Dean was unloading ammo and packing guns into the trunk when he saw the tremor in his brother's hand as he reached between them for the strap of the duffle. He knew Sam saw it too, because he quickly aborted the reach and made a show of picking up one of the knives still waiting to be put away.

Busted, thought Dean, suppressing a smile.

He decided to give it until they were done loading up the gear from the hunt for Sam to tell him about the injury. Then he would pin him down about it.

He watched Sam favor his left arm the entire time, occasionally wincing when he thought Dean wasn't looking, but he never said a word about it. Finally, Dean closed the trunk and hemmed Sam in against the Impala.

"Is it broken?" he said.

"What?" said Sam. "Oh." He looked down at the arm he was unconsciously holding against himself. "I don't think so. Just bruised. The thing grabbed me pretty hard."

Dean reached out and took hold of his brother's hand, gently turning his wrist over and pushing the sleeve up toward his elbow. Sam jerked back at the touch, and Dean inhaled sharply. "Sorry," he said, grimacing in sympathy. Sam's forearm was a mess of dark purple, bright red, and angry pink swelling. "This looks like it hurts," Dean observed with a wry smile.

Sam managed one of the same and nodded.

"Anywhere else?"

"Nah, I just got knocked around, it's no big deal."

"You want anything for it?"

"No, I told you. It's fine."

Dean cuffed him on the side of the head. "Such a brave little soldier!" he said.

"Shut up. Jerk."

"You wanna get a beer, or does this mean you're done for the night?"

Sam hesitated. His arm was screaming with pain, but he didn't want Dean to think he was willing to let something so minor put him out of commission. A couple of bruises was nothing.

"No, we can hit the bar, that's fine," he said. Dean looked a little surprised, but also pleased, and that made Sam happy. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his mind off the insistent throbbing in his arm.

By the time Dean pulled into the lot of a neighborhood bar, it hadn't escaped his notice that Sam's head had dropped to his chest and his color had paled by a few shades. The kid was clearly in pain, but stubborn as always, he wasn't going to accept help until he decided he needed it.

Good thing big brothers always knew best.

He patted Sam's knee. "Hang tight a sec," he said. "I gotta grab something out of the back."

Dean popped the trunk and rummaged through their duffle until he found the "good" pills and slipped one into his pocket. He started to replace the bottle, then thought better of it, remembering the way Sam had flinched at the slightest touch, and he shook out a second pill. Bumps and bruises were one thing, but this was damage inflicted by a supernatural force, with superhuman strength, and he had no doubt that his brother was suffering more than he'd let on. Dean hated that. There was no harm in slipping him a little something to take the edge off. Sam would feel better, and his ego would be none the wiser.

Take one pill every six to eight hours, the label read. Well then, Dean reasoned. Two is better.

"Okay, let's go, princess!" he called, slamming the trunk and pocketing the keys along with the two pills.

This wasn't going to work, Sam realized grimly.

He stared down into the amber surface of whatever on-tap pilsner Dean had ordered him and watched black spots swim across his vision. He was fighting down wave after wave of nausea as his arm throbbed, the pain growing steadily sharper and more intense as time passed, instead of becoming more manageable as Sam had hoped. He took a cautious breath to try and steady himself, glancing sideways out of the corner of his eye at Dean. Thankfully, Dean seemed preoccupied with a couple of girls at a table on the other side of them.

He was going to have to break down and take something, or he wasn't going to make it through the night. Hopefully he could do it without Dean making a big deal out of it. Maybe without him even noticing.

"Hey, Dean?" he said, standing up and leaning across the table to be heard over the din in the bar. "Let me see the keys. I need to go check something."

"What do you need to check?" Dean said automatically. He dug into his pocket, and he paused as he did, his fingers coming into contact with the pills he'd placed there. His eyes met Sam's, then flicked down to Sam's drink, then quickly back to Sam. He dropped the keys into Sam's outstretched hand.

Sam muttered thanks, and something about double checking the locks on the doors. He stiffly made his way out toward the parking lot.

As soon as he was gone, Dean unwrapped the silverware bundles at their table to retrieve two spoons, and went to work surreptitiously grinding the pills to powder beneath the table, holding the base of one of the spoons against his leg. He collected the dust into the palm of his hand and then dropped it, unnoticed, into Sam's beer. He picked up the glass and swirled it casually, dissolving the fine particles as if he were just absentmindedly admiring the color of the liquid.

He smiled at one of the girls behind him and struck up another conversation.

When Sam returned a few minutes later, he was already starting to feel the effects of the two pills he had swallowed outside. The nausea was receding into a slow warmth in the pit of his stomach, and each stabbing throb felt less like his arm was trying to wrench itself apart. He settled back into his seat across from Dean and sighed with relief.

