Good morning! Loved all of your notes for the last chapter. Thank you so much! It is kind of hard to believe it's been 5 (now 6) years since they moved into the Bunker. Time does fly! Also, for those of you wondering how Sam had been injured...it can be a choose your own adventure kind of thing lol. ;) I purposefully didn't make up a backstory, so feel free to create your own. :)

I try to vary the order of these stories by season and genre but somehow wound up beating up on Sam twice in a row. oops. I'll try to do better. ;)

This one is set after "My Bloody Valentine." I never thought I'd write a tag to this episode because I've read SO many incredible stories based off of MBV. Obviously my plans changed because here's my tag! :) Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Thirteen: Choices

Setting: Season Five, immediately following "My Bloody Valentine"

"Any better today?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Need anything?" Dean asked just to fill the silence. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway and - as he'd been ever since Sam had begun the slow, painful road to recovery - completely at a loss.

Sam shook his head. He was staring at the wall and hadn't met Dean's gaze yet, something that was becoming too commonplace.

The torture of withdrawal was over but the torture of recovery was tripping them both up.

It had been six days since the nightmare had begun.

For the first two days, Sam had been out of his head in the panic room doing just that: panic. He'd been unreachable. Delirious, hallucinating, terrified and confused. Dean had started drinking and roaming the junkyard trying to distance himself from his brother's screams and pain.

He'd only lasted five hours before he'd torn open the panic room door and done the exact opposite of what he'd done the last time Sam had gone through withdrawal; he supported.

The entire experience was a blur in his mind. It had hurt him last time, but he'd been so angry he'd allowed that to carry him through so he didn't have to deal with what was happening on an emotional level. This time it hurt so much worse. The experience had come close to killing them both.

There'd been precious little he could do for his brother at first; Sam had been so far gone so fast that he hadn't even known Dean was in the room with him. Gradually, though, he found his way back and Dean could do a little good. Giving him water. Cleaning him up when he vomited it all back up again. Doing what he could to bring the raging fever down, to talk him through the terror and confusion. To hold onto him when he was close to teetering over the edge and begging to be left to die.

To pick him up and pull him out of the basement the very instant the worst was over.

Since then, it had been four days of trying to put the pieces back together.

Sam had been sick as a dog the first day out of the panic room. Confused and disoriented, he'd been unable to make any sense out of what had happened to him or where he was. He'd recognized Dean, though, and shamelessly clung to him and begged him not to leave.

The second day, he'd been a little more coherent. In one hushed conversation, Sam had admitted he'd pulled enough muscles that every movement hurt. Bobby'd rustled up some muscle relaxants; for all the good they did. Dean knew things were serious when Sam took every pill they offered him.

Narcotic pain relievers. The muscle relaxants. Even a sleeping pill last night because he'd been so uncomfortable sleep had been next to impossible. Dean gritted his teeth just thinking about it. Whiskey was their typical form of pharmaceutical healing. They both usually avoided taking any pills; whether from sheer stubbornness or the desire not to be compromised in case of danger.

This time, Sam had no such hesitation.

Yesterday, he'd still been too weak and in too much pain to move without help, but he'd remembered what had happened. That's when the shame had set in.

Today was the second day of him being too embarrassed to even look at Dean.

Sighing, Dean ran his hand through his hair. He should go take a shower. Just leave Sam alone for a little longer. It was going to take time, that's all there was to it.

He'd tried to be encouraging. Tried to convince his brother that he had nothing to feel bad about. Not that it helped. Nothing helped.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said softly, "I'll bring you back some breakfast, ok?"

No response. Sam wasn't talking and he wasn't eating and he wasn't doing much else, either.

Dean turned around and headed for the bathroom.

He managed to zone out while he was in the shower. Turning his mind off hadn't been easy the past week. By now, though, obviously his brain had reached its limit. It was kind of blissful, actually, to think about nothing and pretend, if only for a moment, that nothing terrible had happened.

When he got out of the shower, he was refreshed and a little more relaxed. He hadn't slept more than a couple hours at a time the past few days. Didn't expect to get more sleep than that for the foreseeable future.

Sighing, he finished getting dressed and ran his hands through his wet hair.

So much for feeling more relaxed.

His stomach growled, reminding him that lack of sleep wasn't his only problem. Hoping Bobby still had some eggs, he walked back to the bedroom. He peered into the room and found his brother sound asleep. Not pretending. Honestly sound asleep.

Dean left him alone and headed downstairs.

The kitchen was deserted and the coffee pot empty. Prioritizing, he started with coffee then went looking for food options. Thankfully, Bobby had eggs and bacon. Twenty minutes later, he'd finished his breakfast, was on his second cup of coffee and all but falling asleep where he sat.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he jumped at the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning around, he was shocked to see his brother standing in the doorway.

