#we have one of those pillow circle not cone things coming tomorrow

[fbwzoo]

Animal motherhood. Addy won't leave a lump on her leg alone, so we put cone on. She's having a panic attack over it, so trampled half the living room and then me, deciding I'm the required comfort.

Emma is freaked out by sister's new accessory, and then upset bc sister took Her Spot. Spring is upset bc everyone else is upset and was shooed over to his dad to give me one less problem. And in the background of all of this, Shilo keeps coming by to scream at me bc he wants different food than what he has. 🤦🤦🤦

[doctor--idiot]

12x20 Coda

i was feeling emotional so…

They don’t come home until late, seven-hour drive back to Lebanon even at night, and Sam feels groggy stumbling through the front door and down the stairs. He caught about half an hour of shut-eye in the car somewhere around the state line but it didn’t serve to remedy any of the exhaustion.

“I keep calling mom but she doesn’t answer.” Dean drops his duffel bag on the table in the war room, frowning at his phone. He looks more or less awake but it’s a front. His skin is too pale and Sam saw him wavering when he got out of the car, catching himself against the roof and playing it off as a misstep.

Sam rubs his eyes. “Yeah. We’ll … check on her in the morning.”

Dean looks over at him, eyes dark in the low light. His lip curls. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Alright, Han Solo,” Sam sighs, “I’ll make you a deal. You’ll get some sleep and I’ll keep trying. Maybe I can reach Mick or that asshole Ketch, see if they know something.”

Dean twirls his phone between his fingers for a moment before he looks up, his eyes half-lidded. “Fine, yeah, you’re right. There’s nothing we can do tonight. Besides, I’m not the only one who needs some sleep.”

Sam opens his mouth but Dean cuts him off, “If you say ‘I’m fine’, dear God, I’ll hit you.”

Despite himself, despite everything, the non-threat shakes a laugh from Sam’s chest. “Noted. The only thing I was gonna say was: We’ll head out to the base first thing in the morning.”

Dean looks down at his phone again before he pockets it with a sigh. The tiniest of smiles curves his mouth when he says, “Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam isn’t surprised that he can’t sleep. Despite the tiredness behind his temples, the weight in his limbs, his mind is still circling around the unnecessary death of yet another friend. He’s washed his hands at least three times but they still feel sticky, still warm, he can still feel the phantom of hot scarlet life spilling, Alicia gasping and pleading for something, anything.

What’s worse, he can still see Max’s face when he closes his eyes now, the devastation and despair, so familiar and yet so far away, because he got every second chance he’s asked for. Max doesn’t, won’t. Or, at least, Sam assumes he won’t. He can’t say for certain which one he wants it to be. He only knows what he would do in Max’s stead and it’s not the right thing.

He curls his shaky hands into fists under the pillow. Squeezes his eyes shut against the threatening wetness and just breathes.

He falls asleep eventually but a nightmare creeps up in which Alicia’s twisted body becomes Dean’s, her lifeless face morphing into another one, and Max’s pain becomes Sam’s own, and Sam wakes, startled, with a gasp.

Pulse and breath stuttering in his chest, in his throat, he throws back the blanket with unsteady hands. Bare feet find the cold floor and the tap-swoosh of his heels and the bottom of his sweatpants dragging over the linoleum is the only sound for a while until Sam raps his knuckles against the wood of the door to Dean’s room.

He nudges it open with his hip, cone of light from the hallway seeping into Dean’s sleep-addled form as he shifts and sits up, blinking against the brightness. “

“S’mmy?” Voice dream-rough, a tired slur. “Couldn’ sleep, huh?”

Sam says nothing, stands in the doorway, blocking most of the light. He isn’t exactly sure what he’s doing here, doesn’t know what he needs from Dean, all he knows is that he wants to be here.

It becomes irrelevant when Dean scoots aside without further questioning.

It’s sleep-warm under the blanket. Sam’s hip sinks into the memory foam mattress as he turns onto his side and he’ll probably never get used to that but Dean seems to enjoy it. Dean is lying on his stomach, his head pillowed on his arms. He’s looking up at Sam from under mostly closed eyes. His face is open and soft, skin warm, body pliant, and Sam is hit with the urgent and overwhelming desire to reach out, splay his hand over the small of Dean’s back and feel the curve in his spine against his own palm.

“Hey,” Dean says softly, “You okay?”

