A/N: Okay, big nervous breath! This has not been beta'd or had a sanity read. It's not a perfect chapter and I feel like it could stand more editing-feels a little rushed in some areas-but, as I said in the last posting, the goal is to get this thing posted so it can be complete. I see an end in sight and I'm so anxious to do this for you all. Btw, the last chapter I posted didn't send out a notification, so you may need to read it first.

Sorry for any mistakes and errors, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks to those few reviews that filtered in for the last chapter even though it didn't notify anyone. I'm so very appreciative of the kind words. It really fortifies my confidence and keeps me motivated. So, many, many thanks!

Chapter 12: Keep Me in Your Memory

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed
And don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest

~Linkin Park, Leave Out All the Rest

As soon as the shower started, Sam slumped on Dean's bed. His eyes wandered over the supplies still scattered across his bed and the floor. What a mess. Picking at a smear of paint on his arm, he huffed. Dean was right, it did itch after it dried—pulled the hair a little bit too. The huff caught in his throat and he blinked his eyes against the sting.

A fist clenched his heart in a hard grip—varied emotions collided in a pang and thump. There were so many things he'd like to say to Dean and couldn't. The look on Dean's face a moment ago, like he was memorizing Sam's in case it was the last time he'd have the chance. Whether because Dean didn't expect to make it through this or because he thought he'd be leaving this place alone, Sam didn't know.

Dean was hurting and he didn't know how to make it better.

When Dean's face had fallen after the tickling threat, Sam had wanted to reassure his brother there would be time, that he wasn't going anywhere. But the words lodged in his throat and not a single word would surface. In any case, he didn't want to fight about it, not now, not until Dean was better. Eventually, though, there would be words.

Sam dug his hands in his hair and closed his eyes. So much hinged on everything going right tomorrow. If he pronounced one word wrong or painted one symbol off, he could blow the whole thing, he could put Dean in more danger. Even if he did everything perfectly, a lot of it would still depend on Dean's strength.

Sam knew his brother was strong, always had been—had always had to be. But he could see the weakness of Dean's body. The way he held onto supports when he stood, the careful, drunken steps he took, the palsy of his hands and the flush of fever in his cheeks.

At the restaurant earlier, Dean had checked out for several long minutes. Even scarier was the confusion in Dean's eyes once Sam had finally gotten his attention—he'd been lost, vacant. And that wasn't the first time it had happened. His brother was being swallowed into a different dimension inside out and his body was fighting a battle to keep him here. Like a cancer, it stole him a piece at a time.

The shower shut off and Sam rubbed a hand down his face, wiping away any trace of emotion. The door opened and steam rolled out in misty-moist swirls; Sam couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed that Dean probably used all the hot water. Given the shivers rocking Dean's body throughout the day, he was sure he didn't have any sense of water temperature. A fact confirmed when Dean came out blushed red from head to toe. Sam hurried to clean off his bed so Dean could have his.

Scrubbing one hand through his wet hair, Dean asked, "Need some help?"

"Nah, I got it." Sam haphazardly threw chalk, extra paints, candles and brushes into the plastic sack it had come in.

Dean nodded and pulled clean clothes from his duffle. Sam finished carefully packing the ingredients and notes into his duffle, giving Dean privacy to dress. By the time he finished, Dean was resting on his bed, swaddled in thick socks, sweatpants, a tee-shirt, and one of Sam's hoodies.

It was the same hoody Dean had borrowed after being electrocuted. The hoody accentuated the paleness of Dean's skin and the circles under his eyes like a death shroud. Sam didn't know why he kept the thing—it always reminded him of that time, the long trip to Nebraska, Dean hurting and struggling to catch his breath. He guessed because he knew Dean favored it—but seeing his brother wearing it now gave him a haunted feeling, it was like deja vu. Sam swallowed and looked away.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"Nervous about tomorrow?"

Sinking to sit, Sam sighed. "Aren't you?"

"No," Dean said with confidence. "You wanna know why?"

Sam waited, but when Dean didn't continue, he shook his head with a half-shrug. "Why?"

Voice hitting a lower register, Dean said, "Because, there's no one I trust more than you to get this right. I know you'll take care of me, Sammy."

Gob-smacked—humbled—Sam's emotions overrun his tight control. Blinking rapidly, he pressed his lips together and nodded. Dean would never know how much those words meant to him, especially now. If Dean believed that much in him, then it must be true.

"C'mon, man," Dean continued, "it's us. Who else could pull this off?" Dean smirked at Sam, faith and affection shining in his eyes.

Sam wished Dean would let him say the words he needed to say. He wished he could tell his brother this was exactly why he wasn't going anywhere. No one had more faith in him than his brother. Dean had a way of making Sam feel like he could do anything. No matter how crazy or how impossible, Dean made the barriers seem like they didn't exist, not when it came to the two of them.

