* I'm sorry this took ages for me to write. School consumes my life, unfortunately. The last two chapters will be written this week. I have another story up my sleeve and need to finish this one before I continue on. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for being so patient with the updates.

Either City Hall was a goddamn liar or the County Hospital was full of douchebags.

"Not approved," the administrator repeats for a second time in that same neutral tone. She stares at Dean, no compassion in her face.

"How is it 'not approved'? I'm of age, I'm Sam's legal guardian, I've filed all the necessary paperwork, my income is qualified for – "

"It's your place of work, Mr. Winchester," she sighs like she's all too bored to properly care. "You need to give a current place of business that's been permanent for at least 3 months. Our records state you've only been at," she steals a glance at her computer screen, "Sauer's Bakery for a week. We can't grant your request."

Dean's staring at her, mouth gaping. "You're joking."

She blinks at him. "Sir, if you have anymore questions you're going to have to head to the first floor and speak to one of our representatives – "

But Dean's already turned his back on her. His face is set as he slams through the set of double doors that leads to the flight of stairs. He's not going to file a freaking complaint with guest services. No, he's done with waiting, done with playing by the rules.

What he needs is a plan. A surefire way to cover their tracks, a few fake badges, and then, then he's getting Sam the hell out of Dodge.

*

It could be so easy for Dean to blame their father, to blame him for pushing Sam away, for causing the rift that made his brother leave for college, for causing Dean to chase after him, for the entire domino effect that lead to the car accident. If it weren't for Dad, Sam would still be whole.

It would be so easy for Dean to blame his father, problem is he can't get past blaming himself.

If only he had answered his damn cell, hadn't left Sam to begin with, hadn't gotten into the car, hadn't needed Sam by his side in order to feel complete.

How ridiculous to think that an apartment could solve their problems. How stupid to believe that a real job would somehow make them civilians. Why he didn't take Sam and just run, that's what he wants to know. Sam's not the only one that's changed during this whole ordeal, apparently. He'd like to pinpoint the moment he lost his logic, where everything his dad taught him flew out the window; when did he become so careless? When did he become so soft? Don't get involved with the system. No personal ties, no pieces of identity left behind, no paperwork to be found. If this were 6 months ago that's exactly what he would have done – grabbed Sam and run like hell, no traces left behind. Running never even crossed his mind, to flee instead of abide by the rules – fleeing was too cowardly, too reckless. If Sam weren't ill it would have been different. His brother deserved more than a continual road trip cross-country and a life based on lies and subterfuge. Sam deserved a home. Love and care - normalcy, routine.

There's no use coming up with a plan to break Sam out. After an hour of thinking, Dean's got nothing, no surefire way to hustle his brother through the guarded doors. So with a 'fuck this,' mumbled under his breath, he's on his way up to Sam's floor. Winging it is their best option. Visiting hours start in five minutes, which means no one will question why he's there. What happens after the initial 'visit' is well beyond Dean's thoughts. Hopelessness for their situation is beginning to morph into determination. Whatever happens he's not leaving without Sam. If they have to unscrew the barricading windows and climb their way down to the first floor on a rope made from knotted bed sheets, then that's what they'll do. Leaving his brother behind isn't an option.

Dean will be Sam's very own personal trainer, rehabilitation worker, live-in nurse, and whatever the hell else he needs him to be. They can do this by themselves. They don't need any other outside help. If Sam needs a therapist, Dean will find one. If Sam needs better pain meds than the stolen ones Dean can supply, well, he'll find a way to get those too. No more hospitals, no more strangers butting in, no more ill treatment and people classifying his brother as 'inept'. This is their life, their time to do it their way – together.

Dean turns the corner, rubber soles of his shoes squeaking abnormally loud against the tile as he enters Sam's room. His heart is in his throat, thumps twice against his adam's apple when his eyes lock on the melancholy white of the hospital gown. It's déjà vu - the memories from six months previous of Sam's broken and bruised body parade across his mind… it's all too much. He'd like to shake away the images but the present is too much the same. Sam's eyes aren't focused on the television screen, just gazing, drifting almost, lids heavy like the task of staying awake is too hard.

Sam's regressed is all he can think in a panic. But then he quickly notices the IV in his brother's arm, the bag of clear liquid that connects to the needle that's pushed under his skin. Or maybe it's just the cocktail of drugs they've been force-feeding him since who knows when.

