oo..1994, Beaumont, Texas..oo
It was sort of refreshing. Usually, it was the pimps and whores discussions, or the couples arguing, or the shady fellows with shady business that either ended up in gunfights or broken furniture.
This wasn’t exactly the place where you’d expect to hear a family discussion. But then again, this wasn’t your regular family.
“Fat camp?! You’re sending me to fat camp?” A young boy’s voice shrieked from across the hallway.
“Careful with that tone, Samuel,” a deeper voice warned, quietly defusing what was well on its way to become a full-fledged tantrum. “It’s not ‘fat camp’ –it’s a hunting camp run by a friend of mine- and I’m not ‘sending you’ there, I’m sending the both of you there. Dean’s going too.”
“Dude... I’m so gonna be the hottest thing in that flabby convention,” Dean chipped in, shooting his most dashing smile at the other two males in the room.
The smoothness of the move was rendered useless by the two zits in his right cheek and the fact that both his father and his younger brother were too distracted with their current discussion to even notice.
“Fat chicks, Dean... fat camp will be filled with fat chicks,” Sam pointed out, hoping to win his brother’s support in this particular argument. For some reason, that completely escaped the younger Winchester’s understanding, as of late, ‘chicks’ seemed to be the magic word to get Dean to do almost anything.
“Exactly,” the fifteen year old said, his eyes shinning at the prospect. “Round, snubbed over, wonderfully needy girls, who will just fall at my feet if I as much as wink at them... dude, I’m gonna score so much skirt that-“
“Dean-“ His father’s warning tone cut in.
“You keep a score?” Sam asked, for a moment getting side-tracked by his brother’s strange mind. “A score of what, exactly?”
For one terrifying moment, John imagined Dean answering that question with words that would, not only send Sam in to a barrel of a whole lot other questions, but would forever scar John’s ears. Other than the perfunctory ‘talk’ about safety and ‘dos and don’ts’ of sex, there were some things that the ex-marine would never want to hear. Especially from his horny fifteen year old to his way-too curious eleven year old.
“Dean- can it,” he said quickly, before Dean’s opened mouth could emit any incriminating sounds. “Sam, I’m telling you, it doesn’t say anywhere that it’s a fat c-“
“Concentration camps during World War II didn’t exactly advertise their gas chambers either,“ Sam smart-mouthed, fully using the last couple of history classes he’d taken.
John’s mouth dropped. He knew he’d had it too easy with Dean. He knew he would have to pay his debts somehow. “Tell me you didn’t just compare Camp IndianSpear -a place people actually pay to be in- to Auschwitz.”
“’Come and spend a wonderful couple of weeks at Camp IndianSpear. Make new friends, learn amazing new skills, and get back in to shape while you’re having loads of fun!’” Sam read out loud, his eyes searching his father’s face over the shiny pamphlet in his hands. “’-get BACK in to shape’... It’s fat camp!”
John Winchester snatched the folded paper from his youngest hands and gave it a cursory read through. He knew it had been a bad idea to pick the thing up and show it to Sam. It was like dangling a medical book in front of an hypochondriac. “I can’t see where exactly this here says fat camp,” John said, tearing the paper in half. “And what’s more important, I don’t care what it says here... Fred is an old friend from the Corp and he’s letting you boys stay there for the next three weeks while I take care of some busi-“
“What are you hunting, dad? Can I come with?”
The older Winchester looked at Dean, seeing the hopeful look in his bright, green eyes and the honest offer painted there. The boy had taken in to hunting like a fish in the water. Still, as a father, it scared the crap out of him every time that his oldest son joined him on a hunt. If something happened to either of his kids...
“Not this one, buddy... you’re going with Sam.”
“But I’m not fat, he is,” Dean pointed out, a mischievous grin in his lips.
John took a deep breath and counted to five. The little prick knew exactly what sort of explosion he as setting off. John managed to reach two before Sam’s protests erupted anew.
“It’s baby fat!” The eleven year old wailed, using the same argument he’d used every single time his brother teased him about his roundish forms. “And why can’t we stay in the motel like all the other times? Or with Pastor Jim... we could stay at Pastor Jim’s-“
“Not a option, little dude –Jim’s coming with and I don’t want you two alone for close to a month,” John explained, knowing his son well enough to know that reason went a lot further than barked commands. His patience, however, was starting to run surprisingly low.
