Well. I got all my presents wrapped haha! Let's see how the boys are doing today...


Chapter 4

December 22nd, 2008
2 pm

When he woke up, Dean found that he was able to think more clearly. The heated, muddled mess that had been his mind earlier was calmer, clearer. He remembered the house. The way they'd actually laughed when they'd realized it wasn't haunted. That one split second when everything had seemed fine; had felt like it had before he'd died. Before he'd come back to find his little brother wasn't the same person he'd left behind.

Then they'd fallen.

And oh did he ever remember the fall.

"Sam?" The name came out ragged and breathy, but he was relieved that anything had come out of his mouth at all.

No answer.

Dean moved a little, feeling that awful, exquisite misery that spoke of having endured a high fever. He ached. Everywhere. And he wanted something to drink so bad that it pushed past every other need he felt. Except for one. Desperate as he was for a drink of water, he was even more desperate to know where his brother was.

"Sam?" He tried again and still didn't get a response.

Shifting his head, Dean caught a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand and tried to figure out why it was so bright outside if it were two in the morning. And then he realized that maybe it was two in the afternoon. Either way, he was confused as to what had happened. He looked past the clock and saw that the other bed was empty. A bolt of fear ran through him and it hurt more than the pain in his head, side or arm combined.

Attempting to get his sluggish body to move, he felt his hand bump into something solid next to him. Turning his head, Dean was shocked and relieved to find Sam face down on the bed next to him, apparently sound asleep. For a moment, he just stared at Sam and tried to get his heart rate calmed back down to a more normal level. He shifted a bit more, tilting his head until he could get a better look.

Sam was lying on his stomach, no pillow under his head, arms down at his sides and his feet hanging off the bottom of the bed. He was as pale as the sheets and his face was creased in pain. Dean told himself to leave him alone. To let him rest. That he could do whatever he needed to do without waking Sam up.

But the way Sam was lying there scared him.

Fumbling with a leaden hand that didn't quite want to cooperate, Dean finally reached Sam's arm. He felt for a pulse and was found it steady. Squeezing Sam's wrist, Dean said, "Sam, wake up."

This time the response was instant. Sam's eyes opened and his entire body stiffened. He didn't move, but whispered, "Dean?"

"Yeah."

"How're you doing?"

"Hurtin'. You?"

"Yeah."

Dean's struggling brain began to catch up and he remembered his own injuries as well as Sam's. "Why're you lying there?"

"You were outta your head." Sam's eyes slid closed. "For hours. Your fever was high and you were fighting like crazy. Finally got you to take the Tylenol. I...I couldn't...I just needed to lay down for a minute."

Dean nodded, then it dawned on him that Sam's nose was swollen and looked like it had been bleeding. Heart jumping into his throat, Dean asked, "I do that?"

"Do what?" Sam mumbled, not even trying to make the words clear. He didn't open his eyes.

"Did I punch you?"

Sam's lips twitched in a tiny smile. "I don't know what you were fighting, but I put my face in the line of fire."

"Shit, Sam! I'm sorry."

"It's ok. Not your fault." Sam opened his eyes again. "Your fever was outta control."

It was a good excuse as far as excuses went, Dean thought, but it didn't make him feel the slightest bit better about it. He stared at Sam as his brother stared back silently. His breathing sounded congested and Dean hoped his punch hadn't broken Sam's nose. The reminder of how he'd been fighting in his feverish confusion brought back memories of the flames and darkness of hell and Dean wondered how much he'd said. How much he'd revealed of his time below.

It made his stomach roll again, but there were other more pressing issues. So he forced himself not to think about it. Pushing himself with difficulty into a sitting position, Dean heard Sam's quiet question from behind his back. He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his injured shoulder and said, "Gotta hit the bathroom."

"Then you should drink some water," Sam mumbled into the sheets. "Dehydrated."

Dean didn't reply. He focused all of his energy into getting himself onto his feet. He wavered and almost sat down again because he wasn't sure he would be able to avoid falling over if he didn't. But he gritted his teeth, stumbled a couple steps forward and got his right hand against the wall. Breathing through the pain, Dean hobbled the rest of the way to the bathroom. He couldn't fully straighten due to the throbbing pain in his left side.

