Work Text:
They make it half an hour out of town before Sam’s arm suddenly lashes out, fingers wrapping tight around Dean's wrist, and he doesn’t even wait for his brother to ask him to before pulling over to the side of the road. The kid’s out in an instant, not even getting the door shut before he’s throwing up in the dirt.
Fuck.
Unfortunately, there’s no easy fix for this. There never is. “Easy, Sammy,” he says, and takes his brother by the shoulder, forcing him to sit back in the car but facing out so he can spread his legs and still get in some fresh air. He’s a mess and a half, eyes rimmed red and glassy from trying not to cry, whole body shaking, throat probably torn to hell after that wonderful display of the half a bagel he ate for lunch. “Come on, deep breaths.”
"I wouldn’t have done it," Sam says, voice hoarse and strained, staring up at him, and Christ if this isn’t a throw back to childhood. Except that back when they were children, if he told his brother not to hyperventilate, the kid wouldn’t hyperventilate. "I know I said I would’ve, but I - I’m such a fucking an idiot."
Yeah, he’s got that right, but now’s not the time to say anything about it. Not when Sam’s having another meltdown, thoughts probably thrown back to that shifter when he was twenty-two and they only thought they knew what they what they were doing. “S’not your fault,” Dean answers, running his fingers through his brother’s sweaty hair. “Bitch played you. She’s a demon; no way she thought you really would’ve done it.”
"She kissed me. The night you -" He looks away, down, and Dean pretends he doesn’t hear the sniffle or sees the way his shoulders shake. "Yeah. Guess it was just her upping her game or something."
"See? Not your fault." Still, he knows he could say this a thousand times and it still wouldn’t sink in. Because Sam’s an idiot. A genius, yeah, but still an idiot. This is a proven fact.
Sam lets out a shaky breath. “Shouldn’t bother me, though,” he says, still not looking up. “Doesn’t make sense. Not even the right gender, and it’s been years.”
Of all Sammy-related things Dean knows how to deal with, this isn’t one of them. He nearly forced the kid back to Stanford the first time. Probably would’ve worked if Sam hadn’t felt the need to literally cling to him for an entire week after that. He has a feeling that contributed to why it was so hard to hook his brother up with anyone for about a year after that - though that’s not what’s important. What’s important is the Queen Bitch of Hell just tried to force his brother into having sex with her. Presumably just for reasons of mental trauma.
"We’re heading to Bobby’s," he says after a pause because there are only so many ways you can tell a guy something isn’t his fault before it loses it sincerity. "You know, regroup and everything. You need a couple of days."
"I’m sorry."
"You don’t have to apologize." With a sigh, he adds, "Look, Sam -"
But his brother interrupts, “Yeah, I know, no chick-flick moments,” before he can even get the words out.
"No, I meant if you need to - I mean," he says awkwardly because he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here even though he’s gone through it once before and hadn’t expected to again, "if you need to…talk. Or just let it out. Whatever. What I mean is, chick-flick it all the way if you want."
Sam lasts off all of five seconds after that before he breaks down crying, biting the side of his hand to muffle the noise. Not a moment later Dean goes for it, wrapping his brother up in his arms because he needs to know the kid’s alive and safe and mentally there enough to deal with a hug. I’ve got you, little brother, he tries to say without saying anything. I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.
And when Sam hugs back, crying into his shoulder, he knows everything will be all right.