Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

And then while I'm away

I'll write home everyday

And I'll send all my loving to you

~All My Loving, The Beatles

Sam was used to it. So, it didn’t really matter. He didn’t care. Spending some time alone wasn’t that bad, after all. And Dean and Dad would be there in no time, right? Right, he was so used to it, these days would go flying. Twelve years was enough age for being home alone, anyway. He was a big boy now, he could definitely take care of himself; didn’t need a big brother to babysit him.

At least, that was what John had said before leaving with a very enthusiastic Dean for a hunt near town. “A few days,” he had said, and Sam had believed him, because, well, it was Dad after all. Dad cared about him.

Except, he wasn’t so sure about all that anymore. The calls had stopped two days after they had left. The food started to run out by the fourth day, and today—the sixth day—Sam had no money left. He hadn’t bought any new food since he had to keep the money for renting the motel, and now he didn’t know what he was going to do. The time was cold as hell, he couldn’t afford to spend even one night outside. He couldn’t work at twelve, and there was no way he could spend more nights at the motel without paying.

But he wasn’t worried about any of that, not really. He was more occupied by the thought that Dad had said a few days, Sammy, four max and almost seven days had already passed, five without knowing anything about his family. And, yeah, sure, it was common for his family to forget their cells, lose them, or be too busy to make a phone call, but…

“Dean, I really am trying to not freak out here, but I’m starting to get worried. I haven’t heard anything from you guys since three days ago. I thought it was supposed to be a simple salt n’ burn…” Sam hung up the phone and curled up on the bed. His stomach grumbled. It hurt; he had been without eating for almost two days now.

Anyway, he was used to this.

And Dad and Dean were okay, right?

“Got ya, bastard,” Dean said as he threw the match onto the putrid corpse on the grave. The flames invaded everything, the rot smell filling Dean's nose, and the ghost that had John pinned against a tree screamed and shrieked as the fire devoured its body. Dean blinked, and the spirit was gone. John was breathing hard, but Dean couldn’t help his smile. He had ganked this fugly by himself, just at sixteen. Imagine what he will be able to do at twenty-six…

“Dean!” John growled, and Dean turned to face him. “We gotta go before the cops arrive, come on!”

So, two hours later, they were finally in the Impala, going back home—or their temporary home, at least. Dean shuddered; that motel had been actually kind of gross. Too small, too dirty. The beds were uncomfortable and there had been no TV. Poor Sam had to be really bored all alone, Dean thought, and snorted. That would make his brother want to hunt more.

Thinking about Sam, Dean reached for his back pocket and got out his cell phone.

“What the hell??” he asked in a loud voice, surprised. “I have seventeen missed calls.”

“From?” John asked, not really interested.

“Most of them are from the motel… Do you have any missed calls from Sam?”

“I dunno. Didn’t check my phone yet.”

Dean reached for his father’s pocket and got out his phone.

“You have six missed calls from the motel. Sam usually doesn't call you… Wait, how many days have passed?”

“Today is 23.”

“What?? Dad, we left the 14th! Sam’s been alone for ten days??”

John shrugged, and Dean looked at him with stunned eyes.

“How much money did you even leave him?”

When John didn’t answer, Dean picked his phone again and pressed the first voicemail.

“Hey, jerk, you haven’t called in all day. I’m getting bored here.”

Dean smiled slightly, and quickly pressed the second voicemail.

“Dude, I should have brought more books. I have literally nothing else to do besides reading. The weather here is horrible, Dean. Anyway, where are you guys? I’ve almost ran out of food.”

Dean’s heart sank. That voicemail was from days ago. He pressed the third one; it was from the same day as the last one.

“Hey, I know I've already called today, but you could return the calls, you know? Just so I know you’re okay or something.”

Dean looked at the screen. There were three voicemails from the next day.

“Hey, where are you guys? Neither of you pick up the phone, I’m starting to get a little worried here.”

“Dean, I’m almost out of money. I think I'm not going to buy any more food; if I run out of money before you guys come, then they’ll kick me out of the motel.”

“Dean, call me, dammit.” Sam's angry tone said.

Four more voicemails from the next day. Dean’s stomach was starting to hurt.

“Dean, this isn’t funny, where the hell are you?” Sam said, voice still angry.

“Dean, I really am trying to not freak out here, but I’m starting to get worried. I haven’t heard anything from you guys since three days ago. I thought it was supposed to be a simple salt n’ burn…” Dean’s suddenly sweaty fingers pressed the next voicemail, and his heart dropped as he heard his little brother’s small voice.

“I really hope you’re okay.” Sam murmured.

“Hey Dean, just checking in. I just finished all of my books. For the second time. I hope you come home soon.”

Five more voicemails from the seventh day since Dean and John had left.

“You jerks, you left me here alone, what am I supposed to do? I have no money, Dean. I don’t know how to keep the room,” Sam's voice said, furious again.

“The guy that runs the motel won’t let me pay any other day. He’s going to kick me out tomorrow morning if I don’t pay. Do you think he’ll call social services?”

“Dean, please. Please, pick up, please be okay. Please come home soon.” Sam's voice sounded wrong, like… was he crying?

“Oh, Sammy…”

“I don’t even know why I keep sending you these. God, you are probably dead,” Sam said, and a sob broke the last word. Dean’s heart broke. “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

“I couldn’t find any way to pay for the room, so unless there is some kind of miracle… I really don’t know what to do here, Dean. Dad trained us for almost everything, but… I’m more prepared for fighting demons than this. God, it’s freezing outside,” Sam’s voice trembled, as if he had shuddered. “It’s raining a lot…”

The message ended and Dean rubbed his face, scared. With trembling fingers, he pressed the next voicemail, which was from a different number.

“D-dean. I…” There is a pause in which Dean can hear Sam's teeth shatter. “I f-f-found this booth an- and som-m-me guy gave m-me money f-f-for making this c-c-call, so I don’t have much t-time. I spent all d-day in the l-l-library, but now it is n-n-night and it is closed. I-I have n-n-nowhere to g-go. God, it’s f-f-freezing out h-here. Dean… please be okay. Please come.”

The voicemail ended with a thump and Dean's heart stopped beating for a moment. The way his brother had slurred the words, the way his teeth chattered… he sounded awful. God, that message was from two days ago . Where was Sam now? And how ?

“Dad. Dad, go faster. We gotta find Sammy.” For once, John didn’t say anything, just did as told.

Turned out, hunger is a bitch. But hunger mixed with hypothermia? That… was something else. Hunger mixed with hypothermia and lack of proper water for three days? Well…

Sam was lying on a street bench, curled and rocking himself. He wouldn’t stop shivering. His clothes, days old, were drenched, dirty and smelled… awful could be an understatement. His eyes were almost closed, but when the car parked next to him and someone yelling his name came running to him, he jumped and started trembling even worse than before. God, now he was also hallucinating. Which wasn’t weird, since he hadn’t eaten for five days, and the rain water was definitely not very healthy.

