A/N

Picking up where we left off….

Sorry this took soooo long - not only did my office take about a week longer to complete than I expected, but I got sick in the middle of it, and I've been playing catch up every since!

Hopefully, I'll get the next chapter up more quickly.

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Sleepy-Time Motel

5329 IN-75

Camden, IN

Saturday

6:18 a.m.

Dean was just in the doorway of the bathroom when Sam gave a strangled cry of pain…

…and begin to bleed.

To Dean — who was in no way prone to exaggeration when his brother was sick or hurt, no matter what Bobby, Sam or Rick said — it seemed more like his brother was hemorrhaging. "SAM?!"

"I'm good, I'm good," Sammy assured him, his voice warped with pain and concentration. "Go get the stuff."

Reluctantly, Dean turned away, reminding himself that Sammy had unbound his healing power after getting shot in that crappy motel in the middle of Nebraska a couple months before.

He'd been with the kid pretty much 24/7 since, so there was no way Sam'd had the chance to bind them again. And, no matter how bad the scratches - okay, gouges - in Sammy's back were, they certainly weren't anything the kid couldn't heal, right?

Right, Dean told himself and went into the bathroom to pick up the first aid kit and supplies he'd left on the floor.

He froze, staring at the line of black goop that led from about two feet shy of the bathroom door, across the dingy floor, up the outside wall of the tub, down the inside wall and across the bottom of the tub to a couple tarry masses that might have once been a towel and a flannel shirt.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean stepped cautiously over the black ooze to pick up the first aid kit and looked at the surgical scissors lying where he'd left them on the floor beside the tub — and which were now covered in the same black ooze.

Ooze which was spreading — no, strike that, moving — from the scissors towards the main flow that was making a beeline to the door.

Dean froze as a tendril of tar broke off the main mass and headed straight for him for a moment — before rejoining the main flow and continuing on towards the door.

And Sammy.

"FUCK!" Dean grabbed up the first aid kit in one hand and the towel he'd laid some unused supplies on in the other, and quickly dumped the clean, uncontaminated supplies back into the first aid bag, before using the towel to gingerly pick up the surgical scissors.

He stared for a few seconds at the shallow holes in developing the dingy tile where the scissors had been, then forced himself to get on with the task at hand.

He shoved the first aid kit under one arm and picked up the nearly full jug of holy water in the other. He stepped carefully over the ooze again — noticing that it barely paused in its motion, seeming to ignore him this time (and when had he decided that tar was sentient?) — to set the supplies on the vanity, then dropped the surgical scissors in the sink (first making sure the sink itself was goo-free) and opened the Holy Water to dump over the scissors, heaving a sigh of relief when the goo quickly fled, leaving clean steel behind.

They only had one pair of those and they'd been a bitch and a half to steal.

He made sure to open the scissors and dowse them again — didn't want anything left on or between the blades or the grips — and dropped them back into the first kit.

He tossed the goo-contaminated towel into the tub with the one Sam had left behind, grabbed another couple clean towels from a shelf, along with the jeans and boxers Sammy had kicked into the corner when they were rinsing him off, and headed toward the main room with holy water and med kit, pausing in the door to pour a puddle of holy water the entire width of the door, before he closed the bathroom door behind him and turned back to Sam.

Who had not moved from his position lying on the bed, panting in pain and still hemorrhaging all over the bedspread.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean rushed to the side of the bed, and set the first aid kit down on the pillow by Sammy's head. "Dammit, Sammy, why isn't this healing?"

"I dunno," Sam panted and weakly lifted the hand closest to his brother. "Dean. Hurts."

"I know, I know," Dean assured him and took the hand, giving it a quick squeeze.

For eight whole seconds, Dean considered taking Sammy to the hospital. But the nearest one with a decent trauma center was at Purdue, over 45 minutes from their motel, and even if he could get Sammy there before he bled out — an iffy prospect at best — there was no way to explain those injuries. They were too large and the wrong number to be caused by even the biggest bear, and too irregular to have been some kind of farming or industrial accident.

So it was on him, then. Okay, not the first time one of them had patched the other up after a hunt.

Dean gently lay Sammy's hand back on the bed and opened the first aid kit, pulling out a curved suturing needle, suturing thread, a pair of forceps and the (happily still clean) surgical scissors.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean said quietly, "we're gonna have to stitch this up, all right, little brother?"

