2AM, the clock radio's red numbers shine in his eyes. Sam lies on his side and looks at his brother's back, listens to his breathing from across the space between their beds. And he thinks.
So tell me Sammy, what could you possibly say to make that alright?
And there wasn't anything, of course. They sat on the hood of the car in the afternoon sun and Sam couldn't think of a god damn thing. Dean wiped his face and stood and straightened his back and got in the car, blared his horrible music and plastered his shit eating grin back on as though nothing ever happened. As though he hadn't just finally spilled his guts, like Sam had been begging and demanding he do since Dad died. And Sam sat mute in the passenger side of the car.
Dean drove and babbled on about their next hunt, about some chick he picked up the week before. Dean kept babbling while they sat in the ER waiting for Sam's name to be called, babbled about some car they'd seen in the hospital parking lot when they stopped to get Sam's arm x-rayed and treated. He filled the gaping silence with empty words and content free discussion. Sam thought he should be at least a bit grateful, a bit relieved for Dean, that at least he wasn't angry or stupidly reckless for the time being. But Sam remained silent and is still silent now, hours later in room 73 of Crap Motel by the Side of the Road of the Week, desperate to say something. To give his brother something.
Dean isn't asleep, Sam knows that for sure. He's spent all but 4 years of his life sharing a room with his big brother and he knows what sleeping Dean sounds like and he knows what fake sleeping Dean sounds like. Funny, Dad never knew the difference, he thinks. Dad would have just been happy the boys were in bed, safe, but also out of the way so he could research his next hunt, clean his weapons, lick his wounds, finish the bottle.
Sam knows it's partly the grief, partly the guilt of their last parting, but he's willing to go with it and he cuts his father a bit more slack lately. He did his best, Sam thinks, he just sort of sucked at it.
"I'm glad." Sam's voice cracks, he hasn't used it much in hours.
"What?" Dean's voice sounds more than tired. It sounds so weary.
"Whatever Dad did, Dean. I'm glad."
Silence, he wonders how long Dean will let him chick flick this out before locking himself in the bathroom or storming out. He's a bit surprised when two minutes drag by and Dean hasn't moved. Maybe he wants to hear this, he certainly deserves it.
"I'm not glad, so much as grateful. I'm grateful that you're alive and I'm grateful that he was your father."
"He was your father too," Dean repeats and Sam knows Dean will try to apologize some more.
"That's not what I meant. I mean, I'm glad he finally acted like your father. I'm glad he finally put you first, ahead of the hunt, ahead of the Demon, ahead of me. I'm glad. You deserve it." Sam says.
"Sammy, he was always our dad." Sam can hear Dean's voice hitching.
"Not for a long time, Dean. Not like he was when we were kids. I forgot, all that time we were fighting, all that time I was gone. I forgot. And he finally reminded me. So I'm grateful for your sake and I'm grateful for me. That I can remember him that way. And I love him for it."
If his brother were anyone else, Sam would climb out of bed and sit beside him. Just be near him, do anything to take some of the ache away, but he's not. His brother is Dean and it's still too soon. So Sam stays still, stays silent, listens to Dean try not to cry. He doesn't know how long, but he finally hears it, just above a whisper.
"Thanks, Sammy."
