When the bathroom door gently tapped against its frame, brushing back a few centimeters to reveal a glimpse of the yellowed light inside, instead of firmly sealing off the room with the twist of a handle, Sam shook his head and closed his eyes for several seconds. The carefully cracked door shouldn't have been a surprise—he knew Dean still didn't trust him. He couldn't really blame him, either.
He'd been so close. The blood had been his for the taking—at the very tips of his fingers. He'd traced its stains on his hands, gazed at the deep shade of crimson, entranced in the slick glistening. It had splattered across his face; it had pooled beneath his feet; it had flooded his lungs with the heavy, sweet aroma. It had sung out to him in a warm invitation like a siren, whispering promises of relief and power. By the minute, he became increasingly certain he would've succumbed, if Dean had lingered inside a few minutes longer.
He could almost still see the blood welling beneath the plunge of the knife. Feel the tremor through the hilt of the body's dying shudder, hear the whimpering gasp—
Sam wrung his head, biting his lip. He couldn't afford to think about that. Even now, he wasn't sure what he'd do if Dean placed the flask in his hands. How many minutes would he last before his fingers would unscrew the cap and drain the blood in a few hasty swallows? He almost scoffed at the silent question. Maybe such a thought was mockingly overambitious—maybe the time would be better measured in seconds, if any at all.
He was grateful he didn't drink it, certainly—wasn't he?—but… a part of him, albeit a part he wished he could carve out with a dull blade, scourged him for his hesitation. Wished that he'd done it. Because then maybe his hands wouldn't be trembling like he'd just crawled out from a frozen lake. Maybe his bones wouldn't be aching with every shift, something shrieking madly in his brain. Maybe he wouldn't feel this awful pit of guilt swelling in his gut, maybe his mind wouldn't be filled with the image of the sheer terror just moments before light permanently fled the eyes wrinkled in pain.
He paced a few steps in an absentminded attempt to expend the compounding, churning emotion in his skull, but the motion aggravated the wound on his leg, stinging beneath the pressure. The pain was sharp; he winced. It was biting, but pain was good. He took several more steps, just to sustain the sensation—not easing his weight nor gait in the slightest—until he felt wet blood trickle down his skin like tears from the wound.
At that, Sam forced himself to stop, before any could spring to the floor. He didn't need to stain the carpet with a trail of blood. Didn't need Dean's questioning glance, his suspicion as to where it came from—whether it was demon blood that Sam had somehow acquired. In a way, he supposed, it was—at least partially. Not a single drop in his veins was clean, was fully human. It was all the blood of a freak. A freak, and a murd— He choked down the thought, trying to focus. Honestly, Dean shouldn't even need to wonder whether any spilt blood had come from a demon—if Sam drank, he wouldn't waste a single drop of it, not now.
Waste. He gritted his teeth. He couldn't help but think of how much they'd wasted at the warehouse. Cas was struggling to locate demons, and they'd just left gallons of the blood to dry into asphalt, to congeal in slowly decaying bodies. Even just a small hit—
He severed the thought before it could bloom into a fantasy, and he dropped onto the edge of the mattress. Forcing his attention onto the physical, he snagged his duffel from the edge of the bed, dragging it closer, and fished out a small, Winchester-assembled first-aid kit from inside. After glancing over its contents, his hand returned to the bag, and he rooted around his clothes until his fingers gripped the neck of a plastic bottle of cheap liquor. He took a hasty swig, grimacing at the bitter intensity, before he dropped it beside the first-aid kit and leaned over the bed to twist the dial of the lamp on the shared nightstand. Its yellowed glow was dim, barely offering a noticeable difference in the room's illumination. With a faint scoff, Sam snagged the remote from the nightstand and powered the television, quickly dulling the volume as the bright screen flickered to life. The shifting light wasn't ideal, but it was better.
Sam tossed the remote onto the comforter behind him and returned his attention to the first-aid kit, prying the lid open. It took just over a minute to reorganize the contents, which had been shaken up waiting in a bag in the trunk of the car for weeks at a time, but it was well-stocked. He glanced back at his injuries, drawing up his pant leg to reveal the shallow bite. After twisting it in the light to verify it didn't pierce deeper than it initially seemed—his blood shimmered—he dug a hand towel from the duffel and patted down the wound. Then, with the towel positioned to catch any stray splatter, he carefully poured the liquor over the raw tissue. Instantly, he winced against the burn, twisting his head away and easing up on the pour. He dabbed the excess alcohol from around the bite, then unfurled a bandage and wrapped the wound tight, tearing off the roll.
