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Dean hasn’t seen Sam this close to toppling over the edge in a while. He can count on one hand the number of times Sam had let it slip, since he first dragged him away from Stanford and back on the road.
He’s sat a few chairs down from his brother in the bunker library, nursing a beer. He stopped being helpful with the reading hours ago. For a while, he was contributing fresh Heineken's and witty remarks, but now he’s eased up.
Sam, on the other hand, has been in the same position all night. He’s hunched over his laptop, long legs folded up on his chair and arms hugging the table. He’s wearing a focus-induced pout that Dean would love to snap a picture of for blackmail. The only thing stopping him - besides his late-night fatigue- is the fact he’s seen Sam at this level of exhaustion before. And he knows what comes next.
The only trigger they could pinpoint, especially when Sam was younger, was an overwhelm of stress. When Dad would leave for weeks at a time and Sam was little, he had a transformation every month. John’s resentment about the whole thing meant that Dean wasn’t left with more than a familiar page of scrawled instructions: Watch Sam, Feed Sam, don’t let anyone see Sam.
Dean sighs against the lip of his beer bottle, making a low whistle as the air hums. When Sam doesn’t look up, he folds forward in his seat and sets it down on the table loudly.
“Sam.”
Sam makes a non-committal hum in response. His eyes don’t leave his laptop.
Dean scowls.
They learned how to manage the transformations over time, but right up until Sam left for college, they happened at least once a year. Dean guessed that when Sam was at Stanford he must have learned some technique, some coping skill to control it. Maybe not having Dad around helped. Maybe he gets up so damn early nowadays because he’s meditating, honing his inner Chi to keep the wolf (read: border collie) at bay. Who knows.
Either way, if Sam hates the damn process so much, he shouldn’t be literally working himself like a dog.
“Sam.” Dean repeats.
Sam turns his head this time, honoring Dean with a cursory glance. “…What’s up?”
“It’s one in the morning.” Dean says. “How ‘bout we call it a night?”
Sam gives him a curt head shake as he turns the page of his book.
“I almost got it.” He assures Dean. When he’s deep in focus like this, he chews the inside of his lip, and it muffles his words slightly. “Go t’bed, I’ll catch you up in the morning.”
Dean’s eyes flick to the spread of open books littering the table. Sam’s been poring over the lore for hours, but not well. All night, he’s been getting halfway through one theory, circling a lead with Dean, and then suddenly deciding they’re off base and switching to the next book or Reddit thread. He has notes packed into every line on his journal page, and Dean can hear the laptop wheezing from keeping God knows how many tabs open.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that? We got a ten hour drive first thing in the morning.”
“Mhmm.” Sam says, matter-of-fact.
Dean huffs.
Sam looks up at that and gives him a defensive, confused frown.
So Dean doubles down.
“Dude. I’m not taking your ass to doggy day-care tomorrow ‘cause you won’t go to bed like a big boy.”
Sam’s annoyance turns to anger. Now that he’s glaring, Dean can see his bloodshot eyes, the dark circles hugging them from below. It looks like a couple tiny blood vessels have popped under his right eye - he’s got that red bump that shows up when he’s really pushing it.But more than that, Dean picks up on the betrayed frown on his face. He’s struck a nerve.
And yeah, maybe that’s fair, because the dog thing isn’t something they talk about — since ever. They get through it, wordlessly, if and when it comes up. Dean knows full well how much of a sore spot it is. But he wouldn’t be pressing if he thought Sam would just take care of his stupid self before it got to that.
“That’s not gonna be a problem.” Sam finally says, firm.
Dean shakes his head. “Come on, man, when’s the last time you slept?”
Sam blinks. “I’ve been sleeping.”
“When?” Dean counters. “This whole week, I go to bed, you’re still up. I wake up, you’re right where I left you.”
“Yeah, I do get things done without you, Dean.” Sam replies. “I don’t need you watching me all the time.”
Dean snorts. “You sure about that?”
