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Sam didn't have a lot of pride, he could admit that to himself. He can also say he is prideful when he's right about a hunch, or when he was younger and finally beat Dean at something. Sam can admit he's definitely been prideful at multiple instances in his life. But he doesn't have a lot of it. He can't really explain it because talking about it isn't really a thing. And if something's not a thing, you certainly don't make it a thing.
Plus, Sam being prideful or proud of himself had really nothing to do with the thing he's made in his head. Sam made a thing out of something, is what he's saying. Well, to be honest, it's been a thing for... as long as Sam can remember (he was thirteen). Still, it's not a thing he talks about. Of course it isn't. Sam's no idiot.
Sam can hardly think about it—he doesn't think about it that often—without cringing at himself. And he's being very serious. One night, when Sam really indulged in the thing (twenty-two and fresh on the road with an overbearing big brother and a dead girlfriend), Sam had almost thrown up from gagging. His physical reaction to thinking about a-thing-that-shouldn't-be-a-thing resulting from habit long-learned. You do not think about things.
Sam can't believe he's that opposed to thinking about a-thing-that's-already-a-thing (okay, maybe he does think about it too much) that he'd vomit just on principle alone from thinking too much about it (let's be honest, it pops into his head too often, but he doesn't voluntarily think about it).
So, yeah, Sam thinks about a-thing-that-definitely-should-not-be-a-thing-but-already-is-a-thing, and Sam's just going to stop with the things, he has way too many of those.
Sam is not utterly shocked when the thing pops into his head at inopportune moments for this exact reason. As normally, it doesn't matter and he can get back to whatever it was he was doing. For some reason, today is different.
They're at a diner, very quaint and sweet-smelling, retro in all the right ways. It's quiet in there, a couple at a table in front of the window, another, elderly one in a middle booth, and two men and a woman at the raised bar. Dean and Sam are in a booth at the back.
"My friend here, he just got engaged! So I decided to take him to the best diner in town to hear all about it!" Dean says happily, slapping Sam on the shoulder from across the table and laying the joviality on thick for their middle-aged waitress.
"Oh, hon! That's so sweet! I'm proud of you," She says to Sam, like she's his aunt at the family barbecue he never talks to.
Sam, no matter how outrageously ridiculous he finds Dean's antics, can't help getting flustered. He knows what he looks like, face tinging red from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck. He's cringing internally, knowing full-well he never gets this embarrassed in front of Dean. It's just... the thing.
"Thanks..." Sam responds belatedly, looking at the table but making sure to quirk a small smile at the waitress.
She falls, heavy and expected, for the act.
"Y'all should really be celebrating with our homemade apple pie! Here, lemme get y'all two slices, alright? On the house," She winks, gathering their empty food plates. As if that wasn't what Dean had been aiming for.
"No, we couldn't—" Dean proceeds, playing the part of good-bearing-friend. And the waitress seems to trip over her feet in reassurance.
"Yes! It's a momentous occasion, honey, everyone needs some pie to celebrate," She tuts, turning and walking before Dean can lay the frosting on thicker.
Dean smirks at Sam, triumphant and mocking, "A little red there, Sammy. Your fiancée really that smoking?"
Sam scowls at Dean, folding his napkin over and over out of nervous habit, then he smirks.
"Yeah. Blond, about six feet, green eyes. He's a real looker." Sam grins wickedly at his brother, but he's not even listening to what he's saying. The words of the waitress are on repeat in his head and he knows the pleasant, happy (horrifying) flush on his skin won't leave for a long while.
Dean's rolls his eyes and opens his mouth. Before he can go on a rant that Sam's just jealous that Sam didn't get the good looks, or that Sam is "such a ladies man, you use that on all your girls?", Kathy (the waitress) reappears with two plates, setting one down before each of them.
"I hope y'all enjoy." She smiles sincerely, shockingly honest for a woman whose probably worked in a diner for a decade. "And congratulations on the engagement, sugar."
Sam thanks her once more, as sweetly as possible, and digs in once she's walking away. Sam deserves this pie, as far as he's concerned. Even if he's still thinking about the thing.
Sam has to stop eating the pie (so fucking delicious, too, damn) halfway through, stomach roiling as his mind processes Kathy's words and his reaction and how much he wants to hear it from someone else and how much he should definitely not be thinking about it.
