Title: Bruised, Broken, Damaged At Best

Disclaimer: I don't own SPN

Being a Winchester you had to deal with getting held against walls by pissed off spirits or chasing wendigos through thick forests that are sometimes put under a curse which means you're slammed right into an invisible wall at the end of it. That happened once, and Dean was glad he never had to encounter one of those again. He was on the wrong side, the forest side, and Sam couldn't hear him. To Sam he was just mouthing everything and his hand had hurt from banging the wall. It was mildly terrifying. Though of course his brother knew when he mouthed 'Sammy!' And Dean read: 'It's Sam', back. He was going to punch the kid. Well he didn't, and Sam was able to release the wall, Dean grumbling all the way on the road.

So, getting a bit scratched up was part and parcel of the job and neither of them were little daisy's for god's sake! They were built like sturdy warriors, and Sam especially was not a force to be reckoned with when he became set on getting rid of a son of a bitch. Demons always get the wrong idea when coming face to face with baby faced Sammy Winchester. It was that smile, that sharp, hellish smile, and Dean would be in awe of Sam, proud of him, and a little bit worried about him. Not that Sam didn't know that Dean thought any of that. But it just made a point.

Sam right now, sat on the bed on a no name motel right in the middle of red neck country sporting a bullet wound. The wound was stitched up and luckily the damned bullet hadn't burst anything so Dean was able to extract it.

They were on a hunt, because something was possessing bikers and sending them into a rage at the smallest thing. Unfortunately it was one of those – the rages were triggered by a hatred already there. That's why the killings and injuries were sporadic because they differed from gang to gang, to biker to biker. Dean had always kind of admired the biker way, and he had once begged John to buy him a Harley, but that was before the Impala. However, when he saw the things they were doing, and it wasn't only because of the possession, Dean radically changed his mind. They had been ready for it at an old park, and the hunt had mostly gone to plan except when a sneering piece of shit appeared out of nowhere – because he wasn't one of the gang they had counted up –turned to Sam and growled: 'What are you going to do to me, princess?' and Dean knew Sam had dealt with worse just because they travel together and everyone believes they are a couple yadda yadda yadda. Sam's eyes instantly looked to Dean's, but what his little brother did next Dean wished to hell he didn't. Sam lunged forward, expecting Dean to be right by his side but Dean didn't get there in time, he didn't move fast enough. It was stupid, stupid, stupid. The movement was almost flashing like camera flash; the thing probably didn't like the fact that Sam was fighting him. Dean was at Sam's side, and…

A shot rang out and the slimeball slumped to the ground, a haze drifting around the body. Dean wanted to grin – because hey they got him – but when he saw the red blood bloom at Sam's shirt Dean's whole world shrunk and there was a ringing in his ears. Dean was immediately at Sam's side and he clasped onto Sam's arms, trying not to let him buckle.

'Sammy'

Sam ignored him and peeled up his shirt, the blood beginning to trickle down to his jeans like sloppy red treacle. Sam made a noise in between a whine and a growl.

'Son of a bitch' Sam gasped.

They didn't talk about it when Dean told him to press a pad against the wound to halt the blood flow, nor did they as Dean helped Sam to the motel room; although Dean did get annoyed in feeling that Sam was not putting his full weight onto Dean's shoulders. As Sam dropped into a rounded chair Dean almost missed the wince. When Dean got out the supplies and kneeled in front of Sam not one word said. Dean couldn't even bring himself to look into those deep brown eyes which would inevitably tell him: I'm okay, Dean.

Breathing steadily through his nose, Dean looked up to Sam's face. His brother was looking directly at him, the sweat sticking his fringe to his skin, and lips pursed together in pain. The hard line of his jaw was clenched tight – sticking to John's 'no-whimpering'. Dean looked away and got to work.

The extraction of the bullet was worse than he imagined.

