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Dean knows Sam better than he knows himself.
He could put his life on that fact.
Hell, he’s changed his diapers. Cleaned his cut knees. Taught him to drive a car. Frankly, Dean has been a major part of every stage of Sam’s life. He could pass a degree in Sam without breaking a sweat. Good, bad, everything in between.
One thing he can’t do is read Sam’s mind. More than not, he wishes he could. Peal away the masks and smiles and see what his baby brother is truly thinking from one moment to the next. What is happening in that big brain of his, Dean will never fully understand.
Sam has always been clever, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the kid could have been a child genius if they had a good, consistent education rather than being dragged around the country, changing school like the weather. He’s street-smart to boot, quick as a whip and can turn his mind to just about anything if he puts effort in. Maybe with the exception of cars, because his brother and anything under the bonnet of Baby are just not compatible. Though Dean often wonders if Sam distances himself from that stuff because that’s Dean’s job.
But regardless, Sam is clever. Full ride to Stanford speaks for itself.
Dean’s always been proud of Sam for that, even when it had been clouded and tainted by Sam walking out on them. Leaving them behind to make something good of himself. Dean could never tell him, not really, words never coming to the older brother quite as smoothly as they do to Sam. Reassurance, praise. It all seems pretty foreign to him. If he had his time over, he would shout at Sam to run.
Sam has tells, little ways of his. Things that someone that doesn’t live shoulder to shoulder with him would ever pick out in a million years. That nobody that hasn’t raised him will ever get to see. The way Sam’s eyebrows twitch down momentarily, when he’s processing new information for a case, mentally connecting dots effortlessly in a way Dean can never manage. The way he washes his hands, not once, not twice, three times, counting the seconds under the scalding water, after a particularly grey area case. The way he presses the skin on his palm with his finger tips when he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. The way his eyes flutter closed for a few counted seconds when he’s filing something away under the ‘feel guilty about’ title card.
The way he sets his jaw and throws him his ‘bitch face’ when he doesn’t agree with whatever Dean is saying or doing. Not that Dean takes a blind bit of notice these days.
There is one down fall to Sam’s intelligence. Because Dean can read Sam, but only when Sam lets him. His younger brother wearing his heart on his sleeve more than not but reserving the right to fully retract it when he feels he is in danger. Or there’s something that will take more than a moment to fully explain. Which is all the time these days.
It is something he’s perfected since….everything. Since their father, since hell, since Lucifer, since Dean’s trip to purgatory, since the trials, since Gadreel….
Sam won’t break down and beg for help. It isn’t a Winchester’s style. Dean is just as guilty of that. Hell, all of Sam’s avoidance can almost definitely be blamed on how Dean raised him to be. How their father forced them to be.
Head up, back straight, weakness will be the death of you.
Emotion is weakness.
Talking to a drill sergeant about your mental health struggles might have been more worthwhile. Certainly easier.
No, he won’t ask for help, but he’ll start coming out of the shower with red skin like he’s scrubbed it till his blood is on the wrong side. He’ll start skipping meals, barely touching the meals he does have. He’ll wander the bunker at all hours, nightmares making sleeping pointless.
Sam doesn’t lose his temper, not like he used to all those years ago. He doesn’t sulk or blow up, he just sighs, too tired to fight the little things when the world is breaking around them. The years have beaten the rebellion out of his rambunctious little brother.
He’s a far cry from the kid that fought John Winchester all those years ago.
Because Sam is tired, Dean can see it in every movement, every word, every fake smile.
Dean just wishes they could turn back time, back to being 22 and 26 and squabbling about Dean replaying the same six Metallica songs or Sam’s boot trapsing mud into Baby. Playing silly pranks just to get a rise out of the other.
Back to saving people and hunting things. The family business.
Dean wishes he could rib Sam for abandoning them for college, harbouring a resentment for his brother getting away from their father’s tight grip. For him having the balls that Dean didn’t to get out before it broke him.
Jokes on that, the life found Sam and broke him anyway.
Their trauma is heavier now, less light to joke about, more suffocating. Getting up in the morning is just as hard as juggling with ton weights. Every catch excruciating, every throw desperate. Round and round they go.
Ha, ha, you left us to go to college like a normy.
