I'm back! Thanks again for the lovely feedback. This is a new update of sorts. I had a very clear image of how I wanted the big confrontation between Sam and Dean to go, and while I have happy with the 400 word version, it didn't feel like that image. Jenjoremy pointed out that keeping the word limit may take away from the story, so I decided to finish the first version before I started hacking at it. It's slightly different than that original picture-ugh writing-but I think it's a more complete scene. Let me know what you think. Revised for typos, thanks y'all!

Side Effects Redux

Word Count: 1,729

They drive in shell-shocked quiet in a car, fleeing the Idaho wilds for civilization.

Dean opts for the newly paved freeway instead of the neglected backroads, aiming for a less jarring drive and finding novel solace in the traffic. The people sitting and singing in their cars. He wants to be in a city and a decent motel before Sam's hospital-grade painkillers wear off. They both need the rest.

Sam holds himself tightly in the passenger seat, pinched and pale.

Dean's busted ribs throb and his impaled chest hurts, but he has no space to complain about pain when just twenty-four hours ago, Sam was holding his innards inside of him. Thus he swallows it down, and offers a causal, "I called Renna for clean-up. She'll take care of the rest of the pack." Sam and Dean don't have many traditions, but the post-hunt debriefing is a treasured one, and he clings to the fragment of normalcy.

Sam's frown is more a grimace, probably because the car still reeks of Lysol and old blood. "She can check for strays but the rest are gone."

"How'd you know?"

"'Cause I killed 'em."

Dean double-takes so hard his neck cracks. "D-did you cure cancer while gut-shot too?"

Sam can't laugh, but it's a near thing, telegraphed by the shine in his eyes. "Needed a ride."

"You kicked it in the ass, Sammy," Dean says gruffly but it's brimming with affection.

His brother smiles and slides down a bit in an attempt to rest. It's only when Sam's hurt that he notices how he has to wedge his giant frame into the car. Sam never seems to mind though.

The sun dips low and golden in the sky, painting the horizon in fiery light so bright Dean's sunglasses are useless against the rays, and his head throbs so much the road blurs in front of him. He gingerly digs for a bottle of painkillers in the bin beneath the seat as Sam dozes beside him, head pillowed on Dean's balled up jacket.

The pills clatter loudly in the bottle as he pops it up one-handed. He palms three to dry-swallow.

A giant hand swats them away so violently, they plink and scatter throughout the car, and the Impala follows, veering on the rumble strip before Dean stamps on the brakes. A plume of dust a few angry honks scream by as the car rocks still.

Sam is sheet-white beside him, chest heaving. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Even a day after being shot, Sam can still menace better than hell's most vicious.

Dean aims for innocence. "Uh…headache?"

"Pretty sure that's a side effect from drug overdose, you idiot," Sam seethes. Dean instantly starts sweating. "You really think I wouldn't find out?"

"You were dead, what was I supposed to do?"

Sam glares at him with anger so intense, he actually growls before levering himself out of the car with a yelp of agonized frustration, and staggers into the wide open planes beyond the roadside.

It's a beautiful day, warm sunshine tempers the briskness of stubborn winter, and there are pops of yellow and red wildflowers dotting the expanse of green.

Dean slumps against the steering wheel and tries to draw in a cleansing breath with broken ribs and a wrecked spirit. He gives Sam a few minutes of space, and then ventures across the wind-whipped grasses to catch up to his brother.

"Haven't you done enough wounded nature walks for a lifetime? Get your ass in the car, Sam."

Sam is braced against the knobby trunk of a budding tree, looking stricken beneath the budding boughs. "You don't get to throw in the towel because I die. Newsflash: I'm going to die. Sooner rather than later."

Dean shrugs. "We've done this dance before, Sammy. It's my choice."

"Since when do you give a damn about choices?" Sam scoffs. "My choice was to stay in the cabin, but you didn't listen. You never listen! If you would've done what I asked, and left..." Sam grimaces, "Well, we would've saved everyone a lot of pain."

"There's no universe where I'd leave you shot, bleeding out and defenseless with werewolves on the prowl," Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I saved your ass, so clearly I wasn't," Sam shoots back. "How do you think I would've felt if I survived all of that to find out that you killed yourself?" Sam asks, chin trembling. "How do you think I feel now?"

