pathossam:

“You okay, Sammy?”

Sam startles, blinking out of his reverie. He knows he’s staring, but he just can’t help it. It’s been three long months without his brother, three long months with an insane archangel in the driver’s seat of his brother’s body, and he can’t look away. He’s so grateful for every single part of him– the grey hairs, the deep lines carved into his cheeks, even the weary set of his shoulders. 

Sharing a nightcap before bed, Sam has to admit that he’s drinking slowly. He’s so afraid of letting Dean out of his sight that it’s embarrassing, but he needs to be able to see him. He’s been dreading their separation at bedtime all day, all during the drive back to the Bunker.

Sam nods his head vaguely, a very unsure answer to Dean’s unsure question. They both know he’s not okay. They both know Dean’s not okay. They’re much better than they were, but there’s something they need. A hug, or a touch, a reconnection of body, mind and spirit. But they still, after all this time, don’t know how to ask for it. 

“Missed you,” Dean says quietly, with a soft little Sam-only smile.

Sam breaks first. He falls forward out of his chair, landing hard on his knees in front of his brother.

”Missed you, big brother,” he sobs, wrapping his long arms around Dean’s waist, burying his tear-soaked cheeks into his brother’s belly. “Missed you so bad, Dean. Don’t leave me again, p-please, I– I can’t– I’m not– you’re everything, and I–”

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, his rough hands gentle in Sam’s dirty, unkempt hair, shushing him gently as Sam sobs and sobs, pouring out his grief into the hands of the only person who could ever hold it. “Look at me, Sam. Look at me, baby.”

The pet name causes Sam to slowly pick up his face from Dean’s stomach, sniffling and looking as all-around pathetic as he feels. A 35-year-old man needing his big brother this bad is such a joke; he’s so useless and–

That thought is cut off by the light press of Dean’s lips against his. He gasps wetly against Dean’s mouth, balling his fists into Dean’s shirt. He’s wanted Dean for so long he stopped hoping for it, for fear of not having it killing him.

“Michael was always reading your mind,” Dean tells him around sweet, life-affirming presses of his soft mouth. “Imagine my surprise when he picked this up– that, that you wanted me like– like–”

“Like this?” Sam murmurs, climbing into Dean’s lap, folding his long limbs so he can eat at his brother’s mouth, drink from his lips, live off his sustenance alone. 

Dean groans as Sam’s tongue trails the seam of his mouth. “He told me how you felt to– to hurt me, to make me turn away from you. But, god, Sammy– it– it just made me stronger, made me that much more determined to get back to you. So I could–”

“Have me?” Sam guesses. “God, Dean. Have me. Have me. I’m yours– to, to have. So have me.”

Dean moans against Sam’s pleading mouth, and he does what Sam asks. He has him. 

But more importantly, he keeps him.