A/N Sorry to leave you guys hanging like that last week... but to make up for it here is a mammoth of a chapter!
Thank you, once again, to all of you. I love you guys! :)
Chapter Eight
This was not how Sam had imagined Hell or Heaven.
He knew that he had been dying—he had felt it deep in his soul, knew unexplainably that those had been his last moments—yet this didn't feel like death.
The smell and taste of his own blood were still so strong in his mouth and nose that it made him want to gag. A claustrophobic presence was draped heavily over him, and he was being gently rocked back and forth.
Forcing his eyes open, Sam blinked once at the white and blood-splattered material that was inches from his nose.
It still didn't look like Heaven or Hell, but the horrible, all-consuming, pain from before had ceased. That didn't make any sense, not unless he was dead…
Unless, somehow, someway, Sam wasn't dead anymore. Could it be that he was…alive?
His chest was beginning to ache, reminding Sam that breathing was probably a good idea if he was indeed alive. He tried to pull in a breath, but it felt like his lungs were saturated sponges and he choked weakly, fighting for air.
This wasn't supposed to happen. If he was alive and the pain was gone, why couldn't he—
"Sammy?"
It was Dean's voice, thick with tears. The rocking motion stopped and his body was violently rolled back so that he found himself staring up into Dean's stunned and tear-stained face.
He stared at Sam, his eyes wide in disbelief, but Sam didn't have time to communicate as he began to cough, trying to clear his lungs.
Bright red blood splattered down onto the ground, spraying their already stained clothing.
"Sammy…?" Dean's face had gone white as he turned Sam back over onto his side, one hand bracing his forehead as Sam continued to cough and gag. "I—you're alive?"
Yeah, it was news to Sam too. Almost disappointing if he stopped too hard to think about it, so he didn't.
Gagging, Sam spat out another mouthful of half-clotted blood. The Talamh had pierced his lungs, and they had filled with blood, he knew that. Yet he also seemed to be alive, and he had a feeling that while those holes had been healed, whatever had brought him back—Lucifer, probably—hadn't bothered to clear his lungs of the blood as well.
It would at least explain why he was alive and yet still choking on his blood.
Dean's arms wrapped around his chest, jerking him upright even as Sam continued to cough and heave. He retched it all down his front, over Dean's hands, and tried to pull back but Dean didn't seem to care about the mess that he was making.
"Hold on, we're getting you to a hospital, just, uh—"
Sam was coughing too hard to explain to Dean what was happening as his brother bodily dragged him towards the Impala. He dumped him into the front seat and slammed the door behind him.
Groaning, Sam tipped over onto his side, hacking out a clot of blood. He had just enough sense of mind to lean over and throw out a hand to catch it, attempting to spare the upholstery. Too late, he remembered that both of them were covered in blood.
The upholstery was a lost cause at this point.
Dean's door slammed, and then the Impala roared to life. A hand invaded his personal space, resting against his heaving throat and tracking his pulse. Sam once again tried to speak, but the car was getting blurry as his eyes went out of focus and his lungs fought to clear themselves.
"Keep breathing, Sammy, the hospital's only—well, I'm getting you actual help. Hold on for just a little longer." Dean was panicking, his voice cracking on the last word, and Sam registered that he needed to talk, to let Dean know what was going on and calm him down before they went off the road.
Gasping air raggedly, Sam half tumbled off his seat as he spat another mouthful of clotted blood into his hand.
That seemed to do the trick, and Sam's next wheeze brought sweet, sweet, air. He blinked the involuntary tears away from his eyes as he filled his lungs to capacity. Reaching back, he fumbled for his brother's arm and squeezed it tightly.
"Dean?" he croaked out roughly.
"What?" Dean snapped, sounding like if Sam said the wrong thing it would break him completely.
"Dean, I'm alright. I'm fine."
For a moment there was only the sound of the Impala's tires rolling over dirt. "I'm okay," Sam repeated, his voice steadying.
Dean slammed on the breaks, launching Sam forward. He threw out his hand, catching himself before he could slide into the footwell.
Dean's hands wrapped around him, firmly yanking him back into the seat so that he was laying with his head on Dean's leg.
They were verging dangerously into a chick flick kind of moment, but for once Dean didn't seem to notice or care. His face was pale, his freckles standing out starkly between the flecks of blood. Ripping the blood-soaked bandages off Sam's chest, he pulled the tattered shirt apart.
Sitting back, he gaped, his mouth falling open. Sam looked down as well.
Fresh, unmarred, skin met his eyes.
Sam raised his head, looking over at Dean. Dean stared back at him.
"Sammy…" he half whispered.
"I'm okay," Sam repeated and Dean stared at him a moment longer, before shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. He left streaks of blood behind.
"You're—I—"
Yanking the Impala door open, he slid out of the car—making Sam's head thunk against the seat—and walked away as his hands came up to clasp behind his head. Sam stared after him, before sitting up.
The world spun a little, and he flung out a hand to catch himself against the dash.
Dropping his head down in-between his knees, Sam took several deep breaths before he straightened, feeling less queasy and dizzy. His bloody handprint stained the dash, and Sam jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. He sat awkwardly on the bench seat, unsure of what he could touch without getting blood on it.
The shackles and chains that were still locked around his wrists clanked and Sam stared down at them first with annoyance and then with some amazement. His wrists—which had been disfigured and agonizing—bore no deformity. The burns had healed without a scar.
Sam began to tear at the hasty field bandage that Dean had applied around his left arm, but came to an abrupt stop, his stomach dropping as the excitement faded.
The one injury not healed were the letters engraved in his flesh. They were hardly visible through the fresh and drying blood, but the cuts burned sharply.
A little reminder from Lucifer of his place and what the world thought of him, he supposed.
Shame flared hot and hard through his soul and Sam reached blindly behind him, no longer caring about the flakes of blood that he was leaving behind. Finding one of the duffels, he pulled it to the front and discovered that it was Dean's. He threw back in favor of his own.
He had already ruined one of Dean's shirts today, he doubted that his brother would be thrilled if he got blood all over another one.
Blindly pulling out one of his flannels, he shrugged into it while looking out of the window. He could still see Dean. He hadn't gone far and was crouched by the side of the road with a hand over his mouth, and looked like he was seconds away from puking.
Unrolling the sleeves, Sam pulled them down to the wrists, hiding his arm from sight. The material rubbed against the fresh cuts, but it was a small price to pay to keep it hidden.
