To Vent One's Spleen
Summary: The brothers figure out that sometimes what's missing is the one thing that can bring you together.
A/N – Floralia: Happy Birthday Gidgetgal9! I hope you enjoy our birthday offering. Thanks to Sendintheclowns for agreeing to write this with me despite my crazy RL schedule, and to Faye Dartmouth for the speedy beta. I fiddled a lot so all mistakes are on me.
A/N – Sendintheclowns: A huge shout out to the very talented Gidgetgal9 who is celebrating a birthday today. To mark the occasion, Floralia agreed to co-write fic (despite having been out of town and country) – I hope the birthday girl enjoys our little h/c effort. A big thank you to Faye Dartmouth for performing beta duties – the conversation on a certain body part was priceless.
-0-
It should have been easy, only Sam looked to be a lot more out of breath then he should have been. Dean had barely broken a sweat, but he could hear his brother wheezing. When they paused in the stairwell to regroup, Sam actually leaned against the wall as though it was keeping him upright, bending slightly to regulate his breathing.
"You okay?" Dean asked, trying not to show the concern he was feeling. They still needed to get to the next floor and across to the west corner of the building. And as long the wraith was following them, Sam had no choice but to run.
"Yeah?" Sam lifted a pale head and grinned ruefully. And then he coughed.
"Shit, are you kidding me?"
"What?" Sam looked mildly affronted, like Dean shouldn't be pissed about having a wingman that wasn't up to par. "You knew I was sick when you suggested this. I'll be fine. It's not much farther." Sam eyed the stairs with a confidence Dean did not feel.
"I knew you were sick three weeks ago," Dean corrected. Sick to the extent that they'd actually been forced to stop at a clinic after a coughing fit had left Sam so out of breath Dean was afraid he was going to pass out. But Sam had been medicated and had spent a week in bed since then, and they'd already got another couple of hunts under their belts. Which was why Dean had not thought twice about taking on this one.
Until now.
"Yeah, well." Sam shrugged dismissively, in a way that curled Dean's worry into irritation. "We should keep moving," and with that he was brushing past Dean and up the stairs.
Dean took a moment to study Sam's retreating back before he followed. The virus had hit Sam hard and fast and Dean did not want a repeat performance. He wouldn't admit it but it had freaked him out how Sam had gone from running laps to being curled up in bed, refusing to move, within the space of eight hours. And it had seemed to take forever to shake.
Maybe Sam was just unusually prone to colds this year. It could be his body's reaction to its sudden change in lifestyle; from sedentary college student in a cosy library to nomadic hunter. Or maybe he had just never been as cured as he had been letting on.
Sighing, Dean pressed on up the stairs. They still had a hunt to finish. He had plenty of time to chew Sam out about his current level of health afterwards.
Setting off up the stairs at a full sprint he caught up with Sam easily, and with a hand on his brother's shoulder, propelled them faster down the corridor towards their destination. Sam threw him a dirty look for the helping hand but didn't say anything; they could use all the head start they could get to start working the ritual before the wraith crashed the party and caught on to what they were up to.
He practically shoved Sam through the doorway and turned back to face their pursuer, approaching now at the end of the corridor.
"Come and get me you ugly sucker," he taunted, and he could hear Sam huff from his position beside the open door. But his words had the desired effect. The flagging creature picked up its pace and started barrelling towards him, sure once more of its course, and Dean took a step backwards into the room to lure it in.
With its eyes fixed solely on Dean in the centre of the room, it passed Sam without a glance, leaving him free to step forward and fill in the last line of salt across the doorway, effectively sealing the supernatural creature inside.
Sam hadn't even straightened up before he was reciting Latin, tone clear and even now, and reflecting his upmost confidence in the power of his words. Dean let loose with a round from the shotgun as the wraith's head spun in Sam's direction, stalling it while his brother stepped carefully to the other side of their prepared trap. Sam shook his head indulgently and flashed him an amused smile.