Maybe for Dean, that's how it was. Sam knew Dean had been right all those times he'd said they were better as a team, covering each other's back—no way he'd let Dean hunt the demon on his own. He'd never forgive himself if something happened. For now, this life was where he wanted to be. He needed to find a way to convince Dean he meant it.

"Always better together, right?" Sam couldn't resist saying. Dean's expression turned introspective, like he was trying to read between the lines. Before it could turn to worry, Sam tried to lighten things by throwing Dean some bait he couldn't refuse. Walking toward the bathroom, he grumbled, "There'd better be some hot water left."

"Afraid you won't be able to double condition those flowing locks, Samantha?"

"Hey, man, the girls dig it, so don't knock it."

Sam made a show of running his hands through his hair and closed the door on Dean's laughter. This time, it was Sam trying to commit the moment to memory. Dean had the best laugh. When they'd been little, Sam had tried to make Dean laugh just to hear it. It was infectious and never failed to shake loose his own giggle. These days, Dean laughed rarely and Sam missed his brother's goofy cackle.

Amazingly, there was enough hot water for Sam to shower, though he had to hurry. When he came out, Dean had fallen asleep sitting propped against the headboard, all the lights on—like a little boy afraid of the monster under the bed, but unable to keep awake.

Sam shook his head. He dressed and dried his hair before turning off all the lights but the one between their beds. Sitting on his bed facing Dean, he debated whether he should try to wrestle Dean into a more comfortable position. He decided on shifting him down only a little, not wanting to risk waking him up.

Having done everything that needed to be done, Sam sat on the edge of the bed again. He bit at a cuticle and bounced his knee—too antsy to sleep. Digging his notes out of the duffle, he decided to go over everything a couple more times. An hour later and he had put aside his notes in favor of some last minute research. Dean had grown increasingly restless over the last fifteen minutes, signs of another oncoming nightmare. It was strange how Dean hadn't had one bad dream while in the Impala—of course, he never slept long enough to get into a deep sleep, either.

Dean's breathing picked up, soft murmurs of distress surfacing more frequently. Sam put his laptop aside and reached across the beds, hand landing on top of Dean's. His brother's skin blazed feverishly—that's all Sam registered before heat flashed through his own body. His head swam in dizzy circles and his stomach swooped for a second. His breath caught in his throat when everything stilled, his surroundings clarifying. He knew this scene so well, had lived it so many times in his own nightmares.

Except… instead of lying on the bed looking up, he stood by the bed—a bed full of unrecognizable, burning bones. What the—?

Drops of blood splashed his shoulder and with dread he looked up. A horrified gasp caught in his chest when his eyes met Dean's anguished ones. It was so much worse than what he had expected. The blood raining down was his brother's, not Jessica's. Just like her, Dean had a bloody slice across his midsection and he was held firmly to the ceiling.

"Sam?" Dean whispered. His wide eyes flicked from the bed to Sam as if he was confused.

Before Sam could answer, fire burst from around Dean causing him to scream.

"No!" Sam heard himself cry out. "Dean!"

Sam scrambled onto the bed toward his brother—but firm tugs kept him from being able to reach Dean. Looking down, he found skeletal hands gripping him, holding him back.

"What the—" he voiced out loud this time.

As he struggled against the hold, Dean's hoarse voice boomed all around him.

"Sam, you have to wake up! You hear me? Don't help me, just get yourself outta here!"

Like hell, Sam thought. No way.

Ash floated through the air and fire caught all around them, smoke making it hard to breathe. Flames licked at his own skin, not close enough to burn, but close enough the heat stole his breath—made his eyes water. He heard Dean scream again and looked up to see his brother's clothing burning away, the skin bubbling on his hands.

"No!" Sam screams joined Dean's. "Please, stop it! Stop it!"

He fought frantically against the bony fingers clawing at him—and then she appeared. Jess, floating right above him, looking at him with such sadness. Could she see him?

"Jess! Let him go! Please, you're killing him."

She reached out and cupped his cheek, running her frozen hand down to his jaw. "It's not me. He's doing this."

"What?" Sam asked, not sure what she meant. Above, Dean's hoarse cries were growing weaker.

"Thinks he deserves it," she said, her eyes indicating Dean. "He won't listen. You have to make him listen."

"Make him listen? To what? Listen to what?" Sam asked. Dean had gone quiet and Sam's chest seized in sharp bumps—it was hard to make out her words over his thundering heart.

"Make him see. It's the only way to save him." Then she reached out and touched Sam's forehead.

Sam fell…

When he opened his eyes, he was on the floor. Beside him, Dean was rigid on the bed, straining against invisible bonds. Sam could smell the smoke and ash in his nostrils, phantom heatwaves gently tossed his hair. Scrambling up to the bed, he grabbed Dean by the shoulders and shook him.

"Wake up, Dean! Wake up!"

Dean's head twisted back in forth and he faintly chanted, "Sam, Sammy, no, no."

"Dean, I'm here! I'm not leaving you. Dean!"

