Title: Someone Like You
By: mickeylover303
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Words: 749
Summary: Dean would always love his brother, but not too much - never too much.


Sam had been careless.
It wasn’t the first time, and Dean knew it was far from being the last time. But simply knowing and understanding didn’t mean that he accepted it. It didn’t prevent the surge of fear when he saw Sam nearing the banister in that dammed house; not pulling away from the spirit who was precariously close to pushing Sam to his death.
And for a moment – for that moment – Dean felt his heart stop because not even the sound of his voice could wake Sam from whatever stupor he was in. When he was racing up the stairs, Sam’s name a hoarse echo in his throat, Dean could see Sam’s blank expression, mouth slightly parted as the spirit’s hands tightly gripping his brother’s shoulders
But Dean was no longer able to restrain himself when he shoved Sam against a tree. He grabbed Sam by the shoulders, warm hands replacing the pallid ones of the spirit that had been there an hour prior; Dean’s fingers desperately clutching the material of Sam’s worn-out denim jacket.
He’d been able to save Sam this time, and like many times before, just barely. With their dad gone, all he had was Sam, all he had was Sammy, and Dean would go to hell and back before he’d let anything else happen to his little brother.
“…Dean?” Sam asked, coughing slightly from the smoke coming from the unmarked grave burning behind them.    “What the hell-”
“Don’t you ever pull something like that, again,” Dean said harshly, shaking his brother in an attempt to compel sense into the other man. “You hear me?”
He knew he was trying to make Sam understand without telling him. Because it wasn’t like when they were younger, before Sam went to Stanford, then Dean knew he could protect his brother, keep him safe just like he promised their dad he would. But now he was faltering, tonight he nearly failed, and it pained Dean to realise that he’d almost lost Sam.
Sam narrowed his eyes, tensing as he fought to keep his arms at his sides. “Pull what? I was distracting the darned thing so you could shoot it.”
“No, Sam,” Dean whispered tightly, pressing Sam further against the tree until he saw his brother’s face slightly contort in pain. He felt Sam’s chest softly rise against his, the annoyance on the other man’s face trivialised by the tepid breath against Dean’s cheek, painfully hot in the cool air.
“No to what, Dean?” Sam asked, voice rising in irritation.
No more scaring me, Dean wanted to say. He wanted to tell Sam no to acting reckless during a hunt, no to not being more careful. Because Sam wasn’t allowed to make those kinds of careless mistakes anymore; he wasn’t allowed to risk Dean being alone.
“What, Dean?  If you got something to say, then-”
“Damn it, Sam,” Dean said softly,  moving one hand to hold the side of Sam’s face, the bottom of his palm tracing over the light stubble of Sam’s chin. He brought Sam’s face closer to his, marvelling in the fire burning behind them reflected in Sam’s eyes. Hues of red and orange tinted with his childhood and the only life he knew, a flame so vibrant it hurt Dean to watch. 
“You almost died, Sammy,” Dean murmured, his mouth fixed in a crooked smile as he tried to combat the prickling in his throat.
For once, Sam didn’t object to the name, but Dean wasn’t going to amount the expression in his brother’s eyes to pity. He would rather call it a misplaced compassion, call it something other than pity because then Dean could pretend it was what he wanted – what he needed – to see.
He caught Sam’s hitch of breath when he moved his hand, slowly rubbing a calloused thumb over Sam’s lower lip, the skin dry and cracking. But Sam remained silent, and Dean was grateful in knowing that his brother wouldn’t; that his brother never would.
Yet, as he pressed his lips against the other man’s, Sam still didn’t say anything, mouth set in a firm line as Dean tugged their bodies closer. But it was because Sam wouldn’t say anything during their encounters like this – wouldn’t consent to nor deny Dean’s desire for a kind of reassurance he couldn’t let go of – that allowed Dean to let the moisture gather behind his eyes.
And as the fire continued to crackle behind them, Dean didn’t know which was worse.