Work Text:
***
Of all fucking things, it's the burn on Sam's foot that's really getting to Dean.
Sam's limping, and his clothes are still damp and musty when they get back to the bunker.
Dean steers him towards the bathroom, that big shared space from when the Men of Letters were apparently housing a football team. Sam looks like shit warmed up. He feels tepid, too, the few times he loses balance and bumps against Dean's shoulder, barely aware he's doing it. Too busy looking at Mom like she's not really there, too good to be true. Maybe Sam's waiting for the punchline, for the rug to be swept out from under him and he'll land on his ass. Dean gets it. He's braced himself, but so far? So far there doesn't seem to be any worms in this apple. Just…crazy British people with blow torches and Pulp Fiction-style torture dungeons.
For the first time in a long time, Dean can say he genuinely did not see that one coming.
The burn is nasty, raw. It's a long line of seared flesh at the side of Sam's instep. Dean's sure that's what's throwing him for a loop, even though he's seen so much worse and Sam's nursing a vet-sutured leg as he hobbles through the bunker. They've been chopped and hexed and suckerpunched and whammied by everything from hoodoo to a good old-fashioned shovel to the back of the head. He even saw Sam gut-shot and bloody not that long ago, and then stiff and cold and dead. Then Dean―
Dean shuts that door lickety split. Locks it, and swallows the key, never to be shat out again. He's not allowed to think about what he did then, in that hospital supply room. What he didn't tell Sam about.
Those are injuries, though, pure and simple: honest work wounds, a day's hard labour. This is sadistic. Someone took a blowtorch and roasted part of Sammy's foot, and Sam doesn't even seem to mind, and that's making an echo chamber of fucked up feelings for Dean to reverberate around in, pinball manic.
See, Cas could heal Sam's wounds without breaking a non-existent sweat. He offered, right after he fixed Dean up, but the kicker is Sam said, No thanks, Cas, not just yet, all sorrowful and gravelly but polite as always. Something passed between them, one of those Cas-and-Sam moments of understanding that make Dean want to claw his eyeballs out and also slam himself between them like a big emotional cockblock. He hasn't seen one of these moments since Lucifer rode Cas right into the bunker and poked his hand around in Sam's soul. Before that it was after Gadreel (fucking idiot, Dean) had been booted and no longer had free reign of casa del Sam Noggin and Sam wouldn't let anyone touch him for weeks. Cas gets it, somehow, better than Dean. There's understanding in the weight of their silent exchanges, and Dean burns with jealousy over the time they had together when Dean wasn't there, when Dean was gone, balls deep in damnation with Crowley riding him like the happiest cowboy in Kansas. And Dean was yippee-ki-yaying right along with him.
He loves that they had each other, that Sam wasn't alone, but he hates being left out of anything to do with Sam with every fiber of his being. There aren't allowed to be parts of Sam that Dean doesn't understand or get to see. There shouldn't be. Dean should be enough for Sam. If he was a better person, he might be.
He's a hypocrite, too, this he knows. He's the one who put Gadreel in there, opened the door and said make yourself at home. He knew then that Sam wouldn't say yes, that Sam needs…to be his own. Too many strangers have worn his skin, have played hopscotch with his head and gone fist-deep in his grey matter to make Sam ever feel comfortable with that. He would prefer death. Quite literally. That much he's made abundantly clear.
Dean has trouble respecting that boundary. It's genetic or something. Dumb-fuck self-sacrificing tendencies run in the family. Dean would like to say he's learned from the situation, but honestly, he'd offer Sam to Gadreel again in a heartbeat if it meant saving him. He'd do the whole rodeo all over again.
He keeps his hand hovering over the small of Sam's back, in the pretense of being there to catch him if he stumbles. Really he's just hoping to touch.
Like he said; if he was a better person, yada yada. He's not, and right now, he's feeling shitty and off-kilter. The bathroom is freezing, but it'll warm up. Hot water, clean skin. He needs to make Sam feel better. He needs to take care of that foot, that busted leg. Sam and Cas can have their quiet commiserating glances before Sam inevitably agrees in a day or two to let Cas's Grace inside him and fix him up good. Sam says he just needs a moment, some space. Dean can give him that.
"Dean," Sam says, watching him creak down onto his knees. "What are you doing?"
Dean can give Sam space right after this.
