Inspired by Cheryl W.

Not This Way
K Hanna Korossy

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Sam Winchester drew a hand over his face, feeling tired in ways far beyond the physical. For once, he'd escaped a hunt without even a scratch—and the fact that that alone was notable was disturbing—but he felt like an exhausted puddle. Carrying Dean to the car hadn't helped. Watching him breathe bloody bubbles on the way to the hospital was even worse.

You weren't supposed to watch your family dance with death over and over.

Well, he pulled Dean's blanket a little higher, at least they could both rest now. The doctor had said the damage, bits of broken ribcage lodging in the lung, hadn't been hard to fix and Dean would be fine, would sleep through the worst of it. He looked haggard and unwell, curled small in the bed, but his face was peacefully smoothed, his breathing slow and easy. Sam might actually be able to fall asleep to that rhythm, letting it replace the wet wheeze in his memory.

"Too close, man," he murmured, and patted Dean's arm before sliding down in his seat and letting his eyes close.

Dean's phone started vibrating in Sam's pocket.

Sam groaned and pulled it out, eyeing the number warily. No name, Pennsylvania area code. With a sigh, he pushed himself up and went to the far corner of the room to make sure he didn't disturb Dean. He flipped his phone open.

"Hello?"

Five minutes later, Sam shut it, looking troubled. They'd gotten a few referrals from their dad's number ever since John Winchester had vanished, and so far had always been able to go help. Now…

But the guy, apparently an old acquaintance of their dad, hadn't asked; he'd begged. It sounded like a ghoul had picked up his scent, and that wouldn't end until the guy was dead, or the ghoul was. It wasn't something that could wait, and it was only one state over.

Sam looked over at the bed. But Dean…

He chewed on his lip, then went to find a nurse.

When he returned, he looked his brother up and down, then folded his fingers around the still wrist. "Dean, listen…I have to go take care of something. Life or death, or I wouldn't go, but I know you'd agree with me on this one. I don't like leaving you, but they promise you won't even be awake to know I'm gone, so…Yeah. Okay. I'll be back soon, all right?" Sam nodded. "Okay. See you tomorrow." He squeezed Dean's wrist, hesitated a moment, then finally made himself let go and walk away. The sooner he went, the sooner he'd return.

Still, at the door, he hesitated, looking back. Dean hadn't even stirred. But if he'd been awake, he would've been grumbling at Sam to quit being such a girl and go already. Sam smiled, shook his head, and walked out.

Dean slept on behind him.

00000

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

He was bobbing.

No, not bobbing. Weaving. Back and forth. Shaking.

Frowning, he tried to figure out why, to think.

The shaking continued. Someone shaking him.

Other senses started to come online, including hearing.

"Mr. Tyler?"

Who? Nothing made sense. His head hurt; he couldn't feel anything else.

"Mr. Tyler, please wake up."

Still shaking. Someone wanted him. Dean finally found his eyes, opened them a crack.

A face he didn't recognize hovered too close. It smiled at him. "There you are. Mr. Tyler, are you alone?"

What? Alone? Sam—

"Mr. Tyler, I'm sorry but please try to stay awake for a minute. There's been a problem with your insurance. We have to move you—you can't stay here."

Dean sucked in a breath, felt a distant stab in his chest. "What…? Can't stay…"

"Right. I'm really sorry. We're going to have to move you to a charity hospital, okay? They'll take good care of you there."

It took effort to connect her words, like puzzle pieces. Charity? That didn't sound right. Dean blinked, tried to focus. "Gotta be kiddin'… No. Sam…" Where was Sam? Dean rolled his head away from her and saw an empty chair. "Sam?"

"Your brother? Can your brother take you? We tried to call him but I think his phone's turned off—is he here? We can release you if you'd rather go with him."

Dean's eyes slid shut. He hated being doped up, not in control. Thinking took almost all he had, but the fog was slowly clearing. "Yeah." He had to clear his dry throat. "Sam." He had to be around somewhere and…Sam would look out for him. He always did now. And it wasn't like Dean had never recuperated in a motel room before.

