Delirious Thirty

Turned out, Sam was extra clingy when delirious.

He fell into bed within three minutes of their arrival back at the Batcave, murmuring something about burritos and pinatas... Dean had stopped trying to make sense of it around fifty miles back. Sam wasn't going to remember any of this in a few more minutes, and besides, Dean was too exhausted to reply. Besides, what the hell was he supposed to say in response to "I think burritos should mate with pinatas to create Captain America?"

So he just smiled at Sam, and nodded, and said "Sure, Sammy" every now and then, and when Sam collapsed on his bed he took his shoes off for him and pulled the sheets out from under him and then placed them over him. He nodded and smiled and took Sam's temperature and gave him some aspirin, and then he said, "Shut up now, Sammy. Sleep."

And Sam looked up at him, eyes so wide he could get lost in them, and said, "I don't want any Twinkies, thanks." And before Dean could figure out what to make of this, the kid was snoring into his pillow.

Dean only got around twenty minutes to himself, though – as soon as he was properly settled into his bed with a beer and a magazine, dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, his door opened and he saw Sam standing there, hair messy, clothes rumpled and expression sad. And he was even trailing a blanket behind him, a corner of it clutched tightly in his left hand.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean asked, sitting up.

Sam came inside without invitation and when he was in the center of the room he plopped down, his blanket fluttering to a rest at his side. He looked up at Dean – there's those eyes again – and told him, "I got lonely."

Dean resisted the urge to plant his face in a wall. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could handle, and it had only been a few hours. Delirious Sam was something he hadn't had to deal with since he was fifteen and Sam was eleven, and by God he'd thought he'd never have to, ever. Turned out, he was wrong. Boo-fuckin'-hoo.

"Why aren't you asleep?" Dean finally asked after several minutes of contemplation regarding the issue of an appropriate response.

"Because..." Sam's face scrunched up in thought, and despite himself Dean couldn't help but think of how adorable it was. He looked like a little kid again. "Because I punched the Sandman," he finally replied, and Dean blinked at him.

"Why'd you do that?"

"He said pie is better than cake," Sam informed his big brother, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Dean, on the other hand, was still having trouble believing he was actually partaking in this conversation.

"Well, it is," he told Sam, because really. Who'd pick cake over pie?

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say – his eyes began watering and Dean could swear to God he could see his bottom lip trembling even from where he was sitting. "But – but – cake – Deeeaaaan!"

And to his alarm, the kid began all-out sobbing.

"What the actual fuck," Dean muttered to himself as he slid off his bed and knelt next to Sam. "Sammy," he said, trying for some damage control. "It's all right, Sam, you don't have to cry about it..."

Sam latched on to him with all the ferocity of a kitten. A sad, sad kitten. "I only wanted a pet llama!" he sobbed into Dean's shoulder. "Is that so much to ask?"

Pet llama? Oh, never mind, not like he was making sense anyway.

Dean tentatively put his arms around his brother and patted him on the back awkwardly, before saying, "Let's get you in bed, kid. You're completely wonky. C'mon."

"No!" Sam cried, and his grip tightened. Dean couldn't fathom what he'd done to deserve this. And it wasn't just because it was wearing on his nerves. It was because every time Sam cried, for whatever reason, he felt himself dying with every tear that fell.

"Come on," he coaxed, rubbing Sam's back. "It'll be all better once you're in bed." And for once Sam listened.

Dean settled Sam in his own bed because he absolutely refused to go back to his own room, citing an angry Sandman as the reason. Dean really didn't know what the big deal was over cakes and pie – pie won hands down – but he simply didn't have the mental energy required to figure it out, and so he just put Sam's blanket over him again and then got in next to him, because Sam said he was still lonely and if he asked Dean for the world right now he would move Heaven and Hell to give it to him.

It was those damn eyes.

"Dean?" he said, voice quiet, and Dean looked down at him from his position of sitting with his back against the headboard.

"Yeah, kid?"

"Can we have ice cream tomorrow?"

He chuckled. "Sure, Sammy. What flavor?"

"Impala."

Dean blinked, but nodded anyway. "Sure," he agreed, not wanting to know what Sam thought that was going to taste like. Motor oil, maybe?

Ew.

"You know, Dean," Sam started, and Dean shifted his attention back towards his baby brother. "What if all Metatron wanted was a hug? Maybe we should have given him a hug, Dean. That might have made him happy."

He snorted; he couldn't help it. "Sammy, he is happy as he is. And believe me, I don't think he's worth wasting hugs on."

"Then maybe at least a Mars Bar. Mars Bars are nice."

