This is for HBKDEANRKO who prompted me as follows:

I've been searching high and low for stories where Dean saves Sam's life but Sam gets furious about it and in his anger he doesn't realize that Dean was hurt badly. Dean tries to take care of himself but can't manage it and by the time Sam realizes what happened he finds Dean unresponsive and thinks he's dead.

Thx girl for reviewing me and prompting me, the support means a lot! This will be a 2-shot or maybe three, hope u like...

THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD IN THEIR HEARTS

Chapter 1.

"You could have died!" Sam yells at Dean where they stand beside the impala outside the bunker, where they've just recently returned from their latest hunt.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" He rounds off giving a shove to Dean's chest.

Dean winces, goes a little whiter and leans heavily on the car. Sam, who is currently seeing red, doesn't notice.

"You don't get to do that!" Sam yells, stalking away from Dean and pacing by the impala in an effort to keep his hands off his brother.

"You don't get to just throw caution to the wind and sacrifice yourself just because I'm in danger, that's not the way it works Dean!"

Dean says nothing and Sam places his hands on his hips, staring at him wrathfully.

"You got nothing? Nothing to say?" He asks, a little jeeringly, but mostly in disbelief.

"What do you want me to say, Sam?" Dean asks, spreading his hands and sighing. "That I'm sorry? That I won't do it again?"

Sam clenches his jaw and walks back towards him.

"...it's a dangerous gig, Sam, there's nothing more to say..." Dean explains, soothingly.

Before the words are even finished coming out of his mouth, Sam's fist has connected with his jaw and he's sprawled in the frozen Kansas mud.

And SONUVABITCH! That hurts his side, he has no idea what he has done to that mother. (Well, there was that Wendigo, but other than that...)

"Nobody said you get to give your life for mine, Dean." Sam grounds out, not helping his brother right himself, so Dean grabs hold of Baby's door handle and pulls himself up leaning heavily on her.

They star each other for a tension filled moment until Sam looks away.

"Gimme the keys," he says, not asking, and holding out his hand.

Dean reaches into his pocket without hesitation and places the keys to the impala in his little brother's outstretched palm.

"Where're you going?" He asks, a little slurred through his numb mouth. Sam hands him the riddle box that holds the bunker key in it.

"Out," Sam grunts in response, climbs into the impala, cranks Dean's baby and leaves him standing alone in the gathering dusk and fading tail lights.

Dean Winchester sighs, and wipes a hand over his eyes in hopes of removing some of the blurriness there. He shuffles painfully down the few steps to the bunker's entrance and inserts the key and unlocks the door. He uses his body weight to swing the door open and sighs in relief as it closes behind him and the safety of the bunker surrounds him.

He looks belligerently at the stairs. Why? He asks, glancing up (roughly towards heaven) and starts the trek downward. He's never hated the ornate spiral staircase until now. A rigid hand supports him on the rail as he descends with jerky movements. By the time he's in the library taking a seat he's feeling like puking his entire stomach up. God, what is wrong with him? He hadn't felt this bad since...a long time.

He leans forward in his chair to untie his boots. The white hot, lightening pain shooting up his left side catches him totally unawares. The room spins before him and Dean finds himself on his knees in the floor, swallowing his lunch back down before it makes an unscheduled reappearance. He sits back up, and the fact that the lightheadedness is so bad he loses knowledge of where he is exactly tells him something is off.

He gingerly looks down his body and immediately notices a familiar darkness seeping into his t-shirt and the waist of his jeans.

"What the hell?" He whispers, raising a trembling hand to the dampness. It comes away slick and...red.

Shit.

Dean lets his eyes close and his head goes to rest against the edge of the table. So that's what all the agony is about? He had thought the Wendigo had got him, but what with the freezing cold and Sam bitching like it was his birthday Dean hadn't really felt anything, or paid any attention until now...it's getting plenty of attention now, Dean thinks.

