A sick Want
Summary:
"Wanting you," Sam began, his voice trembling just enough to betray him, "was the very first thing I realized was wrong with me."
The bunker was imbued with an eerie stillness, the kind that settled heavily in the air and made the shadows dance ever so slightly under the dim overhead lights. Every creak of the old structure seemed amplified in the quiet, but it was the sound of Sam’s ragged breathing that cut through the silence like a jagged knife. Dean remained a few feet away, his posture rigid and tense, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if warding off an invisible cold. His jaw was set firmly, a hard line of determination and conflict, and his whole body was coiled, brimming with an energy that no amount of strong whiskey could release.
Sam turned his gaze towards him, those wide, earnest eyes of his almost luminous in the dimness, filled with an overwhelming sincerity that always seemed to carry the weight of the world upon his shoulders. But tonight, they reflected something deeper—something darker that lurked just beneath the surface. An emotional tempest that Dean could sense, creeping insidiously under his skin.
“Sam,” Dean began, his voice dropping to a low gravelly murmur that echoed slightly in the bunker's confined space. The words felt heavy, fraught with a tension that could snap at any moment. “What the hell are you trying to say?”
Sam inhaled sharply, each breath deliberate, almost as though he needed to prepare his lungs for the daunting task ahead. His gaze flickered downward momentarily—an instinctive retreat—before steeling himself to meet Dean's gaze again. There was a storm looming behind those earnest eyes, a tempest of emotions ranging from fear to determination.
“Wanting you,” Sam finally said, his voice trembling ever so slightly, a subtle crack that betrayed the fortitude he was trying to summon. “Was the very first thing I realized was wrong with me.”
The statement hung in the air, dense and suffocating. Dean felt his entire body go rigid, as if someone had just dropped a weight on his chest. His throat constricted painfully, a suffocating reminder of all the things left unsaid. The words echoed in his mind, swirling like a maelstrom, caught somewhere between a protest and a denial.
But Sam forged ahead, driven by an unseen force. “It was how I knew there was something sick inside,” he confessed, the words spilling out like blood from a fresh wound, raw and unguarded. “I was just a kid, Dean. And I knew it wasn’t right, but I—”
“Don’t,” Dean interjected sharply, cutting him off, his voice laced with a panic he could no longer contain. “Don’t say it, Sam.”
But Sam wasn’t going to retreat. He stepped closer, invading Dean’s personal space with a confidence that rendered Dean momentarily speechless. In that moment, their differences in height felt monumental, serving to amplify the surreal intensity of the situation.
“You don’t get to tell me to stop,” Sam insisted, his voice gaining strength and conviction. “Not after everything we’ve been through. Not when I know you’ve felt it too.”
Dean averted his gaze, clenching his jaw tighter, his fists curling into tight balls at his sides as if to restrain the tempest within him. “This isn’t—this isn’t something we can talk about,” he said, desperation lacing his words.
But Sam wasn’t deterred. His hand shot out, grasping Dean’s shoulder firmly, forcing their eyes to lock in an electric moment of connection. “Why not?” he pressed, his voice rising slightly, a mix of frustration and longing pouring through it. “Because it scares you? Because it’s easier to pretend it doesn’t exist?”
“Because it’s wrong!” Dean exploded, his voice breaking under the weight of his emotions as he shoved Sam’s hand away. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent my whole damn life trying to bury it?”
Sam held Dean’s intense gaze, his expression softening even as the rapid fluttering of his heart threatened to consume him. “You can’t bury it, Dean,” he spoke quietly, deliberately. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
For a moment, time seemed to freeze, and the fight within Dean dissipated. He slumped back against the heavy wooden table, his shoulders sagging under the enormity of it all. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, fingers shaking slightly as they tangled in the strands. “You don’t understand, Sam. I—”
“I do understand,” Sam interrupted, moving even closer this time, invading Dean’s space in a way that seemed to bridge an unbridgeable chasm between them. This time, Dean didn’t step back. “I understand more than you think. And I’m done pretending I don’t.”
Before Dean could process or respond to that, Sam cupped his face in his hands, his touch a mix of gentleness and insistence, a paradox that made Dean’s heart race. Dean’s eyes widened, confusion and urgency playing across his features as Sam leaned in. Their lips brushed together, an elusive kiss that was both soft and unyielding, igniting something dormant inside Dean that he had long since buried.
For a heartbeat, Dean was paralyzed, every fiber of his being screaming for him to push Sam away. But as Sam’s fingers slid to the back of his neck, stroking his skin with a softness that unraveled his defenses, all resistance melted away.
The kiss deepened, Sam’s other hand gripping Dean’s hip, pulling him closer, grounding him in a way he had never anticipated. Dean let out a shaky breath, hands finally rising to rest against Sam’s chest, the uncertainty of whether to push him away or pull him closer making the moment almost unbearable.
When they finally broke apart, Dean was breathless, his lips slightly parted, eyes wide with shock and disbelief, a haze of vulnerability reflected in their depths.
“You’re not sick,” Sam whispered, forehead resting against Dean’s, the proximity igniting an electric connection between them. “You’re human. And so am I.”
Dean’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his hands curling into fists against Sam’s shirt as if attempting to hold on to something solid. “This is gonna ruin us,” he murmured, the words slipping out in a small voice, barely above a whisper.
Sam shook his head slowly, his expression resolute, voice steady. “It already has. But maybe it’s time to stop running.”
As silence enveloped them again, Dean didn’t provide an answer. Instead, the hushed quiet hung heavily in the air between them, a wordless acknowledgment that spoke volumes—a precarious balance of hope and fear, vulnerability and strength, of two souls intertwined in a way they had never dared to explore before.
