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Sam was tired.
This wasn’t a new feeling, exactly, the bone-deep weariness he found himself stuck in. He supposed that he had spent most of his life in some form of exhaustion, and trying to recall the last time he had properly slept was becoming his nightly exercise in misery.
It certainly wasn’t when he and Dean were kids, because he spent so much of that time worried about his brother and John, and it wasn’t when he was a teenager because he had to juggle a job, his homework, training, and his complete and utter loathing of his entire life. Stanford was bad at the beginning, better in the middle when he had Jess, and then terrible at the end when the “dreams” kicked in. Anything after that, well - Sam preferred not to think about it (not that that meant that he didn’t). The point was: he was tired.
It didn’t help that Dean was suddenly so fucking happy.
And God, it’s not that Sam resented his brother, or wanted him to suffer or anything gross like that. It’s just… Sam knew Dean was happier in the bunker at least partly because he was able to get away from Sam for once in his life. Sam knew Dean’d never admit it, and probably didn’t even notice it for himself, but Dean finally had his own room, his own space, his own home. And Sam felt completely stupid because all he really wanted was to sleep in the Impala. He never really needed space from Dean, not nowadays anyway, and the separate rooms set his teeth on edge in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Christ, how embarrassing. Dean would punch him for the chick flick moment.
So, it was whatever. Sam couldn’t sleep and what else was new. He spent his nights in the bunker’s library - “the Men Of Letters were friggin nuts, Dean, this is important” - and he spent his days pretending like he knew how to act like a human being. Dean was too wrapped up in his domestic bliss to notice, and Sam intended to keep it that way. He’d ruined Dean’s plans enough for a lifetime, and he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to cry to his brother about how quiet his room was at night. He would deal with it. He was dealing with it.
(For his part, Dean thought it was cute that Sam figured he couldn’t tell something was up with his little brother. “Really, dude? Your eyebags have eyebags,” he wanted to say, or “I can literally see the imprint of a book on your cheek, Sam, why are you sleeping in the freakin’ library” or even just “I’m worried about you.” But with Ezekiel in there rooting around, he didn’t want to open up a line of questioning about secrets and who trusted who the least. If it was important, Sammy would tell him.
Right?)
--
Dean had found a hunt. Sounded fairly simple, though Sam had smacked him on the arm for saying so because that was apparently a surefire way to jinx it.
“I’m just not convinced it’s not a bear, Dean,” Sam snipped, not looking up from his most recent find out of the Men of Letters’ nerd collection. Dean slid a plate under his nose before kicking out the chair across from his brother and throwing himself into it. “And one piece of toast, dude, really?”
“Fine, Samatha, if you don’t want it…” Dean made a sudden lunging motion towards the plate, and snorted when Sam hurriedly took a bite. Dean continued “Just listen to the article: ‘Fouke Monster Strikes Again: giant ape-like creature accused of killing three missing campers’ - what part of that is saying bear to you?”
“Maybe the part where the investigator says the description fits with a misidentified black bear? And it’s in Arkansas of all places. You don’t even like Arkansas!” Sam’s face had reached ultimate Bitch Level, and Dean had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together. This was the biggest reaction he’d gotten out of Sam in days. He was the best big brother in the world. To celebrate, he kicked Sam’s shin under the table.
“Lighten up, Sammy! I’m sick of watching you read all day,” Dean stood up from the table, grabbing Sam’s open book as he did so. He dog-eared the page and snapped it shut, grinning at Sam’s appalled expression. “We’re leaving in thirty - pack your shit.” He saw the corner of his brother’s mouth flash into a real smile as he turned to leave and bingo. Sam had tried to duck his head and hide it under his stupid shaggy haircut but Dean knew he’d won.
Sam was unhappy, more so than usual, and Dean was damned if he wasn't going to figure out why.
Step One: get Sam out of the bunker.
Step Two: find out what had his panties in a twist.
(Sam was ready to go in fifteen minutes - he really didn’t have all that much to pack).
--
Sam knew Dean was up to something, but he was so grateful to be out of the bunker that he didn’t even want to ask. He’d put up a customary resistance, but if Dean wanted to avoid a vitamin D deficiency that was good enough reason for him.
Long limbs folded into the Impala, he felt more settled than he had in weeks. The rumble of the car on the road and Dean’s absent humming to the radio soothed the thrum of anxiety he had become accustomed to since they had set up shop in the bunker. He was researching the so-called “Fouke Monster'' they were supposed to be hunting, and after some reading, he would admit they'd driven longer distances for less compelling leads. He conceded to Dean that there might be something there - only mentally though, no way did Dean need that boost to his ego.
“Okay, so, get this,” Sam began, “apparently this thing’s been hanging around Arkansas for sixty-odd years.”
“No way, Dad never wrote anything matching its description in the journal, right?” Dean knew it was a pointless question - they both had the damn thing memorised at this point.
Sam grimaced, “Nope, and I looked through Bobby’s notes and he didn’t have anything that fit with the article, so we’re pretty much on our own for this one.”
