Dean had been gone for two days, the longest he'd ever been.
Beyond the wide cave mouth, the forest was a blanket of white. The snow sparkled with ice crystals, hardened so that the newly fallen snow bounced on the top every time a breeze stirred the air. The wind whipped through the broken trees, creaking and groaning like an old rocking chair. Sam sat in front of the fire, wrapped in bundles of quilts. Beneath the heavy layers of fabric, Sam had on a thick winter coat, posh fur mittens, a dark green knitted hat, and a lavish scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth-all stolen from Dean's ceaseless escapades. In his gloved hands, Sam held a book, one of his only solitary companions when Dean was gone.
Sam glanced up from his passage, his eyes scanning the winter storm beyond the sanctuary of the cave. If he broke away from the ring of fire, he felt the effects of the weather almost instantly. His nose would grow red, his fingers would stiffen, his cheeks felt rubbed raw, his earlobes would burn, and he'd shiver unconsolably. Sam couldn't remember a winter so cold. Even last winter, the first winter he'd spent with Dean after he was turned into a giant, hadn't felt this frigid. It was as if the gods were raining down their punishment.
Sam took one of his mittens off. He slipped his fingers underneath his thick, wool sock and rubbed his heated skin in an insistent circular motion. Ever since he sprained his ankle in the spring trying to evade his brother's capture, he'd periodically feel a twinge of pain, an echo of trauma, and the feeling was only exemplified by the frigid weather. He slipped his hand back out, turning the page. Although the book was a cookbook, he only had a limited number of books in his homemade library, and Sam was a quick reader. It was better than staring into the fire and letting his mind wander into dangerously gloomy territory.
Dean had been gone for two days and two nights and although Sam did not want to admit it, he was growing worried. He shouldn't feel worried, not for the monster Dean had become, but he rationalized the feeling by telling himself he was afraid for his own wellbeing. He was in the middle of nowhere in a snowstorm, surrounded by miles upon miles of bare woodlands. He had no idea where the closest village was or if it was still standing. The bright side, however, was that Sam had an abundance of food. If anything, he wouldn't starve in his travels if Dean never returned.
Days before Dean left, when the first snowflakes of winter had begun to fall, Dean had come back from his latest venture with a feast wrapped in a tablecloth. Freshly killed venison, fish, almonds, dates, figs, jellies, pies, and ripened fruit. The dishes were heavily flavored with caraway, nutmeg, cardamom, ginger, and pepper-all expensive spices that Sam had only read in books, but never tasted in real life. Aristocratic estates provided the wealthy with the best of the best. Sam had no doubt that Dean had attacked royalty. There was one thing eating the rich, another thing eating actual nobles with significant political power and influence, not to mention a whole military behind them. Sam wondered if even they could stop Dean. He didn't think it likely.
Sam suspected the reason Dean hadn't come back yet was because he had to travel farther to hunt. Hunt, it was such a crude, impractical word, Sam thought. Kill was more like it. Murder was even better. Dean wasn't some huntsman that tracked down deer. He was a destroyer who tore asunder the creatures he once was himself. Murder, Sam reminded himself. What Dean partook in was blatant, ceaseless murder.
Sam turned the page over, his eyes roving down the provisions list. His vision became unfocused and shaky, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. He glanced back out at the sea of white, yearning for some sort of movement. Anything. Just then, a hulking gray wolf appeared from the corner of the cave mouth, pivoting from the brambles of dead herbs. Sam couldn't believe his eyes. After not seeing any predators around the cave for so long, the creature seemed conjured up from a dream.
Its wide paws kissed the snow with a cautious lightness, its fierce yellow eyes peering in, eyes settling on Sam sat frozen behind the campfire's flickering flames. The wolf flicked its sharp, triangle ears back and to the side as if listening. Could it hear Sam's thudding heartbeat? Sam licked his lips behind his scarf and slowly set his book down beside him. The wolf roved forward, its paws inches from where snow met the icy beginnings of the cave floor.
