"Dean, hey come on…" he was tired and his emotions were out of control. Dean had begun to stir when Sam had rubbed ointment on the second wrist but hadn't woken and Sam wanted him coherent before he gave him anything to help with the pain. The entire process of cleaning and cleansing and stitching and bandaging both wrists had taken hours and unless disturbed, he expected Dean to sleep until morning. "Okay, fine."

He could force Dean awake, hold him up and push him into drinking but he had neither the strength nor the stomach to put his brother through anything more that night. Sam needed sleep; he was so tired he was shaking. He eyed the pile of blankets on top of the sleeping bag longingly; no bed had ever looked so comfortable.

He looked back at Dean, who was restless and uneasy, signs that he had slept off the sedative. He sat in the chair for another fifteen minutes but Dean didn't awaken, not even after Sam pushed him over and settled him on his stomach, so Sam deemed it safe to seek his own comfort.

If the reason he gave Suzie for pulling the sleeping bag and blankets away from the bed and over to the wall was he'd been taught never to leave his back unprotected, he doubted she would know he was lying to her face and if she did, he didn't care. There was no way he was going to lay down and not be able to keep an eye on his brother.

They day had been long and stressful and he was both mentally and physically exhausted, completely drained actually. He doubted Dean would have a good night and he knew he should get some sleep while he could. He probably should eat something; he looked at the clock, after ten. The last he'd eaten had been a ham sandwich sometime earlier that day. He thought about getting a glass of milk and some bread with peanut butter but he couldn't motivate himself to do more than plop down on the sleeping bag, face the bed and let his head rest against the wall. He'd just close his eyes until they stopped burning and no longer felt full of sand then he'd go in search of something to eat.

He had more to worry about then when or what he ate. Dean could, probably would, run a fever. Sam hoped he was strong enough to prevent the infection from taking a firm hold, hoped the antibiotics they had would help him fight it. He prayed that no severe swelling set in and Dean would continue to have full movement in both hands.

The biggest and most immediate problem to worry about was Dean waking up. Two hours or so, and he should begin showing signs of coming around. Sedating him with a possible head injury had been stupid but Sam hadn't had a choice. One wrong move or too strong a jerk from Dean while he'd been setting those stitches and there could have been permanent, irreversible damage to his hands.

Sam massaged his temples with his fingers tips. This kind of shit didn't happen to other people. Why him? When Dean had gone by himself to the ER for stitches, nothing had happened. Yet let Sam come to town and danger ran amuck.

Logically, Sam knew he wasn't the reason his brother had been hurt nor was he the reason he couldn't take Dean to a hospital for proper medical treatment. But then, logic had never been a friend to Sam Winchester and he couldn't help but feel responsible for the situation. Trouble followed him everywhere he went and his brother was the one who usually ended up paying the price.

He didn't like making the decision he'd been forced to. On one hand he was grateful he knew as much about first aid and medical care as he did. On the other, all it served to do was put his brother through pain and misery. Sam had chosen what he felt was the better of two options. He'd decided to treat his brother rather than take him to the ER. He'd rather his brother shed a few tears then try to remove him from the hospital before law enforcement could arrest him.

With a brother like Dean in his life, he should have studied pre-med instead of pre-law. There was rarely a time when he needed to legally defend Dean, but he was always tending some injury or another, either on his brother or on himself.

Okay, a short nap, check on the Impala, get something to eat, take a hot shower, make sure the stitches weren't oozing blood or puss, check for swelling, and go to bed.

Sam lay down with a grin, punching his pillow into a plump lump. Dean wasn't going to be happy when he woke up and was cognizant enough to hold a conversation and realize what had been done to him. He would throw a fit when he found out that Sam had splinted his hands to prevent him from bending them. Wait until he discovered just how limited he would be with his hands immobilized. Maybe it was time to pack him up and head out to meet up somewhere with Bobby because once Dean realized he wouldn't be able to hold a gun, there'd be no living with him.

If Dean wasn't awake and talking and able to comprehend what had happened by dawn, Sam would take him to an ER no more than a two-hour drive away.

***000***

Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, oh-good-fucking-God-waking up was a mistake, breathing was a big mistake, trying to open his eyes was a serious mistake, waking up was a god-damn mistake and trying to move was a fucking mistake. The vise holding his head painfully to the mattress drove spikes into the back of his skull until the pain became so great he knew no more.

When he came-to again, he remembered his weak attempt to lift his head had been unsuccessful so he lay still, afraid to move, trying desperately to recall when he'd been hit by a mac truck.

