Chapter Text
The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of paper as Sam shifted another useless page.
The case files were scattered messily across the dining table. He’d gone over them again and again, searching for a crack, a loophole, some inconsistency.
Nothing. He had found nothing.
The clause Ruby had uncovered was promising, but Sam knew Lucifer would twist it, turn it around, make it useless. That was his specialty, turning hope into traps.
Sam didn’t want to admit defeat, but at this point, the case felt like a losing battle.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to will the headache away, but it clung to him like static.
“You look like shit.”
Sam startled, head snapping up.
Dean stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed, his shirt streaked with what Sam guessed was motor oil. His shoes left faint smudges on the hardwood.
“Dean,” Sam groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “How did you get in?”
“I picked the lock.”
Sam gave him a look. Dean shrugged.
“You weren’t answering. Had to make sure you weren’t dead.”
Sam sighed.
Dean stepped further into the apartment, eyeing the chaos on the table. “You know, for someone who used to alphabetize his textbooks, this is borderline tragic.”
Sam rubbed his temples. “I keep thinking I missed something. Like it’s staring me in the face and I’m just too tired to see it.”
Dean leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Then sleep. You’re no good to anyone half-dead.”
“I can’t,” Sam said. “Not until I crack this.”
Dean didn’t argue. He just reached over and started stacking the papers, slow and methodical. “Then let’s go over it again. Together.”
Sam blinked. “You’re serious?”
Dean gave him a look. “You think I came all this way just to insult your hygiene?”
Sam huffed a laugh, the first in days. “You kind of did.”
Dean laughed and took a sip of beer, then reached for one of the case files. He flipped to the back, scanning the footnotes with surprising focus.
Sam watched him, trying not to show the flicker of gratitude that rose in his chest. Dean wasn’t trained for this, he rebuilt engines, not legal arguments, but sometimes he saw things Sam didn’t. Maybe it was the way his mind worked: direct, unclouded by jargon or precedent.
They worked in silence for a while. The kind that didn’t feel heavy, just familiar. Dean occasionally muttered under his breath, pointing out odd phrasing or asking questions that forced Sam to rethink his assumptions.
“You ever notice how clause 14 contradicts clause 9?” Dean said, tapping the page. “Feels like someone tried to bury something.”
Sam leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Wait—show me.”
Dean slid the document over. Sam scanned the lines, then again, slower. His pulse ticked up.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “That language shouldn’t overlap. It’s redundant unless... unless they’re hiding a contingency.”
Dean smirked. “See? Told you. Sometimes grease monkeys read between the lines better than suits.”
Sam shook his head, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “You should’ve been a lawyer.”
Dean snorted. “Nah. I’d punch someone by week two. Besides, someone had to keep the family business running while you chased degrees.”
Sam hesitated. That old ache stirred again, the one that came whenever he thought about how much Dean had given up. “You could’ve done anything, you know. You’re smart. You see things.”
Dean shrugged, brushing it off like he always did. “I see busted carburetors and overpriced invoices. That’s enough.”
But Sam didn’t buy it. Not really. Dean had potential, raw, instinctive, sharp. And yet he’d stayed behind, anchored to a life Sam had escaped.
Still, he was here. Always here.
Sam cleared his throat, pushing the thought aside. “Thanks for coming.”
Dean looked up, eyes steady. “You don’t have to thank me, Sammy. You’re my brother. That’s the job.”
Sam nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The headache hadn’t gone away, but the static felt quieter now.
They kept working, side by side, in silence again. It was comfortable, the kind of quiet that only came from years of shared battles, spoken and unspoken.
Until Dean broke it.
“So,” he said, flipping another page, “how’s it going with café boy?”
Sam didn’t answer.
Dean glanced up. “Sammy?”
“I... I don’t know,” Sam said finally.
Dean raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was going fine. I got his number. He came by the office once, brought coffee, smiled, flirted.”
Dean nodded slowly.
“But then Ruby stopped by,” Sam continued, voice tightening. “She mentioned Samael. Just said his name in passing. Gabriel froze and just left.”
Dean sat up straighter. “Wait. He heard the name Samael and ran?”
Sam nodded, looking small. After days of silence, he could not admit Gabriel had grown on him, and he did like him.
Dean’s jaw clenched. “And you’re just now telling me this?”
“I didn’t know what to make of it,” Sam said. “He looked... afraid. Not guilty. Just scared.”
Dean stood, pacing. “That’s not good, Sam. If he’s connected to Samael, you need to be careful.”
“I know,” Sam said quietly.
Dean turned to face him. “You let him in. You trusted him. And he bolted the second things got real.”
Sam didn’t argue. He just stared at the table, the weight of it all pressing down.
“I liked him,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Dean’s expression softened, but his voice stayed firm. “Then I hope he wasn’t lying to you. Because if he’s part of Lucifer's orbit, even by accident, that’s a problem.”
Sam nodded, the ache in his chest sharper now.
Dean sat back down, quieter this time. “You always see the good in people. That’s not a flaw. But in this world? It’s dangerous.”
Sam didn’t respond. He just picked up the next file, hands steady despite the storm inside.
They worked in silence again, but this time, it wasn’t comfortable. It was bracing.