"What the hell are you doing?" Dean hollered, marching across the store towards his moronic little brother.
"What?" Sam balked, looking over after he gave a quick glance around at the people who had heard the older hunter's slightly over-zealous inquiry. Dean smirked at the easily embarrassed young man, before pointing to his hands.
"What the hell are you doing with those?"
"Dude, you are the one who dragged me in here to buy gloves. Why are you acting like such a spaz because I'm trying a pair on?" Sam asked, feigning confusion.
"Yes, Sam, gloves, not a pair of lame-ass mitts. I mean, come on man, these are flimsy and thin. The cold air will cut right through them." He exclaimed, pulling the pathetic objects from Sam's fingers and tossing them aside, not failing to notice that the large hands had yet to lose the shake they had adopted since entering Minnesota. "Now quit being a smart-ass and try these on." He instructed, tossing over a pair of thick thermal gloves.
"You're the smart-ass." Sam muttered as he examined the winter-wear with such disdain you would think it had personally offended him in some way. Dean watched as his little brother searched for the price tag, rolling his eyes when he couldn't find one and sending the shorter man an irritated look; causing him to smile with pride, because they may have not seen a lot of each other in the past few years, but Dean still knew the kid like the back of his hand…better actually. He knew that if Sam had seen the price tag all bets would be off, he was always far too financially conscious for his own good.
"Stop inspecting them and try them on already." Dean instructed, in the most exasperated tone he could muster. He watched as Sam slowly pulled the gloves over his shaking hands, clenching and unclenching the appendages as he tested them out.
"No." Sam declared, peeling the gloves off and tossing them aside to join the other rejects.
"Seriously? What could possibly be wrong with those ones? Are they not colourful enough for you? You want a pair with your name on it? Perhaps in bedazzle?" Dean stopped his rant at the sight of his brother's smile. "What are you so happy about?" He queried irritably.
"Bedazzle?" He replied with a smirk.
"Yeah, it's like shiny jewels and stuff you can put on your clothing..." He paused his explanation, noticing quickly by the continually rising corners of Sam's mouth that he was being played. "Don't look at me like that, bro, infomercials, okay?!" He defended lamely, in a sad attempt to justify his knowledge of bedazzling.
"Shut-up." he snapped as Sam continued to snicker. "Seriously though, what's wrong with the gloves? This is the sixth pair you've turned down and you haven't given me reasons for any of them."
Sam's smile fell and he turned his gaze to the floor, letting those ridiculous bangs curtain his features; damn those bangs always made Dean's job so much more difficult. In order to fix everything he needed to see what was wrong and since Sam rarely ever just spat it out, his facial expressions were key.
"None of them are warm enough." He muttered.
"Bullshit." Dean called-out. "Quit lying, Sammy, and just tell me what the deal is." He waited for the 'it's Sam' correction, and the fact that it never came had him concerned. He stood there patiently, knowing that, though the kid had always needed to be prodded, he never reacted well to being pushed or ordered - something their father never quite figured out.
"It's just…none of them are good enough, okay?" Sam defended, voice rising with frustration as he glanced up at the elder Winchester through the fringe of his hair.
"What do you mean good enough? These are high quality gloves, dude; I don't get what it is you want."
They stood there for a few moments, Sam examining the floor beneath his feet as Dean stared intently at his little brother, waiting for a response that came in the form of a simple shrug of the broad shoulders.
"Is it the money? 'Cause I promise you it's not a big deal; if it makes you feel better you can earn it all back during our next poker run. Or hustle some pool, because I know you still kick ass at that." Dean felt some relief at the appearance of a minimal Sam Winchester smile.
"It's not that."
"Oh really? So you're telling me you haven't been tossing aside half of the gloves I brought you after seeing the price tag?" Dean brought up, calling the bluff.
"Okay, so it is kind of that." Sam allowed.
"But not just that?" The hunter encouraged, needing to get to the bottom this and get some warm gloves on his kid's clenched and shaking hands.
Sam was looking down at the floor again; Dean was getting tired of this, twenty-two years and this kid was still as complex as ever, always making everything more difficult than it had to be.
"C'mon man, work with me here. These are warm, thick, good quality, fricken thermal gloves. If it isn't the money then what the hell is your problem?"
