This may or may not connect to something else I'm working on. More on this later.

The motel room is quiet, save for the tic-tic-ticking of the wall clock. Dean can't sleep, keeps seeing flashes of Hell, painted like a grotesque mural on the back of his eyelids. He counts the breaths it takes to calm down after each blink, hands twisting in the sheets, seeking purchase just to prove that he's still in bed, still on Earth, still alive.

He wants to cry, curl up into a ball and just let go, but he can't. He can't let Sam down like that; he's supposed to be the strong one, the protector, the all powerful big brother who's there for his family, no matter what. He's supposed to be brave, but he's not. He's just not that person, not anymore.

It breaks his heart to admit it, to flat out say that he's broken, so he doesn't. He stuffs it down somewhere deep inside, where it waits, gets stronger, impossibly stronger. It waits, constantly pushing at the surface, until a night like this where Dean is vulnerable, powerless against it, and it breaks free, threatening to destroy him. Everything he's buried deep washes over him in tidal waves and he crumbles, falling apart and groping for something, anything to keep him afloat.

It's always Sam.

Every time a crack shows in his façade, it's in front of Sam. Every time one of his insecurities rears it's ugly head, it's with Sam. Every time he cries in the Impala, every time his hands shake while holding a flashlight or a shovel or a gun, every single time, it's in front of Sam.

The tears come, then, and Dean falters, rolls and presses his face into his pillow and sobs, gripping uselessly at the mattress. Much as he wants to, he can't stop himself, stumbling to catch the pieces of himself as they break away, bit by bit, leaving behind this gaping hole that twinges, throbs, aches.

He can see Hell, feel Hell, taste Hell, and it amplifies everything that he feels, reminds him of where he's going to end up. It's a place for lost souls, endless torment and unbearable grief, and Dean thinks it's not that different from where he is now, except in Hell, there is no Sam.

He's clinging to himself, grating sobs wracking his entire body, and he curls up like an infant, clutching everywhere that he can reach, when suddenly there are these hands. They're huge and warm and moving everywhere, and Dean panics, because it's hell all over again and he's scared and alone, constricted and dying a terrified death, when it finally clicks. It's Sam.

It's Sam grabbing him, Sam wrapping his arms around him, Sam pulling the covers away and holding him close. It's Sam, whispering words that are meant to soothe, to calm him down and keep him sane. He grips Sam's shirt as tight as he can, holding on for dear life as he empties himself and all his emotions into one terrifying mess of broken, godforsaken Dean. Tears soak shirts and skin and Sam just rubs his back, shushes him the way a mother would a child, presses feather light kisses into his hair.

It's always Sam.

Always.