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The motel room door creaked softly as Sam stepped inside, his footsteps silent on the worn-out carpet to avoid waking Dean. The bitter taste of demon blood still lingered in his mouth, the stench of sulfur clinging to his clothes, his hair. It had been a long night. Ruby was already gone, as she always was, leaving him with his thoughts spinning between exhaustion and guilt.
He ran a hand over his face, drained, ready to collapse onto the bed and shut everything out. But then he saw it.
Dean was on the floor between the beds.
Sam’s heart seized in his chest. He froze for a second, his brain failing to process what he was seeing. But then the smell of blood snapped everything into place.
The scene hit him like a punch. Like a gunshot. Like a scream caught in his throat.
Dean was lying on his side, his face pale, breaths coming in uneven gasps. His lips were slightly parted, a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His fingers were curled inward, his body positioned awkwardly, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle as if he had been yanked down by forces he couldn’t control. A dark stain was spreading beneath him on the carpet.
Sam dropped to his knees on the grimy motel floor, his hands trembling as he reached for his brother’s face.
- “Dean? Hey. Dean.”
He carefully turned him over, and that’s when he saw it—the gash on Dean’s forehead, the dried blood tangled in his hair. The dampness of his jeans.
Dean didn’t react. His skin was too warm, feverish, but he remained still.
Sam glanced around, searching for something—anything—he could do. But the most terrifying part of it all was the familiarity.
This had happened before.
Then – The First Fall
February 1992
The fall wasn’t high, but the sound of it made Sam’s stomach drop.
Dean had just come inside, covered in mud and sweat. Now that he was 13, he went on more hunts with John. He had settled in a corner of the room, cleaning a hunting knife with practiced, automatic movements, like it was second nature.
John was in the kitchen.
Sam had been flipping through an old book he found on the table, not really reading.
Then came the sound.
The knife hitting the floor.
A strangled noise.
And a dull, heavy thud.
Dean on the ground.
His body had gone rigid in a way that was wrong, his muscles locked, face pale, eyes unfocused and unmoving.
- “Dean?”
John was there in seconds.
He dropped everything he was doing, kneeling beside his son and trying to hold him in a way that would keep him from hurting himself any further.
Sam had never seen John like that before… he had never seen that look in his father’s eyes.
John knelt by Dean, cradling his head carefully.
- “Sam, get the keys. Now.”
Sam didn’t respond. He just ran.
The image of his brother—his always-strong, always-capable brother—on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, was something he would never forget.
John didn’t ease his concern, even when the convulsions stopped. He still held Dean, eyes scanning every inch of him, tracking every short, trembling breath his son took.
Dean blinked sluggishly, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something.
But no words came.
The ride to the hospital was a blur. John barely spoke. He kept glancing at Dean every few minutes, repeating the same words: “You’re okay.”
Sam sat in the back seat, trying not to notice the way John’s knuckles whitened against the steering wheel.
Dean, slumped in the passenger seat, still looked lost. His eyelids flickered slowly, as if the world around him was moving too fast.
Sam kept watching him, waiting for a joke, a sarcastic remark, anything.
Nothing.
Dean wasn’t trying to be strong. He looked small.
John spoke to the doctor with urgency. His voice was serious. Worried. Tests were run—bloodwork, scans, an endless series of examinations.
The following days were a mess.
At first, the doctors said it might have been a one-time thing. But then another one came.
And another.
And more tests.
Until it wasn’t random anymore.
It was a diagnosis.
Epilepsy.
John didn’t argue. He didn’t question. He just asked:
-"What do we do now?"
And he did it.
It took time to find the right dosage, to make the seizures less frequent, to regain some level of control.
Sam remembered every detail. The seizures that followed, the false hope when they started spacing out, only for them to return.
He remembered how John, who had always treated Dean like a little soldier, pulled him away from hunting for a while. Not because he wanted to. But because he had to.
Sam remembered how much Dean hated it.
But John was firm. He wasn’t going to lose a son—not to a monster, and not to his own body.
And slowly, Dean had taken control again.
But Sam never forgot the way John looked at him in those days.
Not like a little soldier.
But like a son.
Now – Hell and Reality
Sam dropped to his knees beside Dean.
- “Dean? Hey, man, can you hear me?”
Dean’s eyelids fluttered. Consciousness was fragmented, caught in the haze of the postictal state.
Sam touched his face, feeling the heat radiating from his clammy skin.
His heart pounded against his ribs.
Dean tried to move, but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate yet. A sluggish, confused attempt that wasn’t what Sam expected. Seizures left Dean vulnerable, not alert. This was different. Sam kept him down.
Dean blinked again, his gaze unfocused.
- “What… happened?”
His voice was raw, like it had been dragged over broken glass.
Sam swallowed.
- “You had a seizure.”
Dean furrowed his brow, discomfort settling in. He knew what that meant.
But then Sam asked, confused, unable to hold back:
- “What happened to make them come back?”
Dean seemed to try to process something.
- “Dean, did you do anything different?”
- “…Happened there.”
Dean closed his eyes for a second, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
- “There?” Sam repeated, already knowing what he meant.
Dean didn’t answer right away. But his breathing hitched.
Sam’s stomach twisted.
- “You had seizures in Hell?”
Dean didn’t need to answer. Sam already knew.
And now, it all made sense. The decline. The return. The hyper-awareness now. The waiting for the next round of torture.
The thought of Dean alone, vulnerable, as Alastair tore him apart—while his own body betrayed him.
Sam’s chest ached. His world shattered.
There.
The seizures came back in Hell.
Dean had spent 40 years in Hell.
And no one knew.
No one had been there to hold him afterward.
No one had been there to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.
No one had been there.
Hell was pain. But Hell was also this.
A weakened body. Tremors. Vulnerability in front of monsters.
And Sam had gone off to find Ruby, believing his own suffering was the worst of all.
He wanted to throw up. Sam clenched his jaw, trying to push back the guilt, failing miserably.
Dean struggled to sit up.
He braced against his elbows, breath shaky, every movement an effort.
But Sam placed a hand on his shoulder.
- “No.”
Dean hesitated, words still slow to come together.
- “I need...”
- “Just... stay down, man. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest.”
And then, in a hoarse whisper, Dean said:
- “You already did.”
Sam froze. Guilt crushed him.
Dean wasn’t talking about Hell now. He was talking about earlier. That night. When Sam had snuck out to meet Ruby.
When Dean had needed him and he wasn’t there.
Sam felt sick.
He lowered his head.
- “I’m here now,” he murmured, voice quiet but certain.
Dean let out a slow breath.
Sam pressed a hand to his damp hair. Dean shuddered under his touch but didn’t pull away.
Dean exhaled, and for the first time in a long time, Sam saw his brother breathe without weight.
Even if only for a few seconds.
-- The end--