Dean just shrugged. He didn't doubt Sam would have gotten clear in time, and maybe he was wasting ammo, but he hadn't had his brother back on the road with him for long and he was taking no chances.
Sam paced slowly as he spoke, tracing the line of the wraith's containment while Dean kept it fixed in his crosshairs. When the Latin was over, all Dean had to do was light the talisman and the damn thing would be sucked straight back to hell.
The cadence of Sam's voice was vaguely hypnotic; Dean tuned out the words and focused on the flow of it, which was why he noticed when it changed. Sam's pace didn't alter but the quality of his voice was different, sharper around the edges, the rhythm less smooth. It gradually grew quieter and more hoarse, until it finally caught on a hard consonant.
Sam paused to clear his throat, and Dean's eyes flicked over to him with concern. When Sam continued the clarity and power were back in his voice but Dean could see Sam's slight flinch, the crinkle around his eyes that spoke of the pain. But the words never wavered.
Sam had been hoarse for days after the worst of the symptoms were over, and the smell of eucalyptus had become a regular part of their lives. But surely this wasn't normal. Surely it shouldn't still be lingering, almost a month later.
Maybe there was something actually wrong. Something more serious that this cold had just been an indication of. As a kid, Sam had rarely got sick, but now that Dean was thinking about it, he'd definitely been more prone to picking things up over the last couple of months. Maybe more than could be explained by an unusually cold Michigan winter. There were loads of things that could mess with your immune system, right? And none of them good. Sam had been away from his watchful eye for too long. Maybe Sam just had crappy luck and a cold, but maybe…
Dean started as he registered the change in his surroundings, and it took his brain a second or two to grasp what that meant. The chanting had stopped. And Sam was glaring at him pointedly from the other side of the room, expression slowly morphing from exasperation to one of concern.
"Oh… shit." Dean fumbled for his lighter, dropping the shot gun in his distracted haste. He barely had time to see it clatter to the floor, disrupting the line of wards at his feet, before the flame was lit and the talisman in his other hand ready to be torched.
It was a good thing the wraith had a lousy sense of its own preservation, was too stupid to know where its immediate threat was coming from. Because Dean saw its blur of motion and knew that it could have reached him in time to seriously mess up their chances. But the blow never came, and the talisman caught light, and there was a blinding flash and the shattering of glass and a brief howling wind whipping the dust and salt around him and into his face, and then everything fell still and silent.
"Another one bites the dust," Dean murmured, straightening his windswept collar. Sam didn't dignify him with a response, and when Dean had finished clearing the dust from his watering eyes he could see why. Sam was no-longer in the room, and there was just a broken and jagged window frame where his brother had last stood.
It took Dean's brain a second or two to catch up with what his eyes were telling him, and when it did his insides when cold. With a curse, he lurched forward to peer out into the dark and rain-swept night.
"Sam!" There was no answer to his call, but since the object of his search was lying prone on the asphalt two stories below him, Dean hadn't really expected that there would be. It was hard to make out Sam's form in the gloom, but what he could see wasn't encouraging. Sam was lying on his back with his arms splayed out beside him, right foot caught in an unusual angle. And he was lying still.
"Sam!" He called again. There was not so much as a twitch in response. "Crap." Dean's eyes darted wildly around his brother's exit but the walls were sheer and rain-slick and there was no easy way down. "Double crap," Dean muttered, wrenching his eyes away and turning to dart out of the room the more conventional way, tearing down the long corridor and throwing himself at the stairwell. He collided hard with the wall as he misjudged a turn but his pace didn't falter. He'd left the gun and their gear behind and would have to go back, but for now, the unconscious little brother that had just been thrown out of a window took precedence.
It took Dean almost two minutes to find an exit that would take him around to the side where his brother had fallen. Two minutes in which his now racing brain was left to dwell on his brother's stillness, on the height of his fall.