Sam’s jaw hardens.
“I said it’s not gonna be a problem.” He repeats.
There’s a pause, as Dean eyes him warily.
“Okay. Easy, Cujo.”
Sam’s frown deepens. He shakes his head, then turns right back to the lore in front of him.
“Goodnight, Dean.” He gives his brother a dismissive wave.
Dean sighs in defeat. End of discussion, then.
“Suit yourself.” He says aloud. He pushes up from the table with a little oof noise, like he always does after hours of sitting. He collects Sam’s last beer bottle on his way out.
-
Sam is halfway through a witness interview when it hits.
At least he’s sitting down, he thinks. He would have loved to not be sitting across from a grieving teenage girl, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“You okay?” The girl asks. “…Agent Howard?”
Sam manages a nod, bending over his own knees. He’s got a hand on the arm of the couch, trying to steel himself. He knows the warning signs well: a rush of blood to the head like he just fell on concrete, the smell of saline flooding his nostrils, and a sort of stomach-rumbling nausea. He blinks, hard, trying to fight it off.
“Hello?” The girl repeats.
“Sorry, Julia.” Sam says, strained. He can see her scanning the living room, her eyes wide and worried.
Unfortunately for them both, Dean and her mother are chatting it up in the kitchen across the hall. Not close enough for Dean to notice what’s going on.
“Jillian.” The girl corrects, though she doesn’t seem too offended. She rises to her feet. “Do you...need anything? Water?”
“Uh--” Sam starts, and is surprised by how his head-rush is suddenly fading. “Water would be great, thank you.”
She nods and hurries off, leaving Sam there gripping the couch. Only now the funny pressure in his head is gone, and his nausea is dimming quickly too. He sniffles - still a hint of saline, but not overwhelming.
And, crucially - he glances down at his arms, at that stuffy suit that makes him sweat like crazy, even on a good day - nothing’s changed. He pats his face a few times for good measure, his body flooding with relief. No fur to be seen. Or, felt, in this case.
Jillian returns with her mother, and Dean, in tow. Sam is too focused on accepting the water and chugging down a few sips to meet Dean’s eyes.
“Thank you.” Sam says, his voice a bit strained still. He nods his appreciation to Jillian and her mother, who both look more offput than relieved.
“You’ll have to excuse my partner.” Dean says. He’s got his biggest, schmooziest grin on. “He hasn’t been feeling well.”
Sam tries to ignore the pointiness in his voice. He lets Dean excuse them and makes it all the way to the car before the chewing out begins. Dean is even polite enough to wait for Sam to finish buckling up.
His brother smacks his shoulder. “Dude, what the hell was that?”
Sam frowns. He fidgets with the collar on his shirt - it’s always been a little tight, and he’s sweating buckets. “What?”
“Whaddya mean, ‘what’, you almost blew our cover.”
“We were fine.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Sam, you were three seconds from wolfing out.”
Sam recoils. “Don’t call it that.”
“Sorry.” Dean concedes, instantly. His voice is still firm, but he’ll give Sam that one. Wolf is a very loaded word for kids who grew up hunting, and Sam’s not a wolf anyhow. “But how do you think a kid who just saw a giant dog kill her dad is gonna react to that?”
“Okay.” Sam shrugs, a small concession. “...I’m a little out of it.”
“Uh-huh.” Dean sounds unimpressed. “And why is that?”
Sam turns to him, looking equally unimpressed. “I slept, Dean.”
“You’re full of shit.” Dean replies. He starts the engine and cranks the A/C, because of course he’s noticed Sam sweating out of his suit since they arrived. “You’re lucky she didn’t call the cops back in on us.”
Sam shrugs. He wriggles his body in front of the air vent, adjusting it upwards with his hand. “We got some good info, Dean. Everything she said pointed to shifter.”
“Still need to see the bodies.” Dean replies. “Could be ghouls, skinwalkers.”
