A/N: And the second chapter is here. Hope you guys like it. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to follow, favorite and review this story; it really means a lot to me!

It's two days before they speak again (that is, more than exchanging a couple words if they happen to come across each other), and considering how it ends up, Dean would rather they had kept not really ignoring each other but doing a pretty bang-up job at it in reality.

Sam's in the kitchen when Dean comes in looking for a beer, his shirt wet and beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The demon might be gone now, but the Mark of Cain is still there and determined to not let him forget it. And since going out and killing people isn't exactly an option he's comfortable with anymore, he's had to compensate by shooting targets and beating the crap out of punching bags. It's not all that satisfying, honestly, but he's also out of options, so it will have to do.

There's a nice, if a bit strange, smell wafting around the kitchen and after a second of sniffing, he identifies its source as being the large pot currently boiling. He doesn't know what is inside; Sam has taken over dinner duty and Dean would complain about all that healthy crap his brother is undoubtedly determined to serve, but that would require having an actual conversation. And he kind of doesn't know how to do that now.

His goal was to come in, grab a beer, and get out. Pretty simple, except for the fact that there's a Sam-shaped barrier between him and the fridge. And he hasn't moved, which means Sam didn't hear him approach (or, much more likely, he did but elected to ignore him. And it hurts, don't get him wrong. It's just that, compared to way Sam would go rigid and defensive every time he was in the same room with his brother, Dean will take the ignoring-him-but-being-at-ease part gladly).

He briefly considers several awkward – and highly entertaining for Sam, if this was any other time – ways to open the fridge without making his presence known, but quickly realizes it's not possible. So. Talking it is.

''Sam?''

The only response he gets is Sam turning his head, looking at him and turning back again, all without moving an inch. Damn.

''Sam? You're kinda blocking the way here,'' he tries again, glad his voice doesn't betray the nervousness he feels inside. He shouldn't feel like talking to his brother is one of the most nerve-wracking things he's ever had to do. Then again, he also shouldn't have tried to kill him.

Okay. Not thinking about this now.

This time Sam moves, but he still does his best performance of being mute and Dean starts to get seriously uncomfortable. He should leave really, now that he's got what he came for, but then, he's never been accused of doing the smart thing when it comes to Sammy.

So he stays where he is and says to Sam's back; or his side really, ''So, what's for dinner, Sammy?'' in a jovial tone he really hopes doesn't sound forced.

He notices his brother's hold on the counter become more intense as he mumbles something unintelligible.

''Huh? Didn't really catch that.'' The jovial tone continues. Sam, on the other hand, remains silent.

''Sammy?''

It's this word that seems to bring Sam back to the land of the talking. He whirls around, his face set in a blank expression that Dean instantly hates, his whole posture rigid.

''Maybe, maybe you could not…'' he trails off, his words soft and hesitant, in complete contrast to his body language. Dean doesn't prompt him to continue, giving him time while his brain runs through numerous possible ends to that sentence, the most prominent being maybe you could not be here, in the bunker, with me anymore. And he really wouldn't blame him for it.

''Maybe you shouldn't call me that anymore.''

''Call you what?'' Dean asks, confusion evident in his voice.

Sam's voice is still hesitant but more certain now.

''Sammy,'' he says and Dean just stares.

Sammy? He doesn't want Dean to call him Sammy? Of all the things Dean expected this is certainly the last. He finds it hard to believe that after everything (and with them, everything encompasses a whole fucking load of stuff) Sam would still think being called Sammy is not grown-up enough.

Sammy, let me go.

Oh, thanks, Sammy, I needed that.

And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy, well that ain't gonna be mercy either.

Sammy, you know I hate shots.

Don't be so full of yourself, Sammy.

Come on, Sammy! Don't you wanna hang out with your big brother?

Sammy!

Isn't that right, Sammy?

Come on, Sammy. Let's have a beer, talk about it. I'm tired of playing. Let's finish this game!

Fuck. Fuck.

Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out. What is he supposed to say to that, what can he say? He took a childhood nickname, a word meant to convey love and affection, and turned it into something that makes his brother cringe every time he hears it.

How can he ever say it again?

