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Sam had been acting squirrely since he’d gotten back from running errands.
Yeah, okay, so Dean was one to talk. He was pretty sure his ongoing guilt about letting an angel ride his brother—without said brother knowing—was always written across his face, his actions. He was worried about Sam, and Cas, and, you know, the fate of the world. And after the Trials, they were both kinda floundering, trying to figure out what next, what to do about a bunch of grounded angels and a human Cas, looking for answers about how to reopen Heaven, researching Metatron and Abaddon. Sam was still held together by super glue and hope, angel notwithstanding, and Dean didn’t feel much steadier himself most days.
So he didn’t really ask questions when, after their most recent hunt finished, Sam said he needed to pick up some supplies and would be gone overnight. Dean even gave Sam his blessing to take the car—with lots of dire warnings about returning it in pristine condition—and told him to make good choices. Sam warned him off of messing with his stuff because, yeah, that always worked. Then he left, and Dean settled in for a night of Korean barbeque and a Mission: Impossible movie marathon to try to keep himself from thinking too much.
Sam returned the next afternoon as planned, bearing a new kind of jerky he’d found for Dean to try and the spark plugs his brother had asked him to pick up. Dean pointedly didn’t ask what Sam had gotten for himself.
But Sam did act a little…weird. Squirrely. They went out to eat, and the conversation was scintillating.
“So, where’d you spend the night?”
“Outside St. Louis.”
“You went all the way to Missouri?”
“Nashville, actually.”
“Must’ve been an important errand.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You see Rayna and Juliette while you were there?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
When they got home, Sam proceeded to honest-to-God putter for a while.
Sam didn’t putter. He researched and wrote and read and sometimes watched a movie with Dean. He didn’t wander the bunker restlessly, picking up books and putting them down two minutes later.
“Sam?”
“Hmm?”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, ’course. Why?”
“Because you’ve grabbed, uh, Psychic Parasites three times now. There something you want to tell me?”
“Oh. Uh. No, I just…thought it was in the wrong spot.”
“…Right.”
And then Sam said he was going to go into town to check the mail. Because apparently he hadn’t had a chance to do that during the almost twenty-four hours he’d been gone. Did he just want to be away from Dean? And, no, that wasn’t something Dean worried about at all.
But he bit his tongue and said, sure, sounded good. They both had times when they needed a little space from each other. Of course, Sam had had a seven-hour drive that day by himself, but whatever.
It did cross Dean’s mind to ask Zeke what was going on with Sam. Although they really needed to figure out a code word; Sam was getting suspicious about how many times Dean randomly said the name “Ezekiel.” But the angel would tell him if something was really wrong. And, after having violated Sam’s privacy so thoroughly, Dean couldn’t really bring himself to begrudge his brother anything Sam didn’t want to talk about. So he just told Sam to text him if he needed something and not to stay out too late.
And then he’d sat in his room and waited and worried about Sam like some kind of freakin’ mom of a teenager.
A month before, Sam had been dying. The Trials were burning him up instead of just purifying him like Sam had hoped. Ezekiel coming along right then had been a miracle Dean couldn’t turn down. And Sam really did seem okay now; Zeke said he was getting better inside, too. The angel had even saved Sam’s life once. So what if Dean had to watch every word now, constantly aware that someone was listening in? So Sam didn’t know he had company in his skin and couldn’t find out or Zeke could leave. So the guilt was eating at Dean. Small price to pay. Dean just had to suck it up. He’d done far worse for Sam.
It was close to midnight when Sam returned. From the post office that closed at five. He looked tired and still a little shifty, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes when he said goodnight and disappeared into his room. Maybe there was a lady involved?, Dean hoped. Sammy could be hilariously modest about hook-ups. Like Dean was going to judge.
Dean finally shrugged and turned in, too. He could figure out the puzzle that was Sam the next day. Not like he didn’t have a ton of experience in that department.
He went to sleep as soon as the lights were off, his door cracked open, just in case.
A soft thud woke him some time later. Dean didn’t bother opening his eyes, just called sleepily, “Sam? Y’all right?”
There was no answer, just a…hacking sound.
A little more awake, Dean reached for the lamp. “Sammy?”
Definite gasps now from the hallway.
Dean bolted out of bed and yanked his door open, taking a look out. “Sam!”
