Hi! So this chapter...is like a week late. I had high hopes of actually posting TWO chapters last week! I really did. But life, as it so often does, got in the way at every turn and here I am...many days overdue. Sorry! I promise I never intended to leave poor Dean on the dirty old carpet this long...I really intended to get this chapter out to you last week. Alas! Thank you all for the lovely reviews! They were so encouraging...you have no idea! It was a rough couple of weeks and I kind of just wanted to quit writing but then I'd get another nice note from one of you and I would get back at it. :) Thank you! Hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a bit longer to make up for how long it took to get to you! Ps I was totally listening to Coldplay "Fix You" and "Us Against the World" on endless repeat as I wrote this chapter, and rewrote it, and rewrote it... just so you know my writing soundtrack. ;) Happy Reading!

Chapter 10: In my weakness I am strong

Arla felt a profound sense of relief when the she saw the flashback of blood in the IV catheter. As dehydrated as Sam was, and as out of practice as she was, it was a miracle she'd managed to sink the IV in one go. She bit her lip in concentration, holding the catheter in place with her left hand as she reached for the clear tegaderm to put over the site. And then her grin faded just like her relief as she watched Dean slump to the floor next to his brother. Sitting there, holding that IV in place and staring in surprise at Dean, Arla knew that she was going to need a vacation from her vacation by the time she'd put the Winchester brothers back together again.

"Dean?" she called, hoping for an answer and receiving none.

Attention returning to the IV which she didn't dare take a chance on losing, Arla carefully secured it then opened up the clamp on the tubing to allow the fluids to begin to flow. She put the bag on the bed; it would do for right now. She jumped in surprise as the television and lights turned off and then back on again. The tv was way too loud in the quiet room, but she had other things to worry about at the moment. The power continued to flicker off and on again over the next few minutes as she assessed Dean. Blood pressure on the low side, pulse on the fast, Arla had a feeling that, while there was obviously something else going on with him, his collapse was likely caused by an adrenaline crash rather than anything more serious.

Dean started to stir about the time the lights came back on again and she finished checking him over. Pressing a hand to his shoulder to keep him down, she asked gently, "Dean?

As expected, he came awake fighting her. But, at the moment at least, she was stronger and able to easily push him back down. "Take it easy. Lay still for a minute. I don't need you passing out on me again. I have enough trouble, don't you think?"

He frowned up at her, struggling for a second before flopping back down wearily. A shaky hand came up to rub at his eyes. "Sorry. I...I don't know what…"

"I do," Arla cut him off. Shaking one finger at him, she said, "You're exhausted and overwhelmed. You stay right there. Do not move a muscle. I need to grab a few things. Do not move."

And he didn't which told her everything she needed to know about the status of her second patient. It worried her. Arla hurried across the room, poking around until she came up with a bottle of water and a sub sandwich in the tiny refrigerator and a half-eaten bag of chips pulled from the mess on the table. All of them gathered into one arm, she snagged the utilitarian floor lamp from the far side of the couch, unplugged it with a quick tug, and dragged it along with her.

Dropping the other items on the bed, Arla took the time to set the improvised IV pole up and hang the fluids from the top. Dean had eased himself up to lean on his elbows by the time she finished. He studied the bag of IV fluids, traced the line down to his brother's arm and then he was looking up at her.

"That gonna help?"

"I certainly hope so."

Dean didn't comment, but pushed himself up until he was able to lean back against the bed. Arla took the cap off the water and handed it to him. He remained silent, but took it and drank a good third of the bottle in the next minute or two. Taking the sandwich and chips off the bed, Arla sat down in front of him and said, "You need to eat."

This time, he met her gaze. "Not hungry."

"So you're not experiencing dehydration and low blood sugar?" Arla raised an eyebrow, meeting his challenge head on.

"No."

"So you fainted at the sight of blood, then?"

"I did not," Dean snapped, setting the bottle down next to him. His expression was angry, but a telltale flush of embarrassment crept up his face.

"Dean. You look like you've had a really bad day," Arla smiled, "The adrenaline and blood sugar crash isn't something to be embarrassed about. Eat the sandwich, will ya? That's all I'm asking right now."

"Right now, the lady says," Dean muttered, but he took the sandwich and unwrapped it.

"Yes, right now that's all I'm asking. I'd rather like to keep at least one of you off the floor."