Along with the knife at the bottom of his bag, he also had a pair of scissors and a razorblade. Dean had given the instruments to Sam a few weeks prior. They had come in a little kit. Sam had taken that as a sign Dean was giving him permission to shave and trim his hair, which Sam gratefully participated in on a regular basis. It made him feel some sense of regularity, some sense of normalcy, in the untamed wilderness. Not to mention Dean said Sam looked gorgeous clean shaven, which Sam didn't want to think much about. He slipped his hand inside and found the razorblade before he found the knife. He grasped the handle tightly and slowly slipped it out of his bag. He gradually rose from his sitting position, letting the quilts fall away from his body. The wolf stood its ground, staring at Sam with a wild curiosity. Sam stepped around the fireplace and prepared himself for a fight.
"Get out of here!" Sam yelled. He felt foolish, yelling at this wild animal, but when the wolf did not heed his warning, Sam wielded the razorblade in the air and started forward. Just like that, the wolf was gone, rushing back the way it had come, only leaving disrupted snow behind.
Sam's shoulders sagged and he let out a deep sigh. He walked to the mouth of the cave, feeling the cold desperately attempting to leach any warmth from his body. His eyes roved over the quiet, snowy landscape. He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. A plume of white erupted from his parted lips. He dared to walk a few yards out. Although Sam disliked the idea of having to fight off a wild animal, he missed the wolf's presence as only a lonely man could. He glanced around. It was only him. Of course.
Sam rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Just then, he felt a distant vibration underneath his boots. Despite himself, he felt a spike of glee. Momentarily sickened by his instinctual respond to Dean's impending arrival, Sam angerly snapped the razorblade closed and shoved it into his coat pocket. He shoved his mitt back on and waited for his brother's return, berating himself for the emotions that surged within him. He shouldn't be glad Dean was coming back. He should be resisting, not complying. He should be running.
In the distance, Sam spotted Dean walking through the snowy forest, his heavy steps vibrating the earth and shaking the trees. Despite the cold, Dean seemed wholly unaffected, except for the flushness on his face and the pink on his plump lips. Miniscule flakes speckled Dean's short, brown hair, melting moments after contact. Some drifted onto his dark eyelashes, encapsulating his big green eyes in momentary white. As Dean approached, Sam noticed something dangling from his hand. The carcass of a deer. At least Dean had remembered to bring something back for him, Sam mused. It looked as if Dean had gorged himself, his normally chiseled stomach distended. It was probably so he wouldn't have to leave so soon again. Dean crouched in front of Sam, uncurling his fingers and revealing the deer. The animal's neck was broken, hanging at an odd, grotesque angle. Large, lifeless eyes stared into nothingness.
"I brought you something." Dean said, flashing him a smile. Dean moved his massive arm behind Sam to place the corpse near the mouth of the cave.
"Thank you," Sam said.
"No problem," Dean breathed and reached for him.
Dean wrapped his fingers around Sam's back. He grabbed him up and brought him to his chest, pressing Sam gently against his bare pec, a make-shift hug. Dean's naked flesh was warm and smooth. Sam felt the slow, methodical rhythm of Dean's heartbeat, his measured breathing. He let his hands settle on Dean, his cheek pressed against him. Despite the conditions they were living in, Dean didn't smell foul. If anything, he smelled like Dean. The old, human Dean. A scent Sam couldn't quite put into words since he'd smelled it all his life. Dean pulled him up to his face, pressing a kiss to Sam's clothed, flushed torso, and giving Sam a look you could pour on a waffle. Sam stared at Dean, letting the giant beseech affection on him. He squeezed his eyes shut when Dean laid kisses upon his face.
"Sammy," Dean said with unabashed fondness, rubbing the pad of his thumb against Sam's stomach. "I missed you."
Sam swallowed thickly and managed, "I missed you, too."
"I'm sorry I was gone for so long." Dean smirked. "Game is getting scarce."
Of course, game wasn't what Dean was referring to. Sam suppressed a look of repugnance.
"But I'm here now," Dean continued. "Hopefully I won't have to leave for a while."
Sam curled his petite hands around his brother's fist. "That's good." He lied. Partly. Sam was afraid that as time went, that perhaps wouldn't be a lie for much longer.
That's when Dean squeezed a little too hard. Perhaps it was the illusion of his thick winter coat or Dean's unabashed excitement, but his fingers momentarily constricted around Sam like a vice. Pain, like a bomb, exploded in Sam's chest, back, and stomach. Sam was stunned. His eyes widened. Little black stars burst from his vision. His jaw went slack. Was Dean doing this on purpose?