Sam was on his hands and knees a few steps past his own room. Even as Dean rushed to him, his brother vomited again, his whole body jerking. His arms started to fold.
“Whoa, whoa, hey.” Dean grabbed his nearest shoulder and looped an arm around Sam’s middle to keep him from face-planting in the mess. “What’d you eat on—?”
Then he saw the blood.
Sam was spewing dark red blood, but not just that. There were black streaks in it, like…oil, or Leviathan goo.
This wasn’t just bad convenience store snacks.
“Sam, what the—?”
Sam was shivering and, more disturbingly, pawing at his chest like it hurt. “Sor-ry,” he mumbled. “’M sor-ry.”
“Yeah, you’re definitely sorry,” Dean groused as he tried to keep his brother upright while Sam threatened to slip out of his grip. Dean finally registered that, even through his t-shirt, Sam’s skin was hot. “Are you sick? Sam? What’s happening?”
But Sam had retched one more time, blood bubbling at his mouth, and then his eyes rolled up and he went limp.
Dean swore, grabbing him more firmly. “Okay, all right.” He glanced helplessly up and down the hall as if an answer would present itself, then down to his insensate brother. “First things first. Let’s get that temp down, little brother.”
It was déjà vu to another motel room just months before, Sam resonating somehow with that douche Metatron and burning up. Dean had hauled him up then just like now, dragging him to the bathroom. There was a rarely used tub next to the bunker shower, and Dean heaved Sam into it, then turned on the cold water. At Metatron’s motel, Sam hadn’t been puking up blood. Or…whatever that black stuff was.
“Crap,” Dean muttered to himself. Sam had coughed up blood during the Trials. Dean had thought they were past that.
Sam hadn’t reacted yet to the cold, head slumped back against the tile wall behind the bathtub. Dean knelt beside him now and took his chin in hand.
“Ezekiel?”
Nothing, not from Sam and not from the angel.
Dean arranged the long limbs more comfortably, checked that the water was still running cold. He should add ice like last time, but he couldn’t make himself leave Sam, not yet. His brother was shaking so hard now, he could easily slip down in the tub and the pooling water, but he hadn’t regained consciousness.
Dean swore, grabbing the nearest towel to jam under Sam’s head, taking a moment to check his pulse. It was rapid but strong.
“Zeke!” Dean tried again, shaking Sam’s shoulder a little. “What’s going on?”
Nothing.
What did it mean if the angel didn’t answer? Was Zeke sick, too? Was that…black stuff coming out of Sam from him? Angels “bled” light, not tar.
Whatever. “Sammy?” Dean tried now, patting his brother’s flushed cheek. “Hey, c’mon, time to wake up.” He chafed the hot face. “Sam, dude, you’re scaring me.”
Sam finally roused a little. His eyes fluttered open, but they were glassy, confused.
“Good, that’s it. Sleepy time’s over—look at me, Sam.” He graduated to light slapping, trying to rouse Sam further. “What’s wrong with you?”
The water was up to his waist, and Sam’s teeth were chattering. He pushed back a little against Dean, trying to escape the discomfort.
“I know, I know it’s cold. You gotta stay here a moment, Sammy. Look at me, c’mon,” Dean said insistently, one hand cupping Sam’s face now, the other holding his shoulder. “What’s going on with you?”
There. Something flickered in Sam’s half-open eyes.
“Sam?” Dean said it more firmly, Dad’s Marine voice. “Talk to me.”
He had to lean close to hear. Sam was drooping again already, and coughed weakly, red dribbling down his chin. But Dean heard him. “S’okay. Be…okay.”
Dean blinked. “You’re gonna be okay?” he asked incredulously. He shook his brother a little. “Sam? You know what this is?”
“Sorrrrry,” Sam slurred helpfully once more, then his eyes shut as he started to slide down in the bathtub.
“Son of a…” Dean ran through a couple more swear words as he quickly grabbed at Sam to keep him from submerging. The bathtub was almost full, and he quickly freed a hand to twist the faucet off, then went back to hoisting up his waterlogged brother. Sam seemed a little cooler, and Dean just had to go with it.
Lifting 200-plus pounds of limp body into a tub was a pain. Lifting it out when it was drenched and slippery and you couldn’t let it drown was a nightmare. Dean finally had to sort of tip the kid out, apologizing tersely when Sam faceplanted on wet tile, then heave him up against the side of the tub.
