Living Out Loud, PG-13, Dean, Sam, 3/5

[ht_murray]

XXX


Three months. They'd been on the road for three months, and they were no closer to finding the cure than they had been the afternoon they'd decided to pack up and hunt the bitch down the way their father had done. Sam had stopped berating himself for not looking in the journal sooner almost as soon as he'd begun. How could he have guessed that instead of taking Dean to specialists, doctors, or faith healers even, John had taken him hunting?

But Dean had been right. There were entries in the journal for the entire year that Dean had been sick. Unfortunately, they meant nothing to Dean whose memory was still perforated and leaking the past like wine through cheese cloth. And while John had always kept meticulous notes in his journal with regards to hunts, Sam supposed that Dean's illness must have been weighing heavily on their father at that time, because all the elder had bothered to record were a string of dates, places, and occasional names. No mention of what they'd hunted or learned in any place was made.

Three months they'd been driving from town to godforsaken, Podunk town, looking for answers and finding none. Drake, Iowa had been a total waste of two weeks. The brothers hadn't so much as found evidence of a local haunting. Two weeks they'd scoured every inch of that place, every library, every archive, every manifest, and not only had they found nothing to indicate John and Dean had ever been there, but nothing to spark Dean's memory to the contrary. Two weeks had been wasted. Two weeks Dean didn't have now.

The same had been the case with just about every town they'd come to. Despite the fact that John had taken the time to record their existence, Dean and Sam had found nothing remarkable about any of them. And now it had been three months.

Three months to a year. That's what the doctor had told them when they'd ventured to ask, how long. The cancer was already well-established and advanced. Sam had offered to be tested to see if he could give Dean his bone marrow, but the doctor's had informed them that bone marrow transplants were done to prevent cancer from returning. Dean would have to be cancer free before it was an option, and this type of non-Hodgkins lymphoma was one of those cancers that, once it relapsed, was usually not curable.

So all they had was time and not much of that. Without treatment of any kind, three months. With medications to fight infection and anemia, maybe six. One doctor had even suggested prophylactic radiation treatments to combat the disease's progression to Dean's central nervous system. It wouldn't buy more time, but could help with the pain. Dean, of course, would have none of it.

Three months on the road, and Sam was willing to bet that his brother wished he had at least given that a go.

Dean would never admit to how much pain he was in, but Sam could see it in the stretched lines of his brother's smile, the halting tremble of his gait, and the quiet, determined expression Dean donned before standing. Hell, even now, as Dean slumped in the passenger seat, sound asleep, Sam could tell how far the disease had advanced by the way the elder had folded up a sweatshirt to place between his face and the window. The good people of Apalala, Idaho had given them quite the evil glares during their ten day tenure there because Dean's face had been completely bruised from temple to jaw after sleeping for hours with his face against the Impala's window.

Sam was sure the good citizens had thought the two were lovers and that Sam had beaten Dean to a pulp. They were used to the glares and insinuations by now. Although Sam did occasionally feel like beating his brother to a bloody pulp, it had been Dean's newly acquired ability to bruise by thinking too hard that had earned him the black and blue mark.

Sam hated this telltale sign of fragility almost as much as Dean. He'd tried his hardest to grant his older brother's pride some reprieve by not mentioning all the smaller bruises, but it was hard to look or feel strong with half your face painted in kaleidoscope patterns of weakness, and Sam knew how much that purple badge of dishonor had bothered his brother. This invisible monster had them both stumped, and it was wearing on them equally.

They'd nearly come to blows in Tiamat, Kansas when Sam discovered that Dean had let one of his prescriptions run out. Sam's fingers tightened on the Impala's steering wheel as he recalled the stubborn way his big brother had refused to go to the doctor to get another prescription written.

The younger brother knew it wasn't the medication that Dean was adverse to, although the handful of horse pills the elder choked down twice a day would be daunting to anyone. It was the time spent sitting in the waiting room, reciting medical history to people who didn't give a rat's ass, and being made to wait until every other person in the place was seen simply because they had an appointment and Dean did not that made the older brother's heels drag. Time was too short to spend waiting on medicine that usually just made him feel sicker anyway.

And now they'd wasted three months. After spending nearly a month in Tiamat because there had actually turned out to be a werewolf in the area, they'd done another two week tenure in Long, Montana. Still no answers. Still no cure.

Sam ground his teeth together and slammed the heel of his hand on the steering wheel as he approached the stop sign. "Shit!" He took a skeptical look around him as the sliver of hope he'd been clinging to was whittled down to just a splinter.

Ladon, South Dakota was the last place listed in Dad's journal before regular hunting entries picked up again. Sam had allowed himself to get a little excited about it because they'd had not only the name of the town to go on, but contact information. They just needed to find Dru and Beth Rind. Shouldn't be too hard, he thought sarcastically as he looked around him.

The stop sign, it seemed was the only indicator that there was a town there at all. One lonely stretch of highway crossed another out in this sprawling wasteland of civilization, and aside from what looked to be a bar on one side of the intersection, and a stop-n-rob convenience store on the other, there was no town at all, least of all no motel where they could rest for the night.

Sam grimaced back his disappointment, and glancing down at the gas gauge, decided to swing into the convenience store. Dean shifted in the seat as he felt the car rumble to a stop at the gas pumps.

"Go back to sleep, man," Sam said. "Just getting gas. Anything you want while I'm inside?"

A headshake was all the answer he received, and Sam sighed sadly. Despite the fact that he'd told Dean to go back to sleep, he was still surprised and a little disheartened at how easily and how much Dean actually slept these days. To say that the older brother was fatigued would be putting it mildly, and Sam knew that he'd soon be too tired to go on with this little, hopeless quest. Eventually they'd have to stop thinking about the quantity of time Dean had left and start considering the quality, but Sam wasn't ready to just give up his desire for more just yet. I really am a selfish bastard.

