So, hi! I haven't written for Supernatural in about... eight years. Holy cow. I haven't been watching it either, since season 5. I thought I'd never write for Supernatural again, but recently I've been re-watching seasons 1-3 and after all this time... here I am again. I don't think there's a single fictional character in all the world that I love more than Dean Winchester, and he's reminding me of that with every episode.

These are just four drabbles that I wrote in the past couple of days. They're not connected in any way, just small ideas that Dean whispered in my ear, and I decided to write down. There's spoilers for seasons 1-3 if anybody hasn't seen them yet.

I hope I can still write Dean and Sam. Yikes!

x

After Dad dies, Dean's hands always shake.

Sometimes it's obvious, to a point where he can't pour his coffee properly without spilling some on the counter, and sometimes it's barely there, just a light tremble, hardly visible if Sam wasn't looking for it.

He notices it especially when Dean is cleaning weapons, hears the metal parts click together unnaturally, sees his brother's forehead crease in frustration, lips pursed, jaw set against the emotion that forces his body to betray him. That emotion that is always simmering just below the surface these days. He's always so careful with their weapons. It's unlike him.

Sam rubs his forehead and watches his older brother suffer in silence, feels like there's a weight on his chest that just keeps getting heavier and heavier.

A few weeks after Dad's death, and Dean gets a bit banged up hunting. He's trying to get down some painkillers after, but his hands are shaking so bad he can't even open the child proof lid.

Sam watches his brother struggle for about a minute, trying to decide whether or not to intervene, before gently stilling Dean's hands with a quiet, "I got it", and taking the bottle.

Dean doesn't look at him, his eyes firmly fixed on the bottle, but Sam can see the faint quiver in his chin, the clenched jaw.

"Here." Sam empties two pills into Dean's outstretched palm, which is still trembling noticeably.

Once he has the pills, Dean snatches his hand back as if he was burned. "Thanks," he mutters quickly, avoiding Sam's gaze.

"Dean..." Sam begins, and Dean looks at him then, and his eyes are too shiny, but they are also hard and guarded, a brick wall that Sam does not dare try to force down.

"Sam," he says, through gritted teeth, his brother's name a clear warning – Stop before I lose it. I'm barely keeping it together as it is.

Sam drops it, a sigh forcing its way through his body before he can stop it. He watches his brother shakily take the pills, his chin still quivering, avoiding looking at his own reflection in the mirror. He leans on the sink after with his head down, his body tense against all of the hurt, physical and emotional, and Sam wishes he could drop a hand on Dean's back to soothe that hard line, wishes he could rub his brother's shoulders, work out some of the tension.

But Dean is so far away from him right now, Sam's not sure he could reach him if he tried. So he rubs the back of his own neck, sighs out some of his own tension, and goes to bed.

X

"Food?"

"Damn straight."

Dean unlocks the car and they slide inside in unison, the doors following suit.

Sam takes out his phone, switches it on to check for messages, and a second later realizes that Dean isn't moving, isn't turning on the car. His subconscious mind immediately processes that something is wrong, and he looks up at his brother quickly, sees him staring out the windshield, jaw locked, his hand still resting on the key in the Impala's ignition.

Sam wordlessly follows his gaze, instantly picks out the two people walking down the sidewalk toward them. A tall man and a small boy, clearly father and son. The boy is maybe six and very blond, the man is tall and dark and bearded. The boy is carrying a catcher's mitt in one hand, and clinging to his father's hand with the other. Even through the Impala's closed doors their laughter is loud and clear.

Sam's breath catches in his throat; he swallows hard, glances at his brother. Dean is looking straight ahead, his gaze following the man and his son, his jaw clenched, not even blinking.

Sam looks back at them as they get closer, watches them exchange adoring glances, smiles, and his eyes burn, somewhere way back, somewhere where his body still remembers how to cry, and he thinks maybe he does have tears left.

Huh. Who knew.

