Good morning!

I can't believe this week is Thanksgiving! I really truly thought I had another week haha! :) I'm giving LOTS of thanks to my phenomenal beta, L.H. the Second for helping me out with this while we're both in the middle of NaNoWriMo. She's always so willing to help and give up her time to read through my stuff and clean up all my messes. :)

This little holiday special is three parts long. I'll post ch 2 on Tuesday, and ch 3 will be up Thursday morning, just in time for parades, turkey, football, and giving thanks!

Hope you will enjoy! :)

Set immediately following 12.06 Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox

Thankful

Chapter One

The drive home was quiet.

Six hours of quiet.

Six hours of quiet unbroken except for excruciatingly brief conversations.

Let me drive the rest of the way. - Sam, after they'd dropped Jody back off at her house and declined her offer to stay the night.

Yeah. Sure. Fine. Here. - Dean, handing the keys over, posture collapsed and defeated.

I'll get gas, you get coffee. - Dean, at exit 47.

Dean? - Sam, as he drove through Silver Creek, Nebraska.

What? - Dean, twenty-two miles later.

Never mind. - Sam.

They hadn't said another word the rest of the trip home.

They got home late and Sam disappeared without a word.

Dean couldn't blame him; he hadn't exactly encouraged conversation on the way home. Six hours of near-constant silence hadn't been pleasant, but he hadn't been in the mood to listen to Sam try to make excuses. To try to help him understand. To try to soothe his anger and disappointment and heartache.

She'd eaten breakfast with them, then they'd parted ways without any hint of when she might decide to drop back into their lives.

Shaking his head, Dean went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Jody had insisted on feeding them a late lunch, but other than some mini-mart snacks, they hadn't eaten anything since then. He stared into the fridge as he drank the beer, knowing he should be hungry.

He wasn't hungry, though. Hadn't been hungry at breakfast even though the bacon had been amazing. Hadn't been hungry at lunch even though Jody's home cooking never failed to please. He'd choked down the chips and candy Sam had tossed at him after a stop for gas earlier and couldn't think of a single thing he wanted to eat right now.

Shaking his head, he slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary. He leaned a hip against the counter and closed his eyes, thoughts traitorously drifting back to earlier.

Does this mean you're coming home? Sam had asked, and you had to be a special kind of stupid not to see the desperate hope in his eyes.

Yeah. Not quite yet. I just need a little more time.

Maybe she was a special kind of stupid.

Or a special kind of selfish, Dean wasn't sure which. He shook his head, hand fisting against the counter as he replayed the scene over and over. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't figure her out. Sam kept trying to offer explanations. Justifications. Excuses. And so did she.

Dean didn't want to hear any of it.

He drained the rest of the beer and went for a second one.

Weariness weighed on him, edging out the anger. Taking the beer with him, he headed toward his room. Sam's door was open and he paused.

Sam must have been in the middle of unpacking his gear; it was scattered across his bed. Right now, though, he was staring down at a picture of their mother. After a few seconds, he glanced up and Dean hated that he kind of hated their mother. Sam had spent his entire life longing to know the woman and this was he got?

She said she loved them, sure, but all she seemed to want to do was get as far away from them as possible.

"You alright?" Sam asked, breaking the silence and their twelve hour truce of not asking that question.

Dean shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.

Sam's smile was quick and sad. He was on the verge of saying something, but didn't. His gaze drifted to the floor.

"Get some sleep," Dean said, turning away before Sam could look at him again.

It was a cowardly move, but he didn't care. He couldn't handle even one more glimpse of the heartbreak. Sam had been trying hard to act like he was fine. Like he was ok with what she was doing. Like it wasn't killing him every time she walked away from them. But Dean could see it all too clearly and knew the truth.

It was killing both of them.

He finished the beer, then flopped down onto his bed. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to fall asleep, but he did.

When he woke up it was almost five in the morning and he was starving. Like eat an entire pizza starving. Like should have eaten last night starving.

