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Friday night played the bar like a well-strung guitar. Sweet and drifting, with an edge of longing. The night was young, and spirits were high with the taste of liquor and buzz of people. Hips swayed between tables, bursts of laughter broke the drabble of talk, and a glaze of smoke cast everything in a dreamy haze that ensured mistakes would not be remembered tomorrow. Past the table of leather-bound bikers and around the well-worn bar, a small table was shoved into the back corner—the perfect spot for the morose or someone looking to drown their sorrows in solitude.
The two who dwelled in that back low light don’t fit the profile of either.
"A hot dog isn't a sandwich, Dean."
"And this is not a case, Sam."
Sam rolled his eyes from the table and shifted in his seat.
Dean was a few feet from the table, focused on a dart board, trying to break his record of fifteen bullseyes in a row. So far, he had eight.
"Alright," Sam's face glowed from his laptop, “how about a guy's phone that rings, but every time he answers, there's no one on the other end?"
His forehead wrinkled as he said it. Sounded like the plot of a terrible horror movie.
Thud. Nine. Dean walked over to pull his darts out. "Telemarketers."
"It's always at 2:17 in the morning," Sam said, scanning the report.
Dean shrugged, feet scuffing on the dirty floor as he swiveled around. "Still telemarketers."
Sam looked up from his screen, annoyed. "And you’re so sure because..."
Frowning, Dean inspected a dart then wiped the tip on his jeans. "'Cause they've been calling me at exactly the same time."
The small table jerked as Sam's palms slammed onto it, the bottle of ketchup almost flying. “That's what that is? Dude, it's been waking me up for the past week!"
Dean smirked and raised his arm. "Well, solve the case and you can snooze all you like, Sleeping Beauty."
"Or just answer your damn phone!"
Thud. Ten.
Sam scoffed and turned back to his laptop, shaking his head.
He continued to search for anything that so much as blinked wrong in a hundred-mile radius, but nothing. It felt a little counterintuitive to pray on the world's downfall, but if the supernatural wasn't prowling, neither were they. And Sam could only spend so many nights watching his brother drink himself silly and drawl out the same pick-up lines so many times before he went crazy.
He was just about to hang in the towel and call it a night when a post caught his eye. He clicked on it, rested his chin in his palm, lips minutely forming the words as he read. It was a case, a bit of a long shot, but a case. He glanced up at Dean, his jacket noticeably rumpled and the shoulders underneath relaxed, easy. He'd hate it, no doubt. He weighed the pros and cons in his mind.
At that second, Dean's triumphant bellow rang over the noise of the bar. His arms flew into the air like his favorite team had just scored a touchdown, and his elbow caught the underside of the table. It would've gone crashing down in a flurry of scotch and laptops had Sam not grabbed it. He glared as he steadied it.
Dean was smirking, none the wiser as he paraded in a circle, arms raised. "New record, Sammy!"
Yeah, they had to get out of here.
The next morning, they were checked out of the motel before the school buses even trucked around to collect the kids. Sam was driving, more so from necessity than true desire. Dean was slumped in the passenger seat, head against the window, face concealed by sunglasses and the collar of his jacket he had pulled up. Sam had once told him he looked like Dracula when he did that, and Dean had grabbed his arm and tried to sink his teeth in.
The car jerked as they hit a pothole and Dean groaned.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
Sam noted with amusement the backwards buttons and showing stitches, evidence of his brother's mental state when he had been getting ready that morning.
"I told you, I found us a case."
"Where, in the early bird's neighborhood? Not even the supernatural is awake, Sam."
Smiling at his brother's theatrics, Sam slipped his hands down to hold the base of the wheel more comfortably. "Somewhere far. You'll see."
The dark circles under Dean's eyes called more compellingly than his desire to argue. With a grunt, he tipped his head against the door and shuffled his body further down into the seat. Sam knew from experience there was a well-worn divot in the leather that was heaven to slump into. It was personally crafted from hours of sitting in the passenger seat.
