Living Out Loud, PG-13, Dean, Sam, 4/5

[ht_murray]

A/N: Be on the lookout for weird transitions in this part, i.e. flashbacks inside a dream sequence. Don't know what I was thinking...*facepalm*


XXX

Sam knotted his fingers in his too-long hair, mentally hearing Dean's voice telling him that he needed to get it cut. For once, he actually agreed. Personal hygiene of the vain sort that involved haircutting had fallen by the wayside weeks ago. He'd like to believe that it was just a menial task for which he'd been unable to find the time, but truth be told, no one but Dean had cut his hair since he'd left Stanford, and Sam didn't want anyone else to do it now.

Besides, if his hair was shorter, whatever would he do with his hands? If his hair was shorter, his fingers would have to be amputated, because he would have chewed the nails until gangrene set in. Long hair definitely had its redeeming qualities, especially at times like these when every neuron in his body was firing simultaneously, and he had nothing to do but sit and wait.

What little nervous energy he funneled out through his straining, twisting fingers, barely dampened the field of static electricity that pulsed in and around him. The rest had nowhere to go but into his overactive mind where it hummed through his vivid imagination, pulling out stockpiled images of every worst case scenario he'd filed away under the heading 'not gonna go there.'

Miles to go before I sleep Dean had said.

And don't you dare forget it. Or maybe it wasn't a promise but a lament. What did he mean? What if I don't get to ask him? God, if those were the last words. . .how the hell would I deal with that? Easy, I won't, 'cuz they were so not the last words, and he's gonna wake up. Could be just anemia. Some packed red cells and a little rest, we'll be back in business. Just a little more time. . .

But what if it isn't just anemia? Three months without treatment, maybe six the doctors had said. How did we go three whole months and find nothing? So, after three months, then what? His liver fails? His kidneys? Pneumonia? Congestive heart failure? It's gone to his brain, I just know it. The glazed look in his eyes, the way he just lost focus and started rambling. . .Oh God, I'm gonna be sick!

A hand fell gently across his back, finding the tensest spot right between his shoulder blades and rubbing softly until the nausea passed. It was something Jess had done for him the few times at Stanford when he'd been sick or, yes, occasionally hung over. But even knowing it was a woman's hand there now reminded Sam only of Dean, because only Dean had ever done it before Jess, and only Dean had done it after.

Funny, Sam had been doing this a lot for Dean lately, and sometimes, because Dean was always sick, and Sam was always tired, Sam let his brother keep his pride and throw up in peace. There was no pride to be had in suffering alone, though. Tiny, tiny circles, easing pain, easing tension, easing alone were not so much to give and so much worth receiving.

If Dean woke up, when Dean woke up, Sam was never gonna let him suffer alone again. Hell, when Dean woke up, Sam was gonna play human barometer. If the air was too dry, Sam was gonna humidify it. If it was too wet, he would dry it; too cold, he'd turn the sun up few notches; too hot, he'd bring on the moon. Because Dean deserved all that, all that and so much more. Because Dean deserved Heaven and Earth, Sky and Sea, because he was Dean, and none of those things mattered without him.

"Oh, hon, you need to relax," a voice said from beside him. "They're gonna take real good care of him."

Even though a part of him knew that the hand on his back was attached to the voice, Sam jumped slightly at the sound of Beth's words, because he was just so used to doing this alone. He was used to sitting and waiting, worrying and brooding. Hell, he was good at it.

If he could figure out a way to get paid for being an emotional wreck, he'd be a one man corporation with more money than Bill Gates and Donald Trump combined. As far as Sam was concerned, he'd cornered the market long ago, and he was used to monopolizing hospital waiting rooms and doctors' offices. He wasn't really sure what to do with the competition, not that Beth, Dru, Al, and Chayton constituted competition, but for all the times Sam had done this alone, he wasn't sure he could deal with company in a civilized manner.

"Sam. . .Win-chester?" A voice asked hesitantly.

Sam sprang to his feet so quickly that Beth's ring caught in the back of his shirt, and he almost sat down hard again as her extra weight caught him off guard. Correcting the situation promptly, he turned toward the doctor, hand extended.

"I'm Sam Winchester," he offered.

"Dr. Robards," the gentleman responded. He was plump and balding with a bad combover going on but had a friendly enough air about him, then again, he may have just been intimidated the by towering Sam and his band of merry Rinds. The doc took his hand and shook it with an accommodating smile that was clearly rehearsed. "I'm the attending physician on Mr. Dean's case, and what is your relationship to my patient, if I may ask?'

"Oh," Sam exclaimed, "I'm his brother, and he goes by Dean. Jonathan Dean is his, uh, stage name. He's a musician."

The doctor gave an exaggerated nod that clearly said both 'that explains it' and 'damned artists.'

"How is he?" Sam asked impatiently. "Is it anemia?" Please God, let it be anemia.

"No, I'm afraid it's not anemia," Robards said, looking down at his chart to avoid making eye contact. "Maybe you could sit down. I'll get a crick in my neck looking up at you, young man," he lied unabashedly.

Sam complied, nonetheless, but barely settled on the edge of the hard, plastic seat, then stretched forward expectantly so that he was the one with the crick in his neck.

