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Warning: Dean has some anxiety and panic attacks in this one.

Chapter 2: Nightmares

Sam jerked awake from the nightmare. He knew it had been a vision from the slight headache he always experienced before, during, and afterwards. At first, he was disoriented, but the familiar confines of the car settled him, and he was wrapped in a warm blanket.

Dean gave me the blanket. In the cemetery.

And it all came back to him.

The hitchhiker—being kidnapped and possessed. He couldn't quite remember all that had transpired while he was under the ghost's influence, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. There was the sizzling heat of the sun, his arms peeling with sunburn. There was car, after car, after car. Sometimes the people who stopped were nice. Sometimes they weren't. And when they weren't… There was always the flash of a knife or a gun leading to a body. Bodies tossed into ditches. There were so many roads and so many ditches on their way to Washington; Sam was dizzy with the thought.

The youngest Winchester stretched as the first rays of morning shone in the east, shooting faintly across the sky in orange and yellow hues.

Then he closed his eyes and remembered the dream.

"Dean!" Sam shot up in his seat.

Next to him, his Dean's eyes were half-lidded and drooping. The half of his face that Sam could see was bruised and bloodied—enough to make Sam wince. And it took Dean half a second too long to acknowledge Sam's exclamation.

"Sammy," he mumbled, weariness thick in his voice "You're awake."

"Dean—are you all right? Where are we?"

"Driving south in Washington… or maybe Oregon. I'm not sure…"

Alarm bells were going off in Sam's head. His brother sounded confused. "How long have you been driving?"

"About three days," said Dean, and then he quickly corrected himself. "Three hours."

That took the cake. "Dean, pull over. I'm going to drive."

"No need, Sammy," said Dean through a gaping yawn. "We're almost at a motel, I reckon… Bound to be one up ahead."

Sam tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Look, I had a vision, okay? In my dream, you fell asleep at the wheel and we both ended up dead. I'm not letting you drive any farther."

Dean's eyes were shiny with hesitation. "But you've just been through a lot. I'm going to take care of you."

My hero, Sam thought with a sigh.

"I feel fine," Sam snapped in a reply, and he wasn't lying. Since waking up, he felt refreshed and (aside from being ravenous and remembering only bits and pieces of the past three days) he felt wide-awake.

More gently, Sam said, "Pull over."

Dean reluctantly followed his little brother's command, and Sam softly sighed.

More shards of brilliant light were bursting out of the sky when Sam got out of the car, stretching his legs and hearing joints pop with satisfaction. He took a deep breath and admired the fields of farms spread out all around them, a dense forest of fir trees in the distance.

"This is beautiful, isn't it? I mean, kinda gets you in the mood for some cherry pie and hot coffee."

When Dean didn't reply, Sam looked over and noticed that his brother was nowhere in sight.

"Dean?" He bent down and looked inside the car, but he wasn't there either. Sam's heartbeat quickened when he ran around to the other side and saw Dean sprawled on the ground, his back against the front tire.

"Dean!"

His brother's eyes were half-open like before, and for the first time, Sam realized that Dean was more hurt than he had originally thought. Aside from the sight of his face smashed in and covered with dried blood, Dean was hunched over as if to hide other injuries. Examining his right arm, Sam spied a gash that had cut through his jacket—a wound that was still bleeding, trickling onto the dirt beneath him.

"Dean, what happened to you?" Sam asked, shocked, iciness in the pit of his stomach.

"Two guys," rasped Dean, his eyes opening and closing as if he was trying to hang onto consciousness. "Mugged me. Before I got to you."

"And this?" Sam tugged gently at his wounded arm.

Dean pointed a shaky finger back at his brother.

"Oh." Sam felt a burning hatred inside himself for allowing the ghost to possess him and hurt Dean in the process. Guilt washed over him, and he swallowed thickly.

As if Dean knew what he was feeling, he shook his head. "Don't blame yourself… I prob'ly deserved it…"

"Just like you deserved to not sleep or eat for three days?"

Sam's scolding and intended hyperbole must have struck a note of truth, because Dean's eyes shot open, and he feigned sweet innocence.

Sam sighed. "Just great. When are you going to stop with the whole masochistic self-sacrifice thing?"

Dean tried to wink, but the gesture ended up looking like a lazy eye. "I'll stop when you do, Sammy."

Gently, Sam hoisted his brother up, one hand underneath Dean's armpit. Dean wavered and then winced so dramatically that Sam propped him against the trunk and began to remove his brother's jacket.

"Sam…" mumbled Dean weakly. "Stop…No need…"

"What else are you hiding?" Sam said scornfully, and then he lifted up Dean's torn shirt. "Jesus."

