Author Note: Soooo I hadn't been planning on a second part to this story...but I'm not always in charge of these things. So, here's a little more fallout. There might be more language in this second part than there was in the first. Also, more words.

Dean's head is pounding mercilessly, to the point that he's having a hard time focusing on anything Sam is saying, the bass tones of his brother's frustratingly low voice sliding in and out of range and comprehension like it's coming through some jacked-up stereo speaker instead of a man sitting right next to him. Still, the sound of his voice serves as a kind of grounding comfort, and Dean rolls his head that direction.

He's pretty sure he remembers walking out of Hell – one that's undergone some serious renovations since his last stopover – and with a few souvenirs, too. He's got a rib on his left side that's being a real bitch, but for all Dean knows, that fight in the cage could have happened hours or days or even weeks ago. The time since they left Kennesaw has passed in a nauseating blur. He knows it was a short drive there and should be an equally short drive home, but his shift behind the wheel had sent them on a detour to the berm at least once. Maybe more.

He gags just thinking about it, brings a closed fist up to his mouth and can almost FEEL the intensity of the worried look Sam shoots his way.

"I need to stop? We're almost there, man. Ten minutes, tops."

Dean jerks his head in the negative, which is an incredibly bad idea and sends the interior of the car spinning sickeningly around him. They're safe in the Impala, out of Hell, but it feels like the pit's still got its hooks in him. Feels like he's on fire, miserable and suffocating inside his own sore and clearly ill body. He hasn't felt this bad in, well, maybe ever. He reaches up a clumsy hand to tug at the suddenly constricting collar of his t-shirt only to have his wrist snagged immediately by his brother.

"Hey, hey, easy with the throat," Sam says sternly, firmly guiding Dean's hand back down to rest against his thigh, because the kid's somehow gotten it into his head that he's in charge of something right now. "As soon as we're back at the bunker I'll getcha some ice for…well, everything, probably." He rolls his shoulders stiffly, moving like he could use an ice bath himself.

And that makes sense, because the fingers wrapped around Dean's are punch-wounded, decorated with split, bloodied knuckles, and there are similar marks on his face.

Sam keeps hold of his hand long enough to be sure he's gotten the message to keep still, and Dean's lip curls at the intrusion as well as the implication. Not friggin' five, dude. But the last time he risked speaking it kinda felt like he'd swallowed a handful of wood chips and chased it with a hot lava shooter, so he communicates the thought a lot less verbally, roughly jerking his hand back into his own possession. He succeeds in also throwing his shaky, unsteady ass into the car door and slumps there, conceding momentary defeat to this raging smiting sickness and relishing the cool comfort of the winter-kissed window against his aching, sweaty temple.

Sam's always gotten his rocks off by looking for more than what's put down between the lines, and the Impala accelerates as soon as Dean makes it clear he ain't sitting back up. His eyelids droop closed against a sudden onslaught of bright lights and blurry shapes more suited to a Star Wars-style hyperspace jump than interstate travel, and Dean can't say for sure he's ever given Sam the authorization to drive his baby as a speed high enough to produce such visual effects unless there's blood pooling on the bench between them.

Dean's left hand flops to his side, fingers feeling out the cool, dry leather of the seat. "Sl'down," he mutters, the words feeling thick in his mouth.

"You say something?"

Dean swallows, clears his throat but doesn't risk opening his eyes. "Yeah. Slow the fuck down before I puke on you."

The Impala decelerates noticeably, to a full stop, in fact, and Dean rolls his eyes behind his lids. "I said slow down, not stop." Captain Drama…something. Pants. Sure.

"Wha – Dean, we're here." Sam grips him by the shoulder and jostles him, but lightly, like he realizes it's a stupid fucking thing to be doing even as he's doing it.

Dean presses a fist against the seat and waits first for Sam to get back on his side of the car and then for the world to settle a bit before asking, "Where?" He drags his eyes open, confirms that he's lost a bit more time here since he dropped his eyelids. The car is cooling and ticking and no longer moving, and a pock-marked concrete wall of the bunker's garage now lies beyond the wide windshield. He also seems to have exhausted his ability for prolonged conversation over the past few minutes, and it takes buckets of effort to have managed that single word, and the sound that's crawled out of his throat is hardly worth being called a voice.

"Yeah," Sam comments slowly, before Dean can work up the energy to redeem himself with something witty or sarcastic. "This is gonna be a fun few days." He sighs and makes a face that exaggerates the bruises and blood marring his features.

