Author's note: For me, this vignette was complete with the last chapter, but I got outvoted. So for better or for worse, here's part two; just remember, you asked for it!

Dean was out the door before the truck even lurched to a stop, prompting a yelped "hey!" from tow-truck guy behind him.

Dean didn't look back. "Take care of the car," he snapped half over one shoulder, and headed for Sam.

From the direction they'd come, Dean hadn't been able to see his brother at first, just the Impala's listing rear. He'd flinched at the sight of her, instinctively cataloging that she was in one piece, not visibly broken, but front panel-deep in the creek that ran under the bridge. Then Dean had set her aside and craned to see Sam.

The kid was actually just beyond the car, sitting on the sloped bank of the creek. His long legs were drawn up, and his head was bent down to rest in the crook of his knees. It made for a far smaller form than Dean had been looking for, and one that cranked up his anxiety over that last bit of distance until the truck stopped by the bridge.

"Sam!" he barked, Dad's tone of command, and Sam's head snapped up in automatic obedience. Three years of college life hadn't been able to undo eighteen years of training. Dean regretted pushing that button, however, when Sam blanched at the sudden movement and his head dropped back down.

There was blood.

Dean slid down the bank next to him, boots tearing at the slick grass as he swung himself around in front of his brother. "Sam," he said more gently, coaxing instead of ordering. His hand curled uncertainly over the one Sam had jammed against the side of his head, a handkerchief bunched between the long fingers. Half the material was deep red. "You okay? Let me see."

Dean started to peel his grip away, only to have Sam shove a shoulder against him. "I'm all right, Dean," he said, voice muffled against his jeans.

Dean paused, dipped down to see his face. "Sam?" His brother had grown quiet on the line the last few minutes of the drive, and Dean hadn't been sure what he'd find when he got there. Sam pushing him away hadn't really made the list.

The shaggy head rose more gingerly this time, and Sam squinted at him. "I'm sorry, man, I shouldn't've called you like that. 'M fine, just…hit my head on the stupid door."

I'm sorry. The frantic words spilling from his phone just minutes before had painted a very different picture in Dean's head, and he sat back on his heels now to stare at his brother. "Don't be an idiot, Sam, of course you should've called me."

"I didn't mean to scare you," Sam said sheepishly.

"You didn't scare me," Dean quickly denied without thinking, not that it would've changed his answer. Sam had actually freaked him out pretty badly, and was still doing so, and that wasn't something Sam ever needed to know. But Dean was starting to register the way Sam was shying from him, the wince in his voice. He almost snorted his relief: Sam was embarrassed. Chagrined at having called his big brother, near tears, to come rescue him.

"Uh-huh," Sam was answering sarcastically.

Dean resisted an automatic rebuttal, willing to let Sam save a little face. He busied himself instead carefully prying Sam's grip loose to see how bad his head was. When his brother hissed in complaint, Dean cupped his free hand on the other side of Sam's face, thumb apologetically pressed against cheekbone to hold him still.

The gash was in his hair and hard to see, but only a little fresh blood welled at the release of pressure. Dean clamped Sam's hand back against his bloody scalp, then tilted his face up to take in his sibling's eyes. He didn't looked concussed. Dean studied him narrowly. "Did you black out at all?"

"No."

The sound of clanking metal started behind Dean, but he ignored it. "Double vision? Nausea?"

"No, and no," Sam answered impatiently. "Dude, I'm fine, just got my bell rung a little."

"Sam," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. "You called me apologizing for the crash with Dad. Don't even try to tell me there's nothing wrong with you."

Sam's mouth snapped shut and he glared at Dean in silence.

His face was still far too pale for Dean's liking, though, his skin cool, and the sound of his desperate, small voice pleading on the phone ping-ponged around Dean's brain. He chewed his lip, glancing over at the car—tow-truck guy was working on hooking up the Impala from the rear—then back at Sam. "Okay," he finally decided. Not like he'd really wanted to involve rescue personnel, anyway. "But lie down until we're ready to go, all right?" Over Sam's mutinous look, Dean quickly said, "Just humor me, okay?"

Sam breathed out a little, then let himself be lowered back, Dean gripping his arm and shoulder. When he was reclining in the grass, Dean slid his hand from shoulder to palm flat against Sam's sternum. Then he took over holding the handkerchief, waiting until a little color returned to his brother's face, and nodded at him when Sam opened his eyes. "What happened?"

It was pretty anti-climactic: heavy car, soft shoulder, and an oncoming truck that hadn't even realized it had squeezed Sam off the road, down the crumbling dirt into the creek. Nothing remotely supernatural in the whole thing, and the sheer randomness of it was unexpectedly unsettling. Ghosts and poltergeists and demons Dean knew how to protect his own from. Old roads and bad drivers were a total crap-shoot.

