"Stop staring, Dean."
"I'm not staring."
"Dude, you are totally staring. I can feel your eyes drilling into my forehead."
"Eyes can't drill, Sam. Don't be stupid."
"We have been sitting here for over an hour and your eyes have been on me the majority of the time. Trust me. They can drill."
"Whatever, man."
Dean tore his gaze from his little brother, letting it wonder the library before returning to the large book open on the table.
Research had never been his thing. Sam could sit for hour or days reading every possible novel or article without getting the least bit bored, Dean was man of action – even a few minutes of sitting stagnant was enough to bore the shit out of him. No too mention he was far too busy watching the tremors in Sam's hands to focus on the information written before him.
"Can't you just put the gloves on?" He asked for what was probably the third time since they arrived at the library and started sifting through city records.
"Dean." The young man whined in exasperation, reluctantly raising his eyes from the text to stare at his brother through the fringe of his hair.
"What? "
"I can't turn pages when I'm wearing gloves, which you know, because I told you the same thing less than twenty minutes ago." Sam explained with a sigh.
"I know, I know. But I don't get how you can turn pages with your hands vibrating like that." Dean pointed out, gesturing towards the unsteady culprits.
Sam looked down at his hands, watching them tremble for a minute before clenching and placing them underneath the table, hiding them from view; he then took a slow long breath, before returning his gaze to meet his brother's.
"Look Dean, I get that you are worried, honestly I do. But please be realistic. You know I can't research with gloves on my hands, so stop asking and stop staring. I get where you are coming from, but I'm okay, honest." Sam implored.
"Oh, don't give me that." Dean groaned after a moment, rolling his eyes at the puppy dog look he was receiving.
"What?" The younger man queried innocently.
"The witness voice."
"The what?"
"That tone of voice you use when you talk to witnesses, all caring and understanding. I'm not some traumatized girl, so don't talk to me like I am. And put away the puppy dog look, it's pathetic." He huffed, rolling his eyes away from his little brother to avoid the sympathetic stare he was receiving.
"Dean, what the hell are you talking about?"
"You're kidding, right? You don't…the voice…oh gawd never mind." Dean grunted, not believing for one second that Sam did not intentionally pull out the witness tone and puppy dog eyes whenever he required them.
They sat in silence a few moments. Dean did his best to keep his eyes on the research in front of him, instead of on his little brother. He heard paper rustling and glanced up to see Sam, in all his OCD glory, organizing all the information. The nerd was no doubt stacking all the research in piles according to degree of usefulness. Dean watched as the papers shook in the long hands hands, unable to tear his eyes from the scene. He knew the slight tremor wasn't dangerous, it wasn't severe yet; meaning there was still good circulation in the limbs, but that didn't make it any easier for him to watch.
"Dean! For fuksake, stop it with the staring!" Sam complained in frustration.
"I'm not!".
"Yes, you are, and it's annoying the hell out of me."
"Geez, Sammy, you're such a sensitive little bitch."
"It's Sam, and I'm sure you'd love being constantly examined."
"Oh please, I get checked out all the time; it's the price of beauty, little brother."
Sam quirked an eyebrow and smirked at the implication that could be found in the comment.
"Oh ewe, don't make it gross. I'm not checking you out, I'm…supervising."
"Yeah, okay, whatever you need to tell yourself." Sam replied with a smile. It was small, and at Dean's expense no doubt, but he couldn't help but revel in the small achievement. It was rare these days to see a genuine Sammy smile, accompanied with that annoying light he got in his eyes whenever he grinned.
"You're disgusting." Dean grumbled, feigning revulsion.
"Seriously though, man, I think I'm past the age where I require supervision."
"You're my little brother, Sammy, you'll always need my supervision." Dean replied with a wink.
"Sam. And fine, whatever, just please stop staring at me, it's distracting."
"Fine." He relented, placing his hands up in surrender and pointedly looking away. He glanced aimlessly around, searching for something to entertain him as he heard Sam messing with his research papers again.
Dean found his mind wandering, along with his eyes.
