Here are some if the things Sam was worried about: angels, demons, the state of the world, all the people he'd saved, all the people he hadn't saved, clowns, the day he'd have to burry his brother, what they would do if they ever lost the demon blade, how freaking screwed up he was, how much Dean was drinking, how much he was drinking, and newly, Dean's fever.

But mostly, he worried about not living up to the man his brother wanted him to be.

Lately a constant screaming loop of his failures had been playing in his head. Bad calls he'd made, lies he had told- every single time he'd let Dean down. And now he could add not noticing Dean getting sick to the list of a hundred more personal failures.

Sometimes- most of the time, even- Sam could stop himself from spiraling. But every once in a while he couldn't find any toe holds and the only way to pull himself out the darkness was to keep busy enough to stop thinking. Hunt some things. Save some people. Rebuild a little bit. But right now he was white knuckling it, and being trapped in this room with mostly just his thoughts for company was not making it any easier. It would have been easier if he could drink it away, like Dean could. He'd tried.

It would have helped to talk with Dean, to level with him a little bit about all the crap that was going on in his head, but Sam would never do that. Sam wanted Dean to see him as strong, capable—he knew that on some level he and Dean were both playing a little psychologically wounded, but it was one thing for that to be unspoken and a completely other thing to explain to his brother just exactly what a head case he was.

Plus he didn't want to put that on Dean. Wouldn't put that on Dean. Not ever. Dean didn't need yet another reason to worry about Sam.

Sam was bleeding. Sam was spilling his life out onto the floor and Dean was handcuffed to a steam pipe across the room. He couldn't get loose. There was something else in the room, something Dean couldn't see. Something dark, that had gotten Sam. Dean pulled at his restraints, but the pipe held.

Dean watched the dark puddle spread across the floor. He pulled and screamed Sam's name, as sweat and tears slipped down his face.

Sam didn't move. It was over. Everything was over. Dean had failed.

"Dean!"

Sam? Sam was dying. Dead.

"Hey. It's okay." Dean felt a hand grab his shoulder.

His real shoulder. Instinct took over and Dean reached for his gun, which wasn't under the pillow where it should have been.

"Woah!"

Sam?

Sam was standing over Dean, looking worried. He wasn't bleeding, thank god.

Late morning daylight was filtering through cheap plastic motel blinds. Motel. A dream. Dean relaxed.

"You alright?" Sam asked, too much concern seeping into his voice. Dean must have been shouting in his sleep. Fantastic.

"Fine. Sorry." Sam's eyes narrowed. He wasn't going to let Dean off the hook so easily. Dean took stock. His pulse was still racing from the dream, he was soaked in sweat, and his head was pounding. Gotta give the kid something. "I still feel like crap. Do you have any more Gatorade?" He'd rather have Sam worry about his physical health than his mental health any day. And it isn't like the nightmares were a new development, they were just worse when he was sick.

"You know it." Sam looked incredibly grateful to have something to do. He bounded towards the kitchen, pulling a still sort of cold Gatorade out of the plastic bag filled with melted ice. Dean pulled himself together. Sam returned with the Gatorade- red, Dean's favorite- and sat on the edge of the bed.

Dean reached for the Advil and dumped out a small handful, chasing them down with the Gatorade. He was ready to get back on his feet.

"Thanks. Red. It's good." Sam smiled a little. He looked almost as exhausted as Dean felt—the dark circles that had been under Sam's eyes for weeks were even worse, and he was still in the same clothes he'd worn yesterday. "Did you get any sleep?" Dean hoped he hadn't kept him up. He was usually good at keeping the nightmares in his head, but the fever seemed to have weakened his control.

"I got some." Which wasn't a lie, if you counted the hour or two he'd gotten in the chair. Sam fidgeted. Mostly he'd spent the time tormenting himself.

Sam wanted to ask about what Dean had been dreaming about, and he wanted to take Dean's temperature again, but he didn't do either.

"Do you need anything? Are you hungry?"

Dean was most decidedly not hungry, but Sam was clearly climbing the walls. He glanced at the clock. "Starved. Take Baby and get me some all day pancakes?" Sam looked hesitant to leave. "Seriously. Get out of here before I starve to death."

Sam's smile was a little brighter this time. If Dean was hungry, he must be feeling better. "Coming right up! Be back in thirty." Sam scooped the keys and the phone off the dresser.

Dean counted slowly to twenty to make sure Sam was really gone before he decided to move. Slowly, this time. He'd learned his lesson.

