A/N: Hello again! After people liked the start of this fic I thought I'd get right back in there with the next part. So, here you go!

A/N2: THIS IS A NEW VERSION OF PART 2, JUST A FEW EXTRA BITS HAVE BEEN ADDED IN SO HERE YOU GO.

B is for Brothers

Part 2.

I just want to keep you safe from the things outside that might want to hurt you Sammy. Sam hears Dean say in his head, and the whole lets-not-think-about-the-fact-that-I-can-hear-Dean's-thoughts thing was going really, really bad right now. He wants to think that this isn't possible, but it is, it really, really is possible and that is what makes Sam even more afraid of what he can do. And it feels wrong to be listening to Dean's thoughts, worse even because he doesn't know when he's going to hear him think. But part of him is happy that he can know what his brother is really thinking, considering how little Dean talks to him nowadays. And with that wonderful thought Sam shudders, turning over and closing his eyes to sleep.

Sam jolts awake an hour later. It took him a moment to realise that the growling he thought was Hellhounds was actually coming from his brother. He gave himself a moment to be relieved, and then, running his hands through his hair, he stumbled over to Dean's bed - the one by the door goddamnit - only to realise that the lump he thought was his brother, was in fact blankets and a pillow.

There was a moment of terrible silence, in which he wondered thickly whether Dean might have lied about how long he had left to live. He wondered whether the growling actually had been the Hellhounds, and felt physically sick. But then, as he was about to crumple to the floor in tears, he heard it again, growling, thick and pained.

He cocked his head, listening. It was deep, rough, gritty. There was no other way to explain it, it sounded painful. His head shot up sharply to the bathroom door and he was striding across the room purposefully, hand outstretched for the handle, before his brain had time to process anything.

It was locked.

He had a instant to wonder why it was locked before he was hammering down on the wood, then kicking it in when there was no answer. All the while he was screaming in his head a mantra of please be all right Dean, please, please, please be all right, getting louder and more desperate with each passing second. Then the splintered door dropped to the floor, and he peered into the gloom.

It was still dark outside, and Dean hadn't turned on the light. Sam scanned the dark room, feeling for the light switch. When the light flicked on and then abruptly off with a high pitched ping, he only got one real look in the grubby, cockroach infested bathroom.

It was just a second, less, but it was enough to rattle Sam, enough to seriously undermine his image of his big brother, the protector, the saviour, his defender, invincible, indestructible. New images dropped into deep places in Sam's chest, each with a dull heavy thud of Sam's heart.

THUMP THUMP

Breakable

THUMP THUMP

Only human

THUMP THUMP

Dying

THUMP THUMP

Hurting

THUMP THUMP

Vulnerable

THUMP THUMP

It was something Sam never wanted to see again.

Dean was hunched over in the bathtub muttering about something, something Sam couldn't quite make out, which was scary, but his brother was still here, still breathing, still alive, and that was what mattered. Sam moved quietly, slowly so as not to alarm him, gripping Dean's arms and pulling him upright, all the while making soothing sounds, giving quiet reassurances to his practically comatose older brother.

"Come on, come on Dean, lets get you back to bed, OK?"

Sam started to lead him out of the bathroom, but then Dean's legs buckled and suddenly Sam was hauling him into his arms, moving quickly to get him onto the bed because damnit Dean was heavy. It's all muscle, Dean would have said, and the thought made Sam smile before turning back to the bathroom for a wet towel to place on his brother's sweating brow. He lifted the hem of Dean's shirt, Sam wished he'd checked Dean for injuries, wished that he'd been stubborn, dug his heels in and said, hell no Dean I am checking you're wounds and that's that, regardless of how 'bad' they are. The wounds were hot and red, weeping a pale fluid and Sam sighed. Infected.

"Alright. Okay. It's gonna be okay, Dean." Love it.

Sam pulled a chair towards Dean's bed and sat down with a thud.

Dean mumbled things Sam couldn't hear, was guiltily thankful he couldn't hear. Sam remembered the time Dean had got sick after that time in the asylum, after he'd shot Dean full of rock-salt and tried to kill him. He'd expected Dean to have nightmares, had waited up so he could tell Dean that he was sorry, that he didn't hate him, how could he, Sam loved Dean, they were brothers after all. But Dean hadn't stirred until the phone rang the next morning, and while Sam had been happy Dean hadn't had any nightmares, he'd also been disappointed that he'd never really got to say what he wanted to.

It had been worse after Sam had been possessed. Dean had driven, straight-backed and tight-jawed, until he'd just about fallen asleep at the wheel of the Impala, eyes tired, face bruised, and Sam had had to force Dean to stop driving before they were both killed on the road. When they'd checked into their motel, he had gone straight to bed, ignoring all of Sam's attempts to check his wounds, simply biting off, "Just leave me alone Sam," in that harsh unyielding voice of his that he only used when angry…or hurt. And like the stupid, stupid idiot that Sam was, he had relented, let Dean sleep and the next morning when Sam had woken up late, expecting the shower to be running, coffee to be on the table, he'd found Dean unconscious on the bed.

The gunshot wound had got infected, and Sam had spent a grand total of three days at Dean's bedside trying to keep the fever down, ignoring everything Dean said with fever fuelled rage. All the things Sam feared, all the things that he feared Dean thought had come spilling out: You hate me don't you? I knew it. And, Please don't hurt me Sammy, don't hurt me anymore. Sam had spent those three days in tears.

