So this chapter is LONG. I just couldn't decide where to break it off, so…I didn't. It's got some of everyone in it (even Dean, for those of you who missed him last time). Good news for you, right? Think of it as a Thanksgiving present. Enjoy.

The positive quality that small, no man's land hospitals had in common—beside the occasional rodent problem or wall cluttered with Kinkade prints—was the reduced number of patients admitted. Less townies getting into kitchen accidents or having heart attacks meant less rooms full of patients, and less patients meant less nurses and doctors employed, and that meant that more nurses went home at night, which, in conclusion, meant that Sam was basically free to roam the darkened hallways at his leisure.

He wasn't really in any shape to be sneaking around in the first place, so naturally that was exactly what he was doing at two in the morning. As he limped his way down the corridor toward the ICU, he tried to identify all the people he would need to avoid; it appeared his only potential adversary was one nurse, and the giggles and moans seeping under her door indicated that she wasn't planning on doing much patrolling any time soon. Neither was her friend.

The ICU turned out to be an expansive, altogether too important looking nook filled with expensive machines and devices that could have been on an alien spacecraft in the next Stephen Spielberg film. There were only two people in that space. One was Brandon, who looked dead enough to need a coffin, and the second was Dean.

Sam crept closer to his brother's side, feeling his stitches groan with each step. He made it to the bed without collapsing and sat gingerly on the mattress.

Good. He had made it. (God only knew if he'd be able to stand up again anytime soon). Clenching his teeth, he paused to fight back the black spots invading his vision. His injuries needed to shut the hell up and deal with themselves quietly like they usually did; this was ridiculous.

When the world had righted itself again, Sam chanced another glance at his brother—annnnd looked away.

So bad…

"No it's not," he mumbled to himself, "It's not that bad."

He waited half a minute and looked again, forcing himself to focus long enough to actually assess how bad Dean was really doing.

He made it ten seconds before he had to either look away or puke. On his brother. He chose the former option, he didn't really think Dean would appreciate vomit dripping into his numerous open wounds.

Of course, the wounds weren't that open anymore. They had been bandaged. Freaking Imhotep had less bandages than his brother, damn it. Bring in the sarcophagus, we've got a mummy.

Sam chanced another glance—with one eye—and saw that they still had a breathing tube rammed down his throat. Wonderful. So…what? He couldn't breathe on his own? Why hadn't anyone told him that? Why hadn't anyone told him anything?

Screw it. He was going to kill someone.

(Just as soon as he could stand up straight. And hold a gun. And walk properly.) But yeah, then they were really going to get it.

Sam looked back at the door—which looked horribly far from his present position—and hissed through his teeth. His pain meds were wearing off. He couldn't really walk with the pain meds, so walking without them was going to be super fantastic.

Dean moved. Not much, but it was enough to kick Sam's sleepy brain back into overdrive. "Dean?" he said quietly, watching his brother again.

Dean's fingers twitched again, then curled into a fist. His eyelashes fluttered.

Sam glanced worriedly toward the door. No one was coming. He wanted someone to come, though; an intelligent doctor, perhaps, or someone that just knew all the answers.

Dean plucked frantically at his arm, snapping Sam back to the present. He turned back to his brother and gripped his hand tightly. "Hey," he said, trying to sound soothing, "You're okay." He noticed his brother's other hand snaking up to yank on his breathing tube. "Don't, Dean," he said, reaching across his body to stop him.

It was easy to stop him; too easy, like restraining a kitten. That didn't stop him from gagging, though. The breathing tube wasn't helping the situation.

"Dude, I need you to calm down," he said, slightly louder as his frustration and worry built, "It's there to breathe for you. Let it breathe for you."

The beeping on his monitor got more panicked. Dean's eyes—still white and clouded—searched the area blindly for help.

Sam hadn't wanted to acknowledge the fact that his brother might not be able to hear him when he woke up, but he had woken up. By all observations, he couldn't hear him. Or talk to him. Or see him. Damn, it was just a kick in the gut, really. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Sure that Dean was about to give himself a heart attack for the zillionth time, Sam kicked his feet up onto the bed and lied down beside his brother. "Please relax," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed his forehead against the side of Dean's head, "Just calm down, please calm down."

He did. It didn't happen right away, but gradually Dean stopped choking and focused on letting the machine breathe for him, which was all that Sam cared about. After a few minutes, the only sound in the room was the steady beeping from the monitors and the slow whooshes of the breathing tube.

