I know some of you are mad at me for having Sam run out on the last chapter, but it just seemed to fit, so...sorry 'bout that. There's a lot more angst to deal with before we get any happy moments. For those of you who love angst, your payoff is now. For those of you who don't...well, you'll just have to wait a while. But I promise it's coming. You all rock. Thanks so much for those wonderful reviews and please, keep them coming. Feed the piggy bank!

Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, but if I did...oooh, what fun we would have!

Dean didn't talk for close to a week after Sam ran out on him that day. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, didn't react to people talking to him or asking him questions, didn't respond to touch. They called it a waking coma. He was in there, awake, but he simply wasn't responding to any external stimulus. His mind had completely shut down. It was as though he had completely distanced himself from the surrounding world, a means of self preservation. When all else may have been out of control in his life, this, Dean could control. And he controlled it by totally letting go.

Dean had been asleep when Sam finally returned several hours later, freshly stitched and leaning heavily on Missouri. Bobby was sitting nervously at Dean's bedside, but jumped to his feet when the two entered the room, taking Sam's sizeable weight from a struggling Missouri and leading the youngest Winchester back to his bed. He'd noticed the bloodshot eyes and puffy lids, but said nothing to the boy as he settled himself back against the pillows.

"Is he okay?" Sam had asked, his shaking voice filled with apprehension as he steeled a glance at his sleeping brother.

"As okay as can be expected," Bobby had replied. He wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but he knew something had gone down between the two. Dean's nurse had given him only the minimum information when he'd returned just minutes after Sam had left, and all he knew was that Sam had gotten upset and needed some air. She had said it softly, under her breath, as she inserted something into Dean's IV and patted the boy on the shoulder.

Tears had glistened in Dean's eyes, but he quickly wiped them away as Bobby sat down beside him. Sniffling twice, Dean crossed his arms in protective stance across his chest and closed his eyes. Other than turning his chin slightly in Bobby's direction, as though he needed that semblance of nearness, Dean never acknowledged the man's presence. He'd fallen asleep soon afterward.

A different nurse entered the room a few minutes after Sam was settled into bed and offered a handful of pills to the sullen and surprisingly cooperative young man, waiting until he'd swallowed them and downed the cupful of water before retreating from the room. And shortly, Sam was fast asleep too.

Convinced that both boys would be asleep for a while, Bobby and Missouri had exited to the hall and spent a good hour discussing John Winchester's boys. Missouri told Bobby about her conversation with Sam, leaving out the parts she thought he would want kept secret, and in return Bobby told Missouri about the conversation he'd been privy to between the boys when Dean first woke up. They discussed the accident, and how it was affecting their young charges, these boys' whom they had held close to their hearts from the time John Winchester had first brought them around, these boys' whom they had both vowed to protect as they would their own. There was nothing either wouldn't do for Dean and Sam, and the question wasn't if they would get them through this painful time, but how. By the time they had finished, they at least had a plan of action for when Dean was released from the hospital, but still had no idea how to put the broken pieces of the boys back together again.

And from there it only got worse. Dean hadn't slept well that entire first night after waking up. He tossed and turned, mumbling and calling out and panting heavily until Sam couldn't take it anymore and climbed into bed with his brother. A comforting hand on Dean's chest finally had the hunter calm enough to get at least an hour or two of restful sleep. But when he'd woken up, he acted as though Sam wasn't there with him; as though his touch meant nothing to him and didn't actually exist. His eyes had focused unsteadily on the dresser across the room and he lay still in the bed.

Hurt, Sam disentangled himself from his brother and resettled himself in the chair beside the bed. He clutched tightly to Dean's hand, and couldn't help but notice that Dean didn't return the squeeze, if anything, he seemed to pull away from Sam's touch. But Sam couldn't blame Dean for hating him, hell he hated himself for running out on his brother before, and he was now more determined than ever to reconnect; to repair their bond.

Dean wouldn't feed himself, and he would barely allow himself to be spoon fed until one day Dr. Hurley threatened to have a tube shoved down Dean's nose into his stomach to supplement the vitamins and nourishment he was lacking. To Sam's surprise and complete dismay the threat didn't even faze his normally stubborn brother, and a half day later a surgical team was brought in to place the tube. Thick brown goop that claimed to be food began to flow steadily through that plastic tubing five times a day, but Dean barely blinked at its presence.