Sam grunted and gave a brief nod. "Do it."

"Be back," Dean promised and gently patted Sammy's shoulder before heading over to his own bag on the bottom of the other bed and pulling out a bottle of 180 proof whiskey he'd won in a poker game a couple months back.

He'd really been looking forward to actually drinking the stuff, but with that goo crap that was apparently hunting his brother, he needed to be damn sure he killed everything.

"The things I do for you," Dean muttered and returned to Sammy's side, grabbing an empty styrofoam cup from beside the ancient coffee maker as he passed. He quickly unwrapped the cup and half filled it with the whiskey, before sitting on the edge of the bed and settling the cup between his knees, placing the whiskey bottle on the nightstand. Carefully, he dunked the needle, forceps and scissors into the cup of whiskey, swishing each around for a good thirty seconds to sterilize the implements.

"Hey," he said gently and turned Sammy's head to face him. "Have some of this," he urged and helped Sam raise his head so he could put the bottle to the kid's lips and help him drink a few healthy swallows.

"Wow," Sam coughed lightly. "That's the good stuff," he wheezed.

Dean chuckled. "Only the best for my baby brother," he grinned. "Sorry, kiddo, we're out of lidocaine, that's the best I can do."

"That'll work," Sam assured him and let his head drop back to the pillow. He closed his eyes tightly. "Dean, I'm getting dizzy," he admitted softly.

Dean looked at the bloody mess that was his kid's back, and the pool of blood that was slowly forming on the bedspread. "Such a lightweight, Sammy," Dean joked. "'Swhy I don't usually give you the good stuff."

Sam huffed what Dean supposed was meant to be a laugh, but came out more like a pained wheeze.

"Okay, let me get this under you," Dean said and rolled Sammy as gently as possible onto his side so he could spread a towel under him before lowering him back down onto his stomach,

"All right, little brother," Dean warned and took a deep breath before raising the whiskey bottle over Sammy's back. "Here comes the fun bit. You ready?"

"Yeah," Sam grunted. "Go for it," he agreed and buried his face into his pillow.

Sammy's pained whimpers when the whiskey hit his wounds were muffled by the pillow, but still broke Dean's heart.

"Okay, okay," Dean sighed and set the bottle aside, barely resisting the temptation to have a little himself, but he needed a steady hand for what came next. "Still with me?"

Sam turned his head away from his brother to hide the tears in his eyes, and lifted the hand next to Dean's knees in a quick thumb's up.

"Here we go," Dean told him, and grabbed the edge of the largest wound with the forceps, gently pulling it closer to the other side of the gouge, and began the long, careful and horrible task of piecing his baby brother back together stitch by stitch.

"So, guess what, Sammy," Dean said conversationally, continuing when Sam grunted what almost sounded like a response, "remember that black goo we washed off ya? Well, I think it's looking for ya, now."

"WHAT?" Sam quickly turned his head to face him.

"Oh, yeah," Dean nodded, keeping his voice casually conversational, while he tied off a line of stitches, clipping the suture close to the skin with the (still clean) surgical scissors, before starting on the next wound. "When I went back into the can to get the kit, the crap had pretty much just eaten the towel you'd left in the tub."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it gets better," Dean assured him. "That shit climbed up and out of the tub and was heading across the floor when I went in."

"No way!" Sam said — or at least that was what Dean decided "Nawy" meant, since the pain, or the whiskey - or both - was apparently making it hard for his kid to talk.

"Way!" Dean countered and grinned when Sam managed an eye roll. "I stopped that shit cold, though," he promised. "Left a big ol' puddle of holy water at the door."

"Why…Thin…me?" Sam forced out the words with each panted breath.

"Why do I think it's after you, specifically?" Dean interpreted. "Well, when I stepped over it, it kind of went for me for a second, but then it lost interest and kept heading for the door. And you," he added, in case Sammy missed his point.

"F'ck."

"That was my response," Dean admitted. "You really get the weirdest shit having crushes on you, man," he added, as he finished off another row of stitches and moved to the next. "That's 22, by the way," Dean told him, waving the needle in front of Sam's bleary eyes. "And, like, ten more gashes to go. You may be heading for the record, here, Sammy boy."

"Pass," Sam tried to laugh and ended up coughing instead.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed and picked up the whiskey again, holding it to Sam's disturbingly pale lips and giving him another sip.

Sam took a quick drink and nodded, before pulling away.

