"I don't mean to do it, you know."

Attention focused loosely on the diner table, Dean finally allows the words take form, dislodging themselves messily from the tip of his tongue where they have taken up an idle residence. Sam's eyes, whose stay during the awkward silence had been situated firmly on his computer screen, snap to his at the first syllable, instantly analyzing. Searching.

The look, though originally intended to be brief, soon turns into a stare that unconsciously feeds the ensuing silence, stiff and awkward. Then, as though realizing the ball is in his court, Sam clears his throat smoothly, vocalizing the confusion that lay heavy on his eyes.

"Don't mean to do what?"

He should have expected it, really. Sam never makes this type of thing easy, ever ready to jump in and offer some breed of pansy-ass, "How does that make you feel?" psychoanalysis crap that always makes Dean itch for an easy-out punchline. The damned kid never accepts it, of course, never buys into anything short of, "I'm hurting, Sam, hold me," and in turn Dean never offers anything outside of, "I'm fine," or the occasional, "Drop it." Sam, of course, never does, but that's just Sam; all concerned puppy eyes and never letting a damned thing go, ever. So, really, it's to be expected that when Dean really needs him to just get it, to just accept it at face value and know, all Sam gives him are confused eyes and worried vibes. No, intentionally or not, Sam is turning this into one of those moments, a sharing-and-caring Dean, "I'm an ass. Let's embrace," type of deal.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

"You know," Dean begins, voice gruff with the hope that the meaning of the words will miraculously carve a path across the wooden table top and seep into that thick skull of Sam's, as to avoid the potentially embarrassing, touching moment that is now inevitable. The blankness in Sam's eyes, coated awkwardly with varnished concern and curiosity is his confirmation, however, that the world does indeed hate him and he sighs with pure dread of the train wreck about to follow. It would be beautiful, daintily scripted, naturally, but in the end a train wreck is still a train wreck, and blood, guts and rolling heads are never easily camouflaged, not even by dewy-eyed sensitive moments.

"You know," he repeats, either out of stalling for that last thread of hope or just losing the thought of that stupid train metaphor paired with the awkwardly unrelated visual of heads rolling about. "What we talked about earlier." Again, blankness, and the corners of Sam's lips upturn this time with a slight laugh escaping them.

"Vague, much?" The sarcasm drips from his brother's tone, albeit good-natured, and Dean's set frown suddenly takes a more stubborn hold. Sam shakes his head, the taste of a barely-there smile lingering on his lips. "We talked about a lot of things, Dean. Specifically?"

"That thing we talked about," Dean clenches his teeth, eyes skimming the table top, falling into the ridges of AJ+PJ (heart) and Frank wuz here. Absent-mindedly, he adds, "Part where I was a jerk and I shut you out or something equally annoying. Ringing a bell?"

Dean eyes a particularly deep carving of, of all things, a dragon, because, really, what better a way to leave your mark in life than slicing a damned dragon into good ol' fashion Midwestern hospitality. After a beat, his gaze meanders across the table just in time to catch the flicker of recognition in Sam's eyes, the subtle shift from clueless to clued in. Sam's tongue is nearly immediately at his lips, wetting them in preparation for the teeth to sink in, which soon follows. It's practically scripted. This is Sam at a momentary loss, and, as rarely as it happens, Dean always takes a sort of pride in being the one to induce it.

"Oh," Sam's voice is steady and slightly cool, rigid to the point of vulnerability. He allows the word to hang stilly, looming in the air for several moments before continuing, "What about it?"

Dean nearly throws his arms up in pure exasperation because, really, this whole conversation wasn't supposed to have been more than, "Sucks that I shut you out," and, "Yeah." Instead, he sucks in a calm breath, the stream of cool oxygen calming his temper into rationality.

"Said I don't mean to," he breathes. "Don't mean to do that, I mean. Shut you out."

He planned on finishing there, in one of those iron-clad, split-second decisions of his, but then there's Sam, in front of him, looking at him expectantly and the words just seem to tumble out of his mouth. Sam has always had that ability, to disintegrate Dean's most stubborn plans into a pile of nothingness with the simple, silent request of, Please?

"I mean, it's just… this whole thing, with the deal, it's just… it's stressful, you know?" That brilliant, earth-shattering observation earns an absent snort from Sam. "And it's just… I don't know. I guess I just don't realize I'm doing it."

"That's because you've always done it," Sam says, matter-of-fact but not accusing. "It's how you've always dealt with things, just bottled everything up and dealt with it yourself."

"Yep," Dean nods, and for a second he's almost proud.

"That's not going to work with this, Dean." This time, the words are edgier, if not accusing with some out-of-view malice that never manages to translate onto Sam's features. "You can't do this alone." Face-value, Dean is tempted to take that as a challenge. Instead he shifts pointedly, switching which ankle he crosses over which leg, and settles his stare once more on the compact bulk of his brother's slumping shoulders.

"I don't know exactly what this is," the elder admits sharply, yet candidly, his hand absent-mindedly skimming the top of his head.

"Dealing," Sam answers simply, too patient in his tone of pointing out the obvious. "Accepting."

"What, the fact I'm going to hell?" Dean scoffs, not missing the way his brother's eyes instantly turn dark. "Because I'd say I've pretty well accepted it."

"Yeah. That's the problem," the younger's voice comes out in a mumble, barely above a whisper, and suddenly feels miles away, from Dean. Both of them, even. Dean's eyes grow wide at the mention of the word "problem", all sorts of alarms going off inside his head.

