Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)

Twice in his life, now, Sam has laid on a bed and watched helplessly while a woman he loved was sliced open, burst into chemical flames and burned until their beautiful faces and nurturing hands and soft blond curls were nothing but cinders and smoke and rotted memories. That much he already knew, and the hideously poetic way it all came around full circle was definitely never lost on him. There was and is something significant about Sam, and about the second day of November; that much was always crystal clear even if Sam doesn't yet know what the significance is exactly. But now there's another piece to it that Sam didn't know was there before: Dean. As if his Mom's death and Jessica's death weren't already paralleled enough, now Sam knows that both times, Dean was the one who saved him. Dean was the one who grabbed Sam's fear-paralyzed body right before the room exploded and the walls collapsed, and carried him to safety. Both times, Dean was the only reason Sam lived to mourn the loss of someone who loved him and didn't deserve to die.

The symmetry is haunting. Terrifying, actually. Sam would have to have a brain ten times the size of the one he does to even have a hope of wrapping his head around it. As it is, thinking about it just makes him dizzy.

Dean's upset, possibly more upset than Sam's ever seen him. They only drove for maybe twenty minutes after they left their old house; just far enough to get them out of Lawrence, when Dean pulled over abruptly to the side of the road and got out of the car, shooting barely audible instructions to Sam not to follow him. Sam listened, mostly because he was too confused not to, and watched as Dean walked down the road a hundred yards or so and then just stopped. He stood there for a few long minutes with his back to Sam and the car – Sam watched from under a deep frown at his brother's unmoving form. Then Dean bent over for a few seconds, gave himself a tiny shake, and walked back. He got into the Impala and pulled back onto the highway without a word. Sam didn't ask, he was almost afraid to; the look on Dean's face had been halfway between thunderous and devastated, like he was caught between wanting to scream and cry. Sam couldn't blame him, so he kept his mouth shut about it. He didn't have a faint clue what he would say even if he did feel like talking.

And then they just drove. Dean put in an old Rush cassette, pulled onto the I-70 and just drove until it was dark out. They didn't stop for once for food, and even though Sam was hungry and his legs were tired from being crammed in the car all day long, once again he didn't speak up. They did stop for gas, once, but Sam didn't wake up until Dean was already pulling out of the Texico station. He slept most of the way, so he doesn't remember much, but while he was awake Dean was so tense that by the time they arrive in Denver and Dean finally pulls into the parking lot of a motel, Sam's surprised his brother can even move. If Sam had been sitting in the exact same position, every muscle tensed and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, for just shy of eights hours? He'd be so sore Dean would have to roll him out of the car and into their room. But Dean gets out of his seat as quickly and spryly as if they hadn't been on the road for any time at all; getting them a room around the back of the building and walking briskly into it without even a glance in Sam's direction. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd say Dean was mad at him. But he does know better; this is what Dean does whenever things get too real. He shuts down. It's really nothing new.

Sam stretches as he gets out of the car, and he unloads their bags and a couple guns from the trunk before he joins his brother in their home for the evening. It looks exactly like every other place they've been to – two beds, a small table in the corner, an old television and out-of-date furnishings but clean enough – but even still, everything feels different now. It's like nothing's changed but everything's changed at the same time; it makes Sam feel like he doesn't belong in his own skin, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the way it makes him feel, he doesn't like the way it's making him question everything he thought he knew about what happened to their family, what's still happening to them. And he really doesn't like the fact that talking to Missouri gave Sam a nagging, sneaking suspicion that their Dad probably knows a hell of a lot more about this whole thing than he's ever cared to tell them. That thought is all kinds of infuriating so Sam tries to put it out of his mind, but it's just there scratching at the back of his skull and not letting him forget it.

Dean's sitting on the edge of one of the mattresses, his boots and jacket still on and the car keys still clenched in his hand; slumped over a little and staring into space. Sam isn't sure what to do, he can't read the expression on his brother's face and he knows how much this hunt got to Dean so he doesn't want to say the wrong thing and make everything worse. He has a really bad habit of doing that. So instead, he hauls the bags up onto the table and then just sort of hovers in the corner for a few minutes, watching as Dean sits there completely zoned out and trying to decide whether he should even bother saying anything, or if he should just shower and hit the sack and let Dean work everything out on his own. Either way, Sam's positive that in the morning, Dean will be completely fine again. It's how Dean operates. But in the meantime, they're stuck in this odd little limbo that has Sam's arms just itching to be wrapped around his brother, even though he swore to himself he'd stop letting thoughts like that enter his head.

"Are you okay?" he asks finally, unable to stand the silence any longer. His voice is a little scratchy from not being used all day, and when Dean answers his is too.

"Huh?" He looks up, blinking at Sam dazedly like he'd forgotten Sam was there. "I – sorry, what?"

"I asked if you were alright," Sam repeats, taking a few steps toward his brother so at least he's not hiding in the corner anymore.

"Oh." Dean heaves a weary sigh. "Yeah. I guess so."

