Sorry about the giant wait, guys- mocks suck- and thanks to Idreamofivan for your review!

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Here's the thing: when Sam was a kid, he was so little. This tiny, bony, bewildered thing that followed Dean everywhere, and okay, that got irritating sometimes, but he could never have told him to go away. Sam was just so stubborn, so damned persistent; he was a brave kid, and that more than anything set a pulse of fear in Dean's chest at the thought of him hunting.

He just wanted to protect him, okay? But when you're this deep in the life, when you see the things Dean sees on a daily basis- that gets twisted up into something else. And at least when Sam got hurt he could do the bandaging, you know? Who would Dean even be if he hadn't spent so many hours putting Sam back together, stitch by stitch and step by step? How can he explain that doing that helps him remember how to put himself back together, too?

It isn't like that this time, of course.

Dean could probably list them in his sleep. Twenty-eight stitches- most of the cuts are shallow enough for butterfly bandages, but some of them go deeper. Two broken ribs from fuck knows when, mottling Sam's side with bruises. Both thumbs dislocated, now in splints. A transfusion and IV line for the blood loss. And a full-thickness skin graft on his stomach, dressed with clear plastic- a wound Dean can barely look at. His eyes keep going to it anyway. The replaced strip of skin is smaller than he thought.

No signs of blood, except for what still clings to Dean beneath his clothes. Peeling and flaking now, but he can't leave Sam for something as banal as a shower. They've got Sammy on the good stuff, thank God, and he's still unconscious from the surgery. Dean doesn't even know if he should be in the room with him right now, but he doesn't really consider himself capable of leaving.

Usually, in this sort of situation- Sam comatose in a hospital- Dean would be talking to him, trying to sound chatty, bring him back. But in this case that would be- absurd. And he just can't. And maybe Sam doesn't even want to wake up this time. He wouldn't blame him. Being tortured by the person who's supposed to protect you isn't usually a cakewalk. He has no idea how they're going to deal with that whole aspect of it. He's been given speeches about trauma, about how this is going to be a long road to recovery, but the doctors think Dean is blameless here. They only see the man who's been on standby for forty-six hours straight, not sleeping, not eating, drinking only fruit juice handed to him in a plastic cup by a nurse. The man who hauled Sam in and jogged his leg up and down in the waiting room for hours after Sam disappeared on a gurney.

Dean can't even think about what he did to Sam. He just can't. So he sits and he watches Sam's profile and he waits, and Christ he needs a drink but it seems so damned self-indulgent to be slugging whiskey and wallowing right now.

He needs to be strong so that when Sam wakes up one of them can stop being crazy. If he's strong enough, perhaps he'll stop wanting to pull Sam in and kiss him. Perhaps he could be strong enough to forget about that night, the night Dean jerked Sam off (and now he's casting his mind back, searching for the fault lines in his memories, wondering how much of that was Sam being tired and sick and confused and Dean taking advantage. Tell me to stop).

And as for the rest of it- the torture- they'll deal. They always deal. But then there's the stupid Trials and how are they going to even find the fucking time to work through all this?

Dean's glazed over, so lost within his own thoughts that he only snaps to attention when he hears a tiny sound.

'Sam?'

Sam's head shifts, lolls, dark hair spreading over the pillow. His eyes open a fraction, unfocused, and Dean's heart is going to pound right out of his chest. 'Sam. Sammy. It's okay, c'mon, you can wake up for me, right?'

Sam blinks slowly. His eyes gain some lucidity. Then- 'Dean.'

A nothing reaction. 'You're okay, Sam. You're in hospital, so just- just sit tight, alright?'

'Dean,' says Sam again, and his eyes well up in a way that makes Dean want to hurt something, and tears start trailing silent lines down his face. He doesn't curl up and sob, but that- that Dean could handle. He realises his hands are hovering a millimetre over Sam's big, too-thin ones, and yanks them back; he's not allowed to touch Sam. 'Sam. Sam. Sammy. Shit.'