''Yeah, okay,'' he says finally, even though all he wants to do is find a way to apologize, beg Sam for forgiveness, tell him that everything will be okay. Except that would be a lie.

He watches Sam as he visibly relaxes, though his face doesn't change much, and he knows he has to leave before the full ramifications of what's happened crash on to him. He doesn't know what he's going to do then.

It's two days since he asked Dean to not call him Sammy again, bringing the grand total to four days of almost-but-not-really-complete silence between them. And Sam doesn't know if he wants to break it or not. Part of him wants to just say fuck it, forget it all and restore his relationship with his brother, because, God, he misses him so much. But then there's the other part, smaller but by no means unimportant, that remembers with a clarity he hates, what Dean did while he was a demon, how he taunted him and snapped at him and chased him with a hammer, and he thinks things will never be normal again.

The thought alone makes him miserable, so he tries to push this sort of thinking to the back of his brain, replace it with other stuff. Problem is, he's got so many things he'd rather not think about, his mind's a bit cluttered. So inevitably, it rises to the surface, sooner or later, and the cycle begins all over again.

Most times he thinks he could finish it. He should finish it; there is only so much time they can go on like this, and knowing their luck, another world-wide apocalyptic event could happen in the meantime and this whole thing would only get worse. So, yeah. Intellectually, he knows he should. There's a lot of stuff he knows. The problem lies with doing something about it.

If he's completely honest with himself (and he hasn't really been, not about everything, not for a long time), he's not all that scared of Dean himself – years and years of regarding him as a protector, someone he can trust cannot be undone so easily – but of Dean's words. Or the demon's words. Or Dean's because his brother wasn't possessed, after all. There wasn't someone else inside him, when he told Sam he never had a brother, accused him for Mom's death and for sucking the life out of him, said he was tired of babysitting him and wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

The things is, he knows Dean didn't mean any of these things. He knows his brother loves him and would do anything for him, sometimes to the point where it causes more harm than good. But it's come to a point where it's not always easy to find the distinction, where sometimes the voice of his brother and the demon blend together, creating a mess in his head that he can't escape. That's when the worst thought of all comes out to play.

What if Dean did mean the things he said? What if he does believe them, deep down, and just kept it hidden until the demon threw them to his face just cause he didn't care?

He really needs to stop thinking.

Cas has come by, a couple of times. He talks to both of them, and Sam is torn between wanting to know what he and Dean talk about and being glad he has no idea. He never asks and the angel never offers any information. He's quick to tell him how Dean is (because Sam can't not ask), and every time he makes valiant efforts to convince Sam to talk to his brother. Sam listens to him, replies when necessary and even snaps at him when he feels particularly crappy, but Cas never leaves for good, never fails to turn up again with a smile and a positive attitude; and a stiff upper lip in anything that has to do with what he's been up to, claiming the Winchesters have other things to worry about. Sam doesn't believe him for a second, but Cas looks good and he hasn't heard anything bad going on in the angel community, so he doesn't press the issue. Not exactly eager to deal with any angel problems at the moment.

He doesn't have dreams, at least. He's incredibly grateful for that, even if it might be because he barely gets four hours of sleep every night. He doesn't even do anything, just lies in bed and looks around in the dark, yet his brain seems to have an aversion to shutting up and falling asleep if it hasn't been at least three hours since he lay down.

He has to talk to Dean. He doesn't quite know how to.

He just misses his big brother.

It's five days now and he can't take it anymore. Sam is sitting at the table next to him, deep in research about the mark in a brand new book he found in the dusty back of a library shelf (and okay, brand new might not be the most accurate description), a beer slowly collecting moisture on the wooden surface, and Dean can't take it anymore.

The silence, the guilt, the furtive looks, the awful memories, the unbearable sense of wrongness that has settled over the bunker the past few days; he can't take it. He has to do something. So he says the only thing he can think of.

''You can leave, you know.''

Sam raises his eyes from the faintly yellow pages he's been studying and directs them at Dean, confusion shining in them. ''What?''

''You can leave,'' Dean repeats. ''You don't have to stay here, I'm fine now, no more demon, so you don't have to stay.''

Sam's eyes narrow and the confusion is replaced by disbelief. ''You're kicking me out?''