"Okay." A strange hand touched his shoulder. "I'll get your discharge papers."

Dean thought he nodded. He distantly heard the door close, then forced his eyes open again, pushed himself a little higher. Gah—that hurt. The numbness was evaporating with the confusion, and Dean was guessing it had been hiding multiple broken ribs.

So where was Sam? He should've been back by now if he'd gone for coffee or a bathroom break. Dean thought he remembered Sammy leaning over him in the Impala…and the nurse knew who he was. So he had to be okay, just off taking a break or something. God knows how long Dean had been in the hospital already.

His eyes threatened to fall shut again, but Dean made himself stay awake while he waited. He didn't like not having someone at his back, especially when he was drugged and unarmed. Hospitals were dangerous places…full of weak, easy targets…angry spirits of the untimely dead…where was Sam…?

A hand on his shoulder started him awake, and Dean's chest panged dully at the movement. Great, he'd fallen asleep. He hadn't even heard Sam come in.

But it wasn't Sam.

The nurse, and later he wouldn't even be able to say if it was a he or she, thrust a clipboard at him. "Mr. Tyler? Sign here, please."

His hand had to be held up to do so, it was shaking so badly.

"Is your brother downstairs?"

He had to be. Sam wouldn't just leave him there. Dean nodded automatically.

"Great. Do you need any help getting up?"

He did. A lot. Dean closed his mind to the embarrassment of being lifted like a baby, a robe worked around him since he didn't seem to have any clothes there, only his wallet—just what was Sam doing all this time, anyway?—and disposable slippers on his feet. He could just imagine how he looked, and for once didn't care.

Then his ribs shifted from the movement, and for a while Dean didn't think about much of anything.

The upbeat tone sliced through the haze of pain. "Mr. Tyler, are you all right?"

Dean lifted his heavy head, saw glass doors in front of him. No Sam. Growing dread chased depression around in circles in his murky brain. "'M okay," he muttered.

"Maybe we should send you over to St. Anne's, after all."

He didn't like charity, and going someplace he didn't know wasn't gonna happen. "No." Shaking his head felt like pushing against water. Dean cleared his dry throat. "I'm good."

"Well…okay. Is your brother picking you up outside?"

Dean blinked. No. He'd been trying to explain it away, deny it, but…no. Sam would've been there already. If anything, he usually hovered. If he hadn't been there to help Dean get discharged, dressed, and out of there, Dean didn't have high hopes of seeing the Impala pull up.

God, that hurt worse than the ribs and the head.

"Sure," Dean said tonelessly.

His shoulder was petted again. He would've pulled away if he could. "All right, you just sit here until he does, okay?"

Dean swallowed pride and pain. "Roll me out?"

"Are you sure? It's chilly out there."

His energy was bottoming out, and Dean just nodded.

"Well, all right, but I'll come check on you in a few minutes."

He didn't bother answering.

His chair was pushed out to the curb, the breeze immediately sliding through his thin clothing. Dean sat, gathering his strength, waiting until he heard the glass doors behind him slide shut. Then he raised his hand as high as he could to summon one of the nearby taxis.

Things blurred after that. He remembered asking for the nearest cheap motel—they'd never gotten a room—and the cabdriver's uncertain look. Dean leaned forward by inches to drop some bills over the seat, and that shut the guy up.

He wanted to refuse the man's help out of the cab and into the motel front office, but there was no way he would've made it on his own. Dean drew strength from the shame of being so helpless.

The front desk guy also looked skeptical at the sight of him, but it didn't stop him from taking Dean's credit card. At least Sam had left him his wallet. Dean gritted his teeth and asked for the nearest room.

The meds' cushioning haze was gone; pain clouded his head now. The cement pathway to his door two units down wavered and stretched in his flickering vision. He wasn't sure he could make it.

Dean took one step and sagged against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut against the burn, slammed a fist weakly into the wall. "Come on, Dean," he mumbled breathlessly. "Just 'nother hunt."

That Sam had skipped out on him on.

