Sam watched from the bed as Dean moved purposely around the room. The drugs were really good, apparently, because he felt sort of far away and loopy. He couldn't really feel his foot anymore unless he moved it around, and then the pain shot through him like a bullet splitting flesh. He was scared, and maybe he said that thought out loud because suddenly Dean stopped gathering supplies and looked at him all worried.

"Ain't nothing to be scared of, Sammy. I'm Batman, right?"

And Sam nodded because he believed Dean, unquestioningly believed him. But why did the older boy look so nervous?

Sam watched as Dean approached the bed with a basin and a pair of scissors. His eyes lazily followed his brother's movements as the older boy tugged on a pair of surgical gloves.

"Can you stretch out your leg for me?" Dean asked gently.

And Sam smiled. Dean was using his Sam voice. The one he only ever used on his little brother. Nobody else in the world but Sam ever got to hear that voice come out of Dean. Not Dad and certainly not old Jory-what's-his-name. Sam hadn't heard that voice since before the cemetery.

Sam complied, tensing up and hissing immediately. Shit. It hurt.

The lines around Dean's mouth grew tight. "S'okay. I got you, little brother. It's gonna sting a little is all. You ready?"

Sam nodded and didn't whine. He absolutely did not whine like a whipped puppy.

Dean closed his eyes for a second when that sound came out of him, and Sam could tell that his brother wanted to be anywhere else in the world right now except beside him, ready to tend to yet another problem that Sam had gotten himself into. He could tell because Dean's hands were shaking, and Dean's hands never shook.

"M'sorry." Sam slurred. "You don't have to … I can do it."

Dean smiled then, shaking his head. "Yeah , I can see that." he shot back, taking careful hold of one corner of the gauze that wrapped around Sam's foot. "Just ... breathe deep for me, okay? Breathe through it, Sam. You can do this."

And he lifted Sam's foot and began quickly unwrapping it.

Sam instantly saw stars forming behind his eyelids. He whimpered, even though he tried his best not to, and he heard the pain reflected in his brother's voice.

"Almost done. Just hang in there for me, Sammy."

And Sam did. He shoved the pain down and breathed fast and hard until Dean had the foot laid bare. Sam tried to steal a glance at it then and gasped. It was all swollen and shiny with little patches of white where the worst of the burns had been.

"Don't look at it." Dean barked, and Sam recognized the clipped tone. It was the same tone Dean used when he was pissed beyond words.

Dean was pissed beyond words, and it was all his fault.

Sam's breath hitched before he could stop it.

Dean's voice was different then, and he sounded sorry. "Sammy … just … close your eyes for me, okay? It's fine. I got this."

"It's infected." Sam mourned, sadly.

Dean nodded, sighing. "Yeah, it is. It's not too bad though. We got it in time. Just needs cleaned up and re-bandaged, and then I'll get you some antibiotics, and you'll be good to go, right?"

Sam was silent, eyes closed. But he felt Dean glance up at him.

"Sammy? You with me here?"

Sam nodded.

"Good."

"Sam?"

"What?"

"I gotta … this skin … some of it has to come off, okay? I gotta take it off so the infection comes out."

Sam's eyes shot open, and he tried to draw his foot back out of Dean's grasp, "No! Dean, don't! Please!"

But Dean held on, determined, mouth set in a grim line. "I have to, Sammy. I'm sorry. It's the only way to keep it from getting worse."

Sam was sort of crying then, and hating himself for the weakness. "Dean, please!" He begged. "Please don't! Dean, it hurts!"

But Dean just swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. And when he opened them again, he was all business. And Sam knew then, that this was how it was going to be. He grabbed the sheets in both fists and gritted his teeth.

###

Dean carefully placed his brother's foot back on the covers and fastened off the gauze, which was an accomplishment considering how badly his hands were shaking. He busied himself removing the gloves and gathering up the basin and the scissors and the … the … parts of Sam he'd had to peel away. He took it all into the bathroom without looking at his brother and turned the shower on high so he could puke without Sam hearing him. When he had himself back under control, he sterilized everything he could and shoved everything else into a trash bag and carried it outside to the motel dumpster. And as hard as it was, and as much as he didn't want to, he made himself go back inside their room then and look at his brother.

The kid was curled up on his side in the fetal position, shaking with big, silent sobs that he refused to give voice to.