“Well, if our two main experts on All Things Fugly are out, that just leaves you, geek - what have you got?” replied Dean. Sam had always had a knack for the research portion of the hunts, even more so than their father or Bobby. Dean knew Sam loved being the expert, and could pull information out of what anyone else would assume was a dead-end (not to mention the freak encyclopedia that was his brain). Didn’t mean Dean wouldn’t tease the shit out of him for it.
Sam explained what he had found so far: locals had reported sightings of an “ape-like creature” every twenty years or so since 1951, but two stories in particular went as far back as the 1850s. The only definitive characteristics were that it was between seven and ten feet tall, smelt terrible, and maybe only had three toes (honestly, Sam figured a lot of the foot based evidence were hoaxes, as did most of the authorities in the area - “Hominidae don’t have three toes, Dean,” “what’s with the Latin, college boy, do I look like I care what frat they’re in?”). Whenever there was a period of sightings, livestock would go missing and dogs would be attacked, but there were no human casualties up until the most recent reports. Three men camping in the woods went missing and were found dead six days later, in a cave miles away from their last campsite with evidence of extremely severe blunt force trauma.
It was suspicious, to say the least.
“It’s not a rawhead, doesn’t fit the MO of a rakshasa, demon or wendigo, can’t be a shapeshifter for obvious reasons…” Sam trailed off, lost in thought.
Dean grinned toothily, “I can’t believe you’re gonna make me say it, Sammy.” Sam shot him a questioning look and Dean shook his head in disbelief. “A sasquatch! Sam, we’re hunting Bigfoot!”
Sam felt the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips and huffed out a soundless laugh. “Bigfoot isn’t real, Dean,” he said evenly, repeating the opening to a conversation they had had time and time again.
Dean, as usual, was indignant. “How could you say that! Everything we’ve seen and you draw the line at squatch?”
Their gleeful bickering continued as they pulled into a diner, and Dean took a moment before getting out of the car to inspect his brother's profile and appreciate his hard work. Sam’s shoulders were less hunched, like a weight had been lifted off them and Dean could see a hint of his dimples for the first time in… well, a while. Sam felt his staring and shot him an odd look.
“Uh, need something?”
“Just planning for when I’m gonna shave off those butt ugly mutton chops of yours, kiddo.” Flawless save, Dean. He started getting out of the car, “Pie time, Roosevelt, get a move on.”
--
They decided to stop for the night soon after, and made plans to leave early the next morning. Usually, Dean would argue for driving the full journey in one go, but one look at Sam listing blearily into the car window and he opted to get his brother horizontal as soon as possible. He got mopey when he was tired, and Dean wasn’t entirely sure how to reach him these days. Growing up, Sam was always the one to push Dean to talk into long emotional talks about their problems - often involving tears.
Their dad had hated it, had resented Sam for asking questions about their mom and for looking at him with his big sad eyes and for calling him out on his shit. Dean wasn’t sure if Dad remembered the time he drunkenly told all this to Dean while Sam was at Stanford, but it’s not like it mattered now anyway. At any rate, the issue was that Sam wasn’t like that anymore. Dean wondered if their Dad was proud, wherever he was.
The motel they pulled in at was typical - conflicting patterns on the walls, the useless decorative divider between the beds and the kitchenette, an ever-present smell of must and stale air. Not to mention the mouldy ice machine next to the car park.
“Driver gets first shower,” he hollered to Sam, who was hunched over his laptop at the table, face illuminated by its electronic glow. Sam only rolled his eyes, and then his shoulders, wincing as his spine popped and cracked.
“You know, that rule only works if you let me drive ever,” Sam mutters, knowing the bathroom door had already closed. “Jerk.” He scrubbed a hand upwards over his face and then through his hair before deciding that he really couldn’t bring himself to research any further, despite still having no clue what they were hunting. It felt like all he did was read about people dying. Sam stared at his blinking cursor and allowed himself a moment to wallow.
He missed Bobby, and they hadn’t heard from Cas in a while. Dean was hiding something from him, maybe something big. He had spent one hundred and eighty years in the Cage and honestly, he was pretty sure everyone moved on from that particular fact just a little too quickly. He didn’t want to sound self-important, but he had triggered the end of the world multiple times, so he felt justified in saying a lot of the awful shit that had happened in their lives was directly related to him and his terrible choices.
Sam felt as though his chest was constricting, and God, this was why they never talked about it, this sucks, this fucking sucks. Admittedly, he was spiralling.
Dean emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his hair. Steam billowed out behind him, and the abrupt change in lighting obfuscated the view of his little brother sitting in the dark. By the time his eyes adjusted, Sam had snapped his laptop shut and was gathering clothes to change into.
“Sam?”
Dean could read his brother easier than anything, and right now Sam was radiating a palpable Do Not Interact vibe, shoulders tucked up around his ears and head ducked to avoid eye contact.
What the fuck happened out here?
Sam didn’t reply, only cleared his throat when he approached the bathroom and Dean was still standing in front of the door. Dean opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the right thing to say, couldn’t do anything but step to the side and watch as Sam slipped past without touching him. Sam closed the door behind him softly, and with the click of the lock Dean realised that whatever was wrong with Sammy might not be something he could fix with just one good car ride.
