The witness they had interviewed had been wearing her perfume.

It'd upset Sam. It'd rightfully upset Sam. Of course it had fucking upset him; she'd meant a hell of a lot to him. So it excused a lot. It had excused the moody silence, the mood swings, it even excused Sam's goddamn refusal – hell, inability? – to talk about it until Dean pressed.

What it didn't excuse? His high and mighty fucking attitude.

"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry. That's not dumb, that's– it's–"

It was awful. Sam had finally confessed what had been eating away at him for the past hour, and it sucked ass, and Dean knew.

"It's. Yeah. It sucks. 'M sorry that happened, Sammy."

It was awful and Dean knew, because he'd gone through the same fucking thing when Sam had left. The Impala had smelled like Sam. Half his clothes had smelled like Sam. He'd needed to douse himself and the car in half a can of Febreeze and the smell of twenty goddamn women before he'd even been able to shake the essence of Sam from the place. From himself.

So yeah. Dean fucking knew.

But Sam just breezed by, fucking snarked at him, gave him a judgmental look like he was shooting false sympathy out of his ass and kept right on sulking. Except now, he was pissed too. Because what? Because he assumed Dean was some unfeeling jackass that hadn't felt a day of loss in his entire friggin life?

Fuck that. Fuck that.

Because Sam didn't know. Sam had no goddamned idea. He thought Jess' death was bad? Try someone that you'd known, that you'd lived with, that you'd lived for your entire life deserting you for LSATs. Try breaking down in the Impala, because the seat next to him was empty but he could still smell Sam on the leather upholstery and that killed him inside, it made him want to rip his heart out of his chest and set it on fucking fire, because they'd come so close, so close everything had gone suspended for a beat, so close he could hardly breathe and that'd been the moment when he could have changed things, reversed things, prevented things, and he knew it.

And he'd fucked it up.

He'd pushed Sam away, and he hated himself for it.

And now Sam was back, lamenting about Jess, snapping at him because he thought Dean had no fucking idea.

Dean's voice was trembling as he stood up.

"You know what, Sam?" He took a step forward. He didn't even care how much it looked like he was going to take a swing at him; he fucking might, if Sam pulled his judgmental crap again.

"You can talk when someone you've known nineteen years ends up ditching you for law school." He took another step forward; ended up half-way between his bed and Sam's. Sam looked up, mouth opening, and stopped dead when he caught sight of Dean's expression. Good.

"You can talk when you get drunk just to forget how good your name sounds when someone says it." He took another step forward; stopped at the edge of Sam's bed; stared him down, eyes hard, eyes wide, breathing hitched because fuck this and fuck Sam. Sam stared back, frozen, breathing shallow like he didn't know what was coming. Like he wasn't sure whether he needed to deflect a punch or not.

"You want to get Jess' smell out of your head?" There was a short stretch of silence; Sam's eyes had gone wide, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Dean's fingers were curled into fists, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough; raw; thick with emotion.

"Dean–"

"Let me help with that."

And then Dean was on the bed, on top of Sam, pressing himself on him in a way far too intimate for brothers and straddling him. Sliding a hand up into his stupidly shaggy hair. Grabbing him by it. Savoring the sharp intake of breath that got him. Pulling Sam's head forward and kissing him.

He didn't give a fuck what kinky things Sam got into during college. What he cared about was this, right here. Sam belonging to him and no one else. Sam pressed against him and no one else. Sam not being able to smell anything but sex and Dean on himself for days, and vice fucking versa.

And Sam? Sam, as much of a bastard as he was, let him reclaim. Or rather, let him, and participated thoroughly in the reclaiming himself. Because there was a beat of nothing, a beat where Sam didn't even move much less kiss back, and then his lips were parting, he was moaning surprised and desperate into the kiss, he was melting against Dean, his arms were coming up, gripping –

Dean pushed Sam back against the covers before he could get any ideas, and Sam went, easy, falling onto his back like that's where he was meant to be and dragging Dean down right along with him. And when they separated, when Dean pulled back, breath heavy and hot, lips red and bitten and kissed (and wow, Sam could kiss) and Sam looked up at him almost dazed, like he was something precious, something holy, even though Sam was the one with his hair mussed like a particularly crooked halo – it was like hellfire in the best possible way.

"Dean." His name slipped out of Sam low and feverish and desperate, and Dean? Well, he had some memories to rewrite with his little brother that were long overdue.

"Sammy."

They didn't come up for air again.