In Medicamentum Veritas
K Hanna Korossy

Dean was snoring.

Sam remembered this from his childhood as an irritation and a cause to kick his sleeping brother in the shins, preferably rolling him out of bed altogether. It was only now as an adult that he'd come to realize why Dean snored on occasion. It was a betrayal of his body that he wasn't well, an admission that Dean wouldn't often willingly make.

Of course, there wasn't a lot of question about the matter right now.

Sam tossed his brother a few glances as he drove, smile growing a little with each one. "Nice view of your tonsils, man," he finally murmured, and reached over to cup Dean's neck and straighten it a little, leaning his temple instead of his cheek against the window.

Dean snorted, mouth twitching into what Sam seriously hoped wasn't a leer, and settled into quieter sleep in the corner of seat and door.

Sam shook his head, still smiling, pulled up the slipped jacket to Dean's neck, and drove on.

They weren't going far, not with Dean in that condition, so Sam pulled into the first motel that looked halfway decent. Dean didn't even stir as asphalt gave way to gravel under his baby's tires, and Sam shook his head again. He'd have to pick up some of those drugs himself. Dean hadn't been this silent this long since…the last time he'd gotten hurt.

Sam's smile fell, and he shoved his way out the car door with more force than Dean would've approved of had he been awake.

He got them a room at the end of the row: quiet for Dean, solitude for Sam. The last time they'd hobbled into a room leaning on each other, some prim librarian type had stopped to give them a lecture on sobriety. Apparently, Sam's jacket had hidden the blood.

Dean was tilted against the glass and snoring again as Sam slipped back into the car. He relocated them to the room, driving smooth and slow only to keep the gravel from pinging against the car. That was the story Dean would want to hear, anyway.

At the room, Sam let Dean sleep a little longer as he went to wrestle with the lock, then drag their bags inside: one duffel each, the heavy weapons bag, the first aid kit. Settled in as much as they ever did, he went back out and stood outside the passenger-side door, hands on his hips as he briefly considered the whats and hows. Taking a breath, he reached down and opened the door.

Dean tumbled lazily with it, and Sam quickly reached an arm in to hook under his brother's. "Whoa. Hey, Dean, we're here."

Eyes that were a little too bright green cracked open to stare first ahead, then slide around with a looseness that reminded Sam of the very few times he'd ever seen his brother really drunk. It wasn't a state Dean allowed himself often, leaving himself that vulnerable and out of control, and that included medications. In the past, it was only when Dad was sticking close. Now, Dean reluctantly let himself be drugged when his brother was there, and Sam felt like he'd passed some sort of test.

Of course, his prize was a handful of very out-of-it big brother, and that didn't quite seem fair.

"C'mon, Dean, room's right here. Got a comfortable bed and everything, man."

He pulled Dean out of the car, patiently waited until wobbly legs untangled themselves and Dean stood on more or less his own power. He only swayed a little as he blinked molasses-slow at the parking lot, then at Sam. "We'ere?"

Not that Dean would have any idea where "here" was, but Sam nodded as he grabbed the falling jacket. He draped it again around Dean's shoulders; they'd had to cut Dean's denim one off him, so Sam had wrapped him in his own coat. "We're here, dude. Home for the next few days."

"S'good." Dean nodded absently, gaze still roaming the nearly empty lot. Hunter reflexes or drugs: Sam had no idea and wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He just smiled. "Glad to hear it." He slammed the car door shut, steadied Dean as his brother flinched in delayed reaction to the sound, then steered him forward with one hand on his shoulder. "You feelin' all right?"

Dean gave him a contented grin, which, with his coordination, ended up being aimed more at the sickly little Bradford Pear tree in front of the door than at Sam. Sam huffed a laugh and stepped forward to get the door.

Then again, maybe the grin was meant for the tree in the first place. When Sam turned back, it was to find Dean staring at the plant with rapt attention, eyes inches from the bark.

Sam hurried back to his side, giving first Dean, then the tree a hard look. Dean was scrutinizing the tree as if it were haunted, or a tree nymph. Which, given their line of work, it could easily have been either. But Sam saw nothing out of the ordinary; Dean was what was off, not the tree. "Dean?"

"Shh. 'M listening."

Right. "Yeah, well, let's listen inside, okay? It's kinda cold out here." He slid a hand under Dean's right arm and coaxed him toward the room.

Dean left the tree with reluctance, but he didn't resist Sam's pull, especially when entering the room gave him all sorts of new objects of fascination, including the flower-printed wallpaper.

