A/N: So hey, I haven't posted here in a while but I just couldn't get this out of my head so I ended up writing this at like 4.25 in the morning. Well, here you go, part 1.

Spoilers up to 2.22 and that's it. Oh, and there's shmoop, lots of it.

B is for Brothers

Part 1.

As with most things in life Sam begins listening to Dean halfway through the conversation.

"-wouldn't worry about me Sammy." he catches Dean saying, and Sam looks up from his laptop. He'd taken to carrying it everywhere with him nowadays, what with Dean's life depending on Sam figuring a way out of the deal. It was as if Dean's hour glass of life was nailed to the table, sand trickling down, down to oblivion with no way to stop it, no rewind and freeze buttons. He couldn't waste a minute, not when Dean's very existence was threatened.

"Dean," Sam frowns across the table at him, "I'm always going to worry about you, dumb ass." And to his amusement Dean looks utterly bewildered at his response. He was staring at Sam as though he'd just randomly started talking out of the blue.

Dean smiles crookedly, "Next time Sam," he says shaking his head slightly, "I'm getting decaf and cutting you off at two cups." He returns his attention back to his half eaten meal a smile playing around at the corners of his mouth, as if he didn't really want to laugh at his brother, but was fast on his way to doing that exactly. And it was just like Dean to brush off concern and worry for him, especially considering his…how had Dean put it? Circumstances. Yes, considering Dean's circumstances, his lack of self-preservation was astounding.

It appeared to him that the time after their father's death had nothing on Dean's behaviour now after his own deal was made. The constant gambling, drinking, sex, fighting, hunting was tearing Sam to pieces. It wasn't that Sam didn't want Dean to go out, have fun and live life to the fullest - as Dean would put it - he did, he wanted his brother to live how he wanted, enjoy this year, but if - and this was the real problem, and even thinking this made Sam want to shake his brother and punch him and hug him and never let go - if Sam couldn't save Dean, then Sam doesn't want to remember him always drinking, and fighting and spending as little time with Sam as possible, the way his is now. He wants to do the things they never got to do as brothers, like go and see the Grand Canyon, or go to a ranch and ride horses, or rent a cabin up in the mountains somewhere and just spend the last of Dean's time on earth together. As long as they were together.

Sam remembers the first time he begged Dean not to go hunting with their father. He'd pleaded and begged and cried, but Dean had just sat him down on the bed, knelt in front of him, wiped the tears off Sam's cheek with his thumb and said: "It's okay Sammy. It's okay, I'm alright, I'll be back," the last part in that damn terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger accent of his. And it had all been because of one stupid, damn witch hunt going wrong. Dean had nearly died, and Sam had realized that this life wasn't all fun and games as Dean made it out to be. It was dangerous, could take Dean from him. Dean had nearly bled out on the crappy motel bed as their father tried to staunch the blood flow. Dean had been eight.

Sam remembers all the times he'd nearly screamed and cried for hours because he was so scared for Dean. Like on the drive to Nebraska when he thought that the pale imitation of Dean slumped next to him in the car had stopped breathing and he'd nearly crashed the Impala trying to shake Dean awake. Dean had eyed him fuzzily, confused as to why Sam looked as though he was about to burst into tears then said softly, "I'm alright, it's okay," before shifting in his seat and going back to sleep.

Then there was the time when Sam had been kidnapped by a bunch of redneck hillbillies. He'd finally gotten free to go searching for his brother and found Dean bound and slumped in a seat, a horrifying stench of burning flesh in the air, with a child who could have been no older than twelve poking at him with a knife. Then there was the cabin and the demon possessing their father. He still dreams of rivulets of blood pouring down Dean's chest, hoarse screams coming from his throat.

Dean had punched the self destruct button from then on in. After the hospital and the reaper and Dad dying Dean had faded into a spiral of hurt and anger, and hatred for himself, inevitably resulting in the deal he made for Sam's life. He couldn't-

"-Saaaaam? Saaaaaaaaammy? Yo, you with me now?" Dean was snapping his fingers in front of his face, and he looked up from the now closed laptop screen.

"Wha?" He blinks again, coming back to the diner he's sat in, with Dean - safe goddamit - across the plastic table, head resting on his closed fists, elbows on the table.

"How eloquent," Dean smiles, nudging Sam's boot with his own before stretching and continuing, "Spaced out on me dude," Sam looks down and Dean continued, "You're freaking me out Sam." He looks up into Dean's eyes, seeing badly concealed concern and worry and he presses his lips into an apologetic grimace.