Dean nodded slowly, taking a bite of the sandwich, his gaze inevitably wandering back to his brother. Arla remained silent. This was her first opportunity to really study him. The chance parking lot encounter had been so brief that there hadn't been much time to gather more than a quick impression. And her initial impression had been accurate. Dean looked terrible. Whether he was sick too or had merely run himself into the ground trying to take care of his brother, she couldn't decide yet. Chances were that it would be a whole new level of challenge to get any straight answers out of him on that topic.

As if sensing her thoughts, he turned back to her and said, "I'm fine. Tired. Apparently hungry. But fine."

There was a hint of a smile on his face as he spoke and Arla could almost see the kid he had once been. Years of hardship she couldn't even imagine weighed on him. He'd aged more than he ever should have in the short six or so years since she'd seen him last.

She asked, "When's the last time you ate anything?"

"Earlier." He waved a dismissive hand as he chewed another bite of the sandwich. "Missed lunch I guess."

"I guess," Arla echoed, following his gaze back to his brother. She had a list of pressing questions, but knew she had to tread carefully. The man before her was so on edge she wasn't sure how he was even still balanced on the precipice.

Dean sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a few seconds, then looking back at her. "I...uh, sorry for," he waved a hand again, "everything earlier. Wasn't...wasn't expecting company."

Arla smiled, "I kind of figured."

"You said Sam called you?"

"Yes. He sounded very upset, wasn't making a lot of sense, but he said he couldn't wake you up."

Dean snorted, hand coming up to rub at his jaw. Noticing for the first time the pale bruising, Arla asked, "What happened to you?"

"He happened to me." Dean tilted his head. The amusement vanished from his eyes and he said, "I caught him off guard."

"He punched you?" Arla asked, trying to put the scattered, confusing pieces together.

"It was an accident. He probably doesn't even know he did it," Dean said, sounding defensive and discouraged at the same time.

Arla didn't want to pry, didn't want to force him or lose footing on the precious bridge of trust they'd barely begun to construct, but there would be no going further if she couldn't get a few more answers. There would be a limit to how helpful she could be if he didn't trust her enough to open up. So she crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.

"Dean, I need more information if I'm going to be able to help you and Sam."

"I know." His response was a whisper. For a long minute, silence fell and Arla hoped he wouldn't shut down. He took a deep breath, sat up straighter and looked at her.

Taking a chance, Arla asked, "What happened to Sam?"

"He saved the world."

Dean watched Arla silently absorb his statement. It was a weird thing to say without sounding either dramatic or ridiculous. But it was true. And Arla didn't look like she thought he was being dramatic. He knew she couldn't fathom exactly what it meant, and he didn't want her to. Remembering the exact moment when he'd finally, truly lost his brother was making him feel lightheaded again. The hallucinations, the insomnia, the mental breakdown, that had all been a sequel to the main event and Dean struggled to push the image of Stull Cemetery and everything that had happened there out of his mind. There were too many pieces to pick up already.

He really needed a drink.

Arla was still waiting and he knew that, unless he wanted to kick her out of the cabin, he was going to have to tell her something. Tell her at least the minimum necessary details that would ensure her ability to help him get Sam back on his feet. And, even though he remembered her unwavering support, her unquestioning devotion to taking care of them both that Christmas so many lifetimes ago, Dean knew he couldn't trust her like he had back then. Didn't want to trust her. He couldn't take that chance again. The last outsider he'd trusted had betrayed him.

Cas, Dean pressed his fingers to his eyes as he thought about the fact he'd just left him in the hospital without a second glance back. The weight of the guilt he felt at his own betrayal of one of the closest friends they'd ever had pressed down on him. Shaking his head, Dean forced himself to focus on the present. Cas was beyond his help. He needed to focus on Sam.

Lowering his hand, Dean looked back at Arla. Trying to formulate an explanation that somehow encapsulated a colossal train wreck four years in the making, Dean said hesitantly, inadequately, "He went through some stuff."

"Bad stuff," Arla said softly, reading between the lines.

"Bad doesn't even begin to cover it. The past few years have been hard on him. And a few months ago...it got a whole lot worse," Dean stared at Sam, wishing he would just wake up and be fine so he didn't have to keep talking about him like this. Shaking his head, Dean went on, "Because of the stuff he went through...he's been struggling to know what's real and what isn't."

Arla's expression was open, concerned. Not a hint of judgement or distaste. She asked, "Hallucinations?"

