Title: With One Breath You Are Here

Disclaimer: All fun, no profit.

Summary: Sam/Dean Wincest. Part of the Somersault ‘verse. Dean keeps on going and Sam keeps on learning. And life is actually sort of good. Oneshot. Complete.

Feedback: Is love.

For what must be the sixth day in a row, Dean wakes up in a wet bed. He just lies still, pretending he’s not grossed out, trying to force himself back into a warm fantasy he’s been having, a recurring dream, about living with Sam in a nice little house somewhere no one knows them.

Sam’s not in bed, undoubtedly he’s fled the scene of his crime. Missouri’s been telling Dean that these little accidents – oh, please, little? She’s obviously never been the unwilling witness to Sam peeing – are due to Sam’s insecurity issues. He’s going through a difficult time, not truly understanding why John is leaving for longer stretches, and Dean’s become snappish, he admits, from worrying about money. So Missouri says that these are the reasons that Sam’s going back on his progress a bit, because he’s picking up on all this. Well, thanks Miss Psychic.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, going to peel the sheets away from himself. Hello, another beautiful Lawrence morning.

Suddenly Sam is looming over Dean with the bathroom jug full of water and before Dean can open his mouth to scream ‘No!’, freezing water has been dumped all over the bed.

“All clean,” Sam says, voice proud, eyes glowing.

Dean can only shiver and stare. It’s moments like this that make him gawp in disbelief, just want to roll over and pretend it’s not happening, not like this, not with his brother. It doesn’t make sense. Instead he offers up a shaky smile. “Yeah, but I think we should still wash it properly.”

Sam’s grin falters and he drops the tin jug to the ground. It clatters unceremoniously and leaves a stunned silence, the kind that usually only happens after a death or some other big shock. Dean pulls himself up and swings himself out of bed. The disadvantage of sharing a bed with someone with Sam’s…. problem is that he ends up doing laundry before breakfast every morning, two sets of pajamas (if they wear pajamas that night) and a big load of bedding, plus some towels.

Sam’s naked, which means they slept naked last night, which means Sam has been walking through the house naked. Dean rubs his hand over his eyes. “But you did a good job. You know Missouri’s picky about things like this.” He wishes he could just wrap Sam in a blanket and hold him, reassure him that nothing’s going to change again. He wants someone to do the same for him.

They stand together in the kitchen (which doubles up as the laundry room), Dean leaning against the cabinets, Sam pulling uncomfortably at the bathrobe he’s being forced to wear. If Dean hears him say that it itches once more, he thinks he might just put his head in the oven. The thing is, he doesn’t want to dress Sam until they’ve both hopped in the shower. Easy, one might think. But when it’s his little brother, it’s a whole other story. Sam’s been awkward for days now, partly due to the cold he’s suffering from. It makes him moody and clingier than usual, so Dean ends up with mucus streaked across his sweaters, which means he gets funny looks when he goes out alone. All his clothes are stained in some way or another; and most people think he’s got kids, until they see him with Sam… and then it’s clear what he’s got.

“You… you want to wait in the living room? This will be about two hours,” Dean says stiltedly. Sam’s discomfort makes him nervous. “You shouldn’t be standing around like this.”

Sam shakes his head and wipes his nose on his sleeve. His eyes are rimmed red with lack of sleep, and unspeakable shame. Dean drums his fingers against the kitchen surface, studying Sam’s down turned face. He should be in bed, curled up warm and safe, getting better. Instead he’s here, feet freezing against the tiles of the kitchen floor, listening to the motion of the spin cycle washing away his sins.

“It’ll still clean up if we don’t wait here.”

Sam exhales. “Might not.”

“It will. Just come to the couch? I’ll make you something nice and hot to drink, how about that?” Dean stands away from his little brother, to give him the space he needs to pull his thoughts together. He’s gotten so used to Sam being upbeat, blindly optimistic, and he’s missing that side of him sorely.

