Sam has a seizure while he's at Stanford; Dean drops by to make sure he's alright. Featuring weepy post-seizure Sam and gratuitous h/c on all sides.

When the call comes, Dean's camped out in a damp little motel in northern California. He's having a break on the back side of a nasty hunt that's left him with a slash the length of his forearm across his right thigh, a lone vampire that turned out not to be so lone after all. He's sitting on the couch with his leg stretched out beside him, watching some campy TV show chock full of bad jokes and a laugh track to go along.

The phone's on the nightstand behind him, and Dean jumps when it rings, gets to his feet and around the couch as quickly as he can on one leg to answer it. He doesn't even recognize the area code, which is unusual enough to be worrying. Dean can count the people with access to this number on his fingers.

He flips the phone open. "Hello?"

"Oh, thank god." The voice is unfamiliar, slightly nasal and distinctly female.

Dean tenses. "Who is this?" he asks.

"I- sorry, I just- there's this guy here, I think he just had a seizure? I got your number off the back of an ID bracelet," she tells him, sounding rattled.

Dean straightens up. "Seizure's over? Is he breathing?" he demands.

"Yeah, it's- he sounds kinda funny, but he's breathing. He looks like he's passed out."

"Let me hear," Dean instructs.

A moment later, the sound comes across the line, lethargic, ragged breaths that Dean recognizes instantly, Sam, and god it's been so long. Dean sits heavily down on the edge of the bed and tries to figure out if the achy tightness in his chest is relief.

"Should I call 911?" The voice jars Dean out of his reflection, and it takes a moment for him to respond.

"Uh- no, it sounds like he's through it." Dean rubs a hand over his forehead. "Listen, can you do something for me?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Of course."

"Are you in a safe place right now?" Dean asks. "Someplace you can be for a little while?"

"Um, I'm standing in the middle of a field," she tells him dubiously. "I mean, I don't think anyone will care that we're here, but it's gonna get cold after the sun sets."

Dean checks his watch. It's four fifteen; that leaves at least another hour.

"He'll be up before that," he tells her. "Half an hour, tops. Can you stay with him?"

"Yeah, um, sure," she says. "When he wakes up…" she trails off, and Dean jumps in to help her.

"He'll probably be a little groggy," he says, pulling on his coat as he talks. "Is there some place safe nearby that he can be for a few hours? School library, or something? I can come get him, I'm two, three hours out of town."

"Well," she sounds uncertain, "I could take him back to my place, I guess."

Dean breathes out a small sigh of relief. "That'd be great, thanks," he says sincerely. "I promise he won't be any trouble. Kid's about as virtuous as it gets."

That gets a little laugh out of her. "Well," she says, shyly, "guess it doesn't hurt anything that he's gorgeous."

Dean stops short, surprised into a chuckle. Something like pride curls warm under his sternum. "Don't go telling him that," he says. "Last thing we need is him getting his head all swollen up."

She gives him the address and he piles his stuff into the car, wincing as he puts weight on his right leg. He's got plenty of practice ignoring pain when he needs to, though, and he's as efficient as ever checking out of the motel and getting himself on the road.

He makes it to Palo Alto in two hours and twenty minutes flat, finds her place without much trouble thanks to her directions. It's a second floor apartment, with a set of rickety wooden stairs up the front. Dean grimaces at the climb, but he makes it up alright (it's Sam, there's not much that could stop him anyhow). The door opens just as he makes it up the last stair.

The girl in the doorway is strikingly tall and probably Dean's type, but he barely notices her, following her gesture toward the figure slumped on the sofa.

Sam looks small, hunched like he's trying to be absorbed into the huge, squashy leather couch. Dean is over to him in a moment, taking his face in his hands, checking, inventorying.

"Dean?" Sam asks, indistinct.

Something moves against Dean's waist, and Dean glances down to see that Sam's curled his fingers into the hem of his shirt, familiar little mannerism Sam's had practically since he made his first fist. The achy feeling in Dean's chest expands, and he's suddenly afraid he's going to do something sappy and Sam-like and cry. He wraps a hand around the back of Sam's neck and pulls him close, tucking his face into Sam's hair.

"I gotcha," he says, quiet.