Sam pumped the gas and picked up a bottle of tropical punch flavored Gatorade, which Dean hadn't asked for, but Sam bought anyway, because it was almost time for his brother to take his meds.

He was on his way out of the store when a commotion on the other side of the car sent him sprinting to Dean's aid.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed. All he could see from his vantage point on the driver's side of the Impala was his brother kneeling in the dirt and two men, who Sam assumed to be locals, standing over him. He rushed across the parking lot and pushed his body between Dean and what he perceived to be the older brother's assailants with such force that one of the young men stumbled backward and landed with a thud on the pavement.

"Dean, dude," one of the attackers said, throwing up his hands in surrender and stepping back. "When did you get the attack dog?"

Sam ignored the two and bent to help his brother get up. He noted the glazed look of surprise in the elder's hazel eyes but didn't see any indication that he was injured. "What's going on?" He asked.

Dean shook his head, slowly. "I don't know. One second I'm about to get very up close and personal with Jessica Alba, and the next I'm kissing the pavement."

The man who'd fallen to the ground laughed and stood up with a smirk that he could have copied from Dean's own repertoire of smartass expressions. "You big girl! You're sleeping in the middle of the day now? Please tell me you hooked up with a hot chick last night and you're catching up on your Z's."

Sam took a hard look at the two men. They could've been brothers, both about Dean's age with coal black hair and brown eyes. Sam thought there was a certain ethnic look to them, possibly Native American, which wouldn't be too farfetched out here in South Dakota. The one who'd fallen to the ground was a little taller and looked to be the older of the two. The other was quieter, but they both looked like they'd just met an old friend and did not seem offended in the least at the way Sam had rushed between them.

"Dean, do you know these men?" Sam couldn't help but notice the hopeful tone in his own voice. If these were, indeed, acquaintances, then they were the first solid leads they'd come upon in their three month quest.

Dean squinted uncertainly at the figures, and Sam noticed him wobbling on his feet slightly.

"Dean. . ." the younger brother pointed to his right eyebrow suggestively and smirked in amusement as the elder realized what he was doing.

Dean reached up and flipped the eye patch back over his right eye. It had flipped up onto his forehead while he'd slept, and the double vision was making it hard for the young hunter to make out the faces before him. Sam rolled his eyes slightly. They were supposed to be weaning Dean off that damned patch by leaving it off for a certain amount of time each day, but Dean was attached to the thing now, and double vision was not one of his primary concerns at the moment.

Dean squinted again slightly as the faces came into focus, and at first Sam thought that his brother didn't recognize or didn't remember the two men. Suddenly, however, a glint appeared in the uncovered eye, and a smile that Sam hadn't seen in days spread across his brother's face.

"Al," Dean said, raising his hand to high-five the taller man.

"Dean, my brother," the man said, returning the high five and clasping the older Winchester's hand in a familiar handshake.

"Chayton," Dean said, turning to the second man and repeating the greeting.

The older brother put his hand on Sam's shoulder and nudged him to the forefront. "Altair and Chayton Rind, this is my little brother Sam." As Sam shook the men's hands, Dean explained, "Dad and I stayed with the Rinds when we were here about four years ago. Their family has a garage where they build stock cars, and they travel all over the country to race. You gotta see it." The open-mouth smile that spread across the older brother's face only highlighted the excited twinkle in that one hazel eye.

Sam wasn't particularly interested in stock cars or racing, but he hadn't seen Dean this excited about anything in weeks, and something about that name. . ."Oh!" Sam exclaimed as realization dawned, "Rind. Are you related to Dru or Beth Rind?"

"Yessir, young Winchester, those would be our parents," Al said with a friendly nod of his head.

"Great!" Sam replied. "Just the people we're looking for."

"Dudes," Dean said, picking up the conversation, "You still got that apartment behind the garage that you rent out? Cuz Sammy and I were looking to do some, uh, hiking and stuff, you know, brotherly bonding crap, and we're gonna be in the area for a few days or so. Maybe longer. So, since you aren't on the road racing, I was thinking. . ."

"Yeah, man, no problem," Chayton said. "Mom and Dad keep that apartment for the ranch hands they hire when we're out of town, but the racing season doesn't start for a month or so yet. It's empty. I'm sure the folks would be glad to see you again."

"Hey," Dean proclaimed, his voice taking on a lusty tone that Sam hadn't heard in awhile, "that your ride?" The older brother sauntered over to the red sports car that was parked on the other side of the gas pumps from the Impala. Sam noticed that the stiffness of his brother's gait had all but disappeared as Dean slunk up to the car. "Thunderbird, isn't it?"

"What else?" Al shrugged.

Dean ran his hand down the hood of the car with a faroff gleam in his expression, and Sam found himself leaning back against the Impala and just watching. "Can I see under the hood?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, Dude, you got perfect timing. I was just telling Dad this morning that we're losing compression on one of the cylinders. Probably a bad plug or something, ya think?" Al asked.

"Most likely," Dean said with a thoughtful bite of his lower lip. "Did you do a diagnostic?"

"Computer's down for service. Won't have it back 'til next week. I was planning to pull and check all the plugs myself tonight, but now that you're here, maybe I won't have to."

Sam looked at Chayton with a confused quirk of his eyebrows. "What's he talking about? Now that Dean's here, what?"

"Hey, man. Your brother's the best diagnostics specialist we've ever had in our shop. We were real sorry when he and your Dad moved on. Made him an offer to come on our team full time, live here during the off-season, design all our new cars. Wouldn't have paid much, but it's not a bad life, and we all liked having him around. Of course, he turned us down. Said he needed to stay with the family business, whatever that is exactly," Chayton explained. "I'll bet you ten bucks he listens to that engine for a minute or two and picks out which plug is bad."