Even so, Dean's a bit too preoccupied registering the sensations of home, hot and sick to properly process the damage there or put forth any sort of intelligent, or at least smartass, response. All he wants is to get out of this damn stuffy car and find somewhere soft and cool to collapse and sleep for about nine days. And if he's lucky, he won't puke up bits and pieces of his vital organs on the walk to his room. He rolls his shoulder against the window and pops the handle, flinging the door open and very nearly following the trajectory of the swing all the way to the oil-stained concrete. He hisses as that bitch rib protests the awkwardness of the motion.

Head swimming and hanging precariously over the edge of the seat, Dean's fingers cling to the leather as his roiling gut takes its sweet time in deciding its next move. He closes his eyes and works on long, slow breaths and telling himself to get a grip. Telling himself that he's had worse. That this is so much nothing, he hasn't ever heard of smiting sickness before and besides, Cas more or less said he's be fine. Seriously, he walked in and out of Hell on Gumby legs and with his insides taking turns on amusement park rides and no one was any the wiser.

He just needs a minute to get it together and get out of the car. Just one damn –

Sam's cool, giant hand on the back of his neck is a sudden, not entirely unwelcome shock that brings Dean's head whipping up and tips the gastrointestinal scales in the wrong direction.

But his not-so-little brother's prepared like a goddamned Boy Scout and crafty as all get out, positioning one of the oil pans on the ground beneath Dean's downturned face. It's clean enough, but the faint whiff of old oil and soapy residue wafts up from the faded plastic and gives his insides a rough shake.

He clamps it down, swallowing a few times. "God, that reeks. Get it outta my face."

"Nuh uh. I've cleaned up more than my fair share of your puke off the floor since we moved in here, man. If you're gonna spew again, it's goin' in a bucket."

Dean concedes that point with a wrinkle of his nose, but it feels strange to make light of those days when the bloodthirsty Mark of Cain wasn't exactly playing nice with the rest of his body. "Still stinks," he mumbles.

"Humor me," Sam says stubbornly, crouching beyond the pan. He releases Dean and sighs wearily, pushing a hand through his long hair. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick, Dean?"

"M'fine." Like broken glass in a garbage disposal, and not doing so well to back up his statement.

"And, apparently, sleeping in the car tonight." Another sigh. "You gonna be sick or not?" Insistent, like Sam used up all of his touchy-feelies on the drive here.

"No." The scent of the pan stings his nostrils and flips his stomach and despite his protests, Dean finds himself leaning farther out of the car to take advantage of the very cause of his discomfort. "God, Sam," he groans. "Am I inside-out yet?"

Sam's a sympathy puker, and he takes a moment to respond, voice sounding a bit thick when he does. "Yeah, you're getting there."

Dean drops his forehead to the cool leather of the seat and braces a shaky hand against his ribs.

"You ready to move?"

"No," he says honestly and miserably, muffled by the seat.

But in keeping with tradition, Sam doesn't pay much mind to what Dean's got to say. He gets his giant hands positioned under Dean's chest and shoulder, dragging him firmly upright from his pathetic sprawl across the bench seat.

Dean gets one foot solidly underneath himself and it gives him some sense of balance. Enough so that he plants a hand on his brother's chest and shoves him away. Actually makes it all of two steps on his own before the world mocks that false balance with a ruthless spin and he requires Sam's assistance just to keep his feet.

"It's just me," Sam says grimly.

Dean knows he means, quit showing off, dumbass. It's a tone he knows well and has heard more than once over the past few months. He rolls his eyes and allows Sam to half-support, half-drag him out of the garage and into the hallway.

As rough as sitting still had been, he really should have been able to figure out how bad an idea moving around would prove to be. His head swims, colors and shapes in the dim corridor melting and spinning like a rinse cycle, like that psychedelic swirl that first had him heaving off the side of the road earlier today.

Yesterday?

Before Hell and Lucifer, in any case. That cage has become Dean's reference point for the foreseeable future.

He stares up at his little brother, can't believe he'd forgotten the shape the kid is in. "Sammy…"

His expression must be pathetically obvious, because Sam quickly swipes a palm across his own chin, wiping away a smear of blood as though the damage done is irritating him more than hurting him. He adjusts his grip around Dean's upper arm and prods him forward. "Come on."

"I'da had 'im, you know."

"Had who?"

"Lucifer. I'da had 'im, Sammy."

"If you weren't sick as a dog, you mean."

