A/N: Welp, that took longer than . . . expected. I'm really sorry this took so long to finish guys. It has literally been one of the hardest projects I've ever made myself finish. I should know not to bite off more angst than I can chew – well, I know now ;-). Maybe I should stick with fluff for a while . . .

This thing does veer a little bit AU at the end. This is probably the beginning of what I _wish_ Dean & Lisa's relationship had been like, not what it actually was. But, well, I'm a writer – we just can't keep the dreams down.

Many thanks to my gorgeous Betas, Pickwick12 and SewOnAndSewForth, who scraped me off the floor, dusted me off, and set me back to writing more than once. Without them this fic would be one more dark smudge of regret in my "past failures" drawer.

Please do leave a review – good, bad, angry or indifferent, I love feedback! Let me at least pretend that the last 7 months it took to drag this thing out of myself weren't a complete waste! ;-)

Chapter 4 – Promise Me

Dean couldn't remember when he'd started crawling, nor could he quite countenance where he was headed. At times he seemed to be dragging himself through red, bloodied dirt, cutting his hands on ground-up aluminum and glass, thinking vaguely about getting back to the car and buying Lisa the fish she'd asked for on his way home. At other times it was asphalt beneath his hands, the sky heavy with unfamiliar stars and planets, the sound of Sam's boyish footfall calling him farther down the never-ending road. All he knew was that he couldn't stop - someone was waiting for him. Someone was depending on him. If only he could get his feet under him he could hurry up and finish . . . whatever it was . . .

"Dean!" A voice - voices? - calling from the darkness.

M'comin', Sammy . . . jus' . . gimme a minute.Another chunk of glass dug into his palm. He thought he could hear someone chuckling close to his ear.

"I ain't carryin' you this time, kid,"said whoever-it-was. "Don't worry though. Looks like you's headin' my way any which direction you take."

Voices. Footsteps. " . . . No, that ain't him . . . It's Roy, looks like. He dead? . . . Fucking idgit . . . Dean? . . . DEAN?! Godammit!"

Booted feet sliding on glass and gravel. A heavy hand on his shoulder. An electric-shock of pain as someone moved him over onto his back. Hot, whiskey-scented breath on his neck. "He's alive, Jac! Get over here! . . . Jesus-Christ-Alive, son, don't you dare stop breathin'. . . .Yeah! Grab the kit - we're gonna need that plasma we packed! . . . Dammit, Dean, I told you to . . . don't do this, Dean. Don't. You. Dare."

Part of Dean's mind recognized how familiar this was - cold pain and weariness and confusion wrapped up with familiar voices and warm blankets and the sensation that, whatever he'd been worried about before, it wasn't his worry any longer. He'd been there before, knew enough not to fight it, knew that if he wandered between the voices and the darkness long enough he'd find his way out. He tried to appreciate the quiet stillness when he lingered there - floating in a pain-free, thought-free netherland - but resting wasn't in his body's nature. He would invariably fight his way back to a cross, achy half-awareness where his left palm itched but he couldn't move enough to scratch it, people spoke to him but never loud enough for him to understand, and, more importantly, he could whisper but couldn't remember why asking for "Sammy" was the wrong question.

His mind slowly put the scattered pieces of the past few days back together as the pain in his body became more specific, clues to events his brain wanted to leave behind. He couldn't move his shoulder – Roy had shot him. Roy was dead. His right side ached and pulled with each breath – Walt had knifed him. Walt was dead. It hurt to breath - there'd been a fire. The book he needed to save Sam had burned away. Sammy was gone.

Eventually his head was clear enough to recognize a scent nearby - Lisa's "Tropical Breeze" shampoo. Soft fingers were stroking his palm where it had itched before, and he could make out every word of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" being sung in low, off-key tones. He curled his left hand around the fingers and the singing stopped.

"Dean? Babe? You with me?"

