A/N: Okay, last chapters are a bitch, I've discovered. But here it is!

Chapter 10

Sam couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. All he could do was stare at his brother as the red circle widened on his shirt, as the red splatters glistened on the wall, as the red blood ran through Dean's fingers as he pressed them against his own chest and stomach, trying to stop the flow, to stop the life ebbing out of him. Red blood that was dripping from Sam's arm and face.

Like in a dream, and through a thick haze that was preventing Sam from feeling his body or hearing anything other than his brother's choked gargles, Sam forced himself off the ground and staggered towards Dean, dropping by his side, eyes locked on the fountain of red coursing over Dean's shaking fingers.

A laugh burst into Sam's horrified stupor, bringing Sam crashing back into reality. He blinked hard to find Dean slumped against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him, breath shooting out in rapid gasps, sweat glistening on his face, eyes staring at his body in shock.

"Fuck," Dean choked out, unshed tears laced through his voice, a line of blood running from his mouth unnoticed. "Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, Sammy."

Another laugh. On hearing it, Sam's panic and horror wound up into a tight, unforgiving ball of rage and Sam swung around, diving for Brad, ripping the gun from his hands and punching him across the face so hard that Brad fell with a grunt, landing flat on his back and staring up at Sam with wide eyes as Sam slammed his fist back into Brad's face. Brad's head whipped to the side and Sam hit him again. And again. Splitting his lip, splitting the skin on his cheek, shattering his nose with a loud crack. Brad's eyelids fluttered and he sunk into unconsciousness. Sam gripped the front of Brad's shirt tightly, angry tears welling up in his eyes. He pulled back his arm, his hand balled up into a tight fist. But hesitated.

"Sammy," Dean's voice – quiet, faded – called from behind him. "Don't."

Upon hearing his brother's voice, the angry tears turned into ones of distress and rolled down his cheeks. Sam unfurled his fist and pushed Brad away, pushing away the tears just as roughly.

He grabbed the gun and threw it into the room's furthest corner and quickly staggered back towards Dean, dropping by his side. "Oh God…" he gasped, seeing how much blood was flowing out from the holes ravaging his brother's torso. He hastily took off his outer shirt and bundled it into a ball, pressing it tightly against Dean's stomach and chest after gently, if shakily, prying away Dean's blood-soaked fingers to find the entry wounds hiding beneath this pool of red. Such small holes, so much blood. Dean gasped as the shirt pressed into him, his head lolling back, his face growing more ashen, more blood running from his mouth. The shirt's colour instantly began to fade to a dark red.

Sam froze, not knowing what to do. He didn't want to hurt Dean more, but he had to stop the bleeding.

"Shh, it's okay," Sam choked out, trying to keep his voice strong, trying to keep the tears from spilling over, trying to reassure his brother as he pressed down tighter on the cloth and as the cloth grew heavier as it soaked up a seemingly unending stream of blood. But he couldn't keep the tremor from his voice, or the worried frown from overpowering his smile. The panic was threatening to engulf him. "It's not that bad. You'll be fine."

Dean's body slumped further down the wall, his shivering increasing, his face growing more pale as the life flowed out with his blood. He rolled his head towards Sam, his eyes boring into his brother's. They were rimmed red from the shock and the pain, but all Sam could focus on was the regret and sorrow that shone out of them.

"You've always been a bad liar, Sammy," he laughed softly, the weak laugh turning into a coughing fit. Scrunching up his forehead with effort, his breathing becoming more labored, Dean haltingly reached up and grasped the front of Sam's shirt.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, wincing and arching his back as he choked on his words, on his own blood. But he forced his eyes back open, his fingers frantically clawing Sam's chest as he struggled to keep breathing and keep talking. His lips, his tongue, his teeth all tasted coppery, and his head was light and he could no longer feel anything but the burning in his stomach and the sweat running down his face, but he forced himself to keep breathing, to keep talking. "I really fucked things up," he choked out, a sob escaping unbidden. "I shouldn't have drawn you back. And...and now I'm leaving you here."

Sam's face crumbled, and his body felt like it was collapsing in on itself from the stress and grief, but he forced himself to gulp in the stale air and keep it together, to keep Dean from seeing how worried he was. He had to get Dean to hold on until he could get help. He had to. "No, Dean, I don't care about that. Just…" he faltered, his lips quaking as he tried to force them into a smile. "Just…don't die, okay?"