"You wanna talk about it?" Sam's words come out small and cautious – that question all-too-often leads to Dean brushing him off.

Dean shrugs. "Not much to say really. This one just hit really close to … well, home."

"I know," Sam says softly. "I don't even remember the night Mom died and this one was hard. I can't imagine what it was like for you."

Dean just shrugs again, halfheartedly, and continues to stare at the floor.

Every instinct Sam has is telling him to shut up, to just let it go and let Dean deal with it in his own way instead of forcing him into a conversation about it, but sometimes Sam's mouth doesn't listen to what his brain tells it to do, and the words tumble out of his mouth uncontrollably. "God, being in that house … I mean I barely remember anything, you know? I've just seen pictures, and it was like … that almost made it worse. 'Cause up until now it's just been a story to me, it's been like something out of somebody else's life, but now it's so real. Being in my old room, I mean, actually standing in the spot where it all happened …"

"Yeah," Dean agrees heavily. "I know."

"Do you, um, do you think we should call Dad?" Sam asks tentatively. "Tell him what happened?"

"I did already," Dean says flatly, his expression souring. "Left him a message, told him we were in Lawrence. He probably won't call back though. He never does."

"Oh." Sam doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't say anything. He picks at a hangnail for something to do with his hands, and imitates the way his brother is staring at the floor because he can't look at Dean anymore. Not when he looks so sad and worn down.

"You can sit, you know," Dean comments after a few minutes. "You don't have to go around walking on eggshells just 'cause I'm in a mood."

"Oh," Sam says again. "Uh, yeah. Okay."

He glances back and forth between the two beds, not sure if Dean's words were an invitation to join him or if he was just irritated by Sam standing there staring at him. Usually Sam doesn't have to think so much about his actions when he's around Dean, usually they're completely natural around each other, but right now he's worried that if he makes a wrong move it'll just make Dean even more upset and that's the last thing Sam wants to do. Making a snap decision, he awkwardly walks across the room and sits down beside Dean, but being careful to place himself far enough away from his brother that they're not touching. For a long time, neither of them say anything and Sam chews on the inside of his cheek and waits for Dean to talk first. He's still stuck in that place where he feels like anything he could say would be the wrong thing right now.

"How come you never told me about Jess?" Dean asks eventually, glancing over at Sam momentarily and then finally shrugging out of his coat and letting it fall onto the bed behind him.

"What?"

"The dreams you had about her dying, about it coming true and everything," Dean clarifies.

"I … I don't know," Sam mumbles.

"No, really," Dean pushes. "We don't keep stuff like that from each other, Sam. I mean, there's gotta be a reason you never said anything until now."

Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "'Cause I feel like her death was my fault, 'cause I saw it happen and I didn't do anything to stop it. I saw her on the ceiling like three separate times, and I still went off with you and left her there all alone. I guess I thought if I said it out loud, it'd make it true."

He can't see Dean's face, but he can hear the frown on it when Dean speaks. "Okay, I get that, but … I mean, that's kind of a big thing to keep to yourself, don't you think? Especially if the thing that killed her is the same thing that killed Mom. All these years we thought it was something that came after Mom, but now it seems like you're a lot more connected to all this than we thought. I get that you were grieving and all that, but you still should've told me."

For whatever reason, Dean's statement and the slight air of self-righteousness in his voice really pisses Sam off. "You think I haven't thought of that?" he snaps, standing up abruptly and spinning back around to face Dean. "You think I don't know that this probably means Mom dying was my fault too?"

"No, I wasn't saying – " Dean starts quickly, but Sam cuts him off.

"And are you seriously wondering why I didn't tell you?" he barrels on angrily. "Really? Because, what, we're just being so honest with each other lately?"

It's a hit below the belt and Sam knows it; Dean's face clouds over instantly and he practically springs up off the bed, grabbing his jacket again as he does.

"I can't deal with this shit right now," he grinds out, moving towards the door, and instantly all of Sam's anger dissipates and he feels like crap all over again.

"No, wait," he protests. "I'm sorry, don't leave."

Dean pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "I'm not leaving, Sammy. I'm just gonna go get a beer or something, okay? Clear my head a bit."

"Don't," Sam pleads, not caring how young and whiny he knows he sounds. He's even willing to bring out what Dean calls his 'puppy-dog eyes' – he knows Dean's helpless to them and he doesn't like manipulating his brother like that, but he will if it'll make Dean stay. He was really angry with Dean not even a minute ago but now he's bounced right back to that place where he just needs his big brother; needs him to just be there and make everything okay again like only he can. "I'm really sorry, I didn't – I won't bring that up again. I swear. Just, please Dean. I don't … after everything that happened, I just …"

Dean looks over his shoulder, finally meeting Sam's eyes for the first time since they left Kansas that morning. "You don't what?" he asks softly.

Sam exhales deeply and drops his exhausted body back down onto the bed. "I don't wanna be alone," he answers in a tiny voice that barely sounds like his own. "Not tonight, not after … well. It's stupid, I know it's stupid. But could we just … I don't know, watch a movie or something? See if maybe there's a game on? You can go back to being mad at me tomorrow if you want, but can we at least have one night where we push everything else aside and just be brothers again?"

