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It was Christmas Eve. Jessica had been away celebrating with her family for about a week, and Sam was bored. Christmas had never really been much of a thing for him growing up. Dean would usually try to bring back snacks or small gifts, or sometimes Sam would make something in class. But overall, it was just another day. Their dad never made any effort to be home with them for it, and eventually, he and Dean stopped caring as well, instead hunting with their dad.
It used to bother him. He could remember being younger, giving Dean the amulet he had specifically chosen for their dad. He had never regretted that decision, despite how upset he was at the time. Dean had been there more for him than any other person ever could be. He was all at once a dad, brother, occasional enemy, best friend (and sometimes, almost, something more). All wrapped up in a green-eyed, overprotective, and outrageously loyal package.
Sam missed him. He missed his dumb little smile and the chip in his front eye-tooth. He missed the way Dean could always read his emotions without Sam needing to tell him. He missed curling up with him when their dad was away hunting. He never felt as safe anywhere else as he did wrapped up in Dean’s arms. Not even with Jessica.
It was something he had had to come to terms with when they started dating. He had never had a girlfriend before. Too many moves in too little time, too many bruises on too small a kid. When he moved away, he was more than ready to experience all the normal shit he hadn’t been able to growing up as a hunter. Some things he liked. Going to a bar because he wanted to hang out with friends instead of hustling pool for money, sitting in the library drinking coffee, and having a girlfriend.
But some things… some things were awful. And it was usually the things he thought he wouldn’t miss at all. Dean’s small snores—a personal lullaby he didn’t realize how much he relied on to sleep until it was gone. The familiar scent of gunpowder. Joking with someone who completely understood him. But most of all, he had not realized how hard it would be to be the only one who knew the truth. Who knew about the things that went bump in the night. To constantly be scanning for threats his classmates didn’t even believe in. And how hard that would be to hide from Jess. That was the hardest thing—not having anyone he could be completely honest with anymore.
A noise from down the hall broke through his maudlin musings. It wasn’t Jess. She would have let him know she was coming back early, or at least called out a greeting when she got home. None of his friends had a key to his place. He eased out of his room, shutting the door behind him as he went. It had been a quiet sound, just a small scraping of a window opening, but Sam knew his apartment. It had come from the living room.
Taking care to keep his steps light (and thanking God that it was so goddamn cold in his apartment that he had invested in slippers, which muffled his footfalls), he slunk to the doorway, peering around. He could make out a dark shape standing in front of the window. The dark mass seemed human-shaped, but that didn’t mean much. He had a moment to curse himself for not grabbing something sharp as he left his room, then suddenly the figure’s head snapped toward him. It moved, closing the distance between them in only a few strides before it was standing right in front of Sam. Belatedly, he lifted his hands, but the figure already had its arms around his neck, was already… giving him a noogie?
All at once, the scent of gunpowder, cigarettes, and blood washed over his senses. He could make out his brother’s face through the shadows, and all the fight went out of his body. Leaning into him, he breathed his brother’s name. “Dean.” It was as if he had conjured him with his reminiscing.
Dean looked down at him, scoffed, and let him fall to the floor. Sam landed with a thump and an “Oof!” before leaping back up and leaning back into Dean’s space. “The fuck was that for?”
“You're getting sloppy, Princess,” was Dean’s answer. He was already walking away from Sam, further into his apartment. “Nice place you got here. Very… homey.”
The walls were bare, only a few pictures with friends propped up on the flat surfaces around the small space. There were a few of him and Dean, but those stayed in his room. He didn’t want his friends to see them and start asking about his family. Jess said when she officially moved in she was going to redecorate the entire apartment. Sam was more than okay with that. Interior design was never going to be his calling.
“Thanks." He inserted as much sarcasm as he could into that one word. "Dean… why are you here?”
They hadn’t spoken since Sam left. And he had left in spectacular fashion—full of yelling and personal insults and words barbed with lethal precision.
“Had a hunt not too far away. Realized what day it was. Figured I’d come and say hello to my favorite little brother. Am I not allowed to visit?”
“Dean, of course you are. I just… didn’t think you would want to. Not with how we left things. But wherever I am, you are always welcome.”
There was a moment of silence. Dean was studying the blank wall, back facing Sam, so he couldn’t see what Dean’s face was doing. But his body was stock-still. “Is that so?”
