A/N: Thanks to everyone who dropped us a line on the last chapter. I think we got back to everyone. We just thought we'd point out that some of you are gonna read this chapter and say, "Hmm, Dean didn't seem all that sick at the end of the epi. I think maybe you ladies are exaggerating things." To which I say, EXACTLY! We've dropped a few hints in this chapter and the last as to what's really going on with Dean. Hope you like it. We also forgot to mention that the title of this story comes from the Rolling Stones song, which is an even bigger clue.

Disclaimer and header at Chapter One...I think.

Mother's Little Helper

Chapter Two

Maybe it was the thunk of his skull against the linoleum that brought him around. At least that was what Dean chose to believe, that he'd just had a momentary lapse and snapped back to his senses the second his forehead bounced off the floor. The puddle of drool and sweat that pooled around his slack mouth when his eyes opened, however, suggested he'd been there for awhile.

How humiliating. And Sam wondered why Dean didn't believe in God…No higher power of good in the universe would possibly allow Dean Winchester, saver of innocents, and warrior of the darkness, to end up sprawled on the bathroom floor looking to all the world like some drugged out rock star.

Too tired to move much more than his eyelids, he took a slow internal surveillance of his crumpled self and heaved a sigh of relief that Sam had apparently not heard the commotion. As embarrassing as it would have been for Dean if Sam were to see him pass out on the floor or even to find him passed out on the floor, after the fact, Sam finding him as he was now - crammed into the tiny space between the toilet and the sink with his mouth agape, drooling, with his ass in the air like a toddler who'd crashed in the middle of his toy box - would be fodder for many, many more hits off the hip flask.

Sam…shit…

Even through the haze of blood loss and vertigo, Dean seemed to recall a squealing exit from the highway that had been spurred by one pained groan from his baby brother. The baby brother who had a nasty burn on his arm that he was pretty sure hadn't been tended to properly in their haste to put miles between themselves, Bobby, and any of Bobby's hunter friends that might happen to pop in.

His plan had been to tend his own wound just to keep himself from passing out long enough to tend Sam's. Of course, that had backfired. Friggin' Winchesters were cursed with bad luck, and apparently, low blood pressure.

As much as he hated to admit it, though, his luck hadn't been all bad. Seemed like having one's ass in the air allowed more blood to flow to the brain, well, to the upstairs brain, anyway. Otherwise, who knew how long he'd have been lying there. Maybe there was a God, after all, and maybe he was sick bastard with a sadistic kink for torturing the manly men of the world.

Dean groaned softly, and wished he'd just shut the hell up. Even the small vibration in his diaphragm reminded him of the intense cramping the bout of puking had subjected his muscles to. Now that he thought about it, even breathing hurt like a bitch.

He slumped over onto his side, coming face to face with his half-open duffel, and remembered the little bottle of happy pills inside. He'd already had two, but he'd thrown up not long afterward, so he figured he could take one more. He couldn't help Sam if he didn't manage to get off the floor first.

Dean flopped over onto his back and lifted each foot slowly, allowed them to fall on the side of the tub, and maneuvered his good arm inside his bag. He dragged out a clean, or at least, less dirty, t-shirt and the bottle of pills.

He was beginning to think maybe he didn't give Jo enough credit. Sure, he mostly just thought of her as a little sister, but he loved her just a little for giving him the meds. They didn't have anything nearly strong enough in their stash. Well, he didn't love her, not love, love, but like in a "he'd give a sloppy kiss to Scooby Doo at this point if the mutt came bearing pharmaceutical relief," kinda way, and... oh shit, he was so rambling. He needed to get up off the floor before he ended up spending the night there.

He put one of the pills on his tongue and shut the bottle back up, before laying his arm over his eyes for a second to gather his energy. Fuck, what's that smell? If I didn't know better, I'd think it was sulfur…

That's when he remembered that he'd never had the chance to flush the toilet after his stomach tried to re-enact The Great Escape.

He took a deep breath, took possession of his faculties, and used his good hand on the edge of the sink to pull himself into a sitting position. He made a pointed effort not to look in the toilet, just closed the seat for the time being, not wanting to flush until he was ready to leave, lest he wake Sam up before he was back on his feet.