Sam smirked in disbelief. He knew Dean was handy with cars. They'd been driving that relic of theirs long past the time that it should have gone to that junkyard in the sky, and it had never let them down. Sam had always chalked that up to maintenance and loving care. Yet, he knew there must have been mechanical problems somewhere along the line. He'd just never thought about them himself.

Sam had seen both Dean and their father working on the Impala over the years, but his own knowledge of engines beyond pumping the gas and checking the oil kinda went along the lines of 'righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.' He could screw and unscrew everything under the hood, but getting everything back in the right place was usually a crap shoot. Compression? Cylinders? Plugs? Blah, blah, blah, blah. They might as well have been any adult in a Peanuts cartoon for as much as Sam could get from their conversation.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but even if I did, I'd never bet against my own brother, man," Sam dismissed. "He'd so kick my ass if he found out."

Chayton laughed. "That sounds like Dean, all right. Just watch, though. You'll see."

Sam leaned back against the Impala, long legs stretched out in front of him with his left leg kicked over the right at the ankle, and his hands shoved into his pockets. He'd watched Dean work on cars before, but never really paid any attention. There had always been some paper that needed writing , a textbook that needed reading, or another hunt to be researched. Now there was only Dean, and Sam was interested in knowing all there was to know about him. Even the grease monkey part.

Al started the car and popped the hood. Dean propped the lid open and stood back for a few seconds, one ear tilted down toward the engine block and his one eye gazing up to the corner of his mind as he fit things together mentally. When his older brother put a hand on the front of the car and bent forward at the waist, Sam stood sharply and started to move forward, expecting Dean to crumple to his knees, yet another thing he did far too often for the younger brother's peace of mind. But the elder Winchester was only leaning closer to the engine and seemed to know exactly what he was seeing and looking for. Sam relaxed.

After a few minutes, Dean motioned for Al to turn off the ignition. "You got any new plugs on you?" He asked.

Al nodded.

Without hesitating, Dean leaned farther over the engine block and reached for the wires on the distributor cap. He wiggled them around until he determined which one went to which plug, and, that determined, he pulled off one wire. He didn't even turn around, just held out his hand like he'd done it a thousand times before, and Al put the spark plug wrench into his hand. After a few seconds of fidgeting, Dean produced a single plug and tossed it to Al for inspection. The dark-haired friend grinned and smacked Dean on the back with approval.

Sam saw Dean wince when the other man patted him. That was so gonna leave a bruise, but Dean's smile never faded as he installed the new plug, replaced the wire, and instructed Al to start it back up.

The engine roared to life, and Dean gestured for his friend to give it more gas. Al revved it several times, and laughed. "Woo-hoo! The Winchester Wisdom strikes again."

Dean laughed too. Sam watched his brother tilt his head back and laugh out loud, a smile so big and open that the younger brother couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen it. Dean's smile. Dean's laugh. Sam didn't ever want to miss those.

XXX

A few hours later, however, Sam was already missing Dean's smile. As soon as the brother's closed the door to the garage apartment, having met the rest of the Rind family and arranged their accommodations, Dean's face took on the pale, tired expression of which Sam had become so accustomed. He knew that the flurry of activity around the Rind household and the backyard barbecue that their hosts had insisted on throwing them had only pushed his brother deeper down the path to total exhaustion, but the older Winchester had seemed to be enjoying himself, and the opportunities for that were so few these days.

Sam did his best to dismiss Dean's pained winces and clenched jaw, but he knew that his brother had pushed himself too far.

"You want me to get your guitar from the backseat?" Sam offered.

Dean leaned back in the recliner that took up half the floor space in the cramped living room of the apartment and seemed to think about the offer seriously before shaking his head. "No. Thinkin' I'll just grab a shower and go to bed. Been a long day."

Sam nodded dismissively and looked back at the notes he'd been making on local history. He didn't say anything, but he'd seen the way that Dean had been clenching and unclenching his fists at the picnic table while they'd eaten supper. The weakness and general aches in his muscles and joints were taking away even that little bit of carefree Dean time that both brothers had come to enjoy so much. But Dean would never admit that he hurt too much to play. Not out loud. He just wouldn't play and pretend it didn't hurt. But it did.

"You gonna need the wastebasket?" Sam asked. The cocktail of medications his brother had downed before dinner had been know to completely negate the purpose of eating in the first place.

"No, I stuck to mostly mashed potatoes and milk," Dean smirked weakly. "Can't get much blander than that. It gets to the point where I can't stomach plain, white food, Sammy, you can just shoot me, all right?"

"No way, man. Always room for jell-o," Sam said, but his mind was already elsewhere. "So, you seem to remember a lot about the last time you were here," Sam hinted, "Anything coming to you about what you were looking for? What Dad was looking for?"

"Not really. Dad dropped me off here, I think. I was pretty out of it by then. Most of what I remember happened after I started to get better."

Sam turned his head sharply and lurched over to the side of his brother's chair. He knelt down with a thunk of knobby knees against hardwood floor and looked up at Dean excitedly. "Then it's here. Somewhere around here. The cure. Dean are you sure?"

"No I'm not sure, Sammy," Dean sighed. "I already told you I was pretty out of it by then, and what part of 'Dad left me here' don't you understand? He could've gone anywhere and come back. All I know is I spent a lot of time here once, without you, without Dad."

"And you like it here, don't you?" Sam asked, looking at his brother closely. "Chayton told me that they asked you to stay. Why didn't you Dean?"

The older brother looked at Sam like the kid was mentally ill. "What the hell kind of question is that? You know why I couldn't stay here. The family business, remember? I couldn't just stay here and leave Dad hunting all alone."