"Sam," he said, heart in his throat. He pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey."

Sam's voice was wrecked, he was clinging to the door frame, and Dean had no idea how he'd made it all the way downstairs on his own. The furthest from bed he'd been in the past couple of days was across the hall to the bathroom. With help.

"Come sit down." Dean closed the space between them.

Sam didn't resist when Dean grabbed his elbow. Once he was deposited in a chair, Dean felt a little better. Sam glanced up at him with bleary, unfocused eyes. The first time he'd initiated eye contact in two days. Progress.

"You hungry?" Dean asked when Sam didn't say anything.

"No."

Dean sighed. Reminding himself to be patient, he sat down across from his brother and took a sip of coffee. Sam watched him for a minute, then his gaze drifted around the kitchen. Dean gave him a full minute before he spoke up again.

"Last I saw, you were sleeping."

Sam glanced at him and shrugged.

Well, this is a fun conversation.

Dean took another sip of coffee, then almost choked on it when Sam started pushing himself to his feet. Thumping the cup onto the table, Dean asked, "Hey, where're you going?"

Sam sat back down. He looked a little surprised; as if maybe he hadn't meant to sit down again. Instead of answering the question, though, he just closed his eyes.

"What do you need, Sam?" Dean prompted gently.

"Water." Sam looked toward the sink.

"I'll get it."

"I can do it."

"You sound like you're three." Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam's glare was as weak as he was, but Dean wanted to sing for joy because it was a good sign. Annoyance was so much better than defeat and shame. Dean got up and filled a glass with water, then set it in front of his brother. Picking up his coffee cup, Dean filled it again, then sat down. He waited until Sam had taken a few sips of water before he spoke up.

"How're you doing?"

"I…" Sam's voice trailed off.

He sat there so long Dean began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. Once again working on his patience, Dean kept his mouth shut and waited. It took almost a full minute before Sam finished his statement.

"...don't know." He shook his head, trying for a smile but it turned out to be more of a grimace.

Dean tried for a smile too and doubted he'd pulled it off any more than Sam had, but hey, it was the thought that counted. He asked, "Headache?"

"Yeah."

"Sick to your stomach?"

"Yeah."

"Everything still hurts?"

Sam nodded. He took another sip of water; it looked like it hurt to even do that.

"You want some meds?" Dean glanced at his watch. "Last time you took anything was around two this morning."

He waited until Sam nodded again, then got up and went through the collection of pill bottles on the counter.

Selecting the right ones, he said, "You need to try to eat something."

Sam didn't say anything.

"I can scramble some more eggs," Dean said, bringing the pills to the table. "Probably can throw together pancakes. Or I can just do toast."

"Not toast," Sam mumbled, holding his hand out for the pills.

"Ok." Dean leaned a hip against the table, arms crossed as he watched his brother painfully take the pills. "You gotta eat something, you look like you're gonna pass out. How about peanut butter on plain bread?"

Sam took a deep breath, pondering the question as if he'd just been asked to quote The Iliad by heart. Backwards. Even simple things were difficult right now.

Finally, he nodded and said, "I'll try."

Halle-lu-jah!

Smiling to himself, Dean turned away to spread some peanut butter on a piece of bread. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He put the plate in front of his brother, then sat back down.

It took a minute before Sam gathered enough strength to even pick up the slice of bread. Dean couldn't think of anything to say and tried not to stare. He grabbed the newspaper and started flipping through it even though he'd already read it front and back three times. He'd read the entire thing again before Sam pushed the plate away.

Dean glanced up, heart sinking when he saw that Sam had only eaten half the piece of bread. It was something, he reminded himself. It was something. Sam was slumped back in the chair and looked half asleep.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"How you doin'?"

It took a minute for Sam to respond. "I'm tired."

"Go back to bed," Dean said. Easy problem to solve.

"I think I'm too tired to get back upstairs." He wasn't trying to be funny.

Dean nodded. "How about the couch?"

Sam sighed. "I should do something."

"Something?"

"I've been sidelining us-"

"Give yourself a break, man. You're basically getting over the worst flu ever."

"It wasn't the flu," Sam said softly, staring at the table.

"You're right. It wasn't the flu." Dean paused, then added, "It also wasn't your fault."

Sam didn't look at him or say anything.

Dean tightened his grip on his coffee cup, trying to think of something helpful to say. He was still thinking when Sam wearily struggled to his feet. Starting to rise, Dean stilled when Sam held up a hand and shook his head. He turned and walked away without a word.

Cursing under his breath, Dean watched him go.

He sat there helplessly until Sam disappeared. Then he went to the sink and turned on the water. While the sink filled, he grabbed the dishes from the table. He tipped the leftover bread into the garbage then dropped the plate into the water. There were dishes stacked up on both sides of the sink which was surprising since he barely remembered eating anything over the past week.