Brown, purple, and green bruises covered the majority of Dean's abdomen.

Sam swallowed thickly, forcing his guilt and anger at himself back down. He looked away briefly to compose himself before turning back. Although his older brother recoiled from his touch, Sam had to make sure there were no broken bones.

"Leave-it," slurred Dean, flinching again.

"Stop being a two year-old," said Sam evenly, and when he was finally satisfied that nothing was broken, Sam gingerly helped Dean into the car. Next, he went to the trunk and got out the first aid kit, taking it to the passenger seat and wrapping a bandage around Dean's injured arm after putting anti-bacterial ointment on it.

When Sam got in the driver's seat, he cringed when he felt something slick on his right side. It was blood. Dean was not going to be happy about that.

Sam didn't have to drive more than ten miles before they hit upon a cheap motel outside of Salem, Oregon. Dean was slumped against the passenger door, so deeply asleep that he wasn't even snoring.

Sam's conscience continued to burn seeing Dean so hurt—mostly because of his own inability to control himself from the ghost's power. The past three days' events were strange memories, some awash in reality, others pure dreams. And he had a difficult time remembering the cemetery at all. Sam seemed to recall Dean saying something about Sam stopping the ghost from killing him… but none of that was clear. All Sam could remember was pain shooting through his temples before waking up to find Dean at his side.

After paying for a room (thank God he still had his wallet) Sam went back to the car. His stomach was growling something fierce now, and his throat was scratchy and dry. Dean hadn't had anything in the car except a half-drunk, slightly stale soda. The first priority was to get both of them some food.

Dean was still asleep when Sam opened the passenger door, bracing his older brother back lest he fall out of the car. Limply, Dean slid sideways and Sam caught him, easing him upright just as his eyes blinked blearily open.

Although his older brother said nothing, Sam knew he was confused. And he looked like a character out of a B horror movie. Sam just wanted to get his brother inside before anyone saw him and called an ambulance.

"I've got us a room," said Sam, trying to sound cheerful even though his stomach turned at the sight of Dean's battered face. "Let's get you to bed."

There was no quip, no smartass remark that followed, and the lack of any joke from Dean scared Sam the most. It meant that his brother was really out of it—more than he'd ever seen him before.

Sam practically lifted Dean out of the car, half-dragging him the rest of the way to room No. 4 (first floor, thankfully). Dean was quiet all the way to the door, leaning against the wall while Sam fumbled with the key card. He didn't speak until Sam sat him gently on the bed closest to the door and was about to step outside.

"Where are you going?"

The question was clear and yet housed so many levels of fear and panic that Sam almost gasped. He turned around.

"Just gonna get some breakfast for my hero, jerkface. If I'm hungry, then you must be starving."

Dean just stared blankly back at him, his eyes glassy. Sam didn't like it one bit.

"Be back before you can say 'Blue Oyster Cult!'"

Sam even went for a smile that time, but Dean didn't bite, and Sam was almost grateful to close the door behind him and not have to face those eyes again.

Breakfast was a nearby sub shop where Sam bought the largest sandwich he could order for himself, and Dean's favorite—a pastrami on rye. On his way back, he also couldn't resist pulling over and picking up some tea and donuts. He resisted buying coffee for Dean—as much as Sam knew his brother loved it. Sam had a suspicion that Dean had been subsisting far too much on caffeine—and only caffeine—for the past few days.

He parked the Impala back at the motel and balanced the bags of food and his travel mug of tea in his hands.

Then he heard the screams coming from No. 4.

And he dropped the tea.

Sam began running to the door. Along the row of rooms, folks who had been in the process of checking out began to gather around No. 4.

"It's okay," Sam said frantically, flashing a sick smile. "It's just my brother. He has some problems, and—"

Well, it wasn't quite a lie, and the small crowd reluctantly dispersed.

But the screams continued.

Sam silently cursed himself and was finally able to open the door, tossing the bags of food on a table before going to Dean, who was flailing around in his bed.

"No!" he shouted, eyes tightly closed.

"Dean!" Sam shouted back, shaking him roughly. "Wake up!"

Instantly, Dean's eyes opened, and they flashed left to right, disoriented.

"Sam?"

"It's all right. You just had a nightmare. Try to relax."

But Dean's breathing wasn't slowing down, and his eyes began tearing up, small clear streams sliding down his cheeks.

"We gotta…get out…of here…Sam."

"What?" Sam's inner alarm bells were going off. "What are you talking about?"

Now Dean started coughing roughly, whole hacks that wracked his weak body. Sam propped him up against some pillows, holding him steady.

Dean rasped, "There's a…fire…smoke…gotta…leave…now."

