Sam's fever was up, rendering him slightly delirious. He was zoning in and out, Dean answering his questions with simple words but otherwise keeping quiet, trying to let him rest. At the moment, Sam was just staring at the blanket he was clutching, the only source of warmth Dean was letting him have as he wiped Sam with a cool wet washcloth after stripping him down to his tee and boxers.

The blanket was more a lightweight comforter. Soft light blue on one side, colorful patchwork patterns on the other. It reminded Sam of a blanket he used to have as a kid. He and Dean had been taught earlier than most children to drop toys and stuffed animals as juvenile comforts. Sam had found a loophole in blankets though. Blankets were practical.

Dean found his loophole in Dad's jacket, which was even more practical. The jacket was damn near a fail-safe actually: John was attached to the jacket. If he wanted his kids to drop their items of sentimentality, John would have to start with his own damn jacket.

Though a blanket was reasonable to carry with their lifestyle, it wasn't as protected as their dad's jacket. Sam would bet John would've thrown his favorite comforter away if Dean hadn't covered for him.

Dean really went to bat for Sam during the summer months in particular, appealing to the true survivalist in the patriarch that saving at least one warm comforter was a necessity if John's hunts took them to, say, the desert - where temperatures could fall to forty degrees or lower at night even in the summer. Or higher altitudes, the Rockies or Appalachians where it could reach equivalent lows.

Sam idly wondered how Dean knew about those things. Dean had been young when he'd made those arguments. It wouldn't have surprised Sam if Dean, anticipating their father's decision to ditch his favorite blanket, had asked a teacher if it got cold anywhere in the U.S. even in the summer. That sounded like something Dean would do.

Dean also never told Dad Sam loved that blanket. Dean knew though. Whenever Sam was sick or sad, leaving behind a school or new friends, Dean would pull the blanket out of the trunk loudly claiming Sam looked cold as an explanation for Dad in the front seat, and spread it over them.

Dean kept that blanket long after Sam really had a need for it. Growing up the way they did it was difficult to ignore how blankets failed to deliver half as much security as weapons or knowledge about what was out there in the dark. Grew up Sam did, quickly, with his father drilling no-nonsense skills, tactics and information that'd protect them and then with his brother secretly allowing him whatever vestiges of false childish comfort he could still glean from his favorite blanket or toys or books...

When Dad finally ruled Sam's blanket was no longer useful in any sense of the word, it'd been riddled down raggedy, stained, and molted fluff with so many holes it'd accumulated over the years. Dean didn't have a leg to stand on when he tried to keep it.

Sam had been so surprised Dean had still wanted to keep it. Even more surprised he'd looked so helpless and hurt, watching from the passenger seat as Dad found it in the trunk and said it was gross. "It's basically a huge rag now," he'd chuckled and then dropped the thing in a dumpster in the parking lot of their motel.

Later Sam had quietly promised Dean that it was fine, he didn't need the blanket anymore anyway and Dad did have a point that it'd gotten nasty over the years. Unfortunately, somehow that wasn't what Dean had wanted to hear. With every reason Sam gave him about why it wasn't a big deal, he got the impression that he was just making it worse for Dean because his brother kept looking sadder and sadder.

Eventually he'd snapped at Sam to drop it and Sam, bewildered and frustrated that he hadn't succeeded in making Dean feel better, did.

Sam was remembering these things as his fever burned on, these little things from such a long time ago.

He remembered now loving the blanket for what it was. He'd stare at the patchwork patterns and imagine each patch was its own universe going on and on for infinity in the same pattern. Sam was just lucky enough to catch a glimpse of them all because he had the blanket that wove all those little universes together. Just for him. No one else understood.

Well except maybe Dean would.

"Dean," Sam breathed, fingering the comforter, playing with the rifts and folds of each universe, nostalgia creeping up on him. "They're universes," Sam said distractedly, feeling a washcloth brush down his leg, the cool water sliding down his skin and onto the mattress.

"Sam, what?" Dean asked, a hint of humoring his sick, loony brother in his tone.

