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After almost three days without sleep, they’re running on adrenaline and caffeine and sheer force of will. They’ve been set up at the little kitchen table in their room without moving for close to eight hours and haven’t come any closer to finding whatever the hell it is that’s murdering townspeople. Sam is twitchy, fidgeting ceaselessly with pent-up energy and frustration, beginning to crack around the edges. His nails are gnawed down to the quick and the purple smudges under his eyes look like bruises in the low light.
By the time Sam sighs, long and drawn-out, for the hundredth time in the last hour, Dean’s jaw is aching from his own irritation. He looks up from where he’s been straining to read an old manuscript off an online archive. “Dude, cut it out,” he snaps. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Why don’t we break for an hour or so, come back again with fresh eyes?”
Sam huffs out a dry little laugh and his lip curls up in distaste. “Yeah, maybe you’re fine with just cooling it when something is out there killing people, but I think I’ll stay here.”
Dean rolls his eyes. He slams the laptop shut, shoves it across the table at Sam, and gets to his feet. “Good luck with that,” he says coldly, grabbing his keys and wallet.
Sam doesn’t look up.
Dean makes sure to shut the door harder than necessary on his way out. He heads to the bar across the street from the motel, downs a couple of beers in quick succession and flirts with the bartender. It’s loud and close, and the loose atmosphere helps drain away some of the tension built up from too many days holed up in a motel room with nothing but his moody little brother and half a dozen cold leads.
By the time he leaves the bar an hour and several drinks later, Dean is in a forgiving mood. On his way back to the motel, he stops at the convenience store on the corner and picks up a large coffee and some snacks for Sam.
He’s already talking when he fumbles his key into the door of their room and shoulders it open. “If you won’t take a break, you’re at least gonna let me stuff you full of sugar and caffeine so you’ll quit trying to bite my head off.”
The room is empty. The laptop is open on the table but the screen is dark. Dean sets the plastic bags down on the table and sees a smear of something there, almost black in the low light. There’s more of it on the floor, dark and glistening wet. The bathroom door is ajar and white fluorescent light is flooding out. Heart pounding weakly in his throat, Dean makes his way across the room and pushes the door open.
Sam is bent over the sink, stooped awkwardly because of his height. Blood drips steadily from his face, running down the sides of the sink and trickling sluggishly toward the drain. The lower half of his face is tacky with it, his neck smeared and the collar of his shirt stained dark. His breathing is quick and shallow, little sips of air that catch and rattle in his throat. In the harsh glare of the light, he’s ghost-pale and sickly. His hands are shaking where he’s gripping the porcelain, so tight his fingers have gone white and bloodless.
There’s a moment where Dean panics, his mind spiralling to internal injury and curses and incurable illness, before all the pieces tumble suddenly into place.
“Hey,” he says, careful and calm, reaching out to touch Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy.”
Sam flinches, but doesn’t otherwise react to the touch. He stares blankly downward, into the bottom of the sink where his blood runs watery-pale.
Dean shakes him gently. “What happened? Another vision? What’d you see?”
The sound of Sam’s strained breathing echoes loudly in the cramped bathroom. His eyes flicker upward, to meet his own reflection in the smudged mirror hanging above the sink. They’re glazed, distant and shot through with red. His expression is hollow, empty, containing no trace of the hard-headed little brother Dean left behind an hour ago.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, in the absence of anything else. “Hey. It’s over now. You’re okay. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Despite Sam’s lack of response, he goes easily enough when Dean coaxes him back from the sink and sits him on the edge of the tub. The slump of his shoulders is utterly drained, defeated. With a damp towel, Dean mops the blood from Sam’s face, holding him steady with one hand on his shoulder. Sam’s head lolls in Dean’s hand when he grips his chin to clean his neck and the hollow of his throat.
After, Dean helps him up and out of the bathroom, guides him to sit on the edge of one of the beds. When Dean motions for him to remove his stained shirt, Sam starts shivering in earnest, teeth clattering together, fingers shaking where he twists the discarded shirt nervously between them. For the first time, he meets Dean’s eyes. His face is grey from blood loss and exhaustion. He looks more worn down than Dean has ever seen him.
“C’mon,” Dean says, turning the covers down and pushing at Sam’s shoulder. “In bed. You need sleep. Can’t be staying up for days on end like this. You’ll kill yourself.”
Sam blinks at him but offers little resistance. He folds down into the bed pliantly, curls over on his side and lets Dean pull the blankets up over him.
Dean settles hesitantly on the edge of the bed. “You wanna tell me what you saw?”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.
“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay. Get some rest.”
Sam is still shivering. If it were even five years ago, Dean would do something like stroke his hair, or climb under the covers alongside him. As it is, things between them still feel tenuous, unsure, like at any moment Sam might decide he’s finished with Dean and dad and the business and take off again.
Dean is exhausted, but he resists the pull of sleep and sets himself back up at the table, with the laptop and mountains of research in front of him. He positions himself where he can see Sam, breathing slow and even with deep sleep. Hopefully he’ll stay under for a good few hours at least. If Dean can humanly manage it, he’ll have solved the case by the time his brother wakes up.