"Sammy," he says, and it takes a solid hand on Sam's shoulder for unfocused eyes to lock on Dean. It happens again, that look that passes over Sam's face – the same as that day at the park - the look of sheer trying, like he's working to place Dean's face with an actual person; there's knowledge right on the edge of breaking through. Then the fog lifts and the recognition comes; Sam's arms reach out to grasp any part of Dean that he can find. His breath starts to hitch in violent gasps as he pulls him in close and Dean has to hold on tight just to keep from crumbling.

*

Luckily no nurse has come by to bother them. The privacy has given Dean an opportunity to remove the unnecessary needle for his brother's arm, pack up everything within the closet, and steal the extra medical supplies lying around.

They're in no rush to leave. Now that Dean's got Sam settled by his side, safe, warm, alive, sedated, there's no reason to make a mad dash to the front door. They need to wait until the edge of the drugs fade, and besides, if they're making a break for it running is out of the question. Even on a good day they'd have to go slow. With the added narcotics Dean will be lucky if he can get Sam into a standing position long enough to haul him into a wheelchair.

The room is tiny but not cold like he had pictured. Sam's got Dean nestled against his body. They're side-by-side on the hospital bed and the way Dean's being cuddled by his brother's giant hands feels almost backwards - but not unpleasant. He doesn't push away the contact. He'll let Sam mold and shape him into any position he likes. A calming serenity washes over his body and it's all because of his brother's presence. No matter the situation or the negative circumstances that come their way, if Sam is near then Dean will cope.

Sam hasn't said much, refuses to answer any question Dean shoots his way. He mumbles from time to time when the moment strikes him. He's talked in placid tones about the hospital food – how the jell-o is his favorite, the way the maple tree leaves flutter against his window, how he knew that today was the day Dean was coming, how he'd dreamt it while he was awake. His voice is muted; each word dragged out with deliberate precision like his brain is trying to process through old mud, like he's coming up with random anecdotes to shield both of them from the truth of the situation. Why they've sedated him, Dean has no clue. They hadn't even drugged him this much after the initial shock of the accident wore off.

"What have they been doing to you, Sammy?" He asks against his brother's cheek and Sam lazily nuzzles back, squishes Dean even closer to his chest like a favorite rag doll. "They haven't been doing stuff to you, have they? Do you feel dizzy? Do you know what's in this IV bag? Sam?"

"Don't leave," Sam breathes, barely above a whisper and his eyes drift shut.

Dean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose to keep the stress headache from settling in. He affectionately grabs hold of his brother's hand, brings the deformed knuckles up to his lips and kisses each one. "I won't leave," he whispers. "Everything is going to be okay."

He can feel Sam slump against him.

He can feel Sam let go of the last threads of strength he'd been holding on to

*

It doesn't take long for Dean's entire torso to fall asleep. Sam's weight is draped across him like a heavy blanket. He shimmies out from underneath Sam's body, and thanks to the sedation his brother doesn't wake.

The time is getting closer to when the nurses wheel in the dinner cart. That's their cue. As soon as Sam has his food and the last nurse leaves, that's when mission-escape-from-country-hospital begins. Dean saunters down the hallway to check out the lay of the land, to get a better feeling for what door to escape out of. He feels foolish now for stowing a hand pistol in his back pocket; it's not like he's going to shoot anyone that stands in the way, not in a hospital, not when there's people around. Then again, a good threat never hurt.

By the time Dean returns from the cafeteria, coffee in hand, the voices streaming down the hall make it apparent that Sam is no longer alone. He's thinking it's one of the hot, young nurses with the evening food service until he hears an older lady's gruff vibrato. The chastising anger in her voice along with a loud bang has Dean speeding his pace.

"You're acting like a damn child!" He hears her snap. He enters the doorway in time to see Sam recoil his entire body away from her gaze; his eyes wet with unshed tears. "How many times have I told you to not touch the pitcher or water!"

"Hey!" Dean cuts her off, his voice full of hatred. "Don't you dare yell at him like that, can't you see you're scaring him." His eyes narrow at her only momentarily before he walks towards his brother and gently climbs onto the bed next to Sam's side. His arms open up an invitation and his brother takes to the comfort like a fish in need of water. He curls into Dean's chest, head bowed; the slight tremor of his body has Dean rocking back and forth with the motion.

Dean glares at the nurse, tries his hardest to burn holes into her crabby face. If this is what they've been doing to Sam all along – if this is the treatment he's been receiving – he's going to loose it, big time. "Is this the way everyone's been acting towards him the whole time? You just walk around yelling at your patients?"

She glares back at him, the face of a toad. "We deal with disruptive patients all the time, son. Though we will not stand for patients who are uncooperative and ill-mannered."