This time, Dean took a quick swig. He wasn't sure he could keep sewing his brother's ripped skin together without it.

"Hey, you remember that Wendigo that got Dad when you were…what? 11?"

"12," Sam corrected.

"Right, right. And Dad thought there was just one, but the fucker had a mate. Who knew wendigos mated, man? How many stitches did he end up with that time?"

"Fifty…four," Sam breathed.

"Right, right," Dean nodded and tied a short row off before re-threading the needle for the fifth time. "Was that the record?" he wondered aloud, knowing perfectly well it wasn't.

"Wolf…pack," Sam forced out. "In…ninety…six. No," he corrected himself. "Sev-en. ninety…seven."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean agreed. "We all got fucked up on that one," he recalled and frowned, remembering — but deciding not to mention — that Sam had seemed to take a few of the worst hits the Winchesters had received that hunt, but had ended up with the least amount of damage.

Which made perfect sense, in retrospect. To Dean, at least.

Hopefully Dad hadn't figured that out — and never would.

"You…" Sam continued, not noticing the speculative look his brother gave him, "got the…record…that hunt. Eight—82."

"Right," Dean nodded. "I think I'm still gonna beat you out, Sammy," he decided. "About halfway there, and you're only at 35."

Sam huffed a half-assed chuckle. "You're…either…making rea-really..big..stitches," he accused, "or delib-deliberate-ly," he said and paused to pant for a few seconds before continuing, "deliberately…miscounting. To kee-keep the record."

"Would I do that?" Dean asked, his voice dripping with innocence.

"Ab—abso—absolutely," Sam managed an actual chuckle this time. "You…hate…when I — when I…w-win."

"You can't win," Dean assured him.

"No?" Sam wondered softly as his eyes slipped closed.

"No, 'course not," Dean asserted, watching his brother finally lose the fight to stay conscious, and hesitating a moment before deciding that it was a good thing, and that it was the pain, not the blood loss, that put his brother out.

Definitely not the blood loss, he assured himself, deliberately ignoring the blood soaking through the towel, further into the bed linens and beginning to darken the legs of Dean's jeans.

"You can't win the record," he continued as if Sam could still hear him. "I'm the oldest. I always win, automatically," he added and tied off another line of stitches.

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Dean set the suturing paraphernalia aside and picked up the whiskey bottle, taking a deep, long swig, trying to ignore the way his hand shook, now that he wasn't holding Sammy's life in his hands.

It had taken another 20 minutes of steady stitching before Dean was able to stop the bleeding and a good 45 minutes after that to tape surgical dressings carefully over Sammy's back.

He'd come to consider it a mixed blessing that Sammy had passed out — his brother had missed out on the pain, but at the same time it deprived Dean of the ability to verbally check in with his brother during the process.

Nothing had stopped Dean from pressing his fingers to Sammy's pulse after ever line of stitches, and there was now a smudge of blood on Sam's neck that Dean had to remind himself, every time it caught it his eye, was just transfer from his own fingers.

He checked again now, and found Sammy's pulse slower than he'd like, but steady and stronger than it probably had the right to be, given the sheer volume of blood soaking the bed and Dean's clothes and hands.

A sudden knock on the door had Dean nearly jumping out of his skin.

"Agent Hetfield?" a familiar, wavering voice called softly. "Agent Ulrich?"

Dean sighed and glanced at his watch. 8:00 am. Like fucking clockwork.

Dean actually liked George Sampson, the owner/operator of the Sleepy-Time Motel.

George had been pathetically eager to help the two weary FBI agents who unexpectedly checked in 10 days ago — probably because in the entire time they'd been here they'd been the only guests — and he'd also been a treasure trove of information about the disappearances. Apparently George had breakfast in town at 8:30 every morning with his cronies (Dean didn't know what else to call a group of 4 or 5 septuagenarians), and was only too happy to spill the gossip he'd learned.

The only issue they had was that, while George had been perfectly content not to provide daily maid service in the form of bed making, dusting, etc., (he'd had to lay off his actual maid staff some time ago, they'd learned), he still insisted on picking up trash and providing clean towels and sheets every day, despite Dean and Sam's protests that they were perfectly capable of taking their meager trash to the dumpster — since it was just sitting around the corner against the outer wall of their room, not 10 feet from their door — themselves, and frankly weren't that particular about their linens.