The doctor took a deep breath and frowned unconsciously. "I see from the charts that you are aware that your brother is in an advanced stage of non-Hodgkins lymphoma. And you do know that this is a terminal condition?"

Sam nodded.

"Sorry, I had to ask," Robards explained, "There are still doctors out there who deal in false hope. I am not one of them." He paused momentarily and continued. "Based on the tests we've conducted so far, I feel that what your brother is experiencing is a disruption of blood flow in the brain. . ."

"God," Sam whispered. "It's gone to his brain."

"No, not exactly," Robards corrected. "Preliminary tests don't show any tumor growth in the brain or central nervous system, per se. However, blood tests are showing abnormally high concentrations of certain immunoglobulins, basically large lymphatic proteins, that are diluting the blood's capacity to carry oxygen. In some small vessels, like in the brain, they are occasionally blocking blood flow to a marked degree."

"Blocking the blood flow in his brain?" Sam asked. "Like a stroke?"

The doc's head wavered somewhere between a nod and a shake as he wrinkled his chin thoughtfully. "Like a stroke, yes, but not a stroke. What's happening is blood flow is being temporarily interrupted in a transient nature throughout the brain. Usually, the interruption is not long enough in duration to cause permanent damage, but it can cause a disruption in thought processes, memory loss, loss of muscle coordination, tingling in the appendages, temporary loss of consciousness, and any other myriad symptoms not unlike those a stroke victim would experience but for very short durations. The transient nature of the blockages translates as basically, you don't know what's going to happen from one minute to the next. At the moment, he seems to be having quite a bit of difficulty formulating complete thoughts."

"At the moment?" Sam asked. "He's awake? Can I see him?" He stood abruptly, forcing the doctor to step back.

"No," Robards assured. "He was awake briefly during the CT scan, and I talked to him as did one of our neurologists. He seemed to be aware of what was going on around him and responded to our commands, but he did have some trouble answering questions. He was quite stressed by the whole ordeal, and we gave him a sedative to calm him down and help him sleep. We'll admit him, and he can probably sleep through the worst part of this episode in the hospital tonight."

"Wait, you gave him a sedative without letting me see him, first?" Sam asked. "And you're going to admit him? Did you tell him that? Did you ask him?"

"No, but it is standard procedure to admit a patient. . ."

"I don’t care about standard procedure," Sam said, his face reddening. "I brought my brother here to be diagnosed and treated, if possible, but I'll be taking him home with me. I promised him no more hospitals, and I meant it."

Robards clipped his pen to the top of his clipboard and lowered it to his side so that he could gesture with his free right hand. He clasped Sam's shoulder. "Look, Mr. Winchester, I understand that you're upset and that you feel that you can take care of your brother as well as we can. From what I've read of his case history, you've been doing a fine job so far, but you need to understand that we are in the final stages of this disease, now. Caring for Dean is going to be a 24 hour a day job from here on out. I've already scheduled you an appointment to meet with the coordinator of our Hospice Center. . ."

"No! Hell no!" Sam spat. "What part of 'no more hospitals' didn't you understand?" He asked. "I'm taking my brother home, so if you've got him on something to make him sleep, get him off it now, and draw up the papers to let him out of here."

"Mr. Winchester. . ." the doctor protested, "Your brother needs skilled medical care. You don't want the time you have left with him to be consumed by menial tasks and chores associated with activities of daily living. I assure you that hospice care will allow you to spend quality time with Dean while skilled caregivers handle the more stressful tasks. It's in Dean's best interest. . ."

"What the hell do you know about Dean's best interest!" Sam growled, his eyes livid. "I think I know my brother's best interest better than anyone, doctor. And even though I may not be a skilled caregiver, I'm pretty sure my brother wasn't skilled either when he fed me, bathed me, and changed my diapers. I'm also pretty sure he didn't pawn those jobs off on someone else so that he could have more quality time with me. There was no one else, and any time we were together was quality time."

"And as far as your standard procedures go," Sam continued, "There's nothing standard that will ever be good enough for my brother. My brother is the best person I know, and he deserves the best of everything. My brother is not only every bit as smart as I am, but he's far more talented than I will ever be. There is nothing that my brother could ever want to do that he couldn’t be the best at. Best student, best musician, best businessman, best teacher, best engineer, best brother. And he's got the best instinct and intuition of any person I've ever met. I can argue both sides of right and wrong 'til I'm blue in the face, but when it's crunch time, Dean always just knows what to do and does it, no questions, no denials, no regrets. Even when it isn't standard procedure, it works, because it's right. I don't know anyone else with that kind of clarity."

"So, maybe I'm stupid for promising him that he wouldn't have to go back in the hospital, but if he feels that's best for him, then so do I. No questions, no denials, no regrets." Sam took a deep breath. "Just please draw up the papers so I can arrange payment and take my brother home."

Robards stared at Sam in disbelief, but the slump in his shoulders was a definite indicator that he'd already resigned himself to comply. At last, he just turned. "Very well," he said, walking away. "I'll arrange to have him released, but I'm going to leave you the contact number for the Hospice center."

"Whatever, Dude," Sam smirked, knowing full well that he'd just done his big brother proud. When the doctor finally disappeared behind the swinging doors, Sam's grin melted into a trembling line that better suited his quivering hands and deep liquid eyes.

