Chapter 2

Dean's fever continued late into the night. Mindful of all that Castiel had just told him, Sam refused to leave Dean's side even though Bobby had offered to take over several times. Bobby was finally in bed now, and Sam was still trying desperately to cool Dean off. If this fever continued much longer, Sam was going to have to risk getting Dean to the Emergency Room, even if it was just for some fluids.

Each time Dean thrashed or moaned, Sam could feel the repentance giving way to rage. He was faintly trembling now as Dean relived a particularly painful experience with a demon. Just as Sam had resolved himself to leave Dean and go rip apart some demons, a warm hand settled on Sam's arm.

"Sammy?" a weak voice croaked. Dean had been coughing and screaming so much that Sam was shocked he could even speak.

Not wanting to waste Dean's apparent lucidity, Sam grabbed a glass of water and propped Dean's head up. "Here," he said as helped Dean take a drink.

Dean settled back into the pillow, and Sam thought he had fallen back asleep.

"Wha's wrong?" Dean slurred, keeping his eyes closed.

Sam's brow furrowed. "Nothing, Dean," he lied. "Just get some rest."

Dean furrowed his brow as well, mirroring Sam's expression unknowingly. He opened tired, green eyes again and looked over Sam.

"You' been crying," he pointed out weakly.

Sam wiped away the remains of his tears. "It's nothing, Dean," Sam protested, wiping Dean's face again. "Go back to sleep. You're very sick." Sam had adopted his careful tone again. The same tone he had been using around Dean because he had thought him weak—because Sam had thought that Dean's physical torture had been similar to the mental torture of being without Dean, and had therefore thought him weak for not handling it better. How wrong he had been, and yet he still found he had the lingering frustrating that Dean wasn't fighting hell and its demons as much as Sam him wanted to.

"I's not nothin'" Dean replied, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallowed dryly. "Tell me," he insisted.

Sam could feel his frustration building again, so he squared his face and looked down at Dean. "All right then," he said with a false sense of calm, while really his heart was breaking as he continued pondering over the implications of what Castiel had said. "Tell me about hell," Sam insisted. "Because I thought I was starting to grasp what you had gone through, but then I realized how much longer you had been down there than I realized."

Dean frowned and moved weakly. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his eyes glassy and unable to shutter as they usually did. The echoing cry of Sammy reverberated through Sam's head, and his guilt fed the rage that was his constant companion these days.

"I had a visit from a friend of yours," Sam continued, battering Dean with the information he had been privy to because the guilt was so all-consuming Sam didn't know how else he could bear it. "Why have you been lying to me?"

"Too weak," Dean murmured, looking on the edge of sleep again. Sam wondered if he would even remember this conversation tomorrow.

"I'm not too weak, Dean," Sam protested vehemently. "I've been managing just fine while you were—"

Dean's eyes were on Sam fully now, and Sam realized the implication of what he said. "Well, not fine exactly," Sam clarified. "But I'm stronger now than I've ever been."

Dean's eyes were closed again as he responded, "Not you, me."

Sam deflated again. "But, damn, Dean. Forty years? You really thought you could bottle that up without talking to someone?" Sam hadn't refuted the part about Dean being weak, even though he wanted to, because a part of Sam still wanted Dean to fight harder than he ever had before. Perhaps if Dean thought himself weak, it would ignite his rage to match Sam's. Sam realized in a small part of his brain that this was twisted logic, but it seemed his usual logic was abandoning him.

Dean shifted weakly again. "It all began to blur," he murmured. "'Sides I deserved it. Monster."

Sam felt himself swelling with rage, as if every muscle in his body was ripping and growing with his anger. He stormed downstairs without saying another word and looked for something to take his anger out on. He made it all the way to Bobby's kitchen before his rage completely took over. He slid everything, books and dishes, off of the table with one sweep of his long arm. He heaved the table over, but even that wasn't enough. He began smashing and breaking everything he could lay his hands on until he was completely surrounded by destruction. His rage was all consuming, and Sam knew he would need to go demon hunting as soon as possible. After all, that was something he could do to help Dean. None of Bobby's knowledge or books had saved Dean. None of it could save Dean from his crushing memories of hell. Sam sat panting in the destruction when Bobby came around the corner. His throat burned, and Sam assumed he had been screaming, only instead of pained screams like Dean's, his had been screams of anger. He didn't even bother looking at him as Bobby looked in horror at what Sam had done.

"What the—" he started, and Sam couldn't tell if he was shocked at the emotional display, or angry about the destruction of his kitchen. Perhaps it was both. Sam didn't look up until he heard a weak shuffling coming down the stairs, and only then did Sam feel his anger whoosh out of him as he truly caught sight of Dean—Dean who should be in bed resting; Dean who should be curled in a ball, insane from the memories of 40 years in hell; Dean who should be angry at all of them for not trying harder to get him out of hell; Dean who thought he freaking deserved hell, as if he was some monster; Dean who only reflected concern for Sam and his downward spiral instead of concern for himself. The term righteous man swirled around in Sam's brain, and he wondered if the thought was one of his own or if Castiel had somehow put it in his head.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, and then began to pitch forward. Bobby was close enough to slow his assent to the floor, and Sam rushed over to check Dean over and get him back to bed. As expected, Dean was as hot as he was before, and his eyes were rolling wildly in his head. It seemed instinct, and not recovery had sent Dean down here when he was too weak to even be out of bed.

Guilt plagued Sam as he realized that it was his display that had brought Dean from his sickbed. Castiel had been right all along; Sam was a selfish son of a bitch. He didn't deserve Dean, but he was damn well going to try to make up for that. He bundled Dean in his arms and carried him back upstairs, prepared to make up for this weakness and all his other failures by nursing Dean back to health. After all, Sam realized as he lay Dean back in bed, perhaps it was indeed Sam who was the weak one, and not Dean.