It wasn't till they got to the bunker, and Sam had cleaned blood from his brothers face. As he carried his brother up the stairs to his bedroom, his mind swarmed with regret, words he wanted to unsay, actions he wished he could forget.
He noticed it then. Another wound to the agonizing pain he already felt.
Carrying Dean out of the car was easy.
Sam knew all too well what Dean's dead weight felt like, but he'd prepared prematurely.
Dean was light, easy to carry.
Sam paused at the door of the bunker, staring into Dean's face, really looking at him for the first time in a long time. When had his brother become so lean? So harsh?
Oh
When he'd turned his back.
Which time? He'd ask himself. And it was always the same response. Every time.
As Sam laid dean down on the bed he stared at the mark of Cain. Still bright red against his brothers arm. Had he driven him to this?
He knew what he was going to do, hell he could hear the arguments that they'd had over the years. But he didn't care.
Sam knew what he had to do.