Hiiii! I'm back! I wrapped up the second draft of my novel this morning before work yay! i'm beyond sleep deprived and exhausted and it's a million degrees and i don't have AC but I went prowling through my files to find something to post! Found this little fic I'd written a very long time ago and am happy to share it and get back into posting SPN stories! I hope you enjoy!

Butterfly Bandages and Bad Dreams

"You got yourself kidnapped." Dean was just concussed enough that the whole thing was actually kind of funny now.

"I didn't get myself kidnapped," Sam replied with a great deal of indignation considering he had gotten himself kidnapped.

Dean pondered the situation while Sam continued to clean up the gash on his head. It hurt. Pretty much everything hurt, but they were both alive and hadn't been eaten by psychopaths, so the pain was relative. Even so, Sam's gentle yet torturous attempts to provide first aid had the room and Dean's thoughts drifting in and out of focus. After an interminable amount of time, his sluggish brain cells refocused on what they'd been discussing.

"Alright," he said as Sam butterfly bandaged his face back together, "I'll give you that."

"Give me what?" Sam asked, his voice thoughtfully soft.

"You didn't get myself kidnapped."

"What?" Now Sam was frowning while somehow looking amused at the same time.

It took a minute for Dean to sort through what he'd said and what he'd meant to say. Waving a hand dismissively, he said, "I'll give you that you didn't get yourself kidnapped. You didn't do it on purpose."

Sam snorted, wiping his hands on a towel.

"But you did get kidnapped," Dean insisted, somehow needing to win this argument.

Why, he wasn't sure. In the grand scheme of things, it was kind of a stupid thing to be worrying about. But he was worried. He was worried because someone had snatched his little brother from a parking lot and then almost...he shook his head and then groaned at the sharp pain.

"Hold still." Sam's hand was on his shoulder. "Don't shake your head. Don't move. How bad is it?"

Dean wasn't the only one who was worried, apparently. Concussed or not, he could hear the distinct note of strain in his brother's tone. He wanted to brush it off. Wanted to say he was fine and dandy and the headache wasn't really that bad; wasn't making him so nauseated that he was probably going to be throwing up soon.

Instead, he asked, "They didn't try to eat you, did they?"

Sam's eyes went wide and he froze for a second, before laughing.

"What? It's...it was a possibility." Dean tried to breathe carefully because that whole throwing up thing was becoming more of an immediate threat.

"They didn't try to eat me. Are you going to throw up? Wait. Did they try to eat you? "

"No. And...no. But they were thinkin' 'bout it."

"Uh huh."

A bucket appeared in his hands without him ever noticing movement.

Staring down at it, he swallowed hard and said, "Not gonna throw up."

"Ok good. Well, you can just hold that for a minute while I clean things up."

Dean gripped the edges of the trash can and kept his gaze on the bottom because Sam's movements were making him dizzy. He'd felt bad since - well, since he'd gotten bashed in the freakin' head by some crazy hillbillies - but it seemed to be worsening by the second which didn't seem fair. He was sitting on the lumpy motel bed with the blood cleaned off him and his face stuck back together with butterfly bandages, and a load of Tylenol on board.

Why was it now that he was feeling so awful?

"I know," Sam said from somewhere to the right, his voice heavy with sympathy.

"Know what?" Dean risked lifting his eyes to look at his brother.

Sam was standing a few feet away, shoulders slumped, not having changed out of his filthy clothes or cleaned up at all. He looked exhausted and worried and maybe just a little traumatized.

"Know you feel awful," Sam explained, turning off some of the lights now that he had finished surgery.

It took a sluggish minute before Dean realized he must have been talking aloud. He licked dry lips and said, "I'm fine. Take a shower."

"Lean back." Sam appeared at his side, gently pushing him down against the pillows. "Try to rest."

It was like someone had poured cement over Dean's eyes. He didn't know how he would ever get them open again. Sam's voice was guiding him into sleep and he was more than ready to surrender to darkness.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" Dean groaned. He wasn't going to get any rest if his brother kept yammering.

"Let go."

"Go of what?"

