Work Text:
december 2006
seattle, wa
Sam Winchester was all too familiar with pain. Physical, emotional, mental; somatic, visceral, and neuropathic. He knew what it felt like to have a concussion, to sit on a grimy motel floor while your older brother carefully sutured the flesh of your abdomen, to be shot at and kicked and punched.
He knew emotional pain intimately; the ache of losing a relative, someone you share a face and a last name and blood with, but never actually knew. The anguish of finally, finally, having a normal life, that ‘apple-pie-picket-fence’ reality that you always joked about, that was never within reach but it was something you prayed for, to a God that you may or may not believe in every night, and then having it ripped away from you.
Finally finding the love of your life, the most beautiful girl you’ve ever had the privilege to love. Someone you could bare your soul to, tell your deepest secrets to, someone to cry and laugh with. But then having her taken away, engulfed in flames like that relative that you knew but never knew.
The mental pain that follows, blaming yourself for all the things you should have done but were quite literally impossible; refusing to accept the fact that there was nothing you could have done differently. Waking up, drenched in sweat with a mixture of tears and snot running down your face after watching your dead girlfriend call out to you, begging to be saved for the eighteenth night in a row. Crying to your older brother, who hates feelings but will push it aside to take care of His Sammy, who holds you tightly and just whispers that he knows, he knows, he knows.
Long story short, the younger Winchester had dealt with his fair share of pain in his twenty-two years of life.
But nothing could ever compare to the excruciating pain he experienced when he had a migraine.
Migraines were something that Sam had dealt with from a very young age, beginning at nine or ten, he couldn’t remember. What he does remember is that the first time the pain hit him, he doubled over in the parking lot outside of a motel in Nevada and threw up everything he had in his stomach, until there was nothing but spit and bile to come out.
He remembers Dean panicking, a quick exclamation of “What the fuck?” before he was at his little brother’s side, coaxing him through his sickness and assuring him that it would be over soon. He shielded Sam from the disappointed, borderline angry visage that their pathetic excuse of a father shot their way when he saw the tears streaming down his youngest's face and the spit gathering on his chin.
He remembers Dean being the one to settle him in the stiff full-size motel bed, John barely being in the room long enough to set his duffle down before leaving again, yelling out something about chasing a lead, which made the pain filling the right side of Sam’s head pulsate with the beat of his heart. Dean was the one who brought him the painkillers and water, slowly helping him swallow them before laying the younger boy back down. He closed all of the curtains, and unplugged the alarm clocks, essentially eliminating any light from the room.
Sam remembers Dean doing this more times than he could count.
Dean was always the one who helped him through his migraines. He was the one who talked Sam down from a panic attack the first time he had a visual aura, the one who waited patiently every time Sam experienced transient aphasia. Dean did more for him than John ever did in these situations. Things had obviously changed when he went to Stanford, instead learning to deal with the migraines on his own and eventually, with the help of his girlfriend. But nothing compared to the care of his older brother.
He wondered if Dean remembered, too.
It was a wet, snowy morning in Seattle. Sam and Dean were still on the hunt for their dad, following leads with no success in finding him. Sure, they got the satisfaction of knowing that they saved people each time they solved a case, but Sam was tired .
Sam opened his eyes and turned to his right, checking to see the time on the dingy alarm clock. If Dean’s snores were any sign, it was still early. That thought was confirmed when the neon green letters read out 6:57 , albeit very blurry. Sam blinked aggressively, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear the sleep clouding his vision, but his efforts were in vain when he opened his eyes again and still could not see.
Dean snored again as icy panic began to fill Sam’s veins, fear causing his body to freeze over for a split second. He knew what this was. It had been a while since he’d had a migraine, long before Jess’ death. He knew that it was the time spent on the road, the constant driving with scarce sleep and even scarcer food, the hours of research and staring at a computer screen with no break, the repressed trauma he had experienced, now clawing its way out.
He sighed heavily as tears sprung to his eyes, making his already cloudy vision even worse. There was no way he was going to tell Dean he was having an attack, they had shit to get done. Sam was partially confident that he could make it through the day without too much difficulty, as long as Dean didn’t need too much of his seeing abilities.
However, the other part of him was wholly terrified of what symptoms were going to arise. After going so long without having one, there was no telling what physical symptoms he would endure. Usually, he dealt with the visual auras in his right eye, starting with blurriness and leading to complete loss of vision for a varying amount of time, nausea that left him doubled over as sweat and tears mixed on his face, and occasionally the temporary aphasia that left him unable to speak for hours, sometimes days, at a time.
