Archive of Our Own

1

"Hold still." Sam scolds.

In front of him on the bed, Dean scowls and mutters something under his breath. He tries to hold still anyway, though, his head tilted to one side as Sam works. It's his own fault, Sam thinks, but he feels a pang of sympathy when he continues his neat stitch and Dean winces. A swig of whisky isn't really enough to ease the pain of a wound like this, but they don't have any other choice.

The cut stretches from beneath his left eye to the corner of his left cheek, deep enough that Dean had soaked through his shirt with blood. A particularly nasty violent spirit had caught him across the face with a hatchet, and for the entire drive back to the motel Dean had grumbled and moaned. Son of a bitch, did it have to be the face? Sam had put up with it only because he knew a cut like that stung, and beneath the bloodstains Dean's face was pale and sweating.

"I said, hold still." Sam snaps, when Dean jolts again. It's an awkward position, sitting cross legged on the thin single bed, but it works. Or at least it would, if Dean behaved.

"Yeah, yeah."

His cheek is warm under Sam's hand. Free from blood now, tanned and stubbled. Sam had cleaned the wound first before patching it up, but Dean still wears his bloodied shirt, and it sticks to him in places. The collar is matting to his skin.

"Could've avoided this if you'd just listened to me." Sam can't help but say. A part of him - the part that is still Dean's childish little brother - wants to say I told you so.

"Hindsight's a bitch." Dean retorts.

"You should've waited for me, Dean."

"I thought it was harmless! Poltergeist, that's what all the signs pointed to. It hadn't killed anyone yet."

"Damn near killed you." Sam mutters.

This particular hunt had been fraught with tension. From the beginning they'd had opposite approaches. Dean had written off the frantic old lady's story as a mild poltergeist, annoying but not dangerous. But something had felt off about the case to Sam. He'd dreamed about it, that house, and that old lady slashed and bleeding. He'd told Dean to be careful, but Dean never trusted him, did he? Always the little brother, always the underdog. He'd rushed in there, salt guns blazing, as if trying to prove Sam's visions were wrong.

But they weren't, of course. They never were.

Sam tugs at Dean's skin a little more harshly than he usually would, irritation burning inside of him.

"Bit rough there, Sammy." Dean hisses.

"Sorry." Sam says. He doesn't mean it.

Dean studies him, and then, miraculously, holds out his equivalent of an olive branch. He speaks casually, no trace of emotion in his face. But to Sam, it sounds like an apology.

"Look, let's just chalk it up to a bad day, hm? Hell, we haven't slept for days. We were driving all day yesterday. 'N things have been..." Dean gives him a meaningful look. "A little... weird lately, with Dad, and your ESP-"

"It's not ESP, Dean-"

"Psychic powers, wacky dreams, whatever. I don't care." Dean cuts in. "Let's just sleep it off, yeah?"

Sam considers this. He wants to prod at Dean more, wants to argue with him, wants to be angry and stubborn and childish. He doesn't want to drop it. But when he meets his brother's gaze, he softens just a little. He hates that Dean can do that. He hates how Dean is the only one who makes him weak.

When Dean smiles like that, hopeful and expectant, Sam gives in.

"It's just..." Sam's voice is softer and quieter than before. It trails away as he ties off the stitch, and admires his work. Neat, almost perfect. Satisfied, he picks up a dressing. "You never listen to me. You never have. You and Dad- You don't trust my judgement."

"You know that's not true."

He sounds sincere, but Sam searches his eyes for a lie. Dean returns his gaze steadily. Never one to back down, Sam thinks.

"Do I?"

"I mean, you should." Dean shrugs. "S much easier to hunt with a nerd like you around. Used to hate sitting in libraries, when you were gone. Bored the hell out of me."

Sam scoffs, but the words warm him, somewhat, touch him somewhere inside his chest. Sam's fingers are gentle on Dean's skin when he tapes the dressing to his cheek, and his fingers linger a little longer than necessary on Dean's face. He knows it hurt Dean when he left for Stanford. Every time Dean brings it up, Sam only feels more guilty.