Dean nods, paying dearly for it as the hallway tilts so sharply he can no longer distinguish ceiling from wall from floor. So, he really couldn't be pressed to say which flat surface is suddenly at his back.

"Okay, that's…just stay there for a minute. Okay?"

"No, m'okay," he protests stubbornly, because Sam's a goddamn bloody mess and Dean's just got a couple bruises and a stomach having a little temper tantrum. But his body obeys his brother's orders, limbs dead weights that won't seem to move for love or money.

He hadn't realized Sam was gone until he's suddenly back, gingerly tipping Dean forward and pressing a wet and blessedly cool washcloth against the back of his neck. The coldness leaches out of the soft material in an instant, replaced with an intense heat that seems to be radiating from Dean's very core.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam breathes, increasing the pressure. "Okay. You're hot."

Dean grins, and it feels loose and sloppy. "S'been said."

"Yeah, all right, Casanova." Sam sighs, shooting a glance down the seemingly endless hallway. "Okay, let's get you someplace that's a little less in the middle of the hallway, huh?" When Dean gives no intention of moving, his brother drops into his line of sight. "Need a hand up?"

But Dean doesn't hear need a hand up; he hears off your ass, we need to move. Always has. He wordlessly reaches up and slaps a clumsy, clammy palm against the tile over his head and attempts to haul himself upright by virtue of his rapidly waning strength and the wall at his back.

Not his best plan, or his most graceful of moments, but Sammy's there for the save, dipping a shoulder under his flailing arm and setting a course for Dean's room.

Dean doesn't think he's ever seen anything so beautiful as his memory foam mattress, but it also feels kinda like he left his knees back somewhere around the garage. Sammy's got good instincts, and he knows they're on the clock here. He doesn't even try to get Dean out of his jacket, just grunts a bit as he gets him lined up to collapse atop the covers.

He lands on his side and doesn't have the energy left to both find a comfortable position and throw one last attempt at making sure Sam is okay. His blurry eyes search his brother's face, halting once more on the blood and bruises they find there. "What'd he do to you, Sammy?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." Sam sticks his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "Don't worry about me, you jerk."

"Bitch." And that's the last thing Dean thinks he says for a while.

Dean feels a bit cooler when he wakes, but not necessarily any less shitty or any more comfortable, with a mouth as dry as the Sahara, a giant yawning void in his stomach and an unfortunate smell hovering overhead he's worried is coming from him. His abused throat feels tight, like a kinked hose, and each thin breath whistles noisily as he pulls it in.

Sam's voice is warbling in from somewhere at the back of Dean's head, at a volume that suggests he's probably in the hallway instead of the room; just loud enough to make a point of frustration but still hushed, evidence that he's aware there's a chance he'll be overheard saying things he'd rather not were overheard.

"Damn it, Cas, turn on your phone and get here. Dean's in rough shape. He said you can't heal him, but there has to be something you can – " An abrupt pause, partnered with a harsh, somewhat relieved intake of breath that matches up exactly with Dean's half-assed attempt to roll onto his back. "Just get here."

Sam's last words leave his mouth in a hushed, furious jumble, and when Dean works his eyes open his brother's face is hovering above him like a parade blimp caught in a gust of wind. He tries to push himself up on an elbow and Sam halts his process too easily with a hand against his chest.

"Hey, hey, hey. What d'you think you're doing?"

"Amara's out there." Dean brushes Sam's hand away and would take a header all the way to the floor if not for his brother's insane reflexes and considerable upper body strength.

Sam shoves him back flat. "And what exactly is your grand plan for fighting her right now, Dean? You gonna fall down on her to death?"

Dean blinks down at himself, realizing his jacket and button-down are gone. Boots, too. He raises his eyes to his brother, pops an eyebrow.

Sam smiles. "Don't worry, I bought you dinner first." He grabs a tall glass from the bedside table. "Or, water, at least."

"Water's free," Dean grumbles, but he's thinking, best little brother in the WORLD. Seriously, he's gonna have to make Sammy a ribbon or a trophy or something. He eagerly grabs for the glass, but Sam holds it away, bringing Dean to reconsider such plans.

"Take it easy, okay? Remember what I said about cleaning up your puke?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Just, we've tried this a couple of times already, man. Take it slow."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam's not wrong. A few sips down the hatch and his stomach is already rolling its protest. He pushes the glass away, tries to sit up further and maybe even get out of this bed, but finds the way blocked once more by his little brother.

"Seriously, Dean. Knock it off."

He paws ineffectively at Sam's hand on his chest. "I gotta do something, Sam."