Beneath his hands, Dean's clothes were hot as if pulled fresh from a dryer and his eyes widened. Would Dean burst into flame in the real world? Tripping and scrabbling, Sam fumbled the room's ice bucket from the dresser and took it to the bathroom to fill it up with water. Coming back in, he dumped the whole thing on Dean's head. Dean shot up from the bed spluttering and choking, but mercifully awake. His large eyes rounded with shock, his hands fisted in his bedding as his chest heaved. Sam grabbed a dry towel and tossed into Dean's lap.

"What the hell, Sam!"

"I had to wake you up, Dean. You wouldn't wake up." Sam heard fear in his own voice and clamped down on it. Dean didn't need that right now, he needed Sam to be calm, strong. Follow the example he'd been given.

Dean wrapped his fingers around the towel, but continued watching Sam, his face a gamut of emotion. "So, that was really you?"

"Yeah, man. I'm sorry. I touched your skin, and, like at Missouri's, I got pulled in." Sam sunk down by Dean's knees, unable to force his legs to move him any further than that.

"I thought that didn't work anymore." Dean swallowed, let his eyes drop.

Sam didn't know what to say to that. He shook his head from side to side, helpless to explain it.

Running the towel over his face and hair, Dean dried as much of the water away as he could, collapsed back on the damp pillows with a shiver.

Once Sam found his words, what came out wasn't what he intended. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? That every night when I close my eyes I spend it burning on the ceiling, watching you burn below me? C'mon. You don't need that. There was no point in telling you."

"You know," Sam said, "you carry too much on your own. This isn't the first time we've talked about this."

"And what good does talking do? It doesn't make the nightmares stop. It doesn't make me feel better knowing you have this mess inside your head too. How's that helping anyone?"

"I can listen, Dean. Sometimes…sometimes it helps just to have someone listen."

At Dean's skeptical grimace, he switched gears. "Okay, I get it…but there is something that might help."

Dean looked at him curiously. "Okay, go on."

"Before all that," Sam swirled his hand in Dean's direction, then glanced at his laptop, "I was researching ways to anchor souls—the souls of the living. I haven't found anything permanent, but, for tonight, maybe it'll give you enough peace to sleep." Sam's voice broke as he said, "I wish I could do more." He stared at his lap as he drew in a breath. Memory snippets flipped through his mind—a stacked deck of horror.

"Hey, you okay? What is it?"

"I smelt it, Dean. Even after I woke up, I could smell the smoke, the burning flesh."

Horrified, Dean shook his head. "Geez, Sammy."

"No wonder you can't sleep." Sam's eyes landed on Dean's hand held unconsciously around his stomach. "Look," Sam nodded at the hand. Dean held his hand out, surprise on his face. Minor burns lay in pink swatches across his skin up to the wrist.

"Damn." Dean squeezed his hand into a fist. "Hurts like son of a bitch."

Sam scooted closer and tugged at the covers around Dean's mid-section.

Dean slapped his hands. "DUDE!"

"No, Dean, stop! Let me see."

"I'm fine, there's no blood—"

"Then it won't matter if I look."

Finally, Dean gave in and let Sam pull the covers away and his shirt up. There, across his stomach was a red line. Dean had been right, there was no blood, but the light scratch of line across pale flesh convinced Sam there had been real blood loss—just not here.

"Do you lose blood like that every time," Sam asked. When Dean stared at his lap, balking, Sam barked, "Dean!"

"I don't know! Man—not like that's my main priority at the time. Maybe, I don't know."

Shaking his head, Sam whispered. "No wonder you're so weak."

Dean shoved his shirt back down and yanked the covers back into place. "I'm okay—I'm fine. So, what was it you wanted to try?"

Sam wanted to do an all-body inspection, but wasn't sure how to get Dean to cooperate.

"Sam, I'm not stripping for you. Even if you find more, what difference does it make? Let's focus on what we can do something about."

Sam needed to do something, something more than the spell he was about to explain, so he retrieved the med kit and bandaged Dean's burned hands as he spoke.

"Well, like I said, it's an anchor spell. If we can keep you anchored here, then maybe…maybe…We've already got what we need to do it—it's not permanent, but it might let you sleep."

"Alright," Dean looked at him, "I'm game. Hook me up."

Sam stood. "First, let's see if we can get you dry."

After Dean changed and dry pillows supported his back as he sat crossed legged, Sam dug into the bottom of his bag, drawing out an extra hoodie. This one gray with a Stanford logo emblazoned across the chest.

"Really?" Dean groused when he saw the logo.

Sam shrugged. "It's dry and its warm…and you'll fit in with all the other kids."

Scoffing, Dean frowned but took the hoodie and let Sam help him into it. "Okay, now what?"

"To start, we need blood." Sam took out his knife and made a small, shallow cut on his own arm. He gathered the tiny amount of blood and put in a small wooden bowl.

"Okay, now you."

