Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1992

Dean wiped his sweaty hands off on his jeans before digging the loose change out of his pocket. It wasn't much. Only a dollar and sixty-four cents remained of the funds that Dad had hurriedly shoved into his hands as he dropped them off at the bus station.

Setting his jaw, Dean ignored Sam as his brother went up on his tiptoes to try and look over his shoulder, probably to count the coins for himself.

"How much do we have left?" he asked when Dean closed his fist, concealing the money and elbowing Sam back. The too-large and worn backpack slipped down Sam's thin shoulders as he fell back flat on his feet. He hitched it back up with an exasperated look before edging closer to Dean again as if proximity could solve their current money crisis.

"We have enough, don't worry about it," Dean lied easily as he sorted through the coins for one of the quarters. Forcing a smile in Sam's direction, he turned back to the payphone, inserted the quarter, dialed, and waited as the phone began to ring.

Sam didn't seem fooled by Dean's pretense and a pinched look was on his face as he twisted, looking nervously around at the almost empty Sioux Falls bus station.

The open line rang endlessly and at last Dean gave up and set the phone back in the cradle, ending the call.

"Bobby didn't pick up, did he?" Sam asked, clenching the handle of his backpack tighter.

Dean shrugged as he bent over to pick up his duffle bag and swung it over his shoulder. "That doesn't mean anything. He might be on his way to pick us up and is stuck in traffic." He looked around once again at the almost deserted station, trying not to get his hopes up. Their bus had arrived over an hour ago and now the only people left were the ones waiting for another bus.

There was no sign of Bobby even though he was supposed to meet them here.

Dean held back a sigh. "C'mon, let's sit back down. He'll be here soon. Dad called him and told him we'd be here, that he needed to come and pick us up."

Sam made a face, huffing. "That's if Dad even remembered to call," he grumbled as Dean tugged him back towards the benches.

Dean's temper was short, and he just managed to stop himself from snapping back that Sam didn't know anything and that he was just a dumb kid. Dad knew what he was doing.

They returned to the bench that they had staked out as theirs and dropped their bags back down. Sam, after several minutes spent glancing between Dean and the doorway, finally pulled out his latest Hardy Boys book that he had picked up somewhere and opened it.

Only then, without Sam's eyes on him, did Dean feel comfortable enough to let his façade fall.

What was he going to do if Bobby didn't come? He didn't know, and it was making his skin itch.

Making his duffle into as comfortable of a pillow as possible, Dean stretched out on what remained of the bench and, checking his watch, closed his eyes.

It hadn't exactly been a fun twelve hours.

Dad had come racing into their motel room the evening before, his eyes alive like they only were when he had a lead on the thing that had killed Mom, and told them to get their gear together. Not to go hunting, though, like Dean would have liked. Dad still didn't trust Dean enough for those kinds of hunts, but he did trust him to get Sam to Sioux Falls where they were to wait.

That had only been the beginning and things had gone downhill from there. The buses had been crowded and Dean hadn't slept much that night as he kept guard, Sam sandwiched between him and the window. An early breakfast had consisted of three granola bars split between them that he'd stashed in the bottom of his bag, but that was it. They didn't have the money for lunch and, judging by how things were going, they probably weren't going to have any.

His stomach rumbled unhappily at the thought and he rubbed it. Maybe they could get a sandwich or a bag of chips and split it between them because if Dean was hungry then Sam had to be as well. Then again, they might need that money for things that were more important than food. They were just going to have to wait and see how long it took Bobby to come.

Bobby always came; he'd be there soon.

An hour passed, and then another with no word or sign. Sam had finished his book and was sitting there, his chin in his hand and his eyes far away. Finally, Dean gave in and tried calling again, his heart somewhere in his throat as he waited for Bobby to answer.

They couldn't stay at the bus stop forever, and if Bobby didn't pick up then Dean was going to have to figure out what to do next.

There was no answer and he squeezed his eyes shut before taking a deep breath.

For all they knew, Sam was right and Dad had forgotten to call and tell Bobby that they were coming. Or Bobby could be out of town and wasn't even around to get the message.

They were on their own.

It was fine. He'd figure it out. Dean had been in worse situations before.

"C'mon," Dean said tersely to Sam who was once again standing so close to him that he bumped into him when he tried to turn around. Dean's stomach growled and he willed it to shut up. They were now down to a dollar and fourteen cents, and Dean didn't want to use it unless he absolutely had to. If Bobby wasn't home, then he was going to have to make it stretch until he could find a job of some sort or steal some food.

Sam hurried after Dean, taking two strides to his one. "Did Bobby pick up? Where are we going?"

"There's a Plucky's just down the street. I'm leaving you there so I can get some peace from stupid questions," Dean snapped as he pushed the door to the bus station open and stepped out into the broiling sun. Sam's lips thinned and he glared at Dean, shoving him.

"I'm not a kid anymore and there's no Plucky's here. I would know."

"Well, maybe I wish that there was."

"Bobby wouldn't let you do that even if there was one," Sam retorted, jutting his chin out and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Bobby's not here, genius."

Sam's eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest, but he kept following Dean until they reached the end of the block. They were waiting for the light to turn red so that they could cross when Sam reached out, catching the sleeve of Dean's t-shirt tentatively. "Dean, where are we going?"

Dean opened his mouth to tell Sam to shut up again but glanced down and found that he couldn't. Sam was still just a kid. He had only turned nine a few months before and he looked scared.

Dean didn't like that.

"We're fine, dude. We're just going to walk to Bobby's," he said, trying to make his voice gentle.

"Walk?" Sam protested, his eyes widening. "It's like a hundred degrees out here and Bobby lives forever away. He doesn't even live close to the city!"

"So what? It's good training. This is easy in comparison to some of the stuff that Dad has made you do."

Sam didn't look ecstatic, his lips pursing in frustration. "Can't we…I don't know, take a taxi? Or another bus?"

Dean snorted and then started to walk as the light turned. With what money?

"Two minors taking a taxi is not normal," he said instead before tacking on, "and don't ask if I can steal a car. You know what Dad has said. We aren't supposed to draw attention to ourselves or get Bobby in trouble. If we cause Bobby problems, then Bobby won't let us stay anymore or he'll get tired of us. You want him to let us keep coming back, don't you?"

"Yeah, well—"

"Then shut up and keep walking. It won't take that long."

"I wasn't going to ask you to steal a car. That's wrong," Sam muttered, kicking out at a fist-sized rock that was in his path.

"Whatever." Dean paused when they reached the next corner, looking around and trying to orient himself. He knew vaguely what direction they had to go, but he didn't know the quickest route by foot.

Taking a gamble, he turned left and Sam dutifully followed. The sun reflected off the pavement and Dean wiped a hand over his face as he began to sweat.

Sam was right. It was hot out here, and this was going to suck.

Dean wasn't sure how many miles it turned out to be. All he knew was that morning had gone, and it was well into the afternoon when—flushed and sweating—they wearily trudged into the yard of Singer Salvage only to be met with locked doors and Bobby's car gone.

Dean stood at the front door for a second, trying to control the urge to start screaming or pound his head against the wall. He once again didn't know what to do, and it wasn't fair. He'd gotten them here, wasn't that enough?

Dad hadn't gotten Dean a lock-picking set of his own yet and had taken the one that he let him practice on so he couldn't pick the locks. They had tried all the windows—Dean had even boosted Sam up to try one of the higher ones—but they were also locked. The only feasible way in, he figured, was to break a window and undo a latch.

When Dean suggested this to Sam, who hadn't complained even as the day dragged on and the sun got higher and hotter, finally let out a disgruntled huff as he sank down onto the porch steps.

"We can't do that! Bobby won't let us come back if we do and—I told you that Dad didn't call ahead! Otherwise, Bobby would have found us by now," he snapped shrilly as he peeled off his left sneaker and shook a couple of loose rocks out of the heel before fingering a small hole in the sole. His hair was flattened against his face with sweat and he looked miserable.

Dean threw up his hands in exasperation.

He was just as hot, tired, and hungry as Sam and he was doing the damn best that he could.

"Well, it's not like I could have sat down Dad and forced him to make that call! I barely managed to get any money from him for the bus tickets, so you can be glad that I did that. Otherwise, your ass would have been walking from Montana to here, so just…don't whine, for like a second, okay?"

Sam glowered down at the rocks; his lips puckering up in distaste before he put his shoe back on. He was silent for all of about thirty seconds before declaring stubbornly, "I'm thirsty."

Dean clenched his jaw tight enough that he could hear his teeth grind together, but who was he kidding? He was thirsty too and it was so hot out that his shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his back. Sam's skin had a pinkish tinge to it, which meant he was burning. Dean was sure that he was as well.

They needed water and to get out of the heat for a little bit.

"Fine. Ah, there's a hose out back. We'll give Bobby another hour or two, and then figure it out."

They sat outside on the porch in the shade until the sun began to set before they finally admitted defeat. Bobby didn't appear to be coming back any time soon, and they were both starving.

Bobby would understand, or at least that was what Dean was telling himself.

Grimacing and trying not to think about the trouble that they might get into, Dean carefully broke the glass panel on the back door and then reached through, tugging the deadbolt back so that they could enter.

It was blessedly cool inside and they both breathed a sigh of relief as they dropped their bags by the door and toed off their shoes, leaving them by the door. Dinner was stale bread and a can of pork and beans that they split between them. They didn't know when Bobby would be back, and they had to make the food last until then or until Dad came to pick them up.

Still, it tasted amazing and neither of them complained even if they both eyed the other couple of cans longingly.

It had been a long day and they didn't have the energy to do anything besides take cold showers before going straight to bed.

#

Bobby didn't return home for another three days—days that Dean spent trying not to worry about what could be happening to Bobby or their dad—and it was with no small relief that he heard the sounds of a truck pulling in.

Closing the cupboards with a snap from where he had been trying to decide what to do for dinner with an increasingly limited selection, Dean darted into the living room. Sam, who had been curled up on the couch while watching TV, was kneeling upright and staring through the parted curtain. Dean jumped up, kneeling next to him and Sam pulled the curtain open wider so that he could see as well.

Bobby's old and run-down truck was coming around to park next to the door.

"Bobby!" Sam cried excitedly and clambered off the couch. Dean followed, but he grabbed Sam's arm, pulling him to a stop.

"Dude, he might not be exactly excited to see us," he cautioned and Sam slowed, frowning. Dean hurried to explain. "We broke into his house and have been hanging around doing nothing besides eating his food. So just…don't be weird and behave."

Sam nodded solemnly, but that ended a moment later when the front door opened. Before either of them could speak, Bobby was striding inside as he frantically called out, "Sam? Dean?"

A grin split Sam's face nearly in two. "Bobby!" he cried as he ran and threw his arms around him. Bobby returned the hug tightly even as he continued to look around until he locked eyes with Dean over Sam's head. Dean was surprised by the sheer relief that he found there, but he couldn't relax, guiltily thinking of the broken window. Bobby wasn't going to be thrilled or relaxed about that.

"Your daddy finally got word to me that you two would be here and I— I'm sorry that I wasn't back sooner. I was on a hunt but I headed back this direction as soon as I heard," Bobby explained as he tightened his grip on Sam before breaking the hug and pulling him back to look at him. Seemingly satisfied that he was alright, Bobby moved over to Dean.

Dean was a teenager now and getting too old for hugs, and he stiffened in a silent warning. Bobby shifted, giving him a one-armed one instead while still searching his eyes. "How long have you two been here?" he asked.

"Three days. We walked here from the bus station," Sam chimed in, and Dean glowered at his brother. He didn't think that the answer was going to please Bobby and sure enough his eyes darkened before he was able to cover it.

Dean braced himself, ready for the shouting that was sure to follow.

"And how did you get in?" Bobby asked instead in a deceptively casual voice as he crouched down to be more at Sam's eye level.

Sam glanced up at Dean and then edged closer to him as he eyed Bobby tentatively.

Dean straightened, jutting his chin out defensively as he answered instead of Sam. It had been his idea, after all, and if anyone took the blame for it, it should be him. "Broke the backdoor window, but—" he tacked on quickly, "I'll pay for it or do work to make up for it. And I already put a tarp up."

Bobby removed his cap and scratched at the back of his head before jamming it back on with a sigh and straightening. "Don't worry about it, Dean. I'm sure you did what you had to do. It's not like you boys could spend the night outside. We'll work together and get it fixed up tomorrow."

He didn't sound angry and Dean frowned, waiting for the outburst. Sam, who had melted behind Dean as he waited for the yelling, gave him a confused look. Dean shrugged.

Bobby didn't seem to notice as he rubbed his hands together. "I wasn't expecting company and didn't leave much behind for eating so I'm sure you boys are sick of canned food. Let me go wash up and then we can go into town together. We'll get some groceries and then get some dinner. There's a new buffet in town that I've been wanting to try."

Sam whooped at that and Dean couldn't completely hide his own relief. He grinned and Bobby smiled back at him.

This week may have started horribly, but it might just be turning up…

Or at least Dean thought so until he was lying in bed, uncomfortably full from having stuffed himself sick at the buffet and then still somehow managing to eat the popcorn and other snacks they had gotten while watching the latest James Bond movie.

He should have been sleeping, but instead he was listening to the raised voice coming from down below in the study.

Bobby had finally started yelling about what had happened, and he didn't appear to be stopping anytime soon. When Dean couldn't take it any longer, he crawled out of his bed. Easing the door open, he moved down the hallway, side-stepping the floorboards that creaked.

He sat at the top of the stairs so that he could hear what was being said in Bobby's yelling match over the phone. He didn't have to be told to know that it was his Dad on the other end.

"They had to break a window to get in!" he heard Bobby shout and he wrapped his arms around his legs. He hadn't had a choice. If it had just been him that would have been one thing, but Sam had been there as well. South Dakota nights got cold even in the summer, and they had needed to eat.

Bobby was silent for maybe a second before erupting, "They walked here from the bus stop, and had nothing to eat except canned food for three days, John! Three days!—No, how I keep my pantry is none of your damn business. Maybe if you gave me some warning before you just dumped them off here because you couldn't be bothered with them, I could be prepared!"

Dean flinched, his chest tightening.

There was the barest whisper of movement next to him and Dean glanced over to see Sam sliding down to sit next to him. He'd been wondering how long it would take him to join and he tried to offer a comforting smile, but Sam just looked up at him, his eyes large and scared.

"It's okay," Dean whispered but Sam didn't look reassured as he leaned against him. Dean wrapped an arm around his shoulders, trying to put on a brave face but his insides were squirming.

Bobby made a scoffing sound before saying, "You can't keep doing this! You can't keep just sending them over here out of the blue without any warning. I was on a hunt. What if I had brought something bad home with me? Or what if I had been gone for a lot longer—Yes, they were fine but that's not the point. The point is that they shouldn't be left alone like that—What do you mean…? Or are you telling me that you leave them alone for long periods by themselves?!" Bobby sounded absolutely furious, and even Dean shrank back, his arm tightening around Sam's shoulder.

Dad had important things to do. They had people they had to save, he couldn't always be coddling them.

"John Winchester, they're kids," Bobby growled, his voice dropping a notch, but the anger there was deadly, and now Dean bristled. He was more than just a kid, hell, he was a teenager now and he had gotten them here just fine and without causing anyone trouble, unless the broken window was taken into account, but he was going to fix it, he was.

Bobby didn't need to act like that, he didn't need to question Dad.

There was silence for another second before Bobby exclaimed loudly, "You know what? I hope you rot in hell, Winchester!" It was followed by what sounded like the phone being thrown against the wall, clearly ending the conversation.

Dean's stomach clenched as he rose. "C'mon," he whispered hurriedly to Sam as he pulled him up. Together they crept back to their room. They didn't talk but Dean knew that Sam had to be feeling the same sick feeling that he was.

Crawling back into their beds, they didn't say anything else, pretending to be asleep in case Bobby came up to check on them. Sure enough, it wasn't long before the door to the room creaked open and Bobby entered.

He lingered there for a moment, and Dean watched through his eyelashes as Bobby removed Sam's book from the bed and pulled the covers up. He was a little surprised when he turned to do the same for him and he closed his eyes fully, breathing as slowly and heavily as he could.

Bobby's hand ghosted over the top of his head and then he moved away.

For several long moments there was silence and then the door creaked as it was shut, but Bobby didn't close it all the way, allowing a sliver of light in from the hallway.

Sam only waited a heartbeat after Bobby's footfalls had faded before whispering, "Dean…"

Dean wasn't ready for this and he shook his head, suddenly feeling tired right down to his soul. "Go to sleep, dude. You didn't hear anything new."

"But—"

"Just—go to sleep. I'm so stuffed that it's coming out of my ears."

Sam didn't laugh. Rolling over so that his back was to Sam, Dean blew out a sigh, fighting off the uneasiness.

"It's okay, Dean. I didn't like it either," Sam whispered and Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

Bobby and John would work it out the next time that they saw each other, they always did. Dean and Sam would prove that they weren't a problem and this could all be forgotten. This wouldn't become a usual occurrence; it was just a one-off thing…right?

It was only a few years later that Bobby cocked his shotgun and told John to never darken his doorstep again. After that, it was a long, long, time before Sam and Dean saw Bobby again.

#

2007

The car began to decelerate, and Sam looked up from the latest copy of the New York Times that he was perusing by flashlight. "What are you doing?" he asked in surprise, giving Dean a bewildered look.

"Pitstop. Gotta take a leak." Dean didn't look over as he gestured at the sign for a rest area that was coming up. Sam frowned and Dean made a point of rolling his eyes. "Dude, I swear—Look, just because we are on the run from the FBI doesn't mean that I'm stopping to piss on the side of the road. I'm a human being, I've got rights." He gave a tired grin in Sam's direction, but Sam could see right through it to the strain that was lying underneath and he wasn't in the mood to pretend.

"I'm not sayin' that, but—"

"Henriksen isn't going to be watching this oh-so-delightful rest area in the middle of nowhere Indiana, especially not at two in the morning. We're fine."

Sam huffed, staring out the window as Dean guided the Impala toward the small building, but he had to admit that he was right. The FBI was probably not watching this spot, even if the local police might be. The building was crumbling and old, and the back side looked to be covered with graffiti. There were a couple of benches outside, but one had been overturned and the other was resting at an uneven tilt. Only one of the outside lights was working, and even then, it looked to be on its last legs as it flickered in and out.

It looked like the perfect spot for a drug deal to go down or for a murder to take place and Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust. They frequented dingy gas stations and rest areas on the norm, and this was bad even by their standards.

His opinion sank even lower when he caught sight of a car parked haphazardly out front and the lone figure of a skinny man leaning against it while smoking a cigarette. The man straightened as they pulled in, before taking one look at the Impala and sinking back down to return to his cigarette.

"He's waiting for someone," Sam said, gesturing at him with his flashlight. "Who the hell could he be meeting at two in the morning? It can't be good. The police—"

"My God, Sam. They aren't going to show up and arrest us. Quit thinking so hard." Dean pulled into a parking spot.

Sam felt a muscle twitch in his jaw as he looked over at him incredulously. He knew that Dean was upset by what had happened. He'd seen his face after they'd gotten out of the bank, and Sam knew that it was bothering him just as much as it was him. Well, maybe not quite as much, but it did bother him.

Sam shook his head and looked away as he sank lower in his seat. "Easy for you to say. You can turn your brain off and on like it's a light switch," he mumbled under his breath.

He didn't like this, being on the run from the law and from demons. It felt like everything was closing in around them and one wrong move would bring what little they still had crashing down.

Dean cut the engine, silencing the car. "Hey," he said quietly and more seriously, and Sam looked over. "I know that this is your first real time on the run from the law and all, but just think of it like when we were avoiding the CPS growing up. We always got out of those scrapes just fine. We've put plenty of distance between us and Milwaukee—"

"—Not far enough—"

"—Yes, trust me. It is at the very least far enough to take a piss in a bathroom with actual indoor plumbing."

Sam felt like screaming and rubbed both hands down his face. "This isn't the CPS, Dean, this is the FBI. They don't exactly stop at state or county lines," he reemphasized needlessly.

"No, I know," Dean said with an air of long-suffering, "but they can't be everywhere. There is no point in us living under a rock and giving up. We do what we do, and we keep our heads down and we'll be fine, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer as he thumped Sam hard on the shoulder before reaching into the back for his jacket. Shrugging it on, he opened the door and slid out.

Sam watched him as he walked towards the rest area and then shook his head as he heaved a sigh. Flicking the flashlight off, he pushed aside the pile of national and local newspapers that he had picked up the last time they had stopped at a gas station. He had been looking for any reference to them and the bank robbery that they had been a part of, and the minor references that he had found weren't helping his anxiety.

Only two years ago, he'd had a promising career as a lawyer and now he was afraid of law enforcement showing up in a dingy rest area to arrest him.

Sighing again and rubbing at his forehead, Sam looked over at the man leaning against the car. He was on his second cigarette and kept glancing around. He fidgeted, never able to stay completely still, and Sam had seen enough drug addicts to know that he was probably on something.

The throbbing of a bass and the accompanying echo of music made Sam twist around to see a large, jacked-up pickup truck pull into the rest area. The truck roared in before screeching to a halt, parked haphazardly in the two spaces right in front of the rest area.

Sam's hope that it might just be some stupid teenagers who didn't know how to drive faded when the man perked up. Dropping his cigarette, he ground it out under his heel.

Sam couldn't believe their luck. How had they managed to find what was probably the only drug deal going down for miles? This was ridiculous, and he might have to start searching for hex bags to see if they were cursed.

The bass quieted as the truck was turned off, and then four men were spilling out, laughing loudly. The largest one of them squashed an empty can and then tossed it behind his shoulder and in the general direction of the parking lot.

"Asshole," Sam muttered.

The garbage can was maybe only two feet away, and if anyone deserved to be arrested, it was idiots like that, not Sam. Not Dean. They were outstanding citizens in comparison. Sam didn't do drugs. He didn't litter.

He watched them as they meandered easily up the sidewalk while the other man hurried to meet them. Sam craned his head to see where they were going and wasn't overly surprised when they made their way past the door and towards the wall that was covered in graffiti.

The unease in his gut tightened and he couldn't help but wish that Dean would hurry the hell up and get back out there so they could leave before something bad happened.

Scrunching down further in his seat, he broke off another sigh. He just wanted to get on the road again and drive until they got to a border, and they didn't even have to stop there. They could go to Canada or Mexico. There were just as many monsters there and on the plus side, there wasn't the FBI.

While he was wishing, he supposed that he could also hope that the yellow-eyed demon was restricted to international laws and didn't have a passport.

Shaking his head in disgust at himself, Sam supposed that Dean was right. He needed to pull his head out of his ass and start…functioning. Break out of the shock of the news that the FBI was hunting them and that all of his dreams were destroyed and—Sam took a deep breath.

Raised voices made him look up to see that the skinny man was arguing with one of the other men, probably the leader from his position in the group. Dean, who had been walking back to the car, also turned with a small frown to see what was happening. After a second, he started to walk again and didn't reach for his gun, which was a good sign.

Sam leaned forward as Dean opened the door and slid in. "Did you see the—"

"Assholes outside doing a drug deal? Oh, yeah. I don't think the guy can pay, he was trying to argue with the bigger one to let him have it, and he'd pay him back later."

"Great. That's exactly what we need to get involved with now." Sam started absently chewing on his fingernail as Dean started the engine again.

"You sure that you don't need to pee? The inside is a lot better than the outside if that's what you are worried about and I'm not stopping again until my girl's tank is empty."

"I'm sure."

"You just don't want to have to watch a drug deal go down, you're too high and mighty for that," Dean fired back, trying to get Sam to smile and getting a scowl instead. For some reason, that made Dean actually smile, and Sam's frown deepened.

"Dude," he snapped in exasperation, "just drive."

Dean's smirk grew, apparently pleased with himself, and he pulled the gearshift down into reverse.

Another set of headlights appeared around the bend that led to the rest area and Dean paused, letting the Impala idle as the car moved past them to park as close to the building as it could. Dean continued to hesitate and Sam watched the car as well, curious.

The door popped open, and his heart sank as a young girl stepped out. She looked like she was barely sixteen and had probably just gotten her license. The girl made her way to the rest area, clutching her jacket and purse close.

What she was doing out at this ungodly hour, Sam didn't know, but he did know that they couldn't leave until she had made it back to her car safely.

"Dean—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Dean was already putting the car back into park and then letting his hands fall into his lap. "Why do people have to be such assholes?"

Sam shrugged, picking at his jeans. More often than not they played the role of asshole. Hell, they had terrified those poor people at the bank, even if it was for their own good in the long run.

Dean mindlessly tapped along with a beat that only he could hear as they waited, his eyes never leaving the group of men who were still arguing.

By the look of it, the skinny man wasn't having much success in his attempt to woo the others into giving him what he wanted. One of the bigger and burlier men finally shoved him, sending him flying back to land on his ass.

"Just shake it off and don't look back. It's only going to be more trouble if you do," Dean commented wryly and Sam agreed. For a moment, he didn't think that the man was going to back down as he scrambled upright, his fists up. One of the other men stepped up and moved towards him, and he slunk back a step, before scurrying away.

Sam and Dean watched him go around to his car and get inside, but he didn't leave. The car began to shake a moment later and Sam could only imagine that he was taking his anger out on the steering wheel.

"Well, there's the picture of completely stable," he said with a wince, and Dean snorted.

"When you've got to have a hit, then you've got to have it. Let this be a reminder to you to not do drugs, Sammy." He flashed him a smile.

"Noted," Sam said dryly before rolling his eyes.

There was still no sign of the girl.

The skinny man's door opened and Sam's eyes snapped back to it as Dean tensed.

"Oh, no. Don't—don't do that, man. C'mon," he said in disbelief.

The man looked around, his eyes stopping briefly on the still-running Impala, before sliding away to lock in on the empty car.

Slinking over to it, he bent down, looking through the window and Sam could almost feel Dean vibrating with tension next to him. When the man reached for the door handle, probably to test if it was locked or not, Dean practically flew out of his seat, yelling, "Hey! Leave that car alone!"

Sam hurriedly followed suit. The man flinched, looking over at them in surprise as they both strode toward him.

"I wasn't doing anything!" he defended himself, holding his hands up as Sam and Dean closed in on him. Up close, Sam could see that he was trembling and that his eyes were bloodshot. Sores were scattered around his mouth and he couldn't keep his gaze locked on anything for more than a few seconds. Whatever he was doing, it wasn't good.

"That didn't look like anything," Sam said pointedly. "I mean, most people don't go around trying the handles on other people's cars just for the fun of it."

Dean had less patience than Sam did, and the strain of the last few days showed in the terse snap of his voice as he thrust his finger at the man's car. "Get in your damn car and drive away before I make you."

The man was getting twitchy, glancing between them, the rest area where they could still hear the other men talking, and the girl's car. "She's got some cash in the cupholder, I can see it. I just need twenty bucks, that'll cover it, I was only short a little," he babbled, moving towards the handle.

Dean wasn't having it and he sprang forward. The other man didn't even realize what had happened before Dean had him by the collar. Spinning him around, he slammed him up against the hood of his own car. Pressing his face into the cold metal, Dean snarled low and dangerous, "If you know what's good for you, then you are going to get in your car and drive away."

"HEY!"

Sam looked around at the yell to see that the other men had come around the corner to see what the commotion was.

"Nothing to see here. Get in your truck and drive away," Sam insisted cooly, moving to stand in front of his brother. Dean ground the man's face into the hood one more time before letting him up and shoving him back to land on his ass.

"Like he said, nothing to see here," Dean repeated, dusting his hands off.

"Looked like you were about to give Jeff a beat down. You can't do that."

It was the man in the middle that spoke, the one who was clearly the leader and Sam sized him up and down. He had a dangerous glint in his eyes, but he was also backed up by three other men and probably thought that he had the upper hand.

He should be more scared than he was, Sam could guarantee that.

"Didn't look like you were too worried about Jeff's well-being ten minutes ago. You sent him packing and without his fix too." Dean tsked, shaking his head. "That's not how friends treat friends."

"Yeah, well, I can do that to Jeff. You don't get to."

"What, is this some sort of messed up family thing?" Sam asked, arching an eyebrow casually.

The leader didn't rise to the bait as he looked them up and down, deemed them not a threat, and then sneered dismissively. "More of I want to be paid in the future and I can't if you rough him up to much. So, get lost, pretty boys."

Dean raised both eyebrows. "Get lost? Get—Look, there is nothing more I'd rather do than get lost but we aren't going anywhere until this car—" he gestured at the girl's "—has left safely."

"She's got money in there, Lucas! C'mon, I'm not going to take it all, just the twenty and some change. Then I can pay you in full," Jeff whined pitifully and Lucas turned, looking thoughtfully back over at the car and then at Sam and Dean.

"Don't try," Sam said quickly, "We were serious. You leave that car alone."

Lucas sniffed nonchalantly, looking back at the car as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Letting one dangle between his lips, he searched through his pockets for a lighter. "See here, boys, I came here specifically to give this moron here something to help him relax. Jeff couldn't pay, making this whole little jaunt pointless. So what if he takes a twenty? I'm sure whoever owns this car can afford it. I got bills I gotta pay just like anybody."

"Oh, boo-hoo. I'm sure that you can find someone else to pay for your drugs," Dean retorted impatiently.

