A/N: This is my first multiple chapter fic, it is however already written. I don't own any of the supernatural characters, although I wish I did. Thank you to Bartlebead for taking the time to beta this for me, you are much appreciated.

Chapter 3

Dean lay in the nondescript hotel room. He was in the area taking care of the monster in the forest outside Sacramento. Hunting took him all across the country on gigs but in the impartial confines of the Impala he'd admit that when Dad had called with the speculation something was causing hikers to go missing in Sacramento, California Dean had jumped to take the job simply because of the close geographical relationship to where Sam lived. He'd planned on after the job stopping by and covertly checking on Sam anyway. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done it and he doubted it would be the last.

He was alone as was per usual these days, sent out on assignments by his dad like the ever- faithful soldier Sam had once accused him of being. His body ached all over, especially his right arm where he'd had to stitch himself up hours earlier. Thirteen neat stitches, small and tight, put in by his own steady hand. There was nothing quite like forcing the needle in and out of your own screaming skin to reaffirm just how alone in the world you truly were. Dean wasn't supposed to check in with his dad for another 24 hours, so if he had been seconds slower, and the claws had ripped his jugular instead of his arm, then he would have lain in his own blood, dying, alone. Unless you counted the monster, who would have been midnight-snacking on Dean's entrails but, as it was, he had been fast enough. And skilled enough to close his own bleeding, gaping wounds, after burning the evidence and the body in the woods.

He supposed he was nothing if not well trained.

He'd hiked back to the car, the field dressing on his throbbing arm soaked with his blood and the rain that continued to ceaselessly pour down from the starless night sky. Once he'd made it inside the room Dean had wanted nothing more than to find refuge in sleep, but he'd known he had to dress the wound better, or he'd die; just more slowly.

Dean stripped down to his boxers and lugged the heavy, well-stocked first aid kit to the bathroom sink. The sound of his solitary ministrations echoed painfully in the empty room. Flinching under the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights, he began to sterilize the needle and then thread the sutures through. When he finished, he gave the cut some Jim Beam and chased the burning and throbbing of the alcohol on his skin by pouring more down his throat. For medicinal purposes of course.

And yet he still couldn't sleep.

An hour or so later and Dean found himself still restlessly fighting slumber. He turned over and punched the pillow up, finding the cool side before he settled down. It was just too quiet. That was the problem. If Dean were to ever let himself stop the quiet would become a tidal wave pulling Dean under with the force of its rage. There was no typing of keys on a well-loved laptop, no good natured sibling squabbles, and no gruff orders in a whisky-soaked voice rolling like a warm river over time-sanded pebbles. Both his dad and his brother had left him alone, and Dean didn't know what to do with himself. He tried his hardest not to hear the quiet.

He hunted probably more than his dad did; if he was killing something he didn't have to think about the void. He hustled more pool than was safe, but if he was playing the game- or, better yet, cracking his knuckles against some idiot's flesh- then he could forget the nothingness that was his new home. He rarely slept alone either; if he was touching and tasting and giving and taking then for hours the quiet dark didn't feel so empty. Instead it was filled with breathy cries and clenching muscles. He always left before the moon did, preferring to hold to his upfront promise of no promises.

Tonight, what with the late hour and the extra time needed to fix his wound, Dean had just crawled into bed. Yet he was unable to find solace or rest.

The ringing of his phone blared indignantly into the space. Starting in surprise Dean reached over and looked at the cracked screen, 4 in the morning. This wasn't good. Even in his world, where monsters prowled after dark, middle-of-the night calls were never a good sign; especially when the members of his family were scattered across the country, alone and without Dean there for backup.

Palo Alto. Shit, it was Sam.

"Sammy, what's wrong?"

"He-hello, is this Dean?"

Dread tightened Dean's stomach as his fingers unconsciously gripped the phone in response to hearing a voice decidedly not his little brother's.

"This is Dean, who is this? Where is Sam?"

"This is Jessica Moore, I'm…well, Sam and I are dating. We live together and ….shhhhh it's all right, Dean's on the phone." As she spoke away from the mouthpiece to someone else in the background Dean began to fear the worst. He could hear moaning and wheezing, horrible coughs that made his own chest ache just to listen to them. Suddenly she spoke Sam's name. Without even waiting for more information Dean stood up and starting getting dressed. He was packed and ready to go within minutes, just as John Winchester had taught both his boys. The motel room was once again devoid of any evidence he'd been there.

"Jessica."

"Yes," came her somewhat distracted reply.

"I'm about two hours away from you. I'm leaving right now."