With a groan, he pushed himself upright. Might as well start the day since he was already awake. After one of the quickest showers ever, he headed toward the kitchen. He passed his brother's bedroom and found the door was still open. A quick peek revealed his brother was sleeping soundly.

He didn't sleep soundly for long.

Ten minutes later, they were both sitting at the table and eating cold cereal because that was all they had.

"We need laundry soap," Sam muttered around a mouthful of corn flakes. "And food."

"I'm not the wife in this relationship." Dean wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. "You can do the grocery shopping this week."

Sam cleared his throat and Dean knew he wasn't going to like whatever he was about to say.

"So, uh...next week's Thanksgiving."

Yep, don't like it.

Dean shrugged, getting up to pour another cup of coffee.

"I was thinking we should give Mom a call-"

"No." Dean cut him off more harshly than he'd intended.

"Dean-"

"No. We've never done a traditional Thanksgiving. Never really done Thanksgiving at all. Why would we start now?" He purposefully kept his back turned so he wouldn't see Sam's reaction.

"We've never had our Mom around before," Sam said quietly.

"She's not around now," Dean snapped. She'd rejected them more than once and he wasn't interested in being rejected again. "She's on a hunt."

"But she might-"

"She said she needed to hunt."

Thanks for breakfast, she'd said. It was great to see you boys. I don't know when I'll be back down by you. I'm actually heading to Nevada. Looks like it's a haunting...No, thank you, though, but I've got this one. Take care of each other. I'll talk to you later.

Dean gritted his teeth, the memory of her words cutting into him nearly as badly as they'd done when she'd actually said them. Standing outside that diner in Manitoba. Just before she walked away from them. Again.

Breakfast had been...uncomfortable. They'd all been polite. Uncomfortably so. Admittedly, he'd been harboring a lot of anger and bitterness toward their mother at the time. Who was he kidding? He was still harboring the anger and bitterness.

In a somewhat ironic turn of events, Sam had taken on role of mediator between Dean and their mom. It reminded Dean all too well of the role of mediator he'd once played between their dad and Sam. He hated it. Hated that their relationships with their parents were so complicated. It didn't seem fair.

"Dean. Are you listening to me?"

Well, no. He wasn't. Dean shook himself out of his thoughts and turned around. Sam was looking at him with that overly patient, heartfelt expression he wore far too often lately. Mostly when they were discussing their mom.

"I'm listening," Dean said, even though he hadn't been.

"And?"

"And we're gonna find a case."

Sam nodded. "Ok. Sure. Let's get a case. But Thanksgiving isn't until next week, so we could-"

"When you go to the store," Dean cut him off, "Baby needs windshield washer fluid."

Dean walked away without another word. Hopefully the topic wouldn't come up again.

Sam watched his brother walk away.

The conversation had gone as well as he'd expected it would. He sighed, staring at the bowl of soggy cereal in front of him. Why he'd thought this would be a good time to suggest a holiday family get together, he didn't know. Bringing up Thanksgiving right now had been a really dumb idea.

Resting his chin in one hand, he stirred the spoon through the cereal slop with other and wondered if complicated family relations was perhaps the most normal thing about them.

Sure, their mom had come back from the dead after thirty some years, but, other than that, maybe they weren't so special. He'd known kids from elementary all the way through college who had complicated relationships with their parents.

His and Dean's relationship with their own father had been complicated and he was beginning to think maybe things were more complicated with their mom.

Standing up, he took his bowl to the sink and rinsed it out. Doing the dishes didn't distract him from the memories. Even now, weeks later, he could all too clearly picture Dean's expression that night when their mom had walked out of the bunker.

It had been a sucker punch for both of them. Yeah, there'd been signs that she'd been struggling, but even he hadn't expected her to choose to leave the way she had. It had hurt in a way nothing had ever hurt before. In that moment, he'd understood how Dean must have felt the day he'd left for Stanford. He'd seen the pain their mother's rejection had caused his brother.

Dean had been utterly crushed when she'd walked out the door.

