Sam could still feel the burn of the coffee on his hand as it splashed to the ground.

Dad.

Sprawled, limp, dead. (No, no, no.)

He knew it before he got to his father's side, which made it even more difficult to swallow. He ran as fast as he could, tried as hard as he could, but he'd never get there in time. There were no second chances this time. There was nothing he could do except get there a minute too late.

He'd just never thought it'd end like this. End with an aborted fight and a cup of coffee and a heart attack and a lifetime of words he'd never be able to take back.

The tears were blinding him, choking him.

It couldn't end like this, he couldn't let it end like this.

He didn't have a choice.

They took his father, pulled him away, and all Sam could do was sit there and sob, pleading, begging, hoping.

But then he saw the doctor, looking down at him, sad and sympathetic. "Time of death, 10:41."

That couldn't be it. It wasn't. He tried to push forward, to see, but the doctor was there, holding him, telling him that he needed to calm down.

Sam didn't want to calm down. Sam just wanted to see, wanted to see that it wasn't true.

His arms were pulled to the side, restrained.

Then Sam saw the scene in front of him.

His father, cold and pale and dead. (This is not happening.)

Next to him, on an identical gurney, the monitors showing nothing, lay his brother, just as cold and pale and dead.

He'd lost them both. One fell swoop, and they were gone and Sam was alone.

He screamed and kicked but someone tugged on him, pulling his arm, and agony erupted throughout his body, sending him to his knees.

"How are they both dead?" he asked, he begged. (Because you're a selfish bastard, Sam.)

"We did everything we could, Sam," the doctor promised.

Sam shook his head.

"But we were too little, too late."

Sam twisted against the doctor's unyielding grip, struggled, but the pain was all-encompassing and he felt himself fade to gray.

-o-

Sam woke with a breath caught in his throat, his eyes wet and his heart pounding.

In the darkness, he glanced to his side, eyes probing the room.

Dean. Dean was there. Sleeping, breathing, alive.

A nightmare, he thought. Only a nightmare.

At least part of it was a nightmare.

In his nostrils, he could still smell the faint smoke of their father's burning corpse.

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to forget. His chest hitched, still trying to catch his breath.

Nightmares were nothing new to him. Considering everything he'd seen as a child, everything he'd seen scribbled in the pages of his father's journal, nightmares were a common thing for him. His father had always tried to assuage Sam's fears with salt lines and weaponry, neither of which really got to the heart of Sam's fears. He knew his nightmares were a weakness, knew they made him a weakness, and Sam had always wanted to be strong.

The dreams since Stanford didn't usually terrify him anymore, but they haunted him. Still graphic and vivid, but now full of promise and destruction. Either that, or of undeniable guilt.

No matter what psycho babble he could get to explain his nightmares, no matter what the visions suggested, part of him always figured his nightmares had always been his penance. His penance for not being good enough as a child. His penance for getting his mother killed. His penance for not saving Jessica.

Now they were his penance for not being the son he could have been, for not being the brother he should be. He'd failed his father in the most basic way--by failing to pull the trigger, he'd lost not only his father, but his one chance at victory as well. More importantly, he'd taken away his brother's only sense of stability because Dad was dead, and Dean would never have his family back again.

And there wasn't anything he could say or do about it. Dean had confessed it all, told him how much he didn't deserve to be alive, and all Sam could hear was Dean telling him that he was just too little, too late.

He let out a shaky sigh, letting the vestige of wakefulness push the memory away. Dean was alive. He had to cling to that. As long as Dean was alive, he could make this better. That was more important than just about anything.

Dreams were nothing, after all. Nothing but imagination and thought. If he couldn't get past them emotionally, he would try logic. He'd try anything to overcome them, to keep them under wraps.

But the pain had been so real. He could still feel the grief in the wetness on his cheeks, the hollowness in his chest. He could even still feel the pain in his arm.

He winced, trying to flex his fingers.

The pain in his arm was no nightmare. The zombie had been more than real when she fell on him. Considering she'd been going for a broken neck, a sprained wrist didn't seem like too much of a tradeoff.

But it hurt more than any sprain he had remembered. Maybe it really was broken, he thought, fondling it gently.

Which really seemed about right. Another failure. He was too fragile. He probably should have run faster. He probably should have gotten on board with the hunt earlier. There was no doubt that he should have done something differently in all of this.

Too little, too late, now. Again. Always. He'd just have to deal with what he had right then. And what he had right then was a nightmare, a sleeping brother, and a pained wrist.

Throbbing, aching wrist was more like it.

When they'd checked into the motel, it'd started to bruise and swell a little. But Sam had wrapped it with an Ace bandage, hoping to keep it still and immobile without arousing his brother's suspicion.

The last thing Dean needed to do was to worry about Sam's wrist. It was pretty clear that Dean had bigger things on his mind than his little brother's carelessness.

Besides, he wanted Dean to forget about hospitals, forget what he'd lost there, what he'd almost lost. He hated to think of Dean finding himself in a hospital waiting room, alone. Sam could only imagine what memories that would bring up. Because Sam knew what it would be like for Dean. Sam knew that feeling of hopelessness and despair, of knowing there was absolutely nothing to be done to save his family. He would never inflict that on Dean. Never.

But he was fine; it was Dean who wasn't okay. Not at all. Sam had watched his brother's slow self-destruction for weeks now. From maiming the Impala, to his ruthless killing of that vampire, to taking a swing at Sam, Dean wasn't himself.

Hell, Dean had even broken down and cried in front of Sam, and even though Sam had been waiting for it, almost demanding it, he hadn't known what to do with it. He supposed he just never expected Dean to finally give in and do it.

His brother didn't see value in his life. His brother didn't feel like he deserved to live. Those two facts floored Sam more than he could admit.

Dean was everything to him. Dean was his entire world. He'd do anything for Dean, but Dean still couldn't see that. Still didn't get it. Dean didn't get that he was worried about him, that Sam wasn't just trying to be the good son for their dad, but for Dean as well.

He shifted in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position to sleep. Pain flared up again and he stifled a groan. Being the good brother meant sacrifice; Dean had taught him that much. So he'd just have to manage the pain himself.

Keeping very still, he tried to will sleep back to him. Maybe in the morning things would be better. In the end, it didn't matter. The constant ache wore away his senses until all he knew was sleep.

-o-

Dean didn't sleep. Not really. Not anymore. Not since he'd woken up from his coma and realized he was supposed to be dead. Instead he lay in the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, and felt the pulsing of his own heart echoing in his ears.

They called him a miracle.

All his wounds, healed. Everything, like it'd barely happened. He bore the scars, but not the full extent of the trauma. The Demon's torture, the car accident, nothing but scars and sutures that would diminish in time.

But he knew better. He was living on borrowed time--someone else's time. His father's time. And nothing made that right.

Not even Sam.

He loved Sam, he knew that Sam was trying--Sam was trying so hard. But Sam didn't get it. Sam didn't know. Sam had no idea.

Not only had their father given him his life that he didn't deserve, but he'd given Dean the secret that he didn't want to carry. His father had betrayed him in every way he possibly could.

Sighing, Dean looked over at the other bed. Sam was curled up on his side, scrunched into a ball it didn't seem possible for a man Sam's size to make.

He clenched his teeth. It figured Sam could sleep. Sam had the benefit of ignorance.

Sam felt guilty about a lot of things, that much was obvious to Dean. Their father's last words to Sam would haunt Sam forever, not to mention the unresolved trauma of finding Dad's body. Dean couldn't even begin to imagine what that must have felt like. But, even so, he couldn't help but think that Sam was the lucky one.

Sure, Dean had gotten the goodbye. He'd gotten the approval, the thanks, the love he'd always craved and wanted. But with that, with all of that, came the hardest secret he'd ever have to keep. The hardest cross he'd ever have to bear. Watch out for Sammy.

Just like he always had.

Only not at all like he always had.

How was he supposed to protect Sam when he knew the things he did? When he wasn't even supposed to be alive? This was Dad's burden, Dad's secret, Dad's job, and somehow it had fallen to Dean. Again.

He took a shuddering breath. He couldn't do this. He didn't know how to do this.

Maybe that wasn't entirely true.

He just didn't want to do this. Not anymore.

Closing his eyes, he knew he wouldn't sleep anymore. They just needed something else to hunt, something new, something distracting. Anything so he didn't have to think about how he wished someone would come along and spear him to a casket so he could never get out.

-o-

It was light out.

That was the first thing Sam's brain registered. The light was blaring through his eyelids, heating him through the sheet he was curled under.

His arm hurt.

That was the second thing Sam's brain registered. It was a sudden, deep pain that made him wince.

"Hey, Francis," Dean's voice came to him. "About time you woke up."

He opened his eyes, trying to prop himself up one-handed to look at his brother.

Dean was nursing a cup of coffee at the table, looking nonchalantly through a newspaper.

"What time is it?" Sam asked slowly, trying to bring saliva back to his dry mouth. He coughed once, grimacing at the rawness he found there.

"Nearly ten."

Sam winced again, though he hid it well. His brother was the only one good at masking things. "You could have woken me."

Dean's shrug was indifferent, and Sam felt cold. "I found us a hunt."

That was so like Dean, all of this was so like Dean. Acting as though nothing had happened. As though Dad wasn't dead, as though Dean hadn't broken down, as though they just needed to hunt and it'd be okay again. "Dean, are you sure we're ready for this? I mean--"

Dean finally looked up at him. "You need more time off or something? I mean, we went to see Mom's grave like you wanted. We've got to get back in the game."

Sam could hear the desperation in Dean's voice. The need to hunt, the need to focus on anything else, to give his life meaning. He'd seen it starting with the nest of vampires and seen it'd peak dangerously with the zombie. Dean wasn't emotionally dealing with anything right now. The hunt was all he had. Sam was pretty sure that it wasn't healthy to turn off feelings so completely, but he didn't know what else to do.