“But... it’s not fair...”
“What this is not, is open to discussion,” John ruled, getting up from his spot in the motel room couch and turning off the TV that had been providing background noise to their conversation. “We’ll leave in the morning... now go pack your shi- stuff.”
oo..2009, Interstate 39..oo
“Plainfield, Wisconsin,” Dean said for the fifth time. Up ahead, the road stretched on for miles of yellow fields cut in half by a straight blue line of empty asphalt. “You sure about that?”
“You’re the one who came up with the coordinates,” Sam reminded him, his eyes running through the sheets of paper he’d printed the night before. “How did Castiel found those coordinates, anyway?”
“Didn’t say... just that there was a ‘odd energy surrounding the place’ and some demonic comings and goings that made him suspect the Colt was involved.”
“Yeah... but why that place? There’s nothing special about these coordinates, just empty fields as far as the eye can see,” Sam wondered, the files in his hands providing no answer whatsoever.
“Well, maybe that’s the reason why the demons hid it there... less chance of someone stumbling across their hiding place.”
Sam looked up, watching his brother’s profile, the squint of his eyes against the warm sun because he’d forgotten his sunglasses inside his duffel -again.
Dean knew that that was a weak argument, even Sam could see that, but he seemed comfortable with trusting Castiel’s word. And Sam guessed that, if his dealings with angels had had less to do with back stabbing and veiled –and sometimes not so veiled- threats and more to do with fighting alongside and being rescued from Hell, he’d probably trust them a little bit more too.
And there was no denying that this angel in particular seemed to have a genuine affection for his brother, so Sam figured that maybe Dean did have reasons to take Castiel’s word at face value.
But Lucifer and the demons of this earth were hunting him down to force Sam in letting the fallen angel wear his meat; and Michael and most of the angels hanging around were gang-ho to get their hands on Dean and have him gift-wrapped for the archangel. They couldn’t afford to just trust anyone, not even those who’d proven to be trust worthy.
But then again, he was the one with the demon blood in him and who’d started the apocalypse... who was he to talk about trust?
“It can also be just as easily a trap,” Sam said anyway, swallowing the bile that rose to his mouth.
Sam hated the fact that his life had taken such a turn that talking to his own brother felt like talking to a complete stranger, never really knowing where his boundaries stood, never truly sure when he’d spoken too much.
Dean had welcomed him back, said that they could have a fresh start, that they only had each other to fight against a fate that wasn’t kind to either. But Sam could help to wonder if, had circumstances been different and they didn’t had all this mess to deal with, maybe –just maybe- Dean wouldn’t have bothered to give him a second chance.
The problem with being given a second chance, glad as Sam was to be given the opportunity to fight alongside Dean rather than alone, was that it felt too much like he was a convict on probation.
Every action measured, every word weighed, every decision held in comparison with the Sam of before.
Like questioning the loyalty of the one angel who had turned his back on everything to stand at their side.
When Dean’s eyes turned from the empty road to look at him, Sam was sure that his brother was going to throw just that at his face and flat out tell him to get out.
“You’re right,” Dean said, his gaze returning to the blue asphalt. “But it’s either this lead or sitting on our asses, too scared to go out and actually fight this damn war.”
Sam let out a breath that he wasn’t aware to be holding hostage inside his chest. Dean was right; the Colt was their only option, other than let Michael take a ride on his body, and any lead on it was a good lead. Trap or no trap, they would deal with it, together.
Sam was just happy that he’d tested yet another boundary and his place still held.
oo..1994, Red Fish Cove, Texas - Camp IndianSpear..oo
John had to admit: a lot of those kids were a bit on the extra-bubble side. But free bed was free bed and he figured it was high time Sam either learned to deal with his figure or loose it. Odds were the boy would be loosing it all anyway when he hit his growth spurt, but until that happen John was growing tired of the constant melodrama that seem to follow his youngest around.
Either way, he was sure Fred would take good care of his boys and they would end up enjoying themselves. Eventually.
John eyed his sons as they went around to back to collect their bags. Sam was dragging his feet like a condemned man walking to the gallows and even Dean had lost some of the initial glee at the prospect of easy conquests.
Looking closer, John wonder if his glee was all the boy had lost. Had Dean been looking that pale a few hours ago?
“Dean, you feeling ok?” John asked, the palm of his right hand automatically searching his son’s forehead. He felt kind of warm, but then again, it was a warm day and they were close to the sea.