"The patches. They're uni...verses," Sam informed, realizing his teeth were chattering. "'M cold," he added, looking down.

"Yeah but you're running a fever still," Dean replied as he moved up and pressed his hand against Sam's forehead. He wiped Sam's bangs away as he pulled back.

"When're we leaving?"

"Few hours. Kevin's packing up," Dean said heavily.

"Where's Metatron?"

Dean gave a sly smile.

"Outside. Waiting."

"Really?"

"Cas is making sure he stays put," Dean said with a satisfied sneer.

Sam huffed and let his eyes drift around the room. He was going to miss Dean's room. He didn't want to leave. The thought of it seemed to catch his heart in a vise, each and every thing that could go wrong, especially knowing their luck, running through his head, and he wouldn't be able to deal with any of it in the comfort of Dean's room.

And another pang of distress. There was some bizarre fear of outside that he'd never really known before, of surroundings that he just wouldn't be able to control, that couldn't guarantee predictability or safety or ease for anybody.

Even approaching faceless waitresses at diners seemed daunting, knowing he looked the way he did, knowing anyone setting their eyes on him were likely to fear him over the stigma of whatever illness they'd think he had. It made him 'other,' something that made normal people nervous, skittish or scared. Sam didn't want that. He so desperately didn't want that.

Dean would be his buffer. Sam knew he wouldn't be able to find anyone else in the world better than his big brother to be that for him. The anxiety still gnawed though. The stress alone it would put on them was winding its way through Sam's nerves, twisting into something that he knew could easily keep spiraling if he didn't calm down.

Sam breathed and forced himself to relax. He turned back to the comforter. He examined the patterns on the blanket and thought of the universes.

Dean leaned forward, pulled an edge of the blanket out of Sam's arms to better cover his chest. "Little universes, huh?"

Sam's eyes widened with surprise. "You 'member."

"Mmhm, looks like the one you had as a kid," Dean said softly, almost wistfully and if Sam didn't know better he'd think Dean was getting as dosed with nostalgia as he was. "So what's this patch?" Dean asked, pointing to a perfect robin's egg blue, "the Smurf universe?"

Sam told himself he couldn't start crying again. It's just that he'd forgotten that Dean would always ask Sam to tell him about the universes he imagined in each patch before bed. It had put them to sleep so many times.

"It's, ah," Sam blinked the water out of his eyes, "the Cerulean Universe."

"Cerulean, huh?"

"Yup." Sam popped the 'p' at the end. Dean chuckled.

"It's a good word," Dean complimented, pulling the blanket up to Sam's chin.

"Dean, Cerulean," Sam repeated loopily.

"I got it," Dean laughed affectionately.

Sam was starting to feel better and more lucid. Dean placed a damp washcloth over his forehead which woke him up even more, allowed him to think more clearly about their meeting with Metatron. He'd been wondering about how Metatron had referred to him.

"Dean?"

"Mm?"

"What Metatron said... D'you think I'm a hero?"

"No," Dean answered, "I know you are."

Instead of a blushy smile like Dean was expecting, his little brother's expression shifted to analytical confusion. Something wasn't adding up for him.

"What?" Dean asked gently.

Sam swallowed thickly, his eyes roaming the bedroom before they settled, looking up at his brother. "You used to read to me..."

Dean snorted and gave Sam a disbelieving smile. "You want me to read to you?"

Sam's faced screwed up with annoyance. "Shut up, no. Knights of the Round Table... from, uh... that old Classics Illustrated comic book..."

"Uh huh," Dean murmured, curious where this was going. He pulled the wet washcloth off Sam's forehead, dunked it into the bucket of water and strung it out. "Had all of King Arthur's knights and they were all on the quest for the holy grail," Sam explained. He looked to Dean to make sure his brother was following.

