Something touched his face. Instinct made him flinch.

"Dean."

Darkness. Warm and thick behind his eyes, the sound of his own breath, the pull of something sharp and wrong in his side.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice. Sammy. Guilt and shame slammed into him. Sam shouldn't have to drag him out of this. This was his fault.

"Dean, don't move. I got you."

"S'mmy—" I'm fine, he tried to say, tried to come up on one elbow but he felt something strong and solid push him back, hands flat against his chest. Sam's hands. "Sorry," he said, the word coming out slurred and sideways around his stiff jaw and the taste of blood in his mouth.

"Don't," Sam said, and Dean could hear a tightness in his voice that brought unwanted tears to his eyes that had nothing to do with the fact that he couldn't get a full breath. He wasn't supposed to do this shit to Sam. This was Dad all over again, only now he was the asshole. He tried again to shove Sam's hands off, and Sam grabbed both his wrists, catching and making him stop.

"Dean," he said again, and his voice was firm and insistent but kinder than it had any right to be. "Come on, man."

He grunted as Sam wedged his hands under Dean's armpits and lifted him off the floor of the bar, away from the wall. His heels scrabbled and slid over something sticky and wet underneath him. His own blood, probably. It made him sick with remorse to think how Sam must have found him. His own damn fault. He tried to put weight on his legs and felt a burn rip through his side. Sam never let go. He was holding him up, steady, watchfully, while Dean clung to him, fighting for breath.

"You good?" Sam nudged, after a moment.

It took another moment before Dean nodded, his grip on Sam's shirt easing just slightly. He swallowed, then wished he hadn't.

"Car's just outside," Sam said. "You can make it. You're doing good, man."

His vision was all fucked up. Concussion, most likely, and one of his eyes was swollen nearly shut. He did his best to move one foot in front of the other. He let himself pretend Sam wasn't actually taking so much of his weight.

He heard a door push open and felt the quality of the air around him shift from paneling and stale cigarettes to damp asphalt and exhaust.

"Step," Sam warned, guiding him down over it, from threshold to walkway, but it still sent a jolt through him. He still grimaced, still needed a minute to breathe through it. Still had to fight back the urge to puke all over Sam's boots.

He leaned and spit a mouthful of blood mixed with thick strings of saliva because it was better than swallowing. "'m okay," he moaned from where he was doubled over. "Okay… 'm okay."

Sam's hand on his back rubbed a slow, even line, back and forth between his shoulder blades. Sam didn't say a word. He just waited.

"You got this," Sam encouraged. Dean nodded, eyes closed. His fingers twisted around a knot of Sam's shirt. Just a few steps more, and he felt the smooth, cold curve of Baby's backside slide up against his hip. He leaned gratefully into her, shaking all over, as Sam got the door open.

Sam talked to him while he drove, glancing anxiously between Dean and his abuse of the speed limit. Asking questions. Urging him to stay awake. He tried. He owed Sam that. He kept slipping, catching himself, then slipping again, his head dropping forward and then jerking up again.

The gaps between awareness grew wider, the darkness pressed closer. He wasn't sure when he gave up and let his head roll back against the seat, just let the vibrations of the road under his tires take everything else away.

He could have sworn he smelled pancakes.

It had to be the concussion.

He took a deep breath, and then realized that not only did he smell pancakes, he was laying on something soft, with a cool layer of sheets tucked around him and a pillow under his head. He felt dizzy with the absence of pain, which meant good drugs, maybe tramadol, maybe even morphine. Damn, Sammy.

But what the fuck?

He half-opened his eyes to a bleary double-silhouette of his brother outlined against the window, seemingly doing something to the shades to block out more of the morning sunlight. He tried to swallow, then ended up having to clear his throat, which made Sam look up, immediately leaving the window alone and coming over to sit on the edge of the mattress next to Dean.

"Hey," Sam said, plastering on a smile that didn't mask the fatigue in his eyes. "How're you feeling?"

