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When Dean finds his little brother outside at midnight, in the middle of a downpour, no less, he’s expecting Sam to be terrified, reeling from whatever nightmare his Hell-laden mind could conjure up.
(Dean knows there’s certainly no shortage of memories to pull from.)
“Jesus, Sam,” he yells, as soon as he’s within earshot, giving Sam enough time to adjust to his presence. “We have showers inside, y’know.”
Sam is standing in the middle of the field behind Bobby’s house, still as the trees nearby, with his face tilted up towards the sky. At Dean’s words, though, he turns, blinking wide eyes at him, and Dean is startled by the amount of coherence in the hazel.
When Dean finds his hundreds, if not thousands, years old little brother outside at midnight, in the rain, he is not expecting him to be smiling.
As Dean slows his jog and stops next to Sam, the smile only fucking grows, until its digging out little hollows of joy in Sam’s cheeks.
“Dean,” Sam says, and his hair is plastered back and his clothes are drenched and the bags under his eyes look like bruises, even in the deep of night that Dean’s sole flashlight barely scratches, but he looks peaceful for the first time since Cas tore down the Wall. “It’s raining.”
Dean stares at his brother for a moment, wondering if this is just a big joke Sam’s playing on him, a thrilling little-brother game of How Long Can I Get Dean to Stand in the Rain For, but there’s a genuine lightness in Sam’s eyes that has Dean giving him a small smile in return.
“Sure is, Sammy. Care to explain why you’re out in it?”
Sam glances away (eye-contact was fleeting, now), and there’s a long pause before he says, quietly, delicate words crumbling in the water, “I haven’t felt the rain in so long.”
And, fuck, if that doesn’t make Dean’s eyes burn and his throat close with all kinds of emotions.
“Oh,” is all he says, a small invitation for Sam to continue if he wants. Hell hadn’t managed to take Sam’s stubbornness, and Sam was firm in his mission to not burden Dean with the storm that constantly brewed in his mind. Dean thought that was stupid, but it was so Sam, and he had refused to share anything about his dreams or memories, only accepting Dean’s presence as comfort, and rejecting any attempts at starting a conversation.
So, he was going to take any opportunity to let Sam get something off his chest, even if it meant standing out in the rain in the middle of the night.
There’s another long pause, so long that Dean starts to worry that Sam has gone back to the little hideout in his mind, but then Sam says, a little louder this time, “It feels different than His rain,” Dean senses the capitalization, and notes the avoidance of saying Lucifer’s name. “It felt—that felt, like, w-wrong. This feels—this feels… right, y’know?”
Given the amount of time Sam spent with the Devil, Dean can only imagine, but he thinks of the soft warmth of the sun after the oppressive heat of his own time in Hell, and murmurs a quiet, “Yeah.”
The two stand there in the rain for a few long minutes, Dean watching Sam and thinking about finally having his small-moment-loving brother back again, and something in his chest softens as he stares at Sam’s closed eyes and loose posture.
Only when a small chill creeps down his spine does Dean, thinking of the three blankets piled on the couch and frost on a windowpane in Detroit, softly break the silence, “C’mon, Sammy, let’s head back inside. Gettin’ all cold’s probably not the best thing for you right now.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees easily, and Dean looks away to let Sam wipe away the budding tears in peace. “You’re right.”
"‘Course I am,” Dean replies, clasping Sam’s shoulder and leading them towards the house, keeping his hand on Sam the entire way. “It’s my job as your favorite big brother.”
Dean can hear the eye roll as Sam mutters, “You’re my only big brother.”
They’re at the back steps of Bobby’s house when Sam continues quietly, so quiet that Dean almost doesn’t hear it, “I missed you, Dean.”
Heat pricks Dean’s eyes again, and he doesn’t try to hide the glassiness of his eyes as he turns to face his giant of a little brother. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Me too.”
‘Miss’ is only a four-letter word, and it doesn’t even come close to the way Dean felt when Sam was gone. It was like Sam was the moon, and without him, Dean was left tide-less, both floating and sinking, paradoxical in his grief because nothing made sense anymore.
‘Miss’ is a four-letter word and Dean doesn’t think there’s a word long enough to shove his grief into because Dean wasn’t made to live without Sam, and he was kidding himself when he ever thought that he could.
Sam gifts him another smile, a little softer this time, but no less genuine, and Dean’s chest warms with love for Sam, for his little brother who saved the world, survived the Cage, and was still here fighting, the sun and the moon back together, again.
“Now,” Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder once before letting go, “You get changed and I’ll make some shitty tea and we’ll watch some 1 AM Discovery Channel.”
Sam’s eyes crinkle with concern, giving Dean a quick once-over, surely catching the bruises he had under his own eyes. “But you need to sleep Dean, you —”
Dean just waves a hand, dismissing his inconsequential tiredness in the face of spending time with his newly alive brother. “Nah, ‘m not tired. The cold shower woke me right up.”
“It wasn’t that cold,” Sam mumbles, trudging up the stairs, but Dean catches a pleased smile tilting his lips. “You’re just a drama queen.”
“I’m making you tea out of the goodness of my heart and this is how you repay me,” Dean retorts, skipping a couple steps to catch up with his brother’s way too fucking long legs.
“I can make the tea, Dean.”
“And let you anywhere near the kitchen?” Dean scoffs. “God, no.”
Sam rolls his eyes again. “Then stop complaining.”
Dean scowls at him, but he can’t stop the slight twist of his lips that ruins the effect. “You’re such a buzzkill.”
The worn back door creaks with age as Sam opens it, and while Sam winces at the prospect of waking Bobby, who had miraculously fallen asleep right before Dean went searching for Sam, Dean practically throws himself out of the rain and into the familiar, and more importantly, dry room.
“D’you think it’ll be aliens again tonight?” Sam asks, shedding his jacket, and carefully hanging it up on the door handle to dry.
Dean sighs in mock sadness. “It’s always aliens — never trust the government, Sam.”
His brother laughs, and gives Dean one last long look, before quickly turning and walking upstairs to get changed. Dean watches his brother’s back retreat, shoulders slumped slightly more than usual, but footsteps still sure, and he smiles as he sheds his own soaked jacket.
This was how it was supposed to be.
This was all he needed.