Sam pushes his plate toward Dean.
...
Tomorrow is almost worse, because now Sam can't blame that he's thinking about the thing on the fact that it was said that day. Because it was said yesterday. Jesus, Sam needed to get a grip.
Dean seemed oblivious to Sam's turmoil, going on about the case they're heading to (deity or pagan god, who knows) while Sam stays silent in the passenger side. He shouldn't be contemplating it so much, he's just going to make himself sick, but it's not as if he can stop.
Really, he hadn't even thought about it for a couple years (since he came back from Hell and gotten his soul back), so why a waitress in a nowhere-diner in some bumfuck-town triggered the thought, Sam has no goddamn clue. The Darkness is surely a much more pressing matter but that doesn't even seem to register to his "genius brain".
Sam purses his lips, he was already feeling a little green around the gills.
When Sam zones back in, Dean's not talking anymore.
Sam doesn't even know when he stopped.
...
It took 18 hours to drive from Guthrie, Oklahoma to Richmond, Virginia. They pick up Arby's when they arrive, Sam only orders a large curly-fry and a large soda.
Dean hasn't said much throughout the journey. Only to ask if Sam wanted anything from the two gas stations they stopped at and what he wanted from Arby's.
"I can hear you thinking, Sam." Okay, he's talking now, Sam takes it back.
"Sorry," Sam shrugs, tossing a scrunched curl into his mouth, leaning back in the rickety, wooden chair at the basically-one-person-table in their motel room.
Dean frowns at him, finishing off the last bite of his smokehouse brisket, "Nothing?"
"What?"
"You've had something on your mind all day," Dean rolls his eyes, like Sam's ridiculous for not reading between the lines (the lines which are completely fucking glued together, how the fuck was Sam supposed to know what Dean was talking about). "Spit it out."
Sam frowns back at Dean, "Nah."
Dean's eyebrows raise to his hairline, incredulity spilling out of him, "You don't want to talk about it?"
"And you do?" Sam fires back, raising his own eyebrow and tossing the empty fry box in the Arby's bag. "Why do you want to talk about it?"
Dean doesn't say anything for a beat, stuffing a couple fries in his mouth and making a face. He's not really sure why he wants to either, besides the fact that it's obviously bothering Sam, but that sounds sissy to him.
Dean shrugs, "Doesn't matter. You gonna tell me about it?"
"No." Sam's tone rings finality and Dean concedes, leaning back in his own chair and finishing off his fries.
He still eyes Sam warily, trying to get a read that's just not working because Sam has whatever this is locked down tight. It's kind of irking, being unable to tell what Sam's thinking, his facial expressions usually give him away. Right now, he only looks contemplative and maybe a little nervous, but that doesn't tell Dean anything about what's going on in that giant head of his.
...
Dean puts it together in bits and pieces.
At first, he's just watching Sam more closely and trying to recall when Sam started acting so weird (or weirder than normal, he supposed).
He remembers when they're in another retro diner in another bumfuck town. He thinks about being at another-another diner, Boomarang, if his memory recalls, in Oklahoma, and just after that, Sam was stuck in his head like a fly in a trap. It's been two weeks since then, the funk definitely should've drifted into something more interesting, but Sam seems incapable of not-thinking about whatever had happened there (which Dean cannot recall, which sucks, he's trying kind of hard to figure it out).
He begins to notice how Sam doesn't straighten out, or puff his chest in a small movement, or gain a smug grin/smirk whenever he figures out a case (which they've only done two from OK to VA to NH, but still). It's odd, Sam normally takes pride in his skills (Dean does, too), so Dean can't think of a reason why Sam suddenly wouldn't.
It's even worse when Dean also notices Sam bumbling like an idiot whenever he makes a small mistake on the few hunts they've been on recently. He blushes an insane crimson color and he can't meet Dean's eyes, and it really, really, frustrates Dean. Those mistakes are always fixable, so there's no need to get so worked up about it, Dean just likes to tease Sam to no end because of them.
Wait a fucking minute. Is it Dean's fault? Did... did he say something careless that he didn't mean and now Sam is completely wound up and anxious around him? But Dean's always done this, make fun of his little brother, it's basically written in his DNA or whatever. Dean highly doubts that now—even if he did say something utterly careless and insulting to Sam, which he's almost-sure he didn't—his brother would suddenly flip a switch. Okay, not Dean then.
