Title: I've Got Your Back, Dude

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: I understand that Eric Kripke is responsible for all of this...for which I sincerely thank him.

Summary: A final, missing scene for "Bad Day at Black Rock". Oneshot. (For the record, I was a little perturbed that Dean seemed more concerned with Sam's earlier "bad luck" injuries -- like falling off the sidewalk -- than he did with his brother being shot. But that's just me.)

Sam maintained a death grip on his left shoulder with his right hand. Helping his brother into the passenger seat of the Impala and securing him with the seat belt, Dean recognized the coppery smell of blood, and it turned his stomach. "Just hang in there, Sammy," he breathed before he withdrew from the vehicle and carefully shut the passenger door. Then he hurried around the back, stopping for a few seconds to pop the trunk and toss their shovels in haphazardly, and continued on to the driver's side of the car. He slid quickly behind the wheel and shoved the key in the ignition, hand shaking slightly. As the engine growled to life he cranked the heat up full blast, and turned his head toward his little brother, even though he couldn't see him clearly in the dark. "You okay there, Sammy?"

Sam grunted. "No," he responded, surprising Dean as much as anything had all night. "Both my knees are skinned, there's a second-degree burn on my right arm, I got kidnapped and beat to shit, and some bitch just shot me in the shoulder. I am definitely not all right."

Dean had his hand on the gearshift, ready to take them outta there, but he hesitated. He was planning to head for the motel and patch Sam up himself, like he had more times than he cared to remember -- but the kid had a point. "You need a hospital?", he whispered, almost reverently.

Sam sighed, shifting a little in the seat. "Nooooo," he ground out, sounding angry. "Just get us to the motel." When Dean still hesitated, Sam finally turned his own head in his brother's general direction. "I could use some painkillers, Dean."

Dean shook himself out of his malaise and threw his baby into 'drive'. "Right," he said. "Right. Be there soon, Sammy." His brother made a sound between a hiss and a sob, kind-of like a hiccup, and Dean decided to pretend that's what it was. He tried to distract Sam as they hurtled toward the motel. "I can't believe that bitch shot you. And stole our lottery tickets! She is so going to pay for this..."

Sam's voice took on a hard edge. "Which pisses you off more, Dean? The fact that she shot me, or the fact that she walked off with your ill-gotten gains?"

Dean winced in the darkness, but didn't let the direct-hit show in his voice. "Geez, Sam, I don't even know what that last part means," he bantered lightly, "but you know I'd die for you, little brother. Hell, I'm going to prove it soon!"

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Sam took his hand away from his shoulder and started fiddling with the door handle. "Pull over," he begged. "Pull over."

Dean could tell from the tone of his voice that Sam was about to lose breakfast, lunch and dinner. He cursed himself silently for the thoughtless comment and whipped the Impala toward the gravel shoulder. "Not in the car, Sammy," he commanded. "Just hold your cheeseburger..." Sam had the door open before they had reached a full stop. With obvious effort, he turned his body to face the outside. The noises of discomfort he made as he hauled his long legs out of the car tore at Dean's soul, and he mentally kicked himself all the way around the car. He leaned over to help haul Sammy out, risking his own clothing to a mighty hurl. Hell, they were going to have to buy Sam a new coat anyway -- one with a bullet hole wouldn't keep him very warm. Maybe they'd use the few hundred from the one lottery ticket he'd had a chance to cash-in for a shopping spree, or something. He gripped Sam's upper right arm firmly. "Come on, Sasquatch."

Sam shook him off violently, and Dean knew that had to hurt. "Back off," Sam grit out. "Just...give me some air..."

Dean wished it was lighter so that he could see Sam's face better. Reluctantly he let go of the arm and took a few steps back, running his hand through his short-cropped hair. Listening to Sam gulp in the fresh air, Dean thought about how he was going to fix this. He knew he had just hurt his brother worse than all the mishaps of the last few days put together. He wandered a safe distance away, sure to stay close enough to hear Sam. Finally, he made up his mind and slowly returned to the car. He squatted on his haunches and placed a hand lightly just below one of Sam's skinned knees. "Hey," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sick." Sam didn't answer, didn't look at him, and Dean swallowed. God, he hated chick-flick moments -- but even he could tell when one was necessary. He cleared his throat, thinking idly that he would rather have a root canal. "Listen," he finally said. "You know why I say stupid things like that, and tease you with 'my dying wishes' and all that crap that's driving you crazy?" He leaned forward a little, his quiet voice taking on the steel of conviction. "It's because I trust you, Sammy. You said you'd find a way to break the deal -- and I believe you. No demon is stronger than your stubborn ass. That's why I don't take it seriously, this whole 'year-to-live' thing. I just don't really believe it."

Sam raised his hanging head, and in the moonlight Dean could see the single tear working its way down his cheek. Sam blinked at him twice and then spoke in a rough voice that sounded as if it hadn't been used in years. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Dean was getting tired of surprises. The last thing he had been expecting was that. He pulled his hand away from Sam's leg and pushed up on his own thighs, standing. When he responded his voice was petulant and slightly affronted. "Well, yeah, Sammy, I thought it might."

Sam's hand had gone back to his shoulder, and now he moved to swing his monstrous legs back into the car. Dean automatically leaned down to help, so his ear was close to Sam's mouth when his brother started speaking again. "So if I fail," he said quietly, "I've got a little something extra to feel badly about. Now I know for a fact that you're counting on me to fix this thing."

Dean folded his gargantuan brother back into the car and sighed, buckling the belt around him again. "Geez, Sam. You see now why I don't do this honesty thing? There's no way to get it right, with you!" He shut the door a little harder than necessary and trudged back to the driver's side of the Impala. As he slipped into his seat again, his voice resumed the hard edge of denial that was becoming normal, these days. "Let's just get back to the motel so I can fix you up."

They drove in silence for several miles. When Sam spoke again, Dean could barely hear him over the roar of the heater. "I'm going to work with Ruby."

Dean slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailing in the road. "WHAT!", he cried, turning toward Sam. "No! No!" The sudden deceleration had killed the engine, and now the Impala sat hissing and steaming in the night. "We don't work with demons, Sam, we send 'em back to hell."

Sam snorted derisevly. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to, Dean? Working with demons is a family tradition. Dad did it for you, you did it for me -- and now I'm going to do it for you." Dean felt his mouth fall open, but for the life of him couldn't think of anything to say to that. Sam continued, his voice oddly detached. "What's the worst that could happen, anyway? In 44 weeks we find out she was playing me, and we both end up dead. Or, I could not work with her, and fail by myself, and in 44 weeks you end up dead. And if you end up dead, Dean, I swear to the God you don't believe in that I will too."

Dean felt as if he'd been sucker-punched in the gut, as if he might be sick himself. "Sammy," he pleaded, his voice a moan, "Sammy..."

His brother interrupted him. "You said it once, Dean, and you were right. Where you go, I go. So while you may be all casual and accepting about this whole deal, I for one, am not." His voice became almost threatening. "I'm working with Ruby. You can watch my back, or not."

Dean swallowed thickly, stared through the windshield at the darkness, and prepared to start the engine one more time. "Damn it, Sammy," he muttered darkly. "You see what I mean about your stubborn ass? Of course I've got your back, dude."

He was still looking through the windshield, and did not see the ghost of a smile that crossed Sam's face.