Alright, so here's a small sequel I cooked up. I recognize it's a bit late in the game for me to post this, but I hope you all can at least recall a general idea of what happened in "The Agonizing Shame."

Enjoy!

John held the door open for his sons, allowing Dean first entrance into the small, inconspicuous diner. The place seemed innocent enough, the customary bright red-and-white checkered décor placed throughout the room with dark wooden walls to encompass it, making the appearance laid back and homely.

Altogether it wasn't too bad, Sam slid into the room behind Dean, eyeing the surrounding patrons and waiters, not suspiciously, but not particularly friendly either. John trailed behind, a calloused hand unwillingly finding its way to the small of Sam's back. He didn't flinch or react to the touch, and the older man almost beamed.

It had been hard, getting Sam used to them again, just the two other men. Sam had spent so long being alone or stressed or in pain that, now he was safe, he didn't seem to understand it. Like the term "safe" no longer equated to anything in his mind. He'd wake up one morning perfectly fine, if not a bit quiet, but the next he was almost readying himself to strip. He'd wake up, groggy, feel the material on his skin, and then grab it with a tight fist, staring at it in fear and incomprehension. As if being clothed had become so unnatural and condemning in his head that he couldn't handle it.

And the scratching. It was like Sam despised his own clothing now, like he was so unused to wearing them that it bordered on physical pain. The comfortable hoodies John always used to see on the kid were gone, replaced by no more than a thin t-shirt.

And John didn't know what to do.

John followed behind the two most important people in his life, trailing as the caboose and keeping Sam in between both him and Dean. He trusted Sam, and he was a damn good fighter when he wanted to be, but, sometimes, damn good wasn't good enough.

Dean went to the corner of the room and climbed into the booth first. Sam wanted as little interaction with people as possible, but he also had a sort of indescribable hatred toward the inner part of the booth, like he felt trapped. Sam never said it verbally, and Dean wasn't entirely a fan of not being the first-defense, but he was willing to allow Sam all the necessary comfort and more.

Besides, John was here, and he'd put himself in danger before he did Sam.

John got into the side opposite his son while Sam sidled in beside Dean, possibly pondering how Dean had been purposely sitting on the inside part of the booth ever since Sam hesitated to enter first a few weeks ago. He shot Dean a small look, mulling it over as he bit at his lip. He looked like he was about to say something, but was interrupted when a half-a-century aged, gum-chewing waitress came over, her lipstick bright red and eyes dark with mascara.

Dean felt like punching her in the face. Sam was about to say something, goddamn it.

"A'ight gentlemen, what c'n I get ya?" she asked, smacking her gum audibly. Her gaze lingered on Sam a might too long, her gaze fixed on his multitude of scars.

And that was something Dean couldn't stand, either. It fucking enraged him. Nobody knew how much pain Sam had been in, how much he had suffered through. They see the scars and think car wreck or skiing accident or fell down the stairs drunk. They don't think abused and raped for half a year.

It's not that Dean wanted people to know about the abuse inflicted upon his baby brother, he would never wish that kind of humiliation upon Sammy. But for people to not know how brave and fucking strong Sam was tore at his gut in a way he didn't think he would ever be able to describe. They saw his scars as nothing more than a reminder on how he fucked up, not how he survived to tell the tale.

A growl emitted from deep in Dean's throat, and the woman abruptly tore her gaze away, flashing a fake, too-bright smile in their father's direction, her wrinkles crinkling at the edge of her lips. "Whatcha want, sugar?"

John looked none too happy with the woman but, fortunately, he had better luck in hiding it, looking down at the menu. " A simple cheeseburger, side of fries, Coke."

Dean noticed their father's own subtle change in normalcy; in the past he usually ordered an alcoholic beverage with his meals. Now he stuck with solely caffeine or carbonated drinks. Neither Dean nor John knew exactly what Sam had been through or if Larry had hurt him while drunk or sober or both, but if Sam even had the slightest possibility of feeling uneasy, the older Winchesters avoided it at all costs.

And it wasn't just Dean that noticed it. Both the elder Winchesters could tell Sam himself had, too. Sam's eyes flickered again at John. It looked like he wanted to argue, say it was okay, that he had nothing against his father's drinking preferences, but every time he opened his mouth he would shut it tight, turning his gaze away, like maybe it wasn't true.

It drove Dean absolutely in-fucking-sane.

The heavily made-up woman nodded, finishing the order as she popped a bubble and turned to Dean, smacking away. "What 'bout you, hon?"

