Archive of Our Own

“Whaddaya think you’re doing, Sammy?” Dean asks, looking at Sam a little funny. Bemused, Sam freezes with his hand wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle he was just about to twist open. He raises a questioning eyebrow at his big brother, who is staring back at him over their dinner plates.

“…getting a drink?” Sam asks slowly, eying Dean’s expression warily. Dean looks… amused? Yeah. Amused and fond and admonishing.

“Sammy,” Dean says again, and it’s his tone that finally has understanding dawning on Sam, “I let you drink that, Mom’s gonna kill me!”

“But Dean! Mom’s not even here!”

Now that they’re on the same page, Sam gets with the program stat. He clutches the bottle to his chest and makes puppy eyes at his brother. Nine times out of ten, they win Dean over. Not so this time, it seems.

“Sammy, no. Beer isn’t good for you. You’re way too young to drink.”

Before Sam can utter another word of protest, Dean reaches across the table and takes the bottle from him, setting it down out of reach. Sammy pouts at his big brother but doesn’t try again. He may be young, but he is smart enough to know when arguing is pointless.

Besides, Sam is so excited about Dean wanting to play again that he isn’t even mad about having his beer taken away from him. He was looking forward to this beer, sure, but getting to be Sammy, Dean’s kid brother, for a few hours? Beer can’t trump that.

Having playtime sprung on him like this isn’t a dealbreaker either. Not like they ever discussed it, and Sam has a feeling that if they did, it would feel more like acting than it does when it just… happens. And that’s saying something, considering that Sam is usually the one who wants to talk things out.

Sam gets ripped out of his pondering when Dean puts a glass of orange juice down in front of him.

“Here you go, Sammy.” Dean gives him a wink. “Though I wouldn’t notice, huh? Good try with the beer, but don’t think I’m not watching you now!”

Sammy sticks his tongue out at Dean, but then he grins and grabs for his juice.

“Thanks, De.”

Dean sits back down and gives both of them a helping of the spaghetti he cooked. Sammy watches Dean over the rim of his glass as he drinks, wondering—how come Dean wanted to do this now? What brought this on?

Last time they did this, which had also been the first time, really, Dean had needed to reassure himself that Sam was okay after Sam got kidnapped and tortured by the British Men of Letters for days. Dean had needed the comfortable familiarity of caring for Sam, and then somehow he had slipped into treating Sam like the kid he’d once been and Sam, after a while, had started feeling like it. And that had been…

It had been good. Really, really good. Warm, safe, and comfortable. It was familiar and a kind of comfort Sam had not felt in such a long time—feeling small, cradled in Dean’s warm embrace, held in the circle of his strong arms. To be taken care of like that was something Sam had been aching for without knowing it.

And then he had woken up as Sammy, or rather, slipping between Sammy and Sam, and he hadn’t known if Dean regretted what had happened the night before and if he would be weirded out by Sammy and the things he wanted now. And that had been a bit nerve wrecking, but as it turned out, Dean enjoyed this—enjoyed engaging in age play with Sam—just as much as Sam did. So for the rest of the day, that’s what they’d done. Sam got to be a kid and Dean got to take care of him. Win-win.

There was, of course, the matter of Sam’s undoubtedly… incestuous thoughts and urges, which Dean seemed to share at least to a certain degree, though Sam had no idea how far Dean would be willing to go. How far Dean wanted to go. Because of course, they hadn’t spoken about this either. (Why would they?)

If they don’t talk about it, it’s not really real, and if it is not real, then they can keep doing it without having to think about possible implications or consequences.

Sammy puts down his empty glass and licks his lips.

Dean seems a bit unsure of himself as he wolfs down another spoonful of spaghetti, watching Sammy out of the corner of his eye. Sam can relate—they haven’t fully figured out how this thing between them works yet.

Sammy glances down at his plate, at the noodles topped off with tomato sauce piled onto it and the fork and spoon lying beside it. After half a second of consideration, he makes a grab for the spoon and starts eating.

Eating spaghetti with only a spoon goes about as well as one might imagine. The first few times Sammy tries to get anything on it, it just slips right off again, and when he finally does, the long noodles slap against his chin and cheeks and he gets tomato sauce all over himself as he tries to suck them into his mouth.

Dean looks up at the sound of Sammy practically inhaling his spaghetti. His eyes widen slightly when he takes in his little brother’s condition: two noodles still hanging from the corner of his mouth, sticking slightly to his skin, and red sauce smeared over the lower half of his face. There are splatters of it on Sammy’s neck, his shirt, and even on the stretch of table between them. It looks like a crime scene.

Dean gapes and Sammy giggles, a little embarrassed. But not too much.

“Oops. Sorry, De.”

“Sammy,” Dean says, half desperate and half craving. His voice breaks on the endearment and for a tiny moment Sam feels like the older one of them. He wants to take Dean in his arms and tell him, it’s okay, it’s alright, you can do whatever your want.

Because Dean, he looks like he needs the reassurance. He started the scene, but he is also so afraid of doing something wrong.