Gently easing the door open, Sam took a deep breath of the fresh air and stared over at Dean who had looked around at the squeak of hinges. Forcing himself to stand, Sam smiled hesitantly at Dean, unsure of where to go from here.
Dean solved that as he straightened and strode over. He was still white-faced, and his eyes were suspiciously red, but he wrapped Sam in a hug that was hard enough that Sam thought his ribs might crack.
He returned the embrace, burying his face into Dean's shoulder and breathing him in, just for a moment.
They remained that way as Dean took in several shuddering breaths. He pulled Sam in closer, before thumping him once on the back and releasing him.
"How…you were dead. There was no pulse, you weren't breathing, I checked."
Sam dropped his head self-consciously as he refused to meet Dean's eyes. He wasn't proud of how he had been brought back, and he doubted that Dean would be either. His brother tilted his head to the side, waiting impatiently.
"Lucifer…I told I told Lucifer the first time that he visited me that I would kill myself before saying yes. He said that he would simply bring me back, so I guess…" he shrugged.
"You told him that you would kill yourself?" Dean asked sharply, before shaking his head. "We'll talk about that later. How are you feeling?" He grabbed Sam's wrists, pulling them closer and examining the unmarred skin around the shackles carefully.
Sam resisted the urge to pull away, the hidden word burning at the forefront of his mind.
"I mean, I feel better than I have in more than a week," Sam said, forcing a smile. That probably didn't help, blood was still coating the inside of his mouth, but Dean nodded, his eyes oddly bright again. Reaching out, he cupped Sam's face with both of his hands.
"You sure that you're okay? It's all fixed? You were coughing up blood, man."
Sam shrugged again. "I'm good. As for the blood…I was drowning in it, Dean. Just because he stopped the leak doesn't mean he drained my lungs."
Dean nodded, apparently unable to speak. He pressed two fingers against Sam's pulse point, reassuring himself once again that Sam was alive. Sam allowed it, giving Dean the time that he needed.
Nodding again and still looking shaken, Dean patted his cheek once before moving towards the trunk.
Sam started to follow, but almost over-balanced and leaned down against the roof of the car, swallowing thickly against the nausea. He took a deep breath and turned his head carefully to the side, watching Dean.
"How about you? Are you good? You took quite the blow to the head and you're still bleeding."
The trunk slammed, and then Dean reappeared. "My head aches like a mother, but I'm good. C'mhere." He gestured impatiently for Sam to come towards him. Sam slumped further against the car, giving his head a slight shake.
"I don't know if my legs are going to hold me that far," he said honestly.
Dean pursed his lips in concern, moving towards Sam instead. "You said that you were okay…"
"I'm fine. Just…I'm not sure. It could be blood loss, we already know Lucifer did a half-assed job of healing, or I haven't exactly had anything to drink or eat in I don't even know how long."
"Okay." Dean rubbed at his face, looking old beyond his years. "Okay, you're right. That does sound like the sort of screwed-up thing Lucifer would do. We'll get you sorted out," He grabbed Sam's arm, ready to assist if so called upon, and Sam flinched back.
Dean had grabbed his bad arm, and he could feel blood oozing out of the cuts.
Dean arched an eyebrow, giving him a worried, searching, look, but Sam shook his head. He didn't press the issue as he helped Sam sit down against the Impala's back door. Dean disappeared again for a moment, before crouching next to him and handing him an already opened bottle of water.
"This should help with all of the above. So, drink up, just don't go too fast."
Sam took the bottle and wasn't surprised to find his hand trembling. He took a sip, swirling it around and spitting it out. It was stained red, and Dean looked away, his hand coming up to rest on Sam's shoulder.
After a moment, Dean pulled out his extra bandana and used another water bottle to soak the material. "You look like you met Jack the Ripper, it's freaking me out." He reached for Sam and began to vigorously wipe at both the drying and dried blood on his face. Sam blinked, and then made a grab for the bandana, almost dropping his water in the process.
"Give me that, I'm not two," he snapped tiredly. Dean surrendered it, and Sam began to make slightly uncoordinated swipes. Dean hovered for a moment, looking unsure of what to do before he went back to the trunk for a spare rag and began to scrub at the blood on his own hands.
Sam watched, noting how his brother's hands shook almost as much as his.
"You done?" Dean asked bluntly as he finished, balling up the rag and tossing it in the direction of the trunk.
"The cut on your forehead, lemme…" Sam tried to stand, only to find himself sitting down again as his knees gave out.
"I've got it, you just sit there. It's not that deep," Dean tried to reassure him as he reached for the first-aid kit and then twisted on his heels so that he could see into the side mirror. He squinted, attempting to clean the cut.
"Dean, stop being an ass. C'mhere." The kit was resting between them and Sam tiredly pulled it closer, searching through it for the butterfly bandages. Dean hesitated, and Sam scowled at him.
"Fine." Dean dropped back to sit cross-legged next to Sam.
Sam dosed a clean corner of the bandana in peroxide and proceeded to clean the wound. Dean hissed, his eyes screwing shut as Sam worked. He opened them when Sam began to apply the butterfly bandages and stared fixedly at him.
It was making Sam uncomfortable and he focused on the task.
Once it was done, Dean briskly stood and moved back to the trunk, where he began to strip. His bloody t-shirt was balled up and tossed into the trunk before he pulled on a fresh one along with a plaid overshirt.
"Are we stopping at a motel?" Sam asked as he went back to scrubbing his skin clean. His hands were shaking worse than before as his energy flagged.
There was just so much blood…no wonder Dean still looked so freaked.
"Nah, I think that we'll head straight for Bobby's. I don't want to deal with a motel, I just want to drive," Dean said as he began to roll the sleeves up on his flannel. His jeans were spotted darkly with blood as well, and he turned to change them.
"You okay to drive?" Sam knew that he himself wasn't. He had to stop scrubbing, and his hands hung loose in his lap. Dean, now more presentable than not, crouched next to him and once again briskly took charge of the cleaning.
"Yeah, I'll be good as soon as I load up on coffee and Advil. Besides, you can't exactly stay in any motel. You got chains on and people assume too much about us as it is."
Dean resoaked the bandana, squeezing a stream of red-tinted water onto the ground before tilting Sam's chin back and dabbing at Sam's throat.
"We're in western Montana. It has to be—" Sam's brain was too tired to do the math. "A really long drive. When was the last time you slept?"