"All done." He says quietly. His anger has subsided and has been replaced by something far more bittersweet.

Dean grins sheepishly. Still sitting on the bed, he peels off his bloodstained shirt, and Sam watches him silently.

It's not that he was angry today, not really, not quite. He just burns with this urge to keep Dean safe. To control him, to keep him close, to protect Dean even from himself.

"Right." Dean rubs his hands together. The moment is over, to him, but Sam sits in it for a while longer. "Fancy a beer?"

"Dean." Sam says. "You need to be more careful, man."

"Drop it." Dean laughs. Light, careless.

"Look, I get it, okay? Hunting, it- it makes you feel powerful. Strong. Me too. 'N we're no closer to finding Dad, so frankly, we need whatever strength we can get right now." Sam pauses, looking down at his hands. He twists them in his lap. "But we're in this together. We need to have each other's backs. I'm in this with you, so don't go running off without me. I don't want you to get hurt, yeah?"

There's a pause. Dean looks at him for a moment, and for a moment Sam thinks he's going to say something. But then Dean grins, any trace of vulnerability wiped clean from his face. His voice is light and teasing when he speaks, and if Sam didn't know him so well, he might believe the façade.

"Hold me, Sam, that was beautiful."

Hold me. It's not literal. It's quite the opposite. Dean hates this sort of thing, chick-flick moments, and Sam usually would pass over the sarcasm. Because Dean doesn't mean it. It's a defense mechanism. An escape.

So it's the worst idea in the world for Sam to crawl across the bed and take Dean in his arms. They don't do this, not anymore. Not since they were kids. But it always shakes him when he sees his big brother hurt, and something about the cold sweat still lingering to Dean's skin makes Sam think maybe he needs this.

Dean is smaller than him, so he's tucked into Sam's arms, his head against Sam’s chest. Sam takes in a surprised, quiet breath. He had thought- Well, he had assumed that Stanford had been good for them. As kids they were tangled up in each other and Sam had always felt suffocated, trapped. But when he holds Dean to him for the first time in, God, years, he feels like he's coming home. Like he's crawling back into the prison cell he escaped from.

"Dude." Dean says lowly. He doesn't resist. On the contrary, he seems to melt, softened by their mutual closeness. "I wasn't serious."

"Whatever." Sam mutters. He breathes in Dean. The scent of blood still clings to him, but there's that musk underneath it, a smell Sam has known since childhood.

His hands are splayed against Dean's bare back. Strange, how natural this is, after so long apart. Sam swallows something thick. He spent so long running from home, from Dad, from the hunter he was supposed to be. He never wanted to run from Dean, but Dean was tangled up in all of it, and there was no other choice.

But he missed Dean. He always did.

He grips Dean tighter, and Dean hisses. He must be hurting Dean's cheek, Sam supposes. For a moment, he doesn't even care. He hopes the stitches open and Dean bleeds on him.

But then he comes to his senses, and pulls away, embarrassed. He tries to meet Dean's gaze, but Dean won't look at him.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean asks him. He doesn't look angry, though. He's flustered and uneasy, and there's something soft and unreadable in his eyes. For some reason, Sam thinks he didn't make a mistake.

"You asked for it." Sam shrugs. He smiles, and there's a tiny smile on Dean's face, too.

2

Dean throws a shotgun to him, and Sam catches it.

They stand by the impala, on the edge of a wide, sprawling forest. Sam cocks the shotgun. Silver bullets, he thinks. Under the moonlight, his eyes alight with a twisted sort of excitement, Dean does the same thing. Then he shuts the trunk, and turns to his brother.

"Ready to kill this son of a bitch?" Dean asks. He slinks around the impala, and smiles, completely relaxed. Sam watches him move with a little amusement.

"You know, I was thinking we should split up." Sam suggests. "These woods are huge, and it'll take all night if we're together."

"Sounds good to me."

Sam nods. He eyes his gun, and then looks out into the dark forest warily.

"Purebloods are more powerful, remember. She'll also most likely be protective over her victim."