"Yes you could have, Dean. If you really wanted to, you could have. I think you'd have been happy here," Sam speculated.

The older brother smiled somewhat wistfully. "Since when does happy save the world, Sammy?"




XXX


"There be dragons!" Dean sat bolt upright in the twin bed. The sheets clung to his glistening, sweat-streaked skin like hospital dressings. At first, he was afraid that he'd shouted and awakened his sleeping brother in the next room, but there were no sounds of fumbling and stumbling echoing through the tiny apartment. Dean knew the scream had only been in his head. Asleep, as awake, the weakness in his voice was becoming apparent. He was thankful, now though. Sam needed to sleep.

Dean knew his kid brother had been up most of the night researching the local history, trying to determine what it was that had brought John and his oldest son to this out of the way place those years past. That on top of driving most of the day prior, the older brother knew was enough to wear anyone out. And that was saying nothing for the emotional drain of watching this cancer eat his brother alive.

Dean hated that he was becoming such a burden. He couldn't so much as lift a finger anymore without Sam offering to help. The big brother in him had made him stop resisting about six weeks into this little road trip. As much as he despised the mother henning, he knew that Sam needed to feel like he was doing something, and their disappointing quest was doing nothing to fill that need. So, when Dean allowed Sam to help him, he told himself he was just throwing the kid a bone. He still couldn't admit how much he was grateful for that help. He still couldn't admit how tired he was. And he'd be damned if he'd admit, out loud, that he was ready to just stop.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and wondered if he had a temperature. He almost always did these days, but it was hard to tell at night especially, because the night sweats were always heavy regardless of his actual temp. Sam always had a large glass of water and another of some kind of juice, 100 fruit juice, no less, waiting for him in the morning to replenish all the fluids that had seeped out of him over the long night. Of course, the sweats were even worse when accompanied by that damned dream.

The dream was always the same, always the claws, and the friggin' flying. And Dean hated flying. Always the wings beating long after his heart had stopped, and always farther, farther away from Sam. Dean never remembered if he stayed asleep long enough to find out where it was he flew to in these dreams, but he remembered how it felt to leave his brother behind. He could remember the plaintive look in Sam's eyes as Dean was lifted up and away, the heartbeats in his ears slowing to a stop. That look that said, "Please don't leave me. Just fight a little harder. I need you here, big brother."

And Dean could never deny his brother anything, especially when he said please, and turned on the puppy dog eyes. So he fought. He fought in his dream, and he fought while he was awake, and he never admitted for one moment that he knew that he was going to lose.

It was still dark outside, but there was a hint of grey tingeing the backs of the heavy drapes on the window. He decided not to force himself to sleep any longer. For all the times he was just too tired to stay awake, he couldn't really curse these moments of sleeplessness. Plenty of time for sleeping when I'm dead.

He swung his legs stiffly over the side of the bed and onto the cold linoleum. He lifted each foot separately, grimacing at the sound of the clammy skin peeling away from the hard surface. He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, fully aware by the lightheadedness and the way his legs trembled like they were made of jell-o that he was becoming dehydrated.

After downing the entire 12 ounces, he pushed himself slowly to his feet, and turned to strip the sheets from the bed. Beth was always doing laundry, so he didn't feel quite so guilty about the extra linens to wash, but he did miss the nameless, faceless motel cleaning staff that had been changing the sheets while they'd been on the road. It was one thing Sam didn't have to offer to do for him, and Dean wasn't about to let his baby brother start doing it now.

Realizing that he was having trouble grasping the corners of the sheets, he reached for his eye patch and snapped it into place with a satisfied smirk. Any little thing that made him still feel like a chick magnet was good medicine as far as he was concerned.

Dean picked up the wadded linens and dropped them by the door. He contemplated taking a shower, but he knew that would wake Sam, so he just washed quickly in the sink. He was planning to do some work in the garage this morning anyway, so he'd shower after.

Fumbling in the medicine cabinet, Dean lined up all the pill bottles in order of frequency taken, with the as needed pain killers on the end. He noted with a grimace that those were getting low. So, he decided to forego them and just dispensed the ones he was supposed to take with breakfast. Sure he felt like hell. His head pounded, his joints ached, and he felt like ever muscle in his body was on the verge of a massive charley horse, but he'd rather suck it up than sit for hours in a doctor's office to get the scripts refilled. As needed meant they could be dispensed as needed, right? So, he figured if he told Sam he didn't need them, Sam would accept that. Yeah, right.

He finally dressed in his traditional jeans and t-shirt, button down on top with the buttons left open. He couldn't help but look in disgust at the way his favorite jeans, the ones that always had the ladies checking out his fine assets, hung loosely on his hips. He hadn't realized he was losing that much weight. Wasn't much of a surprise, though, considering his diet was now mostly pasta and anything white, preferably with butter and nothing else. God, he wanted to gag just thinking about it. But his throat was raw from that, as well, so he'd have to pass.

He closed the door on the medicine cabinet and looked closely at his drawn features. Leaning in, he pulled his lower eyelids down, examining the whites of his eyes carefully for any trace of yellow. Jaundice was a sure sign that his liver was failing, and that was the one thing he watched for to the point of obsession. With all the bruising and muscle wasting, his liver was working well beyond its limit these days, and if he didn't catch pneumonia or some other infection, massive organ failure would likely be the thing that killed him, hopefully before the cancer invaded his brain to a degree that would have him rocking and crying like a baby, praying for the end to come. That was so not the mental image he wanted to leave his baby brother with when he went. He'd walk off into the desert and let the sand swallow him before he let it get to that point.