Pouring a generous amount of soap into the sink, he got to work.

The mundane task did wonders for his overwhelmed mind. He dried the last dish and stared at the spotless kitchen. The worry was still there, but it was muted; back to a manageable level. His blood pressure must have dropped several points because his head wasn't pounding anymore. Hands pressed against the counter, he lowered his head for a moment and just breathed.

When he straightened, the weight was a little lighter on his back and he was calm.

A glance at his watch revealed an hour had passed. An hour. He snorted, mopping up the last drips on the counter. He'd just stood there washing dishes for an hour.

"Next you'll be taking up knitting," he muttered to himself, throwing the dishrag aside and turning around.

An hour had passed and it was time to check on his brother. Hoping Sam had managed some sleep, he quietly walked into the living room.

And found it empty.

"What the hell?"

Glancing around, he looked back at the couch. Still empty. Wonderful. This whole time he'd been zoning out and washing dishes, his brother hadn't been sleeping peacefully on the couch. Which led inevitably to the most important question.

If he hadn't been sleeping on the couch, where was he?

Pulse quickening, Dean spun in a circle. The door was closed. Locked. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. For one brief moment, he wondered if he should check the panic room. Instead, he headed upstairs. The rising tide of panic drifted peacefully back out to sea when he reached the landing.

Sam was sitting in the hallway, just outside the bathroom, his back to the wall. He glanced over while Dean was struggling to form a sentence.

"I know it's not my fault," Sam said so quietly Dean almost missed it.

"What?" Dean shook his head, crossing the space between them and trying to decide if he needed to worry or not.

"What happened. I know, technically, it wasn't my fault."

Dean held his breath.

Sam looked away, leaning his head back against the wall. His hair was wet and dripping down his neck. He'd changed into a fresh shirt and jeans and was even wearing shoes which made Dean wonder if he'd been planning to go somewhere and hadn't made it further than the hall. He looked utterly wiped out.

Crouching down next to him, Dean frowned and said, "Sam, it wasn't your fault. It was Famine and-"

"But it's in me and I can't change that," Sam interrupted, his gaze and his voice far away. "I can't fix it. I never had a choice, Dean. It was always going to be this way."

And suddenly, it was about so much more than Famine and a bunch of demons forcing their blood on his brother. It was about the much larger issue and Sam had obviously stewed over everything until he'd reached his final conclusion. A conclusion that terrified Dean because it sounded an awful lot like he was giving up.

It was always going to be this way.

After spending months picking themselves up and putting each other back together and learning to trust each other again, the bottom had fallen out of their world. Just when things had been going better and Dean had dared hope they were going to be ok, everything had gone south as usual. Now he was back to picking up pieces and trying to pretend he had enough hope for the both of them.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and said, "No. You do have choices and you always have. You've never let anyone push you around."

Sam looked at him, but his eyes were bleak. Resigned. Unconvinced.

"They knocked you down, sure," Dean continued, "but you're not giving up now."

"Dean…"

"This was done to you." Dean grabbed his shoulder and squeezed until it must have hurt. Sam tried to pull away, but he didn't let him. "This wasn't your choice and it has nothing to do with any damn destiny or any weakness on your part. Do you hear me? They did this to you."

Dean let up a little on the pressure, but didn't stop staring at his brother, trying with everything he had to convince him. Sam didn't answer, just took a shaky breath, then closed his eyes, tears running down his cheeks. Heart splintering, Dean sat down on the hardwood floor and wrapped his arms around his brother.

Sam didn't resist; just collapsed against him, head heavy against Dean's collarbone, arms limp at his sides. Wet hair tickling his chin, Dean rested his hand on the back of Sam's neck. He was running a fever again; either from the stress his body had been through or because he was coming down with something. Either way he was miserable.

Thunder rumbled in the near distance and rain began tapping on the roof. Dean stared into the bedroom across from them, watching the rain falling beyond the window. His collar was damp, but Sam was quiet, lax against his side. Breathing. Alive. Dean tightened his grip as if he could hold them both together somehow.

"Sammy," he whispered, not able to think of anything else to say.

The rain pounded louder on the roof and for a moment, the pressure of everything they had to face in the coming days nearly crushed him. They were in so much trouble. There was so much that needed to be done and he didn't know how to do any of it. The despair began to drown him as he sat there.

And then Sam shifted slightly. His fingers twisted in Dean's shirt. He didn't say anything and he didn't move and it was enough. Enough to tell Dean he wasn't alone in this. He pressed his hand to the back of Sam's head in silent acknowledgement and Sam sighed heavily, the last bit of tension leaving his body.

Maybe the world was about to end.

Maybe they would go down with it.

For now, though, everything could take a number. They needed a minute.

The apocalypse and the entire bloody world owed them this much.

So Dean closed his eyes and held on for dear life.

Thanks for reading!