He feels Sam’s eyes scouring him. “Will you check it’s clean? It has to be clean… or they’ll know. I don’t… I don’t want them to know, Dean…”

Dean croaks; “Go on and settle down.” He’s not convinced he can say so much else because even their dad knows that Sam’s having trouble recently. He catches Sam’s eye unintentionally and can see that Sam knows this, too. He’s pretending. Dean smiles weakly and motions to the door. He watches Sam shuffle a few paces, aching to help and not knowing how to offer, and then closes his eyes.

He’d know Sam’s footfalls anywhere. They’re so highly distinctive. Shuffle-stop-shuffle-trip-shuffle-stop-pause-pause and shuffle on. He used to walk so quickly, with the loping steps of a giant, yet oddly graceful. At the time of the accident, Sam had long since lost the apologetic stoop of an over-tall adolescent.

Missouri walks with amazing lightness, quickness and his father moves like a cloud, heavy and unaware of being heavy, which is strange given how catlike he can become during hunts. Dean doesn’t know how he himself walks, but it’s hardly important. Nobody ever has to listen for his footsteps, he’s just there. Yet recently he knows he’s been losing weight.

Since they’ve been in Lawrence for a while now, he’s guessing it’s all the running around after Sammy causing the weight loss… which isn’t pleasing Missouri. She pulled a face last week when she ordered him to pull off his puke-stained shirt (this was just after Sam started to get sick) and put it into the laundry basket. She whistled through her teeth, a noise so unexpected it made him pause for a moment, and said with maternal concern, “Boy, we gotta start feeding you more.”

“You feed me fine, Missouri.”

“Uh-uh, I can see your ribs. You’re no good to anyone all scrawny like that. I’ll make you some pancakes, how’s that?”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“Never too late for cooking, honey.”

Despite Missouri’s attempts to feed him up (once again, he is Hansel, being fattened) Dean keeps shedding pounds. It’s not even remotely intentional; in fact even his brother makes displeased faces when stroking those big palms down Dean’s body. It isn’t comforting, and it makes him shovel in as much food as he can stomach whenever a plate’s put before him.

So maybe if there was a sound, a footstep, associated with Dean, nowadays it would be a too-light, too-quick, panicked step, a run almost… trying to get to Sam before some mundane disaster strikes.

He makes Sam a weak, herbal tea that Missouri suggested to calm him, and mixes in some honey. He’s about to make himself a good strong coffee but then thinks again when he realizes it’s not even eight yet. He doesn’t want to be on edge, he needs to be mellow, so he can deal with Sam. Not that it takes much; it’s just difficult to gage his moods sometimes. He can be lying in Dean’s arms one moment, snuffling unconsciously while watching TV or being read to, and then he’ll flip out and start wanting to go for walks, or to buy new shoes or go for ice cream.

One morning a couple of days ago Dean made the mistake of saying if the weather cleared up they’d go to the park. Sam then spent the entire morning repeating, “Park, park, park,” in an unbearable stream, only broken by sneezes and lunch. When it continued to rain and Dean was forced to admit that they couldn’t go, Sam freaked out. He didn’t show it at first, just went very pale. Then he began shaking. And then he started trying to get all his words out at once… It didn’t work so well and ended with Dean pinned to the couch all afternoon by Sam, who was painfully apologetic.

He makes himself some of the same tea he’s giving his brother. That makes them the same, makes them equal, Sam likes it when they’re the same and Dean likes it as well, loves it. He gets the sudden urge to slide his hands all over Sam, to show him that all this is irrelevant. It’s a lesson he’s learnt the hard way, and he wants Sam to understand it, too.

Who they were is a memory; it’s who they are that’s important now.

When the tea is done he carries it through with a cookie they can split and settles himself on Missouri’s comfortable, sagging couch. Sam’s all curled up, staring mutely at nothing until Dean taps his shoulder.

“Honey, lemon and herbal crap, have a nice morning,” he announces with a shivery smile.

Sam blinks, untrusting. “Will it make me better?” He reaches out his trembling fingers – they’re still wonderful, artistic, musical hands – and Dean thinks better of giving him a hot drink to hold. Best he just sits and holds them both for the time being.

“It’ll clear your head. You feeling all muffled in there?” Dean’s voice is marshmallow soft in the dull light, glowing out from him, warmer than the tea.