Quick flashes of memories caused the pounding in his head to increase. Sam dragging him out of bed, Sam forcing him into a shower, Sam shaking him, lying against the tub, dragged up from the floor, tossed on the bed, Sam yelling at him, Sam demanding answers, Sam fisting his hand and…there was no possible way Sam was the reason he felt like he did. He knew that, he believed that, yet he couldn't stop his breathing from increasing to a heavy pant as a memory of being held down by Sam with what might have been a knife in his hand made the room spin and consciousness to abandon him.

The time he woke up, reality was making a strong demand to be acknowledged. Each time he woke up, he was awake longer, remembered more, knew more, was able to move just a bit more. He was in bed, on his stomach and he hurt.

He worked one eye open, squinting as he blinked, waiting for his vision to clear. There was a smell of flowers again, and a wall. He was facing a wall. Biting his lip and screwing up his courage, he carefully, gingerly, slowly turned his face the opposite way without lifting his head from the mattress. Once he had control of his breathing, he opened his other eye and waited to see what was within his limited sight.

A comfy looking armchair close to the bed and…..empty. Close enough that had someone been sitting in it, they would have been able to reach out and touch him. He tried and failed to lift his head. Least this time the attempt didn't cause him to pass out, just made him dizzy and nauseous. Shifting his head slightly on the mattress gave him a different view from the corner of his eye. The strain of holding the gaze was too great to hold, but he'd seen enough before he passed out.

Sam amid a pile of blankets on the floor.

The next time he woke up, he couldn't stop his body's natural response to pain, the trauma it had experienced and waking from the last lingering effects of sedation. Nausea slammed him with such force; all he could do was whimper, fingers clawing for a grip on the mattress, trying to clench the sheets as he wrestled with keeping the meager contents of his stomach where they belonged.

He lay still, until he felt his muscles relax and the shaking eased, his body breaking out in a sweat from the exertion of trying to gain control. He still felt sick, but by moving slowly and carefully, he was able to lift his head off the mattress and when neither dizziness nor nausea assaulted him, he moved to sit up.

Sam jolted awake at the howl of pain that vibrated off the walls. He was crawling on his hands and knees, gaining his feet as he heard Suzie in the hallway. He stumbled into the chair, stubbing his socked covered toes against the leg, cursing as his knees knocked against the bed.

"Dean, stop….I've gotcha." Sam slid his hands under Dean's armpits and picked him up off his hands, Dean had tried to sit up by pushing himself up with his hands against the mattress. He remained on his knees, not fighting the arms that held him, hugging him as he stared in wide-eyed horror at his hands; his swollen, white, grotesquely misshapen hands.

He yelped in dismay, he had no fingers! Where were his fingers? He started to use one hand to touch the other but was distracted by something blue and plastic that dug into his palm, preventing him from turning his hand. He twisted his head around to question Sam, eyes begging for him to make it all better.

"No, no, whoa, hold up." hands stopped his movement. Dean tugged irritably against the hand that held his elbow. "Dean, stop. Hey." a cool hand massaged his neck. "Hey, hey, hey…..no,no,no,no-don't do that." a hand closed overtop his fingers, forcing him to curl them out of a fist on one hand, then the other. "Take it easy…..ok? You need to lay down…no, no, don't move your head either, just breathe through it….come on, Dean, hey, you don't want to be sick…okay, yeah, that's it, put your head down and close your eyes."

Sam guided him down on to his stomach with his hand on his neck. Dean wasn't trying to move away from him, his flinches and jerks were reactions to his body's growing alertness. "SShhhsshhhshush." Sam still spoke softly. "No…don't grab anything….that'll only make it worse…that's it….right, keep your hands flat."

"Owwwww." Dean groaned into the mattress. "Uurrghh!." his pitiful moan caused Sam to wince in sympathy. "Sammy…..I don't…got…..where're my fingers?"

"Right here, you can wiggle them, see? They're there…you're ok Dean, it's just a reaction from being sedated….you know how you hate that, right?"

"All…white…."

"Yeah, they are. Your hands are bandaged…"

It had taken longer than Sam was happy with, but Dean was awake and fighting through the nausea and pain. Long as time was all he needed not to vomit or start screaming, Sam would give him all he needed. "Need you to roll over." he poked at him when Dean had come out on top of the nausea.

"Heh?…ain't gonna." with his face buried in the mattress, his voice was muffled but Sam understood him and grinned, glancing over at Suzie who hovered in the doorway. "Go-way-Sam-mmmeee, uhg…don't wanna."

"Yeah, well, you're gonna. Awesome as you are, even you can't drink lying on your belly."

"Dr-ink? I…don't….wanna…a…drink." each word was slurred; Sam frowned, wondering if it were due to still being groggy or something more serious.

"Doesn't matter what you want." Sam gave his neck a gentle squeeze; Dean gave a growl of protest. "You need liquids, lots of liquids…and antibiotics and if you eat something, maybe some pain meds."

"Not gonna….eat….nothing….dumb ass."

