PART THIRTEEN

Dean loses track of the days. The world outside may have disappeared, exploded, turned orange, he wouldn't know because nothing much exists beyond the motel door or even, really, the bed.

He tries to recall another time when Sam was really sick and can't drudge up a memory. Maybe it's because Dad downplayed it, maybe because it always paled in comparison to the chronic and terminal qualities of hisown illness. Maybe Sammy kept his distance, maybe he thought his childhood germs were dangerous.

Doesn't matter now. Even if Dean remembered it wouldn't soften the blow. He hadn't realize how it made him feel, that Sam was healthy, until Sam wasn't.

He won't say "safe" is how it made him feel. Safe wasn't the word. But it was something he had to cling to when everything else was going to shit. He could always tell himself: at least Sam's okay.

Well now Sam's not okay. Now he's a fucking furnace, sweat beads on his face faster than Dean can wipe it away. He talks a nonsensical delirium, he vomits, he expels mucus and drools blood, he cries because he doesn't understand what's happening.

Dean does everything Sam ever did for him and he does what he never allowed Sam to do. He gets up on the bed and wraps his arms around his brother and tells him over and over and over that everything is going to be alright, that he'll be well again soon.

He doesn't feel ill himself until Sam is unconscious. Now that Derek is gone, Dean's lungs are more open than they have been in years. But at night, or whenever Sam falls silent, the pain in his stomach borders on intolerable. He curls up, presses his forehead to his brother's shoulder and tries not to betray the pain with noise. He tries to breathe through it and tries to feel thankful that his lungs allow him to do at least that.

He thinks about that party, about partying himself sick so many years ago. He thinks about what he made Sam do for him that night.

He thinks about what he always makes Sam do for him. And that makes his gut hurt worse.

***

Everything burns.

He can breathe when his head rests on Dean's shoulder. He gets upset when his head isn't resting on Dean's shoulder. He can hear his own moaning when Dean isn't there and he can't stop himself.

Dean's hands pound his back. At first he tries to fight, he doesn't want to be comforted like this. Then he begins to cough. He coughs and great gobs of warm goo come up and out of his chest.

"Good," he hears Dean say from somewhere. "Good."

And this is what it's like for a long while, his head on Dean' shoulder and heat and coughing and Dean's hands, pounding, dabbing, brushing his hair from his eyes. He can't even begin to guess how long because he and time and everything have gone away. He doesn't know where he goes, just that he'll wake to Dean begging him to stop and he'll realize he's flailing, he'll wake to the sounds of his own groans and realize Dean is begging him to shush. Air knocks, trips, finagles its way up around over the barriers in his lungs. Waking up is like drowning, every single time.

Then time returns and he knows where he is, and what he is, and how he is, and maybe that makes everything worse. Now he can make sense of the heaviness in his chest, the needling pain in his lungs. He can think about what it means to not be able to breathe, what it means to feel exhausted. Before this he only a rudimentary understanding of either.

Dean has him propped up on pillows. Dean's cannula is around his face. His lashes are stuck together with guck. Even the saliva in his mouth is thick and obstructive.

"Wrong?" he wheezes.

"You have CF," Dean says, running his hand over Sam's forehead, and surely his brother must be joking but there isn't an ounce of humor in his voice. "You're getting better, though, Sammy. You just gotta keep breathing. Keep coughing."

"Trying," is all Sam can manage. He moves his head to one side, then the other.

It's just plain fucking shocking, how shitty he feels.

"Dying?" Sam croaks.

"No." Dean's rough hand squeezes his wrist. "You're fine. Just sick."

"S'like... some.. someone..."

"Like someone is sitting on your chest," Dean finishes. "Probably a fucking elephant. I know, Sam. Now quiet."

Then something almost painfully cold presses at his lower lip. He parts his teeth and the ice cube rushes over his slimy tongue and he sputters, just a little.

"Good," Dean says. "I'm gonna give you some medicine and then we're gonna cough again."

