It's 12:30 and they've been at the party since 11:00 and the last time Sam saw him, Dean was taking a line of shots off the counter and now Sam doesn't have any fucking clue where he is and the music is way too loud and he's a little drunk himself and this is not okay.
He is not okay. His head is pounding and the room is starting to spin and he needs his brother.
And then he sees him. Relief floods through him at the sight of Dean at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall and talking up some little blonde girl like he's Casanova or some shit, which, okay, he may as well be. But Sam doesn't care if he's about to take her behind one of those closed doors and slip off her pretty lace panties or not, because they need to leave. Now.
"Dean!" he calls up to the platform of the second floor, over the undying bass of the music. To no avail, apparently, because Dean doesn't even flinch.
Sam emits a frustrated sigh, recognizing vaguely that he's on the edge of a panic attack, and pushes through the crowd before him to reach the stairs and climb them two at a time. "Dean," he says again, loudly, even though he's at his brother's side now. He reaches out to pull at the hem of Dean's jacket, too, just in case he still can't hear him.
At that, Dean turns to face him and, even in his drunken state, registers the way that Sam's eyes are blown wide and his breathing is much too shallow. "'S goin' on, kiddo?" he asks, leaning in so that his lips are almost brushing Sam's ear to keep his tone quiet, soothing. "Need to go?"
Sam doesn't say anything. Just nods.
"Okay," Dean says, fingers kneading into his shoulder. He turns back to the girl, then, and says with an apologetic smile, "I'm gonna have to head out, sweetheart. I'll call ya."
Before she even has time to respond, they're down the stairs and out the door, making their way quickly down the block to the Impala. "Can you drive?" Dean asks tentatively, knowing that Sam's had a lot less to drink than he has, but also that it's not always a good idea to let Sam behind the wheel when he's freaking out like this.
"Yeah," Sam breathes, holding a trembling hand out for the keys.
Dean fishes them out of his pocket and drops them into Sam's palm, wrapping an arm around his waist. "'F you need a minute, that's fine. We can just hang out for a few before we hit the road. And you can tell me what happened if you want."
Sam is silent until they reach the car, but when he unlocks the doors and they both slide in, he doesn't start the engine. Instead, he whispers, "'M sorry."
Dean, instead of telling him to shut up and that he has nothing to apologize for or any of the million other things he's thinking, pulls Sam across the bench seat and tucks Sam's head under his chin. "Talk to me, Sammy."
Sam hesitates. Shrugs. "Strobe lights. Loud music. Too many people. Take your pick."
Dean hugs him tighter for a second and then pulls back, but only far enough to see his face. "Shouldn't have brought you. Happens every damn time and I just keep thinkin' maybe-"
"Hush," Sam says softly. "'S not your fault. 'F I could just be normal and stop gettin' all upset over nothin'-"
It isn't the first time Dean's kissed him, but it still catches him off guard. He freezes for about half a second and then his lips seem to remember how to work again, finding no purchase in the slickness of his brother's tongue but not slowing down either way.
Dean pulls away first, panting, and says, "Don't talk about yourself like that. Like you're not normal. Ain't a damn thing wrong with you."
Sam giggles. He's not sure if it's from the heady feeling that he's never failed to get on any of the few and far between occurrences that they've kissed or from the alcohol in his system, but the statement is hilarious to him.
"What?" Dean asks seriously, raising an eyebrow.
"I just made out with my brother," Sam laughs, "and I'm normal?"
He thinks for a second that Dean's going to get angry, or at least back away and tell him to start the car, but after a moment of almost stunned silence, a low chuckle starts up in Dean's chest and bursts up his throat. "All right. Fair. Maybe normal ain't the right word. But, sill, nothin's wrong with you."
Sam doesn't argue out loud. Just gives Dean a small smile and scoots back across the seats to turn the car on.
They make it back to the apartment of the month in no time, Sam driving even more carefully than usual due to his slight intoxication, and once they're inside, Dean takes his hand and presses two fingers to the pulse point in his wrist. "Just makin' sure you got calmed down okay," he clarifies.
Sam smiles and blushes lightly, ducking his head. "I'm alright."
"You wanna sleep with me tonight?" Dean asks. Not that he doesn't believe that Sam's okay. Just that he doesn't believe he'll stay okay. After panic attacks- or close calls, like this one- generally come nightmares.
Sam nods once, slowly, not meeting Dean's eyes."'F that's okay."
"'Course," Dean assures him, stripping out of everything but his boxers and sliding into bed. He pulls back the covers and pats the sheet next to him, beckoning for Sam to lie down.
Sam shucks off his clothes as well, save for his underwear and gray cotton t-shirt, and climbs onto the mattress next to his brother. He wants to touch Dean, wants to reach out and place a hand on his cheek, something, but he's afraid to, so he settles for just looking at him instead.
It turns out, apparently, that Dean's feeling the same way, only he's a little braver about it. His fingers wind themselves through Sam's hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp, and he leans forward, kissing Sam's forehead. "Get some sleep, baby boy."
Sam is taken aback by the nickname, which Dean almost never uses anymore, but doesn't comment on it. Instead, he turns around, smiling softly to himself when he feels Dean's arm slip around his waist, and wonders what it would be like if he could have this all the time.