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“Sammy, call me back or so help me god.” Dean opened his mouth to say more, but only a frustrated grunt came out. He hung up and threw the phone onto his bed with a curse, spinning around and pressing the meat of his hands into his eyes. For a moment, it was all Dean could do to just stand there and take heaving breaths while his mind raced through all of the awful things that could have happened to Sam. What if he got kidnapped? What if Lucifer came back? What if he passed out in a ditch somewhere because he hasn’t slept or ate or let me take care of him for one goddamn minute?
Michael’s whereabouts didn’t feel so important now—not when Sam was on the line. Everything else melted away except for the urge to find his brother. Dean forced his hands away from his eyes and let them hang stiffly at his sides, back tense in a way that would have Castiel pressing a finger to his forehead before Dean even knew he was there.
A shrill sound came from Dean’s bed, pitch distorted by the pile of blankets his phone had sunk into, and Dean nearly pulled a muscle diving toward it, jamming his thumb on answer before checking the caller ID.
“Sammy?” he gasped.
“Dean?” a gruff voice answered. Cas. “Dean, what’s wrong?” Cas’ tone quickly shifted from neutral to concerned. Dean cleared his throat to avoid sounding as close to tears as he felt.
"Sammy's gone,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Dean imagined Cas’ head tilt, the furrow of his brow, the slight pout at not being able to instantly understand.
Dean took a deep breath. “I mean besides a few Apocalypse World stragglers, the bunker’s fucking empty. Checked Sam’s room and his bed’s made like he lives at a fucking resort. No note. No voicemail.” Dean clenched his fist. “Asked the guys left behind where everyone went and the answer was ‘on a hunt.’ I mean, what the hell?” He let his shaking legs drop him onto the bed, folding over his knees like he was praying.
“They probably dragged him on a hunt. Dean, you know how much they admire Sam.” On the surface, Cas sounded level headed, but Dean heard the undercurrent of fear. He pictured Cas turning away from Jack and covering his mouth against the receiver like he always did when he was trying to hide bad news.
“He hasn’t slept in days.”
“Dean,” Cas insisted, dipping into something soft and sweet and just for him, “he’ll be alright.”
The silence stretched, gooey and thick, but not tense. Cas breathed evenly on the other side, no doubt counting the time between Dean’s inhales and trying to force some kind of calm through the phone.
“Why’d you call?” Dean asked finally.
“To check on you.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. Real answer this time. What’s wrong?”
“A demon nicked me with an angel blade,” Cas admitted, “and Jack broke his wrist.” He sighed irritably. “We need to stay here and rest for a few days. I’m sorry, Dean.”
The clear sound of wrestling came through the receiver. Cas was using his I-am-a-competent-angel-listen-to-me-voice, but his words were muffled until a door clicked shut and a cheery voice popped onto the call.
“Dean,” Jack said. “When Castiel says nicked, he means stabbed.”
“And why do you sound so happy about it, Mr. Broken Arm?” Dean let himself flop back on his bed, crossing an arm over his chest and digging his nails into his skin. Cas has been through worse. Jack is a tough kid. Sammy will be okay. The same three thoughts, over and over until they cemented themself into his skull.
“It’s my wrist. Cas wrapped it. I’m fine.” Jack didn’t sound like he was in too much pain, but Dean knew how good his family was at hiding injuries—himself included—and didn’t quite trust his analysis.
The door that Jack had slammed creaked open, followed by quick, padded footsteps. “Jack is alright," Cas said, "but will be much better when I can heal him completely. I found pain meds in the trunk.”
“Mother hen,” Jack grumbled.
“I take your safety seriously, Jack. You’re in my care. I can’t just—“
“Cas,” Dean interrupted. “When can you get back?”
He could practically hear Cas weighing how little time he could spend healing himself before he would have enough juice for Jack. “Two days.”
“Three,” Jack argued.
Dean shifted his arm from his chest to his eyes, pressing lightly and watching the vague pinpricks of color spread out in the darkness. “Three days, Cas. Call me when you can.”
“Sure, Dean,” said Cas, suddenly sounding unbearably fond. It made Dean's face pinch, but he allowed it if it meant Castiel would listen to him. “Update me on Sam's whereabouts.”
“Yeah,” Dean sighed.
“He’ll be okay, Dean.”
“Yeah.” When it was clear neither of them had anything else to add, Dean let the phone drop, trusting Cas to hang up. At this point, goodbye was too formal—too final—for any of them to say.
The bunker was quiet. No nonsense chatter from the Apocalypse World refugees wafted in from the library, and no bacon smells from the kitchen. No gentle knocks on his door followed by Sam walking in like he owned the place, laptop in hand, mouth already open to share his newest case. It made Dean want to scream.
