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It had been a good day - as good as it gets nowadays, anyway. The ghost terrorizing the small populace of bumfuck, nowhere had been put to rest with little fight (Dean did get slammed into a headstone but after all they've been through, it really seems like nothing) and Sam was alert and clear eyed and present and he saved Dean's ass and laughed afterwards, flushed pink in the cold and high on adrenaline of a job done right. He hasn't looked this carefree in years (ages, Dean doesn't want to do the math but Sam said three minutes felt like a week and ages, he must've spent ages down there) and having him back should be enough already but Dean missed this, the sound of his little brother's laughter and the smell of gasoline and graveyard dirt. It was a moment so perfect Dean was sure it's gonna be over in a flash but somehow it continued on, Sam easy and relaxed in the car on their way back, bickering about who get the first shower and how he was right that the murders were the doing of the ghost of a local preacher, decades dead, and not a werewolf.
It was early enough still that usually Dean would go out to the local bar, partly to hustle some pool, mostly to get drunk, trying to forget, just for a moment, that his brother is insane (because he didn't protect him, because he let him go to hell and didn't get him out, not soon enough) and that the world is ending for the uptenth time (one of these things is more important than the other and it's not the one that ought to be) but with Sam looking so young, looking his age for once, smiling so widely, not pressing on the wound of his palm and not flinching at things Dean can't see, he couldn't make himself leave. He still cracked open a bottle of jack, because it's just a good way to round off a good day, poured himself and Sam one, then another. Sam's tolerance has increased in the years since Dean had gotten him back but since he got his soul back he seems lighter, the burden of Dean's deal and the apocalypse lifted off his shoulders, at least whenever he isn't toremented by the memories of what the devil did to him, and even then he looks so heartbreaking young. It didn't take much to get him giggling, flushed pink again but this time with alcohol. It reminded Dean of the first time Sam got drunk, the time they'd broken into John's stash because it had been Dean's sweet sixteen and he'd gotten back home after celebrating with the friends he'd made at the local high school, and Sam had been waiting for him at home with a lecture on underage drinking, and Dean's solution to the problem was to spend the rest of the evening introducing Sammy to the wonders of beer.
Now he's found himself in the same position he'd been in that night a lifetime ago, pulling off Sam's shoes and manhandling him into the bed, tucking him in, brushing his hand through Sam's too long (perfect) hair and letting it linger, taking advantage of the fact that while Sam will probably still remember it in the morning he won't ever bring it up. Then he starts pulling off his own boots and he lets himself hope that this could last, that tomorrow morning they could just go get coffee and find a next not too complicated case that doesn't lead to yet another end of the world, but then, Sam asks -
- Dean, has dad ever, y'know, hurt us? hurt me? - he's loose limbed, burrowing his face into the pillow, and Dean has just laughed about how they were scared shitless dad's gonna tan their hides when discovers their little bender, but that was just that, just joking, if John had noticed that his stash had gotten lighter he had put it on the account of Dean celebrating with his friends, he probably wouldn't have clasped Dean on the back and given him the keys to the Impala when he got back home three days later if he'd suspected Dean had gotten his twelve years old brother drunk.
- What do you mean, Sammy?
- You know, back there - he doesn't have to specify. Dean knows what back there means, even though Sam never talks about back there.
- back there, Lucifer, he would, - he still looks loose and open, and Dean would never think a few shots would be enough to get him talking about Lucifer, and if he did, he still wouldn't try to get him talking, because god, he doesn't want to hear this. Despite Sam easy tone, he doesn't think he's gonna like what comes out of his mouth next - He could. Make up scenarios, you know? Sets. Like Gabriel did. It was all empty and he could just, do whatever - His eyes are closed, he's frowning, but the corners of his mouth are still lifted up slightly. They just had such a good day.
- He would go through my memories. Sometimes it would be you - He snorts. Dean doesn't know what's so funny about this. He remembers Sam driving away with his imaginary doppelganger, pointing a gun at his head. He doesn't want to imagine what else his face did to Sam.
- And, you know. I can tell the difference, but dad was his favorite, and we went over it so many times, sometimes - it gets mixed up. So I thought, I just have to assume it's all bull - He stops, for the first time seeming to catch on to Dean's silence. What is he supposed to say to that? Sam had been down there long enough for Lucifer to create fake memories of abuse, god knows just how terrible, and even if he knows they're fake, he still remembers them. What difference does it make that a memory is fake?
He opens the eyes he didn't realize he was screwing shut, tries unsuccessfully to unclench his jaw. Kneels next to Sam's bed. Strokes his long, perfect hair. So soft. Just like when he was a kid.
- No, Sammy - he swallows - dad loved us. Never did anything like that. You two fought like hell but he wouldn't, he would rather die than hurt you, okay? You get that?
- Thought so. Thought he wouldn't - Sam makes a pleased sound - See, I still got it.
Dean thinks he's not sure what it is that Sam's got but it's most definitely not it but then he realizes he should be more grateful. He got Sam back and in one piece, even though everybody and their dog said Sam would be a drooling mess. And Sam is drooling, just a little bit, but only beacuse his face is smushed into a pillow and his mouth's slightly open and Dean just knows he's going complain in the morning because Sammy hates going to bed without brushing his teeth, especially drunk.
If it's a good day. Because miraculously, they still get good days. It's just that even on the best of them, Dean can't help but think there's something irrevocably broken about his brother.
He keeps stroking Sam's hair until he drifts off into sleep. Then he finishes off the bottle of jack.