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Dean’s pissed. They both smell like smoke and rotting flesh, and Sam insisted that he was fine, but Dean saw him stumble on the way to the car after they doused Adam’s pyre and Dean had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from making a comment. Sam’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want Dean looking out for him. All his mule-headed, violently independent ways are going to be the death of him, but see if Dean cares.
For a moment, Dean had seen Sam transformed back into the brother he knew, flushed and grateful as Dean lifted him up, cut the bonds from his wrists, but Dean had been too afraid, too angry, to savor the moment. By the time Dean got back to that dark little room, Adam’s body retrieved and prepped, Sam was sitting up by himself, just waiting for him, still a little dazed, but calm.
“Let me see,” Dean said, gesturing for Sam to lift the napkins from his arms.
Sam winced but did as he was told. “I’m okay, Dean,” he insisted. “Bleeding’s already slowed down.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Sam grimaced, but let Dean manhandle him back to the car and into the passengers seat anyway. Adam’s body waited for them in the back, but Dean ignored it, him, their sorry half-brother, and fished the first aid kit from the trunk. The ghouls’ cuts were deep, but Sam seemed to be fairing pretty well, his color already returning to normal. “These are going to leave nasty scars,” Dean said under his breath. Sam nodded, then shrugged, then hissed when Dean poured a bottle of water over Sam’s wrists. “Sorry,” Dean said through a grimace. “It’s dark. We can take a better look when we get back to Bobby’s.”
Dean wrapped Sam’s wounds, thankful that Sam’s pulse was strong in his wrists, and that he wasn’t gushing blood anymore. Bleeding, sure. But Sioux Falls, and better lighting and better medical equipment than could be stored in the backseat of the impala, was only an hour and a half away, and Sam would live for an hour and a half.
They don’t make it to Sioux Falls. At the first gas station out of town, Sam insists they stop so he can use the bathroom. Dean wants to complain. Sam could hold it, but he’s shaking his leg so hard it’s shaking the car, and he keeps rummaging in his bag, and opening and closing his laptop, and he’s out of the car before Dean comes to a complete stop. Sam comes back with an orange juice, half drained, and a determined glint in his eye.
“Found a job,” he says.
“Sam, no.”
Sam rolls his eyes and gets back in the car. Dean groans, puts the pump back and climbs in after him. “We just were on a job. You know, the one you almost died on.”
“Dude, I’m fine,” he says. And he looks fine, honestly. A little sweaty, and a little paler than normal, but alert and spirited. Better than he did ten minutes ago, at least. Something about it, about Sam’s insistence on his general wellness rubs Dean the wrong way, but he really doesn’t want to fight, so he lets it go. “Anyway, it’s a milk run. Don’t you even want to hear what it is?”
“No,” Dean growls, and starts the car.
“So legend has it,” Sam says anyway. “That in 1873 a local farmer went looking for a friend lost in a blizzard, but never found him. When he came home, said friend was waiting for him. Much to his surprise. And then a week later — body, found.”
“Not a job, Sam, just a ghost story.” Maybe Sam’s blood loss was more severe than Dean initially thought.
“Yeah, obviously, but, a month ago, same farm, descendant of the farmer who found the body a, uh —” Sam checks the newspaper. “Bradley Whitley was found dead in the same farmhouse. Young guy, early twenties, good health.”
“People die, Sam,” Dean reminds him darkly. He’s dreaming of Bobby’s, where it’s warm, where he’s hidden away his own store of whiskey under a loose floorboard in the guest bedroom he and Sam used to share sometimes growing up, and still share now, when they find time to sleep between fighting and looking for ways to stop Lilith.
“Sure they do,” Sam agrees. “But not four members of the same family in four months, and not freezing to death. Not in April at least, and not in a warm house where their grandmother is still living.”
Dean shrugs. “Vengeful spirit,” he mutters. He looks over to see Sam smirk, which twists some nasty part of Dean that hates to see Sam smug like that. “Milk run?”