"Yeah, probably why she drags them off into the woods." Dean scoffs. "Never met a werewolf that hides their prey, have you?"

"It's smart. I mean, they never find the bodies, do they? Probably how she's gone undetected for so long."

Dean nods.

At that moment, a rustle sounds from the trees. Sam instinctively spins around, aiming his gun into the shadows, but nothing emerges. Still, he stands for a moment. Stance stiff, gun poised. After a moment, satisfied they're alone, Sam lowers the shotgun and turns back to Dean, who's looking at him strangely. His eyes flicker over Sam's figure. Almost... appreciative.

Sam is confused for a moment. But then Dean steps towards him, impossibly close, and grips his shoulder. He squeezes.

"What?" Sam asks, looking up into his brother's grinning face.

"Nothin'. You just looked cool for a second there." Dean says. "Perfect stance. Good aim. You learned from the best."

Sam knows Dean's just in a good mood because he hit it off with one of the victim's sisters. He knows, too, that this particular hunt has been fun for Dean. But he still flushes and keens slightly under the praise. Ever the little brother, desperate to please.

"Guess I did." Sam says casually. Dean's hand lingers on his shoulder for a moment longer, warm and strong, before it drops. Sam recalls the times Dean taught him to shoot, his hands gentle as they shifted Sam's shoulders into the right stance. He misses the touch. Dean's closeness... it never lasts long.

"Ready?" Dean asks, his eyes blazing with adrenaline. In moments like these, Dean's excitement is infectious, and Sam can't help but feel a thrum of anticipation too. "Break a leg out there, Sammy."

They split up, and enter the woods. Sam ducks beneath branches and brambles, stepping over twigs that would crack under his feet and reveal his place. The woods are quiet and shadowed. He breathes in damp, grassy air, listening for the werewolf.

She's cruel. Powerful. Can transform on command. And most of all, she's hungry. On the surface, she'd seemed so normal. Sam had liked her immediately. She was a quiet librarian, and she'd answered their questions about the local history sweetly, carefully. It was all a façade, they'd realised. A monster lay beneath.

Sam can relate to that.

A rustling noise comes from his left. He freezes, peering through the darkness. Perhaps it's just a small animal, or the breeze, but the skin on Sam's arms pricks up. There's nothing more reliable than a hunter's instinct, Dean would say.

Sam has that single moment of warning before the werewolf leaps from the shadows. Sam trips backwards, stumbling on a fallen branch, and she leaps on top of him. In the tumble, his leg gets caught beneath the branch, so when he twists to avoid the wolf's sharp teeth his leg makes a sickening crack.

"Damn it." Sam mutters. He scrambles for his gun, which has fallen a few feet away, but the wolf is quicker. She hisses and pushes it away with one of her paws, and snaps at him, her teeth sharp and bloodied from her victim. He tries to push against her, but even if he could get free, the searing pain in his leg would prevent him from even standing.

Helpless, all Sam can do is twist his face away from the wolf's teeth.

"Dean!" He yells. There's a silence, and then, of course,

"Sammy?" A voice booms through the woods.

The wolf turns her head, still pinning Sam to the forest floors. Sam feels a wave of relief when he hears his brother running towards him. There's a loud gunshot that reverberates through the forest, and the wolf's blood sprays Sam's chest. It groans and falls, dying on top of him.

Dean laughs and pulls the wolf away from Sam.

"Hey." He says. Then his eyes flicker to Sam's leg, twisted and almost definitely broken, and his laugh fades. "Ouch."

"Yeah. Ouch." Sam sits up. "You find the victim?"

"Already gone." Dean grimaces. "Think you can stand?"

"I can try."

Dean holds out his hand, and pulls Sam upwards. Sam finds he can only stand on one leg, and so he falls against his brother, gripping Dean for balance. Dean's arm winds instinctively around his back, and he rests a steadying hand against Sam's chest. Close, warm. The intimacy of it cuts through the pain.

"Alright?" Dean asks, his breath warm against Sam's ear. Sam nods, grateful for the help. "C'mon."