"I told you, I'm fine." Dean's voice had taken on an edge, daring Sam to challenge him. Sam didn't.
Dean dropped the cloth at last, studying Sam with a frown. "Well, that's better…kinda. Change, and then we can go."
When Sam didn't immediately do as asked, Dean impatiently tugged at the sleeve of Sam's shirt, ready to help him pull it off if Sam wasn't able to.
Sam shook his head, pulling his arms closer to his chest. "Dude, you've got to buy me dinner first," he tried, but Dean's eyes had gone hard.
"Sam…you're not hiding something from me, are you?"
Sam looked away, blinking back the sudden tears that sprang up. He brought his knees up to his chest and wiped his other arm under his nose as he licked his lips.
"It's nothing, I'm not…" Damnit, this was dumb. It was just a word, it was just Dean. Dean, who knew the truth about what he was.
"Hey…" Dean's voice turned softer even as he grabbed Sam's arm, trying to get him to look at him. Sam flinched, and Dean froze momentarily, looking alarmed. He insistently began to pull the plaid shirt off, glaring hard at Sam when he opened his mouth to protest.
Sam could see the moment that Dean saw the damage inflicted to his arm.
He extended Sam's arm out, one finger hovering over the letter M. "I thought you said that you were healed, all the way," he said sharply.
"I am, I think, everything except this. I guess Lucifer wanted to leave a reminder of what I am behind…" Sam looked over at Dean and was surprised to see that the hardness had fled, something akin to tenderness and sadness gracing his face.
"Well, it's a damn stupid message," Dean said, locking eyes with Sam. The kindness in his eyes—kindness that Sam felt like he hadn't seen in a very long time—was too much and the tears that he had been holding off began to fall and there was nothing he could do about it.
Embarrassment and shame warred in his chest. It was bad enough that Dean had already had to bear witness to everything that had happened, now he was going to see him cry over something so inconsequential. He looked away, not necessarily trying to hide the tears but not willing to let Dean see either.
Dean gripped his arm tightly, just under the cuts, and then pulled away to grab the still opened first-aid kit.
"I gotta clean this up, they won't scar," Dean promised. That wasn't really his promise to make, but Sam nodded mutely all the same. Dean grabbed the peroxide and poured it over his arm, cleaning both the wounds and washing the blood away.
Sam didn't even notice the burn as the words became more distinct. Dean must have seen him looking because he nudged Sam lightly with his shoulder.
"I'm going to bandage this, but we'll stitch them later when we get to Bobby's. This isn't the best environment to do that," he said as he began to wrap gauze tightly around his arm, the words disappearing under the layers.
"Dean…" It wasn't fair for Sam to throw all this on Dean, who had enough problems of his own, but Sam didn't know what else to do, who else to turn to.
Dean tapped the last layer down and patted Sam lightly on the chest. Sam looked up at him desperately, and Dean paused. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the world, the weight of his little brother.
"We'll talk about it later, okay? I promise, we'll talk about it, but Sam…I don't think that either of us is up for that right now."
Sam nodded blindly.
"Dude, we'll work it out. I promise, but can't we just celebrate? You're alive, let's just…let's focus on that."
Sam didn't say anything but nodded again.
Dean was okay. Dean didn't hate him, still wanted him back in his life. They hadn't unleashed the Talamh on the world, so yeah…this hadn't ended as badly as it could have.
Dean reached down, cupping Sam's face and neck, and smiled. He took a deep breath, and said, "Change your clothes, man. I'm not riding back to South Dakota with you looking like that. I'm going to try and clean my baby up a little while you do that."
Passing over Sam's clothes, he ducked into the Impala with a third wet rag in hand to scrub what blood he could from the seats.
Sitting up, Sam struggled for a moment to pull the ratted remains of his t-shirt off. The shackles were catching in the materiel and every clank reminded him of what he was. He was so ready to be rid of them, but that would have to wait for Bobby's as well. Dean was right, they weren't up for much of anything today.
Besides, blood loss was a bitch…or dehydration…malnourishment…whatever it was. Regardless of what the root of his problem was, his head was spinning sickeningly.
Sam hauled himself slowly up to his feet to finish changing his clothes. He slipped into new jeans just in time to stagger to the nearest tree and lean against it as his stomach violently attempted to turn itself inside out.
"Woah!" Dean was suddenly right there, holding onto his shoulder as Sam brought a shaking arm up to wipe at his mouth. The stringy bile was tinged a deep red, but he didn't find that too concerning, not when he had been coughing up blood not long ago.
His stomach lurched warningly, and he bent over at the waist, groaning.
"Okay, easy, easy, man. Just get it all out. Sorry, I shouldn't have pushed you so hard…you were dead not even an hour ago. What was I thinking…?" Dean braced Sam as he heaved for the third time, his concern clear.
Dean patiently waited for the retching to pass, and then helped him back into the car, before gathering up his ruined clothing and tossing them into the trunk.
"You've got to tell me if you feel worse, and we'll stop. Promise me that, Sam," he requested seriously as he passed Sam their old army blanket that he had dug out of the trunk. He twisted, rummaging in the back, before pulling out a small bag of trail mix and another water bottle and forcing both on Sam as well.
"Only if you do the same. If you get dizzy, or your head is hurting too bad, let me know. Or if you want me to drive for a little bit."
"No, Sam. I'm not kidding. You feel even a little bit off…and you tell me." Dean was looking at Sam in such an earnest and pained fashion that Sam acquiesced.
Dean nodded, thumping Sam once on his thigh with his fist.
The Impala smelled strongly of blood and rubbing alcohol, and Dean rolled his window down as he started the car, flipping them in a tight turn to take them off the hillside.
The old Dodge Avenger disappeared from view, still sitting outside of the mine. It would not be driven again for a very long time, if ever.
Sam didn't know what had happened to Darrion. He supposed that he didn't want to know right now. Whatever it was, it probably hadn't been good. Blood and death. That was what people met when they came into contact with Sam Winchester.
Resting his head against his window, Sam stared out at the passing scenery, ignoring the water and food. His eyes ached, but it was with a soul-deep tiredness. There was nothing that he wanted more than to go to sleep and just…forget everything. Forget the weight that had settled back upon his shoulders. The weight of Dean's disappointment, the weight of saving the world, of fixing his mistakes.
They were almost back into civilization when Dean clapped a hand to his forehead, exclaiming, "Oh! I forgot! Hey, you wanna make a call?"
