In the morning, Sam found the bottle of Flurazepam, in plain sight, right by the coffee maker. He'd been partially awake for what felt like forever, staring at the framed scene of the ocean on the wall. Dean's Mexican beach, he realized, only after an eternity of rising and falling through overlapped layers of surreal dreams of hammocks, thunderstorms, and inexplicably, the 'toon cast of Who Framed Roger Rabbit. The third time he'd been going down on Jessica Rabbit, and muzzily thinking that all Jessica's were volcanically hot, she started to sound grotesquely like Bela Talbot, and with that, he came to with a start, as if a rubber band had snapped him in the head.

He rubbed his head. It was morning? He didn't even remember going to bed. He staggered toward the dollhouse kitchen, making a determined, but slightly weaving, beeline for the coffee maker. On the way, he picked up the note Dean had left, tented on top of the laptop. Staring slightly cross eyed at the note, he read it, and then read it again. He could hear the blood rushing in head, his ears were turning red … and he didn't even flinch when he heard a sharp crack. He looked down at the broken drug bottle, and watched pills drop out to plink on the floor and the counter. He hadn't even noticed he was holding the bottle, and here he'd crushed it in his hand.

In a couple of months, when this whole deal thing was safely behind them, he was so going to punch his brother right on the nose. It wasn't until he'd scrubbed his face with cold water, and struggled into clothes, and jammed his feet into his boots, that he realized he didn't have to wait until after the deal. He could pound Dean into pulp today. And he would, just as soon as he found his stupid, bull headed, maniacal brother. He felt something on the tab of his boot. To his surprise, he found and detached a tiny electronic device. What the hell? He slapped his hands over his clothes and found another tag attached to a belt loop on the back his jeans. What the hell was Dean up to?

Stuffing his wallet and the devices in his back pocket, he thumbed Dean's speed dial for the fifth time, listening in mounting frustration as this call also went straight to voice mail. He might need to wait to punch Dean until tomorrow. He ran out the door, and practically went face first onto the hood of the Impala. He backpedaled, and accidentally slammed his bandaged arm into the doorframe. Hissing, he stepped back into the room and saw Dean's key ring on the table next to the laptop.

Goddamn it. He looked at the note again, written in Dean's block printing:

Lighthouse on the west side of the road, five miles north of Avon. Left my valuables here just in case. -- D
PS - West is the right side of the road when you are driving south.

He grabbed the keys, bolted from the room, and into the car, skidding the Impala onto Beach Road, heading south. So now he was a 'valuable'? How could Dean leave him? Jesus. Dean left him. Dean left him. How fucking ironic. He hit the steering wheel so hard he could already hear Dean yelling at him. Dean wasn't allowed to leave, not now, not with the deal, not ever. Sam had made that perfectly clear. He gunned the car again, almost slewing the car off the road as he ran a light, turned onto the bridge, and barreled south to Avon.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw light reflecting off the roof of a car behind him. His stomach dropped right through the floor of the car. He took his foot off the gas, hard pressed not to hit the brakes, chanting silently, don't be a police car, please not a police car, please, please, please, don't be a police car, as he let the Impala's weight slow her down. As the road started to flatten out, he got a better look at the car and blew out a huge sigh of relief. Not a cop.

He drove carefully for the next fifty miles, which meant he wasn't going to get a speeding ticket, but gave him far too much time to conjure up more and more gruesome scenarios of what he might find when he arrived. He could see the lighthouse long before he reached the access road, and timed his arrival to allow the traffic to clear before swinging onto the dirt road. He was going so fast as he went around a dog leg in the road, he almost couldn't stop the Impala from running into a heavy gate. He spotted an old Camry a few feet from the fence, tucked into some brush.

Both cars were hidden by the turn, and he, himself, would be hidden from the road as soon as he topped the first dune a hundred yards out. Sam grabbed the first aid kit by its strap, and vaulted the gate. He ran toward the lighthouse, letting his long legs fly over the ground, trying to stretch out the soreness in his muscles as he ran.

The sky was a clear blue as far as he could see. The dunes undulated in waves as they always did, and the luxurious tufted beach grass and scrub brush looked undisturbed. Still, something felt off. He checked the sky again - there were no birds anywhere.

He reached the lighthouse after cresting a final hill, and stopped abruptly. Everywhere he looked, the vegetation was gone, like it had been scrubbed off the sand with an eraser. The dunes looked more like plateaus, flat topped and sharp sided.

He ran to the edge of the water looking for a sign of his brother. He ran down the beach south, then north. He held his breath when he spotted a floating mass of seaweed, large enough and dark enough to resemble a floating body. He headed back to the lighthouse, not sure how he would find Dean in all this sand without a metal detector.