Obsession and denial were practical inherited Winchester traits.

He had to be there for his brother, just like Dean had always been there for him. In the months after Jessica died, Sam had turned to hunting to fill the void, to displace the guilt. It had been part of his healing process. And Dean had been there every step of the way, quietly prodding him to closure.

It was Sam's turn.

He smiled, clearing his throat. "Okay," he agreed. "Just let me shower and we'll get on the road."

-o-

Dean had hoped that if he kept going, it would help him forget, would help him move on. The hunt was always an apt distraction, full of details and dangers all its own. Their father had used it as a coping mechanism; so had Sam at times. So now it was Dean's turn to lose himself in it.

Sam had taken his sweet time that morning, sleeping in late, showering slowly, and by the end of it, Dean was all the more anxious to get out on the road. This was his hunt--just like they all had been. Sam seemed more than content to sit around and wait for some magical healing to occur, but it only made things worse.

If he wanted to get things back to normal, he'd have to do it himself. Well, him and his handy bi-hourly doses of caffeine that kept him from crashing hard.

His efforts aside, the drive was still less than comfortable. Sam was quieter than usual, and Dean no longer had the heart to try to break him out of it. The silences that lapsed between them were pervasive, deep, expansive.

But Dean had tried talking. And all Sam had given him was silence.

So back to the hunt it was.

This time it was a haunted barn. A few accidents, a handful of animal mutilations, and a death. Dean was suspecting a poltergeist and Sam seemed to think the history of the property supported that. All they needed to do was sweep the grounds, talk to the homeowner, and banish the thing.

Simple, but involved enough to keep his mind clear of his injuries, his secret, his dad. At least, that was his plan.

In reality, all it did was remind him.

The barn itself looked old, as though it had seen better days, but the property owner lived in a traditional looking home, tall, two stories, familiar in a painful way. The land was just outside of Lincoln, Nebraska, with long lines of wheat and stretched horizons that Dean could remember from family picnics in similar countrysides a lifetime ago.

That much could have been coincidence, painful but easily forgotten, but that certainly wasn't where it ended.

There was a truck in a long dirt driveway, black and big, just like Dad's.

A man, a 50-something widower, who lived alone on the farm, gruff and benevolent. Stubborn as hell, too, when they tried to get him to leave his property for awhile.

Even the way Sam squatted, leaning back on his heals, as he investigated, fingering at something on the ground and sniffing it, brow furrowed, so much like his father.

Dad was everywhere except the one place he should be: on the hunt.

-o-

Sam was grateful for several things.

First of all, the hunt seemed straightforward. He'd say simple, but nothing was simple in their lives. Not before, and especially not now.

Second of all, the victim and landowner was helpful and earnest, which always made things easier. Sam had a feeling that the man already suspected something supernatural, or something not normal, and that made it a little easier too.

Sam wanted there to be something more to be grateful for, but he couldn't really think of anything. Dean was silent and withdrawn, all business in that scary new way he had. Dean had shut down again, as though his tearful confession on the road had never happened.

That was Sam's fault, and he knew it. He'd had a chance, an opening, and said nothing, done nothing. He'd witnessed his brother's pain just like he'd begged for and he'd had no idea what to do with it.

Quite simply, Sam had failed. Again.

It wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

On top of all that, his arm still throbbed. He'd run out of painkillers that morning and hadn't had the heart to ask Dean to stop to get more. He'd just have to suck it up and take the pain.

That made it hard to focus, though, hard to concentrate. He had to keep the limb cradled close to him to avoid touching things with it.

Sam sucked in a shaky breath and tried to focus. Dean was walking the perimeter of a silo, edging off toward the nearby cornfield, EMF in hand.

Sam eyed the decrepit structure, squinting up at it through the sunlight.

Sweeping trained eyes over the area, Sam looked for disturbances, anything out of the ordinary. He felt the dirt, tasted it, smelled it, hoping for some kind of clue.

Glancing up, he saw Dean looking at him, before looking hurriedly away.

Sam sighed, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

Clues were important to a hunt. He'd rather have clues on how to help his brother.

He couldn't help but wonder, though, if he'd already missed his chance. That all the clues in the world would never make a difference. Dean had opened up on the roadside, and Sam had said nothing. Now it was just too little, too late.

-o-

The man, Gene, had a rough exterior, but Dean found him surprisingly helpful when they really started talking. Open, too. Made them coffee and offered them some banana bread. He even told them about his children, and Dean could sense the man's pride, his love. And those kids gave him nothing, it seemed. They were successful but distant, but to Gene, they were everything. They moved away, visiting only at Christmas and Thanksgiving, and all their father could do was sing their praises. It was almost a greater family tragedy than his own.

For a moment he couldn't help but wonder how he would have flourished with a dad like that.

"But it's probably for the best," he said. "I wouldn't want them messed up in any of this stuff."

The poltergeist who had taken residence up in an abandoned silo. Usually, not a real problem, but it was seeking victims from whoever passed by, and the man had lost two dogs and a field hand to it. It was Sam who had wanted to tell him the truth, to try honesty with this guy, and Dean hadn't had the heart or the will to disagree.

"I can't believe that stuff's real," he said with a shake of his head. "You boys, what you do, don't your parents worry about you?"

Sam managed a pained smile but Dean grit his teeth and tried not to flinch. "No, sir," he said. "It's just the nature of the job."

It was Sam who flinched, then, and Dean tried not to noticed, tried not to see the worried look in Sam's eyes as he studied his brother. He couldn't deal with that right now, he couldn't deal with Sam right now.

Moreover, they had work to do.

-o-

It'd taken some sweet talking, and it was Dean who did it this time, to convince Gene that he needed to stay clear of the farm until they were done. The man looked stricken, all too fatherly, and he placed a concerned hand on Dean's shoulder.

"I don't want anything happening to you boys," he said, and there was an affection there, a genuine concern, that Sam wished Dean could bask in.

But he knew Dean wouldn't. He could see the unconscious tension in Dean's stance as he plastered an easy grin over his features.

"We appreciate the concern, really," Dean said, "but we know what we're doing. We've been doing this for a long time."

"You're both too young to be able to say that," the man said, shaking his head with a sad smile.

It was all the right words, all the right ideas, but the wrong time, from the wrong man. Too little, too late.

Sam didn't hear the rest of the conversation. He didn't hear what Gene said as he left. He barely saw the man's mouth move, his eyes low and downcast as he patted Dean's shoulder approvingly once again.

When he was gone, Dean sighed and looked at him. "I thought he would never leave," he said, blowing out another long and grating breath. "You ready to do this one, little brother?"

Sam wasn't though, not really. He wasn't ready to watch Dean like this again. And the pain in his arm was making him fuzzy, dizzy--lightheaded in a way he wasn't really prepared for. It suddenly felt like all his energy had been sapped, and it was harder than he would have imagined to shake himself free of the lethargy.

The only reason Sam managed to nod at all was the sheer effort in his brother's voice that he simply couldn't deny.

-o-

There wasn't much to do. Dean could have done it in his sleep.

Who was he kidding, he practically was doing it in his sleep.

He eyed the barn, which was already familiar to him. "I wonder if junior's home," he muttered.

Sam just grunted in reply.

"Well if he's not now, he will be soon," Dean said, laying his bag down. Opening it, he pulled out the journal, thumbing through it to find the passage.

He looked up and found Sam standing there, head cocked to the side and staring right past Dean.

"Dude," he said.

Sam blinked, shuddered a little, then looked at him.

"You going to get the symbols drawn?" he asked, too aware of the impatience filtering through his voice.

Sam nodded, fumbling his own pack off his shoulder, letting it drop to the ground. Dean watched as his brother hunched over, opening it one-handed.

Dean just shook his head. It was so like Sam to be slow in the middle of a hunt, taking his own sweet time. Sam would call it being methodical, of course, but it was annoying all the same.

All he could do was his part, and hope that Sam met him half way.

Sighing, he placed the journal on the ground before riffling through his pack for the candles. He didn't spare a glance at Sam, who was moving slowly around the edges of the barn, as he arranged them on the floor.

The hunt used to make him excited, nervous.

Now, he just wanted to get it over with.

Looking up, he saw Sam standing by the wall, chalk in hand, tracing slowly over the wood.

"Hey, you think you can hurry it up," Dean called. "I'd like to get ready before the poltergeist decides to come out on its own."

Sam stilled, but didn't respond, his hand freezing in the air.

"Sam?"

Again, no response.

Annoyed, Dean stood, moving toward Sam. He didn't have time for this, didn't have the energy for this. All he asked was for a little bit of time, a little bit of focus, but Sam couldn't even give him that much.

They would have to talk about this, which Dean resented even more, because Dean was more than tired of talking.

Dean was more than tired of everything.

-o-

Drawing the sigils was supposed to be the easy part.

He looked again at the picture, stared at it, then tried to remember how to move his hand to finish it.

Dean was talking. He needed to listen to him, to look at him, to pretend.

Sam squinted hard and tried to focus through the throbbing in his head. His stomach was turning somersaults.

Then his vision blurred, dipping and graying out.

He blinked, purposefully, and swallowed against it all.

"You got that, Sam?" Dean was asking.

Sam peered into his brother's face, not able to make out the facial expression, but hoping it wasn't annoyed.

"Yeah," he lied.

Dean believed him (Dean believed him), going back to ready his weaponry.

Sam fumbled for his supplies. It was a poltergeist, right? How hard could a poltergeist be?

Just had to get this done, finish this hunt, then he could sleep for a little bit, check his arm, make sure it hadn't fallen off.

Though given how much it seemed to hurt, he was pretty sure having it fall off might actually be an improvement. Except for the whole being one-handed thing. But really, at this point, he was almost ready to give it a try.

Focus, Sam. He gritted his teeth. What was wrong with him? Why did it seem like everything was underwater? Why couldn't he just be the good brother for once?