(After his shower, Sam lay awake on the crummy motel bed, listening to his brother pretend to sleep and wondering how different it all would have been if he’d never been born).
--
Sam woke up in a funk, all residual good mood from the previous day's journey evaporated by his mood swing last night and minimal actual rest. He didn’t even get enough sleep to warrant a nightmare, but he was counting that as a win at this point.
Dean wasn’t exactly well-rested either, after lying awake half the night trying to sort out some sort of game plan for a therapy session. Nothing he thought of made him any less freaked.
In the end, he wussed out, and made everything about 500 times worse.
They’d been driving in relative silence for a few hours, when Dean decided to make his move. He wasn’t up for a full melodrama today, so he went with Plan B.
“Okay so if it’s not Bigfoot, here’s something: nine feet tall, hairy, neanderthal forehead? We're hunting a Sam!" Dean leant across the seat to ruffle Sam's hair, dodging his brother's swipe at his hand.
Sam wasn’t laughing. He thought the joke would have been funnier if that hadn't pretty much been John's dying wish. He still thought about that voicemail Dean sent him, still kept the phone it was saved on tucked away at the bottom of his duffel bag, ("If I didn't know you, I would wanna hunt you!"). They'd never talked about it, of course, they’d never talked about it. He fixed Dean with a glare before turning his entire body to stare out the window. He still desperately hated the bunker but evidently its constricting silence had him out of practice with his brother's big stupid mouth.
Dean bristled at the misstep. He had been trying to get Sam to laugh, he thought that was obvious; things had been good yesterday, great even. He wasn’t ready to have the serious conversation they needed to have, and, anyway, Sam didn’t even want to have that conversation! Fine. If Sam wanted to be a sulky bitch for the next three hours, that was on him. Dean twisted the volume up in the radio, loud enough to drown out any pissy sighs from his brother and white-knuckled his grip on the wheel.
Sam let his head rest on the panel of the car, letting the vibrations of the road jolt through his skull and rattle his jaw. He felt thin, too little skin stretched over too many bones. He closed his eyes. He was so tired.
--
The stony silence continued for the rest of the journey to Fouke, Arkansas. Sam started feeling guilty about ten minutes after he made a scene, but like Hell was he going to be the one to apologise first. He couldn’t.
Dean gave as good as he got in the silent treatment department, unable to find the words to fix it and unable to find the will to properly try. It wasn’t his fault Sam read way too far into every single freakin’ thing he said, and Dean wasn’t going to feel bad for trying to joke around with him.
He wasn’t.
Fouke was a sandy nothing of a city, in his expert opinion. To even call it one seemed insulting to real cities, what with the barely 800 residents and the four top locations of interest being churches. As they rolled into the town, Sam scoffed suddenly and pointed out the window, directing Dean’s attention to a small establishment on the side of the main road with a sign that read:
FOUKE MONSTER MART.
It was decorated to look as if it was held up by a giant wooden sasquatch-esque creature, and Dean took Sam’s opening as the olive branch he knew it was. He smacked the back of his hand on Sam’s arm and smirked.
“Perfect place to chat up some normal, totally-not-crazy locals, huh?” He pulled into the empty parking lot and they took a moment to appreciate the additional mural decorating the outer wall of the building. The silence became a little less purposeful. Dean swallowed awkwardly, keeping his eyes frontwards. “Look, Sam, about bef-”
“Dea - you don’t have to - it was nothing, man, I was just…” Sam let the end of the sentence hang in the air and shook his head. Dean could see the bones in his jaw jumping from clenched teeth and knew Sam saw him notice. Sam tried again. “Really, Dean, don’t worry about it - it was nothing. We’re fine. I’m fine.” He got out of the car before Dean could reply, rapping his knuckles on the roof of the car twice on his way past.
“Good talk,” Dean muttered, before following Sam into the Monster Mart, uneasy, brow furrowed.
--
When Sam was sixteen, John made him skip his first SAT test in favour of hunting a poltergeist.
Sam had been studying for months - Dean helping him take practice test after practice test, spending weeks saving up the money for the fee - only to be told to get in the car the day before he was supposed to take it. Sam had always wondered how his dad missed him lugging his workbooks across the country to every hunt. Maybe he just didn’t give a shit.
Ever since Sam started being capable of forming his own opinions, he and John had butt heads. Dean wanted him to just shut up for once, but, as he told Dean, it wasn’t his fault their dad was a chronic asshole who refused to admit that his kids might be smarter than him (Dean was not as receptive to this argument as Sam had hoped he’d be). It also wasn’t his fault that John started arguments with him on purpose so that he could expel some of his booze-induced rage on his least favourite child (Dean liked this one even less).
It was around age sixteen that Sam had decided that maybe he hated John. He felt guilty about it, he felt like the worst son in the world and figured that, at the very least, he loved him for being their father. But the point was, he definitely didn’t like him much. Or really at all.
He said so to him only once, during the argument about the SATs. Sam always knew he was winning a fight when John started reprimanding him, telling him to stop shouting - which truly was just hilarious because all John ever did when he was around was yell, so remind Sam why was it only allowed to go one way, exactly? It was condescending, and patronising, and dismissive, and Sam was so damn sick of it.