"They just don't work." Sam declared, his aggravation rising.
"Why? You weren't this much of a brat when we picked you up a coat a couple hours ago. When did you get so picky? I mean you have always paid too much attention to the money side of things, but other than that you never used to be so damn selective. Did Stanford turn you in to a picky prick?" Dean responded, cringing immediately after bringing up Stanford, knowing that was still a sore spot and feeling as though he had just ripped off a healing scab.
Sam gave no response aside from an angry glare and clenched jaw that told Dean he had crossed a line.
"Look, Sam, I'm-"
"Want to know what's wrong with them, Dean?"
The older boy hesitated, taken aback by the fury clearly evident in his baby brother's tone, but nodded nonetheless.
"They are too thick and they have no grip, which is fine unless you have to hold a gun or machete or whatever the hell kind of weapon you need to fight off the monster of the week. Or unless you have to try and light a match to burn some angry spirit's bones before you get chucked across the graveyard. Or unless you have to have your big brother's back on a hunt. So, sure, if finding a pair of gloves that makes it possible for me to watch your six makes me a picky prick, then fine, I guess that's what I am." Sam finished heaving in a breath and turning quickly, leaving Dean and all the nosey shoppers who had heard his outburst with nothing to do but to watch his back as he marched out of the store.
Dean was dumbfounded. He didn't know what kind of answer he had been expecting from the kid, but that was definitely not it. Once Sam was out of sight he looked over at the pile of rejected gloves, grabbing the warmest, best quality pair out of all of them and heading to the checkout to pay for the damn things.
He stepped out of the small department store and cringed, feeling the cold wind bite through his clothes and knowing how much this weather would suck for Sammy. Speaking of whom, he looked over to the Impala and spotted the gangly shaggy headed kid hunched over in the front seat. The idiot hadn't even taken the keys so he could turn the damn heater on. Dean grumbled about his baby brother's stupidity as he climbed into the car, tossing the newly purchased gloves onto Sam's lap before placing the keys in the ignition and starting up his baby's engine.
"Dean, for fucksake, I told you these aren't going to work!" Sam snapped, chucking the gloves across the car, just barely missing Dean's face as they smacked into the driver's side window.
The older man sent an irritated glance his brother's way, having it wasted as the boy was staring directly ahead, fuming. "I know that, Sam, that's why-" his explanation was cut off as Sam continued.
"Well if you know that, why the hell did you waste money on them? If you think for one second that having warm hands is more important to me than properly watching your back, you are out of your goddamn mind, because there is no way in hell-
"Sam!" He shouted, commanding his brother's attention before the future-lawyer went on with his little spiel.
Shockingly enough, Sam stopped and gave him the requested attention. Dean stalled for a minute, not spotting the anger he had expected to read on the young face, but rather distress and frustration. Seeing the clear need his brother had for him to understand his side of things, the hunter softened his voice and rethought his response, forming his words carefully. He used to be good at this, handling Sammy – and though their years apart had definitely made him rusty, it would forever be ingrained in him.
"Look, I get it, okay? And while I don't like that you are putting your health at risk, I understand your reasons. So, we will keep looking for gloves that work for hunting, alright?" Dean assured, making it clear to Sam that while he respected his reasons for being a stubborn little bitch, he was not giving up on finding him a pair of warm, hunting-compatible gloves.
Sam nodded his agreement, allowing the compromise and then looked over to where the gloves had fallen in the driver's side foot well.
"Then what's with those?" He asked, indicating the rejected winter-wear.
"Well, Sam," Dean started, reaching down and grabbing hold of the gloves, tossing them gently back over to his clueless little brother. "I get that they aren't good enough for hunting, but we aren't hunting all the time and I am getting pretty tired of you hogging all the hot air." Dean commented with a smirk, directing his gaze pointedly to the hands resting directly in front of the vents.
Sam removed his hands immediately, sliding them up his sleeves. Dean rolled his eyes.
"Put them on." He ordered, being careful not to sound too authoritative, knowing that it would not achieve the desired result. He smiled at Sam's exasperated sigh as he reached for the gloves that had landed on his lap, his smile fading quickly as he watched his little brother struggle to pull them on. Sam was having a difficult time getting a solid grip on the outerwear, his fingers trembling so intensely that he was unable to perform the simple task.