Sam didn't let go of his brother; if anything, he tightened his grip on his arm. "It's okay," he said, more for himself than for Dean, "You're going to be fine."

Despite the stabbing pain that Dean's grip had shooting up his arm, Sam wasn't moving. Not for anything. If the stupid nurse checked in, he'd stab her with a syringe. Knock her out. Something.

He burrowed his face further into Dean's neck and shut his eyes.

SNSNSN

Chris was sure that at least ten cockroaches were living in the closet with him. Eleven, when you counted the one that had just fallen off the ceiling.

"Damn it," he hissed, lashing out with his sneaker and managing to squash the beast. He stepped on it again for good measure, twisting it under his shoe until the guts leaked out. "Ten left," he said to the darkness.

Brandon, on the other hand, had never loved cockroaches so much in his life. It gave him something else to focus on (you know, besides being in a coma, existing as a ghost, and trying not to think too much about the situation). "Twelve," he said aloud, "There are two on that shelf over there."

He didn't get a response. He hadn't expected one.

If he didn't get to talk to someone soon he was going to go crazy.

He took a look at Chris. His brother had returned to staring at the door (longing for freedom, probably) and humming the same series of notes over and over again. Brandon recognized the song. Seven Nation Army, by the White Stripes.

He had been listening to him hum that song for several hours now. That was enough, really. As Chris went into another repeat, Brandon reached for the Ouija board.

The second he jiggled the piece, Chris sat back with a jolt and hit his head off the wall. "Shit—what?" he said loudly.

Brandon could have laughed. Instead, he focused on dragging the pointer toward the 'S,' a feat that was taking too much energy to accomplish.

Chris snapped to the rescue. "Hang on," he said, and leaned forward. He put a few fingers on the piece, "Does that help? I think that's how it's done."

It helped. Brandon didn't know why, but that was what he needed. He was able to move the piece more easily, though it still strained him.

"STOP," Chris read out after Brandon was finished. He sat back a little, but didn't take his hand off the pointer. "Stop what? Stop…" he trailed off, squeezed his eyes shut, "Tell me you didn't just tire yourself out telling me to stop humming."

Brandon shrugged, grinning, and dragged the piece to yes.

"You're ridiculous," Chris said, laughing, "You're supposed to be saving your strength, coma boy. Besides, that's a good song."

"WAS," Brandon spelled out, and said aloud, "You ruined it."

"Quit whining, you're fine," Chris retorted, smiling, "Now stop using this thing so you can get better." He didn't move his hand from the piece.

Brandon noticed. He moved the pointer to NO.

"You can talk to me later," he said reluctantly, "Once you're better."

NO. NOW.

Chris's face twisted. "I don't think it's a good idea," he said reluctantly, "It's not like you're in the position to speak in sentences."

Brandon reached back down and moved the pointer back and forth between 'yes' and 'no.'

Chris got it…and was still unsure of how to proceed. "Listen, I know you want to talk, but I'm sorry, I just don't think it's a good idea for you to be using this thing, and…and…" he trailed off, "Ah screw it. Are you in any pain?"

Brandon moved the piece to NO. "Can't feel anything," he said aloud, "Not anything."

"Good," Chris said relaxing a little, "And…you're not disappearing or anything, right?"

"No, I'm fine," Brandon told him, circling the piece to NO again.

Chris nodded. "Right," he said. He paused. "Of course, you'd probably say that no matter what."

Brandon blinked. "What? No I wouldn't."

"It's not like you've been honest with me much lately," Chris added, voice dropping, "About anything."

Brandon hesitated, a deer in the headlights.

"It would've helped if you had been honest..." Chris continued, more thinking aloud than anything else, "You know, since it's your fault I'm in this mess and all. At least I could've been prepared."

The words stung.

Chris opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but removed his hand from the pointer instead. "Nevermind. That was…nevermind. Enough talking for now…just chill here for awhile; I'm going to…to…I'm going to check on Sam."

"No," Brandon said, frustrated as he watched his brother stand up, "Don't leave. I…I'm sorry...I wanted…" he trailed off as the door shut, leaving him alone in the closet. He stared at the door, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach (or what passed for one, right now). "I wanted to talk to you," he whispered.