Sam gave the room a belated lookover, too, making sure the mattresses were bedbug-free and the bathroom wasn't crawling with anything. Satisfied, he turned back to see Dean's eyes half shut. He swayed on his feet like he might fall asleep right there.

"Hey." Two long strides took Sam back to his side. "No sleeping yet, Dean. Y'all right going to the john by yourself?" He urged his brother forward toward the small room to the right.

Dean's eyes sharpened, found him unerringly. "Dude."

Sam laughed. "Okay, fine, but I'm staying right out here, so call if you need anything, okay?"

Dean was already heading inside, flipping him off lazily as he went.

"And don't talk to the showerhead, all right? They just lie anyway."

Dean grunted and shut the door behind him.

True to his word, Sam stayed there leaning against the doorjamb, not feeling too intrusive for listening to Dean take care of business and running water in the sink. And running. And running.

Sam frowned. "Dean?"

No answer, just flowing water.

Sam immediately slammed the door open.

Making his brother, slumped asleep on the closed toilet seat, jump in surprise.

Sam blew out a breath. "Sleep in the bed, Dean, not the bathroom." He reached in to lift his brother to his feet again.

"Dude, you're freaky tall."

Despite himself, Sam gasped out a laugh. "Yeah, I kinda got that, Shorty."

"Mom said you were gonna get big, but geez, Sammy."

Sam sobered at the mention of their mother, at the way her name had just rolled off Dean's tongue. He never would have made that admission if he were himself, or at least not without breath-hitching pain. "Yeah?" Sam asked, because he couldn't quite bring himself not to take advantage of the opportunity. "What else did she say?"

Dean's lips curled. "That I was a good big brother."

Sam's grip on Dean, on the situation, on his impatience, softened. "Yeah. Yeah, you are," he said quietly, and didn't ask any more.

It didn't keep Dean from going on as Sam washed his hands and finally cleaned the dirt off his face, then ushered him toward the beds. "'S a joke Caleb told me, 'bout a shower and—"

"I don't want to hear it," Sam said firmly.

"Sam—"

"No. Uh-uh, no way, Dean. Sit," he said, and pushed him down onto the edge of the bed.

Dean muttered something under his breath that was probably at least intended to be highly insulting.

Sam ignored him, bending down to untie Dean's boots.

"You 'member the clothes hunts?"

The unexpected reference drew him up short, and Sam's head rose, face pinched with confusion. "Wha—? Oh. Right. You hid my clothes around the room, and I had to find them before I could get dressed. Cute, Dean." He pulled one boot off and started on the other with stiff fingers.

"Hey, that was the only way I could make you get dressed. Got tired of wrestling everything on you. You wiggled like a worm, Sammy. 'Bout as skinny as one, too. Hey, remember that anorexic chick in…?"

Sam sat back on his haunches, blinking. The clothes hunt had been a trick to help him get dressed? Memory had labelled it as another example of his brother's teasing, or possibly even one of Dad's subtle training methods. Sam had never stopped to consider how hard it would've been for a young boy to dress a toddler.

Dean had started humming. Not Metallica. It sounded suspiciously like the Oscar Mayer song, actually.

Sam took a breath and stood, tugging Dean toward the head of the bed. "C'mon, big brother, time for some real sleep."

"'S still light out."

"That's dawn," he lied easily, not really wanting to argue about why he was putting Dean to bed in late afternoon. "We were out all night, remember?"

"Yeah?" Dean pondered that with considerable effort. "Huh. No, but…yeah, 'kay, whatever you say." He chuckled. "Dude, that rhymes."

Sam ignored the giggles and tossed the jacket aside before easing Dean flat on his back, making sure the sling on his left arm was supported by his ribs. But Dean's soft vote of trust rubbed his conscience sharply. "No, it's…we were hunting this morning. You got hurt—dislocated elbow, remember? We spent the day in the hospital?" By the time Sam had killed the wampus, the arm muscles had swollen and locked the joint out of place. They only found out later the bone was also chipped. Dean would have taken the hospital visit with far more ill grace if he hadn't been in excruciating pain and unable to bend his arm. Hence, drugs.

"Mmm. Hot."

Sam had no idea if that meant the nurses, the current state of the room, or the breath of the wampus as it wrenched Dean's arm, but Sam's voice lowered soothingly. "I'll fix it, okay?"

Dean mumbled something.

Sam leaned closer, knowing he'd probably regret this. "What?"

