Archive of Our Own

Sam has forgotten how much he relies on Dean’s touch for so much of their communication. Because Dean’s not into the whole let’s-talk-about-our-feelings “crap,” his nonverbal language tells Sam how his brother’s feeling, how he should react and respond and what Dean is okay with dealing with. It’s what Dean understands, and how Sam tries to communicate back to him.

They’ve spent their whole lives in each other’s space, knees and elbows knocking. Sam knows that they need to really talk more often, but they have a language of their own, they do. Full of a history of rough-housing, playfights, smacks, pats to check each other for wounds. Touches on the neck or shoulder or hair as they pass and orbit around each other to make sure the other is okay, almost unconscious and barely noticeable until they’re not doing it, and when they’re not doing it… it’s something they both feel, something they can both tell is missing.

Dean withdraws sometimes, when he’s really angry with Sam, and Sam does the same when it’s vice versa. It never lasts for very long, even when they’re still pissed at each other. At the very least they do a pat down for injuries. The longest they hadn’t touched was after Gadreel, when Sam could hardly look at Dean without tasting bitter betrayal on his tongue, and after Dean was a demon, when Sam could hardly keep from flinching away from Dean and the possibility that he might kill him.

Dean is a pretty tactile person with Sam, in the same way that Sam is with Dean. His older brother is an overbearing, overwhelming presence in his life, a fact that he is both annoyed and grateful for. But Dean now, post-Michael. He’s different. He falls into himself more easily, retreating like he’s trying to protect himself. Dean has always been larger than life. Now, he’s sometimes too small for his body, with hunched in shoulders and a quiet voice. He wraps his arms around himself like he’s cold, like he’s trying to protect himself. It reminds Sam of how he felt after the Cage.

Sam doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t know what to do.
*

Dean’s staring off into space again. He’s been doing it more and more often lately, but Sam can’t exactly blame him, can he? Being possessed by an archangel, by Michael himself—Sam realizes that it’s going to take a while for Dean to really recover. Dean doesn’t seem aware of his presence, eyes laser-focused on their initials carved into the table.

Dean’s face is like stone. Completely blank, like he’s possessed again. It hits Sam deep in the gut. He adjusts the tray of food he’s holding in his hands a little and watches Dean’s eyes, at the way they dart back and forth between their initials like he’s at war with himself, and maybe he is.

Sam can deal with an angry Dean. Hell, he can deal with hopeless, defeated Dean. He’s not sure how to deal with this Dean.

He’s so lost in thought that the sound of Dean’s heavy breathing startles him. Looking up from the steam coming off the soup in his hands, he sees Dean still staring at their initials, hyperventilating. That hasn’t happened before, at least not that Sam has seen. A strangled, choked noise rips itself straight from Dean’s throat, and his fingertips reach up and dig into the carving, like he’s trying to focus and ground himself.

It sounds like he’s drowning.

Internally, Sam is panicking, but he forces it down and focuses. He needs to help Dean, needs to avoid scaring him or hurting him. He walks quickly around the table to Dean’s side, sets the tray down gently in front of him, deliberately brushing his knuckles against the side of his brother’s hand as he does so. Dean’s fingertips flinch but he barely registers Sam’s presence. Touching a hand to Dean’s shoulder, Sam says his name, quiet but firm. When Dean doesn’t respond, he presses his fingers in and says his name again, louder, and this time Dean’s entire body jolts. Dean reaches up and his left hand lands on top of Sam’s, and his fingers dig in in the same way that they are in the table.

It takes a few moments before Dean’s breath slows and he calms. The only sounds that fill the room are their breaths. Suddenly, Dean shoots up out of his chair and away from Sam, breaking his grip, boots thumping on the ground.

“Hey, hey, Dean, chill out, dude,” Sam raises his hands, placating.

Dean just shakes his head at Sam, grunts, “I’m goin’ to bed.”

“You need to at least eat something, Dean.”

“Not hungry. I’m good.” Dean practically runs out.