Dean isn't a fool. He knows the signs his body is giving him is that he's running out of time. Sweating clammily, not really coherent...his mind is definitely wandering a little. Like right now he's wondering why the men of letters didn't install an elevator for their wounded? But the he remembers they were just glorified librarians...SO not like him and Sam.

Oh yeah, Sam. He's pissed.

And not momentarily at home. So Dean needed to take care of his little problem himself.

He spreads a hand flat on the surface of the table and then the other, and hoists himself to his feet. The pain at the sudden movement is so intense that he doubles over nearly slamming his face into the wood.

He breathes deep, eyes screwed shut and tries to think calmly. He needs to...who is he kidding? He FREAKING NEEDS SAM RIGHT NOW!

You want Sam, he tell himself, you don't need him, you want him. And you can't have him right now, so pull it together.

"I need to get to my room," he tells himself, mystified as to why his voice cracks awkwardly. He NEEDS bandages and pain meds right now.

Sam wraps his long fingers around the impala's steering wheel so tightly he's sure there will be hand prints there afterwards. The window is rolled down and the bitter winter wind is catching him full in the face, air whizzing past him, buzzing in his ears, detaching him as the world races by in a blur. The adrenaline is finally gone. But the sickening sight is still etched in his mind...

(Dean fires his flare gun into empty air a moment before the Wendigo appears in front of Sam and tosses him into a tree a couple of yards away. The Wendigo approaches him as Dean desperately tries to reload his flare gun, but his frozen fingers fumble and won't obey him

Sam mentally swears at him for forcing Sam to take the only pair of gloves they had. They do him no good now as the Wendigo raises his clawed hand to slit Sam's throat.

Sam's world slows as he hears Dean's yell, and he watches as his big brother throws his body between Sam and the cannabillistic terror. The blow falls on Dean and he lands against a tree about ten feet away and hits the ground with a sickening, dull thump...and stays down. Without even thinking about it Sam jerks his own flare gun from the waist of his jeans and empties it into the Wendigo, which goes up in smelly smoke.

Sam skids to his knees beside his brother and gently turns him from his stomach so his head rests in Sam's lap. And god, for a second Sam thought he was gone. Thought he had lost Dean to some stupid Wendigo. Then Dean's eyes fly open and he sits up, coughing painfully, looking around for the monster.

"We got him," he smiles unconcerned at Sam.)

Tears blur Sam's vision the more he gets that tight feeling in his chest. That fear, that helplessness...he knows it all to well.

And he can't stand it, has to do something about it. So he reaches out to Dean, tries to make him see, somehow understand what Sam goes through. How that feeling of utter and complete defeat and loneliness crushes him and destroys him,

And guilt, god, so much guilt.

Dean does it for him, every time. And you would think that Sam would get it, would be more safe so Dean would be safe. But no, it never stopped, it just went on and on. Sam died a little every time, and Dean got wounded some way or another.

And sometimes Sam tried to bring it an end. Tried to somehow show Dean that his life is worth something. That he shouldn't just throw it away in some Wendigo hunt just because Sam dropped his guard. That he could be so much more, could be more than just Sam's big brother.

But Dean didn't want anything else. THAT was all he cared about. Saving Sam, being with him. And they didn't have follow in that order either. If Dean couldn't save Sam he cared nothing for his life, he'd rather die with Sam and stay by his side be it only in their grave.

So Sam angrily swept the frozen tears form his face and rolled up the window. He took some deep, calming breaths, and let his foot ease off the gas pedal as he realized he was speeding down back road at somewhere over 100mph.

He sighs and in another desperate attempt to calm himself he leans forward and pushes play on the cassette player.

Bob Seger softly fills the car. And Sam has no idea when Dean inserted this tape or even when he last played it, but it seems even when Dean is away from him he's looking after Sam. Dean's presence is almost tangible with Bob Seger crooning to him over the speakers. Sam finds it soothing to say the least.