"My Sam…," Dean exhaled, and he was out.

Sam stared at him a moment, then sighed, patting his chest. "Yeah, Dean. It's me."

Wearily, he stood and stripped off his own dirty clothes and climbed into bed. It'd been a long day.

Less than twenty minutes later, something woke him up. It wasn't until Sam shoved up on his elbows and blinked blearily at the room that he realized it was actually the absence of something that had penetrated his unconscious.

"Dean?"

His brother's bed was rumpled and empty, the bathroom dark.

And the front door ajar.

Sam scrambled out of bed, yanking the clothes on he'd just discarded. "Dean!" he called once more, sharply, in case Dean was in the dark bathroom or just outside, but there was no response. Man, he should've known better than to go to sleep. Dean's comatose act had lulled him, but it was the drugs, and drugs did funny things to your head. Dean's intent discussion with the fake little fir tree in the hospital lobby should have given Sam his first clue, and what was it with his brother and flora, anyway? Dean was probably out communing with a maple or something.

Sam swore to himself as he barreled out of the room, stopping to bellow into the parking lot. "Dean!"

The Impala was right where he'd parked it—thank God, because the thought of a drugged Dean going for a joy ride was terrifying—and the lot was as bare as it had been when they'd arrived. Nothing stirred but the traffic on the street in front of them, and, oh, God, if Dean had headed that way…

His wild gaze swung a full arc around him, and something caught his eye. Sam stopped to stare at the motel office, and the movement inside.

The boxer-clad, bare-footed, slinged figure leaning against the front counter.

"Oh, God," Sam moaned, and darted off after his errant brother.

Dean, actually, didn't look cold or in any other way disturbed as Sam yanked the door open and stormed inside. Instead, his grin was pure cat-in-the-cream satisfaction, the look he usually got when he was scoring with…

Um. The sixty-some grandma type sitting behind the counter.

"Sam!" Dean turned to the woman. "This is my…" He drifted a second. "…Sammy. Sam, Sylvia was just tellin' me how awesome a cook she is." He said it like he meant something else a lot less wholesome, and Sam took a full second to wish he could just turn invisible right there.

Sylvia smiled coyly at Sam. "Quite a charming brother you have here," was all she said, but it was so frighteningly knowing, Sam could only summon up a rictus smile.

"Uh, yeah, sometimes. He…likes getting out of the ward." Sam hooked his brother's good arm, pulled Dean unremittingly toward the door as he gave Sylvia a smile and a small shrug. "The doctor said it'd be good for him to get out a little. You know, maybe make the voices go away for a while." And then he was shutting the door firmly after them, cutting off Sylvia's round "o" of surprise.

Dean laughed. "Sammy, she makes pies."

"Not for you," Sam said firmly, and frog-marched them back toward the room.

"Dude," Dean grumbled, pulling his arm free. "What crawled up your—"

"Shut up, okay? Just…shut up." He planted a hand firmly on the back of Dean's shoulder blades and propelled him forward. "You try waking up to an empty room and no sign of where you went."

Dean huffed, and the sound was suddenly more pained than irritated. "Yeah, 'cause that's never happened to me before. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Sam almost stopped short, but he was in socks, Dean was half-naked and barefoot, they were standing outside on gravel, and it was March. But he did gentle his touch, gut churning at this frighteningly open version of Dean. He wanted to say…something. Sorry. Or, I won't do it again. Maybe even take advantage of Dean's current lack of self-censorship and ask just how many times Dad had left him alone on hunts.

What he said, when he got Dean inside again and sitting on the bed, was a quiet, "Let me see your feet."

"Perv." Dean was laughing once more, the sobriety of a moment before already forgotten.

Sam rolled his eyes but was careful as he lifted each limb, checking the bottom for cuts and finding only dirt. Should've known nothing would get through that tough skin. He sighed at the carpet.

"Y'all right?" A hand pulled lightly at the back of his collar, encouraging his head up.

Sam lifted it, looked into dilated but concerned eyes, and felt Dean's earnestness seep into his own weary heart. "I'm fine. You saved me. You always save me, remember? Even when I don't want you to."

"You're m'brother." Dean sounded perplexed, like he wasn't even sure why they were talking about this.

Sam bent his head forward against Dean's knee. Felt Dean's hand settle, hesitant but familiar, on the back of his neck. "You're mine, too, you know," he finally said.

When he looked up again, it was to a still-baffled expression. This was not the time to be talking about this kind of stuff, except it was the only time they talked about this kind of stuff. Sam sighed again and stood, reaching for his brother. "You need to take a leak? Eat? 'Cause otherwise, you're going back to bed."

