Thanks so much to everyone who's been keeping up with this story! A special shout out to two birthday girls: KayValo87 for the 18th and SunnyZim for the 20th - Happy Birthday to both of you!
Disclaimer: I keep forgetting to do this... it doesn't belong to me.
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If the Impala had suffered during its enforced summer vacation, it made no complaint. Under the leaden pressure of Dean's foot on the accelerator it surged over the gravel road, leaving a dust cloud in its wake that enveloped Bobby's pickup behind it.
Under any other circumstances, Dean would have been murmuring compliments to his baby, commenting on how well she'd come through this little ordeal, assuring her that he'd remove the dust and grit just as soon as they reached civilisation again. Under any other circumstances Sam would have been rolling his eyes, and suggesting that Dean took better care of the car than he took of himself.
But there were two individuals of whom Dean took better care than he did of himself, and when it came to a choice between the two his little brother won every time.
His eyes slid from the road to the passenger seat, as they had a hundred times already.
Sam was slumped against the vinyl, his head lolling on the back of the seat and his limbs sprawled loosely. Water beaded from wet tendrils of hair and trickled over fever-flushed skin.
It had been Bobby who'd directed Dean to strip Sam of dusty t-shirt and jeans, and to pour several bottles of water over him, although it wasn't that Dean didn't know what to do. Theoretically he was prepared for this, could recall his father's instructions on some long-ago hunt. But this wasn't theoretical. This was Sam, not some nameless victim, and Dean had never been very good at thinking logically when his brother was in trouble. He'd nodded dumbly and followed Bobby's orders, and tried not to panic when Sam didn't respond to the cold water on his overheated body.
With the t-shirt gone, Dean could see just how bad the sunburn was. Sam had always tanned easily, but this had been too much exposure all at once. Scarlet, angrily blistered forearms and neck contrasted sharply with the normal flesh tone of areas that had been protected. Dean, whose freckled skin burnt more readily, could imagine how much pain that would cause once Sam was conscious enough to be aware of it.
Once Sam was conscious.
Dean swallowed, looking back at the road. Between a concussion, dehydration and raging fever, Sam hadn't really been awake since he'd been found. And Dean was scared. He wanted to see Sam's eyes, aware and alert, and hear Sam say that he was okay.
He wanted to hear Sam say anything.
His foot pressed a little harder on the accelerator.
Yesterday, when they had run out of gas, he hadn't wanted to call emergency services. It was too much attention. They didn't need officials interested in them, even if in an apparently harmless way.
And now he was heading for the nearest hospital. It was ironic, that in his attempt to avoid unnecessary notice he'd ended up precipitating that very thing.
Because if he'd called for help, back then when all he had to worry about was a delayed holiday in Vegas, this wouldn't have happened. They would have been rescued and sent on their way, and Dean would have dealt with any legal difficulties with his usual aplomb. And Sam would have been sitting beside him sleeping, or reading, or hanging his arm out of the window and drumming his fingers in time to Dean's music, on the outside of the door where he thought Dean wouldn't see.
He turned his head again.
Sam's eyes were open.
"Sam?" His glance became a focused gaze, his attention off the road. Sam was staring at him, but his eyes were glassy, without recognition. Dean's right hand left the wheel and reached for his brother. "Sammy?"
Bloodshot blue-green eyes widened in something that was not relief. Sam's breath caught, and he shrank back, his hands moving in an uncoordinated scrabble.
In one shocking split-second Dean realised that it was panic in Sam's eyes.
Then Sam's wildly groping fingers found the handle and he lunged at the door even as it swung open.
"Sam!"
Dean's other hand left the steering wheel, foot lifted from the accelerator, mind spun wildly away from the road ahead, and he threw himself across the bench seat, tackling Sam around the waist and pinning him down. Sam writhed beneath him, arms and legs flailing.
Suddenly deprived of guidance, the Impala fishtailed on the gravel and then went into an uncontrolled slide, tyres spinning. Sand and loose pebbles flew in all directions. The open door swung wide, tortured hinges squealing, before slamming shut with a force that would probably have amputated any limbs that happened to be in its way.
Dean clamped himself over his brother's squirming body and covered his head.
"Dean! Dean!"
Footsteps, boots, pounding on the gravel.
Frantic voice.
Bobby.
It took Dean a moment to realise that the car had stopped. The air was thick with choking dust, flung up by the Impala's tyres. Under him Sam still struggled feebly.
"Dean!" The passenger door was flung open.
Dean lifted his head, blinking cautiously.
"Bobby."
"Are you... Sam... What the hell happened?" Bobby was breathing hard, as if he'd been running. Dean could see fear in his eyes that he was still too shaken to conceal. "Are you okay?"
"I... yeah." Dean pushed himself up. "Yeah, we're okay." He ran his hand over his face, letting out a deep breath, and looked through the speckled windshield. The Impala had swung around and was now facing in the direction they'd just come. Through the haze he could see Bobby's pickup, slewed at an odd angle across the road.