He was out of breath by the time he dropped to his knees at his brother's side, but this time at least his call garnered some kind of a response. Sam had obviously roused and rolled more squarely onto his back while Dean had been trying to reach him. Was even now gingerly testing limbs to see what was in working order.
"'M okay," Sam assured breathlessly, stifling a hiss and a wince as he shifted to raise one knee to rest his foot on the ground. Dean had been picturing a cracked skull with blood blossoming out onto the sidewalk, or at the very least a fractured spine, and felt himself sag with relief that Sam was awake and moving. But then he remembered the angle of his brother's foot when he'd seen it from above, and moved a hand down to probe carefully at the source of the pain.
Sam gasped as Dean's searching fingers made contact, and he shoved Dean grumpily on the arm, nearly knocking him over. "It might be sprained," Sam told him, and while it might have been meant to reassure, the 'but don't prod it' was clearly implied.
Dean nodded and nearly laughed with relief, feeling his hands start to shake as the adrenaline left him. He busied them by stilling Sam's arm, which seemed to still be threatening protective violence, then pushing the hair from his brother's rain-soaked face to try and examine Sam's pupils in the dim light.
He could feel no obvious head injury and his hands didn't come away bloody, and if Sam's protests were anything to go by, he was still in command of his faculties. Dean could scarcely believe they had got off so lightly.
"Who the hell stands in front of a window?" he chided softly, sitting back on his heels to announce his inspection over. But he was having a hard time relinquishing contact, and one hand remained gripping Sam's shoulder in relief. Sam just pulled a face in return, and Dean could tell by his rueful expression that he was probably wondering the same thing.
"Come on, we should get out of here," Dean said. They could probably still get cleared up and a couple of hours sleep before morning. But as Sam placed one palm on the floor and tried to leaver himself into a sitting position he gave a cry of pain that echoed in the night air, and he dropped back to the ground, curling into himself.
"Sam?" Dean questioned, heart racing in alarm as he tried to get his brother to make eye contact.
"Ribs," was all Sam could get out before he screwed himself up with another gasp of pain.
"Broken?" Dean inquired, trying to push Sam back down flat against the asphalt to still him, and so that he could take a look.
"I don't know." But Sam was shaking his head, and Dean didn't expect the force with which his searching hands were batted away from Sam's body for a second time.
"So… hospital?" he asked, not knowing whether to be amused by Sam's petulance, and unable to prevent his lips from curling despite themselves. Sam had always relished his independence; Dean would take it as a good sign that he was willing to try and reassert it now.
"No," Sam sulked, before he shifted again and hissed out another cry of pain. "Maybe," he sighed. "You're gonna have to help me up," he admitted.
"Really…" Dean smiled, shaking his head and positioning himself so Sam's good side could take the majority of Sam's share of his weight. "You ready?"
"Not really," Sam muttered, gritting his teeth and trying not to cry out too loudly as he was wrenched unsteadily to his one good foot.
As soon as Sam was upright he wavered, and Dean had to tighten his hold to keep them both standing. Sam was no-longer trying to brush off Dean's assistance, but seemed willing to cling back, which only cause Dean's insides to curl up once more in fear. Dean was loathed to leave him, but Sam's breathing was already laboured, and Dean wanted to spare him the pain of moving while he could.
"Stay here," Dean told him, leaning Sam's body against the warehouse wall behind them for balance. "I'll bring the car round."
Sam nodded with relief, tilting his head back against the wall and closing his eyes wearily. Sam coughed weakly and Dean gave his arm a light squeeze before setting off. There was no way he was letting his brother change his mind; Sam was going to a hospital if Dean had to drag him. He just hoped Sam would have the sense to keep still, and the energy to still be on his feet when Dean and the Impala returned.
-0-
Sam allowed Dean to come back into the ER cubicle with him and he knew that decision had freaked his brother out. By not putting up a fight for privacy, he had as good as admitted that his injuries were serious. Sam really didn't think either his ankle or ribs were broken but his energy had been seriously zapped and he didn't have the strength to argue.