Dean's hand tightened around Sam's shirt as he winced again, his breath stopping completely for a second.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his stomach knotting in fear. He grabbed Dean's face. "Dean!"

Dean's eyelids fluttered back open and a shaky breath passed his split lips. But his eyes looked glossy and weren't focusing. And his hand had fallen from Sam's shirt.

"No, no, no, no." Sam chanted the word, over and over, frantically, putting his arm quickly around Dean's shoulders and lifting him up slightly, trying to give his lungs more room to breath. "Dean!" he shouted again. No, this couldn't be happening. He was not about to lose his brother. Dean was all he had left.

Dean's lips moved slightly and his eyes lifted up to towards Sam's, though the rest of him was still and pale and had stopped shivering, like it had finally given up and was now just waiting for Dean to follow.

Sam grabbed Dean's hands, lacing his fingers through them and held them tightly, his terror increasing when he felt no pressure pressing back. Dean's lips moved a few times, but no sound came out, except for a few low chokes and gasps. And even they were retreating.

"Hey, hey," Sam said gently. "It's okay. Don't talk." Sam looked around the basement, his eyes searching frantically. He had to get to a phone. He had to call help. But how could he just leave Dean down here?

"Dean," Sam said, his attention quickly returning to his brother. He rubbed Dean's arms comfortingly, forcing a wavering smile onto his face. "I have to go get help. I have to leave you here for a second."

Dean's eyes widened slightly and his arms tensed. He grabbed Sam's hand with his last bit of energy, silently begging him not to leave. He needed his baby brother with him. He didn't want to die alone.

Sam almost crumbled again at the weak touch. But he forced his grief down, instead gripping Dean's hand tightly and wrapped his other one around Dean's head, drawing his own closer until their foreheads touched. "I have to, Dean," he whispered. "I have to get you help. I have to…But, please, just promise me you'll still be here when I get back. I can't…Just promise me, okay?"

Sam watched his brother's ashen face for a moment before gently prying Dean's fingers from his own, his heart breaking as he did. But he told himself he was just going upstairs to grab the phone. Dean would still be here, alive, when he got back. In this fucking basement. In this fucking house. With those two fucking bodies – one dead, one beaten unconscious. He hated this house – he hated that he had to leave his dying – no! not dying! Just…hurt – brother alone to find a phone. And he hated them more. For doing this to Dean. To him.

Sam placed Dean's hand down gently. "I'll be right back," he promised, quickly jumping up.

"I…"

Sam turned back at the sound of his brother's voice, kneeling back down. "Shh," he said, his tongue and throat too heavy for him to say anything else. "I'll be right back, okay? I have to get you help."

"I can't," Dean managed to say in barely a whisper, his eyes still boring into Sam's. They looked sadder, and calmer, than Sam had ever seen them. "Promise that. I can't. I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry…"

A numbness crept up Sam's spine at those words, and the basement disappeared, the house disappeared, those bodies disappeared. All that was left was him and his older brother. And Dean was fading. And then there'd just be him.

"No," Sam said, letting his frustration overpower his grief. He grabbed onto Dean's shoulders firmly. "You are not going to die, Dean. You hear me? I won't let you. This is not how you go. Not because of some…" he gulped, feeling the tears sting his eyes, but he blinked them back. "…of some fucking bullets and a fucking kid and a fucking vision that I got wrong! We still gotta…" he breathed deeply, looking down and again choking back the tears threatening to overwhelm him. There was no time for that! "…gotta find mum's killer. And find Dad. And…and…just…And I'll give the Impala to the impound lot if you dare leave, Dean. I mean it. This isn't how you go!"

A ghost of a smile brushed Dean's lips, and a few tears slid down his cheeks, turned pink by the time they slid off his face from all the dried blood. Sam's heart sank when he saw them, but after a moment Dean nodded faintly. "Okay," he mouthed, the words dieing before they left his lips.

Sam watched Dean for a second longer, then squeezed his hand tightly and lent forward, kissing him on his head before hurrying up the stairs.

Dean watched him leave, the faint smile fading from his lips. He watched the door to the basement shut. He listened to his breathing slow down in the quiet room. Listened to his heart beat faintly somewhere in the distance. Without feeling it, without knowing how, he turned his head and looked at the two bodies in front of him. One with a hole over his heart, the other bloodied and beaten. He looked back to the closed basement door. And waited for Sam to return, listening to his breathing further slow down, listening to his heartbeat retreat further into the distance, listening for the sound of Sam's footsteps returning.