Ha, ha, I let the angel that was imprisoned for the first sin possess you because I couldn’t let you die even if that is what you would want.
Ha, ha, dad never loved us the same.
Ha, ha, how many lifetimes were we in hell compared to together?
It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Dean mourns how lucky they once were.
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Dean notices Sam as soon as he walks into the main room of the bunker, the younger man’s head rested on his arms, chest rising and falling rhythmically in much needed sleep. Dean falters in his step as he is assaulted by the memories of carrying a sleeping Sam to bed when his brother fell asleep with his nose in a book or even clutching his toy plane that he had been playing with moments before. Sam would always stir, muttering about not being tired as his head nestles in his brothers neck to continue his ‘not sleeping’.
That was before Sam caught that teenage growing spurt where he became a giraffe. Hell, Dean ain’t carrying him to bed now.
“Sam! Think fast,” Dean calls, lobbing a granola bar at Sam’s head.
Sam sits up quick, a bewildered expression on his face as the bar hits him on the shoulder and falls to the floor. He stares at it for a long moment before raising his eyebrows at Dean, “Well that was hardly fair.”
Dean shrugs, pulling out his own chair to lounge on, feet up on the map/table, “Ain’t my fault if you couldn’t think fast enough. That big brain is losing it’s touch.”
Sam reaches up to scratch his head, Dean amuses himself with thinking he’s checking his brain is still kickin’, pushing his hair out of his face, “I was asleep.”
Dean puts on a shocked face, widening his eyes comically, “No? Seriously? I would never have known. This being the livin’ space not your bedroom after all.”
Sam rolls his eyes, bitch face perfectly in place, scrubbing his hand over his face, he glances down in front of him at the papers and books laid out around him, “I was doing…..something.”
Dean nods, knowingly. It is more likely that Sam couldn’t sleep so busied himself with researching and reading up on something and nothing to occupy his mind. He’s been doing that for years.
“Coffee?” Dean offers, deciding to be nice rather than teasing, holding back the quip on his tongue.
“Please,” Sam answers, throwing him a grateful look as he gets his bearings.
“Food?” Dean pushes, knowing the answer before he even says it.
Sam hesitates, “No.”
“Why?”
Sam sets his jaw, “Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes, “Fine, fine. But later.”
Sam doesn’t answer. Dean didn’t expect him to, heading out of the room to fetch his brother some coffee.
Dean has noticed Sam’s issue with food, albeit later than is right considering how much time the two spend together. He always knew it was a sore subject, even when they were kids, teens especially, Sam never ate that much, skirting around the subject when it was brought up. Dean never paid it much mind back then, not everyone will eat anything and everything on the road. Sam just seemed fussy, stubborn. The same thought endured when they reconciled after Stanford (after Jess). That Sam would eat when he was hungry. He’s a damn adult after all. It’s hardly a worry.
As the years went on, Dean noticed little things that Sam would do, comments about calories, about frequency of diner visits. Reading labels in stores, frowning and putting stuff back more than throwing it in the basket. Dean pinned it down to his little brother just being weird. Rolling his eyes to servers when he orders a salad along with Dean’s burger, commenting about him being a girl. Sam would shrug him off or pointedly ignore him, maybe laugh if they were with company.
But then Sam went to hell. Lost and gained a soul. Almost died with the trials. Dean has never seen Sam so broken. His brother is drowning, barely able to take a breath of fresh air before the world pulled him under again. And the worse thing about it? He isn’t grasping at Dean for help. Not anymore. Not after Gadreel. Sam skips meals more that he eats them, picking at a goddamn salad and binning half of it when he actually sits down for once. That is when Dean finally noticed the link, sees the things he had been missing for years. Sam loses someone close, he skips meals to do an extra run in a day. A case reminds him of Lucifer, he starts avoiding food like the plague. A pattern starts to appear that Dean never noticed before. If Sam is in pain, Sam doesn’t eat.
If Sam is in pain, he doesn’t eat or sleep.
He’s tail spinning, moments away from nose diving.
And he just won’t speak to Dean about it. He won’t speak to anyone about it.
And, sure, Dean isn’t the most approachable person on a good day. Even Cas raises his eyebrows in confusion when Dean wonders aloud why Sam won’t just let him help. The angel pointing out the many times in the last year that Dean’s broken or tested his brother’s trust in him. It’s not said unkindly, just informatively. Classic angel emotional constipation. But Dean would listen, he swears it.