He tried to shy away from the hands that were trying to grab him, and dammit, he had already been mugged, was that not enough?

“Jesus, Sam,” a voice full of fear said, and suddenly he was being pulled into arms, his hair was being combed clumsily with wet fingers.

“N-n-no,” he said, his teeth chattering more than ever.

“What?” Dean’s hallucination asked, voice tinged with fake concern and worriedness.

“N-n-n-not… r-r-real,” he said, as he tried to push his fake brother, but he was so weak.

“Sammy? Hey, I'm here, okay? God, you’re freezing. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Sam didn’t have the strength to argue, and his weak kicks did nothing to save him from his hallucination scooping him up and carrying him. His eyes slipped closed and cold darkness consumed him.

This couldn’t be Sam. At least, it shouldn’t be. Not his little brother, not the person he had sworn he would protect all his life. Because he had sworn himself he would take care of Sammy , and if he had done that, if he had done that… Sam wouldn’t be lying on the motel bed shivering, nevermind the multiple blankets on him; hollow cheeks, gaunt face with dark circles around his eyes (which contrasted too much with his pale too pale face). His lips were cracked, and Dean tried to make him swallow some water even though he was asleep ( unconscious ), because when was the last time he had drunk something that wasn’t rainwater? Sam swallowed on instinct, but barely. Definitely not enough.

And damn him if his little brother didn’t look as dead as the ghost they had been hunting just hours ago. God, how could they have forgotten about Sam? Not forgotten , Dean reminded (tried to convince) himself, just lost track of time . Dean looked around, unsure of what to do. Dad had gone to “deal with some matters,” which Dean immediately translated as “get drunk in some random bar trying not to think about how he forgot about his own son,” but whatever. Dean would take care of Sam.

He grabbed some towels and clothes and started to get the blankets off Sam. He hadn’t found any of Sam’s clothes; actually, he hadn’t found any of the things they had left in the motel the last time, but he wasn’t going to try and discover where they were. He didn’t want to know, really. So he grabbed one of his warmest hoodies and replaced it on Sam's trembling body, discarding the muddy and wet hoodie Sam was wearing.

Before he put the clothes on Sam, he inspected the kid’s body, and god, how had Sam lost so much weight in less than a week? Dean touched his brother’s spine, clearly visible under the white and cold skin. The poor kid shivered even more, and Dean slipped the hoodie over him, then covered his upper body with a blanket as well.

“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean muttered, already unbuttoning Sam's pants ( muddy, dirty, grimy, sweaty, drenched, torn pants ) and replacing them with one of his own once again. He gently placed Sam on the mattress and put another blanket on him. Sam continued shivering. Dean sighed and rubbed at his face.

“Come on, kid, wake up, please.”

He started rubbing a towel against Sam's hair, trying to dry it as carefully as possible, and put on the heater. This couldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t allow it. From now on, Sam was not left alone for so much time, no way. Not on Dean’s watch.

Chapter Text

Warm, cozy blankets were wrapped around Sam’s trembling body, but he still felt ice cold, like he wouldn’t feel warm ever again. He moved beneath the multiple layers of clothes that were on him, feeling the comfortable mattress under him, and the only thing he could think about was that maybe he had been rescued by social services, and that now he would have to live with a fake family for the rest of his life, and that he would never see Dad again, and that he would never see Dean again, and oh God, he would never be teased again, he wouldn’t be called ‘bitch’, there was no big brother to protect him, to wake up when he had nightmares and to talk to him when he felt bad, he no longer had a big brother, he was no longer a little brother, oh, no, no, no…

He moved and tried to get out of the blankets—they weren’t helping the cold he felt anyway. But suddenly a pair of hands was on him, pressing him back onto the bed, and his brother’s voice was telling him not to move, you’re hurt, Sammy, I’m so sorry, we should have been here sooner… and it just didn’t make any sense, so Sam looked at his big brother’s damp green eyes and asked.

“Am I in heaven?” His voice was barely a whisper, and Dean looked frozen for a moment before sitting down next to Sam on the bed and rubbing his arms, trying to make his shivers stop.

“No, Sammy. You’re home,” Dean said in a really sad tone, and of course Sam wasn’t in heaven. How could he be so stupid? He wouldn’t be this cold in heaven, he wouldn’t feel like his head was going to explode, his stomach wouldn’t feel like it was torn into shreds, his throat wouldn’t feel like sandpaper. He licked his lips, feeling them cracked, but it was as if his tongue was made of stone. Sluggishly, he looked around.

“Dean…” he said once his eyes landed on his brother once again.

Logically, he knew this couldn’t be his brother. His brother would have never abandoned him, he would have made sure Sam was okay, he would’ve checked on him; so either Dean was dead, or he had been…

“Were you trapped?” he asked, and Dean frowned.

“Trapped? What do you mean, trapped?” Trapped, Dean. As in, kidnapped, stuck somehow, abducted, captured, because if you weren’t, then why the hell weren’t you coming here, calling from any phone, sending someone?

“You were gone…” are actually the only coherent words Sam is able to say out loud. He tries to cough in order to clear his dry throat, but he feels so weak he doesn't have strength even for that. God, he is a mess.

“Sammy, I’m so sorry. We just… we didn’t take notice of the time, and by the time we checked our phones more days than what we first thought had already passed… I really am sorry, Sam. We came as fast as we could after that. Thank God, we found you quickly, even though you were already in very bad shape at the time. God, I feared you were going to… you weren’t waking up, and you kept shivering, you still are, and now you weigh almost nothing, and I think you’re beyond dehydrated, God, you should probably be in a hospital, and Dad—”

Dean kept rambling, but Sam stopped listening. Dean and Dad were fine. Dean and Dad weren’t dead. They hadn’t been abducted, they weren’t trapped, they weren’t even hurt. He first felt relief. He still had a family, he was not alone, he wouldn’t have to live with strange persons, he—

His family. His family was just fine. His family was just fine and he had been by himself for more than a week. His family was just fine and he had been without food for five days. His family had been safe and sound while he died of hypothermia and dehydration. His family had been good all this time, while he had had no roof to sleep under, while he had been mugged, while…

While he thought they were dead.

God, he was so stupid.

He had been suffering for Dean and Dad, and they had been just fine. They just didn’t care that much for Sam. They just didn’t love him enough to check their phones, they just loved the hunt so much they had forgotten about him. Right, that made more sense. How come it hadn’t occurred to him sooner?

Sam moved from under the blankets and threw himself over the bed as he heaved onto the floor. Bile came up, nothing else. His stomach was screaming at him. God, he was stupid, so fucking stupid.

