The Difference it Makes

by Jane Davitt




"So, you wanna screw around?"

Dean doesn't surprise easily but Sam's question, bored, even indifferent, has him choking on a mouthful of beer, his throat closing up and his eyes watering as he tries to swallow and splutter at the same time. He's had vamps jump out at him and flinched less.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm horny and it's too late to find a bar and besides it's raining," Sam says with that same matter-of-fact gloss on his words. "So I thought maybe we could --"

What? Dean swallows, panic and an instantly kindled arousal churning in his gut. Sam had never picked up on anything Dean had been projecting with a soul so it made no fucking sense at all that without a shred of empathy -- hell, it just wasn't fair for him to notice now. "No! No, we couldn't!"

Sam frowns, aggrieved."I didn't finish."

"You didn't have to!" Dean's sweating now, cold sweat, clammy sweat, gathering on his body and -- well, okay, not trickling, no, but it feels like it might. Jesus, Sammy with no soul is as much trouble as a bored toddler or a home alone puppy. Dean can't help being attracted to the body, same old, same old, but it's a shell, nothing more. What he loves is missing, trapped down in the pit, screaming for him. God, he's so tired of not being good enough to save Sam and make it stick. "Sam, we're brothers, okay? Brothers. It's wrong. It's so fucking wrong, I can't even start to tell you how wrong it'd be. You. Me. Naked. Touching. Moaning. Writhing about all…naked. Wrong, wrong, wrong."

He sneaks a peek at Sam to see if he buys it. Blank astonishment. No guilt, no shame, and here Dean is with his face lit up, scarlet, burning and his dick a twitchy, confused mess.

Sam sighs and tosses his phone aside, a pout visible. "Fine," he snaps. "No hookers. I get it, you're shy -- but next time, we get two rooms, okay? A guy's got needs, soul or no soul."

Dean exhales. Oh. Hookers. Well, that's -- Instinct kicks in. "No. No hookers! No separate rooms! I want to keep an eye on you."

Sam pouts again. "Whatever." He shrugs and then smiles at Dean, a charming, winning smile, as chilly as ice. "So do you want to do me?"

"No," Dean says dully, trapped in his own private hell. "I don't."


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