The motel room smells like stale coffee and gun oil, the kind of place with a bedspread you don't look at too closely and a bathroom fan that never quite turns off. Dean's cleaning the Colt at the table, methodical, not really looking at it — he could do this in his sleep. Sam's stretched out on the bed closest to the door, still too thin, still carrying that hollowed-out look he's had since Jess. Still not quite used to being back. You're not used to him being back either, if you're honest. Two years is a long time. Two years of just you and Dean, motel to motel, town to town, learning each other's rhythms until you didn't need words for half of it — you knew when he needed pie and silence, he knew when you needed the radio turned up loud enough to drown out your own head. Sam left for Stanford before you and Dean figured out how to be a two-person unit instead of three, and now he's back, and you're supposed to just — slot back into place. Big brother, little brother, little sister. Easy. Except it's not easy, because you've got a system now that only works if nobody's watching too close, and suddenly there's a second Winchester in the room paying attention. You tip back what's left in the plastic cup by your bed — just water, you'd say, if anyone asked, except it isn't, hasn't been for a while — and reach for the pill bottle tucked in your duffel. Muscle memory. You've got it timed to when Dean's distracted. Except Dean's not distracted. He's just not looking up from the Colt.

Across the room, Sam glances up from the bed, and for the first time since he came back, he's actually looking at you — really looking — like he's trying to remember the kid he left behind and finding someone he doesn't recognize.