"Running you a bath, Sammy," he says, trying to maintain some dignity while kneeling on the cold tiles and…yeah. Running him a damn bath. Sam's clearly been expecting Dean to quit the chaperoning once he's deposited him in the bathroom. It's a very normal expectation; Dean's the one going off script here. He clears his throat and tries not to look at Sam's busted up s'mores foot. It's barely healed over, raw and red and white around the sizzled edges. It's making Dean sick.
"Dean, you don't―shit." Sam wobbles, then catches himself on the bathroom sink. "Am I five?" he grumbles, half-heartedly.
It's a joke, and not a great one, and it shouldn't lance a spear of shame and misery through Dean the way it does. Longing follows after like thunder chasing lightning.
Dean used to do this for Sam, when he was small and Dad was gone. When no one else was there. When their mom was in the ground instead of down the hall, and Sam had Dean and Dean had―memories, of someone doing this for him. Maybe. It's all shaky before the fire. Maybe he just made that bit up.
Dean's stomach twists again.
"Come on, quit your whining and get in. Foot's making me wanna puke, dude." He's aiming for rough, authoritative. It comes out mean. It always does.
Sam doesn't bitch about it though, just sighs. Great. Now Dean feels worse.
"You shouldn't get that wet," Dean says redundantly, inclining his head at the bandage on Sam's thigh. He's preaching to the choir when it comes to wound care, even though Sam's saying no to Angel E.R. right now.
He swishes his hand in the water, checking the temperature. It's stupid, but he's doing this. He's running Sam a damn bath. He'd put bubble bath in it too if he knew where the hell Sam kept his fancy shampoos and girly face wash. He knows they're in here somewhere, but Sam gets pissy and lemon-faced when Dean uses his stuff, and so he's gone to National Treasure levels of secrecy with them this time. Whatever. Dean will find them, eventually, and then gloriously wash his balls with them out of loving spite.
"Yeah." Sam sighs again, and there's the clink of his belt, the sound of leather being pulled through jean loops. In his periphery Dean sees Sam loping unsteadily towards the toilet. There's a plasticky creak as he sits down heavily, wincing and swallowing down a groan. Dean stays kneeling by the tub, hand in warm water and stomach in his shoes. He didn't think this would be that easy, which means Sam's in worse shape than Dean realized if he can't even put up a fight about his bathroom time being invaded by needy older siblings. Deans swallows his nausea down.
"You know Cas could fix that," he says before he can stop himself. He nods at Sam, raising his eyebrows to try and convey how truly shit Sam looks. He's a car crash, comparable to the time a demon-piloted semi really did slam into them. His clothes are still wet, stinking of wet dog and old blood, and there's a hundred tiny scratches on his collarbone and neck. There's a nasty deep cut on his palm.
Sam scoffs, dropping his belt on the floor and peeling the remnants of his shirt off. It's not hard; the thing's more tatters than tangible clothing at this point. It's stained a deeply unpleasant, dry-blood brown.
"I know he could,'' Sam says, pushing his hair away from his face, and sniffing. That would be stained brown with old blood too, Dean thinks, if it wasn't already dark. It looks lank and greasy, tickling at Sam's jawbone. "I'll let him," reassures Sam, for Dean's sake, clearly. "In a moment. Just not." He waves a hand, a casual movement made stiff with weariness and Dean has no idea what secret charades meaning is meant to be conveyed by that gesture. Just not right now. Just not today. Just not before I've had a sleep and processed meeting my mother for the first time, and seeing you not dead, and having another fucking asshole cut me up and fuck with my head for―
Oh.
Dean thinks he might genuinely be sick as the realization goes off in his guts like a putrid time bomb. He eyes the sink, eyes the toilet. He'd have to shove Sam aside to get to that in time, or just puke in his lap. Dean swallows down bile. Sam undoes the button of his jeans, concentration taken up entirely with getting his bruised fingers and sliced palm to cooperate. There's a furrow on his forehead, a little dent between his brows. He looked like that when Dean taught him to tie his shoelaces.
"She got in your head." Dean croaks. It's not a question. His hand is still in the water, risen to his elbow now. He should shut the tap off. He keeps staring at the slow moving battle of Sam-vs-zipper instead. Metal teeth, bloody fingers. The edge of Dean's rolled-up shirt sleeve is getting wet.