He really hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with the last one.
Sam decided that he would be okay, that he could survive a little headache for a day and then he could crash over the weekend, hopefully. However, as soon as he came to that conclusion, he felt a sharp stab through his right eye, as though someone had stuck an ice pick through his brain. The sudden pang elicited a long whine from Sam’s throat, despite his best efforts of pushing it down.
The pain didn’t end there, now spreading down to the base of his skull and pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Because Sam was nothing if not lucky, the high-pitched groan tore its way out of his throat again, bringing a stream of tears along with it. As he reached his hand out from under the blankets to wipe his tears, the sheets beside him rustled.
“Mm, S’mmy?” Dean grumbled, hardly audible. Sam held his breath, hoping that if he didn’t respond, Dean would ignore it and go back to sleep. But, once again, his hope turned out to be futile as Dean’s shadow spread across the wall, signaling that the older Winchester was awake. “You good, Sammy?” He asked again, and all Sam could think was lie lie lie don’t tell him the truth don’t be a burden.
Sam inhaled one long, shaky breath that struggled against his lungs and made his head feel as though it may explode. Exhaling just as shakily, he muttered, “All good, Dean.” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, rough and hoarse, barely above a whisper.
He hoped Dean wouldn’t notice, that he was either too tired or that Sam had been away for so long that he had forgotten all of his tells; no longer retaining the ability to pick up on the way his younger brother's voice shook and the way he was nearly gasping for breath, wincing through the pain.
Thankfully, that seemed to please Dean as he merely got up and went into the bathroom, using it before walking back to and collapsing face-first on his bed. Sam figured that if Dean went back to sleep, that would buy him at least a couple of extra hours to get the migraine under control.
He attempted to watch the minutes on the clock pass by through his blurred vision, caused by both auras and tears. The pain penetrating the right side of his head continued to worsen, leaving Sam nauseous and curled in a fetal position, unsure whether the pain in his head or stomach was worse at that moment.
Finally, Dean woke up for good at 8:37, according to the clock. Time had passed far too quickly, yet simultaneously slowly and agonizingly. It only mildly concerned Sam that he was dissociated for most of it, trying to ignore the pain and refrain from any movement that could cause it to worsen. Sam tried to watch Dean maneuver through the room out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to draw any attention to himself.
Unfortunately, since Dean knew him better than anyone, he already knew that Sam was awake. “G’Morning, Sammy. Wanna go get some breakfast?” Dean asked as he pulled a black undershirt over his head.
Every part of Sam was screaming no no no no no no no ,
Except for physically. Because as badly as he wanted to, he needed to maintain the idea that he was okay , that he wasn’t in the worst pain of his life, and that he could carry on throughout his day like normal. Attempting to clear his throat, he muttered a hoarse sure. The current state of his voice earned a concerned glance from Dean- well, Sam thinks it did, at least. He still couldn’t see, and the blurry spot in his right eye was growing by the minute. His assumption was proven correct when he heard Dean ask from across the room, “Dude, are you feeling okay?”
Sam pretended not to hear the concern lacing his voice.
He braced himself, willing his voice to come out stronger, louder than it had before. He cleared his throat again, speaking up. “Yeah, man. I’m fine, just thirsty,” he replied as nonchalantly as he could, even sitting up in bed so his brother could see him.
That, however, proved to be a mistake as the sudden movement caused his stomach to lurch, and Sam was barely able to stop himself from gagging. He was really hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with the nausea for at least a couple more hours. He sat completely still, even taking shallow breaths as he waited for the bout of nausea to pass, not wanting to risk throwing up on the bedspread.
“...if you say so, man. I was thinking we could go get breakfast and then go talk to the vic’s family if you’re feeling up for it,” Dean offered, and something about the way he gave Sam a choice made him feel both warm and cold inside. The fact that Dean valued his opinion, but he didn’t deserve it. He was the one who left for four years and couldn’t even make it through a hunt without becoming a liability, why should his thoughts matter?
“-ey, Sammy! Did you hear me?” His older brother's voice pulled him out of his thoughts once again. Sam was startled at the sudden volume change, looking up to realize Dean had sat down on the bed beside him to put his boots on. “You gonna get dressed?”
