Title: Divided We Stand

Author: Disasteriffic Kaz

Info: A not-so-simple salt and burn reminds the Winchester brothers that they always work better when they watch each other's backs; something they've both been forgetting lately. Post 8x08 "Hunteri Heroici" hurt/comfort!Sam/Dean

Author's Note: See? I can be nice. No cliffie. Ok, not nice to Sam but…it's Sam. :P

Beta'd by the Always Awesome JaniceC678 - Friend and Muse's co-conspirator

**Follow me on Facebook as "Disasteriffic Kaz" for frequent fic updates or just to chat!
~Reviews are Love~

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean stopped outside the cave entrance and caught his breath. He played his flashlight along the ground and saw tracks leading inside. He stepped into the darkness and couldn't hear anything. "Sam?" he called and listened again. "Dammit." Dean shined the light along the floor and followed his brother's tracks. Thirty feet on, he splashed into shallow water and his brows rose; wondering if the cave actually flooded at any point. "Sam!" He stopped when he almost passed another tunnel on his left and knew that's where his brother had gone.

"Sam? Answer me, dammit!" Dean entered the tunnel and found a narrow, tight set of stairs cut into the very rock itself and leading up. His shoulders brushed the walls on either side of him in the tight space "SAM!" Dean winced with his own voice echoing back to him in the confined space. He stopped, bracing his hands on the walls when he thought he heard something from above. He listened intently and then burst into a run. He could hear voices raised, shouting and one of them was his little brother's.

Chapter 4

Sam felt better out of the sun and in the darkness, broken only by the beam from his flashlight. It gave him a measure of relief from the pain and the nausea that had been steadily creeping up on him again. He was hoping that once he found the old Sutro vault and the skull, he'd be able to find the hatch that let out somewhere on top of the bluff. His research said it was buried from above but from the inside, he figured he'd be able to force it open.

He found a narrow set of stairs halfway down the tunnel and his shoulders were broad enough that he had to turn a little sideways to walk up them. He smirked and rolled his eyes as he could almost hear his big brother's voice calling him a sasquatch. Sam shined his light around the walls as he went. They were rough-hewn and covered in a fine layer of dust that clung to his already dirt-covered jacket as he went. They spiraled up, and Sam thought he had to be somewhere near the top of the bluffs just as he ran out of stairs and his light played down a short, stone corridor that branched in either direction. He looked both directions down the hall and tried to decide which way to go. He turned to the right and shrugged. One looked much like the other, really, and he thought maybe the one to the right was heading back toward the bluff where the house had once stood, rather than the ocean.

Sam followed the tunnel as it turned left once and then right again and frowned when he heard what sounded like a voice somewhere ahead. "Hello?" Sam called. He pulled his bag around with a soft groan as the bruise over his right kidney reminded him it was there and pulled out his sawed-off shotgun just in case it was the now-incensed ghost of Magnus Dunlevy trying to screw with him. He realized as he neared the end that there was a flickering light ahead and he turned off his flashlight. Sam moved stealthily toward the light and reached into his pocket to turn the EMF meter on. He raised a brow in surprise when it didn't react; he'd been sure the noise and the light were due to the ghost.

"Hello?" Sam called again, because if it wasn't a ghost, then it was a human, and he didn't want to terrify anyone unnecessarily. Still, he was cautious. He knew tourists sometimes came here, but the place had been deserted when he had started his exploration, and he knew it was getting late in the day…probably getting on towards sunset. A little late for casual visitors. "Is someone else down here?" The tunnel curved slightly, and he saw a door a little ways ahead where the light was coming from. Sam tensed when a shadow moved in the light and then a dark head appeared in the door.

"What on earth?" An older man with blond hair just starting to gray stepped into the hall and stared in surprise at Sam. "I didn't think anyone came up here anymore!"

"Oh, I was, uh…exploring." Sam nodded and smiled faintly.

"With a shotgun?" The man asked, incredulous.

Sam shoved the gun behind him and ran a hand through his hair as he neared the door. "Well, there was…"

"You look like you've had some trouble, son." The man frowned as the very tall young man stepped into the light and he got a good look at him. "What on earth have you gotten into?"

Sam realized he must look a sight, covered in sand, mud, and dust. "Oh, I fell through some unstable ground outside. Roof just caved in on the old pipe tunnels. Who are you?"