Yeah, Dean, that’s Sammy, your little Sammy. Gotta take care of him. You know so well how to do that, don’t you, nobody knows as well as you do. You can do it, you are allowed, just take care of me.

“Want me to help you with that, kiddo?” Dean asks, aiming for fond levity but landing a little off-center because of the roughness of his voice.

Sammy bites the inside of his cheek. He looks down at his plate, brows furrowed in concentration as he considers its contents seriously. He eyes his spoon, his still unused fork, the spoon again. Then, he looks back up at Dean and nods.

“Please?”

Dean gets up and fetches a knife. As he sits back down, he pulls Sammy’s plate towards himself and starts cutting the noodles on it into short pieces. When he is done, he pushes the plate back towards Sammy, who rewards him with a bright smile. He picks his spoon back up, holds it tight in his fist and this time has zero problems scooping up his food.

For a moment, Sam grieves the missed opportunity—he had kind of hoped Dean would feed him. But Sammy knows he is a big boy; he can eat by himself. He just needs a little help every now and then.

Still, he had really hoped to be fed.

“I, uh. I got you something,” Dean says after a few minutes of them eating in comfortable silence. Immediately, Sammy’s eyes snap up to him, curious and excited at once.

“A gift?” Sammy asks, bright-eyed, the food still in his mouth muffling his words. Dean chuckles quietly and nods. He seems a bit nervous, Sammy notes. His fingers are tapping out a nonsensical rhythm against his beer bottle, and once more it strikes Sammy just how big his brother has gotten.

Dean’s hands are so big, Sammy thinks, then looks at his own and they are even bigger, and that is just so, so strange. But it’s okay. Dean said it was okay.

“A few gifts, actually,” Dean admits sheepishly.

A few days earlier, Dean had been out shopping for groceries when his attention had caught on a puppy-plushie in one of the display windows he was passing by. Normally, Dean wouldn’t have spared it a second though. They spent their time hunting monsters, for Christ’s sake, why would he be buying overpriced stuffed animals when they were always short on money and needed every bullet they could afford? But with Sam’s and his kid-caretaker-thing still at the forefront of Dean’s mind, and knowing just how much Sam had always wanted a dog…

Dean had felt like an intruder, walking into that toy store. Like an imposter. But just thinking about little Sammy’s face lighting up when Dean would present him with the plushie more than made up for the mild discomfort of navigating the narrow corridors teeming with stressed parents, over-energized children and a sheer myriad of toys in glaringly bright colors.

To begin with, Dean’s plan had been this: infiltrate the toy store, locate and acquire the plushie, then get out asap. And hey—mission success. Kind of.

In Dean’s defense, he had meant to get the plushie and nothing else. But then Dean had seen the coloring books on sale, and right next to those a whole shelf filled with all different kinds of felt-tip pens, markers and pencils and… well. Sammy needed something to occupy himself with for when Dean wasn’t playing with him—and that reminded Dean that maybe he could get a game or two for them to play together. Games like the ones they had always seen in movies, those with the happy normal families and without any monsters.

So Dean had gotten a shopping basket and piece by piece, it had filled. The last item he had dropped into it had been a book. Not one of the ones Sam liked to read so much, no classic or tome on witchcraft, magic or monsters. No, Dean had gotten an actual, proper children’s book for his Sammy—something about greek mythology, with a lot of colorful pictures and without all the unfortunately very much real horrors they usually dealt with, something fantastical.

The cashier ringing Dean up had taken a look at the assortment and, with a smile, asked him, “Getting some birthday shopping done?”

“Yeah—yes,” Dean had answered the middle aged woman, acutely aware of the family in line right behind him. Mom, dad, big sister and a tiny boy clinging to his mother’s hand. Thinking of his adult brother back in the bunker, of silky soaped-up hair beneath his fingertips and reading Homer’s Odyssey, Dean had added, “It’s for my son.”

“Aw! How old is he turning?”

And maybe Dean had hesitated for a moment too long, because fuck if he knew, it wasn’t like they had thought to clarify Sammy’s age, but when he’d fibbed, “Five—no, six—my bad,” the cashier had only chuckled good-naturedly, winked at him and quipped, “They grow up too fast, don’t they?”

Sammy with his large hands and broad shoulders, with his pronounced Adam’s apple, barely noticeable crow’s feet and stubble, sitting at the edge of his bed as Dean helped him get dressed, lamenting not being able to swing his too-long legs.

“Yeah, they really do.”

Dean had practically fled the store after that, but the little detour had definitely been worth it. He was now the proud owner of a small chest filled with toys and games for his Sammy. Dean couldn’t wait to see Sammy’s reaction to the collection, anxiously hoping he’d like it, but he had needed to wait almost one more week before he was finally ready to show him today.

There was one more thing Dean had gotten for his little brother, and for some reason it was the thing he was worried about most. Different from the other gifts, he hadn’t stumbled upon this one in the toy store. No, this one he had gone looking for on the internet, because he had no idea if there even was a shop for this anywhere near them.