Tongue between his teeth and zipper successfully down, Sam nods. Just a bob up and down of his head, perfunctory. He doesn't seem that bothered, but Dean knows better. He can read between the lines. He doesn't get it, not properly, but he knows it fucks Sam up, tips him sideways and sets the bugs crawling up his brother's skin and under it, too. There's a special kind of hatred Dean has for people who hurt Sam that way.
Sam stands to get his jeans past his hips and hisses when he puts his weight on his busted leg. Dean's up like a shot.
"Easy, buddy," he says, holding Sam's shoulders, gentle. "You're standing on bullet wounds and barbecue, there, remember?"
Sam laughs, wobbling and leaning his weight against Dean. He lets his jeans drop in a slow crumple of stiff fabric, slipping his bad foot out with a slow hiss. He bites his lip and grunts when he has to stand on it to quickly take his other foot out and kick the still-damp jeans away.
"Stings like a bitch," he says, almost surprised.
"Real sadist shit," Dean agrees. "Thought the British were all tea and crumpets, not―"
"Blow torches and waterboarding." Sam nods, standing upright. He's just in his boxer briefs, once grey and now blotchy with blood and sweat. The wound high on his leg is hidden under a decent-looking bandage job, but the skin around it is red. There are cuts on Sam's chest, under his collar bones, and mean, shallow slices in the dips of his hips. Soft places, Dean catalogues. Sam doesn't have a lot of those, but they found them. Dean hopes the blood on Sam's waist and lower stomach, the tops of his thighs, is just from those cuts he can see, that there wasn't anything inflicted lower. He doesn't think there is (Sam was fully dressed when they found him, for one), but Scary Spice seemed pretty keen to get knife-happy down there. Dean tries to surreptitiously eye Sam's junk, then catches what he's doing. A flush steals up his neck, embarrassed and ugly. Still, he doesn't stop looking. He needs to know.
Sam follows his gaze down. His lips part around a word, but his eyes flick sideways, attention drawn to the tub. He frowns. "Dean, the―"
"Oh shit." Dean twists around, trying to keep a hand on Sam's waist and quickly turn the taps off at the same time. The bath is perilously full. He's gonna need to let some out before Sam gets in and causes a tidal wave by sheer force of mass. The baths in the bunker aren't small, pretty decently sized all in all, but Sam is a Redwood in an oak forest and his legs are gonna be hanging over the edge regardless.
Dean checks the temperature one last time, lamenting the lack of Radox to mix in and make it slightly more comfortable. They have plain Epsom salts but that's just gonna sting like a bastard. With the promise of Cas's healing hands on the horizon, at least they can dispense with antiseptic; there won't be time for an infection to really run riot, although the angry color of the skin peeking out from around the bullet hole makes Dean think it's trying to give it a good run for its money. Potentially infected, but that's okay; no red veins spiralling out from under the dressing yet, and they've got Cas. This is temporary. No septicaemia today.
Sam stands behind him, silent and with one big palm pressed against the glass shower door as Dean pulls the plug. The water gurgles and screeches as it's sucked down, wailing and moaning its displeasure about being wasted before Dean stoppers it back up again.
Dean shakes the droplets off his hand, then wipes his palm on his jeans for good measure. "Okay, you good with—" He nods at Sam's lower half, the ruined briefs. "Need me to cut them off you or anything?"
"No, thank you, nurse," Sam replies. His voice is flat, tired, but there's a smile in his eyes. Dean lets that gaze wash over him, soothing his jangled nerves the way nothing else does. He nods, exhaling, then wipes his hand down his chest. The hairs on his arm are wet.
"Okay, well, I'll leave you to it. Shower first, get the blood off you unless you wanna marinate in it." Dean frowns. "Unless you can't―"
"I can manage, Dean." Sam looks amused, like he's indulging Dean here. He probably is; Sam doesn't take baths, and Dean sure as hell doesn't run them for him. This isn't really for Sam, and they both know it.
"You yell if you need me," Dean says gruffly, clapping Sam on the shoulder and forcing himself to let go again and walk out of the room.
"I'll be fine, Dean," he hears Sam mumbling after him and Dean nods, shoots a thumbs up over his shoulder like he believes him.
***
He lasts fifteen minutes before the quiet gets to him and he knows he's got to check on Sam. What if he's brained himself in the shower, unsteady on his feet and too much of a dumb-ass to call for help?
There's no one in the kitchen, see, nothing to distract him. Cas is in the library, Mary's up in her room, quiet but smiling before she left, even if it didn't quite reach her eyes. Dean can't get enough of seeing her, real, there, here. It's making him jittery, how good it feels. How good it seems.
