Preface

I Get You
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/18377747.

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Supernatural

Relationship:

Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester

Character:

Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Hugs, Shmoop, Episode: s14e17 Game Night, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Coda, Crying Dean Winchester, Crying Sam Winchester, Crying author, Sibling Love, Sibling Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brother Feels

Language:

English

Collections:

Winchesters

Stats:

Published: 2019-04-07 Words: 2,089 Chapters: 1/1

I Get You

by fogsrollingin

Summary

Tag and/or coda to s14e17 Game Night.

Jack cured Sam’s bloody hemorrhaging head, Sam startled up against the Impala asking so many questions, and Dean… well Dean pushed away to get over the near-loss of his entire fucking world.

Just give him a second.

Notes

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See the end of the work for more notes

I Get You

Jack cured Sam’s bloody hemorrhaging head, Sam startled up against the Impala asking so many questions, and Dean… well Dean pushed away to get over the near-loss of his entire fucking world.

Just give him a second.

Donatello watched him knowingly and Dean put his back to him too. He shook his arms and shoulders out, wiped his eyes dry, breathed. He vaguely heard Jack spout a platitude about how everything would be all right. Dean wasn’t facing anyone so he didn’t have to hide the disgusted grimace it elicited.

You put me first. All your life.

Those were about to be Sam's last words.

Dean pushed his hands through his hair and kept them there, tightening his grip on the snow-wet strands, unable to stop hearing his brother's words.

"Dean," Sam called. Dean turned on instinct and resented it.

Sam's gaze lent itself to something as solicitous as it was evaluative. Dean wasn’t above resenting that too so he ignored it.

He glanced at Donatello.

"C'mon we'll take you home."

He kept his head down as he stepped into the driver’s seat, started the car, felt Sam get in next to him, Donatello’s strange, amoral presence sliding into the back.

All in a day’s work. Nothing to see here. Shake it out and walk it off.

Dean pulled the car out and they rocked over rough territory before Dean hit the highway onto smoother lanes.

As he drove, Baby soothed. Soft leather wheel, the familiarity of her shocks… and at three hundred pounds short of two tons, Baby handled and felt like a tank. Impenetrable and safe and a formidable weapon of its own if need be.

Sam was fine, Dean reassured himself. Completely intact mind, body, and soul sitting right next to him on the bench seat.

Dean worried at his lip, unconsciously staring daggers at the road. He needed more. He knew what had happened. Now he needed to believe it. He didn’t know how to make that happen though. Fixating on the road as though it’d been the thing to kill Sam was as good an option as any.

…Almost killed Sam, he corrected himself. Sam had only almost died. Dean shook his head at the thought.

Sam kept giving him furtive looks from the passenger seat. Dean pointedly ignored them, unwilling to address anything with Sam with their soulless prophet in the back seat. Ever since Donatello tried to mediate an argument him and Sam were having about Jack last year, Dean was a closed book around the dude. Dean was grateful Sam seemed to be following his lead in staying quiet.

The sky turned dark, Sam leaned against the side door, street lights flashing by over the contours of his face. Strong jaw, thin lips, sharp nose, his stupid hair covering closed eyes... safe, breathing, warm and alive. Always looking at Dean the way nobody else in Dean’s life ever looked at him.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked the water out of his eyes again. Damn it. What was wrong with him.

The drive to get Donatello home felt like forever. Once there Dean had the sobering realization that once he was gone there was nothing to stop Sam from starting a talk. And Sam was definitely going to start a talk judging by those timid side-looks he kept shooting.

They got back onto the road. Sam's glances got more frequent. Dean tried to ignore him. Ignore everything about Sam so his mind would stop running through everything about Sam, everything he’d lose if he lost Sam. Dean knew it was basically like psychologically torturing himself and he wasn’t a damn masochist. But what happened today put him on an edge and Dean had no earthly idea how to take it off. The edge begged his attention, invading his thoughts over what would’ve happened if Jack had appeared a scant few minutes late. For a split second, Dean had this unerring certainty he’d pray to Chuck one last time to tell Him He deserved hell more than Lucifer before pulling the trigger on a bullet to his head.