A splash of cold water on his face did a little to help him wake up. The mental clarity came at a price, of course. Now he was even more aware of how much everything hurt. It was time for some painkillers.

Finishing in the bathroom, he stepped back out and glanced around. Washcloths and towels lay discarded on the nightstand along with a bottle of water and a plastic cup. Pill bottles were spread across the other bed. Dean leaned against the doorjamb and looked over at Sam. He hadn't moved. His posture, although lying on the bed, screamed discomfort.

"Sam?"

"Hm?"

"You take anything for the pain?"

"Mmm."

"When?"

Sam mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like I don't know and Dean turned toward the other bed. He sat down heavily and tried to sort through the bottles. Rubbing his eyes to clear them, he reached down again and tried to figure out which bottle was the industrial strength pain pills.

He vaguely remembered when they'd gotten back to the motel. He'd given Sam three of the pills and two of the muscle relaxants. But that had been hours ago. If he'd been running a fever the entire time and Sam had been sitting watch over him, Dean had a feeling he hadn't taken another pain pill or gotten much sleep.

Finally finding the ones he wanted, Dean held the bottle with his slinged hand and prepared to push himself up again. The bottle of water was there on the nightstand and he wasn't going to be picky about sharing it with his brother at this point and if Sam had an issue with it, well tough. Dean paused, watching Sam open his eyes. For a moment they stared at each other without a word.

"I'm gonna go get ice," Dean said, partially to fill the silence, partially as a thank you for the way his brother had sat up for hours trying to ground him through the nightmares.

Sam weakly shook his head against the sheets.

"Don't argue with me. I'm going to get you some ice. You're not in a good position, man, and you're never going to be able to get up if you don't take some medicine and get some relief."

"Dean-"

"Shut up, Sam." He said it without heat, grabbed the bottle of muscle relaxants in his good hand and made his way across the short distance between the two beds.

Dean wobbled halfway there and fell more than sat down on the edge of the bed; the abrupt movement drawing a pained moan from his brother. Breathing through his own pain, Dean said, "Sorry."

"It's ok."

Dropping one bottle onto the bed next to him, Dean started fumbling with the lid of the other one, saying over his shoulder, "You gonna be able to take these-"

"Not right now. Ok? I can't move right now." There was a distinct, undisguised plea in Sam's voice.

Dean bowed his head, his hands stilling. "You can't stay there forever."

"No. Just for now. I...I've got it under control right now," Sam said, voice shaking as if even talking was stealing his precious control. "If I move-"

His voice trailed off and Dean sighed. He set the two bottles on the night stand and grabbed the bottle of water. Draining half of it, he tried to remember if they had any other bottles. Twisting around, he looked at Sam and said, "You been drinking anything?"

"Yeah."

Dean wasn't sure if he should believe that or not. Wasn't sure of much these days. He stared at the wall for a few silent minutes. Then he finished the bottle and dropped it into the trash can. Too tired to care about anything, Dean eased himself back down onto the bed. He fell asleep a moment later to the sound of his brother's steady breathing next to him.


December 23rd, 2008
Morning

Sam fell asleep listening to Dean's breathing and woke up to its absence.

Groggy and disoriented, Sam blinked against the bright light streaming across the bed. His throat felt like someone had shoved gravel down it and he swallowed painfully against the sensation, running his tongue across his dry lips. Not daring to move a muscle yet, Sam managed a pathetic attempt at calling Dean's name.

Nothing. No response. Silence in the room. He frowned and shifted his right arm until he was able to reach out toward the other side of the bed. Where he'd last seen his brother. The movement hurt, but not as much as he'd been afraid it would. He shifted a millimeter and realized his shirt was pulled up halfway and something cold and heavy was pressing down against his back.

Ice.

