Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing and never will as I am totally in Kripke's debt for the loan of his boys…

A/N: This was my very first attempt at fanfiction. It is complete, so I'll post as time allows. Why, you may well ask, am I posting this here and now? (As it was posted elsewhere, then)… This is in answer to Mad Server's query as to where I got a certain nickname… I leave it up to all of you to determine what I am Queen of by the time we get to the end of this little "bridge."

Spoilers for Asylum and Scarecrow acts as a bridge between Asylum and Faith…

Warning: Things are going to get rather gruesome over the next few chapters. I wouldn't recommend reading this while eating…

Starting the Healing Process

Something woke Sam. That something was the sound of Dean making his way to the bathroom, but something was off. Instead of the usual silence of Dean's passage anywhere, Sam was sure he could detect a definite tottering. Tottering? Random – where did that come from. God, he must really be tired. Sam started to drift again as the door to the bathroom closed, and he vaguely heard the usual bathroom noises – not like he was gonna perk up to put that on stereo. He had just about drifted off again when he heard a distinctly un-bathroom noise. Actually three noises – a gasp, a groan, and - the most un-bathroom-like – a loud thump. Sam sat straight up in bed.

"Dean?"

No answer.

"Dean!"

Louder elicited no better response – shit! Sam was at the door to the bathroom. Shit! Locked.

"Dean! Open the damn door, man! Are you okay?" Oh yeah, how stupid was that question? None of the noises pre-supposed any level of okayness. And really if he was ok, he'd probably open the door or at least tell Sam to get out of his personal space. Dean was all about personal space. Especially in the bathroom.

"Dean! Dude! Open the door!" Sam jiggled the doorknob. Yep, really effective man, get a grip! Lock picking tools. Hurry up. Sam's thoughts finally started to go in a more useful direction. Luckily, motel rooms are designed to have easily pickable bathroom locks 'cuz kids are always locking themselves in by mistake. "Must have had Dean in mind," Sam huffed as the lock clicked.

Dean was just starting to stir. Stir might have been too strong a word. Twitch? Spasm? Shudder? Writhe? Sam was so stunned at the sight of Dean's position on the floor he just froze for a moment. Dean was curled on his left side with the right side of his face twisted to the floor. His breathing seemed laboured – but that could be a result of the whole unnaturally twisted head thing. Dean looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower – his short cropped hair was plastered to his head and looked about two shades darker that normal. This only enhanced the pallor of his skin. The bruising on his face was livid against the white of his face. Sweat rolled down his face. The other dead giveaway that Dean hadn't slipped getting out of the shower (other than the no shower noises) was that Dean was still fully clothed – he even still had his jacket on. Sam finally realized that the motion coming from Dean wasn't waking up; it was shaking.

Sam dropped to his knees next to Dean's head. Gently, he rested his hand on Dean's face. God. He was burning up. Jesus, Dean. Could you ever share anything? Sam tried gently patting Dean's cheek. Nothing.

"Dean, man, ya gotta wake up now." Sam was starting to panic. "Dean!" the pats turned into slaps and finally got a response – pretty much the one he was expecting.

"Dude. Personal space," Dean cracked one eye so Sam could see just a glint of hazel and the words were like a whispered breath.

The line on Sam's forehead deepened. This didn't go unnoticed by Dean even in his current less than 100 state. He cleared his throat. Winchester rule number…., um…, whatever (he was having trouble remembering his complex numbering system)… don't scare Sammy ever.

"S'ok, Sam. Just felt a bit dizzy and I guess I went down for the count." Dean tried to smile, but it came out like more of a grimace.

"Dude, those of us who are actually ok don't make a habit of hanging out on the bathroom floor."

"S'not a habit, Sammy. Just tryin' it out." Dean's eyes started to slide shut again.

"Dean! Wake up! You absolutely canNOT go back to sleep – or re-pass out or whatever the hell you are doing!"