The scenario was so realistic it both scared and pissed Dean off. It pushed him sideways and whittled him down into addressing the pathetic attempts Sam had been trying to get his attention on the other side of the seat. He'd tried clearing his throat, squirming around, leaning forward over the dash, stretching his arms and brushing Dean’s shoulder. Passive aggressive little shit.

"What is it?" Dean asked between gritted teeth. He sounded more threatening than he'd intended. Sam took it in stride.

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice was small, like the wind could blow him over.

"For what?" Dean snapped. He hated when Sam sounded so meek.

"For Nick. Getting the drop on me."

"He's a serial killer that bashed your head in with a rock. Don't apologize."

It was quiet. Dean saw Sam nod and swallow out of the corner of his eyes. The reality of his own words sank further into Dean too. If souls could shiver.

"I'm still sorry."

"Whatever," Dean breathed, dripping contempt while his eyes began to sting in earnest. As subtly as possible, Dean angled his face away.

"I’m also sorry for, uh… for saying goodbye."

“Fuck,” Dean rolled his eyes and a tear slipped out. He kept swearing under his breath as he pulled the car over.

“What? Dean?!”

Dean put the car in park and got out.

“Jesus Christ, Sam.” Dean slammed the door shut and walked out in front of the headlights. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, folded his arms around himself. He could see his breath but it wasn’t snowing. He leaned against the warm grill of the Impala and waited for his brother to join him. It never took less than about twenty seconds.

Sam came over next to him but he made sure they weren’t touching. It was a tiny thing but spoke volumes for them. Normally in this weather and with no one around, warmth trumped personal space. But not when there was discord between them.

“I’m not mad at you, Sammy,” Dean whispered and out of the corner of his eye caught Sam sag with relief, head bowed.

Dean swallowed his guilt and looked into Sam’s eyes for the first time since he’d been dying bloody on the pavement. “Everything’s okay.”

Sam stood up straight to face him and stared, eyes sharp and intense. Dean watched them soften into confusion, his head tilting like Dean was a puzzle. It was awful. It was too much scrutiny. Dean’s defenses sparked and fizzled under Sam’s dismantling gaze, and as his brother’s face shifted to pure compassion, Dean had to try something. Say something. Distract.

“I promise. We’re good, Sammy,” he said, voice cracking on the end to his utter mortification. He would’ve covered it up fine with a cough or something if Sam hadn’t grabbed Dean’s wrist and tugged.

Despite being taller, Sam always knew how to duck down to get all the way into Dean’s embrace. He utilized that skill now, folding in against him, damp warmth, smelling like sweat, blood, and the laundry detergent Dean had picked up for them last week.

Dean closed his eyes and held his breath, arms and hands loose hovering over Sam’s sides, clenched jaw against trembling lips and chin. He wasn’t going to lose it over a hug.

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean and squeezed. “I’m okay.”

Dean broke on a gasped inhale and a quiet sob as he hugged Sam back, clutching tighter and tighter until Sam had to shift his footing.

“I’m okay, Dean,” Sam promised, and Dean didn’t know what the fuck was going on with the acoustics out here in the winter air on a road in the middle of nowhere but Sam sounded like he always had when he was a kid trying to cheer Dean up. “Not dying. Not going anywhere.”

Dean nodded against Sam’s shoulder like he knew and agreed. It betrayed how much Sam’s voice was screwing him up. Tears slid onto the shoulder of Sam’s jacket. Dean managed his breathing so he was quiet; he wasn’t openly weeping. Sam seemed to know anyway. He rubbed his back and wriggled closer up against Dean.

“I don’t know,” Dean started repeating, throat dry, eyes red. “I don’t know what it was about this one,” he finally got out.