Dean stroked his thumb across the soft skin on the back of Lisa's hand and nodded, eyes still closed. He wasn't sure if he trusted himself to speak coherently just yet. His mouth felt dry as a pile of ash, and every breath burned, but he noticed that there didn't seem to be a nasal cannula strapped to his face – so, he wasn't in a hospital. Curious, he cracked open an eye. He was lying in a rusty bed, surrounded by decaying, particle-board walls and a concrete floor. Lisa was sitting to his left, perched on a edge of a rickety rocking chair. Her hair was done up in a days-old pony tail, her hollow eyes red-rimmed, but her smile sent a shiver of sunlight through his aching frame.

"Hey, handsome."

"Hey . . ." He lifted his head to try and get a better idea of his surroundings, then immediately thought better of it. "W'rr 'm I?"

"An abandoned rehab facility south of Brighamton, you idgit," came a gruff voice from the doorway. Bobby shuffled into his line of vision, looking more sleep-deprived than Lisa and even greasier than usual. "Couldn't take you to a hospital – not with a bullet in you and two bodies lying around. So we did the best we could with available resources." He kicked what looked like a wheelchair wheel along the floor and watched it clatter into the hallway. "It's a miracle we haven't all died of tetanus waiting around for your lazy ass to wake up."

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a harsh cough. Lisa put a soothing hand under his head and held a water bottle to his lips. He slipped into another coughing fit after just a few sips, but when the burning ache in his chest finally eased, he found he could speak.

"How long . . . long was I out?"

"Near 3 days, kid," said Bobby, poking his head into the hallway. "Hey! Jac! Doc! Sleeping Beauty's awake! Jac! Would you mind –" He cut himself off with an exasperated sigh. "Worthless Cajun's probably in a corner sleeping off last night . . . I'll be right back." Bobby huffed off down the hallway, muttering to himself.

Dean turned to look back at Lisa. She looked exhausted, but her smile never faltered.

"Babe, I'm so –"

"Dean – stop. We do need to talk about this, but we don't have to talk about this now. I just got you back." She leaned in for a soft, brief kiss, and Dean closed his eyes – breathing in her scent and the feel of her skin on his. He always found himself falling into this, the sensation of safety and happiness dripping from her limbs into his. But no matter how much he tried to wrap himself in the peace and the little joys and the belief that someday he could be happy, he always ended up falling through it like it was mist and meeting the frozen concrete of his real life on the other side. He pulled away.

"Is . . . uh . . . the kid . . . Seth. Did he make it?"

"Who do you mean, Dean?"

"Um . . ." Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, scrambling around in his brain for an explanation, realising that he had no idea what Bobby might or might not have told her. It made him miss Sam – the way he'd never failed to be there the countless times Dean had woken up broken in one-way-or-another, ready at the side of his hospital bed with their cover story and a smuggled cup of coffee. He could see his brother's wink, the "you're-gonna-be-fine" smile, hear the worry and concern barely concealed under a thin layer of bad jokes. The ache it left overwhelmed his awareness of his actual bullet wound – like he were being crushed by the weight of Sam's corpse.

"Dean? Honey?! How're you doing, babe? Your face just went the color of . . . " She leaned over and brushed her fingertips over his cheek, pursing her lips as she stood. "Maybe I'd better go get-" But Bobby and another man Dean didn't recognize beat her good intentions to the door.

"This jackass giving you trouble, ma'am?" said Bobby with a wink.

Lisa's smile didn't reach into the rest of her face as she put a hand on Dean's head and ran distracted fingers through his hair. "No, he just . . . he just seemed confused for a moment."

"That's to be expected, this soon after a fever like that," said the youngish stranger who had come in with Bobby. He moved to Dean's bedside and began checking his pulse.

"Was it that bad?" Dean frowned and looked from Lisa to Bobby.

"You were deep under for days, kid," said Bobby. "I don't think Jac here's slept a night for keeping you alive since we scraped you off the dirt at that brewery. You're lucky I've got so many people who owe me favors in so many different places."

"I don't know if 'lucky' is the right word for it yet," muttered Jac as he pulled back the bandage on Dean's shoulder. "You lost 3 pints of blood on top of – oh, let's see - the concussion, the third-degree burns on your legs, the fractured cheekbone, the lacerated lung, the bruised trachea, and the smoke inhalation. That's not luck, that's a fucking miracle. Somebody call the Vatican . . ." His cold fingers prodded the bullet wound and Dean gasped, unable to pull away from the flame of pain that burned beneath the touch. Lisa stroked comforting fingers up Dean's forearm and turned exasperated eyes on the doctor, but Jac seemed unmoved.

