A/N This story is Mad Server's fault. While I had always wanted to write a tag to BUABS, I figured there were already enough tags out there that are far better than what I could ever write so I may as well focus on different writing projects. Anyway, in lieu of writing a full length tag to BUABS, one of my favorite episodes, I decided to write a drabble instead for Endiku07 and Onyx Moonbeam's drabble challenges (graze). And then, dear sweet Mad Server just had to say the magic words in her review (the words being "fevered Dean") and so my muse went "Tough cookies Deana, you're writing that tag after all, and there will be hurt, fevered Dean and tons of Sam angst because, I, your fabulous muse say so!" And then as I started writing it, the plot bunnies attacked so the extended version of my drabble that I only intended to be a one shot sort of morphed into a longer multi-chaptered fic because well, my fingers got carried away with all the typing and before I knew it I realized there is just too much to fit into one chapter alone. I'm forecasting about five altogether and since it's almost finished well then if all goes well this'll hopefully be completed before the new episode airs. Anyway, thank you Mad Server, this one's for you!

Oh and uh, Happy Birthday Jensen Ackles, without whom we may have never seen the awesomeness that is Dean Winchester. That guy is seriously one of the most underrated actors in the biz. A Dean by any other actor would not be as awesome.

Disclaimer: "Supernatural" is not mine and blah, blah, blah… I own nothing. Just the DVD's and a ticket to the Vancouver convention (I am so excited btw!)

Spoilers: Just "Born Under A Bad Sign" and anything that precedes it.

"I asked for a car and got a computer, how's that for being born under a bad sign?" Ferris Bueller. (Quote has nothing to do with this story but that line increased in hilarity tenfold since I discovered and later became unhealthily obsessed with, "Supernatural" and started seeing "Supernatural" every where I go. Just thought I'd share)

Lean On Me

By Deana W.

Chapter One

Sam was exhausted, though considering his body had been hijacked for a little over a week by the demon Meg, that was probably to be expected. Now that Meg was finally gone, along with the demonic power that allowed Sam's body to have the strength to keep moving despite its biological need for rest, Sam was well and truly spent. He felt like he could sleep for another week.

He looked over at his brother and frowned at the cuts and colorful bruises on his face and the way he held his left arm close to his chest. Sam couldn't remember everything, only the bits and pieces he was awake for, but he hated to know that he had obviously hurt his brother. Knowing Dean, he probably let him beat the crap out of him, because fighting back, even for his life would mean hurting Sam.

He shuddered at the memory of his voice telling Dean he'd live to regret not killing him and then pistol whipping him, knocking him out before setting off to go after Jo. During the conversation that preceded it, he desperately wanted to scream, "It's Meg! It's Meg!" and he used all the energy he had to still his hand when Meg went to hit him, and when Dean went down every fiber of his being wanted to kneel beside him and make sure he was all right, or at least position him so he'd be comfortable.

But he couldn't. He hated being powerless at the hands of Meg. He hated that his body was bent to her will, not his. He hated being a passenger in his own body.

It was shortly after he knocked Dean out cold that he shut down completely and surrendered. That was the last thing he remembered before he woke to agonizing pain as Bobby broke the sigil branded on his arm that had locked Meg inside him.

His mouth was dry, his tongue felt like it was growing fuzz and it stuck to the top of his mouth and it made his gut wrench with nausea. Meg's hasty exit from his body left a foul residue in his mouth and he could still taste her evil essence. It was a vile taste. It was like some rodent had crawled in there while he slept and died, decomposing on his tongue. And he still reeked of sulfur. He just couldn't rid himself of that wretched taste and smell. And his skin itched and tingled. He felt as though he was covered in ants and nothing he could do could ease his irritation.

He wished that they just stayed the night at Bobby's to recuperate. But Dean wanted to go, keep moving. At the time Sam did too, he couldn't look the old man in the eye after his transgressions. But now, all Sam wanted was a long hot shower to clean himself of everything Meg. He knew that it was futile though. Sam felt violated, impotent and he knew that a long hot shower would not be enough to wash the blood that Meg put on his hands. Nor would a good night sleep relieve him of his bone-deep exhaustion.

In the driver's seat Dean had become eerily silent after half-heartedly joking about Sam having a girl inside him all week. They shared a weak, empty laugh that did little to cure the tension that threatened to suffocate them both. Sam knew Dean only meant to make light of a bad situation, in a weak attempt to cheer Sam up. But Sam wasn't in the mood for joking. Sam could tell that Dean wasn't really in the mood for joking either, but inappropriate humor was his way of coping and Dean had been beat to hell by Sam's own hands so Sam kept his mouth shut.