"Fell? Are you hurt? Come here. Come on. I'm Dr. Mason." The doctor smiled. "You can call me Carl."

"Sam. I'm fine, really," Sam protested but didn't wrench his arm free when Dr. Mason took hold and pulled him into the lit room. "I just got a little banged up."

"Mmm hmm." Dr. Mason tugged him into the room through the door and pushed him onto a bench just inside the door. "Sit."

Sam looked around as he lowered himself to the bench and raised a brow. The room they were in had a couple benches and a small table with a lit hurricane lamp but was otherwise empty. There was another, heavy wooden door on the opposite wall with a crowbar sticking out of the jamb between the door and the frame. "Let me guess…the old Sutro vault?"

Dr. Mason chuckled and nodded as he moved behind Sam. He took the bag from the man's arm and set it on the bench beside him as he pulled a small penlight from his pocket. "As a matter of fact, yes. I lived here when I was a kid." He smiled at the surprise on Sam's face. "Well, not down here, obviously. Up in the house. My mom cleaned house for old man Sutro right before everything burned." He shone his light on the back of Sam's head and frowned, seeing the remnants of drying blood matting some of the hair. "When he died recently, he willed us a few things, a painting among them that my mother had loved." He slid his fingers carefully into Sam's hair. "Sorry," he said softly when Sam hissed in pain just as his fingers pressed over a bump and small cut. "I thought I'd have a go at finding it seeing as I remembered vaguely where the house was." He walked back around in front of Sam and grabbed his chin. "Look up for me."

Sam winced when the penlight flashed first into one eye and then the other. "You came in from the top?" He groaned when Dr. Mason nodded. "Wish I'd known that earlier."

"Hmm, yes. I don't doubt it. You, Sam, are the recipient of a shiny new concussion." Carl smirked and put the light away. "Your pupils are even, which is good. They're also a tad sluggish, which is not so good. You need bed rest and fluids and not to be clomping around in drafty underground tunnels and falling through ceilings."

Sam chuckled and nodded. "I was kind of hoping to find the way out up top so I didn't have to walk back around the basin."

"Headache?" Carl asked, seeing the frown between Sam's eyes and nodded. "Probably nausea too, which you no doubt won't admit to." He raised a finger. "I know my patients. I can pick the stubborn ones out a mile away."

Sam snorted and stood. "You should meet my brother." He went over to the other door and put a hand on the crowbar. "I can probably get this open for you."

"Forgive me for being a little stuck on this point, but, again…why a shotgun?" Carl frowned. He was generally a good judge of character and nothing about the young man in front of him screamed 'danger' to him, but the gun was definitely out of place here. "Not something most people bring to explore Sutro Baths, you know."

Sam sighed and turned to lean against the wall, studying the man across from him. Between the pounding headache and the sense that he was running out of time before old Magnus showed up, he didn't have the time nor the energy to try to come up with one of Dean's cockamamie stories that people always seemed to buy into. "It's loaded with rock salt."

"Rock salt."

Sam nodded. "It's very effective."

"Against?" Carl watched Sam's face curiously.

"Well…" Sam shrugged uncomfortably and sighed. "It's…I'm here to find something too. There's a…well, a skull in there and I need to destroy it."

Carl's eyes went wide. "Really? And why would that be?"

Sam huffed out a breath. "You're going to think I'm nuts."

"You have a concussion. I can chalk a lot of things up to that if need be," Carl said with a hint of a smile and waved at him to proceed. "What does a skull have to do with a shotgun?"

"Because the person the skull belonged to is still around and bound to get a little pissed off as soon as I get anywhere near it." Sam stopped and watched the doctor's face, waiting. He saw recognition and then disbelief on the man's face and nodded. "There's a ghost. A very angry ghost."

"You're a Ghostbuster?" Carl asked with disbelief and snorted. He started to laugh and then stopped when Sam's face stayed deadly serious. "Oh, goodness. You actually mean that."

Sam shrugged. "Told you, you'd think I'm nuts." He smiled. "In fact, you should probably just go and let me do this and come back tomorrow. You'll be safer."

"An angry…ghost is going to try and stop you from…destroying his skull," Carl said slowly and raised both brows. "Well, I'd probably be a little upset with you too."

Sam gave a wry smile. "Well, he's, uh…he's killed a few people, sir. This is the only way we know to stop ghosts like this."

"We…ghosts like this?" The doctor shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "You and your brother? This is what you do?"

