Note: This has a connection to my fic Pain and Healing. It isn't super important, but it's there.
Sam kept smiling at him.
Dean understood why.
Naturally, he was relieved that his older brother was no longer losing marbles left and right.
He was content that one of his last living family members could remember who he was.
There was no doubt Sam was glad Dean was going to be okay.
Relief, contentment, and joy were all good reasons for the younger man to smile.
At least for the first few times.
But it had been hours, and the kid still grinned ear-to-ear every time he so much as glanced in Dean's direction, which he was doing all the damn time.
As if Sam's never-ending smiling wasn't unsettling enough, his obvious pain certainly was.
Dean knew his kid was in agony.
Sam had yet to admit it, but his brother could see it.
Because he remembered everything now.
He remembered what those little lines around his brother's hazel eyes meant. He knew the reason for the slight clench of Sam's jaw. He understood why there was a shadow in the regularly vibrant gaze. He comprehended why the lank body was stiffly resting against the door instead of relaxed into the seat. Dean now had the ability to very clearly recall the signs of his kid silently, secretly, suffering.
"Dean, you okay?" The question was spoken in a serious, but soft tone. That gentle voice was more proof of the presence of Sam's pain.
The older man rolled his eyes at the question. "Yes, Sam. I'm fine. Just as fine as I was the last time you asked me, all of six minutes ago."
"Good, that's good." Sam said with a nod, and yet another smile.
"What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. Are you okay?" Dean asked, glancing between Sam and the road. He had made the same inquiry shortly after Rowena did her magic, and Sam had claimed he was fine, but Dean was beginning to seriously doubt his brother's self-assessment.
"I'm great." Sam stated, the corners of his lips rising impossibly higher, but they didn't distract Dean from the discomfort lining the younger hunter's forehead.
"When do you plan on telling me what those witch-bitches did to you? I might not remember everything from when my mind was leaking, but I can't forget hearing you scream over the phone."
Sam frowned, for quite possibly the first time since Dean had been – for lack of a better term – healed.
"It's nothing. I'm fine."
"And maybe when I couldn't remember what my little brother looks like when he is lying his ass off, that would have flown, dude. But not now."
Sam's eyebrows climbed, before he chuckled softly.
"It's really nothing, Dean. I got captured, but that's hardly the first time that has ever happened."
"What's wrong with your noggin? Did they knock you out?"
He received another vaguely bewildered look from the taller hunter, assumingly over Dean's level of perception. The older man was beginning to wonder if he was the only one who had lost his mind.
"No, not exactly." Sam responded vaguely, focussing his gaze avoidantly out the windshield, until he winced and stared down at his lap instead.
The sun was clearly not helping the kid's aching skull.
"Sam." Dean called, his worry rising as his patience diminished.
"It's not big deal, Katarina just sort of jacked up my head."
If that was meant to remedy the older hunter's fears, it did the exact opposite.
"What the fuck do you mean, jacked up your head?"
"I don't know. It was like this piercing sound, but like inside my skull. It felt like my brain was shrieking."
Sam did a full body shiver, as though he was reliving the event.
Dean's knuckles went white as he clenched the steering wheel.
"And uhh…" Sam faded off.
The older man knew he wasn't going to like whatever the kid was about to say, but he needed to hear it.
"Stop drawing it out, Sam. Just tell me." Dean demanded gruffly.
"My ears blead, for a little."
Sam gasped as the Impala swerved violently to the shoulder of the road where it slammed to a stop.
"What the hell?" Sam grunted.
Dean knew his brother normally would have hollered such an exclamation, and the fact that even in his shock he kept his tone hushed, was more evidence as to the level of agony he was experiencing. The older man ignored Sam's confused protests and he grabbed for his face, his hands gentle even in his haste as he maneuvered his brother's head from one side to the other.
"Dean, man, it's gone now. I'm fine." Sam insisted.
The elder Winchester used his calloused fingers to carefully trace around his brother's right ear and down his jaw line, before letting his searching hands fall away.
"You were bleeding out your ears, Sam, which could mean your goddamn brain was bleeding. That is pretty fucking far from okay." Dean growled.
The younger man opened his mouth, but Dean beat him to the punch.
"I'm taking you to the hospital." He declared, executive decision made.
"No, Dean. I'm alright, really. I swear."
Long, bony fingers curled around the driver's left wrist, flexing, but not pulling it completely off the steering wheel. The green eyes met the imploring hazel gaze, seeing the honesty, but still spotting the poorly hidden agony.
"You're not. You're in pain, Sammy."
