Surviving Is Just Step One

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: By the time Sam figures out that trekking through a forest, looking for a Wendigo, is the last place on God's green earth Dean wants to be, it's too late to turn back. No Slash.

Author's Note: Sorry, no Purgatory flashback this chapter.

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Chapter 16: Mistakes that Matter

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Rule # 16: There are only three mistakes that matter: #1 - Missing a kill , #2 - traveling alone, #3…well dead men no longer make mistakes.

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After napping a few hours, Dean wakes up to find things haven't changed much since he shut his eyes. Sam is still sitting in the same chair at his side that he was before, but instead of looking at him like he's afraid he'll disappear if he closes his eyes, Sam is slouched down, his head tilted to the right and resting at an awkward angle against the back of the chair and totally dead to the world.

Dean doesn't wake him, because, seriously, Sam looks like crap. There are dark smudges of fatigue under his brother's eyes, Sam's borrowed hospital shirt is all wrinkled and there's blood crusting the knuckles of his right hand that dangles from the armrest. And it hurts him, seeing Sam so…. '…wrecked, so concerned about you? Isn't that what you've been whining about since day one out of Purgatory, that he didn't care?! Does he look like someone who doesn't give a crap about you, huh?'

Sam nearly breaking down, hugging him so tightly, it finally got through to him, that he could accuse Sam of a lot of things, but not caring about him, not loving him…should have never made that list. Ever. That he was an idiot to take Sam wanting a safe life the same thing as Sam saying he wanted a separate life from him. Sam is a dreamer, he sometimes forgets that. That Sam thought he could have it all, the white picket fence, wife and 2.5 kids and his hunting brother in his life. 'Yeah, like you didn't give that a shot with Lisa and Ben when Sam came back. Thought you could have it both ways.' But he bleakly remembers how that ended: badly. Just like all the other times he thought he was actually going to get what he wanted out of life, had some small hope that things would be OK.

But the heartbreak of losing Lisa and Ben, of giving them up, wiping him from their memories, it didn't break him and the reason why…is sitting in a chair by his bed right now. Because he had Sam, because he had lost his adopted family but he had gotten his true family back. And now he accepts, for the first time, that it just might be the same way for Sam, that that is the same reason Sam decided to leave Amelia and stay with him, because they are family and no matter how crappy life gets, that doesn't change, doesn't become less important, less treasured.

Is something worth dying for.

'And killing for…' Because Dean is hazy on a lot to things but leaving Mac and his group behind, that he remembers, just like he remembered Reverend Le Grange picking him to be the one he healed instead of Layla, like he remembered that Marshall Hall died in his place, like he would never forget that his father had bartered away his life and his soul so he could live. All those deaths lay at his feet, and now Mac, Ivan, Vicki and Zeke are most likely added to that tally. And he isn't worth the least of them, he knows that…even if Sam doesn't.

But he can't, won't condemn Sam his choice.

After all, he had made his own such choice, more than once. Had bartered with Death for Sam and Adam's release from Hell but, in the end, he had cold-heartedly left his half-brother in Hell, in the friggin' Cage. He had chosen Sam to save without a flickering of doubt, had sentenced Adam to his eternal fate with such infinitesimal traces of guilt that it was sadistic. But for him, there was no choice. It was Sam, is always going to be Sam.

"Hey, you're awake," Sam sleepily proclaims, shifting upward in the chair and rubbing his eyes like he's seven years old again.

"I think that's my line," Dean huskily counters with a smirk, silently watches as Sam brushes aside his own fatigue and leans forward, eyes intently studying him, like he's going to change into something. But a moment later, he cringes, remembers Purgatory, the memory that jarred him out of his sleep that morning like a mental cattle prod.

Of course, Sam doesn't miss his wince, is instantly on his feet, at his side, giving him that wide eyed worried look that Dean feels wholly undeserving of receiving.

