Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. SO not mine.

Author's notes: Thanks goes to Miki, as always, fastest beta in the west. She went above and beyond with this one.

Okay, so. As much as I am *adoring* the reviews (and I am, you guys are awesome and that can't be stated often enough. Seriously.)…I'm starting to get terrified that I'm going to disappoint people. See, I know where this ends, and I'm having doubts, but for the life of me, I can't figure out how to fix it …so I'm going to post the whole thing over today and tonight – and hide. You guys are great…and now you don't have to wait and wait and wait…you can just read. ;)

And I'll say it again: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It was appreciated. You have no idea how much.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,
Lo, it's all so true,
They told me, "Don't go walkin' slow
'Cause Devil's on the loose."

Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Whoa, Don't look back to see.

Thought I heard a rumblin'
Callin' my name,
Two hundred million guns are loaded
Satan cries, "Take aim!"

~Creedence Clearwater Revival – Run Through the Jungle

Dean drove until the sun was up and bright. Then he found a motel and pulled off.

Bobby roused in the back. "We stopping?"

"Just for a couple of hours. We need to get Sam cleaned up."

"You sure that's wise?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "If we don't, I'm not going to be able to drive past the watering eyes and the nausea. He smells like a dead possum left in the sun for a few days."

"I can hear you," Sam said softly, not moving. Not even opening his eyes. The voice was expressionless. Not offended, just providing information.

"Am I wrong?"

"No." His throat sounded raw and sore.

"Then no argument. We can take a couple of hours. We haven't heard from Cas yet, anyway. We should be okay."

Bobby checked them in, getting two rooms, so that they'd be able to clean up faster. Sam was still shaky as Dean levered him from the car, but he was getting better. "Thank god for angel healing," Dean said ironically. "Another day or so and we can pull those stitches."

Sam ignored him. Didn't even seem to hear him. Barefoot and bare-chested, Sam was conspicuous as they hauled him toward the room. Dean was glad the rooms were in the back, away from the road and passing observers.

"Bobby, there's a bag of Sam's stuff in the trunk…" He'd never taken it out. There was nowhere to leave it.

"Got it."

The room was the same tasteless, visual accident as always. Bobby dropped the bag on the floor as they came in. "I'll give you boys some space." He looked at Dean. "I'll be next door if you need me."

"Okay. Thanks, Bobby."

"I wasn't any happier in that car than you. Just…take care of your brother."

The door slammed as Bobby left…and Dean was suddenly alone with his brother.

And for a second…he had no idea what to do. He wanted to shake him. He wanted to…talk to him. He wanted to hug him and punch him and wrap him in cotton wool and never let him out of his sight again.

First things first, though.

"Shower."

Dean steered Sam into the bathroom, and, after a moment's thought, he turned on the water. The way Sam was not reacting to pain, he might burn himself if Dean let him run his own water. "There," he muttered when the tap hit the right temperature. "Leave it there, okay?"

Sam nodded disinterestedly.

"I'll have fresh clothes out here for you… You going to be alright? By yourself?"

Sam looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, Dean didn't have a clue what he was thinking. He almost didn't recognize his little brother in those blank eyes. And that scared him more than anything.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to shake it off. "Okay, then. I'll leave you to it. I'll be right outside, just shout if you need me."

Feeling uneasy, Dean glanced around the room. No windows. Somehow that made him feel a little better… though not much.

Unable to come up with a reason to linger, no matter how much he wanted to, Dean stepped out of the room. "Take your time," he told his brother, and shut the door while Sam stood staring at the falling water, motionless.

Damn that was creepy. Sam was creepy – emotionless and…eerie. But Sam had been in Hell. In a Hell that went beyond what Dean had known… beyond anything Dean wanted to know. He was out less than a few hours. Hurting; still healing. He was bound to be a bit off.