Letting his jeans fall back, he pulled on his shoulder to glimpse the gash across the back of his upper arm. It was deeper, ugly, and stinging from the rub of fabric. He yanked his shirt over his head, ignoring the protesting spike of pain.
He tried not to think about the demon that had raked the angel blade across his shoulder—about the innocence of the hands that had wrought the wound. About how he had returned the favor by sinking his own knife deep into her chest, until her heart had beat its last.
Sam took another shaky swing of the liquor, then his gaze flicked over the first-aid kit. He snagged a needle, biting it to free his hands as he began unwinding a spool of fishing line. Gingerly, he threaded it through the needle's eye, tying it off, before lightly sterilizing both in the alcohol. He angled his body for better lighting, clenched his jaw, and began to suture the wound. The quiver of his hands rendered the process agonizingly slow and imprecise. He exhaled through gritted teeth, trying to manage his breathing and steady his wrist on his own shoulder, but the angle didn't help much either, straining eyes that already struggled to focus.
His fingers slipped, scraping the valley of the gash with the needle's tip and aggravating a new well of blood. He grimaced, but the sight of the bead that began falling slowly down his back, like a raindrop on a window, arrested his breath. He could almost smell the sulfur… He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into his other shoulder, trying to control the rising feverish rhythm of his lungs. His own blood was proving a temptation. What kind of a freak did that make him?
Shakily, he snagged the hand towel and swept it over the trail of blood, then held it just beneath the cut until the flow stemmed. Hesitantly, his fingers released the towel before he could chuck it away. It wasn't that his blood could effect a relapse—it wouldn't increase the amount of the stuff in his system, anyway. If anything, bleeding would lessen it. But even though he knew it wouldn't help… he still wanted it. Perhaps for the taste, for its solace, if nothing else.
The television flicked to a dark scene of some old movie, the vibrant glow of the screen vanishing. Sam punched a button on the remote until he'd landed on a suitably bright channel. The anchor on the screen was discussing a successful local walkathon, beaming; Sam lowered the volume until it was a low, barely audible drone and set the remote on the bed, returning to his task.
Setting his jaw, he again dug the needle into his flesh and drew it tight as he dared. By the time he'd finished, it was a sloppy suture, but it'd have to be good enough. He tore off the excess line with his teeth, then splashed the area in alcohol. At the biting sting, he punched his fist into his thigh, muscles taut until the abrupt burn lessened to a low ache.
Releasing a slow, heavy breath, he returned the spool of wire to the medical case, glancing over the other contents. He'd probably need to sew Dean's wound up, too. He snagged an orange bottle from the case and set it on the nightstand. His brother's bite looked nasty, like the vampire had tried to tear out a chunk of Dean's shoulder. The older Winchester might use a few painkillers—especially if he was planning on hauling bodies tonight.
Sam gently set aside the first-aid kit before digging a fresh, black t-shirt from his bag and carefully pulling it over his head. He'd need a shower himself tonight, but it might be a while, depending on what Dean decided they'd do with the bodies. His eyes flicked to the window as the glare of headlights drove by, then dropped lazily. He checked his phone, but Castiel hadn't texted, and there was nothing from Gideon Ward, either. They'd check out the lead tomorrow—hopefully the old hunter was still alive. Guilt crept along his spine for the whisper of a thought that it might be easier to secure the ancient tome if the old man wasn't.
He issued another heavy sigh, his gaze flitting over the pillows at the head of his bed. At the sight, gravity seemed to tug on his body with compounded intensity. It had been a long, long time since he'd gotten a steady night's sleep, and, more than likely, it'd be a long time still before he managed it again. His brain wouldn't stop until he'd been clean for weeks, until the Mark was taken care of, until Castiel's grace was restored. He couldn't afford to be exhausted, but that fact did nothing to abate the fatigue that weighted his bones. He knew the withdrawals were probably largely to blame, even as they tried to temper them with regular doses. The blood, and the lack thereof, was taking a toll on his body, likely to a greater extent than even he was aware. His gaze trailed distantly over his forearms. They'd never done a slow detox before. He was reasonably sure a cold turkey cutoff would kill him, but they had no assurances that tapering off wouldn't. He'd told Dean and Cas that he thought it was working, that it was getting better, but… right now, he felt miserable in body, mind, and soul, and he'd had his latest dose was under a mere two hours ago.