Sam thought he understood what it felt like to have someone drilling into you with their eyes, but the truth was, that kid didn't know the half of it. Sure, Dean spent a lot of time watching his little brother; making sure he was okay, sleeping soundly, and out of danger. his father had also spent a lot of time looking at Sam, often in frustration, but never quite with the 'drilling holes in your head' intensity, because usually by the time the hunter was that furious he had vacated the area. Dean did get checked out quite often, and Sam sure had a way of looking into him to try and understand what was going on, something that the brat did far too often. None of those classified as drilling looks either, but John - the way he would stare at Dean made him feel as though his dad was burning into his skull. Mind you, Dean had returned that same look a great many times. Sam probably wouldn't believe that their father and Dean had ever exchanged such glares. He seemed to be under the impression that the eldest Winchester child was Dad's favourite and that John was Dean's idol; and while the older boy had always had great respect for his father, he have never been blind to the man's flaws, nor had John been blind to Dean's.
He remembered the first time he received an accusatory, angry stare from their father. It was after Dean almost allowed his little brother to get killed by that shtriga. The next time was a couple days later when Sam had his first asthma attack. His childhood asthma had appeared out of nowhere, leaving doctors baffled, but the moment the diagnosis was handed out, Dean had received that accusatory look, and he knew exactly where the illness had come from. He got that same drilling glare during every asthma attack after that. Every time Sammy ran out of breath, every time Dad had to cut down on the number of laps the kid had to run, and every time they had to spend money on a new inhaler.
Dean did not understand why his father thought he needed that look of accusation on each occasion Sam's asthma made an appearance. As if Dean didn't know full-well it was all his fault, as if he didn't feel like absolute shit whenever he saw the raw fear in his baby brother's eyes because the kid couldn't get enough air, whenever his face fell at not being able to participate in gym class, and whenever he felt like he let Dad down because he couldn't train harder. As if Dean didn't know he was a failure every damn time he had to hold the inhaler to Sam's gasping mouth, every time he had to listen to the young boy wheeze or watch tears trail down his face due to his inability to perform such a basic bodily function.
Sam did eventually grow out of his childhood asthma, having his last attack at thirteen; luckily the looks stopped coming after that. Less than a year later, though, the tables had turned. Instead of receiving that accusatory stare, Dean was giving it.
He glared at his father with blame and anger each damn time the tremor appeared in Sam's hands, every time the kid couldn't perform simple tasks because his hands were shaking so severely; whenever Dean had to rub the circulation back into his baby brother's frozen limbs, or explain to him again that he was not letting anyone down or being a burden. Mind you, their father rarely had the same decency Dean did when he was the victim of accusation. Often when he could feel his father's eyes drilling through his skull during one of Sam's asthma attacks, Dean would hang his head in shame, or do his best to focus on the young boy gasping for breath in his arms. When he sent that same look his father's way, John did his best to ignore it, turning his back or leaving the location entirely.
There was only once occasion Dean could recall his father accepting the blame and furry he sent through his glare.
The older Winchester boy let his eyes aimlessly roam the library as he thought back to that day years ago.
"We can't stay here, Dad!"
"We don't have a choice, Dean. If we try and leave now we'll get caught in the storm. You really think Sam would be better off spending the night in the Impala, trapped in a snow drift somewhere?"
"This is exactly why I wanted to be out of here a week ago!"
"Well if you hadn't botched the job, we would have been out of here a week ago."
"Don't give me that shit! If you hadn't totalled your truck, Sam and I could have taken off and left your ass here a week ago."
John sucked in a long deep breath and Dean knew the man was ready to rip into him for the disrespect he had displayed, but he really didn't give a shit. It was their father's fault they were going to spend the night stuck in a cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere during a snowstorm. It was his fault that they came this far north in the first place, though snow storms in Missouri in October weren't overly common, it was still too far north.
Tremors started running through Sam's hands a few days after they arrived at the damn cabin. But of course, Sam was a sixteen-year-old teenager who was independent and stubborn as hell, so he did his best to hide the tremors to prove how fricken capable he was.
"You better watch it, Dean. I can only take so much disrespect." His father's voice was dark and lethal, the way it got when he was at his end.
"I've got to go get some wood before it's all soaked by the snow." The older boy muttered, stomping off the rickety porch.
He tried to calm down as he gathered up some of the logs he had cut up the previous day, grabbing as much as he could carry; knowing they would have to keep the fire going all night, because of course the cabin in the middle of the woods had no heating.