Sam sighs. Dean is most certainly not good.
*

Sam absolutely fucking hates it when Dean gets like this. Not talking, not giving him any sort of indication, verbal or otherwise, as to how he’s doing. It sets him on edge. It pisses him off so damn much. He kinda wants to punch Dean in his stupid face. He wants to drag his brother into a hug so tight he breaks his ribs. He can see so clearly that Dean is hurting. It’s no fucking use for Dean to try to hide it anymore, but the bastard tries anyway. Doesn’t want Sam to worry. Well, fuck him, because he’s not gonna stop worrying.

Sam gets it, though, no matter how frustrated he is. This is how Dean deals, and Sam knows better than anyone how he’s feeling. He’s been possessed too, after all. The last straw, however, is when he hears Dean muttering desperately in his sleep for the nth time. Something about the pitiful whimpers tugs deep at Sam’s heart. He’s not sure what it is about what Dean’s saying that’s making the overprotectiveness so characteristic to Dean’s personality rise up so quickly and sharply in his own chest, especially since he can’t actually make out the words. Sam turns over in bed and glances across the room where Dean is twisting and turning. In this moment, Sam is glad to be sharing this motel room with his brother, because it means he can really see how well Dean is dealing. They’ve always done better occupying each other’s space; at least, when they aren’t driving each other batshit insane.

He sits up slowly, stretching his aching arms up over his head. Shit, he’s getting too old to be sleeping in Baby like they had been the two nights before this. The thought makes him smile, though. He’s getting old. He’s getting old with Dean. It mystifies him that they’re still alive, really, and together.

He turns on the lamp, crosses the small distance between their beds, and drops himself on the edge near Dean’s legs. Dean is starting to thrash harder now, mouthing something silently and desperately, no sound other than his breathing leaving his lips. Sam’s heart breaks a little when he realizes that Dean’s lips are forming “Sammy, help” over and over. Sam plants a hand on the center of his chest and pushes him down. He puts the other hand on the side of his face, thumb drifting into the hair graying at his temples. Saying his name, he slaps Dean’s cheek gently, three times.

His brother’s eyes immediately pop open and he makes that same choking sound that Sam’s heard before, his hand shooting under his pillow for his gun before he sees that it’s Sam. He sits up quickly and scoots away from Sam, and honestly? That pisses Sam the fuck off. Since when does Dean shy away from him like this? He knows that Dean isn’t particularly touchy-feely, but come on; Dean isn’t the type to shy away from anything, and especially not from Sam.

Dean is staring at Sam like he’s waiting for him to say something. For a few moments, Sam just considers him. Dean is tired, looks bruised under the eyes. He’s stolen one of Sam’s stretched-out shirts since he ran out of clean sleepwear, and it hangs off him, the scar peeking out just beneath the sleeve, and it makes him look so small and Sam realizes that Dean has lost weight. Old Dean’s arms and chest were bigger, straining against even Sam’s shirts. There’s a fresh cut across his cheekbone from flying debris, and his nails are bitten raw. The sight makes Sam ache.

Sam says, “You were drowning in your sleep,” just to see Dean’s reaction, to see if he’s right. From Dean’s flinch, he is. Sam sighs heavily. He meets Dean’s eyes and tries to put everything he’s feeling into his expression: the concern, the empathy, the talk-to-me-Dean, the It’s-going-to-be-okay, the I’m with you always, you got someone right here next to you. Dean’s eyes widen. His lower lip trembles just the slightest bit, wet silver gleams in the corners of his eyes, and he just looks so fucking tired, overwhelmed, like he’s going to crack at any moment, either going to start sobbing or he’s going to sock Sam in the face. Deciding to give Dean an out, Sam asks, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay, Dean,” he says, doesn’t push it. He doesn’t want to force Dean into anything, even if it’s just talking to his own brother.

Sam stands and reaches for the lamp to turn it back off.

“Sammy,” Dean says, quiet. Pausing with his hand on the switch, Sam glances back at Dean. His brother opens his mouth, closes it again. Seems to want to say something. No, ask for something.