"I have to provide some service, boys," George had said with a twinkle in his eye when they'd first told him that they didn't want any maid service for the duration of their stay. "Otherwise, Uncle Sam might think you're not getting value for your money!" As if the Federal Government would complain about $35.68 a night. If the Federal Government were actually paying, of course.

"Really, Mr. Sampson," Sam said with his most persuasive smile.

"George, please!"

"George," Sam nodded. "Looking into these disappearances is going to be a — a round the clock endeavor for us, and honestly we'd rather not be disturbed."

"I understand, Agent," George nodded. "Still, I have a job to do, too," he smiled. "Tell you what — I'll limit it to every other day or so, and I'll just knock in the morning, before I go to breakfast. If I don't get an answer, I'll just leave the fresh linens inside the door…"

"No!" Dean had protested a little too loudly.

"What my partner means," Sam continued, shooting Dean a glare, "is that this is a potentially sensitive case. National Security, you understand," he added and George nodded, wide-eyed. "We really can't have anyone without proper security clearance coming into the room."

"Ah, yes, of course, of course," George agreed eagerly. "I'll knock and if there's no answer, I'll leave the linens in a basket by the door. Outside," he hastened to add.

Wearily, Sam nodded. "That'll be fine."

Dean waited quietly, and heard the familiar soft thump as the elderly man dropped the picnic basket full of linens by the door, and the shuffle of footsteps walking away, followed shortly by the whine of the ancient AMC Gremlin (for God's sake) wheezing it's way out of the parking lot.

Thank God they'd made sure George never just walked in. He hated to think what this would look like to a stranger — Sam buck naked on the bed, covered in bandages and Dean up to his wrists in blood.

Speaking of which…Dean stood and faced the bathroom, intending to wash his brother's blood off his hands (not for the first time, probably not for the last) and froze, staring, at the bathroom door.

And he'd been so sure the Holy Water puddle would stop it.

In the hour and a half or so he'd been working on Sammy, the fucking goo had apparently oozed the rest of the way to the puddle, skirted it, climbed the fucking wall and squished its way through the top of the door frame to slime its way down the door and start across the room, still heading for his little brother..

It now completely covered the bathroom door and was already halfway to Sammy's bed, slowly eating the carpet as it went — Dean could see bits of subfloor and, in some places, pock marked cement through the streaks of black.

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean scrambled around the room. He washed his hands in HOly water, clearing off as much blood as possible and swapped his blood covered shirt and jeans for something less gory (at first glance). Then he was quickly and efficiently packing up everything they owned, as only a Winchester could, in less than 15 minutes, leaving only Sammy's jeans, boxers (thank heaven he'd thought to grab those before he'd left the bathroom, or Sam's Full Monty in the tub would've been for nothing) and a flannel shirt he'd grabbed from Sam's duffle bag sitting on Sammy's bed as he loaded literally everything else into his baby.

All the while his mind spun.

What the fuck was he going to do? That damn demonic goop was clearly capable of covering anything it touched — he shuddered to think what would have happened to Sammy if they didn't always have Holy Water on hand — and there was no way they had enough Holy Water to eradicate this crap from the hotel. By the time they got into town, bought more water, and said the necessary prayers to make more, the shit would no doubt be covering their room floor to ceiling, wall to wall.

Dean paused to look at the motel, with its fading, peeling paint and the cheery flowers planted in front of the office, and pictured it covered in slimy black. Would it keep covering the motel after he and Sammy left, or would it make its slow, implacable way down the road after them?

They couldn't leave town, not yet, that thing in the forest was still making people disappear — and now Dean had a very good idea of exactly how: if that crap could eat through tile, carpet, plywood and cement, what the hell would it do to flesh, muscle and bone?

He had to stop this stuff from spreading, but how the hell…

Dean looked into the trunk and grinned.

Five minutes later, he had his answer. He'd had to sacrifice what was left of Sammy's shirt to get it (it was after Sammy after all, it only made sense to use his brother's clothes; and what else would he do with them, clean his baby? They were covered in blood!). He'd dropped one end of a shirt half into a bit of goo and quickly raced outside with the shirt as the stuff began to cover it, eager to test his theory.

Now it smelled like burning week-old roadkill, but the stuff did burn with a very satisfying pop, sizzle and a faint screaming noise.

