It's Just A Hoodie

Characters : Dean and Sam

Written for prompt 105 "in which a daily dose of Dean in Sam's hoodie is always good!" for the hoodie_time prompt challenge. And here's hoping they were right!

Warning : Some spoilers for episode 2.20 "What is and What should never be".

Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

It's Just A Hoodie

Sam looked across at his brother who was laid as if sleeping on the other bed in the dimly lit room. He wasn't . . . right. Even for Dean, he wasn't right. The problem was he wasn't really sick either. At first, Sam had been sure that the constant shiver, the listlessness, the pallor to his skin was all down to the bloodloss. Hell, if their situation had been better, Sam would have taken him to a hospital.

The problem was there was no knowing how much blood Dean had lost, and then he'd fought, expending what little energy he had left to be sure that the djinn didn't get Sam, didn't kill them both. It wouldn't have helped the situation, Sam knew that, but at the same time he knew without Dean's actions they'd have all been worse off, likely all dead.

He was a stubborn bastard and for that Sam was equal parts thankful and banging his own head against the wall. Sam hadn't really been surprised when Dean told him he'd stabbed himself in the djinn's world, stabbed himself because in his heart he knew what he'd got wasn't real, what he'd got meant his real Sam, his true little brother was alone and needed him.

Sam looked at his watch and came to the decision that it was time to put an end to the pretence that Dean was asleep. He knew what his brother was like when he was asleep and that wasn't it. He sighed as he turned the laptop off and set it down beside the bed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to the floor and stepping across to sit down beside Dean.

Somehow he needed to help Dean leave it behind, show him he'd done the right thing, even if he'd wanted to be with Mom. Maybe they needed to really talk about this, really pick apart what was tearing Dean up inside.

That was the thing with his brother, Sam thought as he looked at Dean's closed eyes, blank expression and rigid back. When Dean had a cold, everybody was going to know about it, he was going to milk it for all it was worth and more, wailing and moaning like Death itself was stood alongside him, but when he was ill, really ill, he didn't say a thing. He'd barely acknowledge it and only then if he had to. When he was hurt, heart hurt, mind hurt, rather than physical pain, then he shut down, locked himself inside as if the least little thing would tear him apart forever. He locked himself away until he could rebuild his walls and try to protect himself from the world.

Sam knew he'd spent years denying it, years pretending he didn't know how vulnerable his brother was, years refusing to acknowledge that Dean was anything more than Dad's willing little soldier boy or his own parent depending on the occasion and what he himself had wanted. He'd denied it because if he admitted he knew then he would also have to admit how much he had hurt him, how much he'd torn Dean apart even though he loved him. His brother had and still would sacrifice everything, even now. Sam strongly suspected Dean had left a perfect life because in his heart he knew the real Sam needed him and not because it meant he was dying.

Sam lifted his hand to his brother's shoulder and squeezed gently, "Come on, Dean. You need to get up." He got no reaction so tried again, "Dean, get up now. You're not asleep. The only time you sleep that heavy is when you're on drugs, so unless you want to explain to me where and why you're taking them, you'll get up now." Sam felt like a prize ass but there was no point pretending he didn't know his brother was awake, didn't know his brother really hurt.

Dean's eyes fluttered open, but it was an act, his facial expression didn't change, his body didn't shift and stretch as if he was too weary to even try to prolong the pretence when they both knew that's all it was. He pushed himself up to sitting, his back to Sam as he cast the covers off. He'd no sooner sat up than the shivers started again. Away from the pile of blankets and sheets, Sam could see he'd gone to bed dressed in a pair of sweats and a long sleeve tee. He was hunched over, arms round his stomach and shivers were wracking his body like he was sat on a glacier in a tee-shirt and shorts. Sam shifted position and dropped a hand on his brother's forehead seeking a temperature, a fever, something to account for the uncontrollable shivers. There was nothing - Dean's temperature was fine, but his reactions were sluggish. Once he finally realized Sam's hand was resting on his forehead, he brushed it away. "Hands off, bitch! Leave the merchandise for someone who can afford it!" he snarked half-heartedly.

Sam drew his hand back, hanging on to the expected response, despite its lack of energy. "'k I'm up. What did you want?"