“All right, dude, anytime you wanna wake up and help me with this would be great.” Dean grabbed another towel and rubbed at Sam’s dripping hair, goose-pimpled skin. His brother was definitely cooler but still shivering. “Anytime,” Dean repeated, trying for annoyed instead of out-of-his-mind worried.
He wrestled off Sam’s clinging tee, then his sweatpants, working a towel under him. When he’d dried Sam off as best as he could in that wet room, Dean took a breath.
“This’ll be fun,” he muttered, and planted his shoulder under Sam’s arm.
The less said about carrying an unconscious, naked dude four inches taller than he was, the better. That it was Sam at least distracted Dean, fear overriding the awkwardness. Still, he was grateful when he finally got Sam under the covers of his bed.
Then Sam groaned and, without waking, rolled to the side of the bed and threw up more blood and black stuff. Dean jumped back just in time.
Then had to lunge forward to keep Sam from tumbling right off the bed.
Dean looked at the mess at his feet, then the once more limp Sam under his hands.
“Awesome,” he sighed.
So…hospital? Unknown cause plus horking up blood usually equaled professional help. But the slimy black gunk? That wasn’t normal. And supernatural symptoms meant a different kind of professional.
The pang of wanting Bobby that hit out of nowhere was so strong that it momentarily stung Dean’s eyes. He missed the older man, full stop. But it had also been so reassuring to know he was always there, ready to share Dean’s worries about Sam, to help him find answers. There was no one else now; Dean had to figure out on his own what was wrong and fix it.
Setting his jaw, he patted Sam’s shoulder. “All right, you just take it easy, Linda Blair. I’ll be right back.” He straightened up, thinking.
Sam had apologized, several times, and said it would be okay. Which meant he not only knew what this was but had probably initiated it, the idiot. Those “errands”?
Dean glanced around the room, then headed to the pile of stuff on Sam’s desk. Hopefully not something to do with the Trials, but that left, what, trying to find a way to deal with Metatron, or Abaddon? Something risky that had Sam spewing blood?
There were several pouches of herbs on Sam’s desk, along with a jar Dean recognized from the Impala’s trunk and a bowl that was empty but stained a deep green. Worse, there was also a glass from their kitchen with a residue of green in it. Dean’s eyes narrowed as he took it all in and did the math. “What did you do?” he muttered as he grabbed the papers next to the chemistry set.
The writing wasn’t Sam’s. It wasn’t old, either, blue pen on regular lined paper. No helpful title, like, Love Potion No. 9, just a recipe for the worst smoothie ever, all weird herbs and minerals.
Sam coughed weakly in bed. Dean looked over, but there didn’t seem to be any vomit in sight. He went back to the notes.
The other pages weren’t helpful. There were drawings of plants, and a few citations Dean didn’t have the time and patience to look up right now. Nothing about fever or throwing up red and black or unconsciousness.
Dean frowned, frustrated. “We’re gonna have a good long talk—again—about doing stupid stuff on your own,” he promised darkly. He wanted to be mad at Sam for keeping a secret…again. But considering an angel was riding Sam without his knowledge thanks to Dean…well, Dean wasn’t that much of a hypocrite.
Maybe Sam had sensed something was off and was trying to get rid of his silent passenger? Dean went back to the recipe and considered each ingredient now with a hunter’s eye.
Mandrake root. Love and protection. Also a hallucinogen, if Dean remembered right.
Ash leaves. Protection?
Frankincense. Exorcisms and…consecration.
Sage. Purification.
Salt. Well, that one was obvious.
And ground wolf’s bone. Dean picked up the empty jar and stared at it. Wolf’s bone, used for protection.
Purification, consecration, and protection. Dean’s eyes darted back and forth as he added that up.
He realized with a sudden sinking feeling what this was about.
“These Trials. They’re purifying me.”
Sam had believed that. And then Dean had talked him out of finishing them.
He marched over to Sam’s bed and shook his brother’s shoulder. “Sam. Hey, wake up. We gotta talk.”
Sam murmured something, then turned his head and threw up spectacularly on his sheets.
Well, crap.
