Sam was awake.
And he was sick.
Really sick. Really just felt like hell.
Because the dehydration and burns weren't enough, rat-bite fever had set in. They'd started Sam on a round of antibiotics right away, but it wasn't soon enough to stave off the effects of the disease.
He was wracked by fever and nausea. Worse though, was the debilitating muscle ache that seemed to affect his whole body. He sat in the bed, trying to move as little as possible, because movement meant overwhelming pain.
Sam's life at the moment pretty much sucked.
Worst of all though - something was really wrong with Dean.
Sam remembered the overwhelming relief he'd felt when he'd awoken in the hospital bed and found Dean asleep in the chair beside him.
Because Sam remembered it all - everything. He remembered the needle and the room and the trunk and the barn.
He remembered the rats.
He remembered William showing up and telling him Dean was dead.
Dean was dead.
That was when Sam had pretty much given up.
The bastard was going to bury him alive, and Sam hadn't been able to find the strength to fight back. His brother was gone.
Except that he wasn't.
When Sam woke up and saw Dean … well.
It was a relief to say the least.
But was Dean even happy to see him? Sam wasn't sure. The older boy was distant, almost a little cold. It wasn't like him.
At first, Sam was sure it was just the guilt of what he'd done while under the preacher's spell. And he'd let Dean know he didn't blame him for any of it.
But Dean, as usual, sure blamed himself. Sam was certain he was going to cut and run.
Just like Dad.
He had that wild look in his eye that Sam had seen a million times over but never on Dean.
"Dean," He croaked out, when they were finally alone.
The older boy stood up from his chair where he'd been camping out by Sam's bed. "Yeah?"
"Don't go. Please."
Dean frowned, his lips parting in confusion, "What?"
"Stay, please? I … I need you." He tried to grasp the older boy's hand, but the pain was stifling. He whimpered and dropped his hand back to the bed. He closed his eyes. "Don't. Don't be Dad. Okay? You're not him."
Dean grimaced, unable to stand seeing Sam in such pain and knowing he was the cause. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until you're better."
"Sammy."
"What?"
"You haven't … called me that since I woke up. Haven't called me anything, really. Do you blame me for this? Because I wouldn't leave when you asked me to?"
Dean blinked. "Of course not."
Sam was in too much pain to raise his hand and wipe away the tears. "Because I couldn't leave, Dean. I couldn't just leave and let you there, under his spell or his enchantment or whatever it was. Okay? I couldn't. I was selfish. I wanted my brother back." He trembled. "I hate to ask …"
"What?"
"My face. Could you? The salt burns."
Dean nodded, reaching over with a tissue, "Yeah, sure." He dabbed away the stray tears, careful not to hurt Sam more than necessary. But when the younger boy's expressive eyes met his own, Dean halted, guilt burning a hole in his heart. He looked away, clearing his throat. "Did I get it?"
Sam sighed, "Yeah, thanks."
"No problem."