Sam turns off the light. His hands pull on his blanket, and he hears Dean slump back into a lying position, defeated.

Sam pokes Dean’s side. “Scoot over, dude. Need more room than that.” Dean shifts and Sam covers himself in the blanket from his bed as he lies down, because Dean’s always been a fucking blanket hog.

Next to him, the tension in Dean’s body releases and his breathing slows. It’s always been easier for Dean to fall asleep with Sam in arm’s reach, a feeling that is mutual. God, when was the last time they shared a bed? Sam thinks he vaguely remembers a time a zillion years ago when they were exhausted from a case in Farmington, Michigan, and could only get a king at a motel.

Sam says, “Go to sleep, Dean.”

In minutes, Dean is fast asleep. Sam doesn’t fall asleep for another hour, worried that Dean will panic again. When he’s finally convinced that the soft puffs of Dean’s breath won’t turn harsh and pained, he finally drifts off.
*

He wakes with Dean’s head on his chest, ear pressed to his heart, Dean’s arm thrown over his stomach, Dean’s hair tickling his jaw. Dean, relaxed. And even though he has some of Dean’s weight on his chest, his heart hasn’t felt this light in a long, long time.

Sam can see the soft flutter of Dean’s lashes, the gleam of the sun through the curtains highlighting the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks. And even though he keeps his breathing slow and even, Sam can tell that he’s awake. He’s sure that Dean can tell that he’s awake too at this point, but he keeps himself still and calm. He doesn’t want Dean to move, to feel like he can’t get comfort from him. He wills the thought into Dean’s head as Dean begins to shift. But Dean just settles again, fingers wrapped in the extra fabric on Sam’s side.

Sam lifts his arm, slowly, and hooks it around Dean’s shoulders, wrist brushing the raised flesh of the scar marring Dean’s bicep. They lie in silence for several minutes, and something like contentment cocoons Sam’s heart, warm and protective—and protected, too—the same feeling he gets when he’s sitting on the Impala sharing beers with Dean, staring up at the stars, or when they’re riding the high of a hunt well-finished, patching each other up and drinking whiskey and watching bad TV.

Finally, Dean says, quietly, “I used to do this when you were a baby.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but shifts his shoulder in a way that he knows Dean will perceive as questioning.

Dean takes in a breath that’s only a little shaky. “I used to climb into your crib with you at night, after Mom died.” The breathy laugh that escapes him sounds more like a sob. “Used to drive Dad crazy. And when you’d cry, I’d just climb in and put you in my lap and rest my head against your chest and just listen until you chilled out. I guess… it was my way of… reassuring myself. Of comforting you even though I wasn’t really talking at the time. And the habit just stuck, after.”

Sam doesn’t want to do anything to break this moment, to scare Dean off from opening up like this, so he murmurs, words barely higher than a whisper, “I remember that, actually. From when I was four, until I was what, six?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes.

Turning his face slightly, Sam says, “I picked up that behavior from you. When you’d hug me and I was still short enough, I’d put my ear on your chest to listen. It was nice.”

Sam hears more than sees Dean’s smile when he affectionately grumbles, “Damn Sasquatch.”

Grinning, Sam taps Dean’s shoulder, a request. Grunting, Dean shifts onto his back and Sam sits up, because damn, he really needs to pee. He glances back at Dean, at the way the sunlight lights his hair up in a blond halo, at the way his too-green eyes are staring up at the ceiling with a warmth that Sam hasn’t seen since before Michael, and that surge of overprotectiveness crashes over his being again, so hard that it makes him draw in a sharp breath. Dean’s eyes snap to his, alarmed, but Sam shakes his head (I’m okay, Dean), and Dean’s eyes slide away (If you say so, Sammy), and a smile tugs up the corners of Sam’s mouth.