John was in the middle of shushing him when Sam broke.
“I hate you and this entire stupid fucking life!”
He’d never said it before. Heavily implied it, definitely, but for once with shaking hands and a cracking voice, he told John exactly what he thought.
John had looked shocked and Sam could have sworn for a moment that a flash of hurt crossed his face. Fucking good.
Dean had stood up, then, face full of thunder. “Sam!” he’d admonished. He had spectated most of the argument with a pale face, torn between wanting to impress Dad with his easy compliance and knowing how much this test meant to Sammy. Every single argument forced him to think about what would happen when his family finally did fall apart, and this time he felt an uncharacteristic spike of anger towards Sam.
Why couldn’t he just do what he was told?
Sam, upon realising it was two against one, turned on his heel and escaped to the only place in the shitty apartment that had any amount of privacy. Locked in the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror until his face started to blur and shift. He thought his reflection was too young to look that tired.
They never spoke of it, and Sam never apologised. He didn’t know what to say.
(He went on the hunt, resenting every second of it. He got good at being quiet, and even better at hiding how he was feeling from John, and eventually Dean too. Sam’d spent years dreaming about not hunting anymore, and he was going to make that fucking happen, no matter what).
--
The inside of the Monster Mart was potentially even crazier than the outside. Behind the rows of shelves was another mural decorating the back wall, depicting the Fouke Monster standing in the middle of the woods which was surrounded by plastic trees for - well, ambience, Sam supposed. Framed over the unmanned counter were old movie posters and a disintegrating news article, right next to a peeling sign that boasted fresh pizza with “extra toppings free of charge.” Small town America was always so fucking weird.
Dean caught up to him and didn’t even bother trying to disguise his disdain. Sam nudged him over to the section of the store that mimicked a gift shop and tilted his head towards the merchandise meaningfully.
Dean took a second to catch on but once he did he pursed his lips and glared at Sam. “No!” he mouthed, and then, “I’m not buying this crap!”
Sam just flicked his eyes pointedly between Dean and the crummy t-shirts for sale, until his brother groaned under his breath and picked two up as if under extreme duress. Sam could hear Dean muttering as he steered his brother towards the front: “So freakin’ bossy, you primadonna, it’s not like it’s your money, swear t-”
At that moment, a man wearing a rodeo cowboy hat and a black tank top emerged from the door behind the counter. He gave them a welcoming smile, and spoke with a heavy southern accent.
“Mornin’ boys, welcome to the Fouke Monster Mart - home of the country’s best Fouke Monster Museum!” Dean audibly scoffed, but if the man noticed he was polite enough not to acknowledge it. “Now, are you interested in our little city’s mascot or are you just passin’ through?”
Sam jumped to speak before Dean could put his foot in it. He went with his most earnest college-graduate performance, all bright eyes and easy smiles. “Hi! I’m Roger Daltry, and this here is my writing partner Keith - we’re actually working on a piece about the Fouke Monster for our college post-grad journal and this place came up as our best chance at research! We’re really interested.” As if offering proof, he gestured towards the shirts Dean was reluctantly holding.
The man preened at the compliment, and something in Sam relaxed with the knowledge that he at least could still pretend to be a well-adjusted member of society.
“Well, shoot, boys, you’ve come to the right place. Name’s Verne, the wife and I run this joint. How long you two in town for?”
“Uh…” Sam paused, looking to Dean for assistance. His older brother only shrugged, more than happy to let him take the lead just this once - so freakin’ unhelpful. He swung back to face the man, “We’re… not sure yet. Just playing it by ear so far, y’know?” Sam laughed good-naturedly.
Dean was always amazed by how quickly Sam was able to morph into a completely different person, just the right amounts of trustworthy and harmless to make him immediately likeable. It’s the puppy dog eyes, he thought to himself, people can’t say no to the damn puppy eyes, (big brothers included). Sam clearly had this interaction under control, and Dean was fine keeping his conversations with hick locals to a minimum.
“Well there are no motels around here,” the man was saying. “But if you need a place to stay, my wife and I offer guided camping tours next to the creek where the monster lives. Just $200 a head.”
Silence. Dean was stunned.
Fucking what, two hu-
“Two hundred dollars?” Sam was already one step ahead of him, but he certainly said it nicer than Dean would have. Two hundred dollars! Forget the squatch, these people were the real monsters. “We’re staying with some buddies just outside of town actually, but thank you. We should really go let them know we’ve arrived, but we’ll be back, yeah, Keith?”
Dean jolted at the boney elbow that entered his ribcage, and he gave Verne the politest smile he could muster. He wasn’t sure he did a very good job - a suspicion confirmed by Sam’s snarky nostril flare. “How much for the shirts?” he tried.
“Oh, they’re $40 each, son,” Verne said, pleasantly.
Without a word, Dean walked to the back of the store and threw them back onto the shelf. Like Hell was he spending 30 gallons of gas money on these fugly novelty t-shirts. “We’ll get ‘em next time, Roger, let’s roll!” And with that, he fled the Twilight Zone. This town was asking a little too much of him already.
