Chapter Text
Dean awakens abruptly on the warped floorboards, his body taut as if anticipating danger before he even draws a full breath. The disorienting pull of consciousness gives way to Sam’s frantic figure crouched beside him.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice cracks, hovering between desperation and panic. His hands hang uncertainly above Dean’s chest, as though debating whether to shake him awake or start compressions. “Dean, say something. Please.”
Groaning, Dean forces his eyes open, meeting his brother’s anguished expression. Sam exhales sharply, almost a sob, his relief tangible but fleeting. “Hey,” Dean rasps, his voice rough with disuse. “Why’re you freaking out? I told you I’d be back.”
Sam’s face contorts, his jaw clenching as his chest rises and falls like he’s been sprinting. The turmoil in his expression—relief, anger, and a shadow of grief—coalesces into raw frustration. Before Dean can utter another word, he grabs the elder’s collar and hauls him upright, slamming him back against the creaking floorboards.
“What the hell were you thinking?!” Sam’s shout reverberates through the dilapidated house, rattling the broken windowpanes.
Dean winces, his head throbbing from the motion. “Sammy—”
“No!” Sam’s voice breaks as his fists tighten their grip on Dean’s jacket. “You don’t get to do that! You don’t get to act like your life doesn’t matter! Like you can just throw yourself away!”
Dean pushes himself up onto one elbow, groaning. “I had to. You know I couldn’t leave those souls trapped here.”
“Don’t.” Sam’s voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. His trembling hands shove Dean’s shoulder for emphasis. “Don’t make this about them. You didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t think about what it would do to me—you just went ahead and did it.”
Dean exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face. “Sam, it wasn’t like that. I… I knew I’d come back. Billie made sure of it.”
Sam freezes, his brow furrowing. “Billie?”
“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, quieter now. “Saw her when I was… gone. She’s Death now, I guess.”
“Death,” Sam repeats, his tone flat with incredulity. “You didn’t come back right away because you were chatting with Death?”
Dean nods stiffly. “Pretty much.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes Sam as he steps back, shaking his head. He paces a few feet away, his shoulders tense and his hands fidgeting at his sides. When he turns back, the frustration on his face has morphed into something rawer—vulnerability. “Do you even realize what you put me through? You weren’t there.” His voice cracks, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his words. “I—” He falters, swallowing hard. “I thought… I thought this was it, Dean. That you weren’t coming back this time.”
Dean’s features soften, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Sam—”
“You’ve been acting like none of this matters,” Sam interrupts, his voice rising again. “Like you don’t matter. Maybe you think that’s fine for you, but it’s not fine for me. It’s not fine for me.”
Dean sits up fully, leaning against the wall as Sam’s words hit him squarely in the chest. He doesn’t respond immediately, the silence between them thick with unspoken truths.
Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath, his tone quieter but no less fervent. “You’ve got to stop doing this. Making these stupid choices like your life is expendable. Like you don’t matter to anyone.”
Dean looks down at his restlessly fidgeting hands. “It’s not that simple, and you know it—”
“It is that simple!” Sam’s voice cracks, his words striking like a whip. “You’re my brother. You’re all I have left. Don’t you get that? If you’re gone, I…” He turns away, scrubbing a hand over his face to mask the emotion breaking through. “I can’t do this without you.”
Dean stares at Sam’s back, the weight of his words settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, swaying briefly before finding his balance. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he says quietly, his voice low but sincere.
Sam doesn’t move, his posture stiff as he battles to steady his breathing. After a long moment, Dean steps closer, hesitating before resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll try, okay?” he says softly. “I’ll try to stick around. For you.”
Sam turns his head slightly, just enough for Dean to catch a glimpse of his face. His expression is still tight, but the anger has given way to something softer—something hopeful. “You’d better,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Because I can’t lose you. Not again.”