A psych consult was called in on the third day. The man was plump and balding, and wore a red argyle sweater vest, mustard yellow tie and thick rimmed glasses, and he sat with Dean for all of ten minutes before giving his diagnosis; depression, in full swing. Sam protested the prescription for antidepressants the pretentious doctor wrote out, accusing him of rushing Dean's healing process. "You would be depressed too if you'd just lost a leg!" Sam had yelled, and finally managed to convince the man to give his brother a little longer before actually trying the medication. Sam knew the history of antidepressants, knew they would only succeed in making his brother an emotionless zombie. The irony was not lost on Sam that Dean was already an emotionless zombie, but at least this present state was his own doing. They hadn't been raised to rely on medications to repair what the body would fix in time and he wasn't about to start now. He normally fought Dean tooth and nail to take a few Tylenol when he was in pain. Sam knew Dean would thank him eventually...he hoped Dean would be able to thank him eventually.

Sam was released four days after Dean woke up, except all that meant was that he traded the despised hospital garb for his familiar t-shirts and jeans, and downgraded from the relatively comfortable hospital bed to a worn easy chair barely large enough to allow Sam to cram his lanky frame into it. He never moved from Dean's bedside except for occasional trips to the bathroom and the rare venture to the hospital cafeteria, despite Bobby and Missouri's protests that he find a hotel and get some sleep. But the guilt that ate away at him from his moment of weakness when he ran kept Sam glued to his spot, unwilling to put Dean through the same torment he'd put him through once before.

Watching the nursing staff clean what they called Dean's 'stump' became easier with time. Part of Sam knew he would never be fully comfortable with the sight, aware that he would always blame himself for what had happened. But he learned to overcome his discomfort, going so far as to ask the nurses to teach him how to care for the limb. By the fifth day, Sam had pretty much taken over Dean's care, fully preparing himself for the day that Dean was released.

Late afternoon on day six, Sam emerged from Dean's room just in time to overhear Dr. Hurley and the dreaded Psychiatrist discussing Dean's case. Reacting quickly, Sam flattened himself against the doorframe, just out of sight of the two doctors but within hearing range. They spoke about re-visiting the idea of antidepressants and discussed how they might convince 'the brother' to see things their way. And then they said something that made Sam's blood boil.

"I think we need to consider admitting Mr. Winchester into the psych unit," Dr. Pretentious suggested casually. "I've seen patients go into depression, but this is far worse than most I've seen. He hasn't spoken one single word in six days. It's like he's just a shell; he's not even in there."

Dr. Hurley rubbed his chin between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, contemplating the thought. "His brother won't like that," he warned, although never saying 'no' to the suggestion.

"With all due respect," the psychiatrist began in a voice that oozed a complete and utter lack of respect, "the brother doesn't have an MD after his name. He doesn't know what's best for our patient."

Sam didn't wait to hear more than that, crossing the short distance to Dean's bed and speaking frantically to his desensitized brother. "Dean, man, this isn't a joke anymore. They're talking about locking you up in a nut house if you don't snap out of it. And I don't think there's anything I can do if it comes to that. They're trying to shut me out, Dean. They're discussing what they can do to go over my head. But you and I both know that locking you up in the psych unit isn't going to make you better. You've gotta do it on your own. And you have to do it soon."

Dean blinked, but continued to stare at the same spot on the dresser he'd been staring at for days, the automatic movement of his eyelids doing nothing to ease Sam's mind.

"Is this punishment?" Sam demanded desperately. "Are you punishing me for running out on you? Because I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry for that you will never even know. If I could take back that time, if I could go back and do it over again I would do it differently, I swear, Dean. But I can't go back. You have to forgive me. Please!"

Another blink, but no other response.

"Dean, please," Sam begged, getting up and pacing the floor, fisting his hair in his nervous hands. "I don't know what to do anymore, man. I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you. I need you to snap out of it and tell me what to do. I can't do this without you, Dean...is that selfish of me? Because you know what...I don't care anymore. If my being selfish is what it's going to take to get you to come back to me then dammit Dean, I'm going to be so fucking selfish you won't know what hit you."

He paused, realizing that he was rambling like a lunatic, and deciding he didn't care. "I need you here with me, Dean. This is your thing...this whole big brother, savior, fixing things gig and I just don't have what it takes to do the same job you do. I want to help you, Dean. I really do. But you have to tell me what to do so I can help."

Back at Dean's side, Sam jumped on the bed, straddling his brother as he grabbed him roughly by the arms and shook him desperately. "Pleeeease, Dean," Sam begged, moisture clouding his eyes once again, now becoming an annoying habit that Sam was all too willing to break. "This just isn't funny anymore. I need you back."