He waited for Sam to exit for several minutes, then matched pace with him on his way out. “Dude, I get this was the least freaky thing in there, but why’d you give me Keith Moon, I gotta rank at least a Pete Townsend!”
“Well,” Sam said, already smiling, “You’re about the same height by my estimate.”
Dean was visibly lost for words. At his expression, Sam let out a genuine laugh - not one of the performance ones he just gave their new buddy, Verne. It seemed to surprise him a little.
Dean couldn’t find it in himself to be properly mad. “Just get in the car, Captain Sincerity, before your camp counsellor friend charges us for parking our car in his lot. Freakin’ vulture”
--
After Dean had left the store, Sam had gently asked about the campsite and if it had any relation to the three men who had died. Verne had promised that they weren’t under his care at the time but nevertheless looked troubled. “
Only about two miles north-east from where my spot is though. Maybe it’s best you boys didn’t take me up on the offer,” he’d said, contrite. “I still can’t believe it…”
Sam had questioned him further with polite, journalistic interest. Verne peered around the shop as if to look for eavesdroppers and then leaned towards Sam conspiratorially.
“I know what the sheriff is sayin’, about them being killed by black bears.”
Sam nodded like he knew what the man was talking about.
Verne had lowered his voice further. “I wasn’t born and raised in this city for nothin’. It was the Fouke Monster. I just know it.” He leant back and tipped his head pointedly at Sam, as if they now shared a treasured secret. Sam supposed they kind of did, seeing as Verne was actually on the right track.
When he told Dean where the campsite was, Dean hummed. They could probably park the car on one of the off roads and walk to the cave in under an hour.
“Any guess what’d gank this son of a bitch?”
“None, no one’s ever mentioned killing Bigfoot before, and this ‘Fouke Monster’ might not even be a - a squatch” Sam sounded reluctant to even entertain the idea.
“Guess we better come prepared then.” Dean’s grin was savage as he said it. Finally, they were getting to the good part.
--
By the time they had picked up lunch from the local diner, it was nearing early afternoon.
There wasn’t much investigating they could do in such a small town, mostly because the event had been written off a week ago as a rogue bear attack, as well as the fact that the three men hadn’t been Fouke natives. There weren’t any morgues where they could view the bodies and no one could tell them anything Sam hadn’t already found online.
Dean did some half-hearted questioning of the waitress at the diner, but she was way too old for him to really get the charm going and he didn’t exactly feel like getting overly friendly with an octogenarian. Besides, the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him and if he felt like warmed crap, Sam must’ve been seriously worse off.
The pattern Sam found in his research on the way to Fouke indicated that the sightings only ever happened at night. They still had a good seven or so hours left of sunlight, so they planned to scope out the land heading towards the cave. Then, Dean proposed, they come back to the Impala and take a well-deserved nap. When Sam protested that he was fine, he wasn’t a child, Dean had thrown his hands up in mock surrender.
“Pretty narcissistic of you, gigantor, I was talking about me. Big brother needs his beauty sleep”
As he expected, Sam backed off the offensive. “Fair point. You need all the help you can get.” Dean had walked into that one on purpose, and God, Sam was so lucky to have him.
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
--
Their reconnaissance hike was uneventful, but they both knew that it was suicide to hunt in a monsters home territory completely blind. Tracks to the northeast of the campsite confirmed their leads - there was a creature here, and it sure as shit wasn’t a bear.
On the way back, Sam trudged behind his brother, sweating bullets in the Arkansas heat. He really was looking forward to that nap, even though it was going to be in the backseat of the Impala. Although, maybe that was why he was looking forward to it. The combined smell of grease, gun oil, and leather was one of the only consistent comforts he knew, and the car itself was really just about all he had by way of material possessions. And it wasn’t even his.
Sam knew Dean had been trying extra hard with him recently, despite Sam resisting more than usual. Things had been better, the last few days out of the bunker. At the very least, he wasn’t constantly thinking about his barren, empty room and all the ways it didn’t reflect him and his life (or worse, all the ways that it did). It wasn’t perfect, and they still had a lot of shit to work through, but Sam wanted to believe they’d weathered the worst of what fate had to throw at them and things would be a little less comically awful from here on out. No such thing as false hope, and all that.
Part of Sam still rebelled against being coddled - years of drill sergeant parenting and centuries of trauma raising its ugly head. Another part of Sam, stifled but no less vocal, was desperate to not have to be the one in perfect control, desperate to be looked after, desperate for his big brother to tell him it was all going to be alright. It meant something that Dean was still willing to try be that person for Sam.
Doggedly following his brother's footsteps along the path back towards the car, Sam felt surprisingly peaceful. The melancholy was still there, probably always would be, but it felt like less of a weight knowing that he and Dean were back doing the old family business schtick. Maybe he had just reached the point of tiredness where he started getting a little delirious. He was pretty familiar with the stages of exhaustion.
(Dean had been flicking glances behind him at Sam the whole way back, but apparently, his brother’s witchy sixth sense wasn’t getting signal out in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, Arkansas. Sam’s face was pale, and he was getting squinty around the eyes - a sure sign of an oncoming headache that Sam probably didn’t even notice yet. But he didn’t look angry, or particularly sad. Actually, out in the sun, he looked content. Part of Dean was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and wondered how long this could last).