"Oh baby," Beth said, placing her hand on his back as Sam slumped into his chair. "I bet you feel so much better now that you got that all out. I'm sure Dean will be proud of the way you stuck up for him just now."

"uhn. ." Sam coughed, choking back his emotions. "I'm sorry for freaking out, you guys. You probably think I'm ready for a padded room by now, but I. . .God, it's just so hard to hear him talk about Dean like he's just anybody. Like Dean's just a formula or a treatment regimen they taught him in med school. Like you can learn anything about Dean in a school or a book…"

"Of course we understand, sweetie," she cooed, still rubbing.

"It's just. . ." Sam folded his hands together and pressed them against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees as he slouched forward. "Dean. . .He's all I have left. . .You know, he carried me out of a burning house when he was four, and I don’t think he ever let go. I used to resent that. I wanted so much to establish myself as a separate person, and somehow, I forgot that he was one, too. He never let me see it, though. Never let me see him weak; never anything less than protector, hunter, hero. I guess I never realized that he's a whole lot of things besides just what I was running away from, and now I just want to see the rest. I want to see Dean."

"Is it terrible that I'm kinda thankful this cancer came along? Because if it hadn't, I never would have known how much I'd be missing, hell how much the world would be missing, without him. He deserves to be and have the best of everything."

A small noise from the patriarch of the Rind family drew Sam's attention. Come to think of it, Sam couldn't really remember hearing anything from Dru the whole time they'd been at the hospital. "At least someone figgered it out," the graying, weathered man muttered, a frown etched into his prominent features.

Sam looked at him in confusion, almost tilting his head like a curious dog in his rapt attention. "Excuse me."

"Oh, darlin'" Beth said, patting Sam on the back sadly. "Dru's just saying the wrong person learned the lesson here today."

"I'm not following you," Sam ventured with a shake of his head.

"Dean," Beth explained. "It's wonderful that you see how beautiful and worthy your brother's spirit is, Sam," she sighed. "It's just too bad that Dean doesn't see it."




XXX


You can't be lonely if you like the person you're alone with.-Wayne Dver

Sam's face contorted almost obscenely as though the muscles in his jaw and forehead couldn't interpret the signals they received from his brain. That was probably the case, in fact, because Sam wasn't entirely sure that he knew how to interpret Beth's statement either.

"What do you mean 'Dean doesn't believe it'?" He asked. "My brother might have the biggest friggin' Joan of Arc complex of anyone since the Maid of Orleans herself, but he knows he's important, too. Why would you think that?"

Beth frowned, looking sideways at her husband sadly as if to acknowledge that Dru had hit the nail on the head, and in doing so, confirmed Beth's own worst fears. "It's just. . ." she began hesitantly. "Oh, Sam…It's just that, we've been lucky enough to have Dean come to us twice now. Both times, he's been so sick, so I imagine that we see him differently than you do, since you've been able to know him when he's well. And both times Dean's been here, Dru and I have stayed up many a night wondering at the way a boy that talented and special in his own right can have absolutely no ambitions or dreams of his own."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. "Dean has ambitions. He wants to make the world a safer place, wants to give children a life without the fear and knowledge of what lies in the darkness and under their beds. Dean has the most drive and desire of anyone I know. How can you say he has no ambitions?"

"I understand what you're saying, Sam," Beth agreed. "But are they really his ambitions? Do you think he went to sleep as a child and dreamed of saving the world? I'm not saying the world doesn't need saving, but it needs us all to save it. The soul of one man, even a soul like Dean's, can only be consumed if he gives it all and takes nothing for himself. It seems to me that Dean's soul has been sick for a very long time. His body is only now feeling the strain."

"You make it sound like he gets nothing in return for what he does. I know that's not true," Sam argued. "I've seen the way his eyes sparkle when a kid thanks him, or a family is reunited, or a life is saved. He loves what he does."

"But does he ever get that twinkle in his eyes by doing something for himself?"

Sam had to think about it, and that should have been enough to answer Beth's question. At the very least, it proved her point rather effectively. Really, he'd only seen Dean's eyes shine like that after a hunt. . . at least until recently. Now, Dean's guitar made his eyes smile. But Sam had given him the guitar. Dean hadn't asked for it. And Sam wondered if Dean's eyes would ever have smiled for Dean, if Sam hadn't given the permission. God, did Dean need Sam's permission to be happy? Did he need someone else's joy to justify his own?

"They used to," Sam realized. "When we were kids. He used to tell me he was gonna be a rock star someday, and his eyes would twinkle. He'd tell me how much he wanted to learn to play the guitar. Of course, we could never afford one. I guess I never realized when he stopped talking about doing anything other than following in our father's footsteps." How did I miss something that monumental?

XXX

Dean smoothed his fingers over an envelope, suddenly aware that the vacuum of nothingness had abandoned him as had the weightlessness of flying. Though he was relieved, the memory he found himself in was not one he cared to re-visit. Damn dragon.

Starved for sensation, he savored the touch and let himself be lost in the memory.


****


Dean needed to feel the pulp fibers beneath his tired digits to ascertain that the envelope was real, not an apparition like the dreams he'd placed within it. These wanton, selfish dreams he only dared to entertain at times like this, when he was alone with nothing but his thoughts and his memories, wrapped in a cloak of leather that was pungent from far too many miles traveled in far too few years.

