Disclaim: All things Supernatural do not belong to me, and I do not claim they do. When I'm done playing with them I promise to put them back as they were.

Notes: Many thanks to LdyAnne for the read-through, encouragement and typo-spotting. I take full responsiblity for all errors. I'm still reserving the right to tweak the end, so the second part of this story should be up soonish.

And I know humor is subjective, but I'd still love comments if you've got them.

You Would Cry Too, If It Happened To You

When they were in Lemmon, South Dakota, working on what they (mostly Dean) suspected was a bogus case, Dean came back with dinner one night and discovered Sam at it in their motel room. It was kind of awkward and more than a little embarrassing, but those kinds of things were hard to avoid completely when two people spent pretty much every moment together. Neither of them thought much about it. Sam was prone to it anyway, especially lately, so catching him in the act wasn't really that out of the ordinary.

Following a prolonged awkward pause, they exchanged a few non-committal type words, ate their hearty fried chicken, coleslaw, and mashed potatoes from the town's only diner, and made like it hadn't happened at all. Just like any red-blooded American males would do. Later that evening, Dean pretended he didn't see Sam at it again during parts of The Abyss, as they watched it for what felt to Dean the millionth time. Ever since he was a gawky pre-teen, Sam had had a weird thing for Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. As for Dean, he spent the night ignoring Sam and fighting back tears of boredom; he'd always thought The Abyss was about two hours too long and if he wanted to be kind he'd say the pace was plodding.

Two days later, after officially confirming the chupacabra was actually a lonely rancher named Thor who happened to love goats more than he should (literally loved them to death), Dean and Sam cleared out of town with intention to go anywhere that wasn't Lemmon, South Dakota. Both of them felt dirty and wrong just for finding yet another way humanity was well and truly fucked up. They decided to stick with demon hunting for the near future, which to them was familiar and even comforting in a way.

There were enough demons running around to keep them busy for the remaining ten and a half months of Dean's life, Dean remarked offhandedly, which made Sam get all watery-eyed and wibbly. Again. That was understandable, and those were manly tears of manly pain. Besides, the whole deal was still too recent to expect any other reaction. Dean told himself this primarily because he felt his nose prickle and his eyeballs heat up uncomfortably, portends of his own impending tears. He turned the radio on for a distraction. Alice In Chains' Don't Follow was on, and it instantly made Sam go from watery-eyed to wet-faced and blubbery. A rapid change of station landed them on Don't Worry, Be Happy which only made them both, for oh-so-many reasons, upset enough to pull the car over in order to regain their composure.

Once they got back on the road, it was only to find the nearest bar to hug. Several beers later, both vowed they would someday find and exorcise that evil bastard Bobby McFerrin.

They ended up in Colorado Springs, Colorado. It was one of many cities to have a proverbial black cloud suddenly hover over it, and since they hadn't been to Colorado for a while it seemed as good a town as any to set up shop. One of the places frequently on or near the top of the US's Healthiest List, the city had recently experienced a rash of unfortunate deaths and crime had started increasing noticeably. The demons were done with being subtle, it seemed. Sam belatedly thought they might not be the only ones to have noticed the alarming downward spiral of the fair city, so while Dean grabbed them a room at the End of the Trail Motel, Sam called Bobby to make sure no other hunters were already there handling the problems. With the Roadhouse nothing more than a pile of charred rubble, Bobby was trying his best to coordinate the hunters he knew.

Dean walked back to the car with keys to lucky room number thirteen in his hand, found Sam already off the phone with news that Colorado Springs was theirs for the exorcising as far as Bobby knew. Sam seemed to be in a pout-producing funk, and when Dean pressed the issue he was told it was because Ellen had apparently answered the phone at Bobby's and Sam didn't appreciate the idea of those two shacking up. Instead of calling Sam an idiot, Dean felt his hackles raise and he panicked slightly himself, because Bobby really could do so much better.

That night, Sam thought he should brush up on his Latin and make sure they had the most effective exorcisms at the ready for when they started hunting, so while he did that Dean left to go get snacks. When Dean came back, a six-pack under his arm and beef jerky in his hand, he found Sam sprawled on one of the beds, caught in the act yet again. Sam didn't even try to hide it this time, couldn't or wouldn't stop right away. He had to get it all out, Sam said in a distorted voice. Dean retreated to the safety of the bathroom. After it was all over and he'd recovered a bit, Sam looked embarrassed and said that the Latin reminded him of one time when they were kids and Dad had performed the precise exorcism he'd been reciting. Dean thought that was a highly suspect and very weird reason for Sam's activities, but didn't say a thing.