He stretches his arms over his head while sitting, twists his head around to relieve the tension in his neck. Looking again to Dean, his heart clenches when he sees that the contentment in his eyes has hardened and changed, become sorrowful and aching. The twist of his lips is reminiscent of guilt. Sam tries to get up, he really does, but almost unconsciously, he leans over Dean and drops his head down to his chest, pressing his ear to his heart. Dean’s right hand immediately comes up and he runs his fingers through the hair at Sam’s nape once, just like he does sometimes when they’re sitting in the Impala. Sam allows himself five seconds of listening to Dean’s steady heartbeat, and it is a reassurance, it is a lullaby that makes Sam want to climb into Dean’s chest like a small child into his mother’s arms.

And that’s what Dean is to him, isn’t he? He is brother. Mother, father, protector, savior, a goddamn moron and stupidly self-sacrificing and a stubborn, overprotective, bossy motherfucker, and absolutely a jerk.

Sam’s okay with that. He himself is petulant, sassy, even more stubborn than Dean, and kind of a bitch. He has a rebellious streak a mile long. He is his brother’s keeper. His brother is his keeper. As long as Sam’s been able, he’s protected Dean right back. He’s taken care of him right back. Chuck enjoys endings where they kill each other. Very full circle, considering they’re direct descendants of Cain and Abel; there’s something satisfying in that poeticism that even Sam can acknowledge. The difference, though, is that, yeah, Sam loves Dean. Dean loves Sam. And they hate each other half the time, but they keep each other in check. More than that, though, they want to stay together. They want to keep each other.

And he’ll keep Dean until the day they die. Even when Dean fights him at every turn, like he did right when he came back from being possessed, Sam always wears him down.

Sam gets up. Doesn’t look at Dean’s face.

Sam goes to the bathroom, because he still really has to fucking pee.
*

Like a baby, Sam always falls asleep most easily in the backseat of the Impala with Dean driving up front and the wind rushing in their hair, the rumble of the road and Led Zeppelin playing at low volume with Dean humming along acting as his lullaby. The naps he takes in the back of the Impala are restful, safe, like being wrapped up in all things home, all things Dean.

Sam never quite realized that it’s the same for Dean, too.

Because for the first time—other than that night they cuddled—Dean isn’t crying, or breathing heavily, or drowning in his sleep. He isn’t calling for Sammy to help him. There’s a tension in his brows that Sam can see in the rearview mirror, but for the most part, Dean is calm.

He’s got Led Zeppelin playing on low volume. He’s driving the Impala with one hand loose on the steering wheel, because Dean is so damn tired and Sam bitched for him to go sleep in the back until Dean gave up and followed his orders for fucking once.

He drives another fifty miles before Dean starts to shiver. Huh. That’s new.

He pulls over onto the shoulder of the highway and shifts to park, keeping the engine running as he turns his head to look Dean over properly. The shudders wracking his body are violent; Sam can hear his teeth chattering. Vaguely, he worries that Dean will accidentally bite his tongue off. He remembers almost doing that, after the Cage. Lucifer would change the temperature a lot, making it burning hot but mostly freezing cold. After, Sam could never get warm, shivered all the time.

Getting out of the car, Sam leaves the door open and pops the trunk. He digs around in his duffle until his hands meet the soft gray fabric he’s looking for. Ah. He tugs until the fleece-lined hoodie comes free, the hoodie that Dean bought him for Christmas several years ago after he noticed Sam’s shivers. He shuts the trunk and the sound makes Dean jolt up, looking around in a panic for Sam.

Sam opens the back door and Dean’s head whips around to stare at him with wide eyes. “What the hell, Sammy? Why’d you stop? And don’t slam my baby’s trunk like that.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam says, “I didn’t slam it Dean. And I was getting this.” He drops the sweatshirt onto Dean’s lap.

Dean looks up at him, bewildered.

“You were shivering in your sleep,” says Sam by way of explanation, and shuts Dean’s door.