“Worth a look,” Sam agrees, like it wasn’t his idea in the first place.
Instead of driving back to Bobby’s, Dean pulls up to the nearest motel and unloads their gear while Sam cleans his own wounds. He leaves the door to the bathroom room open as Dean comes in and out with their bags, the gashes on his arms long, nasty, deep red, but not too deep, already scabbing over. When Dean’s done, he stands in the doorway watching Sam grimace trying to wrap his arms by himself. Dean wants to help, but he’s paralyzed where he stands, afraid a wrong move is going to set Sam off. He did offer to help, when they first got here, but Sam snapped at him, told him he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
“Dude,” he says. “Stop staring. You’re creeping me out.”
Dean clears his throat, drops the last bag on the ground, and Sam huffs, done with his wound tending, stalking towards Dean.
“Dude if my laptop is broken…” he threatens irritably. That’s how he is lately. Irritable. Defensive. Sam’s on the bed, opening up his laptop, which is fine obviously, because Dean does actually care about Sam’s stuff, cares about him, even if Sam doesn’t return the favor. Sam’s oblivious, Dean’s still standing stock still. “Anyway, we should talk to the vic’s grandmother tomorrow, before we just go digging up corpses, just to make sure, but I’d put all my money on our vengeful spirit being a Mr. Gerold Dale. Laborer on James Whitley’s farm in 1873 when he froze to death.”
Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “Why’d he go vengeful?”
Sam shrugs. “Who knows.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to the family. You should see if you can find anything else out about our alleged ghost.”
Sam nods, closing his laptop. “You okay, man?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem pissed.”
Of course he’s pissed. There’s an apocalypse looming and they’re here in Shithole Minnesota, coming back from burying their secret half brother their good for nothing father never told him about. At least at Bobby’s there’s whiskey. Here at the Hollywood Inn for $40 a night because they spent all their cash buying breakfast for Adam, with kitschy framed photos of long dead C-List actors and old movie cameras are going to trick Dean into thinking that it’s even worth the price or that they’re in California, or whatever they’re going for. Just once, he’d like to stay at a non-themed motel. “I’m not pissed,” he says.
“Yeah, whatever, dude,” Sam says dismissively, rolling his eyes. “Turn the light out.” So Dean does.
In the morning, Sam’s already gone when Dean wakes up, bleary eyed, head aching. After Sam went to sleep, Dean stayed up in the dark, looking at the faces of all the young people their Casper offed. Frozen to death on warm nights, all cousins descended from James Whitley, all mid-twenties, all smiles and promise. He only had warm beer, their whiskey used up, but it was something. Easier to face the end of the world and your brother’s shitty attitude a little drunk. He’s paying for it now. He isn’t like those kids that died. No longer twenty, that is. Light filters into the room through gauzy curtains, and Dean stretches to find a sticky note attached to his head, like Sam’s all of ten years old. At the historical society. Call if you need me.
Grumbling, Dean climbs out of bed, into his suit. Insurance adjuster, FBI, medical investigator. Whatever gets him through the door fastest.
The grandmother of all these dead boys is only too happy to talk. She still lives on the property, but all her grandchildren are trying to boot her off. Bradley, the last one to die, had come over just last week to tell her they sold some of the land, claimed it was too much to take care of. She told them they could sell when she was dead, but her family was getting antsy.
“I think they did something,” he tells Dean darkly. “Got what’s coming to them, those good for nothing boys.”
“Little harsh,” Dean mutters. “They’re your grandsons. They’re dead.”
She humphs. “Bullies, the four of them. Goin’ behind my back, their parents’ back, just to make a little spare change. Messin’ around back there, disturbing graves.”
“Disturbing graves?”
“Old grave yard, where the family used to bury their own dead,” she answers. “I’d have been buried there too, with my husband Richard, if I had my own way. Delinquency — underage drinking, smoking, that sort of nonsense goes on out there, but this. They had people dig up those graves, move them somewhere else so they can build on that land. Absolute degeneracy.”