He closed his eyes and shook his head faintly. Maybe it was just the day. Maybe… maybe he'd feel better tomorrow.
The low tone of the television attracted his gaze as a "Breaking News" banner overtook the screen. Sam tilted his head, unable to deny the unease that stirred in his stomach. When the screen shifted to shaky, live footage of flashing police lights illuminating a concrete building and yellow tape cordoning off an old parking lot, Sam's heart dropped. With fumbling fingers, he snatched the remote from the comforter and mashed the volume upward several digits.
"—as details continue to emerge, local law enforcement officials are treating this as a homicide investigation and are looking into the possibility of gang involvement." The reporter's face was ashen and grim, but her voice was steady, "We've been told there are at least a dozen victims, and no survivors found at the scene."
A curse slipped between Sam's teeth.
"The call came in about forty-five minutes ago from a passing motorist, who reported spotting a large amount of blood outside the warehouse as he drove by the building." The reporter gestured to the parking lot behind her, but the camera didn't focus or zoom toward it. "Upon arriving at the scene, the officers found twelve bodies inside. While law enforcement is not releasing specific details about the scene at this time, the officer I spoke with described it as 'extremely disturbing,' and 'unlike anything she'd ever seen before.'"
Sam found himself pacing the room again, raking a hand through his hair. They should've been more careful. They should've just taken care of the bodies when they were at the warehouse. They didn't need the police on their tails, not again.
"According to law enforcement, the murders likely occurred a little over an hour ago. Officers have cleared the area; however, they have not yet identified any suspects. Given the scale and brutality of the crime, the Chief of Police has announced the formation of a special task force dedicated to the investigation, stating that apprehending those responsible is their top priority. At this time, authorities are urging anyone with information to come forward."
Sam's gaze flicked to the window, as though he expected to find red and blue lights flashing outside. They hadn't been identified yet—and they shouldn't be, at least for a while. Their blood might be staining a couple vampire's teeth, but DNA testing took time. Even if it matched to the brothers, the officers probably wouldn't know what to do with the findings, if they didn't dismiss them as faulty outright. After all, Sam and Dean Winchester had purportedly died years ago—more than once. Still, police attention on their hunt wasn't ideal, though maybe it'd lead nowhere.
"Local residents are advised to avoid the area and report any suspicious activity to the authorities." The reporter continued, her tone signaling she was nearing the end of her report, "Of course, we will continue to update you as we—" she paused, her finger touching her earpiece. After a few seconds, she nodded, looking back into the camera, "Law enforcement has confirmed the identity of one of the victims as Jason Kim, a sophomore at the University of Kansas, who was reported missing approximately two weeks ago. Ms. Eun Kim, Jason's mother, has just posted a video asking anyone with information to come forward. She's asked us to share her message in the hopes it may help find those responsible for this tragedy. We're going to play about three minutes of the video now, though we warn that the content of her message may be distressing for some viewers."
The camera lingered on the reporter for several seconds—a delay, perhaps, to provide viewers a chance to mute the television or usher children from the room—before it cut to a vertical image of a woman in her mid-forties. Her eyes were swollen, rimmed red from tears still leaking down her cheeks. Her voice trembled with the force of suppressed sobs as she spoke.
"My son… Jason…" her voice broke on his name; she swallowed hard, squeezing her face tight as though to force herself to pull together. "Two weeks ago, he disappeared, and no one's been able to tell me a thing. And now… today, they tell me he's gone." She sniffed, her throat quivering, "That they found him—dead. Stabbed to death in some… some warehouse in Nebraska." Anger and confusion infected her tone, and she pressed a hand to her face. "My… my beautiful little boy." She reached for a frame sitting beside her and stared at the image for several seconds until fresh tears escaped down her cheeks, when she turned it toward the camera, revealing a young man with short, black hair and a bright, perfect smile.
Sam's lungs ceased their function at the image.
The woman took a deep, shaky breath, but her voice remained thick with emotion and raw fury, "To the monster that did this—know you've taken the most precious thing from me. Jason—he… he was a light to this world. He was a good boy; he never got into any trouble. Never. He was always finding ways to help people. He was going to be a doctor. He had his whole life ahead of him. And you… you stole that from him. He… he didn't deserve this." Several more tears raced down her cheeks as she begged hoarsely, "Why?"