His mind however wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up because Dean had no idea what it was like, what he went through. He wanted to snap at him so badly that restraining himself like that ironically felt a little like being possessed all over again. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, but this time it was because he didn't want to hurt Dean any more than he had already. The dichotomy of conflicting urges and emotions within him threatened to tear him apart. At least Sam was in control this time, but he was barely keeping it together.

If he could only rid himself of that sulfuric stench, of that foul, putrid taste in his mouth and the feeling of tiny invisible insects crawling all over his skin, then maybe he'd be able to relax and feel more like himself again. Maybe he'd be able to move on from his ordeal.

Dean's silence was beginning to bother Sam. Sam wondered if perhaps Dean was angry with him and was giving him the silent treatment. But then Sam realized that Dean could very well be silent for the same reason Sam was. Dean had been through a lot too and not just because of the cuts and bruises and whatever injuries, if any, Dean was hiding. Dean had to have been going out of his mind when Sam disappeared, and then again when he came back and Meg messed with his head, letting him think Sam was Sam and that he killed Steve Wandell in cold blood. Letting him believe that Sam had gone darkside and needed Dean to kill him. They both had a lot to think about, sort out though their heads before any talking could happen.

Sam closed his eyes and leaned against the passenger side window and tried to give in to the exhaustion that weighed him down but he just couldn't get comfortable. His skin itched, and he wanted to squirm and scratch. He wanted to vomit and relieve his persistent nausea. He had the nagging urge to scream, to cry, to punch something, to grab the wheel and swerve the Impala into oncoming traffic. But he didn't. Instead he sat there, squirming just a little as he tried and tried in vain to get comfortable.

Finally giving up, he opened his eyes again and looked at his brother intently. Really looked. Past the bruises and lines of pain that blinded Sam with guilt and self-loathing. He studied his brother and wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He focused on trying to see past the heavily guarded wall Dean had built up around himself a long, long time ago.

Dean looked defeated, exhausted and angry, but there was something else, something Sam couldn't put his finger on. Betrayal? He couldn't tell, but the guilt in Sam's heart made Sam's gut wrench.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer."

Sam startled at the wry comment that broke the oppressive silence. He composed himself quickly and shook his head gently, "Sorry. I was just thinking maybe we should stop somewhere. We're both exhausted and I think…"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly, "you look beat."

"So do you," Sam murmured. In more ways than one. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Shut up." Sam wasn't sure how to interpret Dean's tone. He didn't sound angry, but he didn't sound forgiving either. There was emptiness, exhaustion and feigned sarcasm. It seemed as though Dean were trying to keep the overall atmosphere light and normal, like what went down wasn't such a big deal, but he was failing miserably at it. Again though, Sam wasn't sure.

The car was awkwardly silent again and Sam closed his eyes, still having a difficult time getting comfortable but feeling tired enough that if he kept his eyes closed, ignored the constant irritation and taste and smell of all that was Meg, he might be able to doze off a bit before they stopped. As he leaned against the window he wished that he could remember what happened, but it was like waking up from a week long coma, and remembering only the occasional nightmare. His memories of the past week were vague and choppy and yet what he did remember was more vivid than he'd like them to be.

He could remember watching Steve Wandell die at his hand, and he wished he couldn't. He remembered driving a car that he must've stolen, but wasn't sure where he was going. He remembered begging Dean to kill him, to put him down like Old Yeller, and hearing Dean's reply of, "I'd rather die." He remembered telling Dean just before knocking him unconscious, "You'll live. You'll live to regret this." He couldn't remember anything that happened after he knocked Dean out. He shut himself down after that and gave up fighting Meg for control. But between that and 'waking up' at Bobby's, he did recall brief, vague flashes of… something. His mind conjured up a pier, a long stretch of road, a bar, and a blonde with her back turned that he could only assume was Jo considering Dean's brief recap of what happened.

Dean's recap was so frustratingly vague that it did very little to fill in the blanks. He tried to reach into his memories and figure out just what happened for himself, what those brief images meant, what he had done to Dean, but he couldn't. He actually wasn't sure if he really, truly wanted to remember, but he felt he needed to know of his crimes so if anything, he could work to make amends.

Sam was just on the verge of finally drifting off when the car suddenly swerved and the terrain suddenly felt rough and uneven. Sam jumped, opening his eyes. "What the…? Dean!"

