Open Air

Dean first notices something's off when Sam stops clinging to him after at least a week of doing so.

Sure, he doesn't mind that all too much, seeing as he's been advising - or rather, snapping - at Sam to lay off the chick-flick moments, but it's still a little disconcerting when Sam is ridiculously touchy-feely one day and then disappears overnight, only to come back subdued and quiet.

He barely looks at Dean anymore, honest-to-God flinching whenever Dean makes the mistake of addressing him in conversation, and remains silent most of the time. Currently, he is reading in the passenger seat, a heavy book propped on his knee as he leans against the window of the Impala.

It's probably better in the long run that Sam is no longer clinging. After all, Dean still feels like squirming around Sam, his skin crawling at the thought of Satan's vessel riding shotgun beside him. It's his brother, yeah, and he's kind of being a hypocrite because hell, the archangel Michael wants him as a meatsuit, too, but Lucifer is a whole new level of fucked-up that Dean isn't too keen on venturing into.

He can't ditch Sam. He knows what kind of future that would lead up to. He swallows as he banishes the memory of a hardened soldier and a fallen angel's eyes glazed over with drugs, returning his attention to the road in front of him. He supposes this leaves him at an impasse. He can't leave his brother, but he can't trust Sam, either, which leaves a gaping void between them that just can't be fixed, no matter how hard he tries to let go of what happened only a few months earlier.

A heavy weight suddenly lands on his shoulder and he starts, the car swerving slightly before he steadies his hands on the wheel as he realizes what had happened: Sam had fallen asleep, a rarity in and of itself, and he had unconsciously tipped sideways until his head had met Dean's shoulder. Dean pauses, not sure exactly how to react, but finally relaxes and reaches up to brush Sam's hair away from his forehead.

The movement of Dean's fingers against his hair causes Sam to jerk awake and quickly scramble back, mumbling apologies and rubbing at his eyes in a desperate attempt not to doze off again. Dean almost wishes the kid would just shut up and go back to sleep - after all, it's only Dean's shoulder he had been drooling on, no big deal - but Sam resolutely keeps himself awake until they hole up in a motel later that night, determined not to accidentally fall asleep on his big brother's shoulder again.

For all his preaching about "no chick-flick moments," Dean doesn't understand why that makes something in his chest twist painfully.

Sam wordlessly grabs their bags from the trunk while Dean checks them in, taking their stuff into the motel room and setting up the usual salt lines. Once Dean is inside the room, locking the motel door behind him, Sam is out like a light, sprawled on top of the too-small bed closest to the door. Dean almost feels guilty for scaring Sam out of sleeping earlier; the giant looks exhausted, dark circles smudged under his eyes like bruises and stress lines permanently etched into his face.

At least he can do this for his brother, Dean muses as he tugs off Sam's boots for him and places them on the floor. Sam is probably going to regret sleeping in his jacket and jeans, but there is no way in hell Dean is undressing him like he's freaking three years old again.

Barely five minutes after Dean has shrugged out of his own jacket and double-checked the doors are locked, Sam jack-knifes out of bed, gasping for air. Dean's at his side immediately on reflex.

"Sam! You okay, man?" It's never "Sammy" anymore. That nickname just feels wrong nowadays.

Hazel eyes clouded with the remnants of a nightmare find his face before Sam nods jerkily. "I'm fine." His voice is hoarse as he pushes lightly at Dean's chest. "Quit hovering."

Dean obediently takes a step back, but his attention is still focused solely on Sam. "You weren't even out for ten minutes, the hell were you dreaming about?"

"Not a dream," Sam replies tersely. "Lucifer." Dean's blood turns to ice in his veins, but he only raises an eyebrow. He knows the Devil has been nagging Sam to say yes, but he hadn't understood how Lucifer had done it until now.

"And?"

"I said no," Sam confirms, as if it really should have been obvious what his choice had been. The fact that it hadn't knocks the wind out of Dean. He settles for patting Sam's shoulder once in acknowledgment.

"Go back to sleep." Sam nods, moving to lie back down, and that's when Dean sees it: a small white scar just underneath Sam's chin. "The hell is that?"

"Mm?" Sam lifts his head, bewildered.

"That." Dean moves closer and Sam flinches at the sharp poke his brother administers to the scar.

"I was just testing a theory. Turns out I was wrong."

"What theory?" That looks suspiciously like a bullet wound. But Dean knows every scar his brother has received almost better than his own past injuries, and that scar is not one of them.

"...Lucifer can't take over me if I can't say yes."

Dean swears his heart stops in his chest.

"You didn't." It all clicks together now: why Sam had been so clingy for the past week (Christ, he'd been saying goodbye in case it worked), why he had pulled an all-nighter two nights earlier (Dean had assumed he had just gone to the bar, his stomach now twisting unpleasantly at the memory), and why he had returned dejected. "Tell me you didn't."

"Well, it didn't work, anyway, he brought me back and-" Sam's head suddenly snaps sideways and he brings a hand up to his reddening cheek, stunned and wounded.

Dean shakes out the sting in his hand, scowling as a tiny voice in the back of his head pipes up that he probably should have punched Sam rather than slapped him like a teenage girl.

"And it didn't occur to you to tell me?!"

"I knew you'd freak out," Sam replies, that kicked-puppy look still firmly in place. "Sorry."

Not sorry for not telling Dean. Sorry for not dying.

Dean's throat closes up and all he can do is hit Sam again half-heartedly, this time mercifully in the shoulder, before hauling the Sasquatch into his arms, because he's really fucked up this time. He's driven Sam to this, with all his talk of "I just don't think I can trust you" and "this mess is all your fault."

Sam stiffens in his arms, weakly trying to push him away, but when Dean doesn't budge, he hesitantly melts into the embrace, clutching at Dean's shirt almost desperately as if afraid Dean would take his forgiveness back the instant he lets go.

"Sorry," he mumbles again into Dean's shoulder.

"Shut up, Sammy." For the first time since the Apocalypse began, the nickname doesn't sound weird on his tongue. If anything, it makes Sam let out a strangled noise that's somewhere between a sob and a relieved sigh before huddling closer to Dean.

Dean can't bring himself to care about the fact that his shoulder is steadily growing more damp by the second. He's held out on his faith in his brother long enough.

I have no idea what brought this on, but honestly, I just feel like there's so much more to the whole "Dean-doesn't-trust-Sam-anymore" arc that this little oneshot doesn't do justice to. I hope you can at least accept this snippet as a possibility of how Dean slowly begins to forgive his brother.

I'd love any criticism or comments you have to offer.