The younger man opened his mouth, an objection already written across his expression, but Dean sent his brother his signature don't you dare bullshit me stare and stopped Sam before he could start. The broad shoulders shrugged, Sam's mouth twisting in a helpless sad-looking smile.
"Yeah, but it's just a headache."
Dean's doubt must have showed on his face, because Sam continued.
"A bad headache…a really bad headache." He conceded.
Dean's jaw clenched as he studied his brother, searching for well-intentioned deception.
Sam allowed it, opening his expression, so much so that the previously hidden pain came flooding through. The agony wrinkled his young face and seeped from his hazel orbs; and while none of that was the least bit reassuring, Dean at least knew for certain that his brother was being honest, wasn't hiding a thing from him.
"You remember after Bloody Mary, after what happened to my eyes?" Sam asked the question in that lawyer-way that told the older man he was about to prove a point, but he also sounded uncertain – as though he wasn't positive Dean would remember.
"Of course, like I could ever forget about your freakin eyeballs leaking blood." Dean scoffed.
Relief flashed across Sam's face, he swallowed before proceeding.
"Right, and you were freaked something had gone wrong, and dragged me to the hospital that night, but they did all the tests and everything was okay."
"It wasn't okay, you had a massive migraine that knocked you on your ass and left you heaving on the bathroom floor half the night."
"But my brain was fine. This is the same deal, dude."
"You have a migraine?" Dean asked, the brief relief quickly replaced with fresh concern.
Sam frowned, his irritation clear, because he thought his brother had missed the point, but Dean only cared about one point.
His kid's pain.
"Sam?" It was a low growl, because migraine meant deep tones.
The younger man bit his lip as he gave a reluctant nod.
"How bad is it?"
"Worse than a headache, but I'm not going to toss my cookies just yet."
Dean nodded, absorbing the information, feeling himself calm now that he knew what he was dealing with, though his concern remained firmly in place. Because even if Sam's brain was no longer hemorrhaging, a migraine was no cake-walk.
"Were going to pull in to the next hotel we cross." Dean announced as he took the Impala out of park and guided his baby back onto the road.
"That's not necessary."
"Yes, it is. This isn't a papercut we're dealing with, here, Sam. This is a migraine, one of your migraines, and if I've got my timeline right, you're about an hour away from not being about to see or walk straight."
"I'll be fine."
"You're right, you will be. You'll be fine resting in a comfortable dark hotel room, while I wait on your stupid skinny ass hand-and-foot."
"Dean, I could just lie down in the back—
"Oh yeah, because the backseat is soundproof now, right? Yeah, I'm certain that the sun streaming in the windows and the traffic all over the interstate would be wonders for you head."
"I'd survive."
"Dude, this migraine is already going to be brutal, because I'm guessing you don't have your meds on you?"
Sam gave the slightest shake of his head, so much so that Dean wouldn't have seen the movement if he hadn't been looking for it.
"Got some back at the bunker. It's been awhile…" He faded off. "All we had in the kit that's any good for this is extra strength Advil, so I took two before we left."
Dean grunted. A lot of good that would do. Maybe take a fraction of the edge off for a few minutes, but lame meds like that didn't have a chance against the force of a migraine.
"No meds and no healing angel, dude, this is going to suck for you." Dean stated, his frustrated anger laced with sympathy.
"Trust me, Dean. Nothing could suck as much as what we already went through. This migraine is nothing compared to the past couple days."
Dean pursed his lips at the hushed but earnest declaration. He knew that the floppy-haired kid was sending him that stupid sappy smile before his eyes wandered anywhere near Sam's direction.
"Well, I don't think it's nothing." He mumbled, ignoring his little brother's stare as he focussed dutifully on the road ahead.
"I know." Sam whispered a moment later.
Now that the I'm fine façade had fallen away, Sam had relented with his futile effort to hide his pain. He rested more completely against the passenger door, resting his head cautiously against the window. He winced and grimaced freely and frequently. He flinched at one point when Dean was unable to avoid a particularly large pot hole. He cringed and gagged when some asshole – who placed himself dangerously high on Dean's hitlist – laid on his horn because some other asshole cut him off.
But through it all, a smile never stopped pulling at Sam's lips every time Dean caught him looking in his direction, and probably all the times the driver didn't catch him as well.
Dean wanted to ask about it, but he didn't think it was the time to force an explanation of his little brother, especially since Sam didn't sound like he could so much as breathe without adding fuel to the fire in his brain.
