Dean's euphoria over his burwhatsititis dims somewhat as the implications of bed rest sink in.

Sam, when he was called into the office to discuss 'caregiving,' seemed far more worried than Dean himself, had taken the offered pamphlets from the nurse with a grave solemnity, face pale, asked a series of rapid-fire questions; Can he get up to go to the bathroom, Does he need a wheelchair, Should he be stretching, Can he sit in the car for long periods of time, What if I need to go out for a while, What if aliens land and we need to run away…

"Dude," Dean had tried to tell him, "all 'bed rest' means is that I should take it easy. I don't really have to be in bed."

"Actually," the nurse had piped in, "you do. You need to stay flat as much as possible."

Dean, from where he sat in the chair looking up at them, had elbowed his brother in the thigh, hard, before he could ask any more questions. "Dude," he said, "can we just get out of here, please? I need a cigarette like you would not believe."

Sam had smiled weakly at the nurse, Wendy, shaken her hand and thanked her for all her help, while Dean gave her a full-wattage smile and sucked on the nicorette in his cheek. Bed rest, schmed rest. At least it wasn't surgery.

His optimism begins to waver, however, when Sam bars his way as he tries to get in the front seat of the Impala.

"Oh no," Sam says. "No." He jerks his thumb. "In the back."

"Sam," Dean starts, but his brother gets that look on his face, that constipated-stubborn-golden retriever look, and Dean sighs, arranges himself in the backseat with a few grunts and a well-placed curse, props his leg up across the length of it, duffle under his knee.

He mouths a cigarette from his pack, closes his eyes as he takes the first drag, as Sam starts the car.

"So, you told me so," Dean prompts after a moment's silence. "They didn't try to cut my leg off. Didn't try to slice me open again."

"Right," Sam says, lets out a sigh. "That's awesome, man." But he doesn't sound too happy. "We'll stop at the pharmacy so you can fill out your new prescriptions. Glad to see they've got you on some different meds – maybe these might actually help."

"Yeah," Dean says. "That doc was pretty pill-happy. But they gave me the good stuff, something like liquid morphine, she said. Should be fun; I'll let you try it."

Sam huffs a laugh, but Dean can tell that his heart isn't in it. "Can't believe you have to stay in bed for a week."

"Nah," Dean says, "they're just bein' melodramatic."

"No, they're not, Dean," Sam says. "We're not getting out of this one." Dean watches him in the rearview mirror, watches as he runs a tense hand through his hair, tightens his lips.

"Well, you don't actually have to stay with me," Dean says, trying to get to the bottom of Sam's nervous energy, figure out why he seems so upset. "Set me up with the remote control and some water, and you can do your own thing. There's a movie theater round the corner from the motel, and I saw a big fat library that should keep your nerdy little heart content 'til I'm back on my feet."

"Dude, come on," Sam says, "You know I don't mind staying with you. It's just… I don't know, it blows that we have to stay put for so long."

"No shit," Dean says glumly, flicks ash into his cupped palm. "But hey, you're the one who wanted a break. Not like we've got a hunt lined up or anything; newspapers have been pretty quiet."

"Right," Sam says, but his expression in the mirror is worried, tight.

When they pull into the pharmacy and Dean leans down to collect his crutches, Sam shoots him a withering glare.

"What part of don't move do you not understand?"

"Bed rest doesn't start till I'm in bed," Dean says, scoots forward to the edge of the seat with a grimace. "Besides, they won't fill these prescriptions for you if I'm not there. Help me up."

Sam purses his lips, but reaches down and hauls Dean out of the car. The poking and prodding and the exercises the doctor had him do are taking their toll, and the Vicodin from the morning is wearing off. He moves slowly after his brother, thanks god for handicapped parking spots.

Inside, Sam trots off the find ibuprofin and ice/heat packs, while Dean pulls the stack of prescriptions out of his wallet and slaps them down on the counter. The pharmacist shuffles through them, face blank, but Dean can't help but feel judged, like he needs to justify himself somehow.

"You should get the sugar-free versions of this Actiq stuff," the pharmacist says, raises his pudgy face finally to Dean. "This'll rot your teeth right out of your head."

"Jesus," Dean says, runs a tongue across his molars. "Okay."

"Be a few minutes," the pharmacist says. "You can have a seat over there, if you want."

Dean eyes the plastic waiting chairs longingly, but heads to the front of the store instead, buys a carton of cigarettes and, why not, six packs of sugarless nicorette gum. A week of lying around in bed probably isn't the best time to try and cut back on his smoking, but then again, he could probably go through three packs in a day if he's got nothing better to do, so maybe this'll temper him a little.

When he gets back, the pharmacist has two bottles lined up and a strange little package that says "Actiq welcome kit" in medical block print.

Wait a second, two bottles? His new vicodin, and… oh, yeah. Anti-depressants. He leans on the counter, picks up the bottle, reads the label. Lexapro. Sounds… corporate.

Sam comes up behind him as the pharmacist bags the Vicodin and the Actiq.