Okay, maybe he was hurt worse than he thought but he wasn't going to say the words aloud to his overprotective brother. He was pretty sure it was just the flu he'd had a few weeks back that was lingering but it was getting irritating so maybe the doc could prescribe something to help it on its merry way.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean's question interrupted his thoughts.
Sam couldn't help the eyeroll he sent his brother's way – he was in the ER with a swollen ankle and sore ribs so no, he wasn't exactly okay. He didn't even try to keep the exasperation out of his voice when he answered, "Well, I let you talk me into coming to the ER, so how exactly would that qualify me for okay?"
Dean didn't like it when sarcasm was thrown his way, as he thought he had the market on it or something, so he didn't waste any time in firing back. "Let's get something straight, you didn't let me do anything, I made you. You practically fainted in my arms back at the warehouse."
Crossing his arms, Sam tried to huff – that was the point, Dean was always making him do things – but the action of folding his arms made his ribs throb and he couldn't bite off the gasp that escaped. And for the record, he hadn't fainted. His vision had grayed out a little and he'd gotten a little wobbly, but after taking a header out the second story window, a guy deserved some slack. Why, oh why, did he let Dean get to him this way? The answer was simple: Dean was his older brother and knew exactly which buttons to push.
His brother was at his side in an instant, helping him lean back. "You are so not okay. What's taking them so long? I'm gonna go find…"
Someone cleared his throat and both brothers swung their attention to the doorway. Sam stifled a groan – it looked like Doogie Howser was his doctor and he knew his brother was going to doubt and question everything the young red-haired doctor said and did.
"Hi, Sam, my name's Dr. Howard and I'll be taking care of you this afternoon. " The doctor shuffled through some papers on his clipboard before glancing back up. "It looks like you have a swollen ankle and some pain in your ribs – can you tell me what happened?"
Sam opened his mouth to answer but Dean jumped in before he could get a word in edgewise. "Sam's always been a bit of a klutz and he fell down a flight of stairs." Sam's mouth closed with a snap, a glare aimed at his brother. He'd undergone an awkward stage in his early teens but he was actually pretty graceful, at least according to Jess. He looked down at his hands, thoughts of Jess adding to his pain.
The short slim man, looking all of eighteen, stepped around Dean and approached Sam. "Can you tell me if it's a generalized pain or more localized? Does it hurt to breathe?"
Once again Dean butted in before Sam could say anything. "The pain's more here," Dean pointed to the top of Sam's ribcage on the right, "and also here," he added by motioning to the lower end of the ribcage, also on the right. "The left side is sore, but he doesn't seem to be favoring it as much," he finally concluded.
The doctor looked over his shoulder at Dean and then back at Sam. With a completely straight face, but eyes twinkling, he asked Sam, "Are you by any chance practicing your ventriloquist act and he's the dummy?"
"He's my brother," Sam said as if that explained everything. He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped but the movement made him wince. This time it was Dean who glared back, ticked at the doctor's comment. No one got the better of his brother, it only brought out the competitive spirit in him. What the doc didn't realize was that Dean had spent a lifetime answering on Sam's behalf – to doctors, teachers, their own dad – and although Sam didn't particularly care for it, he knew Dean did it from the heart. It was a somewhat thick and smothering kind of love but hey, the Winchesters had their own spin when it came to putting the fun in dysfunction.
The cool stethoscope was applied to Sam's back and then chest with the hated requests to breathe in deep…hold...now let it out. He complied like a good little patient until the doctor frowned at him. "Before your little tumble today, did you have any pain under your breastbone?"
This time the doctor didn't even look at Sam for answer, instead turning to Dean. His brother did not disappoint. "He had the flu about three weeks ago and it really knocked him for a loop; he was congested and coughed a lot. I know he was sore then. Yeah, he'd do this little rub thing with his knuckles right along his breastbone. I thought he was just sore from coughing too hard. Why, what is it?"