He almost stumbled over a circle of dead plants. He picked up a stalk of hay or straw, and rubbed it between his fingers. White powder stuck to his sweat-slicked fingers. He sniffed it, then tentatively tasted it. Flour. There was a blackened inner circle. He spotted the corner of Dean's duffel, and dragged it out from under what must have been a foot of sand. He broke the zipper in his haste to open the duffel and get the entrenching tool. He scanned the area around him, glad he didn't have to watch what he was doing, his practiced hands unfolding and locking the handle sections into place as they had thousands of times. The feeling of nostalgia that washed over him was so sudden and so sharp, he almost sat down.

Now, holding a serviceable shovel, he circled the lighthouse, moving further out on each lap. Every time he was on the side facing the water, he had to take a breath and steel himself, before he could look out over the sound again and check for a floating body. Then, thank God, he caught a wink of light back in the dunes, and ran headlong toward it.

Dean's hand was palm up, his silver ring glinting in the sun, just visible under … a boogie board? Dropping the shovel, and hands shaking, Sam reached for the board, and with a quick twist, sailed it toward the water. He fell on his knees next to his brother. Most of Dean's left side was buried in sand, but his head and face were clear. Dean looked almost gray in the morning light. Sam reached for Dean's neck, praying for a pulse, and found one.

He got his arms under Dean's and heaved, groaning as all the bruising from yesterday's car dive lit up in pain, sparking through his arms and shoulders. Dean's lax body slid from under the sand, offering just a little resistance, and Sam dragged him to a clear space, and gently laid him back down. He tapped Dean's cheek, and when that got no response, Sam rubbed his knuckles down Dean's sternum. He lifted Dean's eyelids to see just the white sclera, just like he had at the park. He'd been expecting that, but he still hated it.

He found a little blood on the right front of Dean's shirt, and pulled up the tee to see a splinter of drift wood. He tugged on it experimentally, but it didn't shift. He decided to wait to remove it until he had Dean safe back at the motel. He carefully shifted Dean up on one side, and felt his stomach grow queasy. He'd thought Dean wasn't lying flat because there was a slight rise in the sand underneath him. It wasn't sand, it was a piece of driftwood, stuck in Dean's back, holding his right side off the ground a few inches. The wood was slick with blood.

Jesus. The splinter he found in front was the other end of this stick, skewering him back to front, right through his side. And he'd dragged Dean on his back, grinding and shifting the wood. And Dean had been laying on it, his body weight probably pushing it further in … Jesus. He scrambled up, breathing heavily, willing himself not to be sick.

He pulled rolls of bandages from the first aid kit and wrapped Dean's chest tightly to secure the wood in place. He watched Dean carefully, hoping to see any sign of returning consciousness, but he was out cold. Sam crammed the kit and the entrenching tool into Dean's ruined duffel, and slung it over his head and shoulder, before bending down and carefully lifting Dean, one arm under his shoulders, and the other behind his knees.

The walk to the road was grueling. Sam desperately wanted to stretch his arms out about half way back, but he couldn't bring himself to set his brother down long enough to adjust his position. He set his teeth and willed his sore muscles to behave. One of Dean's legs started to swing as he walked, each step knocking a boot gently into Sam's thigh.

He crested a dune, and let out a huge sigh of relief when he saw the Impala. He stopped for a moment to breathe, before gently repositioning his arms so that Dean's head rolled back against his shoulder. One of Dean's arms was jostled loose, and slipped down limply. Sam carefully picked his way down the hill and back to the car, not aware of much beyond the sound of his own breathing, his exhaustion, and the pain in his arms and shoulders.

On the way north to the hospital, he drove the Impala as fast as the road would allow, the engine roaring, blowing past cars as if they were standing still. Dean was on his stomach, a pillow cushioning his right side, and his head on a pillow in Sam's lap. He still hadn't moved on his own. There wasn't any lore about what happened to Aloviti's if they fought back. Sam snorted – probably because no Ala had been chuckleheaded enough to select anyone anything like Dean.

He called ahead to the hospital. There was a team waiting for him at the ER entrance, talking to him, and at him, in soft southern accents, slipping Dean onto a gurney, and wheeling him out of sight.

It was almost six hours before he was allowed to see his brother.

The first thing he heard was the wind. The wind in his head, in his ears, still enveloping him, dampening reality, taking the world from him. It soughed, and sighed, and slipped through his head, familiar, rhythmic, soft and loud. He thought he was still in the air, and dove toward the dark ground, dropping away from the sky.

He became aware of touch next, something touching him. Water on his face. He tried to move away. There was noise around him but the wind was so much softer. It was making a noise like … a clock? The touch went away. He heard a voice weaving in and around the sound. He felt something on his arm, heavy, warm, then felt something rubbing his palm. At least he could still feel. There was the voice again. It said, 'Dean'.

He had to open his eyes. He had to see if that bitch had survived, and come back. He struggled, trying to move something, his head, his eyelids, open his mouth, anything. He heard a grunt, and felt it, and another, in his ears and in his throat. He was making that noise.

"Dean? Can you hear me? Please, please hear me."

Sam, he could hear Sam. Giant, wonky, shaggy dog, Sam. There was something he could do, he knew it. He felt his mouth turn up.

