This wasn't my idea, but it kept me up all night. I think you all know who to blame by now. :P

Fallout

Dean pulls over to vomit three times on the short trip to the bunker.

First time is a shock explained easily enough by a combination of nerves and whiskey Sam's seen a dozen times over but Dean won't ever cop to. Or, hell, maybe it's just an effect of having been back in Hell. Sam's feeling a bit sick himself, trying once more in vain not to remember things he won't be able to forget.

Second time the car jerks to sudden stop on the berm, Dean doesn't look surprised so much as he does mildly concerned, and it may be a sign of some looming stomach bug he'd left his system vulnerable to, running himself ragged to get to Sam.

But the third time, maybe ten miles out from the bunker, Dean's exploding from the Impala before it's come to a complete stop and Sam's leaning across the seat, twisting the key in the ignition of the still-running car and looking for blood in the sparse mess leaving his brother's lips.

He's white-faced and thin-lipped, thinking back on the fight in the cage, worrying about the possibility of internal damage that's beyond their home care capabilities, contemplating 911 and patting down his pockets, trying to discern whether his cell phone made the trip to Hell and back with him.

In Kenesaw, Sam had gone to the passenger side of the car without question, debate, or even a look back at his big brother. Because he was the bloodier of the two and big brother was the mode Dean was quite obviously operating in, and there are things he will and will not allow under such circumstances. Things that are worthless to discuss. In fact, Sam's not sure he can remember the last time he drove the Impala, because Dean's been stuck firmly in this mode for months, since the Darkness, and he was going to be driving out of there whether or not he'd been choked to the brink of unconsciousness by the devil himself and regardless of the fact he'd been holding himself awkwardly on the walk out, favoring his left arm and side.

Ribs, probably, but Sam doesn't know if they're looking at bruises, cracks, or breaks. Or maybe something much worse. Sam didn't ask, didn't even think to ask. He'd just taken his spot at Dean's side.

Maybe Lucifer's right. Maybe he has gone soft.

Phone firmly in hand, Sam regards his brother with wide, worried eyes as Dean drags himself back into the Impala. "Dude."

Dean makes no move to start the car again, just lays his head back against the bench seat, looking pale and sweaty and incredibly sick in the yellowish glow of the single working streetlight along this stretch of road.

"Okay, spill," Sam orders, gripping the cell phone but not yet dialing. "Details, man. And then I decide whether or not a hospital comes into play."

Dean chuckles, ends up gagging and leans out of the open car door, spits miserably onto the gravel berm. "Unclench, Sam," he says once he's pulled back into the car. "It's, uh, smiting sickness."

Sam blinks. "It's what?"

"Yeah." Dean nods, then realizes that's a horrible idea and brings the heel of his hand up to his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed. "I just, uh, got a little too close to ground zero when heaven tried to make Amara go poof. Angelic fallout, I guess."

"Smiting sickness," Sam repeats, trying out the words. "That's a thing?"

"Yeah, looks like."

Sam turns his attention once more to his cell phone, thumbing through the contacts.

Dean swallows audibly, dropping his hand to his lap and rolling his head on the seat to face Sam. "What are you doing?"

"I'm calling Cas and telling him to get his ass here right now to heal you."

"He can't. Sammy, it's okay. I'll be okay, really."

"Dean." Sam sends a harsh exhale through his nostrils. "You have some supernatural form of radiation poisoning. What part of that is okay?" But if Castiel really can't heal him, then okay might be all they can hope for. Of course, Sam knows better than to take that at face value, knows he should push, knows he should verify this is something truly out of the wingspan of angelic intervention, and not just another situation like after their run-in with the Nachzehrers, when Dean claimed Cas had sapped too much of his grace patching up Sam and refused his own care despite the agreement they had.

Sam sighs, worries his bottom lip and reminds himself that he can't have faith in his big brother only some of the time. "What did Cas say?"

"That it'll pass."

"How long?"

Dean licks his dry lips, lifts a shoulder. "I dunno."

"You do know how lame both of those answers are, right?" He sighs, takes full stock of his brother's white, sweaty face, the blossoming bruises around his left eye standing out in stark contrast. The guy looks miserable, and Sam can nearly feel the heat of a burning fever radiating from him. "Okay." He nods, tucking his phone away. "Come on. I'm driving the rest of the way."