He knows the answer to that but Sam says it anyway. “No. I’m not. I can’t stop thinking about–”

Dean shushes him quietly, fingers curling around Sam’s biceps, and Sam shivers despite Dean’s body heat.

“Sammy,” Dean says and it doesn’t mean anything, except it’s always meant everything to Sam. For all it’s worth, Dean could probably say anything to him, babbling nonsense about movies or cars, and just his voice would be enough to calm Sam at least a little bit. But the way he says his name, says that name, a childhood nickname that’s stuck around stubbornly through all those years, never fails to strike a special chord of its own. It’s so loaded with emotion, with promises, sounds almost like a prayer sometimes, and Sam doesn’t think he could ever live without it.

He exhales heavily, closing his eyes for a moment. “Do you think he’ll be okay–I mean–” He stops, swallows.

Dean’s hand squeezes his arm for a moment before his grip loosens and he slides his palm over Sam’s chest, right over his tattoo, right over his heart. Sam holds himself utterly still. Barely dares to breathe for fear of making Dean pull back. The last thing he wants is for Dean to stop touching him.

He opens his eyes again and finds Dean looking at him. “I don’t know,” Dean says, almost too quiet, “I don’t know, Sammy. I really fucking hope so but … I don’t know. I just know that–that I wouldn’t be if I were him.”

Sam’s eyes flutter closed automatically when Dean’s knuckles brush along his jaw. “I need you to know that it’s not your fault. There wasn’t anything else you could have done.”

“If I’d just–”

Sam can feel Dean shake his head. “No, Sam. Don’t–Don’t do that.” His fingers flex against Sam’s throat before dropping back down to his chest and Sam is tempted to intertwine their fingers.

He nods. It’s all he can do, his throat closing up around all the words he wants to say but can’t. He takes a chance and covers his brother’s hand with his own, their combined body heat curling around his ribcage. He no longer feels cold.

“You know,” he raps, “Death always said it but I just never–just never believed it, I guess.”

Dean shifts but not away. Just … getting comfortable. He rests his head on his elbow, facing Sam. “Said what?”

“That we’re special. I mean, I think he would’ve called it ‘annoying’ but … in any case, we got more second chances that we deserved, really.”

Contrary to Sam’s expectations, Dean’s mouth stretches into a genuine smile. “Well,” he says with audible amusement, “I like to think it’s our reward for all the hard work we do.”

Sam snorts. He doesn’t say that they are no different from anyone else. From Max and Alicia, who risk their lives just as much as they do. Sam doesn’t think he deserves any special treatment but he certainly isn’t going to complain about it. Because if there is one thing he knows, it’s that there is no way in hell he would be able to do any of this without Dean. He wouldn’t want to.

“What else is on your mind?” Dean asks, “What’s bothering you?”

Sam isn’t sure he could tell his brother even if he wanted to. It’s too jumbled up, confusion and lingering shock from today still trapped in his bones, and he is too tired to make sense of it right now.

“Isn’t that enough?” he returns and Dean smiles again. That same, honest, open smile that Sam so rarely gets too see. Maybe it’s because Sam roused him from sleep not long ago, maybe it’s something else.

“It’s enough.”

Sam nods. Gratitude and comfort surging through him, dragging him deeper into the mattress, toward the edge of sleep. He closes his eyes again.

He hears, “Sam, you need to sleep. I swear to you, you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Sam thinks he can feel the brush of Dean’s fingers on his cheek, guiding a stray piece of hair out of the way. He follows with his own hand until he can wrap his fingers around Dean’s wrist, trapping it against the side of his face. Dean isn’t as close as Sam would like but he can smell him anyway, familiar scent of soap and aftershave and something akin to cinnamon.

He blinks his eyes open for a moment and reaches out, his hands finding Dean’s waist and he wraps his arms around him, pulling him into the curve of his own body. Dean squawks, naturally, protests and none-too-quietly but Sam can ignore it in favor of pressing his nose into the back of Dean’s neck where his spiky hair stops at the nape. He didn’t shower earlier, so it still smells slightly like sweat and hair gel and Sam breathes it all in.

“Girl,” Dean chides quietly, a little mockingly maybe but not at all hostile. The fact that he isn’t making a move whatsoever to extricate himself from Sam is telling.

“Why do I gotta be the little spoon?” he mutters after a moment, dragging his vowels, already half-asleep again.

Sam smiles. Doesn’t bother answering.