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Chapter Text

1996

John drinks a lot. The older they get, the more he drinks. Dean drinks too sometimes. But not like John. Dean doesn’t swing. Dean's all half-pints hidden in the inside pocket of his duffel and generic aspirin from the corner store. He’s all brooding, and lazy smiles sometimes (if Sam is lucky enough to catch it). Sam doesn’t care when Dean drinks. Hell, he sometimes likes when Dean tilts the bottle towards him; gives him a taste of it. Fifteen is old enough to drink for a hunter, Sam thinks.

But John- John swings. John mumbles and thrashes in his sleep. John wakes up in the middle of the night stumbling,  looking for his whiskey and his dead wife. Sam doesn’t dare get out of bed, staying curled safely under the covers. Dean’s up. Dean’s always up. He tries to get John back in bed, tells him he’ll feel better in the morning. John mumbles words to his dead wife, asking why she left him all alone.

Dean doesn’t know how to answer him, his eyes shining with concern and confusion as John fights him weakly, pulls at Dean's jacket, pushes him back roughly. Sometimes he swings a little too hard if he isn’t drunk enough to be subdued. John hardly remembers the next day.  It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. Sam hates when he touches Dean like that. When he hurts him.

It makes something settle in the pit of his stomach. It’s venomous, acidic, almost animal in nature. He grits his teeth in the dark.

Dean goes to bed crying most nights. Sam wants to reach out and hold him. He’s never wanted to do anything more in his whole life. He doesn’t do it. He can’t let Dean know that he sees him crying. It would only make things worse.

1998

Most of the time when Sam wakes up, John is gone on a hunt. He’s just fine with that. Dean has breakfast already made for both of them. Sam is happy when it’s just them. It seems like there’s nothing ugly trying to claw its way out of his throat when it’s just them. Things are good for a while.

Sometimes Dean will even let Sam crawl into his bed in the late hours of the night when neither of them can sleep. They rest easier that way. They don’t do it when John’s around. Sam doesn’t want to look weak in front of their father, doesn’t want to give him that kind of upper-hand. He isn’t sure what Dean’s reasons are. He’s not going to ask. He’d rather keep this. Can’t risk losing it. Feels like a life-line sometimes.

Until John starts taking Dean on more hunts. Sam sits alone at Bobby’s, fends for himself. Bobby’s out on a hunt of his own. He wishes things we’re different. He’s not exactly desperate for his dad to return home soon but the sooner John returns, the sooner Dean does. He wishes he could say he didn’t spend every waking hour worrying if his brother is okay. If he’s hurt. If he’s alive. Sam can’t think about what John is putting him through. Both of them through.

They come home bloody. Always crimson with some twisted version of heroism decorating them shamefully. John needs some gauze here and there, nothing major. Sam dutifully, wordlessly patches him up and fetches him the bottle. The sooner he’s knocked out the better, Sam thinks.

Sam finally gets to work on Dean. He needs several stitches. He hisses quietly as the sterilized needle glides through his flesh with practiced ease. Sam's steady hand guides it with reverent precision. He knows John is asleep now. Passed out in the other room. He doesn’t care that Dean can see when he starts to cry.

Right in the middle of his patching, Dean tilts Sam’s face up in his hands, worried as hell. Sam can see the deep, dark circles under Deans eyes. It makes him cry more.

“Sammy, what’s wrong?” He whispers carefully to Sam. Always so careful.

“Don’t like you getting hurt.” He states simply. It’s true. He can’t see Dean hurt anymore. Dean hurts enough. He just wanted to take care of him. Wrap him up and take him far away from John and make sure he’s safe and happy and never needs seven stitches on a random night ever again.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright, Sammy.” He pets the apple of Sam’s cheek, trying his best to comfort him with that front that Sam knows so well. Sam wishes he would drop the act. He wants to peel back the mask and just let Dean be heard, and scared and comforted all at once.

Dean takes such good care of him. He could do that for Dean too. But he’s not sure Dean will ever let him. He’s too rigidly designed, cold casted from a mold their father curated. Sam feels that acid again, that pure, raw contempt from the depths.

“I hate him.” Sam says coldly.

“Sammy.” Dean chides. Sam expects it to be scolding as per usual. It isn’t this time.

“I hate him, Dean.” Sam says again, shockingly meaning it even more the second time.