"Dean, are you in a lot of pain, should I call a nurse..the doctor?" the words coming out of Sam in a rush, fearful that Dean's about to pull the rug out from under him and make a turn for the worse. Because the truth is, Dean might be awake, but his color's still crap, he's not offered up one protest for his accommodations, or one boast about how fine he is, has barely moved unless someone moved him.

Blocking out raw memories of feeling his own body metamorphosing, Dean croaks out, "No," because he doesn't want strangers with him right then, has exactly who he wants at his side. Has come to trust that Sam won't be disgusted by his weakness, will instead go all Costner Bodyguard protective on him. And right now, with how friggin' weak he is, with how vulnerable he feels, how torn he is between the here and now and Purgatory memories that rip through his head without his permission, it feels like he'll never get a handle on anything again, won't get control back, won't ever get back to being the guy Sam trusted to have his back, could trust to have his back.

And that's down right terrifying to Dean: To lose his place with Sam, beside Sam.

Sam almost misses it, the unguarded look in Dean's eyes that he catches before his brother's looking at anything but him. But he doesn't miss it, sees what Dean rarely shows, even to him: Uncertainty, weakness, fear. And like always, seeing those things in his big brother, it twists Sam's heart, makes him forget he's the little brother, because all he wants to do it protect Dean, salt and burn whatever Dean's afraid of. With a vengeance.

"'kay, I won't call anyone," Sam assures before he claims a seat on the bed by his brother's knees and draws one bent leg up to rest on the mattress so he can face Dean better. "Want something to drink or the bed adjusted or…."

"..My pillows fluffed," Dean smartmouthed, trying for a smirk and hoping he makes it. Sam's too gentle, openly affectionate smirk tells him he is only partially successful, that he must look as pathetic as he feels. To counter that, he offers up a resigned sigh, allows, "Fine, raise the bed a bit," like he's doing Sam a favor.

Utilizing one of the controls on the bed railing, Sam adjusts the bed up for Dean, but only a little. When Dean tries to shift himself up with hands and arms too weak to lift his own body weight, Sam jumps in to help, slips his hands under Dean's armpits and pulls Dean up the mattress.

And though Dean grimaces in pain at the movement, he unleashes a scowl of 'Sam, I'm not friggin' four' at his brother for the babying. To which, Sam friggin' laughs.

It's a good release this time, Sam's laughter, his joy at seeing Dean's trademark scowl. Upping the ante, Sam actually fluffs Dean's pillows and chuckles at the rising heat of his brother's glare.

"If you're angling for a tip, there better be a beer in my near future," Dean grouses as Sam resumes his seat by his legs.

Sam snorts. "You tip?! Rrrriiiight. You hardly tip at all unless the waitress is a good looking woman who flirts with you."

"I consider all that a part of the good service package," Dean boasts back, his eyebrows giving a suggestive bounce.

"I bet," Sam retorts, but his tone is fond, lacks his usual reprimand for his brother's lascivious ways. But too soon his eyes go serious as they hold Dean's gaze. "How are you doing?" When he sees a spark in his brother's eyes, he quietly clarifies, "The truth, Dean."

Sobering, Dean swallows, knows Sam isn't looking for him to sell the happy party line but isn't sure Sam's up for the truth and nothing but the truth. He settles midway between the two with a statement of fact. "I'm alive." Seeing the tangle of emotions in Sam's eyes, hurt, fear, relief, he solemnly praises, "Thanks to you." Because he doesn't remember much but what he does remember is Sam, Sam grounding him when the agony wanted to take over, Sam carrying him when his body betrayed him, Sam there with him when his death seemed inevitable, a foregone conclusion.

But instead of his usual humble, 'Don't mention it,' Sam says nothing, drops his eyes from him, concentrates on pulling on the thread of his ripped jean's holey knee. But Sam's expression, it's like a scream, like a shout, tells Dean what Sam can't say, won't say: that Mac and the others didn't make it. And Sam, he isn't taking the news well, is heaping all the guilt on his own head. Sam's utterly wrong belief that he's at fault gives Dean the strength to lift his hand, move it to cover Sam's jittery hands, stilling them.