Dean nods solemnly, giving Sam’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You won’t have to. Not as long as I’ve got a choice.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but fragile, like the calm after a storm. Dean’s hand lingers on Sam’s shoulder, a steadying presence that says more than words ever could. Slowly, the tension in the room begins to ease.
“C’mon,” Dean says finally, his tone lighter as he tries to break the somber mood. “Let’s get out of this creepy-ass house before something else decides to kill me.”
Sam huffs out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he wipes at his face. “Yeah. Let’s.”
As they walk away from the dilapidated house and toward the Impala, Sam stays so close to Dean that their arms brush with every step. He casts a sidelong glance at the younger Winchester but doesn’t speak, too exhausted to comment on how Sam is acting like a mother hen with separation anxiety.
When they reach the car, Dean fumbles for the door handle, but Sam beats him to it, his hand gripping his arm to steady him. “Whoa, hey,” Sam mutters, his tone edged with concern. “You’re still pale. You should sit for a second.”
“I’m fine—” Dean protests, but his voice is weak, the words coming out more tired than he intends.
“You just died, Dean,” Sam interrupts, his voice sharp with a strange mix of anger and fear. His grip on Dean’s arm is careful but insistent. “I think that earns you a minute to sit down before you keel over again.”
Dean sighs, a low sound of frustration, but he doesn’t fight him. Instead, he sinks onto the hood of the Impala with a groan, his body feeling heavier than it should. “Fine. Five minutes. Then we’re outta here.”
Sam hovers in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest and his brow furrowed as if he’s trying to decide the best way to force Dean into drinking water or maybe wrapping himself in a blanket. The protective instinct in his stance is unmistakable, and Dean knows that his brother isn’t going to let him go until he’s sure he’s okay.
Dean exhales again, louder this time, his impatience starting to show. He taps the hood a little sharper than necessary. “I’m not gonna fall apart, Sam. You can unclench now.”
But Sam doesn’t move away. If anything, he steps closer, his arms slowly dropping to his sides. His posture slumps, his shoulders sagging under the weight of something far heavier than fatigue. “I just need to… make sure,” he says quietly, almost too low for Dean to hear, the words thick with unspoken emotion.
The elder squints up at him, something in Sam’s posture finally registering. Sam stands there like the weight of the world is pressing down on him, his hands twitching at his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. Dean watches as his younger brother struggles to keep it together, his jaw working, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.
Dean softens, his voice gentler when he speaks again. “Hey,” he says with a tone of quiet reassurance. “I’m here, okay? I’m right here.”
Sam’s mouth clenches, and for a long moment, he says nothing. Then, with a shaky breath, he moves before Dean can say anything else. He crouches down in front of him, one hand gripping Dean’s knee with a desperate strength, the other pressing flat against his chest, fingers splayed as though he needs to feel the beat of his brother’s heart, as though he needs to make sure Dean’s still alive to believe it.
“I thought I lost you,” Sam whispers, his voice barely above a breath. His hand stays firm on Dean’s chest, and his fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as though trying to anchor himself. “I thought you weren’t coming back this time.”
Dean’s breath catches in his throat, the rawness in Sam’s voice slicing through him. His heart stutters in his chest as the weight of his brother’s fear hits him with an intensity that’s almost suffocating. “But I did,” he murmurs, quiet but firm. He covers Sam’s hand with his own and squeezes it lightly, his thumb brushing over the back of Sam’s knuckles. “I came back, Sammy.”
Sam nods, but his throat works like he’s swallowing something thick. “You scared me,” he admits, his voice breaking on the words. “More than I want to admit. I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d do if…” he trails off, and his grip tightens on Dean’s knee. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”
Dean winces, the guilt spreading through his chest like a cold ache. He reaches out and settles his hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing gently, hoping to convey something—anything—through the touch. “I’m sorry,” he says with rough but earnest words. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just—” he pauses, shaking his head, his fingers flexing slightly on Sam’s shoulder as though searching for the right words. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to fix it.”