"Finally." Dean muttered, spotting a sign for a Best Western. It wasn't the type of joint the hunters usually frequented - not nearly inconspicuous enough - but Sam needed comfort and silence, luxuries offered by few, if any, motels.
By the time Dean followed the exit and pulled into the parking lot, Sam had his eyes clenched closed, and was cradling his head in his hands, those long fingers pressing against his temples, as if they could drill the pain away.
"Dean?" He called out, impossibly soft, not moving from his hunched position or opening his eyes.
"Right here, Sammy. I'm just going to grab us a room, you sit tight." He replied in a low whispered tone.
He had learned long ago how important it was to utilize the proper timbre of his voice during one of Sam's migraines. A word spoken too loud, or in too high a register, could send a stake through his kid brother's noggin.
"Kay" Sam responded, though Dean could tell from the single symbol, that the younger man was hesitant to permit the departure.
"Be right back, kiddo." Dean promised, reaching across and supportively squeezing the boney shoulder.
Sam made an agreeable noise, and Dean reluctantly slid from the vehicle. He cursed the squeal of the Impala's hinges when he opened the door, not missing the way his brother shied impossibly further away. The older man didn't dare slam the door closed all the way, letting it sway halfway shut as he rushed to the office.
He rented out a room in record time and returned rapidly to the vehicle, and more importantly, his hurting kid brother.
Sam was silent, even his breathing was muted as Dean drove the car to the parking space closest to the side entrance, which he was told was nearest to their room. He cursed – not for the first time – the throaty growl of the engine, hating how insensitive his baby could be to Sam's migraines.
"Alright, kiddo. Let's get you inside." Dean mumbled, reaching across the bench seat and getting a grip on his brother's long arms, pulling the younger man towards him. History had taught him that Sam preferred having to slide across the space, then listen to two car doors squeal open and slam shut.
Dean silently cursed the daylight as he did what the could to shelter his brother's eyes from the sun – knowing that light would filter through the lids no matter how tightly Sam closed them – and wished that his earlier search for sunglasses hadn't been so fruitless.
Sam stumbled as he was leveraged from the vehicle, his legs shaking and knees threatening to give-way, he was bent practically in half until Dean pulled one of his arms over his broad shoulders. The older man hooked his arm around Sam's waist and felt his torso shutter in pain, as he guided his little brother towards their hotel room.
Dean flashed back to the many agonizing migraines, and many more hunts gone wrong, that had resulted in him supporting his kid brother's lean frame.
They were all memories Dean would have been happy to lose, but ones he would never forget.
Because he never forgot Sammy's pain.
Except, apparently, when witches got involved.
The younger man sucked in anguished gasp and lost his footing, nearly slamming into the door before Dean had the chance to tighten his hold.
"Whoah, take it easy, Sammy. Take it easy." Dean muttered, balancing his kid brother against his hip and chest and …well, the entire right side of his body, as he slid the key-card into the lock, impatiently waiting for the light to change before shoving the door open.
"Where's the room?" Sam whispered, his head popping up curiously for a second, before dropping tiredly back down.
"Down this hall. We're at one of those fancy hotels where you use the key to get into the building and where the rooms are all stacked on top of each other."
"Why?"
Dean grunted as the tall form draped against him lurched once again, but he quickly steadied Sam as he replied in his voice's low-migraine-permitted register.
"Because it is cleaner and the beds will be softer. We are going to be sticking around for a couple of days, we might as well be comfortable."
"We don't have to—
"Shut-up, Sam." Dean dismissed quietly while he unlocked and opened the door labeled fifteen.
Sam huffed, but made no further response as he was ushered into room.
Dean got the younger man sitting on the bed furthest from the door, keeping him upright just long enough to slip him out of his jacket before he tipped over. Dean helped to guide the collapse, easing Sam down onto the fluffy pillows. Sam's hands clenched his head as he curled up, appearing much smaller than he ever should, the queen mattress only dwarfing the kid all the more.
Dean unlaced his brother's shoes and pulled them off, quietly setting them aside before slowly tugging a blanket out from beneath the younger man. He stretched it back out over Sam's trembling body, up to his shoulders, leaving his hand resting against his brother's spine.
The tremors flickering through the thin frame eased a fraction, whether due to the blanket or the physical contact, Dean wasn't sure. He stayed for a moment, before reluctantly moving away to pull the curtains closed. With no lights on and the sun efficiently blocked out, the room was plunged into near complete darkness. Dean was thankful for the nicer room, the extra expense worth the thick useful shades, soft beds, and cleanly environment.
