"What the hell is wrong with you, Sam!? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because I'm starting to think you're not cut out for the job anymore!"

Sam slouched in his seat, blood smudged on his cheekbones and down his neck, hair matted and wild. His skin was bone-white, his breathing was audibly shallow, and the bags under his eyes had been getting more pronounced by the day and were especially noticeable now. And somehow, Dean felt like roughing him up himself. Didn't know how to begin to fix Sam's mental health, how to make him—if not happy, then at least content—with the hunts and the house and Dean. The frustration hit him anew every morning, when Sam would shuffle into the kitchen several hours after him (that in itself was fucked up; Dean looked morosely back on a time when Sam would be up and running at the crack of dawn), and the start of the day would be defined by bleak, uncomfortable silence and Sam's dulled eyes looking everywhere but at his brother.

"Are you even listening to me? God, what, what can I do? Just..." Dean broke off, swallowed a couple of times. Sam was staring at the floor, hair shadowing his face. "Just tell me what to do, Sam. Tell me...tell me what you want." Sam didn't respond, dead quiet pooling into its usual space between them. Dean felt claustrophobic, which was something he'd never before felt in the impala.

"I..."

Dean's head shot up at Sam's voice, raspy with disuse, and he craned his ears to catch whatever his brother might be about to tell him.

"I'm okay." Sam was peering at him through his bangs, making reluctant eye contact. A hot rush of something implacable unbalanced Dean, at the same time that the old frustration jammed up his throat like a fist. He reached forward on impulse and took Sam's face in his hands, thumbs smudging the blood on his cheeks.

"No. You're not fucking okay, Sam, for the millionth time. Please, please don't."

And in the spirit of being carried along by the drag of the current, Dean crashed his lips against Sam's.

"Dean...Dean, what...?" Sam instantly pulled away from his brother, feeling at his lips as if they'd bruised, confusion making his face more open than it had been in ages.

"Shit. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Dean felt like he was going to throw up, or possibly implode. Maybe both at once.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

He looked up warily when Sam's hands brushed his shoulders, his neck. "Um," Sam whispered, just barely looking Dean in the face.

And then Sam kissed him.

Dean almost fell out of his seat with the force of it, reeling in surprise as Sam's teeth clicked against his, as his brother's hands dug into his shoulders for support. Dean responded just as eagerly, pushing Sam into the upholstery with an arm braced against either side of him. After what could've been one minute or twenty, Sam jerked out of Dean's grasp and fumbled his way out of the car, coming to a halt a couple of feet away.

Dean muttered a curse to himself and leaned his head back, caught up in a flurry of fresh anxieties. After he'd had enough of stewing silently to himself, he got out and joined Sam in his new spot on the sun-baked hood.

"We good?" Dean asked, twisting his ring idly around his finger. He didn't look at Sam.

"Yeah. Yeah, don't worry. Just wanted some fresh air."

Wonderingly, Dean commented, "That's the most you've said to me in, like, two months". Sam caught him completely off guard by pulling him in for another kiss. It was different this time; soft and unhurried rather than hot and insistent.

"Don't get too used to it. Definitely not ready to talk about this," Sam said lightly. He offered Dean a tiny smile, and though the sun made his already pale skin look even more washed out, it was the best goddamn thing Dean had ever seen.

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