Sam snickered. "My wrist."

A jostling movement alerted Dean to the fact he was somehow, strangely enough, gripping his little brother's wrist. Without trying to open his eyes, he muttered, "Don't get kidnapped again."

"I won't."

Whatever had cemented his eyes closed must have done something to his fingers because he couldn't get them to release.

"I promise." Sam patted his chest, tugging his wrist free. "I'll be here when you wake up and I'll make sure you don't faceplant in your own puke."

Dean groaned. "Don't say puke."

"Go to sleep."

Big brother instincts were outweighed by a concussed brain and Dean fell asleep.

Between the medications, the pain, and good old fashioned exhaustion, Dean had slept deep and hard. Even as he'd given in to the darkness of sleep, though, there'd been the niggling awareness that it wasn't going to last. That sooner than he would have preferred, he would be yanked back to awareness.

He'd expected nightmares. Tonight and the next night and the next hundred in a row he expected to wake up in a cold sweat, teeth clenched to hold back a scream. He'd seen plenty of horrors in his life, but the worst horror was always what he didn't see.

His little brother.

More specifically, his little brother not where he expected him to be.

Walking out of the bar and realizing Sam was missing - not just gone to a convenience store across the street for a newspaper; not just made a side trip to the bathroom; not just taking a little stroll around in the moonlight but truly, actually missing - had been a waking nightmare he wouldn't recover from anytime soon. He'd understood in that moment what parents felt when their kid wasn't in their sightline. It wasn't the first time he'd felt that, of course, but this wasn't exactly something where practice made perfect.

The physical injuries he'd sustained would fade into nothingness before he'd be able to come to terms with the fact that his brother had been kidnapped by a family of insane murderers and he had almost been too late to save him.

Didn't matter what the situation was or how old they were, it wasn't going to change. It was the prerogative of an older child, Dean firmly believed, to worry about their younger sibling if they weren't where they were supposed to be. If he didn't see Sam when and where he expected to see him, Dean was going to worry, that's all there was to it.

So when he woke up in the middle of the night and Sam wasn't in the other bed, Dean worried.

Well, to be more precise, he freaked the hell out.

He woke up in a cold sweat, just as he'd expected; his teeth clenched to hold back a scream, just as he'd expected. Eyes opening to a motel room lit too brightly by the neon signs of a truckstop next door, Dean sucked in a gasping breath. It took a bit longer than usual for the pieces to slide back into place. Being concussed and drugged left him sluggish and struggling to fully wake up.

A rapid glance around the all too familiar form of a generic motel room assured him he was not about to be gutted and carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. His teeth ached, not just from the way he was clenching them, but also from the memory of the jars of teeth that had been proudly displayed on a shelf. Running his tongue over his teeth, a small degree of fear ebbed at the discovery that all of his pearly whites were still in two neat rows right where they belonged.

Of course, that was when he turned his head to the right and found that something else - something far more important than his teeth - wasn't where it belonged.

"Sam?" It came out a bit quiet, a bit slurred with lingering fatigue and concussion, but when his brain registered the bed was empty, the next time he said it, it came out as a shout.

Calm, rational thought fled to another time zone and panic had him on his feet, wide awake and wavering, with his Colt in his hand in a heartbeat. He shouted his brother's name again while doing a two-second visual sweep of the room. It was empty, he wasn't imagining that. Sam's bed was a mess of twisted sheets. There was a pillow on the floor between the beds and the puce-paisley (puce-ley?) ugly comforter was half on the floor, too. A good night's sleep hadn't been in the cards for either of them and he must have a worse head injury than he'd realized for Sam to have been that restless and him not even hear the bed squeak once.

The two-second visual sweep concluded when he heard movement in the bathroom.

Heart nearly jumping out of his chest, Dean simultaneously chided himself for being stupid and not thinking about the possibility that perhaps Sam had just gone to the bathroom instead of being snatched out of his bed by some phantom cannibal, while also worrying anew at the fact his brother hadn't responded to his shouting.

Bathroom trips were acceptable. Being ignored was not.