He brushed his teeth with just his finger and a little toothpaste, anything more and the sink would be painted pink. Flossing was a moot point. It made his gums bleed so badly that he probably just created infection by trying to be hygienic. No one was laughing at that irony.

Finally, he picked up the pile of dirty sheets and let himself out of the apartment, noting with satisfaction that Sam's soft snores were still steady and even in the other bedroom.

Dean shut the door as quietly as possible and made his way across the barnyard toward the main house. It was still mostly dark, but the grey he'd noticed earlier had taken on a pinkish hue. He knew the sun, when it rose, would be massive and ghostlike, something about the way it was magnified across the hot expanse of prairie, like the moon rising over the ocean, looking for all the world like it was close enough to touch.

It was entirely too early to be out and about, but he knew Beth would already be hard at work in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

The lady of the house was stunning, even weather-beaten and calloused as any good rancher's wife should be. Dean opened the screen door, and let himself in to find her puttering around, just as he'd known she would be, pots and pans clanking without concern for the men in her life sleeping soundly upstairs. The entire downstairs of the ancient farmhouse was already thickly perfumed with the greasy smell of bacon, sausage, and ham.

Dean dropped the sheets into the hamper by the bathroom door and slipped into the kitchen.

"Dean, honey, you should still be asleep. My boys get up and find you beat them to the sausage, they'll have you drawn and quartered," she sassed, her long braid of black, tinged silver hair trailing behind her like the string on a kite as she moved swiftly about the room.

"Nothing to worry about there," Dean said, raising his hands in surrender. "Sausage doesn't sit so well with me these days."

Beth stopped and studied him with concern for a moment, and he knew she'd been wondering whether he was better this time than he had been the last time he'd stayed with this family. "Oh, baby doll, you never managed to slay that dragon, I guess?" She stated as much as asked. "'ts all right. I'll boil you up some eggs in no time. You want some oatmeal, too?" And without waiting for a response she was back to pacing about the kitchen.

"As much as I love plain, watery oatmeal," Dean started with a wry smirk, "Eggs will be fine." He started to pick up a spatula to turn the meat on the grill top, but she shooed him away.

"Sit your ass down, boy. My menfolk come down here and see you doing that, they'll be finding so much for you to do out in the garage, you'll never eat again." Her toned arms handled two spatulas simultaneously with a lithe grace that made Dean raise an appreciative eyebrow as he slid into a kitchen chair to watch.

"So where's that adorable baby brother of yours this morning?" Beth asked. "The way he had his eagle eyes trained on you at dinner last night, I thought he'd never let you outta his sight."

Dean chuckled to himself. "Yeah, he'd prefer it that way, I'm sure, but a guy's gotta have some things for himself, you know? Actually, I snuck out and left him sleeping. He needed it. He was up half the night researching."

'Researching what, Sugar?"

"Trying to figure out what Dad was looking for when we came through here the last time," Dean said with a shrug. "He never mentioned it to you, did he?"

"Sorry, darlin'," she said with a shake of her head. "Your daddy was a mysterious one, always in a book or on that phone of his. Driven, that's what I'd call him. And if I hadn't put my foot down, he'd a kept on driving right into the sunset, and taken you right down with him. Was me who convinced him to let you stay here while he went after his damned dragons."

"Dragons?" Dean asked. It was the second time he'd heard her use that particular word in the span of a couple of minutes. He couldn't help but wonder if it was coincidence.

"Oh, it was a figure of speech, I'm sure, hon," Beth said. "Aren't all driven men out to slay a dragon of some sort? I just remember every time he looked in on you while you were so sick that time, he'd whisper under his breath, 'there be dragons', and it stuck with me, 'cuz I ain't heard no grown man talk of dragons in my whole life. 'Sides, everyone knows there's no such things."

Dean nodded, slowly.

"Thunderbirds, on the other hand," Beth said, squinting her eyes at him as she pointed her wooden spoon for emphasis, "Now there's something we got plenty of."

XXX

Sam jogged toward the workshop, the sun rising large and orange behind him like a phoenix from the ashes. When he'd awakened to find that Dean had gone out without him, he'd panicked and rushed out to the house in just his t-shirt and boxers. He'd been embarrassed to find Beth in there just setting the table for breakfast.

Seeing the panicked expression on his face, she'd assured him that Dean had already been in for breakfast and was putzing around out in the shop and that he was fine. Then she'd snagged him and threatened to hog tie him if he didn't sit down and eat some breakfast before rushing off to mother hen his perfectly capable big brother. "Fixin' on them cars is good for the soul, darlin'. Dean don't need you a-mindin' his soul the way you been mindin' everything else. Let him have some time for hisself."

Sam would have argued if the bacon hadn’t smelled so good, and if he hadn't been pretty convinced that Beth was more than capable of actually hog tying his ass. Still, he'd wolfed down his breakfast in less than fifteen minutes, his feet jumping nervously under the table with every bite, and excused himself before the Rind men had even made it down the stairs. It was a feat of major self-control that he forced himself to at least put on some pants before going out to the shop himself.

He stopped at the side entrance, his hand on the doorknob, and heard the strains of REO Speedwagon's "In My Dreams" playing softly over the shop speakers. REO wasn't one of Dean's all-time favorite groups, but they were definitely on his list of tolerable seconds, and the big brother's greatest hits tape was nearly as worn as the rest of his collection. Sam opened the door quietly and stepped in, looking around for his Dean.

He found himself tiptoeing uneasily between the various scattered projects with their glops of grease and leaking oil threatening to ruin his last unstained pair of jeans. It was easy for Sam to see why Dean liked the place so well. Its state of general disarray and chaotic half-organization was so Dean that Sam wondered if he hadn't been adopted from this family.