Now, the present lies freshly washed and neatly folded up in Dean’s uppermost dresser drawer, hidden beneath his clean shirts: a pair of pajamas for Sammy, red and blue and just his size. The shirt has a big picture of a cartoon cat and dog cuddled up together and asleep, and the pants have a pattern with the same two characters chasing each other around in play. The pajamas are adorable, and Dean really, really wants to see his baby brother in them. Question is, will Sam play along? Or is this gonna be the one step too far?

“Let’s wash up first and then I’ll give them to you, yeah, Sammy?” Dean asks now, and Sammy looks impatient and like he’d love nothing more than to protest washing up first, but he still nods. Sammy has always been quite the reasonable child.

Dean sends Sammy to the bathroom to give himself a lick and a promise while he sets about cleaning up the dinner table. Then, Dean goes to his room, pulls open the drawer with Sammy’s new pajamas and stares at them for a few moments.

Christ, Dean really, really hopes this won’t have Sammy—Sam—freaking out. Hopes that this, that he, isn’t too much. Vampire nests are so much easier to deal with than this ancient-new thing between them.

Dean carefully takes the pajamas out and makes his way to the bathroom. No need to knock, because Sammy left the door open for him, entirely uninhibited in front of his big brother. Dean still knocks and Sammy, just pulling on a fresh pair of boxer shorts, gives him a bright smile.

Dean feels his heart beating half out of his chest as he holds up the childish nightwear.

“Got your pajamas, Sammy.”

It takes Sam a moment to recognize what Dean is holding in his hands. When he does, though, his face lights up like Christmas came early. He looks at Dean, at the pajamas, back at Dean again. His eyes are sparkling and his smile, if possible, appears even wider now.

Sammy takes the soft cotton pants from Dean and pulls them on himself, then lifts his arms with a pleading look at Dean, wordlessly asking for help with the shirt. Dean swallows thickly, so damn happy, and carefully pulls each of Sammy’s hands through the armholes before maneuvering his big, wicked smart head through the neck-hole.

“Comfy?” Dean inquires, and Sammy nods.

“Thanks, De,” he says quietly. Dean barely has time to brace himself before Sammy wraps his strong arms around him and almost squeezes the life out of him.

“Thank you,” Sammy repeats, and Dean hugs his baby brother back. One hand around Sammy’s shoulders, he lifts the other up and pets over his slightly unruly hair.

“Let’s comb your hair real quick and then I’ll give you your presents.”

Slowly, Sammy lets go of his big brother, finds the hairbrush and hands it to Dean.

“Let’s go to my room. You can sit on the bed while I brush your hair.”

As Dean follows an excited Sammy to his room, his heart feels much too big for his chest. It seems impossible to put into words how glad he is that Sam is letting him do this, that he—Jesus, Sam likes this, too. He wants this, just as much as Dean. And it is a rush.

Getting to care for Sammy is both calming and comfortable. It is something as familiar to Dean as breathing and in that just so, so relaxing, so comforting.

More than that, though, Dean can finally give Sammy what he wishes he could have given his little brother as a boy—a stable home. His own room, his own things, all the affection in the world, because Dean doesn’t have to toughen Sammy up and teach him about monsters and how to survive them. Sam knows all about that already, and Sammy never has to find out.

And they’re by no means rich, they’re still hunting, but they aren’t barely scraping by anymore. Charlie’s inexhaustible hacked credit card makes sure of that—huh. On second thought, maybe they are rich after all. Anyway. No more skipping meals and stealing food because Dad isn’t back from his hunt yet and the money has run out, which means Dean can actually buy his baby brother things now. Make Sammy happy, make Sammy smile.

Oh, Dean is going to spoil his Sammy rotten.

And apparently, Sammy is not going fight Dean on this; at all. He jumps up onto Dean’s bed which creaks in protest, shuffles around to make himself comfortable and closes his eyes, waiting for Dean to do his job.

For a minute, Dean can only stand and stare. There, on his bed, his baby brother. Sammy, his hair a total mess, somehow seeming young and small despite his outward appearance—his actual age and sheer size. Just like Dean had imagined, Sammy looks absolutely adorable in his new, colorful pajamas.

To think Dean would have made fun of his little brother if Sam had worn something like this before… Yet here Dean is, mentally noting that he really needs to get Sammy some colorful socks next. The simple black ones he is wearing right now are just so boring. Way too boring for the cute kid Sammy is.

Dean’s heart feels like it is beating half out of his chest. He has no idea what he is feeling right now, and there is no point in trying to decipher his emotions. Elation, nerves, happiness, fear—it is all one swirling mess inside his chest.

Feeling half mad, Dean joins his baby brother on the bed. His palms are wet with nervous sweat.

“Wanna watch some TV?” he asks after a moment’s hesitation. When Sammy nods, he puts on Scooby-Doo. They haven’t watched that show in far too long.