“Well,” says Dean. “Thanks for your time.”
He meets Sam at edge of the Whitley Farm. Sam, too, is dressed in his suit, but he’s stripped down to his dress shirt, jacket folded under his arm. In one hand, a file folder. In the other a bag from the burger place they passed on the way into town. Sam hands Dean the bag without a word. “What’d you find out?” he asks.
“Grandkids,” Dean answers, unlocking the car. Sam throws his jacket into the backseat and climbs in. “Bunch a douches.” Dean climbs in next to him.
Sam laughs. “The dead grandkids?”
“I’m just the messenger,” Dean shrugs, but he can feel the corners of his mouth turn up. Maybe Sam was right. A job is good. And this does seem like a milk run. “Trying to force the poor lady off the property. And they’re digging up graves.”
“Including the grave of our suspected vengeful spirit?”
“I don’t know, Einstein. Did you find out where he was buried?”
“Yeah, on the property,” Sam answers. There’s a gleam in his eye. Dean starts the ignition. “Old family graveyard. Or at least he was. Bones were moved last week. Plus — turns out the legend’s missing some key details. Like, for example, Gerold Dale used to own some of this land in the 1860’s. Practically forced off by the Whitleys.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Would you say ‘bullied?’” he asks.
“Why?” Dean shakes his head and Sam nods. He knows. They’ve done enough of this at this point. For once, it really is a milk run of a job. Easy breezy. “And get this — the grandmother, Sylvia Whitley. She’s a Dale. As in a descendant of Gerold Dale.”
“Our ghost.”
“Our ghost,” Sam concurs. “And you’ll never guess where his bones are now. Historical society. Preserved as a part of local history. I already scoped it out. Should be easy enough, once it closes.”
“You were busy,” Dean remarks, but he’s not annoyed by it like he has been lately. This feels good, like they’re getting their groove back. Even if they can’t stop all the old lady’s grandchildren from being little dicks, or bring them back from the dead, but at least they can stop the damn thing from taking any more lives. Even selfish, douchey lives.
Gerold Dale is on display in the back of the historical society. There are no alarms, no security. Who would possibly want to disturb the final-ish resting place of someone who’s biggest claim to fame is that they died in a snowstorm, the volunteers reasoned, Dean presumes. Now, the only thing Gerold Dale is good for is attracting tourists. Of course, no one tours Mount Moses Minnesota, except people who get stuck there on their way to somewhere more interesting. He and Sam have seen probably a thousand museums and local attractions and historical societies that people who live in the town have never laid eyes on, and this one is no different. Chilly and echoing, but no more secure than the two-hundred year old diner one mile off the freeway, or the corner store, or Old Lady Whitley’s home. Locked up tight enough to discourage teenagers from drinking inside and that’s it. Besides some old bones and a few interesting artifacts, there’s not even anything worth stealing.
Sam struggles with the lock. He drops his lock pick. “Shit,” he swears under his breath. Dean watches him with his hands in his pocket, breathing out a cloud of cold air. “Sorry,” Sam mutters. “Cold hands.” He picks the thing up off the ground and lets them in with a soft click, but Dean doesn’t miss the way his hands shake when he puts it away.
“You okay, man?” Dean asks, bracing himself.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Sam answers with a shrug.
Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, maybe the ghouls that tried to eat you yesterday?”
“Oh.” He says it like he forgot. “No, man, I’m fine. I really didn’t lose that much blood. Come on, Gerold’s back here.” Sam stalks away from him, leading him to the back of the building. The Historical Society is in an old house, and Gerold Dale is the main attraction, all the way towards the back so you have to pass the front desk to see him. “it’s kinda grim,” Sam comments blithely, stopping in front of the glass case with items surrendered by the Dale Family generations ago, when his death started to become a myth.
“Where are the bones?” Dean wonders.
