Pain Management

Disclaimer: Not mine. More's the pity.

Beta'd: By the talented and oh-so-wise duo of Muffy Morrigan and Carocali who very graciously put up with me.

I played a great deal after they beta'd so any and all remaining errors are my own.

This story is for Phx (who yes, beat me to the finish). Thank you for the comments and the last minute hand-holding and recommendation. I was wearing myself out over that one!

……….…..…………………………Courage to Change the Things I Can……………………………………….

Dean curled protectively around his brother, attempting to conserve body heat. Sam's injury was severe enough; he'd lost enough blood that the older man feared he was going into shock. "Come on, Sam," Dean urged, not for the first time. "Wake up."

Sam didn't respond, but something did. A low growl bounced off the trees. Dean glanced around the shadowed woods. The sky was slowly lightening, having changed from deep, black velvet to midnight blue, but it left plenty of time for the aufhocker to attack again before dawn. Anger flared in Dean's chest, hot enough to scorch his insides. He was tired of this hunt and more than a little pissed off that the lumbering canine had eluded him three times. Enough was enough.

A sharp barking noise brought Sam to alert with a jerking gasp. He groaned; the injured arm draped over his stomach twitched. "Where is it?" he asked, softly.

"It's not getting you again," Dean said, his tone hard. Without thinking, he pulled Sam tighter against his chest.

"Gotta breathe," Sam said, with strained amusement. Dean softened his grip. He could feel the stuttered breaths through the layers of clothing they both wore. Sam needed out of there.

Dean eased out from behind his brother, standing slowly and walking silently to the duffel. The familiar snick of the machete being pulled from the bag sounded loudly in the hunter's ears. He moved to stand in front of Sam, raising the blade to an offensive position. "Here, doggy, doggy, doggy."

He heard a pained snort from his brother, but Dean focused on the woods, his senses narrowing. The dark trees pulled forward and stood out in sharp contrast from the underbrush, any slight movement catching his attention. A single bird warbled out a morning song to the soon-to-be-rising sun. Sam panted on the ground behind him and to his left, hidden in the trees, was the aufhocker.

It moved quietly for such a large beast, blending in almost perfectly with the surroundings. A flash of deeper black in the expanse of darkness was all it took. Dean was the better hunter. He tightened his grip on the hilt. This time it wasn't getting anywhere close to Sam. This time it was going down, screw the consecrated iron.

"Dean," Sam said, his teeth chattering. "Can you see it?"

He didn't answer, squaring his stance to meet the canine head on. Though it moved stealthily, vibrations of the running dog sang up from the ground through the soles of his feet. With a snarling growl, it emerged from the woods. As it neared, Dean stepped forward to meet it, the machete reaching out first.

The massive canine lunged, but the hunter was quicker. He used the long blade to cut the dog's neck, then lifted his left arm, Colt in hand, firing three shots of silver into the broad, black chest. The beast howled in pain, dropping to the ground. Rage fueled his strength as Dean swung the machete again; a distinctive wet slicing noise signaled the separation of head from body of the aufhocker.

Dean approached the dog cautiously, machete still at the ready. The stench wafting up from the steaming insides activated his gag reflex. The hunter lightly kicked the severed head a foot farther from the body. He pressed the back of his hand into his nose to block the scent. "And I thought it smelled bad on the outside."

A groan from behind him had Dean spinning on his heel. "You aren't planning to stuff me in there, are you?" Sam asked between shallow breaths. He had managed a semi-reclined position propped on one elbow. "It's freezing out here, but I'm not that cold."

Despite the circumstances, Dean couldn't stop a grin from flashing across his face as he crossed back towards Sam. "Nope, thought I'd make a really big fire instead."

"You're sure it's dead?" Sam asked. Dean narrowed his eyes, realizing from Sam's angle he couldn't have seen much of the action.

"Nothing lives without its head, Sam," Dean said. Sam nodded wearily, his elbow sliding out from underneath him as he slipped back to the ground. "Can this thing reanimate?"

"I don't think so," Sam said. He turned his head to follow Dean's movements. "Need help?"

"And you plan to do that, how?" Dean asked, stopping mid-stride. The question actually seemed to confuse Sam. He furrowed his brow, as he contemplated an answer. Dean crouched down next to his brother. "Don't move. All the wood you gathered earlier is near here."

Sam's face relaxed with relief. "I can do that."

"Good," Dean said, patting his brother lightly on the shoulder. "I'll be right back." He waited for a nod from Sam, then moved away to gather wood.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam frowned as Dean walked away. He'd been trying to distract his brother with a hunt, a simple Black Dog run amok to increase Dean's confidence, keep his mind occupied, maybe just let them hunt together like before. Instead he'd been careless.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, tugging on the tangled strands. "Should've done my research better," Sam mumbled under his breath. His mind flashed through the crime scene photos. The bruising, the internal injuries, they made perfect sense in retrospect.