"You will. We both will. We'll figure something out, as soon as your temp drops below the surface of the sun, okay?"

Dean blinks, and he's suddenly flat on his back and looking up at the ceiling again. What the… "Can't just lay here, Sammy."

"No, that's exact what you can do."

"Sam – "

"Don't worry about Amara right now, man. Besides, if she walked away from an angel smiting…she'll squash you like a bug, Dean."

"She won't."

Sam huffs, but only a little. "I know you think you're tough shit, and you're a little delusional right now, but – "

"No, Sam. You don't – " Dean sighs, raises his hand about halfway to his suddenly hot-feeling face before it becomes too heavy and drops back to his side. "She tried."

The admission knocks Sam back a small step, and his foot knocks the rolling desk chair aside. He frowns down at the chair and pushes both hands through his hair. "Wh – she tried?"

Dean nods. "Or…stopped." He drops his head back to his pillow with a long exhale. "I tried, too," he mumbles. "Couldn't kill 'er, either. There's somethin'…I dunno. S'weird, Sammy." He feels better just saying it, because they're supposed to be doing things differently and it's been killing him to keep this strange connection from Sam. He feels better, and lighter, like he's floating away on an ocean tide, at risk of dropping below the waves.

There's a hot, sweaty hand gripping his forearm, squeezing and trying to keep him here and talking. "Dean, seriously, what does that mean?"

Sam sounds anxious and alarmed, but it's not nearly enough to drag Dean back to the surface.

Next time Dean opens his eyes, he knows immediately that he's through the worst of it, and even more so he knows this time that the smell is him.

Sam is sitting stiffly in a chair directly in his eye line, with one leg bent and propped atop the other, chin in his hand. Waiting. When he sees Dean awake this time, he doesn't rush to his side or breathe a sigh of relief or anything particularly expected textbook Sam. He just straightens in the chair, drops his hand to his lap, and stares.

Dean scoots up a little, tipping his temple against the headboard. "How long – "

"Two days."

Dean digests that, figures it matches up pretty well with the exact amount of weak, pathetic shit he feels. He squints at the yellowing bruises painting half of Sam's face, waves a hand that feels disconnected from the rest of him. "You okay?" It comes out a broken whisper, and the pain leaves him wincing.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "I'm fine," he says wearily, like he hasn't slept much over these past two days, and maybe like he's answered this question a few times already.

"Where's Cas?"

Sam sighs, drops his leg to the floor and drags a hand down his face. "I dunno." He leans forward, bracing his forearms against his thighs.

Dean doesn't remember much since falling into this bed, but he said something he shouldn't have, that's for damn sure. He's the only person that can plaster this look on Sam's face. This expressive mix of wariness and concern he's been bringing to his brother's features for more than two decades. "Sam. What did…I mean, did I – "

"How you feeling?" Sam asks, cutting him off.

"Better, I guess. Sam, just…" Something suddenly stands out from the confused, hazy jumble of the past few days.

"You should know, there hasn't been a day I haven't been stronger for having you here. For having you back."

It drains away the last vestiges of his already-sapped energy, but Dean manages a seated position and once he catches his breath, he levels a stare of his own at his brother. "Thanks, for what you said. Before."

"You remember that?"

Dean rubs his chin with a pale, shaking hand. "I think so."

Sam bobs his head. "You're welcome." He slaps his hands against his legs, and suddenly he seems exhausted. He shoves up from the chair, braces a few fingertips against the desktop once he stands. "Well, if you feel anything like you look, you're probably gonna be dragging ass for a few days still. Take it easy. Maybe think about a shower."

Dean frowns. "Where're you going?"

Sam barks a laugh. "To get some sleep, man. I'm wiped, and then some." He turns to leave, but stops on the threshold of the room, with one foot in the hallway. He appears to be struggling for words, like he doesn't quite know what he can or should say, but that's not an issue that typically gives Sam pause. Once he knows what he wants to say, he's usually good to go.

Something about Sam's unease has Dean thinking he hasn't actually put his finger on what's hanging strangely between them, that there's something else he can't quite remember.

"Take it easy," Sam says finally. "I mean it. Wake me up if you need anything."

"Yeah."

Sam shuffles slowly down the hallway, and Dean collapses backward, gets a nose full of dried sweat sent up from his pillow when his head hits.

Yeah. No matter what may or may not have been said, Sam was not wrong about that shower.

Okay, I'm done, and for real this time. Thanks for the read!