Ronissoomine, it's so nice to know you enjoy this tale!
Even more so if there's event a hint of plausibility.
Thank You, and everyone else who reads, as well as ephiny63, Ash8, Ster1, wild wolf free 17 and samantha-dean for leaving comments.
As it is, I don't really know where this is going. The Bunny and the Boys have complete command.

Wild wolf free17 remains my ever-praiseworthy, fast betaer.

Yeah, this overlaps a little with the last chapter.
Sorry.
But...Enjoy. :)

Vicissitudes:
Verge
by Sade Lyrate

Ears picked up the moment the door denied him the sight, internal clock ticking off seconds. Sam had been, had seemed too pale, too worn for comfort. Too damn unstable as he staggered into the bathroom.
Dean's fingertips brushed the familiar pearly sheen before clenching into a fist, his eyes straying to the fine white crystals sown amidst the red fibers of the carpet.

So far nothing.

Every facet of his heart was telling him to go, take care of his brother, see that he didn't pass out, hurt himself more.

And I'll be lucky to wake up with just a bruise the next time...

As he heard the shower turn on, he ran a hand through his hair, over his face, letting out a breath.

For all intents and purposes, Sam had seemed...Sam.
Freaked, hung over, vulnerable...but Sam. Recognition in his eyes, questions in every gaze.

Granted, he hadn't really put much weight on the fact that washing Sam's skin with Holy water had done nothing. Not now when they knew there were demons who couldn't care less about the stuff. Still, he'd expected some kind of a reaction when Sam had drunk some.

But if that failed, what more would any amount of any kind of salt, symbols or silver do? What prayer or exorcism not already used would help?

Keenly he examined the white curves of the circle on the floor.

Heck, he didn't even know what to expect.

Damn it, Dad, why couldn't you be more specific? "Save Sam" - how? From what? Christmas lights and Wal-Mart's?

The ring around the bed remained unbroken. Sam hadn't flinched crossing it, much less hesitated. Hadn't really appeared to even notice the safety measure.

You could have at least told me about some stupid sign...

For all Dean knew, it might be nothing demonic. It might be nothing that he could conjure forth until it was way too late.

...as if weird-ass abilities and immunity to the Demon Flu weren't enough...

He sighed, turned to the small fridge in the room, rummaged around for various food items. He wasn't particularly drawn to the idea of eating, and if past was anything to go by, Sam wouldn't be in a mood for anything solid either, but... Food gave him something to do with his hands, and the taller man would drop if he didn't have a bite or two. Heavens knew when he had last eaten, anyway.

The thrum of the shower was soothing in its constancy, the tiny changes in the cadence as Sam shifted a quiet reassurance.

He'd known his brother for all Sam's life. Dean doubted if anyone could read him better. Even after the four years apart.
Even if no one else could spot the lie, Dean had trusted himself to know the difference. And there had been nothing of the sort in Sam's seeming. Not when he'd claimed to have no idea how they came to be in a nameless motel God-knew-where.

The part before Dean had stepped on to the stage, though...

What happened, Sam? Did he hurt you more than I can fix?

His fists clenched at the thought.

And what the hell has Meg to do with this? Duane fucked you delirious?
That's why you went Dark Phoenix on us?

There were a couple more tests he could run.
If not for the questions and doubts in his head, all clamouring for attention, trying to force his hand into one action or the other, the ghost of their father hovering at the back of it all, softly-spoken words like a scream.

The sharp, wet crack of a body hitting tiles shocked him out of his brooding into action. The shower stayed on, soft gasp seeping out to his ears, his hand a breath above the knob, the other against the thin wood. The part of him that still had hard time occasionally seeing Sam the man instead of Samuel the baby or Sammy the boy just wanted to call out to him, make sure he was fine. The part of him that couldn't rid the image of the hazel eyes, unblinking, unfamiliar, urged him to arm himself, prepare for whatever.

With a couple of determined strides, swallowing back his hesitation, a thousand banshees blaming him already, Dean reached the table, the duffel on a chair. The tools of their trade laid in controlled chaos in its depths, blades tucked neatly in their sheats, bottles of Holy water glinting back at him, lighter fluid and matches as far from each other as possible, the carved figure nailed to a cross, the half-used canister of salt taking up the most room.

His hand touched the dark wood when he heard the torrent in the bathroom die.
His eyes lingered on the crucifix as the door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the way Sam leaned for a moment on the doorframe. The way the pale body reluctantly left that support, half-stumbled onto a bed. He shifted slightly, watched as Sam drew his backpack closer, tugged out clothes with underlined determination, face set in rigid lines, eyes too bright.

Far from well.

Weighing the symbol in his hand, Sam pulling on a t-shirt, Dean reconsidered. Not like either of them needed his fears and doubts to deal with on top of everything else.

But...

