A/N: Sam just needs a moment.

"I knew you."

They'd reached the bunker about half an hour ago, both weary despite the short time spent on the road. Dean had stumbled more than walked down the stairs; it was obvious that his headache still hadn't let him off the hook and that he was in dire need of rest. But Sam hadn't been ready to let him out of his sight just yet.

He'd have to. Soon.

Just… not yet.

They've been sitting in the kitchen in companionable silence for the last ten minutes, so the sudden statement takes Sam by surprise.

He opens his mouth—and promptly closes it again: the automatic when? stuck in his throat.

"On the phone," Dean says, anyway. He trails a finger along the condensation on his beer bottle. "I mean, I… It was all messed up, you know? I still couldn't… I didn't remember that we…" He breaks off, frowns at the bottle.

Sam's lips press together. He'd been anxious and jumpy the whole ride back to the bunker, hasn't slept at all since this mess started, and still dreads meeting his brother's gaze and seeing that confusion again, that complete lack of recognition…

Yeah, he's still a little freaked out. All things considered, he's entitled. And of course Dean has picked up on that—of course he's trying to fix it, fix it by talking about it, because he knows that that's what Sam usually needs in order to decompress.

And Sam is grateful. Really, he is. But he is also dog-tired and soul-weary and not at all ready to talk about this. Not now—hell, maybe not ever.

He clears his throat.

It feels raw.

Like he's been screaming.

"Dean, listen, man, you don't have to—"

"You were in danger," Dean says quietly. His eyes are troubled and faraway. "You were in danger, and I couldn't remember…" He looks up, twin hazels locking unerringly onto Sam. "But I knew, Sam. I knew that was important."

Silence stretches in the space between them. Sam works to speak around the block of barely contained emotions clogging his throat.

Is knowing and remembering the same thing?

"I thought you told Rowena you didn't remember anything," he eventually manages, syllables rolling off his tongue like cracked marbles over gravel.

Dean's lips twitch, a smile and a grimace in one. The definition of bittersweet.

"Some things are pretty hard to forget, Sammy."

Like what you've been programmed to do since the age of four. Like what has been your main priority throughout your entire life. Like your core reason for existing.

Watch out for Sammy.

Sam briefly wonders how much teasing he'd have to submit to if he just went ahead and cried right then and there.

Before he can start to seriously consider it, Dean downs what's left of his beer and abruptly rises, signaling the end of the conversation before they cross the line onto a dreaded "moment." One hand grazes the table for balance, a pained wince flickering fleetingly across his features despite his best efforts.

Sam feels a twinge of guilt for forcing him to stay up when it's so clear that his brother is half-dead on his feet. But he can't find it in him to feel sorry for it, not really. Not after everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the sheer terror—they just went through.

There's a brief pause as Dean stops beside him, and then his hand cups Sam's neck in a familiar gesture. Offering comfort as much as taking it.

Sam releases a slow, shaky breath through his nose, blinking furiously.

This one had been close, and they both know it.

He looks up and meets his brother's eyes, and all of that relief, gratitude and thank you for not giving up on me that vibrates through his every cell, is mirrored there.

Still here, Sammy. Not going anywhere.

And honestly? Watching Dean make his slow but relatively steady way towards their sleeping quarters, idly humming Metallica's The Memory Remains, Sam feels like the luckiest damn guy in the world.

Fin

A/N: Too angsty? Too chick-flick? I'll take a page out of Dean's book and blame Sam for that.

Hope you've enjoyed these little drabbles! Tata for now.