Well, there it was, all out in the open. He'd known it was coming, really; it was amazing Chris had lasted this long without snapping. Of course his brother was angry at him, what with all the secrets and everything. He had screwed up. The coma wasn't helping matters, and neither was the fact that he failed miserably when it came to keeping Chris out of all this mess. His brother was right. He was in the middle of everything now, and his goal from the beginning had been to keep him safe—

Brandon kicked the pointer with as much force as he could muster. It sailed through the air and smacked against the door with a harsh crack. He leaned back, breathing hard.

He felt exhausted, like he had just run five miles uphill. Not such a good idea, then. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe evenly. He wondered why he even had to breathe. It's not like he had a body...

The door slammed open, hard enough to nearly knock it off its hinges. "Brandon?"

Chris stood there, breathing like he'd sprinted back. "I'm sorry," he choked out, "Shit, I'm so sorry, Brand, I didn't mean to just leave you like that, or say that to you, I didn't mean it, hell, I have no idea why I said any of that, I'm so sorry—"

Brandon stared blankly at him as he strode into the small space, looking around as though he expected his brother to just materialize on a shelf.

"Are you here?" Chris said, way too loudly than was necessary, and looked down at the Ouija board. He noticed the missing piece. "Ah…okay, hang on, I'll get it," he said, dropping to his knees to look. He spotted the piece under one of the shelves, and reached through layers of dust to get it. While brushing it off, he noticed a crack. "Did you just…" he began, and stopped.

"Yep," Brandon answered numbly, "I punted the thing. Field goal."

"Damn, bro…you're not supposed to use that much energy…" he said, concerned, setting the pointer down in the middle of the board again. "I'm sorry I ran out. I wasn't thinking, I know you just wanted to talk and I…I'm not mad, none of this is your fault."

"Liar."

"I just haven't slept in a long time and you...I think that you might be dying, Brandon, and you just can't, you understand? You can't die."

Brandon nodded. Damn he was tired.

"But listen," Chris continued, sitting down and gripping the pointer, "If you want to talk, I'll talk, I will. I'll talk about anything you want. Anything."

Brandon didn't move.

"Brandon?"

If Chris hadn't sounded so scared, Brandon didn't think he would have tried to move across the room to answer. But he did sound scared, like shaking, run out and get help from Sam scared. He pulled together all the energy he had left to stretch out, reach over and drag the piece—centimeter by centimeter—to NO.

Chris's face fell. "Oh," he said.

Brandon stayed where he was, lying on the floor with half his face resting on the bottom portion of the Ouija board. He slept.

12 Hours Later

Sam was doing well. He had managed to get himself a new bed, right next to his brother.

When the nurse had finally gotten around to checking all her patients early in the morning—with her hair mussed up, pink lipstick smeared across her cheek, and her shirt inside out—Sam had calmly explained to her that, gosh, there was a lot of unused space in the ICU, and, gee, maybe if she got him a bed next to Dean, he wouldn't tell anyone about her late night sexual escapades.

So far, she had been extremely helpful. Sam was glad; puppy dog eyes only got him so far, but blackmail was as good as gold.

Since Dean was sleeping peacefully again, Sam figured that it was a good time to finish the hunt. He called Chris on his phone, and then waited for him to arrive. When he walked into the ICU, Sam looked him up and down. "You look terrible," he said disapprovingly, "Have you slept at all?"

"A little," Chris lied, glancing at Brandon's corpse like body for a moment before sitting with his back to it. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work a kink out. "I'm good. What's up?"

"How's Brandon?" Sam asked.

Chris looked down. "Uh…he's fine," he said, placing the Ouija board on the bedside table, "Tired, I think."

"It might take a while for him to wake up," Sam told him. He sensed that something was bothering Chris and decided to sidestep the issue for the moment. "So. Chris."

Chris looked up wearily. "Yeah?"

"What are your thoughts on arson?"

He paused. That wasn't what he had expected. "What?"

"Arson," Sam repeated, "You know, burning down a house."

Chris exhaled. "Did you just decide to bring this up for a fun conversation topic, or are you actually considering—"

"I'm thinking today's a good day for arson," Sam clarified with a completely straight face.

"No," Chris said simply, standing back up, "No. No way. I am drawing the line."

"Chris—"

"No way in hell, man! Look, I've done everything you asked so far; I have fought zombies, and helped you kill a guy, and checked you into a hospital under a fake name—and—"

"Dude, not so loud," Sam interjected.

"I will be as loud as I want, I am not helping you burn down somebody's house!"

A nurse poked her head around the corner. "Everything okay in here?"

Sam gave her a million watts smile. "Yes. Thanks for asking. We're rehearsing for a play."