Still, the only reaction Sam received was a lethargic robotic blink of Dean's eyelids. Sam sighed, completely and utterly hopeless and deflated, and collapsed beside Dean on the bed. His head fell heavily on the older man's stomach, no longer worried if the move hurt his brother. Sam didn't care anymore, because, maybe Dean needed a little added pain to snap his ass out of the protective trance he had placed himself under. At this point Sam was ready to try anything.

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For days it had felt as though he'd been drowning under water, sinking deeper and deeper into the murky depths of the black sea. At first, Dean had relished the escape, seeking the protection the darkness provided him. He'd stayed there, safely hidden and oblivious to the activity going on around him. Until the day that Sam's desperate voice finally broke through the fog and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to the surface. He didn't have a choice, not really anyway, because Sam was his responsibility and Sam was hurting. Dean never could deny his little brother anything.

Sam's head smacking into his gut like a bowling ball was the final pull and he sputtered out a whoosh of air before managing to breath normally once again. But somehow, Sam seemed to miss the reaction from his brother and his head remained down on Dean's stomach, fingers just barely touching Dean's hand. Exhaustion overtook him immediately. Apparently getting lost in a void of nothingness took more out of a person than one would expect because no sooner than Dean had come back to lucidity did he end up succumbing to slumber.

Waking up an hour later Dean found Sam in the same position he'd left him in, the only change being that his hospital gown was now soaked from his brother's silent tears. Dean inched his hand forward, easily finding purchase on his brother's fingers and tapping them gently.

"Sammy..."

Sam's head shot up fast, wincing as it pulled at the still healing wound in his shoulder. He looked over to Dean with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here." His voice was hoarse and scratchy from lack of use and he coughed once after forcing the words out.

"It's Sam." The reply was automatic. Sam hardly knew he was saying it before the words were out of his mouth and when he realized how trivial he sounded he cracked a smile.

"That all you got to say to me?" Dean asked, shooting his own smile at his brother.

The corners of Sam's mouth dropped and he stared hard at Dean, suddenly trying to figure the man out. Sam had just spent almost an entire week doing nothing but talk to Dean while Dean had remained practically comatose. And now Dean dared to question what Sam had to say?

"Sam?" Dean's voice hedged on anxiety.

And Sam broke down. "Shit, Dean, it's not like I haven't tried to talk to you all week. Where were you man? Where the fuck were you?"

Dean shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, man. I guess I just needed time to pull myself together."

Sam cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly. "About the other day...what I– what I did..."

"You did what you had to do," Dean interrupted, holding up a hand to stop Sam before he got in too deep.

But Sam wasn't finished. "I shouldn't have done it, though. I never should have run out on you. It's just that–"

"Just stop it, Sam," Dean warned, unwilling to hear what would undoubtedly become a Sammy pity party. It wasn't that Sam didn't mean well; Dean knew that much. But Sam had an uncanny ability to turn everything on himself. Even what he aimed to be a heartfelt apology always managed to become about Sam and Dean wasn't ready to deal with it.

"I'm trying to say I'm sorry here," Sam protested.

Dean gripped the edges of the blanket, already wishing he hadn't reemerged from his safety net. "Then just say it and be done with it, Sam."

Sam flinched at the anger in Dean's tone and he knew that things weren't right with them yet. He knew they wouldn't be for a long time. "I'm sorry," he said meekly, suddenly becoming very interested in the tiles on the floor.

"Apology accepted." The reply was flat, emotionless, as though Dean didn't really want to accept it but had to for Sam's sake.

They sat in silence again, although this one was more strained than the past weeks silence. Where the other silence had been truly that: quiet, this one spoke volumes. This one screamed of despair and distrust, uncertainty, fear. It screamed of change.

Minutes passed slowly as each brother found something other than each other to focus on, the stationary objects common to all hospital rooms becoming extremely interesting as they avoided picking up the conversation.

"So what now?" Dean finally asked, unable to maintain the silence any longer. He never had been one for quiet, always finding a way to fill uncomfortable silences with witty sarcasm and snarkiness. Maybe that was why Sam was so upset about him taking a week off from reality; maybe Sam just hadn't known how to fill the silence. Not that Dean really knew how to right now either. What surprised him was that he couldn't even find it in himself to be sarcastic right now. It had always been his stronghold; the glue that held his constantly breaking heart together during times of loss and pain. He'd never been able to share his feelings the way Sam did and making stupid remarks was always the closet thing he had to spilling his guts. It was his way of saying 'I'm hurting and I don't know how to handle it.' But even that didn't seem to want to make an appearance and that scared the shit out of Dean.