Dean pushed Sam's glass toward him. "Here. You need this after the night you've had."

Sam didn't argue. He flashed Dean a grateful smile and picked up the beer with his good hand and took a long swallow. He made a face and shook his head at the bitter aftertaste. "Gah!" he sputtered.

Dean laughed. "Good stuff, huh?" He took a drink out of his own glass, eyeing his brother over the rim. Sam was still making faces, but he didn't look suspicious. "Must be the hops."

"Yeah. Must be." He frowned a bit, but then he shrugged and took another long drink.

Sam felt freaking fantastic.

His arm didn't hurt anymore. In fact, nothing hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this amazing.

He leaned across the table toward Dean because there was too much space between him and Dean, wasn't that always the way it was? There was always too much space between them, and they were brothers damn it. They were supposed to be close. Not in a gross way, God, just close, the way brothers should be. He needed Dean. So much. It was so important. Dean didn't even realize how important it was to be able to talk to your brother, Dean didn't talk to him enough. He didn't know enough about Dean, and Dean was his brother. His own brother. God. He cared so much.

He had to close the space between him and Dean. It was so important.

"Dean!" he said, too close, too loud. He reached out and clutched the sleeve of Dean's shirt, his eyes going wide and insistent. "Dean, listen."

"Sam! Bring it down a notch, man."

Sam laughed. "Yeah! Yeah, sure Dean. It's just, I just think, I was just thinking. Do you want to get out of here? Like, I don't know, whatever you want. Go someplace, do something?"

"Sam, seriously."

"We should do something! You know?"

Dean just looked at him.

"I just want you to know how much it means to me, Dean."

"What does?"

"You do." He had to concentrate to form the words, so each one came out with extra emphasis. "You do, Dean. You're my brother."

Dean removed Sam's death grip on his sleeve and patted his brother's hand condescendingly, shrugging as one of the girls he'd been flirting with at the next table began giggling.

"Do you remember we watched Voltron, Dean? On the TV with the shitty picture, remember? All the things you do for me and you never ask for anything in return."

"Yeah, well." Dean grinned at him, beginning to realize how wasted his brother was. "That's kind of in the job description. Don't worry about it."

"But I didn't ever mean it, Dean, all the times I took you for granted. The times I ran away, and I-I shouldn't have done that. I should have been there for you. When you needed me. You needed me. All the times you needed me and I-"

"Sam, knock it off."

"I mean it, Dean. I mean it. Tell me exactly what you think of me right now. Please. I want to know. I deserve it. Every word."

Dean shook his head. "Shit, man. I should have known a lightweight like you couldn't handle two of the good pills."

Sam's brow furrowed. "How did you know what I took?"

Dean's eyes widened as understanding hit.

Sam made a move to stand up, and clutched the edge of the table as the room tilted around him. Dean caught him as he swayed.

"Sam, you alright?"

Sam beamed at him. "You're glowing," he said. "Your hair is on fire."

He sagged, and Dean shoved his chair out of the way, catching hold of Sam just in time to hold him by the shoulders as he leaned over and vomited onto the floor.

Dean apologized over and over again as patrons scattered and the no-longer-friendly staff scowled. He patted Sam's back. "Hey, come on, kid," he murmured, "Time to go."

Sam shook his head miserably. "S'rry, De," he slurred.

"My fault." He hitched one of Sam's arms around his shoulders and half-dragged his stoned little brother out of the bar.

Dean sat on the bathtub of their hotel room with his hands clasped between his knees. Sam was resting his head on his arm against the edge of the toilet seat. He was between heaves.

"I'm not convinced I shouldn't be taking you to the ER," Dean said again.

Sam shook his head limply. "'s nothing they would do… that 'm not already doing."

"That was a lot of drug."

Sam glared at him.

"Sorry."

Sam closed his eyes and rolled his head into his arm.

"No Sam, really. I shouldn't have done that to you. I thought I was helping."

"I know."

"I won't do it again. You're not a kid anymore. I should've… respected you more than that."

"Thanks Dean. 's okay."

Dean looked down at his hands. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, 'm okay. You don't need to hover."

He hated how thready and weak Sam's voice sounded. Hated the way he was practically passed out over the toilet waiting to be wracked with the next spasms of vomiting. He felt terrible. And helpless. But Sam was telling him it was okay, and he had to let it be. Or it never would be.

"Okay, I'm gonna go watch TV while you finish puking your guts out. Just… holler if you need me."

Sam nodded. Dean stood up and edged his way carefully past Sam's prone form in the cramped bathroom.

As he was passing through the door, Sam looked up and said, "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah."

He grinned weakly. "Pretty awesome night for a while, though."

Dean shook his head. "Don't get used to it, Sid Vicious."