Dean shrugged away from the touch, a smile spreading over his lips. It was as fake as Pamela Anderson’s boobs. “I’m fine, dad... stow the touchy-feeling mojo- you’ll scare my fans away.”
John raised one eyebrow, looking over Dean’s head to the chubby kids making their way to the main offices. There weren’t that many girls amongst them and the few that were seemed more interested in catching up with their old acquaintances than making new ones.
John turned around, coming to face with Frederico Gianni. The bald version of the man he’d served with twenty years ago. “Fred! What you did you do to your hair, man?” He said, extending a hand to greet the other man. “Lost a bet with your barber?”
The shorter, Italian man smiled broadly, firmly grasping the offered hand. “Nah, man! The ungrateful little bastards file for a divorce and left me with a bald head and a hairy chest!- So, how’s things been for you?”
John eyed his two sons, standing a few feet away, quietly watching the rest of the group additions. Mapping the territory. Studying their enemies, or at least Sam was. John was sure of that. “Same old... you know how it goes,” John answered vaguely. “Business is going really well for you, I see.”
Fred eyed the couple of cars still pulling over and the group of kids, ages varying from ten to sixteen, already gathered near the reception area, waiting to be assigned to their camp groups. “Yeah... figured it was time to grab all that stuff that they taught us in the Corp and put it to some sort of use back home, you know?”
John found himself nodding, not sure what he was agreeing with. He’d give anything to not have to teach his sons what he’d learned in the Marines, what he’d learned since, about hunting monsters. He figured that was not what Fred meant.
“Those your kids?” Fred asked, eyeing the quiet pair.
John nodded, unable to hide the pride in his voice whenever he got to show his boys to his friends. They were the best thing he’d ever accomplish in his life. They were Mary’s legacy. “Tall one’s Dean, the other’s Sam,” he pointed out, the boys sending an uninterested look towards the two talking men as they heard their names. John turned to the other man, genuinely thankful to the man, but suddenly unsure about leaving his boys behind for such a long period. “Listen, Fred, I really appreciate your offer-“
“Don’t even mention it, Winchester... that’s what friends are for- and after all that happen, with Mary and all... I just wish you’d taken my help then –but you just dropped out of the map with those kids. What have you been up to, man?”
John closed his eyes, willing the images of Mary, pinned to the ceiling, burning. “Just surviving, Fred, just surviving.”
oo..2009, Plainfield, Wisconsin..oo
Dean stepped out of the car, stretching limbs that had been confined to a small space for too many hours. Extending his fisted hands high above his head, he winced before he could even complete the gesture. The nagging, dull pain on his right side, the one that had been bugging him for days now, had suddenly graduated in to something closer to a needling, stabbing pain.
“You ok?” Sam asked, mimicking his brother’s gestures on the other side of the car.
Dean gave him a quick glance, before closing his door with a large squeak and rolling his shoulders. “Sore muscles, that’s all,” he said, making his way to the abandoned house a couple of yards away.
The place was deserted. Looked like it’d been deserted for years. Better yet, the place was being eaten by the desert, or at least, by Wisconsin’s version of it.
Once upon a time, there had been a two story high house in that place, alongside with a barn and what looked like a silo. Now, there was nothing but a creepy house, looking like it might fall apart with the gentlest of winds, one wall of the barn and nothing but the base of the silo. Everywhere, tall weeds had taken over the ground. On the far end of the house, abandoned to its own whims, the cornfield had grown wild and high, looming like a blond giant, waiting to eat the rest of the place.
“Well, gotta give them points for the extra creepiness,” Dean muttered, taking in his surroundings and trying to guess where Castiel’s coordinates might be pointing to specifically.
“Oh,” Sam let out, crouching near a piece of wood half buried in the ground. “I’d say creepy doesn’t really begin to cover it.”
Dean joined his brother, watching as Sam’s long fingers pried the derelict wood from the dirt and dusted it clean enough to make out the black, faded, letters on it. “G-in... Grin?” Dean ventured with a smirk. “The Grins lived here?”
Sam used his nail to wipe the plaque and get a better look at the barely there remaining letter. “I think that’s an E, not an R-“
“Gein?” Dean ventured, the name tasting unfamiliar in his lips.