He gestured at Dean who rolled his sleeve mid-forearm. Sam mixed their blood together and poured the tiniest amount of ink with the blood and stirred it well. When he had that done, he dug out an extra paintbrush he'd bought and looked at Dean.

"Now I paint this on the underside of your wrist."

Dean held his hand out, palm up. Sam took Dean's hand and rested it on his knee. Bending close, he carefully painted the foreign symbols on the pulse point of Dean's wrist, reciting the Latin words from his laptop. When he was done, he sat back.

"That should do it. Try not to smear it while it dries—as the ink fades, so does the anchor. In the morning, wash it off and it'll be completely broken. I'd leave it, but we don't want it interfering with our possession spell."

Dean looked at him skeptically. "You're sure this will work?"

Sam stood and put stuff away as he said, "I'm not 100% sure, but I think it will help." Turning to look at Dean he asked, "Whatta we got to lose?"

Dean's smirk was sardonic. "Good point."

Dean stretched his legs under the blankets, blinking sleepily. When Sam removed stuff from the bedside table between them and pulled it from between the beds, Dean asked, "Um, Sam? Thought we were sleeping, not rearranging the furniture?"

Blowing his bangs out of the way, Sam continued his mission, not saying a word, Dean's eyes following him the entire time. Once the space was cleared out, Sam pushed his bed next to Dean's. His brother arched a brow, ready to protest.

Before he could, Sam said, "I thought, you know, in case the anchor doesn't work, this way I can give you a shove without getting up and down all night."

Dean looked vaguely unsure at first, but finally scooted further under his bedcovers with a grunt.

"Fine, but breathe in that direction," Dean pointed away from him. Dean had developed a thing for keeping his breathing space clear, not wanting anything near his face. Sam chalked it up to waking up with a ventilator rammed down his throat.

"And stay on your bed."

Dean settled on his side facing Sam, as he did most nights. Sam shook his head and clicked off the light. Initially, he lay on his back, but every time he blinked, Dean was on the ceiling, screaming as his skin charred and smelled of burnt pork. Every time he closed his eyes, imaginary blood drip-dropped on his skin. No way was he ever sleeping on his back ever again, so he rolled to face Dean, deciding Dean could deal with it or turn over.

Even on his side, the scene played on a loop before Sam's eyes until he heard Jess's voice in his ears. Eyes flying open, Sam startled. He'd forgotten all about it. What was it she'd said to him? He walked himself back through the scenario, hoping it would jog his memory.

It's not me. He's doing this, she'd said. Thinks he deserves it. Make him listen. It's the only way to save him.

Sam drew a hand through his hair, careful to keep his breathing quiet and measured even as it caught in fear. She was giving him a warning. Okay, okay, Sam thought, think this through.

It's not me.

Jessica wasn't the one making Dean burn? That felt right.

He's doing this.

Thinks he deserves it.

Make him see.

It's the only way to save him.

But, make him see what? Why would Dean think he deserved to suffer like that? Guilt? Guilt about what, though? Sam had no idea. There were so many things Dean could be feeling guilty about—Aaron, bringing Sam back here, letting Dad go off without them…who knew what went on in Dean's head? How could Sam make him see anything if he didn't know what this was about?

It's the only way to save him, whispered through his mind. Sam's eyes crawled over Dean. The curve of his shoulder and hip, the edges of him lifting and falling in breath. His brother had already fallen asleep, judging by the light snoring. Dean'd had trouble staying awake all day, catnapping or dazing through most of their trip. It's almost like he couldn't stay awake. And that thought made Sam's heart freeze then jump into rapid beats that hurt. Jumping up, he grabbed the salt canister out of a duffle and made a circle around Dean's bed the best he could—just in case.

Feeling small and young, Sam climbed back in bed, keeping his eyes on Dean, glued to the rise and fall of him—like so many nights when they'd come back from hunts and Dean couldn't stay alert or Dad had said Dean "just needed rest" but with concern poorly hidden in his eyes.

"Sam," Dean's baritone scratched out, "M'fine. Go to sleep."

"Sorry, thought you were asleep."

"Don't be sorry, just be well-rested. And I was, but your thinking woke me up. You need to sleep, too. Okay?"

Sam thought that was it, but then Dean said softly, "I'm not checking out without a fight. I'll still be here in the morning."

Sam nodded against his pillow, forcing out a small, "'k."

Scooting closer to the edge of his bed, Sam closed his eyes and let Dean's soft breaths be his soundtrack. The rhythm of his childhood and so many nights since. It wasn't long before Sam was lulled into a fitful, dream-riddled sleep.

WCAWCAWCA

"Hey, Sam, wake up." A sturdy hand shook his shoulder. "C'mon, dude, can't sleep all day."

Sam blinked gritty eyes against the stabbing light filtering into the room. Rolling onto his back, he hooked an arm over his face and sighed.

"Rough night?" Dean asked.

"Mmmm," Sam groaned.