“Yeah, well, you almost fixed it permanently,” Sam mutters, his voice thick with emotion. His fingers press harder against Dean’s chest again, like he needs the reassurance that his brother is really here, that he’s really breathing, that he’s not about to slip away again.
Dean huffs out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, as his palm rubs absent circles on Sam’s shoulder. “Guess I’ve got a knack for that, huh?”
“Not funny,” Sam snaps, though his tone is sharp and strained, betraying the vulnerability he’s trying so desperately to hide.
Dean sobers immediately, his hand stilling on Sam’s shoulder as the humor drains from the moment. “You’re right. It’s not,” he says, his voice more serious now. He squeezes Sam’s shoulder once more, trying to anchor them both in the weight of the moment. “I’ll do better, Sam. I promise.”
Sam looks up at him then, his eyes glassy but steady, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Dean’s heart ache, a mixture of relief, pain, and hope all rolled into one. “You’d better,” Sam says quietly, his voice firm but tinged with emotion. Then, without warning, he stands and tugs Dean into a bone-crushing hug, one arm wrapping around his torso and the other gripping the back of his neck like Sam’s terrified that if he lets go, Dean will vanish again.
The elder freezes for a split second, startled by the suddenness of it, but then he exhales, his own arms coming around Sam, pulling him close, the contact grounding him in ways he can’t explain. “I’m not going anywhere, Sammy,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere. “Not anytime soon.”
“You better not,” Sam mumbles, his voice muffled against Dean’s shoulder. “Because if you do, I’ll—I don’t know what I’ll do, Dean.”
Dean rests his chin on Sam’s shoulder, his grip tightening slightly. “You won’t have to find out, okay? I’m right here.”
Sam doesn’t let go for a long time. Dean doesn’t pull away either, not this time. For once, he doesn’t mind the clinginess. If anything, it feels like they both need it. It’s a moment that stretches long enough for both of them to breathe, to let go of the tension that’s been building for days, maybe longer.
When Sam finally releases him, he gives Dean a long, searching look, as though checking for something. Then he nods, a small, weary movement. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Dean smirks, clapping Sam on the back with a heavy hand. “Back to normal, huh?”
Sam shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Not at all.” But he stays close as they climb into the car, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s in the cramped space of the Impala.
Dean doesn’t complain this time.
The engine rumbles to life, filling the silence between them as he adjusts his grip on the wheel. He glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye. His brother sits stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as if holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Dean sighs, leaning back in his seat as they pull away from the house, the dark road stretching ahead of them. The night is still, the world outside swallowed by shadow. The tension between them is thick, palpable. Sam hasn’t said a word since they got in the car, but his eyes keep flicking toward Dean, his jaw tight, his body coiled with something unspoken.
“You’re not gonna start giving me the silent treatment, are you?” Dean asks, his tone light, trying to cut through the tension.
Sam’s eyes flick to him, sharp and accusing. “Would it matter if I did?”
Dean winces. “Okay, fair point.” He hesitates, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Look, I said I was sorry, Sam. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“It’s not about what you say,” Sam snaps, his voice breaking through the quiet like a crack of thunder. “It’s about the fact that you did it. That you always do it.”
Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel as his jaw clenches. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of options, Sam. You know that.”
“Yeah, I do,” Sam says, his voice trembling, the words raw. “But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch you die in front of me. And it sure as hell doesn’t make it easier to sit there and wonder if this is the time you’re not coming back.”
Dean loosens his grip on the wheel, the weight of Sam’s words settling over him like a heavy, suffocating blanket. “I’m here now,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I came back.”
“But you didn’t want to,” Sam murmurs, his voice dropping to a bitter whisper, so soft it feels like a confession.
Dean doesn’t respond. His throat tightens as Sam’s words hit him square in the chest, and for a moment, neither of them say a word. The silence between them is heavy, and he feels the full force of everything that’s been left unsaid.
The road stretches on, and he drives in silence, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the steering wheel as he steals glances at Sam every few seconds. The younger sits stiffly in the passenger seat, his arm wrapped tightly around his stomach, his skin ashen and damp with sweat. His breathing is shallow, labored—his body still betraying him after everything they’ve been through.