Dean beat down his growing anger and sent her a wide smile. "I'll have a cowboy burger with extra onions and hickory sandwich, side of French fries, and a Coke." He folded the menu over and handed it to the lady, flashing a false smile. "And strawberry pie to go."

She nodded as she took the menu and wrote down the order, finally diverting her eyes to Sam, who had yet to lift his eyes from the menu.

"What about you, pretty boy? Whadda want?"

Whether the woman tried to make him feel less self-conscious about his scars or just find a way to demean him Dean wasn't sure, but what he was damn sure of was the twitch that about sent Sam out of his seat.

Dean gulped. Had Larry called him that before?

Sam scratched at the top of his head with long fingers, looking down directly at his menu and avoiding her gaze. He quietly yelped, barely audible but audible enough, as he realized the hand directly in the waitress's view was one of the most scarred parts of his body—that was visible, at least.

He put the hand under the table, stuttering. "Cajun salad and water, p-please."

The waitress nodded, the scarred hand not going unnoticed. "A'ight," she said as she took his menu. "It'll be out in a moment." She sauntered back to the kitchen, throwing a few glances his way before entering another room, out of sight.

Sam brought the hand back up and covered his eyes. He stayed like that several moments before finally heaving a small sigh, his voice filled with self-contempt. "I'll never get this right."

Dean shook his head. "No, Sammy, you didn't do anything." He snorted, absently watching her obnoxiously chew her pink gum as she served another customer. "She was just being a bitch."

Sam shook his head, holding his arms up on the table. "No, Dean, she wasn't." He deflated. "I just overreacted. Again."

Dean exhaled. Sam was referring to the time a man, a heavy man, asked him for directions to the nearest motel. This was back when Sam was still new to the "no more Larry" situation, and, at that time, Sam couldn't have handled it any better than he did.

Dean said just as much, but Sam seemed to be ignoring him, his palms crushed into his eyes and elbows leaned against the table.

The waitress strolled back with their drinks, her gaze once again landing immediately on Sam, a long scar going across his arm catching in the light. She cleared her throat, throwing one more glance before setting the glasses down in front of them.

"Your food will be out shortly."

John nodded curtly, and the woman walked back to where she came.

Sam had yet to move from his position, and Dean poked him in the shoulder, knowing there were no scars there.

And he knew. He knew exactly where each and every one of Sam's scars were located, much to Sam's infinite humiliation when Dean and John had asked to see them. But they had had to know; they had to. What if something had grown wrong after being broken? What if an injury was infected and they actually had to go to the hospital?

It had been a close call. The whip marks going along Sam's back were beyond repair and untreatable. But there was this one scar, painfully deep and so fucking long it made Dean cringe every time he caught sight of a piece of it. It went from the wrist down to the length of his arm, traveling from nipple to lower torso to hip to inner thigh to knee to lower calf. How fucking demented do you have to be todo that? Dean seethed in uncontrollable anger every time he thought about it, because it wasn't fucking fair.

Dean poked him again, harder this time. Sam rolled his hands over to his cheeks and looked at Dean with a sidelong look, irked.

Dean sighed. "Don't put yourself down all the time, Sammy. This is going to take a while for you to get over this, for all of us to get over this, and you can't get everything right the first time around."

Sam watched him a moment, then turned away to stare at the unoriginal black and white salt and peppershakers.

John watched in concern as Sam seemed to stop interaction altogether, curling discreetly into himself like it was his safe place, the only place no one could hurt him.

John brought a hand out to place it lightly on Sam's, then retracted, putting it hastily back in his lap and taking a gulp of soda. Sam didn't often like to be touched.

"I'm scared," Sam said unexpectedly, his gaze still fixed on the condiments. He looked different, though, eyes slightly wide and mouth a grim line, as if he hadn't been planning on saying that at all and, now that he did, he wasn't sure how to back it up, wasn't sure if he wanted to fully admit it.

"Of what?" Dean asked, involuntarily leaning a bit closer.

Sam didn't respond for several long moments, and Dean could tell Sam was trying to think up a lie. "I'm scared you both will suffer for my mistakes."

Dean's eyebrows curved downward, noting the utter honesty in Sam's words. Hell, the kid seemed damn serious about it.

But about what?

This time John was the one that responded, curiosity and puzzlement evident in his voice. "What are you talking about, Sammy?" He shot a thumb behind him, where the waitress had sauntered off to. "This? Sam, this is hardly a mistake. You haven't done anything wrong."