Lucas's lips thinned as he stopped looking for his lighter and focused on Dean. "How about you get in your car and drive away," he said stiffly, "and then we won't have any more of a scene because this isn't any of your damn business. It will be better for you if you leave. See, it's four—well, five if you count Jeff—against two. Not exactly great odds as Tommy here worked for the National Guard for a little bit and Frank's been trained in the martial arts. And, well, I don't have to tell you that Trevor isn't a menace." He gestured at the rest of the men in his circle in turn. Tommy, the one in the back with a crew cut, puffed out his chest while Frank cracked his knuckles. Trevor, a man built like a mountain, just straightened to his full height.

The threat was clear but Sam wasn't fazed. If anything, he dearly wanted to ask just what level of martial arts Frank had managed to make it to or how long Tommy had been in the National Guard but refrained himself. Instead, he took a step forward, holding out a placating hand. They didn't need to get into a full-out brawl here.

"Look, I promise that we will be leaving and that we aren't going to turn you in to the police or anything. But that's not happening until we make sure that the girl leaves safely with everything that she came with."

"Why?" Lucas asked impatiently. "Jeff here needs the money and she left it behind. It will be a good lesson to her to never leave money out in plain sight again."

Dean was vibrating with fury next to him. "I don't like people who are cruel just to be cruel. But, because I'm not that way, I'm giving you one last warning. Get in your truck and get out of here."

"A warning? You want to give me a warning?" Lucas asked in what seemed to be genuine bafflement as he slipped the cigarette back into its container and pocketed it. At the same time, Trevor moved up to stand directly behind Lucas. His arm was probably bigger than Sam's head but they had fought worse and come out on top.

Hell, Sam had grown up always being the underdog in fights considering how young he had started.

"I don't give a rat's ass who I'm talking to," Dean spat, his face hardening with dislike, and Sam moved a step closer, tactically backing his brother up. "You leave her alone."

"What is your obsession with the girl? Is she pretty or something? Think that you'll get lucky if you pretend to be the hero?" Lucas leered briefly, showing off his yellowing teeth. Sam had thought that he couldn't have liked Lucas any less than he already did, but he was being proven wrong.

"So you're a pervert and an idiot," he pointed out.

Lucas's lips thinned and he snapped his fingers at the men behind him and they started to fan out.

"I don't like you and you should know that around here, me not liking you isn't good." Lucas swaggered forward and thrust a finger in Sam's face. Dean growled something under his breath and Sam could see the instant that what little remained of his patience snapped completely.

Violence had been Dean's go-to answer ever since Dad had died, and now was no different.

As Lucas swung his finger in Dean's direction—his mouth opening to no doubt spew more idiotic insults—Dean launched himself at him. His fist caught Lucas hard in the face, snapping his head to the side. Trevor lunged forward, ready to protect his boss, but Sam intercepted him with a swift punch to the jaw. He grunted, stumbling back a step, but didn't go down like Sam had intended.

Beside him, Dean dragged Lucas down to the ground, pinning him there as Trevor tried to shove Sam back, but he was too quick. He ducked around him to attack from behind.

Tommy charged past them, going to Lucas's defense and trying to pull Dean off of him. Sam made to grab Tommy by the back of his coat, but before he could do so, Frank tackled him from the side and they went flying into the asphalt together.

Jeff stepped over them to scoop up a rock from the ground and pulled back his arm to smash it into the car window.

"Oh, no you don't!" Sam kicked back, catching something fleshy and making Frank cry out. The hands holding onto him let go and Sam popped back up onto his feet. Jeff was bringing the rock down when Sam grabbed him around the waist, yanking him away.

Someone, maybe Lucas, let out a wail of pain as a presence loomed up behind Sam. He started to turn, ready to face a new threat, but a thick arm came up to lock around his throat and he was yanked back against Trevor's broad chest.

Not providing any resistance and letting the momentum carry him, Sam thrust an elbow back into Trevor's stomach as hard as he could before he could get a good grip on his throat. Wheezing, Trevor's arm loosened and Sam grabbed it. Twisting forward, he bent it back into an unnatural position.

Trevor cried out, his face screwing up.

Frank sprang up next to them, his nose bleeding, and reared back to throw a punch at Sam. Letting go of Trevor, he ducked to avoid the swing and danced back around Trevor, putting him between him and Frank.

"SAM!" Dean's yell made his insides go cold and he whipped around, looking for his brother. To his confusion, Dean didn't appear to be in any distress. In fact, he appeared to have the upper hand as he had a struggling and now bleeding Lucas pinned against his chest. Dean gestured with his head to the side and Sam glanced over to see Jeff darting toward the rest area.

Sam didn't know what his plan was, but it couldn't be good.

He ducked under Trevor's arm, his mind whirling. Jeff was a problem, but leaving Dean alone to fight four opponents wasn't an option.

Lucas wailed out something and then Frank broke away from the group and also darted after Jeff.

"Damnit," Sam muttered and shoved Tommy back as hard as he could and took off after the other two.

Jeff had enough of a lead on both of them that the front door was already swinging lazily shut as Frank reached it. As he went to pull it open, Sam grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and spun him around. His fist connected directly with Frank's jaw, snapping his head back, and he dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Grabbing the handle, Sam yanked the door open just as a hand closed around his arm. Apparently, he and Frank hadn't been the only ones to follow Jeff, but that was good. That would make it a fair fight for Dean.

A high-pitched scream echoed through the half-open door.

Wheeling around, Sam threw a hasty punch that caught who turned out to be Tommy's ear, sending him sprawling back.

Ducking through the door, Sam took a second to orient himself and then darted towards the girls' bathroom and shoved the door open hard enough to make it bang off the wall.

The bathroom was small, with room for only two stalls and one sink, which was running. The girl was backing up rapidly towards the far end as Jeff advanced on her, his eyes wide and his hands shaking.

"I just need your keys!" he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth, and the girl cowered back. One hand scrambled for the purse that was around her shoulder, trying to dig through it for God only knew what.

"Stay back!" she insisted at the same time that Sam barked.

"HEY!"

Jeff whirled around right as the door to the bathroom tried to swing open.

Sam had known that the punch hadn't been enough to keep Tommy down for long, and he shoved the door shut again. "Stay out!" he snarled before turning back to Jeff. "Don't you dare take another step towards her." The door tried to open again, and Sam slammed it shut with one hand, refusing to allow entry.

The girl straightened, having found what she had been looking for in her purse. It was a can of pepper spray that she aimed at Jeff's face with trembling hands. "Stay away. Don't come any closer, I'll use it!"

The door tried to open for a third time, and Sam growled, keeping his weight pressed against it as he kept his gaze trained on Jeff.

Jeff, however, seemed to have grown impatient and, not heeding the girl's threat, advanced.

There was no way that Sam was going to let that happen, and he leapt forward, leaving the door unattended.

The girl didn't hesitate with the pepper spray, dispersing its contents directly into Jeff's face as he took one step too close. He jerked back with a scream of his own, his hands flying up to protect his face.

A second later, Sam was bodily ripping him away and propelling him face-first against the wall as hard as he could. Jeff's head cracked against the tile and he went limp in Sam's grasp.

He let go, and Jeff dropped to the ground like a sack of rocks, his body hitting the floor with a thump.

The girl screamed again and Sam had just enough time to slide between her and Tommy, but it wasn't enough to put up a defense. Tommy grabbed him, and a moment later he was the one being shoved roughly up against the wall.

The only difference between him and Jeff was that Sam managed to get a hand out to brace his impact and keep his head from bouncing off the tiles. Grunting, he pushed himself back and into Tommy.

The girl screamed again and dropped the can of pepper spray as she darted out of their way. Sam went on the attack with a series of quick jabs, and Tommy backed up, trying to shield himself from the onslaught.

Taking advantage of this, Sam ducked behind him and wrapped an arm around his throat in a headlock that cut off his air supply.

He glanced up, finding the girl's eyes. She looked terrified as she shrank back against the sink. "Go, get out of here. Get in your car and drive away," Sam managed to spit out as he struggled to keep his grip on Tommy as he began to writhe, trying to break free. She hesitated, looking petrified, but this would be easier if he didn't have to worry about her. "GO!"

She didn't need to be told again, and she bolted for the door.

Tommy struggled violently, one hand coming up to tug ineffectively at the arm wrapped around his throat while his other fumbled in his jacket pocket. Sam tightened his grip, bearing down. "C'mon, c'mon,—" he hissed, increasing the pressure.

Tommy let out a wheeze that sounded almost triumphant as he yanked whatever he had been looking for out of his pocket. Sam just caught sight of what looked to be a large pocket knife before Tommy flicked it open and stabbed up and directly into Sam's arm.

Sam's arm spasmed open as the injured muscles refused to keep working, and he grunted, the pain hitting fast. Tommy didn't waste the advantage as he tore himself away. Falling forward onto his hands and knees, he coughed raggedly, the long and now bloody blade still clutched in one hand.

Sam's arm was bleeding—he could feel the warmth soaking through his shirt and jacket—but he didn't have time to check just how bad it was as the door behind them burst open yet again.

For a brief moment, he thought that it was Dean, but when he twisted to look, he saw Lucas standing there. Blood was pouring from his nose and one of his eyes was swollen shut but he looked furious.

"You son of a bitch!" he screamed, pointing one finger in Sam's direction as Tommy staggered upright, still coughing and clutching the knife.

Tommy was the bigger of the two threats, between the knife and some skill, and Sam feinted towards Lucas before twisting to attack Tommy instead. He caught the wrist that held the knife and held on, keeping it firmly away from either of them. Forcing Tommy back several steps, Sam rammed him up against the edges of one of the stalls and jerked the wrist down hard, trying to get him to drop the knife.

Something popped in Tommy's wrist and he let out a howl. The knife fell, clattering to the ground, and Sam kicked it away from them before ramming Tommy up against the stall again for good measure.

Lucas's hands found Sam's jacket and he began to bodily yank him off Tommy.

Whirling around, Sam thrust him back and then threw a punch that landed directly on his already swollen and broken nose. Lucas screamed and he changed tactics, shoving Sam back toward Tommy, who didn't need an excuse to smash his fist against his face.

It caught him high on the cheekbone and snapped his head to the side, making his eyes water. Lucas, bolder now that Sam had taken a hit, sprang forward and grabbed him by the hair, viciously dragging his head back.

This wasn't good.

Grimacing, Sam struggled against the hold and kicked backward. His boot connected with Lucas's kneecap and he let out a long howl as his leg buckled, refusing to hold his weight.

He hit the ground hard. Tommy jumped Sam, bringing him down, and then all three of them were on the ground.

Tommy had the advantage and he planted a hand in the middle of Sam's back, keeping him in place. Sam bucked upwards, trying to get him off before he could do any additional damage. Something glinted just out of the corner of his vision and Sam glanced over to see the pocket knife lying only a few feet away.

It was within reach.

He lunged for it, but he hadn't been the only one who had seen it. Lucas was scrambling forward as well, and he thrust an elbow back, catching Sam in the face.

He blinked back the resulting tears and then Tommy was shoving him back down as he pounced for the knife. He reached it seconds before Sam did. Sam's fingers scraped uselessly against the back of Tommy's hand before he gave it up and wrapped them instead around Tommy's rapidly swelling wrist and squeezed as hard as he could. Tommy let go with a whimper, the knife falling back to the ground.

Sam darted for it but before he could snatch it up, Lucas was shoving something else in his face. Tommy lunged for the knife in the second it took for Sam to focus on what Lucas had and by then it was too late.

The knife hadn't been the only thing left on the floor or what Lucas had been going for. The can of pepper spray had also been on the ground, just waiting to be used.

With a grin, Lucas dispersed the contents right in Sam's face.

Sam hadn't been prepared for it and he didn't have time to close his eyes before he was hit with a full blast. Automatically flinching his eyes closed, he brought his hands up to shield his face but it was too late. It didn't do anything to stop the burning sensation that seared across his eyes and skin.

Crying out, Sam rolled away as the pain deepened. That only made it worse as the spray got into his lungs, and his cry turned into a cough that wouldn't stop.

He couldn't see and he couldn't breathe.

For the first time that night, Sam felt real fear creep in as he blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision as he continued to cough.

He didn't know where anyone else was or what they were going to do to him.

Thrusting himself onto his knees, Sam tried to open his eyes, but they were streaming, and that only made the burning worse.

A hand closed around his collar and he was yanked sideways. He shoved an elbow blindly back but it didn't connect with anything and then his head was being bashed against what felt like the hinges of the stall door. Warm blood instantly began to seep across his face and his head was jerked back again.

"You're gonna regret this," who sounded like Tommy growled, spraying spit into Sam's face.

The fear in Sam's gut deepened. Lunging forward, he grabbed Tommy's face and gouged his fingers into any soft tissue that he could find. He was aiming for the eyes but he wasn't sure that it was what he found.

Whatever it was, it was sensitive because Tommy screamed and then drove his fist up into the right side of Sam's ribs. The blow was hard and fast and punched the air from his lungs. Before Sam could recover, Tommy followed it up with another one that was just as hard and was going for a third when Sam reared up to meet him and grabbed the back of his head. Bringing it down, he headbutted him as hard as he could.

Something clattered to the ground as Tommy grunted and grabbed at Sam's hair in return.

Sam still couldn't see and he dragged his hands down, clasping Tommy by the side of the face, and rammed his head back into what must have either been the wall or the stall. He must have hit whatever it was just right because he went limp, his body draping over Sam's.

"You bastard—!" Lucas snarled closer than Sam had been expecting, making him jump.

He was bracing for more pain when the door to the bathroom banged open, announcing yet again someone's entrance. Sam's heart skipped a beat. It might be Dean, or it could be Frank or Trevor. If it was the latter, then it meant that Dean was in trouble and Sam was in no condition to be able to help.

"HEY! Get off him!

Sam swallowed back the sob of relief that threatened at the sound of his brother's voice and tried to sit up, shoving Tommy off.

The clear threat didn't stop Lucas from lunging forward, knocking Sam back down at clawing at his face. It was the last mistake that he made that night.

No sooner had his fingers touched him than Sam felt him being bodily dragged off. A short wail was followed by the repeated sounds of flesh on flesh before there was a final thump of what sounded like a body hitting the floor.

No one else came through the door. The fight was over.

For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom was Dean's harsh breathing and the water still running in the sink.

Sam grunted as he kicked Tommy's limp legs off of his but didn't try and get up quite yet, focusing on his own ragged breathing and the insistent burning sensation across his face.

"Sam?"

Groaning, Sam made a herculean effort as he used the side of the stall door to pull himself up into a sitting position and then leaned against it, still fighting to catch his breath. The pepper spray was still in his throat and he muffled a cough into his shoulder, wincing as the motion jarred his ribs.

It hurt to breathe; his chest throbbing where Tommy had hit him, and he leaned forward, trying to quell any more coughs. It didn't work and another series of weak coughs tore through him. He brought his right arm up, wrapping it around his ribs to provide pressure against the burning pain.

Not that his chest and face were the only things that hurt. His head throbbed dully as warm blood continued to seep down his face, making a steady trail down past his ear and onto his neck.

"Sam? You okay?"

A note of deep concern was in his brother's voice but Sam didn't answer as he continued to cough. He tried to take a deeper breath and winced. Oh, God, that had hurt. He tried to force his eyes open again but it was still too much, and he squeezed them shut tightly.

He needed to tell Dean that he was alright, that he was just a little roughed up.

"Sammy, what's wrong? How bad is it?" Dean repeated more urgently as he crossed over to crouch next to him and his hands were on his shoulders, forcing him to straighten from his hunched position. Grabbing his chin, his brother tilted his head up, and Sam tried to bat his hands away.

Swallowing back another cough, he rasped out, "I'm okay, I am. You?"

"Don't lie to me. Talk to me, tell me what's wrong?" Dean wasn't letting him move away as his cold fingers danced across his face, one thumb trying to pull up one of Sam's eyelids as he tried to discern for himself the problem. Sam let out a low hum, pushing back against Dean.

"I'm fine. I am, I just—the bastard pepper-sprayed me in the face. I can't see." He groaned, but that only resulted in more coughing, which immediately sent the pain flaring alive across his whole body. One of Dean's hands dropped down to his shoulder even as the other moved up to Sam's head.

"Pepper spray? I thought—" Dean laughed, sounding relieved. "We can handle pepper spray."

"It's not funny. It friggin' burns." Sam wrapped his arm tighter around his ribs and tried to hunch back over. "And you didn't answer my question. Are you okay?"

Dean snorted as he tipped Sam's head to the side and began to comb through his hair. "Only bruises and my left wrist might be sprained, but that's it. Dicks fought dirty—And okay, my ass. You're not okay. Your head is leaking like a rusty bucket. He got you pretty good."

"It's fine."

Dean hummed noncommittedly even as his hand dropped back down to Sam's shoulder and stilled. "Well, you'll live at least. C'mon, get up. We'll flush out your eyes so that you can see for yourself just how 'fine' you look."

"Right," Sam snorted softly but didn't make a move to get up as he dropped his head and curled up tighter. He was starting to feel a little woozy now that the adrenaline was fading.

"Sam?" Dean questioned after a second, and Sam shook his head, not really knowing himself. "C'mon. Up and at 'em." The hand squeezed his shoulder firmly, a silent offer of support.

Biting at his lower lip to hold back a groan, Sam stiffly unwrapped his arm from his ribs and held out his hand so that Dean could pull him up.

Dean's sharp inhale broke through the quiet, and a palpable tension filled the air.

"Is that your blood?" he snapped curtly, all jest gone from his voice and replaced with something that sounded a lot like fear as he shoved Sam's arm aside and tugged instead at his jacket, trying to pull it open.

Sam was confused for a moment until he remembered the pocket knife and the cut on his arm.

"Oh, that-that's just a scratch. It's nothing, probably won't even need stitches. Tommy had a knife."

"A knife?! Dude, that's—that's a lot of blood. That's—" Dean's voice was rising with panic as he crowded in on him, making Sam feel a little claustrophobic.

He grabbed hold of his arm, trying to use it as leverage to push Dean back a little and give him some space to breathe. "Dean—" he tried to say but Dean ignored him as he roughly hiked his shirts and jacket up, making Sam's skin pebble with cold. "Whoa! Whoa, what are you doing?" he grunted as he tried to pull them back down, but Dean held him still with a hand on his chest.

Sam forced his eyes open, trying to blink them clear to see what had Dean so freaked. His brother was nothing more than a blur though, and Dean wasn't saying anything, frozen next to him. "Dean? Dean, I can't—let me up. I've got to wash this stuff out of my eyes. Move. I want to move."

Sam tried to get up again and Dean unfroze.

"Stay still—" he ordered sharply, his hand jumping to Sam's shoulder to pin him in place. "Don't get up, we've got to—you've—"

"What?" Sam snapped. It wasn't like Dean to be lost for words. "I've what?"

"Sammy, you can't—don't you feel it?"

"Feel wh—?" Sam started to ask before Dean began to apply pressure against his chest and the pain roared to life. He tilted his head back, throat working as he tried to keep from crying out and his fingers spasmed into fists. "Dean, I can't see, I don't know what's going on," he ground out when he could.

Dean didn't let up the pressure, and his voice was shaking slightly when he said, "He stabbed you. The son of a bitch stabbed you."

It wasn't what Sam had been expecting. "Stabbed?" he repeated in surprise.

Dean released him, standing. "That looks bad. Put pressure on it, I'm going to get something to help stop the bleeding," he directed as he moved away.

"Dean?" Sam tried to get up and follow him but the sharp pain flaring through his chest held him back. Sam brought his hand up to the right side of his chest, still in disbelief. Stabbed? That was…He'd have felt it if he had gotten stabbed, wouldn't he? But his hand was met with the warmth and thickness of blood, and there was a lot of it.

He had taken a couple of hard hits to the chest. He'd thought that it was just flesh on flesh but it could have been the knife. Tommy had been reaching for it the last he'd seen and Sam had been going for his eyes, Tommy would have wanted to make him hurt.

Across the room, he could hear Dean dispensing what sounded like the entirety of the paper towels, and the truth of the matter sunk in.

"Damnit," Sam muttered, letting his head drop back against the wall in frustration even as he brought his other hand up and locked his fingers together so that he could apply pressure against the steady flow of blood.

This wasn't good. Not good at all.

Chapter Text

Sam tried to slow down his erratic breathing as he listened to Dean move around the bathroom. He tilted his head back, leaning it against the wall as he increased the pressure that he was applying, trying to ignore the slick, warm, feeling of his own blood slipping past his fingers.

He'd been stabbed in the chest and that—that wasn't ideal, not with the FBI hot on their tails and waiting to snatch them up like the prized pig.

Depending on how bad it was, Dean might force him to go to the hospital, but Sam couldn't get past the thought that going was a really bad idea. Hospitals kept records on who had been there, and the police would surely become involved with it being a stabbing. It would be like lighting up a neon sign and telling the FBI exactly where they were at.

He was—they had just gotten away by the skin of their teeth at the bank, he couldn't do prison, he just couldn't.

"Hey, hey, calm down. Here—" Dean was dropping down next to him again and dragging Sam's hands away from the wounds. He piled a thick wad of paper towels over them and braced one hand against Sam's chest. He used the other to apply direct and unrelenting pressure that made Sam clench his jaw.

"Deep breaths, c'mon, deep breaths, don't freak out on me," Dean coached in a distracted murmur.

"I'm not," Sam ground out, trying for annoyance and not sure that he succeeded.

"Right, of course you're not. C'mon, breathe deep."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter and shakily tried to do just that but that only increased the rapidly intensifying pain. Swallowing thickly, he muffled a cough into his shoulder and resorted to shallower breaths.

Dean was silent for a moment as he focused on stopping the bleeding but Sam wasn't surprised when he spoke again. "He got you pretty good. How are you doing?"

'Fine' wouldn't be accepted as an answer in this case, and Sam took another stuttering breath before he answered. "It's not that bad."

"Are you sure about that? How's your breathing? With the positioning of the wound and if that knife went deep enough, he could have punctured your lung."

Sam didn't want to think about that. If he had punctured a lung then it meant that the hospital would become a requirement, and not just for a quick ER visit either. "It's okay," he grunted, trying not to think too hard about it.

"Sam…" Dean's voice dropped deeper in a rebuke.

"I—Look, it hurts to breathe but I'm sure that has something to do with getting stabbed. I'll let you know if it gets worse."

"You'd better," Dean muttered and then fell silent again, concentrating on what he was doing.

Sam swallowed thickly, not liking the silence when he couldn't see anything. "What—" he had to stop, pulling in another short breath. "What about the girl? Did she…?"

"Last I saw she was in her car and getting out of here like a bat out of hell. She's safe as long as she keeps her head and doesn't crash." Dean shifted, changing position and steadily increasing the pressure that he was applying.

Sam didn't say anything, throat working and—damn it, that hurt.

"Sorry."

Sam didn't bother with the apology. "You, ah, you get the other guys? The big one?"

"Yeah, he's down for the count. We did good, Sammy."

Sam huffed breathlessly. Dean wasn't the one bleeding out in the women's bathroom of a dingy rest area. "I was doing fine until they brought out the pepper spray," he mumbled in his own defense. He rubbed at his still-burning eyes before he thought better of it and clenched his jaw at the resulting pain. "Dean, I still can't see. Let me—could you…?" he trailed off and dropped his hand down to cover Dean's where it was pressed over his chest still trying to control the bleeding.

"Sam, this is more important, we'll get your eyes flushed at the hospital," Dean said firmly but Sam could feel the panic starting to well up stronger. He didn't know what was happening, not really, and if he could just see then maybe things would be better.

"No. Just—help me over to the sink."

"Dude, no. You're still bleeding pretty good. I know things might be getting a little wonky, you're probably going into shock, but this really is more—"

"Dean, please, I need to see what's happening. Please."

Some of the panic must have bled into his voice because Dean swore under his breath before slipping his hands out from under Sam's. Resting them briefly on top of his, he pressed down. "Okay. Okay, I'm on it. Keep applying pressure, I'll be right back."

He moved away and the sounds of the paper towel dispenser came again, followed by muffled water as Dean ran them underneath the faucet. At last, with a squeak, the sink was shut off and then Dean was back at his side.

One hand dropped down to rest over Sam's clasped hand, making sure that he wasn't letting up pressure before lifting away again. "Hold that there, just tilt your head to the side." Gripping Sam's chin, he turned his head to the exact angle he wanted before he began to flush his eyes out with the wet paper towels that he wrung out over his face.

Sam sputtered, coughing under the deluge and gasping at the resulting spikes of pain in his chest. The method probably wasn't the most efficient one ever, but it was effective enough. After Dean had repeated the process several times, Sam was able to blink his eyes all the way open without them burning or tearing up.

A blurry Dean stared down at him, his face pale and creased in worry as he flung the used paper towels aside. A dark bruise was darkening his left cheekbone and his lip was split but besides that, he didn't look hurt. Not unless the blood that was staining both of his hands red counted, but that wasn't his.

Sam glanced down at himself and felt his heart skip a beat. There was a lot of blood, no wonder Dean was looking so freaked. It covered his hands and had completely soaked his shirt. The wad of paper towels that he was holding against his chest was in no better condition.

"That better?" Dean shrugged out of his jacket before hastily tearing off his flannel to get at his t-shirt.

"Yeah, it's good," Sam said as he continued to blink rapidly to further clear his vision. He broke off in another coughing fit as the words caught in his throat and he doubled forward.

"Easy, easy now, kiddo," Dean said, shifting so that he could offer more support as Sam brought his hand up to his chest, pressing against his sternum. He continued to cough and now his eyes were tearing up for a completely different reason.

It hurt.

When he managed to get the coughing under control, Dean's lips were a thin line and his eyes were pinched. He had dropped his flannel and had taken over applying pressure. "Take a deep breath, c'mon, in and out," he ordered and Sam shot him a glare.

"I'm trying," he wheezed. He knew that he was panting more than breathing, but he couldn't help it. The bathroom was feeling warmer and more confined than before and Sam swallowed, feeling himself starting to sweat and his eyes fluttered shut before he forced them open again.

The lines in Dean's face were getting steadily deeper as he reached up, pressing two fingers into Sam's throat.

"Your pulse is thready and fast," he announced after a minute and Sam shrugged.

"Yeah, well, as you said, I might be going into shock."

"Or if your lung is collapsing, then it could be putting pressure on your heart."

"Or I'm fine," Sam countered, but it was hard to be convincing when after that short sentence he had to stop, taking several shallow gasps of air.

Dean shook his head, his face crumpling. "Damnit, Sammy," he muttered and Sam knew that he was the only one that could hear the terror there. "You probably did puncture your lung—I can't fix that."

"We don't know that. It's not like it's easy to breathe with you putting pressure on my chest like that." Sam tried to sit up further to prove his point but Dean easily pushed him back down.

"Yeah, because it's completely normal to sound like a beached fish. Dude, face it. This is way beyond me and what I can take care of. It's going to take an-an actual doctor with actual equipment. You need x-rays and maybe surgery and I can't do any of that in the back of the Impala."

Sam stared at Dean and his eyes started to burn.

They couldn't do that. He couldn't go to the hospital, not unless he wanted to risk both of them getting arrested. He tried to take a deep breath to settle himself and couldn't do it, the pain deepening along the right side of his chest.

"Sometimes—sometimes if the puncture is small enough, it heals itself," he tried and Dean looked away, not meeting his eyes, and Sam tried again. "Look, just help me to the Impala," he stopped, sucking in more air, "we'll get a motel and wait it out. I might not need to go."

"Dude," Dean began tightly. "No. No way in hell am I risking that. I'm not going to sit at your bedside and just wait to see if you stop breathing."

"But Henriksen—"

"—Isn't going to be there. It will be fine." Dean sounded confident but Sam couldn't dredge up the same feelings. Dean always believed that he could pull one over on the cops, that he could get them out of any situation, but Sam wasn't so quick to dismiss the law. He'd seen too many close calls.

He stayed quiet, his mind racing through the different possibilities.

"Sam?" Dean questioned sharply, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face and turning his attention back to him. "You still with me?"

"Yeah, I'm with you, I just—" Sam shook his head minutely, not able to find the capacity or air to put into words what he was feeling and thinking.

Going to the hospital—and possibly encountering the cops—was inevitable at this point for him, even as much as he didn't want to admit it, but on the other hand, Dean was fine. He didn't have to go. He could just drop Sam off and drive away. He could get a motel room for a couple of days and then come pick him up or break him out of jail if worse came to worst. That would work, right?

"Good. You stay with me and it's all going to turn out okay, Sammy. We'll be fine, you're going to be fine." Dean offered a weak smile as he tugged Sam's hands back into position over the wounds. He numbly applied pressure, watching as Dean finished stripping out of his t-shirt with trembling hands.

Dean began to fold the material into a pressure bandage and then eased Sam forward so that he could wrap the bandage around him and over the wad of paper towels. He tied it off firmly and efficiently, making Sam grunt, his breath catching. Dean smoothed Sam's shirts and jacket back down over the bandages and gave him a crooked smile.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah. My legs are fine," Sam huffed, reaching out his blood-stained hand so that Dean could help him up.

Ignoring the proffered hand, Dean ducked down to get under his arm so that he could better support his weight and then wrapped one arm loosely around his waist. Sam gripped his shoulder tightly and Dean's other hand twisted in his shirt and then he was pulled up onto his feet.

