Yes, I'm in the whump!Sam mode. This is a S7 drabble that will maybe be rendered AU by next episode. If you're trying to remain spoiler free for S7 you should probably not read it. If you don't care about things like that or if you've watched 7x01 already, you're good.

If it feels good

"Sam?"

Sam is crouched in the corner of Bobby's living room when Dean is startled awake in the couch. He's trying to make himself go as further away from an invisible threat as possible, which isn't very far considering his back is flat against the wall and his knees are all the way up to his shoulders. His breathing is coming out in shallow, rapid bursts. He's terrified.

"Sammy?"

Dean has to grip tight to his very soul not to give in to his most basic instinct and go right there right now and grab Sam. His brother is a dangerous man, a trained killer and he's very literally out of his mind. You don't corner an injured tiger.

"Sammy?"

He crouches to Sam's eye level, but his brother doesn't see him. Sam's eyes are shut tight and he's whispering a never-ending string of "no's" and "stop's". Dean tries a soothing tone, almost a whisper. "Sammy? Sammy… hey, look at me."

Sam doesn't, but his breathing changes. His posture is inquisitive, like he's wondering where the voice comes from. "Sam… it's me, Dean. Your brother," he adds. Maybe Sam needs the clarification.

He doesn't. Sam snaps his eyes open and when he locks them to Dean's he's no older than the 8 year-old kid Dean tried to soothe when he had a nightmare after finding out monsters were real.

"Dean… Dean… help…"

It's strangled, it's eight octaves higher than Sam's normal voice and fuck this, Dean is going right there right now.

He knees in front of Sam, his left hand on his brother's bicep, his right behind the neck and he pulls Sam to him. Sam's head falls to his shoulder, his head hits Dean's collarbone hard and Dean twines his fingers through his brother's hair.

"You're safe, Sammy. You're good. You're home. I got you."

Sam shakes his head and sobs. "No… not real. Not real." Dean is about to confirm that yes, whatever he's seeing is definitely not real, but then he says "you're not real" and Dean freezes. So much for the so-called being able to tell real from not, apparently.

He moves to raise Sam's chin, forces him to look up. "I'm real, Sam. I'm here, I'm real, I'm with you. Whatever you're seeing is not, dude. I am".

Sam doesn't look at him, shuts his eyes tight, turns his face, like it's too much, too hard to look at him at all. He shakes his head. "No. No. It's a game. I'm still in the cage, I'm still in the cage. Still here, never left."

It's Dean's turn to shut his eyes. He drops his forehead to the top of Sam's head. "Shit, Sammy," he breathes out.

He's been there before, where Sam is. He knows it, the feeling, the terrifying feeling. He still remembers Alastair in his head, in his nightmares. "This is real, Dean-o. This is you awake… when you're there is when you're dreaming. Dreameeeer!"

But, no. No. None of that shit is real, none of Sam's shit is real.

This is real.

Sam's hands clutch his t-shirt and pull him closer. He buries his head in Dean's chest, like when he was a kid and wanted to hide from the word. He breathes Dean in. Tries to commit him to memory. Dean knows what that's like, what a powerful sense smell is to ground you. He wore Sam's shirts for months after he got back.

He grabs the back of his brother's head and pulls him up, head over his shoulder and pulls him to a proper hug. Sam's hands go behind his back and grab tight. He might crack one of Dean's ribs there. Dean doesn't care.

His hands map out the huge expanse of Sam's back, soothing, calming and he's shooshing in his brother's ear like when he was a baby that would not sleep to save his life. Dean blinks back tears at the memory. God, they'd been fucked up from day one, haven't they?

It still works, 29 years and change later. Sam's shoulders slump, his breathing slows. Dean feels him calming down. "Feels good, Sammy, doesn't it?"

Sam's answer is a sniffle.

"Doesn't it?"

Sam grabs him tighter.

"That's how you know, Sammy. That's how you know you're out."

He can tell Sam is listening by the total and complete stillness.

"Hell doesn't give hope, Sammy. And it doesn't give reprieve. There's no good times to make you feel bad later. There's no good times ever, at all. It's all pain all the time. You know this, Sam. You know it. I know it too. If it feels good, if anything feels good, then you're out. That's the trick."

That's the trick. That's how you tie your shoes, Sammy. That's how you ride a bike. That's how you shoot a gun. That's how you know what two times four is. That's how you kill a werewolf, that's how you gank a spirit. That's how you drive.

This is how you survive Hell.

If it feels good, you're out.

That's how Dean knows, to this day. That's why Dean tries to feel good, every day. Why the bottle turned out to be his best friend. If he feels good, he's out. Sam knows it too. That's why Sam lets him. Fills his glass, joins him, enables him, doesn't complain. As fucked up goes, alcoholic still beats suicidally psychopathically insane. Every day.

Sam's breathing catches and Dean feels his shoulder getting wet. He doesn't care.

"You're good, Sam. You're out."