Work Text:
Something was wrong.
That much, Dean knew for sure.
He had been willing to ignore it for two weeks, blaming his brother’s jittery behavior on whatever the trickster had put him through, telling himself that it would fade away eventually - but now it was getting ridiculous.
Every time they checked into a motel, Sam would go ahead and scan the room before allowing Dean to get in – not that the older man needed any permission, but he had been humoring him anyway; whenever Dean would mention going to the car on his own, Sam would find some lame excuse to follow him and god forbid he dared suggest going out alone.
But that wasn't all.
Dean couldn’t say he was proud of a lot of things in his life, but he damn well was about his vast knowledge of his little brother.
In fact, he was pretty sure there wasn’t a single page of the Sam Winchester Encyclopedia he hadn’t read, studied, learned by heart and proceeded to write an “ How to handle ” manual about.
Which is why he was completely stunned to notice all the little changes to his brother’s behavior.
Small things, that probably no one else would have picked up on, but that sent his big brother instincts flying out the window.
Sam had always been tidy, but the way he would place his clothes in the closet, rearranging them so that they could fit a standard Dean had given up on figuring out; how his shoes were always perfectly aligned with his bed – which was always made by the time Dean would wake up; the almost obsessive ritual he had mastered of cleaning his gun three times before putting it away – all that was new and weird and Dean couldn’t for the life of him figure out when all those habits had become part of Sam’s routine, or how he’d managed to miss it.
For the most part, the younger hunter was himself.
A bit on edge, sure, and definitely too willing to follow Dean’s directives – but himself nonetheless.
Which is probably why he’d decided to let him be for as long as he could, respecting Sam’s wish not to talk about it and ignoring the dozing off during car rides, and the constant excuses to be close to him.
He was willing to ignore it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t suffocating.
He loved his kid brother and enjoyed spending time with him, but he needed to breathe, to have some kind of time to himself.
He needed half an hour of being on his own, just him and his baby – and possibly some black coffee.
So one morning, exactly seventeen days after the trickster incident, he decided to take advantage of the fact that he’d miraculously woken up before Sam, and go for a ride.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, he picked up his shoes and keys, wrote a note and went out, ignoring the pit of guilt in his stomach.
He’d planned on staying out for thirty minutes, but ended up going back in twenty, unable to shake the bad feeling he’d had since leaving the room.
At first, everything looked alright, but as soon as his eyes laid on the beds, he noticed Sam wasn’t in his anymore.
Around the same time, he heard the panting sound that came from the bathroom, and opened the door to find Sam sitting on the floor. He was pale, and sweaty and it took Dean all of five seconds to figure out what was happening.
He rushed towards Sam, whose eyes widened significantly as soon as he saw him, almost like he’d expected him to never come back.
Dean kneeled in front of him, reaching out to get the stupidly long hair away from his face.
“Calm down, Sammy. Everything’s alright, you’re gonna be just fine. I got you, little brother. I got you.” He said, laying a hand on Sam’s shoulder. His brother kept gasping for air, and looking at him like he was going to disappear any second.
“Hey!” He said, sounding just a little tougher, while still trying to appear comforting.
“You need to breathe, okay? Just match your breathing to mine. Come on, Sammy.”
It took him a couple minutes but, he eventually calmed down a little bit and regained some color.
“Just like that.” Dean encouraged him, starting to draw circles on Sam’s back, while the younger hunter placed his head on his shoulder.
Dean let him, keeping up the comforting words and reassuring gestures; trying to keep a level head, while his brain was running at the speed of light to try and piece together everything he knew.
It was clear that Sam hadn’t told him everything about what the Trickster had done. Whatever crazy mojo the son of a bitch had thrown at his little brother had been much more hurtful than the story Sam had fed him – and Dean was more determined than ever to find out what exactly had his brother so shaken up.
Just as Dean was about to open his mouth, Sam pulled away from him, finally able to breathe on his own, though the evidence of what he’d just gone through was still clear on his face and his still trembling hands.
Scooting over so that he could sit against the wall, he closed his eyes and pulled his knees to his chest, before finally speaking.
“I know you wanna ask.” Was all he said, eyes hidden behind his hair and directed at the floor.
Dean didn’t miss a beat, moving so that he was sitting right in front of his little brother, and answered.
“What the hell was that, man? You just had a panic attack over… what? Me going out to get coffee? I’ve been trying to ignore it but this is getting out of hand. I know you’re not telling me everything, and we can’t go on like this, Sam.”