Dean jerked in response to Sam's yell and groaned and winced in response to his own movement.

"C'mon Dean. Time for an inventory." Sam did his best to imitate their father's best drill sergeant tone. He knew he had to get a complete rundown on Dean's condition if he was going to figure out what the hell was going on with his brother.

"Ok. Just, help me up, Sam" Dean's voice was weak and breathy and was really pissing him off.

This was not going to help the whole don't worry Sam vibe. Dean's arms scrabbled weakly against the bathroom floor as he tried to push himself into a sitting position. Sam frowned and shook his head. Damn, his brother could be just about the biggest stupid stubborn ass out there.

Without knowing anything about where Dean was hurting, Sam just grabbed his arms and tried to pull him upright. Unfortunately, that set off the whole chest, ribs, back chorus which Dean had been blissfully unaware of for the short time that he had been unconscious, and he cried out. And that hurt his ribs more. And that made him sway as he came almost upright which caused Sam to grab him in kind of a hug which sent pain shooting through his chest and his BACK and then Dean did go limp in Sam's arms.

"Shit! Dean!" Sam didn't think he could get more worried. He was wrong. Not only had merely touching Dean caused him to pass out, Sam couldn't believe the heat radiating off his brother's body. He needed to get this fever down, but he also desperately needed to know what was causing it. He gently eased Dean to a sitting position and leaned Dean up against the bathroom wall.

Dean came instantly and fully awake with a choked off scream and flung himself forward onto his hands, coming to rest with his head down and panting shallowly.

"What the hell Dean?"

"My back is sore, Sam."
"Kinda noticed you seemed uncomfortable. Care to tell me what happened? And any other injuries that might account for your passing out when I touched you? Come on Dean, I need to know it all if I'm gonna help you."

Dean sighed. He was falling down on the job again – he couldn't help laughing at his own little joke – He was supposed to look after Sammy. Not the other way around.

"So not funny, Dude. Spill."

"Ok, so my back is a little sore. And I think I might have cracked a couple ribs when my good friends in Burkitsville showed me into my luxurious accommodations. And, ah, I've still got a bit of a headache from said entrance and, um, also getting up close and personal with the non-business end of the sheriff's rifle. Though I got to tell you, Sammy, for the non-business end it pretty much totally got the job done." Dean chuckled again. Damn, he was just the funniest guy he knew. Funny he didn't seem to have more friends…

"Ok. First thing, let's get you out of these clothes, so I can clean up anything that looks like it might be causing an infection…" Sam was more than a little overwhelmed at Dean's list of injuries. He was also stunned that Dean was actually sharing and that scared him.

Sam placed his hands on Dean's shoulders to grasp his jacket and flannel shirt so that he could simply slip them down off Dean's shoulders and arms. That way all Dean really had to do was straighten his arms and bring them slightly behind his back. Even this small motion elicited a small gasp from Dean though. Sam furrowed his brow at that. The only muscles he should be using would be his chest, but that could set the ribs off.

Dean had managed to get himself close enough to the toilet that he could balance himself upright without having his front, right side, or back in any danger of touching anything. Because right now that would be just about the worst thing he could imagine. And then Sammy wanted to take off his t-shirt.

"Son of a Bitch, Sammy!" Sam had managed to get the t-shirt over Dean's head without really raising his arms, but that meant the offending material dragged rather forcefully against the sides of his head. And Dean didn't have a side without a head wound just at the moment.

"Son of a Bitch, Dean!" Sammy breathed when he got a look at the full glory that was Dean Winchester's torso.

Dean's chest still had a few rather dilapidated and worse for wear bandages left on it, and it was a mass of colour: blues, blacks, dark and unhealthy-looking greens. His entire right side wrapped around from his chest in most of the same hues. But what really took Sam's breath away was Dean's back. There were clearly several "things" embedded in it. It too was a serious conglomeration of welts and bruises. Sam's greatest concern, however, was that several of the wounds on Dean's back were clearly infected. Many of the foreign objects were surrounded by large, pus-filled abscesses.