Dad and Sam knew he spent hours in that car of his while they were locked away behind salt barriers and strange but familiarly generic doors. They knew Dean disappeared in his black chariot only to return hours later with a hint of a grin on his face and a waterfall glint in his eyes. They never knew he spent those hours alone.

So, they thought he picked up girls every night. He supposed he should be flattered, but as a seventeen-going on eighteen-year-old who spent almost every hour of the day in close proximity to people (though he sometimes wondered if Sammy was really human at all), Dean didn't have a problem just slouching in the Impala's leather seats with only the company of whatever mullet rock blared from the speakers.

Sometimes, even the radio stayed off. Sometimes, he just spent time with himself. And sometimes, he even liked it. Alone.

Alone, he found his mind going in directions he knew Sam and John didn't even think he considered. What's more, he found himself believing that those paths he pondered in the dark might actually be roads he could dare travel. Alone, Dean Winchester believed in possibilities, and potential, and…more.

He'd been alone in the dark when he'd wondered, just for the hell of it, whether he could build an EMF detector out of the broken walkman that Sam had discarded in the backseat. He'd been alone in the dark with a flashlight and a pencil when he'd drawn out the plans, and alone in the dark with a set of tiny tools when he'd actually succeeded in constructing the thing. And he'd smiled to himself, pleased, even though he was alone.

"You know, Dean. That little gizmo of yours is really quite an amazing display of ingenuity and creativity," Mr. Hill, the physics teacher had said.

Dean had only ducked his eyes away and felt an embarrassing blush spread across his cheeks. He hadn't understood what compelled him to share his invention with the man, but he had gotten the response he'd expected, a response he'd never have gotten from John or Sam.

"Really?" No smart-ass denial or quip, just grinning, beaming pride.

"Absolutely," the teacher had responded. "I would be honored if you would allow me to nominate you for this award. . .You're free to decline, of course."

"Oh, no. Don't bother. I don't need an award."

"The prize is a thousand dollars."

Dean had been alone, as well, when the asinine suggestion of his physics teacher had actually begun to sound feasible. He'd been alone when he'd read the letter congratulating him on his victory and alone when he'd held the check for a thousand dollars in hands that trembled with pride.

Though John and Sam had been at home tearing each other a new one, he'd smiled despite the turmoil, and when he'd gotten home himself, his father and brother had just assumed from the look on his face that some girl had been unable to resist that Dean Winchester charm. They hadn't known that girl was called Escape, and that her sister, Promise, had joined them.

Part of the money he'd spent on taking the SAT's.

"Grades don't really count for all that much," Mr. Foley, the guidance counselor had assured him. "You're a very bright boy, Dean Winchester. Every teacher here would gladly write you a recommendation if you wanted to go on to school. And that award you won will open a lot of doors."

"No," Dean had dismissed, again with a blush of pride and disbelief. Compliments made him so uncomfortable, being that he hardly ever heard them. "Dad's counting on me to take over the family business."

"Well, four years in a good school can only better prepare you for that kind of responsibility. You should at least take the entrance exams, keep those options open."

Dean didn't know what the scores meant when they came back, but the way his counselor had stared in disbelief, and immediately begun piling college applications upon him had given Dean the idea that he must have done well. That was saying a lot considering the way he'd had to sneak around to prepare for and take the damned thing.

"Options?" Dean had asked. Funny how a kid with his whole life ahead of him had never even considered that he had any.

Dean had sat alone in the car for hours, choosing possible schools, centrally located, of course, so he'd always be available to help Dad and Sam if they needed him on a hunt. And he'd barely noticed the passing of time as he'd considered a possible major, something in the sciences, maybe engineering, and painstakingly worded the application essays in his mind.

All of the preparations had been made in silence as though speaking of his intentions, saying them aloud, would shatter the illusion of possibility that only existed in the dark.

Dean had never been selfish in his life, so he had dealt with his conflicted guilt by spending most of his prize money on John and Sam. They had looked at him a bit skeptically when he'd taken out his wallet and paid for things like groceries, medical supplies, and gas, but they had never protested, and Dean hadn't failed to notice the relief in John's eyes when, on more than one occasion, the bill had been more than he'd expected and the father had been caught short.

For that look, and for the ability to bring comfort and reassurance to the ones he loved, Dean would have paid for everything without a thought.

But a thousand dollars only went so far, and each time Dean had pulled out the cash, he'd known that was one less school he could afford to apply to and that his options dwindled. It hadn't mattered though, he'd told himself, because as long as there had been enough for one application fee, the option had still been there.

And finally, that's all there had been, just the one option. One place other than hunting to place all of his silent wishes and dreams, and those he placed with care in the envelope, knowing the application deadline was upon him, and vowed to get a money order for the fee in the morning. The envelope, the application, the schematics for his EMF detector, and the elaborately worded essay, along with recommendations from all of his teachers and guidance counselor, were placed inconspicuously behind the glove box in the car where all the dreams had originated to begin with.

And Dean smiled. For all he'd given, he didn't feel a pang of guilt at asking for this one thing for himself. He had to be worth at least that much.