Sam rummaged around the kitchen, unable to find the phone. He'd looked in every obvious place and was now tearing up the rooms, lifting up papers, slamming open drawers.

"Where is the fucking phone!" he yelled out loud, chucking a saltshaker across the room in frustration. It hit the window and shattered it, glass raining everywhere and skidding across the floor. Sam ran his hands through his hair in frustration. And in panic. Dean didn't have much time!

He heard someone gasp behind him. Sam whipped around to find that little girl standing there, phone pressed tightly against her chest. She hesitantly held it out to him. "We keep it upstairs," she explained, still watching him carefully.

"Thanks," Sam said numbly, reaching for it.

"I already called the ambulance," she said, though she mispronounced 'ambulance'.

Sam looked at her, surprised.

"For your brother. I heard Brad…shoot him. They said they're on their way. To…to keep the shots covered. I didn't know where, or if…um," she looked away shyly. "So…they said they'll come quick."

Sam nodded numbly. "Thank you," he said again, before he had to press his palms to his eyes as the tears finally broke loose. He bent over for a second and let the tears come, let the pain and fear wash through him, shattering into his confidence, into his hope, into his thoughts. "It's my fault," Sam choked out, not knowing why he was telling this frightened girl, just knowing he had to tell someone. "I had that vision to protect, Dean. Not to accuse him and lead him right to his killer's hands!" He let the hot tears squeeze through his fingers and slide down his face. But just for a moment. Just so they would stop trying to suffocate him. Then he straightened up, took in a shuddering breath and ran back to his brother.

He pulled the door open with his good arm and rushed down the stairs. Dean lay unmoving against the wall, surrounding by a pool of his own blood. He didn't give any indication that he'd heard Sam return.

"Dean?" Sam asked, quickly kneeling beside him. He didn't move, didn't respond. Sam watched Dean's still face with a growing dread, fear spiking through his heart. Sam gently placed a hand on each side of Dean's face. "Dean? Come on, man, open your eyes." His skin was cold and clammy. "Dean?" Sam froze, his eyes widening, his mouth sliding open. "Dean?" he whispered. Oh god, no…

Choking on his own grief, Sam's face crumbled as he felt his cheeks grow wet, as he felt his lips taste salt, and as he wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders, hugging him tightly. He could feel Dean's cold skin, feel the blood from Dean's wounds seeping into his own clothes, feel his tears drop from his cheeks and splatter onto Dean's stained shirt, in an imitation of the blood that was still dripping from the stained wall and splattering onto the ground.

"No," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Please, god, no. Please! Dean…Please! Don't do this!" His voice broke and the tears slid freely down his cheeks as he sat there, tightly holding his limp brother, refusing to let him go. "I'm sorry, Dean, god, I'm so sorry. But don't leave me. You have to fight, Dean. You have to hold on. The monsters die, not the heroes."

Sam leant back and through blurry eyes, watched Dean's face, looking for any small sign that there was still life fighting inside his brother. Come on, Dean…Just one joke, one wisecrack, one grin. He lent his ear against Dean's mouth and listened for breath, prayed for breath. "No!" he shouted, hugging Dean tightly again, cradling Dean's head, his body shaking and making it difficult to breathe, to see, to hear.

Sam jumped as a firm hand touched his shoulder. He turned to find a group of paramedics. They quickly surrounding his brother, unpacking their bags, pulling out a range of instruments, one heading for the other bodies. They kept shooting looks at the red wall.

"You have to move out of the way, son," one of the men said. Sam nodded and scooted backwards until his back bumped into the stairs. "Do you know what happened here?" the same man asked as his colleagues cut open Dean's shirt and quickly wiped away the blood. Sam tried to answer, he really did, but he'd forgotten how to form words. "The young girl said he's your brother. Is that true?" the man asked, more gently. Sam's eyes slid back towards the bloodied body lying limply as these strangers knelt over him, examining him, analysing him with cold words. His clothes were coloured a dark red. His face was bruised, his lips split, his hair matted. He wasn't moving, wasn't telling these strangers to back off, wasn't offering Sam a reassuring arch of his eyebrow. Was this his brother?

"Son?" the man asked again.

Sam nodded numbly. Yes, he was.

"Okay," the man said, hurrying to help the one examining the other two bodies.

"This one's dead. Gunshot wound to the heart. This one here may have a mild case of head trauma, but he's alive. Strong pulse."

