AN: Sorry this took so fucking long. I didn't get a chance to update before I went on vacation, but I'm back and feeling refreshed! Let me know what you think of this chapter. There's only a couple left after this!

Do You Recall

XXV: Wheel in the Sky

Dean watched her shaky movements every time she got up to get him more ice, or talked to the nurse about how much he was allowed to have of the (fantastic) drugs he was getting, or when she helped him figure out how far up or down they could get the bed to incline so that he'd be comfortable.

He let her, because he knew she needed to. Part of it was getting a little annoying, seeing her running around in circles just because he was temporarily laid up…but hell if it wasn't a little nice. Just for a little while, he didn't have to concentrate on what happened to get him here, just on getting to the bathroom on time.

Sam came in and out, trading shifts with Elena the few times she left for longer than an hour. But something weird was going on there. Dean knew because she didn't so much as look at his brother when he was there, and they didn't speak. At least, not to one another. He got the feeling Sam was giving her a wide berth.

But when Sam left to get some coffee and find out when Dean could be released, Dean watched Elena with a small smile. She was reading the back of his unopened Jell-o cup from lunch with a narrowed scrutiny while pouring a cup of water for herself. What used to be her strawberry yogurt was empty on the tray they rolled his lunch on.

"Does it have more than the advertized one hundred calories?" he asked mildly. She gave him a cursory glance and held up the small container.

"This is not Jell-o."

"You're surprised? I'm not even sure the chicken was real."

Her mouth twitched into an amused smile, until her hand bumped the plastic cup while setting down the questionable dessert, sending ice water over the side of the tray and on the floor. She stepped back with a start and nearly slipped on an ice cube, but caught herself on one of the chairs leaned against the wall. It was blessedly large and sturdy, with a thick cushion.

"You okay?" Dean said quickly. He sat up a little more and wished he hadn't with the pain blossoming in his chest.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, holding up a placating hand, "I'll clean this up before someone else comes in and slips."

Elena got several paper towels from the bathroom to dry the floor and soak up the rest of what was on the tray, and sat heavily in the chair when she was finished. She heaved a sigh and pressed two fingers to her temples in the hopes of stopping the headache she felt coming on.

Dean saw her hands shaking and frowned.

"Hey," he said, earning her attention. He gestured to her with a head nod. "Come 'ere."

She smiled and momentarily closed her eyes, letting out a breath through her nose, and she slowly got up and made her way to the bed. He grasped her wrist and gently pulled her down to the creaky mattress on his left side. She only sat on the edge, hesitant to get any closer for fear of hurting him. He'd come a long way in a few days, stayed awake for longer periods of time and was sounding more like his normal self, but he was still recovering.

"I said, come 'ere," Dean said in mock annoyance, and tugged on her arm. It teased a smile out of her, despite herself.

"Take this off first," he said, gesturing to her jacket. "Get comfortable."

Elena sighed and rolled her eyes playfully, but obliged by shrugging out of the threadbare brown leather. It was roughly thirty years old, since it came from her mom's closet from back when bellbottoms were a thing. But it had seen more action in the past decade than it ever had in the 70s when, at seventeen, her mom let her twenty-year-old boyfriend drop forty bucks on what her parents called, "a provocative piece of clothing."

It wasn't the best leather money could buy, but blood washed out of it pretty well. Elena guessed that was quality enough for a hunter.

"How old is that thing?" Dean asked after she tossed it on the chair.

"Old enough for my mom to be singing Bee Gees hits when my dad got it for her," Elena said with a teasing smile, and sat next back down next to him on the bed. When she made no move to get closer, he gave her a sardonic look.

With a slight shake of her head and a small smile, she relented and eased her legs up. Dean's arm draped over her hip brought her comfortably at his side without putting pressure on his cracked ribs. She laid her head on his shoulder and breathed deeply, closing her eyes.

"You should get a motel tonight," he said, squeezing her thigh lightly, "get some rest."

She curled her hand around his bicep and shook her head, smiling faintly.

"You're funny when you're doped up."

He turned his head over to her with an admonishing look.

"You've stayed the past two nights in a row."

Both Sam and Elena couldn't stay overnight, according to the hospital's policy. Sam had stayed the first night, leaving Elena alone in an empty motel room and sleeping by herself for the first time in months with thoughts of poorly drawn Devil's Traps (among other memories) keeping her awake.

"You're dead on your feet," he told her. "That chair ain't doin' you much justice."

"And it's any better for your brother?" she scoffed. "At least I fit."

Dean made a sound of amusement at the memory of Sam's long legs stretched out from the chair. Dean's thumb began tracing circles on her thigh.

"Can't stand to be away, huh?" he teased. "It's not like I'm gunna break the second you turn your back."

