Chapter Text
Sam’s been on edge lately. Well, lately is a bit of an understatement. It’s been a relief to them both that Sam’s soul is safely tucked back inside him, but that doesn’t erase the hell (literally) that they went through before that. It’s been hard on both of them, dealing with the aftermath and trying to return to a bit of a normal life. ‘Normal’ is subjective, but hey, a guy can dream of spending time with his brother without being constantly worried about his mental and physical well-being.
So, that’s the issue. Sam is fighting his own demons (not literally this time, thank you very much) about the things he did when he was soulless. To add insult to injury, he’s also been grappling with the loss of his memory, feeling like he can’t even trust himself. Dean can’t say that he would be dealing much better, but it eats him alive to see Sam so distressed over things that he can’t change, that he can’t fix. And you can bet that Dean would fix them if he could. They’ve been taking some down time these past few months, trying to recuperate in the bunker and lay low, giving Sam a chance to recover. The problem is that he doesn’t seem to actually be doing much of that. Sam hasn’t been sleeping, which okay, isn’t exactly new but is still concerning. He’s not going on his morning runs, or annoying Dean about how much red meat he buys from the grocery store, and they haven’t even been spending much time together. Like, not even necessarily together , together, even including time spent hanging around the library, sharing meals together, or watching a movie. Nada. The last time Dean passed by Sam trudging along in the hallway, he smelled like he hadn’t showered in days. But Dean already knew he hadn’t showered in days, since he’s been keeping tabs on literally everything Sam does, because, well, he’s the crazy older brother and that’s his right. Sue him.
Part of the reason why it’s difficult for Dean to see Sam so distressed is because Dean knows that he can help. Sam has been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for far too long. He’s been trying to be everything to everyone, be strong, be the solution, fix everything, save the freaking world, and now he needs to just let his big brother take care of him. It’s how things are supposed to be, dammit.
Bottom line, Dean knows how to help him deal. The problem is Sam accepting that help. Or even acknowledging Dean in more than a passing glance. Which, honestly, Dean’s been trying not to let that hurt his feelings. He knows it’s not personal, but still. It doesn’t feel awesome to be shunned by the one person in the world that you’d literally give your life for. Not even hypothetically, either.
Soft, bare footsteps break Dean out of the thought cycle that he’s been spinning in, bringing him back to his seat at the kitchen table in the bunker. He looks up to see Sam, paler, thinner every day, peering into the kitchen from behind the door leading into the hall. He’s covered in the same grey henley and plaid pajama pants that he’s been wearing the past 3 days. The smooth skin of his face has given way to a scruffy beard. As much as he is in desperate need of a shower and a shave, Dean’s heart melts a little at the sight of his sweet little brother.
“Hi, Sammy. You hungry?” Real smooth. Dean can’t help it. It’s his brothering instincts that just scream at him to feed his Sam.
Sam grunts in response. “Just came for a glass of water.”
Dean nods, holds back the automatic protest that wants to climb out of his throat and insist that he make Sam a hearty meal. He pretends to be really interested in the hangnail on his pointer finger while sneaking glances at Sam as he moves through the kitchen. Sam grabs a glass from the top shelf in the cabinet and slides over to the sink. He turns the tap on. Dean watches it fill up with water, and then overflow. Water spills over onto Sam’s hand, and keeps on spilling. Dean holds his breath.
Sam seems to snap out of whatever trance he was in for that moment, jerking his head back to the current task, and shuts the water off. He poured out the excess water from the glass, and took a long swig. Dean exhales. Another reminder that Sam’s head is… who knows where.
Without saying anything more, or glancing toward Dean, Sam makes to exit the kitchen. Feeling brave, Dean calls out, “Wanna watch a movie with me tonight? You know, I might actually miss your annoying commentary these days.” He finishes it with a jab, but hey, it’s hard putting your heart on the line.