Sam nods in agreement, lets silence fall over them as Dean peels out of the suburbs. He blinks his eyes a few times and yawns -- his vision always gets kinda blurry when he doesn’t sleep well. He’s zoned out enough that he doesn’t pick up on anything being wrong, until Dean is pulling off the highway just minutes later.
“Where’re you going?” Sam asks. “Coroner’s office is another ten miles.”
“Dropping you off.” Dean says. “I’ll check out the coroner’s, you catch some shut-eye. We’ll regroup in a couple hours.”
Sam’s mouth drops. He holds it there for a few seconds. “Dean.”
Dean shakes his head.
“Dean.” Sam repeats. “I’m good. I mean, it’s not like we’re running a marathon. It’s the morgue.”
“Oh, you’re good?”
Sam gives him an exasperated shrug, like, Good as it’s gonna get.
“Good. Then you can be even better when I pick you up tonight.”
Sam glowers at him, because that’s all he can really do. If he wanted to be an asshole, he could wait for Dean to drop him off and call a taxi to trail behind him, keep working the case. But even though he slept - that much was true - he hasn’t caught more than a couple hours in weeks and he doesn’t have energy to be an asshole right now. Of course, what Dean doesn’t realize is that as soon as he’s alone in that motel room, all sense of sleepiness will evade him and he’ll be tossing and turning until he finds something to do.
Maybe research. Get his crunches for the day in -- he hasn’t worked out yet. Maybe sharpen knives, polish his handgun. Anything that makes him feel helpful, like he’s actually working to kill this thing. He slipped up last week working a werewolf case, go figure, and it hasn’t been doing him any favors in the mental health department. The average mind isn’t meant to grapple with seeing lives needlessly lost to a monster, on account of his own, dumb mistake when it came to setting traps. Add to that a lengthy, traumatic history of turning into a tinier version of that very monster? Yeah, it’s a head case.
Dean is swinging through the motel parking lot with a little more speed than necessary. He parks the Impala in their faded, assigned spot and pops the door locks. He finally turns to give Sam a reassuring look.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Sam cringes a little at how gentle Dean is trying to be. Yeah, I’m benching you because you can’t take care of yourself like a grown adult and I’m worried you’ll lose control, expose your second form to a bunch of innocents, and ruin our case and reputation. But don’t worry! I’ll be back at seven.
“Bring a corsage.” Sam jokes flatly.
That gets a chuckle out of Dean. Sam shuts the door behind him, always gentle with Baby even though a door slam would feel insanely cathartic right now.
“No working!” Dean calls, pointing a finger at him.
Sam points a finger of his own back at him as he drives away.
-
Dean gives a curt knock on the door as he fusses with the room key.
“Rise and shine, Sammy.”
He jiggles the key in the cheap lock. It’s dark out now, and doing it one-handed isn’t helping, but the takeout bag won’t carry itself. Finally, with a little shove, the door gives way.
“Got you dinner! So you can stop being pissed at me.” Dean announces as he walks in. He sets the bag on their table and begins unpacking containers. “Orange chicken, chow mein, those veggie rolls you like...”
In the absence of a response, he frowns. He turns around and glances across both of the beds. Dean’s is untouched - he didn’t do anything here except check in today. Sam’s is devoid of a sleeping Sam, but the covers are strewn. His laptop is still open, turned on, resting in the middle of it. One of his pillows is dangling halfway off the far side of the bed.
Dean furrows his brow. “Sam?”
Nothing. He looks back at the bathroom door, but it’s wide open and the lights are off.
“Sam?” He calls again.
He hears a soft whine from somewhere in the space.
It’s only a moment before he’s got his gun in hand and he’s taking slow, cautious steps towards the other corner of the room. Before he can do much theorizing, though, the space between Sam’s bed and the far wall comes into view. There, curled up tightly on the floor, is a black and white border collie.
“Shit.” Dean swears softly and holsters his gun. He drops to his knees out of habit.
“Stupid,” He complains. He reaches out to pat Sam’s back. “What’d I tell you?”
