A/N: Thanks for all the feedback on this! I'm so glad everyone liked it, and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

A huge shout-out and many thanks to Monica, for a fabulous beta job.

Dean sleeps a lot in this chapter, because let's face it, he's pretty thrashed. More Dean-speak coming in later chapters.


It's the coughing that wakes him up. He'd managed to fall asleep a second time, and had actually dreamt without revisiting that damp, mold infested room of his nightmares before he is yanked out of it by painful spasms in his chest.

After he regains control of his body, Dean has the presence of mind to know that the sharp pain that accompanies each breath can't be indicative of anything good, but he can't bring himself to think any further on the subject. Worrying about his health is not one of his favourite past times. Not like it is Sam's, anyway.

"Are you all right?"

'Speak of the devil…'

In the darkness of their room, he can see Sam half-sitting in his own bed, backlit by the light of the street lamps coming in through the curtains. Dean clears his throat, and rubs his chest with a grimace, because it's dark enough that his brother wouldn't be able to see his discomfort.

"Fine," he says, and damn him if his voice sounds like steel wool rubbing against sandpaper.

Sam kicks his covers off, and walks over to the room's only table without a sound.

'He's getting it back…' Dean thinks quietly as he watches his brother rout through some plastic bags. He had worried when they'd first been reunited all those months ago. Although Sam's mind is as sharp as ever, if possible made more efficient from his time at Stanford, his hunting abilities had fallen into disrepair. Dean was relieved Sam could still fight, but he had lost some of the skills their father had engrained in them so young. Like how to walk without making a sound. Dean has been noticing Sam gradually relearn all that he had let go to the wayside, because, really, who needs to skulk around at Stanford? Only cheaters, or thieves, and his brother is neither of those.

"Drink this," Sam says, coming to Dean's bedside and handing him a chipped porcelain mug.

Dean eyes his brother and the mug with equal parts suspicion. "What is it?" he asks, as though he actually fears his younger brother might try to poison him.

Sam is quite perceptive, though, and even in the dark he catches the attention before Dean can rescind it. "Fuck you, Dean," he says, because he's tired, and guilty, and more worried than he would ever admit. He can see the lines of pain in his brother's face, regardless of how good Dean is at hiding it. He rolls his eyes, and plunks the mug down on the night table, sloshing some of the liquid over the top. "It's orange juice. Take it if you want it. I was gonna put rat poison in it, but we're plumb out."

He flops back into bed, and hauls the covers over his lean body.

Dean recognizes the sarcastic tone in Sam's voice, but he knows that while Sam wasn't serious, he wasn't exactly joking either. The words come from a place where Sam fears his older brother might actually think he wants to kill him, and instead of speaking rationally about it, like he often urges Dean, he lashes out with poorly disguised sarcasm. Too bad for him Dean is damn good at reading people in general, and his brother specifically.

"I thought it was cough syrup," Dean says, because as much as he hates dealing with a pissy Sam, he doesn't want the youngest Winchester to think he actually fears him. Dean has put his life in Sam's hands before, and he would do so again, without hesitation. It's the biggest reason why he went to Stanford so many months ago, for help trying to find their father.

He drinks the orange juice, and though the acidity stings on the way down, when he's finished he feels halfway back to normal. If he ignores the pain in his chest that comes with every breath, that is.

"Sam, I'm not afraid of you," Dean says, when there's nothing else to say and the silence begins to get to him. He knows his brother isn't asleep in the other bed; more likely he's rehashing all the events from earlier that day, trying to figure out where he went wrong. "I trust you with my life."

The words seem to have an effect, because he hears a sharp intake of air from the other side of the room.

And with that, Dean settles back in the bed, sighing softly and willing sleep to return. They're painfully close to turning this into a chick flick moment, and that is something he is definitely not in the mood for. Sam says something that sounds suspiciously like "I love you too, jerk" but Dean's eyes are already starting to close, and try as he might he can't stop them.


There's blood on his pillow when he wakes up. Not a lot, just a few drops, but given that he has no wounds on his face or head, it's enough to spike a little worry in him. He flips over the pillow to hide the stain.

"Morning, sunshine," Sam says, upon coming out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry and seeing his brother's eyes open. "How are you feeling?"

The truth is obviously not an option, so Dean drudges up a partial smile from somewhere, and shrugs one shoulder, the one not beginning to throb as he sits there. "I could use some coffee."