But Sam is still blushing like crazy and so nervous and in a kind-of-constant flight or fight mode that Dean is starting to really get concerned. Sam's never like this. He's a lot like their dad in that sense, he's very proud of himself and confident in his actions and decisions, he's not like a fucking bumbling, newborn calf that can hardly stand on its legs without falling the fuck over, which is how he's been acting lately. Dean is getting to the point where he might just force the answer out of Sam.
Ironically, as all things are apt to be in their lives, Dean figures it out near his end point. And, for some fucking reason, it's in the stupidest way ever.
...
Sam still can't stop thinking about the thing. It's ruining his brain and he is so fucked up with how much he wants the thing. And he wants it, wants it way too much to be healthy and way too much to be anything but crazy.
And it's a stupid thing, too! Sam has no idea why he's gotten so worked up about it, especially after all Dean and him have been through. It's completely ridiculous, and he knows it.
Still, that doesn't stop his face from flushing when another middle-aged waitress with a K-name says she's proud of him. Terre Haute, Indiana was supposed to be easy, but now Sam is thrown off the rails again by a couple words. Sam's disappointed in himself for having such a strong reaction to the useless, meaningless, phrase (so why does it mean everything to Sam?).
Dean's looking at him oddly from across the table, and Sam drops his head so he doesn't have to look at those suspicious, moss-green (in the orange lighting) orbs.
Dean's brows furrow, he runs the waitress' words in his head again and again until it clicks. "Proud of you, boy, no one can normally finish our salads."
Dean cringes internally. Why the fuck is that so meaningful to Sam? All it is is a phrase fathers say to their sons who score a game-winning touchdown, or for a mother to say to her daughter when she gets a perfect score of ten in a tournament; it's not for some grown-ass man with an iffy relationship with his father and no relationship with his mother.
That's when it hits Dean. Brain spitting facts in rapid fire, circling everything he's learned the past two and a half weeks, and guilt crashes down on him like a pile of flaming rubble. Holy shit.
"Sammy..." When Sam looks up at him, Dean speaks very quietly, like it's a secret. And it kind of is, if this whole debacle is anything to go off of. "You know I'm proud of you, right?"
Sam's chest visibly hitches, breath caught in his throat; and he's looking at Dean like he's never seen him before, eyes wide and uncertain. The orange light makes his eyes look golden with shock and they glimmer with a shifting sheen, and it looks as if Sam's about to cry, wide chest shuddering in air.
Sam's eyes dart away from Dean's now, a full-body blush racing over him and his hands are shaking where he's folding a napkin.
Dean doesn't know how to feel. Sam's physical reaction, straight-up overwhelming—he's still shaking and blushing, eyes averted at anywhere but Dean—lights him up in warmth for his little brother, but the fact that it's those words, that it was Dean himself saying it that caused that reaction, well, it sits in his stomach like a lump of stones. He does know that he's glad to be able to give this to Sam because maybe he'll be back to normal now, maybe they won't even have to talk about it. Even Dean knows that's too far-fetched.
Speaking of, Sam hasn't answered him. Fucking goddamnit, why is this such a big deal for Sam? Hell, why does Sam even want to hear the cheesy words? Did he and Dad really not praise Sam enough as a kid? ...Okay, Dean thinks he's hit the core problem.
See, he might've been a family man (still is), but he was like his dad. He didn't show emotion (more in front of Dad) and he sure as hell didn't have any chick-flick moments once Sam turned eleven or twelve (he can't remember). But he had always thought Sam could see how proud he was, could see Dean puffing his chest up when Sam won a contest of some sort.
Now that Dean thinks about it, he recalls that he never did say anything about Sam's achievements. He called Sam a nerd instead, which was his own way of praising his brother, and he knows Sam knows that, but Sam must've needed more. And, of course, he did, Sam's always been sensitive and all he was ever praised for was his intelligence, and now all Dean can think about is Stanford.
God, fuck. Dean nor Dad had known Sam had been applying to colleges (and, jeez, where did Sam come up with the money?), had no fucking clue Sam was even planning something behind their backs. And when they found out, it all went to shit. Dean can see it so clearly now, and he wonders how he ever missed it at all.
Sam had told them he's got a full-ride scholarship to a prestigious school, in California, no less.