"Yes."

"That's why he hit you?"

"Yes," Dean said, then shook his head, "No. Not exactly. He's not hallucinating anymore. I mean...he's still having some trouble with telling the difference, but I think it's more because he's so tired and feels like crap. A friend," he choked on the word, feeling a rush of emotion that he couldn't quite categorize, "fixed him a couple days ago."

At that, Arla frowned. "What do you mean 'fixed him'?"

"Long story. This friend, he...uh...he has some special abilities and he...well, you could say he took the crazy," Dean shrugged, wishing he could get past the subject of Castiel.

Considering how grateful he was to the angel for saving Sam's mind and life, the anger ran hot and steady just under the surface of that appreciation. Cas had been the one to break Sam's mind in the first place. Fisting his hands, he forced himself to go on.

"Sam's been running on no sleep for over a week and almost no sleep for months before that," Dean explained, "And the hallucinations...they...he hasn't had much of an appetite lately because of the things he's been seeing."

"The fluids will help with the dehydration," Arla said, "but, with everything you're telling me now, Dean, this still may be beyond what I can do here with a couple bags of saline. He may need other medications, other treatments…"

"He just needs to get to the point where he can eat, drink and sleep again," Dean cut her off. "The first night after we left the hospital, he slept like twelve hours straight, but he's been running a fever and feeling so lousy that he hasn't really slept since."

Arla's voice softened as she asked, "Hospital?"

Wishing he hadn't brought that up, Dean nodded. "Remember I said he got hit by a car? Well, that was the night it all went wrong." And oh how it had gone so wrong! Thinking back to that night gave him chills even now. "He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't figure out which way was up, what was happening, so he took off. Maybe the dev…" Dean stopped himself short and rephrased, "maybe the stuff in his head told him to go, I don't know. I just know he was gone in five minutes flat and I looked for him all night. He'd been hit by a damned car and taken to a psych hospital by the time I got the call. They said he'd had a full psychotic breakdown."

Arla shook her head, "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Dean snapped at her, too keyed up to even regret it. Sam didn't need her pity and he didn't want to hear it either. "He's fine!"

The room fell uncomfortably silent. Even outside the cabin, the storm seemed to be abating somewhat and not even a clap of thunder distracted from his outburst. Dean squeezed his eyes closed, rubbing a closed fist at his chest as the pain spiked. His stomach was turning and he realized that puking up the sandwich in front of Arla was a very real possibility. Controlling his breathing and fighting down the nausea, Dean looked back at her, wondering how long it would be before she decided he was insane and not worth the trouble.

"He may have an infection, Dean," Arla said, not addressing his outburst. "It could simply be the dehydration that's causing the fever, or it could be something else. I'd need to run blood tests to be sure. He may need antibiotics, other medications. Things I don't have."

"Whatever you need, we can get," Dean said, not caring if he had to call Meg back for more supplies. He was about to ask for another list when he heard his name whispered in a broken voice. Scooting a pinch closer, he rested his hand on Sam's arm. "Hey, you wakin' up?"

Sam groaned. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he looked uncomfortable as he shifted ever so slightly where he lay. He stopped moving after a few seconds and asked, "You ok?"

"Yeah, Sam," Dean sighed, settling back against the bed. "I'm good."

"You were on the floor."

"And now you are. Gettin' ridiculous, don't you think?"

"Couldn't wake you up…"

"Well I'm awake."

"Was worried 'bout you."

"Little more worried about you right now. Wanna get your eyes open? Join the party?"

"Don't feel like a party right now."

Dean patted his arm. "Ok, no party. I'll tell the clowns to pack up and take their balloons with them."

The brief smile he received told Dean that he hadn't crossed the line with the clown crack. It had come out of his mouth before he'd taken the time to consider that it might have been a very dangerous thing to say right now. Apparently, as out of it as he looked, Sam was at least sharing reality with him. For now, anyway.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asked sluggishly, tilting his head and opening his eyes for the first time since he'd awakened.

"Nothing's wrong with me."

"You were on the floor," Sam repeated slowly like Dean was an idiot. But he looked uncertain as he asked, "Weren't you?"

Dean wanted to lie. Figured it would be easy enough to do. But he couldn't. Sam had enough trouble remembering what was real and what wasn't without adding lies to his confusion. With a quick glance at Arla who had remained silent so far, Dean looked back at Sam and nodded. "I was. It wasn't a big deal."

