Dean's jokes are getting noticeably worse.
Sam knows why, but that doesn't stop them from grating on his last nerve. Stop, he wants to say, just stop it. You can't hide from this, not like that. But the look in Dean's eyes always keeps his mouth glued shut, makes Sam decide to be patient for one more minute, one more hour, one more day. He doesn't have the heart to take his brother's last security blanket.
"You are way too tense, dude," Dean tells him, brushing by with a smack to Sam's shoulder. "You know what? There's this place down Sherman Avenue offering massages. The all-over kind, if you know what I mean." Dean grins and throws in a wink for good measure, like that will make it all better.
"No thanks," Sam mumbles, burying his nose back in his book.
"Seriously, Sam, c'mon. My treat and everything." Dean's leaning over him, face lit with good cheer, but there's something desperate pulling the skin around his eyes tight. It makes something sick and cold lurch in the pit of Sam's stomach to see it.
"Dean--" he starts.
Dean claps him on the shoulder, fingers digging in too hard when his hand lingers there. "Sammy, when're you gonna get over this prudery thing? You know, you're never gonna get laid without me if you don't start warming up a little--"
The bones of Dean's wrist grind beneath Sam's fingers. Sam is as surprised as Dean looks; he can't for the life of him remember moving, didn't even see himself reach up to close his fingers tight around Dean's wrist. Dean flinches but doesn't pull away. Doesn't even try. Sam squeezes harder, thinking Move, just move.
"Sammy," Dean says, suddenly too soft, like he's just going to sit there and let Sam bruise him up if that's what Sam needs. His eyes are full of pain, and it's not from the strength in Sam's hand.
"I don't need it," Sam says, letting go with a little shove to make Dean back off a step. He isn't talking about the massage or getting laid or anything even remotely like it.
Dean slides a hand over his own wrist, holding on like he's cradling it, except that Sam can clearly see his fingers digging in, gripping as tight as Sam had done. His eyes are a little too wide, lips parted like he's breathing too quick.
Without another word he's turning, grabbing up his jacket and sliding out the motel room door. Sam can only sit there and listen to the sound of the Impala rumbling to life and then quickly fading away.
It takes hours for the sensation of Dean's hand on his shoulder to fade, though. Sam presses his fingers to the bruise, willing the feeling to stay.
***
Dean comes back sometime after three in the morning. Sam knows because he's had his eye on the blurry digital clock the entire time, and as the door handle jiggles Sam tries to relax into the covers, tries to relax into something that at least vaguely resembles sleep.
Dean doesn't bother to be quiet-- he tosses his keys on the table by the window, strips his jacket off and lets it fall with a leather-heavy whump to the floor. His bootsteps are loud and thudding, heavier than they should be, clumsier. Sam guesses that he's had a few drinks, maybe even the whole bottle.
He keeps his eyes shut as Dean marches over to the beds. Get some sleep he quietly pleads, because Dean hasn't been sleeping much for the last month. Don't wanna waste all that time with my eyes closed, Dean keeps saying, and coffee has been his best friend (and worst enemy) for weeks now.
Dean doesn't get into bed, though. Sam doesn't need to see to feel his brother standing over him, watching him.
The mattress dips and bounces as Dean sits down. It takes Sam a minute to realize he's tugging off his boots. Sam forces himself still as one boot and then the other hits the ground; he frowns into the pillow at the whisper and rasp of clothes pulled off, zippers pulled down.
He knows it's coming, but that doesn't stop the feeling of shock sparking through him when Dean pulls back the covers and climbs in.
Dean worms his way close and then closer, curling up so tight that Sam can feel his body heat, can smell beer and whiskey and cigarettes and aftershave. Dean throws an arm over him, and then a leg, until they're pressed so tight together Sam can feel the rapid beat of his brother's heart thudding against his back.
He doesn't know what to do.
Dean lets out a sigh, face buried against the back of Sam's neck. The moment stretches thin and fragile; Sam imagines a filament of spun glass, clear and delicate and ready to break.
"Know you're not sleepin', Sam," Dean says at last.
Sam has to swallow twice to be able to talk, and his voice still won't come out normal after he does. "Your bed's over there," he says, as if Dean doesn't know.
Dean's arm tightens around him, squeezing almost painfully for a moment before he settles again. "No shit, Sherlock," he answers, finally. "I like it better here."
"Dean--"
"Sam." Dean's breath is so warm against his skin. "Just let me. Just..." He abandons words and curls somehow closer, skin hot through the fabric of their t-shirts.
Sam stares into the room's darkness. "Yeah. Alright, Dean. Just... get some sleep."
Dean laughs, tiny and false. "You ever talk about this, I swear I'll kick your ass. Not a word, Sam, got it?" When Sam doesn't answer, Dean gives him a little shake. "Got it?"
"I got it," Sam says, feeling weary beyond all belief, tired right down to the marrow of his bones. "I got you, Dean."
Dean laughs again, and then he starts to shiver, trembling like he's cold, but he's not cold. His fingers clench tight, digging into Sam's skin, hurting. Sam lets him.
Dean stays awake until the first pale light of dawn, when he finally gives in and falls into an exhausted sleep. When his grip loosens Sam presses his fingers there himself, hard and merciless against the bruises until he can feel them all the way down to his bones.