Decisions

by K Hanna Korossy

Crossroad Blues tag story: Dean's confession hurts Sam in more ways than one.

Decisions
K Hanna Korossy

Your brother telling you he'd considered trading his life to a demon was a real conversation-ender.

The radio was still blaring, but funny how the silence could be resounding despite it. Neither of them had said another word, nor met each other's eyes, since the aborted discussion. Sam wasn't sure he could even look at Dean just then.

There were a lot of arguments whirling in his head—Dad wouldn't have wanted this, this isn't why you came and got me at school, I'd rather have you than Dad—but all he seemed able to process was that Dean had nearly thrown his life away. Willingly. Sam stared through the window at the darkness outside and tried not to feel the dark of despair within.

Dean finally pulled off the road into a motel parking lot. Sam jerked out of his bleak thoughts and looked around. Greenwood Motel. So, they were here already. Next job. Next chance for Dean to give up.

Without a word, Dean got out of the car and went into the motel office to get them a room. Sam climbed out, too, leaning against black metal and chrome and breathing in the cool night air as if he'd been suffocating before. Maybe in a way he had.

Maybe Dean felt the same way.

The bell above the motel office door tinkled, and Sam could feel his brother's eyes sweep over him. "Nine," was all Dean said.

And suddenly, he couldn't do it. Couldn't go from stuffy car to stuffy room, couldn't be trapped in there with Dean and what he'd done and Sam's own thoughts. He thought he might explode if he had to go in, and Sam pushed away from the car with abrupt violence. "I'm going for a walk."

"Sam."

He glanced back automatically, and softened at the look in Dean's eyes. "I'll be back," he said, more subdued. "I just need some air."

A slow nod, then a room key on a chain was flying his way. Sam caught it one-handed, hesitated. But Dean was already getting back into the car to move it, and so Sam turned away, long legs eating the distance as he fled.

They were in farm country, lots of fields and low, flat ground. Sam walked along the road for a while, breathing in the smell of soil and growing things. The air was still, the stars bright. It was the kind of night he'd often sat out under with Dean when they were kids, making up stories about the constellations and sharing secrets and dreams. When had all that turned to ash? Not with Mom's death, not for them. Jess's? Dad's? The last time Dean had nearly died?

Sam stopped, pinching his nose, then sliding his hand through his hair, interlocking it with the other at the back of his head. He'd survived those losses, the one that left him without his girl, the one that left him an orphan. But he couldn't lose Dean, too. Couldn't the idiot see that? Sam wouldn't be able to keep going afterward. He just wouldn't.

A tidal wave of exhaustion hit, staggering Sam where he stood until he put both hands out for balance. Huh, talk about things catching up to you. He turned back toward the motel on shaky legs. This could all wait until…later. They both needed rest.

Dean was ahead of him there. His brother was already sprawled in the nearer bed when Sam silently let himself in the door, and he paused in the dark room to let his eyes adjust. He could hear from Dean's breathing that he wasn't asleep yet, waiting for Sam. Anger shivered through him as Dean didn't ask about him, didn't move, just lay there and feigned sleep as Sam quietly slid out of his clothes. Selfish; when had Dean become so selfish? But Sam made himself let it go. Sleep first. His mind felt like jelly, wobbly and thick. Too tired to even worry about brushing his teeth, he fell into bed.

"'Night, Dean," he murmured.

And thought maybe he heard a whispered, 'Night, Sammy, before he succumbed to sleep.

00000

Something was pressing against his nose, hard.

Sam flinched back, but the pressure followed, soon joined by a hand curved around the back of his head. Trapping him, and Sam's eyes shot open in instinctive panic.

Dean was crouched beside his bed. "Easy, just trying to stop the gusher you've got going. Here, can you hold this?" His head was released, his hand taken and guided up to his nose.

Sam automatically obeyed, pinching the nostrils shut. The last cobwebs of sleep cleared away, and he registered now the slick warmth on his face, the taste of blood at the back of his throat.

"Come on, let's get you up." Hands freed, Dean helped him sit on the edge of the bed, then tilted his head forward, palm resting on Sam's crown. A few drips of red disappeared into the dark shag carpet, and Sam swallowed thickly.

"What happened?" he asked, voice nasal.

"You tell me." Dean rocked back on his heels, still touching Sam's head. All he could see of his brother was his legs. "One minute you're fine, the next, you're covered in blood. You feel lightheaded, dizzy, like you're choking, anything like that?"

