Tending
K Hanna Korossy

Sam was miserable. Chilled constantly with fever, aching down to the marrow of his bones, breathing congested with blood, and with a permanent thumping beat in his head. And those were just the physical symptoms; he could feel the change even deeper, not fixed to any organ or system. The "molecular level," Cas had called it. The Trials were slowly unmaking him.

But it was Dean he was concerned with at the moment.

He'd known his brother was chafing at not being able to fix Sam, or even look after him. As the symptoms had worsened, Sam had been too focused on just keeping going to really worry too much about how Dean felt about all this. No amount of John Winchester's Cure-All Stew was going to make Sam better, anyway.

Then had come Kevin's last message. Their prophet—and protectee, and friend—was dead. Sam cared about him, sure, and his death hurt. But it was Dean, head and protector of the family, who had swept a table clean in furious frustration and walked out, eyes suspiciously bright.

It had been a belated wake-up call.

Sam couldn't think right now about Kevin being dead. Running on fumes had a way of prioritizing your life: Trials, and Dean. Or possibly the other way around.

His legs were seriously shaky by the time he found his brother, standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms they didn't use. Dean didn't turn to look at him, didn't acknowledge his arrival in any way but to speak mutedly.

"This coulda been his room."

Sam shook his head, which gave the hallway a gentle sway. "Don't do that, man."

He knew he sounded like crap, and for once he didn't try to hide it. And, predictably, that was what Dean reacted to, twisting his head around to frown at Sam. Who must've looked as bad as he sounded, because Dean was immediately reaching for him. "Sam, what the—?"

Sam gave him a wry grin and held up the sloshing bowl. "Brought you some stew."

Dean gave him an unusually helpless look, then, more familiarly, growled in irritation as he lent Sam a hand to sink ungracefully to the floor. "You gonna have some, too?" he asked, more challenge than acceptance as he settled by Sam against the wall.

It smelled rancid, and Sam's stomach felt as jittery as the rest of him. "I'll try," he finally said.

They traded off the spoon, Dean eating absent mouthfuls, Sam mostly sticking to the broth. Dean held the bowl, but Sam knew he watched every unsteady spoonful Sam took.

"I know this isn't a cold," Dean suddenly spoke. "I'm not tryin' to fix you."

That would be a first then, Sam thought a little uncharitably, but didn't say it.

"But you gotta keep your strength up if you're gonna do this." Dean turned to pin him with a look. It was shockingly pleading.

They were brothers: they'd competed and hidden weaknesses from each other most of their lives. But for this moment, whether it was what happened to Kevin or what was happening to Sam, Dean was stripped bare.

And that pulled down Sam's natural defenses, too. He took a breath. "I'll try," he repeated.

"All I'm askin'," Dean said, a dozen emotions chasing across his face before he hid them away again.

Sam was doing the Trials for the sake of the world. He could let Dean help for the sake of his brother.

00000

He'd found Sam collapsed in their motel room, roasting alive. Cas still wasn't answering. They hadn't found Metatron, Kevin was probably dead, and along with him, maybe the last Trial. The panic simmering in Dean since these stupid tests had started was threatening to suffocate him.

But John Winchester hadn't drilled him in crises for nothing. Prioritize, one issue at a time. And the first one, always, was Sam.

Start the cold water in the tub. There was an ice machine down the hall. Dean dumped a pillowcase-full at a time into the tub, talking to an unconscious Sam each time he passed him on the floor. Then he dragged his limp brother over by the armpits and tipped him into the water, holding his head up for a minute, then letting him immerse completely for a few seconds.

That brought Sam back, at least. Dean's heart slowed from pre-heart-attack pounding to serious-fright speed.

Of course, Sam wasn't good. Sam was nowhere in the ballpark of good. He was talking, and more or less standing. He even had a lead on Metatron. But he was still feverish and weak, and Dean had to help him dry off and get dressed. Sam was too out of it to even be embarrassed.

Dean had other concerns just then, too. But there wasn't one freakin' thing he could do about them, so he concentrated on what he could: taking care of his brother.

"You know that wasn't the Grand Canyon, right?" He maneuvered long arms into the button-down.

Sam was, theoretically, rubbing his hair dry. Realistically, he was just sitting with a towel draped over his head, hands limp in his lap. "What?" he sniffed from underneath.

"The whole…farting donkey thing." Dean started buttoning. Every time he had to do this for his brother, he was thrown back to preschool Sam. "That wasn't the Grand Canyon."

There was a beat. "What?" Sam said again, even more baffled.

Dean huffed; Sam had probably been too medicated to even remember now what he'd been babbling. "You were goin' on about riding down into the Grand Canyon on donkeys when you were, like, four. But it wasn't the Canyon—it was a gorge out in the Painted Desert somewhere. Dad had to go see a shaman about something." The last button done, he reached for Sam's jacket. The kid was still shivering.

"Oh." He could tell from Sam's tone that he didn't remember, but didn't know if it was the memory or talking about it or both. "Okay."

"And your donkey was the one that kept farting, not mine," Dean tried.

Sam was a little slow to answer, but he lifted up a corner of the towel to do it. "Dude, it was so your donkey. Even Dad was laughing."