“Storage,” Sam says. “Basement. They’re working on some place to inter him. Not gonna get the chance.” He nods at the door to their left. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
They trudge into the basement. There’s a pull string that knocks into Sam’s head with a light tinkle of the metal handle against the string, and the faint hum of electricity as the lights come on. Sam lets go of the dusty string and wipes his hand against his jean, before digging in his pocket for the map of the basement, swiped from the curator’s desk this afternoon, and a flashlight. The only other thing he’s got with him is his shotgun, leaving Dean to carry the rest of their gear. It’s a milk run, Sam reminded him. They don’t both need to prepped like they’re going to war for a simple salt and burn.
“Here,” Sam grunts, point his flashlight towards a new coffin. “Here lies Mr. Gerold Dale, frozen to death in 1873.”
Dean laughs, pulling out his lighter fluid. “This’ll warm him up,” he says.
Sam laughs. “Maybe we should do this outside,” he says anyway. Always trying to be reasonable, but Dean’s already unloading his gear. They’ve burned bodies inside before and Sam’s already opening the window a crack for ventilation. There’s an old wood furnace in the corner. Good thing the poor guy’s all bones. It would be nasty business, hacking up his corpse. With a wicked chuckle Sam chucks the bones into the fire and Dean douses them with lighter fluid. “Bye Gerold,” he says.
The temperature plummets and Gerold Dale flickers in for a second and then flickers out. The basement warms up quick once he’s gone and Sam lowers himself onto the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest to watch the bones burn down to ash. “What do you think his deal was?”
Dean shrugs and perches himself on a stack of boxes. "Who cares," he says. "For once, a job was as easy as it looked."
When the flames start to die, Sam stands up. He looks like shit. Dean feels restless. Ghost just flickered out and died, like it meant nothing to him. Guess they didn't get here in time to save anybody, or maybe the saved another generation of douchey kids. Sam's drained, literally, and it'll be a relief when they're back at Bobby's. Sam pulls on the doorknob at the top of the steps and stops. "Door's jammed," he grunts, and pushes harder, rattling the doorknob. "Fuck."
"What? No, move." Dean shoulders him out of the way. Sam moves easily, but the door doesn't budge. Not even when Dean tries his lockpick or breaking it down. "You think it's a ghost?"
"Uh," Sam stutters. He’s squinting at the door in the half light. "I think it's like...the inside of a vault. Only opens from the outside. Sorry."
"You didn't notice?"
Sam grits his teeth. "There's no security here, Dean, why would I think to notice that the door the basement locks from the outside." He turns around and stomps back down the stairs. "I'm too big for the window. Why is there even a fucking knob on the door to begin with?"
"We are going to get arrested," Dean grumbles, following Sam
"Bobby's less than an hour from here," Sam reasons. "He can be here way before anyone comes in for the day."
"Yeah, good thinking." Sam doesn't move to take out his phone. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls his phone from his pocket. No signal. He goes up the stairs. No signal. Down the stairs. No signal. "Fuck."
Sam sits again, back against the wall, face squinted like he's fighting off a headache. Dean clenches his jaw, pacing back and forth, scooching Sam out of the way with his foot to hold his cellphone closer to the window. One bar, but only when he holds his phone over his head. Not ideal for making a phone call. "Hey, gigantor, get up," he says. Sam has put his head between his knees and looks up. "I need you to use your long legs to call Bobby."
"Dean," he grumbles, but he gets up anyway and snatches the phone out of Dean's hands and holds it up. Searching for the bar that Dean just lost. He has to stretch a little, but Sam is four inches taller than Dean and it makes the difference, apparently. Not that Dean wants to admit it, even after all this time. It helps that it annoys Sam too at least, especially right now. He's scowling, waiting for Bobby to pick up. Answering machine. "Hey, Bobby, it's Sam," he says. "We're in Mount Moses, Minnesota and uh, we're kinda...trapped in the basement of the historical society. I'm gonna try you again, but uh, if you're home, could you come and get us." He hangs up, dials Bobby's cell. Voicemail. "Hey, Bobby, it's Sam. We're in Mount Moses, Minnesota, trapped in the basement of the historical society. Yeah, I know, idjits. Can you come pick us up?"
