Written for the Gen Brothers Challenge

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. If I owned the show, John Winchester wouldn't be eligible for redemption by anyone's standards.

It was well past midnight before Dean started feeling the familiar buzz that always came to him when he mixed drink with winning. Pool was something he was good at, something that was fun – something that didn't necessarily come packaged with an ass kicking. And after his and Sammy's recent little debacle involving a slightly pissed off poltergeist who had the nasty little habit of thinking that all human necks had big bull's-eyes on them that just screamed "Strangle ME!", safe was not something he was at all objecting to. As he rifled through the money he'd managed to pick up, Dean smiled in triumph. This would definitely keep him and Sam comfortable for a while, college definition be damned. Sammy just needed to learn that hobos did NOT have it better than them when it came to living conditions and that little brother's were supposed to be seen and not heard. He squared his shoulders and shrugged on his jacket, ignoring the bitter looks from those who the pool gods had held out on. Dean allowed himself a gloating smirk in their direction before he strolled out the door (not at all hurriedly, because since when did drunk bikers with a death wish for him give a Winchester the creeps? Never, thankyouverymuch, and Dean was loath to be the one to break the mould his father had so rigidly set).

Getting into his beloved Impala, the roadside bar disappeared in the rearview mirror in a matter of seconds, leaving only burnt asphalt and tire marks in it's wake.

There was something in the room with him... a presence without a face. It was pressing in on Sam, threatening to crush him without mercy. Dean was there too, he had to be. Dean would think of something. Sam waited.

Nothing.

Fear tightened its viselike grip on his chest, causing his heart to leap to his throat and his breathing to become restricted. His brother wasn't here. Dean had left. Before Sam could work up anger, he was filled with an incredible relief – if the elder Winchester wasn't there, then he was safe. For now, anyway. Sam knew that Dean would be back... he would come back to the room to find Sam dead, or maybe to be killed while Sam looked on, screaming his denial to ears that were deaf to his pleas, only hearing the anguish in his voice and feeding off it.

Images filled the youngest hunter's head and his imagination ran away with him to a place where sun never shown and nightmares walked (1). Sam gasped and choked, the horrible possible outcomes snapping the young man out of his own mind and back to the real world. It was still there – the air had thickened and Sam could barely see a hand in front of his face, so deep was the inky blackness that blanketed the room. Throwing off his covers in a quick motion, Sam's 6'3" frame straightened into a standing position. His sweatpants and light t-shirt would have to do – Sam needed to go. He needed to get out of the room, needed to save Dean and to save himself.

The night air hit him hard as he stumbled out of the oppressing motel room. Barely looking where he was going and struggling to remain upright with the literal ocean of darkness nipping at his heels like an overeager puppy – a dangerous, cannibalistic overeager puppy – Sam sped off into the night.

Dean tapped his fingers along the steering wheel while Led Zeppelin's "The Immigrant" blared out of the old speakers. The window was rolled down and the wind whipped at his hair, catching strands and tossing them in his face teasingly before dancing backwards. Swiping angrily at his face as another one flicked painfully into his eye, Dean pinched his fingers on the bridge of his nose, fighting off the heaviness that had suddenly decided to set up camp on his eyelids. He returned his hand to the plastic of the wheel, refusing to let his prize possession get a single dent because her driver was an irresponsible prick who had a momentary lapse of concentration. The speedometer was inching upwards, the pavement was now being eaten at 60 miles an hours on a 35 mile per hour town road. Dean shrugged back into the leather couch seat of his car, before sitting up rod straight when the "check engine" light started flashing urgently.

Fuck.

His baby was betraying him, and at possibly the most inopportune moment she could have chosen outside of a hunt. The hunter didn't understand – he'd always treated the Impala as a member of the family. Well, a member of a non-fucked up, non-demon hunting family. Like a treasured child! And now, she went and pulled a stunt like this! Swearing as the light started blinking with increasing frequency, Dean pushed down on the brakes...

And only had a moment to register his car slamming into a very human form before the dashboard came up to say 'hello' and all went black.

Sam was running, that was all he could tell. And the monster was chasing him. At least he'd managed to lure it away from Dean, even if he wasn't able to save himself. His legs pounded and his lungs ached for air, but in a flash, his hunting instincts took over.

'Don't run in a straight line if something's chasing you... Zigzag, do anything you can to throw it off...'