--
They made it back to the car in good time, changing into fresh clothes and getting settled in ahead of schedule. Sam set an alarm on his phone and stretched his legs as much as he was able to in the cramped back seat. He thought about when he was able to lie completely flat and still have room to spare.
Dean wasn’t exactly comfortable himself, but he’d wrapped an old shirt of his (or maybe it was Sam’s? They hadn’t been able to tell whose things were whose for a long time, not that it mattered much to him) over his eyes to block out the light and was quick to fall into an easy sleep.
Sam listened to his brothers even, serene breathing, and drifted into unconsciousness quicker than he had in months.
But, as usual, the Winchester luck couldn’t hold. Honestly, Dean was disappointed in himself for still being surprised.
An hour or so before the alarm was set to go off, Dean was awoken by the familiar sounds of his little brother whimpering. His immediate recognition of the sound was a cold comfort. He knew he didn’t have to reach for his knife, but what kind of person could recognise a sibling based on their nightmare sounds?
Peeking over the seat, the setting sun illuminated Sam’s body curled up in as much of a fetal position as the backseat would allow, making his behemoth of a brother look about half his size. His brows were drawn and Dean could see his eyeballs rolling underneath the lids. Every now and then a litany of “please” and "no” would escape from his mouth, and Dean knew in his bones that this was a Hell Dream.
He still had them himself, more often than he’d like to admit. He knew Sam’s were worse, but he’d hoped that his brother had been getting better.
“I don’t know how to help you,” Dean whispered. It felt like a confession. It felt like defeat.
He thought about waking him but Sam needed the sleep and, if history was any indication, he wouldn’t even remember the dream that Dean had woken him from. So, Dean just sat up quietly and leaned over to card a hand through Sam’s hair. He seemed to soothe at the touch, and Dean knew he wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep that afternoon. Not when Sam needed him.
--
Sam woke to the alarm tone, feeling uncharacteristically rejuvenated. Maybe there was something to getting more than two hours of sleep every night. Out the rear window, he could see Dean watching the sunset from the trunk of the Impala, and unfurled himself from the backseat to join him.
Sam shook out his limbs as he exited the car, several joints popping. Dean turned his head slightly towards him at the sound of the door opening, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge him. The silence drew out for slightly too long to be comfortable.
“Disappointed in the beauty sleep results?” Sam said finally, nudging Dean’s shoulder with his own.
Dean just smiled, a weary little thing. “Nah, Sammy, can’t improve on perfection.” He paused. “How’d ya sleep?”
“Fine, actually! Better than usual, even.” At this, something imperceptible crossed Dean’s face. It wasn’t often that Sam was unable to gauge his brother's mood, but for the life of him he couldn’t get a read on it. Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet in the dirt. “Hey, y’alright, man?”
“What? Yeah, always, kiddo. You ready to go?” Dean jumped down off the car and popped the trunk. Sam saw the deflection for what it was, but let it slide for now. It could wait until after the hunt. He nodded to Dean.
“Great,” Dean said, pumping the shotgun barrel once. “Get a move on, Sleeping Beauty, we’re about to find Bigfoot.”
--
They’d been hunting together long enough to barely need words once they entered Business Mode. Dean took point, and the two of them moved quickly and quietly through the bush with practised ease.
Heel, roll, toe. Heel, roll, toe.
They made it to the camp in record time, and Dean felt the last of the lethargy leave him as the adrenaline started picking up. They still weren’t sure what would kill the creature, so they’d packed heavy. They each carried a machete, silver bullets, a flare gun, a taser, and several guns, along with the materials for a salt and burn of the corpse. The duffel bags were cumbersome, but neither of them were willing to risk the other getting seriously injured and having to lug them back the three and a half miles to the car.
Of course fate had to spite them, Dean thought hysterically, fate was a bitch.
It had happened fast. One moment they were stalking along the creek just out of sight of the cave, and the next Dean was slammed into the muddy water by a gigantic, solid blur. And God it was solid. Dean swore he heard his ribs shatter.
He let out a grunt, unable to even take in a breath before his head was submerged in the creek. Hitting water at velocity was insultingly painful, and the weight of the thing trapping him definitely wasn’t helping.
Suddenly, a flash of bright light penetrated the grimy water, startling Dean and freaking the monster out enough to let him wriggle away from its grip. It bolted to the other side of the creek and disappeared into the trees. The water was only about thigh height, allowing him to stand up easily and start hauling ass back to Sam, hacking up bog water all the way.
His brother had opted for the flare, unable to get a clean shot of the monster without hitting Dean. “Quick thinking, Sammy,” he panted, heaving himself back onto the land. “Where the fuck did that thing come from?”
Sam looked a little bug-eyed. “Are you okay, Dean? That thing knoc - that thing was huge!” He squatted next to where Dean was still lying, sodden and cloyed with mud, and started gingerly feeling at Dean’s ribs. Dean hissed at his brother's ministrations. “None broken, I think, but you can’t take another hit like that, man.”
