A/N: I'm not sure if this chapter's up to par. I really struggled with writing it. Usually I can bang out a chapter in an hour and a half, but this one took me three hours. I was practically pulling my hair out when it was done. Still, thanks for all the reviews, and I hope it's not too rough around the edges. Any reviews are appreciated!

Warning: In this chapter, there are some lines that can be very mildly interpreted as Wincest. In my story, the brothers don't like each other that way – they're just very co-dependent on one another. However, if you get extremely mad and disgusted at anything resembling of Wincest, I would probably click the back button.


"You shouldn't even be here," Dean said, voice rough.

They were parked outside of the local police station, car stationed behind a barrel of bushes. Dean peered through the window, looking for any signs of urgency, but the place was silent. A few police men walked out with donuts in their hands, and Dean thought, man, I'd like a donut. He squinted at them. Were those jelly donuts?

Dean wanted a jelly donut.

"You're really focused today," Sam said, ignoring the previous statement.

Dean ripped his gaze away from the donuts. He smiled inwardly, but outside, he said: "Oh, yeah, I'm focusing. Gotta be focused, Sammy."

Sam nodded, hands bunched around the sleeves of his sweater. His eyes were half-lidded. Dean had let Sam sleep away the sickness while he'd gone and burned the eyeball remains in the hospital, but he wasn't sure if their theory was right. Dean figured he'd camp out near the police station just to make sure nothing happened tonight.

The sirens and rush of police men would inform them about something unusual happening.

But Sam. Dean had tried everything sans tie Sam to the bed to convince him to stay home. He'd clearly voiced his opinion back in the hotel room: "Sam, you're not coming with me. You're fucking weak as a kindergartner right now. I can't be worried about you when there's people in danger."

But Sam, ever the stubborn one, had insisted: "I'm fine, Dean. Besides, what if something happens, and you get hurt?"

Dean should have been touched that Sam cared so much about him, but instead he was just pissed off. The kid should have been curled up under the bed, fan blowing cool air on his face, resting. Not sitting next to him in the car, trying to keep alert and awake. Beside him, Sam took a sip of his second coffee.

The air outside was warm, and Dean rolled down the window. The trees smelled like wood and grass – and long, billowing branches stretched out like arms. The evening dusted on the edge of dusk, and the sunset orange sky bronzed in the horizon. It was a blessedly nice out, and Dean closed his eyes, stretching out the tense knots in his back.

If he could stay like this forever, he'd be one happy camper.

Sam drank deeply from his coffee. "Hey Dean?"

And when did Dean ever get what he wanted? Oh, right. Never.

"Yeah?" Dean said, annoyance clear in his voice.

The paper coffee cup crinkled, and unease filled the car. Dean flicked on eye open, praying Sam didn't have some piss-poor news to tell him.

Sam looked uncomfortable- the lines on his face worn, his mouth pressed together in a straight line. "I…I'm not…" He looked up at the roof of the car, shame clear on his face. For a second, Dean thought he would back out, but then Sam tiredly said, "I'm not feeling well."

Dean opened both eyes, and straightened up. He clamped his hands around the steering wheel. "I knew it."

"I thought – I thought I'd be fine. I slept so much." Sam's eyes fluttered. "But I'm just… " He took an uneven breath. "I dunno man, I just feel out of it."

"You should have stayed at the hotel," Dean snapped, teeth grit together. "I told you."

"I know." There was a short pause. "I'm sorry."

The tension in the car was thicker than all seven books of the Harry Potter saga combined. Dean battled between being worried and being insanely pissed off. Sam shivered in the passenger seat, breaths long and drawn out, guilt obvious from his tense posture. But the worry won out in the end. Sam wouldn't have willingly told Dean he felt sick if it wasn't serious.

Swallowing, Dean glanced at him. "You need me to drive you back to the hotel?"

The silence was unbearable. Sam blinked rapidly. "I don't feel good," he said again.

"Yeah, you don't look so good." Dean's stomach twisted. "You have a fever?"

"I don't – I don't know." Sam struggled to comprehend what Dean was saying. There was a ringing in his ears – a loud buzzing sound that drowned out Dean's concerned voice. Sam's head felt like an axe was chopping through it. He took another shaky gulp of his coffee, hoping to fire up his brain.

But the coffee tasted like gooey syrup as it went down his aching throat, and Sam leaned forward, resting his forehead on the car's glove compartment. Why wouldn't his head stop spinning? He knew he shouldn't have tagged along with Dean, but he'd wanted to back Dean up. He didn't want to useless, or worse, a burden.

He snorted to himself. Good fucking job at that, Sam.

"Sam?" Dean asked, voice edging on panic. "You with me?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice was slow and faraway. "I'm… just… give me a minute."

