This chapter is longer than the preceding chapters. Just so you're aware.

As always, feedback is encouraged.

………………..

Six hours later, Dean pulls into a gas station and, as Sam stands at the pump, he walks inside and heads straight for the coffee machine. Extracting the right change from his pocket, he presses his selection and waits for both cups to fill. On the way back to the front doors, he grabs two pre-packaged rolls and heats them up in the nearby microwave, browsing the conveniently placed adult magazines while he waits. As Dean approaches the register, he notices the woman behind the counter and raises an eyebrow in appreciation. Immediately after, though, he realises what he's doing and decides not to pursue that line of thought. Do something enough times and you start believing it.

The woman has other ideas, and tries to engage him in conversation. "Hi," she says as he places the coffees and rolls on the counter.

"Hi," he responds, with a warm smile.

"Just the rolls?"

"And the gas for pump four."

As she rings up the purchase, she looks back to Dean, and says with a false innocence, "Are you sure I can't get you anything else?"

Dean smiles. "Yeah."

She raises her eyebrows. "Pity." Then she turns and looks back out the window at the pumps. Looking back at Dean and motioning with her head, she asks, "He your boyfriend?"

Dean looks out and sees Sam. Feeling a little reckless, and quickly taking the opportunity to say it out loud, just once, without repercussion, he looks back at the woman and nods his head. "Yeah."

She shakes her head slightly. "Damn shame," she says with a rueful smile.

Dean pays for the food and gives her a wink as he turns. Walking back outside, he is just in time to see Sam get sucker-punched in the kidneys. Sam drops to his knees beside the car. Dean drops his supplies and yells, "HEY!" in his deep, don't-mess-with-me voice. Sam's attacker, as well as his friend, turn to Dean.

"Oh look, we've got ourselves a challenger. You gonna be a hero, man?" Sam's assailant, a tall, twenty-something man of average build, with an inflated sense of importance, spreads his arms and mocks Dean.

Dean stalks towards them as Sam gets to his feet. Dean watches Sam and sees the change in his face, as well as the set of his body.

Sam walks slowly and casually towards his attacker and stares him down. "Leave." It was said quietly, but not many people could miss the menace in it.

Asshole #1 is slow to perceive the threat, and grins. "You gonna make me, pretty boy?"

Sam rolls his eyes and sighs, looking over to Dean.

Dean shrugs, with the ghost of a smile.

Sam looks back to the guy in front of him. "Look, I haven't got time for this. Just get in your Barbie car and leave," he says, referring to the Honda the men are driving.

Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam's trash talk. Maybe there is time for this.

Asshole #2 decides that he wants to get in on this action, and makes a show of the switchblade he acquired from his back pocket.

Dean starts to close in at this point, and focuses on the blade. He still tries to keep it fairly casual. "Look, you really don't want to do this. Right now you're a little liquored-up and you think you're bullet proof. But quit while you're ahead, okay? And by that, I mean not bleeding."

"Aww, hero doesn't want any trouble," Asshole #1 goads.

Dean smiles. "Actually, I'd like nothing better than to give you some trouble, but we've got somewhere to be, so I haven't got time."

"You're not going anywhere, but we will be when we take your car."

Dean laughs out loud, and then looks to Sam. Sam reads Dean's subtle expression and nods, very slightly.

Sam then walks straight up to Asshole #1 and hits him. Sam's punch is hard and fast and the man isn't prepared. He falls back, too stunned to brace himself, and lands heavily on the edge of the Honda's hood, before sliding awkwardly to the ground, dazed.