Dean had sewed up many a wound; blood and guts didn’t bother him much. He’d dug up maggot-y bodies, dealt with fresh ones whose bowels and bladder had released, changed diapers, wiped snotty kid noses. Even done bedpan duty a few times when his brother had been seriously incapacitated.
Vomit was worse. Just the smell of it elicited a sympathetic gag in Dean. It was the one bodily fluid that really disgusted him.
So of course, that was what Sam was producing in copious amounts.
“Dude, how do you even have anything left to puke up?” Dean asked wearily as he took yet another repulsive towel out into the hall where he’d dragged a hamper to collect them. Saved trips to the bathroom.
He’d given up on the bucket a few hours back. Sam just wasn’t aware enough to aim. After the second change of sheets, Dean had gotten smart and rolled his idiot brother onto his side, then put down a garbage bag and a towel. They were on the fifth one now.
“Gonna have to run laundry at this point just to keep you in linens.” Dean laid another towel out, and pinched Sam’s skin while he was at it to check his hydration level. He’d tried to get Sam to drink, but nothing stayed down long. “Yeah, you’ll need that IV soon,” Dean said reluctantly.
He was talking to himself, really. Sam hadn’t been lucid since his apologies. Which, by the way, were totally inadequate for what had followed. Vomit duty was just foul, and Dean swore the black stuff in the last batch actually moved.
But most of all, Dean was worried. “You wanna wake up and tell me how long this is supposed to last?” he asked, sounding more plaintive than he liked. He sat down on the edge of the bed and changed out the cold compresses around Sam’s neck and armpits for fresh ones. Then he rubbed his own face with both hands, elbows propped on his thighs. Dean was so freakin’ tired.
Sam sighed and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like Dad. His red-apple cheeks and mussed hair made him look about ten, but that was the fever burning through him. Purifying? It sounded like the Trials had already charbroiled him inside; what if this finished the job?
Dean peered at him over his fingertips, then dropped his hands, adjusted Sam’s blanket. “I don’t suppose you could just drop the name of the witch or-or whoever it was who gave you this ritual, right?”
Sam coughed, a dribble of red running down his chin. His eyes scrunched together, then relaxed again.
“Yeah, thought so,” Dean said, wiping the blood away with the corner of the towel. “That would be too easy, right?”
He’d already gone through Sam’s phone and computer, looking for correspondence that might have led to a source. There were a few possibilities, but none of the numbers or email addresses had responded when he’d tried them. Dean had found a used mailing envelope in the trash addressed to Sam in the same handwriting as the pages, but there was no return address, even the postmark smudged. But Sam wouldn’t have done this unless he’d known it wouldn’t kill him…right?
“How ’bout you, Zeke? You wanna chime in here anytime?” Usually the angel intruded where he didn’t belong, but of course now that Dean was asking, Ezekiel was staying mute. His silence felt ominous. Some of those herbs were used for exorcisms; did that include angels?
Sam coughed, first quietly and then with increasing violence. Dean patted his back as he spewed out more blood and gunk.
“I’m so gonna kick your ass when you wake up,” he said as he smoothed Sam’s hair back. Then Dean gathered up the towel with its gross contents and headed out of the room to dig up some IV supplies.
There was another bath when Sam’s temp climbed up to over 106. He was vomiting less, so Dean wanted to call it progress, but Sam was so damned hot. Almost literally.
And it made him mouthy, which Dean was already deeply sorry he’d wished for.
“I’m gonna kill ’im. I’m gonna kill ’im. You…he didn’t do it. I can’t…”
Sam rarely went over a whisper, probably too depleted for more, but the intensity of his words mashed all of Dean’s big brother buttons, hard.
“Dean. Dean, don’ wanna…”
Dean had graduated to bags of ice, tucked in all around Sam’s body. He kept having to move them back as Sam tossed and turned. “You don’t have to, dude. I promise. I got this.”
“I can’t…I can’t watch his back. I’m not…He won’t want…”
Dean’s composure tore a little more. Stripped of walls, Sam was spewing feelings now: insecurities, fears, hurt.
“Can’t do this without…Oh, God, Dean. Dean!”
And love. Wrenching, shocking, humbling love. “I’m here, man.” Dean slid his hand up Sam’s arm to his shoulder and kneaded gently. “Not going anywhere. You either, okay?”