He presses the impala's breaks and brings them to a brutal stop on the side of the dark highway. He rests his forehead on the wheel and breathes deep, getting lungfuls of familiar scented air...Dean and the Impala. And really Sam couldn't tell you the difference between the two, maybe just that the impala had a little more metallic scent to her, where as with Dean there was something alive...you could tell there was life pumping through his veins.

Dean's alive and safe at home, Sam tells himself reassuringly. He is alive and breathing, and probably pissed as anything...he smiles fondly at that picture. Dean sitting at the map table nursing a bit of whiskey, waiting for Sam to get home so he can kick his ass.

We could be having supper and a few beers right now, Sam thought, if it wasn't for me.

And now he's thinking back to their fight. God, he can be such an ass sometimes. And realizes there wasn't that much yelling...honestly he thought there had been a lot more that that...had just expected that there would have been. He'd driven away in such a rage he hadn't really thought about it. Actually all the yelling had come from...him.

Dean had only said a few words, hadn't tried to hit him back, had willingly given him the keys.

Sam started, lifting his head form the wheel. Damnit; something was not right. That was REALLY not like Dean.

Shit, Sam thought regretfully. Maybe he'd just finally pushed Dean too far. Maybe Dean was just too tired, sore and cold to deal with Sam's shit anymore.

Sam remembers the blank expression Dean wore as he handed over the impala's keys...sick enough of him to lose his Baby just to get rid of his sorry ass.

Now Sam feels nauseas.

No, he thinks, firmly. I'm not sacrificing us over something so stupid. I can fix this, he determines. He revs Baby up, "Let's go home." He tells her.

Dean is soaking wet with sweat by the time he makes it to his bedroom, and he left a pretty grisly trail behind him. He left tell tale signs along the walls, he leaves a bloody stripe on his wall as he switches on the light. Tears leap, burning to his eyes as he strips coat and shirt off his shoulders.

He hasn't noticed until now, but his left sleeve is in tatters, a testimony to some pretty nasty scratches beneath. The cloth is stuck dried to the gouges and as he sloppily tries to rid himself of the bloody and dirt-coated clothes the material rips away with a sickening, squelching sound.

Blood immediately wells up out of the ripped open wounds and Dean bites his lip so hard he tastes the metallic of blood. He growls, driving the scream back down his throat as he watches the blood run down his arm and dribble to the floor from his elbow.

He grits his teeth with the pain and effort as he uses every reachable piece of furniture to help him get to the bathroom. He leaves another bloody clue as he turns on the light. He finally breathes deep, leaning against the vanity of the sink with both hands pressed flat to the cool surface. Willing the pain away, waiting for his stomach to settle, forcing the panic back into its box.

He watches detached as the blood runs from his arm to the vanity, where it pools and then falls to collect on the floor.

He sighs and glances at his reflection in the mirror...so not helping.

His skin is whiter than most ghosts he's put to rest, dark bags are already appearing underneath them. He wasn't even aware of the shivers wracking through his frame until he saw them reflected in the mirror. He lifts a shaking hand to raise his t-shirt to get a look at the burning wounds he's seen so much proof of.

His fingers tremble violently as they go to lightly caress over the three long, messy furrows in his side. They look as if they had been ripped there, not cut. They are so deep the skin is sagging down from them in bloody tatters.

Seeing the wounds didn't help much. Dean was a tried and seasoned warrior, but seeing and experiencing that much pain and carnage was not affecting him well. Especially when he was already emotionally off kilter...in other words he REALLY THE FREAK WANTED SAM NOW.

He empties his stomach into the sink, and Dean is fairly certain throwing up is not supposed to hurt so bad your vision whites out. After he can see again, for chrissakes, he reaches with his right hand to grab his phone. He freezes. Dean pats down his thighs and feels his back pockets and groans out loud. He doesn't have his phone...it's in his coat pocket.

He drags his hand over his face. God, his luck. But he needed to call Sam, this was a lot more serious than he had initially thought.