And he wouldn't even feel bad about burning down the motel…

"I gotta ask," Dean interjected, glancing around the pock-marked empty parking lot, "is it always this…"

"Empty?" George said quietly. "Yeah. I don't go in for the by-the-hour trade, if you know what I mean," he explained as the 'agents' nodded knowingly. "And out here…well, I don't get the trade I used to."

"Why don't you retire?" Dean wondered, genuinely interested. No way he'd want to be working into his 70's. Then again, Dean probably wouldn't see 30, so he didn't really need to worry about it.

"Love to!" George laughed. "But this place is my nest egg," he said with a wistful look around. "Seemed like a good investment in the 70's, but…well. Now, I can't sell it, I can barely keep it running. Since my partner died it's just me out here. Probably ought to burn it down for the insurance," he said and froze, his eyes going comically wide as he recalled exactly who — and what — the two kind young men he was talking to were. "Which is a joke, of course!" he hastened to add.

"Obviously," Dean had smiled, to put the man out of his misery.

So really, he'd be doing old George a favor.

But. First thing first.

He put the flamethrower back into the trunk and closed it firmly, before heading back into the motel room and his helpless brother.

He rolled Sammy onto his side, further away from the goo creeping ever closer to the bed.

"Sammy," he said, gently shaking his kid.

"Mmm."

"Sammy, you gotta get up,"

"Noooo," Sam muttered and tried to roll away.

Dean sighed. Right. Time to bring out the big guns. "SAM! MOVE!" Dean yelled and Sam's eyes snapped open as he sat bolt upright in bed, reaching under the pillow for the weapon Dean had already put in the trunk.

"AHHHGGH!" Sam panted for a moment, trying to get the pulling, searing pain in his back under control. "Dean! What the hell?" he glared at his big brother.

"We gotta go," Dean told him and dropped Sammy's clothes on his brother's lap.

"What?" Sam blinked, confused and Dean just pointed at the door behind him.

"Holy..."

"Get dressed," Dean urged.

Sam nodded and started to pull his boxers on, hissing in pain with the movement of his back.

"Shit," Dean whispered and sighed, hurrying to the other side of the bed, away from the goo. "Here," he said and gently sat Sammy on the edge of the bed, slipping his Sasquatch feet into his boxers then his jeans, before pulling Sammy up to stand and quickly yanking the boxers up, followed by the jeans. As gently as possible, he maneuvered Sammy's arms into the clean flannel and pulled it up over his shoulders, buttoning it quickly and basically just dressing him as if Sammy were again two, not twenty-two.

Something in the simple efficiency of Dean's actions prevented either of them from being self conscious, and in minutes they were both outside and climbing into the Impala.

"We can't just let…" Sam began, looking back at the building as they pulled away.

"No, it's okay," Dean assured him, and pulled into the small gas station/convenience store about a quarter mile from the motel, pulling up to the last pump, out of direct line of sight from the cashier and the cameras. "I got it covered. Wait here."

He ran into the store, asked the clerk for the key to the men's room, and handed him $40 for the pump, before returning out to his baby.

He turned on the pump and pulled the gas tank open, carefully opening the trunk just enough to pull out the flame thrower and a full container of butane.

He opened the driver's door, and leaned in to talk to Sammy. "Can you get out and keep an eye on the pump? Draw it out man, then go in and get snacks or something. Clerk thinks I'm hitting the head," he added and lifted the flamethrower into Sammy's line of sight.

Sam's eyes widened and he nodded slowly, then gave a short laugh. "Doing ol' George a favor!"

"Way I'm looking at it," Dean grinned. "Just keep the clerk busy and not suspicious, okay? We can't leave until we gank that goo-makin', snake-dicked bastard, and I'd rather Agents Hetfield and Ulrich not be suspects in arson, you know?" he added, closed the door and headed around the side of the building towards the bathrooms before cutting through the woods back to the motel, leaving Sam to be a decoy.

Twenty-five minutes later, Dean was again climbing into the car, a small pink bottle in his hand and a frown on his face.

"Any idea why the clerk just gave me a bottle of Pepto?" he wondered, handing it to Sam who burst out laughing. "What?" Dean demanded, and drove out of the gas station, as Sammy continued to laugh. "Sammy. What. Did. You. Do."

Sam grinned at him, flashing his dimples. "Well, you were in there a long time, Dean."

"What did you do?" Dean sighed, resigning himself to some form of humiliation. Embarrassing his big brother was generally the only thing that made Sammy laugh like that these days.

