Title: Don't You Cry No More

Summary: "I'm just saying, you're taking a lot of shots to the head lately." Coda to 13x14 &13x15 "Good Intentions" / "Most Holy Man". Hurt!Sam. Protective!Dean. BigBro!Dean.

Warning: Rated T for injuries, blood loss, violence and bad language. Graphic & Descriptive language. Spoilers up to and including episode 13x15.

Disclaimer: I don't own the show or its characters.

Dean should have known.

As soon as he came down the stairs of the bunker and saw the upturned chairs in the map room, as soon as he spotted the disarray of broken furniture and ruined research papers, he should have known. The mess in the bunker was a clear sign of the massive fight that must have ensued between Donatello and Sam. And that should have kicked Dean's protective instinct into high gear. But Sam had been walking and talking, his voice steady and sure as he explained what happened in their absence. He had seemed okay. Okay enough to not warrant a head-to-toe-inspection from Sam's overprotective older brother.

But it was a grave mistake not to check Sam over.

It was the oldest trick in the book, one of their dad's earliest lessons. Head injuries were dangerous. They could cause a concussion and in the worst case, brain hemorrhage. They could kill you. Dean had never taken head injuries lightly, not in all his life. He had always made sure to check Sam's pupils after he got tossed into a wall by a vengeful spirit or knocked out by whatever thing they were hunting. He had woken Sam hourly and asked him stupid questions, waving fingers into his face.

Why not this time? How could he be so irresponsible?

Dean was sitting in the library, checking their E-mails and nursing a beer. Sam had called it a night soon after their confrontation with Cas and the angel had mysteriously disappeared without bothering to tell them where he went. Dean was still deeply lost in thought, remembering Cas' righteous anger and the deep thunder in his voice. It reminded him of the way Cas had acted back in the days, after his return from Hell. And to be honest, it scared him a bit. Thinking that Cas felt no guilt over turning Donatello into a vegetable.

But all his thoughts came to a sudden halt when the heavy thud of something hitting the floor echoed through the bunker, shaking the ground beneath Dean's chair. It was a distinctive sound, the sound of a total dead weight – no ounce of self-control left – sagging to the ground, bony knees against cold tiles.

Dean was up and running before he knew it.

"SAAAAAM!"

When Sam came to, he was a confused mess in a blurred world. Nothing made sense.

His thoughts were a swirly mess, but despite the incessant pounding of his heart and the bright, throbbing pain in the back of his skull, he became aware of familiar hands on his face, then on his shoulder and the nape of his neck.

He knew those hands, knew their touch.

They were magical hands that could make him feel better. They always did.

Dean.

"Sammy?" Dean was hovering over him, his face too close for Sam to focus properly. All around them were dark green tiles and steam and fogged-up mirrors. They were in the bunker and Dean was here, with him, in the men-of-letters bathroom.

"Sam, can you hear me? Talk to me, damn it," Dean growled out. His brow was furrowed with worry and his hand was gently cupping the back of Sam's head, cradling it.

"You came. You-you're here," Sam said, his mouth forming words he didn't know he was thinking. The world around him was spinning in and out of focus and Sam was powerless to stop it. He didn't know what was going on, but Dean was here and that was all he needed to know for now.

"Yeah, I'm here with your naked butt, princess," Dean huffed out, feeling up the back of Sam's head, checking for blood. He sighed in relief when he found none. "What the hell, Sam? You mind giving me a hint next time before you faint in the shower? Scared the hell outta me."

"Butt?" Sam said with a pinched look on his face, eyebrows drawn together in a confused frown. He looked at Dean with confusion swirling in his unfocused eyes.

"Your pupils are blown," Dean cursed and cupped the side of Sam's face, patting his cheek to get his attention. "Sam, focus on me. What day is it?"

"You're Dean," Sam answered dopily, reaching up to clumsily touch Dean's face. He brushed his clammy fingers over the stubble on his older brother's cheek. "It's Dean day. No Wednesdays. Wednesdays are bad."

"Sam!" Dean barked out, worry making his voice sharp. He knocked Sam's hand out of his face and Sam grimaced in dismay. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

Sam's pupils skirted around the bathroom, taking in razor blades and toothbrushes before they settled on Dean once more. "S-sam. You said. Sam's what you said."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Your full name, dumbass. What's our last name?"

