Dean is still getting used to Sam being there. Not that he minds, he likes having his brother within eyesight, likes knowing exactly where he is. But it’s been four years since they’ve lived this close, shared this much space and four years is a long time to unlearn how to live beside someone, even if that someone is your brother.
Especially if it’s your brother.
He still startles sometimes when Sam speaks up from the passenger seat, forgetting he isn’t alone in the car. He still grabs one coffee out of instinct, only to realize too late that he forgot Sam’s and has to turn around. He forgot how high maintenance his brother actually is : the long showers, the separate shampoo and body wash like that makes any sense. Soap is soap. If it foams, it cleans.
And then there’s this.
Sam’s fingers curling into the sleeve of his jacket as they head toward the bar. It’s not even that crowded. Dean doesn’t.. hate it, but the last time Sam did this, he was a too tall high school kid hiding behind his big brother. Not a broad shouldered, six-foot-four grown man who could probably clear the room if he wanted to.
Still, Dean always knows it’s coming. Any crowd, any tight space, the tug happens before he even thinks about it. What gets him is that Sam doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it. Almost like it’s muscle memory. Built in. The same way Sam positions himself with an exit in sight, the same way his knife is never far, hidden but within reach.
Or maybe he’s just clingier now, after everything. God knows he’s earned the right to be.
So Dean doesn’t say a word. As long as it helps Sam breathe easier, as long as it keeps him steady, Dean will let him hold on. And if Dean finds himself angling his body just enough to shield his baby brother without making a show of it, leaning just a little closer: checking, grounding, making sure Sam is real and here and safe, then that’s nobody else’s business.