"I know what to look out for, Dean," Sam said irritably, an effect probably ruined by the muffled sound of his voice and the fact he was talking to the carpet. "It's just a nosebleed. Air's probably too dry."

Dean's hand lifted away, and if Sam missed the contact, he sure wasn't about to say. "All right. Is it stopping?"

Sam cautiously loosened his grip and pulled away the saturated tissue that had been jammed under his nostrils. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good. Go clean up. You look like a sorority chick in a slasher flick."

"Thanks," Sam said dryly, lifting his head. His brother had already turned away, heading into the bathroom without a backward glance to also rinse the blood off his hands. Dean's ministrations always came with a disclaimer: I wasn't really worried about you or anything. Usually, Sam was sure he knew better. Today, he couldn't quell some doubts. You didn't abandon someone you were concerned about.

He got up with a soft groan—holding a door against two hundred-plus pounds of hell hound hadn't exactly done his body any favors—and tottered into the bathroom after Dean emerged. Flicking the light on, he winced at his reflection. The sorority-chick line wasn't totally off the mark: his whole lower face was streaked with drying blood. No wonder he'd freaked Dean out.

Sam frowned as he turned the warm water on and cupped a hand under it. Dean had been freaked, now that he thought about it, despite his brush-off. For all Sam's annoyance at the many ways they weren't talking, Dean's eyes didn't lie. He had been worried about Sam.

Another time, that would have been a given, not even worth thinking about. Now…now it confused him. How could Dean worry about him but still consider an offer like the demon's? Didn't he get how much he was needed, how much he was loved, for God's sake?

Sam patted his face dry on the thin motel towel and put some vaseline in his nose from the tube conveniently left out next to the sink. Another of Dean's ways of caring. Sam's remaining anger ebbed into a weary bewilderment. What were they supposed to do now?
He walked out of the bathroom to find Dean had stripped and remade his bed with an extra blanket. A shirt was lobbed at Sam's chest, and as he caught it he realized the one he was wearing was blood-splattered, too. He changed in silence, casting a few glances at Dean, who moved around the room in purposeful silence, chewing on some peanut-butter crackers, unpacking, checking their gear.

"Sorry," Sam said quietly.

Dean did look up at him at that, brow creasing. "For what?"

Sam motioned vaguely to the bed. "Biting your head off?"

Dean snorted. "Dude, as many times as you would have to pry me out of bed to go to school, I figure I owe you. And I wasn't usually spurting blood then."

"Yeah, okay," Sam said with a small, amused shake of the head. "I just—" He broke off when he saw Dean stiffen, bracing himself for whatever emotional salvo Sam was about to launch, and suddenly he felt unutterably tired again. "Never mind." He shook it off. "So, research?"

"Unless you already know what causes normal people to suddenly go berserk and start killing."

"Right, 'cause we've never seen that before," Sam drawled, and reached for the laptop as he wrestled the fresh t-shirt over his head. Dean slid a package of crackers in front of him, and Sam absently took one and started munching as he booted up.

A link on the news site caught his eye before he could even start to look, however, and frowning, Sam clicked on it. He didn't even need to start reading before the picture made his heart sink.

"Looks like the hell hound made a stop before it came after Evan Hudson," he said quietly.

Dean came close to read over his shoulder. "George?"

"George," Sam confirmed. "Found dead in his apartment, apparent heart attack. So much for his goofer dust."

Dean straightened, shaking his head. "Well, we knew this was coming, right? It's not like we killed the hound or anything, and I made the deal for Evan, not George."

"Maybe we should have tried for both," Sam pressed.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "Sam, you know what I went through to get that deal for Evan? No way was she gonna toss George in as a freebie."

Grief mixed with irritation. "So we just, what, threw George to the dogs? Can't save him, might as well give up?"

"No," Dean said, shoulders rising a little, "we saved who we could. It sucks that George died, but he brought this on himself—he was a goner and he knew it. In fact, seems like the only person who can't accept this is you."

Irritation bloomed into something hotter and more raw, and Sam stood up, not liking the disadvantage of being seated. "That we just gave up on him? You're right, Dean, I don't accept it. We can't just sacrifice people—that's not what we do."

"Uh-huh, so all that talk recently about the demon's plans for you, that's not you giving up. Don't be a hypocrite, Sam," Dean said sharply.

The fury the words, the implications, roused in him was startling. Sam's hands fisted at his side. "That's funny coming from you, man. You don't think sacrificing yourself would've been sacrificing me, too? And what about Dad, Dean? The slashed palm, the way he said good-bye—we both know he made a deal for you. What would he think about you throwing it all away?"

