I hope this shorter wait is much more to your liking! I worked my ass off all weekend on this bad boy cause I felt a little bad about leaving you with such an evil cliffhanger. Well, I laughed maniacally for a while first. I rubbed my hands together and stroked my pretend mustache and everything. But then later I felt bad. :)

(My friend electroxboosh made a beautiful banner for this story. Drop me a line if you'd like to see it)

Dean has no idea how long he's been standing next to his car, staring blankly at the keys in his hand, but it's been a while. Ten minutes, minimum. Or maybe an hour. Time doesn't really seem important right now. Nor does the fact that the snow he's standing in is starting to melt though his shoes; his breath turning to ice on his lips and the inside of his nose feels uncomfortably frozen. It doesn't matter that he didn't stop to grab his jacket when he left the room and the black, cotton, t-shirt he's wearing right now wasn't exactly meant for February in Middle America. The only thing that matters is the one thing he can't have – a little brother who didn't wish he wasn't one.

Dean has never, ever wished that Sam wasn't his brother. When they were teenagers and they realized how they felt about each other, Dean was well aware of how much easier it would be if they were just two random guys, because then they could be together and not have to worry quite so much about what the world would think. But he still didn't wish Sam wasn't his brother. When Sam left for Stanford, he took most of Dean's heart with him and left a giant, unmendable hole in Dean's chest that sometimes he still thinks hasn't quite healed. But he still didn't wish Sam wasn't his brother. Through Sam's psychic powers that scared Dean right to his core; through Hell and back, and Ruby, and the demon blood addiction; through breaking the final seal and starting the freakin' apocalypse and essentially sentencing six billion people to their deaths; through every time Sam's screwed up and every minute Dean's spent cleaning up after him, he never, even for one millisecond, wished that Sam wasn't his little brother.

And more than that – he forgave Sam for all those things. Forgave him practically the same moment that they happened, because that's what brothers do. And now he's standing in the cold and the snow outside a hotel in Nebraska and his head is spinning so hard it's making him queasy. His chest is throbbing like heartburn, only a thousand times worse. Like his heart is actually breaking. Like there's a knife right through his sternum, and Sam's twisting it. Slowly. Dean's given everything, everything. He's devoted himself completely to Sam for twenty-six years. And Sam … Sam wishes Dean wasn't his brother. Dean can't – his brain doesn't even know how to process that. It's like trying to understand someone who's speaking a language that you don't. Dean's at a complete loss. He should just get in his car and drive away, clear his head, but his feet seem to be cemented to the ground. And the fog swirling around in his head probably wouldn't let him even figure out how to start the ignition anyway.

There's a creak that sounds like door hinges, and then the crunch of slow, hesitant footsteps in the snow.

"Hey Dean," Sam's voice says quietly, sadly.

Dean blinks a few times.

"I … god, I'm … so sorry," Sam mumbles. "I didn't mean it. I was mad and, it, I say stupid things when I'm mad sometimes."

Dean manages to nod, and then twists his head around a little to look at his brother. His brother. God, it hurts to even think those words right now. Sam reaches his hand out tentatively like he's going to touch Dean's arm, but then changes his mind and pulls back, running his fingers through his hair instead.

"Look, if you – need to take some time, go for a drive or something, that's okay. Just, please, promise me that you'll come back?"

Dean nods again. "Yeah, I – okay." His voice sounds thin and scratchy, like he hasn't used it in a long time. Maybe he's been standing out here longer than he thought.

Sam reaches out again and his fingers brush lightly against Dean's shoulder. The touch is soft and apologetic.

"I'm really sorry," he whispers, and then turns around and makes his way back inside.

For another few minutes, Dean just blinks and breathes and stares at the blue, wooden door. It's cracked in a few places, probably from the cold, but the paint job looks new. And the plated, silver numbers are definitely antique, but they're clean and shiny and completely rust-free. This is a really nice place, and suddenly Dean feels unbelievably stupid for bringing them here. This place is lace and throw pillows and ornate picture frames, and Dean is leather and ripped jeans and Metallica. He doesn't belong here, neither of them do. And he really, really doesn't belong here, specifically where he's standing right at this moment. Not when Sam's on the other side of that blue door.

And he said he wouldn't leave. Damn it. Not even half an hour ago, he sat with Sam on that ridiculous, frilly bed and promised that they'd stick together no matter how bad things got. He can't break it, because a promise to Sam means something. It kinda means everything, actually. And Sam does say stupid things when he's mad sometimes; the kid's got a temper, always has, and he's always sorry about it later. Dean's fist is gripping his car keys so tightly that they're cutting into his palm, but he doesn't want them anymore. He doesn't want to drive away anymore; to find a smoky bar with cheap liquor and even cheaper women so he can drink and gamble and flirt until his problems disappear. It never works anyway. No, what he wants now is to go back in there and hear Sam say that he didn't mean it a few more hundred times. Maybe if he says it enough, Dean'll believe him.