“Aw shit, Sam, and I really was looking forward to the encore, too”
“If you’re fine enough to bitch, I’m not that worried. It kept heading northeast along the tree line.” Sam all but lifted Dean to his feet. “I’ll take point this time.” Dean tried taking shallower breaths to ease the pressure on his ribs.
They made it about five minutes before Dean heard it approaching again.
“Dean!” Sam started to bellow, already running to push Dean out of the way of the creature’s path. In Dean’s place, the Fouke Monster smashed into Sam like a linebacker. The angle of it meant Sam went catapulting into the trees to their left instead of the water, head hitting a stump as he was flung against it.
Sam didn’t get up, didn’t even make a sound.
Dean’s insides turned cold when he saw his brother lying like a discarded doll, but he forced his attention to the hulking monster still within range. This was the first good look he’d gotten at the son of a bitch. It was easily nine feet tall, with a threateningly wide chest and long, unnatural looking arms. The figure was covered in dark hair and was baring its pointed teeth at Sam’s prone form.
Whoever called this thing ‘ape-like’ needs to visit a zoo, like, yesterday.
Lighting quick, he raised his gun loaded with silver bullets and shot the beast in the chest, one, two, three, four, five times, until it collapsed in a heap. Dean’s ears rang in the sudden silence, and he approached the body before emptying the rest of his shells into its head. He nudged it with his toe for proof of life. It felt like kicking a rock. Sure that it was dead, or at least not getting up any time soon, Dean ran over to Sam who still lay unconscious.
The blood pooling around his brother’s head made him feel sick. Head wounds always bleed like crazy, he repeated his Dad’s words like a mantra, a prayer. Dean’s check of Sam’s pulse was promising, so he cradled Sam’s head in his hands and inspected it to find the wound. It wasn’t the worst injury Sam had received, not by a long shot, but the sight of his little brother’s pale face and limp body was never going to be something he was used to. He hoped it never would be.
He was sure Ezekiel didn’t have enough grace to heal Sam properly yet, but he had to check. “Zeke? Ezekiel? You in there, freeloader?”
Sam’s eyes opened blearily and Dean expected to see the unnatural blue glow that signified the angel was driving the ship.
“De’? Who’re... talkin’ to?” Sam murmured. And it was Sam. Just his stupid, brave, idiot brother. Dean wiped some of the blood away from his forehead with his thumb and took stock of his pupils. Dilated unevenly, but not so much so that the hospital was required. Dean almost shuddered with relief. They’d be alright.
“Hey, kiddo, you took quite the hit there, hmm?” Dean patted Sam’s cheek lightly when his eyes fluttered closed again, “Ah ah ah, you know the concussion rules.”
“No…” Sam trailed off, eyes drifting over to the corpse of the Fouke Monster. He frowned. “No sleeping.”
“That’s right, buddy, now let’s get you sitting up, yeah?” Dean hooked an arm around Sam’s chest and propped him up against the tree stump.
Sam watched hazily as his brother moved swiftly back to the monster. Dean pulled his machete out of the duffle bag, and began decapitating the creature, gagging theatrically.
Sam was confused, and his head ached. The pounding of his skull echoed with every dull thud of the machete, and his mouth felt full of cotton wool. Dean had been using his Big Brother Calm Voice, and he felt spacey and fatigued, and… concussion. He was concussed. Again. His poor brain.
He swallowed thickly against the nausea that rapidly swept him, and fought for the last thing he remembered. The drive to Fouke. Verne. The woods. Dean getting tackled by a sasquatch. Dean getting tackled by a sasquatch. Sam forced himself to quell the panic that rose immediately - he could see Dean. Dean was fine.
Dean was probably hiding the fact that his ribs had pierced his lung and he was bleeding out from the inside. Sam shook his head to dispel that thought; he trusted Dean, and Dean trusted him. He would tell him nowadays, right?
The acrid smell of burnt meat filled the air, as Dean salted and burned the ex-Fouke Monster’s body. No way would they be seeing it’s ugly ass again. He went back to Sam, who was staring slightly cross-eyed in his direction.
“Alright, lazy eyes, ready to go?” Sam just nodded, and Dean got ready to leverage Sam into a vertical position. Dean grunted as he hauled Sam upwards, taking what felt like the full brunt of his brother's weight onto his ribs. Dean knew Sam was trying his best to help, but could tell that the change in blood pressure had made him all but useless with dizziness, and God, his brother was too fucking large.
With one hand supporting his brother's waist and the other clutching the long arm draped over his shoulders, Dean willed his bruised ribs to hold for the journey. Sam’s head lolled against his shoulder, and Dean became acutely aware of the anxiety in his gut at seeing his brother so out of it. He couldn’t wait to get out of this stupid “city”.
They began the long trek back to the Impala.
(Not for the first time, Dean wished Cas was still… well, Cas. He’d gotten used to the angel always standing in his ass when he needed him and now Dean felt alone, untethered. He sent a silent prayer to Castiel anyway, knowing he’d never hear it but taking comfort in the words nevertheless.)
--
Dean could tell that Sam’s scrambled brain was overthinking. He waited patiently for his brother to spit it out. Whenever Sam was concussed he got all touchy-feely and it’s not that Dean was planning to take advantage of him, but... if Sam wanted to talk about what had been bothering him recently, Dean certainly wasn’t going to interrupt. Anyway, his ribs were giving him grief under the weight of his gigantor brother, so any distraction was welcome at this point.