By the time Sam had returned, Dean had showered. He'd debated about trying to shave, but had decided he'd save that for when Sam could watch, for maximum affect. See, Sammy? I'm fine. I'm shaving. He'd found where Sam had put his gun-in a dresser drawer-and stashed it under his pillow where it belonged.

He'd also taken his temperature. 102.4. So he really was getting better.

Dean did not want the pancakes any more than he had when he'd asked for them, but he forced them down anyway. Every bite he watched Dean take relaxed Sam a little more. Dean set his empty plate on the crowded bedside table. Now would have been the best time to shave, but he wasn't quite sure he had ten more minutes in him yet.

"All right, what's for lunch?" Dean leaned against the headboard.

Sam's eyebrow quirked up in surprise. "Seriously?"

"Feed a fever, Sammy!"

"I guess, I can-" Sam gestured towards where he'd left the keys.

"No, it's fine. Let's watch some TV first." What Dean really needed was a nap, and he figured Sam did, too. Dean grabbed the remote and flipped through channels. Sam moved to his own bed. Dean quickly settled on a baseball game. Sam had never been able to stay awake for baseball. Sure enough, he was asleep before the inning change. So was Dean.

Sam hadn't been sleeping much lately. He'd been getting more sleep then Dean- Sam couldn't function for more than two or three days on Dean's sleep schedule- but he'd been getting significantly less than usual and most of what he had logged had been pressed up against the passenger side window. He certainly tried to sleep- he didn't take the same perverse pleasure Dean seemed to in treating his body like the temple of a god he really freaking hated-but not sleeping was just another side effect of all the ruminating he couldn't stop.

So he was as surprised as he was pissed at himself to find he'd passed out for several hours in the middle of the afternoon. Failure of a nurse. He looked over-at least Dean was also asleep. Good.

Dean had actually woken up twice, once to take more Advil and once to pee, but Sam wouldn't ever know that- Dean had taken great pains not to wake him. The kid clearly needed the sleep.

Dean had barely been asleep, so he heard the springs on the other bed sigh with relief when Sam stood up. Lightly didn't even begin to describe how Dean usually slept, especially if he was sober. In fact, this was just one of the truck loads of reasons Dean tried to avoid going to bed sober, ever.

Dean rolled over. Sam had his back to Dean, and was looking for something in his duffle bag.

"Morning," Dean called. Sam whirled around.

"Afternoon, actually." Sam crossed to the bed opposite Dean's and sat down. Sam look less exhausted than he had that morning, but he still had the same haunted, worried look on his face. Being cooped up in a hotel room with nothing to do was not doing Sam any favors.

Dean still felt like he'd been hit by a truck, but he'd hit his limit on recuperating and letting his brother worry.

Time to buck up. Sammy needed to work, so they would go back to work.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Much better." Depending on your definition of much. And better.

With a quirk of his eyebrow, Sam handed Dean the thermometer. Damn it. Dean grabbed it and stuck it in his mouth, pushed himself out of bed and heading for the bathroom where Sam couldn't see the digital read out.

"Hey, I want to—" Sam reached for Dean, but Dean batted his and away.

"I've got it." Dean growled, closing the bathroom door. The thermometer beeped. 101.5. Excellent. "99.2, Sammy."

"Seriously?" Sam was not a fool.

"Seriously. That is barely a fever at all. Let's check out and get back on the road. I cannot be in this room one minute longer." Dean ran his hand over his face. He needed another day or two, but he was getting better. He'd let Sam drive and he'd be fine by the time they got where they were going. Dean peed and took another handful of pills, before pulling open the door and taking out razor. Time to shave.

Sam was sitting on the bed, torn. He wanted to believe Dean, and he wanted to get back on the road.

"I'm not kidding," Dean called from the bathroom. "If we don't get out of here, I'm going to lose my mind."

Sam's gut twisted. Me too. "Okay, I'll pack." He started throwing things back into their bags. He felt better. Dean was back on his feet, they were going back to work. Hunt some things. Save some people.

Dean leaned against the door frame and watched Sam pack. He did not want to get back in the car. Sam looked up.

"You are really okay with going?," Sam asked. Sam could up with a few more dark days if Dean needed him to.

"I'm doing okay," Dean smiled reassuringly. And then—because he was tired and sick and his head was still fuzzy - "are you?" Something flickered quickly across Sam's face and Dean regretted the question.

Sam wasn't going to tell Dean what was wrong anymore than Dean was going to tell Sam he was still sick.

Dean didn't wait for Sam to lie. He crossed the room and grabbed his duffel from where it sat at Sam's feet. "Let's go." Quickly, he squeezed his brothers shoulder. It's okay.