Sam tried to get up and winced when the throbbing in his head intensified. "I don't… 'm not sure."

"Hey, woah, woah, easy," Dean chided and held Sam back by pressing a flat palm against his chest. The skin-to-skin contact made Sam realize that he was shirtless. Not just shirtless, but naked, with only a small towel wrapped around his lower half. The tiles were ice cold against his back.

"Sam Singer?" Sam guessed. Something about that sounded right. But it also sounded wrong.

Dean brushed drenched bangs out of Sam's eyes, still holding him down. "What year is it, Sam?"

"It's… I think 1994? Definitely later than 1980."

"Okay," Dean breathed out, some of the blood draining from his face as he lightly squeezed Sam's shoulder. "You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to the hospital. Stay put. I'm gonna get you some clothes."

Dean stood up and Sam watched him leave with a weird sense of loss. He thought about getting up to follow Dean, but the throbbing in his head and the ghost pressure of Dean's hand on his chest kept him unmoving until Dean returned.

"Alright, here we go." Dean brought a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. He hesitated before he kneeled down next to Sam. "Think you can sit up?"

Sam made a concentrated effort, pushing up with all his strength but the movement made his head hurt. His ears were filled with static and his pulse started racing. Before he knew it, he fell back against the cold tiles with a soft grunt, head lolling to the side as he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. "Hurts," he muttered weakly, eyelashes fluttering closed.

"Hey, none of that!" Dean snapped at him, shaking Sam's shoulder to keep him awake. "No going to sleep, yet, Sammy. You know the drill."

It took a few seconds before the dull throbbing faded into a dull ache and the worst of the pain was over. Sam felt dizzy and confused, but this time when he tried to sit up, he managed to do it without feeling like his head was going to burst.

"Here, put this on," Dean handed him a T-shirt that was a number too small on Sam. It had some faded band name on it and Sam gave a child-like smile as he traced the letters with his fingers. It was Dean's shirt. Dean was a good brother. He'd give Sam the literal shirt off his back if needed. He'd give Sam anything if he asked for it.

"Sam. Focus," Dean ordered and when Sam just continued to stare at the T-shirt like he was trying to make sense of it, Dean sighed and snatched it out of Sam's hold. "Okay, fine. We're gonna go old-school, then. Lift your arms for me."

Sam obediently lifted his arms straight in the air, waiting for Dean to dress him like they used to do it when Sam was little. The threadbare fabric settled over Sam's damp skin comfortably and he sighed, looking down at himself and running hands over the shirt to smooth out wrinkles. "Zeppelin rocks."

Dean stood, reaching down to help Sam to his feet. "They sure do."

Sam was unsteady on his feet, but Dean was there to steady him when he swayed. He felt Dean's hand wrap around his wrist and then he was guided over to the sink. "Hold onto the edge and lift your leg."

Then, far more quietly, Sam could hear Dean mutter something to himself. "Can't believe I'm doing this."

Dean threaded the leg of his sweatpants over Sam's foot and repeated the process on the other side, then stood to pull the pants all the way up to Sam's waist.

"You're Dean," Sam pointed out, needlessly. "You take care of me."

"Damn right, I do." Dean rested a hand on Sam's lower back. "Can you walk?"

"I'm walking on sunshine," Sam whispered as though it was a secret. He giggled – honest to god giggled- and Dean would have laughed if he wasn't so scared.

He pursed his lips. "I'll take that as a no."

"Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean gently maneuvered Sam's gangly arm around his own neck and wrapped his free arm around Sam's back to give him support. He started walking out of the bathroom, carrying most of Sam's weight as he stumbled forward, completely uncoordinated.

"I'm walking, Dean."

"I can see that," Dean smiled. "Good job. Let's get you checked out, okay, buddy?"

"'Kay, Dee."

Definitely hospital.

Sam was prognosed with a serious concussion.

Dean wouldn't have needed a Ph.D. for that medical verdict, but he wasn't about to take any chances where his brother's brain was concerned.

Sam got discharged a few hours after their arrival, after a CT scan and a few heated exchanges between doctors who were handling Sam too roughly and a protective Mama-bear appearance of one very pissed off, very exhausted Dean Winchester.

The doctors gave Dean the instruction to let Sam sleep, while Sam himself dozed through most of the medical exams and the discharge instructions. He was asleep for most of the car ride home and woke up just long enough to allow Dean to carry him down the bunker's stairs and get him situated in his room.

