A/N: Oh so many thanks to Turner97, MidgeVS5, godsdaughter77, Ciya, skag trendy, Madebyme, MysteryMadchen, hpsupernaturalfan, cutelildevil818, cindy123 (btw, your review cracked me up!), supernatfem76, Ash8, jenilee, and PrincessOfHeartsNYP.

Dean wakes again to chaos. There's shouting and the shrieking of sirens, the buzz of police radios, vehicle doors opening and slamming shut, the loud whoosh of water crashing against an unyielding surface, and - over everything else - too many stranger's voices to count.

It's disconcerting to realize that he doesn't remember where he is or what's happened, but as his brain clicks every detail of his surroundings in place, memory returns and has him clambering to sit up.

It's a mistake, and boy is the scenery-spinning thing getting old. It's makes the throbbing in his shoulder literally pound it's displeasure, adding to the fatigue and queasiness that's already begun to lap at the back of his consciousness.

"Take it easy, Sir," a surprised paramedic admonishes, and Dean twists until he's blinking at a tight-lipped brunette in dark blue.

"M' brother…?"

Her only response is a restraining hand to his uninjured shoulder that maneuvers him back against the gravel. "Try to stay still, okay? Now I need you to focus. Do you know where you are?"

Dean ignores her, pushes those helpful hands away. "Where is he? Where's Sam?"

The female medic bears down on him again, putting more of her weight into keeping him immobile. "I'm sure he's fine, Sir. Now please, I need you to…"

"Where's my brother?" Dean demands, and the force of his tone causes the woman to backpedal.

"Dean?" And oh thank God. Jim will tell him what's going on.

Dean turns his head toward the sound of his name, Jim's voice distracted at first, but coming from somewhere nearby.

There. Barely visible through the flashing red and blue, Dean sees him abandon a small cluster of uniformed men – questioning him, most likely – and begin making his way toward them.

"Dean, calm down." As always, the Pastor's voice is quiet, but impregnable as he crouches next to him.

"Where's Sam?"

"He's fine. They're loading him up now."

"I wanna go with him." Dean moves to push himself upright again, fights against both sets of hands because there's no way he's being separated from his brother anymore.

The female medic's understanding-face melts into a scowl. "Sir, you…"

"It's all right," Jim assures her, and then his arm is around Dean's waist and pulling him up. "He'll be fine."

Her hands flutter uselessly in the air. "I need to get that shoulder wrapped."

"Do it in the ambulance, then," Dean snaps, and pays no attention to Jim's disapproving frown. It's easier to be irritable than to focus on the way the world tips sickeningly around him.

There's a chuckle and a comment about Dean's charm as soon they're out of earshot, but Dean doesn't reply, just focuses on walking without having to depend too much on his human crutch.

Sam's already inside an ambulance, strapped to a gurney with an oxygen mask covering the lower half his face. The paramedic bending over him gives Dean a sour look as he climbs in, but doesn't argue when saintly-looking Jim tells him that they're brothers and, if it's not too much trouble, could they ride together? It's been a traumatic past few days, after all.

And Dean thought he had charm.

It's a tight fit, but Dean wedges himself in next to the gurney, and his hand immediately disappears under the blanket to clutch his brother's bandaged wrist, because damn it, he's entitled after what they've just been through.

Jim excuses himself with a knowing smirk and a parting threat for Dean to "play nice with the good doctors and nurses".

Yeah, play nice.

Dean's beginning to realize just how hard it is to "play nice." Especially when the ER doctors are saying things like "head trauma", "broken ribs", "dislocated shoulder", "collapsed lung", and "Mr. Bloom, you need to leave now."

So when Sam's wheeled off to surgery and Dean's hustled into a canary yellow waiting room with orders to sit and take it easy, he can do anything but.

Sit and take it easy? Were they kidding?

Dean hates hospitals. Really.

With every fiber of his being.

He also decides, with the help of the policemen that come in to cross-examine him, that he really hates answering questions, too.

At least Jim had mercy on him, filling him in on the details of their "story" before the authorities arrived and then taking most of the brunt of the immediate questioning while Dean had been busy getting his shoulder checked out in the ambulance. It had been easy enough to play the shock card at that point; it had given him a few moments to finally breathe. And since he'd been able to see his brother, hopped up on painkillers and peacefully out of it lying next to him, he really could.