He hangs up and scowls at Dean some more. "Uh uh, I am not getting arrested, try again."
"Dean, come on," Sam complains. There's not a lot of light down here, but Dean can see that Sam's getting paler somehow. He tries to think if he saw Sam eat since his OJ last night. Dean's not actually sure how Sam stays as big as he is with the way he eats and he wants to make a comment, but he cans it, and crosses his arms, matching Sam's scowl until Sam relents. This time, Bobby picks up.
"What?" Bobby's voice is muffled and tinny from the phone.
Sam grimaces. "Hey, Bobby, it's Sam," he says. "Uh, Dean and I are on a hunt in Mount Moses, Minnesota and we're sorta, uhm, trapped in a basement. At the historical society." Dean can't hear what Bobby says next, but Sam grimaces more. "No, we're fine. They have this friggin' one way door. Locked behind us." A pause. Dean can imagine what Bobby is saying. "Uh huh. Yeah, thanks, Bobby."
Sam hangs up the phone. "Uh, so Bobby's a little further out. But he's coming."
"How much farther?"
"Four hours. He's in Nebraska dealing with a succubus."
It's early at least. All they have to do is wait. "Can't believe you got us trapped in here," Dean grumbles, mostly to see if he can get a rise out of Sam, who sinks back down to the floor. He doesn't take the bait. He's rubbing his temples now. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I just..." he shrugs. "I guess those ghouls did more damage than I first thought."
"You were fine earlier," Dean comments. He holds out his hand for his phone and Sam hands it back, their fingers brushing long enough for Dean to notice how clammy he is. Sam's scowl deepens. “Seriously, man as soon as we get out of here, you need to like, chug a gallon of water, eat something substantial, and sleep. For like, four days.”
"I'll be fine, Dean. We just have to wait for Bobby."
"Yeah, well," Dean grunts, squatting to find the water bottle in his bag, handing it to Sam. He looks green."Don't barf." Sam shrugs, and while Dean’s down there, he leans over to check Sam's temperature. He's warm, but not alarmingly so. Sam watches Dean skeptically and scoots away. "How're your arms?"
"The same. I'm not dying, Dean, I'm just..." He pales even more and hunches over away from Dean, gagging and retching. He looks worse, shivering, wiping his mouth, eyes a little glassy.
"Yeah," Dean grumbles. Sam rolls his eyes and cracks open the water bottle to rinse out his mouth. He spits halfheartedly, and starts to stand. Dean pushes him back down more forcefully than he means to. Sam lifts the water bottle to his lips. "You're fine. Drink. Slowly."
"I'm not an infant, Dean," Sam argues.
They wait.
Sam gets worse. It's not like Dean can do anything here, and they just have to wait. Wait for Bobby, who's at least still two and a half hours away. Dean can't stop pacing. He feels like a caged animal, watching Sam sip slowly from the one bottle of water Dean brought with them. Sam has puked again, which is probably a good sign. He isn't panicking. He isn't. Sam's just...Sam's just pale, because he doesn't know how to take care of himself, and he lost a lot of blood. Maybe more blood than Dean had realized. And Sam's been — he's been erratic and irritable, and he says all it is is that he has to be ready, has to be strong. Strong for the end of the world, to kill Lilith, because he thinks he's the only one who can, and Dean can't understand why Sam believes this, but maybe something else is wrong.
"Dude, would you sit down?" Sam complains, throwing his head against the wall. "God, it's hot in here."