Dean's voice had a tinge to it that Sam didn't care for – worry on its way to panic – and Sam hated to see his brother get worked up. He had turned pale and Sam was beginning to think maybe the doctor should check Dean over. He didn't want his brother to stroke out on him.
"I heard what we call rales…kind of sounds like someone pulling on Velcro. It can be indicative of many things or it could be nothing. I'm going to go ahead and order a CT scan. Now let's have a look at that ankle."
Avoiding all eye contact with his brother, Sam quietly submitted to the doctor's request to rotate his ankle one way and then the other and let the man (he'd pretty much put Dean in his place so he'd been upped in Sam's estimation from Doogie Howser to an adult MD) palpate and generally aggravate his sore joint. "I think an x-ray wouldn't be amiss but I'm pretty sure you just managed to sprain it. Let me flag down a nurse and then you'll be on your way to radiology."
Fortunately, a nurse came in and the doctor asked her to get a wheelchair; she returned moments later and off Sam went, relieved that he could leave Dean and his heavy brow and frowning face behind for just a while. He knew Dean was itching to let loose a stream of worry on him because he hadn't looked twice at the voluptuous swells hidden beneath Heidi the Nurse's light blue scrubs.
Sam was a little worried at what the doctor had said about the rales and not having to diffuse his brother's concerns, even for a short while, helped his own stress level. He just needed a moment to catch his breath and then he'd be good.
-0-
Dean knew he drove his brother to the brink of insanity with his incessant worrying but he couldn't help it; he'd just found the kid again and he wasn't about to let anything happen to him. Although, letting himself get distracted during the wraith banishment probably didn't qualify as taking care of his little brother.
He watched the clock anxiously, gnawing on his thumbnail. He wished he had a gun to clean or a knife to sharpen; those repetitive actions, ones he could perform in his sleep, managed to calm him. One moment of inattention and his brother goes airborne. Dean knew better. He also knew Sam wasn't feeling well and he'd allowed Sam to go through with the hunt.
Finally, after thirty minutes of pacing and sitting and foot tapping and more pacing, his little brother made an appearance. Sam was hunched over a little in the wheelchair and despite what most tall guys did, his brother didn't normally slouch. That was pain.
Sam had barely settled on to the exam table when Dean was brushing by the nurse, Kandy with a K this time, and he didn't give her a second look despite her various generous attributes. "What did they say?"
His brother, who had all the tendencies of a first rate drama queen, scowled at him. "They didn't say anything. I have to wait for the doctor. But I'm telling you this, if you don't give me some space, I'm hiking back and letting the wraith have another go at me. It's gotta be less painful then listening to you nag at me."
He hadn't really had a chance to make a nuisance of himself so he figured it was the pain talking. "I'll go get a cup of coffee or something. Stay put."
Stepping into the hallway, he headed toward the waiting room. He'd seen a steel industrial size coffee maker and could only hope the coffee it made was drinkable. Before he made it to the doors, he stepped into the path of someone, nearly knocking them off their feet. With a steadying hand, Dean kept them from hitting the deck. "Sorry, didn't see you."
Looking down, Dean realized he'd almost knocked Sam's doctor off his feet. "I was just on my way to see your brother. The good news is he didn't fracture his ankle or his ribs. The bad news is he has pneumonia. Since he no longer has his spleen, Sam really should take it easy when he's sick since his immune system has been compromised and he's more prone to infections. But I'll be able to release him into your care as long as you get him to slow down and take the antibiotic I'm going to prescribe for him."
Dean put a hand out against the wall to catch his balance, his head reeling. Sam no longer had his spleen? He'd had it when he'd huffed off to Stanford. What the hell had happened to the kid and why hadn't he called Dean? Surely a splenectomy was a good reason to contact family, even family you were on the outs with.
Doing an about face, Dean turned on his heels and followed the doctor back into the cubicle holding his brother. He had a few choice words to say and he didn't care who heard them.