As he adjusted Sam's jacket on him, he grinned at his brother. "Dude, you can't remember the soup I spent two hours making you last week, but you remember a donkey I rode when you were a preschooler?"

Sam actually smiled deep enough to dimple. "Priorities, man."

As they set out to find Metatron, it was stupid how much better Dean felt, even as the world slowly fell apart around them.

00000

First he was distracted by not getting shot by the dumpy little angel scribe. Then by the miraculous return of an alive Kevin. Then by the news of the third Trial. But somewhere between relief they knew what the Trial was and WTF at what the Trial was, he realized Sam's eyes had squeezed shut and he was panting.

Crap, right, the resonance thing. "Time to go," Dean suddenly announced, sliding a hand under Sam's arm to help him up. "Kevin, c'mon, you're bunking with us."

"I am?"

Sam had managed to gain his feet, but he was clutching Dean's shoulder like it was all that was keeping him up. Probably was. Dean threaded an arm around him, not reassured when Sam didn't shove him away.

"I can get him to you later." Metatron glanced back at Kevin, still slumped in the chair. "The prophet and I have some things to talk about."

"We do?"

"You know how to find us?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised. Sam moaned under his breath, and Dean splayed a hand across his chest, feeling the rabbit beat of his heart, trying to calm it.

Metatron gave him a pointed look. "Now that I know what I'm looking for, yes."

"Huh. Okay then. Kev, you copacetic with this?"

Kevin shrugged, looking too tired to care. Good enough.

"You got your phone?"

The kid fumbled, found it and pulled it out, holding it up weakly.

"I'll text you the address. Just in case," Dean said with a tip of the head to Metatron.

The angel didn't seem to take it badly, tipping his head back.

Sam gasped, and that was it. "We're outta here," Dean said, and steered them toward the door.

Sam was uncoordinated, shaky, and couldn't seem to see very well, but he did his best, and that would always be good enough. Dean got them down the elevator, through the lobby under the impassive gaze of the freaky immortal Indian guy, and out to Baby. He didn't think he was imagining it that Sam's breathing was less strained and he wasn't as pale by the time Dean eased him into the front seat.

"Better?" he asked anyway, because he needed to hear it. To hear Sam.

Sam swallowed twice before nodding. "Better. 'S almost gone."

"The resonance?"

Sam nodded, head flopping back against the seat.

"Okay. Okay. Good." Dean patted his shoulder. "I'm gonna go get our stuff. You just wait here and…guard the car."

"Okay," Sam agreed, and closed his eyes.

Dean shut the door, then drew a hand over his mouth that shook almost as much as Sam. Crap. He resolutely turned and headed inside for their bags.

The Indian dude—okay, Sam, Native American, geez—was still watching as Dean stalked in. And actually spoke.

"The Messenger is leaving?"

Dean broke stride in surprise. "Uh, maybe? Guess that's up to the Messenger."

The guy didn't say anything else, just watched Dean cross to the elevators.

He was going to take the back entrance when he left.

There wasn't much to pack—they hadn't even been there overnight—and he'd done it before a thousand times in a thousand other motel rooms. His hands moved on autopilot while his brain raced ahead.

Metatron had talked about how the world would be different if they boarded up Hell, and it didn't sound like it was all sunshine and daisies. Maybe they should've thought this through a little more? Not like it wasn't a moot point now.

Dean had asked him about Sam's "purification" theory, and the angel had said it wasn't about that, or at least that wasn't the intention. Sam was channeling intense power, and it was burning through him, consuming the bad with the good. It was an image Dean couldn't let himself picture.

So it wasn't worse for Sam than it would've been for Dean, but it could be lethal, anyway. Yeah, the last Trial would presumably shut off the source of the holy fire, but only after one last concentrated blast.

Talk about damned if you do and damned if you don't.

Okay, Dean thought as he shut the room door behind him. The only realistic option they had then was to do the last Trial, get through it and then let Sam heal. It was a plan.

It was stupid but typical how much the tightness in his chest eased at the sight of Sam's mop of hair in the car.

The plan sucked, Dean admitted to himself as he tossed their duffels into the trunk and slammed it shut. Any plan that risked Sam was. But his brother was still an awful shade of gray as Dean slid into the car next to him, and there was no question: they were stuck with it. So Dean would make it work. He thumped Sam's knee, and Sam gave him a weak smile in return without opening his eyes.

Right. Sam would take care of the last Trial.

And Dean would take care of Sam.

00000

He felt better away from Metatron, and with the last Trial to focus on. He hadn't lied to Dean about that. Sam just hadn't told him how awful he felt, how his insides burned and cramped and weren't working right. Dean was already trying so hard not to look terrified.

So they discussed options until they almost ran over the mysteriously appeared Cas, and then Dean had someone else to fuss over.

Sam sat back contentedly to listen while Dean motherhenned, adding occasional asides as Dean filled in their friend while tending to his injuries. It felt good to have a minute when he wasn't the center of attention. And to have Cas back. And to actually have a plan. Sam still didn't feel great about their odds, but already Dean sounded stronger, more sure. He functioned better when he could look after his own.

Sam breathed out slowly, feeling a certainty he hadn't in some time.

So, he would carry out the last Trial. And, pride be damned, he would let his brother carry him.

The End