“Sammy?” Dean’s speech was interrupted by his sudden increased concern (fake concern , Sam reminded himself). Dean lunged forward trying to catch the younger boy, and Sam moved so fast out of his touch that he fell from the bed, landing on the mat. He stayed there, panting hard, right next to his own pool of bile. God, he was disgusting. Of course no one wanted him. He started to crawl backwards as Dean went to him. He was such a failure, pathetic stupid brat, of course he wasn’t loved. Look at him, crawling on the floor covered in vomit. Look at the clingy, little boy that tried to hide from the only person he had thought loved him. Look at the helpless, whiny kid that had nothing to offer to his family, his strong family, who saved lives, who killed monsters. No wonder he had been forgotten, no wonder no one cared about him, he wasn’t useful, he was just a dumb burden to deal with, he was—

“Sam, hey, come on, don’t do that. You’re sick, okay? But I’m going to take care of you, just…” Dean looked like he was about to cry. Sam didn’t know what to think. He was a mess, everything was a mess. He felt like throwing up again, but there was nothing left inside him, there was nothing, he was nothing, just an empty corpse, crawling pathetically.

“Sammy, please stop, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, but please, please come back to bed, you’re just going to get worse if you keep struggling like that. Come on, buddy, please.” Dean was begging now, tears streaming down his face (is Dean crying? why is Dean crying? why would Dean be crying? did Dean even cry? was that a thing? ). This was so confusing (Dean doesn’t cry ), everything was so fucking confusing (his family doesn’t love him, Dean doesn’t cry ), he couldn’t stand it (his family left him ), he just wanted to sleep (he wants warm and hot and nice ), he just wanted it all to disappear (the cold, the pain ), he just…

Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head and his still trembling body dropped limp into his brother’s arms.

Dean was full-on crying now. He didn’t cry , he reminded himself. Well, to hell with that. He usually never forgot about his little brother for days, so, tough.

He scooped the kid into his arms and put him into the bed once again, wrapping the blankets around the shivering body. He felt devastated. The way Sam’s face had changed, the way he had sagged away from Dean, like he didn’t recognize him, the raw fear on his face… 

God, he would have nightmares about that look on his brother’s young face.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his dad’s cell.

No response.

He wasn’t expecting one, anyway.

He called Bobby as he checked Sam's temperature once more.

“Dean?” Bobby's grumpy voice said from the other side of the line.

“Bobby,” he said, and he knew that it had sounded pathetic and had almost been a sob, but he couldn’t help it.

“Son? You boys a’right over there?”

Dean looked over at Sam once more, noticing the soft whimpers that occasionally escaped his brother’s lips, the way his trembling body curled in on itself.

“Not so much, Bobby.”

“Okay, Dean, calm down. First of all, he’s a kid. It is normal that he is scared. And secondly, hypothermia and dehydration don’t only affect your body physically. They mess with your mind as well, boy.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, and he smoothed one of the multiple blankets that covered Sam’s body mechanically, watching his brother breathe deeply as he continued to sleep. He had been sleeping for three hours now, and thank God Bobby had arrived before he woke up, because Dean couldn’t have stood the look on his brother’s face again. Even though he deserved it. He deserved every drop of his brother’s tears, every yell.

“I mean that his body has been in, let’s say, power-saving mode, for almost three days. But he has also been thinking you and you Dad might be dead for more than a week. And he is just a kid. Now, I’m not putting this on you, it is on John if—”

“No. No, Bobby, it is on me, too. He is my responsibility, for God’s sake!”

“Dean. You’re sixteen, and his brother. Even if you were forty, he is not your responsibility. He is your dad’s.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Bobby shut him up with a stare, and continued.

“So, I’m no doctor, but I’ve talked to enough to say that this kind of sickness, this malnourishment, usually leaves a person feeling very strong emotions, such as guilt, shame, panic… They also have a tendency to cry unexpectedly, or be very clingy. Now, this applied to a twelve-year-old kid? Well…” Bobby trailed off as he shook his head, a sad look in his eyes. “Anyway, that he is sleeping is good. But Dean, we really should get him to a hospital.”

“I want to. I just… there is no way CPS doesn’t get involved if we go to a hospital. And not only could we get separated from Dad, but also from each other.” Dean looked at Bobby with pleading eyes, “and I can’t, Bobby, I just can’t. He was so scared when he woke up… I don’t care if it’s the sickness talking for him, my little brother should never look at me that way. I’m supposed to protect him, he’s supposed to believe in me, to trust me. I just need to wake him up, feed him, warm him, and talk to him. Then… then everything will go back to normal.” Dean finished, nodding to himself.

“Son, I know this is hard. But if you’re gonna do what you just said… well, at least I’ll stay and make sure everything goes right. How does that sound?”

Dean smiled, thankful, at him, nodding and blinking hard.

“Yeah, Bobby, that would be real good. Just until Sammy recovers.”

“Yeah. Just until he recovers,” Bobby repeated, looking at the sleepy, still slightly trembling form in the bed.

Chapter Text

Sam wasn’t recovering.

Sam wasn’t doing better.

Sam had been sleeping for almost two days now, hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in that time, and his temperature was still too low for either Dean’s or Bobby’s liking. Hot baths weren’t working, and Dean could swear Sam’s face was paler each time he looked at him. Meanwhile, John hadn’t had the decency to come back to check on Sam—apparently, he had already found a nearby hunt and was on the road chasing a ghost. Simple salt n’ burn, son, I’ll be back before you even notice , he had said to Dean, and Dean hadn’t had the time (or the energy) to hate his father.

“Okay, that’s it,” Dean stood up from the chair he had been sitting in while Bobby and he ate. Even though Dean had always loved food, these days he had been eating almost nothing. After all, if his brother had gone without food for days and was still not eating now, what gave him the right to do so?

“Dean, we’ve already tried to wake him up. Kid’s so tired he can’t even do that. His body needs time to…” Bobby tried to reason, just to be interrupted by Dean.

“We gave him time! And he’s worse! He can’t be like this—without eating, without water…!” Dean breathed heavily as he went to his sibling’s side and started pulling off the blankets and pillows. Sam was a mass of hoodies, sweatshirts, and pullovers wrapped around his still-trembling body, which made up about thirty percent of the whole bundle. Sam had dropped so much weight that when Dean scooped him up in his arms, he could swear it was the thousands of clothes wrapped around his kid brother that were actually “heavy” (if you could call it that), and not Sam.

“We’re taking him to the hospital,” he said as he adjusted Sam’s body in his arms, a protective grip around the kid. “I don’t give a damn what Dad told us. He can’t keep going like this.”

Bobby didn’t argue.

Dean is, at some level, used to hospitals. Dad was the one who used to go the most, even though most of his injuries he patched up himself. However, when he was unable to do so—needed a blood transfusion, stitches in the back—he went to the hospital. Dean hadn’t been there a lot of times; he usually stayed with Sam in the motel and waited till their father came back. Dean himself had gone to the hospital twice or so. At sixteen and a half years old, he had already been on a bunch of hunts. Sam, on the other hand, had never done so. He was still a kid, after all, and the only time he had been in a hospital had been when he broke his arm trying to fly by jumping off a roof dressed up as Batman.