"Sure, Sammy." Because really, how else did one respond to one's kid brother who wanted to hand an angel candy?

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think sometimes Crowley feels sad, too?"

Okay, that was unexpected. "What the hell would Crowley feel sad for?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "His name was Fergus Macleod. That would make anyone sad."

Dean let out a guffaw of laughter and ruffled Sam's hair. He may be clingy and extra-wonky when he was delirious but he was also extremely entertaining. And besides. It was sorta nice to listen to. Distracted him from all the shit he normally worried about.

"You know, Dean," Sam began again, and this time his expression was thoughtful. "I think maybe Crowley and Naomi had a thing going."

Dean choked at that. The idea is weird and gross. "What?"

Sam nodded seriously. "No, really, Dean. You think?"

"We'll just ask him the next time he tries to kill us," Dean promised, and he was serious too. Dammit, the kid's rambling had gotten him curious.

There was a silence for a while, and he took up his magazine again. He was almost halfway through when Sam started talking again, which startled him a little – he'd been under the impression Sam had fallen asleep.

"Dean?" This time his voice was very, very small.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean put down the magazine and leaned in close. Sam looked incredibly sad, and the eyes were back. Along with the trembling lip. And his nose was red.

Mental note, Dean thought. Delirious Sam is not only clingy and basically stoned, but also extra emotional.

"Do you think – do you maybe – well, sometimes – have you ever – ugh!" Sam seemed to be fumbling with words, unsure of what to say, and it was frustrating him. The sight pulled at Dean's heartstrings.

"It's okay, Sammy," he told him gently, and that seemed to work a little magic.

Sam's words came out in a tangled, slurred rush. "DoyouthinkI'mdirty."

Dean blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" It sounded a lot like "Doyoudrinkpurty," and he wasn't even sure what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

The kid looked uncomfortable, turning his face away so that his hair spread all over the pillow. It grew like fucking weeds, that hair – Dean could have sworn it wasn't this long last week. "Forget," Sam mumbled into his pillow.

"Okay," Dean answered, figuring if he was asking him to forget it it was probably not that important after all.

He was wrong.

"Dean," Sam said again, a few minutes later. "Do you think I'm dirty?" And to Dean's horror, he sounded perfectly lucid as he asked.

"Sam, no," he answered emphatically. "Never."

Sam shifted a little, hiding his face some more. His back was almost to Dean now, and his movements were causing the blanket to slip over Dean's legs and on to his side. It was a bright red one, and Dean couldn't remember where they'd gotten it from, only that it'd been around forever and was still somehow warm and fuzzy and cozy.

"Sam," he said again, because this was something that had been bothering him ever since Sam had said it. "Sam, you're not unclean. You're not."

"Demon blood," Sam stated simply, still turned away from his brother.

"That's not what matters," Dean told him. When he didn't reply Dean grabbed his shoulders and made him face him once again, and he wasn't surprised to see that despite Sam's steady voice his face was wet with tears.

"Dean–"

"No," he interrupted, his tone rough. "You listen to me, Sam. That doesn't matter. It doesn't change who you are here." He shifted his hand to Sam's chest, resting it over his heart. He could feel it beating resolutely inside, and that offered him some comfort. It always did. "And you, Sam, are the purest person I know."

"Dean," the kid tried again, and this time his tears leaked into his voice. "Dean, you're only just saying that."

"You know that I'm not," Dean told him quietly. "Look at me, Sammy." He used his other hand to pull Sam's face towards his so that their eyes met. "Sammy, it doesn't matter what you did. It doesn't matter what others did to you. It only matters what you're doing now. You're fixing this world, Sam. You're helping everyone." Dean could only hope the kid was getting the point, because his face was blank, but Dean really wanted, no, needed him to understand this. He needed to know. "You're not unclean, Sammy. You're a hero."

Sam looked down at his brother's hand over his heart, and after a few moments' silence, during which Dean wondered if he'd even heard a word he was saying, he brought up his own hand and placed it over Dean's. "Thank you," he whispered, and looked back up at him. The tears in his eyes spelled something different this time – gratitude.

Dean nodded at him. "If you say it one more time I'm going to kill you," he warned Sam. And he was. Stupid, delirious, delusional, adorable kid.

Sam smiled a little. "Okay," he agreed, and shifted a-freaking-gain until he was comfortable again. He hadn't let go of Dean's hand, though somehow now their fingers were intertwined and their hands were resting at Sam's side, not on his heart.

"Good, at least we're clear on that," Dean muttered, but didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he used his other hand to wipe the tears off his baby brother's face. "Now sleep, you hear me? You're going to wipe yourself out."