Dean had every intention of taking the last of his prize money and filing the college application. But the road to hell was paved with good intentions, after all, and the asphalt sparkled with the dust of broken dreams.

The envelope, once safely tucked away, was all but forgotten by the time the Impala pulled up in front of their humble motel-sweet-motel in which the lights were still on inside. That was always a bad sign. There was generally no reason to stay up past ten on a school night, so the shimmering glow that striped through the cheap blinds at well past midnight was usually a sure indicator that John and Sam had been fighting again.

Though Dean was usually glad to miss out on most of the action, the fights had been more frequent since Sam had turned thirteen, and Dean was becoming afraid that the two other Winchesters would actually hurt each other one of these days. He was beginning to consider skipping his after hours excursions in the Impala in favor of playing mediator. The thought didn't appeal to him much, but the thought of finding one of his family injured at the hands of another appealed to him even less.

He made his way into the room with marked trepidation, a slink to his step that he usually reserved for stalking prey. The pungent aroma of whiskey almost knocked him flat on his ass as he opened the shoddy door. In fact, the room smelled so strongly of hard liquor that he was truly surprised to find his father asleep on his bed with nothing but an open beer on the end table. A twinkle of broken, brown glass littering the floor near a dent in the sheet rock explained the contradiction. Sam had taken up throwing things during his tantrums of late. . .

Speaking of Sam. . .

"Sammy!" Dean called out, suddenly aware that the room was entirely too silent aside from his father's heavy snores. There was no answer, and Dean noted, also no light on in the bathroom. Heart pounding with panic, he covered the distance between the two doors in three strides and flicked the light switch expectantly. He glanced around quickly, knowing even before he did that Sam was not inside.

"Sammy!" He shouted again. The sharp tone of his voice was enough to cut through John's haze of unconsciousness, and the father turned over, squinting into the room light with a moan.

"Dean? Stop that yelling, you'll get us thrown out," John grumbled.

"Dad," Dean said, shaking his father slightly before the man could slide back into slumber, "Dad, where's Sam? He's not here."

"He left," John grumbled.

"Left!" Dean's chest tightened, and the light streaming in from the restroom got suddenly brighter as adrenaline infused his veins. "Where did he go? Dad, he's not even fourteen. He can't be out there alone."

"He seems to think he can," John said, glaring angrily from behind half-lidded eyes. "Seems to think he's too good for this. Said he'd rather live under his own terms. Doesn't need us. Let him find out the hard way."

"What?" Dean snapped. "Dad, no! He's just a kid."

John rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. "Don't worry, Dean," he said. "That friend of his from school called; Joey, or whatever his name is. Sam's spending the night at his house."

"Shit!" Dean exclaimed. He twirled his car keys with agitation and stormed from the room. Dean may have played at being the good little soldier where his father was concerned, but he knew the lengths angry teenagers went to in order to keep their parents blissfully ignorant to what they really did when they were out of the protective nest. Joey was bad news, and if Dad had ever bothered to meet the kid, he'd know that too.

Dean hopped into the Impala and peeled out of the parking lot, already knowing exactly where he'd find the delinquents, and pretty certain that it was nowhere near Joey's house.

A faint glow of floating embers danced beneath the bleachers behind the football field. Dean's stomach lurched as he pulled up behind the concession stand and saw the tricked out Mustang parked in the shadows nearby. Joey was Sam's age, which meant the car belonged to one of Joey's 'friends', and that couldn't be good.

The muffled sounds of a struggle met his ears as he rounded the corner, and his hand went instinctively to the waistband of his jeans, searching out his .45, which of course, wasn't there. They were at home, not hunting, he realized with a roll of his eyes. And what was he gonna do, shoot a couple of teenagers?

As he approached the aluminum bleachers, one section of the grandstand quivered, apparently rocked from beneath, and a muffled scream upped his panic dosage noticeably. Dean paused only momentarily to allow his eyes to adjust to the painted shadows that flickered through the trembling bleachers.

When he could see clearly, his hunter's experience allowed him to assess the situation in the span of less than a heartbeat. Five men, two of them smaller than the rest. Those would be Sam and Joey. A glint of steel. Knife. A metallic click. Gun. Heavy breathing and the coppery stench of blood.

"Pay up kid!" An angry bellow erupted. "You said you could sway your buddy here into joining the team, but since he's gone all sissy on us, you owe us for the samples. And don't think I'm letting him walk outta here to narc us out. That's all on you!" The largest of the drug dealers waved his pistol wantonly about as he kept one arm wrapped around the neck of one of the smaller boys.

"Dammit Sammy," Dean whispered to himself, "What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?" He bit his lower lip thoughtfully, trying to devise a plan that would get his brother out of the thug's grip and safely home. Being that he was unarmed and outnumbered, he didn't relish the thought of taking on the criminals himself.

He moved around the back of the bleachers. Surprise was a good weapon to have in any arsenal, but it could also get a guy shot, should a hopped up dope fiend happen to be holding a loaded gun.

"Ah-hmm," Dean coughed, clearing his throat to draw the dealers' attention. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size."

The three men wheeled around, and Sam's terrified gaze fixed on his brother, watery with both fear and overwhelming guilt.