When Sam finally did start talking, it wasn’t exactly what Dean expected.
“D’n, what’s Verne goin’ to do without the sightings?”
And, okay, so Sam got a little attached to the locals, bad time to bring it up but, not a crazy big deal. “I reckon Verne’ll make it just fine, dude, the guy knows how to make a buck.”
Sam hummed, unfulfilled. “Maybe, but that’s his job, y’know? Like… that’s what he does.”
Well, that was a little weird. “Yeah...? Not much else to do around here, I guess.”
“No, Dean… What else can he do without - without the monster sightings?” Sam was worked up enough to start talking in full sentences, so the bizarreness of the conversation had to be a net positive, surely?
Part of Dean didn’t want to ask, but -
“What’s this really about, Sam?”
Dean watched as Sam scrunched up his nose, the same way he used to as a kid.
“I just…” Sam sighed. “What if we quit hunting?”
Dean damn near missed a step on the narrow pathway. Fucking Christ. One of those concussions then. “Sam…”
“No, no, I know, saving people is important - it’s just - aren’t you tired?” Sam sure looked it, in that moment. Sometimes Dean forgot about all the time Sam had spent away from him, between the shit the Trickster pulled, the four months Dean was in Hell, the 180 years in the Cage, and then Purgatory. He had missed a lot. Sam wasn’t ever gonna stop being his little brother though.
“Yeah, Sammy, ‘course I’m tired,” Dean said. “And the way I see it, we did our dash a long time ago. There are players bigger than us in this whole thing that could sort it out, easy. But I don’t think either of us would be happy with that ending, huh? We gotta see this through, little brother.” Dean ducked his head into Sam’s eye line, forcing eye contact. “I’m only gonna say this once, Sammy, so listen up. There is no one I’d rather do this with. We’re a team, kiddo. Always have been, always will be.”
Sam’s eyes were getting shiny, and Dean’s heart broke a little knowing that this was something his brother had needed to hear. He stopped walking and pulled Sam into a hug, giving them both the dignity of pretending like he couldn’t feel Sam tucking his nose into Dean’s shoulder the way he hadn’t in years. He cradled Sam’s head gently, mindful of the gash on his skull.
After a few minutes, Sam pulled away, wiping his nose discreetly on the corner of his sleeve. He pressed his palms to his forehead and his face creased into a wince. Dean gently pried his arm away, and wrapped it around his shoulder and continued their walk. He had to keep Sam distracted and lucid until they got back to the Impala.
“Was that it for the chick flick moment, or have you got more in you?”
“Bite me,” Sam huffed, then hesitated. “D’you think we could… decorate my room, or something, when we get back?”
“Is that why you haven’t been sleeping?” Dean watched as Sam shot him a startled look. “Yeah, dude, I noticed. Big brother senses, they’re beyond your comprehension. What’s up with your room?”
“I hate it.” Sam was pouting now. “It’s… I don’t know, it’s stupid, I just really don’t like it, Dean.”
Dean thought about what Sam was saying, and considered his own room - the pictures of their parents, his shelf of cassettes, the posters, the magazines, his gun wall, the secret stash of candy in the drawer, the memory foam… Sam didn’t have any of that. Dean had hardly seen his room because Sam was never in there, but he knew Sam had barely even unpacked the duffle bag of clothes they used to cart from motel to motel.
Several thoughts struck Dean at once. They’d spent their whole lives sharing a space. They were so codependent it was probably unhealthy. Sam didn’t own any personal items because he used to always have Dean’s, and now that he had a room of his own he didn’t know what to do with it.
Oh, Sammy.
“Yeah, man, of course, of course we can do that.” It was the least Dean could do.
Sam seemed to relax next to him, rigidity Dean hadn’t even seen uncoiling from his muscles like a snake. Sam sniffed, and gave a little nod.
“We’re just around these next couple of corners, kiddo - what do you think about putting up some of the old posters the Men of Letters have lying around? You liked the one of the blueprints, right?”
--
Finally, they made it back to the Impala.
“Oh, Baby, I’ve missed you,” Dean said solemnly, and then turned to Sam. “Front or back?”
“Front.” The ‘obviously’ went unsaid.
Once they were sitting in their respective seats, Dean stripped his jacket off and bundled it up next to the passenger window so Sam could sleep on the way. Sam gave him a tired smile, but the dimples were there when he murmured a quiet “thank you,” so Dean didn’t press it.
As they eased out onto the main road, Dean watched as Sam’s eyes slipped shut, and resolutely didn’t think about the angel he had put in his brother. What had he done?
What had he done?
(Dean’s jacket smelt of leather and whisky, the way the Impala’s back seat did. Or maybe that had been Dean all along - Sam couldn’t quite work it out. He couldn’t work out a lot of things nowadays, but maybe it would be okay if he stopped trying, just a little bit. He felt the rumble of the Impala echo with the hum of his blood, and he thought about him and Dean decorating his room when they got back.
This time, heading to the bunker didn’t feel so much like locking himself in a cage).