As the first episode begins to play, Dean settles in behind Sammy. He picks up the hairbrush and starts at the ends of Sammy’s hair, slowly working his way up—he remembers this from when they were kids. At first, Sammy winces whenever the hairbrush catches on a little knot, but soon he leans into the gentle pressure of the bristles on his scalp, enjoying the free massage. Whenever Dean slows, he wriggles a little where he is sat, wordlessly begging for Dean to keep going. Dean does. He brushes Sammy’s hair until it is soft and shiny, until his own heart is beating calm and steady, until nothing matters but the two of them in this moment, and then some more.

Eventually, Sammy allows Dean to put away the hairbrush in favor of cuddling up to him, his head on Dean’s chest. They finish the episode like this, and when Dean—astonishingly, because it is not late and Dean usually operates on four to five hours of sleep a night—falls asleep, Sammy tugs Dean’s comforter over his big brother’s shoulders. Then, he snuggles close again.

This is so, so comfortable. Dean is warm and soft and solid against his side. And Dean is so close—they are never this close anymore, they never touch this much or this long, they only ever hug in life-or-death situations and this is so, so good. Dean used to always be like this, open and affectionate, when Sam was really little. When did he stop? Why? And why had Sam let him?

It doesn’t matter now.

After watching one more episode with Dean snoring quietly right next to him, Sammy grows bored. He tries to be as quiet as possible as he gets off of Dean’s bed, thinking that Dean is probably really exhausted, with everything that is always going on. Dean is taking care of everything, all the time; hunting, the bunker, him. So Dean deserves to get some rest.

Sammy tiptoes around his big brother’s room, looking for something to do. He pulls open drawers and admires Dean’s guns, flips through an old looking book on Dean’s desk and blushes when he comes across Dean’s skin mags. The girls in it are all really pretty. They are also really naked, and looking at them makes Sammy feel a bit funny. He looks at their pictures for a little longer—it’s kind of exciting, because this feels secret and forbidden and Dean is right there, could wake up any moment and catch him in the act.

Sammy startles and drops one of the magazines when Dean shifts on the bed with a sigh and a hum. He freezes, holds his breath. But Dean doesn’t wake.

Christ, Sam thinks. Dean finding me with his magazines would have been mortifying.

Quietly, Sammy bows down and picks the magazine back up. He puts it back where he found it, hoping his big brother won’t notice that they are lying a little differently now, then gets back onto his knees to peer beneath Dean’s desk. There!

Pushed all the way back against the wall, there is a small wooden chest. It looks old, and Sammy knows exactly what kind of chest it is, because he has seen chests just like this one before: it’s a treasure chest.

Sammy pushes Dean’s chair out of the way and crawls under the desk to retrieve his find, a great big smile growing on his face. His treasure chest has wrought iron fittings and looks very sturdy. Luckily, it doesn’t have a lock.

Sammy goes to open the chest, but then he hesitates. Maybe Dean didn’t want him finding it. Then again… No, he is going to open it. If Dean didn’t want him knowing what’s inside, he should have hidden it better. And locked it. Besides, knowing Dean might not want him to know makes finding out just that much more enticing.

Holding his breath, Sammy slowly lifts up the top.

For a second, Sammy finds himself a bit disappointed when there is no glimmer of coins accompanied by golden light. Then again, Sammy reasons as he takes in the treasures inside, what would he even do with all that? He doesn’t need to hoard gold and silver, he is not a dragon. What’s actually inside the chest is much better than boring coins.

There’s… a book. A slim, colorful book and different kinds of pens and pencils, two brand-new table top games still sealed in shrink wrap. Sammy takes the items out of the chest one by one, regarding each of it carefully. At the bottom of the chest, beneath all the rest, he finds a coloring book to go with the drawing utensils.

Are those the gifts Dean had hinted at?

Sammy’s excitement somewhat dims when he realizes he might have spoiled Dean’s surprise, but it doesn’t hold long. Dean got all this for him—probably, Sammy doubts Dean got any of this for himself—and he wants to give Dean something in return.

In the background, a new episode of Scooby-Doo starts playing. Sammy hums along to the title melody under his breath and settles on his knees on the floor, unwrapping the coloring book and the pencils. He is going to draw his Dean a picture.

*

When Dean wakes up another hour later, disoriented and groggy, it takes him a while to remember where he is and what is going on. He sits up in his bed and looks around himself. Scooby-Doo is still running, he is fully dressed, Sam is hunched over something on the floor at the foot of his bed.

Sam is hunched over on the floor at the foot of his bed?

Dean spots the open chest in front of his desk and the empty wrapping lying beside it. Oh. Right!

“What’cha doin’ there, Sammy?” Dean asks, because yeah, right, that there on the floor isn’t his adult brother Sam, that’s the kid. His kid. That’s his little Sammy. And it looks like Sammy has found the gifts Dean got for him.

The slight twinge of disappointment at not getting to see Sammy’s initial reaction to his presents fades almost entirely the moment his little brother looks up from what he is doing with sparkling eyes.

“You got me pencils!” Sammy says happily, and Dean can’t help but answer his exited grin with one of his own.

