Inspired in part by Phx

Someone Else's Debts
K Hanna Korossy

"So."

The one word froze Sam in the doorway, and if Dean's suspicions hadn't already been piqued, that would have done it. His kid brother was wearing the same caught-red-handed expression as he had at age five when he'd found and devoured Dean's whole candy stash at the bottom of his duffel bag. Right before he'd thrown it all up on to his older brother's shoes.

Dean shifted a little, breath barely hitching at the stab of pain from his shoulder. A stupid bullet wound wouldn't distract him from the figure blocking the sunlight from streaming into the room. "Where were you?" Dean finished nonchalantly.

Sam started moving again, swinging the motel door shut and turning his head but not his eyes Dean's way a moment. "I wrote you a note," he said, voice oddly hoarse. A hand waved in the direction of the nightstand between their beds, but Dean didn't need to look again to see what was there.

"Research, huh?"Gone to the library was all that was printed on the paper, in block letters, as if it had taken effort to write it.

Sam cleared his throat as he shrugged out of his jacket. "Yeah."

Dean nodded, pursed his lips, and wrapped a hand around his bad arm. "Find anything?"

"What?" Distracted hazel just skimmed him this time. "No."

"Makes sense. I mean, considering we're not on a case right now or anything."

The hitch in Sam's movements was tiny this time, probably invisible to anyone who didn't know him. Just like the way his shoulder and back muscles were bunched. Which was the only side of him he was showing Dean.

"And you didn't take your laptop or journal," Dean continued, still mild. Partly because he was still trying to figure out what was going on here besides the obvious fact that Sam was lying to him and sneaking out God knew where, but partly because he knew his brother. The guy was rock-solid in a fight, wanted to talk about feelings until the cows came home, but push him too hard to find out what was going on under the hood, and he had a tendency to either bolt or explode. And Dean wasn't up to tracking him down or picking up the pieces just then.

Then there was the fact that a sneaky little demon named Meg pretty much made Dean's favorite tactic, give-Sam-some-room-and-wait-him-out, impossible. Waiting last time had just given the monster possessing Sam a head start.

Sam's nostrils flared just a little. But where Dean braced himself for annoyance, maybe even anger, there came only resignation.

"I know what you're doing and you don't need to, all right? I'm not possessed or leaving or…I don't know, freaking out—you can run all the tests if you want. I just needed to go out for a little while."

Dean might have bought it; it wouldn't have been the first time Sam had taken a long walk to clear his head. Totally plausible. Likely, even. Except for the small fact that Sam had yet to full-on meet his eyes since he'd slipped into the room. And not in the guilt-ridden, I-can't-believe-I-did-that-to-you way he'd been watching Dean's every flinch the last few days. Or the it-was-just-a-nightmare one that he resorted to when Dean stumbled over to wake him in the middle of the night. Or even the I-wasn't-really-crying way his red eyes would avoid his brother's when he came out of a long stay in the bathroom. This was something else, and considering how much they were already juggling, Dean was really not looking forward to finding out what.

It didn't negate the fact that Dean needed to know, and Sam needed to get it off his chest.

"Sam," Dean just said quietly, totally not above playing the guilt card when he needed to. Pretty much not above using anything he needed to to help his brother.

Six-feet-four of aggravated Sam Winchester turned to him, and considering Dean was propped up in bed dressed only in his shorts and couldn't move his arm without feeling like lava had just oozed out of his joints, he probably should have been intimidated.

Dean just blinked, waiting.

Watching the broad shoulders deflate. "It's no big deal, man, I just…" One hand scratched the back of his head wearily, eyes darting everywhere but Dean. Then the hand dropped and Sam peered at him from under mussed bangs. "I went to this free clinic down the street."

Dean's brows drew together, and he curled forward a little from the headboard, into the pain. "Your arm bothering you? It's not infected, is it?"

"What?" Sam's eyes rounded, first from confusion, then surprise. "No, no, my arm's fine. Well, still sore, but…"

Dean felt a little slow, like he was a half a conversation behind his brother, but that wasn't wholly unusual. The words mattered less than the emotions behind them, and he could read those just fine: fear, anxiety. Shame. Dean drew up a leg to help snug his arm against his chest, then gave Sam his full attention. "Then…?"

Sam was in motion again, tense and unfocused, pawing aimlessly through his bag. "Dean—"

Fine. It wasn't his first choice, but he could do it that way, too. "Dude, just spit it out. After the last two weeks, I think I have a right to know. Besides, you always were a lousy—"

"Blood tests."

"—liar…" Dean blinked, sat up a little without even realizing it. "Sorry?"

Sam dropped on his bed, his back to Dean. His voice was so soft, it made him hard to hear, and Dean leaned forward painfully to catch the quiet confession. "Blood tests. STDs, drugs, anything they could check."

