Dean was genuinely surprised when Sam opened the door to the motel room. He figured that it would take hours for him to cool off. Yet here he was, carrying a couple bags of takeout, coming in like nothing was wrong.

Dean hadn't moved from his spot on the floor, he felt vaguely embarrassed by that as Sam's gaze flicked over him. "Here." Sam tossed him one of the brown paper bags, which he caught deftly with one hand.

"They didn't have any burger joints in walking distance. I got you a few tacos."

Dean raised an eyebrow. He couldn't frame a response. He watched Sam open his bag and bite into a burrito. "Did you have to get one of those?" Dean was surprised how husky his voice sounded. Almost hoarse from yelling earlier. "I have to sleep in here, you know."

Sam's dimples appeared as he suppressed a grin. "Tough."

"Evil, man. Pure evil." Dean looked at his bag, contemplated eating. His stomach rumbled.

Sam knitted his eyebrows together. "Hey, you like tacos don't you? Even got extra sauce for you."

Dean was silent. "Yeah," he said finally.

Sam moved forward and sank down on the floor across from his brother. He leaned his back casually against the bed and folded one of his impossibly long legs under himself. He took a sip of soda. After a moment, he held it out to Dean as an offering. "It's coke. Want a sip?"

Dean hesitated, unsure how to read him. He had expected stony silence, tension, bitchiness. The soda felt like a peace offering. Dean reached across the gap between them and took it. The coolness of the sweaty paper cup felt good against his fingers and the coldness felt even better against his throat as he drank. He started on a taco, the crunch of the shell impossibly loud in the silence.

"This is pretty good," he mumbled around a mouthful of food. For a brief second he felt a little like Dean again. Sam was watching him patiently, his long bangs falling into his eyes.

"Dude, you need a haircut," Dean teased.

Sam snorted, rolled his eyes in a very archetypal "Sammy" expression. "Whatever, Mr. Clean."

"I'm not bald, I'm respectable."

"Of course you are." Sam went quiet again.

"Okay," Dean said cautiously. "I'm feeling a chick flick moment coming on."

"No," Sam said softly. "No. I know they stress you out. I've been trying to give you your space but I think maybe that was the wrong thing to do."

Dean crunched another taco. "This sounds decidedly chick flicky."

Sam smirked. "You're such an ass." There it was, a glimpse of his Sammy hiding under all those layers of angry reserve. The off-handed insult somehow moved Dean. Gave him a lump in his throat. He looked at his brother sitting on the floor like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it was a comfortable and acceptable, normal alternative to chairs. When it was anything but. The thought crossed Dean's mind that Sam was trying, genuinely trying to be there. Trying to bridge the gap between them.

"Thanks for the tacos, Sammy." Dean said genuinely. He prayed that Sam would read what he really meant behind the words. Thank you for being here.

"You know," Sam said. "It hasn't been easy, my life. I mean, I've had you as a best friend for 26 years."

Dean watched the dimples appear again.

Dean snort-laughed. "I try to make things hard to toughen you up, bitch!" He said with false bravado.

"See?" Sam shook head in fake disapproval.

He looked up and their eyes locked meaningfully. They held the contact until it became uncomfortable. Dean broke away first, the air suddenly felt heavy with words unsaid. He cleared his throat. "I just... um..." he felt his pulse pick up. "Haven't felt too good, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam said, calmly. "It's okay, you don't have to explain."

Dean rubbed the back of his own neck and narrowed his eyes. "Yeah," he said, grateful for the permission to get out of further explanation. "I," he hesitated, unsure of what he even wanted to say. Sam sat across from him- quiet, patient, listening - he was good at that. His brow furrowed with that slight look of concern he got when he was fully engaged in a conversation. It was familiar, comfortable. He remained silent, waiting for the stillness between them to drag whatever it was that Dean needed to say out to him.

"I'm not the man I thought I was." Dean shocked himself as he said it. He hadn't quite known that, but it felt like the truth. Dean dropped his gaze to his hands on his lap.

Sam remained still, then quietly, "I'm not sure any of us are in the end."

Dean looked up. Sam was gazing at him honestly. "The shit we've been through," Sam continued. "I mean Dean - human beings aren't meant to go through any of this. Maybe there's a learning curve here, huh? There's no How to Deal with Hell Handbook, right?"

Dean snorted. "Maybe I should write one: The Crossroads Manual."

Sam smiled, but Dean noticed that his eyes were very sad. He'd had that expression since he was a kid, but there was a weight behind it now that he hadn't seen there before. Dean felt responsible. The way he felt responsible for everything.