"What's that for?" he asks, nudging his chin at the bottle in Dean's hand. Dean drops it hastily into the white bag, hands over Steve Howe's insurance and credit card. This is gonna cost a fortune – but not for him.

"Uh, improve bone density," Dean says.

"Oh," Sam says, and Dean does a double take.

"Dude, what is that?"

"It's a body pillow," Sam says, hefting the giant brown puff higher on his hip, like he's carrying a massive, squishy toddler. "Says they're good for bed rest. We shoulda gotten you one of these ages ago."

"A body pillow," Dean repeats, shakes his head. "Thanks, I guess."

Sam smiles for a moment before his face settles back into worried. "We set here?"

"Yeah," Dean says, hands Sam the bag with his prescriptions and the cigarettes so he can get himself adjusted on his crutches, takes a couple deep breaths. His hip has started up a steady marching band of pain, with his knee trailing behind playing the high-hat. At least he knows that part of it is caused by whatever the hell he's got, and that it'll go away in a week. But right now it's fucking killing him.

"You all right?" Sam asks as Dean winces his way down the aisle and out into the parking lot.

" 'M fine," Dean says, waits for Sam to open the door to the backseat so he can ease himself inside. "Hey, pass that bag back here, huh?"

No time like the present to try out his new drugs. He takes out the pack of Actiq, tears it open and squints at the instructions.

"That's weird," Sam says, watching him in the rearview mirror. "What's that little stick?"

"It's like a painkiller lollipop, or something," Dean says, puts it in his mouth and swabs it around his cheek, twirls the stick like the instructions say. Sees too late that he can't smoke at the same time. Dammit.

"How's it taste?"

"Kinda grape-y."

Sam stops at a liquor store on the way back, comes back with a 30 rack of Pabst, shrugs when Dean raises his eyebrows. "It's a whole week, dude," Sam says, almost defensively, and Dean thinks that Sam's been drinking kind of a lot lately. Almost says something, until he realizes that his eyelids are half-mast and there are enough opoids in the car to get them tossed into jail for a long time, if they weren't legal.

They get to the motel about fifteen minutes later, lollipop still tucked in Dean's cheek, and Sam comes around to open the back door.

"Dean," Sam says when he doesn't move. "Dude, you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says in wonder. "I'm great." And he is. For the first time in what seems like years, he feels almost no pain. He edges forward experimentally, and yeah, there's a twinge, but nothing like the bone-deep just-make-it-stop pain he's gotten used to.

"Grape thing working?" Sam asks, a little smile on the corner of his mouth.

"Guess so," Dean says, gets himself out of the car and leans back in for his crutches. Wow. Easy.

Once in the motel, he eases down onto the bed, lets Sam fuss with the pillows and the blankets, lazily takes the proffered icepack and settles it on his hip, tosses the used-up Actiq stick into the trashcan and looks slowly around for his cigarettes.

"Ibuprofen," Sam says, shakes out a couple and puts them into Dean's outstretched hand.

He swallows them with the glass of water Sam gives him, lights a cigarette as his brother crosses the room to get a beer, comes back to sit on the edge of Dean's bed.

"What is it, dude?" Dean asks, relaxing into the pool of opiates. "I know something's buggin' you." He aims a breath of smoke away from Sam as his brother taps nervously on the top of his beer, cracks it open and takes a swig. "You do realize it's like, one o'clock in the afternoon, right?" he adds. "Kinda early for that."

"I wouldn't talk," Sam snaps. "You're stoned out of your mind."

"Nuh-unh," Dean protests, takes a long drag. "'Sides, I need this shit."

"I know," Sam says, takes another gulp of his beer. "Sorry."

"S'wrong, Sam?" Dean asks, pushing himself up so he's sitting a little straighter. "Spit it out. Come on."

Sam takes a deep breath. "We gotta talk."

Uh-oh. "Okay. So talk."

"It's just… I have these nightmares," he starts, stops, shakes his head.

"Yes?" Dean prompts after a moment. "I've noticed."

"And…" Sam says, takes another sip of his beer, fiddles with the can in his hands. Turns to face his brother. "And sometimes they come true."

Dean coughs around a lungful of smoke. "Come again?"

"Look, Dean," Sam says, face twisted. "I dreamt about Jessica's death – for days before it happened."

"Sam," Dean says, alarmed by his brother's distress, "Sam, people have weird dreams, man. I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"No," Sam says, "No. I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, everything, and I didn't do anything about it 'cause I didn't believe it. And now –" he pauses, gets up and goes towards the kitchenette table, where's he's dumped his duffle. "Now," he continues, "now I've been dreaming about this woman, man, a woman screaming for help and banging on the windows of this house, and I started drawing this tree –" he thrusts the sketch of the tree into his brother's hands "— and I thought, I know this tree, I know this tree, and so I looked and here it is."

He passes Dean a photograph Dean knows well, a photo taken just a few days before the fire, in front of their old house in Lawrence.

"I've been dreaming about our house," Sam says, "about that tree, about that woman screaming inside, and, I mean, that's where it all started, man, this has to mean something, right?"