Sam's eyes fly up to Dean at the physical contact.

"Sam, I know you didn't have a choice," Dean starts, hates that Sam's eyes dart away from him again in guilty retreat and his hands slip from under his. It causes Dean's self-disgust to burn brighter. "That's on me, Sam. Not you. If I hadn't screwed up….."

Dean's statement is absurd enough to get Sam's head snapping up to his brother. "You screw up?! How, Dean?!" he demands emphatically, hyped to defend Dean but can't when he doesn't even know how his brother can possibly assign himself blame.

"I shouldn't have let my guard down," Dean bitterly snaps, couldn't believe he had been so careless. The only good news is that Sam didn't pay the price for his incompetence.

"Let your guard down…" Sam repeats in confusion before he makes the leap of logic. Dean logic, that is. He nearly sighs, tones down his voice from indignation to an unfathomably gentle degree of reproof, as he says, "Dean, how could you …how could we know there were two Wendigoes. There's no evidence to support that they pair up."

But Dean's eyes blaze with defiance. "There are always more fugles coming. Purgatory taught me that. Can't believe I was so stupid! Since I've been back, Benny said I've lost a step but…" shakes his head in disgust. "If I got dumped back into Purgatory, I wouldn't last a day."

Immediately Sam gently entreats, "Dean, cut yourself a break," because he never could stand back and let Dean tear himself down, especially over something wholly out of his hands and fully not his fault. "There was no reason for you to expect man-eating monsters at every turn. This is not Purgatory."

Dean's eyes darken and he sits up straighter, challenges Sam, "You're not sure I know that, right? You think that you need to tell me I'm not still there, that the jungle rules don't apply here."

Stunned at the turn of the conversation, Sam stammers, "What? No, Dean." But at Dean's non-blinking glower, he sharply repeats himself, "No!"

"Yeah, right," Dean mutters and drops his eyes down to the sheet on his lap, feels angry and helpless, and humiliated. Because Sam might be denying it, but he knows the score, knows how out of control he is, was in the forest. And that's not Sam's fault, any of this. 'But that's not stopping me from taking it out on him.' He's about to man up and apologize when Sam speaks.

Realizing that Dean should talk about his Purgatory memories, that if he shuts him down now, Dean will never speak of it again, will bury it like some dirty-little secret he should be ashamed of, Sam meets Dean's eyes and exhales. "Ok, let's talk about it."

Dean's eyes jump up to Sam's in surprise and fear. But at the solemnness and the raw appeal for him to open up pouring off of Sam, he tries to head off the counseling session at the pass with his usual smart mouth tactics. "Sorry, I'm writing an autobiography, 'Ten Million Little Monsters' and my agent made me swear to keep my story under lock and key. You'll have to wait and pay to get the juicy details, Sammy."

Not like its unexpected, Dean deflecting his honest concern, but it still hurts Sam, not for himself, but for Dean, that Dean can't accept that he values him, how much he values him, that he wouldn't think less of Dean if he completely fell apart. 'Because I would put him back together. Like he's done for me, more than once.' And he needs Dean to know that, to believe that.

"I think you're forgetting, I'm the guy who almost shot you Dean, because I was hallucinating, didn't know what was reality and what wasn't," Sam opens with, knows exactly what Dean's about to say, that that was different. 'And then he'll make up some lame excuse why it wasn't my fault. But it isn't Dean's fault either!'

Cutting Dean off before he gets a chance to utter one word, Sam says, "But you're not lost like I was, you know you're out of Purgatory. But Dean, that doesn't mean it all just goes away, that the …." Sam searches for a description and then knows he has no right to qualify it, can't, doesn't know what it was like for Dean. Will probably never know. "…the …the stuff that you went through in Purgatory, it's not something anyone could stow away like it never existed. You were there for a year, Dean. Fighting for your life. You can't just switch off your survival instincts, lock away the memories, be exactly who you were before you got zapped into Purgatory."