"That bad, huh?" Dean said with cheerfulness a man in his position should not be able to muster. "Well, maybe this will help."

The strong aroma of heavily sugared and carameled coffee tempted his nose, enticing his mouth into watering. Then, the breeze of something else being wafted under his nose. Smelled like pecan pancakes with maple syrup. Sam's eyes popped open to see a white foam container being held under his nose. Looking further up, his eyes landed on Dean's, bright mirth flashing through them. Sitting, he stretched his arms over his head, bending his toes down. His jaw cracked as he yawned. When he could see again, Dean was setting the extra-large caramel latte and breakfast-filled container on the little table. Laptop and everything else cleared away. Next to it sat a smaller container that was still closed and a second extra-large coffee. No doubt black.

"I thought we could use a good breakfast today," Dean said, looking a little bashful about the thoughtful gesture.

"Smells great. I haven't had pecan pancakes in forever."

"Yeah," Dean looked over, his brows bouncing. "They used to be your favorite."

"Second only to blueberry," Sam said, pushing his legs over the edge of the bed. "You got your appetite back?" he asked, moving to join Dean at the table.

"Uhh, well," Dean scratched the back of his neck as he sat. "Not really. But I didn't want you to eat alone." Dean popped open his container to reveal two pieces of toast and a small serving of scrambled eggs garnished with one slice of crispy bacon.

Picking up the bacon, Dean held it out, "You want this? I don't have an appetite for burnt meat right now."

"Yeah, not surprising." Sam took the meat and dumped it in the trash. "Me, either, strangely enough."

Dean huffed a soft laugh, the crinkles at his eyes making an appearance.

Sam scooted his chair closer to the table and sat back with his coffee. "Why are you in such a good mood?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugged, "guess I got a good night's sleep thanks to my genius little brother."

Breakfast gestures, fancy coffee, and compliments, Sam ticked off mentally. All signs of a scared Dean. Always when Dean was his most afraid, he'd lavish Sam with gestures and presents as a distraction. It was like some Pavlovian response to fear. Dean's scared, Dean turns up the best-big-brother-ever dial. Like taking care of Sam eased his fear.

Sam let Dean have his false cheerfulness, he deserved it. Deserved more. Sam squinted at the window, pretended that ever present sting in his eyes was the bright light. This plan was gonna work. It was. Dean's effort was unnecessary. The weight of that thought caused him to pause. That was wrong, though, wasn't it? No kind and gentle moment between them was ever wasted or unnecessary.

Looking over at his brother, who was currently scowling at his eggs, Sam said, "Thanks. I appreciate this." Sam gave him a wide grin, but it froze on his face when he saw the reddened skin on the left side of Dean's cheekbone—a new burn.

The smile fell away. "Dean, what?" Sam pointed at the blistered area.

Dean's own smile dropped like a stone as his hand lifted to touch the burn. "Yeah. Yeah. I guess maybe there was at least one dream early this morning. But it wasn't so bad. It wasn't."

Yeah, right.

"Did you go back to sleep. You know, after?"

Dean sighed. "Can we not talk about it? Please? Let's have a nice breakfast for a change. While it's still hot."

Swallowing, Sam nodded. "Yeah, yeah, you're right." He made a show of picking up his coffee, taking a hesitant sip of the lava-hot drink. He forced himself to concentrate on the silky flavor of caramel and the bittersweet tang of the coffee and sugar. Forced himself to smile as he took a bite of pancake, the flavor barely even registering. Watched Dean do the same, spooning in a mouthful of egg.

Dean leaned over his plate when a piece got away from him and barely made it back into the foam dish. As he slumped over the table to help its trajectory, a wash of light from behind caught on the blond hairs that mixed in with the browns and reds, making the light around Dean's head diffuse in a soft golden halo and, for just a second, he seemed made of light and nothing else. Dean sat back and the shadows once again made his hair the same bland brown Sam was used to—solid and present. Sam blinked, then blinked again.

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head and shrugged. "Nothing. Just, I don't know. Weird morning already."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, looking genuinely interested. "How so?"

Shrugging again, Sam evaded. No way he'd tell Dean what he'd just seen. "Just not how I pictured the morning going."

Sipping his coffee with a grimace, Dean made a circling motion with his finger, the universal sign for 'go on.'

"Well, for one, I expected to be the one waking you." Sam turned to look at the alarm clock. "I slept late…" he let that trail off when he realized it was nearly noon. "Like, really late—I haven't slept in like this…can't even remember."

"You were tired," Dean dismissed. "Long day and longer night."

"And here's breakfast…all my favorites…and we're both pretending there's not a huge pink elephant in the room."

Dean's eyes darted away. "I thought we weren't going to talk about it?"

"We're not. I'm down with the pretending—like, giddy with pretending. Isn't that weird?" He laughed, but less with mirth and a more with panic. "Listen to me, I sound like a crazy person."

