Spoilers for episodes 5.01 to 5.04.

Disclaimer: If we owned them, we'd never let them out to play!!

Once again this story is a collaboration between four crazy writers – a round robin, if you'd prefer: Geminigrl1, Trasan, Phx and carocali. We hope you enjoy. Let us know what you think.

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Crazy Train

Chapter 4

"What?" Dean was confused. "Sorry for what?" God, what was going on in that kid's mind now? It had only been a few hours since Sam had accidentally impaled himself, but that damned knife seemed to carry the curse of infection because the younger man was already burning up with it. And delirious now, too, from the sound of it.

But Sam seemed to be in his own world and didn't answer Dean, too intent on whatever fever-induced madness his mind was throwing at him.

"C'mon, Sammy," he tried to cajole, "You need to calm down."

"Lucifer," Sam mumbled, his eyes looking past Dean, searching the room frantically for something.

Instinctively, Dean followed his gaze but saw nothing. He turned back to his brother.

"Lucifer," Sam repeated, shook his head, and then said one more time, "Lucifer."

And Dean had no idea what to do.

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Sam knew he had told Dean that he was Lucifer's vessel; that much he remembered. The laissez-faire attitude he'd received in return over the phone was more than a little unnerving, though. Dean told him to stay away and hung up on him.

Emptiness filled Sam at the silence on the other end of the line, tearing his heart in half. Dean had given him no chance to plead his case. He didn't trust him—would never trust him again—and Sam knew that would be the last conversation he had with his brother.

Since that call, Sam spent all his time researching any avenue to stop the devil on his own. Sleep eluded him from the moment Lucifer spilled about the master plan. He'd travelled across state lines; anywhere he thought there might be a lead. Exhaustion overtook him at every turn but he had nothing else. It was either find a way to kill Lucifer or find a way to kill himself. At this point, Sam wasn't sure which was the better option.

But then something had changed and Dean wanted to meet.

Dean said if Sam wanted back in, he'd need the knife. The demon-killing knife. The same one that Sam had gotten in the gut. It wasn't to kill him. No, Sam was wrong – he'd somehow misunderstood. His brother had been trusting Sam with their most powerful weapon. But… that didn't make any sense when hours before, he'd told Sam to hit the road. Gah, everything was a muddled mess… a muddled mess of twisted yellow car...

Thoughts of the last days came crashing into each other like the tide to the shore. None of them made any sense as Sam's head swirled around in the fog. He wanted to believe that Dean was here, with him, but every instinct said that he wasn't.

But then Dean just said Sam was supposed to kill himself. With the knife.

His brother must have figured it out, done some research with Bobby.

The knife…oh, God…All the demon blood must have made me susceptible …

Suddenly, it all made sense that Dean would want to destroy the Devil's meatsuit. Why Dean was here. After all, he'd called Sam a monster, a vampire. He was a warrior of God now, and warriors killed monsters. Maybe Dean had figured out that the knife could kill Sam and that Lucifer wouldn't be able to resurrect him since he'd be sent to Hell.

Wait, I never told Dean about Lucifer not letting me die….

Sam twisted away even further from Dean, sweat pouring from his brow as he tried again to unwrap the sheets from around him. The bump on his head from the crash pulsed in time with the panic in his veins as a new realization hit him square in the face

He's Lucifer. He's using Dean to try and get to me to say yes, just like with Jessica.

Sam was suddenly all limbs as he tried to rise again. He tugged desperately at the socks on his hands, hoping to gain some measure of control back. He fumbled and pushed, all the while the burning of the knife wound reminding him who was in charge.

"I won't…"

"Sam?"

Oh, this guy was good. He'd pegged Dean's facial expressions down to a tee—the scrunched up confused face, the snarky eye squint. He even had that growl in his voice, but Sam wasn't going to fall for it. With new resolution, he yanked the socks from his hands and crab-crawled his way until he was against the headboard.

"The answer is no. It'll always be no."

The display of defiance had taken a toll and Sam could feel himself slipping, succumbing to the pull of the fever and overall exhaustion.

How did I get stabbed…

Things started to get hazy as he saw the man before him inching closer, hands out to the sides in sign of surrender.

"Sam. Hey, it's me. You were in a car accident. Remember?" The man wearing Dean's face came closer, soothing words of comfort. "Knife must have gotten ya when the car hit the ditch. Smooth driving there, too, Mario. Points for style, though."

It sounded like Dean and looked like Dean. But Dean couldn't be here.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Let me just take a look at your stitches to make sure you didn't pull anything with your acrobatics, okay? The rest of the supplies are in the Impala and Cas is waiting for a tow truck."