The sound of the shower beat on behind the closed door. Dean didn't even know if Sam had even gotten in. Didn't know if he needed help. Didn't know what he was doing; if he was just standing there, staring into the mirror, his eyes beginning to glow yellow. Or white…

Enough. Dean huffed at himself, flopping down on the bed and pulling an arm over his eyes, purposely not watching the bathroom door. This had to stop now. He'd spent the majority of the last few years watching Sam, waiting for him to turn. His father had driven a wedge between them. Oh, he hadn't meant to. He'd only meant to prepare his oldest son for what was coming, but it had created a crack between them, one that had slowly widened until it was as far and deep as the chiasm between heaven and hell. When their dad had whispered that he would either have to save Sam, or kill him – it had warped something between them, began corroding the trust that had once been so automatic. After all, how could you trust someone who might go bad…who you might have to kill? How do you share your pain with someone who might someday use it against you? How do you love someone who might, one day, turn on you?

Simple answer: you can't.

So, after Dad had died, instead of grieving with his brother, he'd pushed him away. Instead of letting Sam feel their dad's loss, instead of letting Sam be human, he'd run him down, kept him less than. He'd had too, to keep his sanity. Sam was the only person who could get that close to him… and he was the one person Dean couldn't afford closeness with. It was a weakness Dean had had to fix.

From that point on, he'd spent more time watching Sam than listening to him. More time being his father's good son rather than his brother's sibling. And what had it gotten them? The same thing it had gotten their father: a bad deal and an angry Sam.

Well, it stopped now. There was no reason to think his brother had gone all evil in the bathroom. None. Hell, Dean knew how it felt to get back upstairs, and he knew it was more likely that Sam had broken the mirror and used it to slit his wrists just to get away from the memories, than become…

Oh, Jesus Christ…Dean snarled at himself as the thought quickened his pulse, instantly and automatically. He was exasperated by the way his mind was rambling. Sam wasn't going to kill himself. His brother had been strong enough to fight off Lucifer himself. Sam wouldn't break now. He was stronger than that; stronger than Dean had ever known. He had to have some faith in him, in Sam's strength. Faith that Sam was a good, strong, loving person – the kind of faith in Sam that had once been as instinctive and unshakable for Dean as his love for his family. Faith that, had he shown it two years ago, none of this would ever have happened.

True as that was, it didn't stop his heart from beating unreasonably fast. Dean fought the urge to get up and go knock on the bathroom door. Sam had been in there for awhile now; alone in there, and quiet. He turned his head to stare at the door, debating – watching as steam seeped slowly out from under the crack, thick and white. Steam from very hot water. Scalding hot water.

"Shit." Dean practically jumped to the door, pushing it open. "Sam?"

Dean was momentarily blinded by the wave of condensation that pushed through the door. "Sammy?" he called again, worried.

There was a pause, one that had Dean's hands clenching into fists, then: "I'm fine, Dean."

Fine hell. The air cleared, and he could see Sam standing under the scalding water, shivering as his skin slowly burned.

"Fuck. Sam…" Dean snapped off the water, snatching up the towel he'd laid out and pushing it at his brother. "Why did you mess with the water?"

"I…." Sam swallowed, fixing the towel, sagging against the tiles. The shivering got worse. His eyes were closed. "It was cold. Cold. And I couldn't get warm…and it won't stop, won't shut-up…" his voice, so sad, so lost, drifted off – then the shivering stopped as if a switch had been flipped. His eyes opened, and they were…blank again. And that scared Dean more than anything. "Sorry."

Dean took a slow breath, reminding himself to be patient. Reminding himself not to take his fear out on the brother who was not able to handle it right now. It wasn't easy. "It's okay. Not a problem. Well, slight problem, as in first degree burns, but not too much of a problem. C'mon, let's get you seen to."

The room seemed almost frigid compared to the humidity of the bathroom. Dean glanced worriedly at Sam, but he didn't seem to notice the temperature change. Which was just further creepiness, but at least he wasn't shivering.

Dean sat Sam down on the bed and started digging through his bag, looking for the medical kit. Sam blinked, seemed to wake up a bit, stood. "Where are my clothes?"

Dean glanced up. "In your bag."

Sam looked around, and grabbed the bag. He began pulling out fabric almost manically.

"Whoa, hey," Dean frowned, "give me a second to find the aloe, first."