Cushy hotels were not good for the finances and discretion that the hunting life demanded, but they were perfect for recovery; and the silence they offered was far more conducive to rest than the noise of motels with their questionable occupants and paper-thin walls.
Dean didn't want to disturb his brother, but he knew that after recent events, Sam would worry if he disappeared without a word.
"Sammy." He whispered, splaying his hand over the blanketed back, hating the tremors he could feel running through it.
Sam's head was ground into the pillows, his hands wrapped around it, but he tilted it ever so slightly to the left, telling Dean that he had been heard.
"I'm going to go grab our stuff. And make a run to the store across the street. I'll be right back."
The nod was no more than a twitch, but it was all Dean needed it. He rubbed up and down his brother's spine for a moment, softly squeezing his shoulder before slipping silently out the door. He didn't want to leave the kid alone in agony, but the older man knew he had to make a supply run now, before the pain become unmanageable and Sam really needed him.
It took Dean seven minutes to get everything he needed from the store, which included Gatorade, straws, more over-the counter pills, and a bag of food. It took the hunter another two minutes to grab both duffels from the car and make his way back inside.
The older man entered the newly-rented room as quietly as was possible. Before his eyes even adjusted to the darkness, his ears picked up on the sound of shuffling. He rounded the corner, the small kitchen blocking his site-line to the beds, and immediately searched out his little brother.
The bed furthest from the door was empty, pillows indented and blankets tossed to the side.
Dean's concern flared as his gaze raked over the room.
It only took a quick second for him to spot Sam.
He was on the floor.
Crawling.
Dean's guts twisted and the breath was punched from his lungs at the desperate sight. He carelessly abandoned the items in his arms, shaking off the shock of the scene as he dove to his brother's side.
"Sammy, what the hell are you doing?" Even in his dismay Dean's tone remained low and hushed, his instinct to take care of his kid always overriding everything else.
"Bathroom." Sam grunted, the clenched teeth and repetitive swallow making it clear what the rush was for, and it wasn't to take a piss. His arms were shaking so hard, his elbows soon gave out. Dean caught Sam with an arm across his chest, saving him from faceplanting into the carpet. The gasped request for help was entirely unnecessary, as Dean was already pulling Sam up and hauling him to the bathroom. Before their feet even touched the tiled floors, the younger man was gagging, and the moment they entered the surprisingly spacious bathroom, vomit was spilling from Sam's lips.
Dean rushed his brother to the toilet, cringing at the crack of Sam's knees as they hit the floor, his back bowing under the force of the nausea. The long fingers gripped the edges of the porcelain bowl, knuckles going white, as violent heaving tore through the thin frame.
Dean stood behind Sam, a foot on either side of his brother, his legs brushing against the younger man's hips. He was stooped down, one hand holding Sam's forehead, preventing the shaggy head from connecting with the commode; Dean's other arm was still wrapped around Sam's chest, helping to keep him leveraged up over the toilet seat.
The older man kept himself from providing vocal comfort, knowing he wouldn't be heard over the guttural echo of the retching and not wanting to add to the noise, instead he remained silent and physically supported his little brother.
Sam's entire body shook, his stomach long past empty of any actual content, nothing more than acid and salvia being spewed into the bowl. Dean couldn't help but notice that Sam hadn't had much of anything to regurgitate, which wasn't all that surprising, the kid was never any good at taking care of himself when he was preoccupied with finding a way to save his big brother. There were years upon years of proof that Dean in jeopardy usually lead to an underfed, overtired, strung-out Sam Winchester.
Sam sobbed between heaves, tears streaming from his face, the aggressive hurling obviously escalating the agony in his skull – which was the very thing that was causing him to toss his cookies in the first place. It was a vicious, stupid cycle and watching the toll it was taking on his kid, wrenched Dean's heart.
Dean slid his thumb back and forth across his brother's temple as he continued to palm Sam's forehead, keeping his skull from cracking itself on the toilet seat.
After what felt like way too fucking long, Sam's body stopped trying to turn itself inside out, and the younger man slumped bonelessly against the porcelain seat.
Dean used the hold he had around Sam's chest, to tug him back and prop him up against the wall. He waited until he was sure Sam wouldn't slump over, before flushing the toilet and swiftly grabbing one of the facecloths folded over the towel-rack to dampen beneath the tap. He crouched down in front of the trembling frame, between the long legs laying askew across the tile floor, and checked the young hunter over. Sam was pale and shaky, his breathing was slow and shallow, his face glistening in sweat as his eyes were squeezed shut.