Dean couldn't spare the energy to think about it, about where his brother and his car and Dean's few possessions were. Sam had to be safe, simple as that, and beyond that Dean would deal with…later. He couldn't stand any more right now.

He leaned heavily against the wall as he shuffled along. His chest screamed as the broken edges of bones rasped against each other with each step, his heavy breaths increasing the excruciating friction. Dean's meager clothing was soon wet with sweat, and the cold air made it feel like ice against his skin. Shivering didn't do his ribs any favors, either. It wasn't the first time he'd been hurt and alone, but he'd forgotten just how miserable that was.

And then he was pressing his face against warm wood instead of cold concrete. Dean leaned against the door, trying to remember why he was there.

Hunt…hospital…Sammy…

It took several times for his shaking hand to get the key in, and Dean nearly fell when the door swung in.

The room was large and narrow and dark, the beds distant lumps. Dean took one look and gave up on the idea of reaching them. His chest felt full of crushed glass, pulling in air was self-torture, and there was no strength left in him to draw on. His knees buckled, sending him sliding down the wall beside the door, and Dean didn't fight it. Was done fighting.

Was done.

He dropped his head back against the wall, curling as much as he could for warmth despite his jagged ribs, and let it all go.

Praying Sam was okay even as Dean couldn't help but woundedly wonder how his brother could've walked out on him like this.

00000

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

"Excuse me?"

The nurse was talking again, saying the same thing as last time even though it didn't make any more sense than last time. Dean was still gone.

It hadn't been five minutes since Sam had pulled the Impala into a spot in the hospital lot and leaned his head back against the seat with a tired sigh. If he'd thought he was weary before, he was totally exhausted now, but at least the hunt had gone smoothly. The treated crossbow quarrels had brought the ghoul down without Sam getting closer than ten feet to it, and the guy had been so relieved, he'd forced a sizable check on Sam. He smiled at the thought of Dean's reaction to having a little financial cushion. Sam envisioned a lot of pancakes in their future, possibly the PSP Dean had been silently pining for, as well as staying in one place for a while, while his brother recuperated.

The thought of Dean had gotten Sam moving again. It was probably a little pathetic how much he'd missed his big brother, not just on the job but on the road, at his side. It had felt like Stanford again, when he'd had whole conversations in his head with an imaginary Dean filling in the quiet. Dean would've preened to know how much room he took up in Sam's head and heart and life.

Sam locked the car carefully—he was always careful when he was babysitting—and headed inside.

At first, Sam thought he had the wrong room. The bed that should have held his sleeping brother instead sagged under the weight of a large middle-aged man who ignored Sam as he surfed channels.

Sam frowned and backed up a step to look at the room number again. No, that was the right one. Huh. Definitely not Dean.

He glanced around, spotted the nurses' station, and headed over, smiling at the pretty face that looked up at him. "Hi, I think my brother was moved to another room while I was gone? Dean…Tyler?"

She seemed surprised but checked her computer.

Sam's gut tightened when he saw her stiffen. "What? He's…uh, he's okay, right?" Sam had been gone for less than twenty hours; had Dean taken a turn for the worse meanwhile? Been moved to the ICU or, oh, God, taken back for more surgery?

"No, no, Mr. Tyler, nothing like that—actually, your brother was discharged earlier today."

He was pretty sure his jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

It still didn't make sense.

Sam shook his head, attention snapping back to the here-and-now. Dean wasn't gone—he couldn't be. "There must be some mistake. He had surgery yesterday morning—they told me he wouldn't even wake up until today."

She was already shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I don't know what to say. There was some problem with his insurance and we were going to move him to St. Anne's—it's a charity hospital—but he chose to be discharged instead. He left about…four hours ago."

Sam's hand curled into a fist on the countertop. "You kicked him out? A fourth of his ribcage is broken or cracked and his lung was punctured in three places. He couldn't even talk, let alone think straight enough to make a decision about where he should go, and you put him out on the street because you didn't get your money right away?" Dean was the one who did low and lethal; Sam was yelling and ready to blow.