"Hamburger?" Dean said with a hopeful tilt of the head.

Sam dropped his arm and stared at him. "Seriously? You want a hamburger with all that crap in your system? The doctor said you might be nauseated, not hungry."

"Extra onions. And chili fries."

Sam continued staring at him.

Dean started crawling back to the head of the bed, slinged arm curled close to him. "Go on, bring me some food, woman!"

Sam grit his teeth and counted to five in Latin. "You're not going anywhere?"

"What?"

"Dean." One step took him next to the bed, right in his brother's face. "Don't go anywhere. You hear me? Don't leave. Me," Sam added belatedly, lamely, hoping that might get through the medicated haze.

"Hey, I never left you anywhere," Dean shot back with remarkable clarity. "Not even when Dad—" He suddenly clamped his mouth shut, eyes going evasive.

Sam frowned. "What? When're you—"

"Hungry, Sam," Dean reminded him pointedly, still not looking at him.

Sam studied him a moment longer, then turned and scooped up his jacket, fishing out the packet of pills from the pocket. "Take these, and I'll get you some food to go with, all right? Then you can sleep."

Dean swallowed the pills without protest, then dropped his head back against the headboard. His eyes were already drooping shut.

Sam gave him one last look, mouth bunched with worry, before he left. A glance around outside the door, and he snagged a bench by the wall and pulled it over in front of the door. Not exactly impassible, but it would slow Dean down in the state he was in if he decided to go wandering again.

It was still early for the dinner crowd, so dinner was quickly acquired from the fast food place down the street. Sam hurried back nonetheless, relieved to find the door closed and the bench still in place in front of it. He pulled it away and unlocked the door, forehead wrinkling at the sound of Dean's voice from inside.

From the far corner of the room, as it turned out. Behind the two chairs and one table, which were now set up as a haphazard barricade against the room at large. "Dean, what the—?" Sam yanked up short when the barrel of Dean's shotgun swung his way. "Hey, whoa, it's me."

"Dude, get over here," Dean snapped. "I'll cover you." Into the phone at his ear, he barked a, "Yeah, it's not goin' after Sam, either. I don't know, maybe—"

"DEAN!" The yell jerked his brother's attention back to Sam. "What are you doing?"

To his surprise, Dean vaulted over the toppled table and grabbed Sam's arm, his grip iron. "You're out in the open, doofus."

"What's—"

"Wampus. Whole band of them coming in."

Sam blinked, then shook himself. "No." He grabbed the phone from Dean's ear, listened to the familiar voice sputtering on the other end, and said a hasty, "Jeff, I'll call you back, all right? Dean's, uh…made a mistake." He ignored the querying sound and flipped the phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. It freed up his other hand to twist out of Dean's grip and grab him in turn, arm and shoulder. "Dean, listen to me. They're not real, all right? Nothing's coming. We killed the wampus, remember? We're safe now."

"Never safe, Sam—"

"We are," he insisted. "Here, we are. I'll make sure of it. Nothing's gonna get us here. You can sleep."

"'M tired." Dean looked it, too, blinking heavily, holding his arm close like it hurt, face pinched and pale.

"I know," Sam soothed. He plucked the shotgun out of Dean's hands, guided him away from his little fortress. "I've got watch now, all right?"

Dean's gaze slid back to the door, and his face tightened. "Y'sure?"

"I'm sure, Dean. I'm sure. It's my turn now."

Dean made a noise that might have been agreement and crawled again into bed, more slowly and gingerly this time.

"You want your burger?" Sam asked, dragging blankets back up over him by the handful.

Dean grimaced.

Sam laughed softly. "Yeah, I thought so. Just get some sleep, okay? Things'll look better in the morning." That had always been Dean's motto, even when it was blatantly untrue.

"I don't get…" Dean's words slurred, stumbled, losing the train of thought, losing to sleep.

"What, Dean?" Sam sat next to him, feeling tired and stretched thin and not up to any more stolen glimpses into his brother's soul.

"Dad said you'd be safe, leave you, but…didn' believe it…Chris told me…I never minded takin' care of Sam."

Sam frowned trying to piece together the words. "What? Chris who?"

"Burrrrr—" Dean coughed, groaned, and tucked his arm close. "Wake me when Sylv'a comes." And he turned over and went to sleep.