"It's time to go eat, Dean. Let's go!"

Dean sighed and shook his head, claiming he'd no appetite but Sam figured it was no good leaving matters to continue. He stood and gathered up Dean's clothes, passing his brother a pair of jeans, change of t-shirt, and a shirt to go over it. "Get dressed, please, Dean." There was clearly no fight left in Dean for he just pushed himself up wearily, dropped his sweats and sat back down to start pulling on his jeans. His movements were tired, like an old man struggling with arthritis. By the time he was dressed Sam could still see the intermittent shivers wracking his body. Sam moved across to his own bag and pulled out the thickest hoodie he could find, standing up and crossing to wrap it round Dean.

"I'm thinking maybe we should go find a doctor, Dean. This isn't just passing like we hoped it would," Sam said quietly, pulling his brother closer to him, holding him in against his chest, hugging him, hoping he could share some warmth, share some of the strength Dean seemed in need of. Despite the shake of the head his brother gave, Dean made no attempt to pull away and for that Sam was grateful. He realized how much he'd missed his brother despite his presence, just how great the fear was that he would lose him. Sam held him and relished the moments of proof that his brother was still here, alive and breathing. And shivering, he noted as Dean gave a particularly violent shudder. "Doctor, Dean, it's where we should go. You've not been eating right, your sleeping pattern is all over the place but you're definitely not getting enough sleep and you're cold all the time. I don't know how to help you."

"'m fine, Sammy," Dean's voice was muffled by the fact he hadn't moved from his place against Sam's chest. "I'll get over it, 's nothing."

"Dean," Sam started, before halting as he reconsidered how to broach what he wanted to say. Eventually he came to the conclusion he may as well just come out and say it and hope the fallout wasn't worse than the current situation. He started by checking again and making Dean promise him that he had no hidden injuries, nothing Sam didn't already know about. He knew he'd checked his brother over, found plenty of bruises and the odd scrape, but apart from the scab on his neck from where the djinn had been extracting blood and the nasty bruising and raw skin of his wrists and hands, there had been nothing else major to see. The warehouse had been anything but clean and hygienic so Sam had insisted on being the one to oversee the cleaning and care of those substantial injuries and although the mark on his neck was barely visible, he'd been assiduous in cleaning and repeatedly checking it. Dean had submitted to those checks without a fight. That alone had Sam's hackles rising as he wondered why.

"Talk to me," he said softly, "Give me some idea what's going on, what's got you like this, because this isn't you. We can't hunt 'til we can move past this."

Dean nodded and started to pull away only to have his knees buckle. Sam barely managed to catch hold of him, grasping at the hoodie and dragging him to the bed so they could both sit down. "Shit! Come on, bro, you've got to start talking to me." Sam pulled a chair across so he could sit directly in front of his brother, looking at his pale skin, his hunched frame swamped in the hoodie, yet still not warm enough to stop shivering.

"I'm sorry, sorry you couldn't have that life, Sammy," he finally murmured. "You and Mom were so happy. She was so proud of you, so pleased when you told her that you and Jess were getting married, gonna give her grandkids and . . . and everything you and she wanted."

Sam watched as Dean's head dropped further forward, eyes settled firmly on the carpet between his brother's feet. Sam waited but didn't really expect Dean to say any more. Gently he reached out to squeeze Dean's shoulder before letting his hand drift to his chin and lift it up so he could try to make eye-contact. "Listen, Dean. iYou/i have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. You have done nothing wrong. Mom . . . Mom died when you were four, Dean. I know you'd have liked it to be different, me too. I wanted her to live, but she didn't and you can't, can't keep doing this to yourself. She died and you've looked after me and Dad ever since. You grew up before you should've done, but you're not to blame for her dying. You're not to blame for what happened to Jess either. You know, sure – sure I used to dream of a life like you've described, the law degree, the fiancée, wife, the kids, house, car. I dreamt of all of it and I'm not going to get that now. I know that. Dean, it was never your fault though. I won't ever blame you for it."

"You were all . . . all so happy."