Damn it, it hurt and the change of position sent him into a series of weak coughs. They weren't doing anything to clear his lungs and Sam grunted, clenching Dean's shoulder hard as he tried to make the coughs useful, as he tried to bring in more air. Dean held him upright, supporting most of his weight as Sam curled forward, still coughing and trying to escape the pain. It wasn't working and bright spots began to dance in front of his eyes.

"Easy, easy. You're okay. Just breathe deep, we're going to get you help, just hold on," Dean instructed uneasily over his head and Sam focused on his voice as something finally broke free, allowing him to breathe better. Gasping raggedly, he muffled another cough.

The distinct taste of copper hit the back of his throat and Sam swallowed thickly, trying to rid himself of the taste, but it wasn't going away. It tasted like metal and—Stiffening in realisation, he pressed his lips together, trying to hide the evidence.

Blood. He was starting to cough up blood.

"Sam?" Dean asked, gripping him tighter and Sam swallowed again, trying to get enough saliva to be able to answer even as he swiped his tongue over his teeth.

This all felt like some dream, a really, really, bad dream.

"I'm good," he managed to get out, trying to keep his breathing even so that he wouldn't trigger another coughing fit.

Dean snorted in disbelief as the arm around his waist tightened, nudging him forward with an urgency that didn't need to be spoken. Sam obediently shuffled forward and used his free hand to swipe unsteadily at the sweat that was coating his face.

Dean shifted, attempting to compensate for more of his weight as they stepped over a moaning Lucas and Sam threw his brother a sideways look. He was white underneath the blood flecks, and he had a look of controlled panic seared into his face.

He was going to throw a fit when Sam told him to leave him at the hospital, but he honestly didn't see another choice.

If Dean left, then the best-case scenario was that they wouldn't figure out who Sam was, and Dean could come in and claim him. The worst-case scenario was that Sam would be arrested and then Dean would find a way to break him out. If Dean stayed, on the other hand, then the worst-case scenario was that they would both be arrested and probably separated.

Sam didn't want to risk that.

Dad wasn't around to help them out of sticky spots, and no one else was close enough to them to know or care if the Winchesters were locked up. No one would be coming to help them escape.

Dean kicked the bathroom door open and steered them into the main lobby and straight for the door.

It really hadn't been that far of a walk but Sam was trembling by the time that they reached it. He also couldn't seem to be able to find the air to breathe efficiently, and he was getting lightheaded as he tried to suck more in.

God, it felt like he was trying to breathe through a closed straw—he had to sit down for a moment. Had to catch his breath before he could go any farther.

"Stop—Dean, stop—" he managed to get out, his hand fluttering up to find his brother's arm. Dean stopped instantly, trying to twist around to see Sam more clearly but Sam was doubling over. His arm slid off from around Dean's shoulders to wrap around his chest.

Dean swore under his breath before saying, "You just—you gotta slow it down. You're breathing too fast, but we're almost there, just hang on, we're almost to the car."

He reached for the door handle but Sam was sinking as his knees stopped working. Everything was getting hazy and he blinked large black spots out of his vision.

"Sonofabitch, easy! Easy, hey!"

He could hear Dean talking to him, but it sounded increasingly far away and Sam blinked. When he opened his eyes again, he was slumped awkwardly against the cold cement wall and Dean was crouched over his sprawled legs, one hand on Sam's face, the other still pressing against his chest.

"Sam, you with me?" he asked even as Sam arched his back. It felt like the air was being ripped from him yet none of it was being replaced.

"I'm—" Sam couldn't get the words out.

"Damnit. Damnit, breathe, buddy. C'mon, you've been doing it since the day that you were born." Dean shifted and grabbed two handfuls of Sam's jacket to haul him more upright to open his air passages further.

It helped only a little.

Reaching out blindly, Sam wrapped his fingers in Dean's jacket in return and clenched the thick material tightly as he struggled, focusing on forcing air in and out of his lungs.

"You going to make it to the car or should I be calling in reinforcements?" Dean asked as he let Sam lean into him. He reached around and began to rub deep circles across his back, trying to encourage a steadier rhythm

Sam shook his head, trying to blink away the little spots of light that wanted to dance in front of his eyes. "I'll make it," he said in what could hardly be qualified as a whisper.

"Sam, don't do that, don't lie. Tell me straight, are you going to make it?"

Sam didn't answer, coughing weakly instead and shifting in an attempt to ease the pain in his chest. In a moment of weakness, he let himself rest his forehead against Dean's shoulder while trying to bring in more air. There was an audible wheeze to his breathing now and the taste of iron was heavy against his tongue again.

Dean spoke above him, his chest vibrating against Sam's cheek. "Okay, okay, hang on. I'm getting you help."

Sam coughed once more, trying to rid himself of the awful pressure in his lungs and let his head roll back, breathing through his open mouth.

"Oh, God."

At Dean's stricken tone, Sam jerked his gaze back around to find Dean had straightened and was staring at him. Fresh blood was speckling the collar of Dean's jacket where Sam's head had been resting and Sam was sure that it was on his lips. "Blood. That's—you're coughing up blood now." Dean tore into his pocket, fumbling out his phone even as he pressed Sam back with one hand. "Don't move, I'm calling 911. I'm not moving you, it's making it worse. Don't move."

"No—Dean, no," Sam insisted breathlessly as he scrambled to catch hold of his brother's wrist. Dean had the phone out and was flipping it open, easily avoiding Sam's feeble attempts to snatch it back from him. "Stop, you have….you have to lis'en—"

Dean wasn't listening, his face tense underneath the smears of blood and Sam changed tactics as he grabbed for Dean's collar instead, trying to pull him down toward him. "Dean, please—listen to me."

That tone always worked, and Dean hesitated for just a moment, long enough for Sam to gulp in a couple of agonising breaths. "Don't…don't call 911."

"Sammy, you're coughing up blood. You can't breathe. We are way past me fixing you up, we're calling 911."

Sam couldn't refute that, especially not when he turned to the side, coughing into his shoulder and groaning at the deep pain that followed. He could feel fresh blood speckling his lips and the taste of metal was thick on his tongue. Dean's phone was halfway up to his ear when Sam jerked on his collar desperately.

"It will be okay. We'll keep a low cover," Dean insisted calmly, but Sam wasn't having it.

"Let me call," he rasped out in one breath and tried to suck in another one.

"Sam, no."

"Yes. Get out of here." It was getting harder to talk and Dean could see it as well. He ignored his pleas as he finished dialling and Sam tipped his head back. He tightened his grip on Dean's collar in frustration as he closed his eyes, panting harshly as he listened to Dean make the 911 call.

Breathing wasn't any easier in that position and Sam gasped. Returning his head to the original position resting against Dean's shoulder, he tried to force the air into his uncooperative lung. It hurt like a bitch.

When he heard Dean snap the phone closed, he rolled his head to the side, looking up. It was now or never, he had to convince Dean to leave him here.

Dean offered a smile, his hand coming up and gripping Sam's forearm hard, both comforting and reassuring. "They'll be here as soon as they can. ETA is less than ten minutes, so you've just got to hang on a little longer. Stay with me, alright?"

"I'm fine." Sam regretted saying anything when his voice broke at the end. He didn't think that it could get harder to breathe, but it was and he tightened his grip on Dean's collar to get his attention. "You've got to…gotta get out."

"Sam, we've already been over this—no."

"You'll—you'll be arrested."

"They're not going to figure it out."

"We don't know that. Dean—" Sam had to cut himself off, coughing again and leaving his tongue coated in blood. Dean's eyes were wide and he was struggling to control his terror as Sam locked eyes with him. "You'll be arrested," he repeated when he could, begging him to understand but he was refusing to pick up what Sam was trying to lay down.

"I'm not leaving you, that's not happening, so save your breath and shut up. Just…concentrate on breathing. Help will be here soon."

"No, they're going to find out," Sam tried again, increasingly frustrated with his inability to make his argument. He couldn't do it, not when each word was paid for dearly. He gasped, the sharp breaths cutting through him.

Dean shhed him desperately as he cupped the side of his face. "Calm down, you're getting all worked up and that's—that's not helping. Don't say anything else. They aren't going to connect the dots. We've put enough space between us and Henriksen, we've crossed multiple state lines. It's fine. We're fine, I promise, Sammy we're fine."

"But—"

"Shh, shh, no. I'm not—I'll leave if I think that they are going to get suspicious but not before then."

Sam blinked back tears, not sure how he could get Dean to see logic, to see reason, and to see that this was the only option. He took another breath, trying to marshal his strength before saying as clearly as he could, "I'll be fine, but I won't be if you get arrested. You have to leave. For me." He had to pause again, and he had more that he wanted to say, but he couldn't. He weakly tugged at Dean's jacket, begging him to get it, to understand that if there was even the slightest possibility that he might get caught, he had to leave.

Dean was smart. He had to know the same things that Sam did, he just didn't want to admit to it.

Dean made a distraught face as his hand slid away from Sam's face and up to his hair, smoothing it back. He maintained eye contact, searching, and then his jaw was clenching tight as his gaze moved away from Sam's. When he looked back around his face was set.

He leaned forward, his hand sliding down to wrap around the back of Sam's neck and forcing him to look up. "Promise me that you are going to make it through this," he said thickly.

"Go," Sam ground out, trying not to cough again.

"Promise me, Sam. Swear to me that you are going to fight."

Sam stared at Dean and then nodded slowly.

Dean looked away again, his fingers massaging the back of Sam's neck before he took a steadying breath. "I'm staying until I hear the sirens. I can't believe I'm agreein' to this, Sammy, I—I don't like it."

Sam didn't have time to worry about that. "No—" he started to say, trying to get Dean to leave immediately, but his voice was faint.

Dean shook his head. "Save your breath, dude. Purple's not a good color on you. The paramedics will be here soon, just relax."

Dean was trying so hard, but Sam could see how red his eyes were and could feel how tightly he was gripping him. Nodding to try and pacify Dean, he slumped forward, letting his head rest on his brother's shoulder again as he tried to force more air into his unwilling lungs. Dean brought his arms up, wrapping them around Sam's back in a sort of hug.

Sam wanted to reassure him that he would be fine, that this wasn't goodbye but he couldn't do more than gasp harshly. Dean tightened his grip, rocking him slightly.

They were only sitting that way for a minute or two when Dean tensed, his head twisting around. Sam opened his eyes and then pushed himself back upright, or at least tried to. He was alarmed by how weak he was and that he needed Dean's help to lean against the wall.

"Sam—" Dean tried one last time and Sam forced a smile.

"Be safe," he made the effort to whisper as Dean grabbed his hand and brought it up to apply pressure over the makeshift bandages.

Dean looked like he wanted to say more, but they were out of time. Giving him a cocky smile that couldn't disguise the fear there or the faint sheen of tears, he stood.

Sam's eyes slipped closed of their own accord and when he opened them again, Dean was gone.

Relief mingled with fear. He'd been half afraid that Dean wouldn't leave, and there would have been nothing that Sam could have done to make him. Without anyone around to be strong for, he stopped trying to hide the pain or just how hard it was getting to breathe.

He could now hear the sirens, loud in the otherwise quiet, and all he could do was hope that Dean had gotten away in time.

#

Dean's heart was somewhere in his throat as he straightened from his crouch, staring down at his little brother. Sam was covered in his own blood, but that wasn't what was truly alarming. No, that was his inability to pull in a full breath and the way that he was arching slightly in an attempt to do so. It was the ragged wheezes that filled the air and it just wasn't right. That wasn't how someone should sound when all they were doing was breathing.

If he didn't leave now, then he never would. But he had to, for Sam.

Tearing himself away, Dean fled the rest area before he could talk himself out of it.

He felt completely numb.

Sam's blood was splattered all over his hands and shirt and yet he had left his brother behind on the grimy floor of a dingy rest area, bleeding and lips turning blue from the lack of air.

Yanking open the door to the Impala, Dean slid inside. He got it, he did, and it made sense. Henriksen would be hunting for them, and there was a chance that they would be found. If that was the case, then being separated from Sam for a few days was better than for the rest of their lives, but that didn't mean that leaving Sam went against his very core.

Decidedly not thinking about what he was doing, he backed the Impala out and, gunning the engine, got back on the highway. He probably only had seconds before the ambulance and possibly the police got there. He'd reported it as a stabbing, and that was sure to bring both.

Sure enough, red and blue lights danced in his rearview mirror mere moments after he got on the highway, and Dean increased the pressure on the gas pedal.

He didn't go far.

Driving down only about a mile, he pulled off to the side of the road and then started to double back on foot at a sprint.

He'd just left Sam alone and bleeding.

It still wasn't making much sense even as Dean repeated it over again. When he'd walked in on Sam in that bathroom, he'd thought they had gotten away from the brawl okay. Sure, Dean had a couple of bruises and Sam had been pepper-sprayed and was bleeding from a head wound, but that was doable.

That was fixable.

When he'd gone to pull Sam up and saw all the blood that his jacket and his arm had hidden, his heart had stopped. Even then, he'd thought that they were okay. Sam might have been in pain and bleeding, but he had been mostly lucid and had been talking and breathing just fine. And then he'd started to struggle to get enough air and his condition had deteriorated so rapidly that it had left Dean's head spinning.

Sam hadn't even really been able to speak by the end, even as he'd clutched at Dean, begging him to leave, and that wasn't right. Sam always had something to say.

God, he wasn't going to be able to get the image of Sam leaning against him, coughing up blood, out of his mind anytime soon.

The sirens were no longer wailing by the time he reached the edge of the tree line that led to the rest area, but it was bathed in a sea of red and blue lights from the multitude of emergency vehicles that had descended on the area.

Straying probably closer than he should have, Dean watched the entrance from behind one of the thicker trees.

He just wanted to make sure that Sam got help, and then he would figure out what he was going to do.

A smaller firetruck came wailing in, and Dean watched as the workers jumped out, one hurrying towards the building while the other moved over to where Trevor or Trent or Travis or whatever his name was sitting on the ground. An officer was crouched next to him, keeping him upright. Dean hoped like hell that he had a massive headache. He had known how to fight dirty, and Dean hadn't been kind in return.

It was mere luck that he had escaped with as little damage to himself as he had. Hell, it was just stupid heroics that had led them to the fight in the first place and bad luck that had led to Sam getting stabbed.

Dean was done being the good guy. If this was their reward…shaking his head, he pressed his lips together to fight off the despairing thoughts as he continued to watch the entrance. He didn't have any illusions about who he was or what he did, but he did know that they helped people. They were the good guys. They had to be, otherwise Dean would be completely lost.

It wasn't long before they wheeled Sam out on a stretcher. He had a large oxygen mask strapped over his face even as a paramedic walked next to him, pumping oxygen. The end of the stretcher had been raised higher than the head, which made sense. Sam had rapidly been sliding into shock.

It wasn't comforting that the paramedics were moving with hurried efficiency. They wasted no time in loading Sam in the back of the ambulance and then the doors were swinging shut, hiding his brother from view. A second later, the sirens flipped on and then the ambulance was roaring out.

A police officer stepped into view, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the building and then the surrounding area.

Dean didn't wait around to see what would happen next and he faded back into the cover of the trees, careful not to make a sound. This time he didn't run as he made his way back to the Impala.

He had no clue what he was going to do and he still didn't know when he reached her. Sitting in the driver's seat, he stared at the steering wheel and tried not to notice the drying blood that he had left behind earlier. It was still on his hands as well, itching as it dried.

Sam's blood.

His little brother's blood.

Closing his eyes, Dean clenched his hands. "Damnit. DAMNIT!" He smacked the wheel hard and then raked one hand back through his hair. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he snorted out something between a laugh and a sob and then reached over, turning the car on.

He couldn't lose Sam. Sam was the only thing keeping him going, the only thing he had left. He'd rather die himself than lose his brother.

Spinning the Impala in a tight U-turn, he started back towards the nearest town. He didn't have a plan, he didn't know what he was doing, but he did know he couldn't leave Sam there alone. He was going to find a way to be close by, but, to do so successfully, he had a lot to figure out first.

Dean took a breath, trying to calm down as his fingers tapped an anxious beat against the steering wheel.

The first step was to get clean and become presentable. He couldn't do anything while covered in blood.

Reaching the town, Dean cruised through the streets in the dark, looking for the telltale signs of an unoccupied house. Finding one with a pile of newspapers stacked in front of the door, Dean parked in a back alley and then snuck around to the back door. There were still no signs of anyone, nor enough security to be a hassle and he picked the lock before entering.

The house was empty—no pets either, which was good—and Dean headed straight for the shower. Not bothering with the lights on the off chance that he would alert the neighbors to his presence, Dean scrubbed himself clean, trying very hard not to think about Sam.

For all that he knew, his brother was being prepped to go into surgery or already was in surgery. He had been coughing up blood and surely that meant surgery.

Sam would be fine, he'd gotten Sam help. The doctors would make sure that he survived since he couldn't.

Now Dean just had to hold up to his end and stay out of trouble while also somehow being there for his brother.

It was…doable. Dean now had the beginnings of a plan, even if it was just the bare bones of one. He was going to Clark Kent his way into the hospital, probably as a nurse.

Simple. Probably stupid, but Dean was good at making stupid plans work.

Getting out of the shower, Dean fumbled around in the dark until he found a towel and quickly dried off, ignoring his aches and pains, before pulling on fresh clothes. Once he was dressed, he risked flipping on the vanity light and began to pull open drawers until he found what he was looking for.

Hair product and a comb.

Wiping the mirror free of condensation with the towel, Dean proceeded to comb his hair back. He hadn't done this very often since high school and it took longer than he wanted to for it to feel right. In the end, he settled for having his hair slicked completely back and away from his face.

Striding back into the bedroom, Dean paused, seeing the pair of reading glasses on the bedside table. Snatching them up, he stuck them in his jacket pocket before continuing to the closets and looking for anything that might pass as scrubs. If he was lucky, then whoever lived here was a nurse. His luck didn't hold, not that it would have mattered anyway. He didn't think that anything here would have fit him, it all looked to be two sizes too small.

Leaving the house, Dean locked the door behind him and made for the Impala. Digging out the wet wipes that they kept for just such occasions, he wiped the now-crusted blood from the steering wheel and the silver chrome of the handle.

His next stop was the local Goodwill, only it didn't open for another three hours. The thought of waiting that long was frustrating and Dean sat back in the Impala for a moment, trying to figure out the most productive way to spend his time.

Sam's empty seat was mocking him and Dean went to run a hand through his hair before remembering that he had just styled it and stopped himself.

He wondered if Sam was out of surgery yet. God, he hoped that there hadn't been any complications, that everything was going just fine.

Making up his mind, Dean parked the Impala at a 24/7 diner and walked the couple of blocks to the hospital. He didn't know if they had put the pieces together of who Sam was—or if they would at all—but he couldn't risk the Impala being seen and recognized in the hospital parking lot.

It would be stupid for him to have left Sam behind, only to be caught now. He was going to have to find a more permanent and safe place to stash her, but that was on the back burner. Right now, his main focus was on getting into the hospital undetected so that he could know how Sam was doing and if he was even still alive.

And to do that, he needed more than just a custom. He needed authentication, which would probably have to come from a nurse who already worked at the hospital. Either a keycard or a badge or a code, whatever it took.

It was cold and dreary outside, but Dean just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets as he went around to the back, looking for the employee's only entrance. When he had found it, he leaned against the wall, waiting for the right target to walk by. Bumming a cigarette and lighter off someone, Dean indulged in the habit to look inconspicuous. He didn't smoke—the only time he'd consistently done so was for about a week in high school before John had caught him in the act and given him the verbal beating of his lifetime—but he wasn't against doing it if so-called upon. And if it worked to steady his nerves a little…well, that was just a bonus.

He watched different nurses coming and going, scanning their badges to be buzzed in.

Dean was just starting to get fidgety as he quietly watched for the perfect opportunity when a frazzled nurse walked past, trying to juggle a water bottle, a phone charger, and a bag of lunch in one hand while talking on the phone.

She swore loudly when, after scanning her badge, she tried to open the door and dropped her lunch. Hurriedly catching the door and opening it before it locked again, Dean gave her a bright smile as he also bent down to pick up her lunch for her.

She blushed a little and accepted it, never noticing as Dean easily picked the badge off the pocket of her shirt. He continued to hold the door open for her as she went in, the card held in his fist at his side.

She hopefully wouldn't miss it until later.

His objective achieved, Dean left without a second glance back.

By that time, morning had fully come, and businesses were starting to open. Making first for the thrift shop, Dean hurriedly picked out a pair of sneakers and some scrubs that were plain in color and wouldn't bring him much attention. There hadn't appeared to be any clear uniform color for the nurses that he had observed and Dean was hoping to hell that was true. After that, he made a quick stop at a digital printing store where he replicated the badge with a fake name and picture of himself. He had made enough fake IDs that this part was mindless and he struggled not to think about the way Sam had literally been gasping for air as he worked.

His last stop was a small tattoo parlor just down the street. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but one that felt like a good idea as soon as he had thought of it. Paying the artist five hundred dollars on the spot in cash, he had her draw a sleeve of tattoos onto his left arm with a Sharpie and, with a little flirting, also convinced her to cover up his bruises with some makeup.

Leaving, Dean stuck the glasses on his face and, as one last measure of precaution, switched the silver ring he frequently wore onto the ring finger of his left hand.

He was no longer Dean Winchester—didn't even look a damn thing like him—but was rather Dylan White, the new intern at the High Peak Hospital.

#

The hospital loomed larger than life as Dean approached the building again, his heart in his throat. Not that he would let it show on his face. No, from here on out, his only goal was to ooze confidence. People were much less likely to question people who acted like they belonged, but that didn't mean that internally he wasn't nervous.

They didn't typically run long cons, usually only playing roles for a couple of hours, but this one could go on for days.

Striding up to the employee's only door, he scanned his fake badge and felt no small amount of relief when the light turned green, the replicated barcode working. That was good, that would make life easier.

Once he was inside, he wandered over to the office marked HR, pretending that he had found the original badge just outside the employee-only door. That way, the nurse that he'd stolen it from hopefully wouldn't get in trouble, nor would the badge be turned off.

The badge gave him access to the doors but not to the computers, and Dean didn't even bother trying to find Sam that way. He had been in enough hospitals to know the general layout and instead, he strode through the hallways until he found first the surgical ward and then the recovery area.

It had been hours since he had last seen Sam. Surely, he had to be out of surgery by now.

The recovery room wasn't very full and there was only a handful of beds to check, but Dean's heart still skipped a beat when he pulled back the curtain to see Sam. His brother was lying completely still and dwarfed by the surrounding medical machinery. He looked more dead than alive.

The beeping of the heart monitor confirmed that he wasn't, but it did little to ease the fear tugging at Dean.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, Dean slipped through the curtain, making sure it was shut to provide them with a moment of privacy.

Moving up near the head of the bed, he reached down to clasp Sam's cold hand.

His brother didn't stir and the ventilator that they had him on slowly pushed air into his lungs. Dean squeezed Sam's hand tightly in both of his as he glanced up at the monitor with his brother's vitals, easily scanning them.

They weren't as positive as Dean would have liked.

His blood pressure was too low and his oxygen levels were hovering around the low 80s when they should have been in the 90s—and that was with the vent. His heart was beating too fast, the collapsed lung no doubt putting pressure on it.

But he was alive, and for the moment that would be enough.

"Sammy…you keep that promise, okay?" he murmured, chaffing the cold hand in his. As expected, Sam didn't respond, the ventilator continuing to push his chest up and down for him but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

"Damnit." Dragging a hand over his mouth, Dean blinked back tears and lifted back the sheet, pulling down the surgical gown that was covering Sam. Separate bandages covered the different punctures, but that didn't bother him. The thin tubing that was sticking out of his brother's chest, right beneath the punctures, did. He knew that it was draining the blood and air out to allow the lung to reinflate, but it didn't look right and it was making him a little nauseated.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his forehead. If he ever found Tommy again, he was going to make sure that he was eating his meals through a straw.

Covering Sam up, Dean rearranged his limbs in a position that he knew he liked to sleep in and then took a step back, continuing to stare at him. He knew that he had probably lingered here too long, but he couldn't find it in himself to leave.

Instead, he returned to the foot of the bed and picked up the file that was attached there.

They didn't have Sam's full name—he was listed simply as 'Sam' with no last name—which was good. It meant that his brother had been conscious enough to at least tell them that much when they arrived, but not too out of it to give his full name.

He skimmed the rest of the file hurriedly.

Sam had indeed punctured his right lung in two spots. Not only had the knife pierced the lung cavity, allowing air and blood to fill it and causing it to collapse, but the lower wound had also pierced the lung itself, which was why he had been coughing up blood. Surgery had gone well, however, and the doctors were hopeful for a full recovery as long as there were no complications.

Dean studied the chart for just a moment longer, his eyes flickering between it and his brother's pale, lax, face before he reluctantly put it back. He'd been here too long, and he still had a lot of work to do if he wanted to set himself up as a common sight in the hospital. If he could do that before the FBI showed up—if they showed up—then hopefully no one would look twice at him.

Sighing heavily, he patted Sam's knee. "I'll be here. You just concentrate on getting better," he said softly.

It took more effort than he wanted to admit to slip out, leaving his brother behind and defenseless.

After that, Dean went in search of the breakroom to get a cup of coffee and to figure out what the good people of Morgan, Indiana, knew or didn't know.

Both turned out to be surprisingly easy.

The coffee was strong and hot, and Dean easily inserted himself into a partially full table of workers. What had happened at the rest area was the talk of the whole hospital. It was a quiet town, and situations like this didn't happen frequently.

A detective had already talked to Lucas and the other members of his gang, who had been admitted to the ER in various conditions. They were saying that Sam and another mysterious man had attacked them, but their words were being taken with a grain of salt. In the community, they were well-known troublemakers, and all were facing charges for having illegal substances in their possession.

The discussion for a while revolved around who had made the 911 call before leaving and what exactly his part of the story was. Sam also remained shrouded in mystery, with no one quite sure if he had played the part of villain or hero. A detective had already requested to be alerted as soon as he was awake and coherent enough to tell his side of the story.

For a while, it looked like that was going to be sooner rather than later. Sam was doing well, and by midmorning, he had been taken off the ventilator even though they were keeping him in the ICU overnight just in case.

Trusting that to be a good sign, Dean took that opportunity to leave for an hour or two to hide the Impala. He ended up stashing her a couple of miles out of town and off the beaten path, where she shouldn't be disturbed.

He returned to bad news.

Sam's oxygen levels had dropped shortly after being taken off the vent, and the fever that he developed post-operation was rising.

The reports that Dean managed to tease out of the different nurses did not improve as the day wore on, and he spent a sleepless night pacing through the hospital hallways in an attempt to look busy while also fighting the urge to bang down the doors to the ICU and wait with his brother, consequences be damned. Sam would be absolutely furious if he did, and Dean had to content himself with talking to Sam's night nurse—Molly—when she was on break.

When morning came and there was no apparent improvement in Sam's condition—Molly had seemed a little morose when she had been leaving to go home—Dean finally gave in to temptation and risked slipping into the ICU.

It didn't take him long to find Sam's bed and he ducked in between the privacy curtains that sectioned him off from the surrounding patients. In an odd déjà vu to only a few hours earlier, he pulled the curtain shut before turning to face his brother.

Sam looked worse.

His skin was ashen except for the bright fever spots on his cheeks, and his breathing was noticeably labored. The oxygen stats were better, but that was no doubt because they had put him back on the vent. The chest tube was still in as well, continuing to dutifully drain his lung.

Dean probably didn't have long. The ICU kept a closer eye on their patients than normal wards did, and he barely glanced through the file on the end of the bed. He didn't understand all the medical jargon, but he could read through the lines. Sam wasn't doing well and if the fever didn't drop or his oxygen levels increased, then things could go from bad to worse very quickly.

Rubbing a hand wearily across his face, Dean allowed himself a minor and very short freak out before moving back up towards the head of the bed. Grasping Sam's far-too-warm hand in his, he tangled the other in his long and now sweat-damp hair. "Hey, Sammy…"

Sam didn't wake up but he knew from Molly that they had him on some pretty strong sedatives. Dean glanced behind him, trying to gauge how much time he had before he looked back around. "Sammy," he said, not trying to hide the desperation in his voice as he started to card his fingers through Sam's hair. "You've got to wake up and start fighting this, okay? I'm right here, but I need you to keep breathing, to keep fighting. I can't do that for you, so you gotta do it, man, okay? You promised me. You promised me that you'd be okay."

The vent hissed softly and Sam's eyes flickered beneath their lids as he dreamed. Dean tightened his grip on his hand and bent in closer. "We'll figure out Henriksen and the demon. I know both of them are freaking you out but we'll get through all of it somehow. We'll figure it out, but it has to be together, right? You know I'm a dumbass by myself. I'd probably waltz right into Henricksen's waiting arms given half the chance. So you gotta keep fighting, show this what a stubborn bastard you are."

Dean breathed out a long sigh, clenching Sam's hand tightly. He straightened and let go to briefly pull the glasses off and pinch the bridge of his nose. He wasn't used to wearing them, and even though they were only reading ones it was starting to give him a headache.

Outside, a nurse passed by the cubicle, and Dean paused, hoping that they weren't going to come in. They didn't, but he couldn't risk it happening again. Repositioning the glasses, he bent back over Sam.

"You just get better. Okay, bitch?"

No answering 'jerk' followed and he had to struggle to keep his composure.

Squeezing Sam's hand one last time and giving the monitors one final glance, Dean reluctantly slipped back out the way that he had come feeling like he had left part of his soul behind.