Sam fades in and out. After a while Dean removes the cannula and covers his face with a mask and foul medicine rushes his mouth, throat, lungs. He coughs, if only to expel the taste.

"Good, Sam." Hands pound his back. "Now huff. Just like I do."

"Tired," Sam moans. He doesn't mean to sound so pitiful. But it's true. He doesn't want to cough. He just wants to breathe.

"Tired," he repeats.

"I know, Sam. But you're doing so much better now and we gotta get everything up and out, okay? Huff."

Sam huffs, feels the crap shifting in his lungs, moving upward until it's caught in his throat.

The first time he spits it's a sense of relief. The third time all he can think about is how much it hurts. The sixth time he accidentally pukes. The tenth time he's crying again and begs to stop. But Dean's face has gone hard and blank and he says "keep coughing."

OOOO

After a while he's conscious more often than he isn't. He can't open his eyes but is always aware of Dean fluttering around him, taking his temperature, swiping ice chips across his lips.

Then seemingly out of nowhere he wakes up fully alert, with a rumbling in his stomach and a mouthful of cottony dryness.

"Fuck," is all he can think to say.

He feels Dean stir beside him, then a thermometer is shoved in his mouth. After a moment it beeps and slides back out and he hears Dean mutter "thank god."

"Sammy," he says, "Sam. Open your eyes. Look at me. Fever's gone."

Sam tries; his eyelashes are stuck together. Dean hops off the bed. He hears running water, then a warm cloth against his face.

"There," Dean says. "Open."

He does as he's told, blinking against the harsh morning light.

"How do you feel?"

Sam sighs. "Like shit."

"You sound good. Breathing good."

"Happened?"

"You almost fucking died, that's what happened."

The statement is so fucking loaded it makes Sam want to go back to where nothing makes sense. He closes his eyes, opens them again. "Is this. This what it's like?"

Dean smiles and pats Sam's knee, like he didn't hear. "You sore?"

"Dean."

"You can probably have something for pain now. Then we'll get you back on the neb, just to be safe."

"Is it?" Sam persists. "Is this what it's like for you? Tell me."

Dean shrinks a little, as if harassed. "No."

"Tell me"-- he pauses for a breath -- "the truth."

"This was bad, Sam."

"Meaning?"

Dean shrugs. "When I'm real sick, maybe. But not all the time, okay? Not what it's like all the time."

"Fucking terrible."

"Yeah it's not fun," Dean says dryly, "go back to sleep."

OOOO

He awakens to low unfamiliar humming, and turns his head to Dean sitting at the window, silhouetted by sunlight bleeding in through the blinds. His brother is using the vest and the vibrations make his hands shake as he takes his neb out of his mouth, raises the cup to cough and spit.

Seeing Dean that way reminds him of when they were younger, dredges up fear and anxiety and even an inexplicable stab of jealousy. He tells himself it's just the illness, the reason he wants to get up and tear the vest away from his brother and stuff it into a dumpster somewhere.

He sits up. Dean sees that he's awake and sets down his cup, turns off the vest. The thing is loud and the silence rushes the room like emptiness. "How you feeling?"

Sam feels like something beat him unconscious, took him by the ankles and swung him from wall to wall to wall to floor to ceiling. But compared to a day or two or three or eight or however long it's been, he feels like he could run a marathon.

"I need a shower," he says. "How are you?"

Dean fiddles with the Velcro of the vest. "Sit on the lip of the tub. Don't try to stand up."

Sam switches the concentrator off, removes the tube from his nose, and eases his legs over the side of the bed. He still aches everywhere. "Is something...?"

"Leave the door cracked so I can hear if you fall on your ass." Dean keeps his eyes on his hands. There's dried blood on the floor between his feet.

It all comes back to Sam, what happened, Derek entering his body, his veins freezing over before everything went black.

"Is he gone?"

"He's gone. Now in the damn shower. I can fucking smell you from here."