Sam stops, but doesn’t turn back. He looks down at his bare feet, flexes his toes on the spot. Dean can see his shoulders stiffen. “‘M too tired, probably going to hang out in my room. Next time, though.”
“Sure, next time.” Dean says, for Sam’s benefit. He looks away. At that, Dean hears Sam’s footsteps slowly get softer as he walks down the hall. Next time. That’s what Sam’s been saying for weeks. Months, maybe.
It’s not just the movie nights. It’s the separate beds, Sam choosing to sleep in “his room” when Dean’s room used to be “their room.” It’s missing meal times together, leaving Dean to cook for two and watch the other plate sit covered in the fridge until he has to throw it out. It’s the drives to town that he misses, riding in the car with his hand on Sam’s thigh, music turned up, windows rolled down, soft smiles on their faces. Now he makes trips solo. I mean, shit, even drinking together, he misses, belly laughing at something that wasn’t even funny but it’s funny because he’s with Sam. He misses it all. Sam’s smile, his warmth, his hugs, the intimacy they could share, the soft side to him that adores Dean.
Dean knows that Sam’s hurting, but he’s hurting, too. He misses his little brother. Quite frankly, he’s sick of watching the self punishment that Sam is putting himself through. He can’t keep standing by and waiting for Sam to come around, to come to Dean for help. Maybe it’s time to take it further than soft suggestions. Dean knows that his brother needs help, and he knows how to help him. But he’s been missing a key piece in his efforts so far. He’s been leaving every decision up to Sam. Waiting for Sam to come to Dean, letting Sam have the final say whether he eats or sleeps or exercises or showers. He says he knows what his brother needs, but it’s been staring him in the face this entire time. His little brother needs to be told what to do.
He starts small.
Dean doesn’t want to spook Sam. If Sam caught on to what Dean was doing before he was starting to feel any better, he’d get pissed and shut himself in his room for even longer. This is something that Dean knows, but he also knows he can’t keep waiting on Sam to take some initiative. Wary of the pattern that Sam has been in, Dean’s first move is one of his favorite acts of service: food. Duh.
Dean cooks Sam one of his favorite meals: Chicken Caesar Salad. Like, real chicken caesar salad. Even Dean can’t deny, it’s making his mouth water looking at the prepared bowl. He pulled out all the stops. Freshly cut and washed spring greens from the farmer’s market, juicy chicken grilled to perfection (if he does say so himself), thin slices of parmesan cheese, crispy croutons, homemade caesar dressing (anchovies and all), and freshly cracked black pepper to top it off.
It gets Sam to peek his head into the kitchen in interest.
“Is that a salad?” Sam asks, quietly. Dean can almost hear the teasing in it, but not quite.
“Sure is, Sammy. I have to admit, you might be onto something with these salads. Got to thinking about this one the other day, so I ran to town and grabbed the ingredients to make it here. I’m actually about to sit down to eat. I’d love some company, if you can stand to take a break from your busy schedule of staring at the wall to join me.” Dean internally cringes at the insult, but Sam’s still his brother. Can’t let him off too easily, or he’ll get suspicious.
Sam squints, but shuffles his feet across the cold tile floor and sits in the chair directly across from Dean. Well, that’s new.
“Here, let me make you a bowl,” Dean starts, feeling bold, grabbing the empty bowl he left beside the ingredients on the table.
Sam clears his throat, cueing Dean to stop what he’s doing and look up at his brother. “Uh,” Sam inhales, exhales. Pauses. “No, thanks. Not too hungry. Maybe later, though.”
Dean tries not to be too disappointed, I mean did he mention the dressing was homemade, for crying out loud? Nods at Sam, acting like that didn’t hurt his feelings, not at all. He digs into the salad like he would have if Sam wasn’t there. Honestly, it’s pretty damn good. Might need to add this one to the weekly rotation. They don’t talk about anything, just sit there in silence, but he has to admit, it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable, spending time in the same room for once. A little bit of the tension that’s been swimming in the room has eased, allowing them both to relax around each other, if only slightly, for the first time in a long time.