Elena restrained the urge to point out that he was already broken.

"No, you're not," she said tartly, "because you'll be staying put in this damn bed."

"If you haven't noticed, I've had a lot worse."

Yeah, she thought. Don't remind me.

"I don't care," she said, probably a bit more snappish than she intended. By the look Dean gave her, he was surprised by it. She briefly closed her eyes again and bit her lip.

"Not like that," she amended. "I mean it doesn't matter. You're still hurt."

It wasn't that she didn't care. But whether he'd been through worse was neither here nor there if she could do something about it this time. She didn't want him to use that as an excuse to treat his injuries like they were less than what they were.

"I'm—"

"Don't say you're fine," Elena warned, "'cause you're not."

The sardonic look he gave her was his equivalent of a groan.

"Do I have to poke you in the ribs?" she asked, her brow raised. He rolled his eyes.

"I've been banged up plenty of times," he pointed out. "Why now all of a sudden—"

"Not like this, Dean," she said, the weight in her tone quieting him. "Just…maybe a little peace of mind for once would be nice."

Dean glanced over at her with a frown.

"You wanna tell me what's been eatin' you then?" he asked. Elena was hard-pressed to cover her own look of surprise.

"I'm fine."

"Oh really?" Dean asked pointedly, and shook his head. "Thought we agreed a long time ago not to bullshit one another."

Her grey gaze met his, his waiting, hers a mix of uncertainty and something else he couldn't name. The drugs were fucking with his head a bit, but at least he wasn't in pain.

Elena wished she could turn away when he looked at her like that, but he wasn't the only stubborn one. Sometimes, she swore their entire relationship existed on a precarious balance of wills.

Eventually, she sighed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

She ducked her head, pressing her forehead to his shoulder to avoid his eyes. She both felt and heard his voice rumble to her,

"The hell are you sorry for?"

Elena shook her head, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes as the memories resurfaced. She'd known real fear before then. But she had seen him dead before. The fear of that very real possibility, plus the very real threat of her being next…well. She liked to think she was handling it pretty damn well.

"I fucked up again." Her voice shook, and though she couldn't see his face, she felt the hand on her thigh squeeze the slightest bit in reaction. "I was standing right outside that damn door. If…if I'd just paid more attention to what was going on inside, you wouldn't be here."

Dean sighed.

"Elena…"

"We could've stopped Alastair," she said, and wiped and the few tears that fell. "He almost killed you, Cas, me…"

"Did he hurt you?" Dean asked. Elena shook her head.

"No, but…"

"But what?" he persisted, craning his head over to see her face.

"He…said a few things."

Dean's expression darkened, like he didn't want to ask but knew he had to.

"Like what?"

Elena shuddered at the memory.

"Hello again, doll face. I don't think we properly met last time." The demon started towards her slowly. "But I've seen that pretty face before…so many times."

She knew Dean wouldn't have asked if he didn't truly want (need) to know. That was the only reason why she told him.

"He talked to me almost like…like he knew me. Sort of." Her brows furrowed in thought. "He said he'd seen my face…do you know what he meant?"

She knew he did, but if he didn't want to talk about it she wouldn't press him.

And Dean was quiet for a long time.

Eventually though, he let out a deep breath.

"When I was on the rack," he started, and paused. Elena's thumb tracing patterns in his arm kept him grounded, allowed him to pull only enough of the memory to tell her what she needed to know.

"He dug into every piece of my soul, used everything he could get into," said Dean. "Taunted me with the memory of everyone I ever cared about."

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear it. Every scream, every cut of the knife into skin. His own. His mom. Dad. Sammy. Bobby. Ellen. Jo. Elena. Alastair smiling. The agony in their eyes, mirroring his own—

"Dean."

Her voice, tremulous but calm.

"Hey," she sniffed, carded her fingers through his hair. He turned his head towards her, and she kissed him through tears.

"This isn't on you," he told her, swallowing past the shake in his voice. "It's on the bastards that set me up…got it?"

Dean waited until she nodded, until she understood, then leaned in to kiss her.

"He's gunna be all right, Bobby," she said into the receiver. "He just needs some time to take it easy."

"He sounds…"

"Peachy, I know," she lowered her voice, then sighed. "Can't blame him."

"Guess not…take care of him," the older man said gruffly. "And uh…you get some rest too. Got it?"

A slight smile curved her lips, but it fell when she saw Sam coming around the corner of the hallway.

"I'll try," Elena promised. "You take care too."

She hung up her cell phone and began heading to Dean's room, but Sam's gentle but firm grasp on her arm stopped her.

"Elena, wait," he started. His expression fell a little when she slipped out of the hold, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Okay, how long are you going to keep this up?"

She rolled her eyes, but remained quiet.

