Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too.

A/N: My profound thanks to my lovely and talented beta, Merisha, for encouragement and advice. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

A/N 2: We are officially 2/3s of the way now. And I promise, and Merisha can confirm, all fifteen chapters were totally written before I posted the first one. Which means I beat Kripke to a story about phone calls. Yay!

OOOOOOOOOO

When Dean woke a few hours later, Sam was standing over him. He was feeling a little adrift, still cocooned in a painkiller fog. He blinked a couple of times and said, "How long was I 'sleep?"

"Five hours". Sam held out his hand with more pills just as Dean tried to lift his left hand to gently probe his right shoulder. "You still have a fever".

Dean took the Tylenol and they both saw his hand shaking. He shook his head at the Vicodin. "I'm still feeling the last dose too much. How about unwrapping my shoulder so I can take a shower?"

Sam said "I don't think that's the Vicodin's fault, Dean", but helped him out of bed and removed the strapping. He stood until he was sure his legs would hold up then carefully, keeping his right arm next to his body, walked to the bathroom with Sam hovering. Once inside he closed the door behind him and took a good look at himself in the mirror. He could feel tremors running up and down his arms and legs, and saw a tic jerking over his left eye. What the hell was the matter with him – he felt anxious and tense, and for the life of him he couldn't place what was bothering him. Sam was fine, and if his life long care package was fine, what could he be worried about? He opened the door, just to double check, and there was Sam still fine, looking at him.

"Um, thought I'd get some clothes."

"I'll bring something in."

He turned the shower on as hot as he could stand it, and let it beat against him, trying to ease the tension out of his sore muscles. He moved his shoulder experimentally, the small spike of pain burning off some of the painkiller haze. He got out when the water started to run cold and found some clothes laid out on top of the toilet. He heard Sam, a little muffled through the door, say, "Let me know when you need to get the shirt on." He managed to shave, but only got half way through brushing his teeth, when he stopped to brush his hair, giving the bump on his head an experimental poke. It wasn't until he was tugging his jeans up one handed that he caught sight of the toothbrush still in his mouth. And his hands were shaking again.

When he got out, Sam helped him get on a black t-shirt and a top shirt. Over Dean's perfunctory protests, Sam re-strapped his arm back to his chest but this time into more of a sling arrangement. Sam also had to help him with his socks and boots, then solemnly handed him his wallet and cell phone (check-check). He froze for a second when he thought he heard something at the door. Sam cleared his throat, and Dean looked back to be handed his pistol, boot knife (check-check), and two flasks (check-check). He felt his left hand start to tremble and irritably shook it out, just as his stomach clenched up. He looked at the dresser then held out his now mostly steady left hand, "Do you have my phone?" Sam looked at him funny. "What?"

"Dean, I already gave it to you." Huffing in annoyance, Dean reached in his pocket, and to his surprise pulled out his cell. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. I thought I heard something at the door or something, I just got distracted and forgot." He checked his pockets again. "Car keys?"

"Bro, you are so not driving today." When Dean took a breath to argue, Sam said "No, no, and no. Not going to listen. Nothing you say will get you behind the wheel today." Sam very deliberately pointed at his own chest, said "Check", and led Dean outside.

Dean meant to ask Sam where they were going when a gut feeling suddenly had him on Red Alert – something was wrong, he didn't know what it was, something he was forgetting, something he had to do, and he couldn't remember. He felt himself start to sweat again, and deliberately worked on slowing his breathing. What was the Stones song again – oh, yeah, he started tapping out the rhythm on his left thigh, and recited the lyrics.

OOOOO

Sam was driving them toward the Home Depot on Broadway, the nighttime fun capital of Wichita, for a daytime reconnoiter. He checked on Dean a couple of times, and each time Dean was staring out the windshield, tapping a monotonous tattoo on his left thigh, his lips moving constantly. Sam turned off the radio and could just barely hear Dean saying, "… I see people turn their heads and quickly look away, like a new born baby it just happens every day, I look inside myself and see my heart is black…" It took him a few minutes to place it but finally remembered it was something by the Rolling Stones, or maybe the Beatles, at least one of those classic bands Dean liked that weren't mullet.

He leaned over, tapping Dean gently on his arm and said "Hey Dean, is that the Stones? Do you want me to change the station…" but that was as far as he got before Dean almost levitated straight up off the seat and jerked away from Sam's hand so violently that he impacted his right shoulder hard into the car window and door. He gasped in pain, clutching his shoulder as he swung his head sharply to the left, and practically yelled at Sam, "What the hell?"

Sam winced in sympathy as Dean clearly couldn't tell if he should hold his shoulder or his head. "Did you have to shout, Sam?" Dean leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. "I was just minding my own business and you freaking hit me!"

"Dean, I tapped your arm and said your name."

"Just give me a warning next time".

