly, tucking strands of hair behind Sam's ears. "Your hair gets any longer, I'm gonna need to hold it back for you the next time you pull some bullshit like this."

Sam finished emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flushed. He braced himself against the toilet, trying to lift himself up off of his knees. Dean helped him up. Sam gripped the edge of the sink, running the faucet and washing his hands and face.

"Oh God," Sam muttered. "Fuck. I hate myself," he murmured.

"Yeah, common side effect of the booze," Dean said.

"No. It's not," Sam said, turning the faucet off and looking at their reflections in the mirror above the sink.

"Okay, what is it then?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "I can't tell you."

"Sure you can, Sammy. Just spit it out," Dean prodded impatiently.

The internal struggle that raged within Sam was simple. Continue to lie and remain safe and loved, or tell the truth and risk losing the only person who really mattered to him. Risk seeing affection morph into disgust and loathing. The prospect terrified him, sent another wave of nausea through his body, but there was nothing left to throw up. And the alcohol had loosened his tongue just enough to embrace the risk.

"You're my big brother and I love you a lot," Sam began, staggering out of the bathroom and sprawling himself back onto his bed. Dean took a seat next to him, half-perched on the edge.

"Yeah, I know, dude. You're my little brother and I love you too," Dean said, patting Sam's knee in a paternal manner. Sam wondered where Dean had learned that behavior when he couldn't ever recall John showing affection to either of them.

"No... You don't feel the same way I do. I feel wrong about it... how I feel about you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, shifting on the bed and looking at Sam.

"It's... It's like..." Words were difficult, and, in the haze of courage that the alcohol afforded him, actions seemed like a better choice. Simultaneously terrifying and with irreparable consequences, but also simpler. Sam chewed on his bottom lip for a second, studying the concern etched in Dean's face. Sam took a deep breath, sat up, and leaned into Dean. His lips slammed against his older brother's in a harsh, clumsy manner.

"Whoa! Wait," Dean gasped out, clawing to put some space between them. He pushed Sam back and stood from the bed. "What the fuck?" The shock of what Sam had just done left Dean trembling. It had taken a great deal of self control to move away when his instinct had been to lash out and punch. His hands were already curled into fists at his side, but he kept them there, breathing deeply and waiting for some explanation.

"I told you. It's wrong... I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have done that," Sam whispered, cradling his head in his hands and curling up on his side. He dragged the blanket over his head, hiding himself from Dean, or rather, hiding Dean's expression from his view - an expression twisted with shock and confusion and disgust.

He heard Dean's voice muffled through the blanket, stuttering halted questions that went unfinished and unanswered. Stinging tears began to well up in Sam's eyes. He tried to blink them away with some success.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered in a little chant that was barely audible through the blanket.

"Look, it's okay... You're not thinking straight," Dean said.

Sam laughed. "Yeah, not so straight right now. You're right," he agreed.

"No, I just mean - you're drunk. You're not yourself," Dean clarified.

Sam fisted his hands through his hair and clenched his jaw, taking a few seconds before sitting up and facing Dean. He kneaded the edge of the blanket nervously between his fingers. "It's not the beer, Dean. I don't know why, but I've been feeling... for months now. Maybe longer. I don't really know anymore."

"Feeling what?" Dean asked, though he knew he wasn't prepared for the answer.

"I- You're my big brother and I look up to you, you know? But it's more than that. I love y-"

"You're just... You got confused somehow, okay, Sam?" Dean said, cutting Sam off. "You need some friends or a nice girl in your life and you'll be fine."

"No, I don't need anyone else," Sam said, clutching the blanket so hard now that his knuckles had turned white. "You're the only person who matters! I've had friends. They last about five minutes before Dad drags us to the next place. You're my... my only constant. Everyone else leaves, or gets left behind. It's just you."

Dean didn't know how to respond. Everything Sam said was true. He had spoken aloud the same things Dean had always felt. His little brother was the only person Dean had ever felt unconditional love for and from, the person he had spent most of his time with. No one else even came close to mattering to Dean the way Sam mattered. But that didn't mean he could fully comprehend the exact way Sam's love was manifesting for him now. He wanted to run away, but he couldn't abandon his brother, not with the way Sam's face was contorted with utter fear. Dean knew that look, understood it. It was a face that was begging not to be abandoned.

Sam could feel his eyes burning as they began to well with tears again. The cushion of the alcohol had begun to fade, no longer protecting him. He was left feeling filthy. He couldn't meet Dean's gaze, too afraid that something in his brother's eyes would confirm what he already felt about himself - that he was repulsive, sick, a freak. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed his palms against his closed lids.

Shock jolted through Sam at the feel of Dean's hand coming to rest on his shoulder. It was such a calm, gentle, and unexpected gesture. Sam wanted to reach back and grab Dean's hand, but he was afraid that if he did, Dean would pull away. Sam didn't know why Dean was showing him mercy, not after what he had confessed. He chose not to question it though, not when he needed the reassurance so badly.

Dean sighed and looked down at the crumpled heap that was his little brother. He had always known how to be with Sam - breakfast and bandaids and jokes and ruffling his hair - until this moment. Now he was lost. But oddly, though Sam had set him out into raging waters, he was still Dean's anchor. Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder slightly. They remained together in silence, connected by that touch.

Reviews are much appreciated. (Please and thank you.)

~a