"Because he dropped the fucking water pitcher he's 'ill-mannered'?" he shouts.

"Oh," she smiles, way too sweetly, "I can see where he gets his temper from. You hang around with the wrong crowd long enough – disabled or not – you turn into to the same type of person."

"He's not disabled, okay?" His right hand comes to cup Sam's face, to shield him away from rest of the world. "And why the hell was he so sedated? It's like he's been pumped full of narcotics."

"When patients aren't compliant we need a way to calm them down." And with that she leaves the room, the dirty dishrag used to clean up the spilled water drips a path that follows her out.

Dean turns to Sam, takes in his appearance and tries to calm he surges of rage that are coursing through his body. He lifts up his brother's face, kisses away the tears on his eyelashes. "Sammy," he sighs.

"I don't know what I did wrong," Sam mumbles, eyes shining in the glow of the bright hospital lights. "They don't understand me. They don't," he sniffs, "they don't think I can do anything, Dean. They think I'm stupid."

"Who cares what they think, Sammy? I know you. And I know you can do tons of things, things I can't even do," he smiles, a smile just for Sam. "We don't need them. And that's why we're getting out of here."

"What?"

"I'm breaking you out, kid. No more hospitals, no more hospital visits, no more suck-ass nurses, no more disgusting hospital food, just you and me, how's that sound?" He can tell Sam is trying to calculate through the drug fog, he can see the wheels turning. "I bought us a place to live, Sam," he says with added emphasis. "You're coming to live with me. You and me. We have our very own place."

"Wait… we have a house?" Sam says, and Dean smiles at the spreading grin on his brother's face.

"We have a house."

*

For all the potential "planning" spent on the nerve-wracking breakout, getting Sam out of the hospital seemingly unseen is ridiculously easy.

Sam is dressed in his street clothes being wheeled out the side door that leads to the 'family of patients' parking lot with Dean – who looks, apparently legit with a random fake ID tag clipped to his leather jacket. No one asks any questions; no one sounds the alarm. In less than ten minutes Sam is sitting passenger side with Dean bellowing out rock tunes with the windows rolled down.

Dean's got the ball of his foot pressed hard against the gas pedal. As long as they aren't being followed as they speed down the road, no one will ever come looking. Dean never got far enough into the hospital's paperwork to put down a place of residence, luckily. They can fly under the radar, they've done it before.

*

The steady rev of the engine is lulling them both into a sleepy haze, though when the sight of the pond and the well-kept paneling of the apartment complex come into view, Sam's eyes fly open.

"Dean!" He says, sitting up straighter in the seat, "This place even has a lake!"

"I know, man," Dean says with a chuckle, "home sweet home."

"Wow," Sam says and his voice is full of awe.

He wishes the look on Sam's face would stay plastered there forever. He reaches over after the car is parked and ruffles Sam's hair. The wheelchair is still stowed in the backseat, but this time they don't need it. He's using his own strength as a leverage to get his brother up the steps – any excuse to hold him close.

The apartment is inviting: warm, clean, theirs – everything they've never had. The scattered lamps of the sitting room cast a pale glow that highlights the gleam of the pristine kitchen countertops.

Sam groggily limps down the hall to the back of their place, like he instinctively knows that the bedroom is calling. Dean deadbolts the door, takes off his boots and follows behind.

"Sleepy," Sam says rubbing his eyes. His t-shirt is half on, eyes half closed. He's blinking furiously just to keep himself from falling asleep and toppling over.

"Get in your new bed then," Dean says pulling Sam's shirt off all the way. He's too damn tired to do much else, just shucks off his jeans and climbs in next to his brother. Sam is already cozying up to the new, crisp sheets and he's sure their expressions are identical: exhausted, happy, thankful. Dean likes the look of their queen bed; the way Sam isn't engulfing the entire width. The extra inches of mattress look more alluring now, like there's actual room to fit. And just when he's thinking there's going to be enough space where they won't bump against each other throughout the night, Sam pulls him in close, jabs his knee hard against the back of Dean's thigh before sliding up against him.

"Nigh' Dee," Sam says against his ear and the slur of the name has Dean smiling against his pillow.

He has his family again, his best friend, the only person in his life he's ever needed. They're in a house, a place that they own, a place all their own, a queen bed, un-used sheets, curtains on the windows and actual food in the fridge. Dean doesn't know whether to laugh or cry so instead he arches back against Sam's warm chest and lets the weight of the world roll off his shoulders.