''What? No,'' Dean says quickly, his surprise mirroring Sam's. ''I'm just saying there's no reason for you to be here for me anymore, I'm fine,'' and that's a lie if he's ever told one, ''so, y'know, you're free now. You did your part, you cured me, so you're, you know, free.'' He makes a vague hand motion that's supposed to represent Sam's freedom and watches as his brother takes in his words.

Sam's face is like a canvas of emotions. Surprise, disbelief, incomprehension followed by anger and determination.

''There's no reason?'' he asks in a voice that sounds calm, but Dean knows his brother too well to believe it. ''Are you kidding me?'' There's anger hiding behind that calm façade.

It's Dean's turn to be surprised at the vehement reaction his words get. He doesn't want Sam to leave, really, of course he doesn't, but he figures he's been selfish enough. He's not going to be the one to walk away this time, he still needs to figure out the mark and the bunker is the ideal place to do it. But Sam, he doesn't have to be subjected to that.

''Samm-Sam, I know you think you need to stay here, make sure I stay human or whatever, but I'm telling you, you don't have to. You can leave and no one would blame you, I sure as hell wouldn't. The things I said… Anyway, my point is, you can go live your life without being weighed down by someone who's treated you like crap. You're free.'' He closes his eyes for a second after he's done talking, because the thought of Sam leaving him, of being here alone all day, every day, with his thoughts as his only companion; it hurts. A lot. But he has to do it, for Sam.

When he opens his eyes again, it's to find Sam looking at him like he's a complete and utter idiot. A sentiment he doesn't hesitate to voice either.

''Are you hearing yourself right now?'' Sam says, incredulous. ''Even if I wanted to leave, since when do I need your permission? You certainly haven't asked for mine every time you decided we're better apart.'' And that stings, but Dean can't refute it.

''But that doesn't matter, because I don't want to leave. How could you think that?'' He doesn't give Dean the chance to speak before he goes on. ''Yes, what happened sucks, a lot, and I won't pretend it hasn't affected me, because it has. But trust me when I say this, Dean, there is nothing, nothing you could do that would make want to leave.''

''Why? Why would you-''

''Why?'' Sam cuts him off, a small laugh escaping him. ''Because you're my brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And there's nothing that could make me leave you.''

Sam is staring at him as the last words leave his mouth, looking simultaneously grown-up and wise, and five-years-old, looking with wide eyes to his big brother to make everything better. And Dean, he doesn't think about what he does next, he doesn't plan it. He just moves.

He moves until he's close enough and then spreads his hands wide and engulfs Sam in the tightest hug he's ever given in recent memory. Sam starts but it doesn't last, he has his arms around Dean immediately, squeezing back just as hard.

There used to be a little boy, long ago, who worshiped the ground his brother walked on. Who trusted him completely and undoubtedly. Who, one summer, could be seen walking around with a t-shirt too big for him, but refusing to take it off, a shirt, which, if anyone paid any attention, could easily ascertain belonged to the older brother. There used to be a boy who adamantly refused to part with the shirt for the entirety of summer, insisting that wearing it made him feel big and strong and good, just like his big brother. And Dean, almost thirty years later, his arms around that same boy who is not so little anymore, thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can be big and strong and good again.

He isn't aware of how much time passes, or when he closed his eyes, only that he opens them as Sam pulls away gently, his expression the fondest Dean can remember in a long time.

''I guess this means you're staying then, huh?'' he says, trying for humor but ending halfway between questioning and desperate. Sam just laughs, shaking his head, and Dean feels overwhelmed with something that can only be described as joy.

''Sammy,'' he starts to say and promptly stops, inwardly cursing himself for doing the one thing Sam had asked him not to, just one thing after all he-

''It's okay,'' Sam says and his voice is sincere, the smile seemingly etched on his face. ''This time it's okay.''

Dean can't help but smile back, wider and wider, until they're both grinning at each other like a pair of idiots.

''You do realize this is the chick-flick moment to end all others, don't you?'' Sammy says after a while, his tone light and promising more teasing in the future.

''Shut up,'' Dean shoots back without heat, because he simply doesn't care right now. But he can't let his brother think he got away with it. ''Bitch.''

''Jerk.''