Sam looked down at his shirt dumbly, his brain taking longer to catch up than it should. He recognized that he was in a gray pajama shirt and blue pants, logically knowing he couldn’t get breakfast and talk to the victim’s family in such a state. He nodded, not trusting himself to form a coherent sentence as he very slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, rising to his feet and allowing his body to adjust to being upright to avoid throwing up on the floor. He walked over to his duffle, grabbing the pair of jeans and sweatshirt that he had worn yesterday; normally Sam wouldn’t re-wear his clothes in such a way, but he didn’t couldn’t the energy within himself to care.
He made quick work of dressing himself but maintained a slow enough pace so as to not aggravate his stomach. Distantly, a voice in his head was telling him that Dean was getting impatient, but Sam wasn’t listening. He couldn’t focus on it if he wanted to, consumed by the stabbing pain trailing from the right side of the top of his head down to his right shoulder blade. He settled upon not brushing his teeth to avoid irritating his gag reflex. Instead, he went straight back to his bed and pulled on the boots that he left sitting beside it.
“You finally ready?” Dean smirked. Sam tried to smile back, but he was pretty sure it turned out as more of a grimace than a smile. However, Dean didn’t comment on it, so Sam didn’t either. He simply followed the older man out of the door, vision still blurred, and hoping he was going to be able to stomach eating breakfast.
The ride to the diner was short, leaving Sam to close his eyes and focus on pushing down the nausea. Dean had the radio turned on but kept it at a low volume. He hardly noticed when the Impala came to a halt, Dean having to get his attention to even get him out of the car. When Sam finally exited the vehicle, he swayed slightly due to the lightheadedness that had hit him a few minutes prior. Dean held his hands out, ready to catch Sam if needed.
“Dude, what the hell?” Dean asked, but there was no malice in his tone. If anything, he sounded worried, and it made Sam feel worse than anything.
“I’m- I’m good, Dean. Let’s just… go inside,” Sam sighed. Dean opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but decided against it and turned around, heading into the restaurant. Sam followed close behind, afraid of falling too far behind due to the severity of his migraine. He was trying to play it off, he really was, but it hurt so fucking bad and he hadn’t been in so much pain in so long.
An elderly waitress seated them, handing them two menus before winking at Dean. Sam tried to read the options listed, but all of the words blended together, and trying to focus made his mouth fill with saliva, the sickness filling his stomach.
He was trying, but his attempt to form a coherent thought was useless. Tears of frustration began to fill his eyes, but he scrubbed them away before Dean could notice, thankfully too occupied with his menu to see. “I think I’m gonna get pancakes and sausage, what are you thinking?” Dean asked, finally looking up from the plastic clutched in his hands.
Sam blinked a few times, allowing his brain to process what Dean had said. Distantly, he noticed that the vision in his left eye had improved, allowing him to see almost clearly in that eye. His right eye, however, was a different story. Sam was always the odd one out; his auras lasting much longer than the average person.
“I, uh… I think I’m just- just gonna get black coffee,” Sam eventually responded. The nausea wasn’t going to allow him to eat breakfast, but he hoped the caffeine would help push down the migraine for at least a couple of more hours.
“You need to eat, man. You’re too tall to be so lanky,” Dean replied, formatting his response as a joke, but Sam knew it wasn’t. Dean noticed how he hadn’t been eating as much since… since he left Stanford.
“I’m just… not hungry, Dean,” he tiredly argued back. He knew he wouldn’t be able to put up a real fight, but he tried nonetheless. He saw the way Dean hesitated, wanting to continue the argument, but something flashed across his face and he simply nodded his head. Not long after, the waitress came back around and took their order, Dean ordering for Sam before he even had a chance. She took their menus and headed back to the kitchen, leaving Sam to stare at Dean, wondering if he knew .
He was expecting his brother to bring it up, to call him useless and tell him he was just going to take him back to the motel since he would be no fucking help talking to the victim's family, and Sam knew that he would be right.
Instead, he leaned back in his booth. “I’m thinking vamps, based on the released cause of death and the scene yesterday. I wanna make the talk with the family short ‘cause I’m thinking we should go by the morgue to check out the body and see the autopsy ourselves. If that’s what it is, I say we find the sons of bitches tonight and kill ‘em, then we’re done here,” Dean rambled, clearly having done his research. Sam nodded along, trying to comprehend what he was saying.
“Uh, yeah. That, uh- that sounds good to me,” Sam replied. He couldn’t think of what to say, hoping Dean was satisfied with that answer.