"It's all right, Sammy," Dean assured, meeting his brother's wide eyes. "Look. . .fellas," he said, keeping his voice conversational and unthreatening as he raised his hands in surrender. "If this is about money, then let's just settle up and go our separate ways. You can have whatever's in my wallet." He reached slowly for his back pocket and produced the trifold leather wallet from its denim pouch.

"'Ts not that easy," the leader spat, his speech slurring. "How do I know you're not gonna narc us out?"

"Well, call me slow on the uptake here, but it seems to me like my kid brother's kinda got some shady dealings going on himself, or we wouldn't even be here. You don't really think I'd call the police in and risk getting him locked up in juvie, now do you? Besides, we don't usually stay anywhere long enough to put down roots. You can poison this whole goddamned town if you want to. No sweat off my back. You're just not gonna go through my brother to do it. So whattya say? I'll give you your money, you hop in your car, and we'll go our separate ways?"

He tossed his wallet out on the ground but made sure to keep it close enough to the back of the bleachers that he wouldn't be pinned underneath if a struggle ensued. From where he stood, he knew that he could leap up, grab the bottom of the aluminum seats and kick the gun out of the dude's hand if it came to that. There was always the chance that the gun would go off, though, so he hoped that it wouldn't come to that. To his relief, the leader gestured to one of his lackeys to pick up the wallet. He examined the contents and removed all the cash Dean had on hand but then tossed the billfold back, dropped Sam to the ground, and turned to leave.

Dean didn't even glance at the empty wallet as he rushed to his brother's side.

"Sammy," he ventured gently. The kid's face was a mass of bruises and he cradled one arm gingerly. "You okay there, baby brother?"

Dean expected a sassy, tough guy reply, or a whimpering apology, possibly an admission of guilt. Instead, Sam just burst into tears and let his head fall onto Dean's shoulder.

"Dean," he sobbed quietly. "Dad and I had a fight."

"I know," Dean soothed, wrapping his arms around the smaller boy comfortingly as though he really were just the baby brother Dean had called him. "He told me, but that's nothing new, right?" He asked.

"Yeah, but," Sam sniffled and took in a whooping breath as he tried to regain his composure, "But he was so mad, Dean. I just wanted us to stay here until the end of the school year. He acted like I was some kind of traitor for asking. I guess I just blew up, and the next thing I knew I was telling him I was leaving, and he, he just let me go. He didn't even try to stop me. I didn't want to go, Dean. I just thought if I threatened, then he'd try to stop me. Try to compromise, you know? And then, I was just like, 'FINE'. . ."

Dean just listened. The ramblings were nothing Dean hadn't suspected or heard before a thousand times, only this was the first time he'd heard them second hand, and his guilt twisted in his stomach.

"I got outside, and I was just standing there in the parking lot for like an hour waiting for him to come after me, Dean, and he never did," Sam cried. "I was so scared. God, Dean, I'm such a baby. I was looking for you everywhere, and I couldn't find you, and I know you don't like Joey, but I didn't know where else to go, and…"

"Hey, hey," Dean said, pulling Sam's head back to meet the watery eyes. "It’s not your fault, okay. I shoulda been there, and I wasn't. It won't happen again, Sammy, I promise."

"You promise," Sam whispered, choking around the breaths that hiccupped through his convulsing chest.

Dean smiled his winningest Dean Winchester smile, and Sam's eyes were too clouded by tears to see the hazy film of self-recrimination and denial that lay beneath. "I promise, Sammy. That's what big brothers do."

Sam smiled then, so big and bright, his adolescent heart bursting in rainbow colors across his tear-streaked cheeks. And Dean decided that smile was all that mattered. It was enough. It would have to be.

When the brothers closed themselves into the Impala and the engine rumbled to life, Sam didn't know about the dreams locked in the glove box, and Dean had already forgotten them.

But the dragon hadn't.


***


Dean fell away from the grasping talons and dropped into the darkness to rest. The dragon had what it needed, and returned from whence it came.


XXX


Altair's eyes flew open as he sat slumped in the cheaply upholstered chair that seemed synonymous with hospital waiting room décor. Though the lobby was packed, no one seemed to notice the swirling current of air that circled the young Rind man, ruffling his hair and raising him from his apparent slumber. No one noticed, except those who'd been awaiting his return.

As Al's dark, nearly black eyes focused and adjusted to the blinding hospital glare of fluorescent lights, he met the knowing, expectant stares of his brother, mother, and father.

Only Sam, hunched in a chair beside the family, seemed oblivious as he plastered his hand to the ridge of his brow above his nose and squinted with a grimace of pain.

Dru and Beth looked from Sam to their eldest son, knowingly, their eyes speaking volumes. Both nodded softly, blinking slowly to communicate their understanding.

As if given a direct order, Altair stood and strode up beside Sam, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, little Winchester bro," he said. "You look like you got a wicked headache goin' on there. You want I should get you something for that? We don't have anything, but it seems to me your brother always kept a bottle of Tylenol in the glove compartment. If you got the keys…" he suggested.

"Oh, Al, thanks, man," Sam sighed reaching into his pocket. "I've been visualizing a handful of acetaminophen for the last hour, but I don't want to leave in case Dean wakes up, ya know?"

"Course I know," Al agreed. "What do I look like, some heartless, macho SOB?" Al held his arms out to his sides, presenting himself with a huge grin that he had to have learned from Dean, and twitched his eyebrows. "Just call me Mr. Nice Guy," he smirked.