'Dean,' and Sam's voice sounds choked.

'Don't cry. Shit, don't cry, Sam.' He's trying to comfort his brother without touching him, hands palms-outwards, awkwardly skimming over Sam with flighty motions. Sam moves as if he's going to try to sit up. 'Don't move, you'll hurt yourself. Are you in pain?'

'I- I don't know. Don't touch me.'

It hurts. He expected it, deserves it, but- it hurts. 'You... do you-' Fuck, should he even be asking this? 'Do you remember?'

Sam brings shaky hands up to his face, knuckling away tears, wincing as the movement tugs on sore muscles. It's a long moment before he replies. 'Yeah.'

An indrawn breath. 'Shit... Sam.'

Sam visibly pulls himself together, breathing in as deep as he can without pain, closing his eyes for a moment.

'Do you- do you need morphine?'

His brother looks down at the morphine drip going into the back of his hand. An odd expression flits over his face. 'No.'

'Sam, if you're hurting-'

'I said no.'

He withdraws. 'Right.'

There's a long silence. Sam is pulling in breaths, rasping and shallow and painful. Dean stares at his hands. Over the past hours he's become used to the sight of the bruises on Sam's face, but now he's ashamed.

'How much of it was you?'

He turns his head back to Sam. 'What?'

Sam's braced himself. Dean knows that look. 'How much of it. Was you.'

Nothing, he almost blurts out. He wants to, and God knows if Sam would even believe him, but Sam's always been the trusting one, right? And how much of it was him, really?

Shame hits him almost as soon as he thinks it. He deserves Sam's contempt; he was in control and he's not going to bullshit his way out of this. He can't. It's Sam.

'I don't know,' he says.

Sam gives a jerky nod, turning his face away, and Dean just- yeah. Can't. 'Sammy.'

No response. He's itching to cover Sam's hand with his own, but he registers his own still-raw knuckles just in time. 'Sam. I am so, so goddamned-'

'Don't, Dean,' Sam says. 'Just- don't. Please.'

It's not as if he didn't know this would come, but still. 'Sammy, I gotta say this, man.'

'I know. Just- not now, Dean, okay. I just- I can't do this now.'

He's almost surprised when his vision wavers, tears stinging at his eyes. Shit, he's got no right to cry. 'That's fine, Sam.'

If Sam catches the waver in his voice, he doesn't say anything.

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Sam wants to leave.

'Look at this pragmatically, Dean. Our insurance is a piece of shit, they probably suspect you, and as long as I don't do anything stupid I'll be fine.'

'You're kidding me, right? You're on antibiotics, Sam!'

'Dude, I can take some goddamned pills without falling over, okay?'

'Quit it. You were in surgery, you're weak from the Trials-'

'It wouldn't be the first time we went AMA, Dean. Or the fiftieth.'

'Skin grafts, Sam! It's not like a broken leg, okay?'

'Dean, what's your problem? I'm fine, I'll be-'

'We're not leaving. Fucking cut it out.'

He only realises he's right up in Sam's face when Sam flinches. He pulls back so fast he almost topples over. 'Fuck,' he says.

'I,' says Sam, looking down, 'I didn't-'

'No,' he says. 'I- Sorry.'

For the next few moments he has the impression that they're both looking away, blinking back sudden tears. You're not scared of me, are you? He wants to ask, but he knows what the answer would be, and neither of them can take much more lying.

Still, though.

'We're staying,' he says. He sounds tired even to himself. 'Sam, I- I'm guessing I'm the last person you want taking care of you right now.'

Sam doesn't move. He stares at the covers where his hands are laid over them.

'But that's what'll happen when we leave. So- just- this is for the best. Okay?'

'We leave tomorrow,' Sam says, still not looking at him. 'Tomorrow or I go by myself.'

His insides constrict at that. 'Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow. Swear.'

They sit.

He hates hospitals.