"And that's the real problem, isn't it?" Dean quietly surmises, watches as Sam tilts his head in confusion. "I'm not the same." Giving a derisive snort, he continues, "And you were ashamed of me before I did my Purgatory stint. Now, I've got savagery down to an art form, zone out for friggin' minutes at a time in the middle of a hunt, not to mention flipping my crap and practically needing to be strapped down. All in all, I'm really awesome to have at your back, right? Friggin' Garth's better. Even Kevin's got some nice moves for a geek scribe. Maybe you should partner up with them….or, better yet, go back to Texas, tell Amelia you made a mistake, made the wrong choice…."

But Sam can't hear any more. Surging off the bed, he towers over his brother and growls, "Wrong choice?! I didn't make the wrong choice, Dean! Not with Amelia… and not with Mac and his group," he unflinchingly tacks on, knows that no matter what road they travel, the issue will still be there separating them. Again Dean's eyes dart away and Sam hates that, Dean separating himself from him, drawing a line Sam's not supposed to cross. 'Too bad, Dean. This line needs to be crossed.' So he says it bluntly, no euphemisms, no dodging the truth, just puts it out there. "I sacrificed the lives of Zeke, Vicki, Ivan and Mac so you could live. And if you think I would undo that….I wouldn't."

Dean's wide eyes hold his and there's no air in the room, just the unvarnished truth.

"Maybe that makes me a monster…" Sam starts but then candidly corrects, "No, I know it does…but I wasn't going to lose you all over again, Dean. And I don't care if you zone out for an entire day and wake up every night swinging at me…or…or …have the blood of the whole population of Purgatory on your hands. It doesn't change anything between us, doesn't change us. Doesn't mean that you're not still the only person I want to have my back, trust to have my back. And the fact that you doubt that is just….just…stupid."

Dean's eyebrows rise at the finale of Sam's rant, and even as his heart's swelling at his brother's loyalty, he can't help but taunt, "Stupid…that's all you got?"

And just like that, the tension in Sam's chest dissipates and he knows that they are going to be OK, will make it through this storm like they have all the rest, together. With an embarrassed smirk, he shakes his head, "How do you expect me to be articulate, Dean, when you're royally pissing me off?"

"Grace under pressure, Sammy. Thought they taught you that at Stanford," Dean heckles, bestowing his trademark smirk on his little brother.

For Sam, Dean's smirk is like a rainbow after a savage storm, makes a promise he wouldn't believe from anyone else but Dean. "Yeah, right, well they never had to try and win an argument with you," his words coated with lighthearted mirth. Then he reclaims his seat at Dean's waist and a peaceful silence falls between them as they look at each other. But Sam knows there's more he needs to say. "Dean, about Mac and the others, whether you agree with my decision or not, you have to accept that the choice was mine, not yours. Their deaths…they are on me, not you."

But Dean's shaking his head. "No, Sam. Like I said, I…."

Breaking into his brother's denials, Sam makes one of his own, his tone painfully gentle, "Dean, it wasn't your fault that you got hurt." Then his eyes darkened as the memories replay, of numbly standing there in shock as something swished by the seemingly inconsequential space that separated him from Dean, seeing the blood, begin to run down the back of one of Dean's favorite jackets, then watching Dean collapse. And he did nothing to stop any of it. "If anyone's to blame, it's me. I was supposed to have your back, remember," he bites out in self-loathing.
Instantly Dean's protesting Sam's statement. "Sam, you couldn't …"

"Have known there were two of them?" Sam sardonically retorted, a sour grin flipping up his lips. "Yeah, think I already told you that."

Sensing the stalemate, Dean sighs, would nervously rub his hand over his mouth if he thought he had a chance of lifting his hand that far. But his body's still revolting being awake, is fully against movement, of any kind. Nevertheless, one look into Sam's eyes and he knows that even if he were half in the grave, he would find a way to have this conversation with Sam. And in that desperation to make things better for Sam, he lets himself cling to foolish hope. "Maybe they made it."