He shifted on the wet ground, trying to find a comfortable position. He failed. A cold breeze rushed over him and Sam shivered. He was incredibly tired, the lure of sleep irresistible and his eyes slid closed.

A gentle shake roused him, his eyes snapping open. "Hey, no more sleeping," Dean said, his face puckered with concern.

"Tired," Sam said, blinking lazily. "Cold."

"It's practically Canadian," Dean agreed. "But stay awake, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Sam replied. He wished he could sit up, it would definitely make it easier to stay focused, but the thought of moving quashed his desire. Dean moved away, his footsteps muffled by the soft snow. He was pretty sure he drifted off again because Dean's arm around his shoulders woke him.

"I gotcha, Sam," Dean said. "Don't fight me and breathe."

Irrational fear climbed from his stomach up his throat, choking his words. "What're you gonna do?"

"I'm going to help you sit up, that's all," Dean said. "Not all the way, just far enough to help you breathe a little easier."

"I can breathe fine," Sam protested. He didn't want to move. He wanted the hunt over and he wanted a warm bed, and that was all. Moving would hurt like, well, it would hurt.

"Sure," Dean said, his tone amicable, which merely softened the sardonic edges. "That's why you sound like an asthmatic ghoul."

Sam smiled. Only his brother came up similes involving ghouls. God, I missed Dean.

The arm around his shoulders tightened and without warning, Sam found himself reclined at a thirty degree angle instead of flat on his back. Pain lanced down his spine. He panted through it, his vision clearing enough to see his brother's frowning face. Whatever Dean had used to brace him was rough and hard, probably a log. "I'm okay."

Dean's face relaxed, the lines around his eyes softening. "I'll be right back," he said, patting Sam lightly on the chest.

Sam nodded, keeping his heavy eyelids at half-mast. He watched as Dean made short work of stacking wood around the dog. Sam bit back a laugh when his brother lightly kicked the aufhocker's head closer to its body, pushing a few of the sticks underneath it. He crinkled his brow, trying to decide if the canine was shrinking back to its original size.

A liberal dose of salt and an entire can of lighter fluid later, the elder hunter stood back slightly, preparing to toss a lighter onto the wood. Sam rolled his eyes. Dean had used a copious amount of accelerant. He really was a closet pyromaniac. "Dean?" Sam called softly.

"Be right there," Dean answered, tossing the lighter. A large fireball mushroomed into the air, the flames heating Sam's skin.

"Dean!" The younger hunter raised his head off the snowy log.

The older man walked around the fire, crouching down next to Sam. "Hey," Dean said, lightly tapping Sam's arm.

"Thank, God." Sam tried sitting up further, but his face contorted and he fell back. He gripped Dean's knee. "I thought, I couldn't see you, and the flames…" Sam tapered off, flushing hot with embarrassment at his reaction.

"I'm okay. You on the other hand, have looked better." Sam rolled his eyes. "I can't give you the good stuff," Dean said, twisting to rummage through the duffel for the med-kit with the flashlight. "But I think we have some ibuprofen in here." He found the bottle, handing four little brown pills to Sam. "I'd rather not mess with your arm. It looks like the bleeding has slowed down and it'll be painful to unwrap it."

"I don't think I can walk, Dean," Sam said, his tone apologetic.

"I was thinking more of an assisted carry," Dean said, shouldering the duffel. "I'll help you stand, you can lean on me and I'll do all the work. You just have to stay on your feet."

Sam's brow knitted, his hand clenching his brother's knee tightly. "I'll try." Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Sam cut him off. "No more 'Star Wars' quotes."

"Watch your mouth kid, or you're gonna find yourself floating home," Dean said, with a smirk. Sam rolled his eyes and groaned softly. The older man moved behind Sam and he heard Dean shifting from one position to another, felt him trying to find the best way to place his hands. "I'm sorry, there's no way to do this without hurting you."

"I know," Sam said through clenched teeth. "It's okay."

"No, it's not," Dean said, patting him on the shoulder once. "On three. One, two…" He grunted as he lifted Sam's additional weight.

"I'm on – to you – about that one," Sam said, panting hard through the pain spike.

"Yeah, well, I may have to mix it up a little then," Dean said. Sam made a noise of disbelief. "What?"

"It's just you're not big on change," Sam said. He leaned heavily on Dean, barely able to stand hunched over. "Same car, same coat, always with the scissors, and on three." The rant left Sam breathless, coughing in the cold air.

"Shut up and walk, Sam," Dean said, but there was no real heat to his words. He staggered on the first step, instantly re-evaluating his stance, managing to support Sam's additional weight.

