Teenage Sam getting ready for school alone in a motel room that doesn’t even have a name on the sign outside.He’s pulling on his jacket when he notices Dean’s cologne sitting on the tiny table by the door, the one Dean must’ve left behind in his hurry to follow John.
Sam stares at the bottle like it’s something forbidden. He knows he shouldn’t touch Dean’s stuff. But he picks it up anyway and uncaps it. The second he sprays it, he’s hit with amber, musk, spice and underneath it all, that warm, familiar Dean smell. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the heat of his brother’s shoulder brushing against his.
And it helps. God, it helps more than anything else has in days.
Over the next few days, Sam keeps using the cologne. It becomes a quiet ritual. When he’s anxious, when he’s awake at night checking the salt lines for the tenth time, when the silence of the motel feels too big. He tucks his face into his shirt and breathes in. The scent anchoring him, surrounded by Dean’s warmth, Dean’s presence,Dean’s protection.
So when Dean finally returns days later and immediately notices the bottle is half-empty, he freezes and looks at Sam with something between disbelief and betrayal.
“Dude....did you drink this shit? It’s practically gone.”
Sam goes rigid, heart lurching in his chest,caught, exposed, stupid. He mutters, “Shut up, Dean,” and turns away, hoping the heat in his face doesn’t show.
Dean’s still staring at him, softer now, like he’s starting to understand something Sam desperately wishes he wouldn’t.
Sam refuses to look up.
Dean refuses to stop watching him.