Chapter Text

Dean couldn't bring himself to leave the hospital even though there was nothing else that he could do for Sam.

When he wasn't in the breakroom trying to get information on Sam's condition, he wandered the halls feeling increasingly alone. He didn't make any plans of what to do next, because he couldn't start thinking about the future until he knew if his brother was going to be okay.

It all just seemed pointless if Sam wasn't going to pull through; nothing would matter then.

For the first few hours, the reports that he managed to get were only more discouraging—Sam's fever raged and his oxygen numbers were dropping—but then around noon, Dean got the first positive update.

Sam was triggering the vent, and they had taken him off of it. His fever began to drop and then, almost twelve hours from the time that he had visited Sam in the ICU, his brother was finally being moved to a normal ward. The doctors' notes turned hopeful, reporting that, with no future complications, Sam should make a full recovery.

For the first time in what felt like days, Dean could breathe freely. He had to leave the breakroom, finding a private place to break down for just a moment. Sam was going to be okay. He was on the road to recovery, and that was all that mattered. Anything else, including the FBI, Dean could handle.

After working through the sudden release of emotion, Dean finally started to think about what would happen next.

First things first, Dean needed inside access to Sam and knowledge of what was happening behind the scenes. The quickest and probably easiest way was through the doctor assigned to oversee Sam's continued care, Dr. Nevils.

Returning to the breakroom, Dean did some brief and hurried research on the doctor. Once he was satisfied that he knew enough about him to get his foot inside the door, he left. Making a quick stop in the bathroom, he ensured that his hair was slicked back neatly, the fake tattoo wasn't too smudged, and the fading bruises weren't obvious. He fixed the glasses back on his face and then, taking a deep breath, plastered on a smile and headed for the elevator.

Getting off on the third floor, Dean strode through the hallways, looking for Dr. Nevils's office. He hadn't been expecting to find Sam's room, but the single police officer who was posted outside the undoubtedly private room gave it away.

For the briefest of moments, Dean thought about trying to get in, just to see for himself that Sam was doing better, but he filed it away for the intrusive thought that it was. Soon enough, he'd be able to see his brother but now wasn't the right time.

Gritting his teeth, he passed by the room and gave the officer a friendly wave as he passed.

Dean found Dr. Nevils, a balding middle-aged man, clicking a pen absently as he stared at his computer. Dean knocked lightly on the door and flashed a nervous smile as the doctor looked up, surprised.

"Yes? How can I help you?" he asked, arching an eyebrow in question as he lowered the pen.

"Hello, yeah, hi. I'm Dylan White, the new intern. They told me to come up and talk to you? That I am supposed to do my next rotation with you…?" Dean trailed off awkwardly, twisting his hands together.

Dr. Nevils blinked in surprise as he hurriedly turned to the computer. "I didn't—I wasn't informed, um—give me a moment."

"Oh, God. I'm sorry," Dean hurriedly pulled back. "I mean, I was just—They told me to go here. I just assumed that you would know. I'm so sorry, I'll get out of your hair." He held up a hand in a placating manner before stopping abruptly and, smiling knowingly, pointed at the football banner hanging above the desk. "Eagle's fan? Did you see them play on Sunday?"

Dr. Nevils looked back and then broke into a grin. "Oh, I never miss a game. Could you believe those last two minutes? I didn't think that we were going to pull through."

"Yeah. I thought for sure that we were going to give it up but we held on. It was tight." Dean forced a laugh, shaking his head as he tried to remember the exacts of the highlights that he had watched earlier.

"Tell me about it. Did you see how—oh, here, take a seat. Let's chat." Dr. Nevils gestured at the chair in front of his desk and they spent the next forty-five minutes discussing the last game and what felt like every season for the last couple of years.

At last, Dr. Nevils stood up with a disgruntled sigh.

"I've got to go do rounds. You wanna follow along? I'm sure that the email just got lost. You know how corporate is with this kind of thing."

"Yeah, they're something else." Dean smiled, getting up to follow along behind Dr. Nevils. He trailed behind him, still talking sports in between the patients they visited, and tried not to be impatient when the minutes stretched into an hour without seeing his brother.

Finally, they turned the corner that led to Sam's room, and the football talk came to an end.

"Did you hear about what happened at the rest area south of town?" Dr. Nevils asked in a hushed voice as they walked down the hallway.

Dean cleared his throat, trying not to let his eagerness show. "Oh, yeah. Everyone's been talking about it."

"Yeah, Rob—Detective Blackwell— isn't happy that everyone knows but we're not that big of a town. I don't know what else he expects. But this next patient was the one who was stabbed."

"What, really? No way."

"Yup. Oh, and just a heads up, Detective Blackwell is in there with him right now, he's waiting for him to wake up so that they can try and figure out what really happened or who he is. Don't worry, though, we just do what we typically do."

"Right," Dean said, nodding.

He didn't normally like showing his face to people who might be hunting him down, but this would actually work in his favor. He was going to be introduced to Blackwell by a trusted source and as an intern, which would immediately give him credentials and unassociated him with a possibly hardened criminal. Blackwell would have no reason not to trust him nor think of him as out of place.

Hell, when the time came, it would probably be a piece of cake to bluff his way in and get Sam out. It was their first win in a streak of bad luck, and Dean wasn't going to look the gift horse in the mouth.

Dr. Nevils pushed open the door to Sam's room and Dean followed meekly behind him. He couldn't stop himself from immediately glancing over at Sam, trying to gauge his condition from looks alone.

His brother was still unconscious, but his chest was rising and falling evenly and he had more color in his face than he had in the ICU. A thick mask still covered his face, providing the extra oxygen and aid that he needed. The image quieted something in Dean, allowing him to relax and turn his attention to the man sitting in the chair that had been pulled up next to Sam's bed—the chair that should have been Dean's.

Detective Blackwell was an older man with a dignified beard and piercing dark eyes that were studying Dean with confusion.

Dr. Nevils must have picked up on it as well. "Rob, this is Dylan White, an intern here. White, this is Detective Rob Blackwell," he said, gesturing over at each of them in turn.

Some of the suspicion faded, and Blackwell stood, holding out his hand for Dean to shake. Dean did, smiling and easily meeting his eyes. The detective's grip was firm, and Dean returned it.

Blackwell didn't waste any time with more pleasantries. "What's the diagnosis? When are you going to take him off the sedatives?" he asked, his eyes back on Sam.

Dr. Nevils sighed, reaching for the file at the end of Sam's bed and then passing it off to Dean. "Give me one moment and I'll get back to you. White, do a read on his vitals."

Dean nodded and moved forward. He'd never thought that he would be grateful for all the time that he had spent in hospitals over the years, but it at least made this easy. It also lent some credibility to his claims of having gone to medical school.

Sam's vitals were skewed from normal, but none of them were alarmingly so and Dean was happy with what he found.

Handing his results to Nevils, he took a step back.

Nevils accepted them absently as he continued to study the readings that were coming from the machine that was hooked to the chest tube that was continuing to drain the blood and air out of Sam's right lung.

Finally, he straightened and Blackwell asked impatiently. "So?"

Nevils jammed his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Considering that we weren't sure if he was going to even make it twenty-four hours ago, I would say that he has made some remarkable improvements. His oxygen levels are steady and the thoracostomy is continuing to be successful. I would say that we can even have the tube removed sometime in the next twenty-four hours. And now that he is more stable, I'll have them start weaning him off the sedatives. His body should be able to handle the additional stress."

Blackwell folded his arms across his chest, shifting on his feet as he surveyed Sam with an intent look on his face. "Good."

"I'm guessing that you still don't know exactly who he is, then?"

Blackwell sighed deeply, stroking his beard. "No, not yet. But I did have him fingerprinted, just on the off chance that he does have a record that will allow us to get more information on him or to get an emergency contact."

Dean's heart sank at that tidbit of information. If they had fingerprinted Sam, then they were pretty much screwed.

Nevils rocked back on his heels, giving Sam a sideways glance. "Do you think that he is?" he asked, his voice dropping again.

"Is what?"

"Is a criminal? And that he had an accomplice? I was talking with George—he was one of the paramedics who treated him initially. He said that the dressings over the wounds were clearly put on by someone else, and everyone knows that Lucas Barnes kept going on about there being two of them. Do we have someone here in Morgan? Someone at large?" Nevils dropped his voice down to something just above a whisper so that Dean had to strain to hear what was being said.

Blackwell made a sound. "I—I can't say much, but there was someone else there. And I do think criminal activity must have been involved. Why else would the second man run?"

"Do you think that he will try and make contact again or is he gone for good?"

Blackwell paused, indecision written across his face. "I don't know, but whoever he is, that man cared enough about this Sam, if that is even his name, to help him before leaving. He very well might try to make contact."

"What if it was a woman, maybe a lover?" Nevils asked, and he smiled faintly, but Blackwell was already shaking his head.

"It was a man who made the 911 call. A friend, lover, partner, or family is anyone's guess. We'll know more once the fingerprints come back or once he wakes up and can tell us himself."

Nevils nodded and took a step back, his hands on his hips. "Well, I will warn you that he is on some pretty strong drugs. He may be kind of out of it even when he wakes up. Speaking of which, will you page me when he does? We'll need to run some additional tests."

Blackwell nodded easily, still staring at Sam. "Yeah, I'll let you know."

"Good." Dr. Nevils turned to find Dean and smiled, gesturing at the door. "After you, White."

Dean didn't want to leave, but he smiled woodenly and made his way to the door and then followed Nevils towards the next patient. This time he couldn't find it in himself to follow along with Nevils's ramblings, and he let him do most of the talking as his own mind whirled.

Blackwell was going to find a lot more than he expected when he ran Sam's fingerprints and that…that wasn't good, but it hadn't been all bad news. As soon as Sam's lung had been fully drained and the chest tube removed—hopefully before Henriksen came on the scene—then they were getting the hell out of there because Dean could medically handle anything else that might come up.

They would just need somewhere safe to lie low while Sam recovered.

A year ago, Pastor Jim's would have been the obvious place to go, but that wasn't an option anymore, and Dean pushed back the ache in his chest. He'd never fully been able to mourn him, not with Dad dying so soon after and he didn't think that he could start now.

He supposed that he could take Sam to Bobby's or Ellen's, but they also weren't his first choice.

Ellen ran a roadhouse for hunters, and if they brought the law there on accident then it would not only be screwing over her but also the other hunters and her livelihood. Dean would never do that to her, not unless he had no other choice. There was also the small detail that Jo had taken off and Ellen surely blamed them at least partially for that. No, the roadhouse wouldn't work.

Bobby, while a better option, wasn't ideal. Bobby no doubt also had things to hide, and it hadn't been that long ago that they had taken advantage of his hospitality. It hadn't been a short stay either and Dean, in particular, couldn't have been considered good company. If he were Bobby, then he wasn't so sure that he would want them to show up on his doorstep for an undisclosed amount of time and with the FBI tagging along on their coattails.

The last time the Winchesters had worn out their welcome with him, it hadn't ended well. Dean genuinely liked the older man. He didn't want to get on his bad side so quickly after having been reunited. He wanted to leave that avenue open for the future.

Shaking his head, Dean took off the glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He was going to have to go through their contact list and see if there was anyone that he could bring Sam to, preferably someone with medical experience and close enough that he didn't have to drag his brother halfway across the country.

"Tired, White?" Dean looked up to see Nevils looking at him with an amused expression on his face. "You looked lost in la la land there for a moment."

"Yeah, lots to think about, you know?" He forced a smile, and he didn't have to pretend that he was incredibly tired.

"Family or bills?" Dr. Nevils rapped his knuckles on the next patient's door with a knowing smile.

"Yeah, something like that. The internship, too, you know?"

"Right? I remember those days. They were stressful as hell." Dr. Nevils clapped him on the shoulder and then gestured at the door. "Just to add to the fun of it, I'll let you take the lead on this one."

"Oh, great. Thanks." Dean smiled thinly, and Nevils laughed.

It was a couple of hours later that Nevils and Dean were walking the hallways and happened to be passing by Sam's room. A small nest of police officers had gathered by the door and Dean's heart dropped.

They knew.

Nevils was also eyeing the group with surprise, and he strode up to them. "Did they get an ID?" he asked without preamble.

One of the officers looked up. "Yeah. Yeah, they did," he said, his face flushed with excitement. "The fingerprint results came back. This dude—" he jerked his thumb behind him at the door, "is wanted by the FBI."

"No." Nevils's mouth dropped open in astonishment and the officer nodded.

"Yeah. You hear about that bank robbery that happened in Milwaukee a couple of days ago? Well, guess who we've got in there…Sam Winchester. And his brother, Dean Winchester? They think that is the guy who is wandering around loose, the one who made the 911 call."

#

Breathing was not as easy as it should be.

That was the first thing that registered as awareness slowly came filtering back in, and Sam tried to pull in a deeper breath, but that only sparked a feeble coughing fit.

It hurt like hell and it took a while for the pain to recede enough for Sam to think about anything else. Rolling his head to the side, he breathed heavily through his nose in rhythm with the heart monitor that was beeping faintly in the background.

He tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were glued shut. He didn't know what was happening, and it…he didn't like it.

"Dean?" he managed to get out around a swollen tongue. God, what would he give for some water. Maybe that would help with his breathing as well.

Someone shifted next to him and Sam gave a low groan as he worked on forcing his eyes open.

The hospital setting wasn't a surprise. The hard bed, the bleached smell, and the rhythmic beeping gave it away but he wasn't expecting to see the strange man sitting across from him.

His eyes slipped shut again of their own accord, and he forced them open, squinting to better make out the man's blurry details.

"Dean?" he asked again because his brain seemed stuck on repeat. He licked his lips, trying to get rid of the cotton feeling in his mouth, and then realized that a thick oxygen mask covered half of his face when the man leaned forward to better hear him.

"Dean?" Sam repeated louder in frustration and winced as it made his head start to throb. The mask was impeding him and he began to drag his arm up, trying to remove it.

"Dean's not here. Do you know where he is at?" the man asked. Sam stopped moving and gazed at him dumbly, trying to comprehend his words fully. Dean should be here. If he wasn't here, and the man didn't know where he was…Sam's stomach plummeted so fast that he almost threw up.

"Is he okay? Is Dean okay?" he repeated more forcibly as he tried to sit up while also trying once again to remove the mask that was covering his mouth and nose.

The clink of metal against metal and the resistance that he met made him look down. He weakly slumped back, staring in puzzlement at the handcuff that had been attached to the bed railing and his right wrist.

Sam jerked his wrist, making the handcuffs rattle again before he twisted his head to the side. "Wha' are…let me go," he slurred out, shaking his wrist again.

The man didn't seem concerned as he leaned back and picked up a cup of coffee that was resting by the chair. He took a long sip before answering. "We don't know where Dean is or if he is okay. We assume that he is, as he left you of his own accord after making the 911 call, but we are also assuming that he is somewhere close by. From what we know of Dean Winchester, he wouldn't leave you behind to be handed over to the FBI without putting up a fight." He took another sip of his coffee, and his expression was almost smug as he regarded Sam.

Sam continued to stare at him, nonplussed as to what was happening. Didn't this man know that Dean wouldn't just leave him, not unless—and then it clicked. The bank robbery, their flight west, the rest area and subsequent stabbing, and Sam begging Dean to leave. That was what had happened, and Sam relaxed back into the pillows.

Dean was safe—probably incredibly pissed off—but safe.

That reassurance allowed Sam to turn to more pressing matters. Concentrating on not slurring his words, he asked, "Who are you?"

The man's expression grew smugger and he set aside the coffee on the bedside table to slide a badge out of his pocket, holding it out for Sam to see.

"Robert Blackwell, Detective of Morgan, Indiana."

Sam stared at him and then rolled his head back against the thin pillows so that he wasn't facing him. His stomach began to knot up again and he closed his eyes, fighting both exhaustion and disbelief.

They were so screwed.

"Winchester?" Blackwell asked and Sam shook his head even as he tried to work through the emotions that were bubbling up. He was in cuffs and had a detective sitting at his bedside to arrest him. This was never how he had wanted his life to turn out, but ever since he had been a kid he had feared that it would.

"I know my rights. I don't have to say anything," he insisted as he used his uncuffed hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He couldn't say anything, he knew that much, not with the added layer of drugs affecting his thinking.

Blackwell snorted. "I suppose you do have the right to remain silent, but I'll have you know that Agent Henriksen is on the next plane here, and he has plans to get you to talk. He is going to figure out where Dean is, with or without your help."

"Agent Henriksen?" Sam asked, opening his eyes again and trying to keep the distress out of his voice.

Blackwell nodded, reaching for his coffee again. "I got a very excited call from him after we ran your fingerprints. He seemed pretty ecstatic to hear that we had you in custody, actually. Seems like he's been chasing you and your brother for a while now."

And that was just great. Sam couldn't have been more thrilled if he tried, really. If Jess could see him now, could see what he had become...It was painful to think about and it was easier to focus on the physical pain.

Breathing still hurt like a bitch and he dropped his arm, wrapping it around his chest. A thick padding of bandages covered his right side, and something long and thin was poking out from underneath the gown and the sheets. Sam didn't want to look at it as his stomach rolled queasily.

Shutting his eyes seemed like a good idea when the room started to spin a little.

Blackwell shifted next to him, apparently not content with the silence. "I understand that you have quite the knack for slipping through the fingers of law enforcement but I want you to know that hell will freeze over before that happens here. Two armed police officers are posted outside your door at all times. No one gets out, and no one is going to get in without permission from me. If Dean tries, then he'll be arrested on the spot. Any spare officers we have are looking into finding him as we speak. Either him or that car of yours, because if we find that, we find him. You aren't getting away with this. You aren't getting away with stealing from and hurting hard-working and honest folks."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. "Thanks for letting me know," he finally said after an awkward pause. Blackwell huffed but Sam didn't open his eyes or acknowledge him. Blackwell didn't try to make any further conversation and Sam wasn't about to press the issue. He was miserable enough as it was.

He didn't want to think about Blackwell or about what was happening.

He knew the truth about what he and Dean did, they were helping people. He also knew his brother better than Henriksen ever could. A couple of officers weren't going to stop him, not if he really wanted to get to Sam. The only real thing that was probably keeping Dean away was Sam's continued dependence on the hospital and the care that they provided, which was frustrating in more ways than one.

If he hadn't been so stupid and gotten stabbed, then they wouldn't be here now. He should have avoided the pepper spray, or—or he didn't know.

The door opened and closed again and Sam kept his eyes firmly shut. It was no doubt some doctor coming in to check him over now that he was awake, but he wasn't much interested in being poked at or prodded. Maybe they would just let him feign sleep…

"We were just about to wrap things up for the day with a meeting. I thought that—"

"He's awake," came Blackwell's response before the doctor could even finish his sentence. "Just doesn't want to come out and play."

"Hmm…." The bed shifted as someone sat down next to him. "Winchester? Can you open your eyes? I need to ask you a few questions." The doctor's voice had changed, the tone becoming hard and unwelcoming in the face of actually talking to Sam, a convicted felon.

It hurt in ways that a physical wound couldn't.

"Winchester?" the doctor tried again, the hardness not changing.

Sam cracked his eyes, eyeing the balding doctor with distrust. Blackwell was standing just behind him, his hands on his hips.

And there, hovering behind them both in the background, was Dean.

Sam almost gave them away as his mouth dropped open in surprise.

Dean couldn't be here. Dean was going to—Dean couldn't—but no one was arresting him. In fact, no one appeared to even be giving him a second glance. To be fair, that might have to do with the fact that his brother appeared to have somehow become part of the hospital staff and looked nothing like himself. His hair was slicked back and he was wearing glasses. He had even somehow managed to get a full sleeve tattoo in the hours that they had been separated.

Sam might not have recognized him if he hadn't spent his whole life following him around.

Dean made the briefest of eye contact and then looked pointedly away. Sam did as well, trying to wipe the shock from his face. It wasn't easy, not with his body seemingly out of his control.

The doctor ducked back into his eyesight, frowning. "I'm Doctor Nevils, I've been overseeing your care since you left the ICU," he began impatiently and Sam immediately stopped paying attention as he began to explain about the surgery and subsequent care that he had received. Dean no doubt knew it all, or at least the important things and right now, Sam didn't give too much of a damn.

He let his eyes shift back over to his brother briefly before snapping them back to the doctor.

Dean was even managing to look bored, his gaze not on Sam at all but overhead, his lips pursed and his hands in the pockets of his scrubs. The Clark Kent effect was working better than Sam could have imagined. Blackwell couldn't even seem to be bothered with him.

Sam almost laughed, but stopped himself just in time. Dean, the crazy son of a bitch, had snuck in, right under their noses.

"Winchester?" Dr. Nevils was calling his name, and he focused with difficulty.

"Yeah?" God, his voice sounded rough. Dean glanced over at him, worry piercing the faked boredom for just a moment before his face smoothed over.

Dr. Nevils looked annoyed but stood up, reaching for the chart. "I know that you are on a lot of medication, but try to focus, this is important. I need you to answer some questions."

Nevils began the typical spill of questions before he pulled on a pair of gloves and motioned for Dean to do the same. "We're going to change the bandages. I want you to hold still, okay?

Sam nodded stiffly and Nevils moved around the bed to his right side, Dean trailing behind him. He paused, looking down at the cuff and then at Blackwell. "Can we switch these to his other wrist? We need him on his side."

Blackwell muttered something under his breath, but came over and did as requested. Then Dean was helping Sam to roll over on his side and the gown was being untied and pulled down to his waist.

Nevils went to work, and his focus shifted from Sam to Dean as he began to explain what he was doing in detail. Dean bent over, no longer bored but listening intently.

Intern then, maybe? He wasn't a nurse with how the doctor was treating him.

They began to undo the tape on the bandages and Nevils wasn't gentle. Sam clenched his hands into a fist as something tender was pulled and pain rushed up. Biting down on his lower lip, he refused to make any sounds of pain or show any weakness. He didn't want to give Henriksen—Blackwell—the satisfaction of that.

He glanced over and sure enough, Blackwell was watching him closely. Sam tried to return the glower, but he didn't think that he had managed to pull it off, not if Blackwell's smirk was anything to go by.

Once he was finished with the bandages, Nevils let him roll over onto his back before beginning a barrage of tests on his breathing, asking him to do this and that while Dean and Blackwell looked on.

At last, he finished with the supposed care that felt more like torture and he nodded at Dean while he stripped off his gloves. "Get him cleaned up while I talk to Rob."

Dean nodded and moved towards the supply closet that ran along the wall.

"He's doing fairly well, considering," Nevils began without even turning to consult Sam and he tried not to let it irk him too much. "His oxygen levels are up, and the right lung is inflating nicely. In the morning, we'll run x-rays and probably have the tube removed then."

"Good." Blackwell crossed his arms over his chest, nodding thoughtfully. "And if the tube comes out, can he be released?"

Dean returned with a set of antibiotic wipes. Sam, who now had a thick layer of sweat coating his skin, tried to twist slightly to look at him, but Dean pushed him forward gently, the rebuke clear in nothing more than the touch. He glanced behind him at Blackwell and Nevils and Sam followed suit.

Dr. Nevils rocked up onto his heels, his voice pensive. "I…his vitals are better but I would like to keep him on oxygen even after the tube comes out. We need to watch and see what happens in case he needs to be put back on. So, no. I wouldn't feel comfortable releasing him for probably another couple of days at the very least."

Blackwell's frown deepened. "What if Henriksen wants to transfer him up to DC or somewhere else? Would that be possible?"

Nevils made a face that did not convey enthusiasm. "Yes, but I wouldn't recommend it. Do you think that Agent Henriksen will want to?"

"Maybe. I mean…Winchester is going there eventually. I don't know if they are going to want to transfer him immediately or not."

Dean shuffled forward a little more, conveniently putting himself right in front of Blackwell and Nevils, as he began to pull the hospital gown back up. This time it was Dean who risked making direct eye contact and he smiled, his eyes somehow growing softer.

Sam smiled back, and to his embarrassment, a lump formed in his throat. Dean was here, alive and not arrested. That was all that he wanted. The lines around Dean's face tightened and he glanced behind him at where Blackwell and Nevils were still discussing Sam in hushed tones. When he turned back, the lines on his face had melted into confidence.

Smoothly and nonchalantly, he reached down, finding Sam's cuffed hand. He squeezed it and then slipped something hard into his palm.

Sam closed his fist around it, feeling cold metal and the pointed edges of what could only be Dean's amulet digging into his flesh.

Dean winked at him, squeezed Sam's closed fist once, and then turned away to toss the wipes in the trash.

For the first time since he woke up, Sam felt a sense of calm start to seep in and he took a deeper breath than he had been able to manage before.

Dean knew what he was doing, and he wasn't freaking out so Sam shouldn't either. He had a plan and was going to get them both out of this.

He didn't turn back to Sam as he joined the conversation with Blackwell and Nevils, scratching lightly at the tattoo on his arm.

"I mean, who knows? We've never had a wanted felon here before," Blackwell was saying, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.

Nevils sighed. "First time for everything, I guess. Here, in Morgan? I just—I don't know what this world is coming to."

They both sighed heavily but were saved from further discussion about the evils of the world when the pager on Nevils's belt went off. Looking down at it, he checked his watch and then motioned at Dean.

"White, I've got a meeting I've got to go to. Come with me, it will be a good experience into the less physical side of doctoring. Plus, there's a doctor in the ER who only supports the Cowboys so we've got to prove her wrong."

Dean made a sound of agreement and then moved to hold the door open for Dr. Nevils. He didn't look back at him even as Sam stared after him, clutching the amulet tightly, and they disappeared through the door.

Blackwell and Sam were alone again and Blackwell regarded him for a moment before taking his seat.

"Are you going to sit there all night?" Sam asked tightly, his voice still shot to hell. "I mean—" he lifted his wrist, letting the metal handcuffs jangle to finish his statement. He wasn't going anywhere; he didn't think that his legs would even support him right now if he tried.

"We'll see," Blackwell said non-committedly and Sam shook his head in exasperation. He hated this so much.

Closing his eyes, he tightened his fist around the amulet, taking comfort from it despite the risk of discovery that Dean had created by leaving it behind.

Dean had a plan, one that he was going to put into action sooner rather than later if the amulet was to go by. He just had to trust in that.

#

Things were moving more rapidly than Dean had anticipated. If things happened in the right order, if the tube came out before Henriksen arrived, then he was going to take his brother and run.

He didn't have the luxury of taking the time to create an airtight plan, but he fumbled something together.

Nevils had accidentally let slip before they parted at the end of the work day that Henriksen was to arrive on the first plane the next morning and that Blackwell was going to pick him up. That was their best window at a chance to escape.

Dean had combed through their father's not-small list of contacts and associates but had only risked calling a few. One of them turned them down when they learned that the police could be involved, but James Burkhart, an army medic who had helped John out occasionally, agreed to let them come, if only for one night. That was enough for Dean. It would, at the very least, assure that someone with more medical experience than him would be around to make sure that Sam kept breathing for the first critical twenty-four hours. He also lived in St. Louis, another reason Dean had picked him. They were only about a five-hour drive from there, and that was one that Dean would not only be able to make that night but one that he would feel comfortable taking a sick and weak Sam on the next day.

The first part of his plan involved a fair amount of driving, and the first thing Dean did was load up on coffee before going back to the house that he had broken into earlier and stealing their car.

Returning to where he had stashed the Impala, he switched back to her and made the drive to St. Louis. The Impala couldn't be their getaway car when they broke out, she was too noticeable and connected to them to be anything but a dead giveaway, but he couldn't bear the thought of leaving her behind in Indiana. She would stay in Missouri for the next few days while everything settled down.

While in St. Louis, Dean made a quick stop at Burkhart's, wanting to reassure himself that he was okay with them coming before he actually pulled Sam out of professional care.

Burkhart lived in a rundown part of town, but his studio apartment was clean and that was all that mattered to Dean. They chatted for a moment—Burkhart didn't offer him coffee, but honestly, he didn't look like he could afford it—and by the end of their short visit, Burkhart had convinced Dean to bring Sam, with or without the tube.

"I can remove it easily enough, and it's no hazard to travel with as long as you're careful," he'd said nonchalantly, picking at a hole in his shirt. When Dean had balked, Burkhart had clapped him on the shoulder.

"Trust me. I have a friend down here who has access to x-ray machines, and if they are already talking about pulling it, then it shouldn't be a big deal. It's a fairly easy procedure if you know what you are doing, Sam will be fine."

And so Dean changed the plan. Sam was coming regardless of what happened in the morning.

Stealing a second car that Dean didn't think would be missed, he made the trek back to Indiana. Stopping off only to switch back to the car that he'd stolen from Indiana—if the car was spotted while they were getting away, then he didn't want authorities to know that he'd stolen a car from Missouri—he returned to the hospital.

He still had little more than an hour to kill before he had to report to Nevils and Dean parked in the back lot of the hospital. Leaning back in the front seat, he forced himself to sleep for most of it instead of going over the plan yet again. He hadn't gotten much sleep over the past few days and he needed to be sharp.

Eight am came quickly and then Dean was fixing his hair and the glasses in the rearview mirror for the last time before making his way inside. Blackwell wasn't leaving until after nine, and Dean bided his time with Nevils as they made their first rounds of the day. They visited Sam first—Blackwell wanted the most recent update to give to Henriksen—and Dean had been hoping that the tube would be pulled right then and there. To his disappointment, it wasn't, with Nevils instead confirming that Sam was scheduled for x-rays later that morning to give them the all-clear to have the tube taken out.