“Yeah,” Sam nods slowly, dropping his hands into his lap, doubtless sensing Dean’s reluctance, “will it go away now?”

“Not right away. It’s just a cold.”

“Is it ’cause of my… my …” he presses his hand to the side of his head and flinches a tiny bit, like he’s still bruised there, though his hair has grown back and the scars are hidden now.

Dean laughs through the pain of this. “No, no… it’s not, really. Everyone gets colds. It just means you need to slow down, stop pushing yourself so hard. I know you’ve been trying to read better, and walk better and just... do everything so well. You’re perfect how you are.” He quickly drinks some tea, scalding his mouth. He just has to quit talking like some after-school special. Sam doesn’t need patronizing. But it’s true. He’s perfect just how he is right now, looking at Dean like a kitten, eyes slanted with sadness. “It’ll cool down soon,” Dean says conversationally. It eases what he’s already said, stops it being so weighty. He exhales all his breath against the surface of his tea to cool it down, and just for the release of it.

Sam asks, “Will you blow mine?”

“Sure I will.” Dean almost plunges his nose into his cup when Missouri walks in. He is sure that didn’t make him sound good.

“Morning, boys,” she says, raising her eyebrows at Dean.

“Morning,” he says and feels Sam go rigid next to him, “we spilled some cocoa in the bed.”

She tuts, “Again – Dean, we’re gonna have to stop you from taking eatables to bed. It isn’t working out well.”

He smiles and ducks his head, an acknowledgement; a thank you. Thank you for making my morning that much easier… “I’m a klutz.”

“You got two left hands as well as two left feet.”

“Uh huh, sure do.”

“Dean dances all good,” Sam interrupts thickly, “he danced with me last week.”

“Did he now?” Missouri makes a big deal of sitting down, taking a few breaths and then instructs Dean to make her tea. She doesn’t ask. She instructs, and so he leaves his brother babbling on about being in the bedroom. He cringes. There is no need for Sam to be telling this story.

What happened is simple. He was trying to cheer Sam up – try as he might, he can’t remember exactly what happened, but it had something to do with John giving them the brush off one afternoon – and so he started… dancing. It was stupid. Some dumb song came on the radio and Sam’s eyes lost their blunt edge and Dean just knew what to do. He got up off the bed and made a drunk-looking little spin. It reminded him of when Sam wanted to practice with him, before one of those notoriously awful school dances that Dean never went to. He was just getting his brother ready for another cute young girl.

Thinking of Missouri knowing this kind of dancing thing makes even his eyes burn with embarrassment, he’s sure the top of his head is smoking with shame. Goodbye, well groomed image, not that it matters. Image is nothing anymore. Nothing that he thought matters means shit.

But no matter how much he gets used to stained clothes and uncombed hair, there’s only so much Dean Winchester can give up. He can’t act like his car means nothing to him, because it does mean a lot, maybe more now. He’s careful to take his baby out for a spin at least three times a week so he doesn’t lose how much he loves the feel of driving, and sometimes Sam’s not with him and sometimes he is. Dean can’t pretend that he’s not dreading going back into the living room and facing Missouri, though she probably already knew about his adventures in making Sammy smile with his rhythm deprived body.

His hand twitches as he spoons sugar into Missouri’s tea. He looks longingly at the coffee, but doesn’t give in. He already feels a little jittery without his morning cup, and that’s not a good sign. Dependence on anything is a bad idea for a hunter. He leans forward, waiting for the water to boil; and wonders if he can still class himself as a hunter. He hasn’t been out with his dad for a while, not working. They pulled a couple of easy, local jobs together but Sam couldn’t go and when they got back he was a wreck, a mess of fear.

He wonders if maybe it’s time to get Sam hunting again. Underneath all the dust, there’s still a sharp mind, an intelligent brain, someone who is smarter than Dean can ever hope to be. It doesn’t matter how obscured it is. Sam’s still a Winchester, through and through, and Winchesters hunt. Dean makes a mental note to talk to John about the possibility of a family hunting trip and finishes making Missouri’s tea, pushing the coffee out of his field of vision. He can go a couple more hours without giving in.

He crosses his legs very loosely. “This is stupid. I don’t meditate.”