Dean nodded and placed the wash cloth back over Sam's forehead. Sam swallowed nervously. "I, um... I remember looking at this picture of Sir Galahad. He was kneeling and... light was... streaming over his face." Sam pulled his hands out from under the covers to gesture the inspiring image from memory. He let the silence stand, thinking about his next words, and his hands sunk slowly back to the bedspread, his posture visibly sinking with them. His eyes were red and watery from the fever but Dean could see there was an emotional attribute to them now too. "Dean, I remember thinking... I could never go on a quest like that."

Dean leaned back, surprised. "What? Why?"

Sam grimaced, disliking the sharp quality of his brother's voice. He was running the risk of Dean not understanding and dismissing this without helping Sam come to terms with it. Sam took a deep breath and braced himself for that possibility. He was going to tell Dean the truth though. He had enough courage to do it and enough hope that Dean wouldn't shut him down; that his big brother would hear him out.

"Because I'm not... clean," Sam confessed. The shame and vulnerability he felt must have been reflected in his eyes because Dean immediately softened.

"Sam," he started, his voice calm and sympathetic. Just the sound of it made Sam want to break down. He knew he couldn't though, not if he wanted anything solved here.

"Deep down, I knew. I always knew..." Sam trailed off, looking down at the covers. He needed to get this all out before Dean could refute him outright. It was difficult to admit though, much less to his brother. Sam swallowed and a single tear broke free and ran down his cheek. "Even when I was just a kid. I knew I had demon blood in me. The evil of it... inside of me. I knew, Dean. Even then I think I knew that I'm... I wasn't pure."

"Sammy," Dean whispered heavily and Sam gazed back up at his brother. Dean reached out to stroke a hand through his hair. "You're worthy, little brother. You're a hero. You're my hero."

Sam's lips quivered and his sinuses stung. He couldn't cry over this though - he'd promised himself he wouldn't earlier so instead he closed his eyes and breathed. He breathed and let Dean card through his hair and focused on how good it felt even if he didn't deserve it.

"It doesn't matter," Sam sniffed, "because these trials... they're purifying me."

Dean's hand stopped where it was, at the top of Sam's head and Sam blinked up at him. His brother's expression had shifted from compassionate to objective. He gave one more stroke against Sam's hair, his hand's gentle exit, before pulling back and tilting his head.

"You think you were throwing up demon blood?" He asked, his voice still quiet but harder than it was before.

Sam shrugged miserably. "Yeah," he coughed, "don't think it's gonna work though."

"Why?" Dean retorted, his tone harsher still. Sam didn't answer immediately. "You defeated the devil, Sam."

Sam gave a small shake of his head and rubbed his nose, trying to get out of the emotions and into the debate to meet Dean where he was.

"That was different..." he explained, sniffling and blinking back the last of his tears.

"How?!" Dean shot back, annoyed.

"Because I was made for Lucifer," Sam replied honestly, simply.

Dean's face pinched with irritation. "You weren't made for anythin-"

"I can deal with demons because I have their blood, I could deal with the devil because I was born his vessel," Sam counted, his voice level and rational. Unfortunately it only seemed to rattle Dean more.

"None of that was your fault, Sam!"

"No but it was my fate, Dean!" Sam shouted back, now somehow pissed because Dean was pissed. Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind he wondered how they did that to each other. Something about unconscious mimicking, a need to meet and join the other in their temperament. Or perhaps anger loved company just as much as misery. Surely, if one of them was anger they had no problem pushing the other's buttons as an invite. On the heels of that thought, Dean practically stomped on one of Sam's.

"So what?!" Dean yelled, repeating the childish phrase that would always have Sam climbing the walls with frustration while they were kids. Sam would be arguing a point - Dean wouldn't like where Sam was headed with it - and then his big brother would snap So what? Dean always made it sound like Sam was pulling points out of thin air, turning and twisting them into unnecessary and biased theories, opinions and conclusions. But they weren't then and they weren't now.

"Listen to me," Sam gritted out, "If Metatron is right, the grace of God has to channel itself... through me, Dean."

"Yeah. And?"

Sam spread his hands out at Dean with exasperation. "Dean! Come on! Of all the people in the entire world I would be the last person anyone would expect to survive God's grace."

