cinnamonanddean:

In the aftermath, Dean forgets all about the bullet.

It drops onto the floor of his room with a metallic “plink!” when he tosses his jacket onto the back of his chair. He hears the sound, but he’s busy yanking the t-shirt stained with too many bodily fluids from too many people over his head and hurling it (with a little more force than needed) in the direction of his garbage can.

There’s dried blood on his stomach. He doesn’t want to think about whose it might be, so he looks for distraction and finds it in the glint of steel on the floor.

He stoops and picks up the bullet, rolling it in the palm of his hand. It’s innocuous enough now, harmless and innocent in his grasp, but this little thing nearly cost him Sam. Nearly cost him everything.

He remembers telling Sam through gritted teeth that they’re going to keep this one, that it’ll be a memento. Looking at it now, he can’t think of anything he wants to remember less than today’s events. 

He closes his hand around the bullet, making a fist, and storms out of his room, shirtlessness unheeded. 

Sam is in bed, doing as he’s told for once. He’d begged for a shower but Dean had been inexorable, threatening to strap Sam down. He’d do it, too. They both know it. 

He’s in bed, but not asleep – Dean supposes he’ll give his brother that one. He’s poring over some book with tiny-ass writing that is too small for the feeble light of his desk lamp, but Sam’s a stubborn bastard. 

Dean figures that stubborness may have been all that kept this room from being empty forever, so he doesn’t say anything. 

As Sam jerks his head up, concern for Dean’s abrupt entry overlaying the exhaustion on his face, Dean stalks over to the bed and holds out his clenched fist. Perplexed, Sam reaches out. When his fingers brush over Dean’s, slowly uncurling the tightly-held digits, Dean does his best to ignore the shiver that rolls down his spine at the gentle touch. 

Sam looks down at the bullet and then up at him, eyes glimmering with something Dean can’t put a name to. 

“I know I said we’d keep it,” Dean says gruffly, covering the tremour in his voice with roughness, “but I don’t want to see it again. Ever.” He frowns. “Unless you do.” 

Sam takes the bullet in too-clean fingers – Dean had seen the blood caked in his nailbeds, knows that Sam would have scrubbed his hands to rid himself of any trace – and rolls it for a few seconds before setting it on the bedside table. Wordlessly, he turns back to Dean, the same hand outstretched, waiting.

When Dean puts his own hand in Sam’s, his brother tugs him forward, pulling him bodily into the bed, dragging him along until he’s spooned right up against Sam’s warm chest. He can feel Sam’s heart beating, strong and steady, and he presses back into the rhythm, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

Sam’s arms come around him, solid and comforting, and Dean closes his eyes against the reflection of the lamp on the bullet and loses himself in his brother’s embrace.