"Had to swing the wheel pretty hard to avoid hitting you." Bobby answered his unspoken question. "What happened – something run out in the road?"
"Sam –" Dean's answer broke off as Sam launched himself at the open door again. Bobby staggered under the sudden weight, his arms instinctively catching hold of the younger Winchester.
"– did that," Dean finished grimly. He slid across the seat, ducked under one wildly flailing fist and wrapped his arms around his brother, pinning Sam against his chest.
"Sam. Calm down, bro – Sam!" His grip tightened as Sam fought the restraint. Frantic words spilled, incoherent. "Sammy – you gotta relax, dude."
"It's the fever messin' with his head." Bobby was leaning in. His hands gripped Sam's shins, holding him down. "Heat stroke's makin' him combative."
"You think?" Worry leached the sarcasm from Dean's voice. "I can't drive, Bobby – not with him like this... he'll be flinging himself out the door soon's I let him go." He grunted as an elbow jabbed him in the stomach.
Bobby frowned, his eyes flicking from Dean to Sam.
"Yeah." He glanced back at his truck thoughtfully. "You think you can get him into the truck? I'll load the Impala on the back."
"Yeah. Okay." Dean didn't relish the idea of manipulating six foot four of violently thrashing little brother into Bobby's truck. It was taking all he had just to hold Sam down. He watched as Bobby strode back to his pickup, and put his mouth close to his brother's ear. "Sam! Just calm down, would you? "
He felt the fight go out of the rigid body in his arms. Sam's arms dropped onto the vinyl, his head lolling against Dean's shoulder.
"Yeah, that's better..." Dean dipped his head to peer into his brother's face, and his voice trailed off as he saw the disoriented fear in the familiar blue-green eyes. Sam shivered.
"Dean..."
"Sammy?"
"Dean... need to... need to..." Sam's voice was a gravelly rasp.
"Sam, it's okay. You don't have to do anything."
Sam's hand lifted, pushed without strength at Dean's arm which still held him.
"Need to... Dean..."
"It's okay, Sammy, I'm here. Just relax. Sam?"
It wasn't working. Sam was quiet, not fighting him, but it wasn't the stillness of relief. If anything, Dean saw resignation in the fear that was intensifying in his brother's face.
"Dean..."
"I'm here, bro."
"No... no... Dean..." The harsh breathing hitched, quivered in a tearless sob. Sam made another ineffectual attempt to break free and then lapsed back, tremors running through him.
"Have to... have to find Dean..."
And then Dean understood.
"Sammy – it's me, bro. Really. I gotcha... you're safe now, you hear me?"
Sam stared at him without recognition.
"Find Dean..." he whispered.
"Sam, look at me... I'm here. I'm right here. You don't have to find me." One arm released its grip and he pressed his hand against Sam's face, palm cradling his jaw. "You're gonna be okay. I gotcha now, you're gonna be fine."
Sam's pulse hammered under his fingers. The water Dean had poured over him earlier was making a damp patch where his head rested on Dean's shoulder, but it didn't seem to have had an appreciable effect on the fever; if anything, Sam seemed to be getting worse.
"No... need to get away..." It was a wretched moan.
"Sammy..." He hated how helpless he was in the face of his brother's distress, helpless to reassure him, to rescue him from the torturous place Sam's fevered brain had conjured up. He hated that Sam was calling for him without realising that Dean was right there. "It's okay, Sammy, I'm here. You're safe now."
He wasn't surprised when Sam didn't listen.
"You need help moving him?" Bobby appeared at the door again, and Dean blinked, startled. He hadn't even heard the pickup.
"Uh – yeah. Yeah, take his legs." Dean shifted his grip and slid them both along the seat.
"How'd you get him to calm down?"
"He just... quietened, but he's still pretty freaked out. He's saying he's gotta go find me, he's gotta get away... I don't know where he thinks he is."
Bobby looked down at the younger Winchester, his forehead creasing.
"Probably thinks he's still out there in the desert."
Dean's gaze narrowed in comprehension.
Wandering around...
Trying to get back to safety...
Trying to get to Dean.
He dropped his head and let his chin rest for a moment on the wet dark hair.
I gotcha, Sammy...
He would never have lived this down if Sam was awake.
Physical touch wasn't taboo between them, of course. There was the usual shoulder-gripping, or back-slapping, and even, in times of extreme emotion, a manly hug. It was usually initiated by Sam. Dean pretended not to like it, and Sam pretended to believe him.
Cuddling, though... that was completely out of the question. Wrapping arms around one's brother for more than a few seconds was not done.
And right now he couldn't care less.
Sam was unconscious, or completely unresponsive. And Dean was scared.
Combative Sam was a struggle; arms flailing and legs kicking, it took all Dean's strength to hold him down. Panicking, disorientated Sam was upsetting when Dean couldn't do anything to soothe him.
Unconscious Sam was the worst. Limbs inert on the backseat, head drooping against Dean's chest, eyes shut and mouth slackly open... there was nothing to distract Dean from just how serious his condition was, nothing to do but feel the heat of rising fever and listen to the rasp of increasingly laboured breathing.