All those times, Dean had had to wait. The waiting rooms had become some boring space— all white, with that antiseptic smell. The injuries they’d gone to the hospital for hadn’t been urgent at the time—maybe serious, yes—but there had been other patients to attend to first, patients that needed medical staff right then. He knew that when someone came in and nurses suddenly started appearing out of nowhere, yelling and talking about procedures and weird words he wasn’t interested in knowing the meaning of, it meant that person was probably fighting for their life. Not a comforting thought. That’s why he never complained about having to wait: he knew those people needed attention, stat .

So, he was shocked when six nurses and three doctors took his brother from him not two minutes after he and Bobby entered the hospital.

And suddenly… chaos.

“Temp under 88º!”

"Sinus brady at 42—prep for pacing if he drops!"

"Malnourished, cachectic—look at his ribs."

“Male, kid, severely malnourished, hypothermia…”

“Prepare the emergency room!”

"Get me warm IV fluids—pressure’s tanking!"

"We need warm saline, Bair Hugger, and O2—now!"

A gurney came out of nowhere, and Sam was put on it, the endless layers he had on being stripped off him with scissors. In no time, Sam’s thin torso was exposed, and Dean gasped.

His brother was fucking small . Without the hoodies covering Sam’s head and all the sweaters on his body, he looked tiny in that huge gurney, all the doctors surrounding him. His ribs were easily visible under his pale skin, which had a bluish tone, and Dean had the impulse to look somewhere else. He didn’t look like Sam— that kid couldn’t be his brother…

“Sir?” Dean heard a nurse behind him, asking Bobby, “Sir, can you tell us what happened?”

“Low pressure! We need to stabilize him!” people were still yelling around them, and he felt someone gripping his arm and leading him far from the gurney—and his brother—but he could still hear the rushed voices.

“GCS is 5. He's posturing!"

"He's hypovolemic—start fluids, wide open!"

"BP 82 over 45—he’s hypotensive and acidotic!"

The voices stopped as he dropped into a plastic chair and the doors closed, the gurney having entered a blue room, several nurses and doctors following behind.

He knew Bobby was talking to the nurse somewhere near him, but his brain was still trying to process what had just happened. He knew nothing about medical terms, but those surely weren’t good ones.

He wished they had had to wait.

That would’ve meant Sam wasn’t in such bad shape.

But his brother had disappeared in a matter of minutes.

He knew he should be paying more attention to the conversation, to what Bobby was making up, the cover story or whatever, but all he could think was that he should have brought Sam earlier. He shouldn’t have obeyed his father.

He wished he hadn’t.

Sam was drowning.

There was something on top of him—something crushing, heavy, stifling, and… sinking him into… into a… a mattress ? He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He tried to move his arms, but they were trapped under the hot, oppressive mass that was pushing him deep into the bed he was, apparently, lying in. Trying to move, and starting to feel dreadfully overwhelmed, he trashed weakly, but it was as if his body were a dead corpse: he felt weakness tug at every bone of his body.

A whimper escaped his lips as he tried to get out of the mass that was absorbing him, but sudden hands grabbed his shoulders and steadied him. He flinched and tried to fight them, but he barely managed to move a finger. A loud beep started to make its way through his ears, and he started feeling slightly annoyed. Why couldn’t everything just stop ? Why couldn’t whatever thing was on him just get the hell off, why couldn’t the beeping shut up, why couldn’t he understand where he was, why…?

“Sammy? Sam, open your eyes.” Dean. Dean . Dean was alive, Dean…

Oh, right.

Dean and Dad had forgotten about him. They had abandoned him.

Had they come back? Were they going to leave Sam again?

“Sammy, I know you can hear me. Come on, buddy, open your eyes.”

Oh, he had his eyes closed? Huh. That explained why he didn’t know where he was.

Sluggishly, he tried to lift his eyelashes, but they seemed to weigh tons. Slowly, he managed to open his eyes, only to close them again, blinded by the piercing white lights.

“Oh, sorry, too bright? I’ll fix that.” There was a soft noise, and Sam tried to open his eyes again. This time, he managed, and was greeted by the sight of his big brother’s green eyes, looking at him in concern.

“Dean…” he tried to say, but barely a whisper came out.

“Here, drink some water, Sammy,” Dean said, and gently tossed a straw inside his brother’s parted lips. Water was like frigging nirvana in Sam’s mouth, and he started gulping it. However, Dean pulled the glass away before he could finish it, and Sam moaned.

“I know you’re thirsty, but you gotta take it slow, okay? Your body’s still adjusting.”

“Dean… Dean ,” Sam repeated, and even though he felt high as a kite, his only thought was that Dean might leave him anytime now, and so he had to… he had to make sure that… wait, what had he…?

“Shhh, Sammy, relax, buddy. Everything’s okay now.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t , because if Dean had left once, he could leave again, and what if Dean did leave, and Sam was alone again?

“Don’… leave… pl’se?” Sam said, and felt tears start to crawl their way down his cheeks. 

Suddenly, he felt embarrassed. He shouldn’t be crying—not in front of Dean. No wonder they had left him. What would his brother think of him? That he was weak ( he was ), that he was a disappointment to the Winchester name ( he was ), that he was a pathetic brat that—

“Hey, no, no, no, Sammy, please don’t cry. Everything’s okay now, I promise. I won’t leave—no one’s leaving you, okay, buddy?” Dean murmured, trying to soothe him, and started rubbing his arms, which were covered with…

Oh. He was covered in blankets. That was what had been sinking him; they were heavy, cumbersome blankets wrapped around his… God, was that his body? What had happened to him? Why was he so… thin? What…?

“D’n? Wha’ happened?”

God, his mouth felt like sandpaper. Hadn’t he just drunk some water? He was getting confused. Oh, right. No. Yeah! Dean, Dean was… Dean had been gone. Dean and Dad, they, they…

“...you were dead, and then you were not? Dean? I don’ understand, I—I don’t, I can’t remem… remember, wha’... what happened?”

“Sam, Sam, you need to calm down, okay? You’re in the hospital, and you’re gonna be okay, but you need to calm down. You’re on the good drugs—that’s why you feel confused—”

“No… no, I… where…?” Sam tried to shake his head, which was growing foggier by the second. Why couldn’t he think straight? Oh, right. Hospital. Drugs. Wait, why was he in the hospital…?

“Never… never been in a hospital before?” he said, unconvincingly.

Dean smiled, and looked at him reassuringly.

“Nope. There’s a first time for everything, huh, Sammy?” Dean said, and if Sam hadn’t been as groggy as he was, he would’ve sworn his brother’s voice sounded guilty. But why would Dean feel guilty…?

“Dean…?” Sam said, just before his eyes closed and darkness took him. Dean gently stroked his shaggy hair as he fell asleep once more.

“God,” Dean whispered, and buried his head in his hands.

