Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Just a heads up… I'm back to my lengthy chapter format.

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Chapter 21: Fractured Freedom

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Determined to conceal the true extent of Dean's weakness, Sam had made his outward support of his brother minimal under Chase's callous scrutiny, had reciprocated Dean's loose grip around his waist with one of his own. They had left the field of battle together, unabashedly weary but undeniably victorious.

Though the victory had come at a cost, it was not nearly the one it could have been. Sam was still thanking God for having mercy on foolhardy older brothers who envisioned themselves to be Wild Bill Hickok…or Butch Cassidy. No, the cost had not been his brother's life or his own but there was no denying the virtually debilitating exhaustion that had settled over his brother, the vanishing of the color Dean had had that morning or the exertion it took for his brother to maneuver over the snares of underbrush and downed tree limbs along their journey.

Without permission or forewarning, Sam drew closer to Dean, took more of his brother's weight into his care. Tensing, prepared for the fight that would follow his actions, Sam, at the void of objection at his coddling, quickly sought out his brother's face, tried to determine just how poorly Dean was feeling. Slowing his pace, slowing their pace, he continued to assess Dean's features, felt some hurt that Dean purposefully didn't look his way, apparently didn't want to acknowledge his submission to his little brother's care any more than he had wanted to have Sam fight his battles for him.

Dean's show of stubbornness, of pride was an inconsistency to his submission to Sam's aid, conflicted with his admission to Chase. An admission that Sam couldn't keep from ringing in his head: 'I was broken long before you came along.' Sam remembered flinching at his brother's words, instantly wanting to refute Dean's claim even as he acutely wanted to make the statement no longer true. But found he could do neither. Not then and not now. No, now he could only give Dean what he thought his brother needed, wanted, would just maybe accept: help negotiate the woods toward where they estimated Chase's vehicle sat, and a few minutes of silence in which Dean could gain some solace, could reinforce the walls Dylan, Chase and Sam himself had blitzed the past hour…the past couple of days.

And though Dean had accepted his help, it was his low voice which broke the silence between them a few minutes into their trek.

"How many times do I have to tell you to answer me when I call you?" Dean railed, eyes lifting to meet Sam's, the fear of that moment, at hearing Sam's cry of pain, of receiving only silence for his panicked shout of his brother's name still thrumming in him, fading but not yet gone. "You scared the crap out of me," he surprised himself by saying aloud, though his words seemed more an accusation than an admission to weakness.

"Yeah," Sam scoffed, a near sad laugh, "like I have the market on being the one offering up the most scares this job."

"This is not a job," Dean shot back, refusing to categorize the last few days as time put into one of their normal gigs, not when everything had gone so royally wrong. Not when it made his gut clench in dread at that thought that maybe it was a sign that they were losing their edge, were becoming incompetent, ineffectual at the skills that kept them alive, kept them a few steps ahead of the law and whatever else wanted to hunt them down and kill them.

"Started out as one…" Sam contradicted, an edge of anger in his tone, finding himself unwilling to let the issue drop.

"You got something to say, just say it?" Dean prompted, matching Sam's anger. But his brother's next words, the quiet hurt in his brother's tone, blindsided him.

"If it had been you and Dad hunting that wolf, would you have gone into the Simmon's shed behind his back?" Sam poised softly because he didn't want the words to hurt, to reopen wounds that were still raw for his brother. When Dean's face took on that stoic mask and he looked away, Sam had his answer like it was shouted from the trees. "No, you wouldn't have, Dean," Sam quietly voiced, "and I don't know if that was out of respect for Dad, or fear, or trust or…" but he couldn't say 'love', had always felt that, to their family, love was a taboo word, a word others used but never them.

"Sam," Dean quietly drawled, knew it came out imploring but he had to stop Sam's words, to filter out the reaction that wanted to surface in him, the introspect he didn't want to make, not about this, not about why he had always so blindly followed their father.

"I'm not saying I deserve the respect you gave Dad or anything…that's not what I'm saying," Sam stammered, ashamed that his prior words had maybe implied that. "I know I'm not as good of a hunter as Dad or you but I'm doing the best I can."

"Sam.." Dean tried again to interrupt, to refute Sam's claims of inadequacy but his brother didn't let him continue.

"But we make a good team, you and I. You said so yourself after Jericho. And that's all I'm asking from you, Dean, for us to be a team in every situation. For you to trust me to always have your back, regardless that I'm your little brother," Sam said, feeling inexplicably vulnerable at having voiced his entreaty.

"Dude, I do trust you to have my back," Dean insisted but his eyes had scampered away from Sam, had become fixed on the path ahead.

"But you want to choose when that happens, right? When you think things won't escalate out of control, won't put me in more danger?" Sam challenged with sad regret. With a resigned, frustrated shake of his head, he looked away from his brother's profile. Felt again that he had come up against a brick wall with Dean…like he had after their father had died. 'Crap, Dean, I don't want that silence between us again.' Knew that it was a miracle that Dean wasn't shaking off his support right then, wasn't severing their physical connection, was still allowing him to keep them moving forward, both of them.

"Sam, I've hunted on my own. I don't need you backing me up 24/7 on every aspect of every job," Dean heatedly tossed back, offended that Sam thought he needed a babysitter. But seeing the jump in Sam's jaw, having already lost Sam's eye contact, Dean knew his words had wounded Sam, had reinforced his brother's earlier claim that his ego couldn't stand the notion of his younger brother saving his life.

Drawing to a stop, Dean knew Sam's simultaneous halt had more to do with Sam's submission to his wishes than his diminished strength having the ability to override his little brother's strength at the moment. But Sam's obvious loyalty only heaped more guilt onto Dean's head. "Listen Sam, we are a team, alright. But splitting up on some jobs, someone taking the greater risk, that's just how things work best," Dean qualified but Sam's eyes, as they swung to meet his own, were still dark with objection and hurt. "That's how Dad and I did it. He wasn't there holding my hand, Sam."