No, Sam did not want to make a call. Raising his head, Sam looked in bewilderment over at Dean, who was pushing his phone towards Sam.
"Bobby's been worried," he said simply and understanding clicked.
Letting his head drop back to rest against the window, Sam dialed and then listened to the ringing.
"Dean?" Bobby's voice was tense and anxious.
"Hey, Bobby…" Sam said, and damn if he didn't sound exhausted but the small smile on his face was real.
There was a beat of confused silence, and then, "Sam?"
"Yeah, it's me. Dean's here as well."
"Damnit, boy! You had me—I couldn't sleep for a week. But you're okay? Dean too?"
Sam paused, rubbing at the hem of the blanket. "We're good, both of us are fine."
"You don't sound too sure about that…" Bobby said, and the suspicion came distinctly through the line. "Do you need directions for the hospital, I have it right here."
"No, really, we're okay. Dean's got a bump on the head, but that's it. I just…it's been a really, really, long few days—"
Dean snorted beside him. "Tell me about it."
"—and I don't think that we have time to tell you the full story." Sam curled up further in his seat, biting at his lower lip. The kindness in Bobby's voice, the kindness that he had always shown Sam even if no one else would, was threatening to do him in and the lump in his throat was growing again. "I'm just tired," he managed to get out before Bobby could dissect his words.
"Probably to be expected. I'm going to want the full story when you get back, though. You boys driving straight through or are you stopping?"
"Straight through."
"Okay, hand the phone over to Dean, will you? And Sam—" Bobby added in quickly and Sam pulled the phone back against his ear. "It's damn good to hear your voice, kid."
Sam nodded, unable to speak, and hurriedly pushed the phone off to Dean.
Dean accepted it, and Sam slumped back against the window, pulling the blanket in closer around him and folding his arms across his chest to keep the clanking minimal as Dean talked with Bobby.
Sleep was a blessed escape, and he let it take him.
#
Dean glanced over at his softly snoring brother, just as he had every few minutes since they had begun the drive.
Sam had been asleep for over five hours now and didn't look to be waking anytime soon. His mouth was hanging open and his hands lax in his lap, the shackles reflecting off the light of passing cars occasionally.
Shifting in his seat, Dean cracked his neck and refocused on the endless ribbon of black road in front of him.
He was tired, but not in the way that sleep would help.
He didn't think that he could fall asleep even if they had gotten a motel room. There were too many thoughts tumbling around in his head for that.
Sam had died.
But now he was right next to Dean, sitting in the passenger seat and breathing steadily. Dean had Lucifer to thank for that, and that just felt…wrong. Lucifer was their enemy, someone that was causing massive death and destruction because of them, because of their mistakes…but he had given Dean a second chance with Sam, if only because Sam was his true vessel.
Dean couldn't help but be grateful.
Sam's death had hurt worse the second time.
In Cold Oak, they had been good; their relationship strong. Sam had died knowing that he was loved, that Dean was proud of him.
This time…there had been hard words hanging between them. Words and actions that he still hadn't taken back and while Dean still loved the kid so much that it made his chest ache…he wasn't sure that Sam knew that. Hell, he seemed to think that Dean was ready and willing to kill him.
He wasn't the only one. Darrion had accused him of the same thing.
Had they really gotten to that point? Was their relationship that frayed and broken?
It was like an itch that would not go away, and Dean kept coming back to it. Today should have been a triumph, he had Sam back and both of them were relatively unharmed. Yet, somehow, he didn't feel like popping the champagne.
Sam wasn't celebrating either, and it had been like a punch in the gut to realize just how close to tears Sam was at any given moment. That could be in part due to what he had just gone through—he had to be beyond exhausted—but still.
Before his death, he had seemed sad, but reassuring and confident. More like the old Sam. Now he just looked tired…ashamed…heartbroken. The list went on.
Dean stole another glance at Sam. The blanket had slipped down and the edges of the white gauze that was wrapped around his arm peeked out.
Monster.
The term rolled his stomach, and Dean turned back to face the road. Back in the mine, he had been so focused on stopping the bleeding that he hadn't noticed the words, or at least hadn't comprehended what they said. When he had read it, out by the car…his heart had dropped.
Perhaps the worst thing about it was that Sam had tried to hide it from him.
They were going to have to sit down and have a long talk after they got to Bobby's, one that Dean wasn't exactly looking forward to. But for Sam, he had always been willing to do hard things, things he wouldn't have done for anybody else.
Before they sat down for that, though, they were both going to need a good night's sleep and some food. They both needed to regain their equilibrium, and then they would talk.
"You doin' okay?" Sam's sleep-rough voice surprised him and Dean looked over. Sam was still in the same position as before, except his mouth was closed now.
"Yeah, I'm good. Don't think that I could sleep even if I wanted to," he admitted, turning down the already low music. Sam snorted.
"I know the feeling. Do you need more Advil for your head?" He opened his eyes, wincing a little as he sat up.
"Nah, I'm good. How about you? You still feeling alright or are you going to start tossing your cookies again?" Dean asked, searching the floorboards for the Gatorade that he had picked up the last time he had stopped for gas. He shoved it towards Sam, his eyes flicking between the road and his brother as much as he dared.
"I'm good." Sam took several slow sips, the chains clicking softly with the movement. He stilled, staring down at the bottle and twisting the cap on and off. "So…what happened to Darrion? I'm a little blurry on that."
Dean made a face. "The Talamh decided that he would make a good mid-hibernation snack. After it grabbed him, it dragged him back down the tunnel. I didn't follow, I was a bit more concerned with getting you out of there. Besides, the bastard deserved what he got." The words were more forceful than Dean had intended, but Sam just nodded, not disagreeing.
"How much longer till we get to Bobby's?"
Dean squinted at the clock, calculating. "About another four hours," he said and Sam nodded, sinking back into his seat and rubbing at his forehead. Dean gave him another calculating look.
"You hungry?"
Sam still looked pale, and as they had seen back at the mine, Lucifer hadn't exactly cared about returning Sam to perfect health. He probably also hadn't had a real meal in over a week—the trail mix from earlier didn't count—and should be starving. The sooner that they got some calories into him, the better.