Without warning, Sam swerved on a corner, racing across the street before a coherent thought of a plan was able to enter his mind, just in case the fucker on his tail could read minds as well. Surprisingly, the demon seemed to have backed off, but he wasn't willing to take the chance that he was wrong.

Out of nowhere, he was blinded by headlights were in his peripheral vision and metal was colliding with his body. Sam was thrown over the hood of the car, shattering the windshield on the way, landing splayed on the pavement as consciousness fled him.

Dean slowly came up out of the black soup that was called being knocked out. Memory came back to him in a flash, and before he had registered the broken glass that had rained about him, he was out of the car and racing over to the prone body lying several feet from where he had come to a skidding halt.

'Sonofamotherfuckingbitchshitdamnfuck' Dean mentally swore as he neared the mangled form resting on the pavement. The elder Winchester sibling dropped to his knees and rolled over the body... and wretched, not at all prepared for what he was seeing.

Fuck. Just... fuck. Dean couldn't process the lifeless face that was staring back up at him. No way, no way could this be Sammy. Sammy was asleep, back in the motel room, safe. He was resting after the poltergeist had used his neck for a fucked-up game of horseshoes (not that Dean hadn't had the same thought on more than several occasions), he was not, definitely not, lying in front of Dean with half of his geeky face obscured by blood. Lifting up the man's right wrist with incredible tenderness, Dean let out a strangled moan when he saw the leather wristband identical to his own. He fished out his cell phone and dialed 911, moving up to cradle Sammy's head in his lap. No thoughts were running through his head at the moment, there was only a dull buzz that would undoubtedly move over to be replaced by a thousand screaming voices when Dean finally had a moment to rest. Right now was not that time.

"911 emergency hotline, what is your emergency?" came a serious voice from the other side of the line. Dean pressed the phone to his ear and spoke rapidly while trying desperately to stop at least one point where the life blood was blowing out of Sam's body. That shit would do a whole lot better inside instead of greasing the pavement.

"There's been a crash... I – I'm at the corner of Alpine and Cherry. My bro... brother... he's been hit. God, he's bleeding so much..."

"Sir, there's an ambulance en route to your location as we speak. Is your brother breathing?"

"Yes... it's way too shallow... hardly... He's hardly breathing..."

The wail of the sirens penetrated the thick fog that seemed to have encased his brain. Dean looked up when the paramedics rushed over to him, maneuvering his own body so that the new arrivals could lift his brother up on a stretcher while still maintaining contact. In an instant, all four were in the back of the ambulance, Sam's hand in Dean's, and being rushed to the hospital.

Dean let his head loll back to rest against the wall of the emergency room waiting area. The police had already been by, and this time he'd been able to tell the truth about what had happened. They'd measured his blood alcohol level and gotten his car towed to a shop, assuring themselves that Dean had been sober when driving and that he was indeed telling the truth about his car breaking down. The mechanic had reported to the uniformed men that the Impala's battery had failed, causing it to brake in a non-existent fashion, unlike what it normally would have. He was now alone in the waiting room, glancing up hopefully when any hospital personnel moved. So far, that had only earned him looks of pity from the nurses and doctors on duty. Well they could go and stick their pity up their fucking asses. He didn't need pity – he needed Sam.

'You don't deserve Sam,' a voice screamed to him. Yep, at his first moment of rest, the thousand demons that resided in the darkest reaches of his mind burst forth and started taunting him. 'You're the reason he's on the emergency room table... you put him there. You murdered your own brother.'

Tears pricked the back of his eyes but he stubbornly refused to let them fall. Hell if he was going to give into the pleasure of feeling sorry for himself. He was a monster who had hurt his own brother. He'd hurt Sam... it had always been one of his worst fears, that he would miscalculate a shot, or say something that cut Sam deeply, and that his brother would from then on bear a scar that Dean had given him. And he hadn't even been possessed! The first thing he would tell Sam if – WHEN Sam woke up was that he was forgiven for everything Ellicott had made him say, every word the psychotic psychiatrist had twisted.

It was odd...even with the threat of Sam's mortality rearing it's ugly head, never once through this whole nightmare had Dean ever given serious thought to Sammy not walking (more like limping, if he was honest with himself) away from it all. Sure, the line had come up a couple times when the monsters of the closets of his brain were yelling loud enough to make Dean cringe at the mention of his beloved "mullet rock", but the thought had instantly been brushed aside. Hadn't even made a dent into his already pockmarked psyche, because how could a world to exist without its center? It was impossible, inconceivable – he remembered that much from his grade school science classes.