Sam chuckled softly, thankful for the distraction, and tossed Al the keys to the Impala. He was thankful they'd finished the repairs before Dean had his little episode in the garage, because having the car waiting for them in the hospital parking lot was like having the entire family together.

As Al caught the keys in mid-air, Sam reflected on the fact that, not too long ago, he would never have considered allowing anyone other than himself or Dean to access the Impala's glove compartment. Thankfully, their need for fake i.d.'s and scammed credit cards had passed along with their days of stifling poverty. Thank God for eBay. Sam was pretty sure there was nothing more incriminating than a set of lock picks in the stash now, and he really wanted those Tylenol.

Al spun dramatically, doing his best Fred Estaire impersonation, and glided down the hallway as Sam watched, shaking his head and grinning weakly with amusement. He'd changed his mind about his monopoly on hospital waiting rooms. He really did like having people around him in times like these.

"Mr. Winchester," a voice interrupted. Sam turned his head and stood simultaneously, practically knocking Dr. Robards over in his excitement to hear about his brother.

"Is he awake?" Sam demanded. He'd already filled out all of the AMA forms the doctor had grudgingly provided him with, and they'd only been waiting for the sedatives to wear off and Dean to awaken. There had been some concern that the waking was taking longer than it should, heaping higher the mounds of worry Sam was buried beneath already.

"Yes, he's awake," the doctor said with a slight nod. "He's asking for you, as well."

"So, is he alright, then?" Sam prodded. He had to restrain himself from lifting a hand and pointing to his head to clarify that he was referring to his brother's mental state. "I mean, he's good to go?"

"Well, you already know my feelings on that subject," Robards scolded, "but yes, he's as ready as he's going to be. He's right down the hall. You can go sit with him while we just finalize the paperwork and get you a list of instructions."

Sam didn't wait for further blessing. Even his excessively long legs couldn't seem to walk fast enough for his satisfaction, and he broke into a halting jog as he headed for Dean's room. Reaching the doorway, he was surprised to feel a shiver of hesitation ripple through him, halting him in place.

The last few moments of that morning's conversation with Dean played behind his retinas, at once both creating urgency to be in his brother's presence once more and stirring apprehension as to what that presence would be like. He didn't want to accept the possibility that the Dean he had now might be some altered version of the Dean he'd come to appreciate so deeply. Of course, he'd love him just the same, either way, but the selfish bastard in him was kind of clingy.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open slowly, knocking on it retroactively.

"Dean? Hey," Sam greeted tentatively as he stepped inside.

Dean was sitting up, looking a little dazed, but otherwise not too much the worse for wear. Luckily, Sam had stopped them short of admitting him to the hospital, so only his brother's boots and coveralls had been removed. He wasn't sure Dean was ready to have his baby brother help him get dressed. Hell, Sam wasn't even sure he was ready to help in that department.

Dean smiled weakly, but didn't speak. The doctors had told Sam to expect that. Dean was still a little absent-minded and seemed to be self-conscious about it. Robards had assured Sam that he understood what was happening around him, however, just chose not to comment on it too much.

"So, uh," Sam stammered, "the doc says we can take you home just as soon as they clear up the paperwork. I kept my promise, just like you wanted. No hospitals, right?"

Dean laughed weakly, but his eyes clearly said thank you, and Sam ducked away from the gaze, not wanting Dean to see how distraught he was.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, placating, "'ts okay." His eyes glinted with an understanding that wavered between revelation and resignation, either moving on or giving up.

Sam misunderstood. "No, Dean, it's not. I let you down. Dad fixed this, and for some reason, I just can't." The hands again. Big fingers with long, slender fingers fisted in that shaggy brown hair, knotting the frustration more tightly into his psyche. "Don't say it's okay. Cuz failure can never be okay."

Dean's eyes narrowed slightly, confused by his brother's reaction. His words had been intended as reassurance, but he'd apparently misjudged Sam's tenuous emotional state.

"Uh, Sam," Al interrupted, knocking on the slightly ajar door. He held up the bottle of Tylenol along with the keys to the Impala and shook them in a mission accomplished gesture.

"Oh, thanks, man," Sam sighed, placing a hand to his temple as he was reminded of the throbbing pulse building behind his eye sockets. He turned away from Dean as he fumbled with the bottle cap. He'd been careful for months now not to let his brother see how much this illness was affecting him, and now he was a little embarrassed by his neediness. The last thing he wanted was for Dean to worry about him at a time like this.

As he turned, the weight of his brother's stare piercing his back, Sam noted that Al had a large envelope pinned beneath his arm. He met the man's eyes questioningly.

Altair caught the glance and hurriedly fumbled to hand Sam the envelope. "Dude," he stammered, "I opened the glove box to get the pills and this just fell out. I tried to put it back in, but it didn't fit. It's like it was hidden inside the dash or something," he speculated. He grinned nervously, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "Anyway, I thought it might be important, so I didn't want to leave it on the seat."

Sam held out his hand, taking the envelope like it might crumble into dust. Dean sat up suddenly straighter on the bed beside him, and Sam managed to loft the item in question high above his head just as his brother made a grab for it.

