Sam’s desire was visible from space.
The lingering glances, the too-wide smiles, the twisting, churning feeling that made it impossible for him to even speak.
Sometimes he jerked away when Dean touched him—like he was his brother’s property that he was entitled to touch whenever he wanted, but that was an easier thought to ruminate on than the idea that maybe, just maybe, he liked when Dean put his hands all over him without asking permission.
He could never touch Dean the way that he wanted to without condemning him to death, but secretly reveling in his touch? Twisting those displays of familial love into something perverted and disgusting, using them for a gratification that he would never truly know? Those feelings that Dean would never know he was facilitating in his attempts to be a loving brother to his baby brother; his Sammy?
He could make that work.