"Among other things. Yeah." Sam waited for the inevitable protests of impossibility.

Doctor Mason worked hard to take in what Sam was telling him. On the surface, it seemed ridiculous, and yet… "When I was a boy, I remember my mother telling me how the woman she replaced left one night. She said the old housekeeper had refused to ever set foot in the house again because of something she'd seen. And there were other stories too - people who worked here and told tales about a skull…in the vault, and cold spots and visions and impossible accidents." He met Sam's eyes. "Part of me thinks, yes, you're nuts, but…I think maybe I have to work on the presumption that I don't know everything."

Sam opened his mouth in surprise and then smiled. "Doc, I think I like you."

Carl chuckled and shrugged. "When you get to be my age, you learn not to be too hard-headed about the things you think you know."

"You're not that old," Sam smiled. "Now, please. You need to go so I can do this."

"Sam." Carl shook his head and smiled. "I'd be a poor doctor indeed to leave a concussed man in a potentially dangerous situation just to save my own skin. Now, door?"

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but the set look on the man's face told him it would be pointless. He rolled his eyes and then groaned softly when it sent a dull wave of pain through his head. "Uh, right. Door."

Carl pursed his lips in concern while Sam turned away to take hold of the crowbar and moved so he could keep a careful eye on him. "I am serious about the concussion, you know. Don't push yourself too hard. I certainly can't carry you out of here if you pass out on me."

"I'm good. Really. Don't worry," Sam assured him and took a firm hold on the crowbar. He grunted with effort as he pushed on the bar and fought to open the door. "Come on," he muttered and put his back into it. His head started to pound and, just as he was about to give in and take a break, there was a loud crack and the door popped open. Sam staggered back and was grateful for the hands he felt take his arm and steady him.

"Sam. Sit. Come on," Carl pulled him back to the bench and pushed him. Sam had paled visibly just as he'd gotten the door open and bent while the doctor watched to hold his head in his hands. "Just take a minute and breathe. You'll be alright in a minute."

Sam nodded slowly and blew out a breath while his head ached. "Crap," he said with feeling.

"Take it easy now." Carl patted his back lightly and then looked at the open door. He picked up the hurricane lamp from the table and went to the door to peer through. The flickering light from the lamp showed a room cluttered with boxes and tables, cloth-covered objects and dusty paintings hanging on the walls and covered with drop cloths. Ropes hung motionless from a darker circle in the ceiling that must once have been part of a stair leading down into the room. "I had no idea there was this much down here. Wow." He stepped cautiously into the room and set the lamp on cloth-covered table to cast its light around the room.

"Carl?" Sam looked up and realized suddenly he was alone and the light had moved. He'd been so distracted waiting for the pounding in his head to stop he hadn't noticed the doc had moved away. His eyes widened and he stood shakily. "Carl! Get out of there!"

"I'm fine, Sam." Carl smiled for the boy's protective nature and went back to the door. "There's nothing in here. I mean, there's just stuff." He smiled again at the concern on Sam's face, and then his eyes blew wide in shock as he felt something wrapping around his ankles. The doctor looked down to find rope twined about his legs, and then he was yanked from his feet to crash into the floor. The rope pulled him roughly back into the room and Carl only just managed to grip the frame of the door and stop himself. "Sam!"

"NO!" Sam shouted and grabbed up his shotgun. He ran for the door, going to a knee to reach for Carl and gasped as the door swung shut. Carl's voice screamed from inside the vault, and Sam took hold of the handle. He planted a foot against the wall next to it and pulled. "Hang on!" Sam forced the door open again, releasing Carl's trapped hands and saw with a jolt of sympathetic pain that the man's hands had been crushed when the door slammed closed. Sam stood as Carl was freed. He grabbed his shotgun and fired at the rope tethering the man's legs.

Carl gasped as the gun boomed and the rope around his ankles loosened. He laid gasping on the floor and looking up at Sam, still too terrified to look at his own hands. He was a doctor; he knew it was going to be bad just from the pain and numbness without even looking.

"Come on." Sam bent and slid a hand under Carl's shoulder and pulled him to his feet. "You need to get out of here."