His stance straightening, Sam retorted tightly, "I never thought he was," unable to keep the bitterness from being evident in his tone or able to dam the fast moving undercurrent of judgment running under his words. Dean was the one who had always viewed their father through rose colored glasses, not him.

"Yeah, well, then let's not fix what's not broken," Dean mumbled, turning away, ready to walk away.

Hearing Dean using the word 'broken', it made Sam cringe, made him admit that Dean hadn't lied to Chase, that his brother could have been answering for him as well as for himself. Dean was broken, he was broken but they weren't beaten, not yet, not when they still had each other. And Sam was determined to find a way to keep them together. "It is broken, Dean," Sam firmly stated, glad that Dean turned again to him, eyebrows raised in question, relieved that his brother wasn't discounting his words. "I'm not Dad, I can't just …" he drew in a steadying breath, tried to get the right words to come.

"What?" Dean asked quietly, compassion in his eyes instead of impatience.

"I can't just shrug off you getting hurt, Dean. I can't stop second guessing myself, wondering how things would have turned out if I had done something differently…if you weren't treating me like someone you had to protect," Sam confessed, even as scenario after scenario ran through his head of the past few days…of the past few years, of Dean getting hurt, getting hurt going first, stepping in front of him to protect him, of Dean nearly dying. "And I know, you're right, that I haven't always acted like your partner……but I've always been your brother, Dean. And that means if something happens to you…." His voice caught at even the thought, at the too close calls his brother had had in the past couple of days.

Suddenly Sam felt anger flare in him, at his brother's recklessness, at his blindness to his importance to him. "If something happens to you, Dean, I'm not going to be running an ad in the paper for a new partner! I'm not going to go trolling the Roadhouse for your replacement! We're brothers, Dean. Before we're hunters, before we're John Winchester's sons, we're brothers. It's what matters the most, what's kept us alive not just the past couple of days but our whole lives. And I can't just put that connection aside when we hunt, I won't."

Gripping Dean's right arm, needing to make sure he had his brother's undivided attention, Sam said what had become so clear to him the past few days. "We're more than a team, we're family. Not commander to soldier but partners, and not father to son but brothers, equally set on protecting each other."

When Dean looked about to protest, Sam's grip tightened on his brother's arm and his voice raised with his emotions. "When you take foolish risks, you risk us both, Dean. Because losing a partner I could get over, losing my brother…" Sam shook his head. "Protecting me means you have to protect yourself Dean. Stop taunting thugs like Dylan to shoot you so you can protect me, give me an escape plan. Because you know what, I wouldn't have left you, Dean. We're in this life together." His breath heaving after his outburst, Sam dropped his hold on Dean's arm only to set them both back in motion, again setting a course for Chase's truck, for freedom.

Silence fell between them and it was a few minutes before their eyes clashed, one anticipatory, the other contemplative.

Adept at reading Sam, Dean could see the hurt still lurking in his brother eyes, could feel the tension radiating off of his brother's stance. And it was then that he knew that protecting Sam, being the lead hunter was fine, was admirable, until those things hurt Sam, hurt the person he was trying to keep out of harm's way. With his Father's sacrifice for him searing into his soul with his every waking moment, Dean cursed himself for not recognizing that truth sooner. Sometimes being loved, being protected, being saved hurt worse than being hated, being lost, even being broken.

"Yeah, guess so," he allowed quietly, his words would have been accompanied by a shrug of his shoulders or a hand brushing through his hair had either gesture not been beyond his meager energy's stockpile. Unable to downplay his submission with any carefree body language, Dean hesitantly met Sam's eyes.

Unprepared for his brother's capitulation, for an easily won victory, Sam stood there, looking at Dean, waiting for his brother to rescind his words, to turn the tables on him. When he only read honesty in his brother's features, he stammered, "Good. Right. 'kay," failing miserable to make it seem like he had always known the victory would be his in the end.

"Can we put away the tissues now, Sam, and high tail it out of here? You know, beat feet, am-scram, hasta la vista?" Dean taunted with put upon frustration.

"Ah…yeah…Yeah," Sam agreed with a shake of his head, still struggling to get over Dean's submission to his terms. "Let's get out of here," he said, repositioning his hold on Dean's torso and starting them forward again, toward Chase's car, toward freedom. But Sam couldn't help wondering how long the new mandates would hold…until he was in danger, until Dean felt he needed again to shoulder more weight to retain his big brother standing, or only until Dean's full strength returned and his barriers were once again fully operational.

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Reaching the dirt road was a bittersweet victory when they didn't spot Chase's vehicle along the visible expansion of roadway. Exchanging matching looks of 'like we thought it was gonna be that easy', the brothers started walking parallel to the road, far enough back from the road to not be seen and yet be able to sight the truck if they came upon it, when they came upon it.

It was another twenty minutes of trudging through the underbrush, ducking tree limbs and Sam struggling to keep Dean upright and moving before they found what they had been looking for: A decent means to escape. Chase's mud splattered truck was angled off the road, allowing the dirt path to still be a two way.

Unable to remember ever before being so grateful to see a vehicle that wasn't the Impala, Dean tiredly drawled, "If this is a mirage, don't spoil it for me, Sammy," as he and Sam pushed through the foliage toward the road and the truck.

Not offering up a rejoinder, Sam, instead, concentrated on using his ebbing strength to get Dean to the passenger side door, to get them one step closer to getting out of this nightmare once and for all. Touching the metal of the truck's frame, Sam felt like he had won a marathon, had slipped into the safety zone of a kid's game of kick the can, had won a particularly grueling game of war. It was only the fear and tension seemingly fused into his spine after the nightmarish last couple of days that kept him from leaning against the side of the truck, sliding down its metal frame and claiming a seat on the side of the road. But they weren't safe yet, not with the foreboding helicopter making its earlier flyby, not with the chance that some of Dylan's other men might still be straggling back to camp.