After two minutes of watching the kid struggle out of the corner of his eye, Dean had enough. He guided his baby to the side of the road and then twisted to see his brother, grabbing hold of the cold hands before they were tucked away.
"Fuck, Sammy, why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" He questioned as he felt the frigid temperature of the skin.
"It's not that bad, Dean." Sam whined, tensing his hands, about to tuck them away, only stopping when Dean began to massage them in earnest, rubbing the warmth and circulation back into the icy fingers.
Dean tugged Sam's left hand toward his own body, pulling it into his jacket and tucking it underneath his armpit as he began to massage some level of warmth back into his brother's right hand.
It may have been a few years, but this was a process he had done hundreds of times before and he hadn't forgotten a single step. He was reminded of all the times he had done this in the past, all the times it had gotten too bad, all the times he had to rub feeling and warmth back into his baby brother's fingers.
One occasion in particular bombarded his mind.
"Sam, get your skinny-ass out here, it's dinner time." Dean hollered from the kitchen in the tiny apartment they were renting.
Don't get him wrong, he was psyched they wouldn't be spending the month trapped in some sleazy motel room, but the tiny apartment was pretty much just a motel room with doors. It was a one bedroom, he an Sam sharing that one bedroom…and the one bed; and Dad sleeping on the couch in the main room whenever he was home long enough to grab some shuteye. Though they did, on occasion, rent a cabin or an apartment in whatever town they ended up in, it was a rare occurrence, usually opting for the inexpensive and discrete choice provided by motel living.
Their father had planned on checking them into a motel, but the moment he saw the sketch feast of a building Dean talked him into an apartment. John agreed because he knew that they would be in town for a solid amount of time, to allow Sammy to finish out the last month or so of school, before the Christmas break in the same location, and because even he could not deny the atrocity of a motel the town had. The moment they had pulled up to it Dean could practically see all the perverts looking over his baby brother like he was a piece of fucking meat and it made him sick. John had rolled his eyes when Dean told him as much, saying that Sam was old enough to defend himself now and he knew not to talk to strangers. All of which was very true, but Sam was also just a fifteen-year-old kid and he'd gotten taller sure - finally beginning to catch up to his older brother as horrifying as that was - but he was still just a lanky thing and had yet to rid of that baby face.
Dean had years of experience in fighting creepers off his brother, but that didn't make it okay - every time he had to do it, it made him sick. And though Sam was getting older, he was still too easy a target. And maybe now he was capable enough to know that the old man around the corner didn't want to be his friend, and he could even fight him off; but forget the perverts touching him, Dean couldn't even handle it when they looked at the kid, eyeing the boy up and down. Every time he saw that happen, he felt rage rising in his body as he thought of that one time. That one time at some sleaze bag motel that some grown man had set his eyes on Sammy and Dean had almost been too late to save his kid. The one time the pedophile got too close. Every time Dean remembered that one occasion, he automatically began to gag, biting his lip to keep from retching. He had to swallow convulsively for the entire time they had been parked in that nasty parking lot, and he hadn't been able to stop until they pulled out of it.
Dad could roll his eyes all he wanted, but there was no way Dean was leaving Sammy alone in that shit hole for one fucking second, because they would be in town for at least a month and the older boy knew he would be getting a part-time job, meaning that Sam would be on his own for a while every day after school; which was fine, as long as he was alone and safe, not being ogled by a bunch of fucking perverts.
"Sammy!" He hollered out again, wanting desperately to escape the place his mind had taken him.
"I'm busy, Dean!" He heard his little brother shout from their room.
"I don't give a shit. Get your ass out here, dude, and eat your dinner." Dean responded, dumping the spaghetti onto two plates. Smiling at himself, proud of his cooking ability and of the fact he could actually afford to buy some decent grub thanks to his job at the video store. Personally, he would have much rather hustled some pool or poker, or use one of those copied credit cards. But their dad had insisted he didn't use the cards when they stay in the same place for a while, and this town only had one tiny bar with like no game, and he needed money, so a real job it was.
"Come on, Sam." He muttered, marching to their bedroom door, eager to eat and not having time for his pain-in-the ass little brother.
