A/N: I don't think I've yet disclaimed the Winchesters, so here it is. They aren't mine. And thanks for all of the great reviews and alerts!

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I realize suddenly that I've been zoning out big time the past few miles. My arm is still burning and I rub it out of habit, allowing the familiar vibration of the Impala to soothe me. It hasn't been a good week for me.

On a completely selfish level, I feel totally violated. To have some demonic bitch in my own body, in my head-it's disturbing and revolting and disgusting. On another level, I killed one man, at the very least threatened Jo, and I beat up my own brother.

Yeah, I've had a lot on my mind.

I look over at Dean, noticing for the first time my brother's tight grip on the steering wheel. A closer look and I realize that his knuckles are white, and then I hear something. It takes me a second to figure out what it is, and as soon as I do I know that things have definitely gone to pot. Dean's humming, and it's unmistakably Metallica. Damn it.

"Dean?" I say quietly, uncertain how to get past the gap that is between us. Because if Dean's been reduced to muttering "Enter Sandman" under his breath, then it's bad, and he conveniently forgot to tell me something, probably something I'm responsible for.

He doesn't answer beyond a grunt, continues humming around barely uttered lyrics, 'off to never never-land" and I sigh. If he's hurt and hasn't told me…I need to figure out how to phrase my question to avoid having him shut down completely on me. I eventually decide on a combination of stealth and trickery. Not the best way, I know, but I can think of nothing else to get him to stop.

I take a deep breath and press down, hard, on the burn on my arm, not even trying to suppress the groan that comes to my lips. Dean's head whips toward me, brow furrowed. He's pale, dark rings under his eyes, and I no longer feel bad for using underhanded tactics.

"You okay, Sammy? Should we stop?" Inwardly, I can't believe that Dean is so damn selfless. I know that he's hurt worse than I am. Outwardly, I shrug weakly, shake my head.

"No, no, I'm okay. Keep going." His frown deepens as he turns back to the road, switching lanes.

"We're stopping." He says it firmly, turning onto the next exit without saying anything else to me. I have to consciously keep myself from letting out a sigh of relief. Dean's knuckles are still white, and now I can see that his whole body is shaking slightly.

The motel Dean chooses is nondescript, peeling and crumbling and like a thousand other places we've stayed. I'm grateful when he comes back to the car with the key to a room on the first floor. He pulls in, and for a second we just sit there. I'm contemplating whether or not to pick up Dean's duffle, knowing that he'll protest and it might be hard to get him to talk, but before I can do anything, he's climbing stiffly from the car, circling around to the trunk. He grabs my duffle. My duffle.

"No way, Dean, I can carry my own damn bad," I growl, snatching it from him. I am so frustrated that it takes all my will power not to lay into him in the parking lot. As it is, I grab the key from his hand and stalk to the door. He stares at me, a bewildered expression on his face as I do it, and that just makes me angrier. He doesn't even get why I'm upset. Stubborn-ass brother.

I shove the door open and fling my bag onto the bed furthest from the door, storming into the bathroom and turning the shower on. Closing the bathroom door, I'm surprised when Dean isn't in the room. At first I think he might have gone back to get something from the car, but his bag isn't here either. Which means that Dean's not come in yet. Rolling my eyes, I walk out of the room, fully expecting Dean to be leaning against the Impala, stubbornly trying to take care of his own wounds. Wouldn't be the first time.

I'm not expecting, however, to find my big brother sprawled face-down on the pavement.

"Dean!" I shout, hurrying to his side. I drop to my knees, gently easing him onto his back, carefully supporting his neck and allowing his head to rest on my legs. His breathing is short and fast, and his pulse is racing. His skin is burning. Damn it.

I pat him down gently, trying to find the wound I know is there, cursing under my breath when my fingers graze what has to be a bandage on his left shoulder. I tug the collar of his shirt down, biting my lip when I notice the blood spotting the gauze, slowly seeping through into his tee.

"Damn it, Dean!" I mutter under my breath, bracing myself for the effort it will take to get his dead weight into the motel room. After a moment, I stand, heaving my brother into my arms, stumbling into the motel. Dean's head lolls.

I settle him on the bed and run out to the car, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste to get the first aid kit out of the trunk. When I get back to the room, I'm dismayed to notice that Dean hasn't moved at all since I deposited him on the mattress.

"Come on, Dean," I mutter, dampening a washcloth and drawing it over his forehead. He's trembling under my touch, and I'm almost afraid to cut the shirt away and expose the full wound. Still, I do it quickly, hands shaking in nervous apprehension. The bandage is soiled and doesn't come away when I try to move it from the wound. I cautiously wet the gauze, letting it soak so that I can get it out. I don't want to think about how the hell it got shoved in there. I'm pretty sure that I had something to do with it.

I ease the bandage up, wincing at the inflamed and bloody sight before me. It's a bullet hole, or was once, but it looks like someone went to town on it. Probably me. Not only does it look like crap, but it's really, really obvious that it's infected. I grit my teeth for a minute, eyes closed as I try not to lose my temper. If Dean had just told me, or even Bobby, then we could have prevented this from happening, or at least from getting this bad, but no, he's too damn stubborn. Did he honestly think that it would be better for me to find out what I did because he passed out than by just telling me?