After a few agonizing seconds, she tore her eyes away from the picture in the frame to stare into the camera, voice still shaking, but this time with the growing intensity of her wrath, "I want you to know—you'll get what you deserve. You… you can't hide from what you've done. You can't hide from God." Her lip quivered, "I hope you burn in the deepest pit of hell for all eternity for what you've done to my sweet boy."
Sam swallowed hard, his hands trembling as violently as hers at his sides.
She shook her head, her anger dissolving as she looked back at the picture, still propped for the camera's view. Desperation flooded her tone, "Why? Why did you do it? You… you didn't have to kill him—he was just a sweet young boy… What kind of a monster do you have to be to do something like this?"
The video cut ahead, as though segmented for time. The woman's face was impossibly further flushed with tears, "Please—if you know anything about what happened, come forward. And to the monster that did this… turn yourself in, and maybe God will have mercy on your soul." Her gaze bore directly into the camera, "And if you're too much of a coward to do that… you should do us a favor and kill yours—"
The video cut abruptly, pausing with a still image of the final frame as the broadcast labored to switch the feed.
Through the wobbly camera and the bad lighting, the picture in the frame was grainy, but it was clear enough. It was one of the three demons Crowley sent to monitor them—or rather, the person the demon had possessed. The body Sam had stabbed with the demon-killing knife. The person he'd killed to kill the demon inside.
The screen flicked back to the reporter at the scene, but Sam could barely hear her, could barely see it.
He could still see, vividly, the hilt of the knife protruding from the young man's chest. Could still hear, once the orange light had erupted from the body and signaled the demon's death, the singular wheeze of breath before the man's lungs emptied forever, the weak twitch of the eyes before they paled into glassy sightlessness. At the time, Sam had been focused on the blood clinging tauntingly to the blade of his knife, but he couldn't ignore the final lurch of a dying man. He'd seen it—and he knew. He knew exactly what he'd done.
"Sammy, what—" Dean's voice from behind snapped Sam faintly from a haze. The older Winchester was squinting at the television, then his eyes widened somewhat, and he cursed, then cursed again.
"…law enforcement has also identified Ashley Williams and Jayden Davis among the victims. Like Jason Kim, both Ashley and Jayden are Kansas residents, who were reported missing within the past two weeks." The reporter stared solemnly into the camera, "Ashely Williams was a mother of two, leaving behind a three-year-old daughter, and a two-year-old son." Sam almost choked. "At this time, the identities of the remaining victims have not been officially released, pending notification of the families. We'll continue to update you as we receive more details, but our thoughts and prayers go out to the victims' families."
Even as the reporter concluded her script, Dean stepped beside Sam, demanding, "What do they have?" At the lack of an immediate response, he stepped further into Sam's line of sight, "Sam, what have they got?"
Sam blinked, processing the question, then shook his head, "Nothing yet."
Dean nodded, but cursed again anyway, pacing a few steps. After several seconds, he glanced back toward Sam, scowling as he seemed to realize, "What's wrong with you?"
Sam was slow to spare a glance toward Dean amidst gazing at the pictures that filled the screen. "Those people that they're talking about… they're the ones those demons possessed."
"And?" Dean's question came quickly; at something that crossed Sam's face, he seemed to catch his insensitivity and corrected, "Look, I get it, it's sad—it's awful, but… it's not like it's new. Not to us."
"I know, I just…" Sam dropped his gaze to tear it away from the television. It felt like he was cast deep into the ocean; it was hard to form steady words. He wasn't sure he wanted to speak at all, but… he owed it to them. "I killed him, Dean. He was just a kid, and I… I killed him."
Dean paused, eyes scanning over Sam immediately as though in careful assessment. Finally, he spoke cautiously, "You killed a demon, Sam. There's a difference."
"The knife doesn't just kill the demon," Sam countered, voice low, "It kills the person they're possessing, too."
"They might've been dead already. Demons ride their meatsuits hard. The guy had probably been dead a while."
Sam shook his head, "They said he died of a stabbing. I didn't see any other wounds on him, either. On any of them."
"It's not your fault," Dean dismissed, aggravation infiltrating his tone. Sam felt the same needling under his skin. The blame might not rest completely on him, but he wasn't guilt free, either. The demon wasn't the one who killed the kid—Sam was. As though reading the thoughts on Sam's face, Dean added, "You didn't have a choice, Sam."