As he and Dean lurched like two drunks to the side of the truck, Sam leaned Dean carefully beside the passenger door. His shoulder, hip and left hand kept Dean upright and securely pressed against the metal frame as he sought to open the passenger side door. He found the act of raising his hand to akin to having one hundred pound weights shackled to each wrist. Even accomplishing that levitating trick, his hands still tingling from the punches he had thrown, he silently cursed the clumsiness of his fingers as they pulled up on the door handle.

Finally getting the door open, Sam looked worriedly to Dean. His stomach and heart reeled at the sight of his brother compliantly standing there, propped up by his little brother, dirt and exhaustion and pain layered upon him in varied degrees, made stark by the fact that Dean's eyes were shut. Settling his right hand back upon Dean's chest, Sam quietly beckoned, "Dean."

"Mmmhh," Dean hummed a reply before he managed to pry his eyes open. After getting a close up view of Sam's worried creased face, it registered with him that the truck door was open, that Sam was waiting for him to move. "Yeah… right," he murmured. Putting his feet in motion to shuffle the two steps to the left, Dean didn't even voice an objection when his brother gave him a well placed shove that levered him up into the seat.

Once all of Dean's limbs were in the vehicle, Sam shut the door and did a weak jog around to the driver's side door, hand already withdrawing the keys from his pocket that he had confiscated from Chase. Sliding behind the steering wheel, Sam immediately started the vehicle and set it in motion. Doing a U turn on the dirt lane, he sent the truck bounding back to civilization.

As the rough terrain jarred his every ache and pain, Sam grimaced, not for his own pain but for Dean's, for the pain he imaged it was causing his brother. For half a second, his foot eased on the gas before, clamping his jaw tightly in bitter resolve, he resettled his foot heavily onto the gas pedal. He couldn't let his compassion override his survival instincts, certainly couldn't let it hamper his determination to get Dean somewhere safe, to keep him alive, to ensure he never saw the inside of a Federal prison.

"I thought he shot you…" Sam said, his raw voice almost echoing in the small confines of the truck, his hands tightening their white handed grip on the steering wheel, his burning eyes on the path ahead.

"Ditto," Dean deflected tiredly, eyes scanning their surroundings for dangers all the while wishing he could settle his head back on the head rest and sleep for a thousand years.

"Dylan…I thought he shot you …you know, when we were fighting for the gun….I thought my vision…." Sam broke off, had to, couldn't continue to grab enough air for words, not around the emotion he refused to unleash. Not when he knew Dean wouldn't want it unleashed, that it would do nothing to help them now, would only be a distraction they couldn't afford right then.

Looking to Sam in surprise, Dean felt his emotional "keepouts" falter at his brother's anguished profile. Dean cursed silently, because his kid brother had been through enough, didn't deserve to have nightmares let alone visions of people dying, of him dying. He didn't want Sam to ever bare that weight alone, knew it was wrong to not offer Sam some comfort when he had feared the worst, had woken up thinking his brother was dead only to have that fear nearly come true only an hour later. "Hey, I know how to hit the deck, Sammy," Dean gently reassured, letting it sound like a joke, not wanting to give away how close a call it had been, how nearly a reality Sam's nightmare had been. When Sam's searching eyes met his, only cocky strength was there, that and a tender regard Dean didn't hide from Sam, not after the crappy days they had endured.

"You're not hit?" Sam quietly asked, eyes flickering from road to brother.

"You want to frisk me again?" Dean teasingly offered, his eyebrows raised, his lips turning up into a true, if small smile for Sam. "Cause I gotta say, you're kinda a brute, Sammy. I can see why you chose to be a lawyer instead of a doctor."

A measure of fear seeped from Sam's eyes and he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. His laughter was short but real. "You know, you're an ungrateful jerk."

"Yeah, whatever," was Dean's reply as he returned his attention back to searching the road ahead and the forest that flanked them…but not before Sam saw the twinkle in his eyes.

Primed for trouble, for every turn to reveal a Federal roadblock or one of Dylan's men driving their way, Sam felt tension humming through every nerve in his body. So it was almost anticlimactic when he pulled the truck to a halt at the edge of the dirt path, the state road to the town inches from the truck's tires only to find the road desolate, the landscape void of police cruisers, Dylan's work trucks or even another vehicle. "Huh," the brothers grunted at the same time in surprised thankfulness.

Shooting a furtive glance to Dean, Sam steeled himself for the argument to come. Drawing in breath, he coached himself to keep his voice gentle but firm, to make Dean see the logic of what he was saying. "Dean, we can't…" When Dean's eyes met his, Sam swallowed. "It's too risky to…." but his words faded away when Dean swung his look to the right, toward town, where somewhere the Impala sat, waiting for them, waited for him.

Fighting back the clench in his chest, Dean wiped the regret from his features before he faced Sam again. "Just get us out of here, Sammy," he ordered, hated that his voice was brisk, that it hinted at the turmoil underneath his armor. Hated his slip up worse when Sam flinched, as if it were his fault somehow that their lives required sacrifices.

"It's OK, Sammy. I'll get her back," he cockily reassured, wishing he felt it was the truth. 'When has something that I've loved and lost ever been returned to me?' he bitterly thought a moment before Sam spoke.

"We'll get her back. I promise, Dean," Sam vowed, knowing that he had to restore the Impala to his brother, that part of what kept his brother together when the world was breaking him was that car, the memories permeating the air of the interior, the feel of the steering wheel in his hands.

Suddenly Dean felt foolish and ungrateful. Sam had been returned to him, had left a time or two but had come back, was there beside him looking at him with affection and hope and resolve. "Of course we'll get her back," he agreed as if there had been no doubt, his tender regard for his brother unmasked in his gaze. Settling his head back against the head rest, he let his eyes slip shut. "Wake me when it's my turn to drive."