But their words were getting stuck in the thick haze that had again surrounded Sam, that was squeezing in on his vision so that all he could see was his brother's limp form.

"A pulse."

What? Sam's heart fluttered back into life as he looked up hopefully. Had he heard that right? "He's still alive?" Sam asked, his voice sounding small and tinny, and he didn't know if it was because of that haze smothering his senses or because his battle between fear and grief had finally reached his throat.

"Barely, but he's hanging in there. We gotta get him into surgery. You riding with him?"

Sam's eyes lit up and he forced himself out from the haze. "Yes," he answered quickly, springing up.

The next few hours were a blur. Of wailing sirens, of wheeling gurneys, of firing questions, and of red. Always of red. The next thing Sam knew, he was sitting in a waiting room, hunched over, his shoulder patched up, his head resting on his hands. Dean had been in surgery for four hours now. Four hours!

Sam leant back in his chair and for the next hour just watched the world pass in front of him – the nurses scuttle by, the doctors saunter past, clipboard in their hands, stopping to talk to this relative, that relative. Good news, bad news. People holding steaming coffee mugs, people yelling at their children to behave. Just watched.

Sam suddenly hopped up and strode into the men's room, barging into a free cubicle and slamming the door shut. He couldn't be out there. Out there in a world that still moved, still lived, even though Dean was locked away in surgery, and might not live, might never move. Sam's face felt hot and clammy, his shoulder pulsated a continual ache, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He lent his arm against the cubicle wall and rested his head against it, breathing in deeply.

God…how could he have let this happen. He forced Dean to go to that town, to follow that mystery. When, all along, Dean was the one he was meant to be saving!

Tears welled up in Sam's eyes, but he roughly wiped them away and kicked the wall angrily instead. Over and over, until his energy finally fled and Sam slid down against the dented wall instead, too drained to do anything other than stare numbly at the red walls surrounding him.

Red. Always red. So much red. Sam looked down at himself absently – he was still covered in Dean's blood. He forced himself up and opened the door, stepping up to the sink and turning on the water. Grabbing a bar of soap he began scrubbing the blood off his arms and hands, still staring numbly as the blood swirled around the sink, turning pink as it fled down the drain.

From behind him, one of the cubicle doors quickly opened and a middle-aged man hesitantly stepped out, looking at Sam fearfully. He hurried to the sink furthest from Sam and washed his hands faster than Sam had ever seen anyone manage.

"Sorry," Sam said, realizing he'd spooked the man with his outburst. "Bad day."

The man looked Sam over, at the blood splattering his clothing and the dirt running across his face and hair. "I can see that, pal," he said before hurrying out of the bathroom.

His heart beat rhythmically, vibrating into his ears. His breath came easier, filling out his lungs without the accompanying bursts of pain. Though, he felt something heavy on his stomach and on his chest. The cloth must have drenched up most of his blood by now and was sitting on top of him, useless. His mouth felt dry, his throat parched. There was something digging into his arm. But he ignored all that and listened for Sam's footsteps. Listened for Sam to return. His ears pricked up when he heard footsteps and he forced his eyelids open.

A small gasp escaped his lips when instead of the old basement - the blood-splattered walls, the dirt floor - Dean found himself staring at a world of white – white floors, white wall, white bed.

"Dean?" Sam's voice asked from just beyond Dean's bed.

Dean lifted up his head a little to find Sam hurrying into the room, balancing a Styrofoam coffee cup, a newspaper and a plate of food in his arms. He put them all down hastily, grabbing the cup as it tried to tip over. Dean watched, a growing amusement cutting through his confusion as the hot coffee spilt over the rim and lapped onto Sam's fingers as he quickly pulled his hand back, shaking off the coffee and grabbing the rolled up newspaper before it rolled off the small table.

"Smooth," Dean teased, surprised by how gravelly his voice sounded. And how bleary his vision was.

Sam turned back to Dean, a large smile breaking onto his face. "Hey, you're awake," he said softly, pulling up a chair. "How you feeling?"

"Uh, confused," Dean answered honestly, turning his head to take in the room. He was obviously lying in a hospital bed, and Sam had obviously been stationed by him for a while now.

"Where'd the basement go?" he asked, trying to sit up but gasping as his stomach tightened and something pulled at his arm.