“Oh... geez!” Sam said, throwing the piece of wood away, his face contorting in repulse, like the name alone brought a foul smell to his nose. “No wonder the demons chose this place to hide the Colt. No one would ever set foot here voluntarily,” he said, looking around and seeing everything in a complete different view. “Do you realize which abandoned farm this is?” Sam asked, when he looked at Dean’s face and didn’t see the same disgust reflected there.
Dean looked around, searching for a clue in to what was, apparently, so obvious to his geek brother. “The not-Grin’s farm?”
“Edward Theodore Gein,” Sam said, looking around like he expected the man to pop up from one of the turfs of weed when called.
“Ed Gein, the serial killer Ed Gein?” Dean asked with a whistle. Sam nodded. “Holy crap!”
“Well, he was convicted on ‘only’ two accounts of murder, but the number of bodies he picked up from various cemeteries and took home to make... hum... furniture with, is in the dozens. Guy was a really psycho,” Sam corrected out of habit.
“That’s putting it mildly, dude,” Dean piped in, his eyes alight with excitement. “This guy was Hitchcock’s inspiration for Psycho, he was Norman Bates --mommy issues wrapped up in a nice bag of crazy with batshit on top--”
“You know what this means, right?” Sam said, not nearly as excited as his older brother as he took out the EMF reader and, predicatively, watch it go crazy for two seconds before exploding in a rain of sparks in his hands.
“Yeah... I know what this mean,” Dean said with a sigh.
To say that there might be a couple of pissed off spirits around, not to mention Ed himself, was like saying that the Grand Canyon was a shallow hole on the ground.
oo..1994, Camp IndianSpear..oo
Summer camp sucked ass. He’d often hear the other kids complaining about them in the different schools he’d been at, but Dean had always thought that they were just being drama queens. Turns out, some of them were actually right.
For one, eating healthy was killing Dean’s stomach. Dad had always made sure that they ate their vegetables and that they always had plenty of fruit on their plates, but living on the road, more often than not, meant eating at roadside diners and greasy places. Dean’s stomach needed its regular coating of grease, or so Dean had started to learn when getting cramps in his belly started to be a regular thing for him, three days in to camp. There was also the puking, but given the stuff they had to eat –and there was no convincing Dean that broccolis weren’t part of some evil shapeshifter community plan, whose goal was to turn every human in to one of them- upchucking that green, ugly menace a couple of hours after it’d gotten in, wasn’t exactly a source of concern for the young hunter.
And then there were the chores.
The big thing around camp, since day one, had been the boat trip at the end of the week. The fishing day in high sea was meant to be the final prize for the different teams competition but, from the size of preparations, everyone would be going.
The competition, in itself, had been pretty lame. It was mostly chores and PT duty. It wasn’t that different from life as John Winchester’s sons.
Which was why Dean had pretty much excelled at most of them –paper collages were things of evil and unless there was some salting and burning involved, Dean refused to do them right- without even trying too hard.
The other kids eyed him like he was a freak, though. It had taken him a couple of days, but Dean had finally figured that it was the fact that, every single time that they had physical training, Dean would breeze through the sprints and the push ups and the obstacle courses and the swimming like he was born in to it. Which he kind of was.
The groups monitors didn’t like him that much either, but that was the one thing that Dean was kind of proud of, being smart enough to blame it on his smart mouth and know-it-all attitude. But then again, it was hard to keep his mouth shut when the people in charge forced them to sit through things like ‘how to built a fire’ and ‘how to track a deer in the woods’ and then expected him to act like he didn’t knew all of that already. That he didn’t know more than them on a couple of matters too.
Strangely enough –and annoyingly so- the very same reasons why Dean had become the camp’s oddball and earned him more than a couple of stinky eyes, were the exact same reasons that had made Sam in to some sort of wonder boy. The prodigy of the camp.
Like Dean, Sam had earned most of the points that his team had managed to accumulate during the course of the games, excelling in every mental, physical and girlish challenge that the camp people could come up with. He had, after all, been raised under the same drill-sergeant watchful look as Dean, which meant that running three miles and finishing it with two laps in the pool was considered almost as stretching out for any Winchester.
The camp monitors thought Sam was adorable, with his chubby little baby cheeks and his far too grown-up brain. Dean couldn’t wait for that fishing trip to come, so that he could drown his adorable little brother.