Sam reached across the leather and patted his brother's leg before settling back. Then he cracked on the radio just enough to hear the drums of some rock song playing in the background and drove.
• • • • • • •
"You've got to be kidding me."
"There's no other option."
"There absolutely is! The option to get the hell out of here!"
Dean's eyes were comically wide, lines spread across his forehead. He had that mouth-open panic like he was on the verge of yelling himself hoarse. The fauna and flora from the middle of nowhere had gradually bled into houses and highways until they sped into a city. Dean had started to stir long before they pulled into the parking lot, like he could sense evil coming. Now he was as strung as a dog on his way to the vet.
"I mean, c'mon Sam," he continued to plead, "after what happened last time? You're really gonna make me get on another plane?"
Sam tried to be reassuring. "There won't be a demon on board this time."
"Maybe! You don't know that!"
Dean had one arm propped on the seat back, closed in a fist, same leg drawn up onto the seat. It was like he was trying to drag himself onto the seat, back to his safe place. Sam's long legs were stretched out in front of him, right foot nudging the gas pedal under the footwell. He knew this reaction was coming. He'd spent the last few hours thinking and still didn't know the right words to say.
He shoved his laptop into Dean's lap as a distraction.
"Just look at this. Every year, the people in this town celebrate the coming of spring. There's dancing and a feast, and they even crown a May Queen."
Dean's skittish gaze took in the big, bright letters, Annual Spring Festival! "They have a spring prom, so what?"
Sam slid in close and Dean's knee nudged into his thigh.
"I thought it was a little too specific, so I did some digging. Turns out, people in medieval times did something similar. They believed in these gods of spring, and they would dance and hold feasts to please them in exchange for good crops and fertility. It was very ritualistic."
Sam reached across Dean's stomach and switched the tab.
"Then I found this. People have died on the same day as the festival every year for the last decade. No cause either. They just drop dead."
"Well, sometimes people just die," Dean said, not sounding like he himself believed it.
"Yeah, but the pattern is too consistent. Plus, the town is close to a desert."
Dean shook his head a little too quickly. "So what?"
"So," Sam continued with endless patience, "the town has had nothing but amazing harvests while every other surrounding town can't even get grass to grow. And," he glanced at the time on his watch, "the festival’s tomorrow."
It was quiet as Dean paused, desperately staring at the screen, trying to find something to contradict. With a defeated slump, he turned to Sam, voice just a bit too high. “Man, we really gotta do this?"
Sam took the laptop back, feeling a little guilty. His brother was never one to beg. "Look, it won’t be that bad. It’s only a few hours. You can sleep through it," he suggested when Dean didn't look comforted at all.
Dean rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, voice verging on prepubescent. "Right. Just take a nap while the Titanic sinks. Perfect."
Sam squeezed his shoulder and let his hand linger while Dean stared miserably out the window.
"C'mon tough guy. We gotta gather whatever we can take before our flight."
The airport wasn’t huge, which made it easy to navigate the terminals. There were only a handful of people waiting at their gate, and they settled into chairs against the wall. Dean sat himself resolutely facing away from the view of the runway while Sam took the seat across from him. He hadn't been to many airports, but he always appreciated their large windows. The sky stretched before him was still dressed with fleeting early morning colors, only brushed with the barest wisps of clouds. A perfect day to fly.
It would've been a picturesque scene if Dean's leg wasn't bouncing insistently out of the corner of his eye. He looked wholly unaware of what he was doing, his gaze somewhere off in the distance, forlorn. Sam stretched his leg across the aisle and hooked his foot around Dean's ankle. The shaking stopped.
Sam surveyed the wrinkles and slumps of his brother carefully. "You want a coffee or anything?"
"Yeah, shoot my heart full of caffeine, just what I need," he snapped. Years of experience dealing with his brother's erratic temperament let the shot roll right off of Sam.
"How about some food?" He attempted. They hadn't stopped on the way from the motel.
A little life rose in Dean's stoic gaze at that, so Sam hurried off to find something. Most shops were fast food joints that really did not sound appetizing first thing in the morning. Finally, nestled at the end of the corridor, he found a small deli place selling sandwiches that looked half-decent. He agonized over whether to grab turkey or ham and then spent five minutes debating chip flavors.
