Chapter Text
Chapter 1:
The first thing Sam noticed was the truck.
It wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.
He was helping Mackland repair a section of fence near the south pasture when the engine echoed across the fields.
At first, he smiled.
Dean was home.
Then he saw how fast the truck was moving.
The smile disappeared.
The truck tore up the long gravel driveway, dust billowing behind it.
Too fast.
Way too fast.
Beside him, Mackland straightened immediately.
The post he'd been working on forgotten.
Sam felt his stomach drop.
Something was wrong.
The truck hadn't even fully stopped before doors were opening.
Hunters spilled out.
Moving quickly.
Purposefully.
The way they did when things had gone bad.
Really bad.
Sam was already running.
The gravel crunched beneath his boots.
His heart pounding harder with every step.
He reached the truck just as the passenger door opened.
For one terrible second he couldn't see Dean.
Then somebody moved.
And suddenly he could.
Blood.
There was blood everywhere.
Dean's shirt was soaked with it.
One sleeve nearly black.
His head lolled briefly before somebody grabbed his shoulder and steadied him.
Sam stopped cold.
The world narrowing to a single point.
Dean.
Dean hurt.
Dean bleeding.
Dean not standing on his own.
Somebody was talking.
John.
Pastor Jim.
Mackland.
Voices overlapping.
Giving instructions.
Asking questions.
Sam couldn't make out any of the words.
Dean blinked slowly.
Disoriented.
Pale.
Far too pale.
Fear hit hard enough to steal the air from Sam's lungs.
Because Dean was supposed to come home.
That was how this worked.
Hunters left.
Hunters came back.
Maybe bruised.
Maybe tired.
Maybe carrying new scars.
But they came back.
Dean always came back.
"Sam."
The voice startled him.
Pastor Jim.
The priest had appeared beside him somehow.
A steady hand resting on his shoulder.
"Give them room."
Sam hadn't realized he'd moved closer.
Hadn't realized he was practically standing in the middle of everything.
He stepped back automatically.
Never taking his eyes off Dean.
John and Mackland were helping him toward the farmhouse now.
Dean's boots dragged slightly against the gravel.
The sight made something twist painfully in Sam's chest.
Then Dean looked up.
Just briefly.
Long enough to spot him.
And somehow the idiot smiled.
Actually smiled.
A weak, exhausted grin.
But a grin all the same.
As if he was trying to reassure him.
As if he wasn't covered in blood.
Sam wanted to scream.
Instead he stood frozen in place while the adults ushered Dean into the house.
The screen door slammed shut behind them.
Silence settled over the yard.
Not real silence.
The farm was never silent.
But enough.
Enough that Sam could hear his own heartbeat.
Pastor Jim squeezed his shoulder.
"He's going to be alright."
The words were meant to help.
They didn't.
Because Sam had heard them before.
After hunts.
After injuries.
After close calls.
He'd heard them his entire life.
The thing was, nobody ever seemed bothered by how often they had to say them.
As if it was normal.
As if it was expected.
As if coming home bleeding was simply part of the job.
Pastor Jim headed toward the house.
Mackland followed.
The yard slowly emptied.
Hunters returning to their work.
Their conversations.
Their lives.
Like this wasn't the most terrifying thing Sam had ever seen.
Eventually he forced himself to move.
The farmhouse felt different when he stepped inside.
Smaller.
Tighter.
The tension hanging in the air like a storm cloud.
Voices drifted from upstairs.
The sound of drawers opening.
Footsteps.
The familiar chaos that followed an injured hunter coming home.
Nobody was panicking.
That might have been the worst part.
John passed through the hallway carrying a stack of clean towels.
Sam stepped into his path.
"How bad is it?"
John didn't stop moving.
"He's fine."
Fine.
The word hit something raw inside him.
Because Dean did not look fine.
Dean had looked like he'd been dragged through a meat grinder.
"Fine?"
John finally looked at him.
Really looked at him.
And whatever he saw made his expression soften slightly.
"He's got a deep cut in his shoulder and a couple cracked ribs."
A pause.
"He'll be alright."
There were those words again.
Sam hated them.
Not because they weren't true.
Because everybody kept saying them.
As if that made any of this acceptable.
John disappeared upstairs.
Leaving Sam alone in the hallway.
A few minutes later Dean laughed.
The sound drifted down from the second floor.
Weak.
Tired.
But unmistakably Dean.
The adults laughed too.
Like everything was normal.
Like everything was okay.
Sam stared at the staircase.
At the room where Dean was being stitched back together.
At the people who had spent their entire lives accepting that this was the cost of hunting.
And for the first time, something inside him rebelled.
Not against monsters.
Not against helping people.
Not against the Brotherhood.
Against this.
Against blood on gravel.
Against cracked ribs.
Against seeing his brother carried into the house.
Against a world where everyone looked at that and called it normal.
Hours later, long after the excitement had faded, Sam sat alone on the back porch.
The sun had disappeared beyond the fields.
The farm settling into evening.
Dean was upstairs sleeping.
Pastor Jim had finally gone to bed.
The hunters had returned to their routines.
Life moving on.
As if it always did.
Sam stared out across the darkening pasture.
Thinking.
Trying to understand why he felt so angry.
Why he couldn't shake the image of Dean stumbling out of that truck.
Why everyone else's calm acceptance bothered him so much.
And eventually the answer came.
Quiet.
Terrible.
Simple.
Because nobody else seemed scared.
Not John.
Not Mackland.
Not Pastor Jim.
Not even Dean.
Sam was the only one.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
And for the first time in his life, he found himself wondering if that meant there was something wrong with him.
Or something wrong with the life they'd built.