He pretended not to notice the worry in Dean’s eyes before he started talking again. “If we can wrap things up tonight, we can be out of here in the next few days. We don’t have any other cases to follow right now, and I have no damn idea what else to do about Dad. We’ve been looking for him for over a month, I don’t know where else to look. I mean, Jesus, we’ve literally crossed the country trying to find him,” Dean laughed sarcastically. Sam felt bad because he knew Dean was stressed over not being able to find their Dad. Sam was worried too, considering they hadn’t even heard from him.
“Wait, what do you- you said next few days. Why not leave tomorrow?” Sam asked, suddenly realizing what Dean had said.
“I mean, we’ve been going non-stop for nearly a whole damn month, Sammy. Personally, I want to get more than six hours of sleep,” Dean answered nonchalantly. Sam simply nodded in response, part of him still burning with curiosity.
Before he had the chance to prod any more, the waitress was back and placing Dean’s breakfast and Sam’s coffee on the table in front of them. The older Winchester hardly wasted a second before he was digging into his breakfast, while Sam sat with the mug of coffee clutched in his shaking hands. He carefully lifted the porcelain cup to his lips, taking a long sip of the mediocre beverage. It tasted like shit, but it made the ache in his throat dissipate.
He listened to Dean talk about random things while sipping his coffee, careful not to disturb the nausea. His head was killing him, but he was going to power through until they made it back to the motel. Even then, he was only going to allow himself painkillers. There was still no way he was telling Dean.
Eventually, Dean finished his food and threw two fives on the table, knowing it didn’t cost that much but too lazy to dig out exact change. Sam took one last drink of his coffee before standing up very slowly, and following Dean out to the impala.
“I have the detective badges in the trunk. I know we ain’t dressed the part, but it’s a small town. They ain’t gonna notice,” Dean said as he pulled out of the parking lot, turning left and heading to the victim’s house.
The ride wasn’t terribly long, maybe five minutes, but that was more than enough time for the pounding in Sam’s head to worsen and his right eye to progress from a growing blurry spot to a black spot. He felt as though his stomach was doing flips as he tried to keep himself from doubling over. God, he wanted to cry.
Fear flooded his veins when he realized that they stopped, looking up to see Dean put the car into park. His heart began to race as he remembered he was going to have to talk to these people. His lagging brain also realized that his ears were ringing so loudly that he could hardly hear anything else. Suddenly, his door was pulled open.
“Are you coming?” Dean asked, eyeing him. Sam nodded, clambering out of the car. Dean held out the fake ID that read Detective Lee. He clutched it tightly in his hand as he followed Dean up to the victim’s house.
Dean knocked on the door, hardly having to wait before it opened. On the other side was a younger woman, likely in her twenties. She had light brown hair and tear-filled hazel eyes. “Hello, who are you?” She said.
Dean did not hesitate in his response, “I’m Detective Neil and this is my partner, Lee,” he began, holding up his badge to show her. He nudged Sam, who belatedly realized he needed to do the same. “We heard about your husband’s passing and wanted to speak with you if that’s okay.”
Husband. Sam hadn’t thought about that.
“Oh, of course,” She sniffled, “come on in.” She opened the door the rest of the way, allowing them into the living room. It was in pristine condition, any signs that her life was falling apart were completely absent. She gestured for them to sit on the couch as she sat in a matching chair across from it. “My name is Emma,” she introduced.
“Nice to meet you, Emma. So sorry for your loss,” Dean sympathized. She nodded her head as tears filled her eyes once again.
“Thank you. Charlie was… well, he was my best friend, you know? We met in college and got married two years ago. He was attending for his Master’s, he was halfway through the program when he…” She trailed off, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater. “He was a marine biologist. He loved the sea, and loved the animals in it even more, y’know? God, he was so passionate about it, I loved listening to him talk about it,” she continued, rambling on. Sam was finding it increasingly harder to keep up, her words blending in his head.
Dean responded with something that Sam wasn’t able to make out. Dean nudged him again, similar to how he did outside. Sam vaguely realized they were both staring at him. Do I need to ask a question?
“Um… husband… you know, the water that, uh, he… well, the car was there. The water was, uh… in the cup, and- and the car was jumping? Um… the umbrella was clear and the… the water was purple? In the cup, the water…” Sam rambled, he was trying to just fucking make sense but nothing was coming out the way he wanted because his stupid fucking brain wasn’t fucking working.
