A/N I am so sorry that it took so long to update! I have been having a rough time lately in the real world and haven't been doing much writing. I was also having a hard time writing this chapter, I wrote several versions, hating all of them but I really want to get this one done because all of you have been so amazingly wonderful with your kind reviews and alerts and I owe it to you and myself to just get it done. Honestly you all have overwhelmed me, I never thought any of my stories would ever get the kind of response this has. Thank you all so much! I'm sorry I haven't been diligent in replying to reviews, but I want you all to know that every comment means a lot to me. Anyway, I'm not even close to being satisfied with this chapter, but here it is. I hope you like it.


Chapter Three

He's at Steve Wandell's house, standing over his struggling form, pulling out a knife and sliding it across his throat. He watches the life ebb away from Wandell's eyes. He stands up, stares at him coldly and turns to leave. He catches his reflection in the mirror and Meg stares back at him, smiling.

Suddenly he's in the motel room, handing Dean a gun.

"You know, I've tried so hard to keep you safe," Dean says heartbrokenly.

"I know," he replies, his lip quivering in feigned fear and sadness. He closes his eyes in anticipation and images flash behind his eyes like photographs.

Flash.

A woman at a bar, her back turned.

Flash.

The guy at the gas station as he robs him for some menthol cigarettes.

Flash.

Bobby, watching him, an unreadable expression on his face as he takes a swig of beer that was contaminated with holy water.

Flash.

Dean, lying bloodied against the wall at Bobby's clutching his shoulder, slumping over wearily.

Flash.

Jo, tied up and bruised as he taunts, "My daddy shot your daddy in the head."

Flash.

He's back at the hotel, Dean stares at him, conflicted, love and fear for his brother burning brightly in his eyes as he hands the gun back to him, "I can't. I'd rather die."

He shakes his head at Dean who is walking away, his back turned, "No, you'll live..."

Dean approaches him with concern, eyes wide and bright and full of love.

Flash.

"I think you're gonna die Dean, you and every other hunter I can find."

Flash.

His expression, his voice grows cold, "...you'll live to regret this."

He raises the gun and strikes, clocking him hard across the temple and watches as he falls, as he goes down, down, down...

Splash.

He's suddenly standing on the edge a pier, looking down into the black murky water below. A cold glint in his eyes as his lip curls into a wicked, satisfied sneer of victory.

Sam opened his eyes, his heart heavy and his mind reeling. He shivered, remembering the dream and trying to piece together what it meant before the images could fade, knowing that it was more than a dream, he was remembering. The memories were vivid yet frustratingly vague. The scent of sulfur filled the air and he sighed. All he could smell was that damn sulfur and the taste... damn, the taste made him want to gag.

He rolled over and looked in the other bed where Dean slept. In the darkness of the room, he couldn't really see his brother, just the dark outline of his body sprawled on the bed, but he could hear his quick and ragged breathing. Dean let out a soft moan that vaguely sounded like he was calling Sam's name and he shifted positions slightly. Sam sat up and turned on the light and looked at him again.

The sudden light in the room caused Sam to recoil and blink, even though the bedside lamp was rather dim. When his eyes quickly adjusted he looked at his brother more closely.

Dean had kicked off the covers in his sleep and somehow managed to tangle the sheets awkwardly around his feet. He was partially on his back and partially on his side, and looked completely miserable.

"What did I do to you?" Sam whispered in lamentation. With all the bruises he was bound to be uncomfortable, but Dean was in genuine pain, even in sleep. Sam blinked heavily, swallowing back another onslaught of nausea and reached forward with the intent of waking Dean up and checking him for hidden injuries but the motion forced his currently sensitive stomach to protest.

The hand that had been reaching for his sleeping brother reached out for the wastebasket under the nightstand between the beds instead. He dry heaved a few times, having emptied his stomach earlier on the side of the road and as much as he tried to swallow back the nausea, his stomach continued to clench and roll mercilessly.

When he was done, Sam was completely spent. He fell into his pillow, gasping to catch his breath, his eyes heavy. He closed his eyes, coughing a few times wanting to check on his brother but lacking the strength to move. Besides, what right did he have to go near Dean, what right did he have to help him when he was the one who hurt him? He could still feel Meg inside him, could still taste and smell and feel the tingle of her evil essence, and in the back of his mind he wondered if she was still there, hiding. What if she only pretended to leave, fooling everyone and was still there waiting for the right moment to strike and use his hand to kill his own brother like she had set out to do in the first place.