"I'm just going to get you cleaned up, buddy." Dean narrated softly, dragging the cloth across his brother's face, washing away the sickness, sweat, and tears. "You've been nursing this migraine for quite sometime, huh?" Dean muttered, easily recalling the timeline of his brother's age-old ailment.
"M'okay." Sam slurred, pawing at the older hunter's chest, two long fingers hooking onto the pocket of Dean's jacket.
"Yeah, kiddo. You're great." Dean dismissed, carefully hauling his brother up, holding his weight as the coltish legs fought for purchase. "You'll be even better once we get your ass to bed."
The hunter stood silent and solid as he waited for Sam's knees to lock, pulling one of those long arms over his shoulders and sliding his right arm behind the tall man's back, gripping his hip. He smiled fondly as the heavy head dropped down onto his shoulder, but frowned as he heard his brother suck in a strangled breath.
"Slow." Sam breathed out, his forehead pressing against Dean's neck and his grip on the older man's jacket pocket not wavering.
"Sure thing, Sammy." Dean assured, shuffling off the tile floor and onto the carpet, towards the bed.
Sam's breathing was harsh from pain, and he pressed his head harder against his brother, as though he were trying to escape the agony. Dean maintained a strong grip on the bean-pole body, keeping him vertical as they stumbled along. The hunter eased the taller man down on to the mattress, grasping the boney elbow to stop Sam from laying down as he began to tip to the side.
Sam moaned his displeasure.
"Just for a second, Sammy. There's vomit on your clothes." He explained in a whisper.
The younger man looked down at himself, opening his eyes for the first time since before heaving his guts out. He grimaced at the state of his shirt, and Dean knew that if the kid's face hadn't been white from pain, his cheeks would have coloured in shame; because Sam was a moron who thought Dean gave a shit about any bodily fluids at this point. He'd changed his little brother's diapers, potty-trained him, and nursed him through countless illnesses, injuries, and a few detoxes.
Dean didn't give a single fuck about any of that.
He never had.
If only Sam would get that through his hairy noggin.
Long fumbling fingers reached for the buttons of the soiled shirt, Dean swat them away, but they stubbornly persisted.
"Cut it out, Sam. I got this." Dean declared sternly, his voice not straying from the soft and low register it would be remaining in for the next couple days.
"But it's dirty." Sam's whisper didn't sound much more than an exhale, but Dean had always been able to hear his little brother, even at times when there was nothing being said.
"Doesn't bother me." Dean dismissed, swatting once again at the boney, uncoordinated fingers, satisfied when they finally fell away.
The older man didn't so much as stall as he unbuttoned the outer-shirt and tugged it off the long arms, thoughtlessly using a clean section to wipe the slick vomit from his fingers.
"Sorry." Sam sighed. His face pinched with both pain and remorse.
Dean scowled at the apology, glancing from Sam's white t-shirt to the murky hazel eyes squinting down at him.
"You're 'sposed to be basking in your newfound mem'ries. Not taking care o'me." Sam slurred regrettably.
"You just finished looking after me, which was no picnic without my marbles. It's my turn now." Dean declared, deciding that the undershirt also had to go, and pulling it up from the bottom.
"But—
"Shut-up, Sam." Dean didn't want to get all chick-flicky about it, he just wanted to look after his kid.
Uncharacteristically, Sam followed instruction, which likely had more to do with the agony searing through his brain, and less about being an obedient patient.
Dean stretched the t-shirt over Sam's head and tossed it on the floor next to the other two items of clothing. He was straightening his brother's mussed hair when he noticed the bruises.
It was the first time since learning of Sam's migraine, that Dean had to very intentionally reign in his voice. His fists clenched automatically, the way they did whenever he saw violent markings on his little brother.
He moved back, crouching down before the younger man, waiting for the pained gaze to find him before speaking softly but harshly.
"What the hell happened to your back?"
Sam squinted – if there had been any light at all filtering into the room Dean would have concealed it right then – and frowned down at the crouching form. Dean wasn't sure if the confusion was from trying to recall what happened, or trying to understand the question.
Migraines tended to stunt Sam's thought process.
"Bookshelf." He rasped, eyebrows raising, the memory returning.
"Fuck." Dean cursed under his breath. The bruising looked painful, but a brief moment of prodding revealed no broken bones or internal bleeding.
Dean returned to his squatted position before his brother.
"You hurt anywhere else?"
"No." Sam answered, although it sounded more like a question than anything.
"That's reassuring." Dean mumbled, giving his brother a cursory once over before reaching down and undoing Sam's laces.
