He wasn't expecting it because they were done. They'd torched the Wendigo easy enough (those were always a bitch) and he was just ready to pass out in the tourist trap motel they'd rented. He hadn't been psyched at how successful the motel was, not wanting to stand out, but when he met the young and quite shapely owner, he figured it was worth it.

So when Dean heard the gunshot, he physically reacted and his adrenaline kicked into full gear. He heard the bullet wiz past him, and miss him by a millimeter. He heard it sink into its target, and he heard a grunt behind him. He turned to see Sam throw a hand to his chest and sink to his knees.

"Sam!"

Heart racing, and cursing the seconds he'd stood in shock, Dean pulled out his gun and aimed ahead of him. There was no one there, but he shot three rounds into the trees. Nothing. He waited, any small sound making him flinch.

Not entirely convinced that the sniper was gone, Dean finally let himself face his brother, and just in time to catch him from collapsing. Sam had fallen to his knees, his face white, but his hand very red.

"Sam, hey, you with me?" Dean asked shakily, holding Sam up on his good side with one hand, and clutching his gun in his other, ready if the sniper tried again. Upon closer inspection, Dean actually saw where his brother was shot. It wasn't a shoulder shot as he'd expected, it was farther in, dangerously close to his lungs.

"Sammy..." Dean gasped in shock. Sam still hadn't responded, and had now squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his face, gasping and groaning.

"Sam!"

Sam jerked back to the present, and seemed to actually see Dean this time.

"Snipe...per?" Sam gasped out, coughing at the effort. This only worried Dean more, but he couldn't panic, not yet.

"Yeah, must have been, hell knows why though," he said. He still hadn't seen Sam take a breath, and his coughing worried him. "Sam, I need you to breathe."

Dean sighed in relief as he watched Sam take a breath. He fell back into survival mode and checked Sam's back for a through and through.

"No exit wound," he muttered to himself, "we gotta get back to the motel, get that bullet out." It wasn't going to be fun, but they had no choice. "Can you stand?"

Sam nodded and shakily held onto Dean for support. Dean stood, pulling his brother up as well, but Sam's knees buckled, and he leaned heavily onto Dean.

"Dean," Sam gasped. His breathing was raspy, and he'd already lost too much blood. Dean worried he wouldn't even make it to the car. He tried not to dwell on it though, and pulled his brother forward.

"Just hold on, we're almost there."

By the time they made it to the car, Sam's hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he was hardly controlling his movements, forcing Dean to all but drag him the last few feet.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean muttered, more to himself than to Sam as he opened the passenger door and lowered his brother into it. Sam groaned and squeezed his eyes shut once again. Dean closed the door and raced to the driver's side, his heart beat seeming to increase even more. He removed his flannel so he was in just his T shirt, and gently patted Sam awake.

"Sam, you can't sleep," he said worriedly. He held out the shirt and Sam took it, fisting it. "Keep pressure, come on Sam," Dean's voice shook. Sam pressed it to his chest, groaning. Dean turned and started the car, gripping the wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, and one hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam had seemingly fallen asleep, with the occasional mutter of Dean's name. Dean worriedly kept glancing over, to the point where the majority of his focus was on Sam and not the road.

"Damnit, Sam," he muttered anxiously.

It took twenty minutes to get back to the motel, and by then, Sam's breathing had turned to wheezing gasps. Dean threw the car into park and raced around to the other side, being careful to open the door slowly because Sam was leaning against it.

"Call–Garth" Sam breathed.

"What? Sam–" Dean gently pulled his brother from the car. "Here, help me out," he grunted. Sam groaned, but managed to grasp Dean's shoulder and Dean hurriedly pulled him to the room.

"Sniperrrrr..." Sam slurred while stumbling next to Dean. Dean fumbled with the motel keys, wanting to spend as little time out in the open as possible especially during the day, but somehow being more careless than usual. Finally, he got the door open and begged the last of Sam's strength to get him to the bed. Sam took a short breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Dean– call Garth..."

Dean just stared at Sam for a second, panicked thoughts swirling his head, heart racing. What he really wanted to do was pull the bullet out of his brother, stitch him up, and watch him sleep. But he knew he had to take care of the sniper, if not for his own sake, then for Sam's.

"Yeah," he said, "alright, hold on."

He took out his phone and dialed Garth's number. While he waited as it rang, he went around the room retrieving things he would need: first aid kit, whiskey, towels, water. He was in the middle of pulling towels from the bathroom when he heard Garth on the other end.

"Dean! What's crack-a-lackin?"