“It’s not meditating,” Jenny says patiently, “let’s just call it quiet time.”

“It feels like meditating.”

“You have a worse attention span than Sam. Missouri says you’re stressed, she must’ve been serious if she sent you here.”

“I’m not ‘stressed’,” Dean’s voice makes the quotation marks in sarcasm, “I’m worried, there’s a difference.”

“What are you worried about?”

He sits back and plants his hands flat on the floor, studying her face. Her eyes are still closed. Teasingly, he says, “Not you too, Jenny.”

She raises one eyebrow and opens her left eye. She sits cross legged. “What?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that. Dad, Missouri… people in the street. Even Sammy asked me yesterday if I’m okay,” he sighs, “there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I asked you what you’re worrying about. I never said a word about anything being wrong with you.”

Rather than admit he spoke too soon, Dean smiles sleazily. “I’m all good.”

“Come on then. What’s so scary about being alone with your thoughts?” She’s picked up on his gently teasing mood and is using it against him. What she doesn’t realize is how he’s quickly slipped from wearing a mask of being fine to admitting something is wrong.

“Apart from that the last time I was alone with my thoughts Sam was in a coma, nothing scary at all,” he says flatly, and doesn’t show his shock at his own words, “I really appreciate you and Missouri conspiring against me to give me some time away from Sam. I do. But I don’t need time away from him. He’s my…” Too close. “He’s my responsibility.”

“And let me guess. You spend all day trying to make him happy so he’s not screwed up, then you fall into bed too exhausted to think about yourself?”

Dean glances at her, surprised by the accuracy of what she’s saying.

“Dean, I have two kids. I think I understand a little about this sort of thing.”

“Uh… yeah,” he wishes they were outside so he could rip up clumps of grass. He has a destructive urge, one which always comes up when people cut him too close to the bone. He hates the thought of his situation being so easily readable, even by someone like Jenny who, while he classes her as a friend and ally, knows nothing about the depth of the sickness running through their family. It’s not like there’s so much to him, so much of interest – nothing to see here, folks – or to his relationship with Sam, or even to Sam’s… disability.

He cringes inwardly. Over the past few weeks he’s picked himself up off the floor and managed to become someone who can hold their head high wherever they go. He doesn’t struggle to cope as much anymore, possibly because he has Missouri’s support all the time. Even though his pride often prevents him from asking her for help, she just knows, and she knows when to step in and when to step back. He doesn’t know whether that’s because she’s psychic or just really intuitive.

“Right now you’re probably having full blown separation anxiety, a first day of school feeling,” Jenny’s saying, and by now even she’s given up on the quiet time thing, “but it’s only healthy for you to try and have a little time to yourself. You’re useless if you’re exhausted.”

He can’t very well disagree, but he’s always exhausted. Dean only dared to leave Sam in Missouri’s care today because he’s been sleeping a lot recently, and yesterday he was very off with everyone except Missouri. She suggested they have some time together – and, shamefully, Dean agreed. Now he’s regretting it. What was he even thinking, leaving Sammy? Every time he does that something bad happens, or if not bad then embarrassing… case in point, four days ago when he ran up the street to get some fresh orange juice – “No lumps,” Sam had implored, shooting angry glares at the glass of pulpy juice Dean set before him – and when he got back he found Sam none too shyly telling Missouri about their first time.

“Sam,” Dean had nearly screamed. He doesn’t mind anything much, but that sort of confession (complete, by the way, with illustrative hand movements) is way too weird even for him. Missouri had this smile on her face and she later told him that whenever Sam begins telling her things like that she thinks about what she’s going to cook for dinner.

“That occupies my mind,” she explained with a rather girlish laugh, suggesting that there’s just no stopping Sam.

This is one of the reasons that Dean limits the amount of time that Sam spends with Jenny, though she keeps suggesting they go out together for dinner or something, complaining that she never got to thank them properly for saving her life. Dean waves it off. He’s got a sinking feeling that she might be coming onto him, and that leads to the equally bad feeling that maybe he’s losing the ability to tell whether a woman’s hitting on him or not. If that’s the case, then is life really worth living? He thinks about Sam’s shameless flirting. Maybe he’s just getting too comfortable with someone wanting him all the time. He smirks.

