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"Dean, can you just take a look?"
Sammy is speaking in that high-pitched, whiny voice again – not the kid brother voice but the one that's tinged with panic. He's been having that since Nebraska. At least six months now, on and off. It's been grating.
"Sam, there's nothing. Come on, man."
He's got this idea, and fuck if Dean knows where he got it from, but he has this idea that he's changing, turning, into a monster of some kind or other. He'll pick one kind and stick to it for a while, a few weeks, and it doesn't even matter if they actually encountered one or not. Like Sam's convinced the force of his mind is enough to fuck his body over, or something. Not how it works, but that doesn't matter, because Sam is sixteen and stubborn as hell, and if it's crystal-fuckin'-clear to him then that's the end of that and whatever Dean has to say falls on deaf ears.
"What if there is? There's something wrong, I can feel it, I cut my tongue on them earlier, Dean, I can tell."
What if there is, what if there is, what if there is, that's his mantra. There isn't, there's never anything. There wasn't when Sam obsessed over whatever it was last month, something with horns, and the winged thing before that, and there sure as hell isn't now. No sharp teeth when Dean checked yesterday, no sharp teeth when Dean checked last week, nothing. Not even a hint of something out of the ordinary. Sam's all Sam, same as always.
"And if there isn't, you gonna believe me?"
Sam slides his tongue over his teeth, pink tip of it showing just so between his lips. He nods. "Just... Promise you'll look properly."
That's a familiar tune. They've had this conversation again and again and oh wonder, Sam hasn't believed him once, at least not for longer than an evening.
Tomorrow they'll be having this same song and dance, with Sam looking at him out of big, dark eyes with big, dark shadows under them, because this shit doesn't let him sleep at night and it only gets worse when it's dark outside and quiet in their room. But what else is Dean supposed to do here?
"Promise. C'mere."
Sam comes to sit beside Dean and it still catches Dean off guard that they're eye level now. Pushing that aside, Dean takes a hand to Sam's jaw and gently pulls it down.
And... nothing. Of course not. Same old Sammy-teeth, dull and angular and not a point in sight. Perfectly white and pearly and straighter than they should be, considering he takes punches to the face far more often than normal people.
"And?"
The corners of Sam's mouth are cracked and bloody, courtesy of the motel room's AC and Sam's newfound habit of checking his teeth at least fifteen times a day in front of the bathroom mirror. Between that, his bloodshot eyes and the spots he keeps worrying at, he looks run down. He should be all apple cheeks and dimples, like he was, but Dean can't even recall the last time he's seen him with a kid brother smile on his face.
"You're alright, quit worrying."
To be fair: he's not alright, but worrying about becoming a vampire won't change that a bit.
"You didn't feel them. I cut myself on them, I told you, can you–?"
His hands are warm and only a little calloused when they grab Dean's, the one that's still resting over the curve of Sam's jaw, and mold it into shape. Sam's thumb slides under Dean's to guide it to a canine and press onto its point and Sam's breath is going steadily against his skin, in and out, warm and warmer still until Dean's brain is giving him a whole lot of associations it really shouldn't.
"Dull, Sammy. As dull as mine. Here, see?" He presents his hands to Sam and there's nothing to see, which is precisely the point: Dean's thumb is intact, skin unbroken, there's not even an indent left by pressure alone.
Sam turns Dean's wrist, tilts his hand this and that way and tries to get as many angles as he can in the weak light they've got. It takes a minute until he's satisfied, but then he nods.
"Yeah, okay. Okay. Sorry. I know, okay? That it doesn't make sense," he says with a sigh and fidgets with the blanket. "But what if some day there is something wrong with me; I mean, we don't know everything about the creatures we fight. And I don't ask you until it's too late and–"
That tune, too, is familiar. It's a variation on a theme and part of the routine. It's starting to get to Dean with its grating repetition. Like a copy of a copy, it sounds more wrong every time.
Sam's clever, he knows this can't be real, knows they haven't even met a fucking bloodsucker this year and it's not like they get close and personal with them when they do. He wouldn't even have had a chance to – what, exactly?
Dean is moving in circles, too, if he's not careful following Sam around while he's trying to pull him out of his motion. There is no logic here, no reason and no pattern to anyone but Sam – and even to him it's only in the back of his mind, working steadily to convince him and getting a score in more often these days. It's a restless thing.
"It's fine, Sammy."
Later, Dean will settle into the bed closer to the door, as always. And Sam will come back from the bathroom with his lips cracked a little worse, tongue running along his teeth again.