Epilogue

"Sam."

Sam bolted awake, gasping, drenched in sweat, fighting free of the memory of a voice that invaded his mind and stripped him of his will, hands that held him down, and the graze of teeth against his skin. He shuddered, listening to his own heart beat loudly in his ears and Dean's quiet breathing in the next bed as the nightmare faded.

The bite on his arm burned and throbbed a rhythm of pain. He flung the covers aside and went into the bathroom, turning on a light that was too bright at first but still infinitely better than fumbling in the dark. He filled a cupped hand with water and drank from it, running a dripping hand over his face.

Gingerly, he peeled back the bandage on his arm, wincing at the red, swollen skin surrounding the still-healing wound.

"Let's see that."

He looked up, startled, to see Dean standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Sam mumbled apologetically.

"You didn't."

"Can't sleep?"

Dean shrugged. He inspected Sam's arm and then went and got the tube of antibiotic ointment. He dabbed it on, smearing it over the bite on Sam's arm. "This looks worse. You been putting this crap on it? Sam, man, you gotta learn to take better care of yourself, you can't always expect me to..."

The words, the full, unspoken meaning of them, dropped like lead between them.

"Sorry, I didn't mean…" Dean trailed off again, unwilling to say what was suddenly staring them both in the face.

"I suppose that's why you're not sleeping," Sam challenged.

Dean didn't answer. He focused all his attention on affixing a new pad of gauze over Sam's wound. "You running a fever?" he asked, laying his cooler hand flat against Sam's forearm. "You're hot."

"You can talk to me about it."

"Nothing to talk about."

"I wish you'd—"

Dean huffed impatiently. "You wish what? That I'd grow a set of tits so we could have a good cry together? Come on, Sam."

"Fine, but you know I'm not going to stop trying to find a way out of it, right?"

Dean didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he looked up from bandaging Sam's arm, earnestness showing. "Don't you ever do anything stupid like this again. You hearing me?"

"Yeah... right." Sam's voice took on a harsh, bitter tone. "You're one to talk, Dean. You take every opportunity to throw your life away. You threw your damn soul away, Dean. You mean to tell me that wasn't stupid… or reckless, or…"

"No, it was probably one of the saner things I've ever done." Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean cut him off. "Taking care of you is what I do, Sam. It's what I have to do. We all gotta die someday."

"Well, what if that was my 'someday?'"

"I couldn't let that happen."

"Dean—"

"Listen, just… shut up, okay. Can we not argue? It's done. There's no going back, and there's no undoing it, so I wish you'd just stop. Stop trying to find new and creative ways to get yourself killed so I can stop worrying about you 24/7."

Sam sighed and shook his head, leaning back against the bathroom wall and dragging a hand through his hair.

He realized he felt hot and shaky. Dean was right, he could feel the fever taking hold. Dean had probably known it before his own body even had a chance to register it.

He wondered how his brother did that. How he managed to read him so well.

"Is there ibuprofen in the bag?" Sam asked at length.

Of course, he knew there was. The look Dean gave him let him know that Dean knew it, too. But he smiled as he placed two little, red pills into Sam's hand, poured him a glass of water, and folded up a wet washcloth to lay on Sam's forehead. And maybe he also smiled at the fact that Sam, for once, just nodded in thanks and let Dean do what he did best.

Because Sam actually wasn't too bad at reading Dean, either.

End.