"Sam, stop." Dean set aside his fork and fisted the napkin in his left hand. "Just…" Dean heaved a deep breath, ran a hand through his short hair, making it stick up.

Looking at Dean, Sam said quietly, "I'm sorry?"

Dean leaned in close as he could get, eyes locking on Sam's. "No, don't apologize. You're scared. I know, I am too. But, let's enjoy this—right now." Dean jabbed the table with his finger. "Whatever happens, happens, Sam. I trust you and you gotta trust me. The rest is…beyond our control," Dean tossed the fisted paper into the trash can. "But right here, right now, we're a coupla dudes enjoying breakfast, okay?"

Sam nodded, his burden lightened a fraction by the honesty in Dean's words and the confidence in his eyes. Okay, breakfast, he could do that. He picked his fork up and sliced through the whipped cream decorating the edge of his stack, dragged the cake through the syrup and stuffed it in his mouth. Dean watched him for a few more seconds before his shoulders relaxed and he picked up his plastic knife and slathered strawberry jam onto his toast.

"Do you want to go by the hospital later?" Dean asked.
"Mmm-hmm," Sam mumbled around his mouthful of food. "I made a protective medicine bag for Aaron—little extra good luck."

"Medicine bag?" Dean's brows rose.

Nodding, Sam shrugged. "Didn't figure it could hurt. Jay taught me how to make one. It contains a moonstone, a piece of serpentine, a little feverfew, an ostrich feather, a kernel of corn, a dried bean and a squash seed."

"You had all that with you?" Dean grimaced as he swallowed another bite of eggs.

"Most of it I already had, the moonstone I bought yesterday." Sam watched Dean poke the eggs with his fork, rolling a clump over and cutting it in half. "You know, you don't have to eat it all. The toast is better than nothing."

"It's like eating cardboard," Dean grumbled. "Even the jam. Nothing has any flavor."

Sam reached across and forked the lump Dean had been playing with. Popping it into his mouth, the salty-butter flavor of the scrambled egg slid over his tongue. "Tastes fine to me—actually, pretty good."

Dean took one of the slices of toast and pushed his food toward Sam. "Help yourself. I'll gag if I keep going."

"So, none of your food has flavor?" Sam asked, already halfway through his pancakes. "Is that why you're not eating?"

Dean absently scratched his chin. "That's part of it. It doesn't taste like anything—like, if I didn't feel it on my tongue, I wouldn't even know it was there. And if I eat much, it sits in my stomach like a rock."

"Hmm," Sam hummed thoughtfully.

Clearing his throat, Dean leaned back in his chair, one of his feet bumping into Sam's. Looking up, he caught Sam's eye and smiled again. Sam smiled back, but it must've been wobbly, because Dean's slipped away and his eyes filled with concern.

"You're right, this was stupid." Dean rocked forward into his seat again. "I know I can't expect you to act like this is nothing. And, I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry about Jess, about all of it."

"No, Dean, you're right, whatever happens happens and no amount of going over it will make things different…just..."

"Just what?" Dean said when the silence went on too long.

"It's okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Whatever it is, whatever you're thinking you should feel guilty about—stop. It's okay."

Dean fidgeted, but didn't try to evade Sam's direct gaze. "Easier said than done."

"I know," Sam nodded. "But, please, Dean. Try."

Lifting his shoulders and spreading his hands out, Dean said, "Okay. I'm not sure what this is all about, but okay. I'll try."

Sam pushed away from the table. "Well, I'm stuffed."

"You should be, Jethro." Dean grinned as he nodded toward the empty containers.

"Har-har, very funny. I'm gonna get dressed." Sam stood, clearing the trash away. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean kept his eyes on the empty cup he was spinning.

"After the hospital, we'll still have some time to kill. You wanna go over everything one more time."

Dean pursed his lips and dipped his head. "Actually, I thought maybe we'd go see the ocean."

Sam paused, taken by surprise. Slowly, the idea filtered through and he nodded. "Yeah. That sounds perfect." A day at the beach—why hadn't he thought of it?

Sam dressed quickly and then he and Dean packed everything they'd need into the Impala's trunk. They stopped by the hospital for a brief visit, hid the healing medicine bag in Aaron's room, and hit the road headed toward the coast.

WCAWCAWCA

Dean scooted down in the passenger's seat and lifted his face to the sun, breathing in the fresh, salty air while Zepp played over the speakers. All things considered, he was a lucky man. His brother still wore a bright smile and his car rumbled beneath his fingertips. The beach had been amazing. The day had been sunny and perfect—it was an alright day. If it had to be his last, he'd be okay with that.

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An hour later, Sam pulled up in front of the apartment complex. Dean had fallen asleep again and was slumping toward him, one hand splayed on the seat between them and the other casually draped over his stomach. The fresh air, the fun in the sun—or maybe it was the distance—had done Dean some good. A little color had returned to his face and his eyes had been brighter.