This was his last chance, his only chance. Everyone else was dead, everyone else was gone. There was just Dean. Dean had always been the first and he'd be the last and Sam needed to make it right with them.

-o-

When all else failed him, his training would always kick in, Dean could always rely on that much. His emotions needed to be left on the side of that mountain road, or in Bobby's car yard, where they could be expressed and destroyed in even blows.

He was impenetrable. His dad had raised him to hold onto that much. It didn't even matter if his father was a liar and a hypocrite, not when the hunt was on, and that was what Dean liked about it. No real thinking, just instincts. No emotion, just logic. It was simple, pure in a sense. Not tainted by the mess that was his life.

Dean handed the paper to Sam. "You read, I'll keep watch."

Sam stared a moment before dumbly taking the paper.

Dean turned away, didn't want to look at the blankness on Sam's face. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay calm, to stay with it, trying not to wish so badly that his father was here.

He took a few breaths, in and out, in and out, opened his eyes, and went back to work.

-o-

One minute Sam was reading an incantation, an exorcism.

The next he was fumbling for a shotgun.

Then there was pain.

In his haste to shoot the poltergeist before it attacked him, he'd forgotten one important detail--that his hand wasn't exactly moving properly. The Ace bandage helped, but it could only do so much, and he could almost feel the bones shifting in his wrist. The intensity of that sensation blocked all other reality from him.

Including the bloodthirsty poltergeist coming his way.

He didn't pass out, which he figured was actually rather impressive, but he found himself against the wall of the barn, blood dripping down his good arm and his other arm--well, that arm felt like it was on fire.

Through the haze of intense pain, he could hear yelling and noise, but all he could think about was the deadening realization of how badly he'd screwed this one up.

Somethin crashed and someone yelled. Dean.

His senses tingled.

The poltergeist was here. The poltergeist was here and his brother was facing it--alone.

Sam shook his head purposefully, but to little avail. His vision swam and he felt disconnected. But Dean needed his help. He had a job to do, a job...

The incantation. He needed to finish reading.

He made it to his knees, crawling forward through the cacophony. He'd just had the paper...

There. The paper. Scrabbling for it, he picked it up, and strained his eyes and breathed out the words.

More noise, more yelling.

His words rushed, tripped, ended.

Then it was over.

He panted, nearly laughing drunkenly, cradling his injured arm close to him. It was over.

Then he saw Dean standing over him, staring down, his face a mask of anger and fear. "Are you hurt?" he demanded.

Sam's eyes watered and he opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"Are you hurt?" Dean demanded again, the fire raging behind his eyes.

"N-no," Sam said finally, trying to push himself to stand.

"Then what the hell were you doing?" Dean yelled, his voice like gravel. He pulled at Sam's bloody sleeve, trying to gauge it.

Sam had nearly forgotten about that arm. "It's fine," he said, and it was mostly the truth.

Dean just glared at him before he prodded Sam hard, out of the barn.

Sam's feet stumbled forward. He swallowed a wave of nausea as they stepped into the sunlight.

"You nearly got us killed in there!" Dean fumed.

Sam blinked frantically, trying to clear his head, clear his vision. "Dean, I'm--"

"You're what?" Dean demanded.

Sam's vision cleared enough to focus on his brother's face, twisted surreally in a mask of anger and horror.

Sam felt himself breaking. It was just more than he could take, more than he could stomach, more than he could handle. Maybe he was the weaker brother, after all.

Sagging, he broke eye contact, unable to maintain it. "It won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't," Dean snapped. "Don't you think we've lost enough, Sam?"

Sam just didn't have the words. He didn't have the strength. The pain that started in his arm seemed to disperse throughout his entire body and saturated his soul. All he wanted was to be there for his brother, to support his brother, to protect his brother. But he couldn't even see straight.

For a second, Sam hated his father for dying. Hated his father for leaving Dean like this, for not knowing what this deal would do to his older brother, for not caring.

But Sam couldn't hate his father for saving Dean's life.

It should have been him. He should have been the one to make the sacrifice. Dad would know how to make Dean better. Dad had been there for Dean when Sam left for college and everything had been okay, it'd been fine.

Dad wouldn't let this weakness have such a hold over him.

He closed his eyes, garnering some kind of resolve. When he looked up, Dean was still staring at him, intense and angry and terrified.

"Let's get out of here before he comes back," Dean growled. "I don't want to talk to him."

Sam watched him go, too shocked to even say anything. He should be helping, should be doing something, but he couldn't move.

His new injuries were superficial The bloody arm may have looked a bit grotesque, swathed in blood, but he barely even felt the cut in comparison to his already injured arm.

He winced, holding it in front of him. It was still bandaged, and Sam didn't really have the energy to unwrap it for further probing. Any movement turned his stomach, anyway, and he was so tired.... The weeks were building up on him, the weight was just too much, and the exhaustion had worn him completely thin.

If he could just get out of there, just do what Dean wanted, he could sleep. He could sleep and in the morning, he could check his arm, maybe even see a doctor without Dean knowing.

Breathing in, he chewed his lower lip, hoping to keep himself together. Resolved, he hobbled after his brother. Dean was in the barn, picking up the supplies. Sam followed him, gingerly bending over to pick up his bag.

The silence between them reverberated loudly over the rushing sound of blood in Sam's ears.

-o-

Dean couldn't help but feel a little guilty, no matter how right he was. Even now, Sam was hunched and withdrawn, collecting his things like an old man, not the young kid that he was. That should bother him, it used to, but he didn't know how anymore.

He looked away, focusing on his things, cleaning up the barn the best he could. He wanted to disappear from this place, from this planet, as best he could.

Sam trailed after him, quiet and obedient for once, but Dean refused to look at him.

Sam had been a liability on this hunt. The kid had nearly gotten them both killed, which was just about the last thing Dean wanted to deal with at this point. He had enough to worry about without worrying about Sam getting himself killed in some basic hunt because he couldn't keep his head where it belonged.

Hell, even he had managed to keep his head in the hunt and he sure had a lot more on his mind than Sam did. Not that Sam wasn't grieving and screwed up, but Sam didn't have an inkling of how deep this thing ran.

He could still hear Sam's words. I'm not okay.

Yeah, well, neither was Dean. And even at Dean's most reckless he never put Sam at risk. And yet Sam, in his emo ways, had managed to compromise both himself and Dean, which was a mistake they couldn't afford.

They couldn't afford much of anything at this point; they were barely keeping it together.

He let his eyes finally drift to Sam, who was seated in the passenger's seat, completely stoic and blank. His brother hadn't as much as twitched since they'd left the farm.

And wasn't that just like Sam. For all his demands and pleas to talk, to express emotion, Sam never seemed to know what to say when Dean finally gave in. Dean's heartfelt confession had been hard enough as it was, and in the silence that followed, Dean wondered how his brother could be so selfish.

That probably wasn't fair, not really. Dean's revelation to his brother had been more than a little heavy, and the kid was flailing as it was.

So fine. It didn't matter. All Dean had learned was that he needed to keep his secrets, for his sake, probably for Sam's.

His eyes lingered on his brother, taking him in.

Sam did look terrible. The weeks were wearing on Sam since their father's death, and it was pretty clear the kid didn't have much left in him.

Dean paused to reevaluate. It wasn't exactly like Sam--even in the days after Jessica, Sam had been staunchly capable of defending Dean in the hunt. Maybe Sam was hurting in ways Dean couldn't see.

Not that it made a difference. Not that any of it made a difference. Not now. Not knowing what Dean knew.

He loved his brother, he'd spent his entire life protecting his brother, but he was so tired. He was just worn out. Too empty to even pretend like he could do this anymore. Sam knew that. Sam had to know that. And yet Sam wouldn't even grant him this one weakness.

Looking back out at the road, Dean stifled a sigh. He didn't know where they were going, but he just knew they were going. It was all they had left. They'd crash someplace late and find something else to hunt in the morning.

-o-

Sam sat carefully in the car, sitting so that his arm could rest on top of his legs and bracing his long legs against the floor and dash to minimize the shaking from the drive.

It wasn't much, but it was all he could do, and he needed it. Any movement made him want to cry, and at this point, crying wasn't something that was okay. Crying had never been okay.

They were completely screwed up. They had been since the beginning, since the day his mother died above his bed but it was all catching up with them now. Because Sam had left. Because Sam's girlfriend had died. Because the demon wanted Sam. Their dad had to make a deal because Sam disobeyed an order.

Now he'd nearly gotten them killed. He wasn't really sure how it'd happened, what had happened at all. He couldn't really remember the hunt, just the blinding pain in his arm and the angry, desperate look in Dean's eyes.

He was pretty sure that Dean hated him, on some level. Not that Dean would ever admit it, but he'd never thought Dean could act like this either.

He blinked hard, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. Tears? What the hell was wrong with him?

Dean had nearly died, Dean didn't feel like he deserved to live, and Sam was the one who felt like crying? What kind of wuss was he?

It was irrational, overwhelmingly out of character. Sam was the sensitive one, sure, but he could usually keep his emotions more in check.

He could usually do a lot of things.

But it was all too much. The Demon, the car accident, losing Dad, Dean's confession. Sam felt like he was drowning, and on top of it all, his arm hurt so badly.

And he was tired, drainingly, impossibly tired.

He closed his eyes, just for a second, and the car hitting a pothole jarred him awake. He startled, glancing at Dean, who stared ahead, stony-eyed and oblivious to Sam. Sam swallowed, his throat feeling sticky. He struggled to focus on the clock and realized he had no idea how long they'd been in the car.

The area didn't look familiar and it was dark out. They'd driven all night?

Dean must be exhausted, he thought, squinting to study his brother who sat erectly in the seat.

Dean didn't show any indication of wanting to relinquish the wheel. It bothered him a little on some level, because he doubted his brother trusted him at all, considering what had happened the last time he'd driven the car.

