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The bunker’s kitchen smelled faintly of coffee that had been sitting too long on the burner, scorched at the edges, bitter.
Dean leaned against the counter with a chipped mug in his hand, sipping anyway, because caffeine was caffeine. He squinted at the laptop open on the table. Sam was still at it, hunched over some arcane database like the fate of the world depended on one more cross-reference.
Dean let out a whistle. “You know,” he said, “there’s such a thing as overkill. We’ve checked that lore library three times already.”
Sam didn’t look up. His jaw tightened instead, eyes darting across the screen. “Dean, this is different. I think I’ve found a pattern you missed.”
Dean arched a brow, smirking. “Oh, I missed it, huh? Thanks for the vote of confidence, Stanford.”
That did the trick. Sam pushed his chair back, standing, looming. Dean hated when his brother did that — made use of the six inches that separated them, straightening up until Dean had to crane his neck back. Sam’s voice had that low, restrained edge to it.
“This isn’t about confidence, Dean. This is about you not taking things seriously. Again.”
Dean’s mug stilled halfway to his lips. “Not serious? Sam, I’ve been the one patching us up, driving us across state lines, keeping this tin-can life together while you drown in research. Don’t tell me I’m not serious.”
Sam’s nostrils flared, his fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t think! You rush into hunts, half-cocked, and then I have to—”
“Have to what? Bail me out? You think you’re the brains of this operation, is that it?” Dean’s voice rose, sharp enough to cut.
Sam took another step closer, eyes burning. “I think if you keep acting like this, one of us is going to die!”
The words slammed between them, heavy and awful. Dean felt his chest seize, his own pulse drumming in his ears. And Sam — Sam stood above him, trembling with fury, eyes too bright. It was the posture of a man trying to be strong enough to protect everything, even when the weight was killing him.
Dean knew that look.
He’d seen it when Sam was twelve and convinced it was his job to protect Dean from Dad’s temper. He’d seen it when Sam left for Stanford, trying to carry the guilt of abandoning family on his shoulders. He’d seen it after Jess died, when Sam thought every tragedy was his fault to fix.
Dean hated that look more than anything.
So he did what he always did when Sam wound himself too tight, too far. He lowered his voice, softened it to the exact timbre that carried years of memory, and spoke a single word.
“Sammy.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was the tone Dean had used in motel rooms when Sam had nightmares. It was the tone he’d used when bandaging scraped knees, when coaxing a fevered kid to drink water. It was the tone that said: I remember you at eight years old, gangly and too big for your pajamas, clinging to me because the world felt too scary.
And Sam froze.
His breath hitched, the anger bleeding out of his face like someone had pulled a plug. His fists uncurled. His shoulders sagged.
Dean set his mug down and stepped forward, careful, measured, closing the gap Sam had created.
“C’mere,” Dean murmured.
For a heartbeat, Sam resisted. He stood there, jaw tight, as though fighting the instinct. But then his eyes glossed, his chest shuddered, and he folded — literally folded forward, all six-foot-four of him collapsing against Dean’s smaller frame.
Dean staggered but caught him, arms circling tight. “Easy, tiger. I got you.”
Sam pressed his face against Dean’s shoulder, his breath hot and uneven. “I just—” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Dean’s throat closed up, but he smoothed a hand up Sam’s back, patting slow, steady, like he had when Sam was a kid. “I know. I know, Sammy. I’m right here.”
————————————————
They stayed like that for minutes, the silence broken only by the humming pipes in the bunker and Sam’s uneven breathing. When Sam finally pulled back, his face was blotchy, eyes wet, and he didn’t even try to hide it.
Dean guided him toward the couch in the library. “Sit down before you fall down. Jesus, you’re all legs.”
Sam obeyed without protest — another sign of how shaken he was. Usually he’d at least roll his eyes.
Dean sat beside him, nudging his knee. “Okay, talk. What’s going on in that giant melon of yours?”
Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know. I just… ever since—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It feels like every time we get a break, it’s temporary. And every time we go out there, I keep thinking this is it. That I’m going to watch you—” His voice cracked again, and he pressed his lips shut.
Dean’s chest hurt. He’d been expecting some lecture about tactics, about strategy, but this was rawer.
This was fear.
He reached out and gripped the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touched. “Hey. Look at me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam whispered, “You can’t promise that.”
Dean huffed a laugh that sounded more like a choke. “No. But I can promise this — I’ll fight like hell to stick around. And you? You don’t have to carry that alone.”
Sam closed his eyes, trembling under Dean’s touch.
“Every time you say ‘Sammy,’ I can’t… it just takes me back. To when things were simple. When I thought you could fix anything.”
Dean smirked faintly. “Newsflash, kid. Still can.”
That earned a watery laugh. Sam leaned sideways until his head dropped onto Dean’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “But you love me.”
Sam muttered, “Unfortunately,” and burrowed closer.
—————————————
They stayed pressed together, Dean rubbing circles absently against Sam’s arm. He thought about the nickname, about how it had become a weapon in its own right.
Sam hated it, when used wrong. Hated when others mocked him with it. Hated the way Dad sometimes said it, dismissive, belittling.
But from Dean’s mouth, in the right moment? It was a tether. It was the reminder of nights spent keeping monsters at bay with nothing but a salt line and Dean’s hand on his shoulder.
It was safety.
Dean had learned early that sometimes words mattered more than bullets. And “Sammy” was the silver bullet straight into Sam’s walls.
——————————————
Hours later, they hadn’t moved much. Sam had shifted until he was practically curled against Dean’s side, long legs folded awkwardly on the couch, but he didn’t care. His breathing had evened out, the tension draining away.
Dean kept one arm looped around him, holding him steady. Every so often, he murmured it again, soft as a lullaby.
“Sammy.”
Each time, Sam melted a little more, until his head lolled against Dean’s chest, half-asleep. Dean tightened his hold, pressing a kiss into his brother’s mop of hair before he could second-guess himself.
“Got you,” he whispered. “Always.”
———————————————
Later that night, Sam blinked awake, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He gestured vaguely to his half-asleep sprawl.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because cuddling your big brother is such a crime. Relax, Sasquatch.”
Sam smiled faintly. “It’s just—when you said it—”
“‘Sammy’?” Dean supplied.
Sam swallowed. “Yeah. I don’t know why it hits me like that.”
Dean slung an arm back around his shoulders, pulling him in again. “Because it means you’re my kid brother. Always will be. Doesn’t matter how tall you get, or how smart, or how many times you save my ass. End of the day? You’re Sammy. And I’m not letting go.”
Sam’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t argue. He leaned in once more, resting his head where it fit, and let himself believe it.
And Dean, with his secret weapon reloaded, held him until sleep claimed them both.