Title: That Angel's Got Nothin' On You
Author: bjhearter/mischa
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Mild incestuousnessing.
Wordcount: 3107.
Summary: Takes place right after Metamorphosis. Sam is freaked to say the least, but is it Dean he's scared of?
Disclaimer: If only, man. All belongs to the Kripke.
Note: This is I guess a coda to episode 404, Metamorphosis. I'm a huge fan of protective!bigbrother!Dean and innocent!baby!Sammy, therefore you might catch a hint of that here and there, heh. ;)
Also, I wrote this whole thing like a day after the epi aired, and I didn't really care about consider how some of the characters might change later during the season, so. Blah, read, you'll get what I mean. :)


The drive continued in uncomfortable silence. Yet, Sam almost didn't want it to end, didn't want them to stop. Their car (their home) felt safe, he felt surrounded by metal comfort, by his brother who always (always) emits that protective vibe, by darkness that engulfs them whole. The outside world was overwhelming him right now, suffocating and exposing him, and he didn't want to be out there in it. 

They do stop however, once they reach the first motel on the map, (and what town is this again?) and Dean mumbles something to himself about shower and possible stitches and freakin' sleep. Sam waits in the car for Dean to get them a room, since the latter of the boys has less bruises on his face and they don't really want to drive fast to the next town when Sammy flashes the clerk his fresh slashes and gashes and scares the lady half to death. So he waits. Dean comes out and gets in the driver's seat and drives the little distance to park in front of room 16.

Dean's silent again as he gets their duffels and bags out of the trunk and it's starting to frighten Sam a little. Okay, a lot. Sam thought they talked this out (as best as Winchesters can talk things out), that his recent decision-the one he'd announced to Dean in the car-would patch things up and Dean wouldn't be angry anymore. But right now, psychic abilities or not, Sam couldn't even begin to figure out what's going on inside his brother's head.


Dean drops his duffel on the bed closest to the door and Sam's on the other. He immediately gets the first aid kit out and puts it on the table, not wanting to forget to check Sam's wounds.

"Take a shower," he tells Sam who was half-laying on his bed with his eyes closed. "I'm gonna get us somethin' to eat, when I get back I'll stitch you up." He sounds pissed and Sam sighs. Dean heads for the door but he abruptly stops when he notices Sam hasn't moved yet. "Today, Sam!" Sam jumps then, "Uh, okay, alright," and he hears the door slam shut. Crap.


Twenty minutes later, Sam is in his clean, soft sweat pants and sleeping shirt, hair still a little wet, bangs (too long) sticking to his forehead, face flushed from the hot shower, and Dean's breath hitches as he stands at the door, watching. His little brother looked so innocent and sweet, like his little Sammy again, sorting through the first aid kit to make sure everything was there (typical geek-boy.) He wonders how it's possible that this kid sitting at the table in front of him is the same guy he wanted to beat the shit out of two days ago (never again never again never again) when he found him with demon-bitch.


Two days ago, all he wanted to do was leave, even though he knew he would never really do it, never really go through with it. Two days ago, all he knew was that he wanted to hurt Sam, show him how he made Dean feel. But now... he just wants to go over there and patch his baby brother up, brush the hair out of his eyes, hug him; just to see if it would still feel the same after what he knew about his little brother, just to see if Sammy would still hold on to Dean like Dean's the air he breathes and without him he'll drown; he'll fall and shatter and disappear into nothingness. Or, maybe, it'd just be a pat on the back and a half-assed shove and a "dude, missin' the ladies or somethin'?" 


Now, Sam just winces a little, "˜probably a headache' Dean thinks, and when he looks up at Dean, a little smile escapes Sam before he could catch himself, and just as quickly disappears, lowering his eyes. But Dean can read the kid better than he can read a skin mag (yes, there's reading material in there). It was as if Sam forgot for a minute what had been going on between them before and suddenly thought 'you moron, Dean is pissed at you and you're grinning at him like an idiot!' and stopped, and Dean hates when something takes that smile away, all beautiful teeth and dimples; hates that he doesn't get to see it that often. And to know that he just took it away? He mentally kicks himself in the jewels. But whatever. He is still a little mad. He plans to drag this out as long as possible.