Sam was shocked. "Dean, there's no fire. Calm down!"

But Dean's breathing only got more ragged, his eyes red and puffy as tears continued to leak down his face, his coughing turning harsh and ugly.

"Out—" Dean choked. "Outside!"

At last, Sam relented and helped his brother out of the small motel room, stopping just outside its threshold.

"There," he said, trying to keep the anxiety out of his own voice. "Better?"

Dean coughed a few more times before gasping, "Yes…no."

He fell back against the wall, and Sam caught his brother around the waist, sliding with him to the paved ground. Dean wasn't coughing anymore, but his breathing worsened, now bursting out in short gasps.

Sam felt like he had been pulled into a very private part of Dean, and he was almost afraid to acknowledge or understand it. His own nightmares had always been shared and discussed, and Dean was always quick to comfort and reassure him. He never knew Dean's dreams could affect him so drastically, but the subject of the nightmares was already plain to Sam.

Sam had experienced two significant fires in his life, but there would only ever be one fire to Dean.

"Hey!" said Sam, grasping Dean's arm. "Hey, take it easy! Slow your breathing."

But Dean had already reached the hyperventilation stage. If he continued, he might pass out.

Why was he doing this? Why? Why?

And then it clicked in Sam's mind.

His disappearance. Dean trying to save him. The fire. Dean had only been four years old when he had carried Sam out of their burning house.

Maybe with this whole hitchhiker thing, Dean had thought he had lost Sam forever.

"Dean!" said Sam, forcing his voice to become calmer. "I'm okay. Listen to me. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. You saved me. Listen to me. You saved me. Breathe. Breathe, Dean."

And, slowly, Dean's breathing eased and hitched a few times before evening out.

Sam kept his arm on his brother's shoulder, pressing gently down. And then the abrupt breathing stopped, and Dean sagged against the wall, his eyes half-closed, looking utterly spent.

The suppressed guilt that had been building up inside of Sam all this time decided to let loose at this moment. Sam tried to stop his tears, but he was too angry at himself to follow through.

As Sam folded in two, Dean leaned over, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. He expression flashed from puzzlement to worry in a millisecond.

"Sam, what's wrong? Tell me."

Sam slammed his hand into the wall behind him, ashamed that he was acting this way after all that Dean had just been through, but the rage didn't diminish. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You went through hell on your own to get me back, and then I almost killed you."

Dean immediately tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder and placed his other hand under his brother's chin, tilting it upwards so that Sam was staring directly at him. The gesture surprised Sam, and he temporarily stopped crying.

"Listen, that ghost tried to kill both of us. And it wasn't your fault. Say it with me: It wasn't my fault."

Sam's brows furrowed, looking into Dean's exhausted half-crazed eyes, and then the younger Winchester started making short wheezing noises. Dean tilted his head to one side, trying to figure out what was wrong with his younger brother, but then he realized that Sam wasn't in pain—he was laughing. The chuckles began quietly but soon crescendoed into all-out mirth that verged on maniacal, draining excess tears from his eyes and making his face turn bright red.

Dean grumbled with disgust. "I don't even want to know what's so funny."

Sam forced a palm over his own mouth to try and stop the laughter, but it continued rolling out of him. His words were clipped with hilarity when he finally managed to get them out. "I…just…imagined you…as a…psychologist. And…this is a …therapy session! You…wearing… black…professor glasses."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam and gave him a look that plainly asked: Crazy much? This was followed by a scowl.

"C'mon, Dean. Let's use 'I statements' and tell each other about our feelings!"

Dean was about to call Sam a "little bitch," but his vision was beginning to dim around the edges, beckoning him towards sleep.

"Hey," whispered Sam, and Dean jerked upright. His younger brother had stopped chuckling, and he had wiped his eyes dry. The morning was crisp but was mellowing into a fine day, with the scent of freshly-cut grass in the air.

"Yeah?"

"This reminds me of that one time in Detroit."

Dean responded with an eye-roll. "I can remember a lot of times in Detroit, Sam."

"That morning after we spent the night with those two vampires?"

The memory slid into his mind, and Dean genuinely smiled for the first time in three days. Sam felt a pang of satisfaction, as if getting his brother show happiness was his personal achievement.

"They were such a trip!" exclaimed Dean, rifling a bloody hand through his hair. "The chick…"

"She was more than a 'chick,'" Sam argued. "She was literary."

"And the guy… with his stories about the '60's rock scene… It was inspiring."