He just wishes they could go back to before. Before their trauma became a crushing weight.
*****
Dean returns with a steaming mug of coffee, no toast in hand despite his internal battle about whether he could force Sam to eat if a plate is in front of him. Sam and not being given a choice never seemed to end well so he decided against it. He sits back across from his brother, observing, feet rested back on the map.
Sam glances at him when he comes into view, offering him a smile and waving a piece of paper at him, clearly having got back into the reading he had started last night (or rather early this morning), “Right so get this…”
Sam starts into a drawn out speel about an elderly town where people are turning up dead with barely any injuries, but their brains were pretty much gone inside their heads. A cut and dry wraith. One that targets the old and vulnerable. The odd thing is each victim had been found in their houses, attacker having been invited in and the doors being locked behind them. Carer maybe? Maybe…
“I know you’re not okay.”
The words spill out before he has chance to fully think them through, Sam stops in his tracks mid-sentence. Silence. They stare at each other for a long moment; Dean hasn’t thought this part through. He never actually thought he’d get the words out.
“O-okay,” Sam says, voice dripping with confusion, he puts the paper in his hands down, “Where the hell did that come from?”
Dean bites his lip, moving to sit up, taking his time removing his feet from the table, giving Sam a look, “Like you don’t know.”
The words come out harder than he intends, almost demanding. Sam straightens up at the tone, walls rising immediately.
Damn it, way to go, Dean.
“I don’t need this right now, Dean,” Sam answers, his voice guarded, distant, like he’s unsure in Dean’s reaction, “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“You don’t eat, you barely sleep. You look about ready to keel over at every moment,” Dean answers, pausing the soften his voice, taking a deep breath, he needs to be the brother he used to be to Sam, calm, dependable, open, “I-I’m worried about ya, man.”
Sam blinks, looking down then back up, letting the words sink in, “What’s there to worry for? I’m alright-“
Dean feels his temper rise at the dismissive words, battling to keep it out of his voice, “Sam, you just-“
“Dean,” Sam stands up abruptly stalking to the other side of the room, folding his arms over his chest, “Can’t you just go back to pretending that everything alright? Just stop-“
Dean feels the moment his temper bubbles over, a red mist descending. A ghost of John Winchester that made a home in his chest long ago. The nasty, festering part of him that Dean can’t seem to push down no matter how hard he tries. More so than usual in the years since purgatory. This isn’t right, this isn’t about him right now.
Calm.
Dependant.
Open.
Dean sweeps the papers off the table, the full coffee cup, his beer bottle and every other item following suit. The cup smashes, coffee seeping over the floor, spoiling some of the papers and books as the two of them stare at it in silence. Dean can feel his heart beating in his head, breath coming out too quickly.
Sam flinches then swallows, glancing between Dean and the mess on the floor. He hesitates before moving forward, crouching down to save the remaining books and papers from being spoiled. He stacks the less sodden books to the side to check the damage later.
Dean watches him, watches the methodical organisation, watches his brother clean up the mess he has made with no comment. Dean can see Sam taking inventory, working out what they have lost to the spill and what can be saved. Picking up the literal pieces that Dean has scattered out in front of him. Sam has always been good at this, gluing them back together as best they can be. Papering over the cracks. Damage control.
“Should be able to save most of em, can’t be half as bad as some of those dog eared volumes in the main library,” Sam tries an attempt at humour, looking up at Dean from his crouched position, a half-smile on his face for good measure, “I need…”
Dean doesn’t know whether to shout or cry or scream. His head feels like its exploding, every emotion in his chest battling against each other. All chanting the same thing. Sam needs you, Sam needs you, Sam needs you.
“Damn it, Sam, just-just get up,” Dean says, his voice weak, hands clenched at his sides. God punching the wall seems very appealing right about now.
Sam eyes him, cautiously, slowly rising to his feet, his hands raised slightly as if in surrender to what his brother wants him to do. The movements falter suddenly, Sam’s eyes closing against something unknown. He stumbles from his half standing position, bracing his hand on the ground to steady himself. Dean is by his side immediately, grasping his shoulder to steady him.