It wasn't going to happen before Henriksen arrived and Dean tried to push down the anxiety that was budding in his stomach. Burkhart knew his stuff, and if he said that Sam could travel with the chest tube and accompanying machinery, then Dean was going to trust him.

If Burkhart was wrong, then Dean would—well, Burkhart wouldn't live to see another day. But Dad had trusted him with some pretty advanced medical procedures. That was enough to overcome the remaining doubt that Dean possessed.

At five to nine, Dean told Nevils that he had to use the bathroom and get a cup of coffee and then left.

He lingered near the elevator, waiting for Blackwell to leave. It was shortly after that Blackwell hurried out of the elevator and past Dean, his focus on his phone, and then disappeared outside. Dean turned just enough to continue to watch him. A black car with tinted windows was pulling up to the curb, allowing Blackwell to clamber into the front seat.

Assured that Blackwell had left, Dean began the next part of the plan.

It was a forty or so minute drive to the airport, depending on traffic, and Dean still had a few things left to do before actually breaking Sam out. That was alright, though. It meant that neither Blackwell nor Henriksen would be around immediately when they got the news that the Winchesters had escaped. They'd have to make the drive back, giving them a small window that Dean was going to utilize.

The first thing that Dean did was liberate some high-quality pain medication, a couple of oxygen tanks, and the corresponding tubing from a supply closet before transferring them into the stolen car. Once that was finished, he brought the car around and parked it close to the back entrance, and left it idling, the keys still in the ignition.

An unused wheelchair wasn't hard to find in a hospital, and he left one in an empty room close to Sam's before striding back down the hall. He tried to ignore the way that his hands were sweaty and his heart was beating against his rib cage as the reality of what he was doing hit him all over again.

If Sam stopped being able to breathe, or something else went wrong...but no, it would all work out, there was no reason for it not to. Sam would be fine, he was tough enough to handle the car trip, and then Burkhart was going to remove the tube. Burkhart would be able to handle any medical emergency that might crop up.

It was going to be okay.

Dean was doing the right thing.

He was.

Straightening his posture as he rounded the corner, Dean forced a bright smile onto his face.

"Hey guys!" he said cheerfully as he stopped in front of the officers. One of them, the older one with a name tag reading Officer Baker, nodded deeply at him while the other, Officer Halstrom, just gave him a look. "Dr. Nevils said that I'm supposed to check vital signs and report back. Apparently, the FBI agent had someone from Washington call. They are thinking about moving him, and they want to know what his numbers are at. Can you…" he gestured at the door but Halstrom frowned.

"I…we aren't supposed to let anyone in except Nevils," he said hesitantly, but Baker shrugged away the concern.

"He's the intern, he was here with Nevils earlier, remember? And they were talking about moving Winchester as soon as they could. It's fine."

Dean nodded, smiling. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I can go grab Nevils if you want me to but he's already kind of mad at me. I misread some dude's machine earlier, and he had to jump in. It…wasn't good."

"Ah. Not fun, then. The uppers don't always get it, do they?" Officer Halstrom smiled at Dean, getting a scowl from his partner, and Dean made a show of nodding in agreement.

"Tell me about it. I think I'll be hearing about that for the rest of the time that I'm here."

Officer Baker just snorted as he opened the door, ushering Dean in, and Dean gave him an appreciative smile. Officer Baker kept the door open, standing partly in the room as he watched.

Dean didn't let it bother him as he went about checking Sam's vitals carefully.

This was his last chance to back out and retain his cover. If he didn't think that Sam could handle it, then he wasn't going to push, and they would simply figure something out later.

Sam, who was sleeping, had about the same vital signs as he had that morning. His fever had broken, his pulse was steady, and only his oxygen numbers were a little lower than they should be. He was on the road to recovery.

Dean made his decision.

It was time for them to leave.

Glancing back around at the officers, he reattached the clipboard to the end of the bed and then casually began to walk out.

As he moved past him, Dean made as if to give Officer Baker a friendly pat on the shoulder and instead grabbed him by his arm and by the back of the neck and slammed his head forcibly against the door jamb.

Officer Baker dropped like a bag of rocks and Dean let him fall as he grabbed Halstrom, who had no time between the attacks to do anything but start violently and reach for his radio.

"Sorry—" Dean said not feeling sorry at all as he wrenched Halstrom's arm behind him and away from the radio. Yanking him back and into the room, Dean twisted him around and threw a solid punch to the jaw that knocked him out cold. He caught him as he fell.

Dragging him over to the bed, he dropped him there and then stepped over his legs and hurried to pull Officer Baker into the room from where he was awkwardly lying in the doorway. Kicking the door shut, he dragged him back towards the bed and then handcuffed both officers to separate ends.

Reaching up, he pulled the blanket off of the bed. Sam made a soft sound at the disturbance, his head rolling to the side and his eyes fluttering. Dean spared him a glance as he began to tear off a chunk of the blanket, but Sam didn't wake any further. Using the scraps of the blanket as a gag, he proceeded to remove their weapons and radios. He tossed them out of reach and then stood.

The room secured, he bent over Sam and shook his shoulder roughly. "Hey," he said tightly as he reached over to the morphine pump, pressing it several times to give Sam one last hit while he could. Sam's eyes opened to slits again as he mumbled something incomprehensible and his hand tightened around what could only be Dean's amulet.

"Hey, c'mon, rise and shine," he said louder as he shook Sam again. Sam sighed a little as he worked on opening his eyes and it was clear that he was having a hard time fully waking up. The fact gave Dean a momentary pause, but Sam was on some pretty heavy drugs and was coming off a couple of very bad days so it made sense. They just didn't have time for it.

Dean glanced behind him at the door, even as he shook Sam again.

No one was supposed to be coming in, but that didn't mean anything. Nevils could pass by and noticed that the officers were gone any minute. Hell, he was probably wondering where Dean had gone and might be looking for him. They might have twenty minutes; they might only have three.

Sam swallowed thickly, his eyes now fully open. "Dean?" he asked, clearly making a concentrated effort not to slur the word. Dean smiled down at him even as he forced Sam's hand open and pulled the amulet free, tucking it back into his pocket for safekeeping.

"Yeah. It's me. C'mon, we're breaking out of here." Using the key that he had taken from Officer Baker, he unlocked the cuff from around Sam's wrist and left the metal hanging against the railing.

"Mhmm. Nice tat," Sam groggily murmured as he clumsily reached across to pat Dean's fake tattoo. Dean's insides clenched even as he kept the smile on his face. Sam was fine, just high.

"You're just jealous. Wish that you had something as cool as this. Listen, you work on waking up. I'm gonna go grab the wheelchair. I'll be right back. Don't go back to sleep Sam, okay?"

Sam gazed up at him for a second, his eyes glazed and Dean rolled his eyes. He didn't even know why he tried. Patting Sam's chest, he left, slipping through the door and over to the room where he had stashed the wheelchair.

When he got back, Sam was trying to sit up. His face was pale and one arm was wrapped around his ribs, but he was moving and Dean was taking that for a good sign.

"Hold on, let me help," he said quickly as he parked the chair next to the bed and locked the wheels. Easily and efficiently, he reached over and plucked the IV out the back of Sam's hand—and thank God they had removed the catheter the day before when he had woken up—and then began to turn off the various machines that Sam was still hooked up to.

"Pull those leads off," he ordered as he moved around the bed, grabbing the machine that was attached to the draining tube in Sam's chest. Slipping it into the small bag that he had put on the back of the wheelchair, he secured it and looked back over at his brother.

Sam was dazedly plucking at the wires attached to his chest but it wasn't doing much. Batting his hands away, Dean quickly pulled them off along with the oxygen clip on his finger. Lastly, he pulled the oxygen mask off of Sam's face and tossed it back onto the bed. He had oxygen in the car, and Sam would be okay for a few minutes until he could get him settled again. One of the officers groaned as they started to come to, and it was time for them to be gone.

"Okay, we're going to stand. Here we go," he said, gripping Sam's shoulder hard. Sam blearily turned his head around, looking up at him.

Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's back, the other bracing against his chest. "On three…one, two—" He pulled him upright with one swift movement, and Sam's face lost what little color remained as he swayed. He groaned, coughing into his shoulder but Dean didn't let him fall as he half-carried him the few steps to the wheelchair. "You're good. You've got it, you're good."

"Sure," Sam slurred, his hands bunching up in Dean's scrubs for support.

Twisting him a little so that he wouldn't mess with the tube, Dean lowered Sam as gently as he could into the seat. He landed with a huff, his face screwing up in pain as he curled forward protectively around his bad side.

"Sorry," Dean said hurriedly, as he checked the tubing, making sure that it wasn't kinked. Sam breathed out something wordless that sounded like absolution and Dean took it for what it was.

Grabbing the handles of the wheelchair, he pushed them to the door and then peeked out. There was no one out in the hallway and he took advantage of that as he made a beeline for the elevator. Jamming his finger into the button to call it, he waited with a pit in his stomach. Sam's head rolled forward lazily, and Dean dropped a hand onto his brother's shoulder, squeezing tightly.

It was only a couple of more minutes and then they would be free.

The elevator pinged as the doors opened. Dean pulled Sam aside casually as a couple got out, and then pushed him in and fumbled the closed-door button. The door slid shut and he allowed himself to take a deep breath.

Hitting the button for the ground floor, Dean bent down to be at eye level with his brother.

"You still doing okay? Having any trouble breathing?" he asked and Sam doggedly shook his head, blinking heavily.

"I'm good," he said, giving Dean a warm smile.

"Of course you are." Dean made a face and then playfully ruffled the hair off Sam's face.

"Stop it," Sam groaned faintly, trying uselessly to swat Dean's hand away.

"Only when you cut that mop you call hair," he said fondly, ruffling it again for good measure. His smile dropped when the elevator pinged again, announcing that they had reached the lobby. He straightened, gripping the handles of the wheelchair tightly.

This was their last hurdle to freedom.

Squaring his shoulders, Dean marched Sam out, chatting idly with him about the weather in an attempt to look like just another nurse taking their patient out for some fresh air and some sun, not that it was really warm enough for it.

It was just busy enough that no one paid them any attention and Dean walked them out the back door without hassle. The car that Dean had stolen was still waiting for them and he picked up his pace.

Pushing the wheelchair right up to the passenger side door, Dean glanced around to see if anyone was watching them.

"Almost there. Just a few minutes more, then you can go back to sleep," he said lightly as he locked the wheels in and then pulled the machine attached to the draining tube out of the bag. Thank God that the tubing was fairly long and he was able to set it aside in the footwell of the car. Ideally, he would have put Sam in the back, but the front would take less time and would allow Dean to better monitor his condition for the first critical hour that they were out of the hospital.

If Sam started having difficulty breathing or started to deteriorate, then Dean would bring him to the nearest doctor without hesitation, the FBI be damned.

"Alright, here we go. Almost there," Dean muttered more to himself than to Sam as he tried to figure out the best way to get his brother up and out of the chair and into the front seat without hurting him.

"Dean—" Sam's voice was hoarse and paper-thin but the alarm was clear as he shakily raised a hand, pointing. Dean whirled around, his heart beating wildly as he half expected to see Henriksen and the FBI rushing at them. For a second, he didn't see what had alarmed Sam so as he scanned the surrounding area and then he felt his heart drop.

A nurse, one of Nevils's nurses Dean was fairly positive, was staring at them, her mouth open in astonishment.

Of all the bad luck to have…

"Damnit," Dean muttered hurriedly as he grabbed Sam underneath the armpits. "Okay, hang tight. Here we go. Lean on me."

Sam grabbed his shoulder, pulling himself upright as quickly as he could and with a soft moan of pain.

"HEY!" She yelled, still staring at them and Dean grunted as they shuffled the half step to the car, and then he was dropping Sam in.

"I got it, I got it, go!" Sam insisted as Dean moved to grab his legs to lift them in. Dean didn't listen as he situated him fully, before slamming the door.

"HEY! SECURITY!" The nurse was now starting to come towards them while she frantically motioned someone over. Dean didn't wait to see if anyone was there.

Vaulting over the roof of the car, he fumbled his own door open and dropped in.

Throwing the car into reverse, Dean twisted around with one hand on the back of Sam's seat so that he could see where he was going. Sam grunted, grabbing the door handle to brace himself. They spun around in a 180 and then Dean shifted the car into drive.

Facing forward again, he flung his arm out and braced it against Sam's chest to keep him from sliding as he hit the gas. Sam flinched back from the touch, groaning, and Dean winced but didn't remove his hand. The car jumped forward, and Dean watched as the nurse and someone who came sprinting up in a security uniform disappeared into the rearview mirror.

They had caught the color of the car, probably the make and model, and possibly even part of the license plate number.

While it wasn't ideal, Dean had planned for that and was still hopeful that if they moved quickly enough, they would be able to get out of town before they put up any kind of roadblock.

Not stopping at the four-way stop sign out of the parking lot, Dean took a right and pressed down harder on the gas. Sam shifted and Dean risked a glance over at him.

His brother was pale and looked ill. The grip that he had on the doorhandle was enough to turn his knuckles white and he was stiff with pain.

"We can't stop just yet, you going to do okay?" Dean asked as he took another hard right turn and braced Sam back against the seat.

Sam didn't answer as he let his head roll back against the headrest, breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Sam?"

Sam flashed Dean a thumbs-up as he closed his eyes.

"You sure? You're not in any pain or having trouble breathing?" Dean slowed down just enough to make sure that no one was coming before blowing through another intersection.

"I'm good," Sam croaked out, and he sounded anything but good.

Gritting his teeth, Dean focused on the road as he fumbled in the footwell one-handed. "Here," he ordered, holding up a nasal cannula and shaking it in Sam's direction. Sam stared at it a moment in incomprehension before realization struck. Dragging a hand out, he struggled for a moment to get it over his head and properly settled. Once he did, Dean could breathe a little easier and he focused on the road and getting out of town.

Sam shifted again and Dean shot him a glare. "Try not to move, I don't want you tearing out that tube. I have another car stashed about a half hour away and once we get to it, I'll get you more settled. Just hang tight until then."

Not listening, Sam continued to move and Dean switched from restraining him to trying to help even as he kept his eyes on the road. Sam ended up more on his side than sitting flat and shuffled down far enough that his head could rest against the side of the door.

It didn't look comfortable, but Sam seemed content enough. He looked to be in less pain, anyway.

"Hey…" Sam said after a minute and Dean glanced over at him and then reached across the console to grip his arm, letting him know that he was listening. Sam offered him a dreamy smile. "Thanks, man. For coming back for me."

Dean snorted. Like he would have let Sam rot in jail. "And not have backup the next time that I try to rob a bank or stop a drug deal? I think not."

Sam's smile grew before he said, "They gave me the good stuff, man. I don't…I'm…"

"Dude, go to sleep then. I've got it under control."

That was all that Sam needed to hear, and a moment later he began to snore softly.

Blowing out a long sigh of relief, Dean tightened the grip that he still had on Sam's arm as he glanced back into the rearview mirror. There were no cars following him, and that in and of itself seemed almost impossible.

Had they truly gotten out of this with neither of them being arrested or getting into more trouble?

Dean wasn't about to push their luck and took the backroads out of town while keeping an eye out for anyone who might be tailing them.

When they reached the second car—a white Buick LeSabre—Sam was wheezing faintly as he continued to doze. It was making Dean nervous and he hurriedly put the car into park and turned so that he could better look Sam over.

The wheezing could just be from the awkward position he had sandwiched himself into, but there was a large part of Dean that was still unsure that pulling Sam out of the hospital had been the smart thing to do.

Twisting, Dean pulled the bag of stolen medical supplies out of the back.

Finding the finger oximeter clip that he'd stolen, he slipped it onto Sam's middle finger. The reading that popped up a moment later was encouraging. His heart rate was steady and his oxygen was only a little low. When Dean pressed the back of his hand lightly against Sam's cheek and then his forehead, he found his temperature to be normal.

"I'm okay," Sam abruptly murmured, not opening his eyes or moving. Dean sat back, snorting in disbelief.

"Right. That's why they had you hooked up to what looked like every machine ever known to man," he said and Sam's lips briefly lifted in a smile before it faltered, and he forced his eyes open.

"Why'd we stop?" he asked, shoving a hand underneath himself to try and sit upright.

"We're just switching cars, this one is burned," Dean explained as he caught his arm, helping him to sit up straight. Sam swayed woozily as he gripped the door handle.

"Oh. Impala?" Sam's eyes were fluttering shut again and Dean heaved a sigh. He never particularly liked it when Sam was on drugs, it just wasn't right to see Sam fumbling for answers.

"No, they'll be looking for her as well, but she's somewhere safe. Before we get her, though, I'm bringing you to see Burkheart. Do you remember Burkhart? James Burkhart? He was that army medic friend of Dad's?" Dean ducked his head, trying to get a better view of Sam's face to gauge his comprehension.

Sam made a noise. "Not really, but I'm—I don't feel good and my head is all foggy. Ask me later."

Dean frowned as he began to knead Sam's shoulder tightly. "Fair enough. Just stay with me long enough to get you into the other car and then I promise you that you can sleep all the way to St. Louis. Burkheart's gonna take care of you and he's going to pull the tube, that way you'll really be able to rest. Sound good?"

"Cool beans. Can do," Sam mumbled, his eyes slipping shut again, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"'Cool beans'? Since when did you say things like 'cool beans'? Where did you even pick that up? College?"

"Mhmm. Not joking about being foggy." Sam blew out a long sigh and Dean shook his head even as he opened up his door and crossed to the LaSabre. He had prepared a nest of blankets and pillows across the back seat earlier and he straightened them up before moving to get Sam. It was cold outside, with foreboding clouds in the sky that promised snow or rain or possibly a mix of both, and he made sure to grab one of the blankets to wrap around Sam before trying to move him.

Sam was pliant, letting Dean pull him upright and then support almost all of his weight as they crossed the couple of feet to the new car. He even allowed Dean to help him get situated until he was lying back against a mountain of pillows that propped him up enough to help his breathing.

"Sam?" Dean asked after he had finished moving all the rest of their supplies over. Sam made a face, but obediently cracked an eye, staring at him blearily. Dean reached down, cupping the side of his face in an attempt to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. "You let me know the second that something feels wrong, okay? Okay?" he stressed when Sam didn't say anything.

"Yeah. I can do that."

Dean frowned. "I'm serious. I can't stop every couple of minutes to check on you. If breathing gets hard or the pain is worse—anything at all, you let me know, okay?"

"Dude, I got it. I'm not two," Sam grumbled and Dean rolled his eyes. Patting his cheek lightly, he backed out and closed the door behind him as he moved around to the driver's side.

Fixing his mirrors to give him a better view of his brother rather than the road, Dean pulled the LaSabre around and left Morgan, Indiana behind.

He was taking the long way around, but they should be in St. Louis sometime midafternoon.

Sam was already asleep in the backseat and something in Dean eased at the all-too-familiar sight. Sam would be able to hold on for that long, and then he could get the proper treatment and rest that he needed.

#

The damn Winchesters had done it again.

Agent Henriksen shook his head, his hands on his hips as he stared at the empty car parked off to the side in the middle of nowhere.

Every damn time, they slipped through his fingers at the last second. It was starting to get infuriating and his supervisors weren't exactly happy either.

"They're long gone by now. The engine isn't even warm anymore, they probably have at least an hour lead on us, if not more," he said to Detective Blackwell, who was looking rather disappointed and maybe a little bit embarrassed.

And he should be. He had both Sam and Dean Winchester under his very fingertips and then let them go. Hell, he'd let Dean Winchester waltz right in dressed up in some disguise as an intern.

A freakin' intern.

"But Sam's still injured. Won't Dean stop somewhere close by? They might not be an hour away," Blackwell stated and Henriksen threw up his hands in exasperation.

"No, he won't. The only reason he even called 911 to begin with was probably because Sam was actively dying. You don't understand these men like I do. They'll do just about anything to stay together—anything."

Blackwell nodded, still looking disappointed. "So what's next?"

That gave Henriksen pause. What was the next step? He chewed on his lower lip, thinking briefly before he said, "Dean might not stop, but you are right that Sam is injured. He's going to have to get Sam somewhere safe. We'll compile a list of known associates and start there."

There weren't going to be many.

Their main associates, Caleb and Jim Murphey, had both died recently and under violent circumstances, as had their father. But there were others that they might still turn to. Hell, Dean might even be desperate enough to go find some of Sam's old school buddies and ask them to host them for a few nights.

Henriksen was prepared to go back as far as he had to or talk to as many people as necessary to get any information about where they might be. He was also going to demand that every motel in the next hundred miles be on the lookout for anyone bearing any resemblance to the Winchesters and to alert the authorities if they tried to check-in.

He'd find the damn Winchesters, even if it was the last thing that he did.

"Alright. Dust that car for fingerprints that we can use for evidence when we do catch up with them and then bring it back to the impound," he ordered the surrounding officers before going back to the police-provided car. "Also, put an APB out for that Impala of theirs. They'll go back to it eventually; they always do and that might point us in the right direction."

He was just about to open the door when his phone rang, and he pulled it out, answering shortly. "Henriksen." He was silent for a second, listening even as his heart started to beat faster, elation pumping through his veins.

"Thanks for the tip. I'll be on the next flight to St. Louis," he said before snapping his phone shut and turning back to the detective. "Change of plans. Take me straight back to the airport. I'm heading down to St. Louis as quick as I can." At Blackwell's questioning look, he expounded, "Turns out that Dean made arrangements with someone that they used to know there, a doctor. He tipped us off in hopes of a reward. Hell, if this means that I catch the Winchesters, then I'll buy him a damn trip to Disneyland."

Blackwell nodded, still looking disappointed, but Henriksen couldn't spare much thought for his pain. This was a one-time event for Blackwell, but it had been a string of several months' worth of disappointment for Henriksen.

But now, at last, it felt like the Winchesters were in his grasp and that he had the upper hand. He would be there waiting for them this time, rather than being one step behind, and he was determined not to let them slip through his fingers yet again.

Chapter Text

Sam was dozing when the car rocked, going over a deep pothole and jarring him roughly. The pain bit deeply, stealing his breath away, and he pressed his right arm tighter against his chest as he tried to curl further forward in a vain attempt to stop the agony.

The car immediately slowed down, trying to make the rough road smoother.

"Sorry, didn't catch that one in time. You doing okay?" Dean called back from the front and Sam glanced up. He didn't answer immediately as he tried to evaluate exactly how he felt.

For the first time in what might have been hours or days—he wasn't really sure—his head felt clear, the drugs finally starting to leave his system. The pain, in direct correlation, had come alive. Breathing wasn't as easy as it had been in the hospital, although he wasn't sure if it was due to the mask being replaced with a nasal cannula or the pain that bit deeper every time he took a breath.

"I'm fine," he croaked out after a moment, which wasn't exactly a lie. He wasn't in cuffs anymore, nor was the threat of the FBI hanging directly over his head, and that mattered more to him than a little bit of pain. It made all the difference, in fact.

The car slowed further, Dean no doubt trying to avoid more potholes. "You sure about that?" he asked, his eyes flicking back up to the rearview mirror. His lips thinned and he looked decidedly unhappy with what he saw.

Sam didn't want to rehash it. "What time is it?" he asked instead of answering.

Dean's eyes darkened but he didn't press the issue. "A little before three. We had to take the long way around to St. Louis."

"St. Louis?" Sam rasped in mild surprise. He had a feeling that he'd already had this conversation, but he didn't actually remember it. He didn't remember much about their grand escape at all if he was being honest.

Dean confirmed as much when he said patiently, "Yeah. We're going to Burkhart's, remember?"

"Burkhart?"

"Yeah. Dad's army friend? He's going to help us take that tube out, and we're going to spend the night, just as a precaution. After that we'll go from there. Hopefully by then things will have calmed down enough for us to get a motel room."

"Oh." Sam paused, thinking that through before something occurred to him. "Why just the one night?"

"Burkhart says that's all that he could afford, what with the FBI on our asses. It'll be enough."

The car bumped over something and Sam hissed as he was jostled. Shifting, he tried to ease up the pressure on his bad side even as he continued to try and grasp the plan. Burkhart made sense, and Dean knew what he was doing, he didn't question that, it was just…

"Dad liked Burkhart but he never really trusted him like he did Caleb or Pastor Jim."

Dean's shoulders tensed defensively. "Yeah, well, most people aren't them, are they? Hell, Dad didn't even trust Ellen enough to tell us about her, yet we trust her."

Sam didn't exactly have a comeback to that. He did trust Ellen, more than he trusted a lot of John's associates, but she wouldn't have the medical expertise they needed. Besides, Sam would feel terrible if they brought the police down on her and the other hunters. No, that would only lead to more problems.

"Sam—" Dean waited for Sam to look up again before he finished. "I know that Burkhart isn't exactly daisy fresh, but if you have any other ideas, I'm all ears. I can't pull that tube out myself, and I had to find someone reasonably close by. He's agreed to us coming and right now I don't really see another option." There was an almost naked desperation in his voice and Sam got it, he did. If it were Dean in the back of the car instead of him, then he would be willing to risk a lot more, but it didn't mean that it left a good taste in the back of his mouth.

He had never really liked Burkhart and he doubted that this was going to change that.

"Sam?" Dean asked again, his voice tight.

"Yeah, no, I get it. Doesn't mean I like it, though."

"I'm not asking you to." Dean slowed the car down considerably so that he could take a sharp turn with as little pain as possible for Sam.

Sam appreciated the thoughtfulness, but somehow he didn't think that it was going to help the root of the matter. The rocking motion of simply being in a moving vehicle was keeping the pain on edge and was now making him feel a little sick as well. He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth to help with the nausea.

Slowly he began to turn from his side to his back, hoping that it might help. The movement caused the pain to flare up bright and hot but once it died down it was better. The new position also freed up his hand so that he could shove his hair out of his face. He'd been nestled deeply in the blankets, and the cool air caused goosebumps to rise up on his arms and he hurriedly pulled them back in.

Dean had been watching him and the worry was thick in his voice when he asked, "You want me to turn the heater up?" Sam shook his head and Dean frowned. "You sure? Do you need me to stop instead? You just don't…you don't look like you feel very good."

"Well, getting stabbed will do that to you," Sam said bluntly, pain lending an edge to his voice. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about how he was feeling. Mind over matter, that was what their Dad had always taught them and this was no different.

Dean didn't appear offended, letting the comment go. "Burkhart said not to give you any more drugs and that he would dose you up when we got there, but can I get you anything else? Some water or something to eat?"

"No. I—I'm good." Sam tried to keep the pain out of his voice this time. He had no clue how far behind them the FBI was or if they were on their tail at all but they had no business stopping on roadsides.

Dean knew exactly what he was thinking. "Dude, trust me. We can stop. The FBI aren't anywhere close to us." He glanced into the back again, his eyes lingering on Sam's for longer than was probably wise while driving.

"Just drive. I'll be fine."

Dean pursed his lips in a way that said that he was unhappy, but he didn't stop.

Sam's discomfort was only increasing as they went on.

He was in too much pain to sleep but he did close his eyes, focusing on deep, regulated, breaths. It helped for a little bit but the nausea was slowly getting worse and he was starting to feel overheated, the blankets and the warm air chugging out of the heater working too well.

He shrugged off the blankets but quickly decided that it was too cold to do that and pulled the first layer back up. Shifting again, he swallowed back a gag and shakily breathed in for three counts, held it, and breathed out again.

What would he give for a bed, one that was stationary?

It was getting harder to fend off the nausea and he began to lose the rhythm as he found himself breaking out in a cold sweat. He squeezed the arm around his chest tighter, panting through it and trying to use the pain to ground himself.

Dean took a left turn, and the car bumped up from what had felt like a poorly maintained road to a well-travelled highway. The motion was enough to make Sam hiss sharply, leading to a series of short coughs that made spots dance in front of his eyes.

When they cleared, he found Dean white-knuckling the steering wheel and sparing the road split-second glances as he focused most of his attention on Sam.

"I'm okay," Sam rasped out, trying to swallow another cough.

If it were possible, Dean's lips thinned even further and then he was shaking his head in disbelief. A moment later, he was pulling over to the side of the road.

Sam hadn't asked, but the lack of movement still almost made him sob with relief. Curling forward, he pressed his face against a cool part of the seat as he continued to clench his arm around his side.

Dean's door slammed and then the back passenger door opened and Dean was crawling into the back with him. Sam tried to pull his legs up to make room for him on the seat, but Dean placed a hand on his knee, stilling him.

"I'm good," he said with an earnest smile as he half crouched on the edge of the seat. He held up a sweating water bottle. "You probably need to drink something, that will help."

Sam hummed a noncommittal response but Dean wasn't taking no for an answer as he awkwardly shuffled his way up so that he could be closer. Sliding a hand underneath Sam's head, he lifted it off the seat.

"I can do it," Sam protested, reaching for the water bottle but Dean just shook his head, retaining his grip on the bottle.

"I know that you can, but your hands aren't exactly steady right now. This may not be my baby, but I will not stand by and watch you get water all over this poor car's upholstery," he teased, tilting the water bottle up.

Sam managed a couple of sips before turning his head away. The water felt amazing on his throat, but not so good in his stomach. Dean lowered his head back to the pillow and then gripped Sam's shoulder. "It's going to get better, I promise. We only have about another half an hour."