He starts to get up, and the resulting pain is so sharp and so sudden that he can't help but gasp with it. Nothing if not stubborn, Dean levers himself into a sitting position, and manages not to scream with the agony that rips through his torso. He wonders dimly if he just settled sore, or if this is some kind of indication of something worse, because there's no way he hurt this bad last night.

Sam is by his side in an instant, splaying one warm hand between Dean's shoulder blades. He can feel his brother's heart racing through the thin t-shirt he's wearing. "Are you okay?"

Dean takes a breath, ignores the sharp pain that accompanies it, and lets it out slowly. He wants to smack Sam upside the head, so hard his eyeballs fall out and roll across the dirty floor like a pair of errant marbles. If he were okay, there's no way he would be leaning against his brother like he is.

"Gimme a minute," he whispers, because any louder is too much of an effort for his energy store.

Sam says nothing, but begins to rub Dean's back, slow concentric circles like Dean himself used to do, when they were younger and Sam had been ripped from sleep by nightmares of people on fire.

After a long few minutes, the pain begins to fade until it's nothing more than a dull ache settled deep in his chest. Every breath brings a sharp reminder of just what happened the day earlier, so Dean keeps his breaths shallow and slow. His hands have clenched into fists around the sheets pooled at his waist; he forces them to relax, and places them on his knees to hold himself up. Sam recognizes the move, and sits back, allowing his brother to support himself.

"Ibuprofen?" Dean asks.

The word isn't even finished leaving his mouth before Sam is racing to the bathroom to fetch the painkillers. He fills the same chipped mug from the night before with orange juice, and hands it to Dean with three white pills in his other hand.

Dean swallows them with a grimace, and Sam takes the now empty mug from his slack hand before it falls and breaks on the floor.

"Dean, maybe you should go to the hospital," he says, chewing worriedly on the corner of his lip. He can't remember a time when Dean was this hurt, and their father wasn't around to patch him up. He's uncomfortable with the responsibility of his brother's well being, but he will not shy away from it.

Dean shakes his head. "No, Sam. No hospital. We don't have the money, and ghost hunting doesn't come with a health plan," he says, with no inflection in his tone. As if he is merely reading a line off of a piece of paper. Sam frowns.

"You're obviously in pain."

"Of course I'm in pain, you little shit! You shot me with a fucking shotgun!"

The words are out of his mouth before he has a hope of stopping them. For Sam's credit, the only response he gives is a slight rising of his eyebrows. He wants to call Dean on it; the outburst is an obvious sign that he has not forgiven all that he says he has. But the fact that he did it at all, Dean, who despite appearances, always has such an iron grip control on his emotions, worries Sam more than angers him. Dean doesn't like looking weak, and in his eyes, that's what sickness and injury are. He gets testy when he thinks his macho image is at risk.

"And I apologized for it," Sam says, and is proud of his even tone. "I'm not going to drop it because you cussed at me, asshole. I'm not nine anymore."

He vows to deal with all of this, with every last little bit of tension and argument between them, in a long, endless chick flick moment if Dean will just be all right. Because as much as he insists he is a grown up, and not the child Dean remembers, seeing his older brother in such pain, and in such a fragile state is more upsetting to Sam than he will ever admit.

Dean sighs as heavily as he can without inflicting further pain upon himself. "That was outta line. Sorry, Sammy. But no hospitals. You stop to think about what you'd tell them? You bring a guy in with a shotgun wound, made with rock salt, no less, and they're gonna start asking questions. You thought about what you'd say to them? What if they brought in the police? There wouldn't be anyone to help you out."

He doesn't add that Sam's the worst liar he has ever seen, because he doesn't need to. Sam knows that what he considers to be honesty and a good moral compass, his family considers being a weakness. Dean had ribbed him endlessly when they were growing up, about Sam's inability to tell even the most whitest of fibs. It had been annoying back then, but now it is just damn frustrating.

He knows Dean's right. Getting thrown in jail while his brother is incapacitated will do neither of them any good.

"Just let me get in the shower," Dean says, making as if he's preparing himself to stand. "Then we'll get on the road, and put all of this in the rear view mirror."

Sam is shaking his head before he's got all his words out. "No way. Absolutely not. Dean, you can't even stand. How are you supposed to drive?"

Dean glances up at his brother's face, sees the raw determination there, and pointedly looks away. He closes his eyes again, though this time not in physical pain. "You could drive," he says quietly.

