Hey Jude –
As long as Sam can remember, Dean has been his everything. It's never been a conscious thought, like, this is it for me and I love him, it's been more of a unconscious urge. Like breathing or blinking, Dean has always been a fact of life for him. Like eating or drinking, Dean has always been a need. The space is in his heart for Dean has always been a little confused – Dean is all the important things in Sam's life, – and it's hard sometimes for Sam to understand exactly what he feels for Dean.
Don't make it bad –
He watches from the chipped Formica table, in another of countless, nameless diners, as his brother orders from the counter. His back is turned to Sam, but he doesn't need to see Dean's face to know what he's saying. Dean is a creature of habit and Sam knows all his habits better than he knows his own. His brother's long body is leaning forward on the counter and his head is tipped slightly to the right,
"Hey, darlin'. Get me a piece of that pie, would you? And, uh, anything else that's good here."
Sam can see the lascivious wink and secretive smirk that follows in the girl's flushed cheeks and lowered eyelashes. Sam's been watching Dean work his dubious magic on women since he was nine, so he doesn't understand the sick hot feeling that cramps his stomach when the waitress hands over the pie, with a napkin over the top of the plate that most definitely has her number on it. He frowns and ignores the feeling and turns back to the obits, shoving another forkful of his salad into his mouth as Dean slides into the booth across from him.
"Dude," says Dean, and Sam looks up. His brother is grinning like a cat with the fucking cream, and he brandishes the napkin with a jerk of his head towards the counter.
"I'm so in."
Take a sad song, and make it better –
One of Sam's earliest memories is being three or four and having the flu really bad. He'd been miserable because they were tracking some monster or other and their dad hadn't wanted to stop for the night. The slight rocking motion of the car had made him want to vomit and the low growl of the engine had sounded like bugle blaring in his feverish brain.
Dean had wrapped him snug tight in a blanket – probably stolen from one motel or another – and held him close, tipping the mouth of a water bottle every so often against Sam's lips to keep him hydrated. His hands had been cool on Sam's hot forehead and gentle in his hair and his voice had been steady, quiet and too old for someone his age, as he'd murmured to Sam in constant comfort. At first it had been words – "Almost there, Sammy. Gonna tuck you into bed soon while Dad finishes up the hunt. Gonna keep you safe, make you some soup – chicken soup with alphabits - just how you like it, Sammy," then Dean had switched to singing softly into Sam's hair, quiet Beatles song stirring the air against Sam's face.
Sam had fallen asleep feeling safe and content because Dean was there and he was going to make – it – all – better…
Remember to let her into your heart –
Dean doesn't like to talk about his problems. It's supposed to be a Winchester thing – both John and Dean are masters at sweeping latent emotions under the rug and ignoring issues until they blow up in their faces – but people have always been made aware when Sam is unhappy. He has strong opinions and thinks it's perfectly acceptable for Dean to hear them.
On some level, Dean has always been this rock for Sam, nothing could touch him so it was fine for Sam to rant and rage and mourn while Dean was there for him. He is also aware that Dean is nowhere as unaffected as he would have Sam believe. He could feel his brother breaking when he left for Stanford, could see the pain in his eyes as he'd ask for Sam's help finding dad –
"I can't do this alone, Sammy."
"Yes you can, Dean."
"Yeah, well, I don't want to."
Could practically smell the wrongness on Dean when he'd come back from Hell. Sam's not proud of himself for noticing this things. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge that Dean was human, was fragile, and had been broken, he'd wanted to keep thinking his brother was just the same as always so he hadn't pried beyond a couple half-hearted attempts at getting Dean to talk.
When Dean had started screaming during the night and drowning himself in liquor during the day, Sam had been forced to look closer at the fact Dean was not the same boy who had given the last of the Lucky Charms and kicked the ass of anyone who looked at Sam funny in school. He'd been forced to accept the fact that his big brother needed help.
So he's not backing down this time, even though this is new and scary territory. Dean is looking anywhere but at him, and his mouth is pinched into a thin line.
"Damnit, Sam. I'm fine." He grits out as Sam snatches the remote from his hand and clicks off the TV.
"No, Dean. You're not fine! I hear you crying out every night and you down alcohol like it's fucking water." Dean's shoulders go stiff and Sam knows he's keeping more of himself bottled up inside.
"God damn it, Dean. I need you to talk to me, need you to let me in. I can listen, I can–" Dean shudders and seems to shatter, then he's talking over Sam, loud and angry.
"You can what, Sammy? You can help me? Can you make me forget how much it hurt when Alistair wore your face and carved me like Thanksgiving turkey? Make me forget how fucking good it felt to be the one doing the carving? Huh, Sam? How the fuck can you help me?" Sam isn't prepared for this torrent of emotion, even though he'd been prying for it, and he can't think of anything to say to stop his brother as he bolts out of the room, yanking on his coat in short angry motions, and slamming the door behind him.
Sam sits in the growing dark as the sun sets, thinking over how he could have reacted to the information he'd been asking for, how he could've made Dean stay and comforted him. He doesn't know how long he sits, thinks it's minutes or maybe hours, as he wishes he'd grabbed his brother to stop him.
He thinks of all the times Dean has said all the wrong things, but done all the right ones and Sam had no longer been afraid. He thinks of the last time Dean had hugged him with no urging, the smell of his big brother – leather gun powder shampoo and home – and the comfort of his arms.
He even thinks of what Dean might've said if their roles had been reversed –
"Least Alistair's got good taste in faces, huh?" He'd pull Sam against his side, though, and studiously ignored the horror Sam had revealed. He'd make lame jokes and cheap innuendos about things that didn't matter until Sam was forced to either laugh or punch him in the face. Either way, Sam would end up feel satisfied and a little better
but he very carefully does not, can not, think of what Dean had revealed to him.
The moon has been up for a while when Dean slams back into the motel room. Not with anger, just with the loud, overbearing, presence that is purely Dean. Sam hears his boots clump back over to the sofa and Dean plops down next to him, but he can't look at Dean, not yet. There's the sound of Dean's jacket crinkling and then the TV turns on, blaring suddenly loud in the silence.
They both stare at the TV for a while – some stupid show is on, Family Guy, he thinks, but neither really watch – sitting in silence.
"Dean… I'm, always, uhm, here for you, y'know. No matter – no matter what. I'm not going anywhere," Sam blurts finally into the empty space between them. He's got no idea if it was the right thing to say or not, but Dean relaxes a bit and bumps his shoulder into Sam's.
"Find your balls and stow the chick shit, bitch."
Sam can't help the dorky smile he feels stealing his face, so he ducks his head and leans against Dean's shoulder a little. They'll be alright.
"Jerk," he says in the direction of the TV.
Then you can start to make it better.