"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be." Dean said. He said so easily, like Sam could be sorry if he wanted to or not; either way didn't bother Dean.

"You don't have to stay with me."

"I'm fine."

Thursday night, after the memorial service for Jessica. The "prep school freshman" clothes Sam'd been loaned for the service sat folded on the table, waiting to be returned to their proper owner. Two uneaten dinners had been placed inside the tiny refrigerator. The bottle of make-you-sleep painkillers sat on the between-beds table next to a bottle of water, waiting for Sam to decide he wanted a dose.

Sam lay on his side on the far side of the far bed, facing the far wall, curled under the bedspread, wearing a pair of Dean's sweat pants, one of Dean's stretched out tees, and one of Dean's flannel shirts. As soon as word spread among his friends that he'd lost more than everything in the fire, there'd been a hasty but heartfelt collection of new clothes for him and by Monday night he'd been outfitted with jeans, shirts, socks and underwear, even sneakers. Even pajamas. But he wore the 'pajamas' Dean had given that first night, that night right after the fire, because it was a safe place to be, worn in and familiar, and when he felt the flannel he could feel Dean.

He'd been offered – they'd both been offered – rooms and beds at any number of houses of his friends, and his friends' mothers, but Sam only wanted Dean. Only Dean would understand. Only Dean wouldn't make him have to talk about it over and over again. He didn't 'tsk' like the University people did, didn't want Sam to comfort him like some of his friends did at the expense of his own grief. Dean was just Dean. That's all there was to it. Dean was just – everything right now.

Sam's eyes tingled and he pulled a tissue from the box that sat on the mattress next to his pillow and blew his nose. Again. He crumpled it and tossed it toward the wastebasket next to the bed but he'd long ago given up trying to actually make the basket. He coughed and sniffled and pulled the bedspread up over his shoulders again and shifted more than he had to just to feel the weight of his brother sitting next to him in the bed.

"You all right?" Dean asked. His voice was heavy and calm; there was no hysteria of grief, no burden of guilt. Just Dean checking on Sam.

"Yeah." Sam answered, his own voice choked with that grief and that guilt. Dean put the back of his hand against Sam's back and rubbed lightly back and forth. He kept doing that, whenever Sam coughed or sobbed or sighed, Dean touched him and held the touch for awhile, through the bedspread and flannel, until Sam relaxed into the half sleep of exhaustion. Again. Until some picture or memory or sense memory snapped him out of it. Again.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

Dean had the newspaper in his lap, looking for – something. He'd said what, but Sam couldn't remember. The sound of the pages turning were comforting to him, reminding him that Dean was here, right here, close by, close enough to touch. Sitting in the same bed Sam was lying in because Sam couldn't be alone tonight, even to the distance of a few feet. In answer to Sam's 'sit with me?' he'd pulled a chair up close and put his feet up on the mattress to read the newspaper and that worked for a while, a little while. That was close enough. A little while.

Then it wasn't enough and Sam asked again, 'Will you sit with me?' and Dean immediately abandoned the chair and got in the bed, pushing the bedspread out of the way and stretching his legs out in front of himself and that was finally enough. Sam relaxed with the weight and warmth of Dean just beside him, the repetitive touch that comforted him when his thoughts were threatening to run out of control.

All week Dean had been running interference for Sam, answering his phone and the countless calls of sympathy, standing right next to him while the Fire Marshall asked his necessary questions, politely moving visitors along when he could see Sam had had enough, politely turning them away at the door when he knew Sam had had enough just by waking up that morning. He'd even called that Monday morning to explain why Sam wouldn't be making his law school interview. He'd had the presence of mind to grab Sam's backpack on the way out of the burning apartment, and he'd been the one to go through it, separating out the clothes and things that could be cleaned of the smoke in the laundry from the ones that needed to be cleaned by hand. And then he'd cleaned them all. He'd even managed to snag a couple of pictures of Jess and Sam from the "In Memoriam" display at the service because he knew without asking or being told that Sam had lost all his pictures of her in the fire too.

Sam blew his nose again and actually made the wastebasket and shifted in the bed again. Dean's hand was there again, stroking his back, soothing him.

"You want me to turn the light off so you can get some rest?"

"No."

"I'll leave the bathroom light on."

Dean said it like he was still a little kid. He was twenty-two years old for crying out loud. He'd survived three years and a little more at college on his own. He didn't need the bathroom light on to sleep. He didn't need his brother sitting next to him to keep him calm. He didn't.

He did.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

Dean got out of the bed and set the paper on the table. He flicked on the bathroom light and shut the door almost completely over. Then he came back, shut off the lamp and got into the bed. Sam felt him slide down until he was lying next to him.

"I'm tired."

"Yeah." Sam agreed. Dean was probably just saying that. It was still early, maybe not even eight yet. He was just saying that. He had the other pillow under his head but he didn't have a blanket over him. He was probably still in his clothes.

"Get some rest now."

But Sam didn't want to find out that the price of falling asleep was Dean moving off of the bed.

"You don't have to stay with me."

"I'm fine."

He still said it so easily, like he wasn't finding Sam's misery too much to deal with. Sam closed his eyes and tried to relax, tried to let the exhaustion take him. He felt Dean's hand on his back.

"Just relax and get some rest."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

Then Dean shifted in the bed until his shoulder and arm were pressed against Sam's back and Sam relaxed into that strength and finally fell asleep.