'Like I'm going to let you drive,' Sam snorted internally his eyes on his brother's worn features, battered body. Then smiling tiredly, he pulled from the dirt path unto the road. But he couldn't stop his eyes from slipping to the rearview mirror, knew, not for the first time, that a part of himself was wired into the Impala, the part of him that loved his brother, that valued whatever Dean valued.

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They were two states over when the noon sun was beating down onto the arm Sam had resting outside the driver's side window. Thanks to Dylan's credit card, Sam had been able to unobtrusively stand at the pump of a desolate mom and pop gas station two hours into their trek to fill their gas tank. Had not bothered to go in to retrieve the bathroom key with the notoriously gaudy keychain, had instead picked the bathroom's lock.

Using his sleeve to try and clean up the mirror, he had found that his reflection wasn't much improved by the mirror's missing dirt. He looked like crap, no two ways about it. Dirt, blood, bruises and the haunted look he couldn't quite wipe from his expression had stared back at him. 'I walk into somewhere looking like this, someone will either be calling the cops or an ambulance,' he had sardonically thought. 'They get a look at Dean and it'll be the ambulance for sure,' came to him unbidden, not funny but something he would have thrown out to taunt Dean…had his brother done more than snuggle closer to the passenger side door and wince in pain since they had left the dirt path of the work camp in their rearview mirror.

That thought had hardened Sam's expression, had made his eyes simmer with worry and regret. With determined motions, he had tried to make himself presentable, less a side show freak or a man who just lost a gladiator bout. The results weren't impressive but he knew they would minimize people's reaction to simply skirting out of his path and clutching their children tighter to their side.

Dean never reacted when Sam had climbed back into the truck, started the engine and pulled them back onto the road. Just like he had never sensed the long, worried inspection of his brother's eyes upon his too still form or felt the fingers that skimmed over his forehead before Sam got out of the truck to pump the gas.

Now hours later, parked outside a small shopping strip, Sam repeated the gesture, grimaced at the slightly fevered flesh under his fingertips but his worry was countered as Dean gave a small jerk and his green eyes fluttered open. Letting his fingers slid from Dean's forehead, Sam met his brother's somewhat blurry gaze unrepentantly.

Feeling as if he was coming out of a drug induced hibernation, Dean shook his head, hoped to jar everything back into frame. But all his action did was awaken fifty points of pain, most prominently the one spearing into his head. Pushing through the hurt, Dean used his legs to push himself straighter in the seat as he lifted his head from its uncomfortable resting place against the door's window. "What?' he croaked, rubbing a hand over his eyes before trying to scope out their surroundings.

"I'm going in for some supplies, clothing and some food. Have any requests?" Sam asked, tracking Dean's every movement.

"Nah," Dean delivered with a stretch that nearly turned his response into a moan.

Sam tensed, felt a need again to slip his fingers to Dean's forehead because Dean not offering up an opinion, nor demanding some specific food, it was unnatural, was down right alarming. "Hey, you alright?" he hazarded, head tilting to the side, trying to make his tone a mid way point between gentle and nonchalant, knew that he had to traverse a narrow path to get Dean to open up about being in pain.

"Yeah," Dean quickly replied, but when he met Sam's probing gaze he knew more was required, unless he wanted his little brother carting him into an emergency room. "I'm fine, Sam, a little stiff and rough around the edges but I'm not gonna be checking out anytime soon."

For a moment Sam said nothing, compared what Dean was professing to his own findings after he assessed the state his brother was in. After deciding that Dean wasn't lying, was downplaying his pain but on the whole, was telling the truth, Sam gave a silent nod of his head. Drawing in a breath he asked, "You have to go to the bathroom?"

"No, mom, I don't. 'Less you're taking me to the ladies room with you?" Dean shot back, his tone sharp enough to diminish Sam's anxiety that his brother was too hurt to be left alone in the car for any length of time.

Without any voiced misgivings, Sam hopped out of the truck and shut the door. Dean watched his brother use his long legs to eat up the distance between their out of the way parking spot and the entrance to the store. Rubbing a hand across his cheek, he scowled at the stubble, dirt and probably dried blood that he felt on his face. He eyed the sun-visor, contemplated flipping it down to see if a mirror lay on the other side but he barely raised his hand off of his lap before he abandoned the notion, his limbs feeling too heavy and realizing that not a single part of him cared how he looked at the moment. He and Sammy were alive and free and that was all that mattered.

But as his eyes slid over the truck's interior he knew that something else mattered, mattered when it shouldn't, mattered more than it should: The Impala. Dean didn't care how much Sam teased him about his unnatural attachment to the car, the vehicle was a part of him, a part of them, was a link to the past, a past Sam wanted to forget and Dean fought valiantly to always remember. It made Sam's vow to get his car back for him an even bigger deal.

Recalling his brother's pledge, startled laugher erupted from Dean. "Sam called the Impala 'her'," he said aloud, his tired voice echoing in the interior. With a smug smile turning up his lips, he settled back against the seat to wait for his brother's return, already scheming when he would taunt his younger sibling with this new blackmail material.

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Rapping his knuckles against the passenger window, Sam felt panic spike through him when Dean remained unresponsive. With trembling hands, he yanked open the door and had to catch his brother in his arms when Dean started pitching from the vehicle. "Dean!"

Jolted from the nightmare that had latched onto him, Dean gripped onto the shirt of the person who had grabbed him, was about to land a punch when his senses and sight came back online. Realizing that the arms wrapped around his torso belonged to Sam, a Sam who looked close to panicking, Dean released his grip on Sam's shirt and instead patted his brother on the chest, "How'd you make out pinching pennies, Martha Stewart?" he said around a yawn, attempting to pull back from Sam's hold.

"Come on. We're trading up," Sam replied cryptically, using his un-relinquished grip on his brother to pull Dean slowly but forcefully from the truck.

Now that the adrenaline rush that had kept him going doing the chase through the woods had been doused with his respite in the truck, Dean was ashamed to find his legs weren't prepared to take his weight. Valiantly he flung his hand back against the frame of the truck to try and support himself even as he staggered into Sam.