“What’s so funny?” Jenny leans forward.

“Ah, nothin’,” Dean attempts an innocent look, “just something Sam said.”

She smiles and doesn’t ask what. “If you want, I can teach you yoga. My teacher says I’m really flexible.”

“Would your yoga teacher be a single guy?”

“Um… I think he’s single…” Jenny frowns and then laughs. “Shut up. I am flexible.”

“I’m sure,” Dean looks down. “But I don’t really need to put my legs behind my own head.” Sam sure would like that…

“That seems fair.” She wrinkles her nose. “What are you doing now, anyway?” She closes her eyes again, very artfully Dean thinks. She’s quite sensitive to his moods, which is disconcerting and about as pleasant as taking a long dip in a cold bath. He hates being readable.

“I don’t work,” he says matter-of-factly. He’s not ashamed of this.

“Right, and is your dad covering you?”

“Dad and Missouri…” It’s not like he can pull off any credit card scams in Lawrence, since he’s not sure how long they’ll be living here. He hopes not forever, though he knows full well that Sam’s content here, he likes it when they’re all together – Missouri, Dad, Dean and Sammy, he says happily when they sit around the dinner table or watch a movie on TV, all four of them together in awkwardness – but Dean doesn’t know how much more of the near constant creeping sneaking freaking out he can handle. Whenever John walks in on them he kind of glares for a moment, checks himself, and makes small talk or just pretends he’s forgotten what he’s come in for and mumbles something before backing out.

Jenny reaches over and her touch makes Dean jump. She’s touching his knee now, so soft. “If you need to talk… or just get out of the house…”

“I know. Thanks.” Dean’s glad to have finally found a friend he can trust, even if she doesn’t know everything about him. Only his father and Missouri will ever know the full truth, and sometimes Dean wishes they didn’t, especially John. “I’d better be gettin’ back, make sure Sam’s drinking enough and…” he trails off, not really knowing what other excuse he can come up with for beating a hasty retreat back to the one person he really wants to spend time with, no matter how difficult it is.

Nodding, Jenny stands, dusting off her pants. “You need a hand up, don’t you?”

Dean laughs, “Old bones,” but doesn’t take the hand she offers him.

By the time Dean gets home, clutching grocery bags, it’s clear that Sam’s feeling a lot better. The main indication is that he’s sitting up at the kitchen table, he’s still wearing the clothes Dean dressed him in this morning, and he’s working his way through a plate of Missouri’s double chocolate chip cookies.

Dean feels a smile spreading all through his body. “Sammy, I’m home.”

Sam looks up and gives Dean this look, the one he never gets sick of. For a moment his eyes are blank, and then he recognizes his brother and in a second an ecstatic grin bursts over his face. “Dean!” he stretches out his arms for a hug.

“You’re too lazy to get up to greet me, huh?” Dean walks over, placing the groceries on the side and easily embracing his little brother. Sam buries his chocolaty face into Dean’s jacket and inhales deeply. He has crumbs all over his hands and face and whereas once Dean would have pulled back, now he just lets Sam embrace him, smell him, make sure that, yes, this is Dean and not some sinister imposter wearing a really convincing Dean Winchester suit.

It makes him laugh, makes him wonder where Sam thinks that they’re selling costumes with his face on. Then he remembers the shapeshifter thing and figures that maybe his little brother’s precautions aren’t so weird after all. The trouble is, he has no idea what Sam recalls about hunting. Some days it seems like he knows a lot, others he doesn’t understand why he isn’t supposed to touch the knives their dad uses for work. It’s as if he does not realize what ‘sharp’ is.

Missouri is standing by the stove, back turned. All she seems to do recently is cook when he leaves Sam in her care, she rarely sees clients and Dean appreciates the dedication she shows towards them.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” Dean says to Sam, separating from him. He sees hurt shimmer through Sam’s eyes and smiles reassuringly. “You save any for me?”