Sam gravely shakes his head. As much as he wants to, he can't lie to Dean about this, can't shatter the faith his brother has just started to regain in him, in his word, in his trustworthiness. "Garth sent some hunters out there." He stops there, knows he doesn't need to elaborate, can read the pain in Dean's eyes at the loss of innocent lives, lives they had set out to protect.

Reaching out, he wraps his fingers around Dean's forearm as if he fears Dean will skitter away from him, from what he's about to say, has the strength to skitter away. Then his eyes lock with Dean's and refuse to let go. "Dean, I made the choice in the forest, the only choice I could live with. And I'll deal with their deaths…but it's only bearable if you stick around, don't make what I did for nothing. You have to stop thinking you need to always be in control, man, that you should handle things on your own. And you have to know that I'll fight your battles for you when you can't. Just like you've done for me my entire life."

Though Dean appreciates Sam's pledge, he can't accept it. It isn't the proper order of things. He is the older brother, his father had assigned him as Sam's protector…not the other way around. "Sam, you don't have to…"

Sensing his brother's rejection of his offer, Sam heads it off by playfully slapping Dean's leg, hides his worry and his hurt behind a jest, "Come on, what good is it having a little brother if you can't use and abuse him once in a while, right? Get him to do all the heavy lifting while you kick back, fake an injury from a Wendigo."

"Fake? Fake?!" Dean repeats, voice rising in indignation. "Dude, that thing had Wolverine claws. They practically came out my chest."

"Wolverine?!" Sam mockingly echoed with a scoffing laugh. "Sabretooth… maybe. His nails just needed a bit of a trim," he teasingly amended.

And whatever comeback Dean would have been made is lost as the doctor times his visit right then.

Sam soon finds himself pushed to the background, retreats until his back hits the wall to give the doctor room to examine Dean but he doesn't leave, won't. And he finds that it gripes him, that doctors are never around when you need them but this dude had to show up now, before he is ready to share Dean, maybe before Dean is ready to be seen by anyone but him. So he gives Dean an encouraging small smile behind the doctor's back, hates that the doctor's supposedly well-meaning prodding elicits pain from his brother. Not like Dean shows it. But Sam knows, detects the shift in Dean's breathing, reads the pain in his brother's eyes and it takes every restraint to not shove the doctor away from Dean like he had the orderly that morning, to not protect Dean, from any and all harm, even those acting benevolently.

Then the doctor's asking about Dean's pain level and the jerk lies right to the doctor's face, says it's a 4 when Sam would bet his laptop it's barely topping out at 15. And though the doctor is explaining Dean's injuries and the procedures they performed on him in layman's terms, whatever bed side manner award Sam's about to bestow on him gets revoked at the doctor's next words.

"Honestly, I didn't think you would survive. The extent of your injury, the time that lapsed until you received medical treatment, the onset of shock, then the coma….I've never seen anyone beat such long odds."

Pushing off the wall, Sam stalks for the doctor, is about to physically throw the man out of the room before he upsets Dean more with his morbid post-prediction. But Dean makes his reply before he can lays hands on the doctor.

"Didn't do it alone," Dean says and his eyes, they aren't on the doctor, have found Sam, gives credit where credit is due. Knows that it isn't about his willpower, or his physical stamina or even some medical breakthroughs. No, he survived for only one reason: because of his brother. Because Sam wouldn't let him go, because Sam did everything, everything in his power to improve his odds, to keep him alive.

Sam's breath catches in his throat at Dean's praise, at his brother's gratitude, knows there's unreserved forgiveness for the death of Mac and the others in Dean's declaration too. Knows he should be rejoicing, because Dean's forgiveness, it's what he's wanted, and not just for this screwed up hunt, but for so many things he's done…and not done. 'Like not looking for Dean after he disappeared.'

But the gratitude, maybe even the forgiveness, isn't his to have, not really, not when he didn't save Dean alone, had help, needed help. Because it wasn't his presence that Dean welcomed in the woods in the middle of his delirium, was Benny Dean wanted there with him, was Benny who Sam pretended to be. Was the vampire's perceived presence that steered Dean back from the brink of frantic fear. And the distress signal that directed the rescue helicopter and paramedics to Dean, Sam hadn't sent it, didn't know who did, but it wasn't him. Any more than it was his skills that repaired the damage to Dean's body. So Dean's praise, it is misplaced.