This wasn't happening, that had to be the answer. This was all a dream to show him how much he needed his brother, or... something, something one of the quacks like Oprah or Dr. Phil would come up with. That theory was rudely thrown to the ground and kicked repeatedly in the balls when a graying, somber-faced doctor came to stand in front of him.

"Rodger Taylor?" the doctor asked. (2)

"Yeah, that's me." Dean couldn't even recognize the sound of his own voice. It was tired, weak... choked up?

"I am Dr. Dubois. Would you step into my office? I need to inform you of your brother's condition."

Terrified green eyes locked onto the doctor as soon as the door closed behind them. The older man sighed, running a hand through his thin hair.

"Your brother is now in ICU. The internal injuries he'd sustained from the crash were severe. He had four broken ribs, one of which had punctured his left lung and caused it to collapse. His femur was broken, and his arm fractured in three places. His appendix ruptured from the collision, but thankfully that was removed on the operating table. Several feet of his large intestine had to be removed as well because of extensive damage that was irreparable. Along with the internal injuries, he also suffered from a surprisingly mild concussion and is covered in lacerations and bruises. All in all, your brother is very lucky to be alive. He's now deeply unconscious, though thankfully not in a coma. I don't expect him to wake up for a while, but I do expect him to make a full recovery, given time."

Dean felt his knees go weak and let the doctor catch him before he and the carpet were able to get intimately acquainted. Dr. Dubois led the younger man over to the hardback chair across from the desk and pushed his head in between his knees.

"Deep breaths, son. Your brother's going to be all right. He's going to be all right."

Tears flowed down his cheeks despite Dean's best effort to keep the renegade fluids in his eyes.

"Can I see him?"

"Of course. He's in room 312."

Dean was out the door.

It had been two sleepless nights for Dean Winchester as he kept vigil by the bedside of his baby brother. Sam's stark white complexion had him almost blend in with the pristine clean sheets. The only things that stopped the camouflage from being effective were the periwinkle scrubs and untidy mop of brown hair. During those exhausting fifty-two hours, Dean had gone over his father's journal three times and was now making his own notes in the already extensively written on pages. A stirring on the bed instantly drove all thoughts of Shtriga out of his mind, and he looked up to see brown eyes gazing at him.

"Whatcha writing, Shakespeare?" Sam rasped out, wincing as his throat protested to its use. Dean surged forward and crushed his brother into an awkward hug, stroking his hair, only pulling back at Sam's insistent squirming. "The hell, Dean? Where am I and why has the world suddenly turned upside down? You're initiating a chick-flick moment?"

Dean kept a firm grasp on the side of Sam's head, his thumb stroking the battered skin gently, even as he growled out "Shut it, geek boy."

"Seriously Dean, the last thing I remember is trying to get the darkness as far away from our motel room as possible."

The elder brother flinched, his grip subconsciously tightening on the form on the bed.

"I... I hit you... ran you over with the car... God, Sammy, I'm so – so sorry." Sam's brow crinkled as his eyebrows came together.

"Fuck, no wonder I feel like road kill."

"Not funny. So not funny right now."

"Dean, were you worried about me?" He could hear the concealed amusement in Sammy's voice. Oh hell, he hadn't heard that voice in two days. To him, it was sweeter than a Metallica guitar riff.

"Shit, Sammy, I almost lost you. I almost killed you, and I wasn't even possessed. Everything I said about the asylum, I'm sorry, all right? I know it wasn't you, that the words were twisted and came out wrong – " He was cut off as Sam's hand clamped over his mouth.

"Dean, stop talking. One, you're giving me a headache. Two, I know you didn't mean to hurt me, just like I didn't mean to hurt you. I trust you with my life." He saw Dean about to interrupt. "I said quiet." Dean's mouth snapped closed behind his palm. "I forgive you, all right? Is that what you need to hear?" His brother nodded, eyes strangely over bright. Sam removed his hand. "So, are we good, jerk?"

Dean cocked his head and stared at his brother, before his trademark smirk was back in place and the old humor pushed away the guilt still lingering in his eyes, a guilt he would carry the rest of his life.

"Yeah, we're good. Bitch."

That's all folks. Hope you enjoyed my first attempt at Supernatural fiction.

(1) - this is a reference to "ANGEL", when Ilyria claims in her world nightmares walked amongst people.

(2) - drummer for the 70's rock group Queen