It is hot in here, from the fire and the mugginess outside, but it isn't sweating buckets hot. Sam's drenched, even by Sam-Standards, a ring of sweat at his collar and blooming under his arms, his hair limp and damp. "Maybe your fever's breaking," Dean says, coming to sit next to him. "Come here." He takes the water bottle gingerly from Sam and lays a hand against his forehead. He's still hot to the touch, but he doesn't shrug away, which is more alarming. Dean digs through his gear, to the first aid kit buried at the bottom. "Let me see your arms," he says, and Sam rolls up his sleeves gingerly. The gauze Sam applied last night is sweaty, the adhesive slipping, and Dean can see the angry red gashes peaking out from underneath. He strips off the gauze.
Sam's biting his lip, watching Dean. "See," he says hoarsely. "I told you I was fine."
"Hmmph." His wounds are a little red, but it's hard to tell how bad this is. If Sam's got the worst timing in the world getting sick with something else or if he's developing weird symptoms related to blood loss or his wounds are infected. "Well, what'd Dad always say? Better safe than sorry."
"Did Dad say that?" Sam shivers again. Dean grips Sam's arm tighter, like he's going to be able to stop Sam from slipping away, like Sam's in danger of slipping away. Sam winces.
Dean ignores him, ignores the spacey quality in his voice, his glassy eyes, and rests Sam's arms over his knees as he opens the first aid kit. Antibacterial wipes, ointment. Stuff only to be used in an emergency, but this feels like an emergency for some reason. Even though it isn’t. Bobby’s on his way, and it’s only one in the morning. They’ll be out before dawn and Sam’s sick, but he’s not dying sick. He needs rest, probably something to eat, and he needs his wounds cleaned someplace that isn’t a dusty basement. Still. Dean can do this. He can feel the tightness in his chest loosen a little, dabbing Sam’s arms gently. Sam’s eyes are closed now, his teeth gritted. “We’ll be out of here before dawn,” Dean says, just to say something.
“Yeah, I know,” Sam answers, squeezing his eyes tighter. Dean rewraps Sam’s arms, holds them in his hands. He stays like that, squatted in front of Sam until his knees ache, looking at his washed out face. Dean bites his lip. He can’t help Sam here, he doesn’t even know what’s wrong. Dean shifts on his feet, closes the first aid kit. “Don’t —” Sam swallows, twisting his hands into Dean’s coat. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m not,” Dean says. “Dude, you’re starting to freak me out.” He doesn’t untangle Sam’s hand from his jacket when he moves to slowly sit beside him, resting against the wall.
“I’m sorry, man,” Sam says. “I feel like shit.”
“Yeah, I gathered.”
“No, I mean — I mean this whole year. I mean since you’ve been back.” Dean doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to talk about Hell or him and Sam. “I know you’ve been having a hard time. And I mean, who can blame you, you know? But I thought I could help. If I was stronger. Tougher. More like Dad. More like you.” Sam keeps talking, rambling like he always does when he’s sick. “I feel like I’m making it worse.”
“Sam,” Dean warns. He can feel that dark pit in his stomach expanding, threatening to swallow them both whole. He wants to tell Sam that it’s not his fault, that he’s not making it any worse, but it would feel like a lie. He can’t lie to Sam right now, but he definitely can’t tell him the truth. Not like this. How angry he is. How scared that Sam’s gone off the deep end and it’s his fault. Dean swallows. Sam swallows in unison next to him.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he repeats. “I thought if I could be stronger you wouldn’t have to shoulder it all on your own. I’m making it worse.”