Dean frowned. He brought a hand up to his side, feeling the soft fabric of one of his favorite t-shirts, and ran his fingertips along the bumpy line of Sam's handiwork, feeling the row of neat stitches where the gaping stab wound had been. "When'd you do this?" he asked. His throat felt raw. The sound of his own voice made his head buzz uncomfortably.

Sam nudged his hand out of the way and gently eased the edge of his shirt up over his stomach to check it, then pulled it back down into place and put a hand on Dean's shoulder, making him stay down with his head on pillow. "When you were out," he said, matter-of-factly.

Dean gave up resisting Sam's efforts to make him stay flat, and rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"Don't do that," Sam said.

He looked at him. "Do what?"

"You know what."

"What, Sam? I know screwed up, okay. I don't need you to try and make me feel better about the fact that I suck."

Sam sighed. "There it is."

There was something sad in Sam's eyes that Dean didn't want to see. He turned his attention back to the ceiling.

After a moment, Sam patted the mattress twice and stood up. "I, uh, I don't know if you're gonna be hungry yet, but I paid a kid twenty bucks to go get us some breakfast. Just in case."

"Pancakes."

Sam looked at him in surprise. "Yeah..."

Dean crooked a small smile. "I could smell the syrup."

The paper takeout bag crinkled in Sam's hand. "Well, you've got that... And bacon. And those little hash brown things you like, which are basically just rehydrated potato bits mashed together and deep-fried in lard, I think."

"Oh, baby. I love it when you talk dirty."

Sam laughed. He held up the bag in front of Dean. "Look, you can actually see the grease seeping through the bag."

"That's glorious. That's how you know it's quality."

Sam set the bag down on the small nightstand beside Dean's bed and grabbed both of the extra pillows from the other bed Sam hadn't slept in. "Here," he said. He took hold of Dean's forearm and reached his other arm around to bring Dean's shoulders forward help him sit up. Then he packed both pillows in between Dean's back and the headboard, gently easing him back to lean against them. "How's that? Okay?"

The kindness of the gesture, the tone of Sam's voice, it was too much. It hit him again like a sucker punch in the stomach, stealing the air from his lungs. The guilt. The fact that he put himself here. Put Sammy through all this. For what? For him? He didn't deserve that. He drew back, closing off.

"Yeah. Sam, I'm fine. Seriously. You don't have to hover."

Sam saw it happen, and he bit his lip, that same sadness again coming into his eyes again.

"Look... Dean? I know what you want from me. I know what you expect. But I... I'm not Dad."

Dean looked at him sharply. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sam hesitated. "I know how it is, okay? I'm not stupid. You just got your ass handed to you, and you're not gonna feel right about anything until you hear how stupid and careless and sloppy and boneheaded you are, how you could have gotten yourself killed, how you put everyone you care about in danger. And now you think you need to go crawl into a goddamn hole until you hear all that, but you're not gonna hear it, Dean. Because Dad's not here, and you're sure as hell not gonna hear it from me."

"Sammy."

"None of it is true, Dean. Don't you get that? It's how he controlled you. Us. You were never going to be good enough. He was never going to be proud of you. That's why... that's why I quit trying. "

"Sam." Dean's breath caught on the word.

Sam looked like he wanted to say more, but he stopped, eyes glassy, mouth twisted, and he just shook his head and blinked away the tears he wasn't going to acknowledge.

"You were supposed to be the one," Dean said softly, "that was okay."

Sam looked searchingly at him. Then gave him a reassuring smile. "Hey. I'm okay," he said with a sudden urgently. He reached out and put a hand on Dean's arm and giving it a squeeze. "I am okay, Dean."

Dean nodded.

"Think you can you eat something? I did give you the good drugs. You should probably try, if you can."

"Yeah. Yeah, I... Sam... thanks."

Sam set the greasy bag of carbs and animal fats onto the bedspread beside his brother. "You eating is all the thanks I need."

"Well then, you are welcome."

Dean humored him, mostly picking at the food, but managed to get a few bites down. Sam brought him pills and fresh water. He helped him get his arms into his favorite hoodie, the one he always slept in when he was too sick or hurt to get out of bed, and it helped. It did.

Sam always helped. Even when Dean was too boneheaded to accept it.

Maybe especially then.

End