Disclaimer: Don't own SPN, just playing in their sandbox.

Spoilers: Probably everything at some point.

A/N: This story idea came to me at random the other night, it will be a collection of small seemingly insignificant moments in Sam and Dean's life. There won't be any particular order in which the chapters go and updates may be sporadic depending on how and when inspiration hits.

Season 11

"You know. . ." Dean said loudly, his voice amplified in the tight space, echoing around dusty bookshelves and haphazardly piled boxes. The room appeared to have been tossed, objects moved at random, with little care put into where they may have landed. "If you could refrain from taking your little PMS fits out on the furniture—"

Sam's head appeared from within a pile of cardboard in the opposite corner, like he was making a friggin' fort. He cut Dean off with an exasperated sigh. "It was not a PMS fit."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

Sam's head disappeared once more. "Dude, all I did was sit down. The table just . . . broke. All on its own."

Dean paused in his half-interested searching long enough for his brother to poke his head out once more. "Just sat on it?"

"Yes. I just sat down—well, I leaned against it. A little. That's all."

Dean studied him for a long moment, tugging at the sides of his mouth before it was forcibly replaced with a more, if not a little exaggerated, serious look. He rolled his lips against his teeth and tsked. "Well, Sammy, looks like you might be carrying around a little extra weight there in your old age." He ducked his head. "Might wanna start eating healthier."

Sam jerked his head back, narrowing his eyes at his older brother. "That's not—"

Dean shrugged, biting his lower lip to keep from laughing. "Hey, man, I'm just saying. You're not as young as you used to be. And all of that vegan veggie wrap crap and grass clippings you keep trying to pass off as food . . . they were bound to start addin' up."

Sam took a moment to respond, and when he did it wasn't his most eloquent or stinging comeback. "You're an idiot." He shook his head, gesturing widely to the sardine-like mess of shelving, boxes, and random bits of crap they'd found no better home for in the spacious bunker. It had obviously been some sort of storage room already, so they saw no harm in adding in the clutter. At the time. "What are we even doing in here?"

"Well, genius." Dean shoved a box aside and shone his flashlight behind it, illuminating only cobwebs and a surely unhealthy amount of dust. "You're the one who apparently decided to toss the toolbox back here last time you used it."

Sam rose from his crouch and moved to another shelving unit, squinting through the dark at his brother. "No, I didn't."

"Well, I certainly didn't, and we've checked all the other rooms, so . . ."

Sam was quiet for a long moment, and Dean could practically hear the hamster wheel spinning in the otherwise quiet space. "Why in the hell would I put it back here, Dean? We don't even know what all this junk is."

Dean hitched a shoulder, lifting one arm before letting it drop back to slap his side and release a dense plume of dust. His nose itched, and he held back the sneeze. God, but it was gonna take him a damn week to scrub the layers of dust and grime from his skin. "I don't know, Sam. Maybe you got your panties twisted in a PMS rage fit and—"

"I don't—" Sam threw his arms up in the air and released a sound that was somewhere between a sigh of exasperation and a growl of irritation. The kid was quite remarkable that way. "I hate you."

This time, the smile stretched fully across Dean's face. "I know you do." He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. "So riddle me this, Francis: any idea where you may have seen fit to hide the toolbox during your—"

Sam spun around, stabbing a blunt finger in Dean's direction. "Say PMS one more time, Dean. I dare you."

Dean paused, debating the sheer enjoyment that came from torturing his little brother, and weighed it against the odds of dying in this claustrophobia-inducing room if he continued egging Sam on like this. He chewed his lower lip before slowly raising his hands in capitulation. "All right, all right. Geez." He shook his head and moved his flashlight across a brand-new—relatively speaking—pile of junk, then muttered, because he never could seem to help himself, "Menopausing much?"

A near-lifetime of ducking blows and dodging fists of both human and decided not allowed Dean the instinct and split-second head start needed to narrowly avoid whatever object came hurtling through the air to clang against a shelf on the far wall instead of striking its intended target, which Dean was pretty damn sure was his head.

Before he could properly voice his protestations to Sam's obvious overreaction, a large rusted metal box teetered on the edge of the shelf before losing the battle with gravity and hitting the concrete ground with a resounding crash.

Dean winced as the sound echoed painfully through his head, then swept the beam of his flashlight over the mess.

"Hey, Sammy!" He looked back over his shoulder, suppressing another dust cloud-induced cough. "Found the toolbox."

Sam stepped up next to him, his own flashlight cutting through the dusty swirls littering the air and searching out the new mess on the floor.

"Huh. I guess it was back here." He rubbed the back of his neck, face twisting up in quiet contemplation. "I honestly don't remember putting it back here, or why."

Dean shrugged. "I hardly ever know why you do the things you do, Sammy. Girls are confusing that way."

Sam narrowed his eyes, jerking his head to the side and tossing his flashlight beam to strike Dean's eyes. "Are you done?"

Dean jerked away but shook his head. "Probably not."

Sam loosed another exasperated sigh and threw his hands up in surrender, then bent down to right the overturned metal box.

Dean whistled softly, rocking on the balls of his feet and extending the olive branch by keeping his flashlight steady so Sam could see what he was doing. He briefly deliberated going so far as to help his little brother collect the spilled tools but remembered that the box had only been knocked to the floor because Sam pitched a fit and then some still-unidentified object at his head with enough speed and force to leave a baseball talent scout drooling all over himself. So, all things considered, he was more than content with allowing Sam to clean up the mess all by his lonesome.