“I did,” Dean says. He pushes the comforter off of him, feeling his chest warm at the realization that Sammy must have put it there. Somewhere in the far back of his mind, he marvels at the fact that Sam is still playing along, that they are really, really doing this—pretending that Sam is a little kid again, and that Dean has to take care of him. “I take it you like them?”

“Yah!”

Dean gets up, stretches, and pads around his bed to look at what Sammy is drawing. Sammy quickly leans over the page and covers the picture in it with his giant hands.

“Don’t look! I’m not done!”

“Oh, okay,” Dean holds up his hands placatingly and takes a few steps back. He sits back down on his bed and makes a point of looking in a different direction when he says, “What’re you drawing that’s so secret, Sammy?”

Sammy doesn’t answer. Dean waits for a moment longer, then rolls his eyes fondly. Let the kid keep his secrets, he’ll just spy on him a little later. He gets up slowly, so that Sammy has more than enough time to cover his important work back up, and demonstratively keeps his eyes off the floor as he makes his way to the door. As he passes Sammy by, he ruffles the kid’s hair.

“Imma get us both something to drink. Orange juice okay?”

Sammy stills.

“Can I have a hot cocoa?”

Already at the doorstep, Dean fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes a new note on his shopping list.

“Sorry, kid. We don’t have any cocoa powder.”

“Oh,” Sammy sounds a bit disappointed, “okay then.” He looks up at Dean with his big sad puppy eyes—how he can still pull them off at the age of thirty-three is beyond Dean. They definitely do their job, though, leaving Dean willing to do just about anything to get Sammy smiling again.

For a moment, Dean considers texting Cas with the request to buy some cocoa powder. Sammy could still get his drink… But Dean disregards the idea quickly, remembering that Cas is absolutely hopeless when it comes to shopping. Cas is hopelessly lost when it comes to most things, really. Whenever it isn’t endlessly frustrating, that trait of his is kind of endearing.

There’s no helping it. Sammy will have to make do with juice for now.

Dean returns to his room just as Sammy lets out an agitated huff.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks, setting down Sammy’s glass and his bottle.

“The lines don’t like me,” Sammy says and huffs again.

And Dean doesn’t know why, but that statement? It’s somehow hilarious. Sammy pouts at him as he doubles over laughing hard enough to make his stomach hurt. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be mad at Dean, only mildly annoyed.

“You done?” Sammy asks after a while with a bitchy little roll of his eyes, tacking on, “Wasn’t that funny,” and Dean is back on the floor with tears blurring his sight.

Sammy is right, it’s not funny. It’s not, it’s not, it’s not—it’s hilarious. It is fucking hilarious, Dean’s grown baby brother losing his temper over his inability to fill in the picture without drawing over the lines, even if it’s all just play pretend. And Dean remembers Sammy, about thirty years ago, scrawny and dressed in hand-me-down’s, his child-tiny hands gripping a pencil tight and complaining about much the same thing. This really is his Sammy.

Eventually, much to his little brother’s relief, Dean calms back down.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he wheezes. “Sorry. You’re right, it wasn’t that funny. I don’t know—”

“Done!”

Sammy lays down his pencil with a dull clack. He sits up straight, feet neatly tucked under his butt, and picks up his drawing with a quiet rustle.

“For you,” Sammy says and hands it to Dean, a gift. Underneath his stubble, Sammy’s cheeks are tinted pink. His ears look almost sunburnt. All Dean can think is, Adorable.

Dean takes in the picture Sammy makes, kneeling in front of him. His belly is still warm with laughter, and it feels like he is stuck in this very moment, one second stretching endlessly. Here’s his kid brother, so tall and yet somehow so young, sat at his feet and looking up at him with bright eyes as he presents his work. The crow’s feet suit him well.

When he finally takes the picture, Dean is surprised that his hands are steady. He feels—overwhelmed. Years younger, centuries older, lighter than maybe ever. He swallows thickly when he finally recognizes the feeling sitting so heavy in his chest that it seems Dean should be suffocating with its weight. Happiness. It’s happiness. Dean is happy; so, so happy that he doesn’t know how to deal with the emotion.

“Thank you,” Dean says, and he sounds a little chocked. He keeps staring at the drawing for way too long, aware and uncaring of Sammy watching him out of the corner of his eye, happy and a little smug.

It’s a page out of the drawing book Dean got Sammy, depicting a dragon flying in the sky. Sammy colored the mythical creature, which looks so very much unlike any real dragon Sam and him have ever hunted, in purple and green, with bright orange claws. Just looking at it hurts Dean’s eyes. He thinks it’s possibly the best thing he has ever seen.

“That’s us,” Sammy says from somewhere behind the page, and Dean notices the stick figures at the bottom left corner of the page. After another moment, Dean recognizes that the weird scribble next to them is supposed to be his Baby. He traces the sketch with his thumb, touched by the detail. “We made friends with the dragon. Sometimes it lets us fly on its back.”