"Hey, hey," Sam said, quickly jumping up and pushing Dean back down. "Easy, you're all hooked up to IV drips and monitors. And you don't want to tear your stitches." Sam laughed suddenly. "Less than five minutes awake and you already want to go bounding off. Haven't you ever heard of R and R?"

Dean snorted softly, lying back down and wincing at the flare that had erupted in his stomach and chest, but the pain already began to retreat. "Yeah, but it involves beer, a game, and maybe a blonde. Not scratchy sheets and IV drips," he said, glaring at the tube in his arm accusingly.

Dean then took a closer look at his brother, remembering that he'd been shot in the arm. Dark circles framed his eyes and his hair was more tussled than usual, but at least his shoulder looked okay. Though Dean noted the way Sam held his arm close to his body.

"What?" Sam smiled, noticing Dean staring.

"You look like shit," Dean said.

"Thanks, maybe I should go get you a mirror," Sam scoffed. But he was still smiling with that big, goofy grin.

"You know if the wind changes, your face will freeze like that," Dean pointed out.

Sam raised his eyebrows, amused. "Like what?"

"That," Dean elaborated. "All smiling and goofy looking." He held out his finger – the one not attached to any tube or wires. "More goofy looking," he corrected.

Sam chuckled. But Dean noticed his brother breathe in deeply, the relief practically shining from his face.

Dean swallowed, ignoring how dry his throat felt.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, his memory flashing back to the loud shots, the sharp pain, the way his body had flown backwards without his consent. He rubbed his fingers together under the sheets, remembering how slick his fingers had felt as he tried to hold his own blood in.

Sam sighed, his smile fading at the edges. God, he looked tired.

"You…you almost died, Dean. If the paramedics hadn't come when they did…" he trailed off.

Dean watched as Sam looked away, playing with his own fingers. Dean nodded. "How long have I been out for?" he asked after a pause.

Sam gave a tight smile. "Three days now. You were in surgery for six hours. You lost a lot of blood but…You were lucky," he said, not wanting to go into the details, to talk about how one bullet had grazed his lung and the other punctured into his stomach, wreaking havoc. He'd been lucky. Or that's what the doctors had said. Sam wouldn't call it luck. Lucky would be avoiding getting shot twice. Lucky would be avoiding a psycho ghost who thought killing Dean was the right thing to do.

"Lucky," Sam repeated. He'd leave it at that.

Sam looked up to find Dean's eyes boring into his, reminding him of that basement, of all that blood, of Dean's eyes boring into his with that sad, resigned look.

"Your shoulder okay?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head at this. Trust Dean to worry about him when Dean was lying there attached to numerous wires, had a black and blue face, and had just barely survived after being shot twice. "Only a scratch," he reassured.

"What's the story with the B-Brothers? What happened there?"

Sam shook his head again and grinned. "You sure you want to play 20 questions so soon after waking up?"

Dean shrugged, but winced as the movement again pulled at his stitches. "First, curiosity never hurt anyone but some cat somewhere. Secondly, remind me not to move."

Sam instantly sat up straighter, his eyes traveling to Dean's wrapped body. "Do you need me to get a nurse?" he asked, jumping up.

"Woah," Dean said, "calm down, tiger, I'm fine." Though he scrunched up his forehead in thought and then turned back to Sam.

"Dean?" Sam prompted, worried that Dean might have pulled something.

"Unless she's the hot candy striper kind who finds broken guys irresistible. Then yes, Sam, I do need that nurse."

Sam snorted and sat back down. "Idiot."

Dean raised his eyes innocently. "What?"

Sam just shook his head, but his lips pulled themselves back into a smile. He was so relieved that Dean was okay right now, that Dean could say or do just about anything and Sam wouldn't get annoyed or angry. Of course, he'd be damned if he'd let Dean know that.

"So? Basement. Weirdo brothers. Years of mayhem. What happened?" Dean prodded.

Sam leant back in his chair. "Well, I told the police that I'd been kidnapped by Brad and Bret, that I'd called you and you'd driven straight over, which explains the Impala in the driveway -"

"Oh my god, my car!" Dean interrupted. "You didn't have it impounded, did you?"

Sam laughed. "That's what you're worried about? Your car?" He scoffed. "It's fine."

Dean sighed in relief. "There is a god. And he's smiling over you, Sammy, 'cause, hoo-boy, if you'd had my car impounded like you threatened, well, I'd have to kick your ass."

Sam raised his eyebrow at this, looking pointedly at Dean's wrapped body.