Climbing back into the driver’s seat, Sam shifts gears again and maneuvers Baby back onto the highway. He glances at the rearview and finds Dean slowly pulling his hoodie over his head. Their eyes meet briefly. The sweatshirt that’s large even on Sam makes Dean look young, like a small child wearing their sibling’s hand-me-downs (like a Sam from a long, long time ago). His cheeks are tinged red like he’s embarrassed that Sam saw him weak, but the corner of his mouth is turned up in the ghost of a smile.

Sam pops one of his dimples when he smiles back. He turns his eyes back to the road.

He drives.

Dean falls back into a dreamless sleep.
*

It takes several days for Sam to figure out how Dean is sleeping better. It would have taken him a much shorter time if they were on the road, but they’re back at the bunker for the next while.

Sam had been concerned. After so many nights of waking up to Dean’s shouts, it was far too quiet. It took him four days to finally work up the courage to go check on him, to risk waking him. He opens the door gently, careful to let only the smallest amount of light to slant in as he leans through the doorway. Dean’s sleeping on his stomach, has his covers pulled up over his shoulders, but Sam just manages to catch a glimpse of Dean’s arm, clothed in the gray of Sam’s hoodie. His face is pressed into his forearm, nose nestled against fabric as if he’s smelling it. Smiling, Sam watches Dean for a few moments, and a rueful laugh bubbles up in his throat. His left hand flies up and he presses the heel of it to his lips to stifle the noise. Oh, Dean. Dean.

He shuts the door quietly and heads to his room.
*

The next morning, Sam comes back from his jog to find Dean flipping pancakes. Jack sits at the table, tapping his fingers in a restless beat. Confused excitement is written all over his face. Sam gets it. Dean hasn’t made them breakfast in a long time. Tracing his eyes over Dean’s back, Sam notices that his brother is wearing a worn blue t-shirt. No hoodie in sight, of course. Still, Sam knows what he saw. He’s not mad about it, either. In fact, right after he’s ever lost Dean, whether it was losing him to Hell or Purgatory, he’s done the exact same thing with Dean’s clothes.

They eat breakfast together, the three of them. Dean’s in a better mood than he’s been in weeks, and Sam hides his smile behind his fork.

That evening, Sam is surprised to find Dean in the library, and more so when he sees Castiel. They sit next to each other with Cas slightly angled towards Sam in the doorway and Dean away. Dean’s got his head in his hands and Castiel’s palm rests on his shoulder. The situation that Sam has walked in on is clearly intense, so much so that they haven’t even noticed him yet, even with Cas’s angelic senses and Dean’s hunter’s instinct. He’s about to back away when he hears Dean whisper, “I don’t know what to do, Cas. I can barely look him in the eye.”

“Talk to him, Dean.”

“I can’t. I don’t know if he… if he’ll be okay with me bringing it up again. If it’ll, like, trigger him or something. What if he doesn’t understand?”

Cas gives Dean a look of exasperation. “Dean, as far as I can tell, there are no two people who understand each other more. You just need to communicate.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Dean lifts his head. “Yeah, I know, you’re right. Thanks, Cas,” he says, pressing his shoulder into the angel’s.

“You’re welcome, Dean. You know I’m always here to listen.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean smiles at Castiel, similar to the one he usually reserves for Sam, who has been steadily feeling more and more uneasy as he listens, but hearing those words, seeing Dean smile like that… it hurts. Not because Dean (and he, too) has a great friend in Cas, or because Dean is comfortable with someone else. It’s that Sam has tried, tried so damn hard to get Dean to open up about what it is that’s really bothering him, what he’s feeling guilty about. Sure, they had talked a little about Dean’s trauma in being possessed, but Sam knows that there’s more to it. And now, Dean is telling Cas. And not Sam, because he isn’t to be trusted. Because he wouldn’t understand.

He must have made some sound of surprise, hurt, anger, because Cas and Dean are turning abruptly, and Sam sees the shocked fear on Dean’s face, and it makes him mad. He levels a glare at his brother. “Sorry for interrupting,” he grunts through gritted teeth, and turns on his heel, storming away. No footsteps sound after him and he’s so angry that he barely notices that he headed to the garage, but when the Impala comes into view, he releases the breath that he’d been holding. He opens the back door, savoring its creak, and drops his weight onto the worn leather of the backseat. Burying his head in his hands, he takes several deep breaths.