Sam’s doctor, Dr. Sterling, had been passing by when Sam woke up and was now standing in the frame of the door, having listened to the whole conversation—if you could call it that. 

Dean looked at him.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dean asked, the reassuring tone he had been using with his brother long gone, replaced by a much more desperate one.

Dr. Sterling sighed and sat next to Dean in a nearby chair.

“Look, Dean… your brother’s been through a lot. The drugs and malnourishment make him emotional, yes, but those are just bringing out feelings that he already had.”

“But he’s…” Dean sighed, frustrated. “You didn’t know him before . He’s always been smart, and stubborn, and strong, and… I could expect him to be mad, but… he just looks broken,” Dean finished.

“Why would he be mad, Dean?” the doctor asked, surprised.

Right. The cover story.

“I mean, if we had found him sooner…”

“Son, it was him who got himself lost. Why would he blame you ?”

Dean wanted to punch himself.

“Well, yeah, but… he’s our responsibility. We should’ve been more careful. It was our fault too. He’s just twelve, you know?”

The doctor looked at Dean—the way he looked at his little brother, as if he was the only person left in the world.

“Well… if Sam felt abandoned, then we’d have another case on our hands. Child neglect and abandonment are… hard. For you, it was five days or so, maybe a week without him. But for him , if he truly thought you’d abandoned him… that could leave some really deep scars, since he’s just a kid.”

The doctor rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath before continuing.

“Children who experience this kind of trauma often believe it’s their fault, and it’s hard for them to trust people again. They usually have severely low self-esteem and self-hate.”

The doctor sighed and shook his head, not noticing the way Dean’s face went pale.

“Anyway, I don’t think that’s what we’re seeing here. Sam’s stable, and you clearly care. No one abandoned him, he just got lost. That is completely normal, you’d be surprised how many kids get lost and days pass before they are found. So… nothing to worry about, kid,” he said cheerfully, smiling at Dean.

“However,” he continued—and Dean thought, how could there be a ‘however’ in that sentence? What else could be wrong?

“...Sam was in a survival-mode kind of mindset at the time. So it’ll be normal if he starts acting weird.”

“Weird how?” Dean asked, anxious. Wasn’t what had just happened weird enough?

“He might eat like the food’s going to vanish, flinch when you leave the room, or panic if he wakes up alone. His brain’s still catching up to the fact that he’s safe. Even though it was just a few days, that was his reality. Those kinds of dynamics are hard to forget. Also, you might start seeing little changes. He may act younger than his age or be more sensitive than he used to be.”

Dean nodded, trying to keep up, to absorb all the information ( horrible information ), the word neglect still circling through his brain, dancing around the rest of his thoughts.

God, that surely wasn’t how Sam felt. That couldn’t… Could it? Sam was a strong kid. He had been through worse… hadn’t he?

But Dean couldn’t believe himself anymore. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe this was deeper than he had first thought… what if he couldn’t fix this? This wasn’t just another hunt—some werewolf to kill, some research to do: kill the monster, save the victim. This was worse. Way worse. And he wasn’t prepared to face it. He didn’t want to. And he was all alone, since Dad hadn’t even had the decency to check on his own son.

Well, he surely was going to prove to Sam that he had been wrong. That Dean wouldn’t fail him again. That his little brother could trust him. He was going to prove it. He was.

He looked over at Sam, still quiet and pale, slightly shivering, his gaunt face peacefully sleeping, and promised himself he would make sure his brother felt loved and at home again.

He would fix this.

“Dean,” the doctor’s voice said from behind him, already leaving the room, “you gotta know that kids don’t always bounce back just because their bodies heal. Sometimes it’s the ones who survive the hardest things that carry it the longest.”

And with that, he left.

Dean hadn’t felt this lost in all his life.

Sam moved, curling in on himself a little, like he was trying to protect himself. Like he didn’t feel secure.

He probably didn’t.

Chapter Text

Bobby blinked, trying to get his slowly-closing eyes to stay open. He squirmed in his seat, trying to make himself comfortable for the sixth time in several hours. He was still waiting for Dean to get out of Sam’s room. The doctor had entered on one occasion, and left not long after. Bobby had asked him how Sam and Dean were doing. The man had only answered that Sam looked weak and confused, but that Dean looked really shaken by his brother’s behavior. Of course, the doctor told Bobby that Sam’s emotions were triggered mostly by the drugs he was on, but Bobby knew better.

Finally, Dean came out of the room, looking exhausted, and Bobby gratefully got out of the plastic chair.

“Hey, son. Why don’t you rest a bit, huh?” he offered, but Dean just shook his head.

“I’m going to get some coffee. You want?” he asked.

“Dean, you really should sleep. Sam’ll probably sleep for some more time, so there’s no need for you to—”

“What?” he jumped in, his tone rude. “For me to take care of him? To be there when he wakes up? Just like I should’ve been for the past week?”

“Dean…” Bobby started, but the boy interrupted him.

“You know what the doctor told me, Bobby? He told me that Sammy’s probably so messed up that his self-esteem is on the floor, he thinks we abandoned him on purpose, that we hated him or some crap. That he’s been on survival mode, that he’ll need therapy and probably never fully recover.”

“Whoa, whoa, Dean, come on. Sam’s a tough kid, he’ll get through this,” Bobby said, his tone reasonable.

“You didn’t see him, Bobby,” Dean said, and his voice trembled, tears filling his eyes, even though he refused to let them fall, “he was all shaken up, saying crap about me leaving him. He thought Dad and I were fucking dead . How is he even going to believe us again? How is he supposed to trust us anymore?”

“Dean, listen, you don’t—”

“Dean?” a small voice said, sounding panicked.

Dean turned and quickly entered Sam’s room.

Bobby followed him but stayed in the doorway. For the first time since they’d entered the hospital, he took a proper look at Sam.

The kid looked miserable.

He was so thin, his skin still pale, and his eyes were already filled with tears. He was trembling, although not as much as he had been the last day at the motel. Dean sat next to him on the bed, taking his small hand in his.

“Hey, Sammy, I’m here.”

“I was calling for you. Thought you had left…”

“No, buddy, I was right there. I didn’t hear you, that’s all. I’m here now, though. How you doin’?”

“Less groggy, I think.”

“Good, now we’ll be able to have a normal conversation.” Dean chuckled, but Bobby could see through the façade. Dean was trying to make everything look normal, even though it didn’t feel that way. It wasn’t that way.

“Hey there, Sam,” Bobby said, stepping into the room and closing the door.

“Uncle Bobby? What are you doing here?” Sam asked, looking confused but pleased by Bobby’s presence.

Bobby and Dean shared a quick, concerned glance.

“You don’t remember? I came to take care of you, back at the motel,” he said, trying to sound as natural and not-worried as possible.

“Umm… motel?” Sam frowned. “I don’t remember.”