His eyes filled with tears as he grew more frustrated, finally looking at the two other faces in the room. The poor woman, Emma, looked terrified. Meanwhile, Dean’s face showed nothing but worry, which made Sam’s stomach drop. “The… purple car, it was there. And the- the balloons…” he trailed off as the tears began to stream down his face. The woman looked at Dean, her eyes wide as saucers.
“What’s wrong with him?” She asked.
“I’m so sorry to leave so early, ma’am, but Detective Lee is having a bit of a rough day. I sure hope we didn’t bother you too much. Thank you for allowing us in,” Dean said quickly, rising to his feet and leading Sam up. Sam didn’t hear if the woman responded, blinded by the pain piercing through his skull. Dean led him to the door, quickly ushering him out.
“Dammit, Sam. I was hoping you were gonna tell me and that it wasn’t gonna come to this,” he mumbled as he led his younger brother to the car.
“Dee… hurt,” Sam whispered, hoping that he was making sense.
“I know, Sammy. We’re almost to the car, okay?” Dean responded. However, Sam’s stomach decided that would be the perfect time to empty its contents after hours of nausea. Sam barely had time to prepare himself before he was on his knees, throwing up in the grass mere feet away from the Impala.
By the time he was done, his tears were flowing faster than he could wipe them and the vision in his right eye was completely gone. He felt Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, placed lightly to keep him grounded. “Hurts,” he whispered again, even though he had already said it once.
“I know. I know it hurts, Sammy. Do you think you can make it to the car?” Dean asked. It took Sam several seconds to comprehend what the older man had said, eventually nodding when it clicked. Dean helped him stand up, keeping his arm around him for the younger man to remain upright. Within the five-foot walk to the car, Sam threw up again until there was nothing left but spit and bile. Dean held onto him throughout the whole process, never letting him fall.
They eventually made it to the car, where Dean carefully placed Sam into the front seat and buckled him in. He made sure that Sam was reclining slightly to take some of the pressure off of his head.
“Okay, you’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get back to the motel and pump you full of meds and shit, then you’re gonna have the best fuckin’ sleep of your life,” Dean explained, mostly to himself. Sam was thankful that his stomach was empty, leaving nothing left to throw up despite the nausea that still wracked his body.
He didn’t recognize when Dean started the car, or began the drive to the motel, or when they arrived at said motel. His thoughts consisted of hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts. He couldn’t help the tears that slid down his cheeks or the whimpers that escaped his throat.
“Alright, Sammy. We’re here, I’m gonna help you to the room, m’kay? It’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna take it nice and slow,” Dean coaxed as he lifted the taller man out of the car, gripping his abdomen in an attempt to keep him upright. Sam groaned in response, any ability to form a coherent sentence completely vanished. His legs felt like they were made of lead, each step feeling like it took every fiber of his being. Dean never let go of his white-knuckle grip on his brother, barely releasing his right hand long enough to unlock the motel room door.
“Here, Sammy. Let’s get those boots off, yeah? You can sleep in your jeans, but we gotta get the shoes off,” Dean said as he lowered Sam onto the bed, laying him gently against the pillows. He untied the laces carefully, slipping them off and placing them on the floor beside him. Once he was done, Dean walked over to his duffle, pulling out the bottle of Excedrin that he kept for emergencies, much like the situation they were in now. He spilled three into his palm before walking over to the sink, grabbing one of the complementary plastic cups, and filling it with tap water.
“C’mon, Sammy. You gotta take these before you go to sleep. And drink at least a little bit,” Dean encouraged. Sam whined in response, his eyes screwed closed so tightly, he could see stars. Dean nudged his shoulder again, resulting in Sam opening his eyes and staring at the older man. Dean just smiled sadly and sat the cup down on the bedside table long enough to help his not so little brother sit up.
Once Sam was somewhat in an upright position, he placed the pills in his hand. Sam begrudgingly placed them on his tongue, allowing Dean to assist him with the water. He vaguely heard Dean mutter something that sounded like a good job before he was once again lying down with the dingy motel duvet pulled up to his shoulders.
He wasn’t able to fall asleep immediately, so he settled on closing his eyes and listening to Dean saunter around the room. Sam heard the faucet turn on yet again, but he had already drank some water… what was he doing?
He didn’t have to wonder long before there was a figure beside him, placing a cold washcloth across his forehead. “Get some rest, Sammy,” Dean whispered. As Sam succumbed to sleep, the last thing he registered was the mattress dipping beside him.