Damn it. Now he’s gone and made Dean’s trauma about himself with his overreaction. His stomach clenches with guilt, and he’s not sure whether he should go apologize. He kind of doesn’t want to, because he’s still so angry. The conflict rages on in him until he feels like his brain is spinning, until the tap on the window beside his head startles him so much that he jumps in his seat and hits his head on the roof of the car, nearly giving himself whiplash from how fast he turns his head. Dean opens the door but remains standing outside, and Sam watches him hesitate, shuffling his feet briefly against the concrete, a look of nervousness in his eyes, which honestly surprises Sam, because Dean is rarely ever nervous.

Sam grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and slides over. Dean takes it for the invitation it is and slides in after him. Sam tilts his body slightly in Dean’s direction while Dean faces forward with his hands clasped between his thighs. They sit in awkward silence for a few moments, which bothers Sam because they almost never have awkward silences: they know each other too well for that—or at least, Sam thought they did.

The first one to break the silence is Dean when he says at a soft whisper, “How much did you hear?”

“Enough,” Sam clips out, anger flaming up inside him again. What the fuck is Dean thinking, asking that kind of stupid question? He sounds like a child who’s been caught in a lie.

Dean nods once, whispers, “And?”

“And I’m pissed, Dean, what d’you think?”

“Oh,” mutters Dean, visibly deflating. “I didn’t mean to—” he cuts himself off with a choke. “I’m just gonna—” Opening the door, Dean begins to climb out, and oh, seriously? Dean thinks he can just run from confrontation after he began it?

“I just can’t believe that after all this time, you still don’t trust me,” Sam grits out, trying to stifle the heaviness that’s settling in his throat, choking his words and burning the backs of his eyes. “I always have to try so damn hard with you to get you to trust me. I know I’ve screwed up, but I thought we were okay, Dean. I thought you could—” to Sam’s horror, a tear trips down his face and he scrubs at it furiously. He glares at Dean, who’s frozen above him.

“Sammy,” he says, faintly, then stronger, “Sam. I do trust you. More than anyone else. Lately, more than myself.”

“You sure don’t act like it,” Sam replies, pressing the backs of hands to his wet eyes. The seat next to him shift as Dean climbs back into the car, and Dean hands are gripping his wrists, pulling them down.

“Sam, I swear to you that I do.”

“Then why did you tell Cas what was going on with you and not me?” Sam shoots back, pulling sharply away from Dean. Dean’s hands stay in the air for a moment before he drops them into his lap, wringing them together.

“So you didn’t hear,” he murmurs. Moments pass between them in silence, until Dean draws in a deep breath.

“I owe you an apology, Sammy.” His voice wobbles a little on the last syllable of Sam’s name, like he’s lost the nerve that he tried so hard to rally.

“I don’t want you to apologize to me Dean, I want you to trust me, to talk—”

“For Gadreel.”

The breath halts abruptly in Sam’s throat as he flinches back, away, away, away. It takes him several seconds to question, voice reed-thin, “What?”

Dean meets his eyes head on. “I know what it’s like now, really like to be possessed. Not just to like, not be myself or to be under the influence of something, but to have someone else inside me, calling the shots. And I… I’d never want that to happen to you, but it did happen, because I violated your trust, and after that I made it about me when I should have apologized or even tried to explain what I was thinking. Or tried to hear what you were saying. And I’ve been feeling so guilty about it, Sammy, but the worst part of it is that I’d still do it again, if it meant saving you.”

Sam can hardly believe what he’s hearing. His mind is racing, fear and confusion clenching his heart in a fist. “Dean—”

“What I did wasn’t fair to you, Sammy. I was just so desperate, and yeah, it was selfish, I did do it to keep you with me, because I can’t, I just can’t… Sammy, I can’t live with you dead. Could never live with you dead. And I was so hurt that you wanted to leave me, that you didn’t want to keep your promise to me—” Dean snaps his mouth shut with a click, eyes wide like he didn’t mean to say that.