"Hey, geekface, if you don't get out here and eat your dinner, I will eat it for you." He threatened as he opened the door to see Sam bent over his homework.
"Have it then." He dismissed, without even glancing up.
"Nice try bitch, but I know you didn't eat breakfast and I saw the sandwich I made for your lunch in the fridge, which would mean you haven't eaten today. So, you will be eating dinner even if I have to ram it down your gullet." Dean lectured in exasperation, what the hell did the kid have against food?
The older boy squinted at his little brother's back when he got no response, the narrow shoulders were shaking lightly, he figured Sam was cold again. He had been shivering last night even wearing both their sweaters and hogging all of the blankets. He had been shaking so much Dean broke his own rule and pulled the slim frame into his side, hoping his warmth would help. He had lain awake almost all night trying to heat his baby brother and hating himself and his father for how much they had failed Sammy. It was November, but they were in Virginia, he was hoping that would be far enough south, but there was still a chill in the fall air and the kid was definitely feeling it.
It had been nearly a year since Sam got frostbite and it still blew Dean's mind how easily he got cold; how a small chill could have him shivering and rubbing his shaking hands together for hours.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid, fucking shit!" Dean flinched at Sam's sudden outburst, watching as he punched at his textbook before throwing it, along with his pencil, across the room, stopping only when they hit the wall and fell heavily to the ground.
"Okay, kiddo, did that book insult you in some way?" Dean queried, as he cautiously approached his little brother, who was still hunched over his one remaining notebook. Apparently, his comment wasn't funny or annoying enough to elicit any sort of reaction.
He walked past Sam to the textbook that had been catapulted across the room, bending down to grab it and flipping it over to see what this kid had been working on that made him so angry; hoping he'd be able to help – not that school was really his forte, he was a drop out after all. He was surprised at what he saw, it looked like an English workbook, Sammy loved English; Dean had been expecting math, which was usually the only subject that frustrated his little brother.
Upon closer inspection of the book in his hand, Dean realized the problem. All of Sam's written responses were difficult to read, if it was Dad or him that would be totally normal, both of them had disastrous writing, but Sam's had always been neat. And yet his work was practically illegible, it looked like he had written it in the car or during an earthquake or – shit - or his fucking hands were shaking too hard for him to print clearly.
"Sam." he sighed, dropping the book carelessly onto the bed as he knelt down in front of his hunched over baby brother, ducking to see the face hidden under all that hair.
"Why didn't you tell me it was so bad?" He questioned quietly, reaching out and tugging Sam's sleeves up so that he could get a hold of his hands. "Shit, kiddo." Dean hissed, feeling the icy temperature of the bony fingers as he trapped them between his hands and began to rub. "Where are your gloves?" Dean asked, his tone conveying his frustration with the stubborn paper white appendages that refused to generate heat.
"In my bag." Sam muttered, still refusing to meet the green eyes.
"Why the hell aren't you wearing them? I mean, fuck, Sam, you can't let it get this bad." Dean scolded as he used the only strategy that worked when the kid's hands got this bad, tucking one of them under his armpit as he entrapped the other between his two much bigger hands and began to rub and massage the warmth and circulation back into the young teen's frozen limb.
"I can't hold a pencil with them, Dean. I tried." Sam sighed; the defeated tone in his voice had the older boy searching to see his expression past his bangs.
"Sam." He called, hoping to get some eye contact, acquiring it after a minute or two.
The kid looked exhausted. Dean racked his brain trying to remember if he looked that way when he left the house that morning, and kicking himself for not barging in to see the teen as soon as he got home, settling instead at the sound of his voice.
"Was it like this all day?" Dean wanted to know if his brother just spent the entire school day struggling to do his work.
"Yeah." Sam muttered.
"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked, switching Sam's hands, tucking one away as he rubbed on the other. His anger and rage for the entire situation turning into despair, because it was all his fucking fault that his kid had to deal with this shit.
"Cause I didn't want you to march into the school and start doing this. I'm already the new kid, I don't want to be the freak too." Sam smirked, attempting to make light of his undoubtedly shitty day.
"Sam, they knew you were a freak the second they saw all that hair." Dean scoffed, stopping the circulation process for a moment to swipe the bangs out of his brother's eyes. He felt satisfaction at Sam's smirk and returned to rubbing vigorously at the slowly warming appendages. "We are going to have to figure something out, kiddo, because you can't go to school and try and write with these icicles all day."