At the same moment, Dean rushes Mr Switchblade and, dodging a lunge with the knife, punches him square in the nose. The man's head is knocked to the side and he fights to keep his footing as he is propelled back a step. His hand automatically lifts to his face, and his eyes go wide as he looks at the bloody evidence of a suspected broken nose. While the man is off-balance, Dean's fist makes contact again, this time to his eye, and watches as he falls back onto the ground. The knife clatters to the ground and both men scramble for it. Wrestling on the ground, the would-be car thief manages to get on top of Dean, briefly, but long enough to slam Dean's head on the concrete a few times. The man quickly releases Dean and is the first to reach the knife. Dean, trying to clear his vision, gets to his feet quickly as the other man wields the knife in front of him, swinging it across Dean's path. He has to jump back to avoid the blade. His attacker slashes the knife back and forth, lunging like a demented and bloody swordsman. Dean tries to grab his arm which leaves him in a dangerous position; too close to the other man. The blade sweeps back in front of Dean and slices a clean but deep wound under his ribs.

Dean staggers back and looks down in surprise. Before Mr Switchblade can do any more damage, Sam is there, grabbing him around the neck from behind, while his arm is twisted behind him, roughly. "Dean," Sam says, anxious.

"I'm alright." Looking up, he blinks a few times to try and clear his head. "Put him in the trunk of his car, Sam," he says calmly. As Sam reluctantly nods his head, not wanting to leave Dean for a moment, Dean adds, "And if he accidentally falls on his head a few times on the way, so much the better."

Sam turns the man and pushes him towards the car, keeping the man's arm painfully twisted behind. "Oops, sorry," Sam says when the attacker's head accidentally hits the trunk lid with some force, before pushing him roughly into the trunk. When Sam returns to Dean's side, he's a little unnerved to see that Dean is now kneeling on the ground. He has also removed his overshirt and is currently holding it against his wound. Kneeling down in front of him, Sam gently pulls Dean's arm away. "Let's see."

Dean lets Sam pull up his t-shirt to inspect the cut. He starts to feel strange as Sam's easing up the material. A couple of seconds later, he's being cradled by Sam as he's gently lowered to the ground. "Dean, stay awake and talk to me."

"What happened?"

"You got really pale, and you nearly passed out. Keep your eyes open, okay."

"I'm not losing enough blood to pass out," he says, trying to think logically.

"Not yet. You've likely got a concussion."

"Oh, I thought it was something bad."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam says as he shakes his head. "Just stay where you are until the world stops spinning, alright?"

"Nah, Sammy, get me in the car. I can lie down on the back seat."

Sam sighs. "Okay." He wraps Dean's arm around his shoulder and helps him up. "If you're gonna hurl or pass out, say so, and I'll stop." When Dean doesn't answer, Sam gets insistent. "Dean…"

"Yeah, I heard ya," he says, impatient, but lacking any real heat. Holding his balled-up shirt against the wound, he lets Sam lead him over to the Impala. On the way, he hears a bystander ask Sam if he can help.

"No, we're fine. You could call the cops on those jokers, though," Sam answers, cocking his head over to the Honda.

"We could call an ambulance," the bystander says. Nodding to Dean, he adds, "He looks pretty bad."

"It's gonna be quicker if I take him to the hospital. But thanks."

Dean holds on to the top of the car door as Sam opens it, and he sits himself down, gingerly, before easing back to lie across the seat. Groaning a little, he keeps pressure on the wound with one hand, and reaches up with his other hand to cup his forehead.

When he's folded his brother into the back seat, Sam closes the door and gets in to the driver's seat. "No closing your eyes, Dean."

"I know the drill," Dean says, carefully.

"I know you do. Doesn't stop me saying it, though." Sam starts the car and pulls onto the road. "As soon as I find a decent place to pull over, I'll have a look at you."

"There'll be cops at the gas station before too long. Pick somewhere off the beaten track."

"I know what to do."

"I know you do. Doesn't stop me saying it, though."

"Funny."

Three miles up the road, and about ten miles outside the city of Shreveport, Sam spots the second sign that advertises 'Cross Keys Motel, 1 mile'. Sam follows the signs away from the main road and drives up to the motel a couple of minutes later.

"Why are you pulling over?" Dean asks.

"It's a motel. I'll get us a room and we'll get you patched up."

"Okay."