"Like hell," Dean said, cranking down on the gear. "I'm taking you home."

"Dean-" His protest was feeble.

"Feeding you some chicken noodle soup, and sending your ass to bed."

"De-"

Dean started the engine. The car was just about to roar into action when the wail of sirens caught their attention. Sam jerked his head up – his vision flickering – but caught enough to put two and two together: The eyeballs hadn't been the answer. The police were in a frenzy, rushing toward their black-and-white vehicles.

"We've gotta follow them," Sam rasped.

Dean's voice was tight when he answered: "I know."

The car swerved into action, tailing after the cops at a recklessly high speed. Dean's eyes were laser focused on the police, but the skin of his knuckles was white. Their fucking luck sucked ass. Sam looked like he was about to keel over, and the police were racing toward a potential murder-in-action.

Dean's hand clenched harder around the steering wheel. He leaned forward, and pressed down on the accelerator. Blood pumped through his body, and ire simmered beneath building panic. Dammit! He had no idea what to do. Follow them? The hunt was important. Someone might get killed (or already had been).

But Sam… Dean chanced a peek at his brother.

Sam stared dazedly in front of him, shimmering blue and red lights reflecting off of his eyes.

"You with me?" Dean asked.

"Y-yeah."

Well, didn't that sound reassuring.

Dean turned a sharp corner, then stepped down hard on the break pedal. The car screeched to a lurching stop, and Sam grunted. In front of them, a man banged on his living room window, eyes wide and frantic, mouth open with the words: "Help me." The police were steadfastly approaching the scene, badges out, guns aimed. Night had fallen, and the neighborhood was astray with panic.

Guns wouldn't do any damn good.

"What could it be?" Dean muttered. "What-"

"We have to help him," Sam managed.

Dean felt a sizzle of fire go down him. "I know that," he snapped, stressed. "But what the hell is keeping the spirit alive? C'mon Dean… think… think…" His fingers clawed into the sides of his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Sam was the one who usually had the eureka moments. But Sam was about as useless as a Barbie doll right now.

"Maybe…" Sam's voice was soft.

Dean snapped his head up. Gun shots resounded inside of the house. The man continued to scream in terror.

"Maybe what, Sam?"

"Maybe…" Sam blinked. "It might be… blood residue…"

"Blood residue? On what? Where?"

"I… I'm not… maybe the police station…"

"What about it?" Dean's breaths were shallow and quick. He wanted to shake his brother – tell him to hurry the hell up, the man inside the house was dying.

"For evidence," Sam murmured.

"Evidence?" Dean tried to piece the jumbled hints together. The voice inside the house grew more frantic.

"The evidence from… the knife…."

"Knife?" Dean asked, straightening up.

"Blood…"

Sam didn't finish his sentence. His eyes grew distant, and a moment later, he fell forward, his head hitting the front of the dashboard. Sam had fainted. Dean stared in horror – worry and frustration eating him inside out. Dean reached for the door handle, ready to bang out some rock salt and buy some time.

But then there was a blood-curdling scream, raised toward the sky. It was the sound of a dead man dying.

Sirens continued to wail, and Dean closed his eyes, slumped forward.

The man was dead.

And Dean Winchester, safe inside his Chevy Impala, had never been so ashamed.

.

"Sam," Dean said.

He got no response. He hadn't expected one.

Sam lay curled under a barricade of blankets, face pressed into his pillow. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and shivers wracked his body. Dean stared at him, sleep heavy in his eyes, but mind unable to rest. The events of the day kept repeating in his head, and Dean felt hollow and bitter.

He'd let someone die. Sam had fainted.

What else are you going to let happen under your watch next, Dean? Dean laughed to himself – low and sad. Going to watch Sam die next? Get killed right in front of your eyes?

Dean bit his lower lip hard, wanting nothing more than to rewind to the morning. Or, hell, rewind to a month back, when Jessica was still alive, and his brother was happy and well. His eyes flew to Sam again. His little sibling breathed softly, but each intake seemed to strain his throat. His brows were furrowed tightly even in his sleep.

Uncharacteristically, Dean reached his hand out, and pressed his hand flat on Sam's forehead.

It was hot to touch. Dean ripped his hand away like he'd been stung.

He'd let this happen. He'd let Sam get this bad.

A frustrated growl channeled from the back of Dean's throat. His temples throbbed, and he paced around his room. Why hadn't he forced Sam to stay in the hotel? He shouldn't have listened to Sam. Dean was the big brother. He knew better. He should have locked the door and strapped Sam to the bed. Then his brother wouldn't have fainted and a man wouldn't be dead.

Dean's eyes felt suspiciously wet.

His father would have been disappointed in him. Dean swallowed hard. His dad. God, he wanted his father right now. He would have known exactly what to do. He'd have saved the man, and he'd also have taken care of Sam. He wouldn't have failed.