Sam couldn't help but laugh at the memory too. Brief images flashed through his mind of cruising in the Impala with the vampire couple in the back, going on a midnight tour of Detroit, checking out abandoned bar scenes where the music was hypnotic and eternal. Dean looking happier than he had in months. Staying up all night before dropping the vampires off and heading back to the motel. Sam had insisted on staying up to watch the sunrise, and they had ended up sitting outside their room, collapsed on the ground, partly-drunk, half-awake, and giggling.

"Those were the ones we let go," Sam whispered.

Dean stirred and said sleepily, "Well, they were decent enough people. Didn't want to kill anybody."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "If only every hunt turned out like that one."

"Uh huh," Dean said, resting his head back in exhaustion.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Thanks for saving me."

There was a brief pause. "No problem. Sorry for wiggin' out on you."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, well, sorry for trying to kill you…"

Dean yawned ferociously. "'Sno problem."

The yawn woke Sam from his idleness, and he knew that Dean needed some rest—ideally, about fifteen hours of it.

"Let's eat something," Sam said.

Dean was more or less back to normal, but he was haggard and desperately needed a shower. Tear streaks tracked clean lines down his filthy face, and there was dried and crusted blood on the corner of his lip, down his nostrils, and by his right temple where a nasty welt had begun swelling.

"C'mon." Sam pulled Dean upright and walked him back inside, sitting him at the table and the scattered bags of food. He brought out some water bottles and took out Dean's sandwich, unwrapping it.

"Look," he said, gesturing toward the pastrami on rye. "Your favorite."

Dean nodded weakly, and Sam went to draw a bath, preparing the towels and soap. When he came back five minutes later, Dean hadn't touched his food.

"Eat," Sam commanded, and his brother slowly complied, but Sam could tell that his heart wasn't in it. Exhaustion was slowly taking over.

"Two more bites," said Sam, and then he made Dean drink some water, because the man had to be seriously dehydrated. Next, he led him to the bathroom and began peeling off his brother's jacket. When Dean realized what Sam was doing, he put his hands up defensively.

"I can do it," he said grumpily.

"Show me," said Sam, folding his arms like a supreme skeptic.

Dean attempted to remove his t-shirt, but ended getting it stuck around his neck, and thrashed about helplessly. Sam eventually intervened after a few amused seconds of watching his brother, and Dean allowed him (albeit crabbily) to help remove the rest of his clothing, save for his boxers.

It was horrible to see Dean like this—thin and covered with bruises and dried blood. Sam carefully unwrapped the bandage on his arm, revealing the ugly gash and splashing it with water. Halfway through the bath, Dean reverted back to zombie mode, and Sam moved his brothers' limbs to scrub him down like one would position a mannequin.

Blood washed easily enough from his body with the encouragement of warm water. Sam helped Dean out of the bathtub and gently dried him off. Then Sam handed Dean a fresh change of clothes from his own bag because all of Dean's were dirty.

"Let me know when you're done," said Sam and closed the door to respect his brother's privacy. Then he went to the table and wolfed down half his sub sandwich in two bites. It was delicious and temporarily ceased the maddening growl in his stomach.

Five minutes passed, and Sam started to get worried. He knocked tentatively on the door.

"All right in there?" Sam called softly.

When there was no response, Sam quickly opened the bathroom door to find Dean sprawled on the floor, one arm clinging to the side of the toilet, the other grasping the tub. There was a half-apologetic, half-dazed expression on Dean's face.

"Oops?" he said.

At least, Dean had managed to get his clean boxers on.

Sam wanted to kick himself for leaving his brother alone, as fatigued as he was. He could have fallen and aggravated his already serious injuries into even worse ones.

"It's all right," Sam cooed. Normally, Dean would have shrugged off any help, but this time he was too worn out to protest. Sam slid strong arms underneath Dean's, edging in behind him to bend down and gently lift him to his feet. They slowly shuffled together back to Dean's designated bed, and Sam sat him on it. Dean's shoulders were slumped and his eyes were half-closed.

"Now, these might be a little big, but they're comfortable," Sam spoke soothingly as he helped his older brother into one of his long-sleeved shirts and pair of sweat pants.

Dean was silent through the whole ordeal until Sam was finished; then he piped up.

"Can I sleep now?"

Sam was a bit amused at his brother's innocent question.

"Sure, Dean."

"Oh, good," Dean said and promptly fell back on the bed.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Sam murmured and helped Dean lie back, peeling the bed covers away and placing them over his body, tucking in the edges the way he liked them tucked in.

Next, Sam knew he had to take care of Dean's arm. He went to the table and scarfed down the rest of his sandwich, then grabbed the medical kit and began rummaging through its materials.