Eyes still closed, Sam sighed, relaxing slightly, pure exhaustion threatening to pull him under. No, got to check on Dean. Stubborn bastard's worse off than he's letting on. He tried to push himself up again, force his eyes to open, but his limbs were shaking from exertion, as though he had just collapsed after running a marathon. He certainly felt like he just ran a marathon, and in a way he had. For over a week he had been running on empty, with only the power of a demon to sustain him.

Just a couple of minutes, he thought to himself in exhaustion, as he absently reached to turn off the light and reluctantly settled back into bed, the need for sleep overwhelming. He justified his decision to get a few minutes rest before looking after Dean because Sam could barely keep his eyes open he was so exhausted. If Dean really was worse off than he was willing to admit, it would be better if Sam checked him for injuries with fresh, well rested eyes. Besides, Sam doubted Dean was in serious immediate danger. Dean could look after himself and if he were as bad as Sam had feared, then they'd probably still be at Bobby's and Dean wouldn't have driven as far as he had. Knowing Dean, if he was hiding injuries, he probably already dealt with it at Bobby's so Sam couldn't see why it couldn't wait a little bit longer.

I'll rest for just a couple of minutes more, then I'll check on Dean. Just a few more minutes...

*-*-*

It was a sudden sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder that woke him up. Dean opened his eyes, suppressing a cry as his right hand shakily and gingerly clutched the bullet wound. His shirt felt crusty, sticky and damp with dried and congealed and maybe even fresh blood. The wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat and there was a painful, tingling sensation that ran up and down his arm. And the smell... the smell was enough to make him want to hurl. He should've taken care of the wound while he had the chance, he knew that, and now he was paying for it.

Oh the lengths I go to keep this from Sammy... Dean you idiot.

Biting his lip to keep from crying out he pushed himself up, blinking back the flashes of vertigo, the dark spots that danced in his vision, flashing visibly before his eyes even in the darkness of the room. He only made it halfway to a sitting position before he collapsed and sank back into the bed.

He blinked and swallowed, gasping for breath. His head was swimming and he wasn't sure hed be able to make it to the bathroom to deal with the wound on his own any more. Maybe it was now time to come clean to his brother.

Dean tilted his head to the side and saw his brother sleeping restlessly in the next bed, "Sam..." he whispered, but the word died in his throat, the only sound escaping was a breathy wheeze. He coughed a couple of times, the action jarring his shoulder, forcing his body to tense and press against the bed as he clutched the wound and stifled a shaky whimper. Breathing heavily he waited until he felt he was ready to try moving again.

The problem was, he hurt everywhere, every muscle felt achy and weak, the bruises on his face and body were making themselves known with a vengeance, his head throbbed, he still felt slightly shocky from blood loss, and his shoulder... damn his shoulder hurt like a bitch. If his symptoms weren't any indication, the smell was enough to let Dean know there was an infection forming in the wound, and if he didn't take care of it soon then it could easily become too serious to hide.

"Sammy," he tried again, though the only sound that came out was a pitiful groan.

Sam was tossing and turning in his sleep and at first it seemed like he may have heard him, but it soon became clear that he was in the throes of a nightmare. An understandably bad one at that.

Dean cleared his throat and managed to say with more volume, "Sam!" but the sound was still too weak, and he doubted that it carried over to the other bed. It certainly wasn't enough to reach Sam and pull him free of his restless slumber. Perhaps it was a good thing though that Dean couldn't wake him because if he did, Sam would be released from one nightmare, only to be burdened with another one. There were antibiotics in the first aid kit, maybe... Dean had to take care of this wound on his own. It wouldn't be the first time, nor would it be the last. There was still no need to let Sam know. If he still felt terrible after he managed to get his lazy butt out of bed and re-clean the wound and take some antibiotics, then he'd tell Sam the truth. In the meantime...