"I might have indicated that you had made some…questionable dietary choices."

"Questionable…"

"Like, 3 day old chili-cheese fries for breakfast," Sam clarified and started laughing again.

"Resulting in?"

"Explosive diarrhea!" Sam admitted, and started laughing even harder.

"Explosive—God dammit, Sammy! This is a small town, dude. By the time we get to the diner, the whole fucking town will think I'm gonna….Son of a bitch!" He smacked Sam on the side of his head and Sammy just laughed harder.

"What was I supposed to say, Dean?" Sam challenged, wiping tears from his eyes. "The whole town knows we're staying a quarter mile from the gas station. How else could I explain you spending twenty minutes in the gas station's can, less than two minutes from our motel room?"

"Yeah, but…Well, he's going to know you were lying as soon as he goes in there, you know."

Sam shook his head. "Come on, Dean, you taught me to pull a con better than that," he smirked, breathing deep to get the laughter - and resulting pain in his back - under control. "I broke in, flushed almost the entire roll of toilet paper," he explained. "Not all at once, of course — I wanted to be sure the clerk heard multiple flushes. Then, I about emptied the can of air freshener they had in there. Really flowery stuff, too. By the time I was done, a skunk could've sprayed in there and all you'd smell was Meadow Fresh."

Dean shot Sam a side eye glare, but had to admit (only to himself), it was a good story. And certainly would give them an excellent alibi, when the fire was discovered. Which ought to be any minute, now, he realized, glancing at his rear view mirror, at the thick black smoke beginning to rise in small wisps above the trees between the motel and the gas station.

Sam had finally stopped laughing — although he was still grinning like a lunatic, Dean noted — and was twisted in his seat, looking out the back window.

"Where'd you start it?" Sam wondered.

"Got it going in the dumpster," Dean told him. "After I scattered a bunch of old cigarette butts and some moldy food wrappers around, make it look like some vagrant or hiker just threw a lit butt in there, accidentally started it up. Once I was sure it caught good, I hit it with my trusty flamethrower, made sure it caught the wall to our room, was burning through. Then I went into the room and laid down a nice spray of fire, and set the wall between our room and the next on fire. By the time I left…" he shot Sam a quick, proud grin, "I think the term is fully engulfed."

"Not bad, big brother," Sam nodded. "A literal dumpster fire, nice touch."

"Yeah," Dean scoffed and turned onto the road into town, "just like this case."

Sam chuckled and turned back to face the road, leaning carefully so his side was against the door instead of resting his back against the seat.

Dean shot him a quick glance, frowning. "How's your back, Sammy?"

"I'm fine," Sam told him, and tried to prove it by sitting properly in his seat, but was unable to hide the wince as he felt the pressure against his sutures.

"Uh-huh, sure," Dean glared at him. "Wanna try that again? Maybe without the pained look on your face?"

"I'm fine," he doubled down.

"Bullshit. Remember, I'm the one who put the 78 stitches in your back, while you were mostly unconscious from the pain."

"Unconscious from the whiskey," Sam corrected. "What was that shit, anyway? 160 proof?"

Dean shot him another glare and checked the road ahead for an open space to pull over. "180, and you've actually hunted drunker than that, Sammy, we both have. Try again."

"Dean…"

"What I can't figure out," Dean admitted, flexing his hands on the steering wheel to keep himself from white knuckling it in anger, "is when you did it."

"I — when — you saw it hit me, Dean," Sam protested. "What, you losing memory in your old age already? One too many concussions, Dude?"

"Dammit, Sammy, don't even," Dean snapped. "When did you do it? When did you even have time to bind your healing again, Dude? Behind my back! Dammit, Sammy, I thought we were past keeping secrets from each other, man!"

"We are!" Sam squeaked and grabbed the dashboard when Dean suddenly swerved to the wide shoulder of the road and slammed on the brakes. "Jesus, Dean!"

"If you haven't bound your healing again," Dean countered, slamming his baby into Park and shoving Sammy forward so he could lift up the back of his kid's shirt, "then why the fuck did you need stitches for this, and why hasn't any of it healed yet?" he demanded. "Because you've been hurt worse, Sammy, it's taken way less time for it to fully heal than this, and these haven't even started to heal, yet! If you still have your freaky powers, why are you still so fucked up?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Sam admitted with a yell and jerked away, pulling his shirt down. For a moment, the brothers just stared at each other, Dean's gaze flinty hard and Sam's full of what Dean slowly recognized as confusion.