Sam nods towards the plate. The few cookies that are left look like he might have been crumbling them in his hands, they’re all half demolished, but Dean crouches down and opens his mouth compliantly, lets Sam feed him a smashed up cookie. He makes an appreciative ‘mm’ noise and warns Sam lightly against making himself sick before he goes to put away the food he’s bought.

“I got all the stuff you asked for,” he tells Missouri as he unpacks, and then asks in a more hushed voice, “How’s he been?”

Missouri shrugs and doesn’t lower her voice to answer, “Poor thing cried when he woke up, but we managed to make him happy again, didn’t we, Sam?” When there’s no answer, she continues to Dean, “He wanted you to make cookies with him. He says the last time it didn’t work out?”

Dean frowns. “I never made…” Then he remembers. He remembers burnt hands and falling apart. “Oh, yeah,” he shakes his head and puts away some canned corn, “I’m not cut out for baking.”

“I guess six months ago you’d have said you’re bad at living in one place, too,” she points out.

“Touché,” Dean mutters. And I am.

She watches him. “Don’t even think it, mister.”

“What was I thinking now?”

“Don’t act the fool with me.”

Dean tries to look endearing but he’s just got to face it, he’s no Sammy. “It’s not an act.”

“Boy, please.” Missouri is stirring what looks like soup. “You know you shouldn’t leave yet, don’t you? You’ve got nowhere to go, and look. Look at him.” She rolls her shoulder towards Sam.

“I know,” Dean says and runs his hand through his hair, trying to calm his thoughts, to make them less obvious, though whether that’s even possible with a psychic around he doesn’t know. Scratch that, two psychics. “I’m not leaving, just gettin’ kinda restless.”

“That’s to be expected. Now sit down with your brother and you can have some lunch. And none of that I’m not hungry, Missouri. I’m not listening.”

What’s new?

“I heard that.”

Freak. Dean sits down next to Sam and watches him. Sam seems to be piling the remaining cookies on top of each other. Such small things entertain him now; Dean finds it hard to watch sometimes. Other times he lets himself get caught up in the seemingly simple world that Sam resides in. It’s a strange comfort when he’s low, to know that he can make Sam happy like this. He leans across the table and asks in a playful voice, “What’cha doing?”

“Nothin’,” Sam breathes noisily through his mouth, not looking at Dean, “where’d you go?”

“Just to the store, and to see Jenny, that’s all. Nothing fun, I promise.” He can’t have fun without Sam. Even when he’s smiling and laughing, when he’s having a pointless, normal talk about the ripeness of grapefruits in the grocery store, it’s totally tainted by the fact he’s missing half of his soul. If he’s cleaning up after Sam or just holding Sam’s hand and murmuring soft, inconsequential words to him, he feels whole, he feels real. Dean only realizes how empty and meaningless life can be when Sam is out of his sight. It’s all very nice having people thinking that he needs time alone – but what about Sam’s needs? Sam needs him close by.

“Is it rainy?”

“No… just kinda grey,” Dean strokes his hand tenderly over Sam’s hair. He never tires of touching it. The soft strands… he has missed them so, all the time that Sam’s hair was growing back. Now he has to reach through the hair to touch the raised scar, the proof that something has changed. If he closes his eyes and lies with his brother in his arms, he can imagine that everything is just the same, and then he condemns himself.

He doesn’t need things back the way they were. There are a lot of perks to having Sam how he is now, as opposed to not having him at all. Sam enjoys life so much, when he looks happy Dean knows he really is and when he seems down, it can be fixed. Dean is Superman to Sam, and he likes it like this. It reminds him of them being little kids, a time of his life that is gone forever. But here they are, and he is still the main part of Sam’s world and Sam is still his whole reason for getting up in the morning. “How about we get washed up for lunch, huh?”

“Good boys,” Missouri trills over her shoulder.

Sam nods, but doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks quietly.

“I got… I got somethin’ to show you,” Sam fidgets and smiles shyly, “you want to see it after?”

Dean is dubious but he smiles. “Oh, yeah, Sammy, please.”

His little brother grins back radiantly. “You’ll like it… promise.”