Dean looked at him soothingly.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Sam’s face scrunched in thought, and suddenly a pained grimace covered his features. The heart monitor started to beep slightly faster. Sam didn’t seem to notice, though. His breaths became quicker as well, and puppy dog eyes met Dean’s green ones.

“I was in the street. I thought… I thought Dad and you were dead!” Sam half-yelled, half-whispered, as if he was admitting something horrible. He suddenly looked anxious. “Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry, I lost all the things you left at the motel, I—I was mugged…”

“Shh, Sammy, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, okay?” Dean said, trying to soothe his kid brother. “I am sorry. So is Dad. We should’ve never left you on your own that long, I’m sorry.”

Sam looked down, his eyes sad.

“Doesn’t matter,” he barely muttered. “...the hunt was more important anyway.”

“Whoa, Sam, no. That’s not true and you know it. You’re far more important, okay?” Sam nodded, but still didn’t look at Dean.

“Well,” Bobby said after a moment of silence, “who wants some food? It’s almost dinner time.”

Dean shot Sam a last look, but Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he seemed too busy fidgeting with the hospital bracelet, inspecting it as if it held the secrets of the world. Dean sighed and got up. He nodded at Bobby, who left to get some food.

“You wanna read something, Sammy?” Dean asked, and Sam shook his head. Dean frowned. Since when did Sam not want to read? “Seriously?”

“I’m tired,” Sam said in a weak voice, slumping against the pillows, clearly exhausted even though he had only been awake for a few minutes.

“Well, then I’ll read to you. How about that, huh?”

At that, Sam looked at Dean, as if trying to figure something out, tilting his head, his bangs flying from one side to the other.

“There are no books, Dean,” he solemnly said. “I told you I was robbed. Besides, I already read every book I had, several times.”

“I bought you a new one, you dumbass,” Dean said, affection obvious in his words, and rolled his eyes.

“You… bought me a book?” Sam asked, truly surprised.

“Duh,” Dean said, trying to act casual. Except nothing about this situation was casual. “Hey, Sammy…” Dean said, his tone changing to a more serious one, and he looked uncertain, “...how were you mugged, anyway?”

Sam stared at him.

“I was sleeping on a bench when a guy came and took the duffels. I woke up and tried to stop him, but…” Sam blinked, his face emotionless. “He had a gun,” he finally said.

 Dean grimaced but said nothing.

“I’m sorry” Sam said, quickly “I know I should've been more careful, shouldn’t have let my guard down…”

“Sammy, no. You did good, okay? You did good." Sam nodded, but didn’t look convinced at all. “Umm, so. The book. I hope you like it. It’s called…”

The Hobbit . Dean was reading him The Hobbit . Dean was reading to him. Dean had bought him a book. Dean had gone to a store, had seen the book, had thought of Sam, and had spent his money on it.

And now he was reading it. Out loud.

Dean never read.

Dean had never bought Sam a book.

Dean never…

Okay, not Dean then.

Sam was pretty sure this couldn’t be Dean. Actually, Sam was pretty sure none of this was real. He remembered—he remembered Dean and Dad leaving, telling him they’d be back, as always. He remembered them not answering, not coming. He remembered himself being kicked out of the motel and having no money. He remembered feeling cold. Not just on the outside: also inside.

And suddenly he was not only safe, but in a hospital ( they never went to hospitals ), with Dean and Bobby ( when was the last time he had even seen Uncle Bobby? ), and everyone was treating him like he was made of crystal, and being soft and gentle and…

He had to be in heaven.

He was sure he was in heaven.

Or maybe he was just imagining it all. Having a vision or something—didn’t hunger do that?

Yeah, that was probably it.

Anyway, he didn’t mind. At least he had his perfect and caring Dean here, right? He would enjoy this hallucination of his until it ended. However, if he was in his imagination, or his perfect place, or whatever...

“Where is Dad?” Sam asked, and Dean stopped reading and looked at him.

“Dad’s… Dad will be here soon,” Dean said, unconvinced.

Sam frowned. Wasn’t this his world? Why couldn’t Dad just be here?

“I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he come?”

“Sammy, he’s on a hunt,” Dean said, obviously feeling bad about his words.

“But why can’t he come? I want him here,” Sam says—and the moment the words escape his lips and he sees Dean’s face, he understands. He is not in heaven, not in his imagination. This is real. This is real. This is... this is real? How is this real?

“Sammy, I’m sorry. He wanted to come, but…” Dean said, but Sam interrupted him.

“It’s okay, Dean. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Dad doesn’t have to be here,” he says, and immediately feels bad. Dean was going to think he was a spoiled brat who wanted attention.

“Sammy, he should be here. He’s just… well, you know him.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He still didn’t understand. He didn’t understand a single thing that was happening. Why had Dean and Dad forgotten about him? How can you even forget about your own family? The only plausible answer was that they didn’t love him that much. But then again, why was Dean here? Treating him like this? It made sense that Dad wasn’t—he expected Dean not to be here as well. But not only was he here, he was being as gentle as ever with Sam. Why? His head was beginning to ache.

“Dean…” his mouth moved without his permission.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean asked, focused on Sam.

“Why are you being so nice?”

Dean froze. He stared at Sam, as if trying to figure out if the question was serious, and then he just looked at the floor, looking embarrassed.

“Sam, I… what do you mean, so nice?”

“I mean, you bought me a book. And talk to me like I am going to break, and you’re just… I don’t understand.”

“Sammy, you’re my little brother. I’m supposed to do those things,” Dean said, sounding sad.

“But… you never did those things before.”

“Well, I guess this is a special occasion, isn’t it?” he said, avoiding Sam’s gaze.

Special occasion. Special occasion? That was what being forgotten by your own family was? A special occasion ?

Sam blinked and looked at the ceiling. He didn’t know anymore. Did Dean love him? Did Dean care about him? Or was this just…?

“Did Dad tell you to?”

“What?” Dean said, confused. “What do you mean? Told me to what?”

“To be here with me and all that.”

“What…? Sammy, I’m here because I want to make sure you’re okay.” Sam frowned. “I care about you.”

Sam started crying.

He was really, really, really not understanding. His brain was already going slower than usual, and he felt so tired. He didn’t want to have to deal with all this. He just wanted to be home again, before everything had happened. He wanted to delete the last week, he wanted to feel strong and not weak and thin and not strong . He wanted to get out of the bed and yell at Dean and shake him and maybe even punch him, but he was just so damn tired . And so confused. So, so confused.

“Hey, no no no, Sammy, hey, don’t cry. What is it?” Dean was saying, sounding concerned, and Sam suddenly felt his big brother’s arms around his fragile body. “Sammy? What’s wrong, buddy?”

“I don’t understand,” he sobbed.

“What? What don’t you understand? Come on, kiddo. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. I’ll explain it to you, huh? How ’bout that? Just tell me what’s wrong, Sammy,” he said, his voice soft and sad and worried—and Sam couldn’t take it anymore.

“I don’t understand why you lie !” he sobbed harder, hiding his face against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s hand rubbed his back soothingly.

