AN: Oops. I'm not being any nicer to the boys, am I? Still don't own them, just playing pretend.

BitterSweetJoy: Gracias! I definitely should have put a sentence in about who Michelle was. And, um, I'm not really giving Sam a break…for a while yet…not sorry!

Shazza19: Thanks!

Wildfire: Oh, dear. Chapter 5 wasn't any nicer to the boys than chapter 4! At least I'm updating quickly…I think that's a good thing… Also, keep your question in mind. I haven't answered it yet, but I will. Thank you too for your helpful comments about the writing. I appreciate it!

Oh, good. They were dead in the water. Unconscious brother. Ghost. Witch. No weapons. That was damn outstanding.

Wait.

When Dean had been assessing Sam, he'd peripherally noted the weapons his brother was carrying – shotgun in his jacket, probably loaded with salt shells, handgun at his back, a knife at his ankle, and so forth. Sam had obviously been to Baby to restock. What a good little boy scout. And if Sam could break his fall, he could break this witch's spell. He'd done it before. He just needed a distraction, and the ghost was creating a pretty good one right now.

Dean pushed forward with all his strength, then somehow found some more. The spell pushed back, but he turned his gaze toward Sam, who still hadn't so much as moved since they'd stopped rolling. If there was anything that would inspire Dean, it was his brother. He pushed again, ignoring a tearing sensation in his muscles, and then he was off the wall. He nearly fell and lost all his progress, but he leaned into the pressure as if it were hurricane winds. Michelle growled and said something he didn't catch, and a piece of wood that was probably from the room he'd set on fire struck Dean in the back of the knees. He grunted in pain, but it only knocked him closer to his goal. Something else hit the back of his shoulder, and he fell onto his knees. Didn't matter. He could damn well crawl. A board flew right past Sam's feet and Dean found the strength to push harder yet.

His world narrowed to his immediate objective as the force on him squeezed harder and black spots began to swim before his eyes. Sam awake? No. Take shotgun. Shoot at witch. Oh, that made her scream, and the force let up a little. With a silent apology to Sam for getting handsy, Dean grabbed the handgun out of Sam's waistband and shot at Michelle again, hoping it was loaded with witch-killing bullets. Something struck his wrist and messed up his aim, but she still fell backwards, crying out and dropping the twice-damned book. Dean pulled in a few harsh breaths, feeling the pain of his muscles getting much-needed oxygen. Michelle was down and bleeding, so he had a second.

Dean blinked. Then blinked again. There were slits of eyes, green rimmed with golden brown, looking back at him. "Sammy?"

"Ow."

"Dude. Just a sec. Gotta take care of the witch. And the ghost. You don't have any holy oil on you, do ya?"

"C-coat pocket."

"Seriously? For a total moron, you're pretty smart." As Dean spoke, he was frantically checking through Sam's coat pockets. There it was, a small glass bulb, easily broken when thrown down. Dean found the lighter next, then patted his brother lightly on the chest. "Don't move, Sammy. Be right back." He didn't know exactly what Michelle had been doing, but he knew he had to hurry. But as he turned to go, Sam curled fingers on his sleeve, catching his attention.

"Ghost n-not bad. Trying to st-stop witch."

"Okay, okay." Dean patted Sam once more, hating to leave him looking so broken, but needing to take care of the bigger threat.

Michelle was looking even worse for the wear by now, bleeding from the shoulder. She was scrambling toward the book, but Dean was faster. He broke the holy oil over the book, lit the lighter and threw it in a perfect arc. She plowed into his abused ribs one second too late. The book went up like tissue paper, and Michelle screamed. She stood up and staggered back, literally pulling at her hair. She rounded on Dean. "You have no idea what you just did! You freed Vodnik, and now we're all going to die!" She stared at Dean with wide, crazy eyes. For a second, he thought she was going to run at him, when the whole floor listed heavily to the side.

Dean grabbed at the wall to keep from sliding…as Sam slid right past him. Biting off a curse, he snagged Sam's arm, hoping he wasn't hurting him. "Sam? Sam, you okay?"

The responding, "yeah" wasn't much more than a breath, but Dean heard him. He always heard Sam.

"Liar."

"Hafta be. Witch not dead."

"She can wait a minute," argued Dean. He was already pulling off his top shirt. He figured he could fix up a makeshift sling to immobilize Sam's broken wrist. There wasn't a lot he could do for the rest, but the wrist pain had to suck.