—
Throughout what Sam assumed was the next few hours, he drifted in and out of sleep. He woke up once and heard Dean talking on the phone, but he wasn’t sure who he was talking to. The next time he woke up, he could tell that Dean wasn’t next to him, but he was only half awake and still in too much pain to worry about it. One time, he woke up to the feeling of a fresh washcloth being placed across his forehead, which he thinks he may have grunted in response to.
When he finally woke up, he simply lay in silence, reassessing the pain in his head. It was far more bearable than it had been before he slept, now only a dull headache. He could still feel Dean’s presence next to him, far enough away to give both of them space, yet close enough for Dean to check on him whenever he wanted.
Sam finally opened his eyes, revealing a pitch-black room. The curtains were pulled closed tightly, and he could see through a small crack that it was dark outside. How long was I asleep?
“Eleven hours, man. It’s like… 10:23 at night,” Dean responded, causing Sam to realize that he had said that out loud. He responded with an affirmative mhm.
“How’s the head?” Dean asked, prompting Sam to finally turn and look at him. Dean was sitting beside him, boots off and a book placed in his lap with a small flashlight, an indication that he had been doing research.
“Better, jus’ a headache now,” Sam responded, thankful that he was able to talk without his head throbbing.
“Good. You scared me real fuckin’ bad out there, man,” Dean sighed, his voice shaking slightly as he admitted his fear. Sam was taken aback, genuinely confused as to why Dean was so worried.
“What?” Sam asked, now sitting up parallel to Dean.
Dean looked at him like he was insane. “The hell do you mean, what? ” Dean stood up, turning on the dim lamp beside them to illuminate the room. “We go to breakfast and you can’t hardly walk in a straight line, you think I don’t notice you sittin’ beside me in Baby with your eyes screwed shut? We get to the vic’s house and you have no damn color, looking like you’re gonna pass out any fucking second!” Dean explained, the worry in his voice growing continually. “Then, we get into the house and you go to ask a question, but you’re having one of those episodes where you’re not talking any damn sense, and my heart nearly fuckin’ stopped man,” he continued, his hands now shaking.
“We can’t even make it to the car without you throwing up every single thing you’ve had in the last twenty-four hours, you’re crying so hard you nearly can’t breathe, and you can’t talk. You sleep for eleven damn hours, and then you have the audacity to say what when I tell you I was worried,” he finished, stopping in front of the bed where Sam sat.
Sam stared at Dean dumbly, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly as he tried to think of something to say. Dean sighed and scrubbed his face harshly, a sign that he was trying not to cry.
“I don’t… uh,” Sam tried, not knowing how to respond to the confession from his brother. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean responded, all fight gone from his voice.
“It means,” Sam started, shoving the blankets off and standing up slowly. “That I was always the problem, Dean. You’ve been doing this shit for me since you were thirteen. I was the one who couldn’t man up and deal with it on my own, so I dragged you down with me! I know it pissed Dad off, you fighting with him about how I was more important than whatever fucking hunt you refused to go on. You having to stay with me because I had a fucking panic attack the first time I had an aura,” Sam rambled, his emotions from the past few weeks finally catching up with him. “Oh, how about that one time I was an absolute fucking liability on that hunt? Like the one today, right? I can’t fucking do anything right because I’m stupid and defective and a failure, Dean. I mean, Jesus, I couldn’t even save my own damn girlfriend,” he finished, hands shaking and tears slowly streaming down his now-red cheeks. “So when I say I didn’t think it was a big deal, I mean it. I am not that big of a deal.”
“Sam…” Dean whispered. “That’s not true. You gotta know that, man,” he replied, causing Sam to shake his head. “No, listen to me. I did all of those things because I wanted to. Because you are my brother, and I care about you more than anything else, especially Dad’s expectations of me. I’d take the heat over that a million times if it meant keeping you safe.”
Sam felt his eyes fill with tears again. “I just… when I felt the episode coming on, I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t know if you’d care, if you didn’t want to help anymore after the way I left,” he admitted.
“Hey, man. Taking care of you was my first job, it’s what I’m best at,” Dean smiled. “But next time, just tell me so we don’t scare the shit out of some poor woman, okay?” Dean said, lightly shoving Sam on the shoulder before sitting back down on his bed.
“Yeah, yeah. I will,” Sam replied as he rolled his eyes, which still contained a few tears. “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean smiled back at him, “‘course, Sammy. It’s what I’m here for.”
He wondered if Dean remembered, too.
He wondered how he thought Dean could ever forget.