Dean makes pancakes.

It's months since he cooked, but he makes pancakes. They have no bacon in, but Dean finds the maple syrup at the back of a cupboard, covered in a thin layer of dust. There's something reassuring about cooking, something familiar and safe. It's a piece of himself that he thought was lost.

Nesting. It still feels good.

Sam's hunched over the table, pinching the bridge of his nose, when Dean walks back in with two plates piled with pancakes. He sets them down a little harder than he meant to, and there it is again, Sam flinches.

He could ignore it. He's tempted to.

He's going to ignore it.

'For Christ's sake, Sam, what is it?'

Sam doesn't look up, just rubs his palms into his eyes, stifling a yawn.

'And I swear to God, if you say-'

'Nothing.'

Disbelief surges up in Dean, uncontrollable as hysteria, and he tips his head back and makes a noise like a giggle or maybe a snarl, high and thin, and then he gets right up in Sam's face and screams at him, 'YOU WANT TO TRY THAT AGAIN, SMARTASS?'

Silence settles in the air.

For a second he expects Sam to curl further in on himself and just turn round eyes on him and make him feel like a total prick, but then Sam uncoils himself from the chair and gets to his feet and-

and leaves the room.

The door swings shut. Dean's left to stare after him, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

The pancakes sit untouched. They're still steaming.

Five minutes later, Dean's stood outside Sam's door, hand awkwardly poised to knock. Again.

He breathes in and braces himself. Then he's nearly hit in the face as the door opens, Sam stepping out.

'Sam,' Dean says, stepping forward, at the same time as Sam says 'Dean.'

They stop within inches of each other, uncertain.

'Uh, you go,' says Sam.

Dean's spent the last few minutes rehearsing this speech. 'Look, man, there's nothing I can say to make this-'

'Okay,' Sam says.

Dean blinks. 'Dude. You gotta stop doing that.'

'No,' says Sam, 'I get it, okay, Dean? I know you feel guilty as- as- and yeah, you messed us both up, okay? Do you need to hear me say it? Because I'm saying it,' and then he stops and just looks at Dean, and the corners of his mouth turn down a little, like when he was a kid about to cry, and that's what Dean just-

He grabs Sam and wraps his arms around him, and his shoulders feel knobbly (why didn't Dean make him eat those pancakes?) but it's Sam, his Sam, and he feels him freeze up for a second before tentatively circling his arms round Dean's back.

Dean squeezes him hard, letting go when he hears Sam's sniffle. 'Hey, hey, now you've got hayfever too?' he says, getting Sam by the elbows to examine him, but he's shocked to see that his brother has tears streaking his cheeks.

'Sam? Sammy?'

'You fucking sonuvabitch motherfucker,' and Sam's face crumples inwards, 'you fucking died, Dean, you fucking died, you bastard, you fucking asshole-'

'Hey, hey, hey, Sammy, shush, it's okay, I'm here now, okay?' Dean steers Sam backwards into the room, pushing him gently down onto his bed, but Sam's still talking, tears making tiny blotches on his t-shirt. 'What, did you think one hundred and four times wasn't enough? After everything, after fucking everything, and you just- I woke up by the side of the road and ran the whole way there and I got in right on time to watch you die, Dean.' He fists his hands in Dean's t-shirt. 'I'm proud of us? The fuck did you even mean?'

'Sam, Sam, come on, kiddo,' says Dean, knowing that he's pleading now, but he can't do this, he really fucking can't do this, so he pushes Sam down by the shoulders until he's lying flat on the bed, but still-

'You don't get to do that, Dean- you don't get to say something like that and just fucking die on me, Jesus-'

'I know, Sammy, I know.'

Eventually Dean manages to get Sam settled, and Sam seems to rant himself to sleep or something, so Dean leaves him to hunt around under the kitchen sink for washclothes, because Sam's forehead felt radiator-hot earlier.

He finds two- one green, one pastel blue and covered in little pixellated bees. (Charlie left it, maybe?) He hesitates- any other time he'd have taken hundreds of photos of Sam with the bee one draped over his face, but how would Sam react now? Once upon a time he'd have had a hissy fit and it would have been funny as fuck, and he'd've been a grumpy little shit until Dean bought him a frilly drink and offered him a massage. Now? He'd blink a couple times, maybe glance up at Dean through his hair. Maybe swallow nervously, throat bobbing.

But they can get back there, right? It can be done. They've recovered before. And at their cores, Sam and Dean are still the same, right? Still mean the same to each other, right? Right?

Dean grabs the washcloth with the bees. He figures it can be, like, his flag of rebellion against trauma. Or something. He heads back to the bedroom.

Sam's sprawled out face-up, his messed-up arm held protectively close. One hand twisted back up under the pillow, of course. Dean takes his wrist and moves it away carefully, Sam shifting awake and tensing.

'Just me, Sam.'

Sam relaxes, kind of, closing his eyes again, and Dean drapes the cloth over his forehead. Then he stands back and uses his phone camera to take a picture of the six-four lank with the bee-patterned forehead. He sniggers to himself. Text the picture to Garth, maybe? Or Jody?

A movement from the bed. Sam seems to shudder in his sleep- 'Dean, fuck, please, God, no, God, Jess, Dean, please, please-'

Dean stops cold. He's on his knees by the bed then, stroking Sam's face til he calms, and then Dean stands back up and walks into the hallway. He closes Sam's door so he won't wake him, and then he lets the phone drop to the tiled floor.

He stamps on it. Once. Twice. Over and over and over.

Things will never, ever be the same. Trying to pretend otherwise would just screw them both.