They had been through their fair share of kidnapped and M.I.A. brothers before, but something about this one felt bad right down to Dean’s bones. Maybe it was his overprotective brother instincts kicking into high gear in the wake of Michael. Maybe it was the way he remembered leaving Sam the night before, curled on his side in bed and breathing strangely, like something in his ribs had been crushed, but with his eyes half open, staring blankly into the dark in front of him.
“Sammy,” Dean had said from the doorway. Not whispered, but gentle. It was a voice reserved for a sick, sleepy Sam.
Sam had blinked once and shifted his head to look at Dean with empty eyes, saying nothing.
“Go to sleep, kid,” Dean told him. He hadn't called him that in a while, not when they had a real kid living under their roof and Sam hadn’t really been a kid since he was very, very small. But that tired, lifeless Sam that Dean saw had looked like his kid after a run in with a bully or a nasty fever or one of his freaky visions, and the name slipped out.
Sam had just blinked at him again, then turned and put his head back down. His eyes closed as if he was under a spell. Dean left then, but had come back twenty minutes later to make sure Sam’s eyes stayed shut and his breathing evened out.
The idea of someone waking Sam up in the middle of his first sleep in god knew how long made Dean want to punch something.
The phone rang again and Dean jolted upright.
“Sam?” he asked and blanched at the lack of response before his ringtone screamed straight into his ear. “Fuck.” Dean managed to wrench the phone away from his face long enough to press answer. “Sam?”
“Dean?” Sam said. He sounded like he had gargled a cup of gravel.
“Thought you were fucking dead, Sammy.”
“Not dead.” There was something in Sam’s voice that made Dean stand up and start pacing his room—an edge that made him ache to do something. “Just in Nebraska.”
“Why the hell are you in Nebraska?”
“Maggie found a case.” Of course it was Maggie. Sam would bend over backwards for a rat in a sewer, but seemed to feel particularly push-overy for Maggie. Dean thought it was because Sam felt personally responsible for all the jobs she had chosen to take on. Sam told him to shove it.
“So why are you there when you haven’t slept more than fifteen minutes in the past week?”
“I’ve slept more than fifteen minutes,” Sam defended, but it was halfhearted and he continued before Dean could argue. “The case was a big one. I’ll tell you at home.” His breath hitched erratically and it took a minute for Dean to realize that he was trying desperately to stifle a yawn.
“You driving right now?” Dean asked sourly.
“Yeah. Took my own car. Everyone else is in the truck.” For a guy that was usually talking Dean’s ear off, Sam kept his sentences simple and clipped. Dean ran a hand through his hair.
“Alright, so you’ll be home soon, yeah?” The big brother voice slipped through, the one Sam called him out on most days but let slide on the bad ones.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” No one spoke for a bit, and Dean slowed his pacing to hear any background sounds in Sam's car. The radio was on, but barely, quietly playing some sort of new rock station. Sam's breathing sounded slightly strained, but not like he had punctured a rib or anything. Something in the air felt heavy, and the fact that Sam hadn’t hung up yet solidified that, but Dean couldn’t place what was wrong.
He opened his mouth a few times before settling on, “You good, man?” He expected another simple yeah or a lay off, Dean and a moody hang-up.
“Dean,” Sam said instead, “I don’t feel too good.” With those words, Dean was already moving toward the door, ready to speed to wherever Sam was.
“You need me to meet you somewhere?” he asked.
“No, I just,” there was a wet inhale, “can we hang out . . . when I get home. Just you and me?” Dean let the bag slip out of his hand and processed the request. The Winchester brothers didn’t hang out. They hunted, they researched, they holed up in shitty motels. They spent nearly all of their waking and plenty of unwaking hours together, but none of it could really be classified as hanging out.
Maybe that was the problem.
“Sure, Sammy,” Dean agreed. If this overworked, probably injured, anxious Sam wanted to spend some time doing nothing with his brother, away from all the following eyes and responsibility, who was Dean to say no? Kid deserved a break. “We’ll hang out. Drive safe, idiot.”
“See you soon,” Sam said, sounding just a little bit lighter. The phone went quiet in Dean's hand. He sat down hard on his bed and let out a deep breath, feeling steadier than he had in days. Sam was okay, Sam was safe, Sam was not sporting any obvious life threatening injuries.
With a groan, Dean heaved himself to his feet and padded toward the kitchen, firing off an update text to Cas. He grabbed a random lore book on the way, something Sam had left face-up on a shelf, just to get a glimpse into his brother’s head. Knowing what thoughts to distract Sam from was better than flying blind. It made it easier to avoid certain topics and keep Sam's attention on something other than his insane martyr complex. Dean fired up the stove, cracked open the book, and forced the tension out of his shoulders.
Sam would be home soon. Until then, he could wait.
-
Sam wasn’t doing well.