"Please, sir," she placated him, looking a little scared. "There was no one here to ask, and the number we had on file for him only went to voicemail. Mr. Tyler seemed aware. He said you would take over his care."

"Well, I wasn't here, so where did he go?"

"I-I don't know, sir."

Oh, God, Dean. Sam stalked a step away from the station, pulling at his lip. He should have been there, no matter how important the job had been and how earnestly they'd assured him Dean wouldn't even know he was gone. Sam could just imagine what his too-often abandoned brother had felt at being told he had to leave and no Sam there to lean on. He turned back to the counter, swallowing the bitter taste in his throat. "He was supposed to be safe here," he growled at the nurse. His phone had been turned off for the hunt, and when he'd called in to the hospital from Dean's that morning, there had been no news. "I want to talk to the nurse who saw him last, now."

She blanched and scrambled.

As he waited, Sam tried to channel his agitation into figuring out where Dean might have gone, confused and barely able to move. Without even clothes or a phone, Sam realized as his gut clenched even tighter. This was just getting worse and worse. At least Dean had his wallet—would he have been able to get a room? Gone somewhere to try to find Sam? Or was he still somewhere on the hospital grounds, unconscious after instinctively going to ground?

The nurse was off duty and had to be called. A few tense questions didn't reveal much except that she'd last seen Dean outside in a wheelchair, and ten minutes later the chair sat empty. So, taxi, probably. Hopefully.

Five minutes later, with a little help from the fake police ID he had on him, Sam had the name of the motel from the taxi company. Two minutes and a shaken nurse later, Sam was flying out to the car.

At the motel, the same ID netted him an assurance Dean had been there at the motel as well as a room number, and a description that made Sam's heart sink a little lower. "Like roadkill," in the proprietor's colorful lingo, was about what Sam had expected, but it didn't make him feel any better. His sharp, "Did you ask him if he needed some help?" just earned him a blank stare, and Sam huffed and walked out, not bothering to request a spare key.

He strode down to the room, measuring the length of the walk through Dean's eyes and impressed his brother had even made it. It couldn't have been easy or pleasant, but that was Dean. He had reserves of strength Sam was only just starting to glimpse.

He was going to pick the lock, but as Sam approached the door, he saw the key was still in it. He shook his head as he opened the door. Not good.

The first thing he saw when he stepped inside was the sprawled, motionless form.

"Dean!" He dropped to his knees beside his brother, hands skimming his trembling edges. "Hey. Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean curled a little tighter, flinched, but didn't open his eyes.

Sam checked his pulse, bent low to listen to his chest, frowning at the warm, flushed skin and damp clothes. "You're a mess, big brother," he scolded softly. But when he moved the gown aside, the bandage covering the stitches was unstained, and Dean's heart rate was steady. This was over-exertion and pain, not new damage. Dean probably would be fine recovering out of the hospital, he just hadn't been ready to be tossed out on the street on his own.

Sam closed his eyes for a second in grief at the thought. "I'm here. I'm here now, Dean," he crooned in case Dean was listening in on his thoughts like he so often seemed to. "I've got you. I'm just gonna get you more comfortable, all right?"

He didn't want to move the broken body any more than necessary, so Sam would do what he could right there. He got up to yank all the covers off the nearest bed before returning to Dean's side.

He'd just slid a knife out of hiding, ready to cut the cheap, unwanted hospital robe and gown off, when he noticed Dean was clutching his wallet in one hand. Sam tried to coax it free, only to find it was held in a death grip. He swallowed. "Important, huh?" he said softly. Dean had been clinging to literally all he had left. "You hang on to that for now." Sam laid the clenched hand down and went on to carefully slice through the damp material, leaving Dean in his boxers and those incongruously fuzzy slippers. It beat trying to manhandle him out of the clothes.

There was no way he was walking Dean over to the beds, even if it was just a dozen feet. The fact that he hadn't been able to cross that distance on his own said plenty about how far he'd pushed himself already, and Sam wasn't about to keep pushing. He levered Dean up against him, whispering over the quiet groan of pain, and lifted at back and knee.

