I've had this in the works for long enough, I'm embarrassed to admit to it. Mid-ep to S4 "Yellow Fever."

This Poison Comes Instruction-Free

Coming out of the coma, or that split-second waking up in the djinn's lair…the way Dean looked, that's the way he looks now. Pale, scared, out of control. Feral. His brother's not one to falter often, but on the rare occasion he does, he always composes himself quickly, puts up the wall in remarkable time, the blink of an eye. Recovers, seems strong again. Not now.

Now, he's very nearly hyperventilating, eyes unfocused and darting all over the room. When they settle on Sam's face, only inches from his own, he reacts so harshly he knocks the back of his head into the wall.

"Dean! Dean, knock it off!" Damn it. Sam grips his brother's upper arms, making it worse, not better. His struggles increase.

"Let go," Dean gasps out. He's grasping Sam's wrists with white hands but the knock to the head seems to have cleared his senses. His eyes focus and he sees Sam this time. "Let me go."

Sam releases Dean and steps back. "Okay. Okay."

Dean slides down the wall into a breathless heap on the floor. He doubles over onto his palms and continues gulping for air.

At a loss, Sam crouches nearby, eyebrows knit together.

It takes several minutes for Dean to calm down, but he eventually does. Sam lets his brother pull himself together in private, going into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He takes his time, dreading going back to tend to Dean. Bobby's on his way, can't get here soon enough.

Turns out Dean isn't so much calmed down as he is gulping from a fresh fifth of Beam he's produced while Sam stepped away.

"Hey!" Sam barks. He covers the distance in three strides, wrenches the bottle from Dean's white-knuckled grip, and grasps his shoulder firmly, giving his brother a shake. "You don't need that. I've got you."

Dean doesn't seem comforted by this, but skittish of Sam, suspicious. Scared.

"Dean, it's just me." Sam swallows. "Whatever you were seeing, it wasn't real. THIS is real. Okay?"

Dean stares a moment and nods slowly. He runs a rough hand over his face and looks away, embarrassed. "Yeah," he says softly.

"Okay." Sam puts his hands on his hips and glances at the clock. He's suddenly exhausted, but doesn't know if that counts for anything. "Let's just try to get some sleep."

Dean nods, but it's easier said than done.

This is new, and different. Sam normally likes new and different; there are those who would argue Sam abandoned his family and his duty for new and different. However, the principle advocate for that school of thought is currently verbalizing that he is unable to sleep due to a decidedly nonthreatening shadow on the wall of their motel room. To Sam, it's the combination of the streetlamp outside, a gap in the curtains, and the stack of books on the tabletop. To Dean, it's a monster.

A plane flies overhead, sounding too close to Dean's suddenly hyper-sensitive ears.

He finds the knife under his pillow and freaks. He could slice his fingers or cut off his head – what's he THINKING?

"What's that?"

"It's a dog, Dean." A particularly irritating mutt who has spent the entire night barking a steady waltz – one two three; Sam notices, but it's one of those observations he keeps to himself.

Dean jerks with each bark. Sam knows because every damn light in the room is on: both lights over the beds, the desk lamp by the door, the round vanity bulbs over the sink in the bathroom. These aren't remotely five-star accommodations, and the lights in the bathroom have been flickering for about twenty minutes, each individual minute ticking by excruciatingly slowly on his wristwatch, like Chinese water torture. Killing Sam drop by drop. Tick by tick. Sam thinks the light is doing more harm than good, as the finicky bulbs are the reason for the troublesome shadows.

They give up on the idea of slumber fairly quickly. The brothers sit on their respective beds, the television on and tuned to a local channel, a rerun of the nightly news program. Also probably doing more harm than good, as Dean is likely to worry that the convenience store robbed earlier that afternoon is right across the street as opposed to clear across town.

Sam is sprawled across the covers but it's all for show. He's tense as a board but is hoping if he looks relaxed, maybe Dean will relax. Dean is fully clothed but has changed out of the starchy suit into something looser, and more comfortable: a long-sleeved tee, jeans, and boots. In the middle of the night the boots are unnecessary but Sam is in a reactive place now and past the point of bringing up such a thought. His brother is ready to run.