"Garth, hey, you got any guys near Old Forge New York?" Dean said, thankful that he'd somehow caught Garth. He looked to Sam, who seemed satisfied that Dean had complied. He still held the shirt to his shoulder, but had begun shivering. Dean found a blanket, and gently placed it over him, then resumed his pacing.

"Hmmm, I think Jorah's up there somewhere," Garth said, "upstate N.Y. always blends together. Why? What do you got?"

"Wendigo," Dean said, "Sam and I took one out up in the mountains, but Sam was shot by something else, we don't know."

"Sam was shot! I ain't never heard of a Wendigo handling a gun, maybe they're getting smarter..."

"Garth–"

"Don't worry, Dean, I'll send someone out. Tell Sam to hang in there."

"Alright, thanks a lot, Garth."

Dean turned back to Sam, who had somehow gotten paler in just five minutes. He warily stared back up at Dean and took a breath.

"Garth–"

"Is sending someone up. As long as we're in here, we should be fine," Dean said unconvincingly. Sam said nothing, but sighed. "Let's get this over with," Dean said unscrewing the whiskey and offering it to Sam.

"No– Dean, m'fine," he mumbled, his short breath a sure sign that he was not fine.

Dean, knowing this might happen, took a swig himself. Not enough to lose focus, but enough to take off the edge.

"Come on, Sam, we both know this will be rough. Don't make me drink alone," he said. They didn't have anything strong enough to mask the pain that fishing the bullet out would cause, so their next option was intoxication. Sam sighed and held his hand out for the bottle. Dean handed it to him, but his hand shook so bad that Dean had to help guide it to his lips. Once almost half the bottle was gone, Dean set it back on the table and opted instead for the pair of scissors.

He unbuttoned Sam's shirt, then began cutting away his T shirt, which had stuck to his skin from blood near the wound. Just the small agitation caused a hiss from Sam. After a very cautious minute, Dean managed to pull the shirt away from his skin and take a look at the wound.

While it had stopped bleeding, it was still a bloody mess, saturating his shirt and leaving his skin red. The wound itself was slightly swollen, and angrily red itself. Dean had pulled out bullets before, but it had always been a leg or shoulder, never this close to anything major. It wouldn't be easy.

Dean set the scissors down, unfolded a small towel and then bunched it up.

"Here," he said, "bite down." Dean surely didn't want Sam biting off his own tongue, but he also knew they had neighbors at this motel. Neighbors that would definitely hear the screaming. Sam obediently opened his mouth and bit the towel. He gripped the sheets and looked away.

"Just try to relax," Dean said. He picked up the forceps, placing his other hand on Sam's shoulder, ready to hold him down.

Dean tried not to listen to the muffled screaming, tried not to register the thrashing underneath him. His sole focus was on finding the bullet. He carefully followed the channel, navigating through muscle and tissue. The bullet had gone deep, he could figure that much. Finally though, he felt metal touch metal, and couldn't help but smile with relief. He squeezed it with the forceps and pulled, removing the small bullet from Sam's chest. Immediately, the wound began bleeding again, and Dean snatched a clean towel and pressed it down, applying pressure. He took a deep breath.

"Alright, Sammy, it's out."

Sam spit out the towel and coughed. Dean could see tears at the corners of his eyes, he could only imagine how painful it had been and still was.

"H-holy s-hit," he gasped. His voice was raspy from screaming, and shook as he took a breath. Dean took a relieving breath himself, knowing the worst was over. With his hand still keeping pressure, he reached for the glass of water and brought it to Sam's lips.

"Here, drink this," he said. He gave Sam a small sip and waited, letting his brother catch his breath, then urged more water into him.

It looked as if Sam was starting to calm down. Dean didn't like how pale he'd become though. Dean had wanted to avoid stitching up the most likely infected wound, but Sam couldn't afford to lose much more blood.

"How you doing?" Dean asked.

"Tired..." Sam mumbled. His eyes fluttered shut.

"Come on, Sam, you gotta stay awake." Dean pleaded, but Sam didn't open his eyes again. It sounded like he was trying to say something, but his words were slurred and Dean couldn't make any sense of them.

"I swear Sam, m'gonna kill that SOB…." Dean muttered anxiously. He pressed the shirt to Sam's chest and waited for the bleeding to slow.

The first thing Sam felt when he woke up was his head. A pounding on his temple tore him from the blissful sleep he'd just woken from. Assessing the rest of his body, he felt the sharp pain and ache in his chest, and remembered being shot. Dean had removed the bullet, he couldn't forget that, but he didn't remember anything afterwards.

When he took a breath, his heart sunk as he felt the air passing through his rough throat. He didn't need any confirmation that the wound had gotten infected, leaving him with a fever.