Dean's body clenched against the movement. Before he could make another sound, Sam was already draping him along the bed. "Easy, easy, easy," he chanted under his breath as he settled legs first, then, gently, torso, and finally head, cupped in his hand. Sam quickly pulled up the blankets up over the shivering length.

Dean's eyes opened almost lazily. Sam stopped moving, all his focus on connecting with his brother. He knew when Dean recognized him when there was a flicker of something in the fuzzy hazel, relief and more. Hurt, Sam didn't want to call it, and not physical.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Sammy?"

Stronger than he'd expected, but then, this was the guy who'd gotten himself a motel room halfway across town the day after surgery. Sam's tremulous smile grew a notch. "Yeah. I hear you couldn't wait for me while I was gone."

Dean still wasn't fully tracking. The line between his eyebrows deepened. "Sammy?"

Sam had moved down to the foot of the bed to pull the slippers off and tuck the material around Dean's feet; he'd have to get some socks and the hot water bottle from the car. He quickly slid back up to the head of the bed, not missing how Dean tracked his movements. "Yeah, Dean, I'm right here. I'm sorry I wasn't before—you shouldn't have had to do that alone."

"You're back."

He had a feeling it was supposed to be a statement, maybe even a reassurance, but it came out as a breathy question. Sam hurt for his fiercely strong brother who was so vulnerable on one single point. "I am. And I'm not going anywhere, Dean. I shouldn't have left, but I'm here now."

A slow blink. "S'okay." He wasn't even sure Dean knew what he was forgiving, but it didn't matter because Dean always, always forgave. "Y'all right?"

Sam stretched to grab the blanket off the other bed and also tuck it around his brother. Dean had gotten a double room and maybe that was coincidence, but Sam preferred to think it was more. "I'm fine. I had to go help somebody but I'm okay. I'm sorry I wasn't there, Dean—I never thought… I'm sorry."

Dean's shivers were fading. He hadn't moved except for blinking and talking, and Sam wondered again how he'd been able to get as far as he did. And if he'd ever had to do it before. "S'okay. Quit…'poligizing. Not respons'ble…for me." He leaned a little to his side like he wanted to turn over and couldn't, and Sam realized he'd been half-propped on his right before in the hospital, too, in deference to cracked posterior ribs on his left. He moved to help, rolling gently, sliding a pillow in to keep Dean's place.

It was only then Sam played back his brother's words, and laughed. "Actually, yeah, I am, Dean. Get used to it."

His amusement didn't last; Dean's face was still tight with pain despite his unwillingness to show it. Sam hesitated, then clasped a hand around Dean's fist.

"Let me have this."

He wondered if he was asking before Dean was ready. But after a second, the billfold dropped into Sam's hand. He clutched it for a moment, too, then dropped it on the nightstand. Dean's trust, even after everything life and Sam had thrown at him, sometimes shook him.

Sam leaned back over his brother, his palm lightly skimming the bandages that held the jigsaw of Dean's ribcage in place. He knew from personal experience that while any contact hurt, light pressure against broken ribs offered support that eased the pain. Doctors used to bind breaks for that reason until they'd realized the restriction facilitated pneumonia, but the principle still applied. "Please tell me that sorry excuse for a hospital sent some pain medication with you," Sam said.

But Dean's breath, after hitching once at Sam's touch, had lengthened and deepened to about as much as it could with hurt ribs, and his eyes were shut. Sam gave him a weary, sad look, then inhaled deeply and rose to do what he could while Dean was asleep. He was coated with dried sweat, needed warmer clothes than just boxers, and some water and medication because it wasn't drugs that had dulled his eyes.

First, however, Sam had a call to make.

00000

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Suck it up, soldier. Those were the words he'd always lived by, even if he hadn't passed the lesson on to Sammy. Hide the pain, keep going through the hurt, push past the loneliness. And, man, there was a lot of loneliness. But he was used to it, almost expected it.

This was something different.

He hurt—oh, God, yes—at least a few ribs broken, by Dean's hazy estimate, probably enough bruises on his torso that it would have made for good camouflage. His head ached with the echo of drugs and anesthesia and blood loss. And there was a faint dark memory of being on his own, dumped out into the world with a carelessness even his father had never shown.