His mom is alive and she stabbed someone today to save him. In the purest sense, this is a dream come true for Dean.
He needs beer, and sugar, to process all of this. And Sam. He needs Sam.
In the fridge he finds a six-pack of PBR (Sam's, gross, but it will do and at least it's not peach wine coolers like last time) and a bag of Skittles stuffed behind some old diner-swiped ketchup packets in the pantry. Food groups covered, he grabs a bottle of water and some painkillers, then heads back to the bathrooms.
Sam's sitting in the bath, wet-haired and leaning back with his bad leg dangling over the edge and the knee of his good one rising up out of the water like the Loch Ness monster. Dean wonders if there's a tub in the world big enough to comfortably house him. One that isn't actually just a swimming pool. He also looks decidedly un-brained, which is great work on his part and means Dean has no reason to hang around.
He jumps when Dean walks in anyway.
"Hey hey, brother." Dean kicks the door shut behind him, quiet as he can, crunching Skittles into technicolor moosh in his mouth and setting the six-pack on the floor next to the bath. He drops the paracetamol down next to it and settles down on the lip of the tub right next to the two miles of Sam's busted leg like this isn't a fucking weird thing for him to do. It's uncomfortable; he's perched with one ass cheek on the steam-slick porcelain and the other off, ass crack already protesting, but Dean's making do.
Sam blinks, confused and naked and waist-deep in warm water. "Uh, Dean?"
Dean's not looking at his junk, but Sam's leg lifts like any minute now Dean's gonna, like he needs to pinch them closed. It's not an unfair assumption.
"Yo," Dean replies. He cracks a beer open, the cap fzzting into the weird, surprised silence emanating from Sam. "You pee in there yet?"
Sam snorts, surprised. He relaxes, tense legs going slack once more and preserving modesty a forgotten cause. Dean's seen it all before; what's a wet dick between brothers at this stage. Bathwater over the top of it and it's all a Monet blur anyway.
Sam shakes his head. "No. Too dehydrated, I think."
"But you would have," Dean counters, pointing with his beer like he's just scored a point. "Here." He passes Sam the bottle of water. There's no need for Sam's fingers to touch his when he takes it, but Dean misses them all the same. He wants…things. Incorporeal longing. Touch, comfort, sleep. He offers Sam the painkillers instead.
"No, I'm good." Sam sighs out a breath, chest falling and water drops clinging to the wiry hairs on his chest. "Vicodin," he clarifies at Dean's frown.
Dean makes a noise of understanding, cracks a half smile. "Oh, so you're real good." He's proud to keep any judgment out, keep the levity in. If Sam's flying high Dean's all for it, it's just. Unusual. Sam's a grit and bear it kind of guy when it comes to pain, has a tolerance level that is frankly disturbing, and not remotely surprising. He doesn't dip into the meds cabinet that often these days.
The water swirls as Sam cracks the plastic top of the water lid and takes a generous swig, then another. A slick stream spills over his bottom lip. He wipes his chin with his wet hand and doesn't seem to notice the redundancy of the act. He's glassy-eyed, red-cheeked from the steam. Rosy apples, their mom used to call them when he was a baby, and isn't that a wild fucking thought to have right now. Dean's staring, hungry vulture on a porcelain perch. He's cataloguing it all. His inventory of Sam. Count the ways he's busted up, line them up in his mind and tick them off as he fixes it. Or tries to. At least, doesn't make them worse.
"Did you, uh." Sam wipes his chin again, scratches at his stubble. "Find her a room?"
"Three down from yours." Dean's nodding, can feel his mouth twisting. He can't fight the smile. He's pretty sure it's a smile. "Hell of a thing, ain't it, Sammy?"
Sam blows out a breath, horsey, eyebrows raised and forehead creasing. "Yeah." His voice is disbelieving, eyes wide. "Mom." He lets his head thunk back against the lip of the bath, gentle but still a little too heavily in his opiate wooze, and blinks at the ceiling. The water bottle is resting in the water now, bottom half of it soaking up the heat while the top half sweats. "It's the weirdest thing," Sam mutters, ending on a half laugh. "She doesn't look how I imagined. When I thought of her, all these years. You know?"
Dean swallows. "She looks exactly like her photos, Sammy." He leans forward, plucks the water bottle out of the limp cradle of Sam's hand. He does let their fingers touch this time.