He fumbled to hang up the call with Dean, hoping his quiet string of swears as he nearly dropped his phone was inaudible on the other end. When the line finally went dead, he leaned his pounding head against the window. This car wasn’t molded to his body like the Impala was, and his sore muscles twitched uncomfortably against the seat. He wished he could be home without driving—just close his eyes and appear in front of Dean with the rest of his crew hours behind him, leaving him and his brother in a quiet bunker for the first time in what felt like forever.
Sam shook the thought out of his head. He liked his team. They were all hard workers, more than willing to lay down their lives for each other and for Sam. They did thorough research, killed tons of monsters, and didn’t turn up their noses at being sent on a beer run. They trusted Sam. It wasn’t fair of him to look down on them, to imagine his life without them in the bunker, hanging on to his words like they were biblical, asking for his advice before making any sort of move, waking him up in the middle of the night and tugging him on a hunt when they already had a whole team geared up in the truck.
No, Sam told himself. It was his job to take care of them. They were his responsibility, and if they wanted him on a hunt, he would be there, no questions asked. That was the promise he made.
Sam pushed out a long, thin breath and told himself there was nothing to complain about. Dean was back and seemed at least mostly okay. He had a whole team of competent, well trained hunters ready to kill Michael. And if he was feeling a little worse for wear himself, then he just had to push through it, keep fighting and moving, and when they stopped the next apocalypse, then he could rest. There were far more important things at hand.
But his head hurt. The vampires had gotten too many good hits in, and Sam could hear his hair crinkle when he moved, matted with dried blood. It was nothing he hadn’t felt before, but a crack to the head was never great to deal with, and on top of the rest of his numerous uncharted injuries, his body felt like a walking, pulsing, bruised-up stress ball.
The window was cool against his forehead, soothing his aches just enough to get his thoughts in line. Sam had given Dean enough information to keep him steady and at home, which meant Sam had some time before the next concerned call. Plus, he had left the hunt before the others, so as long as he didn’t waste too much time on the side of the road, he could hit his target and be home before either party got too worked up over his absence.
Sam cut the engine and closed his eyes. The sun blazed through the windshield, bright but still fairly low, and he had parked the car so that the high heat of noon would hit him directly, waking him up. He was supposed to be planning their next hunt or checking in with Maggie or picking up groceries on the way back or calling other hunters, getting intel on Michael’s whereabouts or any way to kill him. He was supposed to be doing anything but this—laying down, defenseless, in a ditch in Nebraska, with more bloodstains than he could count and some brand new head trauma, doing absolutely nothing productive.
But his eyes were too heavy. And his body was too tired. And Sam was too worn down to fight it anymore. For the first time in weeks, he thought, I am completely alone. The idea weighed down his shoulders until he was completely slumped in the front seat, nearly invisible to anyone on the road.
With nothing but the foreign car for comfort, Sam let the sounds of cooing birds and intermittent traffic lull him into a twitchy, painful sleep.
-
When the front door opened, Dean sighed in relief. He quickly poured two cups of coffee and forced leisure into his step as he entered the foyer.
“Heya, Sammy,” he called. “Thought you were never gonna get here.”
“Dean?” asked a high voice that was definitely not Sam.
“Maggie?” he responded. He set the coffee on the center table and looked up at the balcony as Maggie and her team clambered through the door, looking exhausted but mostly uninjured. A few blood splatters never hurt anyone, and Dean wasn’t about to play nurse without Cas here to heal them.
“Hey,” Maggie said easily. She leaned on the railing as she made her way down the stairs, scanning the room.
“How’d the hunt go?” Dean watched carefully as the hunters piled into the bunker, but the last one trudged through, the door clicked shut, and there was still no Sam.
“Pretty good. Took out the biggest vamp nest I've ever seen." The weight of her bag on the table made the coffee shake and Dean steadied them with a hand.
“Anyone hurt?” he asked.
“Not too bad. Sam was a monster.” Maggie laughed and shook her head. “Took out most of them on his own before we even stepped through the door.”
“Sounds like him. Where’s he at, anyway?” Dean shot for nonchalance but landed several miles away, forehead creased in concern and fingers tapping erratically on what was supposed to be Sam's mug.
Maggie gave him a once-over and a raised eyebrow. "He's not back yet?”
“Nah. Thought he’d be coming in with you.” He should’ve been here by now, his brain screamed, but he kept it in. If Sam hadn’t updated the others, then Dean wasn’t about to spill his secrets, even if they were stupid and reckless and made his stomach knot itself together. “I’ll call him.”
Flashing a wan smile at Maggie, Dean turned on his heel. The dial tone was ringing before he was out of the room, and the sound of clunking gear and milling hunters pushed him to keep walking past his bedroom door, as far from the noise as he could get. Eventually, Dean found himself shut away in the dungeon, pacing back and forth over the pentagram, praying for Sam to pick up.
