As always, not mine, don't own.

My thanks to Fanpire101 for beta-reading this for me. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

I appreciate the comments from Book girl fan, otp-fandomfeels, and Guest on the previous chapter. Thanks also to everyone who's been reading along.

Cross-posted at Archive of Our Own.

"Monsters?" Jess echoed, eyes darting furtively into the darkened corners of the hospital. "You mean like child molesters and murderers?" she whispered.

Sam held her gaze. "No. Monsters like werewolves and ghosts." He rubbed his uninjured hand absentmindedly against his jean-clad leg, right over the place where the Black Dog had clawed him when he was fourteen.

Jess' eyes caught the gesture and Sam dropped his hand self-consciously. She knew about the scar. Of course she'd asked, but he'd never been able to fully convince her it was from a skateboarding accident.

Jessica touched her fingertips to his left thigh. "Is that how you got this scar?" she asked softly. "Hunting 'monsters'?" He could hear the skepticism in her voice.

Sam engulfed her tiny hand with his large one and nodded. Jess bit her lip. She didn't look convinced.

Sam's head began to pound. Dad's teachings echoed through his mind: Always cover your injuries, boys. Never let anyone see your scars.

He knew Jess wondered about his past. His former life dictated his collegiate clothing choices: multiple layers, no shorts, no short-sleeved shirts. Even today, when he'd come home from the optical shop and changed into jeans, he'd added a flannel over his T-shirt.

Dad's voice sounded a warning in his head. Never answer their questions directly. Civilians don't understand.

"Sam," Jess said, her voice gentle and placating. "Monsters aren't real. You know that, right?" She shook her head. "Your dad, your brother ... they're mentally ill, Sam."

The former hunter sighed and stood up, dropping the ice pack and pinching the bridge of his nose with his left hand. "I think we should discuss this later, Jess."

She frowned and pushed him back into a chair. "Sit. I'll get you some aspirin." Jess leaned down to pick up the cold pack, then replaced it over his swollen knuckles.

Sam felt too weary to argue. He threw his left arm over his eyes and concentrated on breathing through the pain.

"What do you want to drink?" Her voice was soft, in deference to his headache.

Sam peeked out from under his long fingers. "A Coke, I guess?"

She squeezed his shoulder. "I'll be right back."

Sam could feel himself falling into post-adrenaline fatigue. Sitting with his eyes closed, the tension he'd been feeling lessened fractionally until he abruptly realized that he was in danger of falling asleep.

With Dean still in surgery.

Sam's eyes popped open, and even beneath his arm, the fluorescent lights shot daggers through his skull. He bit back a whimper.

Could this day get any worse?

A cold soda was pressed into his free hand and he felt Jess's fingers stroking his cheek.

"Shh. Keep your eyes closed. I checked; Dean's still in surgery. They had to call in a hand and wrist surgeon." As Sam's shoulders stiffened, Jess rubbed his back. "It's okay, Sam. Mrs. Blevins said it's standard procedure for an injury like that."

She pressed the two tablets to his lips. "Take these, all right? And just rest a bit. I'm here, Sam."

For how much longer? Sam tried to slow his racing thoughts. He needed to have a real conversation with Jess; he had to convince her that he and his family weren't insane. But he could only tackle one problem at a time right now, and for now, that problem had to be Dean.

Or rather, it should be Dean. Instead, this headache was making it hard for Sam to concentrate on anyone or anything else. He opened his mouth and downed the tablets with a gulp of soda.

"What else did she say?" he asked, forcing his eyes to focus on the young woman sitting next to him.

Jess pressed her legs closer to his and stroked the wrinkles out of his brow. "Baby, they're doing all they can."

Sam blinked, trying to shove the pain aside long enough to focus on her words. "What does that mean?" he asked, voice tight. He moved to stand. "I need to talk -"

Jess tugged him down. "No, you don't. I got as much out of her as she could tell me and the surgeons are busy. Dean has vascular injuries, Sam. They're considering the best way to repair them." She gave him a gentle, one-handed hug. "I was wrong. You were right to fight with your father over this."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. A tear slid down his cheek as relief and exhaustion warred with pain and worry. He nodded, opening his eyes to her concerned look.

"Okay."

Swimming through a sea of fog ... a lighthouse blaring repetitively as its spotlight washed over his face ... the soft murmuring of voices, someone calling for him ... the feel of a strong hand in his.

Sammy.

Dean attempted to open his eyes, but the brightness blinded him. He must have croaked out something similar, because the light level abruptly dropped by half. His eyes cracked open to scan the small room. White walls. His nose twitched. Antiseptic. Sam by his bedside. Hospital.

Sam squeezed his hand once, warm and reassuring. "Hey, Dean." The older brother pulled away and attempted to sit. When he tried to push himself up by the arms, a searing pain bolted through his right wrist and he had to breathe through the agony so he didn't cry out. Both of Sammy's hands were on him now, gently pushing him back against the pillows. "Easy, Dean. You just had surgery on that arm."

Dean tried to recall why and came up blank. The fear must have shown on his face, because Sam replied, "You were in a car accident. The Impala hit a deer, remember? And, before you ask, I've got a number for the tow truck and a shop in mind for the repair. I'll call them both as soon as they open this morning."

The older brother's eyes slid closed in relief. "G'd sh'p?" he mumbled.