When Dean steps back into the room, Sam's sitting on the bed, cross-legged. He's still in the sweats he was wearing last night, and the way he's just staring down at his hands, hair falling into his eyes, makes him look like such a little boy that Dean's anger just melts away. His brother looks so sad and helpless and so completely out of place in this pristine room, almost like he's lost. It still hurts like a bitch to play those words over in his head, but Dean can't bring himself to be mad at this Sam. This is the Sam that needs his big brother to make everything better.

Sam looks up at the sound of the door clicking closed, and Dean gives him a small smile.

"I though you were gonna …" Sam trails off and shifts his gaze back down to his hands.

"Me too. Changed my mind."

Sam pulls his knees up into his chest and wraps his arms around them. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, still not looking at Dean.

"So you said." Dean walks slowly over to the bed and, after hesitating for a moment, he sits down beside Sam and cups a hand over the back of Sam's neck.

Sam just sniffs and shakes his head a little.

"You didn't mean it?" Dean asks softly.

"No. Not at all, Dean, I swear." Sam's demeanor changes instantly; he's grabbing at the collar on Dean's shirt now, scooting closer and pulling desperately like he's trying to climb into Dean's lap. "God, I – I don't know why I said that, I can't believe I said that! I don't know where it even came from, it was like I didn't hear myself say it until after it was already out there and then I couldn't take it back, but if I could, Dean you have to know I don't feel that way, I never did, not for a second – "

"Whoa, hey! Okay, it's – shh. Okay. It's okay Sammy." Dean pulls the big body into his own and holds on tight.

"I'm so sorry," Sam mumbles pitifully into Dean's neck.

"Okay. I believe you. Fuck, you're shaking." Dean huffs a laugh and rubs Sam's back.

"I thought you might not come back."

"I'll always come back."

For a few minutes, Dean just rubs Sam's back and hugs him tightly, and Sam relaxes and leans heavily against Dean's body.

"That's gotta be the worst thing I've ever said to you." Sam's voice is just a whisper of breath against Dean's skin.

"Can you tell me what you did mean?" Dean asks gently after a long moment.

"Can I what?" Sam pulls back a bit so he can look in Dean's eyes.

"You didn't just say it for no reason," Dean clarifies. "You must've meant something."

Sam sighs and looks away again. "I … I didn't mean that I wish you weren't my brother, I meant that I wish you wouldn't always treat me like the little brother."

Dean nods. "Oh. Okay. I guess that's fair."

"I still shouldn't've said it. I love my big brother," Sam murmurs brushing the pad of his thumb over Dean's bottom lip.

"I know you do, kiddo." Dean smiles and ruffles Sam's hair like he used to when they were young enough that touching Sam still only meant one thing.

"You haven't called me that in a long time," Sam comments, smiling back.

Dean shrugs. "You haven't seemed like a kid to me in a long time."

"I do right now?"

"Yeah, kinda." Dean rubs his knuckles against Sam's knee. "Whenever you're upset, it's like you're ten years old again to me. Can't help it."

Sam laughs a little. "I bet you like that."

Dean doesn't speak for a moment. It would probably be easier to just not say anything at all, but then again he would be pissed to know that Sam was having thoughts like this and not saying anything. The whole point of this is for them to start being honest with each other and saying all those things that normally they'd keep inside. Dean has absolutely no idea what's gotten into him; normally he'd be the one running for the hills at the smallest sign of anything so real, but maybe he's just had enough. Enough of the lies and the pretending. Things are usually so much better when he just bites the bullet and tells Sam the truth.

"I just miss how you used to be, you know?" Dean says, blowing a strong breath out through his mouth. "You used to look at me like I hung the freakin' moon. Like I was perfect. And now …"

"And now I love you even more because I know you aren't."

Dean's chest tightens at Sam's words. It's ridiculous, how Sam's somehow always able to say things like that and make Dean feel amazing and heartbroken all at the same time. Little emotional zingers that really wouldn't mean much to anyone else, but to Dean it's like they flay him open and leave him exposed and totally at Sam's mercy. Dean doesn't even know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. He pretends Sam didn't speak and he carries on with the point he'd been trying to make.