He finally paid and made his way back, aware of every moment he left Dean alone. He slowed his pace a bit when he could see Dean from a distance, right where he left him. He had, however, developed a very nasty scowl that could've withered flowers.
He looked up as Sam approached, expression evening out.
"What?"
"Nothing," Sam grinned and slid into the seat next to him. He twisted the cap off a bottle of water and handed it over. "That lady over there just thinks you want to murder her entire bloodline."
Dean snatched his sandwich from the bag. "Can't help you took forever," he grumbled and tore into the packaging.
Something in Sam's chest eased a little as he watched Dean eat. He wasn't so on edge and even spent some time gazing out of the window.
When they were both finished, Dean balled up their wrappers, aimed, and sourly missed the trash can. As the morning spread out, more people began to stream past in various states of panic and ease. Then the speakers announced it was time to board.
"That's us," Sam said needlessly, more as a prompt to Dean, who had frozen like if he held still, the plane would go away.
They grabbed the two small bags they had loaded with clothes and other random supplies that were innocent enough to make it past screening. Sam lined up first, feeling a bit out of place as Dean was now the one hurrying after him. They made their way down the boarding bridge, and the sound of whirring engines filled the air. A stewardess greeted them as they stepped on board.
"Have a good flight," she smiled, perfect white teeth. She was charming and blonde, exactly his brother’s type. But when he looked over his shoulder, Dean hadn't so much as spared her a glance, too busy imitating doing a very good impression of a bird as his head swiveled left, right, left, right.
"Alright, right here." Sam stopped beside their row. He ushered Dean in with a hand on his back and then shuffled after him.
Dean anchored himself into the seat as stiff as a rock.
"It's not a rollercoaster, Dean," Sam said softly. "You can relax."
"Thanks, I'll take that into consideration," Dean spoke between clenched teeth, hands gripping the armrests like he was condemned to the electric chair.
Sam leaned his head closer. "Just try and relax, alright? I promise everything's gonna be okay."
Dean nodded, but his posture remained rigid.
It felt like they sat there forever waiting for takeoff. Murmurs drifted from the cabin as people got settled into their seats. The flight attendants bustled up and down the aisle, making sure everything was in order. The plane shuffled around into position on the runway, and Dean's jaw clenched at each turn. Sam switched between flipping through a pamphlet and looking out of the window. Finally, the engines swelled to life, and the plane lurched forward, the force pulling them back into their seats. Sam thought about grabbing Dean's hand just to give him something to glare at.
For a few minutes, it felt like they were on a rollercoaster as they surged down the runway. Then the plane tilted up and settled into the sky.
Sam turned to Dean once it was over. “You okay?"
Dean’s head was a bit too far back in his neck.
“Yeah, yeah, awesome. Just great. Just…” His knee was bouncing up and down. “How long we on this thing for?”
“3 hours.”
“Cool, cool.”
He still had both armrests held in a chokehold. Sam let him have it and pretended not to notice. He pulled out his book instead. Eyes watched him.
“What’re you reading?”
Sam gave him a look. “You don’t care.”
He turned away. “Yeah, you’re right.”
His thumb rubbed the edge of the armrest raw.
There was a clatter of glasses near the front and Dean perked up. He tried to peer down the aisle but the seatbelt held his legs. He pulled on it three times. Sam turned a page.
“Is this tight enough?”
Sam didn’t look. “Yeah.”
“How much good is it gonna do if we crash?”
“Dean.”
“I’m just asking!”
A metallic thunk echoed somewhere beneath the floor.
Dean's head snapped toward the aisle.
"What was that?"
“Landing gear."
"We're not landing."
"Then probably something that isn't important."
Dean frowned, still looking around for the culprit of the sound.
A few minutes passed in silence. The steady drone of the engines settled into a rhythm, and little by little, Dean's grip on the armrests eased. His head tipped against the seat.