Jim's story is a solid one, and leave it to a Pastor to stick – mostly – to the truth. It's easier that way, he'd said, and with the abrasions on Sam's wrists and the serious beating he'd been through, there weren't a lot of other options to choose from. Not to mention the integrity that Jim wore like a glove. Damn, that could be used as a weapon in Dean's book.

But really? How many times does he have to answer the same questions? Yes sir, my family and I were just passing through. No, I wasn't there when our room was broken into. No, I have no idea where Miss Deborah disappeared to.

Jeez, they were taking notes - did he really have to repeat himself? No, I didn't know the people who nabbed Sam. No, I told you, we got a call saying where he was and that we were to meet him there, but they told me not to involve the authorities so that's why we didn't. No, the building was already on fire when me and my Uncle went to check it out. Yes, that's when we called the police and yeah, we got a little crispy when we ran inside to drag out survivors.

That last answer gets Dean several stern looks from the inquiring officers, not to mention the you're-an-idiot speech, sugar coated of course, at least twice for "not waiting for the professionals".

He really hates waiting, too.

Waiting and hospitals and waiting and canary yellow wallpaper and waiting…

Dean's not good at waiting, at least, not when it comes to Sam anyway, so he paces. He knows he should stop, knows he's probably scaring people, but he's got to keep moving or he'll go crazy.

Folks give him space and, Dean notices, follow his every movement with wary eyes. Most clear out all together, but those who choose to stay give him a wide berth. He's glad for it. There's only one person he really wants to talk to right now.

Well, two people, if you count the tired and haggard looking Jim Murphy stepping out of the elevator.

They pick a quiet corner and settle in to swap information. Jim tells him that there were at least two casualties in the fire, Vallis being identified as one of them. The body would be examined later for what looked to be a "gunshot wound", though the police have thus far been unable to find someone who witnessed the murder.

As Jim goes on, it occurs to Dean just how lucky they are to get off. It could have been worse – a lot worse, seeing as how they were three strangers that just appeared out of nowhere and became unwittingly mixed up in an ongoing crime ring. Jim suspected that having a hand in breaking up such a large underground criminal operation had a great deal to do with it. Apparently, the police found traces of everything on the premises from stolen weapons to drugs.

There isn't much for Dean to share, other than how he found his brother, so for a time they're both quiet.

…But Dean's waiting for it.

It's inevitable; Jim's got that Pastorly-look Dean recognizes from his childhood – eyes that scream I understand and a mixture of compassion and concern blended into a face that just makes you want to open your craw and never stop.

And Dean's dreading it with every passing minute.

Jim can't help it – it's his nature, the minister in him, so when he turns the full force of his attention on him, Dean has to work at keeping himself from cringing.

"You couldn't have known, Dean. You get that, right? That it wasn't your fault?"

Because yeah. Yeah, he knows that. Not that it makes any difference. Knowing and believing are opposite ends of the spectrum at this point.

Jim's right in that he couldn't have known - hell, no one would have in the same situation – but there are so many reasons why this is his fault, starting with the fact that if he had never gone to get Sam from school in the first place, his brother would be safe and sitting in a library or classroom or something right now.

This time was supposed to be about starting over with Sam. Going back on the road with his brother had been sudden; in the wake of Jessica's death, Sam had been desperate to get back into the hunting life, to get revenge on the thing that killed her. In the six months they'd been back together, Sam had faced shape shifters, wendigos, vengeful spirits, even demons. Faced them and survived them all.

The irony of it all isn't lost on him; in the end, the thing Sam would barely survive is Dean.

Man, they've got a messed up family. Sam runs off to be normal – to be safe, Dad withdraws, disappears, Dean makes a few enemies in the meantime, ticks a few people off, and it's still Sam who gets to suffer for it, all the while freaking' protecting him.

Sam. Protecting him.

Even thinking about it makes him angry. Angry at Vallis, at the people who'd done this. Angry at his father for falling off the radar and not being there when they needed him. Angry at Sam for insisting to stay behind. Angry at himself for leaving him. But most of all angry that, somehow, in all the chaos, the roles had switched.

As far as Dean's concerned, it's his job to protect his brother, not the other way around.