“He’s all we got, Sam.” Dean tries to reason.

Sam is staring up at Dean still, decidedly placing his hand over Deans where it still rests on Sam's face. He could leave it there forever Sam thinks. They could both be turned to stone by some freakish creature right in this moment and Sam thinks he could perish happily.

“No. You’re all I got, Dean.” His eyes plead with him, almost beg him to understand. He thinks Dean does. They’re not much for words. This will have to do.

“Let’s go to bed, Sammy.” He whispers, somewhat resigned.

Dean gets up too fast and sways slightly. Sam catches him, hold him close and steady, makes sure he gets changed and settled into bed. Just when Sam turns away to his own bed, Dean catches his hand. Sam is too ecstatic to ever deny him as his heart leaps painfully in his chest. Sam settles down wordlessly into the bed with him. It seems that Dean doesn’t care that their Dad is around this time. Sam doesn’t care either. He holds Dean close, careful not to hurt him. He can wrap him up safely. He’s almost taller than Dean now. He knows Dean hates that. Dean’s always protected him so fiercely, so loyally. Something twists painfully in Sam’s chest, wanting desperately to return the favor.

It’s when he reaches up to card his hands through Deans cropped hair that he hears a quiet sob tear from his chest. He doesn’t say anything. He knows this is hard enough for Dean. He lets him cry and doesn’t make a sound as Dean clings to him, desperately searching for safety. He holds him until the sun is nearly up, a dusky, dim violet filling the sky in the mornings wake.

Sam wont press him for any answers. But he’ll be here. He’ll always be here.

2002

His dad tells him that if he leaves, he can’t ever come back. It fills Sam with an irrational rage, and a mountain of hurt that he doesn’t think is climbable. It only motivates him to get the hell out of there and as far away from John as possible.

Dean chases him outside. His duffle bag is gripped so tightly, his knuckles are tuning white. He wants to hit something. Sam turns one final time to the sound of Dean yelling his name. He’s terrified to turn around, afraid that if he looks at Dean right now, he’ll change his mind.

“Please Sam, just stay. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“I have to go Dean. I can’t live like this anymore. I don’t want this life anymore.” He’s still walking away, down the road, nothing but damp, dark asphalt and miles in front of him.

“You don’t mean that.” He croaks, voice gone raspy.

And the thing is, Sam does mean it. But he knows that Dean thinks he means something else entirely. He finally turns around to face his brother. Dean's eyes are glassy and desperate. Sam isn’t sure he’s seen him look like that before.

When Dean used to cry at night, he was always facing away from him. Facing it head on like this is too jarring for Sam.

He drops the duffel, rushing to Dean before a single tear can fall. Sam wants to reach out and touch him in any way he can. Dean draws back, almost recoiling at Sam’s approach. This isn’t how they are. They’ve never been this way.

“Dean. Come with me.” He says thoughtlessly, purely impulse.

Dean looks hurt at the suggestion, recoiling even further away from Sam.

“Dad’s all we got. I’m not leaving.” Dean says incredulously. Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. Can’t believe every single time Dean has said it over the years. He wants to be enough.

Sam doesn’t fire back this time. He shoves down his hurt, covers it with a sturdy blanket of anger. He draws back, ignoring every single urge in his body to literally drag Dean out of here with him, even against his will. Sam would do it.

He picks up his duffel, and keeps walking. He stares ahead at the darkness in the dead of night, Deans voice echoing behind him, begging him not to go.

Sam tells himself that he doesn’t regret it. He tells himself that for so long that he almost believes his own lie. He tells himself he’s not leaving Dean, he’s leaving dad. But still- that doesn’t change the fact that he still left.

It’s been a couple months, he’s bounced around a lot, working odd jobs before enrolling. His apartment in Palo Alto is nice enough. It’s old but it’s his. He’s proud of himself. Someone has to be. He wishes Dean could see it and maybe even be happy for him. The view sucks, but he can fill it with what ever he wants. The first night feels strange. He feels like the apartment will still feel empty, even after he gets furniture in here. He wakes up in the middle of the night on nothing but a makeshift mattress and throw blankets halfway covering him. He blearily rouses, not fully awake, and reaches for someone that isn’t there.

He starts enjoying the little things. The fridge stays mostly empty half the time, save for beer. He keeps a plant by the sink. Easy watering access. It dies after his first week of school. He gives up on romanticizing the place.