Just when the line was about to send him to voicemail, there was a soft sound, then a barely audible groan through the phone.
“Sam!” Worry bled into anger, and Dean practically bellowed the name. “Sammy!”
“Dean?” Sam mumbled. He sounded worse than he had the first time. Dean would’ve been impressed by his rapid decline if it wasn’t his brother on the other side of the line.
“Hey, Sammy," Dean said. “Where the hell are you, man?”
“Huh?”
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “You, Sam. Last time you called me you were in a car in Nebraska and that was hours ago. The whole Apocalypse World gang is back already, so where are you?”
“You mad at me?” Sam asked, but his speech slurred together until it all sounded like one big word, and Dean had to put his degree in decoding tired-Sam to work to make out the phrase.
“Won’t be mad if you tell me where you are, Sam.”
“Y’keep,” Sam sucked in a big, shaky breath, “keep sayin’ my name.”
“Yeah, Sam, cuz I'm talkin' to you.”
“Me?” Alarm bells rang in Dean’s head. Sam wasn’t answering him straight, and Dean wasn’t sure if he was avoiding the question or genuinely couldn’t piece together an answer.
“You, Sammy. Where are you?" Before Sam could answer, Dean had already put him on speaker and started tracing the call, willing the tracker bar to move faster. He wasn’t worried about Sam hanging up, but any time spent not en route to him was time wasted, and though Dean was pretty much a miracle worker, he couldn’t do an injury assessment past state lines.
“Car,” Sam said simply. A dry cough erupted painfully out of him, making Dean cringe.
“Car,” Dean repeated. “Okay, sure.” On his phone, Sam's location lit up in red. He put it back up to his ear and quickly made his way down the hall. “I’m gonna assume that, for whatever reason, you’re exactly where I left you.” He dipped into his room to grab the go bag waiting next to the door, then grabbed the matching bag in Sam’s. “And you’re gonna stay there, Sammy, cuz I'm comin’ to get you.”
Keys in hand, Dean was in the garage before anyone noticed him leaving the bunker, slipping into the Impala and jamming the keys into the ignition. Bags went in the back seat, first aid kit got fished from the mess of burner phones in the glove box, and the gas pedal was pressed to the floor.
“Dean,” Sam said.
“No arguing.” Dean only knew it was an argument from the slightly whiny tone hidden behind the layer of exhaustion coating his words. “Sit tight. I'll be by you in,” he checked his GPS and frowned at the four-hour eta, “three hours. two and a half if I push it.”
“Don’ get in an accident.” Sam sounded like he was barely awake.
“Take a nap, Sam,” Dean said. If Sam's concussion was dangerous, his morning nap would’ve done him in already, and if it was just the usual injury, sleep would only help him out. It was a good sign that Sam even woke up to a phone call, so Dean felt alright betting on his assumptions. One call would have Cas forgetting his own stab wound and racing to their location if he was really off base. Sam would be fine.
Sam hummed in agreement. Dean was sure his eyes were already closed, long body curled awkwardly around his injuries and head cradled against the window.
“Alright.” His finger had barely pressed end call before he was scrolling through his contacts. He sent a quick text to Maggie: Meeting Sam for a hunt. Be back in a few days. He hoped the you’re in charge went unsaid—he didn't want to start delegating jobs to people who didn’t trust him. After Michael, he was fine taking a backseat and letting other people lead.
It was time for Sam to take a backseat, too. And Dean would make sure he stayed in the backseat, at least for now. Maggie could keep the bunker under control while he chilled out for a bit. At least until Michael decided to show his face and start destroying the world.
Dean was a madman on the road. Found Sam, he texted Cas. Gonna fix up his sorry ass. He knew if he sent the location, Cas and Jack would ruin themselves to get there, and Dean didn’t need two more unruly patients to deal with. He compromised by sharing his own location, trusting that would be enough to settle Cas down.
Cas didn’t answer right away, but Dean didn’t mind. His rest was well-deserved, too, and maybe this was a sign they were all run a little too ragged for typical functioning.
Rolling a window down cooled off some of Dean's rampant adrenaline and the classic rock station cleared his mind. Soon, they would get a lead on killing Michael. Soon, they’d be able to clear out all the extra hunters in their damn house—get them kickstarted, give them their own lives to lead. Soon, Jack would lose all those dark circles under his eyes and Cas would stop hovering around Dean like he was about to disappear and Sam would be able to walk on his own without looking like he was about to tip and Dean would finally feel alone in his skin without the things Michael did playing behind his eyes like a horror movie B-roll.
But before all that, it would just be Dean fixing up Sammy, same as it’d been since the day the kid could crawl. That was a job he could do in his sleep. Come hell, high water, or just a regular old nest of vamps, there was nothing he wouldn’t save Sam from.
Dean pressed harder on the gas, praying he wouldn’t be too late.