Dean’s chewing comes to an abrupt halt when he catches Sam reaching over and breaking off a small piece of grilled chicken from the platter on the table. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even breathe, only letting air out of his lungs when he sees in his peripheral vision that Sam has taken a bite. His stomach is absolutely flipping, feeling a sense of pride that Sam’s actually eating his food. Dean acts like he didn’t even notice. Can’t blow his cover this early. The chewing resumes.
Sam hums in appreciation. A few minutes pass by before he goes in for another bite, this time grabbing a small slice of parmesan. Dean keeps eating, keeps acting like this isn’t a big freaking deal . This continues on for the length of time it takes Dean to finish his salad. He doesn’t ask Sam if he wants more, doesn’t offer to make another bowl, he simply gets up, puts his dishes in the sink, and starts cleaning up the salad ingredients. He put them away neatly in the middle shelf of the fridge, in plain view, looking like an enticing and convenient option if someone were perhaps to get hungry and sneak by the kitchen and look for a late night snack.
Dean takes a look at the clean kitchen that features his little brother sitting in a chair, chin propped in his hands by his elbows that are resting on the table. Sam’s looking at Dean, almost, expectantly?
“Gonna go take a shower and get some sleep. Catch ya later, Sammy.” Dean claps his brother on the back on his way out, and fights his every instinct to look back while he’s walking.
He makes good on his word, taking a quick shower and getting into bed. He can’t help but feel a little warm spot glowing in his chest at the sight of Sam’s interest in the food that Dean made. Because Dean’s the best big brother ever and knows exactly what Sam likes.
Dean sleeps soundly, naturally waking up around 6:00 am since he went to bed early. The first thing he does after sliding into his slippers and tying his dead guy robe on, is speed walk to the fridge. He gasps when he takes in the contents of the shelf. Everything is nearly half gone from what it was when he put the items away last night. Sam moused his way in here and ate . Like, actual food.
Dean immediately gets to working on a smoothie with bananas, blueberries, and avocados. He is skeptical about the avocados, but has seen Sam put them in smoothies a million times, so it can’t be that bad. He “accidentally” makes a little too much to fit into his cup.
Quietly, Dean pads around the bunker in search of Sam. He finds him curled up on the couch, book open, face down next to him. Dean leaves the extra cup of smoothie next to him on the side table, and goes back to his room.
When he comes back out a few hours later, Sam is no longer sitting on the couch, but the smoothie cup is still there. And it’s empty.
Sam’s eating, check.
Up next, Sam’s sleep schedule. Dean knows that he’s been spending late nights up in the library doing god knows what. Nothing good, that’s for sure. He’s barely even spent any time in his own room, just ends up nodding off in the recliner when he can’t force his eyes open any longer. To be fair, neither of them have ever had the best track record when it comes to sleep, but it’s really starting to get out of hand. Dean knows that Sam’s not even getting the obligatory Winchester 4 hours per night to keep functioning. He’s been burning the candle from every possible end for way too long.
To get Sam to sleep, and sleep well , and maybe even sleep in their bed, Dean knows he needs to try and be sneaky. Sam’s stubborn. While he has been doing better about eating the last few days, he’s still struggling. Dean sets his plan in motion in the evening by moving his dresser away from the wall, unplugging his lamp, and then moving the dresser back.
He goes out in search of his brother, finding him sprawled out on the couch, head lolled to the side, eyes half closed like he was on his way to sleep but got stuck somewhere in the middle. He’s wearing those same plaid pajama pants, but with a navy blue henley instead of gray. Switching it up, apparently. He stirs at the sound of Dean’s footsteps. Dean stops behind the couch and leans over, resting his elbows on the back of it, blocking Sam’s light.
“There you are, Sammy. Been lookin’ all over for your lanky ass. As it turns out, I have something that requires those freakishly long arms of yours.”