“De’ I’m gonna-“
Sam doesn’t finish his sentence as he suddenly losing consciousness, slumping against Dean, who fumbled to cushion his head and bring it safely to the floor. The old nickname pulls at his heart strings as Dean feel his blood run cold as he stares at his brothers still form for a long moment. He pulls him into the recovery position, pulling off his shirt to cushion his head.
“Sammy,” Dean forces out, feeling suddenly completely out of his depth.
Dean glances around him, eyes catching on the smashed cup and bottle, the disarray of damaged papers and books. Observing his dramatically unsuccessful attempt at offering Sam a shoulder to cry on. No wonder the kid doesn’t come to him when this is what happens happens.
“Cas, Castiel,” Dean says into nothingness, knowing the angel has no wings now, hell with his borrowed grace he might not even be able to hear him let alone help, “I need your help, buddy. I need someone.”
Dean pull his phone out of his pocket, wondering whether he should call an ambulance, but his phone rings in his hand.
Dean answers and puts it to his ear, “Cas.”
“I heard you, what is wrong, Dean?” Castiels voice comes through the phone, thick with concern, the sound of a car in the background, obviously driving, “Sam…?”
Relief floods him, “He’s-I don’t know, he just passed out. I don’t know what to do.”
Cas is quiet for a long moment, “How long has he been out?”
Dean glances pointlessly at his watch then at Sam again, “Dunno, about four-five minutes, not long.”
“Did you talk to him about….the thing?” Cas says, his voice careful, searching. He sounds incredibly human.
Dean pulls the phone away from his ear, pressing the top of it against his head, before answering, “It didn’t quite go the way I planned.”
“Dean,” Cas’s voice isn’t over the phone anymore, the angel walking down the entrance stairs hurriedly.
Dean lowers the phone, clicking it off. Huh Cas must have been closer by then he thought. Cas glances around at the mess surrounding Dean, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.
What the fuck happened here?
“Like I said, didn’t quite go to plan,” Dean repeats, feeling itchy with the angels judgemental gaze.
Cas crouches down beside the two brothers, eyeing Sam cautiously, “Did you…hit him?”
Dean flinches at the insinuation, wishing he could argue that it is unfounded. He hates the thought that people would presume Dean would lay hands on his little brother while trying to find out why he’s not okay. What kind of man has he really become over the years?
“No, no I didn’t touch him,” Dean answers, feeling a stab of shame, “I swept the table and Sam was picking up the stuff then he keeled over.”
“Why did you-“
The question is cut off by Sam groaning, eyes blinking open. Dean sits back on his heels, relief washing over him at seeing life in his brother again. Cas grips his shoulder when he attempts to sit up immediately.
“Stay down for now, Sam,” Cas says, softly, squeezing Sam’s shoulder comfortingly, “You’ve been out for a little while.”
Sam hums, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Sorry, I-I think I went dizzy from getting up too fast.”
Dean bites his tongue, desperate to argue that Sam hadn’t been moving fast. But he resists the urge to start a new argument after how the first one went.
Cas holds his hand up, “Can I-?”
Sam furrows his brow, “Cas, you’ve barely got enough grace as it is, don’t waste it on me,” His eyes leave the angel and land on Dean, “I’m fine.”
Cas shakes his head, “You Winchesters don’t know the meaning of the word,” He lowers his voice, gently, “let me help.”
Sam hesitates again, eyeing Cas’ outstretched hand before nodding sharply. Like a King would nod to an executioner. Dean thinks maybe he could learn a thing or two about tact and giving Sam time and space from Cas. Giving him a choice. An angel is better at being human than he is, how embarrassing.
Cas touches Sam’s head, frowning momentarily before removing his hand, “Sam, your body is panicking because it doesn’t have enough sustenance or sleep to keep it going. It’s a wonder you didn’t pass out before now.”
Dean looks at Sam, staying silent as his brother processes this. Sam doesn’t meet either of their eyes, starting to push himself up from the floor again. Cas doesn’t stop him this time, supporting his attempt as best he can, keeping the taller man steady.
“Come on, we’ll get you horizontal,” Dean says, surprised at himself by how soft and gentle it comes out, he moves to support Sam from the other side.
Sam doesn’t argue, letting himself be aided to his bedroom. Cas opens the door as they approach, helping Dean set Sam carefully on the bed. Sam sits back against the bed frame, not looking like he’s surrendered to sleep but at least they’ve got him in the ballpark.