Dean nodded. "Okay," he acknowledged, "I'd have to wait a few days, possibly a few weeks, but I'd get to it eventually. Now, dude, continue, what happened after that? Geez, your stories take longer to tell than a daytime soap."

A comeback on the tip of his tongue, Dean having made it far too easy, Sam decided to swallow it, so relieved that Dean seemed to be okay that he didn't have the heart to rib him back. Not yet. He was finding it difficult to see past the giant blue and black bruise running from beneath Dean's hairline and across his cheekbone; or past the drying splits on his lips, the large blue bruise on his chin, the numerous other bruises and cuts marring his face, and the bandage wrapped around his head.

"Anyway," Sam continued, averting his gaze from the injuries – and from the memories that came attached to each one. "Apparently Cindy, the little Parker girl, told the police that Brad shot Bret and then you. Which is pretty much the truth – he was the one who originally killed Bret."

Dean smiled a little at this. "And that girl was so damn creepy – I was sure she'd end up in our bad guy list."

Sam shrugged. "I guess with kids, they're more prone to tell what they see the truth is than come up with elaborate cover-stories."

"Unless cookies are involved," Dean corrected.

Sam smirked. "Pessimistic until the end."

"Keeep going," Dean rolled his eyes. "How the hell did the cops explain the Parkers still being alive."

Sam's smirked deepened. "Apparently these two are distant relatives. Or so that's what the police are saying. That basement, with all the blood evidence, and Cindy's statements, and the bodies the police found buried in the back, is enough to get Brad locked up. He's being put in the psych ward."

"Why didn't the town try to cover it up like all the other murders?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe us surviving got rid of some of their fear. And seeing that the police could build an actual, half-reasonable story to explain some of the later murders gave them a further reason to forget that fear, to shake off the last 16 years now that there's someone taking responsibility for it all?"

Dean shook his head, his eyes clouding over slightly as the exhaustion finally began to hit him. And the realization that this was all finally over. "Small towns," he mumbled in disgust, shutting his eyes for a second.

"Dean?" Sam's hesitant voice broke into the slumber that had begun to settle into Dean's head, to creep in there without him noticing.

"Yeah?" he answered, eyes still closed. He heard Sam sigh, and opened one eye, peering at Sam's lined face.

"I'm…" Sam hesitated, looking down at his hands. "I'm really sorry. About, you know, getting my vision wrong, I don't know how…" he paused to suck in some air. "It's my fault you got so hurt."

"Sam," Dean tried to interject, opening both eyes and carefully lifting himself up. But Sam cut him off.

"Brad…he…He was latching onto those memories from the asylum. He thought I…you know. But I don't. He just thought I did. But I should've known you were the one my vision was telling me to protect. Anyway," he forced a laugh, still not looking at Dean. "What I'm trying to say is…I'm sorry."

Dean stared at Sam for a second, at how he was uncomfortably tugging at his fingers. "Dude!" Dean finally said, shrugging as much as his stitched up body allowed. "How the fuck were you meant to know that the ghost we thought was Bret would end up being Brad, and then that Jamie would also end up being Brad, and that his whole family would end up being dead, but, you know, only half dead as it turned out, and that Brad would lead me to his house, that we'd Lazarus his ass, and that Bret would turn against us, that he'd take a suicidal stance against you, that Brad would regain consciousness just in time to see his suicidally dead brother and get to the gun a second before I got to the rope to tie him up." Dean took a second to get his breath back. "Yeah, sure, you could've predicted all that and stopped me getting shot." Dean made an incredulous face. "Seriously, dude, no amount of therapy is going to help with that guilt complex if you really blame yourself for all that. And I sure aint paying for no shrink, either."

"But Brad targeted you because he thought I hated you. I don't," Sam said firmly. He needed Dean to know this. Whatever other misunderstandings existed between them, would always exist between them like they did any brothers, he didn't want Dean to harbor any doubts about this. This one thing.

Dean smiled. "I know that, Sammy." His smile turned into his usual grin. "What the hell is there to hate about me? I'm as lovable as a teddy bear."

Sam snorted.

Dean stared at his brother for another second. "Sammy," Dean said, leaning closer to him, addressing him like he was about to impart a great lesson. "While I was, you know, resting from our latest adventure, I had time to think. And I realized something."

Sam chuckled. "What was that?"

"Those Parkers were screwed up."