Sam’s body flinches at the touch, but he lifts his head up to look at Dean. It’s normally a much cuter sight, with the floppy ears, the shiny brown eyes, and the dark speckles lining his nose. But right now he’s panting heavily, his tongue lolling out. His little body is trembling.
“Hey.” Dean says softly.
This wasn’t the norm for Sam’s transformations,certainly not in adulthood. He must have not been expecting it, somehow, or had a pretty bad trigger this time.
His eyes dart back up to the pillow dangling off the bed — it’s severely rumpled and there’s a small wet mark fading. Dean frowns as he puts the pieces together. When Sam was younger, he used to hug a pillow as tight as he could and bite down on it when he felt the transformations coming on. It was something he and Dad figured out to try and help Sam through the anxiety surge he got every time.
Dean sighs through his nose and looks back down at Sam. Sam, with his tail tucked beneath his paws and his eyes wide.
He scoots closer on the floor, sitting right beside him. He extends a hand towards Sam’s snout.
Sam sniffs at him, then, gingerly, presses his muzzle forward into Dean’s palm. His nose is wet and cold, but Dean doesn’t mind. He grins and pets his head, squeezing his ears lightly, before running his hand down to the base of Sam’s nape and squeezing the fur there.
“You’re good.” Dean tells him. “We’re okay.”
After a few moments, Sam shifts on his hind legs and lies down closer to Dean. He flops down with his head in Dean’s lap.
Dean gives him a second, waiting for the panting to subside. He’s looking much less trembly now.
“I told you.” Dean finally says, once he can tell Sam has calmed down.
Sam’s ears perk up at the words, but he doesn’t look at Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and flicks at the top of Sam’s head, right between the two fluffy black ears.
“Hey. Talking to you.”
Sam lets out a big, sad dog-sigh, before rolling onto his side so he’s faced towards Dean. His tail thumps lightly on the carpet a few times.
“Quit running yourself into the ground, man. There’s two of us for a reason.”
Sam’s shiny brown eyes meet Dean’s. Dean, from years of growing up with this version of Sam, can practically hear what he’d be saying if he could.
“Yeah, yeah, there’s two of us ‘cause that’s how many kids Mom and Dad had. Shut up.” Dean snorts.
Sam’s tail wags harder in amusement.
Dean isn’t quite ready to be all shits and giggles yet.
“You had me worried, man. You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you don’t let me help….what’s up with you?”
Sam whines.
“I know, I know. I’ll let you…” Dean waves dismissively with his hand. “When you’re back to normal. I guess I’m just lost. Do you not trust me anymore? You don’t think I can cover us, when you’re out of it?”
Sam whines again and shakes his head. It’s a concentrated effort in this form, Dean knows. Sam has talked about how he has to fight more to follow his human instincts when he’s in collie mode. Dean actually finds stuff like a dog shaking its head the slightest bit creepy, but Sam certainly hasn’t stopped doing it on his account.
“Okay. I trust you, too. Just...I haven’t seen you like this since the Cage.” Dean continues. “You got to stop killing yourself over the little stuff. I know you think if you browse Reddit or whatever for long enough, or you kill every monster that looks like you, it...I dunno, makes up for this.”
Sam blinks at him.
“You don’t have anything to make up for. Alright?” Dean reaches down and gives him a rough pat on the shoulder. “Not a monster.”
Sam gives a little nod.
“Too small.” Dean clarifies. “To be a monster. Whatever maimed our guy was at least triple your size.”
Sam growls lightly, which only makes Dean cackle. Always so easy to tell when he’s ticked Sam off like this.
“Okay, tough guy.” He hoists himself up off the floor. “You at least hungry? I got enough takeout to kill a man.”
-
They’re both sprawled on Dean’s bed when Sam finally starts getting tired. Dean is propped up against the headboard with some pillows, while Sam is lazily stretched out across the foot of the bed. He yawns big enough that his tongue lolls out and Dean can see the canines going all the way to the back of his mouth. He makes a little bit of a high-pitched whine as he yawns, and Dean can’t help but laugh.
