Chapter 4

Hey everybody!

First off, I'd like to apologize for the late update, but I'm totally overwhelmed with college stuff, but finally, here it is!

Also, Season 9...oh my gosh, Dean's secret from Sam. Absolutely ridiculously crazy. I was screaming a lot, and running around and freaking out my fellow fans.

About two or three more chapters...I donno. You tell me what you think!

Anyway, thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following. You guys are the best!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

Sam barely ducked out of the way before his brother's fist collided with a package of printing paper instead of his jaw.

Sam flinched against the growl of frustration before gulping up thick air, and scampered down the thin aisles of supplies, and almost tumbling when his ankle rocked against the smooth tile.

He pressed against the back corner of the room, near the door, mind buzzing with racing thoughts. His heart thrummed against his chest, and forced himself into calmness, shutting his eyes, but never ignoring the faint thump of reckless boots.

It had only happened a moment ago. Dean was fine one moment, chuckling at the annoyed expression on his brother's face as he told another sex joke that lacked any amount of intelligence. And then, just like that, Dean had snapped. His laugh dying in his throat, and eyes growing cold. The rage was spurred on by God knows what. Sam knew it was Croatoan, but Hell. Dean's action seemed partly fueled by something else entirely.

His eyes glanced towards the door, and his stomach clenched with guilt at the involuntary instinct to flee. But Sam wasn't leaving Dean. Not ever. And if Sam lost his life because of it(which he was feebly hoping against) then at least Dean would never doubt that Sam would ever leave him.

These morbid thoughts distracted him enough to not even struggle away when two quivering hands clenched at his shirt collar, and he was soon face-to-face with bright murderous eyes.

Sam swallowed thickly, his Adam's Apple, a bobbing bulge within his lean neck. "Dean..." he tried, but before he could say another word, his brother's hand jumped to his throat, silencing him for the moment.

"You think we can just pretend?" Dean barked out, cocking his head to the side, eyes glinting fiercely. "You think we can just sit here, in some janitor's closet, eating stale potato chips and freaking pretend like everything's okay?"

"De-" Dean's hand tightened around his throat, tinting his vision red.

"Because it sure as Hell is not okay." Dean's eyes suddenly softened, and he blinked, eyes unnaturally wet, and he turned away from Sam, chuckling out a mirthless sound that sent shivers running down his spine even though his chest and head were flaring with need of breath.

Because Dean sounded utterly lost. More than that, actually. He sounded like he had given up hope years ago, and he could barely remember the memory of once having it at all.

"Look at me, Sammy," he said quietly, finally meeting Sam's blurred gaze. "I'm killing you. I'm killing my baby brother."

"You won't," Sam barely manages to whisper around the vice of his brother's grip.

As if to only prove him wrong, Dean's hand instantly tightened, forcing Sam to gasp upwards, trying to pull in air. Sam's trembling hands fumbled against the fabric of his brother's shirt, hoping that somehow his touch would pull Dean back from the infectious craze because...this wasn't him.

Because Sam would do whatever it took to make sure his brother stayed Dean. Because right now, Dean didn't have the strength to have hope, and Dean would never forgive himself if he hurt Sam, and Sam had no intentions of dying. He wasn't leaving Dean.

His weak fingers knotted into the thick fabric, and his eyes streamed with tears as his face flared hot and throbbed in time with his pounding heart.

Dean took a step closer, jaw clenched and eyes staring up at him. He slid his hand upwards towards Sam's jawline and held, making Sam lift his gaze away from him.

"You don't think I will?" Dean questioned softly.

Sam swallowed hard, "You don't want to."

Dean cocked his head, but Sam, even with hazy vision, could see the heated ferocity in his brother's eyes falter. And that's when Sam realized the missing piece to Dean snapping into a rage-filled determination. If Sam's eyes weren't slightly bulging out of their sockets, they would be rolling. Classic Dean.

"I know what you're doing," Sam managed between a ragged gasp, taking advantage of the sudden tremble of his brother's fingers, "But I'm not leaving."

Dean's eyes widened, and he jerkily lowered his hand from his brother's inflamed throat.

Sam's stumbled forward, barely catching himself against the shelf as Dean turned away, running a still shaky hand through his short hair. He reflexively wrapped a protective and gentle hand around his throat, gulping in thick air.

" A Stanford education doesn't mean shit anymore, does it?" Dean muttered sarcastically, not daring to look his little brother in the face. Especially not when Sam,and definitely not him, was acting like a total girl.

Dean flinched when he heard his brother speak his name with his trademark God damn knowing tone. And could barely control his frustrations with himself. Because, damn it all, he couldn't get his stubborn shit of a brother the hell away from him. He didn't want Sam to see what was inevitably coming. He didn't want Sam to see him fail by turning into one of the sons of bitches they hunted, and dammit, he definitely didn't want Sam to have to kill him.

Dammit. Dammit. Damn it.

His kid brother was royally pissing him off.

"Can't you just fucking leave, Sam?!" he bellowed hoarsely, finally grasping the remains of his strength to face his brother.

Sam shook his head weakly, still soundlessly gulping in breath and thin frame slightly trembling.

"I told you, Dean," Sam finally, whispers, swallowing against his swelling throat, "I'm not-"

"Yeah, well, that sure as hell didn't happen before," Dean retorted coldly, earning him nauseating sensation of satisfying guilt once his brother visibly flinched.

Sam clumsily gripped onto the shelf, needing all the support he could get, inanimate or not. Because could Dean possibly know what he felt? Hazy memories of dark skies, cold mud and ripping pain instantly followed, adamantly denying the previous thought. Of course Dean did. Not once, when Sam's fate was uncertain, did Dean leave him. And Sam wasn't leaving Dean. Because this was freaking different from Stanford. Sam never thought of leaving the hunter life as leaving his brother, but maybe that's exactly what Dean had thought, no, Sam was now damn well sure that's exactly what his brother thought.