In the driver's seat Dean was slumped to the side, his eyes closed, his face slack and his hands were barely on the steering wheel. He looked like he had just simply passed out, though whether from exhaustion or injury, Sam wasn't certain. The car was now driving along the shoulder of the road, threatening to veer into the steep ditch.

"Dean!"

Quickly, Sam grabbed the wheel and steered it so it wouldn't go over and worriedly nudged his brother.

Dean's eyes fluttered open, confused, but only for a brief instant. His eyes widened in recognition. "Shit!" he hit the brakes and let the car stop on the side of the road.

"What just happened?" Sam demanded, anger and worry lacing his tone, only serving to prove how on edge he was.

Dean rested his forehead in his right hand and shook his head, wincing, "I don't know. I guess I'm just tired, y'know? I haven't slept in days. Plus you throw a wicked punch there, dude."

Sam flinched at the innocent jibe, but Dean didn't seem to even notice. "Maybe I should take over and drive."

Shaking his head wearily, Dean took a deep, shuddering breath, his right hand unconsciously going to his left shoulder, "Nah. Not much further to go," Dean promised, resting his head on the steering wheel, cushioned by the fingers of his left hand that had a firm white knuckled grip at the twelve o'clock position on the steering wheel. "I saw a sign, there's food, gas and lodging at the next exit."

In the pale light of the stars overhead and the occasional glare of headlights as cars zoomed past, Dean's face, where it wasn't marred by cuts and bruises, looked ashen and white—almost ghostly. His eyes fluttered and rolled for a second before he finally blinked, sat up and pressed his palms into his eyes.

"Are you…?"

"Sam, I'm fine!" Dean snapped, "Stop asking me if I'm OK. You're like a broken record."

Sam frowned and turned away. While Dean was correct in his assumption of Sam's question, he had purposely refrained from asking, knowing Dean hated the attention and fearing that if he asked, for once Dean would admit to not being fine and revealing the extent of the injuries Sam inflicted upon him. Sam had a sinking suspicion that Dean was worse off then he let on, though he hoped that maybe Dean was telling the truth about being fine save the superficial injuries that Sam could see. But Dean spoke as though Sam had been pestering him all night when he hadn't. That wasn't a good sign at all. It meant that Dean was on edge as well, and definitely in pain and probably anticipated that simple question all night even though he had obviously been trying to hide his discomfort.

"Actually that was my first time asking," Sam muttered quietly.

"Well the way you've been staring at me like you just ran over my dog and don't know how to break the news, it sure has felt like you've been pestering me like that," Dean griped, this time pinching the bridge of his nose then running his hand down his face.

"Well you look like shit and I know it's my fault, what do you want me to do?" Sam mumbled.

Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated, "Don't start Sam."

"What?"

"The self-pitying guilty act!" Dean snapped, "You were possessed, it wasn't your fault."

Sam sighed dramatically, and looked out the window at the starry sky. He felt his stomach rumble with nausea and he wrapped his arm across his belly to quell the urge to vomit. Damn, if he could just get rid of that fucking sulfuric smell, and that wretched taste and itching, tickling sensation all along his flesh, maybe he'd feel better. Meg may have vacated the premises, but she left her mark, and not just in the form of the painful burn on his arm—and that was beginning to nag at him now that the painkillers he took at Bobby's was beginning to wear off. The last thing he needed was for Dean to yell at him for feeling bad about what happened, even if, or perhaps more accurately, especially since, he couldn't remember what all transpired.

"What happened to your shoulder?" Sam asked quietly breaking the long silence that had suddenly befallen the Impala. He swallowed back the nausea that teased him and threatened to manifest, thankful that Dean hadn't decided to get moving just yet. He wasn't sure his temperamental stomach and nerves could handle the movement.

"It's fine, Sam," Dean sighed, his tone less harsh and more weary.

"Did I…?"

"No, you didn't hurt me."

"It looks like it's bothering you," Sam persisted even though it risked aggravating Dean's pain induced crabbiness. While he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what happened exactly, he did want to know whether it was something he should be concerned about.

"It's fine, Sam," he shrugged both shoulders in an effort to prove his point. His attempt at masking the wince that followed failed and they both knew it. It didn't help that there was an involuntary groan that came with the motion. He gave a resigned sigh, "OK, OK… Let's put it this way, Wall: 1, Dean's shoulder: 0. Happy now? It's no big deal."

Sam suspected he was either flat out lying, or his alleged conflict with the wall was more severe than usual, which was saying a lot. Being tossed into walls hurt, they had both been subjected to that sort of thing enough to know, and wasn't that a pathetic testimony to their lives?