Sam wants details but Dean's right. He can smell himself, he's ominously sticky, he's pretty sure Dean wasn't able to get him to the bathroom at least once, and all of it combined makes his stomach lurch.

He's able to stand in the shower for about two minutes before his legs turn to mush and he has to sit down. The sensation gives him a blurred, timeless flash of memory-- Dean just home and still weak from some long, long hospital stay, sitting on the lip of the tub of whatever motel, dragging a washcloth lethargically over his skinny arms.

"What don't you just take a fuckin' bath?" Sam remembers saying.

"Baths are for pussies," Dean answered. "Get the fuck outta here."

"Dad told me to stay and make sure you're alright."

Dean had punched the water off then, even with his arms still painted in soap suds. He had wrapped a towel around himself and just sat there silently fuming, every knot of his spine pushing out of his back, until Sam had left him alone.

Sam hadn't understood it then but he sure as fuck understands it now. He finishes washing himself like it's a privilege, until he's panting, until he breaks a sweat. Getting dressed makes him dizzy, just lifting his arms feels like bench-pressing, and when he's done he sits on the toilet seat with his face in his hands and trembles with fatigue and frustration.

He comes out of the bathroom and pauses in the doorway to look Dean. He's taken Sam's spot on the bed, leaning back against the pillows. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed, one hand idly itching around the button of his G-tube.

Sam drops the wet towel he's still holding to the floor. He's been so wrapped up in his own misery-- he'd forgotten his brother's sick, too.

"You okay?" he says, sitting on the bed near Dean's knees.

"Fine."

"How many-- how many days has it been?"

"Dunno. Five. Six, maybe. I had to give the front desk your credit card."

"How'd..." Sam pauses to lick his lips, not sure if he wants to ask the question. "How'd you get rid of him?"

"Gave him what he really wanted," Dean replies. He's silent for a moment, then snorts a sad laugh. "Poor kid didn't even know what he wanted."

"What was it?"

"PT. He just... " Dean opens his eyes. Tears spill over his lashes. "He just wanted someone to look out for him."

"Hey," Sam says. "What's...?"

Dean shakes his head. "Just tired."

"Come on," Sam says. "I lived, okay? I'm alive and he's at rest and everything's gonna be fine."

His vision bursts with white light and he nearly falls off the bed; it takes him a moment to realize Dean has backhanded him.

"How the fuck could you do that?" Dean says, but he doesn't sound angry, his voice is quavering with tears. "I thought you were gonna die. I fucking held you and rocked you cause I thought you were gonna die."

"It was the only way," Sam says. "He would have killed you."

"So fucking what?" Dean's voice starts out as a shout, trails off into a low almost-whisper, like he's too damn tired to be angry. "What the fuck has changed? I'm always dying anyway, aren't I?"

Sam scrubs hard at his face. "Dean--"

"I'm out of all sorts of meds," his brother interrupts, voice rising almost hysterically. "You have any idea how hard it is to find some of this shit? I broke into houses for all that shit. But it was the only way I could get you to cough, at first. Shit in your lungs was so thick I could of walked it like a fucking tightrope. You almost died."

"Dean--"

"What the fuck did you expect me to do?" Dean sits up. "What the fuck did you expect me to do if you died, Sam? You think Dad's really gonna let me find him? You think he's really gonna let me hunt with him? What the fuck were you thinking?"

Sam shrugs. "You're my brother."

"All that talk about me being selfish, trying to act like some fucking hero. And then you go and invite an angry ghost inside your body. For what? Tell me."

"What should I have done? Let the bastard kill you?"

"Yes," Dean shouts. "Yes, Sam. You should've said goodbye, you should've burned my fucking body and you should have gone back to your girlfriend and live your full goddamn happy fucking life."

"You don't mean that."

"The fuck I don't!"

"You have every right to be pissed, Dean," Sam says, as calmly as he can, which isn't hard because he feels ready to pass out again. "I was really sick and you were afraid I might die. Does that sound familiar?"

"It's not the same."