-
The sun was low when Sam blinked awake. Everything was dim and hazy, and the once-blue sky had turned a gloomy gray. The car was too dark for Sam to make out anything but shapes, and there was a bright, blinding light reflected in the rearview mirror, making his pain spike. Everything hurt. The ache was deep and hot, electrifying his body and sending nausea racing up his throat.
He fumbled with the door handle, clumsy hands unable to grab and hold on, until the door opened on its own and Sam tumbled out of the car, shoulder slamming into the ground. Bile spewed out of his mouth, tearing the inside of his throat raw and mixing with thick, involuntary sobs. Colors spun in front of his face and his ears rang, and the input was too much. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to block everything out and breathe, but hot vomit kept filling his mouth, cutting off his airway.
There was a low murmuring in his ear, barely audible over the fierce tinnitus, that Sam tried to focus on. The voice was low and gruff, but something about it made Sam's shoulders slump in relief. The words were lost to him, but his hacking calmed enough to let him take a deep breath.
“That’s it, Sammy, keep doing that.”
Something heavy clamped onto Sam's shoulder and he winced, but there was no accompanying shove or punch—no cold barrel pressed into his temple, no sharp fangs pierced his skin. It just rested there, squeezing lightly, keeping his body steady.
Sam didn’t know how long he sat there, doubled over and retching into dry dirt, but at some point delirious giggles started coming out of his mouth in place of bile and he heaved his throbbing body upright, letting the weight on his shoulder do most of the actual lifting. His back thumped gently against the car, and Sam let bits of laughter fall out of his mouth until his shoulders shook.
“Hey.” A hand cupped Sam's jaw. “Sammy, hey.” A thumb smoothed under his eye while his head was shaken lightly.
“Oh,” Sam said. He cracked open his eyes, and there was Dean, all in his space, filling his entire field of vision.
“Yeah, oh.” Dean shifted, no doubt uncomfortable from how he was crouched over Sam, who clumsily lifted a hand and slapped at his arm. Dean raised a brow. “You with me, kid?”
“Not a kid,” Sam slurred. Nearly managing to say a full sentence sent a pang through his head. Groaning, Sam snapped his eyes shut, which had Dean immediately patting rough fingers against his cheek.
“Nuh uh. None of that. Open those doe eyes, Sammy, lemme see ‘em. There we go." Dean gave him a smile that, under normal circumstances, should’ve given Sam a clue that something was incredibly wrong with him, but as it were, he just shot a loopy smile back, barely fighting through the fog in his head.
“Dean,” Sam said.
“Sammy.”
“‘’m gonna pass out.”
“Not before you’re in Baby. Come on.” In a second, Dean was at Sam's side, throwing Sam's leaden arm over his shoulder and wrapping a firm hand around his middle.
“Dean,” Sam insisted.
“Up we go,” Dean said, bracing his other hand on Sam's chest and dragging them upward. If Sam thought he was dizzy before, it was nothing compared to now—black fuzz creeped in on the edges of his vision and his legs wobbled like a newborn deer. His body blue-screened. If it weren’t for Dean, he would’ve been face first in his own puke.
“Easy, kid." The strain in Dean's voice sent a jolt of guilt through Sam. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought manically. I wasn't supposed to be a problem again. Just stand up, Sam. Stand and walk and lead. You abandoned everyone to kill yourself in some ditch, you fuck up.
“Baby steps,” Dean said, and Sam's thoughts faded out. It was hard to hold onto anything concrete, but the guilt stayed balled up in his chest.
Tangled together like conjoined twins, they hobbled to the Impala and Sam was deposited in the front seat. Dean didn’t waste any time popping to the driver’s side and gliding the car back onto the road.
“What about—“
“That piece of junk on the side of the road? Stole it anyway.”
“Hmm.” The Impala was cozy. Suddenly, Sam didn’t care much about the other car or his definitely more than minor injuries or all the people he let down—right now, it was just him and Dean, same as always, and that was enough to drown out the pounding in his head.
Sam shot a sideways glance at his brother. He had no idea what he looked like himself, but whatever Dean saw he didn’t like, because he rested a hand on Sam's knee and stared steadily at the road.
“Take a nap, Sammy,” Dean said. It was all the permission Sam needed. His eyes closed and within seconds, he drifted off.
-
Dean had seen his brother in pain plenty of times, but it never got easier. Seeing the car pulled haphazardly off the road nearly made his heart stop, and finding Sam half-conscious in the front seat, covered in blood and choking on his own bile had sent Dean's brain into a frenzy. Save him, the voice in his head screamed, looping over and over until Sam was safely tucked away in the Impala, breathing deep and clear.
They went to the closest motel. It wasn't the cleanest, but they’d stayed in worse for longer, and they had enough supplies in the car to curve an infection. Getting Sam from the car to the room was tricky, but Dean had plenty of practice lugging him around, and Sam woke up enough to put some weight on his own legs and avoid looking like a kidnapping victim.