He knew that his dad hadn't done this on purpose. He had genuinely thought it would be a short hunt, but then one monster became three and the job got a lot more complicated. Dean would have taken Sam and left last week when they put down two, knowing that their father would be able to find and handle the one that they had missed. But then John had to go and try and hit the third one with his truck, he hit it, but he also managed to ram into the tree that was behind it. He was fine, but the truck was ruined. It got towed to the closest town - over two hours away - for repairs, and wouldn't be ready for a few more days. Leaving the three of them stuck right where they were.
Dean insisted yesterday when the temperature dropped, that they drive into town and find some place that at least has some decent heating. Sammy fought his suggestion, insisting that he was fine, but Dad agreed that they should head out in the morning. What they all forgot for one fucking second was that they were Winchesters and nothing ever went their way. True to their family's nature, their plans went to shit, when they woke up in the morning to blowing snow and the impending threat of a big storm. The Impala, amazing as she was, was not fitted with snow tires and Dad seemed entirely certain that any effort to make it to town would result in them being stranded on the side of the road. A danger he could not risk on account of the lack of cell phone reception, because if they got caught in the storm and trapped in the car with no way to call for help, Sam could end up with permanently damaged hands.
Once Dean was holding as much wood as he could possibly carry, he trekked back to the cabin, stomping up the porch steps and kicking at the front door. The creaky door opened, Sam pulling it wider to let him in.
"Thanks." He muttered as he stomped straight to the small fireplace in the tiny living room. He added a log to the already burning fire and stacked the rest of them to the side. He stood up, about to go grab some more kindling, when his father marched past him.
"I got it." He grumbled, pulling the door open and slamming it behind him, clearly not quite over their disagreement.
Dean released a sigh and kicked off his boots, making his way to the small kitchen. He was starving, hadn't had time to eat since waking up in the morning and seeing the snow blowing violently out the window. He stepped into the kitchen, stopping to watch the kid who stood in front of the stove. Sam was finally starting to grow taller, but he looked as scrawny as ever standing there in Dean's sweatpants and sweater, which swallowed his entire frame. His shaggy hair was a mess of bedhead being constantly pushed from his face as he fussed over the food on the stove.
"What you doing, Sammy?" He inquired in his approach.
"Sam. How hard is it to say Sam?" The teen questioned in exasperation, sending a squinted glare over his shoulder.
"Sam is easy. So is bitch, nerd, geek, loser…"
"Okay, I get it!" The younger boy grouched.
"So, Saammy, what you making?" He asked, smiling at the look of aggravation he was given for dragging out his kid brother's favourite nickname.
"Eggs." He answered simply, turning back to the stove.
"Well, you're no Betty Crocker, but I guess eggs will do."
"Betty Crocker? Really, Dean?"
"Hey man, if you don't want to be compared to girls than you should probably cut your hair." He joked, messing up Sam's already dishevelled mop. Dean smirked as the teen tried to shrug him off, unable to fight back as he had both his hands busy with breakfast.
Dean peeked over the boney shoulder to gauge how much longer he'd have to wait. He stared at the eggs on the frying pan, looking to Sam in confusion.
"What are you doing?"
"Dean, we just went through this, I'm making eggs."
"No, I meant why are you making poached?"
"Cause you like poached." Sam replied simply.
"Yeah, but you hate poached."
"Well now I don't."
"Oh really?" Dean asked in disbelief, knowing that last time Sam had to eat eggs that weren't scrambled he gagged on them and whined about how gross it was eating something so uncooked.
"Yeah really. I think they are done, could you grab two plates."
Dean stalled for a little, squinting at his brother, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, before deciding just to go with it.
"Sure. Only two?"
"Yup, Dad already ate."
Dean nodded in reply and grabbed a couple plates, placing them on the counter next to the stove. Sam dished three eggs on one and two on the other, pulling two pieces of bread from the toaster and placing one on each. They sat down on the small kitchen table, Sam setting the plate with more eggs in front of his big brother before taking a seat. Dean immediately dug in, satisfied with the perfectly cooked meal.
"You are going to make a very good wife one day, little brother." He remarked as he chewed, being sure Sam caught a glimpse of the half-eaten food in his mouth.
"Gross, Dean." The kid whined, scrunching his face up at the sight and looking back down at his plate and the untouched meal sitting atop it.