"These wounds still aren't healing at a rate I'd like," he said, taping new gauze over the ugly, inflamed hole. "He needs to be in a real hospital. Hell, I don't even know how he survived those first 24 hours without a ventilator. Singer, you of all-"

"Not sure why we're still having this same argument, Doc, seeing as he's woken up and proven you wrong already." He put a rough hand on Dean's uninjured shoulder. "And, boy, I am sure glad you pulled through – 'cause I'm pretty sure Lisa would've buried us both alive under your coffin if you hadn't."

"There's still time for that," said Lisa, running a hand over bloodshot eyes. "Shovel's in my trunk . . . Okay, now that Rip Van Winkel's awake, I think it's time for some real coffee." She grabbed her purse off the floor and headed for the door. "I might even bring you assholes back some."

Dean watched her go, then looked up at Bobby. "Did you really need to bring her into . . . all this?"

"Oh, don't you give me that look, Winchester. What was I supposed to tell her? 'Sorry, Ms. Braeden, Dean got run over by a forklift at Costco, but he'll be back for cuddles as soon as he can walk again?' You want to act like a fucking rookie hunter, your loved ones get to hang around in your fucking rookie aftermath. No way around that and you know it."

"What did you tell her?"

"I fudged what I could, I really did. Told her you were running her errands when you ran into those low-lifes, things escalated, and voila! Roadkill boyfriend."

"What about the kid?"

"Seth Holden? Last time I talked to his dad he wasn't out of the woods yet – those bastards cracked his chest like an egg . . . but he was breathing on his own as of yesterday, thanks to you."

"Let's hope he'll get-over the whole 'Wanna be a Hunter When I Grow Up' thing after all this . . ."

Bobby shook his head with a mirthless smile. "Kid, that's what I thought the first ten times you ended up in the hospital. Look where that got me."

Dean looked away, grimacing as Jac examined the jagged stitching in his side. "Yeah, well, if this is what 'quitting hunting' feels like maybe I should never have stopped. I'm rusty now. Useless. I shoulda just . . . gone on fighting 'til it killed me."

"Do you mean that, kid?"

"I dunno, Bobby . . ." Can we ever manage to have these kinds of conversations when my head doesn't feel like it's got a million shards of glass embedded in it? "You woulda laughed so many times if you'd seen me . . . I'm no good out there. Not on my own, not without . . ." Don'tsaySamDon'tsaySamSammyMyBrotherDon'tsayitDon't. "But who am I kidding? I'm crap at the Ken-doll life too. Just ask Lisa."

"I didn't need to ask Lisa, you numbskull. All I had to do was sit back and watch her learn how to change burn-dressing for four sleepless nights in a row. That woman is kinder and tougher'n you will ever know, and if she's actually willing to keep you around? Don't drop that lightly, Dean."

"Who says I'd do it lightly? It's . . . just that – Ooaw, God!" Jac had moved down to check on Dean's burnt leg, and he shook with the effort it was taking not to scream.

"Can't this wait, Doc?" growled Bobby, rubbing Dean's forearm with a callused hand in an attempt at comfort. "Or at least wait until after you've given the kid a goddamn aspirin?"

"If we had enough painkillers to give him what he needs, I wouldn't be griping about him needing to be in a hospital half as much," said Jac through his teeth.

"Just . . . leave it, Bobby," whispered Dean. "I've –"

"If you say 'had worse,' boy, I will give you something to scream about."

Dean closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. "Well, there's nothing either of us can do about it . . . about any of it. So why are we still talking?"

"'Cause, dammit, I know you, Dean! I can see you straddling the subway platforms, thinking if you could figure out how to balance then the goddamn train will disappear before it gets to you. Jump one way or the other, kid, but don't just stand there 'til you're jam on the tracks!"

"Have you seen me lately, Bobby?" Dean's smile was lost in the shadows under his eyes. "I think I'm already there."