"Huh?" Sam looked up from the specks in the floor tiles that he'd been counting and eyed his brother, Dean's words not having made it from Sam's ears to his brain for comprehension.

"I asked what we do now?"

A pause, and then Sam smiled. "Well, I guess first of all we tell that pretentious jack-ass of a psychiatrist that he can shove his anti-depressants and psych units where the sun don't shine."

Dean chuckled nervously at that, rolling his eyes as he pointed to the feeding tube protruding from his nose. "He do this, too?"

"No. That was Dr. Hurley's doing. You wouldn't eat...he had to do something."

Nodding slowly in understanding, Dean eyed Sam suspiciously. "There's another one down there, huh?" He nudged his chin outward in gesture to the hidden catheter's location just in case Sam didn't know what he was talking about.

He huffed in reply, drawing half a smile in return. "You were out of it, man. What did you want us to do...let you wet the bed?"

Good point. "So what do I need to do to go about getting this crap removed. A man's gotta have his pride, ya know?"

The other side of Sam's lip pulled up, completing the smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. He still didn't know what to expect. Dean was being far too accepting all of a sudden and Sam just couldn't quite wrap his mind around the idea that his brother had suddenly woken up completely fine emotionally. He was willing to play along, but deep down he knew there was still a lot of bad yet to come.

"I can go get your doctor," Sam offered.

There was no hiding the shock that seemed to encompass both Dr. Hurley and the shrink when they arrived to find their previously unresponsive patient not only awake but talking animatedly. The shrink had literally slunk from the room after Sam smugly announced that he 'guessed there would be no going behind my back to put my brother in the loony bin now, huh?' Dr. Hurley, however, maintained his professionalism, calling in a nurse Sam didn't know well to assist with the removal of the tubes.

Sam was sent from the room and he took his opportunity to call Bobby and Missouri. They had planned to be gone for a couple of hours, but it was going on five now and he was starting to get worried. Neither one answered their cell phones and Sam was forced to leave a message telling them that Dean woke up and to get to the hospital as soon as they could. He headed back to Dean.

The weird silence hovered over them again for several minutes after the doctor had left and Sam didn't know if it was because Dean's privacy had just been violated or if it was something else bothering him. But it was Dean, again, who interrupted the silence.

It was practically whispered when Dean finally did speak, and the strain in his voice was enough to break Sam's heart. The bad was returning. "So it's really gone."

The room closed in around Sam, and the claustrophobia made him feel nauseous. He looked over at Dean's sullen form and immediately looked away, down at his hands as they nervously wrung around each other. "Yeah. I guess it is."

"Just like that. One wrong step and it's all over for me."

"I think that trap was there on purpose. It was tainted," Sam offered, as though that made the cold hard fact of the matter any easier.

Dean laughed bitterly. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"N– no," Sam stammered, mentally berating himself. Stupid. Kick a man while he's down why don't you? Idiot. "I'm sorry Dean. I just– I mean it's–"

"Save it." Again, Dean's hand shot up to stop Sam. "There's nothing you can say. Just...don't. Please."

In one fell swoop Sam's heart completely broke. "What can I do?"

You can stop talking and just be here for me...with me. "I told you, Sam, there's nothing you can do for me. Not now. Please, just...just leave me alone." But dear God, Sammy, please don't leave me.

As if Sam could hear Dean's thoughts he remained in his seat. "You know I can't do that, Dean. I was selfish enough to leave you once. I'm not doing it again."

"Suit yourself, Sammy." Thank you God. I don't want to be alone right now. Reaching to the table beside the bed, Dean grabbed the remote control and flipped the TV on, needing the sound of fed in laughter to drown out the constant reminder of his missing leg running through his head.

Sam opened his mouth to protest once again the use of his despised nickname but, mouth wide open, thought better of it and closed the gaping hole with a desperate sigh. He settled in to watch the syndicated comedy Dean had selected. Arms crossed against his chest, Sam leaned his body toward the bed, resting one shoulder against Dean's pillow, the elbow on the mattress. Dean may not have wanted to admit it, but Sam sensed his brother's need to feel close to someone and Sam would happily provide that if it meant making the man feel even slightly more secure.

Feeling the pressure as Sam's body made the mattress sink, Dean looked over from the screen and rolled his eyes. "Could you be any more of a chick, Sammy?" and please keep it up. Just stay. Stay with me. Don't move.