Sam was out of the panic room. Again. This time had been the full deal. One night and day of Dean flying the Impala to Bobby's house while Sam slowly unraveled into the hell of withdrawal. Then three days of the terror, horror, and agony of the full withdrawal, followed by another full day and a half of the shame and pain and mess of crawling back up out of it. Then four full days of recuperating topside at Bobby's, all the while Dean shadowed him with all the detached composure of an easily-panicked father watching his toddler walk too close to a steep flight of stairs.

Finally, they all three agreed - Sam first, Bobby second, Dean dead last - that Sam was ready to get back to work, so here they were, roaring down some empty back road on the way to a hunt that 'absotively posilutely' did NOT have demons attached to it, no way, no how, no freaking possibility - Bobby and Dean had both made sure.

Freak. Sam hadn't heard that word in a long time. Dean hadn't used that word even once - at least not in Sam's hearing - since Jack Montgomery.

And all it had taken was a major explosion and minor meltdown on Sam's part 'you look at me like I'm a freak!' for Dean to stop using it.

Sam sighed.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing."

"No, that wasn't your 'nothing' sigh. That was your 'walking through fire' sigh. Something you'd like to share with the class?"

"Nothing." Sam tried again. Tried unsuccessfully, judging from the look Dean gave him. He shrugged and told him, "I was thinking about Jack Montgomery."

Dean let out a short, unamused, breath of his own, and Sam let it drop. Jack wasn't a happy memory for either of them. A few miles down the road though, Dean asked,

"And?"

"Nothing. Just – nothing."

Dean let it go. Well, no. Sam knew Dean wasn't letting it go; he was working it out in his head, trying to figure out what Sam was, could be, or might be thinking about Jack Montgomery.

He did that, Dean always did that, tried to put himself one step at least in front of Sam and anything that was bothering him, so that when Sam finally got there too, Dean would have the remedy all ready and waiting.

Sam kept himself from sighing again and watched the world go by his window at top speed. But the view outside blurred into the images he carried of Jack, and none of them were good. Mostly the blood. Maybe because of his own addiction, Sam's mind churned up all the memories of the blood at Jack's house; on the carpet, on the furniture, on Jack's face.

He 'hmpfd' softly to himself. The pattern of blood on Jack's face had been almost exactly like the blood on his own after his 'feeding frenzy'. Frenzies. Plural. Despite all that Sam had hoped and prayed and worked for, he really was no different than Jack: an affliction neither of them had asked for, a compulsion they each succumbed to, needs that couldn't be satisfied, and family that couldn't begin to comprehend the pain and misery and confusion that was a constant part of life because of it all.

Sam held back another sigh.

Sure enough, just like he thought, at the eleventh mile marker from when he'd first asked what Sam was sighing about, Dean said,

"You know the biggest difference between you and Jack?"

"Height?" Sam asked, though he didn't feel the humor.

"No, Smartass. He gave up. You've never given up, and you never will. You'll keep fighting it. You'll keep fighting whatever you have to keep fighting to keep going wherever you need to go. That's the difference between you."

Sam turned and looked out his window again and watched the mile markers go by. He was a little surprised that Dean would say something so strongly positive about him, and he was humbled by it.

Well, there were other differences between Sam and Jack, of course.

Sam'd had years of acclimatization to all things monstrous, including himself. Jack had only had days. And Jack'd had more to lose than Sam, more than just himself. When he turned, even iff he'd been able to resist the pull of his affliction after that, when he turned, he lost his place in society, his job, his home, his family, his ability to support his family.

His wife.

She'd apparently run as fast and as far and as soon as she possibly could when she realized what Jack had become.

And when Dean realized what Sam had become -

Dean -

Sam turned to look at Dean, a sense of surprise and awe coming over him.

Both times that Dean had seen Sam 'succumb', he'd run, too: right to Bobby's panic room, with Sam securely in tow.

The remedy all ready and waiting.

"What?" Dean asked, when Sam couldn't stop staring at him.

"Jack's wife abandoned him."

Dean shrugged.

"You blame her? There're some things even 'for better or worse' doesn't cover."

"You didn't run." Sam said. "Not from me. Last year, you saw what I'd become, then last week you saw what I'd become again, and you didn't run."

Dean shot him such a look of disbelief, Sam felt it in his chest.

"Did you think I would?"

Sam looked away then. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about that a hundred different times and a dozen different ways. But he'd always come up with only one answer.

"Yeah. I guess I did. I figured you'd get me as far as the panic room and lose the key. This last time especially, I was surprised – I'm still surprised that you didn't just walk away and leave me there. After everything, after I've showed you - how many times? - that you can't trust me -"

"Sam." Dean tried to interrupt him but Sam pushed on. He'd only ever had one answer until now.

"Jack's wife saw what he was and she abandoned him. You saw what I was - both times - and you saved me. You tried to, anyway. You didn't shove me into the panic room to protect yourself or the world or anybody else from me. You put me there to protect me from me, to take care of me. And I just - I just - I only just really realized that."

There was a lot of silence after that. Dean never liked to be thanked, especially for big things. And this was huge, so they drove on for a while in the silence. And then, so quiet at first that Sam almost missed it, Dean said,

"The first time, last year, I was angry at you, I was Level 10 pissed at you and I was going to keep you down in that panic room literally until Kingdom Come. But underneath all the pissed, I was worried about you and I wanted you to be okay, I knew that you were in over your head. This time, I just – I knew – I had an idea what it costs you every day, every minute, to keep it controlled, and I knew what it was going to cost you that you couldn't control it. And both times, all I could think was, 'How do we deal with this?' because I was going to find a way to make it right. I wasn't going to leave you alone in it."

There was silence after that remark too. It made Sam uncomfortable to hear Dean imply that he still saw something worthwhile in Sam, something worth all risks and struggles and sleepless nights. Like he was still worth all the effort. And it was an effort, it had to be, because looking out for Sam was never habit for Dean, it was never reaction. Taking care of Sam was always action.

The remedy all ready and waiting.

Sam saw the real difference between himself and Jack.

"It's easier to fight when there's somebody there who won't let you fall.." He said.

Dean acknowledged the words and the sentiment with a half-nod, half-head-tilt, half-smile, happy, proud, and embarrassed all at once.

Sam counted eighty seven more mile markers before either one of them said anything again.

The End