SUMMARY: Tag to 10.03 Soul Survivor. "I'm just gonna go grab my brother some cholesterol. And then I'm gonna get drunk." This line was obviously too much to pass up.

A/N: A bit of filler fluff. These tags have been popping up everywhere but I'm gonna anyway. I was craving a wee bit of brother touching. Show won't give it to us but we still wants it ;)

Enjoy!

They were currently standing in Dean's bedroom, having the most awkward staring contest in the history of history.

Both fidgeting. Neither knowing exactly how to act or how to break the uncomfortable silence bridging the distance between them.

Sam looked like he was about to keel over. Dean could relate.

Finally, Dean pushed his fingers through his hair and sank down on the edge of the mattress. Sam frowned, immediately looking concerned.

"Y'all right?"

"Yeah. Just beat."

"I know the feeling," Sam forced out a breath of air that was maybe supposed to be a laugh. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Well…do you, um – do you need anything?"

In spite of the obvious exhaustion, Dean could tell Sam was itching out of his skin. Itching to do something. All the signs were there. He began pacing restlessly – lingering - around Dean's room, arranging sheets that were already made and picking up discarded, month-old trash. Babbling about the fresh load of laundry he'd folded if Dean wanted to change into clean clothes.

"Nah, just wanna sleep," Dean admitted.

"Yeah, sure. Of course." Sam hid his disappointment behind an achingly understanding smile. "I'll just, uh – I'll be down the hall. Holler, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks."

"Okay. Um…" Sam scratched the back of his neck with his good hand and took a final glance around the room on the pretense of making sure everything was in order. "I guess I'll leave you to it."

He shuffled a few halting steps towards the door. Dean couldn't stand it another second.

"Hey, Sam?" he called, awkwardly rubbing his hands against his thighs because they didn't have anything else to do. What was he? A goddamn five-year old? He was so unsure of himself. It was agonizing.

"Yeah?" Sam spun around, an expectant look momentarily illuminating his hollowed features.

Dean shrugged. "I guess - um - I'm kind of hungry." Sam quirked an eyebrow and Dean pressed on, encouraged. "Starving actually."

Sam stared a moment longer before his face broke into a wide grin - a relieved, genuine smile. It was like cool water on a blistering day.

"Yeah, I'll bet," Sam said. Dean couldn't help a tiny smile at his brother's poorly disguised eagerness. "I'll go grab you something. Extra onions on everything right?"

"Bet your ass."

"I'll be back in a few. Cas is still here if –"

"Yeah. Go. I'm good."

"Holdin' you to that."

Dean winced, cloying despair suddenly surging up from his gut. He desperately hoped the smile he offered his brother didn't look like a grimace. It certainly felt like one.

oooooooooo

Thirty minutes later, Sam was back at the bedroom door with Dean's food. When he knocked it was quiet and polite. Similar to how one might knock on a stranger's door.

The realization made Dean want to vomit.

Dean thanked his brother with the same stilted politeness and relieved him of the bag, briefly wondering how in the hell Sam had managed to knock so tactfully with full hands and a gimp arm. Dean opened his mouth to ask Sam if he'd eaten yet, but his brother beat him to the punch.

"I'll be in my room if you need anything. Get some sleep, huh? Night, Dean."

Sam was a first-class hypocrite these days. He obviously wasn't sleeping much – if at all. And from what Dean could tell he hadn't been eating properly - which sucked because Sam ate like a freakin' rabbit anyway - or taking care of himself.

His little brother was a decaying wreck. Then again maybe Dean wasn't in any position to be pointing fingers.

Dean had no choice but to nod and watch Sam's back retreat down the hallway.

He inspected the burger tentatively as he unwrapped it. The lingering, greasy smell made his stomach churn.

He remembered the look on Sam's face when he'd said he was hungry. Sam had been so relieved it had made Dean want to wither up and die on the spot. Just drop dead right there on his bedroom floor. The guilt was unfathomable. Overwhelming.

Unforgivable…

Dean was only able to manage about three bites before he had to stop. The meat tasted like cardboard in his mouth. And the coke stung his throat going down, tasting sickly sweet on his tongue. The slice of apple pie buried at the bottom of the bag made him smile - a warm fondness he hadn't felt in quite sometime – but he wasn't going to risk it.

Dean officially gave up and tossed the leftovers aside. He grabbed his headphones and turned up the music to a deafening level, letting Zeppelin drown out everything else.

He wondered if it was possible to feel any more dead inside…

Probably.

A couple of hours felt like an eternity...and nothing was working. Dean was restless. Unsettled. Hell, he didn't know exactly what he was. Sleep was unthinkable. He wondered if this was what he would feel like for the rest of his pathetic existence. Figured it was way more than he deserved.

He didn't know if it was mere curiosity or wayward instinct that drew him. But he eventually found himself standing outside Sam's bedroom door, hand hovering over the knob. He didn't know whether to turn it or knock.

Wasn't sure if he'd be allowed inside.

"Sam?" he called softly. There was no response. Dean gulped, feeling stupid and nervous. His palms were sweating. His temples pulsed, keeping time with his furious heartbeat.

Maybe this wasn't such a hot idea.

"Sammy?" he whispered again, brushing his fingers softly against the door.