"I've always been too hard on you," he says quietly, standing up and taking a few steps away because he's pretty sure he won't get through this if he's looking at Sam. "I pushed you to be better, better at hunting and fighting and whatever else, but at the same time, I … I was the one holding you back."

"What do you mean?"

Sam's voice is small and cautious, and Dean can tell if he doesn't word this carefully, Sam'll start yelling about Dean always trying to take the blame for everything again. Which, alright, maybe he does do that. But Sam's the little brother, that's the way it's supposed to work! That's how Dean sees it, anyway. Sam clearly doesn't agree.

"You were this sweet, open, trusting little thing," Dean says. "And I loved that about you so much but it scared me because it made you an easy target. I wanted to change you and keep you the same all at once, and I get now what that must've done to you."

"Where is this coming from?" Sam asks.

"What you said, about wishing I wouldn't always treat you like the little brother." Dean scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. "I think I'm starting to understand why it bugs you so much. It's like I was always on your case about growing up and being tough and everything, but I still treated you like a kid. That … I mean, I can see why that would be, frustrating."

Sam doesn't say anything but Dean can almost hear his face twisting into a frown.

"And you're a good hunter, Sam, you are. You're ruthless and driven and everything else Dad wanted us to be, and I am so proud of you, I really am, it's just … sometimes I miss the Sam who, I don't know, looked up to me and came to me when he was scared and knew that I'd keep him safe. I miss the Sam who depended on me to take care of him."

"Dean … I know things are different now, but I still do all those things," Sam begins tentatively. "You're my big brother, I will always look up to you. Maybe … maybe we just don't say it anymore."

Dean turns back around. "Meaning what?"

"Okay, like, when we were kids and I'd get scared, we'd make a fort out of sheets and chairs and then we'd hide in there together and you'd tell me that you'd always be there to protect me. And now, when something freaks me out I just don't feel the need to talk about it anymore, but I still feel better if you're there with me." Sam offers Dean a small smile. "You act like there's only one way to need somebody. You're right, I don't need you to cook me dinner and protect me from thunder storms like I did when I was five, but that doesn't mean I don't need you at all."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."

It's a nice thought, but the truth is that he needs Sam way more than Sam needs him. He always has. Needs him like he needs oxygen.

"And you still do take care of me, all the time, just in a different way."

"What, you mean like getting you off?" Dean scoffs.

"No – " Sam begins, and then pauses, grinning and laughing a little. "Well okay, yes. Definitely yes. And you do that job really, really well."

Dean laughs back. "I am pretty awesome in bed."

"Yeah. You are. But it's more than that, man, it's like … when we're together you really make me feel, loved. Cherished, even. As dumb as I'm sure that sounds."

Dean shrugs. "It smells a bit like estrogen, but I get what you mean."

Sam smiles and shakes his head in amusement. "But you take care of me like a big brother too. Like today. You drove for an extra couple of hours just because you thought I needed the rest. What do you call that if not taking care of me? You shrug things like that off like they aren't important, but they are, Dean. And I notice them, even if I don't say anything."

Dean nods a little but he doesn't speak. Sam did need the rest, so Dean doesn't really see how what he did is anything to get excited about.

"Aright, you need another example?" Sam stands up quickly and faces Dean. "How about when we get back from a hunt that went bad, or we had a close call or something, and I'm too exhausted and strung out to do anything but collapse onto the bed, and you probably are too, but you don't. First you always take my shoes off, and you get me under the blankets, and you always take the time to check the salt lines."

"C'mon, Sam, checking the salt lines is – " Dean begins in protest, only to be cut off.

"Your job, yeah, I know it is. But the rest of it isn't! And then you pull me into you and let us fall asleep with your arms around me. And in the morning, even though we've moved around in the night your arms are always still around me, and that … Dean, to me, that's you showing me that you'll always keep me safe." Sam's eyes have gone wide and glassy with emotion. "You don't say it in so many words anymore but you still say it. And I still hear it."

Dean's throat constricts again. "I … that's a whole lotta mush all in one place, Sammy."

Sam smiles again and bites his lip, now a little sheepish. "Yeah, I know. Guess you just bring it out in me," he quips, repeating Dean's earlier words. "But I meant it. I need you all the time, Dean. God, when you were in – when you were gone, I, I went crazy. I … well, you know. What I did."

Sam's expression went from adorably bashful to self-loathing so fast that Dean has to blink a few times before he registers that the mood in the room has changed again. Then he's over in front of Sam before he even realizes he's moved, brushing bangs out of Sam's sad eyes and cupping his palm against Sam's cheek. Sam leans into the touch a little and closes his eyes.

