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"This is your fault," Sam bitches dramatically. Dean scoffs and continues dragging him forward, out of the graveyard where it’s apparently Dean's fault that Sam got his head bashed into the weeping willow standing guard over the dead.
Dean rolls his eyes, letting out a dramatic groan. "Yeah, yeah. It's all my fault you weren't watching your own back." It’s absolutely your fault, his mind screams, which Dean does his best to ignore.
"That's what I have you for," Sam murmurs. Is Dean imagining the slight slur to his words? He didn’t think Sam had lost consciousness after the blow, but he hadn’t exactly had the best vantage point from halfway across the graveyard.
"Shut up," Dean says, no bite to it. They both know there’s truth to Sam’s teasing anyways, just like they both know Sam’s doing it to try to ease the nerves he can feel radiating off of Dean. Not that there’s any soothing for Dean until he knows Sam’s alright, but Sam will always try anyways. It’s one of the few comforting constants in this all-too-familiar routine.
It had been a typical salt and burn – because wasn’t it always, when shit went sideways? A local dairy farmer turned psycho killer spirit, nothing that should have been hard for them to handle.
But then the asshole got the jump on Sam before Dean could get the damn bones to light, sent him flying, and now Dean has to put the pieces back together.
Again.
And he can’t help the guilty feeling that rises in his gut every time Sam gets hurt on his watch; he can’t help the voice screaming in the back of his head that he’s a selfish dick who dragged his brother back into the life and is going to get him killed.
This is all your fault, John’s voice screams. Or maybe it’s his own. He doesn’t know anymore – and honestly, what the fuck does it matter? Whoever it is, he’s right. He’s always been right.
He can’t help the guilt, the inner monologue, but he can definitely shove all that shit back into the darkest corners of his mind, the corners that scare even Dean Winchester too much to approach.
It’s harder than usual, though, to get out of his own head, because Sam’s doing that shallow, fast breathing that means he’s fighting for consciousness and losing the battle, and Dean can’t think of much else. The teasing that must have happened minutes ago suddenly feels like a distant memory.
They're maybe ten feet from the Impala when suddenly, Dean is taking a lot more of Sam's weight than before. "Sammy?" Dean asks, any lingering pretense of levity gone.
His brother doesn't respond besides a soft moan, and then his legs are giving out entirely.
"Whoa, whoa, hey." Dean braces himself to keep Sam from falling, planting his feet solidly in the ground. Sam’s head lolls against Dean’s shoulder, and Dean has to remind himself to breathe. He lowers Sam down onto the ground, heart kicking up a notch at just how limp his brother has gone. “Hey, hey, hey. C’mon, Sammy. Look at me. Up and at ‘em.”
But as Dean glances down at him, Sam's eyes roll back in his head, lashes fluttering. A rush of nausea hits Dean as he fights back the rush of panic that threatens to take his focus.
He tries to keep the vise grip on control as the memories flood in.
He can’t afford to get lost in the past when Sam needs him so desperately in the present.
When he needs Sam so much; past, present, and future.
But Dean Winchester has known little peace in his life, and his brain sure as hell isn’t going to let him have any now.
With every blink of his eyes, he flashes back to a different scene. A different day, a different problem, a different Sam. But the same feeling of helplessness, that same cold fear choking his airways as he watches those hazel eyes roll back, unseeing.
Sam, barely restrained in the panic room. Struggling against him and Bobby with all the strength left in his wrecked body. Bobby, ripping off his belt and putting it between Sam’s teeth. Sam, biting down, Sam, screaming, Sam, eyes rolling back in his head. Dean, freezing when his brother needed him most. Dean, feeling every muscle in his body lock. The only awareness being the breaths somehow still making their way out of his chest. Bobby, snapping him out of his own head.
Sam – the Sam in front of him – makes a pained groan, and the memory starts to recede. Dean forces a breath; once, twice, three times. He has to be okay if he’s going to help Sam. He has to be okay. Now. Tonight. Always.
Sam moans again, and Dean kneels on the dew-slick grass next to him.
"Hey, big guy. You're okay," Dean says, mouth dry and stomach churning. He knows Sam might not even be able to hear him, but he never fails to comfort him anyways. In the life they lead, they’ve each faced enough horrors alone. Sam doesn’t need to think he’s dealing with another.
Still mumbling reassurances, Dean takes a second to focus on his hands, grounded in that soft, mossy, grass. Not the cold iron of the panic room. He keeps his eyes locked onto Sam, still lying limp but breathing steadily. Not tense, not seizing.