Different strokes for different folks, after all. Dean wasn't one to judge.

They fell into a quick routine. It was all paint-by-numbers hunting currently, though both of them suspected the demons would eventually start networking better and learn hunter tricks and how to avoid basic traps. Time was of the essence for that reason as well as the fact Dean had been stamped with a definitive expiration date, not that either of them dared mention that out loud again. It took Sam thirteen exorcisms before he could make it through without being overcome by the words. He said he couldn't seem to shake the memory of their father's voice, loud and strong and clear, and how emotion just sprang up. That still didn't seem like much of a reason for the odd behavior to Dean, and it was getting inhibitive in a couple of different ways.

"Dude," Dean had said once, mid-recitation in exorcism number eight.

He'd intended to ask Sam what the hell was up with him, but stopped cold when it started happening again. Right there in some poor unfortunate possessed schmuck's dingy singlewide trailer. It took Dean five more times of uncomfortably watching Sam get all affected (it wasn't easy to view) to suggest maybe they start using English vernacular instead, since even the stinkin' Roman Catholics now found that acceptable for exorcism rituals.

That worked for a while, but it wasn't a foolproof solution. Apparently it wasn't really the words causing Sam to get all peculiar and keyed up, but more the memories associated with exorcisms. If the creepy association thing kept happening, Dean feared that Sam would soon have problems with various hunts beyond demons. Even more disturbing, though, was that the spells of Sam's weren't limited to their working hours, or the privacy of their motel room. Any humor Dean might have found in it had long since vanished. His perturbation continued to grow, as Sam did it more and more often, and often, too, in public. In fact, Dean swore that ever since he'd noticed it was happening, it seemed like Sam was always doing it.

Crying, that was.

Only when Sam cried because he bent a fingernail back while opening his laptop one night did Dean consider something was maybe, actually, seriously wrong with his brother.

Still, Dean could never quite find the right moment or place to address the issue. It wasn't like they had ample amounts of time to ponder their navels. When they weren't exorcising, they were looking for something to exorcise, sleeping or, in Sam's case, crying. In quick order, Sam-on-a-crying-jag just became pretty standard, and slightly less embarrassing for both of them. Sam said he just needed time, what with recently being dead and all. It, however, became more difficult for Dean to remain untouched by it. Dean would never admit it, but one of the worst things in the world to him had always been seeing his little brother in pain. There were worse things, things he used to only imagine but now had a constant memory of. Things like holding Sam as he died all silent and sudden and still… Anyway, when coupled with frequent resurgence of that memory, Sam's tear-filled eyes tended to be kind of infectious, even if they happened because of something trivial like getting salt in a paper cut.

So that was why it took them a while to realize the problem wasn't limited to Sam alone.

It was also probably more difficult to diagnose in Dean because he tended to have a mite more self-control than Sam did (at least in this regard). Where Sam let tears slide down his face easily, Dean was a stoic, pretty crier who usually managed to only let one or two tears actually escape, and then in solitude. It was a solid week and a half of Sam getting teary-eyed at the lamest things before either of them really thought to wonder why Dean had also started shedding his trademark controlled, solitary tear at things like watching cheesy movies. On evening eight of their stint in Colorado Springs, for example, when they had watched little Travis bravely go out and put down Old Yeller, it was fair to say that there hadn't been a dry eye in the motel room. But the only people who didn't cry even a little at that were hardnosed bastards, and Dean had never quite achieved that rank and status.

They only considered this incident in hindsight. There were more. Lots, according to Sam. One and a half, tops, according to Dean.

If the truth were told, Sam probably would have figured it all out much, much sooner had he not been impeded by his own blurred vision, mild headaches and urges to cry he couldn't even try to explain. And Dean, well, Dean was too busy being freaked by Sam freaking out to notice he wasn't exactly Mr. Stable Emotions himself. It just seemed par for the course that every time Sam blubbered about something asinine, Dean would have to swallow past the lump in his throat. The reminders of how he fucking hated it when Sam was in pain of any kind were constant and unrelenting, after all. It was a big brother kind of thing. Every other random (or so they thought) bout of Dean-tears came at reasonable times. Crying seemed merely a little souvenir of their terrible year, and in the back of their minds they both thought that one day it would, like all cheap knick-knacks, be relegated to a dark corner and forgotten.

Except it didn't happen like that.