"Not really, but if you are…"
Dean turned to him in disbelief. "How can you not be hungry? Dude, I swear, sometimes—look, you have to eat something. There are crackers and chips in the backseat. Or if that doesn't sound good, I think that there is a town coming up in about twenty miles. It's a one-time deal, Sammy. I'll get you anything you want, even if it's some sort of vegan, healthy, vegetable crap. You'd better take it because I doubt that I'll make that offer again in your lifetime."
Sam's lips twitched upwards in a small smile. "A smoothie?" he requested and Dean nodded.
"It's a done deal. What else?"
Sam shook his head. "Just that."
"You lost half of your blood volume. I'm getting you something else," Dean pushed worriedly, but at the look on Sam's face he repented. "Or at least I'm getting you a couple of smoothies. Any particular flavor?"
Sam shook his head. "You choose." He took another sip of the Gatorade, before resting the bottle against his forehead.
Dean didn't bother trying to hide his eyeroll.
They pulled off at the first gas station he saw. He had been willing to pay for a full meal at a diner, but Sam wanted smoothies, of all things, and this at least would ensure that they would continue to make good time.
After filling the tank, he ran in to grab some food. Sam remained in the car, his arms folded self-consciously under the blanket.
Smoothies…where the hell would a smoothie be? Dean finally found some bottled ones nestled in the back with the drinks. They were ridiculously expensive and he couldn't help but shake his head as he wandered back up to the freshly made food. He grabbed a couple of hot dogs and a massive cinnamon roll for himself and a chicken sandwich for Sam that didn't look too greasy. He might not eat it, but it made Dean feel better knowing that he had the option.
Dean returned to find Sam sitting up straighter, looking more awake than before.
"Here," he handed his treasures over and started up the engine again. "They only had bottled smoothies, so I don't know how good it will be, but you can't say that I didn't try. I also got you a sandwich."
Sam nodded again, throwing Dean a thankful smile even as he put the sandwich off to the side, opting instead for the green smoothie. His hands were shaking as he attempted to break the seal, and Dean hovered uncertainly, unsure if it was his place to open it for his brother or not until Sam managed to get it open and took a sip.
"So…" Dean said as he pulled back onto the road and gunned the engine.
"So, what?"
"So, you wanna talk about anything." Dean began to unwrap his own food, driving one-handed.
"Not really," Sam muttered and Dean nodded his understanding. He would have been shocked if Sam had said yes, but he had thought he had better ask, keep to the script.
"Well, I'm here to listen if you want to talk. Or when we talk, I should say, because we are going to have to, you know that, right?"
"I know," Sam said looking down at his hands with such an expression of martyrdom that Dean actually raised his eyebrows.
"Well, don't act like I've ordered you off to the gallows or anything."
Sam shrugged, not rising to the bait and Dean shook his head. He was trying to help, damnit. It wasn't like he was looking forward to it either.
Sam finished one of the smoothies, and Dean nagged him until he took a few bites of the sandwich as well. After that, Sam curled up against the window, pulling the blanket back up around his shoulders and looking miserable.
"Hey," Dean said suddenly, right as Sam's eyes were starting to drift shut. He just wanted to know, just so that he could quiet some of his own thoughts. "Did you…ah, did you tell Darrion that I would kill you?" A spark of harsh pain went through his chest as the wounds of betrayal threatened to open again, but he reeled it in. "I mean, I get it if you had to do something to save yourself, I was just…curious."
Sam had gone rigid, his eyes popping open. "Dean—I—he got ahold of my phone…"
Sam said it like that explained everything, but Dean was still nonplussed. "Your phone?"
"Yeah, and, uh, I hadn't deleted it, alright? I know that you probably wanted me to, or maybe you didn't, I don't know, I just thought that after everything—"
Sam ran out of words, but before Dean had a chance to ask what the hell he was going on about, he had huddled more tightly into his corner. "I'm tired, Dean. Please, just let me sleep, I can't—"
And just like that, Dean's anger melted away. "Yeah, yeah…of course, get some sleep."
Sam nodded, and hunched up his shoulders, symbolically putting up walls between him and Dean.
Dean did not know where to go from there.
They didn't talk for the rest of the trip and it was with staggering relief that Dean pulled into Bobby's yard. It was almost four in the morning, but the lights were still on, warm and welcoming.
Sam shifted, sitting upright and stifling a hiss as he moved his arm. Dean could relate. He had taken more Advil, but his head was still aching.
"You need a hand?" he asked. In answer, Sam pushed open his door.
Dean did the same, swaying a little as he straightened and his body reminded him that he had been tossed around earlier. Sam also didn't look completely steady, and Dean lightly grabbed his upper arm.
Together, they made it up the stairs and to the front porch. They left their duffle bags behind, too tired to worry about it. Pulling open the door, Dean herded Sam inside.
The squeak of the screen door announced their arrival, and a moment later Bobby was wheeling himself into the front hall, looking so relieved that it cut into Dean's heart.
Their father had never been able to pull off the gruff but loving concern like Bobby did.
"Hey, Bobby," Sam said, giving that small smile again that didn't quite reach his eyes. His arms remained folded close to his chest in an attempt to hide the shackles. Bobby's eyes darted down all the same, and he frowned but didn't comment on them yet.
"C'mhere," Bobby said, gesturing Sam down and pulling him into a hug. It was brief, but Dean could see Bobby clinging tight to Sam's shirt. Sam let go first, but the smile on his face looked less strained, even if his eyes were suspiciously bright.
"It's good to see you, Bobby. Really good."
Bobby nodded, and then looked over at Dean, giving him a deep nod which he returned. He didn't need any damn hug, he had already had enough chick-flick moments with Sam today.
After that, there was a moment of awkward indecision. Bobby broke it first. "So…what's with the new jewelry? Have you decided to start wearing piercings and other chains while you were away on vacation?"
Dean snorted as Sam rolled his eyes.
"It wasn't exactly his choice." Dean grabbed one of Sam's hands, extending it so that Bobby could see the warped lock. Bobby's eyes went wide, a look of horror crossing his face as he grabbed Sam's wrist, pulling them closer to him to get a better look.
"That had to have been done while you were wearing them…how in the hell are you not burned?"
"Yeah, uh, that's—"
"A long story," all three said at the same time.
Bobby heaved a sigh, and let go of Sam. "We'll get you outta them don't worry. Do you wanna do it tonight?"
Dean glanced over at Sam, trying to gauge if he was up for that, but it was Sam who answered. "No, it can wait for tomorrow. I'll last for the night, and Dean got hit pretty hard over the head and hasn't slept."