Dean's jaw bunched, his eyes blazing.

Sam took a step closer until he was right up against his brother. Felt a satisfaction he'd never had before at towering over him. "You know what you are? Selfish. You're a selfish brother and an ungrateful son."

It was a KO. He won the argument by breaking his brother. Dean shut down before his eyes, expression going flat, eyes dull. A beat, then he turned away in silence and went out the door. Ten seconds later, Sam heard the Impala roar away.

He dropped into the chair. He had won…right? Made Dean face the truth. Broke down that stupid wall of denial and double-standards and stoicism. Sam hadn't even known he had it in him to be so brutal.

He wasn't sure if he was proud of or horrified by that.

With a shaking hand, he pulled the laptop close and started researching, and refused to think about what cost he'd just paid for his questionable victory.

00000

Dean returned by the time Sam had something.

"I got us lunch," he said tersely, dropping a bag on the table by Sam. "You find anything?"

"Yeah, but…" Sam had watched him from the moment he'd walked in, not missing the stiff movements or the total absence of emotion. This was the Dean after Dad's death, this incomplete double of his brother, but this time by Sam's own making. "Dean—"

"What, Sam?" This version had no trouble meeting his eyes, but there was nothing there. No anger or hurt, but no light, either, no warmth.

Sam shook his head. They had to finish this hunt, then…then they'd talk. "Uh, yeah. I think it's a wraith."

Dean sat in the other seat. "Go on."

Sam consulted his notes. "Well, it fits with the MO of all the killings: influence rather than possession, no visible physical effects, more active at night. I also found this." He turned the laptop toward Dean.

Dean read under his breath for a minute. "Town massacred?" he finally said, raising an eyebrow. "Here?"

"About two hundred years ago, but yeah. Dozens of people killed by the local Native American tribe. And since wraiths are born out of powerful emotion…"

"Any reason it would show up now?"

Sam shrugged. "Land development, someone playing with fire, a cycle we haven't turned up yet—take your pick. Important thing is, we know how to stop it."

"Yeah, okay." Dean rubbed his nose, cleared his throat. "You know where to start looking?"

"I think so." Sam pointed to a spot on their local map. "Center of the massacre."

"Fine. We'll head out at dusk." Dean stood, went over to the weapons duffel and began rummaging through it.

Sam swallowed, unease heavy in his gut. He'd wanted Dean to stop being so ready to throw his life away, but this unnatural calm…this wasn't what he wanted, either. "Dean, I'm—"

"You have everything we need for the ritual?" Dean cut him off without a glance back.

Hurt turned easily into aggravation again. "Yeah," Sam said shortly. He turned back to his laptop.

They barely said another word to each other for the rest of the day. And for once, Sam was glad for it.

00000

"You got the summoning directions?"

Dean's voice was startling in the darkness, after the long silence. Sam shook himself out of equally murky thoughts. "I know how to do my job, Dean," he mumbled, irritated at being questioned, and he picked up his pace a little. Dean did, too, doggedly maintaining the lead. Which was also rather irritating.

Everything seemed to be irritating him, in fact, from Dean's continued insistence on taking the lead, to his wanting to take the rock-salt loaded shotguns along even though they weren't really the weapons of choice with wraiths—just in case Sam was wrong—to the continued blankness of his expression. Sam was starting to prefer anger to this apathy. At least he could argue with anger. His own frustration was overflowing with no outlet.

Some part of him wondered at that, when despair over Dean's hopelessness had become acrimony. But he couldn't seem to turn it off, and, honestly, it felt good not to hurt all the time. Anger was strong. Anger he could use.

Something warm rolled down his lip, and Sam swiped at it absently. He only took a second look when it was replaced by another trickle, and frowned at the moonlit red-black smear across the back of his hand.

Dean must've sensed something, because he turned back. For the first time since that morning, Sam saw some emotion flit across his face at the sight of Sam, disappearing as soon as their eyes met.

"Again? Dude, what, you snorting something when I'm not looking?"

"Back off, Dean," he muttered as he scrambled to find a tissue, bandana, anything while keeping one hand pinched over his nostrils.

A handkerchief waved in front of his face, and Sam took it with a sour look, jamming it against the flow of blood. He realized a moment later that it was damp, and Dean was just slipping his flask of holy water back into his pocket.

Disbelief joined the disgust. "You think I'm possessed?" Sam burst out. "You're the one ready to make a deal with a demon, and you think I'm not acting like myself?"