"Dean, I nee—
"Next time I ask if you're okay, feel free to mention the fact that your ears blead and you got chucked around." Dean seethed under his breath, cursing himself for taking the kid at his word and not giving him a thorough going over. Sam had always been guilty of down-playing injuries. Then again, Dean hadn't been the best role-model in that department, and John had been even worse.
"Okay, but can I—
"I mean, c'mon Sam, I don't ask if you're okay just for the fun of it. I ask because I need to know, dude."
"I'm sorry, Dean, but please, I just- I need to lay down."
Due to Sam's impossibly soft tone, Dean almost missed the desperate plea.
Almost.
He quickly pulled off his brother's shoes, a hundred similar circumstances flashing through his mind, but he pushed them away for the time being, focussing on the now.
And all that mattered in the now, was his swaying, hurting little brother.
"Sorry, Sammy. I'll save the lecture for later." Dean declared, setting the shoes to the side.
"S'okay, De, I just – fuck." Sam hissed, crumpling forward.
Dean stood and grabbed the slender shoulders, worried the younger man would topple right off the bed, but Sam stopped the moment his forehead connected with the hunter's midsection. Dean attempted to lean his brother back, with the intention of getting him stretched out on the mattress; but Sam wouldn't budge, if anything he moved closer, grinding his face into Dean's shirt. A shaky hand moved up and bunched the shorter man's jacket in its grip, Dean responded immediately by sliding a hand up off his brother's shoulder and onto the back of his neck.
"G'na be sick." Sam groaned, his breathing harsh against Dean's abdomen and his sickly swallow audible.
"No, dude. You're not. You got nothing left to harf up. Just breathe through it, kiddo." Dean whispered his encouragement as he squeezed the back of Sam's neck.
Once the convulsive swallowing came to an end, and the breathing evened out, Dean gently angled his brother back and to the side. Sam was pliable in his grip, allowing the elder Winchester to lay him down. The long body immediately curled up on it's side, and Sam shoved his face into the pillow, releasing an anguished whimper.
Dean's heart clenched violently at the sound.
He loathed Sam's migraines.
They always made him feel so fucking helpless, and after the time he just spent not being able to remember a bloody thing, he was really goddamn sick of feeling helpless.
And being useless.
Dean shook his head, hoping to physically shake-off the self-pity.
He moved to his duffel, grabbing a sweatshirt out of it and then snagged sweatpants from his brother's duffel before retuning to Sam's side. He had no desire to disturb him, but he knew how chilled Sam could get, and that shivers already stuttering through his body did nothing but escalate the torment in his head.
"Alright, kiddo. Let's do this." He muttered, near soundlessly.
Sam did what he could to help, but Dean essentially dressed his limp form, which wasn't an issue in the least. The jeans were efficiently traded for sweatpants, Sam lifting his hips the moment Dean tapped them, it was a routine ingrained in the youngest Winchester since childhood. Dean couldn't stop the stream of memories flashing through his head as he gently maneuvered his little brother into the warm hoodie - it was Dean's but somehow still managed to swallow the longer frame – he couldn't begin to calculate how many times he had helped get his kid changed. There were hundreds of occasions when they were growing up where the family of three would pull up to their dwelling-of-the-week at an ungodly hour, and Dean would get an already asleep, or massively over-tired little brother ready for bed. There had also been far too many times when Sam had been unconscious or too injured to dress himself, leaving Dean to do it, which had never been an issue – it wasn't like Sam didn't return the favor plenty of times.
Dean preferred to recall the incidents he had tucked in a sleepy Sammy, rather than a hurting one, as he pulled the covers up over the curled frame.
He made his way to the bags he had carelessly tossed aside, unpacking them as silently as was possible. Once everything was in its place Dean grabbed the Gatorade, opening the bottle and popping a straw into it, before heading back to Sam. He detoured to the bathroom, snagging the last clean facecloth and dousing it in cold water.
He sat on the edge of Sam's bed, smoothing the unruly locks from the pale face, before poking the straw against his brother's lips. Sam opened-up automatically, trusting Dean implicitly.
"Just a few sips." Dean requested, sensing Sam's reluctance to swallow and needing to keep him hydrated.
Sam sipped the purple drink (his favorite flavor used to be red but after the blood addiction and the trials, that changed), taking three short sips that qualified as a "few" but did little to appease Dean. Regardless, he set the beverage aside for the moment, knowing from years of experience when to push the youngest Winchester, and when not to – a lesson John had never managed to learn.
Dean carded his hand through his brother's hair, until he arrived at the base of his skull, where he slowly began to massage the area - the greater occipital nerve was the medical term for it. It was a method Dean had picked up years ago.
