Dean’s been carrying the feeling around for days now, that low constant wrongness that settles in his chest and won’t move. Sam’s been quiet. Not the normal teenage silence, not the sulking or the headphones on, world off kind. This is sharper. Taut. Like a wire pulled too tight. Sam’s anxious, even when he pretends he’s not. He snaps more, bites harder, like if he shows teeth first no one will notice how badly his hands are shaking.
Dean clocks it all. Of course he does. That’s his job.
He thinks about asking. He always does. But that’s never how it works between them. They don’t sit each other down. They don’t ask what’s wrong. They wait. They orbit. They talk when one of them can’t hold it in anymore. And Sam hasn’t cracked, hasn’t even acknowledged that there’s something to crack over. He acts like it’ll sort itself out. Like he’ll handle it. He’s almost grown, after all.
And that thought almost leaves something bitter on Dean’s tongue.
So Dean watches instead. Watches Sam pull out that black notebook every chance he gets, hunched over it at the tiny kitchen table of whatever dump they’re calling home this week. Watches the way Sam’s face changes when he writes: focused, distant. Dean’s commented on it once, trying to sound casual. Sam shrugged, said it was journaling. Said it helped him clear his head.
That answer sits wrong, too.
Later, when Sam’s at school and the room feels too quiet without him, Dean finds the notebook shoved under Sam’s pillow. Just… there. Like Sam forgot to hide it. Or didn’t care if it was found. Dean stares at it longer than he means to. Tells himself he’s not snooping. Tells himself this is concern, responsibility, the weight of being someone’s entire safety net since they were both too young for it.
But his hands hesitate anyway.
Because what if he’s right? What if Sam’s drowning and Dean’s missed it? What if there are words on those pages that he won’t know how to answer? What if there’s a name? What if there’s pain he can’t fix. What if someone’s hurt his little brother and Dean didn’t get there in time-
That thought makes his chest go tight.
And for a second, his brain just… stalls.
Because it’s not fear or grief or secrets bleeding onto the page. It’s recipes. Pages and pages of them. Unhinged ones. Half legible, chaotic. Weird substitutions, measurements that don’t make sense. Dean flips another page. Then another.
It hits him slowly, like embarrassment turning warm and heavy in his chest. This is what’s been eating Sam up? This is what he’s been obsessing over? Memorizing Dean’s stupid meals like they’re something worth saving?
Dean closes the notebook and slides it back under the pillow, gentler than he picked it up. He stands there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the empty bed.
Yeah. His brother’s still weird.
But maybe not for the reasons Dean was afraid of.
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