But, at the same time, Sam didn't think he could drive. He alternated between chills and hot flashes and a tiredness seemed to seep into his bones, starting with his arm. He had a fever, no doubt, and had probably been nursing one for days.

It was broken, Sam had no doubt of that now. But the Ace bandage stabilized it decently. And it was aligned okay, Sam was pretty sure. It just hurt too much to move, but his fingers were colored okay, so he was sure they were getting enough blood.

It was the fever that was wearing him down and keeping him from being the brother he should be. Dean had yet to notice, and Sam planned to keep it that way. Dean had spent his life putting himself second for Sam, and a fever? A fever would never stop Dean from doing his brotherly duties. Sam was sure of that.

He'd been called a selfish bastard one time too many. He didn't have any will left to fight. He would do the only thing he had left. He would save Dean.

The thought made him laugh, and he was surprised when a muffled laugh escaped his lips. How was he supposed to save Dean when he couldn't do anything right? He didn't know how to comfort Dean, he didn't know how to make Dean happy, he couldn't even finish a hunt correctly, and he thought he could save his brother?

"Something funny?" Dean asked, but there was no humor in his voice.

Sam blinked, wondering if he was a bit delusional. He'd almost forgotten Dean was there. "No," he said.

Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam could feel the skepticism rolling off his brother.

"Just tired," Sam managed, which was about the understatement of the year.

A year ago, Dean would have said something. Dean would have given him a look.

Dean didn't even give him a double take.

Sam closed his eyes, ground his teeth, tried not to swallow, and lost himself to sleep.

-o-

Dean drove until he couldn't see straight. He might have kept going if Sam could drive, but Sam was zonked out in the passenger's seat as was. If Sam didn't want to drive, Dean wasn't going to make him.

If Sam wanted to sleep, then Dean would let him sleep. Hell, he'd even pull them over to a rest stop and sleep himself. It's not like he had anything left to prove to anyone.

Dean kept his jaw set and let himself go numb inside. He pulled off at the first motel he saw and didn't even say anything to Sam when he went in to check them in.

There was a girl behind the desk, cute and flirtatious, but Dean barely spared her a glance even when she snapped her gum right in front of him. It was such habit, old hat. One room, two queens. Credit, please. Signed Roger Hernandez, Milton Schnackenberg, Lyle Barnaby, Elroy McGuillicuddy.

The aliases meant nothing, were supposed to be jokes. He used to love filling out the forms with fake names just for the laughs.

Now he could feel them piling up, weighing on him. John Winchester wasn't even dead according to the state.

Funny how Dean Winchester was.

Just more evidence that what was dead, should stay dead, he thought, scribbling on the receipt before handing it back with an empty smile.

Sam was still asleep in the car, but jarred awake when Dean opened the door. Dean didn't say anything, he didn't have to. He didn't even look as Sam got out of the car, sluggishly following him to the room. Maybe, just maybe, if he kept his back to Sam, Sam wouldn't notice. Sam wouldn't ever have to know. Sam wouldn't have to realize just how wrong Dean was.

-o-

Sam's mouth was dry. He tried to swallow, to bring some kind of moisture to his mouth, but only succeeded in making himself nauseous and making his throat ache. Dean had already shouldered his bag and was halfway to the room before Sam even got out of the car.

Pushing himself up, he fought off a wave of vertigo and clumsily retrieved his own bag from the trunk. Closing it was difficult, jarring his hand painfully, but he managed to make it to the motel room door before it closed behind his brother.

"I'm taking a shower," Dean announced.

Before Sam could even comprehend what Dean was saying, he heard the bathroom door close.

He attempted to swallow again and sighed. His bladder was full and his stomach was queasy but that would just have to wait.

The room was dim and Sam didn't have the energy to figure out how to turn on the lamps. There was a single king bed in the middle of the room and a small couch in the corner, which Sam could only figure was a pull-out unless his brother had suddenly warmed up to the idea of sharing a bed. Clearly this motel hadn't had their typical two queens and Dean didn't seem in the mood to keep driving.

The bed looked warm and inviting and Sam wanted to sink into it and sleep away all the pain and take the edge off of his fever. He wished he'd remembered to bring in the first aid kit--he felt like he was on fire.

He sighed, dropping his bag unceremoniously to the floor.

Going back out to the car would not be worth it to find out he had a fever he was already pretty sure he had. Nor was it worth seeing that they were completely out of painkiller.

Sleep was his best option.

He eyed the bed longingly again and was about to ease himself onto it when he heard the shower run.

Dean needed the bed. Dean needed his rest, more than he did.

His feet felt heavy as he moved toward the couch and as he leaned over to pull the cushions off, his head began to spin.

He groaned, wishing he almost would just pass out and get it over with.

No such luck.

Maybe his random bout of telekinesis would reassert itself and make the bed for him.

Again, no dice, though the thought did send a sharp pain through his skull.

He reached out his right hand and regretted it immediately, drawing it back in as tears bit at his eyes.

Shaking, he used his left to clear the couch of its cushions and, with some fumbling, managed to pull the stowed bed to its full length one-handed. Luckily, it was already made up with sheets. Sam figured there was an extra pillow in the closet, but he wasn't sure he had the motivation to go get it.

Instead, he collapsed hard onto the small bed, and it rattled precariously. It took some effort, but he managed to pull his legs onto it, barely even noticing the way his feet hung off the end of the child-sized bed.

He should probably get undressed, should get under the blankets, should go get the pillow, but he couldn't move. He couldn't do anything except lay there.

Pain effused through him and his mind sunk deeper into itself to escape it. Sleep called and he did not fight it.

-o-

Dean let the shower run from scalding hot to icy cold, not moving under the spray, hoping that something would penetrate his body, his sense. He just wanted to feel again.

When he turned the water off and reached for his towel, he noticed the goosebumps on his skin, the way his hair stuck straight up, and closed his eyes.

Ignoring the chill, he wiped himself down, stepping into his nightclothes without as much as a thought. He thought briefly about going out, to grab a drink, but there wasn't any point. There wasn't any point to anything. All he needed to do was sleep so he could wake up and start it all over again.

"Take care of yourself, Dean," his father used to say. "If you let yourself get worn down, then you're a liability."

But Dean had been a liability. He'd been his dad's greatest weakness. He should have figured it all out sooner, kept his father from making that deal. He acted like he was mad at Sam, but it couldn't erase the guilt that lay only on himself.

He just should have died, maybe back in Nebraska. The faith healer should have picked Layla because she deserved to live.

Dean was nothing but a letdown, a failure, a liability.

His dad had died for him, not because he loved him, but because he needed Dean to carry on. And wasn't that the kicker.

Teeth clenched, Dean made his way back into the main room, surprised to find Sam already sprawled in sleep.

Jess's death had made Sam sleepless. Apparently Dad's death had cured Sam's nightmares, Dean thought bitterly.

He sighed, letting his anger drain away to emptiness once more. It wasn't fair to wish his own grief on Sam. He pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, staring at the ceiling and letting his mind drift to the sounds of traffic outside.

-o-

His dad always looked the same. Face clenched in pain, a blood stain on his leg. "Sammy! You shoot me in the heart!"

And Sam could feel the gun, cold and heavy in his hands. His entire life for this moment. The chance to end it. The chance to be the good son.

But not like this. Not ever like this. He needed to say so much. He needed to say I'm sorry, I love you, please don't make me stay away.

"Sam, no."

Dean. Dean would save him, even from himself.

His aim fell and so did his father's face.

Then it contorted in anger. Blame. "If you had just shot me when you had the chance!"

Sam wanted to be angry, felt himself losing control, but then he saw Dean.

Dean was dying.

He had killed his brother.

He'd chosen wrong, he'd been selfish again.

The Ouija board moved beneath his hands. Why, Sam?

Dean asked the question, just like his father, just like Jessica before them, just like his mother before them all.

He turned to run, but Dean's hand was on his arm, gripping it harder than he thought was possible. He crashed to his knees, tears forming in his eyes, and Dean's eyes are cold above him. "What's dead should stay dead, Sam," he said. "Can you live with that?"

Sam couldn't.

"Then you'll just have to die," Dean said.

Pain exploded in his arm but his cry was cut off by the breathlessness in his chest as the darkness won.

The darkness always won.

-o-

Dean unplugged the clock at 3:33 because he got tired of looking at it. He would have hurled it across the room were Sam not sleeping quite so soundly.

Well, actually it was more the effort to throw it would be more than Dean was willing to expend, especially at that hour of the night, especially in his state of mind.

He got up with the sun, trying to ignore Sam as much as possible, as much for his brother's sake as his own. He went about his morning business silently, with the ease and practice of a hunter, and Sam didn't even twitch.

Finally dressed, he sunk back onto his bed, feeling deflated. He knew he needed to go buy a paper, go buy breakfast, get the day started, but he didn't want to.

He just didn't want to.

He wanted to take the Impala and drive as far as possible, away from everything, away from this life, away from these memories. He wanted to find something good, something pure, some kind of reason for it all, some kind of escape.

He could take Sam and go.

Sighing, he spared a glance at Sam, still asleep on the pull-out, nearly exactly as he was the night before. It occurred to him that the bed was comically small for his brother. Sam must have been exhausted since he wasn't even get under the covers, wasn't even get undressed.

A few months ago, that might be cause for joking, might be reason to make fun of his brother in his patented big brother way. But joking was harder now, strained.

Besides, something was off. Something had been off since their stint in the hospital, but Dean hadn't taken the time to notice it. But he could sense it, now suddenly with a surprising intensity. Something in the way Sam was lying, something in the way Sam had been acting...

Concerned, Dean stood, leaning over his brother, taking a good look at him for the first time in weeks.

His brother looked terrible.

His face was pale. His cheeks were sunken and blushed with the flush of a fever, which also explained the sheen of sweat on his brother's skin.