Sam blinks and shakes his head returning to the motel room. He looks at Dean whose cheeks are pink and flushed from the fever. It rages for five and a quarter hours, but thankfully the claw wounds from the wendigo get better, skin tender and pink around the stitches, no pale liquid seeping out much to Sam's relief, and when Dean woke up the next day, finding Sam slumped half-asleep in the rickety chair next to his bed, he grinned tiredly, and said, "You're not a hot blonde, but you'll have to do I suppose."

Sam snorted.

Hearing Dean's thoughts didn't happen again for about three weeks, which gave Sam time enough to wonder whether it had actually happened at all,but this time Dean was drunk, an arm slung around Sam's shoulder, laughing loud and long like he hadn't for months. So he didn't really mind when Dean sucker punched him this time.

It happened when he was debating whether he should let Dean have those tequila shots he was asking for, considering how much he'd already had to drink, because Dean was barely upright, trying to drink from two bottles of beer at the same time,spilling it spectacularly down his t-shirt and finding it incredibly amusing how the 'bubbles tickle my nose'. Yes, Dean had drunk far too much, that is healthy for a person.

Out of nowhere it stopped Sam dead again. The world seemed to freeze. The bar quietened, the clamour and racket hushed, and people seemed to move slower. He turned his head to look at Dean, who had beer dribbling in slow-motion down his chin, and Sam brought his arms up to rest on the sticky table. It felt like he was pulling them through mud. This was different, much different from the first time he heard Dean's thoughts. So what was different this time?

I hope you're alright after I'm gone Sammy, he heard Dean think as he looked at Sam with calm eyes, too calm considering how much alcohol he'd consumed in the past half hour. I hope you get the life you've always wanted. I hope you're okay after this year…

Yep. Sucker punch to the gut all right.

Then, as soon as it had started, the quiet and sluggish movements that had come across him and the people around him stopped, and the world blurred past him for a moment, noise almost deafening. When he searched for Dean he found him looking away, head bent backwards as if the ceiling was so very, very important.

"You know what Saaaaaaammy?" Dean slurs, and Sam blinks, suddenly realising that now Dean's addressing him, a finger pointed drunkenly in his general direction…okay over his shoulder, but Dean's plastered and looking at the ceiling so what did he expect?

"What?" he asks thickly, heart still pounding loudly in his ears from what Dean had just revealed, albeit unconsciously, to him.

"You needa get laaaaid man." Dean sat forward, eyes bright with mischief, smiling again, and Sam couldn't help but smile back.

"No thanks dude, I'm all right with your sorry ass for company." Dean laughed at that, snorting into his bottle of beer, almost choking as he inhaled it.

"We need tuuuh-" he hiccuped drunkenly, "we need…we really, really need to…hunh…wait…whazza saying?" Sam laughed, unnaturally high-pitched, and took a moment to consider whether he was drunk too.

It was more than likely.

He'd got used to it. This, listening to Dean's thoughts.

Sometimes it was harder to distinguish between thoughts and actual speech, and on more than one occasion he'd answered a question that Dean had only thought, which generally resulted in a 'what the hell, are you high?' kind of expression. He kind of wondered sometime whether he was high, or hallucinating, or mad, or having a very, very vivid dream. He preferred the idea that he was listening to Dean's thoughts, but if he had to go with another option, he'd go for mad every time, especially considering how much time he'd spent almost in hysterics because of one of Dean's wittier thoughts. Half the time Sam thought his brother wasn't actually intending to be funny, and that generally made him want to laugh more.

More often than not, he'd hear Dean think little, stupid, inconsequential things, about how outstandingly horrifying their current motel room was, or how hot the waitress in this town was, or how he wanted a burger and onion rings for lunch and not some girlie salad like Sam - bastard - usually tried to get him to eat, something like that. But every now and then he'd hear something special, something meaningful, something that made Sam really realise how extraordinary Dean was. It was always a rare and special thing when Sam heard something that came from Dean's heart. And Sam clung to them.

From Dean's heart, Sam had heard how much Dean loved him, how lucky he was to have this chance to spend this year with him, how he was glad he didn't have to see him leave for school again, how much he missed their father, how the smell of homemade cookies and sunflowers reminded him of their mother. These thoughts were sucker punches, every one of them. They were the thoughts that left Sam breathing harshly, heart hammering painfully in his chest, eyes burning, a complete and utter mess.

Having this new power was starting to take its toll. Having to lie to Dean about why he suddenly looked like he wanted to burst into tears every few minutes was getting to be rather difficult. Dean hadn't believed his first excuse of "Uh, there's something in my eyes," had shot back "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba and ruler of the world, bow down to me," eyebrows quirked, mouth turned down at the corners as he focussed on Sam more than the road.

It was what Dean had thought after Sam's most recent bullshit excuse that really set Sam off though. Had really made Sam feel like the worst person in the world, a terrible brother, unloving and hateful. Dean's voice had spoken in his head with that hushed, sad, hurt voice that mumbled and quieted out the hum of the Impala, Why won't you talk to me anymore? It was things like that, that made Sam want to cry forever.

-TBC-