Not like Dean.

Dad would have…

"De…"

Dean blinked, his miserable thoughts abruptly coming to a stop. He sprung to Sam's bedside. "Sam?"

Sam's lashes uncurled. His gaze was disconcerting. "Dean…"

"Right here," Dean said. Then he realized how pathetic that sounded, and cleared his throat. "How're you feeling, Princess?" He chuckled, and the joke sounded sad even to his own ears.

Sam stared at him uncomprehendingly. "I'm… hot."

Dean attempted to joke again. "Don't flatter yourself. We all know I'm the sexier brother."

His taunt fell on deaf ears. Sam whimpered (not that Sam would ever admit that), and closed his eyes again. "Hot."

Dean twisted his hands, itching to help Sam. "You want me to turn up the fan?"

"Yes, please." Sam whispered. "Also… take my shirt off."

Dean stared at him, certain he'd heard wrong. "What?"

"Hot," Sam said, and his eyes were pleading. It sickened Dean that Sam was too weak to even take his own clothes off. Nodding briefly, Dean turned on the fan. Then he walked back over to Sam. Dean gripped the ends of Sam's shirt, and gently peeled it off, tugging it over Sam's head. Sam moaned appreciatively, and sunk back into the mattress.

Dean started to smirk – wanting to tease his baby brother - but never got around to it. His mouth froze.

Bruises.

Discolored dark bruises scattered across Sam's abdomen. Blue. Black. Purple. Dean was unable to tear his gaze away from Sam's chest, heart pounding in his ears. He felt like he was going to pass out. Where did the bruises come from? He hadn't seen Sam get hurt. He'd have noticed something like that.

But there they were. The ugly bruises stared back at him. They seemed to hiss: You failed as a brother, Dean. You failed here, and here, and also here.

Dean gulped in a lungful of panicky air. His chest tightened as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around him.

Because something was seriously wrong with his Sammy, and Dean suddenly desperately needed to know what.

….

Sam didn't seem to notice Dean's panic, or the fact that his bruises had been exposed. He lay on his side, head buried in his pillow. Dean doubted Sam would have noticed if a flying elephant leaped in through their window and sat on him.

"Sam," Dean said.

He didn't get a response.

"Sam," Dean said again.

This time Sam offered what sounded like a kitten mewl.

Dean rubbed his forehead, and groaned. This was hopeless. Glaring at the bruises, Dean stood up, and walked over to the kitchen. He grabbed a cloth, and drenched it with cold water. Returning to the bedside, Dean spread the wet cloth over Sam's forehead. The effect was subtle, but Dean saw Sam's forehead loosen.

The next hour was spent in a sort of hazy daze. Dean chewed his nails until they were brittle. He tried to cook chicken noodle soup and failed miserably at it. He relined the windows and doors with salt, and wiped his guns until they were squeaky clean. Sam shifted on the mattress, the bed creaking underneath him, but otherwise continued to sleep.

Worry continued to fill up Dean's hourglass, and he hit his limit at midnight.

"That's it," Dean said. He snatched Sam's laptop from Sam's backpack and flipped it open. Dean had never been a fan of computers, but he firmly believed that desperate times called for desperate measures. He was going to get to the bottom of what was going on with Sam if it was the last thing he did. Pressing the ON button (at least Dean thought it was the ON button), he waited for the computer to boot up, his jaw clenched.

A second later, a screen popped up. Dean cursed softly. There was a goddamned password. His hands hovered over the keyboard. After a moment, he tried an attempt:

Winchester, Dean typed.

Incorrect.

Sam Winchester, Dean amended.

Incorrect. Dean frowned. His fingers flew over the keyboard.

Bitch.

Please try again in sixty seconds.

Dean scowled at the computer. "Your computer is a dick," Dean told Sam.

In a valiant attempt to defend his laptop, Sam twitched.

"Going to have to try harder than that Sammy," Dean mumbled, tapping his fingers against the bed sheet. After sixty seconds had passed, Dean stared carefully at the screen, chin propped up with his knuckles.

Tentatively, he typed: Stanford.

Incorrect.

Dean squinted at the screen. Lip caught between his teeth, he backspaced, and typed:

Jessica.

Incorrect. And he'd been so sure Jessica would be right.

Dean's hand hovered above the keyboard. Maybe he should give it up. He and the computer were clearly not meant to be.

Shrugging, and, on a whim, Dean typed:

Dean.

He was already closing the laptop when he heard the ping. Dean shoved open to the front screen, and his heart ached right to his throat, to his eyes, bursting through his pores. He couldn't breathe for a moment, instead only able to stare at the screen. A deep swell of worthlessness pooled over his body.

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