It finally dawned on Sam that Dean wasn't quite himself the morning after their twentieth really, really rough exorcism. Hour after hour of fighting, recitation, Dean pointing out repeatedly that the estimated number of hell escapees had clearly been a really big lowball and Sam weeping had left them both exhausted, smelly and hungry. Dean claimed he couldn't sleep on an empty stomach, and so they pulled into the first place they found open – The Hub Diner and Car Wash. As far as Dean was concerned, it was a two-fer; Baby had worked as hard as they had lately and deserved pampering. They left her at the wash and walked over to the diner for breakfast.

The restaurant looked as though someone had puked kitsch all over it, which eventually overwhelmed Sam to the point he excused himself to have a good cry about its horridness in the restroom. Sam came back all cried out and relatively clear-eyed to find the wait staff had delivered the food and Dean with tears streaming down his face as he shoveled Eggs Diablo into his mouth. Sam knew Dean enjoyed his food, but the exhibition of public tears was way too TV evangelist praising God's glory or forgiveness or blessing or comfort during trying times or whatever.

"Spicy?" Sam said. Dean spared a millisecond to glance up with a quizzical expression on his tear-tracked face, which gave Sam the opportunity to point to the eggs. "Those must be pretty spicy."

"Not really. Best damned eggs I've ever eaten. It's like I'm having a religious experience, and you know how I feel about religion." Dean flashed a mouth full of sickening yellow and red and orange as he spoke. "Why would you say that?"

Sam pushed aside his heaping plate of French toast, appetite suddenly deader than the demon they'd battled all night. He grabbed the shiny metal napkin dispenser and held it up to Dean's face. Dean had morphed into a sniveling wreck…over eggs…and hadn't even realized it until it literally stared him in the face. Dean dropped his fork, seized a handful of napkins and scrubbed at his cheeks, angry because Sam had, without saying a word, just come right out and addressed the issue in annoying little-brother fashion when he'd tried and failed to do the same thing for ten freaking days.

"Shut up. You're the one who's been a ginormous walking water fountain lately," Dean said, which made Sam wail about Dean being so m-m-m-mean and burst into tears.

The decision to leave Colorado Springs with a remaining, much smaller demon infestation to figure out what the hell was going on with them was one Dean and Sam agreed upon wholeheartedly.

They quickly discovered, however, that getting out of town was going to be problematic. After beating a hasty, embarrassed retreat out of the diner they discovered the guys at the car wash had used an inferior quality finishing polish on the Impala. Dean, who had just managed to expunge away the evidence of the tears that had presumably been for joy of delicious, delicious eggs, was now faced with an onslaught of far more understandable, if still alarming, tears of sad rage. Where he'd normally have to be held back by Sam to keep from decking someone, now Sam just had to hold him to provide comfort. This, in turn, led to the car wash guys' funny looks, which Sam noticed and got tearfully upset about. Sam held his own against both the tears and the disbelieving stares.

Fluky lack of Sam-tears aside it still took ten minutes of recovery time. Eventually the driving fell into Sam's unusually incapable hands because Dean's hands were even more unusually incapable at that particular juncture. Sam had long ago lost any practical ability to drive for distances greater than four blocks; this was something that should have registered with him, and it had with Dean, but since Dean usually drove anyway it wasn't really an issue. Until just then. Even in his state of distress, Dean knew his Baby could be in more lethal danger than she had endured just from the bad wax.

"You better drive carefully," Dean said with a sniffle. Just the thought of his already rebuilt car suffering more damage was painful to him. "She's been hurt enough for one day."

"Because I don't usually drive carefully?" Sam said, and followed it up with a lip wibble. "Dean, why do you have to be such a jerk all th-the time?"

"Oh, don't tell me you're going to start bawling again," Dean said through his own miserable snuffling.

"Sh-hut up, Crybaby!"

"You shut up, Mr. Sniffly McSnifflypants."

And so it went the entire trip back to the End of the Trail Motel – on again off again crying from both of them. It was as though openly acknowledging the abnormal phenomenon only served to exacerbate it. By the time they got there, both Dean and Sam were too exhausted to actually vacate the room. They were fake paid up through the end of the week, so they took naps instead. The sleep was fitful, filled with dreams that jerked them awake already crying. Sam dreamt of lollipops and candy canes (he had no idea why that made him cry, though Dean referenced Freud) while Dean's dreams always ended with him eight and a half months pregnant and in early, excruciating labor (subconscious payback for objectifying women, Sam told him).

