What have you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?

Sam was cold. A bone-deep, soul-deep, cold that'd been gnawing his guts since Dean decided to be the nuke that took out Amara. The renewed sun had burned it permanently into Sam and even Princess Pantsuit's ice shower hadn't come close to the cold Sam felt since then. And nothing, not the heat of rage, not the thought of revenge, nothing had touched it.

Dean had gone to die and now he was back and still Sam was cold.

What have you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?

"Sammy, how're you doing?" Dean met Sam in the hallway between shower and bedroom. "We're going to head out and grab some grub, but I didn't want to leave with you still taking the shower."

Not even Dean tucking him into the back seat of the car on the long drive home with two blankets, their Zippo hand warmer, and the heater on full blast had made Sam any warmer. Even after the longest hot shower in the history of long, hot showers, dressed in thermals and flannel, with wool socks on his feet, Sam was cold.

"No, yeah, I'm fine."

What have you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?

Dean had gone to die and now he was back and still Sam was cold.

"You haven't warmed up any at all, have you?" Dean asked.

The Bunker was always a constant temperature, which usually didn't matter, but right now Sam would've preferred a roaring fire. The cabin in Montana was drafty, but the fireplace had always been enough to chase away even the most stubborn cold. The closest thing to a fireplace in the Bunker was opening the oven door when Dean was cooking.

Dean had gone to die and now he was back and still Sam was cold.

What have you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?

"If this is what Cas calls healing you, I think he needs to up the juice in his batteries," Dean said. He lifted his hand and took a step closer. Sam flinched back against the hallway wall.

Dean had gone to die and now he was back and if Sam could just forget that it had happened, that it had ever happened, maybe he'd get warm again.

"Sam? I'm just gonna check for fever. Okay? I don't like that you've still got chills. I don't want you coming down with something that Cas missed."

Sam moved away, out of reach. Cas never missed anything. Not anything that was physically wrong. He'd healed the gunshot, the burns, the stab wounds. But Cas couldn't heal hunger, exhaustion, disorientation, or grief. Those had to heal themselves.

Dean had gone to die and now he was back and still Sam was cold.

What have you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?

Dean folded his arms and frowned, silently ordering Sam to spill everything.

"You were dead," Sam said. The words poured out of him in a rush. "I thought you were dead. I thought – no matter what she did to me the worst thing was that, even if I got out of there, you were dead. He said joining up with them we'd lose our worst nightmares, but that's my worst nightmare. That you won't be there. There's nothing they can do that's ever going to make me lose that."

He hadn't intended to say that to Dean, to anyone. Dean had gone to die but now he was back, and there was no point in talking about things that didn't matter anymore.

Still Sam was cold.

"Sammy…." Dean moved closer. He'd put the back of his hand against Sam's forehead, say there was no fever, call him delicate and tell him to get some rest while he and Mom went to get dinner.

What have you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?

But Dean gave Sam a sudden, strong hug. "Same here," he whispered in a rough voice. Then he stood back and felt Sam's forehead. "No fever. But get some rest anyway while we get dinner. All right? And that does not mean at the table doing research, got it?"

He waited for Sam's nod then tapped his arm and turned away, pulling his keys out of his pocket and calling for Mom.

What have you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?

Dean had gone to die and now he was back and the cold cracked and shattered, and warmth and relief filled Sam.

"Hey, Dean? Let me get my boots . I'll come with you."

The End.