Sam curled up underneath the covers, bringing the stiff white sheet up over his head. He looked like a shuddering little pillbug to Dean: scared, small, vulnerable under his tough shell.
“Sammy,” he scooted closer until Sam’s head butted against the underside of his ribcage, “c’mere.”
His baby brother obliged, eagerly wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle and grabbing him close, burying his warm, wet face into Dad’s AC/DC shirt. A thunderbolt erupted outside the window, lighting up the cramped room and making Sam squeal in fear. The following crash of thunder only made him grasp tighter.
Dean brought Sam up closer until he could nuzzle his face into the soft crown of his hair, smelling like the cheap shampoo he bought at the Dollar Tree down the road. Green apple, crisp and tart. Dean threw his arms around Sam and held him close, feeling like he’d suffocate him if he wasn’t careful. In spite of it all, Sam didn’t jerk, didn’t try to escape him. Instead, he went lax in Dean’s arms, still shaking and crying, but not trying to curl up like a wet, sorry creature.
“Don’t be scared. I’m here, I’m right here.” He always was.