"Damn it Dean! What the hell? How did this happen?" Sam's concern was blinding him to the obvious answer to his questions. "We've got to get you to a hospital. You've got abscesses that need to be lanced and open sores on your back that need to be disinfected."

"NO! No hospital." Dean was adamant. Dean winced and huffed as the force of his statement caused pain to flare pretty much all over his body. Well, ok, maybe not the soles of his feet.

"What? Why not Dean?"

"Sammy, look at my chest. Gunshot, remember? I can't go to the hospital without attracting a lot of attention. Attention we don't need. I'm supposed to be a dead serial killer. And what's dead, ought to stay that way…" Dean's head was killing him and the room was spinning again. Talking was really not helping him to feel any better. In fact…………

Dean suddenly hurled himself towards the open toilet bowl, and well, … hurled. This really wasn't fair, Dean thought as he alternated between retching and gasping at the pain the retching caused.

Sam tried to steady and comfort his brother by grasping his shoulders. He was consumed with guilt. How could he have already forgotten the gunshot wound? The gunshot wound that he had caused. When he shot his own brother. Shit. Of course, up until he had removed Dean's shirt, Sam had been blissfully unaware that there even was a gunshot wound. God, would he ever learn? He'd asked Dean if he was ok and Dean had said yeah – more or less. At the time, Sam had been more worried about the emotional wounds he had left. He knew that Dean was denying how much Sam had hurt him by what he'd said. But Sam hadn't seen any indications of physical pain. How could he have missed that? Easy, Sam thought. Dean had long ago mastered the art of keeping the mask in place at all costs, no matter what the damage. Keep up that damn stoic Winchester front – until you collapsed in a puddle of your own blood.

Sam sighed. Dean finished retching and spit into the toilet. He leaned weakly against it.

"Dean. God. I'm so sorry. Look, your chest doesn't look that bad, but your back is a mess. What the hell happened to your back? We've got to get a doctor to look at it, man. There's stuff stuck in it..," Sam's voice was as gentle as he could make it. He knew that would get him further with his brother.

"No. There's no way for anyone to look at my back without taking off my shirt and seeing my front. So, no hospital, clinic, doctor, whatever." Dean's head hung down but his voice carried the strength of his conviction. Sam knew that Dean was right about the kind of attention a gunshot wound would elicit. It had to; it was the law. Sweat was trickling down Dean's face and he was trembling so hard Sam wasn't sure how he was staying as upright as he was.

"Ok." Sam gave in reluctantly. "But we've got to get those abscesses lanced and cleaned out and get your fever down. I'll ask you again, Dean. What happened to your back. I have to know what I'm going to be digging out of it." Both boys winced at Sam's use of the word "dig".

"The door."

"Random – door what?"

"The door did this to my back."

"What door?"
"The door to Ellicot's secret room." Dean's voice was close to a whisper and Sam had to lean in to hear him. He wished that he hadn't. He saw again, his brother flying through the air after he shot him – shot him – crashing through the hidden, wooden door. But now when he saw it, he wasn't blinded by supernatural rage. Of course. You couldn't expect someone to fly through a door and walk away completely unharmed. Unless you were Sam and it was your invincible older brother who you could shoot at will and never break his tough exterior shell. Ok. So not the time to be wallowing in angst. Dean really did need him and he would be damned if he didn't get his shit in a pile and pull Dean out of this mess.

"Ok, Dude. I'm a little tired of sitting on this damn bathroom floor. How about you? Care for a change of scenery?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Dean attempted his cocky smile – he managed to get one corner of his mouth up.

"We are going to talk about the need to share certain information, Dean, but for now, let's just deal with what we've got here. Is there anything else that you're hiding? Do I need to take your pants off?"

"Personal space, Sammy. There is nothing in my pants that you need to concern yourself with – at least if you want to stay healthy – and really, one of us should."