The rapid rise and fall of his brother's chest was matched with the frantic eye movements beneath his lids. His lips were pale and parted, wet breaths coming between them in pants.

No wonder Sam was acting so out of it--the kid was sick. Sam's spacey behavior, sleepiness, lack of conversational skills--it all made sense.

Carefully, he managed to get himself on the edge of Sam's too-small bed and reach a hand out to feel his brother's brow.

The heat surprised him, and Sam groaned, turning into his touch with the trust of a child to a parent.

This wasn't a sudden illness. It had to have developed, settled in. Sam must have felt sick throughout the entire last hunt, and Dean hadn't noticed.

Dean hadn't even had a clue.

Gaping, he let his eyes roam the rest of his brother's body. The shirt was ripped and bloodstained on his left arm--from being thrown across the barn, no doubt. He hadn't even thought to check if it was deep, nothing more than a cursory glance. He hadn't thought about it at all.

He peered through the hole in Sam's shirt, wondering if somehow the cut was worse than he'd thought. It was still bloody and jagged, but superficial and decidedly free from infection. Letting his eyes peruse Sam's body once more, he tried to see if he'd neglected anything else.

Luckily, everything else seemed intact, except the Ace bandage on Sam's right hand and wrist.

He frowned, trying to remember how long it'd been since Sam had hurt it. He'd promised Sam that they'd get it checked out. Dean had never managed to remember.

Gently, he lifted the limb, unwrapping it.

Sam whimpered, and Dean could see why.

The wrist was swollen and bruised, the discoloration vivid and mottled throughout the entire region. He fondled the limb, eliciting a sharper grunt of pain from his brother,

"Sorry, Sammy," he murmured. "I just need to check this out."

He couldn't feel much through the swelling, but the amount of heat coming off the wrist suddenly unnerved him.

This needed to be treated. Even if Sam had had it stabilized, the impact with the wall and ground could have exacerbated any previous injuries.

Especially untreated injuries.

Sam should have known better, Sam should have said something. But wasn't that so Winchester. And it wasn't like he'd given Sam much of a chance to say anything lately. He'd been difficult, distant, and reproachful--even if Sam hadn't been sick, his brother probably couldn't have penetrated Dean's shell of grief. It had all come out, all come undone, and Dean hadn't managed to get it back together yet. All the blame in the world he could try to place on everyone else when he belonged on him.

He was Sam's brother. Sam had spent all his time looking out for Dean and Dean had neglected the most basic things in return.

How could he have forgotten?

Swallowing back his incredulity, he felt a wave of nausea flutter in his stomach.

"Sammy?" he asked, turning his attention back to his brother's face. He put an easy hand on his brother's cheek. "Hey, Sam."

There was no meaningful reply. His brother was trapped in his fever.

Dean gnawed absently on his thumbnail. There was no way around it. He needed to take Sam to a hospital.

Luckily, they had some time, so an ambulance wouldn't be necessary.

But a hospital...

The prospect of it made Dean queasy.

His entire life had ended in a hospital.

Or it should have.

The memory of waking up with the tube in his throat was still too fresh. The lingering feel of his father's breath against his ear was too haunting. The doctor announcing time of death, 10:41 was just too real.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut the memory out.

When he opened them, he saw Sam, still asleep on the bed. Asleep or unconscious, Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know.

It didn't matter that watch out for Sammy was his father's first and last mandate. It only mattered that Sam trusted him, that Sam was the most important thing left in his life.

What's dead should stay dead, but as long as he had a heart that was beating, no matter what the circumstances, he needed to take care of Sam.

-o-

Getting Sam to the car was not an easy process. Sam was hardly coherent enough to help, and Dean didn't want to hurt Sam's wrist anymore than it already was. He didn't want to hurt Sam anymore than he already had.

A soft mewl escaped Sam's mouth as Dean buckled him in, his sweat-soaked head rolling toward Dean in his delirium. But his brother didn't speak, didn't move beyond that.

"It's okay," Dean soothed, feeling awkward. He ran a hand over Sam's forehead, swiping his bangs to the side. "We're going to get you taken care of."

With that, he closed Sam's door and hurried to his own. He tried not to notice how his hands were shaking as he started the car.

The engine rumbled to life, and Dean spared Sam another look, praying that this wasn't too little, too late.

-o-

Dean had thought he was afraid to lose his dad. He'd thought he'd been afraid of his father's secret. He thought he'd been afraid of living, of going on, of existing.

It was nothing compared to the fear he felt now. The fear of failing his brother. The fear of living without his brother.

He could live without a lot of things, but he couldn't live without Sam.

He wasn't sure how he'd ever forgotten that.

The drive was a blur, fast and rough, one hand on the wheel, the other bracing Sam to the seat, neither willing to relinquish its important duty.

The flashing lights of an ambulance signaled the hospital's entrance, and Dean screeched to a halt just behind it.

It probably would have been most practical to leave Sam in the car and go in and demand help, but Dean was beyond practical. He was beyond waiting. He'd waited long enough already--at Sam's expense.

Climbing out of the car, he scrambled to Sam's door, flinging it open wide, barely noticing when the door slammed against a nearby sign. Fumbling, he undid Sam's seatbelt, catching his brother's upper body as it slumped over toward him. Straining, he looped one arm under Sam's shoulders, using the other to cradle Sam's knees.

He staggered a little, but managed to stand, Sam's body dangling in his grasp.

He was panting by the time he made it to the doors, and his arms burned, but he barely felt it. He barely felt anything but the heat of Sam's body seeping into his.

At the desk, Dean gaped, staring blankly at the movement of the doctors and nurses, none of whom seemed to notice him at first.

"Hey," he tried, annoyed at the weakness of his own voice.

A handful stopped, nudging each other, looking at him.

"My brother," Dean panted, hoisting Sam higher awkwardly. Sam's head lolled back, his mouth falling open with strained breaths. "He's sick."

The small crowd in the waiting room stared at him, and the activity at the reception desk stopped, all eyes upon him. It must have been a site, Dean figured absently, carrying a man of Sam's size would look a bit ridiculous--lots of limbs flopping everywhere and whatnot.

But Dean didn't have time for their wide-eyed wonder and shock. Sam could have been dying and everyone was just staring.

"Someone help him!" he yelled, trying to sound angry and commanding (just like their father), but merely sounding tired and strained.

It was a doctor who approached, middle aged and bald headed. "Lainey, can you get a gurney," he said, glancing at a nurse, before moving toward Dean.

The nurse stirred to action and life slowly resumed its pace. The doctor's hand went to Sam's head, trying to peer beneath Sam's sweat soaked bangs. "What happened?" he asked.

The gurney arrived and the doctor moved to help him ease Sam onto it, help which Dean accepted distrustfully. Sam was slack on the gurney, his head turned slightly toward Dean, arms limp at his sides. "We were hiking," Dean said, his mind barely working. "And he fell--down a hill. Got cut up a little. Hurt his wrist. There's something wrong with it."

They were moving now, where Dean didn't care to look. The doctor was visually looking Sam over when he saw the bound wrist. "Did he get it looked at?" he asked, examining it tentatively.

"No," Dean said. "He sprained it a few weeks ago in a car accident but he'd been fine since."

That was a lie that hurt because Dean didn't know if Sam had been, he didn't know anything about Sam at all over the last few weeks.

Dean barely noticed that they were stopped now, in an examination room. A few nurses were moving around, bringing equipment forward. The doctor pulled out a penlight and was peering into Sam's eyes. His brow furrowed as he put the light away and a nurse started to cut away Sam's clothes.

When the t-shirt and jeans were sheared away, the fresh gash on Sam's arm was visible, and Dean winced even though it was nothing new to him. There were a few bruises that lined Sam's side, too, but nothing to warrant Sam's current condition.

Someone had set up an IV, and the doctor muttered, "Get him started on some saline. Let's get him hydrated a bit and see if that brings him to."

"BP's 80/50," a nurse said softly. "Pulse is 90."

"What's his temp?" the doctor asked.

Another nurse put a thermometer in Sam's ear and waited for the beep. "103.9."

At that, the doctor grimaced and Dean felt his stomach twist. It dropped completely when the doctor unrolled the hastily wrapped wrist.

Dean had known it was bad. He had even been pretty sure that the wrist was the cause of the problem. But seeing the grim look on the doctor's face unnerved Dean. It wasn't just scary for the untrained civilian. It was bad from a professional medical point of view.

The doctor fondled the wrist gently before placing it back down next to Sam. He glanced back up at Dean, his eyes focused and resolute. "You say he hurt it a few weeks ago?"

"Yeah," Dean said slowly, suddenly uncertain.

"He didn't get it treated?"

"No," Dean said. "It was just a sprain. I mean, he didn't say anything." Not that Dean would have been listening.

"Cathy, we need to get him to x-ray and get this looked at," the doctor said.

Dean watched as a nurse nodded and stepped to the telephone.

"We're going to take your brother to radiology," the doctor was saying, and it took Dean a moment to realize he was talking to him. When Dean made eye contact, the doctor continued, "My name's Dr. Wallace. Once we have the films and get some of his preliminary blood work back, I'll come out and update you on how he's doing."

Dean wasn't sure what to say, wasn't sure what was expected of him. He had so many questions, so many concerns, but they were so encompassing, so overwhelming, that he couldn't get them out.

The doctor smiled a little again. "We're going to help your brother," he said softly.

Dean stared at him, blank, broken.

"You understand me, son?" the doctor said again. "We'll help him."

Jaw clenched, all Dean could think was at least someone was.

-o-

Dean had paced off the small room countless times, keeping his strides even on the well-worm linoleum. He was too nervous to sit, too nervous to wait. He wanted to be with Sam, wanted to know what was going on. He was tired of being in the dark while things happened to his family.