"Why aren't you eating? Change your mind about liking poached?"
"No." Sam answered as he slowly picked up his fork and poked at the eggs.
"A good way to show that you like the food is to eat it, Sam."
"I am!" He insisted, shoving a piece of egg into his mouth.
The older boy continued to eat, intermittently sneaking glances at his little brother, hoping to get a clue as to why he was insisting on eating a breakfast Dean knew he disliked. He watched as Sam stabbed at the egg, bringing a forkful of food slowly to his mouth. The fork was shaking hard and Dean could tell the teen was making every effort to control his hand. As the filled utensil reached his mouth, it shook particularly hard and the egg toppled off, falling back onto the plate.
"Damnit." Sam muttered, making another attempt to get the egg to his mouth.
"Is it that bad, Sam?" He questioned quietly, watching as the fork vibrated in the small hand while the kid struggled to get the food into his mouth.
Sam's face fell as the piece of egg toppled off the utensil for the second time.
"That's why you are eating poached? You thought it'd be easier than scrambled?" Dean asked, finally putting it together in his head.
"Yeah, some bright idea that was." Sam grumbled, staring down accusingly at his meal.
"Where are the gloves I got you a couple weeks ago?"
"I can't eat with them." He bit out in frustration, the food falling for a third time. The teen watched the egg hit the plate before he threw his fork down after it.
Dean flinched at the loud clatter made by the utensil colliding with the glass plate and the loud curse that followed. He was surprised by Sam's sudden outburst, he was usually a very level-headed kid, even when he was furious he rarely displayed it in such a manner – temper tantrums had always been more John and Dean's style.
"Dude, relax. It's fine. I'll just make you a sandwich or something, alright?" The older boy reasoned.
"No. I'll eat the eggs. I just…need a minute." Sam announced, shoving his hands into his sweater pocket.
"Here, give them to me." Dean demanded, moving his chair around the table to sit next to Sam and reaching out for the troublesome appendages.
"They aren't that bad, honestly. They are just being stubborn." Sam insisted.
"Oh, so they are just trying to fit in with the rest of your body then?" Dean mused, smirking at his little brother's eye roll.
"Come on, buddy, you know I can help. Give'm here." He instructed, reaching out again.
Sam let out a long put-upon sigh before finally pulling his shaking hands from his pocket and placing them in the awaiting palms.
"Fuck." Dean muttered as he began to rub, feeling the icy temperature of the limbs. "I was hoping it wouldn't be this bad this soon."
"It's not that bad, Dean."
"Yes, Sam, it is. Your fingers are frozen and your hands are practically white. Your circulation is already messed up and it's not even noon yet." He griped, rubbing faster to create more friction and heat.
"You know they are the worst in the morning and at night." Sam explained logically.
"I know, but with this storm coming, it's only going to get colder." The worried big brother bit his lip to stop his ranting, not wanting to display his fear too blatantly.
"I'll be fine." The teen declared, in a tone that sounded as though he was both complaining about Dean's fussing and reassuring his concern. Only Sammy could whine and comfort simultaneously.
The hours passed slowly. Their father spent most of his time at the kitchen table cleaning and polishing every single weapon that they carried in the Impala. Sam split his time between reading and watching Dean flip between the two channels that actually came in on the television. Besides channel flipping, the older boy spent the majority of his time glancing between his little brother and the window. He was keeping a constant watch on the weather; the harsher it became, the more concern grew.
By dinner time the wind was blowing so hard Dean found himself questioning the stability of the cabin's foundation. Sam had given up reading, his hands not cooperating with him, and was covered in blankets as he watched TV. John was in the kitchen heating up beans on the stove for dinner as he continued to feed the fire.
Sam had a difficult time with supper, his spoon shaking harder than his fork had and eventually he just tipped the bowl towards his mouth and slurped up the beans.
A couple hours later the storm hadn't let up a bit, the wind blowing even harder than before as the snow piled up outside and the temperature continued to drop. It didn't matter how many times Dean tried to warm Sam's hands, they refused to stop shaking and any relief that was found was minimal and temporary.
Dean pushed the couch as close to the fire as he could without setting it a flame and forced more blankets around his little brother. He could tell Sam, in his sixteen-year-old teenage independence, hated being fussed over, which he informed the older boy repeatedly; but even he, with his stubbornness and pride, allowed Dean to bundle him up and force hot chocolate and soup down his throat.