When Sam looked over again, his mouth had fallen slightly open, the fight finally giving way to sleep.
Sam smiled and propped his elbow on Dean’s forearm to hold his book more comfortably.
For the first hour, Dean slept. It was a small flight, quiet. The atmosphere was peaceful. A period where there was nothing to do but wait. They didn’t get many of those. Sam tried to soak it in as much as possible.
The quiet was broken by a ding followed by the captain's voice over the speakers.
"Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking. We're cruising at about twenty-four thousand feet. There's a bit of inclement weather coming up here shortly, and it may get a bit bumpy. Nothing to worry about, remain in your seats and everything will be alright."
People began to talk quietly, and Sam thumped his head into the back of the seat. Great.
He glanced at Dean, head still tilted back, mouth opened toward the ceiling. The longer he stayed ignorant, the better for everyone. At that moment, someone's baby chose to start crying near the front of the plane. Stiffling a groan, Sam started digging through his backpack. A sharp inhale from beside him sat him right back up.
"Hey." He hovered close. "Sleep okay?"
Dean smacked his lips a few times and took the water Sam offered, taking a long, generous drink. He screwed the cap on and squinted blearily as he peered past Sam.
"Looks darker outside."
"Yeah, just some rain below us."
A brush of their hands and Sam replaced the water with his earbuds.
"Here, why don't you put these in and listen to some music for a bit?"
Dean blinked, obediently taking them. He was always so much more pliable before the fog of sleep fully cleared.
"Why?"
Sam shrugged, shoved the half-empty bottle into the back of the seat in front of him. "I dunno, sit there if you like. Just figured you'd rather have something to do."
Still eyeing him suspiciously, Dean popped the earbuds in and scrolled through Sam's iPod. "Motley Crue, Skid Row. Seriously, Sam?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Keep going. I think there's some Bon Jovi in there."
"Barely passes," Dean grumbled, but was soon settled back into his seat, arms over his chest.
Sam breathed a little easier and prayed he would sleep through the rest of the flight. He sank back into the seat and slouched a bit to find a more comfortable position. When his knees crushed into the seat in front, he stretched out towards Dean and wedged one of his legs under his thigh. He waited for Dean to react, and when he only scrunched his nose, Sam took his book back out.
It was only a few pages later that the plane started to shake under a few gusts of strong wind. None of the other passengers seemed to pay it much attention. A particularly strong gust made the inside rattle, and Sam looked up as the words on his page trembled. He glanced outside. The clear skies from that morning were gone. In their wake, a giant blanket of gray stretched across the expanse.
"Sam." Dean's voice startled him. Wide awake, face stretched tight. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is."
Sam quickly set the book aside. "Just a bit of turbulence, no big deal," he assured, wiggling the leg under Dean's.
If he stayed calm, he hoped Dean would follow. Sam had spent so much of his life looking up to and copying his older brother. When Dean bought his first denim jacket, Sam had scoured thrift store after store until he'd found his own. If Dean was angry at something, he was angry at it, too. They weren't kids anymore. Now, it was more like they were a set of mirrors, reflecting and refracting until they practically felt and experienced everything in cadence.
Dean stared straight ahead, hands once again wrapped around the armrests. Sam thought for a moment and then leaned over to dig something out of his bag. Dean glared as something hit his chest.
"What's this for?"
"Sour candy," Sam supplied. "It helps."
"I'm not a little kid, Sam." Dean snapped. Sam met him with a flat look.
Of all the tendencies their dad had soldiered into Dean, his utter aversion to help was one of the worst. He was so against any "self-help crap," as he so eloquently labeled it, that he'd sooner amputate his leg than admit something was wrong.
"I know, but it used to help me when I was stressed about an upcoming exam or something." Sam's gaze softened. He wasn't above pleading, never for Dean. "Just try it. Please."
Dean continued to glare, but it was nothing against Sam's tilted eyebrows and earnest gaze. Grumbling, he tore open the box. For a while, it seemed to work, Dean rolling around the little sour candies in his mouth and reading the jokes on the back of the box. He was still as tense as a board, but his breathing had evened out.