Wrapped in a towel, no...a pillowcase. Towels were too thick, but ice without some kind of cover against his skin would have been agony. The pillowcase was the perfect thickness to allow the comforting coolness to soothe the muscle spasms. He felt a blanket over his body and stopped moving, stopped thinking. He almost fell back to sleep. The sound of running water in the background filtered through the desire to sleep and he forced his eyes open again when the water stopped. He heard soft muttering from the bathroom and, a moment later, Dean stepped out.

He was shirtless and Sam could see every bruise, every cut, on his upper body. The deep gash in his left side looked awful. Red and angry around the edges and swollen at each stitch. Dean was holding his left arm close to his body as if it were too heavy to hold up without the sling.

"Dean?" Sam whispered hoarsely, drawing Dean's attention his way.

"Sam?" Dean turned slightly and stopped moving. His hair was dripping, his was face pale and finally didn't look flushed with fever. "How're you doing?"

"Better."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You haven't moved. An inch. All night."

"All night?" Sam blinked. "It's-"

"It's almost nine." Dean pointed at the clock Sam couldn't see. "We slept all night."

"We did?"

"I got up a couple hours ago. Got you some ice, got me some drugs." Dean's grin was wide and reached his eyes, even if they were bloodshot and exhausted. "Took a shower. Thinkin' bout food."

Sam waited for more. Dean tilted his head and Sam could tell he was assessing him. "You think you can move yet?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Yeah right." Dean rolled his eyes. "Stay put for now."

"What're you gonna do?" Sam asked, yawning. He fisted his right hand in the sheets, trying to convince himself to move.

Dean was moving slowly and edged out of Sam's line of sight. "Gonna get dressed. Gonna get breakfast. Gonna figure out how to get you into the car."

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and pushed himself onto his side. The soothing ice pack slid off his back and he missed the numbing sensation immediately. His vision didn't white out and he could still breathe, so obviously things were a little better than they had been earlier.

"Sam, what part of stay put for now don't you comprehend?" Dean's voice was irritated and he stepped back into Sam's line of sight. He had a shirt in his good hand, his sore arm still pressed close to his chest.

"I'm ok." Sam breathed through his mouth and tried to look ok.

"You've been lying there in that exact position for hours. Take some of the pills and give it some time. Then you can try to move."

Sam ignored him and pushed himself upright, biting his lower lip to keep from shouting in pain as his muscles protested the movement. He heard Dean swearing in the background, but continued to ignore him. Getting his feet on the floor, he braced his hands against his knees and hoped he wasn't going to pass out now.

He didn't pass out and he didn't fall off the bed. Sam looked up and saw Dean standing in front of him. He had his shirt on now and was holding his bad arm and looking like he was in a lot more pain than he wanted to admit. For a moment they were silent, then Dean sighed and asked, "You ready for some pills?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm ok without them."

Dean looked like he might argue, but his jaw snapped shut and his eyes hardened and Sam felt cold wash over him that had nothing to do with winter or ice packs. He lifted his hands from his knees and rubbed at his eyes to avoid Dean's stare. After a few seconds, he heard his brother move away. Sam lowered his hands and stared at the dirty carpet wondering what they were supposed to do next.

"We're a couple hours from Bobby's." Dean's voice was gravel-rough from somewhere behind him.

Sam nodded but didn't say anything. He took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet, not expecting and not receiving any help. He could move a little easier than before, but he could feel the tightness, the sharp grabbing sensation in his lower back and knew if he twisted wrong or bent over he would be in trouble.

Which meant getting his boots on and then sitting in the car were still going to be issues. Gritting his teeth, he hobbled around the bed until he found his boots, then sat down in the chair. Trying to lift his legs and shove his feet into the boots left him panting and gripping the edge of the table with one hand.

By the time he had his feet in the boots, Sam decided tying them was not really important. He looked up, realizing Dean had been busily moving around the room the entire time. Packing what little gear they'd had in the room. The pill bottles were all dropped into a bag as was the sling. Sam kept his mouth shut, knowing suggesting Dean wear the sling would only be asking for a shouting match. Instead, he pulled his own coat on and grabbed the few things he could get to before Dean did.