“Thanks,” Sam says quietly.
He’s embarrassed, Dean realises. Sam isn’t looking at them, almost like a kid that’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Dean knows that if he lets Sam ignore this, he will keep doing so until he’s in the ground. And Dean will not allow that, not after everything.
“Cas, could ya…?” Dean asks, darting his eyes to the door then back, hoping the angel gets his point without him putting it into words.
Cas glances between the two of them before nodding, “Yes. I will make something easy to eat.”
Dean sees Sam stiffen at the words but once again, he stays silent. Cas disappears through the door with his mission to find something that Sam might actually eat. Dean wonders if being human has actually make Cas knowledgeable on food or if the angel is winging it. Either way, he’s grateful.
Dean pulls a chair to the side of Sam’s bed, resting his chin on his hand to look at his brother.
“You don’t need to guard me, Dean,” Sam says, voice low, vulnerable, almost ashamed, “I’m not going to break.”
Dean nods into his own hand, “I’m not convinced you know that for a fact, Sammy.”
Sam sighs, looking like he’s warring with himself on whether to say something or not, “I’m really okay. I know what I’m doing.”
Dean huffs out a humourless laugh, “That’s a comfort. If this happens when you’re in control, what happens when you tailspin?”
Sam shrugs, “I pushed it too far, I know that now. I did try to sleep last night but it just wouldn’t stick.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yes.”
Dean scans his face, swallowing, “Lucifer?”
Sam shakes his head, “Gadreel this time. But Lucifer sometimes. Amongst other things.”
Dean nods, slowly, trying to push down that familiar well of guilt in his chest, “You can’t keep going on like this, Sam.”
“I can. I’m in control of it.”
“You haven’t eaten in two days,” Dean answers, keeping his voice steady as the truth is spoken into existence.
Dean hasn’t often needed to say it. He’ll notice Sam skipping meals, running on nothing but adrenaline on a case. He watches; he waits. Maybe that makes him a coward. Because what is he waiting for? They are lucky Sam passed out at home, but he could have been mid pursuit of a monster, hell he could have been battling for his life. Dean could have lost his brother because he was waiting, monitoring. Noticing things he failed to notice years before.
“I have failed, Sam,” Dean admits, not taking his eyes on Sam’s face, “I have failed and I don’t know what to do.”
Sam’s face scrunches up, sitting up straighter, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “What are you talking about Dean? You’ve not done anything wrong, I don’t understand.”
Dean huffs out a laugh, humourless, sharp. Dean couldn’t even list the things he’s done wrong on his fingers, it would be quicker to count what he’s done right. Sam has forgiven him, time and time again.
“I’m meant to look after you,” Dean says, his voice breaking pathetically on the word, unable to keep the years of worry and pain out of his voice, “Me. That is my job and I’ve done a piss poor job of it.”
Sam is shaking his head, looking concerned at Dean’s words. Sam is concerned about him? That is the wrong way around again, “We’re not kids anymore, Dean. You can’t- It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault,” He gestures around them.
“When you were a kid, I remember you coming back from school one day. We were-hell I don’t even know where we were- But you came home, you were quiet, I could tell you were turning something over in your head, but you were 12 so I didn’t push. We’d started running out of food and money, it had been ten days I think since Dad had gone on a hunt. I made some mac and cheese, there wasn’t enough for one of us, let alone two, so I plated it up for you,” Dean looks down at his hands while he’s talking, “You took one look at it and said it was disgusting, that you wouldn’t eat it. Then like always, I blew up. I don’t know what I said but I remember you were really upset after. I ate the food because I wasn’t about to bin it. You told me a while after that that the kids at school called you chubby and it must have been because I wasn’t sharing the food right. That’s when all this started.”
Sam shakes his head again, “It wasn’t true.”
“What?” Dean asks, feeling like he’s been cut short, he thought this was the issue. After all, people don’t eat because they think they’re fat or need to lose weight or something, right? He’s researched enough about it.
“It wasn’t true when I said that. Well people in middle school were never the nicest, but that never worried me,” Sam admits, looking guilty all of a sudden, “Dean, we rarely had enough food for both of us. You always took the shorter straw. When I started eating less, it meant you were eating more.”