And fear.

"You're really not lying to me, are you?" Dean realized after a minute. "You didn't bind it."

"No," Sam said softly, his own confusion and fear clear in his tone and in the translucent green of his eyes. "I really didn't. I don't…I don't know why…" he began and fell suddenly silent, something in his gaze shifting inwards. "Unless…" he whispered.

Dean waited, but Sam didn't finish the thought. Not out loud, anyway. "Sam…"

"I—I'm not sure, Dean," Sam admitted, staring at his right foot which was nervously tapping against the floor. "But…I might have…I mean it's possible that I…."

"SAM."

"I might have shortcircutedtryingtosaveyou," Sammy admitted in a quiet rush.

"You…come again?"

"I think I kind of short circuited myself," Sam admitted, blushing. "Accidentally. Maybe. I'm not sure."

Dean's brain finally finished translating the rest of Sammy's rushed statement. "Saving. Me?"

Sam just nodded quickly, and started chewing on his fingernails.

Dean reached over without thinking and pulled his brother's hand from his mouth. "And when was this?"

"Remember…the rawhead?" Sam ventured, bracing himself for a blow up.

"You mean when I got electrocuted and nearly fucking died?" Dean scoffed. "Yes, Sam. I remember."

"I…when I…found you," Sam began so quietly that Dean shut the engine off so he could hear better. "You were…I thought you were dead," he admitted in a voice so broken Dean's fully-healed heart ached in his chest. "And I…I had to…"

"Aw, Sam," Dean said quietly and put a hand behind his kid's neck, offering comfort in the way he was best at, through simple touch that proved he was there.

"I had to try," Sam half-shrugged, not meeting Dean's gaze. "And I…I called 911, and then…I tried to…I couldn't…" His voice broke and a single tear slid down his cheek.

"Sammy," Dean whispered and pulled him into his arms, mindful of his brother's shredded back.

"And when I tried, my chest jus…it hurt so mu…and then…an-and then, the-the next thing I knew, I could hear the sirens, and…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean interrupted and gently pushed Sam back enough so he could look in his little brother's glistening eyes. "Your chest hurt," he repeated.

Sam slowly nodded and swallowed.

"And you passed out?!"

"I—I guess so?" Sam stopped himself from shrugging again. "It was all really confusing," he admitted, "and then the EMTs were there, and we had to get you to the hospital, and I was trying to cover our tracks with the cops and…"

"Hold up, hold up a damn minute!" Dean interrupted and Sam winced at the sharp tone. "Let me get this straight. You tried to heal me from what turned out to be a massive heart attack," Dean recounted, "and your chest started to hurt."

Reluctantly, Sam nodded.

"To the point where you actually passed the fuck out."

Another nod, this time accompanied by a withdrawal as Sam clearly braced himself for some violent fallout.

Dean's breath came out in harsh pants. "You. Took. My. Heart attack."

"It didn't work," Sam pointed out quickly.

"You. Took. My. Heart attack," Dean repeated. "At least enough of it to make you blackout, too."

Sam shrugged. "What was I supposed to do?" he wondered, his voice breaking. "I can't let you die, Dean. I can't."

Dean wiped a hand down his face, and leaned back against the driver's side door, his arms crossed.

"So what you're saying," he continued quietly, "is that when you heal me — when you heal anyone other than yourself, presumably — you actually take their damage? Take their pain?"

"I—-"

"And in all these years, you never thought that was something you should maybe MENTION?!" Dean shouted at him.

"I DIDN'T KNOW, OKAY?" Sam shouted back — because anger was always the emotion of choice for a frightened or confused Winchester.

For a moment, their eyes held, then Sam's dropped to the seat between them. "I didn't know."

"HOW THE FUCK…" Dean began stopping at Sammy's slight wince, and took a deep breath before forcing his voice to be less loud, but little softer. "How could you not know that, Sammy?" he snapped. "You've been healing for, what, a decade, now?" Sam nodded. "So how the hell did you not know?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't — I've never — honestly, Dean in all this time, I've never once felt somebody else's pain. Maybe just because I've never tried to do anything that — that big before. Maybe it just goes through me so fast…"

"Like a gas station burrito," Dean suggested, looking down for a moment, because humor was always better than actual vulnerability. I'm sorry I yelled, Sammy, but I don't know how to handle this.