"Alright. Here's the drill as I see it. I'm going to have to redress the wounds on your chest. Those abscesses are going to need to be lanced and cauterized – you know I can't just stitch them 'cuz they're already infected. I need to wrap up your ribs and clean and wrap the wounds on your wrists. And last, but far from least, we have to get your fever down. Am I missing anything?"

"Don't think so," Dean muttered. His eyes were starting to droop again. It was taking an awful lot of energy just to keep his eyelids open. He'd honestly forgotten that his wrists were pretty much raw meat from trying to free himself from the ropes tying him to the tree in the orchard.

"Think we can get you into the other room while I gather up what we'll need?" Sam bent in towards his brother. He increased the volume of his voice slightly, though, when he saw that Dean was in danger of slipping out of consciousness again.

"Dean! Stay with me!"

"Ya. Ya Sammy, with you all the way." Dean exaggerated blinking his eyes to get them to open up.

"I'm gonna grab you under your arms, Dean and help you up. I'll do my best not to grab either your chest or back. Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, Samantha."

"On three. One, two, three." And Sam heaved Dean to his feet. Dean to his credit, tried to get his legs to obey him and support his weight. He tried to help Sam, and he tried not to cry out as pain pierced his body from almost every possible direction.

Sam struggled to get his brother back to the bedroom where he could at least make sure he was warm and slightly more comfortable. Dean's legs buckled several times on the short journey from bathroom to bed and each time he sagged in Sam's arms his breath hitched as he tried not to cry out from the pain the added contact caused him. Sam managed to get Dean to the bed and laid him gently on his left side. He quickly covered him with the blankets and returned to the bathroom to grab some cold wet towels for his head. He also snagged a glass of water and fished the ibuprofen out of the first aid kit.

Sam was immediately struck by just how pale Dean was. His eyes were unnaturally bright, however. Fever bright, Sam realized.

"Think you can keep a couple of these down? It's all we've got for the pain right now, Dude."

"I'll give it a shot. It's ok Sam. I'll be ok." Dean missed Sam's wince at his choice of words as he struggled into something like a semi-sitting position to get the pills down. Whether they'd stay down was anybody's guess. Dean lay back down with a wince and a sigh. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the room to stop spinning before he lost the pills. He really, really wanted to keep them down.

Sam started to gather all of the tools he was going to need. Alcohol. Dean's zippo. Gauze. Hydrogen peroxide. Antibiotic cream. The scalpel and tweezers. Sam was always struck by how screwed up it was that they had scalpels and tweezers in their first aid kit. Sam noticed that they were pretty low on most of their supplies. Then he realized, that an awful lot of their supplies were currently on Dean's chest. Sam also boiled some water in the small portable kettle they carried with them. He carefully laid all of the supplies out before gently waking Dean from the light doze he'd drifted into.

"Dean? I want to get you into a chair. You obviously can't lie on your stomach while I work on your back, so I think that's our best option. You with me?"

"Yeah Sammy. Totally with the program." Dean didn't open his eyes and was pretty much back to sleep the moment he stopped speaking.

"Dean!" Sam jolted Dean awake. He hated to do it, but he knew that compared to what he was about to do, if he had woken Dean by punching him, it would seem a gentle kindness. Dean groaned as he pushed up off the bed. Sam had already positioned the chair next to the small side table where he'd laid out all his supplies. He helped Dean to sit backwards on the chair, straddling it. That way no part of his torso was actually touching the chair and Sam had easy access to his entire back. Sweat was coursing down his entire body and he was shaking with chills. That wasn't going to make this any easier.

Dean swayed slightly as he straddled the chair. His hands gripped the back of the chair. His eyes fell on Sam's carefully laid out supplies – nah, his boy laid shit out meticulously - It was all there. And Dean knew without a doubt that this was gonna hurt like a son of a bitch…

A/N: Any guesses yet for that nickname? You should get it by the end of the next chapter for sure…. I wasn't too hard on Dean was I?