As Dean drove, just as he predicted that they would, his thoughts eventually shifted to John. But not John's death, necessarily. Mainly, to what exactly would have happened if John had found out about the new relationship that his sons had adapted into. Would he have had them shipped off somewhere? Gone insane, thought it was his fault somehow? Dean shuddered. Fault. That didn't seem like a word that really fit into this scenario. Fault meant something bad. Something wrong. Something that could never apply to Sam. Speaking of whom...

Dean glanced over at his brother, all thoughts of his father immediately shut down by Sam's appearance. Something was so not okay. Sure, Sam had gotten a migraine. Not uncommon for him at all. Very common, in fact, when he was stressed. And... father's death? That's a pretty stressful event. So Dean was sure he'd just sleep it off, as usual, and it would all be fine. Well, yeah, he was sleeping, but if anything he was looking continuously worse. Sam's face was paler than Dean had seen it in quite some time, and he was pouring sweat. Which would make sense considering the heat in South Dakota in the middle of summer, except... they couldn't feel any of it. The air in the Impala was up full-blast. Dean actually had chills. Sam absolutely should not be sweating.

Letting go of the wheel with his right hand, Dean reached over and pressed the inside of his wrist against Sam's forehead, which, to his surprise was just as cold as the air in the car, if not colder. He'd expected that the sweating indicated a fever, but apparently not. And then he remembered something. Something he'd read a long, long time ago. Something about how temp drops were the same kind of not okay as Sam looked. This was worse than a fever. His body wasn't even fighting.

Dean muttered, "Shit," under his breath and placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, gently shaking him. "Sammy. Hey. Wake up, kiddo."

Nothing.

"Sam. Come on, man, wake up."

Not so much as the flutter of an eyelid.

"Sam!" Dean slid his hand to the side, over Sam's chest, and felt for a heartbeat, which, to his overwhelming relief, he found with no trouble.

But Sam still didn't move.

Dean lifted his hand back to the wheel, floored the gas, and prayed like hell to everything he could think of that Sam would be okay.

…...

By the time Dean pulled the Impala into Bobby's driveway, Sam had started to come around. Well, sort of. He wasn't exactly responsive, but he was somewhat conscious, and Dean wasn't arguing with that. "Sammy?"

"...Hm?"

"What's wrong, baby boy?" Dean asked, turning off the car, but not moving to exit it. "You hurtin'?"

A small, weak nod.

"Can you tell me where?"

Sam took a few slow breaths before whispering, "Everywhere."

"Okay," Dean said, taking Sam's hand and gently squeezing. "Okay, you're gonna be fine, alright? Let's get you inside."

Sam didn't have time to answer before passing out again.

Dean pushed open his door and made his way almost frantically to the passenger side of the car, opening Sam's door and extracting him as carefully as he possibly could. "I gotcha," he murmured, pressing his lips to Sam's chestnut brown hair and starting up Bobby's porch steps.

Bobby appeared in the doorway just then, red-rimmed eyes immediately going wide upon the sight of Sam. "Holy hell, boy," he began, pushing open the screen door in front of him and stepping outside to help Dean carry Sam into the house. "What happened to him?"

Once they made it to the living room and placed Sam carefully on the couch, Dean's temporary emotional stronghold broke. "I don't know," he told Bobby, shaking his head and fighting not to burst into tears for the millionth time that day. "He was fine one minute, and then we got in the car and he said he had a headache and that he needed to go to sleep, and then... then this. I don't know what to do. He woke up once, right after we pulled in, and all he said was that everything hurt."

Bobby peered at Sam over the back of the couch, the look on his face slightly contemplative and extremely worried. "We're just gonna have to keep an eye on him for now. Let him rest a while, see how he feels in a couple hours or so, and if worst comes to worst, there's a hospital a couple miles down the road."

Dean nodded absently and tried to stay focused on what Bobby was saying, on Sam, but the fact of the matter was, right then, nothing was changing. Sam was still asleep. It didn't look like he was waking up anytime soon, and until he did, there would be no way of figuring out what was wrong. So, there was really no point in trying. Which was why his train of thought decided that it would be okay to divert itself and consider the fact that his father's body was somewhere in the general vicinity instead. "Where is he?" Dean asked. He hadn't meant to speak aloud. Really, he'd just been thinking the words, and they'd spilled from his mouth without permission.

Bobby sighed, a haunted look slowly seeping into his features. They hadn't been on the subject, but, of course, he was aware of exactly to whom Dean was referring. "He's... he's in the garage, son, but there's really not all that much left."

Dean waited. Upon hearing those words, he expected himself to break again. But it didn't happen. He felt something, sure; a sting in his chest. But it was nothing compared to what he assumed it would be. Maybe I'm finally starting to go numb, he thought to himself. Thank god. It was his usual instinct. Go numb, block out emotional pain receptors. He'd been afraid when it hadn't happened immediately in this case, but he'd known right from the beginning that it would eventually. He just hadn't been sure when. "Can I see?" he asked Bobby somewhat tentatively. He was afraid, of course. But he needed to. For closure. He needed to see his father one last time, even if it didn't really look like his father anymore.

Bobby placed a hand on his shoulder. "Have you had anything to eat today?"

Dean thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No."

"Well, let's get some food in you for now. You can go see him tonight if you're still up to it," Bobby compromised.

Dean gave Bobby a sharp nod and couldn't help thinking that if Bobby had been the one who'd just died, John wouldn't have so much as blinked at the thought that Dean hadn't eaten all day. Of course, in terms of genetics, John was undeniably Dean's father. But, for all intents and purposes, which of the two men who'd had at least a 50/50 hand in raising him was really his dad?