“You’re not making it worse,” Dean lies. “This situation is just fucked. I mean, mid-Apocalypse we find out Dad had a secret family? Our lives just suck.” Sam laughs hollowly next to him. Dean twists to look at Sam’s face, at the wan, hollow lines of it. Dean can’t reconcile the things he knows Sam’s done in the last few months with the look he sees on there now. Drained. Defeated. Miserable. Exactly like the kid brother Dean’s always known. He doesn’t deserve Sam, trusting him, clinging to him. Even after everything, Sam’s still hanging on, still trying to be like him. “You’re not making it worse,” he says again, this time prying Sam’s fingers from his coat. “Aright? You’re not making it worse.” He means it more. Their lives are fucked, and all Sam’s doing with his freaky-deaky powers and shitty attitude is trying to help. Dean opens the first kit back up to retrieve the Tylenol. “Take this,” he says, dumping two pills into Sam’s outstretched hand. Sam doesn’t move, holds the tablets in his palms. “Come on, Sammy, please,” he insists, closing Sam’s fingers around the Tylenol. Sam nods slowly, and then tosses it back like a shot. “Whatever this is, Sam, it’s temporary. Bobby’ll be here soon, and we can get you looked after.”
“Sure, Dean,” he says softly. Dean doesn’t have to tell Sam to try and get some sleep. He feels Sam’s head slump onto his shoulder, and even though he’s pretty sure Sam’s not actually asleep, since he keeps writhing around like he’s sitting on pins and needles, Dean lets it go. There’s nothing else he can do for Sam now. All they have to do is wait for Bobby.
An hour later, the door rattles, and Bobby’s shadow looms over them at the top of the stairs. “Boys?”
Dean jumps, startling Sam awake. “We’re down here,” he calls. “Hold on, we’ll be right up.”
Sam’s looking around disoriented and groggy, but Dean helps him to his feet and follows him up the stairs. Bobby gives them a once over and snorts. “Good going. You look like hell.”
“Yeah,” Sam croaks, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Think I’m coming down with something.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “Next time you call, make sure it’s an emergency,” he says, clapping Sam so hard on the back that Sam winces.
In the car, Sam starts shaking his leg again. He seems a little better. It’s still dark out and their only fifteen minutes away from Bobby’s when Sam’s agitation gets the better of him. He shuts off the radio snappishly. Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam doesn’t see. “Sorry, Sammy, we’re almost back,” Dean says conciliatorily.
“Can we stop?”
Sam’s response shocks him. He looks at him to see if he’s going to puke. “You gonna puke?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, I don’t — can we just stop?”
“Here?”
“No, somewhere with…not here,” he says hotly.
“No, Sam, we’re literally almost back,” Dean snaps back. “Seriously, what is with you?”
Sam rubs his hands on his jeans. “Sorry,” he mutters, cranking the window. As soon as they’re back, Sam catapults himself from the car and disappears while Dean brings in their backpacks.
“Sam okay?” Bobby wonders.
Dean shrugs. “Ghouls got him,” he says. “I’m worried about his arms.” But truthfully, something’s nagging at him, like Sam’s slipping away from him in ways that Dean’s too stupid to see.
“Well, when he comes in, we’ll take a better look,” Bobby says simply.
“He’s not — where’d he go?”
“He’s your brother, you tell me,” Bobby is saying, but Dean’s already bursting back into the junkyard to find Sam sitting on the front step, looking calmly into the early morning. He seems back to normal.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about all that.”
“Sorry?” Dean says dumbly. “Sam, you’re delirious, let me check your arms.”
“Dean, I promise —” He sighs. “Can you just sit down? Can we just…not fight?” So Dean sits. “I am strong enough,” Sam says, his eyes fixed on the horizon over the heaps of scrap metal and beat up cars. “I am, Dean. Trust me.”
He can’t do that, he realizes. Sam’s not…he’s not who he’s supposed to be, and there’s something wrong. He can just feel it, that dark pit in his stomach telling him that there’s something wrong with Sam, and Sam doesn’t realize it. But he doesn’t know how to tell Sam that without starting a fight, so he stays quiet.
“Fine,” Sam mutters. “But I don’t need you to trust me to know that I’m strong enough. I guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”
They sit for a little while longer, and once the sun is up and Dean’s eyes are burning from lack of sleep, Sam stands, slaps Dean on the back. “Thanks. For earlier by the way,” he says, without offering an explanation, and goes inside.