In fact, he was even opening his mouth to lodge some sort of formal complaint as to how long Sam was taking to tidy up when the thought was cut short by a soft, "oh, "from his brother.

"Oh?" Dean parroted with peaked interest, stepping forward and craning his neck to see what had stopped the man in his tracks.

The bulk of his body hiding whatever it was he had in hand, Sam sat still for a moment longer before slowly standing. He turned to face Dean, holding out a rather innocuous everyday item.

At least, it seemed innocuous and every day at first glance.

"Oh," Dean echoed again, quieter and with significantly less interest. His mouth twisted and his heart thudded dully in his chest as he recognized the item; it would be impossible for him not to. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he figured he'd always wondered where it had gotten to but never actually wanted to ask, never wanted to chance bringing back the memory. It was something best left alone and eternally unsaid, where it wouldn't ever truly be forgotten but couldn't set about ripping scabs from wounds that hadn't—and might not ever—heal.

"I, uh . . ." Sam rolled his lips against his teeth, silently considering the heavy hammer in his hand.

The hammer Dean had nearly killed his baby brother with, because it was handy at the time.

Dean's eyes wanted to look anywhere but the tool and snapped almost automatically up to Sam's.

But Sam wouldn't quite meet his gaze, glancing back over his shoulder at the toolbox on the floor.

"While you were . . ."Sam shrugged tightly, looking to buy some time as he fished for the correct words. ". . . sleeping, after, uh . . ."

"After trying to kill you?" Dean finished for him, taking hold of those scabs and tearing them free. A small part of him was surprised at how open that wound still was after nearly two years, wondered if the eventual scarring would ever really fade to a mark neither of them could see.

"After you were cured," Sam insisted, like a change in semantics would make it all okay, make it acceptable that he'd tried to kill the one person he'd sworn and given his life to protect, had sacrificed his soul to save.

"I fixed the door to the electrical room." Sam pressed his lips into a thin line. "Then got drunk, like . . . impressively drunk. And I think that was when I . . ." He gestured back to the toolbox, leaving his brother to fill in the blanks in the story.

Dean dropped his eyes to the hammer then further to the floor, feeling an all-too-familiar rush of shame and soul-crushing regret wash through him. "Sam . . ."

"Hey, Dean?" Sam interrupted quickly and forcibly, either not hearing or choosing to ignore whatever Dean had been about to say. "Remember, uh, remember a few years back? When I was running around with no soul? When I stood there and let a vampire turn you?"

Dean jerked his head back as though struck. Well, we're just dustin' off all the classics tonight, huh, Sam? His eyebrows folded across his brow at the abrupt and extremely unwelcome change in topic. "What?"

"And, uh, remember when I almost . . ." Sam hesitated for a second, then squared his shoulders, resignation taking over his features. ". . . when I tried to kill Bobby, to keep you from putting my soul back?"

"Sam." Dean took an unconscious step back, almost as though he could escape—or outrun—the memories. He held his palms up, not sure where all of this was suddenly coming from. "Dude, I told you before. Those things you . . . did—they weren't you." He hitched a shoulder. "I mean, yeah, it was you, but not you, you."

Sam shifted, letting the hand still gripping the thick shaft of the hammer fall to his side. "Because I was missing a vital piece, right? Because my human soul had been twisted by some supernatural force that was beyond my control?"

Dean almost sagged with relief. "Yes!" Wait. He jerked his head back, overcome with the distinct and not unfamiliar feeling that he was being led into a trap. "No. Wait, what?" Definitely a trap, and he wanted to kick himself for not seeing it coming.

"Dean." Sam held the hammer up between them, and Dean found himself shrinking back a step. "This"—he jiggled the tool—"was no more your fault than those things I did was mine."

"That's different." Dean didn't want Sam to turn this into less than what it was and made one last ditch attempt to dig himself out of the corner his brother was very literally backing him into.

"How?" Sam raised his eyebrows, jutting his chin out. "I was missing a soul, and your soul was twisted by the Mark and the First Blade. We both know from experience that the soul is a vital, necessary part of retaining humanity. We've seen people do things they would never even dream of because it was missing. Dean, you can't continue to blame yourself for the kinds of things you can forgive other people for."

And there was the verbal trap, laid out by the expert in all its circular, logical glory. The only out his brother had offered Dean was to admit that Sam—that this Sam—was personally responsible for what he did when soulless, if he wanted to continue to blame himself for his actions as a demon.

The kid was good and had obviously had been taking notes over the years. Dean was pretty sure—like, ninety percent sure—that he could eventually logic out a reason that still held him accountable for what he did and absolve Sam of his actions, but suddenly it didn't seem as important as it once was.

As had become a sometimes-regrettable habit on both of their parts over the years, Sam took Dean's silence as acquiescence. "You know," he said, considering the hammer once more, "this thing is pretty old, like, fifty years. At least." He looked up, meeting Dean's eyes. "Maybe it's time to give up this dusty old crap and get us a new toolbox."

Maybe it was time to give old wounds a chance to heal. And maybe Sammy earned this one.

"Yeah." Dean gave a small, jerky nod. "Okay."

"Yeah?" Sam's eyes widened in a way that made him look like the young, hopeful child Dean still fondly remembered, the one that took Dean's personal wants and needs out of the equation entirely.

He couldn't help the smile that graced his face as he nodded with a bit more vigor. "Yeah."

Sam returned the motion, his expression something lighter, more unburdened than Dean could picture in recent memory. While he still held onto some of the guilt of what happened—and likely always would, even if it was never spoken of again— but he couldn't help feeling the load lighten, even if it was just a fraction.