Currently thinking about Dean wrestling Sammy out of his burning apartment, Sam fighting to run back into the fire. For a while, Sam is numb, able to distract himself with talking to cops and fire inspectors, comb through soot and ash for anything salvageable. And there’s her parents, grief-stricken and talking to Sam like they know him, shooting glances at Dean like they want him gone.
But Dean sticks around, knows that the pain is going to hit Sam soon and he can’t leave him to shoulder that alone. They’re fifty miles out of town and headed east when it hits, and Dean watches Sam’s face crumple and he thinks that might break his heart, if it hadn’t broken years ago.
Dean pulls into the first motel they come to, half-carries Sam into a room and shoves a half-empty bottle of whiskey at him. And Sam gets drunk, and alternates between blaming himself for leaving and swearing vengeance on the thing that killed her, and Dean sits with him, tries to find the right words but everything he can think of sticks in his throat.
He wants to feel sympathy, he wants to be the brother Sam needs right now, and he can pretend but he can’t fool himself. Because Sam was his first, until he decided that Dean wasn’t good enough, wasn’t normal enough. And there’s a horrible part of his soul that’s glad that Sam’s “normal” went up in smoke.
Jealous of a dead girl, how fucked up is that?
Fucked up enough that Dean doesn’t protest when Sam pulls him into a hug, falls back onto the bed and drags Dean down with him. Fucked up enough to get a king, fucked up enough that he’d almost convinced himself that he just wanted to hold Sam, give him comfort in his grief.
Sam’s squirming around beneath him, and Dean thinks Sam wants him off, tries to roll away, but Sam’s kicking his jeans off and tugging at Dean’s belt. “Please, Dean,” and his voice is rough with whiskey and tears, “please, make me forget?”
And Dean’s just fucked up enough to say “yes.”