Because of their age gap, Sam had been placed in a different set of cabins then Dean and the rest of the boys his age. The younger kids’ cabins weren’t really that far from where Dean was staying, but still far enough to leave the protective older brother worried.
That is, until Dean remembered to corner Gavin, one of Sam’s group, and bribe him with unending supplies of bacon-flavored chips, if he kept a close eye on Sam and reported back to Dean. After Dean had forced Sam to salt every door and window in his cabin, of course.
Just because they were playing normal didn’t mean that they got to play stupid.
And as it turned out, Dean didn’t get to play, period.
There weren’t that many girls to begin with, it being a camp that advertised ‘gun-training’ and ‘hunting’ and ‘experiencing the wilderness’ and all; and most of the ones that were there, had clustered together in to some kind of fraternity, where they clapped each others backs and announced, repeatedly to anyone willing to listen –and a lot others who didn’t- how they had been tricked and betrayed by their evil parents in to coming to that place of doom.
The only thing they ever did was look at him and giggle, often enough that Dean had started to wonder if there was something funny about his face.
He decided early on that they were all crazy and, therefore, he was safer if he didn’t go near them. Well, all crazy, except for Jules.
Jules was in his group and at sixteen, she had all the perks and peaks that Dean enjoyed in his companions of the fairer sex. She also wanted nothing to do with him except for being friends.
Dean had almost made a fool of himself the first time that Jules invited him for a walk on the beach. Figuring that that was girl talk for ‘I want to stick my tongue down your throat’, all he got himself was a hard push and a soft landing on the sand when he tried to stick his tongue down her throat.
And then she’d just laughed good-naturally and helped him up and their ‘walks on the beach’ became nothing more than walks on the beach. Dean learned to enjoy that, even if it was a girly thing to do.
Turns out, Jules was a pretty cool chick to hang out with. She took very seriously all the tasks that the camp trainers and monitors gave them, firmly determined to loose whatever extra weight she’d entered the camp with. That girl had goals, and they had nothing to do with being popular or wearing a pretty dress to the prom.
Jules wanted to be a soldier, she’d once told Dean in one of their walks. She wanted to fight for her country, travel the world and save people, help those who couldn’t defend themselves... like Batman, she’d said. Dean fell a little bit in love with her, right there and then.
Jules was really, really cool. For a chick.
Summer camp sucked ass, but it wasn’t without its perks. Dean and Jules had teamed up and had managed to convince Todd, the camp manager, that it would be a great idea to add snorkeling and underwater spear fishing to the fishing trip’s activities. The man had been sort of reluctant to agree to it, at first, but it turned out that Jules puppy-dog blue eyes were just as effective as Sam’s.
oo..2009, Gein Farm, Plainfield, Wisconsin..oo
The search in and around the dilapidated structures in the old farm turned out to be a waste of time. There was no sign of demonic presence anywhere outside, except for the slightly off, heavily wrong vibe that the whole place gave the two brothers, which had more to do with its history than the fact that demons might’ve walked that piece of land recently.
The number of people who had met their end there, not to mention the ones who had been dug up and brought to that farm to be used as trophies and lampposts and key chains and whatever other craziness that had sprouted from Gein’s deranged mind, had left a hefty mark there.
Gein had left his mark there too. Dean had heard some rumors that a demon had been involved in the whole sordid mess, but he’d never been able to confirm it. The whole situation had happened over fifty years ago. Not even Bobby was a hunter then. There might be some truth to it, but he knew too damn well how evil ordinary human beings could be; he’d seen the monstrous things that people did to other people. It wouldn’t surprise him that much to learn that the demon rumor was nothing but just that... a rumor.
Still, it made sense that the demons would pick a place like this as their secret hide out. The pure evilness that the ground itself exuded there was probably enough to make any lowlife demon feel right at home.
The decaying house was the last place they had to search. The closed off, perfect for a trap, decaying house. Which meant taking some precautions before going in.
Dean wiped the blood from his left palm and finished the anti-angel sigil. One bloody hand pressed against it and they were relatively safe from uninvited angelic visits.
They’d tried a couple of alternatives to the whole ‘cutting themselves up’ every time they needed to make a place secure, before they started to look like either anemic psychos or frigging Twilight fans.
Other people’s blood didn’t work. They’d tried with Bobby’s, figuring that if they could make his do the job, they might start stoking up at the blood bank.