I need to get some antibiotics in him, probably some pain medication, and he's going to get dehydrated if he doesn't drink anything. It's a daunting task, to say the least.

I rummage through the med kit, surprised to find a prescription for Vicodin made out for Jo Harvelle in it. When did Dean have the chance to see Jo? I can't imagine him stealing from Jo, of all people, but I don't see how else he could have gotten the prescription. Unless…I look more closely at the wound and realize that someone rather crudely dug the bullet out of Dean's shoulder. It has to be Jo's handiwork.

Dean moans, and I place a hand on his forehead in an attempt to soothe him. Green eyes blink hazily open, searching for a moment and taking longer than I like to focus on my face.

"S'mmy?" Dean's voice is raspy, and I grab a water bottle from my pack, holding it to his lips and slipping a pain pill in with it. Dean raises an arm to hold it himself, but I can see how badly he's trembling and I know he'll be unable to do it. He drinks hungrily, and I have to pull it away from him to get him to stop.

"You ass," I say, unable to keep the affection out of my voice as I again wipe his forehead down. "Why didn't you just tell me?" Dean blinks blearily, smiles lopsidedly at me.

"Didn' want you t' worry," he says, eyelids sliding closed.

"Hey, hey, Dean," I say, tapping his cheek. Dean blinks at me again.

"Hey, S'm." I roll my eyes.

"Listen, you're pretty sick, man. We've got to get you help," I say, and Dean shakes his head. He points to his shoulder, raises an eyebrow.

"Bullet wound," he says, and the unspoken 'duh' is crystal clear. I rub a hand over my face. What the hell am I supposed to do?

"So. Short of kidnapping a doctor, I don't know what to do, Dean," I say despairingly, but if I wanted Dean to help me, I'm sorely disappointed.

"S'm, the walls are moving," he murmurs, and I worriedly touch his forehead again. He's even hotter than before, and I'm too scared to get the thermometer and actually check. If I had to guess, though, I'd say he's at least 103, maybe 104. Not good.

"Okay, Dean, I'm going to call Bobby. Maybe he can give me some suggestions," I say, even as I grab the flask Dean always carries and some antibiotic cream from the med kit. I pour the alcohol liberally over the wound, barely flinching as Dean gasps and arches away from me.

"Damn! Sammy!" He shouts, and I feel another twinge of guilt on top of the craploads of guilt I'm already drowning in. This isn't supposed to happen. I smother the cream on the wound, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, waiting for Bobby to pick up.

"Singer. Is that you, Sam?" I sigh in relief.

"Yeah, Bobby."

"Is it Dean?" He knows us too well.

"Yeah. Hey, did he say anything to you about getting shot?" The string of expletives that explodes over the phone line answers that question.

"Me neither, Bobby, and it looks bad. It's infected and I'm pretty sure that it got…irritated at some point by…someone." We both know what I'm not saying.

"Stubborn-ass Winchester," Bobby spits, and I nod.

"I know," I say with a sigh. "I don't know what to do, Bobby. A hospital's risky…" I let my voice trail off.

"If his temp gets above 104.5, I'd take him in. You can always blame it on a hunting accident, and if he goes septic it'll go downhill fast."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," I answer, but my voice is shaky because I'm pretty sure that Dean is close to, if not over, Bobby's line. Hospital it is.

"And Sam? I know you're feeling guilty as hell right now, but that was not you, you understand me? Dean doesn't blame you, and you shouldn't either."

"Okay," I say quietly, "Thanks, Bobby."

"Anytime. And you get that arm of yours looked at too while you're there, okay?" I manage a chuckle.

"Sure thing, Thanks, Bobby."

Ten minutes later and, thermometer having confirmed my suspicions, I'm wrangling Dean into the Impala. Another fifteen and he's rushed to an OR to clean up the wound and after selling my hunting accident story, I'm reduced, once again, to sitting dejectedly in a waiting room. Two hours and I'm allowed into ICU to see him.

He's groggy and disoriented and "not out of the woods yet" but still manages to smile weakly when he sees me.

"Hey Sam," he mutters, and if he wasn't in a bed with tubes and other crap in him, I'd so kick his ass right then and there.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Course." He grimaces. "Maybe not." I smirk at him.

"That's what happens when you don't tell your awesome little brother about crap like this," I say, and he shrugs.

"Sorry, Sam."

"I know. Me too." He yawns and looks tiredly at me.

"How long am I stuck here?" I snort.

"How long? Dean, you're so full of antibiotics and painkillers right now that it's going to be at least a few days, probably a week." He opens his mouth to argue, frowning, and I cut him off. "Don't even think about it. Shut up and go to sleep." Dean glares at me and rolls his eyes, but falls asleep within minutes.

I stare at his sleeping form, knowing that he'll be okay now, because he's Dean.

Stubborn-ass brother.