He studied his t-shirt for a good five minutes, trying to decide how in the hell he was going to get it on over his bad shoulder. Finally, he held it out in front of him with the left armhole open, straight-armed the sore appendage through the opening, and then sorta, wiggle-rolled it up his arm, and pulled the neck hole over his head. He took a small breather, panting from having his right arm over his head during the process, and finally worked that arm through the other hole.

Biting the bullet, he dragged himself to a leaning-stand beside the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. Well, he looked like crap, but that was nothing new. He'd looked like crap when he went in. Nothing to report on that front. Mostly he just wanted to make sure the bandage wasn't too visible under the t-shirt sleeve. He patted it, giving a small wince, and pressed the plunger on the toilet, glad he'd left the tiny window open to help air the place out.

Dean managed to drag his bag out into the main room, where Sam was still sleeping like a log. Thank God. He set the duffel down on the table, and pulled out some more cotton balls, antiseptic spray, antibiotic cream and non-stick bandages. He set them on one of the chairs and pushed it over into the space between the two beds, transferred the first aid supplies to the nightstand, and sat in the chair, grasping Sam's injured arm firmly but gently.

He hadn't really expected Sam to sleep through his ministrations, but he'd hoped that the kid could've managed to stay under a little longer than he did. Dean had only barely begun cleaning the oozing burn when Sam groaned and jerked the arm away.

"Hey, Sam…Sammy, I'm sorry, dude, but you're gonna get an infection if I don't clean this," Dean whispered hoarsely. "C'mon, lemme take care of this, and then you can go right back to sleep."

Sam took a dragging breath and cleared his throat, swallowing hard before meeting his brother's gaze and letting his eyes fall away. "Thanks."

"No problem, bro. You'd do the same for me," Dean dismissed, going back to work.

"Ow!...No, not for this, I mean for waking me up. That dream was shaping up to be a bitch."

Dean grimaced, angry that he hadn't even noticed, in his own haze, that Sam was having a nightmare. "Well, I just about got you all fixed up here, and then you can go on back to sleep, try for a better dream this time."

"No," Sam protested, struggling to sit up without moving his arm too much in Dean's grasp. "I don't think I can."

"You can, Sam," Dean insisted, applying a clean bandage on top of the freshly applied antibiotic ointment and patting his work with satisfaction, "and you will. I'll be here to watch out…you know, just in case."

"Yeah, like, just in case another demon comes along and tries to make me kill someone."

"Dammit, Sam. We're not going through this again. That wasn't you. None of this was your fault." He noted Sam's mouth open to argue, then snap shut again around a gasp as the pain in his arm flared up unexpectedly. "It's a pretty deep burn," Dean assuaged, knowing Sam was embarrassed to show weakness in front of him. "Probably hurts like a bitch. I got just the thing."

Dean was silently thankful that the motel had gone to the extra expense of having chairs with wheels on them as he scooted himself over to the table, sparing himself the trouble of standing.

Dean grabbed the bottle of pills that Jo had given him, because his brother deserved the best, even if that meant less for him, a fact of which he was already beginning to lament as his shoulder throbbed in time to his beating heart. Pills in hand, he rolled back to Sam and held the bottle out to him.

Sam reached for the meds, but then got a pinched look of confusion on his face. He snatched the bottle away, but didn't open it, just stared through the brown plastic inquisitively before shifting his gaze back to Dean. "What are these? And where did you get them? I don't remember them in the med kit."

Without thinking, Dean said, "Jo gave 'em to me…"

"Jo?"

Oh, shit.

Sam turned on the bed and met Dean's gaze accusingly. "When did you see, Jo, Dean? Had to be recently, because I know we didn't have anything like this in the med kit two weeks ago when I had that killer migraine and…"

Realizing that lying would only prolong the inevitable, Dean slumped against the chair and ran his right hand tiredly over the back of his neck. "Last night, Sam, before Bobby's…"

"So, what Dean, you decided to take a little time off from finding your demon possessed brother to hunt down some chick? I didn't even know you knew where to find her."

"I didn't find her, Sam. Must've been some kind of girly Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants kinda of thing…" He broke off, hoping Sam got the hint without him having to come out and say it. C'mon geek boy, let's see those powers of deduction.