Something about seeing his brother suffer in his sleep, haunted by the crimes he did not commit and the fear of becoming someone he wasn't, gave Dean a slight boost in adrenaline. Sam was going through so much and Dean hated the thought of adding to his burden. No, so long as he was able, he'd do anything in his power to share the burden. A part of Dean knew he was being foolish, but protecting Sam was so ingrained into his nature that he just didn't know how he'd tell Sam that he shot and came dangerously close to killing his own brother. Sam felt guilty enough as it was, there was no need to rub it in his face. Not yet and hopefully not ever.

Yeah, hey Sammy, just so you know when Meg possessed you, you kinda shot me. I nearly drowned and bled to death, but Jo took care of it, so don't worry, except I think you made the wound worse when you stuck your thumb in it and I think it's infected now. Just so you know.

Yeah, that would go over so well. That wouldn't add to Sams guilt and grief at all.

Drawing a deep breath he pushed himself up again and managed to sit up fully. He paused to gather his bearings, giving the room a chance to stop spinning. Shakily he rose to his feet, catching himself by grabbing the nightstand when his knees started to buckle.

Slowly, drunkenly, he made his way to the bathroom, a much more arduous task than it should be, but he made it and Dean figured it was a small victory considering how incredibly terrible he felt. He lowered the toilet seat, grabbed a few towels and sat down. In the small bathroom, the first aid kit and the sink were within reach from where he was sitting which was a huge blessing because Dean knew he wouldn't be able to get up again for a while. It was all he could do to keep from slumping over and passing out as it was.

With great care he took off his t-shirt, wincing as the material stuck to the bandage, causing the gauze to pull slightly on the wound. It was hard to get a good look at the injury from where he was since he wasn't facing any mirror, so he had to tilt his head and crane his neck to see what he was doing and he already felt like he was going a little cross-eyed as he peeled off the bandage, grunting in discomfort as it stuck to the wound, making it bleed some more. He gagged and swallowed back the urge to vomit when the smell intensified and he saw the pale yellow stains mixed with the blood on the gauze.

He worked as quickly as he could at cleaning the wound. It looked like the bleeding had for the most part stopped which was something, but it was the yellow pus and swollen red skin around it that was the real concern. He put one of the hand towels under hot water, getting it as hot as he possibly could and pressed it against the wound, trying to draw out as much of the pus as possible. Then he washed it with alcohol, which caused him to blink back tears as he bit his lip and breathed rapidly through his nose trying to mentally block the pain, but his defenses were down and he was on his last reserves so it was becoming increasingly difficult to do. That done he needed to close his eyes and wait for the room to stop spinning again. He grabbed the counter to hold himself steady and rested his head on his arm, swallowing compulsively as his stomach clenched and he felt the need to vomit.

Once the need to puke eased off and the pain became somewhat tolerable and he felt like he was about ready to get moving again without spewing all over the bathroom floor, he finished up his ministrations, generously slapped on some antibiotic cream and put on a clean bandage. He carefully put his black t-shirt back on, since he lacked the energy to get a clean one and swallowed some painkillers and some antibiotics, hoping that they'd take effect quickly and get his fever down.

From his spot on the toilet seat, he carefully packed up the first aid kit, threw the soiled towels in the cupboard under the sink so Sam wouldn't see them and tossed the dirty bandages in the trash, throwing a wad of toilet paper on top of it to hide the rest of the evidence of his injury and then washed his hands. He took a few deep breaths, bracing himself and concentrated on the task of getting up without passing out. Slowly, he pushed himself up to his feet, grasping the counter for balance.

The whole procedure had been awkward and agonizing but he was glad it was over and that he was able to do it and still remain conscious and without losing the meager contents of his stomach. Sure, he hurt like hell, the room was still spinning, he felt shaky from head to toe and there were still dark flashes that danced in his line of vision, but he was done and now he could go back to bed, back to sleep and get some much needed rest.

See, nothing to it, he thought, trying to convince himself that he wasn't being a total idiot for keeping his injuries quiet, as he shuffled drunkenly to the bathroom door, opened it and switched off the light, Sam doesn't need to find out. Not like this is the worst injury I had to deal with on my own. I can handle this just fi—

He barely made it two steps out of the bathroom before the world spun on its axis, his knees folded and he collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor.


A/N Thanks for reading, and once again please leave a review, it feeds the muse and makes me so happy!