"All right," Dean says, trying to shake his head out of the analgesic fog, "Just slow down, would you?"

"This woman's in danger," Sam says, "I just – I just know it. And this might be our chance – this might be thing that killed Mom, and Jess."

Dean drops his cigarette butt into the water glass with a sizzle, occupies himself with lighting another one so he doesn't have to answer right away. Sam drinks deep from the can, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You're saying we need to go back to Lawrence," Dean says finally. "Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "But – dude – with you in bed like this –"

"And you're telling me you've got the Shining," Dean says, still working through everything.

"Yeah," Sam says impatiently. "I don't know what to do, though, cause—"

"And you're tellin' me we have to go back to our old house, like, maybe go in it."

"I shouldn't have told you this while you were on painkillers," Sam mutters, rubs his temple.

"I'm always on painkillers," Dean says distractedly, running a hand over his mouth. Fuck. "Dude," he says, grasping at the one thing he knows for sure. "I really. Do not. Want to go back there."

"I know," Sam says. "But we… I really think we have to check this out."

Dean pulls smoke into his lungs and holds it for a moment. "I know we do."

"But how?" Sam asks, almost frantic. "Dude, you're supposed to stay in bed for at least five days. By then, it's gonna be too late."

"Well," Dean says. "I feel pretty good right now. Maybe I—"

"No," Sam says vehemently. "You're not gonna fuck this up, man, you're more than fucked up enough."

"Right," Dean says quietly, knocks ash into the water glass.

"Sorry," Sam says, face guilty, "sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Dean says. "Listen, we're at least a two-day drive from Lawrence. I can get comfortable in the back seat, take my ibuprofen and shit, rest up. Then, we'll see when we get there."

"I feel like that might be our only option," Sam says miserably. "I'm sorry. But this thing might be – I mean –"

"I know," Dean says, reaches for his cigarettes again, thinks twice, goes for the nicorette. Sam finishes his beer, squeezes the can till it crumples in his hand.

"When should we leave?" Dean asks, chews hard.

"I don't know," Sam says, "I mean—"

"Now," Dean says. "We should probably leave now, huh."

"Yeah. Probably."

Sam checks out, steals the pillows from the motel room, props Dean up in the car along with his new body pillow, makes sure he's got everything he needs in hands reach.

"You comfortable, dude?" Sam asks, as Dean works the cap off the new Vicodin. That lollipop-thing is fast-acting, but he can already feel the pain creeping up over the horizon, needs something a little more long-lasting.

"I'm good," Dean says, takes his gum out of his mouth to swallow the meds down.

"Hey, I'm glad you're chewing that shit," Sam says, gives Dean a small smile.

Dean pauses and Sam realizes he was mid-reach towards his cigarettes. He can't help but laugh at the guilty expression on his brother's face.

"Well, I figure I'll alternate," Dean justifies. "Gum, cigarette, gum, cigarette."

"Sounds reasonable," Sam says. "You hungry? Wanna grab something before we go?"

"I'm good," Dean says, then, doesn't want to worry his brother, says, "Actually, I could go for a sandwich."

Sure enough, Sam's face brightens a little. "We'll swing by a drive through, then. You sure you're comfortable?"

"Yeah, Sam, I'm fine," Dean says.

"You gotta tell me if you need to stop, okay?"

"Okay," Dean says, wondering when Sam picked up that older-brother tone of voice, when he himself picked up that whiny little-brother voice. He feels something stir uncomfortably in his chest and he says, "You gonna be okay, dude? We're staying over night somewhere, right?"

"If I need to, we'll stop," Sam says with a shrug. "But honestly, I'd kind of like to try and make this all in one trip."

"That's like, eighteen hours of driving."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Dean shrugs, puts his cigarette between his lips and reaches down for where John's journal is sitting in his duffle, flips through a couple pages while Sam concentrates on finding a drive-through.

Back to Lawrence. Back home. Jesus. He runs his hands over his Dad's bunched-up scrawl, suddenly misses his father so fiercely that he's rocked back by it, his eyes blinking closed, eyelashes suddenly damp. He swore, he swore to himself that he would never go back there, to where it started, to where his life ended and began at the same time.

Who the fuck would he be if he had stayed in Lawrence? Just some civilian, ignorant and stupid and soft and safe:a guy who didn't need a pharmacy's worth of painkillers just to keep him upright, a guy with a living mother and a father who wasn't a freakin' mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a coating of jackass, a guy with a brother who would have gone to college with his family's blessing, would come home on holidays, call them on the phone to complain about grades and professors, to talk about his girlfriend, who'd be alive. A brother who wouldn't, fuck, have freakin' nightmares about horrible, violent things that come true, apparently.

"You all right?" comes Sam's voice, and Dean opens his eyes, sees that his brother is eyeing him worriedly in the rearview mirror.

Dean works the cigarette to the corner of his mouth so he can talk around it, says, "Yeah," closes the journal but doesn't let it go, lays both palms across the top.

"Vicodin not working?"

"It's working fine," Dean says, breathes smoke for a second, then says, "Dude. You know this sucks out loud, right?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I know."

To be continued…