Sam squints up at Dean, like he’s not too sure how to respond.
“Yeah?” he prods.
“Yeah. Somethings up with the lamp in my room. I was going to read before bed, but when I went to turn it on, nothing happened. I tried grabbing the cord to see if it was still plugged in, but I can’t reach it. Whaddaya say?” Dean knows he’s stretching the truth a bit, I mean, reading before bed, really? Not to mention he could obviously just move the dresser out of the way like he did to unplug it in the first place. But it’s all he thought of for a reason to get Sam to actually go into his ( their! ) room.
Sam sighs, but sits up, face inches away from Dean’s. His hazel eyes are squinting slightly like he wants to call Dean out on some part of that claim, but he lets it go. “Alright. Show me.”
Dean can’t help but smile. From this close, he can almost kiss Sam. Almost.
“C’mere, follow me.” He starts heading back to the hallway towards the bedroom, soft footsteps trailing behind him. Once both of them are through the door and into the dimly lit bedroom, he gestures to the lamp sitting innocently on the dresser. “This one. It was working the other day just fine. Then now, won’t turn on. Think you can reach behind there? The dresser was too heavy for me to try and move.” Another lie. Obviously.
If Sam clocked it, he didn’t show it. Sam looked at the lamp, looked at Dean, then back at the lamp, peering over to where the black cord runs behind the dresser. “I’ll take a look.”
Sam slowly lowers himself to the ground, crawling on all fours to peer between the dresser and the wall. “I think the lamp is unplugged, or got wedged awkwardly somehow. I might be able to fix it, let me see….” Sam trails off. He turns his head to the side and crams his right shoulder up against the wall, right cheek pressed against the dresser. He furrows his brow in concentration. Dean can hear the sound of the lamp cord knocking against the wall as Sam tries to grasp it. Dean can also see the fact that Sam's navy blue henley has ridden up slightly, exposing a slip of the skin on his back. God, Dean really misses his brother.
“Any luck?” Dean asks.
“Hold on, almost got it,” Sam pauses, biting his lip and looking up at Dean, like that’s what will plug the cord in. Dean’s seen that look before, when Sam’s curious hand is reaching for his— “There!” Sam removes his arm from behind the dresser and sits back on his heels, tops of his feet flat on the floor. “Try and turn it on now.”
Dean steps closer to Sam. If he reached his hand out, he could touch the top of Sam’s head. He turns the small knob on the lamp until it clicks. They’re still bathed in the dim light that’s coming from the hallway. Sam tilts his head in confusion. Dean turns the knob again, again, and again. Still, no light. Did he fail to mention that earlier, he burned out the bulb by frying it in the garage to make absolutely sure that it wouldn’t turn on?
“Huh,” Dean starts. “Must be actually broken. I’ll have to run to the store later this week and pick up another one.”
Sam looks disappointed, like he was actually looking forward to helping Dean.
Dean inches even closer. “But thank you, Sammy. I’m so lucky to have a sweet little brother like you.”
Now Sam’s looking up at Dean again, wide brown eyes locked to green ones. Dean dares to reach out, slowly, so as to not spook the soft baby brother kneeling at his feet. Gently, so gently, he cards his fingers through Sam’s hair, starting at the spot just above his ear and trailing back towards the nape of his neck. When Sam doesn’t pull away, he repeats the motion. Sam’s hair is a bit greasy, but Dean doesn’t mind.
Sam’s eyes start to flutter closed, head involuntarily tilting heavily into Dean’s hand. The lamp is forgotten. Dean steps even closer, the toes of his boots are inches away from Sam’s knees on the floor. His other hand reaches down to cup Sam’s jaw. Sam’s breath hitches.
“Shhhhh,” Dean soothes. “I got you, Sammy.” He keeps his voice soft, barely above a whisper.