“Of course. I wish we hadn’t fought when I left. I’ve missed you.”
At that, Dean turned to face him. “Then why didn’t you call? Or try to find me?”
“I told you, Dean, I didn’t think you wanted to see me. We have never fought like that before. I didn’t know how to handle it. But I’m glad you’re here now,” he said, his words slightly slurring together in his haste to get them out. This whole situation seemed like a dream. Or maybe an illusion conjured by missing his brother and too many days alone. There was a tension in the air, like there was something they were both dancing around, even if Sam wasn’t quite sure of the steps.
It was then that he registered that the smell of blood wasn’t just clinging to Dean like it usually did, but that it was actually and actively getting stronger. He looked closer at his brother and saw that he had a hand clasped against his stomach and was now leaning against the wall. Sam took a concerned step forward.
“Dean, are you okay?”
“Of course, Sammy. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sam looked at Dean. He could tell he had his bitchface on, but he didn’t care. Dean should know better than to think he could get away with lying to him. “Because I can smell blood and you’re doing a really good job of holding that wall up with your back. What happened? Where are you hurt?”
Dean huffed out a small breath, looking over at Sam. Now that he knew to look, Sam could see the fine lines of pain on Dean’s face, even in the relative darkness. “It’s not a big deal, Sammy. Just a little battle wound.”
A quiet dripping noise immediately contradicted Dean’s statement as blood slipped from between his fingers and onto the carpeted ground below him. Dean looked down at it, up at Sam, then back at the wall. “No biggie, I promise.”
“You always were a shit liar, Dean.”
“Well, I couldn’t be devilishly handsome, charming, amazing at fighting, and a good liar. God had to handicap me somewhere.”
Sam gave him a deadpan stare before starting to herd him to the bathroom. Some habits were harder to break than others, and keeping a fully stocked med kit seemed like a good habit to keep anyway. He pulled it down from the shelf he kept it on, pushing Dean to sit on the toilet lid.
“Wow, Sammy, nice. You really know how to treat a man.”
Not dignifying that with an answer, Sam gestured for Dean to take off his shirt. Dean got it about halfway up his torso before wincing, so Sam stepped forward and helped him get it the rest of the way off. Dean’s skin was warm under his hands, and even with the prevailing stench of blood, he still smelled like home.
The wound was a gash that crossed his bottom two ribs and onto his stomach on the left side, deep enough that Sam knew they were going to have to stitch it up. Sighing, he got to work.
It had been almost two years since he had stitched up a wound, but it turned out it was one of those things that was like riding a bike. He threaded the needle and got to work. He had always been one to work in silence, but Dean chattered away, filling the air around them with inane comments and mildly funny quips. When he was done, wiping away the blood and covering it with antiseptic, Dean leaned over and placed an obnoxious kiss on the top of his head.
Sam felt his breath stutter, even though he knew Dean didn’t mean anything by it. He was suddenly reminded, in stark contrast, of just how pale his relationship with Jess felt compared to what he had with Dean. He cared for Jess deeply; maybe he even loved her. But it was different with Dean. He was different with Dean.
He just still wasn’t sure if he was better or worse around him.
Getting his breath back in order, he shoved Dean’s face away from his, feigning disgust. “Get off me, Jerk.”
Dean laughed, and it almost took Sam’s breath away again. It had been so long since he heard it, so long since he saw him, and it was just sinking in that this was real. Dean was here, laughing in his apartment.
“Whatever, Bitch. So, what is there to do around here?” Dean stood, grabbing his shirt as he passed by Sam on his way out the door. He hid it well, but Sam could see the small flinch he let out as he flexed the muscles in his torso.
“Not much on Christmas Eve. But if you wanted to hang around, no one’s going to be back for a couple of days yet. You could stay and recuperate a bit. We could, I don’t know, catch up? Or something?”
Dean looked over at him, letting a small smile cross his face. “Yeah, Sammy. I think I would like that.”
And if, several days later when Jessica came back, there was a new picture on the wall—a framed one of an adult Dean sitting on a mall Santa’s lap with a wide grin on his face, and if it was possibly covering a small smear of blood—well, that was no one’s business but Sam’s and that poor Santa’s.