"Sam?" he called, eyes on the thing in his hands as sweatpants swallowed Sam's long legs. "Here."

Honed reflexes saved the drained man from another hurt, long fingers deftly catching the wood and metal figure, something (surprise?) flashing in the hazel eyes before they were cast down, the crucifix subjected to study.

Dean, leaning on the table, hands close enough to the guns, held his breath for the moment before Sam raised his shadowed, wary eyes.
But he didn't even wince, show any other sign of being troubled in the least.
For a beat, they looked at each other. Then Sam laid the detailed cross on the bed behind him, movements slow and deliberate, head bowed as his hands clasped in front of him, bruises like shackles, moist hair unruly.

"What happened, Dean?" Resigned, quiet, Sam suddenly seeming much smaller than his almost six and a half feet frame could suggest. Tired eyes rose to meet Dean's, desperation shuffling in the shadows.

No, dear God. No.

"I'm not doing this. Not before you've eaten something."

You're not better. Not yet.

"It'll just come back up." Soft voice, sorry eyes holding onto his own, sad, weary smile slipping on and off Sam's lips. "Have you recited God's seven names? Burned bay leaves and angelica? Cut me with silver?"

He ignored the hushed hunter's suggestions, facing the gaze.

"I'm not letting you down any pills into an empty belly."

With an unhappy bark of laughter, Sam shook his bowed head carefully.

"Feels like there's too much already..."

The anger flared, sharp and sweet and stark on his tongue, the words slipping out before he could bite them back.

"Booze and a sugar cube not gonna cut it. And that's all you've had over the last day or two!"

Intent eyes snapped up at that, questions pooling in the depths, wariness tightening muscles to flee or fight.

"Sugar?"

Sam, blood too dark on too ashen skin, breaths and beats too rapid, too far from regular...

Dean exhaled as he turned around, hand running through his hair, the other leaning on the table. When he spoke again, his voice was low, rough, memories of John, the exercises and lessons flitting through his mind again, intermittent with Sam.

"You were going into shock. I just...it was the only thing I could do anything about."

Ensure breathing.
Stop bleeding.
Keep warm.

"Why'd I go into shock?" Quiet, gently prodding, careful.

Duane, thumbs hooked at the waist of Sam's jeans, devouring unresponsive Sam's lips, skin, like he was a free meal...

Taking a deep breath, stuffing the nightmares back into their box, Dean turned back, locked his eyes with Sam's. Hated his voice when he couldn't manage to get it as even and self-assured as he wanted.

"...kill him, Dean."

"I'm not doing this. Not now. We'll talk when a breeze won't knock you over."

Sam looked at him, eyes pleading, challenging, unblinking. For one crazy, panicked second, Dean's brains froze, his instincts urging him to do something, every piece of him wanting to leave, take Sam and go.

Duane, soul and devilsmoke torn out of him, shredded, dead long before he hits the floor.

Splinter of time, the terror their father planted in his heart blooming fresh and foul, Dean realized what he should've figured out so very, very long time ago.

It doesn't matter.
Whatever Sam is, whatever anything's planning for Sam, he's still Sam. Nothing matters beyond that.

The hurt eyes were averted, the spell broken, the tightness to the shoulders, the way Sam cradled his head in his hands unmistakable.

He'd acted like an ass long enough.

Biting his lip, Dean paced into the kitchenette again.
Worn eyes met his as he crouched before Sam, a glass of juice in his hand. Without a word, Sam accepted it, Dean rose, picked up the crucifix, tossed it onto the other bed.

"Sleep it off, Sammy," he said softly, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Dean, Meg..." Sam's voice was hesitant, his brow furrowed. "I mean, Duane. He-"

"Taken care of. Trust me." The hazel eyes looked up at him, dull with ache. "Drink that, try to rest. I promise, we'll talk when you can keep something solid down."

Unhappiness darkened his brother's features, gaze drifting.
Dean dropped down to a crouch again, locking looks.

"Sam, I promise."

Despondency met his honesty, surrendering to acceptance.
Smile brushed across his features as he got up to his feet, patted Sam's shoulder gently.

Silence filled the room, the suspense draining out. Sam emptied the glass, handed it to Dean before laying back, hand over his eyes. Dean busied himself with cleaning up the room until the rhythm of Sam's breaths changed, soft with sleep.

Careful not to wake him, Dean drew up the covers, sat down on the other bed, bowed his head.

He didn't want to think about tonight, tomorrow even less.
Hadn't for a while, really.

Thinking about the last few days wasn't a much better idea.

You were right about one thing, though, Dad...
Sam's safe.
And that's all that matters.

Author's Notes:
Damn that Dean and his stubborn streak!
But, yeah...next (and last?) chapter will be up before the end of the month, all things willing...
Though I was considering ending it with this, but then Sam spoke up. :)