Sam looked down further and kept his long bangs in his eyes, and Dean fought the urge to just tear them back as Sam sighed almost inaudibly. He sounded sad, tortured even, and Dean was at the ready to make him feel as loved and important as he has always deserved.

Sam looked away, distracted, as if listening to another conversation. Then he spoke, "Dad, Dean, I…" Sam swallowed. "I, I don't…I don't think you really want to know." He shook his head. "I…I shouldn't have said that."

Dean took another risk and scooted an inch closer to him, a hand barely fluttering over his baby brother's shoulder. He wanted to demand Sam to tell him so bad, throttle it out of him, but that wouldn't help Sam, wouldn't help him get better. "Sammy, if you're struggling with something we need to know."

Sam gulped, shaking his head lightly. "I…I don't…"

Dean turned Sam's head to face him, pleading a small, "Please?"

One word. That one word was all Sam needed. Whatever it was Sam was talking about, it was obvious he didn't want to be. But for Sam, Dean's needs overcame his own every single time. He was so devoted and selfless that Dean couldn't believe it sometimes. Like he was the replica of an angel. An abused, fallen angel.

Sam nodded lightly, seeming to mentally prepare himself before beginning. "It's obvious I haven't fully recovered from...Larry." He struggled with his next words, whether he couldn't determine how to word it or how to understand it, Dean wasn't sure. "I'm so scared that, that I'll begin to affect you, too. Infect you." He shook his head. "I know, I know, it sounds foolish." He licked his lips, convinced now he would see this conversation to the end. "I'm always in so much pain and, and…I feel like I'll just bring both of you down with me." His long, thin fingers ran through his chocolate-colored hair, his mouth a deep, deep grimace. "I can't let that happen," he barely whispered, almost to himself.

Dean's mouth stuttered and his mind searched spastically for a response. Something that accurately showed how he felt.

Because damn he was feeling a lot right now.

But before he could open his mouth, the god-fucking-damn waitress came beep-bopping along, meandering over to their table and setting plates down in front of the Winchesters.

Dean watched as Sam looked over at the adjacent table where two men were enjoying their meals, but then plastered his gaze to his plate, gulping when he felt the waitress's stare.

"Need anything else?" The woman was looking at Sam, fucking staring at Sam, but by the tone of her voice Dean could tell she was talking to all three of them.

"No," he snapped harshly.

The woman nodded hurriedly, her back straightening a bit as she stumblingly walked away.

Sam's eyes stared intently to the left of John's shoulder, more toward the other customers, and John watched him peculiarly. It was like he wasn't there, like he was listening to a more important conversation somewhere else.

Both John and Dean sat silently, speechlessly, like Sam's melancholy and desperate speech had rendered them incapable of communication. Dean swallowed hard, for once the mouthwatering smell of juicy, grease-filled meat avoiding his scent.

Because his baby brother was hurting. Hurting more than he could ever deserve.

Sam looked up then with glassy eyes, looking to both John and Dean. "It's not your fault. I've just got a few kinks in my armor that need to be rid of. I'll deal. I'll fix myself again, and then I'll be brand new."

Dean shook his head. Because that wasn't fair either. Sam was broken, was broken by the most vile kind of monster in the world, so why was it Sam's job to pick up the shattered pieces? He'd been through enough, so why not let someone else put him back together?

John reached his hand out, this time letting the calloused palm rest lightly on Sam's knuckles. "No, Sammy, you're not alone." He smiled. "We'll just have to fix each other."

(0)

They ate in silence, each Winchester lost in their own thoughts, one's sorrowful, one's angry, and one's distracted.

As usual, Sam ate little of his own food, merely twirling it around with a fork and playing with it until it looked like someone ate it. As usual, Dean stressed to Sam that he needed to eat; as usual, Sam declined, saying that he wasn't hungry and— after making sure both Dean and John were finished eating—requested they head home. John gave in, as usual, paying for the meals and getting to his feet, followed by his sons.

It had become a long-going cycle and one that, for the most part, wasn't expected to be broken anytime soon.

However, Sam arose from the booth and, instead of heading toward the exit with their father, as usual, waited patiently for Dean to slide out of the booth.

Dean didn't think too much of it, sliding his butt across the cushion and getting to his feet. Before Dean could urge Sam in front of him, not liking his brother behind him and out of sight, Sam had made his decision, suddenly turning and walking to the table adjacent to their booth.

Dean watched confused and, from the corner of his eye, saw John stop to observe Sammy, as well.

