The tension in the bunker was - frustrating.
Sam lay in the center of his bed staring at the ceiling. He’d gotten Jack tucked away into a room of his own, and Dean was closed in behind his own door. Sighing, Sam rolled onto his side to stare at the alarm clock. Well after 2am, and sleep didn’t seem to be coming for him that night.
A damn shame, since the exhaustion was definitely there.
Sam flipped back the sheets and blankets as he sat up in the dim room. He reached for the light and switched it on, blinking in the sudden brightness. Dean would laugh at him if he knew, but Sam kept a stash of herbal Sleepytime tea in the bottom of his nightstand. Retrieving one of the little sachets, he stood and left his room, padding down the hall in bare feet.
Peeking into Jack’s room, he was pleased to see the boy curled up and sleeping soundly. A little burst of affection warmed his chest - Dean wouldn’t be happy, but Sam was already completely attached to Jack Kline. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was similarity to himself; after all, once upon a time, certain people thought Sam was evil, that he would end the world. Maybe it was the similarity to Cas; Sam couldn’t help but see his friend in Jack’s mannerisms and the innocent way he tried to be like Dean.
Sighing, Sam turned away from Jack’s room, staring at his brother’s closed door.
Dean was drowning. Dean was drowning in a wave of grief so powerful he couldn’t even hope to swim upstream. Cas’s death was destroying his brother, whether Dean chose to acknowledge or not.
Sam knew it was. He knew, because he’d been there before. When Jess had died, it had felt like Sam’s world had died with her. Sam didn’t know how to explain to his brother that his grief would be different this time - because the way he felt about Cas was different. Dean refused to acknowledge that part of himself, and now wasn’t the time for Sam to shove his brother into that particular truth.
In the bunker’s kitchen, Sam brewed his tea and carried it back to his room. Just outside Dean’s door, he paused, ears picking up a soft sound from inside. He stepped closer to the door and his heart sank.
Dean was crying.
Not harsh, rough sobs. Soft cries, nearly muffled by the door. Sam could picture his brother, curled into a tight ball in the center of the bed with his arms wrapped tightly around a pillow. He lifted his hand to knock, freezing inches from the door as Dean sniffled.
Sam’s need to comfort Dean was so strong, it burned in his chest - but he knew Dean wouldn’t want that right now. Dean would want to be left alone, and Sam’s offers of a hug and a listening ear would be completely rebuffed, and likely met with anger.
Sighing softly, Sam wandered back to his own bedroom, settling in bed with his tea. He resolved to be there for Dean, just like Dean had been there for him. He’d be there when Dean was ready to talk.