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Sam has no idea how long he’s been lying in bed, lost in thought, when he hears the knock on his door.
“Figured you’d still be up,” Dean says as peeks his head inside before letting himself in, glancing down the hall before he closes the door behind him.
“Just thinking, y’know?” Sam says, quirking his lips and hoping it looks halfway like a smile.
Dean’s frown as he murmurs, “Yeah,” tells him he didn’t quite make it.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and nods at the small jar in Dean’s hand in an attempt to change the subject.
“What’s that for?”
The jar’s all too familiar—a homemade salve to speed healing and minimize scarring that Bobby’d shown them back when they were young enough that they were still getting hurt the way most little boys do, scraping their knees and bumping their heads. They’ve gone through a lot of it over the years.
“Pretty sure Cas didn’t miss anything,” Sam says, and Dean shrugs, one-shouldered like he does when he’s not entirely sure of himself.
“Yeah, well. Angel mojo’s never patched me up quite as nice as some hands-on TLC from a hot nurse,” he says, smirking when Sam manages to crack a small, genuine smile at that. “And you gotta admit—I’m the hottest nurse you’ve ever had.”
Sam huffs out a small breath that’s almost a laugh, gives in and holds his hands out in invitation as he says, “If you insist.”
“I do,” Dean murmurs, almost too quiet to hear as he goes to his knees at Sam’s feet.
Even knowing there’s only smooth skin left where his flesh had been charred away, Sam still expects it to hurt when Dean slicks up his hands and pulls one of Sam’s bare feet then the other into his lap. He’s on-edge, anticipating agony even under the soft touch Dean uses as he works his way from Sam’s toes all the way back to his ankles. But Dean keeps up the gentle pressure—reassuring circling of his thumbs into his arches, almost ticklish drag of his fingertips over the soles—until eventually Sam manages to relax into it.
Once his feet are sorted to Dean’s satisfaction, he stands so his hands can reach the parts of Sam’s chest that were slashed open and bloodied just hours ago. Near his collarbone, his shoulder, just above his heart. A light touch to his forehead and his cheek. He traces all the spots where scars would’ve been, like he’s committing each one to memory, then sets to work rubbing the rest of the tension from Sam’s neck and shoulders.
By the time Dean’s running a dry hand through his hair, Sam feels almost boneless, slouched over like maybe he’ll actually be able to get some sleep after all.
He opens his eyes to find Dean looking at him with a kind of hard-eyed fondness that promises no matter what kind of ‘forgive and forget’ alliances they need to make with these people, Dean’s got a long memory and a short capacity for forgiveness.
“You were right,” Sam says to break the heavy silence, grinning a little shakily. “That was better.”
“‘Course I was right,” Dean scoffs, tousling Sam’s hair before drawing back the covers, tapping the outside of Sam’s thigh to get him to lift his legs back up and into bed. Sam rolls his eyes. Even having their actual mother back won’t erase Dean’s more motherly instincts where Sam’s concerned. But he moves as directed, sliding under the sheets as Dean screws the lid back on the jar.
Sam’s still trying to find the words and the strength to ask Dean not to go, feels like a little kid desperate not to be left alone in the dark when Dean flicks off the light. But then Dean lifts the covers, says, “Scoot over,” before getting into bed beside him without Sam having to ask.
“I’m really okay, Dean,” Sam yawns, like he hadn’t just been about to beg him to stay, like he isn’t already wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist and laying his head on his chest just to make sure he doesn’t leave. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” Dean lies. “Just humor me, huh?”
Turning his head to look up at his brother in the dark, Sam gives a small grin, says, “Well, I guess. For you.”
He lets Dean tilt his face up into a kiss, slow and soft with just a little edge of teeth tugging on Sam’s lower lip, an unspoken ‘I could’ve lost you’.
Sam hates that something in the tenderness of it, in how good the moment is makes his chest clench up and his hand shake where it’s curled around Dean’s hip, anticipating the jolt of a cattle prod.
But Dean takes that hand in one of his own, grips just tight enough that Sam can feel the pressure of his thumb tucked into his palm, into that mottled mass of scar tissue even angels can’t fully heal.
When he opens his eyes, reality hasn’t shifted around him—he’s not back in that chair with the blades in front of him and shower ring above him, surrounded by the stale smell of the cellar and the acrid tang of his own blood. There’s just the reassuring sound of Dean’s breathing, the smell of fresh sheets and familiar aftershave, Dean’s body solid and real beside his.
He releases the breath he’d been holding with a nod, presses his cheek back into Dean’s chest to hide his face as he blinks back the sudden wetness in his eyes.
“Never again,” Dean promises, briefly tightening his fingers once more. Sam squeezes back, lets the relative safety of Dean’s arms wrapped around him lull him off to sleep, and doesn't say aloud that he wishes Dean wouldn’t make promises he can’t keep.