It was too bumpy to read, so Sam pulled out his half-finished crossword. He had clipped it out of the newspaper from the motel, and the questions were too simple. He liked the more cryptic ones that had him stumped for a couple of days. He was almost finished with it when Dean suddenly bolted to his feet, grabbing the headrest in front of him as the plane swayed.
Sam raised his eyebrows. "Dean?"
Instead of an answer, his brother took off for the back of the plane, hand over his mouth. Sighing internally, Sam rose and shuffled slowly after him, giving him time to pull himself together. A woman wearing bright red lipstick smiled at him sympathetically as he brushed past. He nodded at her. Outside the bathroom, he rapped on the door with his knuckle.
"Dean? It's me." He braced himself against the door as the plane lurched—the turbulence was getting rough.
There was no movement from the other side. He was about to knock again when the door unlocked with a click. Sam glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking and then slipped inside. He closed and locked the door behind him. It was truly no bigger than a regular bathroom stall. On his left, a sink and mirror. Straight ahead was the toilet. He had to duck his head to avoid bumping it on the ceiling. Not that he would've been looking anywhere but down. Dean was slumped on the floor with his back against the sink, legs drawn up to his chest to fit in front of him. His forearm was still braced on the rim of the toilet like he finished emptying his stomach and immediately collapsed. The air had the distinct sour smell of vomit mixed with some air freshener stuck to the wall.
Grimacing, Sam kneeled beside Dean. From there, he could make out globs of what was no doubt sour gummy remnants stuck to the side of the bowl. Dean had his head pressed into the crook of his arm, his forehead flushed with sweat. He looked miserable, bags hanging like gravestones under his eyes. Every ounce of fight had been drained from his body. Gone was the hypervigilance from earlier, replaced by this far-worse languid indifference. His eyes were closed, eyelashes sprawled across gray cheeks, and they remained that way even
as Sam touched the back of his hand to his face.
"You want water or anything?"
Dean didn't even raise his head to mumble, "You try 'n feed me anything else, I'll kill you."
The taunt settled like concrete in Sam's chest.
"Dean," he spoke quietly. They were close enough that he didn't have to compete with the roar of the engine. "Man, I'm sorry. I feel guilty as hell for making you get on this plane."
Dean's face scrunched up, just for a second, as the plane shook. The freckles on his face stood stark in the fluorescent lighting.
"'s okay, I'm just being a baby," he muttered. The crack in his voice betrayed him.
Sam started to lower himself onto the floor next to him. Dean grumbled some remark but made sure there was enough room for Sam to slip in close. It was a tight squeeze, pressed hip to hip, and Sam's arm ended up flattened behind Dean's shoulder. He had to cross his legs to fit in the space. Dean settled against Sam instead of the toilet, his right elbow propped on Sam's leg. At the very least, he seemed more comfortable now.
"Well," Dean broke the silence, voice a little raw. "What'cha wanna do now? Truth or dare? Ouija board?"
Sam breathed out something that could be a laugh. "Dare."
Dean picked at part of their leftover lunch on Sam's jeans. "I dare you to streak through the plane."
That started Sam enough to get a real laugh. "Dude, I'm not doing that."
"You totally are."
"What makes you so sure?"
"It's how the game works."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "That's not what you were saying when I dared you to tell Andrain Finley that you had a crush on him."
Dean shoved Sam as best he could with his own shoulder, pinning him in place. "He was totally gay. I wasn't gonna play with the poor kid's heart like that."
"Whatever, truth or dare."
"Truth."
Sam shifted in place, a useless effort with nowhere to go. He opened his mouth, closed it, ran words through his mind.
"Why are you afraid of flying?"
Seconds passed in silence.
The plane continued to bounce and rattle.
Sam glanced at his brother. His gaze was straight ahead over his knees, and lines fanned from his eyes, a sign his thoughts were taking him back, way back. His brother was always loud and proud about every opinion swirling around in his brain. It was impossible not to know his favorite fast-food joint or raunchy magazine. But never once had he talked about where his fear of flying came from.