Sam stood in front of two middle-aged men, who both looked as though they had been about to rise from their seats. They sat back down, each man eyeing Sam skeptically and critically.

Sam's eyes seemed full of malice, one of the strongest emotions Dean had seen on his face in months. Silently, he hoped it was just the angle he was at that made it seem so wicked.

"Keep your hands away from him," Sam said, pressing a hand hard onto the table, his gaze switching between the two. "He's not interested."

The men were astonished, but the dark haired man recovered quickly, throwing him a dark, malicious smile. "Says who?"

Sam's eyes tightened and his mouth curved downward in distaste. "Says me. You touch him I'll kill you."

Dean came to stand beside Sam, putting an arm in front of him and discreetly pushing him behind him. He didn't know what was going on, didn't hear the conversation that played out, but these men didn't look particularly delightful and he sure as hell wasn't letting anyone harass his brother if he could help it. It was ironic, though; Sam didn't talk to anyone he didn't know and, now that he was finally branching out, it's with people that looked like fucking serial killers.

Dean's eyes hardened on both men as they looked at him, and Sam stepped around Dean and pushed him away with a hand. Sam's eyes were like two black pits of rage, but his facial expression was eerily calm. "Thanks for the chat, but we'll be going home now. Alone." There was a distinct bite in his words, but the men did not stir, their teeth grinding together with tight fists.

Sam physically turned Dean around and pushed him toward the exit, leading him with a hand on his back. Dean cast the shortest of glances to their father in helpless confusion and John followed behind them protectively. He threw a glance back at the two men, content that both were still sitting, staring indignantly at the leaving men.

They exited and Sam looked up at the once bright daylight, the sky now filled with unceasing darkness that sneered down at him in mockery. Sam looked away, absently scooting a bit closer to Dean.

Once the three Winchesters had successfully left the diner and gathered into the Impala, Dean turned around in the passenger seat to look at his brother, his eyes diverted to the floor and hair covering his eyes.

"Sammy?" Dean started, licking his lips. Where was he supposed to start? "What, uh, what exactly was that about back there?"

Sam kept his gaze down, avoiding Dean's stare and hoping John would hurry up and start the car.

But the car remained silent, and Sam fidgeted with his hands, dark bangs covering his face. "They were talking about you," he said to Dean. "They wanted to fuck you."

Dean looked away, his teeth clenched. After a stunned moment, he breathed out, "Oh," feeling more stupid than considering.

Sam sneered, his upper lip twitching. "Yeah. Oh."

John seethed and started the engine, veering out of the parking lot at a frighteningly fast speed, his knuckles white from the tight grip he held on the wheel.

Dean stole a glance at his father. "It's fine, Dad. Nothing happened."

John snorted. "Yeah, Dean, everything is just fucking fine."

"It is," Dean said, exasperated and annoyed. "Sam overheard their conversation and acted accordingly." He repeated for emphasis, "Nothing happened."
John needed to hear that, though. He'd almost lost one son to a sick rapist; he needed to know the same wasn't about to happen to the other.

Sam stayed silent in the backseat, his own mind overloading with quiet rage. What if he hadn't noticed those men talking about his brother? What if they had caught them while they were leaving the diner, threatening them into submission with harsh words and loaded guns? Sure, the Winchesters were hunters, but they weren't willing to risk one of their own, not so blatantly. The men could have managed to get Sam as a hostage—obviously the weakest of the three—and Dean would have willingly chosen to go with the men with the sole intention of saving Sam.

Sure, he'd have saved Sam, but what about Dean?

Sam slammed his fist into the window, ignoring the dull pain as whatever conversation going on in the front went eerily silent. Would Sam have been able to live with himself? Knowing Dean had been as degraded as Sam so cruelly was?

Tears formed in his eyes without his will, and he cursed himself for his weakness. Dean was right. Nothing happened.

He didn't notice Dean and John's gaze on him until Dean spoke, "Sammy?"

Sam looked up, his eyes traveling between Dean and John's eyes in the rearview mirror. Sam's mouth twitched as the pain in his hand sprang back. "Sorry, that was unnecessary."

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said lightly, like he was handling a frightened child. Sam felt disgusted with himself. His incapability of keeping his emotions under control made him lash out, and now Dean felt like he had to coddle him just in case Sam fucked up again; but, instead of bruising his hand, ended up killing himself instead.

They had been driving in total silence when they finally reached the small motel, each getting out of the sleek Impala and filing toward their room.