"Oh, God," Sam said, face wrinkling with dawning horror and fear. "The Meg!demon found her…Dean, I didn't hurt her did I?"

"No, Sam, you didn't hurt her."

"You know what I mean."

Dean rolled his eyes and nodded defeatedly. "'Kay, so the demon bitch roughed her up a little bit, but she's fine, Sam. Fine, all right?"

Sam bit the inside of his lip, eyes watering as he turned his head away and sucked in another whooping breath. "So, the demon messed her up, and she decided to get back on its good side by dispensing pain meds? What else aren't you telling me, Dean?"

"Sam, don't…"

"Oh, geez!" Sam sat up quickly, his words and features laced with guilt as his eyes fell directly to Dean's bandaged shoulder.

Dean followed his gaze and cursed silently that he hadn't picked a darker colored t-shirt as he noted the red starting to seep through the grey cotton.

"Mind telling me what this is?" Sam asked as he gingerly set a hand on his brother's injured arm, drawing it back quickly as he noted a small flinch on Dean's part.

"It's a hole in my body made by a bullet, Sam," Dean stated flatly, no longer finding the strength to keep the pained inflection out of the biting remark. "And yes, the demon did that, too, and no, it wasn't your fault, so just drop it!"

"Dean, I shot you!"

"And what part of, 'it wasn't you, Sam,' didn't you get?" Adrenaline now coursing through his veins, Dean suddenly found he had the strength to stand, which he did, shoving the stupid rolling chair across the room and under the table. His throat was dry, his head was pounding, the room was spinning, just a little, and he so wasn't going to have this conversation. "I'm fine, Sam!"

With that, Dean clutched his damaged arm to his side, the need for pretense dispensed, and stomped back toward the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, grabbed another of the Dixie cups from the dispenser and began downing glasses of water one after another like a twenty-one year old trying to drink his age in whiskey shots. He was only vaguely aware of Sam coming up behind him and resting a consoling hand on his shoulder.

Dean felt Sam pull his hand away and grimace in disgust as he realized it was now completely doused in sweat from the back of his neck.

"Dean, you're about to pass out, man. Why the hell didn't you tell me you were hurt? You could've gone into shock from the blood loss, dumbass." He said the last part with nothing but affection, of course. Only brothers could make dumbass a term of endearment.

Dean felt Sam's hand re-settle and tighten on his good shoulder as his little brother tried to gently steer him away from the sink and back to bed. He was too tired to fight it, and started to move his feet in a shuffle-slide back toward his waiting bed.

The tickle started deep in his chest, at what he imagined to be the bottom of his lungs. Tickle didn't even begin to describe it, though. It was more like the residual spasm that left you breathless after a hard hit to the solar plexus. The room was suddenly completely devoid of oxygen, and he took in a great whooping breath to compensate.

The stretch of his diaphragm as his lungs swelled in his chest sent a spasm through him that doubled him over as he choked and gagged on the exhale. He had no idea where the coughing fit had come from, but it seized him with the tenacity of a pit bull, grabbing him in its jaws and shaking until his insides felt like mush.

Sam caught him as he stumbled forward, unable to balance his quaking form on legs weakened from blood loss. Sam lurched down to his knees and swung Dean's good arm around the back of his neck and heaved them both up from the floor, half-dragging and half- carrying Dean back to his own bed, where he rolled him unceremoniously onto the rumpled bedspread and ran back into the bathroom for a cloth and more water.

Dean was still coughing raggedly when Sam returned, water in hand and a towel over his shoulder. As the spasms in his chest began to die down a bit, Dean managed to meet his little brother's eyes and was confused by the utter horror that reflected back at him.

"Dean…oh, God," Sam whimpered, collapsing onto his knees beside his brother's head.

Before Dean could ask what the big deal was, Sam was wiping his mouth and chin with the towel. With a trembling hand, Sam reached for the tiny cup of water and held it out to his brother, supporting Dean's head as he sipped slowly.

"We gotta get you to a doctor," Sam said, his voice hushed.

"No, Sam, I'm…"

Sam held up the towel he'd used to wipe Dean's face. It was deep red, stained in blood, and the word 'fine,' died on Dean's lips.

TBC

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