"I figured you weren't getting a pregnancy test, dude, but…" Cold, harsh light finally dawned, and it was Dean's turn to go wide-eyed. "You mean…you think Meg…?"

Sam huffed a bitter laugh, speaking half over his shoulder. "Would that really surprise you, Dean, knowing her? I mean, a week in my body, wanting to get revenge on us, no consequences? We don't even know where she—I—was most of that time. She could have slept her way through half the hookers between Twin Lakes and Texas. Could have killed half of 'em, too, for all we know, but I haven't been able to…I can't…" He dwindled in front of Dean's eyes, like an emptied shell folding in on itself.

Dean's jaw shut on an automatic and totally ridiculous reassurance. Because the fact was, that completely sounded like something Meg would do. Not just to get back at Sam, although that would certainly have been motive enough for her, but just because she felt like it. Dean cleared his throat. "That's where you were two days ago, too."

"I thought you were asleep," Sam said quietly, defeated.

"Yeah, until you snuck out the door at five a.m." He wasn't about to tell Sam how much it had scared him both times his brother had taken off, how his heart had only started settling down when he'd heard the rattle of Sam's key in the door. Dean raised a hand to rub his face and briefly closed his eyes. Sam had been carrying this burden all this time, too? He'd known it was lurking under Sam's skin—well, notthis exactly, but take your pick of any of the badness that came from having your body stolen from you for days—could feel it feeding on Sam, but he'd just been too damnably weak and in pain to do anything about it. Sam had been trying so hard to keep it together; it had been too easy to just let him for Dean, to take a breath and let himself be carried for a little while. But Dean couldn't afford that any longer. They couldn't both be broken at the same time, not now.

Dean dropped his voice, ready to be strong for them both no matter what answer he got to the next question.

"You get the results back yet?"

Sam nodded, head dipping below his shoulders. "Yeah, uh…negative on everything they could test for now. Some of them, like HIV, I'll have to check again in another month."

HIV? The thought distracted Dean in the middle of his relieved breath. He hadn't even thought of any ticking time bombs Meg might have planted in Sam, but why not? It would be just like the bitch to leave a fail-safe parting gift.

Dean refused to even consider it. Sam was fine; the tests were confirming as much. Dean had no doubt that sooner or later they'd learn more about what Meg had been up to in Sam's body. And while maybe he hadn't been able to bring himself to check around for a body trail, Dean had and had come up empty. Sam's nightmares were also already drawing some pictures. So far they'd dodged a bullet, and that was all either of them were up to facing at the moment.

Dean moved slowly and sparingly, used to compensating for injury: slide legs off bed, straighten slowly, glide forward without jarring anything too much. It was testament to how deep Sam had gone that he didn't even notice Dean was up until he was already sinking down next to his brother. Sam had spent the last few days watching Dean like that was all he had left, another reason Dean hadn't pushed as much as he could have.

Sam startled and made some feeble effort to rise, probably to shoo his brother back to bed. Dean put the kibosh on that just as quickly, closing a hand on his brother's shoulder and using it as support as he sat down. He was already panting from the exercise. Amazing how many muscles seemed somehow connected to one injured shoulder.

Sam had slumped again, and once Dean regained his breath, he teased the much-folded and wrinkled paper that Sam had been clutching out of his clammy hands and opened it. The row of "negatives" was staggering, in its possibilities if nothing else. Dean traced the list of familiar names and a few unfamiliar ones, flinching at the fresh evidence of how he hadn't protected his brother, of the weight Sam had clearly been carrying alone ever since. Sam hadn't even told him he was worried about this, and that was just too wrong to ignore.

"Sammy."

"Please." The whisper was harsh and a total surprise, because Sam declared and deflected and denied, but he didn't often ask. He didn't often need to. "I can't." He shook his head and looked over at Dean, finally. His eyes were swimming, and Dean could see his control was as tenuous as the tears that were held at bay. "Dean, please."

He faltered at that. Wounds couldn't heal until they were cleaned out, and he'd let this one fester long enough out of necessity. But there was such a thing as backing off, just for a little while, until the patient was strong enough to handle the cure. And, right now, Sam was too close to breaking in all the wrong ways.

Dean just nodded. Sam had had little control the past two weeks; Dean wasn't going to force this on him, too. And kindness now would only be taken as emasculating pity and would do more harm than good. His brother knew Dean was there now and ready to take some on some of the load again. All Dean could do at this point was return to the tried-and-true first rule of Sam-handling: be there without crowding him and wait.

Sam sat in silence long enough for the morning sun to move on from the window, arm mashed against Dean's until he wasn't sure who was propping up whom. When he finally rose to go order them some carry-out, it was with the same quiet strength he'd been moving with ever since they'd both gotten their lives back at Bobby's, a fortitude that didn't cease to amaze Dean…and sadden him. Their only conversation was about condiments and burger fixings, and Sam didn't look directly at him again.