The sight of Sam curled on the bed brought Dean all the way back to when he was a kid, whining about having to go to another new school or taking the pressure off a nasty cut after a hunt, and his heart twinged. Dean wet a washcloth and gently wiped Sam's face, unsticking the blood dried in the creases of his skin. He leaned Sam forward and felt along the back of his head for any big wound he missed, sighing in relief when the bump underneath his tangled hair was relatively small and already scabbing.
Sam made an unhappy noise in his sleep and Dean lowered him carefully back onto the pillows, continuing to wash away the blood on his neck and shoulders. There were deep, angry cuts all over Sam's body that made Dean clench his teeth. No wonder Sam could barely stay conscious—he was tough, but he had lost a lot of blood.
Carefully, Dean picked shredded fabric out of Sam's skin before cutting away his shirt entirely. Sam shivered and twitched in his sleep, face scrunching up uncomfortably. Dean let out a string of curses and wet a new washcloth with cool water, draping it over his forehead. The last thing they needed was for Sam to run a fever, but he couldn’t exactly get any meds in him yet. Working quickly would be the best thing. Once he got Sam patched up and wrapped in blankets, he could force him to take a real break.
“Get . . . off . . .” Sam mumbled, pushing an injured arm against Dean's firm hand.
“Just me,” Dean said. He smoothed a bandage over a string of claw marks.
“No.” His voice was sharp. “Get off.” With a gasp, Sam jolted upright, forcing Dean to jump back to avoid a head-on collision.
“Cool it, Mr. Concussion.” Sam’s shoulders heaved. He stared at the washcloth in his lap blankly, clearly still stuck in whatever nightmare world his brain dumped him in. Dean eased himself back on the bed with telegraphed movements, pressing their legs together. His brother’s eyes flicked up to Dean for a second, but he didn’t flinch, and Dean took the opening to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Just me.”
“No,” Sam said again. He shook his head and swayed. Dean tightened his grip. “Stop,” he pleaded. Dean hated how small he sounded.
“It's Dean, Sammy. Just me. Just Dean.” He put a hand on Sam's neck, forcing his head up. Sam’s sight line was fixed on a point past Dean's shoulder, so he moved both hands to cup Sam's face and shook lightly, careful to not rattle him too hard. When Sam's glassy eyes snapped to attention, Dean was overwhelmed by the fear that washed over his face. Dull nails scrambled against the back of Dean's hands, but he just smoothed a thumb back and forth against Sam's jaw, willing his jackhammering pulse to slow.
“No, no, no,” Sam repeated, followed by short, muttered strings of words that Dean couldn’t make out. His muscles were tense in a way that had to irritate his injuries, coiled like he was ready to bolt.
“No, Sammy,” Dean said firmly. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. You're here with your brother in a shitty motel after getting brained by a vamp. Not in whatever nightmare your brain’s cooked up. You hear me?”
Sam didn’t answer, but the muttering stopped. Dean could work with that.
“Yep, just like that. Nothing but us, Sammy. You and me, just like old times.” He kept talking, saying whatever came to mind to pull Sam out of his head.
“You say my name a lot,” Sam said finally. Dean let out a long, relieved breath.
“Well you sure as hell don’t answer to it,” he joked. “And that’s the second time you’ve said that today. Concussion much?” A small smile crept up on Sam's face before his expression closed off completely.
“The others,” he gasped, grabbing Dean's wrists and squeezing, “Maggie and the team. Are they—“
“Back at the bunker. They’re just fine.” With a final pat on his cheek, Dean moved toward the first aid supplies splayed out on the bed. “Now you gonna let me finish fixing you up or what?”
“Okay,” Sam said. He leaned back against the pillows, unsuccessfully hiding a wince. Dean didn’t mention it.
The pale dusk light coming through the window had long gone, and they were left in the yellow glow of dim lamps. Dean did his best, squinting to make sure each cut was truly clean, but this—taking care of Sam, fixing him up—was something he could’ve done in pitch black darkness, faint from blood loss and ready to start a fight with Death if Sam kicked it. All things considered, their situation was pretty good. Sam was awake. Sam was only flinching when Dean poked at the deep ones. Sam was willing to be put back together and trusted Dean to do the job.
But he looked crushed. Like a pillar in his face had fallen and he couldn’t put the cheerful leader mask back on. The circles under his eyes were as dark as they had been during the trials, when Sam was sick and on the verge of death, but somehow he had taken out an entire nest of vampires nearly single-handedly. Granted, his body was torn to shreds, so it wasn’t his best work, but Dean could give him some credit.
“Alright,” he said, securing his last wrap, “you’re all better, princess.” He stood and grabbed Sam's bag, pulled out fresh, comfortable clothes, and dropped them on the bathroom counter. When he turned around, Sam was already sitting with his legs over the edge of the bed, ready to push himself up.
