Summary: Because all siblings fight.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, it's all owned by Eric Kripke and them at CW. Written for pleasure, not profit.

The door slammed loudly, making the room shake with the shock and he shivered with it, standing stock still for a minute before creeping towards the door, pressing a hand against the wood before sliding along the wall to one of the windows, pushing back the curtain just the barest bit, peeking through the tiny gap and allowing his gaze to roam the car park.

A tiny noise issued from his throat, and he let the curtain fall again, blocking his view of the very empty car park, and backed away from the window, sniffing quietly until the backs of his legs bumped the edge of the coffee table that sat in the room, causing him to collapse onto the heavily scarred surface, and the hiccoughs burst free then, noisily echoing around the room as he crawled fully onto the table, wrapped his arms around his legs, felt his face grow damp and hot under the well of tears, and his forehead began to pound mercilessly, and he curled around himself tighter.

The door crept open with only the smallest creek, and Dean slipped into the room, closing the door carefully behind himself and then he froze, drinking in the silence.

"Sammy?" he called out, his heart leaping, thumping loudly in his chest at the complete silence that responded, and he mentally scolded himself. No matter how angry he was with Sammy, no matter how bad their fight had been, he shouldn't have left the room. His brother was only four, it was stupid to consider leaving him on his own, what if he'd tried to follow Dean out of the room? The older Winchester had quickly darted around the side of the building as soon as he'd slammed the door, had headed for the small stretch of grass that lay just behind the motel they were currently staying in to fight down his anger, to get a hold of himself, to have some time to himself without his little brother constantly pestering him with questions or comments. If Sam had followed, if he had left the room after Dean and had tried to find his brother… A number of scenario's ran through Dean's head, Sam lost, Sam being grabbed by some passing maniac, Sam being noticed and a call being placed to Social Services, Sam being run over. Each made Dean fill sick, the blood was rushing to his head now, making the pounding of blood in his ears thicker and louder than the silence that threatened to suffocate him, and he weakly staggered to the right.

The world slammed back into order as his movement allowed him to see parts of the room that had previously been blocked from sight by the sagging couch, mainly allowing him to see the ancient coffee table and the curled form that lay on top of it.

"Sammy," Dean breathed, suddenly finding it possible to breath again, and he ran across the room, grabbing Sam under the shoulders and dragging him from the coffee table, losing his balance as Sam's weight unexpectedly ended up fully in his arms and causing both of them to tumble to the floor, though he didn't mind, happy to hug his younger brother as Sam stirred from the sleep he'd been in and stare blurrily up at his brother, and the nausea hit Dean again as he looked at the tear marked face and realised he'd made Sam cry.

"Dea?" Sam whispered, and then his arms had snaked around Dean's neck, his head pressed into his brother's shoulder and Dean felt his t-shirt grow damp as Sam heaved with sobs.

"I'm sorry Sammy," Dean whispered, one hand gently rubbing circle's around his brother's back, trying to calm the four year old "'m sorry I left. I'm sorry I yelled. 'm sorry, I don't hate you." The last bit was said in a choke, Dean forcing back the tears, his chest constricting painfully as he remembered the words he'd said as he'd run from the room, remembered the heartbroken look on Sam's face.

"You came back," Sammy whispered in return once his tears had calmed, and his arms tightened around Dean's neck, he probably wouldn't be letting go for a while, and Dean nodded, shifted his brother around in his arms and then pulled them both up, wincing as the corner of the table jabbed into his back before he settled against the edge of it, cradled his little brother tightly, refusing to let him go as much as Sam was.

The room fell into silence, neither boy moving or speaking, save for the occasional heave of Sam's chest or a small hiccough from the little four year old.

"Don't tell Dad?" he whispered brokenly, breaking the silence and Dean swallowed, because it should have been him begging that their father not be told, it was him who would get into trouble for leaving the room, for leaving Sam alone, and he closed his eyes, burying is head into Sam's hair, breathing in the shampoo he'd used earlier to wash his brother's hair.

"I won't tell," he swore.