"Goddammit!" Sam flings his phone away and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until the darkness bursts into fractals. He's got nothing. Nothing at all from half the hunters he knows and nothing useful from the other half. When he takes his hands from his face and checks on Dean for the millionth time Dean is still motionless on the bed, his colorless skin almost glowing against the dark t-shirt and sweatpants Sam dressed him in.

Everything Sam has in the world is in this tiny room that isn't his and it's not enough, he's not enough. He coughs out a laugh that leaves a bitter old-coffee taste in the back of his throat. He's never been enough, never really been able to handle anything on his own; hell, he's actively screwed things up more times than not but isn't that what Dean is for? What Bobby and Cas and Dad and his rejected faith were for?

A memory like ice down his spine: Dean, tired, sandpaper-voiced, saying what if the bus wants to go over the cliff? And suddenly, Sam has an answer: it's not the bus, it's the driver, and after several years of finding out how much the world actually does revolve around Sam and Dean Winchester, they really shouldn't be surprised anymore when everything goes to hell.

With a sigh, Sam gets up and retrieves his phone, tossing it on the table before sitting down beside Dean. He puts his fingers to Dean's neck and sits letting the pulse beat through his own body, methodically marshalling himself. He may be alone under an empty sky but Dean's heart is still beating and that means he's not allowed to fold yet.

"Really, Sam? You really think you and Dean are going to live another year? Another six months, even, without your stalwart father-figure to wipe your noses and Yoda you out of your pathetic existential crises? Please." Lucifer's voice slides oily and sharp from the bed where he is suddenly lying beside Dean, hands behind his head. The familiar succession of panic-rage-denial rips through Sam's chest and he grits his teeth on a gasp. Focusing on Dean's face, he digs his thumb into the scar on his hand and Lucifer sneers as he fizzles away.

"Fuck," Sam breathes as he drops his head onto Dean's chest, waiting for his heart to stop racing. That's right, he's never alone.

If Dean asked will you run away with me right now, Sam wouldn't waste time asking for clarification. He's just say yes, and relinquish all control over the path they take.

For now, he can't sleep and he can't help Dean, so it's time to do all the research that Sam knew, he knew they should have done before digging up that grave. Several hours of grainy light and a headache scraping at his eyelids later, he has nebulous suspicions about Jeremy Engelson, the first victim, but the sun won't even be up for another three hours so no interviews for a while.

He goes and sits by Dean again, wraps his hand around his neck and feels the heartbeat in his palm. Dean always looks younger when asleep; the aggression soothed away, his mouth and eyelashes soft against finely-freckled skin. Sam slides his other hand over Dean's temple and through his hair, traces the line of his collarbone. Dean's hands, slack against his stomach, are unsettlingly delicate without a weapon in them.

Then Dean tenses and a soft noise escapes his lips, eyes flicking back and forth under dusky lids. He presses his lips together and turns his face into Sam's palm.

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me? Come on, wake up." Sam slides to his knees beside the bed so he's at Dean's level and tries not to choke on hope. "You in there, De? Please…"

Another meaningless syllable, and then Dean's eyes blink open, glassy and confused.

"Hey, hey, love. There you are. Can you hear me? Dean?" Sam gently turns Dean's face toward him, and is rewarded after a few more slow blinks with a half-lidded gaze and a small smile. "Welcome back. How do you feel? Any pain?"

"All for you…" Dean whispers, then licks his lips. "All of it, always, all for you…"

"What?" Sam searches Dean's face. "De, are you ok? What does that mean?"

Then the half-awake blur clears from Dean's expression and he blinks rapidly, jerking upright. "Sam! Sammy, gotta go back, gotta finish, where's… what… Sam?" His voice goes small and fading and he looks helplessly at Sam, who releases all his despair and worry in one long sigh and leans against the bed, weak with the lightness of relief.

"It's ok. It's ok, we'll go get him later, how do you feel?" The acrid tang of mildew rises from the covers as Sam climbs back onto the bed but it barely registers because Dean's shoulders in his hands are familiar and warm and solid.

Dean allows himself to be lowered back against the pillows. "Fine… actually, fine, I think. Wait, did you say 'we'll get him later'? As in, you didn't salt and burn the old bastard? Dammit, Sam, now we gotta – "

"Go back and finish, I know. But you were… Dean, Fowler stuck his fingers into your head. And you, you were having convulsions and your nose was bleeding and I, I just, I didn't – " Sam stops, takes a breath, smoothes away a wrinkle in the blanket, tries not to hate the harsh slickness of polyester. "I had to get you out of there."

Dean sighs and looks away and Sam swallows down the feeling of being bereft, refocuses. "You can bitch me out later, ok? Just, for now, you feel fine? Your head doesn't hurt, nothing?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Could use a drink." Dean moves to get up, but Sam stops him with a hand on his chest and gets a bottle of water from the fridge. "Not the kind of drink I meant," Dean grumbles, but drains half the bottle before wiping his lips and glancing at Sam. "What, what."

