Now that Dean was finally awake to the problems in his family, he noticed more than he ever had before. Dad was pretty much the same as usual, except that where his smiles were rare before, they were nonexistent now; where he was strict before, he was harsh now.
Most of this was directed at Sam, he found.
"Did you clean those guns?"
Sam shrank under their father's glare. "I was just about to, I—"
"No excuses." Their dad threw the bag at him. "Get to work." He stormed out, obviously going to a bar. Dean watched silently as Sam opened the duffel, carefully taking out each gun. The weight he had lost recently was startlingly apparent in the motel's lamp light, face looking almost gaunt. Dean scowled.
"I'm feeling crazy," he said suddenly. "Let's go to Vegas."
Sam didn't look up. "We have a hunt, soon."
"Dad can handle it, can't he?" Dean demanded. The fervor in his voice was enough to Sam to look up, furrow between his eyes.
"Technically, yeah, but—"
"But nothing. Dude, if you don't go with me, I'm going to tie you up and take me with you."
Sam's eyes were tight. "Um, Dad won't be happy."
"Screw him." Dean grabbed their bags. "We're going."
Dean knew he wasn't seeing things when he caught the spark of life in his brother's eye for the first time in far too long. He managed to ferry his brother out the door and into the Impala without too much trouble. When his cell rang a few hours later, "Dad" flashing on the screen, he flipped it open without a care, ignoring Sam cringing on the seat next to him.
"Hello?"
"Where the hell are you two?"
"Me and Sammy are taking a little trip to Vegas. We'll catch you later."
"What? You can't just—"
Dean snapped the phone shut. Sam stared at him.
"Dean," he said softly. "What are you doing?"
"I'm tired of it, Sam." Dean stared out at the open road. Once appealing, once a herald of the good ol' fight, him and Sam and his dad against the world. "What's the point of it?"
Sam frowned. "Point of what?"
Dean gestured vaguely. "The hunt. This relentless, never-ending hunt."
"You've changed your tune," Sam said softly.
"About the time that you changed yours." Dean restlessly ran his hands over the wheel. "Sam, it's like we're strangers, now. What's going on?"
"Noth—"
"Shut up! It isn't nothing, obviously. I may not have graduated high school Sam, but I know a lie when you tell one!"
Sam cringed away, hunched against the door. A stiff silence fell in the Impala. Dean hated himself for losing his temper, and sighed. "Sammy, please. Why won't you talk to me?"
"Dad told me not to."
Dean threw him a sharp glance. "And you listened to him, why?"
"Dean, could you . . ." Sam hesitated, looking out the window into the passing night.
"What?" Dean's voice was softer than he intended, keen on getting any kind of foothold that he could with Sam.
"I promise I'll . . . I'll stay with you, Dean. I'm not leaving. But I can't . . . I can't tell you. Not yet."
Dean sighed, turning his eyes back o the road. "Sam. I'll go along with this. But you—you need to promise me that whatever happens, you'll stay safe."
Sam wasn't looking at him when he answered, "okay, I promise."
Dean kept them out of Dad's radius for a good week. Sure, Sam was quieter than usual, and Dean was on edge from avoiding Dad's calls, but it was almost like before, back on the road again.
All too soon, though, vacation was over, and they were brutally torn back into their world by Sam dropping down in the middle of the sidewalk, clutching his head.
"Sammy!"
Sam's face was twisted in anguish, pupils dilated, breath rapid and unsteady. Dean waited on tenterhooks for him to come back.
"D'n," Sam groaned, forehead falling into Dean's shoulder. "Gah."
"It's okay, Sammy, I know it hurts. C'mon, let's get into the car." Chest tight with worry, Dean maneuvered his brother up and forward at a slow shuffle. Sam fell into the passenger seat with another moan of pain, instantly leaning forward and clutching at his head.
"Pain pills," Dean said hurriedly, pulling them out and offering them to Sam. Sam took them.
"He's going to die," Sam whispered.
"Who?"
Sam screwed up his face. "I don't know. I saw he was . . . he had a gun, shot a man, shot himself. Death."
Dean flipped open his phone, only to see Sam flinch. Finger hovering over the call button, Dean frowned a little. "What?"
"Are you—who are you calling?"
"Dad," Dean said slowly. "Don't you think he should know?"
"Y-yeah."
With a twitch of his fingers, Dean snapped his phone closed. "Did you see anything to tell you where this guy is?"
Pain-filled eyes watched him warily. "Yeah, I think so."
"Good thing we won enough money to fill the gas tank, eh?" Dean revved the engine. He reached over and rested his hand on Sam's neck, unabashed about checking on his little brother. Sam was too out of it to call him on the gesture, so Dean squeezed gently, kneading the tight muscles until Sam was slumped against the seat.
"G'tta look up th' guy," Sam slurred.
"It isn't going to make a difference, dude. Sleep now, before I knock you out."
The corner of Sam's mouth twitched in slight amusement. Dean played dirty pool, slipping his hand into Sam's hair and combing through it, a sure thing to get Sam to sleep.
"Cheater," Sam mumbled, mouth running on as his brain began to quit.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean said lightly. He took his eyes off the road for a moment to check on Sam, hating the lines of pain around Sam's mouth and eyes. "Go to sleep, Sammy."
Sam was freaking. Dean was freaking. It was a freak fest all around, and Dean hated the wording of the thought once it plastered itself inside his brain. He glanced sideways at Sam, suddenly glad that Sam's psychic power didn't include mind reading.
"Sam, we've gotta get out of here," he muttered.
His brother was staring dully at Ansem's body. "Just like me," Dean heard, and that was quite enough of that. He yanked Sam over to the Impala, sparing a sympathetic glance for Andy.
"Dean—"
"Not a word, Sam." Sam had once made fun of Dean, comparing him to a sheepdog, who liked his flock safe, and Dean felt that way now, with his little flock of one. "Get in the car."
Sam obeyed, eyes glassy. Dean kept up a steady stream of curses under his breath; he was trying to focus on getting them out of there, but it was too easy to be distracted by Sam's radiating fear.
Somehow they managed to get back to the motel in one piece. Dean's skin felt too tight for his body.
"Do you think—" Sam started. Then he stopped. Dean felt his gut twist. Sam used to do that when he was a kid, start a sentence and never finish it. Whenever that happened, Dean always, always regretted not pushing him to finish; he would run away, he would be sick, he would get into fights.
"What, Sammy?" Dean asked.
His little brother wouldn't meet his eyes. "If he were ever . . . if I were to snap or—"
"No, Sam, hey." Dean took a few steps towards him, the promise of his presence, of being able to take care of Sam on his lips. But the distance and problems of the last few months whispered in his ear, and he hesitated. "Sammy," he said instead. "You—you have me. And I know you, kid. You're the best person I've ever known, and nothing could ever change that."
Sam finally looked up, and the stark terror in his eyes made Dean's breath catch.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Dean didn't want to ask why he was sorry. He swallowed, reaching up to grasp the side of Sam's face. "We're going to be fine," he promised.
A/N: Oh those promises of being fine. Good luck with that, Dean. We're gearing up for the final few chapters, everyone! Thanks for sticking with :D