"We need to stitch up Sam's arm," Dean cut in, rubbing at his face tiredly.
Bobby nodded and, sensing how utterly tired both of them were, took over. "You both need to eat and go to bed. We'll figure everything else out tomorrow." With that, he began to wheel his way into the kitchen. Dean and Sam exchanged a look, and then followed him.
Dean was starting to feel the hours of stress and lack of sleep and hardly noticed what Bobby was feeding him. Sam looked to be in about the same condition as he ate with one hand.
Bobby was gently unwrapping the gauze from his left arm, the first-aid kit open on the kitchen table next to them. Dean stopped eating long enough to watch Bobby's face as he uncovered the wounds, wanting and yet not wanting to see his reaction.
Sam determinedly kept eating, not looking at either of them.
Bobby's face went dark, his brow furrowing deeply. "What the hell is this? Who did this?!"
"Darrion," Sam said quietly, still focused on his plate. He didn't even flinch when Bobby recleaned them and began to stitch the deepest of the cuts.
The anger was coming off Bobby in waves, and Dean distinctly heard him mutter, "The son of a bitch, I'll shove a knife so far up his ass…" as he worked on the t in Monster, and couldn't help agreeing. If Darrion wasn't already dead then Dean would have made him pay.
No one did that to Sam.
Bobby finished, and stood, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "Darrion was a crazy bastard, Sam," he said bracingly. "Don't let this get you down, okay? He didn't know what the hell he was talking about."
Sam nodded numbly while Bobby and Dean shared a knowing glance.
After that, Bobby wasted no time ushering them to bed. He did catch Dean by the arm, pulling him back briefly as Sam made his way up the stairs, using the banister to help him balance.
"He's safe," Bobby said, locking eyes with Dean meaningfully. "You're both alright, don't think about anything else tonight. Things will be better after both of you get some rest."
Dean nodded, letting his shoulders unhunch.
#
Dean slept long and hard that night, not waking up until bright sunlight was shining in through the thin curtains and across his bed. Blinking through the light that was cascading into his eyes, he rolled over and saw that Sam was still asleep in the other bed, curled up into a tight ball like he used to when he was a kid.
Getting up, Dean lightly pressed his fingers against Sam's pulse point, feeling again that same overwhelming relief that Sam was alive.
His pulse was still too fast, but strong.
That was good.
Sam shifted, his eyes moving rapidly under his lids but he didn't wake up and Dean stepped back. Before he could stop himself, he drew the blankets up, tucking them in tighter around Sam's shoulders.
Dean still wasn't convinced that Sam was one-hundred percent healed. As soon as they got the chains off, he was going to drag Sam to the hospital and force them to run tests and make sure that all the drugs were out of his system, and that his heart and brain were functioning correctly.
Bobby was at his table peeling potatoes when Dean made his way downstairs after showering. He had to scrub for a while to get the last remnant of blood off his skin.
"Glad to see you up before the sun went back down," Bobby said in greeting and Dean smiled a little.
"What can I say? Party late, get up late…"
"Right. Grab a knife and make yourself useful." Bobby nodded towards the other potatoes. Dean tapped the table with his knuckles, chewing on his lip.
"Uh, actually, I think I'm going to go for a walk if that's okay. Wanna clear my head."
"I'm not your boss, boy. Do as you please. You know your way around here as well as I do. But at some point, I would greatly appreciate one of you filling me in."
Dean nodded. "I'll do my best, but I don't know all of it myself so we are going to have to wait for Sam."
"What? You didn't talk the whole ten-hour trip back?"
"No, not really. Sam slept for most of it," Dean answered truthfully.
Bobby nodded, scratching absently at his beard. "He seem okay to you?" he asked.
Dean paused before answering. "Physically, yeah, he's fine. But emotionally…I dunno, Bobby. You saw his arm, what it said, and I think…I think that he took some pretty hard hits. Sam's already sensitive about the-the demon blood, the visions, all that. I think that Darrion did a pretty good job of rubbing it all in."
Bobby nodded. "I thought as much. He looked pretty down last night." He turned his knowing gaze on Dean and stopped peeling the potatoes so that he could stare him down. "Is that all you want to tell me right now about what happened? You don't typically go on walks, that's more of Sam's thing."
Dean looked away, his jaw clenching together as he leaned up against the counter. He didn't know if he was ready to talk about this, even with Bobby…but he owed him that much. "Sam looks good right now," he began slowly, trying to find the right words. "But he didn't—" and damnit, Sam was alive and upstairs, why was his heart still twisting painfully at the memory of clutching Sam close, of watching the life fade from his eyes. "He, ah, he didn't make it out."
"What do you mean?"
"Sam died. He was dead, he died in my arms, his lungs filled with blood and there was just so much blood. The Talamh had got 'im, and—" Dean couldn't speak, his throat closing up.
Bobby broke in gently, saving him from having to explain anymore. "But Lucifer brought him back?"
"How—?" It was Dean's turn to look at Bobby in confusion.
"Sam told me all about that first visit from Lucifer," Bobby confided and Dean's mouth dropped open.
"He didn't tell me anything about that except that he was Lucifer's vessel!"
Bobby arched an eyebrow. "He tried you weren't exactly being receptive about any of that," he said with a hint of rebuke in his tone, and Dean bowed his head. He remembered that phone call with Sam all too well, that hadn't been his best moment ever and he probably deserved that.
"So, he brought Sam back?" Bobby prompted.
"Yeah, we think. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it."
"Makes sense." Bobby picked up the knife again, returning to his potatoes. "Food'll be in about an hour if you want some."
Dean nodded and silently walked out the door.
His first stop was the Impala. His and Sam's bloody clothes were still balled up in the truck. Nothing was salvageable, but he hadn't been thinking much yesterday beyond getting on the road and away. But that wasn't why he was here.
From the front pocket of Sam's blood-crusted jeans, Dean pulled out Sam's cellphone.
Feeling slightly guilty, Dean took it, slamming the trunk shut. He examined it as he walked towards the gate, attempting to scrub the surface clean of dried blood.
Dean hadn't been lying. He was going on a walk to clear his head. He just wasn't going far and was probably going to muddle everything up worse than it already was. Finding an old pickup truck on the edge of Bobby's property, he climbed up to sit on the bed.
What would he have wanted Sam to delete off his phone? What was on there that would have indicated—somehow—that Dean wanted Sam dead?
