#author:w

There is, of course, the ingrained instinct to turn away, to slam the door and pretend he never saw anything, we don’t have to talk about this, Sam. Dean has built his sense of stability on pretending; the shaking of that foundation leaves him frozen in the doorway. Even after all the conversations—Rowena’s sharp smile and the Winchester’s averted eyes and hot cheeks—Dean had still not really expected this.

When Sam starts to turn away, to make a move for the other side of the room, Tom brushes the blanket off his shoulders and stands up. He grabs Sam’s wrist to twist him back around. Sam’s instincts have him ready to fight but Tom’s face is soft and uncertain like the one Dean only shows to Sam when one of them dies. Sam holds his breath and his body still, unsure as well, waiting for the moment to pass. Tom runs a finger along the scrape from Harry’s pick-ax that runs from Sam’s elbow to the tender skin of his inner wrist.