"Yeah, I know." Sam sighed.
"We will think of something, buddy, don't worry. We'll get you some thinner gloves or pocket warmers or something." Because Dean would do anything, anything it took to make this better.
"You just bought me new gloves last month."
"Yeah, because your old ones were too small. You're sprouting like a weed, you little bitch." Dean jabbed with a grin.
"Whatever, jerk. But seriously, Dean."
Dean rolled his eyes at the sound of Sam's tone.
"You can't keep spending money on me."
"It's my money. I can do whatever the hell I want with it." Dean bit out, irritation rather than anger dominating his voice. Didn't this kid understand how much Dean owed him? How much Dean would do for him?
"I know, it's just not fair. I'm sor—
"Hey! What did I say about apologizing for this?" Dean intervened, his volume louder than he had intended.
"Yeah but, De-
"What did I say?" He barked, halting his ministrations, clutching both Sam's hands in his as he looked up into those puppy-dog eyes with a no-bullshit expression.
"I'm not five, Dean, I don't have to repeat what you said." Sam whined, in that signature I'm- too-mature- for-this-shit tone.
"Well let's just refresh your memory, little brother. I told you to never apologize for anything having to do with your frostbite because it is not your fault. Do you understand?" Dean clarified, maintaining eye-contact with Sam throughout, being sure he knew this was not a joke. Not allowing him to take responsibility or feel bad for something that was entirely on John and Dean.
"Okay, I get it." Sam huffed after a moment, rolling his eyes.
"See, you say that, but then you start sprouting these dumbass apologies, which makes me think that at least part of your big brain is not getting it." He pointed out as he went back to warming his little brother's frigid fingers. There was silence for a few minutes, and just as he was becoming satisfied with the temperature of the limbs in his grip, Sam spoke up.
"Dean." He started quietly, almost in a whisper as he stared down at his lap.
"I swear to god, Sam, if you apologize one more time I'm going to-
"No, it's not that." Sam interrupted the threat, dimples showing with his smirk.
Dean sighed and looked up expectantly, waiting of Sam to continue with what better not be another fucking apology.
"I…uhhh…found a pair of gloves at the department store today. They are thin and I think they would work for school and stuff." Sam explained quickly, seemingly nervous that his brother would object before he had finished speaking.
"Good, we will run over after dinner and pick up a pair." Dean confirmed simply, because getting this kid another pair of gloves was quite literally the least he could possibly do for him.
"Okay, thanks." Sam replied with a small smile.
"No problem, kiddo. Now let's go eat before dinner gets any colder." He announced, placing Sam's hands down onto his lap and patting the bony knee as he straightened from his crouched position. The teen stood, following his older brother in reply. Dean realized something and stopped once they reached the door to their room, turning around so suddenly that Sam walked right into him.
"When did you go to the department store?" Dean asked, part in curiosity, part accusation.
"Umm…" Sam stalled, biting his lip.
"Spit it out."
"I went after school."
"Come on, man. You know you are supposed to go straight to school and straight back to the apartment. That was part of the deal of staying in town until Christmas break. I can't be worrying about you while I'm at work." Dean explained in earnest.
"I know, but I'm old enough to go to the store on my own." Sam pouted. "Hell, I'm way older than I was when Dad would leave me in a town on my own."
"I know you are, nobody is questioning that, but just humour me, okay? We can go out when I get home from work, but while I'm gone you got to school and you come straight here, alright?" Dean said, making an insistent request, but not an order. Sure, maybe Dean was being paranoid, but the truth was that whatever John was hunting had already killed several teenagers and Dean wasn't about to let Sam become the next victim.
"Okay, Dean. I didn't plan on going, it was just on my way home from school and I only went in to look for something for my hands."
"Yeah dude, I get it, but why couldn't you just wait until I got home and then we could both go over?"
"Because then you would pay for them. I wanted to buy them on my own, but I didn't have enough." Sam finished, looking up at his big brother with those stupid puppy eyes, begging him to understand.
"I have no problem paying for the things you need, alright? You just got to let me know, cause I'm not a damn mind reader, dude." Dean remarked with a smile, mussing Sam's hair as the boy nodded in agreement, before turning around and heading toward the kitchen.
