Sam wasn’t sure the last time he’d seen Dean come out of his room. He’d check on him in the morning when he brought him his breakfast, check on him in the afternoon when he brought lunch, check on him at dinner when he’d gather Dean’s stockpiled plates, and check on him once again just before bed to ask Dean if he wanted to come sleep in his room tonight.
“There’s a Wax Maniacs on Haunted Hill marathon tonight, maybe tomorrow night.”
“I’m too tired, maybe tomorrow night.”
“I haven’t showered in a week and you’re gonna be mad if I get my funk in your bedsheets. Another time, Sammy.”
It wasn’t that Sam wanted Dean to sleep with him out of obligation—they hadn’t had sex in over a month and Dean was the only one bothered by that fact—he just wanted Dean to get out of bed and spend a little time with him.
“What would it take to get you out of bed, Dean?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest, frowning softly as Dean looked up at him.
It was hard to be mad at Dean when he was lying on his stomach with his pillow gathered up in his arms, bringing Sam back to long nights in motels watching monster movies and waiting for Dad to come home. But, they weren’t staying up late hoping Dad would come through the door and tuck them in for bed—Dean was almost 40 and Sam had to beg him to get out of bed to brush his teeth in the morning. His lack of self care was turning Sam’s temples gray.
“You don’t need to worry, Sammy. I’m fine.” He turned to face the TV again, gripping his pillow tightly, and Sam sighed.
“If you won’t take care of yourself for yourself, could you at least do it for me?”
Dean stared ahead, and Sam wondered if he was still listening or if he’d tuned him out long ago, focusing in on the cheap horror sequel playing on the TV. Though, after a moment of contemplation, Dean looked to Sam and pulled himself up into a sitting position.
“There’s one way I’d let you get me in the tub.” Dean’s eyes flashed mischievously, and Sam felt a wave of relief and recognition wash over him. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner?
He stepped closer to Dean, until they were nearly knee-to-knee with each other, and Sam reached down to stroke Dean’s hair.
“I think my puppy needs a bath.”
—
He’d drawn the bath ten minutes before he brought Dean into the bathroom—that just gave Dean time to get into character and Sam enough time to get his room ready for Dean to sleep in it. Once the tub was filled halfway with warm water, not so much that the tub would overfill with Dean inside of it, Sam went to Dean’s room and informed his puppy that it was bathtime.
Dean followed him down the hall to the bathroom, and Sam was grateful that they had this evening all to themselves. Still, he locked the door behind them out of instinct and helped Dean undress himself. All of his clothes needed a thorough washing, which Sam would do in the morning, and were immediately thrown into the hamper. Dean stood naked before him, still hovering somewhere between his normal headspace and the one he occupied during playtime, and breathed like he was nervous.
“Come on, puppy—the water’s just fine.” Sam guided him over to the tub, leaning over to touch the surface and show him that it wasn’t too hot. “There’s a towel on the bottom, too, so your paws won’t slip.”
Dean tipped his head down and looked up at Sam from underneath his eyebrows, and for a moment Sam could swear that he saw Dean’s eyes watering. He stepped closer to him and reached out to cup the back of his head in his palm, stroking it gently.
“You’re a brave puppy, I know you’re not scared of the water. Come on, I’ll help you in.”
Sam picked Dean up, struggling but stable enough that he didn’t go toppling into the water with him, and brought him to the tub. He couldn’t remember bathing him before, but he had washed and cut Dean’s hair many times over the years—this time just required a bit more upper body strength than he anticipated. He lowered Dean into the bath and dropped down to one knee at its side, smiling at him gently. Sam grabbed onto the tub’s edge for support.
“It’s not so bad, is it?”
Dean sat up, putting his hands on the edge of the tub and placing one on top of Sam’s. The corners of his lips stretched into a matching grin as he looked up at his little brother.
He reached into the water beside Dean and scooped it into his cupped palm, reaching up to dump it over his brother’s head. The water fell in all directions, and Dean’s face scrunched up as it rushed across his eyelids. Sam grabbed a washcloth and dabbed Dean’s forehead dry, repeating a soft “I’m sorry, puppy” as he mopped the water from his face.
Dean gave a small whimper as Sam poured another handful of water over his head, the contents of his palm seeming to have a mind of its own as it streamed into Dean’s eyes. Sam dropped the washcloth on the side of the tub and cupped Dean’s face in his hands, his skin warm and slightly greasy from his lack of self care. His eyes crinkled where the skin of his cheeks had been pushed upward, and it almost looked like a smile.
