Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Which should be obvious.

Author notes: Just updated slightly to fix a POV shift. Was going to be a two-shot, but I do have an idea for continuing this, whenever I find time again. (Reviews may lead to a much faster update! Any feedback is greatly appreciated!)


Chapter 2

Bobby's yard, two weeks later

"Sam, hurry up! I don't have all day to wait for you."

"Sorry."

"Would you stop saying that? Is that the only word you know these days?" Dean said, standing by the truck Bobby had lent them. The Impala was still a week and a few parts away from being "good as new." A one man job that could not be taken more seriously than the owner of an Impala '69 himself.

"So- okay." Sam walked slowly to the truck, put his hand on the door, and lingered at the handle for a few seconds.

"You coming in today or what?" Dean was already falling into the driver's seat.

"Uh... coming." The door opened, and Sam slid himself inside. He closed the door, closed his eyes, and leaned against the window.

"Fucking groceries." The engine hacked a bit and then got going, and the truck carried the boys back onto the road.

Dean glanced at his silent brother. Is he sulking? Or brooding? What makes him think he can, when I'm the one that has to live knowing that I'm supposed to be...

"Fucking music. Bet you none of these stations have Metallica. Just fucking country crap. And that one station with all that emo shit you like. Don't even think about it."

Sam turned at that, hesitated. "You okay?"

And everyone knows that's the most idiotic asshole's question in the world. Not the first time Sam had asked. The kid wanted them to have a freaking sob fest, all over each other's shoulders or something. But Sam didn't understand. He didn't think. Maybe he didn't want to think – after all, he was always forgetting little things or going off into his own world. Trying to wallow in misery or something instead of going on. When there was no reason for him to. When he should know that no amount of brooding would fix this, because it couldn't be fixed. He wasn't the one supposed to be...

"Fucking truck is going at fucking twenty miles an hour, you'd better work on your conversational skills or I'll leave you by that sign up there and pick you up in about four hours."

"Er, okay."

Wait. Another beat. There. No "sorry"s or quiet "want to talk"s. Someone was finally learning. Maybe Dean could upgrade his passenger in shotgun from a basset hound to a poodle. An 'upgrade' in terms of intelligence, at least. Dean didn't know what the sense of humor of a poodle was. Just find the most boring poodle on the planet, and there you go. Hi little brother. Nice to meet you.

"Dean... we're just going for groceries, right?"

Wow. This guy's giving poodles a bad name. Maybe he's a disowned poodle. "Where else would we be going? There's food, and there's bed, and there's the Impala. See? Pick one out of three. And if you miss I'll get the counterfeit agency or whatever to check your big S diploma."

"I..." A beat. Then another. Then, "I wasn't sure if I had told you this, but I was going to the clinic sometime this week, and perhaps we could stop by there today."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Before I signed out of the hospital, they told me that I might space out a bit for a few weeks. They gave me stuff to help me, um, concentrate, but I'm running low. So I just wanted to go so they could see me and give me a refill."

The road was asphalt, like always, ahead of them. Every tree looked the same. They probably were all the same in this state of no what-do-you-call-it – biodiversity – ever. North Dakota. Every road and town and tree exactly like the one before it.

Dean noticed all this because he was looking for a pond or river or fucking ocean to throw his brother in. Not that he had ever seen the ocean in person. But it would be awesome to dump all six plus feet of that idiot fifty feet off the coast and leave him to fight the sharks and Loch Ness Monster or whatever. Dean was sure it visited the Atlantic sometimes. Or Pacific. He was flexible.

"And you didn't tell me for two weeks because..."

"Dean, it's honestly not a big deal. It's a short term issue, and not uncommon for people in crashes. If it was worse I would tell you."

"Yeah, sure, because you tell me everything."

"Dean..."

He kept driving. The truck started going faster, maybe because it saw that he was now aiming for the Atlantic, and was adjusting its pace accordingly. Faster as in 35. Then again, it would go faster off a cliff.

"So is this a concussion complication, or what?"

"Dean, I space out. You've probably noticed, and I'm sorry, but that's basically what it is..."

"Tell me what it is, Sam."

"It sounds worse than it is."

"I will drive this scrap metal off a cliff if you don't tell me." And whoa, that was a little louder than normal, and Sam was staring at Dean with those wide eyes. But Dean didn't care.

"Sometimes I get petit mals, that's when I space out for a few seconds or more..."

"The fuck is a petit malo?"

"It's a type of seizure, but not a grand..."

"Seizure?"

Dean prided himself on his driving. Even in the rare case when there's a ghost on the highway, he only swerves about an inch. Certified and confirmed by... the Winchester Family Business and Co. So he swerved slightly here, just about two inches, and Sam naturally freaked out. Because he's a poodle. A poodle that suddenly gained the ability to bark.

"Dean! It's not what you're thinking! Not a grand mal! I can show you articles about what I have! They say that just spacing out, and some confusion are things that I can expect for a few weeks to two months, from this injury, and there's nothing to worry about now..."

"Yeah, tell me there's nothing to worry about when we have nobody else, when I have nobody else, and I'm your big brother and cleaned up your vomit after the flu you had when you were five and wrote your sick notes in middle school and even had made you stay home because we both know you're actually a dumbass. You damn well better tell me everything and listen to me."

And yes, this wasn't one of Dean's most eloquent days. But he could be a big brother when he needed to. It's his job. Always has been.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Stop saying that. How many times have I told you to stop saying that?"

"I... I didn't mean to, I..." Sam was nervous, but he trailed off mid-sentence, and Dean glanced at him and saw his eyes stare at a tree, or maybe the other one, because they were all the same. And then he blinked and looked at him.

"Sorry, I was saying, crap..." Sam looked away. Dean waited a split second and then thought, are you fucking kidding me?

And then Dean said, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"It tends to happen when I breathe fast. Hyperventilation, although I think I'm just tired today."

"Is that what you're talking about? Not a problem? Did this happen, when you were getting in the car, and then just now, after you just talked about it? How many petit mals is that a day? When you're walking around looking like a space cadet? Does it happen every hour? Every half hour? Every fucking five minutes?"

"It can happen more often right after the trauma, but it should start getting less common in a few weeks. I think the most common it has been is an hour, but I don't always know..."

"Fuck groceries. Where's the clinic?"

Shit, Dean thought, if I was gone, who would take care of this dolt of a brother? Dad wasn't the one that looked out for sickness or injuries – that was on me.

At least that's some small comfort. Freaking Sam. Damn him for needing me to take care of him even now. And me, for needing him.

What's wrong can't be fixed, but I still have him, and I'll make sure he gets it through in that thick skull of his that he still has me.

(But he's still not getting any chick flicks.)