Someday Sam will figure out exactly what it is about that tone of Dean's, that particular quirk of his eyebrows and set of his chin that can turn Sam back into a gawky, furious fourteen-year-old with a word. He throws up his hands. "Nothing. Nothing, just, I thought you were dead about ten times tonight and I still don't know why. I don't know if you're even really ok or if you're about to go into convulsions again, I don't know if I should be worried about lasting damage or how I would check for that anyway, I don't know – "

Dean cuts him of by grabbing his face in both hands and pulling him down into a kiss, and Sam collapses into him, letting out a small whimper. The kiss is hard and needy and a little clumsy, and Dean doesn't release Sam until they're both panting and flushed. Sam curls against Dean's side, tucking his head into Dean's neck and breathing in the smell of leather and sweat while Dean's hand runs through his hair. Someday he'll also figure out why he doesn't mind when Dean makes him feel five years old and ignorant.

Slowly, his world expands again to include things other than the warmth of their bodies pressed together and the velvet of Dean's skin as Sam traces circles over his collarbone. "Ok, so, I looked at some more of the articles about Fowler when he was alive, and I think we should try and talk to the first victim's sister. A lot of the articles about Fowler said, in this really circumspect twenties-political-correctness sort of way, that Fowler was paranoid about people lying to him, especially journalists, stopped even talking to them in his later years. And we know Engelson stretched the truth a little in some of his articles, so I'm thinking maybe that's why Fowler fixated on him? I don't really have a fix on the other victims, but – "

"Sammy, Sammy, wait. Why exactly are we caring why Fowler killed these people? We can still just go finish the job tomorrow night."

Sam sits up, shrugging out of the warmth of Dean's arms. Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself that punching someone with a head injury, supernatural or not, is probably a bad idea. "Were you not listening to me? He did something to you, and I don't know what, and I need to make sure it's not going to happen again. How else am I supposed to do that except work the job?"

The expression on Dean's face, the squinted eyes and hard mouth that say the walls are back up and woe betide the little brother who tries scaling them, is what Sam calls the Dad Face. It makes him want to cry and kill at the same time. "Man, I told you I feel fine. I am fine. We'll go back tomorrow night, put up a big salt ring around the grave, and get it done."

The silence that falls is thick with words they've both said too many times to need say them now. The irritation and fear pass and leave Sam with an inadequate sadness, a certainty that he should be able to find the words to make Dean care about himself, and an equal certainty that he never will. He finally asks "Do you remember what you said to me when you first woke up?"

Startled, clearly ready for a fight, Dean looses the hard lines around his eyes. "What? Just now? When I said… um… right, that we had to go back and finish the job?"

"No, before that. When you first woke up."

"Uh, no. Sorry, Sammy, I don't know what you're talking about, I musta still been a little out of it. What'd I say?"

"You said… you looked at me, and you said 'all of it, always, it's all for you.' And then you woke up for real, I guess. You don't remember that?"

Dean goes white and his eyes fly open blank and shocked. A shiver runs down his body and he twitches away from Sam, staring at him wide-eyed. "Wh-what? I said… that to you?"

"Yeah… yeah, you did, Dean, what's wrong? Are you ok?" Sam reaches out but stops when Dean flinches away, closing his eyes and hiding his face in the pillow. He's shaking slightly, hands fisted in the blankets and guilt lodges in Sam's chest cold and iron-hard. "De, please, tell me what's wrong. I'm sorry, please, just – "

Suddenly Sam finds himself with an armful of older brother, Dean clinging to him desperately, and Sam can feel Dean's pounding heartbeat against his own. He wraps his arms around Dean and runs his fingers through his short hair. "It's ok," he whispers, not even sure what he's promising. "It's ok, it's ok, I've got you. It's ok."

After a few minutes of this, the shaking dies away and Dean's heartbeat slows to a pace that can't be felt through their layers of clothing. As gently as he can, Sam pulls back enough to see Dean's face, stroking a hand down his forehead and cheekbone. Dean keeps his eyes down, avoiding Sam's gaze. "Love? Will you tell me what it is? Why did that… bother you so much?"

"I – " Dean lets out a choking noise and looks up, meets Sam's gaze with naked pain in his bright eyes and trembling lips. "I just… no. Not now, I can't. I can't. Can we just… you must be tired, can we just go to sleep? I'm sorry Sammy, I just, I can't."

Sam shoves down the part of himself that wants to push it, knowing there's nothing to be gained from prying open whatever this wound is. "Of course," he says, and kicks out of his jeans and button-up shirt, then pulls the covers over both of them. Dean stays wrapped around him, using his chest as a pillow.

As Sam turns out the light, he gets a flash of Lucifer leaning against the table, arms folded, watching him with pure rage in his hooded eyes. Sam buries his face in Dean's hair and closes his eyes, telling himself the giggle bubbling from across the room isn't real. Seconds later, he surrenders to exhaustion.

A/N Sorry it's short and overly talky, but I figured as long as I had something I might as well post it. There's action soon, I promise. Anyway, pretty please tell me what you think, it will make me very very happy. And possibly write faster, though that's really up to the Muse. Peace!