The surprise reunion at Asa Fox's funeral had thrown all of them for a loop. Their mom had been surprised to see them; polite, but distant. Dean had been angry. Trying to control it, trying to hide it, but angry all the same.

Sam wasn't sure how he felt.

Turning off the faucet, he dried his hands on a towel and shoved everything to the back of his mind. He needed to focus. Figuring out the grocery list would be a quick, easy way to distract himself. Since there was still a week until Thanksgiving, he didn't have to stress himself out trying to come up with an appropriate meal. Right now, all he needed was to get them through.

He'd just finished making the list when his brother reappeared.

"Pack your crap," Dean said from the doorway. "Caught a case."

"That was fast." Sam looked up from the list, heart sinking.

"Fast. Yeah. As in the opposite of you making a grocery list."

It was a challenge, but Sam had just enough willpower to resist the lure. Or maybe he was just too tired. Either way, getting into an argument with his brother was the last thing he was interested in right now.

"Ok. What's the case?" he asked, setting the list aside and getting to his feet.

"Sounds ghoulish. You can figure it out on the way."

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall without another word.

Sam gritted his teeth.

Rushing into a case without knowing exactly what they were getting into was always a bad idea. Another time, he might have tried to push for a little more research. A little more patience. But patience was a virtue completely absent from his brother at the moment.

"Hurry up!" Dean shouted from the other end of the hall, further demonstrating his lack of patience.

Sam shook his head and walked to his room.

He debated the merits of attempting to be the voice of reason, but didn't feel up to it at the moment. Dean needed a case. He needed to get busy and he needed a reason to not think about their mother. It was probably for the best. Sam would wait to put his foot down until it was absolutely necessary if it seemed Dean was rushing into anything. Better to be the voice of reason at that point than to make a big deal of things right now. The drive itself would probably help alleviate some more of Dean's tension anyway.

Maybe it would help clear his mind, too.

Thirty-seven hours after he'd found the hunt, Dean was lying on a cold, unforgiving cement floor trying his hardest not to pass out.

Things had been going smoothly. Sam, reluctant at first, had jumped on board and done some truly masterful research and planning and discovered it wasn't a ghoul, but a crocotta. They'd gone in well prepared and anticipated more than one crocotta, but had still been caught off guard by the viciousness of the fight.

The room was dimming and going in and out of focus while he struggled for breath. He wasn't getting up again. Not without help, anyway. He couldn't quite determine what was broken — his entire body was screaming in agony — but he knew things were broken. The crocotta that had jumped him from behind had done a thorough job of beating him before he'd managed to find his knife and stab the monster through the spine.

Dean had stumbled two steps away then gone down hard.

Upstairs, he could hear another struggle going on and the only thing he could do was hope. Hope Sam was getting the upper hand. Hope he'd hurry up and take out the crocotta and get downstairs and get him to a hospital.

Because there was no question about it, he needed a hospital.

Dean bit his lip, drawing blood as he tried one last time to get to his hands and knees. Fiery pain blazed across his chest and up and down his spine, halting his movement. He was curled on his side and the position was hampering his breathing, but he couldn't move.

An inadvertent cry of pain broke through his wavering control as something deep inside him shifted. Gasping in shock, his breath a tight wheeze through constricted airways, heavy darkness fell over him and he didn't hurt anymore.

He's dead was Sam's initial thought when he ran around the corner and saw his brother, crumpled against the far wall.

Dean was on his side, hands lying limp in front of him, his knees drawn up toward his chest, face slack in unconsciousness.

"No. No, no, no." Sam ran across the room and skidded to his knees at his brother's side. "Dean!"

There was no blood, no sign of obvious injury. Maybe he'd just taken a knock to the head. Maybe it was as simple as that. Not that a concussion was anything good, but it was better than dead.

Shaking fingers pressed against clammy skin. Pulse rapid, unsteady, fluttering under his fingertips. Now that he was closer, and some of the initial haze of pure panic had faded, he could hear Dean's labored breaths; wheezing and uneven. This was more than a concussion. This was something far more serious.