He has one missed call from Dean, a voicemail left behind too. He doesn’t listen to it. He doesn’t delete it.

2003

He meets Brady. He’s a good friend, and an even better wingman. He forgets about how angry he is all the time with Brady. He loses track of time with Brady. They study sometimes, but they mostly drink.

Sam moves into an apartment closer to campus. It’s a little more expensive, but bartending downtown allowed him to move up in the world a little bit, so he really doesn’t mind.

Brady shows up to give him a house warming gift. It’s a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Sam squints at the label and recognizes it. It’s the same one Dean used to sneak in his bag behind John’s back. An emotion fills him that he can barely identify. Something between sentiment and anguish.

They drink more than they should from the bottle that night. Sam doesn’t know what time it is. His thoughts are jumbled, memories swimming around in his head, uninvited. Wet road that stretched on forever, a bruise under his eye, an overwhelming urge to retrace his steps back towards a tearful figure in the dark.

Brady smells like leather and cigarette smoke. Which should gross Sam out, but the scents are too achingly familiar. Brady kisses him, touches him. He reciprocates automatically, hardly thinking at all. The alcohol is sharply motivating him, and he’s even more aroused at the newness of the situation than anything else. He’s never been with a man like this, but doesn’t find himself panicking about it, too drunk to care.

When the morning comes, he can’t even remember if he actually enjoyed it or not. He doesn’t feel awkward about what he did, but there’s something churning in his gut when he recalls bits and pieces. He stares at the nearly empty bottle of Bourbon on the counter as he waits for his toast to pop out of the toaster. He feels sick and sad. But not from the alcohol.

2004

Brady acts like nothing happened. That’s fine with Sam. He chalks it up to boys being boys or something like that. He can’t even entertain the idea of a relationship with Brady. Not because of any sexuality crisis. Sam's never been shy about what he wants. He just doesn’t want Brady. They work as friends.

Within that same week he introduces Sam to Jess. She’s gorgeous, and looks at Sam like he hung the fucking moon and stars. He hasn’t been looked at like that in a long time.

They don’t date for long before she’s moving into his place. They don’t like the same music, or the same foods. They actually have very little in common. So much that it shocks Sam that they gravitate towards each other like magnets.

One day, in the middle of the school year he wakes up without feeling an ounce of anger for once. Jess curls into his side and he hugs her snugly. The morning light is seeping in through the tattered blinds, gleaming off her blonde messy waves. He could marry her, he thinks to himself. It’s bittersweet. He wonders briefly if Dean would come to his wedding. Would he even want Dean there? Would he want Dean to see that? It feels like he can’t invite Dean into this version of his life. Dean doesn’t know who this Sam is.

He gets up to brew some coffee for him and Jess. She’s still sleeping, but Sam likes to wake her up with a cup ready. As the brew drips into the pot, Sam flips his phone open. He has a text from Brady that he’ll read at some point. There’s a voicemail from the financial aid office that he’ll put off listening to until later today. He breathes out, nervous for some reason, almost shaking as he clicks down the list of voicemails. He selects Dean’s only voicemail, a year old now, and brings it up to his ear.

‘Hey Sammy,’ He sounds too soft to be sober, Sam thinks. ‘I don’t know if you’re ever gonna hear this message.’ And fuck it almost sounds like he’s crying, Sam desperately hopes not.

‘Hope you’re okay. Happy or- whatever.” Dean’s breath hitches. He’s definitely crying. ‘but now- Now would be a real good time for you to come back.’  It’s quiet on the line for a few seconds, just some vague rustling, and glass clinking, quiet sobs. Dean has nothing else to say, he may have even fallen asleep and forgot to hang up. The message goes on for another minute and a half. Sam doesn’t move. He stands there in the kitchen, listening to the sound of Dean’s steady breathing through the phone.

He realizes, belatedly, that his eyes are damp. He tries very hard not to feel anything as he flips the phone shut. He splashes cold water onto his face from the sink and pours their coffee.

2005

When he tackles an intruder to the ground in his apartment the last person he expects to see is Dean. He can hardly believe who he’s looking at before his brain kicks back to life and words start forming in his mouth.