Dean pursed his lips and stared at his brother, his eyes telegraphing a strange mix of emotions. Wild concern was one, like Sam had said something that was making Dean question his little brother's sanity. That element was both comforting and unnerving to Sam, that Dean believed in him so much he thought Sam might really be going crazy if he didn't share the same faith in himself. The second primary emotion coming off his brother was fear though. Pure, unadulterated fear. Sam didn't know what exactly it was he'd said that was causing it but he suddenly wanted to take it back.

He couldn't though. It was already out there.

Dean cleared his throat and when he looked back up at Sam, his eyes were wet and when he spoke his voice was gravelly. "You're wrong."

"Okay," Sam backed down. This wasn't meant to be confrontational. He realized if he continued, he'd just freak Dean out more. Using a better, more reasonable tone of voice, Sam proceeded. "Just… all things being equal. This quest, the final trial. There's nothing about who I am that gives us an edge here. It actually gives us nothing but disadvantages across the board." Sam was as calm as possible, speaking carefully so as not to strike Dean's nerves again. "That's... all I was trying to say," he whispered.

"Sam," Dean started, a pained look on his face, "haven't you realized that all we've ever been dealt are disadvantages? Man, this is no different from all the other times the odds have been stacked against us."

Sam had started shaking his head before Dean had finished and cut in immediately when Dean was done. "We've always dealt with evil. This is different, Dean. This is God. And I've..." Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat, "I've done things..."

Dean flared at that. "You saved the world, Sam!" Dean yelled and Sam, ever able to follow his brother, let out a huff of disbelief.

"I started the end of the world! I was Lucifer's vessel. I murdered innocent people and-"

"You're not a monster."

"Yes I am!" Sam shouted back, his voice cracking halfway through, a mix of anger and frustration and defeat breaking his resolve to sound strong or steady. He should've calmed down, should've leveled out but the slapped look on Dean's face made him push on in a desperate bid for Dean to come around and acknowledge it. "Yes I am! And you know it too. Deep down you'll always know it, same as me. That night - St. Mary's Convent - my fate and my choices combined to make me a monster. There was and still is no redemption for me on that... or any of the other things I've done. You said, that night, there was no going back from the monster I'd become and you were right. Your words still stand, Dean. They'll always stand." Sam was breathing hard. At some point he'd sat up against the headboard, throwing the blanket aside to focus solely on his tirade.

Now that he was done though he noticed the confusion in Dean's expression.

"When... did I say that, Sammy?" Dean asked, his tone devoid of angst or anger. Just pure, and oddly worried, curiosity.

"That I was a monster? Right before I-"

"No. The other thing," Dean replied distractedly. He looked down, eyes darting around in deep thought trying to recall what Sam had described.

Dean remembered the parking lot, telling Sam that he didn't think they could ever be what they were to each other. Sam had lost his trust, yeah, but he'd never said there was no going back for Sam in particular. He'd never been that contemptuous of his brother.

Dean had said something close to it once to Sam but only after Sam had provoked him to say it and then punched his lights out. The conversation hadn't continued any further than that.

Dean snapped back to look at his brother, wondering if Sam was putting words in his mouth deliberately.

Sam bit his lip and looked down at the bed, guilt and self-loathing radiating off him as he thought about the events that'd led up to St. Mary's Convent. Sam shrugged, trying to minimize any obvious tell of how much the memory of something, something Dean clearly didn't remember, hurt him.

"The voice mail, Dean," he said simply.

A/N: Originally published 8/17/2014, revised 8/19/2019.

For posterity, the rest of this A/N from 2014 (bc my plans do involve a fix to DSotM, haha): Well this chapter had a lot of digressions but I finally got them to get around to the voice mail, lol. This voice mail fix-it was requested by a reviewer a long while ago so: shout-out! You're finally getting it! ...now if only I could "fix" Dark Side of the Moon... hmmmm... ;)

Thank you so much for reading! Please comment/review if you can spare the time! ~ Alex