Both of them finally awoke for good hours later feeling mostly fine if not exactly refreshed, and except for the ever-present and exponential need to cry. After each had showered and swallowed down bad motel coffee (and lamentable tears for the sheer dismay about substandard beans), they discussed their options. They could just stay in Colorado Springs, but for the fact they had already pushed the envelope regarding their welcome at the motel. That meant they'd nearly overstayed their welcome in the city as well. Sam suggested Denver might have a decent library for their research and was close enough that they could hopefully, maybe, probably make the trip easily despite their current handicaps.

"Yeah, plus then we could find things to do in Denver when I'm dead," Dean said.

Sam didn't get or more likely didn't appreciate the movie reference. Whichever it was, the ill-advised remark made him announce what both of them knew: that while in Colorado Springs they'd whittled another half month off that Dean's-gonna-die-OMG deadline without finding a solution. After that unnecessary reminder, Sam cried with extreme vigor. And, because Sam was so fucking contagious, Dean also shed his customary tear or, okay, maybe twenty as well. So Denver was out.

They agreed on a more northeasterly route, deciding Bobby probably had as decent a library as any large municipality might have, maybe an even better one for their needs. Neither of them felt up to the task of calling ahead, too fearful Ellen might still be there and that she would answer Bobby's phone again. Neither of them wanted to consider how much worse it would be to walk in on something unspeakable without warning, assuming their idea about that disconcerting subject was on target. Which it might not be. They hoped. With fervor.

They made it as far as Limon, Colorado, which was farther than they, realistically, should have gotten in mostly one go (Dean veered off onto the dusty gravel shoulder no fewer than five times toward the end, according to Sam. Once, according to Dean.).

Still, Dean was adamantly opposed to stopping there. He said the name was too reminiscent of Lemmon and the goat-killing rancher that came with it as far as he was concerned. The truth of the matter was, though, he was too tapped out to drive any further. He knew it and Sam had made it clear he knew it as well. There was no argument between them that they would not stay at the Craig Ranch Bed & Breakfast; the idea that there might be goats on the premises somewhere loomed big and terrible in their minds in an almost collective manner, like a shared vision.

They pulled into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn instead. The place seemed more fitting than the Econo-Lodge because they both needed comfort. Apparently, though neither of them felt particularly sad notwithstanding the overabundance of tears…unless their minds wandered onto legitimately worrying things. Anyway, they could use a cool washcloth for sore eyes at the very least, especially for Sam, and maybe actual facial tissues. The single ply toilet paper they'd yoinked in Colorado Springs left their noses tender. Sam's was heading toward disgustingly scabby.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Dean said. Dean knew full well it was probably impossible for Sam to take what he was going to say the right way. Anything like real conversation had vanished back around Calhan. Nothing Dean said was right, and nothing could help Sam speak through the inevitable tears whatever Dean had said produced. Like the whole situation, Dean might find it blackly amusing if not for his own corresponding waterworks every time he made Sam cry. Talk about bringing it on himself. "But if you go in there they're going to think you're a meth addict on a downward spiral. We'll sneak you in later."

"Dean," Sam said with a little sigh, but for once didn't break out with the tears. Sam glanced at the side view mirror, then leaned his head back and closed his bloodshot, puffy eyes. It was like it was too much effort to do anything else. "They probably don't even know what meth is out here yet, but, no, you're right. This is fucking wearing me out, man."

There was a thick silence. Dean couldn't really say anything to the admission, though it did worry him to the point of now commonplace tears. The signs that something was wrong with Sam were becoming increasingly physical. The symptoms used to fade between crying bouts, but now Sam always looked terrible. He probably had for a while, yet somehow Dean had not fully noticed. And Dean wasn't exactly escaping unscathed either, but his eyes were red-rimmed in a slightly less meth chic way than Sam's were. Dean averted his gaze from Sam, who didn't move from his recumbent position to see Dean not looking at him. It didn't matter. Sam knew Dean was troubled without the benefit of sight. He would have known under normal circumstances anyway, but it had become pretty standard to assume tears were in the works for any given moment.

"I'll be right back," Dean said at last. "Don't go anywhere."

Sam nodded, though he kept his head back and eyes closed. Dean could only hope no one walked by and saw Sam; even with his eyes shut the guy looked just this side of death. Except that wasn't really true because Dean knew what a dead Sam looked like. The effects of crying for over a week weren't pretty. They were weariness. That, before, Sam dead, had been…nothing. Total husked-out emptiness and the damned scariest thing Dean had ever seen in his life, including his father in a similar, dead and gone (gone, gone, gone) state. The hotel entrance blurred, Dean's face was hot and he had no one to blame for the upsurge of tears but himself. Again.