He clears his throat and puts the bag of take-out on his bed, and his jacket follows. "Eat," and starts for the bathroom while unbuttoning his shirt. "Um, what about you?" Sam practically whispers, suddenly afraid to raise his voice any higher. Dean however, has no problem turning up the volume. "I said eat! You're not taking any painkillers on an empty stomach, asshat!" and slams a door for the second time in one hour. 'Oh, yeah. He just adores me to little teeny pieces' thought Sam, as he reaches for the bag of sandwiches. As exhausted as he is though, Sam knew no sleep is going to come tonight when he knows his big brother is fuming at him, probably reaching a whole new level of hatred.


He tries to get "burning flesh" out of his mind as he forces himself to take three bites out of the chicken sandwich, right before he rips a huge chunk of it, wraps it in a napkin and throws it in the trash. He had to learn this trick when he was little to use on his dad. Never thought he'd have to use it on Dean though. Dean who used to signal him when Dad wasn't looking, and mouth 'Now! Go!' and Sam would wrap half of the pizza/burger/taco/sandwich in his napkin and pass it to his brother from under the table, giggling a little. (Dean knew Sammy's stomach better than his dad did, knew how much it can take.) Sam would grin and say, "All done, dad! Can I go finish my homework now?" and John would glance up from his book at Sam's plate, nod and say, "Well you're not gonna eat those crumbs, are ya son? I mean, you're no Dean," Sam would snort and Dean would frown up at his dad, then shrug, unwrap the napkin and finish Sammy's dinner for him.


Sam's thoughts are interrupted when the bathroom door opens and Dean storms out in nothing but a towel, (not staring not staring oh God not staring) and heads for his duffel, rummaging through for some clean clothes, cursing himself under his breath for not doing any laundry this week. He puts on his last clean pair of sweat pants and throws the towel onto the bed. He turns around to look at Sam, who's staring at him, and Sam swallows audibly. Dean frowns, 'what is with him? Is he scared of me, or something?'


"N...nothing. What?"

"You eat?"

"Yeah. Done."

"Alright, c'mere."

Sam stares. Again. "Huh?" Dean sets his jaw, thinks 'did he bang his head that bad tonight, or was he always this slow?'


"Get over here so I can look at those cuts on your big-ass forehead," he turns on the lamp on the nightstand (no more crashing lamps into walls no more scaring Sammy no more) and sits near the edge of his bed. Sam moves carefully to sit near the edge of his own bed, facing Dean, knees touching. He hands him the kit, and leans in a little, just a little. He looks at Dean and their eyes lock for a moment, and Dean sees guilt, fear, sadness swimming in his little brother's eyes and he wishes he could just take it all away. Wishes he could erase everything bad that had to happen to Sammy because of him.

He finishes up quickly (can't take his staring can't pretend he's not can't), he knows, he knows Sam's hurt and just wants Dean to talk to him, make him feel better, even though he said he didn't want to talk anymore. He knows. Not yet, though. Not yet.


Dean gets up, puts the kit on the table, and puts on a t-shirt.

"Thanks... Uh, do you want me to look at yours?" Sam's still practically whispering, looking down at his feet.


Sam flinches at Dean's bark, looks up at him, all bangs and hurt puppy dog eyes. Dean sighs.

"I already did it, I'm good," he explains.


"Oh. Sorry," he immediately knows how dumb that sounded, but habit is habit, and 'sorry' fixes things in their "˜household' (sometimes) and he's badly aching for this to be fixed.


Sam goes to brush his teeth, and Dean puts the food away, still contemplating eating something, but knowing it'll mean puking afterwards. Nah, breakfast sounds better. Hopefully the image (and scent) of Barbecued Longpig would have dissolved by then. He turns the lights off and gets in his bed.