But he doubted the memory, because this…this didn't feel like alone.

There was the soft drone of a voice in the background, TV or radio. The smell of soap and rubbing alcohol overlaying the vague mustiness of polyester and stale cigarette smoke in the air. The soft weight of blankets over his body, the pressure comforting instead of painful. No, more than that. Something warm pressing against his chest even though he lay on his side, and against his back. Like being gently sandwiched, but it wasn't restrictive or claustrophobic, just…comforting.

"You awake, Dean?"

Sam. Coils of invisible tension, physical and mental, relaxed inside him. "'Know I am," Dean mumbled, not budging. Sam did know him, probably too well.

"Here, the hospital sent over some stronger painkillers." Dean squeezed his eyes tighter shut as his ribs shifted when the hand-sized brace disappeared from his chest. Probably the same hand that lifted his head in one large palm, fed him pills and water.

At least the movement evaporated some of the grogginess. Dean pried his eyes open. "Hospital?" He still couldn't manage more than a whisper, and even that reverberated through his chest.

"Yeah." Sam sounded wry. "They even delivered it themselves. Amazing what the threat of a lawsuit can do. You've got some free follow-up care coming, too."

He didn't really understand, but Sam's hand had moved back to his ribs, and the light weight was easing both his pain and his breathing. Which made it a little easier to think. "Kicked me out—something 'bout insurance…" Dean tried to grumble, but he had a feeling it came out accusatory. Sam had been gone.

"I know." Soothing. Behind him, a knee pressed briefly against his spine before Sam resettled along the length of his back, buttressing him. It seemed those freaky long legs were good for something besides outrunning and outgrowing older brothers. "I didn't mean to leave you alone for so long."

Three years and three months flashed through Dean's mind. But he knew what Sam meant. And what he hadn't meant. Dean waking up alone had apparently not been the plan, and while that didn't erase the memory, it made it considerably less painful. "Car?" he asked drowsily.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, your baby's outside in one piece, too."

"Good." Dean blinked, feeling the give of the soft bed under him, the ease of worry inside.

"I took everything, didn't I?" Sam asked quietly after a moment, and his tone caught even Dean's half-asleep attention.

"S'okay," he said, patting Sam's hand, the only part he could reach without serious pain. Yeah, it hadn't been so pleasant for a while there, but coming back…that counted for a lot.

"No, it's not," Sam said from above in a low tone. "But it'll be all right now. Go back to sleep, Dean." The hand on his chest folded, slid down a little to cradle a new spot like a pain-drawn magnet. Dean's breathing eased even more. "I'm not going anywhere."

Dean grimaced and shifted, hissing in pain.

He could almost hear Sam shake his head. "Fine, be stubborn. What's a few more holes in your internal organs, right?"

"Shuddup," Dean whispered. Even that hurt.

"Yeah, so says the guy's who's been unconscious most of the last two days. Dean," Sam voice softened again into the register he used with the traumatized. "We've got the room for as long as we need it, and I've got your back—go to sleep."

Dean would have resented the tone a lot more if it didn't work so friggin' well, dampening the terrified whisper inside him at the thought of being helpless and alone. "Gonna sing me a lullaby?" he asked, starting to feel the high of the meds.

"Listen to the radio, jerk. I found a station you'd like."

Yeah, talk had turned into music at some point, guitars and screaming lyrics he couldn't place but that his foggy brain knew as well as it knew Sam's voice. Dean found himself smiling, drifting.

Sam settled a little more behind him, hip bone now digging comfortably into Dean's shoulder. There was a soft scritch of a page turning as he read something. His hand shifted along Dean's ribs, and Dean could swear the warmth it gave off was making torn flesh and bone heal faster. His brother held him in every way that mattered, and the memory of his battered body caving on him as Dean struggled along, alone, seemed increasingly distant and unreal.

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam said. "Everything's fine, trust me."

It was. He did.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, not in his world. But he was grateful for the exception.

He slept.

The End