And Dean sighed. His fault. This was all his fault. Sam was in this mess because Dean had gotten cocky and hadn't been paying attention. Sam was lying in that bed right now, hurting like this, because of him, and he couldn't stand it. He cleared his throat.

"You'll … uh … you'll feel better now. Might take a while, but the infection is out. Should heal if you stay off it." And Dean winced at how cold he sounded. He didn't mean to, it was just that his guilt refused to let him go.

And on the bed, Sam stiffened at his tone and made an effort to pull himself together. "Okay." He said, all high-pitched and embarrassing. And then, in the same breath, "Thanks, Dean."

And Dean stood there for a bit, knowing what he needed to do but loathe to leave Sam alone to do it. "I … uh … I need to go get you some antibiotics, Sam. You need the good stuff that comes through the IV. I saw a clinic right around the corner.

Sam sniffed, wanting anything but to be alone right now, but he didn't want to be an even bigger albatross than he'd been already. "Okay." He said simply, and took a shuddering breath. "Be careful."

Dean nodded. "Okay then. I'll … I guess I'll be right back then."

Sam nodded, pulled himself into a sitting position so he could at least look like he was coping instead of crying on the bed like a big baby. He wanted to say a proper goodbye at least.

"Okay. Don't get caught." Sam cautioned, swiping at his eyes with flattened palms.

Dean's mouth quirked up, "Dude, I'm Batman."

Sam snorted, rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Just get back here in one piece, okay?"

And Dean grinned then, "You got it. Keep this door locked. I shouldn't be long." He stepped out and pulled the closed behind him, and Sam heard his key turn in the lock.

He sat back then and tried to let the painkillers take over.

It was a long, lazy spiral down.

Sam smiled from the bed. He was propped up against the headboard and more comfortable than he could ever remember being. Dean had apparently worked his magic on the housekeeper because Sam had never seen so many pristine, white and fluffy pillows at any motel in any town they'd ever passed through.

He felt all sappy and gooey inside. His brother was back, and he had taken care of Sam's foot and his infection and rigged up an IV antibiotic drip and given Sam the REALLY good painkillers, and now all was right with the world.

Sam sighed and blinked sleepily. He could get used to this real easy.

And then Dean was back with the take-out, and he was hovering over Sam and chuckling as he reached down with a cool, damp cloth and wiped away a line of drool that was apparently dangling from the corner of Sam's mouth like a decoration.

"Nice, Sam. You're a droolin' fool. You know this, right?"

Sam nodded, grinned stupidly.

Dean snorted. "Feelin' good there, Samantha?"

"Good." Sam repeated, eyes drifting shut.

"Uh unh … not til you eat something. Otherwise, you'll be puking up those antibiotics that I damn near got caught stealing. Be a shame to waste 'em all in the toilet after I nearly broke myself gettin' 'em back here to you." Dean brought him a small container of something that looked like soup and peeled the top back carefully.

"Here. You can drink it. It'll be easier." He said, holding the cup to Sam's mouth. And Sam, who would normally die of embarrassment at the thought of letting his brother feed him, only smiled and leaned forward to take a sip.

And damn. It was good. Nice and warm and strong with real chicken broth and not that cheap bouillon crap they usually scored. Still, Sam felt himself drifting, the pull of the morphine too strong to fight.

"Well, all right then." He heard Dean say, but the older boy's voice was far away. "At least you got a few sips in you." He felt Dean's weight lift off the bed and felt his cool hand come down to rest for a moment on his forehead. Dean was checking him for fever, and the thought just made Sam feel loved. He felt himself smile.

"Thanks, Dean." He murmured, turning on his side and burrowing down into the pillow fortress. "Feel better now. M'sorry 'bout the ghost." He sighed, sadness creeping into his voice.

The room fell silent for a moment, and then Sam thought he heard his brother smile. "I know you are, bitch. Now go to sleep, Sammy."

Dean stood staring down at his little brother and feeling like he'd finally managed to do something right. He was sure the kid's foot would be fine now as long as he kept off the damned thing. That meant not getting out of bed for anything short of a bathroom emergency, and Dean swore he'd make the kid listen even if he had to keep him drugged out of his gourd until Dad got back.

He was sorry about the kids and curse boxes and all, but Sammy came first, and Dean didn't plan to forget that fact again anytime soon.

And if Jory didn't get that, too freakin' bad.

Dean settled down on the other bed with a sigh. He kicked off his boots, reached for his burger and the remote and muted the volume. He drifted off, watching reruns of Shock Theater til dawn.