Sam gets out and organises a room. Back in the car, he drives over to their room and helps Dean from the car to the nearest mattress. When he has Dean seated, he goes back to retrieve their bags, before moving the car around to the rear parking spaces. "Now," Sam says, standing over Dean, who is lying on the bed. "Last time I tried this, you nearly passed out on me. Let's try again." Dean lifts his compress and allows Sam to gently pull up the material of his t-shirt. Sam takes a breath as he sees the damage.

"Well?"

"Maybe…fifteen stitches," Sam judges, looking up to gauge Dean's reaction. "It's deep but it's a clean cut." He turns and disappears into the bathroom momentarily, bringing back a damp hand towel. "I'm just gonna clean you up. Tell me if you want me to stop."

"Mmhmm," Dean responds, knowing not to nod his head in this state.

Sam sits on the side of the bed and starts to wipe the towel around the outside of the wound, cleaning away the blood, and then changing to a dabbing motion as he gets closer to the cut. It only takes another minute before Dean's prepped for suturing. Sam stands up and retrieves the med kit from beside their bags and unzips it. Sighing, he looks over to Dean, who has his eyes closed. "Normally, I'd offer to go out and get you a bottle of something to help with the pain, but with your concussion…"

"I know. No alcohol or painkillers." Dean opens his eyes and turns his head, gingerly. "It's okay. Let's just get it done."

Sam nods. "Okay. I'll be back in a minute."

Dean watches him take the med kit into the bathroom, knowing he's sterilising the needle and rinsing the towel. The second Sam's back is turned, he awkwardly moves closer to the edge of the bed, reaches over the side for his bag, and digs inside, searching. Managing to keep his moans and irregular breathing silent, he brings his hand up a moment later with his flask. His full flask. Holding it by his side while he unscrews the lid one-handed, he checks the bathroom door again before taking three big swallows of bourbon. Making a face, but not making a sound, he lifts the flask again and, in seconds, drains it completely. He narrowly avoids being caught and drops the flask onto the carpet as Sam turns his back on the sink and walks back over to him. He suddenly feels like a kid sneaking alcohol from his dad's stash, and bites back a smile that threatens.

"You ready?"

"I was born ready. Time to practice your quilting, Samantha," Dean says with bravado.

"Funny. And, as retribution, I get to stab you about sixty times with this," he says without enthusiasm, holding up the needle.

Dean takes a few steadying breaths. "Just make 'em neat, Sammy."

"Don't worry. You'll be showing your latest war wound to all the girls in no time."

Dean scoffs, and then regrets it, exhaling on a muffled moan.

Making a conscious decision not to watch Dean's face at all through the suturing, Sam pulls a chair over to the edge of the bed and gets to work. After the first complete stitch, he settles and focuses on the business at hand, rather than how much pain he's causing Dean.

To Dean's credit, he doesn't make any but the faintest of sounds; although, part of that credit goes to Mr Beam; black label. And, seeing as though Sam isn't looking at Dean, he can't see the grimaces on his face.

It's all over in ten minutes and, just after Sam ties off the last stitch and sits back, stretching his now-aching back, Dean takes his first look at the damage. "Nice," he says, with a hint of appreciation in his voice, together with a hint of relief. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now don't make me do that again." Sam finally looks over at Dean's face and something in Dean's expression makes him frown slightly.

"What?"

Instead of answering him, Sam looks down at their bags, heaped on the floor, in between both beds. His suspicions are confirmed a moment later as he sees the flask lying on its side near the bedside table. Looking back to Dean, he is about to tell him off for drinking with a concussion but the look on his brother's face stops him in his tracks. Eyes wide, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and giving Sam a child-like 'I'm busted' look, Sam surprises himself by laughing.

"What?" Dean says again, more insistent.

"You're an idiot," Sam replies simply. "You know you shouldn't drink with a concussion."

"So why are you laughing?"

"The look on your face when I found out. For a second, our roles were reversed, and I was playing big brother."

Dean smiles ruefully. "The job's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Really? I'm that much of a pain? Wait, don't answer that."

