Sam/Dean. R. ~330 words.
Sam wonders where the real fault lies.
Between the south of nowhere, Iowa, and the scratchy motel bedspread, they decided on this: liquid courage in their blood, Sam’s tongue in Dean’s mouth, Dean’s hands down Sam’s pants, and never looking back.
They hadn’t needed Jack Daniel’s helping hand but Dean had said with a sideways glance and a strained, shaky smile that the flimsy excuse was better than none at all. So Sam had become Albert W. Miller long enough to buy a litre of something else to blame.
Sam wonders where the real fault lies. Nature versus nurture; a mother’s faulty genes versus a father’s desperate crusade. The days and weeks spent living in one another’s skin that blurred lines, the months and years of cheating and lying that bent morals until they broke.
Sam wonders but he doesn’t really care. Guilt over the act won’t absolve either of them so Sam is happier without. He spares his remorse for other people. Doles it out in bits and pieces across the map like grains of salt to soak up the blood that stains his conscience if not his hands.
A shapeshifter said with Dean’s voice, He’s sure got issues with you, without ever really knowing how deep in Dean’s soul Sam was buried. Back then, even Sam hadn’t. He doesn’t remember when he finally figured it out because when doesn’t matter. All that matters is he did.
But this isn’t the first time Sam’s lain on a creaky bed with Dean curled solid and real against his side as he stares up at the Rorschach ceiling. This isn’t the first time Dean’s fingers have rested in the hollow of his hip, loose with sleep and a promise waiting to be made.
When Dean wakes, his eyes will be dark, hazy. His lips will curve, his breath will be warm and heavy on Sam’s skin. He’ll roll easily under Sam and Sam will take what he wants so badly to give.