"Easy, I got ya," Sam reassured, stepping closer to his brother, tightening his hold on Dean's torso. Worry and reprimand stealing across his mind. 'Good job, Sam. Yanking him from the truck like that. He's hurt or have you forgotten. What?! Him sleeping hours without moving and not caring what food you brought back wasn't enough of a red flag?! You need to get another look at him?! See the blood and the dirt and the pain he's trying hard to hide from you!?' "Dean, I'm sorry," he murmured but Dean was speaking at the same time.

"I got it," Dean grumbled. Locking his untrustworthy legs into place and pushing his hand off the truck's frame, he stood as straight as he could…with Sam's hands resting on his chest and the small of his back and his ribs feeling like they had taken a beating from a baseball bat wielded by a World Series hitter. "You said something about trading up?" he deflected, eyes not meeting Sam's, not wanting to see the sympathy there for his weak, helpless brother.

"I know it's the wrong year and color but I just thought…" Sam stammered. Then, keeping his hands tethered to his brother, he stepped to Dean's right side and revealed the car that he had liberated from the parking lot: a 2001 silver Impala. "We needed to ditch the truck anyway," he said into the silence, starting to feel foolish at his sentimental gesture. "I mean, I know you don't value your car because it's an Impala…" At Dean's raised eyebrows Sam scrambled to rectify his words, "Not like you don't want it to be an Impala or that it's not special because it's that model or..."

"Sammy," Dean quietly cut into Sam's explanation, earning him Sam's sheepish eye contact peeking out from underneath his brother's bangs. "Thanks. She'll do…. for the moment."

Sam's shy smile and bowed head was all the evidence Dean needed that he had said the right thing. When he stepped forward, Sam was there bracing him, opening the '01 Impala's passenger door and helping him sink into the seat. He watched Sam close his door before quickly skirting around the car and sliding into the driver's side.

Instead of putting the already running car into motion, Sam dug into the bag that he had positioned on the middle console. Extracting a water bottle, he promptly handed it to Dean even as his other hand pulled out first a bottle of painkillers and then a package of antibiotics swabs. Ripping open the box to the painkillers and removing the protective plastic on the bottle, he shook out three pills into his palm. "Here," he said, presenting the pills to his brother, who flashed him a look of protest that melted away the second he growled, "Dean…."

Sullenly, Dean picked up the pills and tossed them into his mouth, chased them with a swallow of water. But he couldn't help wishing that the chaser had some kick to it…like 80 proof alcohol because he was sick of the pain, of the exhaustion that his cat naps in the truck hadn't been able to diminish, wanted something to take the edge off, immediately. Watching Sam open the antibiotic swabs' box, seeing that Sam was even going so far as to open the first packet of swabs, Dean knew that his little brother was in full mothering mode and would not be deterred. Dean had witnessed this side of this brother before: after his heart-attack, after the car accident.

Holding onto the antibiotic pad by its corner, Sam held it out to Dean and timidly said, "Thought you could clean up a bit, try to look a little less like an extra from Resident Evil." Sam could acknowledge, even if it was just to himself, that his actions weren't all for Dean, weren't even about shaping what other people thought of his brother's appearance. No, his actions were about his need to see his brother's face, to not have the sight of the matted blood taint Dean's features, to taint his perception of his brother, of Dean's stronger than life willpower, to mock Dean's usual mask of invulnerability. Sam needed to see Dean, to not have his brother's features concealed behind the dirt covering his face, wanted to be able to gauge his brother's health without having to take into consideration the brown collage of dried mud and blood.

With disdain, Dean snatched the pad from his brother's fingers, glared at Sam when his brother flipped down the passenger's sun-visor to reveal a mirror. "You're going to make a great mother some day, Sam," he growled, swiping briskly at the dirt and blood, found he needed to clamp his jaw shut to not let out a grunt as his rough ministrations across his cut and bruised flesh spiked pain through his face. Gentling his actions, he managed to dislodge most of the dirt, grimaced as the antibiotic reacted to his open cuts. "Crap this stuff burns," he groused, pulling the pad back to give it a look of hatred.

"Means it's working," Sam interjected, quickly replacing the pad in Dean's hand for a new one, purposefully ignoring Dean's glare. Watching Dean dabbing at his cheek where some glass shards from the Simmon's cabinet still resided, Sam couldn't believe it was only a few days ago that they had come to the Simmons in search of the wolf terrorizing the county. It felt like years ago. When Dean crumbled the pad and tossed it onto the floor, Sam began, "Dean you missed…" pointing to the smear of blood by his brother's hair line.

"It's good enough," Dean snapped back, flipping the visor up and wincing as his arm and ribs protested his motions. Hearing his brother rustling another paper bag, Dean turned warily to Sam. What Sam handed him next had him raising his eyebrows at his brother.

At Dean's look, Sam sighed, had known that he would get flak for his choice. "It's chicken noodle soup, Dean. I'm sure you've heard of it?
"Where…"

Wanting to get Dean past the grumbling stage, Sam cut him off, "Fast food joint in the strip mall," jerking his head to the place in question which was a few doors over from where they were parked.

"Does that mean there's a burger in that bag?" Dean asked, instilling hope in his tone when in truth, he wasn't that hungry, for anything.

"Soup first, then burger," Sam replied, just like he had rehearsed that he would at his brother's predicted protest. And he had been careful to keep his tone light, to not look at Dean when he said the words, to not sound worried, or nurturing or something else that would make Dean think his strength was being undermined, or doubted. Because of all the things in the world Sam doubted, his brother's strength wasn't one of them, not the strength of his brother's heart or of his willpower.

"Sam, I'm not sick with a cold…." Dean snapped back, hand reaching for the car door, intending to toss the soup out, to prove to Sam that he wasn't some weak, broken, charity case he had to mend, to treat with kid gloves…to save. 'Had to still save,' Dean amended bitterly, unable to forget the innumerable times in the past few days that he had needed Sam to save him, to mend him, had been glad Sam was treating him with kid gloves.

