Here you go, folks! Last chapter. :) I just rewatched season 1 and am in the middle of season 2 now, so I finally think I have the right feel for this chapter. I didn't want them to get everything figured out here since I know Dean doesn't talk about his feelings about what happened till much later, but they needed to have a little reprieve after everything that happened during "In my time of dying." Hope this is a good final chapter to this story. Thank you for taking the time to read! I would love to hear from you if you could spare a minute to drop a review. Makes my day. :)

We got to the motel without saying a single word. Not one single word. Bobby didn't even say anything when he handed me the key card. He was taciturn on a chatty day so I hadn't expected a long conversation with him. I was, however, waiting for the other shoe to fall with Sam.

But Sam didn't say anything as he climbed out of the truck and walked away, his back to me. He'd gone completely silent after he'd asked me if I was ok back in the hospital parking lot and then stared out the window the entire trip. As much as I hated his nagging, soul-searching and attempts to play junior psychologist, it was unsettling that he wasn't doing any of the above.

With a sigh, I stiffly eased out of the truck and grabbed my gear. I didn't ask what Bobby was going to do. He'd told us at the hospital that he was going to take care of things. Make arrangements. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to think about the hospital. About Dad. About….well, I didn't want to think about anything to be honest.

It had been a long day. It was mid-afternoon now. I'd been in a coma and not expected to live, then in the space of a few short hours of being alive and awake again, Dad had mysteriously died.

Yep. I wanted to go straight to bed and forget about everything.

"Call me if you need anything."

Bobby's voice made me want to punch something. He should have just kept quiet. I needed the quiet. So help me, I was gonna need quiet once Sam started talking. I turned slightly to acknowledge Bobby, not looking at him because I just didn't want to see it. That sympathetic expression that would look all wrong on his curmudgeonly face. I didn't need to see it, though. I knew. Punching and screaming were starting to both sound like great therapeutic responses.

He went on, "I'll get everything squared away at the hospital and head back. I'm in 219. I'll let you know in the morning what the plan is. Call me if you two need anything."

I nodded, still without looking at him, and walked away from the truck. Sam had paused about ten feet away; waiting for me. Glancing at the room key, I brushed past him and pointed toward number 134. Sam followed me into the room and quietly closed the door as he walked inside. I dropped my bag on the grungy carpet and went straight for the nearest bed. I flopped down and buried my face in the pillow. Much as I wanted a drink, I was finished with this day.

For a few long moments, there was no movement. No sound at all. I vaguely wondered if Sam was going to just stand by the front door the rest of the day, but finally I heard him move toward the other side of the room. He moved slowly and like he was afraid he was going to wake me up.

As if I was asleep.

His bag hit the floor. I opened one eye to peek and saw him standing on the far side of the other bed, his back still to me. Getting to be a habit… Again I wondered if he was going to stand there all day, but after a few moments, he sat down on the edge of the bed and it looked like it hurt. His movements were stiff and I almost said something, but when he lowered his head to his hands, I realized I wasn't ready to begin the inevitable conversation that would surely occur. So I closed my eyes.

And fell asleep.

The sunlight was filtering through the too thin curtains and it wasn't the sunlight of the late afternoon, it was the sunlight of very early morning. My neck was stiff, my face was covered in drool and I realized I hadn't moved at all during the night. You'd think after being in a coma you wouldn't need so much sleep. With a groan, I shifted enough that I could push my face out of the wet spot on my pillow and blink my bleary eyes open to look around the room.

It was empty.

I closed my eyes. Maybe if I kept them closed I could continue to ignore the wreck that was my life. Our life. Wouldn't have to think about Dad. About what Dad had said to me. Shaking my head, I gave up ignoring the inevitable and rolled over and rubbed my hands over my face. Taking a deep breath, I eased myself up and glanced at the other bed. Hadn't been slept in.

Go figure.

Coffee would be great and I held out hope that maybe Sam had gone to get breakfast. Doubtless he hadn't slept all night, so he better have put that insomnia to good use. Groaning, I stood up and glanced at the clock. Just after six. Hadn't realized I'd been that exhausted when I'd flopped down on the bed yesterday. Time to grab a shower and hope to smell the coffee when I got out.

I crossed the room and rounded the other bed only to have a mini heart attack when I nearly stepped on my not so little brother.

"Sam! What the heck?" I ground out, stepping back and staring at him with growing concern.

He was lying on that disgusting carpet, curled up on his side, dead to the world. Heart in my throat, I had a vivid flashback to him lying there on the ground while that demon had beat the crap out of him. I didn't remember anything from the accident and not much before it, but that image I would never forget. Even now, days later, his face was still ashen, bruised and cut; he didn't look good at all.

Crouching down, I shook his shoulder gently. "Hey, Sam. Rise and shine."

I got a half-hearted moan for an answer to my cheery greeting. He didn't move a muscle. So I shook him harder. He didn't get to do this to me. Didn't get to scare the living daylights out of me this early in the morning with his spot on impersonation of a corpse. I didn't need this. Not now. Not after...

"Sam." I stopped trying to be diplomatic and some of my fear and concern leaked through my raised voice.

I hadn't exactly meant to yell, but it had the desired effect. His entire body jolted, eyes popped open and he gasped. I felt a little bad. Not much, though. I kept my hand on his shoulder and waited for him to really wake up. Took a split second.

"Dean?" He blinked up at me with bloodshot, exhausted eyes. "Are you ok?"

"I'm not the one who spent the night on the floor." I shot back with a shake of my head. "What's the matter with you? Bed too soft or something?"

