>“ 'bout friggin' time! I was two seconds from sending out a search party.”
Sam smiles a little - it’s not even a wry smile, even though it feels like maybe it should be, but the fact that it isn’t is a point of achievement for him. It’s good that Dean’s joking about it, and it’s good that he’s thinking about it without feeling near panic. It’s a step forward. Hopefully those steps lead in a direction that gets him to stop thinking this way, like he’s a walking self-help book, because all this positive thinking and moving forward just makes him feel like there’s something wrong with him. Something other whatever that was, anyway.
The sound of the timer going off makes Sam jump, and he curls his hands into fists and presses them to the table so his hands won’t shake, glad Dean’s turned away from him, busy with the cooking and everything so he won’t see. It’s not like Dean doesn’t know he’s still a little uneasy sometimes, but he doesn’t want him to see. He doesn’t need his brother to think he’s got any permanent damage done to him - not that this is permanent, it’s just, it’s taking a little longer than he’d thought it would to go away, that’s all - it will go away (and if it doesn’t, he’ll at least learn to hide it better, eventually).
>“Gimme a hand with this?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
He’s already standing up and moving over to stand near the stove a little uneasily, nothing to do with that sort of unease anymore. This has to do with the fact that every time he tries to cook something more complicated than a sandwich, something goes horribly wrong. Something will burn, or be under-cooked, or overflow, end up too salty or not salty enough or he’ll end up dumping the entire canister of pepper in because he opened the wrong end, or something, there’s always something, no matter how careful he is.