Cheeks flushing with shame, Sam ruthlessly pulled a burger from the bag and dropped it onto Dean's lap. Tossing the fast food bag out the window, Sam threw the car into gear and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. He didn't bother to acknowledge that he nearly caused Dean to slosh the soup onto himself, tried hard not to acknowledge Dean's presence at all. 'Stupid jerk! I'm just trying to take care of him, like he's always taken care of me! Why does that always make him so mad?! I thought we were past this, him not letting me help him, have his back.'

Chagrined that he had hurt Sam again with his belligerent attitude, Dean lightly chastised, "Whoa Mario Andrei, I would like to eat the soup, not wear it." It earned him a quick glance from Sam, a question in his brother's dark eyes. Slurping up a spoonful of soup, Dean murmured, "Tastes good." Raising his eyes to meet Sam's, he hoped that his brother got the silent message he was trying to send.

When Sam's shoulders lowered and the white handed grip he had on the steering wheel eased, Dean knew his brother accepted his poorly offered apology. "You get something for yourself?" Dean asked, spoon halted half way to his mouth, big brother worry creasing his brow.

"Yeah," Sam mumbled lowly, like a child not wanting to make a confession.

"Ah…where's it at?" Dean pressed, saw Sam swallow in shame and he knew the truth. "It was in the bag, wasn't it? The bag you tossed out the window."

"I wasn't that hungry…." Sam deflected, feeling so foolish for letting his anger get the best of him, for letting Dean catch onto his goof up.

"Here," Dean ordered, holding the burger, his burger out to Sam.

"No, I got that for you," Sam replied, purposefully keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

"It doesn't have my name on it, so take it," Dean returned, bumping Sam's arm with his outstretched hand which held his offering.
With a shake of his head, Sam countered, "It has extra onions."

A longsuffering sigh escaped Dean as he was sharply reminded of how picky Sammy always was about his food. "So scrap them off. They weren't on the burger long so you'll hardly taste them, Sam," Dean said, unconsciously using the cajoling tone he had employed when they were kids and he was the household cook.

"Dean, you need…." Sam began, his voice gentle, imploring but he broke off his words, knew the dangerous ground he was treading upon. Showing concern, giving advice, caring about Dean had to be slight of hand, could only be blatant when Dean was too weak, too hurt, was too nearly gone to protest. And crap Sam didn't want that, hadn't ever wanted that, remembered every single moment when Dean had unresistingly accepted his outwardly concern and help: when he arrived at the motel after his heart-attack, when Sam helped him to their father's deathbed, when Sam had pulled him away from the burning barracks. Clamping down on the flood of those memories, Sam mumbled, his voice low and struggling too hard to be unaffected, "I can stop somewhere later to get something."

For a moment Dean didn't respond, simply sat there, taking in Sam's profile, trying to identify the underlying current of emotions that his brother was emanating. The concern for him was a no-brainer but the fear came as a surprise to Dean. They were out of danger, well, as out of danger as they ever got, so his brother's apprehension seemed out of place. Finding himself at a loss of what to do next, how to erase his brother's uneasiness, Dean did what came naturally, he fought fire with fire. "If you're on a hunger strike, then so am I," he announced calmly, dropping the hamburger on the middle console and sitting the Styrofoam soup bowl down onto his lap.

Sam's head swiveled to Dean in surprised and objection, "What?! No, Dean just eat the soup and the burger."
"Truth is, I'm not that hungry," Dean drawled, eyes meeting Sam's, letting his brother know that he wasn't going to back down, never did when it came to protecting Sam, even from himself. Not getting a response from Sam besides his brother's wide eyed stare, Dean said, "Guess I'll just toss the food out the window," as he put the electric window down. "Add to the littering fine we've got coming," he tacked on, lifting the soup bowl from his lap.

With a silent curse, Sam snagged Dean's arm, halted his brother's stupid blackmail tactics. "Alright! I'll eat the stupid burger," he muttered with undisguised ill grace at his defeated.

Smiling smugly, Dean presented the burger to Sam, almost pitied the sandwich when Sam's big paw ruthlessly snagged it from his hand and nearly crushed it in his tight grip.

Putting Dean's window up from his main control on his side of the car, Sam lowly negotiated, "We'll split it," dark eyes searing into Dean's protesting ones.

"I'm not eating after you!" Dean replied, as if they hadn't spent their lives stealing each other's food.

"You eat after me all the time! Any scrapes I leave on a plate you scarf up!" Sam called his bluff, voice rising at the absurdity of his brother's claim.

Caught off guard by the force of Sam's rebuke, Dean's rejoinder was quiet, almost tentative, as if he were testing the air, "Well…I've raised my standards."

"What standards?" Sam countered but it was more of a sullen come back than an accusation. Jaw jumping a moment with emotions he was trying to corral, Sam drew in a breath in the silence that fell, found his voice was soft, entreating when he spoke again. "Look, we're both exhausted and hurt," internally clarifying, 'you more than me', "and I know we have to put some more distance between us and the camp. But what I would like to do is stop at the next motel and get you….us patched up," he amended, knowing he had to tread lightly, eyes noting that Dean had forgone disputing that he needed patching up. "But without the Impala and our supplies, all I can offer you is some useless over the counter strength painkillers and a stupid meal from a fast food joint," Sam bitterly acknowledged, hands tightening on the steering wheel, feeling like such a failure as a brother, especially compared to someone as gifted in the being the best big brother department as Dean was.