Sam's eyes slid closed again and he sighed. He shrugged under my touch and started to push himself upright. He didn't get too far before he grimaced and wrapped an arm around himself. I helped yank him the rest of the way so he was sitting up against the bed. Well, in theory anyway. Because as soon as he was upright, his face lost more color it didn't have to start with and I had to grab him again to keep him from sliding back down. Holding him by the shoulder, I pushed his head up and gave him a shake that left him groaning but blinking at me again.

"Sammy, what's wrong? You gotta talk to me, man." Panic started to creep up on me and my heart was pounding in my ears. "Sam?"

"Sore."

It was a whisper, but it was a response. I let go of him, moved back slightly and said, "You slept on the floor, idiot. Of course you're sore."

I knew it was more than the bad night's sleep he'd just gotten, though. I didn't remember much, but I remembered he'd been driving when we'd been rammed by the semi. It had only been, what? A few days? I'd lost track of time. But it hadn't been that long. I may have received a dubious miracle of healing, but he hadn't. I again wondered how badly he'd been injured.

Frowning, I asked, "What's sore?"

He snorted; his expression clearly indicating that he thought I was just as much an idiot as I thought he was. Shifting slightly, he said, "Everything."

One word answers. This was going well. I realized I needed to take what I could get when his eyes drifted closed again. I slapped his shoulder. Gently. "Stay awake."

"Why?"

"Because it's morning."

"Since when do you care about mornings?" He sounded alert and irritated. Both an improvement over one word answers and half passing out. Sam mustered a glare, although it looked pathetic.

I rolled my eyes, "Why were you sleeping on the floor?"

He shrugged, "I sat down...and I guess I fell asleep."

Last I'd seen he'd been sitting on the bed, not next to it. He didn't want to, or need to, tell me that he'd that he'd been crying last night. His eyes were red and I just knew. So he'd probably moved to the floor at some point then fallen asleep right there on the carpet. Which was just gross.

"Well that's just dumb. We paid...well Bobby paid, good money for this craptastic motel room." I pulled him to his feet. "Besides, the carpet is disgusting."

He rolled his eyes at me and sat down heavily on the bed. Shoulders slumped, he looked up at me and asked, "Are you ok?"

"You already asked me that." I said, "I'm fine. How bout we talk about what happened to you."

"Nothing happened to me."

He stared at me with a confused look on his face. I realized he honestly didn't have a clue what I was talking about. I yanked a chair from the table and sat down. I said, "How bad were you hurt in the wreck, Sam? Don't lie to me."

"I'm ok, Dean. Really." He said quickly, not bothering to straighten up.

He had his most sincere and convincing look on his face and I was never quite sure if I should believe him when he looked at me like that. I waited. Gave him my go ahead, convince me look. He sighed and went on.

"Banged up. Bruises. Sore. Like I said." He gave me an annoyed look, but mostly it just looked like his head hurt an awful lot. "Whiplash and smacked my head. Not bad like you and..."

"Concussion?" I interrupted. I didn't want to think about or talk about me or Dad.

Sam's laugh was ironic, "Already had one. I'm ok."

"Yeah, I can tell from the way you look like you feel like your head is about to explode."

"I don't…"

"Shut up. They give you any of the good painkillers?"

He sighed and shrugged. His eyes focused on the carpet, "I was a little busy."

My jaw clenched as I stared at him. It wasn't going to do any good to berate him for not taking care of himself. If I'd been in his shoes, I would have done the same. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I ran my hand through my hair and stood up. I didn't know if we had anything. Even Tylenol.

"They gave me some paperwork." Sam's soft voice interrupted my thoughts. He waved vaguely to his bag.

I yanked it open and took exactly two minutes to scan the against medical advice forms he had signed. He'd checked himself out AMA, but he wasn't lying to me. Everything matched up with what he'd told me. He was gonna be sore, but he was going to be fine. Feeling something relax deep inside me, I picked up the prescription form that floated to the carpet. The good stuff. I turned back and was surprised to find he'd spread out on his stomach on the bed, the pillow tightly gripped around his head.

Shoving the paperwork back into his bag, I decided to call Bobby to see if he'd run and fill the prescription. I realized I didn't have a phone. Crap. I started looking around and finally saw Sam's phone on the bedside table next to him. I grabbed it and was about to sneak out to make my call when I heard him mumble something from under the pillow.

I moved closer and asked, "What?"

"'m sorry bout the car, Dean." It was barely a whisper.

I almost laughed at how stupid it was that he was probably trying to blame himself for us getting T-boned by a demon. That he seemed to think I blamed him. But then my heart just hurt thinking about all of it and I crouched down next to him and poked him gently in the shoulder where I hoped he wasn't hurting too much.

"Hey."

He moved a little and stared at me miserably.

"Not your fault, man." I said, serious as a heart attack. "Not. Your. Fault. Got it?"

"Yeah." Sam said, then started to push himself up. He said, "Dean, what are we…"

I pushed him back down. He wanted to talk and that was just not happening. Not until he had some Vicodin or something in him. And definitely not until I had some whiskey in me. And, preferably, never. I squeezed his neck, realizing exactly how tense he was.

Keeping my hand on him, I said, "Shut up and close your eyes and get some use out of that bed since it's paid for and all. I can't believe you slept on the carpet. That's just disgusting."

He stared at me for a second with watery eyes, then nodded and relaxed back into the pillow. Sam closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "I'm glad you're ok even if you are a jerk."

Rubbing his neck, I laughed, "What's that, bitch? Can't hear you over the sound of how awesome I am."

I knew he wanted to say something smart back at me, but he was too tired and his head hurt too much to even make the attempt. So he just let me try to release a few of the knots and we both spent a few minutes being grateful we were alive.

Not today, not tomorrow, and probably not for a long time, but eventually… eventually we were both going to be fine.

Fin

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