He turns to look at Dean again; his head is turned toward Sam enough now that he can see his brother's eyes. The agony and longing in the green depths physically takes his breath away, makes Sam feel so inadequate in its presence that he has to turn his head, shaken, knowing he was never meant to see that.

The man and boy walk past the car, and the brothers sit in silence. Dean is looking straight ahead again, quiet enough for Sam to hear his pained, irregular breathing, feel how hard he's trying to keep it together. Sam looks at his brother, his strong, invincible (I used to think he was, anyway) brother, watches his long eyelashes tremble over eyes dark with bitter pain, his teeth clench against the emotion trying so desperately to get out. Dean's carefully constructed walls lay in ruin.

He reaches over blindly through his own blurred vision and squeezes Dean's shoulder, close to his neck, watches his brother's eyes fall shut for just a brief moment. Just for that moment he sees Dean allow the agony, the loss, to wash over him, long enough to send one wayward tear streaking down his cheek, leaving a dark stain on his blue jeans.

Sam blinks rapidly next to him, can't look at his brother anymore, can't look at his brother's agony, but he leaves his hand there and grips Dean's shoulder so tight, he's probably hurting him.

The silence in the car and their shared loss is so great, so deep; Sam thinks that John's absence is a massive, bottomless hole and every day they get sucked down into it a little further.

He stares, unseeing, at the road ahead and suddenly Dean moves, turns the key and the Impala roars to life, his shoulder hitching up ever so slightly, signalling an end to his moment of weakness, and Sam drops his hand.

Suddenly, he's not hungry anymore.

X

"Dude."

"What?"

"Go to sleep."

Muffled noise, maybe a whimper. "I can't." Dean sounds like he's five.

Sam rubs his forehead in the dark, sighs. God, it's been a long couple of days.

"You want me to get you some painkillers? I think that drugstore's open 24 hours."

I knew I should've ignored him and just picked them up before we got back. 'Just' a sprained wrist, my ass. Mentally he's already up and in the car, but Dean's quiet "No," brings him back to the dark room quickly.

"Huh?"

"I don't need them. Just a sprained wrist." It sounds like Dean's face is pressed into his pillow, but Sam can hear the almost imperceptible hitch of pain in his brother's breathing.

"If you can't sleep, you need them," Sam says, and swings his legs out of bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor.

Dean lifts his head in the dark, and his voice gets stronger. "No, Sam. I have the brace, that's good enough. Don't go."

Sam hesitates, tries to decide whether that "don't go" was "don't go get the pills" or "don't leave me alone". Considering how the past few days – hell, weeks - have been, Sam's pretty much banking on that it's the second one. He's suddenly not that tired anymore, and he tries to focus on Dean's face a few feet away, but his brother drops his head back into his pillow.

"Go to sleep, Sam. I'm fine."

"You're obviously not," Sam replies, keeping his tone light, but he pulls his legs back under the blankets.

"I'm good," Dean says.

"You're not," Sam huffs.

"I am."

There's the faintest trace of amusement in Dean's voice now, and Sam is beginning to think that Dean is enjoying this. He doesn't say anything for almost a minute, and Dean lifts his head again, just the slightest bit, as if checking if Sam's still awake.

"I'm fine, Sam."

So that's how it is.

Sam plays along. "You're not. What do you need?"

"Nothing. I need some sleep." He doesn't sound a bit sleepy.

Sam chews his lip in the dark. "You want me to tell you a story or something?" He's totally kidding, trying to keep up the game, but Dean's reply is unexpected.

"Like you've got any good stories." His tone is light, but suddenly, underneath, Sam hears something else. Something small and fragile and frightened, and he swallows hard. There's the shadow of something in the room with them suddenly, something unspoken and soul crushing. Something Sam has felt lingering off and on since Cold Oak.

I'm alright, Dean, I'm here. You brought me back. I'm not going anywhere. Not gonna leave you alone again.

"Shows what you know, jack ass." Sam rolls over on his stomach, turns his head towards his brother, loving the sound of his quiet laughter. "Did I ever tell you about the first time I met Jessica's parents?"