"Are you OK?" Sam could see pain lines forming around Dean's mouth and eyes and could clearly see Dean struggling with an answer. He was practically vibrating with tension. He changed tactics and instead asked, "How much pain are you in?"

Dean cracked an eye and looked around gingerly. "When did we stop?"

"Right when you tried to jump out of the car. Dean, how much pain are you really in?"

Dean resignedly said, "Nothing I can't handle".

Sam handed him a single Vicodin. "I know you can handle it Dean, but other than a ride and dinner, we don't have anything to do today. One won't knock you out, it'll just take the edge off." When Dean took the pill, after Sam scrounged a bottle of water from the back seat, he had to turn so Dean wouldn't see him how worried he was. He didn't want to keep doping him, but tension was rolling off him in waves. Dean began tapping his leg again to another song, and this time Sam knew it was the Stones because every time they drove past a Ruby Tuesday restaurant, Dean would loudly claim that they had ripped off the name from the song title. Sam figured that was just Dean on a rant until he checked and it seemed pretty clear that Dean was right. He'd even stopped reminding Dean that he'd heard it all before since he seemed so happy complaining about stoned boomers making business decisions while chewing peyote.

Sam left the radio off, and watched as Dean gradually relaxed with his eyes closed, but continued to talk and talk, reciting lyric after lyric, working his way through Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday, Satisfaction, Let it Bleed, and Sympathy for the Devil, while Sam scouted out the Home Depot's parking lot and found exactly what he was expecting to see. When he stopped at a small restaurant on the route back to the motel, he called Dean's name softly until he moved a bit, and stopped reciting. "Yeah, Sam?"

"Let's go in and get dinner."

"Dude, I really don't want to move. Come on, let me stay here. Get me a cheeseburger and some pie."

"You'll be here when I get back, right? No strolls around the neighborhood?" Sam glanced around, "because this is not the place for a slightly loopy guy to be walking around alone".

"I'm not planning on going anywhere".

Sam hesitated, but finally stepped out, locked all the doors, and entered the restaurant to place their order to go. He got two pieces of pie when he spotted the lemon meringue. He paced by the windows, eyes locking on the car every few seconds, until a waitress finally convinced him that the food wouldn't cook any faster if he paced, and urged him to take a seat at the counter as he was beginning to unnerve their other customers. Sighing, he took a seat that allowed him an unobstructed view of the car, and accepted a cup of coffee. He checked on Dean every few seconds, until a burst of noise and the sound of breaking dishes pulled his attention away from the window to a group of teenagers sitting toward the back of the restaurant. Sam watched as a couple of guys came out of the back to address the situation. He relaxed slightly, but kept a wary eye out as the group was being escorted to the sidewalk. He thought to check on Dean again, and with a rising sense of alarm, saw the open passenger door. He threw some bills on the counter, apologized, and ran to the car, slamming the door closed in frustration.

No Dean in the car, no Dean in the immediate vicinity, and after calling, no Dean answering his cell phone. It could only have been three or four minutes tops between Dean in the car and Dean not in the car. Not quite a Titanic and the Iceberg level disaster, but this definitely was building to the train racing toward the washed out bridge level snafu. Pushing images from that morning out of his head, he circled the diner quickly, knowing Dean hadn't had time to get very far.

He ranged out to circle the block, calling Dean's cell phone every few minutes. It wasn't the cell phone that found Dean, instead after about five minutes, it was the noise of cat calls and yelling down a side street that led Sam to him. Sam approached carefully, just as he and Dean had been taught (people are crazy) and saw Dean standing, illuminated from above by a street light, right by another god forsaken pay phone. He was turned into the phone, the receiver at his ear. That wasn't good, but what was worse was that Sam was seeing Dean over the heads of the same group of half a dozen punks who'd just been escorted from the diner.

They had arranged themselves in a rough circle around Dean, taking turns stepping in, tugging at Dean's shirt, pulling at the sling. One of them tried to get a hand into Dean's back pocket for his wallet, and Sam caught his breath remembering he had insanely given a gun to Dean before they left. What was way worse was that Dean wasn't reacting to the guys at all. When one of them stepped forward with a knife, Sam raced forward, research complete.

Jess told him one time that he looked scary when he got angry. It had had a profound effect on him and he'd tried hard ever since to watch his expression. He knew his height was intimidating and he rarely wanted to scare people. All of that introspection and care, at that very moment, was just in the way. He wasn't angry - he was enraged - and he damn well wanted to look terrifying. He broke explosively through the circle, tossing two of jokers flying and turned to a stand with his back to Dean. He straightened to his full height and looked down, almost dispassionately, at a man a full six inches shorter than himself. He slowly reached behind him, holding the other's gaze with cold, hard eyes. He brought his Taurus up and clicked off the safety. It sounded loud in the sudden silence.

He was amazed at how icy calm he felt. He said, smooth, low, and infinitely dangerous: "I'm going to suggest … once … that you get the hell out of here."