He carefully wipes Sam’s face clean in the bathroom and washes his own hands. It’s not easy to deal with Sam, but it’s easier now. However, Dean doesn’t find it difficult to remember why he fell apart just over a month ago. He can still feel the shaking in his fingers when he contemplates it, that time where everything spun just beyond the reach of his unreliable hands. Maybe it’s all still spinning; maybe he’s just kidding himself? He has these dreams where he can’t find Sam, where all he can see is Sam as he was before, but it’s just a faded image, its glass that will shatter. Dean doesn’t court imaginary happiness. Real pleasure is much better.

“Is Dad comin’ home soon?” Sam asks as he stands patiently waiting for Dean to finish cleaning him up. It warms Dean from the inside to think that his brother is being so good for him after days of illness and bad temper. He dries his own hands on his jeans and washes them again, scraping invisible dirt from under his nails.

“Maybe,” Dean shrugs and tries to look as honest as he knows how. He realizes that he’s meant to know these things; that he’s the world on two legs to Sam, but he can’t lie about it. Sam will feel his nerves, will taste the untruth. He loves that and loathes it at the same time – there is something so easy and so hard about knowing that Sam is aware of how he’s feeling. He’s never sure whether what he’s saying is excess or not, if he still needs to say I love you Sammy I love you Sammy I love you Sammy about twenty times before letting Sam fall asleep each night.

Sometimes when they’re wrapped in each other’s arms, or making love, or just on the cusp of unconsciousness, Dean will catch himself murmuring those same four words over and over, until he hears his brother hushing him. It’s strange to be hushed by his little brother, by a brilliant young man with a dented, impaired brain. It doesn’t seem right and it soothes him so entirely. Sam looks after him well, without even realizing it, that Dean can’t contemplate dropping the universe on its head.

Sometimes he thinks that he needs to vent those words – I love you Sammy – to stop them from festering inside him. He doesn’t need to worry that Sam will tease him if he shows the slightest hint of weakness, yet he hates to do it. It feels like he’s punishing Sam somehow, by being a failure.

Shut up, Dean orders himself. He can’t think like that. The last time he thought of himself as a failure, Sam told Missouri and she literally whacked him across the arm as he walked past and ordered him to quiet down and smile more. He pinches himself on the arm to prep himself for thinking good thoughts.

Sam looks at him confusedly. “Dean?”

“All clean,” he interrupts and smiles. His teeth don’t fool Sam for a minute and they both know it.

“Don’t be mad,” Sam murmurs and sways slightly, eyes fluttering, “can we go eat yet?”

“I’m not… I mean, sure we can.” Sam feeling what he feels… It will probably always freak him out a little. Okay, a lot. “When do I get to see my surprise?”

“Surprise,” he says, looking down, “surprise for Dean.”

“Yeah, what’s my boy got for me?” My beautiful boy.

Sam thins his lips and nods stubbornly. “Not ’til after lunch, Missouri says.”

He can spare a smirk for this. “She’s running this show, huh?”

It’s clear that Sam doesn’t quite grasp what he means by that, and he instead offers a little smile of his own and goes to put his arms around Dean. For a moment, Dean wants to duck away, to brush his hand against Sam’s arm and shrug off any attempt at love, but he gets over it pretty fast. Sometimes that happens; he loses his breath and simply can’t take what this means for them. He’s getting better at it, and he rests his face against his brother’s neck, pressed together and closer than close.

A sloppy lunch and another trip to the bathroom later, Dean’s totally ready for his surprise... and slightly nervous. He moves around on the couch while Sam thuds upstairs. Missouri is smiling at him as if she doesn’t have a job, like she has nothing better to do that sit around watching their lives unfold all afternoon.

“You’ll be proud of your boy,” she says after a moment.

Dean listens to Sam’s unsteady footfalls. He closes his eyes and takes the deep breath of someone who has just won a race. “Already am.” Inside, he can feel some restlessness kicking his internal organs. Huh. So this is what it’s like to be pregnant, he thinks and rubs his fingers against his eyes. Note to self: Sleep is good. Sleep more.

He hears Missouri’s chuckle.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns.

“You do need to sleep more.”

“I...”