"This won't work," Sam said, tripping over his own feet and falling hard against Dean. He was too tall, too heavy for Dean to help him all the way to the car.

"It will work," Dean said, hitching Sam up further on his shoulder. The younger man grunted in discomfort. "We can do it."

Sam nodded wearily, allowing his brother to guide him along the snowy path.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean wasn't as certain as he sounded; the going was extremely slow. Sam stumbled several times, becoming increasingly dependent on him. His brother shook, whether from cold or his injuries, Dean wasn't certain, but it didn't seem to matter. Either way, Sam needed out of the cold. The younger man tripped, fell hard against him, Dean barely kept them both standing.

"Hey," Dean said, concerned at his brother's lack of reaction. "Come on, Sam, you can do this." Chestnut brown strands bobbed up and down, in an uncontrolled head nod. He noticed Sam's broken arm dangled loosely by his side, fresh tracks of red on his fingers; his arm must have been bumped or jostled at some point causing the wounds to bleed freely again. They were running low on time.

On the next step, Sam's knees buckled, sending both Winchesters to the ground. Dean swore, moving around to kneel by his brother's head. He lightly slapped Sam's cheek. "Wake up, Sam. We're almost there, I promise."

Sam moaned, weakly pushing him away. "Leave me alone. I don't care, it doesn't matter anymore." The words were mumbled and low, Dean had a difficult time deciphering the meaning, but the despair was easy enough to pick up on.

Dean closed his eyes. It seemed both of them visited hell while they slept. Dean couldn't escape the feeling his brother was still holding a little something of himself back and it scared him because Sam's secrets had always revolved around his abilities. "Aw, Sammy," Dean said. He tapped his brother on the shoulder until he was rewarded by slits of hazel. "I'll help you, just work with me."

"Dean?" Sam's brow knitted in apparent confusion, his eyes roving over Dean. Sam gripped his leather jacket until it squeaked in protest. "Where?"

"The aufhocker, the woods," Dean supplied. He brushed Sam's long bangs out of his eyes. "You're hurt, remember? We need to get you up and moving and get out of here."

"Okay," Sam said, managing the same tone of compliance he'd used when they were both kids, back in the days his brother thought Dean hung the moon.

Dean took a good look at Sam. Somewhere inside his all grown up brother was that little kid. He'd seen it once or twice even the last few months when Armageddon was literally knocking at their back door. But there was no way Sam looked at him that way anymore. He couldn't possibly after Dean had confessed what he'd done in hell. Dean coughed to clear the lump in his throat.

"That's m'boy," Dean murmured, helping Sam to his feet. They set off again, moving even slower this time. His anxiety grew over the time lost. By the time they made it to the car, sun rays were breaking through the trees. Sam was more unconscious than aware as Dean lowered him into the seat.

"Cockroaches," Sam mumbled, reaching out blindly for his brother. His fingers found the collar of Dean's shirt, pulling him closer.

He placed a hand on the back of the seat to keep from falling onto Sam. "What?"

"Coachroaches live without their heads," Sam explained, as if it were the most important fact in the world rather than a random bit of trivia. "For approximately nine days until they starve to death."

"Yeah, okay, Sam," Dean said. "We gotta go." Sam nodded, relinquishing his hold on his brother's shirt, his eyes sliding closed. Dean noticed dried blood in the corners of Sam's mouth. He raced around the car, gunning the engine the moment he was seated. He drove carefully over the bumpy forest road, but the instant he hit the highway, Dean cut the reins loose giving the Impala its free head. There was no motel fix-up in their future this time. Sam needed a hospital.

-0-0-

They'd whisked Sam away, given Dean forms to fill out and sign. His world reduced in sight and sound to the bright white admission papers and his skin scraping along the forms as he wrote. He finished, finally, handing the clipboard back to the decidedly very young, very pretty nurse. She looked fourteen. Dean suddenly felt very old.

She told him to take a seat, that the doctor would be out later to give him an update, and then she turned back to the computer, starting to type all the information he'd just provided into the system.

Dean fidgeted, the chair not terribly comfortable, but it wasn't the chair that caused his discomfort. For an Emergency Department waiting room it was way too quiet. There was nothing here to distract him from his fears or his memories. He needed something to do, somewhere to take his restless legs or he'd have to vent his frustration on something.

Patience had never been Dean Winchester's strongest character trait.

In the end, he asked the nurse to page him when Sam's surgeon was available and left. He wandered through the corridors, tore up and down the stairwells, paced from one end of the facility to the other and back. He all but collapsed from exhaustion into a large, puffy armchair situated by a window overlooking the winter-dead courtyard garden.