"How is it not the same?"

Dean shakes his head and scrubs at his face. "What do I have now, Sam? I have my car and an ancient shotgun and my fucking CF. But I'm still alive, right? So now you can go back to your girlfriend and you can do it without feeling guilty. So congratulations. Get your fuckin' shit together and I'll take you home."

"That's not what this--"

"Then what's it about? Tell me. According to you my two choices are acting suicidal or being an invalid, remember? It'll be a goddamn miracle if I make it to the other side of thirty, Sam, and you never let me forget it. So what about me is worth risking your life for? Tell me."

"I don't care how long." Sam says, "You know I think your life is worth more than that. You know that. I just want you to think about how I've been the last few days. Think about if I was like that all the time. How the hell would you feel?"

"I'm not like that all the time," Dean finds his screaming voice again. "Can't you fucking understand that? I get sick. And I'm fucking sorry you have to-- I didn't know how hard--"

Dean stops, pinches the bridge of his nose, and Sam gets ready for another outburst of rage, or maybe more tears.

"I understand now, okay?" Dean continues. "These past few days, takin' care of you. I was so fucking... I get it. It's fucking terrifying. And I owe you a big fucking thank you. But Sam?"

He looks at Sam, and waits.

"What?" Sam says after a moment.

Dean smiles, and then out of nowhere, he's laughing. "I have CF. It doesn't have me."

Sam can't stop it-- he smiles so wide his face hurts. "Dude. That did not just come out of your mouth."

For a blessed few seconds the tension in the room lifts, their shoulders are shaking with laughter.

Then it's over. The smile falls from Dean's face. He wrings at his hands, pushing white trails into his already pale skin.

"What you said the other day? You're right," he says. "I came to here wantin' you to do it for me. I was gonna rest up and I was gonna use the last of what I had to go off and get myself killed. That was the plan. You're right. But I'll take care of myself, best I can, okay? I can do both. I can take care of myself and I can find the thing that killed mom. I can do both."

Sam drops his eyes to the floor. This is your last chance to change your mind, he tells himself, but even as he's thinking it, he knows he's already decided.

"I guess we'll see," he says. "Cause I'm coming with you."

"The fuck you are. I'm taking you home."

"I left her," Sam swallows hard. "I left Jessica. I'm coming with you."

Dean's face darkens. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"It wasn't real. It wasn't... because it was over."

Dean looks like he might smack Sam again. "I'm not gonna have you-- I don't need your bullshit sense of responsibility, Sam. I don't need it."

"It's not about that, " Sam says, "not anymore."

"Then what the fuck is it about?"

"I wanna be here, while you're around. That's all. That's it."

Dean regards him suspiciously.

"You might not need my bullshit sense of responsibility," Sam adds. "But you need me. And I'm here."

Dean's eyebrows come together as if he's in pain. At first it looks like he might concede. But then he closes his eyes, shutting Sam out.

Sam throws his aching body down on the bed next to his brother, snagging one of the pillows and wedging it against the small of his back. They're both wheezing, Sam's like a lingering, high whine, Dean's hanging on the end of each exhale.

After a minute Dean pulls an inhaler from his pocket and hits it, passes it to Sam. "Breathe in when you push down on the thing-- don't just spray the shit in your mouth."

Sam does as he's told, then exhales.

"You gotta hold it longer than that. Do it again."

This time Sam holds it until Dean nods. He exhales, his head rushing from holding his breath so long.

"I'm coming with you," he says, one more time.

Dean sniffs. He replaces the cap on the inhaler. He puts it back in his pocket. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Sam feels like he should show brother he's serious by jumping up, gathering their things. But--

"Maybe... maybe we should nap first."

"First good idea you've had all week," Dean replies.

They lie in silence for a long while, until Sam is sure that Dean has fallen asleep, until he's blissfully close himself, and then--

"Sam," Dean's voice jerks him awake.

"Yeah."

"Thanks, for. You know."