"I know." Sam laughs properly, shake of his head making the tips of his hair octopus out into the water. "It doesn't make sense. She's the spitting image of the…of your pictures." Dean doesn't correct the your, but he wants to. He gulps down a mouthful of beer, lets it fizz in his mouth before he forces it down. It's a short fight.
"It is really her." He's not sure if he's saying it to convince Sam or himself. Both of them. He knows it, though. It's a fact. "It's her," he repeats.
Sam nods, bobble-headed and faintly smiling. His expression is softer now, has been easing throughout this entire conversation. Dean shifts, resettling and feeling his ass twinge. It's going numb. His back aches. The movement leans him up against Sam's propped leg, his bony knee. Silence settles over them, just the hum of the bathroom fan and Dean's mind ticking over.
There's one thing he keeps getting snagged on, the warmth of Sam's leg against his back and side making it flash red in his head like the bunker's warning signals going off. It's absolutely off limits most of the time, something he knows but just lets happen. The closeness. The co-dependency. Dean's not an idiot, for all that he sometimes wishes he was. He knows what this is.
It's no secret to Sam that Dean wants to fuck around with him. It's no secret to either of them that it's reciprocated, because for all of the knocks to the head they've collectively taken over the years, they're not likely to forget that little nugget of information. They haven't gone there, but they could, and they might, and they know it. It's there, that open secret they both carry. I would die for you, I would kill for you, the other half of my bed is kept empty for you. They've gotten real close a few times. It used to be a bigger deal than it is now, which, in the grand scheme of their batshit crazy lives is saying something about what it takes to knock Dean off his axis these days.
Bottom line is, Dean's list of priorities in life has always been worryingly short, and the top five spaces are all taken up with variations of keeping Sam safe and keeping Sam near him. What he feels is bone-deep, carved right along his rib cage next to the Enochian in crude characters: a child's scrawl, a teenager's loping letters, and a man's typed words. Stands to reason that at some point in his life that a synapse in his brain would accidentally fire into his dick and fuck it all to hell. Or it doesn't stand to reason. It just is.
Sam's watching him, chin resting on his own shoulder and arms loose around his middle. Dean clears his throat, not sure where he's going with it though. He should say something like, hey, so now that she's here, Mom's here can you believe it, we should probably—but he doesn't know how that sentence ends. Act normal. Tone it down. Not be like this. Dean doesn't have the words, and if he did, then he might have to hear Sam agree. He doesn't want more space between them. He never wants that.
He takes a swig of his beer, down to the tepid dregs now. He rubs at his chest, trying to massage the tight feeling away. "You manage to wash that?" He aims his beer at Sam's head, then sets the bottle on the tiles with a clink. "Hair," Dean clarifies, voice thick and gone rusty in the steamed up room. It can't be nice, days of grime, sweat and blood embedding itself in the strands. A quick duck under the shower spray isn't gonna do it.
"Not really a priority, Dean. Besides." Sam sighs, holds up his hand. Nasty cut in the palm, that's right. "Figured it wasn't really worth the hassle."
"When is your hair not a priority, Samantha. You, uh." Dean scratches at his chest, the phantom dangle of the amulet under his fingers. "Want me to do it for you?" Dean's already standing, side stepping his empty and heading for the shampoo.
"Wash my hair." Sam's voice echoes behind him as Dean plucks the bottles from the shower stall. His, he'll use his, 'cos fuck knows where Sam's are. It'll do. Clean's clean. "You're gonna wash my hair."
"Don't hurt yourself thinking about it, Sammy," Dean replies, and he's aiming for a joke but he hears the pleading in it. He wants this, selfish and greedy, and if Sam puts up a protest Dean'll have to back down. Dean holds his breath, but it doesn't come. He feels a rush, like he's getting away with something. A kid making off with pockets full of candy, getting what he wants. Dean tucks the bottles under his armpit, shuffles back to the bath.
"Sit up." He taps Sam's shoulder, sits back on the lip of the bath just in time to get a surge of water over the ass of his jeans. "God damn," he grumbles, popping open the shampoo flip top with his thumb while Sam chuckles.