Dean has his knees drawn up to his chest and it reminds Sam of a time when they were just innocent kids, jumping from bed to bed, pretending they couldn't touch the floor. Dean had pounced rather impressively from the bed to the dresser, sending a lamp to the floor with a crash that brought Dad slamming in from the other room. It became a much quieter game after that.

The dog barks one two three, Dean flinches, the bathroom lights flicker, the minutes tick by, and it's only getting harder for Sam to keep his eyes open. "Dean, it's just a dog."

"Yeah." A very audible throat-clearing. "Yeah, I know."

"Okay. So. Dog. Nothing to be afraid of." He should be more sympathetic, he really should. This isn't Dean's fault, this isn't even really DEAN. It's a Hell-weakened replacement version, under the influence of a vengeful ghost. It's an idea Sam's having an easier time getting used to than he'd like to admit: the Dean that is the big brother he's known for twenty-odd years isn't home anymore. Not since Hell. He'd been thrown into a world without him, had done okay for himself, and even having Dean back, he's not really BACK.

Dean's quieter, more introverted than he's ever been, stuck in his own head. Weaker, and Sam can't help but think maybe the ghost wouldn't have so easily taken hold of Dean if he was as strong as he used to be, whether he fit the profile or not.

Bottom line: this is strange but Sam is handling it better than he would have a year ago. By necessity, he's the strong one now. Instead of freaking out and giving in to Dean's every pathetic demand, he's beginning to find his brother annoying, nearly insufferable under the circumstances.

He knows this makes him a bad brother but it's not really Dean so the rules aren't the same. Sam changes the hotel room but he's not going to baby him.

Dean nods. On the next bark he closes his eyes, facial muscles visibly tensing as he keeps from jumping. "It's, uh, a normal dog, right? Not, uh…"

"Not a what?" For all his good intentions, Sam's patience is worn as thin as these windowpanes.

"Never mind. Nothing."

A pause, in which Sam realizes his mistake.

"It's normal, right?" Dean stares at the ceiling; he won't look at Sam.

"Yes, Dean." His tone is gentler now, like it should have been to begin with. "It's a normal dog."

"Okay. Okay." Dean's head bobs again, and he even seems to relax a little. Then again, it might just be a trick of the flickering lights.

Sam's gotten them switched to the first floor, but the last available room was right next to the manager's office, and this means a lot more foot traffic. Despite the hour, two sets of small feet go stampeding past the door, accompanied by a tinny shriek of laughter. The dog picks up the tempo, Dean jumps, and Sam thinks, don't people ever SLEEP around here?

Sam knows this is serious but he also knows if he handles Dean with the kid gloves that seem emotionally appropriate at the moment, they'll BOTH go crazy. It won't do either of them any good, so he acts annoyed. It isn't hard.

"Sleep, Dean." Sam can say it as much as he wants, but he knows it won't happen.

The shadows make Dean nervous. The footsteps make Dean nervous. Sam can't even hear the whirring and clanking of the vending machine two doors down but it makes Dean nervous. Sam thinks nervous because he can't think scared. Dean doesn't get scared, and this is a comforting truth he's held above almost everything else for the majority of his life, and yet he thinks he can hear Dean's heart pounding from the other bed. .

"What's that?"

Oh, if Sam had a nickel for every time he's answered this question. He's lost count. "Someone's starting a car, Dean."

"At this hour?" But the use of his name seems to anchor Dean. It brings him back to solid ground every time he starts to freak.

He calms down, resumes staring at the ceiling. He's not scratching as much, or maybe he's already gotten better at hiding it. Someone in the room above theirs has been in the shower. Pipes groan and shudder over their heads as the water shuts off.

Another five minutes of blessed silence. Even the dog has finally shut the hell up. Sam feels himself starting to nod off despite the light in the room and the volume of the TV.

"What's that?"

Sam sighs but doesn't open his eyes. He didn't hear anything. "It's a monster, Dean. That's why I'm lying here in bed, not doing a damn thing about it."