Sam nodded, trying to keep his apprehension at bay. A half-hour wasn't that long, he could do that, he could. He just…didn't want to. He could feel Dean's heavy gaze on him, but he didn't try to meet it as he swallowed back the pain, bringing one arm up to cover his eyes. This was embarrassing; he'd gone through so much worse than this.

"Okay. Okay, we'll…we're going to sit here for a couple of minutes, give you a chance to catch your breath," Dean said, squeezing his leg again. He shuffled back out of the car and opened the trunk.

Sam appreciated the space and tried to calm himself down as he listened to Dean rummage around the trunk. It was hard when breathing hurt but it was easier without the additional stress of being in a moving car.

A couple of minutes later, the back door was opening again and Dean held up an additional oxygen tank. "That one's getting a little low," he said in explanation as he went to work switching it out. When he finished, he pulled Sam's hand towards him, attaching a finger clip that he'd no doubt stolen from the hospital.

His face gave nothing away about the readings and Sam asked tiredly, "What's it say?"

Dean sighed softly, scratching absently at his eyebrow. "Pulse is high, but your oxygen levels are steady if still lower than I would like." Dean snagged the water bottle from the footwell and then leaned out the door. Dampening his handkerchief with it, he wrung it out before laying it flat across the back of Sam's neck.

The coolness felt amazing and Sam managed a slightly deeper breath.

"Good. Keep that up," Dean said, resting a hand in the middle of his back. Sam nodded jerkily. It was easier said than done, but it was embarrassingly helpful to have Deannext to him and gripping his calf tightly in rhythm with him.

When his breathing began to even out, Dean straightened and Sam tried to mentally prepare himself to start moving again. He could do this.

"I'm sorry, but we have to go," Dean said earnestly but Sam waved away the apology.

"I'm sorry, I know this is ridiculous, I—"

"Don't. Don't do that, man. You've had a hell of a week, so just…it's okay." Dean gripped his calf tighter, his fingers digging in deeper before he let go. "You want any more water?" he asked hesitantly and Sam shook his head once. He wasn't so sure that if he drank more it wouldn't just come back up. Dean frowned but didn't push the issue. He sat with him for another moment, helpless to do anything but offer his support, before moving back to the front.

Sam closed his eyes as the car started, trying to return to the controlled breathing patterns.

He could do this. He could. He'd done harder things than this.

Working his arm out from under the blankets, he draped it over his face.

"That's it, keep it up," Dean praised from the front even as he turned the car back on.

"Not a kid," Sam grumbled, clenching his hand into a fist and hissing as the car bumped back up onto the road. God, it felt like the knife was still in his chest.

Dean muttered something that sounded like a curse under his breath before saying louder, "C'mon, once in a lifetime chance. Although, I'm not—we are never speaking of this."

It was confusing enough of a statement for Sam to lower his arm, looking over at Dean. His brother had twisted slightly and was now driving one-handed. His other arm was stretched out across the backseat as he reached for Sam. He wiggled his fingers at him impatiently and, still slightly shocked, Sam stretched his arm up as well. Dean took his hand, his thumb brushing over Sam's knuckles in a gesture that most people wouldn't believe he was capable of.

Sam took a steadying breath and squeezed Dean's hand in return as they went over another bump. It was stupidly helpful, and if it were anyone else but Dean he wouldn't have done it.

It sounded like traffic was getting busier and the cars began to pick up speed as they merged with what sounded like the interstate. Blowing out a breath, Sam closed his eyes and focused on anything but the pain or, at the very least, on not making any sound. His brother was worried enough as it was.

Dean squeezed his hand every few seconds, a silent demand to hold on and that everything would be fine.

The honking and rushing of cars gave way to something quieter as when they left the interstate behind, and the cars slowed more frequently as they hit more red lights and stop signs. The stop and start weren't helping the pain and Sam began to chew on the inside of his cheek and he was now the one squeezing Dean's hand.

He was struggling to control the pain and queasiness and was taken completely by surprise when Dean abruptly let go of his hand. Flinching his eyes open and pulling his hand back to his side, Sam went still, unease settling deep in his gut.

Dean had gone rigid, his attention completely on what was happening outside of the car.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked sharply, automatically moving to try and sit up, but froze with a hiss.

"Lay—lay back down! Don't move," Dean ordered bluntly as he maneuvered the car around.

"Dean, what's happening?" Sam demanded, his gut crawling up his throat even as he eased back down. He'd gotten a glimpse of a parking lot and what looked like surrounding apartments, but that was it. Nothing that should have set Dean off like this.

"I…" Dean trailed off as they came to a stop at a red light at the end of the street. "I just drove past Burkhart's apartment, and something just didn't feel right. There was…I felt like…something felt different than last night."

Sam swore softly, his arm coming up to brace underneath the tube in his chest. "Dean, keep driving," he urged as Dean continued to hesitate at the light. "I'm serious. Keep driving, don't go back."

"I—" Dean sounded torn but the car began to move again. "Sam, it could have been nothing. I'm tired and paranoid, but you need help. You need an actual doctor, and Burkhart will be able to help you."

"Dean—" Sam's voice broke slightly, and he clenched his teeth, willing the pain down. "Just drive. Don't circle around." If the FBI had somehow managed to find out where they were going and was waiting for them, then it would look suspicious if they turned back around and went back to the apartments. They would catch on in a heartbeat.

"I can't—Sam, you need help!" Dean was sounding slightly hysterical, and Sam was sure that his brother hadn't been taking care of himself, that he was probably exhausted and on the edge. It was time for Sam to step up.

"Pull over. Somewhere busy," Sam managed to say through gritted teeth. He wasn't having this conversation with the back of Dean's head.

"Sam—"

"Do it."

Dean grumbled something unpleasant under his breath, but after a few more minutes of driving, he pulled over at what looked to be a diner. Putting the car into park, he twisted around so that he could face Sam.

He looked to be running on fumes and Sam could see the way that he was starting to fray at the edges. The tattoo on his arm was smudged in several places, and his hair was completely out of place and in disarray. His eyes spoke of a weariness that couldn't be put into words.

"Help me sit up," Sam requested, reaching over to try and grab the back of Dean's seat for leverage.

"Sammy, I don't think—"

"I'm sick of lying down just…help me."

Dean hesitated but then jerked the headrest out of his seat and leaned over so that he could provide an arm for Sam to lean his weight against while he also pulled him upright. Sam ended up slumped against the passenger window, panting hard from the simple exercise.

Dean sat back, looking distraught.

"What set you off?" Sam asked quietly, staring at his brother. Dean heaved a sigh, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"Just…it was quieter, it should have been. Like, I don't know, yesterday when I was here, there were people coming and going, you know, even at night. Now, there's no one except for a couple of homeless people loitering around the outside but they don't...well,it was stupid, now that I say it out loud. I just—it didn't feel right." Dean pressed his fist against his mouth as he gazed past Sam, probably back toward the direction of Burkhart's apartment.

"Or it was your gut instinct. It wouldn't be the first time that the cops have used homelessness as a disguise. They could be watching for us and be ready to move in."

"But how would Henriksen even know where we were headed?" Dean protested and to Sam's shock, he sounded near tears. "There is no way he could have known, not unless Burkhart told them. I had a plan, Sam. I wasn't just dragging you from medical care and high-quality drugs to be in pain for hours without a plan. I had a plan."

"I know you did," Sam soothed, easily meeting Dean's eyes before he smiled faintly. "Since when have plans ever worked out like we think they should."

"You've got to have that tube out," Dean protested again, gesturing at it. "You can't walk around like Frankenstein forever."

"So we pull it out ourselves. I'll look it up. Get my laptop," Sam reasoned. "If stitches are needed, you can do them."

"Sam, it's in your freakin' chest," Dean's voice was rising as he continued to gesture emphatically, and Sam grabbed his outstretched arm. His grip wasn't as strong as he wanted, but Dean stopped at least.

"We'll figure it out, I promise, but if you don't feel right about going to Burkhart's, then we don't go to Burkhart's. Your instincts are good and there was probably a reason that you flagged something as wrong even if you can't put it into words. We haven't seen Burkhart in years, it's possible that he's traded sides." Sam had to pause, taking a breath, before he could continue, "For all we know, he's a demon or something else in disguise and this has nothing to do with the FBI. But I do know that we can't risk getting caught."

Dean chewed on that for a long moment before he shook his head. "I'm—I can't just do that. I can't deny you medical care because I'm going off a hunch. I'm going to double back on foot, see if I can figure it out."

"No!" Sam tried to protest instantly, his heart pounding, but Dean didn't listen, shoving his door open. A moment later, he was gone.

"Damnit!" Sam raked a hand through his hair before leaning back against the cold window.

Dean was an absolute idiot. WHen he came back then Sam was going to kill him. He'd just waltzed out to only God knew where to try and figure out if the FBI were waiting to arrest him.

There was nothing that Sam could do but wait and watch for him to come back. He didn't have the slightest clue where his phone was, and even if he called, he doubted that Dean would pick up.

He wasn't wearing a watch, but it felt like a good half-hour or so until Dean was back, his face thunderous. He opted for the back door instead of the front and Sam pulled his legs up as much as he could to make room for him.

Dean sank down, running a hand through his hair.

"So?" Sam asked and was proud that only a little of the frustration he was feeling made its way into his voice.

"So we were set up and I'm going to kill Burkhart the first chance that I get." Dean's voice was deadly, bearing no argument, but Sam expected no less. The best thing for Burkhart was to never meet the Winchesters again. If he did, there was no telling what Dean would do.

"How do you know?"

"I paid a kid twenty bucks to go wander around the apartments and report back what she saw. She didn't exactly say as much in these exact words, but that place was crawling with the police. He double-crossed us, sold us out."

"So it's a good thing that we didn't stop at Burkhart's then. Good thing you listened to me."

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes.

After that they were silent. Sam didn't have an answer to their current dilemma, and he was sure that Dean didn't either, but he knew that they couldn't sit ideal. They needed to figure out what they were doing and get out.

"Dean?" Sam ventured. "What about a motel? We could just—"

"No. I don't think that's a solution," Dean said bitterly and with a shake of his head. "For one, I've blown through most the cash that we have, but I don't know. If they found us here, then who is to say that they haven't warned all the motels in the surrounding area about us? And squatting ins't an option. An infection is the last thing we need."

Sam paused, sucking in another deep breath. "We could go to Blue Earth and Pastor Jim's old place. I'm not sure what they are going to do with it now that it's empty, but we might be able to hide out there."

Dean was already shaking his head again. "A parish isn't exactly going to be left abandoned, I'm sure that the church has already reclaimed it. And Caleb's is a no-go either. I admired the hell out of the guy, but he didn't exactly run a clean house. If I took you there, you'd probably get TB or something like that."

Sam smiled fondly, rolling his head back against the seat. "He was one of the best hunters that was around, but that didn't leave much time for cleaning or anything else."

"He and Jim were both some of the best, weren't they?" Dean laughed a little. "You know, if Jim hadn't been a preacher, then he could have put any of us to shame." He paused silently in respect for the dead, their presence filling the car. They had both been taken far too soon and their deaths still hurt when he thought about it too deeply.

Pastor Jim and Caleb had been such a big part of their childhoods. People that John had trusted, not only with information about the supernatural but also with his children, and that said something. There had been very few people over the years that had been trusted like that, even fewer who had been willing to put up with John in return.

Even Bobby hadn't been able to do that in the long run.

Dean glanced over at Sam, watching as he worked to keep his breathing even. "What about Bobby's?" he suggested half-heartedly, tilting his head back against the car frame and apparently thinking along the same lines.

Sam frowned. "I was thinking about him earlier," he admitted. "But I…we were just there, you know? And for almost a month. We owe him a couple of pretty big damn favors by now."

"Hell, he didn't care when we were kids. Dad—we got dropped off there all the time," Dean pressed hesitantly.

"Yeah, and Dad almost ended up getting an ass full of buckshot. And don't you think that he'll get tired of us if, within less than a year of getting reacquainted, we keep ending up back on his doorstep in need of help? Seriously, this will be the third time in less than a year and I don't want to turn him against us again."

"Well, we're not Dad and Bobby did say that we would be welcome any time," Dean said more firmly, clearly growing attached to the idea.

"Yeah, when we were six."

"Sam, I'm serious, we need to get you someplace stable. Some place you can rest, because it feels like I've been watching you get worse the last couple of hours. You were doing better in the hospital, and you can't deny it."

Sam was silent even as the threat of Henricksen loomed over them.

He didn't know why he was so hesitant about going to Bobby's. It was probably their only option, but he couldn't get past the fact that they were jeopardising a relationship that was just beginning to reform. He'd loved going to Bobby's as a kid. It had been one of the few places that both he and Dean had felt safe in growing up but now they were adults and he wanted Bobby to treat them that way. He didn't want him looking down on him like John always had, to see someone who was never good enough and always a failure.

"We were just there, Dean," he repeated softly, glancing outside. The sky was still covered in gloomy storm clouds and if he looked closely enough, he thought he could see flakes of snow. He just didn't want Bobby to see them as a burden. Dean could understand that, couldn't he?

Dean heaved a long sigh. "I know, and I hear you, Sam, I do, but would you be saying that if our positions were reversed?"

That was the end of the discussion and Dean knew it. Sam looked away and made a face before he sighed. "I would march back to Bobby's, consequences be damned," he admitted.

"Besides," Dean added, "Bobby doesn't have the recent ties to us that Caleb or Jim would have. For all the FBI knows, we haven't been to see him in over ten years. They might not look for us there."

"Good point," Sam conceded and sighed, looking back over at Dean. "And you're probably right. Bobby probably won't turn us away, and hell would freeze over before he handed us over to the authorities."

Bobby was too good of a person to do that, but the last time the Winchesters had stayed past their welcome it hadn't exactly been pleasant. Bobby had been so mad that he'd been beet red in the face as he had yelled. John had done his fair share of screaming as well, and they had been standing toe to toe, spit flying, and then Bobby had gone for the gun. It had been scary as a kid.

"Look, the worst thing that he could do is tell us to get lost."

"Or pull out his shotgun," Sam said and his brother's smile faded, clearly remembering the same scene that Sam was in before Dean shook himself.

"Shotgun or not, we're not going to know unless we try. So what do you say? You good to try Bobby's?"

"I don't think we have another choice," Sam mumbled a hand drifting up to his face to push the oxygen tubes more firmly into place and Dean didn't argue. Instead, he slapped Sam's leg lightly and then opened the door, crawling back out.

"Good. I'll be right back," he said.

"What? Dean, no—"

"Relax, I'm just going inside to get some coffee and food. Gotta keep up appearances, we are in a diner parking lot after all, and South Dakota isn't exactly next door." Dean shut the door firmly behind him, ending the conversation, and Sam threw up his hands.

The FBI was around the corner, for God's sake, and Dean wanted coffee. They had lingered here far too long as was.

Dean wasn't even gone ten minutes when he came back with a bag and a cup of coffee and got in the driver's seat instead of crawling into the back again.

"I'm not taking no for an answer," he began before Sam could say anything. "You have to eat something so that I can give you some more pain meds. Sorry, I didn't give them to you earlier. I should have, Burkhart just…" Dean trailed off, his jaw clenching.

Sam didn't need pain meds or food he just wanted to get on the road. "I don't need—"

"Sam, we were holding hands over this earlier. I'm not taking no for an answer. Food and meds." Dean held up what turned out to be a cup of applesauce and shook it at Sam until he took it. He watched Sam carefully for a minute like he wasn't sure Sam could do it himself and Sam glowered at him. His arms were working just fine, even if his hands were shaking badly.

"Okay," Dean said, picking up on what was unsaid. Digging through the bag of medical supplies that was on the passenger seat, he pulled out a bottle of pills. Popping the lid, he shook out two and handed them over. "Here, take these—"

"Dean, I know. Can we just go? Please?" Sam insisted and the lines in Dean's face tightened.

"Yeah." Shifting the car into reverse, he pulled out of the diner parking lot.

As he did so, Sam dry-swallowed the pills and labored his way through a few bites of the applesauce before giving it up as a bad idea and handing it back up to Dean.

It wasn't taking long for the pills to start working and everything was going a little hazy. He slowly shifted back down onto his side, putting as little pressure as he could on his bad side and being careful of the tubing that still ran out from under the hospital gown that he was wearing.

Leaning back into the pillows, he closed his eyes.

Bobby wouldn't turn them away, he knew that, but Sam still wasn't sure that this was a good idea. They were on the run from the FBI and the demon had its eyes set on Sam. It would be enough to turn anyone away—hell, on really bad days, Sam wondered if it was only a distorted sense of obligation that kept Dean around at all—and he just didn't want to lose anyone else.

#

Dean made the decision as they left St. Louis to go back for the Impala. It might be stupid, but he was willing to risk it with the hope that Henriksen's energy and attention were focused on Burkhart's apartment.

It shouldn't have surprised him, but Dean felt something settle in his soul when, about an hour and a coffee later, he rounded the corner that led to where he had hidden the Impala. She was still waiting for him, as diligent and faithful as ever. He put the car into park and then twisted around. It had finally started to sleet about twenty minutes ago, and the wipers continued their lazy journey back and forth.

"Sam?"

Sam hummed out a sound, his eyelids fluttering. He'd fallen into an exhausted sleep mere minutes after they started driving again, the pills doing their job. If Dean didn't hate Burkhart for stabbing them in the back, then he sure as hell did for making Sam suffer.

"Sam, I'll be right back, okay?"

Sam mumbled what sounded like an agreement and Dean shook his head as he got out, pulling up the collar of his jacket. At least he had the Impala. It shouldn't help, but it did.

The Impala was covered in a sheen of sleet and frost and Dean pulled his sleeve down over his fingers to unlock and open up the door. It was bitterly cold inside but he still ran his hand over the steering wheel before turning her on so that she could warm up.

When he returned to the car, he found Sam watching him groggily. He was flat on the seat instead of leaning against the door and Dean opened the door next to his head and then sank down to sit in the footwell of the car so that he could talk on the same level as Sam.

"Snowing?" Sam asked, his voice rough, and Dean shrugged, rubbing his hands together to generate warmth and then stifling a yawn. God, he was tired.

"More of sleeting, but I wouldn't but surprised to see it turn to real snow. It's been trying to all day."

"Oh."

Dean began to dig through the duffle with the medical supplies. What he was looking for wasn't there and he stood. "We need to get those bandages changed. Be right back." Dean moved to the Impala's trunk and began to gather up the first-aid kit along with a change of clothes for Sam if he wanted it. He ducked into the back seat again and found Sam with his arm dangling over his face. He slowly lowered it, studying Dean as he popped the lid on the first-aid kit.

Gently pulling the blankets down to Sam's waist, he undid the ties on the hospital gown that he was still wearing and pushed it down enough to reveal the bandages.

Sam shivered at the movement and Dean winced as he reached up, flipping on the overhead light so that he could see better. "Sorry. I'll work quickly."

"I'm good," Sam said, pillowing his head on his arm and closing his eyes. Dean patted his shoulder once before getting to work peeling the bandages off. The actual stab wounds themselves looked good but he frowned when he saw that the skin around the tube was starting to look red and irritated.

"Does it hurt much?" he asked quietly as he prodded at it with some anti-bacterial cream.

"A little. Could be worse, why?" Sam asked, trying to lift his head, but Dean pressed him back down.

"It's looking irritated. That tube was supposed to come out hours ago." He unwrapped a fresh bandage and then pressed it down firmly, securing it with tape.

"So just take it out."

"Dude, have you seen where we are? You'll probably die of sepsis if I try it out here. Plus, I have no damn clue what I'm doing. I could kill you just as likely as succeed." Dean finished with the dressing and wiped his hands down his jeans before resting the back of his hand over Sam's forehead. Sam didn't try and move away, which probably said more than anything about how he really felt.

He felt warmer than he should and Dean sighed, digging the thermometer out of the first-aid kit.

"I don't need that," Sam snorted when he saw what he held but Dean just waved it at him.

"I can't tell if you are warm because the fever is coming back or if it's because you've been buried in those blankets for the last couple of hours so either you do it or I do," he threatened.

Sam pursed his lips but plucked the thermometer from him and stuck it in his mouth. He gave Dean a petulant look that only made Dean smile as he began to gather up the bedding in preparation for making the switch over to the Impala.

The thermometer beeped just as Dean was returning and he snatched it out of Sam's hands before he could look.

99.8

His temperature wasn't exactly worrisome just yet, but Dean was going to have to keep a closer eye on it.

"You done playing doctor now?" Sam asked and Dean rolled his eyes but began to pack away the kit before he offered Sam his hand so that he could sit up. Working together, they got him up and then Dean steadied him as he worked through a wave of dizziness.

"I brought you a change of clothes if you want them. I mean, if you want to show up half-naked to Bobby's, then be my guest," he said while they waited. To Dean's surprise, Sam managed to smile despite the way that he was listing where he sat.

"Maybe that will make Bobby let us in quicker," he quipped, and Dean's mouth dropped open before he rolled his eyes.

"You're an idiot. And disgusting—as well as on way to good of drugs if you are cracking jokes like that." Shaking his head, Dean began to gather up the oversized t-shirt and sweats and then helped Sam into them as discreetly as he could.

By the time that they had finished, Sam was panting heavily and his face had lost what little color it had. Sweat was popping out on his face as he leaned awkwardly forward, his right arm seemingly glued permanently to his side just below the tube.

Dean watched him worriedly.

"You gonna be able to make it to the Impala?" he asked, reaching over and brushing Sam's damp bangs back so that he could see into his face.

"Yeah, I'm—just give me a minute," Sam said, his voice coming out paper-thin.

Dean would give Sam all the time he wanted. Leaving Sam leaning back against the seat, he pulled out his phone to call Bobby and tell him that they were coming. There were several missed calls and a handful of texts from Burkhart there, and Dean hesitated, the anger rushing back to the surface.

"I'm—I've got to make a call. One second," he said vaguely as he paced away from the car and—before he could think better or listen to the voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Sam telling him not to do it—he hit the call-back button. He'd made Sam suffer, and no one did that get away with it.

Burkhart picked up on the second ring and Dean didn't hold back as he let out a snarled, "You son of a bitch. I know that you sold us out."

"I—"

Dean didn't give Burkhart a chance to continue.

"And I know that you probably have the FBI sitting right there listening to every damn word I'm saying and tracking this call so well, here you go. We're right outside of St. Louis, come and get us."

There was a scramble on the other end and then a new voice, a deeper one that was probably Agent Henriksen, spoke, "Dean Winchester—"

Dean broke him off. "Tell Burkhart that he'd better watch his damn back. Next time I find him, I'm not going to play nice. Next time, I'm going to make him wish that he'd never been born and live to regret the day that he met a Winchester. As for you, Henriksen, I'll see you in hell."

With that, Dean snapped the phone shut, ending the call. Closing his eyes, he pressed the phone against his lips. He shouldn't have done that. He really shouldn't have done that, and Sam was going to chew him a new one.

Shaking his head, he tossed the phone aside and into the brush next to the car. That phone was burned. Agent Henriksen had the number and, at the very least, would probably get a warrant to monitor his calls.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the car and ducked in, forcing a smile. Sam was kneading his hands together, his eyes closed and his face still pale.

"Hey, you ready to go?"

Sam cracked his eyes, eyeing Dean suspiciously. "Who were you talking to?"

Dean made a face. "You're not going to like the answer, so how about I tell you later?"

"Dean—"

"Dude, I may have just been an idiot and now the FBI is probably going to be closing in on us ASAP so can we go?"

Sam's eyes flashed open as his head snapped up, and Dean held up a hand, forestalling anything that Sam was going to say. "Don't—don't say anything, okay? You can chew me out later when we get to Bobby's."

"I can't believe you," Sam began furiously but weakly, but Dean ignored him as he unhooked the nasal cannula from his ears before pulling it off. He didn't think that he could manage Sam, the tubing machine, and the oxygen tank all in one so he was going to move the oxygen first.

Returning, he found Sam glowering at him even as he slowly shifted over to the edge of the seat. He was shivering in the cold air and Dean hurried to help.

"You know, when I have the breath, I'm going to tell you just what an idiot you are. With more words than that," Sam grumbled between gasps even as he dragged his arm up around Dean's shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I'll look forward to getting the essay complete with footnotes." Picking up the machine for the chest tube with one hand, Dean looped his arm around Sam's waist. Together, they stood, with Dean supporting most of his brother's weight.

Slowly, they shuffled towards the Impala.

"I want to sit up front," Sam panted out as they neared the car, but Dean instantly shook his head.

"That ain't happening. I don't want you sitting propped up like that for that long; it's going to put too much strain on your lungs. Besides, you'll be more comfortable in the back where you can at least kind of stretch out."

"But—" Sam began to protest but broke off in a series of weak coughs and Dean easily spoke over him.

"I'm not arguing over this. Backseat until you can breathe without the aid of extra oxygen."

Sam huffed but didn't fight it again. He probably didn't have the breath too and Dean didn't waste any time slipping the oxygen cannula back over his head and underneath his nose once he had him situated in the back.

"You good?" he asked more gently than he might have normally and Sam nodded. He was shivering badly from the walk over and Dean began to pile blankets around him, knowing that the tremors could not be helping with the pain that Sam was surely experiencing.

Sam grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "Can we just get out of here before the whole FBI comes down on us?"

"Right. Probably smart."

Sam let go and Dean slipped over to the front seat. Gunning the engine, he pulled the Impala around and headed back up the dirt road. It felt good to be back with his baby, and it gave him maybe newfound confidence.

He knew the roads across the United States better than any FBI agent ever would, and the Winchesters would be gone long before they showed up.

#

The rest of the day and then the night slipped away from Dean as he focused on the seemingly never-ending ribbon of road in front of him. They hit a small but ferocious snowstorm by the Nebraska-Kansas border that slowed them down. Shortly after that, they stopped for about an hour so that Dean could get a power nap in before he drove them off the road.

While they were stopped, Dean also forced Sam to drink more water and eat the rest of the applesauce. His fever was inching higher, and Dean added Tylenol to the pain pills that he forced him to take.

After that, though, the weather died down, and it was smooth driving through the rest of the night.

They pulled into Singer Salvage a little past five in the morning.

The crooked old sign was familiar, but this time it didn't ease the knots in Dean's gut. The earlier bravado that he had shown Sam was gone, and he'd had too much time to dwell on all that could go wrong.

"Hey, we're here," Dean called back, trying to sound confident as he glanced into the mirror. Sam, who had been dozing on and off for the last hour, slowly opened his eyes. Dean offered him a smile as he pulled around to park close to the porch. Sam didn't return it, looking like he was in pain and miserable. His hair hung limply in his face, and the fever spots on his cheeks had reddened.

Dean twisted back around, trying not to expel the nervous energy that he was feeling. "I'm going to go see if he'll let us in. I'll be right back. Sit tight," he said and Sam wobbled a nod, looking like he didn't have the energy for much else. Dean watched him for another second, biting at his lower lip.

Sam didn't look good, and the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll. Dean felt about three inches tall for dragging Sam out, and he wouldn't blame Bobby if he did pull his shotgun on him now.

Making a face, Dean opened the car door and then closed it gently. He stared at Bobby's dark house, and the knot tightened in his gut.

After Dad had died, it had been Sam who had worked out with Bobby that they were going to stay with him until Dean was more stable, and he realized at this moment that he didn't know how it had happened. Had Sam asked or had Bobby offered?

He didn't know. He hadn't even asked, but now he wasn't sure what to expect—especially with the cops possibly right behind them. Dad had always told them that they were too much of an inconvenience to other people and that they couldn't expect them to help them if they didn't give something in return. What could he possibly give Bobby for helping them besides owing him more favors? They were already in so deep with him, and they just kept racking them up.

Jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, Dean made his way up the porch and towards the door. Raising his fist, he hesitated only a moment before knocking. There was no answer and Dean waited a minute before he knocked again, louder. "Bobby?" he called out.

All remained quiet.

Knocking on Bobby's door this early in the morning wasn't going to win them any favors. He probably should have called ahead, but he hadn't and it was too late now.

Making a fist, he pounded on the door, his heart in his throat. "Bobby! Open up! It's us!" He waited for another couple of minutes, checking his watch.

There was still no response. Hell, for all they knew Bobby wasn't home and, even if he was, he was probably asleep. Dean's breath puffed out in a white cloud, the stars overhead still glittering.

He glanced back at the car where Sam was waiting, in pain and tired.

After a moment of hesitation, Dean reached out to try the doorknob only to find it locked.

Damnit.

They'd had to break in a couple of times when they were kids, but he wasn't about to try it this time. Not only would it be much less cute as adults, but he did not doubt that Bobby had fortified the place since then. After all, the last time they had come asking for help it had been because the yellow-eyed demon was after them.

If Bobby wanted, Dean wouldn't make it past the doorstep in one piece.

Grimacing, Dean ran his hand through his hair which was stiff with product, before rubbing them across his face. He just wanted to get Sam settled and then sleep for a few solid hours. It had been a hell of a last few days and his nerves were shot to hell. He'd been running on nothing but stubbornness, adrenaline, and coffee and he felt like he was about to shut down himself.

For a moment, Dean had to resist the urge to sit down right here on the front porch and give up.

He knocked once more and when there was no reply, he stuck his hands back into his pockets and made his way down the steps and towards the Impala. He was just about to the hood when a light was flipped on inside, bathing the snow-spotted yard in a yellow glow.