But this was different. Sam was going to be fine. Sam had to be fine. After all, the poltergeist hadn't done any serious damage--the cut hadn't even needed stitches. And the only other injury Sam had endured at all was a sprained wrist. Maybe broken, but even then, Sam had broken far worse on the soccer field and still lived to rebel another day.

Dean sighed, scratching the back of his head with a nervous twitch. A little old woman was watching him, but he ignored her, not even sparing a glance to shame her into turning her head.

He was rationalizing and he knew it. He was grasping at straws. Anything to avoid the plain and simple truth that he'd closed himself off to Sam, closed himself off from Sam. There was a reason their father had demanded total focus on a hunt, a reason he demanded complete loyalty. Pride wasn't the only reason he had told Sam to stay gone when he left for college. To hunt together, they needed to live together, experience everything together. Distractions could get people hurt, get them killed, and that wasn't something the Winchesters could stand much more of.

Dad had lived that until he died and he'd asked Dean to live it for him in his wake.

But Dean didn't know how to. He didn't know how to deal with anything. He was tailspinning, violent and volatile, withdrawn and weary. In that, he couldn't see beyond himself.

He couldn't even see Sam's desperate tailspin, which Dean was recognizing all too clearly now.

When the doctor finally came out, Dean had no idea how much time had passed, he didn't have much concept of anything except the pit that was growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Dean, why don't we take a seat," he suggested casually, a fatherly smile on his face.

Dean jus stared at him, shaking his head. "How's Sam?"

The doctor raised his eyebrows and sighed, taking pity on the older brother. "Your brother's hand has been severely fractured, probably more than once," the doctor explained. "We're going to be sending him up to MRI here shortly to get an exact estimate of the real damage. But given the amount of time he's left it untreated, I'm guessing we'll have to take invasive measures to fix his hand."

Dean shook his head. "Invasive measures?"

"Surgery," Dr. Wallace clarified. "But setting the fracture isn't what's really concerning me. We can't operate until his fever's at a more manageable level anyway."

It was already too much information, too fast. If Sam's hand needed surgery, then Dean had let this get too far as it was. To think there was more...Dean just wasn't sure how to cope with that.

"Sam's also a bit dehydrated, which is pretty normal since he's been sick and apparently neglecting himself," Dr. Wallace continued. "The IV's are already helping to rectify that, so I expect we'll see his vitals even out as the saline does its work."

Dean could feel the but building slowly, painfully. He looked at the doctor, wishing he could stop the man before he continued.

"It's the fever, though," the doctor said softly. "Clearly something is going on in your brother's body that needs to be dealt with."

Dean knew that, Dean had known that when he brought Sam in. Why wouldn't this man just get to the point? "What's wrong with my brother?" he finally asked, demanded.

"Mr. Deveroux, please understand," Dr. Wallace said evenly. "Your brother's vitals are still very low. He's suffering from some form of infection, though from where we've yet to determine."

"What do you mean, you've yet to determine?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

The doctor seemed unfazed by Dean's accusatory tone. "We've already started him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic just to be sure. But once we get some blood work back, we'll know more clearly what we're dealing with and be able to combat it a little more head on."

That sounded reasonable enough and Dean forced himself to stay calm. He swallowed hard, reinforcing his facade of strength. "When can I see him?"

The doctor glanced distractedly at his watch. "We'll be taking him up in a few minutes, but I see no reason you shouldn't be able to wait with him until then. He's still unconscious, but if you'd like to see him, I can show you to him."

Dean nodded, a tad eagerly, grateful for this chance to make things better.

-o-

Sam's color seemed a bit richer, but it only seemed to feed the redness in his cheeks, which did nothing to assuage Dean's doubt or guilt.

Dean was grateful that there was little medical intrusion on his brother. Sam was laid out on the gurney, a gown quickly thrown over his tall body, and his arms were placed at his sides. There was a pair of IVs and a few wires stringing from his chest and another clipped to his finger, undoubtedly for monitoring purposes.

In short, Dean had had worse and seen Sam through worse. He could take comfort in that.

But comfort was hard to find in the nagging guilt that wouldn't go away.

Dean shuffled, uncomfortable, scratching the back of his head. "Dude, you better wake up soon," he said. "Your nurses keep talking about sponge baths, and I know how shy you get around women."

The joke was so him, so typical, that it seemed natural.

It wasn't enough.

Dean's forged smile fell as he inched forward, gripping the rail of Sam's gurney. "It's going to be okay now, though," he promised. "Because I'm here. I always take care of things, right? I know I wasn't really doing so well for awhile, there..." He swallowed, his voice trailing off as something burned behind his eyes. He resolved himself. "But I'm here now."

-o-

He'd been relegated to another waiting room, maybe the same one, but Dean couldn't tell. He didn't really care anyway. Waiting was waiting, no matter where he did it.

He was exhausted--everything ached. He hadn't been sleeping much before the hunt, and it seemed like it had been days already since he'd dragged Sam in here. Some caffeine would probably help, but he was jittery enough. Any coffee in his system would probably send him into convulsions. The last thing he wanted was to be out of commission when Sam needed him.

Too bad he hadn't thought of that before Sam got sick.

When the doctor finally found him, he was crashed in a chair, somewhere between sleeping and waking, teased by the tendrils of nightmares.

"Mr. Deveroux," Dr. Wallace began, his eyes sweeping critically over Dean's body. "Have you been taking care of yourself?"

Dean straightened, wiping the sleep away from his eyes. "How's Sam?"

The doctor looked more than a little skeptical. "We've managed to identify the source of the infection," the doctor said, starting slowly. "He has a bad case of strep."

"Strep? The thing kids get?"

"Yes, it's a common infection," Dr. Wallace confirmed.

"Then what the big deal?" Dean asked, a bit afraid of the answer.

"Well, infections have a tendency to attack other parts of the body--when left unchecked, they can spread. Sam clearly left this unchecked, and it attacked the most vulnerable part of his body--his wrist."

Dean looked confused. "But it was a closed break. It never broke the skin. You told me it might need surgery, not that it was what was causing the fever."

Dr. Wallace sighed. "Let me try to explain, son. The initial fracture could have been easily treated," the doctor said. "It was a painful break, so I'm surprised that Sam didn't seek treatment for it. Usually people find this type of fracture incapacitating."

Dean gritted his teeth and tried not to let his guilt show. That explained Sam's odd behavior, his hesitations in the hunt. Sam was hurting, and Dean had been too busy brooding to notice.

"The real problem though is that even though Sam was seemingly able to manage the pain, he continued to use his hand, which only made the injury worse. The bone was never permitted to heal, leaving it susceptible to re-injury and infection. Infections with closed fractures is rare, but so is someone foregoing treatment for this long. Usually the infection starts in other places in the body--something small, that normally wouldn't be a problem, but then the infection attacks the weak part of the body. In this case, Sam's hand."

"Infection," Dean repeated, a little shaky. He swallowed, clearing his throat. "So you give him some antibiotics and he's good, right?"

The doctor's smile was wan and sympathetic. "We've got him started on a strong cycle of antibiotics. But you need to understand, Sam's been fighting this infection likely for a few weeks now. When he re-injured his wrist, he merely expedited the process, giving the infection the upper hand. When an infection is this far advanced, sometimes even antibiotics aren't enough."

Dean just stared. "So what? You're saying he could die?"

The doctor smiled gently. "It's a little early to tell," he said. "But your brother is very ill and bone infection isn't something to mess around with. We'll do everything we can, but a lot of this is up to your brother."

He wanted to believe that Sam could beat this thing, that Sam could beat anything, but he couldn't. Because deep down he knew that he had no idea how Sam was doing. He didn't know if Sam was coping with their dad's death, if Sam was coping with anything. He didn't know if Sam had any spirit left at all to fight with.

That was the thing: he didn't know. He'd spent his entire life looking after Sam, being attuned to Sam, and when Sam had needed him most, Dean hadn't paid any attention.

The doctor patted him on the shoulder, his smile flickering before he drifted away, leaving Dean alone.

-o-

When they finally let him see Sam again, it was late (or early, Dean wasn't sure which anymore), and Dean needed a nap and a hot shower. He'd settled for coffee and pure adrenaline.

Screw all that, he'd settle for Sam to be awake and out of here.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright?" the nurse asked, clearly more than a little skeptical of Dean's wellbeing.

"I just need to see my brother," Dean replied, simple and honest and desperate.

It must have been more than desperate enough, because the nurse just smiled sadly and nodded faintly. "We've got him hooked up to the monitors, so just be careful of the cords. He's still mostly out, but he could come to. But it's best if he just sleeps."

Dean nodded absently, barely hearing her.

She left him at the door, instructing him to call if there was any problem.

When she was finally gone, Dean felt himself breathe a little, before he entered the room and completely forgot how again.

He'd seen Sam hurt before, he'd seen Sam out of it, but it never made it easy. It never made it right. The stillness of his brother shook him and shook him hard, touching him coldly deep inside.

"Geez, Sam," he said. "Can't do anything half-way, can you?"

Sam didn't answer (of course he didn't answer) and Dean smiled lopsidedly at his own joke.

"You know there are other ways for getting back at me," he said lightly.

Then his brother shifted, his head turning toward Dean's voice, his mouth working soundlessly.

Dean sat up, leaning closer to his brother. "Sammy? You awake in there?"

Sam mumbled, tossing his head again, his brow creasing.

Tentatively, Dean allowed a reassuring hand on Sam's arm. "Come on, kiddo," he coaxed. "I know you're in there."

Sam could be contrary under the best of circumstances, but he was surprisingly childlike when he was sick. It brought out the true little brother in him.

Which was probably why Sam sounded like he was five as he mumbled again, louder this time.

"Sam? Sam, if you don't wake up, I can't be held responsible for what I do while you're asleep," he warned.

Sam seemed to sigh, and his eyelids fluttered, blinking awake slowly.

