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By the time Dean came out of the bathroom drying his hair, Sam had their Thanksgiving meal set out on the shabby table in the make-shift kitchenette. Sam looked up at Dean just as he was setting the silverware in its proper place near the plates, smiling and looking all of eight years old again.
The sight made Dean's breath catch in his chest.
"Finally! You're out. Hurry up and get dressed or the food'll get cold."
Dean moved over to his bed and continued drying his hair, totally amused at watching Sam shuffling around the tiny "kitchen area" like a worried wife. He'd have to remember to tease Sam about that some other time. But not today.
"I can hear your brain working, Dean. Go ahead and say it."
Dean tossed his towels on the floor and put on the clothes he'd laid out on the bed earlier. He could read the look on Sam's face, like he was obviously anticipating some gruff comment or sarcastic dig. Instead -
"Smells good, Sam. What'd you get?"
Sam narrowed his eyes at him for a moment, probably wondering if he'd slipped in the shower and acquired a new head injury. But after a few seconds he was smiling at him again, shining that thousand-watt smile that made Dean's chest ache. It felt like forever since he'd seen Sam smile, like really smile at him and he wasn't even sure why that fact was eating away at him like this.
"I got turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and French fries for you with plenty of ketchup."
Sam leaned over the tiny table as he fixed their plates, sitting a hot cup of coffee by Dean's place setting, along with a cold beer. "Oh, and for dessert, I got an apple pie from that diner down the street that you liked so much."
"How do you know I liked the pie so much? Could have been the waitress."
Dean wiggled his eyebrows a few times, but Sam laughed loudly and it sounded as good to Dean's ears as James Hetfield's voice.
"I know because you ate all of the pie and you left without the waitress' phone number."
"Smart ass."
And like the eight-year-old that Dean thought his brother was, Sam stuck out his tongue at him.
"Sit down before the icicles start forming on your plate, Dean."
Sam took a seat and looked up expectantly at Dean, waiting for him to join him at the table. He pulled back his chair and sat down, smiling at Sam's anxiousness over this holiday. Dean had never understood why Sam cared so much because the day never meant much to him. But for Sam, it was a day that he always looked forward to. Someone in school must have told him it was an important holiday and the thought just stuck with him.
Their father hadn't been so much into the holiday (any of them, truth be told). He never really acknowledged it and was usually out of town on Thanksgiving anyway. But Dean would always try and do something for Sammy. He knew that it was hard for the kid: going to school with all of the other kids who did things - normal things - that families would do together. But their family, being as far from normal as you could possibly get, probably made Sam feel even more like an outcast.
Dean didn't have the answer for Sam as to why they had to be different, but he always did whatever he could to bring Sam that tiny bit of normalcy that he craved. Sometimes their Thanksgiving meal was pizza (Sam's choice of toppings), sometimes hamburgers, and one time it was a big pot of spaghetti with garlic bread. He did the best that he could to make Sam feel that he did have a real family, even if it was usually just him and Dean.
And now it really was just him and -
"Dean?"
Coming out of his haze, Dean followed Sam's eyes and looked down at his hands where he had been twisting his napkin, shredding it to dust.
"Oh. Sorry."
Dean looked up once again only to find Sam staring back at him, his eyes mirroring the sadness the Dean felt and it made his throat tighten.
"I miss him too, Dean."
And his brother reached out, taking Dean's hand in his, gently squeezing his fingers in reassurance. His eyes flitted from their joined hands back to Sam's eyes and he nodded, conveying his pain, his sadness, and his gratitude to Sam. His brother nodded to him in kind, reciprocating; understanding.
Accepting.
Dean was first to release his brother's hand and he sniffed loudly before grabbing his fork and tucking into his food.
"Better start eating before this gets too cold. And you know how bad cold mashed potatoes are."
Sam wiped the corner of his eye and smiled at him.
"Even worse are cold French fries."
Dean laughed and chucked one at Sam, hitting him square in the middle of his forehead.
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Later that night, Sam crawled into Dean's bed, the question unspoken but the need hanging silently between them. He lay down facing Dean and fitted himself against his body, arm slung heavily around Dean's middle. The air in the room was chilly, what with the half-working heating unit, but Dean wasn't complaining, not while he had the human furnace next to him. He pressed a kiss against Sam's temple and whispered against his skin, the words meant only for the two of them and the darkness surrounding them.
Sam tilted his head up, echoing the words against Dean's lips.
"Love you, too."
~