Sighing, Sam shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s over. I just… I just need some time to get over it. I’m sorry I over reacted, it won’t happen again.” Gaze fixated on his shoe – which had become very interesting all of a sudden – he tried to avoid the conversation.
That alone was enough to set off every alarm bell in Dean’s head because, honestly, when had Sam ever refused a chick flick moment?
The kid thrived on airing out his emotions, a firm believer in all that sharing and caring crap that Dean hated with every inch of his soul; so what had happened that was so awful, Sam felt he couldn’t share with him?
“You got nothing to apologize for. But you gotta talk to me, Sammy. Whatever happened, you can’t keep it bottled up, kiddo. It doesn’t work like that.” He stopped for a second, appreciating the irony of being the one to give his brother this particular talk, then continued. “It’s not healthy.”
“Pot and kettle, Dean.” Came Sam’s expected reply, while something between an annoyed scoff and amused chuckle left his lips.
“I mean it, Sammy. You need this.” He insisted, keeping his expression serious, but trying his best not to come off as demanding. He wanted his brother to feel safe, like he could share whatever burden he’d been carrying on his own before the weight of it damaged him even more.
Sam closed his eyes, kept them shut for a couple seconds, then opened them again and started fidgeting with his hands; Dean gave him time to collect his thoughts, while getting ready to do some more convincing, and finally the other sighed.
“You were dead.” Was all he murmured, so low Dean would have had a hard time hearing it, if not for how closely he was listening.
“I know what happened in Florida was tough but-- ” He started, but Sam just shook his head and chewed harder on his thumb.
“No, Dean. You were dead. Really dead . And you stayed dead for months and I had to go on alone –” before he could go on with his rambling, Dean stopped him.
“I – what? The hell are you talking about?”
Looking like a deer in headlights, Sam looked up at him, pulling off those damn puppy eyes and tearing at Dean’s heart. The latter just took a deep breath and gestured for him to elaborate.
“The morning after we figured out who we were dealing with, I woke up and it was Wednesday. No Asia on the radio… a new day. I told you to hurry up and that I wanted us to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible. You went to put our stuff in the trunk – on your own – and some random guy shot you. And you died. In my arms. Again . And there was nothing I could do to stop it, so I just waited. I closed my eyes and waited to wake up, but I never did. It wasn’t some sick joke: it was real. You died, for real , and you didn’t come back.” He explained, quick to wipe away the few tears that escaped his control.
While the revelation dawned on him, Dean tried to make sense of what Sam had just told him.
He’d died? Did that mean he’d gone to Hell? How come he didn’t remember any of it? And how was he here now, alive and breathing in some random ass motel room?
Before he had a chance to voice his questions, Sam beat him to it.
“I was alone and I had to move on, but I just couldn’t. So I hunted, took care of your wheels – tried to do things that would make you proud of me. I was just going through the motions, though. I didn’t feel it, didn’t feel much of anything. But I never gave up Dean, never . I kept tracking the trickster, until months later I found him and begged him to bring us back to that Wednesday morning.
But I changed, and I don’t like that person. How I acted… what I was willing to do? You died and every last bit of my humanity died with you, Dean. I don’t – I can’t become that again. I don't know how to go on without you and not lose myself in the process. I killed Bobby.” At the look on Dean’s face, he corrected himself. “I mean, it wasn’t him, it was the trickster, but I wasn’t sure. And I did it anyway because I had to get you back here. What does that say about me?”
Dean shook his head, at a loss for words, while he looked for the right ones.
He remembered what losing Sam had felt like. He remembered the complete heartbreak, the numbness to the rest of the world. He’d felt like the ground had been taken from below his feet and suddenly nothing else had mattered. The world could have ended right that second and he couldn’t have found it in himself to give half a shit.
He’d been without his brother for a day, and that had been too much for him. He couldn’t imagine what missing Sam for months would have done to him - hell, he’d sold his soul to make sure he never had to find out.
For some reason, it’d never really occurred to him that Sam might have felt the same way.
He’d always been so independent, hell bent on doing things his own way, that Dean assumed the kid would bounce back from the loss; go on, make a life for himself - go back to college, get a girl: finally live the safe, quiet existence he’d always been after.
Looking at him now, so small against the bathroom wall, hunched in himself and fighting hard to not let even more tears spill, looking so lost and young it hurt to see, it started to dawn on him that he might have gotten it all wrong.
“Come here.” he said, pushing all of that at the back of his mind. He needed to bring his little brother back from wherever he’d been all this time, take care of him until he couldn’t anymore. Everything else could wait.