"You sure you don't want me to drive the rest of the way?"

Dean nodded, trying to reel in his irritation at the onslaught of the mother-henning questions that Sam had been suppressing and was now releasing at once. "Really, we're almost there. There's no point because I'm fine. I wasn't the one chauffeuring a demon all week. You're exhausted and you look like crap I don't think you driving is a very good idea."

"Yeah well I wasn't the one who fell asleep"—passed out—"behind the wheel," Sam retorted sardonically, failing at hiding the concern in his voice just as badly as Dean was at hiding his pain.

"I did not," Dean denied.

"So what was that then?"

Dean hesitated, opening his jaw to speak, and then shutting it again, obviously at a loss for an explanation or retort. "Bitch," he finally muttered.

Sam grinned meekly, that one word making him feel a little better, though not enough to free him from the horrid aftereffects of Meg's vile presence in his body, nor was it enough to relieve him of his guilt but it was enough to lift his mood enough to reply, "Jerk."

Dean smirked, "OK, fine. But I think I'm good to go on now. Just needed a little break I guess."

It was when Dean started the engine again that the nausea finally reached it's crescendo and Sam gulped, "Wait," he grunted, throwing open the passenger door.

"Sam?" the worry in Dean's voice came through loud and clear and as Sam emptied his restless stomach of its contents he could feel his brother rub circles in his back. After a moment, as Sam continued to heave, Dean gave him a gentle pat and took the keys, climbed out of the car and grabbed something out of the back seat. The next thing Sam knew Dean was outside, standing in the ditch, one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other holding a bottle of water and resting on Sam's knee. He was standing clear of the vomit, but close enough to be a comfort.

When Sam was done he wearily leaned against the seat as Dean handed him the water and a small, white hand towel that he pilfered from a hotel somewhere. Sam put the water to his lips and rinsed his mouth and spit, successfully rinsing the acrid flavor of his vomit, but to his despair not the distinct, vile and revolting sulfuric taste of Meg. This caused him to dry heave a few more times, but he was clearly running on empty now. He swiped the towel across his mouth, and took another gulp of water, swished the liquid around and spit again.

"You OK?" Dean asked gently as Sam let his head fall back to rest in his seat, panting slightly as he fought to catch his breath.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, "Yeah. I think I needed that."

"Need some Gravol?"

Sam shook his head but then thought about it a second and nodded, "Yeah."

Dean patted his knee and rose to his feet. He swayed precariously a moment once he was vertical but grabbed hold of the open passenger door (with his right hand, Sam noted, even though from Dean's position it made more sense to use his left), steadying himself before heading for the trunk for the first aid kit. They ate at enough questionable restaurants during their travels to know that keeping the anti-nausea medication was a must.

Though bleary and watery eyes Sam noticed the dizzy spell that had momentarily struck his brother but still felt too awful to dwell on it. He'd just have to keep an eye on his brother and make sure Dean wasn't merely downplaying his injuries and hiding something more severe. He dry heaved a couple of times more and then rinsed his mouth one more time before Dean came back with the Gravol. He took the little pill gratefully and nodded to Dean, silently communicating that he was starting to feel better, even though he wasn't, not really. The nausea might've subsided, but he still tingled with the leftover taste and smell and sensation of Meg violating his body and taking him for a ride, making him kill someone and hurt his brother. He suspected that was going to stay with him for some time.

"And you wanted to drive," Dean shook his head, snorting incredulously as he gently mocked him. He left Sam's side and as Dean climbed into the driver's seat Sam closed his door. Dean watched Sam for a second, his green eyes wide and earnest, "You sure you're OK? I don't want you puking in my car."

"Yeah, I feel better now that I let it all out," Sam nodded, frowning at the fact that Dean seemed to be paler than he was before Sam got sick, and there was something else in his ashen and bruised complexion that he couldn't quite put his finger on and that bothered Sam. "You?"

"Just peachy," Dean grinned, or was that a grimace? "Take it easy Sam. I swear we'll be there soon and then you can get some rest. Goodness knows you need it, dude."

Sam nodded and closed his eyes, keeping them closed as Dean started the engine and drove off. It helped to keep the lingering nausea at bay. By the time they reached the desolate hotel, he was deep in a restless slumber.

TBC

A/N As always, please let me know what you think good or bad, I crave criticism/feedback like a drug and I need my fix dang nab it! Next chapter should be up by Thursday if my internet chooses to behave itself. It's very random when it comes to deciding whether it wants to work or not. :(