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The Winchesters drove in silence toward the motel, but that didn’t stop Dean from glancing over at Sam every few seconds.
Sweat soaked through Sam’s collar and his face had gone pale beneath the dirt and blood, but his eyes stayed stubbornly open while he kept pressure on both injured wrists.
Dean was grateful the motel was only a few minutes from the graveyard.
Wrist injuries weren’t something to screw around with.
Honestly, he would’ve preferred taking Sam to a hospital, but the last thing they needed right now was a seventy-two-hour psych hold.
Dean frowned as he pulled into the parking lot and spotted a familiar black truck sitting outside.
His father’s old truck.
“What’s Caleb doing here?”
Sam grunted softly.
“I called him when those bastards were snacking on me.” His voice sounded shaky. “Figured you’d need help stitching me up when you found me.” He swallowed hard. “Or… you know… if you didn’t.”
“You called him?” Dean asked incredulously.
He knew exactly what that meant.
Sam hadn’t physically made a phone call.
Sam sighed heavily and looked away.
“Dean…” he muttered tiredly. “Let’s not do this right now.”
He already knew where Dean’s mind went anytime psychic powers got involved.
Dean swallowed back the bitterness rising in his throat.
Sam’s lies and secrets had built a wall between them so thick Dean honestly didn’t know how to start tearing it down anymore.
Nothing felt simple between them now.
“Let’s just get you fixed up.”
Dean climbed out and hurried around the car to help Sam with the passenger door before the idiot tried opening it himself.
Too late.
Sam grabbed the handle and immediately hissed in pain.
“Stop it, you stubborn ass!” Dean snapped.
Sam’s right wrist shifted badly enough to start bleeding through the bandage again.
Dean grabbed his shoulder automatically and looked down at him properly for the first time.
Sam looked exhausted.
Half-conscious.
Barely standing.
Dean’s hand moved instinctively to his neck, checking the weak pulse fluttering beneath his fingers.
“Damn it, Sammy…” Dean whispered.
Sam blinked sluggishly.
“You don’t call me that anymore,” he murmured.
Dean heard it.
Every word.
And suddenly there was an ocean of guilt sitting in his chest.
Before he could answer, Caleb appeared behind them.
“C’mon, Deuce,” Caleb said quietly. “Let’s get him inside while he’s still awake.”
“Watch his wrists, they’re—”
“I know.”
Dean immediately felt the ugly twist of jealousy in his stomach.
He hated how connected Sam and Caleb had become while he’d been gone.
And he hated himself a little for feeling that way.
Because he’d asked Caleb to take care of Sam.
Begged him to, really.
But that didn’t make it hurt less watching them communicate in ways Dean never could.
The psychic crap already made him feel disconnected enough.
Now, standing beside the next Triad of the Brotherhood, Dean had never felt more alone.
Dean and Caleb helped Sam toward the motel room while Dean fumbled with the keys one-handed.
The second the door opened, they guided Sam toward the bed furthest from the entrance.
Dean immediately crossed to the closet and pulled out the larger first aid kit. The smaller one stayed in the car most days, but tonight he needed the serious supplies.
When he turned back around, Sam and Caleb were staring silently at each other.
Again.
Dean slammed the kit onto the table harder than necessary.
“Could you two not?” he snapped. “You’re making me feel deaf.”
“S-sorry, De—” Sam slurred.
“Dropping too many syllables there, college boy.”
“That’s the only reason we were doing the mind-talking thing, Deuce,” Caleb answered.
Dean blinked.
“Oh.”
Right.
Sam was barely conscious.
Now he just felt like an ass.
Dean carried the kit over and started pulling out:
sutures,
gauze,
towels,
disinfectant.
He reached for Sam’s arm to remove the makeshift bandage, but Sam jerked away immediately.
“Let Caleb do it.”
Dean froze.
“What?”
Sam blinked slowly.
“Don’t touch it…”
Dean pulled his hands back like he’d been burned.
Then his eyes dropped toward his own fingers.
Hell flashed through his head:
blood,
torture,
screaming,
the things he’d done down there.
Sam didn’t trust him.
And Dean reacted the only way he knew how.
With anger.
“Why the hell did you two even want me back?” Dean snapped. “You clearly don’t want me crashing the fucking party.”
He shoved back from the chair and headed for the door before Caleb grabbed his shoulder.
“Deuce—”
“Let me go!”
Dean shoved him off and grabbed the doorknob.
Then Sam spoke.
“De… don’t…”
Dean closed his eyes.
Because no matter what happened between them, he still couldn’t walk away from Sam Winchester.
