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Dean knows almost all of Sam's scars. Hell, he's not exactly innocent when it comes to a lot of them.
He knows all about the scar on Sam's right knee. They spent a couple months in Duluth once when they were kids, squatting on a rundown farm. Damn place didn't even have indoor plumbing, just an outhouse out back.
Sammy had been seven years old and they were playing hide 'n' seek. For some dumbass reason Sam decided the roof of the outhouse was the perfect place to hide. Dean was pretty impressed at Sam's ability to scramble up the side of the uneven boards the thing was made of. And actually, Sam'd been right, no way was Dean gonna look for him on the roof of that shit-smelling shack.
Dean had searched and hunted all around that damn farmhouse but he hadn't found his brother until Sam toppled off the roof at Dean's feet.
Sam had spent the whole time Dean cleaned up his knee insisting he'd won the game.
Dean knows about the tiny scar on Sam's chin, faded over time, from when Sam tripped and landed face first on the rough sidewalk in front of Pastor Jim's church. Just because Dean had been chasing him at the time didn't mean it was Dean's fault, he didn't care what Dad said. Sam shouldn't have taken Dean's favorite comic book without asking and he sure as hell shouldn't have spilled root beer on it.
Dean knows about the rusted-out car in Bobby's yard that would have taken Sam's arm clean off instead of just gouging it some if Dean hadn't been there to catch him and jerk him out of the way. Dad had finally put his foot down and declared the salvage yard off-limits when they stayed with Bobby.
That hadn't stopped them from sneaking out there whenever they could get away with it, though, to explore all the cool shit Bobby kept laying around. They were just more careful not to get hurt, was all. Or caught.
Dean had given Sam tons of shit about the bullet hole where that crazy shape-shifter in Oklahoma shot Sam with his own gun.
"Crazy fucker got the drop on you pretty easy. Losing your touch, there, Sammy," he'd gloated with unholy amusement.
Dean didn't think it was quite as funny when Bela shot Sam, even if she did only graze him. The less he thinks about Bela, the better, actually.
Sam's got a faded dog bite on his left forearm. It wasn't even a supernatural dog, it was just a normal dog, a skinny mutt that Sam was trying to coax in out of the rain with a half-eaten hotdog. Dean had laughed so hard at the look on Sam's face when the dog bit him, then grabbed the hot dog and ran, that he hadn't been able to breathe for about five minutes.
There's a scar that's usually hidden by Sam's hair, running along the side of his left cheek. Chicago with Dad. It was the first time they'd ever dealt with a daeva and it clawed all three of them up pretty good. That one, Dean counts like a marker in time - Dad left again after that, and then things had really gone pear-shaped.
Dean sure as hell hasn't forgotten the time he stood waiting with a dislocated shoulder, watching Sam stitch up the slice in his own arm before he popped Dean's shoulder back into place. They'd been running from Alistair that time, with no choice but to leap through a church window. Every time Dean sees that scar, he sees Alistair's eyes, gleaming with amusement.
There's a whole collection of scars that Dean wasn't there for, a bullet wound on Sam's chest that had obviously been stitched up with great precision, a couple of faded claw marks on his back. Sam tells him those don't matter, that they come from a time that never really happened. Dean says that's bullshit. If Sam has scars from that time, then it happened.
More than any other of Sam's scars, Dean knows the one in the middle of his lower back. Dean can't actually bring himself to look at it and he cuts his eyes away whenever he catches Sam coming out of the shower or changing his shirt, or working out like he does these days, chin-ups and pull-ups done on odd bits of plumbing.
Dean still knows every inch, every uneven coloration, every bit of granulated tissue that make up that terrible scar. The damn thing is burned on the insides of his retinas and it always will be.
They never talk about it. Dean has no idea if it hurts, if it's numb or uncomfortable. He doesn't know if it itches when it rains or tightens up when Sam's back gets too much sun. He doesn't ever want to know.
That scar tells Dean everything he ever needed to know about the kind of person Sam used to be. Sam used to be the kind of person who didn't kill things without a good reason. He was the kind of person who hated death and violence so much he ran from his family to escape it.
The person Sam used to be was the guy who let an enemy live simply because he was another human being. Who left a knife on the ground for the taking and who ended up dead in the mud as a result.
Sam hasn't been that kid in a very long time. Dean wonders about Sam's soul and how torn up it is. He wonders if any of those softer instincts still survive in his brother or if Hell burned them away.
There are new scars now that Dean doesn't know about. Scars that are less than a year old.
Sam has a scar on the back of his right leg, low on his thigh, that Dean's never seen before. There's a healed bullet wound in the hollow of his right shoulder, and a nasty-looking scar that looks like either claws or teeth on his left side.
Dean's only seen that one once. It's a little too close to the small of Sam's back for Dean's comfort and he had to look away before he could see any details.
He knows that until recently Sam didn't remember how he got those new scars. Dean had seen him looking curiously at the one on his shoulder, rubbing idly at the one on his side like he kept forgetting it was there.
All Dean wanted was for Sam to never have to remember them. But Dean seldom gets what he wants.
"It was a girl," Sam says, fingers poking at the small puckered circle on his shoulder. He looks up at Dean, his eyes filled with regret. "She was trying to protect herself. She had a gun. We were – we were looking for a werewolf, Samuel said we were close to the alpha."
Dean doesn’t want to hear this. He wants Sam to stop talking, but he doesn't know how to make him do that other than by simply walking away, and that's something he isn't willing to do.
So he listens.
"She got in the way, so I killed her." Sam says it plainly, without excuse or embellishment.
"Sam," Dean says. "Sam, don't." His chest is so tight he can barely get the words out.
"It's okay, Dean. It's not like I couldn't guess the kinds of things I must have done. It doesn't exactly come as a surprise, you know?" Sam sighs, looking away. "It's not like I didn't guess," he repeats softly, almost to himself.
Dean wants to find Castiel right the fuck now and then he wants to kill him. He wants to tear him apart, feather by treacherous feather.
"I'll be right back, Sammy," he manages to say. Sam smiles at him sadly.
Dean slips outside and he paces in the cool night air.
It doesn't help. The rage he feels at Cas for using Sam's wall as a tactical device is a constant, steady thing and Dean knows it will never go away.
"Dammit, Cas, you owed him," he shouts at the silent sky.
It's not as if Dean expects a response. Eventually he turns and heads back inside to his brother.
Sam's sprawled out over the bed, looking like he just fell asleep. He's moaning fitfully, frowning, hands twitching in agitation.
Dean's own hands relax, unclench, no longer fists as he brushes a sweaty strand of hair off Sam's forehead.
After Dean showed up at Lisa's door, all it had taken was a week of him sleeping on the couch or in a chair, head in his folded arms at the kitchen table, or stretched out on Lisa's bed, jeans, boots and jacket still on, before Lisa put her foot down. Dean was coming to bed like a normal person, she said, and that was all there was to it.
It wasn't easy, but he'd done it because it felt like the least he could do for her. Eventually he'd gotten used to it.
And now it's gonna be Sam's turn to sleep randomly here and there, catching a few winks out of sheer exhaustion, sleeping fully clothed, never even pulling down the bedspread, while Dean keeps watch over him.
Dean knows there are scars he'll never see, scars on Sam's soul, his psyche, put there by Lucifer and Michael.
He honestly doesn't know what he'll do if he ever catches even a glimpse, but he does know he never wants to find out.