"Dean," Sam whispered, running a hand over his brother's head.

No blood, no noticeable skull fractures. A fast assessment revealed several ribs that were broken, though, which explained why Dean's breathing sounded so terrible. Tugging his jacket and shirts up, Sam discovered frightening mottling and bruising all across Dean's chest.

He needed a hospital.

"Dean. Hey, Dean," he called, more loudly. "Need you to wake up."

It took only a moment before Dean began to stir.

Holding Dean's shoulder, Sam coached, "Take it slow, man, you're busted up pretty good."

Dean groaned softly, like he didn't have enough strength to do anything more.

"I know." Sam watched his brother's face screw up in pain. "Gonna get you to a hospital. Get you taken care of right away."

"Sam?"

"Yes."

Dean's eyes slid opened and they were glazed, pupils uneven. Concussion. Great.

"Y'ok?" Dean mumbled, his hands fisting as his breathing rate sped up and he tried to move.

"I'm ok. Hey, take it slow. Slow movements, slow." Sam steadied his brother. "Let me help."

Dean grimaced and allowed Sam to do most of the work to get him sitting up. He wilted forward, head hitting Sam's shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around his chest as he groaned deep in his throat, then sucked in a stridorous breath.

Sam swallowed back the fear and said, "I've got you."

Nodding against Sam's shoulder, Dean whispered, "Get me up."

There was a foreboding sense of urgency in his tone. Dean knew how badly he was hurt. Knew it and was all but telling Sam this was urgent. That he needed medical attention right away.

"Ok. Let me do the work," Sam coached, moving from his knees to a crouch. "Watch your ribs."

"Hmm."

Getting him to his feet wasn't easy and left Sam wondering if it wouldn't have been wiser to call an ambulance. Dean was almost continually moaning, the wheezing sounding worse by the second.

And they still had to get to the car.

Dean wasn't able to lift his arm high enough to get it over Sam's shoulders, so instead Sam was dragging him along mostly by a tight grip on his belt and a cautious, steadying hand under his elbow. They walked slowly, pausing every few feet for Dean to catch his ever shortening breath.

It seemed like an hour passed before they reached the Impala. Sam settled his brother into the passenger seat, fear filling him at the pallor of Dean's face, the way his lips were tinged blue. He slammed the door and ran to the drivers side.

"Just keep breathing," Sam said, starting the car with another glance at his brother.

"Tryin'." Dean was huddled against the door, arms braced around himself.

"Good."

After that, silence fell between them. Dean concentrated on breathing and Sam concentrated on the road. A few miles passed and Dean seemed to recover a bit. Even started insisting he was fine and didn't need a hospital. The argument was short; Sam told him to shut up. Dean shut up. For a few minutes.

"Sam. Just go back to the motel," Dean said, his voice strained.

"No. You're busted up bad."

"I've had broken ribs before." Dean shifted, hand pressed to his chest. He went another shade paler with the movement.

"I don't care. We already had this argument and I'm not having it again. This is bad. You've got some serious bruising going on and an ice pack and a beer isn't going to take care of internal bleeding."

Dean waved a hand dismissively. He didn't try to talk again the rest of the trip to the hospital. Just sat there, arms wrapped around his chest, trying not to look like it was getting more and more difficult to draw a breath.

Sam pushed far past the speed limit and got them to the hospital in half the time it should have taken them.

The parking lot was full and so was the waiting room. Sam guided his brother to a chair, alarmed at how easily Dean followed his lead. Once his brother was settled, Sam hurried through the crowded room to register.

"How long?" Dean asked when he returned from checking him in.

"Hour or two."

Sam studied his brother. He looked twice as awful as he had just a moment ago. Sweating, Dean was hunched forward, arms still wrapped around his chest and his face ashen. Each breath was strained and rapid. Dean closed his eyes, sucking in one harsh breath after another. A minute later and he started coughing in between struggling for breath.