"Sam, enough," Dean said roughly, turning away.

"No." Sam dropped the decidedly not fizzing handkerchief and reached out to shove Dean's arm. "No, I'm sick and tired of this, Dean. When are you going to tell me to my face?"

"Tell you what?" Dean was flushed, his eyes tight but still closed off. "What is it you want me to say, Sam?"

"The truth, Dean. That you don't want to be here, that you'd rather be dead than be hunting with me. That you don't care what happens to me, as long as you don't have to feel the pain anymore."

For a second, he really thought Dean would hit him. It wasn't exactly without precedence. Sam could read that coil of tension, the fight-reflex of being pushed to his limits. Saw his big brother, whom he would die for, try to lock it all away again, and glimpse the moment of deep pain that escaped anyway.

And felt a sudden shameful horror at what he'd said.

"Oh, God…Dean, man, I'm sorry, I don't know where—"

But there was something dawning in Dean's eyes, too, a dumbstruck realization. "When you were taking that walk last night, Sam, where did you go?"

He blinked, thrown by the change of topic and Dean's sudden urgency. "Uh, up the road. Over there," he pointed behind him. He could even see the spot where he'd turned back toward the motel.

Dean sucked in a breath, dropping the weapons bag at his feet, and cursed. "I should've known—Sammy, sit down. We need to do the cleansing ritual, now."

"But…," he stammered, then his eyes widened as he got it. "You think it got to me." Repugnance verging on hatred suddenly poured into him at the gall of his brother. Sam no longer questioned, just embraced it. He jutted out his jaw, dropping his hand away as the blood flowed down over his mouth and chin. "You're really a piece of work, aren't you? You'll find any excuse to make this about me, my fault. Well," he casually hefted the shotgun horizontal at his hip, "I'm not letting you."

Dean's eyes flicked down to it, then, unsurprised, back to his face. "Sam, think about this," he said calmingly. "Remember Rockford? Dr. Ellicott? Same kind of deal, bro—this isn't you. You wouldn't hold a gun on me. Spike my coffee, maybe, but shoot me? Come on, Sam. Does this make sense to you?"

It…actually didn't, and Sam flinched, perplexed. Of course he didn't want to shoot Dean. He loved him. Except when Dean was being a total ass, which was a lot lately. What did it matter who pulled the trigger if his brother had a death wish?

"Sammy, c'mon," Dean said, taking a step closer. "I should've known it wasn't you as soon as you brought Dad into this. If anything, you've been walking around on eggshells lately so you wouldn't hurt me. Because you don't do that, Sam. You brood and get all dewy-eyed and self-sacrificial, but you'd rather die than hurt me. This isn't you."

Sam hesitated, staring at eyes that were colorless dark in the moonlight. Eyes that had given nothing away all day but brimmed with worry now for him. Worry and love.

The outrage crumbled away, even as he instantly felt it start to build again. Dean was right, this was an outside influence, not him. He would never have threatened Dean or put that hollow look on his face.

But the influence was only getting stronger, clawing its way into his brain and digging in. The moment of sanity wouldn't last. Sam was the danger here, not Dean.

He was the one who needed to be stopped.

Sam's face crumpled. "I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly. Then before Dean could more than start, eyes widening, and lunge forward, Sam swung the shotgun around and fired.

The rock salt felt like a hundred little knives hitting his chest, knocking him back more in shock than recoil and yanking a scream from his lips. And then he was falling, something tearing, pulling out of him in the opposite direction. He heard Dean cry out his name, felt a peaceful relief wash over him.

Then he hit the ground and knew nothing more.

00000

He woke to fire.

A second more and he realized the burning was only in his chest, but by then Sam had lurched back, out of Dean's grasp. He hit the ground with a moan and tried to curl around the acid eating through his chest.

An arm wrapped around his stomach, a hand around his forehead. "You're gonna be okay," Dean said fervently behind him. "Try to breathe, Sammy."

He did, but every effort brought tears to his eyes. Tiny rocks and twigs scratched his face while he struggled, until Dean hoisted him up from behind, propped Sam against his side. The movement pulled at Sam's chest, and the shrapnel seemed to dig in a little deeper, sharp edges chewing up tender skin. His shirt was wet with blood, and he moaned.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed. "Thank God for those freaky long arms of yours, dude—the salt got some spread before it hit."

It didn't really make sense, any of it. Sam just struggled and choked, fingers clenching uselessly at his brother's jacket. Dean took his hand and curled it around the edge of his shirt.