Watching his brother wade along the water's edge, pants rolled up mid-calf had been worth the trip. Sam had pointed out the different birds and other wildlife and told Dean what he knew about each thing—and Dean had listened carefully to each detail. While Sam sat in the sand and soaked in the sunshine, Dean had picked up seashells as he walked along the foam, looking each one over before tossing them into the surf. One particular shell caught his attention and he kept turning it over and over in his fingers. When Sam had called his name, he had stuffed it in his pocket.

The weather on the beach had been cool with an impending weather system moving in, temps in the lower sixties. Sam had worried about it a little, carefully tracking the tiny shivers shaking Dean's shoulders, but he told himself Dean's wasn't a natural cold and therefore wasn't affected by the actual climate.

Now that they were here, ready to get on with the show, nervous butterflies flipping through his stomach. He sat for a while, one hand gripping the keys still in the ignition and the other wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. He forced slow breaths in and out and struggled against the utter dread threatening to take over. So many things would and could change after this night. One of his friends would be revealed as a traitor, his girlfriend would be free to move on to whatever lay beyond this earth and his brother would either be free or…

Sam quickly turned to Dean, lay his hand on Dean's warm arm and shook him. "Dean, we're here."

Dean jerked awake, coming alive immediately and looking around.

"We're here," Sam repeated.

Relaxing, Dean wiped a hand across his face and cracked a yawned. He slowly pushed himself up and looked over at Sam, his eyes flickering over Sam head to toe before settling. "You ready?"

Sam steeled himself. "Yeah. You?"

"Always." Dean shot him a grin and climbed out of the car.

When Dean stumbled trying to shoulder the heavy bag, Sam patiently peeled it from him and handed him the lighter pack. Ignoring Dean's glare, he pocketed the keys and lead the way. Dean caught up to him after a minute, saying, "I could've carried it, you know."

"Maybe, but the closer we get to that place, the more you'll be affected—so don't even argue with me about it, okay?"

Dean huffed, but didn't deny it. Entering the front doors, Sam kept a close eye on his brother. Already the color he'd gained from the beach seemed to be draining away.

As soon as they hit the staircase, Dean paused, winced as he sucked in a breath. Sam touched his shoulder and Dean nodded and pressed forward. Sam stuck close behind him, his own body whipcord tight. Dean kept going, pausing every little bit to take a shaky breath or press a hand to his temple. Inside, Sam was as unsteady as Dean looked—kept waiting for the proverbial shoe—or his brother—to drop.

By the time they reached Becky's apartment, Dean's face shined with sweat. Sam rapped sharply on the door and stood with his shoulder tucked behind Dean's. Through their clothing, Dean vibrated, tiny, insistent tremors—but on the outside, Dean was standing tall, shoulders and face relaxed. Sam closed his eyes and sent up a prayer, hoping someone up there was listening.

Becky answered the door and greeted them with a nervous, "Hey, you made it."

"Yeah." Sam smiled at her, tried to look confident. "Everyone here?"

Stepping back to let them in, she said, "Everyone but Chris. He texted a minute ago he's on his way."

Together they moved into the living area where Nathan and Lori were nursing sodas in tall, ice-filled glasses. Sam touched Dean's elbow when he stopped in front of him. Dean turned and glanced at him, took a seat on the empty couch.

"Hey, guys," Lori greeted them.

Sam watched her eyes studying Dean with careful scrutiny, knowing this time it was out of concern and not romantic interest. He should apologize to her for the way he'd acted at the motel. Sam was so used to the way girls usually leered at his brother that he sometimes forgot Dean also had a unique ability to bring out the mother in some women.

There was no doubt in Sam's mind that Lori was attracted to Dean, but it was superseded by genuine concern for him. For reasons known only to her, she obviously cared about what happened to Dean. A part of Sam believed that Dean must have similar feelings. The quiet respect he gave her and the trust he'd put in her to take care of him when he was at his most vulnerable—it wasn't a side of Dean he was used to seeing. Not that Dean was ever disrespectful, but, usually, Dean treated women with a confidence Sam could only pretend at. A flirty and confident veneer—but with Lori, he was quiet, subdued.

Sam's guilt for the thoughts he'd had and for the things he'd said to both of them weighed on him. It also made him sad knowing Dean wouldn't allow himself to be with Lori.

Rising from her seat, Lori asked, "Dean? Can we talk a minute?" She nodded toward the kitchen and didn't wait to see if Dean followed.

Shooting Sam a look, Dean pushed up and followed her. With his back to the kitchen area when he sat, Sam couldn't see them, but he tried to listen in with one ear as Becky took Lori's chair and exchanged looks with him.

"Dean Winchester, you look worse than the last time I saw you! What have you been doing to yourself?" he overheard. "You're sweating rivers—look at your hands shaking and when did you get a new burn? Oh my word, are you still running a fever!?"

Lori's voice went from hushed to plainly out loud.