Dean was out the door without a word and Sam took one last look around the room before following his brother outside. The cold air bit his skin and he started shivering almost immediately, the motion aggravating the pain in his back. He dropped the bag in his hands into the trunk, barely getting his hand back before Dean slammed the trunk and headed for the drivers seat. There was no way Dean should be driving, but Sam didn't say anything. He got into the passenger seat with difficulty. Closing the door behind him, Sam looked over as Dean started the car.

"Breakfast?" Sam asked.

"Not hungry," Dean snapped, revving the engine and tearing out of the driveway.

Sam braced one hand on the seat and held onto the door with the other, knowing there was no point in trying to say anything at this point. So he told himself he wasn't hungry. Told himself that he wasn't in pain and that everything was fine.

And, just like all the other lies he told himself these days, he didn't believe a single one.


Dean gritted his teeth against the ache in his shoulder and the pain in his heart. He didn't know why he'd gotten so irritated. Well, other than the fact that Sam was being stubborn and stupid and acting like he was on his own.

As usual.

Maybe it was because he still felt feverish and unwell. Maybe it was because his arm hurt and his side hurt and his head hurt. Maybe it was because he'd come back from hell and his brother was lying to him and angels wanted him to lead their war and no one, no one, wanted to be straight with him. Maybe it was the simple fact that he didn't deserve to have been brought back. Whatever it was, Dean felt a gaping, icy hole in his middle and it only grew larger with every passing day.

Forcing himself to focus on the road, he tried not to think about any of it. He told himself that getting to Bobby's place was the only thing that mattered now.

Why exactly, he wasn't sure, since Bobby wasn't there and they didn't have a job on the the agenda.

He didn't turn on the music and he didn't ask Sam if he needed to stop. He just drove. If he hadn't needed gas to continue to drive, Dean would never have stopped. As it was, he pressed on longer than he usually did when the gas gauge went low. As long as he was driving, he wasn't thinking. But then he reached the point where he had to pull over. And, for the first time in an hour, he looked over at Sam.

Halfway expecting to find him asleep because he'd been uncharacteristically silent, Dean felt guilt hit him like a freight train. Sam had his eyes closed and he looked sick. Absolutely sick. His breathing, which Dean hadn't bothered to notice, was stilted; sharp shallow breaths through his nose. His bruised, swollen nose.

Dean chewed his lip as he turned the car in a gas station driveway. Pulling up to the pump and putting the car in park, he glanced at Sam again and saw he'd opened his eyes and was making an effort to look like he wasn't in agony. It wasn't successful. Dean pocketed the keys and cleared his throat.

"You should get out and walk around a bit," he suggested, trying to sound casual. "I can get the gas and-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence because Sam moved faster than he'd ever expected. Nearly wrenching the door open, Sam pushed himself out of the car and almost, almost, managed to muffle the cry of pain when he straightened up. Dean didn't move. Just stared out the windshield and wished he knew how to deal with the situation. Nothing he did lately seemed to be what Sam wanted him to do. He rubbed a hand down his face, then opened his own door.

By the time he'd straightened his own stiff muscles out, Sam was nowhere in sight.

"Damn it." Dean shook his head and limped toward the gas pump; the stitches in his side pulling uncomfortably.

He started filling up the tank, wondering if Sam would come back or if he'd somehow arranged to meet up with Ruby and take off again. As usual, the thought of that skanky bitch turned his stomach and made him want to punch Sam in his stupid face for ever going near her. And then he thought about how he'd already punched Sam in the face. Punched him in the face while Sam had been sitting there trying to lower his fever and he'd been having nightmares about hell.

Heart pounding at the memory, Dean looked around again. Still no sign of his brother. By the time he'd finished pumping the gas, he was less irritated and more worried. Heading for the store, he found it a little busier than the usual gas station, but no sign of Sam. Dean walked toward the back of the store and pushed past a beefy trucker coming out of the restroom.

And found Sam, hunched over the sink, eyes squeezed closed, water running down his ashen face.

"Sam?" he asked, uncertain how Sam would respond.

"What?" Sam didn't move, didn't open his eyes.

His shoulders were shaking and Dean told himself it was just from the pain.

"I…" Dean swallowed hard. He didn't know what he should say.

