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The hunt had been long, but the car ride back was even longer.
You’d been hunting with Sam and Dean for some time, and over the last year or so you had become somewhat of a pretty good hunter yourself. You could handle yourself in a fight against almost anything, and both Sam and Dean knew it.
The case had started out fairly normal, a run of the mill vampire nest in some midwestern highway town. Having been called in by a local hunter, it seemed like a short detour that wouldn’t take long to take care of.
So why had this hunt been so different?
Maybe it was the numbers. You three against upwards of a dozen vampires was never going to be fair, but that had never stopped you before. Maybe it was the greasy diner food you’d eaten earlier that day, making you feel off your game. Maybe, by chance, you were slipping. Maybe you weren't as good a hunter as your ego had convinced you that you were.
However it might have happened, you had gotten hurt.
Now you sat in the backseat of the Impala, rain pitter-pattering on the roof of the car while Sam and Dean sat up in the front. Rock music played softly from the cassette player in the car— Dean’s choice. Besides the music and the rain, the three of you were silent.
You clutched your arm, the blood slowly seeping through the thin fabric of your overshirt. It wasn’t that bad of a wound, and not the worst you’d had in the last couple of years. Hell, the brothers shouldn’t have even been phased. You just needed to get back to the hotel room and stitch yourself up, and you would be good as new.
Your mind kept flashing back to the abandoned warehouse where the nest had been, and the moment it had happened.
You were going up against one of the vamps, when the knife it carried had slashed through your upper arm. You had stumbled back, your weapon knocked from your hand. Sam had come up from behind with a machete and decapitated it a second later, but the damage had already been done.
The two of you had stood there for a few moments, adrenaline pumping, just staring at each other. Sam hesitated, his eyes darting to the blood starting to stain your shirt, but he didn't have time to look for long before the rest of the vampires needed taking care of and the hunt continued.
The walk back to the car had been filled with a nearly endless amount of questions from Sam, questions about if there was any chance their blood had mixed with yours, and every time, you refuted it. You were fine, it was just a gash. Not that it convinced Sam, of course.
Back in the Impala, the silence was palpable. Dean kept shifting his eyes back at you every couple of minutes and although he wouldn’t admit it, he was tense. Sam, on the other hand, had his worry written on his face. You tried not to look at him, turning your gaze out the window. In the dark you could see a couple lights speckled through the forested drive as the three of you pulled into town, and eventually into the motel parking lot.
The sound of the engine slowing pulled you from your thoughts as the car doors opened. Dean walked to the trunk to pull the canvas duffel of wooden stakes and gear, hoisting it over his shoulder. With your free hand you began to open the car door, before Sam apparently beat you to it. He opened the door, his shaggy brown hair framing his face while he looked at you worriedly in the backseat.
”I’m okay, Sam. I can open the door for myself,” you said, with a slight smile audible in your voice.
Sam tilted his head and held eye contact.
”Yeah…sorry,” he said, stepping back from the car. He waited for you to get out.
You hesitated, waiting for him to go on into the motel.
“…You can go, Sam. Really, it’s okay. I’ll meet you there.”
Once Sam gave in and hoisted his backpack over his shoulder, you stood up and got out of the Impala. Clutching your arm, you kicked the door closed with your foot as you turned to face the motel.
There was a flickering neon sign above the building, save for a couple letters that had been long since dead. One of the numbers on the door was crooked and hanging sideways, and you committed the room number to memory.
Stepping inside, you saw Sam and Dean on their feet, doing all their usual things after a hunt. Dean was pulling guns and stakes out from his bag and setting them down on the round table in the corner of the room, where Sam had sat down and was cleaning the shotguns out and sanding the stakes.
You came in and sat down on the bed, groaning. You wanted to get ahead of the wound before it had the chance to become infected.
”Sam?” you asked, eyeballing the first aid kit that sat on the table beside him.
He caught your eyes and followed them to the kit, which he grabbed. His chair pushed against the worn-down hardwood floors as he stood up, coming to sit down on the bed beside you, the squeaky mattress sinking under his weight.
“I’m taking a shower, be out in 5.” Dean’s voice came from across the room, throwing a towel over his shoulder and shutting the bathroom door behind him with a thud. The tiredness was radiating off of him, and you couldn't be mad. A hot shower sounded like music to your ears, or warm water to your sore muscles.