This was all too confusing to follow for Sam. Cas was in a tow truck with the Impala? Sam reached out to try and straighten himself when he turned the wrong way, sending searing hot pains all across his side, radiating throughout his torso. It took his breath away, literally, as he struggled to pull in air. Eyes wide and searching, the world went a lovely shade of gray before Sam finally succumbed to the darkness.

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Well, son of a bitch! He hadn't been able to follow Sam's muddled thoughts as he wobbled on the bed like a newborn kitten. Nothing past obviously thinking Dean was there to trick him into saying yes. It hadn't taken much to see the fevered logic, but it was no less difficult to watch.

He squashed the momentary flare of doubt that he shouldn't have reconnected with Sam, that they would use him against his brother and vice versa. Well, screw them. Dean planned on being a pain in their collective asses even if he and Sam were bugs to be squashed under their supernatural thumbs.

What he hadn't figured out quite yet was what exactly Sam had been apologizing for and that worried him. He hadn't only sounded sorry; every syllable had been laced with regret and guilt. Dean didn't like hearing that tone from his brother at all, especially when he didn't think there was anything he could do to make it better.

Sam was slumped awkwardly against the headboard, emitting horrible wheezing sounds. Dean carefully moved him until he was propped up slightly on pillows and breathing easier. Fever heat burned through Sam's t-shirt, sweat saturating the blue cotton.

Ice, he needed ice. Dean grabbed the ice bucket, and the bag of ice, heading to the bathroom to make cold packs for Sam's fever. He poured the remaining, now red, water from earlier into the toilet, flushing it immediately to get rid of the evidence. His throat constricted with worry; there was so much blood.

Less than five minutes later, he'd pounded together four ice packs and filled the bucket with cold water, heading for the bedroom. It was, apparently, four minutes too long.

Sam had kicked off the sheet again, but worse still, his hands were clenching and unclenching, face contorted in pain. He groaned, one of the hands reaching for his side, and that was all it took to get Dean moving again.

"Sammy, don't." A flinch of reaction, but Sam quieted, panting shallowly. Dean quickly and efficiently packed ice around his brother's neck, armpits, and hips, covering him up to the waist with the scratchy motel sheet.

Turning on the bedside swing lamp, he positioned it over Sam and cautiously peeled back the bloody gauze. A purple bruise in the shape of the knife hilt outlined the angry-looking wound. "Shit." He glanced at the clock, making note of the time. He'd give it two more hours and then he was calling Bobby again. He didn't care how scared it made him look.

And Dean was scared. The knife was designed to inflict damage and it had done its job. He repaired as much as he could find, but that didn't mean there wasn't more he hadn't been able to see, down deep where it would fester and bleed and—this wasn't helping.

Instead, he busied himself with what he could do: cleaning the wound, redressing it, and not letting go. Dean wasn't letting go, not ever again. "Come on, Sammy," Dean said, pushing sweaty bangs off his brother's forehead. "You're going to be fine."

Sam's eyelids fluttered obediently open and he wrapped soggy fingers around Dean's wrist. "Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm here, kiddo." He shifted slightly to get a better view of Sam's face.

"I'm tired."

"That's because you tried to aerate your side."

Sam frowned, limp fingers uncurling and falling back to the bed. "No, couldn't sleep and then…" he trailed off, face puckering in confusion.

"And then what?" Dean asked, unsure he wanted to know. He hadn't slept well for weeks and he damn well knew why. He didn't really want to hear how it had been the same for Sam.

"I don't remember," Sam whispered. Fever bright eyes bore into Dean's. "It's all a mess."

Sam could have meant anything by that statement. His memories, what he'd done, what Dean had done, their lives. There was no telling and Dean wasn't poking it with a stick. Not now, not when Sam couldn't form a coherent thought without wearing himself out trying.

"It doesn't matter," Dean said, "We'll take care of it, we always do."

Sam nodded, his face unfurling in relief, eyes dropping closed.

For a moment, Dean thought maybe the worst of it was over. He dipped a washcloth in the cold water, sopping Sam's forehead. Dean twisted to re-dip the cloth when his brother's shout had him spinning around. "No!"

Dropping the bucket on the table, he rushed back to his brother's side. "Sam?"

Hazel eyes were open wide, unfocused, but searching. "God, no."

"Sam?" In spite of what Bobby had said earlier, now felt like the perfect time to panic. "Hey, you're okay." Dean placed a hand on his brother's arm, pulling it back quickly when Sam recoiled.

Sam's cat eyes focused on Dean, but he couldn't tell if the spark of recognition was truly for him or not. "I'm sorry."

TBC