Sam is immediately taken aback. It's not exactly unheard of for Dean to offer him the keys, but when he does, it's usually in an attempt to bring Sam out of whatever funk he's fallen into. He never backs away from the wheel for an injury. In his warped mind, he would see that as an admission to pain, and that is something Dean Winchester never willingly gives.

Sam just shakes his head. "The fact that you even said that tells me you're not up to it. I'm not doing it."

"Well, then," Dean says, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, "it's a good think you're not in charge. I say we're going, and my oldest brother vote trumps your baby-girl-weak-as-a-kitten vote."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You ever heard of the one about people living in glass houses? I am the one standing on my own two feet, remember."

Dean ignores the subtle dig, and with a grimace, reaches down to pick up his jacket, where it landed on the floor the night before. He starts patting down the pockets, reaching in and coming up empty every time. When he's frustratingly satisfied the jacket is not holding what he's looking for, he sends a warning glance to Sam.

"Sammy…" Any other day the threatening tone that his big brother is employing is enough to make Sam cave. But when said big brother winces from the simple act of picking his jacket up off the ground, Sam isn't exactly prone to shaking in his sneakers.

He slips a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, and dangles the car keys from his pointer finger. "You want to leave, you're going to have to catch me first."

On a good day, Dean is hard-pressed to compete with Sam's speed. Sam, who was gifted with legs like a gazelle at birth. The older Winchester knows too well that even if he could stand, he couldn't run, and even if he could run, there is no way he could wrestle the keys away from Sam.

His shoulders slump. "Fine, bitch. We'll stay here. But you'd better hope this thing kills me, because if not, as soon as I'm better I'm going to kick your ass into next month."

Dean closes his eyes, missing the flash of hurt and guilt that briefly appears on Sam's face.

"Uh, are you hungry?" Sam asks, not wanting Dean to read too much into the silence that follows. "I went to the store earlier."

Dean cracks open an eye. "Whadya get?"

Sam smirks, thanking whatever higher power there might be for his brother's predictability. He hops over the bed, landing lightly next to the table on which rests the food he picked up earlier. He names each item as he removes it from the bag.

"I got pop tarts, chocolate of course-"

"Is there any other kind?" Dean pipes up from the bed.

"-A banana, an apple, the orange juice, of course…and some coffee."

"Well, gee, it might be a little hard to decide. The selection is far too vast." Dean's tone is very nearly dripping with sarcasm. Sam looks pointedly at the paper bag still holding the cheeseburger and fries on the night table that was ignored or simply unnoticed the night before, but Dean isn't facing him, and so the significance is lost on him.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I haven't ripped anybody off with a credit card scam, so I was a little low on funding."

He meant it as a joke, a kind of comeback for Dean's censure, but when he looks over, he doesn't see his older brother laughing.

"If you needed money, Sam, you could've asked me."

The offer is generous, so Sam refrains from saying he would rather use his own than something stolen from someone else. And despite Dean's rational for ripping people off, that's exactly what credit card fraud is: theft.

"It's fine," he says in response. And quickly changes the subject. "You want the banana? You should probably have some fruit, you know, to help you heal?"

Dean doesn't reply right away. He appears to be deep in thought, or brooding about something, which he is not predisposed to do. The playful banter from earlier has vanished; if ever a mood has needed lightening, it's this one.

"Go, banana!" Sam cries, in a high-pitched mockery of his own voice. He tosses the banana on the bed, as if trying to bowl with it. Not being round, however, it doesn't get far.

It does get a reaction though. Dean opens one eye, and casts a curious look in Sam's direction, as if questioning his brother's state of mind, and level of insanity.

Sam can't help but grin. "You know, that Simpson's episode, when the kids on the bus are having a race with fruit? Ralph Wiggims tries to use a banana? The Lord of the Flies one."

Dean closes his eyes again with a shake of his head, and a ghost of a smile. "I know where it's from. I'm just wondering why you're quoting the Simpson's, and what you've done with the real Sam."

Sam laughs, and it feels surprisingly good. When he stops to think about it, he misses the easy banter that used to happen between the two. When he was younger, and spent time with Dean, even when hunting a laugh was never far away. He can't even count all the times they were scolded for giggling when they should've been focused on killing something. He looks over at Dean, and sees his own pleasure reflected in his face.

If he had known what was to come, he might've tried to prolong the moment.