After Sam had his first migraine at the age of fourteen, Dean had made it his mission to learn everything about the agonizing ailment.
There was no cure. There were medications that cost a ton of money and only worked on occasion, but after Sammy had been reduced to tears from his third migraine, Dean had gone head-to-head with their father to get the kid a prescription. Over the many years of Sam suffering with migraines, Dean had tried every treatment he could find: caffeine, aromas, a bunch of other new-age shit. The only thing the older brother tested that was remotely successful, was the head massage he had been taught to perform by a school nurse that Sam had been forced to visit when he was sixteen and a teacher found him hurling in the bathroom.
"You 'membered." Sam sighed, curling into his brother, his head shifting to press against Dean's thigh as the massage continued.
" 'Course I did, kiddo." Dean assured, remembering how hesitant Sam had been to allow Dean to touch his head during his first migraine after they began hunting together again, after Stanford…after Jess. He had been worried that his big brother had lost his touch.
Never.
The lines on Sam's face shifted as he quirked a small smile.
"What?" Dean questioned, finding nothing humorous about their current situation.
Sam took so long to reply, that Dean thought he hadn't heard the question, or was in too much pain to form a response.
When his answer came, it surprised the older Winchester whose mind had wandered as he rubbed his brother's scalp.
"You always call me kiddo when I have a migraine." Sam mumbled against Dean's jeans, his dimple fading as he pressed harder against his brother, in a feeble attempt to escape the pain.
Dean winced in sympathy, wishing his massaging fingers could absorb his little brother's agony.
"Stop talking and try to rest." Dean ordered gently, his hands moving away as he snatched the cloth off the bedside table and folded it in threes before placing it over Sam's forehead and eyes. History informed him that Sam liked the cool feeling against his head, so much so that the kid had chosen to lie on gross motel bathroom floors in the past. He shifted the cloth to keep it from sliding out of place, before releasing it.
The absence of touch must have worried Sam, because long fingers quickly stretched out and latched around Dean's wrist.
"Stay?" The request was hushed, but the shorter hunter heard it loud and clear.
"Not going anywhere, Sammy."
The promise was apparently all the kid needed, because he released his brother's wrist, his hand dropping onto Dean's leg and bunching up his jeans in an anchoring grip. Dean's hand retuned to the base of his brother's skull, as he quietly kicked off his shoes, leaned back against the headboard, and stretched his legs across the mattress.
They spent hours like that. Sam curled against his big brother, as Dean swapped between massaging his brother's head and combing back his too-long hair.
Dean nodded off a few times, stealing brief snatches of sleep in his seated position. He got up a time or two to re-soak the facecloth and coax more Gatorade and medication into his little brother, but mostly he stayed put.
Sam never slept, not that Dean could tell. The pain was too intense and while it thankfully did not try to turn his stomach inside out, it prevented Sam from resting. He just laid there in agony for hours, terrified to so much as sneeze for fear of intensifying the pain tearing through his brain.
"You 'wake?" The rasped inquiry were the first words to be spoken in over an hour.
"Yeah, kiddo. What's up?"
"S'bad." The soft confession was far more telling than any ten page essay the kid could have written.
"I know, Sammy. Just hold on. It'll get better soon." It was an empty promise, Dean had no idea how long this migraine would last. Sam's could last as long as three days – though that was rare. His ears had blead and they had no prescription meds, there was no telling how long the pain could go on for.
"S'better then b'for." Sam slurred.
"Well, we haven't had to make another run for the toilet, that's always a good sign."
"No. S'not what I mean. Migraine s'better then watching you forget." Sam whispered, his fingers contracting around Dean's pantleg.
The older man swallowed, remembering all too well the mind-numbing fear of feeling his memories slip away. The fear of burdening his brother, or worse, leaving him alone in the world. The fear of not only forgetting Sam, but abandoning him, was made all the worse by Dean not even being able to trust his own mother to look after his kid.
"Was scary watching you slip away." Sam breathed, shakily peeling the damp cloth off his face, letting Dean relinquish it from his grip as his hazel eyes slit open for the first time in hours, staring up at Dean.
"I know, buddy." Dean stated, not even wanting to imagine being in Sam's position.
"You have all my memories."
Dean froze, his fingers remaining entangled in his brother's shaggy mane.
"All o'them."
Dean had been so terrified by the feel of his mind fracturing, and so relieved in the aftermath of the cure, he had never really taken a moment to consider what the loss of his memories would have meant for his little brother. It didn't just mean that the younger man had to babysit his older brother, but he lost so much as well.
