"Sammy, c'mere."
Sam rolls his eyes, tapping his pencil against the open history book in his lap. "I'm studying. Like I told you the last fifty times."
Dean crosses the room and grabs Sam's hand, forcibly discarding the pencil. "Well, could'ja quit for a minute? You've been studying for hours. You need a break. Your brain's gonna short-circuit."
"My brain is gonna short-circuit if I don't pass this exam tomorrow. Let me go."
"See, this is what I mean." Dean drops Sam's hand and takes a seat on the edge of the desk Sam has all of his papers spread out on. "It's makin' you bitchy. Relax."
Stressing his brother's point, Sam glares up with his lips pursed and eyebrows raised. "I can't. I can't afford to relax right now, Dean. I'm sorry that every time you wanna get laid I'm not readily available, but—"
Dean holds up a hand, cutting him off. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said anything about getting laid?"
Sam's eyebrows drop. "That's not what you're doing?"
The edge of Dean's mouth turns up and he lets out a nearly inaudible huff of laughter. "No, baby boy," he says with a sincerity only ever reserved for Sam. "That's not what I'm doing."
Sam full-on turns toward him now, obviously curious. "Then… what?"
Dean motions with his head. "C'mon. Up."
Sam sighs but stands, pulling his loose jeans a little higher on his hips.
Dean takes his hand and leads them to the middle of the room, where an old radio is sitting on the coffee table.
Sam stares at it. "What?"
"Turn it on," Dean instructs, giving Sam a gentle nudge.
Sam still seems perplexed, but reaches down and flips on the radio.
It's so old that only one station will come in. A station that, apparently, plays music from the fifties, maybe early sixties, and it's right in the middle of a song.
Dean doesn't care. He takes Sam's hand and places it on his waist.
"Dean, what're you—"
"You're gonna dance with me," Dean states simply.
It seems to do the job.
Sam doesn't even argue. His eyes just widen and he follows his brother's direction when Dean clasps their hands together.
"Just one dance," Dean whispers, feeling Sam's forehead come to rest on his shoulder. "Then you can go back to studying. Nerd."
The insult is half-hearted, and Sam doesn't even have the energy to pretend to be offended. All he can do is watch Dean's feet, move in rhythm with them, and say quietly, "I might have time for two."