Caleb stepped closer carefully.
“Listen, Deuce.” His voice stayed calm. “Sam’s scared of you touching his blood. That’s all this is.” He glanced toward Sam. “He thinks he can infect you somehow.”
Sam looked away guiltily.
“He’s being a fucking moron,” Caleb continued. “You’ve had both our blood on your hands before.” He folded his arms. “Nothing happened then.”
Dean stared at Sam for a long moment.
There was obviously more going on here than either of them were saying.
But right now?
His brother was hurt.
That mattered more.
Dean sat back down beside the bed and reached for Sam’s arm again.
This time Sam didn’t pull away.
Dean noticed the single tear sliding down his brother’s face and pretended not to.
He carefully removed the bandage and grimaced.
The cuts looked even worse under the motel lights.
Dean loaded a syringe with lidocaine and numbed the area quickly before replacing the bloody gauze.
“Thread the needle for me, Damien,” Dean muttered. “And numb the other wrist while I work on this one.”
“You got it, Doc.”
Dean focused on stitching while Caleb worked beside him.
Every few minutes Dean glanced up to make sure Sam was still awake.
Each time, Sam’s glassy eyes were fixed on him.
Trusting him.
Dean honestly couldn’t remember the last time Sam looked at him like that.
By the time Dean finished the second wrist, Sam had finally drifted asleep.
Caleb checked his pulse before sitting back with a tired sigh.
“He disappeared on us after you died,” Caleb admitted quietly. “Went on a nasty drinking binge.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Got himself shot.” His voice lowered. “Then I found out he tried trading his soul for yours.”
Dean grimaced.
“Yeah.” He nodded slightly. “Sam told me some of it.” His expression darkened. “And Ruby.”
“No.” Caleb shook his head. “This was before Ruby.” He leaned back in the chair. “I found him drunk and half-delirious talking about Azazel, Cold Oak, demon blood…” He swallowed hard. “About how everyone close to him dies.”
Dean stayed quiet.
“He was in a really bad place, Deuce.”
Dean finished taping the last bandage into place before finally looking up.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Caleb looked over toward the sleeping Winchester.
“Because I tried my best.” His voice cracked slightly. “We all did.” He sighed heavily. “But I’m a shit replacement for you.” He rubbed at his jaw tiredly. “I hate Ruby. I hate the demon blood. But honestly?” He looked back at Dean. “I think he did all of it trying to get you back.”
Dean’s stomach twisted painfully.
“And if it killed him?” he asked quietly. “Then what?”
Caleb shrugged weakly.
“I honestly don’t think he cared.”
That hit harder than Dean expected.
“He thinks he’s going to Hell anyway,” Caleb admitted softly. “I think he just wanted you back before he got dragged there himself.”
Dean looked over at Sam.
At the dark circles beneath his eyes.
The scars.
The exhaustion.
And suddenly Dean realized something terrifying:
Sam truly believed he deserved damnation.
“Remember when he was a teenager?” Dean asked quietly. “The nightmares?” He swallowed hard. “The way he kept trying to scrub himself clean?”
“Yeah,” Caleb answered softly. “I remember.”
“I didn’t know how to help him then.” Dean rubbed at his face. “And I still don’t know how to help him now.” He glanced down at Sam. “He’s keeping secrets.” His voice lowered. “And he’s not the same anymore.”
Caleb leaned back with a tired sigh.
“I don’t think any of us are.”
That was probably the truest thing said all night.
“Since John and Jim died…” Caleb shrugged weakly. “Everything’s been unstable.” He looked over at Dean. “Then you died too.” His voice cracked slightly. “And none of us knew how to survive that.”
Dean stayed quiet.
“But underneath all the tough-guy crap?” Caleb nodded toward Sam. “He still needs you.” A faint smile crossed his face. “And for the record?” He shrugged. “You aren’t crashing the party.” His expression softened. “Sam and I nearly walked away from the Brotherhood trying to find you.”
Dean stared down at the silver Brotherhood ring on his hand before looking toward Sam’s.
It had taken Sam years to wear his.
Dean used to think it meant Sam finally chose them.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
“You guys still want the Brotherhood?” Dean asked quietly. “The Triad?”
Caleb snorted softly.
“As long as it’s with you? Hell yes.”
Dean nodded slowly.
“Then we’re gonna have to trust each other again.”
“We trust you, Deuce.” Caleb looked him dead in the eye. “Do you trust us?”
Dean hesitated.
Then finally:
“I’m working on it.”
Sam groaned softly and shifted toward Dean.