She gave them a stern look.

"If I might be so bold, you are looking beautiful today," Sam added, his smile brightening further.

She snapped her gum lazily and walked out.

"You need to stay calm, Chris."

"I am not burning a house down! If you're into that kind of thing, you do it by yourself on your own time."

"I didn't even tell you whose house I need to burn," Sam said, unable to stop from smiling at his reaction.

"I don't care," Chris said, exasperated, snatching up the board from the table, "I'm going back to the closet—"

"Nick's house," Sam said.

Chris paused, already half turned to leave. "Uh…"

"Yep," Sam said. "Nick."

"As in the guy that started all this mess?"

"That's the one."

Chris turned back around. He threw the Ouija board back onto the stand and sat on Sam's bed. "How many gas cans do you want me to get?"

"So now you're interested?"

"Hell yes! Why didn't you tell me it was his house right off? I'll burn his house down, alright, and his barn, and his fucking forest."

"I don't think we need to torch the forest," Sam admonished with a smirk, "Just the house. And the barn. The zombies are still in there, and we need to get rid of them before someone stumbles in there and gets infected."

Brandon watched them as they continued their discussion on how to proceed. A sinking feeling began growing in his stomach, and he knew what was wrong. He didn't want Chris out there with zombies; Sam was still messed up pretty badly, so his brother would be doing most of the work. What if something went wrong? What if the zombies got loose? What if they couldn't control the fire?

"The hell with this," he muttered, and grabbed the pointer. He was so determined that he didn't even notice how hard it was to move this time around.

Chris noticed the piece start moving with a jerk and jumped up to the board. "Woah, hang on," he said, placing his fingers on the piece to help. He watched the pointer zoom quickly around the board, stopping on letters briefly before shooting to the next one, leaving him with:

NO. DONT GET HIM MORE INVOLVED, SAM.

Brandon sat back, breathing hard as the two men processed his statement.

Sam spoke first. "Brandon," he said, "This is just cleanup. It'll be quick."

Brandon reached out and shot the piece to NO.

"Why?" Sam asked.

Chris shot Sam an angry look. "Don't encourage him to use the board more, it tires him out—"

But Brandon was already spelling again. HES NOT LEAVING. DON'T WANT HIM AROUND MORE ZOMBIES.

"Brandon," Chris said, looking around for him, "I'll be okay. The zombies are locked up. Now stop using this board so much, you know how it drains you."

Angry now, Brandon reached for the pointer again.

Chris felt it start moving and picked the piece up off the board; held it high over his head. "You're like a damn four year old. Stop it!"

Sam winced. "Chris, really—"

"I just want you to get better," Chris said, ignoring him while pointing angrily at Brandon's body, "I mean…look! You look like a damn corpse."

"I'm not dead," Brandon yelled at him, feeling exhausted but furious enough that it didn't matter, "I'm not dead, and you're not going. Now give me that!" he snapped, reaching for the piece.

"I'm going," Chris said calmly, like that decided it.

Brandon could have screamed in frustration. Instead, he punched his brother in the chest—stupid idea, really, since he was a ghost—but his fist went right through him and connected, surprisingly, with the lamp behind him.

The lamp fell backward off the stand and shattered into a dozen porcelain pieces.

That shut the three of them up.

They stood still, staring at the mess on the floor, until Sam spoke up, "Well…that's interesting."

"Did he just…do that?" Chris muttered, in disbelief.

"Well, did you do it?"

"No."

"Then yeah," Sam finished, "He did."

"What are you doing in here?" a nurse exclaimed, hurrying into the room. She looked at the broken lamp, "Oh no. That's unacceptable, boys—"

"As unacceptable as…say…bringing your boyfriend into the hospital and banging it out with him in a patient's room while you're supposed to be on the clock?" Sam interjected slyly.

Her mouth snapped shut.

"You have a nice day, Maria," Sam said, waving.

"Clean that up," she said, the fight gone from her voice.

"Of course we will," Sam said, "Now goodbye."

She left as fast as she could. As soon as the door swung shut, Chris leaned toward Sam. "Why was he able to do that?" he asked, "Is he okay? Are you okay?" he asked, turning toward the board. He threw the pointer back down on the surface, and was relieved to see it shoot to YES.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know…Dean did something similar when he was in a coma. It might be normal, like a concentration of energy. Emotion, maybe. Or…"

"Or?"