"Dean? You're smiling. You can hear me."

He drank in every sound, Sam breathing, moving, a chair scraping. Sam was talking to someone, but he couldn't make out the words. He could hear. And suddenly, he could feel pain. He gasped for air, then again.

Sam was back, holding his shoulder. "Breathe, Dean, breathe. The nurse is giving you some morphine."

He couldn't breathe, the pain was like fireworks going off in his back, all through him. Sam grabbed his hand.

"I'm going to count, Dean, count with me. Listen to me, Dean. Count. By the time we get to ten, you'll feel better. One. Can you say one?" Sam didn't wait, he just kept counting. "Two, three, breathe slowly Dean, four, deep breaths, five, that's it, relax … "

Dean felt warmth spread up from his arm. Felt his muscles relax with seven. He felt Sam's hand holding his. He squeezed when Sam said eight. Again on nine. He fell asleep before Sam said anything else.

He opened his eyes. The room moved lazily around him, tilting as he moved his eyes. Noise. Pressure, warmth, cotton in his head … morphine. Sam said that, he was pretty sure. He turned his head against the pillow. Hospital. Curtain. Turned his head the other way. Windows. And Sam. Head back, mouth hanging open, snoring. He breathed out a laugh.

"Sam." He voice sounded like shit, but man, he could hear it and he felt great. Wonderful morphine. And hospitals. Hospitals gave you morphine. He loved hospitals, they were fucking fantastic. Until food arrived. He worked his jaw, and sucked his teeth, trying to work up some saliva. "Sam." He cleared his throat. "Sam, wake up."

Sam's left knee bounced. Dean watched him through a haze of delight. Sam was so stupendously tall. It was like hitting the tail of a dinosaur. He could see the signal's progress as it slowly worked its way up the gigantic reptilian body toward Sam's enormous scaly brain. Sam twisted a little bit in the chair, moving his arm away from his body. Next, a deeper breath, the dinosaur's enormous lungs sucking in enough air to empty the room. Down the arms next, a finger and thumb moving on Sam's left hand.

Dean laughed out loud when Sam finally jerked and brought his head up with a groan. Dean was laughing so hard, he started to cough, rocking himself forward. His right hand pressed against his side, his breath starting to hitch. Sam bent in half and rocketed out the chair, running around the bed. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, hissing.

"Here, Dean, I just hit the button. You'll feel better in a minute."

He drew air past his clenched teeth until the pain receded. Fanfuckingtastic hospitals. "Sam."

"Right here, Dean." Sam brought the head of the bed up, and helped him drink some water.

He opened his eyes. "I can hear you."

" Yeah."

"Say something dirty."

"What? Dean, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Come on, say something naughty, say a ... bad word. Curse." Things were getting floaty again. He moved his head until he could see Sam. "Just one word, loud. Like you stubbed your toe." He licked his lips. "Please, Sam, you sound just like Dad when you swear. I really missed it."

Sam's mouth opened and closed a few times. He walked past the curtain, disappearing for a minute. "OK, Dean, I closed the door." He shook his head and looked at Dean. "You want the Dad special. Long or short?"

Oh, goddamn it, Sam was going all earnest again. Dean grinned. "Long."

Sam's expression, his furtive looks back toward the hall, and the rising blush on his cheeks as he growled out a series of words more than Dad worthy, were enough to reduce Dean to helpless laughter, tears rolling down his cheeks.

When he'd finished, Sam grinned and said, with a knowing look and a wink, "So, was it good for you, too?"

Dean let his head fall back and howled.

Sam surfed for a couple of hours and he found a very promising hunt. When Dean was out in few days, they would drive up north to Erie, Pennsylvania. After all, with a name like Erie, there had to be something supernatural there. And if it was what he thought it might be … he needed to check Dad's journal before he was sure.

He stopped to look out the window and heard something. He turned toward Dean suddenly. There is was – the tiny click in Dean's breathing left over from having his nose broken, along with most of his face, after being smashed into a wall by a poltergeist when he was thirteen. Dean had no idea he made the noise, and Sam would never tell him. He didn't think even Dad knew. He hadn't noticed it for a while – but that might have been because he'd been too busy, or pissed, or stupidly busy to listen for it.

So much of their lives had been change and upset, disappointment and heartbreak, but the one constant, the one thing he could bet his life on, was Dean. Dean sleeping in the same room, or the same bed when they were little, Dean falling asleep after helping Sam deal with a nightmare, was such a constant of his childhood that just one noise, that little click, meant 'home' in the dark, sometimes when nothing else did. He thought sometimes that that would be the thing he would miss the most fiercely when Dean died.

He settled into wait for Dean to wake up again.

A/N: This penultimate chapter is also being posted from the Outer Banks. I'm heading home to Virginia today. The final chapter will be up on Tuesday.

A/N 2: Terry - you'd better not come out from behind the couch until you post Chapter 2 of my story. And maybe Chapter 3. Get cracking!