“Dean?”
Dean immediately leaned forward.
“Right here, Sammy.”
“Am I gonna make it?”
Dean barked out a tired laugh.
“You’re gonna be fine.” He nudged Sam lightly. “No heavy lifting for awhile.” He carefully sliced the side of Sam’s shirt open to inspect the wound near his ribs. “What’d they stab you with?”
“Scalpel…” Sam muttered. “Before they tried making me look crazy.”
Dean almost made a joke about Sam already being crazy.
But after everything Caleb told him?
He couldn’t force himself to say it.
His eyes drifted toward an older scar nearby.
Gunshot wound.
Another thing Sam never told him about.
“Hey Damien,” Dean muttered. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Whatever you need.”
“Go back to the graveyard and grab a body for me.” Dean pointed toward the keys. “There’ll be two identical corpses.” His expression darkened. “Burn the one hidden behind the mausoleum.”
Caleb frowned.
“Why?”
Dean sighed heavily.
“Adam Milligan.” He swallowed hard. “John Winchester’s son.”
Silence.
Then Caleb slowly stood and grabbed the Impala keys.
“Yeah…” he muttered. “We’re definitely talking about this later.”
Once Caleb left, the motel room fell quiet again.
Sam looked over at Dean carefully.
And for the first time in months, Dean felt something in his chest finally start thawing.
“How you feeling, little brother?”
Sam groaned softly.
“Hate lidocaine.” He flexed his fingers weakly. “Can’t feel anything.”
Dean laughed quietly.
“That’s kinda the point.”
He started to stand, but Sam stopped him.
“Dean… wait.”
Dean sat back down immediately.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered.
“For what?”
Sam stared down at his bandaged wrists.
“I was jealous of Adam.” His voice cracked slightly. “Jealous Dad showed up for baseball games and birthdays.” He swallowed hard. “Jealous he got normal.”
Dean stayed quiet.
“But mostly?” Sam looked up at him. “I was angry for you.”
Dean frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Dad should’ve done those things for you.”
That hit Dean harder than he expected.
“Yeah well…” Dean shrugged weakly. “He wasn’t exactly there for you either.” A faint smile crossed his face. “Still turned out alright though.”
“I didn’t need him,” Sam answered quietly. “I had you.”
Dean looked at him carefully.
And there he was.
His little brother.
Still underneath all the anger and secrets.
“You’re my brother,” Dean answered simply.
Sam smiled faintly.
“I took that for granted when I left for Stanford.” His voice softened. “I thought the road would always stay the same.” He laughed weakly. “I figured if I came back later, you’d all still be waiting.” His eyes dropped toward the blankets. “I didn’t realize how much you gave up for me.” He looked back up at Dean. “Adam got normal.” A sad smile crossed his face. “But I was the lucky one.”
Dean didn’t know what to say to that.
So he just squeezed Sam’s shoulder.
“Listen,” Dean muttered. “I don’t care about the blood.” He swallowed hard. “The psychic crap scares the hell outta me, but I’m done with the tainted blood conversations.” He pointed toward him. “Stop trying to stop me from taking care of you.” His voice softened slightly. “It’s one of the only things I’m actually good at.”
Sam looked away at the mention of the blood but nodded.
“And I’m not asking what happened while I was gone.” Dean sighed heavily. “You can tell me when you’re ready.” He smirked faintly. “But no more digging bullets outta yourself. You suck at it.”
Sam laughed softly.
“Okay, Dean.”
“Get some sleep, Sammy.” Dean leaned back in the chair beside him. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
Just like when they were kids, Sam blinked a few times before exhaustion finally pulled him under.
Trusting Dean completely.
Later that night, before they left to burn Adam’s body, Sam stepped into the motel bathroom with his duffel bag.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment.
For a few hours tonight, he’d almost felt normal again.
Almost felt like himself.
But he couldn’t afford to be that version of Sam Winchester anymore.
Not now.
Sam reached into the hidden pocket sewn into the bottom of his bag and pulled out the silver flask.
His hands were already starting to shake.
And not from blood loss.
He unscrewed the cap and swallowed hard against the thick metallic taste.
The world immediately sharpened back into focus.
By the time Sam walked back outside to join his brother, the softness from earlier had disappeared completely.
Standing beside the funeral pyre later that night, Dean noticed the change immediately.
And it scared the hell out of him.
But underneath all the anger, fear, and darkness—
Dean still saw flashes of the kid who used to look at him like he hung the moon.
Sam Winchester was still in there somewhere.
Dean just had to hold onto him long enough to bring him back.