Then again, there hadn't been anything natural about the last crash they'd been in, and Dean hadn't done any better on that one. He flinched at the reminder, at the thought of Sam's pleas for forgiveness.

For weeks, Sam had been practically begging Dean to talk to him about that day, about their dad's possession and death, and Dean had always brushed him off, verbally and physically. The pain, the guilt, were almost unbearable even unspoken. The thought of saying them out loud was too much.

It hadn't even occurred to him Sam might've been feeling guilty, too.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, only to look down and find his brother's eyes had closed and he was dozing. Dean grimaced, checking his pulse and his respiration again. Satisfied with both, he settled on the bank beside him, one hand balling the handkerchief to Sam's head, the other still resting over his ribs.

That was how he sat and watched tow-truck guy rescue his other girl.

00000

In all, the body work was surprisingly minor. The axles were okay, the driver's door dented just enough to stick, the hood a little ajar and one of the front headlights broken. Sam had done more damage running the car into the house of that woman in white, and what was it with him and trashing the 'pala, anyway? Dean shook his head. If his brother kept it up, Dean would start thinking he was jealous of her or something.

You just fixed her up again after I broke her the last time. I'm sorry, man…

Yeah, that would just be stupid. Wasn't like he'd put less time into fixing Sam than he had the car, right?

There was a puddle of water on the floorboards, but the motor started up after a little stammering and clanking, and right now that was all Dean needed. He roused Sam, watching his brother carefully, but Sam seemed cognizant enough to move over to the car on his own steam and without protest.

The ride to their motel was quiet. Dean's stomach growled once, and he remembered with frustration the meal he'd abandoned in the diner. No regrets, just more setbacks, more losses.

He was really tired of losses.

…should've saved you and Dad…

They ended up in the bathroom, Sam slouched shirtless on the edge of the tub as Dean gently rinsed the cut and his matted hair with bowls of water from the sink. He mopped a towel over the unruly locks, remembering so many other motel bathrooms, small feet kicking back and forth, huge hazel eyes. "'M sorry, Dean, Jenna just said the mud was nice an' soft an', an', an' it squished when I jumped in it, Dean! An', an' then it jumped on my shirt…"

He cleared his throat. "How y'holding up, dude?"

"Fine." Sam sounded beaten. As tired and empty as Dean usually felt, but always tried to hide. Sam was all surface, transparent and open…at least to Dean. All he had to do was look.

The gash was clean, and stitches were hopeless in all that hair, nor was it worth the battle with Sam to shave it. Dean dug through their kit searching for the wound sealant, eyes flicking over to Sam's lap where his fingers restlessly curled and uncurled.

I'm sorry, Dean…

He licked his lips. "You know the crash wasn't your fault, right?"

It seemed to take Sam some effort to answer. "The road just—"

"I don't mean now."

The large hands went still.

Dean abandoned the kit and crouched next to Sam. From there, looking up instead of down, he could see Sam's eyes in the shadows, the shadows in his eyes. "You think I would've done any better, Sam? That son of a bitch was out to get us any way possible, you know that. I don't blame you for what it did to us."

Sam's head rose, and there was a calm in his expression that didn't make Dean feel at all better. "Dad did."

Dean faltered at that. Lost his place completely in the Guide to Little Brothers, because that… That just didn't even…

He hadn't realized Sam had moved until his brother pressed something lightly into his hand. Dean looked down at it, blinked at the tube of sealant Sam had dug up. Dumbly, grateful for something to do that made sense, he rose to his feet and bent over Sam's head again.

There was too much there for him to even begin to sort through, Dad and his twisted orders and priorities and his sudden death and Sam. But…if Dean concentrated on the here and now, maybe he could deal with that. Answer Sam, at least.

"Well…I don't," Dean said rustily. "And it was my car you totaled, dude."

Sam's hunched body shook. It took a moment to realize he was laughing. Then he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with it. "Yeah, thanks. And speaking of that… how's she look?"

Dean shrugged, putting the cap back on the tube. There, he'd done what he could to mend the wound. "Haven't really taken a good look yet, but I'm guessing both of you are gonna need a couple of days."

"But we'll be all right," Sam said softly.

Dean paused in the midst of cleaning up the mess on the counter. "Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "I think so."

And Sam was smiling at him when he looked back, just a little.

A half-hour later, Dean paused by the far bed, watching for a minute as Sam slept. Slowly, he dug into his pocket and pulled out his brother's set of car keys, weighing it lightly in his hand. Then he set it on the nightstand in Sam's line of sight.

Satisfied, Dean finally turned and headed outside to check out their car.

Definitely, The End