Surprised at the pain and frustration in Sam's voice, Dean sat silently, hands fidgeting with the bowl of soup in his lap, struggling to figure out what to say to make things better for Sam. "Did Dylan jar something lose in your brain?" he taunted at last, head tilted to the side, eyes mockingly searing into Sam's startled expression. When Sam's eyes flew to his, Dean patiently pointed out, "You got us out of there, Sam! Who was the jerk who insisted on carrying me through the woods like a bag of rock salt, huh?" Sam smirked at that, surprised to find the terrifying event somehow funny, endearing now. "Who went ten rounds with Rocky "Dylan" Balboa?" Seeing Sam's smirk morph into a smile, Dean continued, "Getting me some painkillers, bringing me soup….that's just your way of getting back in touch with your feminine, nurturing side. It's a side of you I've just learned to live with…." He admitted with a dramatic sigh, purposefully turning his attention back to the soup, slurping some of the lukewarm offering from the spoon.

"Shut up," Sam laughingly retorted, shaking his head, unwrapping the burger one handedly and taking a bite that nearly accounted for his half of the sandwich. After another bite, he held the remaining half of the sandwich in front of Dean's face. "Here's your half."

Barely managing to choke down the last swallow of the soup, Dean blanched at the sight of the burger, ketchup and onions nearly spilling from the creation. "I'll pass, Sam."

"Dean…" Sam began, voice starting to morph from worried into forceful.

Suddenly feeling stripped of his strength and ability to wage another battle, even with Sam, Dean quietly confessed, "Soup's all I can handle right now, Sam," eyes skittering quickly to Sam's. But he hated what he saw in his brother's expression, hated it enough to dig down and unearth the energy necessary to offer up a smart aleck remark. "And besides, like you said, I've gotta start laying off the burritos, right? Start watching my figure," he tossed out, a tired smirk making a fleeting appearance on his pale features.

"You?! Watch what food you eat?!" Sam taunted, playing along, letting Dean maintain the farce that he was fine. "Yeah, right," he snorted, because he needed the lie between them, needed Dean to downplay his pain, wanted to pretend like the last couple of days had just been par for the course of their lives.

Too worn to make a token protest, Dean mumbled a "whatever" and settled back against the seat, pointedly ignored Sam's helpful knowledge that he could lean the seat back. "Listen we're not out of …" Dean broke off, and felt his lips twitch.

"What?" Sam asked, watching Dean's lips showcase a small private smile as his brother shook his head marginally. "Dean what?" he insisted, not with force but his little brother beckoning tone that always worked so well on Dean.
"I…" Dean gave a brief laugh, eyes turning to Sam's with a twinkle in them. "I almost said we're not out of the woods yet."

A small laugh escaped Sam, its tones cresting the emotional edge he teetered upon. "Good one, Dean." But as their eyes held, matching smiles lit up their faces. And Sam didn't honestly know how Dean did it, how he always found something to laugh about even after undergoing the worst ordeals. Didn't know how Dean could induce him to laugh, to laugh honestly, truthfully when, moments before, he couldn't even fathom laughing, ever again. Like when he had confessed that he had moved the cabinet in Max Miller's house with his mind or after his possession by Meg. "You have a twisted sense of humor, you know that?" he snorted, trying to make it sound like an accusation instead of the endearment it truly was.

"Yeah, well, I like my sense of humor," Dean muttered back like a chastised little boy, beginning to roll his shoulder only to hiss in pain. Purposefully, he didn't look to Sam, knew innately that Sam's worried eyes were watching his every move, that his brother was just barely managing to not vocalize his concern. Abandoning the notion of trying to loosen his stiff muscles, Dean leaned back against the seat, shifted his legs and rubbed a hand over his still burning eyes. "So, what state are we in?"

"Thought you were the guy who bragged you could guess the state within five minutes," Sam taunted, calling upon one of their many driving games that they had devised as kids and honed as adults. Glad, for purely selfish reasons, that Dean was attempting to stay awake because watching Dean laying so still for the past few hours had been too reminiscence of his time watching Dean in his coma, a machine breathing for him.

"Sam, we're in the middle of nowhere?" Dean complained, eyes scanning the flat countryside that the 2001 Impala was streaking through.

Making a point to stare at his watch, Sam parried back, "You got three minutes, thirty seconds to go. Less you're folding already?" he challenged, a glimmer in his eyes that got Dean scowling.

"No, I'm not folding," Dean gruffly denied, pulling his outraged look from Sam back to the outside world. "I don't fold," he muttered darkly, determined to beat Sam at this game like he normally did, unaware that his show of fortitude put a smile on Sam's face, caused some of the weary lines of worry to fade from his little brother's features.

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A woman's voice jarred Dean back into consciousness. But he refused to open his eyes, to completely abandon the shelter of sleep. It had become too precious a commodity lately.

"Bob, don't forget to write down the license plate number. You know you always forget that, makes us look like fools in there when we have to walk out here…"

"I got it memorized," rejoined a gruff male voice.

"That's what you always say and then we get in the…"

When their voices cut out, Dean surmised that they had slipped inside a building, a motel lobby if he guessed right. Moving, he groaned as his every body part made its grievance known. Finally prying open his uncooperative eyes, he blinked a few times before the sight in front of their stolen car came into focus, proved itself to be a motel like he had guessed. But this particular motel was a class above their normal pickings, some would say five classes above their normal motel choices…six if you counted homeless shelters.

Not having to look to his left to know Sam was there, watching him, Dean questioned, "Don't you think this is a little above us?" turning his head to see his brother.

"Dylan's paying," Sam gloated, waving Dylan's wallet between them with a hardness in his tight smile. "Be back in a few minutes…" he said as he climbed from the car before Dean could protest.

"Don't forget the license plate number, dear," Dean called mockingly to him before the door slammed shut. Sam gave him a weak glare through the windshield as he stalked for the motel lobby. Awake and out from Sam's too observant gaze, Dean opened the car door and, with the support of the door, levered himself to his feet. Feeling lightheaded and weak, he rested his arms on the top of the open door frame, took in a cleansing breath and tried to stamp out the pain and disorientation that clung to him.