Still nothing. Not a peep.

The lack of response was unnerving. Sam had always been a light sleeper. And Dean really doubted sleep had been a regular part of his schedule the last few weeks to begin with.

Dean took a deep breath and twisted the knob, cracking the door just enough to peek through the slit.

Sam's bed was empty. Still made.

He pushed the door open a little further…

…and found his brother hunched over the desk, good arm acting as a pillow for his head. Dean's eyes landed on the nearly empty bottle sitting just out of reach.

Sam was dead to the world, passed out, breathing deep and even – if a little congested.

Dean walked over and picked up the bottle, shaking his head.

Idiot, was what he was obligated to think. Even though he couldn't blame the kid…it'd been a real fucking doozy of a day.

Understatement of their lives...

But if this had become Sam's idea of dinner Dean was also obligated to kick his ass.

He set the bottle on a bookshelf. Behind him Sam stirred, inhaling a shuddering, sleep-laden breath through his nose.

"Dean?" Sam sat up instantly, wincing at the pull on his shoulder. "Wha'... wha's wrong?" He was slurred and groggy and uncharacteristically slow. Understandably. "Why're you -"

"Nothing," Dean stuttered, embarrassed at having been caught lurking in his brother's room like a creeper. "I was just, uh – couldn't sleep."

Sam ran a shaky hand over his face, coughing to clear his throat. He looked like crap.

"Sorry," Dean added, intending to escape as he headed for the door.

"Dean," Sam croaked. Dean knew that tone – and he really didn't…he just didn't. Didn't think he could handle anything heavier than a blanket just then. Plus, in addition to looking like roadkill, Sam probably felt like shit. Dean figured he'd probably just try the sleep thing again.

He glanced over his shoulder, noting that Sam had wobbled to his feet. He was swaying unsteadily, leaning on the chair for support and opening his mouth. Probably about to say something unbearably sappy if those weepy eyes were anything to go by.

"You're drunk," Dean intercepted. Sam's forehead furrowed in confusion.

Okay…maybe that came out wrong.

"Yeah," Sam snorted, tilting a little precariously to the left - further off balance than Dean would've preferred. "Mission accomplished. So…why're, uh...why're you here? Okay?"

"Told you."

"Right. Couldn't sleep? But you -"

"Is this –" Dean trailed off, gesturing weakly at the bottle. "Is this how you get to sleep now, Sam?"

Sam's glassy, red-rimmed eyes hardened.

"What's it to you?"

Right. He'd lost those big brother privileges when he'd gone Guantanamo and tried to bash Sam's head in with a fucking hammer.

In spite of himself, Dean had to attempt to keep the pang of hurt out his voice. He cleared his throat.

"Nothing. Just askin'."

Sam squinted, seemingly assessing. Or maybe the room was just spinning. Finally, he sighed – deep and exhausted.

"What do you want, Dean?"

It was a simple, relevant question but it felt like an accusation. It made Dean's chest ache with an invisible burden he wasn't sure he was equipped to bear. The guilt was incapacitating. He didn't know what Sam wanted to hear.

"Nothing. I don't want anything."

Sam swallowed convulsively. Dean was caught off guard when he noticed his little brother's eyes were wet, threatening to spill over any second.

"Well…okay," Sam whispered, sounding all of ten-years old. "I guess just...try and get some sleep."

"You too," Dean responded, his voice gentle. "Deal?" He took a few cautious steps towards his brother, loathing the way Sam sort of flinched when Dean touched him.

Sam took an unsteady step backwards, nearly banging into the wall.

"What're you doing?" he slurred, blinking rapidly, voice shaking with apprehension.

"Who else is gonna make sure your wasted ass lands in bed, huh? You ain't gonna try to convince me that desk is comfy." He felt Sam's spine go rigid as he carefully looped an arm underneath his little brother's shoulder, leading him over to the bed.

Sam let him – or more than likely he was too drunk to protest – gradually relaxing into Dean's hold.

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, dizzy with relief.

He pulled back the covers and Sam collapsed on top of the mattress, immediately trying to turn onto his stomach. Dean placed a gentle hand on his chest, holding Sam in place.

"Dude," he smiled. "You wanna jack up your shoulder again? Lie still."

Sam's face crumpled up into an expression Dean could only describe as petulance. He shook his head in amusement when his predictable little brother complied nonetheless and wiggled down further underneath the blankets, all traces of his earlier uneasiness - Dean refused to acknowledge that it'd been fear - thankfully disappearing.

Dean pulled the covers up and patted Sam's stomach, reaching over to turn off the lamp.

"Was your food good at least?" Sam's lids drooped heavily as whiskey and weariness began pulling him under once more. But he still looked concerned, almost as if he were trying to apologize for Dean not being able to sleep.

Goddammit, Dean had missed this kid.

"Yeah," Dean choked out, eyes prickling with an unfamiliar sensation. "Yeah. Best I've had in a while, Sammy."

"Good," Sam hummed, practically unconscious. "That's good…" His forehead smoothed and his lips parted in sleep.

Just for a moment, while it was dark and quiet - save for Sam's snoring - Dean allowed himself to hope that just maybe things could go back to the way they used to be.

END.