Dean is quiet and Sam doesn't know whether he's pissed off or freaked out, but does realize that what he's been thinking has finally slipped out of his mouth.

He opens his eyes. "Dean?"

"That's not funny."

"I know. I'm sorry."

It was amusing at first, seeing Dean like this. Not anymore. The car backfires and Dean jumps. His eyes squeeze shut, his lips purse. There are lines in his face that weren't there yesterday. This is beyond simple fear, and Dean's clearly frustrated, knowing better but not able to do anything about it.

This time, Dean's eyes stay closed. Sam thinks maybe he's finally fallen asleep, but can see his lips moving wordlessly. Sam can't make out what Dean is telling himself but it's the first time all day he hasn't asked what the sound is. "You need to get some sleep, Dean."

Jaw clenched, Dean shakes his head. Sam doesn't know what he means: No, I'm fine or No, I can't. Doesn't really matter either way.

"Sammy," Dean grunts. "Sleep."

Sam stills at the sound of his brother's voice next to him. He didn't know Dean was still awake.

"I'm not." Dean's answer is thick with sleep and muffled by the pillow smashed against his face. "I'm awake again."

"Sorry," Sam whispers. He tries to keep still; the bed is squeaky and even the smallest move is echoed in the small square bedroom.

Dean sighs and settles back, melting into the mattress as it gives a groan of protest.

Sam's eyes feel heavy and he starts to relax, his heart slowing the frantic pace it's been keeping since the lights went out. Dean lets loose a heartfelt snore and Sam's eyes snap open just in time to glimpse movement in the closet. He jumps, knocking an elbow into the back of Dean's head.

"OW! Sammy, what the – "

"Dean! There's something in the closet!"

"There's nothing in the – Sam!" Dean's cut off as Sam scrambles over him to get to the light switch, letting knees and elbows land where they may.

Sam pauses with his hand on the switch as the room is filled with a soft yellow light, making visible the faded flowery wallpaper left by the previous tenants, Dean's Baywatch poster, and the lonely clothes hanging in the closet. It's wide open, always is; the sliding doors have been broken and hanging off the track since they moved in two months ago.

Dean, not one known to take well to being woken up in the middle of the night, shoves Sam back to his side of the bed. "Get offa me!"

Sam falls onto the hard mattress with a childish cry.

The light, scuffle, shouting, or some combination brings Dad to their door. It bangs open. "Boys." All Dad needs to say.

Dean stills with a hand fisted in Sam's tee. Sam freezes with his own hand clawed and poised to strike back. In the blink of an eye Dean's sitting on the edge of the bed, back ramrod straight.

Dad's still dressed in that day's clothes. His voice is stern but there's a smile in his eyes. Sam can hear muted sounds from the television in the next room. "It's almost midnight. What seems to be the problem?"

Dean digs a knuckle in his eyes. His hair is sticking up. "Ask the little dude. I was asleep."

Dad cocks an eyebrow. "Sam?"

Sam doesn't want to say.

"Samuel?"

Sam mumbles an answer and Dean gives him an annoyed nudge with his elbow.

Dad clicks his tongue disapprovingly and Dean mutters an apology.

"There's something in the closet," Sam says, louder.

"Yeah?" Dad's amused.

Dean snorts and Sam nods. Dad rocks back on his heels, staring over their heads at the closet. He crosses the small room in few lengthy strides and slides plastic hangers across the bar, checking the dark corners.

He turns back to face them, holds up a finger, and leaves the room.

Dean scratches the back of his neck, yawning. "You think I can go back to sleep yet?"

"Shut up." Sam shoves him in the back and Dean gives him a light punch in return.

Dad reenters the room and holds out his right hand. In it is a handgun.

"Oh, sweet." Dean, suddenly wide-awake, reaches for the gun. Dad moves it away. He holds it butt-out for Sammy to take. Dean makes a protesting sound. Sam shies away.

Dad shifts his weight, keeping the gun at arm's length. "There's nothing there tonight, Sammy. But if there ever is." He jiggles the pistol.