Dean could hear Sam's bitch face in his reply. "Yes, it's a good shop, Dean. I wouldn't leave your car with just anybody."

"Oh, 'kay." It was hard to keep putting his thoughts into words. But he and Baby would be all right. That was what mattered. And Sammy was here by his side. "Dad?" Dean queried.

There was hesitation from the young man seated beside him, long enough that Dean opened his bleary eyes. "He was here, Dean." Sam looked both lost and angry. "He and I ... uh ... well, we kinda disagreed on your care." Sam flashed a grim smile that didn't reach his dimples. "So, you're stuck with me for awhile."

"Wha'?" Dean had so many questions, but he was barely awake and he couldn't possibly articulate them all. Or any of them, actually.

"Go to sleep, Dean." Sam patted him awkwardly. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Sam watched anxiously until his older brother's features relaxed and fell slack. Only then did he stand up, crack his back, and pace around the small recovery room and into the hall. The wall clock by the nurses' station read just past three, and a yawn slipped out of Sam's mouth before he could stop it. He returned to his brother's room and had no idea how long he stood there, watching Dean sleep, before a nurse peeked her head in.

"Did you and your brother have a nice talk?" she whispered.

Sam chuckled and replied softly, "He won't remember any of it, but yeah." The weary man dropped heavily back onto the chair beside the bed as she assessed her patient.

"He's coming along fine," she said as she finished. "We'll get him up to a room soon." Her scrutinizing gaze fell on Sam. "How's your headache?"

Sam hadn't realized that he was massaging his forehead until her words drew attention to his actions. He dropped his left hand into his lap. "Fine," he lied. At her frown, he amended, "I'm just tired."

"And your hand?" She gave him a gentle smile as he murmured that he was all right. "Trying to compete with your brother, I see."

He raised a corner of his mouth at her attempt at levity, and she patted him on the shoulder.

"Let's see if we can get you into a nice room with one of those newfangled guest chairs. I hear they're pretty comfy. And I'll bring you some extra blankets."

Sam nodded. It took him a minute to realize that he had resumed grinding his fist into his eyes.

"I'm going to grab a couple of Tylenol for you, too. Okay, sweetie?"

He blinked up at the unexpected endearment, but the woman had already left the room. Sam sighed. In his mind, he could hear his father's incessant disapproval with every action he took.

Why'd you let her see you like that? You're such a pansy, boy.

Sam cradled his head, trying to shield himself from the onslaught of mental criticism. He missed Jess. He'd taken her home after the surgeon had come out to tell them that Dean would be fine. There were significant details to pore over later - broken bones, vascular repair - but Dean would be okay. Sam had all of the pamphlets he could ever hope to read on wrist injuries and a number to contact for physical rehabilitation. He felt a sense of irony as he held on to them with his own bandaged right hand. Dean was going to hate rehab - his brother despised hospitals - but Sam intended to hold him to it.

A real man wouldn't need rehab. You tryin' to make your brother go soft like you?

The pain in Sam's head ratcheted up a notch and he found himself swallowing the extra saliva that came just before vomiting. Oh shit. A whimper escaped his lips as he closed his eyes.

Sam began to rock back and forth in the chair, fighting for control of his digestive tract. Not here, not now, not here, not now. He didn't realize that he was mumbling the words aloud.

Spiking pain lanced both eye sockets as Dad's voice reached a crescendo of sneering condescension in his mind. Always the drama queen. What the fuck is wrong with you now? This isn't about you, boy.

"S'mmy." Dean's voice broke through the haze of nausea and pain. "Sammy, what's wrong?" A fumbling hand reached for him, and Sam clasped it between his own two trembling hands. Dean fingered the compression wrap over Sam's knuckles. "What did'ja do to your hand?"

Sam couldn't answer; he was too wrapped up in trying not to throw up. Too bright, too loud. The squeak of the nurse's shoes sent spikes of pain through his head as she re-entered the room.

"Hey, my brother's hurt. You need to help him." Sam could feel the tension in Dean's good hand and he felt guilty for putting it there.

Sam felt a cool hand on his forehead that wasn't his brother's. "Sam, can you hear me?" He nodded under her fingers. "Is your headache worse?" He nodded again, feeling weak. Not weak. Pathetic, worthless, lazy, useless. A moan escaped his lips.

"Is he okay?"

Sam wanted to reassure Dean, but he didn't want to puke on his brother either. He settled for nodding, hoping that Dean could see him. He couldn't open his eyes to console him without throwing up from the light.

"Is your brother prone to migraines, Mr. Winchester?"

Sam nodded beneath the nurse's ministrations as Dean fumbled for an answer.

"I dunno? He used to get bad headaches as a kid and sometimes he threw up. Usually after a fight with our ... oh, Sammy."

Dean squeezed Sam's nearest hand, but unfortunately, that was the one with the bruised knuckles. Sam winced audibly.

"Can you check out his hand, too?"

After an indeterminate amount of time where Sam simply coped with the pain and Dean murmured soothing words, Sam finally received an injection of Toradol and a promise that he'd be getting an X-ray of his hand after a proper rest. The brothers were moved upstairs into Dean's new hospital room. Both the nurse and Dean insisted that Sam take the adjacent bed and get some actual sleep.

Sam drifted off to the sound of the nurse lecturing Dean that he needed his rest too. Then the light blissfully diminished, and both Winchester brothers finally fell asleep.