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When Sam found himself pulled out of Amelia's bed and unceremoniously dropped into the motel room with Dean, he had to take a minute to get his ears to stop ringing before he realized where he was.
Dean. God, DEAN. But...Dean looked so young, fuck, this had to be not long after Dean got him from Stanford, he was so young and bright eyed. So incredibly unbroken.
Dean's mouth was hanging open. "Sammy, what the fuck, did something age you a decade on the way to the library? Jesus, fuck."
He realized it was Sam, then, recognized him despite the fuckton of crushing trauma and emotional baggage and the not far off ten year age difference from the Sam this Dean knew.
"Dean," he whispered, staggering towards his brother almost drunkenly, throwing his arms around him before he could reach for a weapon. "Dean, fuck, Dean," and he couldn’t stop himself from crying into Dean's shoulder, because even if it was this (relatively) undamaged Dean it had been eight months since he'd seen his brother, since he'd dragged himself out of Dick Roman's headquarters and draped himself across the smashed up hood of Dean's car, their car, and wished he was dead.
"The fuck happened, Sam, something got you, what," Dean was petting his hair anxiously, big brother instincts kicking in, his brain telling him look after Sammy instead of the sensible thing, which would be to tie this older version of his brother up and question him. "Speak to me, come on."
"Please," Sam whispered, clinging to him even tighter. "Just let me have this for a minute, okay, let me," and Dean relaxed into the hug, accepting it and giving Sam what he needed, just like he always did.
After a while (not long enough, Sam never wanted to let go, not ever) Sam pulled back just enough so that he could get a good look at Dean, dropping to his knees on the grimy carpet. Just looking at Dean made him ache. His hair was in that ruffled, spiky look Dean used to do, and there weren't lines on his face, and he was just, still so alive and he hadn't been to Hell, this Dean had never been tortured or lived without Sam or lost his father.
"Sam," Dean started again, "What's-"
He didn't want to explain, not really, so he shut Dean up with a kiss. God, it felt so good to be touching Dean again, kissing him, yet he only got to relish it for a second before Dean was gently pushing him back.
"I already decided to give you time, you haven't even, I mean, Jess, that's still," Dean chewed his lip as he stumbled, trying not to bring up what he thought was a recent loss.
Thinking about Jess still hurt, but by this point it was a dull ache, like Dad, and even Bobby's loss had faded a little next to the weeping, raw wound that was losing Dean. Again.
"I swear, I swear, I'll explain later," Sam said urgently, wanting his mouth back on Dean's. "Just please, let me. Just let me, okay?" Dean still looked unconvinced, so he said the magic words. "I need this, Dean. I need it so much. Please. I know you do too."
Dean's expression softened, and he gently drew Sam back in for another kiss. "Yeah. Okay, Sammy, c'mere."
When Sam's younger self walked through the door an hour later and found them in bed together, Dean draped half over him, slowly kissing, there was a freak out of epic proportions, but in the end Sam got to finish it off after all...with a little assistance from his younger self.
Once that was done, he got down to business, doing his best to make sure they never had to know what it was like to watch each other die.