Sam's breath goes out in a rush, tickling the back of Dean's neck, and then his arms wrap around Dean's back and he's clinging to him like a lifeline, the same kid Dean's pulled out of a thousand nightmares and dozens of these episodes. Dean holds on, rocking back and forth a little, feeling like an empty place inside him is filling up; refueling on Sam- the idea almost makes him smile.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, when he finally pulls away, looking down at his little brother. Sam's smiling a little, but he's all weepy eyed, the sentimental bastard, and Dean feels sort of helpless and tucks Sam back in against his chest.

"Aw, come on, Sammy, it's okay." Dean presses his lips against the top of Sam's head, inhaling shampoo and that Sam-smell that's always there no matter where he's been. "You're okay."

Sam's making little sniffly noises into Dean's shirt, and another time Dean might have teased, but post-seizure Sammy's always been kind of muzzy and emotional, and damn, but Dean's missed him.

He remembers the girl, suddenly, and looks up, casting around for her, but she's evidently slipped out to give them some privacy. Darned if they didn't get lucky, Dean thinks, winding up with whoever she is. Thank god for good Samaritans and generous strangers.

They sit there for several minutes, Dean rubbing Sam's back absentmindedly as his breathing evens out. Finally Sam stirs, pushing one arm up between them to wipe at his face, and then unwittingly bracing himself with his other hand directly on top of the cut on Dean's leg. Dean gasps reflexively, caught off guard, and Sam jerks away like a kicked dog.

"You're hurt," he says, accusatory.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, trying to regain his composure. "Sam-"

"Let me see."

Sam's looking at him with those big, sorrowful eyes, and Dean can tell he's going to worry until he gets his way. And Sam doesn't get to be mad at him for this, it's not fair, he didn't leave with some magical agreement that Dean was never going to get beaten up, he knows what the job is.

"It's fine, Sam."

"Let me see," Sam insists.

Dean really doesn't feel like taking his pants off in a stranger's living room, but Sam's got that look on. He rolls his eyes, muttering, as he shifts his weight to pull them over his hips and carefully free of his sore leg. Glaring at a spot across the room that's decidedly not Sam, he carefully peels up the bandaging.

Sam makes a little unhappy noise. "Dean," he says, looking like he might start crying again.

"It's just a scratch, Sammy," Dean tells him. "It'll heal up in a week."

"Let me clean it up," Sam says.

Dean's already pulling his pants back on. "I'll manage fine," he says, feeling suddenly irritable. "What, you think I'm totally helpless? It's not like this is the first bad thing that's happened to me since you left, Sam." He does up the last snap on his fly. "Hunting doesn't stop being dangerous just because you're not around to see it."

Dean looks over at Sam when he doesn't get a response, and- shit, wrong thing to say- Sam's face is crumpling all over could kick himself. What, you couldn't be a little sensitive, just until he's back on his feet?

"Hey," he says, appeasing, "I didn't mean it, Sammy, I'm sorry."

Sam's dropped his head down so that his hair is blocking his face from Dean's view, but Dean can see his shaky breathing by the way his shoulders are moving.

"Sammy," he tries again, reaching over and pushing Sam's bangs out of the way.

Sam hunches his shoulders up, like he can hide behind them, and then suddenly turns around and grabs one side of Dean's jacket, pushing his face into Dean's shoulder. He's crying, hard, and god, doesn't that just make Dean feel like shit, but all he can do is put his arms around his little brother again and try not to screw it up even more.

"I just wanted it to be okay," Sam says, voice muffled by the material. "You, and Dad, I just wanted you to be okay."

Dean teases his fingers through Sam's hair, feeling pathetic.

"We are okay, Sammy," he tells him. "Made it this far on our own, didn't we?" Sam doesn't say anything, just cries harder. "Hey, look, I'm sorry about what I said, okay? Sure, hunting's not the safest job on the planet, but I'm not planning on dropping dead on you."

Sam's fingers go painfully tight against Dean's chest, pinching his skin as he takes a fistful of Dean's shirt. Dean sighs, lays his cheek gently against Sam's head.

"Now I feel like a total asshole," he says after a minute, and Sam makes a little humming noise.

"You are an asshole," he mumbles into Dean's coat.

Dean can't help the chuckle of relief that escapes him. "That's my boy," he says fondly. "Now, how about we get you cleaned up and grab some dinner, huh? Burgers on me."

Sam releases him slowly, swipes his palms across his face a few times. "Where are you going?" he asks, not looking up.