Dean rushed over. “Woah, woah, easy, kid.”
“Not a kid,” Sam said through gritted teeth.
“Sure, but at least let me help you.” Dean wrapped an arm around his brother, careful not to aggravate his injuries.
“Don’t need it,” Sam grumbled, but let himself be manhandled.
“Bullshit,” Dean said. He pulled Sam into him as they walked, forcing him to give up some of his weight. “Yell if you need anything.”
Sam waved an annoyed hand and closed the bathroom door.
-
Sam stared into his reflection, pushing his dirty hair into something more presentable with shaking hands. He looked more skeleton than human, with deep sunken eyes and bright blue bruises shining unpleasantly against his pale, sickly complexion. It made his skin crawl.
He changed as quickly as possible, narrowly avoiding overdoing it and ending up splayed out on the floor. By the time he was done, Dean was knocking lightly on the door in concern, but Sam just pushed open the door and walked past him, sitting back down on the bed.
He didn’t want to talk. He didn't want to do the whole concerned brother shtick. He had things to do, people to take care of, monsters to kill. Sam would be fine.
Dean stood over him, arms crossed in front of him. His face was serious and creased. Sam folded his hands together to stop them from shaking.
“So we gonna talk about this or what?” Dean asked.
“About what?” Sam knew what. He'd been an awful leader, a complete let down. The team had probably come back to the bunker with a mile-long list about Sam's failures, his constant abandonment, his pathetic shut downs. And now Dean wanted to confront him about it.
Sam looked at the door. Run, his brain urged. Dean finally knows. He doesn’t want you anymore. You can’t even handle a vamp nest without getting torn to shreds.
Fingers snapping in front of his face made Sam jump. Dean’s eyebrows dipped impossibly lower, making him look like an angry cartoon character. “About the fact that I had to find you passed out on the side of the road when you should’ve never left the bunker in the first place,” he said.
Sam closed his eyes. He didn’t want this. Dean always said he could tell him anything, but how could Sam seriously tell Dean he couldn’t handle it? He had a job while Dean was gone—to take care of the Apocalypse World hunters, to take care of Jack and Cas, and to find Dean and save him from Michael. Clear-cut objectives. And Sam had been fucking it all up over and over, thinking all sorts of awful things about his own team, spending too much time on himself, being selfish and cracking under the pressure when all he needed to do was keep moving.
“Sammy,” Dean said softly. “Jeez, don’t cry. C’mere.” The bed dipped and suddenly Dean was there, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him in, rubbing a hand up and down his back, making quiet shushing sounds that he would deny later.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he said.
“Do what?” Sam asked quietly.
“Any of this.” Dean pulled back from Sam and held him at arm’s length. “You’re not sleeping, not eating, going on three hunts a day, taking care of all those dipshits in the bunker. Hell, you even tracked me down at the same time. It's insane.”
A chill ran through Sam. “It's my job.” Even to his own ears, he said the word like a death sentence.
Dean’s laugh jostled them both. “Your job was getting us through that damn rift in one piece, and you did that. Plus, you brought all these jokers through. And that was after being killed and brought back by Lucifer.” He shook his head incredulously. “It’s not your job to house them and feed them and teach them how our world works.”
“No,” Sam insisted. “No, it was my job—is my job. They had nowhere else to go, and I did all of this. I brought them here, and I'm the reason you said yes to Michael, and—”
“Hold on.” Dean put up a hand. “Do you decide things for me now? Stick a hand up my ass and puppet me around?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dean continued like Sam hadn’t spoken. “Then why, Sammy, do you think you’re the reason I said yes?”
Sam looked down at his hands. It was clear—Sam was at fault. He was in charge, he dropped the ball, he couldn’t handle all the responsibility, but the idea of explaining it to Dean made him lightheaded. “I couldn't save Jack,” he started, “I couldn't kill Lucifer. I—”
“Nope,” Dean interjected. “My words, my body, my decision. You—Sammy, do you really think all this was your fault?” His intense tone dipped into something mushy and concerned. After all these years, that voice never failed to shatter Sam's walls. He looked at the ceiling, willing his body to just listen to him for once, but couldn’t stop the quiet hiccup he let out or the tears filling his eyes.
He was so tired.
“Alright,” Dean said and pulled him back in. Sam's forehead thunked against his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his head, and he almost wanted to blame everything on the concussion and pretend to remember none of it in the morning.
But he knew Dean. Dean was persistent. Dean was his brother. And that meant Sam wasn’t getting out of this conversation.
He sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he started, “How I do it. How I’m surviving. I’m so fucking tired, Dean.”
“Then sleep,” Dean said. Sam rolled his eyes and hoped Dean could sense it.
“It's not that easy.”