Sam straightened with a groan, ripped a paper towel from the dispenser, wiped his face and said, "Let's just go."

And then he walked out.

Dean rested a hip against the sink and closed his eyes. His mind was blank. Dark and empty. Scary in its desolation. He tried to form a coherent thought. Tried to analyze the situation. Figure out where they went from here. But he had nothing. No idea.

Dean shifted and turned the sink on to splash some cold water on his own face. He'd come back from hell only to discover the brother he'd left behind, the brother he'd died for, had screamed for, was gone. That hurt more than anything that had happened to him in hell. And it hurt more than his injuries right now.

Staring at the wall for a few seconds, Dean shook his head and glanced at his watch. Another hour or so till they got to Bobby's. And what was so great about that? It was his goal. It was what he'd convinced himself would be the light at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn't. Not really. It was just an end to this particular trip. An end to this day. It wasn't going to solve anything. Wasn't going to bring them happiness or solve their problems. It wasn't going to magically bring his brother back.

And it wasn't going to put him back together either.

He was just as broken as Sam was.

Wiping his eyes and face on a paper towel, Dean straightened and repackaged every single thought into the tiny dark lock box they belonged in and left the bathroom. He walked through the gas station, thinking that maybe he should pick up some food. Bobby'd been gone for a week. Some hunt in Washington state. He probably didn't have much in his pantry. Dean shoved the front door open and shivered in the cold air. He hoped Bobby had some canned chili in the basement that they could survive on for a day or two.

Something that might have been relief twitched in his chest when he saw Sam sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. Honestly? He hadn't been sure if he should expect it or not. Dean shoved the relief into another box, along with the pain that was throbbing through his body, and pulled the car door open.

Getting behind the wheel, he had a passing thought that maybe he should find a motel. Or let Sam drive. Because his head was hurting worse and there was something off about his vision. Dean told himself that he'd driven plenty of times with a concussion. He told himself that he was in better shape than Sam was. Starting the car up without a word, he ignored his brother and ignored everything else except the snow crusted blacktop in front of him.

One hour. Less if he pushed it. Then he could lay down and take a handful of pills and sleep for the next week.

Whether Sam would still be around when he woke up, Dean didn't know.


Sam knew Dean shouldn't be driving. He'd known it from the moment they'd gotten into the car at the motel. But steam had practically been pouring out of Dean's ears, so he'd kept his mouth shut. And then he'd kept his mouth shut for the next two hours. Partially it had been the worry of how Dean would handle anything he had to say. Partially it had been because he'd been in so much pain that opening his mouth would have resulted in some very unmanly whining.

He should have taken the pills when Dean had offered them. He'd been thinking about the fact that one of them should probably not be on drugs when they hit the road. He hadn't been thinking about the fact that, by declining the pills, he'd rejected Dean's good natured attempt to help. So he'd wound up sitting in agony in a silent car with an angry brother driving. A brother who was on drugs and who had a concussion. All in all, the day was going very well.

The gas station hadn't made anything better. Because he'd been so tense and in so much pain that he hadn't been able to do anything but bolt for the bathroom (as fast as someone with a sprained back and a bad limp could bolt). He'd barely begun to compose himself from the unexpected rush of tears (of pain, not of any other cause) before Dean had walked into the bathroom. And then he'd done the same thing he'd been doing for a long time now.

He ran.

Past his brother, past the issues between them. And now they were back on the snowy road and nothing had improved. At least nothing had gotten worse, he decided in a moment of dark optimism.

Feeling more alone than he had in months, Sam tried to ignore everything and focus on the road. Maybe he couldn't drive, but that didn't mean he couldn't keep his eyes open for danger. Dean was driving slower than usual and that told him everything about how bad his brother was feeling. Because he wasn't driving slow due to the weather conditions. The snow was light and fluffy and not impeding vision or making the roads slick. Dean was driving slow because he had a concussion and probably should still be in a hospital.