"Didn't I?" The words slipped out, hoarse, tied in the surprise Sam shared at their escape. It was a dangerous protest—a perilous objection that promised a sharpened reply.
A scowl twisted Dean's face, "What are you talking about?"
Sam retreated a step; he shouldn't have vocalized the contemplation. He probably should've just shut up and let Dean believe he'd convinced him. But… maybe that wasn't fair to the victims. It didn't really matter now—he'd dug himself too far, and now Dean wouldn't drop it, not until he was satisfied.
"You mean the blood—your powers?" Dean's voice was like a garrote, thin and fatal. The heat of anger sparked like a flame as he continued, "You swore you wouldn't use your powers again."
Sam exhaled a slow, shaky breath, before his eyes flicked up to meet Dean's, his words betraying his trepidation, "I could've saved them, Dean." It wasn't a sure fact, but Sam had improved vastly in his practice with Ruby, all those years ago. Pulling demons… it had become muscle memory. Unwinding the demon's clutch on the body, the soul. Dragging them from the innocent victim they possessed, gripping them tight as they squirmed and sought to flee before he sentenced them to hell or ended their miserable existence. It'd be difficult, but… he might be able to pull the demon and kill it, sparing the victim, and not letting the demon escape back to hell. Ms. Eun Kim wasn't wrong—her son didn't have to die. "I could've tried, at least."
Dean's hands clenched tight into fists, "We're not going down that road again. Nothing good ever comes from you using your powers."
Sam recoiled at the intensity of the assertion. It wasn't true—his powers had saved both of their hides, not to mention dozens of other innocents from demons' possession while Dean was in hell, and a few after. When he'd realized Sam had been pulling demons with Ruby, Dean had reacted like Sam had gone on a murder spree in his absence instead—before he even knew about the demon blood. But, even after Sam resolved never to taste the stuff again… he could never bring himself to regret the lives he'd saved. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see it the way Dean did.
He kept his voice low, holding Dean's gaze, "A mom wouldn't be grieving her dead son right now, if I had." And I wouldn't have killed a twenty-year-old kid.
"Sam, you're tired; it's been a long day—"
"Dean, stop," Sam interrupted, looking at him aghast, "I killed innocent people today—for nothing."
"Listen to me—you had to." Dean pressed, "Those demons weren't gonna give you a choice." Sam shook his head, unconvinced, prompting Dean to continue, "Sam, those demons would've killed those people anyway, and who knows how many more. You saved people."
"Those people didn't have to die, though." Sam wrung his head, scoffing, "You and I probably kill more innocents than most demons, at this point."
It was Dean's turn to wince. "You can't really think that."
"Tell me I'm wrong." Dean was silent for a moment too long. "I know we save people too—we do. But that doesn't justify the people we kill." Sam looked at his brother, already knowing the answer, "How often do we exorcise demons, anymore? We don't even try to save angels' vessels."
Dean stared at Sam for several long seconds, "Sammy… listen. You're exhausted." Sam opened his mouth to protest the dismissal, but Dean raised a hand and added quickly, "And I know this was bad. But… the blood's messing with your head, man. You're not thinking clearly."
Did Dean seriously believe the blood was to blame for Sam's regret and guilt? Did he think that wanting to save people was merely an excuse to what, score more blood?
Sam tried to temper his flaring frustration, "This isn't about that."
"You need the blood to use your powers, don't you?" Sam gritted his teeth and looked away; Dean searched his face, "Where does it end, Sam? You using your powers—it's dangerous. It's not worth the cost."
"What cost?" Sam challenged, voice hinged in incredulity, "I'm already taking the blood."
"To your soul," Dean retorted, his tone sharp, "You know what the angels said—what Cas said. That those powers are evil. That using them changes you."
"What does that even mean?" Sam knew Dean didn't know either—just that he didn't like the way it sounded. In honesty, Sam didn't like it either, but… even if it might change him, did that really change anything? "How many people have to die because you're scared that I might go Darkside?" How many innocent lives were worth the risk to his soul?
Dean worked his jaw, "Sam…"
"We're so worried that I'm gonna become some… some monster if I use my powers, that I'm killing innocents when I could be saving them, Dean." His gaze flicked between his brother's eyes, his desperation betrayed in his tone, the words flowing like a river undammed. "What does that make me?"