“It’s okay, I’m just going to wash your fur,” Sam’s voice bounced off the bathroom tiles as he reached up and stroked Dean’s wet hair, “and then I’m going to dry you off, you’ll get a treat, and we’ll go to bed.”
Dean’s big puppy dog eyes glimmered as he looked up at Sam, and he gave a small, affirmative bark. Sam gently scratched at his scalp, just behind his ear, and Dean tapped his foot against the bottom of the tub. Sam knew he got self-conscious about playing sometimes, despite him being the one who chose it, and it made Sam feel warm seeing Dean embrace being his puppy.
“You’re a good puppy, Dean. You’re such a good puppy.”
Sam squeezed a line of shampoo onto the top of Dean’s head and worked it into his scalp with his fingertips, styling his hair into a shampoo mohawk before he made Dean tip his head forward to rinse. He dragged his palm against the grain of Dean’s hair, stroking it and enjoying the sensation of wet hair flowing smooth across his skin. Dean made it clear that he was enjoying it as well, nudging his head up into Sam’s hand and nuzzling his nose against the inside of his wrist.
“I think you deserve an extra treat,” Sam said as he grabbed the conditioner and placed it on the edge of the tub. “Do you want to sleep in the bed with me tonight?”
Dean buried his forehead into Sam’s palm, rapping his foot against the bottom of the tub when Sam cradled the side of his head and rubbed his fingers behind his ear. He gave a small whimper, the soft sound only audible as it bounced off the walls of the tub.
“I’ve missed spending nights with you, Dean.” He tried not to break character when they played, but it’d been so long since Dean was in a position to listen to him. Sam hoped he’d be forgiven for bringing their real issues into a scene.
“I miss you during the day, of course, but it’s just something about you not being there at night that I can’t deal with. It’s weird not waking up at 1am and feeling your drool on the back of my shirt.” He tipped Dean’s head up to face him, and was surprised to find him looking engaged.
Sam’s suspicions that he wouldn’t break character now were correct, as Dean wordlessly knitted his brows together and leaned over to lick his cheek—thankfully, leaving a minimal amount of slobber on his face. Dean hovered at his side while his saliva dried on Sam’s cheek, halfway between putting his forehead on his shoulder and burying his face into the crook of his neck before he decided against it entirely and settled back into place.
The conditioner went onto his head, Sam took his time massaging it in and ensuring Dean was comfortable, and the bathroom was mostly silent. Occasionally a noise echoed or a pipe creaked, disrupting the quiet, but Sam and Dean were both at ease in the silence. Though, most of all, Sam loved the sound of water rushing from the top of Dean’s head and raining down below, colliding with what was pooled in the tub, and he loved seeing his brother closing his eyes and looking peaceful as he was cared for. All Sam ever wanted was to see Dean let the stress of their life melt off of him, if only for a minute, and now his shoulders slackened and his head lolled forward into Sam’s hands.
He pulled Dean close, raking his hand through his wet hair, and cooed to him: “You’re such a good puppy.”
—
Sam dried Dean off and went out to the kitchen to gather their treats: two beers that he held precariously in one hand. The bottles clinked together more times than he felt comfortable allowing before he settled in his room, calling for Dean to come. After a pause Sam heard bare footsteps murmuring up the hall until Dean, bundled in a fresh pair of pajamas, came padding into the bedroom. Sam opened their bottles and offered Dean his, settling down onto his bed and tipping back his own to parch his dry throat.
The mattress squealed as Dean piled his weight on top of it: he shifted and shimmied up the bed until he was curled up at Sam’s side, laying his head down in his lap as a show that he’d made himself comfortable. He exhaled deeply and took a sip of beer, decidedly unpuppy-like.
Sam reached down and stroked his drying hair, knowing that because of him it would dry strangely in the morning and Dean would no doubt have something to say about it. But right now, he was quiet, he was pinning Sam down to the bed, and he was content. Sam turned the TV on and channel-surfed until he landed on a cheap horror movie that he was sure would make his puppy happy, something with screaming girls in tight shirts and an obscene amount of fake blood.
When he put the remote down and settled his hand back on Dean’s head, he gave Sam a small, pleased bark.