"Sammy," softly, "you with me? I need to get you back to the car."

His scattered thoughts were beginning to re-form with the focal points of clasped shirt, Dean's warm arm, a solid supporting shoulder. It took a few tries to make his mouth work, and the word hissed as the effort to draw in air shifted a few dozen sharp particles of rock salt. "Wraith?"

"Gone. I did the ritual after it came out of you. Guess it didn't like rock salt." Dean was rubbing Sam's stomach, and it quelled the incipient nausea before he had even realized it was there. "Spit for me."

He did as soon as he understood what Dean was asking, heard his sigh of relief, a mumble about no internal bleeding. Sam didn't much care, sagging now as he remembered fragments of ugly words. "S-sorry."

An exasperated sigh. "Later, Sam, okay? Like when you're not bleeding all over my favorite plaid shirt."

He tried to help, he really did. But considering it took all he had not to cry out when Dean slowly lifted him to his feet, Sam felt lucky to just not black out again. He clung to Dean, head tucked against his brother's neck, and closed his eyes, focusing solely on moving his feet.

He couldn't stop the small sounds of pain as they walked, however. Dean started telling him about the movie he'd caught the tail end of the previous evening while Sam was out—getting jumped by a wraith—and talked right over his gasps and moans. Only his arms, around Sam's back and folded over his stomach, tightened in response to every noise, an elbow rising at one point to nudge Sam's lolling head back into place.

He barely remembered reaching the car, never would remember the trip back to their room. The next thing Sam knew, he was sprawled across his bed, naked from the waist up and shivering in the warm room, while Dean dug salt out of his chest with tweezers and murmured words that comforted in tone if not content.

There was a familiarity to this Sam's foggy mind couldn't quite place, as if he'd been on the other side once. This end was certainly lousy. He clutched handfuls of bedding until it felt like his bones would snap and clamped his teeth down on the pain, only muffling it partly. Sweat stung the open wounds of his chest, and he couldn't seem to stop trembling. Dean sometimes paused to dab at the perspiration and tears, whispering Sammy and try and easy. Some part of him appreciated the return of the brother he knew, but Sam just wished Dean would get it over with because the painkillers weren't doing their job.

And then they were, and he greyed out again.

When his mind cleared, the room was dim, only a long, thin rectangle of light coming from the half-open bathroom door. Sam's chest throbbed and felt tight, but it was a dull, heavy kind of pain, no longer the sharp stabbing of before. He was covered in blankets to his chin, while Dean was stretched out asleep on the naked mattress next to him, still clothed.

Even as Sam blinked in his direction, one eye opened and looked him over. "You need anything?" Dean mumbled, half-asleep.

"No." His voice sounded scratchy, and he licked his dry lips.

Dean rolled out of bed with the limp grace of the exhausted and slid a hand under Sam's neck. Sam wasn't sure what he was doing until a wet glass was pressed to his lips, and he drank gratefully. He could have drained several glasses, but Dean stopped him at one, wiping the dribble from his chin with the edge of one of the blankets. "That's enough for now or it'll just come back up, and I'm not cleaning up after you."

Sam breathed a laugh, winced when it pulled at his chest.

"Go back to sleep," Dean said softly.

Sam obeyed the order without even a twinge of resentment.

The next time he woke, Dean was gone.

00000

Irrational panic flared from some place even deeper than the wounds on his chest. He knew Dean wouldn't leave him injured and helpless, and his brother's stuff was still scattered around the room. But the last day—three?—hung like a shroud over his memory, and there was no common sense that could ease this fear.

Sam panted through the arduous process of sitting up. His sternum was full of nails, and he felt each individual stab with every breath. Had it hurt like this when he'd shot Dean?

Of course, there were a lot of ways to hurt.

He pushed himself up on wobbly legs, immediately bending over again to lean on the bed with one hand. When he felt a little more sure of his balance, Sam straightened—more or less—into a hunch, trying not to pull on shredded chest muscles. If he breathed shallowly and moved like an old man, he could manage a slow walk, but he paused at the door to lean his forehead against the jamb. It occurred to Sam belatedly he could have just called Dean, but by then he was opening the door.

Sam had only planned to check if the Impala was there or if there was any sign of her or Dean down the street and the gas station mini-mart. He hadn't expected to blink through the sunlight to see Dean sitting on the hood of the car by the door, leaning back against the windshield. Sliding off instantly, wide-eyed, as soon as Sam came into sight.

"Whoa, where are you going?"

