These nightly chat sessions were becoming the norm. Every night Sam would wake up around 2 am, and every night, Dean was waiting to help him to the bathroom and then back into bed.

And then, if Dean happened to pose a question or two while Sam was still under the influence of the painkiller that acted like every bit of a freaking truth serum, well, that wasn't too sneaky, was it? Sam always remembered their discussions the next morning, and he didn't seem to mind that he'd revealed details that he otherwise might have kept to himself. And Dean even reasoned that their talks were good for Sam, that they were therapeutic, even. He did feel a nudge of guilt that he started his interrogations when Sam seemed physically incapable of lying.

But, what the hell?".

"Hey Sam?"

"What?"

"What was the worst thing that happened to you out on the road?"

Immediate, candid response, "Getting felt up and nearly raped by some gorilla outside a roadhouse in Kankakee."

Dean choked on his beer. "Sammy?"

Sam chuckled, "Relax, Dean. I said nearly. The bartender found me in time. He had a sawed-off, and that was all it took to scare the guy off. I mean, he stalked me for a while after, but once I left town, I never saw him again."

"He fucking stalked you? What do you mean, he stalked you?"

He stole my wallet. It had my time card in it. So he just kept showing up outside the restaurant where I worked and staring at me. When I spotted him outside my apartment one night with two buddies, I just kept driving and never looked back. I don't think I'll hear from him again. I mean, I still have nightmares about it sometimes, and then I wake up and wonder what I'd do if I went downstairs one day and he was waiting for me outside the garage. But deep down, I don't really think he'd go to all that trouble."

Dean swallowed. "Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You can stop worrying about that … thing."

Sam leaned up on an elbow to stare at his brother. "Why?"

"Bobby, and I … we kind of took care of it."

"What! How? How did you even know?"

"We found matchbooks for the roadhouse inside one of your shirt pockets. We talked to the bartender and got the 411. Although I see now that he left out a few details. Oh, and I still have all your stuff from the apartment out in the Impala.

Sam just stared, "Huh." he said, flopping back down. "Well, thanks, I guess."

"No problem."

"Hey Sam?"

"Uh?"

"What was the best thing that happened?"

Sam grinned. "Easy. Road-tripping through two states with the Friends of Jesus in the Chartreuse Microbus."

Dean snorted. "What the hell?"

"Yeeeah," Sam drawled happily. "Those guys knew how to live, you know? They'd named the van after some old trucker song, and Liam played it all the time on his old 8-track tape deck. I probably would have signed on, but one night when they finally passed me the pipe, I ended up getting a little too loose and telling the story of that wendigo hunt we took with dad up in Minnesota." Sam's voice turned melancholy. "When I woke up the next day, I was all alone. The van was gone. That hurt. I missed those guys."

Dean raised up to glare over the side of the bed, "I ever catch you with a pipe, little bro, it will not be pretty."

"Pffft. You don't scare me, Dean." Sam chuckled.

But when all 160 pounds of big brother suddenly landed on him with no warning, Sam was forced to rethink his last remark. "Okay! Okay! He struggled to breathe. "No pipe! Geez, Dean! Fanatical much?" He gasped as Dean rolled off him and returned to his spot on the floor beside the bed.

"You're damn straight, no pipe. No bong, no hookah, and no cigarettes either. Got it?"

"Geez, when did you get to be such a buzz kill, Dean?"

"Since I spent thirteen months as an only child, bitch." Dean answered, only half-jokingly. "It sucked. I don't plan to go there again."

Silence.

"Hey Sam?"

Whaaaat?" Whiny, this time.

"Hey, uh, when I showed up inside your hallucinations, what was I doing? Besides trying to shoot you, that is."

"You always came with the intention of saving me somehow, but somehow, it always went south."

"Like how?"

"Well, like once, you showed up with Dad, but after he examined me and found out how badly I was hurt, he had you hold me down while he beat the shit out of me. You were sort of crouched behind me, holding my shoulders, and you kept whispering in my ear how much better it was to get taken out by family and not by some monster."

Dean wished he hadn't asked.

"And then there was the time you showed up with some African dream root with the intention of going inside my dreams and rescuing me from there. But something went wrong, and when you got inside, you were the guy being held down by the djinn family in the cafeteria. By the time I got them off of you, you had turned into one of them, and you reached out and lit me up like a Christmas tree." Sam snorted.

Dean opened his mouth to speak.

"And then there was the time …"

"Never mind, Sam." Dean interrupted, "I get the general idea."

"You were a bastard, Dean."

"Yeah, so I see."

"But you know what the weird part was?"

"You mean other than me playing '101 Ways to Kill Your Brother?'"

Sam chuckled, "Yeah. But the weird part was that after the first time, I sort of knew somehow that it wasn't really real. And I started to look forward to it."

Dean stared at his brother like he'd misplaced his last marble. "What! Why?"

"Cause I got to see you. And I hadn't seen you in so long. And then every time you'd touch me, it felt real, you know. And I missed that - the way you'd always patch me back up after a hunt or rub my back when I was sick? I didn't even care that you were going to kill me in the end. It was just some time spent with my big bro, you know? I didn't realize how much I missed that til you were back standing in the room with me - even if you did have deadly intentions." Sam sighed and risked a glance at his brother where he sat cross-legged and nursing a beer next to the bed. "It was always good to see you, Dean."

Dean faked taking a swig of his beer to give him time to get his emotions in check. Then he cleared his throat and struggled to his feet. "Gotta drain the pipe." He said tactlessly, and escaped to the bathroom where the man tears could flow unchecked.