Dean had to clean and numb the wound and then he insisted that take some of the medicine that John had always used with them. From stomach bugs, to knee grazes - it was one of Bobby's ideas. Sam had protested, but gave in. Dean – even though Sam's the one with more delicate hands – had enough determination to be as careful as possible. Weirdly, he thought, he took the same care when repairing the Impala than he did patching up Sam. When Dean pressed the dressing to Sam's stomach, he heard the first sound of breath since they were in the old park. Dean rubbed his thumb along the padded cotton, and just stared at Sam's stomach as it contracted with each breath. The toned, sturdy muscle of his sternum meant…

Sam was alive, he was fine.

But Dean hadn't reacted quickly enough; if he had Sam wouldn't even have the pain in the first place. He stitched Sam up slowly – his index finger of his right hand gently stroking Sam's skin. If anything, the touch was more for him, he doubted Sam could feel anything with all the disinfectant and the antiseptic and god knows what else.

'Could you give me leverage to the bed?' Sam asked tentatively, looking roughly eight when he tumbled headfirst down a hill on his bike and got cut and bruised up. He was fine, he hit a crunch of leaves, but the look he gave Dean was embarrassment and self-pity. Both of which were present on his adult face, but the latter was twisted and not as clear as an eight year old's.

Dean complied wordlessly and helped him up, Sam making his own way fine. Dean guessed he just didn't want to fall or something.

'I can hear your inner monologue Dean' at the mention of his name, Dean stared at his brother, blinking as he let Sam to ease himself down onto the mattress.

'You okay?' he hedged. Sam glared at him, and shifted, forgetting about the wound and he grunted in what sounded more like annoyance than pain.

'Yeah I'm fine Dean. Jesus…'

'C'mon, do you want some Tylenol to ease the pain?' Dean asked.

'Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks' letting his head back onto the headboard Sam was fiddling with the bedclothes. Dean grimaced at his brother's form, so he grabbed the said medicine and headed closer to Sam.

'Stop with the whole martyr thing, it's irritating' Sam grumbled and Dean's jaw set, taking two purposeful steps towards his younger brother.

'Irritating? Thanks Sam!'

'Come off it, you know what I'm talking about Dean' and Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam who just looked back, like he was daring Dean to disagree. Well Dean Winchester wasn't a Winchester for nothing.

'What? You're my little brother. It's my job and guess what? I'm not even that good at that. S' drop it' he shrugged, and Sam snatched the bottle and took a swig. Dean was about to turn around when Sam caught his sleeve. Dean froze, and closed his eyes. Once again he breathed through his nose and looked at Sam.

'Well you know that's crap. Come on Dean, I'm not six. You were there for me, you saved me' and Dean frowned.

'Did we just experience the same thing? Because Sam, it shot you'

'Yeah, and you killed it. What's the problem?'

Seriously. The Tylenol must have an adverse effect on the kid.

'I'm not a kid' Sam growled, baring teeth, either through pain or bitchiness.

And apparently Dean thought aloud too. Either that or Sam had developed a way of listening to Dean's thoughts. Both were probably likely.

'Look, Dean. You were there when I needed you to be. If you weren't, I'd be lying in that park waiting for some cop' Sam said plainly. The image sent Dean reeling, and he took half step away from Sam.

'Don't say that Sam' he gulped, finding a stain on the floor – barely visible – quite interesting.

'It's true and you know it' and Sam thunked the bottle on the side table. 'I'm going to sleep' and Sam shuffled his body down the bed, and Dean watched him as he pulled the covers over.

Dean just froze like a paused TV – reminding himself that Sam was okay. Anyone else would be reassuring him, telling him he was being stupid, that Sam's all grown up and made for war. That still didn't stop his hands shaking, and Dean curled them into fists, grazing the now warm silver of his ring. He turned away from Sam and got to work on some research.

He was a three hours through his research when Sam stirred. By stirred, Dean meant Sam sat up too sharply and yelped in pain. Brow knotted, and chest heaving, Sam was glaring at anything that moved. Including Dean.

'Sat up too quickly. You found anything?' and Sam idly played with the dressing.