"Problem?" Dean blurts, ready to call on instant replay or something, because his brother just said- "You just said you wanted me to accept-"

"No," Sam snaps, entire demeanor changed to the point the what is left of Dean's smile, now of disbelief, is wiped clear off his face. "Accepting that there's a possibility that may happen, but accepting that there is also a possibility- a big, wide, gaping possibility- that I will save you." The words resound in the air, remaining stationary despite the thousand-pound weights attached by the pure conviction in Sam's words and suddenly Dean just can't find it in him to look him in the eye.

"Sammy-" he starts, honestly wondering how he got from Point A to Point B in this conversation- from Sam laughing at Dean's ignorance to the glistening tears in his eyes.

"Just…" Sam trails, letting the thought stand at that. Just stop. The implication could be anything- just stop trying to fix this, just stop acting like it's not a big deal… just stop.

A beat of awkward silence has Dean reaching for the inappropriately-timed punch line card.

"So basically I should just accept me needing you to hold my hand in this whole accepting business?"

"Yes," Sam answers earnestly. "You need me to keep you trying and I need you to keep believing. You just gotta try, Dean, that's all I'm asking. You can't… you can't throw in the towel yet, launching yourself in face of danger like you have some sort of death wish. I need you to try to believe because I'm still fighting for you. And if you don't believe then I can't either. And I can't stop believing, Dean. I can't." Watching the pain on his little brother's face, Dean feels the pull. The pull on his heartstrings. The tug of war he has been playing between wanting to live and accepting his death. One look at his brother, though, and it's evident the choice isn't even a choice.

"Okay," the word is barely audible, but still strong. Dean doesn't know exactly what it is he is consenting to, just knows that saying yes will fix that look in Sam's eyes. Saying yes will stop the tears, and if there's even a small chance that saying yes will make Sam happy, Dean is going for it.

He watches as Sam looks up at him, through shiny eyes and rebuilding walls of normalcy. The younger glances away momentarily, laughing awkwardly, the way he does when he feels he takes things to a point they don't belong, emotionally. The way he acts when he takes things out of the emotional boundaries his brother and Dad set for him when he was younger, constricting harshly his natural tendency toward wearing his heart on his sleeve. Dean can't be sure where it comes from, that need for the sharing-and-caring, but he's pretty sure it's him- the part he suppresses, anyway. He'd gotten it from Dad, but he was never as good at burying them as his father. Especially when it came to Sammy. Just like his father's especially when it came to his mother.

"I just…" he starts, the sharp inhale making Dean's heart twist. "I don't know, Dean. It just feels like everything is so messed up lately and I have no idea how to fix any of it."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Dean admits quietly, receiving a pitying glance from his brother that has him grappling for the testosterone button. "But you can't worry so much, Sammy. Sometimes you just have to let things happen."

"Pshh," Sam dismisses in a bitter laugh. "Right, Dean. I'm just supposed to act like everything is fine and dandy when I have all the shit from last year, paired with the little fact that my brother is about to go to hell. You're right Dean, nothing to worry about- everything is just swell."

"You don't think I'm dealing with the same shit you are?" Dean asks, incredulity interwoven with his tone because, really? "I'm the one headed downstairs, man, and you don't see me bitching. You got to suck it up. You can't let it get to you like that." Well, so much for the easing of Sam's emotional boundaries.

"Oh, you know what Dean, go to-" the younger snaps without thinking, stopping himself with a moment of sickened realization. Dean chuckles.

"It's okay, Sam. I'm not going to explode into a set of mournful tears if you say it."

"It's not funny, Dean," Sam murmurs, swallowing hard at the lump in his throat that just won't seem to go away these days.

"It's a little funny."

"No, it's not. The both of us are still sitting here, a year from now? Then it might be funny. But right now? That is the furthest thing from funny. The furthest thing." The conviction in Sam's eyes scares him a bit, and Dean can feel himself shrinking a bit under his stare.

"Fine," he murmurs, going to get up from the booth. "But if we're still sitting in this joint a year from now, I might be tempted to summon the hellhounds myself. Put me out of my misery."

A sad snort escapes Sam's lips as he follows his brother from the table, slapping down a couple dollars tip. "You are impossible."

"Runs in the family," Dean murmurs, stepping into the biting November air. The sudden shock of warm to cool wraps itself around his bones, instantly making him feel alive. He slows his pace to fall into step with his brother, whom instinctively shifts close enough their shoulders touch with firm contact. Dean doesn't move away, just watches as their feet move in matching rhythm, left and right and left each claiming the pavement and an identical pace.

"So you hitting up the bars tonight or what?" Sam asks, breaking the calm stillness of the night as they reach the Impala. Ducking in the driver's seat, he slides the keys in the ignition once Sam takes his place beside him.

"Nah," he shrugs. "Though I'd just go back to the hotel tonight. See if there's anything on TV, maybe." He watches as Sam nods out of the corner of his eye, catching onto the brief hint of a smile that his younger brother tries to conceal.

He hasn't been spending enough time with Sam lately, that much he knows for sure. As impossible as it sounds, from days-long car rides and long nights spent hunting together, Dean knows he has been absent, whether it be hitting up bars every night or sealing himself off whenever Sam gets the I want to talk vibe going. It has never been conscious, not like he wants to spend what may be his last year with random bar girls and not the brother whose life comes at the price of his own. No, Sam is his priority, always has been.

And while he has spent these last months assuming that dying for him was enough, Dean's now painfully aware that shutting Sam out and casting the distance he'd assumed would benefit his brother in the long run is hardly the way to spend his 365. He's at peace with the fact he will most likely die for Sam. He's now realizing, however, that distance isn't the way to go because in six months the distance the distance will become permanent and every inch as far as hell from heaven.

The first half of this was through a 4 AM, go to school on 45 minutes sleep insomnia spree that had me taking all kinds of stylistic gambles. The second half had me making the first half readable and trying to form a bit of story out of what had started with no purpose.