Dean’s gut tightens at the sight. Sam isn’t fine—far from it. Not since they left that godforsaken house, not since he had made that reckless decision to take himself out for the ghosts. Sure, he’s back, but Sam’s silence is louder than any words could ever be. He’s wound tight, barely speaking, his tension thick in the air between them.
"Sammy," Dean says softly, breaking the quiet. "You okay?"
Sam doesn’t respond. Instead, he presses a trembling hand to his mouth, his eyes clenching tightly, as if he’s trying to shut out the world. Dean straightens, alarm rising in his chest.
"Sam? Hey," His voice is gentler now, more insistent.
"Pull over," Sam rasps, his voice hoarse, tinged with panic.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He swerves the Impala to the shoulder of the road, rocks shifting under the tires as the car comes to an abrupt stop. Before he can even put the vehicle in park, Sam is already shoving the door open, stumbling and collapsing to his hands and knees just a few feet away.
Dean is out of the car in an instant, boots crunching on the gravel as he hurries to Sam’s side. "Sammy!" He crouches beside him, his voice tight with worry.
**(TW)** Sam doesn’t respond, his body convulsing as he retches violently, the sound of his gagging filling the air. Vomit splatters onto the ground. Dean winces, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays close, resting a hand on Sam’s back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
"It’s okay," he murmurs, his voice steady, a calm anchor in the chaos. "Sammy, I’m right here."
Sam gags again, harder this time, his body shuddering with the effort. His breath is short, ragged between each wave, and Dean feels the tension in his back under his palm.
When it finally passes, Sam slumps forward onto his forearms, gasping for air. Dean crouches even closer, his hand still firm on Sam’s back. "You done?" he asks quietly.
Sam shakes his head weakly, barely managing to lift it. "No—"
Before he can finish, another wave hits, and Sam doubles over with a choked gag. Dean shifts closer, his hand still rubbing gentle circles on Sam’s back, ready to steady him if he falls. "Easy," Dean murmurs, his voice low, soothing. "I gotcha."
Sam retches again, harder this time, and then it happens—the next wave comes out in a messy arc, splattering directly onto Dean’s jacket.
Dean freezes. His first instinct is to recoil, but he doesn’t. The warm liquid seeps into the fabric, and for a brief moment, it feels like time slows. **(TW)**
Sam’s reaction is immediate. He gasps, his face crumpling with horror as his body shakes. "Oh, God," he chokes out, his voice cracking. "Dean, I—I didn’t mean—"
"Hey, stop," Dean says quickly, his voice firm but calm, cutting through Sam’s panic. He shrugs out of the jacket, tossing it aside with a soft grunt. "It’s fine, Sammy. Don’t—don’t even worry about it. It’s just a jacket."
Sam shakes his head frantically, his face flushed red as his breath hitches. "I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—" His voice cracks and tears spill down his cheeks as his guilt swells. "I—I screwed up again—I—"
"Whoa, whoa," Dean interrupts, moving closer, gently but firmly grasping Sam’s shoulders. "Sam, look at me."
He blinks up at the elder, his tear-streaked face full of guilt and misery.
Dean softens, his grip steady on Sam’s trembling shoulders. "It’s just clothing. It can be washed," he says firmly, his voice low, soothing. "I couldn’t care less about it, alright? You’re what matters, Sammy. Not the damn jacket."
Sam lets out a broken sob, his entire body shaking as he drops his head. "I’m sorry," he mumbles, his voice muffled and raw.
Dean sighs, grabbing the discarded jacket. "You gotta quit apologizing, man. Seriously." He holds up the soaked jacket and raises a brow. "This thing’s trashed anyway, so might as well make it useful, huh?"
Before Sam can argue, Dean uses the jacket to gently wipe at the younger’s mouth and chin, his touch careful and deliberate.