When the doctor shifts, blocks his view of Sam, Dean wants to shove the doctor aside, might have if he had the strength to push anything heavier than the blanket on his lap. But even left with the unexciting view of the doctor's white coat, Dean can only see in his mind's eyes the look in his brother's face at his intended praise. Not blushing in humbled embarrassment but gutted shame. Like Sam didn't think he deserved the praise, the accolades for saving him. 'Sam, who else would deserve it?!' he wants to demand of Sam, to break his brother out of his knack to beat himself.

But then the doctor's asking him more questions and he has to concentrate to answer them because he just friggin' woke up for real, hasn't taken full stock of his body's condition yet. Internally grouses, 'Isn't that the doctor's friggin' job, can't he just pretend I'm still in a coma, do his own little analysis without any input from me?!' because he has more important things to think about, namely finding a way to wipe that desolation off his brother's face, blot it out of Sam's soul.

Sam stiffens in objection as the doctor orders Dean to roll over, is about to rail at the doctor that Dean just came out of a coma hours ago, can barely move when the doctor's hands gently aid Dean to achieve the new position. Instantly anger and jealousy war inside Sam and his hands fist at his side because it's yet another instance of someone helping Dean who isn't him. But when the doctor pulls the dressing off Dean's lower back, he's immediately there looking over the doctor's shoulder, needs to see the treated wound for himself, to make his own assessment of his brother's well-being.

Though all stitched up and no longer welling blood, the wound is gruesome. Makes Sam sick because it's not about the surface ugliness, the row of stitches, the red inflamed skin, the puncture site, no, its about what lies underneath, muscle and bone and organs, all impaled with one single lash from a Wendigo's claws. One second of inattention, of his having his guard down, of failing to have his brother's back. 'And how many seconds are in a year, how many days, weeks, months were you not there to have Dean's back, to protect him?! But Benny was, a friggin' vampire was.' And under the jealousy, comes something far more devastating. 'But Benny saved Dean, in the worst most hostile environment he managed to keep Dean alive, safe. Did more than I have ever done, because I've never actually saved Dean's life when it counted, have I? Not after the car accident, not from going to hell, not getting him out of hell, and not in Purgatory, it has always been ….someone not me.'

And he couldn't fight the feeling that the same is true now, that the miracle, it isn't his to claim. It was who ever made that distress call, was the person's presence Dean clung to when everything was going south. No matter how much he wants it to be him…it isn't.

Stepping back until he's tripping over the chair in the room, Sam swallows hard, struggles to not break down, to not apologize to Dean. 'For failing him all over again.' He doesn't realize that the doctor's looking up from his inspection of Dean's wound, is looking at him. For a moment, he simply stares back in confusion before the doctor catches on and repeats his question.

"Has he been lucid since he woke up? Have you noticed any gaps in his memory?"

Eyes shifting to Dean's pale face pressed into the pillow, Sam hoarsely answers, "Yes,", realizes a moment later that the doctor's question is two fold, but he doesn't clarify. Because Dean has gaps in his memory of what happened, is forgetting that Sam's not the miracle worker like he is. That he's never resurrected him from the dead, didn't make a deal with Death to break him from the Cage, didn't pop into his psychiatric ward with an angel in tow to take on his crazy, that was all Dean. 'No, I'm just Dean's brother, have this fierce need to save Dean, just never the ability to.' And he closes his eyes in anguish, at the brutal truth of that statement.

Whatever's going on with Sam, it's scaring Dean. Makes him think about trying to roll the rest of the way out of the bed and go to his brother before Sam bolts out the door. Because that's what Sam does, he gets overwhelmed and then he bolts. 'Leaves me behind,' Dean fearfully clarifies and he's not up to that right now, being on his own, being without Sam. Has never truly welcomed that or handled it well when it happens. And he doesn't see that ever changing.