When he felt the worst of his weakness rescind, he stepped away from the support of the car and stretched. Though he openly groaned and winced at the pain of his action, he rolled his shoulders, pushed his body to obey his commands. Taking a few steps forward to loosen up his legs, he squinted into the sun that was about to do its swan song for the day and cursed the headache that refused to relinquish its reign. 'Least I'm not babbling away in Latin anymore,' he consoled himself, catching himself before he made the mistake of shaking his head at the trouble that trait had heaped on his head in the past few days.

Exiting the lobby, Sam slowed his steps as he saw Dean standing outside the car, his back to him. Taking the opportunity to gauge his brother's movements without Dean's knowledge, Sam could see the tense set to his brother's shoulders, could see Dean's stance was one of weary resolve instead of strength. He wasn't surprised when Dean spoke to him without turning around.

"So what license plate number did you use?"

Waiting until Dean turned around, Sam offered up a small smile, "S. T. W." Here he gave a moment's pause for emphasis. "L. Y. N. N. "

A hearty laugh erupted from Dean at his brother's response. "Stolen?! You didn't?" he pressed, enjoying the fact that his brother had taken up his habit of devising sardonic license plate numbers, was even touched by it.

"Yeah, I did," Sam shot back, a smug smile on his features. "We're around back and the guy said the room's shower has a massage head and they have free movies on 24/7."

"Remind me to send a thank you card to Dylan," Dean joked as he climbed back into the car.

Parking the car outside their wing of the motel, Sam felt a little lost as he stepped out of the car and realized the only possessions they had in the world were the clothing on their backs and the things in the shopping bag that he had purchased just that morning. Dean didn't seem to have any of his same reflections, just simply climbed from the car and made his way, albeit slowly, to the motel's side entrance, without a backwards glance to the car or Sam.

Grabbing the shopping bag, Sam strode forward, slid through the motel entrance door that Dean was holding open for him by leaning against. Together they walked down the hallway to their room. The green light on the door lock shouldn't have felt like such a relief but it did to the two exhausted Winchesters.

Pushing the door open and stepping into the room, Dean vaguely admired the bland décor that any respectable father wouldn't mind subjecting his kids to. Then he was stumbling for the closest bed.

Guessing Dean's intensions, it took all of Sam's logical resolve to force himself to reach out and latch onto Dean's arm, to derail his brother's forward motion to his much deserved sanctuary of the bed, of more fitful sleep. When Dean swung around to face him with anger and frustration in his tired gaze, Sam ordered forcefully, "Go take a shower, Dean." Cutting off Dean's protest, he explained, "You need to get the dirt off before I can treat your wounds."

Recognizing that Dean wasn't about to submissively do his little brother's bidding, Sam stepped forward, crowded Dean and said, his voice low, unflinchingly determined, "Dean, don't even try and tell me that you're OK or that you're not in pain or that it can wait! It's waited long enough!" 'I've had to wait long enough to ease your pain, to make sure you're going to be alright. I can't wait any longer, I won't,' he left unsaid. But something in his brother's eyes shifted from protest to some emotion he couldn't identify. It made Sam question if his sentiments were hidden from Dean after all, were maybe heard loudly and clearly.

Not being a fool, Dean knew Sam was right, knew better than most people ever wanted to know how far he could push his own body, how much pain and wear and tear he could lock away, make it as if it didn't exist. In truth, he had passed that threshold hours ago. Crap, if he were really honest with himself, he knew that he had been toeing that line for days, practically since the Simmons had hauled him from the wreckage of their shed.

It unnerved him that somewhere along the lines Sam had learned to see through his walls, had known what he was only now admitting to himself. Fearing disappointment, even disgust in Sam's eyes, Dean found only compassion, worry in the look his brother leveled at him. Sam forgave his weakness, overlooked it, discounted it and Dean wasn't sure how to feel about that, about that charity.

Trusting Dean to not deny his request out of hand, Sam released his hold on his brother's arm and sat the shopping bag down onto the table. Pulling out the clothing he had purchased for Dean, he held the items out to his brother, a beseeching look morphing with his resolve.

Cursing little brothers and their inexplicable hold on their older brothers, Dean ripped the clothing from Sam's grasp, stalked into the bathroom and shut the door with force. But inside, out from under Sam's inspection, Dean leaned heavily against the bathroom door, his eyes shut and the clothing he held feeling too heavy in his hands. Sam for a moment there with his 'Go take a shower, Dean' had sounded too much like their Dad, had mimicked the tone Dean had heard from John Winchester a hundred times before…when his father thought he was being weak, believed that he would go off and do the wrong thing. And though no disgust, no censorship had entered Sam's eyes with his order, Dean wondered if Sam was simply a better poker player than he and his father had ever given him credit for.

Though the slam of the door wasn't exactly an encouraging sign for his upcoming doctor routine, Sam accepted it gratefully for what it was: a concession to his wishes, albeit a disgruntled one. Sinking down onto the end of the nearest bed, Sam bowed his head, ran tired hands through his hair and tried to loosen the tension that still held his muscles taut. With the sound of the shower turning on, he raised his head, looked to the closed bathroom door and felt some of the fear coursing through him dissipate. Forcing himself to his feet, he started to lay out the medical supplies he had purchased onto the night stand. All the while, he refused to let his mind revisit the events of the last few days, to count how many times he had thought he was going to lose his brother.

'Stop acting like the girl Dean thinks you are. Dean's alright,' he chastised himself, knowing that the last thing Dean wanted was for him to hover all over him, to treat him like he was weak, was broken. But Sam's fingers stopped their motion at that thought. Bracing his hands on the night stand, he hung his head and wished that Dean had had a different life, that someone had done for Dean what Dean had done for him: sheltered him, protected him, took the time to mend him when he was broken.

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TBC

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Ok, so it's not a great place to throw in a TBC but it's the best break I could find. Guess that's a common problem when you've decide to write nonsensical fluff like this is..

Thank you for all the wonderful words of encouragement, not only for last chapter but for this story! That helped me get this chapter into shape and out to you!

Have a wonderful day!

Cheryl W.