Most parents would've been ecstatic, Dad told Sam if he walked out that door, to never come back. Most brothers would've been proud, Dean told Sam he was selfish for leaving their family.
Dean knows Dad was surprised Sam was able to get a full-ride, was definitely impressed. Dean can admit he was impressed, too, he was proud but the feeling of abandonment outweighed that at the time. But they never told Sam. He never told Sam.
And when Dean went to get Sam's help from Stanford, all he had done was use it against his brother. Because he had wanted Sam to feel the same pain he had felt when Sam left.
But Sam had known what it felt like. Sam had arrived in California, alone with no support, no one at his back, and Dean has no idea what Sam's first year was like because they never talked about it.
"Sam." Dean's the one looking at the wall behind Sam now, Sam in his peripheral still. He needs to see Sam's face, even if he can't look at it right now. "I.. I really am proud of you. You've-you've overcome a lot and I... I'm sorry I never said anything."
Sam's eyes are red-rimmed at this point, he looks like he's on the verge of curling up and crying, and Dean suddenly has the urge to give his little brother a hug. He would've, probably, maybe, if they weren't in a fucking diner in rural Indiana and weren't having a way too emotional, full-blown chick-flick moment.
"C'mon, Sammy, don't cry..." Dean doesn't know what to do with his hands so he just puts them in his lap, fingers picking at his jeans. He's looking at Sam again but Sam is still unable to hold his gaze, which is okay. "Please, man.."
Sam scrubs at his face with unneeded harshness but it does the trick, and he's blinking away the glimmer that had coated his eyes for far too long. Sam finally meets his eyes.
"Thank you—"
"Don't fucking thank me, asshole," Dean sneers. He's tense now, Jesus, is Sam fucked up. "You shouldn't thank me for something I should've told you a long time ago."
"Still, you don't know how much it means to me—"
Dean, for the second time, interrupts Sam's croaky, broken voice. It sounds like he's been sucking a dick for too long. Dean really, probably.. most definitely, needs to stop with the sexual innuendos at inopportune times.
"God, Sam, I do! I've been trying to figure out why the fuck you've been acting so goddamn clumsy for two weeks! And now I finally figured it out, and I may not have expected you to tear up like a chick, but I knew you'd react in some way!" Dean's voice rises in disbelief, and he recognizes he's just made a mistake in his choice of words; he powers on. "Because if you full-body blush at a waitress telling you that, then no way you'd react less to me saying it!"
Sam's hunched in on himself, leaning away from Dean. Shit.
Yeah, Dean definitely thinks this whole thing is absurd and stupid and childish of Sam, but he can recognize that it's trauma. And he has no right to diminish it just because he finds it ridiculous.
Now he's kind of implied that he didn't mean it, but he does. Fuck, he gets outrageously proud of Sam to this day. Sam's amazing as far as Dean's concerned (grossest way to put that but it's true), and Dean loves his little brother enough to give this to Sam.
"I mean it, Sam. I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be." Dean cringes at the words, hates how they sound on his tongue, but Sam looks at him in wonder, like he's seven again and Dean's the best big brother in the world. It makes Dean less upset about everything he's saying and the circumstances.
"Dean..." Sam is speechless, flounders for words but comes up with none, crimson beyond belief and shaking with adrenaline. He feels euphoric, there's such an overwhelming amount of giddiness that comes from those words, and the fact that Dean's saying them. Well, it means everything to Sam.
"Don't say anything. Just- remember that, okay?" Dean huffs, looking away from Sam's earnest, wondering, puppy-dog gaze. "Now can we stop with the chick-flick?"
Sam's smile is absolutely blinding, beaming across the table at Dean and filling him up with way too much warmth that he really can't help the small, sincere smile he gives back.
The moment is interrupted by clapping. Both their heads whip around to see the kitchen and wait staff all looking at them from behind the bar. The rest of the diner has emptied, which Dean's surprised to find out he never noticed.
Dean and Sam turn to look back at each other at the same time, and Sam bursts out laughing, head thrown back, complete joy in the belly-hurting sound. He seems too happy and content to care that people had witnessed his embarrassing reaction to useless words. Dean, however, blushes as red as Sam had been, slamming his head on the table once.
But, when he looks back up, Sam still laughing, the staff dispersing with secret grins on their faces, Dean laughs a little, too. It is kind of funny.
Dean makes sure to tip way too much.