"Didn't really…believe you," Carl said through clenched teeth as he staggered out of the vault and back into the darkened antechamber. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's ok," Sam said softly. He could see the crushed ruin that was the doctor's hands and hear drops of blood hitting the stone floor. "I've got a first-aid kit in my bag. We'll…"

"SAM!" Carl yelled when he felt Sam jerk and looked up as a loop of rope whipped out from the door behind them to lasso itself around the man's throat. "NO!" Carl instinctively reached out to hold on to him and choked on a scream of agony as his mangled fingers tried and failed to grasp Sam's shirt.

"Run!" Sam yelled, and his voice was cut off when the coarse rope tightened around his neck like a noose. He was pulled from his feet so suddenly he lost his grip on the shotgun as he slammed into the floor and was dragged back into the vault. He had a dizzying view of the anteroom, Carl's terrified face, and Sam blinked in surprise as he thought he saw his brother a second before the vault door slammed closed.

Sam tried to get his fingers under the rope that was pulled taut under his chin. He managed to pull in a sliver of air, and then he was pulled from the floor and dragged up toward the ceiling. The impromptu noose tightened, and Sam's vision began to darken. He frantically tried to get loose even as his fingers started to go numb. Fresh pain slammed through his head with the lack of oxygen, and he felt his arms drop uselessly to his sides, unable to stop it. As his vision started to go gray, his only thought was that he was probably never going to see his brother again, and the hurt and pain between them would be the last thing that they had of each other. With his last shreds of consciousness, he sent out a silent, desperate prayer that Dean would someday forgive him.

"Sam! NO!" Dr. Mason ran to the door as it closed with a bang and tried, even through his own agony, to get a grip on the handle and open it.

"MOVE!"

Carl jumped at the bellowed command and turned to find another man behind him, his face set in a grim cast that he could see even with only the man's flashlight to go by. "Who…"

"Now!" Dean pushed the man roughly aside and shoved his flashlight at him. "Hold that! SAM!" He grabbed the handle of the door while the light wavered and then steadied, and he pulled with a growl of effort while the image of Sam being hanged and strangled to death taunted him.

Dr. Mason fumbled to hold the flashlight and settled for gripping it between his wrists to give the man, who he surmised must be Sam's brother, enough light to work by. "Hurry," he said softly.

Dean ignored him and wrenched the door open so hard, it popped from one of its hinges to hang at an angle as he tossed it back. The sight that greeted him froze his breath in his lungs for a heartbeat as he watched his little brother dangling limply from a rope near the ceiling in the flickering orange light of a hurricane lamp. One of Sam's feet gave a feeble twitch and Dean was in motion. He pulled his knife and leaped up onto a table next to his brother. He pulled Sam in against his chest with one arm and reached above him with the other to cut the rope holding him. Dean grunted when Sam's full weight slumped into him.

"Crap. Sam?" Dean staggered and then slid down to his knees with Sam, stumbling off the table with him. "Come on, buddy. Come on."

"Hurry! Hurry!" Carl swallowed his fear and went back into the vault while Sam's brother dragged him toward the door with his arms clasped around his back. He saw Sam's shotgun lying on the floor and blew out an aggravated breath, knowing he couldn't even pick it up, let alone use it.

Dean got his brother out of the vault and laid him down quickly before going back to the door. He took hold of it, straightened the door and pushed it back home into its frame. "Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded when he turned and found the stranger kneeling beside his brother's head.

"Carl Mason. I'm a doctor. You've got to get this off him now!" Carl looked worriedly at Sam's face as he held the flashlight to him.

Dean dropped beside his little brother and quickly tugged the length of rough rope free. It had abraded a bloody ring around Sam's throat and up under his chin. His heart clenched into a tight knot when he realized his brother was not breathing and his lips were turning from pale to blue, but there was no time to give in to the panic he felt coming on. "Come on, Sammy," Dean begged. He thumped his fist into his brother's sternum and grinned with relief when Sam gasped in a breath. "That's my boy.

"Oh, thank God," Carl sighed weakly when Sam started to breathe for himself. "You're his brother."

"Dean. Again, who are you?" Dean caught the arm Sam suddenly flailed out and held on to him. "Hey! Hey! Open your eyes, Sam. You're ok. I've got you."

Sam gasped for breath. His head swam and he wasn't sure why he was alive. He cracked his eyes open when Dean's voice registered and he found himself looking up at his big brother. "Dean?" Sam croaked and then started coughing.

