"If you don't sit down, I swear to God I will tie you to the bedposts."

"Stay away from me, you kinky bastard." Dean doesn't look up from the line of salt he's laying down at the door.

"Seriously, I can't take much more of this."

Dean straightens up and tests the chain on the door for the fifth time. "Quit your bitching. You got the fucking easy part."

When Dean moves to check the locks on the windows, Sam snaps. He grabs Dean by the shoulders and tries to ignore the sharp gasp Dean lets out when Sam touches him. Sam spins Dean around to face him, but Dean won't meet his eyes. Dean's wound tighter than a guitar string and Sam has to do something because he's going crazy just watching Dean.

"Dean," he says softly. "Look at me."

Dean hesitantly looks up. The naked terror in Dean's eyes is almost too much for Sam, but Sam forces himself to meet Dean's gaze.

"Do you trust me?"

Dean swallows hard. He quivers under Sam's hands like a plucked wire. "'Course I do," he answers, but it lacks conviction.

Sam smiles gently. "Come on." He leads Dean to the bed and sits him down. Dean's still trembling; Sam can feel the vibrations in the mattress when he sits down beside Dean.

"Nothing's getting in here, not while I'm around. I promise." Dean nods, but it looks more like a spasm than an affirmation. He scratches at his arm. Sam reaches out and grabs his wrist. Anger flashes in Dean's eyes, but he doesn't pull away. He just clenches his jaw so hard that Sam can see the muscle tightening under his skin. He can't tell who Dean is angrier at, Sam or himself.

"You're gonna be okay. We'll get--"

"Don't," Dean snaps, jumping up. "Don't even start that fucking Dr. Phil bullshit. We're not gonna 'hug it out' or any of that other retarded crap you're thinking of. Not gonna happen. I might be acting like a pussy, but you don't get to treat me like one. Got it?" Sam lets the corners of his mouth turn up in an amused grin. Dean glares at him. "What? This is fucking funny to you?"

"You're not scared anymore," Sam points out.

Dean stops pacing. Sam watches his face as the confusion gives way to astonishment. "Huh." He sits down in the chair next to the window. He opens his mouth to say something, but a loud crash next to his head cuts him off. He jumps up, knocking the chair over, and sprints to the far bed. "What the fuck was that?" he yells as he scrambles back against the headboard. He draws his knees up to his chest and hunches his shoulders, making himself as small as he can.

Sam crosses to the window and grasps the edge of the curtain. "No!" Dean shrieks. "Don't! You'll let it in!"

"A bird flew into the window," explains Sam, peering through the gap under the curtain rod. "It's dead now. It can't hurt you."

"Unless it has bird flu," Dean grumbles.

Sam starts to make a smart-ass comment, then remembers how many times Dean comforted him after nightmares and botched hunts and bites back the words. Dean's face is hidden from view and he's shaking so hard that the headboard rattles against the wall.

Sam carefully approaches the bed. "I'm sitting down next to you, okay?" When Dean doesn't respond, he eases onto the bed and lays a hand on the back of Dean's neck. Without looking up, Dean bats Sam's hand away, mumbling something Sam can't make out. "What'd you say?"

Dean turns his head. "I fucking hate this."

"I know," Sam replies softly.

"I hate the way you look at me. Like I'm some little lost kid."

Sam shakes his head. "That's not what I'm thinking. Not at all." He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You can't help it. This isn't you--I know that. I don't think any less of you. You're still my big brother, who can kick my ass with one hand tied behind his back."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, I feel real bad-ass cowering in a corner because of a fucking sparrow."

"It's not your fault." Sam squeezes Dean's shoulder gently. Dean inhales sharply and winces. Sam frowns. "You okay?"

Dean looks away. "'S nothing," he replies, but it's barely more than a whisper.

"Dean."

Dean sighs. "It's just..." His cheeks redden. "Forget it."

Dean tries to shrug Sam off, but Sam won't budge. It's then Sam notices how tense Dean's muscles are beneath his hand. That's when the lightbulb clicks on. "Your shoulders hurt?"

Dean presses his eyes shut and that's all the affirmation Sam needs. He shifts Dean so he can slide in behind him. Dean grumbles inaudibly but submits to the handling. Dean's still hunched forward, chin touching his chest. "Sit up," he orders. "You've got to relax. It won't work if you don't."

Dean heaves a huge sigh and uncurls. Sam digs his thumbs into the base of Dean's neck to work out the worst of the knots. Dean makes little breathy noises of approval and Sam grins. Sam works outward, kneading Dean's shoulders with strong, sure fingers. Sam takes his time, loosening knots one by one. Dean's cool, slightly clammy skin warms up under Sam's hands. Sam's rougher with Dean than he would be with a girl, but Dean doesn't give any indication of minding. In fact, the sounds Dean is making are more than a little disturbing.

Sam keeps the massage going until his fingers and wrists start to complain. When he lets go of Dean, Dean slumps backwards, no longer conscious. Sam manages to keep Dean's head from colliding with the fake wooden headboard. He arranges Dean in a sleeping position and pulls the ugly flowered quilt over him. He settles down on his own bed, but can't seem to take his eyes off Dean. He watches Dean's chest rise and fall, relishing the peace that won't last very long. He still finds it strange that Dean's the one with the nightmares now. It makes him feel awkward and helpless and oddly resentful, as though Dean's horning in on Sam's territory, as dumb as that sounds. Dean stirs a little, sighs, then quiets.

When Sam wakes, it's to bright sunlight and birds chirping, not Dean gasping and thrashing. Sam smiles and climbs out of bed.