Shaking his head, Dean opened it and began to glance through the text messages. There wasn't much there, and certainly nothing out of the norm. There were only a couple of saved voicemails, most of them from him.
One of the messages was dated the night that Lucifer rose and Dean hesitated with his thumb over the play button. He didn't want to relisten to that message. At the very least he now knew that Sam had received it, but he didn't know if that made him feel better or worse.
He had apologized, tried to make things right, and Sam…hadn't cared. Hadn't even wanted to talk and hadn't acknowledged it, not even in the thousand different ways that they silently communicated. He'd poured his soul out to Sam...for nothing.
Shaking his head, Dean listened to the other voice messages first. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing there, even sarcastically, that hinted that Dean would be willing to kill his brother.
Gritting his teeth, Dean finally took the plunge and hit play on the message from that night. Maybe he had said something he hadn't meant to? He didn't exactly remember everything he had said. He did know for a fact that he'd tried to fix his mistakes. Told Sam that he wasn't Dad and that he was sorry.
Only, that was not what he heard as his voice came over the speaker, harsh and unforgiving, and saying things that Dean would never—had never—said.
Horror burned like acid through him as he continued to listen.
Was this what Sam had been believing? Did Sam honestly believe that Dean would have said that to him, that he thought that he was past saving and was willing to hunt him? What the hell…?
Dean drew a hand over his mouth, listening to the voicemail again.
He thought that he was going to be sick. He had been calling to apologize. This was not…he scratched at the back of his head, struggling to comprehend what he had just listened to.
Had Sam received that message before or after Lucifer had risen? No wonder he had never talked to Dean about the stupid message, never acknowledged Dean's apology. Sam loved to talk about feelings, as long as they weren't his own. And besides, being different, being called a freak, had been a sore spot since Sam had been old enough to realize that they weren't normal.
That, and Dean had been so angry after Lucifer rose.
He knew that, knew that he had lashed out and while he still didn't think that he was wrong for feeling that way, he knew that he had been harsh. He had hit every button of Sam's that he knew, and Sam would have not felt comfortable talking to him about that.
Dean pushed himself off the bed of the truck and began to walk. He didn't know where he was going, but he couldn't sit still. He couldn't go back to the house either with the suffocating truths that he had just discovered.
Sam had never gotten his message. Sam didn't know that he had tried to apologize. He believed that Dean thought that he was past saving.
Dean didn't know what to do about it. He was going to have to confront Sam and let the truth come out because he couldn't allow Sam to go on thinking those things. He just…this was already so tangled together, both of their hearts already wounded. But maybe this would help…?
Dean didn't know how to confront this and made four rounds around the property before returning to the kitchen. Bobby had moved over to the stove and was now stirring what looked like a pot of stew. He looked around at Dean's approach and did a double take.
"I thought you went to clear your head," he said mildly.
"We need to talk."
Bobby snorted. "That's what I'm good for, apparently. Glad to know that even though I lost the use of my legs, my free therapy sessions are still on." He tapped the wooden spoon against the edge of the pot before laying it over the edge and wiping his hands clean on his jeans.
He turned to face Dean, bracing his clasped hands against his knees as he waited. Dean licked his lips.
"Is Sam up?" he asked and Bobby shrugged.
"I haven't seen him yet. I was going to send you up to check on him once you got back."
"I'll go up in a minute, but let's go in here. I need to talk to you alone first." Dean jerked his head towards a nearby door and Bobby arched an eyebrow, but nodded and followed Dean into the laundry room. Dean shut the door behind him, and then wiped his own suddenly clammy hands on his jeans.
"You need to listen to this." Dean extended the phone but held it back at the last second. "Wait, first you gotta know that this isn't me. I swear, it's not me."
Bobby's eyebrows were so high that they were threatening to disappear into his hairline. All the same, he took the phone and hit play.
Dean leaned back against the washer and chewed at his nails as he watched the emotions flitter across Bobby's face. None of them were good.
"What in the hell did I just listen to?" he began, thrusting the phone back at Dean. "You say that's not you? 'Cause, it sounds like you." His tone wasn't accusatory, but Dean held up his hands anyway.
"It's not me, I swear! This came in the night that Lucifer rose, but I—look, after you called me out, I did call Sam. But I apologized! I don't know exactly what I said, but it sure as hell wasn't that. I don't know what happened."
"The angels have messed with your reality before, and it makes sense that they could do so again. Both the demons and angels were working hard to keep you boys separate and at each other's throats," Bobby said slowly, before rubbing at his jaw and resting his hand there.
They were both silent, with Dean staring desperately at Bobby, who finally shook his head.
"I don't know what you want me to say. You've got to talk to Sam about this, not me."
"But what if Sam doesn't believe me?"
And there it was, the true root of the problem. Only a few years ago Sam had known almost instantly when the shapeshifter had pretended to be Dean, but so much had happened since then.
Bobby sighed and looked to be thinking along similar lines. "He'll believe you, once you lay it all out," he encouraged all the same.
Dean chewed at his lower lip hesitantly and Bobby reached out, gripping his shoulder bracingly. "That wasn't you. A good resemblance of you, but there are things off with it. Now, all that you can do is move forward because there's no going back or fixing what happened. I do think you should be honest with Sam as soon as possible. Tell him what happened, tell him that you tried to apologize. There's been too many half-truths and downright lies between both of you. It might be hard, because you two don't always like to actually communicate, but you're just going to have to use your words."
Bobby gave Dean a long look after his speech before he offered him a grim smile and sat back. "Sam knows you, Dean. He knows you better than anyone. He knows both your weaknesses and your strengths, has for years. And he still loves you. So, trust him."
Opening the door, Bobby wheeled himself back into the kitchen and picked up the spoon, beginning to stir. "Damnit, Dean, the bottom's burned," he grumbled.
"Hey, I'm not the one that didn't turn it down," Dean said grumpily and Bobby made a self-deprecating face.
"Get upstairs and get it out. Dinner will wait for whenever you both are ready."
Taking a deep breath, Dean nodded but still took his time climbing the stairs. He didn't quite know why he was so nervous to talk about this, but he was. This was too tender of a subject, too painful of a night to talk about without one or the other of them getting hurt.
The door to the guest room was still closed, and he knocked once, and immediately regretted it. Since when did they knock?
"I'm awake," came the soft reply and Dean pushed open the door. Sam was sitting up against the headboard and sporting an impressive case of bedhead. He had a thick book open in his lap.