For all of Sam’s talents, drawing isn’t one of them, so the picture really kind of looks like it was done by a child. Dean absolutely loves it. He has no idea how to put into words just how much this piece of paper with those few colorful squiggly lines means to him, but it does. And somehow, Sammy sees. Understands.

“Thank you,” Dean tells him again. “I love it.”

In the morning, Dean will pin the ripped-out page to their fridge, right in the middle of the kitchen. Fuck keeping this thing between them on the down low; Dean needs this, wants this, it’s the only right thing. Baby brother drew him a picture, and he loves it so, so much. It needs to be properly appreciated, and everybody knows that baby brother-drawings belong on fridges and walls in a home.

They have never had a real home before, never owned any fridges worth putting pictures up on. Now they finally do, and Dean will be damned if he doesn’t display Sammy’s artwork.

Later that day, Dean will find their mother standing in front of the drawing, just staring at it for a minute. Mary will accept a cup of coffee when Dean offers it, weirdly tense, and quietly comment, “It’s very pretty.”

“I know,” Dean will answer, just as quietly, his voice rough. “Sammy drew it for me.”

They won’t talk about it any more than that, better for both their sanity, but that warm smile on Dean’s face will be enough to lighten the weight Mary feels compressing her heart. She will think about how young it makes Dean look, and how genuinely happy he seems. It will be the first time, apart from her suddenly turning up in his life, she sees this expression on him.

But Dean isn’t just happy. Her son, who is still eight maddening years older than her, looks proud—proud that his genius little brother drew him a kindergarten-picture at the young age of thirty-three.

That’s big brother-pride and parental pride both, and Dean is brimming with it.

Mary will finish her coffee with a flighty smile, struggling to cope with how sweet and how strange those men who are supposed to be her boys are. She will feel somewhat faint and long to hold Dean tight, but she won’t act on it. It would be overwhelming, feeling wide, strong shoulders while expecting little-boy bones.

A while later, Mary will also realize that she is jealous. Sammy never drew her any pictures.

*

As Sam brushes his teeth, he considers the bright red sleeves of Sammy’s new pajamas. They are soft and warm and brand new. Sam never owned anything new as a kid, only ever hand-me-downs from Dean.

He spits out a mouthful of foamy toothpaste, observing his reflection in the mirror as he comes back up.

It is a bit weird to look into the mirror and see himself wearing something so childish. That’s the point of course, but Sam still can’t believe Dean went there, that his big brother actually got him kiddie-clothes and toys. Dean, who always ridicules every odd little detail about him, who loves nothing more than to mock and tease and make him blush, went out of his way to find all those things for Sam. He put thought in, spent real life-money on this.

Dean isn’t only putting up with Sam. He likes what they are doing. Enough so that he was willing to make himself vulnerable in front of Sam and take the risk of Sam shying away from their play. Just knowing how big of an effort this must have been for Dean, especially emotionally, makes Sam feel all warm. Loved. Christ, does Sammy feel loved.

Sam rinses his mouth.

It’s somehow harder to stay in his childlike headspace whenever he is on his own. In a way, he figures, Sammy really is dependent on Dean—he can’t exist without him. If Dean wouldn’t care for him the way he does, Sam wouldn’t be in a position to allow himself to feel small and vulnerable. He couldn’t relax the way he does if it weren’t for his brother taking on his all too familiar caretaker role.

Sam is not quite sure what age Sammy is, but he doesn’t really care. Maybe Sammy could do some of the things Dean does for him by himself, but Dean likes helping him and Sammy likes being pampered.

“Sammy?” Dean calls from somewhere down the hall, and Sam’s eyes flick towards the open bathroom door. “Do you need help in there? Did you fall into the toilet?”

Once again, it strikes Sam how different Dean sounds when talking to Sammy. It would drive Sam up the walls if Dean spoke to him like that in their day to day, but in this context…

Sam smiles to himself as he leaves the bathroom, his chest all warm and loose. He casts one last glance at the bathroom mirror, sees Sammy smiling back at him, and flips off the light. Dean is already waiting for him in the hallway, big and reliable and safe.

“Ready for bed?” Dean asks. He isn’t holding out his hand for Sammy to take, but Sammy takes it anyway. Dean goes still for a moment, surprised. Then, he gives Sammy’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’m not—” Sammy begins, then interrupts himself with a great big yawn.

“—tired yet?” Dean finishes for him with an amused smirk. Sammy nods.

“Not tired. Just needed some air.”

“Sure.” Dean squeezes his hand again. “Come on. How about I read you a bedtime story, hm? Would you like that?”

While Sammy thinks about it, he lets himself be led to his room. He doesn’t want to sleep yet, not when everything is so exciting. Dean got him games, he had really hoped they would play at least one of them today. But Dean also got him a book, and Sammy loves it when Dean reads to him. Besides, maybe Dean would fall asleep again. Then Sammy could play some more…

“Yeah,” Sammy finally agrees just as they arrive at his door. “But you have to—”

Sammy freezes on the doorstep and Dean almost runs into him. He stares at his bed, back at his brother, again at his bed.

