Deanās been carrying the feeling around for days now, that low constant wrongness that settles in his chest and wonāt move. Samās 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. Samās anxious, even when he pretends heās 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. Thatās his job.
He thinks about asking. He always does. But thatās never how it works between them. They donāt sit each other down. They donāt ask whatās wrong. They wait. They orbit. They talk when one of them canāt hold it in anymore. And Sam hasnāt cracked, hasnāt even acknowledged that thereās something to crack over. He acts like itāll sort itself out. Like heāll handle it. Heās almost grown, after all.
And that thought almost leaves something bitter on Deanās 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 theyāre calling home this week. Watches the way Samās face changes when he writes: focused, distant. Deanās 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 Samās at school and the room feels too quiet without him, Dean finds the notebook shoved under Samās pillow. Justā¦ there. Like Sam forgot to hide it. Or didnāt care if it was found. Dean stares at it longer than he means to. Tells himself heās not snooping. Tells himself this is concern, responsibility, the weight of being someoneās entire safety net since they were both too young for it.
But his hands hesitate anyway.
Because what if heās right? What if Samās drowning and Deanās missed it? What if there are words on those pages that he wonāt know how to answer? What if thereās a name? What if thereās pain he canāt fix. What if someoneās hurt his little brother and Dean didnāt get there in time-
That thought makes his chest go tight.
So he opens it.
And for a second, his brain justā¦ stalls.
Because itās not fear or grief or secrets bleeding onto the page. Itās recipes. Pages and pages of them. Unhinged ones. Half legible, chaotic. Weird substitutions, measurements that donāt make sense. Dean flips another page. Then another.
It hits him slowly, like embarrassment turning warm and heavy in his chest. This is whatās been eating Sam up? This is what heās been obsessing over? Memorizing Deanās stupid meals like theyāre 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 brotherās still weird.
But maybe not for the reasons Dean was afraid of.
