Dean twirled the candy around in his fingers, his thoughts distracting him from the sugary stickiness that was now all over his fingertips. Everything in his life had turned to. His dad was dead, and so was Bobby – who he supposed was the closest thing he and Sam had ever had to a real father-figure, but he'd go to Hell again before he admitted that out loud. Sam had his soul back, but he still wasn't Sam. They seemed to do nothing but argue these days. When was the last time they'd joked around and laughed together? And what was the deal with this Amelia chick, anyway? And not looking for a way to get Dean out of Purgatory?

When Sam was in Hell he'd wanted to do nothing else but tear the world apart to get back down there, but Sam wasn't just in Hell – he'd been locked in the cage with Lucifer and Michael, trapped in the middle of the biggest family feud all of creation had ever seen. And so Dean had done the only thing he could: he'd honoured his brother's last request, and settled down to live the apple pie life in the suburbs. But it hadn't made him happy. He wasn't hunting, and he was missing half of himself – the half he'd always let Sam keep with him. Because they were brothers, and Dean loves Sam, and it was his job to take care of Sammy.

Only Sam wasn't Sammy any more. He hadn't been Sammy in almost twenty years, not that Dean could admit it. The truth was Dean needed Sam to be Sammy; needed for there to be some meaning to his life, as shit as it was. But Sam didn't need him – he'd proved that countless times. First there was university, with Jess. Then drinking demon blood, with Ruby. Now the life he'd always dreamed of, with Amelia. And in none of these scenarios was there a space for Dean. No little place for him to slot into. Not once had Sam ever dreamed of spending his life hunting with Dean.

He suddenly became aware of what his hand was doing and he stopped, flicking the candy over to read the words barely legible on its surface – hold me. A bitter laugh escaped his lips before he cut it off, the candy falling from his fingers as a childhood memory washed over him, drowning him in a torrent of emotions.

Sometimes all you need is a hug to make everything feel better.

His mother had said that to him when he was three years old and had fallen over. He hadn't cut himself, but he'd cried anyway. She'd wrapped her arms around him and held him until his sobbing had ebbed, and when he sniffled muffled apologies in her ear for getting her blouse all snotty she'd whispered, "Sometimes all you need is a hug to make everything feel better." And he'd looked up at her and she'd smiled the smile that only she knew how – the one that told him he was the most important thing in her world.

Dean kicked the chair back angrily as he stood up, torn between burying the memory at the back of his mind so that he didn't have to feel the pain that shot through him like a blade twisting in his stomach, and treasuring it despite the pain it caused him because he didn't want to forget another part of his mother. He'd long forgotten the colour of her eyes, the sound of her laugh, and the feel of her hand in his as they walked to the play park on a Sunday afternoon. Her smile, though. He remembered her smile. A tear fell down his cheek as he tucked the memory away for safekeeping. He could live with the pain. He'd been living with it all his life. But he would not allow himself forget his mother.

Castiel had been looking upon him, watching over him, at this time, and although he wanted to be there for Dean to shout at, lash out at, curse and spit at, something had told him that this was something Dean wouldn't want anyone else to see. And though Castiel had seen him, as Dean's friend he could grant him that illusion.

But once Dean had left the room, however, curiosity got the better of him. He still wasn't sure if he liked feeling curious – life was a lot simpler when there were things he didn't know and left alone, rather than now he wanted to pick at them like a scab until they bled all their secrets.

He picked up the candy with two fingers, frowning at the unpleasant stickiness that would undoubtedly be left behind once he put it down again. He stared at it, as if willing it to reveal its secrets to him; however it silently betrayed nothing of what had prompted Dean's reaction. He flipped it over.

Hold me.

Ah. So that explained Dean's memory of his mother, then. He blushed. He'd made a promise to Dean that he would never again enter his thoughts without permission, but sometimes Dean thought far too loudly. It was like trying not to listen to someone who was shouting in his face. With a rustle of feathers, he disappeared – the candy falling to the table where Dean had left it.