At last, Dean took a breath, and Sam held his.
"Last plane looked at me funny."
As quickly as it came, the tension left Sam's shoulders.
"Dean."
"No, I'm serious. There were two black circles right on the nose of the plane and I thought it was the scariest thing I'd ever seen. Dad had to drag me on board."
Sam looked at him. "You flew with Dad?"
"Yep. I was nine. Left you with some random chick from the local high school."
Sam wasn't surprised. "Was it a case?"
"He'd been tracking a demon all over Iowa. Finally nailed it down and the bastard jumped ship to Utah. He bought tickets for the next flight and we were off."
The plane dropped several feet and Dean tensed up, feet shooting out to brace against the wall. The color started to drain from his face again. Sam wiggled his smothered shoulder until he could wrap it around Dean's shoulders.
"Hey, it's alright," Sam said lightly. "Tell me what happened next."
Without thinking, Dean's shoulder drifted into his.
"We, uh," he cleared his throat, "we boarded the plane, and Dad finds the guy pretty fast. He corners him in the back, and the guy just looks at Dad like he's grown three heads. They started having some argument, and I was young, but I knew that's not what an exorcism looked like."
"What were they saying?"
Dean shrugged, and it moved Sam's jacket up and down.
"Dunno. He made me stay in my seat. Next to this old lady that smelled like turmeric, for some reason. She had a weird feather jacket that looked like she'd killed the birds and made it herself." He blinked. "Anyway, I guess he splashed some holy water on him and nothing happened."
Sam hummed. "Demon jumped ship?"
"Like a fish. Now we had no idea who it was."
The corner of Sam's mouth twitched. Dean looked at him. "What?"
"Nothing," he licked his lip. "It’s… you just keep saying 'we' like you were anything but a snot-nosed brat."
Dean looked genuinely offended. "Me and Dad made a good team. You're just jealous."
Sam raised his eyebrows. "You're telling me you wouldn't have rather been hanging out with the babysitter?"
That stopped Dean in his tracks, and he looked like he hadn't ever considered that before.
"Dude," he said in awe, "you had insane game when you were five."
Sam grinned, shook his head in the other direction. "You're an idiot. How did dad find the demon?"
Dean scoffed, cupping his knee. "Good old-fashioned trial and error. He just walked around looking at people. Seeing if they flinched if he said cristo. I'm surprised the flight attendants didn't try and restrain him. Probably scared of him."
He paused, and Sam waited, watching the memory play behind his eyes. It was like watching an old tape unwind after years of unuse. As far as he knew, his brother hadn't told this to anyone. He might have forgotten all about it until Sam forced him back into his worst nightmare.
"I think the demon knew he was close, or getting close to finding him. I sorta—I just remember this sudden coldness, like nothing I'd ever felt before. Then the plane went dark. Like, completely pitch black."
Dean paused again.
Deeper, his memory drew back. Like unfurling a book.
"You couldn't tell up from down. I put my hand inches from my face and—" he shook his head, mouth tense. "Nothing. Then the plane started shaking. It was like something grabbed the plane and started shaking it like a can of aerosol. People were flying out of their seats."
The corners of his cheeks sharpened as he clenched his jaw.
"And you can't fly a plane without power. I think for a few seconds, we were running on fumes. When that ran out," he smacked his hand on his knee, "nosedive."
It made Sam's stomach sink just thinking about it. Dean scrubbed his hand through his hair, lowered to wash down his face.
"I—" His voice had gone quieter, and Sam leaned in closer. Dean looked down, licked his lips, opened and closed his fist.
"I thought I was gonna die, Sammy," he whispered, a ghost over Sam's skin.
Sam felt the words pull the air from his lungs.
"I curled under the seat and thought it was the end. And I—"
He swallowed again.
"I called for Dad, because I thought I was a goner."
"Dean," Sam said softly. Couldn't bear to think it. Couldn't bear the thought of how close he'd been to losing Dean that day, and he'd never known.