"Look, Dean's beginning to notice and…you have to talk to me sometime."

"I didn't think you cared all that much," she shrugged. "It's been five days already."

His brows furrowed, and he had both the nerve to look annoyed as well as the decency to seem the least bit guilty.

"I figured you wanted space."

"You're right," she said. "And maybe Dean should notice."

She began walking away from him again, but it didn't take him much effort to catch up to her and halt her steps with a touch to her shoulder.

"Look," he said, with earnest eyes. She sighed and looked up at him expectantly. "I know…I scared you. I…I didn't want to have to do it—"

"What, get help from Ruby? Fuel whatever psychic powers you've got going on?" she asked. "What your brother practically begged you not to do?"

Finally Sam got exasperated enough to raise his voice, though not loud enough to draw the attention of the daydreaming receptionist at the desk. The dinner carts had already swept through. And visiting hours were almost over, leaving the hallways relatively vacant, most doors closed.

"I had to, don't you get it? Without her help I wouldn't have been able to find you," he said. "I wouldn't have been able to stop Alastair, and Dean…"

Both of them quieted. Elena realized with brutal clarity that he was right. If Sam hadn't come when he did…it could've been a lot worse. For all of them.

"I did what I had to," said Sam. She stared at him, silently searching his gaze. He honestly believed that, that was for sure.

"Sam," her voice was quiet, but steady. "I watched you."

He stared back at her, blankly.

"And I couldn't recognize you."

His gaze went to the floor as his jaw worked, his weight somewhat shifting side to side.

"It's not something I plan on happening again."

She gave him a sardonic look.

"I'm serious," he pressed.

"I'm sure." Elena's expression became terse, her voice rising with her agitation. She barely reached his chest in height even standing as straight as she was now, but damn if he didn't lean back when her hand clenched at her side.

"And I'm sure you weren't enjoying yourself either," she said knowingly. In reality, she clenched her hands to stop them from trembling. There was a part of her—no matter how much she didn't want it to be—that was still wary of him. Not afraid per say, but wary. Sam still wasn't entirely himself, she could tell.

Sam's mouth fell open a bit, but he remained quiet.

"What about the next time, Sam?" she asked, more calmly. "Trouble is a constant state of being with you two. Shit's bound to happen. Whatever the fuck it is you're doing, are you going to look your brother in the eye and tell him the truth?"

The heavy weight of his gaze fell on her, and she met it. He shook his head.

"There won't be a next time."

Dean never asked about it, though she could tell he wanted to. When he'd healed enough to be discharged from the hospital they decided to make the long drive to Bobby's.

They never made it there.

Three weeks felt like a lifetime. Sam was Sam Wesson: one of thirty men and women in the IT department with a yellow shirt and a headset and, "Have you tried turning it on and off again?"

Dean was Dean Smith: Director of Sales & Marketing with his own office and a view of the city, paper weights, and "good things" in his future.

Elena was Elena Fields: secretary to the Director of Sales & Marketing, and fiancée.

The dream was broken by a workaholic ghost with a temper and another angel playing puppeteer—Castiel's ex-supervisor, Zachariah. But for three weeks it was routine and domestic, to Elena at least. The angel let them keep the fake memories. Not just the wake up and go to work from nine to five and salad for lunch (and secret stash of chocolate bars in the less used bottom drawer of Dean's desk), but the three weeks of sharing a spacious, one bedroom apartment.

Grocery shopping and arguing over what to buy for dessert (pie usually won against her resolve), talking over dinner and relaxing on the couch with a movie or an episode of Dr. Sexy if Dean was feeling generous. She had liked making breakfast for them in the morning and fighting over the radio on the way to work. Now those would be things she wouldn't admit to missing, along with the ring she sold to the closest secondhand shop.

It hadn't been given to her, so it didn't mean anything. Plus, she knew for a fact neither of them were even close to ready for that. They'd barely even defined what exactly they were. But she could admit, at least to herself, that it got her wondering about what would've happened, had they just been normal people who met under arbitrary circumstances.

Not in the daycare service of her hunter uncle for supernatural-hunting parents.

But despite everything that had happened in the past month, Elena knew it hadn't been the same without Sam. Even now she missed the way they used to bond over books and music that Dean would scoff at. She missed just being able to talk to him, as her friend, and not being afraid of him.

The only good thing that came out of the whole ordeal was that Dean came to the realization, much like both Sam and Elena did: that hunting was in their blood. They weren't meant to be normal, nor would they ever be. And Zachariah had every reason to believe that Dean would do what he was "destined" to do, though he still didn't get a definitive answer on what that was.

Only a few days after, they met the real author of a book entitled Supernatural, Chuck Shirley, who according to Castiel was a prophet of the Lord who just happened to have written the brothers' life story from the visions he had in his sleep. The entire thing was both frustrating and bizarre, especially when Lilith came into play in one of Chuck's visions and ended up coming after Sam.

