"Good-bye, Dean." Sam raised the gun to his head.
"Sammy, no!"
Dean threw himself at his brother, striking the gun from his hand and slamming him hard against the car. Unable to catch himself, Sam's head hit the Impala with a heavy thud. He slid down the side and sprawled unconscious on the ground.
"Sam!"
Petrified, Dean threw himself down beside him and put a shaking hand on the side of Sam's neck. When he felt the ragged pulse, he closed his eyes and slumped down beside him, body quivering violently with reaction and relief.
SUPNSUPNSUPN
Thankful they hadn't given up their room at the motel, Dean maneuvered his brother out of the Impala. Only half-conscious, Sam tried to push him away but Dean, the memory of a hard cry on his face, ignored that and supported him gently inside.
He laid Sam on the bed and pulled off his boots and clothing, cursing inwardly at the fresh bruising that decorated his body, and the fever that was slowly but steadily rising. Then, ignoring Sam's mumbled protests and weak struggles, he forced some meds down his throat and sat beside him, watching as he fell asleep.
SUPNSUPNSUPN
Sam had no anger left in him. He had nothing.
Nothing but pain, remorse, and a self-loathing so strong he could barely remember how to breathe.
Once he was past the worst of the fever, he swallowed whatever Dean gave him, accepted his help in getting back and forth to the bathroom and listened dully to the drone of the television until it lulled him back to sleep.
He waited.
On the fourth morning, Dean sat down on the bed next to him and waited patiently until Sam's eyes reluctantly met his.
"Brother," Dean said quietly. "We need to talk."