Stepping into the cubicle, Dean didn't miss the pale and drawn features on his brother's face, or the way he awkwardly splayed against the pillow resting against the raised exam table. Sam was exhausted and in pain and the heat went out of Dean's temper. There would be time enough to lay into his brother later.
Dean had always relished his role of big brother. He wished that Sam wasn't hurting and sick, but right now, he needed to get Sam somewhere he could rest and recuperate under Dean's watchful eye. It felt good to have Sam back at his side, and no matter how much had happened, Sam was still his little brother, spleen or no spleen.
-0-
The doctor had pushed pills on Sam, one for the pneumonia he hadn't realized he had and the other for the pain in his ankle and ribs. Normally he'd have declined the pain pill, but he was glad he'd given in – instead of a throbbing mass of pain, Sam was relaxed. So relaxed, he missed the trip to the motel. Dean had shaken him awake and helped him inside and then it'd been lights out.
Now, however, Sam was paying for it. Every time he shifted or winced, Dean was all over him. Sure, it was nice that his brother cared but it was getting a little ridiculous.
Sam's bladder twinged and he shifted his legs over the side of the bed, gathering his strength so he could limp to the bathroom. Dean swooped in before he could push to his feet. "Jesus, Sam, I told you to stay put and I'd take care of whatever you needed. The doc said you needed to rest and even if you're not interesting in taking care of yourself, I'm going to make sure you do."
Batting his brothers hands away, Sam glared up. "First off, there are some things you just can't take care of for me," Sam threw a look over Dean's shoulder at the bathroom balefully, "and second, where do you get off saying I'm not taking care of myself? I went to the doctor and I'm following his advice. You need to lay off." When Dean leaned down to grab Sam's elbow, he shoved him away. His independence was as much a part of him as breathing and there was no way he was relying on Dean for something as easy as crossing the few steps to get to the bathroom. "I mean it, Dean."
He climbed to his feet, slow and ungainly, and winced as he put weight on his right ankle. It was heavily bandaged but even so, Sam could tell it wasn't stable. Dean retreated to the other side of the motel room, seething, as Sam picked his way gingerly across the floor.
By the time he'd taken care of his pressing needs, splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, Sam's energy was flagging. He wasn't even vaguely surprised when he opened the door to find Dean barring it, hands crossed over his chest. "This is ridiculous, Sam. Just let me help you back to bed."
Too tired to argue, Sam let his brother slip an arm around his waist and he leaned into that strength. He didn't want to pick a fight with Dean but he was tired – tired of the pain sucking his energy, tired of being sick and tired of Dean acting like he was stupid and helpless.
Out of breath by the time he was settled back on the lumpy mattress, he grabbed Dean's hand before he could pull away. He knew his brother was trying to help, he just didn't understand where all of Dean's henpecking stemmed from. Maybe Dean felt guilty for letting the wraith get the drop on him and flinging him out the window but to be honest, it could have happened to anyone. In fact it had happened on past hunts. "Thanks. I'm sorry I snapped. But please, you have to cut me some slack here. It's not your fault, Dean. I'm gonna be fine."
His brother sank down on the mattress next to him. "I talked to the doctor about your CT scan. He said people who don't have spleens need to take it easy when they're sick since their immune systems have been compromised and they're more prone to infections. Why didn't you tell me about your spleen, Sammy?"
Sam opened his mouth and then shut it abruptly. Chagrined, he felt the heat burn over his face and ears. He'd kind of gotten used to being alone while at school, not answering to anyone. It had been hard, but he'd managed. "Shit, Dean, I kind of forgot about it. It was freshman year and Jess and I were in a crosswalk. A car ignored the red light and tore around the corner. I pushed her out of the way but I wasn't quick enough. I was only in the hospital for a few days and hardly missed a step. It's been three years and I guess because I was out of hunting and I didn't have any complications that I just forgot about it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
Dean pushed to his feet and ran a hand through his short hair. "Why didn't you call me?" He paced away and then pivoted sharply, stomping back over to Sam. "I think I had a right to know. I wanted to know, Sammy."