He goes with Dean on the hunt. Of course he does. He’s never been happier to see someone in his entire life. So he’s not sure why he’s trying so hard to make it seem like he doesn’t want to be there. There’s something different about Dean now. Sam supposes that’s understandable. He hasn’t seen him in nearly three years. A lot can happen in that amount of time. A lot can change.

He’s not sure how much he cares that their Dad is in trouble. He does care. A little, but he cares more that Dean cares.

He wants to ask him what he’s been up to the last three years. But Sam knows he has no right to the information, so he doesn’t say anything. He’ll do anything not to talk about the fact that he left Dean alone with their Dad.

The road stretches on, and they fight and win. The spirit is resting now. Sam wishes it felt as good as it’s supposed to.

Jess dies. Sam thinks that his life has been a sick and twisted set up from the start. Losing her doesn’t even feel real yet. All he wants to do it rip this demon apart. He’s got no leads, no strength, no advantage. He’s fumbling  around in the dark with nothing but a dead girlfriend, a burnt down apartment complex, and a faceless monster to blame. He’s got nothing.

A hand falls on his back, circling gently. Dean’s here. He’s got Dean.

He goes back on the road with Dean. They look for Dad. Dean treats him like his little brother again. He takes care of him, makes sure he’s okay, watches his back. He shoulders it all and tells nothing but cheap jokes while he does it. It’s familiar and sickening. It doesn’t sit right with Sam.

They’ve been on the road for weeks, bunking down in cheap motels. Sam feels like the last few years of his life have been erased. Almost like they never happened.

They saved the day again, case close, people saved. He figures that should satisfy him for a while but he still feels so angry, filled with nightmares and fitful sleep. He barely gets any rest.

It’s a night like this where he feels lost and afraid, waking up in the dark, grabbing at nothing, at no one, scrambling for a sense of safety. Visons fill his head of fire and blood and charred flesh, smoke filling his lungs and choking him. Dean’s there, getting up from his bed swiftly and crowding Sam, calming him down.

“I got you, Sammy. We’re safe, man.”

Sam doesn’t speak, just swallows back the lump in his throat, clinging to Dean like a lifeline. Dean lets him hold on.

They don’t talk about it. It’s not their strong suit.

Chapter Text

2005

Guilt is Deans best friend. He’s over the moon that Sam is back in his line of sight. But this isn't how he pictured it. Not like this. Not with Jessica burning. Not with Sam crying into his pillow and waking up screaming every night. Not with Sam throwing himself back into the hunt like there was no rust on his hinges.  

When Sam left, Dean was only angry. There was no room for any other emotions besides hurt and anger. He knows that Sam never meant to hurt him, but that hardly matters now, Sam doesn't need to know how deep it cut Dean.  

Dean doesn’t need to re-open the wound. Though- he's not sure it ever closed. There's rock salt digging in it now. Even as he glances over to the passenger's side at Sam's sleeping form, still, something stings. No pain, no gain , he thinks miserably.  

He wanted him back without the blood. He wanted Sam back whole and happy, and looking at Dean with that starry-eyed gaze that wasn’t so rare once a upon a time. Dean selfishly wants to glue all Sam's pieces back on straight.  

The one thing about his guilt is that it distracts from how much everything else hurts.  

So, he’ll take the guilt and keep living wrapped up in it.   

Sam knows that Dean is a sensitive person. He knows that Dean feels a lot of things, deeply and obsessively sometimes. It’s something that can’t be helped. But It’s not bad. It’s something he loves about Dean.  

But he wears his guard up like a well-loved coat. Sam sees through it. Always does. But he’ll let Dean have his way and keep himself feigning disinterest. He’s exhausted sometimes at how tuned in he is to Dean’s every mannerism.  

They hunt well that way, taking down one twisted horror after another. They don’t have much room to note how they feel along the path of pure instinct. He wonders briefly if Dean worked better without him. The moment he thinks of it, he’s already scoffing at the notion. They’re always better together. Their Dad made sure of that. 

Sam often thinks about how much of John that Dean had to endure. When he left Dean all alone, practically crying in the middle of the street.  

Deans out on a store run now. Probably buying them something quick to eat along with a sixer of beer. Sam takes the time to listen to that voicemail again, pointlessly.  

He plays it a second time, letting it echo through the dingy motel on speakerphone as he stares down at it.  

‘Now would be a real good time for you to come back.’  

