Sam is sitting at the table in the kitchen when Dean re-enters the house. He doesn't make eye contact; Dean says nothing.
Dean leans against the sink, staring out the window, his back tense. After a moment he turns, opens the fridge and takes out a beer. He takes a long pull and sits the bottle on the counter, crossing his arms across his chest and stares at the floor.
The phone rings in the other room, and they hear Bobby's footsteps as he answers the phone, Hello? Yeah? S'at right….
Sam exhales and looks up, catches Dean's gaze on him. They hear Bobby hang up the phone, his steps across the room, the sound of him settling back into his chair.
Sam stands, and moves towards Dean. He is cautious, as if approaching a cornered animal. Something flickers in Dean's face. His jaw tightens, eyes following Sam's every movement. Sam stops when they are standing toe-to-toe.
Dean's hands tighten his embrace around himself. Sam places his hands on top of Deans and gently rubs up and down in a soothing motion. Dean leans forward until his forehead is against Sam's shoulder. Sam slides his hands around to Dean's back, pulling him closer.
He hears Dean's breathing hitch, feels his shoulders shake. He's not crying, but he's close; closer than Sam's ever seen. He doesn't know what to say or do. He's never been on this side of the embrace, not with Dean.
They hear Bobby's guffaw floating into the kitchen over canned laughter from the television. Sam shifts his head and closes his eyes. He misses their father, yes, but he knows he'd miss Dean more. Dean's breathing slows, gets softer.
"Get the fuck off me Sam," Dean says, suddenly twisting out of Sam's hold. "This isn't some episode of Family Ties or some shit," he mutters, grabbing his beer and taking a drink.
Sam steps back, a small smile playing at his lips. "No?"
"Nah," Dean says, heading towards the hall. "I always preferred Seinfeld myself."
Sam shakes his head, lost; he can't make the connection.
"No lessons, no hugs," Dean says as he disappears up the stairs.