He hadn't expected the violent relief at the sight of his brother, either, although maybe he should have. Sam let himself lean for a second on Dean's arm, slowing his breathing, before he lifted his head again. "Looking for you, man."

"Yeah, well, you found me. Can we go back in now?"

Somehow, he couldn't return to the room, though. Even though he was shivering in the late afternoon breeze, the thought of returning to the warm indoors made his skin crawl worse. "I just wanna sit down a minute," he pleaded with Dean, resisting his brother's effort to turn him.

Dean glared, but he helped Sam over to the car, leaning him against the sun-warmed hood. He left him there a moment to go into the room, and came back to wrap Sam's hoodie around his shoulders. Unclenching against the cold made it easier to breathe, too, and Sam relaxed with a soft sigh.

Dean climbed up on the hood next to him, helped him ease up, too, and then they just sat.

"Well. Awkward," Dean finally began.

Sam's mouth tugged into a tired smile. "I don't know—you almost made a deal with a demon, I shot myself full of rock salt—kinda sounds like a normal week for us."

Dean chuckled tiredly.

The silence should have been more awkward than it was. Sam was almost loath to break it. "Dean…what I said, about Dad and—"

"Hey," Dean put up a hand, "we did this once already, remember? I'm not crazy about you all the time, either, but that doesn't mean anything, Sam. You're still my pesky geek little brother." He looked away for a moment, and Sam could see his jaw working. "What you should be apologizing for is shooting yourself to stop it. What if the shot would have penetrated your lungs, huh, or your heart? You could be dead, Sam."

"Better than me hurting you," he said quietly.

Dean cursed. "Not to me."

A far more dull and weary resentment bubbled up in Sam, and he felt himself flush. "So, what, you're the only one who's allowed to worry about me, to offer his life, Dean? It doesn't work like that."

"That's not what I—"

"God, don't you get it? Why do you think I was wide open to that thing getting to me in the first place? The only reason I'm not totally orphaned is because I've still got you, Dean, and you almost threw it all away. I can't do this alone. Not even if Dad were here. I mean, for all we know, the reason he took off to begin with was so we'd end up together. So, just…don't even try to tell me you don't matter as much as I do. You matter to me." Sam was gasping by the end, curled forward in pain.

Dean grabbed him around the shoulders and splayed a hand just under the bandages on his chest. "Geez, Sammy, tell me what you really think," he muttered. Then, louder, "Feel like you can chew me another one without knocking yourself out in the process? 'Cause otherwise I'm thinking this can wait until you don't look like you're about to fall over."

Sam shook his head, eyes pricking in more than physical pain. "Dean…"

"Okay, I get it, Sam—I matter. And I'm not gonna just throw my life away—I'm not goin' out like Dad, no warning, nothing, all right? I promise. It's just…Dad…what he…" Dean swallowed, chewing on his lip and staring at nothing.

"I miss him, too," Sam whispered. "But it's not your fault. Not any more than Mom or Jess was mine. And I wouldn't want him back if it meant losing you."

Dean froze, then his head bowed, his body leaning into Sam's just as much as the reverse. "You're such a pansy," he finally said in a choked voice.

Sam smiled a little. "I can live with that."

There was a long silence, then Dean drew a breath. "Yeah. Me, too." A sideways look at Sam. "So, are we done here?"

"Dude," Sam peered up at him through his bangs, "if I don't get back to bed in about thirty seconds, I think you're on your own."

Dean was already hauling him up. "Feels like the salt's still in there, doesn't it," he said knowingly.

Sam sucked in air through his teeth as Dean eased under his arm. "If it was this bad for you, I'm surprised you didn't shoot me back then."

"Why, when you do such a good job yourself?" Dean asked with raised brow. He angled them to clear the door, as careful with Sam as if he were made out of china. Cracked china. "Just wait'll you see the bruises tomorrow."

"I can't wait," Sam murmured. He held his breath as Dean lowered him to the bed and supported his head as he lay back. The pressure and ache in his chest had increased to decidedly uncomfortable levels, but he was so tired, he was pretty sure he could sleep anyway. He just needed to know one more thing. "Dean?"

His brother paused, then sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "Yeah."

"It's gonna be okay, right?" It wasn't fair of him to ask…but he was scared. And Dean had always made it better. Always.

Dean's mouth crinkled in a smile that managed to look more sad than happy. He slid the crumpled hoodie out from under Sam and pulled a blanket up over him. "Yeah, Sammy," he said softly. "Everything's gonna be fine."

He fell asleep believing in that promise. He had to.

The End