It’s too late for Sam to stop it before it happens. Dean is bursting through the door while the voicemail is still playing. He isn’t quick enough. Or maybe he really didn’t want to be quick enough. He doesn't trust himself completely these days. 

Dean sets the goods down on the table and slow blinks at Sam in some kind of half-sorrow, half-resignation. Dean knows exactly what he just heard. Deans' expression is too honest and open for Sam; he hasn’t seen it on him in years. Hasn’t seen it since before school. In this moment he wonders if what he even does is genuine anymore, or if everything is only to pull reactions out of Dean. Maybe he wants to see if he can strike the gold that he knows is sitting there under all the slate and ruble. It’s an unfair test; he wants to see Dean guess the answers anyway.  

Sam knows that he owes Dean something . Maybe not an apology, he gets the sense Dean doesn’t need that from him right now. But something. Words. His mouth doesn't move; brain filled with molasses. Like always, he lets Dean carry the weight. 

“You kept my drunk voicemail,” Dean tries in jest as he cracks a beer open with the faded opener on his keys. 

Sam searches his expression for a sign of sincerity, doesn't find it. So, he’ll hit him where he knows it could strike a chord.  

“Didn't feel so alone. Hearing it made it better.” 

And Sam knows right away that wasn’t impactful in the way he would’ve liked. He practically handed Dean a loaded revolver with a gift bow tied around it. 

“You didn’t have to be. I was there. Could’ve called me back.” 

Sam bites his tongue. He doesn't like hurting Dean. But just knowing that’s all he’s ever done, somehow softens the blow when he’s about to do it again.  

“You gonna hold it against me?” Sam seethes, unsure where he’s going with this. His heart speeds up at the line of questioning, at the way the conversation steers. He's toeing the edge of the honesty they skillfully avoid. Dean's not looking at him. That won't do. He needs Dean to look at him. 

“Never have, Sammy.” He says softly, with so much understanding that it makes Sam’s stomach twist sickeningly. He wants to fight . He’s so angry that it doesn't even make sense. He doesn't have the right to be mad at Dean here. He doesn't even think he has enough room in his body for all this anger anymore.  

Dean ruffles his hair on his way to his duffle bag and just like that, it’s like water dousing the flames. He's overcome with the sudden need to make sure Dean is alright. He doesn't understand his own duality.  

“You could ,” He tries, grasping for straws. Wanting anything, any reaction from Dean that isn't this. He doesn't know what to do with this. “You could be mad. I would be.” 

Dean smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I just got you back, Sammy. Let’s just ride the wave. Raise a little hell. We can fight later.” 

The words practically sedate him. Just like that, the conversation is over. 

Sam's memory flashes back to stitching up a teenage Dean, blood slipping down onto the cheap upholstery. Sam crying quietly while he sewed him up because he’d do anything to hide his brother away from all the monsters of the world. He’s not sure when he forgot how important that was to him. Not sure when he became a catalyst himself.  

Sam wants to reach over and touch him. Even briefly, he’ll take anything. He suddenly finds himself wishing that Dean had something for him to stich up right now just so he could feel him under his hands for a moment. Make sure he’s real.  

Sam's eyes follow Dean’s movements even as they start to head to their respective beds, each one deliberate, as if he’s trying to keep the world from falling apart even as he brushes his teeth. He wants to say something, to bridge the chasm between them, but his throat is tight, His lungs are too small, and his heart pounds against his ribs. He’s weak.   

He doesn’t close his eyes until Dean falls asleep, and he can see the rise and fall of his breathing. He goes to sleep on his side; doesn’t like waking up looking at the ceiling.  

Most of their nights are spent throwing themselves into the hunt. They still look for any sign of Dad. Sam misses John sometimes out of instinct, maybe familiarity. But sometimes he hopes he's already dead. It's a conflicting feeling. He thinks about what their dad did to them, how he raised them. John never touched him, not really. Dean always got the brunt of it. That thought only makes him angrier. The only thing that makes him halt the horrific thought of their father laying lifeless is how Dean would feel. He'll keep looking. Dean needs it. Hell- maybe they both do in some sick, unfair way if they're ever gonna find this thing that's made their life a living hell. 

They chase lead after lead, though none of them are very good. Him and Dean bicker. They disagree on how to go forward sometimes. Sam still tries to get a rise out of him.  

Dean doesn't budge.  

Dean gets hurt hunting down a werewolf.  