The resounding unfunniness of the situation sometimes smacked Dean right in the face.

Dean wiped away the tears on his cheeks and entered the hotel lobby. Something about the atmosphere of the place got under his skin. Perhaps Dean missed the dim and slightly skeezy check in areas of the roadside motels they frequently patronized. Perhaps it was the generic look of the lobby furniture. Whatever inexplicable thing at the root of it, he had to try very hard to keep the tears from springing back up. Dean did what he did best – focused on the woman behind the counter, who was average looking at the very most but had a nice smile. Dean would have sex with her if given the opportunity.

"Can I help you, sir?" she said, a small moue forming at Dean's appearance. The moue made her less than average looking. Which only added to the insane urge Dean had to cry for some reason. "You look upset about something."

"Upset? No," Dean said. His smile for her wasn't the best he'd ever produced, and Dean knew it. He did what he could to recover, glanced at her nametag but just couldn't make himself use her name. No parent should impart the name Agatha on a helpless child. Look what had done to this poor woman. "It's just that you're so pretty I can hardly contain myself."

Dean's usual charm didn't work in the slightest, likely because the woman (Agatha) behind the counter knew Dean knew that she knew she wasn't anything to look at. Well, that and there was the question of whether getting hit on by a crying man was really a turn on for anyone. Dean gave up the ghost and plowed through the registration process as quickly as possible given the hot tears on his face and the increasingly disgusted expression on the woman's (Agatha's) increasingly unpretty face. He secured a room on the other side of the building. Unpretty Woman told him it would be best to drive around and use one of the other entrances. Dean didn't argue, grabbed the keycards and left with his eyes to the ground. The lobby sofa was just too ugly to look at on top of what he'd already suffered.

When Dean got back to the car, it appeared Sam was asleep. Rather than wake his brother, Dean figured he'd roll the car around to the proper entrance and unload their bags into the room first. It would have gone smoothly, except as Dean backed the Impala up a muffled lub-dub-thunk sounded from the rear driver's side tire. It was enough to make Sam rouse and stare at him in horror.

"I think you hit something, Dean," Sam said. Dean continued his reverse course and there was another soft lub-dub-thunk-squish from the front. Sam gasped. "Now I know you hit something."

The second after Dean stopped the car, Sam was out and kneeling next to the roadkill (parking lot kill) and Dean was out and kneeling at the front, inspecting the tire for damage and guts.

"Oh my gosh it's a squirrel and it's dead, Dean. Dead! You ran over a defenseless little animal." Sam was, perhaps, a trifle more worked up than anyone over the age of four should have been regarding the untimely demise of a rodent. Already, the tears flowed freely. "Come look at it, it's all splayed out l-like Jesus on the cross. You killed a Jesus squirrel. Poor little dead and bloody J-jesus squirrel. We should give it a proper burial."

Had Dean not been a touch more worked up than he should have been about the Jesus squirrel's blood splatter and insides on the front of the car and the tires, he would have noticed Sam pop the trunk, whip out a shovel and start digging a hole on the grassy patch between curb and sidewalk. He also would have noticed several hotel employees had seen the commotion and stepped outside to watch the spectacle. When Dean stood and moved to rummage the trunk for cleaning supplies, he finally became aware of the small crowd and came most of the way back to his senses.

Dean quickly applied Armor All to the tire, then dragged Sam back to the car, shoved him in the passenger seat and tossed the rag, cleaner and shovel into the trunk. As Dean rounded back toward the driver's seat, curiosity got the better of him. He moved to the dead animal and paused only to note that the squirrel really was laid out like it was on a miniature crucifix, complete with a bloody side and paws. Dean wondered momentarily if son-of-God Jesus' entrails had spilled out like that. He'd probably go to hell for thinking that, but then Dean was already headed there.

After they made their way to the hotel room, both Sam and Dean each took seven long drawn, sixty-second sobs, for loss of precious rodent life and the loss of freshly shined rims, respectively. They vowed to never mention the embarrassing episode again, just another thing to add to a monumental and still expanding list. But Dean still had to stop Sam from going back out to finish the Jesus squirrel burial with a glare and a statement about how it would probably rise again after three days if they put the thing in the ground, and then they'd just have a zombie Jesus squirrel to deal with and they didn't really need the added distraction.

TBC