Mint and apricots

8. A firm hand

Less than an hour later, they were leaving the house. As promised, Cas had eaten all his breakfast – as well as half of Sam's – and washed the dishes. Dean had called Bobby's garage, the library where Sam worked and Cas's office to get a free day for everyone. In the meantime, Sam had shut his mouth like a child in time-out once again.

The twenty-six-year-old did not resist when his brother motioned for him to get in the car, but did not say a single word during the whole ride. Dropped on the back seat that didn't fit him anymore, with his hands joined on his lap, he kept his eyes fixed on the city panorama that flowed outside the window, but without focusing his gaze on anything in particular. Quickly peering into the rearview mirror – Cas had finally returned the keys of the Impala –, Dean guessed Sam was observing images that only existed in his mind.

The blonde tried to distract everyone by discussing with his husband about the other errands to run while they were in the city center – the weekly shopping, a trip to the pharmacy to get supplies for the medicine cabinet, some Christmas gifts –, but this did not prevent him from exchanging upset glances with Cas.

When he finally pulled over to the closest sidewalk to the courthouse entrance, Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or to scream in frustration. His brother looked like a mannequin. Motionless and silent, he merged beautifully with the setting, which was clouded by the great flood that was raging around them. And Dean could not bear the idea of not being able to do anything to change that situation.

"Well," he announced with fake bravado, without turning off the engine but keeping his foot on the brake. "I'll try to find a parking spot, you can wait for me in the hall."

Cas had just nodded when Sam's voice emerged from behind their heads, as unsure as a chirp.

"Dean..."

"Could you do me a favor and leave the umbrella here? I'll need that. You could take a run to the entrance."

"Dean."

This time the eldest of the Winchesters could not pretend he hadn't heard him.

"What?" he asked without looking at him, while he had Cas's money belt delivered in his lap so that it wouldn't get wet.

Sam took a deep breath, glancing anxiously at the court across the street.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

Those eight words were enough for Dean to take the time to turn to him.

"What are you saying?" he asked with a granite expression.

The youngest swallowed. Cas was right when he noticed that Dean had a natural talent for appearing as stubborn as John Winchester and just as adamant, but Sam was twenty-six years old and the period of his life during which he had had to bow his head in front of the rules of his family was now only a distant memory. Sam tried to keep that premise in mind, to convince himself of it while looking into his older brother's eyes and repeating the last thing the thirty-year-old wanted to hear.

"I'm saying I don't want to do this."

He said it in one breath, without having any idea what the reaction of the two partners would have been. Of course they loved him, but they had already done enough to clarify their opinion about the latest events. They wanted that damned restraining order, they demanded it. But as much as Sam was sure his brother was one step away from ranting against him, he hadn't been able to restrain himself. He couldn't curl up on himself, keep crying and expect the people around him to handle the matter. Not when they refused to see his reasons. No, he couldn't afford to be weak, not at that juncture.