The time passed exactly as Sam had expected it to. Slowly and silently. But it passed safely and the familiar sight of the salvage yard soothed the worry he'd been feeling the entire trip. Dean pulled up as close to the door as he could and turned the car off. For a moment, they sat there staring at the snow that was drifting down in heavier, larger flakes. Sam wasn't exactly excited about the prospect of moving again and somehow he felt like Dean was in the same boat.

But then it started getting cold in the car and Sam couldn't take the shivering so he made the first move to get out. It didn't hurt any less than it had earlier, but he knew how to move now to minimize the blinding agony. He thought he was doing a decent job, but by the time he'd reached the trunk, Dean was already there, grabbing gear. His brother didn't say anything, just turned and headed slowly for the porch. Sam reached for the last bag. The smallest one. And something warmed inside him despite the freezing weather and the cold shoulder he'd been getting from his brother.

Closing the trunk, Sam turned and limped toward the steps. The front door was open, the light on inside and Sam started thinking about hot chocolate. By the time he was halfway up the stairs, he was thinking about strong painkillers and alcohol. The cold air nipped his cheeks and his back was spasming and not cooperating with his desire to get out of the cold. With one step to go, it completely locked up. He didn't bother muffling his groan of pain because there wasn't anyone around to hear it anyway. The bag he was carrying dropped to the snowy porch and he managed to get one hand on the railing to hold him up.

And there he stood. The snow blew around him and he pictured himself becoming a snowman on Bobby's porch and tried to remember what it had been like to be a kid playing in the snow. It had been a long time, but they had been kids once, even if not exactly normal kids. Sam tried to focus on those memories, happier times, and use them to pull himself past the pain. He kept his eyes on the door because he didn't dare close them.

And then there was movement beyond the door and he was surprised to see Dean stepping back outside. Tracking his movement was a struggle and Sam couldn't even hope to disguise his pain, let alone hide it.

"Sam?" Dean asked, his movements stiff as he came closer. "That bad, huh?"

He allowed his eyes to close when he felt Dean's hand gripping his arm. For a moment, nothing happened. Sam still thought he was going to end up standing there until the end of time. He forced his eyes back open and tuned in to what his brother was saying.

"...think you can move yet?"

Sam wasn't sure, but he didn't want to stand there in the cold any longer, so he nodded. Dean tightened his grip on his arm and said, "Ok. You only got one more step. One step then it's flat from here. That's not so bad, right? Flat ground? Where you wanna go from there? Couch?"

He wanted to lay down flat. Bury his face in the pillow and sleep. That was what he wanted to do. What he ended up doing was taking that one step up. And then he let Dean lead him into the house that was still too cold but not as cold as the porch had been. Dean guided him to a wall and Sam put his hand out against it, doing what he could to control his breathing. The presence beside him disappeared. A moment later, the front door closed and the cold draft was mercifully gone. There was a thud on the ground that told him Dean must have brought the last bag inside. And then Dean was back next to him. Not touching him, but there nonetheless.

"Sam? What're you thinking?"

"Shower," he gasped out, the word itself seeming to stab into his back. Hot water sounded like the best thing in the world right now.

There was silence for a moment and he knew Dean was running that statement through his slowed processors. Then Dean said, "Ok. Hang on. I'll go turn it on. Take forever to get it hot in this weather. Just...stand there….or whatever. Just don't fall ok?"

Sam didn't bother answering. He just stood there and didn't fall.


Dean's anger had diffused about the time he'd parked the car in front of Bobby's place. Maybe it was the familiarity; the sensation of being home. Maybe he was just that tired. Either way, he didn't feel anything but exhaustion. He wasn't sure what Sam was feeling other than pain, but his brother hadn't bothered to say anything, just got out of the car. By the time Dean had gotten out himself and started gathering their gear, Sam had finally arrived at the trunk. So Dean left the smallest bag and headed for the house. He had a feeling Sam wouldn't want to be studied right now.

Dragging himself into the house, Dean dumped the gear on the table. Then he cranked up the heat. He started thinking about things like hot chocolate or, even better, a hot toddy. And then he realized he was still the only person in the house.