"I need to get dressed."

Dean's frown deepened. "Sam, dude, you've burnt yourself. Clothes will hurt if you just pull them over the burns."

"No, they won't."

Jesus Christ. "Yes, Sam. They will."

"Not enough to matter," Sam clarified, picking up a bundle of wrinkled clothes. "I need to get dressed."

Sam's earnest expression told Dean that he'd meant it as a reassurance, but it kind of freaked Dean out. Dean shook his head, and controlled his first four reactions. He decided to let Sam do what he needed to do right now. No mater how much he wanted to shake and push. "Okay. Fine. Can I at least clean up the incision?"

Sam shrugged indifferently, pulling his jeans on.

"Okay," Dean sighed. He took a breath, and kept his back turned and his voice consciously unconcerned. "What did you mean when you said it won't shut up, Sam? What won't shut up?"

He waited… but there was only silence. A silence that got deeper, got colder, each passing second. Swallowing, he turned. "Sam?"

Sam was sitting on the bed shivering…more than that; he was shaking. His eyes were closed, and he was grinding the heals of his hands into them. His breathing was ragged.

"Sam?" Dean took a step toward him…

"Don't," Sam warned. "Don't. Please. I don't want to…it's too close. Too loud. If I think about it, it could be too much. I could be too much. So…"

Dean nodded quickly. "Don't. Got it. No thinking about it. Right." He eased down on the bed next to Sam. "So, let's just get your incisions taken care of and hit the road. Sound okay with you?"

Sam settled as Dean took care of the wound. The physicality of it – touch and voice and even pain – seemed to ground him. The shaking slowed into a vague, constant tremble. His eyes became distant again. Expressionless. And this time Dean let him let go, knowing that whatever he was distancing himself from was…apparently too much.

Five minutes, and a handful of antibiotic ointment later, Sam was pulling a tee-shirt stiffly over his head. Dean watched as he layered a button-down over that, and then an old hoody over both.

"Sam, it's eighty-seven degrees out there."

"I'm cold."

Dean blinked. "I'm getting that."

Dean's cell went off, the bland electronic ring that had replaced the rock a few weeks after Sam was gone. Every time he'd heard the music he'd half expected it to be Sam on the other end. Even changing the song hadn't helped. So now, it was just an anonymous ring.

Dean flipped it open absently. "Yeah."

"Dean?"

"Cas? It went down? You're okay?"

"I am fine. Raphael took the bait. He's moving."

"Good."

"Need I remind you that you are now the bait?"

Dean absently moved over and thumped the wall above the TV a few times. It was the wall they shared with Bobby's room. "I am aware of that fact, thanks."

"So in what way is this good?"

"He's going the away from the rings. That's gotta be good."

"You need to run. I repaired the sigils on Sam's ribs while healing him, but Raphael has eyes everywhere. You will not be safe for long."

"I know."

"So what is the next step of the plan?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I've figured that out. You still going to meet up with us?"

There was a hesitation, and then: "Yes. Give me some time to make sure I'm not being followed."

"Okay. See you soon."

Dean snapped the cell shut as someone banged on the door. Dean unlocked it, letting a freshly scrubbed Bobby in.

"You rang?"

"Baby-sit for me while I get cleaned up? We have to be out of here in, like, five."

Bobby glanced at Sam, sitting on the bed, carefully working his boots on. He'd both obviously heard the 'baby-sitting' jibe, and just as obviously didn't care. "You heard from the angel."

"Yep. And we gotta book."

"I don't like this painting a bulls-eye on your ass, Dean."

Sam's head came up at the words, his expression inscrutable.

"It's fine," Dean answered more to Sam than Bobby. "We can't be located, at least not easily. And it will keep him away from the rings for long enough for us to figure out what the hell to do next. Just… don't worry about it for now."

Neither of them looked convinced.

Dean didn't take offence, he wasn't convinced himself.

The shower was probably one of the fastest in Dean's life. He would have skipped it entirely, but he couldn't take even another hour wearing his brother's blood.

They were out of the motel and on the road less then fifteen minutes later.