He wavered his way toward the bathroom, adrenaline keeping him moving despite the pain that was now seeking his attention. The bathroom door wasn't closed and, over the panic-buzz fading from his ears, he could hear his brother. He wasn't in the bathroom to get a drink of water or take a leak.

No, instead of anything so simple, Sam was in there throwing up everything he'd eaten for dinner last night.

Sighing, panic finally beginning to drain out of him, Dean paused to take a couple steadying breaths. He'd expected the nightmares and had no delusions that Sam was merely suffering from a bout of food poisoning.

They weren't that lucky.

He set his Colt on the nightstand then leaned against the door jamb and peered into the bathroom. The truckstop lights were even brighter back here, illuminating the scene ahead of him. It was worse than he'd expected.

Sam was more than just losing his supper over a nightmare; he looked like he was having a panic attack of his own. Shaking violently, and gasping more than breathing, Sam didn't look up as Dean called his name again. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat, his skin washed out with a corpse-like pallor, and there were tears streaming down his face.

Concern ratcheting up, Dean stepped closer.

"Sam?"

Even as soft as his voice had been, Sam jumped like an explosion had gone off. He looked up and there was nothing but blind terror in his eyes. Like he didn't recognize where he was or who was talking to him.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, approaching him cautiously. "Are you awake?"

"Dean?" It was less than a whisper and filled with doubt, but at least he was talking.

"Yeah, it's me. You with me?

Sam stared at him blankly. He was responsive, barely, but it was clear he was still locked in whatever nightmare had pulled him from sleep. Straightening up from the toilet, he put his hand out to catch himself as he listed to the side. Dean reached out to provide some support.

It was the wrong thing to do and nearly got him clocked in the teeth.

He pulled back just fast enough to avoid the blow as Sam lunged toward him. Shocked, he crouched against the wall as Sam struggled to his feet and stumbled out of the bathroom.

He was well acquainted with his brother's nightmares, but Dean knew that whatever this nightmare was about, it was taking things to a whole new level. He pushed himself up, swaying for a few seconds, hand planted against the counter. When his vision cleared, he looked for his brother and found the motel door wide open; chilly night air flooding inside.

"Sam!"

The entire motel probably heard his shout but he didn't care. He didn't care about his blinding headache or the fact he was making a ruckus or that it was the middle of the night. All he cared about was finding his brother. Again.

"Sam, where the -" he broke off as he reached the motel door and found his brother standing in the middle of the parking lot.

He was just standing there. Breaths harsh and too fast, like he couldn't get enough air. His body was still shaking continuously and the likelihood he would be able to stay on his feet seemed to be dwindling with every passing second.

"Sam?" Dean called his name for what seemed like the tenth time.

"Dean." Sam turned toward him, still unsteady, but not falling over. Yet.

"We gonna try this again? You with me?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm… I'm…" his voice trailed off as he ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Eyes fluttering disturbingly, he swallowed hard and said, "I couldn't...I couldn't get out."

"Get out?" Dean asked, stepping closer and daring to put out his hand against Sam's shoulder to steady him. This time he didn't get a flinch or a punch in response which was a good sign. "You're out of the motel room."

Sam shook his head, his muscles tight under Dean's grip. Still a flight risk, then. Dean tightened his grip, fully prepared to manhandle his brother to the ground if that was what it took to keep him from bolting.

"Not the room. Out of the…" Sam squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head so hard Dean's head gave a sympathetic pulse of pain. "I woke up and it was like I was ...in a... cage ."

Finally. A sentence. A complete sentence with a complete, lucid, fully formed thought. More or less. Things were looking up.

"Alright." Dean tugged on his brother's arm. "Well, you're not there, you're here and here's freezing and it's the middle of the night, so let's go back inside, ok?"

Sam stared at him like he was speaking gibberish, drew in a deep, steadying breath, then nodded.

Taking his own breath of relief, Dean headed back toward the door without letting go of his brother's arm. Sam moved without hesitation, but Dean wasn't in a trusting mood. He also wasn't in the mood to be standing around in a motel parking lot to have whatever conversation was ahead of them.