Dean knows, logically, that it's probably just a concussion, if a nasty one. But there’s some things that freak him out more than they should, because he just. Can't. Make the memories go away.
"Sammy," Dean prompts, shaking him gently.
Sam scrunches his nose, like he's about to ask for five more minutes in bed. But Dean watches as he fights back to consciousness, slow as molasses. Then his eyes crack open just a smidge, and Dean can breathe again.
"Damn," Sam mutters. His voice is confused, like he’s surprised to find himself on the ground. Dean huffs out a gentle laugh, relieved.
"You need a minute?" Dean asks, but Sam is already starting to push himself up on his hands. Dean keeps a hand on his shoulder, steadying him whether he needs it or not. He holds him in place for a second, searching his eyes for any sign of dizziness. When he’s satisfied Sam isn’t going to fall back down immediately, he hauls him to his feet and ushers him to the Impala.
“Eyes open, kiddo,” Dean reminds Sam, who’s recovered enough to flip him off. “It’s ten minutes to the motel, you can manage that.”
“Fuck you,” Sam mutters, somehow managing to sound like a kicked puppy. And yup, those words are definitely slurred.
Dean presses his foot down hard, taking the pair speeding onto the dirt road that will lead them back to civilization. “Nice night for a salt and burn, until you decided to go flying into a tree. Pretty fitting it was a weeping willow for your crybaby ass.” He’s usually better at burying the emotion, but tonight the nervous tension is clear in Dean’s words. Sam looks over at him, and Dean thinks he’s going to call him on it for a moment. But no, he settles for a scoff before settling his head back up against the window.
“Talk to me, Sam, I’m lonely,” Dean prompts. He presses the gas pedal harder, even though he’s already doing twenty over. He’s got to get a look at Sam in the light so he can decide exactly how much to panic and what to do about it.
“It’s the winter solstice,” Sam says, apropos of nothing, but Dean will take it. He sounds so tired and pained, and Dean almost feels bad for keeping him awake.
Almost.
“And, Stanford boy?”
“Longest night of the year,” Sam clarifies, like Dean’s the idiot for not getting it.
“Yeah, that feels about right,” Dean grumbles under his breath. He can see the lights of the Podunk town they’ve been staying in now. Those few neon signs – two gas stations and a Waffle House – are the most beautiful beacon of hope Dean could imagine right now.
“Wish we were somewhere with snow,” Sam mumbles, and Dean knows he’s pouting without looking over. Unbidden, a soft smile rises on Dean’s lips.
“Of course you do. Yetis love the cold,” Dean teases. He fights the urge to curse as they hit a red light, but it changes before he can completely lose it. Then it’s one, two, three more turns and they’re pulling into the motel parking lot. Dean rushes to Sam before he can do something stupid like try to walk on his own, and they stumble together to the door and into the room.
Sam gasps in pain as soon as they cross the threshold, and Dean helps him sit down as gently as he can.
“I can make it to my bed, Dean,” Sam bitches. He’s trying to glare up at his brother, but the effect is half-hearted at best.
“Shut up,” Dean offers. Independent little brat.
Dean leaves Sam’s side for all of ten seconds to grab the med kit, and then rushes back to take a seat on the bed next to him. He checks Sam’s pupils, which are definitely blown a little wide. But they respond to his penlight, and Dean tries to avoid breathing an obvious sigh of relief. He takes Sam through a few quick tests to check how his eyes are tracking, but it’s clear that the night isn’t going to end in a hospital trip.
“Bed now?” Sam asks hopefully. He drops his head down onto Dean’s shoulder, utterly exhausted. Dean takes the moment of contact to run his hands through Sam’s hair, searching for any wounds he’d missed. But Sam’s skull is thankfully intact. Still, he lets Sam rest on him for another few moments before patting him on the shoulder and helping him up. Sam lets out a grumpy growl at the few seconds he has to remain vertical while Dean pulls down the covers. The instant Dean moves out of the way, Sam plops down onto the bed and lets Dean take off his boots. The kid doesn’t even have time to pull the covers over himself before his eyes slam shut and the soft snoring starts.
Dean scoffs and pulls the covers over him, glancing over his sleeping form one more time before moving away. The pained expression is gone from Sam’s face, and he looks so young and vulnerable. Dean can’t help but move back over and give Sam’s hair a quick ruffle like he did when they were kids. Sam doesn’t even stir.
Taking a seat on the edge of Sam’s bed, Dean flicks the TV on, lowers the volume, and settles in for a long night of keeping watch.