"I'm gonna go talk to the nurse," Sam said, glancing from his brother to the reception desk. "You need to be seen right now."

Dean nodded, coughing again, his eyes squeezed tight.

Sam started to get to his feet, but before he could, his brother cried out in pain and Sam's heart jumped into his throat. Dean's eyes went wide and he grabbed for Sam, catching his arm and squeezing hard. His skin was going grey and there was nothing but fear in his gaze.

"I need some help!" Sam yelled, startling the people sitting nearby.

He vaguely heard people shouting for help, but his attention was on his brother. One hand on Dean's shoulder to stabilize him, Sam rested his other hand against the side of his face, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Stay with me," he said, reining in his own fear. "Hey, come on. Focus on me. Focus. Slow breaths. I know it hurts."

Dean rolled his eyes and managed a bitchy glare despite the fact his lips were turning blue.

"Sorry. Just...stay with me. Hey, Dean? Hey, stay with me. Don't… no, no, come on." Heart pounding in his chest, he caught his brother as he slumped forward. "Dean!"

He fumbled for a pulse just as someone appeared at his side, pushing him aside.

Moving unwillingly, Sam held his brother up as a nurse assessed him, then started shouting. He tried to follow what was being said, but the words turned to a dull buzz and made no sense. Everything around him was moving at lightspeed but he seemed stuck in slow motion. Questions were thrown his way and he answered them as best as he could, while never taking his eyes off his brother.

The move from the waiting room to the treatment room was a blur.

He tried to stay close, tried to make sure Dean knew he was still with him. The staff were understanding and only had him step back a few times while they worked. A diagnosis of pneumothorax and multiple broken ribs was called out after a chest x-ray. Given the beating Dean had taken, a collapsed lung had been a worry in the back of Sam's mind all along. Even so, the diagnosis hit him like a brick as he comprehended how close he could have come to losing his brother.

The doctor had to insert a chest tube and at that point the room started getting a little dark and warm. One of the nurses approached him and offered a chair. Knees weak, Sam accepted the offer.

Dean was pretty much out of it; awake but not alert. His breathing was still rough, but with the oxygen, he wasn't struggling as much as he'd been before. He was mumbling questions, his glazed eyes looking around the room, trying to sort out what was happening. Sam explained as best as he could but knew Dean wasn't fully grasping anything he said.

Just talking to him, though, seemed to help calm him, so Sam kept it up. He had a general idea of what was going on, so he gave his brother a play by play.

After a few minutes, though, Dean shot him an annoyed glare. Sam took the hint and shut up.

"Sam." Dean waved his hand in a frantic gesture a few minutes later.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, leaning forward.

Dean waved his hand again. His voice was muffled through the oxygen mask as he said, "Tell me...what's happening."

"Thought you were telling me to shut up."

"If I want you to shut up," Dean said, laboring for each breath, "then I'll tell you to shut up."

"Well, I'm telling you to shut up right now." Sam shook his head, watching the numbers on the oxygen monitor dip with Dean's unsteady breaths. "Concentrate on your breathing not your bitching."

Dean glared at him, then broke into a coughing fit. His arms tightened around his chest and Sam had to reach out and nudge his hand away from the area where the doctor had inserted the chest tube. He started another round of steady encouragement knowing that Dean was verging on a panic attack.

"Coughing's good, man," Sam coached, hand on Dean's shoulder. "But how bout you don't cough up a lung. You're already down one."

That quip earned him another glare, but it accomplished what he'd wanted it to. Some of the panic had faded from Dean's eyes and he was working to control his breathing. Sam smiled even though he didn't like the way Dean was still fighting for each breath. Under his hand, Dean's shoulder was tight and even his neck muscles were strained. He was wheezing and, in between each struggling breath, moaning in pain.

Sam grimaced, knowing exactly what it felt like to cough hard with broken ribs and a head injury.