Of course, he couldn't have known what would happen; if he had, he never would have taken them so close to the danger. But where Dean might not have been directly responsible for the outcome, he should have found a way to prevent it from happening in the first place. It was his duty, his God-given birthright. And he should have been there.

"Dean?"

He'd lied to his brother. He'd told him he'd be there for him. Told him he'd watch his back.

A painful pulse begins to beat at his temple. He'd lied to his brother. Lied to him and failed him, and Sam had protected him for it.

Dean doesn't change his face, doesn't even look up. "Yeah. Yeah, I know," and his voice is as empty as his face.

Jim's glaring at him, at the outright lie. And Pastor Jim Murphy can glare like nobody's business.

It makes Dean fidget. "Just…don't, Jim. All right?"

"Dean…"

"I don't want to hear it."

"Well you're going to hear it." The severe tone that comes from his old friend is a surprise to him and, despite himself, Dean flinches. "You'll hear it 'cause you need to hear it."

"Jim…"

"It wasn't your fault. This guy, this Vallis, he was supposed to be in prison. You had no way of knowing…"

"They were looking for me!" Dean snaps, his temper abruptly flaring. "Damn it, Jim! He was protecting me!"

Jim isn't the least bit unsettled by Dean's anger. He cocks his head in challenge. "And you can tell me that you wouldn't have done the same?"

It makes him grind his teeth in frustration; the words as blunt as a physical blow and just as effective. And Dean has nothing to say in return.

"Dean," Jim says, softer now. "Listen to me. It wasn't your fault. And blaming yourself isn't going to help Sam."

No, it won't. He knows that. That in itself is the problem. Nothing he can say or do will help his brother; could even begin to make up for it. Just the knowledge of what Sam had to endure smolders inside of him, a fierce uproar of outrage and bitterness, with no outlet to be released.

"Then what do you suggest I do?" he asks through clenched teeth.

"What I suggest you do is get yourself together and accept the things you can't change. Sam's a big boy, Dean. He knew what going back on the road with you would mean. Your life – his life - whether you like it or not, is dangerous. Supernatural or unsupernatural, it's dangerous.

"And the second thing you can do is stop feeling sorry for yourself. Sam's alive, and he's alive because of you…"

"No, he was in there because of me."

Jim is shaking his head. "You don't get it, do you? You pulled him from a burning building, Dean, and that was after…"

"Just…stop." There's fire in Dean's demand when he interrupts his friend, but it's extinguished almost immediately. He's angry, but not at Jim. God, never at Jim. "Look," he forces out, trying again, softer this time. "I know what you're trying to do, and trust me, I appreciate it. Hell, I probably need it…but…"

It's a rarity that words fail him, except something in his face must've spoke volumes because, after a moment, Jim nods. A silent, albeit reluctant, agreement to back off. For now.

It's a testament to how much Jim really understands that he doesn't waste words like I'm here or When you're ready. He doesn't have to.

Jim's always been a mystery to Dean, even from a young age. How a man as kindhearted and freaking humble as Jim Murphy had ever gotten into hunting would forever be on the Winchester's I-Want-to-Know list.

The man really was one of a kind. Hunter's hearts were hard, most of them forced into the "business" by tragedy. Violence, blood…secrecy, revenge. It was kill or be killed in their world and it took a certain callous edge to even survive. Dean had no idea what had drawn the Pastor into such a brutal lifestyle, but through it all, he had remained as humane and selfless as the day he'd first met him.

It makes Dean grateful, once again, to have someone to lean on. So he looks up, nods his head, and settles in to wait.

Jim's worried about Dean. The hours have chewed a hole through the young man's patience and, ever since their brief and frustratingly unproductive exchange, he's kept to himself.

No, shut down, is more like it.

Dean's never been outwardly emotional, even as a child. But the cold, emotionless husk sitting across from him, head down, staring blankly at the tiled floor…it's almost too much for even Jim's well-tested patience.

But let patience have her perfect work, he recites to himself. That ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.*

Because patience is what will help Dean the most right now. Patience and just being there; a physical presence.

Dean doesn't want or need to talk, and Jim gets that. He really does. It doesn't make seeing the younger man's pain any easier. His fear.

And Jim can see it. Despite Dean's stone-face, Jim can still see it.