"What?" Dean's head snaps up, bringing out a groan that originates from deep inside his body. "Sam, no. You were just in the cage with friggin' Lucifer, man." His voice is wrecked, hoarse.

"Yeah, and you look worse than me. So get out of the car before I move you myself." Sam raises his eyebrows, just in case there are any questions.

Dean stares, licking his lips once more, but it's all a show of pointless stubbornness. If he really thought he was up to finishing this trip from the driver's seat, the car would already be moving. "Okay," he finally relents, and requires the assist of both the seatback and steering wheel in his pathetic attempt to stand.

Sam stops him, grabs Dean's shoulder firmly and presses him too easily back against the seat. "I'll get out," he says. "You scoot."

By the time Sam's rounded the hood of the car to the driver's side, Dean has barely managed to drag himself a full foot down the leather seat. There's no denying it; the guy can play through a hell of a lot. But he's on the downward slide now, and he's going down fast.

Sam avoids the vomit-splattered grass and gravel beside the tire and pauses with a hand on the cool roof of the car, narrowing his eyes. "Hold on a sec."

After digging up a bottle of room temperature water that's been rolling around in the trunk for weeks, Sam goes around to Dean's side of the car. He stoops in front of the still-open door and digests the fact that Dean has made it only so far as the middle of the seat, sweaty temple tipped against the leather seatback and sending harsh, irregular breaths through parted lips.

"Hey," Sam says, but it falls on closed eyes and seemingly deaf ears. Somewhat understandable, as it takes a hell of a lot more than that to gain Dean's attention under the best of circumstances. "Hey," he tries again, louder and reaching in to grab his brother by the scruff of his baking hot neck, rattle-rousing him.

Dean rolls his head away from the contact, opens his eyes and blinks blearily at him.

Sam hold out the bottle. "Here."

"What?"

"Dude, in the past hour I've watched you puke up the equivalent of a small lake." Sam shakes the bottle. "Hydrate."

Dean takes the water in his trembling hand, but doesn't drink. "You know, all things considered, I should be taking care of you right now."

Sam doesn't want to be taken care of, doesn't want to need such care, and sure as hell doesn't want to be as soft as Lucifer says he is. He's FINE. A bitch of a headache, maybe, and he's tired beyond question, but Dean is really, and quite possibly dangerously, sick here. "You always take care of me, Dean. You just literally went to Hell to take care of me. Can you just, once, sit there, drink that, and let me take care of you?"

Dean's throat works, and he winces. "Don't get used to this," he rasps. He won't have much of a voice by morning, for a number of reasons.

Sam thumps his palm lightly on the roof of the Impala. "I promise."

"I mean it," Dean says as Sam helps him fully relocate to the passenger side of the bench. "This big brother thing you're doin'? That's mine."

Sam smiles. "Got it." He pushes the door closed gently, but the hinges creak all the same.

By the time he drops behind the wheel, Dean has leaned fully into the cooling comfort of the window on his right, and the half-full bottle of water is balanced precariously in his limp fingers.

Sam thinks about Dean playing through all of this, and doing it because he had to get to his little brother. He doesn't know how Dean does it. And he doesn't want to be soft, or weak, but that's not all the devil had said.

He sighs, twisting the key in the ignition. "So, Lucifer," he starts, somewhat hesitantly, guiding the car back onto the road. "He said some things – "

"Shocker."

"I know. Just hear me out."

In the cage, Sam had been rock-solid steady in his faith that Dean was coming for him, drawing strength from it. And he's been stuck now wondering if despite everything, through pain and promise and knowing what was best…was that how Dean survived purgatory? Not just thinking, but knowing that Sam was coming for him?

Sam's used to contradicting himself, but it stings to have it pointed out by a third party. Especially when that third party is the devil.

He grips the steering wheel. "I just…you should know, there hasn't been a day I haven't been stronger for having you here. For having you back."

Dean lifts his head from its resting place against the window, lips moving soundlessly as his glassy, feverish eyes shift sluggishly around the Impala's interior, never once landing on Sam. "Back from?" he asks finally, playing dumb.

Which is fine, because Sam doesn't need Dean to say anything, just to listen. This was about what Sam had to say.

"Doesn't matter." Sam takes the turn for the long, narrow road leading to the bunker. "Just wanted to make sure you knew."

Will be continued in a second chapter.