Sam didn’t let go and Dean was grateful. He didn’t want to have this talk eye to eye with his brother if he could have it just holding onto him, alive and unharmed and safe.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam replied evenly. He could feel Sam’s chin digging into his shoulder. He was looking down, just resting his head against Dean.

Dean heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. “You said I put you first all my life.”

Stress came flooding back into Sam, body and muscle going taut around Dean. Dean was braced for it. He held Sam tighter so he wouldn’t step away. Sam stopped trying to get out of the hug but remained a coiled-tense weight in Dean’s arms.

“You do,” Sam huffed, “Always have. Dean-” and Sam started struggling anew so they could face each other. Dean had to relent.

Samt took a small step out of Dean’s space, eyes somehow both fiery and hurt. Like somehow Dean was the asshat that claimed Sam was a burden to him instead of Sam’s own frustrating guilt complex... which might as well have its own damn theme song at this point. “I’m not gonna argue about this with you-”

“Okay, Sam. Okay,” Dean put his hands out, “I get it.”

Sam settled down, pressed his lips together, not quite ready to drop the hostility. Dean knew everything depended on what he said next.

“But Sammy,” Dean pushed as much fondness into his voice, “you know what I get out of it though, right?”

Sam shifted his stance, pressed his lips together again, this time vulnerable. This time, truly depending on what Dean would say next.

“I get you,” Dean said with a light smile and a shrug. Simple. Honest.

Sam frowned, nodded, obviously trying to keep his composure.

“So,” Dean continued, and he didn’t know why he was doing it because it was only going to start things up again for both of them but he had to get it out. All in. One fell swoop. In for a penny…

“So, don’t ever die thinking…” Dean stopped, unable to finish. He blinked up at the sky and licked his lips. It was starting to snow again.

“Okay,” Sam rasped and Dean looked into his eyes.

“Okay?” Dean asked again. It was a good word. Stabilizing.

“Yeah,” Sam sniffed. Another good solid stabilizing word. If they could just keep with the monosyllabic affirmations they wouldn’t have to hug again. “Right back at ya,” Sam failed to laugh.

That was when Dean realized Sam was probably thinking about the Ma’lak Box. A whole new layer had been added to this for Dean now, where they were really sharing this fear of loss they’d both experienced so acutely over the course of just a few months. Sam rubbed his red-rimmed eyes raw in the Impala’s headlights with shaky hands and Dean could tell it wasn’t from the cold. He stepped up to his little brother with a whispered, “C’mere.”

He didn’t let go when Sam fell back into him. The snowflakes falling melted over them and they couldn’t have cared less. They shared warmth for as long as they needed, embracing each other and the security of knowing they weren’t losing each other any time soon. They didn’t part until they’d relaxed, their breath synced and their eyes dry.

The rest of the ride home was uneventful in the best possible way, their lines of communication thrown open so wide for each other in the wake of… embarrassingly cathartic hugs they’d never admit happened to anyone… that they had about six different viable plans with contingencies for what to do next by the time they got back to the bunker.

Dean was ready to high-five the paintings on the friggin’ wall as he entered the map room in line with Sam next to him when they both came up short at the sight of Jack huddled on the steps.

“Jack?” Dean asked, cautious. The kid was clearly in shock. Sam muttered something about getting a blanket and took off. Dean looked around. “Jack, where’s Mom?”

Afterword

End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! Please kudos and/or comment if you can spare the time!

I have some great tidings if you enjoy my works. First, I joined SPN Dystopia Big Bang and our no doubt amazing fics+artworks are gonna get posted here starting in June.

Second, if you like my fics and you'd like to read my SPN fic recommendations, they're going up on my tumblr here! It's an ongoing project but good enough now to let y'all know it exists.

Third, not gonna lie, I'm considering whether to spring the $$ to attend JIBCon 2020 now that I know season 15 will be its last. Anyone else planning on it? Tickets for May 2020 will probably go on sale in a couple months (JIBCon19 has to happen in May first)... hmmmm! Edit on 8/19/19: BTW I'M TOTALLY GOING! WOO!!!

❤️️ Alex

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