Sam stared at him intently, then closed his eyes again and asked, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why were you on the floor?"

"I tripped," Dean said, deciding, in this case, that a lie was permissible. Sacrificing this truth to keep his brother from feeling bad about punching him felt like the lesser of two evils.

For several seconds, it looked like Sam wasn't going to buy it. He stared at him like he knew he was lying, but seemed to give up. Back to shifting uncomfortably, Sam said, "Head hurts."

Dean nodded, reaching up on the bed for a pillow. "This'll help."

Once his head was settled on the pillow, Sam did seem to relax a bit more and Dean thought he was going to fall asleep, but instead he forced his eyes open again and asked, "Did you hear someone else talking?"

"Right now?" Dean asked, hoping Sam was going to say no. Because the tv was only playing music at the moment and if he was hearing someone else talking right now…

"No. Earlier," Sam clarified, worry written all over his face. "You didn't hear it?"

Realizing what he meant, Dean smiled. "Yeah, I heard it. Arla and I were talking…"

"Who?"

"Arla," Dean said, not overly worried that Sam didn't immediately know who he was talking about. "Arla Pender. You called her, remember?"

"No," Sam said, shifting again. He caught sight of the lamp and fell silent, spending a few seconds puzzling over that before lifting his arm and studying the IV. Resting his arm back on his chest, he looked at Dean and asked, "Is that really there?"

Taking a deep breath, Dean hated the doubt he heard, but nodded, "It's really there."

Sam frowned, looking back at the IV for a really long time before returning his gaze to Dean and asking in a completely flabbergasted tone, "How'd it get there?"

Dean almost laughed. He glanced up at Arla, then smiled and said, "Our fairy godmother."

"Don't have one, remember?" Sam muttered, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead.

"I was wrong," Dean said. He motioned for Arla to move over into Sam's line of vision and added, "Arla's here."

Sam's expression was uncertain, but he followed Dean's gaze to the right. Arla gave him a smile and a soft hello, but Sam flinched like she'd slapped him. He turned his head back toward Dean and whispered, "Are you sure?"

Dean should have, but really hadn't, expected this reaction. Putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, he squeezed and said as confidently as possible, "I'm sure."

"She's...real?"

"Yes."

Sam inched closer to him and chanced another brief glance at Arla, before closing his eyes and asking, "How can you be sure?"

"Sam. She's real, ok? Trust me. You called her and she came to help," Dean said, frustration bubbling up. "Snap out of it."

"Dean," Arla said softly.

Meeting her gaze, Dean tried to rein in his anger and even out his breathing. Him coming unglued was not going to help anything. Returning his attention to his brother, Dean saw that Sam wasn't looking at him anymore.

"Arla?" Sam asked, expression wary as he studied her.

She smiled again and said gently, "Hi, Sam."

If he hadn't watched it with his own eyes, Dean wouldn't have believed the immediate change. The tension drained out of Sam in a heartbeat and he smiled brighter than Dean had seen in weeks. All he said was a very quiet hi in return, but Dean saw him visibly pulling himself together and that, in and of itself, was encouraging.

Now that contact had been made, Arla pressed on carefully. She asked, "How are you feeling?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder and the smile faded, but he remained calm. He said, "Tired."

"I'm sure. Sounds like you haven't been getting much sleep lately."

Dean gave him another gentle squeeze on the shoulder when Sam looked at him with a hint of betrayal in his eyes. Wanting to reassure him that he hadn't blabbed all the gory details, Dean said, "I told her you've been pretty worn out the past few weeks."

Clearly reading between the lines and knowing Dean had been careful with what he'd told her, Sam nodded, looking relieved.

Arla waited until Sam was looking back at her before she said, "I think we could try to get you off the floor if you feel like you could sit up. We'll take it one step at a time. Let me check your blood pressure first, though."

Sam nodded, but when she touched his arm, he pulled away.

"Sam, it's ok," Dean said, giving his shoulder a gentle shake and noting with relief that his contact hadn't been an issue.

Nodding and sucking in a shaky breath, Sam relaxed and said, "Sorry."

"It's ok. You gonna be ok with this?"

"Yeah. I'm good," Sam said, offering his arm to Arla.

"It won't take long," Arla said as she wrapped the cuff around his arm. Her movements were gentle and slow as she worked. Finishing up, she looked at Dean. "Better than earlier."