Dean grinned. "Rise and shine, Sammy," he said.

Sam grimaced, swallowing thickly and Dean could see the wheels working in his brother's muddled head.

It took another couple of seconds before Sam's eyes really focused and he had his wits about him enough to reply. "Dean?" he asked. His voice was weak, a bit scratchy, but Sammy through and through.

Dean's grin widened. "In the flesh."

Sam blinked, his eyes roaming, wide and afraid. "Where...how...," Sam's breathless questions were plain in his eyes.

"You're a little sick," Dean admitted.

Sam turned his fevered eyes back to Dean. "Hospital?"

Tears stung the back of his eyes, but Dean refused to give into them. "Yeah, seemed like a good idea at the time."

Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want--there's too much--I just wanted you to forget." Sam's words were rushed and jumbled.

"Whoa, there," Dean said. "Just take it easy. Doc says you've got some kind of nasty infection. Not to mention the fact that you ignored your hand." Dean kept the reprimand purposefully light.

Sam seemed to pale nonetheless. "You had too much already, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head again. "You don't need this. I'm fine." As if to prove his point, Sam tried to push himself up, trying to lift his hand to remove the IV before Dean had a chance to talk some sense into him.

Dean moved to restrain Sam, but he didn't need to. The movement undoubtedly jarred Sam's injured hand, and he collapsed back to the bed, eyes squeezed shut and clenched with pain.

"Easy," Dean soothed, gently gripping Sam's bicep. "Just breathe through it."

Sam seemed to listen, breathing tight, ragged breaths.

Finally, Sam seemed to relax, falling limp against the bed. "See? You have to listen to me sometimes."

Sam looked hurt by the statement, and confused--no doubt his brother wasn't as lucid as he had first appeared.

"Just go to sleep, Sammy," he said finally. "Things will be better when you wake up."

Sam looked ready to protest, shaking his head in futility. "I'm sorry, Dean," he said, his eyes blinking slower.

"I know," Dean said, moving his hand to Sam's head. "I know you are." He stroked Sam's wayward hair lightly, a repetitive motion that had always calmed Sam as a child.

Guilt-laden eyes watched Dean until they blinked closed and didn't reopen.

Dean kept his gently stroking up a minute longer, just to be sure, before he finally sank back in his seat.

Sam's words--his sense of guilt--Dean had had no idea. Yet, despite it all, Sam still trusted him completely. And Dean had taken it for granted--the one thing that he'd always counted on, he'd screwed up.

Dean had spent his entire life taking care of Sam, of being there for Sam. It defined him, it gave him purpose.

"Take your brother outside, as fast as you can! Now, Dean, go!"

And he'd been going ever since.

This had always been his responsibility, and with that had come the prerogative of superiority. Sam needed him because Sam was younger. He'd never resented it, not really, but it had hurt when Sam left.

It had hurt when the demon said that John loved Sam more.

Because Dean believed it.

And in all of this, all of the anxiety, all of the soul-selling, he had forgotten one very simple thing: Sam wasn't the same little brother anymore.

Sam had been the one to choose his side every time in the cabin. Sam hadn't hesitated. Sam had sacrificed his revenge, his will--everything for Dean when it counted.

All Dean could see to see was his own sacrifice, year after year, coming to nothing in the end.

He'd never stopped to look at Sam's sacrifice, the sacrifice Sam was still carrying. He'd never stopped to look at the consequences of his choices, the consequences of his secrets.

He'd never stopped to look beyond it all and just see Sam, just see that Sam needed him--just him, as his equal, his partner, his brother--just as much as he needed Sam.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, away from his brother's bed.

He wondered if this was how Sam had felt after the accident. Sitting uselessly by Dean's bedside, thinking about everything he'd done wrong, everything he should have done, everything he might never get to do.

Sam's hovering in the weeks since certainly made since. Sam must have been terrified. Sam must still be terrified. Even after their dad had been "okay," he'd up and died, leaving Sam to find the body. Was Sam sticking close because he was worried the same thing would happen to Dean?

And all Dean could do was push him away, rub Sam's failures in his face. These are your issues, stop putting them on me! It's too little, too late!

As far as I know, Dad died thinking that I hated him...

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he murmured. "Dad knew. Dad always knew."

He let the words hang in the silence, wishing that Sam could hear them.

"Dad knew, and so do I," he said. "So do I."

-o-

The morning came with another cup of coffee, no change in Sam, and Dr. Wallace.

The doctor strode meaningfully into Sam's room, checked his chart, then proceeded to probe his patient gently. Sam, despite his brief period of wakefulness last night, showed no response.

The doctor frowned. "Dean, let's go for a walk."

Dean's heart skipped a beat. Standing, he tottered tensely, almost reluctantly to the door.

The hallway was quiet with morning traffic, mostly nurses and doctors and the occasional lost family member.

They had strolled down the hallway and were approaching a sunlight corridor when the doctor finally spoke. "I'm worried about Sam," he said, his voice even and measured.

Dean tried to laugh, nervously. "Worried how?"

"The infection is deep, very rooted in. And I'm worried that it's spreading."

"Spreading how?" Dean had to swallow hard against the fear that was building in his chest.

"His kidneys are already showing signs," Dr. Wallace said. "We're working against that with drugs, but if it starts attacking his lungs or heart, we could be looking at a whole host of other problems."

Dean couldn't speak, couldn't think.

"We're working on this, of course," Dr. Wallace said. "But this development with his kidneys has me worried that we're not getting ahead of it fast enough."

Dean slowed, stopping, shaking his head up at the doctor desperately. "What are you trying to say?"

The doctor sighed. "I'm just trying to prepare you, to be realistic. We may have some difficult choices to make if this infection does progress. Right now we're just trying to keep Sam ahead of it. Your brother seems like he's made of tough stuff. I know he's fighting. And I know you're here giving him anything you can."

"But it could be too little, too late, huh?"

Dr. Wallace didn't say anything, just smiled, a bit sadly. "I'll be back to check on Sam in a few hours. If you need anything, you know how to find me."

With that, the doctor left him, but Dean barely saw him go. Too little, too late...

He closed his eyes, feeling the morning sunlight against his back and felt suddenly weak. He needed to get back to Sam--now.

He found Sam's room on autopilot, and was relieved to see his brother still on the bed. Approaching it, his relief was tinged with disappointment.

Sam's body was failing. He could read between the doctor's gentle warnings. Sam was in trouble.

Sighing raggedly, Dean sunk back to his seat.

There were some things that were just more important, things that transcended emotion and situation. Things like family and brotherhood. Sam had been right about that much--family was family, no matter where, no matter what.

Dean had blamed Sam for a lot of things, even if he never would have admitted it. He blamed Sam for leaving. As much as he'd understood his brother's reasons, it never changed how much it hurt. How much it had felt like Sam had left him. He'd blamed Sam for closing in on himself, for shooting him in Rockford, for being selfish. He'd never blamed Sam for being chosen, for being singled-out by the demon, but he couldn't deny the resentment that grew in the months since their dad's death. Resentment that Sam had been chosen and Dean had to deal with the consequences.

Dean was always dealing with the consequences--his entire life he'd been dealing with the consequences of his family's choices and mistakes. He had every right to be tired, every right to be angry, and no one could begrudge him that.

But Sam had his resentments too. Sam had his anger, his fear, his grief, yet, in the end, Sam always made the choice to stand by Dean when it mattered. He may have gone off to Stanford, but when Dean showed up on his door, Sam had come with him. He may have succumbed to Ellicott in Rockford, but he'd come back for him in Indiana. He may have fought with his dad, but he'd come through when it counted. Sam may have been willing to give anything for revenge--anything except his brother's happiness.

Sam had been there for him, even when Dean had felt betrayed and hadn't seen it. Sam's concept of brotherhood was one he could learn a lot from, no matter how reluctant he was to do so. It transcended everything--vengeance, resentment, pride. It forgave even when it hurt. It accepted even as it rebelled. And Dean had been selfish enough to think that he cornered the market on being a good brother.

Their entire lives, Sam had tried to do what he could, to be himself and make his family proud, but that was a balance their father had never allowed him. Even with as mad as Sam got, he just wanted his father's approval, and Dean had dismissed it entirely. He'd told Sam he was a bad son, he was too little, too late.

He'd ripped Sam to shreds, tore apart all of Sam's efforts, all of his walls, and hit him where it hurt.

Yet Sam had come back to him. Sam had given him another chance.

And Sam was still here. Even if the kid didn't always say the right thing, even if he was annoying or frustrating, Sam was still here.

Dean had to do everything in his power to keep it that way. Sighing, he leaned forward, taking in Sam's bedraggled appearance. Sam may have been fighting, but it seemed like the infection was winning.

Gently, Dean placed his hand on Sam's arm, patting it lightly. "Don't ditch me now, little brother," he whispered. "Because when you wake up, we'll both be on the same page, I promise."

Dean sat there, his hand on Sam's arm, absorbing his heat, his life, his essence, and rested in the fact that Sam had never rejected a plea from Dean before. Demands, sure, orders, usually, but not a heartfelt request.

-o-

Dean had tried to fight most of Sam's battles for him. Whenever there was a bully, a problem at school, most problems at home--Dean wanted to be the one to bear the brunt of it, to shield Sam from the worst of it all. His own innocence was shattered; he didn't want Sam's to be too.

That had been a naive pursuit, one that he was sure Sam would never appreciate because Sam was always determined to know why, but Dean had always felt better trying.

But this was a battle he couldn't fight, one he was barely able to help Sam through at all. The infection burned through Sam, and all Dean could do was watch Sam's weak counterattacks--the rhythm of his heartbeat, the flush of his skin, the restless tossing of his head. Evidence that Sam was fighting, fighting hard, but not that he was winning.

I'm not okay, but neither are you.
Then maybe I'll just have to stick around to be a pain in your ass.
What's wrong with you, man?
No, sir. Not everything.