"Nope. Can walk if you help," breathed Sam, knowing that Dean wouldn't want to leave him. Dean didn't answer for a minute as he bound the wrist as carefully as he could.

"How about we see if you can sit up first? Some idiot decided to get between 200 lbs and a metal floor. Don't you smile at me. We're going to talk about this." Dean took hold of Sam's jacket and pulled him up as gently to prop him against the bulkhead, using a shoulder to keep him from tipping over on the tilted deck. Despite his care, Sam made a small, strangled sound and his eyes rolled back. "Sammy? Sammy? Dammit! Zeke? You got any juice to help us out here?"

Sam eyes flew open, but Dean knew instinctively that the voice that spoke wasn't his brother. "I am still depleted from healing Sam from the neck wounds, and his blood volume is not completely replenished. None of his injuries are life-threatening, but I do not have the power to heal him at this time. Or you. I regret that I cannot be more help. I believe I can improve his ribs enough to make it safe to move him, but then he and I will both need rest."

"I understand." Dean knew he was asking a lot of the angel. And he knew that the animosity he felt whenever Zeke spoke with Sam's voice was unfair, that he'd asked the angel for help. And he believed that Zeke did regret that he was not able to help more. "I'm, uh, I'm glad for anything you can do." Sam slumped back without another word from the angel. The ship tipped even farther and a scream sounded from somewhere far to Dean's left – the direction of the only door to the room. While trying to decide on his next course of action, Dean used his ubiquitous bandana to dab at the bleeding cuts on Sam's jaw and temple. He couldn't help but remember Sam reassuring him that the bloody tissue was from nothing more than a shaving nick. And then we jump right back into danger. He sighed.

Sam flinched as Dean cleaned the gash at his temple. To his big brother's relief, his eyes opened again. "You with me, Sammy?"

"Mmph."

"How about actual words this time? I suggest starting with, 'I'm sorry for being such a kamikaze idiot, Dean.' Are you seriously smiling at me?" The cutting words were totally at odds with the gentle tone.

"No' sorry. Woulda been Dean p-pancake."

"I suppose you think you're funny. Well, I'm kicking your ass for that. As soon as you can stand up." Dean was frustrated, but he was also relieved to see Sam smile again. Kid was in pain, but he was handling it, which meant Zeke was probably right about the severity of the injuries.

"I can stand now. We n-need to get your girlfriend so sh-she doesn't hurt anyone." Sam bent his knees and reached up with his good arm in a clear help me up gesture.

Dean scowled. Stupid, stubborn little brothers. "Whoa, whoa, tough guy. You literally just passed out from sitting up. You are not going witch hunting."

In answer, Sam put his left palm on the floor instead and made to stand up on his own. As he'd known perfectly well, Dean wouldn't let that happen, and ended up grabbing his arm and the front of his coat and doing most of the work of getting Sam vertical. Well, as vertical as he could be on the listing ship.

As they hobbled together toward the door with all the speed of an arthritic turtle, Dean transitioned seamlessly between complaining and encouraging, aware of every hitched breath and hard swallow. Sam didn't let much of his pain show, but Dean spoke fluent Sam and was well aware of just how much his brother was hurting. When they reached the stairs, Dean gave Sam a knowing look. "You gonna stay here or am I carrying your heavy ass? And don't argue with me. You can't even take a deep breath."

"Shut up and help me," panted Sam, verbally sidestepping the choices Dean had offered. "And, uh, sorry. I know y-you're hurting too. Your arm."

Dean just scowled harder, trying to figure out why Sam wasn't intimidated by it. A lot of people found Dean very intimidating, but Sam never had. Yes, the burn on his arm sucked, and most of his body was angry and sore, but he didn't have any broken bones. "Shut it, idiot. And stop with the puppy dog eyes. This is like the time you saw a duck go into the water and started crying because you thought it was going to drown."

Sam huffed a laugh and tried to hide the resulting wince. They were already heading down the stairs, and Sam had the passing thought of what Dean would say if he knew Sam had landed on one of these metal railings on his chest. "Making that up."

"Am not. You were a really dumb kid. Dad always hoped you'd grow out of it, but, oh well. Guess he couldn't hit the kid lottery twice." Sam didn't have enough breath to answer this time. They started down the next steps when the ship lurched again and they stumbled down two steps, almost going down completely. From their new vantage point they could see the lowest deck, with the cars. They stared. "Oh, shit," whispered Dean.