"Not now." Sam agreed with a roll of his eyes. "Come on, roll over."

"No." he instinctively reached to grab hold of the edges of the mattress, stopping with another howl of pain. "Ow." he whispered achingly, causing Sam to grimace.

"Smart move there, Dean."

"Son-uv-a-bitch!" he curled up on his side, hands pulled to his chest. "My…..hands…hurt."

"Yeah, 'fraid they're gonna for a while."

"What'd I do?" bewilderment laced his tone.

"You're ok…." Sam sighed, much as he wanted to start Dean on liquids, it appeared he would have to wait. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

"K." he heard Sam talking softly as his arm was pried away from his chest and a sleeve was worked over his hand. He ducked his head as he was bodily raised up from the mattress but the shirt came across his back, not down over his head and his other hand was worked into the sleeve. Since when did Sammy have four arms? "Lemme 'lone."

"Shut up." Sam let him lay back down. There was no need to zip the hoodie, he was satisfied with Dean's arms and back covered. He'd picked out a Henley, but it was obvious the sleeves wouldn't fit over the bandaged, splinted wrists and there was no way he was going to un-wrap Dean's hand just to get a shirt on him. Not when the zippered hoodie was large enough for him to get on Dean.

"Sam, you doing okay?" Suzie picked up the pillow he'd tossed aside when he'd been awakened. "You sleep all night?"

"No, been keeping him quiet, he wasn't settled." he ran his hands through his hair. "He'd open his eyes, but didn't wake up, you know? I was giving him until six, if he hadn't woken up, I was gonna take him to the hospital over near Billings."

"That's two hours away."

"Not far enough." Sam muttered. "Not from this fucked up town."

"How are his hands?"

"Okay, checked them twice."

"You gonna be ok here? I have to go to work. I don't want anyone to suspect anything, you know?"

"You don't mind if we stay?"

"Not at all, you….aah, you think he's ok?" she gave Dean a dubious look. "His fingers are swollen, how long have they been like that?"

"Just since he put his weight on them when he woke up." Sam winced, that was his fault. Had he been awake, he would have been able to prevent Dean from doing that. "Yeah, he'll be fine…..could you stop at the store before you come home? I'll make a list and get you some money."

"There's some ice in the freezer, I'll bring more home with me. I get off at 3:30, so I'll be home by 5.. Here's my cell. If you need me, need anything, call me."

***000***

"Dean? You want this?" Sam held up the syringe

Dean held his arm out, more than willing to take the sedative. Once he slept, Sam took a shower, made breakfast and sat down to enjoy it while he booted up his laptop to send Bobby an email. Soon as he felt Dean could handle riding in the car, even if it meant he had to lay down on the backseat, they were getting the hell outta this town. Once he had Dean tucked up safe with Bobby to baby-sit him, he would return and find out just what the hell had happened.

"Hey there." Sam laid a hand on the trunk of the Impala, almost, not quite, a caress. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see you." a goofy grin on his face, he popped the trunk and removed Dean's duffel. A quick inventory revealed nothing was missing, nothing had even been touched. "This is our secret. Don't go telling Dean I've been talking to you."

With a last look at the car, he went back inside the house.

Dean eased onto his back, not wanting anything to do with Sam but Sam was insistent. He didn't know how long Sam had let him sleep, but it hadn't been long enough.

"Dean, hey, come on….it's grape." Sam offered. "Sorry, it's what she had in the fridge and you need the sugar and electrolytes"

"Can't I have…orange?" he lifted his head and the room spun, forcing him to close his eyes with a weary groan.

"There isn't any and if I had my choice, it wouldn't even be PowerAde." Sam waited. "You're going to drink it Dean, you've had your own way long enough." his knee began to bounce in agitation. "You lost a lot of blood, not enough for me to make you go to the ER, but enough that I'm gonna force you to drink every couple of hours for the next three days or so. You were on your own for three days and without me around to bug you, I'm sure all you did was guzzle alcohol."

"What's…this?" he waved one hand about. "I can't….move….my hand….Sam."

"Just a precaution." Sam assured him. "Took me all damn day to stitch them up, you so much as tear out one stitch and I'll kick your ass. And your fingers work so don't bitch. Now come on, I ain't going away until you drink this."

"But I can't bend my wrists." he complained.

"I don't want you to."

"But how am I supposed to do anything?" he pouted. "Take the splints off." he thrust both hands towards Sam.

"No."

"You can leave the bandages on…..but I can't hold the glass with these damn plastic shoe horns you have wedged…."

"Guess, you'll just have to accept some help." Sam smirked. "Do you want to sit up?"

"God, no." he scowled at the cup Sam offered. He tried to take it from him, but while his fingers were able to grasp it, he couldn't make his hands hold it. "This is humiliating." he muttered.

"Oh, you think this is bad?"