It's in his tense posture and the cover of emptiness in his eyes. It's the way he scrubs at his face like someone trying to wake from a nightmare, the way he twists and crushes his hands together.

Although he would have liked everyone to think the contrary, Dean felt fear. Fear was an ever-present angle of their chosen life, albeit an impersonal fear. Fear for the "job", for the innocents involved, their safety and their sanity; fear of the unknown – and there was a lot of unknown out there; fear of going into a fight unprepared, the fear of injury or capture, the fear of failure. A hunter's list of fears was bottomless.

But this, this is a personal fear. This is fear for his brother, for a small piece of his already small family. And this is Dean handling his fear.

Although Jim would have preferred a less cut-off-from-the-rest-of-the-world way of dealing, it was Dean's way and he would respect it. The poor kid was so much like his daddy sometimes that it made Jim's heart ache.

So when a white-jacketed man in square spectacles crosses the waiting room's threshold and says, "Mr. Murphy? Mr. Bloom?", it doesn't surprise Jim when no expression crosses Dean's face. He simply stands, much quicker than Jim thought him able, given his injuries - it worries him that Dean's shoulder still hasn't been sewn up and he's started cradling his ribs.

Stubborn kid.

He'd allowed his shoulder to be treated and temporarily patched up back at the scene, but refused to be checked out after arriving and Jim knows better than to press the issue. He knows Dean'll keep until after they find out about Sam.

Dean's never been good about worrying about himself.

The doctor looks optimistic as Jim shakes his hand first, politely introducing himself, and he watches surreptitiously as the tension plays all over Dean's face. To an outsider it's invisible, and Dean offers nothing when the doctor takes his hand, but Jim sees the small spark behind those vacant green eyes, the nervous quirk of the corner of his lips.

The lecture starts out informative: Sam's right shoulder had been dislocated and he'd suffered a Grade III concussion. Two of his middle ribs had been cracked, a third broken, and their biggest concern had been the complication with the broken rib.

"Middle ribs are most likely to be broken by blunt trauma. My best guess is it was caused by a blow or a fall," the doctor prattles on and Dean nods, numbly. "When that happened, the broken end of the rib punctured the lung and caused it to collapse."

There's snitches of information after that, things like: "…collapsed lungs, while indeed quite serious, are actually quite common in tall, thin men…" and "…once it's treated, the organ will usually return to normal within 48 to 72 hours."

Overall, it's good news, but Jim isn't sure Dean hears anything past, "Samuel's being moved to Recovery" and "if all goes well, he'll heal in a few weeks."

And when the doctor leaves them with a smile, it's all Dean Winchester, poker face extraordinaire, can do to make it to the bathroom.

He's okay. Sam's gonna be okay.

If all goes well, he'll heal in a few weeks.

The doctor's gone, Dean doesn't see him leave, isn't really focusing on anything except Sam's okay and he'll heal in a few weeks and, suddenly, it all comes apart.

He's gagging as he stumbles into the first stall he sees, acid washing the back of his throat.

No slow unraveling for a Winchester. The breakdown hits hard and fast, and thank God Jim respects him enough to allow him this moment of weakness. Because until now he's been strong, until now he's kept himself hard. His mission, his purpose, was his glue, unsteady at best, but Winchesters could work with what they had and it was enough to hold him together and keep him going so that he could find his brother. So that he could bring him home. So that he could make him safe again.

Well Sam had been found, Sam was safe, and now Dean doesn't have to be strong anymore.

When he's finished, he bends over the sink.

Sam's okay. He'll heal.

Even breathing is easier.

Dean splashes water on his face and neck, running a still-shaking hand through his hair. He washes out his mouth next, catches his reflection in the mirror. His face is flushed, his eyes bloodshot, evidence not of drinking but of the sleepless nights of the last few days. And when his legs no longer feel like the consistency of spaghetti, he opens the door to find Jim waiting for him.

The older man doesn't touch him, doesn't reach out a hand or grasp his shoulder. He knows outward signs of comfort are not what Dean wants, not what Dean needs. The comfort is solely in his old friend's eyes, and as he smiles paternally at Dean he says, "Now let's get that shoulder of yours checked out."

And Dean doesn't have it in him to argue.

*James 1:4