He heard his brother before he actually saw him. At first, he thought his ears were playing tricks on him, but as he scanned the expanse of the garage floor, he saw the glistening black hood of the Impala, and Dean's voice was definitely coming from that general direction.

It wasn't like Sam had never heard his brother sing before. In fact, "Riding the Storm Out," from this very same album was one of Dean's favorite shower hymns. The older brother's idea of singing, where Sam was concerned, however, was always some loud raucous abuse of vocal chords with the sole purpose of making Sam cringe.

Or to make Sam laugh. Because Sam had been born with a serious malady. He took everything so goddamned seriously that Dean had dedicated his life and his pride to making his baby brother smile. Now, as the lilting ballad floated across the expanse of concrete and jutting metal, soft, and melodious, and friggin' pitch perfect even with the difficult range jumps, Sam was more than a little humbled.

The younger Winchester was starting to realize that most of Dean's less than spectacular talents were just heavily guarded secret doorways to his brother's soul. Daring to venture close enough to see through the glamour of idiocy revealed the idiot for a savant, and the only one laughing madly was Sam, who'd fallen for the ruse. But then, the ruse was only there for Sam's sake to begin with. Sam didn’t know Dean at all. Didn't know Dean without Sam. And he was starting to realize what a crying shame that was.

Not wanting the singing to stop, Sam scouted around the garage until he saw Dean's feet sticking out from under the frame of the car and worked his way around behind him, careful to stay on Dean's blind, right side. It was sneaky as hell, he knew, but he wanted more, more Dean, and he'd steal it if he had to. He'd committed worse crimes in his life, and for far less reward.

The song ended, to Sam's dismay, and there was a pause in the tape during which the sound of Dean's breath, far too fast for Sam's liking, filtered out from beneath the vehicle. The moment of reverie was quickly forgotten as the familiar dream washed over the younger brother. He cleared his throat loudly, to alert Dean to his presence, and then stooped down to check on him.

"Sneak up on a guy, much?" Dean asked. He was working under the front wheels, his hands holding tightly to the undercarriage as his chest rose and fell quickly. Sam could pick out the beads of sweat on his brother's forehead, glistening in the light of the work lamp that was hanging beside him.

"What? You must be slippin' there, bro, 'cuz I so was not sneakin'. Although the way you're huffing and puffing under here, I don't think you could have heard a firetruck pull in," Sam said, using his best, shame on you expression. "What the hell do you think you're doing under there, anyway?"

Dean pulled a penlight out of the pocket of the dingy grey work coveralls he'd pulled on over his clothes and shined it in his brother's face defiantly. "Mom?" He asked. "Mom, is that you?"

"Very funny, smartass," Sam retorted.

"Oh, Sam," Dean sighed mockingly, "For a second there, I thought I heard a girlie little whine in your voice. What does it look like I'm doing under here, looking for Jimmy Hoffa? The tie rods have been needing replacing for awhile now, and I don't see your scrawny ass offering to do it."

"Uh, yeah. Righty-tighty. Lefty-loosey," Sam smirked.

"Dude. Random? Or is that geek boy speak for, 'here let me help you with that big brother?'" Dean addressed Sam pointedly, his hands gesturing with as much animation as Sam was accustomed to seeing, but the older brother's head did not lift off he ground, and his voice was directed into the undercarriage of the car. Sam could see his throat working to swallow around the words. He knew that working with his arms over his head was extremely fatiguing for Dean, whose blood pressure wasn't as strong as it used to be. He also knew that he'd never get his brother out from under that car until the job was done.

"Actually, that was my entire encyclopedia of knowledge on car repairs," Sam admitted humbly. "Kinda like you and Latin," he quipped. Then without thinking, he turned over on his back and pushed himself under the car beside his big brother. "But I'm willing learn," he said, turning his head to look at Dean. "I hear you're the guy to come to if I wanna learn a thing or two about cars."

Dean looked at him skeptically, the heat of the basket lamp causing sweat to bead on his forehead and pool in the divot above his upper lip. "And where'd you hear that?"

"Apparently," Sam said, biting at his thumbnail nervously, "I'm the only dumbass on the planet who didn't already know."

"What, Sammy the College Boy actually admits there's something he doesn't know?" Dean smirked. Then he grimaced noticeably as his sore back muscles cramped up against the hard concrete. "Doesn't matter, though," he conceded. "You were always meant for better things than lying in the dirt under some car with grease under your fingernails, Sammy."

"No, Dean," Sam said, craning his neck painfully to catch his brother's eye, "Just never good enough to understand what I was missing."

"And what's that?" Dean asked. "Smashed knuckles and oil stains?"

"Well there's that," Sam agreed, "And quality time with my big brother," he grinned. He took the tools out of Dean's hands. "Teach me. I wanna know what you know."

Dean's brow furrowed with disbelief, and his lips pursed thoughtfully as though he was searching his brain for a snappy comeback. Then he just picked up the penlight with a grin and pointed it to the project at hand.

Slowly, Dean explained the procedures to his baby brother and never once scolded or got frustrated when Sam failed to comprehend his instructions. They wiled away the morning, shoulder to shoulder, oil and grease, sweat and grime, brother to brother, communicating the way only lovers or twins had ever communicated before them. And neither was ashamed at their closeness, just treasured the seconds, thinking out loud that they wanted more seconds, more hours, more days. And somehow, the car got fixed as well. But Sam wasn't surprised, because Dean was a great teacher. The best.

When the last part was firmly back in place, they lay staring at their handiwork and contemplated the fact that they'd eventually have to crawl out from under their dark haven and face grim reality once more.

"So, uh. . ." Dean began, obviously not wanting the moment to end, but afraid to lose any more moments to nothingness, "you find anything in your research last night?"

"Not unless you believe in dragons." And Sam was too attuned to his brother now to miss the sharp intake of surprise that crossed Dean's lips.