Chris Burr? The only Chris Sam could think of was an old World War II vet their dad had sometimes gotten intel from, but his last name was T-something, and Sam hadn't heard about him for years. He knew no other Chris's except…

Sam's eyes widened. Chris Burridge, the guy in his freshman dorm, psych major? And sophomore dorm, come to think of it. The one who always asked about him. Bought pizza to share sometimes, sold his old laptop to Sam for a song when his parents got him a new one. Generous and interested, Sam had always thought.

But Dean wouldn't have… Would he?

Sam flushed and stared down at Dean, one hand poised to shake him awake and demand answers, full of moral outrage. Except…

Dean had been scared of Sam being alone at school. Both he and John had.

Chris never pried into his past, only asked about the present: how things were going, what Sam was studying, if he was making friends. Brotherly questions, come to think of it.

Bribing an informant was totally the way Dean worked.

And Sam had been the one to leave.

He sprang to his feet, paced to the end of the room with his hands clasped behind his head, then back again. Staring at Dean lying in bed, looking all-too-human and breakable and young, three adjectives Sam had never matched to him before. Sometimes he forgot how friggin' young his brother really was. If he'd even realized it in the first place.

Never safe. Tired. And too familiar with being left alone. Sam closed his eyes and let the last vestiges of his outrage slip into understanding. They were both entitled to their secrets, and the ones he held were potentially a lot more hurtful. Pots and kettles, they were all tarnished.

Sam sagged down on his bed and fumbled out his phone, dialing down to find Jeff. After reassuring him they weren't under imminent wampus attack, Sam toed off his shoes, shrugged out of his jacket, all the while staring at the other bed.

Dean didn't move, breathing long and deep, snoring softly, finally really asleep.

Sam stumbled to his feet anyway, dragged the upended table and chairs to pile in front of the door. He'd have tied Dean to the bed, too, except that he didn't want to risk causing him discomfort while he slept. No, this would be enough. Dean never went far without him, anyway.

Sam shook his head, then dragged his jeans off and climbed back into his own bed.

After he got up one last time to tuck the shotgun under his bed and lay down some lines of salt.

00000

Dean slept for most of the next two days. He woke sometimes, groggy, peering uncertainly at Sam but swallowing pills and soup and crackers without argument. He held his arm close and the pinched skin around his eyes told Sam how much he ached, but there wasn't complaint, wasn't much of anything. Drugged Dean was now just dulled Dean, and Sam found he missed even his loopy brother.

It was Thursday before Dean cautiously stretched, then flicked a half-lidded gaze around the room, resting it finally on Sam. "Wampus?"

"Monday." Sam left the table to sit on the bed opposite him.

"Today?"

"Thursday."

"Idaho?"

"Maryland."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Just checking." Dean turned over on his side, yawning, and rubbed his shoulder. "Don't know what those pills were, but I had some freaky dreams, man."

"Any involve Sylvia?" Sam asked with a smile.

"Who?" Dean rolled back to squint at him.

Sam pointed to the table by the door. "She brought you an apple pie, made from scratch. Guess you made an impression on her."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "She hot?"

Sam's lips pursed assessingly. "Sure. If you're into blue hair and support hose."

Dean's eyes went wide.

"They weren't all dreams, Dean," Sam confided remorselessly.

Dean groaned. "Tell me I didn't dance naked in the moonlight or anything."

Sam's smile eased from humor to reassurance. "No naked dancing. Although I'm sure Sylvia enjoyed seeing you in your shorts."

Dean groaned again, and buried his head under his pillow.

"I think you owe Jefferson an explanation, too, sometime."

"Anything else?" The voice was muffled through layers of fabric, but the tension in it was clear. And in the lines of Dean's body, muscles tensed for a blow.

Sam hesitated, long enough for Dean to reemerge and glare at him worriedly.

"Okay, what?"

Sam lifted his chin and shook his head. "Nothing. Just something about selling the Impala."

Dean's gaze grew horrified. "I didn't—"

"Hey, man, I was here the whole time, all right? I didn't let you do anything stupid."

Dean searched him, friggin' looked right through him, and Sam met his gaze full on. Nothing stupid. No secrets revealed but that his brother had always taken care of him, and worried about and missed him while he was gone. Not really secrets at all.

Dean finally relaxed, head dropping back to the mattress. "Except for Sylvia," he grumbled.

"Hey, she's a nice lady," Sam answered in all sincerity. She'd even made him a sandwich.

Dean moaned and burrowed back into the covers.

Sam just reached over to pat his leg, and smiled.

The End