The sound of the water turning on could be heard through the thin walls and broke you from your thoughts and back into the room. With Sam.
You shrugged your flannel overshirt off slowly, sleeve by sleeve. As you peeled it away from the gash, you winced as you saw it fully for the first time. Around the wound was some blood that had already dried, making it look worse than it was. Sam’s expression contorted in concern.
There was a click of the first aid kit popping open, and you turned to see it opening in Sam’s hand. You opened your free hand and extended it to him.
“Do we have any wet wipes left?” You asked.
“I’ve got them,” Sam replied, turning to you and tearing open the packaging with his hands and pulling one out. You waited for him to hand it to you, but he spoke up again, brows furrowed.
”…Let me do this for you.” His voice was sad, and weighed down by guilt that you couldn't seem to place. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”
You looked confused. You were confused. Why was he so set on this?
“Sam, I’ll be okay, really. You don’t need to coddle me.” You tried to reason with him, but when your gaze met his, your heart sank. His eyes were filled with such genuine concern and compassion towards you.
“What’s up with you?” You questioned. There was something Sam wasn’t telling you. Something was clearly weighing on him, and to you, it looked a lot like guilt.
Sam looked down at his hands, clearly thinking. Still holding onto the towelette, he brought his eyes back to yours. Watching his body language, the gears began to turn in your head as to what had brought this on. Before you could ask about it, Sam spoke again, lower and soft, as if he was afraid to scare you away.
”It’s my fault. It’s my fault that you got hurt, so please, let me help. Let me make it up to you.”
”Sam I— what are you talking about?” you asked, almost defensively. Why would this have been his fault? “I put myself in the line of danger, you saved me. If anything, I should be thanking you.”
The words seemed to go in one of Sam’s ears and out the other, like he wouldn’t accept the truth, convinced he was still at fault. “I should have been there sooner. You could have gotten killed, or worse—“
”Turned? Yeah, right. I’m a capable hunter, you know that,” you assured him. “See? None of their blood even came close.”
While you wouldn’t admit it in the moment, it was in a way, sweet, to see him so worried for your wellbeing. Not that he hadn’t shown that he cared before, but this felt different.
This felt…genuine. Personal.
He didn’t want to help you so you could be back in good enough shape to move onto the next hunt, he wanted to help you because he felt like he had to. Like he owed it to you. Like it was the one thing in his power that he could do to mend the damage that he’d convinced himself that he’d done.
“…I’ll admit, my first aid skills are a little rusty,” you remarked after a beat, “so if you want to help me, I’m not going to turn the offer down.”
Something subtle flashed behind Sam’s eyes as he listened. “…Yeah?”
You smiled softly, his eyes meeting yours again.
“Yeah,” you replied, watching as Sam wiped down your arm and began to dig around in the kit.
It hurt when the needle first pierced your skin, and it hurt after the next stitch, and the next. Sam applied the stitches to your arm with great precision, in and out. The sting of your wound closing stitch by stitch would have felt more bothersome than it already did, but there was a comfort in knowing Sam was there and taking care of you.
By the time he’d snipped the thread and tied it off twenty minutes later, Sam was wiping your arm with another disinfectant wipe to clean any remaining blood. You looked down at his work, admiring how clean the stitching was. You were grateful you’d let him help you.
”Does that feel okay?” Sam asked, checking in on you. His brows were furrowed in lasting concern, unconvinced he’d done enough to make it up to you.
You shook out your arm, the lasting pressure feeling uncomfortable, but expected. “Yeah, that’s a lot better, actually.” Pausing, you looked up from your arm and back towards Sam. “Thank you.”
The moment was melancholic, between the reality of the situation and the intimacy that it provoked. You and Sam sitting less than a foot away from each other on the creaky motel bed, his eyes trying to find something in yours while your blood was underneath his fingernails.
The sanctity was broken by the bathroom door slamming open as Dean stepped out of the bathroom, running a hand through his damp hair.
”The shower's open,” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to pay much attention to the two of you as he opened the mini motel fridge and pulled out a beer.
“…I’m gonna go shower then,” Sam said, breaking eye contact with you, packing the first aid kit back up and standing.
You watched him longingly, the spot where he sat feeling colder next to you immediately after he left you. Your gaze didn’t leave Sam until he shut the bathroom door behind him.