So he cradled his brother against him and wiped his face with a wet rag, and willed the sturdy pickup to move faster. And if the fingers which gripped Sam's shoulder sometimes stroked along his arm there was no-one to notice but himself.
Dean had been not quite five when he'd realised his primary purpose.
Watch out for Sammy.
Look after Sam.
Keep Sam safe.
He'd screwed up this time.
Getting lost, running out of gas – it had been Sam's fault. But it had been Dean who'd slept, oblivious, while his brother fell and hit his head and went wandering off into the desert. He'd wasted precious time waiting for Sam to find his own way back instead of going to find him.
And now that Sam had been found, he didn't even know it. Sam thought he was still out there in the desert. He didn't know he was safe. From the confused panic in his eyes when he was awake and the way he fought to get away, it was obvious that he felt anything but secure. Dean had spent over twenty years representing safety to Sam; he hated being the opposite now.
His hand went to the carotid pulse. Again. It was no better than it had been a minute previously, when he'd last checked. It might even have been a little faster. The cold water and the air flow from open windows weren't helping as they should have. And the last time Dean had tried to get Sam to drink something, he'd inhaled the water and almost asphyxiated. Dean hadn't dared give him any more, although he could see from the sunken eyes and cracked lips that the dehydration was bad.
Sam needed a hospital.
He glanced up and caught Bobby's gaze in the rear-view mirror.
"How's he doing?"
Dean's jaw shifted. His hand at Sam's pulse moved, calloused thumb sliding absently over one fever-accentuated cheekbone.
"He... just... drive fast."
Bobby said nothing, but Dean felt the pickup shudder as his boot went down harder on the accelerator, and his arm tightened instinctively around his brother. Sam shivered, a small wordless sound of pain escaping him as the movement bumped his foot against the seat.
"It's okay, Sammy." Dean put his head down, mouth near Sam's ear as if proximity would somehow break the barrier that concussion and fever had raised between them. "I gotcha now... you're safe now... you're gonna be fine. I'm gonna take care of you."
Dark eyelashes flickered, showing slits of blue-green, and for a moment he thought Sam had heard him.
"De..."
"Sam?"
"Dean..." The glassy-eyed gaze slid over his face without awareness. "Please..."
"What, Sam? What is it?" He reached for the half-empty bottle of water, and stilled abruptly as Sam flinched away from the movement.
"Have to... have to find Dean..." Sam was breathing in stertorous gasps as the delirious panic escalated again.
"Sammy, I'm here, bro." His voice was patient. His hand on Sam's face was gentle. "Really. I'm right here. You're safe."
"Please..." The shivers were becoming more violent. "Please..."
"What? What do you –"
"Don' hurt him..." It was a desperate plea.
"Have to find Dean..."
"Please don't hurt him..."
Dean was stunned silent. Now, at last, he understood.
Sam wasn't concerned for his own safety.
He was worried about Dean's.
"Sammy..." His voice cracked, but the only one close enough to hear him was too lost in his own fevered imagination to understand: the little brother who'd been lost in the desert, who was suffering from concussion and heat stroke and dehydration but was still more worried about Dean than about himself.
The little brother who'd been told he sucked as a companion.
"Sammy?" He felt Sam stiffen against him, and looked down in time to see his eyes roll back. "Sam!"
He was vaguely aware of Bobby saying something, sharp and urgent, but he wasn't listening. Sam convulsed violently, limbs thudding against the seat, and Dean didn't know what to do, whether to restrain him or let him go, because in all their years of concussions and broken bones and blood loss he'd never seen this before – had never seen Sam do this before – and it was terrifying, more than the combativeness earlier or the incoherent panic or even the unconsciousness...
And then Sam went completely limp, his head lolling back over Dean's arm.
"Sam!" Even through the fear Dean knew enough to roll his brother onto his side. One arm held him still, head in the crook of Dean's elbow, while shaking fingers fumbled for a pulse and his own heart hammered hard enough that Sam would have felt it where his back pressed against Dean's chest, if he'd been awake.
"Dean? Dean!" Bobby was looking in the rear-view mirror more than at the road.
"Drive faster, Bobby!" Dean's voice was a snap. Quick, hard breaths puffed against his arm, and under his fingertips Sam's pulse was racing. He was so hot that it was distinctly uncomfortable holding him close.
"Doubt I can get more than this outta her, Dean –"
"Try!"
"Can't do it, boy, not with the Impala on the back."
"Then leave the friggin' Impala!" Dean snarled. He didn't look to see Bobby's response. At that point he didn't care. He reached for the rag, now almost dry in the arid air, wet it again and ran it over Sam's face and neck.
Bobby said nothing. The truck slowed and stopped, the driver's door creaked. Dean felt the lift as a ton of Chevrolet was removed, but he didn't even glance up. He was abandoning his baby, leaving her in the middle of inhospitable nowhere for who knew how long. And he didn't give a damn.
Between his baby and his baby brother, there was never any question of who took precedence.
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