For almost a whole minute, Dean considers him through slightly squinted eyes, like he's trying to work out whether Sam's being sincere or not. But then he nods ever-so-slightly and tosses his jacket and the keys onto the empty bed.

"Okay," he agrees, toeing out of his boots and walking back over to Sam. He sits back down on the bed beside him and smiles a little.

Sam smiles back. "We used to actually have fun together, you know? Before everything got complicated."

"I remember." Dean winces just a little and scratches at the back of his neck like he does when he's uncomfortable, but he doesn't look sad or annoyed anymore, so Sam supposes it's a start.

"So … that was really Mom, huh?" Sam asks quietly.

"Yeah. Guess so." Dean worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "That was … I don't know. Weird."

"I know. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet," Sam admits. "She … god, you look just like her. I guess I already knew that, I've seen pictures and everything and Dad always said it, but in person it was so much more obvious. You have her eyes, it … freaked me out a little, actually. I kinda liked getting to hear her voice, though. I never have before. I mean, that I remember."

Dean nods but doesn't say anything in return. He tucks one leg up on the bed; he might even shift a little bit closer to Sam, but Sam can't be sure so he doesn't point it out.

"Missouri said she destroyed herself to protect us," Sam continues, his voice catching somewhere in the middle.

"I figured," Dean replies sadly.

"What, um … why do you think she said she was sorry?" Sam's hardly been able to stop thinking about that since it happened.

"I'm not sure."

"You don't think she thinks it's her fault, do you? What happened to her back then? I mean, why would it be, right?" Sam reasons.

"I really don't know, Sammy," Dean answers heavily. "Look, can we … do you mind if we talk about this tomorrow? I just … can't. Not tonight."

Sam nods understandingly. "Yeah. Sure."

"I'm sorry about what I said to you before," Dean says softly. "What happened to Mom and Jessica wasn't your fault, okay?"

"Okay." Sam doesn't entirely believe him, but he's willing to pretend he does for the sake of them actually getting along for once. "You wanna order a pizza or something?"

Dean grins and pats Sam on the back as he stands up. "Yeah, sounds good. I'll call, see if you can find something good on TV."

The tiny bit of contact is more than he's had from Dean in a good while, and even though it was completely innocent and platonic it still makes Sam's skin tingle. He puts it out of his mind, though, grabbing the remote and shuffling up to sit at the head of the bed while Dean gets the phonebook from out of one of the empty drawers and starts flipping through it. By the time Dean's ordered the pizza and tossed his cell phone back into his duffle bag, Sam's found a channel that plays old movies.

"Hey, Nightmare on Elm Street," he says.

"Awesome!" Dean cries, clapping his hands together and then shrugging out of his over-shirt so he's just in a thin t-shirt. "Shove over," he says, nudging Sam over on the bed and sitting beside him, getting comfy against the headboard and crossing his legs at the ankle. "I love this movie."

Even after one of the most emotionally traumatic hunts Sam's ever been on, they actually manage to have a pretty decent evening. They eat too much pizza and drink tinny tap water out of styrofoam cups because they're both too lazy to actually go out and get something else to drink. They laugh at the cheesy graphics and special effects and joke about how Sam was only seven when he saw this movie the first time, and how he refused to go to sleep for weeks after unless Dean promised to stay up keeping watch and wake Sam up if he started dreaming so Freddy Krueger couldn't get him. Dean laughs until he almost chokes when he tells Sam he had to set his alarm for the crack of dawn for almost three whole weeks to keep up the illusion, so he could sit on the edge of Sam's bed in the morning and pretend to have been there all night.

By the time the credits roll, Dean's fallen asleep – he's out cold, slumped against Sam's side. He'd been like that for probably the last half hour and Sam's arm fell asleep at least ten minutes ago but he didn't have the heart to move and wake Dean up. But now, he turns the TV off and attempts to slowly slide out from under his unconscious brother without waking him up. He quietly cleans up the rest of the pizza that they didn't eat, and then he turns back to Dean and considers him. There's an empty bed just two feet to the left that Dean isn't sprawled all over, and really that's where Sam should be. If he were smart, he change into a pair of sweats and get in that other bed and just go to sleep pretending he isn't aching to feel Dean's warmth next to him. But he can't help it – he doesn't know if he's needy right now because of actually being in their old house today or if Sam's heart is just confused after actually having fun with Dean for the first time in a long time – but either way, he really, really wants to be close to his brother. So he doesn't fight it. He gently pushes Dean over a little on the mattress and curls up behind him, wrapping his arm around Dean's middle and nuzzling into the short hairs on the back of Dean's neck.

They're both still fully clothed, so if Dean wakes up in the morning and is annoyed, Sam can claim they just fell asleep watching the movie and Dean will most likely buy it. But for now, Sam soaks up Dean's heat and breathes in his comforting, familiar scent and thinks, for the first time since he lost Jess, that he might actually sleep well tonight.