Dean twisted around and a second later, the porch light flickered on and then the squeak of hinges announced the opening of the door.

"Dean? That you?" Bobby asked groggily, sticking his head out the door. "It's not even light out yet. What in the hell are you doing here at this goddamned hour?"

Dean turned fully, holding his hands out in front of him. "Bobby, we need help," he said. He didn't exactly plead. He didn't think that he knew how to do that, but he didn't try and hide the desperation that he was feeling either.

Bobby pulled open the door all the way, the grogginess fading as he stepped fully out. "What's going on? Where's Sam?" he asked sharply, scanning his yard for any sign of trouble.

"Sam's in the car. He's hurt."

"Bad?" Bobby reached back inside and pulled out a jacket that he shrugged on over his white undershirt as Dean made his way back up the steps.

"He's…well, he's stable for the moment. Kind of. But that's—look, I'm going to be completely honest with you." Dean held up a hand, stopping Bobby. "The FBI is on our asses. I barely got us out of there without the whole force coming down on us, so they very well may come knocking on your door if you help us." He held his breath, waiting to see what Bobby would say or do.

Bobby snorted and knocked Dean's arm aside. "The FBI isn't exactly the scariest thing I've come to toe-to-toe with but maybe you shouldn't linger on doorsteps if you are worried about Uncle Sam. Let's start with getting that brother of yours inside before he freezes to death in that hunk of metal you like to call a car."

Dean couldn't even process the insult to his car as relief flooded his whole body. He closed his eyes, running a hand over his face. Thank God.

"I—thank you."

Bobby looked back over in surprise before clapping Dean on the shoulder. "No need to thank me." He shrugged a little and Dean took a deep breath, feeling more in control now that he had a set plan.

"I can get Sam."

Bobby nodded. "I'll just go turn down one of the beds, then. He doing stairs or do you want me to set up my bedroom?"

Dean immediately shook his head. "No. Don't worry about that. We'll manage, I'll…I can help him up the stairs."

"Manage, my ass," he heard Bobby mutter as he opened the door again. Propping it open with a heavy trash can, he disappeared inside as Dean moved back to the car.

Sam hadn't moved from the position and he glanced over at Dean with a weary, pinched, expression.

"What took you so long? Is Bobby letting us stay?" he asked, his voice tight from more than just pain.

Dean smiled and it didn't feel forced for the first time that day. "We're good. He's letting us stay, I just had to get his lazy ass out of bed first. C'mon, you've got a nice, warm, bed waiting for you inside and then we'll be able to get that stupid tube out. Here we go—" Dean held out his hand to Sam and he took it, allowing Dean to pull him up into a sitting position.

He bent forward with a low groan, pinching the bridge of his nose as he waited out the dizziness. Dean rubbed one corded shoulder lightly. "Last time, Sam. I swear. After this, you aren't moving again."

Sam nodded, slumping a little against Dean as he struggled to unloop the oxygen from his face. Dean batted his hand aside easily, taking over.

It was a familiar routine now, and he gingerly gathered up the tubing and machine as he helped Sam scoot over to the other door. Sam was lethargic, his movements sluggish and slow and Dean wondered for the umpteenth time if he had done the right thing by pulling Sam out of the hospital or if he was just torturing his brother instead.

He was going to kill Burkhart. He really was.

Sam didn't need prompting to allow Dean to duck underneath his arm and then Dean pulled him upright. Sam's lips tightened in pain and determination even as he dropped his head forward, allowing it to rest against Dean's shoulder.

Each time Dean moved him, it was harder to watch.

Dean wrapped the arm holding the machine around his brother's waist and together they began to shuffle forward, Dean letting Sam set the pace. "Let me know if you need to stop. We aren't in any rush," he said, glancing around again. It wasn't exactly a lie. He didn't expect the FBI to come rushing out of nowhere, but Bobby was right. They needed to get out of the open.

Sam shivered against him, the cold no doubt sharp in nothing more than sweats and a t-shirt. He'd parked as close as he had dared, but it was still more of a walk than Sam had managed to do yet and then they had the stairs to consider…it didn't matter. They'd get it done. Sam was a tough son of a bitch.

They reached the porch and Dean tightened his grip in preparation for taking more of Sam's weight. "First step," he coached.

Sam nodded. Leaning against Dean, he took a steadying breath and coughed weakly into his shoulder before he took the first step up. Dean moved with him, watching him closely in case he needed to stop or additional help.

They reached the top of the stairs without incident even if Sam was more gasping than breathing by the end.

"Give me a second," he requested as they reached the door and he broke partially away from Dean to lean up against the door with his free hand, swallowing hard. Dean shifted on the balls of his feet, eyeing him warily and ready to catch him if he collapsed.

Inside, they could hear the faint clangs and bangs of Bobby doing…something.

"What do you think he's doing in there?" he asked more to keep Sam with him than because he actually cared.

Sam shrugged listlessly, his face white. "Dunno," he mumbled. Dean chewed on his lower lip, trying to harness the fear that was threatening to show and shove it down deep. He gave Sam another couple of seconds before wrapping his arm tighter around his waist again.

"C'mon. It's freakin' freezing out here and you're shaking. That can't be helping with the pain. C'mon."

Sam took a shallow breath but nodded and pushed off the doorframe. Dean tightened his grip, guiding him through the long hallway and towards the living room and upstairs.

He stopped short when they entered the living room. He'd thought that the sounds had come from where the spare bedroom was, but Bobby was standing in the middle of the living room with what looked like a metal cot flipped over on its side.

He glanced up at their arrival and a frown darkened his face as he caught sight of Sam. "Give me one more minute. I haven't used it in a while and I had to get it put back together," he said, gesturing at the cot as he grabbed an allen wrench and began to tighten the last of the screws in the legs.

Sam swayed lightly against Dean, and Dean glanced at his face. He was ghostly pale and was staring dazedly at a fixed point in the room.

"Uh, Bobby—"

"Got it, got it." Bobby finished and flipped the cot back upright and grabbed a thin mattress pad, laying it out. "I've got sheets that are washed upstairs," he said before Dean could ask and then he was bounding away.

Dean looked over at Sam, ducking a little to look more into his face. "C'mon. Stay with me, just for another minute," he coaxed lightly, trying not to let his fear show too much.

"Still here," Sam said faintly and in a way that did not convince Dean. He guided Sam the last few steps forward and then awkwardly stooped just enough to set the machine down next to the foot of the cot. Straightening, he was better able to brace Sam with both hands free. Sam shifted in his hold, his lips parting even as his head dropped forward.

Dean absently rubbed his thumb across Sam's wrist. "You've done good, Sammy. Just give me another minute."

Bobby appeared at the top of the stairs, a sealed bag of sheets clutched in one hand. "I keep them on hand for when hunters show up hurt. They might be stained but I promise that they're clean," he said as he made his way down. He offered a thin smile, but Dean could see his eyes dart down to the tubing that was trailing out from underneath Sam's shirt.

"He's got a chest tube in," he explained.

Bobby's eyebrows rose as he ripped open the bag but he didn't comment on it as he began to make up the cot. "It's not the most comfortable thing in the world but it will do in a pinch. Better than doing the stairs at least, right, Sam?" he said as he began to tuck the sheet in.

Sam didn't answer and Dean tightened his grip, ducking down to better be able to look into Sam's face. If he didn't get Sam flat in t-minus five then Sam was going to go down. He gave him a small shake, eliciting a pained groan from him.

"Stay awake," he ordered and Sam opened his eyes, giving him a dark glare.

"I am," he mumbled and Dean rolled his eyes.

Bobby finished, and Dean immediately began to lower his brother. He sat down heavily with a grunt and then Dean was moving with him, helping him to recline back. Bobby finished stuffing a pillow into a fresh pillowcase and then slipped it under Sam's head.

Taking a step back, Dean allowed Bobby to tuck a sheet in around Sam as he made sure that none of the tubing was kinked and that everything was still working correctly.

To his surprise, once he was finished Bobby sat down on the edge of the cot, near Sam's hip, and laid one hand across Sam's forehead, the other coming up to cup the side of his face. "You look like hell, boy," he said softly, his frown deepening. "How you holding up?"

"I'm fine," Sam rasped out, his breath hitching as he swallowed thickly and Bobby swivelled, locking eyes with Dean.

"His breathing sounds bad. You bring any oxygen along with whatever machine you have him hooked up to?" he asked briskly, and Dean nodded defensively.

"Yeah, it's out in the car. I just couldn't get him and it in all at the same time."

Bobby's face softened and he held out a hand, wiggling his fingers. "I'll grab it. You sit with your brother. You need anything else from your car?"

"Not right now, no."

"Good. I'll park her around the back and throw a tarp over her. No one will find her if they come looking." Bobby closed his fingers around the keys that Dean dropped into his palm and then he ducked out the door. A second later, the Impala roared to life.

Straightening, Dean wearily crossed over to grab the throw blanket off of the back of the couch and then tucked it in around Sam, who was still shivering. He at least looked less faint now that he was lying down, though, so that was an improvement.

"I'm going to find some more blankets, hold tight for me." He waited for Sam to acknowledge him before he went upstairs. The blankets were still in the same closet that they had been when he was a kid and he pulled out a couple of the heavy quilts before returning downstairs. Shaking them out, he spread them over his brother.

"Breathe nice and easy," he said, trying to keep his own absolute exhaustion out of his voice.

Not that it would have mattered. Sam wasn't in any condition to pick up on it as he nodded stiffly, pressing a hand up against his chest. Dean gripped his shoulder hard, the other one petting lightly over his hair.

Sam was starting to settle more when Bobby came in the back door minutes later, the tank of oxygen and tubing in hand.

With a low groan, Dean pushed himself back upright and took them from Bobby. Carefully, he refixed the nasal cannula under Sam's nose before turning up the flow.

He almost flinched when Bobby's hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he started before looking around.

"What can I do?" Bobby asked simply and the kindness almost made Dean tear up.

"I—" he didn't know. He didn't know if it would be best for Sam to pull the tube or give him some time to settle. He didn't even know how to pull the tube out correctly.

Bobby's face softened in ways that Dean hadn't seen since they were kids, and his grip tightened as he straightened.

"Tell me what happened and I'll take it from there."

Chapter Text

It wasn't infrequent for Bobby to be woken up at unreasonable hours by some emergency, but it had stopped being in relation to the Winchesters long ago.

Back then, near the end of his and John's frayed relationship, it felt like it had happened on an increasingly concerning basis. If it wasn't John needing him to watch the boys at the drop of the hat—whether at some run-down motel or his own home—then it was Dean or Sam calling him for help because they didn't know who else to go to. And when it wasn't one of those, then it was John calling him at all hours of the day for information about the supernatural or asking him to join in on a hunt. All that, and never a thank you from John, never an acknowledgement of how John was hurting Sam and Dean, or how he was inconveniencing Bobby.

And every damn time that it happened, his frustration with John mounted until at last he snapped and told John in no uncertain terms to never darken his doorstep again.

Later that night, when he was alone with a bottle of whiskey, he guiltily reassured himself that maybe, just maybe, it was for the best. Maybe now that he didn't have Bobby to rely on, John would step up and change. Maybe when he realized all that Bobby had done for them, John might even apologize, and then they could start fresh.

Bobby should have known that it was nothing more than the whiskey talking. John Winchester was too damn stubborn to do something like apologize.

The days stretched on with no word from any of the Winchesters.

Bobby thought that he would be relieved to be free of the worry, of having to be on call at all times. He wasn't. If anything, his worry only increased when the calls stopped coming and he had no damn clue what was happening. It was enough to make him swallow his pride and he picked up the phone about a month after the incident and called John to see if they could work things out.

John never returned his call or his next one, and Bobby didn't try again.

The weeks turned into months, and then years, and Bobby convinced himself that he'd truly done what was best. Maybe John had finally stepped up and putting Bobby back into their life would just hamper that progress. Sam and Dean were better off without him, or at the very least they didn't seem to need him in their lives. He knew from the hunter grapevine that they were both alive and thriving—Sam, off to a high-end college while Dean became an increasingly respected and feared hunter in the community—and then they'd come knocking at his door, begging for help for their bastard of a father and the illusion that he'd created came crashing down.

Not only were they not thriving, but they were barely keeping their heads afloat.

The years had changed them, and they were different from the kids that he'd loved more than he could have even admitted to himself. There was more pain and less hope in their eyes, more grief and hardness, but beneath the scars, he could still see glimpses of those kids and he'd wanted to tell John all over again exactly what he thought of him. But he hadn't. He learned his lesson and instead, he told them to bring John around.

He never saw John alive again.

John went and got himself killed, leaving the boys alone and Bobby to pick up his slack one last time. Bobby had ushered them—grieving, hurt, and in shock—into his home without a second thought. Part of him—a part that he couldn't even vocalize because it might hurt too much—didn't want to see them leave again, but he'd forgotten what solitary and wandering creatures the Winchesters were.

With no more than a night's notice, Sam and Dean had left and Bobby hadn't heard a word from them in the subsequent weeks, leaving him wondering once again if they were even alive.

It was like they had never come back at all.

Yet here they were, knocking on his door at some random godforsaken hour. Only, this time it was because they were on the run from the law and from demons and John wasn't even in the picture.

They looked like they had been through the wringer. Sam was barely conscious, in pain, and weak. Dean looked little better, with his hair frazzled and dark shadows rimming his eyes.

Sighing, Bobby looked between them.

"Tell me what happened and I'll take it from there," he said, trying to erase the desperate look from Dean's face.

"I—" Dean swallowed, glancing down at Sam and rubbing a hand over his face. "It's a long story, I'll fill you in later but let's just say that we tried to be good Samaritans first at a bank and then at a rest area. Sam got himself stabbed. Punctured his right lung in two different spots and he's been in the hospital for about three days. Spent a good chunk of it in the ICU too. He's pretty…it took a lot out of him and then I've been dragging him all across the country and—" Dean broke himself off, his jaw clenching.

Bobby arched an eyebrow, glancing back over at Sam, who lay limply on the cot, breathing unevenly. "And why the hell is he in my living room? Not that I'm not happy to see you boys or anything, but I don't exactly come equipped with an x-ray machine or fancy medical equipment."

Dean heaved a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face, and if anything he looked more tired than he had a second ago. "That's where the FBI comes in," he said grimly as he shifted from his kneeling position next to Sam to sitting flat. His brother made a small sound, and he reached up, patting Sam's knee absently.

Bobby frowned, studying Sam intently before glancing back at Dean. Dean, who had no doubt made the best decision possible for Sam in what must have been an impossible circumstance.

"And when can the chest tube come out?" he asked.

Dean shook his head, lifting a hand in uncertainty. "I—Well, I don't have the x-rays to prove it, but Sam's doctor said that they probably would have been able to pull it out sometime yesterday. I had—I didn't just drag him out of the hospital with no plan. I had someone that we could go to, an army medic friend of Dad's, but that—the son of a bitch double-crossed us. I think that we're just going to have to pull it ourselves. It's looking irritated and that can't be good. And Nevils did say that it could come out, I just—that seems—" Dean seemed lost for words as he ran a lightly trembling hand through his hair.

"Risky? Dangerous?" Bobby supplied.

"Yeah. That." Dean glanced back over at Sam, who was watching them both through slitted eyelids, and lowered his voice. "But I don't think that we have a choice. It's got to come out at some point. He can't just walk around with it forever."

"And do you know how to do it?"

Dean stiffened. "Not exactly, no. But I'll do some research, I'll figure it out."

Dean had always been protective of his family and Bobby knew that from a young age he had grown accustomed to seeing asking for help as a sign of personal failure. Not for the first time, Bobby cussed out John Winchester internally. He'd set that boy up to fail in more ways than Bobby could count.

Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his jaw. "John wasn't the only one who had friends in the medical field. Let me give someone a call and see if she won't be willing to walk us through how to do it or come down and pull it out herself."

Dean nodded non-committedly and Bobby eyed him out of the corner of his eye. Dean's clear exhaustion was not helping matters. "You look beat yourself. Go upstairs and get some sleep while I call Elizabeth. I'll keep an eye on Sam for you."

"No. I'll watch him," Dean said stubbornly as he pulled off his jacket. He was wearing scrubs underneath and looked to be hosting some sort of fake tattoo, and Bobby knew that he was still only getting part of the story but he didn't push it. There would be plenty of time for that later after they got Sam taken care of and Dean slept.

"Are you sure? I can—"

"Bobby, thank you, but I'm fine. I'll watch him," Dean emphasized, shooting him a glare, and Bobby didn't try to argue again, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Yell if you need anything or if you change your mind. I'm going to go call Elizabeth."

Dean nodded shortly and Bobby disappeared, but not before he heard Sam give Dean what sounded like a quiet rebuke.

Stopping off briefly in the kitchen, he flipped on the coffee pot as he had a feeling that they were going to need caffeine sooner rather than later. He then began to rifle through his papers, looking for Elizabeth's number all while fighting the urge to go back into his living room.

From it, all he could hear was the quiet murmur of voices. As he dialed and then waited for the line to connect, he moved forward, standing in the doorway to the living room and silently observing them.

Dean had dragged himself up and was sitting on the edge of the cot, Bobby's first-aid kit now open. Sam's arm was draped over his face, but Bobby could faintly hear him answering whatever Dean had asked.

Bobby looked away, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment.

They had always been that way, just the two of them against the world. Even when Bobby had been closer to them, he hadn't been able to match the bond between them, even if he had played mentor between them more than once. He'd never seen any siblings as close as they were, but then again, most siblings hadn't endured what they had from such a young age either. Truma could be one hell of a thing.

The line connected and Bobby turned his full attention to the phone. When he finished the conversation almost forty minutes later, he was more hopeful than he had been before.

Stopping first by the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, he returned to the living room.

The sounds of voices had died down and he found Sam sleeping fitfully and Dean dozing, his head on the side of the cot and his hand wrapped around Sam's wrist to monitor his condition. They both looked so young and Bobby's heart clenched.

Neither of them deserved what life had thrown at them. They were both to good of men to have the haggard look of the damned.

Taking a long swallow of the coffee, Bobby set the mug down on the mantel and wasn't surprised when Dean immediately snapped awake at the clink. Straightening, he ran a hand back through his hair, looking around.

"Just me," Bobby said as he dragged the nearby sturdy coffee table closer to the cot and then sat on it.

Dean yawned widely, scrubbing a hand over his eyes roughly and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What—ah, what did your friend have to say?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

"Elizabeth had mostly good news, actually," Bobby said, clasping his hands in front of him and looking Dean in the eye. He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Sam just yet. "She did say, though, that she doesn't recommend for us to pull it out without x-rays first, just to ensure that all the fluid and air has completely drained from his lung."

"Not an option. I can't—I'm not dragging him to a hospital again just to run up against some dude with his head in his ass who thinks that we need to be arrested. We just got out of that situation," Dean said pointedly.

Bobby smiled grimly. "I told her that, along with the fact that Sam's doctor thought that it was ready to be pulled. She didn't seem thrilled with the idea, but she didn't issue too many dire warnings either. As for the actual removal of the tube itself, it's not actually that difficult. We have everything we need here—except the x-rays, of course—and Sam probably won't need any additional stitches."

Dean frowned, laying his head back against the cot as he regarded Sam. "Really? I mean, that's good, but…" he trailed off, looking hesitant.

Bobby opened his mouth to voice his opinion before changing his mind and reaching for the coffee instead. He took a long sip, allowing Dean a chance to make the decision, but when he didn't say anything, he hedged, "We don't have to go through with it right now. We can wait and see if Elizabeth would be willing to make the trip."

Dean heaved a sigh that had the weight of the world in it and shifted to kneel upright. Tugging the blankets down from Sam's shoulders, he pulled up his loose shirt, exposing the bandages. Sam made a small sound of discomfort and Dean shhed him softly.

"Look at this," he said, nodding Bobby over. He stood, leaning over Dean's shoulder as he carefully peeled back the bandage covering the tube. The skin was red and irritated, and Bobby grimaced.

"Yeah. That could look better," he admitted. "How are the stab wounds themselves looking? Could we be dealing with an infection?" Dean smoothed the bandage back down and gently peeled the second bandage up. Two rows of neat stitches met Bobby's eyes and he leaned in closer, examining the bruised skin for any signs of infection or irritation.

There didn't appear to be any and he sat back, thinking. "Yeah, we should probably pull it out. If he starts to have issues with breathing, then I'll pull some favors. I'll get it worked out."

Standing, Bobby began to gather up the necessary supplies. "Wake him up, we need him conscious."

Dean smoothed the bandage back even as he made a face. "That's just going to make his day," he muttered under his breath, before grabbing Sam's shoulder and shaking him. "Sammy, hey…c'mon. You gotta rise and shine."

Bobby began to lay out the supplies on the coffee table. It really wasn't much, but he hadn't been lying when he told Dean that the procedure was fairly simple. Twisting open a bottle of ointment, Bobby began to spread some out on a fresh bandage.

"What?" Sam mumbled thickly, not opening his eyes.

"Bobby wants to pull the tube out. Needs you awake," Dean said and that got Sam's attention, his eyes flashing open.

"Seriously?" he asked, looking between Dean and Bobby, and damn if there wasn't anything but trust in his eyes when he looked at his brother. It had been that way when they'd been kids as well, Sam willing to follow his brother to the moon and back.

"Yeah. Bobby talked to a doctor friend of his and she said that it would be fine," Dean paraphrased as Bobby finished the last of his preparations. Digging through his first-aid kit, Bobby pulled out a single shot of morphine. Sam probably didn't really need it, but there was no reason for him to be in pain and it would allow him the rest he desperately needed.

He began to swab at the skin on Sam's upper arm with an alcohol wipe and Dean reached over, plucking the shot from him. Giving Sam only a look in warning, Dean inserted the needle and then dispensed its contents.

"Sam, son, I'm going to need you more on your side. You think that you can manage that?" Bobby asked as he pulled on a pair of gloves.

"Yeah," Sam grunted, watching as Dean recapped the needle and then tossed it towards the trash. "I didn't need that." They both ignored him as Dean grabbed his arm, helping him to roll over so that Bobby had full access.

Bobby took a deep breath, giving himself just a moment to prepare. He could do this, he had performed much more complex medical procedures before.

"Alright," he began slowly, talking them all through the process. Dean in particular looked white in the face as he braced Sam's shoulder. "This is going to be quick and easy. I'm just going to cut the stitches holding the tube in, and—this is important, Sam—you're going to hold your breath while I pull the tube out. Then we're done. The whole procedure shouldn't even be three minutes."

"That easy?" Dean asked suspiciously.

Bobby nodded. "That easy."

Giving Sam a confident smile, he accepted the small scissors from Dean and proceeded to cut through a couple of stitches holding the tube in place. "Sam—" Was all he had to say for Sam to suck in as deep of a breath as he could and hold it. With more confidence than Bobby felt, he gently but firmly tugged the tube out. It came free with a little resistance, if an unpleasant popping sound, and then Bobby was tossing it aside and applying the prepared bandage.

Dean looked up at him, expecting more and Bobby shrugged as he began to tape down the already prepared bandages. "Told you it wasn't complicated."

"If I had known it was that easy, I would have pulled it out yesterday," Dean muttered, helping Sam to roll onto his back once again. He let his hand rest on Sam's shoulder, searching his face intently.

"How do you feel? And don't screw with me. Tell me only the truth," he said forcefully as Bobby stood and began to gather up the tubing, stuffing it into a sealed plastic bag that would be tossed in the trash to be burned later. He paused, listening for Sam's response.

Sam took a shallow breath. "Tired. And weak. Breathing still hurts like a bitch, but it's not difficult. It doesn't—it feels like normal."

Bobby's shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes. Thank God. When he looked over, Dean's head had dropped in relief as well and Bobby could see him taking a deep breath.

"I'll take that. But you have to let me know if that changes. The instant something feels off, okay?"

Sam nodded, blinking owlishly as he shifted, trying to get more comfortable with a wince. Dean tugged Sam's shirt back down over the bandages and then reached up, smoothing back his hair. "You need anything else?"

"No, I just want to sleep," Sam insisted, sounding already half there.

"Dude, you deserve it. I've got this watch, okay?"

Bobby watched from the sidelines as Sam dragged his arm out, clasping Dean's.

Part of Bobby wanted to stay, part of him felt like he should leave. He didn't know where he stood in their lives at the moment and, after a brief hesitation, he left, taking the bag and the machine with him.

It was just starting to get light out as he crossed over to his burn barrel and dumped both in. Taking a moment, he breathed in the cold air, watching his breath plume around him.

The immediate crisis was over, at least for the moment, and part of him wouldn't be surprised if by the next morning or the day after the boys were gone, even if Sam still wasn't feeling great.

They probably wouldn't even stay a week.

Bobby didn't want that. He was so tired of being alone, of having no one around. He'd been alone for so long after Karen had passed and then those boys had come into his life only for them to disappear, leaving him lonelier than ever. Oh, he had friends and acquaintances, but no one that he was really close to, not beyond Rufus and it wasn't like he and Rufus were hanging out for afternoon tea.

Bobby was just tired of being alone and he had a feeling that the Winchesters were as well.

Sam was sound asleep again by the time Bobby returned to the living room, and Dean looked to be mere minutes away as well. His head was once again resting on the cot, his eyes heavy.

"You know, I can watch him if you want," Bobby hedged tentatively, breaking the silence and making Dean start. He looked over and then shook his head while covering a yawn.

"Nah. I've got it."

Bobby opened his mouth to debate that before thinking better of it and switching his question. "Two or three eggs?" he asked, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he made his way to the kitchen.

He turned at the door and raised an eyebrow as he watched the gears turn in Dean's brain as he tried to figure out what Bobby was asking him.

"For breakfast. Two eggs or three?" he repeated and Dean made a self-reprimanding face.

"Two," he called back and Bobby nodded, disappearing into the kitchen.

It was a simple breakfast, only consisting of eggs and toast, but that was all that they needed. Bringing it into the living room, he set a full plate for Dean on the coffee table and then disappeared back into the kitchen for just a moment, coming back with a bottle of whiskey.

"It's five o'clock somewhere, right?" he said with a tired grin and Dean accepted the tumbler full that he passed over.

"Thanks," he muttered, exhaustion coating his every move as he knocked back the whiskey and then dug into the food. Bobby worked on his own plate, giving Dean sideways glances.

He was about halfway done when Bobby cleared his throat, making him look up. "You wanna tell me the full story now?" he asked and Dean slowed even further, glancing back over at Sam.

"Not really," he said and Bobby arched an eyebrow.

"Boy, I just let you into my house with the possibility of the FBI coming after you. I think that you've got some explaining to do."

Dean quirked a smile. "Fair enough," he said, before launching into the story, starting with a shapeshifter in Milwaukee.

Bobby listened intently as the hunt for the shapeshifter turned into a bank robbery gone wrong. To an Agent Henriksen showing up and the revelation that the FBI was chasing the Winchesters, then to the rest area and the subsequent hospital stay. To Burkhart double-crossing them and the long hours that they'd spent in the car, Dean not knowing where to go and Sam in pain.

In the end, Bobby shouldn't have been surprised. The Winchesters drew trouble like nothing else that he had ever seen.

Wiping at the back of his mouth, he picked up the whiskey.

"You boys have gotten yourself into quite the pickle this time. First the yellow-eyed demon and now the FBI? You sure do know how to pick 'em."

"It's not like we're trying," Dean said petulantly, making Bobby smile.

"Well," he said, reaching over and refilling Dean's tumbler, "It'll work out. The FBI will get tired of chasing you before long and we'll face down the demon together when it happens."

"I don't know," Dean said slowly and Bobby looked up sharply, studying Dean more intently. "You should have heard the way that Henriksen was talking about us at that bank. He knew everything—well, not everything. I don't think we would be in his sights if he knew that it was a shifter robbing the bank or what we do. He'd be more concerned about that. But he knew too much about our personal lives to make me comfortable. He wants us, and he's not going to drop it anytime soon."

"He might not," Bobby reasoned, "But other authorities and his upper management will. Without them, he ain't going to be able to do much and you'll get right back to hunting soon enough."

"Sam doesn't think so," Dean admitted, turning the glass over and over in his fingers, his face creased with more worries than he had the right to. "He was—Sam doesn't like this, at all. You know how he gets and this…this is freaking him out." He was silent for a split second, glancing up at Bobby before admitting, "freaking me out a little too."

Bobby sighed, rubbing at his chin as he tried to figure out what to say. Sam had always been a little less prone to breaking the law than his father or brother, not unless it involved getting one of them out of a scrape.

"Sam will come around. He's resilient. And as for you, I'm sure that not sleepin' has done wonders on your outlook of the future," he said at last and Dean snorted, setting the whiskey tumbler aside but not disagreeing. He looked back at Sam, no longer meeting Bobby's eyes.

"Dean," he said firmly, leaning forward. "We don't have to worry about the FBI right now, that can be a worry for later. Right now, we've got to think about you two. I can and will watch Sam, but you've got to get some sleep. You're too tired to effectively care for him, you're going to doze off."

Dean doggedly shook his head but when he opened his mouth to no doubt tell Bobby off, he couldn't stifle a yawn. It was enough to make him see reason and the determination faded as he rubbed at his eyes.

"Maybe you're right," he said grudgingly, looking back at his brother.

"Damn right, I am. Go upstairs, and get some sleep. I know what to keep an eye out for. I've got him."

