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The narrow gravel road twisted up the side of the mountain. Sam’s sneakers slid on the loose rocks as the incline increased. He pushed himself harder, thighs burning with lactic acid, sweat soaking through the back of his ratty old shirt. He was so close. Another fifty yards and he would win. He could hear Dean scrambling behind him, catching up. Sam put on another burst of speed and tapped the gnarled oak branch that marked the finish line.
“I won,” he said, hanging his head between his thighs and sucking in lungfuls of oxygen.
Dean caught up to him a few seconds later, face red, moisture staining the underarms of his gray tee almost black. “You got fast, little brother.”
Sam grinned at the praise. “Soccer practice helped.”
“And your stupid long legs.”
Sam grimaced. His legs were abnormally long, he knew, skinny and ugly. He pushed away from the tree, started walking up the road. At the end lay the cabin of the month. “Whatever,” he mumbled. “I still won.”
“Hey, what’s eating you?” Dean asked, jogging to catch up.
“Nothing.”
Dean just marched with him for a minute, then said, “So what do you want?”
“Huh?”
“For winning. Loser has to do dishes, but the winner should get something.”
“Yeah, the winner gets not having to do dishes,” Sam explained slowly.
Dean hip-checked him. “So you don’t want a prize?”
“Like what?” Sam asked suspiciously.
“Like—last beer in the fridge,” Dean said.
“You’re offering me the last cold beer? Are you possessed?”
Dean grinned. “Naw, just trying to cheer you up.”
Sam laughed. “Okay, well, I’ll be the bigger man and let you have the beer and the dishes.”
“There must be something you want,” Dean pressed.
Sam swallowed, his good humor gone. There was something he wanted. Something that made him sick with wanting. Sick with what wanting it made him. A monster.
“Nothing,” he whispered.
Dean stopped walking, waited for Sam to stop, too. Then he walked up to Sam, put his hand on Sam’s cheek. Sam froze in confusion.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything you want?” His voice was pitched low and there was a mix of fear and determination in his green eyes.
“Are you sure you aren’t possessed?” Sam asked, but he didn’t move away.
“Christo,” Dean said simply. Then he kissed Sam once, briefly, softly, sweetly on the lips.
“Oh,” Sam said faintly. Dean smelled like sweat and dust. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Dean repeated, checking in, making sure Sam was okay, just like he always did.
Sam smiled, made brave by the fact Dean was still touching him. “Yeah. I want that.”
So Dean gave it to him again.