'Don't do that, you'll ruin the wound' he half snapped and got up to go over to Sam. Sam ignored him – which wasn't unusual but that didn't mean it annoyed him any less. 'Seriously' he snatched at Sam's wrist, and Sam jerked away but Dean was quicker. This time.

'Can you stop blaming yourself?' Sam asked, 'Please?'

Rain splattered against the motel window, and the wind graciously howled.

'I'm not – you're stupid ass-'

'Don't give me that, I can read you better than most, you know that'

'Yeah, yeah. Look – just get better. Oh next time you want to do something, tell me first?' he tried, but he knew Sam wasn't buying it. He underestimated Sam.

'Okay' Sam said shortly, but the line of his mouth told Dean that this was far from over. Though, with them nothing is ever really over.

Dean released Sam's wrist and tucked the dressing in firmer, a scowl on his face at Sam's stubbornness. He was so much like John, but also so much like Dean. The whole mixture was weird. Dean raised his eyebrows, admiring the expanse of bodywork Sam apparently was given and not him. How was he so…

'What?'

'Hmm?' Dean looked back up to Sam's face which was now lined with bemusement and my-brother-is-so-strange rather than pain.

'You! What're you doing?' Sam shifted on the bed, his jeans stretched in places they shouldn't be stretched.

'Wondering when is hell you got so big, tall and muscly?' Dean shook his head, frowning.

Sam gazed at him for no more than six seconds before he laughed. Unfortunately, it hurt his stomach when he did that so he grumbled and the laughter died down. Amused eyes still looked back at him. Ones that still held a glaze of not quite forgiveness.

'Uhm Stanford. I was taller than you before I left' Sam reasoned, pushing his chin out arrogantly. There was the Sam than Dean loved to shove around when he could.

'You're freakin' Sasquatch now. Guess if you go for the large and adorable thing…' he baited. Sam scowled back, sniffing.

'Adorable?' Sam mimicked, face set.

'Well whatever. You gonna sit there, or you gonna help?' Dean asked, avoiding the question.

'Yeah, give me a book. Look see that was what was weird about the other day. It's a ghoul alright, but I don't know why the hell it's doing this' Sam waved a hand around. Dean handed him a one book of lore, tempted to phone Bobby but decided against it.

They did find out what it was. A very racist, small minded, unsatisfied homophobic – amongst a long list of other things – ghost.

'How can one person have so much hate in them?' Dean wondered aloud, and Sam who was now at least looking perkier than before. The paleness of his skin had disappeared.

'You'd be surprised' Sam replied and Dean sat in the chair facing Sam who was lying on the bed.

'I'm gonna go grab something from the diner, you want anything?' he asked out of pure habit.

'Be sure to flirt with the red headed waitress for me' and Dean swivelled back to Sam who had the same expression as he had done before.

Dean winked 'Course I will' and he heard the end of Sam's grumble as he shut the door.

The waitress wasn't that hot but she was cute – the one that Sam meant was not on her shift yet. This one cocked an eyebrow at Dean and he vaguely remembered her flipping someone off the other day. He read her name tag – Mairi.

'Hello sir, what can I do for you today?' she asked, eyes twinkling.

Dean gave his order, barely giving the waitress a once over. There was something clawing at the bottom of his stomach and it wasn't a need for food. Dean waited, leaning on the counter.

Back in the motel room, his hands full with their lunch, Dean registered Sam pouring over a book. Dean walked past and ruffled Sam's hair affectionately, sliding his hands through the thick locks, letting his hand linger. Sam made a noise, and – mirroring Dean's action earlier – he caught Dean's hand. The feeling was still there. Guilt. That's what it was, and he needed Sam's touch to smack him into reality.

Sam leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Dean's knuckles. Usually Dean would squirm away and make a face at his brother's sappiness. But the openness in Sam's face – the I'm still here look.

He was still here.

Dean couldn't survive without his Sammy. Ever.

Later, at night, Sam pushed all those dark thoughts away, and their breathy pants filled the small motel room.