"Good," Dean said, breathing a sigh of relief. He eased the cushions out from under Sam's legs. "Let's get you off the floor."

"Love that plan," Sam said, starting to move, but not getting far.

"Hang on a second. You're a little heavy and I didn't exactly eat my Wheaties this morning, so let's take this slow." Dean smiled when Sam gave him a quick smile of his own, then closed his eyes. Nodding at Arla, Dean said to Sam, "Let us do the lifting, you just try to stay with us, deal?"

"Mmhmm," Sam acknowledged, but didn't open his eyes again. Whether he was just too tired to bother, or whether he was trying to stay calm, Dean didn't know and didn't care. So long as it worked, he wasn't going to be picky.

Working together, he and Arla got Sam sitting up easily enough; even if he was mostly dead weight against Dean's side. Wrapping his right arm around Sam's shoulders, Dean held him steady while Arla made sure the IV was still intact. Looking down, Dean asked, "You still awake?"

"Yeah," Sam said, lifting his head briefly.

"Doin' alright?"

"Yeah."

Arla said, "I'd like to see you drink a little while you're sitting up. Do you think you could try?"

Sam nodded, and this time he actually managed to keep his head up and open his eyes.

Arla headed over to the table and returned with a bottle of water. Sam reached for it and she let him take it. Holding his breath, Dean was pleased when Sam managed the bottle with a steadier hand than he'd had in the past two days. Arla took it from him when he lowered his hand. She said, "How are you doing sitting up?"

"Ok," Sam looked up at the bed with a smile and added, "Kind of want to lay down again."

Dean shifted to a crouch and said, "Two minutes tops and you're in bed."

"Can't wait," Sam mumbled, doing his best to help as they pulled him to his feet.

The change in altitude didn't do him any favors, not that it did Dean any either, but obviously the fluids were working their miracle because Sam didn't pass out. It took less than the promised two minutes before he was settling back against the mattress with a contented sigh. Dean almost laughed at the sight. Sam was sprawled out, arms outstretched, head flat on the mattress and out like a light.

Feeling a tap on his arm, he smiled as Arla handed him the pillow. He slid it under Sam's head and tugged the blankets over him. Once he'd done that, he stepped out of the way so Arla could pull the lamp closer to the bed and make sure the IV line wasn't tangled. After that, everything sort of faded into the background as he stood there watching his brother sleep.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" He turned slightly, eyes still on his brother.

"Come sit down," Arla said softly, touching his arm. "Let him sleep."

Nodding, Dean turned to her, realizing he must have been standing there a lot longer than he'd realized. The cushions were back on the couch, the leftovers of his lunch were lined up on the neatly organized table. Trash had been picked up, the lights turned down and the tv turned off. Registering the silence for the first time, Dean brushed past her and flipped the tv back on, although he kept the volume a bit lower than it had been earlier.

Arla looked at him curiously and Dean said simply, "Background noise helps."

She didn't ask for more details and he didn't offer her any. He dropped to the couch and ran both hands over his face, wishing the motion would help rub away the fog in his head and the burning in his eyes. It didn't accomplish anything except make him realize how tired he was and how much he wanted to take a shower.

"How are you doing?" Arla asked, sitting at the other end of the couch.

"Great."

"Great just like your brother over there, huh?" Arla shot him a significant glance. She said, "How about you 'fess up and tell me what's going on with you."

Dean shook his head, "Nothing's going on with me except for being tired."

"So take a nap. Stretch out there and get some sleep."

Beginning to protest, Dean found himself cut off by his own yawn. He saw Arla's knowing look and knew he was busted. She said, "I'm not asking you to sleep for a month. I'm just asking you to get a little rest while Sam's doing the same thing. I don't need my fancy medical degree to know you're both just plain wiped out. Humor me."

Dean folded his arms across his chest, partly in protest, partly in an attempt to ease the pain in his gut. Maybe if he asked nicely she'd hand him a beer because he was way too keyed up to even attempt to sleep without a little help. Before he could ask, though, he closed his eyes for a second...and fell asleep a second later.

Sam woke up with several pressing issues. While he sort of remembered where he was and had a vague memory of what had been going on, the same level of foggy disorientation plagued him as before and he wasn't 100% sure of anything. Anything other than the pain in his head. That he was 100% sure of. That, and the fact he really needed to get to the bathroom. Forcing his eyes open, he stared up at the ceiling and tried to pull himself together.