Dean slipped the lab report into the bottom of his duffel.

00000

They tested the waters with some light hunts and haunts, the kinds that were little risk or effort. Dean's shoulder healed slowly, and Sam no longer winced when he used his right arm. They talked about music and the weather and chupacabra lore and blueberry versus apple pie, Sam smiling a little at Dean's jokes and no longer watching him like he expected his brother to recoil from him at any moment.

It was coping, not living, and Dean was so freaking tired of the act.

That wasn't what he was thinking about, however, at the moment when the vampire, a remnant of Kate's nest that had been trailing them, cornered Sam against the twisted stand of Joshua trees. Dean was trying to squeeze air into his forcibly-emptied lungs and find his dropped gun.

Sam pressed back against the rough bark, unarmed. Which wouldn't normally have been that big a problem: the vamp was one guy, he'd lost the element of surprise that had ambushed Dean, and Dean would have laid money on Sam in hand-to-hand even against a vampire's superior strength.

But Sam's pupil-blown eyes stared at the threat far more frantically than the situation would have called for. Gone was any sign of the hunter Dean knew him to be, and he cursed as he cast around blindly for the gun, a rock, anything. This was Sam stripped of control of his body, pinned by the enemy, helpless. This was Sam the victim.

And then something snapped in his eyes, and suddenly he just wasn't.

Dean blinked, nonplussed by the growl that tore from Sam's throat. The next moment, his brother was lunging at the vampire, arms corded, hands fisted.

Dean forgot about the gun and ran for the car, and the machete inside.

By the time he skimmed the gravel back to Sam's side, the fight was pretty much over. The vamp was on its back, motionless. Sam straddled its chest, and his fists pounded the creature's face with a ferocity Dean had rarely seen him unleash, even under Meg's control.

"Sam!" He pulled back on Sam's fist as it rose, unwillingly flashing briefly back to Bobby's, Sam winding up for the killing blow just before Bobby grabbed his arm.

Sam came up gasping and fighting, his eyes wild.

Dean stood his ground, machete loose in one hand, Sam's forearm tight in the other. He met the blazing green eyes steadily, ready to absorb as much of his brother's anger as it took, unflinching as Sam cocked his free arm.

Sam drew a shuddering breath. First confusion, then horror trickled in to replace the mindless fury of a moment before. He dropped back, shaking, frantic gaze glued to Dean.

Dean let him go, just for a minute, to turn and bring the machete down on the unmoving vampire. It was probably a mercy kill; its face was raw meat from Sam's piledriver fists, and Dean wondered briefly if Sam had managed to hold Meg back just a little at Bobby's, after all.

His shoulders sagged with the adrenaline drain of more than just the last few minutes. Dean dropped the weapon and turned back to look for Sam.

His brother had made it to the far side of the Joshua tree, seeking seclusion like a wounded thing, and had sunk down to the ground at its base. The tears were silent but bent his body in two with their force.

"I couldn't stop her."

Dean could barely make out the choked words as he eased down next to him. "I know, Sam," he said quietly.

Sam's fist pounded the cracked earth. "I couldn't do anything."

Dean wrapped his good arm around the shaking shoulders, then his bad one. "I know. But it's over now. We're okay. We're good."

Sam didn't fight him, past the point where pride mattered, too far gone into need. After a minute, he grabbed handfuls of Dean's shirt over his ribs and held on, his grief spilling messily out into the dust.

Dean knew what possession felt like, and hurting your brother against your will, and being violated and helpless. He knew about killing and being killed and feeling so alone that you weren't sure you could keep going. He knew about living in fear and dying by pieces. And he'd hoped so hard that Sam wouldn't.

Now, as he propped his chin on the top of his brother's bowed head, all that mattered was Sam knowing he wasn't alone.

00000

The tests, done in an anonymous Chicago clinic, came back negative.

They got very drunk that night, and Sam sung Sarah McLachlan songs until Dean dragged him off the stage and put him to bed. All Sam made him promise this time was not to tell Sarah. Dean wasn't sure if he meant McLachlan or Blake.

He was just as hung over the next morning, but Dean, for once, didn't give him grief about it.

Too much.

They did a cleansing, a salt-and-burn, and a binding. Dean wondered aloud when they'd started categorizing jobs like secretaries did office chores. Sam found them a weird Russian spirit that needed to be outwitted with rhymes and rituals, and that shut Dean up.

It was two days later and about ten miles outside Fresno when Dean made a stupid joke about Russians and vodka and spirits, and Sam broke into a belly-laugh. For real. Tears and everything.

As Dean joined him for totally different reasons, he couldn't help but silently gloat to unseen adversaries, haven't beaten us yet.

And,That's my boy.