So he'd gone to investigate and found his brother paralyzed on the front porch. Now he was turning up the water as hot as it could go and trying to figure out, yet again, where they went from here. Since that line of thinking led to nothing good or helpful, Dean left the water running and the thought unfinished. He walked back out to the entryway and found Sam exactly where he'd left him. Which was bad in that it meant Sam still wasn't moving. But it was good because it meant Sam was still standing up. Catching Sam's eye, Dean felt a wave of anxiety rush over him, then shoved it aside. Because Sam didn't look like he wanted to fight about anything. He just looked like he was hurting.

"Hot water's running. Think you're gonna make it?" Dean asked softly, his voice surprisingly shaky.

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything. His jaw was clenched so tight it was no wonder he didn't answer. But he peeled his hand off the wall and started fumbling awkwardly with his coat. Dean almost moved to help, but then stopped. Because if Sam had made one thing clear of late, it was that he was fully capable. Of everything. He didn't want help and he didn't need help. And Dean didn't want to start another fight, but he also couldn't stand watching Sam struggle.

So he stepped forward and did what he needed to do and helped Sam get the coat off.

"Thanks," Sam whispered, meeting his eyes.

Dean nodded and asked, "You gonna be able to manage the rest of it?"

He wasn't being nasty or speaking in jest. It was a legitimate concern. As difficult as things were between them, Dean wasn't going to walk away if Sam needed the help. And he could see the understanding in Sam's eyes. The acceptance. Not resignation. Acceptance. If he didn't think he could handle it, he'd say so and that was such a relief that Dean didn't know how to react. He wanted to grin and say, everything's back to normal. Everything's fine! But everything wasn't back to normal or fine or anything else.

It was just a step in the right direction. And that was something.

Sam started working at the buttons of his shirt and said, "Thanks. I...I think I should be ok."

"Alright." Dean nodded, knowing it wasn't a brush off. He smiled faintly and said, "Go. Use all the hot water Bobby's got, ok? Not like he's usin' it. I'll look for grub."

"Deal." Sam started moving forward again, not bothering to disguise the limp or the way he couldn't quite do anything except shuffle like a hundred year old man.

Dean refrained from teasing him about it. It made him physically hurt to see how much pain Sam was in right now. Turning away with a sigh, he realized he was physically hurting due to how much pain he was in, too. He probably should have put the sling back on a long time ago. Walking into the kitchen, Dean knew he was straining it worse by how tightly he was holding it to his chest. He might as well have had the sling on considering he wasn't moving his arm anyway. The gash in his side didn't exactly feel good either.

It crossed his mind that maybe he should sit down for a minute or two. Ignoring the thought, he pressed on toward the refrigerator. It was just after noon and he wasn't exactly hungry, but neither of them had eaten all day. Pulling the door open, Dean stared into the empty depths of Bobby's fridge. He stared at it for a good two minutes.

"Great," he mumbled to himself. "Pickles with some mustard. And a side of whipped cream. Delicious."

A bit more investigation revealed half an onion and a diet coke.

He glared at the coke. "What the hell, Bobby? No beer but you got a diet coke?"

Sighing, Dean grabbed the can and popped the top. He kicked the door shut and took a drink of the disgusting excuse for a can of soda. After the first sip, he realized how thirsty he was and drained half the can. Stumbling to the table, he dropped into the seat, set the can on the table and cradled his head in his right hand while keeping his left arm still pressed tightly to his chest.

Ordering a pizza was probably what he should be doing. But pizza didn't sound good and that right there was saying something. He cursed himself for being stupid and pushing them all day without stopping for food. Should have at least run through a mini-mart for a few staples. It hadn't been a surprise that Bobby wasn't home. He'd told them he was heading out the same day they'd caught wind of a potential haunting a state over. So picking up a few groceries really should have been more of a priority.

Dean squeezed his eyes closed and groaned. He leaned forward a bit more until he could rest his good arm on the table and press his head down against it. The position wasn't comfortable and it pulled at his side, but he didn't move. He didn't know what he would do if he did find the strength or motivation to move. And his head was hurting so much that he didn't dare attempt to lift it.

So he sat there and gave up thinking for a little while.


Chapter 5 coming tomorrow!

Thank you for reading! :)