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Summary
Sam’s knees buckle and his legs fold under him, but he keeps his head down, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes.
There’s a moment where neither of them move to speak, hustled silence creeping between them, and among it odd sniffles from Sam.
From beneath the shag of his bangs and through the blur of unshed tears, he can see Dean’s hand rested, fingers curved down over the knee of his jeans. That hand, so casual now, lax and scar-clad, and so familiar.
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OR, Dean puts Sammy over his knee, and in the aftermath, they do some healing.