"After everything you just did for us—that you have done for us recently—I'm not going to ask you to play babysitter," Dean said slowly and Bobby rolled his eyes.

Damn idjit.

"You're not asking, I'm volunteering, you stubborn son of a bitch. Go upstairs and come back down once you can see straight."

Dean spluttered a laugh and reached out for the bottle. Taking a drink straight from it, he then used it to gesture at Bobby. "Fine. Fine, I'll sleep, but I'm not going upstairs. The couch works just fine."

Bobby shrugged. "My casa su casa," he said, pointing at the lumpy and old piece of furniture. Dean needed no further direction. Getting up with a low groan, he shuffled over and then, toeing off his boots, collapsed onto the couch. Only moments later, he began to snore softly.

Sighing, Bobby pushed himself up and began to gather up dishes before sticking them haphazardly on the kitchen table. He'd worry about washing them later, they'd keep just fine. Stopping in the study to pick up a book, he returned to the living room.

Setting the book down, he bent over Sam and pressed a hand against his cheek. He was warmer than he should have been and Bobby frowned. He'd keep an eye on the fever but for now, it wasn't alarming. His breathing seemed level and his pulse was normal.

Satisfied that Sam was alright for the moment, he settled down on the coffee table. It wasn't the most comfortable position ever, but it was the best one to watch Sam and Dean from and he cracked open the book.

He didn't start reading immediately, though, his gaze flicking between Sam and Dean.

Both were asleep and likely to remain that way for the next several hours. They were roughed up, but his boys would be okay.

His boys.

It was something that Bobby had only allowed himself to think privately and not without a smattering of guilt. He had never been cut out to be a parent, and he'd firmly believed it when he'd told Karen that he didn't want kids but Sam and Dean had needed someone. John sure as hell hadn't stepped up to the plate all that frequently and they had been kids.

Now they were adults. Adults with what felt like the whole world turned against them. They were completely alone, with only each other to rely upon.

He feared that the pressure would crush them eventually.

Rubbing a hand over his beard, Bobby finally turned to his book, although his attention remained attuned to both of them.

#

Someone lifting Sam's head and shoulders snapped him out of the deep sleep and his hand flew out, pushing against whoever it was.

"Easy, Sam. Just propping you up a little bit." The voice was gruff and low—not Dean—and it took Sam several seconds longer than he would have liked to place who it was through the haze of sleep.

Bobby.

They were at Bobby's and they were safe.

He let go of his grip on Bobby's shirt, and Bobby went back to helping him lean up against the pillows that he had stacked behind his back, propping him up. Sunlight streamed into the living room, a vast difference from the darkness earlier.

"That should help with your breathing. Make it easier," Bobby explained in a hushed tone and Sam nodded even as he worked through the pain of moving. The morphine that Dean had given him earlier had worn off and he was once again feeling every injured muscle in his body.

"Where's Dean?" he croaked out and he swallowed thickly. His mouth felt dry and chalky, probably from the drugs, possibly dehydration.

"On the couch beside you. He's fine, just sleeping," Bobby said, tapping Sam's arm lightly. Sam couldn't lift his head very high, but he shifted slowly until he could see Dean's legs and hear his heavy breathing.

"Good," he said, matching Bobby's quiet tone as he dragged his hand up and wrapped it around his chest, bracing against the worst of the pain. God, he was so tired of feeling sick all the time. He'd felt better in the hospital than he did now.

Bobby bent over, digging through the first aid kit before holding out a couple of oblong pills. "Getting stabbed is a bitch, isn't it? I can give you another shot of morphine if you want, but—"

"Those will do." Sam wanted to be off the heavier drugs if possible. He didn't like being so out of it, and he had been all but useless to Dean recently.

His hand was shaking as he took the pills from Bobby and it was more frustrating than he wanted to admit. Bobby passed over a glass of water to wash the pills down with and he sipped at it. His stomach churned unhappily and he handed the cup back to Bobby with a shake of his head.

"Might come back up," he admitted, shifting again and trying to find a more comfortable position but everything hurt and it felt like his skin was overly sensitive.

"You're not on an IV and dehydration is the last problem that you want to have. Drink some more," Bobby pushed, and Sam made a face. He really didn't think he could.

"Sam…" Bobby pushed again, holding the cup up. Sam closed his eyes, swallowing thickly, but reached out for the cup. He took it, managed another sip and his stomach rolled precariously. Shaking his head, he passed it back and Bobby raised his eyebrow.

"Do you want me to start you on an IV? I can."

Sam shook his head, shifting deeper into the pillows and blankets. He didn't want Bobby to waste his supplies like that.

Bobby's lips thinned. "Your fever is higher and I know that you don't feel great but some more water and maybe some food while we are at it, will help."

Sam raised a hand, digging his thumb into his temple. "Ah, Dean made me eat some applesauce yesterday so I'm fine," he said and winced as he took a deeper breath and the hovering pain bit harder, forcing him back to shallower intakes. It left him feeling lightheaded and faintly dizzy, although that might have to do with the fever.

"Yesterday was several hours ago at this point, Sam. I'll be right back." Bobby stood to leave and then Sam reached out, letting his arm fall against Bobby's.

"The FBI? They haven't shown up, have they?" he asked worriedly and Bobby shook his head.

"Not even a peep from them. I've been keeping an eye on things here and in St. Louis so don't you worry about it. I've got it all under control." He smiled at him and patted his shoulder before he left.

Sam rolled his head to the side, trying to get a better view of Dean.

His brother continued to sleep and Sam watched him carefully. Dean looked tired but good, and that was what was important.

Dropping his arm lower, he wrapped it around his stomach rather than his chest to help combat the nausea. He was fine, it wasn't to the point yet that he felt like throwing up, but it could get there if he wasn't careful. Food wasn't going to help, but he didn't know how to tell Bobby no when he reappeared with a faintly steaming mug.

"I've had it on low so that it could be ready to go," Bobby said, passing the mug over.

Sam nodded, using both hands to hold the mug as his arm shook. Bobby looked like he wanted to steady him, and Sam shot him a glare that had him backing off.

It was just broth, but Sam tried to not breathe through his nose as he took a tentative sip. It tasted good, but he knew it wasn't sitting well and he handed it back after only a few mouthfuls.

Bobby was looking at him worriedly and Sam offered him a smile. "Thank you, it's—I'll have more in a little bit. And sorry about this."

"About what?" Bobby asked in what sounded like genuine surprise as he sat the mug aside and then sank down onto the coffee table.

Sam shrugged a little. "For this. For maybe bringing the cops down on you. For showing up on your doorstep again, one of us half-dead and in trouble."

"Well, you don't always have to come over half-dead or in trouble, you know. I don't even have to be the last resort. You boys are free to drop by anytime," Bobby said with a hesitant smile. "I'll even keep the latest issues of Superman and Batman around again."

It made Sam smile nostalgically despite how lousy he was feeling. "You know, I think that was the only thing that I saw Dean read regularly and enjoy? He kept reading those comic books even after I learned how to read for myself. I guess we may keep showing up on your porch, but at least we aren't snot-nosed kids anymore."

Bobby got a faraway look in his eyes before he straightened, chuckling. "You two little rugrats were a pain in my ass," he said, but it was said so fondly that it couldn't be mistaken for anything but that.

It surprised Sam a little, actually. He knew that he and Dean hadn't been easy kids. God only knew that John had told them to stow the act and behave enough times to drill it into their heads. The last time they had been here couldn't have been easy either. They had both been so deep in grief for John that they hadn't been able to see much else.

Bobby chuckled again, clearly remembering past times. "You boys were real good kids. I mean, don't get me wrong, you both knew how to drive me up a wall and back down it again, but you were good kids."

"Right, so that time that I drew all over that ancient transcript counted as easy or good? Or what about the time that we decided to try and build sandcastles with flour all over your kitchen floor?" Sam asked with thick disbelief and Bobby waved it away.

"You weren't perfect. You were a kid."

Sam huffed and then brought a hand up, pressing the oxygen tube back into place and sucking in a deep breath.

Bobby cut the conversation short as he reached out, patting Sam's shoulder. "Get some more sleep. We'll talk more when you wake up."

Sam thought about fighting it but his body was on board with Bobby's plan.

"Thanks again for everything," he said as he closed his eyes. As soon as he did, it became apparent that they weren't going to open again without a lot of effort.

He didn't quite make out Bobby's reply and didn't try, letting the darkness claim him.

When he woke sometime later, his stomach was churning and already pushing its contents up and out of his throat.

He barely had time to roll over before he was gagging hard.

There were the sounds of a panicked scramble and then someone was exclaiming, "Woah, woah, woah," as he was bodily hefted up by the shoulders. It was just in time too as he puked up what little he had in his stomach into the trash can that Bobby had summoned from seemingly out of nowhere.

The vomit burned and Sam lurched forward again, spluttering out a mouthful even as Bobby braced him with an arm around his chest while bringing the trash can closer.

There was a flurry of movement next to him and then who could only be Dean was grabbing for his arm even as he dug the oxygen tube out from underneath Sam's nose. Pulling it off and over his head, Dean tossed it aside and then began to pull his hair back.

It was probably a smart move as Sam bent forward again, heaving for all that he was worth and his mouth and nose began to burn from the acidic vomit.

He was shaking badly when at last he finished and Bobby gently lowered him back onto the cot. Dean was watching him worriedly from where he was crouched next to him.

"You done?" Dean asked, combing Sam's damp hair back and searching his face.

"Mmm, yeah. I—yeah, I think so." He swallowed hard, trying to rid himself of the taste.

"I'll grab some water," Bobby muttered, grabbing the trash can and taking it with him. Sam closed his eyes, sinking into the pillows and trying to breathe through the remaining nausea. Maybe Bobby should have left the trash can behind…

Dean stood and then looked around before heading into the kitchen. He returned with a roll of paper towels. Ripping a couple of pieces off, he handed them to Sam. "Here, clean yourself up."

Sam took them, swallowing thickly again, but wiped at his face. Once he was done, Dean reached over, fixing the nasal cannula back under his nose.

"Dude, that wasn't the way that I wanted to get woken up," he complained lightly as Bobby reappeared, a glass of water in one hand and the trash can with a fresh liner in the other.

Sam accepted the glass, swishing and spitting to get rid of the taste, but he didn't dare drink any of it.

"Sorry," he said thickly, deeply regretting the little bit of food he had eaten earlier.

"Don't worry about it. Your body's been through hell the last couple of days. I'm surprised you didn't upchuck earlier," Dean said, taking the glass and pressing the back of his hand against Sam's cheek and then his forehead.

"Hey, Bobby. You wanna bring us a cold cloth?" he asked casually over his shoulder and Bobby disappeared again. He came back a moment later, handing Dean a damp cloth which he folded up and laid against Sam's forehead.

The coldness was a relief and Sam leaned into it.

"You know," Bobby began, "you're probably dehydrated and that can't be doing anything good for you. I can jury an IV line if you want, get you started on some fluids."

Sam opened his mouth to say no again but Dean was already turning to look over his shoulder and saying, "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

"I just need to rest," Sam insisted and Dean turned his attention back to Sam.

"Dude, I don't know how much you remember, but it was pretty touch-and-go for a while in the hospital. And then I pulled you out, and it wasn't exactly easy on you. Let us help you and allow yourself to feel like crap for a little bit."

"Because that's always my goal. To feel like crap."

Dean snorted in faint amusement even as he patted his chest. "That's why the IV is going to help. But besides the nausea is everything okay still? Are you having any trouble breathing?"

"No, I'm fine. Really."

His brother pursed his lips in disbelief. "Do you need more water or some ice cubes? The ice might help."

Sam's stomach rolled again and he quickly shook his head. "No. Thank you, though."

"No need to thank me," Dean said, and then to Sam's surprise a smile broke out on his face as he twisted back to look at Bobby. "Do you know what Sam said when we were in the middle of that robbery, when he was negotiating with the cops outside?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

Dean's smirk grew and he playfully poked Sam's shoulder. "Sam kept saying please and thank you. He was the politest bank robber they probably ever met."

Sam glowered at his brother and would have hit him if he had been closer or if had he been feeling better. "You know, you can stow it," he mumbled, shifting back further into the pillows and trying to settle his body. Dean laughed even as he reached out, flipping the cloth over to the cooler side and pressing it against the back of his neck.

Bobby snorted out his own sound of amusement and Sam looked up to see Bobby shaking his head.

"You two are idjits, you know that right?"

Sam huffed a laugh and closed his eyes as his stomach churned tightly again. "I was stressed, okay? I'd never been part of a robbery before," he defended himself.

"And your version of stress leads to you being more polite?" Dean questioned and Sam still had the energy to raise his middle finger in Dean's direction.

"Bobby, did you see the fake tattoo Dean has yet?" he teased weakly in return. Dean's glower made it worth it. "He spent all of our cash on it."

"I was doing it for you, jackass," Dean spluttered.

"How much did you pay for it?" Bobby asked in amusement, and Dean shrugged.

"I dunno. Five hundred, I think? Most of the cash I had."

"Five hundred for that? Boy, you got ripped off. They probably would have been willing to do it for half of that."

Sam was still miserable but he managed a laugh even as it made his side ache even more. He curled forward and Dean slapped him lightly on his shoulder in rebuke.

"Stop laughing before you stop breathing."

The laughter was a welcome respite from the last few days of stress but it also sapped what little strength he had left. Groaning softly, he closed his eyes, the nausea and pain taking over again. Dean softened his touch, pulling the blankets up instead as Bobby left to find the supplies for an IV.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam's arm, leaning forward a little and offering him a smile.

"It's all going to be okay, Sammy, I promise. You'll feel better in a couple of days."

Sam hummed out an agreement, draping his arm back over his eyes. He felt lousy but he and Dean were safe and weren't on the run so he was content for the moment.

#

Dean was grateful for the several hours of sleep that he'd gotten before Sam's condition worsened. The sleep had left him feeling more energized than he'd felt in days and he nursed Sam through the next couple of hours. The nausea wasn't abating and the fever was remaining steady.

They theorized that dehydration and stress were the reason for the decline. Sam's body was simply reacting to all that he had been through in the last several days and until the deterioration became dangerous, they were going to wait it out. They were hopeful that the IV would do most of the work. At the very least, it would fix the dehydration and provide stronger medication that Sam couldn't bring back up. His oxygen levels, thankfully, remained in an acceptable range.

Currently, Sam was curled up on his side and sleeping fitfully. He was shivering and Dean had to resist the urge to go find more blankets. Instead, he settled for tucking the quilt in tighter around him.

He was checking Sam's fever for what felt like the umpteenth time when Bobby reappeared at the doorway and leaned against the frame. He'd left for about an hour when his phone had started to ring and hadn't reappeared until now.

"He asleep?" Bobby asked after a moment, looking tired and drawn as well. It was getting dark again and he'd been up since early that morning and Dean felt momentarily bad.

"He's been in and out, but yeah. For the moment he's asleep."

Bobby was silent, looking at the scene in front of him before pushing off the door. "Gonna be a long couple of hours. Wanna a beer?"

Dean flipped his wrist around so that he could check his watch. It was a little past six in the evening and some distraction wouldn't hurt.

"Might as well," he said with a shrug and Bobby nodded, leaving again to return with a six-pack and a deck of cards.

"If you're interested," he said, holding up the cards, and Dean nodded. He began to clear off the coffee table, stacking the medical supplies off to the side but within easy reach. Bobby dumped out the cards and began to straighten them. "I figured that we'd play poker, but I have Uno too, if you get a hankering for it."

"Nah. Uno is more of Sam's thing," Dean said with a smile, glancing back at his brother to make sure that he was still sleeping.

"I don't know. I remember some pretty heated games of Uno when you were a kid. I also seem to remember you somehow managing to win more than your fair share of the games."

"Gotta plan the finer rules of the game, Bobby. Dad taught me that."

"Yeah, and it worked for you until that time that Sam finally had enough and socked you right in the face for cheating."

Dean stared at him for a second before throwing back his head and laughing. "I'd forgotten about that! Damn, that kid knew how to throw a mean left hook when he wanted to. He always was a stubborn bastard, especially if he felt justified in it."

Dean took the cards from Bobby and began to shuffle them. He was focused on that while also listening for Sam so he was completely unprepared for Bobby's next question.

"Stubborn enough to go off to Stanford by himself?"

Dean fumbled the cards and they went all over the table. He began to gather them up slowly, not looking at Bobby. "Yeah. He was a stubborn and selfish son of a bitch," he finally said once he was holding the whole deck again. He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. Bobby's eyes were narrowed when Dean looked up and he focused on the cards again.

Bobby didn't get to judge that. He didn't understand what had happened, how horrible those years had been. Hell, they were some of the worst of his life, only rivaled by the faded memories of the months right after the fire that had killed his mom and then the last few months with Dad being…dead.

"I'm guessing it didn't go over too well with your daddy, then?" Bobby asked and Dean shook his head, not liking at all the territory where this was headed.

"You could say that. But I don't—That was a long time ago, Bobby. It doesn't matter anymore. Sam is back in the life, and he's left that behind." Mostly. It hadn't been that long ago that Sam had talked about going back to school with hope in his eyes, the same hope that was going to suffocate Dean.

Bobby nodded passing over a bottle of beer in a silent apology. Dean accepted it and dealt the hand. He thought that Bobby was done and ready to leave it alone, but he was proved wrong when, on their second round, Bobby spoke again.

"You did some pretty impressive hunts yourself those years, didn't you? I remember hearing about how you took down a whole pack of werewolves in Maine."

A flutter of pride went through Dean. "You heard about that?" he asked, looking up, and Bobby made a face as he took a drink.

"Boy, everyone heard about that. It was the talk of the hunting community. I mean, I didn't think that anyone would be that dumb to try and do it alone, but I wasn't surprised that you had succeeded."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Dean said, flattered.

Bobby waited only a couple of seconds before asking his next question in a tone that Dean was sure he thought was causal. "And where was John when that was going down?"

Dean's heart clenched at John's mention and he picked up his beer again, taking a deep swallow to give himself some time. "I don't know," he said, not trying to hide the fact but also not really wanting to bring attention to it. "He was off on some other hunt." John had disappeared a lot back then, leaving Dean alone to do whatever the hell he wanted.

It hadn't been freedom at all.

Dean hadn't known what to do besides hunt. He'd always had his family around to guide him and John to tell him what to do. The hunt was the only thing that he had known. It had been…hard was putting it lightly. He had never felt that alone in his whole life. Even facing John's death now, he didn't feel that alone. He had Sam, and Sam made up for a lot even when Dean couldn't tell him that.

Bobby played a card, glanced over at Dean, and back down at his cards. He looked to be working up to something and Dean was about to ask him to just spit it out when he spoke again.

"You know, you would have been welcome to come back here, back then. I would have given you a home base and hunts. I was giving other people hunts."

"Yeah," Dean scoffed out a laugh, his focus not really on the cards. "Well, you made it pretty clear that you didn't want us around anymore. That shotgun wasn't loaded with confetti."

"I made it clear that I didn't want John here anymore. You boys were always welcome. I thought…I hoped that you knew that. But maybe I was wrong in that."

Dean sighed and set his cards down. He wasn't interested in playing. If they were going to have this discussion, then they might as well have it. "I—You had to know that we would go with Dad. That we had to choose him. He was our Dad," he said plainly. Bobby didn't say anything and Dean threw up his hands, exasperated. "What did happen anyway? Between you and Dad? I know that things were never exactly easy between the two of you, but he trusted you with hunting information and with us for all of those years. I knew that you guys were fighting more and more, but I didn't know how to fix it and then…and then something happened and I don't know what but you pumped that shotgun like you meant it."

Bobby was quiet for a long time, nursing his beer. Finally, he also set his cards down and rubbed both hands over his face. "I was an idiot," he muttered in a tone that Dean had never heard him use before. It almost sounded like regret, but Bobby did everything with confidence and a sure attitude. There wasn't time for regret. He scrubbed his hands over his beard and shook his head. "I—You're not a kid anymore, Dean."

"I never really was," Dean said pointedly.

"No. No, you weren't, though damn if I didn't try to let you be. But despite all that, you were still a kid and there were some things that you probably didn't understand."

"Like what?" Dean repeated more forcibly and winced when Sam made a sound behind him. He twisted, ready to grab the trash can in case Sam was going to start throwing up again but his brother just shifted, moaning out something as his eyes moved under his lids.

"Be right back," Dean said, rising and moving to change the now room-temperature washcloths for cold ones.

"His temperature higher?" Bobby asked when Dean reluctantly moved to sit next to him again and he shook his head.

"About the same."

"Give it a couple more hours. If it isn't better by then, I'll call Elizabeth again and see what she recommends. She might even be able to make a trip down here."

"She'd be willing to do that?"

Bobby shrugged. "She owes me a favor or two. She'd be willing to."

After all Bobby had done, why would he be cashing in favors for them? They owed him.

Dean didn't understand and it was starting to get to him. Sure, Bobby was an old friend but Sam and Dean had done nothing for him. If anything they'd only been trouble.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked bluntly. Bobby seemed surprised and looked up.

"Doing what?"

"Helping us! We've…Bobby, last time we were here I was out of my head with grief. I destroyed some of your cars. The time before that we brought a literal demon down on you. That's not even to mention that this time, the FBI could come knocking down your damn door. You could go to jail. We are trouble, so why are you bending over backwards to help us out? We are so deep into favors that we owe you by now that you are going to be cashing them in for the rest of our probably short lives."

Dean honestly didn't get it.

For a moment Bobby looked every inch his age and he sat back, playing with the bottle. "I…family don't owe each other favors, Dean."

"We haven't been family, not really. Not for a long time," Dean pressed, searching Bobby's crestfallen face.

Bobby sighed. "I know. And I know that I'm to blame for that. How do I explain…." He shook his head before leaning forward and looking Dean square in the eye. "I did know when I pulled that shotgun that you would follow your Daddy to hell and back. That you would choose him over me, even if I wanted to believe that you might not. And I knew that Sam would follow you in a heartbeat, even if he might not John. I knew that I was losing you both, but I thought it would be temporary. I never realized that I wouldn't see either of you again for so long, that I would be scavenging for news of you through the hunter grapevine. Or that…" Bobby paused here, working on something before he finally said, "or that I would miss you both as much as I did."

Dean didn't know how to touch that last part and focused on the first. "Dad never did forgive lightly," he said, addressing and Bobby raised his bottle, tilting it in Dean's direction.

"Ain't that the truth."

"What caused that last fight? Because let me tell you, that was the worst part. I didn't even know why we had to cut you out." Dean had never admitted that out loud before, not even to Sam when Sam had tried to ask him about it all those years ago. He couldn't think back about the day that they'd driven away from Bobby's because it had been too painful. He'd been sure that he was never going to see Bobby again, never be able to come back to Singer Salvage.

"It wasn't just one thing. That fight, that was just the tip of the iceberg," Bobby began slowly. "Just…try and look at it from my point of view, Dean. I know—well, I'm not always good at this, so—look, I was frustrated with John and I felt like he wasn't listening to anything I was saying. I didn't like what he was doing and then I was also worried that I wasn't good for you boys anymore. That I was going to be the reason that someone got hurt."

Dean reared back in surprise. Of all the things he had been expecting, this wasn't it. "You were better than Dad was! You never left us alone or-or sent us off on hunts." He hadn't meant to say that out loud and his face flushed and he fumbled to explain what he meant. "Dad would just—I mean, we—I don't know, Dad did fine by us. He did. But we were always happy when we got to stay with you as well. We were safe."

Bobby nodded, admitting, "I can see that now, but back then, I was—I wasn't ready, I've done a lot of thinking since then and some things have changed, but I wasn't ready and John was starting to send you both my way more frequently. It was turning into a full-time gig, which I was fine with but I knew that something was going to go wrong. That I was going to screw either of you up or that something bad was going to happen on my watch. Hell, do you remember that summer when I was gone on a hunt and you had to break the backdoor window to get in?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a shrug. He could also remember him and Sam sitting on the top of the stairs and the yelling match that Bobby and John had gotten into on the phone.

"That was kind of the beginning of the end, so to speak. I was so pissed off at John that I couldn't see straight. He hadn't tried very hard to track me down and let me know that he was sending two kids my way with no notice. He just sent you two out to fend for yourselves, and it was clear that wasn't the first time he'd done that. You handled the situation too well and kept trying to downplay how bad it was. But what if you hadn't been able to get in? That summer we were hitting all-time highs and you boys walked miles to get my house in the heat. You could have gotten heatstroke or sun exhaustion. Or what if you had gotten lost or hit by a car, or…the list just went on and on in my head. That—it opened a can of worms that I couldn't shake.

"What if next time I was hunting something and brought it back with me and you boys happened to be there and I didn't know? Or, what if next time it was just Sam that he sent across the country on a bus? I'll remind you that John did that, just a few months later. Sam was waiting at the bus stop for hours in the middle of the night because he wasn't sure how to get to my house and was scared to walk it alone in the dark without you. Do you remember that imaginary friend he used to have? Scully? Sage? Silas?"

"Sully?" Dean supplied with a frown. He remembered that time. Remembered phoning Bobby repeatedly whenever he could because he hadn't wanted Sam to be stuck waiting for Bobby. Remembered the stress and anxiety he couldn't shake when they'd put Sam on that bus, and the relief when Bobby had called and said that he had him the next morning.

"Yeah, that. Apparently, he told Sam that they should just wait for someone to come pick him up, and I had to thank an imaginary friend for that boy's safety because a nine-year-old kid out there wandering around in the dark? I don't even like to think…" Bobby trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face. "Do you see where I'm going with this? Those weren't isolated events. As soon as you left John's sight, you were my responsibility and it scared the hell out of me. And even if you weren't hurt, how was I supposed to keep kids happy? Was I supposed to let you watch TV or force you to read books? And it made me angry at John. Damn angry. I know you probably feel differently and I don't mean to speak bad of the dead but—"

"He was doing the best that he could. He had a lot on his plate," Dean said stiffly but firmly. He wasn't interested in anything that further tarnished his view of his father. It had already become so damaged over the last few months and Dean just didn't think that he could handle that.

"Best that he could," Bobby snorted anyway under his breath before taking a sip of his beer and looking up at Dean with a strange glint in his eyes. "You know," he began hesitantly. "I didn't exactly have the best childhood either. It wasn't…my daddy wasn't exactly great. I get it, Dean, I—"

"I don't want to talk about my Dad," Dean insisted and Bobby instantly backed off, looking relieved.

Taking a steadying breath, Dean glanced back at Sam again, and then, since they were already in the middle of this sappy fest, he went for it.

"So it wasn't us, me and Sam, then?" he asked and Bobby looked up sharply.

"No. God, no. It wasn't ever you, Dean. Or Sam. You two were damn good kids. It…it wasn't you. It was John. And it was me. I also…I'm not proud of it. I'm not proud of a lot of those decisions I made during that time and I wish I could take a lot of them back but I can't.

Dean didn't know what to say and Bobby raised his hands helplessly. To Dean's shock, his eyes were now shimmering with unshed tears."You asked me why I'm doing this. Why I'm helping you out? It's because I abandoned two kids when they needed me most. And those kids grew up to be impressive young men, and I'd like the chance to get to know them again."

Dean sat back, his mind whirling before he finally said, "You work on that little speech in the shower?" to break the tension.

Bobby snorted and cleared his throat roughly. "You be careful, boy. I still know where my shotgun is."

Dean shook his head as he finished off the last of his beer. "I—thank you, for telling me that. We—I wanted to understand," he said and Bobby nodded, not pushing for anything else which Dean was grateful for. There was so much he could say. How Bobby's house had always been a safe place for them, how they had been able to call him and always know that he'd pick up. How he'd cared for them like precious few others had.

But he couldn't. Not yet.

"Another one?" Bobby asked, indicating the beer, but Dean shook his head.

"No. No, I—" He jerked his thumb back behind him at Sam. He needed to be sober.

"Right. Well, if you do want one, it's right here." Bobby placed the bottle back on the table and then slapped his knees and stood up with a small groan. "I'm going to go get some more cold clothes and then I might turn in for a few hours so that I can relieve you later."

"Probably smart," Dean agreed and Bobby began to leave. He stopped at the door before half-turning and saying. "I was serious earlier. This place…you and Sam are always welcome here."

"Even if we have to break a window to get in?" Dean asked and Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Or, you know, I could give you a spare key. Idjit." Bobby shook his head and walked away.

Dean rolled his eyes as he stood and wearily moved back to Sam's side. He absently began to blot at the sweat on Sam's face and neck with one of the used washcloths, his mind whirling. To say that the conversation had been a revelation was putting it lightly.

Sam's eyes fluttered and he tensed, ready to put on a smile if Sam really was waking up but he just let out a soft groan, his head twisting the side before he stilled again.

Sighing, Dean rested his hand on Sam's arm. "I don't know, Sammy. Things used to be simpler when we were kids, weren't they?" he asked but Sam didn't respond and Dean sighed, glancing back over in the direction where Bobby had left.

Bobby would never replace his father, but it would be nice not to be completely alone like they had both been feeling recently. To have someone that he and Sam could depend upon and call regularly when things went south, to have a place that they could come to if they needed a break.

Hell, if the FBI ever did catch up with them, then it would be nice to know that there was someone on the outside who cared if Sam and Dean ever saw the sun again.

Still musing on it, Dean watched Sam sleep, his thoughts a long way away.