He had trouble meeting his brother's eyes, moisture collecting in the corners, threatening to leak out. Sam had called but he'd left a message and never heard back. It had hurt more than he'd thought possible – his dad had told him if he was going to go, then he should stay gone but he hadn't thought that meant staying gone from Dean's life, too. The silence had told him otherwise. But Dean truly acted like he had no clue. Perhaps it had been a simple case of miscommunication, maybe he'd wasted those tears and self pity for nothing.
Dashing a hand impatiently across his eyes, Sam threw his brother a wobbly smile. "I tried, Dean, but I guess you didn't get my message. But I was okay and it would have been a wasted trip for you. Pulled you away from the hunt for no reason."
The bed dipped back down and calloused fingers kneaded the tense muscles at the back of his neck. "No, Sam, it wouldn't have been wasted. You were always more important to me. And you're not okay, you've got freakin' pneumonia. I should have taken better care of you, known something was wrong."
Between expending his energy on the trip to the bathroom and the meds and the intense subject matter, Sam was worn out. He let Dean settle him back against the pillows and let himself drift.
As the comforter was tugged up higher on his waist, he realized how much he'd missed this. Dean being his big brother, looking out for him. He'd had to rely on himself at Stanford, at least until he'd met Jess.
He'd always had an independent streak but it was easy to have – he knew Dean would always be there to take care of him. At least he'd thought that until he got hit by that car and no one called him back.
Dean's hand had shifted down to his shoulder and he was rubbing circles on it. Sam relaxed into sleep, content to have his brother at his side again. A team again. Even if they did need to work on their wraith banishment technique.
-0-
Dean allowed himself to study his little brother while he massaged Sam's shoulder. His brother's face was still too pale and he had dark circles under his eyes but his breathing did seem easier. He couldn't believe he'd dragged Sam around, all the while his little brother had pneumonia. People died from pneumonia. Although his brother was too stubborn to die from something as mundane as that.
Sam had been hit by a car while playing at being an innocent college student. Both Dean and their dad still had their spleen…kind of backed up John Winchester's argument that Sam would be safer with them.
But Dean knew it wasn't that simple. Dean had seen how happy Sam was at school. With Jess. He still ached for his little brother and everything he'd lost.
But he couldn't be sorry that Sam was back with him. Under his watchful eye. No one could take care of Sam better than he could – he'd had nineteen years of experience before Sam had bolted for Stanford.
"If you go, stay gone." Those words still tortured Dean. How could their dad say that to Sam? And how could Dean have let it happen? At the time, Dean had followed their dad almost blindly, the good little soldier. And he'd thought Sam would come around, miss him too much. Dean had taken care of Sam since he was a baby.
A horrible thought flashed through his mind – what if their dad had heard Sam's message about the car accident and deliberately kept it from Dean? His dad had been hellbent on keeping them focused, shouldering on. Dean quickly locked that thought down, pushed it aside.
Dean supposed it really didn't matter anymore. Except the part about thinking that Sam hadn't wanted to talk to him, and Sam had thought it was the other way around. They'd always worked better as a team and who knows what would have changed if they'd had the opportunity to talk back then.
The important thing now was that they were back together, hunting, looking for their dad. They couldn't go back, even if they had wanted to. The best they could do was make the best with what they had. Although the next time Sam got so much as a sniffle, Dean was making him slow down, he didn't care how much bitching Sam did.
Pushing the too long hair out of Sam's face, Dean stood up. Sam might not appreciate his technique, could be as bitchy as he wanted, but he was going to make sure his brother got better.
The missed phone call continued to niggle the back of Dean's mind. He should have known something was wrong back then. He vowed to be more vigilant, take better care of his brother now that he was back.
Dean intended to make sure he stuck to Sam like glue, despite Sam's continued bid for independence. His brother might be a pain in the ass, but he was Dean's pain in the ass.