But this was different.

So Sam, knowing full well Dean was intentionally trying to hurt him, to shake up his emotions and crumble his resolve, skipped right over that highway to nowhere. "Remember when we were so sure that I was infected? And no matter what everyone else said you-"

"No," Dean interrupted roughly, shaking his head in ragged jerks. "This is not the same and you fucking know that, Sam."

"Why?" Sam persisted rebelliously, resentful fire in his words, "Is it because I'm the little baby brother who-"

"Because you're immune, Sam!" Dean roared, causing Sam to immediately freeze into place. Dean looked maddening, tenuous muscles coiling under angled jawline, fervent eyes glinting and skin flushed with anger.

Sam inwardly chided himself, glancing to his feet. Because although he knew Dean would never hurt him(well, enough), Sam couldn't vouch the same for the demonic virus within. Gentler, Sam protests, "But you didn't know that at the time."

A mirthless and crooked grin break through the tense muscles of Dean's face and he lets out a forced laugh, "What? Do you think I have demon blood in me too, Sammy?"

Sam let out a huff of exasperation, because Dean always had to find a way to circumvent the pure intentions of anything Sam said. "We didn't know that at the time either, Dean," he muttered irritatedly.

When Sam glanced up, after only hearing the response of silence, Dean's lips were pressed into a firm line, obviously not knowing(or wanting) to come up with a response for that. And although his unnaturally stiff body told otherwise, Sam could see it in his brother's eyes: Dean was faltering in his resolve.

Sam couldn't help but release the twitch of a premature smile, "Look," he quickly began before his brother could call upon the smart ass deity of thick-headed comebacks. "Back in Oregon, I definitely didn't want your...support, but it really did make a difference to me, Dean. Knowing that you were with me, had my back, whether I was a monster or not."

Sam swallowed against the lump forming in his throat, particularly moved by the last of his words which rang true in light of the novelty of current challenges. And compared to now, how the hell were those days considered normal? How the hell did he and Dean even manage to stay with each other?

In truth, Sam didn't know.

It was just something that brothers did.

And nothing else to it.

Sam shrugged uneasily when he finally noticed he was under Dean's blank stare, he unable to discern the unreadable expression upon his stony face.

But Sam looked him in the eye anyway and slowly took a couple of steps forward. "Let me do the same for you."

They stared at each other for a long time. Sam's apprehension growing with every sudden flash of emotion on Dean's face: anger, resignation, guilt, understanding, sadness and fear.

And when Dean lowered himself to the ground with a tired sigh of defeat, Sam blinked back in disbelief. Because when did Dean ever let Sam win anything?

Dean flicked his eyes up at his stupefied brother and smirked weakly, "Well, you just gonna stand there or become useful and get me some chips?"

Sam shook his head, clearing his eyes, because Dean...Dean was Dean again or as much as he could be right then. And that's all that mattered to Sam right then, too. "You've already had three bags," Sam informed blankly, and Dean rolled his eyes, but soon after smiled.

"Dude, I could eat Lays for days," Dean slowly reclined himself against the wall, resting his hands on the back of his head.

"Lays for Days?" Sam quirked an eyebrow, "How poetic of you."

Dean glared up at his brother jokingly, "Eh, that's more your department, Princess. I like to keep the PMSing bitch-fits to a steady minimum."

Now it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes, as long arms reach over to an opposing shelf and retrieve before ejecting a small pack of potato chips in Dean's general direction.

His older brother gave Sam a disapproving look when bag landed at his feet instead of, well-

"My hands, dumbass," Dean groaned as he snatched up the bag and ripped open the frail plastic.

Sam lowered himself beside his brother with a pinched smirk, "I had to make sure you worked off at least some of the calories."

Dean stuffed his mouth full of chips and chews thoughtfully before murmuring, "Sam, how many times do I have to tell you-you're a shitty comedian."

And Sam exchanged his response for a tight smile, secretly relishing in Dean's enjoyment of literally stuffing his face with salty, fried slices of potato.

Unsurprisingly, Dean crushed the empty bag in his fist thirty seconds later, his face soon then after, falling into a slightly more thoughtful expression as he stared into the crumpled yellow ball laying on his palm.

"Do you think this will end up like I Am Legend?" Dean asked almost sheepishly, turning his focus to his brother, "You know, like, Will Smith having to kill his infected dog?"

Sam's a bit startled by the comparison, recognizing the outline of this plot point from a year or so ago, in a rickety motel room, in a rain storm, with satellite TV losing its connection every thirty minutes and Dean yelling at the screen each time yelling 'This is the best part, dammit!' His stomach clenches tightly, remembering, for that scene was the one Sam couldn't help but fixate the most on, and it pained him to know that Dean thought his situation was just as hopeless as theirs, and there was no way avoiding it: one of them, Will Smith or the dog, wasn't going to make it out alive. And they were each other's everything.

Sam blinked back quickly, his mind floundering in the too painful similarities, and he feebly searches for anything-anything at all, that can prove his brother wrong, that no-these situations are definitely not the same, and neither of them are going to end up dead.

"You're not a dog, Dean," Sam whispered stupidly, and he hopelessly fell into the abyss of shame and failure, realizing the very poor analysis and conceptualization.

Dean stared at him like a father humoring his naive child, and nonetheless, was damn straight proud. His green eyes crinkled in sadness and in smile, and he nodded his support of his brother's disagreement.

"You're right, Sammy," Dean bobbed his head, "'Cause you're the bitch."

"Dean."

To be continued! Thanks for stopping by!