Nothing was clear, but he did remember Arla being around at some point. He saw the lamp with the nearly empty bag of IV fluid hanging from it, knowing that was the reason he was desperate for the bathroom. Not dehydrated anymore, he thought without amusement. Because he felt just shitty enough not to be amused by anything at the moment.

The room was dimly lit and he could hear the tv on and the rain falling outside, but otherwise it was quiet. Starting to push himself to a sitting position, Sam felt the anxiety began to reassert itself with every second that passed without comment or intervention from his brother.

Where is he?

"Sam?" A quiet voice asked just as he managed to sit up on the edge of the bed. "Are you alright?"

He squinted against the pain and blurriness as Arla came into view. Instead of answering her, he asked, "Where's Dean?"

"Sleeping," Arla said immediately, pointing over at the couch. "You've both been sleeping for the past couple of hours."

Seeing Dean sitting there, sound asleep on the couch, did help ease his worry. Not completely, because he remembered that Dean wasn't exactly doing well lately. But that was something to consider at another time. Right now, he really needed to get to the bathroom. Staring at his arm, Sam saw the IV and, even though he knew what it was and why it was there, the sight of it turned his stomach.

"Take this out," he said, or rather whispered. Although he'd meant to speak in a normal tone of voice, his voice was evidently as worn out as the rest of him was.

Arla stepped closer and he could see the hesitation in her eyes as she said, "It would be better if…"

"Take it out," Sam repeated, staring back at the IV, his fingers itching just to rip it out. Trying not to panic, he said, "I need you to take it out or I will."

"Alright. Let me get a piece of gauze or a bandaid," Arla said, turning away.

Less than ten seconds after she'd walked away, he found himself staring at a thin line of blood on his arm; the IV fluid dripping onto the floor. The IV had come out easily enough. Sam watched the blood slowly run down his skin as all kinds of unwanted memories flooded his mind.

"Sam!" Arla said a second later. She knelt in front of him, pressing a square of gauze against his arm, her eyes bright with worry as she looked up at him.

Shaking his head, he couldn't find the right words to tell her he was fine, tell her he was sorry. She silently smoothed a piece of tape over the gauze but didn't release his arm. Sam pulled away; the contact was too much. He avoided her gaze and pushed himself to his feet. The room, predictably, got a bit dark around the edges and he felt dizzy and unsteady, but he stayed on his feet. Arla's hands were on his arms, not restraining, just trying to offer support. Whatever she was saying was drowned out by the pounding of his own heart in his ears and he pushed past her toward the bathroom.

Closing the door behind him, he took a steadying breath. There was no pounding on the door, no more voices or hands or memories. He was thankful for the skylight that made it possible to see well enough that he didn't have to turn the lights on because he was pretty sure his head would implode if it were any brighter. By the time he finished and had washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face, he was ready to fall over. Shakily, he sat down in front of the tub, leaning his back against it and resting his head on the wall to his left.

The bed and a pillow would have been preferable, but he had no interest in leaving the relative sanctuary of the bathroom for the time being. Arla's presence was confusing and overwhelming. He couldn't think of a reason why he should be avoiding her, but that was exactly what he was doing. Touching the taped piece of gauze, Sam knew she deserved his thanks. But right now he needed to be left alone.

Needed to think. To sort out the knots that had formed in his brain. To spend a minute or two trying to come to terms with living for half a year without being sure what was real and what wasn't. Flashes of hunts, of investigations, of people and places he couldn't quite remember tormented him.

Magicians. Egyptian gods. Feuding witches. Leviathans. Dick Roman.

Bobby.

And always, over everything else, the persistent image of the devil's face taunting him.

He's gone. It's over, Sam told himself over and over. And even though he did feel different, felt alone in his own head again,Sam wasn't sure it would ever be over. He felt wrong. It was different from how he'd felt when Cas had first destroyed the wall. The pieces of his mind had fallen like shards of glass all around him, too many to count. But he was supposed to feel better now, wasn't he? He wasn't hallucinating, wasn't hearing voices. Cas had fixed him.

So why did he still feel so broken?

"How long's he been in there?" Dean asked, sensing Arla's barely disguised worry.

He yawned and sat up a bit more, trying to gauge how serious the situation was. He'd awakened a few minutes ago to the sight of Arla pacing the room. She was making him dizzy with her circling and her worry was making him nervous even if he felt too sleep-drugged to react. His hands were trembling and he pressed them against the couch cushions to hide it. Looking longingly at the refrigerator, Dean licked his lips.