They stumble through the dark forest together, intertwined. Sam's broken leg trails uselessly behind him, and it hurts, God it hurts, but Dean's presence soothes Sam somewhat.

When they reach the impala, Dean sits him on the bonnet and pats his good knee.

"Gonna have to make you a cast, huh?" He mutters. He gives Sam an amused look.

"What?"

"When I said break a leg, I didn't mean it." He says warmly. "You need to stop taking me so literally."

Sam laughs. It's big and bright and crinkles his eyes, but Dean's smile isn't so amused. It's softer. Meaningful. And Sam's laughter dies when he realises Dean's referring to that night he'd joked hold me, and Sam had.

You need to stop taking me so literally, Dean said, but his smile is saying something quite the opposite.

"Dumbass." Dean murmurs fondly. For a moment, Sam thinks he's going to say something else, but then Dean just shakes his head and goes to the trunk.

One early morning, Sam is focused on his laptop.

He takes a swig of coffee, his eyes fixed on the screen. During this hunt, they've encountered a creature they never have before, and Sam has been up all night researching. By now, his eyes have grown heavy and tired. Still, it isn't so bad. It feels like studying in Stanford. And he can't deny that mythology and local histories are actually pretty interesting.

Some time past 9, Sam hears his brother stir behind him on one of the motel beds. Dean groans, but Sam hears a rustling noise as he sits up.

"You been at it all night?" Dean asks sleepily. "Nerd."

Sam ignores him, scanning a news article curiously. He's only half aware of Dean pottering around behind him, but he's distracted from his reading when Dean speaks again.

"You tied up your hair?" Dean laughs. It's mocking. After a long night, his tone should make Sam bristle. It should make him irritated. But Sam's in a good mood. He just smiles.

He had tied up his hair. It's getting longer now, and it had been in his face while he'd been studying. It was only long enough for a tiny ponytail, just a little tuft of hair on the back of his neck.

"Very pretty." Dean says. Sam, instead of biting back, turns his head and raises an eyebrow.

"Thanks, Dean." He says warmly. "You really like it?"

Now this, Dean wasn't expecting. Perhaps he thought Sam would throw him a glare, or snap at him, but Sam feels more amiable after his cup of coffee. He'd decided to have a little fun, instead.

It's worth it for the look on Dean's face. There's a slow, embarrassed flush blooming on his neck, and all of his amusement is gone. He averts his gaze.

"You're a girl." Dean mutters. He turns away, shuffling miserably into the bathroom, and Sam chuckles to himself.

As the motel shower begins to run, Sam runs a hand curiously over the tiny ponytail. His attention strays from his research.

Dean loves to tease him about his hair, and sure, it annoys Sam, but at the same time he can't help but wonder why exactly Dean pays so much attention to it.

It's funny. When Sam had taken the joke literally, Dean had looked embarrassed, but he'd also seemed... pleased. It reminds Sam of that hunt a few weeks back, when Dean had joked hold me and Sam had. Sam had thought Dean would recoil, but he never did. Sam takes a sip of coffee. Huh, he thinks. You need to stop taking me so literally, Dean had said.

A few minutes later the shower shuts off and the bathroom door clicks open. Dean is quiet as he pads around the room and dresses. Sam focuses on the laptop, but he notes the tension in the air, the strange silence between them as Dean wanders around.

Then there's a warmth behind him. Dean's hands are still damp when he pulls the hair tie from Sam's hair. His fingers linger for a moment, tangled in Sam's hair, and Sam takes an unsteady breath.

"That's better." Dean says.

"Dean?" Sam asks, a little breathless.

He's disappointed when Dean's hands slip out of his hair and land on his shoulders instead.

"Found anything?" Dean murmurs, leaning over his chair. His hair tickles Sam's cheek.

"Not much." Sam manages to say. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, shy, and Dean looks at him as if he's about to say something. He doesn't, of course.

But later, Sam notices the hair tie still wrapped around Dean's wrist, and his stomach turns pleasantly.