"Whatever," Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes, then looking out the windshield for a second. It's okay. I don't know either. "But I swear to you, Dean," he added and met his brother's eyes again. "I didn't know."

Dean watched him closely for moment, saw the truth of it and nodded. "Okay."

"And…there's only been a couple of hunts since that damn rawhead, Dean, and neither one of us got hurt. Not bad enough for me to do anything about it. I just…I didn't know. Not until now."

"And what about…the other stuff?" Dean wondered. "The telekinesis. Using…"

"Don't say the Force," Sam muttered.

"…The Force," Dean finished and suppressed a grin at the epic bitch face that got thrown his way. "Does that still work?"

"I don't know!" Sam admitted, and probably would have thrown his hands up in frustration if he didn't think it would make him scream in pain. "Dean, I don't know how related all this shit is, you know that. I don't even know where it comes from, unless…"

"It doesn't," Dean interrupted.

"You don't know that."

"I do," Dean insisted, flatly. "There is nothing demonic about you, Sammy. That's not where this comes from."

Sam shook his head and sighed, lacking the energy to start that ages-old argument yet again,

"Whatever. I haven't exactly had the chance to test shit, you know?" he pointed out. "And we don't have time now, we gotta kill this thing."

"Uh-uh," Dean said and turned around to face front again, starting his baby and pulling back onto the road. "Not today, we don't."

"Dean…"

"Today, we find someplace new to stay, and you get some rest."

Sam rolled his eyes again, and just barely resisted the urge to cross his arms in frustration. "It's not…"

Dean turned and glared at him for a moment, before focusing on the road again. "If you tell me it's not that bad, I swear to god, I'll punch you in the face."

"Dean…"

"You almost bled out, Sammy," Dean said softly. "Don't argue with me," he snapped before Sam could even speak. "You were unconscious. I'm the one who stitched you up. Honestly, Sammy, if you were anybody else you'd be unconscious now." Dean glanced at him. "Stubborn bastard," he muttered. "Too stupid to even know when to pass the hell out."

Sam chuckled. "Nice to meet you, pot."

"Shut up," Dean said sharply enough that Sam winced. "I mean it, Sam. We're going into Camden to get breakfast, and wait for them to tell us Geroge's place burned down. Then, we're going to the next nearest town, checking in to the first place we can find — preferably somewhere with or near a bar — and you are not leaving that room for two, maybe three days. You are on bed rest, until I'm convinced you aren't going to pop a stitch or pass out from blood loss."

"Dean, I don't…"

"I mean it, Sammy," Dean said, his voice breaking just enough to have Sam blinking in surprise. Dean glanced at him again, and Sam sucked in a breath at the hint of moisture in the moss-green eyes. "You scared me, little brother," Dean admitted, so softly Sam could barely hear it over the purr of the Impala's motor. "You fight me on this, and I will drag your ass to the nearest ER. Don't know what I'll tell 'em," he admitted, "but I'll think of somethin'."

Sam nodded slowly. "Okay," he agreed quietly. "Okay, Dean, whatever you say."

"Damn right, whatever I say. Besides," Dean pointed out with a sniff, "we can't go back out to those fuckin' woods until we figure out what that bastard is. You can do research in bed, how's that? I'll keep you fed and warm and safe. And you do research. Deal?"

Sam nodded. "Deal."

=======SPN=====SPN====SPN=====SPN=====SPN=======

Purdue University is a top-rated University located in West Lafayette, IN. It does have it's own medical center

I have no idea if the Sleepy-Time Motel actually existed, but if it did, and if it charged $35.68 a night in 2006, it was about $15 below the national average.

The AMC (American Motor Corporation) Gremlin was one of the first hatchback cars. It was widely thought to be a terrible car, and was dubbed by Business Week magazine in 2009 as one of the "Ugliest Cars of the Past 50 Years" and by Time Magazine in 2017 as one of the "50 Worst Cars of All Time". I've been a passenger in one. It was actually worse than that, IMHO, and would have been completely appalling to a Classic Car guy like Dean.

Pepto is short for Pepto-Bismal, a medication that covers a variety of stomach ailments, including diarrhea. It's famous for it's bright pink color.

When Sam says "nice to meet you, pot" he is referring to an old saying that's like the pot calling the kettle black, which used to make sense when all pots and kettle were made of iron, and basically means that Dean is accusing Sam of something Dean is also guilty of.