"You pretty much are." He heard the teen mutter as he followed him to the other room.
"What?" He asked, placing the pasta in the microwave after giving it the finger temperature check.
"You pretty much are a mind reader; you always know what I'm thinking." Sam explained as he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs.
"What can I say, Sammy, you're an easy read." Dean quipped with a smirk, pulling the first plate of spaghetti from the microwave and setting it in front of his baby brother.
"Am not." The teen muttered, picking up a fork and stabbing at his food.
"Whatever, man." Dean replied, knowing full well how easy it was to read his little brother, always wearing his heart on his sleeve, but also recognizing that Sam had the ability to play strangers by showing the emotions he knew to be the most effective. The older boy also knew that Sam was getting better at hiding things, not only unauthorized trips to the store, but his feelings and emotions. Dean chopped it up to being a teenager and was simply content with that, because though others were having trouble, he was still able to read his little brother and dig into that freaky mind when he needed to – even if it took a little more work some days.
"Eat it, Sam. Stop stabbing it." Dean admonished, staring intently at the teen as he chewed on the noodles in his mouth. After releasing a put-upon sigh Sam jammed half a forkful of noodles in his mouth and chewed loudly, his mouth wide open, allowing Dean to view the process.
"Nice. Were you raised by wolves or something?" He feigned disgust at the pasta being crushed by his little brother's teeth.
"No, I was raised by a Jerk." Sam replied; a comment Dean knew was meant to be insulting, but the genuine love and adoration that was oozing out of the kid's eyes struck him so intensely that he had to look away to keep from turning into sentimental mush.
Dean knew what Sammy was saying, and that he should be reiterating their dad's role in his childhood, but he found himself at a loss for words, because Sam and he both knew the truth. No matter how badly he wanted to argue it, it couldn't be denied.
John had no doubt played an important role in Sam's childhood, and Dean knew that regardless of their differences of opinion, the two stubborn buggers loved each other, but the truth was when it came to raising the little squirt…well that job was Dean's. And the fact that even after he had messed up in such colossal ways, Sam still loved him and saw him the same way he always had, that made his heart swell and his throat clog up with emotion.
Dean smiled at the comment, staring at Sam and letting him see the look of love he knew was on his face, a look that was never witnessed by anyone other than his little brother.
"Dean?" It was a quiet voice that pulled him from his memory, a voice that he have been attuned to his entire life, one that, regardless of volume or tone, would always pull him out of his mind, out of sleep, and even out of unconsciousness.
"What, Sam?" He replied, mindlessly switching hands as he noticed the one he had been massaging during his flashback was getting far more attention than the one sucking the warmth from his armpit.
"Nothing, you just looked pensive." Sam responded.
Dean looked up at him, raising an eyebrow at his choice of words and then returning his attention to the frustratingly frigid fingers in his grasp.
"What are you thinking about?" Sam asked resting his head against the side window, looking at the older hunter under his bangs, his hands twitching slightly as Dean worked on them.
"Where to go to find gloves that keep these icicles warm and work for hunting." He muttered.
"It's not a big deal."
He gave Sam an incredulous look, needing no words to communicate how idiotic his little brother's statement was.
"What? I can wear the gloves you bought whenever we aren't on a hunt. And I just won't wear any when they hunt. It's fine." Sam insisted.
Apparently, Dean did need words to get across to his little brother how ridiculous he was being.
"Sam, I get that you need better gloves for hunting, so we'll find some, okay? Not wearing anything on your hands is not an option, especially if you don't want me to pick hunts as far south as possible for most of the year."
"No, you can't choose what we go after based on the weather, we have to go where we are most needed -
"Okay, so you wear gloves." Dean surmised, smirking when Sam realized he had just played into his hands.
"But Dean…"
"Sam! This is not up for debate!" He argued, feeling a twinge of regret as the young man flinched at his outburst, his grip tightening when Sam attempted to pull his hands away. "Buddy, you have got to work with me here." He continued in a softer tone, proceeding with the last step of the warming progress, placing both of Sam's hands between his and rubbing them vigorously.