“Dean. No, Dean, please.” Sam was crying now, tears he couldn’t spare. And, between the emotion and the fever, shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering.
“Ah, screw it,” Dean growled, and stood to pull Sam bodily toward the edge of the bed, careful not to snag the IV line. Plucking melting ice packs out of the way, Dean climbed over his brother and settled in beside him. He tugged Sam in chest to chest, as if he were sharing heat instead of trying to dispel it. Sam was an oven on a good day, but now he was blasting warmth, and Dean immediately felt himself start to sweat.
Sam was fretful in his grip. “Dean…no…” He sounded so mournful.
“Calm down, Sammy, I’m right here. You’d see me if you’d just open your freakin’ eyes.” Dean leaned his forehead against Sam’s blazing one and tried to absorb the heat. He rubbed the broad back, muscles that had to be aching fiercely by now. “Okay. Okay, princess, you got your chick-flick moment. How ’bout giving me a break now?”
“Dean…” Barely audible, but Sam was calmer now.
Dean gathered the damp hair at the back of Sam’s neck and lifted it to cool him a little. “If you don’t get a haircut soon, dude, I’m gettin’ you ribbons.”
Sam had gone quiet, maybe listening.
Dean sighed and let his eyes fall shut. “I get why you didn’t tell me about this, you know. I do. You knew I would’ve talked you down from it because it’s a monumentally stupid idea.” Okay, no, he was going for calm. Dean took another breath and opened his eyes, stared at his brother’s pale face. “But I know how much the demon blood always bothered you. The-the purifying you thought the Trials were doing, that was like a bonus, right? Two birds, one giant boulder?” Dean shook his head. “But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It never did. I know it made things harder for you, everything with Yellow Eyes, and I’m sorry about that. But it never…I dunno, tainted you. Hey, you were always more of a straight arrow than I was. You’ve got nothing to prove, to fix.” He tilted his head. “Except maybe this suicidal thing you’ve got going, ’cause this is getting old, Sammy.”
Sam’s lips parted and closed again. They didn’t look so chapped now.
“Yeah,” Dean leaned back on the pillow and his eyes sank shut. “Good talk.”
But he kept up the idle sweeps across Sam’s back as he dozed on and off, all the way until Sam’s fever broke and soaked them both.
Sam slept for a long time after that.
Without windows, days and nights blurred together, and Dean hadn’t exactly been watching the clock. He just knew it had been a really long battle, and Sam was sleeping hard now. However long he did, Dean figured it was good for him.
Once he was pretty sure Sam was past the worst and resting, there’d been clothes and linens to change. Dean took the IV out and got Sam to sip some Gatorade that, Hallelujah, didn’t make a reappearance. Then Dean flopped onto the side of the bed, far enough away that Sam wouldn’t throw up on him if he wasn’t done with that, close enough to know if something was wrong, and fell immediately to sleep.
Sam was still out when Dean woke. He went and took a long shower, made and ate two sandwiches and an apple and a bowl of ice cream, sleepwalked Sam to the bathroom to take care of business, then took another nap, this time in his own bed.
And Sam slept on.
Dean finally sat on the side of his bed and shook him, reluctant to interrupt his brother’s recovery but too worried to wait any longer. “Hey. Sam. Wake up.”
Sam started, blinking sleepily at Dean, eyes never making it open more than halfway. “Wha—?”
“You okay? You want some food, water? I could heat up some soup?”
Sam seemed to ponder, but the gears were turning very slowly.
Dean patted his face. “Sammy? You okay?”
“M’tired, g’way.” Sam rolled onto his stomach, buried his arms beneath his pillow, and mashed his face into it. He was asleep before he finished.
“Tired. Right,” Dean muttered, resisting the urge to throw some water on the guy. “’Cause you were up for hours changing sheets and cleaning up chunks. Oh, wait.”
Sam dozed on. His face had a healthy color in it now, and he breathed easily.
Dean snorted, dropped his head. He was too relieved to really be annoyed, and wasn’t like he didn’t want Sam to rest up.
“Sam will be fine now.”
His head snapped up, just in time to see Sam’s one visible eye flash blue. His face smoothed out into Ezekiel’s eerie impassivity.
“The ritual he did was…overwhelming, and I had to draw back. But we are both well now. Sam merely needs to recover his strength.”