The motel managed nodded to them when they entered the building, his smile wide and, for the most part, innocent enough. Ever since Sam's encounter with Larry, he was beginning to notice almost every supervisor of rundown, sleazy motels had at least a meager portion of repulsion.

(0)

"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam said immediately as John pushed the door open to reveal their small, moldy room. Both Dean and John seemed surprised, but said nothing as Sam gathered clean boxers and shut himself inside the bathroom.

Sam sighed, resting his head on the closed door. Listening, he heard nothing but stillness on the other side of the door.

Damn, Sammy. You're so fucking gorgeous. Put that pretty mouth of yours on me again.

Sometimes it was so random. Sam could have been having the best day but, once night came, god only knew what he'd turn into, what he'd remember. He swallowed, trying to push away the thoughts. He contemplated it might have been because he was imprisoned in that dark motel room for all those months, the smallest of rays shining through the covered windows the only source of light he had ever been witness to. Maybe his time with Larry had birthed one of Sam's now biggest phobias.

Sam pulled his shirt over his head then stripped out of his jeans and boxers. He kept his back turned to the mirror. He remembered every moment he had with Larry, every wound; he didn't need it to be reestablished.

Sam turned the shower handle then, after a moment, stood under the spray, the trickling water ruthlessly cold. He shivered, but, as usual, refused to add any more heat to it. His father and brother deserved the hot water. Besides, for months Sam had been more than used to freezing showers by now.

He grabbed the soap and ran it over his body, his own hands still foreign when he was so used to Larry's. Sam shivered, this time having nothing to do with the arctic level of water.

He finished up quickly, shutting off the tap before stepping out and grabbing a towel. He dried off then threw the towel into the corner of the room, absently wondering when he'd stopped being so obsessed with cleanliness. The consideration was trivial, though, and he let it go, instead slipping into his boxers.

But what Sam had been trying to avoid for so long turned into an utter failure as he turned his eyes to the mirror. He froze, his eyes trailing to look at each scar with a mix of horror and awe.

Maybe he was wrong; maybe he didn't remember each pain he suffered. He took another step, edging cautiously toward the mirror and pulling his neck to the side, his finger lightly grazing over four adjacent scars. They looked like fingernail marks.

After a long moment of intense scrutiny, he broke out of his reverie and steered his gaze away, turning away from the mirror.

He opened the bathroom door to see both Dean and John cleaning their weapons at the table. They purposely didn't look up at him, and Sam wanted to heave a sigh of relief. They were trying to leave him with at least a little personal space, as much as one was allowed in a puny, dingy room like theirs.

He went to stand behind Dean and put his hands on both the man's shoulders, determined to stop being the burdened Winchester. He loved his family for trying to protect him, trying to give him space.

He was just tired of needing it.

"Need any help?"

Dean smiled at his brother in pleasant surprise, beaming for his initiative in conversation. "Nah, we were just getting finished. Thanks, though, Sammy."

Sam nodded, keeping his hands on Dean's shoulders; not as a lifeline, but as a sense of security for Dean. See how he could suck it up. See how he could be the strong Winchester his family wanted.

He bent down and put his arms around Dean's neck, his hands resting lightly on his collarbones and his chin on his own forearm. The touch didn't repulse him, and Dean just sat there with a shit-eating grin, ecstatic.

Dean immediately put the gun down, shooting his dad a brief glance before turning around in his chair and standing up to face Sam. He bent at the knees and grabbed the back of Sam's. Sam gasped in surprise as Dean heaved, throwing Sam over his shoulder and walking him over to the bed nearest them.

"Damn Sammy, could you weigh any less?" he joked, uncurling Sam from his shoulder and carefully tossing him onto the mattress, Dean climbing in on his stomach beside him.

Sam rolled his eyes, putting his arms over his head and hands beneath his damp hair. Dean smirked, Sam's deep eyes looking back at him in amusement.

Dean looked down, his eyes drifting over Sam's chest, and Sam fought the urge to squirm self-consciously. This wasn't some judgmental waitress gawking at his scars. This was Dean.

Dean brought a hesitant hand up to Sam's abdomen, lightly tracing the deep scar trailing from wrist to nipple to beneath his boxers then down to his calf. How could he let that fucker Larry touch his brother? They should've known better than to leave Sammy alone. Sam was too valuable for them to take that kind of risk.