Dean blinks, once, twice, caught short by the response. He always thought he was doing what Sam wanted. Letting Sam have the choice if he didn’t fancy eating, especially if it made him feel better about school bullies. What he hadn’t accounted for was Sam looking out for him at the same time. Because Sam was also seeing Dean go without food. That serves him right for misjudging Sam’s intelligence at that age. Turns out he doesn’t know his brother quite as completely as he thought.
“I didn’t know that,” Dean says, softly, “I needed to look after you.”
Sam shakes his head, “No Dean, we had to look out for each other. That’s what you’ve never quite got your thick head around. You’re my brother too.”
Dean feels a lump form at the back of his throat, swallowing down the emotions that well up in his chest. It’s true, Dean’s never quite accepted that they have each other’s backs. Look out for Sammy. The words are seared into his mind, into his soul if truth be told. He’s the older brother after all, it’s his job to keep Sam alive. But, like Sam has been saying for years, Sam is also his little brother, he wants to keep Dean safe just as much as the other way around. They fight together, they are almost (completely) slightly (dangerously) codependent on each other.
Dean sacrifices for Sam, Sam sacrifices for Dean. Around and around they go. Always the first to throw themselves under the bus, always ready to give their lives for the other.
Because they have always been the only people the other can rely on. For better or for worse. And when the other can’t quite live up to being perfectly there for each other at all times, well their little codependent bubble starts to implode. When Sam can’t find him in purgatory. When Dean tricks Sam into allowing an unknown angel to possess him. They fail, they blame.
Trust gets tarnished and when the only person you can rely on has tarnished it, lets say mental health goes to shit. More than it already was.
Dean nods slowly, “Tell me why then Sam, please. Why all this not eating, running yourself into the ground? Because it’s not new, it’s just worse now. Why?”
Sam sighs, scrubbing his face with his hand, “It’s not-It’s not a simple thing to explain. It’s a control thing. Not much of my life has been in my own control but this? I can control this, I can choose this. It’s almost a compulsion now though, I need to count the calories in the things I eat, I need to skip meals when I feel like life is spinning out of control. Which I guess is my control being lost again anyway.” He meets Dean’s eyes, “I can’t choose if Lucifer tortures me in the cage. I can’t choose if we lose most of the people we’ve ever cared about. I can’t choose to lose you and Cas to a dimension I didn’t know you’d been sent to. I can’t choose Gadreel taking over my body at any moment he felt like it….”
“Sam, I am so sorry.”
“Dean,” Sam stops him, shaking his head, “I don’t need that. It’s happened, its over. The point is, I can choose what to eat. I can choose to feel clean through the food I eat or don’t eat. I can’t wash away the demon blood in my body. I can’t forget what’s happened to me.”
“But you can’t live like this,” Dean answers, feeling far, far out of his depth, “Hell, this is going to kill you, Sammy.”
“It’s not that bad….”
“Oh really? What happens when you pass out next time while we’re on a case? You lose strength mid fight and lose ground?” Dean’s voice rises slightly, he needs Sam to understand why he’s worried, why this needs to stop, “I ain’t losing you over this. I can’t.”
“Dean,” Sam says, quietly, he sounds tired all of a sudden, worse than before, “I’ve told you about it, I’ve told you why. You gotta trust me to have a handle on this.”
“Sam, food is not something to control,” He leans forward, “Now, look, I ain’t a shrink, but all this is coming from trauma you’ve been through. Unprocessed trauma or whatever. It gets worse when something bad happens, I get that. Let me help you to not have to rely on it so heavily.”
Dean doesn’t expect Sam to agree but suddenly Sam is nodding his head, “Sure, okay. If you wanna try, we’ll try.”
The rush of relief at the words make Dean feel a little light headed, smiling at his brother with all his might.
Cas comes in not long after, a plate in hand a cup of water for Sam. Sam accepts the water more gladly than the plate, settling down to pick at the PB and J sandwich with little interest. Cas throws Dean a look that says ‘well?’. Dean doesn’t respond, he just smiles, sitting back in the chair. He’ll talk to the angel after about what Sam has said and the promise he made to him to try. Right now, Dean feels like he deserves to just bask in the relief that they are on the right track.
That he might get his brother back.