4

It's rare, but sometimes... sometimes they have good days.

Sam would call this a good day. A fantastic day, even. On the surface, it wasn't anything special. Dean had driven and Sam had looked for a case on his phone. They'd eaten store bought sandwiches and told stories about the past and waited for a hunt, or a sign from their Dad.

But at one point, Dean had exclaimed hey, look! It was a drive-in theatre. Sam didn't even know those were still around. It was too good of an opportunity to miss. Dean had been humming to himself when he'd pulled in.

They'd climbed on top of the impala and sat there for hours. It had been nice, Sam thinks, to take a break from hunting. For a moment he'd sat with Dean on the roof of the impala watching an old, grainy movie in the dark and he'd felt so close to him. So happy, in his brother's company. The feeling had lingered throughout the evening, and now, in the passengers seat of the Impala, Sam still feels just as happy.

"Want me to drive?" Sam asks, only because he wants to say something, wants to stay in the moment a little longer. Dean raises an eyebrow.

"No way, kiddo." He says. "There's not a chance you're getting your hands on my baby right now. I know you just want to play Smooth radio, easy listening for the over 60s-"

"Ha ha." Sam scowls. "Very funny."

Dean sends him a mischievous smile. He seems lighter today. Sam enjoys seeing him like this. Cheerful, relaxed. He hardly ever is, these days.

"I just thought you might want a break." Sam says. "You know, since you're getting old, and all. You've been driving for hours, Dean. I know your legs aren't what they used to be."

"Hey!" Dean protests. "I'll have you know my legs are in perfect working order... if you catch my drift."

Sam feels himself flush at the implication. He responds with his own mischievous smile.

"You sure about that?"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

They sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, as the Impala passes smoothly through the night.

"You sure you don't want a break?" Sam pipes up. "Your back looks a little stiff."

"Bite me, Sam."

Sam laughs. He's about to brush over it, but then he remembers. He remembers Dean's hands in his hair, he remembers holding Dean, he remembers Dean insisting that Sam stop taking him literally. But it's been such a good day. Why not? Sam thinks.

A spark of rebelliousness (and something else, something warmer) makes him lean across the passenger seat.

He nips Dean's ear, grabbing it between his teeth for a moment, before letting go and settling back into his seat. Dean, surprised, yelps.

"What the hell, Sam?" He asks. His ear has turned pink. Sam shrugs, smiling to himself.

"You asked for it." Sam replies innocently. He pretends his heart isn't pounding in his ears, pretends he can't see the shy smile toying around Dean's mouth.

"You're doing this on purpose." Dean grumbles, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He looks uncharacteristically shy as he turns a corner. "You're a real tease, Sammy."

He catches Dean's gaze in the front mirror, and feels a dangerous twist in his chest. Sam smiles, and Dean's eyes crinkle. Yeah, it's been a good day. A really good day.

They're quiet for a moment, comfortable in their own thoughts. Dean's classic rock CD plays in the background, and Dean hums along. It's endearing. Sam can't help but smile to himself.

"Felt like old times, today, didn't it?" Dean says suddenly.

"Yeah." Sam replies warmly. His eyes drift to the window, and he looks out into the night sky. "Don't get many days like these, anymore, do we?"

The moment is bittersweet. It's painful, just a little, an almost pleasurable sting. He remembers grazing his teeth along Dean's ear and wishes, suddenly, he'd done it a little harder. Bitten down, maybe. Consumed him, somehow. The longing to keep Dean here, in this rare good days, overcomes Sam. It feels like they're normal, like they're just two brothers, not hunters, not traumatised by the past. It's all Sam ever wanted.

"For you to me are the only one." Dean sings along quietly to himself. Sam closes his eyes and wishes for another day like this one.

5

Sam runs his hands roughly over his weary face.

He sits in the small motel room, his back against the wall. Hunts like these knock the wind out of him. Because they can't always win. Sometimes people die. Sometimes they lose. It hits him hard.