"It's okay," Dean says softly. "For the millionth time, it's okay. And hey, I meant what I said before. Ruby took advantage of you when you were weak and vulnerable and lonely, and I bet if our places had been switched I would've trusted her too. It kinda ended up turning into a fight earlier, but I really do understand why you did what you did."

"No you don't," Sam whispers.

"C'mon, Sam, yeah I do."

"No, actually, you don't!" Sam shouts, shoving at Dean's shoulders to put some distance between them. "You don't get it at all, Dean, because in your head it's all about me being alone and lost without you! You're acting like you're all understanding, but really? I know what you really think is that I listened to Ruby because I'm some stupid kid that doesn't know how to survive without somebody telling me what to do!"

"What? I never said – "

"It was you!" Sam snaps. "It was about you, Dean, all of it! You left me with nothing, man, absolutely nothing! You were the only real thing I've ever had in this world and you were just gone!"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that, Sam!" Dean shoots back, furiously. "I was in Hell, in case that's managed to slip your mind!"

"But god, it was so much fucking more than that!" Sam just barrels on like Dean hadn't spoken. "It was the whole year before you died, that's what really did me in! Going to Hell was like, shit, it was like some big joke to you! Might as well eat a hundred cheeseburgers, cause I won't be needing this body for that much longer! Ha ha, I'm Dean Winchester and I'm a fuckin' riot! Well you know what? It wasn't funny to me, Dean! It was terrifying!"

"Well what the fuck did you want me to do?" Dean yells indignantly. "I didn't have any answers, Sammy! I couldn't fix it! Would you really have been happier if I'd spent the whole year wallowing in it?"

"I never needed you to have all the answers! I just …" Sam heaves a frustrated sigh. "I needed you to tell me it was okay to be scared, to tell me that you were scared too! I needed you to be honest with me instead of playing your stupid, macho games! But no, you just decided that you were going to Hell, and that was it! You completely checked out on me, man!"

Dean stares, his jaw clenched painfully, but Sam's on a roll and when he gets like this Dean knows anything he says right now won't make a difference. So he doesn't say anything.

"Do you know I barely slept that whole year?" Sam continues loudly, now starting to twitch a little in anger. "I was up half the nights looking through every book and website I could find, and calling every contact of Dad's and Bobby's, trying to find a way to get you out of your deal! I was fighting tooth and nail to keep you alive, and you acted like you didn't even care that you were dying! ... Like you didn't even care that you were leaving me."

Dean closes his eyes. It feels like all the air just got sucked out of the room on that last comment. Dean's chest is more than tight at this point, it feels crushed, like a boulder is pinning him to the ground. To the hard, sharp ground. There it is, the one thing Sam's never vocalized before that finally makes Dean absolutely positive that now, he really does understand everything Sam did while they were apart. And after. It wasn't about Dean dying, it was about Dean leaving Sam. It's a subtle distinction that Dean never made in his own head, but god … that one hurts. A lot. When Dean manages to open his eyes again, there are tears streaming down Sam's cheeks. Not just one or two, Sam's actually crying like Dean hasn't seen him do since – well, since the night he went to Hell. Looks like maybe this is it – after a year of shouting and butting heads and almost-tears, maybe this is the moment when Sam finally breaks. Dean's across the room in half the time it takes to blink, grabbing at whatever bit of his brother he can reach first and yanking him into a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby boy," he whispers, squeezing the back of Sam's neck with one hand and rubbing up and down his back with the other. "I didn't mean to leave you. I never wanted to. And I did care. I just – I don't know. Didn't want you to see how scared I was. Sounds stupid, now."

Sam lets out a choked sob and hunches over a little so he can cry into Dean's shoulder. His arms slide around Dean's ribcage and his hands grip desperately at big handfuls of Dean's shirt. For a few minutes, Dean just lets his little brother cry, lets him get it out. Years and years of pain and fear and anger, all built up and thrashing around inside, and Dean knows how it feels when that dam breaks. It feels like an F5 tornado inside your own head.

"Shh, you're okay," Dean soothes, kissing Sam's shoulder through his t-shirt. "I gotcha. Not leaving you ever again."

Sam nods against Dean's neck, managing to get "I know" out between shaky, hitched breaths. Another minute or so and then Sam's getting himself under control again, his breathing still labored but evening out a little as he calms down.

"Man, this – sorry," he breathes, sniffing and releasing his vice-grip on Dean's shirt.

"'S'ok, don't be sorry."

Sam pulls back just a little and wipes his eyes. "I must look ridiculous."