Sam's tremulous voice stuns him into silence. He saw Sam's body splayed out on the floor, breathless lungs and a beatless heart, and nothing else had mattered. He's always had a reckless streak, and it tends to veer into the self-destructive and insane when Sam's well-being is on the line. "I got them to safety because I knew that's what you would've wanted. After that I just couldn't—"

"Save it, Dean! I've heard this crap a thousand times! We're coming down the barrel of the biggest things we've ever hunted. Amara, Lucifer wearing Cas, the end of the world. I'm game to kill Amara, you know that, but odds are I'm not coming back. I'm at peace with that. At least I thought I was...but I can't go into it knowing you're just going to eat your gun after the dust clears."

It has taken all of Dean's energy not to sadistically and obsessively imagine his little brother using a Hand Of God weapon to kill Amara, of disintegrating in a gale of light. Confronted with the notion now, Dean's entire being rejects the idea, and he suppresses the reflex to vomit.

He swipes a hand over his mouth and gazes off into the distance. Cars zoom up the freeway going to birthday parties and hardware stores and movie theaters, never noticing the two men on the shoulder accountable for their tomorrows.

Had that been why Sam had been so excited about this hunt? Was he hoping that the case was a dead end and they'd end up camping in the woods, just two brothers communing with nature and making memories while they still could? It was what Dean had done after selling his soul. "Sammy…"

"Shut up!" Sam roars. In the distance, a flock of finches leap into the sky. "You need to listen to me, Dean, because I am not pullin' any punches. And I'm not doing this shit again, Dean. I can't. So I'm fighting fire with fire: You decide to die or make some crapass deal to save me, and I'll end it anyway. I'll drive that precious car of yours into a brick wall or off a cliff the first change I get."

Dean blinks, mouth agape, and it takes him a long moment to gather his thoughts. "That's just cruel. Mind your blood pressure, man."

"I'm not kidding." Sam's anger is careening towards the irrational and dangerous for someone just ten hours post-op, but Sam's no longer yelling or flailing or sputtering.

He's intensely resolved and in complete control, and that's how Dean knows he's completely serious. Dean doesn't know whether to be flattered by an ultimatum sponsored by selfless, fraternal love or to drive them both to the nearest asylum.

The late afternoon sun glides over Sam's face, illuminating the faintly blue smudges on Sam's jawline, echoes of fingerprints.

This hunt is a gruesome suckerpunch for them both, especially for an emo do-gooder like Sam who despite his new penchant for internalizing everything, still feels as profoundly as ever. "I'm so sorry about what Corbin did to you. We...we can talk about that if you want."

Sam leans against the tree, all averted eyes and hunched posture. "He was just doing what he thought he had to to save the person he loved," Sam whispers. His eyes are leaking and painfully bright when they lock on Dean's, "Sound familiar?"

The comment sends him staggering back, grass hissing underfoot. "You really think I'd kill someone, an innocent, to save you?"

"We've both done a hell of a lot worse." His face twists in pain as he presses a hand to his stomach, riding out cresting wave of pain. He plows on, even though he's desperately pale and becoming shaky on his feet. "It makes you think, ya know? I killed Michelle's husband right in front of her. You don't think she wants him back? Playing these games and breaking these rules over and over again, it's… colossally wrong to the people who can't, and the people who die because of it. It has to stop. We have to stop."

Dean can't battle Sam when he's still devastated from this horrific hunt and what Dean had done. Beyond that, he's right.

When pushed too far, the lengths Dean would sink to save his brother often disturbs even him. In some ghastly, walled off part of his soul where Dean stows his hell-born bloodlust and a wickedness too brutal to use topside, Dean figures if he's trapped in a life of gankin' the universe's nastiest, he's owed the right to do it with the person he loves the most safely by his side, consequences be damned.

It dawns on him that Sam's shuttered wish may be something else entirely, and that breaks his heart completely. "Alright, Norma Rae. Get off your soapbox before you pop something."

Sam wipes his eyes, and shakes his head. "This isn't a joke." He sways a little, squinting into the sunlight.

Dean steadies him with a careful grip on his upper arms. "Does it look like I'm laughin'? I hear you, Sammy. I also see you about to face-plant, so come on."

He ducks under Sam's arm to guide him back to the car, but Sam reels him in for a bone-crushing hug he shouldn't have been strong enough for.

Except summoning otherworldly strength or making a great sacrifice is the Winchester way of showing love, and Dean can't help but wonder if that it's what kept Sammy alive, why he's fighting so hard now.

Dean gently ruffles the ridiculously long hair covering the nape of his neck, and lets Sam sniffle and shudder into his jacket. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispers, his own voice breaking a little. "I won't do it again. I promise."

For now, Dean truly means it.