"Hey," Dean said, smiling thinly at his brother. "You feeling better today?"
"Yeah. How's your head?'
"Not even a headache."
"Good."
The conversation was stilted and awkward, but Dean didn't know how to make it not that way. "Bobby's making dinner. You should eat some, you still look shaky."
Sam snorted, returning to look at his book. "I promise I won't pass out on you without giving you fair warning."
Dean sighed, sinking onto the bed and rubbing his suddenly damp palms on his jeans. "That's good. I'd appreciate that…" he fell silent, before scratching at his nose. "So…what have you been doing up here? Brooding? Writing in your journal like some teenage girl?"
Sam shook his head. "Nah, I woke up only a little bit ago. And I just wanted to be alone for a minute. I was going to go down in a little bit." He shifted, and the shackles around his writs clanked. He winced and tucked his arms closer to his chest.
Dean frowned, gesturing at them. "We're going to get those things off you soon. This evening, if you want. But first…we need to talk about something. I need to set some things straight."
"Dean—" Sam immediately began but Dean shook his head, speaking over him.
"No, Sam, we need to talk. This is important."
That shut Sam up and he sat quietly, staring down at his hands with his head bowed in a sign of submission that suddenly made a lot more sense now that Dean knew the truth.
He pulled Sam's phone out of his pocket, waving it once in Sam's direction, before tossing it to him.
There was nothing left to do but just go for it.
"That message, the voicemail that you received right before you let Lucifer out—" and damn if Sam didn't tense up "—I didn't send that message. I did call you, but I called you to say that I was sorry. And that I shouldn't have said what I did, about you leaving and not coming back."
Sam blinked, looking up at Dean in confusion although that was quickly morphing into a look Dean couldn't quite read. "What? No. No, you-you—you left me a message saying—" Sam gestured at the phone, seemingly unable to say exactly what Dean had supposedly said.
"Sammy…I couldn't—I didn't leave you that."
"You've never thought I was a freak?" Sam challenged, his voice rising as he stood up, his face pale. "Don't lie to my face, Dean. Even I deserve that much respect."
Dean scrubbed both hands down his face. "I'm not lying to you, Sammy, I never sent that message. I swear. Hell, I'll swear it on Mom's grave. That wasn't me. The angels know how to mess with reality, remember? Remember Sandover's? They did the same thing. They screwed us over, man. It's as simple as that."
Sam turned around in a slow circle, running his hands through his hair. Dean stood still, watching him digest the information.
"Sam?" he asked and Sam looked at him, his eyes wide and horrified.
"I wasn't going to do it. I was going to stop, but then—" he whispered, more to himself than to his brother, and Dean frowned as he took a step closer.
"Easy, dude. What are you talking about?"
"I wasn't going to do it!" Sam almost yelled. "I was having second thoughts and Ruby—and I saw that you had called, and—but then I did it. I didn't even think twice after that, I just—" Sam leaned over, his hands on his knees, and looked like he was about to throw up.
"Woah, woah, take a breath, man." Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder, easing him upright again.
"You don't understand!" Sam gasped out, shaking his head. "The worst mistake of my life and I just—I did it because I got my feelings hurt and I unleashed Lucifer and I ruined who knows how many lives? I started the apocalypse, and it was all—I should have known better, I should have realized." He broke off, his chest heaving, and Dean stepped into his path, blocking him and putting a hand on his chest to keep him there.
"Are you going to spew?" he asked, ducking his head down to look into Sam's eyes, but Sam wasn't paying him any attention as he continued to look like he had just been hit over the head by a two-by-four. Dean tried a different tactic. "We were both royally screwed over. We were manipulated God only knows how much, but it wasn't…it wasn't all your fault."
"But I did it!" Sam looked up at him, his hands out and pleading for Dean to understand what he was saying, what he was feeling.
"Yeah, and I did the same thing when I was in hell. I started the whole damn thing!" Dean reminded him forcefully, thumping Sam on the chest to try and ground him. Sam backed away.
"Being tortured into submission is a far cry from getting your feelings hurt and ending the world," he said bitterly.
"Sammy," Dean tried again, but Sam was sinking back down onto his bed, clutching his head in his hands. "Sam, you were trying to do what was right. It was Lilith, and I was going to gank her too as long as it didn't involve using the demon blood. You didn't know that you were breaking the last seal." It was the first time that he had been able to admit that out loud, and he supposed that maybe Sam wasn't the only one who had lashed out after their feelings had been hurt.
Sam didn't move from his defeated position, and Dean stood awkwardly next to him, unsure of what to do now. That had been his one card, and he wasn't great at this sort of thing.
"I should have known. You knew. You told me that drinking the blood was wrong, that I was going off the deep end. Hell, you said that way before you even knew about the blood, and I just wouldn't listen. I felt—" Sam broke off, twisting his head to the side and looking away from Dean.
It sounded like Sam was just holding back tears, or maybe he had started to cry, Dean couldn't tell. He eased down on the bed next to him, bumping shoulders with him hesitantly. He didn't know how he had expected this conversation to go, but not like this.
There was still so much he wanted to say, he was just struggling to find the right words to express what he was feeling.
"Sam…"
Sam pulled in a shuddering breath, still refusing to look at Dean. "I think—" his voice was choked up, and he cleared his throat roughly. "I'm almost done with, ah, that chapter, Dean, so…"
It was an invitation for Dean to leave.
"I think that I've left you alone long enough, I just…" Dean's words faded out. Sam was rigid next to him, refusing to relax. They were both silent for a long minute, and when Sam finally spoke his voice was strained.
"All I ever wanted was for us to be safe, to be able to live whatever lives we wanted to and to help people. And I've screwed it all up. I've screwed up everything, I just—" he stopped talking again, his throat working. "I want to be alone; I want to do research on how to defeat Lucifer."
"Sam—"
"Go, I'm sure Bobby has something for you to do. Or you can call Cas, see how things are going for him."
Dean hesitated and then stood. "You need some space to think, I can respect that. Just….here," he tapped the phone that was laying on the quilted comforter. "Bobby thinks that you will know that I didn't leave that message. And," he hurriedly tacked on because it felt right, "and that everything that happened, we were being manipulated into making the choices that we did. It sucks that we got played, but I don't think that, Sam. I never did."
Sam didn't respond and after another long moment, Dean crossed to the door, saying softly, "Bobby's making stew. you should come down and eat some," before closing it behind him.