"Course you don't." Dean smiles and brushes the hair out of Sam's eyes and the wet tracks off of his cheeks. "Always beautiful to me, Sammy."

Sam huffs a laugh. "God, you're mushy today."

His voice is thick from the tears, and that's kind of heartbreaking but kind of adorable at the same time. Dean leans in again and kisses Sam's lips lightly, and then his cheek, ear, and temple.

"I have an idea," Dean murmurs into Sam's hair. He moves over to the bed and grabs a handful of the sheets, yanking them up until just the end remains tucked under the mattress. He takes Sam's hand and pulls him down onto the bed, and then he crawls in beside him, then pulls the sheet over their heads and tucks it in behind the headboard. The result is something like a makeshift tent, with about a foot of space between the sheet and mattress for their heads and shoulders.

"Okay." Sam looks at him quizzically. "What're we doing?"

Dean makes himself comfy on his side, facing Sam, with one hand propping up his head. He reaches the other hand over to brush a strand of silky hair out of Sam's eyes. The thin white sheet doesn't block out all the light, but enough that a faint, orange glow radiates over Sam's caramel skin and makes his beautiful eyes look darker and bluer than usual.

"A fort made out of sheets to hide in," Dean smiles, setting his free hand on Sam's sternum. "Just like when we were kids."

Sam's eyes widen and he inhales simultaneously as realization flashes over his features and the corner of his mouth twitches like the beginnings of a smile. Then he inhales again, this time like he's about to say something, and then, for a moment or two, he's just quiet. His eyes flicker around the small, dimly lit cocoon Dean's created for them; he meets and then avoids Dean's gaze. Then he does the exact opposite of what Dean wanted or expected – he squints a little and his eyes fill with tears.

"No, Sam …" Dean mutters, pressing his hand a little more firmly down into Sam's chest. "Shit, that's not – this was supposed to make you happy, not make you cry again."

Sam shakes his head back and forth a few times, tossing more hair across his forehead, and then laughs a little, despite a few tears running down his cheeks and soaking into the fabric beneath his head.

"Just like when we were kids," he repeats softy. "Except when we were kids you could tell me everything would be okay and it was."

Dean swallows painfully over a lump in his throat. Sometimes, he misses those days like he'd miss an arm. "I know. I wish I could still tell you that. I really do."

Sam nods shortly, quickly, and scrunches his eyebrows together, clearly trying to hold back more tears.

"Hey," Dean whispers, brushing his thumb over Sam's bottom lip. C'mon, Sam, talk to me, he doesn't need to say.

But then Sam breaks again; lets out another sob and rolls his body into Dean's, his hands clinging to Dean's shirt again and his face buried into Dean's chest like he hasn't done since he was thirteen years old.

"Sammy," Dean sighs, sliding an arm underneath Sam's neck and wrapping the other one around Sam's back, squeezing tightly.

"What if we can't stop it?" Sam asks, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths and letting out moist ones on the collar of Dean's shirt, and Dean doesn't need to ask what 'it' is.

"Shh, I know," Dean soothes, rocking his baby brother a bit.

Dean's been asking himself that same question two or three times a day lately. He tries to just tackle it one day at a time like it were any other case, but it isn't; it's the fate of the entire word they're fighting for now, and sometimes it weighs on him like a slab of concrete. Honesty, though? Somehow, it makes him feel just a tiny bit better to know that it's weighing on Sam just as much, even though he definitely already knew that. If anything, it weighs on Sam more, because in Sam's mind, the whole damn apocalypse is his fault.

"We do what I did, what Zachariah showed me when he zapped me to the future," Dean says, quietly but surely, rubbing Sam's back. "We set up camps, and look for survivors, and we keep going until – until we can't anymore."

"And then millions of people die and it's all my fault," Sam whispers, choking out a few more sobs.

"Not your fault," Dean whispers back. He's really had enough of hearing Sam say that.

Sam's forehead rubs against Dean's collarbone as he nods. He gasps a little; probably uncontrollably as he tries to reign in his emotions. Dean really wishes he wouldn't bother; he wishes that if Sam needed to cry again he'd just do it, and just let Dean hold him and be the big brother he never gets to be anymore. But Sam doesn't seem to be managing to pull himself together this time. His shoulders are still shaking and his breath is still catching in his throat. It's already the third time today Sam's been crying in his arms, and the first two times Dean felt a little like he had no idea how to comfort the man who he barely recognizes as his baby brother anymore. But right now, for the first time in way too long, Dean knows exactly what to say.

"It's okay to be scared, Sammy," Dean murmurs into Sam's hair. "I'm scared too."