Once nightfall hit Sam was shivering uncontrollable, his body desperate to generate warmth. No matter how many fucking layers Dean put on him, the kid just couldn't stop shaking.
"Dean?" Sam called out between his chattering teeth.
"Yeah, Sammy." He replied from the kitchen, placing another towel in the ancient microwave; warming it up so he could wrap it around his little brother.
"Dean!?" Sam called out again, more urgency present in his voice.
"What?" He answered, walking back into the main room and over to the couch.
The kid just looked up at him from his swaddled position on the couch, his hands held out in front of him trembling intensely.
"Shit." Dean cursed, dropping to his knees before his brother and taking the smaller hands in his own. They were freezing cold, but what concerned him the most was the discolouration of the limbs. Parts of his little brother's fingers were showing tinges of blue while the rest of his hands were chalk white.
"What is it, Dean?" Their father called from the kitchen.
"Sam's hands are getting bad. I need you to bring me the towel from the microwave."
Seconds later John was at his side, handing him the warm fabric and watching as he wrapped it tightly around the frozen appendages. Dean cringed at Sam's cry as the warmth began to invade his skin.
"It's okay, Sammy, it'll feel better soon." He consoled, climbing onto the couch, settling in behind his little brother and pulling him into his chest. It wasn't until Sam was nestled against him that he realized his entire body was shivering.
"Awe kiddo, you should have told me you were this cold." Dean adjusted the blankets tighter around his shaking little brother.
"I knew if I said anything you'd force us to cuddle." Sam stuttered out through chattering teeth.
"Shut up, you love cuddling. Your octopus-limbs are all over me whenever we share a bed." Dean replied; his voice light but expression pinched in concern as he wrapped his arms around the small frame in front of him, attempting to warm it up.
"Gawd, Dean." Sam moaned, pushing his body back closer to the older boy, seeking heat.
"I'm here, buddy. You're going to be fine." He assured. his worry growing as Sam's head fell back against his collar bone; the teen's cooperative and vulnerable behaviour telling Dean how cold he really was.
"Dean?" The intruding voice, soft as it was, startled him a little. He had forgotten he and Sam weren't alone.
"What?" He responded, running his hands over Sam's chest and arms, hoping to generate heat.
"What can I do?"
On an average day, that question would be shocking. First of all, John always knew what to do, and even if he didn't, he would seldom ask. Secondly, Dean had never heard his father sound so completely unsure. Those were things he would have noticed and been shocked by, had he not been so entirely focused on the trembling teenager in his arms.
"Throw some more wood on the fire."
He watched as John did exactly as he asked, before moving to kneel beside the couch, awaiting his next order, but Dean hadn't one to give.
"I'll go make some more hot chocolate." The hunter muttered, uncomfortable with the silence and eager to find something to do.
Dean nodded in agreement, hugging Sam closer when his shivering became more severe.
They stayed like that for hours and as Sam shook and vibrated violently in his arms, all Dean could think of was how he and John had failed him. He lay there with his little brother pulled against his chest, thinking about how he hadn't fought their father hard enough. He should have taken Sam and left the moment the weather grew colder. He should have insisted they stay in a heated hotel.
Dean came up with more reasons to hate himself, listing off all the ways he had failed his little brother, stopping only when he felt Sam press his face against his chest and heard soft sobs.
"Sam?" He asked, the urgency in his voice catching his father's attention, the older face mirroring Dean's concern as he made his way over to the couch.
"Sammy? What's going on?" Dean questioned, lightly jostling the teen.
Sam may have been emotional, and he was a hell of a lot more sensitive than the two other Winchesters combined, but Sam was no sissy. Regardless of how often Dean teased him about his girlie features or mannerisms, his little brother was one tough sonuvabitch. Dean had seen him stitched together with no pain meds so many times, without shedding more than a couple tears. Therefore, to have the kid sobbing into his shirt was more than unsettling, it was downright terrifying.
"Sammy! Talk to me, kiddo." He urged, his voice cracking slightly as his fear pushed through.
"Sorry." The teen stuttered.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, buddy, just tell me what's wrong."
"My hands, De."