“I know. I know,” she murmurs and there it is; that point of connection. Sometimes he swears that she and Sam converse without speaking and it’s not often he’s afforded the same pleasure. But she fills in his blanks easily. “You worry about him too much, you know that? He’s fine. And you’ve been getting so exhausted, you ever think all this might be rubbing off on him?”

“We’ve been here before, I just know it.”

“Change your tone, boy.”

“Sorry.” He lowers his head but can’t hide the smirk.

“I believe your father’s due home anytime now.”

Dean asks coyly, “Psychic thing?”

“More of a phone call thing, actually,” Missouri replies with no small amount of smugness. “You’ll be able to talk to him about Sam now, won’t you? About hunting?”

“Can you stay out of my head for five minutes?”

“Not when you’re broadcasting your heart all over the place, no.”

Dean clenches his hands briefly and breathes to control the small burst of anger coming up through him like a sad excuse for a volcanic eruption. His eruptions are always so much closer to meltdown territory. “I didn’t know I had been,” he mutters unpleasantly, “I’ll try and keep it quiet.”

Missouri shakes her head and smiles at him benevolently. “You don’t have a chance of that.”

Thankfully, he hears Sam thumping down the stairs just then, so he doesn’t have to respond. Missouri seems to have an almost unhealthy interest in the state of his heart and soul and Dean’s just not that interested. It makes him awkward to discuss that sort of thing with anyone other than Sam, and even then he’s stepping on dangerously thin ice. He really has no idea how far he can go before he starts to shut down and he does not want to find out.

Sam needs someone who’s emotionally available and open to talk at all times, and he figures he does a pretty fair imitation of that. Even when all he wants to do is never open his mouth again, Dean is always ready with a soft reassurance, because he knows that Sam can’t live without it.

“Here!” Sam practically falls into the room, encouraging Dean to spring to his feet before realizing that no, actually, everything is alright. He looks around embarrassedly. Maybe he should try and worry less.

Then he sees that Sam is standing there, wavering, trembling, holding out his hand and thrusting a piece of paper at him.

“Um... wow, paper.” Just what I always wanted!

Sam smiles shyly and pushes it forward. “Take it.”

Dean feels like he’s about to fail a very important pop quiz and wipes his hand on his pants before taking the paper and unfolding it. And then he loses his breath. He wants to collapse backwards, to sit down and just hold his head in his hands until this gorgeous car crash of a life has passed him by and it’s just him, sitting there all mossy and skeletal, leaning on memories to hold him up. But life keeps moving forward and he’s glad, he’s so glad that half his wishes never come true.

An unexpected sheen of tears blurs his visions and he blinks them away with skilled expertise. “Sam,” he says and it somehow surprises him that he has to look up at the person who did this. “You...”

Sam looks out at Dean from under his lashes. “Missouri helped. Did I do it right?”

“You... it’s perfect,” Dean holds the piece of paper up to the light and can’t quite think of words big enough to describe the pride he feels at seeing his own name written is these messy, painstakingly scrawled black letters. Dean. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“I’m not lying,” Sam says quickly.

Dean nearly laughs. “I know you’re not lying.” He strokes Sam’s arm, all too aware that Missouri is observing them with hawk eyes. What he wants to do is to wrap his brother in his arms and cradle this world so gently.

He is remembering the first time he ever saw Sam write something, when the kid was five years old; he seemed so ahead of everyone else. His first written word was Dean then, too. His teacher said he wouldn’t write his own name until he had learnt how to write the name of his brother. It pains Dean to think that the words back then seemed much more flowing, much easier. Words don’t come easy now, not to either of them. But he treasures his own name written like this, more so than if it was written in the fanciest, prettiest cursive on the planet. This is more precious.

All it takes is a victory like this, something that may seem small but is immeasurably huge, and Dean can see Sam the night of his accident, slipping those red gloves on his cold hands, his grin all shy and romantic. With a gentle breath, a loving gesture, he is nearly in Dean’s arms again.

He can see how Sam isn’t so different.

“See,” he says, clearing his throat like there is something stuck there, something that isn’t immovable. He looks at the smile waiting to flower over Sammy’s face. This is one thing he can make happen. “I always said you were a genius.”

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End

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