"Dean," he said hoarsely. He didn't have enough effort to open his eyes, but he needed to make sure his brother was there. He heard no response. It shouldn't have surprised him, after all, he'd barely whispered his brother's name. His feverish state though somehow seemed to be enhancing his panic. He took another deep breath which resulted in more coughing.

"Dean?" he tried again, more awake this time. He strained to listen for any noise through his throbbing head. Not sure he was imagining it, he heard the rustle of sheets, and then:

"Sammy?" Dean sounded like he'd been sleeping, and Sam felt bad for waking him up, but just Dean's voice calmed him down substantially. He heard more movement, and then felt the bed depress as his brother sat next to him.

"Sam, hey, you with me this time?" Dean asked. Sam felt a hand on his forehead. This time? Had he woken up before? He pried his eyes open and had to blink a few times for Dean's face to come into focus.

Dean looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept in days. Sam didn't know how long he'd been sleeping, but they hadn't slept much the night before they fought the Wendigo, so Dean was at least one night short of sleep.

"Infected?" Sam asked. It hurt his throat to talk. The look of relief on Dean's face at Sam's coherence told him he must have been in and out for a while.

"Yeah," Dean said, clearing his voice. He got up and went over to a table that was littered with various items and selected a few. "I had to stitch you up, you were bleeding too much, which caused the infection and fever." Dean returned to Sam's bedside holding a glass of water and thermometer. Even with Dean's help, simply trying to sit up tired Sam, and he felt a flash of pain through his chest where he was shot.

He groaned, and his heartbeat increased, not helping his already pounding head. He could feel the blood leave his face, and he shut his eyes from the dizziness that had set in.

"Here, drink," Dean said handing Sam the glass, "you're getting dehydrated."

The glass was heavier than Sam had remembered, and it took all his concentration not to spill it. While the water was soothing on his throat, it filled him up quickly, and he hardly got through the entire glass before he set it down. Dean noticed, but didn't remark. He handed Sam the thermometer, who reluctantly placed it under his tongue.

"101.7, not bad," Dean said, taking it from Sam when it beeped. Sam shut his eyes tiredly, having trouble focusing on everything that was happening.

"Hey, come on," Dean said grasping his shoulder. "I've gotta get some food in you before you pass out again, huh?"

Sam opened his eyes and coughed. Dean was already busying himself at the microwave with a microwaveable can of soup.

"Not– hungry–" Sam managed from his raw throat. In truth, he felt that even if he tried to drink more water, his stomach would just reject it.

Dean pulled the cup out of the microwave and found a spoon. He brought both back to Sam's bedside and sat in a chair that was somehow already there.

"Come on, Sam, I can't give you any more pain meds without something in your system."

Any more? Sam had no recollection of taking pain medication before. That worried him. What else had he missed? He glanced down at his injured chest, and his right arm. He experimentally wiggled his fingers just to make sure they still worked, of which they did.

"I'll try," he muttered. The look of pure relief on Dean's face was enough to pull the corners of Sam's mouth up in a smile. He handed Sam the spoon, but kept the cup, holding it close enough for Sam to reach.

Sam knew his fingers would betray him and spill the soup if he took too much, so he was careful, and managed not to spill any. He didn't really taste it. Or maybe it was just bland, bland and lukewarm. Dean didn't object as Sam's sips got smaller and smaller until his vision got fuzzy and he felt the lightheadedness set in. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass.

"Can't," he whispered. It took the rest of his energy from him, and his hand fell to his side, his fingers relaxing around the spoon. He felt Dean gently slip the spoon from his fingers.

"That's alright," he said quietly. "What about Tylenol?"

Dean's voice–although quiet–was like a punch to Sam's brain. He knew that if he opened his eyes, he would get dizzy, so he tried a nod, and hoped Dean would understand.

"Here we go," Dean said. Sam cracked his eyes, and opened his mouth for the pill Dean was holding. Dean didn't even give him a chance to hold the water, but put it to his lips and tilted it back. Sam obediently swallowed, then slid down until he was laying down again.

"Thanks, Dean," he whispered. He hadn't fallen asleep before he heard a very quiet "no problem."

It was morning when Dean woke again, and he hadn't fully awakened when he heard a thump from the bathroom. He immediately jolted awake and looked to Sam's bed which was empty.

"Sam!" he called, while sliding out of bed and hurrying to the bathroom. Sam hadn't even closed the door all the way, and therefore Dean could hear retching noises coming from inside. When he pushed the door open, he saw Sam leaning over the toilet.

He was pale as a sheet, and ashy looking. His hair clung to his face from sweat, and it took just a little too long for him to look up and notice Dean in the doorway.