Sam knows how to use it, of course. How to use it, hold it, load it, clean it. Dean's very nearly pouting as Sam takes the gun. He doesn't know why; Dean has several Dad has already given him, the difference being that those guns stay with Dad's guns. Dean's never been allowed to keep one in their room.

"In your drawer," Dad says seriously. "Or under the bed. Not," he glares at Dean, "under your pillow. Don't want to have an accident."

"No, sir," Sam says.

Dad waits for Sam to tuck the gun on the floor under the bed. Then he leans down and puts a hand on his head. "Night, kiddo."

He ruffles Dean's hair, though he tries to duck away. Lately Dean likes to act more grown up than he actually is, and it bugs Sam.

Dad flips the light out and pulls the door shut as he steps out into the hall.

Dean gives Sam a light punch in the arm goodnight and collapses against his pillow. He's out within seconds. Sam knows, because he tries to get Dean to talk to him. The only response he can elicit is a breathy "uh" and a snore, something else Dean has been doing lately.

Sam lies on his side staring at the closet. He can't see anything yet. He stares, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. His left arm drops over the edge of the mattress and feels out the cool metal of the gun.

Dad and Dean always make it sound like holding a gun makes you feel safe. Sam doesn't feel safer because he's touching the gun Dad gave him. His fingers just feel colder. Dean being there is what makes Sam feel safe. Dean won't let anything happen to him.

Dean yawns loud and dramatically, not quite as asleep as he'd want Sam to think. "Don't worry, Sammy. You don't need a gun. You've got me." He grins, big and goofy, and gives Sam a shove.

Somehow a blink turns into sleep and Sam startles, awakened by nothing more than the mere fact he's fallen asleep on the job.

The lights and television are all still on but exhaustion seems to have gotten the best of both of them. Dean's bed is empty, not only of Dean but of pillows and blankets, as well. Sam jumps out of bed and his feet tangle in a pile of both the missing brother and blankets.

He trips and catches himself on the edge of the opposite bed, balancing his weight on his outstretched arms so he doesn't fall on top of Dean.

"Jesus Christ!" Dean shouts, jackknifing from his prone position. "What the hell?"

Sam shoves himself back up onto his bed. "What the hell are you doing on the floor?"

Dean rolls his eyes and throws his head back against his pillow. He looks just as he did two days ago if not for the dark circles. "No." He swallows. A muscle in his jaw jumps. "No, I'm sorry I'm keeping you up. Go to sleep."

"No, it's okay." Sam stretches his arms out in front of him, pops his neck. He glances cautiously at the clock, seeing exactly what he feared. Only thirty minutes have passed since the last time he checked. Good nap. "I'm sorry, I'm up now. I'll sit with you."

"You don't have to – "

"Dean, please. How many times did you sit up with me?" When I was scared, he adds silently.

Dean laughs shakily. "Yeah, you're right. You owe me."

Sam didn't realize he'd finally fallen asleep, for good this time.

His eyes are much slower to open this go-round, sticky with sleep, heavy lidded. The sun is just thinking about making an appearance, the room a dusty yellow shade most people usually take as a clue to sleep another hour or so. Sam has already slept an hour too long.

He sits up in bed and looks guiltily around the room to find Dean already dressed, or maybe still dressed, sitting in a chair pulled close to the window. "Hey."

Dean jumps. He turns to face Sam, pale and ghostly, raccoon eyes in an unnaturally white face. "Morning," he mumbles, turning back to the window.

Real or imagined, Sam hears the blame in his voice. "You get any sleep?" he asks, pulling himself out of bed, knowing the answer but not able to stop himself from asking, not this early in the morning.

"No."

"You will."

"Sure." Dean coughs harshly into his hand, rotating in his chair so Sam can't see his face.

Sam frowns and his heart skips a beat, but he doesn't say anything about it, just like Dean wants it. Until they figure this out, there's nothing he can do, anyway. He grabs a fresh pair of jeans from the bureau and runs a hand through his bed head. "I'll grab some coffee."

Dean nods, with a fair bit of annoyance. "Can I come?" he asks after a moment.