"Very insightful," Sam teased, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up for a second," Dean said. "Those brothers were nuts. You can't kill someone and say you still love them. Oops, shot you in the head, don't take it too hard. I would never hurt you – unless you wrecked my car. You would never hurt me – unless possessed by a psychotic doctor. Fuck what the B-Brothers think."

Sam nodded, fidgeting with the corner of Dean's sheet as he let those words sink in. He grinned and looked up at. "I love you too, Dean," he said.

Dean rolled his eyes and snatched the sheet from Sam's hands. "Oh god, I forgot you like those Dr Phil moments."

Sam laughed. "Okay, I'll rephrase that: So, we're good then?"

Dean nodded. "We're always good."

"Is this the part where we knock fists in a very manly way, grunt, and change the topic to tools or something?"

A laugh escaped Dean's throat. "Shut up," he said. "And pass me some water, fidgety."

"And if a town that killed over bad manners didn't teach you, I'm not even going to try to get a 'please' out of you," Sam sighed, pouring Dean a glass of water and passing it to him. Dean sipped some slowly, savoring the feeling of the cool liquid passing over his dry throat. God, he was never going to take drinking or breathing for granted again.

"Speaking of psycho towns. We should visit Brad."

"What? Why?" Sam said, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"Yeah…" Dean mused, looking thoughtful. "We definitely should. Warn him about all the fun activities inmates find to do with new cellies."

"You do realize he'll be put in a psych ward – no real contact with the big bad types."

Dean grinned, a spark shining in his eyes. "I know that. And you know that. But does he?"

Sam laughed. "We'll go as soon as you're out of here."

The young doctor checked his clipboard to see what patient he was checking in on next: Dean Winchester. He strolled into the room and found the young man propped up on his pillows talking to his brother. Almost simultaneously, they both turned to look at him the moment his foot stepped into the room.

"Ah, you're awake I see," he said, smiling professionally. He turned to the patient's brother. "I told you it would only be a matter of time. There was no need to panic," he said absently, automatically smiling again while flipping through the pages on his chart. He missed the amused look Dean shot Sam as Sam slightly clenched his jaw and pretended to ignore Dean's look.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor said, tucking the clipboard under his arm and walking up to Dean.

Dean shrugged. "Pretty good, considering." Sam shot him a glance and smiled slightly.

The doctor nodded. "We'll be keeping you here for a few days, monitoring your progress. You should really try to get some rest. Not move so much. Your body's been through a lot."

Sam grabbed the glass of water from Dean's hands, heeding the doctor's comments immediately. Dean glared at him before turning back to the doctor. "No offense, Doc, but I feel fine." He grinned. "I guess I heal faster than most."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Or is more arrogant than most." But he was smiling.

"Well, at the moment we've got you on a lot of pain meds," the doctor said. "You're pretty doped up, but you'll feel all this movement by the morning."

"Oh," Dean said, instantly lying back down. Sam laughed. "It's his fault," Dean said, motioning towards Sam. "Won't stop yapping."

Sam turned to Dean with raised eyebrows. "Oh, yeah, blame the one who's been trying to tell you to get some rest for an hour now."

"See, there he goes with that yapping again."

The doctor laughed a little, watching the two. "I'll be back to check on you later. Get some rest," he said, turning to head out of the room.

"You're an unbelievable ass, you know that?"

"Yeah, I do have a great ass."

"Rest, Dean. Listen to the good doctor, ignore those voices in your head telling you to the exact opposite of what people tell you."

The doctor closed the door, listening to the two argue as he walked to the next room.

"You rest, Panda eyes."

"You rest, Rasputin."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Rest or I'll make good on my impound threat."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"You cut me deep, Shrek."

"Moron."

"Bitch."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"Rest."

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Hospitals have vending machines, right?"

"I give up."

THE END.
A/N: Wow, endings are tough to write. But I hoped it was okay! If it left you feeling unsatisfied, let me know and tell me what else you wanted to see and if the majority of you feel the same way, an epilogue may be in order. But for now, it's ended – finito.

Thanks so much to all my faithful readers and loyal reviewers! You guys have all made my first SN fanfic a pleasure to write!

Anyone who's been following this story up until now, please make me happy and leave a review (good, bad, or inbetween) letting me know what you've thought – all you ppl who've added it to your alert list or favorites. I'm trying to break the 200-reviews mark, but if not, I've enjoyed myself immensely anyway and thank you all for reading! Love ya's::bows and exits stage left: