Archive of Our Own ^beta

The motel room was quiet, an oppressive quiet, broken only by the buzzing of the old neon sign outside the window. The day had been free for both of them, with no cases to work on or stress them out. Now, at night, they had retreated to the motel room, and Sam had taken a few minutes to go outside, searching the Impala for an old notebook to research more about Skinwalkers. When he pushed the door open and stepped back into the room, notebook in arm, he caught sight of Dean.

His brother was bent over the table, tightening his weapons with mechanical movements, arranging them almost obsessively. A few clothes were thrown on the bed, and Dean was folding them quickly, as if he had to stay busy, not leaving a single moment unoccupied.

Sam opened his mouth, ready to ask if he wanted to go get food, but the sentence caught in his throat when Dean’s eyes lifted to meet his. Only Sam saw what Dean was trying to hide: tears. Large, bitter tears slowly ran down his cheeks, silent, and Dean didn’t even wipe them away, as if he had forgotten, as if he didn’t care, as if he were too tired to care. The wet shine, the redness around his eyelids: the image stabbed Sam’s heart like a knife. His eyes were full of pain, and Sam could feel that suffering too, hitting him deep in the gut, making his breath a little heavier. He had never seen Dean like this, and the fact that his big brother, the one he considered invincible, his fearless hero since childhood, had moments where he let his burdens spill out, crying in secret, shattered him.

“Dean… are you okay?” he asked softly, carefully, as if any louder sound could break something invisible.

He approached slowly, with soft steps, hands slightly raised, as if offering comfort but also trying not to scare him. It hurt to see him like this fragile, overwhelmed, letting the weight of the world crash down on him. He knew, because he felt that pressure too, that endless exhaustion. He knew Dean was human like anyone else, but he had never seen him cry, not even out of frustration, and it scared him a little. Dean was indeed overworked by everyone, but he had never thought he could be this hurt.

But as soon as Dean realized he had been caught, he reacted instantly. He quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand, tossing the rag he had been cleaning the gun with onto the table.

“I’m fine,” he said abruptly, his voice short, defensive.

Sam stopped in front of him, trying to meet his gaze.

“Dean, you don’t have to—”

“I told you I’m fine, Sam!” Dean snapped, louder this time. “I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.”

The word ever hung heavily between them, cold, like a slammed door in Sam’s face, each syllable hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Sam swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice.

“It’s not a shame,” he whispered, almost pleading.

But Dean was already shaking his head, refusing to listen. He threw his shirt onto the bed, dropped onto the mattress, and with a nervous motion, turned on the TV. The blue light highlighted his still-damp face, but his gaze was fixed on the screen, completely ignoring Sam.

Sam stood motionless for a few seconds, heart heavy, hands empty, unsure what to do with them. He wanted to reach out, to tell him he wasn’t alone. But between them, a harsh, sudden wall had risen, which Dean guarded desperately.

Sam still stood by the table, looking at Dean with pleading eyes. He wondered how many more times he would have to experience this moment: Dean raising walls, refusing any weakness, pretending to be unshakable, even when tears betrayed his soul. He had always blamed John for that, for raising Dean to always be strong, to never show what he felt, to see pain as a flaw. But what tore him apart now was that Dean wasn’t crying over anything specific, not after a fight, not after a tangible loss. He was crying simply because it was too much, because he was overwhelmed.

And he refused to let Sam be there.

Sam felt something break inside him. He felt rejected, but more than that, helpless. He had always wanted to support Dean, just as Dean had been his pillar, his anchor, his refuge countless times. But now, when it was his turn to offer that same support, Dean pushed him away, pretending the TV was more important than the brother looking at him desperately.

Pain rose in his chest, burning, and Sam abruptly got up, looking for a corner to collapse in where he wouldn’t be seen. He quietly closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, letting himself slide onto the cold tile.

Tears filled his eyes before he realized it. He bit his lip, trying to stay quiet, but hiccups escaped between his teeth. He wanted to scream, to break something, to shake Dean until he understood he didn’t have to be alone. But he knew that would only hurt him more, only push Dean further away.

He buried his face in his hands. All his life, he had felt like he had disappointed Dean, with leaving for Stanford, with his decisions, with his mistakes. And now, here, at the moment when Dean needed him, he wasn’t allowed in. He felt insignificant, excluded from his brother’s inner world, yet the paradox hit him even harder: Dean was his world. And all he wanted was for Dean to be happy, even if that didn’t include him. At that moment, he realized he had never had access to his brother’s feelings and emotions, and a sharp pain settled suddenly in his soul. Dean had never trusted him, had never found him worthy of his feelings, and that hurt more than he could imagine. Sam had shared everything with Dean, even his smallest secrets, had shown his frustrations, had cried, but Dean couldn’t do the same. Tears, which had gathered in his eyes, now streamed down his cheeks again in greater numbers, wetting his face and falling onto the cold bathroom floor.

He quickly wiped his face, splashed cold water on his cheeks, hoping the redness and traces of crying were gone. He hoped to erase any trace of the deep hurt that his brother, his world, the most important person in the universe, the person he would sacrifice himself for in a second, didn’t trust him and didn’t find him worthy of his emotions. He took a deep breath and, after a few moments, returned to the room. He had to get past it, accepting Dean’s decision. Deep down, he understood why Dean couldn’t trust him. How could Dean show his feelings to the annoying younger brother who couldn’t handle things on his own? Why would he cry in front of a child who always cried, who sought comfort, who was spoiled?

Dean was no longer watching the TV. The device hummed quietly, casting blue shadows across his stone-cold, impassive face. He was lying on his back, eyes closed, or perhaps just pretending to sleep. Sam couldn’t tell.

He slowly lay down on his bed, turning his head toward Dean.

“Still watching TV?” he asked, voice barely audible.

No answer. Only Dean’s steady, heavy breathing. Sam bit his lip again, then, hesitantly, reached for the remote and turned off the device. He’s ignoring me, Sam thought regretfully. The room plunged into complete darkness.

He turned onto his side, eyes fixed on the invisible ceiling, letting the silence settle between them. He glanced at Dean, who remained like a stone statue, unmoving, staring blankly at the off TV. Sam turned abruptly, unable to bear seeing Dean like that.

---

The morning sunlight entered through the blinds, illuminating the dusty corners and the rumpled bed. Sam woke with the feeling that the night hadn’t passed at all, that only ten minutes had gone by since he had seen Dean vulnerable, with tears in his eyes. The bitter memories reminded him suddenly of Dean’s presence, so he got up quickly to see if Dean was still in the room, hadn’t left to put distance between them, as he usually did when he didn’t want to talk about his feelings. For a second, he feared the room would be empty, but he saw Dean already on his feet, moving through the room like a man who couldn’t find his place, hands busy with maps and notes, and he felt a partial relief. At least he was there, at least he hadn’t withdrawn further. Probably Sam had been noisy waking up, because Dean immediately lifted his gaze to his tired eyes, then said sharply:

“I’m sorry about last night.”

The words surprised him but did not comfort him. Sam felt a sting in his chest, as if that rushed apology was just an obstacle in the way of the truth.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with… crying. It’s normal.”

He expected Dean to at least crack a little, to show a fragment of trust, to let down his guard for even a fraction of a second, to reveal the harsh truth. But instead, he saw the tension in his muscles, the gaze avoiding contact, the unease in his movements, the distance from the bed he was on.

“I said I’m sorry, okay? We don’t need to make a big deal out of it.”

Sam bit his lip, trying to find a bridge. He wanted to convince Dean to be open, not ashamed of his feelings. Fuck you, Dad, Sam thought, knowing John’s harsh words and the way Dean had spent his childhood, seeing the world so cruelly from a young age, made him hide his feelings. And how he took care of you at an age when a normal child couldn’t even care for himself! screamed the voice in Sam’s head, feeling a deep guilt.

“But we’re not making a big deal… maybe it would be easier if—”

He didn’t get to finish, as Dean’s voice cut in, harsher, sharper:

“Sammy, I said we’re leaving it alone!”

The anger and irritation in Dean’s tone hit Sam like a punch to the stomach. Sam felt all the silent fears he carried confirmed: that he was a burden, that his presence only added weight, and the thought that maybe he was the reason Dean cried in secret kept sneaking into his mind like an alarm. If those tears weren’t triggered by a concrete reason, then maybe just being there was too much for Dean.

He felt his throat tighten, his vision blur, but he didn’t want it to show. He abandoned any reply, any attempt to reach Dean. Maybe I don’t deserve this, he told himself. I can’t force him to do this, but he should confide in someone! I have to help him release his feelings, at least that much!

Dean quickly returned to the maps, as if nothing had happened, voice short, cold:

“We need to deal with the Skinwalker. No time for nonsense.”

Sam stayed still for a few moments, trying to push away his thoughts, but every word from Dean was a new weight. He swallowed the lump in his throat, slightly nodded, and obeyed.

“Yes… as you want.”

And in that moment, Sam knew he had no choice but to play by Dean’s rules. It was the only way to stay close to him, even if it meant suppressing his own tears and his desire to help Dean and penetrate the complicated mind of his brother. I want to make him happy.

 

---

The day unfolded in a kind of weary routine, with long drives and rare words. Dean gripped the wheel tightly, eyes fixed on the road, while Sam, in the passenger seat, felt trapped between oppressive silence and his own thoughts. The furious tone from that morning still echoed in his mind, each syllable a verdict: you’re not welcome in this part of my life.

Sam wanted to say something, but every time he took a deep breath and gathered courage, he was met by Dean’s sharp silence and gave up. So he did what he knew he could do without disturbing him.

They stopped at a gas station. Dean only wanted coffee, but Sam went and brought hamburgers, without asking if he was hungry. Dean seemed delighted with the fast food, and Sam felt a spark of light in his heart, lasting only a second, knowing that a simple gesture wouldn’t fix or ease the events of the previous night.

In the Impala, when Dean put his hand on the stereo, Sam didn’t protest. He didn’t try to convince him to change the song to something quieter. He let the guitar scream from the speakers, even though it gave him a headache. If it made Dean forget, even for a few minutes, it was worth it.

All day, Sam felt small, insignificant, as if his only value was to smooth Dean’s path, to make things easier for him. Yet even in that quiet submission, the question gnawed at him: if everything I do doesn’t matter? If I’m just another burden for him?

Dean seemed to recover partially, more active, more present, busy with plans for the Skinwalker. He threw himself into discussions about maps, possible routes, tracking signs. Sam listened, nodded, let him take complete control. He didn’t want to risk another moment of anger, another slammed wall, another total refusal.

But inside, every absent smile he received, every glance that passed him by, hurt more than he wanted to admit, because he realized that probably those signs, which were considered signs of happiness, could actually be a facade, hiding a terrible pain he couldn’t reach.

And yet, that evening, when they arrived at the bar, Sam felt the desire to see Dean happy twist inside him like a knife. Maybe Dean’s happiness couldn’t come from him. Maybe it had to come from someone else. A girl, a fleeting night, a drink. If he couldn’t be the support Dean needed, he had to at least give him the chance to find comfort elsewhere.

The bar was noisy, with laughter and clinking glasses, and the warm light made the shadows appear softer. Dean had lifted his gaze over Sam’s shoulder toward a brunette, who kept giving obvious signs, showing interest in him. Women always seemed attracted to Dean, and Sam understood perfectly, as he constantly felt drawn like a magnet to his brother’s aura… in a way that wasn’t exactly brotherly. Dean’s attractiveness seemed to work on any human with eyes. Dean noticed the woman’s sensual glances, smiled faintly, but didn’t move in that direction.

Sam wet his lips, feeling that heavy emptiness in his stomach again.

“You should go to her,” he said shortly, with a tilt of his chin toward the woman.

Dean laughed, muffled, swirling the glass in his hand, as if Sam had said the dumbest thing.

“What, are you joking?”

“I’m not joking,” Sam said seriously, leaning against the backrest. “She’s cute. And she’s looking at you only. I bet she’s not just looking from afar.”

Dean studied him carefully, skeptical, trying to read his intentions.

“Sammy… you’re usually the one who tugs my sleeve to calm me down. What’s the deal now?”

Sam always tried to convince Dean not to flirt with people he’d never see again, always on the road, giving false hopes. Yet only he knew the real reason was to keep him to himself, seething with jealousy whenever he saw Dean smile seductively at a pretty blonde. Now, however, he was determined to make Dean happy, and if that meant someone else…

“No deal. Just… go have fun.”

He pushed his chair back abruptly and stood, as if his decision was final. “I’m going back to the motel.”

But Dean’s hand grabbed his wrist firmly before he could take a step. His gaze, now serious, no longer held any trace of a smile.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Sam hesitated, almost wanting to say “nothing,” but the intensity in Dean’s eyes left the lie stuck in his throat.

“Today… you were different,” Dean said. “You did everything my way, without opposing, like you usually do. You bought me hamburgers, the things you consider the grossest and unhealthiest on the planet, let me play any music in the Impala without commenting, even if it drove you crazy, and now you’re sending me to that very sexy brunette to have fun tonight… what happened?”