They hadn’t even needed an angel to test it. The tingling feeling that Dean remembered feeling in the tip of his fingers that first time he draw the symbols like he’d seen Anna and Castiel do, just wasn’t there when he used Bobby’s blood.
The same thing happened when they tried to draw the blood beforehand and store it properly. It had to be their blood and it had to be fresh.
Well, so far, it hadn’t so much been ‘their’ blood, but Dean’s blood. Sam kept putting on hold using his blood for the sigil.
They were brothers, Dean had told him countless times. In theory, what worked with Dean’s blood, worked with Sam because they were basically the same. Sam would agree on the general idea, get quiet and keep on insisting to draw the devil traps and laying out he salt lines while Dean went all artistic with his blood.
Dean knew exactly of what Sam was afraid of. He could remember all too well the sight of his baby brother sucking the blood off the neck of a poor possessed woman. So Dean didn’t insist when Sam refused to put their theories to the test. They were both scared of finding out who was right.
“Got the entrances all covered,” Sam announced when he rejoined Dean, throwing the empty spray-paint can in to the pile of empty boxes near the front porch. “Ready to go in?”
Dean nodded, thrusting his uncut hand in a hasty grab for the wall when the world suddenly dimmed around him.
“You ok?” Sam asked, two steps bringing him in to the shadow of his brother. He extended one hand shyly, afraid to complete the gesture and actually touch Dean. “Just how much blood did you use?”
Dean blinked, looking at his bleeding hand like he’d forgotten it was there. There was no way one teeny tiny cut had caused that. “It’s just the heat, man... we’re in the cold so damn much that anything over ‘pleasantly warm’ just overcooks my charm,” Dean said with a practiced smirk. The second the words were out of mouth, Dean knew that he’d just offered Sam the prefect opportunity to take revenge on all the ‘princess’ and ‘Samantha’ remarks that Dean’s ever made and call him ‘delicate flower’ in return.
The witty remark never arrived and after a couple of seconds of relief, Dean found himself actually disappointed for not having been mocked. “Lets just go check this out... this place gives me the creeps. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”
Sam lingered for a while, his eyes running over Dean and trying to measure how much of what he was saying was true and how much was crap.
It wasn’t unheard of for Dean to be hurt or sick and either not noticing it or worse, knowing it and not telling anyone. Used to be a stubborn thing, one more degree of damage inflicted by their father on Dean’s psych, along with the ‘always look strong and able to your enemies’ crap or the ‘a real soldier soldiers on through the thick and thin’ bull. It used to annoy the hell out of Sam. Now it scared him.
Now, Sam could never be sure if Dean was hiding something because he was being stubborn like he’d been his whole life or because he thought Sam was the enemy that he had to look strong in front of.
Dean had told him about his little trip to the future which, in itself, had been weird and frightening enough, specially the part where Sam failed to say no to Lucifer and killed his own brother, not to mention the whole world in the crapper part. Sure, they were largely aware that the apocalypse was on and, more than most people, they knew exactly what that meant — but to know exactly hoe millions would die... how a whole existence would be wiped out...
And while Dean had given all the details that he could remember of how Lucifer had attacked using the Croatoan virus and what had happened to the people they cared about and the exact location of the refugee camp and condition of his dilapidated baby, Dean had been a bit vague about everything else.
Like, for example, what happened to him while he was there. He mentioned coming across a creepy little girl, playing with broken glass in the middle of the street; it took Sam walking in on him accidentally when Dean was coming out of the shower for Sam to find out about the four inch cut in Dean’s side.
Dean had told Sam about the almost being eaten alive by the zombie-like citizens of the future and how a group of soldiers had showed up in the last frigging minute to blast them all away; he never mentioned that he’d been caught in the cross-fire or that he had a bullet graze on his left arm to prove it.
Or even the mention of being captured by his future self, who was a complete dick, apparently, but completely fail to say that the egg-size bump on his head -from being knocked unconscious by said future-dick- was the main reason why Sam had been driving the car for the next couple of days after that, given that Dean was seeing two of everything.
Sam was sure that seeing a Lucifer-him in the future killing a dick-Dean wouldn’t do much to help rebuilt the trust that Sam had shattered by choosing Ruby over his brother. He was also sure that Dean was lying about the whole ‘feeling fine’ crap. He just couldn’t tell if this was some hidden wound that had lingered from the trip to 2014 or something else entirely.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.