Dean doesn’t see Sam.
Dean doesn’t see him because he’s too busy on his knees in a back alley giving a sloppy blowjob. Sam knows. No mistaking what’s happening. The cover of darkness can’t hide it.
Sam should go. He should turn and go back inside the bar and wash the memory from his brain. Wait for Dean to be done and have the best fucking night catching up. Hear his stories about hunting. See his fresh battle scars.
No. He should stop this.
He doesn’t. His stomach rolls sickly as he keeps watching from his place in the shadows. Hurt and seething anger battle inside him.
“Taking my dick so good,” the floppy haired douche says like a bad porno. “Been trained a long time, huh? For another fifty can I have your ass?”
Dean pulls off with a huff. “Not this time, champ. Hanging out with my brother tonight. I just need cash for a motel room.”
The guy growls and grabs Dean by the hair, tugging harshly. “I didn’t say you could stop.”
There’s muffled words that Sam can’t make out before Dean gets to it again but Sam’s sure it’s a sassy comeback of some kind. Dean’s mouth has a habit of causing all sorts of trouble.
Sam hates this. He hates that he’s nothing but a passenger along for the ride. Hates the noises the guy getting sucked is making, a guy who can’t appreciate his brother, not the way Dean deserves. Hates that Dean doesn’t seem entirely unwilling. There is so much in this moment to hate – but Sam might just hate himself the most.
The douche turns his head and Sam’s legs refuse to work even though he’s been spotted. Caught. The guy… he looks a little like Sam. Not his voice. Not the way he holds himself. But his physical appearance is familiar.
“Hey! You can watch but you better wait your turn -“
“I don’t want a turn,” Sam interrupts, keeping his voice as even as he can manage. “I’m here to take him home.”
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