He makes the call on his second phone.

'Cas, man, are you there?' Dean says as soon as he hears the click.

'Yes, Dean, of course.' A pause. 'Is everything alright?'

'Do you think I'd be calling if it was?'

Cas sounds surprised. 'Sam sometimes makes... social calls.'

'He does?'

'Occasionally. What's wrong?'

Dean's in the corridor, leaning against Sam's door. He scrubs a hand over his face. 'It's Sam, Cas. I, uh- he's not dealing too well.'

'And I'm sure you're the picture of psychological health, as always?'

'Ye- Cas, for fuck's sake, this is serious!'

A sigh. 'Carry on.'

'What the hell's up with you, anyway?'

'I'm teaching Hannah the pleasures of debauchery.'

'What?'

'I'm drunk, Dean. Drunk.'

Dean raises his eyebrows. 'Whatever, man. I'm not gonna ask. Look, I need to know- what d'you think I can do to help Sam?'

'I believe there's something called couples therapy that you two might find very helpful.'

'I'm hanging up.'

'Well, perhaps you could try talking to him?'

'Pft. Let's skip to third base.'

A pause. 'Are you referring to the cricket position?'

'No, Cas.'

'Well, you recall I suggested you take some time off? I believe it can be highly beneficial to relationships.'

Dean makes a small, disgusted sound. 'We're not in a- relationship.'

'One day, Dean, I'll buy you dinner,' Cas says, deadpan. 'Then we can sit down and discuss where you've been for the past thirty-six and a half years of your life.'

Shit. Cas is a bitchy drunk.

Dean sleeps for twelve hours in a chair next to Sam's bed. Sam sleeps for seventeen.

When Dean wakes up, he feels better, finally shaking off the pervading exhaustion of being cured; he hadn't even realised how weary he'd felt until the ache was gone. And he's hungry.

Sam's out, but his fever seems to have broken overnight. Dean takes the bee cloth off his forehead and stands looking at him, wondering whether he dares card his fingers through Sam's hair. He shakes off the impulse.

Sling on, Sam pads into the kitchen, yawning into his sleeve. Dean's frying eggs. He's been eating pretty much non-stop since he woke up, and he's still hungry.

Sam sniffs the air. 'Smells good.'

It's an olive branch. Dean accepts it. 'Want one?'

'Sure.' Sam sits down. 'Actually, I feel way better.'

'Yeah?' Dean looks up from the pan. 'How's the arm? And, you know, the miscellaneous wounds of torture?'

Sam rolls his eyes. 'Enough with the guilting yourself. And they're fine. And, uh, you know you just used the word miscellaneous?'

'Shut it, smartass.'

Dean piles food onto both their plates, putting about twice as much on Sam's, and carries them over to the table. Sam immediately spears a tomato with his fork, making inroads into his plate within minutes. 'This is awesome,' says Sam through a mouthful. 'God, I'm so hungry.'

Dean grins.

A few minutes later, Sam abruptly puts his fork down.

'Oh no,' said Dean.

'I wanna say something to you,' says Sam.

'Yeah? Well, how about you finish your breakfast first.'

'Dean, man, I gotta say this.'

Dean's smile begins to feel stretched. 'C'mon, Sammy, haven't you said enough?'

'No,' says Sam. 'And look at me already.'

'Look, Sam, it's too fuckin' early.'

'It wasn't your fault.'

Dean's head snaps up. Sam's gazing at him earnestly, over the top of a bowl of scrambled eggs. He doesn't dare reply.

Sam goes on. 'You made a dumb move, yeah, and taking on the Mark without knowing the consequences- well, that was pretty stupid, Dean. But stupid's not the same as wrong- well, unless it gets you killed, which I guess in your case it did, but-' He stops, rubbing his forehead. 'Sorry. I'm still kind of out of it.'

'Sammy,' Dean says hoarsely.

'Look, Dean,' he says. 'What I'm trying to say is, I'm not gonna forgive you because there's nothing to forgive. Okay? It wasn't you. Yeah, it looked like you, so you gotta expect me to be jumpy, but- if you think for one second- shit,' he mumbles, breaking off. Dean's pretty sure he sees a tear drip off Sam's nose into the scrambled egg, but he can't move.

'Sorry,' says Sam in an undertone. 'Don't know what's with me at the moment. Fucking huge tear ducts or something.'

'Huh,' Dean says, and then, unable not to: 'Must be proportional.'

Sam blinks, like, really? Then he bursts out laughing. So does Dean, even though it wasn't actually funny. Dean folds over the table, wheezing with laughter; Sam slumps back in his chair, practically giggling.

Then Dean's stomach tries to crawl up his throat, and he clamps a hand over his mouth and dashes for the door and seconds later he's on his knees in the bathroom puking himself inside out, everything he just ate coming up, and then there's a hand rubbing his back and Sam's voice saying 'C'mon, Dean, c'mon, buddy, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay,' but it's not, it's not-

When it's over, Dean crouches on the floor and looks round at Sam. He wipes vomit from the corner of his mouth and reaches to flush the toilet.

'Feel better?' says Sam.

'Yeah,' he says, though he doesn't, not really.

Sam looks slightly queasy himself, but he helps Dean to his feet, and they make their way out of the bathroom.

Two days later they're sitting at the edge of a lake. Blue skies, green cooler, and the sign says 'No Hunting.'

'If things go sideways,' Sam's saying. 'I mean like, an inch.'

And Dean pushes back a mental flash of Sam's staved-in skull under his fingers and says, 'Done.'