"Ow," Sam breathed, his face twisting in anguish. Ow was an understatement. Liquid fire assaulted his insides. He felt like a piece of meat getting squeezed through a grinder.
Dean instantly relieved his grip. Sam went slack. The pain was horrible, yes, but it had dropped with a persistent, low twang. His stomach roiled, nauseated. Sam had gone pale and shaky in Dean's fist, his face crinkled in discomfort. Sam coughed in his elbow. He thought he tasted the start of coppery blood, but he knew that was probably his fear playing with his imagination.
Dean's eyes widened, startled. Had he known what he'd done?
"Sammy?" Dean said, his deep thunderous voice cut with an edge of worry. "What's wrong?"
Sam tried to regain his baring. He knew he'd be bruised by morning. "You squeezed," Sam coughed into his fist. "A little too hard."
A pained expression flashed on Dean's face, his plush lips pinched in guilt. Dean's eyes flickered over Sam's small body, his frown growing more pronounced. "Did I…hurt you?"
Sam couldn't lie. He glanced up at Dean's eyes and saw regret there. He didn't know if this giant version of his brother could still feel such a complex emotion. Sam was momentarily startled, but quickly regained his composure.
"Yeah…but I'm okay." Sam assured him. Dean shook his head.
"Don't lie to me." Dean said with uncharacteristic softness. "How bad is it?"
Sam wanted to be anywhere except Dean's grip. Anywhere except under his relentless stare. Finally, Sam caved. "My chest and stomach, they hurt."
Dean glanced away. If Sam was mistaken, Dean looked a bit misty eyed. But perhaps that was just the snowflakes. He glanced back at Sam.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." Dean said, his face twisted in a horribly guilty expression. He gently stroked Sam's face with the tip of his pointer finger. Sam reached up and grabbed onto his brother's finger with his gloved hand. Despite himself, Sam found himself comforting Dean. He squeezed his finger in little pulls and releases.
"It's okay." Sam said. "I know you didn't mean to."
Dean grew quiet and tenderly brought Sam to his chest, cupping him in his hands and holding him close. Despite the throb of pain slicing through his body with each beat of his heart, Sam pressed his cheek against his brother's smooth, bare skin, basking in his warmth. Sam held on while Dean fell on his knees and crawled into the cave. Once inside, Dean turned over onto his back. Dean moved Sam to the center of his chest. Sam gave a drowsy expression, feeling the calm rise and fall of Dean's breathing, the constant beat of his large heart. He could hear the gurgles of Dean's stomach, but it was easy to ignore the sounds of digestion when he was lying over his oversized heart and lungs. The pain ebbed to a distant, annoying twinge. Staying immobile certainly helped. He glanced up at the underside of Dean's chin. Dean rubbed his back with insistent, gentle fingers. Sam melted into the affection. Moments later, Dean lifted his head to glance at the youngest Winchester. Sam peered up at him.
"Does this feel alright?" Dean asked.
Sam nodded, curling his mittens around Dean's skin. "Yeah."
"Does it still hurt?"
"A little bit. But I'm going to be fine, I think." Sam replied.
Dean pursed his lips and let his head fall back again. Speaking to the cave ceiling, he continued. "I'm sorry. Tell me if I…you know. I'm trying, Sam. I really am."
Although Sam didn't fully understand what Dean meant by that, he said, "I know."
There was a moment of silence. Then, "You're all that I have left."
Sam grew quiet, staring at the shadows dancing upon the cave wall, listening to wind whistle through the barren trees. He didn't know how to respond to that. Dean had never been this, well, open before. Raw. Unfiltered. When human, Dean wouldn't touch this subject with a ten-foot pole. That is, the subject of vulnerability, this co-dependency that sat between them since childhood, a great, heavy blanket of unhealthy familiarity and an almost religious loyalty.
"You're the only good thing left in the world." Dean murmured. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Sam closed his eyes. Dean slipped his finger over Sam's shoulder blades, massaging softly. Sam didn't know how to respond. Did he feel the same way, especially now? He couldn't say. Dean said no more, and the silence stretched on between them. Soon, Dean's muscles relaxed, and his breathing slowed. Sam relaxed fully into the embrace. Slowly, the darkness grabbed him, sweeping him up into its gentle arms and he, too, fell asleep.