"Sorry," he sighs, "I didn't mean to worry you." And there was that look again, and Sam could only explain it in terms of pure confusion. He watches as Dean shifts slightly under the scrutiny and says, "Right," he stands up suddenly, "right. Come on then Sam-I-am, places to go, people to save and all that shit. You mind getting this one? Thanks, you're a great brother. So you wanna pay the nice waitress and leave a good tip wont you?" And like Dean, he manages to get that out in one breath, so quickly that Sam barely has time to manage a fond "Jerk," pulling out the cash from his wallet.

"Bitch," Dean calls back over his shoulder, and then walks out the door.

It continues for a week after the incident in the diner, and it's only then that Sam realizes it, somewhat belatedly. It takes a full week of sidelong glances at Sam, confused stares after he says something, and a general feeling of awkwardness between the two of them, and it shows in their hunting. They're so off key with each other that Sam ends up jumping out too soon on the wendigo they're attempting to trap in the forest clearing using Dean as bait who, for his troubles gets clawed up his side.

Dean's face is pale when Sam kills it. And he murmurs a litany of "I'm alright, it's okay," under his breath as Sam heaves him upright practically dragging Dean back to the impala.

"S'okay Sammy," he blinks at Sam as he skids into the motel parking lot. "It's only a few scratches."

"Shut up Dean," he growls, "Just shut up. God you've probably got a concussion, here take these pain pills," To his surprise, Dean does, rather meekly and he feels like a bastard for shouting at his hurting brother. "Sorry," He mumbles.

It's when they're inside that Sam realizes it. Realizes what's been going on this past week and he's so shocked that his hand stops mid stitch. It all made sense now; the confused looks, sidelong, unsure glances, everything.

His first thought was wow.

His second was oh shit.

Dean mumbles something about his crappy medical skills and Sam shakes his head, picking up the needle that was laying against Dean's bare side and continues stitching up the gashes on his ribs. Dean had been right. They hadn't been that bad.

"All done," He says smiling at Dean and patting him on the chest before getting up off the bed and making his way to the other pulling off his jeans and t-shirt on the way. He couldn't think about what he'd discovered just yet. He was too tired, his thoughts muggy and slow, it was no use worrying about it when he could barely think.

It's 3.25 AM and he's just settling down under the covers when an annoyed: "Hey," pierces his thoughts. He glances at Dean who looks thoroughly disgruntled, currently pushing himself up on his elbows.

"What?" Sam rubs his eyes; he's tired and just wants to sleep.

"You're in my bed!" Dean retorts indignantly, "That's my bed!" He's pointing now and oh god Dean's trying to get up.

"Dean," Sam grumbles exasperatedly, "We've never been to this motel before so technically this is my bed. Now goodnight." He turns over pulling the covers up over his shoulders.

"No, that's always my bed! I always have the bed by the door!" He tumbles out of the bed and pokes at Sam's shoulder. "Gimme my bed back!"

"Naargh," Sam grumbles back and, when the poking doesn't stop he sits up, glaring at Dean, who is currently pouting magnificently. "Why do you insist on having this bed? Huh? Got any real reason except for wanting to annoy the hell out of me as usual? Well Dean? You just being that goddamn stubborn son of a-"

"I just want my bed," He mumbles pitifully looking at his feet, and oh god there was the voice. The sad little sniffly voice that meant if he looked up, he'd see those eyes all full of tears and shiny, and whoever said Dean couldn't pull the puppy face was talking complete bullshit. And oh fuck, he went and looked up didn't he? And his eyes were shining, and his bottom lip was wobbling like he thought it would and Dean looks hurt, brow creased in between his eyebrows with distress. And now he feels like a damn bastard because Dean's shuffling back to the other bed dejectedly, feet trailing slow and long on the grubby carpet.

Sam sighs. "Come on then," He says softly, pulling himself out of the warm confines of the bed.

"No," Dean sniffles back still turned. And damn, he'd really underestimated the effects of that concussion because now Dean was sulking, pouting like an unloved child and it made him want to wrap his arms around him and hug Dean.

"Come on Dean," He wheedles, "It's all warm and cozy. Come on, you know you want the bed by the door."

There's a moment of silence before Dean sniffles again, nods unhappily and drags his feet on the way to the bed. He doesn't look at Sam as he passes him. Doesn't look at Sam when he tucks Dean in or pats him on the head fondly. But Sam smiles softly.

"There you go big brother," And makes his way to Dean's unwanted bed.

He's settling into the musty blankets on the bed looking at Dean's face, the only part of him visible from under the mass of blankets when it happens again. Dean has always had this ability to rip your heart out of your chest, stamp on it, then shove it back down your throat just from a look you catch when he thinks you're not watching him. Or when he makes a little comment when drugged up, or feverish, or concussed that makes Sam want to curl up beside him in bed and never let go. He hears Dean's voice soft in his head as Dean thinks: I just want to keep you safe from the things outside that might want to hurt you Sammy.

And right there and then Sam feels like a bastard.

TBC