Dean couldn't be sure at what time he fell asleep in the chair next to Sam's bed, but when he jerked awake, the flashing red letters on the alarm clock read 4:00 AM. Rubbing his eyes, Dean reached around to shake Sam awake. "Sammy, wake up," he tried to rouse his sleeping sibling.

"Don' wanna leave this town," Sam murmured sleepily. "I like the school here."

Dean rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. "Yeah, well. You always were a nerd," he grumbled and gave Sam a harder shake. "Hey. Wake up for a minute and then you can go back to sleep. Tell me your name."

"Sam."

"Your full name, Sammy."

"Winchester," Sam grumbled, shooting an annoyed look at Dean over his shoulder. "It's Sam."

"Ah, there's my boy," Dean praised and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Go back to sleep, bitch."

Sam was tired, but not tired enough to murmur one last 'jerk' as Dean settled back into his chair, preparing himself for a long, sleepless night.

Not even a week later and Dean strolled into a hotel room, only to find his brother's seemingly lifeless body sprawled out on the carpeted ground. Dean remembered the way his heart stuttered to a violent, sudden halt in his chest, breath catching in his throat.

It took a moment of 'No no no no…' and 'Don't you fucking dare' for him to gather his bearings enough to walk toward his brother's unmoving form with leaden feet. He crouched down and pressed shaking fingers against Sam's clammy skin to feel for a pulse, then slumped in absolute relief when he found a sluggish beat against his fingertips.

Sam woke soon after and this time, Dean did check his pupils and reflexes.

Sam was fine this time. He got lucky.

But that didn't keep Dean from sneaking into his room late at night like a concerned parent.

He listened to the sound of Sam's even breathing, closing his eyes as he let the sound of his brother's presence fill his mind and soul. It wasn't until a few seconds later that Sam shifted in bed and his breathing picked up speed. Dean knew he was awake.

The light on Sam's nightstand switched on, illuminating the room. "Dean?" Sam squinted up at him, voice drowsy with sleep. "What the hell are you doing in my room?"

"Sorry," Dean muttered. "I came to see if you were okay."

He looked down at the admission, the words sounding stupid, even to his own ears.

Sam was an adult. He didn't need his older brother to come checking on him during the night. Turning around, Dean walked out of Sam's room, only to get called back the next second.

"Get back in here," Sam said. "Don't just stand there and watch me sleep like a creep."

Dean moved back toward Sam's back, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "Are you—how are you feeling?"

"Fine," Sam said. "Head hurts a little, but I think I'm… you know, myself."

Dean nodded. He could work with that. He knew that Sam was still feeling depressive, but they were getting there. Step by step. Together.

"You could stay," Sam suggested softly. "If you want."

For anyone else – for an outsider who didn't know who they were or what they'd been through – the words might have sounded crazy. The suggestion of two grown-up men, two brothers, sharing a bed might have been weird. But to them, this was home. They found comfort in each other and they had learned to give in to seeking comfort every once in a while.

"Do you want me to?" Dean asked, hesitantly. He had been walking on eggshells around Sam lately.

Sam ducked his head in embarrassment and Dean sighed.

"Scoot," Dean said and waited for Sam to make some room before he settled back against one of Sam's pillows, half propped against the headboard and with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean closed his eyes, letting the sound of Sam's voice wash over him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" Sam whispered into the dark. "Do you think that we could… that all of this could end, one day? All of this... evil."

Dean was quiet for so long that Sam thought he'd fallen asleep.

Eventually, he let out a heavy breath – and with it, he let go of three hundred years' worth of baggage, a whole milestone of guilt around his neck, a heart filled with so much self-hatred he could barely stand to look at himself in the mirror, a soul, black like tar with all the sins he'd committed.

There was a Sammy-shaped place in there, somewhere, and it was so pure and so bright that it somehow managed to balance out all the darkness inside of him.

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean admitted and in the dark, where no one could see, he threaded his fingers together with his brother's. "But if it does, it ends with us."

Sam squeezes in understanding, a silent wow exchanged between them.

"Don't leave, kay?" Sam murmured, shifting onto his side and burying his face in his pillow.

Dean smiled. "Go to sleep, brother."

Lay your weary head to rest.

Don't you cry no more.