There, propped up against his pillows, sits a puppy.

Sammy gapes.

A moment ticks by, another one, and then Sammy lets go of Dean’s hand and rushes over to his bed. He jumps up onto the mattress, his bed creaking its complaints as he bounces, and reaches out a hand, pulling it back only at the last second.

“Go ahead,” Dean encourages his little brother, “he’s yours.”

Sammy doesn’t grab the plushie. Instead, he takes it carefully, near reverent. He holds it all gentle, strokes over its soft fur with the kindest of touches. Then, he lifts it up, looks at it with wonder-wide eyes and hugs it close to his chest.

Dean sits down beside Sammy. His chest feeling all tight, he runs a flat palm down Sammy’s wide back, soaks in Sammy’s warmth and the feel of thin cotton stretched over strong muscle. He brings his hand back up and repeats the motion, traces hunt-busted knuckles over the knobs of his brother’s spine. Sammy leans into the touch with his eyes closed, the plushie still held tight.

For the fraction of a second, Dean feels like he is floating above himself. He watches himself put an arm around Sam’s shoulders and pull his brother close, close like they only ever allow themselves to be when one of them is dying or has just come back to life. Sees his very much adult brother dressed in cutesy children’s clothes and almost crying with happiness over having been gifted a stuffed animal. Thinks, God, this is really weird. Thinks, We look happy.

Then, Dean slams back into his own body, and dizzy, he asks, “Do you like him?”

“I love him,” Sammy says. He beams up at Dean.

Dean feels his heart beating half out of his chest when Sammy reaches for his hand and brings it up to pet his puppy, when Sammy once again lifts his plushie up and rubs his cheek against it with a tiny sigh. Somehow, the synthetic fur feels softer under Dean’s fingertips now than it did when he bought the toy. When he caresses Sammy’s hair next, it feels even softer.

“Are you going to give him a name?”

Sammy regards the stuffed dog for a moment, completely serious all of a sudden. After squinting at the plushie for a minute, he decides, “His name is Dino. And he is the bestest boy ever.”

“And me?” Dean asks with mock hurt. Sammy turns his earnest little expression onto him.

“You’re the bestest big brother ever,” he declares solemnly. Dino clutched in one hand, he twists his body atop the covers and wraps his long arms around Dean’s neck to bury him in a bear hug, ending up halfway in Dean’s lap. It is all Dean can do to hug his Sammy back, face mushed against the kid’s neck, well-brushed hair tickling his nose.

Dean takes a deep breath. Sammy’s hair smells like roses and artificial peach and Dean kind of wants to kiss him. So he does.

It’s just a tiny peck on Sammy’s stubbly cheek, and then an even tinier one right on his chapped lips. As innocent as kisses come.

Sammy startles, giggles—honest to God giggles—and then sets Dino down to grab Dean’s face with big, calloused grabby-hands. He looks at Dean for a moment, gaze flitting back and forth between his eyes with their blown out pupils, then leans forward and presses a butterfly-kiss to the tip of Dean’s nose. Then, Sammy leans closer and rubs their noses together gently.

Dean only dares to breathe again when Sammy climbs off of him to crawl up the bed and push the covers down. He grabs his plushie, sets it down against his side and pats the space left on the bed with a tilt of his head and an expectant expression aimed at Dean.

“I—” It takes Dean a moment to find his voice again. “I’ll just grab the book real quick.”

Sammy nods and watches as Dean retrieves the new book from Sam’s desk, where he had put it down while his brother was in the bathroom. They settle in with their shoulders pressed together and the blanket drawn up, Sammy’s new Dino held in a loose hug.

“One chapter,” Dean says as he opens the book—Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, Dean only hopes it is appropriate for children Sammy’s age, not that he actually knows Sammy’s age—to the first chapter. Sammy nods like he’s fully on board, but Dean knows his little brother; Sammy is going to be arguing as soon as they reach the agreed upon end. The alarm clock on the bedside table reads 22:37.

In the end, Sammy succeeds in convincing Dean to read him two more chapters, and by the time Dean finally closes the book and puts it aside, Sammy is curled up against his side and already half asleep. He has got one arm wrapped around Dean’s waist and the other around his plushie, his head resting heavy and warm against Dean’s thigh. Dean runs his fingers through Sammy’s hair, following the same path they have traveled for the last half hour now.

Indulged. Dean feels so horribly, wonderfully indulged. His little brother is close and warm and safe, and Dean couldn’t feel any more content than he does right now. This is everything he has never allowed himself to want.

Dean knows he should leave. He doesn’t want to leave, but he should. Sammy is fed, clean, happy and ready to rest. His job is done, time to go.

Dean carefully pushes a loose strand of hair behind Sammy’s ear, then attempts to slowly extricate himself from Sammy’s bed. He is tall, his baby brother, and needs space for his sleep to be restful. Sammy is a sprawler.

Leaving the warmth of Sammy’s bed behind feels a little bit like tearing himself apart. With the way his eyes linger on Sammy’s peaceful features, Dean thinks his heart is probably going to stay right here with his little boy. He is okay with that. Whatever Sammy needs.

