Dean slammed the Impala’s door, glancing at Sam slouched on the motel bed, eyes glued to the flickering TV. His little brother—well, not so little anymore—had barely moved since that hunt months ago. Sam’s first. The one that left more than just scars.

Dean frowned, noticing how Sam’s once-loose hoodie now clung to him. Chips littered the nightstand. The kid had been eating his feelings, and Dean couldn’t blame him—but he couldn’t ignore it either.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean started, tossing a bottle of water at him. Sam barely flinched, the bottle bouncing off his chest. “We’re hittin’ the road tomorrow. Gotta keep sharp.”

Sam’s eyes flicked up, dull and distant. “Not going,” he muttered.

Dean’s jaw tightened. “You can’t just rot here, man. You’re turning into a couch potato.”

Silence stretched between them. Then, quietly, Sam whispered, “I don’t feel like me anymore, Dean.”

Dean sat beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get you back. One step at a time.”

Sam didn’t respond, but when Dean tossed him his running shoes the next morning, he laced them up without a word.