She got away after everything, to Sam's ever-mounting frustration.

Their luck didn't get any better in Windom, Minnesota with who they thought was the Winchesters' half-brother Adam, but what was actually a ghoul impersonating him. Elena had watched while Sam and Dean argued, knowing it wasn't her place to interject where involving their brother in hunting was concerned. But she tried to ease tensions as much as she could (which wasn't much). It hadn't mattered in the end. Adam and his mom were already dead, but they got the funeral they deserved.

Things calmed down when they took a case in Chicago, a big city for a change. The streets, paved with snow, were also decorated with flashing multi-colored lights and other festive ornaments that marked the Christmas season. But as Dean reminded them,

"We're not here to sightsee. We're here because we've got a job to do."

The haunting Sam found got a little dodgy (as per usual). The apartment complex the ghost was haunting was falling apart to begin with. It had recently been built over a man's family home after him and his parents died in a fire, which was started by snapped electrical wire hitting the roof after a storm. His spirit was angered by the new apartments and started taking it out on the tenants.

After the ghost shook the top floor enough to bring the ceiling down…well, the hunters were on their way to the motel before the landlord found out the entire building was already due for renovation.

On the bright side, they burnt the remains of the ghost's corpse before it could kill its second victim, and they called that a good day. Albeit a long and tiring one. The brothers were generous enough to let Elena take the first shower since she was covered in plaster dust. Nearly getting squashed from the ceiling falling tended to be messy, but in all fairness, Sam had warned her not to trip.

At least now she felt clean. Her tunnel vision led her to one of the beds.

When it came to sleeping arrangements, Dean always got the bed closest to the window. Elena knew, even if he didn't say why, that it was his way of protecting them, however slight it may be. But that hadn't been on her mind when she let her sore and beaten muscles relax against the mattress. It was a softer one for a motel, dare she say as good as a hotel mattress.

She heard the springs creak when she shifted.

Well, maybe a bed and breakfast.

"You're on my side," he said as he towel dried his hair. He then threw it on top of his bag that lay on the floor. She rolled her eyes and scooted over to the left.

"Are we actually using the covers tonight?" she asked dryly. He had a tendency to fall asleep on top of everything, fully clothed. While it didn't exactly bother her, she knew he didn't sleep as well like that.

"If you're wearing those ass-hugging shorts to bed again, then yes," he tossed back, and sat down on the creaky mattress. "Last thing I need is you parading around in front of Sammy practically in your underwear."

"Last I checked, you liked the 'ass-hugging' shorts," she remarked, then with a teasing smirk, "What, you think Sam and I are gunna sneak out back while you're asleep?"

If he really cared all that much he could've gotten them two rooms.

Dean gave her a longsuffering look.

"It's the principle."

"But I get hot at night," she whined. He sighed.

"Then how come your feet are always freezing as hell?" Elena tended to shove her ice-cold feet between his calves to warm them, and then throw off the rest of the blankets over to his side when the rest of her got too hot. And she wondered why he woke up sweating.

"How should I know?" But then she smiled and folded hands over his shoulder, resting her chin on top. "You do a great job of warming them up, though."

Dean looked over at her with a fake smile. She didn't notice his hand that crept up and began dancing over her ribs, making her squawk in protest.

"Yeah, meanwhile," he said, and found great satisfaction in her keening giggles. Elena coiled away from him on the bed and he followed her. "I get to wake up sweating. Now how's that fair?"

Dean rolled her back to him and found the sensitive flesh of her sides and stomach, despite how tightly she curled herself into a ball. The girlish laughter she rarely let out had him grinning.

"Never said it was!" she choked out.

"I think," said Dean, his fingers more persistent around her flailing arms. "We needa rethink these sleeping arrangements."

Elena's eyes widened with hope when Sam finally came out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam in his wake.

"Saaaaam!" The younger Winchester surveyed the room, eyebrow raising, shook his head and headed for the book he left on the plush chair near the TV. Flipping to where he'd bookmarked his place, the hint of a smile on his face deepened as he heard his brother cackle maniacally, "No one can save you now!"

But eventually, laughter quieted and turned suspiciously silent. When a different sound floated to his ears, Sam rolled his eyes and didn't bother looking up. Though he did lift his book a bit higher in front of his face.

"I'm still in the room," he reminded them. "Nothing pre-Discovery Channel."

He heard Dean's sigh and muttering and Elena's faint chuckle. Sam supposed this is what he got for encouraging their relationship, but it was only in times like these where he felt like the proverbial third wheel.

Oh well, Sam thought. At least we don't have to take turns for the beds anymore.