“You’re adorable, Sammy.” He teases.
Sam huffs and sits up. He nips lightly at Dean’s ankles, barely making contact. Dean throws a used napkin at him in retaliation. He sets to picking up their takeout boxes and carries them over to the trash - except one untouched box of veggie rolls, which he tucks into their mini fridge. Sam doesn’t have an appetite for them now, but he certainly will tomorrow.
“So weird to see you eating meat for once.” Dean muses. He picks up one straggling piece of beef from the last bowl and carries it back over towards Sam, outstretching it in his hand.
Sam gives Dean a little bit of an apprehensive look, which is entirely for show, Dean thinks. The judgmental eyes and the cocked head. He does this every time Dean tries to feed him something, acting like he’s too good for it but then folding.
Sure enough, Sam gives in. He presses his mouth to Dean’s palm and takes it from him, lapping once at his fingers. Dean chuckles to himself and settles back down onto the bed, feeling exhausted himself. He’s got a whole debrief about the case for Sam tomorrow, but there’s not much point in doing that now, when Sam can’t ping questions back at him. Besides, if anyone needs a goddamn break from the grind of solving cases...
Sam doesn’t do the spinning around in circles before lying down thing anymore, which Dean feels weirdly mournful about. He remembers when Sam was tiny, closer to a puppy really, and he’d do that while Dean read comics aloud, curled up together on a double motel bed. Now, Sam has conditioned himself to lie down differently - he rolls onto his back, his belly up, paws dangling in the air.
“You look ridiculous.” Dean informs him. He rubs at Sam’s belly, and Sam’s tail starts wagging wildly. “You’re a grown man.”
Sam rolls back onto all fours and sits up, then leans over to lap at Dean’s face. He can tell it’s born out of a desire to annoy Dean, not some lovey dovey tendency. Dean groans in disgust and shoves him back lightly. “Okay, enough.”
Sam’s tail wags faster still and he steps closer again, this time pawing at Dean’s shoulder and licking his cheek again.
“Hey--” He shoves him back again. “Don’t make me put you out on the street.”
Sam whines dramatically, at a frequency that makes Dean’s ears hurt. Dean shakes his head.
“Drama queen. You’re loving this, huh?” He asks.
Sam gives him that curt little nod again.
Dean takes the opportunity to get away from his uncharacteristically obnoxious brother for a second. He approaches Sam’s bed and carefully shuts the laptop that died hours ago, setting it on the nearest table. He scans the room for Sam’s duffel, finds it, and promptly starts digging through it. Once he’s found a shirt and some pants, he leaves the bag there and deposits the outfit at the base of his own bed.
“Clothes for tomorrow,” He says casually. “You’d better get decent before I wake up.”
Sam nods again. Dean hurries to shut out the light before he has to see any more creepy, human mannerisms.
Dean shuffles under the covers and, to his delight, Sam does spin around a time or two before curling up this time. Not as much as when he was younger, but it’s something. He smiles softly when Sam curls in close to him, his paws tucked underneath him and his back against Dean’s ribcage. Dean brings up a hand to mess with Sam’s floppy ears.
“Was that so hard?” He asks softly. “A little food and some shuteye?”
Sam whines. Dean gets the message. Obviously, yes it was.
Dean scratches lightly at the top of Sam’s head, at the silky, thin layer of fur there. He thinks for a moment.
“I was worried about you.”
No response.
“Can you at least be real with me next time it’s happening? Just…let me grab you a burger next time. You can take one of my sleeping pills.
“…Let me help.”
Sam yawns again and scooches even closer to Dean’s torso. He feels Sam’s tail thump a few times, and suddenly there’s a wet nose and muzzle resting on his shoulder. He can barely make out Sam’s face in the dark, but he gets it. Deal.
“Good. Deal.” Dean echoes. “G’night, Sammy.”