“De?”

“Shh, keep sleeping.”

Sammy’s strong fingers find Dean’s flannel sleeve and trap him. He blearily blinks up at his older brother.

“Don’t go.”

“Sammy—” Broken apart; half plea, half call to reason.

But Sammy is a merciless creature. He pulls Dean closer, hugs Dino tighter, and asks, “Sing me to sleep?”

Dean is a decent singer, even if he rarely puts in the effort to actually hit the notes. He used to sing Sam to sleep when he was younger and Sam doesn’t know why Dean ever stopped, why he ever allowed Dean to stop. For all Sam knows, Dean dreamt of being a rock star as a young teen.

Sometimes, Sam thinks Dean is intentionally singing badly because Dean doesn’t want him to feel bad when singing along in the Impala. Sam can’t sing for shit. He tends to get self-conscious about it.

“Please.”

Sammy is small and tired and he wants his big brother to sing for him. He doesn’t even care if it is good, he just wants to hear Dean’s voice as he drifts off to sleep. Dean’s voice has always been as soothing as his touch.

So much for leaving, Dean thinks. His entire body floods with relief. He really did not want to leave, but he hadn’t been sure if he was allowed to stay, if Sammy would want him in his bed. Or, more precisely, if Sam would want him in his bed. It isn’t like they ever discussed the last time it had happened. But Sammy is clinging to his shirt sleeve and making puppy dog eyes at him, and that’s practically begging him to stay.

Dean, choking on fondness, sighs like it is such a bother and settles in to sing for his Sammy. He slides back beneath the blanket, draws it all the way up over Sammy’s shoulders and doesn’t even think about it before he pulls him close.

Their sudden proximity only registers when Sammy throws one of his legs over Dean’s and fists a hand in his flannel collar. The realization just how comfortable and right this feels makes both Dean’s heart and mind stumble. It leaves him reeling, because what the fuck are they even doing here—but then Sammy practically melts into him and sighs so contentedly that Dean gives up on second-guessing himself.

It suddenly hits Dean that, apart from that incident a few weeks ago, he can’t actually remember the last time he held Sam like this. All he knows is that around the time both Sammy and him went from socially inept kids to awkward teenagers, Dad decided they should have their own beds, no more sharing.

Dean remembers being happy about it at first. Getting his own bed, no longer needing to share, all that meant he was a big boy now. He had felt grown-up and independent. Finally, some more space at night. But then, all alone in a bed that suddenly felt much bigger than Dean was used to, he had started to feel cold. Lonely.

In his big-boy single bed, there had been no small body for him to hold close and keep safe. No one to share body warmth with when the heater broke down in the middle of winter, no one to kick away when it got too hot and suffocating in summer. Waking up, no heartbeat right beneath Dean’s ear would tell him that Sammy was fine. Falling asleep, Sammy was too far away—Dean was used to having him right there, could tell the second baby brother was sound asleep by the way his breaths would deepen and even out. Not being able to immediately tell was uncanny.

Dean remembers Sam crawling into his bed a few times in that horrible adjustment period. He remembers never once kicking Sam out, remembers being relieved every single time Sammy would join him. Having Sam there with him felt normal and safe, it felt right, even if he was beginning to understand that maybe it wasn’t. Because… well, they were too old. Apparently.

And Dean wanted to be all grown up, he wanted Dad to rely on him and trust in him and take him on hunts. So despite his relief whenever Sam would come to him for comfort, Dean never went over to him when he couldn’t sleep. No matter how much he wanted to crawl under Sam’s covers and cuddle up to him, he wouldn’t. After all, he was a big boy now.

But if Sammy came to him, what was Dean supposed to do apart from being a good big brother and caring for the kid? After all, little Sam was his responsibility. Sam needed his sleep, and Sam didn’t sleep well alone. Dean was just doing his job.

Morning wood and midnight-accidents were awkward but manageable. Dad had said it was normal, that every growing boy had to go though it. It would happen to Sammy, too, in a few years’ time. And at this point, Dean had been taking care of Sam’s other nightly accidents for years now.

But Dad didn’t like it when he woke up to them sharing. He made that very clear. Eventually, they’d gotten used to the separate beds.

Sometimes though, when Sam couldn’t sleep and Dad was passed out drunk in the next bed over, Sam would ask Dean to sing for him. Having Dean’s voice was better than not having him at all. Then, Sam had grown up and stopped asking.

Swallowing thickly, Dean strokes over Sammy’s hair. Had Sam ever wanted him to stop singing to him? Or had Sam stopped asking for it because he though that he wasn’t allowed to anymore, now that he was older? Why did growing boys have to give up comfort to be considered normal?

Quietly, haltingly at first, Dean starts singing the lullaby he remembers their mother stroking his hair to as she put him to bed. Sammy kisses his throat and nuzzles in with another huff of warm, humid breath over Dean’s skin. Dean shivers, too hot and too cold at once.

Whatever this is, it is good.