When Sam just looked at him, like he wasn’t sure what he meant, he took matters into his own hands and grabbed his arm.
“I said come here, Sammy. Come on, before we both start growing lady parts.”
After a moment of hesitation, Sam gave in and all but fell into Dean’s arms - head pressed against his chest, clutching at his jacket, while Dean held him tight and brought a hand to his hair.
“The only thing that says about you, is that you care. That you’re human. And you’re gonna be okay, Sammy, I promise you that much. You’re gonna be just fine, little brother, because you’re strong like that.”
He felt Sam shake his head against him, huddling himself even closer to Dean.
“Yeah, you are. And maybe you were alone before, but I’m here now. We’re gonna figure this out together, okay? If anyone is smart enough to get me out of this deal, is you.”
A sob escaped the youngest’s lips as Dean started stroking his hair, then another, and they just stayed like that, while Sam let out months worth of solitude and grief, hanging on to Dean’s pocket like his life depended on him.
Dean clutched back just as tight, feeling the younger hunter all but hide himself against him, disappearing into the embrace of his older brother - and for the first time in months Sam felt safe. At home. Like the missing piece he’d been lacking had finally, finally settled back and God , he wasn’t alone anymore: his big brother was back and he didn’t need to be strong, didn’t need to have everything under control, because Dean was really there and he could go back to being a little brother.
After a while, once Sam had quieted down and regained some amount of control over himself, Dean removed his hand from his hair and used it to push him back a little - still pretty much on him, still close, but he now got to look him in the eye.
Sam tried to duck his head, but Dean managed to meet his gaze. The red eyes, tears stained face and exhausted features looking at him with what looked an awful lot like a shameful expression.
Before Sam got the chance to do anything crazy - like apologize - Dean brushed the tears off and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Better?” He asked, hoping that it was; that he’d helped unload at least a bit of the weight on his little brother’s shoulders.
Against all odds, Sam smiled - small and without dimples, but a smile nonetheless, and Dean would take whatever he could get.
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” He said, then nodded, before letting out a yawn.
Dean squeezed his shoulder, then got up and offered Sam a hand to get him standing, too.
The youngest took it without hesitation and pulled himself up, suddenly feeling ten times more tired than before, burned out from the crying and adrenaline - other than the six months he’d spent in survival mode, always hyper aware of everything and everyone, never really resting.
When he let out another yawn and swayed a little on his feet, Dean quickly stabilized him and got a hand under his shoulders.
“Come on, let’s get you into bed. It’s still early.” He said, guiding him towards the bed furthest from the door and smiling fondly at him.
“We just woke up, I don’t need to-”
“Dude, you look five minutes away from passing out. We have nothing to do all day, just get in bed before you fall down.”
Two seconds later Sam found himself on his bed, and once his head hit the pillow, he forgot why he was even protesting in the first place.
Truth was, he was tired; hell, he felt completely drained - and sleeping felt like a really great idea. Dean sat on the bed to take off his shoes and pulled the covers on him, and it felt so good, so normal, so right to have his big brother take care of him like that - that the relief that filled him was almost enough to get him crying again.
When he felt Dean get up and move towards the other bed, he grabbed his arm and kept him close.
“Stay?” He asked, voice small and hesitant.
“‘Course. Just don’t kick me while you sleep, bitch.”
He settled back on the bed, back against the headboard and legs spread out towards his little brother. He grabbed the small tv remote and decided on some lame horror flick with crappy special effects, turning down the volume to avoid bothering the kid.
Sam pushed himself as close as possible, head pressed against Dean’s tight and an arm across his legs, and murmured something Dean could only assume was supposed to be “Jerk”.
Dean shook his head in feigned exasperation, and barely a couple minutes later Sam was out for the count. He shot him one last look, and focused back on the movie, letting one of his hands fall on the kid’s hair and start mindlessly playing with it.
The problem wasn’t solved: he was still going to Hell, his time was still running out - and the days on his calendar had never seemed to go that fast.
He wanted nothing more than to stay with Sam, and he’d try his damn hardest to, but in the meantime he was going to do what he did best: be a big brother.
He’d be there for Sam until the very last second, he’d make sure he was going to be alright without him, and he’d do everything he could to make it so the kid wouldn't lose himself in the midst of his grief.
He tried to regret selling his soul for Sam, but he couldn’t. Maybe that made him selfish, self-centered, but he didn’t think he could live in a world that didn’t have Sam in it - didn’t think it’d be worth it.
And if he really was really going to die - then he couldn’t think of a better legacy to leave than a little brother that would keep on living for the both of them.