At his little brother's response, he began to gently untangle the damaged hands from the number of blankets wrapped around them. Once he pulled them out he was surprised to see little change; they were possibly a little colder than they had been a couple hours ago, with a tad more discolouration, but essentially, they appeared very much the same.
"What's the matter with them?" John questioned, moving closer to see.
"I think it's just the nerve pain from the cold." Dean ventured, trying to remember how the doctor had worded it.
"What do you mean?"
"The doctor warned us about long-term aftereffects of the frostbite; extreme sensitivity to cold, stiffness, numbness, and pain." Dean listed off the symptoms like he was reading them out of a book. He had studied up on and learnt everything there was to know about severe frostbite, desperate to understand what he had allowed to happen to his little brother and how to help him.
"Has he had the pain before?" The elder hunter inquired, slowly digesting the information as he watched Dean take Sam's hands and slide them up under his shirt, placing one under each armpit in an attempt to heat them.
"No, that's the only aftereffect he hasn't had, until now. I don't think his hands have been this cold since-since it happened. So, I guess that maybe the pain sets in when they get too cold." Dean muttered, his anger for the situation coming out in his harsh tone. "I knew we should have left." He bit out, cutting his eyes to his father as he pulled Sam possessively up against his chest; Sam's cheek resting against his abdomen, his hands still tucked against Dean's skin, and his tears wetting his big brother's shirt as he bit back sobs.
John had the sense not to respond to the comment; getting up and tending to the fire and then sitting in the chair across the room, watching them quietly.
Sam released a sudden cry and flinched violently. Dean felt the cold hands spasm against his skin, figuring that a particularly intense flare of pain had gone through them. Perhaps the warming process caused the agony to momentarily escalate.
"Fuck." Sam swore, half sobbing as he released the curse and curled up closer to the larger frame.
"It's alright, Sammy. It will be okay. You're going to be just fine." Dean soothed, wrapping his arms around the kid who was practically laying in his lap, the slim body wracked with shivers as frozen hands sucked all the warmth out of Dean's armpits.
He continued to whisper useless assurances to his little brother as he held him close, willing the smaller body to take in his heat. It was cold, the middle of the night in a cabin without heat, but the fire was providing quite a bit of warmth. Unfortunately, it was not enough heat for someone prone to hypothermia and frostbite. It killed Dean to lay there all night, his independent brother shivering and crying in his lap as all his attempts to bring him heat failed miserably.
Sam was half asleep when Dean felt his hands spasm and his entire body tense at the pain.
"Dean." He cried, whimpering quietly after the outburst.
"I'm here, Sammy. I promise it's going to get better soon, kiddo. Just hang on." He soothed, feeling tears sliding down his face as he tried to keep his voice from cracking.
As he felt Sam's body begin to relax again, his distress and helplessness became furry and rage. His jaw clenching as the anger flooded through his veins. Hearing his little brother's stuttered breathing even out as he seemed to be falling asleep, tears no longer leaking from under the closed eyelids, Dean lifted his eyes from Sam and directed them directly at his father.
John was watching them from where he sat in the chair, his entire body rigid. He had no doubt that if they had not been in the middle of nowhere, in the midst of a storm, the older man would have run off hours ago. Neither of them were good at seeing Sammy in pain, and while Dean would deal with it, doing what was necessary to make it better for his little brother, their dad would run from it, avoiding the source of his emotional distress entirely. Normally, he had sympathy for the older man, or understanding at the very least, but not tonight.
Tonight, his baby brother was shaking and sobbing because of their father. Sam was in such pain because he had entrusted him to their father and John had failed in so many ways. Dean would never forgive the hard-headed hunter for not taking care of Sam; and he would also never forgive himself for leaving his little brother in John's distracted care. They were both to blame for what happened to Sam, but Dean was trying his hardest to make up for it, doing everything he could to take care of the kid. John wasn't. He still had all of his focus on the hunt. They wouldn't have been in their current situation, if it wasn't for him and his obsession.
Dean glared accusingly at his dad, knowing if he didn't have a sleeping kid on his lap, he would have had words with the older man across the room. He expected his father to do what he always did when he focused angry blaming eyes on him. Dean figured he would avoid eye-contact or leave the room, but he didn't. The big brother's enraged and accusing stare was met with tear-filled eyes. Dean was taken aback by the raw emotion displayed on the hunter's face, his eyes watering as intense shame and sadness patterned his features. John was no longer avoiding the blame, but accepting it. Eventually, he tore his eyes from the older man, confused by what had happened but not allowing it to distract him from his number one priority, who was finally sleeping calmly and relatively shiver free against him.