"Dean, you don’t have to—"
"Yeah, I do," he cuts him off, his tone light but firm, trying to ease the tension. "I’m your big brother. It’s my job to take care of your sorry ass."
Sam lets out a shaky laugh, but it quickly turns into another sob. He sniffles, his tears falling harder as he reaches out, trembling hands clutching Dean’s sleeve like a lifeline. "Don’t leave," he whispers, his voice barely audible.
Dean freezes, his chest tightening at the words. He tosses the jacket aside and pulls Sam closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "I’m not going anywhere," he says firmly, his voice low and steady. "You hear me, Sammy? I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. Ever."
Sam crumples into Dean’s chest, his hands fisting in his shirt as he sobs. "I thought—I thought you were gone," he chokes out, his voice muffled.
Dean’s throat tightens, but he doesn’t let go. He holds Sam close, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back. "I’m here," he murmurs. "I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Sammy."
Sam clings to him, his sobs finally beginning to subside, though his body still trembles like a leaf caught in a windstorm. The shuddering is slow but relentless, his breath ragged against Dean's chest as his heartbeat stutters erratically. He feels the chill radiating from Sam’s skin, the dampness of sweat still clinging to his clothes. The weight of it settles in Dean’s bones, and he instinctively pulls Sam in tighter, trying to shield him from the world, from himself, from everything that’s made this moment feel like the end of something.
"You’re freezing," Dean murmurs softly, his voice low, laced with concern, as he shifts away just enough to grab his flannel from the Impala. The fabric is still warm from the car, and as he drapes it over Sam’s shoulders, he tucks it close, the familiar scent of worn cotton and leather filling the space between them, grounding them both in something that feels just a little bit safer. "There. That better?"
Sam nods faintly, the motion slow and weak. His fingers clutch the fabric like a lifeline, the material crinkling softly under his grasp. He leans back against Dean, his breath still coming in shaky, shallow bursts, each exhale a whisper of tremors that shakes through the elder’s chest. The warmth of Dean’s body, the steady beat of his heart against Sam’s ear, is the only thing anchoring him.
"Good," Dean says, his voice thick with a mixture of warmth and concern, each word wrapped in care that Sam has probably never heard enough of. "You scared the crap out of me back there, you know." The faintest trace of a smile lingers in his tone, even though the fear from earlier hasn’t fully faded.
"Sorry," Sam mumbles weakly, his voice still trembling like the aftershocks of a storm. It’s barely audible, lost in the quiet between them, but Dean hears it—feels it—deep in his chest.
"Quit saying that," Dean replies, teasing despite the situation. The sound of his voice is light, but the gentleness that accompanies it is firm, like the pull of gravity, keeping Sam grounded. "You’re fine, Sammy. You’re always fine as long as I’m here, okay?"
Sam sniffles softly, the sound raw and achingly fragile, and his grip tightens on Dean’s shirt once more. The fabric strains beneath Sam’s fingers, a quiet rasp of cotton threading through the space. His chest rises and falls against Dean’s with every breath, each one more steady, more controlled. “Okay,” Sam whispers, his voice barely audible, the word a fragile promise, one that Dean knows he’ll hold on to forever.
Dean lets out a soft sigh, the sound warm against the cool night air, and pulls Sam closer again. The motion is slow, deliberate—like he’s trying to wrap around Sam and keep him tethered to something solid. "That’s my boy," Dean murmurs, the words low and rich with affection, his breath catching slightly as he speaks.
They stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, the quiet night wrapping around them like a heavy blanket. The air is crisp, biting, but it’s not cold enough to matter. The only thing that matters is the steady thrum of their hearts, the weight of Sam in his arms, and the way Dean never wants to let him go. All the mess, all the pain—none of it matters. He doesn’t care about the jacket or the spilled vomit or the mess they’ve made of everything. All that matters is Sam, safe in his arms, breathing steadily, and God forbid Dean ever throw his life away again. Because Sam is the only thing worth living for.