"Easy. Easy." Dean pulled Sam up so he was sitting and let him lean against his chest while he tried to catch his breath. He squeezed a hand over the back of Sam's neck, grimacing at the feel of blood and abraded skin and allowed himself one terrified shudder. He looked over his brother's trembling head to the doctor and stared in shock. "What the hell happened to your hands?"

Carl was shivering with the beginning stages of shock he realized and finally looked down at himself. "I…it tried to grab me first. The door crushed…Sam saved me."

Dean smiled grimly and squeezed his brother's neck again. "He does that. Sam? You with me yet?" The wheezing breaths he was hearing weren't making him feel better, but Sam nodded and leaned back a little on his own to look at him blearily.

"Really…" Sam had to stop and cough again. His throat felt constricted even with the rope gone. "Really here?"

"Yeah, Sam." Dean let him take his own weight and spotted his bag on the bench. "First aid kit in there?"

Sam nodded again and put his hands to his neck with a wince. "Yeah…camp…camp light too." He watched Dean pull the salt out first, relieved when his big brother went back to the now closed door and poured a line of salt in front of it before going back to the bag.

"Shorter breaths, Sam," Carl told the clearly struggling young man. "Slow and short. Look up at me. That's it." Carl watched Sam's eyes as his flashlight crossed them and didn't like the even more sluggish reaction now nor the dangerous pallor of his face.

Sam fought to get his breathing under control while Dean knelt next to him again. He shook his head. "Hands…his hands first."

Dean stared and then nodded. The doctor's hands were obviously the worse injury and whether the man realized it or not, he was shaking like a leaf. "Ok, buddy. Lemme see those hands, doc."

"Carl. Call me…this really hurts." Carl held his hands out and tried to look critically at them. "Suppose it's a good thing I didn't become a brain surgeon now."

Dean grimaced as he turned on the camp light and set it down to get a good look. The doctor's hands were pretty well mangled. "Got at least a couple broken fingers," he observed, seeing the shine of bone among the blood and torn skin.

Carl nodded. "Couple of them are numb. It's bad. Just…just pour some of that disinfectant there over them and wrap them loosely for now. Definitely a hospital in our future."

Dean glanced over at his brother for a second and nodded in agreement because Sam looked like hell. "Hold still."

"He's concussed, by the way," Carl said quickly and then gritted his teeth through the pain while Dean poured the disinfectant over his hands.

"Already figured that out," Dean said and grimaced in sympathy while the doctor swayed for a moment before righting himself. "Alright?"

Carl nodded. "Good…I'm….I'll be fine."

Sam had been listening to the conversation sort of distantly while he attempted to keep breathing, but it was becoming more and more difficult to focus. He watched Dean wrap loose bandages around Carl's hands while spots started to dance in his vision. Sam slapped a hand out, fumbling for his brother in a moment of panic as he opened his mouth wide, trying to pull in air past a throat that was no longer cooperating. He couldn't even say Dean's name, only give a choked sort of grunt.

"Sammy?" Dean turned quickly with his brother's hand fisting in his jacket sleeve.

"Oh, no." Carl gaped. "Lay him flat! Quickly!" He waved his bandaged hands at Sam. "He can't breathe!"

"Shit!" Dean took hold of his brother's shoulders and eased Sam down to the floor while his brother's panicked eyes stared up at him. "Sammy?"

"Being strangled like that, his throat's swelling and cutting off his airway." Carl hovered uselessly above Sam and could only watch while his eyes rolled back in his head even as his body bucked in protest of being starved of oxygen.

"What do we do? What the hell can I do?" Dean asked plaintively and took hold of Sam's face. "Sam! Stay with me, man. Come on! No, no, no!" Sam went limp in his grip, and Dean felt something break deep within his soul as the memory of holding his dying brother in a dark muddy street in the middle of nowhere rushed back to him and threatened to overwhelm him. But he was raised a Winchester, John's son, and with great effort he managed to force himself to focus on the present. "Doc?"

Carl anguished for only a moment and then steeled himself. He wasn't going to let the young man who'd saved his life die in front of him. "Dean! I need you to listen to me. We only have minutes. DEAN!" Dean jerked and looked angrily over at him. "Pour some of that on his neck, and then you need a small knife, the sharper the better, and something for a tube. Oh! I have a pen in my pocket. Here." Carl pointed one hand toward his jacket. He was about to yell again when Dean finally snapped out of his paralysis and moved.