“Lie? About what?”

“You… you say you care…”

“And I do! It’s not a lie, Sammy.”

“Then why did you leave me!” he finally shouted, and tried to push Dean, but he didn’t even move him an inch. He felt so weak. “How could you forget about me for days ??” He tried to push Dean again, but ended up pushing himself out of the bed.

“Sammy!” Dean caught him just as he was about to fall. “Oh, God, no. Please don’t think like that. I’m so sorry, Sammy, it was a mistake, it was a mistake—”

Sam started shaking his head, trying to get out of the bed, but Dean held him firmly against his chest, embracing him once again.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

“A mistake,” he repeated, and stopped thrashing, going limp in Dean’s arms, who held him tighter.

“Yeah, Sammy. A mistake.”

Sam remembered the first time he had failed a test. He had studied so hard, and yet he had failed. The teacher told Sam not to worry—told him that he could repeat it and would have a good mark. “It is obvious that you studied, Sam,” the teacher had said. “You just committed a few mistakes, nothing that you can’t fix in the next exam.”

Was that all Sam was? An exam? A test to pass? Dean’s job. That’s what Dean and Dad always said. “It’s my job to take care of you.” A job, a responsibility. He wasn’t loved. Not really. Of course he wasn’t. He hated hunting, he hated that his family did it. He wanted to go to college. He didn’t want to listen to classic rock. He wanted a house, not a motel room each night. He was so different from his family.

And yet, he had lied to himself, telling himself that they still loved him, no matter how he was. No matter what he wanted.

A mistake.

Dean had committed a mistake in his job.

Mistakes are fixed , mistakes are normal, mistakes are nothing to worry about. He would pass the next exam. Mistakes are forgiven.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he murmured against Dean’s chest. “I forgive you.”

Chapter Text

Dean started to regain consciousness with the smell of antiseptic filling his nostrils, and he then snapped his eyes open, just as the last days came to his mind like a wave—more like a tsunami, actually.

Images of a terrified Sam, alone on a bench, cold, shivering, and pale, assaulted him, and he did not feel better when he looked around the hospital bed he had fallen asleep in and saw his kid brother still as thin as he had found him, curled on himself and looking miserable—never mind the multiple hospital wires connected to him. Dean’s hand fluttered over him until he started petting Sam’s hair, just for his sibling to shrug away from his touch, curling more onto himself and moving so his back wasn’t brushing against Dean’s body anymore. Dean frowned, his stomach flipping. Even in his sleep, Sam looked scared. Sure enough, that was because he didn’t realize it was just Dean.

Dean sighed. He couldn’t lie to himself. Sam had always had a sixth sense, the same as Dean’s: they would always know when the other was around. Dean smiled slightly at the thought of his kid brother instantly melting into his touch even when he was sleeping. Dean’s stomach made a painful twist once more as he wondered why his brother couldn’t recognize him anymore. Maybe it was the drugs? Or the disorientation? Sam had been really out of it for several days… Dean was still trying to convince himself when a shuffle at his back startled him.

“Good morning, Dean,” a voice said, gentle but yet gruff.

Bobby sat in the plastic chair next to the bed, and Dean noticed the clock on the wall just as its hands passed from 9:59 to 10:00. He sighed and started to get out of the bed without jolting Sam too much.

“Hey, Bobby. How long have you been there, watching like a creep, huh?” he said, his tone cocky as he realized he was wearing the same clothes as the day before. And the day after that. Huh.

“Enough to see you both sleep like babies. How’s your brother?” Bobby asked, his tone changing to a more worried one.

Dean sighed. He looked over at Sam once more, trying to ignore the way his body was intentionally ( and then again, he was asleep ) as far away as it could be from Dean and Bobby, curled in a small ball.

“He’s doing better,” Dean replied, thinking about his brother’s last words before going to sleep. I forgive you, Dean. But he hadn’t sounded like he forgave him; it had sounded like an automatic response; it had sounded like a robot. It had sounded as if Sam had shoved his true emotions deep inside him and had said whatever Dean had needed to hear. And wasn’t that a messed-up thing to do?

Dean rubbed his head, surprised by his train of thought. That was stupid—of course Sam had forgiven him, it was Sam. Sam always forgave everyone, something that Dean usually scolded him for. Sam had gone through a lot, yes, but his main worry was that he had thought Dean and John were dead . That was what had set him off the most. Sam knew ( he had to ) that they hadn’t forgotten about him on purpose . Sam knew how hunts were: he sure knew it was completely normal to lose track of time.

Not that Dean was defending the fact: he was just thinking reasonably. He nodded to himself. Sam just needed time to recover; his body would go through it just fine, and then everything would go back to normal: Dean would convince his father to leave more money to Sam the next time they went to a hunt, and that was it.

Yep, that was it.

“Sure he is,” Bobby said, but he sounded uncertain.

Dean looked at him, his gaze fierce.

“What does that mean?” Dean asked, his tone harsh.

Bobby shrugged.

“It’s a hell of a thing your brother’s going through,” he said.

“You think I don’t know that? I’m trying to—”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Dean,” Bobby quickly interrupted, his tone matching Dean’s, before he took a breath and soothed his voice. “Just… don’t get frustrated if he’s not the same as he was before . Trust is something you build, son.”

Dean stared at him.

“He trusts me,” he stated, firm.

Bobby opened his mouth to reply when suddenly the door burst open and John Winchester stepped in, his footsteps loud.

“Dad!” Dean exclaimed and went to him. Bobby’s face darkened.

“Dean, what the hell,” John said, not bothering to look at his younger’s bed. “I’ve been calling you all night.”

Dean looked at his feet, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, sir. I fell asleep—”

“Save your excuses, we’re leaving,” John grumbled, and Dean’s eyes grew impossibly big, reminding Bobby that he was just 16, after all. He sighed and started getting up.

“What? But Sam’s—”

“Winchester,” Bobby said. The gentle tone he had been using with Dean was gone, replaced by a much more threatening one. His features were so serious they scared Dean .

“Singer. What the hell are you doing here?” John snarled, and Dean instantly looked at Sam. Bobby and he had been talking in whispers in order to not wake him up, but now that John had arrived, well. Softness and quietness were definitely gone. The kid was now curled even more in on himself, if that was even possible, his face hidden under his own arm ( thin, so thin, God ), as if he could sense the tension of the room.

Bobby snorted bitterly at John’s question just as Dean backed off, getting closer to his distressed—and yet still sleeping—brother.

“Well, I would definitely not need to be here if you were,” Bobby spat. “Where were you, anyway? What was more important than your own son ?”

“Where I am or am not is none of your goddamn business. Same goes with my sons.” John looked at Dean again, who was trying to soothe Sam (whose breaths were becoming more ragged by the minute) without touching him, since every time he tried to, Sam sagged away. “Now, get your brother and let’s go,” John finished, and stepped out of the room once again.