"Oh thank God. I don't know what to do." Her voice ended on a sort of agitated squeak that lanced through Dean's head like a nail. "Sam already thinks you're on your way, you see, and he won't let me leave this ridiculous salt circle on the middle of our kitchen floor. He's agitated and sick, I think he's got a fever and his breathing sounds horrible. But he won't let me get close enough to check or give him Tylenol. I think he's delusional with fever, he keeps talking about us being on fire and the walls burning." At this she broke down and began sobbing. Dean could hear Sam in the background.

Jess, what's wrong? Does the fire hurt? I'm sorry I couldn't save you, but Dean's coming. He'll save you, he'll put out the fire, I promise.

"It's okay, Sam. I'm just tired of sitting on the floor. Can we go back to bed now?" She must have tried to rise out of the salt circle because Dean heard a loud thump and a sharp intake of breath.

Don't leave the salt, don't leave the salt. Don't leave the salt.

"Jessica what's going on?" Dean demanded, his beloved baby's tires squealing to find purchase on the wet asphalt as Dean pushed her to the limit peeling out of the parking lot.

"I'm okay. It's just …ummm… he really doesn't want me to leave the salt. As long as I don't agitate him, he goes back to sleeping, but the second I try and leave he wakes up and freaks out!"

"What happened? Did he just wake up out of the blue like this? There hasn't been any real fire, or anyone trying to break in, or anything like that right?" Dean prayed the supernatural had ignored his brother for once, and this was just a run-of-the-mill night terror like the ones Sam had had when he was little.

"No, I think I would know if the house was on fire, thank you very much! He's never done anything like this before! I'm really scared," Jessica admitted, her voice a hushed whisper, her fear coming through loud and clear over the line.

"Sometimes, growing up, Sam would get night terrors, nightmares he had trouble waking up from. He'd get up and talk and interact, but he was reacting to whatever crap dream he was stuck in. The best way to talk him down was to play along until he fell back asleep. He'd never really remember in the morning." Dean let the memories was over him as he sped down the two lane blacktop towards the highway- of coaxing Sammy back to bed, tucking him in, being the big brother.

"He's had nightmares before but nothing like this. He was really sick when we went to bed, but now he's breathing harder, and I think he has a fever. He always pushes himself until-"

"He's worn to the quick," Dean finished, as a smile played across his full lips at the accurate assessment of Sammy's character.

"Yeah," replied Jessica, "he does."

They let the silence linger a bit, only the sounds of their breathing coexisting on the line in between them. Dean continued to drive frantically, to reach Sam, yet somehow he was reassured by the tenuous connection with the woman, who like him, loved his younger brother.

"You obviously love your brother, and he loves you, or he wouldn't be screaming for you. Why don't you ever talk or visit?" Jessica's impulsive question hung in the air, and for an awful moment she thought he would simply refuse to answer, or turn around and not come after all.

"What has Sammy told you?" Dean's fingers squeezed the steering wheel, tension radiating behind his eyes, throbbing with the beat of his heart, pulsating behind his newly acquired injury.

"Not much," Jessica admitted. Dean could tell she was bothered now by Sammy's past secrecy, but Dean was reassured by Sam's at least sticking to the rules that much, quest for normal notwithstanding.

"Just… he wanted to go to school, no one else agreed, and now you guys don't talk."

Pain flared under Dean's skin as he listened to Jessica recount one of the most emotionally crippling events of his life. He gathered Sammy hadn't filled her in on any of the finer points. It was kind of poetically ironic when you thought about it. They had spent all of their lives pretending to be other people, from scams to hustles to investigators and hunters. Now Sam really was living another life because Joe College … That wasn't a Winchester.

Well … maybe Joe College if he carried a machete.

But even with all of the angry words, unreturned phone calls, and long years of forced separation it was Dean that Sammy still called for when he was down and out. Samantha was sending him mixed signals; he either wanted Dean in his life or he didn't. That thought added to the bumps and bruises on his already aching and abraded heart. Dean couldn't decide if he was angrier or hurt over Sam's changing behavior.

"That about sums it up, call me if there are any changes otherwise I'll be there shortly." He knew his voice sounded sharp like flint sparking together, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He suddenly wanted off the phone; he didn't want to talk to the glaring reminder that being a Winchester wasn't good enough for Sammy.

That being a brother to Dean wasn't good enough for Sammy.

Without bothering to wait for Jessica's reply he shut the phone and threw it on the seat next to him. The phone bounced and then settled in the space to his right, in Sammy's seat. The rain continued to pelt the windshield with angry torrents of water. Dean pressed the gas pedal farther towards the floor. Sammy might not want his older brother anymore but Dean would be there when he was needed, not even Stanford could change that ingrained drive.

Cranking the volume on the radio up, Dean let the Impala guide him to Sam.

AN 2: Thank you everyone who has taken the time to review. It means so very much to me!