A decent slice clean through his side. Sam couldn't have stopped it. They were too unprepared. Dean had the dumb idea to go in as bait, feign a lack of skill to draw him closer so Sam could get a clear shot.  

Sam hit the target just fine, just a few seconds too late. Dean collapses back into a nearby tree just as the werewolf goes down with a loud thud. Sam isn't fast enough to catch Dean and feels like an absolute piece of shit for not running over to him quick enough.  

He's bleeding slow, but heavy, blurting out of him like syrup. Sam tries to hold pressure to it, going on autopilot. They get hurt all the time. They'll be fine. Dean will be fine . Dean is swaying in his grip as he hoists him up, hobbling them both back to the car.  

Dean slides down in his grip when Sam tries to place him in the passages side, colliding with the forest floor in a grunt of pain.  

" Dean ," Sam can feel himself losing his cool, they're almost there. He's almost got Dean safe. He pulls him up again, murmuring a hundred apologies under his breath. "We're almost there, I got you." 

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay. Not your fault-" Dean says drowsily, dangerously close to passing out once he's finally seated back in the Impala. Even now, as he's bleeding out, he's finding a way to take the blame, to make sure Sam never has to feel it.  

"Shut up , Dean! Don't talk ," Sam nearly sobs. 

Sam breaks every speed limit there is to get them back to the motel. 

Sam's hands shake like when they were kids. He forgot about this feeling. Dean dancing with death, Dean's blood painting his hands as they pull a needle through flesh. Dean's better now, wound cleaned up, ate a protein bar through the haze. Now he's sipping lazy on a half pint of whiskey as he still bleeds sluggishly under Sam's handling.  

He hisses in pain, twitching at one particular stich. He flinches at Dean's noises, feeling horrible guilt. Sam better find a way to get used to this again, or they're fucked . 

For a moment he feels like he's no better than their father. Out on a hunt with Dean, letting him get sliced to ribbons.  

"Sammy," Dean says quietly, with concern. Sam doesn't look up; he's nearly done now. He tries to zero in, stave off the shaking. He needs Dean closed up.  

"Almost done, Dean," And God, he sounds horrible. His voice wrecked and wobbly, trying not to cry. He feels like such a child. Dean places his hand lazily on Sam's head, smoothing his hair back. Sam does look up this time. Dean is clearly drowsy, buzzed, and probably a little high on the pain pills that they keep for emergencies like this.  

"Don't cry," Dean mummers, setting the bottle down on the bedside table. And that's what starts it up. Sam feels sick as he lets the tears slip on the final stich. Sam feels 15 again, the de ja vu hitting him like a freight train as he plasters gauze to his handywork. 

Dean's hands are back, soothing him, wiping away tears. The gestures speak for themselves. I'm okay. I'm alive. We're okay. We're alive. 

"Too slow Dean. I was slow." Sam chastises himself, pawing at Deans knees, trying to will the tears to stop . He hasn't felt this hysterical in years.  

"Sammy- stop," Dean tries, needing so badly to calm Sam down even in his weakened state, "It's okay, baby it's okay." 

Sam sniffles pathetically as he catches the old endearment. He hasn't heard Dean utter that since Sam was in grade school. He doesn't know what to do with that. Doesn't know what it means right now. Dean's high and sleepy and Sam is in need of something he never really was going to allow himself again. Sam tries his best to wipe his tears as Dean starts pulling on him weakly. He knows what the gesture means. A wordless communication. 

Come here.  

Dean lays down and rolls over to make room, most likely ignoring the left-over pain, letting Sam draw close. He holds his arm out, reaching for Sam.  

Sam is pulled forward like a magnet, thoughtlessly unable to resist. He holds Dean close, desperately careful not to hurt him. Sam feels so stupid he ever let him get hurt. Not just now. He can't believe he left him. He can't believe that he ever convinced himself it was okay to leave Dean when he needed him.  

He's not gonna make that mistake again. 

Sam realizes a little belatedly the next morning, that he may have overreacted.  

Dean is moving around somewhat normally, with only small drawbacks in his movements from the lingering pain. Sam wants to stay another night here. Take the day to rest.  

Dean tells him no. Sam wants to argue, but the trail is still hot. They can't risk falling too far behind Dad. 

Sam gets in the passenger's side, uninvited anger returning.