Dean held Sam's childhood, including the brief time the Winchester family was whole and happy. He had been there for every school play and soccer game. He remembered each birthday and holiday. He knew every sickness that had been acquired and the origin of each scar.
Dean held Sam's past.
His memories were not his own.
They belonged to the both of them.
"You hav'my memories. My history. You're the only one who really knows me." The hazel eyes swam as they focussed on Dean.
"That's not true. There's still Cas and Mom—
"No." Sam twitched his head from side-to-side. "Cas is your best friend." He explained with a small smile.
Dean frowned.
"And Mom knows baby Sam. She wants baby Sam. Not me."
The broken whisper was almost more than Dean could take. There was so much hurt in the soft voice, but also calm resignation.
And how fucked up was that?
"You're it. Jus' you. Without you I hav'nothin." Sam's voice cracked, honesty and love shining through his eyes as a tear slid down the side of his face.
Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. Sam wasn't pitying himself, he was simply stating his truth, which also happened to be a profession of love that was making it difficult for Dean to breathe.
It was true. Dean knew his brother better than anyone. He knew all of what Sam had been through in his life. He understood how the younger man worked, how he felt and thought. He knew the kid for who he was, not simply his intentions or the results of his actions, but who he truly was inside. He knew all that because he was the only one who Sam let all the way inside.
Bobby had pointed it out to him once. He had told Dean that he was the only one Sam trusted completely. That though the young man built connections with other people, Dean was the only one who Sam allowed to comfort him or take care of him. Their surrogate father had told Dean how Sam never broke or fell apart in front of anyone but him, and never permitted anyone but his big brother to help him piece himself back together. The older hunter had told Dean that even though Sam was the first to help others and convince them to open-up to him, he never shared himself quite so freely. He had explained that even though he cared about Sam, he would never be able to be there for him the way the elder man wanted to; because even though Sam would be gracious enough to accept his advice, Dean was the only one who the kid would allow to speak to his soul. Bobby had said that the older boy had built the Great Wall of Dean around his kid brother, which had been constructed to protect Sam, but had doubled as a barrier between him and the rest of the world.
And at the time, the more Dean thought about Bobby's words, the more he understood them. He had never once witnessed Sam request help for himself from anyone but Dean.
And as that conversation scurried through Dean's mind now, he recalled how when his phone had been smashed, Sam had to tell Cas and Mom to contact him now, because even all these years later, everyone still knew to go through Dean to get to Sam.
Dean had always been there for Sam. He had always been the one the kid could trust and depend on. He had always been the person Sam could turn to. Growing up, it was Dean, and Dean alone that Sam truly trusted and let his guard down around.
Dean was just realizing, that maybe that still hadn't changed.
"I'm so glad your back." Sam declared, as he smiled up at his big brother, his hazel gaze still moist, oozing relief, gratitude, and love.
"Me too, Sammy." Dean choked out.
Sam smiled again, his dimples remaining even as he closed his eyes and pain continued to line his face.
"I'm sorry I forgot you, kiddo." Dean confessed, cringing at the thought of how horrible it must have been for Sam to be forgotten by the one person who knew you best and loved you most.
Sam's smile grew as he shifted closer to his brother, head and chest resting against Dean's leg, hand still holding tight a bunch of denim above his knee.
"S'okay, De."
Sam forgave as simply as he breathed.
The younger man's capacity to forgive had always baffled Dean, and was also one of the many reasons he considered his little brother to be the greatest person he'd ever known.
"Get some rest, little brother. I'm not going anywhere." Dean vowed.
Sam shifted impossible closer, smiling once more, before his breathing began to slow, and sleep finally won the battle.
Sitting there next to Sammy made Dean wonder how the hell he could have ever forgotten, curse or no curse.
Sam was the one person who had been standing next to Dean for practically his entire life.
He was the one individual who always came through.
He was the man who saved the world.
He was the other half of Dean's soul.
He was his family.
He was his kid.
He was his whole damn world.
Sam was everything.
How could Dean have ever forgotten that?
Note: I don't know why this tag took so long for me to write, but I am finally finished. It is nearly 7am and I am going to be a total zombie tomorrow, but it's done! I have another s12 tag coming next weekend, so that's something to look forward to! Please leave a review/comment if you can! :) I am going to be replying to comments and pm's next week, I have some time and I have been neglectful in that area, so I promise I will be getting back to it. I really hope you enjoyed this fic! Thank you so much for reading :) - Sam