"Dean," he gasped. He took a long breath and leaned back against the bath tub.

"That bad, huh?" Dean said at the sight of his ailing brother. Sam didn't respond, but rasped out a question of his own.

"Any–word from–Garth?" he said, closing his eyes. Dean sighed and found a glass. He filled it with sink water and handed it to Sam who took a miniscule sip, and grimaced.

"Nothing yet, it's only been a day though–"

"Gotta– we gotta keep moving," Sam said between coughs.

Dean looked at his brother incredulously. He'd been delirious in bed not 12 hours ago, refusing food, and could barely stand. The worst thing to do was to leave.

"Sam, what are you talking about? You're dead on your feet, there's no way we're leaving," Dean said.

"I'll be fine– sleep in the car," Sam said. He grabbed the edge of the bathtub, and made to stand, but Dean pushed him back down.

"Alright, just hold on," he said. Dean himself wanted nothing more than to get on the road two states over, but Sam had been shot the day before, and was sporting a fever. He wasn't going to jeopardize Sam's health unless he absolutely had to.

"If your temp is 100 or lower, then we'll go," Dean said pulling out the thermometer. Sam sighed, but held his hand out for it anyway.

Sam couldn't even grasp the thermometer before Dean's phone began ringing startling them both. Dean grabbed the thermometer back and slipped his phone from his pocket, the caller ID reading "Jorah"

"Jorah, any info?" he said on the second ring. All he heard from the other end was a chuckle.

"Jorah put up a fight, I'll give him that."

Dean's face immediately turned cold, and he stood up straighter. Sam seemed to sense his brother's change, and looked at him questioningly.

"Who the hell is this." Dean's voice was low, and he tried to keep it steady, but he was damn sure he was talking to the sniper, the sniper that had shot Sam. In Dean's book, when his little brother was a line that just was not crossed.

"Come on Dean-o, I remember you," The line sent a chill up Dean's back, and almost too late, he heard the steps outside the motel door. In one swift move, he pressed the lock on the bathroom door and stepped outside.

"Dean, no!" Sam yelled, obviously realizing what Dean was about to do. He lunged from his spot on the ground to the door, but Dean had already shut it, locking him in.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said, hearing the weak thump as Sam stumbled after him. He put a chair up against the knob so Sam couldn't escape.

"Sam's in there with you, isn't he, Dean."

Dean's mind was brought back to the present as suddenly the motel door was kicked in revealing a man hardly taller than Dean dressed in black and carrying a sawed-off. He seemed familiar somewhere in Dean's mind, but he couldn't place where he'd seen him before.

"Oh come on," the stranger said, aimlessly waving his gun. Dean had a gun in his belt, but he waited, put his hands up. "What, do demons have short term memory loss?"

Suddenly he realized where he'd heard that voice before. Cole. He remembered this devastated victim only seeking revenge. He remembered everything that had happened, everything he had done, but it was like watching through a film, as if it hadn't been him, but someone else.

"Look, it's not what you think–" Dean started.

"Oh yeah," Cole said, taking a step toward Dean. Dean slowly began reaching behind him, '''I was drunk, it was a mistake, I feel horrible' yeah right," Cole mocked. "I don't have a father because of you!"

Dean flinched as suddenly Cole pointed the shotgun at Dean and pulled a bottle of water from his pocket.

"Woah, woah–"

"I know what you are," Cole said.

Dean was frozen. Of course he wasn't a demon anymore. Of course Cole's father had been a monster. But what stopped Dean, what kept him from acting, was that fact that he'd been the cause of this lifelong revenge. Dean knew the life of revenge. He knew the consequences and what it did to people. He'd seen his father throw his life away for it. Dean realized in that moment just how much he'd changed Cole's life, and it floored him.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, Dean-o," Cole said, taking another step forward. "I'm going to kill you, demon scum–"

Out of nowhere, Cole's boot connected with Dean's face, sending his head into a spiral of pain. His neck snapped back and he fell to the ground, only just managing to hold consciousness to watch Cole switch his focus to the bathroom.

"But first, a little eye for an eye," Cole said, and he kicked the chair away from the bathroom door.

Sam didn't immediately burst through the door when he'd heard the chair being knocked away. He knew better than to go into a fight blind, not to mention the fact that he could barely stand. But he couldn't leave Dean out there alone with Cole. He braced himself on the sink, watching the door warily as the doorknob turned and the door swung open.

"Sam," Cole said. His eyes traveled the length of Sam, took in the stooped posture, the pale face. "Been a while, I see you've fixed your arm."

Sam wasted no time taking in his surroundings, but thrust his fist at Cole's face.