Sam pauses, pulling a hooded sweatshirt over his head. Duh, asshole. "Yeah. Of course."

Dean bobs his head. He slowly and stiffly rises from the chair, jerking his neck to elicit a very audible pop. He does not look well.

Sam cocks his head, all the sympathies he'd somehow lost overnight rushing back, causing him to feel very much like an asshole, and not a little bit like his father. "Let's just get some breakfast. Bobby will be here soon."

"Okay."

Dean waits by the door as Sam ties his sneakers. He seems calmer than last night, but isn't hiding his fear as well as he thinks he is. He somehow simultaneously has one eye on the window and one on the bathroom behind Sam. The door is pulled halfway closed and Dean seems jittery by the fact he can't see what might be behind it, but he sure as hell isn't going to go over and check and isn't going to ask his brother to do it for him.

So Sam finishes with his shoes, stands, stretches and gently pushes the door open with his fingertips.

By the times Sam turns, Dean has his eyes averted. Sam wonders if the color will ever return to his face.

It has to, he thinks morbidly, because if it doesn't that means he's dead.

Breakfast is an experience. Bringing Dean into a public place is such a bad idea it should have been apparent before Sam agreed to it. But Sam felt guilty, and so here they are.

The whole ordeal takes twice the time it should. It's early but there are a fair amount of morning regulars at the restaurant, and Dean makes him wait for a specific booth to open; one with a view out of the windows and of both the front door and those leading to the bathrooms in the back.

Dean takes a big gulp from his first cup of coffee as soon as the waitress plunks it in front of him. He coughs, dribbles a bit of the brew down his chin.

Sam frowns as he watches Dean wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and sip much more carefully from his water glass. He takes a drink from his own mug, waiting for the caffeine to kick his headache to the curb.

Dean won't pull his gaze from the storefront windows, flinching as cars and people pass by, on full alert, as if expecting an attack at any moment. Sam orders for both of them, and when their meals arrive he digs in, starving. Dean takes his time cutting his breakfast into small bites, wary after the coffee mishap.

Get here, Bobby, Sam pleads, swallowing a hunk of eggs over the lump in his throat. He wonders if he'll ever use the word "normal" again in his lifetime.

An elderly man trips on his way past their booth and falls against Dean's shoulder. He jumps, knife and fork clattering to the floor as he knocks his knee into the underside of the table. Sam's glass tips with a crash as water and half-melted ice cubes spread out across the tabletop and his breakfast, dripping into his lap.

Dean has never in his life spooked so easily.

"I'm sorry I startled you," the man stutters, righting himself, red-faced.

Several patrons applaud good-naturedly and a pair of waitresses rushes forward to help with the mess.

Dean's face is as white as the napkins they have in hand. He stumbles to his feet and pushes his way through, mumbling apologies, and hurries for the doorway.

"Dean." Sam tries to stop him but he's already made his way outside. He throws a pair of twenties onto the middle of the table, for the meals and the mess, and follows suit.

He finds Dean bent over by the Impala, hands on his knees, sucking in big gulps of air. "Hey."

Dean nods, doesn't speak.

Sam cocks his head. "You okay?" Stupid question.

Dean nods once more and moves a few steps away from his brother.

Sam swallows, feeling worthless. "I'll fix this. I promise."

Dean keeps nodding, but Sam's not sure it's a sign of agreement, just one that he's listening.

"What do…" Sam shoots a nervous glance at his watch. He heart skips. He can't believe how quickly time is slipping away. "Let's go hook up with Bobby, okay?"

Dean's eyes are wide, and in them is a look that communicates perfectly that he's been out in the big, bright world long enough for one day.

"You want me to drop you back at the room?"

Dean scratches his arm, apparently past the point of caring what Sam thinks, and nods slowly, defeated.

Sam swallows and cocks his head, revisiting the urge to smack his brother's hand away. "It'll be over soon, Dean."

Dean sucks in a harsh breath and Sam rushes quickly to amend. "Bobby will be here any minute, and we'll fix this."

Sam's not sure who exactly he's trying to convince, Dean or himself, but in about three hours, it won't matter anymore.