"Sam. . ." Dean warned, his eyes wide with panic.

Sam knew it was cruel to tease his brother, but the suspicious discovery coupled with the fact that Dean obviously didn't want Sam to have it heightened his curiosity and brought out the spoiled baby brother in him that had been suppressed by the mother hen for much too long.

"What is it, Dean?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows. He looked over the envelope quickly, recognizing the name of a prominent Midwestern university. His gaze shifted back to fix on Dean's hazel eyes, disbelief forcing his eyebrows up. "No way. . .," he said, shaking his head. "This isn't what I think it is, is it?" He pulled the timeworn pages from the envelope and traced his eyes over them quickly. "It is!" He exclaimed. "A college application! Dean, you applied to go to college?"

"No," Dean snapped, dropping his eyes, a slight pout to his lips.

"Well, I can see you never mailed it," Sam clarified, "but you were going to, weren't you? God, all the times you gave me crap for leaving, and you planned on doing the same thing yourself," he scoffed incredulously, watching as Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, no doubt intending to run for the hills to escape the scrutiny.

"Sam!" Dean snapped again, grabbing for the envelope. "Doesn't matter…"

"It does matter, Dean," Sam argued. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" He glanced quickly at his brother, who ducked his head away in embarrassment. Looking back at the pages, Sam pulled one out of the stack and lowered his face toward it, almost touching his nose to the page as if he didn't believe what it said and studying it more closely might change the words. "Dean! Your math SAT scores were higher than mine!"

"Sam, please," Dean whispered, his eyes wide. And God, when had he been reduced to begging.

Fortunately, his brief stint as big brother had made Sam as weak to the pleas of his elder as Dean had always been to Sam's. Sam caved, immediately guilt-ridden for pressing his brother's buttons. He dropped the envelope to his side and took a seat on the bed beside Dean.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm just surprised is all. I never would have thought you wanted that," he explained.

They sat for several long moments in silence, letting the echoes of the past settle like dust around them. Finally, Sam's head slouched between his shoulders and he turned to his brother, a question written on his face.

"So. . .," he ventured tentatively, "why didn't you ever mail it?"

"Because."

"Because, why?"

"Because we're brothers, Sammy," Dean said matter-of-factly, his eyes fixing on Sam's as though that single statement explained everything.

Sam shook his head with a little puzzled smirk. "Dean, lots of people have brothers and still go to school. It's not like getting a divorce or something."

Dean looked at him in disbelief. "No, Sam," he said, and his eyes took on that glassy far-off look they'd had earlier that morning.

He blinked slowly as if he were trying to part fog with his eyelashes, and Sam realized this was one of those moments of confusion that Robards had warned him about. Sam put his hand comfortingly on his brother's shoulder and leaned in closer.

"'Dean?"

"Brothers, Sam," Dean said weakly, trying to meet his brother's gaze, though his eyes seemed to want to wander off on their own somewhere.

Sam realized there was more to the statement that Dean was having trouble finding. "Brothers, how, Dean?"

"Brothers, … like…" Dean paused a good long time and shook his head in frustration, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes, "like Reese Witherspoon," he finally said.

Sam couldn't help but laugh quietly. "I don't know how to tell you this, brother," he said, rubbing his hand over Dean's shoulder reassuringly, "but Reese Witherspoon is so not anyone's brother. You see this club is kinda gender specific, if you get my drift."

Dean was not amused. He stared at the wall, searching for something that wasn't quite there.

Sam couldn't stand to see his brother struggle and wracked his own brain for any connection to Reese Witherspoon and brothers. Hell, he couldn't even imagine Dean watching a Reese Witherspoon movie, except of course, just to watch Reese Witherspoon, but that wasn't really Dean's brand of voyeurism. Then, there had been that one Disney movie both brothers had really liked. What had it been called?

"You mean like in, A Far Off Place?" Sam asked excitedly.

Dean smiled broadly and nodded an emphatic yes. "Yeah! Like Reese Witherspoon," he agreed. "Brothers…"

"Oh, I think I know what you mean," Sam said, putting his hand to his forehead thoughtfully. There had been a bushman in the movie and a girl, played by Reese Witherspoon. They'd had this little blood brother pact that they did. How had it gone? "As brothers," Sam began, the words fighting their way to the surface, "we go together," he said.

He turned to his own brother. "Dean, I would've been alright if you'd gone to school without me. You're my brother, not my bodyguard," he placated, guilt washing over him.

Dean smiled weakly at him. "No, Sam. As brothers, we go together, or we stop." And somehow, Sam knew it was more a question than a statement.

Sam's heart pounded convulsively as his chest constricted around it, and his eyes became moist with emotion. This wasn't about the past anymore, he knew. There was a hint of peaceful acceptance in Dean's eyes, along with a hint of plaintive suggestion. He somehow knew exactly what the question was.

"Okay," Sam choked. "As brothers we go. . . and now we stop." Unable to be strong one second longer, he let his head fall to Dean's shoulder. "We'll stop."

"'t's okay, Sammy. . ." Dean whispered. 'Thank you' was implied but lost in Sam's tears.






Part Five

A/N: I just saw the name Altair again after all these years, and I'm finding it amusing that I chose that for a name and it's only two letters away from being Alistair. *giggle*