Okay, I bowed to pressure and actually sat down and wrote stuff. Go me! Hope it was worth the wait. The past three chapters have has a bit of an edit too - this story started off being season 2, but now it's season 3 and has all that deal angst in it. So you might want to go back and read the previous chapters before starting this new one - or not, s'up to you :-)

Enjoy!

"Dean, let me take a look." Sam called through the bathroom door and Dean reached over, holding his hand against the handle.

"Sam, Jesus. Just give me a minute, okay?"

The lock was busted and he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep Sam out for much longer, but he just needed a few moments more to pull himself together. He could see his blanched, tear-streaked face reflected in the mirror over the sink and even he had to admit that he looked like crap. Hearing Sam's frustrated sigh, Dean took his hand away – satisfied that his brother wasn't going to barge in, at least for another few minutes anyway, and he sat back down on the edge of the bath.

He'd managed to keep Sam from playing doctor so far, Dean had somehow dodged his brother and made it to the bathroom alone as soon as they'd got back to the motel room. He knew he was being stupid – he was hurt and they both knew it, but there was a part of him that just couldn't let anyone take care of him, not even Sam. He was the strong one – he was the one that took care of other people. He was meant to take care of Sammy, not the other way around.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Dean pulled himself to his feet using the towel rail for support and slowly stripping off his shirt and t-shirt and undoing his fly, he pulled his now slightly baggy jeans low on his hips to expose the surgical dressing on his belly. Grimacing, he carefully tugged the adhesive tape away from his skin. The dressing was sodden with blood, and so was the waistband of his jeans and it came away easily to expose the swollen scar beneath.

"Sonovabitch." He hissed and swallowed dryly. Busted stitches were never a good thing, especially when they were meant to be holding your insides in, and grabbing the hand towel from the rail beside him, he dunked it into the sink full of cold water and wadding it up, he carefully pressed it against the bleeding wound.

"Dean." Sam yelled from outside the door. "I'm counting to three then I'm coming in!"

Dean sighed and eased himself back down to the side of the tub. Wasn't like he could hide this from Sam, so he may as well give in, and leaning over as Sam began to count, he pulled the handle and opened the door.

Sam's shaggy head immediately appeared round the door and one look at his brother and his face fell. "Dude, you look terrible."

"Really?" Dean replied through gritted teeth. "Cuz I feel just peachy, Sam." His midsection was one big throb from groin to ribs and just looking at the bloody wound was making his feel sick. He was far from squeamish, but this wasn't a hunting injury – he'd actually been cut open and had someone's fingers poking around in his innards – it was different, and it made him feel kind of queasy at the thought of that.

"Come on, Dean. Let me see how bad it is. Then we can decide if you need to go back to the hospital."

Dean sighed. He wasn't going back to that place – no way, never. But he let Sam help him up off the tub and they made their way back to the bedroom, where he gingerly lowered himself to his bed, trying to bite back the pathetic whimper of pain that was lurking somewhere in his throat.

"Stitches busted?" Sam asked.

"Little bit." Dean replied, shrugging and he gingerly pulled the damp towel away from the scar to take another look. It didn't seem to be bleeding that much anymore which was a bonus, but still – it was a bit of a mess.

"Well that's just great." Sam replied, and grabbing the car keys from the side, he headed towards the door.

"Dude, where are you going?"

"I'm going to that drug store down the road to get some supplies." Sam replied, not looking as his brother.

Dean struggled to his feet again and tried to grab hold of Sam's arm to stop him, but Sam shrugged him off. "Sam, what's going on?"

Sam turned round to face him, but wouldn't look him in the eye. "Your stitches are busted, you're bleeding and we don't have any dressings in the first aid kit. We can either go back to the hospital, or I can go get some supplies. Choice is yours?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it?" Dean replied.

Sam sighed heavily. "I'll be back in twenty," and before Dean could argue, his brother was gone.

-o-

The makeshift icepack had pretty much melted by the time he heard Sam open the motel room door in the dark, and still half asleep and disorientated, Dean attempted to sit up – which was big mistake. Cursing, he sank back down and tried to breath through the pain, and cracking open an eye, he saw his brother stumble across the carpet and drop onto the bed opposite. He could smell booze coming off Sam in waves and in the dim light from the bathroom, he could see quite clearly that his brother was hammered.

"Tell me you didn't go back to that bar, Sam?" Dean groaned.

Sam hiccupped loudly and Dean silently prayed he wasn't going to puke – he didn't want to relive that long long night that he'd spend in hospital right after his surgery. "I... I didn't go back to the bar, Dean... I went... I went to the drugstore."

"Uh huh. They sell booze at the drugstore now?"

Sam snorted, and held up the bag he held in his left hand. "I got first aid stuff... Then I stopped at the liquor store," and he held up the brown paper bag that he held in his right.

Dean threw an arm over his eyes and sighed. His head was pounding, everything hurt and he was too tired to deal with anything that didn't involve taking a truck load of painkillers, let alone a wasted Sam. Why did everything in their lives have to be so complicated? Why did God friggin' hate them so much? All he'd wanted was a quite night out and what he got was his guts almost spilling over his own shoes and a guilt ridden little brother.

"What are you doing, Sammy?" Dean sighed. "First you go all Charles Bronson on that idiot in the bar, and now you're drinking Night Train out of a paper bag? And please tell me you weren't driving my car in that state?"

"What if I am?" Sam replied, dropping the drugstore bag on the floor and taking another drink from the bottle. "What difference does it make? Whatever I do, it doesn't make any difference so why shouldn't I do what I like? Not like you're gonna be round much longer, is it?"

Dean inwardly cringed. He'd been expecting another meltdown soon, but Sam could have picked a better time. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to elbow himself upright again, hissing at the throb of pain that tore through his stomach muscles. He didn't want to do this again, not now. The deal... Everything came down to the goddamn deal. He knew it was killing Sam but it wasn't like he could take it back. It was done – sealed with a kiss, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat. Sam was alive and that's all that mattered... All that had ever mattered.

"Sam, please... Not now, okay. You're drunk, I feel like crap and it's like two a.m. or something?"

Sam snorted then got unsteadily to his feet and took another swig out of the bottle, wincing at the taste of the cheap booze. "I don't understand you, Dean. How can you care so little about the fact that you're dying? How can you not care that you're going to hell? What's wrong with you, man?"

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again. He didn't even know how to answer that one.

"You don't know how this feels, you selfish sonovabitch. It's like a knife in my gut every single day. You sold your soul for me, for me... Dad died to save you, and you'll be dead soon, all because of me - but I'll still be here... Alone."

Dean sighed heavily. Sam was right, he had been selfish – he'd sold his soul for Sam because he just couldn't live with the alternative, and now Sam was facing the same thing. But Sam was stronger than him... Sam had been okay on his own. Sam had always wanted an out and that's what he was going to get when the deal came due. Sam was going to get the life he always wanted.

"I can't save you, Dean... I've tried and tried, but I can't find a way to save you." Sam murmured, wiping away the tears that had begun to slip down his cheeks with the back of his hand, and Dean watched helplessly as Sam suddenly went bone white and bolted to the bathroom, dropping the paper bag as he went. The sticky red liquid that looked far too much like blood in the dim light began to soak into the carpet in front of him and Dean closed his eyes, trying not to listen to Sam lose his dinner and a pint of Night Train Express down the toilet.

Why did everything in their lives end with blood?