"Deal with it," Sam rumbles, eyes drowsy. Tired toddler, Dean thinks. Dopey kid. He squirts a palmful of apple-smelling shampoo out while Sam presses his shoulder into Dean's stomach. Dean touches Sam's back with his free hand, tips him forward slightly. It's an awkward angle with Sam's leg still out of the water. The bandage is getting wet, crimson pink watercolor seeping through, but that's okay. Sam's tall, long enough to sit upright and keep the worst of it clear. Dean runs a hand through Sam's hair, scoops it back off his forehead. He slops the shampoo on the top of his head with a cold splat, palm down and fingers splayed, just to make Sam jump.
"Jesus." Sam breathes out a laugh. "Nice, thanks."
"You're welcome, darlin'," Dean says sweetly, just to be an asshole. "Eyes closed, now." Dean spiders his fingers up, smooshes his palm about.
"Dean." Sam huffs, looking over his shoulder. "I'm not closing my eyes."
Dean shrugs. "Enjoy your blindness, then, 'cos I ain't done this in a while and I'm making no guarantees."
"Shampoo doesn't make you blind." Sam pushes his shoulder against Dean again, into his ribs. He moves his head back and forth against his palm, like a broody cat, and Dean lets him for a moment before he uses both hands and gets to work.
It takes a while. Sam's hair is long, and tangly. Dean's fingers keep snagging on it, knots forming as he massages the shampoo through and manages a decent lather. He needs more, maybe twice as much as he's used, but he doesn't want to stop and wrestle with the shampoo bottle currently clutched between his knees. He focuses on each tangle as it happens, carefully extricating his fingers as Sam sighs and leans his weight on Dean's side. He's warm against Dean's belly, his head almost tucked against Dean's chest. Dean's shirt is getting wet, splotches of shampoo bubbles landing on it like frog spawn and then popping out of existence. His arm is around Sam's back, reaching to massage the shampoo into the hair at his temples, his forehead. Sam sighs again.
"Head back," Dean mumbles, slipping one hand under Sam's chin and tilting. Sam goes, easy. The water is still warm when Dean dips a hand on, cups a palmful and spills it over Sam's hair, then goes back for another. He keeps it out of Sam's eyes. It's been a while but he still remembers how to do this. Sam has them closed anyway.
By the time the water runs clear, Deans thinks for a moment that Sam's fallen asleep. Dean gives his hair one last sweep, grabs the longest ends and wrings them out, gentle as he can. There are soapy rivulets down Sam's back, over his shoulders, and making milky oil-spill patterns in the water. "You're good, kid," Dean says, pats Sam on the shoulder. Sam stirs, nods, blinks like he really is waking up. Dean smooths his hair back one last time, an impulse he doesn't catch quick enough to stop (doesn't try hard enough to). He does catch himself before he kisses Sam on the forehead.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam's looking up at him, watching him. Dean pulls his head out of his ass, settles his hands on Sam's shoulders. His face feels hot.
"Yeah?" Dean clears his throat, makes his head get back in the room with his body.
Sam's still watching him, quiet and pensive and at least half-stoned. Whatever he's seeing on Dean's face, he's not sharing with the class, and Dean doesn't ask. Give it a few more minutes, and he might though. It's a boundary thing. Dean's real shit at letting Sam have any. He's trying, though. Learning the art of patience.
"Thanks," Sam mutters, slurry and tired but alert enough that Dean knows he's all there still.
"Sure thing." Dean's empty beer bottle clinks against the bathroom tiles as he accidentally knocks it with his foot as he shifts. He's getting old, joints rusting around him. His back's killing him.
Dean makes a face, stifles a groan, and Sam's expression flickers into amusement, a silent laugh shaking his chest. "Old man," he mumbles.
"I'll throw your towel in the damn tub," Dean threatens, kicking at the towel on the floor. He leans down, pulls it closer to the edge instead. Easy reach for Sam's gangly arms. He's not gonna dry him off. He's gonna draw a line somewhere, get a grip on himself. "You need anything else?"
"Mmm." Sam rubs at one eye with wet fingers, then smooths his damp hair away from his face. "You get Cas for me?"
Dean breathes out, chest deflating. "Sure, Sammy." Dean keeps his voice level, and fails to keep the relief off his face. Something inside his sternum cracks loose, breaks away. He feels like he can breathe properly now, the worry constricting his insides loosening up and withering away to just the regular, old-fashioned cares. Just another day at the office. "Yeah, man, I'll go get him now."
"Thanks." Sam rests his head against the lip of the tub, eyes closed, and Dean lets him.
***