Sam nodded. "Story," he then demanded. The eyes were back in full force, their intensity enough to blind the Sun.

"Story?" Dean repeated, a little nonplussed.

"Story," Sam confirmed. "I want to hear a story."

Dean should have seen this coming, really. But even if he had he'd never have said no, he knew it. He couldn't resist the eyes. And one did not simply say no to Sammy's eyes.

"What kind of story?" he asked, and Sam smiled at him.

"Something from when we were little," he decided. "Something happy."

Dean thought for a moment, rifling through the thousands of little memories in his head that constituted his life in the six months he'd had both his mom and Sammy. And finally he settled on one. "There was this one time – you were three months old. Some far-off relative of Dad's calls, says he's in the area and he'd like to meet up." Sam was listening, expression attentive, and Dean couldn't help but ruffle his hair again with his free hand. "Only he can't come, and instead asks us to come over to his place. He was a couple of towns over, and we drove. Mom... she was incredibly happy about it, said she'd always wanted to meet his cousins. Dad's, well, he's Dad. He's not too chipper about it but he doesn't say. And believe it or not – on the way we ran out of gas."

Sam's eyes went wide in surprise. "Really?" he asked, his voice soft, childlike.

"Yep," Dean said. "And there wasn't a gas station in miles. So naturally, Dad gets all angry and starts yelling at random things, and Mom's just rolling her eyes and telling him to calm down, and you start crying."

"Why?" Sam asked curiously.

"You were asleep, and Dad's shouting woke you up," Dean told him. "And Mom tried and tried but she couldn't get you to shut up, and it was getting on Dad's nerves too, and in the end Mom just got really angry at Dad. She handed you to me in the backseat, and she begins yelling at Dad."

"Whoa."

"Yeah, I know. It was actually pretty scary, but I just sat there and figured I'd sit it out, but you were still crying, and well. It bothered me a lot. So I just kinda, you know..." Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sang. To you."

Sam looked genuinely astonished, and also a little awestruck. "You sang to me?"

Dean nodded. "I was four, and I sounded pretty crap, but it worked, you know. You were quiet in a minute."

"Which song was it?"

The older Winchester thought for a second, and then replied, "All My Love."

Sam was quiet, and Dean knew he was thinking. But instead of saying something in return the kid just snuggled into Dean's side and buried his face in his chest, and Dean let him. His temperature was still pretty high, but Dean knew the only ease he could get right now was from being with his big brother, so he just let him cling to himself.

But the story wasn't over yet. "And you know," Dean said, and Sam went a little stiff – he was paying attention again. "Five minutes into the song you just start laughing."

"Laughing?" Even Dean's shirt couldn't manage to muffle Sam's incredulity properly.

"Yeah," Dean said, and helped himself to a nostalgic smile. "And when Mom and Dad hear it, they just kinda go quiet. Both of them stop yelling. And believe it or not, Sammy," he smiled again as he reminisced, "soon they started laughing too. It was like they'd never fought. You're just laughing, and they're laughing, and I'm sitting there with you in my arms trying to figure out what the hell is going on."

Sam laughed into his chest, the sound sending vibrations through him. Dean patted his hair and said, "Even when you were that little you were our sunshine, Sammy. Mom and Dad, even me, we loved you more than we loved anything else. Nothing's going to change that. And to me you're always going to be that person who can make me laugh anytime, you know."

There was some more silence, and then Sam clutched Dean's shirt a little bit tighter. He didn't say anything, but that grip told Dean all he needed to know.

It was Sam himself who broke the silence. "Can you sing again, Dean?"

Dean was not surprised at this, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be awkward. He wasn't three months old anymore. He was... thirty? Dean checked his watch. 12:07 AM. Sammy had turned thirty 7 minutes ago.

What the hell, Dean decided. It's his birthday. And he's sick.

So he began singing, his voice soft and soothing.

"Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light
To chase a feather in the wind
Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight
There moves a thread that has no end

For many hours and days that pass ever soon
The tides have caused the flame to dim
At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom
Is this to end, or just begin?

All of my love
All of my love
All of my love to you."

He chose to forego the second verse and instead repeated the entire thing from the beginning, and by that time Sam's head was heavy on his chest and his eyes were closed. His grip had loosened somewhat, and Dean knew the kid was asleep but also a little awake. "Happy birthday, Sammy," he whispered. "Have billions more."

There was nothing else to be said, and so Dean turned his lamp off and wrapped his arms around Sam. Just for tonight, he thought sleepily to himself.

Aw, who am I kidding, was his last thought before he fell asleep. He'd do anything for Sam and he knew it.