Bobby didn't return his smile. He glared at Jac and dismissed the doctor from the room with a vehement jerk of his head. He watched him go, then he took his hat off, sat down in the chair Lisa had vacated, and looked Dean in the face.

"No, Dean – you're not. But the only reason you ain't there is 'cause at least two people in this world actually give more than a shit about you. Two people in this world, and three in the next! And those three died doing one thing, Dean – giving you a fighting chance. So don't you go pissing on their sacrifice by giving up."

"Well, what the fuck do you want me to do, Bobby? I try and I fail, and try again and fail, and try and fucking fail every damn time."

"You know what, Dean? The only beings in the universe that can't tolerate failure are angels and demons. Now, I know you've been spending an inordinate amount of time around both those types lately, but please don't tell me they've rubbed off on you that bad. Take it from someone who's irreparably fucked up his life at least once a year for the past five decades or so – it is possible to get back up again."

"I just . . . don't know what that looks like, Bobby."

"You don't – but Sam did. He could see what you're capable of – he could imagine you pressing on, all torn up with vengeance and anger until you're just another psychopath on a rampage like Roy & Walt. But he also had an inkling that maybe you could do better than that. You could try doing your brother one last courtesy and trust his judgement."

Dean shook his head, too tired and achy to think of a response. "Get some rest, kid," said Bobby. "Believe it or not, you still need plenty of it."

Dean drifted off praying he wouldn't dream.

"Nice of you to stick around," said Sam, tooling around under the Impala's hood. She was parked on the side of a long, flat road, and sun-bleached fields stretched on either side as far as the eye could see.

"What'd you do to my baby," asked Dean. He couldn't quite remember what they were doing there, but watching his brother tune up his car instead of him was making his palms itch.

"I didn't do anything – you ran her into the ground on that last job."

"I wouldn't do that."

"Well, you did."

Dean was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to be close to his brother, to put his arm around his shoulder and just exist, breathing in the sunlight and engine grease and beer – but his feet felt like they were melted into the blacktop. His stomach roiled with an unaccountable sense of loss.

"You can't fix it, Sammy."

"Get over here and help me, then."

"I can't."

"You can, Dean. Trust me."

He took a deep breath, looked his brother in the eye, and moved his foot an imperceptible inch down the endless road.

Dean woke to Lisa's kiss on his forehead.

"Sleep well?"

He thought he could still feel the sunlight on his skin, but considered that it was probably just the fever.

"Not really."

"Well, I come bearing the breakfast of the gods – maybe that'll make up for it." She placed a box of donuts, a cup of coffee, and a bottle of pills on the table next to Dean's bed.

"Upside of our slap-dash hospital style," said Bobby, still sitting in the chair he'd been in when Dean fell asleep, "the nurses are the ones smuggling in the junk food."

"Sometimes all you really need are rainbow sprinkles," said Lisa, reaching into the box and pulling out said colour-speckled confection. Dean couldn't help but smile.

"You're awesome, babe. I wish I were hungry, but my stomach still feels like it was run over by a truck . . ."

"That's what this is for," she said, grabbing the pill-bottle off the table and tossing it at Bobby.

"Vicodin? Where'd you score this?"

Lisa settled in on the side of Dean's bed with a knowing smile. "There's little one can't score from a small-town pharmacy when somebody lets a stray-cat loose in the toilet-paper aisle . . ."

"Oh man, Lisa," said Dean putting a hand over his eyes with a bewildered chuckle. "I have got to get out of here before you get too used to a life of crime."

She winked at him. "Let's get on that then, shall we?"

Dean looked from Lisa to Bobby, then out the window to where roadside weeds burned gold in the sun. You got to promise me something . . . Go live a normal, apple pie life . . . Promise me . . .

Get over here and help me then.

He looked at Lisa, and tried to smile back. "Yeah. Let's."

THE. END.

Thanks for sticking around, peeps. I hope you enjoyed your little foray into the happy-butterflies-and-puppies-paradise which is Dean's brain (If we keep repeating it to ourselves, maybe someday it will be tru . . . ;-D). Again, please take a brief amount of time to leave a review if you feel so inspired ;-)