"Or he's developing some poltergeist traits," Sam finished, "Brandon, can you try moving something else? Like that pad of paper there?"

"Okay…" Brandon said, turning to the notepad Sam was talking about. He stretched his hand out—and went through it. He turned back to the board and moved it to NO.

"What does that mean?" Chris demanded.

"I don't know," Sam admitted, watching his frustrated expression grow, "Listen Chris, it probably doesn't even matter, alright?"

Chris nodded.

"Right, so, Brandon," Sam said, addressing the air, "How 'bout this. Chris and I torch Nick's house, and you come with us."

"No!" Chris said instantly.

Brandon thought for a moment, then moved it to YES. "I'm game for that," he said. At least he'd be able to keep an eye on his brother.

"He shouldn't leave the hospital," Chris protested.

"Chris, it doesn't matter if he stays here or tours Europe," Sam said, "Being closer to his body isn't going to help anything. Besides, if he goes with us, no one gets left alone."

Chris frowned, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't know…"

Brandon reached for the board again and spelled, PLEASE?

"Oh no you don't," Chris said, rolling his eyes, "Don't even try that begging shit on me, bro."

Brandon made a face at him and kept moving the piece, spelling PLEASE over and over and over.

Chris held out a few more seconds, and then gave in. "Fine. Fine, we'll all go," he said testily, "Just stop wearing yourself out with the ghost toy."

"Good. We'll leave in an hour," Sam said, watching the piece come to an abrupt stop on the board. "You two go find my lovely nurse Maria and tell her that you'll be taking me to a diner downtown so I can get some decent food. If she objects, say something sex related and she'll come around."

"Sure, I'll get creative," Chris said. He picked up the board. "Where's your real doctor, anyway? The witch woman?"

Sam shrugged. "They told me she's off today."

"You gonna give Dean a heads up on the plan?"

Sam held up what was left of the dream root. "Yeah."

SNSNSN

Sam opened his eyes and found himself in his brother's dream.

At Nick's house.

Without Dean.

"Oh come on," he said aloud, angry. "Are we really going to do this again?"

"Do what?" Nick asked, leaning idly against the dining table beside the human ribcage. He raised one of the ribs to his lips and tore off a chunk of flesh.

"Where's Dean?" Sam demanded impatiently.

"You know," Nick said, chewing with his mouth open, "You never look thrilled to see me, Sammy." He licked a drop of blood off his thumb.

"Don't call me that."

"Dean calls you that."

"Well, yeah. He does. Cause he's Dean. You know who else calls me that?"

"Who?"

"No one, asshole. Now where is he?"

"What do I look like, his roommate? Life partner? I mean, hell, I am attractive—you've probably noticed that—but I just don't swing that way."

"Tell me now or I'm going to kill you. Again."

"Threatening a figure in a dream? Tisk tisk, Sammy. Tisk tisk. You know what you need?" Nick said, tearing another rib off the body on the table.

"Oh, I don't know, my brother," Sam hinted sarcastically.

"To be put down," Nick said.

"I think I'll pass."

"Just one bullet to the brain and…bam! Off to the golden fields in the sky. You can just frolic there alllllll day."

"Do I look like I frolic?"

Nick glanced him over. "Yep."

Sam growled in frustration. "Where's. Dean."

"Here, Sam," Dean said testily, charging through the archway. "I'm here."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. He stared. "What?"

"Yeah," Dean said, stopping in front of him and grabbing his arm. "Come on," he told his confused brother, and looked at Nick. "Excuse us. You follow me and I will slice off your dick and feed it to snapping turtles."

Sam found himself being dragged from the dining room. He looked back to see Nick cheerfully wave a bloody rib fragment at him and then they were gone, through the door and into the living room.

Dean let go of Sam and immediately took up pacing the room.

Sam watched him. The things he had wanted to talk through with his brother slipped from his mind and were replaced by the more pressing question at hand. "Dude…why is he still in your dream?"

Dean glared at him. "I can't make him leave," he hissed, "Every damn time I fall asleep, I'm here in this shitty house and he's here with me."

Sam couldn't help the smile that was spilling across his face. Yeah, he had found his brother. This was the Dean he had missed, and he was completely fine and pissed off and normal.

"What's so funny, Sam?" Dean demanded, "Huh?"

Sam shook his head. Coughed. Tried to swallow his smile. "Nothing."

