It was self-detonation when he closed in on Sam, cornering him against the wall.
There was innocence in his eyes, a confusion that was so childlike Dean almost considered backing off. Part of him wanted to huff and storm off, leave Sam with nothing more. He could have passed it off as some kind of failed intimidation tactic if Dean hadn’t kept going—if Dean hadn’t committed to his self-inflicted sabotage.
Their lives were interwoven and there was no way to part them without unraveling all that made them.
“We’re made for each other.”
His hand hovered, some part of him wanted to let Sam go. Some part of him wanted to remain at the gate, only looking into that vast void he would never be able to pull himself out of. But in his mind, he was long gone. No tether would have pried him from the depths, would have kept him from breaking the sanctity of their bond and blood.
Sam seemed to weigh his words, but Dean was past the point of consideration, too. All he wanted was for every pubescent masturbatory fantasy spurred on by an adolescence spent without boundaries and instinct to run away from it all with only his brother at his side to be out in the open, where neither of them could ignore it any longer. Dean wanted to be broken free of the shame that came with his love, lust, whatever the right word for it was.
And it seemed wrong to use words for what he felt.
Someone must have been watching when he and Sam moved to the bed, took off each other’s clothes and broke the last social taboo. Dean wanted an audience to watch the desecration of all he’d meant to uphold when Dad died. The world was ending, it was all fucking hopeless, and all Dean wanted was one moment of pure selfishness that somehow wrapped around into something entirely selfless—a snake eating its own tail, a conundrum that made perfect sense to him.