The coughing jag raised more than just Sam's concern. A nurse appeared at the other side of the bed, coaching Dean and making adjustments. She checked the site of the chest tube and apparently found it was in correct position. The oxygen level dipped but rose again slowly. She adjusted the monitor and turned down the screaming alarm that he hadn't even noticed until now. The nurse was talking to both of them and Sam tried to pay attention but probably got about as much out of the conversation as his brother did.

By the time the fit had ended, Dean was slack against the pile of pillows. His breathing was a little less strained although he was still wheezing. Sweat dripped down his ashen face and intermittent coughs shook him. His hands were no longer fisted but resting against the sheets as limp as the rest of him.

The nurse softly offered some reassurances and instructions then left the room. Reassurances and instructions that did no real good because Sam hadn't been able to focus on them at all. She'd left the room without rushing, so at least he knew Dean wasn't in any real danger.

Heart in his throat, Sam tried to regulate his own breathing. He sat back in the chair, pressing his hands to his face for a few seconds and taking a deep breath. Lowering his hands, he looked at his brother again to remind himself that he was alive. Badly injured, but alive.

Dean's eyes slitted open and he tilted his head slightly but didn't say anything. Obviously breathing was taking all of his energy. The sounds of his breathing and the beeping of the IV pump in the background filled the small room. Sam didn't break the near silence. What was there to say?

This time, Dean didn't seem to need conversation to keep him grounded. He just held Sam's gaze for a few more minutes before his eyes slid closed again. Sam watched him for a moment, then slumped forward, resting his head in his hands. He counted each breath his brother took as thoughts of complications raced through his mind.

Pneumonia.

Internal bleeding.

Sepsis.

He shook his head, not looking up. They were in the hospital and Dean was being monitored for stuff like that.

He'll be fine.

For the next hour, Sam had to remind himself of that over and over as Dean's condition went up and down. The stretches of quiet reprieve always seemed shorter than the moments when Dean was coughing and gasping and trying to hide how much he was hurting. His oxygen levels fluctuated wildly and it was decided he was unstable enough to warrant monitoring in the ICU.

Dean was struggling enough that he wasn't paying any attention to anything around him. He was oblivious to the change in scenery; fading in and out of a light sleep. For a little while, things seemed to calm down after they were settled in the ICU.

It was ten till three in the morning when Dean's condition took a nosedive.

He'd never been stable, not really, but now he was a whole lot worse. The change had been subtle, the symptoms worsening gradually over the past few hours, but it was still terrifying to watch. The nurse hadn't left the room for the past hour and the doctor had been in more than he'd been out which was never a good sign.

Sam had watched the activity from the chair next to his brother's bed.

For nearly thirty minutes, he had to sit there watching helplessly as his brother struggled to breathe and the medical staff fought to save his life. Respiratory therapy was a near constant presence in the room; administering nebulized medications and adjusting the oxygen levels.

The nurse was great about telling him what was going on, but it didn't take away all the fear.

Dean was in and out the entire time, too focused on merely breathing to pay very much attention to anything going on around him. He didn't have enough breath to speak, but seemed to calm when Sam spoke to him.

It was after four when things calmed down and Dean finally fell asleep, his breathing at last easing.

Sam sought out the coffee dispenser as soon as Dean was resting quietly. A few cups of coffee over the course of the next few hours kept him alert enough to pay attention to what the nurses told him. Kept him alert enough to help calm his brother when he woke up disoriented and in pain, struggling to breathe and unable to remember what had happened.

By six am, Sam's hands were shaking and he was sick to his stomach. He waited until a nurse was in doing an assessment, then found his way to the cafeteria and forced himself to eat something. While he ate, he stared at his phone and contemplated calling their mom. He was sure Dean would tell him not to, but Dean wasn't the one whose brother was in the ICU with a concussion and a collapsed lung.

The little cornucopia and pumpkin decorations on the table reminded him that, just a day ago, he'd still been contemplating calling her to see if he could arrange some kind of Thanksgiving get together. A traditional Thanksgiving dinner seemed very unimportant right now. He shook his head, remembering his foolish hope that they could have celebrated a holiday with their Mom. All he hoped for now was that Dean would pull through. Him being alive would be the best reason for giving thanks that Sam could ever imagine.