“Oh. Okay.” It always felt awkward talking to the angel, talking through Sam, who wouldn’t know. “Did it, uh…work? The ritual?”
“The demon blood is gone from him.”
Dean blinked. He hadn’t really expected that, somehow. “Wow. Okay. That’s…good.”
“We need to rest.” Without waiting for a response, Ezekiel was gone and Sam’s head fell back onto the pillow, sleep undisturbed.
“Yeah, nice talking to you, too,” Dean muttered. But he checked Sam’s pulse, unsurprised but a little reassured at finding it strong and steady. He stood. “Guess I’ll go…” He pointed his thumb at the door, nodded, and left. He didn’t stop until he hit the hallway, where he paused, wiping a hand over his mouth. Then, face set, moved on.
He ended up in the garage, and started checking the Impala after Sam’s trip, glaring at the protein bar wrapper he found wedged into the door and fastidiously vacuuming out the crumbs. Under the seat, he found a receipt for a shop in Nashville for the mandrake and frankincense. Sighing, Dean tossed it on his way back into the bunker.
He ate a couple bowls of cereal, then made some oatmeal the ridiculously healthy way Sam liked it and got him to wake up long enough to eat about two-thirds of it. Still didn’t get more out of his brother than “Tir’d,” but Dean could wait. Really.
He went around the bunker and checked all the wards. Tidied his room, taking some plates to the kitchen and doing dishes. Did an inventory of the pantry and wrote out a shopping list. Heated up Chicken & Stars for Sam and got him to drink it, Sam’s eyes never opening. That much sleep was normal, right? He’d been pretty sick, but Zeke said he was okay, just needed to rest. And Dean trusted him. Really.
Dean slept next to Sam again that…night? He was still wasn’t sure if it was eight a.m. or p.m.
And when he woke, he saw Sam’s eyes for the first time in days. Sam was watching him, a little frown between his eyes. “Dean?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’re you…in my bed?”
Dean snorted. “Seriously? That all you’ve got to say to me?”
Sam’s confusion just seemed to deepen. He lifted his head to look around. “Did somethi—?” He broke off as his gaze caught on the stuff on his desk. Then he flushed, head dropping back to the pillow. He didn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes as he asked quietly, “How bad was it?”
“Bad.”
Sam turned to look at him. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to—”
“Purge the rest of the demon blood?” Dean pushed himself up, bones creaking. Getting old. “Considering how much blood and black gunk you were puking, I’m pretty sure you’re squeaky clean inside now.”
Sam grimaced. “That— Really? I don’t remember any of it.”
“Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky. It was not something you’d want to remember. Wish I could burn it out of my brain.” Dean rubbed at his eyes. He’d intended to lay into Sam once he woke up, be mad, be frustrated, be vocal about how much it sucked watching his little brother go through that. But now Dean just felt weary.
Sam also sat up, seeming to finally notice his own weakness and the dried sweat and, presumably, lethal breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, far more heartfelt. He’d know Dean wouldn’t have let him go through that alone, and how much of a toll helpless watching took.
“You do the laundry and we’ll call it even,” Dean said, finally gaining his feet. He blinked through a headrush.
“Of course. I…of course.” Sam still looked like he was reeling.
Dean paused, took a breath. “I do think it worked. What you were trying to do. I think you wiped it out.”
Sam’s expression cracked open into such hope and fear and longing that it made it easier for Dean to speak the words, and harder to look at Sam while he did it. But he did.
“But I’m gonna say this one more time. You’re good the way you are, Sam. Always have been, even with the Shining and the unfinished Trials and the…” Dean waved vaguely, “hair. And nothing you do is gonna make me think otherwise.”
Sam’s eyes were brimming.
Dean was feeling a little emotional himself, but he was totally chalking that up to too much time spent cleaning up bodily fluids and not enough sleeping. “You want a sandwich?” he quickly asked, shifting his weight toward the door. He wasn’t sure if it was lunch or dinner, but that seemed a good compromise. “I’m gonna go make sandwiches.”
“Uh…yeah. Yes. Thank you.”
Dean nodded and took a step toward the door.
“Dean?”
He stopped. Crap. Didn’t turn around.
Sam’s voice only wobbled a little bit. “I’m going to remind you what you said about my hair.”
Dean’s mouth pulled up. “You do that, Sammy.”