Sam had long known that something was wrong with him. Normal people didn’t have devastatingly powerful crushes on their big brothers. And even if they did, they always ended up growing of it. But not Sam. For him, what was the admiration of a seven years old became the fascination of a ten years old, then the love of a thirteen years old and the lust of a sixteen years old. It didn’t fade out, only grew stronger, and it became more and more difficult to hide it. Sam was so screwed.
One night, it became too much to bare. It wasn’t the first time Dean came home with a hookup. She was a short college girl, more interested in parties and cocaïne than in a stable future. And, worst of all, her name was Samantha.
It wasn’t the first time Sam’s music wasn’t loud enough to cover their whimpers. Sam hated how Dean couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the name, always calling her Sam, or worse, Sammy. Sam hated that, he hated her guts, he hated Dean, and more than anything, he hated himself for being so hopelessly in love with him.
He couldn’t take it anymore. Sammy was the thing between them. Dean was the only one who get to call him that, and Sam was the only one Dean was allowed to call that. Sammy was their link, their bond, Sammy wasn’t the name of a girl forgotten tomorrow. It couldn’t mean that to Dean. It just couldn’t.
Sam wasn’t crying. He wasn’t. There was no way the tears on his face were his. They tasted bitter in his mouth.