"Yeah, right," he shot back, pacing again, "You try spending hours trapped with this guy. I've killed him so many times it's nauseating. I've stabbed, shot and roasted the bastard. I've doused him in hot glue, blasted him with fireworks, dropped him into a pit of alligators—"

"Alligators?" Sam repeated.

"Yeah Sam, alligators. Thirty foot mutated alligators—"

"Oh, mutated alligators. My mistake."

"He won't leave, Sam," Dean ranted, throwing himself down on a couch, "He keeps coming back to life. And he's cheerful about it."

"Oh, god no," Sam said, all seriousness gone from his voice now, "Not cheerful."

Dean glared at him. The glare was so focused and terrible that a small plant behind Sam wilted and died from exposure.

Sam just laughed. "You're crazy," he said, sitting next to him.

"Am not."

"Uh…yeah."

"Shut it, Sam."

"You know, I had no idea your imagination was so…inventive. I mean, killing the guy with hot glue? Really?"

"What, you think it's inhumane? The freak was zombifying people. You telling me you wouldn't give it a shot?"

"True. How'd it turn out?"

"Before or after his face melted?"

"Both. Sounds fantastic. Was he screaming?"

"Like a girl."

"Damn," Sam said, "I feel cheated."

They both fell silent, leaning back on the couch. Half a minute passed.

"Well," Dean said finally, trying to keep his voice light, "I can't hear anything out there."

"Guessed as much," Sam said.

"And man…the breathing tube? It sucks."

"They said they'd remove it tomorrow," Sam told him reassuringly, "I already told them about that, they said they wanted to play it safe…you know, cause of all the injuries and infection and stuff."

Dean shrugged. "Well they damn well better take it out soon, or I'll rip it out myself."

"No you won't."

"I will."

"Won't."

"So totally will."

"You…" Sam said, and stopped. "Okay, fine. I know you'd do it. Just, man, for the love of god just leave it alone."

"I will," Dean said. He paused. "Until tomorrow."

Sam chuckled. "You suck."

"Yeah," Dean said, "I know."

They fell silent again. Sam tapped his foot restlessly against the scuffed up coffee table. "So," he said finally, "Chris and I are going to torch Nick's house to get rid of all the zombies."

Dean looked at him. "When?"

Sam checked his watch, realized he wasn't wearing one, and shrugged. "Less than an hour."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Nice warning there, Sammy."

"Thanks."

"You're really healed enough for that?"

"Well, Chris will probably do most of the heavy lifting…and running around. I'll probably just tell him what to do…that and make sure Brandon's alright."

"Brandon? He's up?"

"Uh, no, he's still invisible and using the Ouija board to talk to us—"

"Even freaking coma boy can talk to you," Dean interrupted bitterly.

"But he threw a fit when I said Chris was going," Sam said over him, "Knocked over a lamp. So I said he could tag alone."

"He knocked over a lamp?"

"Oh yeah, it's Paranormal Activity out there," Sam said wryly, "Anyway, we should be gone for most of the evening, so try to—you know—stay alive."

"For most of the evening? Damn Sam, that's a long time, I don't know if I can manage."

Sam glared at him. "Not funny."

Dean slapped him on the back. "Lighten up, I'll be fine," he said, "But dude, you need to get more dream root when you're at his house."

"Why would I do that, when you have Nick to talk to?" Sam goaded him, "That guy is always the life of the party."

"You wouldn't," Dean said.

"Well…"

"No way. Admit it. You miss talking to me."

"Well…"

"Damn it, Sam, you leave me stuck inside my head with that freak and I'll…I'll…"

"You'll what?"

"I'll gouge your eyes out."

Sam laughed. "What? How?"

"Hey, I may be deaf, blind, and mute out there," Dean said smugly, "But I can still move my arms."

"To gouge my eyes out?"

He snapped his fingers. "Bingo."

Sam shook his head, still laughing. "You have issues, man," he said.

"If you'd rather, I can just sic my mutated alligators on you."

"Serious issues," Sam concluded. He paused, leaned back. "I guess I'll grab more dream root. Since you asked."

"Cause you weren't going to get it anyway," Dean teased him.

"Maybe," Sam said. He crossed his arms. "And…after we get back from torching Nick's place, I'm going to give you another dose of the antidote…you know, since you're doing so…"

"Bad?"

Sam shrugged. "No, you're not…I mean…I'd rather give it to you now than wait and have you get worse, you know?"

Dean bumped his shoulder. "I'm not going to get worse, remember?"

"Right," Sam said, "Of course you're not."

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