Sam switches the bathroom light off, pauses, then switches it back on and steps out. Dean raises an eyebrow at him and Sam stops when he nears his bed.


"Uh... would it, um, do you mind if I leave that on..?" and Dean thinks the kid has definitely lost it. He doesn't let his worry show, though. "Whatever, Samantha," and inwardly winces at how harsh that came out, how everything he's said and done to Sam lately came out harsher than he intended.


Sam lets go of the breath he was holding, gets in his bed, and turns off the lamp. The room is instantly so dark and quiet that it startles Sam, and he has to physically hold himself from reaching over again and turning the light back on. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the light from the bathroom to seep in the room, for the moonlight to leak between the curtains. He slowly opens his eyes, registers the glow coming from the corner and wonders why he hasn't relaxed yet. Wonders why exactly is he petrified of the dark all of a sudden, when his whole life it has practically been his comfort-zone.



Came out before he even knew it, and nothing. He knows there's no way Dean  fell asleep so quickly, knows he's freezing him out, knows he deserves it. He turns on his left side and faces the dull beige wall, his back to his brother.


And as he suspected, sleep is not in the vicinity. He's scared, and right now not sure of what, of who. But he really is and his brother hates him and he's tired and he's in pain (why does it hurt?) and it's too much and then, tears are dropping down onto his pillow. He's hugging himself and he's trying to be quiet, God he is, but Dean must've heard him 'cause the mattress dips when he sits next to him and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, struggling to turn the rigid kid on his back, and Sam hates that he manages to do it.





"Sammy, what is it? What's wrong, man? Hey... talk to me, c'mon." Dean's voice is just above a whisper, soaked with gentleness and protectiveness and Dean.


"I..." Sam tries, but he doesn't quite know what it is that's wrong with him, tears still streaming down his face, hates that he can't stop.


Dean holds him by the arms and lifts him up a little to get him to sit up, and burrows closer, their faces a mere breath apart. "God, Sammy," Dean realizes that his brother is shaking, won't meet his eyes.


"Hey! Look at me! Sam, what..? What's the matter, buddy?"



Sam sounded so far away, his brother's name strangled.


"Shh...c'mere," Dean hugs him, and Sam latches on tight.


"..You hate me."


"You know I don't, you butthead."


"I know, but... you really don't?"


Something inside Dean broke a little at that. He pulls Sam back to look him in the eyes; he needs to drill this into the kid's head.

"Sammy, honest to God, no matter what you do, I could never hate you, little bro. I just can't, even if sometimes you make me want to. You hearin' me?" Sam slowly nods. "'Kay. Now tell me where it hurts?"




Dean glances over at the nightstand and notices the bottle of painkillers. "You didn't take these?" Sam focuses his eyes on the object then shakes his head. "..Forgot. Sorry," Dean grabs his bottle of water and pops out two pills and puts them in Sam's palm. "Here, take "˜em," and Sam does.


He puts both his hands on the sides of Sam's face, thumbs away the tear streaks, and Sam is still not looking up at him.


"Look, I was mad, I was. But I'm not anymore, I promise. I know the freeze out can drive you nuts so I thought 'sweet revenge', is all. But Sammy, what happened? Huh? A minute ago you were doing okay, weren't you?"


"I'm just tired, Dean. I...I'll be fine."


"You sure?"


Sam nods. "Yeah, can I sleep now?"


"Yeah. Yeah, I'll get out of your hair-"


Just as Dean was standing up, Sam grabs his wrist and Dean stops.


"Sam? I'm gonna need to take that hand with me, kiddo,"


"I... just, um..." Sam's face and neck flash every shade of red and then some. Thankfully, Dean knows his little brother, and while there's no denying this new look on him is quite adorable and making all kinds of fluttery flutters in Dean's stomach, he doesn't want to bug him any more than he already has tonight. So he opts to put him out of his misery.


