"Sam, what did you do?" Dean sounded raw, tired with worry.
"Dean!" Sam's head jerked up from the candles , bowl dropping from his hands, spraying the art deco floor with spell ingredients. Dean was in his arms, herbs crushed under their boots, Dean's lips soft, the delicate skin of Dean's neck warm and wet with Sam's tears.
Dean pushed his brother away, gruff and concerned. "After all we've been through you go and make a deal? What, you - you couldn't wait to kiss another demon?" The pain in Dean's voice, like it hasn't been any time at all.
"It wasn't – I didn't!" Sam tried to reassure. "They wouldn't come. Any of them". They won't take my soul, it's never enough. "I – I tried, Dean! I'm sorry".
Dean held Sam's face for observation, the same way he used to check for injuries when they were young, as if he could tell whether Sam was OK just by his expressions. He did not look satisfied.
"How long have you got? Who was it, Crowley? That son of a bitch"
"Dean!" moments back from the dead, and already Dean was exasperating. Sam wanted every last bit of it . Forever. He could feel his eyes start to light up with laughter "Dean! I didn't make a deal! You're alive and I didn't make a deal".
He fell into a second hug, warmth blooming in his chest, more prominent than any worry and sorrow.
Ignored the thought nipping at the edge of his consciousness. During the months after Dean's deal expired, looking back in agony at their last year, Sam knew, muttered to himself through bargaining and anger. Had the deal been his, the first clause he'd have insisted on, was not to remember he'd made it.