Of Monkeys and Zoos

​Dean kicked the Impala into gear as Sam slid into the seat beside him. "Well." Dean said gruffly. They had just finished up a rather intense run in with a wendigo, and it had left them both utterly exhausted. He pulled the car out of the parking lot, its engine humming familiarly as he went. "Yep," Sam replied, kicking his legs up onto the dashboard of the car.
"Hey!" Dean exclaimed, his attention captured as he stared at his brother incredulously. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Meaning?" Sam chuckled, popping a handful of trail mix into his mouth, as the run in had left him as ravenous as the wendigo they had been hunting. Despite being exhausted, he was content to be back with Dean, and that was all he needed to be in a good mood, at least for the time being.
"Meaning," Dean said, his voice dry and sarcastic, "feet off my baby!" Sam punched his brother lightly in the shoulder, but did as he was told with a sigh, knowing that no matter what the ran into continuing the "family business" nothing would ever be as dangerous as Dean when he was pissed about his car. Dean switched on the radio and began to blast Led Zepplin, and Sam groaned jokingly, "Anything but this crap," he sighed, eliciting an intense, yet sarcastic glare from the oldest Winchester. "Hey, don't speak ill of the lord!" Dean only half joked. "Plus," he continued, Sam knowing what his brother was going to say next. "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole!" He chuckled at himself, turning back to the road. "Whatta ya say we rustle up some grub?" Dean questioned, "I'm starving."
Dean swallowed his bite of burger looking up at Sam. "So you think this is our kind of gig?" he said as he popped a few fries into his mouth. "Sure looks like it," Sam confirmed, "You have to admit, seems like a bit of a pattern, 6 deaths, in the same town, same way, and always on a Saturday."
"So what do you think we're looking at?"
"Hard to tell," Sam replied through a mouthful of salad, "Maybe some sort of spirit? There's nothing too relevant in dad's journal about anything specific in that town, but it could always end up being the usual."
"Unjust death, unfished business, perfect recipe for an angry spirit," Dean confirmed. "Any deaths that might fit?"
"Well get this," Sam said, turning his laptop to face Dean and pointing at the screen, "Ben Gillon, found dead in his house, tied to a chair, he was an activist against some big deforestation project, and he was killed..."
"On a Saturday," Dean finished, inspecting the information on the screen thoughtfully. "Angry spirit's looking good with this one. Definitely some unfinished business issues." Sam nodded, shutting his laptop and tucking it into his duffel. Dean finished the last bite of his burger, and throwing a twenty down onto the table, he stood up and headed out to the impala. "So where are we headed?" Dean inquired as he pulled the car out of the parking lot and shifted on to the main road. "Detroit."
Dean hummed Fade to Black contentedly as he opened the chipped wood door to the motel room. This place was low quality even for them. There was an ancient microwave thats label read Kitch'nade as opposed to the popularly recognized Kitchenaid propped up on a spindly end table, Dean supposed that was the "kitchenette" the billboard had advertised, and the toilets appeared to have not even seen anything close to a maid in years, but he couldn't care less. He was in a great mood. Despite still not knowing where their dad was, he was back with Sammy, and honestly, that was all he needed to be content. He thought back to the day Sam left. The yells of the youngest and oldest Winchester still echoed in his mind. His words had hurt Dean more than he let on. As Sam slammed the door and walked out of their lives Dean had silently retreated to his room. He fought the tears that threatened to slide out of his dewy green eyes, but a few slid by. Traitorous bastards.
That had been exactly two years, 19 days, 14 hours ago. Not that Dean was counting. Definitely not. He certainly didn't spend the first few months accidentally commenting to Sam on things, before realizing that his brother wasn't there to hear him. When that spirit had thrown him against the tree when he was hunting solo, breaking his leg in three places, he absolutely didn't use his last bit of energy to cry out for Sam, only to be found by Bobby several hours later. When he was sick, he surely didn't wear one of Sam's old hoodies he had managed to slip into his duffel when he wasn't looking, just to have his comforting and familiar scent nearby. Definitely not.
That's exactly why when Sam wrinkled his nose at the room and shot Dean a look as if to say Seriously? he didn't call him princess or Samantha. Because it wasn't as if Dean had felt lonely when Sam was gone. It wasn't as if he missed his little brother. It wasn't as if he cried alone on Sam's birthday, wishing that he could pick up a cheap cake from 7/11 and sing a rendition of Happy Birthday with some edits involving monkeys and zoos, just like he had ever since Sam could walk. As he thought about these things he decided as much as he hated to admit it, and as much as he was Dean Winchester, demon hunter extraordinaire, he was also a big brother, and maybe he did miss Sam. Not that he would ever tell a soul. Definitely not. 