Gently, Dean guides the back of Sam’s head closer, leading him to lift up onto his knees and bringing his chest closer to Dean’s legs. Sam’s so damn tall, the top of his head nearly reaches the middle of Dean’s torso. Dean brings his body into Sam’s, guiding him to rest his head on Dean’s lower belly. The contact feels amazing. Dean can feel the warmth of Sam’s cheek through his shirt. Sam’s neck tenses for a moment, before he lets out a long, deep breath and settles more heavily into Dean, resting some of his weight on his brother. Sam’s head is turned to the side, caged comfortably by Dean’s firm right hand on the back of his neck, holding him safe, while Dean’s left hand covers the ear not tucked into Dean’s warmth, protecting him. After a beat, Sam, ever so tentatively, reaches his arms around to hug Dean’s thighs.
This position is comfortable, it’s familiar. Sam on his knees, vulnerable, holding onto Dean. Dean, above Sam, bearing the weight of his little brother on his body. The closeness and warmth of Sam starts to make him hard, which he ignores, of course. A lot of intimacy between them has started in this position, with Sam starting to nuzzle into the bulge of Dean’s jeans, inhaling his scent and exhaling warm, damp breath, bleeding through the layers of Dean’s clothing. This isn’t like that. If Sam notices, he doesn’t say anything.
Dean holds Sam like that for a long time. He would stay in that position all night, just being a comfortable support beam for Sam. Eventually, Sam starts to nod off. Dean doesn’t know how, being that he’s on his knees and all, but he also can’t underestimate just how sleep deprived his little brother really is. Besides, he knows that deep down, Sam feels the comfort of kneeling for his big brother. The muscles in Sam’s neck start giving sporadic twitches, letting Dean know that he’s starting to fall asleep.
Trying his best not to startle Sam, Dean resumes his pets on Sam’s face and hair. Sam stirs a bit, rubbing his face a bit deeper into Dean’s belly. He lets out a soft whine of protest, letting Dean know that he’s not happy about the disruption.
“Hey, sleepy baby. Let’s get you to bed.”
Sam hums in a half hearted protest, but is pliant when Dean reaches down to help him stand. The transition to his full height is a bit jarring, with Sam now being taller, but he still leans a lot of his weight on Dean. With a guiding hand to his lower back, Dean leads Sam to the edge of his ( their!!! ) bed. Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. It reminds Dean of when they were kids. Sam plops down on the bed, eyes fluttering open and closed.
“Arms up.” Dean grips the hem of Sam’s henley and pulls it over his head. Dean shivers as the back of his knuckles graze the soft skin of Sam’s flanks. He pauses to take in the sight of his brother’s body, before lowering himself onto his own knees. He peels off the soft white socks Sam’s been wearing, leaving him in just his plaid pajama pants, tossing them and the shirt to the side. Dean gently slides his hands up Sam’s calves, knees, and thighs, a gesture of comfort and care. Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s. Dean’s lips quirk up in a reassuring half smile.
Dean uses Sam’s thighs to balance himself on his way back to standing, then pulls on Sam’s hands to bring him up as well. Dean peels back the covers on his always-made bed and holds his breath as he watches Sam stare at the empty space that is clearly meant for him. Sam’s mouth opens like he’s going to protest, which makes Dean stop breathing, but it closes after a moment before he crawls underneath the thick blankets, long hair making a halo around his head on the pillow. Dean tugs the blanket high up to Sam’s neck, brushing a strand of hair out of his face for good measure.
Turning to his dresser, Dean pulls out a worn hoodie and bunches it up, putting it in Sam’s hands. He likes to hold something while he sleeps. Sometimes it’s Dean, but, well, he doesn’t want to assume. Sam hugs the sweatshirt to his chest, tucking his chin to his neck to snuggle closer to it. Dean walks over to the other side of the bed, closing the bedroom door on his way, reducing what little light they had to near complete darkness. His eyes adjust to make out Sam’s body on the bed, he’s propped up on an elbow, facing Dean. Dean strips down to just his boxers. Sam watches him do it. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to make it sexy. But Sam still watches, lips parted.