From his position on his side, Dean reaches a trembling hand out to coil around the bed railing, all the while wishing it was his brother that he was latching onto. "Sam," he calls out, allows that thread of fear, of need to seep through his brother's name, hopes to lure Sam back to him, to persuade Sam to stay with him.

It's not the utterance of his name that has Sam's eyes snapping open to land on Dean but the tremble in his brother's voice. And Dean's features, they say everything Dean won't, that Dean's afraid he's about to go all looney tunes again, or worse, is about to abandon him. 'Not like that's an unheard of thing, is it?!' he sardonically thinks, feels sick at the number of times he's done just that when Dean was wearing this same expression, the one pleading for him to stay, to listen, to see things from his point of view.

Dean doesn't realize that he's holding his breath until Sam steps, not toward the door, but to him.

Then Sam's at his side, is leveling a charged look down at him. And Dean's still trying to figure out if Sam's offering him sympathy, pity or affection when his brother raises his eyes to the doctor on the other side of his bed.

"So how is he?" Sam demands because the doctor's supposed to be there to give them answers, not the other way around. And he needs some peace of mind, someone to say that Dean's out of danger, that he doesn't have to worry about closing his eyes and waking up to a world where Dean no longer exists. Because as much as Dean's lucidity helps calm his fears, there are tendrils still there, scampering around inside him, searing into the relief he wants so badly to grab onto.

Dean doesn't bother trying to concentrate on the doctor's spiel, simply watches Sam's expression, knows that will tell him everything he needs to know. Besides Sam's the one who understands the medical jargon, not him. Amusedly, he thinks that's probably true because the doctor's generic statements are rooted in lawyer speak so the doctors don't get sued. Though he picks up words like 'internal bleeding' 'repairs' 'healing well' and 'lengthy recovery', it's the fact that Sam's features smooth out from creased worry to sagging relief that tell Dean he's not dying again anytime soon.

Nodding gratefully at the doctor's reassurance that Dean's on the road to a full recovery, Sam drops his gaze down to his brother's pale profile and smirks. It's just like Dean to tune out the doctor and take a nap. Laying an affectionate hand on Dean's head, he rubs his thumb in his brother's short hair, doesn't even register that the doctor's left the room until he looks up minutes later to determine that he and Dean are alone.

That suits him just fine.

Lifting his hand from Dean's head, he tugs Dean's hand from its loose grip around the bed railing and encloses it in his own hand instead, rests both on the bed. Then, using his foot to drag a chair closer, he sinks into its somewhat soft confines, all the while not losing his physical contact with his brother. Not that Dean would notice if he did but that's not really the point right then. 'I'm the one clinging to him,' he acknowledges, gives the hand he's holding a gentle warm squeeze. Because the doctor might be an expert at determining the state of Dean's physical well-being, but Sam is an expert at determining his brother's mental well-being, or is supposed to be, should be after all this time. And he can't negate the feeling that Dean will be more than willing to shut him out again if he's not vigilant, doesn't continue to earn Dean's restored trust in him, doesn't maintain his possessive, protective hold on Dean.

So he hangs on, even when Dean has no notion he's there, hangs on for the both of them and prays that it will be enough, that he'll be enough this time. Because there's no Bobby, no angel, no vampire here, no one else to be Dean's safety net, just him. But he can't shut out Zeke's words about his PTS coping methods:"You mean after I nearly blew my own head off?" And Sam can't let Dean go down that road, won't. But even as his resolve is unshakeable, his doubt is equally embedded in his soul, not because of Dean's weakness but his own. Bowing his head over his brother's healing body but wounded soul, he beseeches, 'Please let me be enough.'

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TBC

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Thanks for reading and for the wonderful comments on last chapter! And thanks for everyone's patience as I try to wrap this story up. I still can't believe you've all so graciously let me ramble on for 16 Chapters already but it's been such fun hearing all your thoughts!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.