Bobby stepped out as well, leaving the brothers alone in the room.

“John, I don’t understand you. I’ve never had, I probably never will. And I understand that you’re in pain for losing Mary, but this is no way to raise your children, no matter what you think,” Bobby said, his tone softened.

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Sam’s just fine, as well as Dean. And that’s because of me; I made them stronger.”

“Jesus, John! Do you even hear yourself? Sam’s twelve , for God’s sake! He almost dies in the freakin’ street! And Dean’s blaming all of it on himself!”

“Well, maybe it’s because it’s his fault! He’s the one in charge of Sam, he knows that. And anyway, that kid’s apparently so stupid he can’t even take care of himself for some days. I leave him alone for one week and look at what happens,” John said, shaking his head, as if he had just said something both embarrassing and disappointing.

Bobby stared at him. And stared. And stared. And stared. And st—

His fist flew towards John’s face, hitting him full force, smiling when a satisfying crunch sounded.

John stumbled backward and touched his bloodied face ( broken nose , Bobby thought proudly), his eyes wide and furious when he looked at Bobby.

“What the—?”

“Get the hell away from those kids, Winchester. I mean it. If you don’t get your ass out of this hospital, I’ll make sure you get more than a bloodied nose,” Bobby threatened.

And even though he had wanted John to freaking leave, he couldn’t shake the disappointment when John did exactly as told, stumbling towards the exit as he held his shattered face. Something inside Bobby had expected him to fight for his kids, to not give in that easily. After all, John Winchester was known for his stubbornness.

Not when it came to his kids, apparently.

Bobby sighed and then took a deep breath before entering the room again, his heart melting at the sight of the two brothers. Sam’s eyes were open, but he looked disoriented, and Dean was stroking his hair gently, murmuring what probably were reassurances into his ear. Bobby locked gazes with Dean, and he knew what Dean meant to say to him just by looking at his eyes.

Don’t mention Dad.

Bobby nodded once and then smiled warmly as he looked at Sam.

“Hey, kiddo, you doin’ better?”

Sam slowly focused his eyes on Bobby’s, who internally frowned when he realized Sam was gripping Dean’s jacket so hard his knuckles were white, as if he didn’t fully trust his brother not to go away.

“Yeah,” Sam said, but his voice sounded off, as if he was reciting something he had memorized. “Better.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes, not by a long shot, and Bobby smiled back at him, trying to be comforting.

“Well, what would you guys think about coming with me when Sam’s really better?”

Sam was still wearing two more jackets than he should have when they arrived at Singer’s Salvage Yard, his body still far too skinny for Dean’s liking. He got out of Bobby’s truck with his big brother’s help (he was still feeling weak, even four days after being in the hospital), and together they started to make their way to the house. Bobby followed closely behind, and Dean internally flinched when he noticed Sam’s odd gaze.

He had been having that stare for what seemed like years, even though it had only been a few days. His eyes looked cold and… gone. As if he wasn’t fully there . Sam had always been witty and ironic and a geeky and a pain in the ass , but now he was just gone . As if he had shut himself down, as if his essence had left him. Dean had been concerned, but both Bobby and the doctor had told him not to worry, said that it was normal, that Sam would recover, that he just needed time.

Time, my ass.

Sam liked talking, it was the only way he felt good, he needed to get out his thoughts in order to heal. And right now, he was just talking to answer Dean’s questions, and he hadn’t said more than five words in one sentence at a time.

So yeah, Dean was fucking worried.

And also, he had started… noticing some things in his brother’s behaviour that were definitely concerning.

For example, the way Sam would not understand Dean’s jokes.

“Can I eat the apple, instead of the yogurt?” Sam had asked the first day he had been allowed to eat after not being able to do so for days . Dean shuddered at the thought.

“No, Sammy, you can’t,” Dean had said with a cocky smile. And how many times had he said no to Sam and Sam had just rolled his eyes and ignored him, not really caring if it was a joke or not?

But now, Sam’s eyes unfocused for a moment before focusing again and choosing the yogurt in front of him, pushing away the apple. He started to open the container with trembling fingers ( he still felt so cold ) when firm hands caught his and stopped him mid-action. He looked up and saw Dean looking at him, frowning.

“Sam, I’m kidding. You can eat whatever you want,” Dean said, his voice suddenly gentle.

Dean shook his head, pushing away the memory. And that hadn’t been the most concerning new habit of his brother. In fact, he now had a really annoying new habit.

The first time Dean had left the room while Sam was awake, Sam had literally jumped out of the bed, and run towards Dean, the wires connected to his body falling, until Dean, alarmed, had caught him just in time before he collapsed on the floor.

“Sam, what the hell? Don’t do that, c’mon, you’re gonna get worse. Just stay in bed,” Dean had said, but Sam had started crying.

“Don’t leave, please, don’t leave,” his kid brother had hiccupped, and Dean’s heart had shattered.

And from that moment, it didn’t matter how much he reassured Sam at the time, it didn’t matter how many times he repeated where he was going or that he would be back in no time—the only way to go out of Sam’s sight was when someone else ( meaning Bobby ) was in the room with him, or if he was asleep. Otherwise, Sam would have a terrible reaction even if he tried to avoid it—crying had been the first time, but after seeing his kid brother also have a panic attack and almost stop breathing, Dean had decided not to leave him alone.

After all this, the doctors had let Dean stay all the time in the hospital, even though the visiting hours were supposedly off. When he had been less out of it, Sam had asked repeatedly for Dean ( or Bobby ) to stay with him while he slept, showing concern for waking up alone, so Dean made sure that never happened.

Dean shook his head again, focusing on now as they walked through the yard.

He looked at Sam when he flinched at Bobby’s dog, Rumsfield, barking.

Yeah, he now did that a lot, too. Sam flinched when a door shut too loud, Sam flinched when the alarms from another hospital patient beeped, Sam flinched when someone spoke too loud, Sam flinched at the sound of his own voice, Sam even flinched at the bird’s singing sometimes.

Sam flinched so much Dean had thought they were still tremors from the cold, but Sam had stopped shivering days ago.

As they stepped into the house, Dean wondered if now that they were home (an actual home), things would go better. If now that Sam was off the drugs and medication, everything would be better.

If now that John wasn’t around, things would go better.

Dean had accepted John’s… leaving better than he and Bobby had both been expecting. Of course, he felt hurt and betrayed. His father, the person he had trusted the most, the person he used to admire, the man he thought about when someone asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, the man that had taught him everything he knew, had left him. Had abandoned him.

But then again, he thought that was fair. After all, how did he think Sam had felt when he had discovered that his own family had forgotten about him?

Either way, Dean hadn’t actually given too much thought to it. He had been focused on Sam. It was easier—doing things, taking care of something. Not thinking, wondering why, why why . That he didn’t like. That he couldn’t afford to do. He wouldn’t allow himself to go that way.

But now, now everything was going to be better.