"Well," Dean says, straightening his jacket, "first I'm gonna find the best burger joint in Palo Alto. Then my geek brother's going to introduce me to his roommate and tell me all about physics or some brainy shit like that, and then I'm gonna get back on the road before it gets too late."

Sam laughs all snuffly, but he still doesn't look at Dean, rubbing at his face with one hand and staring at the other in his lap. And damnit, Dean knows that kid way too well; he can hear what's coming next before Sam even opens his mouth.

"Do you have to leave right away?" he asks, sounding very young.

Yes, says a voice in Dean's head that sounds suspiciously like his father's. Don't make this hard on both of you. It's not going to be any easier tomorrow.

"Nah," Dean hears himself say. "I can stick around a couple days, if that's what you want."

Sam does look up, then, smiling from behind puffy eyes. "Okay," he says, then hesitates. "I- our room isn't very big," he says nervously.

Dean waves a hand in dismissal. "Don't sweat it. We'll find a hotel in town, huh?"

Sam's smile is back, and how exactly is Dean supposed to say no to anything he asks, when his little brother's beaming at him like he's the one that put the sun in the sky?

"Just like old times," Sam says hopefully.

Dean looks down at his hands, smiling and shaking his head. "Just like old times," he echoes.

He knows how this goes. They'll book some cheap little place for a couple nights, and Dean will call his father and tell him that he's hanging low a little longer so he doesn't get suspicious. Sam will fuss over Dean's leg, and Dean will let him, because that's how it works, that's what will make him happy, and what's the point, if he's not happy?

They'll go to bed in the side-by-side twins, and a few hours after that Sam will come crawling in beside Dean. They'll both justify it to themselves: it's the seizures, it's the bad dreams, it's the dark. It's having someone you love to hang on to when you can't sleep, even normal people want that. They won't speak of it in the morning.

By Tuesday, Sam will be himself again, whatever that means. He'll be regretful when he hugs Dean goodbye, but he won't say visit again soon or keep in touch. They both know how it goes, and how it goes is this: there's no halfway between them.

Dean will get back on the road and turn the music up until it drowns out the empty place inside him. He'll find a bar somewhere and experiment with the effects of alcohol on short-term memory, try hard not to think of his little brother bent over a text book somewhere.

Even after California's just a speck in the rearview mirror, he'll take perverted comfort in the thought that his is the number on that bracelet, that he's the one Sam keeps around his wrist; in case of emergency. He'll think: someday and then stop himself taking that thought any further. Eyes on the road, soldier, thank god you've got somebody to stay safe for.

"C'mon," he says after a beat, "help me up."

Sam hurries to comply, even though he's looking a little droopy himself, and then they're standing, and Dean probably shouldn't be surprised that his brother's grown another foot.

"God, you're fucking huge," he grumbles as Sam loops an arm under his shoulders for support. Sam just shakes his head.

A face appears suddenly around the doorway leading to the next room, as if she's sensed their imminent departure. Seeing them up, she steps all the way into the room.

"Hey," she says.

Dean thinks with a flicker of chagrin that she's exactly the type of girl he'd normally try to pick up, all full lips and willowy curves. He owes her so much more than that, though, and he finds he barely knows how to begin. After a moment, he clears his throat.

"Listen," he says, "I-uh-we owe you, big time. You're a total lifesaver."

She smiles brilliantly at him. "Just glad I could help," she says.

"Well," Dean says, fumbling for the right thing to say, "you did." He glances up at Sam. "My brother, uh-"

Sam cuts him off. "Thank you," he says, peering at her from behind his overlong bangs. "Everything you did was really generous. I really appreciate it."

"Yeah, don't mention it." She looks suddenly almost shy. "Um, do you want me to write down my number for you? In case- well, just if you need anything." She's still looking at Sam.

And Dean gets it, even if his little brother is too dorky to. "You know what," he cuts in, "I have it on my phone, from when you called." He smiles. "I'll pass it along, how's that sound?" He thumps Sam's chest. "You can call up, uh-" He doesn't know her name; how does he not know her name? "Well, this is embarrassing," he admits, "I don't think I ever got your name?"

She laughs. "No worries. It's been a hectic afternoon." She comes forward, sticks out her hand to shake his. "It's Jessica," she says. "Jessica Moore."