"What are you gonna do?" Dean asked with desperation heavy in his tone while his heart tried to beat out of his chest in panic. He dug through the doctor's pocket and came out with a thick, heavy pen, the kind doctors always seemed to prefer, and that made him roll his eyes.

"Get the pen open, we need the tube." Carl moved so he was sitting opposite Dean over Sam's head and he awkwardly pulled the camp light closer so the white light fell on the boy's throat. "Hurry, Dean." In his head, the seconds were ticking away.

Dean emptied the pen until he just had the tube and took out his penknife, holding them out. "Ok, here."

Carl stared at him and shook his head. "You have to do this, Dean. I can't!" He held up his bandaged hands. "You're going to give him an emergency tracheotomy, and you need to do it now before we lose him!"

"What?" Dean reared back in shock. "Give him…are you fuckin' crazy? I don't know how to do that!" Dean stared gape-mouthed at Carl while his brother slipped away in front of him. "I've seen it done on MASH! I don't think that's gonna cut it! You have to!"

"Either you do it or he's going to die. Right now." Carl held his bandaged hands and broken fingers out again. "You CAN do this, Dean. NOW. We're out of time."

Dean stared at him for a fraction of a second longer, and then swallowed hard around the lump of terror in his throat, grabbed the bottle, and looked down at Sam. "What the hell am I doing?" he muttered as he took the disinfectant and poured a little over Sam's throat. He set it aside and pressed his fingers gently against Sam's neck. He could still see the flutter of Sam's pulse there, but it wouldn't last much longer he knew. He picked up the knife that suddenly, for the first time in his life, felt awkward and clumsy in his hand. Steeling himself, his voice barely more than a whisper, "What…where do I cut?"

"Just below his Adam's apple, into the larynx. Yes, there." Carl said as Dean's fingers brushed over the bump in Sam's throat and settled below it. "Make the cut about a half inch across and the same deep. Hurry, Dean. Please."

Dean took a deep breath and placed the tip of his penknife against his brother's skin. The thought of actually cutting into Sam's throat nearly paralyzed him again, but the sight of Sam's lips turning blue gave Dean the last boost of desperation he needed. It was either act or watch his brother die in front of him yet again, and this time it very likely would be for good with their usefulness to the angels and Lucifer a thing of the past. He pressed the blade into his little brother's throat and made the cut.

"Ok, good! Stop! That's enough. Now take the pen tube and push it through. It should slide right into his larynx." Carl watched nervously and wished he could be the one performing the risky procedure. "You're doing fine, Dean."

"No, I'm not," Dean whispered. His fingers were slick with his brother's blood, but he swallowed the fear and hopelessness back. He couldn't let Sam die – not here…not now. Not after everything they'd been through, and sure as hell not with him believing any of the crap Dean had been throwing at him lately. The thought of his baby brother, who he had practically raised and would willingly throw himself back into hell to save, dying thinking Dean didn't care about him was tearing at Dean's soul in a way all of Alistair's torture had never managed to achieve. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the tube of the pen into the hole he'd created. He had to force it through skin and muscle, but it finally slipped into place and he sagged forward in relief when he heard the instant whistle of air through it.

"That's it!" Carl exclaimed and watched Sam's chest begin to rise and fall. It was shallow, but he was breathing, and the blue tinge to his lips slowly started to fade. "Ok. Alright. We have to pack it, keep the tube from slipping out or moving while we get him out of here."

Dean nodded numbly. He gently cleaned away as much blood as he could and packed gauze around the end of the pen tube and taped a bandage in place around it to hold it. When he was done, he sat back and ran a shaking hand over Sam's head and back into his hair, just holding on to him while his breath shuddered out of him.

"He's going to panic when he wakes up." Carl said seriously and wished he could hold Dean's shoulder, offer the obviously shaken man some sort of comfort. "You HAVE to keep his head and neck stable and not let him knock the tube out or we're right back where we were." He stopped and waited for Dean to nod that he was paying attention. The man had yet to take his eyes from his brother. "He won't be able to talk, and it's going to make him want to cough. It's going to hurt."

"He'll be fine," Dean said softly and kept his eyes glued to his little brother's pale face. "He's gotta be. He's not allowed to die thinkin' I'm still pissed at him." It was little more than a ragged whisper as Dean cradled his brother's head and waited for him to wake, a single tear slipping past his defenses to trail down his cheek unnoticed.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

To Be Continued…