Dean dropped his gaze, wiping a hand over his mouth, eyes on the ugly patterns of the carpet. He couldn't say anything, because there wasn't a way around it. His silence was condemning.
In the lull, the television screen flicked to a picture of a familiar woman with a toddler on her hip, and another holding her hand, smiling radiantly at the camera. Not watching helplessly as Sam drove a knife into her chest, murdering her in mere collateral damage as he killed the demon possessing her. Sam's gut twisted, but his eyes couldn't leave the image.
"Sam, turn it off," Dean ordered, his voice low.
Sam didn't move for the remote; he couldn't look away. "I killed her, Dean." His voice, his body, trembled. "Those kids… they're gonna grow up always wondering what kind of a monster killed their mother. They're probably too young to even remember her." He waited several seconds, but Dean still wouldn't glance up. He felt a tear streak down his cheek, his voice now both ridden with the plea and touched with bitter anger, "How does this make me any better than Yellow Eyes?"
Dean cursed breathlessly and wrung his head. His eyes flicked up to his brother, whose chest shook with every breath, whose gaze was furtive and desperate and wary. Dean crossed the distance between them. "Sam, listen to me," He grabbed Sam's shoulders, his grip not quite gentle, "You're not a monster. You hear me? You're not a monster; you're not like Yellow Eyes." Sam searched Dean's eyes, finding overwhelming concern, sorrow, a plea—maybe even guilt. But in all of it… sincerity. "I know I've been tough on you lately, but… you're doing the best you can. I know that."
Sam shook his head, "It's not good enough." He'd killed people. Innocent people, who didn't deserve it. This wasn't something Dean could sweep under the rug. This wasn't something they could just forget. He wished it could be as easy as mere good intentions, but such a belief was a naïve lie.
"It has to be," Dean's voice was quiet, but resolute. His eyes carried whispers of his own fervent need for it to be true. "I'm not gonna lose you, Sammy."
Emotion—crowned in sorrow and raw frustration—bubbled in Sam's chest, but Dean's firm grip overcame his half-hearted attempt to pull away. "You're not hearing me, Dean."
"I am…" Dean refuted softly, almost hesitant in his words, "I know you're hurting, man… But you're in no state to have this conversation right now." Sam's eyes narrowed, yet Dean continued, "I know you don't want to hear it, but the blood's got you wired."
Sam tore his gaze away, shaking his head in disbelief as he pushed away from his brother.
"It's not your fault," Dean held up his hands, then breathed again in almost an exasperated whisper, "I know it's not your fault."
Sam paced a few steps, his skin crawling. Dean still didn't understand. He couldn't understand. It was easier to blame it on the demon blood than to confront what Sam was saying. The discredit, the dismissal, the discounting… it was infuriating. A moment after he closed his eyes beneath the intensity of the emotion, Sam glanced down to his forearms, toward the curse he couldn't see.
Though, maybe Dean was right, to an extent. Maybe they shouldn't be having this conversation while the blood was setting his veins alight. Then again… maybe that was the only time they could. Maybe the blood freed his tongue, allayed his reservations—gave him the strength to push back.
"Look, Sam, we can talk about this more later, okay? We'll figure it out." Dean glanced back toward the television, "But right now… we need to make some distance, in case they start setting up roadblocks."
Given the size of the town, and the lack of information pointing toward any suspects, it wasn't likely, but the risk wasn't worth it, either. Sam nodded, and Dean seemed to relax slightly, before moving to snag his duffel bag from the bed.
They'd talk about it later—or, more likely, they wouldn't talk about it again until it became a problem. And, almost as sure as the sun would rise, Dean wouldn't budge. Frustration and futility crackled like a fire in Sam's chest. He'd killed innocent people, and Dean had told him he'd done good and thanked him for using the knife. Swallowing down the bile in his throat, Sam wrung his head and collected his belongings, slugging them into the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. In under two minutes, they cleared the room in silence and dumped their bags into the trunk.
Dean paused before stepping into the car, resting his hands on the frame as a thought visibly burned on his mind. Sam exhaled quietly, waiting.
"Sammy," Dean started finally, looking at his brother, "You're gonna be okay, man."
Sam wasn't sure whether it was an ask, a promise, a self-reassurance, or a command. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, his nails digging into his palms, before he ducked into the car without a word.