Shifting closer, Sam pries, “What promise, Dean?”

Dean turns his face away, but no, Sam is not having that. “Dean,” he says sharply, “what promise?”

Staring down at his fingers that are so tightly wound that his knuckles are white, Dean softly says, “You told me, when you started the Trials, that you could see the light at the end of the tunnel. You said that you’d take me to it, that we’d do this together.”

Sam is stunned. “Oh.”

"And then I was so mad at you after you said you wouldn’t do the same for me that I made it worse. I’m sorry, Sammy, so sorry, and I told Cas because I didn’t know what to do, didn’t want to hurt you again.”

Finally talked-out, Dean collapses into the seat with a shaky breath. Sam sits frozen; he’s never heard so many words in a row come out of Dean’s mouth. Haltingly, he says, “De… Dean, I never wanted you to have to go through this to understand. And I… I never meant that I wouldn’t save you, you know? I meant that I wouldn’t violate your mind to do it. I meant that I’d never let someone take control of you to save you because it wouldn’t be you. I meant that I’d rather let you go than take away your choice.”

He rubs the sleeve of his shirt between his fingers anxiously, eyes flitting back and forth between his hands and Dean’s face. “And I was angry, Dean. I wanted to hurt you because you hurt me.”

Dean looks up at him. “I know. I deserved it.”

Sam scoots over on the seat so that their shoulders pressed together. “For the record, I forgive you. And I’m sorry that I broke my promise, too.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Dean mumbles, dropping his head onto Sam’s shoulder.

Sam ignores him, leaning his head on top of Dean’s head. “It’s you and me, Dean. Come whatever.”

He hears a soft sniff, and that’s the only warning he gets before Dean breaks into tears. Shocked, Sam doesn’t say anything; instead, he hooks his arms tight around Dean’s shoulders and Dean buries his face against Sam’s neck, sobbing quietly. Sam feels tears begin to stream down his own face and he hugs Dean harder, feeling like they’re breaking apart in each other’s arms and trying to hold each other together.

Dean hugs back just as hard, fingers digging into Sam’s back like he’s trying to merge them together, to climb inside his body, desperate and seeking safety in a way that he never does. Sam knows what that’s like, and he lets him, wants to protect him because this person—God, he loves this person more than anyone else.

Eventually, their tears stop. Against Sam’s pulse, Dean whispers, “Come whatever.”

When they finally make it back inside, Cas is waiting in the library with Jack, concerned. He smiles in relief when he sees them, and shares a look with Jack. It makes Sam want to laugh, because man, sometimes Jack looks and acts like the child he is, but he’s got a wisdom beyond his years in his eyes when he looks at Cas and back to them.

“I’m glad you guys are okay,” he says.

“Me, too,” Sam replies, and adds, “Let’s make dinner.”
*

That night, Sam knocks on Dean’s door, who looks surprised when he opens the door. Sam shoves past him and flops onto his bed, sinking into the memory foam. When several moments pass and Dean hasn’t said anything, hasn’t moved, Sam opens one eye and says, sleepily, “What’re you waiting for?”

He hears a huff of breath that’s supposed to sound exasperated but is almost a laugh. “Fucking lunatic,” Dean murmurs emphatically, but he can’t hide the fondness in his voice. Sam turns over to hide his smile.

“What, you’re not gonna wear my hoodie?” Sam teases when Dean climbs in next to him.

“Oh, shuddup,” he grumbles. Then, softer, “Don’t need it when I got you next to me.”

Sam swings his arm and leg on top of Dean, who whines, “You goddamn Sasquatch, freaking octopus limbs are so heavy,” even as he shoves his knee between Sam’s and wraps his arms around Sam’s waist.

Several minutes pass before Sam whispers, “Love you, jerk.”

He feels Dean’s smile on his shoulder. “Love you too, bitch.”