On a good day, Sam could take someone out with a single punch and simply shake out his hand. On a good day, he could have put Cole unconscious, but today he barely seemed to agitate him. His hand hit its mark, but not nearly with enough force, and he wavered, unsteady as the sudden movement made him dizzy.

"You don't look so good," Cole said. He took a step toward Sam, who did all he could to keep from collapsing to the ground. Sam suddenly cried out in pain as Cole grasped his shoulder, agitating the gunshot wound and sending a white-hot shock of pain through his body. If Cole hadn't been holding him up, he would have fallen to his knees.

"Dean needs to know how it feels." Cole's tone suddenly turned serious as he pushed Sam against the wall. Sam blinked his eyes hard as Cole's form seemed to shimmer in his vision.

"You'd kill–innocent?" Sam ground out in gasping breaths.

That seemed to make Cole hesitate. His eyes softened for the briefest of seconds. Sam took the opportunity.

"You–you don't wanna do this," he said quickly. He could hear his own voice fading, "your son–"

He felt a blow to his face and grunted as Cole adjusted his grip on him. The aggression only meant Sam was getting through to him, and Sam knew he could talk Cole down. He knew how to talk to people, he did it every day.

"Cole–"

Sam couldn't finish what he was going to say though, as Cole suddenly pitched sideways, followed closely by Dean's fist. Without the support of Cole holding him up, Sam slid down the wall and hit the floor sending his head spinning. Dizziness and pain overtook him, and he leaned against the wall dazed for a second, trying to grasp at some kind of reality.

"Dean–" he wheezed. From the noises he'd been able to discern, he could tell that Dean hadn't stopped after the one punch. He knew that Cole didn't deserve to die, and he knew that Dean would believe it as well. Dean was fighting too hard.

"Dean, stop!" he said more forcefully, which sent his ears ringing. There was quiet for a minute, then Dean was in his field of vision. His eyes were wild and unfocused, his fist bloody. Sam kept his stare until Dean's face softened, and a look of surprise crossed it.

"I'm good, Sammy," he said quietly. Sam let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes in relief. He felt Dean's hands on his face, his shoulder, prodding the wound. He hissed in pain, but couldn't be bothered to protest, afraid he might throw up, or worse pass out. He felt a glass on his lips and he tipped his head back and drank, the water helping his drying mouth.

"Your stitches broke, but I got a pressure bandage," Dean was saying. His voice was low and calm. "Should hold until we can stop again. You good to move?"

No, he was not good to move. He felt that if he even opened his eyes he would tip over. But there was nothing more he wanted than to get the hell out of Dodge. Without answering or opening his eyes for that matter, he grasped his brother's shoulder and began to get his feet underneath him. His legs were weak and shaky, and he leaned forward, his head falling on Dean's chest.

"Woah, woah hey–" Dean grunted. Sam's ear pressed against Dean's chest and he felt his heartbeat. Strong and pounding, clashing with his own. It made him dizzy. It was just Dean's adrenaline, Sam kept telling himself. Although he couldn't ignore what he'd just seen. The one thing Dean had been trying to avoid.

Dean could tell that Sam was barely holding it together, but was holding out for Dean's sake because he was worried. Hell, Dean was worried. Dean had been in Cole's place. Doing what you thought was right to get revenge. Cole deserved better. Yet after that first punch, Dean had felt a rush. He'd felt the absolute thirst. He remembered what it had been like, and he wanted it back. Sam's voice was like a whisper in his mind amongst the reverie, but it just managed to pull him out. He'd told Sam he was okay, but even that had seemed like a lie to his own ears.

He clung to Sam as they stumbled out of the motel, offering the support Sam needed, but taking his own in Sam's weakness, needing to feel the reality. It scared him, his loss of control. Half of him wanted nothing more than to finish the job. But the other half kept reminding him that Cole didn't deserve to die, and that he couldn't sink down again.

Dean eased Sam down into the passenger seat of the Impala, covering him in the blanket they kept in the backseat for times like this. Then he locked the doors and went back to the motel, quickly grabbing their things, making an effort to avoid the bathroom where he'd left Cole unconscious. When he got back to the car, Sam's eyes were open and searching him worriedly.

"Bleeding," he said. Dean felt the blood on his face.

"M'fine," he said, "s'just my nose."

"Concussion?"

"Really Sam, I'm fine–" Dean protested, but Sam interrupted.

"Cole."

Dean paused and forced himself to take a breath.

"I'll send out an anonymous call. By the time our names come up, we'll be in the next state."

Sam didn't respond, but closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. Dean ran a shaky hand through his hair and started the car.