But it hits Dean harder. His brother has been angry and stoney-faced since they left town. He's tried to hide it, he's laughed it off, but there's something in the set of his shoulders that makes Sam thinks he's not over it. Probably never will be. Beneath his easygoing persona Dean holds a lot of heart inside of him. It's one of the reasons Sam loves him.

So here they are in the rundown motel, and Dean is pretending it'll be okay. He's turned on the cheap radio. He's pulling on his jacket. He smiles, a crooked, sleazy thing, and Sam hates it, because it's all a lie.

"I'm going out. Coming?" Dean asks. He's going to a bar, of course. Sam sends him a knowing look.

"You sure that's a good idea?"

Dean's eyes narrow. A warning.

"What'dya mean, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs and closes his eyes. He's not in the mood to argue. Let Dean get it out of his system, then.

"Sure you're not coming?" Dean asks. "Might be good for you. Booze, girls-"

Sam scoffs.

"Let off a little steam. C'mon." Dean almost whines. Sam cracks open an eye.

"Nah. You go." Sam says, and then has an idea. "... Or you could stay."

"Huh?"

"Watch a movie. Have a beer. With me. Could be fun." Sam shrugs, trying to act casually. "You know, like we used to do when Dad went on hunts without us."

Sam remembers those evenings fondly. The bad daytime movies, the hot cocoa Dean would make for them, the sound of rain on the windows. Maybe he's just sentimental, but he misses it. He misses Dean, which is crazy, because Dean is right in front of him.

Dean's lips twitch. Sam has always been able to soften him with just a look.

"Oh, and I suppose you want to slow dance to the music too?" He scoffs, but his heart isn't in it.

Sam looks at him curiously. Slowly, he stands, and Dean's eyes widen. He stiffens when Sam steps closer to him, crowding him. Sam's gaze is warm and insistent at he looks down at his older brother.

Perhaps this is what Dean needs right now, then. Whatever it is, Sam is willing to give it. Ever the little brother. Ever wanting to please, to make right what he can't.

(And secretly, he wants the same as Dean right now. He wants to be comforted. To be close).

"Sure." Sam shrugs. Before Dean can protest, he takes one of his hands, and slips the other around his waist. "Why not?"

"What are you-" Dean starts to say, but Sam silences him. He tugs him closer against his chest, his grip growing confident and firm, and Dean stumbles against him. He puts his hand against Sam's chest to steady himself, and-

Oh.

They fit together perfectly. Sam swallows something hard in his throat and closes his eyes, resting the side of his head against Dean's. His embrace is strong, tight around Dean's waist, but Dean has always been stronger than him. He could slip out of Sam's grip if he wanted to.

But he doesn't. Dean stays there, strangely quiet. Sam's heart jumps when Dean's fingers curl into his shirt.

"What are you doing?" Dean murmurs. He doesn't resist when Sam begins to sway them in time to the tune of the crackling radio.

"What you asked me to." Sam says.

He sways them, and slowly, Dean melts against him. He feels the tension inside of Dean unwind, the more time they spend intertwined, and Sam, too, thinks he might be unravelling. He grips Dean's waist tighter, buries his face in his hair, as if possessing him.

Then Dean shudders, and clutches him closer. He wraps his arms around Sam's back and embraces him so tightly that it hurts.

"Thanks, Sammy." He says in his ear. Quiet, like a secret.

Sam was right. He did need it. He did want it. Sam feels himself go warm, from head to toe, and he presses a kiss to the side of Dean's head. He doesn't know if Dean feels it. It doesn't matter if he does.

"'S nothing." Sam says.

+1

It's ridiculous, Sam thinks.

He shouldn't have bought it. He should've left it on the shelf and forgotten about it. It was sentimental - too sentimental.

But there it is, an old vinyl, sitting in his hands. He sighs down at it, accusing. Dean doesn't even collect records. They don't have a record player. There's no reason for him to have bought it, except for the fact it's a first edition of Led Zepplin II and it was the album Dean had played that night after the drive in cinema.

Ridiculous, Sam thinks. He scowls.

"I'm back." Dean drawls, the motel door slamming open as he enters. Sam shoves the record behind his back quickly. "Mornin', sunshine."