Dean brushed Sammy's shaggy hair from his forehead and wondered if he would ever see that look of shame on his father's face ever again. He supposed it didn't really matter, because whether or not he felt horrible for what he had done - the harm he allowed to befall his baby brother - it did not make it okay and remained unredeemable.
Hurting Sammy would never be okay, whether it was directly or indirectly, intentionally or by accident, whether the offended party was apologetic or not; because some things just couldn't be forgiven.
And bringing harm to someone as kind, honest, and selfless as his little brother, well that was one of those things.
"Dean!"
"What?" He replied, trying to act as though he hadn't been startled out of his thoughts.
"You're doing it again." Sam whined.
"And what is it I'm doing, exactly?" He asked, knowing there could be any number of possibilities.
"You are staring, at my hands, again." Sam answered in exasperation.
"Was not." He argued, not even bothering to remove his eyes from the trembling limbs they were focused on. "Why do you keep clenching them? You in pain? Do you need your amitriptyline?" He questioned, immediately searching his pockets form the medicine.
Amitriptyline was the only medicine that worked for the pain Sam got in his hands, the absolute worst of the long-term aftereffects of his frostbite. A doctor prescribed it for him when he took Sam to the hospital after that horrible night in the cabin. It was one of the few times that Dad never once argued about a hospital visit or the price of the meds.
"No, Dean. I'm fine. I'm only clenching because you keep staring and it's making me uncomfortable. Besides, I don't even have any more amitriptyline, I never needed it living in California."
"Yeah well I picked some up after I dropped you off here-
"You said you were going to get a hotel room?"
"I did, after I picked up your meds."
"You still have my prescription?" Sam inquired, eyebrows raised.
"Well, duh." Dean responded casually, not wanting his brother to read into the fact that he had held on to it all the years he was away.
"Oh, gawd don't make it weird." He moaned as Sam stared at him with those puppy dog eyes of his. "All I'm saying is that I have your meds if you need them. And Sam, don't let it get bad, okay? You know they aren't as effective when you wait too long."
"I know, Dean. I remember." Sam stated quietly, visibly tensing as he was probably recalling all the times the pain had gotten out of hand.
"So, you ready to head out yet? I'm starving."
"You're always starving." The younger hunter commented with a smirk, slowly and shakily gathering together all his research.
"Well at least I'm not anorexic." He mumbled, helping to pile the papers.
"I'm not anorexic." Sam argued.
"Well people are going to think you are if you lose any more weight."
Sam shook his head in disagreement, rolling his eyes at his declaration.
"I'm serious! You need to get some fat on that skinny ass of yours or people are going to call child's services on me."
"Dean, they can't. I'm not a child." Sam responded in his signature I-can't-believe-my-brother-is-such-a-moron tone, standing with the information he required tucked under his arm.
"Yes, you are." Dean argued as they headed for the exit.
"Anyone over eighteen is no longer considered a child, legally speaking." Sam recited, pulling his gloves onto his shaking hands, shivering slightly as they stepped out into the cold air.
Dean stared at him, assessing the younger man carefully, wondering for the hundredth time today if there was any way he could convince him to leave this case for someone else, and choose one further south instead. He shook his head, knowing there was no way he could convince stubborn Sam to do such a thing.
"Anyone with a whiny bitchy tone of voice like yours, has to be a child." He shot back as they both slid into the Impala.
"You are such an idiot." Sam moaned.
"Well at least I'm not a child." Dean quipped with a smile, laughing at the bitch-face he received.
He turned the heat up in the car as they pulled out onto the road, wondering what look he was going to get from Sam when they pulled into the parking lot of a relatively nice hotel, very different from the dumpy places they usually stayed.
He knew he would hear about it. Sam would not be happy about him spending the extra money on a nicer place, but he would just have to suck it up; because he needed to stay warm, which meant a non-drafty, well-heated room, and those came at a price.
The price wasn't a problem for Dean, though, because there was no price he wouldn't pay for his little brother.
No price was too high when it was for Sam.