Pulling the covers back, Dean eases into bed beside Sam. He’s careful to leave a gap between them while he gets comfortable. Again, he doesn’t want to assume that Sam wants to snuggle. Once Dean’s on his back and under the covers, Sam relaxes back down onto the bed, clutching the sweatshirt, but he’s still looking at Dean. No sudden moves.
Slowly, so slowly, Dean scooches closer to his brother, until their foreheads are almost touching. Sam’s eyes stay open. Dean brushes his nose against Sam’s as he tilts his head up ever so slightly and presses his lips to Sam’s sweaty forehead. It’s not really a kiss, just touching his mouth to Sam’s skin. When he pulls back, Sam’s eyes are closed.
“G’night, little brother,” Dean whispers. Sam doesn’t respond for a few minutes. Dean thought they were going to drift off like that.
Sam’s soft voice breaks the silence. “You don’t even have any books in here, Dee.”
Dean hums. “Go to sleep, Sammy.” Caught . Didn’t seem like Sam minded too much how Dean’s little plan turned out. Plus, the nickname is a sign that Dean’s gestures are working. Sam hasn’t called him that in too long.
Dean settles back into the mattress, looking up at the ceiling. Even though they aren’t touching, he can feel the warmth of Sam radiating from his body. The kid did always run hot. He knows he should relax and get some sleep, but the fact that Sam is back in their bed is making Dean hyper aware of everything that he does. Like, he can’t breathe too deeply without being fearful of startling Sam out of the bed. He really, really wants to wake up next to him. Sam reaches a warm, sweaty hand out to meet Dean’s and entwine by their sides. Dean’s heart rate increases, and he fights back a smile. He doesn’t say anything, and is sure to hold Sam’s hand back with the same amount of pressure. Sam gives it a strong squeeze, then retracts his hand back to get more comfortable. Dean doesn’t mind. The smile on Dean’s face wins, belly swooping with happiness at the small gesture.
Eventually, Sam’s breathing evens out into that slow, deep sleep pattern. Sam shifted once more before fully falling asleep, winding up on his side facing Dean, sweatshirt bunched up against his chest and cheek. He can barely make out the outline of Sam’s face in the dark, eyes gently closed, lips slightly parted. A sweet face on his sweet little boy. This is the first time in a long time that Dean’s seen him truly relaxed. He’s going to do everything in his power to start bringing that into the daylight hours for Sam.
Dean drifts off to the white noise of Sam’s sleep breathing. He wakes up once in the middle of the night to Sam readjusting his position, tugging on the blankets. He falls asleep again quickly.
Morning comes easily, Dean’s eyes fluttering open and immediately looking to Sam’s side of the bed. It’s empty, and the bedroom door is open. Before Dean’s heart could sink too deeply into the floor, Sam emerges from around the door frame and pads his bare feet back to the bed.
“Had to pee,” he explains. “Not ready to get up yet, too early.”
Dean lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He doesn’t think it’s that early, but he will do whatever Sam wants. He takes a moment to reach up and stretch out, arching his back and feeling his ankles pop.
Sam settles closer to Dean this time, making brief eye contact before resting his head on Dean’s chest, bunched up sweatshirt forgotten. Dean feels at the tickle of Sam’s hair on his skin. Sam’s soft eyes flutter closed. Their legs don’t quite overlap, but Sam’s pressed up against Dean as if they were. Dean’s left arm drapes around Sam’s sleep warm shoulder, while his right comes to rest on Sam’s hairline, covering most of his face, keeping him safe. Sam drifts off to sleep again quickly, but Dean lies awake, staring at the ceiling, body half curled around Sam in a protective hold.
For the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s actually able to do something. This is within his control, and Sam’s been taking Dean’s lead so well. It’s the reassurance that he needed to keep going with his little plan to get Sam back to feeling more himself. That he’s the big brother, he’s in charge, and yes, he does know best.