"Dean?" Sam interjected in to his thoughts. It was at that moment that Dean realized that he had been standing in the doorway for a slightly awkward amount of time, and the awkward feeling only intensified when he realized that he wasn't just staring into space, but he was staring directly at the youngest Winchester. "Huh," Dean started, "Oh. Sorry Sammy."
"It's Sam."
Ouch. That one hit hard. Dean didn't expect things to be exactly how they used to be before Stanford and Jess and the endless other list of shit that had gone on over the past few years, but that one stung. He had always been Sammy. And frankly as far as Dean was concerned he always would be.
He tossed his duffel down onto the bed closest to the door, and then plopped down on the bed. Folding his hands behind his head nonchalantly he looked over at Sam, who was sitting up straight on his bed, typing away on his laptop furiously. "Sam." He kept typing. "Sam." Still typing. "Hey college boy!" Dean pressed. Is he deaf? "Don't make me lick your face!" Sam looked up, startled. Well that one never fails, Dean thought wryly. "This spirit can wait, it's Thursday," upon farther inspection of his brother he added, "Plus, you should get some sleep, you look like hell."
That much was true, he knew Sam hadn't gotten much sleep since Jess. The first night he was back with Sam, he hadn't known what to do when his brother began screaming in his sleep. Dean shuddered ever so slightly as he remembered how his chest had tightened painfully at just how pitiful and small Sam had seemed in that moment. All he could see was the small baby he had carried out of the burning house in Kansas, following the order he had followed ever since. Take your brother and don't look back.
Apparently that night had been a particularly bad one, because that was three days ago, and he was fairly certain that his brother hadn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep since then. The youngest Winchester had since then gained a pretty impressive set of bags under his eyes, which were complimented by slightly glassy eyes. It had been two years, but he still knew the signs. Sam was exhausted. He thought his offer would be taken graciously by the younger, but yet when he looked at Sam's face he saw apprehension. Idiot, Dean thought to himself. The problem wasn't that Sam couldn't sleep, he decided, but that he didn't want to. And for one thing, Dean understood why. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to see your greatest nightmare every night like a broken record. But regardless, he was worried his brother might collapse if he tried to press on much longer.
"Sam," Dean consoled, don't make it a chic-flic moment, he coached to himself, "Hey, I know you don't wanna sleep because of Jess," Sam flinched at her name, "and trust me when I say I know it isn't easy, but you really at least have to try." His face still had fear written on a furrowed brow and turned down lips, "But Dean," Sam voiced, a slight hitch in his breath, "I'm, um, I'm..." Scared. His voice had trailed off before he had finished his sentence, but Dean heard every word. He closed the gap between him and his brother, fears of chic-flic moments aside. Because if that was what Sammy needed, that was what he needed, and Dean wasn't about to let him down. He sat down on the bed beside him, and Sam could feel some of the tension drift off him, if only a little, at the comforting weight of his big brother on the bed beside him.
"Hey," Dean consoled softly, "I get it." Sam shot Dean a slightly petulant look. "Ok, ok," he reasoned, "So maybe I don't get it about Jess, and Jesus, Sammy," he paused after this, just to see if Sam would correct him, and he was unsure if he was relieved or frightened when he didn't, "I wish I did." While Dean didn't say it out loud, the subtext was heard. I wish I could make your pain mine, take it all away. "While I don't understand what you're feeling, I do understand one thing." Dean drew in an audible breath, unsure of if he should speak his mind. The second he looked over into his brother's pleading, fearful hazel eyes however, he knew he needed to, that Sammy needed him to. "I, um, I," he glanced up at the ceiling, running a hand down his face. "Well, Sammy, I understand how to be a big brother, and I'm promising you," as the eldest Winchester spoke he began to have more conviction, "I'll sit here all night if that's what you need." Dean saw one small shadow of fear still falling across the younger man's face. "Sam, look at me," he whispered, wiping his palms involuntarily on his denim clad legs, "I'm gonna be right here." His muscles relaxed as he looked down at his little brother, who had visibly calmed at Dean's words. "Look at you Sammy," he chided gently, "only back for a week and you're making me go all chic-flic on you."
"Jerk," Sam mumbled in response, his voice becoming clouded as he welcomed the invisible pull of sleep.
"Bitch," Dean flashed back fondly, their standard trade off of name-callling falling back into place.
"De'" he slurred, half asleep.
"Yeah, Sammy."
"Thanks for waiting."
Dean's heart clenched painfully at the sheer innocence displayed by his brother.
"Always."
He carded a hand through the younger's long brown locks, the gesture feeling incredibly familiar despite having not done it for 2 years 19 days 16 hours. Not that he was counting. That was the last thing he thought before he relaxed into his own sleep, his brother fitting like a glove into his side, his arm strewn around Sam's shoulders, the perfect puzzle piece, like he always would be. Because despite everything, some things never change. Like monkeys and zoos.