"Be right back," Nathan stood suddenly and bee-lined for the bathroom.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Becky who looked as bewildered as he did. The tension in the room seemed tangible, everyone acting nervous and jumpy even though Sam and Dean hadn't said a word yet. They must be projecting some kind of vibe or…

"What did you tell them?" Sam asked Becky.

Shrugging, she said, "Nothing, really. Just that you and Dean thought you knew what was going on and wanted to talk to us. That you had a plan you wanted to go over…and maybe you needed our help."

"Help? Yeah, but—"

"Dean!" he heard behind him and twisted to look. Lori was holding Dean by the arms and his brother was lifting a hand to his temple, giving a shake of his head.

"I'm okay," Dean mumbled to her.

"Right. You know, I'll bet Sam wishes he had a dollar for every time you say that," Lori was grumbling as she took his elbow and steered him back toward the couch. "Sit," she demanded and he did. Dean leaned back against the couch with his eyes closed.

"You okay?" Sam asked, alarm tweaking his nerves.

Lori and Dean answered at the same time.

"No."

"Yes."

Lips twisting with rising ire, Lori said, "You're breathing fast and shallow and I can see your heart rate soaring in your neck, Dean. I don't even have to take your vital signs to know your blood pressure is high."

Peeking at her through slitted eyelids, Dean smirked. "It's you, baby. You got me all hot and bothered."

Sam did not expect the high-pitched braying laugh that escaped Lori and he stared at her. Evidently, the tension had everyone on edge and acting a little crazy.

"I wish," she said. Lori sat next to Dean and tried valiantly to get a hand on his forehead. "Seriously, Dean, you need to take better care of yourself."

The minute her hand settled on his brow, Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but—"

Interrupted by a knock on the door, Dean took a breath and sat up a little straighter, dislodging Lori's attempt to assess his fever.

"It's probably Chris," Becky said over her shoulder as she went to answer it.

"Lori," Sam said, worry thick in his gut, "what are you thinking?"

She stared at Dean and he stared back. "I think," she began slowly, "that if your brother was anyone else, I'd be insisting they get checked out in ER right now." She looked over at Sam then. "But, I also know that this isn't something a doctor can fix…so I'll follow your lead on this. But I would feel better if he'd at least drink a bottle of water. Keeping hydrated helps keep heart rate and blood pressure stable."

Sam nodded. It couldn't hurt.

Lori leaned in close to Dean. "Whatever he brings, you drink. Got me?"

When Becky came back through, Chris following behind, Sam immediately stood to meet her.

"You got a bottle of water we could have?"

Shaking her head, she said, "No, but I can get you a Gatorade."

"That'll work," Sam said as he went to follow her.

Chris's hand shot out to grab his arm as he passed. "Hey, wait a minute."

Sam relaxed and Chris let go of his arm. "What's up?"

"I did what you told me. She was pretty freaked when I called and told her what you wanted, but we have it."

"Yeah, I'm getting the idea she's still freaked—she's freaking me out a little." They both shot a look toward Lori still doting on Dean. Now he knew why her eyes looked a little wild. "Thanks, man." Sam clapped a hand on Chris's shoulder.

Chris looked at him worriedly. "You think it'll come to that," he said, his eyes cutting a quick glance to Dean and back.

Scoffing, Sam said, "Knowing our luck? Yeah." He met Chris's eyes.

"God, Sam," he breathed. "What are you guys planning?" When Sam hesitated, Chris rolled his eyes. "You know you can trust me. Whatever it is, whoever is behind it, you know it ain't me."

Sam nodded. He hoped that was true, but he couldn't take any chances. Instead he said, "I know, but it's complicated and I'd rather explain it to everyone at once."

Chris let that sit between them for a few seconds and nodded. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"I'll be okay as long as he's okay. Something's eating at him and its making matters worse. He's not talking to me about it, which means it's about me or about protecting me from something."

"Any idea what?" Chris shifted nervously, drew a thumb under his lip—one of his guilty tells—remorseful eyes darting toward Dean. The hairs along Sam's nape raised. What did he have to feel guilty for? He obviously thought he knew something about Dean feeling guilty. Maybe he'd instigated it.

"No, but I'm going to find out."

Chris gathered himself quickly and nodded. "Well, good luck, man. Whatever happens, I've got your back."

With that, he moved into the living room with the others and Sam went to the kitchen to see what was keeping Becky.

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In the restroom, Nathan was splashing water on his face, breathing through the space between his palms. Sick nerves made his stomach dance. Lori hadn't explained much, but what she'd told him had been enough to scare him witless. Whatever the Winchesters were planning, he really, really didn't want any part of it. What if they made things worse simply by being here? What if they brought that thing here and it killed them all? What if?

He took another deep breath and tried to think calming thoughts as he breathed in slowly and out slowly. He couldn't hide in here all night, though he wanted to. Wiping his face and hands dry, he looked at himself in the mirror until his heartbeat calmed.

TBC…