“Why not? You find a bed, you close your eyes, and you sleep. And you say no when the misfits come knocking on your door.” He ran absentminded fingers through the ends of Sam's hair, untangling the bloody knots.
“But I told them—“
“Sammy, I don’t give a fuck what you told them,” Dean insisted. “Tell them it doesn’t hold anymore. Not when you’re killing yourself every day. Fuck that.”
“Just listen to me. For one second.” Dean didn’t answer, which was his way of saying go on. “I promised these people a better life. Me. I promised them a home. Away from—from Michael and the fucking apocalypse. I had to convince them to leave that—to leave their home—for this one. And to leave them floundering, alone, in a world they know nothing about? That would make me one of the bad guys. I've been the bad guy before, Dean. I don't want that anymore. I want to be better.
“I don’t sleep because I shouldn't. Not when there’s things to hunt and people to save. Not when I can afford to keep pushing myself so that they don’t have to. They’ve been running their whole lives.”
“And we haven’t?” Sam lifted his head up and really looked at Dean for the first time in a long time. His brother was tired, too, but he was still healthy, skin still rosy in the dingy light. Like always, there was something fierce in his eyes, something that told Sam he wasn’t done fighting and wouldn’t be for a while, no matter how bad he wanted that vacation.
“Yeah. We have,” Sam agreed, “but it fucking sucks. I don't want that for them.”
“Sammy, I don't want that for you. You’re not the villain.” When Sam broke eye contact, Dean tapped his cheek to get him to pay attention. “You're not. Never have been. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong manipulative son of a bitch, sure. But you didn’t do this. You're a great leader.”
Sam scoffed and shook his head. “Dean.”
“I mean it. When have I ever said something I don't mean?” He pointed a finger in Sam's face. “Don’t answer that.” Sam huffed out a laugh, which made Dean crack a smile. “There he is!” Dean cheered, and Sam shoved at his arm. Instead of shoving him back, Dean just pushed their knees closer together like he was trying to fuse them and keep Sam just like that—close, safe, smiling.
And smiling was the word, not happy. Sam hadn’t been happy in god knows how long. He was surviving, and sometimes smiling, and often fake smiling in an attempt to keep his act together. But he was only surviving, and barely, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep going.
Sam didn’t believe Dean. He couldn’t. His life was being the villain, born and bred, and he couldn’t atone for that by offering the bunker up as a hotel service or teaching the hunters about their world’s monsters or saving them from a few close calls. He had to do more—be more—no matter what it cost him.
“Let’s hang out,” Dean said unprompted, and Sam groaned.
“I was concussed out of my mind when I said that.”
“And you still remember it. Must not have been too concussed.” Sam's flat look was met with a smirk and a wink. “But seriously. You and me, we don’t hang out enough.”
“We don’t have time to hang out. Michael—"
“Will still be trying to kill us in two days. Let's stay here. In fuckall, Nebraska. Come on, there’s loads of stuff we can do. Think about all the shit we got up to in the middle of nowhere when we were kids. Now we can do all that, but with money. Whaddya say?”
Dean waggled his eyebrows and elbowed Sam. He was laying it on thick, but Sam thought he got it. Dean was worried about him, which wasn’t new, but he missed him, too. Missed the Sam that could hold a conversation without zoning out. The Sam that was home for breakfast or late-night gas station runs. The one that dragged Dean along when he found a case or forced him into a game of cards or laughed loudly or joked along or was a normal, functioning human being who didn’t look like he could keel over at any second.
The Sam on the bed wasn’t any of those things. Somewhere along the way he had put himself so far in the back of his mind that he wasn’t even a consideration. I’m still running, Sam realized. Dean was safe from Michael and Sam hadn’t even stopped to hang out with his brother.
Maybe it could help.
“Okay,” Sam said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let's hang out in fuckall, Nebraska.”
Dean smiled wide, ruffling Sam's hair and ignoring all the swatting that came after.
“Remember the concussion?” Sam asked, though he had just remembered it himself. The pain had died down in the midst of all the feelings, but now that Sam was calmer, it hit him tenfold. A pounding ache made its home behind his eyes, and his body felt like it had been run through a meat shredder.
“Yeah, slugger. Bed time now. Hang out tomorrow. Scooch.” Gingerly, Sam slid to the other side of the bed, letting Dean untuck the covers and throw it over both of them. “We can get another room tomorrow,” Dean added, nodding to the other bed. “One with less bloodstains.”
“Mmkay,” Sam mumbled. He rolled onto his side, eyes already closing, but he heard Dean chuckle softly and the click of the lamp turning off. “Night, Dean.”
“Night, Sammy.”
Sam still wasn’t doing well. But he was with Dean in a shitty motel room, ready to sleep off his injuries. They would both make it to tomorrow, and some nights, that was all they could ask for.