Smile still in place, Dean continues. "You think you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders now? Try looking out for a little brother. It's a big responsibility. One I can't take advantage of."

Sam sits there for a few seconds, realising what Dean means. Yeah, he's a little tipsy, but he's actually talking about what happened this morning. Spotting an opportunity, he pushes a little. "You're not taking advantage of me if I want it, Dean. And I do."

Instead of answering, Dean reaches for the pillow next to him and attempts to put it behind his head, to prop himself up a little more.

Sam sees his struggle and tries to help.

"I can do it," Dean says, a little testily.

Sam knows he can't, but humours him by sitting down again.

A few seconds of struggle pass before Dean sighs and gives in. "Fine, I can't do it."

Sam gives him an indulgent smile and takes over. When Dean relaxes again, he closes his eyes. Just when Sam is sure that Dean isn't going to continue the conversation, and he's lost his opportunity, he speaks.

"It's a bad idea, Sam. Like, right up there with drinking blood. Right up there with trusting a demon."

"Don't, Dean. If you're trying to get me pissed enough to change the subject, you're gonna be disappointed." Sam reaches for the med kit that he sat on the carpet near his feet and busies himself by dressing Dean's stitches with gauze pads.

Dean opens his eyes when Sam says his name, but he only looks down at his brother's hands as he's being patched up. "Why don't you have a problem with this?" He asks softly.

"With what?"

At that, Dean looks up and glares at Sam. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do; I just want you to say it."

"I'm not sayin' it, so forget it."

"Then I'm not answering."

"Damnit, Sam; grow up."

Sam's eyebrows rise. "Would you like a mirror? 'Cause avoidance isn't exactly mature behaviour, Dean."

"Just forget I said anything," Dean says, attempting to sit up.

"Jesus, Dean, take it easy," Sam says anxiously, quickly moving his hands to push against Dean's shoulders. "Okay, I'll answer the question; just lie back. I'm not in the mood to redo those stitches."

Dean relents and relaxes – gratefully – back against the pillows. "Good, 'cause that hurt like a bitch."

Looking down at his hands, Sam takes a deep breath. Then, looking up at Dean again, he answers, speaking softly. "If you think I don't have a problem with it, you're wrong. Logically, I know it shouldn't happen. But it did. I've always loved my big brother, but it wasn't until about a year before I left for Stanford that I realised I love the man my big brother hasbecome, too." Sam looks at Dean sadly. "I heard what you said in the car, Dean. I know how you feel."

Dean looks down again. "It's impossible, Sam."

"No," Sam fires back, suddenly angry. "You're impossible. Why is it so hard for you to accept something that makes you happy? Why do you always have to play the martyr when it comes to family? Why can't you just allow yourself to take what you want for once?" In the middle of Sam's rant, he stands up and walks to the end of the bed, before turning to look at his injured, unhappy…stupid big brother. "We both want this, Dean; don't you dare lie to me and say you don't."

Dean sees the challenge in Sam's eyes, and knows he's gearing up for a fight. "Sam," he says, almost pleading, "can you try not to yell at me while I've got a concussion."

Sam stares at him for a few seconds as Dean's words penetrate. "Sorry," he says quietly, looking down and, suddenly, his anger disappears all at once.

Dean expects Sam to continue, albeit in a softer voice, but he doesn't. Instead, he watches as Sam sits on his bed and rests his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward.

"Do you need anything?" Sam asks, still not looking up.

Looking at Sam with sympathy, Dean says, "Yeah."

His eyes flicking up to Dean, Sam raises his eyebrows. "What?"

"I need for my pain-in-the-ass baby brother to go out and get us some food. Our lunch is probably still lying on the floor at the gas station."

Sam tries a smile…fails…and nods instead. "I'll see what I can do." Grateful to have an excuse to escape the awkwardness in the room, he makes his way to the door and picks up the keys.

"Sam?"

With his hand on the doorknob, he stops and turns his head.

"For the record…I do. But I can't."

After a moment, Sam nods, and steps outside.