Need a drink, he thought, wondering if he could go grab a beer then deal with whatever had Arla so worried. Dean looked back at her and ran one shaking hand across his mouth. Need to brush my teeth too. Grimacing, he felt Bobby's flask in his shirt pocket, tucked there so close and yet so far. Because it was empty. He'd finished it off somewhere during the night. Shaking his head against the distractions, Dean looked up as Arla stopped her pacing and stood in front of him.

"He's been in there almost half an hour now," Arla said, checking her watch. "I tried to talk to him again a few minutes ago and he still wouldn't answer me. I didn't hear him fall. But he might have passed out..."

"He didn't pass out." Dean pushed himself wearily to his feet, feeling about a hundred years old as he did so.

Arla stopped pacing and asked, "How could you know that?"

"Well, ok. I don't. He might have passed out," Dean admitted with a rueful smile. "But I doubt that's what happened."

"So what then? He's just sitting in there because it's more comfortable than the bed?"

"He's just sitting in there because it's more private than anywhere else." Dean shook his head, confident he knew what was going on. "He's sitting in there stewing about everything because, thanks to you, he finally feels well enough to stew about everything."

Arla smiled faintly. "Well I'm not sorry that he's feeling better."

"Neither am I. Give us a minute, ok?"

"Absolutely," Arla nodded. She hesitated for a moment, then offered, "I'll go outside how's that? Just give me a holler."

"Thanks," Dean said, watching the front door close softly behind her.

He took a few calming breaths, and wished he felt better than he actually did. The pain in his stomach and chest were still nagging at him, but had faded a bit. The nap probably had been a good idea. But it hasn't been enough. Not enough for him to be ready to deal with whatever was going on with Sam. He dug around in his gear for the bottle of Jack Daniels and opened it up with a shaking hand. Knocking back a few generous medicinal swallows, Dean recapped it and hoped he had enough liquid courage to handle Sam.

Dean knocked softly on the bathroom door. As expected, silence was the only response. Leaning his shoulder against the door, he knocked again. "It's me."

There was still no response and although he was sure Sam was just sitting in there moping, the thought that he actually might have passed out was enough motivation for Dean to ignore a closed door. A little surprised to find the door unlocked, Dean pushed it open. The skylight let in enough illumination for him to see Sam sitting with his back against the tub, leaning sideways with his head resting against the wall. He glanced up and looked so tired that Dean honestly had no idea how he was managing to stay awake at all anymore.

He also looked like he was hurting. Hurting in ways that went far beyond the physical injuries. They'd dealt with plenty of broken bones, bruises, and concussions over the years. Unpleasant, but not insurmountable. While he didn't want Sam to be in pain, Dean would have gladly chosen the broken rib, concussion and every other ache and pain that went along with being hit by a car over the mental anguish he didn't need to be a mind-reader to know Sam was currently working through.

"Sam?" Dean asked softly, leaning a hip against the counter.

"Yeah?" His voice was broken and almost inaudible.

"What're you doin, man?" Dean asked, shaking his head, "Why're you sitting in here?"

Sam shifted and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his hands against his head as he closed his eyes and whispered, "Needed to think."

"Not sure you should be trying to think right now, Sam. You're too tired." Dean waited for a reply. When he didn't get one, he asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"Can't be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"Can't be sure it's over."

And, more than the words themselves, the raw desperation he heard had Dean crossing the small space and crouching down until he was at eye level with his brother. He gripped Sam's shoulders, but refrained from shaking him the way he instinctively wanted to because he knew Sam's head was still pounding. Instead, he squeezed his shoulders and waited until Sam looked at him before he spoke.

"It's over. You hearin' me?" And damn but that was desperation in his voice now too. Dean shook his head again, holding Sam's gaze as he kept his voice low and even and forceful as he went on, "You're fine. You're better. Cas got rid of it all right? No more devil in your head, right?"

Sam nodded shakily and it looked like he was only doing it because he knew that's what was expected. Not good enough! Could they have been wrong? Cas had fixed him, hadn't he? Shouldn't he be better by now? This time Dean did shake him as he said, "Tell me he's gone, Sam!"