"I get that you need to watch my back and the gloves aren't going to work, I also get that you don't want to choose hunts based on temperature, but do you realize the kind of damage you could do to your hands by not wearing gloves?" He questioned, trying to get the younger man to understand.
The lack of response told Dean that Sam was still fighting reality, so he pulled out his secret weapon.
"And, Sam, there is nothing better than having you backing me up, but if your hands get as bad as they were a few minutes ago, shaking so hard you can't pull on a pair of gloves, do you really think you'll be able to handle the weapons any better than you could with those on." He pointed out, nodding at the gloves on Sam's lap before looking up at his brother's face.
He took no pride in manipulating Sam's love for him to get him to agree, but this was about the kid's health, so Dean would do whatever he had to. He cringed as Sam ripped his hands from his grip, glaring at them, no doubt blaming them for placing him in such a shitty situation.
"Alright." The younger hunter agreed quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking back over at his brother with an expression that said as clear as day that he didn't like it, but he wasn't going to dig his heels in anymore.
"Alright." Dean repeated, hoping this would be the last time they had this argument, but over two decades of experience dealing with Sammy telling him that was very unlikely.
Dean smiled ruefully as he watched the relief on his brother's face as he was finally able to coordinate enough to pull on the new gloves. Sam rolled his eyes when he saw Dean's expression and turned his gaze out the window as the car was steered back onto the road.
"We are still a few hours away from the town with, what is probably, a really pissed of spirit. So, get comfy and take a nap or something." Dean was going for casual, but he seriously wanted his kid to get some sleep. Since Jessica, Sam hadn't been getting a lot of rest, and whatever he did get was riddled with night terrors.
"Probably?" Sam parroted, slouching down in his seat as he glanced to the driver's side.
"What?"
"You said it's probably a spirit? Why probably?"
"Well that's what it looks like, but I haven't let my geek brother look it over and research the shit out of it yet, so I can't be sure."
"Nice, Dean. You sure know how to give a compliment."
"Who says that was a compliment?"
"Your face does, Dean, that's who. You've always been such an easy read."
Dean snorted at Sam's comment, sending him an exasperated look. The young man smiled in reply, before leaning tiredly against the passenger door and closing his eyes.
The driver glanced intermittently between his little brother and the road as he drove. He was relieved when he could tell Sam had finally drifted off, the innocence that always took over the young face when the kid was peacefully asleep always made Dean's insides clench.
He directed his gaze to the gloved hands jammed into the coat pocket and noticed a shiver run its way through the long body. Dean made sure all the vents were pointed in Sam's direction as he turned the heat up a notch and twisted to feel around in the back, finally grabbing a hold of the old wool blanket stuffed under the seat and pulling it to the front. He shook it out and haphazardly laid it over his little brother, trying to keep one eye on the road while tucking the edges under the long legs and pulling it up to fold over the broad shoulders.
He smirked at Sam's content sigh as the young man snuggled into the blanket, rolling his eyes at what a child the sasquatch could be. Satisfied that Sammy was warm enough for the time being, Dean sat back in his seat and stared out the windshield, forming a plan of action in his mind.
They would drive until they hit the town containing their hunt, hopefully Sammy would sleep until they arrived. Then they would grab some food, check the place out, and next they would go search up and down for a pair of gloves that would work for hunting. Dean nodded in satisfaction with his plan of attack for the next couple days and sent another side-long glance to his baby brother, relieved to see he was still peacefully asleep.
He grimaced as a familiar guilt ran its way through him, the self-loathing and anger bubbling up. He wondered if he would ever forgive himself for letting Sam down so many times. A part of him hoped that he wouldn't, because he didn't deserve to be forgiven; he sure as hell didn't deserve the forgiveness he always received from his little brother. So, he swallowed the anger and held onto a little bit of the guilt as he vowed never to let Sammy down again.
He glanced over to his right as the younger man shifted, worried he was entrapped in a nightmare, and relieved to see his expression hadn't changed and he was simply repositioning.
How Sam's shaggy hair was splayed across his face and the way he was curled up made him appear so young and vulnerable.
A sleeping little brother was one of the many triggers that caused Dean's protective streak to come alive.
Fuck, he loved his kid.
It was always a reality, but in moments like this it hit him like a sucker bunch to the gut, stealing the air from his lungs with the sheer force of it.