Sam's only answer is a semi-affirmative sigh as he drifts to sleep. Because yes-- he knows.

OOOO

It's a day later and Sam's outside packing the car when his phone rings. He looks at the screen and almost drops the phone, his palms instantly sweat soaked, his knees-- which were finally starting to feel sturdy again-- going all rubbery.

"Jess?" He croaks.

"Sam?"

"Jess?"

Just the sound of her voice makes him ache all over. He blinks and tears fall down his face, salting his lips. "Jess."

"You sound terrible. Are you sick?"

Sam slams the trunk shut. "Yeah. I-- yeah. A cold. But I'm... what's...?"

"The cops-- they said call if I hear from you. But I don't think this counts as hearing from you, because I'm the one calling." She giggles uncomfortably. "They took that paper you wrote about The Epistemology of the Closet. Said it was evidence."

Sam can't help but smile a little. "They can keep it. Jess--"

"My grandma's barn was haunted," Jess interrupts. "One summer, every single one of her sows turned up dead. The vet said it was some kind of virus. But a virus-- it couldn't string them up from the ceiling like they were in a slaughterhouse."

Sam scrubs at his face, tries to breathe through the ache that's returned to his chest. "No," he says. "No, it couldn't."

"At night, if you listen hard enough, you can still hear them squealing."

"Jess. I'm so sorry. For everything."

"I'm transferring. To Columbia, maybe."

"Jess--"

"If you and Dean... if you guys... if Dean gets sick or something... call me sometimes, okay? Call me and let me know you're okay."

"Okay," Sam says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Okay. I will. I will. Jess? I love you."

"I believe you," Jess says, and then she hangs up.

Dean finds him a few minutes later, leaning against the Impala, the cell phone still clutched to his chest.

"What's up with the tears?" he says, sliding up beside Sam, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "She say you can't borrow her panties anymore?"

Sam laughs a barking laugh, spraying tears and snot all over the parking lot. "Come on. Let's hit the road."

"Where we headed?"

"Who cares," Sam says with shrug. "Find something to hunt? Find Dad? I don't care. Let's just go."

Dean removes his hand from Sam's shoulder. "You can't tell me you're okay with doing this. Out of nowhere."

"It's not out of nowhere," Sam says.

So he turns and gets in the car. He runs his hand over the Impala's dash, breathing in the smell of Dean and leather, the underlying scent of pills, aerosol.

After a moment his brother gets in beside him, flashes a champion smile that reminds Sam, right then, what he's looking at. Not a feeding tube, not a treatment schedule, not a set of failing lungs.

His big brother Dean.

OOOO

Why did he run?

Because Stanford's glossy brochure made him promises it couldn't keep. Because Jessica and normal and things less senseless, less frightening, more muted, more safe-- the brochure said all of that was waiting for him there.

Because he was selfish. Because he was a coward. Because he was brave enough to say goodbye. Because it was the only way he could control the disease. Because hunting was going to make Dean die faster. Because Dean couldn't escape but Sam could.

Why did he run?

Because running was a luxury.

Because he didn't love his brother enough.

Because he loved his brother too much.

Because maybe they only have five years together.

Maybe ten.

Maybe they have thirty years ahead of them. Maybe Sam will give himself carpel tunnel beating Dean on the back till their spines bend identically with age, gray hair curling around sagging, fleshy old ears.

Maybe Dean will die tomorrow.

Maybe Sam will follow him.

Maybe not.

It doesn't matter.

It never did.

What matters is that Sam will be around to find out.

::::

The End.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you pixymisa, selecasharp (my own personal SamnDean), chiiyo86, oscared3 and neonchica for alpha reading, emotional support, research help, and hand-holding.

And an extra very very very special thank you Erin for helping with all things medical and being the most support and awesome alpha reader anyone could ever ask for.

Thank you readers, thank you commenters, thank you lurkers, thank you thank you thank you.

*BLOWS WET SLOPPY KISSES*

(And yes, there will be more fics in this 'verse.)