XXX


Sam slid out from under the car with relative ease, though he had to admit he was gaining a new respect for the inventor of the hydraulic car lift. He couldn't imagine working in those cramped conditions for hours on end the way mechanics must. The only thing that had made it tolerable this time was the fact that Dean had been there beside him.

That thought in mind, Sam realized that Dean was probably much more uncomfortable than himself at that point. He reached a hand down to help his big brother drag himself out of their morning haven. Dean looked at the offered hand with a grimace, but reached up to clasp it nonetheless.

"My hero," he cooed, teasingly, a weak smile on his face. The smile faltered a little as he rolled up to a sitting position in his attempt to get his feet under himself and stand. The older brother appeared to change his mind about standing, and he slumped back against the side of the car, drew his knees up to his chest, and laid his straightened arms atop them so that his slack hands bent limply at the wrists. His heavy head bowed down between his shoulder blades. Sweat dripped off his nose and forehead, oversized droplets plummeting into the lap of the greasy coveralls as Dean made a noticeable effort to even out his breathing.

"You all right?" Sam asked, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder and bending forward to hear the answer.

"Yeah. Just give me a minute. Just sat up too fast."

Between the lack of a snarky comeback and the fact that Dean did not look up when he spoke, Sam was pretty sure that was a lie, but he was used to the lies by now. He knew Dean only did it to spare his kid brother some worry. Of course, Sam didn't have the heart to tell him it didn't work anymore. He was pretty sure that worry was his new middle name.

"So, dragons, huh?" Dean asked. He finally lifted his head, wiped the sweat off his brow, and let his hands fall to his sides. "You sure you don't mean unicorns, Princess?"

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly as he sat back on a metal stool to face his brother. His knees splayed apart, and his hands braced on the part of the seat that was visible between them as he met his brother's gaze. "Nope. Just dragons, if you can believe that."

"So, you gonna send me a message telepathically, Psychic Boy, or are you gonna tell me what the hell you're talking about?" The words were typical Dean, but there was none of the usual sarcasm and playfulness behind them. Sam decided to let that pass as well.

"Well, we may not have found anything in any of the towns we've been to in the last three months, but I was able to make a connection between them, other than the obvious one that they were all in Dad's journal," Sam began.

"What kind of connection?"

"The names," the younger brother explained. "Drake, Iowa; Apalala, Idaho; Tiamat, Kansas; Long, Montana; and Ladon, South Dakota."

"Dude, you're gonna have to give me more than that. Or have you forgotten, I didn't read the The Da Vinci Code? I don't do cryptic."

Sam knew that was a lie, too. Dean had spotted that Daeva sigil on that apartment floor in Chicago when all Sam had seen was some stains in the carpet. Dean did cryptic better than anyone he knew. He just needed the right background information, and then, Sam was pretty sure there wasn't a connection his older brother couldn't make in record speed.

"Drake, Apalala, Tiamat, Long, and Ladon, all mean dragon in some language or another," Sam revealed, his lips sliding across his ultra white teeth. He grinned wide, unable to believe what he was saying.

"Long?" Dean asked skeptically. "Doesn't long mean, well, long?" He asked, spreading his arms wide as if to indicate an invisible ruler between them.

"Except in Chinese," Sam clarified, "or in Sixteen Candles where it apparently meant long even though it was Chinese." He laughed at his own pun, because Dean was a little slow on the uptake that morning.

"Chick flick," Dean said, unamused. "So, did you find anything other than the names?" He asked, and Sam thought that there should have been more than just sheer exhaustion in his brother's voice at that point. After all, they were talking about finding a way to beat the cancer. But the younger brother was noticing that these conversations had become more and more one-sided over the past weeks.

Sam suspected that one of these days Dean was going to look at him with those tired, hazel eyes, and Sam would know that his brother was ready to stop. Until then, and probably for quite awhile after, the younger brother would keep going for the both of them.

"Nothing specific," Sam admitted. "There's actually a lot of dragon lore that supports dragons having mythical healing powers. The Caduceus, the universal symbol for medicine, features the serpent. It looks more like a snake, now, but there are suggestions that it was originally dragon-like in appearance. The same with uroborus, the life-force channeling spirit. The symbol for that is a serpent swallowing its own tail. Dragon's blood is supposed to have healing qualities, and don't even get me started on that movie Dragongheart. So, I guess it's possible that Dad could have been hunting dragons to cure you, big brother. There's only one problem with that."

"Besides the fact that there's no such thing?" Dean asked.

"Well, we don't really know that, do we?" Sam asked. "I mean most of the stuff we hunt falls into the category of 'no such thing', right? I was actually referring to the fact that there really is no dragon lore in this country. It mostly all comes from overseas. So, unless Dad dumped you here and hopped a plane across the big water, I highly doubt he found a dragon to heal you."

Dean nodded slowly, letting the information seep in. "So, there's nothing in this country at all?"

Sam shrugged and raised his eyebrows as he pursed his lips. "No dragons at all in native culture," he stated. "The closest thing we have here is Thunderbirds."

Dean may have been slow on the uptake that morning, but at the mention of thunderbirds, he straightened noticeably and his eyes went wide. "Sam!" He said. "I think I know. . ." He paused abruptly as though he'd completely lost his train of thought. As Sam waited expectantly, his brother's face clouded noticeably. All the awareness and certainty that had sprung into his eyes seconds earlier became shrouded in confusion.

Sam slid off the stool slowly and knelt beside his brother. "What Dean?" He asked. "What do you think you know?"