Dean swallowed. He was losing the fight against his voice. "People were screaming. I wanted to do something, but I just couldn't. I held my hands over my ears and closed my eyes as tight as I could. Just waiting for it to be over."
Sam felt sick.
Dean looked the other direction and swiped at his face.
"Well, obviously, Dad finished the exorcism. The power turned back on and the pilots got us sailing straight again. Probably didn't fly another plane for a long time after that. I couldn't even look at the sky for two weeks."
Sam stared at his brother. At a loss of what to say, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Dean turned back, face close enough that Sam could see the red around his eyes.
His mouth trembled before the corners of his lips lifted.
"The same reason why I do anything."
For a moment, Sam stared at him, not understanding. There was that familiar softness in his eyes, the tenderness that blurred out the sharp edges of his face and strung up lines around his eyes. It was gentle, but with an acceptance of sadness, like a sheep offering itself up to the wolf. He'd seen that same look when Dean let him have the last box of mac and cheese or take the first warm shower. Suddenly, Dad's voice was echoing in his mind with the phrase he'd repeated more than anything else. More important than gun safety, more urgent than the need to kill yellow eyes.
"Look after Sammy."
"I couldn't tell you, Sammy, I just couldn't. You didn't know what was out there. And I sure as hell wasn't gonna be the reason you woke up screaming in the night."
He huffed out what was probably supposed to be a laugh, glassy eyes reflecting the white walls. "Then I forgot about it. No reason to dig up buried bones, eh?"
Buried bones. They had plenty of those. Too many. The bones of dad, of friends, of strangers. Ten feet under the ground, kept alive only by memory. Like anyone, Sam grieved and eventually let them go. He knew when it was time to move on. But Dean held on. He carried everything he'd ever felt since the day he was born and trudged on while it crushed him. A soldier forced to carry the cavalry on his shoulders. If it so much as inconvenienced a hair on someone else's head, Dean would sooner swallow a bomb than ask for the detonator.
A hand suddenly slapped his chest, rough, rousing.
"My legs are falling asleep," Dean announced, back to the soldier. "Let's get outta here before someone else needs to puke."
Dean got to his feet and helped haul Sam to his. He had taken one step toward the door when he suddenly found younger, taller little brother crushed into his chest.
Dean froze. "Sam?"
No, it was the other way around. Dean collapsed into Sam's chest. He made sure of that, hands on his back, pulling, tugging, head forced right under Sam's chin, hair sweaty. His shoulders were the perfect height for his arms to fall over and never let go. He was reminded of the tightness of the room as he pulled Dean forward and the wall pressed against his back.
"Sammy—“ Dean repeated.
"Have you ever taken anything for yourself?"
His voice cracked into Dean's hair. It smelled like nothing because he’d let Sam finish the shampoo.
Sam's fingers dug past the layers of his clothing. "Why do you have to be so damn selfless all the time?"
Dean sounded lost. "Sammy, what’s got—?"
"Just listen," he snapped.
He waited for Dean to huff and shove him off, proclaim he was thinking too much. Instead, Dean cautiously reached up his back and let his hands travel in slow circles over his shoulders.
And Sam realized, as the room went blurry, that Dean was trying to comfort him. Knees shaking, pale-faced and barely holding it together, Dean was playing the big brother.
"You were a kid, Dean. A child. Any other kid, a normal kid, would've gone to therapy for an experience like that. Not bottled it up and shoved it down."
He felt Dean's chest expand. "And it doesn't matter that we're not like other kids," he cut him off, "You still went through crap you should've been protected from."
He swallowed as his throat trembled. "I'm not the only one who deserved protecting, Dean."
The fingers on his back stilled. For a few moments, Sam could only feel the rise and fall of Dean's chest. Then his chest hitched. And again. And once more.
Sam fitted their legs together as he stepped closer, slipping his head over Dean's shoulder and tucking his elbows around his waist.
Dean buried his face against Sam's shoulder.
Sam said nothing. Just closed his eyes and hung on.
The plane swayed, but Dean wasn't alone.