"Alright, sit down," he said, pushing his brother toward the nearest chair.

Sam slumped into the chair, running his hands over his face.

Dean leaned against the door, twisting the lock with a shaking hand. For a long moment, he just stood there, trying not to fall over.

"Are you ok?" Sam looked up at him.

"Am I ok?" Dean asked incredulously. He wavered his way to the other chair and tried not to look like he collapsed into it. "I'm great."

"You just fell into the chair." Sam rested his arm on the table.

"And you just had a full on panic attack."

"It was not a full on panic attack."

"You're right." Dean nodded even though it made his head swim. "You didn't scream like a little girl."

Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Just a weird dream is all."

"Nightmare. Based on what you went through in reality like twelve hours ago."

Instead of nodding in agreement with the analysis, Sam said, "It wasn't…"

"Wasn't?" Dean waved a hand. "I'm tired, Sam."

"It wasn't a nightmare. I mean it was. But…" Sam broke off, shaking his head. He leaned forward in his chair, staring at his hands. "It was more-"

"More than a nightmare?" Dean's head was not up to dealing with this kind of puzzle. He leaned against the wall, fighting the urge to close his eyes because once he did that, he was a goner. "You're not gonna be able to sleep now, are you? You wanna watch TV or something?"

"More like a...vision," Sam said almost too softly for Dean to hear.

And boy did he wish he hadn't heard it.

He swallowed hard and said, "If it was a vision, it was kind of delayed, don't you think? What, now they're visions of the past instead of the future? That makes no sense. It was just a nightmare."

"It didn't feel like a nightmare."

"Well, it was. Come on, it's late. It's been a helluva day. Let's watch something stupid and get our minds off everything."

Sam's gaze was far away and more filled with terror than Dean was comfortable with, but he finally nodded. He cleared his throat, then said, "Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right."

"Of course I am," Dean proclaimed with a forced grin even though he had a strong suspicion he was probably very wrong.

They both rose and - with varying degrees of unsteadiness - made their way across the room. Dean flipped on the lamp between the beds to dispel some of the darkness, regardless of how much like a scared child it made him feel. If he wanted a little light to keep an eye on his brother, who could blame him? It wasn't like they were planning to sleep, anyway.

Dean eased himself back against a pile of pillows, his head screaming that sleep was actually a wonderful idea. He started to ask where the remote was, but keeping his mouth shut against a rush of nausea became a more important plan. His fingers twisted in the sheets and he had to close his eyes as a cold sweat broke out all over his body.

Things went a little fuzzy and then a cool cloth over his eyes roused him a bit.

"S'm?" His tongue was a dead weight in his mouth.

"Right here," Sam said, pulling a blanket up over him. "No, stay put."

The restraining hand against his chest was light as a feather, but Dean couldn't move.

"Just get some sleep, ok?"

"No." Dean shifted his head slightly, the cloth moving enough that he could peer up at his brother in the darkness. Sam had turned the lamp off at some point. "Stay up. 'm 'k."

"You're not ok."

"Neither 'r you." All his words were determined to slip together.

Sam lifted the cloth a bit more so Dean could see him better in the tangential lighting from outside. "Dean, you need to rest. I'm fine. Go to sleep."

The shattering pain in his head was almost enough for him to give in, but the horror of everything that had happened - everything that might have happened - held him captive just like those damned hillbillies had.

Sam sighed, readjusting the cloth to cover Dean's eyes before he moved away from the side of the bed.

Dean started to reach up to pull the cloth off, but his hand was grabbed and pressed back to his chest. He struggled to form a protest with a tongue that refused to cooperate, but before he could, the bed shifted on his other side. Dean stilled. The bedding rustled as Sam settled next to him.

Neither spoke.

He relaxed into the pillow as Sam moved just a bit closer, his breaths steady and reassuring against Dean's arm. Even if he hadn't been suffering from an explosive headache, Dean wouldn't have teased his brother. Sam was settled beside him for both their benefit. They were close enough to ensure each other's peace of mind and that was all they needed to leave the horrors behind them and fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Thank you for reading!