Sam realized bitterly, with a knot in his stomach, that his perfect attitude toward his brother and his needs was alien to Dean.

“I just… because… I want to see you okay, Dean. Happy. Without the responsibility of an idiot brother weighing on you.”

Dean’s face changed suddenly, from slightly concerned to tense. His eyes darkened, jaw clenched with tension.

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re not an idiot, Sammy. Never have been, never will be. I don’t even know how you could think that!”

Sam stayed still, biting his lip, eyes beginning to glisten.

Dean leaned slightly toward him, lowering his voice so only Sam could hear.

“I’m not unhappy with you. Not at all. But I don’t understand why….” He paused, then, as if having a revelation, his eyes widened. “You’re doing this because you saw me crying? Sam, I didn’t cry because of you. Never. Just… sometimes it’s too much. And I don’t want to put little burdens on you too.”

Sam lifted his gaze, pain mixed with hope in his eyes.

“It wouldn’t be a burden, Dean. Your feelings can’t be a burden, not at all! On the contrary, I want to know.”

Dean shook his head, unable to give in, though Sam’s voice shook his armor. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bill, and placed it on the table next to their drinks.

“Let’s go,” he said shortly.

His palm lingered briefly on the back of Sam’s chair, an almost hesitant gesture, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t.

---

The motel room smelled of dust and old whiskey. Dean closed the door but didn’t move immediately. He leaned against it for a few seconds, back tense, fists clenched. Sam, in the middle of the room, watched in silence, feeling the air between them heavy, oppressive.

Finally, Dean pulled away from the door and stepped slowly toward him. He didn’t seem sure of each step, as if wanting to reconsider at every moment, analyzing every word or thought in his mind. Sam’s eyes followed him, questioning, but he didn’t push, a little afraid of what he would say.

“Sam…”

Dean’s voice was hoarse, cut by something deep. He stopped right in front of him and, with a determined motion, took Sam’s hands in his own. They were warm, trembling slightly.

“The truth is… the reason I cried… wasn’t what you think…”

Sam felt his chest tighten.

Dean took a deep breath, as if each word cut him from the inside.

“I keep thinking that, one day… you’re going to choose a different path. A normal life, without me. And, Sammy… just the thought of it… it destroys me. It’s like someone’s ripping the air from my lungs. Tearing me apart.”

Sam blinked rapidly, unable to react immediately. He hadn’t expected this. All day he had built in his mind the idea that Dean was angry with him, that he was just a burden. And now, these words were breaking down the walls he had built inside.

Suddenly, he stepped forward and pulled Dean into his chest. His arms were firm, desperate, as if trying to glue him to himself forever, trying to protect him from the outside world. Dean flinched, surprised by the intensity of the gesture, but he didn’t pull away—instead, he melted into the touch after a few seconds.

As they hugged tightly, clinging to each other like anchors, Sam whispered into Dean’s ear, his voice choked with tears:

“I’ll never leave you. Never, Dean. No matter what happens. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Dean’s breath caught, almost a sigh. He rested his forehead on Sam’s shoulder for a moment, then slowly pulled back just enough to see his face.

He lifted Sam’s hands and placed them on his cheeks, holding them there almost reverently. He looked at him with a heart-wrenching intensity, as if Sam were the only real thing in a world falling apart.

Sam felt his heart explode in his chest. Dean’s gaze burned him. He was afraid to breathe, fearing he might shatter the moment. Slowly, he leaned his forehead toward Dean’s, and the space between them became almost unbearably small.

Dean didn’t pull away. On the contrary, he leaned in too, until their noses barely touched. Their breaths mingled, warm and eager. For a whole second, they stayed like that, both caught between fear and longing.

Then, as if surrendering to the same force, their lips met. At first hesitant—a soft, trembling kiss, tentative, as if trying to be sure the other wanted the same thing. But when Sam dug his fingers into Dean’s shoulders and pulled him closer, Dean responded with the same intensity, deepening the kiss.

Everything that had been silence, pain, and guilt now poured out through their touch. The kiss was torn by the need to cling to each other, yet full of the tenderness of what they had never dared to say. The soft contact of their lips lingered deeply, leaving behind warm, flushed skin.

When they finally parted, their lips still brushed lightly, and their foreheads remained pressed together.

Dean let a faint smile escape, tired and vulnerable. Sam, his eyes wet, caressed his cheek with his thumb, as if unwilling to let him disappear from reality.

“I told you,” Sam whispered, his voice trembling. “I’ll never leave you.”