He rolled up the loose sleeve on Dean's right arm, revealing the long deep gash curling up almost the entire length, from his forearm to his bicep. He cringed when he saw that it was still bleeding; the soap and water had probably destroyed previous clots that had formed.

Sam wiped the area with disinfectant, keeping an eye on Dean's sleeping form. The depth of the cut required some stitches. Sam hated to wake his brother, but there was no other way around it.

"Dean," he mumbled gently. "Dean!"

But his brother didn't stir.

Sam had to shake Dean hard before the other man finally opened his eyes blearily.

"Yeah?" he muttered.

"Gotta stitch you up," said Sam.

"Mmmph," replied Dean.

Sam took his answer as a "yes" and began stitching. Dean flinched slightly but was still afterward. The second stitch was almost finished when Sam heard snoring. He looked up in astonishment to find Dean fast asleep again.

"I don't believe it," he said out loud.

Sam was done patching up Dean within minutes, placing another bandage over his arm and spreading ointment on various cuts on his brother's face.

Finally, Sam was satisfied with Dean's condition, and he went out again to get some fresh air and more tea. On his walk back, it began to rain, and Sam dashed back to the motel room to find Dean still asleep.

Sam spent the rest of the dreary day inside, scouring through his father's journal, typing up their latest encounter, cleaning guns, and sharpening knives. They were running a bit low on salt, and he added it to the grocery list, then went out again for more food.

Dean was still asleep by that evening while Sam made a microwave dinner and watched TV at a low volume. Sam drifted off to some old show around 8:00, exhausted from the day's overwhelming events.

He awoke with a start the next morning to find Dean's bed empty. Panicking slightly, he was about to leap out of bed and go on an official big brother hunt when the door to their motel room opened and Dean appeared, still pale but decidedly more alert. The bruises still stood out on his face, but they had faded slightly.

"Man, I woke up to infomercials, a pounding headache… and I was wearing your clothes." Dean sighed.

"Winchesters gone wild?" Sam said with a laugh.

"Well, it is a Monday, right?"

Sam wiped sleep out of his eyes and looked at Dean warily. "Y'all right?"

Dean took a deep breath. "I think so. Thanks."

Sam was slightly surprised. No bravado from his big brother. It made him worry slightly, until Dean produced a bag from his jacket.

"Donut?"

"Thanks," said Sam, moving sleepily to reach in the bag for a maple bar.

Dean sat gingerly at the table and grinned. It was that beaming sure-of-himself attitude that made Sam finally sigh in relief. Dean was going to be okay.

"You look happier than heck, bro," Sam said through a mouthful of donut. "Enlighten me as to what's going on."

"While you were catching up on your beauty sleep, I found our next hunt."

Sam leaned back in bed, finishing his maple bar. "Great. I was only recently possessed, and you want to go traipsing off across the country again?"

Dean smirked. "This one's only an hour away, and it's on the coast. Surf's up, dude."

Sam groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, while at the same time smiling with satisfaction. Dean was back.

An icy memory suddenly washed over him as he removed the blankets over his head, and Sam shivered without realizing it.

"Sam?"

He looked up in confusion at Dean, still lost in the memory.

Dean sat down on the bed beside him, concern flashing across his features. "What's wrong?"

Sam struggled to put the memory into words. "The hitch hiker was so focused on going home. He had almost convinced me that that cemetery was home. But when I saw you there, I realized that everything he told me was wrong."

"Because we don't have a home?" Dean muttered gruffly and shifted on the bed. "Because ours burned up?"

"No," said Sam. "No, because when I'm with you, I am home. Wherever we go. Whether it's back in Kansas, or Arizona, or Michigan, or Washington, or here… We have each other. And that's what made me stop the ghost before he…"

Dean's mouth was slightly open in awe before he intentionally closed it and flashed a corny smile instead. "Just couldn't live without me, Sammy?"

Sam averted his eyes from Dean's gaze before responding. He knew that Dean would tease him, but he didn't care. "No, I can't."

Dean's eyes widened, and there were a few brief seconds of recognition before he cleared his throat awkwardly and sharply smacked Sam on the arm.

"C'mon, man. What have I told you time and time again?"

Sam beamed.

"No chick flick moments!" they shouted simultaneously.

The End

A/N: Well, it got kinda rambly there at the end….apologies. The memory of Sam and Dean meeting the "vampire couple" was a reference to Only Lovers Left Alive. Some great cross-over possibilities there. This was my first Supernatural fic—I'm currently halfway through the second season, and I'm in love! As a huge X-Files fan, I'm constantly amused by all the Mulder and Scully references on the show. This story hints at another Sam and Dean adventure, which I've started rough drafting, if anyone's interested. Anyways, thank you all so much for reading, and let me know how I did!