"Fine," said Sam. "But - it has to be gentle. For me to have any part in this. No cuffs. I can't use anything that'll hurt if you struggle."

Dean's eyes softened. "Wuss."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Fine," said Sam, flashing Dean a little grin. "Razor wire it is."

He stopped grinning and shivered when he realized that could easily have been a thing. Dean wasn't smiling either, but he smacked Sam playfully on the upper arm.

"It's over," said Dean. "I'm out. I'm not fixing to spend the rest of my life, however long or short until I go back down there, moping about it or getting all upset whenever someone happens to remind me things exist, you hear me?"

"You're not going back!" Sam's reaction was automatic, then his throat closed in horror. Surely when Dean died - he'd die a hero. A hunter of monsters, a loving brother. If there was anyone who deserved heaven…. But what did they know about how all this worked?

"Sammy, angels have threatened to send me back twice now. Angels. I can't pretend it's out of the question. I can live now, because this is all I might get. But I'm gonna pass out if I don't get some damn sleep."

Dean set his jaw and tried to breathe evenly. He laid on his side, got his head arranged on his pillow, and put his arms behind his back and his legs together. Truth was, this did scare him some. Not because of Hell, but just because he hated helpless.

Sam was beyond careful. He used broad, soft cotton rope that was gentle on the skin, and while he pulled it tight, he used multiple loops to spread out the pressure. Dean closed his eyes. He could actually see sleeping like this.

A warm touch brushed his right palm, Sam pressing something gently into his hand. It felt like rope.

"I used a slip knot," said Sam. "A couple tugs should get you loose if you need to."

A wash of warmth and peace swept through him. This was the goodness and understanding and love in the little brother he'd cried out so desperately for. This was something he never deserved to feel again, but needed so much he started crying while Sam roped his ankles together.

"Same here," said Sam, patting his leg. "Grab the end of the rope and pull. You'll be loose in seconds when you wanna be, but I think you can fight pretty hard against these and they won't budge or bruise you up too bad."

Sam had the grace not to comment on Dean's quiet, heartfelt sobs. He just spread a blanket over Dean and tucked it lightly around him, leaving a spot where he could hide his face if he wanted.

Sam straightened and wiped his palms on his jeans, fighting back tears of his own when he saw the moved surrender and tears on Dean's face. Dean so rarely allowed anyone to treat him with any form of care or gentleness. And Sam got why. Dean responded to being treated tenderly with such heartfelt softness and vulnerability, he couldn't afford it often.

Dean melted when people were soft with him. He was moved to tears by the simple act of Sam thinking to give him a way to untie himself. That made the thought of anyone hurting him deliberately, or most horrifying of all, him being in hell, all the harder to bear.

"Don't be lookin' at me like that!" snapped Dean, his voice small and breaking.

"Look at you how?"

"Like I'm - like I'm something good that - that little brother look. I didn't deserve it then or now."

Sam sat on the opposite bed, facing Dean. "You were more of a father to me than dad ever was. When you got it wrong, it was because you were a kid trying his best to be a soldier and a parent and, oh, fight actual, real monsters. It took thirty years of unimaginable suffering before you were willing to hurt another soul. You deserve love, and if I wanna cry in grief for what you've been through, too bad."

"Sammy, I was evil down there. I - did unspeakable things."

"You did them to souls that were in hell," argued Sam. "I'm sure some of them were okay. But you were probably ripping the likes of Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein new assholes too, so - just give yourself a pass, okay?"

Dean physically cringed, and twisted his head to bury it in his pillow. Sam's stomach tightened. He'd wanted to allude to what Dean wouldn't, just to relieve some of that "Sam wouldn't understand" burden. But maybe that wasn't a place he should've gone without permission.

"Sammy, dad's been to hell. I was in hell. How many poor sons of bitches sold their souls for ten years with a wife who had cancer, or to keep a roof over their kid's heads? Yeah, sure, tell me they deserved it."

A chill rippled through Sam's whole being. Try as he might to comfort Dean, he was pretty sure he could never, ever forgive himself either if he were in his older brother's place.

"I hear ya," said Sam softly. "Okay. There's nothing good here. Nothing I can say or do. Other'n I'm still here for you, and nothing changes that. Nothing."

"It should."

"Dean - you know bein' forced to hurt other people is a psychological torture technique, right?"

"Until it ain't," said Dean, his eyes still gentle, and anguished.

"Mind's an expert in adapting to survive," Sam pointed out. "You in particular have always been one of the most adaptable people ever. I don't think you warping to be - okay - with what you were doing is a sign of you turnin' evil."

A look of actual relief crossed Dean's face, and he looked at Sam with almost desperate hope. "Earth me doesn't want to do any of those things. Like, at all."

"He's horrified by what Hell Dean had to do for a reason," said Sam. "You didn't deserve Hell then, and you don't deserve it now."

Dean's eyes went soft and vulnerable. His upper lib wibbled. "Yeah?"

Sam got on his knees beside the bed to address Dean at his level. "Yeah."

Dean ground his eyes shut and tried to get his breathing and emotions under control. Sam hesitated, then reached out and patted him on the shoulder. Dean didn't tense or object, so Sam left his hand there, rubbing softly with his thumb.

"Like you said - it was a different context," said Sam. "If you don't want to carry the memories and traumas of it up here to earth, maybe don't carry the guilt either? Trust me, you're still good. You're still Dean. Forgive yourself. If you were some monster, you wouldn't be all guilty and miserable, you'd be hunting your next victim. Right?"

"Right," said Dean with a tiny attempt at a smile. "Lore's just chock full of guilt-ridden monsters eating entrails and moping."

Sam patted his brother one last time and crawled under the covers, facing Dean to keep an eye on him and feeling sick. Tying him up was - so wrong. It was such an awful way for Dean to treat himself, and not terribly logical, and masochistic in that self-punishing Dean sort of way. But if nothing else, Dean deserved to have his requests respected right now.

"Good night, Dean," Sam said in a soft voice. "I'm right here. Won't leave."

"Thanks, Sammy." Dean's voice wobbled, but didn't crack. "Good night."