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Sam's barely inside the crappy Dodge Charger that Dean stole in Indiana before he's slumping over into the unfamilar leather seats, brain pounding against his skull like a jackhammer. Dean stops halfway through sliding into the driver's seat to prop him up with a grunt, then makes a lap around the front of the car to shut Sam's door for him.
"Jesus, Sammy," he murmurs. Sam can hardly understand him. He feels like he's a million miles away.
Dean starts the car. The unsteady purr of the engine is the best sound Sam's heard in weeks. It isn't the Impala, not even close, but the interior smells like fast food and whiskey. There's no sting of antiseptic in the air or rhythmic beeping by his ear. He's wearing one of Dean's shirts– it doesn't tug too tight over his shoulders like it used to. The radio putters to life with Foreigner.
His brother is saying something about a motel, getting the hell out of here if it kills him. Sam would be voicing his agreement if he could get his lips to move. His forehead nearly smacks against the passenger side window as they peel out of the parking lot.
"-and we'll get your fingers wrapped up, right after you eat a damn cheeseburger. Seriously, did they not feed you in that place?" Dean's chattering anxiously over the staticky classic rock station. Sam doesn't have to open his eyes to know he's bouncing his knee against the underside of the dashboard.
He loses time between Dean's stilted reassurances, drifting in and out of consciousness. Eventually the road falls away completely. For the first time in months, Sam doesn't dream.
They've stopped at an ancient looking Super 8 when Dean shakes him awake, looking apologetic. They're in middle of nowhere Illinois, he explains, about four hours from the hospital.
"Figure it's a safe enough distance for now," he says, hard eyes flickering across the empty parking lot. They both know there's no such thing as a "safe enough distance," but Sam doesn't call him on his bullshit. He wants to believe it, just for tonight.
Dean presses a gas station sandwich against Sam's chest, the plastic crinkling as it makes contact. Sam hurries to catch it before it falls into his lap, squinting at the label. It's egg salad. There's a bottled strawberry smoothie nudging his hand, too.
He shoots Dean a grateful look, twisting the cap off the smoothie with shaky fingers. It tastes terrible, grainy and pumped full of artificial fruit flavoring, but he drains half of it before Dean can fully yank their duffels up from the backseat.
The sandwich gets tucked under his bicep as he clumsily follows Dean into the chilly night air. It's cold enough that his breath fogs, which is unusual for late April. He shivers in place while Dean digs their room key from his pocket.
The door creaks open, and Dean gives the room a quick once-over before nudging Sam inside. Immediately his boots get caught on a row of tack strips beneath the lifting shag carpet. Home sweet home.
He claims the bed furthest from the window and melts into it, taking in a long breath that reeks of mothballs and mildew. The stains on the ceiling above him tell him there's mold all over this dump, but they won't be here long enough for it to matter.
"I need to clean up your fingers before you pass out on me again." Dean isn't looking at him, already fretting with the lights and the first aid kit from his bag. Sam blinks against the allure of sleep, absentmindedly running his thumb over the jagged scar on his palm. It doesn't burn anymore, but the tender new flesh around it is softer than the rest of his calloused hand.
Dean crouches with a grunt on the carpet. Sam offers up his hands for examination, knowing this familiar song and dance. He watches his brother's lips purse with dissatisfaction at the missing fingernails and bloody cuticles as he douses them with drops of iodine. Sam hisses at the sting, more out of reflex than pain.
"I can't believe they let it get this bad. Some hospital. How's the ribs?"
Sam shrugs. "Uh, fine. Head hurts a bit. I'll live."
Dean's eyes narrow. "Yeah, I'll bet. Cas said they were trying to fry you when he got in there." Sam doesn't miss how he pauses on Castiel's name. He still doesn't know the whole story with "Emmanuel," or how Meg came into the picture. He doesn't ask. That's for later, when they've both shoved everything down far enough that it feels like shop talk. It probably never will, but they're good at pretending.
Dean tears the last bit of gauze with his teeth and pats it snugly around Sam's thumb. His hands are almost completely hidden by bandaging.
"Good as new." He pats Sam's knee and falls back against the opposite bedframe with a groan. "It has been a long ass day."
Sam snorts. "A long ass year." A frame of reference that means little to either of them these days. He runs a hand through his hair. Several strands fall out, clinging to the tape keeping the gauze in place. He shakes them off and puts his feet up on the bed, grimacing when his heels hang off the edge. Dean's nursing Bobby's flask against his lips, a constant since the funeral. It's a piss poor replacement for the man himself.
They sit, letting the crappy radiator hum a stale heat over their faces. It doesn't do much for the chill, which seems to have followed them inside. Sam starts to nod off again, resting his head on the thin wall behind him. His hair snags on the peeling paint.
"Hey, c'mon," he hears Dean say, blurry and hazed in his near-unconsciousness but impossibly fond. There's the sound of knees popping and the squeak of the boxsprings from the other mattress as Dean pulls himself up. Sam feels heavy hands land on his boots and get to work untying the laces. "Lay down at least, I paid good fake money for this shithole."
Sam scoffs. He pliantly allows Dean to pull off his shoes and push his shoulders down until he's curled into his side, one arm wrapping instinctively around his aching ribs. The yellowing pillow beneath his head smells of cigarette smoke and is lumpy all over, and Sam really kind of loves it right in this moment. Dean struggles for a moment to pull the comforter free of the corners of the mattress and drape it over him.
Dean shimmies out of his jeans and slides into the other bed, reaching over to flick the light off. Sam feels his eyes on him even with his own closed. Tomorrow, they'll pack their meager belongings and get back on the road, going nowhere in particular but always, always toward another fight. Tomorrow, Sam will blink open still-heavy eyelids and read about Leviathans until his head feels like it's going to split in two and Dean forces him to take a nap in the backseat. Tomorrow, Dean will drink a little more than he should. And so it goes.
"It's good to have you back, brother."
Tonight, Sam sleeps.