Dean stopped his curious finger after a moment, bringing his hand back to his side and looking at Sam with a shaky smile. He sighed. "I'm so glad you're okay," he whispered. And he knew Sam wasn't okay okay, but he was alive, and that was so fucking important.
Sam returned the smile, his own smaller and more timid. "Me too." The smile slowly melted away, though, and his gaze turned to Dean once more. "I'm glad…I'm glad that you're okay, too." He swallowed, his eyes flickering away from Dean's for a moment. "If those men…if they had…"

Dean's mouth went slack, too, and he put a hand to Sam's lips before he could finish. "Hey, don't talk like that, Sammy. Nothing happened." Dean attempted a chuckle. "You make me sound like tape recording, dude. Nothing happened."

Dean's fake smile slid off easily as Sam left the joke unremarked, his gaze solemn and grave. He was silent for a long moment, long enough for Dean not to expect a response or continuation to the conversation. When Sam did speak, though, his voice sounded small and defenseless. "You make it sound like it's no big deal, Dean. Getting raped."

Dean's eyes widened in immediate alarm, and he could almost feel John tensing the hell up as he further listened in from the table.

Shit shit shit.

"No. No, Sammy, that's not what I meant at all, I swear to God. I was just—."

"It's okay," Sam said quietly. Understandingly. "I…I know what you meant." Dean didn't seem too sure, and Sam emphasized, "I do." He shrugged lightly, looking away. "I just...it's hard. The thought of you dealing with, with what I did…" Sam licked his lips. "During the court trial, I…I wondered if I had liked it, the sex. That maybe I had liked it but never really acknowledged it…I had done things, disgusting things you couldn't…" Sam's mouth grimaced in shame, "Couldn't even begin to imagine." Sam shook his head. "It wasn't hard to believe I had enjoyed any of it."

He paused, taking a breath. "I know better now, though. That I didn't, that it was repulsive. But Larry…he was so manipulative. It was so easy for me to doubt myself." He closed his eyes. "If those two men had succeeded…you would've had to deal with that warring in your head for weeks. Months. The constant battle that you were as sick as the man thrusting into you." Sam opened his eyes then, glazed with tears, and looked into Dean's green ones. "It's one thing to blame the rapist, the right thing, but another thing entirely to blame yourself. And that's what makes it so much fucking worse." He sat up, then, facing Dean head on, courageous. "And it scares the shit out of me that you could've ended up exactly like me."

Dean's mouth quivered in blatant despair, his eyes over spilling with thick, heavy tears. How could he not have guessed at that? That Sam had blamed himself for his own pain? That'd he'd even speculated on whether he had liked being raped?

The problem seemed so clear now, glaring scornfully at Dean and his useless naïveté as Sam had suffered such horrid inner conflicts.

"Sammy…I'm so sorry Dad and I weren't there to help you, especially with something so…" So what? So horrible? So incredibly repulsive he couldn't even conceive what Sam had gone through, couldn't conceive all those disdainful thoughts of disappointment and self-loathing?

Sam didn't like anyone's pity, remembered when Dean came across as that, and left the sentence unfinished, merely shaking his head with a miserable, "I'm so fucking sorry."

Sam smiled sadly. "Please don't apologize for my sake." He shrugged lightly, at the same time trying to meet Dean's eyes. "Larry's dead, no longer a threat, and those two bastards at the diner are gone, so…maybe everything's okay now." His smile turned more genuine. "Besides, just that you care is enough."

Dean looked to Sam at that, offering a grin in response.

Serious moment over, Dean wrapped an arm around Sam's neck, bringing him toward him so he could rub his knuckles into the boy's hair. Sam giggled, squirming in his grip, his hands slapping at the arm at his neck.

John chuckled, indisputably happy with their endearing antics. The boys played around for a while longer until at last they lay there exhausted and panting heavily on the bed, their energy fully spent.

John finally stood, glancing at the clock before hitting the foot Dean had hanging over the end of the bed. "Come on; bedtime."

Dean nodded in acquiescence, the smile still etched in his features as he lightly tugged Sam to the front of the bed. Sam complied, slipping under the sheets with his brother.

Beneath the covers, Dean managed to wiggle out of his jeans, wadding them up and aiming at his duffle bag.

The throw fell short, though, and Sam smirked in amiable derision at the pants now in the middle of the room. "Disappointing."

Dean only flicked him off, unable to hide his smile, and shifted to find a more comfortable position.

Sam's smile deepened, the still foreign feeling of safety overwhelming as Dean slipped a protective arm over his shoulder. In moments, both fell into unconsciousness, wrapped in each other's soft embrace.

XxXxXxXxX

Hope you enjoyed! More to come later if you so wish it.