After staring at his phone for another minute or two, Sam called.

He got their mom's voicemail and almost hung up. It reminded him of sitting in another hospital a very long time ago and trying to get ahold of their dad. Years had passed, but the sting hadn't faded. Dad had never called back despite the fact Dean was in the hospital dying after a heart attack. Why would this be any different?

He left a generic message. Something about just checking in and wondering how her case was going. Hanging up the phone, he felt like an idiot.

Throwing out half of his breakfast, he went back to the ICU and found his brother had faded back to sleep after the nurse's assessment. Sitting down, he glanced at his phone every five minutes until he was tempted to chuck it against the far wall.

Of course she's not going to call back. Why would she? She's on a hunt for one thing. For another thing, she obviously wanted space. She doesn't want to be part of our lives right now; maybe ever. I shouldn't have called.

The sun was bright around the closed curtains by the time he'd stopped berating himself for calling Mary.

He called Jody.

He got her voicemail, too. While he listened to the message, he debated what he was going to say. Why exactly was he calling her anyway?

They'd been in plenty of bad situations like this before, why was this the time he was calling people? Dean wasn't dying. He'd been assured of that several times over which made him wonder how concerned he looked if people kept telling him Dean wasn't dying.

A beep announced that it was time for him to leave his message.

"Hey, Jody. It's Sam. Uh...just wanted to see how things are going. We...we were on a hunt. So. Yeah. Anyway. Ok. Talk to you later."

He hung up and again debated throwing his phone against the wall. Why had he bothered to call her if he was going to leave a message like that? Idiot. Even so, leaving a stupid nonsensical message was better than leaving one like he'd left for Dad all those years ago.

Hey, Dad. It's Sam. Uh...you probably won't even get this, but, uh...it's Dean. He's sick, and uh...the doctors say there's nothing they can do. Um...but, uh, they don't know the things we know, right? So, don't worry, cause I'm uh...gonna do whatever it takes to get him better. Alright...just wanted you to know.

A message that he never got a response to. Even when their dad had met up with them again, he'd never said a word about the message or the fact Dean had nearly died.

Maybe leaving a stupid, nonsensical message wasn't so stupid or nonsensical after all. It was better than getting ignored or rejected.

"Sam?"

His head snapped up at the sound of Dean's voice. "Hey, how're you doing?"

"I'm in a freakin ICU," Dean muttered, voice still muffled behind the oxygen mask. "How you think I'm doin'?"

Sam smiled at the familiar snark in his brother's tone. He pocketed his phone and said, "Pretty crappy."

"Pretty crappy." Dean nodded, left hand moving to rest against his ribs while his right hand fumbled up to mess with the oxygen mask.

"Leave that alone."

Dean glared at him.

"Seriously, though. You feel any better?"

"Ribs are still broken. Still down a lung. Worst headache of my life." His words were punctuated with short, pained breaths. "What do you think?"

"I think you're whining. Worst headache, really?" Sam teased even though his heart did a few flip flops at Dean's honest admission.

Dean just waved his hand dismissively and looked around the room. After a minute, he glanced back and asked, "You ok?"

Sam nodded.

"The crocotta didn't-"

"Didn't touch me," Sam said, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

"You eat anything... or just been…. drinking coffee... all night?" He was huffing and puffing by the time he finished the question.

"I ate breakfast." Sam leaned forward. "How about you stop talking so much, ok?"

Dean nodded, closing his eyes. Sam relaxed, hoping his brother was going to fall back to sleep and get a little more rest.

"Don't call Mom," Dean mumbled, opening his eyes only for a split second.

Swallowing hard, Sam nodded. "Yeah. Ok."

She didn't even answer. Probably won't ever call back anyway. No reason to tell him.

Sam watched his brother fall asleep again and settled in for a very long day.

to be continued...

Thank you for reading! See you on Tuesday!