"Nope." Dean turns on his side towards him; Sam can hear the smile in his voice. He closes his eyes for a second, soaks in the comforting feeling of having his brother so close to him, alive and well. For now.

It still hurts to talk about Jessica, two years later, but for Dean, he'll do anything. So he tells him, tells him as much as he can remember, all the little embarrassments, how Jessica's dad didn't like him at first, how he'd brought a strawberry cheesecake and nobody had eaten any cause Jessica's mom was allergic and he'd forgotten that, even though she'd told him, everything he can think of.

There isn't much of a direction to his story, but Dean doesn't seem to mind. He laughs in all the right places, and makes fun of him in all the places that Sam knew he would, and groans in sympathy just where a brother should, and Sam can sense him relaxing, comforted, all the way from his own bed.

By the time he stops responding, and Sam hears his brother's deep, even breathing, he's completely run out of things to tell Dean about and is just rambling. He sits up in bed a little, studies Dean's silhouette in the dark, wonders why he doesn't tell Dean about this stuff more often, is suddenly overwhelmed by how much he hasn't told Dean about and he only has – eleven months? Oh god, Dean, it's not enough time, I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.

Now it's Sam that can't sleep.

X

"Dean, have you seen my black hoodie?"

Sam's tossing things out of his bag, frustrated.

"Your what?" Dean is lying on his bed and doesn't even look up, engrossed in a muscle car magazine Sam picked up for him at the gas station.

"My hoodie. My black hoodie. My black sweatshirt with the hood. I've looked for it everywhere. Where is it?" Sam lowers his head, waits for Dean to look at him. His brother's brow is furrowed and his lips are moving ever so slightly, totally entranced by some article. "Dean!"

"Huh? I don't have your sasquatch clothes, dude," Dean throws him an annoyed glance. "Maybe if you were more organized."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. "What? What? I'm sorry, did you say if I was more organized?" Laughing mirthlessly, he covers the distance to Dean's bed in two strides and grabs his bag from beside the bed.

"Don't touch my stuff." Dean doesn't even look up from his magazine, but his voice drops a couple of octaves, straying into threatening territory.

Sam is not afraid. He jerks open the zipper on Dean's bag, huffs out a disbelieving laugh at the mass of unfolded clothes that meet his eyes. "I'm not organized? I'm not? What the hell do you call yourself then, Dean?"

"Really not organized," Dean replies, still not looking up. "I don't need to live in perfect cleanliness, dude, that's all you."

"I thought you said I wasn't organized," Sam snaps, but Dean appears to be done with the conversation, and doesn't even make a sound in reply. He's back to the cars.

Sam glares at the ceiling.

He wears his grey hoodie, the one that's not as warm, and he's grouchy.

Two days later, Dean comes out of the bathroom after his shower wearing a certain black hoodie that is way too big for him.

Sam huffs wordlessly at him for almost 30 seconds, and when Dean doesn't respond, "Dean. You said you didn't know where my black hoodie was. I've been looking for it."

Dean crosses his to bed, throws his shaving kit back into his bag, doesn't reply.

"Dean?" Sam stands with hands on hips, waiting for an excuse, irritation swelling in his chest.

"Huh?" Dean looks up at him, green eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. He looks like he didn't sleep all night. His hair is sticking up all over. He looks like he's twelve.

"My hoodie. You're wearing it." Sam raises his eyebrows.

"Oh. Sorry. I must've packed it in my bag last time." Dean shivers, stares down into his bag blankly. "Hang on, I'll grab something else."

He curls his fingers into the too-long sleeves, and Sam sighs, his irritation melting away as quickly as it came, replaced by sympathy.

"Forget it, Dean. It's okay. I don't need it back right now."

"'Kay."

Dean huddles in the passenger seat the rest of the day, looking small and young and miserable in Sam's sweatshirt, his hands disappearing into the sleeves, and Sam thinks about buying a new one and letting Dean keep it.

X

That's it for now. Thanks so much for reading! Please leave me a review on your way out and let me know what you thought! :)