It didn't happen often, and neither of the Winchesters would admit that it happened at all. They never questioned it, and they certainly never mentioned it the next day. They both knew that sometimes it was simply necessary.
Sometimes it was one of them seeking out the other's comfort, sometimes it was both, but it was always an unspoken agreement. No words were ever needed, no permission needed to be asked. They were brothers, and they were all each other had.
This particular evening the darkness wasn't only seeping in under the cracks of the door and windows of their dingy motel room, it was also seeping through Dean's very being. Sam could see his stiff form sitting on the end of his bed, head bowed to stare at his hands in disgust. He could feel, almost taste, the self-loathing rolling off him. It was cold and bitter, like coffee that had gone rancid. It had been just another case, but it had evolved into another one of Dean's violent episodes. Dean was crumbling against the Mark of Cain, and neither of them knew what to do about it.
Noisily, Sam shifted in his own bed in an attempt to get Dean's attention. He saw the elder's head turn slightly and he sat up, drawing the blankets back in invitation. He was relieved when Dean's form seemed to deflate before standing and sliding into the bed next to him. Sam shifted a few inches away to give them both a bit of room and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Sharing a bed together had never been anything sexual, and they never intended it to be. They were all each other had growing up, with their Dad being mostly absent. Now, in adulthood, it was the same case. Normally, they'd lay not quite touching, just drawing comfort from each other's proximity and warmth. Tonight though, it seemed to be different.
After a whole life of giving more than he got, and taking more emotional and physical beatings than he deserved, Dean needed something he'd never ask for. Sam could read it in the lines of his back, the way they shifted as his body trembled despite the warmth of the bed. It was obvious in the way that Dean curled up, his hands tucked in under his chin like he used to sleep when they were kids. He was trying so hard to hold it together, but Sam knew better.
Sam reached out with sure hands and turned Dean to face him, scooping him easily into his arms and pulling him across the bed to press him against his chest.
"Sammy?" Dean asked roughly, his voice muffled.
"You need to let it out, Dean."
"No," Dean pushed against Sam, but he didn't budge. "Sam, let me go. I'm fine. I don't need any kumbaya bullshit." The older brother's attempts were half-assed despite his words, so Sam just gripped him tighter and brought up a hand to stroke through his hair like Dean used to do for him when they were younger.
"Sammy?" His voice had changed, it was soft and scared, and true. The tough and rumble guy had fallen away.
"It's okay, Dean. I'm here."
It didn't happen often, and neither of the Winchesters would admit that it happened at all. Sometimes, it was just simply necessary.