It wasn't like the older sibling to blank out like that, and Sam's internal panic alarms began to go off as Dean's head lolled back against the side of the car with a thud. His eyes remained open, but there was no expression on his face.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam insisted, shaking his brother gently. The older Winchester felt limp and heavy, almost falling over when Sam touched him, but he did turn his head slightly and crinkle his brow in confusion. The older brother's mouth worked absently as though to form words that his brain hadn't sent yet.

"Sam, Sam, SSSaaaammmmy. . .?"

Sam just managed to get a hand around the back of Dean's neck as the older Winchester slid toward him bonelessly. Baby brother leaned Dean's head against his own chest and pulled him down across his lap in a fluid motion. With the older brother gazing up at him, Sam recognized the wordless panic and terror that raged behind his eyes and knew this was not just a fainting spell due to fatigue. "Oh, God!"

Sam realized he didn't have his phone on him, so he fumbled with the zipper of Dean's coveralls and slid his hand into his brother's pocket to retrieve that phone. He couldn't remember if they had 911 service out here, hell, he didn't know if he'd ever known, but he dialed it anyway and was relieved to get a dispatcher. He was getting entirely too familiar with 911 dispatchers.

Sam realized in horror that he had no idea what the address was out there, but luckily, it was a tight community, and the operator knew where the Rind ranch was.

Sam clicked the phone shut and turned his full attention on his brother once more. Dean was breathing rapidly, and Sam didn't know if he was having trouble breathing or if it was just a panic attack of some sort. He placed a hand flat on his brother's chest, feeling the pounding of his heart beneath it, and tried to meet Dean's gaze.

Dean was shaking his head back and forth in weak defiance. His hazel eyes were glassy with unshed tears of frustration and pain.

"It's all right, big brother," Sam said soothingly. "Help is coming."

"No. No!" Dean insisted. "You promised, Sammy."

"Promised what? Dean, I promised what?" Sam asked, grasping his brother's chin firmly in his hand and turning his head so that he could look him in the eye.

"No hospital, Sammy. You promised." And though Dean was good at keeping his emotions hidden under most circumstances, Sam heard a definite hitch in his brother's voice that suggested he was on the verge of pleading.

Sam sat back in surprise and exasperation. Surely Dean hadn't meant that Sam was supposed to deny him emergency medical attention. "No, Dean. I know. I promised. No hospital, okay. We're just gonna figure out what this little episode is. It might just be another seizure, or a flu bug or something. I won't let them keep you in the hospital. If that's what you want."

Dean nodded, calming noticeably beneath his brother's strong hand. They could already hear the ambulance sirens approaching across the prairie.

"Promises to keep, little brother," Dean said with sudden conviction.

"Yeah, big brother, I know I have promises to keep,"

"And miles to go before I sleep. . ."

The words had barely passed the elder brother's lips when his eyes slid shut, leaving Sam stunned. Apparently, Dean hadn't read The Da Vinci Code, but he knew Robert Frost quite well. For some reason, after all they'd been through together in the last few months, Sam wasn't all that surprised to find that his brother was a poet at heart. Not really surprised at all. In fact, looking at his big brother's peaceful, almost angelic features, Sam wondered how he could have missed it. How could something so beautiful be anything less?

With Dean unconscious, Sam didn't even attempt to staunch his tears.




XXX


Panic was an odd feeling in a vacuum. No heartbeat to pound in his ears, no air to squeeze from his lungs, and no friction or heat to drive away the cold of empty and hollow, made for the worst kind of alone Dean had ever imagined.

Dean supposed it should bother him that the SOB had its claws embedded into his shoulders, long spikes digging beneath his clavicles on either side. But, been there, done that, came to mind instead. It was just a dream, the same dream he'd had every time he'd shut his eyes for the last three months, and he already knew how it went. The claws were the least of his worries. In fact, as he became airborne under the power of the massive reptilian wings, he was glad for the strength in the grip.

The massive wings beat soundlessly beside him in the vacuum of nowhere and everywhere and somewhere. There was no noise; not of his heart beating, because he knew somehow that it didn't beat here; not of the wings pulsing, because there was no air to resist them; and not of Sam answering, because Sam never answered, no matter how Dean tried to reach him.

The sudden acceleration upward should have left his blood pooling in his toes, but no gravity meant no g-forces. Only Dean's heart failed to make the shift, because that was always connected to Sam, Sam who looked on in astonishment and grief but made no move to answer or follow.

Dean knew that look. Sam had stood over Jess' grave with much the same expression etched into his open-book features. But Jess was dead. Dean wasn't. Was he?

He kicked his legs desperately as he careened deeper into the darkness and farther from Sam, farther from somewhere, into nowhere. Usually he woke up before the darkness consumed him. Usually his kicking and screaming drew the attention of whatever Fate controlled the slumber of heroes, and She took pity on him.

Helpless as a baby and consumed by the unknown, he pleaded with his captor to bring him back, because Dean didn't do the unknown. Supernatural, he did. Dangerous, he did. But alone in the middle of a somewhere that was nowhere he wanted to be, that Dean didn't do. He didn't know if he could, didn't want to try, because Dean didn't do Dean without Sam, and Sam wasn't here. Sam was home, and Dean didn't have any friggin' ruby slippers to take him back.

He'd put on the ruby slippers, the blue gingham dress, even braid his hair and get a friggin' dog if he could just get back to what he knew. To Sam, to taking care of Sam, to making Sam smile, to making Sam feel important, to making Sam feel safe, to Sam, Sam, Sam, because who was Dean without Sam?

This emptiness, this darkness, this nowhere and nothing, this was Dean, and if given the choice between facing himself and every snarling, clawing thing he'd ever hunted, Dean would choose the monsters. Monsters he understood; Dean was human, and people are just crazy. And crazy was scary as hell, especially when crazy was a man, was alone. It didn't get anymore alone than Dean without Sam.



Part Four