Dean parked the Impala three lots down from their room and cut the engine. He frowned at the building's exterior. Run-down was one thing, but this latest dive Dad had parked them in looked like the setting of serial killer movie, and Dean swore those were shell casings littering the ground by the overflowing garbage can. He unfolded himself from the front seat and stretched, groaning. He hadn't meant to make a night of it, but Jory had a way of ordering drinks almost faster than Dean could toss them back.

And he had a reputation to maintain.

Truth was, he'd reached his limit about two hours in and had been forced to spend the remainder of the night drinking Cokes to sober up enough for the drive home. He'd dropped the kid off at the motel a few miles back and then stopped to pick up enough greasy breakfast to keep Sam and Dad at bay.

He wasn't really looking forward to facing Dad after staying gone all night and not calling, but his ancient phone had wheezed its last around midnight.

Totally not his fault.

Dean steeled himself as he unlocked the rickety motel door and swung it inward. He froze instantly.

Sam sat facing the door, sound asleep. He'd commandeered the only chair in the room, his head tipped uncomfortably forward onto his chest, hair wild. He was obviously standing guard because in his right hand he held Dean's old .45.

The older boy stopped breathing for a moment when he realized the safety was off and Sam's finger rested quietly on the trigger, the barrel of the weapon poised to shoot Sam right through the knee.

"Son of a …" he whispered, stepping inside and slipping the door quietly closed behind him. He set the greasy bag of breakfast food on the bed and gently approached his brother like he would a spooked horse. Reaching down, he carefully manipulated the barrel away from Sam's body and pointed it toward the floor.

"Sam." he spoke quietly.

Nothing.

"Sammy." he offered a little louder, and placed a comforting hand on the kid's shoulder when the boy suddenly jolted awake. "Easy. It's just me, little brother."

"Dean?" Sam muttered, not fully functional.

"The one and only, Sam. Can I have the gun?"

"Hunh?"

"The gun, Sammy. Give me the gun." He repeated, his hand closing tight around the barrel.

And Sam must have suddenly realized what Dean meant because he gave up the weapon willingly as the older boy breathed a sigh of relief. He engaged the safety immediately and rolled his eyes. "What the hell, Sam? I know me and Dad taught you better than that." Dean stepped back and placed the weapon on the nightstand. "You damn near blew your kneecap off."

"What?" Sam asked, disoriented.

Dean stared down, frowning. "Where's Dad anyway? He leave all ready?"

Sam sat silent, a range of confused expressions drifting across his face. "Uh … he left. Uh … yesterday."

Dean stopped in his perusal of the breakfast sandwiches. "What? Yesterday? Where'd he go?"

Sam sighed, standing. He limped over to the bed and carefully spread his long form over it. "He had a … a thing … you know … a … um … a lead." He tossed a hand across his face. "Not coming back for a few days."

Dean's heart sank. That meant Sam had been alone all night long while he and Jory drank beer and flirted with half the barroom. He glanced toward the bed guiltily. "So … umm … you sat guard all night long with my old handgun?"

"There was a fight. Outside. A guy got shot."

Dean dropped the bag of sandwiches and spun around. "Holy hell, Sam! Why didn't you call me?" he barked without thinking. "You okay?" The older boy cursed the dives that Dad always left them in. This one was one of worse they'd seen in years.

Sam rolled over to face the wall. "I did. I called you six times. Leave me alone … sick …"

And that was all it took to send Dean straight to Sam's bedside. He stared down at the kid, noting his flushed face. "Sick how? You throwin' up?" He reached down and managed to feel the heat emanating from Sam's forehead before the boy batted his hand away.

"Mmm." Sam replied, trying to curl up into a ball. He reached back and tugged the blanket over himself.

Dean frowned, feeling a sick suspicion creep over him. He dug his phone from his pocket and realized it was dead. Apparently, it had been that way for awhile. He cursed and tossed it on the nightstand next to his old gun. Then he moved down to stand at Sam's feet. He tugged the blanket back and leaned close, trying to examine Sam's bandage without touching.

"Sammy?"

"Mmm?"

"Dad change your bandage before he left?"

"Don't remember." Sam whined. "Leave me alone, Dean. I just wanna sleep, please?"

And Dean grimaced at the plea. He had a hard time denying his kid brother anything when the boy was in pain, and suddenly Dean just knew - it was that sixth sense that only kicked in when Sam was in trouble - that foot was infected. It had to hurt like a bitch. He sighed.

"Sorry, Sammy. We gotta get it cleaned up. I'm pretty sure it's infected." He reached down and wrapped a gentle hand around Sam's ankle, noting the angry red color peeking out beyond the edge of the gauze. He shifted the foot to get to the end of the wrapping.

Sam shot up in the bed, hissing. "Dean! Don't!"

The older boy looked up, reluctance written all over his face, but there was no way around it. The next hour was going to be excruciating for his kid brother. He stood, reaching for the heavy-duty prescription painkillers. He shook two out and offered them to Sam, handing him a bottle of water.

"Here, take these first. We'll give 'em time to kick in and take the edge off before I unwrap it, okay?"

Sam took the pills and swallowed them both dry, chasing them with half the bottle of water. When he was done, he handed the bottle back and looked at Dean through desperate eyes. "Please don't, Dean. It really hurts."

Dean swallowed hard and shook his head. "Why didn't you tend to it last night, Sammy?"

Sam stared straight back, shrugging. "Just … it hurts too bad."

Dean nodded, "You tell Dad?"

Sam was silent for a moment, then, "No."

"No?"

Sam shook his head.

Dean nodded again, smiling to hide his fear. "Well, we'll figure it out just like we always do. You hungry? Think you can eat something? You should probably try with those painkillers."

But Sam shook his head and sunk back down in the bed. "Can't. I'll puke."

"How about a nice, girly raspberry iced tea?" Dean offered, moving to the table and coming back with a tall fountain drink. "Come on. It's your favorite?"

And at the words "raspberry iced tea" Sam raised up on an elbow. He leaned over and sipped from the straw while Dean held the cup, giving his brother the sad beagle eyes the whole time.

Dean snorted. "That's okay, Sam. I'll do all the work." He teased.

Sam pulled away then, "Sorry." He whispered, reaching out a shaking hand for the cup.

But Dean batted it away. "I'm just razzin' you, Sammy. Go on and drink. I'll hold it." The older boy was feeling guiltier by the minute, thinking of Sam alone and so scared he'd sat up all night with a gun in his hand while he was obviously sick as a dog. He'd called Dean six times, and his big brother hadn't bothered to answer. And now the kid had a fever and probably a raging infection and was likely going to end up in the hospital all because Dean had chosen Jory's needs over his brother's.

He felt like a total douchebag.