A/N: Written for a prompt on tumblr.

Disclaimer: Do not own Supernatural. Events are fictional and only exist in my head.

Dean rolled over in his bed when Sam came into the motel room. It was nearly 3am and Sam smelled like cigarettes and cologne. Dean watched Sam strip and climb into his own bed.

"What's his name?" Dean asked.

Sam froze. "I didn't mean to wake you," he mumbled apologetically.

"Wasn't asleep. Who was he?" Dean demanded.

"I don't know," Sam tried to brush him off. "Some business man." He shrugged.

Dean hand clenched into his pillow with anger. "Why, Sam?" He pleaded.

Sam flipped onto his back staring at the ceiling. "Thought we talked about this."

Dean scowled. More like agreed not to talk about it. Sam had kept his…habits a secret for nearly a year after he came back from Stanford. Then one time Dean found him in an alley behind a bar pants around his ankles, some old fat guy balls deep in his ass.

Their "conversation" consisted of Sam telling Dean that a lot of thins had changed while he was at Stanford, Dean countering with 'what about Jessica', and Sam scoffing 'You ever heard of a beard?' They hadn't spoken about it since, and Sam still tried to keep his activities relatively secret. But Dean knew and it hurt to know that Sam was out there basically prostituting himself, though it was some consolation that no money was actually exchanged.

Still, every time he caught Sam, he had an insane urge to find the guy and beat him to a bloody pulp.

A few moments elapsed and Dean thought that Sam had fallen asleep. Until Sam cleared his throat.

"You know they don't mean anything," he said.

Dean nodded but it didn't make it any better. It hurt that Sam was so reckless with his body. That he would throw himself at whoever asked just for a quick sexual release.

"You're better than this, Sam," Dean said quietly.

Sam snorted. "No I'm not."

Dean's gut clenched. He didn't understand how Sam could even think that.

He was surprised when Sam continued. "If you knew the truth… you'd know how fucked up I am. How disgusting. You'd never speak to me again. So we should just keep it like this, okay?"

"What are you talking about?"

Sam laughed painfully.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. "You can tell me, Sam, you can tell me anything. We're brothers, no matter what."

Sam snorted at that. "Yeah see, that's part of the problem. We're brothers. Brothers aren't supposed to…" he stopped, swallowing. "You're not supposed to fall in love with your brother."

Dean froze. Then he felt nauseous. Somehow Sam had found out and was so disgusted that he was taking it out on himself. How could he have let this happen? He tried so hard to keep his feelings secret.

"I'm sorry, Sam. It's my fault—" his voice cracked with pain and guilt. "You shouldn't take this out on yourself."

Sam turned to face him. "What are you talking about?"

"You were never supposed to know—"

Suddenly Sam started laughing.

"You thought I was talking about you?" he asked incredulously.

Dean frowned. "Yeah, what are you—"

Sam's laughing turned to hysteria.

"Dean, I'm fucking in love with you!"

"What?" Dean couldn't process what Sam had just said.

Sam pushed himself off his bed and sat down on Dean's. Dean sat up, the situation finally dawning on him.

"You… are?"

Sam nodded. "So all this time you were… jealous?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "Never again," he choked. "You're so much better than that, Sam," and he wrapped his arms around Sam's waist and pulled him close.