His eyelids drifted closed, he breathed deeply, and screams followed him into the dark. Not the usual unearthly screams of tortured souls, the souls he tortured, his brain corrected, these were more familiar, more piercing. All of them Sam, every time his brother had called to him for help, yelled in pain, or cried, no matter how small every one of them ripped through his mind.

Dean gasped, scrubbing a shaking hand down his face before clenching it tightly into a fist. He had to get a grip, had to learn to live with himself, because he wasn't putting Sam in danger to escape from his pain again. He'd find another way. The vestiges of despair warred with guilt for top billing as he pushed the last of the memories from his mind.

"Who are you here for, son?" Dean jumped, cursing the fatigue and withdrawal that dulled his reflexes. A small, wrinkled gentleman sat in the chair opposite him.

"My brother." Dean gazed out the window at nothing.

"My wife," the man said. A moment later an arm stretched out to Dean, drawing his attention back. "What's your name?"

Dean shook the gnarled hand. "Dean."

"Carl Schrader," the gentleman replied, nodding his head.

Dean wondered idly how exactly men kept those little yamakas on their heads. The man in front of him was diminutive in size, maybe all of five foot four, but he had a gentle strength of caretaker and provider that Dean recognized.

"He's going to be okay, your brother…?" Carl asked, placing a hand on the armrest of Dean's chair to lower himself into the one next to it.

"Sam. And yes, he will," Dean answered, surprised at the conviction in his voice. There wasn't another option, not really. "They're concerned because he may have internal injuries."

Carl patted his hand softly. "He's a fighter, then?"

Dean expelled a puff of air. "You don't know the half of it."

A smile pulled the corners of the elderly man's face, bunching his wrinkles. The man had obviously spent a lifetime smiling. "In this case, that's good." The grin faded, and a shiny wetness appeared in Carl's eyes, magnified by thick glasses. "My Yuty, she's a fighter, too."

Dean shifted in his chair. He didn't want to be rude to the older man, but he didn't want to talk about what had happened with anyone. He nodded politely at the man's words, but turned his head to stare out the window again.

He heard the sniff, the rustle of clothing as the little man found a handkerchief, and then a loud honking noise as Mr. Schrader blew his nose. He closed his eyes briefly. He didn't want this, but apparently, the universe did. "Hey, you okay?" Dean asked.

Carl nodded, his black-rimmed glasses slipping down his face. "Yah, don't you worry about me," he said, with a shaking Yiddish lilt. He gave Dean a watery glance. "I'll be okay."

Dean caught the hidden meaning, and he twisted in his chair to give the elderly gentleman his full attention. "I'm sorry."

Carl nodded, wiping his nose vigorously with the white square of cloth. "I'm sorry, too."

Dean swallowed hard. The muscles in his jaw clenched tight. He wasn't unloading years of emotional baggage on a nice little man with a sick wife. "Sam'll be fine."

"I wasn't speaking about your brother. How long?" Carl reached over to squeeze his wrist gently, then released it.

The younger man's brow scrunched. "How long what?"

"The drinking?" Mr. Schrader asked, conviction in his tone.

"Why would you think…?" Dean started, only to be interrupted.

"Your hands, the way they shake, the sweating," a smile tugged at the wrinkles again. "You smell a little bit stale, too." Dean didn't answer, his mouth went dry. When Carl next spoke, his voice was soft. "I've seen my fair share of people coping with the unthinkable. Is that how it happened?"

Dean's heart sank. He could barely stomach the idea of facing Sam as it was. If the whole world could see it, he was a fool for not being able to. He didn't say anything, unable to confirm the elderly man's suspicions, yet unable to truly deny them either.

"Now that you know, you can do something about it," Carl said, in a clear understanding of Dean's silence.

"Do what?" Dean snapped. "How do explain I may be the reason he got hurt? I've spent my life standing between my brother and danger, not shoving him into it."

A sad smile touched Carl's face. "We've all hurt the ones we love, son. The great part is, they're ready to forgive us, just waiting for the moment."

Dean forced the question out past choked vocal chords, "For what moment?"

"For us to ask." Carl nodded. "Sometimes the words have to be said." Dean nodded, the muscles in his jaw bunching. The older man was right, but there were so many words left unspoken between him and Sam lately that Dean wasn't sure where to begin. "I better get back," Carl announced, his voice rough.

Dean stood, waiting until Carl did, too. He placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "Thanks." Carl smiled in response. Dean walked beside the elderly man until he turned off to the oncology wing. Dean watched the doors for a moment before he continued back to the Emergency Department.

TBC

………………………………………………………..Supernatural………………………………………………………….

AN: Sorry I took so long with this chapter. The llamas were not only distracting, but the darn flaming ducks wouldn't leave me alone either! LOL