"He's gone!" Sam insisted, squeezing his eyes closed, his hands still pressing against his head. His voice was almost nothing as he whispered, "He's gone. I swear…"

Dean's chest felt tight as, for the first time, he truly stopped to consider the fact that maybe it wasn't that simple. Maybe the devil was gone. The hallucinations, the neverending voice in Sam's head. The nightmare of the past few months. Maybe all of that was gone, but maybe that wasn't enough. When they'd first walked out of the hospital, he'd been exultant at the thought that maybe everything was going to get back to normal; that Cas had taken care of everything and all Sam needed was to catch up on some sleep. That simplistic hope came back to mock him now as he found himself confronted by the fact that this was going to take a lot more than catching up on some much needed sleep to fix.

Dean's hands dropped from Sam's shoulders and he slumped against the wall. He took a few ragged breaths, then said with confidence he didn't feel, "We're gonna get through this."

It took a minute, but Sam lowered his hands and tilted his head back against the wall. Dean didn't like the dull flush of pink he saw on Sam's otherwise pale face. He wasn't sure either of them could make it through another night like the last one.

Sam stared at him silently for a few seconds, then said, "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You wanna know?" Dean asked, with a sudden smile; stupidly eager to ignore the reality of the situation. "Because I have a list. Been keeping that list since the day Mom and Dad brought you home from the hospital."

Sam snorted and a little of the tension in his muscles eased. Dean's grin widened, and he knew the alcohol was kicking in because he felt slightly giddy. But whatever. He was on the right track and he wasn't quitting while he was ahead.

"You were freakin' adorable at first. Mom said you were perfect even after you spit up all over Dad which, by the way, was hilarious. But then you kept us up all night. I'm not sure which of the four of us was crying the most by morning. I begged Mom to send you back to wherever you'd come from."

Sam had a hint of a smile on his face as he whispered, "No you didn't."

Dean didn't have to tell Sam he was right. They both knew it. Dean smiled too, thinking back. Seeing something so tiny so upset had broken his four year old heart. He hadn't wanted Mom to return the tiny screaming thing that was his brother.

He'd wanted her to fix him.

Not much had changed in all those years.

He still wanted to fix him.

Letting Death shove his brother's soul back into him had seemed like the only way to fix Sam. But now, Dean wasn't sure if it had fixed him so much as it seemed to have broken him. Shaking his head, the bit of levity faded and Dean said softly, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For everything."

"Yeah. Me too," Sam said with a heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead.

"You want some Tylenol?"

"Yeah. I hurt everywhere." Sam swallowed hard.

Dean nodded sympathetically. He pushed himself to his knees. "So let's get you off the floor and doped up. Deal?"

Sam frowned, hesitant.

"What?" Dean asked, then saw Sam's gaze go beyond him to the open door. Understanding dawning, Dean said, "She's outside."

"Is she leaving?" Sam looked back up at him.

"Do you want her to?" Dean asked quietly; an unspoken promise to back up his choice either way. Despite his own misgivings, Dean had a feeling they needed Arla's expertise. But if Sam wanted her to go, she'd go and they'd figure out the rest on their own. Like they always did.

Not unexpectedly, Sam said, "Yes."

Dean nodded, already trying to figure out how he was going to tell her politely to leave, when Sam spoke up again.

"But...I think...maybe we need her help." It took another minute of silence before Sam met his eyes again and admitted, "I really don't feel so great, Dean."

"I know you don't," Dean leaned forward and put his hand behind Sam's neck, feeling the unnatural heat of fever. He held his gaze and said, "Let's get out of here and talk to her, ok? You're sick, Sammy. How 'bout we let the doctor do what she's itching to do?"

Sam nodded with a brief smile.

Dean returned the smile, pushed himself to his feet and extended a hand. Pulling Sam up nearly took both of them down, but they managed to get out of the bathroom without either of them ending up back on the floor. Once Sam was settled on the couch, Dean straightened. "Ok if I have her come back inside?"

Sam nodded, head resting on the back of the couch. He smiled faintly and said, "Our own fairy godmother."

"Yeah. Who'd've thought?" Dean grinned. "You know what this means right?"

"Singing mice?"

"Happy ending."

"You really believe that?" Sam's voice was so quiet Dean almost missed it as he took a step toward the front door.

"Yes." Not even a little.

"Yeah," Sam whispered, "me neither."

There! No one on the floor this time! :D And I already have a good start on the next chapter.

PS credit goes to Hacked It Out and Fell for the line about Arla needing a vacation from her vacation. :)