"Dean." Sam smiles, pushing down his panic. "You brought coffee."

"Hell yeah I did." Dean says happily. "And pastries. Fresh from the oven. Aren't I the best?"

"Debatable." Sam chuckles weakly. He clutches the vinyl behind his back, unsure of whether to give it to his brother or not. The decision is taken out of his hands when Dean sets down the coffee on the bedside table and gives him a curious look.

"What'cha hiding there, Sammy?"

"Nothing, really-" Sam says. He stares at the cups of coffee fixedly. "Just, remember that shopping centre? Back in Iowa?"

Dean takes a long swig of coffee.

"Sure do. Best burgers I ever had, and that's saying something."

"Well, there was a music shop. You know, one of those indie ones, with guitars, and CDs, and-" Sam takes the record from behind his back and feels himself turn pink. "Records."

"Huh?"

Sam holds out the vinyl. He refuses to watch as Dean takes it from him.

"You got this for me?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. He grabs his coffee and takes a drink, just so he has something to do with his hands, and risks looking up at his brother. Dean grins back at him, his eyes sparkling, and Sam's heart twists.

"Yeah, I guess." Sam mumbles. "Know it's useless. You can't really do anything with it. But I saw it and thought of you, you know?"

Dean is quiet for a moment. He looks down at the record. It's been a while since Sam gifted him anything. But Dean wears the amulet around his neck constantly, even to sleep, and Sam had thought, maybe, that Dean likes gifts. Likes gifts from him, specifically.

"Dude. This is sick." He says. He grins and turns it over. "It's signed! Look at that!"

Sam blinks. He meets Dean's eyes, and he's relieved to find that Dean really is happy. He's standing there with the record in his hands, looking like a kid at Christmas, and Sam feels inexplicably proud of himself.

There's a pause, and then Dean says, a little breathlessly,

"God, Sammy, I could kiss you."

Sam's stomach drops. For a moment he thinks of saying, do it then. He smiles nervously, but this time...

This time he doesn't think he can take a leap of faith. Before, it hadn't mattered whether Dean meant it literally or not. But this? Something unspoken, something implied, that isn't worth risking his relationship with his brother over. Sam is content with this. Content to find excuses to be close to Dean. Content to make him happy with small gifts and inside jokes.

Because Dean is always joking. Always.

There's a long silence as Dean sets down the record. Sam stares down at his shoes, wondering, wondering...

He's distracted by his thoughts when a hand lifts his chin. Startled, Sam meets Dean's eyes, and melts. Dean's gaze is warm, and hesitant, and searching. His thumb runs along Sam's chin. And Sam thinks suddenly, please.

"Dumbass." Dean says. "I meant it this time."

Sam's lips part in surprise. Dean's gaze flickers to his mouth, and Sam swallows.

"You meant it?" He asks hoarsely.

"Course." Dean's voice is low, and embarrassed, but he's still smiling. Still glowing from Sam's gift. "Always meant it, Sammy. But you knew that already. You know me, I know you do."

Sam takes a breath. Dean's hand moves along his chin, his jaw, to cup his cheek, and Sam's eyes flutter shut.

"Prove it." Sam says. So Dean does.

He leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss to Sam's lips. Sam lets out a surprised noise in the back of his throat. He feels the touch of Dean's stubble against his face, the heat of him, and opens his mouth.

He hadn't been wrong. He'd never been wrong. Dean's little jokes, his deflective humour, it had been his armour. An easy way to avoid what he truly wants. And here Sam is, reaching through his facade and finding the real him. Wanting, and beautiful.

Dean climbs into his lap, and kisses him deeper, his other hand tangling in Sam's hair. Sam is reminded of that hair tie, all of those months ago. He gasps, arching up into Dean's touch.

"Dean." He breathes, when Dean pulls away from him.

Dean smiles. His eyes flicker over Sam's face, and pushes the hair away from his face, gentle and reverent.

"Look at you." Dean says. "So pretty."

This time, Sam knows he means it.