I can do this, he tell himself. Just make it to the bedroom FLOOR. I mean c'mon, Dean, it's the frickin' floor. You can do it.

He knows it's going to be a lot harder than it sounds as soon as he lifts one foot towards the door and only saves himself from face planting into the wall when his other knee buckles by catching himself against the wall with both hands. That's all it takes. The sudden movement, the pressure of his weight takes Dean down. Down to his knees and elbows swallowing back more vomit at the overwhelming pain. He doesn't even hear his own strangled scream of agony.

Dean fights for consciousness, but this thing is not going his way. Blood is pooling warm underneath him, and god, it's cold. His shivering an uncomfortable amount, and even that small movement is enough to make the small room spin and fade in a white mist.

He slams his eyes shut and presses his hot forehead to the cool bathroom floor. The pain shooting through his system is overriding everything else, making every other thought incoherent, numbing Dean's senses to nonexistent.

Dean is now something he rarely is...afraid. This is not right, not supposed to hurt this much. The pain is not supposed to make him throw up and cower on the bathroom floor.

In the midst of all this unbelievable pain and the darkness edging in on his vision Dean can only see Sam.

He can't intelligently shape any other thought over the mountains and seas of agony.

Sam. In his mind there is light around his little brother, like a yellow brick road right to salvation.

I need you, he thinks, screaming out as the darkness finally wins and rushes to him. Need you to come home now, Sammy!

As Sam drives (a little more responsibly) towards the bunker he begins to doubt himself. He had really been a dick, he'd hit Dean, for chrissakes, what had been wrong with him? He runs a stressful hand down his face.

He might need a little help convincing Dean to make up. Like maybe pie, beer...scratch that, some nice liqueur. There was an ABC store in town and a decent bakery. He smiles to himself, he is going to rock at this make up thing.

Sam pulls up in front of the ABC store the lights making him blink a few times. He opens the door and makes sure he's go his wallet, he swing his legs out and gets out.

And then he feels it. Something sticky that gives just a little resistance as he stands. There are many things Sam Winchester has had to worry about in his life, but sitting in something in his brother's immaculate car is not one of them.

He leans back into the car and he can see a dark stain in the flood lights. His hand meets with the tacky substance and he holds up his fingers to the light where he can see. Dark, sickly red.

Blood.

On Dean's seat.

Sam's heart stops and he shakes his head in denial.

No, no, no. Dean was not hurt, he'd been fine all the way back home...

This is what was wrong, Sam's gut tell him, this is what made you turn the car around.

He stressfully runs fingers through his hair as he grabs his cellphone and speed dials Dean. He waits thought the rings, pacing in front of the store.

"Damnit," he hisses, as it goes to Dean's voicemail.

"Dean, I know you're pissed man, but I found blood in the car, are you alright? Call me back."

He hangs up and climbs back into the impala and peels out of the parking lot, breaking about every driver's safety law.

He's roughly twenty minutes from the bunker, he calculates as he pushes the car a little harder. Still ten minutes out he tries Dean again, only to get his voicemail.

"Dean, look I'm sorry. Don't be a dick. I'm worried man, call me back."

He hangs up and throws the phone in the seat beside him in frustration. That fear and helplessness is back, dragging Sam down into the darkness of panic and doubt. His breath is faster than it should be, less of his attention is on the road and more of it on the savage blow from the Wendigo Dean had taken for him. You have no time to panic, he tells himself as he nearly misses a turn and the impala does herself credit making it.

And then like a stream of light in Sam's dark, jumbled and panicked mind comes the clear, beautiful thought that Dean is going to fight to stay with him. That whatever is going down on Dean's end he's not leaving Sam without a struggle.

Sam takes a couple of deep breaths and Dean is once again Sam's clarity. The thought that Dean is fighting for him too calms Sam to no end. It's like a yellow brick road to confidence and hope in the midst of his panic and fear.

"I'm coming Dean, just hold on."

tbc...

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