Somehow, in the hours that stretched into days, Dean knew that Sam wasn't fighting for himself. Sam was fighting for Dean.

Dean just hoped (prayed, begged, demanded) that it would be enough.

-o-

It Dean could have made up for the last few weeks in a few days, he would. If he could have made up for the last couple of years, he would.

He couldn't.

The doctor came and went with weak, reassuring smiles, and Sam's vitals held and dropped, then raised and dropped again, and his kidneys got worse and his lungs looked bad. But Sam maintained, they all maintained, and Dean felt like he was floating in limbo.

There was worried talk, and Sam stopped moving sometimes, and Dean was afraid. He could have called Bobby, who had always been there for them. He probably could have called Missouri, who would have found some way to make things seem better. But the only person Dean wanted was Sam, and as long as Sam didn't leave him, he'd manage the best he could.

-o-

Dean wasn't sure what he was waiting for, if he was hoping for some dramatic, supernatural turnaround (though that'd be nice), so it was kind of hard to see the change.

It was nothing more than a smile from a nurse as she said Sam looked better today.

They were always reassuring, so Dean was hesitant to believe. After all, Sam hadn't moved, his complexion was still waxy and pallid, and he was looking a little gaunt from the lack of solid food.

But Dean smiled, looking beyond that, and punched Sam lightly on his shoulder. "See that, Sammy? You'll be better in no time."

Sam didn't twitch, but Dean's resolve was too weak to shake.

-o-

Time returned to him in a haze that he knew he drifted in but was too weak to truly break free of. He remembered some things--screwing up a hunt, his wrist (and the pain), a hospital, and Dean.

Always Dean.

Dean was there, with him, by him, there for him. It was a comfort he'd missed, and one that he wished he didn't have to accept. It meant his brother was back with him, but it also meant that Dean was alone, holding a bedside vigil, thinking about everything that had gone wrong.

Part of Sam wished that he'd never awaken so he'd never have to face that.

The other part knew he needed to.

-o-

Later that day, Dean was shifting in his seat, looking for a position that didn't make his butt feel numb, when the doctor came in.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Dr. Wallace said cordially. "And how are we doing today?"

Dean snarked a grin. "I think I may have snagged a date for Sam with Brenda, the night nurse."

Dr. Wallace raised his eyebrows. "Well, then, we're going to need to wake Sam up soon, aren't we? Brenda is a pretty hard catch from what I hear."

Dean snickered, leaning over to pat his brother's leg. "Hear that, Sammy? Even the doc thinks you need some action."

Smiling, the doctor leaned over Sam, running his usual daily tests. "Well, it appears that young Samuel may take us up on our offer," he said.

Dean sat up straight, suddenly surprised and serious. "How's that?"

"His vitals are much stronger," the doctor said with a shrug, picking up Sam's chart. "Really should be just a matter of time. There's no indication of any residual effects from the infection or the fever. He may have dodged a bullet yet. Either that, or the prospect of Brenda is making him perk up."

A little disbelieving, a little shocked, Dean snorted. "Somehow I doubt that's it."

The doctor just shrugged his shoulders and scribbled something down on Sam's chart. "Either way, be sure you get yourself taken care of, Dean," he advised, a small twinkle in his eye. "I have a hunch Sam will be giving you a run for your money in no time."

And Dean could only smile, relief spreading through him. His failure got Sam into this mess. His steadiness would get them out of it.

-o-

When awake finally happened, not just a few moments of wakefulness, but actual, long-term awareness, Sam saw just how much this had hurt his brother.

Dean had spent his time joking and reassuring Sam, but it was Dean who looked worn thin, frayed, depleted.

This was Sam's fault, and he was ready to admit it.

Timing, however, was an issue. Dean had never been keen on talking, and with all the nurses and doctors in and out, Sam felt like he barely had time to catch his breath. Not to mention the fact that every conversation people seemed to have with him, seemed to be about him.

Sam had finally guilted Dean into leaving for some coffee when Dr. Wallace made his morning rounds. He liked the doctor well enough--he was good natured and cordial, and Sam could tell he'd been good to his brother.

"So when am I getting out of here?" he asked, a bit hopeful if naive.

Dr. Wallace snorted. "Son, you're just starting to get over a serious infection that nearly shut down your kidneys and compromised your breathing. You're lucky we didn't have to do a bone marrow transplant to get you over it. Not to mention the fact, that I've got you slotted for surgery tomorrow."

Sam paled a little. "Surgery?"

"For the wrist," he said. "Which I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"What gave you the bright idea to walk around with a fractured wrist for weeks on end without seeking treatment?"

Sam blanched. "I thought I could take care of it."

"You didn't stop to think that maybe broken bones should be set?"

"I didn't think it was broken," Sam protested weakly.

Dr. Wallace's stare did not bolster Sam's confidence. "So you figured the shooting pain was just psychosomatic."

Sam sighed a little. "I didn't want Dean to worry."

The doctor nodded at this. "Well, that admirable, I guess," he said. "Didn't really work out so well, huh?"

Sam blushed, looking down. "I guess not."

"Next time, do us all a favor and get treatment right away. And avoid falling down stairs or whatever it is that you managed to do to re-injure it. Your brother was a little vague on that point."

Sam imagined that he was.

"Be sure to thank your brother," the doctor advised. "He was here all the time. Never left your side. By choice, anyway. There aren't many big brothers who'd do that."

Sam's heart caught in his throat, and he swallowed painfully around. He smiled, embarrassed. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

-o-

When Dean finally got back from his morning coffee run, he looked about as refreshed as Dean seemed capable of these days. He sprawled out on the chair, talking randomly about some waitress across the street.

When they had lulled into silence, Sam swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sorry for not being there for you."

Dean just looked at him, frozen, and Sam found himself looking away. He needed to say this.

"I screwed this up--so badly," he tried to explain. "All of it, ever since Dad--" His voice cut off, choked by a sob that he strove to contain.

"Sam--" There was a sigh, resigned and tired.

Sam just shook his head. It was spilling out of him faster than he knew how to stop it. "I should have told you that right away," Sam said. "But I didn't know how. I didn't know how to do anything. You were falling apart, man, and all I could do was sit and think that I wish I could take that from you, that I wish I could figure out how to make it better just like you always seem to for me."

"Sam--"

He set his jaw hard and refused to look up, embarrassed by the tears that burned his eyes. "You've always been right about me," he said. "It's all too little, too late. With Dad, with you, with everything. I just--I just want to make it better."

"Just stop," Dean growled, his voice tight and strained.

Sam flinched, looking up, surprised.

Dean was staring at him, eyes of ice. "Listen to me, okay?" Sam nodded slightly.

"I've been a jerk the last few weeks. There's no other way around it. This whole thing with the demon, with Dad--" He stopped, his voice cracking, and Sam winced at the sound. "It hasn't been easy--on either of us. And I don't know--maybe I just needed time, space, something, but I took it out on you. I hurt you...I ignored you when I should have paid attention."

Dean's confession made Sam feel weak, made his guilt skyrocket. "No, Dean, you don't always have to--" His voice broke off and he swallowed hard. "I just--I wanted to be there for you, just like you've always been there for me."

Dean quirked a smile. "Next time, try not breaking your wrist and getting a bone infection, and it might go a little better."

Sam flushed, "Dean, I'm serious."

"I know, I know," he said quickly. "And so am I." He sighed, collecting himself. "Sam, you're there for me more than you'll ever know."

"Dean," Sam said, his voice quiet, true. "We're there for each other. We have to be. We're all that's left."

Dean laughed a little. "Yeah," he said. "We are."

There was sadness and solidarity in that truth.

Everything else--the apologies, the gratitude, the pain--seemed to disappear into that, and Sam simply prayed that it was enough.

-o-

He'd stayed with Sam throughout the morning, until the nurses had chased him out. Sam had drifted back to sleep, as he was prone to these days, but Dean figured without much else to do in a hospital bed, that was pretty normal. The kid was due for surgery soon anyway, and Dean wanted to be sure he was as rested as possible to make the recovery smooth.

He grunted, noting the weariness in his own bones. He should probably take his own advice and get some sleep. Sam would need him, and Dean needed to keep himself in shape in order to be sure he was there for Sam.

It was hard to let go though, to let himself relax when Sam was still out of it. Especially now, after his brother's attempted apology at him.

Dean should have seen it earlier, should have recognized it years ago. Sam, in his early years of hero worship and imitation, had picked up on Dean's greatest quality: his compassion when things were tough. Sam may not have expressed it as blatantly or as smoothly, but his kid brother was just as much protective of Dean as Dean was of Sam. Dean's happiness so often came from seeing Sam happy that he had never considered the converse. Not when it was Sam who had left for more, Sam who had wanted normal and safety.

But maybe, just maybe, Sam hadn't been as selfish as Dean had thought. It hadn't been about hurting Dean, but about Sam saving something inside himself, and maybe by extension, saving something good about his family if only they would allow it.

All of that was gone now, mostly a distant memory, because Dean knew somehow that Sam had given it up. Sam had sacrificed his dreams by necessity, by the sheer fact that the only person left in his life was Dean and Sam would do anything for Dean.

Maybe it was time for Dean to do anything for Sam. Anything, including walking away from the hunt once and for all.

Hunting had taken too much. Sam had been right in Jericho. This wasn't what Mom would have wanted. This wasn't what Dean wanted. It certainly wasn't what Sam wanted.

And now...now things were complicated, sure, but it didn't change the basic fact that Dean wanted more. Dean wanted more for himself, more for Sam, more for them. They'd both given everything they had for this quest, this fight, and it got them nowhere. Dean had played the good son all his life and what he wasn't telling Sam was that it was all too little, too late for him too. It didn't mean anything.

But Sam and him...that meant something. Brotherhood meant something.

They could build the rest from there.

end