"And you, Dean? What did you have? How'd you think you'd have felt there in that life, if you'd have had time to settle in, time to know what was really happening each day? Would you have been happy?"

Dean shuddered violently and Sam leant closer, reaching for the zipper on the hoodie, fitting it together and zipping it up. He moved his hands to Dean's arms and began to rub them hoping to stimulate some warmth. "Talk to me, Dean."

"Everyone – everyone thought I was a fuck up, a mess." Dean's eyes slipped closed, but his expression was filled with pain and Sam moved across to his side, pulling him closer, his arm left draped across Dean's shoulder. Dean seemed so much smaller, so much less sure of himself than Sam was used to. "They kept asking me if I'd been drinking and Sammy . . ." The words were choked off and Dean turned away, trying to pull himself up, but Sam held on tighter, more determined. "You and me . . . You didn't like me, you didn't like me at all. You thought I was an asshole, a loser. You believed I'd steal from Mom and you told me all these things I'd stolen from you and . . ."

"Dean, that wasn't you. I don't know why that's what it was like, I don't get that at all, because that isn't who you are or who you would've been. I can't believe you'd have done those things - I won't ever believe it."

"I do steal though, Sam. How can you say that when you know I steal all the time?"

"No Dean, it's not the same at all. You . . . You're not just stealing now, this is different. What we have to do, it's different . . . You don't steal just to get something because you want it, you steal because it's the only way we can survive. It's the only way we can get a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs. It's not the same at all."

The conversation went on and on, round and round in circles, but gradually he noticed Dean's objections and denials grew further apart, less fraught. His tight hold on the hoodie he was wrapped in seemed to gradually ease. That was when Sam realized that it might be slow and it wasn't ever going to be overcome in a single conversation, but if Sam was lucky, maybe Dean was finally beginning to accept there was some good in himself.

The conversation petered out after a while and Sam redirected to the matter of food, relieved when Dean agreed, with just the barest hint of reluctance. They crossed the parking lot to a small diner nearby and Sam watched as his brother picked up the menu. When he placed his order, Dean added his own without prompting. It was less than what Sam was used to him eating but more than he'd since Sam had helped him from the warehouse.

Days past and Sam kept a constant watch over his brother. He persisted with an almost completely one-sided conversation in which he reiterated time and again all the good things about Dean; all the reasons why he was proud of him and didn't see him as a failure or a loser, irrespective of what his djinn-induced counterpart had implied.

The shivering stopped, but Dean didn't give back the hoodie. Sam would look across and see him swamped by its size and it reminded him of Dean's vulnerability, reminded him of his part in letting it grow and fester, prompt him to act on his responsibility to help Dean overcome it.

He watched as over the weeks Dean's strength and color came back, his cocky attitude and seeming arrogance, yet still Dean hung onto the hoodie and Sam continued to not mention it, wondering why Dean seemed so determined to keep hold of it.

The weather turned cooler as they headed north and Sam knew he was running out of warm clothing. He was driving through a town, with Dean resting in the passenger seat when he said, "Dean, I figure we need to make a stop at a Goodwill. I don't know about you, but I'm running short of warm clothes."

Dean looked across at him, a slight deer in the headlights expression. "Um, sorry. I'll give your hoodie back." Sam saw him start to struggle out of it and reached out to stop the movement.

"Dean, don't take it off. We'll get some new stuff, it's about time we did, most of it's getting pretty threadbare. You don't even have to give it back, if it's . . . useful, you can keep it I don't mind."

"You don't?" Dean seemed almost surprised. "I wasn't stealing it, just borrowing it," he tried to explain.

Sam frowned at him, "Dean, it never even crossed my mind that you were stealing it."

Dean's hands dropped to his lap, leaving it in place, his eyes filled with anxiety as he quietly said, "It reminded me that you didn't feel the same as the other Sam, the djinn's Sam. You and me, we get on better than me and the other Sam did, but maybe I don't need it anymore, maybe I know we're okay."

Sam felt choked up at his brother's confession. "We are okay, Dean. We're gonna be okay and you . . . you can keep the hoodie as long as you . . . as long as you need it." Sam was determined to make sure his brother could really believe that without the need for a scrappy piece of clothing as a reminder.