"You want me to crash here?" he asks, no mockery in his eyes, just love.


"...If you, if it's okay. Is it?"


"It is, if you tell me what the hell is scaring you so bad that you need a nightlight and somebody to bunk with?" Dean smiles sweetly and locks his eyes on his brother's, telling him to trust him without having to say the words.


"No. Nobody else. Just you. Need you," and Sammy's blue grays (so pretty God) are bright and tearful and pleading up to Dean, who sits back down-wondering how that happened when his brain couldn't have told his legs to do that yet-and gets under the blankets, hip grazing Sam's. He puts his hand on Sam's chin and turns his head in his direction.


"I'm right here, Sam. And I got you, it's safe now, but you gotta tell me what's the matter. Why are you so scared?" Sam lowers his eyes, sniffs, and Dean can feel him still shaking a little. What the hell? Nothing they ever hunted before has managed to scare him this bad, and he knows he would never end up like Jack because Dean would never (ever) let that happen, so what the fuck is it?


Sam looks up into Dean's eyes now and Dean still sees the indescribable fear there, along with a whole lot of guilt, and that's when it hits him. He finally understands. It's not a monster that's terrifying Sam. Quite the contrary.



"Oh, Sammy... No. No, no God, he's not going to hurt you. He's not," and Dean's voice is the pleading one now, because he realizes that when he first broke this splendid piece of information to his brother they were interrupted, and they never dealt with this, together or otherwise. They've been too busy fighting and trying to save/end Jack. Shit. No wonder the kid is freaked.


"Y... You don't know that. How do you know that? He told you-"


"He said he needed you to stop and you did, so it's done now Sammy, he got what he wanted. And if he so much as mentions your name again, I'll whup his pretty little accountant butt, alright?"


Sam huffs out a little laugh, and Dean feels the breath hit his face (he's close so close), and he can't help but smile.

"You promise you won't let him get me?" came the whisper.


"I promise."


They lock their eyes for what seems like an eternity. And Dean doesn't think, doesn't want to. Looking at Sam's lips doesn't really help matters, all red and swollen from teeth worrying over them. He leans in, not believing what he's about to do, not believing that he wants to, and almost retreating right then and there, until he sees Sam's lashes flutter and his eyes closing, and that's when their noses touch, their breaths collide, and at first Dean slowly drags his tongue over Sam's lips; earning him a shudder and a soft moan from his little brother. And then, they kiss. Soft and chaste and sweet and love; they kiss. And it's the best thing either one of them has ever felt. Not sexual, not really-and Dean pinpoints that as the reason it's different than any other kiss he's shared before, opts to ignore a number of others for now-no, it's slow and delicate and intimate and apologetic. Apologetic because ever since Dean laid that first punch to his brother's mouth he couldn't stop replaying it in his head, couldn't process it enough to apologize for it and (how could I hurt his beautiful face and mouth and god) and now he's letting his tongue do all the talking for him. And Sam gets it, he swallows his brother's moans intertwined with his own and plants his hands on the sides of Dean's face and strokes and (it's okay, Dean, it's okay). And Sam suddenly thinks they must look really beautiful from the outside if anyone was looking in, and he's never had that thought about himself or anyone before and it's odd but he knows, he knows they do.


They finally come out for air and Dean whispers, "better?" and a smile slowly spreads on Sam's face, making Dean's heart warm just a little bit at being the one to win it back.



"Good, now sleep."












"mm, what?"


""Pretty" accountant butt?"


"Oh, jeez.."


"How pretty are we talking?"


"Weren't you tired a minute ago?"


"Prettier than mine?"


"Sleep, bitch."


"Because, "Cas"? Really?"


"His name is too freakin' long! Now sleep, dammit."


"Fine, fine. Night,"










"Hey, Sammy?"




"..That angel? He's got nothin' on you."



And although it was dark, Dean could swear he saw Sam's smile brighten even more.