Sam felt an unshakeable weight settle over him, a critical moment suspended in time. He couldn’t move back; he couldn’t retreat from Dean now, not when the air between them crackled with unsaid words and unacknowledged feelings. The thrum of Dean’s pulse resonated beneath Sam’s palms, quick and frantic, mirroring the chaotic rhythm of his own heart, a resonance that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. For all of Dean's arguments, his stubborn protests, layered behind walls of sarcasm and self-deprecation, he remained anchored to Sam, his presence not withdrawing but rather inviting. That was all the encouragement Sam required.
Dean’s hands rested on Sam’s chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were a lifeline. The way his fingers curled was a silent testament to his need for connection, grounding himself in a tumultuous sea of emotions. Sam couldn’t ignore the uneven rise and fall of Dean’s chest, his breathing shallow and erratic, a clear window into the internal battle surging behind his eyes—a tempest of desire clashing violently with guilt, yearning twisting agonizingly with self-loathing.
“Hey,” Sam said softly, his voice a low murmur meant to soothe, his thumb trailing lightly against Dean’s cheek, igniting a warmth beneath the surface. “You’re thinking too much.”
Dean responded with a shaky laugh, though it sounded more like the remnants of suppressed sobs. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta think around here, right?” he managed, but Sam could see the glimmer of uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
A smile crossed Sam’s face, but it didn’t reach the depths of his heart; it lacked the warmth of absolute certainty. “Not this time,” he told Dean, his gaze earnest, penetrating through the armor Dean wore. “Let me, Dean. Just... let me.”
The moment stretched, infinite and loaded, as Dean’s gaze held Sam captive. His lips parted as if he wanted to respond, to voice the uncertainties tangled in his thoughts, but no words materialized. Instead, he shut his eyes, allowing a low, resigned sound to escape him—a sound that didn't scream permission but pushed against rejection, a clash of emotions that left room for hope.
Sam took that fleeting moment of vulnerability as an invitation. He leaned in once more, their lips colliding fervently, an urgency born of long-held wishes and buried passion. It was no longer a question of whether he should; it was affirmation—the act of claiming what had always belonged to him. Their kiss ignited a fire within Dean; at first tentative, but then it transformed into something primal. He clutched at Sam’s shirt, pulling him closer as if he feared the world might tear them apart if he didn’t.
The kiss spiraled into something wild and chaotic, their breaths intertwining in a dance of desperation and need. The force of their bodies moving backward was fueled by emotion until Dean’s back hit the edge of the table. A soft groan escaped Dean as the impact jolted him, and his head fell back in a moment of surrender. Sam’s lips trailed down Dean's jaw with a reckless eagerness, pausing at a sensitive spot just beneath his ear, where Sam could feel the pulse of Dean’s heart racing against his skin.
“Sammy,” Dean whispered, and the name hung between them, a fragile combination of plea, warning, and an unspoken prayer.
Sam paused, his breath warm against the line of Dean's neck, a sigh escaping his lips. “Say it again,” he murmured, craving the connection, the intimacy embedded in that name.
Dean hesitated, struggling against the weight of his own emotions, his throat constricting tightly as he swallowed. “Sammy,” he repeated, softer now, his voice trembling with the weight of vulnerability.
In that moment, Sam closed his eyes, his hands moving downward to settle on Dean’s hips, feeling the warmth radiating from him. “I’ve wanted to hear you say my name like that for so long,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, thick with yearning.
Dean drew in a shaky breath, his fingers gripping Sam’s shoulders, grounding himself against the whirlpool of feelings threatening to take him under. “This is wrong,” he murmured, the words barely scraping by, lacking conviction, as if he was trying to convince both Sam and himself.
“Maybe,” Sam replied, his lips ghosting against Dean's collarbone, sending shivers coursing through Dean’s body, awakening every nerve ending. “But it doesn’t feel wrong, does it?”
Silence wrapped around them, thick and potent, as Dean made no verbal reply. Instead, the way he tilted his head back, the way his fingers tightened around Sam, conveyed more than words ever could.
Sam leaned in for another kiss—this one slower, more deliberate. He wanted every brush of their lips to communicate the depths of his feelings—every ounce of love, every layer of longing, every piece of himself he had hidden away for far too long. Dean surrendered to Sam’s touch, his body pliant and responding to the tenderness Sam offered. His defenses began to crack, the walls he had built over the years trembling and destabilizing, offering room for trust.
When they finally broke apart, the air felt different, electric. Dean looked a glorious mess, lips swollen and red, his breathing coming in ragged bursts. His eyes shone with something raw—an unexpected vulnerability that Sam had yearned to see. Gently, Sam cupped Dean's face, his thumbs brushing away the silent tears that had slipped free without even being noticed.
“You’re not alone,” Sam promised, his voice unwavering despite the lump lodged firmly in his throat. “Not in this. Not ever.”
Dean's eyelids fluttered closed as he leaned into Sam's comforting touch. “God help me, Sammy,” he uttered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I need you.”
A smile broke free from Sam, infused with a bittersweet ache—a mix of pain and beauty blooming deep inside him. “You’ve always had me,” Sam reassured, his gaze steady and earnest. “You just didn’t want to see it.”
A weak laugh escaped Dean, one tinged with disbelief, and he shook his head slightly, a hint of a smile dancing at the corners of his lips. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Sam pressed a tender kiss to Dean’s forehead, their foreheads almost touching as he wrapped his arms around Dean, holding him close. “Then I’ll be there to catch you when you fall,” he murmured, a promise solidified between them.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Dean permitted himself to believe in that promise, in the possibility of love without fear.
Notes:
Please leave a comment—whether you loved it, hated it, or just want to share your thoughts, I’d love to hear from you!